by Nevil Shute
‘Annie’ll do them for you,’ Mrs Connor said. ‘Just give them to her.’
Jean had no intention of trusting her clothes to Annie. ‘She’s got a lot of work to do,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got nothing. I’ll do them myself if I can borrow the tub.’
‘Good-oh.’
Jean spent the morning washing and ironing in the back ground-floor veranda just outside the kitchen; in that dry, torrid place clothes hung out on a line were dry in ten minutes. In the kitchen the temperature must have been close on a hundred and twenty Fahrenheit; Jean made quick rushes in there to fetch her irons from the stove, and wondered at the fortitude of women who cooked three hot meals a day in such conditions. Annie came presently and stood around on the back veranda, furtively examining Jean’s washing.
She picked up a carton of soap flakes. ‘How much of this do you put in the water?’
Jean said, ‘I think it’s an ounce to a gallon of water, isn’t it? I used to know. I put in just a bit. It tells you on the packet.’
The girl turned the packet over in her hands, scrutinizing it. ‘Where it says, DIRECTIONS FOR USE,’ said Jean.
From the door behind her Mrs Connor said, ‘Annie don’t read very well.’
The girl said, ‘I can read.’
‘Oh, can you? Well then, read us out what’s written on that packet.’
The girl put the carton down. ‘I ain’t had much practice lately. I could read all right when I was at school.’
To ease the situation Jean said, ‘All you do is just go on putting in the soap flakes till the water lathers properly. It’s different with different sorts of water, because of the hardness.’
‘I use ordinary soap,’ said Annie. ‘It don’t come up so well as this.’
Presently the girl said, ‘Are you a nurse?’
Jean shook her head. ‘I’m a typist.’
Oh, I thought you might be a nurse. Most women that come to Willstown are nurses. ‘They don’t stay here long. Six months, and then they’ve had enough.’
There was a pause. ‘If you’d been a nurse,’ the girl said, ‘I’d have asked you for some medicine. I’ve been feeling ever so ill lately just after getting up. I was sick this morning.’
‘That’s bad,’ said Jean cautiously. There did not seem to be much else to say.
‘I think I’ll go up to the hospital,’ said Annie, ‘and ask Sister Douglas for some medicine.’
‘I should do that,’ said Jean.
In the course of the day she met most of the notable citizens of Willstown. She walked across to the store to try and buy some cigarettes, but only succeeded in buying a tin of tobacco and a packet of papers. While she was chatting to Mr Bill Duncan in the store and examining the piece of quartz with gold in it that he showed her, Miss Kenroy came in, the schoolteacher. Half an hour later, as Jean was walking back across the road to the hotel, Al Burns met her and wanted to introduce her to Mr Carter, the Shire Clerk.
She slept most of the afternoon upon her bed, in common with the rest of Willstown; when the day cooled off she came down to the lower veranda and sat there in a deckchair, as she had the previous evening. She had not long to wait before the ringers found her; they came one by one, diffidently, unsure of themselves before this English girl, and yet unable to keep away. She had a little circle of them squatting with her on the veranda presently.
She got them to talk about themselves; it seemed the best way to put them at their ease. ‘It’s all right here,’ said one. ‘It’s good cattle country; more rain here than what you get down further south. But I’m off out of it next year. My brother, he’s down at Rockhampton working on the railway. He said he’d get me in the gang if I went down and joined him.’
Jean asked, ‘Is it better pay down there?’
‘Well, no. I don’t think it’s so good. We get five pounds seventeen and six here – that’s all found, of course. That’s for an ordinary stockrider.’
She was surprised. ‘That’s not bad pay, is it? For a single man?’
Pete Fletcher said, ‘The pay’s all right. Trouble is this place. There’s nothing to do here.’
‘Do you get a cinema here ever?’
‘There’s a chap supposed to come here every fortnight and show films in the Shire Hall – that building over there.’ She saw a low, barnlike wooden structure. ‘He hasn’t been for a month, but he’s coming next week, Mr Carter says.’
‘What about dances?’ Jean asked.
There was a cynical laugh. ‘They try it sometimes, but it’s a crook place for a dance. Not enough girls.’
Pete Fletcher said, ‘There’s about fifty of us stockmen come into Willstown, Miss Paget, and there’s two unmarried girls to dance with, Doris Nash and Susie Anderson. That’s between the age of seventeen and twenty-two, say. Not counting the kids and the married women.’
One of the ringers laughed sourly. ‘Susie’s more than twenty-two.’
Jean asked, ‘But what happens to all the girls? There must be more than that around here?’
‘They all go to the cities for a job,’ said somebody. ‘There’s nothing for a girl to do in Willstown. They go to Townsville and Rockhampton – Brisbane, too.’
Pete Fletcher said, ‘That’s where I’m going, Brisbane.’
Jean said, ‘Don’t you like it on a cattle station, then?’ She was thinking of Joe Harman and his love for the outback.
‘Oh, the station’s all right,’ said Pete. He hesitated, uncertain how to put what he felt to this Englishwoman without incautiously using a rude word. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘a fellow’s got a right to have a girl and marry, like anybody else.’
She stared at him. ‘It’s really like that, is it?’
‘It’s a fair cow,’ said somebody. ‘It’s a fair cow up here. No kidding, lady. It’s two unmarried girls for fifty men in Willstown. A fellow hasn’t got a chance of marrying up here.’
Somebody else explained to her, ‘You see, Miss Paget, if a girl’s a normal girl and got her head screwed on right – say, like it might be you – you wouldn’t stay here. Soon as you were old enough to go away from home you’d be off to some place where you could get a job and make your own living, not have to depend on your folks all the time. My word, you would. The only girls that stay in Willstown are the ones who are a bit stupid and couldn’t make out in any other place, or else ones who feel they’ve got to stay and look after the old folks.’
Somebody else said, ‘That kind take the old folks with them down to the city. Like Elsie Freeman.’
Jean laughed. ‘You mean, that if you stay in Willstown you’ll finish up by marrying a girl who’s not so hot.’
They looked over their shoulders, embarrassed. ‘Well, a fellow wants to look around a bit …’
‘Who’s going to run the stations if you all go down to the cities, looking round a bit?’ Jean said.
‘That’s the manager’s headache,’ said Pete. ‘I’ve got headaches of my own.’
That evening shortly before tea a utility drove up, a battered old Chevrolet with a cab front and an open, truck-like body behind. It was driven by a man of about fifty with lean, sensitive features. Beside him sat a brown girl of twenty or twenty-five with a smooth skin and a serene face; she was not pure native, but probably a quarter white. She wore a bright red dress, and she carried a kitten, which was evidently a great amusement and interest to her. They passed into the hotel, the man carrying their bags; evidently they were staying for the night. At teatime Jean saw them in the dining-room sitting with the men at the other table, but they were keeping very much to themselves.
Jean asked Mrs Connor who they were, after tea. ‘That’s Eddie Page,’ she said. ‘He’s manager of a station called Carlisle about a hundred miles out. The lubra’s his wife; they’ve come in to buy stores.’
‘Real wife?’ asked Jean.
‘Oh yes, he married her properly. One of the Bush Brothers was round that way last year, Brother Copeland, and he married them. They come in
here from time to time. I must say, she never makes any trouble. She can’t read or write, of course, and she doesn’t speak much. Always got a kitten or a puppy along with her; that’s what she likes.’
The picture of the man’s sensitive, intelligent face came incongruously into Jean’s mind. ‘I wonder what made him do that?’
Mrs Connor shrugged her shoulders. ‘Got lonely, I suppose.’
That night, when Jean went up to her bedroom, she saw a figure standing by the rail of the balcony that overlooked the backyard. There were two bedrooms only that opened on that balcony, her own and Annie’s. In the dim light as she was going in at her window, she said, ‘Goodnight, Annie.’
The girl came towards her. ‘I been feeling awful bad,’ she muttered. ‘Mind if I ask you something, Miss Paget?’
Jean stopped. ‘Of course, Annie. What’s the matter?’
‘Do you know how to get rid of a baby, Miss Paget?’
Jean had been prepared for that one by the morning’s conversation; a deep pity for the child welled up in her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Annie, but I don’t. I don’t think it’s a very good thing to do, you know.’
‘I went up to Sister Douglas and she said that’s what’s the matter with me. Pa’ll beat the daylights out of me when he hears.’
Jean took her hand, and drew her into the bedroom. ‘Come in here and tell me about it.’
Annie said, ‘I know there’s things you can do like eating something or riding on a horse or something like that. I thought perhaps you might have had to do it, and you’d know.’
‘I’ve never had to do it, Annie. I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him to marry you and have it normally?’
The girl said, ‘I don’t know how you’d tell which one it was. They’d all say it was one of the others, wouldn’t they?’
It was a problem that Jean had never had to face. ‘I suppose they would.’
‘I think I’ll ask my sister Bessie. She might know. She had two kids afore getting married.’
It did not look as if Bessie’s knowledge had been very useful to her. Jean asked, ‘Wouldn’t the sister do anything to help you?’
‘All she did was call me a wicked girl. That don’t help much. Suppose I am a wicked girl. There’s nothing else to do in a crook place like this.’
Jean did what she could to comfort her with words, but words were little good to Annie. Her interests were not moral, but practical. ‘Pa will be mad as anything when he gets to know about it,’ she said apprehensively. ‘He’ll beat the daylights out o’ me.’
There was nothing Jean could do to help the girl, and presently they went to bed. Jean lay awake for a long time beset by human suffering.
She continued for the next two days in Willstown, sitting on the veranda and talking to the ringers, and visiting the various establishments in the town. Miss Kenroy took her and showed her the school. Sister Douglas showed her the hospital. Mr Carter showed her the Shire Hall with the pathetically few books that constituted the public library; Mr Watkins showed her the bank, which was full of flies, and Sergeant Haines showed her the Police Station. By the end of the week she was beginning to know a good deal about Willstown.
Jim Lennon came into town on Saturday, as predicted, for his grog. He came in an International utility that Jean learned was the property of Joe Harman, an outsize in motor cars with a truck body behind the front seat, furnished with tanks for seventy gallons of petrol and fifty gallons of water. Mr Lennon was a lean, bronzed, taciturn man.
‘I got an air mail letter yesterday,’ he said with the deliberation of the Queenslander. ‘Joe’s starting on his way back from England in a ship. He said he’d be about the middle of October, so he thought.’
‘I see,’ said Jean. ‘I want to see him before I go back to England. I’ve arranged to fly to Cairns on Wednesday and wait there for him.’
‘Aye. There’s not much for you to do, I don’t suppose, waiting round here. I’d say come out and live at Midhurst, but there’s less to do there.’
‘What’s Joe been doing in England, Mr Lennon? Did he tell you what he was going for?’
The stockman laughed. ‘I didn’t even know he was going. All I knew he was going down to Brisbane. Then I got a letter that he’d gone to England. I don’t know why he went. He did say in this letter I got yesterday he’d seen a bonza herd of Herefords, belonging to a Sir Dennis Frampton. Maybe he’s having bulls shipped out to raise the quality of the stock. He didn’t tell me nothing.’
She gave him her address as the Strand Hotel in Cairns, and asked him to let her know when he got accurate news of Joe’s arrival.
That evening as she was sitting in her deckchair on the veranda, Al Burns brought a bashful, bearded old man to her; he had disengaged the old man from the bar with some difficulty. He was carrying a sack. ‘Miss Paget,’ he said, ‘want you to meet Jeff Pocock.’ Jean got up and shook hands. ‘Thought you’d like to meet Jeff,’ Al said cheerfully. ‘Jeff’s the best alligator hunter in all Queensland. Aren’t you, Jeff?’
The old man wagged his head. ‘I been huntin’ ‘gators since I was a boy,’ he said. ‘I reckon I knows ’gators by this time.’
Al said, ‘He’s got an alligator skin to show you, Miss Paget.’ To the old man he said, ‘Show her your skin, Jeff. I bet she’s never seen a skin like that in England.’
Jeff Pocock took the sack and opened it, and took out a small alligator skin rolled up. ‘’Course,’ he said, ‘I cleaned and trimmed and tanned this one myself. Mostly we just salt them and sell ’em to the tannery like that.’ He unrolled the skin before her on the floor of the veranda. ‘Pretty markings, ain’t they? I bet you never seen a skin like that in England.’
The sight of it brought back nostalgic memories to Jean of red buses on the Great West Road at Perivale, and Pack and Levy Ltd, and rows of girls sitting at the work benches making up alligator-skin shoes and alligator-skin handbags and alligator-skin dressing-cases. She laughed. ‘I’ve seen hundreds of them in England,’ she replied. ‘This is one thing I really know about. I used to work in a factory that made these skins up into handbags and dressing-cases.’ She picked up the skin and handled it. ‘Ours were harder than this, I think. You’ve done the curing very well, Jeff.’
Two or three other men had drifted up; her story was repeated back and forth in other words, and she told them all about Pack and Levy Ltd. They were very interested; none of them knew much about the skins after they had left the Gulf country. ‘I know as they make shoes of them,’ said Jeff. ‘I never see a pair.’
A vague idea was forming in Jean’s mind. ‘How many of these do you get a year?’ she asked.
‘I turned in eighty-two last year,’ the old man said. ‘ ’Course that’s a little ’un. They mostly run about thirty to thirty-six inch – width of skin, that is. That’s a ’gator about eleven foot long.’
Jean said, ‘Will you sell me this one, Jeff?’
‘What do you want it for?’
She laughed. ‘I want to make myself a pair of shoes out of it.’ She paused. ‘That’s if Tim Whelan can make up a pair of lasts for me.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t want nothing for it,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ll give it to you.’
She argued with him for a little while, and then accepted gracefully. ‘We’ll want a bit of calf skin for the soles,’ she said, ‘and some thicker stuff for building up the heels.’
She fondled the skin in her hands. ‘It’s beautifully soft,’ she said, ‘I’ll show you what to do with this.’
7
Jean made that pair of shoes working upon the dressing-table of her bedroom; to be more exact, she made three pairs before she got a pair that she could wear.
She started off upon Tim Whelan. Tim had made lasts for shoes from time to time, working for various cobblers; the outback woodworker must turn his hand to anything. Jean lent him one of her shoes and lent him her foot to measure in his carpenter’s shop, and he made a pair of lasts for her
in mulga wood in a couple of days. She asked Pete Fletcher about leather for the soles and heels, and he produced some pieces of tanned cow-skin which were about the right thickness for the soles, and a piece of bull’s skin for building up the heels. The lining was a major difficulty at first till somebody suggested a young wallaby skin. Pete Fletcher went out and shot the wallaby and skinned it, and the tanning was carried out by a committee of Pete Fletcher and Al Burns and Don Duncan, working in the back of Bill Duncan’s store. The business of this pair of shoes assumed such an importance in the life of Willstown that Jean put off her trip to Cairns for a week, and then another week.
The wallaby skin for the lining was not ready, so Jean made up the first pair with a white satin lining that she bought in the store. She knew every process of shoe-making intimately from the point of view of an onlooker, and from the office end, but she had never done it herself before, and the first pair of shoes were terrible. They were shoes of a sort, but they pinched her toes and the heels were too large by a quarter of an inch, and they hurt her instep. The satin lining was not a success, and the whole job was messy with the streaming perspiration of her fingers. Still, they were shoes, and wearable by anyone whose feet happened to be that shape.
She could not show shoes like that to the men downstairs, and so she set to work to make another pair. She got Tim to alter the lasts for her, bought another knife and a small carborundum stone from the store, and started again. For fixative she was using small tubes of Durofix, also from the store.
In all this work Annie took a great interest. She used to come and sit and watch Jean working as she trimmed and filed the soles or stretched the wet alligator hides carefully upon the lasts. ‘I do think you’re clever to be able to do that,’ she said. ‘They’re almost as good as you could buy in a shop.’
The second pair were better. They fitted Jean moderately well, but the wallaby-skin lining was uneven and lumpy, and the whole job was still messy and fingermarked with sweat. Undaunted, she began upon a third pair. This time she used portions of the wallaby skin that were of even thickness, having no means of trimming the skin down, and when it came to the final assembly of the shoes she worked in the early morning when the perspiration of her hands was least. The final result was quite a creditable shoe with rather an ugly coloured lining, but a shoe that she could have worn anywhere.
