Читать книгу Bill of Billabong - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 7

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The Cunjee platform was never a crowded one. It was a long, gravelled expanse, shaded for most of its length by pepper-trees, under which a few dogs were always sleeping. Jim Linton, standing with the station-master as the train drew in, saw a small boy drop from the still-moving van and race along by the carriages. He disappeared within one, emerging in a moment encumbered with small luggage: then stood still and looked about him blankly.

“My man, evidently,” said Jim. “Queer way he travels.”

The busy hours in the van with the guard and the collie-pup had helped Percival to forget his fear and hatred of his unknown future. Now it came back to him in a wave as he stood alone upon the platform, gripping his suit-case, while his overcoat trailed on the ground. He stared ahead; and to his eyes the vision of the huge man who came striding towards him was not reassuring.

Percival had never seen anyone so big. Even in a crowd Jim towered head and shoulders over most men: here he seemed gigantic, and his quiet face suggested to the little boy only grimness and hostility. Never had he felt so small, so alone. He had a wild yearning to get back into the train: to go anywhere, even back to Mrs. Vernon. He wanted his father—suddenly, terribly. But there was no help for him anywhere. He set his teeth. At least, this giant should not see how afraid, how lonely, he was.

Jim’s vision was of an amazingly dirty youngster, with a sulky, defiant face, half concealed by grime. His collar was beyond hope, his tie crooked: his clothes conveyed the impression that not only had he travelled in the van, but slept in it. Even to Jim, who was not accustomed to judge by externals, there was something disturbingly unattractive about Percival. He merely nodded when asked his name—Jim did not guess that speech was at the moment impossible to him because of the lump in his throat: nodded again in answer to Jim’s, “Got anything in the van?”; and presently found himself in a big car outside the station without having uttered a word since his arrival.

No one else was in the car, which was something of a relief to him: it gave him time to get hold of himself. Jim took the wheel and they passed through a small township, threading their way among cars and buggies and horsemen. The shops looked busy. Jim’s hand was constantly raised in answer to greetings.

“It’s sale day,” he remarked. “Cunjee wakes up once a fortnight. On all other days it’s sound asleep.”

“What’s sale day?” Percival found his voice to ask.

“Oh, people bring in stock to sell and other people come to buy them.”

“My father sells stocks,” said Percival, looking puzzled. “But he goes into Melbourne to sell them. He doesn’t take them anywhere.”

Jim stared for a moment, then repressed a smile.

“Haven’t you ever been in the country, Percival?”

“I’ve been to Macedon, and to Dromana. We go there for holidays.”

“That’s hardly real country—not like this. Stock, in the country, means sheep and cattle: possibly pigs. People bring them into the township yards to buy and sell.”

“Oh!” said Percival, with an uneasy feeling that he had made an ass of himself. He did not dare to look up to see if the big man were laughing at him. But Jim’s voice sounded quite grave when he spoke again.

“We shall have to teach you a lot about stock.”

“Do you keep it—them?”

“Rather: that’s how we earn a living. Billabong is a cattle-station, but we have sheep as well.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Fatten them. We’ll have plenty of work for you once we break you in to it.”

There were never words more innocently uttered, but they brought back all Percival’s fears. Then it was true, all that Mr. Vernon had said about these Lintons. Hard, stern people, who did not spare the rod. They were going to break him in to work: and he hated work and dodged it whenever he could manage to do so. He had a dismal vision of himself, drawn from Uncle Tom’s Cabin; a small slave, feeding unknown foodstuffs to unknown beasts. The lump rose in his throat again, and he remained silent, a prey to dreary thoughts of the future.

“Tired?” asked Jim, after a time.

“No. Is it far?”

“Fourteen miles by one road, seventeen by the other. We’re going the longer way, because it’s a better track. Not that it is much to boast about, for a car. We used to do it with horses when I was going to school.”

“That was a long time ago, I s’pose?”

“Well—not yesterday,” said Jim, with a laugh.

Percival grunted. It seemed to him merely silly to think of this big man remembering his school-days. Why, they must be ages back. He couldn’t know how a boy felt, with his father and mother at the other end of the world; a father and mother who did not dream that their only child was facing the stern reality of being broken in. If they did, they would come back fast enough. The thought brought hope: he could write to them. But a letter took a long while to go, and come; and meanwhile there was now, and the now was all that counted.

He lost himself in a maze of dreary anticipation and self-pity, staring with unseeing eyes at the country as the big car purred along. They had crossed open plains, and were running through timber, where the bush came up to both sides of the road. It was interesting bush, and the evening air was bringing out all its mingled scents; but they did not reach Percival. To him every mile meant a mile further into prison.

After a time they turned into a side-track, and presently stopped at a white gate. Percival did not move.

“Think you can open it?” Jim asked.

“I s’pose so.” He got out, leaving the door open: and was called back.

“Always shut a car door when it has to move on,” said Jim, pleasantly. Percival obeyed sullenly, and went forward to wrestle with the gate.

It was not a very easy gate for a small boy, and at first he thought he could not manage it. Jim watched him silently—Percival seemed to feel the quiet eyes boring through his back. It made him set his jaw and determine to master the stiff latch.

When it yielded he had a momentary feeling of triumph—swiftly succeeded by the thought that he had been rather stupid to show his taskmaster that he could be useful. So he fumbled with the catch deliberately when he shut the gate, until Jim left the car and came to take over the job.

“That’s queer—it’s generally easier to shut than to open. Wants a bit of adjusting: we’ll bring some tools down soon, and some oil. We don’t believe in not having things ship-shape and Bristol fashion on Billabong.”

Percival had not much idea what this meant, nor did he care. He rather hoped he had annoyed the big man; certainly he had made him get out of his comfortable seat in the car. But his pleasure in this gentle thought was lost in the knowledge that a new ordeal was close upon him.

Ahead, through the trees he could see a big red building that he knew must be Billabong. There would be more of the dreaded strangers there, and he would have to meet them, to try to talk to them, to feel them looking at him—at his dirty face and clothes, his ugly features, his red hair. It had never been concealed from Percival that he was not a beauty. He did not care much, as a rule, but just now it smote him. Still, he would have borne ugliness serenely—if only he did not feel so miserably small.

The car wheeled round a belt of shrubbery and stopped at a gate, amid a chorus of barking from the dogs, which arrived from every point of the compass. Percival climbed out. There was another big man coming across the yard; almost as big as Jim, but with iron-grey hair and beard. He found himself greeted kindly—not that he trusted the kindness, telling himself it was only put on. Then he was in the house, and given over to a very fat old woman. Percival had to admit to himself that she certainly looked as though it would be a great effort to be anything but kind.

“Poor lamb!” said Brownie—which was exactly what Percival thought himself. “Tired, I’ll be bound: it’s a cruel long journey, and you all alone. Never mind, you’ll feel a different man after you’ve had a wash, an’ then tea’ll be ready. The master wouldn’t have his until you and Mr. Jim came.”

She led him upstairs, talking all the time in her comfortable old voice. It was never necessary to answer her; which in itself was soothing. And his room did not suggest a prison; it was bright and airy, with jolly pictures on the walls and interesting-looking books in a little shelf. Brownie poured out hot water.

“Now just you have a real good soaping, face an’ all. I know well how dirty one gets on that train. There’s brushes on the table—never mind waiting for yours. We put your bed in here, but I shouldn’t wonder if you’d rather it was out on the balcony, like Mr. Jim. Easy to take it there to-morrow. Now I’ll be back in a few minutes when you’re ready.”

She went away. Percival washed with unusual thoroughness, splashing himself and his surroundings impartially. He decided that it would really have been better to remove his coat first, but shrugged his shoulders, dabbing at large wet patches with the towel. He brushed his hair with a few hasty strokes that seemed to have merely the effect of irritating it, cast a despairing glance in the mirror, and then turned to the window.

He looked out over the wide plains of Billabong. The spring grass rippled in green waves under a light breeze. He could see cattle dotted here and there, and far away to the right a solitary rider was bringing in a number of milking cows, letting them stray leisurely, snatching mouthfuls of feed as they came. Nearer the house great trees hid the further view: a red-gravelled road wound among them, soon lost to sight. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of chimneys, from one of which smoke drifted lazily. He wondered who lived there, and if there might be any other boys. If there were, it would not be so lonely.

The long window opened upon a wide balcony. He stepped out upon it, looking nervously up and down its length: seeing, at the far end, a space shut off by mosquito-wire, behind which was a bed with a little table beside it and an electric lamp. That was evidently where the big man slept, whom the old woman called Mr. Jim. Percival wished it were further from his window: he would have preferred him on the other side of the house. He had no notion of adopting Brownie’s suggestion that his bed should be taken out near Jim’s. “I’ll see more than I want of him without that!” he muttered.

Leaning over the edge of the balcony he saw a garden, gay with flowers: beyond were fruit-trees, which made more appeal to him, though it was too early for fruit. Men were working in the garden. It was all very peaceful: not like the Toonak streets, with their ceaseless rush of motors, or the rattle and roar of the long train journey. But Percival was not sure that its loneliness did not outweigh its peace: and, in any case, he doubted if peace was what he wanted.

Indeed, he was not certain of what he did want. Not to be back with the Vernons, who fussed over everything he did and talked perpetually of conduct becoming a small boy. Nor was he sure he wanted his own home, where he rarely seemed to see his father, while it had long been made clear to him that he got on his mother’s nerves. Life there had been mainly spent with a succession of governesses who disliked him as cordially as he disliked them. The only alternative was boarding-school; and schools made you work. Percival hated work. He had never known any kind of work that he would like. He did not think that such a thing existed.

Brownie came in, casting a shrewd glance at his ill-groomed figure, but saying nothing about it. She led him downstairs and ushered him into the smoking-room, where Mr. Linton and Jim were reading newspapers. Tea was laid on a side-table—the sort of tea to appeal to any boy. Cakes iced and cakes plain were there: sandwiches peeped from a napkin, hot scones were sending up a warm and comforting steam. At least it was evident that they did not starve you on Billabong.

“That’s right, old chap,” said Mr. Linton, putting down his paper. “Come and sit down—you must be more than ready for tea. Had a good journey?”

“ ’M,” said Percival. He sat down on the edge of a chair.

“Travelled in the van, didn’t you?” Jim said. “I saw you making a bolt from it at Cunjee.”

“Some of the way.” He accepted a scone, and took a large and buttery bite that made further speech impossible.

“Rather fun, being in the van. I used often to travel that way. Wright is a good fellow.”

Percival sent his tongue in pursuit of outlying fragments of butter adhering to his cheeks.

“Who’s he?”

“Wright?—oh, the guard. I suppose Mr. Vernon told him to look after you.”

“ ’M.”

“Did you know anyone travelling?” asked Mr. Linton.

“No.”

“Have a sandwich?” suggested Jim, beginning to feel rather helpless. Percival took one with a grunt which might or might not have been gratitude. Jim rather thought not. He cast about for something to say to this queer youngster.

“Sorry to leave the Vernons?”

“No,” said Percival, definitely.

“Well, it must have been rather a dull house for a boy,” said Mr. Linton. “There will be more for you to do here.”

Percival looked at him dully. He wondered when they would begin to set him to work. They talked enough about it. He ate steadily, answering in monosyllables when he was addressed: ate more than he wanted, since he did not know what would happen when tea was over, and it was easier to avoid speaking when he was busy with food. But the end came over a piece of cake which he found himself unable to finish. He put his plate aside and sat silently, looking as miserable as he felt.

“Like to go out?” asked Jim, pitying him.

“ ’M.” He slid from his chair.

“I’ll come with you, if you like.”

“I’m all right,” said the boy, hurriedly, edging towards the door.

“Well, don’t lose yourself. Go anywhere you like—except into the little paddock where the bull is.”

Percival did not know a bull when he saw one, but he mumbled acquiescence and made his escape. The door banged behind him.

He hurried out of the front door, afraid that Jim might change his mind and come after him. A path led into the shrubbery: he ran along it, glad when the trees shielded him from the house. It was quiet in the green depths, and the path wound in and out, so that to follow it had a feeling of adventure.

Presently he came to a hedge in which a gate was set. He opened it and passed into the kitchen garden, where there were orderly rows of vegetables and long beds of strawberries, white with blossom. There were raspberry canes, too, but he did not know what they were. He prowled about aimlessly. An old Chinese, busily hoeing, greeted him with a friendly smile and “H’lo, l’il Master”—to which Percival returned the faintest of greetings, for he had all the Australian boy’s unreasoning contempt for “a Chow.” Lee Wing looked after him, raising his scanty eyebrows. “Him stlange l’il gentleman,” he muttered. “Not like ours.” Lee Wing had not left Billabong for five-and-twenty years, and in that time he had known only two boys. This one was a novelty.

Beyond the garden stretched the orchard, a mass of fragrant bloom. Percival roamed through it without interest; an orchard that held no fruit meant nothing to him, very naturally. He came to a fence, from which he could see the stables. They were more attractive, and so were the stock-yards, stretching beyond them. But there were men there, and he did not dare to go near them. So he turned back across the orchard, climbed the further fence, and came out into the homestead paddock.

He went slowly towards the trees, avoiding the red-gravelled road that he had seen from the balcony. They were beautiful trees, red-gum and box, that had been carefully tended and protected from cattle; many had low-growing limbs, so that they were easy to climb. He looked at them longingly.

“I s’pose there’d be a row if I did climb,” he muttered—with memories of Mrs. Vernon’s horror when she had found him half-way up a tall pine. He decided not to risk it, and rambled on.

Presently he found himself almost out of the timber, and in sight of a house; he knew it must be the one of which he had caught a glimpse from the balcony. He stopped, irresolutely, wondering who lived there. Then the sound of cantering hoofs drew near, and, fearful of being discovered, he swung himself into the lower boughs of a tree, peeping through the branches.

He saw two people riding, a man and a girl. They were coming fast, the horses anxious to get home. Their voices came to him clearly: happy voices that echoed among the trees when they broke into laughter. The boy peered at them eagerly; they sounded so merry, so young—not like the two huge men at Billabong.

They swept by him. Percival knew nothing of horses, but he liked to see the two they rode; a big black and a bay, full of fire and spirit, reefing and pulling hard: good to look at. And the faces of the riders brought a sense of comfort: even in his momentary glimpse he thought they were jolly. He watched them ride into the stable-yard and dismount: watched them turn to pat the horses. “B’lieve they’re talking to them!” he said aloud. That was very puzzling: why would one talk to a horse? Then the stables hid them, but he remained in the tree, watching, until they came out and walked over to the house.

“They look pretty decent,” was Percival’s comment. “Wonder if they’d let me go there some time.”

It was growing dusk, and he knew he must return, much as he dreaded the big house and the big men. He climbed down slowly, sitting for a tune on the lowest branch to contemplate his gloomy future. There would be a meal to be endured, he supposed; he would have to sit with the two big men, and they would ask him strings of silly questions and he would have to try to answer: and he would be conscious all the time of his beastly hair. He wished with all his heart that it were not so long. No one at the Vernons’ had had time to take him to a barber; they did not seem to think that it mattered how long a fellow’s hair grew, though they talked enough about brushing it. And now there was no barber within miles and miles, so that it would only get worse and worse. He wished he were allowed to wear a cap at meals: he didn’t feel quite so bad when he could cover it.

Well, it was no good waiting any longer, and he was growing cold. He slipped to the ground and dragged slowly through the trees. It was almost dark among them: he felt a little afraid. There might be animals he did not know in this wild country.

As the idea crossed his mind he heard a rustle and a footstep; and suddenly became rooted to the ground in terror as he came face to face with a black man. A short, thick-set fellow with a broad, ugly face, black as his boots, who seemed as astonished as was Percival. He pulled up short, staring at the boy. Then he came forward.

Terror lent Percival wings. He uttered a loud yell, dodged aside, and ran wildly through the trees, shriek after shriek rending the air. He heard the blackfellow call—what he said he did not know, but he felt that he was shouting to his fierce tribe to head him off. The boy’s screams redoubled, and so did his speed. Even when he was safely out of the dim recesses of the timber, with the lights of the house in front of him, he still screamed wildly, sobbing as he ran, hearing in imagination black feet that pounded behind him.

The gate opened and Jim came racing towards him. It was early in the season for snakes, but he could think of nothing else that would cause such a frenzy of terror. He caught the boy by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Percival?”

“Blacks!” sobbed Percival. “Quick, run!—one nearly got me. Quick, they’re coming!” He twisted from Jim and rushed on towards the house.

Jim was beside him in a few long strides.

“Stop, you little duffer! Blacks your granny! There aren’t any in the district.”

Percival knew better. He continued to flee. Like a rabbit he bolted through the gate, dodging past people who seemed to be hurrying from every direction. Crying loudly as he ran, he fled upstairs and darted into his room. Then he crawled under his bed and waited for the attack.