Joe Wilson and His Mates [9]
richer man perhaps,
if I'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night
on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her --
but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it.
One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl,
named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate
because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it,
and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts
with a drover that she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be interested
in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to work.
A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station.
He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary
to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy.
I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you.
I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called `Mr Wilson'
to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking.
If it hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.
Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls
went out 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't.
I mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,
and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer,
and damned the world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening
was the only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper.
I got so miserable that I enjoyed it.
I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured.
I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something.
`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.
`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked,
`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'
I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it.
Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something.
But about this time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room
and turned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table.
I used to keep an eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room.
I straightened up, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief
got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash,
I'd slip down to the river after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day,
and rub it up to look as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table.
I felt so full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack,
till one morning he remarked casually --
`I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook
tidying up your room this morning and taking your collars and things
to the wash-house.'
I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day,
and I had such a bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning
to look the hopelessness square in the face and live the thing down.
It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in
a good day's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having
a smoke and a yarn with the chaps before he started home.
We sat on an old log along by the fence at the back of the house.
There was Jimmy Nowlett the bullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover,
and big Jim Bullock the fencer, and one or two others.
Mary and the station girls and one or two visitors were sitting under
the old verandah. The Jackaroo was there too, so I felt happy.
It was the girls who used to bring the chaps hanging round.
They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night.
Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station:
he was a big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy:
it was reckoned that there was foreign blood in him.
He went by the name of Romany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too.
He had the nastiest temper and the best violin in the district,
and the chaps put up with him a lot because they wanted him to play
at Bush dances. The moon had risen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky
if I'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night
on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her --
but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it.
One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl,
named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate
because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it,
and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts
with a drover that she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be interested
in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to work.
A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station.
He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary
to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy.
I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you.
I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called `Mr Wilson'
to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking.
If it hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.
Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls
went out 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't.
I mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,
and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer,
and damned the world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening
was the only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper.
I got so miserable that I enjoyed it.
I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured.
I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something.
`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.
`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked,
`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'
I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it.
Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something.
But about this time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room
and turned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table.
I used to keep an eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room.
I straightened up, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief
got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash,
I'd slip down to the river after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day,
and rub it up to look as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table.
I felt so full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack,
till one morning he remarked casually --
`I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook
tidying up your room this morning and taking your collars and things
to the wash-house.'
I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day,
and I had such a bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning
to look the hopelessness square in the face and live the thing down.
It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in
a good day's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having
a smoke and a yarn with the chaps before he started home.
We sat on an old log along by the fence at the back of the house.
There was Jimmy Nowlett the bullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover,
and big Jim Bullock the fencer, and one or two others.
Mary and the station girls and one or two visitors were sitting under
the old verandah. The Jackaroo was there too, so I felt happy.
It was the girls who used to bring the chaps hanging round.
They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night.
Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station:
he was a big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy:
it was reckoned that there was foreign blood in him.
He went by the name of Romany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too.
He had the nastiest temper and the best violin in the district,
and the chaps put up with him a lot because they wanted him to play
at Bush dances. The moon had risen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky