Happy Valley (15 page)

Roger came up behind her. She looked at the tension of his face, working up, working up to say…

Look, she said, there’s Hagan over there with the men.

Then watched his face slacken as the moment slipped and they rode closer to the group of men.

They were working on the fence, pulling out the rotten posts and twitching up the wire. The two men turned to look. They wiped sweat from their faces and watched the horses approach. Hagan, his back turned, tamped the earth
round the butt of a new post, and the tamp rose and fell through his hands like a piston-rod. He stood with his legs apart, slowly tamping. His arms were a burnt red.

Afternoon, Miss Sidney, one of the men said.

Both of them touched their hats. Hagan turned.

Good afternoon, Hagan, she said.

She looked down at him, at his face shiny with sweat, and screwed up as he looked through the glare. He nodded at her and smiled. The way that gold flashed in the sun. Did not take off his hat. She frowned at him as she passed close, looking down. He could have put out his hand. She saw the reddish hair on his arms. Hated him ever since that day when, running down the hill and glancing back from the shed door, she had seen him standing insolently up in the yard, owning the place, and watching her make a fool of herself. He always felt she was a fool, looked at her like this. Our
Mr
Hagan, she said. And now he watched them as they rode by, standing propped upon the iron tamp, looking through her body and making her conscious of its movement, its curve and sway, even though her back was turned she felt that he stood there looking with his eyes screwed up. His hands were hard. She had touched them that night at supper, handing the salad, and the skin was cracked, the broken nails. She had looked up into his eyes and they were hard too above the salad-bowl.

Let’s go back, she said to Roger. We can go up that gully and round. I don’t know why we’re trailing about like lunatics in this heat.

After all, it’s the last time.

She looked at him.

If you say that again I’ll scream. No, I don’t mean that. I’m sorry, Roger. Only I wish we had gone another way.

She had let fall upon him a cool word that another time would have been exquisite, now only a reminder of things still undone. He took out his handkerchief and slowly wiped his face.

She looked back over her shoulder. Hagan was tamping the earth. She turned again and frowned. As if there was something in the denial of a supposition that galled. She hated him because he had stared, she hated him more because he had not.

Sidney, said Roger, and it all came rather quickly, as if there was not much time, and turning the shoulder of a hill she might canter out of his vicinity. Sidney, I want to ask you something. Something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time. I wonder if you’d marry me, he said.

Oh Lord, she groaned mentally, now it was all coming, and why was a proposal so just like what you had expected, coming from Roger anyway it was. If only it could stay like that, but you had to say something in reply.

Well, she said, do you feel any better now that you’ve got that off your chest?

No, not a bit.

I’m sorry.

You’ve rather left me in the air.

You don’t think I could marry you?

I don’t see why you couldn’t.

His voice was stripped rather painfully of its reserve. There was always something rather painful, she thought, about a voice that had lost its insulation.

Think a bit, she said, and you’ll see.

Which was what he had done already, denying the rational conclusion, because Sidney was like that, because he wanted her, because he could not understand her, which made no difference, for somehow the unattainable puts a stronger accent on desire.

I don’t see why you couldn’t, he said again.

Like a schoolboy, he felt, his voice, a schoolboy who produced a lamentable defence, clung to a shielding phrase, in the face of the inevitable.

She began to hum.

What do you want? he said. What do you really want?

I don’t know, she said.

Her cheeks looked hollow as she turned.

But I don’t want to talk about this. See? It’s all over.

Her voice flipped out. Then they rode on silently.

He had done it. It was over. He felt he had been whipped all over. He would write to his mother and say, dear Mother, say…Nothing at all. Because there was no need, sitting on the lawn, to explain that Sidney was a kind of paradox, still in fact, though non-existent as far as Wiltshire was concerned. But he did not want her any the less, his words flung back, and that look, when he fell down a cliff-face in Dorset his hands on shale, he looked up the sky white and sheer as silence.

I suppose you’ll come up for the races, he said, in the kind of voice with which he made conversation at garden parties, and which made old ladies murmur, Roger Kemble, so attentive, so kind.

I don’t expect so, she said.

Damn these grasshoppers!

Yes. There’s a plague.

Australia, the land of plagues.

She looked at him, twisting up her mouth. The lids of her eyes hung low against the glare.

A second Egypt, she said. Only not so full of allegory.

The voice was heavy in her mouth. What you said in this heat was somehow immaterial. About allegory. I am dying, Egypt. Those silkworms, shrivelled up and made a smell and you ran away out of the room because the smell of putrefying silkworms was too much. Sidney, dear, said Mother, we must throw the poor little silkworms out, you won’t mind, darling, Daddy will get some more. More and more and more. We must feed them on mulberry leaves to keep them fresh and fat and smooth. Then they lifted him up into the tower and it must have been hard work, though of course there would have been someone underneath to push, and that woman slobbering, it was a monument, with his mouth on Egypt. Roger Kemble with his mouth tight pressed. Helen said you opened your mouth. Tamping that post hole and he got a sunstroke, it would take him down a peg, or would go away and then. It was too hot, too fly, and the house like a red wound on a burnt face with a tank that flashed, not gold, that was too hot, hot.

They rode back again into the yard. It was hot and foetid as they left it, a smell of dung, of ammonia from the stables, and no shadow anywhere. The red cock was a flame licking up the dust near the pantry window, quite solitary beside the dead house. They led their horses into the stable. They walked across the yard. Each step was of consequence,
only so many necessary steps, the rest dispensable.

Mrs Furlow had taken off her shoes and her dress. She had lain down to rest. I shan’t sleep, she said to her husband, who was dozing in the office beneath an ark of newspapers constructed to protect him from a possible fly. Mr Furlow did not even grunt. He was asleep. So Mrs Furlow lay down on her bed, in need of sympathy, thought she would like to pray, if that were not blasphemy, was it, she wondered, and one always prayed for rain, not that it did any good. Mrs Furlow lay on her bed and sighed, tried not to accuse the Almighty of perversity. That was till she heard Sidney come. She heard the bang of the fly-proof door, their feet in the passage going to their rooms. Mrs Furlow’s heart banged. She sat on the edge of the bed. Then she got up slowly, put on her dressing-gown, and went down the passage to Sidney’s room.

Sidney, she said.

She looked over her daughter’s shoulder, at her daughter’s face in the mirror, sitting there at the dressing-table, quite still. It was the stillness that perturbed Mrs Furlow.

You’ve got back very soon, she said.

Yes. It was a bore riding about in the heat.

Sidney took up the powder-puff. She dabbed at her face with the soft puff. She looked at her mother in the mirror, standing there in her stockings, on soft, puffed feet, soft, very soft, looking ludicrous with her head stuck forward, waiting. It made you want to hurt something, take it in your hand, not a flabby insipid puff. She threw down the powder-puff. It made a faint protesting cloud as it hit the dressing-table’s glass top.

And Roger? said Mrs Furlow. Roger wanted to go for a ride.

He’s in his room. You’d better ask him if he enjoyed it.

Sidney, you didn’t quarrel?

Why should I quarrel with Roger?

No. I wondered. I wondered if he…

Sidney got up. She was trembling. She couldn’t control her mouth, no longer pressed into a line, but forced open by the breath, that was hot, that was rasping on her lips. She quivered like a wire.

No, she screamed. No. He didn’t. Or he did, if you like. Only I didn’t. Now get out. For God’s sake. Go! Go!

Mrs Furlow retreated on her stockinged feet. Her face was a quaking mass of afternoon despair. She began to cry.

For God’s sake, go! For God’s sake, get out!

Like a wire struck and still vibrating, Sidney Furlow had that zinging in the ears. Her hands fumbled at the lock, and with less directed purpose on her own face. Back to the door, she trembled in the glass. There were two lines of red down her left cheek, fresh from the passage of her nails.

Mrs Furlow stood outside in her stockings, whimpered desolate against the door.

Clem Hagan had finished work. He stood in the wash-house at the back of the cottage where he lived. The light was frail outside, the landscape gentler, the cows in acquiescent groups. Hagan looked out of the window, though not at the landscape, not conscious of this or the activities of natural phenomena, except as a source of economic advancement, and now that work was over he did not even think of this. There was a smell of yellow soap in the wash-house and of boiling water in a kerosene tin. He stood at the basin, bare to the waist, and the water ran down his shoulders, down the channel of his spine and the valley between his breasts. There was a foam of soap at his neck. The water glistened in the hollows of his neck. When he had washed he took the razor, and with the same inevitable rhythm, he began to shave his face. You heard the tottering scrape of the razor, the seeping sound of the lathered brush. You
saw him, half-shaved, eye himself in the glass with the satisfaction of one who has confidence in his body, both as a physical structure of muscle and bone, and as a source of endless possibility. He smiled at the glass, not exactly at himself, but at an array of achievements for which he had been responsible. Then he continued to shave himself.

Clem Hagan riding into town for the evening and risking a new pair of pants on the saddle. Clem Hagan whistling and testing his spurs on the horse’s side. Clem Hagan mounting the hill and letting the horse go in the almost darkness, opening her out along the road, so that the trees flew and the letter-box at Ferndale, and then just the hissing of the darkness, as it got dark, and there was nothing but darkness to fly past. This was an apotheosis. A shave and a wash made you feel like new, and the sound of metal as the horse galloped along. You were a new man. You bent forward along the horse’s neck and the wind was in your teeth. Your teeth bared to the wind. Clem Hagan going into town.

Would go and try his luck, there was every sign, and that Saturday in the store brushing up against him as if there was no room, and apologizing, and a tin of dog biscuits falling on to the floor. Oh, Miss Quong, she said, aren’t I clumsy, she said, but it’s dark, my eyes aren’t used to the light, though she could see like a cat rubbing up against him, you must come round, she said, my husband and I will only be too glad to see you, because one never sees a soul in Happy Valley, does you, not like in Sydney where Daisy, Daisy’s my sister, you know, they have a business at Marrickville, she said, I used to live there before I
met Ernest, that’s my husband, that she slipped in for luck when she asked anyone to come round, that little runt of a schoolmaster. He said he’d come round perhaps Saturday night. She said she’d be ever so pleased. It was a pity they didn’t see more of each other, wasn’t it? He must be lonely out there at Glen Marsh. They might have a game of cards, if he liked cards, she didn’t much. Then she went out of the store, pneumatically down the steps, and he could see the ridge of the corset on her behind.

Hagan whistled between his teeth. It was a tune he had heard somewhere on a gramophone, long enough ago to forget the circumstances, though he could have made a pretty good guess. He yawned. It was all pretty much the same, a different gramophone to the same tune, and sometimes you wondered if it was worth turning the handle, wondered that is, until you thought you’d give it another try, see if you still had the knack, and then the bloody tune was the same. He stopped whistling. He could have done with a drink. Perhaps she would give him a drink, or perhaps that little blue-faced slate-pencil of a Moriarty was T.T., looked as if he might be anything, or a Baptist, or anything. Take her to the pictures perhaps. Only there was Moriarty. Might take her to the pictures and get her in the middle with Moriarty the other side, kid Moriarty there was nothing up while working on his wife, which would make an easy job a little bit difficult. It was all so easy, all so much the same, turning the handle for the same tune. He could do with a Scotch. Working on those fence-posts it made you dry, and drinking out of a canvas bag the water soft and warm, that you spat out of your mouth, wiped sweat from
your eyes as she came past, and good afternoon Hagan she said, with that pink-faced pommy chap that they said was going to marry her—well, he had a tough job there, the poor bastard, like getting your crowbar into the rock, and she thought she was doing you a favour as she rode past to say, or up at supper that Sunday evening with doyleys on the table and passing you the salad-bowl. He began to whistle in thoughtful scraps. The wind flirted past his face as they went down Tozer’s Hollow where the water-hole was now bone-dry. Passing the salad-bowl and jumping as if she was shot, made you think a bit as you looked at her, saw she was hard as a nail, and not for you if you wanted, even if you wanted what you didn’t want, not a virgin anyway, it was too much like hard work, and holding you responsible, as if you wasn’t doing them a good turn. Sidney Furlow could keep herself.

He rode on towards Happy Valley. There were lights soon and someone in a buggy going into town. Somebody said good night. Good night, he said. They were almost into town. Funny the way you even got a kick out of going into a one-horse joint like Happy Valley that made you cry just to think about, and then started you up when it turned into lights and the barking of dogs.

He left his horse in a yard out by Schmidts’, that Schmidt let him use to save putting up in a stall at the hotel. He took off his spurs and put them in his pocket. He went along the road past Schmidts’ and up into the main street, where there was a hurricane lantern hanging from the verandah at Quongs’. A dog barked at him from Everetts’. People coming down the street. Somebody singing at the pub.

That day going up the street, was winter, to the pub, and standing in the rain at the gate, he was going in, farther along, she said, Mrs Moriarty said…Mrs Moriarty.

Mrs Moriarty sat at the piano in the sitting-room. She had sat there for some time, because she did not want him to miss her, as he came along, her voice singing, because Daisy said she had a fine contralto, if only she had had it trained. So Mrs Moriarty sat at the piano and sang in her fine contralto with great feeling those scraps of Charmaine that she could remember. It was old but somehow appropriate. I wonder when bluebirds are mating, sang Mrs Moriarty. Then she came to a bit she did not know and she la-la-ed with even more feeling than she put into the words. La-la la-la-la la-la
LA LAR,
sang Mrs Moriarty. She had once thought about going into vaudeville, a tasteful act with a grand piano and a pink bead dress and a big black curtain with parrots appliquéd on it.
DOROTHY CHALMERS—THE SILVER VOICE
on the bills. Because you couldn’t call yourself Victoria, or even Vic. It was always a sore point with Mrs Moriarty that she hadn’t been called Dorothy.

The brown mahogany clock ticked with the annoying obtrusiveness of Ernest’s mahogany clock.

Damn that clock, she said, which included somebody else.

It made her restless, waiting like this, her nose. God what a sight, and that cream didn’t close up the pores, didn’t give you your money back. Perhaps you ought to be discovered on the sofa, glancing through a magazine, rather casually, because that was the point, and the piano was not so casual after all. Then Mrs Moriarty had to frown. She
realized she could not be discovered anywhere, because Gertie Ansell had gone home, because she would have to let him in herself, and that was what happened when you couldn’t keep a maid. She struck a chord on the piano. It quite hurt her hands.

Then Hagan knocked on the door.

Ah, she said. How nice to see you, Mr Hagan. It is so nice of you to come.

I expect I’m late, he said.

Oh no, she said. That is, I was just trying over some old favourites. I love a good tune, don’t you?

It all depends on the voice, he said.

Well, now. What am I to say to that?

She laughed and put up her hand to her shoulder, the way she had seen that mannequin, when Daisy and she at David Jones’s, and the sleeve fell down to the elbow showing off the arm. She laughed very prettily.

You’ll pass muster, he said. I heard it coming up the street.

Mrs Moriarty laughed again, even more prettily than before. Because she had charm, if only people gave her a chance, were appreciative, but she wasn’t going to waste it on people who did not understand. Hagan looked at her, smiled, that gold in his teeth. He understood.

I expect you’re quite parched, she said. This heat. Won’t you let me pour you a drink?

I don’t mind if you do.

Thought he didn’t expect that Moriarty, and two glasses, and a siphon and all.

I’m going to keep you company, she said. Ernest’s gone
up to talk to Mr Belper. They’re such cronies. I hope you don’t mind. Anyway, drink’s always the same.

I guess it is.

Waving her glass at him, and she knew a thing or two anyone could see, a fast worker, sending him out and…

Yes, he said, drink’s always the same.

Cheers, said Mrs Moriarty, waving her glass.

I’m glad I came, he said, getting his breath out of the glass.

It’s a change to see people now and again.

She rested her face on her hand, making her eyes big, because sympathy, she knew, was always her long suit.

I was up at Muswellbrook, he said.

Happy Valley makes me cry.

I’m sorry about that.

She giggled at a bubble in her glass, that she was emptying too quick, and he’d think, but she wasn’t like that.

Have another drink? she said, after they had talked a bit, decently, about the rainfall in New England and the wool clip at Glen Marsh.

Thanks, he said. What about you?

I don’t mind.

That’s the way.

Oh, I’m not frightened, she said.

What’ve you got to be frightened of?

That made her pick the braiding on the sofa.

Well, she said, slowly.

He came and sat down beside her on the sofa. It was only the second drink, but panting like that, you could see it was time to take her hand. But she got up and stood by
the table and began fingering a plant.

What have you got to be frightened of? he said.

Oh dear, Mr Hagan, she said. It’s hot. It makes me perspire.

Mr
Hagan? You can call me Clem.

Do you think I might?

I never say yes when I mean no. What do you go by, now we’re on it?

Vic, she said.

It made her blush. She wished she had been christened Dorothy.

Go on! he said. Vic.

Yes, she said. It isn’t my fault, you know.

Like the Queen.

Perhaps.

Vic, eh? Come and sit down again, Vic.

She stood fingering that bloody plant, as if she didn’t know, as if he was a zany, and you could see she was excited the way she heaved under her dress.

It’s so close, she sighed. Wouldn’t you like to go to the pictures, Clem?

It’ll be closer there, he said. But just as you say, Vic.

So they started off to go to the pictures in the hall that belonged to Quongs. She said it was so nice to have his company, somebody who understood, as she walked along with her hand under his arm, and he could feel her hand under his arm getting a bit inquisitive. He began to feel good. Yes, he said, yes, giving her hand a squeeze, and it was a pity they hadn’t got together before. That first day he had wanted to know. Most people were in the hall, but
there were still some walking up the hill, some girls, and behind them Chuffy Chambers, who drove the lorry from Happy Valley to Moorang, walking on his own. He walked up the hill, his mouth slightly open, and out of breath.

Look, said Hagan to Vic. Look at Chuffy Chambers chuff-chuffing after those girls.

Ssh, she said. The boy isn’t right in his head.

But she laughed a bit all the same, because it looked like that, the girls and that loopy boy, oh dear, he had a sense of humour, you could see that, and she’d mixed the whisky pretty stiff, and she felt as if there were sparks in her head.

That’s good! she laughed. Chuffing Chambers.

Chuffy Chambers shambled slower, suddenly ashamed, saw them as they passed on. It made him cold down his back. He had been named William, only they called him Chuffy, even his mother. Chuffing after those girls. Somebody said, come here, Chuffy, and he came, but could not remember how it started, why. His skin felt cold against the holy medals that he wore beneath his shirt. Father Purcell said. He hated Hagan. He lagged back, would not go to the pictures now. The others went up the hill. You could see the lights through the girls’ skirts as they turned in at the hall door. That day on the lorry Hagan had said what sort of a name was that, and he did not know, could not tell, except that down on his knees Mrs Everett’s skirts went by, and she said, come here, Chuffy, stand up, you’re a big boy now, don’t you worry, Mrs Chambers, he’s only slow in developing. He was all right, Chuffy Chambers. They got him the job driving the lorry when he was old enough.
Hagan said. Chuffy Chambers turned back down the hill in the opposite direction from Quongs’ hall.

There was a western on in the hall. It was pretty full, except for the more expensive seats at the back, which of course he would buy her, because that would show he meant to do her well, and you always got back your money’s worth, that time in Sydney at a revue, in a box, but there weren’t any boxes here. He bought the tickets from Amy Quong, like a brown owl in a box. They went on into the hall, full of darkness and the titanic exertions of figures on the screen. He took up his whip and it curled right round the ranger’s head, making a weal on his face. Vic Moriarty squealed. That was the trouble, she always entered into everything, Daisy said. They began to bundle into the expensive seats. The air was hot with cigarettes. She was sorry that no one could see, because of course the darkness, that the overseer from Glen Marsh was taking her in the most expensive seats. If Mrs Belper was there. She clung to her moment of superiority, getting down into her chair, and pushing her shoulder up against him when she had sat down, just as much as to say, we’ll watch it together, shan’t we, and he wasn’t at all averse.