by Nevil Shute
“Come in, Mr. Dorman,” said the doctor. “I was just telling Jim here about these men.”
He was a small, brown-haired man with a sandy little moustache and blue eyes; he had been an officer in the Royal Australian Army Medical Corps in the war, and he still had the appearance of an officer in civvies. Jack Dorman went in and sat down. “What’s the news, Doctor?”
“I was telling Jim,” the doctor repeated. “I’ve just finished the post-mortem. The man was an alcoholic all right. You never saw such a liver. I’m preserving part of it in spirit until after the inquest, just in case anybody wants to see it. He was full of whisky, too.”
Jim Forrest said with feeling, “He must have been.”
“He certainly was. Matter of fact, I should have thought there was more than a bottle in him, but I suppose I’m wrong. There was certainly a lot.” He paused. “I had a look at the amputation, while I was at it. It was carefully done. One of the ligatures was damaged a little, probably while he was struggling. But the job was done all right.”
Jim Forrest said, “He’d have been right, but for the whisky?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Sepsis might easily have set in. As I understand it, the amputation was done out in the open, to free him from the bulldozer. All I can say is that the job was well done from the surgical point of view.”
Jack Dorman said, “It wasn’t a botched job?”
“No. It wasn’t a botched job. The damaged ligature was clearly the result of a blow. He probably kicked it against something in the struggle, while you were trying to keep him in bed.”
Jim Forrest nodded. “He was thrashing about all over the place.”
There was a pause. “As regards the other one,” the doctor said, “the fractured skull, it’s much the same story. I took an X-ray this morning. If I had been doing the job here I’d have taken an X-ray before operating, of course. If I had done so, I should probably have removed one more small piece of bone that Zlinter has left in. Working without the X-ray, as he did, I should very likely have left it, as he did. Considering the X-ray this morning, I decided to leave well alone. I don’t really think that it’ll make much difference, and one doesn’t want to submit the patient to a further operational shock.”
He paused. “There again, infection is the danger. Zlinter showed me what he did, and I don’t think anybody could have done much more. But there’s no denying that the conditions were bad for any cranial surgery.”
Jack Dorman said, “Taking it by and large, though, he didn’t do a bad job?”
“I think that’s a fair statement. Taking it by and large, he didn’t do at all a bad job, considering the difficulties.”
“You’ll tell them that at the inquest, Doctor, will you?” asked Jim Forrest.
“That’s right. That’s what I shall say at the inquest.”
Jack Dorman said, “If he can do a job like that, why can’t he be a doctor properly? Get a licence, or whatever you call it?”
“There’s a ruling about these immigrant doctors. In this State they’ve got to do the last three years of their training over again. It varies according to the State, I think. I know it’s easier in West Australia.”
“Pack of bloody nonsense,” said the grazier. “We could do with another doctor here, and now we’ve got one and we’re not allowed to use him.”
“You’ve got to have a rule,” Jennings said. “Most of these D.P. doctors are crook doctors, oh my word. You’d be the first to raise a scream if some of them got loose upon your family.”
“That’s right, is it?” asked Jim Forrest. “They’re very bad?”
“I don’t really know,” the doctor said. “You’d have to ask somebody who knows about these things. I believe the truth of it is this: when they’re first qualified their standard is much lower than ours. What they pick up from experience in practice may bring them up to our standard, but who’s to say? Take this Zlinter, for example. He seems to be a careful sort of chap, and since he qualified he’s had a very wide experience of surgery in front-line conditions with the German Army. You’ve seen him at his best. He certainly knows a lot about these sort of accidents. But that’s not general practice. Ninety per cent of the general practitioner’s job is trying to decide if an old lady’s pain is heart trouble or wind, or whether a kiddy’s got scarlet fever or a sore throat. Zlinter may be useless at that sort of thing — probably is.”
He paused. “I don’t want you to think I’m against Zlinter,” he said. “I think he’s a good man. If he was qualified I’d like to see him practise in this district and take some of the work off me. But not until he’s been checked over at the hospital and been passed out as competent.”
“And that takes three years?”
“I don’t know if that would apply to Zlinter. I don’t know if they make any exceptions. Probably not. I think he probably would have to do three years again.”
“It seems the hell of a long time,” the grazier said.
The doctor got up from the desk; he had still a lot of work ahead of him. “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
The grazier went out into the street with the timber manager. “What about a beer?” They got into their cars and drove down to the main street, and parked under the shade of the trees in front of the Queen’s Head Hotel.
It had been market day in Banbury, but the market was over before dinner, and now in the late afternoon only the dregs of the crowd remained in town. The bars, which had been hot and crowded most of the day, were thinning out; the tired barmen were relaxing, watching the clock for closing time at six. Jack Dorman and Jim Forrest went into the saloon bar and ordered beers, and stood discussing what they had learned from the doctor about Zlinter.
It was still warm and the beer was very cold; they had a glass of beer, and then another, and another in the space of twenty minutes. As they stood their talk was mostly about Zlinter, how he would be situated at the end of his two years of lumber work, whether he would have a chance to qualify as a doctor, how much it would cost, whether he could raise the money on a loan from any bank, whether if he had the money he could get admission to a hospital.
The bar that they were standing in was merely a partitioned part of the long bar-room, but it was select and mostly frequented by graziers and those with money to spare. Drinks at this portion of the bar cost a trifle more, and there were little plates of onions, cheese, and other snacks, all highly spiced to induce a pleasant thirst. A yard away from Jack Dorman and Jim Forrest as they discussed Carl Zlinter was an old man sitting hunched upon a stool, a red-haired old man, now turning grey but still fiery on top; a broad-shouldered old man who must have been a very strong man in his time. He had a comical twist to his mouth and a general appearance of good humour, and he was drinking whisky, evidently determined to sit it out until the bar closed. From his appearance he had been there all the afternoon.
Presently the barman said, “Last drinks,” and the clock stood at two minutes to six. Jim Forrest hurriedly ordered four more beers and the barman pushed the dripping glasses across the counter; the old man by their side sat sunk in reflection or in slumber, a half glass of whisky before him. They drank two beers apiece, and then, at ten past six, the barman said, “We’re closing now,” and it was time to go. He said to the old man, “Come on, Pop. Closing now.”
The old man did not stir, but mumbled something incoherent.
Jack Dorman smiled, and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Come on, Pat,” he said. “Time to go home now. Finish up your drink. Got your jinker here?”
The old man raised his head, and very slowly lifted his glass and drank it off, with the utmost deliberation. Jim Forrest smiled, “Who is he?”
“Pat Halloran. He’s got a place five miles out on the Benalla road.” Jack knew the old man fairly well. He had come out from Southern Ireland as a stable-boy at the end of the last century, and he had been about the district ever since but for one trip home to Limerick between the wars. He was a wi
dower and his two sons ran the property and did most of the work; he enjoyed coming into market and meeting his cronies and getting drunk, a simple pleasure that he could afford on his five-figure income. His sons drove large and powerful utilities rather too fast, but the old man had never learned to drive a car and came to town each market day in a jinker, a two-wheeled trap drawn by an old horse.
Jack Dorman smiled again, waited till the old man had drained his glass, and said, “Come on, Pat. It’s closing time; we’re getting thrown out of here. Where did you leave your jinker?”
“It’s in the yard out at the back,” the barman said. “Take him out through this way, if you like.”
“Take the other arm, Jim,” said Jack Dorman. “We’ll put him in the jinker, and he’ll be right.”
The old man got down from the stool, and they steadied him, one on each side. “That’s right,” he said, with a marked Irish accent. “Sure, put me up in the jinker and I’ll be right.” He paused for reflection, and they began walking him to the back premises and the yard. “I know you,” he said. “You’re Jack Dorman, up to Leonora.”
“That’s right.”
The old man turned and stared at the timber manager with bleary eyes. “I don’t know you.”
“Jim Forrest’s the name. From Lamirra.”
“Oh. D’you know my name? It’s Pat Halloran, from Limerick.”
“That’s right,” said Jack Dorman. “I know you and you know me. Watch these steps, now — three steps down. That’s fine.”
“I’m right,” the old man said. “Only I’m drunk. I know you. You’re Jack Dorman, up to Leonora.” He swayed wildly, and they steered him into the passage, the barman holding the door open for them. “It’s a shameful thing I’m telling you,” he said seriously, “but I’m drunk, drunk as Charlie Zlinter.”
The grazier started. “What’s that, Pat? Who am I as drunk as?”
“Drunk as Charlie Zlinter,” the old man repeated. “I know you. You’re Jack Dorman, up to Leonora. You know me, Pat Halloran, from Limerick. You know me, I know you, and you know Charlie Zlinter. Good old Charlie!”
“I don’t know Charlie Zlinter, Pat,” the other said. “Who was Charlie Zlinter?” It was quite possible that this old man could have been in the district when Howqua was a thriving township.
Pat Halloran turned bellicose. He checked in the passage; he was still a powerful man, and brought them to a standstill. “What was that you would be saying? Who was Charlie Zlinter? Haven’t I heard with my own ears you two talking all the while of Charlie Zlinter? Is it a fool that ye’d be making of me, just because I’m having drink taken? Will ye fight me, now?”
“Nobody’s making a fool of you, Pat, and I won’t fight you,” said the grazier. “Come on — let’s find the jinker. Tell us about Charlie Zlinter when you knew him, and I’ll tell you what I know about him, and there’ll be a pair of us. What did Charlie Zlinter do?”
“He got bloody drunk,” the old man said. “I got bloody drunk. You got bloody drunk. Sure, we’re all bloody drunk.”
They came into the stable yard and there was the jinker, the horse patiently waiting to take his master home. Jim Forrest untied the reins from the tethering ring, tried the girth, and looked the harness over while Jack Dorman steadied the old man. “She’s right,” he said.
The grazier said, “The jinker’s right, Pat. Can you get up in it?”
The old man grabbed the splash-board and the seat-rail, put one foot upon the step, and swung himself up into the seat, the habit of fifty years undefeated by alcohol. He took the reins, and lifted the whip from the socket. “I’ll be right, boys,” he said. “Sure, an’ I’ll be wishing you a very good evening.” Now that he was in his vehicle he seemed to be at home, indeed, he looked almost sober.
The grazier stood for a moment at the wheel, looking up at the old man. “What else did Charlie Zlinter do, Pat, besides getting drunk?”
The old man stared down at him. “Charlie Zlinter ...” And then he stood up in the jinker and recited, with dramatic flourishes of the whip that made the grazier retreat hurriedly,
“Charlie Zlinter and his heeler hound
Fell into the Howqua and got bloody well drowned.
Be warned, fellow sinners, and never forget
If he hadn’t been drunk he’d have been living yet.”
He touched the horse skilfully with the whip and drove out of the yard; the grazier was left facing Jim Forrest, who was laughing. “What the hell was all that about, Jack?”
The grazier scratched his head. “Charlie Zlinter,” he replied. “But I reckon it’s a different Charlie Zlinter to the one we know.”
Eight
CARL ZLINTER ARRIVED in Banbury at about nine o’clock on Saturday morning, riding in the back of a utility that had picked him up upon the road. In that sparsely-populated district where trucks and utilities were the normal transport it was not difficult to get a ride into town in something or other; he had never had to walk more than half an hour in the direction of the town without getting picked up. He had not breakfasted, and he went and had it in a café, bacon and two eggs and coffee. They gave him a Melbourne paper two days old to read, and he sat smoking a cigarette after it, enjoying the leisure.
When he paid his bill, he said to the girl who had served him, “Do you know a family called Shulkin? They are New Australian. The man works on the railway.”
She looked at him blankly; she came of a family of Australians that had been casual labourers for generation after generation, bad stock and mentally subnormal. She and her family were bitterly hostile to all immigrants, especially the European ones who worked too hard and were guilty of the social crime of saving money, thereby threatening the Australian Way of Life. “Never heard of them,” she said scornfully.
He looked at her with clinical interest as he paid his bill, wondering if she were tubercular; in spite of his decision to abandon medicine he could not rid himself of interest in symptoms. A Wasserman test would be interesting, and probably positive. He smiled at her, and went out and walked down the long, wide tree-lined avenue of the main street towards the railway station.
The booking office was closed because upon this single-track line there were only two trains a day, but the stationmaster lived beside the station in a weatherboard house, and he asked there for Mr. Shulkin. The stationmaster said, “Aw, look, Stan Shulkin, he’s not working today. There’s a green-painted shack, the third house down this road, with an old railway coach they use for sleeping in alongside. You’ll find Stan there, unless he’s in the town.”
He found the shack and railway coach, a poor sort of habitation. There was a man digging in the garden, a man of about forty-five or fifty, with black hair going bald on top. Behind the railway coach he saw a fresh-faced woman with a dumpy, peasant figure hanging out some washing, and there were a couple of children playing in the background. He opened the gate and went in, and spoke to the man. “Are you Stan Shulkin?”
The man straightened up, and said with an equally marked accent, “I am Stanislaus Shulkin.”
The Czech said in German, “My name is Carl Zlinter, and I work in the timber camp at Lamirra. Do you prefer to speak English?”
“Always,” the man said. “Always I speak English. It is better for the children. The wife, she speaks it very bad. She does not try.”
Carl Zlinter said, “You must excuse, but I have heard that you can paint very good pictures.”
The man smiled shyly across his broad face. “I paint pictures only now one or two each year,” he said. “There is not time and people here do not want pictures. When I came first to this place three years ago, I said, Now I will paint pictures and we shall make much money. But it did not happen in that way. Now I paint only a little.”
“You work upon the railway?”
“In the platelaying gang. It is very hard work, and not good for the hands, for painting. I do not think that I shall paint many more pictures.”
“
You are Esthonian?”
“Lithuanian,” the man said. “I am from Kaunas.”
“I am from Pilsen,” Zlinter said. “In my country I was a doctor, but now I am a labourer.” The man nodded in comprehension. “I have friends who want a picture. They are not artistic, but they have much land and plenty of money. They are more educated than some, and they have bought all the motor-cars that they can use, and now they want an oil-painting.”
“So?” said the Lithuanian. “I would have thought it would have been a radio or a washing machine.”
“They will have those also,” said Zlinter, “but the woman wants an oil painting. She has seen exhibitions of ugly pictures in Melbourne, and those she does not want. She is simple, and she wants a beautiful picture that will give pleasure to those who do not understand about pictures. There is a man called Spiegel in the camp who told me you can paint such pictures.”
“I can paint such pictures,” Shulkin said. “I can paint any sort of picture.”
“May I see?”
Shulkin led the way into the railway coach. It had been an open coach without compartments at one time; now it had been roughly converted into three rooms with match-boarding partitions. Much of the seating still remained unchanged, and each of the three rooms still had two doors upon each side. The end room that they went into was furnished with a bed, an easel, and a great litter of old canvases and frames stacked along one side. “I buy old canvases and frames at the sale,” the artist said. “It is cheaper so.”
He pulled out a canvas from the heap, a beautifully executed still life of two herrings on a plate, a loaf of bread, a pat of butter, and a glass of beer, laid out in strong light on a soiled table-cloth with a dark background. “This I did in the camp. I call it, Lithuanian Fisherman’s Breakfast.”
He plucked another canvas from the heap and set it on the easel in place of the still life. “This — a portrait of my mother.” The stern old face glowered at them from the canvas, a powerful picture finely executed. He whisked it away, and planted another canvas on the easel. “This, the Delatite River.”
