Joe Wilson and His Mates [23]
from the stars.
`Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like, `The stars are looking
at me.' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots,
and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said.
I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going
to the fire he called me back.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.'
I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he'd brought
from Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took
all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And `'night-night' and `daddy'
were two-year-old language to Jim. I'd thought he'd forgotten those words --
he seemed to be going back.
`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?'
`Yes, dad.'
I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried.
I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself.
Presently he called me again.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him
to say father.)
I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die
(she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said --
`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.'
And I couldn't get that out of my head.
I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head --
he seemed cool enough.
`Where do you feel bad, sonny?'
No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice
as if he were talking in his sleep --
`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!'
I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept --
in a restless, feverish sort of way.
I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the fire;
I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it
full of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade
(we always carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather)
and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin
down into the hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst.
I had a tin of mustard, and meant to fight a good round for Jim,
if death came along.
I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim.
His head was burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone.
Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward
between the waggon and the fire, and repeating what I'd heard Mary say
the last time we fought for Jim: `God! don't take my child!
God! don't take my boy!' I'd never had much faith in doctors,
but, my God! I wanted one then. The nearest was fifteen miles away.
I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation;
and -- Well, I don't ask you to take much stock in this,
though most old Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night;
and -- Now, it might have been that I was all unstrung,
or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the gently moving branches,
or the blue smoke rising up. But I saw the figure of a woman, all white,
come down, down, nearly to the limbs of the trees, point on up the main road,
and then float up and up and vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead!
Then it flashed on me ----
Four or five miles up the road, over the `saddle', was an old shanty
that had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line
got round as far as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads.
A man named Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming,
and as much sly-grog selling as he could. He was married --
but it wasn't that: I'd thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out,
spiritless woman, and both were pretty `ratty' from hardship and loneliness --
they weren't likely to be of any use to me. But it was this:
I'd heard talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten's wife
who'd gone out to live with them lately: she'd been a hospital matron
in the city, they said;
`Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like, `The stars are looking
at me.' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots,
and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said.
I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going
to the fire he called me back.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.'
I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he'd brought
from Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took
all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And `'night-night' and `daddy'
were two-year-old language to Jim. I'd thought he'd forgotten those words --
he seemed to be going back.
`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?'
`Yes, dad.'
I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried.
I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself.
Presently he called me again.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him
to say father.)
I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die
(she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said --
`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.'
And I couldn't get that out of my head.
I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head --
he seemed cool enough.
`Where do you feel bad, sonny?'
No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice
as if he were talking in his sleep --
`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!'
I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept --
in a restless, feverish sort of way.
I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the fire;
I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it
full of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade
(we always carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather)
and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin
down into the hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst.
I had a tin of mustard, and meant to fight a good round for Jim,
if death came along.
I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim.
His head was burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone.
Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward
between the waggon and the fire, and repeating what I'd heard Mary say
the last time we fought for Jim: `God! don't take my child!
God! don't take my boy!' I'd never had much faith in doctors,
but, my God! I wanted one then. The nearest was fifteen miles away.
I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation;
and -- Well, I don't ask you to take much stock in this,
though most old Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night;
and -- Now, it might have been that I was all unstrung,
or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the gently moving branches,
or the blue smoke rising up. But I saw the figure of a woman, all white,
come down, down, nearly to the limbs of the trees, point on up the main road,
and then float up and up and vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead!
Then it flashed on me ----
Four or five miles up the road, over the `saddle', was an old shanty
that had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line
got round as far as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads.
A man named Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming,
and as much sly-grog selling as he could. He was married --
but it wasn't that: I'd thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out,
spiritless woman, and both were pretty `ratty' from hardship and loneliness --
they weren't likely to be of any use to me. But it was this:
I'd heard talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten's wife
who'd gone out to live with them lately: she'd been a hospital matron
in the city, they said;