Читать книгу Bony and the Mouse - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 8

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When Bony rode from the depression where grew the ghost gums, the men were loading the stretcher on to a utility stopped by rough ground half a mile up the long slope. The horsemen were riding to town on a more direct route.

Following the truck’s trail, he came to a track rising diagonally towards the town, and falling away in the other direction to a distant clump of sandalwoods, amid which could be seen dwellings which he guessed comprised Dryblowers Flat. He passed the butcher’s killing yards and skin shed, skirted the remains of Sam’s Find, and so came to Main Street by the back door.

Main Street was wide and divided by thriving pepper trees, each being encircled by a wooden bench. Main Street! Why ‘Main’ could not be determined, as there were no side streets. The number of people on the unmade sidewalks tended to surprise, as did the several cars and utilities parked angle-wise. There was a small crowd outside the house where the truck which had brought in the wounded girl was parked. Now dismounted, the policeman, young Carr, and the third rider were talking outside the police station.

Bony rode carelessly by them. He found the one hotel at the far end of Main Street, which there abruptly became the track, rising and falling over the vast land swells, to the distant rail-head at Laverton.

The hotel was the last building on the west side of Main Street. A small and neat school of arts faced it from the opposite side. Between these buildings was a stone statue of a man for ever gazing towards Laverton, or ever waiting to welcome the traveller to Daybreak. He wore no hat. His hair was unruly, and his moustache was full and slightly drooping. The left arm hugged to his side a violin and bow, and in the right hand, held forward as though in greeting, was what looked like a nugget of gold. Chiselled expertly into the low stone base was inscribed:

Mr. Samuel Loader.

Bony surveyed the Hotel Melody Sam, a single-storeyed wood-built erection having a long front. There was no one outside and, as far as he could see and hear, no one inside. Every other place of business was fairly busy.

Nodding to the stone man, he rode his horses into the hotel yard, in the centre of which grew a gnarled and solitary gum tree. Bordering the yard were horse yards, stables and sheds, and a row of five bachelor’s bedrooms. He watered the horses and put them into an empty yard. No one was in view, and were it not for smoke issuing from a rear chimney the place could be thought deserted.

He entered the bar from the front, found it void of customers, discovered a compact woman seated on a high stool behind the counter and engrossed in a highly-coloured picture magazine.

“Evening!” she said, looking up. Her hair was jet-black and plastered to her head. Her face was red and polished like a gibber. A necklace of pearls first caught the eye, then the flash of diamonds on her hands.

“Evening!” politely countered Bony. “Now a nice cool beer. Then a room, and the adjuncts.”

“Travelling, eh?”

“Travelling is correct, Marm.”

The woman made no move to draw or pour a nice cool beer. She said:

“No beer. All the beer’s down under. So’s Melody Sam. So’s a case of gelignite and caps and fuse. You try to go down for beer, and we’ll go up in flames and smoke.”

The woman pretended more interest in her paper than in her customer, and thoughtfully Bony rolled a cigarette and was smiling when he struck a match. This bar-room was spotless, airy and empty. The floor was polished and on it no smallest litter indicated any business. The framed pictures of unnatural horses were clean and level, and the bar counter was neat with its tray and glasses. Peace, when all should have been uproar.

“I think you said something about gelignite.”

“And about fuse and detonators and such like,” agreed the woman, who could not be called a barmaid because, with the pearls, she was wearing a necklace of gold nuggets. “Yes, that’s how the beer is. All down below with Melody Sam. Haven’t seen you before.”

“Staying for a while, if you’ll fix me with a room. The name’s Bonnar, Nat Bonnar.”

The woman left her stool, and peered at the page of an open book on the narrow bench at the back of the bar. Returning, she said:

“Number Seven. Dinner’s at seven. Breakfast’s at seven. It’s all seven ... three of a kind.” Her dark eyes narrowed when she smiled, and when she smiled twenty odd years flew out of the door. He experienced the sensation of his face being explored, and he watched the expression in the dark eyes become one of warm interest when he held their gaze with his own. He knew precisely what was going on ... forgetfulness of his duality of race. She said:

“Sorry about the beer. He’ll come up soon. Been down there now for eight days. Has these turns, you know.”

Bony chuckled, and the woman smiled again.

“All crossed tracks to me,” he confessed. “I take it that Melody Sam is down in the cellar on a bender. And that he has explosives with him, which he will set off if anyone goes down after him, or the beer. That right?”

“Correct. He does it about twice a year. Sort of saves up for it. Plants a case of gelignite, and the doings, tin of kero and a lamp, and then without warning slips down there and swears he’ll blow the place to bits if ... As I said, if anyone goes down after him or more beer.”

“And you really believe he will blow the place up if ...”

“I really think. Which is why I won’t go down there, or allow anyone else to. You see, Melody Sam owns the hotel and all, and after he dies I own the hotel and all. So I’m not having the hotel blasted.”

“It would be a pity, with the nearest hotel a hundred and fifty miles away at Laverton,” agreed Bony, matching the woman’s coolness. “What does the local policeman say about it?”

“What can he? Law says we keep open to provide food and drink for man and beast. Well, we’re open. We’re not compelled by law to serve wine and spirits and beer. We serve food and tea or coffee to people, and we have hay and water for horses. As it is, there’s plonk and spirits still on the shelves. The law don’t say the licensee has to sell beer he owns, and if he likes swilling on his own property, and sitting on a case of gelignite, well, there’s nothing in the law against that.”

“You could be right,” doubtfully agreed Bony.

“Oh, I know what I’m talking about.”

“But surely Melody Sam should be prevented from blowing the place to matchwood?”

“How?” contended the woman. “Assuming I allowed it, who would take a chance and go down below? No one that I know. Even the policeman wouldn’t take a chance. You wouldn’t either, not after you see Melody Sam holding a lighted match to the end of a short piece of fuse. No one’s game to go down, even if I agreed to it. No one’s game to come in here and ask even for a nobbler of whisky. That’s how it is, Bonnar. You staying?”

“If you can stand the tickling of anticipation to the soles of your feet, I can,” he said. “Anyway, almost two hours yet to dinner, and I may as well stay here and keep you company.”

“Nice of you. Come far?”

“From the Creek.”

“Oh, quite a way.”

“How are you called?”

“Katherine Loader. Kat for short.” The gold nuggets about her throat reflected shafts of sunshine when she laughed. “You’re Nat Bonnar. Nat for short. Kat and Nat! Married?”

Bony’s even white teeth gleamed, and his blue eyes momentarily sparkled, as each summed up the other for a second impression. He was of medium height and build, and there were springs in his legs and ropes in his arms resting on the counter. They possessed one attribute in common. Despite her black dress and tightly dressed hair, and the wealth about her neck and on her hands, and despite his rough riding clothes and drill shirt open at the neck, and sleeves rolled above the elbows, both had that well-groomed appearance which emanates from the spirit rather than the person. As she waited for his answer, he said:

“What d’you think?”

“I’d bet on it. I’m only lucky at cards.”

“That how you will own the pub one day?”

“No. I’m old Sam’s granddaughter. And I’ll never own the pub. He’ll never die. He’s just the same now as he was when I was a little girl. My father looked twice as old as Sam when he died at sixty. Hark at him down there!”

The voice was full yet sepulchral beneath the floorboards ... a pleasing baritone!

“Oh, come to me arms, me darlin’.”

Silence for a moment, then the accompaniment softly played on a violin:

“Oh, come to me arms, me darlin’,

Oh, come to me arms right now!

Oh, tell me you love me, me darlin’,

While I gurgle and guggle you down.”

Nat and Kat gazed at each other over the bar counter whilst awaiting the next stanza, verse, or whatever. When there was but silence, relieved only by distant street noises, Bony said:

“Isn’t there any more to it?”

“Don’t think. He makes it up as he goes. You like a cup of tea?”

“I certainly would,” assented Bony promptly, and fell to rolling yet another cigarette when the woman left the bar by the passage door. A strange situation, was his verdict. The town full of people, and the only hotel full of emptiness. Unreasonable. Unheard of. Beyond his experience. It is said that Australia rides on the sheep’s back. All tosh, of course, because it floats on beer. Yet he had entered this hotel and called for beer, and was offered tea! Someone at the open street doorway said:

“Old Sam still down under?”

Bony turned to see the little man Sister Jenks had named Ellis when arranging the stretcher.

“Could be,” he replied. “Just heard the old boy singing.”

“Well, you gotta nerve, anyhow,” asserted Ellis.

“Why?”

“Standin’ there as calm as you like. Don’t you know Melody Sam always locks himself down under with a case or two of gelly, caps, fuse and all?”

“I have just been told so,” admitted Bony.

“Well ... Blimey! Runnin’ a risk, ain’t you? Makes me sick in me stommick just hanging around here. You can have it.”

The little man vanished. Bony heard someone ask if the beer was still off, and Ellis’s reply was akin to a moan of anguish. When Kat Loader returned with a tea tray, he said:

“You say your grandfather’s been on a bender for eight days. Isn’t it time he came up for air?”

“He’s probably getting round to it. Milk and sugar in your tea?”

“Thank you, Miss ... Missus ...”

“Miss. Kat for short, like I said. Don’t worry over Sam. He’ll come to light some day.”

“What’s he living on?”

“Nothing. The whisky’s living on him.”

“But he can’t go on long, surely?”

“Can’t he! His top record so far is fifteen days, two years ago.” The woman chuckled, genuinely mirthful, and Bony thought she must be dead from the ears up, or the most placid woman he had ever encountered.

“Oh, come to me arms, me darlin’.”

Bony stamped a foot hard, and the singer stopped in his tracks. The woman’s eyes opened wide, and her face paled. The vivacity in her stilled to marble.

“Oh, come to me ...”

Again Bony stamped a foot, and this time shouted:

“Quiet, down there. Quiet, I say!”

A bow was scraped across taut strings. Silence filled with potential menace, then the singer’s voice dispelled it.

“Hell’s delight! Who’s that up there telling me to be quiet?”

“Giggle,” whispered Nat to Kat. “Make believe I’m an ardent lover. Go on.”

Reaching over the counter he gripped her wrist.

“Scuffle your feet on the floor,” he commanded.

He scuffled his own boots, and smiled happily when the woman actually did giggle, and he said loudly:

“Never mind about the old coot down below, love.”

“You stop it, Nat,” and proof was given that the woman was a born actress ... as all women have been since Eve. “No, not here, Nat. Not here, please.”

“Just one, Kat, darlin’,” pleaded Nat. More scuffling followed as they moved along the counter to the drop-flap, which already was open. Then a crash as the trap-door above the steps leading down to the cellar was flung up, and there emerged, as though from the grave, Melody Sam.

Standing clear of the trap, he glared at the two temporary lovers. He stood well over six feet. He stood straight and strong like a tree. He looked worse than terrible; he looked just plain horrible.

As Melody Sam advanced to the counter, his granddaughter slid to one side, and eventually was behind him and ran to the trap, which she closed swiftly and silently. With both hands supporting himself against the counter, the unwashed, bewhiskered, flaring-eyed monstrosity glared at Bony, who was calmly rolling a cigarette.

“What’s your name, stranger?” he demanded.

“I’m Nat Bonnar.”

“What you doin’ here, Mister Nat Bonnar?”

“I’m the new yardman,” he answered, lighting the cigarette. “Didn’t you know?”

“The new yardman!” roared the ancient immortal. “Hey, Kat! What’s this about a new yardman?”

Kat was rolling empty barrels over the trap-door. She said, and now her voice was shrill:

“I put him on just now. What about it?”

“What about it!” shouted the old man. “Who’s the flaming licensee around here?” He lurched to the open cut in the counter and advanced upon Bony. “Out you go, whatever your name is. I do the hiring in this place, and I do the firin’ too. I’m the boss of this pub. I’m the boss of this town as well. You going peaceful?”

“I’m not going at all,” whined Nat Bonnar. “I don’t know you. Never seen you before. The lady here put me on as yardman, and yardman I’m goin’ to be until she sacks me. Now you keep off me. You touch me, and I’ll have the Union sue you, see? I’m a workin’ man, and we have our rights.”

Melody Sam exploded. A vast shout of laughter rocked him on his bare feet, and blew a hurricane through his forest of whiskers.

“Bash me ribs! The feller tells me he has rights,” he roared. “Rights! Rights, he says! Now, Mister Working Man who has rights, I got the rights to heave you out of my pub, and when you stop going it will be against the garage on the other side of the track.”

The granddaughter was adding an ice-chest to the barrels on the cellar trap, and her back was towards the couple in the middle of the bar-room. She heard a short, smart slap, and turned in time to see her ancestor swaying groggily on his feet and then collapse into the arms of Nat Bonnar.

“You hit him!” she cried.

“He fell asleep on his two feet,” indignantly countered Bony, and hauled the body over a shoulder. “A good yardman can do much about a place like this. Besides cleaning up the yard and tossing out the drunks, helping in the bar and carting away the empties, he can be a wonderful companion to the boss. Where shall I dump your grandfather?”

“This way,” replied the granddaughter. “No, wait. Hold him.” She almost ran to the front door and slammed it shut and bolted it. Then she ran out through the door to the passage, and Bony heard her shut and lock the main house door. When she appeared at the passage door, she beckoned, calling: “This way. I’ll show you the Lion’s Den we always put him in.”

The burdened Bony staggered after her. They passed through the kitchen, watched with amazement by the cook and a housemaid. Then out into the yard, and, turning right, came to an outbuilding which had bars to its small high window, and a door so thick a horse could not have kicked it open. Within was a bunk and blankets placed for a lodger.

“Put him there,” ordered Kat Loader.

Bony laid out the body, and the woman drew up the blankets. The body moaned, and the eyelids deep in the forest of whiskers trembled.

“He’ll come to in a minute. Let’s leave him, quick.”

She almost pushed Bony out of this strong-room, which even had a small opening in the massive door, protected by two iron bars. She shot a bolt, and turned the key in a padlock, and she was panting a little and trembling slightly. Her voice suddenly was a little frightened, and as suddenly was firm again.

“They know already,” she said. “Listen!”

Beyond the yard fence the street was alive. Men shouted. Others whistled. And more were pounding on the hotel doors.

“Come on,” ordered the granddaughter of Melody Sam. “Into the bar before they break in the doors.”

Taking hold of Bony’s hand, she literally dragged him into the kitchen, through it to the passage and along to the bar, calling to the cook to follow. The pounding at the front door was urgent. Men peering through the windows shouted and set up a cheer.

“Shift all that stuff off the trap,” ordered the woman. “Quick about it, now. That’s right. Now, Nat, down you go and haul up the bottled beer for a start. And, Sue, you take it from Nat and open the cases and set out the bottles to serve.”

“I’m to be the new yardman?” queried Nat Bonnar. “True?”

“You are the new yardman, Nat,” she told him, holding open the trap-door, and revealing the flight of steps down to the floor of the cellar, where burned a kerosene lamp near a large case on which was a length of fuse and a box of detonators. “Be quick, Nat, before they break something. Of course you are the yardman. You’re going to be the loveliest yardman we ever had at Daybreak.”

And Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte proceeded to re-float Australia on beer.