Chapter V The Home-Coming
Weary, a little dazed, the three travellers stood up, collecting rugs and wraps, and moved to the rail, watching the bustle of disembarkation. Most of the township of Cuninghame seemed to have come to meet the boat; the wharf was crowded, fishermen and labourers mingling with gaily-dressed visitors—boys in flannels, and girls in pretty frocks. Across the street from the wharf, light streamed from the open doors of a brightly-lit store, throwing everything else into greater darkness.
Tom Macleod leaned forward, scanning the throng intently.
“I wish I could see my worthy friend, Mr. Smith,” he muttered.
“Who’s Mr. Smith, Daddy?”
“Mr. Smith is the proud owner of a two-hoss shay he calls an express-wagon: and I hired him to meet us and drive us home, my son,” Tom answered. “Thank goodness, there he is!” as a short, thick-set man came into view in the shifting crowd. “Hi! Smith! Stay here, Aileen: I’ll go and get the luggage ashore.” He disappeared, and they heard his voice again urgently hailing Mr. Smith, who strolled to and fro on the wharf, apparently enjoying the evening, but making no effort to find his temporary employer. Finally, a more insistent call secured his attention, and they lost sight of him.
A long and dreary wait ensued. The decks had emptied; and the steamer lights were being turned out. A keen wind blew from the water: Aileen wrapped Garth in a rug, and they crouched together on a seat, too tired even to talk. The people on the wharf went home, or clustered in groups near the store, gossiping. From time to time they caught sight of Tom and Mr. Smith, crossing and re-crossing towards the street, laden with boxes and trunks. Garth was nearly asleep when at length his father appeared.
“You poor souls!” Tom uttered. “I’m awfully sorry to have kept you such a time, Aileen. But we couldn’t get a soul to help us, and Mr. Smith isn’t what you’d call a swift mover. Asleep, sonnie? Come on—we’ll soon be home.”
Garth got to his feet stiffly, and stood, shivering, while his father and mother gathered up the rugs. Then they crossed to the wharf over a narrow gangway. In the street waited Mr. Smith, in a curious vehicle like a single-seated buggy with a very long tail, which tail was piled high with their luggage. The seat was very high, and looked—and was—exceedingly uncomfortable. Two impatient horses were making attempts to start, and Mr. Smith was repressing their energy.
“G’d evenin’,” he said. “Back there, Blossom. You’re a long way off your paddock yet. Take care how you get up, Mrs. Macleod; the step’s a bit high. Afraid the kid’ll have to sit on your knee. Bit of a squash, ain’t it?”
They settled themselves somehow; the high seat caused Aileen’s feet to dangle uncomfortably until Mr. Smith obligingly produced a sack of potatoes which acted as a footstool and prevented her slipping down. Tom took Garth on his knee, and muffled him in a rug. His head went back thankfully upon his father’s shoulder. Mr. Smith clicked encouragingly to the horses, and they trotted up the street, leaving the brightly-lit store behind them. On one side were dim houses, and on the other, behind a low stone wall, the lake glimmered, and the water splashed on the shingle.
They turned inland presently, along a track that was hardly visible to the untrained eyes of the city people, though Mr. Smith and the horses followed it unerringly. It wound like a snake among the dim shapes of gum trees. Soon they were beyond the outlying houses of the township, and only an occasional lit window showed the existence of any inhabitants of this lonely region. Even these disappeared at last, and they drove into what seemed utter blackness.
Afterwards, Aileen Macleod was amazed to find that her new home was only three miles from the township. On that first night, twisting and turning on the dark bush track, with her senses numbed by weariness and homesickness, it was an interminable drive. Garth fell asleep, but the bumping of the express wagon over unseen obstacles awoke him constantly, and he whimpered a little—too tired to be a man, in spite of his seven years.
“Buck up, ol’ son,” said Mr. Smith. “We’re just about there.”
They stopped at a white-painted gate, only half visible to the strangers. Tom got down and fumbled with unaccustomed fastenings, while the horses fidgeted at the delay, and Aileen tried hard not to be nervous. At length it was open, and then another pause ensued while it was shut—an operation even more difficult than the opening. Tom swung himself up into the wagon again, with a muttered apology for his slowness.
“There ain’t a decent gate on ol’ Gordon’s place,” Mr. Smith said. “You’ll have to let your boy come back with me to open it—I’d never hold these brutes once they got their heads pointed for home.”
They were trotting through a paddock, where, apparently, no track existed. Bump—bump—bump, they went, over hollow and rise, stick and tussock. The horses swerved and twisted among the grey tree-shapes. Once they shied so violently that Tom had to clutch Aileen to save himself from being thrown out. Something got up with a snort and lumbered off into the darkness.
“A bloomin’ cow!” observed Mr. Smith.
“Do cows always lie down on the track at night?” Aileen asked.
“Cert’nly,” said Mr. Smith, in some surprise. “The things what don’t come here at night, gen’lly-as-a-rule, is horses and buggies!”
A new chill crept over her. The stupid incident seemed to sum up her position. The cow was at home, and she, most emphatically, was not. Would it ever be home to her?
A faint light showed through the trees ahead, and presently they were skirting a rough garden fence, as Mr. Smith announced his intention of taking them round to the back. He pulled up, with a great grinding of brakes, and shouted “Coo-ee!” loudly. Across the yard a door opened, and a boy’s squat figure showed against the light.
“There’s your man,” said Mr. Smith, with something resembling a chuckle. “Come over ’ere, ’Orace, and lend a hand with these things.”
The boy moved slowly, hesitatingly, forward. Tom got down, and held out his hands to Garth.
“Come on, sonnie. Be careful, Aileen: the step is high.”
He lifted Garth down, and turned to help his wife. She was numbed from her cramped position, and stumbled against him, glad of his arm, for a moment.
“I’m all right, Tom,” she said then. “Give me something to carry in.”
“You can take the rugs,” he said, “and Garth. Don’t come out again, dear; just look round the rooms to get the hang of the place. I’ll hurry the things in as quickly as I can, and come to help you.”
Mother and little son stumbled across the uneven yard, guided by the light from the door. The squat boy brushed against them, evidently afraid. They reached a narrow veranda, across which the light streamed. It came from a kitchen: such a kitchen as Aileen had never seen. She looked into it half-timidly.
It was not a very large room, and it was indescribably filthy. A fire, which seemed the only clean thing, blazed in a rusty-looking stove, which had not known blacklead since its earliest infancy. On the hearth, logs, buckets and dirty boots mingled: a very black kettle and some evil-looking saucepans stood on the stove-top and the hobs. The floor was covered with tattered linoleum, with bare spaces here and there where the ancient covering had worn away, or still lingered in ragged strands. There was a sink in one corner; a large table, the surface of which shone with blackened grease, a dresser, covered with a queer assortment of cracked and stained crockery. The walls had once been whitewashed, but the white had long disappeared beneath a coating of smoke and grime. A black frying-pan hung by the fire-place, with a toasting-fork that had been twisted out of fencing wire. Over all was a reek of vile tobacco smoke, mingled with the smell of dirt and closeness. It was very evidently the sitting-room of Horrors. The mantelpiece held a framed text, its gaudy flowers almost invisible under the speckled and misty glass. It said, “God Bless Our Home.”
“Mother!” said Garth, in a whisper. “Is this where we’re going to live?”
She looked down at the child’s white face, and woke from the disgust and horror that had swept over her.
“Well, it is, sonnie,” she said. “But it won’t look like this long. You wait until we all get busy at it, and you won’t know it. Anyway, we’ll forget about it to-night. Come on and explore the rest of the house.”
There was only one lamp, and she did not like to take it, since its dim beam was the only guide for the men as they tramped backwards and forwards from the wagon to the veranda. She looked about on the dresser, and found an end of candle stuck into a broken porter bottle, the sides of which were thick with grease. No matches were visible, so she held it to a blazing stick until it was alight. Then they entered their home.
There were four main rooms, with a kind of lobby at the back, off which were bathroom and storeroom. It was a simple cottage, such as you will find in the Bush in hundreds: a big living-room, and three bedrooms of varying sizes, the largest of which would have made a servant’s bedroom in the “House Beautiful”—which was, perhaps, a place that gave itself airs. Such rooms they were! The extreme filth of the kitchen had not penetrated indoors; but they were dirty enough, with dust thick in every corner, and an almost unbearable fustiness that cried eloquently for fresh air. After her first sniff of the evil atmosphere Aileen went hastily to each window, flinging them open: all save one, which, apparently, never had been opened, and declined to begin now. She struggled with it for a minute and then gave it up, glancing at her dirt-streaked hands with a little shudder of disgust.
They had sent ahead of them, by steamer, a few articles of furniture, arranging with Mr. Smith to bring them out and unpack the new beds; which stood, gaunt with their naked mattresses, looking painfully clean amid the surrounding squalor. Sheets and blankets were somewhere in the mass of luggage that even now was being flung down on the dark back veranda. The other furniture was rough and untidy, and chiefly home-made: the dressing-tables were old packing-cases draped with dingy cretonne, the washstands were shelves against the wall. Mr. Gordon had evidently been a gentleman with a turn for carpentry: there were chairs made from barrels, and bookshelves composed of old laths from fruit cases, and filled with tattered and dirty books. The walls were boarded and varnished, cobwebs forming their only decoration.
“It’s a funny house,” Garth said plaintively. “Mother, could I go to bed, do you think?”
“Mother hasn’t got a proper bed ready for you,” Aileen said. “Never mind, sonnie: I’ll fix you up without proper things for a while.”
She brought the bundle of rugs, and spread them on the smaller bed: Mr. Smith, with an admirable economy of space, had erected both in one room. Garth was fumbling wearily at his buttons, and she came to his aid quickly.
“We won’t take all your clothes off, because your pyjamas, are hiding in one of the boxes,” she told him. “But you won’t mind that, to-night.”
Garth was past minding anything. His heavy head nodded forward as she picked him up, kneeling on the dirty floor while she unlaced his boots; then she laid him gently back on the uncovered pillow. He was asleep almost as his head touched it. Very gently, she drew the rugs over him, and turned from him, shading the candle with her hand.
Tom Macleod, entering hurriedly, looked from the white face on the pillow to that of his wife, almost as white.
“My poor little girl!” he said.
A lump rose in Aileen’s throat. She choked it back with decision.
“If you begin to pity me I might cry, and there doesn’t seem time for any diversion like that,” she said, smiling bravely. “We’re all right. I’ve put Garth to bed—-the poor man was so tired I wouldn’t wait for sheets. But I would like some milk for him, Tom. Do you know if there is any?”
“There should be any amount—I think it’s kept in the store-room,” he said.
“And a saucepan?”
“Smith says he put the new pots and pans in the store-room, too—and the bread and meat and things we ordered.”
“Then we’ll all have hot milk and bread before we start unpacking,” said his wife with decision. “Would you get the lamp, Tom? I’m so tired of this illumination!” She put down the greasy bottle and looked at the candle-end with disfavour. “I’ll leave it, in case Garth wakes.”
The store-room was more hopeful, since its window consisted of wire gauze, through which the air came freely. They found milk in what seemed to Aileen enormous quantities, most of it sour; but a bucket held the fresh supply of the evening, and a huge parcel from the store revealed butter as well as bread and groceries. They found another lamp, and while Tom heated milk in a hurriedly-rinsed saucepan, Aileen spread their first meal in the dining-room, using old newspapers for a tablecloth. She woke Garth, and made him drink a cupful of milk, but he was too sleepy to eat.
“Never mind—the milk will do him good,” Tom said, watching them. “Now come and have some yourself.”
They looked at each other over the paper-spread table, and to each of them came a vision of the “House Beautiful”—was it only last night that they had been in its dainty luxury! Neither spoke of it, however. Tom poured milk into a cracked cup and gave it to her.
“Don’t be afraid. I washed the cups!” he said. “There was plenty of hot water, but nothing to dry them with—at least, nothing that you’d have cared about! So they’re damp, if clean.”
“Bless you!” said his wife. “Did you ever wash a cup before, Tom?”
“Not that I know of,” he said, laughing. “But it isn’t really difficult, if you have brains! Is the house very awful, dear?”
“Well—I’m inclined to think it’s as well I had no stronger light than my candle-end to inspect it,” she said, forcing a laugh. “It’s—well, just a bit dirty. You ordered a charwoman, didn’t you, Tom?”
“Of course I did. At least, one doesn’t order them in this part of the world: one begs them humbly. I arranged with a plump lady named O’Brien, and Smith was to bring her out as often as was necessary. But she sent him a message that she had a lady friend from Bairnsdale staying with her, and she wasn’t going. There doesn’t seem to be any one else; so, since Gordon left, the house has been at the tender mercy of Horrors, not that I think he gets much beyond the kitchen. The kitchen is eloquent of him.”
“It is, indeed,” said Aileen, with a shudder. “Where is he now?”
“Gone to open the gate for Smith. I told him to come back quickly, but I don’t fancy he’s strong on being quick. I want him to help me carry things into the lobby—it’s the best place to unpack. You know where to put your hands on the things we need to-night, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes—bedclothes and sleeping things are all together in the black trunk, and so are our old clothes. They’re all handy. But I can’t remember where I packed soap and towels.”
“They’ll turn up,” said Tom cheerfully, “especially if you don’t worry about them. All you have to think of to-night is bed, even if you go there grubby! I’m afraid you’ll have a very hard day to-morrow, my girl.”
“It doesn’t seem as if anything could be hard if I only had a sleep first,” she said. “Have more hot milk, Tom.”
Tom drained the saucepan.
“I never knew what a really good thing milk was,” he said. “Let’s live on it largely: it’s cheap, and easy to cook! I feel pounds better.”
“Kin I go ter bed?” said a voice at the door.
It was Horrors: a curious, squat boy of fifteen, with a very red face in which small eyes looked dully at the world; with a mop of extremely tight black curls, and an expression of stupidity that proved to be quite genuine. His clothes, tightly buttoned, were of blue dungaree, and had a well-filled look which, later, they found to be due to a habit of wearing other complete suits underneath the top layer, as though prepared at any minute to leave home suddenly. He stood at the door opening from the lobby and repeated his question heavily.
“Kin I go ter bed?”
“You can’t, just yet,” Tom said. “I want you to help me carry in those boxes.”
“Awright,” said Horrors sadly.
“Where do you sleep?” Aileen asked nim, studying her new henchman gravely.
“In me room.”
“But where? Not in the house?” with a swift fear.
“Over there.” He jerked his head towards the outer world. It was characteristic of Horrors that he never used two words where one would do.
“There’s a buggy-shed, with a lean-to attached that forms Horrors’ sleeping-bower,” Tom told his wife. “I told him to clean it out before we came.”
“Did,” said Horrors.
“H’m,” said Tom. “Pity you didn’t clean the kitchen, too. Well, we’ll get in these boxes.”
They carried them in, placing them so that they could be conveniently unpacked. Aileen dragged out bedclothes and garments and made the bed by the light of the candle-end, now nearly exhausted. She was not used to the task: it would not have been considered a well-made bed. But it looked rather like heaven to her when it was finished.
Tom came in, to find her rooting wearily in a trunk.
“I wish I could have helped you,” he said anxiously. “What are you looking for, now?”
“Soap,” she said, her lip quivering in spite of herself. The hunt for soap had suddenly assumed enormous proportions—she had a vague idea that, if necessary, she must go on searching for it all night.
“Oh, you poor old tired thing!” her husband said. “There’s an old bit of yellow in the bathroom, and here’s a spare pillow-case—it will make a beautiful towel. I’ve got hot water in the basin—it was the dirtiest basin you ever saw, by the way. Come along.” He lifted her to her feet.
They washed their hands and faces together in the basin, like children, and dried them on the pillow-case. The candle-end had guttered out when Aileen went back to her room, and she undressed by a faint gleam of moonlight that filtered in through the uncurtained window. The smell of the yellow soap was her last waking memory on her first night in the new home.