Читать книгу Bony and the Kelly Gang - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 7

Dinner with the Family

“So you’re on the run eh? Stealing horses and thieving a poor widder-woman’s fowls.” In the lamplight the big man’s eyes were almost black, and Bony remembered them to be fiercely blue. “If you would be after stealin’ fowls at Cork Valley, or borrowing a horse or two, be carshous.”

“I didn’t rob the widow although I ate her chook,” Bony particularised. “The horses I took belonged to a squatter.”

Red Kelly made the first of his many mistakes, saying: “Stand up when you speak to an Irish gintleman.”

Bony stood; and Red Kelly observed the metamorphosis Bony could achieve. The slightly drooping, shifty-eyed descendant of two races became a blazing-eyed spitting panther as he took the three steps necessary to stand chest to chest with the man a foot taller and a foot wider than himself.

“Are you a squatter to give me orders?” he shouted. “Are you a rubber-necked warder, having been in gaol yourself and knowing their ways?”

“Now now, me lad, now now,” soothed Red Kelly, a grin beginning to part the red whiskers. His great head nodded with approbation. “You’ll do, Nat. Got to be sure. Got to check. Mike here wants his spuds lifted. You want to lift ’em. After that there’s work and good livin’ for them as likes both to come at the same time.”

Bony nonchalantly strode back to his chair. The two men watched the fire in him die out, both a little startled by the unexpected outburst. Conway said, in his quiet voice:

“We just want to be sure you’re not a no-hoper, Nat. That’s all. You don’t mind us checking, now, do you?”

“Go ahead.”

“Open your case, Nat.”

“You open it. It’s beside you.”

They examined every article from a spare shirt to a new hairbrush and comb. They were interested in a stockwhip and a pair of worn spurs with rowels of twin sixpences to make the ring. They glanced at each other when one passed over the kangaroo-hide riding-boots.

“If you’re looking for proof that I’m not the premier of New South Wales, take a looksee through this,” Bony said, tossing his wallet beside the oddments emptied on the bed.

“If you were even related to that renegade I’d wring your neck,” snarled Red Kelly. He withdrew the papers from the wallet: a soiled driver’s licence bearing the name Nathaniel Bonnay, a letter addressed to ‘Dear Nat’ bearing a Tenterfield address, asking for money, and signed ‘Your Old Father’, and a Parole Card bearing Bonnay’s name and particulars.

The big man returned the papers, sighed, tossed the wallet back to Bony.

“Clean, Mike. Take him on.”

“I intended to,” Mike Conway said, and Redbeard came back with:

“I know you did, but it’s me being carshous what’s kept the peace in Cork Valley.” He turned to Bony. “All right, Nat. We’ll see how you shape. We’ll be startin’ off on that foot, and you can call me Red. Every blessed soul here calls me that to me face.”

He mounted the steps to the shed above, and Conway asked: “These quarters suit you, Nat?”

“Why not? Dry and ... and snug, as just now proved.”

“That was the police. Right on your tailboard. Seemed anxious about you.” In view of his declared occupation and his clothes, Conway’s enunciation could be ascribed only to an education at a church school. Low in tone, his voice was always soft and seldom betrayed emotion, but in him were depths which Bony could sense, and even now his judgment of the new hand was delayed.

“I could hear, even when the trap was closed down,” Bony admitted, and again gave evidence of the assumed trait of touchiness by asking: “You getting nervous about me?”

“Not yet, Nat.” Conway smiled. “Hungry men are prone to temper. Come on up and have a wash and meet the family at dinner.”

He led the way up the steps. Bony now took stock of the world above floorboards. Outside the open fronted store shed the unmade ‘street’ was deserted. The sun had set, and all the northern sky was green where it rested on the rim of the great amphitheatre. Red Kelly rode at a gallop down the road towards the waterfall, and Bony saw him turn off to enter a wall of scrub connecting the end house with the factory building beyond. Obviously he was returning to the large stone mansion of the many windows which stood boldly against the wall of mountain covering its rear.

Bony was taken to the laundry behind the general store-cum-residence occupied by Mike Conway and his family, where he was provided with a clean towel and given hot water and soap. Conway washed at another basin, slicked his dark hair with water, and didn’t fail to note that Nat Bonnay produced a comb from a pocket and gave his own hair particular attention. This new man was no slouch.

The Conways’ large kitchen-living-room surprised Bony. In one wall there were two fireplaces, one an open hearth and the other occupied by a large cooking range. Electric light streamed upon the white cloth, covering a large dining-table with massive legs, and a grandfather clock, at least two hundred years old judging by its carved ornamentation. There were three huge paintings in heavy gilt frames, and cedar-wood cabinets flanked by chairs of such an antiquity and exquisite carving that a dealer would dance with envy.

“New man, Mate,” Conway said to his wife who turned from the cooking range at their entry. “The name is Nat.” She was tall and angular, with the imprint of Ireland on her face, and the soul of Ireland looked shyly from the depth of her large brown eyes. She contented herself by nodding, and turned again to the range.

“Who’s that, did you say, Mike?”

The voice came from the high-back chair set before the leaping open fire, and Conway nodded to Bony to follow him and be presented to a tiny woman wearing a white lace cap, a high-necked black bodice and white lace cuffs about her wrists.

“Nat Bonnay, Grandma,” replied Mike Conway. “He’s going to lift the tatees.”

The flames rouged the round face and banished the wrinkles. The flames quickened the dark eyes, and the diamonds in the rings on the doll-like hands lying on the black cloth of her lap returned the flames about the logs.

“So you be taking Nat on to dig the tatees,” she said, snappily. “And what will you be paying him, Mike?”

The brogue was unmistakable, and when her grandson spoke it was in his voice, too.

“Seven shillings a bag, Grandma. That’s the price these days.”

“Just as well the market price is forty pounds a ton, or ’tis ruined we’d all be.” The old woman studied Bony, and Bony resisted the habit of bowing slightly. He could detect only curiosity. “What else can you do, Nat Bonnay?”

“I can ride, and muster cattle. I can mend a fence. I’m not very good at it, but I could shoe a horse.”

“And steal one,” added Conway, chuckling.

“So ’twas told to me,” admitted the old woman. “You seem well set up. Can you throw a boomerang, now?”

Bony was conscious of other people behind him, filling the space so evident when he entered the room. The woman in the high back chair knew how to wait, and the throng behind him knew how to wait, too.

“I think I could,” he said. “Haven’t thrown one for years. I used to be able to play a tune on a gum leaf.”

“A musician eh!” chortled the old woman, her eyes and her voice showing that she was needling him.

“Mike!” called Mrs Conway. “Dinner’s on the table.”

Bony smiled into the dark eyes of Mike’s grandmother and turned to the table where several men, women and children of differing years were gathering. He was told to occupy the place at the far end. Mike wheeled the high back chair on its castors to the place set on his right, and sat at one end of the great table with his back to the open hearth. When his wife sat on his left, he gave thanks.

That was a surprise following surprises, and more were to follow. The plates were piled with food, little mountains of potatoes and sprouts next to an alp of curried meat capped with snowy rice. Then he noted that they were not plates but platters. His eyes roamed over dishes of butter and cheese, jugs of cream, jars of pickled onions and bottles of sauces. His attention was then captivated by the diners; there were eleven people at table in addition to Conway and his wife and grandmother.

On his right was the boy who had held up the trap for him. Beyond him was an older boy, and beyond him sat a man who was completely bald and had a face like the proverbial Irishman depicted in Punch. To his left was a girl who immediately captured his romantic heart. She ate quietly, keeping her gaze on her platter. She had dark hair, and even without makeup her face was vivid and wildly beautiful. Two men and two women, with children all older than Bony’s immediate neighbour, completed the company.

The meal proceeded in uncommon silence, the adults seldom speaking and the children not at all. Everyone was overtly interested in the new man, and once it was apparent that old Mrs Conway was discussing him with her grandson.

In character with the shy, police-hunted, horse-stealing half-aborigine, Bony at last politely arranged his knife and fork on his empty platter, and sat back in his chair. He waited to be spoken to, and no one did. One by one other diners finished the course, and the girl on his left rose to gather the platters and carry them to the bench. The paintings caught his attention. The room, large though it was, was too small a setting for them. One was of a castle beneath the black draperies of lowering clouds, and was surely the home of the original Dracula. Another was a battle scene, and the third portrayed a man and a woman in the costume of a century long past. The man reminded Bony of the red giant called Red Kelly.

A large plate loaded with apricot pie was set before him, and he smiled his thanks at the girl who served him, his left-hand neighbour. She gave no answering smile, her expression being slightly bored, but after she had again occupied her chair and was eating, he found her looking at him when her face was tilted downward over her spoon and fork. He noted a sustained and furtive interest.

The final course was cheese, bread and butter, and the children were given glasses of water. Bony hoped for some tea or coffee, as without one or the other no Australian meal could be ably digested. When the children, whose ages ranged from ten to about fifteen, departed one after the other, he despaired.

The women rose, and left the room, leaving only the very old dame and the men. The men began to fill pipes or roll cigarettes, and when his pipe was working, the hairless one joined Bony and so banished his feeling of being in a desert. He said, easily:

“I did hear you could throw a boomerang. Never did I see it. Somewhere about there’s an old one as long as a cutlass. Would you throw it some time?”

“If it’s a large one, it would be for ceremonial use,” Bony explained. “Those made for throwing are much smaller.”

“There’s a book which says the aborigines throw them to knock birds down. Would that be the kind?”

The dark grey eyes were serious, but deep in them natural humour gleamed like sand grains seen through clear mountain water.

“If the birds are close enough,” agreed Bony. “Hit or miss, you know. Always chancy. Actually, the abos throw them for amusement.”

He was enlarging on the subject and the bald man was engrossed, when Mike Conway set before each two china cups, one containing black coffee and the other a whitish liquid which might have been kümmel. Baldhead watched Conway until he was again seated, and broke off in the middle of a question. When the old woman and the others lifted the cups of white liquid, he did likewise. So did Bony.

Mike Conway said: “The Kellys.”

The contents of the cups were tossed down throats and the cups of coffee taken up and sipped. Bony was running a little late. He lifted the right cup and tossed the contents down his throat. It must have splashed the sides for his head exploded and his breathing stopped. Fire streaked before his eyes, and water drowned the fire. Beyond his clouded vision he saw Grandma Conway shrieking with mirth. Fighting for air, he staggered to his feet, and someone banged him on the back with a sledge hammer. Baldhead was saying, soothingly:

“Should have warned you, Nat. You take it fast, or you take it extra slow. You never fumble it.”