Selected Stories (37 page)

Her great trouble was that she “couldn’t git no reg’lar schoolin’ for the children.”

“I learns ’em at home as much as I can. But I don’t git a minute to call me own; an’ I’m ginerally that dead-beat at night that I’m fit for nothink.”

Mary had some of the children up now and then later on, and taught them a little. When she first offered to do so, Mrs Spicer laid hold of the handiest youngster and said:

“There—do you hear that? Mrs Wilson is goin’ to teach yer, an’ it’s more than yer deserve!” (the youngster had been “cryin’” over something). “Now, go up an’ say ‘Thenk yer, Mrs Wilson.’ And if yer ain’t good, and don’t do as she tells yer, I’ll break every bone in yer young body!”

The poor little devil stammered something, and escaped.

The children were sent by turns over to Wall’s to Sunday-school. When Tommy was at home he had a new pair of elastic-side boots, and there was no end of rows about them in the family—for the mother made him lend them to his sister Annie, to go to Sunday-school in, in her turn. There were only about three pairs of anyway decent boots in the family; and these were saved for great occasions. The children were always as clean and tidy as possible when they came to our place.

And I think the saddest and most pathetic sight on the face of God’s earth is the children of very poor people made to appear well: the broken worn-out boots polished or greased, the blackened (inked) pieces of string for laces; the clean patched pinafores over the wretched threadbare frocks. Behind the little row of children hand-in-hand—and no matter where they are—I always see the worn face of the mother.

Towards the end of the first year on the selection our little girl came. I’d sent Mary to Gulgong for four months that time, and when she came back with the baby Mrs Spicer used to come up pretty often. She came up several times when Mary was ill, to
lend a hand. She wouldn’t sit down and condole with Mary, or waste her time asking questions, or talking about the time when she was ill herself. She’d take off her hat—a shapeless little lump of black straw she wore for visiting—give her hair a quick brush back with the palms of her hands, roll up her sleeves, and set to work to “tidy up”. She seemed to take most pleasure in sorting out our children’s clothes, and dressing them. Perhaps she used to dress her own like that in the days when Spicer was a different man from what he was now. She seemed interested in the fashion-plates of some women’s journals we had, and used to study them with an interest that puzzled me, for she was not likely to go in for fashion. She never talked of her early girlhood; but Mary, from some things she noticed, was inclined to think that Mrs Spicer had been fairly well brought up. For instance, Dr Balanfantie, from Cudgegong, came out to see Wall’s wife, and drove up the creek to our place on his way back to see how Mary and the baby were getting on. Mary got out some crockery and some table-napkins that she had packed away for occasions like this; and she said that the way Mrs Spicer handled the things, and helped set the table (though she did it in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her that she had been used to table-napkins at one time in her life.

Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would say suddenly:

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.”

“Why, Mrs Spicer?”

“Because the visits doesn’t do me any good. I git the dismals afterwards.”

“Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?”

“Oh,-I-don’t-know-what-I’m-talkin’-about. You mustn’t take any notice of me.” And she’d put on her hat, kiss the children—and Mary too, sometimes; as if she mistook her for a child—and go.

Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.

Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said:

“I wish you wouldn’t come down any more till I’m on me feet, Mrs Wilson. The children can do for me.”

“Why, Mrs Spicer?”

“Well, the place is, in such a muck, and it hurts me.”

We were the aristocrats of Lahey’s Creek. Whenever we drove down on Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we’d see the children running to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming:

“Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.”

And we’d see her bustle around, and two or three fowls fly out the front door, and she’d lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of “broom-stuff”—coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges—with a stick stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round in front of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least one flick of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she’d catch a youngster and scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel round her finger and dig out his ears—as if she was anxious to have him hear every word that was going to be said.

No matter what state the house would be in she’d always say, “I was jist expectin’ yer, Mrs Wilson.” And she was original in that, anyway.

She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to spread on the table when we were there, as a matter of course (“The others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson”), but I saw by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather a wonderful thing to them. “I must really git some more knives an’ forks next time I’m in Cobborah,” she’d say. “The children break an’ lose ’em till I’m ashamed to ask Christians ter sit down ter the table.”

She had many Bush yarns, some of them very funny, some of them rather ghastly, but all interesting, and with a grim sort of humour about them. But the effect was often spoilt by her screaming at the children to “Drive out them fowls, karn’t yer,” or “Take yer maulies [hands] outer the sugar,” or “Don’t touch
Mrs Wilson’s baby with them dirty maulies,” or “Don’t stand starin’ at Mrs Wilson with yer mouth an’ ears in that vulgar way.”

Poor woman! she seemed everlastingly nagging at the children. It was a habit, but they didn’t seem to mind. Most Bushwomen get the nagging habit. I remember one, who had the prettiest, dearest, sweetest, most willing, and affectionate little girl I think I ever saw, and she nagged that child from daylight till dark—and after it. Taking it all round, I think the nagging habit in a mother is often worse on ordinary children, and more deadly on sensitive youngsters, than the drinking habit in a father.

One of the yarns Mrs Spicer told us was about a squatter she knew who used to go wrong in his head every now and again, and try to commit suicide. Once, when the station hand, who was watching him, had his eye off him for a minute, he hanged himself to a beam in the stable. The men ran in and found him hanging and kicking. “They let him hang for a while,” said Mrs Spicer, “till he went black in the face and stopped kicking. Then they cut him down and threw a bucket of water over him.”

“Why! what on earth did they let the man hang for?” asked Mary.

“To give him a good bellyful of it: they thought it would cure him of tryin’ to hang himself again.”

“Well, that’s the coolest thing I ever heard of,” said Mary.

“That’s jist what the magistrate said, Mrs Wilson,” said Mrs Spicer.

“One morning,” said Mrs Spicer, “Spicer had gone off on his horse somewhere, and I was alone with the children, when a man came to the door and said:

“ ‘For God’s sake, woman, give me a drink!’

“Lord only knows where he came from! He was dressed like a new-chum—his clothes was good, but he looked as if he’d been sleepin’ in them in the Bush for a month. He was very shaky. I had some coffee that mornin’, so I gave him some in a pint pot; he drank it, and then he stood on his head till he tumbled over, and then he stood up on his feet and said, ‘Thenk yer, mum.’

“I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to say, so I jist said, ‘Would you like some more coffee?’

“ ‘Yes, thenk yer,’ he said—about two quarts.’

“I nearly filled the pint pot, and he drank it and stood on his head as long as he could, and when he got right end up he said, ‘Thenk yer, mum—it’s a fine day,’ and then he walked off. He had two saddle-straps in his hands.”

“Why, what did he stand on his head for?” asked Mary.

“To wash it up and down, I suppose, to get twice as much taste of the coffee. He had no hat. I sent Tommy across to Wall’s to tell them that there was a man wanderin’ about the Bush in the horrors of drink, and to get someone to ride for the police. But they was too late, for he hanged himself that night.”

“Oh Lord!” cried Mary.

“Yes, right close to here, jist down the creek where the track to Wall’s branches off. Tommy found him while he was out after the cows. Hangin’ to the branch of a tree with the two saddle-straps.”

Mary stared at her, speechless.

“Tommy came home yellin’ with fright. I sent him over to Wall’s at once. After breakfast, the minute my eyes was off them, the children slipped away and went down there. They came back screamin’ at the tops of their voices. I did give it to them. I reckon they won’t want ter see a dead body again in a hurry. Every time I’d mention it they’d huddle together, or ketch hold of me skirts and howl.

“ ‘Yer’ll go agen when I tell yer not to,’ I’d say.

“ ‘Oh no, mother,’ they’d howl.

“ ‘Yer wanted ter see a man hankin’,’ I said.

“ ‘Oh, don’t, mother! Don’t talk about it.’

“ ‘Yer wouldn’t be satisfied till yer see it,’ I’d say; ‘yer had to see it or burst. Yer satisfied now, ain’t yer?’

“ ‘Oh, don’t, mother!’

“ ‘Yer run all the way there, I s’pose?’

“ ‘Don’t, mother!’

“ ‘But yer run faster back, didn’t yer?’

“ ‘Oh, don’t, mother!’

“But,” said Mrs Spicer, in conclusion, “I’d been down to see it myself before they was up.”

“And ain’t you afraid to live alone here, after all these horrible things?” asked Mary.

“Well, no; I don’t mind. I seem to have got past carin’ for anythink now. I felt it a little when Tommy went away—the first time I felt anythink for years. But I’m over that now.”

“Haven’t you got any friends in the district, Mrs Spicer?”

“Oh yes. There’s me married sister near Cobborah, and a married brother near Dubbo; he’s got a station. They wanted to take me an’ the children between them, or take some of the younger children. But I couldn’t bring my mind to break up the home. I want to keep the children together as much as possible. There’s enough of them gone, God knows. But it’s a comfort to know that there’s someone to see to them if anythink happens to me.”

One day—I was on my way home with the team that day—Annie Spicer came running up the creek in terrible trouble.

“Oh, Mrs Wilson! something terrible’s happened at home! A trooper” (mounted policeman—they called them “mounted troopers” out there), “a trooper’s come and took Billy!” Billy was the eldest son at home.

“What?”

“It’s true, Mrs Wilson.”

“What for? What did the policeman say?”

“He—he—he said, ‘I—I’m very sorry, Mrs Spicer; but—I—I want William.”

It turned out that William was wanted on account of a horse missed from Wall’s station and sold down-country.

“An’ mother took on awful,” sobbed Annie; “an’ now she’ll only sit stock-still an’ stare in front of her, and won’t take no notice of any of us. Oh! It’s awful, Mrs Wilson. The policeman said he’d tell Aunt Emma” (Mrs Spicer’s sister at Cobborah) “and send her out. But I had to come to you, an’ I’ve run all the way.”

James put the horse to the cart and drove Mary down.

Mary told me all about it when I came home.

“I found her just as Annie said; but she broke down and cried in my arms. Oh, Joe! it was awful! She didn’t cry like a woman. I heard a man at Haviland cry at his brother’s funeral, and it was just like that. She came round a bit after a while. Her sister’s with her now…Oh, Joe! you must take me away from the Bush.”

Later on Mary said:

“How the oaks are sighing to-night, Joe!”

Next morning I rode across to Wall’s station and tackled the old man; but he was a hard man, and wouldn’t listen to me—in fact, he ordered me off the station. I was a selector, and that was enough for him. But young Billy Wall rode after me.

“Look here, Joe!” he said, “it’s a blanky shame. All for the sake of a horse! And as if that poor devil of a woman hasn’t got enough to put up with already! I wouldn’t do it for twenty horses.
I’ll
tackle the boss, and if he won’t listen to me, I’ll walk off the run for the last time, if I have to carry my swag.”

Billy Wall managed it. The charge was withdrawn, and we got young Billy Spicer off up-country.

But poor Mrs Spicer was never the same after that. She seldom came up to our place unless Mary dragged her, so to speak; and then she would talk of nothing but her last trouble, till her visits were painful to look forward to.

“If it only could have been kep’ quiet—for the sake of the other children; they are all I think of now. I tried to bring ’em all up decent, but I s’pose it was my fault, somehow. It’s the disgrace that’s killin’ me—I can’t bear it.”

I was at home one Sunday with Mary and a jolly Bush-girl named Maggie Charlsworth, who rode over sometimes from Wall’s station (I must tell you about her some other time; James was “shook after her”), and we got talkin’ about Mrs Spicer. Maggie was very warm about old Wall.

“I expected Mrs Spicer up to-day,” said Mary. “She seems better lately.”

“Why!” cried Maggie Charlsworth, “if that ain’t Annie coming running up along the creek. Something’s the matter!”

We all jumped up and ran out.

“What is it, Annie?” cried Mary.

“Oh, Mrs Wilson! Mother’s asleep, and we can’t wake her!”

“What?”

“It’s—it’s the truth, Mrs Wilson.”

“How long has she been asleep?”

“Since lars’ night.”

“My God!” cried Mary, “
since last night?
”

“No, Mrs Wilson, not all the time; she woke wonst, about daylight this mornin’. She called me and said she didn’t feel well, and I’d have to manage the milkin’.”

“Was that all she said?”