14
Reg Lumley’s final exit, although perfectly respectable, was accompanied by such lurid flames of publicity that in death the young man took on an almost phoenix-like quality of colourful resurrection from the burning hotel. The Warragul Store where for fifteen insignificant years he had worked and argued and held forth, was closed for half a day on the occasion of the Lumleys’ funeral, a public tribute that might or might not have been appreciated by the deceased, at last unable to voice his opinions.
In the previous chapter we witnessed a segment of the pattern begun at Hanging Rock literally burning itself out, five weeks later, in a city hotel. During the week-end of the fire, yet another was gradually coming to a freezing standstill amongst the mountain mists at Lake View. Mike had been nearly a week in town and the Fitzhuberts had returned to Toorak for the winter when a solicitor’s letter, mislaid, had obliged him to spend a couple of nights at Mount Macedon. Albert had met him at the Macedon station with the cob on the evening of Saturday the twenty-first – actually his train passed within inches of the Lumleys, en route for Melbourne. As the dog-cart passed under the now leafless avenue of chestnuts it had begun, almost imperceptibly to sleet. ‘Winter coming early this year all right,’ Albert said, turning up his collar. ‘Don’t wonder all the nobs that can afford to clears out for the winter.’ There were only a few lights burning in the usually brilliantly lit façade of the house. ‘Cook hasn’t left for her holiday yet but the Biddies have gone with the family to Toorak. Your old room’s ready and a fire laid.’ He grinned. ‘You know how to light a wood fire?’ A single light burned dimly in the hall and through the open door of the drawing-room they glimpsed the shrouded sofas and chairs. ‘Not too lively up here, is it? Better eat your dinner and come on down to me at the stables. I’ve got a bottle of grog the Colonel give me the day he left.’ Mike however was tired and dispirited and promised to come tomorrow.
The Lake View house emptied of the day-to-day presence of its owners was dull and lifeless. It existed only as a comfortable holiday background for his Aunt and Uncle and had no personality of its own. Michael, eating his chop on a tray by the fire, was dimly conscious of the difference between Lake View and Haddingham Hall, whose ivied walls had existed and would go on existing for hundreds of years, dominating the lives of succeeding generations of Fitzhuberts who had at times gone as far as to fight and die for the survival of its Norman tower.
Next morning the solicitor’s letter turned up exactly where Mike had expected – stuffed into the back of the little drawer in the spare room writing table. It was Sunday, and as Albert had a mysterious appointment concerning a horse on an outlying farm, he passed the greater part of the day in wandering aimlessly about the grounds. About midday the wreathing mists lifted to show a clear view of the pine forest against a pale blue sky. After lunch when the sun came out in fitful primrose gleams, he strolled down to the Lodge and was met with open arms by the Cutlers and regaled with hot scones and tea in the cosy kitchen. ‘And how’s Miss Irma? My, you wouldn’t guess how we miss her about the place.’ Mike confessed that he hadn’t seen her while he was in town, but understood she was sailing for England on Tuesday, at which Mrs Cutler’s face fell in genuine consternation. As soon as the visitor left, Mr Cutler, who like most people who live in close daily contact with nature was aware of elemental rhythms, said mildly, ‘I always reckoned there was something between them two. Pity!’
His wife sighed, ‘I couldn’t believe my ears when he spoke so casual-like about my poor dear lamb.’
At twilight Mike had gone down to the lake where the dry rattle of the reeds and bare willow streamers dipping in and out of the little cove (in summer a shaded anchorage for the punt) filled him with a restless melancholy. The swans had disappeared, and the water lilies, whose dark green pads dotted the black sunless surface. The oak where he had seen the swan drinking at the clam shell on a summer afternoon was naked to the sky. In the distance he could hear the little stream tumbling down from the forest under the rustic bridge. The tinkling music seemed to accentuate the stillness and silence of the interminable day.
As soon as he had finished his evening meal, he took the hurricane lamp that always hung in the side passage and made his way, in drizzling sleet, to the stable. There was a light in the window of Albert’s room and the trapdoor propped open with a boot for the reception of the visitor. On the table a bottle of whisky and two glasses were set out. ‘Sorry I can’t make a fire up here – no chimney – but the grog keeps the cold out and Cook knocked us up a sandwich. Help yourself.’ Mike thought there was an air of welcome, even of comfort, unknown in his Aunt’s drawing-room. ‘If you were a married man,’ he said, settling down into the broken rocking chair, ‘you would be what the women’s magazines call a Home Maker.’
‘I like a bit of comfort when I can get it – if that’s what you mean.’
‘Not only that . . .’ Like so many things one would have liked to say, it was too complicated to embark on. ‘I’d like to see you in a place of your own some day.’
‘Oh, you would, would you? I’d soon be getting itchy feet, Mike, even if I had the dough to settle down and raise a pack of kids. How are you liking city life with the nobs?’
‘Not at all. My Aunt can think of nothing but giving one of her ghastly parties – for me. I haven’t told them yet I’m going up North in a week or two – probably Queensland.’
‘Now there’s a place I never really seen – except the Brisbane waterfront and the lock-up at Toowoomba – oh, only for one night. I told you before, I was with a pretty tough mob in them days.’
Mike glanced affectionately at the brick red features, more honest in the flickering candlelight than the faces of many of his Cambridge friends who let their tailors’ bills run on for years and had never passed a night behind bars. ‘Why not take a holiday and come up North with me?’
‘Jeez. You mean that?’
‘Of course I mean it.’
‘Where would you be stopping?’
‘There’s a big cattle station I want to see – away up near the border. It’s called Goonawingi.’
Albert said thoughtfully, ‘I reckon I could easy get a job on one of them big runs. All the same, Mike, I can’t walk out on your Uncle and the horses unless I got someone to suit him at Lake View. The old bastard’s treated me pretty good, taking it all round.’
‘I understand that,’ Mike said. ‘Anyway, start keeping your eyes skinned for the right bloke to take over and I’ll write to you as soon as I know my plans.’ Money was noticeably not mentioned. At this stage the offer of a train fare to Queensland would have been out of keeping with the dignity of a perfect understanding. The stuffy little room was almost cosy what with the whisky and the light of the two candles. Mike helped himself to another drink and felt the gentle glow running through his veins. ‘When I was a child I always thought whisky was some kind of remedy for toothache. My Nannie used to dip cotton wool into the bottle. Lately I find a stiff whisky’s quite a help when I can’t sleep.’
‘Still thinking about that bloody Rock?’
‘I can’t help it. It comes back at night. Dreams.’
‘Talk about dreams!’ Albert said. ‘I had a bobbydazzler last night. Talk about real.’