Winds of Evil. Arthur W. Upfield
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not always interesting, view.
Southward from the hotel the track to Broken Hill wound like a snake towards the bluebush covering the town Common, then disappeared among it towards Nogga Creek. A bare quarter-mile distant it passed through the left of two gates set in the Common fence, thence skirted the east boundary-fence of Wirragatta Station for fourteen miles. It was the fence now familiar to Joe Fisher. Just before the Common fence was reached a branch track took the right-hand gate and led one to the homestead of Wirragatta.
Beyond, far beyond the Common fence, the arc of the level horizon of the bluebush plain extended from the eastern tip of Nogga Creek’s box-trees round to the north, where lay the distant township of Allambee, and thence farther round to the line of mulga forest, and so to the south and the tall red gums of the river. Here and there over this great plain were low, sprawling sand-dunes which had not been there when Mrs. Nelson was in her teens.
Opposite the hotel was the bakery, and along that side of the straight, wide and solitary street the eye passed the store, the police station, the hall—used as the court house—and then an irregularly spaced row of iron-built houses. Returning along the hotel side of the street, one’s eye passed over several more small houses, the doctor’s house, the post office. Every building in Carie was skirted by vacant allotments. There was no great house shortage, and the town had ample room for expansion should the shortage ever exist.
The people of Carie were free of class distinctions, and the general happiness stood at a high level. One only among them was the leader, and, in consequence, there was a delightful absence of snobbery.
In any community outside the bush proper, Dr. Mulray would have stood at the apex of the human pyramid. Next to him would have come the bank manager, had there been one, then the postmaster, followed by the senior police officer. But Dr. Mulray cared nothing for society. His interests lay entirely among his patients and in his chess-board. The postmaster had been relegated to a back seat by his considerable family, whilst Mounted-Constable Lee desired only peace and leisure to read novels. As for the storekeeper and the baker and the butcher—well, they knew that to rebel against the leader would preface their examination in bankruptcy.
To dispute with the leader of Carie was to ask for trouble, for the leader held a mortgage over the store, the bakery and the hall. The leader owned Dr. Mulray’s house and furniture, the butcher’s shop and the majority of the none-too-numerous dwellings. In fact, save for the government buildings, the leader owned almost the whole of Carie, and partly owned several out-lying pastoral properties.
The leader was Mrs. Nelson, the owner and licensee of the only hotel.
On the morning following the last of the winter dances—to be exact, on 30th October—Mrs. Nelson, as usual, arrayed herself in a black silk dress, a white linen cap, black woollen stockings and elastic-sided boots. She was short and stout and something over seventy years old, remarkable for the beauty of her snow-white hair and the brilliance of her dark eyes. Her appearance denoted the essence of respectability, her movements bespoke eternal youth, her personality proclaimed the ever-alert business woman, never to be defeated by circumstances or daunted by advancing age.
With the vigour of a woman twenty years her junior, she stepped through the open french windows to the wide balcony which was so well protected by canvas blinds during the summer months. Half of this front balcony constituted her home. She was seldom found downstairs, and even more rarely went out. It was as though her portion of the upper veranda was her throne from which she ruled Carie.
The sun, she saw, was well above the Common, its colour a sinister deep red. The limits of the plain were drawn close by the thickening red-brown fog, and the dark line of trees to the south marking Nogga Creek was blurred and featureless.
The one street was deserted save for a flock of goats and Mr. Smith, the baker, who was carrying out sacks of bread to load into a shabby gig to which was harnessed a piebald mare. Mrs. Nelson’s dark eyes registered no expression when they became focused on the waistcoated figure of the elderly Mr. Smith, whose philosophy of life doomed him to die a poor man. It was a philosophy frowned upon by Mrs. Nelson.
She was standing with one beringed hand resting on the balcony rail when there came to her a girl dressed in the severe uniform of a maid. The girl’s complexion had been wholly ruined by the sun when she had daily ridden after her father’s cows and goats, and now it was doubtful if any expertly applied make-up could repair the unfortunate damage. She asked the question she had asked every morning over the past two years.
“Where will you be havin’ your breakfast this morning, ma’am?”
Mrs. Nelson turned to regard the girl with eyes that bored through flesh and bone into the soul of her, standing docilely placid.
“The wind is rising, Tilly, and it is going to be another nasty day, but I will take breakfast here.”
The girl withdrew, and when again she appeared she was carrying a breakfast-tray. This she placed on a small weather-beaten table before dusting and placing a chair beside it. Mrs. Nelson was dissatisfied with the position of table and chair, and Tilly was directed that they be placed nearer the end of the balcony, where the view of the Broken Hill track would be unobstructed. Tilly lifted the cover from a dish of bacon and eggs; her mistress poured milk and tea into a delicate china cup.
“What time did you get home last night?” asked Mrs. Nelson.
“It was after one o’clock, ma’am.”
“Hum! And I suppose you’re fit for nothing today?”
“I’m all right, ma’am.”
Mrs. Nelson noted the faint colour in Tilly’s face.
“If you are, you are stronger than I was at your age. Who did you dance with?”
The faint colour swiftly became a vivid blush.
“My boy, mostly, ma’am,” replied poor Tilly.
Mrs. Nelson’s attitude imperceptibly stiffened.
“Does your father know that you have a young man?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. It … it’s Harry West.”
“Oh!”
For ten seconds Mrs. Nelson gave her attention to her breakfast. Tilly waited, her nervousness increasing, as Mrs. Nelson intended it should. Tilly both feared and loved her mistress, and in this she was not alone, but she loved and feared her father more. There was nothing of the rebel in Tilly’s mental composition. Now, in softer tones, Mrs. Nelson spoke again.
“So it is Harry West, eh? Well, he’s steady enough. You could do much worse. You must bring him to see me one evening. You are a good girl, Tilly, and there are things I will have to say to him. Were Mr. and Miss Borradale at the dance?”
“Yes, ma’am. And the doctor, and Barry Elson, and oh! almost everyone, ma’am.”
“How was Barry Elson?”
“He was all right, ma’am. He could dance.”
“He couldn’t dance yesterday afternoon, anyway. Who did he dance with … mostly?”
“Mabel Storrie. He took her home. They walked home. Tom Storrie drove her in, but when the dance broke up he and the truck couldn’t be found.”
“So Barry and Mabel have made up their quarrel?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”
“You only think so!” sharply exclaimed the old woman.
“Well, ma’am, Barry Elson was very attentive to Mabel all last evening, but she seemed to be keeping back. I don’t blame her. Barry had no right to go and get drunk yesterday afternoon. I … I don’t think I’d forgive Harry in a hurry if he went and got drunk just because I gave him a bit of my mind.”
“A wise woman never gives bits of her mind to a man before she’s married to him,” Mrs. Nelson remarked severely. “And what happened to young Tom Storrie and the