Who Is Mary Smith?, page 22
“Lorraine!”
“Just a joke, really. What’s the real problem? You both might as well sort it out now. Come on Ben, tell Aunty Lorraine just as though you have known me all your dear life.”
Ben’s voice is monotone. “We are too – too compatible.”
“Oh dear, that is a tough one. I would say you’ve had your nose tweaked and the pain went straight to the heart. Did Mary tell you that she was a pilot, did she?”
“Yes, but…”
"But how did I guess? Because she has been worrying herself sick for months about it. It looks like we’ve got to the core of the matter, so listen, darling heart, and I will tell you what she has been trying to tell you all this time but was afraid to.
“Mary and I have known each other for a long time. I’m her older confidante. The night out at Luigi’s bowled her over and she fell in love with you. As far as compatibility is concerned, yours is a match made in heaven – binary stars, you could say, spinning around each other in close embrace. But you do have one difference; you are male and she is female. Mary told me you had dreams of becoming a pilot, and this, on top of a multitude of common denominators, put her on the back foot, because at the time she was already in the air and just this far off becoming a licensed private pilot. She didn’t have the heart or the nerve to top your ambition that night at Luigi’s by saying:”Oh Ben, isn’t this wonderful! We have another thing in common; except that you are still stuck on terra firma and I have already done umpteen migrations!" That wouldn’t be very tactful would it? She did not want to quash all your exuberance or upset your apple cart. Her interest in flying is not quite the same as yours. You want it to be a sport or hobby or pastime; Mary undertook it to advance the prospects of her career. It was a serious challenge – not without its fears and some trepidation. You will slot into the flying groove with ease but she has had to fight fear all the way. But most important Ben, she commenced flying lessons long before she met you. So there is no ground for jealousy or pain. No future, but it must only get brighter! Bless your incredible compatibility, don’t fight it. Two pilots must be safer than one, I should imagine. And two love birds aloft is the most thrilling concept imaginable!"
“May I have another scotch?”
“You certainly may. I’ll go get it Ben, but it will take about fifteen minutes. Now while I’m out, grope her and say you are sorry! And Mary: grab him in the groin and apologize for not being forthright like I told you to be.”
At ten o’clock, Lorraine says goodnight and goes to her bedroom. Mary and Ben retire soon after. She sets the alarm clock for an early start and they strip to their underwear and crawl beneath the covers: a brief embrace, a goodnight kiss, and she turns on her side to sleep, facing away from him. By midnight, Ben is becoming accustomed to the erratic traffic noises, an occasional ambulance siren and the tip of a branch brushing against the windowpane, and he too, falls asleep, suddenly oblivious to the warm body beside him.
Chapter 28
I’m squatting on a decaying strainer post in the corner of Zimmermann’s machinery junkyard. The ryegrass and Paterson’s curse have taken off since the days became longer, and cape weed and other yellow flowers, like soursobs and gazanias, are looking for the sun. All the beautiful weeds are competing for their patch, poking up between rusted cultivators and horse-drawn implements whose beasts of burden have long gone. Mighty Karl was around in those days, when fresh horse manure and cattle dung steamed in the morning sunlight. My dad told me that Karl used to say that verticals are a weird lot. To us, they appear big and strong, but many are as soft as Ma’s home-made butter and a little saltier – “It’s their emotions,” he said, “that prevents their progress to our level.”
I had a few words with Scab last night. Apparently, there was an attempted robbery at the Rabbit Creek Weinbar and Corky comes home to tell Turnip all about it. Nothing that would make headlines out there in the busy world of grab and grasp, but Billy Quill did have a few glorious moments detailing the bungle to a couple of journalists who rang him, and it has provided Shirl with a week’s conversation material. The area police sergeant – known far and wide as ‘Sherlock’ – skidded to a halt outside the door half an hour later and he used the occasion to search the premises a much as possible within the parameters that the crime provided. After he had noted all the details he poked around and made himself obnoxious, asking questions totally unrelated to the matter and poor Quilly wasn’t at all relaxed until Sherlock drove off. Apparently, he asked questions such as:
“How often do the food and drink quality mob inspect this joint?”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant?”
“The stink, mate – is there a dead rat in the kitchen?”
“No?”
“I’d be getting a plumber in to check the drains if I was you, Mr Quill.”
“Oh – that! That’s next door’s compost heap – I’m always on to them about it.”
“And look at those glasses, Mr Quill – don’t you use soapy hot water?”
“Of course we do. We’re at the end of the pipeline here – you should see what comes out of the bloody taps, it’s brown with rust! The water is so hard you could stand a spoon in it. Anyway, a bloke from the water board is due next week to check it out.”
“Just as well.” Sherlock has an idea: “I know a big knob in the Department of Health; I might give him a call and get him to send someone out too.”
“No need, Sarg, there’s a bloke coming tomorrow,” Quilly quickly lied.
“Okay.” Sherlock’s nostrils work overtime when he steps outside and drags in fresh air. “It even stinks out the front here! If you remember anything else give me a call.” And he bangs on the back of the paddy wagon: “Hang on tight, Captain Moonlight, we’re about to take off.”
And he is answered with a grunt.
“You should’ve heard the cheer, Turnip. As soon as Sherlock drives off everyone drifts back inside and starts drinking and talking about it. Big Bert Schlippenbach was the hero of the day – it was him who sat on the robber till Sherlock arrived: fella from up the river who was bombed out on something – needed a bit of ready cash.”
“Does Bert get a reward?”
"Not sure about that. Anyway, I call in at the Weinbar to grab a packet of fags and there’s the usual mob there for a Friday afternoon: Bert, Wombat, Froggy Marsh, Duck Down, Dutchy Phillips and Whisper’s offsider – the little bloke with a girl’s face who helps with the laying out. Billy Quill and Shirl are behind the bar. I order a beer.
"Dutchy and Whisper’s Tits have got a bottle of our whiskey on the bar in front of them and the rest are drinking various wines. Just as I’m asking for fags this bloke rushes in with a pistol:
“Everyone put your hands on the bar! You,” he points the thing at Quilly, “Give us all your cash! And don’t muck around – or I’ll spray you with corrugated blood!”
“You mean contaminated! What sort of pistol did he have, Corky?”
"A water pistol. And he reckons it’s filled with HIV stuff. We were all in shock. This turkey is waving it everywhere and Shirly’s eyes are popping out like in the cartoons. Then for some unknown reason he grabs me by the shirt and pushes the pistol up under me nose while Quilly is fiddling with the till.
"Hello, I think. I can’t smell blood, only Shiraz. He’s filled the damn thing with red plonk. ‘Listen,’ I tell him, because I can see he’s as high as Mt Kozzi, ‘have a drink before you go, mate. We’ve all been robbers at one stage or another.’
"‘I’ll have a brandy,’ he says.
"‘Girl’s drink,’ I tell him. ‘Have a whiskey!’
"He grabs the glass off Whisper’s Tits and downs it. Then I pour him another, and another, and suddenly he gets smart. ‘Trying to get me drunk are ya?’ and he grabs the folding stuff on the bar and turns his gun on Whisper’s Tits and squirts him in the face.
"‘Eeyah!’
"As soon as he’s turned his back I grab his gun wrist and we wrestle to the floor and that’s when Big Bert sits on him and keeps him weighted down. While he’s like that I pour about half a bottle of whiskey down his throat while Quilly phones Sherlock.
“Shirl takes Whisper’s Tits by the arm and leads him to the bathroom to wash the blood off and I yell after her that it’s only wine. No River Murrays. And the whiskey soon does its job and the robber flakes out on the floor under the double impression of Big Bert and our poteen. I go through his pockets while he’s conked out and find five bucks and I give it to Quilly for the whiskey. Then Sherlock rocks up.”
“Hang on a minute, Corky – there’s a car coming into our yard.”
“Bloody hell – it’s Sherlock himself! Quick, let’s get inside, I don’t want him poking around the sheds!”
The Police sergeant knocks on the door. He is very business-like and gets straight to the point:
“Cork McCliver. I’ve got a bloke in the can who’s laid a complaint against you.”
“A complaint? Really? Come in, Sergeant Holmes.”
“Thanks. Yep, it seems you used unnecessary force to detain the alleged offender in the Rabbit Creek Weinbar.”
“Alleged! The bloke held up the Rabbit Creek Weinbar!”
“Not proven till after the court case. He’s got a dislocated wrist and has two front teeth missing. And he reckons that as well as being assaulted he was robbed.”
“Robbed! This is ridiculous! He’s the damned robber!”
“Not according to him. You overdid the hero bit, my lad.”
“I’m no hero; Bert Schlippenbach is the hero. He kept the robber restrained on the floor.”
“Bert says he tripped over you and the alleged offender while you were both fighting. He says he just sat on him after that to wait for me to arrive. The alleged offender says he was robbed of fifty-five dollars after you told him you were a crook, too.”
“The man’s a liar.”
“He also said you shoved a whiskey bottle in his gob and that’s how he got his front teeth lost.”
“Bulldust!”
“It wasn’t bulldust he spewed up in the back of my van, China, it was whiskey and pizza. I’ll have to ask you to make a statement.”
So they sit down at the kitchen table and Corky writes a story on a piece of paper. Sherlock reads it and shakes his head slowly:
“Okay, Cork that will do nicely. Now, let’s talk tits on bulls. We both know that you assaulted and robbed the prisoner; fact. He is in the lock-up and will face court next week for attempted armed robbery. If you prefer, you can stick to your version of events as stated here, and you can front up in court with him under severe cross-examination. And of course, you will make a botch of it and be fined, or worse. Or, China, you can visit the station for a week straight for a few hour a day and chop up my mallee root pile that’s too big to fit in the slow combustion heater. Only eight tons, a piece of cake for a strong lad like you, and nothing more will be said. What do you think?”
There are a couple of green parrots feeding on the ground almost within leaping distance. I’ll watch them to see if they come closer. Yes, and so Corky tears up his statement and when the long, untouchable arm of the law goes outside to leave, he says he can smell steam. “Funny that,” he says, “never smelled steam in a farm yard before?” The steam smell, Scab tells me, is coming from the whiskey shed and the brothers McCliver are at pains to inform him that they have an old traction engine in the shed that they’re working on. “It’s a steam traction engine – getting it tuned for the Barossa Show.” Sherlock looks at them quizzically and drives off. But he’s got them worried: he might come back with a search warrant and find the still.
Careful now. Spring! Got him. You beauty – parrot for breakfast.
“Why the hell did you have to go into the Weinbar to buy fags! Now look what’s happened – Sherlock has smelled steam. He’ll put two and two together and come up with four and he’ll be back poking his delicate nose into everything. We’re in a fix, Corky, good and proper!”
“We’ll have to figure something out, Turnip. Sherlock will bring his troopers and turn the place upside-down. Let’s have a drink and a think.”
I hate it when their fluffy little feathers get up my nose.
Chapter 29
Monday afternoon at Otto’s cottage and the schluck and schnitte comes out. It has been an eventful weekend, with Mary and Ben having Sunday afternoon together and Corky getting mixed up in the Weinbar fracas and Sherlock hot on the scent of their distillery. There was a time when you could depend on everything remaining static at Zimmermann’s too, but, even here, there are signs of change. The nephew has been lopping branches off the big trees and the old man has been cleaning up the garden again. Thank goodness for the machinery graveyard! At least that remains the same, apart from getting more dilapidated and overgrown. Ahh – metwurst.
“Hello Gus. Want a bit?”
I blink, and he slices a piece for me and he settles back on the miner’s couch with his port wine, his cheese, his biscuits, and his metwurst – Otto’s schluck and schnitte.
“Do you remember Wolfgang Sagenschnatter, Otto? Yes, of course you do. He was one of the first blokes around here to own a car. He had a Ford, a model A, if I remember, not a new one of course, but quite a fancy piece of machinery back then. I never did get a driver’s license myself; coz I can’t read, but I learned how to drive. That was easy. Wolf was very proud of his car, and it got him a reputation for being snobbish.”
Otto fills his mouth with cheese and metwurst and has a long chew and a swallow.
"He was a snob, no doubt about it. And talk! He could talk a trout out of the water! He was very keen on Norma Mohr but she couldn’t stand him, what with all his bragging and so forth, and one day there was a picnic out in the guvmint pine forest. Well, people turned up on horses, in buggies or carts and Wolfgang Sagenschnatter arrives in his Ford A with the side curtains off and blowing his horn. He pays lots of attention to Norma and after the picnic lunch she asks him for a drive.
‘Sure, I’ll take you for a ride in it, Norma.’
‘No, no,’ she says. ‘I want to drive it, not be a passenger,’ she tells him.
‘Women can’t drive cars, Norma, not with all their petticoats and skirts. It is not practical and it’s not seemly.’
‘Not seemly? I can drive a horse and buggy!’
‘That’s a different matter,’ Wolf tells her. ‘But motor cars are a man’s business. Very mechanical machines they are and far too complex for you to handle. Women can only ride in them with a hand on top of their hats.’
"Norma skulks off and won’t speak to Wolf after that. The men settle down on the grass and drink wine and the women and kids are playing with bats and balls and after a while Sagenschnatter hears his car horn go off. He looks over at his Ford A and there is Norma trying to start it with the key and she has made the horn blast.
‘Hey – please leave my motor car alone!’ And he jumps up and runs towards it.
"Now, there is a female toilet erected for the picnic, Otto. It’s just a hole, about six feet deep and surrounded by a wooden framework and hessian bagging. And just as Wolfgang is getting close Norma grabs the key out of the starter gadget and runs into the long-drop to avoid him.
‘Come out of there with my car key, Norma Mohr!’
"He is getting red in the face and losing patience with her. His earlier attentions towards her have changed and now he is treating her like a naughty girl. And everyone is watching this little drama.
‘Come out of there at once, do you hear!’
"So she comes out, head down, looking embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry, Wolf; I accidentally dropped your key down the long-drop.’
‘What!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again. And she goes and joins the men who are sitting down drinking and all watching with amusement. So Sagenschnatter strips off to his waist, rolls up his trouser legs and climbs in and starts fishing around for his key. They can’t see what he’s doing but they can imagine, what with all the swearing and so forth. Then Norma says to the men:
‘Look.’
"And she holds up her hand and twirls Sagenschnatter’s car key in her fingers.
“I must remember to tell Mary that story, Otto. She would appreciate it.”
He switches on his little red radio and we listen to the news: South Australian wine exports has topped the one billion dollars mark; a sty full of pigs was drowned in the east coast floods; the Royal Flying Doctor Service has a new aircraft; and an unwed woman in Finland gave birth to six children – three boys and three girls. Mother and babies are doing well! Zookeeper father was last sighted boarding a cargo ship for Argentina.
Now we listen to some music. We hear Gretchen Am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel) by Franz Schubert, who wrote the piece when he was only seventeen years old, the announcer tells us, when he could barely have had any experience of love let alone compose music to touch the hearts of young women! Otto is impressed indeed, and listens to the whole piece without interrupting.
“Mary would like to hear that, Otto. But I don’t know if she can understand German.”
Mary, it seems, is much in his thoughts lately. Old Otto barely lets a sentence slip out without mentioning her. It is evident, too, in his work around the garden that is being slowly transformed from a wilderness into something almost tidy. Otto tells me he doesn’t talk in his sleep anymore either and wake up startled, so apparently, the demon has left him completely. And he credits Mary with this, so I suppose she did have quite an influence on him. It seems the radio announcer is so impressed with Schubert that he is playing another of his songs: “The serenade Who Is Sylvia? From Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona, once popular in Victorian drawing-rooms.”
“Wouldn’t it be lovely if by some trick of time that Mary Smith and Franz Schubert could meet!”
