Currawalli Street (4 page)

‘The world is in the process of changing from the old to the new. If
you sent a letter to London thirty years ago it would have taken sixteen weeks to get there. Now it takes only six. Everything works at such a faster speed now. Your children will think our pace of life is slow. But to us it is very fast. To our parents it would be an unbelievable miracle.'

Johnny notices that the road up ahead begins to climb. He feels the horses pick up speed as they sense the incline. He leans forward in the saddle. So does Bert. Johnny hasn't thought about war much before. It is something the old men in the public bars of hotels talk about but only when they have run out of other things to say. Old men like to sink their teeth into something that they feel unhappy or uncomfortable about. What they say isn't to be taken seriously. It is just the ramblings of spent brains. This is the first time he has heard someone of his own age talk about it with such conviction and surety. As if it is going to happen, no matter what.

Bert continues, ‘There will be a war to speed up this progress. To shake the tree and clear the dead wood out. To get rid of the old and give the new growth plenty of room.' He pauses and turns in the saddle to look for a moment at the road behind. ‘To live accustomed to such speed has some advantages but it also brings some bad things with it.'

‘Like what?'

‘We can now find out what is happening in London in six weeks. We respond straightaway. They receive our response in six weeks. That's only twelve weeks. It used to be eight months before they could receive any reaction from us. By then tempers could have cooled, fights could have been fought. The chances were it would be all over. Now we can be involved almost immediately.'

‘Is that a bad thing?'

‘Sometimes it is. The leaders we have are suited to this country, suited to being far away from anywhere else. But now they can throw their hats into the ring and say things that they have no idea about. It could be dangerous to give them so much power.'

Johnny pulls tobacco out of his pocket. The horse knows that he has dropped the reins and that they rest on her neck but she doesn't change her pace. Johnny begins to roll up a cigarette and passes the packet over to Bert who also lets go of his reins. His horse doesn't react either. Bert lights his cigarette, draws deeply on it and then resumes talking. Johnny is happy to listen.

‘One thing that has to be considered about the men in this country is that most of us are descendants of English convicts and have a very healthy disrespect for English ways—all that pomp, the aristocracy, the class system. Without a doubt, Johnny, when the war comes the leaders of our little country will hand over control of our army to the British generals. Apparently most of them come from the upper classes and there is some serious concern that they might not be smart enough. I reckon that our army may end up having to fend for itself or else it may be sacrificed.'

‘Bert, how do you know all of this?'

‘Look at what Calway has written about the English. Look at Ballymoney. They're not hotheads, angry at everything. Calway's a professor. Ballymoney's a bishop. It's all there if you look. The Irish talk about it. I read lots. And I have learned to read between the lines. That's where the truth lies.'

He stretches in his saddle and looks at Johnny. ‘The world is changing. Have you seen one of these flying machines?'

‘Yes. There is a field near where I live . . . where you have been living. They take off and land there. I went over to have a look at them.'

‘Me too. I made a point of going to see them. I'll tell you this. Being able to fly isn't the most amazing thing about them. Rather, it's the speed at which they can cross the countryside—almost as fast as you can turn your head to follow them. If one flies overhead when you start to puff on that cigarette, it will be almost gone from your view by the time you blow the smoke out of your mouth. That's what's remarkable about them. And who knows what they will do in a war? See where troops are hidden? Drop bombs?'

Johnny flinches involuntarily. He hasn't considered this at all. But it makes sense.

Bert pushes his hat back on his head and wipes his brow. The sun is starting to climb and the heat is building, even while the storm clouds are getting closer. ‘The British army have experimented with these flying machines in South Africa. Seeing how accurate they can be and how much damage they can do.'

‘And how were they?' Johnny asks quietly.

‘Very effective. The bombs killed more people than shells fired from cannon. The army was very pleased with the experiment.'

‘Who was killed?'

‘Some villagers that the British could see no need for.'

‘How do you know all this?' Johnny asks again.

‘That's one of the good things about being a notorious gangster. The nicest people are more than happy to rub shoulders with you. If you can help them. A judge just back from London told me about the experiments at dinner at the archbishop's one night. He had seen the report
himself. The English want us to start producing these flying machines. The judge thinks it might be a good idea. He wanted me to talk to a few people I know in the carriage-building business.'

The day continues to get hotter, and Bert pulls off his coat and undoes the buttons on his vest. Johnny takes off his own coat and straps it to the back of his saddle.

‘I plan on buying some more appropriate clothes in Euroa,' says Bert. ‘City clothes are only good for one thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘The city.'

They both laugh. The road is rockier now and the horses' hooves ring out loudly through the scrub.

‘I think it's time to drop the stirrups down,' Johnny says.

The men steer the horses into a glade by the side of the road. Johnny stretches his back before he jumps down out of the saddle. Bert riffles through his saddlebag and pulls out a loaf of bread.

‘Lunchtime,' he says.

Johnny comes up with a block of cheese. The men stand under a ghost gum while they eat, then take a few careful steps across the open ground and return to the horses. If there are any snakes about, they will attack only if threatened. Johnny and Bert know enough to stay out of their way by avoiding the long grass where the snakes like to hide. Johnny has sat by the side of a friend as he lay dying from snakebite almost this far away from a town. Seeing it once is enough.

‘You've got a bad back?' Bert observes.

‘Yeah, I have.'

‘Getting better?'

‘No, this is it, I'm afraid.'

‘How did it happen?'

Johnny bends down stiffly to check that his horse's shins are okay. He says nothing until he has felt all four legs. Then he straightens, making sure his face doesn't register the pain. ‘Funny thing. We had a really gentle mare on the farm. And a quiet stallion. We got her to foal. The foal turned out to be the opposite of its mother and father. Threw me when I wasn't expecting it and trampled me after I had gone down. A nastier horse I have never met. We sold it on as quickly as we could but the injuries I suffered wouldn't go away. And so now I am limited in what I can do. Funny though. Just because both parents were calm and quiet I expected the foal would be the same. But it wasn't. If I didn't know horses better I would have almost said it was vindictive.'

‘Born bad.'

‘Yeah. I suppose that's it.'

‘It happens. In humans as well.'

Both men lengthen their stirrups and climb back onto their horses. They head off up the road, which is still climbing. It has been for half an hour now. The crest looks as if it is about a mile ahead. Johnny can sense that his horse is starting to feel the effect of this hill. The time between each step is minutely slower and the hooves come down heavier. Her head hasn't dropped yet. When it does, Johnny will look for a place to camp for the night. He relies on this horse and she relies on him. He could work her into the ground but he would be able to do so only once. She would never recover properly.

He makes himself comfortable in the saddle, looks about, and asks Bert, ‘So where did you learn to ride?'

‘The same place as you, I imagine. My parents had a farm down by the Llewellyn River. I spent all my childhood on the back of a horse. You too?'

‘My folks had a farm up near Strathbogie.'

‘Sheep farm?'

‘Yep. Most of the time. And you? Wheat?'

‘Mainly wheat. Sometimes sheep.' Bert looks ahead. ‘You'll be leaving the road up here?'

‘Yes. There's a good track that runs off to the left along that ridge. That will take me to Wensleydale.'

‘Johnny, I did enjoy talking to you. I'd like to ask you two favours.'

‘Of course. What are they?'

‘Don't tell anybody you have seen me. And write out your address for me so I can send you a letter.'

‘Why do you want to send me a letter?'

‘I have no one else to write to. I don't know whether I will write at all, but I don't know what is going to happen and what I'll feel like doing. And you seem like a decent person to write a letter to.'

Instantly Johnny feels a tiny degree of suspicion but that is quickly overtaken by the honesty of Bert's request. Two farm boys, a long way from home.

‘I'd be pleased to get one.'

They come to the top of the hill and the track across the ridge emerges. Johnny writes out
number 10 Currawalli street
on a page torn from his notebook, hands it to Bert and then looks along the road that he is about to turn off. ‘I hope you stay safe, Bert. Good luck to you.'

‘Good luck to you too, Johnny. See you in the heather!'

They both lean forward across their horses' necks and shake hands. The horses step back and the men part. Johnny can hear the hooves of Bert's horse for a few minutes but then the track is swallowed up by a stand of thick trees and with the colder air comes silence.

As Johnny adjusts his position in the saddle and rubs the small of his back, he recalls the many fellow travellers he has met before on many different roads. It was always an encounter that could not be replicated in any other situation. Two people, content to fill in some time with conversation, intent on a destination, after having spent hours or maybe days alone with their thoughts reflected by an untouched bush landscape.

But this meeting with Bert stands out more than any of the others. It is the first time Johnny has seen the light of the future on someone's face, and he is left with a more defined picture of what is to come. A few other men have mentioned to him ‘the rumblings of war' as if it is nothing but a slogan; this is the first time he has felt a real presence on the horizon. When he wished Bert to stay safe, he really meant it.

He settles down into the saddle and leans forward so that his weight sits more on the shoulders of his horse. She responds by moving faster, the rhythm of the hooves picking up. When they emerge from the trees Johnny can see that thunderclouds have passed over him, heading to where he has come from.

A
lfred Covey from number nine Currawalli Street has a map shop in the centre of the city. His maps are highly sought after: anybody travelling across the southern part of the country knows that a Covey map will be the best aid to have on hand when heading into such a vast unknown. And a Vast Unknown is exactly what most of the country is. So Alfred's business, begun in the last ten years of the nineteenth century, is booming as more people arrive and are paralysed by what they see: black mountains sitting in the distance that change colour and shape; trees that hold out the sunlight and bend stiffly in a wind that is unrelenting and unwelcoming; weather that can be hot enough one day to start a monstrous fire and also, without warning, bring enough rain to send a sudden flood roaring down from the hills; animals and reptiles that are aggressive and deadly; and natives who are assumed to be treacherous. Finally, there is the distance: everything is so far away from everything else. No one wants to be lost. It is a horrible thought.

And Alfred Covey's map-making business has enabled him to buy a home on the outskirts of the city and pay for a good education for his daughter.

His wife, Rose, started her working life in Alfred's shop. That's how she met him. She responded to an advertisement placed in the window. Eventually she left to go and work in a delicatessen. He followed her and courted her over the counter. They were married and chose a block of land out at the edge of town among the currawalli trees. They lived in a tent and watched as their house was built. Rose was pregnant by the time she sat in their new felt armchair, and Elizabeth was two weeks away from being born when Alfred planted the apricot tree in the front yard and thought, for the first time, about buying the land next door.

Now the apricot tree hangs over the front fence and they are having a house built for Elizabeth at number seven. It doesn't occur to Alfred that she might want to be somewhere else.

On the other side of Currawalli Street at number sixteen stands Maria Conte who emigrated from Italy after her heart was stolen by a wandering Englishman. That's what her family decided had happened. From the oldest habitable part of Rome, she came with him to this new country. William's wanderlust evaporated as Maria's grew, and she settled down only reluctantly. They haven't moved from Currawalli Street since. She and William produced two children and eventually she didn't feel the loss of her original family quite as strongly.

Her grandmother had told her what would eventuate—it was something the old people in her village said: the wandering man will
eventually put down roots deeper than anybody else. And that's exactly how it turned out. William, who once saw new countries to explore, new horizons to head for, new borders to cross, now doesn't see beyond the front fence, and he is happy. Still, when Maria describes him to other women, she says simply, ‘He is a good man.' And when she looks at her children, she knows that's what he is. It wasn't he who stole her from her family in Rome; it was that uncaring moment called love.

Maria's mother and father are now dead, victims of a famine and a life of hard work. Under a mantel clock that she and William bought in the city, Maria keeps the letter from her brother telling her of the sad news.

And if playing on the crowded streets of her childhood, watching, as she grew, all the different types of people around her family, has shown her anything it is that everybody has an affinity with something. For her father, it was rope; her brother, donkeys; her friend, cooking fish. And Maria has an affinity with chickens. Ever since she was little she was able to manage the hens and roosters her family owned and make them do the things that chickens have to do to make them worth keeping: lay eggs and get fat.

Maria's chickens were fatter than they should have been considering the small amount of food that could be put aside for them, and they laid more eggs than any other chooks in the street. No one knew for certain why this was so, but her mother was convinced it was because Maria made them happy. And it was true that they liked to be around her, even when she was sleeping. There is now a chook pen at the back of number sixteen and the chooks supply enough eggs for her family, and for the general store near the railway station to become known as a place to get good eggs.

William must have always had a sleeping passion for geraniums and now that he has settled down they are planted all around the chook pen. The chooks like to eat the buds just before the flowers bloom. The chooks are happy and so is Maria. William doesn't say anything.

At number thirteen lives Morrie Lloyd, the son of the once-celebrated Melbourne theatre impresario H.G. Lloyd. Morrie is a widower who buried all of his plans, all of his dreams, with his wife Gwen. He was once an elegant man, a barrister who walked the floors of many established city houses with his head held high. Now he walks the streets dishevelled, with his dog, head down.

Where once he rolled glamour and success around on the tips of his fingers, walked into a room assuming there would be a woman or a man present who was in love with him, expected to always be heard when he spoke, and where once he sailed before a strong steady wind, he now leaves glamour and success in a back drawer in the kitchen; he looks at the radiogram without turning it on, tries to avoid speaking to too many people.

The woman he loved died.

Gwen was one of those people he had read about; he had seen theatre shows about them, he had heard clients talk about them. The sort of person who turns your life upside down quite easily. He met Gwen without meaning to; he wasn't looking for anybody, certainly not in the reception room of his office. She was the sister of one of his clients. A lost cause certainly but for a reason Morrie could not identify at the time, he found himself working harder than he ever had to successfully defend this man. In the end, he didn't succeed but by then the distant view of Gwen had become a fixture in his life that he did not want to lose.

He didn't know how to win her heart, which was a result of never having to do it before. Therefore he accepted and gave up a lot more than he probably had to. She was younger than him but he was used to walking out with younger women.

But he had to shed a lot of his habits and manners before he impressed her. His reserved seat at Flemington races, his enjoyment of late-night dinner parties, many friendships that were good for a single man to have, the flippant amusing responses that he used instead of saying what he felt. Finally he gave up his Savoy Hotel suite to move into a thinly built wooden house on a street at the edge of the city when they married.

Gwen loved him and understood that, just as the Italian woman across the street was living in a foreign country, so was he. She taught him how to speak the language of the street, how to be discreet about how much and how little he knew, and the extraordinary value of being anonymous.

He happily gave away most of his work so that he could spend more time with her and together they enjoyed a honeymoon that lasted seven years.

But then she died.

The Reverend Thomas Tierson and his sister Janet live beside the church at number fifteen. In reality their home is only a small weatherboard house, but in church records it is always referred to as a manse, and so the siblings have adopted the term with a certain amount of humour.

It is Thomas's second church. His first was in a little country town called Leongatha where the congregation was never very big. People
worked so hard that they generally slept right through the ringing of the Sunday church bell. Thomas couldn't blame them; he saw how solidly they worked and so he performed most of his duties by going out into the paddocks and onto the factory floors. A farmer would say more in a field than if he was sitting in a church office tugging at a stiff collar; a worker in the town's drainage-pipe factory would be more inclined to talk about his darker concerns at work, where he could be sure that his wife and children and neighbours weren't somewhere about.

But eventually Thomas was called into the city. The church authorities felt that he could be of more help in a place where there were more people. He was sad to leave Leongatha but he knew that this nomadic lifestyle came with the job. When he left the little town he shook hands with the same amount of quiet enthusiasm as when he met his new parishioners in Currawalli Street.

Janet Tierson had been with her brother in the damp old house in Leongatha. She had swept nests of bush rats from her armoire, and a black snake from the kitchen that appeared just as she was about to remove scones from the oven. There were other assorted animals and insects too. She was happy to come to the city, although she discovered it was a lot harder to find a way in among the women of Currawalli Street than she had in the country town. She suspects that it has something to do with Thomas's delicate manner. The men don't seem worried by it but it is a great concern to the women—she can tell by the way they look at the pulpit and talk to each other after the service ends on Sundays. Janet deduces that women in the city like their connection to God to be masculine and rugged—the things that Thomas isn't.

And she doesn't mind the spinster connotations that come with being a sister looking after her reverend brother. In fact she welcomes them; the situation gives her much more freedom than she expected and she makes good use of that freedom. She has learned to look for and cultivate discretion. She finds it very enriching to be able to see another view of the world from the window of a lover's bedroom. And so she is happy to appear to be the sad sister who has no other interest in life than her brother's welfare. It works well for her.

Currently she is entertained by a gentleman of wig and gown on the other side of the city. James has his own world and his own life to contend with and she wants no part of it. Nor does he want her to be a part of it. They meet with a subtleness that he, as a lawyer, is used to. He has no interest in finding out who she is or where she sits in society and it is enough for him that she wants him to lie by her side. He knows their relationship is transitory and will last only as long as his conversations hold her interest and the view from his window is fresh and enticing.

James expects her to leave him as lightly as they met; in this instance, it was with the brush of a hand at an after-show dinner. She looked at him, he at her, and the rules of engagement were silently established. He is used to cultivating this type of relationship, and always surprised by how many women are willing to accept the terms. There are many people in this society who can't fit into the confines created by the mores of the day but who have no inclination to stand up and rail against them. They prefer to just quietly ignore them and go about their business with their own notions of morality and decency.

And there is in this type of lovemaking something powerful and exciting that Janet thinks might fade in marriage. She doesn't know that for
sure but she does harbour strong suspicions. The thought of being with one partner for the rest of her life fills her with enough dread to give her a steel spine that will not bend. She does not want that kind of life.

James is a good man, strong and interesting, but she feels they are reaching their end. She expects that he feels it too.

She knows that the time to leave is coming because they have stopped meeting as two individuals who each bring a scent of mystery with them. That scent has evaporated into the night air. She knows that the time to leave is coming because they no longer talk of abstract visions but speak, with a type of familiarity, mainly of things that will see them through the next moment in their life together. She knows that the time to leave is coming because she has realised that they are just two everyday people who like being in each other's company. One night they sit together on the side of his bed and swap small gifts. They didn't plan to do this together. They arrived at this exchange individually. He has a pair of delicate pearl earrings for her to remember him by, as she has a thin silk scarf that she hopes he will keep in the drawer by the bed. The thought of him being blindfolded by a lover with this scarf gives her a delicious feeling that she keeps secret from him.

And they both have the same words: ‘I hope you remember me.'

But the leaving is not quite for now. They still have a few nights of passion to share.

Returning to Currawalli Street on the train the next morning after giving the gifts, Janet looks out at the ever-expanding rows of houses spreading across the paddocks, and thinks about the reasons she wants to move on from James. Time has left them exposed as the people they really are. And she doesn't like that she can see that.

By the time she opens the front gate of the manse, her mind is made up. Happy that Thomas is still at church, she walks through the house, pushes open the back door and without stopping sweeps up Thomas's trowel. The high heels of her shoes make it hard to dig in the damp soil and so the process takes a while and she has time to reconsider her decision. They are beautiful earrings; they give off a blue glow in sunlight and a greenish tint when in shadow. She has never owned pearls like these but she thinks her decision is the right one. She puts the earrings back in their embroidered red box and places the box in the bottom of the hole. She sees for the first time that across the top of the box are her initials, embroidered in gold thread:
JT
. Replacing the soil is easier than the digging was, and as she walks back inside she decides that she will ask Rose Covey for a clipping of some bush or flower to plant there. She will do that tomorrow.