Lantana Lane (19 page)

The effect of all this was excellent. The red-faced man, much moved by her distress, menacingly intervened, urging the peaked cap to stop worrying the lady, and shut his ruddy mouth, and take his big feet out of the way or he'd get them trod on by accident. The peaked cap—baffled, if unconvinced, and not really caring a hoot anyhow—withdrew, and Aunt Isabelle, tremulously smiling upon her champion, helped him to open the door and scramble in just as the train began to move.

So far, so good. But she was now in something of a predicament. (“. . . for I fear that
le pauvre Jacques
may be a little discomfortable. . . .”) However, remembering that
l'audace
had already served her well, she re-entered the
cabinet
extracted Jake from the basin, boldly conveyed him into the compartment, and set him down on the floor; meeting the astonished gaze of the red-faced man, she said genially: “Now we may all be happy together, isn't it?”

No doubt her heart was once more between her teeth as she awaited his reaction, but it might as well have stayed in its appointed place. Mr. Benson (for by this name he presently introduced himself), let loose a tremendous bellow of laughter which quite reassured her—though Jake was so startled by the sudden eruption of sound that he yelped, and fell over backwards. But his courage, and his determination to examine even the more alarming phenomena of existence, overcame his apprehension; he righted himself, and staggered forward to investigate the fingers which Mr. Benson was invitingly snapping before his nose, and which immediately began to pat his head, tweak his ears, roll him over on his back, tickle his stomach, and pay him other attentions of an agreeable and stimulating nature. Aunt Isabelle, watching with the keenest pleasure, digested a new and valuable item of knowledge concerning local customs—namely, that anyone will, at any time, and with the warmest enthusiasm, assist anyone else to evade a regulation.

Very soon they were all friends. Aunt Isabelle diplomatically assured Mr. Benson that his presence was a great consolation to her, for she—being an old woman, and a stranger in a strange land—naturally welcomed the protection of a gentleman; particularly, she added, with an admiring glance at his burly shoulders, one who so clearly combined prodigious strength with a tender heart, and instincts the most chivalrous. Mr. Benson made modest noises, but was much gratified, and at once set about demonstrating the two latter qualities by lifting Jake on to the seat beside him, arranging Aunt Isabelle's coat over her knees, and enquiring after her comfort with anxious solicitude.

Little is needed at any time to ensure Aunt Isabelle's comfort save an opportunity to talk, so she truthfully declared that she had never felt cosier, and they became so engrossed in conversation that they ceased to pay any attention to Jake who, having found a small tear in the leather upholstery of the seat, occupied himself in making it larger, and pawing the stuffing out. Aunt Isabelle explained that she was going to join her niece and her nephew-by-marriage on their pineapple farm, and Mr. Benson revealed that he was a pineapple farmer himself. She begged him not to be misled by her fur coat and her diamond rings into imagining her to be an idle and pleasure-loving member of the
haut monde,
for these she had only brought with her so that they might be pawned, or sold, should a financial crisis arise in the affairs of her niece's husband; and Mr. Benson replied judicially that, since such crises were regrettably common among pineapple farmers, he reckoned her niece's husband would be real thankful to know there was something around he could pop.

As darkness fell, he produced from his pocket a large packet of ham sandwiches and a small flask, expressing the hope that she would share a bite and a little nip with him. She explained that her medical advisers ordained, much to her regret, that she must remain a teetotum, but she accepted a sandwich, and drank his health from the railway tumbler, filled from the railway carafe, afterwards inserting Jake's nose into it so that he had a nice drink too. Mr. Benson voiced his concern at finding her unsupplied with food for so long a journey, and insisted upon presenting her with the sandwiches left over from their repast.

At length they all composed themselves for sleep, and in the small hours of the morning the train stopped at a little station where Mr. Benson prepared to alight, and Aunt Isabelle and Jake roused themselves to take leave of him. He declared that it had been a pleasure to make their acquaintance, and hoped that her nephew would get by without popping her rings, which he might if prices didn't go any lower, and expenses didn't go any higher, and he tarred his drains.

By now dawn was slowly merging into daylight, and Aunt Isabelle remained glued to her window, nibbling her sandwiches and eagerly observing the landscape, while Jake once more applied himself to worrying at the tear in the seat, and eating the stuffing he extracted from it. She was deeply interested in what she saw, for this was the kind of setting in which she was to enact her role of pioneer. She decided that the bananas were pineapples, and the sugar-cane was bananas, and the pineapples were prickly-pear, and deduced, after some cogitation, that the tall posts upon which the little houses stood were designed to protect the inhabitants from crocodiles. Throughout the rest of the journey the only people to invade her compartment were two schoolboys who avidly devoured science fiction, and had long ago ceased to find ordinary human beings and animals worthy of a second glance.

Thus, at about eleven o'clock on that Sunday morning of bright sun and gusty wind, the train at last drew into Rothwell.

Ken had driven into town an hour earlier to see a poultry farmer from whom he had arranged to take delivery of six bags of fowl manure for himself, and a dozen pullets for the Dawsons; when this business was concluded, he had parked Kelly near the railway yard while he dropped in on a mate of his who lived nearby, and who could always be depended upon to have a few bottles of beer on hand.

It will be recalled that Ken's sister is married to a Rothwell policeman named Bert Jackson. It so happened that Bert, serenely pacing the streets in the course of duty, saw Ken take his leave of this friend after a pleasant and convivial interlude, and immediately fell a prey to the uneasiness with which the sight of his brother-in-law always afflicted him. He would have been the first, mind you, to admit that Ken carried his liquor well. Too well, in fact; for when a man is muzzy in his speech, wobbly on his legs, and behaving in an unbecoming manner, he is, for all the world to see, fair game for a copper. But Ken could sink incredible quantities without harm to his speech or his gait, and its effect upon his manner (which was to make him as solemn as an owl, and extremely dignified), merely gave him the appearance of being the only sober person in a bar full of boisterous yahoos. And yet—as his sister often bitterly remarked—you could be sure of trouble when Ken started behaving like a bishop.

So Bert, full of gloomy misgivings, crossed the road to investigate, and was inexpressibly relieved to find himself greeted with a genial: “Hi, there, Podge!” instead of the ceremonious : “Good morning, Jackson “which he had fearfully anticipated. Ken, he decided, was perhaps a trifle lit up, but by no means stinko. His satisfaction increased when he learned that his relative had no further business in Rothwell, and was about to set out for Dillillibill with his bags of manure and his crate of fowls.

“You want to watch out what you load on to that old tin can of yours,” he observed, “or it'll fold up under you one day. Where've you left it?” He looked around rather nervously, for Ken is notoriously unable to read parking notices. The goods train had just pulled in, and a small crowd seemed to be gathering about someone or something on the station, but there was nothing to indicate a breach of the peace, so his gaze passed over it perfunctorily. He had seen a crowd gather round a dead goanna. Ken, with a negligent wave of his hand, explained that he had left his vehicle parked down there by the goods yard, and Bert, looking in that direction, blenched, and caught his breath sharply. Kelly was . . .

Well, you might say that Kelly was just standing there. You might add that an inanimate object constructed of rusting metal, dubious rubber and odd bits of timber secured by odd bits of wire could—God help it—do no other. Yet Bert—guardian as he was of law and order in Rothwell, and custodian of its fair reputation—felt his blood run cold. There wasn't any regulation, he reflected uneasily, about having a crate of fowls in the back of your ute, and it'd be stretching things a bit, even on a Sunday, to say they were committing a nuisance by poking their heads through the slats and squawking; it was legitimate to carry bags of manure, though somehow they looked more noisome on Kelly than elsewhere; the owner of a parked vehicle couldn't be blamed if the wind blew a ragged bit of hessian from the seat, and wrapped it round the steering-wheel so that it fluttered with a kind of shameless bravado, like a disreputable banner; and if he wanted to stuff an old pair of khaki shorts half under the bonnet to stop some of the rattles—well, he was within his rights. As for the kerosene tin standing under the radiator with water dribbling into it, you might think it was hardly decent, but you'd have your work cut out to prove it before a magistrate. Such things, Bert felt, would temporarily impair the dignity of even the most self-respecting ute, but Kelly had no dignity to start with, and these items added an almost unendurable touch of impudent squalor to an aspect already sufficiently outrageous. The object seemed to be leaning against a telegraph post—but that was probably because its offside wheels were in rather a deep gutter. It seemed to be squinting wickedly straight at him—but no doubt this was due to its one blind headlamp. It was obviously in the last stages of decrepitude, and yet—like many deadbeats and hoboes whom Constable Jackson had known, and now vividly recalled—the impression it conveyed of sly, rakish and rascally vitality was so powerful as to be frightening. He said in an awed voice:

“Blow me down, Ken, if that thing was human, I'd run it in! Parked, eh? To me it looks like it was loitering with intent. For Chrissake, feller, take it back to the farm, and keep it there!” He sketched a farewell gesture with a hint of panic in it, and his departure was a flight. Ken grinned at his retreating back, and went cheerfully on his way.

But by the time he had reached Kelly, he too had noticed the little crowd on the station, and since he had found that exciting events were frequently generated in crowds, he crossed the yard and the railway tracks, vaulted up on to the platform, and found himself looking over the heads of the bystanders at Aunt Isabelle and Jake.

Aunt Isabelle was in a spot of trouble. As she alighted from the train, Jake (being in considerable distress, and this time not only from lack of oxygen), had suddenly wriggled with such desperate violence that he fell out of the fur coat just as the stationmaster walked majestically by.

Now Mr. Brownlee cultivates a majestic tread because his position as the big shot at an important railway station like Rothwell clearly demands it, but he is, in fact, an easy-going bloke who always prefers to turn a blind eye upon minor infringements of the by-laws, since so many of them are always being infringed by everyone, and no harm seems to come of it, So he would have failed to notice Jake if it had been possible for him to do so. But of course Jake, being Jake, could not stand still and be sick where he fell; he had to stagger forward and be sick over Mr. Brownlee's boot. Mr. Brownlee was therefore compelled to pause, and point out sternly that dogs were not allowed to travel with passengers.

Aunt Isabelle, who sometimes finds it helpful to be helplessly uncomprehending, chose to interpret his remarks as being admiring rather than admonitory, and affably agreed that this was, indeed, a remarkable dog, well born, what-you-say an aristocrat, and with a temperament the most docile, who had passed the entire journey sleeping quietly at her feet, and had no fleas at all. Mr. Brownlee replied coldly that, fleas or no fleas, he had no business travelling on the railway except in the manner permitted by the authorities, and Aunt Isabelle decided to fall back upon the pathetic-old-lady role which had already proved so successful. She therefore requested, with a quaver in her voice, that before she was haled to prison, she might first arrange for her niece to take charge of the faithful creature whose only crime had been to mount guard over her throughout the night, and discourage bandits from entering her compartment, and murdering her in her sleep.

Mr. Brownlee pondered this for a moment. He did not fail to note a contradictory element in her two statements, and he was by no means certain that Jake's innocence was as spotless as she would have him believe; for, glancing down with distaste at his boot, he felt a strong suspicion that what he was seeing was damaged Government property. But a certain delicacy prevented him from pursing this aspect of the matter, and he wisely decided to refrain from entering into an argument about whether Jake had passed the night slumbering or keeping vigil. The point was that he shouldn't have been there at all. In the end, however, he resolved not to harp on this either, for he was very conscious of the interested audience gathered about them, and well aware that his countrymen were, as a matter of principle, always against officialdom in any dispute. In fact, he had just heard Ken Mulliner remark to nobody in particular that you'd think an old lady could have a nice little pup like that to keep her company on an all-night journey without getting bullied, and threatened, and frightened out of her wits; and he had observed that Aunt Isabelle at once began to look very frightened indeed, and to dab her eyes with a handkerchief—a bit of business which was bringing indignant murmurs of sympathy from the onlookers. So he declared magnanimously that there was no question of immediate arrest, but she'd better not do it again.

Aunt Isabelle thanked him with great cordiality, and put her handkerchief away. She suggested that
Monsieur le Chef de Gare
might add to his kindness by telling her where she could find a conveyance to take her to the farm of her nephew-by-marriage, whose name was Henri Greefeeth, and who lived at a place called (and here she knit her brows in concentration as she enunciated each syllable with careful distinctness), Dee-lee-lee-beel. Ken pricked up his ears at this, and she—proud of having got her tongue round so strange a name—beamed at the assembled company, and caught his eye, which promptly winked at her. She was just about to wink back when Mr. Brownlee said that the Dillillibill bus didn't meet the goods, so she'd better take a taxi.