Read Online 1915 by Roger McDonald - Free Book Online Page A

and his father over for meals when they could manage and then the strain showed. Mr Mackenzie had sworn off the bottle (Billy confirmed it), but when Walter and Billy strolled down to the yards to look at the new draught horses, and Walter led with his question about the old man’s whisky habits, Billy deflected from the unspoken fact of his mother and swore instead about Arnie Scott’s double dealing widow.
    For three weeks Walter finished work at midnight and started again at dawn. His energy seemed inexhaustible. When Douggie arrived home with John, his school friend who was to stay till Christmas, Walter found time among everything else to saddle horses and take them shooting. The harvest began and it was like a solid dream repeated day after day. He did the sewing when he wasn’t handling one of the harvesters and went at it so fiercely that his father left him there — with a leather hand-pad, loops of twine on his belt, anda canvas hat pulled low over his eyes to cut the smashed-glass glare of the fallen wheat. Blacky and Ned Reid shared the work (they brought their machinery, and would have the Gilchrists’ help next).
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    So when the Gilchrists’ harvest was finished Blacky called up to the house to discuss his arrangements. He came on a day when the last bags had waddled away on wagons for the siding, when the pace of work dipped and they found time to look about. Douggie and his friend took off for the hills (John was to leave for home on the night train), Mr Gilchrist eyed his empty paddocks, and his wife cooked for Christmas.
    Blacky was tall, but looked even taller at the cane veranda table with his battered thumbs embracing Mrs Gilchrist’s Karlsbad china and his long legs knifed up practically to chest height. As he drank, it was as though he’d hauled the cup down from an elevated position (like the handle on a bagging shute) to work the tea in, wave by wave, rather than taking it in sips, so that his every gesture, like his conversation, flowed to himself.
    â€œWe don’t live so good as this over our way.” He took a slice of sponge cake and licked extruded cream from its compressed waist before taking a bite.
    â€œIt is Christmas,” said Mrs Gilchrist, who was hovering at his side with a fresh pot.
    â€œWork don’t stop for Santa Claus, Mrs Gilchrist.”
    â€œSurely you’ll take a rest on Christmas Day, it’s the one day, here.”
    â€œNo fear. Come the twenty-fifth the wheat’ll be busting to hop in the bag.”
    â€œWhen do you want us?” Walter did the asking.
    â€œAw, about six in the morning will do. After you’ve been to church at the latest.” He slapped his leg. “Fell for it!”
    â€œThis year,” said Mrs Gilchrist with a cold smile, “the Christmas service is on the Sunday before.”
    Her husband collected crumbs from his knee. He and Blacky shook hands: “Until later, Stan.” The proper name somehow subtracted the scaring factor — Blacky looked vaguely light weight.
    â€œBoxing Day, then,” Blacky winked. But he couldn’t have cared less about Mrs Gilchrist when he thanked her for the morning tea.
    â€œDon’t take any notice of Mum,” said Walter as they crossed the yard.
    â€œEh?” said Blacky. Then he snapped his fingers: “I don’t go for this religion malarkey.”
    â€œWhy not?” It seemed out of character that Blacky with his animal appetites and machine-like constitution built for work should touch the philosophical.
    â€œIt’s all words. All bloody hot air. You’ve only got to look at a dead cow some time. That’s us, boy, skin and bones and guts that go off just like a cow. I want to meet the man who digs out the eternal bloody soul. I’ll shake his hand. Christ, we’ve been waiting long enough to see it.”
    Blacky grinned as he swung a leg over the saddle and bent to click the petrol cock.