The Mystery of the Venus Island Fetish (16 page)

‘I see what you mean, old chap. A great maned male in the foreground, female and
cubs at his feet. Yes, it could be very stirring.'

‘There's a real trick to making a diorama, Chumley. In them, you'll never see animals
as they are in nature. You might see a pride of lion on the veldt, but you'll never
see the hyenas as close to them as they are in a diorama. Or the warthog and gerenuk.
Dioramas beguile you into believing they represent the wild as it is. But they present
things as we'd like them to be. They're as much artifice as science.'

‘Hmm. I wonder if Vere would be interested in a diorama of Abotomy Park?'

‘Well, the creatures of the western plains are fascinating. And fast disappearing.
I imagine that if you mentioned it to him, he might.'

‘If he did, I'd like to include myself and Portia in the work.
Perhaps painted into
the background. Portia should be shown eight months bubbly, and myself with my shotgun.
Might be fun.'

‘Is Portia pregnant, Chumley?'

‘Yes, dear chap. Sorry I forgot to mention it. Early days, but we're hoping for the
best. After all, she's from excellent stock. The Clarks have a great pedigree, and
Portia is a Yarck Clark. Seat of the family. True currency aristocracy. Not a broad
arrow or touch of the tar-brush as far back as they can trace. Purity of race, Dithers.
Tremendously important in breeding. One must guard it with one's life.'

‘Congratulations! Excellent news, old fellow,' said Dithers, deciding to ignore the
last part of the conversation. ‘I just hope that Portia doesn't resent the intrusion
of a stranger at such a time.'

‘Don't worry about that, Dithers. All will be taken care of.'

By afternoon Dithers was beginning to tire. The plains were so endless and bleached
that it felt to him as if the car had been crawling over them like an ant across
a tabletop. When he asked how far it was to Abotomy Park, he heard himself sounding
like a child on a long journey.

‘A while yet, old chap. Should reach the place by tomorrow afternoon. Can't drive
at night in these parts, you know. Too many kangaroos. We'll pull up at Barrunbuttock.'

Just before dusk the Rolls swerved off the road and down a track towards a low, ramshackle
homestead. Two date palms stood in the middle of what had once been extensive flower
beds. A flight of decayed wooden steps led to a verandah, on which swung a painted
wooden board bearing the property's
name. From the cobwebs and dust, Courtenay could
see that the front door was never used. Chumley guided him towards a rear entry,
explaining as they went that Barrunbuttock was the ancestral pile of the Bastion
family.

A flyscreen door led directly into the kitchen. In the galley stood Horatio Bastion
himself. Fifty-something, dusty, lean, and with hollowed cheeked, he was dressed
in bowyangs, a checked shirt and a battered fedora. He'd clearly come in from a hard
day's work.

The men seated themselves at an unadorned dinner table boasting three plates of boiled
potatoes and corned beef. A kerosene tin with its top hacked off, which might once
have served as a vase, was the room's only ornament—apart from a pair of muddy hobnail
boots by the door. The place hadn't seen a woman for some time, Dithers concluded.

‘Hard work breeding sheep out here,' Bastion exclaimed. ‘Between the pear, the fly
strike and the pizzle rot, I've lost half my flock this year. It's no fun handling
maggoty sheep and slitting pizzles on my wethers. The poor bastards can't piss, the
rot's that thick. I tell you, Chumley, it's not fit work for a man of my position.
But I've got no money to pay wages, so what bloody choice do I have?

‘The worst of it, though, is the blasted pear. Bloody thing's just about got me buggered.
It won't burn, and not a thing'll eat it. The growth's that thick over the home paddock
I can't get a horse through it.'

Dithers was confused. Talk of pears had brought to mind scenes of orchards and pleasant
country arbours. But Horatio could not be talking about that kind of pear. Then he
remembered the
Opuntia
, known colloquially as the prickly pear. It was a kind of
cactus that had been imported from South America as a garden ornamental because it
bore sweet, fig-sized, very prickly fruit. It had found Australian conditions very
much to its liking. So much so that it had become, alongside the rabbit, the greatest
plague the country had ever seen.

Horatio Bastion had stopped eating. His eyes filled with water and his face flushed.
‘Honest, mate, I'm that far down on my luck that even the bloody Abos have taken
to pitying me. “Close-up flyblown, that one,” they say as they walk past with their
fingers stuck up their nostrils—as if I were a stinking fly-struck sheep!'

Bastion looked at his plate, then filled his mouth with corned beef. ‘How's the pear
up your way, old son?'

‘Doesn't seem to thrive in the river soils. Hard to believe that a damn cactus could
be such a menace.'

‘You just wait till you spend your evenings pulling spines out of your backside,
like I do. Then you'll know how bloody bad it is.'

‘So sorry to hear it,' said Abotomy, avoiding Horatio's eyes.

‘Ah well, nothing that can be done about it anyway. Leastways not this evening.'
Bastion gave the faintest of smiles. ‘But I must say it's good to have company! The
wife's off in Sydney, spending my last pennies, no doubt. Maybe even pennies I don't
have. And bloody good riddance to her.'

After dinner they retired to what had once been a fine drawing room. Bastion struck
up a pipe, while Abotomy offered the port he'd brought from Sydney.

‘Haven't enjoyed a port since you were last through, old
chum. By God, it's good
to see you! It can get lonely out here.'

‘And good to see you too, Horatio. Very kind of you to put us up.'

‘You know, Chumley, my great grandfather, Elias Bastion, could have had that river
frontage of yours. Legend has it that he drove his flocks into what is now Abotomy
Park, but the river blacks wanted to fight him for it. He wasn't hard enough to clear
them off. In fact, Grandad told me that Elias liked the blackfellas. Always treated
them decently. So when the Jigalong tribe suggested that he settle with them, he
came here to Barrunbuttock.'

‘Less sensitive types tried to clean the place up after your great-grandfather left,'
said Abotomy, ‘but the blacks kept disappearing into the brigalow. Stuff wouldn't
burn, so they couldn't flush 'em out. You know how Grandfather Ebenezer dealt with
that, don't you? Hired a hundred convicts, organised the black police to visit, and
then starved the warrigal blackfellas out. The family records say he shot well over
a hundred off the place before the remnant agreed to go to the mission.'

‘We stand on the shoulders of giants,' said Horatio, with only the slightest hint
of irony. ‘At least some of us do, anyway.'

Dithers was shocked. Was Abotomy describing mass murder? He said nothing as he refilled
his glass and rolled another durry.

Later that evening Horatio explained to Dithers how the Bastion family had originally
come up country from Wagga Wagga, telling the curator that the town was named after
the call of the crow. ‘
Wgaar, wgaar
,' he warbled slowly—assuming the cry would interest
a man of science. But Dithers was tired with a weariness far deeper than that born
of travel. Thoughts of the
country's terrible history flowed about him like the first
muddy waters of a great flood. He made his apologies and went to bed, leaving the
squatters to the last of the port.

Dithers awoke, as if emerging from the abyss, to the sound of a distant hum. It was,
he eventually concluded, caused by the rising sun as its rays heated the plains.
He wearily pulled on his trousers and socks, then tried to get his shoes on, but,
inexplicably, they seemed to be several sizes too small. He just couldn't get his
heel in.

After several attempts he heard a giggle at the door. Looking up, he saw Abotomy
peeking through a crack. Dithers reached into his shoes—and extracted a crumpled
ball of newspaper from each. By the time he'd tied his laces, Abotomy had vanished.

Dithers decided to say nothing. He climbed into the Rolls, and when he opened his
eyes after a brief nap, the plain still stretched on forever. It was as if they were
standing still: the shadows of the gums shortened, then lengthened again, but nothing
else changed.

As the sun sank low, a glint of green appeared on the horizon. Abotomy turned the
Phantom off the dirt road, through a gate, and up a track lined with a splendid white
post-and-rail fence and an avenue of newly planted elm saplings that cast shadows
across the road. At the foot of a line of low hills Dithers could make out a habitation.
As they neared it he beheld a scene of great industry. A mansion was rising in classic
grandeur from the Australian landscape, and around it lakes, lawns and pleasure grounds
were all taking shape.

They had reached Abotomy Hall.

Chapter 13

Dithers got out of the car and stretched his cramped legs. One wing of the mansion
was already complete, and on its expansive verandah sat Portia Abotomy. Barefoot
and in a white, ankle-length dress, from a distance she reminded him of an odalisque
from a romantic biblical painting. As he neared, he could see that she was hot, bored
and just beginning to show. She smiled shyly at the dashing visitor.

‘How's things, old stick?' said Abotomy.

It was clear that he was not going to introduce Dithers. The curator turned to Portia.
‘Madam, I'm Dr Courtenay Dithers, mammalogist at the museum. Congratulations on your
news. Chumley told me in the car. I assure you that I'll be as little bother as possible.'

‘Grab your luggage, old chap.' Abotomy opened the boot, retrieving two parcels wrapped
in cloth. ‘Now, what do you make of this statue, and this rather queer piece? Thought
it might provide a bit of fun for the men after dinner.'

Dithers felt that the statue was mediocre—possibly a recent copy of the Venus de
Medici. The bronze, though, was an exquisite piece of workmanship, if rather obscene.

‘Oh, darling, you remembered! How very thoughtful!' exclaimed Portia, doubtfully
eyeing the phallus.

‘Not entirely sure I got a good deal. But I'm glad you like them, dear.'

‘I'm no expert,' Dithers chimed in. ‘But if you would like a valuation the best fellow
is Harvey Herringbone-Trout, professor of classical archaeology at Sydney University.
I'm sure he'd be delighted to assist a member of the museum board.'

‘Hmm. I'll take them back to town so he can have a look,' said Abotomy.

The dining room was grand, with a high ceiling and curtained sash windows along the
wall opening onto the verandah. On the opposite wall a low walnut crockery cabinet
formed a shelf at waist height. Above it hung elaborately framed, rather poor copies
of Elizabethan and Restoration portraits.

‘Meet the family,' Abotomy said, gesturing towards them.

‘I had no idea you could trace the line back to the sixteenth century,' exclaimed
Dithers.

‘Right back to the Conquest, actually. Some of the gents in the paintings may not
be in the direct line, exactly, but they give the general idea. Picked 'em up on
our honeymoon.' He winked at Dithers.

Portia served an excellent roast lamb dinner, complete with vegetables from the garden.
The wine had evidently been sourced on the European tour.

‘I haven't eaten like this since mother cooked for us before the war,' Courtenay
said wistfully.

‘Mr Dithers, did you grow up in London?' asked Portia.

‘We had a London house, but Kent was really home.'

‘So your family had an estate?' Portia asked.

‘Not a great one. But we never lacked for anything. And my parents—one couldn't have
asked for better, really. But that all changed with the war, as I suppose it did
here.'

‘I lost more uncles and cousins than I can bear thinking about, Mr Dithers.'

‘And I brothers,' said Dithers. ‘All three of them. My parents never got over it.'

‘Our family got off rather more lightly,' Abotomy broke in. ‘Someone had to supply
the meat. And the wool. Crucial part of the war effort, you know.'

After dinner, Portia led Dithers to the guest bedroom.

‘I'm sorry that the guest bathroom is not yet plumbed. So it will have to be the
outhouse, I'm afraid.'

Dithers removed his clothes, fell into bed, and was instantly asleep. He woke soon
after dawn, deeply refreshed. After removing the balls of newspaper from his shoes,
which were becoming a fixture, and enjoying a fortifying gasper, he walked across
the frosted grass towards the ancient bark dunny, which Portia had euphemistically
called the outhouse. Set among discarded tin sheeting and timber in the home paddock,
it was accessed by a path the length of a cricket pitch. He closed the
door. The
walls were made of bark, and the toilet seat was roughly cut from an old hollow log.
He unhitched his trousers and sat on the throne, and something caught his eye—a slow
movement on the inside of the door. It was the leg of a great, hairy huntsman spider,
camouflaged against the wood. Aghast, Dithers realised that it was the size of a
dinner plate. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that every surface was covered
with the creatures. There were dozens of them. He hitched up his trousers and fled,
unaccomplished.