pay for the world’s grief.”
Johnny dropped his chalk and got up and flapped his arms like wings, a gesture Tim would remember at later dates.
“Come on, come on,” he told the girl.
“So how’s trade?” Tim asked when the children had gone.
“Old Crashaw’s left an order. And Mrs. Malcolm was in.” She put on a fake ceremonial voice to say that. “I think she was disappointed not to find you here, you know. You’re her golden boy.”
“What stupid talk!” he said.
“She tells me you’re a hero. I told her in return that you weren’t game enough to face up to the nuns.”
“Holy God! We would have had room for people like this girl at the pub, if you’d been prompter.”
The old grievance. Kitty’d been booked to come to Sydney aboard the
Persic
, and he’d told the New South Wales Licensing Board that she would be in the Macleay in time to help him take up the Jerseyville Hotel. Then her oldest sister decided to be married and so Kitty chose to stay on at home until that event, changing her steamer booking to the
Runic
a month later. You had to be a married man to be a pub licensee in New South Wales. The license went to the married Whelans by default. Just for a Kenna marriage feast.
“One day I’ll bloody kill you for saying that,” she told him. “I won’t take endless blame for the Jerseyville Hotel. What a bloody hole Jerseyville is anyhow. And what sort of publican would you have been? A mark for every sponger! I didn’t understand what I was doing when I changed the steamer. But I tell you it was amercy. Someone was watching over us. Because you can hardly manage the supply of food and kerosene let alone grog. And the silly desire to keep your hands clean of lucre. Well, look at this!”
She took from her pocket an account from a Sydney supply house, Staines and Gould. He could read their Gothic-printed name on the top.
“You give three months’ terms to people and the Sydney houses want to be paid in two. This is our disaster, Tim. Not that I went to a wedding. Nor have a sister coming here. The fact that you have some mad scruple about asking people to pay you for what you’ve already supplied.”
“Then I’ll ask people.”
“You’d better do it or we’ll end in some bloody hole by the roadside!”
“That only happens in Ireland,” he protested, and went through into the residence. In the dining room, the girl and Annie were drinking lemonade from large glasses. Lucy sat in a chair, and Annie had climbed up there and seated herself beside her, checking on her sideways, and then mimicking her posture exactly.
“We must go now, Lucy,” he said, and the severity of the sentence startled both girl children. Johnny should be here to say good-bye but was missing somewhere, a bloody ragamuffin. Up a tree, or under the back of the residence, terrifying the wobbegong spiders.
“You’ll see her again,” he said then to Annie, in a voice out of which he took all the sting which came from the direction of Staines and Gould, Mother Imelda, Kitty.
Little Kitty, five feet and no inches, followed him and Lucy out to Pee Dee and the wagon. Kitty had a wad of dockets in her hand. She gave them to him.
“Show that old nun these, all unpaid. She’s only a woman, you know, she’s got armpits like the rest.”
“Christ, you know I can’t push dockets at Imelda.”
She took them from his hand again and began to push them into the pockets of his vest.
On the way to the convent, no one rushed up to acclaim him,and he felt all the better for that. He was able to feel, therefore, an ordinary citizen, which was half of his secretly desired condition. The other half of the desired condition was for people to say, “There goes Mr. Shea. Generous man.” Not for such definitions to appear in print, but for them to recur in the mouths of Macleay citizens. This was the vanity Kitty mistrusted in him.
Bryson of West had different ideas. He had a storekeeper’s meanness, and
Johnny dropped his chalk and got up and flapped his arms like wings, a gesture Tim would remember at later dates.
“Come on, come on,” he told the girl.
“So how’s trade?” Tim asked when the children had gone.
“Old Crashaw’s left an order. And Mrs. Malcolm was in.” She put on a fake ceremonial voice to say that. “I think she was disappointed not to find you here, you know. You’re her golden boy.”
“What stupid talk!” he said.
“She tells me you’re a hero. I told her in return that you weren’t game enough to face up to the nuns.”
“Holy God! We would have had room for people like this girl at the pub, if you’d been prompter.”
The old grievance. Kitty’d been booked to come to Sydney aboard the
Persic
, and he’d told the New South Wales Licensing Board that she would be in the Macleay in time to help him take up the Jerseyville Hotel. Then her oldest sister decided to be married and so Kitty chose to stay on at home until that event, changing her steamer booking to the
Runic
a month later. You had to be a married man to be a pub licensee in New South Wales. The license went to the married Whelans by default. Just for a Kenna marriage feast.
“One day I’ll bloody kill you for saying that,” she told him. “I won’t take endless blame for the Jerseyville Hotel. What a bloody hole Jerseyville is anyhow. And what sort of publican would you have been? A mark for every sponger! I didn’t understand what I was doing when I changed the steamer. But I tell you it was amercy. Someone was watching over us. Because you can hardly manage the supply of food and kerosene let alone grog. And the silly desire to keep your hands clean of lucre. Well, look at this!”
She took from her pocket an account from a Sydney supply house, Staines and Gould. He could read their Gothic-printed name on the top.
“You give three months’ terms to people and the Sydney houses want to be paid in two. This is our disaster, Tim. Not that I went to a wedding. Nor have a sister coming here. The fact that you have some mad scruple about asking people to pay you for what you’ve already supplied.”
“Then I’ll ask people.”
“You’d better do it or we’ll end in some bloody hole by the roadside!”
“That only happens in Ireland,” he protested, and went through into the residence. In the dining room, the girl and Annie were drinking lemonade from large glasses. Lucy sat in a chair, and Annie had climbed up there and seated herself beside her, checking on her sideways, and then mimicking her posture exactly.
“We must go now, Lucy,” he said, and the severity of the sentence startled both girl children. Johnny should be here to say good-bye but was missing somewhere, a bloody ragamuffin. Up a tree, or under the back of the residence, terrifying the wobbegong spiders.
“You’ll see her again,” he said then to Annie, in a voice out of which he took all the sting which came from the direction of Staines and Gould, Mother Imelda, Kitty.
Little Kitty, five feet and no inches, followed him and Lucy out to Pee Dee and the wagon. Kitty had a wad of dockets in her hand. She gave them to him.
“Show that old nun these, all unpaid. She’s only a woman, you know, she’s got armpits like the rest.”
“Christ, you know I can’t push dockets at Imelda.”
She took them from his hand again and began to push them into the pockets of his vest.
On the way to the convent, no one rushed up to acclaim him,and he felt all the better for that. He was able to feel, therefore, an ordinary citizen, which was half of his secretly desired condition. The other half of the desired condition was for people to say, “There goes Mr. Shea. Generous man.” Not for such definitions to appear in print, but for them to recur in the mouths of Macleay citizens. This was the vanity Kitty mistrusted in him.
Bryson of West had different ideas. He had a storekeeper’s meanness, and
Similar Books
