Only Killers and Thieves(20)
A mile out from town they passed the first of the native camps, a shanty of humped bark gunyahs built among the scrub, home to the displaced and the desperate, those caught between the old world and the new, and now stranded here, squatting on Bewley’s fringes, nowhere else to go. They carried out their chores, stood talking in groups, rested in the shade. All were naked. At most a woven necklace or adornment of some kind. Tommy watched them warily. They watched him in return. But they were doing the same things anyone did: a woman beat the dust from the front of her hut, a man crouched to skin the hide from his kill.
“Poor devils, look at them,” Mother said. “There never used to be so many.”
Occasionally there was shouting. A couple of words, nothing too hostile, some laughter, maybe piss-taking at their expense. Mother laid a hand on Tommy’s thigh, told him to ignore it; his rifle was behind him in the bed of the dray. A clutch of grinning children ran alongside them on the road. Tommy held tight to the reins and resisted the urge to wave. In a clearing he saw a pair of girls, his age or thereabouts, near-naked, whispering to each other, smiling, looking at him; he felt himself beginning to stir. Quickly he fixed his eyes on Jess’s bridle, brushed Mother’s hand from his thigh. She removed it to her lap, and Tommy hunched awkwardly on the bench, shielding his crotch and hoping to God she didn’t ask him what was wrong.
They reached the fringe of the town. A single street of low buildings ringed by a smattering of humpies and white canvas workers’ tents, and the frames of part-built houses standing gallows-like in the sunshine, as if a mass hanging were planned.
Mother drew herself taller on the bench, instructed Tommy to do the same. She straightened her hat and dress and fixed a smile on her face. He glanced at her proudly. Easy to forget she had once lived here, working as a housemaid for the magistrate’s wife. She’d been in Bewley only two years before she and Father wed, but as they rode in, she met the stares of traders and townsfolk and spoke by name to those she knew.
They drew up in front of the general store and climbed down from the dray; Tommy hitched Jess to the rail. As he tied off the rope he watched the crowd and scanned the buildings that lined the busy street, a mismatch of storefronts standing alone or grouped in narrow blocks linked by covered verandahs, their proprietors in the doorways or reclining outside on chairs, calling to each other and to passersby, multiple conversations taking place at once. A few stenciled windowpanes denoted the offices of solicitors, moneylenders, Dr. Shanklin’s surgery, while in the center of town the Bewley Hotel stood apart from all else, a grand double-story mansion house painted yellow and red, its upstairs drapes twitching and its front railing lined with men from the downstairs bar. One staggered down the steps into the road and wandered along the side alley, a bottle swinging loose in his hand. He unbuttoned himself and pissed against the wall.
Opposite the hotel was the whitewashed courthouse, the only stone building in town. It was set back from the street and fronted by a dried-up lawn and small yard containing wooden stocks, where the Union Flag fluttered on a pole. At the far end of the strip a crude barn announced itself as a church by the cross above its door. A smell of shit tinged the air, from the deposits of horses and cattle and sheep, the slops thrown from windows, the open latrines. Gaunt dogs prowled, sniffing at the ground. In front of the butcher’s stall a boy herded chickens, and the metallic clang of the farrier’s hammer strike tolled throughout the town.
“Tommy! Come on!”
Mother was waiting outside the general store. Tommy ducked under the railing and ran up the stairs, and as she opened the door a little bell tinkled overhead. Tommy followed her inside, closed the door once he was through, and behind the counter the shopkeeper looked up from his newspaper and smiled a narrow smile.
“Mrs. McBride, welcome. It has been many months, I think.”
“Hello, Mr. Spruhl,” she said briskly. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine, dying in this heat.”
Spruhl fanned himself theatrically with a pudgy little hand. He was a squat man, pink-cheeked, with round-rimmed glasses that mirrored the shape of his face, and greasy hair parted precisely to one side. Trussed up in his collared shirt and green suit with red cross-hatching, he resembled a netted ham.
They walked toward the counter, their boots loud on the wooden boards. The store was empty. It smelled of rotten food. Three rows of dusty shelving were stocked sporadically with bagged and canned goods; and grain, flour, and sugar sacks were heaped about the floor, thin lines of ants harvesting the spill. Beside the counter was a glass cabinet containing meat and cheese, the glass sweating with condensation, the meat pooled in watery blood.
“So,” Spruhl said, folding and setting the paper aside, “how can I be of service?”
Mother pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, smoothed it between her fingers, and slid it across the countertop.
“We’re in need of a few supplies, if you’d be so kind.”
“Of course! Of course!” He adjusted his glasses and studied the list, nodding as he read. When he was done he smiled at Mother and put the list down, then reached beneath the counter and slapped a large ledger onto the wooden benchtop.
Mother turned away from the dust.
“My apologies,” Spruhl said, opening the cover and thumbing through the pages, until he settled on one and traced his finger down the column of numbers written there. His lips drew tight, he shook his head. He tapped his finger slowly on the paper, then looked at Mother again.