The Thorn in the Flesh. Paul Wenz
had been carefully levelled off with the blade of a knife. Another surprise awaited the three of them; each man had instinctively taken more care with his appearance: the boss wore a tie, which he had never been known to do. Tom had on a waist-coat, and Sam had left under his bed a pair of derelict old slippers that looked terribly sloppy. All three ate little because they didn’t dare take a big helping from the dish Susie held out for them, and after pudding, when she had left the dining room, the men looked at each other, then sighed. Tom went so far as to unbutton his waist-coat, a piece of clothing of which he had never been able to comprehend either the aesthetics or the necessity.
Susie was evidently an intelligent woman; John and Sam didn’t have to explain much to her: she quickly took in hand the running of the house. The manager and the book-keeper, who were not used to city habits, were somewhat surprised the next morning when Susie knocked on their door and brought them tea in bed. The second day, Sam didn’t let himself be caught out again and prepared himself for the invasion by giving himself the careful brushing his hair required.
In a few days the house found itself transformed: the window-panes had been scrubbed and admitted more light into the living quarters; the floors and the furniture shone like new; even the mattresses, turned and beaten, had lost their thinness and gained in softness. The lamps gave better light, and the fireplaces, repainted with red ochre, were even more attractive at night, after the tiring day. In short, they all wondered how they had managed to live until then under the reign of Ah Sin.
News runs through the bush as quickly as in town, and Susie’s arrival did the rounds of Tilfara with amazing speed. The men whose quarters were a hundred yards from the homestead all wanted to see the new housekeeper, and many of them found the opportunity to satisfy their curiosity. Their cook, who had also become the boss’s cook, was somewhat surprised to see Dick, Harry and Sid come into his kitchen with perfect partings in their dripping wet hair. New hats made their appearance for no particular reason in the middle of the week.
Ned Berry, the boundary rider, seemed, more than the others, to have freshened himself up in order to attract Susie’s attention; she certainly noticed that his leggings were new and his spurs were shiny. But she thought above all of the possibility of getting herself a mount which, on Sundays, might remind her of the horse rides she used to love so much in Ireland.
She had left her own country two years before, not through necessity, nor through need to earn her living, but through sheer ambition. Susie knew she was pretty, she had been told so. Her father, English, a horseman, and a master of the hounds who often hunted fox in Ireland, had hoisted her onto a saddle before she had even begun to learn the history of England, revised, abridged and corrected for the youth of the country. Contact with this world, shod by the best bootmakers, mounted on thoroughbred animals, had instilled in Susie early on the desire to escape from the humble sphere into which she was born. The idea grew in her and became an obsession; she gave herself ten years to reach the rank of a free and independent woman, rejecting without further consideration the. possibility of becoming, like one of her sisters, the wife of a shop assistant.
Lady Isobel, who wore a monocle and was reputed to be the best horsewoman in the county, had hastened Susie’s decision with a simple gesture of her hunting-crop. The grand lady had admired one day the horse that the girl was riding, and on the spot, had changed her mount. The girl, white with rage, had led Lady Isobel’s mare back to the stable.
That day Susie realized that she could hate, and three weeks later, when they brought back Lady Isobel dying on a stretcher, she knew that she could neither forgive nor forget.
She took passage on a boat bound for Australia, and as soon as she disembarked in Adelaide, she had no trouble finding a position in a country where domestic labour is scarce, expensive and pitifully inadequate.
The owner of the South Australian saw at once that Susie had what it took to fill the position of barmaid in his hotel frequented by the squattocracy that came from Broken Hill and Menindie to have a break in the city. She had that ladylike air that the middle classes can easily acquire in England, instead of the barmaid s usual charms, rather more vulgar and sharp-tongued.
Susie had never tried her hand as a barmaid, but the publican explained to her in a few words the rules to follow: you had to be handy with the tea-towel and with the tact, that was the secret of the job. Have a smile for everyone, don’t cross those who are up to their fourth whisky, and don’t take their declarations seriously. The bar of the South Australian had a reputation for being classy: the bottle was offered to the customer and he was allowed to serve himself.
Susie took possession of the bar, looked after it like a piece of fine furniture and arranged her bottles on their glass shelves like a precious pharmacy.
She very quickly made herself liked by the regulars at the South Australian Hotel. She had nothing of the painted and dyed barmaid who attracts the sentimental drunks; her simple attire and her discreetly welcoming hostess’s manners had been favourably judged by the groups who came to ask her for a drink. She had soon seen a small court gather around her, holding trifling conversations with her about the weather or the races; she had a smile for everybody; but the broad mahogany counter had remained an insurmountable barrier.
Harry Sloan was one of the most faithful proppers-up of the bar; his office, unfortunately for him, was situated only a few yards from the hotel, and Sloan ran a business whose transactions were sealed as much with whisky as with ink. He bought and sold on commission all the quadrupeds of the country, cattle, sheep, pigs, goats, even donkeys and camels. He knew by heart the names of the big stations in South Australia, and those in New South Wales which were on the Darling: his clientele stretched far and wide. He was one of the most popular men in Adelaide, and this popularity scared him so much that he had a special bottle at the South Australian bar, labelled with a famous brand and containing weak tea which posed no risk of going to his head.
Everybody thought he drank a bottle of Black and White a day, and his stamina was admired. The secret of his imperviousness had drawn Susie to him from the beginning, and she never picked up the wrong bottle when Harry came to lean on the bar in the company of his clients. Susie liked Harry; he was jovial, good natured and always the same: a sort of companion whose presence made her feel serene, confident and unafraid. She must have imitated without realizing it the smile of the late Lady Isobel: she knew how to keep men at a distance without frightening them off. She had been able to observe humanity, which had appeared strange to her during those first days, rushing up to the bar before each meal like animals led to the drinking trough.
In the blue mist of pipe and cigarette smoke they talked about rain and grass: 2,500 sheep were sold between two gin and bitters, the races were discussed, bets were laid. They talked about mythology, but Poseidon was only known for having won the Melbourne Cup in 1906; they talked about history, but Trafalgar called to mind the winner of the Sydney Cup in 1909, and not Lord Nelson.
Susie made friends, she even made conquests: she refused an offer of marriage while wiping down the marble-topped bar with a circular movement, and the gesture seemed to underline, like the flourish of a signature, an irrevocable decision.
Despite the distractions of the city, Susie felt, after six months, a thirst for the countryside: the bush, which she didn’t know, attracted her. Besides, everything she was earning at the time was just disappearing into thin air.
One morning, while the bar was still deserted, Susie had dusted the 163 bottles which were reflected in the shelves’ mirrors. She had scrupulously cleaned the counter and had prominently placed three crystal goblets containing cloves, roasted coffee beans and cinnamon bark. Certain regulars still harboured the sweet illusion that, in the lasting smell of these spices, their naïve spouses could not detect the whisky, rum or gin.
Susie, satisfied at having finished her work for the time being, opened the morning newspaper and quickly scanned its columns. The front page always attracted her, with its lists of ships sailing to or from Europe. A column of classified advertisements offered loans of money at so much per bale; whole pages of them offered to sell, or wanted to buy. Still others wanted a groom, a coachman, a cook, chamber-maids. On one station they were looking for a housekeeper.
Moved by a sudden curiosity, Susie