Capricornia

He chuckled weakly, then said, “Nice night, isn’t it. You not in bed yet, eh?”

“Just going.”

A pause. No sound in the night but the very distant yelling of cockatoos that something had disturbed. Lace stood till the nightdress, which was one of Carrie’s and rather large, slipped from her shoulder and exposed her breast. He stumbled forward as she raised a hand to draw the dress back, and gasped, “Lemme do it.” He did it without permission, and roughly, with lingering contact of fingers with her flesh that startled her.

For a moment he devoured her with his eyes, then turned to blink about the room as though he thought that God was watching him. After a while he looked at her and said mildly, “You comfy?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, smiling, watching his face.

He smiled too, eagerly, then reached and took her hand. His was cool and trembling, not unpleasant to her touch. “You’re hot,” he murmured.

“Hot night,” she murmured in reply. And she began to tremble with him and to feel afraid.

A moment. Then he muttered, “Gi’s a—gi’s a kiss,” and took her in his arms. No question of giving. He devoured her lips, crushed her, till God roared at him. He relinquished her as suddenly as he had seized her, and blurted in her astonished face, “It isn’t right!”

She stared. It was somewhat in the style of such first behaviour that the Hybiscus Flower girl was wooed and won. Exciting even if rather terrifying. She felt a sense of disappointment when he laid a trembling hand on her shoulder as quietly as her father might and said with a sickly smile, “My dear, I’m sorry. Forgive me—please. Now off to bed—it’s late.”

Humbolt Lace found himself battling with that unconscionable part of him that he had planned to give rein to. He won that bout; but found little joy in the victory. And he won a few more bouts with it later. But finally it beat him. Thus he was saved from going utterly combo and having to prepare burnt corks against the day of reunion with Carrie.

FE FI FO FUM (#ucc395e85-cad9-52ce-ae79-e64b7cf21d6b)

A FEW days before Christmas, the Shillingsworths, driven by the new lessee of Red Ochre, Jack Burywell, set out in the buckboard on the first stage of their long journey to the South. A pack-team driven by natives followed with their baggage.

Many more people than usual were waiting for the returning mail-train, most of them to travel up to town for a Christmas spree. Among the crowd, though not one of the intending travellers, was Humbolt Lace of Red Coffin Ridge, come down on business. Another of the people, though not one of the crowd at the Siding House, was old Karl Fliegeltaub, benign, bespectacled, square-headed old outcast, who waited with his only friends, the blacks, near the goods-shed. He was waiting for a bottle of Christmas cheer from Soda Springs, expensive liquor on which Mrs Blaize put a tax on account of the sinking of the Lusitania and the prestige she lost through dealing with him. Mrs Blaize had no rivals in her trade with Fliegeltaub. Mrs McLash had refused to serve him since having become involved in the war through her son’s decision to enlist; indeed she had threatened to run him through with a bread-knife if he came near her. Frank had not yet enlisted. As a matter of fact he was making the steam of the train for which the crowd was waiting, being now fireman of the mail-train, well on the way to realise his great ambition. His rapid advancement was due to the fact that many of the railwaymen had gone to the war. But this was his last day’s work as a civilian. He would be sailing for the South on the same steamer as the Shillingsworths.

Oscar spoke to Lace and learnt that he was the father of a son whom he would see when his wife came home on the steamer after next. Then, as though divining the thought in Lace’s mind—thought of the return of Carrie as it concerned the pregnancy of half-caste Constance, which of late had caused the man much worry—he asked after Constance, and learnt to his surprise that she was about to marry Mrs McLash’s half-caste rouseabout, Yeller Elbert.

Lace looked uncomfortable when Oscar stared at him. Oscar said, “But the kid’s so young—only fifteen or so!”

“Elbert’s young too,” said Lace to the ground. “Only about twenty-three or four. And he’s a good sort of coot for a yeller (he remembered Norman’s presence)—er—half-caste.”

“I mean she’s too young to get married,” said Oscar. “Doesn’t know she’s alive yet—like calfing a weaner.”

“I feel that way about it too,” said Lace. “But you see she picked up with Elbert when he came up my place for eggs and things for Ma McLash—and—well I’m going to see him stick by her. That’s the size of it.”

“You don’t mean to say she was carrying on with Elbert?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m hanged. How long’s this been going on?”

“Can’t say exactly. Pretty well from the time she came, I think, to judge by her condition. Of course I’ve got to see the girl protected.”

“Well I’d never have thought that of her. Always a good kid, and well brought up.”

Lace said with a smile, “With a drunken combo.”

Oscar felt nettled. He said rather brusquely, “Differ was a good father to her, whatever his faults. He taught her well. It’s a damn shame if she’s got to go back to the Binghis.”

“Elbert’s not a Binghi.”

“He’s damn near it.”

Lace tried to spit. The fluid simply fell from his lips and fell on his khaki breast. Cleansing himself with a handkerchief, he slowly said, “Well it’s no fault of mine she’s got into trouble. I trusted her same’s you’d’ve done yourself. Couldn’t watch her day and night. I’ve reported the matter to the Protector.”

“I wasn’t meaning anything against you,” said Oscar. “Only it’s a pity she never got the chance to marry white.”

“She’d never get that. And that’s just the reason I want to see her settled down with Elbert. There isn’t a yel—er—half-caste in the country better than he is since he’s been working for old Ma McLash. I’ll see he looks after her. I’ve leased See Ghoon’s old peanut farm down the river here. That’s ’t brings me here today. I’m going to set ’em up as farmers.”

Oscar cocked his head, rather surprised to hear that this nincompoop was capable of arranging anything so wise.

“I’ve bought seed for ’em,” said Lace. That was a lie; he had taken the seed from the station-store, together with tools and many other things. “And I’ll place a tenner for ’em with Ma McLash, so’s they can draw on her for a bit of tucker till they get on their feet.”

“Who’s paying?” asked Oscar. “Abo Department?”

“Oh no,” said Lace lightly. “I’m doing it on my pat.”

Oscar felt embarassed. Here was a good fellow to be sure, going to all this trouble to help a child he hardly knew, while he himself, who had known her half her life, had done nothing, had indeed treated her rather meanly, as he sometimes thought. He said with feeling, “That’s very decent of you Lace.”

Lace smiled, and kicked the gravel, and made much clinking with his spurs. Oscar went on, “I’ll put in a few quid too. Can’t do much with things as they are; but later on if there’s money needed I might be able to help. Just ask Jack Burywell. He’ll know my address. I told Peter I’d keep an eye on her. Afraid I’ve been too busy. But it don’t seem necessary with you about, anyway. Most protectors are only that in name. Very decent of you, very decent.”

“Don’t mention it,” murmured Lace.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Day after New Year’s Day, up at my place. The Protector will send a parson down.”

“That’s the stuff. Do it properly. I wish I could be there. Look, I’ll give you seven quid—a fiver for the farm, two for wedding-presents. Give ’em a treat. Poor kids haven’t had many in their lives. Yes—by golly, I wish I was round about to keep an eye on ’em with you.”

They were talking about half-castes, very quietly so that Marigold and Norman might not hear, when someone in the crowd cried, “Here she comes!” Every eye turned to see.

Away in green distance, in the tiny yellow-floored gap in the bush between the blue peak of Mount Packhorse and a hill of sparkling quartz that stood on Red Ochre territory, a black dot appeared, a dot surrounded by a haze of dust.

“He’s hitting her up,” said someone.

“So he oughter,” said another, “seein’ he’s three hours late”

“My Frankie’s drivin’, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs McLash with a gulp.

No grass grew under a train when the engineer let Fireman McLash take the throttle. Frank was one of those creatures that have become so common since his day, a speed-maniac. The Capricornian Railway had great need of such as he.

The train came in grinding and shuddering, with coal and water spilling from the engine.

“She’ll run through,” said Mick O’Pick.

“Not if my Frankie’s pullin’ her tail,” said Mrs McLash.

It was no uncommon sight to see a train overshoot a stopping-place. The causes were several. First, the engineers of the service were not always properly trained men and hence not expert in judging speed in relation to distance and load and braking-power as they should have been; then they were not always sober; then their trains were not equipped with automatic braking systems such as are used on more upto-date railways. When an engineer wished to stop a swiftly-moving train he had first to whistle to the guard requesting him to apply the hand-brake of the van, and then apply the hand-brake of the engine. Guards did not always hear. Sudden stopping, which could be effected easily by sanding the rails and reversing the driving-gear, was dangerous, because the train might telescope and overwhelm the engine. Locomotive crews on duty lived like rats on leaky ships, always ready to leap overboard. However, Frank McLash was an expert driver. Rarely did a train play tricks with him. As his mother guessed, he had control of the mail-train that day. The engine stopped dead at the water-hydrant. A bolt or bar or some such thing was seen to fly from out the off-side bogey and sail over the stockyard.