Read Online Happy Valley by Patrick White - Free Book Online

seen, with her pink ribbons, howhe dealt with people in bars, or how he got on a horse, that time in Singleton, and that was a horse. So he filled his mouth with whisky and swallowed it down, and it was no doubt whisky made you feel good, made you open your coat. He stood there with his legs apart staring impressively at the two men.
    You haven’t got horses down here, he said, and waited for it to sink in. You won’t breed horses in hill country, nothing but runts, he said. Give us another whisky, Steve. You won’t have seen horses if you haven’t been up north. Nothing but runts down here.
    An’ who said I haven’t been up north? said the drover, shifting his whip.
    His spurs tinkled as he spat straight on the floor. The lip of the old man hung pinkly, stupidly, down.
    Nobody said, said Hagan, taking his glass. I was making a statement, nothing more.
    Two can’t play at that, I suppose?
    Hagan bent his knees. He was talking to people in bars, and they listened because there was something to hear, because he could tell a story well, and he was feeling good for the first time, just as if the pub was full, in race week up north, and people coming in, and girls in the bedrooms upstairs changing their dresses for a dance.
    There was a horse in Singleton, he said, swallowing down. That was a horse. A big brown colt. They couldn’t do a thing with that bloody colt. And there you could see, he was a beauty, plenty of bone and size, nothing runty about a horse like that. But there they were standing round, bringing twitches and God knows what, and the colt shaking themoff, and the saddle-cloth they threw over his head. It made you laugh. There was a cove called Rube Isaacs, and Rube got a kick straight in the pants. Well, you couldn’t help laugh to hear Rube letting on. And the horse just stood there snorting, flattening his ears. So I up and said, what do you say if you leave off arsing about and let me have a go at the horse. The brute wasn’t having a chance. And I grabbed hold of the brute by the ear. I twisted his bloody ear all right. And I got on his back. And Christ, he didn’t half let fly round and round that yard, and everyone climbing on to the fence. I thought I was losing me guts, the way we kept on hitting the ground, with that big bastard heaving about. And then…well, what do you think?
    Nobody thought. The three women in the inner room paused with their napkins and stared out. The drover wiped his nose on the back of his hand.
    He cleared the fence, said Hagan, taking a drink, and started on a five-mile lick. But he hadn’t got me beat. Not me. I haven’t had a horse that could beat me yet. I just gave that colt his head and let him do what he liked.
    Wonder ’e ain’t doin’ it yet, said the drover, slamming down his glass.
    Doing what?
    You ought to know, said the drover, shifting his whip. You’re tellin’ the story. It isn’t me.
    Now look here, if you think…
    There ain’t no cause to get nasty, gentlemen, said the publican, leaning over the bar. His lips flapped in on his gums. For he only wore his teeth on Sunday afternoons.
    Who’s getting nasty? said Hagan.
    You ought to be able to tell us that. Don’t let that one beat you, the drover said.
    The old man simpered into his beer.
    If you think I’m a liar…
    You’re a touchy one, sighed the drover. You’ll be telling a bloke ’e’s got ’is ’and on your watch-chain next.
    This was what you got for telling a story to a snakeface, and you couldn’t argue with a snake, you broke its back without waiting to ask what it thought. You told a story and you knew it was a story, or a lie, or a story, but you didn’t tell a man it was a lie because it was a story. But those mean snake eyes, he’d like to push its face, and she’d see he was pretty strong, like the time he bashed that shearer up at Werris Creek, she’d like to see, standing there with a bit too much on view, and white, with that sort of fur around the neck. He