There was no answer.
“Well, come on, tell a woman for sweet Christ’s sake!”
Ellen said, “You’ll marry Joe in the end, so all you’re doing is messing Bandy up!”
“It’s kind of you to make predictions, Miss Burke. I can tell you that Joe O’Neill can whistle. I don’t intend to be shackled to a mopey old bugger like him. I’d like a contest out of life! Come on, give me that bloody tray and dry up!”
“Wait,” Ellen Burke protested through her tears, “I have to put the plates on.”
With soft rain slanting down onto his shoulders, Tim began retreating up the verandah lest he be overtaken by partly reconciled women carrying pudding and custard and plates.
That night, when all his guests were asleep, worn out by good times or by anguish, as he lay beside Kitty, who was profoundly and noisily asleep, Missy again—and as was to be expected—stepped into the room from the sea. She wore a blazer, a man’s shirt and tie. She appeared to have theatrical purposes. You could tell that, since her cheeks were rouged. An overpowering sea, hurtful to the gaze, lay behind her.
Old Bruggy’s Masses hadn’t soothed away this restive spirit, who brought everything into play, the sea, his father, Bandy’s predictions, assertions and suggestions. Depending on him for her salvation and her substantiality, poor bitch. As Imelda had chosen him to supply groceries gratis, Missy had looked up through the fluids, seen him as the town’s co-operative spirit, the easy mark, the man who would go to proud and tormented trouble.
“In the name of the Father,” he said, “and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.” Then he turned away, onto his side.
This did not, however, mean he wouldn’t do something.
In a morning that was still cool, all the smoke blown away or absorbed by rain, the sort of morning which might convince emigrants of the glories of the Macleay, Tim saw Joe O’Neill come in, already washed and shaven, from his billet in the shed. The remorse of booze in him, but determined to look well and reliable.
Meanwhile Kitty lay in, but Mamie was loud and efficient, bringing the big pot into the dining room and pouring lots of tea.
Half past eight. Tim at table taking Joe O’Neill through the cash and credit books he would need to take out with him on deliveries. “Take no nonsense from the bloody horse either!”
Joe went off, making his deliveries for Mamie’s sake. Able to put his foot on the ground and to wear an unlaced shoe, Tim limped down Smith Street towards the offices of the North Coast Steamship Navigation Company. The stairs were hard, but once he’d dragged his lame leg up, he asked after Captain Reid of Burrawong, and Miss Hunt who ran the front office stiffly told him that Captain Reid always stayed at the Hotel Kempsey.
Limping back towards Belgrave Street, Tim saw a notice outside the Good Templars.
A Special Meeting of the Patriotic Fund has been called to consider the following motion from Mr. William Thurmond, JP, Pola Creek:
That in view of certain recent inflammatory and philo-Boer letters published in the Macleay press, and in view of other signs of disloyalty apparent in the community, the Fund authorises its executive to produce a black list of disloyal Businesses and Employees for the guidance of the populace.
This meeting called by the Authority of Mr. Arthur Baylor, President, and Mr. Ernest Malcolm, Secretary.
No sooner read than he heard a voice behind him. “You see, you see!”
He turned and saw Ernie Malcolm standing there in his going-to-work grey suit and with a cheroot in his mouth. “This is what it all comes to, Tim, if you keep pushing the boundaries.”
“What does it come to? I’ve done nothing.”
“A mistake to take us chaps on. Enlightened and tolerant we may be to suit the age, Shea. But what we hold dear we hold dear!”
Ernie did not wait for a reply, though Tim did not have one, being too confounded. Could he be the object of such a meeting?
“Mr. Malcolm,” Tim called after him.
Ernie barely stopped and did not turn.
“Why did you write a letter praising the work of that hopeless constable? Is it some friend of yours you want to protect?”
“Letter?”
“The constable showed me. He’s gratified at it.”
Still keeping his back to Tim, Ernie said, “I hope you don’t imply anything. What do I look for, Shea? I look for a joyous bridge opening in a year of great promise. Do you understand?”
“I don’t try to push anyone into a corner.”
“Oh but you do. You are accepted as a citizen, but still you look to upset the damned balance. You can’t be a smartalec without people latching on. People aren’t stupid, you know!”
“Oh, the letters in the Argus. Can a fellow lose his name so easily? A hero one month, a gouger in another. Generous in January, traitorous in February.”
“A man can lose everything,” said Ernie, “very easily. We all live on a knife-edge.”
He simply walked away. Then: I’ll write them a letter, Tim resolved. I’ll swear a bloody affidavit drawn up by Sheridan. Those letters aren’t mine.
So he had a strategy, and for the sake of his peace anyhow he fixed his mind back on Missy, who was another matter, her own.
He limped around to the Kempsey Hotel, trying as he went not to look like an enemy of the shire. But outside Savage’s, Borger the vocal cow-cocky stood by his wagon. He strode up to Tim, took him fraternally by the elbow, and spoke in a low voice. “I have to commend you on your letters to the Argus. Masterly, old feller. Those buggers might have the battalions, but we’ve still got them beaten when it comes to turn of phrase and genuine prophetic fire.”
“Holy God,” said Tim. His ankle was in a bad way now too, bulging over his shoe. “I didn’t write those damn letters. I don’t have any grievance I want to express in public against Britain. I am not like you.”
“No, old son, I know,” said Borger, not believing him. “Australis did it. A good feller, that Australis! And from Central. Who else from Central…”
Borger continued to caress his elbow. Were people watching?
“I’ll tell you what, Tim. There are two men in this valley with the education and passion to write those letters. They both spoke out at the public meeting of the so-called Patriotic Fund. What two fellers are they, Tim? One is me. But I didn’t write the things, I wish I bloody had. The other, Tim, is a feller who keeps a store.”
“No. Don’t go around town telling people these things.”
“I tell them only to those who understand certain things. That we may have a destiny other than that of the British army in South Africa.”
This promise alarmed Tim. Borger wasn’t secretive at all. He was a talker. An enthusiast.
“Please, please,” said Tim. “I have a business and a third child coming.”
“I understand. What a society where a man can have his trade snatched away for these kinds of reasons! But I wanted to say just this. Thank you, Tim. You’re a hero to me.”
Borger sauntering away now towards the front of the emporium which was just opening its doors.
Tim called, “The last bastard that said I was a hero took his business from me a week ago!”
Borger waved his hand and smiled, “Of course, of course. It’s what they did to Napper Tandy, Robert Emmett. Ned Kelly, for that matter. You’ve got my business from here on.”
He disappeared into the emporium. If not for the sharpness of Missy’s visitation, Tim would by now have been totally put off in his attempt to speak to the captain of Burrawong. But he kept on, though his brushes with bloody Ernie and Borger made him tentative in the entryway of the Hotel Kempsey. A maid came out of the dining room to intercept him—a little as if he were an intruder.