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  Bony and the

  Black Virgin

  ARTHUR UPFIELD

  Pan Books Sydney and London

  in association with William Heinemann

  First published 1959 by William Heinemann Limited

  This edition published 1984 by Pan Books (Australia) Pty Limited

  68 Moncur Street, Woollahra, New South Wales

  in association with William Heinemann Limited

  © Arthur W. Upfield 1959

  ISBN 0 330 27054 0

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it

  shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold.

  hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior

  consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Printed and bound in Australia by the Dominion Press-Hedges and Bell, Melbourne

  Contents

  Map

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Map

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The Downers Go Home

  WHAT’S TO be done with a cunning father you have to chase from pub to pub? The truck is serviced and loaded with stores, and everything is ready for the hundred-and-ten miles of blazing track to the old homestead; and the Old Man has to be chased from pub to pub.

  In this third year of severe drought covering the western half of New South Wales and a third of Queensland, there were three hotels in Mindee, on the River Darling, each within trotting distance of the others. They were oases within the shadows cast by stately pepper trees, and it was natural for anyone leaving one of them to make a straight line, or as straight as possible, to the next one.

  Old Man Downer was a knowledgeable man. He entered a hotel by the front, ranged to the bar counter, ordered a quick ’un, paid, winked at the barman, and departed via the back yard. There he would skulk like a film spy until his son entered the bar to inquire after him, and would trot swiftly to the next hotel. And every barman in cahoots with him.

  There stood the Downers’ truck outside the only garage, and there angrily stalked young Eric Downer, into and out of the three hotels. And under a vast red gum tree in the small central space of Mindee stood Sergeant Mawby, a bear-like man who moved lazily and spoke softly, and was ever gentle save when preserving the peace.

  “You looking for your father?” he inquired mildly of young Eric Downer. “I just saw him go into the River Hotel.”

  Hot, and furiously angry, Eric halted before the sergeant. He was of average height, supple, nervously alert; his grey eyes were in sharp contrast to the sun-blackened face. A good school had left merely a faint trace of the back-country accent.

  “You know how it is, Sergeant.”

  “Yes. Up to his tricks again, eh? Longer he’s in town, the more active he gets.”

  “He knows full well it’s time we headed for home. He knows I’ve the truck loaded and ready to pull out. He’s had a good binge—a month of it. He goes on like this every year. Break a feller’s heart.”

  “Got his good points,” commented the policeman, a chuckle rumbling low in his throat. “Never any trouble. Always polite and well-behaved. They don’t make ’em like him these days, Eric. Anyway, I agree he’s had it. You go in the front of the River Hotel, and I’ll snaffle him when he comes out by the back.”

  “You won’t charge him?” asked Eric, uneasily. “Have to get going, you know.”

  “I know my job, young feller.” Mawby’s eyes were minus guile. “Your dad would be the last character I’d jug.”

  “Thanks.” Eric strode into the River Hotel. “Seen the Old Man?” he asked, glaring at the barman.

  “Was here a minute ago. Must be out back,” replied the publican, smirking. “Bit hard to locate this morning?”

  Eric passed from the bar, along a passage, into the back yard, and from there, via a side lane, to the open space. Then he saw Sergeant Mawby escorting a man one-fifth his size, and half his height, towards the parked truck. The captive was urged up into the driving cabin and the policeman leaned non­chalantly against the imprisoning door. His dark-brown eyes lazily surveyed the captive.

  “As I just told your son, Downer, you’ve had it,” he said. “Now you’re all set for home. If I see you again in Mindee this side of Christmas, I’ll jug you.”

  “You got no right!” shouted Downer. “I always behave. I’m not a bum or a pest. I’m sober as a judge.”

  He was better dressed than a judge. He was wearing a new suit, the creases knife-edged. On his white hair sat a new velour hat. The moustache matching his hair was neatly trimmed. He was a dynamo of a man which the whisky of three hotels had failed to slow down.

  “Anyhow, so long, Sergeant,” he shouted. “Thanks for everything, and to hell with you.”

  Sergeant Mawby grinned. Downer winked. Sergeant Mawby winked. The truck moved off.

  At the edge of town, he shouted to his son:

  “Always know when I’m beat, lad. Got everything aboard?”

  “Without any help from you,” returned Eric, still savage.

  “You didn’t forget the reviver, did you?”

  “Forgot nothing, with no help from you, as I said.”

  “Someone told me the river’s coming down,” continued the old man, placatingly.

  “To hell with the river.”

  “That’s right! That’s right, keep on arguing,” yelled Downer. “The booze don’t agree with you, that’s what. Keep your clapper shut if you don’t want to talk, and let me doze a bit. Damn the hat.” Snatching off the headgear, he threw it to the floor, and placed his elastic-sided boots hard down on it. After that, in ten seconds, he was asleep.

  This Australia does strange things to men. Some men it frightens almost to death, and drives them back to the coastal cities where they can browse like steers in a herd. Other men it cures. With the heat of the sun, and the abrasive action of wind and sand grains, it cures as smoke will cure sides of bacon. Here was old Downer, well over seventy, and one could judge him to be not older than sixty. Here was his son, twenty-six, and looked ten years older. Cured, such men remain impervious to change, physically and mentally.

  There was a fence gate ten miles upriver, and at this stop Eric made his father a trifle more comfortable, and smoked a cigarette. For a month they had let go the problems imposed by a seemingly never-ending drought, and each had ‘played’ in his own manner. Now town had become a bore, and the call of home was strong although the return meant continuing worries.

  The road was but a track, iron-hard over the clay-pans and sand-clotted on the red spurs. There was no ground covering, no grass, herbage or shrubs, nothing beneath the red gums border
ing the river, nothing within sight which could support a goat. The river was reduced to a stream running sluggishly in a ditch.

  Some time later, when they were passing a desolate settler’s house, dogs ran out to bark a welcome rather than an alarm, and John Downer heaved himself up from the pit of insobriety.

  “Parker’s,” he said. “Time for a snifter, lad.”

  “Hold it. We’ll boil the billy at the Cliff,” decided Eric.

  “Can’t wait,” moaned Downer. “Cliff’s nine miles to go.”

  “That’s where we’ll have the snifter.”

  In the stunned condition Downer found himself, he hunted for pipe and tobacco, and swayed to the rocking of the truck as he tried to slice chips from a plug. Presently he surrendered, saying:

  “Give us a cancer stick. Crook when a feller ain’t let down to fill his pipe.”

  Eric extracted a cigarette from a packet in the dashbox, and managed to ignite it. His father fumbled it to his mouth, drew twice, spat out of the window before tossing the cigarette out, too. He said something about fags being good enough for girls and town twirps. The nine miles for him were ninety.

  Where the track skirted a river bend, a hundred feet above the dry bed, Eric gave the old man a moderate tot of whisky before brewing a billy of tea. The tea his father wouldn’t drink, until threatened that before he did, and ate a slice of bread and cold mutton, he should not have another tot.

  “Like your mother, rest her soul,” snarled old John. “ ‘Do this and do that. And you go easy on the drink, and don’t you smoke so much, and you …’ Oh, hell!…”

  “And she said to me, ‘You look after your father, Eric,’ ” swiftly added the son. Then, cheerfully, “One thing about you is, you can keep on your feet. Next time I’m ready to leave town, I’ll apply to Mawby first, rather than delay, to snaffle you.”

  “Yes, I suppose you will. The modern generation! Always out to control their parents. Still, you done your job, lad, and your mother would have cheered you on. Rest her soul!”

  Fifty miles upriver from Mindee, they reached the main homestead of Fort Deakin, to be welcomed by Midnight Long, the manager, and Mrs Long. They were given the mail for the out-station called L’Albert, and vegetables, as the garden at L’Albert was now a dust heap.

  It was forty-eight miles to L’Albert, and another twelve miles to the Downers’ homestead at Lake Jane, and once away from the river trees, the plane of the hot October sky pressed upon the plane of the sleeping earth, with no shadows between, and no depth or perspective for man’s eyes to register in the steady colourless glare.

  John Downer’s tongue was arid when they arrived at L’Albert, where they were warmly welcomed by the overseer, Jim Pointer, Mrs Pointer, and their daughter Robin. Mrs Pointer urged them to stay for dinner, but the Downers were anxious to be home.

  “Seen anything of Brandt?” asked John of the large Jim Pointer.

  “Was over two weeks back,” replied Pointer. “Things bad, like everywhere. He complained of isolation at your place, saying it wouldn’t be so bad if you’d linked up with a tele­phone.”

  “Do that when the drought breaks,” grumbled Downer. “Should have done it years back, but you know how it is, with the price of wire and all.”

  “And the price of whisky,” smilingly added the overseer.

  “Wouldn’t have a snifter to hand, I suppose?” suggested the old man, and was given a head shake and a reminder of Mid­night Long’s attitude towards drink on his station.

  Knowing that Carl Brandt, who had been left in charge at Lake Jane, was a poor cook, Mrs Pointer gave them a batch of bread, and some of the vegetables brought from the main homestead. She was short and rotund, and inclined to giggle, and often almost eager to give the entire contents of her house. Following a short conversation with vivacious Robin Pointer, Eric slid in behind the wheel, and started on the final stage to Lake Jane.

  “You doing any good with Robin?” asked John, with feign­ed casualness.

  “Same as usual,” the son answered. “You interested?”

  “Course I’m interested. You’re getting on. Time you was married. And besides, it’s time there was another woman at Lake Jane. You’re taking over pretty sound like, relieving me of the running of the place. I don’t find anything wrong with Robin.”

  “Then you marry her.”

  “Me! Talk sense.” John skidded away from the subject. “Hope Carl Brandt been looking after the sheep properly. Looks like there’s been plenty of wind lately. Road’s clean of even truck tracks.”

  They came to the boundary of their property where on a sheet of tin wired to the gate was the announcement, ‘Lake Jane … Five Miles’.

  Lake Jane! A lake! A lake in this paralysed, waterless waste! Lake Jane was a depression, egg-shaped, three miles wide, pocked with brittle herbal rubbish which would powder if trodden upon, dark and repellent. The narrow beach was cement hard, white against the encircling sand dunes, and offering a racing track. On the far side of the ‘lake’ the Downers’ homestead gleamed under the sun.

  As they followed the curving beach, the distant homestead moved gradually towards their front, and presently the old man said:

  “Something wrong with the mill; looks like it’s broke.”

  “Could be,” snapped Eric. “Can’t trust anyone these days to look after the place.”

  The beach ended at a bar of coarse grey sand, named the Crossing, over which past floods had poured into Lake Jane. Eric revved the engine when on the sand, dropped into low gear, and pressed hard on the accelerator, keeping the loaded vehicle on the move. Three hundred yards of this, and when they roared up the incline towards the homestead the radiator was boiling.

  The homestead gate was closed, and when John got down to open it Eric sat crouched forward over the steering wheel. The mill just beyond the house was stationary and two of its vanes hung brokenly from the head. No smoke rose from the house chimney. Between the gate and house grew a box tree. In the shade was a dog’s kennel. A Queensland heeler appeared from the kennel and opened his jaws to bark a greeting. No sound resulted.

  A soft wind came from the house, and this wind brought a message.

  Chapter Two

  The Dead

  DUE TO a long career when rapid decisions had to be made, the metamorphosis of John Downer on returning to the truck was not remarkable. Here was crisis, and evidence of devotion to John Barleycorn was erased. The words came sharply.

  “The stink of death is about the place, lad. Let’s prospect.”

  Crisis now appeared to lie heavily on the younger man, and, without speaking, he nodded and backed down from the truck, to gaze stonily at the dog collapsed outside its kennel, and beyond it to the frightened house.

  “Dog’s all in,” commented John. “Been there for days.”

  A sob of profound commiseration broke from Eric, and he would have stopped had not his father said:

  “Not now, lad. Must see what’s happened to Brandt. Come on.”

  The house faced the wasteland of the lake. It was built of pine logs under an iron roof. It was commodious and along its front was a ten-feet-wide veranda reached by a flight of steps. The living-room was large and fairly well furnished—the kitchen range and wash-bench at one end, and beside the range the doorway leading to the wide space at the rear. There was evidence of a struggle, the dining table being slanted away from normal, the brass oil lamp lying on the floor, chairs over­turned. Bric-à-brac massed on a side table, objects of utility on the mantel over the stove, crocks on the dresser—all were covered with a film of red dust.

  The two bedrooms were undisturbed. The small off-room, used as an office, bore no sign of disturbance. In through the open back door came persistently the smell of death.

  “Been a fight, looks like,” remarked John Downer. “Days back, too; like with the heeler, poor bastard. Brandt must be dead in his room, by the stink.” Looking intently at Eric, he noted the pallor greying the suntan, and ad
ded: “You stay here, lad. I’ll prospect out back.”

  Eric, however, followed his father. As they stepped from the rear door to the sanded ground beside the almost empty house rain-tank, the scene confronting them comprised the well and its raised coping with the mill astride over it, the reservoir tank and the short drinking-trough. Beyond the well was the long, open-faced machinery shed and workshop, flanked on the left by the hired hand’s room, and on the right by the harness room and store.

  “Mill damaged by the wind ’cos it wasn’t braked,” John said, but his eyes were directed to the ground swept clean of prints by the wind. Away to the left was the fowl house and netted yard, and near-by, under another box tree, two kennels with no dogs in evidence.

  They proceeded to the room provided for the hired hand, when he was employed, which was supposed to be occupied now by Carl Brandt. It was empty. The mattress on the bed was denuded of Brandt’s blankets. The bedside table bore nothing but dust. The clothes-pegs were naked. On the floor was scattered a pack of cards.

  They found the body on the earth floor of the machinery shed and close to the rear wall. It was lying on its back, with one arm thrust outward, and the other by the side, one leg drawn up. Their own tracks to it were the only marks on the wind-levelled ground.

  “It’s not Carl Brandt,” whispered Eric, his breath coming quickly.

  “Stranger to me, lad. Don’t get it. Been dead for days, by the look of him. What’s that in his fist?”

  “Don’t know. Looks to be … It’s a lock of someone’s hair.”

  “So it is. Could be he grasped it as he died, tore it from his killer’s head. Yes, could be. And that wouldn’t be Carl Brandt. Now where the hell is Brandt?”

  Both were now anxious to be out of the shed, and, outside, they gazed about as men wholly undecided what next to do; until Eric proceeded to the dog kennels near the fowl house.

  The chains attached to them entered the dark interior. Eric fell to his knees to gaze into a kennel, then reached inside and withdrew the body of a half-grown kelpie. He withdrew from the second kennel another kelpie, also dead, and, standing again, knelt down at them, mute and frozen with horror.