Lantana Lane (20 page)

This really wounded her. Already she had put up with a train only because it appeared that neither stage-coach nor covered waggon was available. Now she was far from the city—she was in The Bushes—she was Out the Back—she had changed into her boiler-suit—she was ready and agog to embrace hardships—and this species of a donkey talked about taxis!

Enough realism is enough. Aunt Isabelle was now dressed for romance, and romance she was going to have. Entirely ignoring Mr. Brownlee's preposterous suggestion, she announced that the discomfort, the slow progress, the peril—all these were of no significance; she snapped her fingers of them. In some parts of this country, so she had been reliably informed, camels were employed as a means of transport, and she was quite prepared to travel by camel. If not by camel, then on horseback. She had been, in her time, a notable horsewoman. It was true, however, that her valuable dog, and her no less valuable luggage must be considered, so it might be more advisable to hire the services of a peasant with a cart; a mule-cart, perhaps . . .?

Mr. Brownlee, taken aback, protested that there were neither camels, mules nor peasants in Rothwell, and if there were any horses, which he doubted, not having set eyes on one since he didn't know when, they were probably pulling pineapple slides, though most of the farmers used tractors nowadays; so the lady had better just go across to the taxi-rank and . . .

From the outer rim of the crowd, a voice said helpfully:

“There's the bullock team.”

A dozen pairs of incredulous eyes swivelled towards Ken Mulliner, and then exchanged among themselves glances which said you could always trust Ken to come up with some remark that was just plain nuts, but which seemed to borrow from its context a kind of maddeningly elusive logic. For although it was true that there were no camels, no mules and very few horses in Rothwell, there
was
a bullock team. The owners of the eyes considered that this was one too many, for they were not romantic, and had no patience with relics of the past; they were also well aware that, in spite of the fact that it did haul logs to the mill now and then, its main functions were to impede motor traffic, and to be photographed by tourists. Never before, in the whole history of the town, had anyone so much as hinted that it might be employed as a vehicle for the conveyance of passengers. Yet Mr. Brownlee had left hanging in the air a suggestion that camels, mules and horses must be ruled out simply because there didn't happen to be any around, and this seemed to leave Ken with quite a strong case for the bullock team. The thought flickered across several minds that it was no wonder he started arguments and won bets in bars, for a clear head was needed to keep up with him.

Aunt Isabelle, however, was entranced. She turned her back on Mr. Brownlee, waved the intervening citizenry aside, and advanced upon Ken, who stood with his thumbs in his belt, and beamed down at her from under what remained of his army hat.

The manner in which soul-mates recognise each other is a mystery. Probably it is a question of wave-lengths. At all events, as these two stood face to face, a powerful current of something or other leapt between them, shedding a rain of sparks in passing upon Jake, who at once began to plunge about between their feet as though electrically charged, and to exhibit every symptom of having discovered the very source of rapture.

Aunt Isabelle, with great animation, expressed her gratitude for so excellent a suggestion, and begged that Monsieur would be kind enough to direct her—or, better still, escort her—to the beefs. And Ken—with the current shooting red-hot streaks of remorse into his heart—explained in great haste that now he came to think of it, the bullock team was out, because the bloke that owned it had got bitten by a taipan only that morning; and besides this, the bullocks had stampeded last night, and broken out of their yard on account of hearing the booming cry of a bunyip from the scrub—this being a thing which no bullock can endure. But it happened that he himself lived at Dillillibill, and if the lady liked, he'd be glad to give her a lift. . . .

A murmur of horror and protest arose from the bystanders, but Aunt Isabelle, firmly in the grip of the current, abandoned the bullock team without a pang, and enquired eagerly:

“You have a cart—yes?”

“I got Kelly,” replied Ken with simple pride.

Aunt Isabelle's reference books had neglected to inform her of Kellys, but her faith in Ken was already absolute. She had no difficulty at all in placing him. He was not a peasant, this one; no, he was unmistakably a soldier. In her youth, during the First World War, had she not seen hundreds like him—and even, as she tenderly recalled, enjoyed a flirtation the most amusing and delightful with one of them? It was, she said (with a glance which owed something to this charming memory), most amiable and obliging of Monsieur to extend so kind an invitation; she would be happy to accept it. She drew his attention to Jake. “My dog may be accommodated in the Kelly, isn't it? And my portmanteaux? And my hatbox?”

“Bring 'em all on,” Ken told her encouragingly. “I got some hens and fowl manure aboard, but Kelly can shift a ton load, easy.” His eyes wandered over the crowd, from which certain jeering sounds, and offensive guffaws had come, and he asked hopefully : “Anyone want to argue? . . .” No one did, so he turned with a brief sigh to a junior member of the railway staff, and instructed him to fetch the lady's luggage, and bring it across to Kelly, and handle it careful if he didn't want to get tonked.

The audience was then privileged to behold a little scene of the kind which barmy people can put on at a moment's notice. Aunt Isabelle advanced one step, contriving, despite her boots and her boiler-suit, to look like a lady about to tread a measure with her cavalier; Ken made a half-turn, removed his revolting hat, bent slightly at the waist, and offered her the curve of his elbow, into which she delicately placed her bejewelled fingers. As they moved with grace and ceremony towards the edge of the platform, Mr. Brownlee bethought himself of urgent business in his office, whither he quickly retired, and through its window watched Ken illegally making his way across the railway lines with Aunt Isabelle on one arm, and Jake beneath the other. A row of trucks, one of which was full of young pigs, had just been shunted into a siding, and exactly what happened when they passed out of sight behind these, no one really knows. But there was a clang of metal, followed by porcine squeals and canine yelps, after which they reappeared, moving with quiet dignity towards the gates, and the goods yard was suddenly alive with dementedly charging piglets. Ken—grave and aloof as a whole bench full of judges—ignored the resulting commotion and, having introduced Kelly to Aunt Isabelle (who clasped her hands and exclaimed how it was beautiful), gave his whole attention to the task of replenishing the radiator.

Constable Jackson was by now a quarter of a mile away. The first he knew of the affair was when, as he turned a corner, a pigling charged between his legs, and he observed three others scampering across the road. His wife has told us (in strict confidence, for everyone has agreed that there must have been something wrong with the fastenings of the truck, and accidents will happen), that he immediately said to himself: “Ken—or I'm a Dutchman!” No sooner had he formulated this thought than Kelly came into view, doing a brisk forty, and pursuing an erratic course among the piglets, whose numbers multiplied with every second. To the metallic rattles of its superstructure, the paroxysmal coughings of its engine, and the continuous blaring of its singularly discordant horn were added the congratulatory cries of Aunt Isabelle as each pig was successfully avoided, and the frenzied barking of Jake, who was straining on his leash in an attempt to hurl himself out and pursue them.

It was Aunt Isabelle who first spied Constable Jackson standing transfixed on the edge of the footpath, and she at once drew Ken's attention to the presence of a
gendarme,
suggesting that it might be prudent to take a side turning before they reached him; but Ken, far from acting upon this advice, steered Kelly to the kerb, pulled up beside his relative, and expressed in strong terms his disapprobation of a police force which permitted pigs to infest the streets, endangering the traffic, and violating the Sabbath peace. He then said : “Giddap!” to Kelly, who roared, bucked, leapt convulsively into motion once more, and tore off along the road to Dillillibill, leaving behind a trail of water, a trail of petrol and a fuming policeman.

Very soon Ken was being regaled by his passenger with an account of her adventures. This made him laugh so heartily that he was unable to give adequate attention to Kelly's rather eccentric steering-gear, and the amusing things which consequently happened on curves and corners interrupted Aunt Isabelle's narrative, and made her laugh so much that Ken laughed harder than ever. Although the streets of the town had been almost bare of traffic, the road was quite busy with carloads of picnickers, surfers, fishermen, bowlers and tennis players hastening to their sundry appointments. Kelly's approach caused eyes to bulge, mouths to fall open, and heads to crack round on craning necks as it shot past; this was not merely because of its normal peculiarities, but because certain physical phenomena are produced by a very high concentration of barminess, and it was travelling in a shimmer of blue light which emitted, from time to time, small puffs of mushroom-shaped cloud.

It was by now obvious to Ken that his new friend, like himself, did not see eye to eye with those who prefer their journeys to be characterised by safety, comfort and uneventfulness, and—-being one who truly understood the art of hospitality—he resolved that while she was in his charge, these trials should not be inflicted on her if he could help it. So he took advantage of the next brief silence when she was drawing breath, to warn her that Constable Jackson was a malignant and revengeful nark who could not take a joke, and who would certainly send a posse out after them.

Greatly stimulated by this intelligence, Aunt Isabelle professed herself ready for any measures which he might think proper, and warmly applauded his suggestion that they should throw their pursuers off the trail by leaving the main road, and proceeding to Dillillibill by a dangerous and unfrequented route. So presently Ken turned off the bitumen on to a steep horror-stretch which is locally known as The Goat Track, and, bidding her hold on tight to whatever she could find, put Kelly into bottom gear, and began to negotiate chasms and boulders with reckless, but skilful abandon.

Now the only person who uses The Goat Track nowadays is Jeff Jenkins, who has the misfortune to own a farm to which it is the sole access, and who, consequently, has come to regard it as being, though a poor thing, exclusively his own. It so happened that he had chosen to employ that morning in making it a little more trafficable, and to this end he had fixed a plug of gelignite into one of the solid rock bars which traverse it at intervals, and had just lit the fuse when he heard Kelly approaching. In great alarm, he ran down to the corner, and stood there yelling and waving his arms in a manner which looked so threatening that Aunt Isabelle at once assumed they were being held up by a bushranger. Unluckily, Ken and Jeff had not been on the best of terms since Ken cut in on Jeff and his girl-friend at the last Masonic Ball, and took her for a drive in Kelly which lasted until three in the morning. So the genial greeting which would have quickly disabused Aunt Isabelle of her notion was lacking; indeed, she can hardly be blamed for finding herself confirmed in her belief by the determined way in which Jeff commanded them to halt, and the truculence with which Ken—continuing to urge Kelly forward—invited Jeff to stop them if he could.

Filled with admiration for her companion's intrepid behaviour, and eager to make it clear that she entirely supported him in his defiance, she began to offer verbal encouragement, but was forced to scream it because Ken and Jeff were both bawling, Jake was barking, the hens were squawking, and Kelly in bottom gear must be heard to be believed. Consequently, no one understood a word of what anyone else was saying, except that Aunt Isabelle did hear Ken demand with passion whether the ruddy drongo thought he owned the flaming road. He then sounded three tremendous blasts on the horn, and trod hard on the accelerator. Kelly, gladly responding, plunged forward and upward over the rocks and gutters with so much goodwill that Jake was hurled bodily into the air, and came down on top of the rocking crate with a broken lead dangling from his neck.

In the circumstances one could hardly have censured Jeff if he had shrugged, and left them to their fate. But he jumped on the running-board as it went bucking past him, and attempted direct action where persuasion had failed. Not unnaturally, Ken resented this move, but there was little he could do about it except yell threats, and poke Jeff fiercely in the ribs with his elbow, because he needed both hands to keep Kelly away from the twenty-foot drop at the side of the road.

Aunt Isabelle, however, was free to act. She saw Jeff's desperate manœuvre as blatant and unprovoked aggression which she, as a good democrat, was bound to resist with every means at her disposal. Apart from her fluent tongue—which she continued to employ without pause—the only means at her disposal seemed to be a large pineapple which was lying on the seat for no particular reason except that in this district there usually is a pineapple lying around somewhere. It was a good, solid Fifteen, and, grasped by its green top knot, made a very passable blackjack, as Jeff discovered when it descended with considerable force on his head. He abruptly disappeared. Kelly continued to plunge forward. Ken, delighted with the manner in which his companion had acquitted herself, shouted : “Attagirl!” Aunt Isabelle, much elated, gazed back, waving her pineapple over her head in triumph, and crying : “
A bas, le Drongo!”
As they turned the next corner she had a last glimpse of Jeff sitting in the middle of the road, and staring after them. His hands were clasped tightly over his ears, and his face was strangely screwed up. It crossed her mind fleetingly that he looked like someone waiting for something to explode.