I left the hospital soon after that and went back to the vicarage. Stevie had washed himself and he had made an attempt to shave, but he had cut himself and given it up; he was now sitting on the rotten verandah steps with my towel around his waist while his shirt and trousers, newly washed, hung in the sun over the rail. Clothes dry in ten minutes in North Queensland, in the dry.
“I had a shower,” he said. “My word, I’m crook today.” He licked his dry lips. “You got a whiskey, cobber?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” I replied. “I don’t keep anything up here. The hotel will be open in ten minutes.” I paused. “Going out to the track today?”
“Suppose so,” he said listlessly. “I done my money, so I won’t be betting.” He reached for his shirt and trousers and began to clothe his skinny, scarred body.
“That was a good tip you gave me yesterday,” I remarked. “What made you think that Black Joke was in the running against Frenzy?”
“Aw, something was bound to happen in the last race,” he said. “Nothing hadn’t happened up till then, but something was bound to happen. I knew that three nights ago, out in the bush. I know when something’s going to happen—I do, cobber.” He rambled on as he pulled his dirty boots on his bare feet. “Pisspot Stevie,” he said resentfully. “That’s what they call me. But I know more’n any of them. I’ll show them all one day. I know more than any of them. Mark my words.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “Come on down to the hotel and I’ll shout a beer, if it’ll clear your head.”
He came forward with alacrity, buttoning his trousers as he came. “I done my money,” he explained ingenuously. “I got to wait now till some other bastard shouts.”
“They tell me you were in the Flying Corps in the first war,” I remarked. “Is that right?”
“Ninth Batt. and R.F.C.,” he told me. “That’s what I was. Sergeant Pilot, maternity jacket ’n all, ’n wings on it, flying R.E.8s artillery spotting. Armentears, St. Omer, Bethune—I know all them places, ’n what they look like from on top. I know more than any of them, cobber. Pisspot Stevie!”
He walked down to the hotel. “I’ll stand you one beer and then I’ll have to go,” I told him. “If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go, too.” He did not answer that, and when I left the bar he was deeply involved in rounds of drinks, and looking a lot better, I must say.
I did not see him that day at the races. He was in the bar at tea time, rather drunk, but I avoided getting drawn into the bar that night. I went to the dance later on to put in an appearance for half an hour. The Ladies’ Committee had done their best to decorate our rather sombre Shire Hall, and they managed to produce an orchestra composed of Mrs. Fraser at the piano, the half caste Miss O’Brian with her violin, and Peter Collins with his cornet. Everybody seemed to be having a good time and I stayed there till about eleven o’clock, when the fight took place.
It happened on the verandah outside the bar of the Post Office Hotel. When I heard about it and got out into the street to try and stop it, it was all over. The police were marching Ted Lawson off to spend the night in the cooler, one on each side of him dragging him along and standing no nonsense; the crowd were putting Stevie, streaming blood, into a utility to take him to the hospital. It seemed that Ted had been very rude to Stevie, calling him Pisspot, and Stevie, very drunk, had hit out at Ted and by a most incredible fluke had knocked him down. Ted was a man of about twenty-five, a ringer on Helena Waters station, too young by far to hit such an old man. However, they fought on the verandah, and with the first blow Ted knocked Stevie out; as he fell he caught his left ear on the edge of the verandah or against a post and tore it half off, which made another job for Sister Finlay. There was nothing much that the parson could do about it till the morning, so I went back to the vicarage and said a prayer before I went to bed for wandering, foolish men.
When I got to the hospital next morning Stevie was just leaving for the hotel. Sister Finlay had put a couple of stitches in his ear and dressed it, and he now wore a large white bandage all around his head. He had little to say to me, and we watched him as he shambled down the hot, dusty road to the town a quarter of a mile away. “I’d like to see him put into a truck and taken out to Dorset Downs, where he belongs,” the sister said. “He’s all right when he’s out there.”
“I could try that,” I said. “One of the men would run him out, if I asked them.”
“He’s got to have the stitches taken out on Sunday,” she replied. “This meeting will be over by then, and he’ll go on his own.”
The police let Ted out of their little gaol about the middle of the morning after giving him a good dressing down for hitting an old man, and Ted came back into circulation rather ashamed of himself. To make amends, for Ted was quite a decent lad, he went straight to find Stevie and to stand him a drink, so that bygones should be bygones. Bygones were still being bygones that afternoon out at the rodeo; Stevie and Ted were firm friends and half drunk, and the name Pisspot was being bandied about in the most amicable way without any offence at all.
That was the last day of the races, and there was a fancy dress dance that night in the Shire Hall at which I had to help in judging the costumes and giving away the prizes. Few of the men had managed to do anything about a fancy dress, but all the girls had attempted it and it had given them a great deal of pleasure; there were two Carmens and four Pierrettes. The prizegiving was not till about half past eleven, and when it was over I was shepherded into the hotel by Jim Maclaren for some refreshment as a reward for my labours.
Ted and Stevie were there, still drinking, still the firmest of friends, and Stevie was singing ‘My Little Grey Home in the West’ for the entertainment of the company, singing in a cracked voice as many of the words as he could remember, and beating time with one hand. I stood at the other end of the bar drinking the one beer with which I hoped to escape, and chatting to the men. Presently Stevie saw me and made towards me unsteadily, clutching the bar as he came to steady his course.
He came to a standstill before me. “You’re Roger,” he said.
“That’s right,” I replied. “And you’re Stevie.”
He held out his hand. “Put it there, cobber.”
I shook hands with him, and again he held my hand. “He’s the parson,” he told the men. “His name’s Roger.”
I disengaged my hand. “That’s right, Stevie,” said Jim a little wearily. “He’s the parson, and his name is Roger. Now you beat it.”
The old man stood holding on to the bar, swaying a little, his head grotesque in the white bandage. It suddenly occurred to me that he was half asleep. “He’s a good cobber, even if he is the parson,” he said at last. “He’s a good cobber.”
“That’s right,” said Jim patiently. “He’s a good cobber, and he’s the parson. Now you buzz off and leave him be. We’ve got business to talk here.”
“He’s in the wrong job,” said Stevie. There was a long pause, and then he said, “He’s a good cobber, but he’s in the wrong job.”
“Aw, cut it out, Stevie.”
“He believes people go to Heaven when they die,” said Stevie. “Harps and angels’ wings.” He turned to me. “That’s right, cobber?”
“Pretty well,” I said. And beside me Jack Picton said, “You’re not going to Heaven when you die, Stevie, and if you don’t stop annoying Mr. Hargreaves I’ll dot you one and bust the other ear.”
I put a hand upon Jack’s arm. “He’s right—he’s doing no one any harm.” To Stevie I said, “I don’t know if you’ll go to Heaven, but I do know that it’s time you went to bed, with that ear. Where are you sleeping, Stevie?”
There was no answer. One of the men said, “He hasn’t got a bed, Mr. Hargreaves. He just sleeps around, any place he fancies.”
I turned to Mr. Roberts behind the bar. “Got a spare bed, Bill? He should sleep somewhere on a bed tonight, with that bandage.”
“That’s right,” said the innkeeper. “There’s a
spare bed on the back verandah. He can sleep on that.”
I turned to the men. “Let’s take him up there.”
Jim and Jack Picton grasped Stevie by each arm and marched him out into the back yard; I followed them. They stopped there in the still moonlight for a certain purpose, and then they took him up the outside stairs to the back verandah and deposited him upon the vacant bed. “Now see here, Stevie,” said Jim Maclaren. “The parson’s got you this bed, and you’ve got to stay up here and sleep on it. If I see you downstairs again tonight I’ll break your bloody neck.”
“Let’s take his boots off,” I said.
We took his boots off and dropped them down beside the bed, and pushed him down on it. Jim said, “Want a blanket, Stevie? You’d better have a blanket. Here, take this.” He threw one over the old man. “Now just you stay there. Nobody’s shouting you another drink tonight, and if you come downstairs again I’ll break your neck. That’s straight. I will.”
“Harps and angels’ wings,” the old man muttered. “That’s no way to talk.”
Jim laughed shortly. “Come on down, Mr. Hargreaves. He’s right now.”
“I could tell you things,” Stevie said from the semi-darkness of the bed. “I could tell you better ’n that, but you wouldn’t believe me.” There was a pause, and then he muttered, “Pisspot Stevie. Nobody believes what Pisspot Stevie says.”
I said in a low tone to Jim Maclaren, “I’ll stay up here till he goes off to sleep. He won’t be long. I’ll see you downstairs later.” It was a subterfuge, of course. I wanted to avoid going back with Jim to the bar.
“All right, Mr. Hargreaves.” He went clattering down the stairs with the other men, laughing and talking, and their voices died away into the bar. It was very still on the verandah after they had gone. Half of the verandah was in brilliant, silvery moonlight, half in deep black shadow, hiding the beds. Under the deep blue sky a flying fox or two wheeled silently round the hotel in the light of the moon.
“I could tell you things,” the old man muttered from the darkness. “You think I told you something when I said Black Joke, but that ain’t nothing. I could tell you things.”
“What could you tell me?” I asked quietly.
“Being born again,” he muttered sleepily. “All you think about is harps and angels’ wings, but Liang’s a Buddhist, ’n he knows. Old Liang, he knows, all right. He tol’ me all about it. He knows.”
It was somewhat dangerous, but the night was quiet, and I wanted to explore the depths of this old man. “What does Liang know?” I asked.
“About another chance,” he muttered. “About being born again, ’n always another chance of doing better next time. I know. I got the most beautiful dreams, ’n more and more the older that I get. Soon I’ll be living next time more’n this time. That’s a mystery, that is.” There was a long, long pause; I thought that he had gone to sleep, but then he said again, “A mystery. Liang says it’s right, ’n no one ever dies. Just slide off into the next time, into the dream.”
It wasn’t very comprehensible, but one would hardly have expected it to be because Stevie was very drunk. I asked for curiosity, “What do you dream about?”
“You want a pipe for it,” he said drowsily. “Lie down with a pipe, ’n the dreams come. All about Queens and Princes and that, and flying, and being in love. All across the world, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, all across the world, and carrying the Queen.”
I stood by the verandah rail in silence, wondering at the jumble of words generated by the muddled, alcohol-poisoned brain. Flying, because this man long ago had been a pilot, though that seemed incredible now. Being in love—well, that lasts till the grave in some men. The Queens and Princes—figures on a pack of cards, perhaps. The pipe, and lying down—did that mean opium? It was at least a possibility for one who shared a home with an old Chinaman. A phrase of Sister Finlay’s came into my mind; had she been hinting at that?
I stood there silent: under the bright moon thinking about all these things till the steady rhythm of breathing from the darkness told me that Stevie was asleep. Then I went quietly down the wooden stairway to the yard and slipped away from the hotel, and went back to my vicarage to go to bed.
I did not see much more of Stevie after that. The race meeting was over, and most of the people left town early next morning to go back to their stations. Stevie hung around for a couple of days, moody and bad-tempered because he was out of money and there was nobody left in town to stand him a drink except a couple of engineers belonging to the Post Office and Reg McAuliffe selling life insurance to the residents. Finally Sister Finlay took the stitches out of Stevie’s ear, started him off with a clean bandage, and dismissed him. Somebody going out to Dorset Downs gave him a lift in a truck, and that was the end of him. Everybody in the town was glad to see him go.
I started then to get acquainted with my parish. Miss Foster very kindly undertook to carry on the little daily hymn service for the school children, and I set out one day to go to Godstow to see what was to be done about St. Jude’s. I travelled on the mail truck and we stopped at every house and station on the way, of course—perhaps once every twenty miles or so. It was very hot and dusty and I wore a khaki shirt and shorts, but I had my case with me, of course, containing my cassock and surplice and the sacramental vessels, and I baptised three children on the first day, and held two Celebrations. The driver of the mail truck was most kind and waited for me while I held these services, although it meant that he would have to drive far on into the night to keep his schedule.
Sergeant Donovan was riding in the truck with us, because he had police business out in the same direction. We stayed at Beverley that first night with Mr. and Mrs. Maclaren. One or two matters that concerned Stevie were still running through my mind, and rather foolishly I raised the question of opium at the tea table.
I said, “Old Stevie said one thing that night in the hotel, Jim, after you went down. He said he got beautiful dreams.”
“I bet he does.”
“I know. But he said he gets them when he’s lying down with a pipe. Would you say he smokes opium? He lives with that Chinese.”
Sergeant Donovan said a little tersely, “No reason to think that. He could smoke tobacco, couldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” Something in his tone pulled me up, and made me feel that there was more in this than I quite understood. I said no more, but later in the evening Jim Maclaren had a word with me privately. “About Stevie and that Chinaman, Liang Shih,” he said. “I wouldn’t talk about opium to Donovan unless you’ve got some reason.”
“You think they smoke it?”
“Of course they do. Liang Shih smokes opium—what Chink doesn’t? It doesn’t do them any harm, no more than smoking tobacco. Liang grows the poppies in his garden out on Dorset Downs, along with all the other stuff. Donovan knows all about it.”
I said, “But that’s illegal. If Donovan knows all about it, why does he let it go on?”
He grinned. “Arthur likes fresh vegetables.”
I was silent for a moment. “You mean, if Liang Shih was prosecuted he might go away?”
“Of course he would. He’d pack up and go and grow his lettuces and poppies somewhere else, and then there’d be nothing but tinned peas in Landsborough. Arthur reckons that it’s more important that the town should get fresh vegetables than that he should go out of his way to persecute one old Chinaman for doing what he’s done all his life and that doesn’t hurt him anyway.” He paused. “Only, if people get to talking about it too much, he’ll have to do something or else lose his job.”
Right is not wholly right nor wrong completely wrong in the Gulf Country. I said no more about the opium.
With that, I put Stevie out of my mind. I had more important things to think about, because the dry season was already well advanced and I had determined that before the rains came in December and stopped travelling I would visit every family in my rather extensive parish, and hold a
service upon every cattle station. That may not seem a very ambitious programme for five months because there are only a hundred and ten families all told, but it meant a great deal of travelling. I did not care to leave Landsborough for longer than a week; I was trying to get the people of the town into the habit of going to their parish church again, and I felt it to be very important that I should be there on Sundays if it were humanly possible. I had no transport of my own, so I had to depend on the mail truck or on lifts in casual vehicles travelling about the area, and these seldom fitted in with my desire to be back in Landsborough every Sunday.
I worked hard all through the dry that year, and I succeeded in getting to know most of my parishioners. I think they appreciated it, because as time went on I began to get messages more and more frequently asking that I should go back to some family to comfort some dying old woman, or to conduct a funeral service over a new, hastily dug grave, or to baptise a baby. These calls set back my schedule, of course, but I was able to attend to all of them and get to the place where I was needed within two or three days.
There was another race meeting at Landsborough in September, but I did not go to it. A clergyman can do little in a town that is enjoying a race meeting; his opportunity for service comes at quieter times. It seemed to me that I was better occupied in visiting in the more distant parts of the parish, and I did not bother to return to Landsborough until that Saturday. By then the meeting was over and most of the people had gone back to their stations, but half a dozen station owners and managers had stayed in the town with their wives to come to church on Sunday, and that was a great encouragement to me.
I asked Sister Finlay if she had had Stevie up at the hospital. “No, not this time,” she said. “He was in town for the races, but Liang Shih came in with the vegetables on Friday, and I think he went back with him.” She paused. “He wasn’t looking at all well.”
I smiled. “I’m not surprised at that.”