Part 6

As they rode along, the parson in admiration watched the wiry little bushman dexterously winking both eyes to the confusion of the flies, and listened to the substitution of words of his own coinage dropped red hot into the conversation in place of the sulphurous adjectives. Soon there was but little unknown to Ned’s listener of the inner history--and with such additions as contrasted unfavourably with his own--of every selector on this sun-sucked run. In order of infamy Ned placed the lessee first; a good second came the Land Agent in the little township whence this pilgrim parson had come. But this fact was made clear to him, that were the lessee ten times richer, the Land Agent ten times more unscrupulous, were “dummy” selectors occupying every acre, Ned was more than a match for them all.

At a later stage of their journey, when he turned again to the narratives of his cockey brethren, another circumstance stood out. It was only when Ned had exhausted the certainty, probability, and possibility of increase among the mares, cows, ewes, and nannies of his and the other cockeys’ flocks and herds, that he would descend to the human statistics, and the parson found that impending probability and possibility entered largely into Ned’s computation of these.

From time to time they sighted the cockeys’ humpies, but Ned, intent on making the most of his amazed listener, kept him on the track to his destination by promising to call at all the selections on his way back, and tell them that there was to be a service to-morrow morning. To emphasise his thoroughness, he added, with a wink of bush freemasonry, that he would “on’y tell two sorts--them wot arsts me, an’ them wot don’t.” And this clerical brother, newly initiated into the mysteries of bush craft, could not have found a better messenger. But the wonder expressed in his eyes, as he watched this new labourer in the vineyard cantering briskly away to bear the glad tidings, would have changed to awe could he have heard the varied versions Ned gave to the scattered families as to the need of their being at the grazier’s homestead the first thing next day. Moreover, most of the conversation related by Ned as having taken place between the parson and him would have been as new to the former as it was to Ned’s audience. For the adjectives with which he flavoured the parson’s share proved him to have readily and fluently mastered the lurid bush tongue.

It was shearing time, and being also the middle of the week, most of the men were away. Those who were at home left their dinners, and came outside to talk to him. A visitor at meal times is always met outside the humpy, and the host, drawing a hand across a greasy mouth, leads the way to the nearest log. The women of the bush have little to share, and nursing the belief that how they live is quite unknown to one another, they have no inclination to entertain a caller. Two of the daily meals consist mainly of sliced damper dipped in a pan of fat, that always hangs over the fire. Mutton at shearing time is a rarity, as the men feed at the sheds. Wild pigs caught and killed by the women make the chief flesh food, but these are often scarce in the dry season.

And in addition Ned was no favourite among the women. This was partly from his being “flash,” but more from his reputation for flogging his missus. Ned, moreover, had tried to force his example on the male community by impressing upon them his philosophy, that it was the proper thing to hit a woman every time you met her, since she must either be coming from mischief or going to it. As to his flashness, he considered he had something to be flash about. He had been twice to Sydney; and not only could he spell by ear, but, given an uncertain number of favouring circumstances, he could use a pen to the extent of putting his name to a cheque. Certainly before he would attempt this, Liz, his missus, had to pen up the goats, shut the hut, and, with the dogs and the kids, drive the fowls a mile from the house, and keep them there till Ned fired a gun. Left to himself, Ned would tear out a cheque, lay it on the table, place a block of wood on the bottom edge of the paper, to keep his hand from travelling off it to the table below. Then he had to tie his wrist to the left side of his belt--he was left-handed--in such a manner that his hand could not stray to the foreign region above the cheque, ink the pen with his right hand, and place it in the left. But even then the task was often unaccomplished. Sometimes he would be so intent on trying to keep the EDWARD on the line, that it would run to the end of the paper, excluding the STENNARD, and, despite Ned’s protests anent insufficient space, the bank did not approve of part of the signature being placed on the back of the cheque. When he tried to write small and straight, the result generally seemed satisfactory till a careful analysis showed a letter or so missing. Or, just as success seemed probable, his cheque book would give out, or his pen break. It was bad for Liz and her own boy Joey when either of these accidents occurred, for he would fire no gun, and, despite all the perspiring activity of Liz, the kids, and the dogs, some of the fowls would make their way home to roost on the hut when night came. For allowing him to be disturbed “jes as I wus gettin’ me ’and in” he would “take it outer” Liz, or, what was worse to her, “outer” Joey.

But on this occasion Ned, ever resourceful and now hungry, refused to be led to a log. His reputation for startling discoveries was against him, but he knew that many of them must have seen him riding past with a black-coated stranger, and he trusted to that to support the story his ingenious imagination had ready for them. Authoritatively he demanded in each case to see the missus. They came ungraciously, but after his dark, bodeful hints as to the necessity of their attending service at the grazier’s homestead next day, he was invited inside and a place was cleared for him at the table. Quite recklessly they plied him with pints of tea and damper and dip, sprinkled with salt, and in some extravagant instances with pepper. And Ned took these favours as his due, though he knew he was no favourite.

Flogging and flashness were lost sight of by these anxious women, as they listened to all he had to say. They coaxed him to wait while they searched among the few spare clothes in the gin cases with hide-hinged lids, for land receipts, marriage lines, letters from Government Departments, registered cattle brands, sheep ear-marks, and every other equipment that protects the poor cockey from a spiteful and revengeful Government, whose sole aim was “ter ketch ’em winkin’” and then forfeit the selection. All of these documents Ned inspected upside down or otherwise, and pronounced with unlegal directness that “a squint et them ’ud fix ’im if thet’s wot ’e’s smellin’ after.” He told them to bring them next day. Those of the men who had swapped horses with passing drovers, without the exchange of receipts, were busy all afternoon trumping up witnesses.

II.

Next morning the minister was sitting in the rocking chair on the verandah of the grazier’s house. He had a prayer book in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, with which he lazily disputed the right of the flies to roost on his veil. This gave an undulating motion to the chair which was very soothing after old Rosey’s bumping. He saw a pair of brown hands part the awning enclosing the verandah. Then a black head, held in the position of a butting animal, came in view. Free of the screen, the head craned upwards. He saw a flat, shrewd face, with black beady eyes set either side of a bridgeless nose. A wisp of dried grass hung from the wide mouth.

“Sis wants er ride in thet ther cock ’orse yer in,” said the mouth, ejecting the grass with considerable force in his direction.

Sis’ had worked her head in by this. She was fair, with nondescript hair and eyes, and she was “chawrin’”.

“Wer’s ther cock ’orse, Jinny?” she asked, for the chair was not rocking.

“Ridey it an’ let ’er see it; an’ undo this,” commanded Jinny.

“Come round to the front,” said the minister mildly, and pointing to the opening opposite the door.

They came in and walked up to him, with hoods hanging by the strings down their backs.

“Have you come alone?”

“The ether uns er comin’. Me an’ Sis giv’ ’em ther slip; we didn’ wanter ’ump ther dash kid.”

“How far have you walked?”

“Yer parst our place yesserday mornin’. Didn’ yer see me an’ ther billy? Gosh, we nigh bust oursels at ther way yer legs stuck out. Fust I thort yer wus ole Keogh. Yer rides jes’ like er Chinymun.” The dark one did all the talking.

“Our Sis wants er ride in this,” she continued. She gave the chair a lurch that sent the parson’s feet in the air. To avoid the threatened repetition he gripped both sides and planted his feet firmly on the boards.

The younger one poked a stem of dried grass from her mouth through the mesh of the veil in a line with his left ear. Thoroughly routed, he sprang up, and the elder child leapt in.

“’Ere they cum, Jinny,” warned Sis.

Jinny peeped through the awning. “So they is. You gammon ter them we aint cum, w’en they arsts yer,” she said to the parson, “an’ we’ll sneak roun’ ther back. Eh, Sis?”

Mammy and Daddy--commonly called “Jyne” and “Alick” even by their offspring--came in with four children, all younger than Jinny and Sis. Jyne carried the youngest “straddled” across her hip.

The most pronounced feature of Jyne’s face was her mouth, and it seemed proud of its teeth, especially of the top row. Without any apparent effort, the last tooth there was always visible. She was a great power in the bush, being styled by the folk themselves “Rabbit Ketcher,” which, translated, means mid-wife. And the airs Jyne gave herself were justifiable, for she was the only “Rabbit Ketcher” this side of the township. To bring a qualified mid-wife from civilization would have represented a crippling expenditure to these cockies. Jyne’s moderate fees were usually four-legged.

“D’y ter yous,” said Alick, blinking his bungy eyes, and smiling good-naturedly at the parson and at the grazier and his wife. He sat down without removing his hat. Jyne’s teeth saluted them but without any good nature. Jinny and Sis sneaked in behind their mother.

“You young tinkers,” cried Jyne, “tyke this chile this minute.” Her voice, despite the size of her mouth, came through her nose. She put the baby on the floor, and, taking off her hood, mopped her face with the inside of her print dress.

“We wus lookin’ fer you an’ Alick,” said Jinny to her mother, and winking at the parson.

“Yes, you wus,--with ther ’ook,” answered Jyne.

Without further introduction she slewed her head to one side, shut one eye knowingly, and said to the staring minister, “Ther ain’t a wink about Jinny.”

The unblinking daughter instantly offered an illustration of her wakefulness. “Yer orter seen me an’ gran’dad th’ ether mornin’. ’E wus milkin’ ther nannies, an’ ther billy you seen ’e wus jes close agen ’im. I sneaks up to ther billy an’ gives ’im er jab. Lawr ter see ’im rush et ole Alex an’ bunt ’im! ’E’d er killed th’ ole feller on’y fer me. Wou’dn’ ’e, mum?”

“Yer a bol’ gal,” said mum in a proud voice.

The bewildered minister, to turn the conversation, took a vase of wild flowers.

“They belong to the lily tribe, I think,” said the hostess. “They are bulbous.”

“Wile hunyions,” sniffed Jyne, making no attempt to conceal her contempt for this cur of a woman, who thought so much of herself that she always brought a nurse from town.

Then came Alick’s brother, “Flash” Ned; they were as unlike as brothers sometimes are. Ned greeted the parson with bush familiarity. He had his hat on one side, and was wearing a silk Sydney coat that reached to his heels. He was followed by Liz with their family of five. Joey stayed outside, and from time to time dexterously located his step-father. He was Liz’s child by an early marriage--at least, she always said she had been married.

Perched on Liz’s head was a draggled hat that a month ago had been snow white. This also was one of Ned’s Sydney purchases. It was the first time Liz had worn it, but she and the children had overhauled it many times and tried it on. This privilege had been extended to all the women whose curiosity and envy had brought them to Liz’s place. Jinny had called on her way to church, and the missing end of the white feather, after being licked of its ticklesomeness, was now in her safe keeping.

Jyne, catching sight of Joey, invited him inside. But the boy, at a warning glance from his mother, slunk further back. He had run in the wrong horse for his step-father that morning, and was evading a threatened hiding that was to remove both skin and hair. Liz would gladly have taken the hiding herself in place of Joey, but her interference, as she knew to her cost, would mean one for herself without saving the boy.

But for all this Liz thought she was fairly happy. For it was not every day that Ned tried to sign a cheque or that the sheep got boxed, or that his horse refused to be caught. Nor did it always rain when he wanted it fine. Things did not go wrong every day, and he did not beat her or Joey unless they did. A pound of lollies for her and the kids from a dealer’s cart when one came round, would make her think him the best husband in the world.

There was between Jyne and Ned the opposition that is instinctive between commanding spirits. Liz yielded obedience first to Ned then to Jyne.

“Ow’s Polly?” enquired Liz, her countenance showing the gravity of the question.

“Arst ’im,” snarled Jyne, baring her fangs and looking at uneasy shuffling Alick. “Makin’ ’er dror three casts er worter ten mile, an’ er thet way. Wil’ pigs eatin’ ’er as I cum along.”

“No!” said Liz, though she had known it all yesterday. News of such catastrophes soon spread in the bush.

“Better corl me a liar at onct,” snapped Jyne.

Next to arrive were Jyne’s mother and Alick’s father, both of whom lived with Jyne. The old woman rode on a horse astride a man’s saddle. The old man led it. She had Jyne’s mouth, or rather Jyne had hers, but the teeth were gone. The old man greeted the parson reverently, blew with his breath on the seat, and wiped it carefully with the handkerchief he had taken from his hat. Even then before sitting he raised the tails of the coat he had been married in so long ago. Until Ned’s Sydney purchase his had been the only decorative coat in the district.

Tilly and Jim Lumber, with their ten-days-old baby, followed. Jim was the champion concertina player and bullock driver in the district. He came as the representative of the several families across the creek, whom energetic Ned had rounded up the day before. He had been chosen by them for his size and strength to do battle on their behalf. Ned’s effort to frighten those women whose husbands were away shearing into the necessity of attending service had over-reached itself, and they had been afraid to come. But they had entrusted their precious documents to Jim’s powerful keeping. He had his own registered brand tied up in a spotted handkerchief. This he dropped with a clank beside him as he sat sheepishly and gingerly on the edge of a chair. He was over six feet, but he sat with his head almost between his knees, till he resembled a quadruped. His shirt front bulged like a wallet with his clients’ papers. He slyly took stock of those assembled. Spry little Tilly got the credit of having done all the courting. Even after marriage she had always done his share of the talking.

“Ow’s ther kiddy maroo?” said Alick to Jim, lisping from the size of the plug he had just bitten. He had a fatherly interest in all Jyne’s “rabbit ketchin’.”

Jim, who never used his voice except to drive his bullocks, answered with a subterranean laugh.

“Noo bit er flesh,” said Ned, nodding at the baby.

“Ow’s Polly this mornin’?” gravely enquired Tilly, as she took a seat near Jyne.

“Ah, poor Polly,” quavered Jyne’s mother, and sparing Jyne by telling of Polly’s untimely end.

“Well, I’m blest; what a lorse!” said the sympathetic Tilly. She repeated a well-known story of the bu’stin’ of a poley cow last year.

Jyne took the baby, and began to rate the mother mildly for “walkin’ seven mile ser soon,” but Jyne’s mother interposed with a recital of “wot I dun w’en Jun (John) wur two days old.” John was present, fully six feet of him, grinning with a mouth bigger than Jyne’s, but mercifully hidden by a straggled moustache.

However, Jyne was not to be outdone even by her own mother, and the narrative of her last, assisted in many minor details by Jinney, aged eleven, left little to be desired in the way of hardihood.

Liz kept her teething baby respectfully silent by industriously rubbing its lower gum with a dirty thumb. She expressed her surprise at Jyne’s phenomenal endurance by little clicks of the tongue, shakes of the head, and other signs indicative of admiration and astonishment. When Jyne finished, she began eagerly on an experience of her own. “Well, w’en I wus took with Drary (short for Adrarian), think I could fin’ ther sissers?”

Jyne, who knew that the recital of a daring feat was coming, enquired, “W’en yer wus took with Joey?”

“No,” said Liz, stopping short with a nervous click in her voice, and looking at Ned.

The next item was ventriloquising by Jyne per medium of Tilly’s uneasy baby. “My mammy, she sez, yer dot me all o’a hoo, she sez. No wunny, she sez, me can’t keep goody, she sez, ’ith me cosey all o’a hoo, she sez.” She had been examining the baby’s undergear, and at this stage her tone of baby banter suddenly changed to one of professional horror. “My Gawd, Tilly!” she cried, the drooping corners of her mouth nearly covering her upper teeth. “Look w’er er little belly-bands is--nearly un’er ’er arms,” she explained, probably to the company, but looking directly at the clergyman. And, with true professional acumen, she intimated that had she not been on the spot, an intricate part of the little one’s anatomy in another minute would “’a bust out a bleedin’ an’ not all ther doctors in ther worl’ couldn’ astoppt it.”

The minister was very busy, meanwhile, blushing and getting his books in order, and with this congregation of ten adults and eighteen children he began, “Dearly beloved brethren----”

Jim Lumber gripped his bullock brand, took a swift look at him and turned to Tilly. It had been settled between them that she was to do the talking. Alick, who, despite his father’s efforts to enlighten him as to the nature of a church service, and encouraged by Jyne’s remark that “they’d eat nothin’,” had also brought his valuable documents in his shirt front, thrust in a groping hand.

For a few minutes the adults listened and watched intently, but the gentle voice of the parson, and his nervous manner, soon convinced them that they had nothing to fear from him. Ned had been ’pokin’ borak’ at them again; they added it to the long score they owed him.

The children wandered about the room. Jinny and Sis invited their little sister to “Cum an’ see ther pooty picters in the man’s book,” and they assisted the minister to turn over the leaves of his Bible.

Alick’s father, who was from the North of Ireland, and, for all his forty years in the bush, had not lost his reverence for the cloth, bade his grand-daughters beseechingly to “quet,” whereupon Jinny showed him quite two inches of inky tongue. Ink was a commodity unknown in Jinny’s home, and all the unknown is edible to the bush child.

“Woman!” he said, appealing to Jinny’s mother, “whybut you bid ’er to quet?”

“You orter be in er glars’ ban’ box w’er ther ain’t no children; thet’s w’er you orter be,” answered Jyne.

He beckoned to one straggler, a girl of six, with Alick’s face, who came to him promptly and sat on his knee.

Presently her brown hand stroked his old cheek. “Gran’ dad,” she said.

“Choot, darlin’,” he whispered, reverently.

The child looked at him wonderingly. “I says you’s gran’ dad,” she repeated, “not ole Alick.”

He laid his white head on hers.

“Gran’ dad, ole Tommy Tolbit’s dead.”

Turning his glistening face to Liz in momentary forgetfulness, he said solemnly, “The knowledge of this chile!”

“Ole Talbert” had been dead for two years, and the knowledgable child had been surprising him so, at least twice a week.

“We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep,” murmured the minister.

The smaller children wandered in and out of the bedrooms, carrying their spoils with them. But Jinny and Sis had drawn the now disabled rocking chair up to the window, and were busy poking faces at two of Liz’s children, who were standing on the couch inside. One of these made a vicious smack with a hair-brush at Jinny’s tongue, flattened against the glass. The ensuing crash stopped even the parson for a moment.

Bravely he began again. He paused occasionally for a sudden subterranean laugh to cease or to put one book after another on the shelf behind him out of the children’s reach. Just as he read the last line of the Te Deum, “Oh Lord in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded,” one of Liz’s children tugged at his trousers, with a muzzled request that his teeth might be freed from a square of pink soap. Another offered to the baby Liz was nursing a pincushion she brought from the bedroom.

“Jyne,” called Jinny from the verandah, “’Ere cums young Tommy Tolbit by ’isself. You wus right, Jyne; she ain’t cummin’!”

Even Jyne’s gums gleamed; she looked triumphantly at Alick her husband, at Liz, then at all but Ned.

In shambled Tommy, moist and panting. He had been a drover, and had recently taken up a selection on the run. He was a bridegroom of a month’s standing. His missus had been a servant at one of the hotels in the township.

“Made a start!” he remarked. His voice gave the impression that he did not mind their not waiting for him.

“Missus ain’t comin’?” enquired Alick, trying to atone to Jyne for overloading Polly.

“Not ter day,” said the bridegroom, but his voice intimated that in all probability she would have been able to come to-morrow.

“No!” said Jyne, putting him under fire, and trying to keep the crow out of her voice.

“Ain’t very well, is she? Didn’ eat a very ’earty breakfuss this mornin’?” And a further remark suggested that even if the meal had been hearty, the usual process of assimilation had not taken place.

“Ow’s Polly?” he enquired.

“Cooked,” said Jyne, instantly diverted.

“Go on!” said the bridegroom, with well feigned astonishment. His breathless and perspiring state had been caused by his “going on” to capture one of the wild suckers that had been eating Polly.

“Let us pray,” said the minister. His host, hostess, and Alick’s father knelt, but the rest sat as usual.

The knowledgable child, considering the grandfather’s position an invitation to mount, climbed on his back. Making a bridle of the handkerchief round the old fellow’s neck, and digging two heels into his sides, she talked horse to him. The protesting old man bucked vigorously, but it was no easy task to throw her.

The clergyman gave out his text, and the sermon began.

Jyne’s children commenced to complain of being “’ungery” and a fair-sized damper was taken from a pillow-slip. This, together with two tin tots and a bottle of goat’s milk, was given to Jinny and she was told to do “ther sharin’.”

The hostess asked Jyne in a whisper to send them to the verandah, and for a time there was comparative quiet. Such interruptions as “Jinny won’t gimme nun, Arnie” (Auntie) from Liz’s children being checked by Jyne with “Go an’ play an’ doan’ ’ave ser much gab, like yer father.”

“Thet greedy wretch uv er Jinny is guzzlin’ all ther milk inter ’er, Jyne,” from her own children, was appeased by her promise to “break ther young faggit’s back w’en I get ’ome.”