Joe Wilson and His Mates [32]
send for her in a month.
After eight weeks she raised the money somehow and came to Sydney
and brought me home. I got pretty low down that time.)
`But, Mary,' I said, `it would have been different this time.
You would have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'
`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.
`Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for,
if you can't stand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.
`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?'
I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.
`Good God!' I shouted, `this is more than any man can stand.
I'll chuck it all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'
`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.
We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home.
I know now whose fault it was.
I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek.
I didn't feel bitter against Mary -- I had spoken too cruelly to her
to feel that way. Looking back, I could see plainly
that if I had taken her advice all through, instead of now and again,
things would have been all right with me. I had come away and left her
crying in the hut, and James telling her, in a brotherly way,
that it was all her fault. The trouble was that I never liked
to `give in' or go half-way to make it up -- not half-way --
it was all the way or nothing with our natures.
`If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, `I'll never be master.
I gave up the reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again.'
What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after,
when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still;
and, amongst other things, I kept saying, `I'll give in, Mary --
I'll give in,' and then I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad,
and took me from the room. But that time was to come.
As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang
in my ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the house
that evening --
`Why did I bring her here?'
I was not fit to `go on the land'. The place was only fit
for some stolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife,
who had no ambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place.
I had only drifted here through carelessness, brooding, and discontent.
I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the only neighbours --
a wretched selector's family, about four miles down the creek, --
and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had any fresh meat.
A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in,
on a patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice
of the selector's wife -- I had seen her several times:
she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I supposed,
the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardship and loneliness
was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to go
farther than she could see through the trunks of the `apple-trees'.
`You, An-nay!' (Annie.)
`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom).
`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'
`Well, didn't I?'
`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'
`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.'
Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there.
I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves
behind some sticks against the bark wall near the door;
and in spite of the sticks the fowls used to get in and scratch beds
under the geraniums, and scratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there
-- with an idea of helping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water,
when fresh water was scarce -- till you might as well try to water
a dish of fat.
Then the woman's voice again --
`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.)
Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.
`Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'
`Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek.
`Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they want
any meat or any think?' in one long screech.
`Well -- I karnt find the horse.'
After eight weeks she raised the money somehow and came to Sydney
and brought me home. I got pretty low down that time.)
`But, Mary,' I said, `it would have been different this time.
You would have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'
`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.
`Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for,
if you can't stand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.
`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?'
I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.
`Good God!' I shouted, `this is more than any man can stand.
I'll chuck it all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'
`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.
We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home.
I know now whose fault it was.
I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek.
I didn't feel bitter against Mary -- I had spoken too cruelly to her
to feel that way. Looking back, I could see plainly
that if I had taken her advice all through, instead of now and again,
things would have been all right with me. I had come away and left her
crying in the hut, and James telling her, in a brotherly way,
that it was all her fault. The trouble was that I never liked
to `give in' or go half-way to make it up -- not half-way --
it was all the way or nothing with our natures.
`If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, `I'll never be master.
I gave up the reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again.'
What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after,
when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still;
and, amongst other things, I kept saying, `I'll give in, Mary --
I'll give in,' and then I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad,
and took me from the room. But that time was to come.
As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang
in my ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the house
that evening --
`Why did I bring her here?'
I was not fit to `go on the land'. The place was only fit
for some stolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife,
who had no ambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place.
I had only drifted here through carelessness, brooding, and discontent.
I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the only neighbours --
a wretched selector's family, about four miles down the creek, --
and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had any fresh meat.
A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in,
on a patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice
of the selector's wife -- I had seen her several times:
she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I supposed,
the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardship and loneliness
was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to go
farther than she could see through the trunks of the `apple-trees'.
`You, An-nay!' (Annie.)
`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom).
`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'
`Well, didn't I?'
`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'
`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.'
Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there.
I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves
behind some sticks against the bark wall near the door;
and in spite of the sticks the fowls used to get in and scratch beds
under the geraniums, and scratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there
-- with an idea of helping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water,
when fresh water was scarce -- till you might as well try to water
a dish of fat.
Then the woman's voice again --
`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.)
Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.
`Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'
`Ye-e-s!' shrill shriek from across the creek.
`Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they want
any meat or any think?' in one long screech.
`Well -- I karnt find the horse.'