‘Possum

Chapter VII The Riding of Jane

A week went by—so swiftly that each day slipped away on wings, and yet, when they looked back, it seemed that years had passed since the grey morning when they left the “House Beautiful.” It was a week of ceaseless hard work. At the end of it they looked at each other, toil-worn, but cheerful: in their hearts a queer pride in the new home that the “House Beautiful,” with all its charm, had never succeeded in waking. There, it had been so easy to take things for granted. But here, only their own hands and their own brains counted; and they had used each to the full.

It had not been an easy week. The only really easy thing, Torn said, was to make mistakes; and of those, they had made enough and to spare. But they very rarely made the same mistake twice.

Now, within and without, the little bush home was spick-and-span. Everything had been scrubbed and re-scrubbed. Light streamed into it from wide-open doors and through brightly-polished windows. The packing-case furniture swaggered in new petticoats of gay colours. From the barrel-chairs the dingy coverings had been ruthlessly stripped, and they, too, rejoiced in fresh clothing. Dainty belongings were scattered here and there: Aileen’s piano, having survived the long journey by steamer and bullock-dray, stood in a corner of the sitting-room; and there were books and pictures and fresh flowers. They felt that they had reached a high level of success when Garth sniffed approvingly, and remarked, “This house is beginning to smell like you, Mother!”

The kitchen had suffered a transformation. With the pained assistance of Horrors, it had been emptied and scraped and cleansed. Unceasing warfare had fallen upon the horrified tribe of cockroaches, and now not one was to be seen, either by night or day. No scrubbing would remove the marks of ancient filth from the walls, and in desperation, Tom had at length given them two coats of whitewash, and had painted the tin sink with white enamel. At the conclusion of the job it was hard to say whether more whitewash had fallen on the walls or the artist; but the general effect was beautiful.

The colonial oven had been so long a stranger to blacklead that the first two coats had merely made it look as if suffering from an attack of black measles: at which a streak of obstinacy in Tom’s soul developed strongly, and he brushed it daily, until, at length, it shone with an ebony lustre most uplifting to behold. They had routed from its interior a large collection of socks, in the last stage of decay—the property of Horrors, who had a pleasing habit of drying wet and dirty garments on the warm oven shelves. The gloom which had been settling more and more profoundly on Horrors since their arrival deepened perceptibly when he discovered that this artless practice must in future be denied him; and when, in addition, he was set to scrub the oven with washing-soda and boiling water, despair seized upon him.

“He’s got to the depths,” Tom said, laughing. “Nothing can make him feel worse now. When I told him that in future he’d have to wipe his boots before coming in, he only uttered a hollow grunt. I think speech was beyond him!”

“He told me everything was a fair cow!” remarked Garth.

“That’s not an expression you need pick up,” was his father’s comment.

“I didn’t pick it up—I was only telling you what Horrors said,” Garth rejoined, somewhat aggrieved. “And I asked him what was, and he said, ‘Soap, an’ scrubbin’, an’ all that rot!’ He says Mr. Gordon never bothered him about things like that and he wishes he was back.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Tom. “Under Gordon Horrors seems to have done little except wax fat!”

“He isn’t nearly as fat as he looks,” Garth said. “He wears all the clothes he’s got at once. He’s got three suits on now, and lots of other things as well.”

“Good gracious!”. said Aileen. “But why?”

“I asked him, and he said ’cause then he knew where they were.”

“Which nobody can deny,” said Tom. “Now we understand why Horrors isn’t what you might term lissom. Do you think you could speak to him like a mother, Aileen?”

“It’s almost the only thing I don’t feel like when I look at Horrors,” she said. “No—I think it would come better from you. Be brave.”

“We pay for his clothes, so I suppose we have a right to expect that he doesn’t wear them out in batches,” remarked Tom. “Did you gather whether he ever takes any of them off, Garth?”

“Only the top layer, if he gets very wet,” Garth said. “But he said he fell into the creek one day before we came, and got soaked right through.”

“He must have hated that!”

“Yes, he did. He said, ‘Why, me skin was wet!’—just as if it hurt him. So he had to take them all off and put them in the oven, and he went to bed till they were dry.”

“Well, you have got more interesting information out of Horrors than I should have believed possible,” said Tom. “He never does more than grunt when I speak to him.”

“He only speaks in grunts, any time,” said Garth. “Only sometimes, if you listen hard, his grunts seem to mean something.”

“You fill me with hope—I’ll listen harder in future,” said Aileen, laughing. “Sonnie, are my scones done?”

They were sitting in what Garth insisted on calling “the new kitchen”; Aileen darning socks swiftly, while Garth and his father sat on the table—which, having refused to look clean under any scrubbing, was now covered with white oilcloth. Preparations for afternoon tea were upon it, and a pleasant smell of baking filled the air.

Garth hopped down eagerly, and peeped through the glass door of the oven.

“They’ve risen ever so, and they’re turning a lovely brown,” he announced. “I’m so hungry, Mother—don’t you think they’re done?”

“Very nearly, I think,” said his mother, coming to join the inspection, while Tom lent an inquiring eye over their shoulders. “They do look pretty good, don’t they? Cooking is so exciting; I don’t feel as if I would ever learn to feel calm while I turned out a pudding!”

“If you go on as well as you have begun you’ll soon cease to worry,” said Tom, preparing to make tea.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Think of the pie the other day!”

They all laughed. The pie had certainly been rather peculiar. No one knew quite what had happened to it, but after sampling it, the family had fallen back on bread and jam. The pie had gone to Horrors, who had eaten it all at a sitting, with the nearest approach to happiness they had yet seen in him; and had afterwards become, as might have been expected, extremely unwell, his complexion for the rest of the day being a delicate green.

“The pie was an accident, but there’s nothing accidental about those scones,” said Tom, as the scones, light and puffy, emerged from the oven. “Tea is ready, and I’m hungry enough to eat the lot. Sick boys, of course, aren’t allowed more than one, are they?”

Garth uttered a howl of protest.

“I’m not sick!”

He did not look sick now. Even a week of Gippsland air had put colour into his cheeks and brushed away the tired lines from his eyes. He was no longer a city boy. No snow-white collar encircled his neck; his good suits were packed away, and he lived in blue jerseys and extremely brief knickerbockers, beneath which his brown knees were scratched and bruised. From daylight until dark he was in the open air, exploring the country that was so new and so delightful. There were still traces of delicacy from his illness; but already, watching the light in his eyes and the spring in his step, the father and mother knew that the great sacrifice had been worth while.

“He ate two of my tarts yesterday; and as no ill effects followed I’m beginning to think that nothing could hurt him,” Aileen said. “It’s difficult to think that only a fortnight ago we were tempting him with delicate strips of toast!”

“They wouldn’t be much good to me now,” Garth uttered, accepting a large buttered scone with thankfulness. “This is the hungriest place I ever was in: and your scones are scrummy, Mother!”

“Hear, hear!” said Tom, and took another.

“You’re such satisfactory people to cook for,” Aileen said, “you like everything that is at all possible, and when it isn’t—like the pie—you make a beautiful joke of it.”

“Well, it was a beautiful joke—you ask Horrors!” said Tom, chuckling.

“Poor Horrors! I ought to have given him extra wages, I think, and instead all I gave him was Epsom salts!”

“He needed them more than wages, I should say,” Tom said. “No money would have paid for that pain of Horrors’. Well, you didn’t ask him to eat the whole of that pie, so I don’t think you need worry. More milk, Garth?”

“Please,” said Garth, surrendering a large empty mug. “Daddy, I’ve got the old pony up!”

“Eh?” said his father, starting. “How did you catch her?”

“I’ve caught her lots of times,” said his son, slightly embarrassed. “She isn’t any trouble if you take her a milk-thistle. So to-day I took a halter with me, only I didn’t know how to put it on, so I just tied it round her neck and led her up. It’s funny how difficult a halter is when it’s in your hand—it’s all twists and knots.”

“H’m,” said Tom. “Well, you’d better go and get on her if you want to.”

“Oh, Tom——!” began Aileen; and then stopped. This was Tom’s business.

Garth had flushed, and his eyes were very bright.

“Truly?”

“Certainly—if you like.”

“I—I thought you meant to teach me,” the boy said.

“Oh, there’s not much teaching in getting on a pony,” said his father unconcernedly. “You must find out some things for yourself. Take her into the little calf paddock—she can’t get away from you there. Of course, I’ll come and lift you up, if you’d rather.”

“No, thanks,” said Garth, his head well up. “I’ve finished—can I go, Mother?” She nodded, and he clattered out of the kitchen. The gate of the yard slammed behind him.

“Tom, is it safe?”

“Was I a brute?” he asked, and smiled at her. “I do want the little beggar to be independent—and he can’t hurt himself on that old mare, in a little paddock. He’ll manage all right, and be twice the boy for it.”

“Come into the store-room—we can see him from the window,” said Garth’s mother. She caught Tom’s hand, and they hurried into the store-room.

The window looked out upon a tiny paddock where the grass was green and thick, since its calf inhabitants had long been turned out into a wider run. Garth was leading old Jane, the brown pony, through the gate. Jane, it was evident, had no wish to be led; she hung back obstinately, until the long grass caught her eye. Then she became docile, and went through meekly, beginning to eat at once. Garth shut the gate, and, returning to his steed, looked at her. He wished he could remember how it was that people got on a horse. Finally he made a little run and sprang awkwardly in the direction where he would be.

There was never any sudden movement about Jane. Whether she stepped or swerved aside would have been difficult to say, for it was done unobtrusively; but the fact remained that when Garth was at the top of his spring, she was no longer there, but a yard or two away, eating peacefully. Garth came down on all fours in the grass, and arose, brushing his knees, his colour somewhat heightened. No four-footed beast had ever looked more innocent than Jane.

He twisted the halter round his wrist for his next attempt and clawed wildly at her withers. Jane gave a slow wriggle, and Garth found himself kneeling beside her, caressing his nose, which had bumped rather heavily against her plump side.

“Old beast—you did it on purpose!” they heard him say. He looked around him for means of help.

An old bucket in the corner caught his eye, and he went for it, placing it beside the unruly Jane, who still ate with a peaceful determination not to be worried by small boys. The bucket was rusty and ancient, but Garth was not in the mood to be delayed by trifles. He up-ended it, and hopped up nimbly, catching at the pony’s mane.

Jane walked on sleepily, as if looking for another bite of grass. For a moment Garth struggled to hold her back; then the bucket gave way under his boots and he fell through the bottom, standing imprisoned in the rusty tin. His grasp on the halter brought Jane’s head round, and they stood looking at each other—the small boy red-faced and angry, the pony with an air of meek surprise.

Tom burst into a fit of silent laughter, and Aileen, after a struggle, joined him.

“Tom, do you think he can manage it?” she asked.

“If he does, he’s going to beat that pony permanently,” said his father. “Let’s see what his next move will be.”

Garth’s next move was to extricate himself from the bucket. It smote Aileen’s heart to see long, red scratches on his legs, as they emerged—she sought in her memory for the correct treatment of blood-poisoning. The matter did not worry Garth. He stared for a moment at Jane, who cropped the grass placidly. Then he hauled her to the fence, and tied her to a post, bringing her as close to the rails as she would permit. Jane stood meekly until the boy inserted his small person between her and the fence, and mounted the second rail.

“He’ll do it now,” Aileen breathed.

Jane knew better. Just as he leaned towards her she slued round gently, so that she faced him again. Her nose drooped towards the grass so far as the restraining halter would allow. Garth poised on one foot for a moment; then, losing his balance, dropped off into the grass, his face redder than ever. It is regrettable to record that at this point he administered a hearty kick to Jane, who looked piously surprised, but otherwise took no notice.

“Well!” said Garth. “Of all the old pigs!”

He made a sudden angry rush at the pony, and was on her back before she realized it. Unfortunately he went a little too far. For a moment he lay across her, kicking and clawing to get his balance; then he shot down, head foremost, and again found himself in the grass. Jane stepped carefully away from him, and continued to eat.

“Shocking bad luck!” was Tom’s comment. “What next?”

Garth pondered. That he was angrier than they had ever seen him was clear; but there was a set look about his lips that told of determination not to give in. At this point Horrors sauntered up from the milking-yard and put down his bucket joyfully.

“‘Llo!” he said. “Give yer a laig up?”

“Hang that boy!” muttered Tom.

“No thanks,” they heard Garth’s clear little voice. “I want to get up myself.”

“Oh, good kid!” Tom’s whisper was joyful.

Garth thought deeply, his eye wandering round the little paddock. Once more interrupting Jane’s meal, he dragged her to a corner, and tied her so that the fence would prevent her sidling away. Then he stepped back, took a little run, and landed on her back. There was a moment’s struggle, bare legs waving in the air, while Jane hugged the fence as closely as possible in the hope of preventing him from getting his foot down on the off side. Unluckily for Jane, her rotund sides were against this plan. Garth struggled to a sitting position triumphantly, and uttered a whoop. It was echoed—silently—by his parents.

“Bless him, the darling!” breathed Aileen, after the fashion of mothers. “Come on, Tom—let’s go and encourage him!”

“Wait a minute,” said her husband, restraining her. “I want to see what will happen when he realizes he’s tied up.”

Garth was just realizing it; and so was Jane. He leaned forward, and, seizing the rope, tried to haul himself and his steed towards the post, that he might untie her; and might as well have tried to haul a mountain down into a plain. Jane stood passively, with no faintest indication of having noticed that any one was on her back. Garth struggled until he was scarlet, and at length gave it up.

A bright thought struck him. It might be dangerous and rash to be on a pony’s back without even a halter, but that was better than being ignominiously tied to a post. Even if she wanted to run away, she could not, in so small a paddock, run far; and then, Jane had not shown any inclination to run at all. So he leaned forward again, managed to reach the knot of the halter on her neck, and began to untie it.

Jane moved forward gently—which Garth welcomed, since it allowed the rope to fall slack, and eased the tension on the knot. It seemed that she knew when she was beaten. Her head drooped lower and lower: sleep apparently stole over her. Garth went further and further forward, as her neck declined, his fingers busy with the knot.

There was the slightest upward movement of Jane’s hind-quarters. It could hardly have been said that she kicked up; but there certainly was an elevation, and, slight as it was, it was sufficient for Garth. He was already precariously balanced, and he slid over her head, and landed on his back turning a neat somersault. Jane looked at him sadly.

“You—you old cow!” they heard him splutter.

He gathered himself up, a vision of red fury. To kick Jane was his first task, to untie the halter from the fence his second. Then he flung himself at her, and for once Jane was not ready. She backed and sidled, but her activities came a thought too late. Garth was already astride of her, gripping her with his legs, more in blind anger than in intention. He brought the end of the halter down on her neck with a resounding thwack.

“Get on, you old pig!” he shouted

Jane moved on slowly. This small insistent person on her back was no longer to be denied. The anger lingered in Garth’s face for a moment; then, as he found he was actually riding—riding—it died out, and a wide, happy smile took is place. It was a vision of ecstatic triumph that waved gaily to his father and mother as they appeared at the back gate.

“Daddy—I can ride!”

He drummed his heels against Jane’s sides and the pony, surprised and indignant, broke into a jog. Garth bumped happily for a little, not knowing that his heels were still assaulting Jane. Then the jog merged to a shambling trot, and he slipped first to one side, then to the other, went further, clutched at her mane to regain his balance, and, missing it, descended abruptly to the grass. Jane instantly stopped, and began to eat.

Garth picked himself up with a wry face. His father and mother were by the fence.

“Isn’t she an old pig!” he said, his eyes still dancing. “I don’t care—I did ride her right round the paddock, anyhow, didn’t I, Dad? Glory, my wrist hurts!”

“Let’s see it,” his father said quickly.

Garth held up a wrist for inspection, catching his breath as he did so, unable to restrain himself from wincing. It was queerly twisted. Tom gave a short whistle.

“Oh, you poor little kid!” he said. “You’ve put it out, I believe!”

Aileen, white-faced, was through the gate, her arm round Garth’s shoulders.

“Tom! What will we do?”

“There’s a doctor staying at the hotel, I know,” Tom said quickly. “I’m afraid to tackle it myself—I don’t know enough about it. Don’t worry old man, we’ll have you right in no time. Get ready, Aileen, and put his arm in a sling. I’ll run the horses up.”

He flung himself on to the amazed Jane, who went out of the gate and across the paddock with more haste than she considered either pleasant or proper. Aileen caught sight of Horrors’ gaping face.

“Get the buggy out—quickly!” she told him. “And have the harness ready.” She watched him go shambling towards the harness-room before she turned to take Garth indoors.

“Does it hurt you much, little son?”

“A bit,” said Garth briefly, with shut lips. “What is ‘put it out,’ Mother?”

“Oh, twisted a little,” she told him. “A doctor will make it all right very quickly; only it will hurt you until we get to him.” She looked at the set little face. “Garth dear—don’t try not to cry, if it is very bad.”

“I would be awful ’shamed if I howled,” said Garth steadily. “And Dad would think I was a coward. Dad wouldn’t howl.”

“Dad is grown-up, and you are only seven,” Aileen said. “He wouldn’t expect you to be able to stand as much as he can. He will understand, if it’s a bit too much for you, dear.”

“I’d hate to howl,” said Garth. “And howling wouldn’t make it better.”

“Let me see if this will ease it,” she said, her own eyes full of tears. She folded a silk muffler into a sling, and raised his arm, very gently. Even under the soft mother-hands the child turned white.

“Oh, my little son, I wish I had it!” she said, under her breath.

“I’m... jolly glad you haven’t,” panted Garth. His mother put him into a chair, watching him narrowly, lest he should be faint.

“Sure you’re all right, sonnie?”

“I’m—pretty right,” he said. “You’ll come, Mother, won’t you?”

“Of course I’m coming.” She pinned on her hat quickly, throwing her apron into a corner. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Running, she found Tom’s flask, and mixed some weak brandy and water in it, slipping it into her pocket. Then there was nothing to be done until a “Coo-ee!” told them that the buggy was ready.

Tom lifted the boy very tenderly to the seat, and they drove out, trying vainly to avoid jolting on the rough track. Garth steadied the injured arm with his free hand, and tightened his lips, uttering no sound; but at an especially severe bump he gave a little sigh, and, half-turning, put his face against his mother’s shoulder. She put hers down to him, murmuring broken words.

“I wish you’d howl, or something, old son,” said Tom miserably. A muffled “Won’t!” came from the hidden face. They drove on slowly bumping and jolting.

“Three miles of it!” Aileen thought, in despair.

“He can’t stand it!” She pressed the little face closer to her.

They turned out of the paddock and down the lane, winding in and out among the trees. Presently Tom uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“Cattle! What beastly luck!”

Ahead, a small mob of half-grown calves blocked the narrow lane. A tall man on a brown cob came riding some distance behind them. The calves were feeding lazily, and took very little notice of Tom’s angry shouts; nor did their driver hurry himself at first. Presently, however, he seemed to awaken to the fact that his property was in the way, and trotted lazily forward.

“I wish to goodness you’d clear your confounded cattle off this track!” Tom sang out wrathfully.

“One’d think you was in a hurry,” said the tall man easily. “Ain’t I got as much right to the road as yous?” Then his face changed as he looked at Aileen. “Beg pardon,” he said, and they saw that he was their acquaintance of the steamer. “I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Macleod. Is the kid hurt?”

“Dislocated wrist,” was Tom’s brief answer. “Do you happen to know if the doctor is still at the hotel?”

“I know he’s not,” was the unexpected answer; and Aileen felt Garth shiver. “Went away by this morning’s boat.”

“And there is no other doctor?” Tom’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

“Not nearer than Bairnsdale.” The man swung himself to the ground, leaving the reins trailing over the brown cob’s head. “Can I have a look, son?”

Aileen slipped away the sling, and Garth held out his wrist mutely.

“H’m,” said the man. “Rotten luck, eh, son? Fell down an’ trod on it, did you? Think you can trust me to put it right?”

“Oh! can you?” The words came from Aileen in a gasp.

“I’d like a bob for every one I’ve done,” said the new-comer. “Most chaps in the Bush know a bit o’ surgery.” He nodded to Tom. “Hold him steady.”

He took the little wrist in weatherbeateh hands that were wonderfully gentle. “It won’t take not half a second, son—just set your teeth.”

There was a moment’s quick manipulation, while Aileen turned sick: a smothered gasp from Garth, and then a sharp click.

“There!” said the tall man, “all over; and you stood it like a brick, old man. Oh, poor kid—hold him, missus!” For Garth had suddenly grown limp and helpless in her arms.

“On’y fainted—can’t blame him, neither,” their new friend said. “Give him to me, missus, an’ I’ll lay him flat.”

Garth opened his eyes some minutes later to find himself staring at the sky, with uncomfortable spears of grass tickling the back of his neck. His wrist was tightly bandaged, and there was an extremely unpleasant taste of brandy in his mouth. He felt queer, and very lazy; even though the spears of grass were very uncomfortable, it was far too much trouble to move. Then he saw his mother’s face, white and strained as he had learned to know it during his illness, and he smiled at her weakly.

“Hallo, Mother!”

“Dear little son!” she whispered, and a tear fell on his face.

“Had a stiff time, didn’t y’, ol’ chap?” said the tall man, smiling down from a height which seemed to Garth about sixty feet in the air. “Well, you’re a man, anyway. I tell you, I’ve pulled joints in for full-grown men an’ heard ’em howl like a dingo over it.”

Garth’s eyes sought and found his father’s.

“Didn’t want to cry,” he said feebly.

“I’m proud of you, my son,” Tom said. They smiled at each other.

“An’ you fell off of a pony, they tell me,” said the tall man. “Well, we all do that, sometime or other. When are you goin’ to ride her again?”

“To-morrow,” Garth whispered. “Can I, Dad?”

For the second time that day Aileen checked herself in a quick protest. She looked at Tom.

“Certainly you can,” he answered gravely. “We’ll tackle her together, old son.”