Joe Wilson and His Mates [50]
been
mistress of Haviland homestead, with servants to wait on her;
and she was far better fitted for it than the one that was there.
She would have been going to Sydney every holiday and putting up
at the old Royal, with every comfort that a woman could ask for,
and seeing a play every night. And I'd have been knocking around
amongst the big stations Out-Back, or maybe drinking myself to death
at the shanties.
The Blacks didn't see me as I went by, ragged and dusty,
and with an old, nearly black, cabbage-tree hat drawn over my eyes.
I didn't care a damn for them, or any one else, at most times,
but I had moods when I felt things.
One of Black's big wool teams was just coming away from the shed,
and the driver, a big, dark, rough fellow, with some foreign blood in him,
didn't seem inclined to wheel his team an inch out of the middle of the road.
I stopped my horses and waited. He looked at me and I looked at him -- hard.
Then he wheeled off, scowling, and swearing at his horses.
I'd given him a hiding, six or seven years before, and he hadn't forgotten it.
And I felt then as if I wouldn't mind trying to give some one a hiding.
The goods clerk must have thought that Joe Wilson was pretty grumpy that day.
I was thinking of Mary, out there in the lonely hut on a barren creek
in the Bush -- for it was little better -- with no one to speak to
except a haggard, worn-out Bushwoman or two, that came to see her on Sunday.
I thought of the hardships she went through in the first year --
that I haven't told you about yet; of the time she was ill, and I away,
and no one to understand; of the time she was alone with James and Jim sick;
and of the loneliness she fought through out there. I thought of Mary,
outside in the blazing heat, with an old print dress and a felt hat,
and a pair of 'lastic-siders of mine on, doing the work of a station manager
as well as that of a housewife and mother. And her cheeks were getting thin,
and her colour was going: I thought of the gaunt, brick-brown,
saw-file voiced, hopeless and spiritless Bushwomen I knew -- and some of them
not much older than Mary.
When I went back down into the town, I had a drink with Bill Galletly
at the Royal, and that settled the buggy; then Bob shouted,*
and I took the harness. Then I shouted, to wet the bargain.
When I was going, Bob said, `Send in that young scamp of a brother of Mary's
with the horses: if the collars don't fit I'll fix up a pair of makeshifts,
and alter the others.' I thought they both gripped my hand harder than usual,
but that might have been the beer.
--
* `Shout', to buy a round of drinks. -- A. L., 1997.
--
IV. The Buggy Comes Home.
I `whipped the cat' a bit, the first twenty miles or so, but then, I thought,
what did it matter? What was the use of grinding to save money
until we were too old to enjoy it. If we had to go down in the world again,
we might as well fall out of a buggy as out of a dray --
there'd be some talk about it, anyway, and perhaps a little sympathy.
When Mary had the buggy she wouldn't be tied down so much
to that wretched hole in the Bush; and the Sydney trips needn't be off either.
I could drive down to Wallerawang on the main line, where Mary
had some people, and leave the buggy and horses there,
and take the train to Sydney; or go right on, by the old coach-road,
over the Blue Mountains: it would be a grand drive.
I thought best to tell Mary's sister at Gulgong about the buggy;
I told her I'd keep it dark from Mary till the buggy came home.
She entered into the spirit of the thing, and said she'd give the world
to be able to go out with the buggy, if only to see Mary open her eyes
when she saw it; but she couldn't go, on account of a new baby she had.
I was rather glad she couldn't, for it would spoil the surprise a little,
I thought. I wanted that all to myself.
I got home about sunset next day, and, after tea, when I'd finished
telling Mary all the news, and a few lies as to why I didn't
bring the cart back, and one or two
mistress of Haviland homestead, with servants to wait on her;
and she was far better fitted for it than the one that was there.
She would have been going to Sydney every holiday and putting up
at the old Royal, with every comfort that a woman could ask for,
and seeing a play every night. And I'd have been knocking around
amongst the big stations Out-Back, or maybe drinking myself to death
at the shanties.
The Blacks didn't see me as I went by, ragged and dusty,
and with an old, nearly black, cabbage-tree hat drawn over my eyes.
I didn't care a damn for them, or any one else, at most times,
but I had moods when I felt things.
One of Black's big wool teams was just coming away from the shed,
and the driver, a big, dark, rough fellow, with some foreign blood in him,
didn't seem inclined to wheel his team an inch out of the middle of the road.
I stopped my horses and waited. He looked at me and I looked at him -- hard.
Then he wheeled off, scowling, and swearing at his horses.
I'd given him a hiding, six or seven years before, and he hadn't forgotten it.
And I felt then as if I wouldn't mind trying to give some one a hiding.
The goods clerk must have thought that Joe Wilson was pretty grumpy that day.
I was thinking of Mary, out there in the lonely hut on a barren creek
in the Bush -- for it was little better -- with no one to speak to
except a haggard, worn-out Bushwoman or two, that came to see her on Sunday.
I thought of the hardships she went through in the first year --
that I haven't told you about yet; of the time she was ill, and I away,
and no one to understand; of the time she was alone with James and Jim sick;
and of the loneliness she fought through out there. I thought of Mary,
outside in the blazing heat, with an old print dress and a felt hat,
and a pair of 'lastic-siders of mine on, doing the work of a station manager
as well as that of a housewife and mother. And her cheeks were getting thin,
and her colour was going: I thought of the gaunt, brick-brown,
saw-file voiced, hopeless and spiritless Bushwomen I knew -- and some of them
not much older than Mary.
When I went back down into the town, I had a drink with Bill Galletly
at the Royal, and that settled the buggy; then Bob shouted,*
and I took the harness. Then I shouted, to wet the bargain.
When I was going, Bob said, `Send in that young scamp of a brother of Mary's
with the horses: if the collars don't fit I'll fix up a pair of makeshifts,
and alter the others.' I thought they both gripped my hand harder than usual,
but that might have been the beer.
--
* `Shout', to buy a round of drinks. -- A. L., 1997.
--
IV. The Buggy Comes Home.
I `whipped the cat' a bit, the first twenty miles or so, but then, I thought,
what did it matter? What was the use of grinding to save money
until we were too old to enjoy it. If we had to go down in the world again,
we might as well fall out of a buggy as out of a dray --
there'd be some talk about it, anyway, and perhaps a little sympathy.
When Mary had the buggy she wouldn't be tied down so much
to that wretched hole in the Bush; and the Sydney trips needn't be off either.
I could drive down to Wallerawang on the main line, where Mary
had some people, and leave the buggy and horses there,
and take the train to Sydney; or go right on, by the old coach-road,
over the Blue Mountains: it would be a grand drive.
I thought best to tell Mary's sister at Gulgong about the buggy;
I told her I'd keep it dark from Mary till the buggy came home.
She entered into the spirit of the thing, and said she'd give the world
to be able to go out with the buggy, if only to see Mary open her eyes
when she saw it; but she couldn't go, on account of a new baby she had.
I was rather glad she couldn't, for it would spoil the surprise a little,
I thought. I wanted that all to myself.
I got home about sunset next day, and, after tea, when I'd finished
telling Mary all the news, and a few lies as to why I didn't
bring the cart back, and one or two