The Battlers

by Kylie Tennant

  The Stray, regarding the Apostle’s thin face, echoed the Dogger’s judgment that the ‘poor old bastard was breaking up.’ He looked even thinner and shabbier than he had been when his wife was with him. There was not much likelihood of anyone employing the Apostle at heavy labour. He looked as though the first gust of wind would blow him away.

  The Apostle met her looks. He crossed over to her. ‘I want to speak to you, Dancy,’ he said under his breath, and drew her cautiously out of the circle of the firelight. ‘Here, my dear child’ — he thrust something that felt very much like bank-notes into her hand — ‘I want you to do me a favour.’

  ‘Course I will, Harry.’

  ‘Get that set of false teeth.’ She began to protest. ‘You must let me give you the money. I’ve made arrangements with a dentist — the man on the left of the shoe store in the main street — a decent fellow. He said he’d make you the set for five pounds. It’s all arranged. Now, just to please me …’

  ‘Listen, Harry; you’ll need this money more’n I need them teef.’

  ‘Not at all. First things first, Dancy. Your teeth are important. And you heard what Thirty-Bob said. I’m going to get myself a gold-mounted soap-box in Coiling’s Flat. Besides, I’ve plenty of money.’

  ‘You’re a liar, Harry. I ain’t never known you when you had more’n green leaves to eat. And I bet this’s all you got for that truck.’

  ‘Don’t let’s argue, Dancy. You’ll be giving me real pleasure if you’ll just take it and say nothing to the others.’ He divined, as if by telepathy, that the thought had crossed her mind that she could hoard this money; keep it for Snow. ‘Now mind, you’re not to save it. I’m giving it to you to get those teeth, and I want to see them when we meet again.’

  ‘We mightn’t meet again, Harry.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we will.’ He patted her hand. ‘Now be a good girl and just put that money under the old safety-pin.’ She had been almost too overcome to do more than mumble her thanks. ‘And remember, Dancy, wherever you go, however hard things are, just remember … You’re safe, you’re always safe while you can trust, we’ll call it … your Luck.’

  ‘Right you are, Harry,’ the Stray mumbled, embarrassed. Poor old Harry! she thought; it was a shame to see him tramping and preaching. ‘A chap with an edjication,’ she said to Mrs Tyrell, who was busily clearing camp. ‘He ought to do better for himself.’

  ‘He’s a good man.’ Mrs Tyrell had been told of the Apostle’s gift.

  ‘He’s a bloody fool,’ growled Thirty-Bob.

  They had all gone, Thirty-Bob driving Dick’s cart and swearing at the chestnut mare he had got with the kerosene tins of ‘plonk’; Betty, with the little rosella sitting on her shoulder and the busker’s arm about her; Mrs Tyrell calling to the children and shouting instructions at Deafy, who drove his two dappled greys (‘the best on the road bar none’) with the air of a man setting out on a triumph, the children crying ‘good-bye’s’ to Jimmy, who stood proud and unresponsive.

  ‘We’re glad to have the place to ourselves, aren’t we, Dance?’ Jimmy had remarked, when even Miss Phipps had stalked away.

  ‘I’d be better pleased, Jimmy, if your Dad was to show up. I dunno what can of happened to him.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ Jimmy said, in a very man-of-the world tone.

  But days passed and there was still no sign of Snow.

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ the Stray fretted. ‘D’you think he’s hurt, Jimmy?’

  ‘Not Dad,’ Jimmy assured her.

  On the next Thursday, dole-day, the sergeant suggested that she should move on.

  ‘But, mister, I’m waiting for my husbing. I gotta wait for him, mister.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The Stray hesitated. ‘He’s in Goulburn.’

  ‘You told me last time that if I let you stay another week, he’d be here.’

  ‘I gotta wait,’ the Stray replied stubbornly. ‘Even if you don’t give me no rations.’

  There was trouble, too, about Don being found grazing on the banks of the channel. Only Dancy’s fervent pleadings had saved him from being pounded by an irate inspector, who made her promise to keep the horse out of the irrigation reserve. Poor Don wandered in the grassless lane, snatching hungrily at morsels of dry straw and whinnying over the stock-yard fence at better-fed animals.

  Dancy was on her way back from that ominous interview with the sergeant, walking sadly, her shoulders bowed with the weight of her trouble, when she almost stumbled over a gentleman who had fallen out of the side-door of a hotel, and was sprawled in the lane. Just a drunk, red-faced, sodden, lying dead to the world in the gutter, an object to arouse the disgust of passers-by, to start enquiries why the police didn’t do something about it. But the Stray stood stock-still, then flung herself on the beastly object.

  ‘Snow!’ she cried. ‘Snow!’

  He attempted to thrust her away, as he sat up dazedly. ‘Lemme alone,’ he muttered. ‘Dunno you.’

  ‘It’s me, Snow. Dancy. We’ve been waiting, Jimmy and me. Oh, Snow, I’m so glad you’ve come.’

  He had swayed to his feet and was looking at her sullenly, but she doubted he could see her.

  ‘Come on, Snow,’ she coaxed. ‘Lemme give you a hand back to camp.’

  But he turned and staggered through the swing doors. Dancy doggedly followed him.

  ‘Snow,’ she was saying. ‘Snow, lissen …’

  He turned on her savagely. ‘Lemme alone,’ he said again. ‘Dunno you, see? Don’ want to.’

  But she persisted. She even appealed to the men at the bar, who watched grinning, and to the barmaid who, with a withering glare, turned her back.

  ‘Here, some of yous,’ Dancy called, ‘gimme a hand with him, can’tcha? I got to get him back to camp.’

  Snow, through the fumes of drink, only realised that someone was pestering him. ‘Gerrout!’ he said savagely, swinging his arm in what was meant to be a threatening way.

  The flat of his hand caught Dancy across the mouth, and sudden tears of grief and horror sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Snow!’ she gasped, and then, turning savagely on the men in the bar: ‘Won’t none of you help me to get him back to camp?’

  ‘Yes, get the brute out of here,’ the barmaid said in icy tones. ‘Or I’ll call the boss.’

  ‘Here, mate.’ One man, better-natured than the others, stepped up and laid a restraining hand on Snow’s arm. ‘You just come on outside quietly and …’

  ‘Brute?’ Snow yelled in a rage. ‘A brute, eh? I’ll fight the lot of you. I’ll fight any crawler who …’ He flung off a stream of curses and threats that might have frightened anyone less used to curses than Dancy. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Two more men came to the rescue. They took Snow on each side and propelled him, still talking and waving his arms, towards the door.

  ‘Here y’are, Missy?’ one of them said kindly. ‘Now what you going to do with him?’

  ‘Oh, mister,’ the Stray gasped. ‘I want to get him to the camp — our camp down by the stock-yard.’

  ‘Right y’are,’ the man said. ‘I’ve got me jinker here, and we’ll just take him down for you. I doubt’ — he grinned — ‘if you’d ever get him there alone.’

  She thanked him fervently.

  ‘And you’d better do something for your lip,’ he said. ‘It’s bleeding.’

  The Stray wiped it on her sleeve dazedly. There was no room for her in the jinker, so she walked back to camp. She walked as though in a trance, a nightmare from which she might not wake. Boswell was the same; the heat, the flies, the glaring sun were all the same; even the people who passed her and pretended not to see her, as they always did, because her clothes betrayed her as a traveller. When she got to the camp, she was relieved that Snow had fallen asleep. Her two helpers had deposited him in the tent, and she sat silently at the door, crouched in a heap. Beside her Bluey lay, his yellow eyes fixed on that figure in the tent; his tail waved slowly to and fro. Now
and then he would get up and try to enter the tent to lick Snow’s face, but the Stray kept him off. She cautioned Jimmy to be quiet. They tiptoed round the camp during the long, hot hours of the afternoon; and Jimmy kept watch while the Stray went back to collect her groceries up town.

  Evening fell, and Snow slept on. It began to be dark, and Jimmy and the Stray made their usual meagre meal of bread and jam. Sitting beside their tiny fire — wood was scarce by the stock-yard — Jimmy and the Stray talked in a whisper.

  ‘If he’s on a real proper beer-up,’ the Stray whispered, ‘he may go on for days.’

  It was not that that depressed her; but those awful words Snow had spoken: ‘I don’t know you. I don’t want to.’ How long had he been in this town? And had he been avoiding them? She could not bear to think of Snow’s disowning her before all those grinning men.

  ‘Dad never goes on the booze much,’ Jimmy declared. ‘He can’t stand it. He’s never been a bloke what drunk much.’ This comforted the Stray. Jimmy came and sat close to her. ‘Don’t you worry, Dance,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll be all right.’

  In the morning Snow woke, groaning, holding his hands to his head to keep it from splitting apart. The Stray was awake and had tea ready for him. He drank about a quart in silence. Then he went away and came back looking very sick but sober.

  ‘You right now, Snowie love?’ the Stray asked humbly.

  Snow felt very far from right, but he mumbled ‘Yeah’; then managed a sickly smile. ‘How’ve you and Jimmy been?’

  Dancy eagerly began to pour out all that had happened to them, demanding to know in return how he had ‘got on’ at Goulburn. But Snow would only shake his head impatiently to her queries. Bluey, his tail active, crept up and laid his head on Snow’s knee. Jimmy, without being asked, gave a supplementary account of his own doings. Snow, his eyes half shut, tried to be genial; but it was an effort, with a head that felt as if it was full of hot knives. He had a fierce desire to be going, just to feel he was fleeing from his misery.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he demanded, rising abruptly. ‘I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Now, Snow?’

  ‘Yeah. Now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere. Got to get on.’

  ‘Coiling’s Flat way?’

  ‘For Chrisake don’t ask me. Let’s go.’

  Jimmy and the Stray bustled about breaking camp. Snow, after a feeble attempt to help, sat down again and nursed his head.

  ‘Did you notice me teef?’ the Stray asked humbly.

  ‘What teeth?’ Snow carefully removed one hand from his head and tried to open his eyes.

  ‘Me teef. Me teef in me mouth.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Look out for that rope.’ He hadn’t noticed them at all, the Stray thought sadly. Presently Snow stumbled to his feet. ‘Got any money?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘What for, Snowie?’

  ‘Don’t ask what for. What y’ think? I want a drink.’

  ‘But, Snow, we’re all packed nearly.’ The Stray drew from her pocket a shilling, a sixpence, and a threepence, and placed them in his outstretched hand.

  ‘This all you got?’

  ‘That’s all I got.’

  ‘Well, pick me up at the pub, when you’re ready.’

  He was off before she could ask which pub, and it meant that she had to go from one to the other asking for him. When she did find him, it seemed as though the drink had done Snow good. He was much more like the Snow of old time.

  ‘Sorry, Stray,’ he said, as he climbed in the van and took the reins. ‘You know how it is.’

  It was his only apology — an awkward apology, but to the Stray it made all the difference in the world. He had not meant to be cruel to her yesterday. He had only been drunk.

  ‘You didn’t mean you want to get rid of me, Snow?’ she asked fearfully.

  He stared at her. ‘Get rid of you? Why should I?’

  ‘She’s been worrying all the time,’ Jimmy broke in, ‘that you’d not want her to travel with us. I told her you didn’t mind.’

  Snow smiled. ‘Well, if she can put up with us,’ he said, ‘it’s a deal.’

  The Stray met his eyes determinedly. ‘For always?’

  ‘Yeah. You an’ me’s mates. For always.’

  ‘Well, that suits me,’ Dancy said joyously. ‘Oh, Snow!’ She would have kissed him then and there, had it not been for the grave presence of Jimmy.

  ‘If I had a bit of money,’ Snow pondered.

  ‘We’re going to get lots,’ the Stray said eagerly. ‘Ain’t that why we’re going to Coiling’s Flat? Millions, Snowie. They’re putting on millions of men, and payin’ ’em ten pounds a week and more. All the gang’s gone down there. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Jimmy, can’t he, Jimmy? Hundreds of fousands of mines opened, and mills and crushers and all.’

  ‘Go on!’ Snow grunted disbelievingly.

  ‘ ’S a fact.’

  Snow still looked disbelieving, but interested. ‘Well, there might be something in it,’ he said slowly.

  ‘We could settle down.’ The Stray bubbled with plans. ‘And have a bit of a house wiv a little paddock round it.’

  Snow growled. Women, he thought, were all the same all wanting you to settle down.

  ‘One thing,’ he said, ‘I see you got rid of that bloody Phipps.’

  ‘I’ll say I did. She went off days ago. She must be hundreds of miles by now. I says to her …’

  They had just topped a little rise; and in the hollow below a stout, familiar figure rose to its feet from beside a fire where a blackened billy was boiling. As Miss Phipps recognised the van, she waved affably. She had hurt her foot, she explained, so she had waited for them.

  ‘So good to see you again, Mister Snow, and I trust you will stop Dancy beating the horse.’

  ‘I s’pose,’ Snow said, after a gloomy silence, ‘it’s the way the Apostle says: If you’re meant to be a mug, you’re a mug. Here, get up, Phippsy. I’ll walk.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Dancy said quickly. ‘You gotta drive Don.’ She slipped from her seat. ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘I’ll walk, too,’ Jimmy said loyally.

  ‘So nice to be all together again,’ Miss Phipps remarked, settling her bulk comfortably beside Snow.

  He clicked to Don in his old way, and the van creaked into action on the long pull up the red road ahead of them. That left wheel, Snow noticed, was screeching like a trapped rabbit. He’d have to take it off and tighten the rim. Trust a woman not to attend to a thing like that.

  ‘How’s it, Stray?’ he called, turning in his seat to regard the two small figures trudging behind; with Bluey on the end of his chain puzzled whether to walk near them, and then making little runs as the collar pulled him under the van again.

  ‘All right, Snow.’ The Stray turned a shining, happy face to him; and Snow noticed that she looked almost handsome. He supposed it must be the teeth.

  As the Stray went, she sang, discordantly, and to herself. ‘How beautiful,’ she sang, ‘how beautiful upon the mountains,’ then stopped because that was all she knew.

  Jimmy looked at her, puzzled. ‘There ain’t no mountains, Dance,’ he suggested.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Dancy sang, ‘how beautiful are the feet …’

  They went on, across the plain stretching before them with farms and fields, with trees and sheep, and windmills sailing above the bores, with a faint blue line of hills very far away before them, and the barbed-wire fences running everywhere like demented spider-webs. They went on and on.

  ‘How beautiful,’ Dancy sang, ‘how beautiful upon the mountains.’ At the next farm, she thought, she must try to sell some jug-covers. She had Snow and Jimmy to look after, and that silly fraud of a Phippsy. And there was now no money at all, only under her thin dress a paper on which was written: ‘Pay Mrs Grimshaw a thousand pounds.’

  As Dancy thought of that paper, she smiled to think how rich she was, and how happy.

  Angus & Robertso
n

  Twenty-seven-year-old Scotsman David Mackenzie Angus stepped ashore in Australia in 1882, hoping that the climate would improve his health. While working for a Sydney bookseller, he managed to save the grand sum of £50 – enough to open his very own secondhand bookshop. He hired fellow-Scot George Robertson and in 1886 Angus & Robertson was born.

  They ventured into publishing in 1888 with a collection of poetry by H. Peden Steele, and by 1895 had a bestseller on their hands with A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson’s The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses. A&R confirmed the existence of Australian talent – and an audience hungry for Australian content. The company went on to add some of the most famous names in Australian literature to its list, including Henry Lawson, Norman Lindsay, C.J. Dennis and May Gibbs. Throughout the twentieth century, authors such as Xavier Herbert, Ruth Park, George Johnston and Peter Goldsworthy continued this tradition.

  The A&R Australian Classics series is a celebration of the many authors who have contributed to this rich catalogue of Australian literature and to the cultural identity of a nation.

  These classics are our indispensable voices. At a time when our culture was still noisy with foreign chatter and clouded by foreign visions, these writers told us our own stories and allowed us to examine and evaluate both our homeplace and our place in the world. – GERALDINE BROOKS

  About the Author

  Kylie Tennant was born in Sydney in 1912. Her first novel, Tiburon, won the S.H. Prior Memorial Prize for 1935. She went on to write numerous novels and plays for both adults and children, and won many more awards. Experience and involvement enliven all her writing. Ride on Stranger, first published in 1943, became a popular television series in 1979. Aside from writing, she lectured for the Commonwealth Literary Fund and was a member of its Advisory Board from 1961 to 1973. She married Lewis C. Rodd, author and teacher, in 1932 and had a daughter and a son. In 1980 she was appointed AO. Suffering from cancer, Kylie Tennant made an impassioned plea for the legalisation of voluntary euthanasia. Shortly afterwards, on 28 February 1988, she died in Sydney.