Part of today’s lesson was to stand patiently as long as the reins were dropped on the ground. The colt had had a lesson or two from the real master. Hal was just getting back to him. Poddy and Tommy were over by the Smithy. Old Harry was a qualified Blacksmith, Wheelwright, and Farrier. A triple-trade like that should have had him set for life. He had helped himself through his apprenticeship by breaking horses. The depression put an end to setting himself up in his proper trade, but he had enough savings to set up a breaker’s yard. He wasn’t the first to serve an apprenticeship in one trade and work at something else. A handy little shop behind the house saved him taking any but the biggest jobs into town.
Poddy and Tommy were working there on a project of their own when Hal pulled up. Hal boldly dropped the reins, making sure the colt would notice. He was more secretive about the light anchor cord. He snapped it on as quietly as he could. He didn’t want the colt to know about it yet. The idea was, if the colt took advantage of the reins being free and tried to clear out in a hurry, he would find out at the end of the slack.
He casually crossed to his two best mates. Poddy was one of those blokes who would give you anything he owned and go without it himself. Ma always said Poddy had been delivered to the wrong address. He had been made to go straight to Heaven. He surely didn’t fit in on the Earth that existed during the Great Depression. Poddy looked up. ‘We just been wondering when we can get someone to murder that big Bruce?
‘Big Bruce, the copper’s boy? No good complaining to the police about him.’
‘He gave Tommy a sock on the head, yesterday.’
‘His head? Well, that takes care of that until they get his hand mended.’ How’d he do it. Where did he bring it from. Give us a look. Show me. The slower boys caught on.
‘He swings it back and, slap.’
‘Open hand?’
‘He shut his knuckles yesterday to make it hurt more.’
‘He leaves himself wide open when he pulls it back like that. I’ve seen him do it,’ said Hal judiciously.
‘But what can we do?’
‘He’s inviting a punch on the jaw. Isn’t he? All you have to do is fill the order, then send him the bill. It’s what he’s asked for. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes but Tommy’s too little and I can’t bring myself to hit anyone.’
Hal walked to a pile of scrap and picked up an old nut that had once held on the wheel of a wagonette. The squares had been burred off leaving it round, but it would serve. He walked over to Tommy. ‘Here givvus ya Mitt. Give me your hand.’ Tommy complied. Hal put the nut in his palm. ‘Close your fist on it. You got a good big hand for your size. Fits all right? Not heavy enough. Wait a minute.’ He fished amongst the junk until he found the broken piece of the axle that threaded into the nut. Screwing it in, he hefted it, changed hands and hefted it again and handed it to his mate.
‘Do I hit him with that?’
‘That’s a small part of what you are going to hit him with. This time he’ll stay hit.’ He set it into Tommy’s palm. ‘Now, hold that in there for a while till you get the feel of it. There wave it about a bit. Right now, hit me on the jaw.’ He pointed.
‘I can’t.
‘Why not?’
‘It’ll hurt you.’
‘So! If I were dead I wouldn’t feel it. But who wants to be dead? Better to stay alive and feel a bit of pain.’ He paused a moment. ‘I better explain a bit about pain. How many times have you been thrown off a horse?’
Both boys threw up their hands.
‘Doesn’t that hurt?’
‘Corse it hurts.’
‘And you never whinge about that.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Think about why it’s different. Work it out and let me know. Pain always feels much the same to me wherever it comes from’ He paused and bent down. ‘Right, give me one now.’ Tommy obliged. Hal thoughtfully fingered his jaw. ‘Can you wind one up three times that hard.’
‘Not now.’ Tommy was almost in tears at having to strike his mate the first time.
‘Can you do it when you go to deliver the goods?’
‘I hope so,’ said Tommy with new trust.’ Hal noted a look in Tommy’s eye that boded ill for the policeman’s son, and returned to the colt. He hadn’t moved. Hal swung into the saddle. Must have sorted that out yesterday. He heeled the colt into a brisk canter.
There was a widespread belief that the Hallorans never felt pain. They felt it. They were always too busy to take much notice. Mrs Maloney, an age pensioner, was trying to cut some wood. This caught Hal’s eye. He slid from the colt, dropped the reins, secured the anchor, and left the horse to himself while he wrested the axe from the lady. A few swift blows later he had a small pile of blocks exactly the size to fit her oven. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said she. ‘That little Poddy cut me a good stack but I’d washed the blankets. It turned cold all of a sudden and they didn’t dry, so I had to keep the stove going all night. That’s plenty. I’ve got the blankets dry now. Poddy’s coming tomorrow and it might offend him if he knew anyone else cut my wood. Thank you. I am sure you will go to Heaven.’ She gave him an indulgent grin. ‘But not too soon, I hope.’
Hal smiled as he mounted the colt. A wish like that was worth at least a cartload of wood. He kicked the colt into a snappy canter. He was coming along fine. Hal had begun to feel a definite affection for him. He would be sorry when the colt went back to Cuttabri. But then, he always felt that way about a horse he’d handled. And they felt that way about him. They often recognized him months after they had gone home. The colt cantered smartly down the main street, suddenly shied at a T Model Ford clattering along, and received a sharp rebuke from the master. The one general store still had a strong hitch rail. Hal secured his mount and entered the store. Snowy Richardson greeted him warmly. ‘Just passing by?’
Hal winked. ‘Don’t want anything. Introducing him in case anyone gets him is mad enough to buy something here.’
‘You mob’d all starve if we cut off your credit.’
Hal grinned and nodded. ‘Watch this.’ He rushed out, slipped off the halter and made a hurried mounting. There was plenty of room. And the horse would have to get used to some rough handling. He waved to the storekeeper. ‘A ladies’ hack.’ The colt was still too new to take near the railway yards. That would start in a day or two. He turned and cantered round to a side street where a man was driving a big Leyland lorry with hard rubber tyres. Its top speed was ten miles an hour and it made enough noise to wake the dead. One horse took fright at it and put the rider in hospital. That was not a Halloran-broken horse. He cantered out past the cemetery. The white headstones sometimes scared a horse. This one took them in his stride. He remembered that dog in Peel Street and took him down there. Sure enough the dog rushed savagely out. The horse shied and was firmly rebuked. They would have to try that again. He turned for home. It was time to do more pleasant things, like having lunch.
As he neared the gate he saw Ma bring out Pedro, the quiet plough horse. He would have an hour to spare after lunch and she wanted her flower patch ploughed and harrowed. If she was going to feed him she was entitled to something. Lunch was one of her best efforts, not that he needed any special effort. He always ate well. But if you have to stop to eat it might as well be something worthwhile. It was worth stopping for.
Hal and Pedro always enjoyed an hour of ploughing together. Pedro got needed exercise and Hal could slow down without feeling he was lazy. He finished the ploughing, stowed the plough, and led the big fellow round to the harrows. He walked round the horse, picked up his great sprawling unshod hooves, one by one, and examined the frogs. The little work this fellow did he could manage barefoot, but you had to keep an eye on them. He had a white patch on the off fore hoof that was inclined to crumble. He had to watch that.
He patted Pedro’s nose. Pedro sniffed at his body and showed placid approval. A sweaty stinking horseman always smelled all right to a horse. Funny that. Dogs didn’
t seem to mind it either.
The harrows took pulling. The big fellow had to grunt a bit. The ground had dried out since the last rain, and the plough had torn it into big lumps. The harrow would have to break it down. And when it was all done Ma would do the real work, and fine it down some more. The farmer’s fiddle could do only so much. Another busy day had the colt behaving like an adequate saddle horse. Hal thought he might ride him to school but Captain needed the exercise. Hal’s school horse had to stay in a stable all day. It was quite handy to the school; too handy. Kids would go over at lunchtimes and pat him.
The colt would probably accept a gentle pat but he would certainly take umbrage if they started poking him with sticks. Even Captain did not like that very much.
This raised complications. Mrs Harrison needed some eggs. The copper’s wife got a can of milk every morning. Mrs Harrison got her eggs free because she was on a widows’ pension. The milk came free for political reasons. Training of the colt required him to use that animal, but he had to do it on the way to school to keep some kind of efficiency in the system. He would ride the colt to school. He would just have to spend the playtimes over at the stable and keep order. A brainstorm decided him to take the colt for a canter at lunchtime.
At first the copper, a city bloke, would not allow wild horses endangering the citizens of his town. Harry firmly pointed out that his customers wanted their horses used to towns so that they could convey their masters on shopping and other forays. He further pointed out that Halloran Stables brought progress, sustenance, and prestige to the town, while, financially, the constabulary ran at a dead loss. After protracted negotiations it was agreed that the horses could sample the city only during periods of light traffic. Hal cantered the colt serenely along in the middle of the morning rush hour, a clear breach of the original pact.
It would not have been too bad if that big Leyland had been fitted with an electric horn that went, ‘aorgaaah’, and ran off a battery. The vehicle had been built before batteries were invented. It had a siren screwed into the top of one of its four cylinders, and it went, ‘PEEP-PEEP-PEEP,’ in no uncertain manner. The high-spirited driver of the Leyland greeted his mate as any Australian motorist might, and the colt from Cuttabri had a bit of Australian manners still to learn about.
There were eight new-laid eggs tucked into his shirt to think of. He had a gallon can of milk in his right hand and the reins in his left. What was going on under him they would, a few years later, try to emulate at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The carriageway carried sulkies, surries, T-Fords and some vehicles no one could name. The footpath had workers, housewives, and school children. Hal might well have been forgiven if he had spilled some of that milk.
Hal did not need Mrs Donald’s forgiveness. He didn’t spill a drop. But if the lid had not been tightly fitted he might have. Of course there would be a stiff note from Senior Constable Donald, but if they wanted fresh milk for their breakfast they would have to make some allowances.
No one ever picked a fight with Hal. No one knew whether he could fight. It was just that no one ever got curious enough to test any theory he might have on the subject. So his days at school should have been peaceful, and they usually were. He applied himself to his lessons, found them interesting, and despite his lack of anxiety about it he usually came up near the top of his class. But when trouble came his way it usually brought up its guns.
Hal was later to find that Tommy had practiced with his weighted fist as directed, and had the feel of the balance down to a fine degree. Seeing his mates talking together a little apart from others, Hal started toward them. The corner of his eye detected the bulk of Bruce alone, evidently in search of something to do. Hal balked. He had spotted the hitch of the bully’s shoulders and purposeful stride as he noticed the other two. Hal prudently removed his carcass from the potential battlefield. He didn’t want to be one of those innocent bystanders who suffer most in wars.
Bruce took a quick look around to see that no one was watching, and swaggered toward the two innocents. Once near he took another look about for possible observers and Tommy, thus unobserved, slipped the weight into his hand. Hal was out of earshot but saw the backhand to Poddy’s ear and the forehand to that of his companion. The beaten Poddy turned away to ‘cry.’ Tommy grinned tauntingly at his assailant. Bruce swung the hand back. Tommy stepped forward and drove that weighted fist with prize-ring perfection. Hal had stressed that the punch should come with the whole weight of the body driven right from the back foot.
That one the bushie gave the barber was a love-tap. This was no love tap but it arrived at the same address with a similar result. There were enough girls about to give warning to all and sundry. The speed with which the teacher arrived would have better qualified him for the Police, Fire Brigade, or Ambulance. As he arrived, the supine Bruce regained a jerky movement in his right hand. The adult was in time to help restore the child to his feet.
They might have wangled their way out of it if the teacher had not spotted the weight. Even a dumb schoolteacher would be aware that knuckle-dusters, however modified, were not kosher. The teacher was still young and strong. He shared out four cuts between the first two boys with the usual results one expects from real men not yet done growing. He got even less satisfaction from that Halloran hooligan.
‘You put those young ruffians up to it, didn’t you.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Why!’
‘Someone had to, sir.’
‘Why would you have to do that.’
‘He’s always hitting other kids, Sir.’
‘He’s never been seen hitting anyone else.’
‘He makes sure of that, Sir.’ But the cane was already rising. He put every ounce of his being into the first and got his breath and strength fully back before he delivered the second.
Hal smiled a polite, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and turned to go. The infuriated teacher hammered at his buttocks and legs as Hal, with all the poise of a head waiter, walked back still forcing the grin onto his face for his mates. It was no wonder everyone held onto his doubts as to whether he could fight. If that teacher had been on his milk delivery list he would have had to drink his tea black tomorrow and he’d surely get no free eggs or vegetables for quite some time.
The real tragedy was Poddy. Even a saint should be allowed to lie to protect a mate. It had been this weakness that was Hal’s undoing and Poddy never forgave himself. In the fullness of time Poddy would go to his grave lamenting the way he had let his mate down. He abjectly confessed. Hal slapped his shoulder. ‘Wouldn’t want you pair to hog all the fun to yourselves. I knew you couldn’t lie. I wouldn’t want you to spend eternity in Hell just to save me a couple of cuts.
‘One little fib should not have hurt.’
‘Hal shook his head. Never, ever tell a lie. They put you to the third degree. They get the truth out of you.’
‘How?’
‘Toast your feet. Put your feet in the coals. Thumbscrews, screw screws into your thumbs. They do terrible things to you if you tell a lie in court. This destroyed any ambition Poddy might have had to become a liar, especially in court.
Hal stood under the hot shower and thought about Poddy. It was worth keeping him around for his genius alone. If it hadn’t been for him Hal would be having his showers cold like anyone else. Like others, the Hallorans pumped their water from a well with engine burning kerosene. A few had Diesel. A small pipe brought water from the pump to cool the engine and when that water left the engine it was hot. Poddy was a whiz with engines. People said he only had to glance at one and it would start and run perfectly. He looked at the discharging hot water, fossicked about the Smithy for a while and next thing the Hallorans knew they could get hot showers after the engine had been running for a while.
That was Poddy, always bursting with a desire to make someone else happier than he had any right to be. He couldn’t do it for his own. Their pump worked only by hand, though they were welcome to use that of th
e Hallorans’ if they had wanted to, it was only a half-mile walk. Poddy’s father was disgusted with his always fiddling about with rot instead of getting on with real work. Ma would say, ’If that man would only look at the son he’s got instead of the ones he thinks he ought to have it would improve his own life.’ But then Ma did not say that very often. She didn’t think he was the only one in the world with a fault. Ma had some fixed ideas about right and wrong. Most mothers have. When anyone criticized that roughneck Barney, married to that black woman, Ma would say, ‘As long as he treats his wife like a lady should be treated and brings his kids up as respectable citizens, he’s no worse than any other man. And she would give her husband a forgiving, loving, steadfast look. ‘You are not the best but you’ll do,’ is what her eyes would say.