Читать книгу Gentlemen at Gyang Gyang - Miles Franklin - Страница 7

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That person pursued his way with nothing to say to the woman. She was a pommy, judging by her traps, and rather an uninteresting-looking piece, Peter reckoned; nothing lively about her, though it was a relief that she didn't mag-mag till she dizzied him about things that would interest no one but a jackass.

The miles lurched past, bumps not entirely due to the road. "We'll be lucky if this old bus gets us to camp," remarked its driver. "I should have asked you about having a snack at Goonara, but we all give old Bluestone the go-by if possible."

"I'm not hungry, thank you, but could I have a drink from one of those lovely little creeks?"

Creeks. Perhaps she was not a pommy.

"I'll boil the billy at the next one. The water doesn't always agree with strangers. It's a little too cold."

Sharply rounding the crest of Telegraph Hill downward to Black Plain he had to jam the brakes on to escape a rush of sheep across the track. Starting up again a little too summarily brought the car to a complete standstill. Peter got out to investigate, and verified his suspicions. "We've sheered an axle: entirely jacked up. I'll boil the billy."

A dainty fire of twigs sent up clear blue smoke and a delicious perfume beside a well-seasoned pot while Peter produced a tin of biscuits from among the mailman's parcels. When the water boiled he handed his passenger a pannikin of tea.

"This will be safer than the cold water, and here's some sugar too. I'm sorry that I'll have to ask you to wait here while I go for a horse for the rest of the way."

"Can't I go with you?"

"I'd rather you waited. It's ten miles. Nothing will harm you here. I might have the luck to flag one of the men if I cut along." He looked to the south where he had fired the tussocks on the outward journey. Several patches were still running and throwing a blue odorous veil on the day, but running away from the car.

"There wouldn't be someone passing?"

"We don't have anyone come this way once in a week. You'll see no one. There's nothing to harm you from here to Kossy but a snake or two, and they don't seem to be about this season yet. You can sit quite comfortably in the car."

His detached straightforward manner comforted her. His apparent lack of curiosity suited her present state. He, forsooth, thought her a rather safe-looking female. She was no obvious charmer, at sight of which he scuttled like a chased wombat.

"It might be three hours before I can get back, so you mustn't be frightened."

"I shan't be frightened," she said gravely.

He swung away around the bridle track in long agile strides without a backward glance, comely in sound shirt, riding trousers and leggings. Bernice sipped her tea with some of the flavour of the fragrant eucalyptus twigs and for ever set apart from common teas. She was in the middle of a treeless piece of country surrounded by hills crowned with timber. Away, away down a valley was a transcendant view of peaks, rising tier upon tier as blue as the skies above. From half a mile away she could have faintly discerned Kosciusko had there been someone to point it out.

She bathed her face and hands in the icy water of the little creek wriggling like a worm between tussocks and shrubs, jet-black at a certain angle above its basaltic bed. The earth showed dark between the tussocks; on the nearer hillsides the burnt patches were like mighty black blankets, and the boles of the blackbutts too showed black: there was a dark tinge all about as if the region had black blood in its veins. On every side were ramparts of rock like decapitated castles. Some of the big basaltiform boulders were level as tables and strewn carelessly as though the Great Stonemason had had much material to spare. Bernice found a seat on one of the boulders on top of the world amid the flowers and watched the shadows lengthen, and smelt the fragrance of the fired blore. There was a salt trough on the crest, and wherever she looked sheep dotted the slopes. What could people do with so many sheep!

The sunlight sparkled in undulating waves and burnt like fire. Magpies held meetings all round her in their own voluble and musical tongue, crows flew past with their baleful croak, and gyang gyangs were also in attendance. The latter were familiar through coloured calendars, and she regarded them with beauty-loving eyes. She culled the perfumed shrubs beside the stream and the bluebells and soldier buttons. It was wonderful to be in the air so clear and light. Black Peter had feared that she might be frightened. Frightened! where there might be but one passer-by in a week, and he a lonely bushman like Black Peter himself to whom the ateliers of Paris and London—even Sydney—were as unrealized as the sheep-tracks of the snow country had been to her until that hour. She began to be faintly glad—as glad as possible to one who never more counted upon gladness—that she had come to an isolation illustrated by the telegraph-wire stretching across the crest of the hill as the only connection with the seething world she had lately forsaken. Bliss to hide away here indefinitely from those of her own particular cliques in Paris and London who knew, well, what the doctors diagnosed as cardiac trouble and a tuberculous tendency. That erroneous diagnosis was a smoke-screen to outsiders, but no defence against those in certain artistic circles who found amusement in her story.

The sky remained unflecked, but a rumble that Bernice mistook for thunder disturbed the spacious quiet of the afternoon. In that region a dog sounded like a horse galloping and a motorcar like thunder. Presently the jumbucks were parting like a wave before a car that bumped and swung around the tussocky boulder-strewn hillside. The one passer for the week had evidently appeared. Reaching the Gyang Gyang car he stopped and got out to inspect.

"Can I be of service?" he inquired, descrying Bernice and approaching her. She saw a good-looking young man, tanned and lined, clean-shaven, dark-eyed, wearing city clothes, and of lively address.

"The car has broken down, and the gentleman who was driving me has gone for a horse."

"I'm the right man in the right place, then. My name is Spires."

Bernice bowed faintly but did not respond with her own name.

"I'm on my way to Mr Labosseer at Gyang Gyang and shall be delighted to give you a lift. I'd better take the luggage, too."

"Perhaps they will miss me and wonder what has happened."

"Can't miss on this track, I reckon," he replied, transferring the packages. Then he held the door open. "Now, madam, if you will honour me with your company."

Bernice stepped in, ignoring the "madam", which was a hint for her name. Spires was driven to further attempts to place her. His insatiable appetite for women was untempered by timidity.

"Mr Labosseer is a fine man, isn't he?"

"I haven't seen him since I was an infant."

"Oh! You haven't been at Gyang Gyang before?"

"Never."

"I expect you'll find it rather primitive. I understand it is only a camp. Mr Labosseer's home is out west. He has a fine place there."

"Has he?"

"You'll find Gyang Gyang very different from England."

Even this did not draw her.

"This is quite level except for the bumps. We seem to be on top of the big hills, I mean," she observed.

Hang the woman! She was a clam.

"Have you come all the way through from Sydney?"

"Yes."

They proceeded in silence till the roof of the woolshed could be seen about a couple of miles distant on the side of Gyang Gyang Hill. Here they overtook Peter.

"Well, I never! Hullo, Peter! It is Peter Poole, isn't it?" called Spires in his effusive way. The pedestrian turned, surprise giving place to a scowl so ominous that it fitted his nickname. "Didn't expect to see you here. Thought you were away in the Islands or the U.S.A. Jump up!"

A man on foot could not well refuse. He found a place amid the packages and fell as silent as Bernice.

"What have you been doing since we last parted?" The driver turned his head with the inquiry.

"Just mucking about."

The sun was a red eye between the trees as they reached the homestead. Men on horseback were nearing from several directions, some with a packhorse, none without a dog. A tall man of fresh complexion and clipped grey moustache, and with a cockatoo on his shoulder, came out of the house. Peter explained the breakdown to him and that Spires had come along. Labosseer acknowledged the information and turned to the newcomers.

"Well, Spires, where did you blow in from? It's a long time since I saw you. Make yourself at home. I'll see you later." With this he gave attention to his other guest.

"Welcome to Gyang Gyang! Come inside and leave everything to Peter. You must be tired."

"Pretty Cocky! Pretty Cocky!" said the bird on Mr Labosseer's shoulder, craning towards Bernice, and working his tongue like a black marble in his beak.

"You must see if we can't make as good a job of you as we did of your father before you were born," said her master, leading the way towards the main abode, a collection of box-like slab rooms roofed with shingles and liberal as to verandas. "We've made a camp on the side veranda, as the orders are that you are to sleep in the open air."

"Pretty Cocky! Pretty Cocky!" screeched that person.

"You must acknowledge Cocky or we'll get no peace."

"Pretty Cocky," said Bernice rather timidly.

"And here's the Pup come to welcome you." A handsome black-and-tan sheep-dog, larger and fatter than any in the camp, sprang about her while Mr Labosseer smiled upon him. Grand old Pup, of delightfully genial and hospitable disposition, he loved his master, but the sun was in his soul for all humanity. Bernice fondled him and then he transferred his attentions to Spires.

"Oh, I say!" That gentleman laughed. "It's easy to see this is the Boss's dog. Kept for ornament and past services, too fat to work."

"Don't you believe it," said Labosseer. "There's not a dog on the place can come up to him in any direction."

"My word, yes!" said another gentleman, coming from the house. "Not a word against the Pup if you wish to remain at Gyang Gyang. A good man was sacked last week in broad daylight for suggesting that the greedy old brute had fleas."

Labosseer laughed heartily and introduced Mr Burberry. He was left with Spires while Labosseer and Bernice proceeded to the side veranda. Bernice found a neat little bed such as illustrated in shop catalogues among "Shearers' Requisites". The only looking-glass the place provided larger than four inches across was on one petrol case, and a lantern on another. Tarpaulin afforded ambush at two ends, and the side was open to a long view of plain and mountain, reflecting the setting sun.

"Make yourself at home and have a little rest. The Cook's bell won't go till dark. Come on, Cocky and Pup."

"Thank you," said Bernice faintly, and sank upon the bed as soon as she was alone. She was unstrung and weak and wished she had plenty of money so that she could go into proper hiding to hug those secret wounds by reason of which she was at Gyang Gyang. The effort of meeting the camp and responding to her godfather's friendly kindness suddenly seemed too much.