wouldn’t make a display. And so with the stutter of the steam engine, out into the current. No great sea journey, but in Tim’s mind the crossing of water always significant.
Out there today Daley still with him. No apparent ghosts out here on the bright river, but Daley had the lines for the season of Albert’s tragedy:
O dead men, long-outthrust
From light and life and song—
O kinsmen in the dust …
The sunk pylons for the new Macleay bridge, which would make the punt unnecessary by the start of winter, rose from the green river like columns from a sunk civilisation.
Some time later that day, he was delivering in Rudder Street, East Kempsey, when he saw a covered hawker’s wagon swaying up the road out of the Dock Flat swamp. One of the Habashes. He reined Pee Dee in to the side and got down from the dray. He could see bloody Bandy at the reins of his green wagon all right. Coming back to town after palavering the poor women of Pola Creek.
A bracing anger rose in Tim at the sight of that failed Punjabi jockey. He walked out and waited in the middle of the road. He raised his arms and couldn’t help calling out, “Get round me if you can, you little ruffian!”
Bandy Habash waved joyously at this prospect of reunion. He drew up, and Tim walked to the side of the green wagon with its tin canopy and stared up at him.
“I wanted to know … What in the bloody hell are you doing telling these lies about me?”
Bandy put on a wonderful, melodramatic frown.
“This stuff about Albert is all rubbish and flummery, and it makes me ashamed. What in God’s name were you doing going to Ernie bloody Malcolm?”
“Mr. Shea, after our adventure I was simply full of admiration …”
“What bloody for? Might as well admire a man for making the tea or emptying a jerry. You’ve made a bloody fool of me!”
Tim kicked one of the wheels of the hawker’s wagon.
“My dear old chap, may I get down and talk to you?”
“What do you bloody well think? I’m looking for an explanation.”
Bandy worked himself trimly out of his seat and fell gracefully to the road. Wholly and neatly in front of Tim.
“I watched you in your movements, Mr. Shea. In all respects I thought they were the movements of a hero.”
“I was not anything in my movements. I hung back.
You
were the person who fixed his horse!”
“I was well-educated in the English language, Mr. Shea. I have read Scott, Dickens and Thackeray, in all of whom such sentiments as I expressed to Mr. Malcolm are common.”
“But I ask you! Why land me, a poor bloody grocer, with this stuff?”
Bandy was abashed. Beyond the theatrical manners, a true bewilderment could be seen. He lowered his head and shook it.
“I was alarmed by what I saw on approaching the place of the accident, Mr. Shea. I would have found it hard to approach such horrifying affairs. Yet I witnessed the heroism of your movements,sir, the decisiveness you showed. This alone made it possible for me to draw near.”
“Bugger it! You were the one who did the real work.”
“Oh, Mr. Tim, my dear chap. We both behaved well to be honest, though I yield first place to you. But do you think Mr. Malcolm would want to write to the Royal Humane Society about a Punjabi hawker? About the courage of a Muslim? To be the first amongst the brave in the Valley of the Macleay? The world would not be interested in my bravery. They want true British grit.”
“Well, Mr. Bandy, I’m an Irishman.”
“Same thing in my book. They are willing to see British grit in your face, you see. We were brave together, Mr. Shea, in the face of the tragedy. But my part could not be pushed forward, so I was more than happy to push forward your part. I know about these things. I don’t complain. But I do know that if you are honoured as you deserve, I am partially honoured too. In your shadow, as they say, old chap.”
Tim could do little more at first than wave his head from side to side. “What sort of plan is
Out there today Daley still with him. No apparent ghosts out here on the bright river, but Daley had the lines for the season of Albert’s tragedy:
O dead men, long-outthrust
From light and life and song—
O kinsmen in the dust …
The sunk pylons for the new Macleay bridge, which would make the punt unnecessary by the start of winter, rose from the green river like columns from a sunk civilisation.
Some time later that day, he was delivering in Rudder Street, East Kempsey, when he saw a covered hawker’s wagon swaying up the road out of the Dock Flat swamp. One of the Habashes. He reined Pee Dee in to the side and got down from the dray. He could see bloody Bandy at the reins of his green wagon all right. Coming back to town after palavering the poor women of Pola Creek.
A bracing anger rose in Tim at the sight of that failed Punjabi jockey. He walked out and waited in the middle of the road. He raised his arms and couldn’t help calling out, “Get round me if you can, you little ruffian!”
Bandy Habash waved joyously at this prospect of reunion. He drew up, and Tim walked to the side of the green wagon with its tin canopy and stared up at him.
“I wanted to know … What in the bloody hell are you doing telling these lies about me?”
Bandy put on a wonderful, melodramatic frown.
“This stuff about Albert is all rubbish and flummery, and it makes me ashamed. What in God’s name were you doing going to Ernie bloody Malcolm?”
“Mr. Shea, after our adventure I was simply full of admiration …”
“What bloody for? Might as well admire a man for making the tea or emptying a jerry. You’ve made a bloody fool of me!”
Tim kicked one of the wheels of the hawker’s wagon.
“My dear old chap, may I get down and talk to you?”
“What do you bloody well think? I’m looking for an explanation.”
Bandy worked himself trimly out of his seat and fell gracefully to the road. Wholly and neatly in front of Tim.
“I watched you in your movements, Mr. Shea. In all respects I thought they were the movements of a hero.”
“I was not anything in my movements. I hung back.
You
were the person who fixed his horse!”
“I was well-educated in the English language, Mr. Shea. I have read Scott, Dickens and Thackeray, in all of whom such sentiments as I expressed to Mr. Malcolm are common.”
“But I ask you! Why land me, a poor bloody grocer, with this stuff?”
Bandy was abashed. Beyond the theatrical manners, a true bewilderment could be seen. He lowered his head and shook it.
“I was alarmed by what I saw on approaching the place of the accident, Mr. Shea. I would have found it hard to approach such horrifying affairs. Yet I witnessed the heroism of your movements,sir, the decisiveness you showed. This alone made it possible for me to draw near.”
“Bugger it! You were the one who did the real work.”
“Oh, Mr. Tim, my dear chap. We both behaved well to be honest, though I yield first place to you. But do you think Mr. Malcolm would want to write to the Royal Humane Society about a Punjabi hawker? About the courage of a Muslim? To be the first amongst the brave in the Valley of the Macleay? The world would not be interested in my bravery. They want true British grit.”
“Well, Mr. Bandy, I’m an Irishman.”
“Same thing in my book. They are willing to see British grit in your face, you see. We were brave together, Mr. Shea, in the face of the tragedy. But my part could not be pushed forward, so I was more than happy to push forward your part. I know about these things. I don’t complain. But I do know that if you are honoured as you deserve, I am partially honoured too. In your shadow, as they say, old chap.”
Tim could do little more at first than wave his head from side to side. “What sort of plan is
Similar Books
