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  – Mrs McTaggart is my great-aunt, said Vivien not knowing how this information might be received.

  – So you got her house. It all fits. A young lady living in Annie Lang’s house and really one of us then.

  – Tell us about it Viv. They sat forward, ready for the business of fitting the world’s chaos to their model. This was a treat. A great deal of laughter and a terrific sense of energy filled that room. These women knew something: they had spared themselves from wasting effort on useless things. It was hard to imagine any of them afraid or vain or at a loose end. Even old Miss McAloon who kept sounding a sour note had this vigour, tolerating the jokes of her sisters and cousins and nieces. The newcomer was struck by how extraordinary it was for there to be such gaiety in Whitey’s Fall, such a concentration of noise in that silent township. She had assumed the gnomic brooding of Brinsmeads’ Store and the speechless drinkers at the public bar of the Mountain were the soul of the place. Here, the assumption blew apart in gales of merriment, the bright cheeks working, the shy easy eyes, the stout hands placed gently on that lino-covered table.

  – My great-aunt Annie is still alive.

  This was greeted with gasps and cries (some of which she did not recognize as dismay). In the flattering excitement, the tea stood forgotten.

  – Yes, she lives in England at a little place in the country.

  – So she’s gone to live in the new world. Tell her when you write that we’re still here safe and sound in the old one. Tell her we think of her.

  – Auntie’s just about an invalid these days, not ill though.

  – She must be ninety, Annie must.

  – Well her brother…

  – He knew us older ones, the rascal, the piping Mrs Collins contributed.

  – … was at sea most of the time.

  – Fancy Archie a seaman.

  They sat dreamily, the life of sixty years ago fresh in mind, so that slight changes came over them and they grew younger.

  – He sailed the world. Vivien suspected for an instant they were mocking her with extravagant attention, but went on, I can just remember him telling stories of foreign places. He was my grandfather. He died a good while ago.

  They let out a concert of breath. Archy’s grand-daughter large as life, so that suddenly the family likeness was obvious. The good and the bad were remembered about these lost Langs.

  – My father’s dead too, but I always knew where we came from because of Aunt Annie.

  – Did your grandfather die rich?

  – He made enough to be comfortable. In my turn, she changed tack as they inhaled the word comfortable, I’ve saved to buy my house and move out here where I want to be. I’m not rich any more than Grandpa was. But my father didn’t do well in life.

  – Did he tell you stories about us?

  – Bedtime stories of the giant grasshoppers and murders on the goldfield.

  The curlers pinched Mrs Buddall’s scalp deliciously.

  – So you came home to your auntie’s house, Mum Collins put the question as a statement.

  – She was delighted I think.

  – Of course she was.

  – Because if she ever feels up to it, she’ll come over and visit.

  But perhaps they no longer believed in Mrs Annie McTaggart as a person continuing to survive nobody knew where or how.

  – Well, you’re one of us, one of the Whitey’s Fallers.

  – Whitey’s Fallen as I call it! Mum covered her mouth with her hand for fear of the omen she’d spoken.

  – Yes and I’m very glad, said Vivien so that both Mrs Collinses reached out to touch and claim her.

  – Fancy Annie, one of them repeated confounded.

  They recreated her with amazement. Mum Collins felt distinctly insecure at the idea: Annie and all the intimate things she stood for, the darling difficult managing person, quick to flare up and no mistake, slow to forgive too. Though for the underdog she’d do anything. You could never tire her out, not Annie, not if anyone was suffering or in need (which was enough of itself to put independent persons off). An untidy housekeeper and no cook, good Lord no. In fact you couldn’t really, for the life of you, see what men went after in her. But they did go after her, that’s certain. And she was loyalty in person. She left the town when she was thirty; pfutt like dying, only not so familiar and without the same goodbyes. But to suppose she must now be someone who’d lived what you might call a whole life … this was a difficulty. And smaller than she was, age does make smaller, shrinking a body in a manner of speaking. Thinner or fatter it was equally strange. She might be crippled with arthritis, who could tell, after sixty years’ living as a stranger. Maybe a chronic sufferer from indigestion: and we know what that means, habitual chewer of Rennies. Well, yes. Deaf possibly. Senile, not knowing what she’s doing and not being able to hold herself in. Embarrassing as it always is. And day-to-day though. Corns on her feet. Swollen ankles. Rich was she? A wallowing pig in jewels and wicked money she never did a hand’s turn to earn for herself? Or an ageless busybody organizing charities and playing golf? Hard to imagine. A nuisance to think of. Because nobody else had ever done anything like that. No, nor sent a substitute back to remind you and make you think.

  – I’ve never been anywhere, Vivien began again feeling a stranger among these plump ruddy smiling faces. Which felt so much like home.

  – It is home.

  – Make no mistake, we’ve got our share of problems though.

  – I remember a time when scarce two families were on speaking terms, Mum Collins agreed. It was dreadful. You wouldn’t read about it. Open slather. The Miles McTaggarts blamed the Joe McTaggarts for their bad season with the crops, the two branches of Swans having a shot at one another, somebody forever getting stoushed. Jessie and Bertha McAloon gave us no rest from their wranglings, that’d be right Bertha wouldn’t it? You see. The Buddalls got stuck into the Collinses and split. And Eggie Schramm went bush rather than share the pub with his brother. Look at Jasper now; winners never get over it. Worst thing that can happen to you is to win an argument of the blood. It was a time to forget. You’d only need a milkchurn to go missing for half the people to be at the other halfs necks. Supposing a cow strayed, there’d be holy war to follow. Thank the Lord it’s past and mostly mouldy.

  The room became a bustle of elbows and hips and vigorous practised movements while they cleared dishes and cups, sluicing them in washing-up water. No doubt about the problems. The ladies touched Vivien, reaching her with a wonderful tenderness in their clumsy fingers. Teatowels were a flurry of work and cupboard doors flapped open for the glittering crockery. The house alive, a cat leapt out of the window in protest.

  – The question is, Miss McAloon persisted, sounding a sour note as if Vivien wasn’t there to hear. Will this Lang girl stay? Will she stick it out?

  – Will she ever! wheezed Mum and tucked Vivien under her arm, a new possession to be kept warm. We know what we know, she announced. And now Viv you’ve got to call me Mum like everybody does, because I won’t answer to anything but. Her jaw jutted and her nose bulged a contented shape.

  The doorbell rang, suburban and out of place, immediately followed by a voice calling.

  – Hullo, is Mary there Mum?

  – That’s Elaine now, several people said. And Mrs McTaggart went out to the front. As the chatter died down they heard Elaine’s voice on a note of alarm.

  – Scared me to death! She talks dirty words in German and gives them chocolate biscuits. I told them never never…

  The speaker surfaced into the kitchen and realized instantly who was standing among her safe neighbours and aunts. She halted at the doorway, pushing the stray hair back from her forehead with one hand, damp and shaky, the word never a solid object holding her lips apart, the hair aggravating her difficulties, anger brightening her eyes and colouring her cheeks; a thin worrying woman of forty, bitter at what her plain dress now showed about her.

  – Elaine this is Viv, she came to
pay us a call and would you believe it she’s one of the Langs. Do you remember? The old Langs and their Roman bones.

  – I was speaking to your children I think, said Vivien tackling the problem head-on and bravely.

  – They told me.

  – Fred, she explained lamely. And Susie. And Merv.

  – They’re mine, said the mother, meaning whatever she meant to mean.

  – Merv … someone sniffed affectionately for the brown eye and the blue.

  – They said, said Elaine confirming it.

  – I was so glad they called, Vivien explained. Really.

  – Really?

  The younger women cast their eyes down with embarrassment, because it could be them, after all, with the worries. But Mum Collins, cheeks ripe in kindliness, ignored Elaine’s sarcasm and guided their visitor to the door, leading her by the arm.

  – Call in again tomorrow, she invited. If I could get my rotten flesh up that hill of yours I’d come to visit, I would. And I go out any time of day, mind you, except of an evening. Of an evening I’m usually pooped. But not up that hill of yours, no way, not even when I’m at my best. Otherwise I’d be there like a shot to talk over old times of me and your grandfather and your Auntie Annie and to see how you was going with putting the place in order, getting it swept and that. Terrible lot of dust always, she called by way of goodbye.

  – Viv, she murmured softly. Viv Lang. Caressingly she said it, wondering what might be going on in that young head bobbing up and down. Watched her manner of walking, the tall rather heavy frame, broad back, stepping out purposefully so that you wanted to smile. The short curly hair. Smile. Thirty perhaps? And every inch a Lang now you came to look. Mum returned indoors on her fat padded feet. She continued to smile, filled with the anguish of loss when her friend, her impossible Annie, the one she loved most, had gone with the troops to the Somme.

  – What the hell’s all this babble about? she demanded borrowing a tone from her late husband as she reappeared in the kitchen, an outbreak of strife on her hands.

  Six

  The town’s workmen gathered by custom for their lunchtime meeting at the bar of the Mountain, their traditional two-hour break. Seeing each other gave them a firmer grip on the present, which had a disconcerting habit of slipping away. Among them, the three who met outside Brinsmeads’, Billy Swan, Uncle and the giant Tony. The bar, smoky and uncomfortable, was once the seat of mayoral deliberations before Whitey’s Fall ceased officially to be a town. Its mirrors held strange sights yellowed at the edges.

  – Goodday Jasper me boy! Uncle hailed the publican.

  – Hruh, said Jasper polishing a cloudy glass with a greasy cloth.

  – ’Jas, Tony greeted him, still spinning with thoughts of the new lady whose bags he carried on one arm last week and whose house he had just been spying at in the hope of a glimpse.

  The publican kept his head down, hiding his face. He stuck the glass under a beer-tap. The sparkling beer flowed. Two more cloudy glasses, still wet, were filled. He favoured Uncle with the dried glass; then placed his lifeless hand on the counter for payment. Tony hastily produced some silver.

  – My shout, he said, slapping the money down beside the hand.

  – Alright young fellamelad, Uncle conceded. Most probably it is about time you shouted too.

  The cool beer stung their throats deliciously.

  – So how’s business Jasper?

  – Hruh. The money was scooped off the bar and some spilt beer along with it.

  – Well that’s right, you never see the place empty. And what with so much sunny weather and that-there. Uncle waved his glass to greet the eight men already in the bar, one of whom signalled back. The others stood, glazed, watching neither Uncle nor the flicker on the television screen; men absorbed by inner visions.

  – ’Ian, Uncle politely acknowledged the contact.

  They drank. Tony studied his mate. Why was he hoping for a friendly sign? But Bill’s eyes were shiny transfers stuck on his face, behind them something dense and obstructive. Reassuring himself he couldn’t be the cause, Tony wisely ignored it as a mood coming on. Uncle was speaking again.

  – How’s that tractor Tony?

  – Not ready yet Uncle. Mr Ping’s putting the finishing touches to it today. Bit of neatening. Bit of welding and that. It’ll be good as new.

  – Finishin touches! Christ if you ask me young Pingaling must be smeltin the bloody iron hisself to take all this time.

  – You should have seen it.

  – What’s more, Uncle considered the case more objectively. Ping’s the kind of bloke’ll stop at nothin short of perfection. That’s his trouble. Could have made a fortune and bought hisself a sheep station by now, Ping could have, if he wasn’t so damn particular. That’s the Chinese in him I suppose. You can’t help bein what you are.

  Ten minutes ago Billy had been the earth under his own feet, feeling his weight, the weight of his body, his arms, his head. Now he was communicating silence to the others while they drank.

  – Rrssturmminipromburtilistioning, muttered Jasper with sudden expressive gestures directed somewhat to one side of his customers. No one noticed.

  – Groomahumpresnotisma, he shrugged and lifted his head so that his face could be fully seen for the first time, the conclusion he had come to being evidently uncomplimentary to the world. Lassisquorpalkinnyra, he grimaced. His damp clay features crumpled and winced, the tiny eyes half-blinded by disillusion and drink, gummed up with a mucous excretion. He took a bottle of whisky from the shelf, turned his back to save others having to acknowledge seeing, and tossed off a generous draught. An announcer appeared on the television to read the news: emotional scenes at Parliament House over the country’s financial crisis.

  Uncle laughed outright.

  – You interested in politics Tony?

  – Not much.

  Tony relaxed, he knew what was happening to his friend Bill now. They all knew and no one would risk interfering.

  – Dad’s keen to see the back of this lot, that’s all I know.

  – Maybe, Uncle allowed. But who’s keen to see front of the others? That’s the joke. You get rid of one Prime Minister, you’ve got to put up with another. And he’s always worse for some reason. One of the marvels, that. You can’t tell me nothin about politics. They don’t care. We might as well stop existin. You try fronting up to them you’ll find out. The next one’ll be worse than anythin we’ve known so far, mark my words. Stands to reason.

  – We don’t exist, Tony nodded agreeably as he had nothing more to contribute and it was his policy to agree with the old man. He looked up to Uncle because Billy looked up to Uncle.

  – Durrmumprowgerostiment, Jasper growled ferociously.

  Billy’s throat began swelling and working. (He lay against a stony bank, his head below the crest of grasses, he was panting. The time had come, the test. Messengers dispersed all over the country with news that the Romans had defeated the Gaulish clans and planned to attack the White Land itself. Their boats were just out there, they had arrived. Trembling with energy, he could hear the enemy forming up in the dawn twilight. He was ready to fight. Listen. Yes you could tell there were a lot of them and you could hear their comical clothing, hide skirts with discs and knobs, you could imagine their legs how they were said to be, tied up with leather thongs as if the muscles would fall off otherwise, you could hear metal clinking, the creak of foot coverings, even a hoarse whisper in their stiff language, but on this side of the embankment an awesome silence, marshmen as far as the woods in one direction and reaching to the swamp in the other, women too, flat against the ground. The sky dissolved to liquid light, washing out the last stars. As the witch had said, you are the deadly plants of the soil. The outlanders whispering now so close, and not knowing. At first sight of them, your hair bristling. A single gold eagle rigid as a dead bird rose above the grass from the slope below, death glittering on a pole in the sky, next a row of horsehair tufts jerking into view
. White and red tufts: the sign foretold. The terrible unbelievers the Goddess had cursed. He was on his feet and so were all his kin, the marshmen, a scream curdling in their throats, echoes immediately yelping back from the surrounding hills. Screaming and flailing, arms jerking, stones and spears hurtling among the invaders, thudding into flesh or ringing against strange metal. He was running right in through the enemy ranks as all his folk were, among hot stinking bodies. He glimpsed their leader, the dreaded Yulius Kyser being carried ashore on a platform to command the battle, the man who had spoken of us as if we were small boys without science or art and too stupid to see the benefits of slavery. The nameless power of what he knew was with him. The enemy who all looked the same, not really men, who must be killed for the Goddess; life depended on this. To be conquered would be impossible. It was known. He ran and leapt, shrieking into their caged faces, he and his brothers, limbs smeared with muttonfat, throats raw. Fighting against a man now whose very appearance filled him with horror, a man with dark skin dark all over, brown like a corpse, his hair black as a demon and black eyes that saw right into you. He struck at the dark man with all the strength of his fear, his knife. Bright blood fountained surprisingly from the brown neck. The enemy dropped his sword and clutched the wound as if to stuff the blood back in. The Goddess had chosen this moment as a gift to him so he had time to scrabble, terrified, for that weapon, he had the sword. He experienced its strange unaccountable weight. Yet it lived in the hand, gave power to the arm. He swung it and it sang so that he was invincible. The Roman soldier, still clutching his neck, blood squirting out between his knuckles, stood in the frontline unarmed, displaying his incredulity, absorbed by the need to keep himself from dying. But the dreadful thing could be seen in his eyes, it was as if watching his killer he saw some dirty dangerous scavenging dog who swung the sword like an idiot, amazed at its harmless whistle. The dead man fell simply as a tree. You have to leap back so the corpse won’t contaminate you with death. You suddenly understand about weight, a falling man is so much heavier than he was when alive, the shape of a man is seen to be to do with the life of a man not his death, the body suddenly lumpish and ridiculously helpless, its weight a measure of weakness. The dead thing rolls slightly in the dust where it falls so that you hate it and stamp on it and waste your energy kicking at it, horrible, you don’t want to look but you have to because you have to be sure. So with this man who fell simply as a tree, while countless duplicate legionaries clambered up the ridge into view to take his place. And the dreaded Kyser set his foot on the White Land. Hei-e-e-eigh! sang the defending marsh people and the strength of earth was in them though they were losing.)