The Mountains Have a Secret. Arthur W. UpfieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
The cockatoo whirred its wings and screeched, and it was as though the cacophony wiped off the make-up, burned out the re-created man.
“Get to hell outa here!” yelled the bird.
The wisteria hid the veranda steps from Bony and the invalid, and they did not observe the approach of two men who came up the steps. They were dressed in riding-breeches, brown boots and leggings, and both were wearing wide-brimmed felts. Spurs jangled. One of the men laughed. They were young and lean and hard and stained darkly by the sun and the wind.
“What about a drink?” each asked of the cockatoo, the first with a foreign accent, the second with the clipped tones of a city-bred man. The bird replied with a raspberry and hung upside-down. When the men had entered the building the old man whispered:
“They’re Benson’s men.”
There was no apparent reason why the information should be so announced. The voice was tainted by fear, but there was no fear in the old eyes now regarding Bony with clear steadiness. He fancied that he saw mockery in them.
“D’you get many callers?” he asked, and the previous expression of self-pity flashed into the withered face.
“Not this time of year. Christmas and Easter we’re full up to the doors. They don’t let me sit here them times—not now. Didn’t mind it much when Ted O’Brien was workin’ here and me and Ted uster talk about the old days. But Jim got rid of Ted. Said he drank too much. Caught him dead drunk in the spirit store first thing one mornin’.” The tears again rolled downwards into the whiskers. “Ain’t got no one to talk to since Ted O’Brien was sacked. You’ll talk to me, won’t you? You won’t believe I’m barmy and steer clear of me, eh? Let’s be cobbers, and one night we can raid the spirit store. Let’s raid it tonight. Jim and Ferris are going to Dunkeld tonight. I heard Ferris tell the old woman about it.”
The conversation fell away into a monologue of complaints, and presently the two riders came out, followed by Jim Simpson. For a little while they stood above the veranda steps, talking in low voices, and when the man had gone Simpson came along to Bony and the old man. His smile did not include his father.
“We’ll be serving dinner at six tonight, because my sister and I are going to town,” he said. “It’s half-past five. Will you be wanting a drink before dinner? I’m asking because I’d like to get dressed.”
“No, thanks. Afterwards, perhaps,” Bony decided.
Again Simpson smiled, although his eyes remained cold. He said:
“My mother isn’t feeling very well today, so perhaps I could leave a bottle or two in your room?”
“Yes, that’s an idea. You might let me have a bottle of whisky and some soda water. I’ll be going to bed early.”
Simpson nodded assent and then looked down at the old man, who had said not a word:
“Now then, Father, I’m putting you to bed before I dress.”
“Don’t wanta go to bed,” shouted the invalid. “Too early. Hours yet to sundown.”
“Well, you’ll have to go,” Simpson said sharply. “Ferris is dressing and Mum isn’t so well. She won’t want to be bothered with you after she’s cleared up.”
The son moved to the back of the chair and winked at Bony.
The father shouted that he could put himself to bed, that he needn’t go to bed ever, that he could sleep in his chair anywhere and any time, that Bony could put him to bed later. Despite his protests, he was wheeled away round the far corner of the building, one frail hand thumping an arm rest, the mane of white hair tossing with rage. His voice became blanketed, and Bony guessed he had been taken into a room just beyond the corner of the building, but he could still hear the protests, which availed nothing. Then the old man’s voice sank away into a murmur, and Bony thought it strange that not once had the son spoken after disappearing with the invalid.
The feeling of pity for old Simpson was being qualified by interest in him. Why would his son not allow him to talk to guests? He did not appear to be non compos mentis. Slightly senile, perhaps. Irritable and often desperately miserable, without doubt. Who would not be so when suffering from such ailments? He wanted merely to talk. And if a guest didn’t mind putting up with him, why was he denied?
Was it because he was likely to divulge family matters to any stranger? Possibly. Almost any family is jealous of its cupboarded skeletons. To deny the old fellow drink was wise, but there could be another interpretation. A smile touched Bony’s eyes. The subconscious had dictated to the conscious mind to order a bottle of whisky, when Bony seldom drank spirits. A dram might unloose a tongue to tell more of the spirit store and a body within.
The ethics would have to be determined later—if it became necessary, and that seemed doubtful. After all, an invalid who holds possession of property he is incapable of managing can be a martinet, and damaging grit in any business. The father a confirmed invalid, the son did have responsibilities in his mother and sister.
Simpson came round the corner of the veranda.
“Old boy never likes going to bed,” he said. “Quite a trial at times, and Mother has her work cut out, what with the cooking and all.”
“Says he suffers from arthritis,” observed Bony. “Very painful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s so. Doctor says there’s no hope of a cure. We give him a sleeping-tablet about ten.” Simpson paused, pursed his lips, and gazed hard at Bony. “Don’t like to ask you,” he said. “Wouldn’t if Mother was well. Ferris and I ought not to go to Dunkeld tonight, but—I wonder—would you mind slipping into the old boy’s room about ten and giving him his tablet?”
“Not at all. Yes, I’ll do that,” assented Bony, and the not unattractive smile crept into the hard eyes and the over-fleshed face.
“I’ll leave the tablet and the glass of water on the table in the hall. See that he doesn’t spit out the tablet. He tries to sometimes. Been telling you all his troubles?”
“No,” replied Bony. “No. He was relating to me how he and Mrs. Simpson first came here and settled down. Must have been hard going in those days, especially for a woman.”
“Indeed, yes. Well, I must get out the car and then dress. I’ll put the whisky and soda in your room and the old man’s dope on the hall table. See you later. And thank you. Mother can get to bed as soon as dinner is cleared away. She’ll be all right until Ferris comes home.”
He moved briskly off the veranda, a man not in keeping with his environment. He was no backwoodsman, and Bony experienced bewilderment when relating him to the invalid. A car was being driven from the garage, and it was brought to the veranda steps. Simpson appeared again and passed into the building. After a little while Bony stood up and was able to see the car and gaze over the clearing, now shadowed from the westering sun.
It was a beautiful car, almost brand new, a Buick, all black and silver, dustless and gleaming. Bony recalled reading that the cost of these machines was more than eleven hundred pounds. Like Simpson, the car’s environment wasn’t right.
He was in the hall looking at the pictorial map of the locality when the dinner-gong was struck. The map had been drawn by an artist and was an ornament for any hallway. The hotel in the clearing was excellently depicted, and behind it were the yard buildings and a grassy paddock with stables and hen-houses, and beyond the paddock a vineyard. The track on which the Rolls had appeared was not drawn on the map farther back than the vineyard. The creek and the bridge carrying the road on to Lake George were pictured. All the details were clear. One could travel the road round to Lake George, and then onward in a rough curve to rejoin the road to Hall’s Gap.
On entering the dining-room, Bony found a well-dressed couple seated at one of two set tables, and he received a little shock of astonishment when he recognised Simpson in an immaculate navy-blue double-breasted suit. His dinner