Joe Wilson and His Mates [8]
was a good sort, was Black the squatter: a squatter of the old school,
who'd shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn't see
why he should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old times
with any of his old station hands that happened to come along.
But he'd married an Englishwoman after the hardships were over,
and she'd never got any Australian notions.
Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixed up
for me. I'm not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed
that good-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint.
After tea I had a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap.
I don't remember exactly how we both came to be there, or who sat down first.
There was about two feet between us. We got very chummy and confidential.
She told me about her childhood and her father.
He'd been an old mate of Black's, a younger son of a well-to-do English family
(with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australia
with a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are,
with more or less. They think they're hard done by;
they blue their thousand pounds in Melbourne or Sydney,
and they don't make any more nowadays, for the Roarin' Days have been dead
these thirty years. I wish I'd had a thousand pounds to start on!
Mary's mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selected up there
in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I could understand,
and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary's father made money,
and lost it, and drank -- and died. Mary remembered him
sitting on the verandah one evening with his hand on her head,
and singing a German song (the `Lorelei', I think it was) softly,
as if to himself. Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept
out of the room; and, when he died, the children were adopted round
(there was a little money coming from England).
Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live
with a sort of cousin in town, in a house where they took in cards on a tray,
and then she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first.
I'd had no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas
of what the world ought to be, and she seemed interested.
Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky
until I remembered that I'd told her I had no one to care for me;
then I suspected pity again.
But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers were dead,
and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black,
and things went on very satisfactorily.
And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover
and a looking-glass.
I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was round,
but Mary didn't seem aware of it.
We got very chummy. Mary wasn't comfortable at Haviland.
Old Black was very fond of her and always took her part,
but she wanted to be independent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney
and getting into the hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney,
but she had no money. There was a little money coming to her
when she was twenty-one -- a few pounds -- and she was going to try and get it
before that time.
`Look here, Miss Brand,' I said, after we'd watched the moon rise.
`I'll lend you the money. I've got plenty -- more than I know
what to do with.'
But I saw I'd hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while,
looking before her; then she said it was time to go in,
and said `Good-night, Mr Wilson.'
I reckoned I'd done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards
that she was only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money
might have been taken for a hint. She didn't understand me yet,
and I didn't know human nature. I didn't say anything to Jack --
in fact about this time I left off telling him about things.
He didn't seem hurt; he worked hard and seemed happy.
I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good nature.
I'd be a happier man now, I think, and
who'd shared the early hardships with his men, and couldn't see
why he should not shake hands and have a smoke and a yarn over old times
with any of his old station hands that happened to come along.
But he'd married an Englishwoman after the hardships were over,
and she'd never got any Australian notions.
Next day I found one of the skillion rooms scrubbed out and a bed fixed up
for me. I'm not sure to this day who did it, but I supposed
that good-natured old Black had given one of the women a hint.
After tea I had a yarn with Mary, sitting on a log of the wood-heap.
I don't remember exactly how we both came to be there, or who sat down first.
There was about two feet between us. We got very chummy and confidential.
She told me about her childhood and her father.
He'd been an old mate of Black's, a younger son of a well-to-do English family
(with blue blood in it, I believe), and sent out to Australia
with a thousand pounds to make his way, as many younger sons are,
with more or less. They think they're hard done by;
they blue their thousand pounds in Melbourne or Sydney,
and they don't make any more nowadays, for the Roarin' Days have been dead
these thirty years. I wish I'd had a thousand pounds to start on!
Mary's mother was the daughter of a German immigrant, who selected up there
in the old days. She had a will of her own as far as I could understand,
and bossed the home till the day of her death. Mary's father made money,
and lost it, and drank -- and died. Mary remembered him
sitting on the verandah one evening with his hand on her head,
and singing a German song (the `Lorelei', I think it was) softly,
as if to himself. Next day he stayed in bed, and the children were kept
out of the room; and, when he died, the children were adopted round
(there was a little money coming from England).
Mary told me all about her girlhood. She went first to live
with a sort of cousin in town, in a house where they took in cards on a tray,
and then she came to live with Mrs Black, who took a fancy to her at first.
I'd had no boyhood to speak of, so I gave her some of my ideas
of what the world ought to be, and she seemed interested.
Next day there were sheets on my bed, and I felt pretty cocky
until I remembered that I'd told her I had no one to care for me;
then I suspected pity again.
But next evening we remembered that both our fathers and mothers were dead,
and discovered that we had no friends except Jack and old Black,
and things went on very satisfactorily.
And next day there was a little table in my room with a crocheted cover
and a looking-glass.
I noticed the other girls began to act mysterious and giggle when I was round,
but Mary didn't seem aware of it.
We got very chummy. Mary wasn't comfortable at Haviland.
Old Black was very fond of her and always took her part,
but she wanted to be independent. She had a great idea of going to Sydney
and getting into the hospital as a nurse. She had friends in Sydney,
but she had no money. There was a little money coming to her
when she was twenty-one -- a few pounds -- and she was going to try and get it
before that time.
`Look here, Miss Brand,' I said, after we'd watched the moon rise.
`I'll lend you the money. I've got plenty -- more than I know
what to do with.'
But I saw I'd hurt her. She sat up very straight for a while,
looking before her; then she said it was time to go in,
and said `Good-night, Mr Wilson.'
I reckoned I'd done it that time; but Mary told me afterwards
that she was only hurt because it struck her that what she said about money
might have been taken for a hint. She didn't understand me yet,
and I didn't know human nature. I didn't say anything to Jack --
in fact about this time I left off telling him about things.
He didn't seem hurt; he worked hard and seemed happy.
I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good nature.
I'd be a happier man now, I think, and