by Oriel Gray
GWYNNE: Good morning, Mr Torrent.
RUFUS: Goodbye, my dear. I’ll tell Ben…
GWYNNE shoots a troubled glance in KINGSLEY’s direction and her ‘Good morning’ trailing away is meant for KINGSLEY. He knows it, but is still annoyed enough to ignore her. She goes. RUFUS moves through into his private office. He is surprised when KINGSLEY follows him in.
KINGSLEY: Can I see you for a minute, sir?
RUFUS: Close the door.
KINGSLEY does so. He is rather bitter in his approach in this scene.
KINGSLEY: Not that what I’ve got to say is very private—I talk too much when I’m enthusiastic. Mr Manson often has a bit of fun at my expense. We were having a drink in the Travellers’ Arms, and he got someone to go out and buy a kid’s tin bucket and he gave it to me full of beer… ‘Here you are, Kingsley,’ he said. ‘Feed this into your irrigation scheme.’
RUFUS warms to KINGSLEY because he loathes MANSON himself.
Well—that’s Mr Manson… a wealthy man, an influential man—but not one to look to for understanding. Rufus, can I look to you for it? You’re a man of integrity—a man of vision.
RUFUS: I’m also a man who runs a newspaper, my boy, and my directors, with good money sunk in those mines out there, will be screaming like banshees—if you comprehend the term—if I come out in support of your scheme.
KINGSLEY’s mouth opens in further argument, RUFUS halts him.
Besides, I’m not—really—convinced, Kingsley… Koolgalla is a gold town. Oh, I know it isn’t as prosperous as it has been—but all the interests here—big and small—are sunk in gold, and it’s still paying off.
KINGSLEY: For the moment. The big interests…
RUFUS: I said big and small. And the small people will be against you, too, if you ask them to give up their dreams of Eldorado, their hope of swift and easy fortune. What can you give them in its place?
KINGSLEY: Real hope—not chance, and a blind stab in the dark. I tell you, Mr Torrent, bring water to this land and it will grow anything—peaches this size, melons, grapes. With water, we can—
RUFUS: But we have water—
KINGSLEY: [scornfully] Yes—for the gold sluices—a muddy trickle in the dry spells and a roaring torrent in the floods. Look sir, this isn’t only for Koolgalla. If this scheme is successful, we can prove to the rest of the country—[He pulls up short; stiffly.] I suppose you think I’m an egotist seeking applause—
RUFUS: [his warmth and charm very apparent] Worse, King—I think you’re a self-sacrificer. People will follow an egotist sooner, because his sense of self-preservation gives them confidence. With a self-sacrificer, they’re afraid that they may get caught up in his particular martyrdom.
KINGSLEY: [brushing this aside] And you won’t help me?
RUFUS: I can make it possible for you to lay your scheme before the town Council.
KINGSLEY: I’ve seen them…
RUFUS: You can talk to my directors at their next meeting—try to win their support.
KINGSLEY: Thanks—I will. But you won’t back me personally— advocate the scheme yourself… ?
RUFUS: [after a moment—understanding KINGSLEY’s disappointment] No, Kingsley.
With a hopeless gesture, KINGSLEY turns away and is about to pick up his hat when BEN TORRENT comes in. BEN is young, handsome, beguiling, a little spoilt, somewhat in awe of his father, and certainly dominated by RUFUS’ authority and leadership. Despite the warm morning, he wears a dark overcoat buttoned up to his throat and carries a soft dark felt hat which he tosses on to the desk.
[Glad of the interruption] Good morning, Ben.
BEN: Good morning, Father… Hello, King.
KINGSLEY: How is crime in Koolgalla, Ben?
BEN: Prospering.
RUFUS: What’s wrong with you, boy—wrapped round in that heavy overcoat, with summer outside the window. Take it off.
BEN gathers the coat closer round his throat.
BEN: I feel the cold, Father. I think I have a chill.
RUFUS: [good humoured, but patronising] I don’t know what’s wrong with the young men today. They’re all becoming effete. Perhaps it’s the warm climate here that makes their blood run thin. Now when I lived in Dublin—oh, those winter morning and the grey evenings, standing on the street corners, clenching your hands in the torn pockets of your overcoat, watching the girls coming from the factories, with their shawls folded over their beautiful bright heads… [He stops himself suddenly, aware of the others’ interest. Austerely.] It made a man of me.
BEN: The weather, Father—or the girls?
RUFUS: Ben, you have a frivolous turn of mind. You know, Kingsley, I wonder did I do right to trust Ben to engage our new colleague…
BEN: [hastily] May I remind you, Father—you had made your decision already.
RUFUS: Nonsense—I left it entirely to you. I did happen to remark that from the applications received… we had quite a number, Kingsley… Koolgalla must have become more than a fly-by-night village…
BEN: It will become much less, once the gold runs out.
RUFUS: [testily] As I say, I did remark that, judging from qualifications stated, J.G. Milford…
BEN: [with a curious satisfaction] Seemed by far the most suitable—yes, you did. And having interviewed the others we had considered, I was forced—forced, Father—to your point of view. And J.G. Milford arrives by today’s train.
RUFUS: That should be in soon—we must meet it.
BEN: I’ll attend to that.
RUFUS: Is he very fast?
BEN: Oh, I don’t think—Oh, you mean the—the typing—and shorthand. Very, Father—and accurate—reads and marks proofs clearly…
RUFUS: [pleased with himself] I knew—there was a ring of truthfulness. And the letter, Kingsley—a really well-written business letter. Not too many men can write a good business letter. Yes, I think this Milford will be just what we need here.
BEN: That is your considered opinion, Father?
RUFUS: Certainly.
BEN: I’m glad of that.
BERNIE comes in.
BERNIE: Excuse me, Mr Torrent. Mr MacDonald asked had you checked that proof?
RUFUS: I’ve got it here… [As BERNIE holds out his hand] No I’ll come down for a moment. Don’t forget that train, Ben—we don’t want to seem unfriendly. [Jovially to BERNIE as he follows him out] You’ll have to be wide-awake now, Bernie—mustn’t let this city gentleman think he’s paddled his canoe into a backwater, eh…
He has gone, in the sound of his own chuckle and BERNIE’s flattered ‘No, Mr Torrent’. KINGSLEY, still glum, is lounging in the window left, and BEN is standing at the desk, his back to the audience.
KINGSLEY: Ben, I talked to your father...
BEN turns round to face him. Now his coat is open and thrown back and under it, he is still in handsome but slightly rumpled dress clothes.
[Really laughing] Ben—you fool! You haven’t been home all night!
BEN: Straight to court—and on the hottest morning this year! Even the judge was looking at me, as he sat with his gown thrown back as far as decorum allowed…
KINGSLEY: But your father said you’d had breakfast… ?
BEN: Mrs Preston always hides me from the Wrath. I have a way with housekeepers.
KINGSLEY: [sighing] You have a way with any female. Gwynne— [Stumbling] your fiancée—has been here looking for you…
BEN: Oh, hell! Did she say anything to Father about me not seeing her yesterday?
KINGSLEY: [sternly] No. She let him think you had.
BEN: I meant to—I met someone. Is Gwynne very annoyed?
KINGSLEY: She is hurt.
BEN: [groans] Much worse. Dammit, King, why does one have anything to do with nice women. The not-nice ones are so much less expensive in the long run. They do give something in return for payment. Nice women take everything from you, and still leave you feeling you owe them something… it might be your heart, or your brain, or your soul—or your
sins. And they are the hardest things to give up!
KINGSLEY: [who can be very Victorian] Perhaps we men forget what good women sacrifice for us.
BEN: [lighting a cigarette—KINGSLEY refuses one with a head shake] They never allow us to do that!
KINGSLEY: It’s a pity you’re so plagued with women, Ben—but you must turn to one kind or the other.
BEN: [smiling] You like Gwynne—very much—don’t you?
KINGSLEY: [stiffly] I admire and venerate Miss Thomas…
BEN: You sound like the inscription on a tombstone! Gwynne is a perfect darling… [Meaning it] You know, if you really care, King—I wouldn’t stand in your way—
KINGSLEY: [for whom the morning has been too much] I wouldn’t, Ben—stand in my way at this moment, or I’ll punch your nose…
As BEN is staring, and KINGSLEY glaring, RUFUS comes back in, BEN struggles to engulf himself in the coat, KINGSLEY to hold RUFUS’ attention.
RUFUS: Ben, you’re still wrapped in that coat…
KINGSLEY: [babbling, looking out of the window] Big crowd in the streets, Mr Torrent… wonderful view you’ve got from these windows…
RUFUS is looking suspiciously from one young man to the other. He knows they are hiding something.
There’s old Stuwell—and his son.
RUFUS walks over behind him and looks out.
I tell you, Mr Torrent, if you want to try to talk sense to two stupid people…
RUFUS: My directors…
KINGSLEY, turning his head and finding himself face to face with RUFUS, decides to look out again.
KINGSLEY: Now I know why there is such a crowd in the streets… the train’s in early…
BEN: [enshrouded in his coat again] The train’s in! Oh, damnation… I meant to meet—
RUFUS: Not much of a welcome for the new man, Ben.
JOHN MANSON walks in. Physically, he is a worthy opponent for RUFUS—an arrogant, forceful man, who can hide his ruthlessness in earthy good-fellowship, or display it when he chooses. He has no son—this increases his dislike for RUFUS. His manner to BEN is indulgent, and even in disagreement, it is flattering. He would love to win BEN to some enterprise. MANSON is not noticed at first. BEN is half-delighted, half apprehensive about what he has done.
BEN: Oh, I’ll explain. The new employee will understand… very understanding, the new employee. I hope you’ll feel the same way, Father.
RUFUS: [irritably] Don’t babble, Ben—
MANSON: That’s how a young man feels on a fine morning… like breakfasting on bubbly—
BEN is thrown off balance.
BEN: Oh, hell!… You here!
MANSON: Now what’s wrong with me, Ben?
BEN: I didn’t know Mr Manson would be here, Father. [Meaning, I didn’t mean to pull this in front of him.] You see—J.G. Milford may be something of a surprise.
CHRISTY appears in the doorway, clutching the suitcases. He drops a suitcase, jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
CHRISTY: S’here… !
RUFUS: Christy, you’ve been drinking!
CHRISTY: By Grundy, I ain’t—but by God, I’m goin’ to… and I’ll take a bet that I’m not the only one. J—G—MILFORD!
JENNY comes through the doorway—neat, cool and pretty. She is aware of the odds against her, but she tries to carry it off—and it’s a good try. Faces seen. JENNY looks to BEN. RUFUS looks murder at BEN.
RUFUS: J.G. Milford…
JENNY: The ‘J’ is for Jenny—but I always use my initials. I do not wish to take any advantage from being a woman.
MANSON roars with laughter.
MANSON: Ben, I congratulate you. Ben certainly took you there, Torrent.
JENNY looks at him.
John Manson, ma’am…
JENNY ducks her head in acknowledgement. She looks to RUFUS. She is inwardly quaking. CHRISTY, at entrance, has been joined by JOCK. BEN inches towards exit.
BEN: Remember, Father—your considered opinion.
As the curtain comes down, JENNY is looking from one to the other. RUFUS is still glaring at BEN.
The lowered curtain marks a time lapse.
The office of the Koolgalla Argus. Late afternoon, same day. KINGSLEY feels rather awkward, but also feels Victorian—protective about GWYNNE. GWYNNE shows more spark than she did in the morning—less of the ideal of Victorian girlhood… in fact, she is angry with BEN. BEN, dressed in a day suit now, his hat on the back of his head, is both noncommittal and provoking, the way he often is when he knows he’s been rather outrageous. He moves about the set a lot, sits on the edge of the desk, examines blocks, is impudent, cajoling, stubborn in turn.
GWYNNE: Where is she now?
BEN: Settling into her room in Mrs. Crabtree’s boarding house I suppose…
GWYNNE: Don’t you know… ?
BEN gets enormously interested in a proof. Unconsciously, GWYNNE is relying on KINGSLEY as her supporter, so she looks at him.
Why did you do it, Ben?
KINGSLEY: You must have been out of your mind.
BEN: You’re so keen on irrigation, King. I’m irrigating the intellectual stream. I’m tossing a stone in the pool of reflection. I’ve often said I wanted something to change in Koolgalla…
GWYNNE: How could you be taken in by someone like that—writing all those lies!
BEN: What lies? She has done everything she claimed in her letter.
GWYNNE: But she’s a woman!
BEN: Her father was an editor of a paper in Tasmania—a paper very like the Argus. He didn’t have a son—and since he had liberal ideas… if either of you can understand that expression—
KINGSLEY: Steady on, Ben—
BEN: He wanted his daughter to be something more than a fashion-plate—or a queen bee!
GWYNNE: You mean that for me.
BEN: You always say I don’t explain things to you… now, I’m explaining. Miss Milford acted in much the same capacity to her father as I do to mine.
KINGSLEY: Fair enough perhaps—in Tasmania. But it’s rather much to expect Koolgalla to take.
BEN: So is your irrigation scheme. Gwynne, shall I see you home?
GWYNNE: No, thank you, Ben. If Rainbird hadn’t thrown a shoe, I wouldn’t have come back here today.
KINGSLEY: I could ride that way…
GWYNNE: Thank you, King…
She is quite angry.
[To BEN] I’m sure that will be suitable to you… ?
She looks at BEN. She is still in love with him, would like to provoke him into making some claim on her. KINGSLEY waits, too, then says…
KINGSLEY: I’ll—get the horses from the livery stable—
KINGSLEY goes out. The light is dying, and there is a soft sunset light in the office. BEN turns to her with momentary remorse.
BEN: Gwynne, I don’t mean…
GWYNNE: What, Ben?
BEN: I don’t mean to be—me, I suppose.
He puts his arms around her.
But you know what I am.
GWYNNE: [sadly] No, I don’t know what you are. I don’t even know if you want to marry me.
BEN is really fond of GWYNNE, attracted to her sweetness and prettiness. They kiss—quite fervently—but GWYNNE draws away. To look at him.
You do want to marry me, Ben?
BEN turns his head, to listen to a sound.
BEN: Yes, pet, but it may not be possible. You may be a widow before you’re a bride! Father has just come in.
GWYNNE: Oh, Ben, can’t you give this woman some money and make her go away again?
BEN: Is that your solution? No—I can’t.
RUFUS walks in. He is still in a controlled fury. He unbends to GWYNNE.
RUFUS: Gwynne, my dear… I didn’t expect to see you in town still.
GWYNNE: Rainbird cast a shoe.
RUFUS is longing to get at BEN, but ladies must come first.
RUFUS: Well… I do want to see you, Ben, after you have taken Gwynne home.
GWYNNE: [a touch of feli
ne] Ben thought you would want to talk to him. Nothing must stand in the way of that!
RUFUS looks at BEN. BEN looks back, defiant.
Goodnight, Mr Torrent.
RUFUS: Will you never learn to call me ‘Papa’… That is what I will be when you and Ben are married.
GWYNNE: I think it would be very difficult to think of you as ‘Papa’…
GWYNNE goes out.
RUFUS: [a bit flattered] And now, Ben, have you any explanation?
BEN: Yes, sir—your considered opinion. J.G. Milford was your choice.
RUFUS: I left it to you…
BEN: You didn’t leave it to me, Father. You had made your decision before I ever left Koolgalla. Had I come back with any other applicant, you would have considered my decision ill-advised. You’ll just have to put up with it, Father—that the ‘J’ is for Jenny.
SCENE TWO
The office. One week later, about lunch time. It looks much as before, but the desk with the typewriter is tidy, the blocks have been stacked neatly in the mended boxes, the files placed neatly inside them. On the hat rack RUFUS’ hat sits square and determinedly over the very top of the rack itself.
RUFUS is standing in the doorway of his inner office listening to CHRISTY, who is holding the floor. JOCK MACDONALD leans up against the desk and BERNIE is standing rather timidly near the doorway.
CHRISTY: By Grundy, I said to her… By Grundy, I been in the printing business for fifty years, I said! I have been, too! Started when I was as young as young Bernie here… used to work for a couple of brothers in Jindabyne; twins, they were—like a couple of peas. You know, a funny thing happened the time Jim got married to Elsie Wainwright…
JOCK: Stick to the subject, Christy. That has nothing to do with Miss Milford.
CHRISTY: Well, I was just telling you that I was telling her that I’d been in the printing game for fifty years…
JOCK: When you were not chasing outlaw blacks and fighting on the Eureka Stockade and…
CHRISTY: [a quick glance at BERNIE… CHRISTY doesn’t want to lose his audience there. Dignified.] Fifty years—on and off. And in that time I says to her, nobody has ever told me that my type needed cleaning—and nobody’s ever going to make me clean it! Furthermore, I says to her, when I took the next proof up, furthermore, now that it has been cleaned, I defy you to tell me that you can spot any difference!
