Part 14
But the worst of it is that Mrs Jones takes advantage of the situation to corner you in the passage when you want to get out, or when you come in tired, and talk. It amounts to about this: She has been fourteen years in this street, taking in boarders; everybody knows her; everybody knows Mrs Jones; her poor husband died six years ago (God rest his soul); she finds it hard to get a living these times; work, work, morning, noon, and night (talk, talk, talk, more likely). “Do you know Mr Duff of the Labour Bureau?” He has known her family for years; a very nice gentleman--a very nice gentleman indeed; he often stops at the gate to have a yarn with her on his way to the office (he must be hard up for a yarn). She doesn't know hardly nobody in this street; she never gossips; it takes her all her time to get a living; she can't be bothered with neighbours; it's always best to keep to yourself and keep neighbours at a distance. Would you believe it, Mr Careless, she has been two years in this house and hasn't said above a dozen words to the woman next door; she'd just know her by sight if she saw her; as for the other woman she wouldn't know her from a crow. Mr Blank and Mrs Blank could tell you the same.... She always had gentlemen staying with her; she never had no cause to complain of one of them except once; they always treated her fair and honest. Here follows story about the exception; he, I gathered, was a journalist, and she could never depend on him. He seemed, from her statements, to have been decidedly erratic in his movements, mode of life and choice of climes. He evidently caused her a great deal of trouble and anxiety, and I felt a kind of sneaking sympathy for his memory. One young fellow stayed with her five years; he was, etc. She couldn't be hard on any young fellow that gets out of work; of course if he can't get it he can't pay; she can't get blood out of a stone; she couldn't turn him out in the street. “I've got sons of my own, Mr Careless, I've got sons of my own.”... She is sure she always does her best to make her boarders comfortable, and if they want anything they've only got to ask for it. The kettle is always on the stove if you want a cup of tea, and if you come home late at night and want a bit of supper you've only got to go to the safe (which of us would dare?). She never locks it, she never did.... And then she begins about her wonderful kids, and it goes on hour after hour. Lord! it's enough to drive a man mad.
We were recommended to this place on the day of our arrival by a young dealer in the furniture line, whose name was Moses--and he looked like it, but we didn't think of that at the time. He had Mrs Jones's card in his window, and he left the shop in charge of his missus and came round with us at once. He assured us that we couldn't do better than stay with her. He said she was a most respectable lady, and all her boarders were decent young fellows-gentlemen; she kept everything scrupulously clean, and kept the best table in town, and she'd do for us (washing included) for eighteen shillings per week; she generally took the first week in advance. We asked him to have a beer--for the want of somebody else to ask--and after that he said that Mrs Jones was a kind, motherly body, and understood young fellows; and that we'd be even more comfortable than in our own home; that we'd be allowed to do as we liked--she wasn't
## particular; she wouldn't mind it a bit if we came home late once in
a way--she was used to that, in fact; she liked to see young fellows enjoying themselves. We afterwards found out that he got so much on every boarder he captured. We also found out--after paying in advance---that her gentlemen generally sent out their white things to be done; she only did the coloured things, so we had to pay a couple of bob extra a week to have our “biled” rags and collars sent out and done; and after the first week they bore sad evidence of having been done on the premises by one of the frowsy daughters. But we paid all the same. And, good Lord! if she keeps the best table in town, we are curious to see the worst. When you go down to breakfast you find on the table in front of your chair a cold plate, with a black something--God knows what it looks like--in the centre of it. It eats like something scraped off the inside of a hide and burnt; and with this you have a cup of warm grey slush called a “cup of tea.” Dinner: A slice of alleged roast beef or boiled mutton, of no particular colour or taste; three new spuds, of which the largest is about the size of an ordinary hen's egg, the smallest that of a bantam's, and the middle one in between, and which eat soggy and have no taste to speak of, save that they are a trifle bitter; a dab of unhealthy-looking green something, which might be either cabbage leaves or turnip-tops, and a glass of water. The whole mess is lukewarm, including the water--it would all be better cold. Tea: A thin slice of the aforesaid alleged roast or mutton, and the pick of about six thin slices of stale bread--evidently cut the day before yesterday. This is the way Mrs Jones “does” for us for eighteen shillings a week. The bread gave out at tea-time this evening, and a mild financial boarder tapped his plate with his knife, and sent the bread plate out to be replenished. It came back with _one_ slice on it.
The mild financial boarder, with desperate courage, is telling the landlady that he'll have to shift next week--it is too far to go to work, he cannot always get down in time; he is very sorry he has to go, he says; he is very comfortable here, but it can't be helped; anyway, as soon as he can get work nearer, he'll come back at once; also (oh, what cowards men are when women are concerned), he says he wishes she could shift and take a house down at the other end of the town. She says (at least here are some fragments of her gabble which we caught and shorthanded): “Well, I'm very sorry to lose you, Mr Sampson, very sorry indeed; but of course if you must go, you must. Of course you can't be expected to walk that distance every morning, and you mustn't be getting to work late, and losing your place... Of course we could get breakfast an hour earlier if... well, as I said before, I'm sorry to lose you and, indeed... You won't forget to come and see us... glad to see you at any time... Well, any way, if you ever want to come back, you know, your bed will be always ready for you, and you'll be treated just the same, and made just as comfortable--you won't forget that” (he says he won't); “and you won't forget to come to dinner sometimes” (he says he won't); “and, of course... You know I always try... Don't forget to drop in sometimes... Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sure to send him to me, will you?” (He says he will.) “Well, of course, Mr Sampson, etc., etc., etc., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,...” It's enough to give a man rats.
He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.
This is the sort of life that gives a man a God-Almighty longing to break away and take to the bush.
HIS COLONIAL OATH
I lately met an old schoolmate of mine up-country. He was much changed. He was tall and lank, and had the most hideous bristly red beard I ever saw. He was working on his father's farm. He shook hands, looked anywhere but in my face--and said nothing. Presently I remarked at a venture “So poor old Mr B., the schoolmaster, is dead.”
“My oath!” he replied.
“He was a good old sort.”
“My oath!”
“Time goes by pretty quick, doesn't it?”
His oath (colonial).
“Poor old Mr B. died awfully sudden, didn't he?”
He looked up the hill, and said: “My oath!”
Then he added: “My blooming oath!”
I thought, perhaps, my city rig or manner embarrassed him, so I stuck my hands in my pockets, spat, and said, to set him at his ease: “It's blanky hot to-day. I don't know how you blanky blanks stand such blank weather! It's blanky well hot enough to roast a crimson carnal bullock; ain't it?” Then I took out a cake of tobacco, bit off a quarter, and pretended to chew. He replied:
“My oath!”
The conversation flagged here. But presently, to my great surprise, he came to the rescue with:
“He finished me, yer know.”
“Finished? How? Who?”
He looked down towards the river, thought (if he did think) and said: “Finished me edyercation, yer know.”
“Oh! you mean Mr B.?”
“My oath--he finished me first-rate.”
“He turned out a good many scholars, didn't he?”
“My oath! I'm thinkin' about going down to the trainin' school.”'
“You ought to--I would if I were you.”
“My oath!”
“Those were good old times,” I hazarded, “you remember the old bark school?”
He looked away across the sidling, and was evidently getting uneasy. He shifted about, and said:
“Well, I must be goin'.”
“I suppose you're pretty busy now?”
“My oath! So long.”
“Well, good-bye. We must have a yarn some day.”
“My oath!”
He got away as quickly as he could.
I wonder whether he _was_ changed after all--or, was it I? A man does seem to get out of touch with the bush after living in cities for eight or ten years.
A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
“Does Arvie live here, old woman?”
“Why?”
“Strike me dead! carn't yer answer a civil queschin?”
“How dare you talk to me like that, you young larrikin! Be off! or I'll send for a policeman.”
“Blarst the cops! D'yer think I cares for 'em? Fur two pins I'd fetch a push an' smash yer ole shanty about yer ears--y'ole cow! _I only arsked if Arvie lived here_! Holy Mosis! carn't a feller ask a civil queschin?”
“What do you want with Arvie? Do you know him?”
“My oath! Don't he work at Grinder Brothers? I only come out of my way to do him a good turn; an' now I'm sorry I come--damned if I ain't--to be barracked like this, an' shoved down my own throat. (_Pause_) I want to tell Arvie that if he don't come ter work termorrer, another bloke'll collar his job. I wouldn't like to see a cove collar a cove's job an' not tell a bloke about it. What's up with Arvie, anyhow? Is he sick?”
“Arvie is dead!”
“Christ! (_Pause_) Garn! What-yer-giv'n-us? Tell Arvie Bill Anderson wants-ter see him.”
“My God! haven't I got enough trouble without a young wretch like you coming to torment me? For God's sake go away and leave me alone! I'm telling you the truth, my my poor boy died of influenza last night.”
“My oath!”
The ragged young rip gave a long, low whistle, glanced up and down Jones's Alley, spat out some tobacco-juice, and said “Swelp me Gord! I'm sorry, mum. I didn't know. How was I to know you wasn't havin' me?”
He withdrew one hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his head, tilting his hat as far forward as it had previously been to the rear, and just then the dilapidated side of his right boot attracted his attention. He turned the foot on one side, and squinted at the sole; then he raised the foot to his left knee, caught the ankle in a very dirty hand, and regarded the sole-leather critically, as though calculating how long it would last. After which he spat desperately at the pavement, and said:
“Kin I see him?”
He followed her up the crooked little staircase with a who's-afraid kind of swagger, but he took his hat off on entering the room.
He glanced round, and seemed to take stock of the signs of poverty--so familiar to his class--and then directed his gaze to where the body lay on the sofa with its pauper coffin already by its side. He looked at the coffin with the critical eye of a tradesman, then he looked at Arvie, and then at the coffin again, as if calculating whether the body would fit.
The mother uncovered the white, pinched face of the dead boy, and Bill came and stood by the sofa. He carelessly drew his right hand from his pocket, and laid the palm on Arvie's ice-cold forehead.
“Poor little cove!” Bill muttered, half to himself; and then, as though ashamed of his weakness, he said:
“There wasn't no post mortem, was there?”
“No,” she answered; “a doctor saw him the day before--there was no post mortem.”
“I thought there wasn't none,” said Bill, “because a man that's been post mortemed always looks as if he'd been hurt. My father looked right enough at first--just as if he was restin'--but after they'd had him opened he looked as if he'd been hurt. No one else could see it, but I could. How old was Arvie?”
“Eleven.”'
“I'm twelve--goin' on for thirteen. Arvie's father's dead, ain't he?”
“Yes.”
“So's mine. Died at his work, didn't he?”
“Yes.”
“So'd mine. Arvie told me his father died of something with his heart!”
“Yes.”
“So'd mine; ain't it rum? You scrub offices an' wash, don't yer?”
“Yes.”
“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin', don't yer, these times?”
“My God, yes! God only knows what I'll do now my poor boy's gone. I generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and when that's done I've got to start my day's work, washing. And then I find it hard to make both ends meet.”
“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was brought home?”
“Ah, my God! Yes. I'll never forget it till my dying day. My poor husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two days before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”
“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: 'Yer husband's dead, mum,' he says; 'he dropped off all of a suddint,' and mother said, 'My God! my God!' just like that, and went off.”
“Poor soul! poor soul! And--now my Arvie's gone. Whatever will me and the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My God! I wish I was under the turf.”
“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It's no use frettin' over what's done.”
He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand, and regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he looked at Arvie again.
“You should ha' tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.
“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”
“He wasn't very strong.”
“No, he was not, poor boy.”
“I thought he wasn't. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: they didn't give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all the time, and he didn't have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise, lest he'd be sacked. He couldn't fight, an' the boys used to tease him; they'd wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I'd like to see 'em do it to me. He couldn't fight; but then, of course, he wasn't strong. They don't bother me while I'm strong enough to heave a rock; but then, of course, it wasn't Arvie's fault. I s'pose he had pluck enough, if he hadn't the strength.” And Bill regarded the corpse with a fatherly and lenient eye.
“My God!” she cried, “if I'd known this, I'd sooner have starved than have my poor boy's life tormented out of him in such a place. He never complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never complained! Poor little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”
“He never told yer?”
“No--never a word.”
“My oath! You don't say so! P'raps he didn't want to let you know he couldn't hold his own; but that wasn't his fault, I s'pose. Y'see, he wasn't strong.”
An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he regarded it with critical interest for awhile:
“We've got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones's Alley wunst--in that house over there. How d'yer like livin' in Jones's Alley?”
“I don't like it at all. I don't like having to bring my children up where there are so many bad houses; but I can't afford to go somewhere else and pay higher rent.”
“Well, there _is_ a good many night-shops round here. But then,” he added, reflectively, “you'll find them everywheres. An', besides, the kids git sharp, an' pick up a good deal in an alley like this; 'twon't do 'em no harm; it's no use kids bein' green if they wanter get on in a city. You ain't been in Sydney all yer life, have yer?”
“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the bush.”'
“I thought yer was. Well, men are sick fools. I'm thinking about gittin' a billet up-country, myself, soon. Where's he goin' ter be buried?”
“At Rookwood, to-morrow.”
“I carn't come. I've got ter work. Is the Guvmint goin' to bury him?”
“Yes.”
Bill looked at the body with increased respect. “Kin I do anythin' for you? Now, don't be frightened to arsk!”
“No. Thank you very much, all the same.”
“Well, I must be goin'; thank yer fur yer trouble, mum.”
“No trouble, my boy--mind the step.”
“It _is_ gone. I'll bring a piece of board round some night and mend it for you, if you like; I'm learnin' the carpenterin'; I kin nearly make a door. Tell yer what, I'll send the old woman round to-night to fix up Arvie and lend yer a hand.”
“No, thank you. I suppose your mother's got work and trouble enough; I'll manage.”
“I'll send her round, anyway; she's a bit rough, but she's got a soft gizzard; an' there's nothin' she enjoys better than fixin' up a body. Good-bye, mum.”
“Good-bye, my child.”
He paused at the door, and said:
“I'm sorry, mum. Swelp me God! I'm sorry. S'long, an' thank yer.”
An awe-stricken child stood on the step, staring at Bill with great brimming eyes. He patted it on the head and said “Keep yer pecker up, young 'un!”
IN A WET SEASON
It was raining--“general rain.”
The train left Bourke, and then there began the long, long agony of scrub and wire fence, with here and there a natural clearing, which seemed even more dismal than the funereal “timber” itself. The only thing which might seem in keeping with one of these soddened flats would be the ghost of a funeral--a city funeral with plain hearse and string of cabs--going very slowly across from the scrub on one side to the scrub on the other. Sky like a wet, grey blanket; plains like dead seas, save for the tufts of coarse grass sticking up out of the water; scrub indescribably dismal--everything damp, dark, and unspeakably dreary.
Somewhere along here we saw a swagman's camp--a square of calico stretched across a horizontal stick, some rags steaming on another stick in front of a fire, and two billies to the leeward of the blaze. We knew by instinct that there was a piece of beef in the larger one. Small, hopeless-looking man standing with his back to the fire, with his hands behind him, watching the train; also, a damp, sorry-looking dingo warming itself and shivering by the fire. The rain had held up for a while. We saw two or three similar camps further on, forming a temporary suburb of Byrock.
The population was on the platform in old overcoats and damp, soft felt hats; one trooper in a waterproof. The population looked cheerfully and patiently dismal. The local push had evidently turned up to see off some fair enslavers from the city, who had been up-country for the cheque season, now over. They got into another carriage. We were glad when the bell rang.
The rain recommenced. We saw another swagman about a mile on struggling away from the town, through mud and water. He did not seem to have heart enough to bother about trying to avoid the worst mud-holes. There was a low-spirited dingo at his heels, whose sole object in life was seemingly to keep his front paws in his master's last footprint. The traveller's body was bent well forward from the hips up; his long arms--about six inches through his coat sleeves--hung by his sides like the arms of a dummy, with a billy at the end of one and a bag at the end of the other; but his head was thrown back against the top end of the swag, his hat-brim rolled up in front, and we saw a ghastly, beardless face which turned neither to the right nor the left as the train passed him.
After a long while we closed our book, and looking through the window, saw a hawker's turn-out which was too sorrowful for description.
We looked out again while the train was going slowly, and saw a teamster's camp: three or four wagons covered with tarpaulins which hung down in the mud all round and suggested death. A long, narrow man, in a long, narrow, shoddy overcoat and a damp felt hat, was walking quickly along the road past the camp. A sort of cattle-dog glided silently and swiftly out from under a wagon, “heeled” the man, and slithered back without explaining. Here the scene vanished.
We remember stopping--for an age it seemed--at half a dozen straggling shanties on a flat of mud and water. There was a rotten weather-board pub, with a low, dripping veranda, and three wretchedly forlorn horses hanging, in the rain, to a post outside. We saw no more, but we knew that there were several apologies for men hanging about the rickety bar inside--or round the parlour fire. Streams of cold, clay-coloured water ran in all directions, cutting fresh gutters, and raising a yeasty froth whenever the water fell a few inches. As we left, we saw a big man in an overcoat riding across a culvert; the tails of the coat spread over the horse's rump, and almost hid it. In fancy still we saw him--hanging up his weary, hungry little horse in the rain, and swaggering into the bar; and we almost heard someone say, in a drawling tone: “'Ello, Tom! 'Ow are yer poppin' up?”'