Dark Places (15 page)

I was growing hot and bothered within my worsted, and felt myself all awry: Lilian had grabbed at my tie, plucked at my hair, dribbled on my shoulder, and altogether in her hands I felt that I was becoming a dishevelled figure of fun. ‘Thank you, Miss Adams, I think Lilian has become a little overexcited, perhaps you would take her back to the nursery,' I said, and as Lilian was removed, why was it that my word
excited
, perhaps a poor choice, seemed to be repeated by everyone in the room as they glanced at me, the word repeated over and over as if in mockery, until I strode to the bell and rang for tea. Whether they were mocking me or not, they would have a stop put to it.

When Norah became
with child
again, I knew better than to subject myself to the sounds of her being brought to bed. This time her pains started in the morning, and it was not difficult to ensure various pieces of business that would unavoidably keep me out of the house until late. The midwife was there, the specialist was on his way, Alma was running up and down as before with hot water and sheets: I had no wish to be the supernumerary husband once more, and left them to it.

This time Norah earned her keep in managing to produce a son. ‘A boy!' the nurse cried, panting with excitement. ‘A son for you, Mr Singer, you must be pleased,' this foolish woman babbled at me, staring and crowing, wanting to see me undone by the fact that she had brought me, wanting to see me full of womanly hysteria, and grateful to her for being the one to bring the glad news. ‘Mr Singer,' she cried, louder now, thinking I was deaf perhaps, because I was refusing her the satisfaction of seeing my triumph, ‘A boy, Mr Singer!' She was yellow now in her desperation, and was becoming ugly. ‘Quiet, woman,' I snapped, and she clutched the white starch over her flat chest. ‘Why should it amaze you that I have a son, woman? Half the world is sons.'

But from the beginning, John was a puling plaintive creature. Could this really be a son, I wondered, this spindly mauve baby lying in the cot, bulbous of head, blotched of face? Was this hairless head bobbing on its puny stalk of neck the head of a son? As if guessing my doubt, they unwrapped it, and held it out so I could not miss that purple bundle between its legs, so unlike Lilian's fat cleft at birth, but also so unlike my own appendage.

Norah lay pallidly with her eyelids drooping and her hands palms-up, supplicating, on the bedcover, but I felt the others watching me, all those nurses and midwives with their nipples under starch, as I wondered if my son and his handful of bruised flesh was normal. I was conscious of how they must by a logical association of ideas be thinking at this moment of what lay between my own legs: all those pairs of nipples pressed tight against starch must be wondering what my own organ of generation was like, to have produced what was on display before us. I thought of it, too, hanging proudly in front of me, and I could see none of that in what was between my son's legs.

‘He is such a finely made little chap,' one of the starched females cried. ‘Oh you must be so proud of him, Mr Singer!' and I was reassured then that they were staring in admiration rather than pity, and that eventually this sad little bunch of grapes would develop into my son's manhood.

In private I had to walk out on grass and feast on my joy. I knew what a son of mine would grow up to be, no matter how inauspicious his start. I could see his face already, my own face although of course smaller, and lacking the moustache for the moment. My son would soon grow out of the shell of that mauve monkey lying squalling upstairs, and would grow into a manly little chap who would square his shoulders, meet my eye with his own, and listen, nodding and saying, ‘Yes, Father, I understand.'

How I looked forward to storing the mind of a male-child with facts! I felt myself at this moment in my life to be ready to seize a son and fill his spirit with all that was admirable from my own. I began to plan how I might best oversee the growth of a well-equipped mind, free from any cant and delusion, and of a body trained to the harmonious domination of dogs, horses and women.

Fourteen

I HAD NEVER HAD any natural talent at camaraderie of the bar-breasting tall-tale-telling variety, but with Ogilvie it seemed possible, at least away from his home and wife, and our acquaintance slowly blossomed into further friendship.

To the superficial eye it was an unlikely union. On the one hand was Ogilvie, a man of ready wit, a man with a charming easy smile, a man who could do justice to an anecdote and was full of bold plans about this and that; and on the other hand was Singer, no one's idea of the life of the party.

My grave face and slowness with a smile had always been enough to persuade most men that I was what I appeared to be, a serious man for whom a joke was something you brought out only on the rare appropriate occasion, like the best china. That was true, but in the company of Ogilvie, I was aware of other alternatives. In my heart I had to admit that it was not so much that I disapproved of jokes, but that I was afraid of them. If I were more confident of telling a joke, or even of understanding one, I would not have had to hide behind such a solemn manner.

Ogilvie treated that manner as if it were an unfortunate handicap I had, like a limp or a stammer: something that a good friend would overlook or overcome with encouragement. Like a woman he joked and jollied me along, until in spite of myself I found myself unbending. His charm was a kind of seduction, and it was not too often that anyone had set themselves to charm Albion Gidley Singer.

Ogilvie became a regular guest of mine at the Club. I did not embarrass him by suggesting that he become a member, for I knew he could not afford it, and in any case it gave me great pleasure to sign him in as my guest, and usher him along in a proprietorial way, my hand under his elbow. I did not bustle, did not fuss, made no womanly palaver: we sat firm in our chairs, a pair of gentlemen whose minds were in harmony.

Outside, it was a splendid spring day. Even here in this dim room in a shaded street in the middle of the city it was impossible not to be aware that outside the sun was shining away, breezes were playing with the leaves of trees and the skirts of women, and there was a sweet sad smell of jasmine in the air. The long windows at the end of the Newspaper Room were open so that the impertinent breeze even penetrated this leather-smelling fastness, ruffling our newspapers and making the portraits of past members rattle on the walls.

I submerged myself in my paper, and became absorbed in the details of Dalgety's stock prices, but Ogilvie was restless. He twitched at his newspaper, crossed and uncrossed his legs, sighed, and generally fidgeted until suddenly he exclaimed, in that voice of his that never spoke except in an exclamation, ‘By Jove, Singer, but it is fusty in here this afternoon, let us get out, eh, how long is it since you have been to the races?' He winked a larrikin wink at me, and I was filled with some kind of rather breathless warmth that I had never known before.

Behind us, pillars of the community rearranged their newspapers ostentatiously and cleared their throats, but Ogilvie had more life in him than the whole of the Club put together. He had more life, and he had more wisdom, too, because he had guessed, as no one before him ever had, that within the dour personage of Albion Gidley Singer lived a wild fellow who was dying for someone to come along and lead him astray.

Only a man who failed to understand the laws of chance would be a gambler. We sat in our seats and watched the unshaven men down at the rails flinging their arms up and down and jumping on the spot: from our dignified distance they were not quite human.

Around us were thin men—for gambling did not make you fat—men in their shirtsleeves and greasy cloth caps; they were men sharp of elbow and chin, men with large hungry ears sticking out of the side of their crudely cropped heads as if to suck in luck, they were men whose hands were never still, reaching into their pockets for another handful of silver, or fidgeting with their betting-slips, and going wild when the race was on, shrieking like women, dancing up and down, pounding on the rail, or into their own cupped palm: like ants, or crabs, or praying-mantises in a frenzy.

I stared off after a man in a shirt with the collar half torn off, clutching his ticket as if it were gold, staring with haggard face ahead, not seeing the backs and fronts of people, but seeing his own salvation or ruin: seeing wads of greasy notes thumbed off from the bookie's roll, or his ticket torn into shreds and trampled, and an ache in the belly, of remorse as well as hunger. These men were blind with their fantasies, knocking into you as they hastened to fling good money after bad.

Ogilvie threw himself into it as he threw himself into anything, with tremendous verve, making me join him at the fence of the Paddock to point and talk about fetlocks and withers. I suspected that Ogilvie knew no more of fetlocks and withers than I did myself, but I could see that he was exhilarated to be here with me; I rather wondered, too, whether Ogilvie might even be trying to impress me with his knowledge of a fetlock, and the thought pleased me.

‘Ogilvie,' I said, and permitted myself to touch his arm, ‘Ogilvie, do you come here often, then?' Ogilvie laughed and without answering cried, ‘Oh Singer, we will have some jolly japes together today, I am sure of it.'

At last he decided on some set of fetlocks or other, and propelled me by the elbow over to where the bookies stood above the crowd with their yawning bags slung before them; beside them their numbers-boys flickered and twitched their hands in signals as quick as thought; beneath, punters eagerly handed up their money and walked away with a bit of scrawled-on paper as if it was a good exchange.

‘I would not have taken you for a gambling man, Ogilvie,' I remarked as he stood watching this one-way trade. ‘I would have said it was too illogical for your taste, which goes to show one never plumbs the depths of another human being.'

‘Ah, but Singer,' he exclaimed, ‘your equation is missing a factor: you have forgotten the pleasure element. I have been thinking about you, Singer, and I have decided that what your life needs is a little more of the thrill factor, and I regard it as the greatest privilege to be the one to perform your initiation.'

He gave me one of his smiles, eager and charming, and I felt the blood rush into my heart to swell it at the thought that he had wondered about me, reflected on me, guessed at what I would or would not do. I smiled back and winked, a reckless sort of activity I hardly ever indulged in, but my full heart had to have expression somewhere.

Ogilvie, in his eager enthusiastic way, was flushed with the thrill of the wager, and we hurried back to our seats in order to watch his set of fetlocks finish the race next-to-last. He did not appear humiliated, as I would have been, by this defeat, but cheerfully handed me his binoculars and pointed at the Members' Stand. ‘Take a look up there, Singer,' he said, ‘and tell me what you see.'

I had never used binoculars before, and saw nothing at first, but Ogilvie leaned over me and fiddled with the things while they were still against my face, so that I felt the warmth of his large hand over my cheek. All at once I could see with astonishing clarity the gigantic face of Sir Arthur Mackenzie, the steel man, popping a sandwich into his mouth like a lizard snapping down a fly, ‘Mackenzie,' I cried, and heard Ogilvie beside me say calmly, ‘Yes, Singer, and who else?' The binoculars jerked along a little further, past several women showing a lot of fine chest, who did not look like wives, and came to rest on a face I recognised from the papers, Sir Walter Bleasdale, the newspaper man, and next to him Sir Angus Worrall, the cattle king. They were all gesturing with their sandwiches and their glasses, cheering on some bit of horseflesh or other. I watched them from time to time over the next hour, and never saw them downcast, although it was obvious that they could not all be backing winners every time: they opened more champagne, talked and laughed around mouthfuls of chicken sandwiches, and cheered in an indiscriminate way at the end of each race.

As a general rule I was not a man to display ignorance. Long ago, with Father, I had perfected the non-committal nod, the grunt that might mean
yes
or
no
, and the way to wait for answers to present themselves. Asking questions had never been my way. I dreaded exposing my ignorance to Ogilvie, perhaps to see the smile fade from his mouth, the glow leave his face, as he turned to look at me with eyes from which the scales had fallen: ‘Singer, are you serious? Surely everyone knows
that!'
But as I considered further, I saw that Ogilvie had brought me here to astonish me, and to fill me with wonder at all the things he knew: it was a kind of gift he was making to me, and the appropriate gift in return was my unfeigned curiosity. In the end it was easier than I would have thought, simply to ask: ‘Ogilvie, are all those peers of the realm up there larrikins like your good self ? What is the attraction to them of subsidising the educations of bookies' brats?'

Ogilvie threw back his head and laughed, and I was pleased I had taken my time about arranging my question. He leaned his head so close to mine our cheeks almost caressed, twisted his mouth like a fish's and hissed, ‘A precise answer might involve me in a suit for slander, Singer, but let me ask you to consider two facts. One, winnings at the races are not taxed. Two, no one can query sudden accumulations of cash in a man who is seen frequently at the races. Gambling is for fools, Singer, as you and I agree, and those men up there are certainly not fools.'

A little later we made our way to the buffet, and I saw that Mackenzie and his party were heading that way too, and that we would arrive simultaneously at the door. I hung back somewhat, for although Mackenzie and I had chatted at the Club a few times and agreed that the Club's steak-and-kidney was the best in New South Wales, I was not confident that he would remember me now. And if I spoke, and he did not remember me, I would be utterly humiliated in front of Ogilvie.