Currawalli Street Read online

  From his front yard that afternoon Alfred Covey throws another apricot stone towards the little road and then watches the train driver wave down to Johnny. He sees the event as regularly as Johnny stands there and as regularly as the train goes past. Johnny doesn’t know that. Soon after, Alfred—his hands eternally in his pockets like a country cricketer deep out in the field—watches as the photographer speeds away. Alfred is the type of man who is happiest leaning on the fence looking into the distance, looking down the street or looking over at the railway line. He finds it uncomfortable talking to most people. Not for the obvious reasons that you’d expect but because people can’t help but stand in front of the view when they talk to you. And it is the view that always draws his attention.

  Animals like him, especially horses. This is because they hold the same preference for a view as he does. Very rarely does he look a horse in the eye and he has never stood in front of one. He is convinced that horses respect him for that.

  Alfred is the owner of the empty yard next door and, in spite of his reluctance to talk, he confided to Johnny two nights ago about his daughter and the wagons.

  ‘It isn’t as if she is incapable,’ he explained. ‘I wouldn’t let her do something like this if she was. I was happy for her to go. Working these wagons is the only way that I can earn a living. I wouldn’t risk that if I didn’t think she was good enough. And she’s got the bloke who’s worked for me for years with her. She’ll be alright.’

  Johnny watched as Alfred spoke. The older man’s chest heaved, and he had to force nearly every word out of his mouth. When his hands came out of his pockets, they balled into fists. He was exhausted by the conversation.

  Alfred still oils his remaining hair and it glistened in the evening light. Hair is the sort of thing that you don’t pay any attention to until it goes. It is the same with water. Johnny remembered on the farm that when there was plenty of water it was used with no care for its conservation. When the dams had dried up and the sky remained cloudless for weeks on end, it was treated with the sort of reverence usually accorded to paper money. Everyone acted as if they had always been careful and economical about its use.

  Alfred’s scalp was pale and looked too exposed to the evening air, like the bottom of a dam.

  ‘Why didn’t you go yourself this time?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘My health. I needed to rest and not worry. That’s what the doctor said. That worries me more. But I should have known that I’d worry more being stuck here at home than I would if I was out there in charge. My doctor says that worrying has the capacity to kill me.’ Alfred touched Johnny’s elbow and guided him to the front fence, away from the house so that they could talk out of earshot of his wife. ‘I think I will ride out and find them. Just in case they’re in trouble.’

  ‘I wonder if your doctor would think that a good idea?’

  ‘Perhaps not. And I promised Rose that I would listen to him this time.’ Alfred coughed a tiny cough and then smiled at Johnny. ‘He doesn’t know everything. He only talks as if he does. Rose believes every word he says.’

  He coughed that small cough again and walked over to the apricot tree. He picked two from a low branch and handed one to Johnny. ‘Ah well, can’t do much about it. That’s my story. Enough. Let me ask about you. Do you mind my asking how you came to own a home so soon? Most couples have to do it rough for the first couple of years.’

  ‘No, I don’t mind. My parents died and left me a farm and some money. A few years before I had had an accident with a young horse and I wasn’t really able to do farm work anymore. There were people wanting to buy the farm, so I sold it. Kathleen’s parents sent some money over from England as a wedding gift. To make up for them not being at the wedding, I suppose. And we decided to buy a house closer to the city. That’s why we’re here. It’s a long way from anything I know. Except for the train.’

  ‘You know trains?’

  ‘There was a railway line that ran past our property. I have always known trains.’

  ‘So you’re a farm boy from the bush?’

  ‘I am. Kathleen comes from London.’

  Alfred jingled the coins in his pockets. ‘London. I lived there for a while. But I had to come home. It was the people walking in all directions that got to me. At least here people tend to walk the same way. But over there! This way. That way. It started to confuse me. I didn’t know where I was. I ended up staying in my room all day. You met your wife over there?’

  ‘No, here. I’ve never been there. We’ll go one day, I suppose.’

  Both men looked out over the fence as they talked. They watched the day’s last willy-willy wheel down the street, drawing up the grey dust into its dance. Men rarely look at each other until they are putting a full stop on the conversation, saying goodbye or about to start fighting. You sometimes need good ears to be a man. Johnny thought that was why his dad’s ears were so big—because none of his father’s friends looked at each other when they spoke and so his dad’s listening had to be acute.

  Johnny waited until he thought Alfred had finished this topic, and then changed the direction of the conversation. ‘What do you do with the wagons?’

  ‘Nothing special. Map making.’

  ‘You make maps? Who for?’

  ‘No, I don’t make them myself. I used to be able to. But now everything is too crowded. I employ someone to do the actual map making for me. I gather the information that he needs. Sometimes a map is intended for the local shire, sometimes it is for the government, sometimes for the farmer who works the land. But this one is for the army. That’s why it is a worry that the wagons haven’t returned yet. This map needs to be made quickly and made well. That’s what I’m known for. That’s why they came to me.’

  Johnny watched Alfred’s eyes furtively return to the head of the street. He was still jingling the pennies in his pocket. He had been in his front yard until the sun went down every night for the last week.

  ‘What’s the next step?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘You mean if they don’t return soon?’

  ‘Yes. What will you do?’

  ‘As I said, I will have to go out and find them. Make sure everything is alright.’

  ‘Maybe I could go for you?’

  This time Alfred turned and faced him, indicating that Johnny had made an important offer. ‘No, it’s too big a job, I couldn’t . . . although you would be perfect, I must say. You can ride and you know the bush. But it does feel like a job I should do myself.’

  ‘But your health . . .’

  ‘That’s right. That doctor says that I have to slow everything down if I want to see Christmas.’

  ‘Blimey! Well, the offer is there. If you want me to go, tell me. I am ready at any time.’

  ‘It would take a load off my mind . . . I’ll let you know when it’s the right time to go. If you don’t mind. If your wife doesn’t mind.’

  Johnny shook his head. ‘She won’t mind.’

  Alfred had turned away again so that both men stood side by side looking into the distance. The willy-willy blew itself out and the dust settled itself back on the street to wait for a hard rain to lodge it firmly to the earth.

  Johnny and Alfred talked about other things for a few minutes longer. Then they both threw their apricot stones towards the setting sun, turned to face each other and said goodnight.

  Johnny felt a little excited at the thought of heading out into the bush, especially with a purpose. It was getting harder to justify to himself his occasional expeditions. He never had a destination, or a time limit. And Kathleen never demurred; she was more tolerant of his need to wander than he was. But he had begun to think that a man needed to be at home looking after his family.

  By the time he reached the front door of his house, he was resolved to try to push Alfred to let him go soon—in the next few days. And as
he turned the door handle, he could hear Kathleen singing. He likes to hear her singing; it means that she is happy. He knows that sometimes she misses her family and friends in London and it is in those times that she stays quiet. She answers him when he asks her a question and she is pleasant in her responses but she stares out the window without looking at anything. She sits with a cup of tea without drinking until it has gone cold and he has to gently prise it from her hand. But when she is singing it is different. It means that those particular demons are asleep.

  When they come back up the street after their evening walk, Johnny sees that the wagons still aren’t in the yard. Alfred is pacing along his front fence.

  Kathleen asks after his health.

  ‘As good as can be expected.’ He shrugs and changes the subject. ‘I will take you up on your offer, Johnny. Can you go tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. I’ll have everything ready for you. Come over here at first light. I’ll be waiting.’

  After they have walked on, Johnny asks Kathleen if she wants to accompany him but she declines. He doesn’t try to change her mind: he travels much more quickly on his own. Yet he likes her company on a journey. She is a good travelling companion, asking questions about the trees and other things that he knows about. She rides a horse reasonably well, given that there wasn’t much cause for it in the part of London where she lived. He always borrows a horse for her that is gentle and forgiving.

  They return to the house so that Johnny can prepare what he will need for the journey. Not that he needs much. His horse is ready to travel. He needs hardly any clothes and he will collect food on the way. He opens the cupboard above the icebox, takes down the silver cash box and transfers to it almost all of the money from his wallet. Cash is one thing that he won’t be using in the bush, and Kathleen may need it.

  There is something comforting about having a travelling bag once more sitting beside the back door. He sleeps better knowing it is there and ready. He and Kathleen lie together in a half light, where silhouettes take on degrees of substance.

  He wakes at four thirty, just before the sun and the roosters. The waning moon still reflects in the windows. He quietly gets out of bed and walks from the room. By the time he is pulling on his favourite boots, Kathleen is in the kitchen with him, organising the small amount of supplies he is going to take. Within minutes he is ready and after a small kiss, he has slipped out of the back door.

  His horse has sensed that there will be travel today; she is ready at the side gate, and stands still while Johnny tightens the saddle straps. Once he has climbed with some difficulty onto her back, she begins to walk slowly down the path. The sound of the four hooves on the gravel always makes him want to cry. It is a song from his childhood. After he settles into the saddle he looks back. Kathleen, touched by the moonlight, is standing at the bedroom window watching him. She doesn’t wave. She is tightly holding the book that her sister sent her, open at the first page.

  As he had said he would be, Alfred is waiting for him in his front yard. The sun is just beginning to climb, but it is still under the line of currawalli trees. The two men greet each other, and Alfred pats a small leather bag before reaching over the fence and passing it up.

  ‘A map, a compass, and the route they were planning to travel. There and back. You do know my daughter, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have talked to her at church a few times.’

  ‘Ah yes. Church. Of course.’ Alfred doesn’t go to church. It won’t be too long before Johnny doesn’t go either. He feels like he is wasting time there. His time and the church’s time.

  ‘If you travel their route the opposite way then you should make contact with them . . . soon, I hope. And would you pass this to my daughter when you see her?’ Alfred hands Johnny a slip of paper. ‘It’s a note from me. Telling her to come home. To give up on the map.’

  ‘I’ll give it to her. Will she obey it?’

  ‘No. But give it to her anyway.’

  By the time Johnny turns his horse to face the direction they are going to travel, Alfred has come out onto the street. Both men nod without looking at each other. The sound of the horse’s hooves fills the early morning.

  At the end of the street, he turns to the left and heads along the little road towards Choppingblock Road up ahead. He is tempted to cross over the creek and enter the bush there, joining up with the road a few miles further on, but he decides not to in case he misses the wagons.

  Johnny always likes being on a road at this time of day. The air is clear and the horse keen to move. Johnny’s mind is fresh too. He rides steadily underneath the flowering gums that hang over the road. At the corner of the little road where the Choppingblock Hotel stands, he sees Arthur the publican splitting some firewood for the stove. Arthur nods between axe strokes and Johnny lifts his hat. Arthur is usually too busy to stop; he’s always working on either the pub or his garden. Sure enough, Johnny sees a partially built arch for training roses lying on its side at the back of the pub, much like the one his mother used to have in her kitchen garden.

  He looks back at the road he has turned out of. It doesn’t have a name but everyone knows it as the little road. It runs past the railway station. Choppingblock Road soon begins to climb the first of many hills. Johnny gives the horse her head for a moment so she can stretch her legs a little. She breaks into a gallop and the increased speed fills him with a tiny tremor of excitement. He pulls her up after a few hundred yards and she falls back into an easy walk.

  He is travelling underneath a continuous cloud of dust that sits still in the air. A bullock dray must be travelling along the road, going north. Johnny judges that it has passed about five minutes before and he will come up to it soon.

  He sits back in the saddle and begins to think out the day ahead. He is used to planning like this. It is also how he paints a portrait. The blank canvas is like the road to be travelled; he maps out which direction to take, which lines need to be drawn first as references, just as he looks for landmarks to keep himself riding in the right direction.

  Only fifty years ago this road was frequented by bushrangers, waiting for a lone traveller like himself to come along. But old age, a better police force and the threat of the noose has thinned the ranks of the bushrangers and now they are virtually non-existent. Only the light of mind or the savage at heart venture into that profession nowadays.

  He can soon see the outline of the bullock dray up ahead. Most of the time its wheels run smoothly in the ruts worn into the road by earlier traffic; the dust rises up in clouds only when the wheels veer towards the side of the road where the dirt has been displaced. But there is still enough for Johnny to taste it in his mouth.

  By the time he reaches the back of the dray he can see that it is full of supplies and probably heading back to one of the logging camps. A company chops down the trees near Mount Sterling and brings them to the city docks where they are loaded as ballast on the ships leaving for Europe. So even before the insects have come to their senses and realised that their home is now dead, they are likely to be deep in the belly of a ship steaming to Portsmouth or Marseilles.

  As he draws abreast of the dray, Johnny nods to the driver, who nods back. They look at each other for a while, neither feeling like engaging in the standard exchange about the weather. The driver sits forward on his bench, his hat pulled down close to his eyes, a cigarette drooping out of the corner of his mouth. Eventually he tilts his head in the direction of the storm clouds brewing, and Johnny nods again before lifting up his chin and spurring his horse on.

  He pulls the horse back to a walk when he is two hundred yards further up the road, at the crest of a hill. Before him he can see the lay of the land, the twists and turns of the creeks and gullies. Behind him are the bullock dray, struggling up the hill, and the land he has already seen and is content not to see again
until he returns home.

  Before him Choppingblock Road dips and turns as it climbs small hills, drops down into tiny green valleys, runs alongside creeks and squeezes around rocky outcrops. The predominant feature of the panorama is the vast choppy sea of grey-green eucalypts. Gum trees that bend to no wind and grow straight and tall towards the clouds. He stops longer to take it all in.

  Johnny hears the hooves and the clink of saddling gear as another horseman comes up behind him. Without looking he can tell that the rider expects to be in the saddle for a long while, as the ring of the saddle buckles are quickly deadened with each step by the weight of a heavy load. By the ease of the horse’s steps he can also tell that this is a journey beginning, not coming to its conclusion.

  ‘Hello, travelling well?’ he asks, his eyes still surveying the horizon. He turns as the other horseman comes up beside him and stops. The face is familiar.

  ‘Yes. I believe I am travelling well. And I hope, all things considered, I will continue to do so.’

  Johnny sees a man of his own age. But whereas Johnny is dressed for the road, with a broad straw hat, solid boots and a heavy coat that will keep out the coming rain and the wind, this man is dressed in a town man’s suit of the current fashion: expensive heavy tweed cut to sit close to the body, and a matching hat with a thin brim. A pair of two-toned button-up shoes that look as if they have never seen mud completes the picture of a city man on his way to being lost in the country.

  Johnny looks briefly at the man’s horse. There is the difference.

  The animal looks as if it has travelled great distances before, and all of the saddling gear looks well used. It shapes the horse. The man is at ease, his back comfortably straight and his legs well accustomed to their position. The stirrups have been drawn up closer to the saddle in the old stockman’s trick. By lunchtime, when the opportunity for faster riding is gone, the stranger will drop them into a more standard relaxed position. Johnny did the same thing in the morning. It adds speed to a journey by giving the fresh horse more freedom to run. The trick is to know when to drop them down; in that position, stirrups become very tiring for the rider.