The Thorn in the Flesh. Paul Wenz
Darling three days’ journey from Adelaide. The position offered was well paid: you had to take on the running of a household in which lived three single men. “All in all,” added the agent, “there’s not much in the way of entertainment, but the job isn’t heavy, you have good wages and no expenses.”
“Harry,” she said to Sloan as she poured him a measure of his special Black and White, “I have something to ask you. Do you know Tilfara Station?”
“Not half” replied Harry: “One of the richest on the Darling. A fine flock, beautiful wool. The owner, Iredale, a good bloke, quite young, not married and afraid of women.”
Other customers in the bar, skilfully questioned, spoke of Iredale whom they knew well. A good-looking fellow, whom the young ladies of Adelaide fought over eagerly when they had a chance to; but he came to town rarely.
All night long Susie dreamt impossible dreams about Tilfara and Iredale. She kept repeating these two names: both sounded so sweet to her ears. In the morning she had made her mind up: she accepted the position.
Six months spent behind the bar had made many friends for her; she was given three cheers by the drinkers, who proclaimed her in song a jolly good fellow. There were even some farewell speeches and good wishes which were greeted by “Hip hip hurrah!”
She hadn’t realized she was so popular: she was delighted at having made such a hit, and it went to her head a bit, like the glass of port that Harry had made her drink as a parting toast.
John Iredale had formed his opinion of her: a real find as a housekeeper. He nevertheless kept his first impression, a vague sense of danger, not for him personally, but for Tom or Sam. Could she be intending to take away from him a manager who was worth £500 a year, or even a valuable book-keeper?
She was too intelligent for her position, had hair that was too pretty, eyes that were too beautiful. She reminded you of a duchess who had put on an apron to help out at some charitable function.
She rode like an angel. John had lent her a chestnut gelding, and every Sunday, Ned, who had become her faithful riding companion, took her all over the paddocks along the river. The men who had considered her too ladylike judged her less harshly when they saw her in the saddle.
The boundary rider, who knew every twist and turn of the Darling, took her under the tall trees, and pointed out ibis and kookaburras. The river flowed sluggishly, forming innumerable bends which made navigation difficult and tripled the distance between two given points. Its pale blue, milky water was confined between two high, steep banks, on the sides of which tumbled out in confused and twisted clumps the thick eucalyptus roots exposed by successive floods.
One of the bends, more exaggerated than the others, formed a tongue of land, at the base of which rose a small hillock. Ned showed off this particular spot with an owner’s pride, drawing attention to the beauty of the trees and the play of sunlight among their thick branches and huge trunks.
Each following Sunday, Ned led her to the same spot: he even brought, tied to his saddle, a tin billy: they drank tea by the water’s edge as they watched the budgerigars and cockatoos drinking merrily.
Susie continued to fulfil the role of model housekeeper, and the almost luxurious comfort she had introduced into the household seemed to have been well received by the three bachelors. Sam had proudly showed her round his store one day when she had come to ask for some candles and some washing blue. He was rather proud of his shelves on which tins of jams, molasses, bottles of vinegar and jars of pickles were lined up with the meticulous art of the pharmacist.
Tom kept his own point of view for judging individuals, and he had declared her “a fine slip of a girl”, just as he would have said “a fine animal”, which for him was a sincere expression of admiration.
John was a man of the North, of a Viking type which had been tanned by the Australian sun. His features did not attain the level of beauty, but the general effect that they formed was attractive. Tall, thin without being skinny, he had good, broad shoulders; his back was slightly rounded as a result of constant horse-riding. His slow movements, his spare, calm manner of speech, gave no hint of his litheness in the saddle nor of the vigour of his commands when it was a matter of mustering a herd of cattle that had escaped from the yards, or of getting 2,000 lambs, panic-stricken at being separated from their mothers, to cross a creek.
Generally speaking, the men liked the boss of Tilfara, just as the previous generation had liked old Ben Iredale.
John Iredale appreciated all the care that Susie devoted to the household, but more and more she gave him the vague sense of danger that is associated with a loaded rifle kept in the house. A hello, a few words to convey some order, that was all the conversation exchanged between them; but he felt that he ought to have spoken of the way his socks had been darned, or thanked her briefly for having polished so brightly the silver frames holding the photographs in his bedroom.
She had never given the slightest sign of familiarity; she had kept her distance and had not overstepped for a moment her role as domestic. Once or twice, however, John had caught her big brown eyes staring at him intently, and at the same time distantly and almost unconsciously.
Susie had all sorts of little attentions for him, which she apparently strove to show as little as possible; but John discovered them one by one with increasing unease. He set off on a three-week round trip and inspected Tilfara from one end to the other. He came back to see his right-hand man with a real joy that he hadn’t often felt. Tom made a good report: nothing had gone wrong during his absence. Sam had no great news to give, except that the horse he bet on at the latest races at Kapunda would have returned him a small fortune if his jockey hadn’t pulled in the reins.
Susie proffered no stronger greeting than her ordinary “good day”; one might even have detected a nuance of sulkiness, of feigned indifference in all her dealings with John. Tom and Sam confessed to him in the smoking-room that Susie had been very quiet during his absence: they had even feared seeing her leave Tilfara, which was perhaps too dull a place for her.
After a few days, however, the housekeeper had regained her usual spirits and gave no appearance of being ready to hand in her notice. She continued to ride on Sundays. Ned would accompany her, envied by the other men on the station, who hadn’t yet been favoured with so much as a smile from the “princess”, as they called her. Ned was obviously proud of the distinction, for be ventured so far one day as to confide in her.
They were both sitting on a large dead tree-trunk; their horses waited for them in the shade, bridles dragging on the ground. The great bend of the river was once again the goal of their excursion. She sensed from the beginning that Ned had something important to share with her; she instinctively dreaded a confession, a declaration, but she waited resolutely for him to get to the point, this not being the first time she had refused.
With a circular gesture, the man indicated the curtain of tall trees and said, almost in a whisper, as if someone might have been eavesdropping in this deserted spot; “I have put in my request to the Government — 640 acres on the bank of the river — what you see around you. I think I’ll get the selection, one of the best pieces of Tilfara. Iredale won’t like it; but there’s a place in the sun for everyone. It’s just between you and me, eh? I haven’t told anyone yet.”
Susie received the confidence with a surprise that was less interested than the man was anticipating; she understood that he was going to become a landowner, but otherwise didn’t seem to see anything that might concern her. Ned hadn’t yet finished his story: he pointed out on the hillock, with a gesture that was already laying out the surveyor’s pegs, the future site of the house: it was quite close to the river while remaining out of reach of the floods. The house would have a veranda, and a garden with trees that would grow quickly in this sandy soil, thanks to the water that would be piped in with the aid of a pump.
Susie followed the branch which sketched out the plan of the living quarters, she thought of the other house, of the half-century-old garden where the orange trees spread their dense shade.
The boundary-rider fell silent for a few moments, then, sticking his spur through a dead leaf