The Far Country (17 page)

“What’s that?”

“A picture.”

He stared at her. “What sort of picture?”

“An oil painting. A very, very nice oil painting.”

“What of?”

“I don’t mind. I just want a very nice picture.”

“You mean, in a frame, to hang on the wall?”

“That’s right. We had lots of them at home, when I was a girl. I didn’t think anything of them then, but now I want one of my own.”

He thought about it, trying to absorb this new idea, to visualise what it was that she wanted. “I thought you might like a bracelet, or a ring,” he said. With so much money in their pockets, after so long, she should have something really good.

She squeezed his arm. “That’s sweet of you, but I don’t want jewellery, I’d never be anywhere where I could wear it. No, I want a picture.”

He tried to measure her desire by yardstick. “Any idea what it’ll cost?”

“I don’t know till I see it,” she said. “It might cost a hundred pounds.”

“A hundred pounds!” he said. “My word!”

“Well, what’s the Ford going to cost you?”

“Aw, look,” he said. “That’s different. That’s for the station.”

“No, it’s not,” she said. “The Chev’ll do the station work for years to come. It’s for you to run about in and cut a dash, and it’s costing fourteen hundred pounds.”

“It’s for both of us,” he said weakly, “and it comes off the tax.”

“Not all of it,” she said. “If you’re having your Ford Custom I’m going to have my picture.”

He realised that she was set on having this picture; it was a strange idea to him, but he acquiesced. “There’s a shop down here somewhere,” he said. “Maybe there’d be something there you like.”

When they came to the shop it was closed, but the windows were full of pictures, religious and secular. He knew better than to offer her a picture of the infant Christ in her present mood, although he rather admired it himself. He said, “That’s a nice one, that one of the harbour. The one where it says ‘St. Ives’.”

It was colourful and blue, with fishing vessels. “It’s not bad,” she said, “but it’s a reproduction. I want a real picture, an original.”

He studied the harbour scene. “Where would that be?” he asked. “Is it in England?”

“That’s right,” she said. “It’s a little place in Cornwall.”

“Funny the way people want to buy a picture of a place so far away,” he said.

“I suppose it’s because so many of us come from home.”

There was nothing in the shop window that she cared for, nor did it seem to her that there was likely to be what she wanted deeper in the shop. “I’d like to go to picture galleries,” she said. “They have a lot of galleries where artists show their pictures and have them for sale. Could we see some of those tomorrow, Jack?”

“Course we can,” he said, “I’ve got to pick up the Custom in the morning, but we’ll have all day after that.”

She smiled. “No, we won’t—you’ll be wanting to drive round in the Custom. We’ll go to the picture galleries in the morning and pick up the Custom in the afternoon.”

They went back to the hotel, and rested for a time in the lounge with glasses of cold beer, and dined, and went out to see
Worm’s Eye View
, and laughed themselves silly. They got up late by their standards next day, and early by those of the hotel, and went down to their breakfast in the dining-room. As country folk they were accustomed to a cooked breakfast and the hotel was accustomed to station people; half a pound of steak with two fried eggs on top of it was just far enough removed from normal to provide a pleasant commencement for the day for Jack. Jane ate more modestly, three kidneys on toast and a quarter of a pound of bacon. Fortified for their day’s work they set out to look at pictures with a view to buying one.

The first gallery they went to was full of pictures of the central Australian desert. The artist had modelled his style upon that of a short-sighted and eccentric old gentlemen called Cezanne, who had
been able to draw once but had got tired of it; this smoothed the path of his disciples a good deal. The Dormans wandered, nonplussed, from mountain after mountain picture, glowing in rosy tints, all quite flat upon the canvas, with queer childish brown scrawls in the foreground that might be construed into aboriginals. A few newspaper clippings, pinned to the wall, hailed the artist as one of the outstanding landscape painters of the century.

Jack Dorman, deep in gloom at the impending waste of money, said, “Which do you like best? That’s a nice one, over there.”

Jane said, “I don’t like any of them. I think they’re horrible.”

“Thank God for that,” her husband replied. The middle-aged woman seated at the desk looked at them with stern disapproval.

They went out into the street. “It’s this modern stuff,” Jane said. “That’s not what I want at all.”

“What is it you want?” he asked. “What’s it got to be like?”

She could not explain to him exactly what she wanted, because she did not know herself. “It’s got to be pretty,” she said, “and in bright colours, in oils, so that when it’s raining or snowing in the winter you can look at it and like it. And it’s got to be
like
something, not like those awful daubs in there.”

The next gallery that they went into had thirty-five oil paintings hung around the walls. Each picture depicted a vase of flowers standing on a polished table that reflected the flowers and a curtain draped behind; thirty-five oil paintings all carefully executed, all with the same motif. A few newspaper cuttings pinned up announced the artist as the outstanding flower painter of the century.

Jane whispered, “Do you think she can do anything else?”

“I dunno,” her husband said. “Don’t look like it. Do you like any of these?”

“Some of them are quite nice,” Jane said slowly. “That one over there … and that. But they aren’t what I want.” She paused. “I’d never be able to forget that there were thirty-four others just like it, if I bought one of these.”

The last exhibition that they visited that morning was of paintings and sculpture by the same artist; at the door a newspaper cutting informed them that the artist was a genius at the interpretation of Australia. The centre of the floor was occupied by a large block of polished mulga wood with a hole in it, of no recognisable shape or form, poised at eye-level on a stand that you might admire it better. Beneath it was the title, “Design for Life”.

“Like that one to take home?” asked Jack. He glanced at the catalogue. “It’s only seventy-five guineas….”

The paintings were a little odd, because this artist was a primitive, unable to paint or to draw, and hailed as a genius by people who ought to have known better. Purple houses that might have been drawn by a five-year-old child straggled drunkenly across vermilion streets that led to nowhere and meant nothing; men with green faces struggled mysteriously and perhaps discreditably with
ladies who had square blue breasts. “That’s a nice one …” said Jack thoughtfully.

Jane said, “Let’s get out of here. People must be mad if they like things like that.”

Out in the street he said, “There’s another gallery in Bourke Street, up by William Street or somewhere.”

Jane said, “I want a cup of tea.”

They turned into a café; over the tea she said that she was through with picture galleries. “I know what I want,” she said, “but it’s not here. I want a picture that an ordinary person can enjoy, not someone who’s half mad. I’ll find it some day.”

He said tentatively, “There might be time to go down and pick up the Ford before dinner….”

“Let’s do that,” she said. “Take the taste of those foul paintings out of our mouths.”

The new utility was a very lovely motor-car, a low, flowing dark-green thing with more art in it than anything that they had seen that day. Twenty minutes before lunch-time it became their property, and they got into it, thrilled by the new possession, and drove it very carefully and slowly to park it in the Treasury Gardens. Jack Dorman locked it up, whistling softly between his teeth,

His wife caught the air, and smiled a little. “We must ring Angie,” she said. “See her this afternoon.” Their daughter was staying for a few days with a college friend in Toorak, the most fashionable suburb of the city.

Her father said, “Maybe we could run her out into the country somewhere. She might like a drive….”

She was in fact driving in their utility at that moment, with Tim Archer. He had picked her up in the old Chevrolet that morning and was driving her southwards to bathe in Port Phillip Bay, thirty miles from the city. He had collected a lunch of sandwiches and soft drinks and they had set off at about twelve o’clock; they were now coming to the beach that was their destination.

Angela Dorman was twenty years old; she was taking Social Studies at Melbourne University and was just about to start upon her third and last year. She was a well-built blonde girl, superbly healthy. Like many Australian girls, a country life in her early years with an abundance of good food, plenty of riding, plenty of swimming, and the good Australian climate had made her a magnificent physical specimen; she would have graced a magazine cover in any country of the world. Now she was going through that phase of youth that can find nothing good in its own country; in Australia the only places that could satisfy her were Melbourne or Sydney, and her one ambition was to escape altogether from Australia to a rose-tinted and a glamorous England.

She had known Tim Archer for three years, since he had come to work for her father at Leonora. She knew that he was devoted to her in the inarticulate, dumb manner of a dog. She found him slow and unenterprising, without much interest in the world outside Victoria; a typical country boy. For all her restlessness she had enough of her father’s shrewd common sense not to throw away lightly something that she might want later on; she was sufficiently realist to know that she might not find so steady an affection easily again. She left most of his letters unanswered but she was kind to him when they met, and when he had rung her up and asked her to come swimming down past Mornington she had put off another engagement to go out with him.

They parked the old utility beside the road, took their lunch and bathing gear, and walked down through the tea trees to the beach. They had it practically to themselves, that little beach; they went back into the tea trees to change and came out in their bathers wearing dark glasses to sit and sun themselves a little before going in. Then they swam in the hot sunshine, keeping an eye open for the possible shark; although they were both strong swimmers, like most Australians they did not venture very far from the shore. Sharks in Port Phillip Bay were a rarity, but then you only meet one once….

They came out presently, and sat drying in the sun on the hot sand till they began to burn; then they moved into the shade of the tea trees and got out their lunch. Over the cigarettes he broached the subject that was foremost in his mind.

“Coming up to Leonora soon?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she said reluctantly. “I’m going to spend a week or so in Sydney with Susie Martin at the end of the month. I suppose I’ll have to go home for a bit before that.”

“It’s nice up there now,” he offered. “Cooler than the city.”

“There’s nothing to do there,” she replied. “It’s different for you. You’ve got a job to do. When I come home there’s nothing to do but help Mummy with the cooking and washing up. There’s nobody to talk to.”

“I know,” he said patiently. “It must seem a bit slow.”

She turned towards him. “Don’t you ever get tired of sheep—seeing the same sheep every day?”

“There’s the beef cattle,” he said slowly and quite seriously. “They make a bit of a change.”

“But don’t you get
bored
up there?”

“I dunno,” he said. “There’s always something that wants doing—fences or rabbits or spreading the super. We’re going to plough about eighty acres of the middle paddock in March and sow it down to rye-grass and clovers.”

“Will that make it better?”

“My word,” he said. “If we did that all over we could carry twice the stock. Costs a lot of money, though.”

She was silent. She knew that she ought to be able to take an interest in the property that had given her the university, and pretty clothes, and leisure; she knew that the fault lay in her. “I can’t stand the country,” she said quietly.

He knew that what she said was true, and it was painful to hear her say it. “What are you going to do when you leave the university?” he asked. “Get a job down here in the city?”

She said, “I want to go to England.”

“What’s the matter with Australia?” he asked in his slow way.

“It’s so small, so petty, and so new,” she said. “Everything we think about or talk about—everything that’s worth while—comes from England. We’re such second-raters here. I want to go home and work in London and be in the centre of things and meet some first-class people. I want to be where things really happen, things that are important in the world.”

“Australia’s all right,” he said. “We’ve got some pretty good people here.”

“But not like England,” she said. “It’s not like things are at home.”

“You don’t get enough to eat in England.”

“That’s all nonsense. The children’s health at home is as good as it is here.” She paused. “The trouble is we eat too much here. Be a good thing if we all ate a bit less and sent more home.”

“What’ld you do in London?” he asked presently.

“I’d like to get a job with a hospital,” she said. “An almoner or social work of some kind, with one of the big London hospitals. If I could get that, it’ld be a job worth doing.”

“Down in the slums?” he asked. “With very poor people?”

She nodded. “I want to get a job where one could help—help people who need helping.”

“Couldn’t you do that in Australia?”

“There’s not the scope,” she said. “There aren’t any poor people here—not like there are at home.”

He knew that to be true, and he thought it was a very good thing. “Too many people in England,” he said. “That’s the trouble. Do you know this girl Jennifer Morton that your ma’s come down to meet?”