Thomas Keneally - A River Town

“Sir,” it began.

In connection with the incidents in the Transvaal, one poetic phrase worthy of a closer look is the one which we hear everywhere now, “When the Empire calls…” I haven’t particularly heard the Empire calling, yet I seem to be surrounded by people who hear it all the time. Perhaps they know that the Continental press, together with the American journals, have universally condemned the British adventure in South Africa, and these citizens of the Macleay are, therefore, all the more willing volunteers to share in and absorb some of the Empire’s shame.

Whether our Empire calls or not however, and asks us poor Colonials to bear its poor name, we have no say in its counsels regarding the making of these wars. Our government in New South Wales will contribute thousands of pounds to help force a road across the Drakensberg mountains to relieve the British garrisons at Mafeking, Kimberley and Ladysmith, yet cannot spare a mere thousand pounds to push a road into the rich timber resources of the Upper Macleay. It seems that when the Empire calls, it is calling for large quantities of lucre, and not merely for the blood of our poor boys.

Are we really so servile that we fear that unless we engage in all Mother’s follies, she might interfere in the Commonwealth Bill by which we will federate in the new year?

I urge all my fellow inhabitants of the Macleay to take a more independent and demanding line on all these matters. For the Empire may be saved—with or without shame—and there would still be no roads in the Macleay, and perhaps no Federation according to our desire. We should all think hard on this.

Tim looked up from the paper and lifted his ear, as if even in this torpid air, the cries of outrage could be heard in Belgrave Street. Australis was out to cause an outcry and the most stir he could, by writing to the more staid Argus instead of the jauntier Chronicle .

Nothing though to be heard. Nothing. The Empire of Billy Thurmond, M. M. Chance, Mr. Malcolm went maligned, and no single protest pierced the walls of heat, the circle of fire, the shower of vegetable ash. In Pompeii-on-the-Macleay, the sentinels had gone to sleep.

In the shade of the peppermint tree outside, Ellen Burke and Annie lay together on a rug, wearing shifts which had been dipped in water. He went out to them and smiled. He approved of this stratagem and thought it a clever thing. The whole bloody town should be doing it. He would dearly love to dampen himself and lie there with them. But he needed to lead Pee Dee out and place him in the traces. Pee Dee, of course, in a much higher spirit of protest than Bandy’s horses. Dragging his head from side to side. Alarmed by the torrid wind.

Loading the cart at the front of the store, a very slow matter. With one or two people drifting by, one or two broiled ladies of the Macleay entering the store to interrupt his loading, to rant about the criminal day it was and buy some item—lard or flour—their households had run out of.

And then, dear merciful God, finding that amongst what must be loaded there were five butter boxes full of the plenty of the earth and the manufactures of Sydney destined for the Sisters of Mercy. Nothing for the Malcolms, though. Ernie true to his threat!

He put the feed bag on Pee Dee to distract him from the day. Some orders from East could wait till tomorrow. He was not crossing the river. He’d already crossed twice to his peril in less than a day.

At last ready, nearly fainting, to bring people their supplies. Lead Pee Dee, deprived of his feed bag and tossing his head in a way which said, “Not me, not me. And not today.” Up for a last water fill-up at the trough outside Savage’s. For himself, a fill-up with Sharp’s lemonade. The whole bottle down him as quick as half a cup of tea.

And now off! Struggle forth into mid-street, mid-heat. In Belgrave Street, no one doing business, but Pee Dee heading now—with sudden, touching uncomplaint—for West. What must it be like in the camp? But Kitty and Mamie would be lying in moistened white shifts beneath a tree, he hoped, and the sea breeze which would end this madness would reach them first.

Yet Mamie must be repenting of her emigration. Australia presenting her with all its disadvantages on the one day or in the one week. Plague and fire, heat that withered the Celtic skin.

In the haze, the Offhand came loping diagonally from the door of the Chronicle office. He wore a suit coat and a vest as always. He might have thought he was running across the street somewhere else, not in a valley in a furious old continent you knew could fry you in a second if it was not so casual.

“Tim, Tim,” said the Offhand. The normal stewed face. The temporary tan of whiskied veins either side of the delicate nose. The pink lips enriched with the thinnest blood. The Reverend Offhand.

“Did you, Tim, happen to see that letter in the Argus? Can you imagine them actually publishing such a thing?”

“What is it?… Australis. ”

“That one. A robust, Australian bloody letter, wouldn’t you agree, Tim?”

His eyes were dancing away. Even today, it was all excitement and passionate opinion to him. Of course, he didn’t have to deliver groceries to West.

“I read it. The argument had a certain virtue.”

“Tim, I do not ask you as a correspondent. I am speaking about literary matters as any man speaks in the streets to a friend.”

“My mind is rather distracted. My wife is up the river in that plague or quarantine camp or whatever it is.”

“Oh, that place is a formality now, Tim.” The Offhand shook his head, but his eyes glittered still. “But tell me, don’t you hope this Australis will write again? A fresh voice in a backward place is always most, most welcome! I found it so. A bloody minor miracle, Tim.”

“The fires and the heat are likely to take people’s minds more,” Tim warned. “Do you have any news from the Upper Macleay?”

“Oh,” said the Offhand. Offhandedly. “Hickey’s Creek is ablaze, and the Nulla.”

“The wife’s sister’s at Pee Dee.” Square miles of blaze distant.

“There are no reports of death, Tim. People place their homesteads in clearings for that reason, you might remember.”

“Exactly right,” said Tim. “But the gum trees explode like bombs.”

“Will you come into the Commercial with me and toast Signor Australis ?”

“Is he Italian then? Or Spanish?”

“I use the Signor loosely, Tim,” said the Offhand.

“I hope you won’t be offended, Offhand. I have all this to deliver.”

He swept his hand towards the crammed tray of the cart. “I have a fifteen pounds fine to pay off.”

“How is that so, Tim? What did you do?”

“I am reluctant to say.”

“Again, please, as a friend.”

Tim told his tale of the smooth-faced inspector from the Colonial Secretary’s.

“This is outrageous in a democracy,” said the Offhand when Tim had finished. It was a true sentiment, but how would it hold up against a magistrate’s? And what would be its place amongst the other grievances—Ernie Malcolm, the suggestions of Constable Hanney. The Offhand was taken by the surface glitter of injustices. That was the great fault of writers. Injustice never penetrated their skins too deeply, put them off a meal, or the next drink which waited for them in the bar of the Commercial.

“For God’s sake, don’t put it in your column. I am in deep enough trouble.”

The Offhand held his hands up. They weren’t much bigger than Bandy’s.

“But you can be sure that that brute of an inspector checked with the powers of the town to ensure he made no example of one of theirs. Hence the injustice which cannot be defined, but which is everywhere in our community!”