Hills End Page 20

  There was Maisie now, staggering towards the fire with a great armful of newspapers and magazines that had been ruined by water, that probably she had scraped out of ditches or untangled from shrubs or peeled from muddy paths; and there was Gussie dumping her piece of timber on a nearby stack and straightening it neatly; and from Campbell’s house, on the hill behind the site of the hall, another column of smoke was rising from a chimney. There, it seemed, Frances must have found the facilities for washing and heating and cooking and sleeping and the safe water supply that Adrian had ordered.

  Where was Adrian?

  Paul glanced down to the flats and saw that during his absence the receding waters of the river had retreated beyond the mill. The engine shed, once standing in a courtyard of wood shavings, now looked like a miniature Noah’s ark stranded in a lake of mud and half-sunken debris. Leaning against the big pole beside the engine shed was an extension ladder, and at the top of the pole, looped over the crossbeams, were many coils of wire that Adrian had salvaged from fallen powerlines, but neither of the engines in the shed was beating. In that respect, at least, Adrian seemed to have failed.

  Suddenly a dog was barking. It was Maisie’s boxer and it brought an immediate response from Rickard’s collie and an excited yell from Gussie, ‘Paul’s back!’

  They raced towards him, Gussie, Maisie, and Butch, and Paul slid from the horse to the ground just in time to catch the bumble-footed Gussie as she tripped. He set her back on her feet and she was bright-eyed and flushed.

  ‘Oh, Paul,’ she panted, ‘is everything all right?’

  His smile wasn’t a real smile. ‘The bull’s out of the way, thanks to Butch, I guess.’

  Butch whistled. ‘Was he dead? Did I kill him?’

  ‘Far from it. Very far from dead, but he’d gone home and I lured him into the milking yard.’

  ‘Lured him?’ squealed Gussie.

  Paul wrinkled his brow, perhaps in modesty, but perhaps in respect to the truth. ‘Well—if a fella runs helter-skelter and a bull roars down like an express train, I guess it’s luring—in a sort of way. Anyhow, he’s in the milking yard and the gate’s barred. He won’t get out in a hurry. But I guess he needs a vet, poor brute. I reckon I jumped ten feet clear in the air to get out of that yard.’

  Gussie shivered and Maisie said, ‘Did you see any sign of Mr Tobias?’

  ‘I got the old horse,’ Paul said, ‘and went looking for the cows. Found two of them with their calves. Must have been a mile downstream. Couldn’t find the rest anywhere. I suppose they’ve gone bush or been drowned. Couldn’t bring the cart. Didn’t know how to get the horse into the shafts. Fancy living in the country all my life and still can’t harness a horse. Golly, I got into a tangle! Where’s Adrian?’

  Gussie glanced at Maisie, and Butch said, ‘Gone.’

  Paul’s heart jumped in a peculiar way. ‘Not—he didn’t electrocute himself?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snorted Gussie. ‘Don’t be silly. What on earth would make you think a thing like that? He’s gone to the Crossing.’

  ‘By himself?’

  Maisie nodded. ‘He had a good lunch and then he went. He’s got plenty of food and a good torch and spare batteries. He said he had thought things over. That it was best for you to stay here and look after us.’

  Paul wondered about that. He wasn’t too sure. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘But two days by himself—Adrian, of all people!’

  ‘He said he didn’t want you to go after him.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He couldn’t fix up the powerplant, Paul. He says it’ll take an engineer. He said both engines had run out of fuel and he couldn’t understand why. How could both engines run out of fuel? That’s what he said. He said perhaps you’d like to have a look at them.’

  ‘Me? Golly, I don’t know anything about engines.’

  ‘But he fixed the wireless up,’ said Gussie. ‘He brought it down to the shop and rigged up the power from car batteries. He’s got ten of them on the floor of the shop, all wired up to give a hundred and twenty volts. Adrian says all you need is a hundred and ten volts, but a hundred and twenty will make sure.’

  Paul frowned. ‘Where do I fit in? I don’t know anything about volts. I can’t work a wireless. Adrian’s learnt all these things from his dad. My dad doesn’t know anything about electricity.’

  ‘Everything is ready for you,’ explained Maisie. ‘All you’ve got to do is turn the switch and talk into the microphone. Adrian tried but couldn’t raise anyone. He said it might be better later in the day or after dark. He says if you’ve got any spare time it might help if you make the aerial longer.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Butch. ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘Paul,’ Maisie said, ‘did you see anything of Mr Tobias?’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better get on with this wireless straight away. We’ve got to get a doctor in, haven’t we, for Miss Godwin?’

  ‘That’s why Adrian’s gone,’ explained Gussie. ‘He said there might be a doctor waiting at the bridge, there might be a lot of people there, unable to get across, but with someone on this side to catch it they might be able to throw a rope or something.’

  Paul gave the reins of the horse to Butch. ‘Tie him up somewhere, Butch. I’ll have a look at the wireless…Where’s Harvey, anyway?’

  ‘Up the hill with an axe, having the time of his life…But you still haven’t answered Maisie’s question, Paul, about Mr Tobias.’

  Paul tried to ignore it again, but realized they had to know sooner or later. ‘He’s here,’ he sighed, ‘up on Rickard’s place in a ditch. Drowned.’

  Gussie had been going to tell Paul about her poor little goldfish that she had found dead in the midst of her broken aquarium, but it didn’t seem to be important any more.

  Adrian had dressed in his stoutest clothes and put on his hardest-wearing boots. Round each trouser leg he had added a sugar bag, bound firmly into place. He carried a tomahawk in his belt and a stout stick in his gloved hand, wore his father’s flying helmet to protect his head, and carried on his back a haversack filled with food, first-aid supplies, torch batteries, and a large square of waterproof sheeting. Adrian had tackled it systematically, but it would be far from the truth to say that he had tackled it without anxiety.

  Adrian couldn’t change his nature. With all the will in the world he couldn’t turn himself into what he considered to be a hero. He hurried along the road, or through the bush where the road was impassable, as fast as he could go, not so much because he was in a hurry, but because of a half-formed notion that the faster he went the longer the daylight would last. It was a silly idea that simply wouldn’t stand up to reality, but he couldn’t slow down. This compulsion that was fear of the night drove him on and on. He didn’t seem to realize that the faster he went the farther he placed himself away from his friends. The only thing wrong with Adrian’s idea was Adrian himself.

  Unfortunately, he had dressed not for speed, but for protection. Soon he was wet with perspiration and he had to peel off his gloves and then his flying helmet and wipe his brow and mop his neck again and again. The haversack was heavy and thudded against his back and shortened his breath. The shoulder straps bore down and hurt him and seemed to rub against the bone and he had to grit his teeth to bear it. And bear it he would, the soreness and the shortness of breath and the stitch in his side, because he would not pause, he would not rest, he had to hurry on to hold back the night. It might have been hours away, but he dreaded the night, because that fog hanging up there above the trees would ooze down again and turn all outlines into the forms of ghosts and all sounds into the cries and murmurs of ghosts.

  In truth, Adrian had not changed his mind. In truth, he had never intended that Paul should accompany him. He had resolved to do this alone. He had sworn to himself that he would drive himself until he dropped. He believed he had seen himself for what he was and he would not rest until he had won his honour. He didn’t know how like his father he was. His fathe
r didn’t know either. There were many occasions when Ben Fiddler had little regard for his son. Ben didn’t know his son any better than the boy knew himself.

  The ruined road wound on beside the roaring river, higher into the mountains and deeper into them and Adrian was climbing towards the fog. It didn’t need to come down. He didn’t have to wait for night to press it down. He climbed into it and it drifted round him and through the trees and the air became cold again and damp and harsh to breathe. He had to force himself on, against his nature, against the fears and the shapes created by his imagination.

  Suddenly, he stopped short, gasping with fright.

  He scarcely knew what it was that came out of the fog and grabbed him, except that it was a man, a wild-looking man who clutched him and panted against him and repeated his name over and over again. ‘Adrian, Adrian, Adrian.’

  So intense had been the boy’s concentration, so fierce his fight against his fears, that he didn’t understand what had happened until he saw that the wild man was not alone. There were others, just as wild, just as dirty, just as unrecognizable as his own father.

  ‘Dad!’

  Adrian shouted it to the heavens and flung his arms round his father and held on fiercely until he almost crushed the breath out of his own body. There never had been a moment more wonderful. They were saved. Men had come back into the world.

  ‘Oh, dad…’

  He still clung to his father with his face buried in the wet and tattered fabric of the big man’s coat, trembling, but not crying, and proud, so proud. He didn’t see his father’s emotion; didn’t see the fear in the faces of the other men.

  ‘Son.’

  Adrian straightened himself, too breathless to speak. He hadn’t realized that the other men were so close, Mr Mace, Mr McLeod, Maisie’s dad, Butch’s dad and Harvey’s. The fathers were there. They’d all come back and more were with them.

  ‘Why are you alone, son? Where are the other children?’

  Adrian squared his shoulders with his pride, because he could see that all these men were almost beside themselves with anxiety. They thought their children were dead. They were blaming themselves because they had left their children behind. Adrian knew that they had lacked faith in their children. He could see it in their haggard faces, in their very wildness, in the bruises and scratches and bloodstains and exhaustion that they had inflicted upon themselves in their desperate journey from somewhere far away.

  Adrian grinned. ‘We’re all well,’ he said, ‘every single one of us.’

  Adrian was astonished because he saw tears in the eyes of men. He had never seen men cry. He had never imagined that they could, and he felt the pressure of his father’s hand bearing down on his shoulder forcing him to kneel.

  ‘Let us pray,’ said Ben.

  They all knelt, but Big Ben said nothing. For a minute he was silent and then uttered his only word, ‘Amen’.

  Adrian looked up and the men were rising and his father said, ‘Righto, chaps. We’ll be on our way. Give me that haversack, lad…You see before you, son, men of little faith. We should have known better. We should have known that Frank Tobias and Miss Godwin—and the Good Lord—would take care of you all.’

  Adrian almost corrected his father, but something held him back. The denial was on the tip of his tongue but he stifled it. Let them find out for themselves. Let them see. Let them learn.

  ‘What were you about to say, son?’

  Adrian shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If there’s anything we should know,’ said Mr Mace sharply, ‘let us know now, Adrian. Don’t tell us our children are safe if they’re not.’

  ‘We are safe. The children are all right.’

  Big Ben’s hand was still tight on Adrian’s shoulder. ‘What’s the trouble, son? Out with it!’

  Adrian’s confidence in himself began to totter. He was back in the world of men. Back in the world of questions and answers and orders and impatient adult minds. For a while he had felt like a man himself. Every second now he was feeling more and more like a boy.

  ‘What are you doing here, son? Why aren’t you with the others?’

  ‘I was going for a doctor,’ he stammered.

  ‘Doctor!’ Big Ben’s hand tightened like a vice. ‘Who wants a doctor?’

  ‘Miss—Miss Godwin. She’s sick. She’s terribly sick.’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with Frank Tobias? What does he mean by sending a boy?’

  ‘Let me go,’ stammered Adrian. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Yes, ease up, Ben. Don’t frighten the lad.’

  Big Ben dropped his hand and Mr Mace said gently, ‘Forgive your father. He’s had a harder time than any of us. He’s carried the guilt on his own conscience, though we told him he shouldn’t.’

  Big Ben sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘If you were going to tell your father anything, tell him now. If we do have to go for a doctor, Adrian, it’s far better that one or two of us should go from here. We’re too tired to walk the extra distance home and back again if it can be avoided. You understand?’

  Adrian nodded and started his explanation in a level enough voice, but became more breathless, more strained, as he continued. ‘We want the doctor for Miss Godwin. We think she might die. And Mr Tobias didn’t send me because he couldn’t. You can’t blame him for anything because we haven’t seen him. We think he’s dead. And the town’s a wreck. It’s almost wiped out. It’s awful. But you know, don’t you? You sent the aeroplane.’

  They didn’t reply immediately, neither Big Ben nor Mr Mace. It was Harvey’s father who finally spoke, ‘I find myself wondering what these kids have been through. Let’s go, huh?’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Big Ben. ‘No, son. We didn’t send the aeroplane. The only warning we’ve had is what we’ve seen. The farther we’ve come the worse it has been. If it hadn’t been for that we could not have crossed the gorge. If it hadn’t been for landslides and fallen trees we would not have been able to cross to this side…Aeroplane. That’s interesting. If they know about us there’ll be others coming behind, and if the police at Stanley have got the sense I give them credit for there’ll be a doctor…What about it, you two?’

  He sought out, with a quick glance, a couple of young men. ‘Yes, Maurie and Norm. Your bones are the youngest and you haven’t any kids to worry about. Would you mind, terribly, going back and waiting at the Crossing? Escort them through. Show them the way. May be a day’s wait.’

  ‘Of course we don’t mind, sir. Do we, Norm? That’s what we’re here for. But what has Adrian got in his haversack? Anything to eat?’

  Adrian nodded. ‘Take it.’

  They took it, and Big Ben said, ‘Thanks, chaps. Good luck to you…And, as for the rest of us, we’d better be getting home.’

  Adrian noted how aged his father looked. Perhaps it was the grime or his unshaven face. Perhaps it was something else. And it was. If Big Ben had lost his town and his good mate Frank Tobias, he’d almost lost his own life.

  At twenty minutes past five o’clock eight men and a boy plodded across the clearing that had brought to the children, a day before, their first view of the ruins of Hills End. It brought now to the men almost the same view, almost the same shock. Layers of fog drifted here and there and smoke from a dozen fires hung low, but nothing could hide the awful havoc. It was too much for Ben Fiddler. He couldn’t look upon it. His empire in the forest was dead.

  The other men, no matter how shocked they were, no matter how deeply wounded by the loss of their homes and their jobs, were still apart from him. Ben’s loss was more than the loss of material things. It was the loss of his dream. It was the loss of the way of life he had built with his own brain and his own hands. So great was his loss, so terrible was the destruction, that surely it must be a judgment from God. He had believed he was a good man, but he could not have been. This was so savage, so final. He was ruined.

  Big Ben heard the voices of the men who worked for him, good
chaps all, expressing their sorrow, thinking of him even when they had lost so much themselves, and suddenly, cruelly it was, the voices were lost in the shrill, short blasts of a whistle.

  It was Adrian, blowing with all his might, and Big Ben was so outraged he could have struck the boy down.

  ‘Stop that!’ he bellowed.

  Adrian lowered his whistle, startled, not understanding. ‘But, dad,’ he said, ‘I was only calling the kids. It’s our signal.’

  ‘Signal! Signal! Don’t you dare do it again.’

  Adrian shrank, frightened by this anger, wondering how he could have forgotten this wrath that so often was in his father. The grown-ups were back all right. It had been tough without them, but a fellow forgot these things. His father was so masterful, so stern, so much like an old-time prophet. It had never been easy to live in his house.

  Then he realized that he was alone with his father. The men had gone, perhaps drawn by the distant shouts of the children and the excited barking of the dogs, or perhaps too embarrassed to stay or too impatient to wait on the pleasure of their boss. They had gone and were running, and towards them, from far away, Adrian could see the children running. He envied them somehow. No other father ruled as his father ruled. Adrian was set apart from his friends again. The danger might have passed, but so had a great deal more.

  Slowly Adrian pushed his whistle back into his pocket, and somehow it was symbolic. It seemed to signify the putting away of the little bit of dignity he had had, the little bit of bravery, and the adventure of fighting back.

  His father started walking down the hill with the hesitant gait of a broken man, and Adrian followed two or three paces behind. He couldn’t even feel sorry for his father, because how could anyone feel sorry for such a man?

  They met the others at the end of the main street. Little Harvey was sitting like a king on his father’s shoulders. Gussie was hugging Mr Mace’s arm as though scared to let go. Butch was telling his dad all about the bull. Maisie was holding her father’s hand and squeezing it. Paul, just a little apart, was watching Mr Fiddler’s approach, was watching Adrian pace miserably behind, and he realized then that he had been hard on his friend. Adrian might have had nicer clothes and a better cricket bat, might have had more of everything, but in the real things he was poor.