The Prodigal Returns
OTHER THAN ITS appearance there was nothing wrong with Superintendent Bolt’s private car. In the boot Bony had found an old hat, a pair of rubber-soled shoes, a mass of fishing lines and spare hooks here and there, and it did not require effort to picture the Chief of the CIB on vacation. A few miles on from Lorne, Bony drove off the road into a nook amid trees and promptly fell asleep, and was still sleeping when the sleek Department car swept the Superintendent by on his way to Melbourne.
At five o’clock Bolt’s private car was again plodding along the Ocean Road, pounding up the rises, and humming down the slopes, taking the curves with marked cautiousness. Bony was able to see the sea, and the gulls, to appreciate the beauties of this coast, but he sighed for the day when he might walk into a car salesroom and drive out a modern Buick.
Outside the bar of the Inlet Hotel stood two trucks and a car. He drove past these vehicles and parked the “plodder” in the open-fronted shed, removed his suitcase and proceeded towards the front entrance, accompanied by a joyful Stug. He was, however, not permitted to avoid his friends. From the bar door issued Dick Lake.
“Gooddayee! How’s it for a deepnoser?”
The grin so slow to arrive was well cemented. Moss Way shouted that Mrs Washfold said that the drinks were set up.
How could a man be an abstainer under those circumstances?
Moss Way relieved Bony of his suitcase, and Dick Lake grasped him by the arm and escorted him to the bar. The bar appeared to be full, and the large Mrs Washfold was smiling, and comfortably spread behind the counter.
“Welcome back, Mr Rawlings,” she exclaimed. “Had a good trip?”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Bony. “Anticipating the temptations I would encounter on my return, I have been good. And now…” He lifted the glass of beer presented by Dick Lake. “And now here’s to ’e all, and fill ’emup again.”
“Where you been?” a voice asked, and Bony saw Tom Owen. The man’s small grey eyes were faintly hostile, but no one detected hostility in his voice.
“Went through Lorne to Colac and on to Mount Gambier. Then north to Murray Bridge, over to Adelaide and back again.” Bony spoke lightly, and no differently when he added: “You can have Lorne.”
“The place stinks,” someone agreed, and Bony asked Moss if they had taken the trip over Sweet Fairy Ann.
“No! Beenwaitin ’ for you to go with us. We done a bit of work, ain’t we, Dick?”
“Coupler loads from Dirty Gully and a trip to Geelong with old Penwarden’s coffins.”
“An’ loafed around heredrinkin ’ beer,” added the licensee’s wife.
“Go easy!” pleaded Way. “Why, we dug a coupler tons of spuds for Ma Wessex, and took ’emto Geelong with the coffins.”
“Oughtapacked’emin the coffins,” Lake supplemented. He smiled happily at everyone.
“Do you people export anything else besides potatoes and coffins?” Bony inquired.
“Yair. Wool and…”
“Empty beer casks,” prompted a builder. Following the chuckles, someone said:
“Your missus gone to Geelong with Mrs Wessex, Tom?”
“Went thismornin ’. Should be getting back now. Reminds me.”
Owen hastily emptied his glass and manoeuvred a passage through the crush to reach the door.
“Plenty of time,” Lake laughingly said. “They won’t be back till late.”
Owen kept going, saying nothing. A silence fell in the bar.
“Can’t understand Tom being afraid of his wife,” remarked a builder. “She seems inoffensive enough to me.”
“Wouldn’t put him in the dog house, anyway,” Moss said dryly.“Funny bloke, Owen.”
“I’ll say,” added a man with a walrus moustache.
“Aw, I don’t know,” defended Lake. “Old Tom’s all right. Don’t do no one any harm. Hey, Moss, it’s on again.”
“I’m alwayspayin ’,” grumbled his mate.
Mrs Washfold filled the glasses from a jug and said:
“Those women ought to begettin ’ back. I’m sure Mrs Wessex wouldn’t be late of a purpose, what with Mary being a bit troublesome lately and her poor husband as bad as he is. Lance was telling me…”
“Getting no better?” asked the builder of Dick Lake.
“Nope. All screwed up he is. Seen him on the veranda whenme and Moss wasdiggin ’ the spuds.”
“What a shame!” exclaimed Mrs Washfold, looking to Bony forsupport. “He’ll miss The Reverence calling there. Mrs Wessex told me last month that she simply hadn’t time to read to him or anything, what with the farm work and all. Wanted him to go and live with her sister inMelbun, but the old chap won’t budge.”
“A total invalid?” asked Bony.
“Pretty well. Been extra bad these last six months.”
“Useterbe a tiger for work, too,” interrupted Dick Lake, swaying like an orchestra leader. “Best axeman I ever seen. Had a lot oflearnin ’, too. When wewas kids he’d have us down by the barn and read adventure stories. Allus kids liked old Wessex. Too right! And Ma Wessex ’udcook up things for us to take fishing.” The grin vanished for the first time this afternoon. “Useterread his head off, and now he can’t hold up a newspaper, and thereain’tno one to read to him. Like a lost dog, he is now. Wanted us to talk to him on the veranda, but Ma Wessex was on our tails all the time, huntin ’ us back to the bloody spuds.”
Mrs Washfold completed a swift circle and banged a tin box on the counter.
Everyone laughed and, the grin again in evidence, Dick hastily produced a shilling and dropped it into the box. Mrs Washfold replaced it on the shelf.
“How’s shecomin ’ along this year?” asked walrus moustache.
“No faster for any help you give it,” retorted the woman. “You boys don’t swear as well as the visitors. We got to beat last year’s effort. Poorest along the coast, it was.”
“Forty-seven quid, wasn’t it, last year?” said Moss Way.
“And six-and-tuppence. Bert found two pennies on the floor.”
“Where does it go to?” Bony wanted to know.
“Children’s Hospital. Over twenty thousand quid the hospital got last year out of the swear boxes,” replied Dick. “Feel likehavin ’ a go?”
“Be damned if I do,” Bony said, and was instantly presented with the box. He paid the fine and the box was returned. To Dick he said “You were talking about the bloody spuds.”
They shouted as he paid another shilling, and Mrs Washfold was happier than had the money gone into her till. She told the story of three anglers who deliberately cussed each other till each had contributed a pound.
Time passed and the men tended to break into small groups. Bony prevented this by insisting on again calling for drinks all round. He was beginning to feel the effect of the beer, and pretended he was far worse than he was. Clutching Dick by the arm, he said:
“How much does old Penwarden charge for those coffins?”
“Ten quid. Them he sends toMelbun.”
“More for that one I saw in his store room, I suppose?”
“Too right. Beaut, isn’t she?”
“Must take him a long time to bring up that surface on the wood.”
“Months,” said Dick, swaying towards Bony as though bowing to an audience. “Wipes an’ rubs off and on for months. Waste of time on anything to be buried, ain’t it? Old bloke won’t make them red-woods for anyone, you know. Gets the wood down from the Murray.”
“So he told me. Said that one in his store was for Mrs Owen.”
“That’s right! Tom Owen took her home last week. Cripes! They can have it for mine. Blanket ’uddo me. Hullo, more playmates!”
The crunch of wheels on gravel vied with the purring of an engine. A door banged. Within the bar the voices sank to a low hum.
Two women entered, breasting the bar like men, to stand beside Bony, who happened to be nearest the door.
“Got back safe!” exclaimed Mrs Washfold. “Had a good day?”
The younger woman giggled.
“Tired out. Evening everyone!”She found Bony regarding her, his brows raised interrogatively, a ten-shilling note proffered to Mrs Washfold. “Thanks! Just a tinyweeny one.”
The men went on talking. Bony appeared to be entranced by the labels on the bottles back of the bar. The women chose gin and bitters, and Mrs Washfold chatted with them about the price of clothes. Presently, she said:
“This is Mr Rawlings who’s staying for a week or two. Mr Rawlings is down from the Riverina on a buck’s holiday. Mrs Owen and Mrs Wessex.”
Bony bowed, Mrs Owen giggled, and Mrs Wessex stared her interest. What these women had in common evaded Bony, for Mrs Owen was small and bird-like and Mrs Wessex gaunt and intense. Beside being older than Mrs Owen she betrayed unusual hardship and something of suffering. Labour had bowed her back, and the weather had etched her face.
“I like my holiday when and where it’s quiet,” Bony told them. “And I couldn’t have come to a better place. I hope Split Point never becomes like Lorne.”
“It will one day, I’m afraid,” said the gaunt woman, her dark eyes probing.
“Then I hope not in my time… having only just discovered it.”
Mrs Washfold butted in.
“I was telling Mr Rawlings how poorly Mr Wessex is these days. Might be an idea for him to take a walk out your way one afternoon for a talk with your husband. Cheer him up, maybe.”
“I would be glad to do so,” Bony took her up, and Mrs Wessex said:
“From the Riverina! Are you a sheep man?”
“In a small way, yes.”
Again her effort to assess him. Well over fifty, she was dressed sombrely in a fashion of twenty years ago. Nodding as though with approval, she said:
“I’m sure my husband would be glad to see you, Mr Rawlings. One afternoon, perhaps. I shall be about the place somewhere. If I’m not, go into the house if my husband isn’t on the veranda. Ready, Edith? We must get along.”
Mrs Owen giggled at the company, and the men politely bade them goodbye. After their car had left, the atmosphere of restraint vanished. The licensee appeared.
“Those women will get home ’fore dark,” he commented.
“Should do,” agreed his wife. “Mr Rawlings is going to visit Mr Wessex. Have a talk to him.”
“Added a shilling to the Swear Box, too,” informed a builder.
“That’s good.”Washfold turned to his wife. “You clear out and tend the dinner, and I might kid these gents to put a bit more in.”
Washfold “shouted” for everyone when his wife had gone. The conversation continued… clean… and Bony, feeling the growth of friendliness, was delighted by it.
Dick Lake’s grin appeared now to be a fixture. Holding tightly to Bony’s arm, he stuttered:
“Wash about that trip over Sweet Fairy Ann?”
“We dig spuds for Tom Owentomorrer,” interposed Moss Way.
“So we do. Some other day, eh? Great scenery, over Sweet Fairy. Y’know, Mr Rawlings, you’re good scout. Ain’t he a good scout, Bert? Tell you what, Mr Rawlings, if you wants a real good coffin to shove under your bed, I’ll kid old Penwarden to make you one. Me and him is good cobbers. I’ll see him about it tomorrow.”
“We dig spuds for Tom Owentomorrer,” repeated Moss. “Come on. We’ve had enough.”
Moss winked at Bony for support. Each took one of Dick’s arms and resolutely moved to the doorway.
“One for the road,” Lake laughingly demanded.
“We digthem spuds for Tom Owentomorrer,” repeated Moss.
“I won’t dig no…”
Moss clamped a hand over Lake’s mouth.
“We’re notgonner pay no more shillings to Swear Boxes today,” he said, decisively, and with the assistance of Detective Inspector Bonaparte, he urged the laughing Dick Lake to the heavy truck, lifted him into the cabin and banged the door. Nodding cheerfully to Bony, he climbed up behind the wheel, and departed with the horn going at continual blast.