Joe Wilson and His Mates [37]
dripping, and tea. Every ounce of butter and every egg
was needed for the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar.
Mary found that out, but couldn't help them much -- except by
`stuffing' the children with bread and meat or bread and jam
whenever they came up to our place -- for Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride
that lies down in the end and turns its face to the wall and dies.
Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she was hungry,
she denied it -- but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with her
explained things. The little fellow said --
`Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked;
but if yer give us anythink to eat, we was to take it an' say thenk yer,
Mrs Wilson.'
`I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me,
Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. `Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.'
She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested,
and her face was `burnt to a brick', as they say out there.
She had brown eyes, nearly red, and a little wild-looking at times,
and a sharp face -- ground sharp by hardship -- the cheeks drawn in.
She had an expression like -- well, like a woman who had been
very curious and suspicious at one time, and wanted to know
everybody's business and hear everything, and had lost all her curiosity,
without losing the expression or the quick suspicious movements of the head.
I don't suppose you understand. I can't explain it any other way.
She was not more than forty.
I remember the first morning I saw her. I was going up the creek
to look at the selection for the first time, and called at the hut
to see if she had a bit of fresh mutton, as I had none
and was sick of `corned beef'.
`Yes -- of -- course,' she said, in a sharp nasty tone, as if to say,
`Is there anything more you want while the shop's open?'
I'd met just the same sort of woman years before while I was carrying swag
between the shearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out west of the Darling river,
so I didn't turn on my heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak again.
`Come -- inside,' she said, `and sit down. I see you've got
the waggon outside. I s'pose your name's Wilson, ain't it?
You're thinkin' about takin' on Harry Marshfield's selection up the creek,
so I heard. Wait till I fry you a chop and boil the billy.'
Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like a voice
coming out of a phonograph -- I heard one in Sydney the other day --
and not like a voice coming out of her. But sometimes when she got outside
her everyday life on this selection she spoke in a sort of --
in a sort of lost groping-in-the-dark kind of voice.
She didn't talk much this time -- just spoke in a mechanical way
of the drought, and the hard times, `an' butter 'n' eggs bein' down,
an' her husban' an' eldest son bein' away, an' that makin' it
so hard for her.'
I don't know how many children she had. I never got a chance to count them,
for they were nearly all small, and shy as piccaninnies,
and used to run and hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly as black
as piccaninnies too. She must have averaged a baby a-year for years --
and God only knows how she got over her confinements! Once, they said,
she only had a black gin with her. She had an elder boy and girl,
but she seldom spoke of them. The girl, `Liza', was `in service in Sydney.'
I'm afraid I knew what that meant. The elder son was `away'.
He had been a bit of a favourite round there, it seemed.
Some one might ask her, `How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?'
or, `Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?'
`Oh, he's somewheres up country,' she'd say in the `groping' voice,
or `He's drovin' in Queenslan',' or `Shearin' on the Darlin' the last time
I heerd from him.' `We ain't had a line from him since -- les' see --
since Chris'mas 'fore last.'
And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way
towards the west -- towards `up-country' and `Out-Back'.*
--
* `Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be.
was needed for the market, to keep them in flour, tea, and sugar.
Mary found that out, but couldn't help them much -- except by
`stuffing' the children with bread and meat or bread and jam
whenever they came up to our place -- for Mrs Spicer was proud with the pride
that lies down in the end and turns its face to the wall and dies.
Once, when Mary asked Annie, the eldest girl at home, if she was hungry,
she denied it -- but she looked it. A ragged mite she had with her
explained things. The little fellow said --
`Mother told Annie not to say we was hungry if yer asked;
but if yer give us anythink to eat, we was to take it an' say thenk yer,
Mrs Wilson.'
`I wouldn't 'a' told yer a lie; but I thought Jimmy would split on me,
Mrs Wilson,' said Annie. `Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.'
She was not a big woman. She was gaunt and flat-chested,
and her face was `burnt to a brick', as they say out there.
She had brown eyes, nearly red, and a little wild-looking at times,
and a sharp face -- ground sharp by hardship -- the cheeks drawn in.
She had an expression like -- well, like a woman who had been
very curious and suspicious at one time, and wanted to know
everybody's business and hear everything, and had lost all her curiosity,
without losing the expression or the quick suspicious movements of the head.
I don't suppose you understand. I can't explain it any other way.
She was not more than forty.
I remember the first morning I saw her. I was going up the creek
to look at the selection for the first time, and called at the hut
to see if she had a bit of fresh mutton, as I had none
and was sick of `corned beef'.
`Yes -- of -- course,' she said, in a sharp nasty tone, as if to say,
`Is there anything more you want while the shop's open?'
I'd met just the same sort of woman years before while I was carrying swag
between the shearing-sheds in the awful scrubs out west of the Darling river,
so I didn't turn on my heels and walk away. I waited for her to speak again.
`Come -- inside,' she said, `and sit down. I see you've got
the waggon outside. I s'pose your name's Wilson, ain't it?
You're thinkin' about takin' on Harry Marshfield's selection up the creek,
so I heard. Wait till I fry you a chop and boil the billy.'
Her voice sounded, more than anything else, like a voice
coming out of a phonograph -- I heard one in Sydney the other day --
and not like a voice coming out of her. But sometimes when she got outside
her everyday life on this selection she spoke in a sort of --
in a sort of lost groping-in-the-dark kind of voice.
She didn't talk much this time -- just spoke in a mechanical way
of the drought, and the hard times, `an' butter 'n' eggs bein' down,
an' her husban' an' eldest son bein' away, an' that makin' it
so hard for her.'
I don't know how many children she had. I never got a chance to count them,
for they were nearly all small, and shy as piccaninnies,
and used to run and hide when anybody came. They were mostly nearly as black
as piccaninnies too. She must have averaged a baby a-year for years --
and God only knows how she got over her confinements! Once, they said,
she only had a black gin with her. She had an elder boy and girl,
but she seldom spoke of them. The girl, `Liza', was `in service in Sydney.'
I'm afraid I knew what that meant. The elder son was `away'.
He had been a bit of a favourite round there, it seemed.
Some one might ask her, `How's your son Jack, Mrs Spicer?'
or, `Heard of Jack lately? and where is he now?'
`Oh, he's somewheres up country,' she'd say in the `groping' voice,
or `He's drovin' in Queenslan',' or `Shearin' on the Darlin' the last time
I heerd from him.' `We ain't had a line from him since -- les' see --
since Chris'mas 'fore last.'
And she'd turn her haggard eyes in a helpless, hopeless sort of way
towards the west -- towards `up-country' and `Out-Back'.*
--
* `Out-Back' is always west of the Bushman, no matter how far out he be.