Currawalli Street Read online

  ‘You’re headed a fair way?’ Johnny guesses.

  ‘Yep. All the way to Sydney. Will take me fifteen days, I believe.’

  Johnny nods and looks thoughtfully at the dirt between them. ‘Could be more. Don’t think it will be less.’

  ‘Me neither. But I’m hoping. I’ve done it a few times before. It’s a good ride.’

  ‘I’ve done it only once before. Good farm country. Worth seeing.’ Johnny continues to look away when he says, ‘I know you. I’ve seen your face somewhere.’

  A trace of suspicion and what sounds like exhaustion creep into the stranger’s voice. ‘I’ve been living at the Choppingblock Hotel for a few years. You know it? Perhaps you’ve seen me in there.’ He scratches his chin, and Johnny notices that he has shaved this morning. It says something about a man when he takes the time to shave his face even though he will be alone on a country road for most of the day.

  ‘Maybe, but I don’t go into the bar often. I live around the corner in Currawalli Street. Perhaps I’ve seen you walking about.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s it. Where are you headed?’ the stranger says as his horse drops its head to investigate a scarlet beetle crawling across the gravel.

  ‘Up a ways. I’m cutting across at Weather Hill. Heading to Wensleydale.’

  ‘We’re going in the same direction. Let’s travel together a bit.’

  Without another word both men direct their horses towards the centre of the dirt road and encourage them to walk on down the hill. Both men ride in silence and only begin talking again when they dismount for a cup of tea by a creek.

  ‘That was a big snake back there,’ says the stranger.

  Johnny nods. ‘Yep. Keep my eyes open for them this time of year. Never know when I’m going to come between the mother and her babies.’

  ‘It’s not a good place to be. My horse previous to this was bitten because I hadn’t been paying attention and wandered into a nest area. Horse died. Left me out in the bush for a few days.’

  ‘Same thing happened to me. Can’t blame the mother snake. Who wants a horse stepping on your babies?’

  While they are talking they build a small fire and fill a billy with water from the creek. When it boils, Johnny drops in a handful of Ceylonese tea-leaves and both men retrieve their cups from their saddlebags.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Johnny asks.

  The man looks him up and down, suddenly serious. ‘You know, I don’t like to tell people my name. But I assume you’re asking me so that we can talk better?’

  ‘That’s right. Why else would I ask?’ Johnny is surprised.

  There is suddenly something dangerous in the air. If not for the easiness of the stranger’s manner previously, Johnny would be getting ready to protect himself.

  ‘Alright. My name is Alfred Brady . . . Bert Brady.’

  ‘The gangster that everybody talks about? The one who robbed that big department store in the city? The one who goes out with actresses?’

  ‘Yep, that’s me. I’m the gangster. Although I don’t have a gang or a girlfriend.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Bert. My name is Johnny Oatley.’ The sense of danger blows away as Johnny stretches out to shake hands.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Johnny. What do you do?’

  ‘I was a farmer. Now I paint pictures of people.’

  ‘You mean a court painter? That bloke who sits up the back of the courtroom and draws pictures of the people on trial?’

  ‘No. People pay me to paint their portrait. They sit in a chair and I do an oil painting of them.’

  ‘Leaving out the rough bits.’ Bert grins.

  ‘That’s right. That’s if I want to get paid. People don’t judge a portrait painter on how good his paintings are. They judge him on how good they look in the painting.’

  Bert laughs.

  ‘People. You can’t beat them. Why are you going to Wensleydale?’

  ‘Helping a neighbour. He’s trying to find his daughter and their two wagons. They’re late back.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘Three weeks. A bit more.’

  ‘That’s not long. My dad was three years overdue once.’

  ‘I don’t think this neighbour would be able to wait that long.’

  ‘Shall we ride a bit more?’

  They stamp out the fire and rinse their cups in the creek. The horses are standing together under a currawalli tree; its branches hang down low to the ground. They are standing on either side of the tree, scratching their flanks against its trunk. Johnny likes the look of the currawalli tree. Its leaves always seem too big for its branches, giving it a top-heavy look. The men draw the horses away from the trunk of the tree and are soon on their way.

  Bert is tall and thin. When he pushes his hat back on his head he looks even taller. He has a face that makes him look like a hard man. Johnny realises now that he has seen photographs of him in the daily paper; he assumes that they received those photographs from the police. They looked like they were police-style photographs. Except for one he saw of Bert as he sat exhausted in a tram shelter after being jostled, according to the newspaper, by a group of drunken thugs. One trouser leg was up his calf as he looked into the camera, evidently too tired to look away or complain about the photographer’s intrusion.

  ‘Why are you going to Sydney?’ asks Johnny.

  Bert sits back in the saddle. He looks into the scrub by the side of the road for a few moments. ‘Well, Johnny, I am going to join the army. I have been trying for a long time to abandon the way I have been living. I want to do something, I don’t know . . . decent, something worthwhile. I fell into my life just like anyone falls into anything. I don’t feel I had much say in it. And now I am Melbourne’s favourite career criminal. Everyone knows me or about me so it doesn’t matter anymore whether I commit a crime or not, if I can be stitched for something then everybody is happy. Except me. The papers, the police, the politicians, the man in the street, they’re all happy. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t commit the crime or that the real criminal is still free. Doesn’t matter at all.’

  He looks over at Johnny. ‘I figure I am a sure bet for the hangman’s noose one of these days. I’ll be charged with a murder and they’ll be happy to wrap it around me. That’s why I left in a hurry this morning; word is that I’m about to be set up for something. So I had to move quick. Hence the city clothes. I’m going to join the army in Sydney where I’m not known. The way things are looking, there will soon be a war and we’ll all be going over to Europe to help out the mother country.’

  ‘A war? But I thought they were talking their way out of it?’

  Fatigue comes into Bert’s voice again. ‘They’re not even trying to talk their way out of it. The papers just say they are. We’ll be at war before the year is finished. And if we are, then that means most of the world will be.’

  ‘Why?’ Johnny asks, dismayed at the idea.

  ‘One word. Progress.’ Bert makes it sound like a sad word.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The world is in the process of changing from the old to the new. If you sent a letter to London thirty years ago it would have taken sixteen weeks to get there. Now it takes only six. Everything works at such a faster speed now. Your children will think our pace of life is slow. But to us it is very fast. To our parents it would be an unbelievable miracle.’

  Johnny notices that the road up ahead begins to climb. He feels the horses pick up speed as they sense the incline. He leans forward in the saddle. So does Bert. Johnny hasn’t thought about war much before. It is something the old men in the public bars of hotels talk about but only when they have run out of other things to say. Old men like to sink their teeth into something that they feel unhappy or uncomfortable about. What they say isn’t to be taken seriously. It is jus
t the ramblings of spent brains. This is the first time he has heard someone of his own age talk about it with such conviction and surety. As if it is going to happen, no matter what.

  Bert continues, ‘There will be a war to speed up this progress. To shake the tree and clear the dead wood out. To get rid of the old and give the new growth plenty of room.’ He pauses and turns in the saddle to look for a moment at the road behind. ‘To live accustomed to such speed has some advantages but it also brings some bad things with it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We can now find out what is happening in London in six weeks. We respond straightaway. They receive our response in six weeks. That’s only twelve weeks. It used to be eight months before they could receive any reaction from us. By then tempers could have cooled, fights could have been fought. The chances were it would be all over. Now we can be involved almost immediately.’

  ‘Is that a bad thing?’

  ‘Sometimes it is. The leaders we have are suited to this country, suited to being far away from anywhere else. But now they can throw their hats into the ring and say things that they have no idea about. It could be dangerous to give them so much power.’

  Johnny pulls tobacco out of his pocket. The horse knows that he has dropped the reins and that they rest on her neck but she doesn’t change her pace. Johnny begins to roll up a cigarette and passes the packet over to Bert who also lets go of his reins. His horse doesn’t react either. Bert lights his cigarette, draws deeply on it and then resumes talking. Johnny is happy to listen.

  ‘One thing that has to be considered about the men in this country is that most of us are descendants of English convicts and have a very healthy disrespect for English ways—all that pomp, the aristocracy, the class system. Without a doubt, Johnny, when the war comes the leaders of our little country will hand over control of our army to the British generals. Apparently most of them come from the upper classes and there is some serious concern that they might not be smart enough. I reckon that our army may end up having to fend for itself or else it may be sacrificed.’

  ‘Bert, how do you know all of this?’

  ‘Look at what Calway has written about the English. Look at Ballymoney. They’re not hotheads, angry at everything. Calway’s a professor. Ballymoney’s a bishop. It’s all there if you look. The Irish talk about it. I read lots. And I have learned to read between the lines. That’s where the truth lies.’

  He stretches in his saddle and looks at Johnny. ‘The world is changing. Have you seen one of these flying machines?’

  ‘Yes. There is a field near where I live . . . where you have been living. They take off and land there. I went over to have a look at them.’

  ‘Me too. I made a point of going to see them. I’ll tell you this. Being able to fly isn’t the most amazing thing about them. Rather, it’s the speed at which they can cross the countryside—almost as fast as you can turn your head to follow them. If one flies overhead when you start to puff on that cigarette, it will be almost gone from your view by the time you blow the smoke out of your mouth. That’s what’s remarkable about them. And who knows what they will do in a war? See where troops are hidden? Drop bombs?’

  Johnny flinches involuntarily. He hasn’t considered this at all. But it makes sense.

  Bert pushes his hat back on his head and wipes his brow. The sun is starting to climb and the heat is building, even while the storm clouds are getting closer. ‘The British army have experimented with these flying machines in South Africa. Seeing how accurate they can be and how much damage they can do.’

  ‘And how were they?’ Johnny asks quietly.

  ‘Very effective. The bombs killed more people than shells fired from cannon. The army was very pleased with the experiment.’

  ‘Who was killed?’

  ‘Some villagers that the British could see no need for.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Johnny asks again.

  ‘That’s one of the good things about being a notorious gangster. The nicest people are more than happy to rub shoulders with you. If you can help them. A judge just back from London told me about the experiments at dinner at the archbishop’s one night. He had seen the report himself. The English want us to start producing these flying machines. The judge thinks it might be a good idea. He wanted me to talk to a few people I know in the carriage-building business.’

  The day continues to get hotter, and Bert pulls off his coat and undoes the buttons on his vest. Johnny takes off his own coat and straps it to the back of his saddle.

  ‘I plan on buying some more appropriate clothes in Euroa,’ says Bert. ‘City clothes are only good for one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The city.’

  They both laugh. The road is rockier now and the horses’ hooves ring out loudly through the scrub.

  ‘I think it’s time to drop the stirrups down,’ Johnny says.

  The men steer the horses into a glade by the side of the road. Johnny stretches his back before he jumps down out of the saddle. Bert riffles through his saddlebag and pulls out a loaf of bread.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he says.

  Johnny comes up with a block of cheese. The men stand under a ghost gum while they eat, then take a few careful steps across the open ground and return to the horses. If there are any snakes about, they will attack only if threatened. Johnny and Bert know enough to stay out of their way by avoiding the long grass where the snakes like to hide. Johnny has sat by the side of a friend as he lay dying from snakebite almost this far away from a town. Seeing it once is enough.

  ‘You’ve got a bad back?’ Bert observes.

  ‘Yeah, I have.’

  ‘Getting better?’

  ‘No, this is it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  Johnny bends down stiffly to check that his horse’s shins are okay. He says nothing until he has felt all four legs. Then he straightens, making sure his face doesn’t register the pain. ‘Funny thing. We had a really gentle mare on the farm. And a quiet stallion. We got her to foal. The foal turned out to be the opposite of its mother and father. Threw me when I wasn’t expecting it and trampled me after I had gone down. A nastier horse I have never met. We sold it on as quickly as we could but the injuries I suffered wouldn’t go away. And so now I am limited in what I can do. Funny though. Just because both parents were calm and quiet I expected the foal would be the same. But it wasn’t. If I didn’t know horses better I would have almost said it was vindictive.’

  ‘Born bad.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose that’s it.’

  ‘It happens. In humans as well.’

  Both men lengthen their stirrups and climb back onto their horses. They head off up the road, which is still climbing. It has been for half an hour now. The crest looks as if it is about a mile ahead. Johnny can sense that his horse is starting to feel the effect of this hill. The time between each step is minutely slower and the hooves come down heavier. Her head hasn’t dropped yet. When it does, Johnny will look for a place to camp for the night. He relies on this horse and she relies on him. He could work her into the ground but he would be able to do so only once. She would never recover properly.

  He makes himself comfortable in the saddle, looks about, and asks Bert, ‘So where did you learn to ride?’

  ‘The same place as you, I imagine. My parents had a farm down by the Llewellyn River. I spent all my childhood on the back of a horse. You too?’

  ‘My folks had a farm up near Strathbogie.’

  ‘Sheep farm?’

  ‘Yep. Most of the time. And you? Wheat?’

  ‘Mainly wheat. Sometimes sheep.’ Bert looks ahead. ‘You’ll be leaving the road up here?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a good track that runs off to the left along that ridge. That will take me to Wensleydale.�
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  ‘Johnny, I did enjoy talking to you. I’d like to ask you two favours.’

  ‘Of course. What are they?’

  ‘Don’t tell anybody you have seen me. And write out your address for me so I can send you a letter.’

  ‘Why do you want to send me a letter?’

  ‘I have no one else to write to. I don’t know whether I will write at all, but I don’t know what is going to happen and what I’ll feel like doing. And you seem like a decent person to write a letter to.’

  Instantly Johnny feels a tiny degree of suspicion but that is quickly overtaken by the honesty of Bert’s request. Two farm boys, a long way from home.

  ‘I’d be pleased to get one.’

  They come to the top of the hill and the track across the ridge emerges. Johnny writes out number 10 Currawalli street on a page torn from his notebook, hands it to Bert and then looks along the road that he is about to turn off. ‘I hope you stay safe, Bert. Good luck to you.’

  ‘Good luck to you too, Johnny. See you in the heather!’

  They both lean forward across their horses’ necks and shake hands. The horses step back and the men part. Johnny can hear the hooves of Bert’s horse for a few minutes but then the track is swallowed up by a stand of thick trees and with the colder air comes silence.

  As Johnny adjusts his position in the saddle and rubs the small of his back, he recalls the many fellow travellers he has met before on many different roads. It was always an encounter that could not be replicated in any other situation. Two people, content to fill in some time with conversation, intent on a destination, after having spent hours or maybe days alone with their thoughts reflected by an untouched bush landscape.