Patrick White - Happy Valley

He rode on towards Happy Valley. There were lights soon and someone in a buggy going into town. Somebody said good night. Good night, he said. They were almost into town. Funny the way you even got a kick out of going into a one-horse joint like Happy Valley that made you cry just to think about, and then started you up when it turned into lights and the barking of dogs.

He left his horse in a yard out by Schmidts’, that Schmidt let him use to save putting up in a stall at the hotel. He took off his spurs and put them in his pocket. He went along the road past Schmidts’ and up into the main street, where there was a hurricane lantern hanging from the verandah at Quongs’. A dog barked at him from Everetts’. People coming down the street. Somebody singing at the pub.

That day going up the street, was winter, to the pub, and standing in the rain at the gate, he was going in, farther along, she said, Mrs Moriarty said…Mrs Moriarty.

Mrs Moriarty sat at the piano in the sitting-room. She had sat there for some time, because she did not want him to miss her, as he came along, her voice singing, because Daisy said she had a fine contralto, if only she had had it trained. So Mrs Moriarty sat at the piano and sang in her fine contralto with great feeling those scraps of Charmaine that she could remember. It was old but somehow appropriate. I wonder when bluebirds are mating, sang Mrs Moriarty. Then she came to a bit she did not know and she la-la-ed with even more feeling than she put into the words. La-la la-la-la la-la LA LAR, sang Mrs Moriarty. She had once thought about going into vaudeville, a tasteful act with a grand piano and a pink bead dress and a big black curtain with parrots appliquéd on it. DOROTHY CHALMERS — THE SILVER VOICE on the bills. Because you couldn’t call yourself Victoria, or even Vic. It was always a sore point with Mrs Moriarty that she hadn’t been called Dorothy.

The brown mahogany clock ticked with the annoying obtrusiveness of Ernest’s mahogany clock.

Damn that clock, she said, which included somebody else.

It made her restless, waiting like this, her nose. God what a sight, and that cream didn’t close up the pores, didn’t give you your money back. Perhaps you ought to be discovered on the sofa, glancing through a magazine, rather casually, because that was the point, and the piano was not so casual after all. Then Mrs Moriarty had to frown. She realized she could not be discovered anywhere, because Gertie Ansell had gone home, because she would have to let him in herself, and that was what happened when you couldn’t keep a maid. She struck a chord on the piano. It quite hurt her hands.

Then Hagan knocked on the door.

Ah, she said. How nice to see you, Mr Hagan. It is so nice of you to come.

I expect I’m late, he said.

Oh no, she said. That is, I was just trying over some old favourites. I love a good tune, don’t you?

It all depends on the voice, he said.

Well, now. What am I to say to that?

She laughed and put up her hand to her shoulder, the way she had seen that mannequin, when Daisy and she at David Jones’s, and the sleeve fell down to the elbow showing off the arm. She laughed very prettily.

You’ll pass muster, he said. I heard it coming up the street.

Mrs Moriarty laughed again, even more prettily than before. Because she had charm, if only people gave her a chance, were appreciative, but she wasn’t going to waste it on people who did not understand. Hagan looked at her, smiled, that gold in his teeth. He understood.

I expect you’re quite parched, she said. This heat. Won’t you let me pour you a drink?

I don’t mind if you do.

Thought he didn’t expect that Moriarty, and two glasses, and a siphon and all.

I’m going to keep you company, she said. Ernest’s gone up to talk to Mr Belper. They’re such cronies. I hope you don’t mind. Anyway, drink’s always the same.

I guess it is.

Waving her glass at him, and she knew a thing or two anyone could see, a fast worker, sending him out and…

Yes, he said, drink’s always the same.

Cheers, said Mrs Moriarty, waving her glass.

I’m glad I came, he said, getting his breath out of the glass.

It’s a change to see people now and again.

She rested her face on her hand, making her eyes big, because sympathy, she knew, was always her long suit.

I was up at Muswellbrook, he said.

Happy Valley makes me cry.

I’m sorry about that.

She giggled at a bubble in her glass, that she was emptying too quick, and he’d think, but she wasn’t like that.

Have another drink? she said, after they had talked a bit, decently, about the rainfall in New England and the wool clip at Glen Marsh.

Thanks, he said. What about you?

I don’t mind.

That’s the way.

Oh, I’m not frightened, she said.

What’ve you got to be frightened of?

That made her pick the braiding on the sofa.

Well, she said, slowly.

He came and sat down beside her on the sofa. It was only the second drink, but panting like that, you could see it was time to take her hand. But she got up and stood by the table and began fingering a plant.

What have you got to be frightened of? he said.

Oh dear, Mr Hagan, she said. It’s hot. It makes me perspire.

Mr Hagan? You can call me Clem.

Do you think I might?

I never say yes when I mean no. What do you go by, now we’re on it?

Vic, she said.

It made her blush. She wished she had been christened Dorothy.

Go on! he said. Vic.

Yes, she said. It isn’t my fault, you know.

Like the Queen.

Perhaps.

Vic, eh? Come and sit down again, Vic.

She stood fingering that bloody plant, as if she didn’t know, as if he was a zany, and you could see she was excited the way she heaved under her dress.

It’s so close, she sighed. Wouldn’t you like to go to the pictures, Clem?

It’ll be closer there, he said. But just as you say, Vic.

So they started off to go to the pictures in the hall that belonged to Quongs. She said it was so nice to have his company, somebody who understood, as she walked along with her hand under his arm, and he could feel her hand under his arm getting a bit inquisitive. He began to feel good. Yes, he said, yes, giving her hand a squeeze, and it was a pity they hadn’t got together before. That first day he had wanted to know. Most people were in the hall, but there were still some walking up the hill, some girls, and behind them Chuffy Chambers, who drove the lorry from Happy Valley to Moorang, walking on his own. He walked up the hill, his mouth slightly open, and out of breath.

Look, said Hagan to Vic. Look at Chuffy Chambers chuff-chuffing after those girls.

Ssh, she said. The boy isn’t right in his head.

But she laughed a bit all the same, because it looked like that, the girls and that loopy boy, oh dear, he had a sense of humour, you could see that, and she’d mixed the whisky pretty stiff, and she felt as if there were sparks in her head.

That’s good! she laughed. Chuffing Chambers.

Chuffy Chambers shambled slower, suddenly ashamed, saw them as they passed on. It made him cold down his back. He had been named William, only they called him Chuffy, even his mother. Chuffing after those girls. Somebody said, come here, Chuffy, and he came, but could not remember how it started, why. His skin felt cold against the holy medals that he wore beneath his shirt. Father Purcell said. He hated Hagan. He lagged back, would not go to the pictures now. The others went up the hill. You could see the lights through the girls’ skirts as they turned in at the hall door. That day on the lorry Hagan had said what sort of a name was that, and he did not know, could not tell, except that down on his knees Mrs Everett’s skirts went by, and she said, come here, Chuffy, stand up, you’re a big boy now, don’t you worry, Mrs Chambers, he’s only slow in developing. He was all right, Chuffy Chambers. They got him the job driving the lorry when he was old enough. Hagan said. Chuffy Chambers turned back down the hill in the opposite direction from Quongs’ hall.