Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

“Fill them again, Landlord,” requested Mr Jason as he resumed his position with his back resting against the counter. Following the slurred drawl of men who lived in the open, the full tones of Mr Jason’s voice came strangely to Bony’s ears.

Mr Jason puffed out his cheeks and again sighed, this time with evidence of satisfaction. He pulled down the front of his black waistcoat and shot his cuffs. Then he glared at his son, who rolled a cigarette with one hand, lit it, and glared back at his father. His greasy cap was still back to front. His dark eyes never rested, and he recalled to Bony’s mind the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Mr Jason spoke, following a long, ear-shattering roll of thunder.

“That was the most indecent planting I have ever conducted.”

From behind him rose the faint ghostly spiral of smoke from his pipe.

“The service was an insult to the departed,” he continued sternly. “The speed of the cortege on the way to the cemetery was disrespectful to the late lamented, and the speed of the cortege returning from the place of burial, as well as its reception on arrival in the township, was thoroughly disgraceful.”

Once again he turned round to take up a mug of beer and drink without apparently swallowing. With the fourth mug of beer in his left hand, he turned again to rest his back against the counter. The company drank, it seemed hastily, for all present excepting young Jason continued to regard Mr Jason with unwonted interest. Young Jason said, a snarl in his thin voice:

“Well, we didn’t want to get bogged, did we? I didn’t fancy getting halfway there and having to carry the coffin for the remainder of the distance.”

Now Mr Jason began to exhale smoke. It issued from his lips in a faint stream, and it continued when he said:

“The service, I repeat, was an insult to the departed.”

“Well, we can’t argue the point about that, seeing that the parsonain’t here to take it up,” young Jason objected.

“There would have been time to have half filled in the grave, at least,”persisted his father, tobacco smoke continuing to issue from him. He emptied the fourth mug of beer and set it down on the counter with a sweep of his arm. “It is my opinion that the whole affair was indecently hurried. I do not agree with Dr Scott giving the certificate he did. If ever a man was frightened to death, it was poor old Edward Bennett. The look on his face was terrible. A man does not die of heart disease with a look like he had.”

No one spoke at that. The daylight was growing brighter, and the rain was ceasing. Smoke continued to issue from Mr Jason’s mouth, astounding Bony by the amount he must have inhaled and by the period of time which had elapsed since he had inhaled. There appeared to be no limit, and the entire company were far more interested in Mr Jason’s remarkable feat than in what he was saying.

“You’ve got murder on the brain,” young Jason sneered. “Just because that Kendall bloke was bumped offyou’regonna believe that everyone who dies in Merino during the coming three years was murdered, too. What’s worrying you? We can complete filling in the hole tomorrow. Come on, gents. It’s my call, Joe. Fill ’emup.”

“Wait,” Mr Watson urged Bony. “The old boy hasn’t finished yet. One minute fifty seconds that smoke’s been coming out of him. Another twenty seconds and he’s broken his own record.”

“The record is?” Bony inquired.

“Two minutes and five seconds… made the day that George Kendall was murdered.”

Bony now observed that Mr Watson held a stop watch in his left hand. He was seen to shake his head when a dozen pairs of eyes stared at that watch. Mr Jason opened his mouth, wide, and someone said hastily and loudly, as though to stop Mr Jason yawning:

“Mr Jason!”

Mr Jason closed his mouth and the strain among the company relaxed.

“Well?” asked the funeral director.

“What do you think frightened old Bennett to death?”

“How do I know? It might have been brought out had there been an inquest.”

Mr Watson was smiling. His bristling moustache appeared to stand straight out from his face. Once more Mr Jason opened wide his mouth, and from the door leading to the hall of the building a woman cried:

“The man died naturally of heart failure. Let the dead lie in peace.”

But this time Mr Jason did not instantly close his mouth. From it belched a huge volume of smoke which rose to the stained whitewashed ceiling, where it seemed to spread outward like smoke from a railway engine entering a tunnel. That was the grand finale, and Mr Watson shouted triumphantly:

“Done it. He’s broken the record, gents. Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Congratulations, Mr Jason.”

“Enough!” Mr Jason cried. “Too many unseemly records have been broken today.” He took two steps forward and lifted his hat to the woman standing in the doorframe. She wore a Merry Widow hat and a grey costume. Her face was so sunburned and weather-tanned that she might easily have been mistaken for a half-caste. Her age Bony found difficult to assess, but she stood upright, her figure slim and hard:

“Mrs Sutherland,” began Mr Jason, “I accept your rebuke. The dead shall lie in peace. This, I fear, is a sorry wake and one which would not have had the approval of the departed. Will you not join us in drinking to the memory of a man who was a great Australian?”

“I certainly will, Mr Jason, and with pleasure, but I’m not agreeing that old Ted Bennett was a great Australian,” responded Mrs Sutherland, and came two paces inside the barroom. “Old Bennett was a hard doer. He was tough. He knew his onions. But I’m not agreeing that he was great.”

Mr Jason actually bowed, saying:

“Madam, we will agree to disagree.”

“Just as well,” she announced grimly. “Yes, a little glass of wine, please, Mr Morton.”

Bony’s interest in young Jason was heightened when that young man took up from the counter the glass of wine and stepped across with it to Mrs Sutherland. She raised it on high, and her action was followed by the company. And in silence the toast was drunk.

“Who is she?” asked Bony of the local press representative.

“Oh, I forgot,” Mr Watson whispered loudly. “That’s Mrs Sutherland, who owns a selection a few miles to the south-east of the town. Husband died some four years back, since when she has run her own place; does everything from lamb marking to shearing. Tough girl, but very sound. Knows everyone.”

“Thank you, Mr Watson,” said the woman in the Merry Widow hat. “But I don’t know your boy friend. Please…”

Bony felt a hand grip his arm and he was urged across the bar-room to be presented.

“This gent is Robert Burns,” announced Mr Watson. “Burns, this is Mrs Sutherland, the first lady in our district.”

“Howd’youdo!” she said, offering him her hand. Bony took it and felt a grip like that of a strong man. He assessed her age at forty, and noted the clear and steady eyes that regarded him not coldly. It was one of his great moments. His bow outdid that of Mr Jason.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, madam,” he told her. “At the moment I am a jailbird, Mr Jason having but yesterday sentenced me to ten days. I would not like to withhold my present status from the knowledge of one so charming asyourself.”

Mrs Sutherland almost giggled.

“That won’t upset me,” she said. “I know all the boys about these parts, and there’s not one of them but oughtn’t to have done a turn in jail. When you are free, ride out one day and see me. I’ll kill something. Now I must be going. Good-bye, all. Be good and keep the grass down.”

This time she did giggle, and then turned and walked from the bar with the unmistakable gait of a woman who has lived most of her life on a horse.