The Mountains Have a Secret. Arthur W. Upfield
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A third arm pointed to the turn-off track and stated that that way was to Baden Park Hotel—four miles—and Lake George—seven and a half miles.
Humming an unrecognisable tune, Bony took the turn-off track, narrow, rough, walled with scrub. There was a faint smile in his eyes and in his heart the thrill of expectancy which drives on the born adventurer.
There are no bushlands in the vast Interior comparable with this, but then, in the Interior, there are no easy landmarks like these ranges. The track dipped gently downwards, and Bony had merely to touch the accelerator. Now and then he passed a crack in the bush walls, cracks which could be enticing to the inexperienced hiker.
The change was almost instantaneous. In the one instant the walls of scrub crowded upon the car; in the next they had vanished and the car was rolling across a large clearing on the left of which stood the hotel, its weather-boarded walls painted cream and its iron roof a cap of terracotta. Across the clearing ran a little creek spanned by another but much smaller white-painted bridge.
Bony stopped the car before the veranda steps. To the left of them wisteria covered the lower portion of the veranda and climbed the roof supports. To the right, windows bore the golden letters of the word “Bar”. It was a comfortable building, a welcoming building to the traveller. He switched off the engine and heard a voice say:
“Get to hell outa here.”
Another voice croaked:
“That’s enough of that.”
To which the first countered with:
“Nuts! What about a drink?”
From the fly-wired door above the steps emerged a man dressed in a sports shirt and grey slacks. He came down to meet the traveller alighting from the old single-seater. Under forty, his still handsome face bore unmistakable signs of high-pressure living. Shrewd, cold grey eyes examined the visitor even as the sensuous mouth widened into a not unattractive smile.
“Good day!” he said, his accent unexpectedly good. There was a question-mark behind the greeting, as though a stranger coming this way was rare.
“Good day-ee!” Bony replied with an assumed drawl. “You’re the landlord, I take it. Can you put me up for a day or two? Pretty place. Looks peaceful.”
“Peaceful enough—most times,” was the qualified agreement, accompanied by a meaning smile. “Oh yes, we can give you a room. My name is Simpson. Call me Jim.”
“Good! I hate formality. My name’s Parkes. Call me John. Bar open?”
“It’s always open to visitors. Come on in. We can garage your car and bring in your luggage any old time.”
Bony followed Simpson to the veranda, and the great yellow-crested cockatoo in its cage suspended from the veranda roof politely asked:
“What abouta drink?”
Farther along the veranda a human wreck in a wheeled invalid chair called out:
“Good day to you!”
“Good day to you, sir,” replied Bony.
The invalid propelled his chair forward and Bony paused on the threshold of the door to gaze down into the rheumy eyes of a man past seventy, faded blue eyes gleaming with the light of hope. The white hair and beard badly needed trimming.
“My father,” said Simpson within the doorway. “Suffers a lot from arthritis. Gentleman’s name is Parkes, Father. Going to stay a few days.”
“What abouta drink?” shrieked the cockatoo.
The old man raised his head, failed to obtain the required angle, spun his chair until he did, and then shook a bony fist at the bird. Fury twisted his slavering mouth and his voice was like a wire in wind.
“If I could get outa this chair I’d wring yer ruddy neck.”
To which the bird made a noise remarkably similar to that described as a “raspberry”.
The son chuckled and Bony stepped into a small hall, to be surprised by several large oil-paintings on the walls and a large-scale pictorial map of the locality, which at once promised to be interesting. Part way along the passage beyond, Simpson showed the new guest into a small lounge off which could be seen the bar. Here it was dim and cool, and the floor and furniture gleamed like ebony from constant polishing. Bony called for beer and suggested that Simpson join him. Simpson said:
“Come from Melbourne?”
“I don’t live there,” replied Bony. “Don’t like it and wouldn’t live in a city for all the wool in Australia. I own a small place out of Balranald. In sheep, but not big. Haven’t had a spell for years and I’m enjoying one now, just dithering about here and there.”
“The Gramps are different to your class of country, I suppose?”
“They’re certainly that. I lease a hundred thousand acres, and I can see across the lot of it with a pair of binoculars, it’s that flat. Fill them up, will you? You get many people this way?”
“Not so many,” replied Simpson from the pump. “Mostly regulars. Come once or twice every year, chiefly for the fishing at Lake George, and to get off the apron-strings for a necessary change.” He set the glasses upon the narrow counter between bar and lounge and lit a cigarette. “The tourists don’t come this side of the Gramps. Country’s not opened up like it is over at Hall’s Gap. Our visitors are solid and good spenders, and in between parties we have an easy time of it.”
“The place is probably all the more attractive on that count,” averred Bony. “What’s the road like across to Hall’s Gap?”
“It was only opened last year,” replied Simpson, exhaling smoke and calmly regarding his guest. “It’s still rough and dangerous for cars with faulty brakes. A hundred thousand acres you have! Lot of country. How many sheep d’you run?”
“Oh, round about ten thousand. It’s not like the country I’ve crossed since leaving Melbourne, you know. Still, it provides a living.”
Simpson chuckled and took the glasses back to the pump. “Better than hotel-keeping,” he said. “By the way, you might find the old man a bit of an ‘ear basher’, but don’t let him worry you. He’ll put it on you for a drink, but you’d oblige by knocking him back. Booze has been his ruin, and now he’s not quite right. Says silly things and imagines the world’s against him, and all that.”
The refilled glasses were set down on the counter. Beyond this quiet room were occasional sounds: the screech of the cockatoo, the cawing of a passing crow, the clang of a tin bucket, the crowing of a rooster. To Bony the atmosphere was familiar, but there was a shade of difference between this hotel and those others beside the Outback tracks. For one thing, there was no dust in this place, and for another the pictures in the hall were too good to be housed by such a building and too large to adorn so small a hall.
There was an oddity about Simpson too. In view of the fact that there had been no guests prior to his own arrival, the licensee seemed to be too neat and too expensively dressed. Groves had said of Simpson that he was a “bit flash”, and doubtless the phrase was meant to apply to the man’s habitual appearance.
Despite the evidence of fast living, Simpson was still athletic in movement, and the dynamic depths of his character could be felt by the sensitive Bony. He said:
“Like to see your room?”
The room was entirely to Bony’s liking, the window opening on to the veranda whereon the invalid reigned in his wheelchair. They went out to the car and garaged it, and Simpson assisted the new guest with his luggage, proving himself a warm host, and afterwards showing the way to the bathrooms and quoting the meal schedule.
“We usually have dinner about half-past six when times are quiet,” he said. “If you don’t want another drink just now, I’ll do a few jobs waiting my attention. Might take a ride on a horse I’ve bought. Haven’t tried him