Death of a Swagman. Arthur W. Upfield
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she had learnt by heart. “You follow the new moon to where it sinks into the sunset glow. There is a lake of liquid gold, and in the middle of the lake is an island all green with tall grasses and flowering trees. The island is the kingdom of Rose Marie, and when we get there all the stars will fall and hold tight to the tops of the trees and be like those electric globes in Mr Jason’s garage.”
“True?” asked the entranced Bony.
“Yes. Young Mr Jason told me. My, I must run! The bell’s stopped.”
“You promise me something before you go?” She crossed her fingers and promised.
“Promise that you will never again speak the word ‘trollop’. It isn’t a nice word.”
“All right! I promise, Bony. Good-bye.”
She left him, running, the bars of her golden hair floating behind her.
He was wishing that he had been blessed with a daughter in addition to his three sons when a dog came to stare at him.
“Good day!” he said to the dog.
The dog wagged its tail. It was a large rangy animal of nondescript breed, brown head, brown back, and white chest.
“What is your name?” Bony asked. “Come on, tell me your name.”
The dog wrinkled his nose and suspicion left his eyes. He came nearer, willing to be friends.
“Come on, shake hands,” invited Bony, and the animal dutifully lifted his right forepaw, his tail now a flail, the entire body of him expressing friendship.
One nail was absent from the paw clasped by Bony’s hand.
Someone whistled shrilly, and at once the dog raced away to vanish into the garage doorway. Bony rose to his feet and fell to work on his painting. Five minutes later he observed Mr Jason coming from the garage.
“Good morning, Burns. How’s the work going?”
“Goodo, Mr Jason. Rotten colour, though.”
“I agree. It will be an eyesore in Merino,” predicted Mr Jason. “As the Bard of Avon said, so perhaps shall I: ‘O, I have pass’d a miserable night, So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams.’ I intend to write a strong protest about that paint to the police department.”
Mr Jason was wearing blue engineer’s overalls, which seemed out of place when quoting Shakespeare. The expression in his dark eyes now was mild, almost paternal, when he went on:
“One does one’s best to bring beauty into the outback, but so few appreciate one’s efforts to beautify a place or beautify the mind with passages from the works of the world’s literary giants. Take to reading, Burns. Read the works of Shakespeare and Milton and Wordsworth. Elevate your mind, Burns. Did you notice any peculiar circumstance relative to old Bennett’s demise?”
“Er ... no,” replied Bony, a little set back by such a question following so closely upon the subject of literature and the elevation of the mind.
“I saw you walking about the old man’s hut the other afternoon,” admitted Mr Jason. “You are probably aware, having heard what I said yesterday, that I am not easy in my mind about that death. You did not, by any chance, observe any unusual tracks? I think, you know, that someone frightened old Bennett to death.”
“But why frighten the old man?” argued Bony. “He had no enemies, had he?”
“I don’t know. I am only going on what I observed on the man’s face. You were, of course, asked to accompany the party by the sergeant?”
“Yes, he did ask me to go with him. I looked about all round the hut but I could see nothing strange, or of any value. I am not very good at tracking. Not so good as the full blacks.”
“Ah, no, I suppose not.”
Mr Jason departed down the street and returned on the far side. Twice he stopped and chatted with people. Several times he was spoken to beyond the normal greeting. What had Rose Marie said that her father had said of him? A broken-down actor. Well, he might have been an actor, but hardly a broken-down one, whatever that term might mean. There was a drover in western Australia who, during two months’ association with Bony, had recited word-perfect every Shakespearean play.
People were shopping in the few stores and gossiping in the shade of the pepper-trees. Cars and trucks were arriving from west and east, to stop at the hotel as though their engines would fall out should they be driven past it. The mail car from Mildura arrived at eleven, from the west. It was the only vehicle to pass the hotel. It continued on to the post office, then it was turned and driven back to the hotel to unload its passengers. At the garage young Jason was kept busy pumping petrol and serving oil and examining engine defects. At noon the humming of the blowflies was subdued by the burst of children’s voices released from school. Rose Marie came flying up the street, to give Bony a wave and a smile before darting through the police station gate and into the house.
Everyone who passed along Bony’s side of the street said “Good dayee” to him. The words of the greeting never varied, nor was it ever omitted. Several passers-by paused to speak to the painter and to sympathize with him in his bad luck at having been chosen by the sergeant to paint that fence.
In the afternoon there came the Rev. Llewellyn James. His greeting was minus the final long e.
“Good dayee,” responded Bony, straightening his back and turning about to see the youngish man who gazed at him intently with pale blue eyes. He wore no hat, and his fine brown hair was unruly. His hands were large and white and soft, and from the crook of an arm dangled a walking stick. Grey flannel trousers and black lustre coat failed to hide his flabbiness. He spoke with the unmistakable accent of the Welshman.
“I regret being informed of your fall and subsequent arraignment before the court,” he said. “However, I am glad to find you at honest labour in the pure sunshine, for which you must thank Sergeant Marshall. What is your name?”
“First I’d like to know who you are,” Bony said with pretended sullenness.
“I am Mr James, the clergyman.”
There was now superciliousness in the voice, and an expression of hardness had flashed into the pale blue eyes. Bony thought that he knew his man and assumed humility.
“Sorry, Padre,” he began. “My name’s Robert Burns. I’m a stranger to this part of the state.”
Mr James smiled, and Bony could actually see the shaft of wit being fashioned in the man’s mouth.
“No descendant of the great Scotch poet, I presume. I cannot trace the Highland burr in your voice.”
It was a different Bony from the one who had spoken that morning to Rose Marie.
“I am Australian-born,” he said. “My father may have been a poet. I don’t know. I was reared in a North Queensland mission station, and I roam about Australia whenever I want.” Mr James was made glad that he knew his parents. It was a feeling he found comforting and pleasant. He began to press questions as though fully entitled. What was Bony’s age; what had been his education; what were his domestic responsibilities; and what was the reason of his being here in the south-western quarter of New South Wales? He did not inquire concerning Bony’s religion. Presently he said unctuously:
“Well, Burns, remember that you would not have found yourself in your present predicament had you not succumbed to the temptation of taking alcoholic refreshment. It is the greatest pitfall to entrap the unwary. At the expiration of the term of your imprisonment, have you any employment to go to?”
Sadly Bony shook his head.
“Then I will speak to Mr Leylan about you. He is the owner of Wattle Creek Station and is a great friend of mine. Can you ride a horse?”
“So long as it’s a quiet one, Padre.”
“Good! Well, we’ll see about it. Meanwhile,