Читать книгу The Mountains Have a Secret - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 7

The Prisoners

“Reach me down that fowl,” pleaded old Simpson. “Lemme get the feel of his neck in me hands. They only hang him up there to mock at me and put on me the evil eye. They don’t want me to get well and be the master in me own house.”

Tears of self-pity rolled down his withered cheeks and into the unkempt white whiskers, and Bony said:

“Have you lived here very long?”

A palsied forearm was drawn across the watering eyes; the old man’s lips trembled. Bony looked away for a moment or two and then was presented with a picture of youth and virility and courage.

“Afore you was born,” came the words of the picture, “me and the old woman came here back in the year one. There was no roads to anywhere then once we left Dunkeld, only a bit of track coming through these mountains to get into Baden Park. Every mile of that track was harder than twenty miles over plain country.”

Memory was wiping away the ravages of the years, overlaying the features with a make-up to re-create a man of yesteryear. The voice lost its quavering, was steady, and the eagerness of the pioneer flared into the light blue eyes.

“I was young in them days, and the old woman was younger than me. I druv six bullocks in a dray and she druv four horses to a buckboard. She was carryin’ Alf, too. Took us all of a fortnight to make the thirty miles. I had to build two bridges in them weeks, but Kurt Benson promised me land and a fair go if we could make it.

“We made it all right, and just in time. Settled right here beside the crick. The clearing here now was a clearing then, and when we had let the bullocks and the horses go that first evening, the old woman got her pains. It was raining like hell and cold. They want hospitals now and doctors. Soft, that’s what they are now.

“Any’ow, we cleared the land back from the crick and grew grapes and fruit. Benson, the present man’s father, was a good man and true. He helped us all he could, and later on he got us the licence and set us up, advertising in the papers for us, helping with the track and all.

“The first child got drowned in the crick when he was three, and Jim came along then and afterwards Ferris. We did well, me and the old woman. This all belongs to me, you unnerstand, and I ain’t dead yet. Jim’s been at me for years to give it to him, but there ain’t a chance. I signed a will and they don’t know where it is. They’d like to know, but they never will, not until after I’m gone. If they knew where that will is they’d burn it, and one night they’d leave the door of the spirit store open.”

“What for?” Bony asked without keen interest, for the story he had heard was not an uncommon one. The old man’s voice sank to a sibilant whisper.

“So’s I’d get inside and drink and drink and drink and never come out any more. Then I’d be another body in that spirit store, all stiff and cold. You wouldn’t let me stay in there and drink and drink until I was dead, would you? You listen and talk to me, you do. The others won’t. Jim won’t let ’em. Jim tells ’em that I’m barmy, he tells ’em I imagines things. He calls ’em away from me and leaves me to be tormented by that ruddy fowl. And his mother’s back of him.”

The cockatoo whirred its wings and screeched, and it was as though the cacophony wiped off the make-up, burned out the re-created man.

“Get to hell outa here!” yelled the bird.

The wisteria hid the veranda steps from Bony and the invalid, and they did not observe the approach of two men who came up the steps. They were dressed in riding-breeches, brown boots and leggings, and both were wearing wide-brimmed felts. Spurs jangled. One of the men laughed. They were young and lean and hard and stained darkly by the sun and the wind.

“What about a drink?” each asked of the cockatoo, the first with a foreign accent, the second with the clipped tones of a city-bred man. The bird replied with a raspberry and hung upside-down. When the men had entered the building the old man whispered:

“They’re Benson’s men.”

There was no apparent reason why the information should be so announced. The voice was tainted by fear, but there was no fear in the old eyes now regarding Bony with clear steadiness. He fancied that he saw mockery in them.

“D’you get many callers?” he asked, and the previous expression of self-pity flashed into the withered face.

“Not this time of year. Christmas and Easter we’re full up to the doors. They don’t let me sit here them times—not now. Didn’t mind it much when Ted O’Brien was workin’ here and me and Ted uster talk about the old days. But Jim got rid of Ted. Said he drank too much. Caught him dead drunk in the spirit store first thing one mornin’.” The tears again rolled downwards into the whiskers. “Ain’t got no one to talk to since Ted O’Brien was sacked. You’ll talk to me, won’t you? You won’t believe I’m barmy and steer clear of me, eh? Let’s be cobbers, and one night we can raid the spirit store. Let’s raid it tonight. Jim and Ferris are going to Dunkeld tonight. I heard Ferris tell the old woman about it.”

The conversation fell away into a monologue of complaints, and presently the two riders came out, followed by Jim Simpson. For a little while they stood above the veranda steps, talking in low voices, and when the man had gone Simpson came along to Bony and the old man. His smile did not include his father.

“We’ll be serving dinner at six tonight, because my sister and I are going to town,” he said. “It’s half-past five. Will you be wanting a drink before dinner? I’m asking because I’d like to get dressed.”

“No, thanks. Afterwards, perhaps,” Bony decided.

Again Simpson smiled, although his eyes remained cold. He said:

“My mother isn’t feeling very well today, so perhaps I could leave a bottle or two in your room?”

“Yes, that’s an idea. You might let me have a bottle of whisky and some soda water. I’ll be going to bed early.”

Simpson nodded assent and then looked down at the old man, who had said not a word:

“Now then, Father, I’m putting you to bed before I dress.”

“Don’t wanta go to bed,” shouted the invalid. “Too early. Hours yet to sundown.”

“Well, you’ll have to go,” Simpson said sharply. “Ferris is dressing and Mum isn’t so well. She won’t want to be bothered with you after she’s cleared up.”

The son moved to the back of the chair and winked at Bony.

The father shouted that he could put himself to bed, that he needn’t go to bed ever, that he could sleep in his chair anywhere and any time, that Bony could put him to bed later. Despite his protests, he was wheeled away round the far corner of the building, one frail hand thumping an arm rest, the mane of white hair tossing with rage. His voice became blanketed, and Bony guessed he had been taken into a room just beyond the corner of the building, but he could still hear the protests, which availed nothing. Then the old man’s voice sank away into a murmur, and Bony thought it strange that not once had the son spoken after disappearing with the invalid.

The feeling of pity for old Simpson was being qualified by interest in him. Why would his son not allow him to talk to guests? He did not appear to be non compos mentis. Slightly senile, perhaps. Irritable and often desperately miserable, without doubt. Who would not be so when suffering from such ailments? He wanted merely to talk. And if a guest didn’t mind putting up with him, why was he denied?

Was it because he was likely to divulge family matters to any stranger? Possibly. Almost any family is jealous of its cupboarded skeletons. To deny the old fellow drink was wise, but there could be another interpretation. A smile touched Bony’s eyes. The subconscious had dictated to the conscious mind to order a bottle of whisky, when Bony seldom drank spirits. A dram might unloose a tongue to tell more of the spirit store and a body within.

The ethics would have to be determined later—if it became necessary, and that seemed doubtful. After all, an invalid who holds possession of property he is incapable of managing can be a martinet, and damaging grit in any business. The father a confirmed invalid, the son did have responsibilities in his mother and sister.

Simpson came round the corner of the veranda.

“Old boy never likes going to bed,” he said. “Quite a trial at times, and Mother has her work cut out, what with the cooking and all.”

“Says he suffers from arthritis,” observed Bony. “Very painful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s so. Doctor says there’s no hope of a cure. We give him a sleeping-tablet about ten.” Simpson paused, pursed his lips, and gazed hard at Bony. “Don’t like to ask you,” he said. “Wouldn’t if Mother was well. Ferris and I ought not to go to Dunkeld tonight, but—I wonder—would you mind slipping into the old boy’s room about ten and giving him his tablet?”

“Not at all. Yes, I’ll do that,” assented Bony, and the not unattractive smile crept into the hard eyes and the over-fleshed face.

“I’ll leave the tablet and the glass of water on the table in the hall. See that he doesn’t spit out the tablet. He tries to sometimes. Been telling you all his troubles?”

“No,” replied Bony. “No. He was relating to me how he and Mrs. Simpson first came here and settled down. Must have been hard going in those days, especially for a woman.”

“Indeed, yes. Well, I must get out the car and then dress. I’ll put the whisky and soda in your room and the old man’s dope on the hall table. See you later. And thank you. Mother can get to bed as soon as dinner is cleared away. She’ll be all right until Ferris comes home.”

He moved briskly off the veranda, a man not in keeping with his environment. He was no backwoodsman, and Bony experienced bewilderment when relating him to the invalid. A car was being driven from the garage, and it was brought to the veranda steps. Simpson appeared again and passed into the building. After a little while Bony stood up and was able to see the car and gaze over the clearing, now shadowed from the westering sun.

It was a beautiful car, almost brand new, a Buick, all black and silver, dustless and gleaming. Bony recalled reading that the cost of these machines was more than eleven hundred pounds. Like Simpson, the car’s environment wasn’t right.

He was in the hall looking at the pictorial map of the locality when the dinner-gong was struck. The map had been drawn by an artist and was an ornament for any hallway. The hotel in the clearing was excellently depicted, and behind it were the yard buildings and a grassy paddock with stables and hen-houses, and beyond the paddock a vineyard. The track on which the Rolls had appeared was not drawn on the map farther back than the vineyard. The creek and the bridge carrying the road on to Lake George were pictured. All the details were clear. One could travel the road round to Lake George, and then onward in a rough curve to rejoin the road to Hall’s Gap.

On entering the dining-room, Bony found a well-dressed couple seated at one of two set tables, and he received a little shock of astonishment when he recognised Simpson in an immaculate navy-blue double-breasted suit. His dinner companion was a girl well under thirty, equally well dressed. She rose to meet the guest and to indicate the other set table.

“Will you sit here, please?” she said, her voice low.

Bony bowed and sat down. He was offered the written menu and made his selection. He noted that the girl’s hands were roughened by work and her make-up badly applied. She did not wear her clothes with the distinction her brother did his.

He was still waiting for his dinner when she and Simpson left their table and passed him on their way to the front entrance. Simpson walked with the grace of a trained man, preceding the girl and forgetful of holding open the swing door for her. Bony was reminded of an aboriginal woman following her lord and master.

A frail, aged woman entered the dining-room from the back, carrying a tray. Her straggly hair was white, she was grey of face, and her brown eyes were distinctly wistful. As she placed the soup before Bony she said in thin tones:

“You mustn’t mind me waiting on you tonight. My daughter has gone to Dunkeld with her brother. She doesn’t often have an evening out.”

“Are you Mrs. Simpson?” Bony asked, rising.

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes widening as she gazed up at him. “Now sit down and eat your soup. I think you’ll like it. Do you like roast potatoes well done?”

He was drinking coffee when she said:

“I hope you won’t feel lonely tonight. I’m going to bed early. I haven’t been too well. Thank you for consenting to give my husband his tablet. He suffers dreadfully at times.”

Again on his feet, for, despite this woman’s work-a-day appearance and the fact that she was waiting upon him, there was that indefinable attribute in her personality which demanded respect. He said:

“You need have no concern for Mr. Simpson. I’ll look after him. He’s been telling me how you had to battle when first you settled here.”

A smile lit the faded brown eyes, and the worn features caught the smile. Then, abruptly, the smile vanished.

“It wouldn’t do to believe everything my husband says,” she said. “He’s very petulant. Those early years were hard, indeed. We both had to work and work. Then came the easier years, and I’m afraid my husband drank too much. Now he’s paying for his sins. We all have to do that, you know. Now please excuse me, I have to get the yardman his dinner.”

Bony sipped his coffee and smoked a cigarette. His mood was pensive. Man and woman had suffered hardships. They had worked and slaved and denied themselves to create a home in a wilderness. And Time had dogged them, worn away the youth and the strength, had given a little of joy and much of sorrow. These two, old Simpson and his wife! What had they achieved through hardship and toil and frugality? The one an emptiness—the other pain! They and their like had achieved a nation and saw not the splendour of it.

He sat on the veranda, watching the night steal across the clearing and listening to the birds going to roost. The son was reaping where the old folk had sown. How come that this small country hotel could afford smart clothes and an expensive car if the old people had not saved and scraped and denied themselves?

It was ten o’clock when he went to his room for the whisky. On his way out through the hall he picked up the glass of water and the tablet. The old man was awake, and he talked with him for ten minutes and managed to pass in through the bars a little comfort.

On the veranda the darkness was like scented velvet, and as he was about to pass under the bird-cage he directed his flashlight to it. The bird muttered, and he stooped and said softly:

“You and the old man are imprisoned for life, but he did have his fling.”