A little girl stood beneath a wattle-tree watching some turkeys. She was almost two years old. Deep creases still encircled her wrists. Each knuckle was capped with a dimple. Her name was Mary.
It was early morning. Frost whitened the flat paddocks. A flock of galahs, flying low, wheeled with whistling cries. The pink cloud of their breasts melted into a clump of gums. Languid crows, cawing sadly, flapped slowly over the grazing sheep. Hungry lambs butted their mothers’ udders. Their loose tails wagged eagerly. The station homestead, like a contented mother watching her children, basked in the spring sunshine.
A man stepped through the doorway. He was holidaying. He stood a moment on the wide veranda gazing across the paddocks. He rubbed tobacco between his palms and drew deep breaths of the fresh air. He stepped to the ground and sauntered beneath the wattle-trees that surrounded the house.
The little girl, though aware of his presence, did not cease her contemplation of the turkeys. Upon her lips there rested a faint smile. It was enigmatical and born of her thoughts. She gave no clue to its origin. She just watched the turkeys.
The man came upon her. He gazed at her incredulously. She was like a little Eskimo. Her skin was a rich olive. She had small, bright-black eyes that slanted upwards. Her bobbed hair was black and clung closely to her head, drooping from around it in straight lines. Each hair had an individuality of its own. The man was conscious of the congregation of a multitude of hairs. Her cheek-bones were high and flung shadows on her cheeks. Her nose was flat.
Mary’s mother worked in the homestead kitchen. She cooked and did the housework. She was twenty-one years old. Her parents were Irish, she said. She was rather pretty. Her husband was a boundary rider on the station. He had dark eyes and an engaging smile. They shared a room at the rear of the main dwelling.
As Mary grew they became frightened at the slant of her eyes and the olive yellow of her skin. At night when the husband returned from the paddocks he sat her on his knee and they looked at her intently, searching her face for some answer to the riddle hidden behind her Oriental features. They wrote to their parents.
Chinese blood! Ridiculous.
So they accepted her and saw only the beauty in her face.
She grew very independent and very determined.
Perhaps the spirit of some remote ancestor, follower of Genghiz Khan, or some unknown Eskimo leader of tribal rebellions stirred within her and guided the little hand that opened forbidden doors or clutched the cakes left unguarded on the kitchen table.
Perhaps she is a Mongol, thought the man watching her.
The little girl, as if aware of his thoughts, emphasised her inscrutable smile. It was always there, faint, elusive, a charming and permanent mask. Though conscious of him standing silently before her she did not look at him. She was interested in the turkeys.
With sudden resolve she walked towards them. She walked with her chubby legs placed well apart as if her napkin were too bulky for comfort. She held her arms curved outward to preserve her balance.
The turkeys moved slowly away from her, jerking their heads and clucking suspiciously. One lingered, doubting the little girl’s object. But Mary closed her lips and moved purposely towards the bird. It became seized with panic and hurriedly joined its companions, gobbling indignantly. They all moved towards a wire-netting fence. They crowded together for protection. The fence had a hole in it. Each in turn squeezed through the opening. But Mary was close behind them and one left the group and dashed to and fro along the fence in a frantic search for a quicker way of escape.
Mary stood and watched it. It suddenly crouched, then sprang, and with an awkward flurry of wings landed on top of the fence. It poised precariously there a moment then dropped heavily to the other side.
Mary pressed her face against the wire-netting, her hands clutching the strands, and watched them walk away from her.
The man sat down on the stone coping of an underground tank and lit his pipe. After a few puffs he withdrew his pipe and called out to the little girl.
‘Come over here and talk to me.’
At the sound of his voice Mary turned away and commenced walking towards a hut that stood at the end of the yard. She did not look at him. She walked steadily past, the faint smile still curving her lips.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed the man.
The ground over which Mary walked on her way to the hut was carpeted with the litter of a farm. Successive layers of straw, the refuse of sheaves tossed to horses, formed a foundation like thick pile. On top the straw was new and yellow. Beneath the clean, criss-crossed stalks was a sodden thickness of older hay. Occasionally one of Mary’s feet would sink deeper than the other and then she staggered. She regained her balance by flinging both hands above her head. She carried them there for the next few steps and kept her gaze resolutely on the ground.
A sheep’s leg lay before her. A dry bone projected from the discoloured muff of wool above the divided hoof. Mary placed her hands on her knees and bent from the hips to look at it. She picked it up. Her little fingers sank into the wool. She took it with her.
A large, square piece of bluestone formed a step before the door of the hut. The wooden step was six inches higher. Mary placed the sheep’s leg on the stone. She proceeded to raise herself to the same position by a series of complicated movements that eventually left her on top of her objective but in a kneeling posture. She got to her feet with her hands still firmly planted on the stone so that for a moment she revealed a pair of fat little thighs disappearing into the folds of a thick napkin. The napkin bore two circular impressions left by the soil of some previous resting place. She raised herself erect and surmounted the remaining step in the same way. But she had forgotten the sheep’s leg. She laboriously returned to the stone to retrieve it.
With the leg tightly clasped in her hand she entered the hut. She walked with resolution. As if bestowing a blessing on the hut and its inmate she kept repeating, ‘Uh, uh, uh,’ in a tone calculated to convey her peaceful intentions.
An old Irishman occupied the hut. He was employed to milk the cows and tend the garden. For three weeks he had been ‘on the booze’. Every six months he broke out. Nothing would be seen of him for some weeks then he would emerge with haggard face and bleary eyes to go about his work in silent remorse. He would gradually regain his cheerfulness and commence saving for another bout. When the time of his drinking approached he would become restless and the station-hands would say, ‘Old Dan will break out any day now.’ Then would come a decision, a harnessing of the old horse to the jinker and a trip to the township. Later he would return laden with bottles and disappear into his hut. There he would remain till the last bottle was emptied.
He had fought in Palestine during the war. He had no friends. No one ever visited him in his hut during these bouts. The boss said, ‘Leave him alone. He will come round.’ So they left him alone. All except Mary.
She stepped from behind the door waving the sheep’s leg. Old Dan did not look up. He was seated at the end of the table gazing at the bottle-littered floor. Successive tremors sped through his body. The nerves of his face twitched. Through his half-open mouth his tongue could be seen fluttering like a bird in a cage. He made purposeless movements with his hands. He lifted them to his face, dropped them to his knees. He started as if at the sound of an angry voice. He glanced quickly round the hut and half rose from his chair.
Mary confronted him. She held up the sheep’s leg and said, ‘Uh.’ Old Dan was looking towards the far end of the hut and muttering to himself. He suddenly stood up. ‘I crossed the Jordan,’ he said loudly. He waited, listening, as if for a denial. ‘I crossed the Jordan,’ he repeated. He lowered his head. He began mumbling. ‘Yes. Yes. I crossed it.’ He jerked himself erect and shouted. ‘I crossed the Jordan, I say.’
Mary placed the sheep’s leg at his feet. She began a tour of the hut. Old Dan suddenly rose and brushed past her. Mary lost her balance. She sat down heavily. Her face slowly moulded itself into an expression of pain. Her mouth opened. Old Dan was drinking from his last bottle. The sound he made drew her attention. She forgot to cry. Her smile returned. She reached forward and drew one of the bottles on the floor towards her. She stood it up between her legs and thrust a finger into its mouth. She then tried to spit into the bottle. Some saliva fell on to the floor. She became interested. She pushed the bottle impulsively to one side and, spreading her legs wide apart, she leant forward and began spitting into the space she had made. She then rubbed her finger in the spittle and regarded the mess with satisfaction. She grew tired of the game. She wiped her smeared hand on her napkin and stood up.
Old Dan had placed the empty rum bottle on the table and resumed his seat. He was still twitching but more violently. His tortured face moved slowly from side to side directing his gaze high on the hut’s walls. ‘Pat,’ he moaned. ‘Where are ye, Pat?’
Mary placed her hand on his knee. ‘Oh,’ she said, and pointed to the rum bottle. He took no notice of her. She tried to reach it herself but her hand could only grasp the edge of the table. She made futile movements with her fingers. She withdrew her hand and crawled underneath the table with the idea of making an attempt from the other side. But a form was in the way. She returned. She picked up a bottle and began to bang it on the floor.
A cry came from the mouth of Old Dan. He leapt to his feet and whipped into the crouch of a wrestler facing an antagonist. His eyes were full of fear. He stepped back, glancing from side to side as if seeking escape. He sprang towards a shelf in the corner and seized a butcher’s knife. The blade was keen as a razor. He backed to the wall holding it in a defensive position in front of him.
Mary took a step towards him. He screamed in terror. She stopped. He watched her, scarcely breathing. The nerves of his cheeks again began to twitch. ‘Oi crossed the Jordan wi’ ye, Pat,’ he whispered as if it were an entreaty.
The little girl gurgled with delight. She placed her legs apart and crouched with her hands on her knees like a wicket keeper. She waved her arms. Her napkin dropped on one side. A fold came below her knee. With her arms retained above her head she looked down at it with a disturbed expression.
Old Dan sprang to a position in front of the fireplace. Mary took a step towards him, pointing to her napkin and saying, ‘Uh.’
‘He’ll get ye again, Pat,’ he yelled. He hurled the knife at her with all the force of which he was capable. It spun in glittering circles, passed a hair’s breadth above her black head and clattered against the wall beside her.
Mary turned and looked at it. With a pleased exclamation she hurried to pick it up. She did not bend forward from the hips to grasp it but squatted in the manner of an Indian fakir. She stayed in this position and turned the knife over and over in her hands looking at its glittering blade and dull handle with great interest.
She stood erect, swayed a little unsteadily, then, clasping the knife to her breast, took a few hurried steps towards the door. She expected pursuit. But there were no cries of anger or command behind her so she stopped and, with pleased surprise, looked back at the trembling man cowering against the wall. She turned and walked back to him holding the knife aloft and making unintelligible sounds of friendliness. With a slavering, contorted face he watched her approach. He yabbered with fear. She raised the knife to his withdrawn, spread-fingered hands. He cried out in terror and leaped violently sideways. He collided with the table. He fell. He turned and clawed at the edge. He scrambled across the top and stood on the form against the wall, crouching in the corner and looking at her with horror-stricken eyes.
Mary was delighted. She waved the knife. The keen edge flashed past her animated face. ‘Uh, uh, uh,’ she cried.
He reached an imploring hand towards her. ‘Pat,’ he entreated. ‘Ye would not kill me wi’ the knoife. It’s meself that saw the Arab stab ye. Oi killed him, sure and Oi did. On the sand an’ him lookin’ at the skoi. God be wi’ ye, Pat. It’s ye frind Dan that Oi am. Dan . . .’
Mary watched him in silence. A different expression came over his face. A hopeless despair took the place of strained terror. He suddenly stepped from the form and slumped into his chair. He bent his head above the two hands he rested on the table.
Mary dropped the knife. She picked up the sheep’s leg and held it towards him. He took it from her not quite understanding what he was doing. His hands returned to the table. His knuckles shone white. Tufts of wool projected from between his fingers. He lowered his head to his clenched hands. The cloven hoof rested against his forehead.
Mary made another attempt to get the rum bottle on the table then left him. She descended the steps backwards, her hands sharing with her feet the weight of her body.
She set out to find the stranger. He was sitting on the veranda of the homestead. She stood before him. She pointed towards the hut and said, ‘Uh.’
‘Oh! so you are speaking now, are you?’ smiled the man.
Mary regarded him steadily, her raised arm still directing his attention towards Old Dan’s home.
‘All right,’ said the man. ‘I’ll come. What do you want?’
She led him to the doorway. He stood with a slight smile and watched her mount the steps. He followed her in. She pointed to the rum bottle on the table and said, ‘Uh.’
‘Well . . .!’ exclaimed the man. The bottle was empty. He handed it to her.
She raised it to her nose and drew a deep breath. A happy smile spread over her face. She held it up to the man inviting him to share her pleasure.
He did not notice her. He was looking at something on the floor. His face was white. He lifted Mary quickly in his arms and carried her from the hut. He closed the door behind him and placed her on the ground. He ran towards the homestead. Mary scrambled up the steps and banged at the closed door with her fists. ‘Uh. Uh,’ she cried.
But Old Dan didn’t live there any longer.