Patrick White - The Vivisector

The whole of the visit to Mumbelong was more dream than real life, though Father took it so seriously. Somehow the light and colour were more important than what you were doing: that was the real importance of this dream-visit.

He also had an actual dream which remained with him very vividly. The sheep Eldred killed was hanging on the post, as in life, except that in the dream he hadn’t killed, only skinned it. Maman was there, dressed for dinner. She was wearing the spray of diamonds in her hair. She was crying horribly, while busy too. As she pulled the guts out of the sheep, the heart bleated through the open wound; the blood shot over the tails of her sables: it clotted amongst the sapphires. Where is Rhoda? she kept on calling, I am looking for Rhoda she hurts me so. Maman by now was the colour of the skinned sheep, its beautiful cave of green and blue, her blood lips opening like the heart itself. Help me Hurtle, she called. While he could only stare at the strange beauty of the scene. Crool crool cool and crool she began to shriek nasty little boy with eyes like knives. By the time she started pulling at the big cushiony bowel her lips had turned the colour of liver. I am your blood-mother. I am only helping it to die to save it from the vivisector. Her white neck all freckled with blood. I know Hurturrl you would split my head open to see what there is inside. Her hair had parted wider than the parting and the skull was beginning to split.

When he tore himself away and awake, Father was snoring on the other bedstead. From different parts of the wooden house came cries from other sleepers. He himself was so tied by the twisted sheet, and further hampered by his sweaty nightshirt, he could hardly escape. But did. By frantic effort. He ran stumbling stubbing on the way then out through some scattering of animals and furry splinters finally in the cabbage stalks he vomited up.

There was a thin moon in the sky, very beautifully carved. He began in the dim light to distinguish other things too: the patch of seeded cabbages, their stalks long, thin, ringed like stone; an iron windmill, motionless; and the solid mass of the house, with its sounds of life and dreamed-of death.

Next morning he went round the far side of the house while the others were preparing to leave for the paddocks. Father tried calling, but soon gave up. Hurtle thought he would look for stones in the river. Then he decided to explore the house, the several rooms he hadn’t been into. One of these, which the wide veranda must have kept permanently dim, was Mr Spargo’s room: he could hear somebody lying there. Since their arrival, Father had paid several visits to the sick manager. You couldn’t feel Father liked him much, but some men seemed to find pleasure simply in being men together.

Mr Spargo was not altogether old, and very strong. He was lying on his back blinking at the ceiling. His eyelids were thick, white compared with the rest of his face, which was a burnt red. His coarse lashes were of the same light orange as the hair which covered all the visible parts of his body, and his thick, moist-looking lips stuck out rather as he breathed. Hurtle thought that if he were ever to draw Mr Spargo he would do him with a pair of horns.

When the manager caught sight, he heaved and said: ‘You’re Courtney’s boy, are yer?’ Mr Spargo was one of those who would never attempt your name.

Then he tried to sound pitiful: ‘Reach me terbaccer pouch, sonny. It fell down under the bed.’

When you had done as asked, Mr Spargo remarked: ‘Chrise, me back’s givin’ me gyp!’

Close up, the smell of man was surprisingly strong, considering the look of bull.

‘Whaddayer doin’ with yerself?’ the manager gasped.

Because it was too complicated to tell, and wouldn’t have sounded convincing, Hurtle said nothing. He knew that Mr Spargo was one of those people to whom he would never have anything to say. You were happier with furniture.

So he began to go silently away.

‘Stuck-up little bastard!’ Mr Spargo mumbled from his bed.

Like most accusations it was only half true.

Hurtle was glad to get away. During his stay at Mumbelong he was happiest with Sid Cupples, who seemed to suit himself on all occasions because of his age, and on this one, when the others left for mustering, had stayed back, either forgetting, or remembering something better.

Sid was sitting on the step of the hut where he slept with a horse-rug for covering. He immediately said: ‘Heard yer reachin’ last night. It’s the fat. The young feller swamps the bloody tucker in fat. I tell ’im, but it don’t do any good.’

Because cooks said it was too lonely at Mumbelong, and they were temporarily without one, Col Forster the jackaroo had been made to take on the job. He seemed to like it, or anyway, he didn’t complain.

Sid Cupples went on smoking. An advantage of Sid’s company was that he didn’t expect explanations, or even answers. Hurtle was content to hang around in the blue haze made by the old man’s pipe.

Sid said: ‘Oughter move the wethers from the Five Mile. I tell ’im. I told the boss — Mr Courtney.’

One of the man’s eyes was blueing over.

He said: ‘Too much dirty water. That’s what’s wrong with Spargo. ’E’d carry ’is bed any time a woman up an’ showed ’im ’er monkey.’

Mention of one animal seemed to remind him of another. He told about a possum they had caught on the place during a plague; the homestead roof had been full of possums: ‘Pissin’ through the ceilin’ on to yer plate. Till we tied a bell round the neck of this ’ere animal — see? Soon as ’e run after ’is mates, the mob of possums began ter disappear. It was the blessed bell — see? It was like this possum ’ud gone off ’is nut. Put the wind up the “sane” buggers.’

Sid laughed and laughed at his memory of the bell-possum; but Hurtle was struck cold: by a vision of himself, the last possum on earth, tinkling feebly into a darkness lit by a single milky eye.

At night a shiver would start running through the poplars along the river. In the rooms of the homestead men were getting drunk together. Even the lips of the boss and the manager began to grow slobbery over their glasses of rum. Then they went out to piss off the edge of the dry-rotted veranda. Mr Spargo forgot his back when he had to let the water out.

On the last night Hurtle looked at Father, and Father didn’t seem to recognize him.

There was a fuller moon, but not yet full. Everybody else seemed occupied, belching, and remembering for one another: dogs which had worked as dogs didn’t work nowadays; stouter-hearted horses and nobler mates. There was nothing to do but pick your nose and wander through the disconnected rooms, in which lamps were burning uneven, and men’s voices sagging beneath the weight of what they had to tell, particularly the weather, particularly the weather of long ago.

Out in the kitchen Col Forster was writing at something. There were pages of it amongst the grey-brown potato peelings. The lamp chimney had turned black.

‘What are you writing?’ Hurtle asked.

There was a breathing silence, while the insects batted round the glass chimney of the lamp, and Col held his hand to protect the paper.

Then he answered: ‘Is it any business of yours?’

Hardly fair, when you only wanted to know.

Then Col thought better. He had a broad face, and spongy, gentle fingers. ‘I’m writing a book. A novel,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, I haven’t yet experienced enough.’

‘Can’t you simply write it out of your head?’

‘It wouldn’t be real.’

It was difficult to see the point, only that the jackaroo was troubled.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Col grunted, sucking at his bitten pen.