Riders in the Chariot (73 page)

When they reached the room door, the doctor asked for a key, but as there was no duplicate, he did not suggest anything else; he burst the papery thing open.

They went in on the draught, rather too quickly, and at once were pushed back by the stench.

The doctor made a noise, and opened the window.

"How long since you saw him?"

"Could be three days," Mrs Noonan answered, from behind her handkerchief, and smiled.

Dubbo was lying on the bed. He was twisted round, but natural-looking, more like some animal, some bird that had experienced the necessity of dying. There was a good deal of blood, though, on the pillow, on his hands, although it had dried by then, with the result that he could have been lying in the midst of a papier-mâche joke.

The doctor was carrying out a distasteful examination.

"Is he dead?" Mrs Noonan was asking. "Eh, Doctor? Is he dead?

"He is dead," she replied, for herself.

"Probably a tubercular haemorrhage," mumbled the doctor.

He breathed harder to indicate his disapproval.

"Ah," said Mrs Noonan.

Then she caught sight of the oil paintings, and was flabbergasted.

"What do you make of these, Doctor?" she asked, and laughed, or choked behind her handkerchief.

The doctor glanced over his shoulder, but only to frown formally. He certainly had no intention of looking.

When he had finished, and given all necessary instructions to that inconsiderable object the landlady, and banged the street door shut, Mrs Noonan prepared to go in search of her acquaintances, the carrier and his wife.

But she did look once more at the body of the dead man, and the house was less than ever hers.

The body of Alf Dubbo was quickly and easily disposed of. He had left money enough--it was found in a condensed-milk tin--so that the funeral expenses were settled, the landlady was paid, and everybody satisfied. The dead man's spirit was more of a problem: the oil paintings became a source of embarrassment to Mrs Noonan. Finally, the helpful carrier advised her to put them in an auction, and for a remuneration carried them there, where they fetched a few shillings, and caused a certain ribaldry. Mrs Noonan was relieved when it was done, but sometimes wondered what became of the paintings.

Not even the auctioneers could have told her that, for their books were lost soon after in a fire. Anyway, the paintings disappeared, and, if not destroyed when they ceased to give the buyers a laugh, have still to be discovered.

17

THEY HAD started to demolish Xanadu. A very short time after the wreckers went in, it seemed as though most of the secret life of the house had been exposed, and the stage set for a play of divine retribution; only the doors into the jagged rooms continued closed, the actors failed to make their entrance. Of course, the reason might have been that vengeance was fully inflicted, and the play finished, where wallpaper now twittered, and starlings plastered the cornices. Even so, people came down hopefully from Sarsaparilla to watch, to brace themselves against the impending scream of tragedy, to stroll amongst the grass while keeping a lookout for souvenirs, a jade bead perhaps, or coral claw, or the photographs that are washed up out of the yellow past.

It was no more than a gleaning, because the furniture had been removed immediately it was decided to demolish and subdivide. Solicitors had presided. A young man turned up, in black, and a rustier, elderly individual. They had supervised the inventories, and were present at the arrival of the vans, on the authority of the legatee and relative, a Mr Cleugh, of the island of Jersey, U. K. All was arranged by correspondence, as the fortunate gentleman was too old to undertake the voyage--besides, he had done it once--and could have been interested only in the theory of wealth by now. So the malachite urns were removed at last from Xanadu, and the limping cedar, and the buhl table of brass hackles. Some of the inhabitants of Sarsaparilla claimed to have been informed that it all fetched a pretty penny, though there were others who heard that it went for a song.

The strange part was that the old woman had thought to consult solicitors. She had, it appeared, called them in soon after the death of her mother, when some transparency of memory prompted her to dictate a will in favour of her cousin, Eustace. Not even those who invariably failed to understand motives could have interpreted the inheritance as a simple reversion, for Mary Hare was closer by blood to several Urquhart-Smiths.

So, it seemed, Miss Hare had chosen. She who had lurked in the scrub, and frequently scuttled from the eyes of strangers, who had stood at a window holding the rag of a curtain over half her face, or drifted directionless through the corridors and rooms of her nominal home at Xanadu, she who was at most an animal, at least a leaf, had always chosen, people came to think, and had chosen for the last time, the night the Jew's house got burnt, to go away from Sarsaparilla, where she was never seen again.

There had been a hue and cry, and speculation in the press, and two bodies offered, one from a river in the south of New South Wales, the second from the sea, off the Queensland coast. Neither corpse was recognizable. But it was decided by reasoning too devious to disentangle that Miss Hare was she who had stepped into the cold waters of the southern river, where trout had nibbled at her till the state of anonymity was reached. So it was published officially. But there were those who knew that that was not Miss Hare. Mrs Godbold knew. Several of the latter's daughters knew. Though the matter was never, never discussed amongst them, they knew that Miss Hare was somewhere closer, and would not leave those parts, perhaps in poor, crumpled, disintegrated flesh, but never more than temporarily in spirit. So the Godbolds would push the hair out of their eyes, and squint at the sun, and keep quiet, if ever the subject of Miss Hare's end crept into the conversation of the inhabitants of Sarsaparilla.

It remained something of a mystery, while Xanadu itself was the broken comb from which the honey of mystery had soon all run. People listened for the next crump, from a distance, or approached close enough to enjoy the spectacle of the complicated copper bath-heater, although from that level they could not have caught sight of the tessellated Italian floor, from which time and Mrs Jolley had already half scattered the medallion depicting a black goat.

Sometimes, in the absence of actors, the workmen would appear on one of the several planes of the deserted stage, and perform against the dead colours for the pleasure of the thin but enthusiastic audience. The spectators would enter right into the play, because all those workmen were regular blokes with whom they could have exchanged sentiments as well as words. Which made the act of desecration more violent and personal, adding to it, as it were, the destructive animus of banality.

So the few ladies from Sarsaparilla, and handful of kiddies, and three or four stubbly pensioners, roared their heads off the morning the young chap--the wag of the bunch--stood on the landing at Xanadu with a bit of an old fan he had found, and there amongst the lazy sunlight which the trees allowed to filter onto the brown wallpaper and dustmarks, improvised a dance which celebrated the history of that place. How the young labourer became inspired enough to describe those great sweeping arcs with his moulted fan, nobody understood, nor did the artist himself realize that, for all its elasticity of grimace and swivelling impudence of bum, his creation was a creaking death dance. But the young man danced. For the audience, his lithe thighs introduced an obscenity of life into the dead house. The candid morning did not close down on his most outrageous pantomime. The people hooted, but in approval. Until at the end, suddenly, the tattered fan seemed to fly apart in the dancer's hand, the tufts of feathers blew upward in puffs of greyish-pink smoke, and the young man was left looking at a few sticks of tortoiseshell.

At once he began to feel embarrassed, and went off stage, careful to close the door upon his exit. The audience dispersed shyly.

Xanadu continued to crumble, when it did not crash. In the evenings when the wreckers had gone, and the long gold of evening had succumbed to cold blue, other figures would appear. They were the couples of lovers, avoiding one another, which was easy eventually, since there was enough silence for everyone, and the grass meeting in arches above the extended bodies made a world that might have been China or Peru.

Else Godbold walked there with her lover Bob Tanner. They, who had experienced life, frowned on recognizing ignorance, skirted obstructions in the rather difficult terrain, stalking stiffly. Locked together precariously by the little finger, they swung hands, but gravely, and made plans for the future. As if they had actually tamed it.

But once Else bent down, and picked up a scrap of paper, some old page, from some old book, only of handwriting, of a funny, educated kind, which they took the trouble to decipher, some of it at least, under a rampant elder bush.

"July 20..." Else Godbold began to mumble syllables, and Bob Tanner chose that moment to approach his head.

"... heat oppressive as we left Florence for Fiesole, and the villa of Signora Grandi, the acquaintance of Lucy Urquhart Smith's. I hope life may become more tolerable, though Signora G. has made it clear that it will remain
exorbitant
_! Bathed face, and put on my reseda Liberty.
Feeling much improved
_!

Norbert
indefatigable
_. Italy his
spiritual home
_. Only a few nights ago he embarked on a long poem on the theme of
Fia Angelico
_. Doubtful, however, whether his physical condition will allow him to bring it to an altogether satisfactory conclusion. Poor fellow, the oil is a constant upset to his stomach! Now that we are in a villa of our own, hope to discover some respectable woman who will know to prepare him his mutton chop.

My little girl is unhappy. She is a puzzle. Says she
wishes she were a stick
_! Often wonder how M. will adapt herself. She is so
plain
_! And will not learn to converse. Her statements stop a person short. Will not deny that M.'s remarks usually contain the truth. But the world, I fear, will not tolerate the truth, at least in concentrated form. A man who drinks his whisky neat quickly becomes unsociable.
As we know from personal experience
_.

July 21. Norbert insisted on returning to Florence for the day. Did San Marco, Santa Maria del Carmine, Santa Maria Novella, Santo Spirito
etc.
etc.
Exhausted. Bilious.

July 26. Have not written since Thursday. Too distressed. On Thursday night Norbert took too much. Threatened to open his veins. Decided against, because, he claimed, it was what Urquhart Smiths expected.

Yesterday evening, as though the other were not enough, our poor M. had a kind of little "fit." Quickly over, but
dreadful
_. Sat up and said she had never been so far before, that she had found
lovingkindness
_ to exist at the roots of trees and plants, not to mention
hair
_, provided it was not
of human variety
_.

Most distressing. Must consider how I may show her that
affection
_, of which I
know
_ I am capable. Remember in future to pray particularly.

Oh dear, to see the future! Time must solve problems which prove too great a tangle at close quarters. Had always dreamt of an old age made comfortable by a daughter with cool, lovely hands.

No question of a tranquil husband. Sometimes am forced to conclude only the air soothes. But where? Not at Florence....

"Waddayaknow!" It was too much for Else Godbold.

But Bob Tanner had taken a blade of grass, and was inserting it strategically into the opening of his girl's ear.

"Ah, Bob!" Else cried.

She laughed, but down her nose, because she was interrupted in contemplation of higher things.

Then he put his face almost into the angle of her neck, until there remained only a thin band of burning air to separate them. Outside, the cold air spilled down, almost to the roots of the elder bush, where it was repelled. They were warm there, nesting in the grass.

Else could have cried. She crumpled up the yellow paper from which she had been reading.

Then Bob took the lobe of her ear between his teeth, and could not hold his breath, but snorted hot into her ear.

"Ah, Bob," she had to protest, "didn't you listen to what I was readin' out?"

"All that old stuff?"

She had never seen him angry.

"Ah," she cried, "I would give anything to see what will become of us!"

"I could tell you," Bob said.

But did not attempt.

The flesh, she saw, was slipping from his face, so that, with nothing to intervene, she was brought all that closer to him.

They were very close now. Their mouths were melting, flowing into one.

Until Else came up for breath.

"I am afraid, Bob."

"What of?" he asked.

"I dunno," Else said, because she could not have conveyed the world of darkness.

Owls were flapping through the rooms of Xanadu. Somewhere a branch cracked, and fell.

"I used to think," Else said, "you could make the future what you wanted."

Then Bob Tanner, who was determined to resist the future, when the present was so very palpable, blazed up, "What odds the future! I know enough. Can't you see me, Else? Look at me, Else. Eh? Else!"

Then she did.

"That's all right," he said. "Eh? That's all right."

The present welcomed them with open arms. As they rocked together, underneath the elder bush, it did not seem likely that anything would ever withstand Bob Tanner's blunt conviction.

"I will show you! I will hold you! I will give you the future!"

"Ah, Bob! Bob!" Else cried.

As if she had not always known that all certainty was here, and goodness must return, like grass.

One morning, Mrs Jolley put on her hat, and went down to Xanadu, to have a look. Without her friend, though, who suffered from the gallstones, and the varicose veins, to say nothing of a Heart. It was too far for Mrs Flack. So Mrs Jolley went on the quiet, and might have developed palpitations herself, such was her anxiety to arrive, and determine to what extent her resentments had been appeased.