Читать книгу Bill of Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 3

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Jim linton was straining barbed wire along a fence, working at it with the concentrated vigour that he put into most things, especially into a job he thoroughly disliked. It was not easy work for a man many inches over six feet, since he was stretching it near the ground, so that he had to crouch in a very uncomfortable position, gripping the wire as though it were an enemy, while his helper hammered in the staples that held it to the posts. The helper, a tall old man with a humorous, kindly face, looked not much happier than his master. Murty O’Toole was a stockman, and no friend to barbed wire.

“There’s the end of it, bad scran to the dur-rty stuff!” he said, thankfully, as the last staple went into place. He dropped his hammer and wielded the wire-clippers vengefully. “I do be wonderin’, sometimes, what the man was like that invinted barbed wire. He must have had a cross mind, intirely.”

“It gives me a cross mind to deal with it,” Jim answered, straightening his long back with a sigh of relief. “Beastly thing, however you look at it. Probably he kept pigs himself, Murty.”

“Well, indeed, there’s nothing else that’ll discourage pigs,” agreed Murty. “An’ if they were to go on gettin’ into his garden there’d be no holdin’ Lee Wing. Last time they uprooted his cabbages on him he talked about makin’ thracks back to China.”

“I wouldn’t blame him,” Jim said, feeling for his pipe. “Well, those two strands ought to keep them guessing for awhile.” He glanced at the sleek pink pigs that slumbered under a tree in the corner of the little paddock, looking pictures of peaceful innocence.

“Lee Wing will be able to plant his next lot of cabbages in peace.”

“Unless that black image of a Billy leaves the gate open again,” rejoined Murty, with a grin. “An’ I dunno is it always by accident he does that same. ’Tis as good as a picnic to Billy when Lee Wing gets excited.”

“Billy had better let me catch him leaving it open,” affirmed Jim. “I’ll put him on to digging out sword-grass if he does—you might tell him so, Murty.”

“Yerra, that’ll discourage him like the barbed wire does the pigs,” said Murty, cheerfully. “Will ye be gettin’ home now, Mr. Jim? It’s late, an’ the Masther’ll be lookin’ out for ye.”

“He won’t have had time this evening,” Jim replied. “He was going over to tea at Miss Norah’s.”

“He was; but he comes home an’ stands on the verandah wondherin’ when you’ll be in,” said the old man. “An’ ’tis lonesome comin’ home to an empty house.”

“Do you call any house empty that’s got Brownie in it?” demanded Jim.

“Well, I would not”—and Murty’s twinkle deepened, remembering the remarkable girth of Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper of Billabong station. “An’ ’tis always lookin’ out for him she is. But the place is quare an’ quiet now that Miss Norah’s gone.”

“Bless you, Murty, she hasn’t gone far!”

“She has not. But far enough, for all that. There’s a terrible vacancy in Billabong since the little Misthress got married. She an’ Mr. Wally always made a great shtir about the place, wid the light-heartedness of them.” Murty looked at him half-wistfully. “You’d betther watch it, Masther Jim, or ’tis the way you’ll be gettin’ too quiet entirely—an’ the Masther, too.”

“That’s what Miss Norah says,” Jim admitted, with a laugh. “She thinks we need something to wake us up. But the place keeps us busy enough, Murty.” He picked up his tools. “Better go in yourself and get some tea. We’ll call it a day.”

“An’ worrks all ye think about these times,” grumbled Murty to himself, looking after the big fellow as he strode towards the homestead—Billabong House, half-hidden by its deep mass of orchard trees, now pink and white with blossom. “Worrk all day an’ come home to talk about the worrk all the evenin’. I know ye! An’ ’tis only a boy ye are yet, for all the bigness of ye, an’ had ought to be havin’ a boy’s fun. Glad I’d be if something did come along to wake ye up—an’ the Masther too. What call has he to be thinkin’ himself ould?” And Murty, who had nursed Jim and Norah Linton as babies, collected the remnant of the hated barbed wire and strolled home through the orchard, to talk with his crony, Mrs. Brown, of the good old days when children had romped together over Billabong.

There was, however, no lack of laughter on the verandah of the homestead when Jim appeared. His first alarmed thought was that he had dropped into a party of visitors, and he cast a glance at his rough working clothes and his grimy hands. Then his brow cleared.

“Oh, it’s only Tommy and Bob.” He went forward with a quick step.

Bob and Tommy Rainham turned gladly to meet him. They were brother and sister, English, their short stature and fair hair and skin contrasting sharply with the tall dark Australians on the verandah behind them: David Linton, of Billabong, lean and grizzled, and, perched on the arm of his chair, his daughter Norah, whom the old servants still called “Miss Norah” because it was so difficult to remember that she was married. Her husband, Wally Meadows, supported this view, declaring that Norah lacked all the customary dignity of a wife. Jim and his father took the standpoint that this was fortunate, since a dignified wife would have been terrifying to Wally. Thus everyone was satisfied.

“You all seem very cheerful,” said Jim, surveying them from the steps of the verandah. “Murty drove me in, assuring me that I should find Dad moping.”

“He does not seem mopish,” replied Tommy Rainham. There was a quaint preciseness in her speech, the result of a French upbringing. “But then, Wally has been showing us a new balancing exercise on the verandah-rail, and when Wally does that no person can mope.”

“Where is he?” Jim looked round enquiringly.

“He fell off into the verbena-bed, so he has gone to wash,” said Tommy, happily. “The verbena-bed seemed to have been hoed and watered quite recently. It was not a fortunate moment to choose to fall there.”

A rumpled black head appeared on the level of the verandah-rail.

“I’ve found a hoe,” announced Wally Meadows. “I’d like to tidy up this bed before Hogg sees it. But a hoe won’t mend squashed verbenas. I say, sir, I’ve made an awful hash of three of them.” The tone was contrite, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Don’t worry,” said David Linton. “I would part with three more to see you do it again, Wally. I haven’t laughed so much since you and Norah fell into the lagoon on your wedding-day.”

“That was one of our best efforts,” remarked Wally, hoeing dexterously. “But we never repeat them, do we, Nor?”

“I would rather you did not repeat this one,” said his wife, surveying him from above. “Your flannels were beautiful when you came over, but they’re a depressing sight now. You look as if you had wallowed in a paint-box.”

“Yes, verbenas do make queer stains, don’t they?” agreed Wally. “I feel like Joseph’s coat of many colours. Well, that’s all I can do, and I only hope that Hogg won’t stroll this way for a few days.” He restored the hoe to its place and joined the group on the verandah—stained and muddy, but cheerful.

“It might have been better for me if I’d gone out working with you, Jim, instead of entertaining these unfeeling people,” he said. “How’s fencing?”

“Finished, thank goodness,” said Jim, looking with disfavour at his hands, which were scratched and bleeding in several places. “I’ll leave the next barbed wire job to you, if you like.”

“I’ll take it,” rejoined Wally, promptly. “To-morrow?”

Jim gave a low chuckle.

“Hear him, Tommy! And himself that knows there’s no more barbed wire going up on Billabong!”

“I guessed that there was some reason for his energy,” said Tommy. “But we have plenty at the Creek, if he should happen to be idle, have we not, Bob?”

“Too much,” answered her brother. “Come along any time you like, Wally, and I’ll fix you up.”

Wally sighed.

“If I weren’t so busy looking after Norah——” The rest of his remark was lost in derisive comments from the others. Tommy and Bob smiled quietly at each other. They were recent settlers, making their way on a little farm by dint of hard work and dogged courage: and they knew that no job was too tough or unpleasant for Jim and Wally. They knew that whenever matters were very strenuous at the Creek farm the Billabong family would appear suddenly with a car-load of provisions and tools, plunging into the work blithely, attacking it with practical knowledge, iron muscles, and—best ingredient of all—laughter. Tommy and Bob owed much to Billabong. Billabong acknowledged no debt save that of friendship—and knew itself well paid.

Old Brownie, who declined to depute the duty to anyone else, appeared with a little tea-tray, placing it on a table by Jim’s chair. She moved with a curious lightness and quietness for one of her massive build. Jim’s smile, and his “Thank you, Brownie,” brought an answering smile that included them all. It was balm to her faithful old heart to see the verandah crowded, to hear gay voices and laughter. Then her eyes fell on Wally’s long legs in their once-white flannels, and she uttered “Oh, Mr. Wally, my dear, your pants!” in a tone of horror.

“Nice sight, isn’t it, Brownie?” he said, lightly. “Never mind—I’ve a wife to clean them now!”

“You send ’em over to me, Miss Norah, an’ I’ll do them in two twos,” said Brownie. “He was always like that with a new pair!” She shook a plump finger at the culprit and waddled off rapidly—knowing that Murty and a gossip awaited her in the kitchen.

“Brownie seems to have the measure of your foot, Wally,” grinned Bob.

“She ought to. She’s mothered me long enough.” The big fellow looked at Norah with a little smile. “I believe that the only thing she has never forgiven me is taking Nor away.”

“Murty and Brownie are really getting depressed about us—did you know, Dad?” said Jim, lazily, stirring his tea. “They think we’re turning into hermits or monks or something like that. I don’t quite know what we can do about it.”

“Norah’s as bad,” said David Linton. “She comes over fifteen times a day and looks at me with an enquiring eye like an old mother-hen. I don’t want to check the number of your visits, my daughter,” he added, hastily. “Make it thirty, if you like!”

“We like to keep the track well worn,” said Wally. “Lonely things, disused tracks.”

“That one won’t be lonely. I’m thinking,” said David Linton. “It gets great attention—from both ends.”

“Well——” began Norah, and hesitated; “I don’t like to think of you and Jim being too quiet. Big Billabong seems to have a sort of hush over it now, unless Wally and I come over and stir you up. I have painful visions of you two, talking of nothing but shorthorn bullocks.”

“Rubbish!” said Jim, firmly. “We have the new Herefords!”

“Yes, and the Berkshire pigs. I know,” nodded Norah.

“You underrate our sources of delight,” remarked her father. “Don’t forget the wireless. If any wireless in Australia can emit a better series of crackles and howls than ours when Jim gets really worked up over it, I have yet to find it. There are times when it shrieks in agony, and other times when it just booms like a bittern. No dull moments, with a wireless like ours.”

“H’m!” Norah’s tone was comprehending. “And then Jim says he’d like to take an axe to the darned thing; and you both smoke another pipe and go to bed.”

Jim and his father exchanged a guilty glance and Jim was understood to murmur something about people who had second-sight.

“Oh, well, things have a way of coming along to stir up this family,” said Norah. “It always happens. And I won’t be sorry when it does, because there is a middle-aged look coming over you both—and I won’t have it!”

“Let’s hope it won’t be another jump in the income-tax,” observed Jim. “That always stirs Dad beautifully. But the most stirring thing I see ahead is the fact that Wally and I must get out into the new hill-country and explore it properly. Then you can come over and take care of Dad, and pretend that it’s old times and we’re away at school. And Tommy and Bob will get fussed about you, thinking that you are getting dull and middle-aged, and wear out the track between here and Creek Cottage!”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Bob, rising. “Meanwhile, the Creek calls—or the painful knowledge that I have to get home to milk. Come along, Tommy.”

Billabong came to the stables to see its visitors mount and ride away; Bob bade Jim an affecting farewell, begging him to hold back the advance of old age before he saw him again—which led to Bob’s being withdrawn from his horse and placed firmly in a feed-bin. The horse took advantage of the discussion to trot off down the paddock, and was with difficulty retrieved by Tommy.

“Brute!” uttered Bob, gaining his saddle for the second time and scowling at Jim from a safe distance. “Age hasn’t withered your muscles, anyhow—I could wish it had.”

“Come again, soon, Bobby: it always stirs me up to see you, and that’s what Norah wants,” laughed Jim. He turned to Norah as they went off.

“Dining with us—old mother-hen?”

Norah considered.

“I think we weren’t. At least, I seem to have ordered dinner at Little Billabong. What do you say, Wally?”

“There’s always the telephone,” said Wally, comfortably. “I’ll ring up and say we’re unexpectedly detained. It’s only the third time this week!”