Currawalli Street (2 page)

Tonight, at their front gate, the air full of the scent of evening honeysuckle, Johnny stops to look across the street at the empty yard beside number nine. The yard is already known as number seven even though all that stands there is a shed and a lean-to for the horses to shelter under. The framework for the house that Alfred and his wife Rose are going to build for their daughter one day is lying on the ground, ready to be erected.

Eric told Johnny about their building plans. Eric knows about them
because Rose told Nancy.

On the other side of Alfred's house is a block of land that would be number eleven. Sometimes Johnny finds himself looking at it without having noticed that it has drawn his attention. He doesn't like it. He knows land like this. Nothing grows there. It is barren as if from a drier part of the country. Kathleen has said that she gets a cold feeling from looking at it. He doesn't tell her that most likely something bad happened there. He knew a spot like this near the farm where he grew up. The Aboriginal people wouldn't walk across it, they wouldn't eat anything that grew near it; they wouldn't drink water from the creek that ran nearby. It was a place where something evil had happened. Number eleven feels like that.

The wagons still aren't home. They are overdue by a week now. Johnny knows that Alfred, the owner of the wagons, is worried. Alfred's daughter, Elizabeth, has taken charge of an expedition for the first time. It has been a point of bitter contention between Alfred and Rose. Rose didn't think Elizabeth was ready. Alfred did. Johnny knows all about this too. Once again, Eric told him.

But the thing about these sorts of disagreements is that the point of bitter contention is not often what the real argument is about.

Johnny's mother and father were like this. They would argue about the direction of the fences, the colour the bedroom was painted, whether Johnny should go away to boarding school, whether Grandmother should stay with them, but never about the real issue. The issue even Johnny could see when he was still a child.

They were two completely different adults, unhappy together.

Currawalli Street in 1914 is on the outskirts of the city. Thirty years
before, the area was easily an afternoon's cart ride away through rough bush, but the need for new homes grew and continues to grow and so houses and streets have replaced the scrubby bush. The city of Melbourne sits at the top of a long bay; if Melbourne was a woman at a church picnic with her skirts spread over the grass, then Currawalli Street is just at the hem of those skirts. There is still a surrounding band of deserted fields that farmers don't need to use and beyond that some dry bushland. On occasion the scent of wild country blows gaily in with the soft westerly wind and sometimes it creeps in surreptitiously like unwanted smoke with the hot north wind. But more often than not nowadays, the wild country isn't in the air at all.

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.