Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

The leader was Mrs. Nelson, the owner and licensee of the only hotel.

On the morning following the last of the winter dances-to be exact, on 30th October-Mrs. Nelson, as usual, arrayed herself in a black silk dress, a white linen cap, black woollen stockings and elastic-sided boots. She was short and stout and something over seventy years old, remarkable for the beauty of her snow-white hair and the brilliance of her dark eyes. Her appearance denoted the essence of respectability, her movements bespoke eternal youth, her personality proclaimed the ever-alert business woman, never to be defeated by circumstances or daunted by advancing age.

With the vigour of a woman twenty years her junior, she stepped through the openfrench windows to the wide balcony which was so well protected by canvas blinds during the summer months. Half of this front balcony constituted her home. She was seldom found downstairs, and even more rarely went out. It was as though her portion of the upper veranda was her throne from which she ruled Carie.

The sun, she saw, was well above the Common, its colour a sinister deep red. The limits of the plain were drawn close by the thickening red-brown fog, and the dark line of trees to the south marking Nogga Creek was blurred and featureless.

The one street was deserted save for a flock of goats and Mr. Smith, the baker, who was carrying out sacks of bread to load into a shabby gig to which was harnessed a piebald mare. Mrs. Nelson’s dark eyes registered no expression when they became focused on the waistcoated figure of the elderly Mr. Smith, whose philosophy of life doomed him to die a poor man. It was a philosophy frowned upon by Mrs. Nelson.

She was standing with oneberinged hand resting on the balcony rail when there came to her a girl dressed in the severe uniform of a maid. The girl’s complexion had been wholly ruined by the sun when she had daily ridden after her father’s cows and goats, and now it was doubtful if any expertly applied make-up could repair the unfortunate damage. She asked the question she had asked every morning over the past two years.

“Where will you behavin ’ your breakfast this morning, ma’am?”

Mrs. Nelson turned to regard the girl with eyes that bored through flesh and bone into the soul of her, standing docilely placid.

“The wind is rising, Tilly, and it is going to be another nasty day, but I will take breakfast here.”

The girl withdrew, and when again she appeared she was carrying a breakfast-tray. This she placed on a small weather-beaten table before dusting and placing a chair beside it. Mrs. Nelson was dissatisfied with the position of table and chair, and Tilly was directed that they be placed nearer the end of the balcony, where the view of the Broken Hill track would be unobstructed. Tilly lifted the cover from a dish of bacon and eggs; her mistress poured milk and tea into a delicate china cup.

“What time did you get home last night?” asked Mrs. Nelson.

“It was after one o’clock, ma’am.”

“Hum! And I suppose you’re fit for nothing today?”

“I’m all right, ma’am.”

Mrs. Nelson noted the faint colour in Tilly’s face.

“If you are, you are stronger than I was at your age. Who did you dance with?”

The faint colour swiftly became a vivid blush.

“My boy, mostly, ma’am,” replied poor Tilly.

Mrs. Nelson’s attitude imperceptibly stiffened.

“Does your father know that you have a young man?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. It…it’s Harry West.”

“Oh!”

For ten seconds Mrs. Nelson gave her attention to her breakfast. Tilly waited, her nervousness increasing, as Mrs. Nelson intended it should. Tilly both feared and loved her mistress, and in this she was not alone, but she loved and feared her father more. There was nothing of the rebel in Tilly’s mental composition. Now, in softer tones, Mrs. Nelson spoke again.

“So it is Harry West, eh? Well, he’s steady enough. You could do much worse. You must bring him to see me one evening. You are a good girl, Tilly, and there are things I will have to say to him. Were Mr. and Miss Borradale at the dance?”

“Yes, ma’am. And the doctor, and Barry Elson, and oh! almost everyone, ma’am.”

“How was Barry Elson?”

“He was all right, ma’am. He could dance.”

“He couldn’t dance yesterday afternoon, anyway. Who did he dance with… mostly?”

“Mabel Storrie. He took her home. They walked home. Tom Storrie drove her in, but when the dance broke up he and the truck couldn’t be found.”

“So Barry and Mabel have made up their quarrel?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”

“You only think so!” sharply exclaimed the old woman.

“Well, ma’am, Barry Elson was very attentive to Mabel all last evening, but she seemed to be keeping back. I don’t blame her. Barry had no right to go and getdrunk yesterday afternoon. I… I don’t think I’d forgive Harry in a hurry if he went and got drunk just because I gave him a bit of my mind.”

“A wise woman never gives bits of her mind to a man before she’s married to him,” Mrs. Nelson remarked severely. “And what happened to young Tom Storrie and the truck?”

“I think he took Annie Myers home and didn’t trouble about his sister, ma’am. Brothers aren’t very considerate.”

Mrs. Nelson was again devoting attention to her breakfast, and the girl continued to stand patiently to await dismissal.

“What dress did you wear?” was the next question.

“I wore my black crepe de Chine, ma’am.”

“Hum! You were wise there, my girl. Colours don’t suit you. How was Mabel dressed?”

“Oh, she wore blueninon, and her shoes were of blue satin. She looked just lovely, ma’am. I wish-I wish-”

“Well, what do you wish? Out with it.”

Tilly faltered and again blushed. Then:

“Nothing, ma’am. Only I wish I was like Mabel Storrie. She looked lovely last night-just lovely.”

For the second time since she had sat down, Mrs. Nelson stared hard at the girl.

“Don’t indulge in vain regrets, child,” she said softly. “You have got one beautiful feature-your eyes. Be careful of them; use them well but sparingly. Now be off. Be sure all the windows are shut andfastened, and that the blinds are lowered three-quarters. Slip down and ask James to come up. Stay in the bar until he gets back.”

“All right ma’am, and thank you,” Tilly said.

That brought Mrs. Nelson’s eyebrows almost together.

“Whatever for, child?” she asked.

“For… telling me about my eyes, ma’am.”

“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Nelson. “Be sure you lie down in your room for two hours this afternoon, or you’ll go to sleep waiting at dinner.”

Tilly vanished. She was a month or so over twenty-two, compact and sturdy. She possessed the lithe grace given to almost everybushwoman who since girlhood has habitually ridden half-tamed horses. Her constant use of the word “ma’am” was due less-much less-to any sense of servility than to an affectionate respect for the leader of Carie. Like all great men and women, Mrs. Nelson commanded affection mixed with respect.

She now went on with her breakfast, to which, however, she gave less attention than she did to the point where the track to Broken Hill crossed Nogga Creek.

Like a drop of ink, a horse and rider slid over the brown stained carpet of bluebush from the south-east to reach the right of the two Common gates. Behind the horse rose a long finger of dust-dust which became quickly merged in the as yet low-flying tenuous dust-clouds raised by the freshening wind.

The rider opened, passed through and closed the gate without dismounting, then urged his horse into a gallop once again. On arriving at the township he turned down beside the hotel to the stables and yards at the rear. Mrs. Nelson knew him to be Fred Storrie.