Best Australian Short Stories (15 page)

I was wondering, I remember, whether I would ever be able to return and assume command again of that human shape, lying so unconcernedly there and breathing so tranquilly, and whether, if something happened and I couldn’t get back, it would perish; wondering, too, whether, if it continued to live, it would have to be kept in bed all the rest of its uncomprehending days, when, without warning, it heaved and rolled towards me.

I fled in terror, and, trembling, hid beneath the pillow.

The movements of the bed-clothes sounded like waves on a beach, but, near at hand, was a much louder and more alarming sound, a ding-ding-dinging and a rattle like a donkey-engine. In the metal casing and glass of a formidable-looking machine, attached to a length of loose-lying brass cable, I recognized my Waterbury watch, tremendously enlarged.

I could tolerate its deafening and purposeful uproar no longer, so crawled stealthily from under the pillow and was summoning sufficient courage to explore the tangled blonde wilderness resting on top of it and reaching far above me, like a densely-wooded hill, when, with a thud, something fell nearby. Turning round, I met the curious gaze of another flea—the one that had been nearest me when we climbed up through the mattress.

“How are you getting on ?” inquired the newcomer, sitting down beside me with easy self-possession and a superb disregard of the heaving flesh-mountains above us.

I tried to seem cool and collected and in complete harmony with my new environment, and said that I was getting on splendidly. My pretence of assurance, did not, however, deceive my astute companion.

“A little nervous, aren’t you?” he asked. “First human meal you’ve ever been close to, eh ? You’re a cat or a dog flea, I suppose?”

I thought it would save argument, for which just then I was disinclined, if I said that cats and dogs had provided me hitherto with board and lodging, free travelling facilities and all the excitement I desired.

“Had a feed yet?” asked my companion, obsessed, obviously, by physical needs and gazing at me with glittering, cold, and restless black eyes.

Deciding to attempt no further dissimulation, I confessed to feeling absolutely ravenous.

“You’re the slowest flea I’ve met in all my born days!” he exclaimed, and, rocking himself to and fro, he snapped his legs together delightedly and burst into a cackle of sardonic laughter.

“Bless my soul!” he ejaculated, “who ever heard of a hale and hearty flea starving to death in the midst of plenty ?”

I felt more embarrassed and annoyed and muttered something about courtesy to strangers in a strange bed and circumstances altering cases.

“Cheer up!” said my disconcerting acquaintance. “I’ll take you round a bit. All you want is a square meal, my lad. I’ve had several myself already, but I don’t mind at all if I have a few more. Follow me!”

And, with that, he leapt upward, speeding like a golf-ball, and, gathering myself together in a mighty spring, I had not the least difficulty, I discovered, in following him.

The sensation was magnificent.

We landed close together on a plain of stomach, and, with incredible swiftness, running and jumping, we descended the right leg-mine—that trusty leg which had served me, not without aches and fatigue, but faithfully, nevertheless, for years and years. Side by side with it, and flowing away like a smooth mountain-ridge, until it became lost to view in vast, sagging folds of bedclothes, was its counterpart, my other staunch old limb.

I do not know why, but I began to feel elated.

Stopping his headlong career in open country, down towards the knee, and feeling the soft, warm slightly moist and gently palpitating flesh with his feet, my companion proceeded to dine. I was about to do likewise, when he looked up suddenly and, shouting “Jump!”, disappeared under the kneecap. Before I could think or move, herculean fingers grabbed me, and, rushing me upward, flung me into space.

Rebounding from some hard substance—the wall, probably, or a mirror—I fell into water.

Looking about me, bruised slightly but otherwise intact, I seemed to be floating, nay, drowning rather, in a large, milky lake enclosed by a shining, unbroken, opalescent wall.

The water tasted and smelt of carbolic soap. And then the full horror of my plight came upon me. I was in the wash-basin. Well I knew there was no chance of escape. Fleas cannot swim. They can only struggle uselessly until they become waterlogged, which doesn’t take long, whereupon, still struggling vainly, they sink. And that is the end of them.

I struggled furiously. Frantically I waggled, turned somersaults in the water, and writhed. My efforts brought me close to that smooth, gleaming, inexorable whiteness. I clutched at it with several feet and tried to climb, but always slipped back, as off a glacier. Again and again I tried, mocked by wreaths of painted greenery, but, losing all self-control at last, I bellowed at the top of my voice like a forlorn and tempest-battered sea-lion.

Clutching wildly, I became entangled in something. It was a drowning mosquito. Then began a life-or-death struggle between us. The mosquito shrieked thinly as I trampled him under, and beat me with his saturated wings, but I was the stronger, and, before long, with a faint guggle, a blip or two and one last, long tremor, he lay quiescent on the water. Clinging to him, I raised myself as high as I could and shouted to my human body across the room that I, its usual inhabitant, was drowning. My former habitation either did not hear me, however, or was wilfully deaf. Not caring a dump, I concluded, disconsolately, it continued to slumber.

Cramp now gripped me. My frail support, becoming waterlogged, sank beneath my weight. My eyes grew dim. I was suffocating. The faces of relatives, friends, monkeys, birds, fish, horses, horned beasts, alligators, wolves, hyenas, watch-dogs, rodents, marsupials, contortionists, king-beetles, zoophytes, acrobats, octopods, iguanas, spider-crabs and triantelopes hovered round me. Faces seen in photographers’ showcases, illustrated papers, on the screen, in patterned carpets, aquariums, wall-paper, log-fires, sea and moun-tain mist, trees, bed-quilts, smoke, cloud-banks and goodness knows where else besides were also there in large numbers.

I could hear a babel of voices, far away and murmurous, as though high in the air or imprisoned underground, yet, as it seemed, gradually drawing nearer. Stretching before me, intensely green and dotted here and there with dandelions and daisies, was a delectable wilderness, limitless, in my humble and perhaps geographically valueless estimation, for, unless my eyes deceived me, there was no horizon.

An invisible orchestra played tenderly a quivering and haunting air. Then came oblivion.

HENRY HOLDEN decided to get an Italian prisoner-of-war after he had seen several at work on Esmond’s farm. Esmond was building a shed, and it was beautiful to see how they rushed to carry any-thing he picked up, and how they seemed to take it for granted that they were there to do all the heavy work while the boss gave the orders.

When the captain in charge of the P.O.W.C.C. had a preliminary look over Henry’s place he tactlessly asked him if he were an invalid; he saw so few signs of work being done and so many of neglect. He wasn’t at all keen on letting Henry have a P.O.W.; he didn’t think he was the type to handle them successfully, but on the other hand, he was eager to get his “hundred”.

When the P.O.W. arrived Henry was decidedly disappointed with him at first sight.

He did not look obliging and polite; he didn’t even look like an Italian. He had a tremendous amount of fuzzy brown hair, his eyebrows were so large and dense they nearly surrounded his eyes and thick hair grew all round his neck and jutted out of his ears. His small bright eyes glinted sharply from among all the hair, not at all like the large, soft, and servile eyes of the Italians at Esmond’s.

In fact, he reminded Henry of a big brown bear, with his air of having great physical strength and tremendous determination. When the military truck moved away Henry had an uncomfortable feeling of having let himself in for something.

He directed Pietro to his room and, while he was settling in, tried hurriedly to work out a plan of what to do with him. There was, of course, plenty of work to be done, but it wasn’t easy to start a man who didn’t understand English, or know Australian farms. In a few minutes Pietro appeared.”Worrk,” he said briefly and determinedly.

Henry abandoned his half-formed plan to let Pietro have the first half-day off. He thought of a number of jobs, only to realize that he didn’t have the necessary materials. In desperation he decided to repair a fence. He pointed to the fence and to some tools and tried to explain to Pietro.

“Unnerstan’,
reparare,
” said Pietro.

He picked up a shovel and pick, and starting hunting for a “leva”. Henry soon realized that he meant a crowbar, but he couldn’t remember where his was. Pietro looked at him in astonished approval. When they started off, Pietro carrying all the heavy tools while Henry carried the wire-strainer, Henry felt better, though he was sure Esmond’s men would have offered to carry the wire-strainer, too.

They did little good with the fence, though Pietro was obviously eager to work. It really needed a lot of new posts and wires and Henry had neither. They tightened what wires were there and braced and stayed some of the key posts in a makeshift manner. Pietro liked the wire-strainer. Apparently he had never seen one before, and was greatly intrigued with the way it worked.

“Very ni’, very ni’,” he said.

But when they were going home for dinner he glanced disapprovingly at the propped-up posts. “No good, no good.”

After dinner, Henry usually had a nap that lasted well into the afternoon if the day happened to be warm, but Pietro apparently didn’t know about dinner hours. He waited outside the door for a while then knocked and said, quite politely but very firmly, “Worrk.”

Henry went out, and remembered the woodheap. It cheered him up immensely. He had recently brought in a load and it would take Pietro several days to chop it up. It would be a great standby. Pietro could work there all afternoon.

He lay down while Pietro chopped with great vigour, but he could not sleep or even relax properly because of his problem. His wife and family, too, kept asking him questions; they were rather awed by Pietro.

He heard the rumble of the wheelbarrow on the veranda several times and sounds of cut wood being tipped out. Then Pietro knocked on the door. He pointed to the great pile of wood and said, “
Sufficiente.
”

“No, not sufficient,” said Henry. “Chop more.” Pietro looked at him with a blank expression.

“No unnerstan’,” he said, and before Henry could work out another way of expressing himself, he inquired, “Sufficiente one day? Two day? T’ree day?”

“T’ree day,” Henry admitted reluctantly.

Pietro smiled broadly and looked surprisingly pleasant as he did so. “Plenty sufficient,” he said, closing the argument.

Henry went and got his hat. He could hear the wind banging a loose sheet of iron on the roof of the machinery shed. They would begin by nailing it down. But when they climbed the roof Pietro discovered that half the sheets were loose. Henry gave him the nails and directed him to nail down the flapping sheet. But Pietro was hunting round for causes. He discovered that the rafters were rotting and demonstrated it by giving one a hard hit with the hammer. It split from end to end and a couple of sheets immediately blew off the roof.

They spent the afternoon cutting trees in the scrub and trimming them for rafters, though nothing had been farther from Henry’s intention and inclination. He cut down a few little trees while Pietro cut a lot of big ones. Pietro always took the heavier end when they loaded the rails, but even so Henry became exhausted. Round about four o’clock he decided to go home.

“Sufficient,” he said.

Pietro consulted a diagram he had made.

“No sufficient,” he said.
“Ancora
four.”

They went on working.

At tea that night Pietro met all the family. There was a flapper daughter, three younger boys, and a baby. He was particularly interested in the baby.

He made some queer foreign noises at it, and to everyone’s surprise it showed unmistakable signs of affection for him. He asked Mrs Holden if it were breast-fed, and when she told him, in some confusion, that it was not, he wanted to know why. Then he gave her detailed and intimate directions, mainly by signs, about how to ensure an abundant flow for the next baby. The flapper daughter half smothered a lot of embarrassed giggles, and the boys nearly “busted” trying not to laugh. Henry felt that he should reprimand Pietro for his indelicacy, but didn’t know how he could make him understand.

The next day Henry felt stiff and sore. He decided to relax, but Pietro kept calling him onto the roof, sometimes for advice, but mostly to help him in fitting rafters which were too big to be “
possibile solo”
.

They finished re-roofing the shed by the week-end. Pietro wanted to know if he would cut some fence-posts next week to repair the fences. Henry thought of how he would suffer if he had to work on the other end of a cross-cut saw with a tireless bear like Pietro. “No,” he said, “some other work.”