Seize the Day. A M (Jack) Harris
in some corner of his untrammelled mind. It was a good mind, for he had studied under the Jesuits in Ireland but following some disagreement he had abandoned the priesthood, and turned to another, which Martin referred to as a so-called religion.
By ridge standards Luke was an intellectual, which was why he had become an accepted authority on the looming war. It was his opinion which made Eileen decide she would move me and Bonnie to Moonee Ponds, then an outer suburb of Melbourne, to live with our paternal grandparents. Eileen had some vague notion that if I got my Merit Certificate followed by some technical training, it would be sufficient for me to get a job with a large engineering company, which would be a reserved occupation and keep me from being called up for military service, should that war Uncle Luke talked about happen.
Some time later, happen it did, and Luke with Mary, helped arrange the party that saw Clarrie off to the conflict. The occasion was celebrated at our home and many people contributed to the occasion, the most generous being Clemanza. He arranged for barbeque pits to be dug and the place was heavy with the aroma of a whole pig and a large sheep being roasted over glowing coals of Murray River wattle, where four of Clemenza’s workers acted as cooks. They basted and turned, basted and turned, all the time being fortified by the strong red wine which Clemenza kept sending to them in a steady flow. Two of Clemenza’s horses which had dragged the barbeque equipment from his vineyards stood tethered nearby, and as if trained to give atmosphere to the occasion, they snorted while tossing high their magnificent heads and surveying the guests as they arrived.
I stood nearby watching the way Clemenza worked and the manner with which Mary welcomed each guest, for it was obvious the people she had invited were the guests of her home, as well as her heart, and she made everyone fully welcome. It was indeed a happy day for her because my mother Eileen had appeared to say farewell to Clarrie. She was accompanied by a laughing man she called Jock. He described himself as a man from Scotland now with a dairy farm in Gippsland. It was manifest that my mother was happy with him and she did not touch a drink of alcohol that night; she confided to me and Bonnie that her troubles were all in the past and we gladly believed her, hoping she would be happy at last. Everyone was at ease and comfortable that night, in that place and on the land about them which had produced much of the fare. The meat and vegetables, the fruit and the wine, and thinking about it, I glanced about me, noticing how the light was changing as the evening deepened. The glow of the fires lit the faces of the people about, and occasionally the rolling eyes of the horses watching them. I felt very much at peace and contented with life. Looking closely at Clarrie I could see that he had grown to be the tallest person at his party. His height made him stoop slightly, but not from any weakness, and while he moved slowly, he did so without hesitation. I knew that Martin could take a lot of credit for Clarrie’s blooming into young manhood, for one night when his father had been raving at Minnie and Clarrie, Martin had stormed into their shack and ordered them to settle the matter outside with Queensbury rules. Martin later told me he had watched Clarrie boxing with me and he knew Clarrie could handle himself, especially against a raving drunk. So it proved to be, and when Clarrie had knocked his opponent bleeding badly to the ground, Minnie had finished him off with a couple of well aimed blows at his head with a broom handle. From that moment forward Clarrie was boss of the particular shack, and he was able to openly express his love for Minnie, which she could respond to.
By this time many of the guests had done clustering about the glowing barbeque pits, shielding their faces and arms while sawing off the portions they fancied. Mary had lit several candles and kerosene lamps inside and most had begun to wander in to sing and dance. I wandered outside again to get another wine for Mary and I noticed how the calcimined walls, which looked so drab and grey in the sunlight, had been softened magically by the flickering lights inside. There was such a beautiful and underwater clearness to everything that it caught at my heart, making me sorrowful about Clarrie’s departure from Buronga the following morning. But I knew that if the war lasted I might also get away, but I doubted it for it was expected that Hitler would be beaten, or that he would seek peace. I was too young yet, anyhow, to join any army.
Just then the clear tenor voice of Rocky interrupted my thoughts and I peered through the wire-screened front door to see the ageing milkman giving voice to yet another ditty. This time it was the one that had to do with the sexual life of the camel which at the height of the mating season attempts to deflower the sphinx. Clarrie was then motioned forward to give his rendition of Sir John Moore’s funeral and how they buried him gently at dead of night, the sods with the bayonets turning. I stepped back inside as my mother organised a dance which was managed, even in the confined space, to the sound of Shoofty Vetch scraping on his fiddle; the old fisherman was a good player and Luke joined him, pumping away at his accordion, Rocky nearby doing his best on a mouth accordion. But the dancing was interrupted when someone took a wild swing at someone else and the people were so jammed in together that the laughing, slightly inebriated Minnie took one of the badly aimed blows. She had been jumping about with her back to the combatants, a full glass in one hand, when a punch took her over the left ear. She was sent flying, along with her beer. She hit the dirt floor screaming and the contestants were instantly shoved aside by an angry Clarrie before he went to his mother and with considerable strength lifted her clear off the ground, stood her upright and planted a big kiss on her mouth. Minnie blushed with a mix of pride and tenderness, patted her disordered hair, accepted another beer and glanced about her as the place went on pulsing with sound and movement.
But finally the ridge settled down one way or another for the night. It was an evening of desert stars and trees with the river below ghostly along in the moonlight. I was lying in my bed, thinking about my tomorrows, and those of Clarrie too. I knew most of the ridge dwellers would be sleeping, but the eternal things, the stars, the trees, the river, kept their eternal watch. I heard an owl hoot somewhere and like an echo, its call was answered. Those bird calls did not disturb the night’s silence but deepened it as I leaned over, snuffed out a candle on the dirt floor and I waited for sleep as all about me the ridge slumbered on towards whatever tomorrow might bring.
It had been decided that Clarrie and I would walk into Mildura that following day. The last man he spoke to was Martin who had been unable to attend his farewell party because he’d had pleurisy which had progressed to pneumonia. Looking down at him, I saw that Clarrie could not restrain his tears for he must have known he would never see this old man again. I wanted to weep also as I recalled how this now, frail grandfather had once carried me all the way from his forge, cuddling me in his arms, and tickling the back of my neck with his whispery chin. I could remember it all taking place, but it seemed now to have happened to an other small boy who might have been a child I had only heard about, and this now sick old man might never have been the one who had carried me on his strong shoulders so long ago. But I loved him and my heart ached to see him in this condition.
Martin managed to control the awful rasping sound in his chest as he muttered, “Clarrie, do something for me, will ya, son? Just slip ya hand under me pillow. Got somethin’ there for ya.”
Clarrie dropped to his knees, felt under the pillow and pulled out a small, folded piece of cloth.
“That’s it!” Martin gasped loudly. “That’s it! Let me show ya!”
Slowly he then unfolded a dark brown tie with a green emblem in its centre. He held it in his hands for a moment in a manner strangely reverent and his head was bent as though he was once again the altar boy of his youth, ready to place the stole about a priest’s shoulders.
“See that there shamrock?” he whispered, as if afraid to speak too loudly and spoil his exhibition of that national emblem of Ireland. “It’s on me army tie, you know! Given to me in 1916, it was. The Easter Uprising young Jack here can tell you all about it, he will remember. The English soldiers who cut us to pieces would have taken it, but the Aussie Diggers guarding us told them I could keep it. I reckon it’s been me lucky omen, you know? Got me this far, anyhow. But I want to give it to you, son, right now in the hope that it will keep you safe and well. Bring you back home, a hero too, if I know you?”
Exhausted, he laid back, his chest rising and falling in tune to the rales of his ragged breathing.
Clarrie stood up, folded the precious tie and stowed it into his shirt pocket. Looking at Mary, standing with