the quality of the light, and so on. But I did enjoy my movements. The walk not only convinced others, it convinced me and, strolling in the manner of a Gentleman, I became one.
The soak lay in the shadow of a towering redbrick flour mill. I got down in the gully out of sight of the road, but the blank windows of the flour mill continued to stare down at me. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice: I took off my suit coat, my trousers, my socks. I stood in my underwear in sight of the flour mill and felt self—conscious about my bowed legs. I walked through the black squelching mud, to the far side of the swamp. The calls of frogs drew me on like sirens, although I had no hessian bag.
It is my belief that there are few things in this world more useful than a hessian bag, and no matter what part of my story I wish to reflect on I find that a hessian bag, or the lack of one, assumes some importance. They soften the edge of a hard bench, can be split open to line a wall, can provide a blanket for a cold night, a safe container for a snake, a rabbit, or a duck. They are usefulwhen beheading hens or to place under car tyres in sandy soil. You can stuff them full of kapok to make a decent cushion and there is nothing better to carry frogs in.
Which is why it is surprising that in all the McGraths’ possessions I could not find a single hessian bag. I had been forced to come in search of frogs with two small white paper bags which smelt as if they had held confectionery and, indeed, when the snake eventually devoured the first frog he would find it lightly dusted with icing sugar like a special treat from the ABC Tea Rooms.
With paper bag in hand, I felt foolish. I imagined lines of women in white aprons behind the windows of the flour mill. They were laughing at my legs.
I was confident enough of my shoulders and my arms. I was proud of my height and even arrogant about my general carriage. Even my calves, in isolation, met with my approval. But my bowed legs mortified me and I turned sideways to the staring windows, presenting myself at my least ludicrous angle.
That was the problem with a Gentleman’s Stroll. It produced expectations that could not be met. It was not the right walk for a man who must, when it is over, take off his clothes and walk in black mud.
When the editor of the
Geelong Advertiser
had used the word “herpetologist” to describe me, I had readily agreed. Later, in answer to a question from my host, I persuaded him to look it up in the dictionary. At the time it had seemed an interesting thing to be, but now, in the middle of the soak, it did not seem so fine.
I found my first frog where the small stream disappeared into the soak. It sat there, brown, shiny and horny-skinned. Its eyes bulged up at me and I grabbed it with a shudder.
It was then I heard the cough.
The first thing I thought of was my legs. I turned, still holding the frog in both hands, and saw a swagman, although that is not much of a description of the fellow. He was a swagman who had let himself go, a swagman who had long ago given up trying to wash his shirt once a week in summer, a swagman whose natural affection for pieces of string and odd discarded rags had entered a virulent phase where it overwhelmed any of the conventional restraints placed on fashion and became a style of its own.
His face, where you could see it through his rampant beard, was weathered and beaten by the combined forces of sun, rain and alcohol. His teeth were rotting. His bulbous nose made itsown confession. His hair was grey and matted and one eye, half closed by a blow or a bee sting, gave him an untrustworthy appearance.
He was squatting on the ground like a blackfellow, quiet and still and cunning. I thought the swagman was looking at my legs.
“Good tucker?” the swagman asked.
I tried to hold the Gentleman’s stance while I held the frog and walked in a modest fashion through the mud.
“You scared me, man,” I said.
“You scared
The soak lay in the shadow of a towering redbrick flour mill. I got down in the gully out of sight of the road, but the blank windows of the flour mill continued to stare down at me. I didn’t like it, but I had no choice: I took off my suit coat, my trousers, my socks. I stood in my underwear in sight of the flour mill and felt self—conscious about my bowed legs. I walked through the black squelching mud, to the far side of the swamp. The calls of frogs drew me on like sirens, although I had no hessian bag.
It is my belief that there are few things in this world more useful than a hessian bag, and no matter what part of my story I wish to reflect on I find that a hessian bag, or the lack of one, assumes some importance. They soften the edge of a hard bench, can be split open to line a wall, can provide a blanket for a cold night, a safe container for a snake, a rabbit, or a duck. They are usefulwhen beheading hens or to place under car tyres in sandy soil. You can stuff them full of kapok to make a decent cushion and there is nothing better to carry frogs in.
Which is why it is surprising that in all the McGraths’ possessions I could not find a single hessian bag. I had been forced to come in search of frogs with two small white paper bags which smelt as if they had held confectionery and, indeed, when the snake eventually devoured the first frog he would find it lightly dusted with icing sugar like a special treat from the ABC Tea Rooms.
With paper bag in hand, I felt foolish. I imagined lines of women in white aprons behind the windows of the flour mill. They were laughing at my legs.
I was confident enough of my shoulders and my arms. I was proud of my height and even arrogant about my general carriage. Even my calves, in isolation, met with my approval. But my bowed legs mortified me and I turned sideways to the staring windows, presenting myself at my least ludicrous angle.
That was the problem with a Gentleman’s Stroll. It produced expectations that could not be met. It was not the right walk for a man who must, when it is over, take off his clothes and walk in black mud.
When the editor of the
Geelong Advertiser
had used the word “herpetologist” to describe me, I had readily agreed. Later, in answer to a question from my host, I persuaded him to look it up in the dictionary. At the time it had seemed an interesting thing to be, but now, in the middle of the soak, it did not seem so fine.
I found my first frog where the small stream disappeared into the soak. It sat there, brown, shiny and horny-skinned. Its eyes bulged up at me and I grabbed it with a shudder.
It was then I heard the cough.
The first thing I thought of was my legs. I turned, still holding the frog in both hands, and saw a swagman, although that is not much of a description of the fellow. He was a swagman who had let himself go, a swagman who had long ago given up trying to wash his shirt once a week in summer, a swagman whose natural affection for pieces of string and odd discarded rags had entered a virulent phase where it overwhelmed any of the conventional restraints placed on fashion and became a style of its own.
His face, where you could see it through his rampant beard, was weathered and beaten by the combined forces of sun, rain and alcohol. His teeth were rotting. His bulbous nose made itsown confession. His hair was grey and matted and one eye, half closed by a blow or a bee sting, gave him an untrustworthy appearance.
He was squatting on the ground like a blackfellow, quiet and still and cunning. I thought the swagman was looking at my legs.
“Good tucker?” the swagman asked.
I tried to hold the Gentleman’s stance while I held the frog and walked in a modest fashion through the mud.
“You scared me, man,” I said.
“You scared
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