Lantana Lane (8 page)

Behold Gwinny, then, on her meat-day, glancing hurriedly at the clock as she puts the dinner in the oven, and calculating that if she is not kept waiting too long for the mail, she will just about get home in time to take it out. She has put on her floral rayon and her white sandals, but goes hatless and stockingless, for this is not a visit. She makes no list, because of her fabulous memory, but she checks over in her mind that she needs salt, soap, matches, a new dish-mop and a dozen twopenny duty stamps for herself; that she has to get a reel of number forty white cotton for Myra, two dozen fourpenny stamps and four letter-cards for Bruce Kennedy, and three air-letters for Aunt Isabelle; that she has to leave some eggs at the store for Sue Griffith, and pick up a rotary-hoe blade which someone is leaving there for Ken Mulliner, and get him a packet of ready rubbed, and post letters for the Achesons, and collect Joe Hardy's groceries.

She hurries down the steps, waving to Alf and the boys, who are picking in the farther patch, and drives the ute out from under the house. EElaine, who is packing in the shed, puts her head out to call: “Timber-chalk!”and Gwinny waving again reassuringly, adds timber-chalk to her mental list as she turns out the gate, and sets forth along the Lane. She drives fast, but of course (being Gwinny) efficiently. It is no thanks to the owner of a placidly ambling cow, but entirely thanks to her unshakeable presence of mind, that there is not a skittled Jersey at the bend before Achesons'; and had it been anyone else's meat-day, Amy Hawkins would not have been observed racing breathlessly, waving her arms, from her house to the back gate. But Gwinny observes her—we can only suppose out of her left ear, because Doug Egan's truck, with a load of wood-wool and fertiliser, has just come round the corner, taking up two-thirds of the Lane—though not, admittedly, more than it needs. Gwinny adroitly steers her offside wheels on to the last available inch of roadway, gets by with a centimetre to spare, and stops neatly at the Hawkins' gate.

“Ooooo-ff! “gasps Amy. “Oh, dear, am I puffed! I heard you coming, but I thought I was going to miss you.” She produces papers and money from her apron pocket. “Listen, Gwinny, would you mind getting some things for me at the store? Here's the list. And you might just ask if they've got laying-mash in yet? And this is a pattern I promised Helen Miller—I said I'd get someone to leave it at the store for her. And this is for Mrs. Hughes, eight and tenpence (yes, I know there's thirteen and four here, but I'll tell you about the other four and six presently). This belongs to the raffle money, but I got mixed because the kids were playing up, and gave her eight and tenpence short. And the four and six is for stamps—a dozen fourpennies and half a dozen pennies. And if you wouldn't mind just posting these letters, only this one has to go by air mail, so it'll want extra postage, and you can put it on out of the stamps you get. . . .”

Gwinny undertakes all these commissions imperturbably, and continues on her way. She herself would never get mixed, and give someone eight and tenpence short, even if all her kids were playing up at once, but she feels no scorn for Amy. She bowls briskly along the main road, and should anyone ask her to-night—or six months hence, for that matter—what she encountered on this two-mile stretch, she would reply without hesitation : “A Land Rover, young chap in glasses, some fowls in the back—Australorps. Jim Bray driving his cow along to the Mullinses bull. Pale blue Cadillac with a Victorian number-plate, man and a woman with a lot of luggage and some golf clubs. Mal Rayner from Rothwell, in his Ford—going to see his girl at Tooloola; had his right hand bandaged up. Tom Andrews with a load of pigs for the saleyards. Old Blatt's dog, limping on its left hind leg.” It would be no matter for surprise if she could recite the numbers of all these vehicles, too.

Without appearing to take her eyes off the road, she also possesses herself of much interesting local information. From certain garments hanging on the line, she knows that Maud Ashwell's sister is staying with them again; from branded cases outside the Wylie's shed, she learns that they are now sending their fruit to Adelaide; from a glimpse of Judy Blake walking across to the Grahams with a billy in her hand, she understands that the Blakes' cow has been dried off; and from the sight of Des Wilkie unloading a bag of cement from the boot of his car, she correctly deduces that he is going to mend his leaky tank at last. All these matters automatically file themselves in her mind, to be produced when required as material for conversation.

Arrived at the store, she parks her ute, and is immediately accosted by Bill Weedon from The Other Road. (There are only two roads—not counting the main highway—in Dillillibill; our Lane, and the one which we call, condescendingly, The Other Road). Bill has a sugar-bag full of potatoes, and he would be obliged if Gwinny would just drop it at Ken Mulliner's . . . and how's Alf keeping? . . . And what's the chance of a drop of rain? . . . And Cheerioh.

Gwinny descends from her ute, and looks about her as she straightens her skirt. The store stands a little back from the road, with a camphor-laurel tree and a couple of petrol bowsers in front of it, and about these assorted motor vehicles are negligently parked. The Post Office opens off one end of the store verandah, which is crowded with Dillillibillians waiting for their mail; at the other end, Bill Hawkins, as Secretary of the Cricket Club, is pinning on the wall a notice which says that the D.C.C. will play the M.C.C. (away), on Saturday the 18th—but this does not mean what you think it does; the Dillillibill boys will go no farther than Malandaba. Just at Bill's feet the sacks containing the meat are piled, and towards these Gwinny makes her way, pausing to separate and admonish two little girls who have come to blows over a bright green ice-block. She mounts the steps on to the verandah, and begins to pull the sacks about, reading the labels affixed, and setting aside those destined for the Lane.

While she is thus engaged, Jenny Robertson from The Other Road comes along to greet her, and ask her to tell all the womenfolk in the Lane that the next meeting of the C.W.A. will take place on Thursday week. Gwinny immediately objects that this won't do, because Thursday week is the Bowling Club's monthly Ladies' Day; Jenny claps her hand to her head, and says, oh cripes, she had forgotten—how about Friday week, then? A dog sidles up and begins to show more interest than he should in the sacks, so Gwinny routs him with a smack he will remember, and points out to Jenny that most of the ladies will be very busy on Friday week, preparing for the Junior Farmers' ball on Saturday. But there's nothing on for Tuesday fortnight, so she can tell the Lane to keep that day, if Jenny will attend to The Other Road.

She then grasps the sacks, takes them over to her ute, and returns with Sue's box of eggs—this time entering the store, where she is at once involved in several conversations while waiting to be served. But she manages some small items of business at the same time. All the Dunks—father, mother, son and daughter—are busy attending to their customers, but Gwinny catches Mrs. Dunk's eye, sets the box on the counter, and calls out: “Eggs—Griffith.” Mrs. Dunk nods, jerks her head towards the floor near the entrance, and responds : “Rotary-hoe blade—for Ken.” Holly Dunk, sorting newspapers, looks up to say that Joe Hardy's groceries are in that carton over there, and Gwinny, as she nods acknowledgment, perceives Mrs. Hughes coming in, immediately collars her, and gives her, together with eight-and-tenpence, a lucid explanation of how this sum came to be erroneously abstracted from the raffle money. She then hoists Joe's box of groceries on to her hip, picks up the rotary-hoe blade, and makes another journey to the ute.

Returning once more, she posts all the letters (except, of course, the airmail one), re-enters the store, places the pattern for Mrs. Miller conspicuously propped up against a pyramid of tins containing baked beans, and, observing Mrs. Dunk momentarily at liberty, proceeds with her own purchases, and those of Amy Hawkins, not forgetting to ascertain that laying-mash is now available, and to buy the reel of cotton for Myra Dawson. By now Holly has the newspapers sorted, so there is a bulky bundle ready for the Lane, and presently Gwinny once more emerges, laden, into the sunshine, and crosses the road to deposit her burdens.

Now for the mail. She finds the Post Office counter lined four deep. Mr. Davis, the postmaster, whom nothing can hurry, astonish or disturb, is waiting with monumental patience while Jenny Robertson (a bit of a muddler, Jenny), scrabbles in her bag, strews the counter with sixpences, threepences and coppers, and finally admits in despair that she is fourpence ha'penny short. Mr. Davis briefly instructs her to drop it in some day, and waves her aside. Things go ahead pretty briskly then, until Old Blatt has to collect a registered package, and sign for it; this threatens to create another bottleneck, so Mr. Davis moves him up to the far end of the counter, where he can take his time over it, and turns to Gwinny.

Gwinny says rapidly:

“Three dozen fourpennies, half a dozen pennies, four letter-cards, three air-letters, one dozen twopenny duties, and mail for the Lane.”

While he is assembling her needs, she finds the pitiable Jenny at her elbow again with another problem, and a chaotically scrawled bit of paper.

“Gwinny, I've got to arrange a tennis match for the kids—they're playing the Tooloola juniors, six each team, and they say they want everyone to play everyone, but somehow I just can't get it worked out. . . .”

Gwinny is watching the clock, and thinking of her dinner. She glances with astonishment at the deplorable bit of paper, and interrupts hurriedly, but kindly:

“It's quite easy, Jen. You want to write it down in numbers, or numbers for one team and letters for the other, if you like. One and two play a and b, three and four play c and d, and so in for the first round and then one and two play c and d, and three and four play e and f, and you go on like that, and then in the third round one and two play e and f, and three and four play a and b. . . .”

“Have a heart! “cries Jenny wildly. “Say it again? . . .”

Gwinny snatches a telegraph form and a post office pen, and writes the whole thing down for her. Jenny thanks her abjectly, and goes off, chewing her handkerchief as she studies it. By now Mr. Davis is ready with Gwinny's requirements, and in three seconds Gwinny is ready with the exact money to pay for them. There is still air-mail postage to be affixed to Amy's letter, and when she has done this, and dropped the letter in the box, she returns to the ute to sort the mail.

This she does sitting in the driving-seat, and continues to do it without pause while several other people come along to talk to her for a few minutes, and then drift away. There is a newspaper for every house in the Lane, except Herbie Bassett's, and a copy of the
Farmers' Weekly
for everyone, and four copies of a women's magazine with a lovely picture of Princess Anne on the cover, and one copy of a men's magazine with a picture on the cover which is the kind of picture Gwinny disapproves of, and hopes Tristy and Gaily do not see; this is addressed to (of all people!) Joe Hardy's Uncle Cuth who, Gwinny thinks, is old enough to know better, and ought to be ashamed of himself. There are also two English newspapers for the Griffiths, a sporting paper for Ken Mulliner, and a scientific journal for Bruce Kennedy. These form the foundations for neat piles arranged on her lap, and along the seat beside her, and she adds to them thus:

“Hawkins, Arnold, Hawkins (only a circular), Acheson, Master Tommy Hawkins (that's for his birthday), Dawson, Dawson (from New Zealand, that must be Myra's mother), Griffith, Tommy Hawkins, Dufour (French air-mail—funny writing!), Griffith (that's their fruit cheque), Kennedy, Acheson (that's Biddy's sister, probably to say her baby's arrived), Hon. Sec. Bowling Club (that goes with Hawkins') Bell (receipt for the insurance), Mulliner, Dawson, Bell (about time Olive wrote!), Kennedy (that's his fruit cheque), Arnold (that's
his
fruit cheque, but I bet he didn't get much for his last lot), Hon. Sec. Tennis Club (goes with Ken's), Acheson, Dawson (that's his fruit cheque—he
would
be sending to Newcastle just now!), Bell (that's our fruit cheque), Mrs. B. V. Kennedy (wonder what the V. stands for?), Tommy Hawkins, Bell (that'll be my pattern), Mr. T. Bell (now who's that ,writing to Tristy? . . .) parcel for Tommy Hawkins (bless him, he's doing all right. . . .).

When everything is sorted, and each bundle secured by an elastic band, she starts up her engine and—thinking again of her dinner—steps on the gas. About a mile short of the Lane she overtakes Herbie, who has been keeping an appointment with a fallen tree which is sending up a new, perpendicular trunk from the old one in a manner which calls for constant observation. She stops to pick him up, but tells him to ride in the back so that he can get the meat out of the sacks, thus saving her a few minutes. Herbie volunteers to take the Hawkins' parcel in while she is delivering Joe's, so when she stops at the corner, he jumps out and makes for the gate.

“Hoy!”says Gwinny, stopping him in his tracks, and beckoning him back with a jerk of her head. “Papers—mail—stamps—groceries—tell Amy they've got laying-mash in, and C.W.A.'s on Tuesday fortnight.”

Thus briefed and laden, Herbie sets out again, and Gwinny, having gathered up Joe's belongings, ducks under the wire near the green ute, and takes a short cut through the Cobblers' Pegs to the door of his shack, which stands open; she can see Joe and Uncle Cuth far away down in the pines. The table is swarming with ants (and no wonder, she thinks, with all those crumbs left lying around) so she sets the box of groceries on one chair, with the meat on top, lays Uncle Cuth's disgraceful magazine on another, and buries it beneath the newspaper and the
farmers' Weekly,
which has nothing more suggestive on its cover than a picture of a self-priming, non-corrosive, high-pressure centrifugal spray pump. Next she seizes a broom, and with a few swift strokes sweeps the ants and crumbs from the table and out the door, after which she replaces the broom and bustles back to her ute, where Herbie is awaiting her.