Lantana Lane (6 page)

Meanwhile, Joe's dilapidated green ute stood, day in and day out, at the corner of the Lane, and Nature, seeing that it was abandoned by man, adopted it. The bay of lantana in which it stood became a bower arching above it, and a rambler rose entwined itself quite charmingly over the bonnet and around the headlamps. Dead leaves drifted down on to the tray, and rotted. Rain washed them, mixed with the accumulating deposit of dust, into cracks and corners where blown seeds took root, and grew. Beside one of the rear wheels a pumpkin plant established itself, and became a luxuriant vine which clambered ever higher. Kookaburras made a regular perching place of the hood, and a family of mice which nested in the stuffing of the seat became a source of great annoyance to Butch, whose custom it had once been to take a nap there every day; but Jack Hawkins had seen that the cab was securely closed against the weather, so there was nothing Butch could do about it except stand on his hind legs on the running-board, and bark furiously at them through the glass. Bill Hawkins used to start the engine up occasionally, but he never had time to brush the lantana, or disentangle the rambler rose, or pull the weeds out of the tray; in any case, they were doing no harm. As for the pumpkin vine, it might just as well be left alone, Amy pointed out, to produce pumpkins.

And we all began to say : “Just keep on going till you come to a green ute. . . .”

At this stage we might almost have added : “. . . with a little bloke looking at it,” for Herbie Bassett had, of course, returned from hospital by now, and he spent much of his time sitting, or squatting, or prowling about near it. His main pleasure in life has always been gazing at things—so long as they keep still, or move (like a snail, a cloud, or the growing tip of a plant) at a pace which allows him to take his time about it. He had never studied motor vehicles, for even when they were stationary he found himself unable to forget that they were essentially mobile objects which might, at any tick of the clock, begin to move at forty miles an hour; this made him nervous, and destroyed his concentration.

But now there was one available which conveyed no such disquieting impression, since it had all the appearance of being permanently anchored to the ground by rose and pumpkin vines, and incorporated into the lantana as inextricably as a fence. He therefore gave himself up to almost continuous contemplation of this rare spectacle, and to an exhaustive study of the natural processes which were submerging it, leaf by leaf, in rampant vegetation.

It was about the time when Herbie first noticed the pumpkin forming that Uncle Cuth presented himself at the Arnolds', and as they were last on the list of those who were to entertain him, everyone was beginning to wonder rather wildly what would happen next; for the latest medical bulletin held out no hope of Joe's return for some time.

Uncle Cuth had been no more than five days with the Arnolds, however, when he created a sensation by declaring that he had made his own arrangements for the future. He was going to stay with Herbie Bassett. He reckoned he weren't going to be exploited no more by a lot of skinflints that was only trying to get free labour out of him, so he was going to Herbie, because Herbie was the only bloke in the Lane not plumb-crazy about work, and there wouldn't be no flamin' women around to push soap and towels at him, and try to sneak the clothes off of his back.

On this note of defiance, he walked out the Arnolds' gate, and up the Lane towards the green ute. Immediately all the telephones began to ring in all the houses, and by the time Uncle Cuth reached the corner, Herbie was the only person in the Lane who did not know what was in store for him.

Squatting on his heels, he was studying the pumpkin when Uncle Cuth walked up. It was about the size of a marble, and it was growing in midair from a stem which had reached out from one of the back wheels, and attached itself to an overhanging branch of lantana. Herbie was quite excited about it, foreseeing days—nay, weeks—of absorbing occupation and, in due course, a climax which might well prove to be dramatic; for clearly, as it grew bigger it would also grow heavier, and something would happen. What? Would the stem break? Would it develop a kink which impeded its circulation, and condemned the infant pumpkin to premature extinction? or would it subside, gently lowering its burden to the ground? . . .

Uncle Cuth, standing beside him, said:

“Huh.”

Herbie, without lifting his eyes, replied politely, but absent-mindedly:

“Huh.”

Uncle Cuth, bending down, examined the pumpkin, and expressed the opinion that it would never come to nothing. Herbie remained silent, for he had no preconceived ideas on this or any other subject; he merely wished to observe, and whatever happened was all right with him. But he did not want to be disturbed just now, nor to have his attention deflected, because he really had two things to watch at once. Near the pumpkin there was a corkscrew-like tendril stretching out towards a tall, dead stalk of Stinking Roger, and it had only a centimetre to go.

Now Herbie had watched tendrils at work in many varieties of scandent plants—those of peas (which he held to be assiduous, but incompetent), beans (which he considered enterprising and efficient), passion-fruit (which, in his opinion, were not only marvels of tenacity, but had also provided inspiration for the coiled steel spring), and others too numerous to mention—but watch as he would, he had never yet managed to see a tendril at the precise moment of its first contact with a support. So when Uncle Cuth announced that he was bound for Herbie's house to take up his abode there, and expressed the hope that Herbie's hens were laying, because he'd been pretty near starved lately, Herbie only said “Huh “again, and continued to watch the tendril with passionate attention. Uncle Cuth therefore went on his way, found a packet of tobacco on Herbie's table, filled his pipe, and lay down on Herbie's bed where he smoked peacefully and congratulated himself upon his escape until he fell asleep.

Meanwhile the Lane was buzzing with excitement. Everyone had said over the 'phone to everyone else that really, you know, it
might
work, and why hadn't they thought of it before? Anyhow, they must now do their best to make it work, and to help poor Herbie. Marge said she would send a dozen eggs, and Gwinny thought she could rustle up a dozen too, and Amy declared she would get Bill to take a stretcher and a couple of blankets over, and Biddy had just baked a cake that would do nicely, and Sue contributed an apple-pie and a pound of butter, and Myra Dawson and Headier Arnold each had a loaf to spare, and Ken Mulliner sacrificed a whole, unopened packet of tobacco. So by the time Herbie got home there was a generous stack of food on his table. Uncle Cuth did full justice to it, and then retired again to Herbie's bed. Herbie adopted the stretcher, which he set up on the verandah; this enabled him to watch the stars—a study so enthralling that he could not imagine why he had neglected it before—and he resolved never to sleep indoors again. But it kept him awake for a great part of the night, so he formed the habit of taking a siesta during the day. Being thus so fully occupied with his chores, his forty winks and his daily engagement with the pumpkin vine, he had no time to spare for his guest; but since Uncle Cuth had nothing to do but eat and sleep, and could do as much of both as he pleased, this suited him very well. The Lane, having held its breath while awaiting the outcome of the new experiment, released it in a long sigh of relief, and continued ardently to pile Herbie's table with eggs, tobacco and other delicacies.

In this way matters proceeded very smoothly and pleasantly until, at last, Joe came home.

The Joe who came home was, of course, markedly different from the pre-cyclone Joe—and not only in appearance. His capacity for manual labour was greatly impaired, and a significant change in his attitude to Uncle Cuth was also discernible. With the aid of the neighbours he built himself the shack which he still occupies, using such materials as he could salvage from the wreck of his house; this dwelling consists of a sizeable room which combines the functions of kitchen, living-room, and Joe's bedroom, and a second very small apartment which belongs to Uncle Cuth.

He occupied it, at first, under protest; indeed, under physical duress. He had been very comfortable at Herbie's, and protested that nothing would make him return to be the exploited prop and mainstay of a nephew who had callously deserted him in his hour of peril. Besides, he added, his dear old friend, Herbie, needed him.

This was overstating the case, but it was a fact that during the last week or two of his stay, his company—or, more correctly, his presence—had afforded his host some pleasurable hours. For it had occurred to Herbie quite suddenly that he was wasting a unique opportunity. He had always mournfully accepted the fact that human beings were no good at all for his purposes, being even more restless than motor vehicles; and besides, although it is not rude to stare fixedly at a car or a pantechnicon, it is very rude indeed to stare fixedly at a human being. The discovery that neither of these disadvantages applied to his guest had been a momentous one. Uncle Cuth was content to remain perfectly motionless on a bed for hours at a time, and far from betraying any discomposure when Herbie sat down nearby and subjected him to a close, and prolonged scrutiny, seemed to find it a natural tribute to his interesting personality. All the same, Herbie had not yet exhausted the wonders of the ute, and the pumpkin problem was growing every day more engrossing, and each night the stars demanded longer study, so he found Uncle Cuth almost an
embarrass de richesse,
and was beginning to lose weight, and get dark circles under his eyes. So when Joe came along and fetched Uncle Cuth home by the scruff of his neck, Herbie saw them go with composure, if not without a lingering regret. And Joe, having marched his violently protesting relative across the threshold of their new abode, delivered himself of one grim sentence : “If y' gotta be a bludger, y'ain't gonna bludge on nobody but me.”

Well, that was that, and they settled down together. Joe couldn't do as much work now as he had done before, so not many cases of pines went out from his farm, and the cheques which came back must have been small; but the fund tided them over, and Joe made Uncle Cuth throw in his pension—cutting short his attempted remonstrances with the dour remark that if there was one thing he had better not mention in Joe's hearing, unless he wanted to get thrown out on his ear, that thing was a rainy day. It was also remarked in the Lane, with wonder and satisfaction, that Uncle Cuth (carbuscles or no carbuscles), was sometimes to be seen chipping in the pines, and frequently to be heard hammering in the shed. He raised his voice loudly, of course, against this cruel exploitation, but Joe merely retorted that the trouble with him was that he'd never been exploited enough, but, by golly, he was going to be now.

Joe didn't feel equal to going fishing any more, and his injuries made him awkward in driving the ute, so he rarely went in to the store, and never to the pictures. He thought of selling the ute, but he wouldn't have got much for it, and it saved him a lot of heavy lugging on the farm, so he kept it. The neighbours arranged to fetch his meat, and mail and groceries for him, so that was all right, but, bereft of his weekly movie, his thoughts began to turn longingly to his draughts. He accordingly sent a message to the old lady in Dillillibill enquiring whether their weekly contest might be resumed, and received a reply to the effect that she would be eagerly awaiting him, and thirsting for battle, on the next Sunday, and every Sunday thereafter.

He was greatly cheered by this prospect—particularly when Gwinny (who has a sister in Dillillibill, and visits her every Sunday), volunteered to transport him there and back. When all was satisfactorily arranged, the Lane dared to hope that his disorganised life was once more settling down to a peaceful and regular routine.

With what consternation was it learned, therefore, on the Saturday morning, that Gwinny's sister had just rung Gwinny to tell her that the old lady had died suddenly of a stroke, in the very act of getting her draughts-board out from the cupboard where it had lain unused for so long. Joe was terribly upset by this, and confided to Amy Hawkins that he felt real bad about it, because he couldn't help being afraid it was the excitement that did her in. He went along the Lane collecting white flowers from everyone, and Biddy Acheson made them up into a very fine wreath, and Jack Hawkins drove him in to attend the funeral.

It was difficult, now, for Joe to look sad—or, indeed, anything but sinister. But we all knew that he
was
sad, and felt very sorry for him, and very useless, because although we could help him in some ways, we could not help him about draughts. We knew our limitations. We realised that there was now no one within, perhaps, a radius of a hundred miles, who was qualified to compete with Joe at this venerable game of skill.

But Bruce Kennedy (who is the least contemptible player in the Lane) did, at last, pluck up courage to go and offer himself, in all humility, as a poor substitute for the old lady. He returned, goggle-eyed, with news which swiftly flashed along the Lane. Joe, in the greatness of his need, had begun teaching Uncle Cuth to play draughts—and already Uncle Cuth had twice wiped the floor with him.

After that we knew that Joe's problems were at an end. He still swears at Uncle Cuth, and Uncle Cuth still screeches at him, but they need each other. Nothing will ever part them now except death, and we are not worrying about that yet; Joe is clearly indestructible, and Uncle Cuth—whatever his age, and despite his numerous infirmities—looks good for another twenty years.

The ute stands, week in and week out, at the corner, and although the vegetation is not now quite so thick about it, and Butch once more takes his midday nap on what the mice have left of the seat, it still has an air of being rooted. So when we have occasion to direct our friends to the Lane, we feel safe enough in saying: