Read Online The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Flanagan
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something undeniable.
He dropped the hand behind his back and turned so that he was facing her square-on. Between them a shaft of light was falling through the window, dust rising within it, and he saw her as if out of a cell window. He smiled, he said something—he didn’t know what. He looked beyond the light to the ring of men, her praetorian guard waiting in the shadows, hoping one out of self-interest might come over and take advantage of his awkwardness and sweep her back.
What sort of soldier are you? she asked.
Not much of one.
Using his book, he tapped the triangular brown patch with its inset green circle sewn on his tunic shoulder.
2/7th Casualty Clearing Station. I’m a doctor.
He found himself feeling both slightly resentful and somewhat nervous. What business did beauty have with him? Particularly when her expression, her voice, her clothing, everything about her, he understood as that of a woman of some standing, and though he was a doctor now, and an officer, he was not so far removed from his origins that he did not feel these things acutely.
I worried I had gatecrashed the—
The magazine launch? Oh, no. I think they’d welcome anyone with a pulse. Or even without one. Tippy over there—she waved a hand towards the other woman—Tippy says that poet who was reading his work is going to revolutionise Australian literature.
Brave man. I only signed up to take on Hitler.
Did a word of it make any sense to you? she said, her look at once unwavering and searching.
Penguins?
She smiled broadly, as though some difficult bridge had been crossed.
I rather liked shoelaces, she said.
One of the group of her swarming admirers was singing in the manner of Paul Robeson:
Old horse Rowley, he just keep on rolling.
Tippy roped us all into coming, she said in a new tone of familiarity, as though they’d been friends for many years. Me, her brother and some of his friends. She’s a student with the poet downstairs. We’d been at some services officers’ club listening to the Cup and she wanted us to come here to listen to Max.
Who’s Max? Dorrigo asked.
The poet. But that’s not important.
Who’s Rowley?
A horse. That’s not important either.
He was mute, he didn’t know what to say, her words made no sense, her words were irrelevant to everything that was passing between them. If the horse and the poet were both unimportant, what was important? There was something about her—intensity? directness? wildness?—that he found greatly unsettling. What did she want? What did it mean? He longed for her to leave.
On hearing a man’s voice, Dorrigo turned to see that one of the swarm—wearing a RAAF officer’s light-blue uniform—was standing next to them, telling her in an affected English accent that they needed her back to
help sort out a discussion we’re having on tote odds.
Her gaze followed Dorrigo’s, and recognising the blue uniform, her face changed entirely. It was as if she were another woman, and her eyes, which had been so alive looking at Dorrigo, were now, while looking at the other man, suddenly dead.
The blue uniform sought to ignore her stare by turning to Dorrigo.
You know she picked him, he said.
Picked who?
Old Rowley. Hundred to one. Longest odds in the history of the Cup. And
she
knew. She bloody well knew which gee-gee. Harry over there made twenty quid.
Before Dorrigo could reply, the woman spoke to the RAAF officer in a way that Dorrigo understood was charming but without any feeling.
I just have one more question for my friend, she said, pointing to Dorrigo. Then I’ll be back over with you to talk turf accountancy.
And, that short conversation done, she turned back to Dorrigo and froze the blue uniform out so completely that, after a moment or two, he returned to the others.
3
WHAT QUESTION?
I have no idea what question, she said.
He feared she was playing with him. His instinct was to get away but something held him there.
What’s the book? she
He dropped the hand behind his back and turned so that he was facing her square-on. Between them a shaft of light was falling through the window, dust rising within it, and he saw her as if out of a cell window. He smiled, he said something—he didn’t know what. He looked beyond the light to the ring of men, her praetorian guard waiting in the shadows, hoping one out of self-interest might come over and take advantage of his awkwardness and sweep her back.
What sort of soldier are you? she asked.
Not much of one.
Using his book, he tapped the triangular brown patch with its inset green circle sewn on his tunic shoulder.
2/7th Casualty Clearing Station. I’m a doctor.
He found himself feeling both slightly resentful and somewhat nervous. What business did beauty have with him? Particularly when her expression, her voice, her clothing, everything about her, he understood as that of a woman of some standing, and though he was a doctor now, and an officer, he was not so far removed from his origins that he did not feel these things acutely.
I worried I had gatecrashed the—
The magazine launch? Oh, no. I think they’d welcome anyone with a pulse. Or even without one. Tippy over there—she waved a hand towards the other woman—Tippy says that poet who was reading his work is going to revolutionise Australian literature.
Brave man. I only signed up to take on Hitler.
Did a word of it make any sense to you? she said, her look at once unwavering and searching.
Penguins?
She smiled broadly, as though some difficult bridge had been crossed.
I rather liked shoelaces, she said.
One of the group of her swarming admirers was singing in the manner of Paul Robeson:
Old horse Rowley, he just keep on rolling.
Tippy roped us all into coming, she said in a new tone of familiarity, as though they’d been friends for many years. Me, her brother and some of his friends. She’s a student with the poet downstairs. We’d been at some services officers’ club listening to the Cup and she wanted us to come here to listen to Max.
Who’s Max? Dorrigo asked.
The poet. But that’s not important.
Who’s Rowley?
A horse. That’s not important either.
He was mute, he didn’t know what to say, her words made no sense, her words were irrelevant to everything that was passing between them. If the horse and the poet were both unimportant, what was important? There was something about her—intensity? directness? wildness?—that he found greatly unsettling. What did she want? What did it mean? He longed for her to leave.
On hearing a man’s voice, Dorrigo turned to see that one of the swarm—wearing a RAAF officer’s light-blue uniform—was standing next to them, telling her in an affected English accent that they needed her back to
help sort out a discussion we’re having on tote odds.
Her gaze followed Dorrigo’s, and recognising the blue uniform, her face changed entirely. It was as if she were another woman, and her eyes, which had been so alive looking at Dorrigo, were now, while looking at the other man, suddenly dead.
The blue uniform sought to ignore her stare by turning to Dorrigo.
You know she picked him, he said.
Picked who?
Old Rowley. Hundred to one. Longest odds in the history of the Cup. And
she
knew. She bloody well knew which gee-gee. Harry over there made twenty quid.
Before Dorrigo could reply, the woman spoke to the RAAF officer in a way that Dorrigo understood was charming but without any feeling.
I just have one more question for my friend, she said, pointing to Dorrigo. Then I’ll be back over with you to talk turf accountancy.
And, that short conversation done, she turned back to Dorrigo and froze the blue uniform out so completely that, after a moment or two, he returned to the others.
3
WHAT QUESTION?
I have no idea what question, she said.
He feared she was playing with him. His instinct was to get away but something held him there.
What’s the book? she
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