Bony and the Kelly Gang. Arthur W. Upfield

maintained her distance even with her relatives. Sometimes old Mrs Conway impishly delighted in needling the potato digger, and covertly watched at the close of dinner to see if the new man fumbled his Mountain Dew.

      Ever careful to act the character of the horse thief lying ‘doggo’, and ever grateful to the Conways for the opportunity of so doing, Bony made no attempt to climb the social barrier, and made no advances to others of the clan living in the remaining settlement houses. He found himself liking these Conways, for their behaviour in their own home was exemplary. Electrician Flanagan was probably a boarder or a relation. Illegal practices were indeed hard to associate with them.

      The first doubt was born at the end of this first week.

      He was called to dinner by a small boy who must have been over-eager to perform the chore because on entering the large living-room the table was only then being prepared for the meal. The ancient Mrs Conway, seeing him standing uncertainly just inside the doorway, raised a delicate white finger and beckoned.

      Obeying the command, he stood before her where she sat in her high-backed chair at the open fire. She said something in what he presumed to be Gaelic, and waited for his response. Her granddaughter-in-law, turning from the dining-table, spoke a trifle sharply.

      “Talk English, Grandma, if you must talk.”

      “Mind your own business, girl,” retorted Grandma. To Bony she repeated: “I said, young man, you could work faster at the tatees. I’ve been watching you through my spy-glass. I can see you from my window.”

      “Nat can work as he likes,” remarked Mike Conway who had appeared without being noticed. “He’s working contract.”

      “To be sure, he is,” agreed the old lady. “But the faster he works the more money he earns. I know what I’m talking about.”

      There sat a woman who had lived for more than ninety years. She was a relic from an era when only faith and frugality could conquer in the battle with a hard land, and when the ability to laugh was the only ally. Bony could understand her, and perhaps, of all those in Cork Valley, he was the only man who did. Smiling down at her, he watched the swift change in her eyes, and ventured to relax the front he had shown as the hired man.

      “I’m thinkin’ it’s you who is missing out, Mrs Conway,” he said with a dreadful imitation of a stage Irishman’s brogue.

      “You see, marm, ’tis like this. The faster I work the quicker I earn me money, as you was just sayin’, but the sooner I finish me contract the sooner me eyes will starve from no longer lookin’ at a handsome woman.”

      The old lady tossed her white-capped head and chuckled with glee.

      “A sweet man, it is, indeed,” she chortled. “I’ve never heard such a lie since just before I was married.”

      Suddenly there was suspicion in the bright eyes that he was mocking her; and a stillness among those who had gathered in the room. Bony felt the menace of sudden violence. It was a risk he had calculated early that morning when he had gathered selected gum leaves, and subsequently practised playing on them again.

      With a leaf between his fingers, and the edge of it against his lips, he rendered ‘Danny Boy’, the reedy notes being low and of a texture which no fiddle could imitate. It did not matter that he failed to play it well. It was this new musical accompaniment to the remembered song which captivated his audience, for he trod the bridge, the only bridge spanning the gulf from the ancient race to the new one ruling Australia: the bridge of music. The vibrating leaf sent forth its last note, and instead of bowing and looking for compliment, the wily Bony stood with head drooping as though he were one with all the persecuted ones.

      A fire log hissed. The roast in the oven snoozed. A man said:

      “Play it again, Nat,” and Grandma Conway said firmly: “No. Not again just yet,” and began to cry.

      A woman went to her, and Mike’s wife called for assistance in serving the dinner. The others drifted to their places at the table, and for the first time Bony felt the relaxation of reserve towards him.

      “Is it hard to play on a leaf?” asked a much freckled girl of perhaps fifteen.

      “Not very,” replied Bony, smiling.

      “Do all the natives in the outback play on gum leaves?” a boy wished to know.

      “Not all of the station aborigines do,” replied Bony. “The real wild ones can only play on a didgeridoo, a length of hollow wood. It isn’t music as we understand music. They can beat in time with their ceremonial dances, but I’m sure they could never play an Irish tune.”

      It was as if a river had burst its banks. The previous reticence was swept away by the eager questioning of the children. Rosalie Conway set before Bony a platter of Irish stew as though it were an honour bestowed on him for his musical talent, and even the adults were interested enough to listen to his replies.

      “We’ll pick some leaves and play on ’em while Uncle Joe grinds on his concertina,” declared the boy on Bony’s right.

      “I like that,” objected the bald man. “Grinding on me concertina.”

      Another boy enthused:

      “We’ll have a band like they do on television. Instead of fiddles we’ll have gum leaves.”

      “You boys keep quiet and eat your dinner,” commanded Mike Conway without raising his voice, and his control over this family was instantly proved. At Bony’s end of the table there was silence.

      The back-drop of the great pictures, the grandfather clock, the several copper warming pans hanging on the wall, and the small bric-a-brac on mantel and shelves completed a memorable setting for the man seated at the lower end of the great table.

      He was thinking this when a bell rang.

      It was inside an old-fashioned domestic bell-indicator box, affixed to the wall just inside the passage door. The conversation at the head of the table abruptly ceased. Bald-headed Uncle Joe left his chair and, crossing to the indicator, flicked up the dropper covering numeral one. Unhurriedly, Mike Conway left his seat and came to Bony, saying:

      “Visitors, Nat. Better go to your room and shut down the trap. I’ll let you know when they’ve gone.”

      Bony nodded. Watched by the others, he sauntered to the back door, noting that several sympathised with him at having to leave during a meal. Rosalie Conway did not look at him. She sat immobile as though examining a fruit beetle among the portion of blackberry pie she had in her spoon.

      Having closed the back door behind him, he paused for a moment to accustom his eyes to the dark of early night, and to spend a moment listening for an approaching car or other vehicle. Hearing nothing, he passed between Conway’s house and the open-fronted shed building, coming to the edge of the only road through the settlement.

      At the entrance to the shed he stopped again, and now observed the headlights of a motor vehicle coming down the zig-zagging track from the white house on the ridge. He could just hear the hum of its engine. There was another sound, a low whirring noise. It came from the house opposite. Against the pale sky where the light of the departed day still lingered, he witnessed the dwarfing of a television mast. The antenna was ultimately telescoped into the roof.

      Chapter Five

      Peace and War

      The unlit lamp was on the table in his room. The trap was up and poised on a stick. The way of retreat was clear. Bony waited within the dark interior of the shed. Without effort his ear registered the noise of the oncoming car.

      He was convinced that the warning bell was associated with this visit, and also that the visit had been announced to the occupants of the opposite house who had immediately telescoped their television antenna. For the first time since coming to Cork Valley, the curtain was lifted a little on these Cork Valley people.

      “No one has ever gone in there and discovered anything