Only Killers and Thieves(104)

In many ways he was relieved. They traveled cordially back to the city, side by side in the dray. She had hardly met anyone in town—hadn’t wanted to introduce herself until they were properly wed—so there was no need for explanations to be made. Another small blessing. He doesn’t believe he deserves to be happy, not in that way at least. He has become reconciled to it now, considers it a fair price to pay; more than fair, in fact.

But then . . . the way the baker’s wife looks at him, the way she twists her hair.

After the bakery he visits the general store, then packs his provisions into the saddlebags and crosses the road to the pub. A single-story shack, two rooms out back, too small to call itself a hotel. The place is known as Mickey’s, after the Irishman behind the bar. His name is Jack but no one uses it: Mick, or Mickey, he is called.

He lays his hand on the door and hesitates. He knows what will be waiting for him inside. But then he also knows how towns like this work—if he doesn’t show his face, he’ll find himself excluded for good. There might come a time when he needs these people. The goodwill from the fires will only last so long. Were it not for that, he would probably be a pariah by now. It’s a delicate line he treads.

There are a handful of drinkers. They turn to watch him come in. A pause, then his name ripples gruffly around the smoke-filled room, the greeting passing like an echo between the men: “Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby.”

He nods and says their names in reply, walking between the tables to the bar, where he acknowledges the few men huddled there before sitting down on a stool. Mick brings him a pot of beer—save a few dusty liquors, beer is all they have. The glass drips with condensation. He touches the foam to his lips and drinks.

“Had Old Alf in here earlier. Off the coach there, you know?”

He nods wearily. Mick standing over him, watching him drink.

“Said he called by your place. Said you might be coming down.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Aye,” Mick says. He is a tall man, white hair, face like wind-beaten stone. He glances around and leans in close. “Said you got all touchy and ran off up the house. Something about boongs and chinks, he said.”

He takes a long drink and swallows. “I needed a piss, Mick, if it’s all the same to you.”

“That’s not how Alf tells it.”

“Alf can tell it however he likes.”

He sees off the beer and sets the glass on the mat. “Another?” Mick asks him.

“Aye, alright.”

While he’s waiting he glances along the bar and behind him at the room. Men sit in small groups, some alone, one facedown on the table, asleep. He knows most of them; they all know him. Think they do anyway. He has told them the story about his wounded hand, how he was holding a fence post on a station out east when the mallet came down too soon. He doesn’t give the name of the station, or any of the others he’s worked. Tells them he’s originally from Sydney, since most people are, and nobody questions him now. They all have their stories anyway: none of them moved here clean.

Mick brings the beer, places it before him, stands back, and folds his arms.

“You know, Bobby, people don’t like hearing things like that from Alf. Makes them nervous. Reminds them what you’ve got living with you up there. On your own you’re a good bloke, you know we all think it. Welcome in here anytime. But this thing you’ve got for the natives . . . it’s not right, Bobby; it’s just not right.”

He sips contemplatively at his beer. The others along the bar are listening.

“I don’t have a thing for the natives.”

“All the same, you let them stop on your land.”

“Land’s half his. I ain’t letting nothing.”

“Which is even bloody worse! Listen, there’s people in this town got long memories as far as the blacks is concerned. They just don’t want them around. You allow one in and there’ll be dozens in no time—isn’t there a woman now, I heard?”

He is staring dead ahead as he drinks. “I wouldn’t know about that, Mick.”

“Well, all I can do is warn you. And anyway, what’s this Alf says about you reading Queenslanders? Wasn’t you from Sydney, you said?”

“Cattle prices,” he says flatly. He takes a sip, then throws back the rest of the beer and lowers the glass to the mat. “Surprised Alf never mentioned that too.”

“I don’t think he meant nothing, Bobby.”

“Plenty to say all the same.”

“Ah, he was only passing the time.”

He stands and reaches into his pocket, picks out the change, lays it on the bar. The barman is watching him worriedly. “Stay and have another,” he says.

“Best be getting back, Mick. Maybe next time.”

The barman sniffs and looks away. “Aye, suit yourself. See you again.”

“See you again.”

As he walks to the door he returns their mumbled good-byes, pushes out into the sunshine, and for a moment stands there squinting and waiting for his eyes to settle, his body tense, his jaw set. Slowly he unclenches. Shakes himself down, replaces his hat. He crosses the street to his horse and catches the baker’s wife watching him through the window glass. She busies herself behind the counter, then pretends to notice him only now. They exchange a smile and a wave before he climbs into his saddle and clicks Lady on, the pies Emily has made for him bouncing lightly in his bag. He doesn’t look behind to see if she’s still watching, but a part of him hopes that she is.