Who Is Mary Smith?, page 6
Chapter 6
Mary begins to realise how transparent she must be. Perhaps Ma Zimmermann has already guessed too, which means she would have mentioned it to her husband. They’ll give me a nickname if I’m not careful. Maybe I could get the three of them to contribute something? I haven’t done any research on them yet – I don’t even know their first names. And all I really know about Otto is that he is the older brother, a bachelor, a recluse since about 1940 – that’s sixty-seven years! I know that he is illiterate but was a champion vine-dresser at the time, but now he is just the object of loose tongues with nothing better to do. Ask a few questions about someone you don’t know and everyone wants to put their opinion rather than state facts. Rumour; it feeds on difference! How little we understand about people. Otto is real, and he has a heart of gold. I must make a note to inquire when he was born.
Weingarten hermitage has cast its spell and the old man snores erratically. How long will he sleep? Shall I wait for him to wake up and will he be confused when he does? I’ll take a stroll around his cottage and record my impressions of his hidden world.
"What shall I call it? Otto’s Grotto? No. Grottoville? Inept. Grottoburg! Yes, that’s appropriate. You’re coming with me are you, Gus?
"Years of untended wilderness now comprise his botanic acre of seclusion. Hoary red gums tower over stands of white cedar and silky oak, shouldering them sideways and pressing on their canopies. Two stone-pines invade the sky and mingle topmost with the others. The debris from these monarchs has strewn the undergrowth and original gardens with berries, bark and litter, with cones and branchlets, hardened fruits and capsules and a mass of brown needles. Here stands a single-furrow, mulboard plow, abandoned forever, rusted and losing its battle for identity amongst a purple-flowering creeper, itself in a desperate struggle with invasive Paterson’s curse and thistles. There are glimpses of a stone pathway embedded in grass and weed which leads to a well, its windlass lost, its wood bucket a few shards of mossy rot with rust marks where the iron clamps once held it intact. Draught horseshoes are common, strung on wire or ingrown into the forks of trees as if being consumed by them. And what have we here, Gus – a wall of bottles!
"Incredible! It must be about ten metres long and reaches up to my shoulder! I must delete that exclamation in the transcript. No, I won’t. First impressions are valuable.
"The bottom layers are hidden by weeds, and years of dirt and dust has made the whole bottle-wall appear quite solid. Here is a tangible, social record of generations of drinking culture. Beginning at ground level and ending at the top like the growth rings of a tree is evidence of the Zimmermann’s rewards for labour invested. Who reverently laid the first empty bottle in place? And who the next? And so on. The wall has grown in length as well as up, and is four or five bottles wide in some places. Also, it is braced at intervals like the stanchions of a brick wall. This is like an archaeological site, Gus!
“Some most recent labels have survived, others have the winery’s name embossed on them. This is history layered on history – the Zimmermann culture and the producers they patronised: Penfold, Gramp, and here’s a Hoffman! What’s this one? Sal… Saltram. Here’s a Buring, a Henschke, and even Stonyfell and Tolley to show that they were not insular. And more from farther afield, from Clare and the Southern Vales. Incredible! There is port in several versions, sherry in forgotten shapes and antique bottles, various reds and a smattering of hocks and sweet whites. I wonder what lies on the bottom. Cottage wines, probably, from every homestead’s trial acres, their bottled cabernet types. If only I had the time and opportunity – and permission of course – to sort through and catalogue them. This is a gold mine, Gus, of the ghosts of the past, when media as we know it didn’t exist and lanterns and candles lit the table around which they sat to enjoy sunshine or roses locked in a bottle.”
“Otto, your little Grottoburg is a treasure: it should be listed.”
Hey, that’s my line!
Mary is so pre-occupied with her discovery that she fails to notice approaching footsteps. Great Karl – it’s my one-time benefactor, Ben; what is he doing here?
“Excuse me, Miss.”
It was just last night that I saw Pearl through the windowpane, and I have a vivid recollection of how she made my hormones rattle. Apparently Mary is having the same affect upon Ben, who, for all his practical skills and level-headed learning, is struggling for words as she turns to face him.
“Ma Zimmermann,” he stutters. “She told me that, that – and Old Otto is asleep – I, um, I wanted to ask if…my name is Ben!”
“Hi, Ben.”
How can two, single-syllable words sound so pleasant? Music in miniature pouring forth in the grotto! He’s lost, or stymied, and looking boorishly ridiculous, poor lad. The mouth moves but the words don’t make it out.
“Yes, Ben?”
It’s a question for him – not confirmation of his unspoken desire – and he begins to understand that some form of communication is required, so he flaps his hands to assist his artless articulation.
“Dad wants me to pick up an old table from Ma Zimmermann which she is giving to the new kindergarten and I’m having a battle getting it on the truck and she said that Otto had a visitor and perhaps you could help me. I’m sorry, but in my haste I’ve forgotten your name, she said it but I wasn’t listening, I suppose.”
Wow. Ben has found his tongue and he’s fired off a fusillade of words.
“My name is Mary.”
“The table is not too heavy. Well, it is somewhat. It’s more awkward than anything. I, um, just need a hand to balance it so I can manoeuvre it onto the truck; would you mind? And I’ll have to ask you if you could kindly move your car because…”
“Certainly. Ben who?”
“Schultz. And you are Mary…?”
“Smith.”
“Okay, thanks. Otto was asleep; I looked around for his visitor and found you here. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Why should I, Ben. Lead the way.”
What on earth has happened to him! Ben is normally sure of foot, even athletic, but he keeps bumping into branches and tripping over himself as he walks ahead and tries to look back and talk at the same time. It’s too early for him to have had a drink, besides, he’s careful with the stuff. I’m walking close beside Mary, hoping that the occasional brush against her slacks will find its way back to Pearl. And Mary is confident and cool, she even has a quarter-smile on her face different to what she gave Old Otto, of whom she seems fond, I’m sure.
With the table loaded and tied securely, Ben has abandoned all haste to deliver it and hurry back to feverishly picking grapes. Hard labour in a hot vineyard has suddenly lost its appeal, and he obviously has a head full of questions, or even suggestions, but a tongue unable to frame them. The wild colonial boy, enacting his first daring hold-up would be more composed than Ben is now. But then, they dressed differently in those days too, so I’m told. He is not wearing what he would prefer to be at this moment, and his scent is a little putrid after a long, hot morning’s labour. And Mary is wearing those clothes, which I described to you earlier. No wonder Ben is experiencing difficulty getting his tongue to synchronise with his brain.
“Maybe we could load another table one day?” And he’s too quick to laugh. “Well, not really, but…”
“Sure. I’ll give you my phone number for next time you’re moving house.”
That’s the type of response I’d expect from Olga. Why is it that when females generate the slightest interest, they immediately empty a bucketful on it? But wait. Ben has picked up on it. He must be sober – he’s getting a grip on himself.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean it like that. I was surprised… I mean, may I see you again some time? Perhaps we could have a coffee or…”
“Come back to Otto’s cottage, Ben, and I’ll write down my mobile phone number for you. I like Italian.”
Chapter 7
For the next week, Anna broods over her youngest child’s welfare. He looks pale one minute and flushed the next. She can tell him something and ten minutes later he has no idea what it was. His appetite is poor and sometimes his pulse is racing:
“Ben, I think I had better make an appointment for you with Doctor Schmidt. You are not well.”
“Yes I am, Mum. Don’t worry about me please.”
But that doesn’t wash with Anna, so eventually:
“I tell you Peter, he definitely has a malaise. When Benjamin doesn’t want to eat, it is a positive sign that he is not well. How has he been outside – is he working all right?”
“He works hard, yes. But you’re right – he says some strange things at times.”
“For example?”
“Let’s think: I asked him to pick a few table grapes for us yesterday, and he just walked off saying, ‘Table, table, table…’ I thought at the time it was rather strange.”
“Well – didn’t you question his odd behaviour?”
“No. Kids get funny sometimes; you don’t know what is going on inside their heads.”
“That’s it – he’s in love!” Virtuous Anna immediately draws on her deep, feminine intuition, and the sum of a week’s concern emerges from behind the closed door of adolescence. “Of course – why didn’t I recognise the signs! Benjamin is not our first son, but he is certainly the shyest, quite bashful, really. He’s in love – or he thinks he is! But he’s only a boy, not quite twenty-one. You’ll have to speak to him Peter!”
“Me! What would I know about – I mean, what if he’s not, I’d make a fool of myself. Besides, I was his age when I proposed to you!”
“That was entirely different. We were adults. They are still children. Speaking of which – who can she be? You must talk to him, Peter. Confide in him and find out who she is. Goodness knows? I mean, of course, Ben has always had good taste and been very responsible, but I must learn who she is! Ben is still a boy really – she might be Greek or something? Who knows?”
“Now, now, Anna, don’t tie yourself in a knot. He may not be in love or even have a girlfriend. Perhaps I have been over-burdening him. You know how it is during vintage; and this is the first time he’s been in charge of the field crews. Okay, look, I’ll have a word, and for my money, I’ll wager it’s something simple.”
“If it’s not, then call Hugo. Hugo is an understanding man as well as a competent doctor, and he has a daughter – I wonder if it is Melanie? Melanie Schmidt? Now there is an appropriate young girl, Peter.”
Pete has enough on his plate without having to digest imponderables. Yes, Melanie is a fine young woman, and the two have had plenty of contact over the years, but this is pie in the sky so far. Ben might be getting measles again? I had better call Hugo first, on the quiet, and get an opinion. Better still – I’ll stand him lunch at the Vintner’s Club!
It takes a sizable calling card to drag a doctor away from his practice, even for luncheon, and the account is delivered on a patterned silver platter, following the cheese and greens.
Doctor Hugo Schmidt, no stranger to favours or club luncheons, had to juggle four appointments, placate a well-intentioned nurse and bribe his receptionist before he could grab this midday opportunity. After listening patiently to Pete’s muddled plea over the telephone the previous evening, he decides to shut shop for two hours.
First, was cream of pumpkin soup, next an artistic dish of King George whiting with tarragon and lemon, followed – after a suitable gastronomic pause – with grilled lobster with parmesan sauce and thyme pangrattato. Lastly, they were presented with fresh avocado dripping with butterscotch liqueur alongside lime ice and cream. The calling card was a rare, outstanding Verdelho, wholly appropriate with the seafood; the next a ‘peeping’ Semillon, and the port was ‘picked with wit’ as Charles Dickens might have it – as Hugo observed with the broadest of smiles. Altogether, a large and expensive opinion, presented to the background tinkling of a baby grand.
“My dear father, bless his overworked, vinous brain, didn’t take enough time out as reward for effort: just slipped a generous red into him and kept going. Mistake. When a man is in practice he must not overdo it; he must provide for civilised time-out. There is so much to contend with, Pete: beside the pressures of persistent medical reps; the feline attitudes of receptionists; scold-less mothers with simian offspring; outbreaks of Legionnaire’s disease and the long hours at surgery; of hospital visits, cankers and piles, of time-wasting, hysterical false pregnancies and a wife who plays polo; there is still the need to keep on top of everything and up to date with the latest scientific reports and curiosities. And there are all the functions to attend as well, by George! I’m putting it all aside for two hours – what were you saying about young Ben? Good strong, healthy lad if I know him?”
“He is almost twenty-one, Hugo. He is sick, somehow. I can’t figure it out.”
La Belle Dame sans Merci
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake
And no birds sing.
“Any obvious symptoms?”
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
“Some loss of appetite; disjointed speech. Hot and feverish. Fast pulse, slow pulse. Er…he talks to himself at times and makes sudden, guttural noises without warning or reason.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Pain in the abdomen?”
“No, nothing like that, Hugo.”
“How about his eyes – clarity?”
“Anna says they’re okay.”
“Then he’s obviously stricken with amour; been blown out of the water, as they say. He’s found a wrench who can peel grapes with her eyelashes and she’s tightened his nuts to the point where it’s painful. Yes, common in some better families.”
“You think so, Hugo?”
“I know so, Pete.”
I met a lady in the meads,
Full-beautiful – a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
“But – but I never experienced anything like that, Hugo?”
“Of course you didn’t! Nor did I. We are not the sort of people who fall in love, for Pete’s sake!”
“But I’m married, Hugo; five kids – you tell me I haven’t been or am not in love? I am extremely fond of Anna!”
“Keep your voice down…yes, of course you are. And you love her – the same as I love my wife – but we’ve never fallen in love. We are professional people; sound heads on sound bodies. We carved out our futures based on ambition and desire, and we looked around and got married. We need to have wives and families and the correct trimmings and anchors in society. But Ben is in love. When it affects you like it obviously affects him, then that’s the real thing. Dickens; no argument.”
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
“I don’t quite follow you, Hugo?”
“Look, a patient of mine, no names of course, had reason to consult me because his son developed the same symptoms except they were more pronounced. The poor lad was becoming dysfunctional. It happened that the object of his affections was a tiny girl of foreign extraction with an engaging speech impediment that made his eyes water. His pet name for her was ‘Iota’, because she was so petite. But, their parents became obstructive, owing to the cultural differences. To alleviate his purgatory, he bought himself a Barbie doll and a budgerigar with a lisp! Full on! ‘The healthier the boy the harder it gets.’ Dickens.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
Two hundred and fifty-five bucks down the drain: “Have some more port, Hugo.”
And that is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Chapter 8
Marg McCliver, buxom and slightly bow-legged, and yet with the innate charm and gypsy foreboding of her remote ancestors, erected a cordon sanitaire around her attractive, talented daughter, which Turnip and Corky find difficult to penetrate. I obtained the following from Scab, the resident, recalcitrant McCliver cat, and transcribed it into a reasonable format.
“It’s Saturday evening,” says Scab. “The weary week is o’er, the fledglings from their nests have flown and the damn mozzies are merciless. Gold sunsets, autumn nights, fluttering moths, orb weavers, and bunnies on the hop. You got the picture, Gus?”
“Got it Scab. I’ll take it from there.”
“Bloody humidity is going up again; look at that dial! Corky, have you got the tipper going properly yet?”
“No worries, Turnip. The hydraulic seals have arrived; it’ll be on the road by lunchtime Monday. However, the right-hand inside dual wheel has gone flat, so that’s another pig-of-a-job for me!”
“Like Grandpa Archie used to say, Cork: ‘You never run out of things that can go wrong.’ Marg – what is Maria doing?”
“She is in her room, collating.”
“I don’t care what sort of prayers she’s saying, tell her to cut it short and get to the table. A man can’t even sit down to eat but his kids are somewhere else. Sean and Archie – go and wash your face and hands!”
“Okay, now that we are all here, let’s get on the outside of some seriously good tucker.” Turnip stuffs his mouth with creamed spud: “What’s that funny noise? Sounds like a bum in a bucket?”
