A Cheat and a Liar, page 29
Chapter 14
Tacoma station, 10.27 a.m., 31 July 1914. George had just boarded the train and was on his way to Bucoda. He had arrived by pre-booked taxi at the station. The train was there waiting. George checked in. ‘Thank you, Mr Chapman,’ the man behind the counter said as he clicked the ticket George had received when he booked using Catherine’s surname. ‘Have a good journey.’
‘Thank you,’ George replied and, in his customary way, tipped the brim of his hat. He then put his large old suitcase where directed and, with his small bag, made his way on board to find his seat; and soon, the train started to move, and everybody was under way.
It wasn’t going to be a long journey, and George’s thoughts centred on what lay ahead of him. He was a stoic sort of man; nothing seemed to get him too excited. He seemed to have gone through his life making decisions concerning destinations, employment, and people, determined to accept whatever result came his way. If a situation became untenable, walk away. In a past life, he had become angry with folk close to him; but in his present life, if people prevented George’s plans coming to fruition, he would change the plans or move away from the people. He rarely showed anger or disappointment; it was as if he kept telling himself, Don’t hurt people physically, George. If they are people you don’t enjoy being around, just leave, because you can’t expect them to change to suit you. He had never wanted those he left behind to ever find him once he had gone. He, of course, like most single men through the ages, enjoyed company, especially female company. He knew how to make anyone he was around, male or female, enjoy their time together, but when George was ready, he would just move on and not say he was going. Whenever he was about to change employment, he would inform his superiors of his intentions; when it came to friends or acquaintances, he found it less complicating and required less reasons. If he simply left, telling nobody, it was easy. Whenever an explanation was required, it would not be the truth. It simply meant that the plan for the future had to be better.
Eventually, the train was in Bucoda. That was quick, he said to himself. He gathered his thoughts, collected his luggage, and made his way along Main Street, the ‘thriving metropolis’ of Bucoda. It was a lovely warm, not hot, summer’s day.
Soon, he was outside Joe Dootsen’s Poolroom. He stopped and peered through the open door into the murky darkness inside. A raspy old voice from within suddenly squawked, ‘Well, it’s youn’ George. What are you doin’ in town, young fella?’
George said nothing and could not see where the croaking frog’s voice was coming from either. Finally, he said, ‘That sounds like old Joe Dootsen speaking up from his grave in his poolroom.’ The two men met just inside the door and shook hands. ‘You’ve got a good memory for names, Joe,’ said George, ignoring Joe’s question about why he was back in town, ‘but, look, I’m in a rush, Joe. I’ll be here for a while, so I’ll call in from time to time.’ With that, George was off and away. ‘Rosie’s pub, a bed for the night, and a meal. That’s where I need to be heading,’ and with that, George soon met the lady at the front desk, booked in for a week, saying to her that his stay could be longer than that, but he would let her know. He was shown his room, reminded of dinner and meal hours, and soon he had made himself comfortable upstairs. George removed his hat and coat, and his boots too, and then unpacked much of his suitcase and hung up what needed to be hung up before he tossed himself on the bed. It was not quite 1.00 p.m. I’ll lie down until 3.00 p.m., he told himself. He shut his eyes, and at that point, the next chapter of George Douglas Morris’s life was about to begin.
The following day was Sunday, and George enjoyed the sun as he left his accommodation and walked the short distance to the Methodist Church in Bucoda. Five or six others were standing outside as he approached, but George did not recall any of the faces of those that turned as he approached. It was almost eleven o’clock by his watch anyway, so he walked in and took a hymn book from the table inside the entrance as he passed. Inside, the pews had what he assumed was the usual number of worshippers.
He looked around and took his place towards the back and near one of the windows. The pulpit was empty, and odd whispering could be heard coming from several directions.
George flicked through the pages of the hymn book. He recognised most of what was written. Charles Wesley had written the majority of the lyrics for most hymns. His mind went back to a past life where Sunday was considered a day of worship only. Then the minister arrived from the rear and stepped up into the pulpit. There was a moment of hesitation, and then he welcomed everybody briefly before calling them all to pray. It was a typical Methodist service, ending with the sermon, a prayer, and benediction, and it was all over for another week. The organist finished with a flurry of organ music that George did not recognise. The minister walked to the front door to shake everybody’s hand, and, gradually, parishioners rose from their seats to make their way out and meet their friends. George waited and then stood and made his way to the door, shaking the hand of the reverend on his way.
Outside, he looked around and soon saw Edward Nichols and his wife so slowly moved towards them. As he approached, Edward happened to turn and notice him. ‘Ah, the wanderer has returned,’ he said and leant forward with his arm outstretched to shake his hand. ‘I wondered if I might see you today, George. Good to see you again. How are you?’
‘Well,’ said George, ‘I’m that much better for seeing you, Mr Nichols,’ and then turned slightly and said, ‘and you too, Mrs Nichols.’ Never one to miss an opportunity, he also looked beyond the lady and added, ‘and Miss Annette also, I see; a special good morning to you also.’
Annette coyly smiled and put her gloved hand to her mouth and said sweetly, ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Morris. Father said earlier that he wondered if you would be at church this morning. Nice to see you again.’
With all the pleasantries out of the way, Edward took a step away from the ladies and said, ‘George, tomorrow, where are you staying? Did you book in at Rosie’s?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I am staying there. That’s where I was when I was here previously, of course. It’s clean and comfortable, and the food is good, so, yes, it’s fine.’
‘Good, good,’ Edward replied. ‘We have a truck that does a circuit through town each workday and picks up most of the single men and those without transport of their own. I reckon we should be at Rosie’s at about 7.10, perhaps 7.15, in the morning; if you are outside about then, we will take you down to the mill.’
‘Great service, Edward. I have a bag with hand tools inside it. Is there anything in particular that I should bring?’
‘No, bring what you have, and we will look in the morning,’ the other man replied, ‘and I will see you then.’ George thanked Edward, made sure he attracted the attention of both ladies, tipped his hat, smiled, and wandered off.
I might try and get to know that daughter of his, George thought to himself. Looks like a single lady who dresses tidily and speaks well, with well-heeled parents who have offered to employ me. That can’t be bad for an unemployed single, lonely, middle-aged man, Georgie Boy. He chuckled as he neared Rosie’s. A nice light lunch, a rest on the bed to let it settle, and then a quiet walk around town to perhaps see what I missed when I was here last visit.
He was soon back in his room at the hotel. He washed his face and hands and made his way to the dining room. It was just after 1.00 p.m., and once lunch was finished, he collected what turned out to be yesterday’s newspaper and headed back to his room to lie down on his bed and read as much of it as might be possible before his eyelids would kick in and shut. He knew he had promised himself a walk around town. I’ll decide after I have had this snooze. He started to read.
Monday, 7.12 a.m. The boss’s green truck chugged up Main Street and stopped to pick up George. There were five men on the back, all introducing themselves and welcoming him to Bucoda. Day one at a new place of work had arrived, and George accepted he was opening a new door in his life. What might be on the other side? he had asked himself. Just be patient, old fella, and wait and see.
They drove through the mill gates and stopped outside the office. Everyone jumped down and headed towards their respective places of work. George walked into the office and could see Edward through the door in an adjoining room. He looked up from what he was doing. ‘George, you’re here. Well, welcome to our place of work. Let’s go for a walk and get yourself familiar with what is here. Guess you met a few of the men on our pickup round. I’ll show you the whole plant and then where I think you may be best suited. I am a little short on numbers in a few areas. I could do with about another five men actually, so at present there are a few options for you.’ They headed towards where several piles of large logs were stacked.
‘We have two contractors who supply us with logs, and from here, we have men working with machines taking logs in onto the benches. They are then stripped of bark, and then the logs move forward where they are broken down gradually. Here we are, George,’ said Edward, handing George earmuffs and put a pair on his own head. The men moved on so Edward could better explain, and gradually his voice became louder as the noise inside became greater. ‘You probably know pretty much how the system works, George.’ By that time, voices had been deafened, and Edward was using hand movements to help him explain what he wanted to say.
It was about an hour before they got back to the office, and as they walked in, Edward said, ‘While we talk about finding a place for you, we should have a cup of coffee.’ He left George sitting in his office while he wandered out to find someone to make the tea.
As he sat down again, on his return, George started to talk. ‘Edward, I think you have been very good offering me a job here, and just after we started walking over to the mill, you said you could probably do with a few more working for you. I can only fill one position, of course, but if it helps you, I will start work in whatever area you feel you have the greatest need. I don’t mind how menial the work, I will do my best. You have helped me, and if I can help you wherever the need is greatest, I am happy. As I said to you on my last visit, building one or two houses in town is what I would like to end up doing, so in the meantime, and I don’t mind how long I do it for, I would ask you to simply tell me where you need someone.’
Just then, there was a knock on the door, and a lady with a tray entered the office. ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Morris. I didn’t realise that we had the privilege of your company today. How are you?’
George turned and looked; it was Edward’s daughter, Annette. ‘Miss Annette,’ said a surprised George. ‘I didn’t realise you worked here also.’
‘I don’t know that I work, Mr Morris. When one is the boss’s daughter, I think they call it slave labour.’
They all laughed, and Edward quickly replied, ‘Just because you don’t get paid doesn’t make it slave labour.’
‘OK,’ she replied and placed the cups on the front of her father’s desk.
After she had left, Edward explained. ‘I feel sorry for Nettie. She has given up an awful lot of her life to care for her mother. My wife has suffered from poor health for many years and does not appear to be improving, but Nettie tends her every need. She is often still up long into the night, long after I have gone to bed, attending to her mother with medicines the doctor has prescribed. I do not know what I would have ever done without her.’
‘That is certainly very sad to hear about your wife. I didn’t realise, and I agree, you must be very grateful of all that Annette does for you both,’ George replied.
The two men drank their coffee, and then Edward leant back in his office chair and explained the work areas he felt required assistance. When he had finished speaking, George said, ‘Your call, sir. Tell me where to work, explain what I must do, and I will head there now.’ The decision made, the men both stood up and walked back to the plant.
George was given work producing weatherboards and timber for finishing lines—architraves, and the like for around windows and doors inside houses. Edward stressed he needed men who could work with tools and machines to produce precision timbers where accuracy and uniformity were essential. George was delighted. ‘It is the material that makes the finished article stand out from the rest,’ he would tell people, and at the end of the day, he would often look at what he had produced and feel good.
So everyone was happy. The first two or three weeks followed a pattern. Everything was good. George had arranged to work Monday to Friday at the mill and had asked Edward if, on the Saturday, which was three weeks after he started, he could look at the little cottage that had been mentioned by Edward on George’s first visit. ‘Of course, George,’ he had said, so, on the Friday, they had both gone together to look. It seemed every bit the neglected shack that Edward had described: old unpainted fence, which was only partly visible through the long grass, and a gate that had rusted on its hinges and would not easily open. The men walked to the back door. Edward had a key, and eventually it turned, and the door opened.
‘How long since you were last here?’ George asked.
Edward laughed. ‘Oh, might be three years, might be five, I’m not sure.’ They walked inside, pushing aside long cobwebs that dangled from the ceiling onto their faces.
‘It’s good and dry,’ said George, ‘so the roof must be OK.’
‘Well, that’s two plusses, I guess,’ the other man replied. George looked through the house. There was a kitchen just inside the back door with a wood stove, which looked reasonable, and there was a bench with an enamel sink, dirty but sound, and then through a door to quite a large living room, with a bedroom off that. Beside the kitchen was a wash house with an old copper that had not had a fire under it for a very long time, and further there was a bathroom with a bath that currently was considerably dirtier than any who may wish to bath in it.
‘Looks good,’ said George.
‘Good for what—knocking down?’ Edward replied.
‘No, if you agree to let me have the material that it needs, I’ll do the work if I can live here for a while once that work is done,’ said George.
‘If you are happy with that, I am absolutely happy,’ Edward replied. The two men shook hands, and then Edward said, ‘You may as well have the key. I only have one.’
‘Have you got a scythe, Edward? If it is fine in the morning, I’ll come out and cut the grass,’ said George. ‘That will make it look a little better.’
Then Edward said, ‘I have a vehicle you can use, George. You just keep it topped up with fuel. It started life as a car, but I took the back of the cab off it and made it into a truck, sort of. It looks kinda pretty, ya know, pretty ugly,’ and they both laughed, ‘but it is damn useful.’ George was about as excited as he could remember.
Came to town with nothing. Got a job, got a house, and now I’ve got a truck. All I need is a kind woman to help me clean the place and show the house and me some love, and I will think I am in heaven. Got a bit of an idea about the woman and the love too, he said to himself. Be coincidental if the whole lot came from the same place, Georgie, wouldn’t it?
Next morning, George was out of bed early, skipped breakfast, and was out of the hotel by 7.30 a.m. He had driven the truck from the yard on Friday evening, but now he was going back there to pick up the scythe that Edward had said he would leave near the office building for George to take to the cottage to cut the grass. He had asked for a steel file also, and one was going to be left for him also. There were a few men arriving as he turned into the yard. One of the guys asked how it was he was driving the boss’s truck, and he explained that he had offered to cut some long grass for Edward. ‘Is there a container with some oil in it that I can use when I am sharpening the blade?’ he asked another.
‘Yes,’ he was told and then shown the shed where anything connected to the machinery was kept. ‘Just make sure you only take sufficient for the job you are doing and lock the door on the way out.’ George did as he was instructed, and with everything he needed, he drove off.
I’ve got to get used to this right-hand-side of the road, driving, he told himself. ‘I reckon I’ll be OK until I come to a crossroad, and then I need to sort out who gives way to whom. You’ll sort it, George,’ he said to himself out loud. Once he arrived at the cottage, he thought it best to walk around the place first and work out a plan of attack. Then he sat on the back steps and took the file and some oil and started on the blade. As he expected, it was slow work, and it was almost 9.00 a.m. before he was ready to start work. Let’s see how we go, he said to himself. He had decided to cut a three-foot-wide strip on the roadside of the front fence first and then work inside that fence back towards the house. It was slow work, and he soon realised he should have brought a rake with him as well so he could pile up the grass, somewhere as he went. Slowly, he made progress; quickly the time passed. He had cut the front and some of the side, and it was midday already. He was feeling hungry by now, and having had nothing to eat, he decided, he would put the tools he had inside the house, lock it up, and collect a rake before he returned so that whatever he cut could be piled up to burn at some later stage.
