“D'y ter yous,” said Alick, blinking his bungy eyes, and smiling good-naturedly at the parson and at the grazier and his wife. He sat down without removing his hat. Jyne's teeth saluted them but without any good nature. Jinny and Sis sneaked in behind their mother.
“You young tinkers,” cried Jyne, “tyke this chile this minute.” Her voice, despite the size of her mouth, came through her nose. She put the baby on the floor, and, taking off her hood, mopped her face with the inside of her print dress.
“We wus lookin' fer you an' Alick,” said Jinny to her mother, and winking at the parson.
“Yes, you wusâwith ther 'ook,” answered Jyne.
Without further introduction she slewed her head to one side, shut one eye knowingly, and said to the staring minister, “Ther ain't a wink about Jinny.”
The unblinking daughter instantly offered an illustration of her wakefulness. “Yer orter seen me an' gran'dad th' ether mornin'. 'E wus milkin' ther nannies, an' ther billy you seen 'e wus jes close agen 'im. I sneaks up to ther billy an' gives 'im er jab. Lawr ter see 'im rush et ole Alex an' bunt 'im! 'E'd er killed th' ole feller on'y fer me. Wou'dn' 'e, mum?”
“Yer a bol' gal,” said mum in a proud voice.
The bewildered minister, to turn the conversation, took a vase of wild-flowers.
“They belong to the lily tribe, I think,” said the hostess. “They are bulbous.”
“Wile hunyions,” sniffed Jyne, making no attempt to conceal her contempt for this cur of a woman, who thought so much of herself that she always brought a nurse from town.
Then came Alick's brother, “Flash” Ned; they were as unlike as brothers sometimes are. Ned greeted the parson with bush familiarity. He had his hat on one side, and was wearing a silk Sydney coat that reached to his heels. He was followed by Liz with their family of five. Joey stayed outside, and from time to time dexterously located his stepfather. He was Liz's child by an early marriageâat least, she always said she had been married.
Perched on Liz's head was a draggled hat that a month ago had been snow-white. This also was one of Ned's Sydney purchases. It was the first time Liz had worn it, but she and the children had overhauled it many times and tried it on. This privilege had been extended to all the women whose curiosity and envy had brought them to Liz's place. Jinny had called on her way to church, and the missing end of the white feather, after being licked of its ticklesomeness, was now in her safe keeping.
Jyne, catching sight of Joey, invited him inside. But the boy, at a warning glance from his mother, slunk further back. He had run in the wrong horse for his step-father that morning, and was evading a threatened hiding that was to remove both skin and hair. Liz would gladly have taken the hiding herself in place of Joey, but her interference, as she knew to her cost, would mean one for herself without saving the boy.
But for all this Liz thought she was fairly happy. For it was not every day that Ned tried to sign a cheque or that the sheep got boxed, or that his horse refused to be caught. Nor did it always rain when he wanted it fine. Things did not go wrong every day, and he did not beat her or Joey unless they did. A pound of lollies for her and the kids from a dealer's cart when one came round, would make her think him the best husband in the world.
There was between Jyne and Ned the opposition that is instinctive between commanding spirits. Liz yielded obedience first to Ned then to Jyne.
“Ow's Polly!” inquired Liz, her countenance showing the gravity of the question.
“Arst 'im,” snarled Jyne, baring her fangs and looking at uneasy shuffling Alick. “Makin' 'er dror three casts er worter ten mile, an' 'er thet way. Wil' pigs eatin' 'er as I cum along.”
“No!” said Liz, though she had known it all yesterday. News of such catastrophes soon spread in the bush.
“Better corl me a liar at onct,” snapped Jyne.
Next to arrive were Jyne's mother and Alick's father, both of whom lived with Jyne. The old woman rode on a horse astride a man's saddle. The old man led it. She had Jyne's mouth, or rather Jyne had hers, but the teeth were gone. The old man greeted the parson reverently, blew with his breath on the seat, and wiped it carefully with the handkerchief he had taken from his hat. Even then before sitting he raised the tails of the coat he had been married in so long ago. Until Ned's Sydney purchase his had been the only decorative coat in the district.
Tilly and Jim Lumber, with their ten-days-old baby, followed. Jim was the champion concertina player and bullock driver in the district. He came as the representative of the several families across the creek, whom energetic Ned had rounded up the day before. He had been chosen by them for his size and strength to do battle on their behalf. Ned's effort to frighten those women whose husbands were away shearing into the necessity of attending service had over-reached itself, and they had been afraid to come. But they had entrusted their precious documents to Jim's powerful keeping. He had his own registered brand tied up in a spotted handkerchief. This he dropped with a clank beside him as he sat sheepishly and gingerly on the edge of a chair. He was over six feet, but he sat with his head almost between his knees, till he resembled a quadruped. His shirt front bulged like a wallet with his clients' papers. He slyly took stock of those assembled. Spry little Tilly got the credit of having done all the courting. Even after marriage she had always done his share of the talking.
“Ow's ther kiddy maroo?” said Alick to Jim, lisping from the size of the plug he had just bitten. He had a fatherly interest in all Jyne's “rabbit ketchin'”.
Jim, who never used his voice except to drive his bullocks, answered with a subterranean laugh.
“Noo bit er flesh,” said Ned, nodding at the baby.
“Ow's Polly this mornin'?” gravely inquired Tilly, as she took a seat near Jyne.
“Ah, poor Polly,” quavered Jyne's mother, and sparing Jyne by telling of Polly's untimely end.
“Well, I'm blest; what a lorse!” said the sympathetic Tilly. She repeated a well-known story of the bu'stin' of a poley cow last year.
Jyne took the baby, and began to rate the mother mildly for “walkin' seven mile ser soon”, but Jyne's mother interposed with a recital of “wot I dun w'en Jun” (John) “wur two days old.” John was present, fully six feet of him, grinning with a mouth bigger than Jyne's, but mercifully hidden by a straggled moustache.
However, Jyne was not to be outdone even by her own mother, and the narrative of her last, assisted in many minor details by Jinny, aged eleven, left little to be desired in the way of hardihood.
Liz kept her teething baby respectfully silent by industriously rubbing its lower gum with a dirty thumb. She expressed her surprise at Jyne's phenomenal endurance by little clicks of the tongue, shakes of the head, and other signs indicative of admiration and astonishment. When Jyne finished, she began eagerly on an experience of her own. “Well, w'en I wus took with Drary” (short for Adrarian) “think I could fin' ther sissers?”
Jyne, who knew that the recital of a daring feat was coming, inquired, “W'en yer wus took with Joey?”
“No,” said Liz, stopping short with a nervous click in her voice, and looking at Ned.
The next item was ventriloquizing by Jyne per medium of Tilly's uneasy baby. “My mammy, she sez, yer dot me all o'a hoo, she sez. No wunny, she sez, me can't keep goody, she sez, 'ith me cosey all o'a hoo, she sez.” She had been examining the baby's undergear, and at this stage her tone of baby banter suddenly changed to one of professional horror. “My Gawd, Tilly!” she cried, the drooping corners of her mouth nearly covering her upper teeth. “Look w'er 'er little belly-bands isânearly un'er 'er arms,” she explained, probably to the company, but looking directly at the clergyman. And, with true professional acumen, she intimated that had she not been on the spot, an intricate part of the little one's anatomy in another minute would “'a bust out a bleedin' an' not all ther doctors in ther worl' couldn' astoppt it.”
The minister was very busy, meanwhile, blushing and getting his books in order, and with his congregation of ten adults and eighteen children he began, “Dearly beloved brethrenâ”
Jim Lumber gripped his bullock brand, took a swift look at him and turned to Tilly. It had been settled between them that she was to do the talking. Alick, who, despite his father's efforts to enlighten him as to the nature of a church service, and encouraged by Jyne's remark that “they'd eat nothin'”, had also brought his valuable documents in his shirt front, thrust in a groping hand.
For a few minutes the adults listened and watched intently, but the gentle voice of the parson, and his nervous manner, soon convinced them that they nad nothing to fear from him. Ned had been “pokin' borak” at them again; they added it to the long score they owed him.
The children wandered about the room. Jinny and Sis invited their little sister to “Cum an' see ther pooty picters in the man's book,” and they assisted the minister to turn over the leaves of his Bible.
Alick's father, who was from the North of Ireland, and, for all his forty years in the bush, had not lost his reverence for the cloth, bade his grand-daughters beseechingly to “quet”, whereupon Jinny showed him quite two inches of inky tongue. Ink was a commodity unknown in Jinny's home, and all the unknown is edible to the bush child.
“Woman!” he said, appealing to Jinny's mother, “whybut you bid 'er to quet?”
“You orter be in er glars' ban' box w'er ther ain't no children; thet's w'er you orter be,” answered Jyne.
He beckoned to one straggler, a girl of six, with Alick's face, who came to him promptly and sat on his knee.
Presently her brown hand stroked his old cheek. “Gran'-dad,” she said.
“Choot, darlin',” he whispered, reverently.
The child looked at him wonderingly. “I says you's gran'-dad, she repeated, “not ole Alick.”
He laid his white head on hers.
“Gran'-dad, ole Tommy Tolbit's dead.”
Turning his glistening face to Liz in momentary forgetfulness, he said solemnly, “The knowledge of this chile!”
“Ole Talbert” had been dead for two years, and the knowledgeable child had been surprising him so, at least twice a week.
“We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep,” murmured the minister.
The smaller children wandered in and out of the bedrooms, carrying their spoils with them. But Jinny and Sis had drawn the now disabled rocking-chair up to the window, and were busy poking faces at two of Liz's children, who were standing on the couch inside. One of these made a vicious smack with a hair-brush at Jinny's tongue, flattened against the glass. The ensuing crash stopped even the parson for a moment.
Bravely he began again. He paused occasionally for a sudden subterranean laugh to cease or to put one book after another on the shelf behind him out of the children's reach. Just as he read the last line of the Te Deum, “Oh Lord in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded,” one of Liz's children tugged at his trousers, with a muzzled request that his teeth might be freed from a square of pink soap. Another offered to the baby Liz was nursing a pincushion she brought from the bedroom.
“Jyne,” called Jinny from the veranda, “'ere cums young Tommy Tolbit by 'isself. You wus right, Jyne; she ain't cummin'!”
Even Jyne's gums gleamed; she looked triumphantly at Alick her husband, at Liz, then at all but Ned.
In shambled Tommy, moist and panting. He had been a drover, and had recently taken up a selection on the run. He was a bridegroom of a month's standing. His missus had been a servant at one of the hotels in the township.
“Made a start!” he remarked. His voice gave the impression that he did not mind their not waiting for him.
“Missus ain't comin'?” inquired Alick, trying to atone to Jyne for overloading Polly.
“Not ter day,” said the bridegroom, but his voice intimated that in all probability she would have been able to come tomorrow.
“No!” said Jyne, putting him under fire, and trying to keep the crow out of her voice.
“Ain't very well, is she? Didn' eat a very 'earty break-fuss this mornin'?” And a further remark suggested that even if the meal had been hearty, the usual process of assimilation had not taken place.
“Ow's Polly?” he inquired.
“Cooked,” said Jyne, instantly diverted.
“Go on!” said the bridegroom, with well feigned astonishment. His breathless and perspiring state had been caused by his “going on” to capture one of the wild suckers that had been eating Polly.
“Let us pray,” said the minister. His host, hostess, and Alick's father knelt, but the rest sat as usual.
The knowledgeable child, considering the grandfather's position an invitation to mount, climbed on his back. Making a bridle of the handkerchief round the old fellow's neck, and digging two heels into his sides, she talked horse to him. The protesting old man bucked vigorously, but it was no easy task to throw her.
The clergyman gave out his text, and the sermon began.
Jyne's children commenced to complain of being “'ungry” and a fair-sized damper was taken from a pillow-slip. This, together with two tin tots and a bottle of goat's milk, was given to Jinny and she was told to do “ther sharin'”·
The hostess asked Jyne in a whisper to send them to the veranda, and for a time there was comparative quiet. Such interruptions as “Jinny won't gimme nun, Arnie” (Auntie) from Liz's children being checked by Jyne with “Go an' play an' doan' 'ave ser much gab, like yer father.”
“Thet greedy wretch uv er Jinny is guzzlin' all ther milk inter 'er, Jyne,” from her own children, was appeased by her promise to “break ther young faggit's back w'en I get 'ome.”