Illywhacker

Goog was wide awake. He lay amongst his bundle of grey blankets and listened to the noise of drinking. The drinking was a new thing. He didn't know what to do about it. Goose was no help. Goose was asleep and nothing would wake him. Goose had slept all last night while their father chopped up dinner plates outside the window. It was Goog who had put their weepingfather to bed. It was Goog who lay sleepless while his father vomited in the kitchen sink.

He could hear the voices clearly and if he sat up he could see, through a chink in the shrunken wallboards, his father pouring sweet wine from a demijohn into Herbert Badgery's glass.

"To life," Stu O'Hagen said.

"To life," said Herbert Badgery.

"I'm not a drinking man," Stu said, "but by God it warms you."

There was a pause. Stu traced unstable patterns in the spilt wine on the oilcloth.

"I never liked the idea of lessons," he said. "I never took a lesson in anything."

"You've done well."

Stu tilted back in his chair and surveyed the room. He picked up the kerosene light and held it above his head.

"I built it myself. I was working for a real estate agent, selling blocks of land in Melbourne. I was doing well. They wanted to promote me. But I had it in my head I wanted to make something myself. You could say I had tickets on myself, but I wanted tomake something, not just sell things. So I bought this land and I didn't know a sheep's head from its arse."

"You've got a lot to be proud of."

We drank. I made appreciative smacking noises with my lips which were sweet and sticky with the wine.

"Lessons were something I had no time for. No one gave me a lesson. But look at it."

"It's a fine house."

"It's a shamozzle," Stu said firmly.

"Come on, man…"

"It'll fall over."

"No."

"You haven't been here in a southerly. You wouldn't know. You haven't lain here like I have listening to the damn thing moving in the wind." He stood up and carried the lantern across to the outside wall. The studs showed on the inside, the outside was clad with rough-nailed weatherboards. He held the lantern high in one hand and banged the wall hard with the fist of the other. The wall bowed and shuddered and a plate fell from the dresser on the other side of the room. Stu kicked at the broken pieces.

"I never learned to dance," he said as he sat down. "I never got the hang of it."

I was embarrassed. I had a bad conscience about my motives for visiting O'Hagen's. I leaned to pick up the shards of plate.

"Leave them," Stu said. "I've been wrong. I've been very wrong."

I didn't know where to look. "You've got two fine boys", I said, "and a good wife."

"That's true," he said, "about the boys at least." His eyes were brimful of moisture. "I'll buy the car," he said, "and I'll pay the three quid for the lessons."

I had the papers in my pocket and I could have signed him up there and then. I sat there, worrying at them, folding them back and forth.

"No," I said, "I couldn't."

"Yes, I've been a fool. I've been a fool in most things. The bloody German is a better farmer than I am. The little coot looks like he'll blow over in the wind, but he's made something of that place. He'smade something. He's a lovely little farmer."

"He is."

"I'll buy this Ford," Stu said, "and I'll take lessons."

"I couldn't," I said. "I couldn't let you."

O'Hagen blinked.

"Well, what", he said, pulling the demijohn back to his side of the table, "did you come here for?"

"To show you the Ford, that's true."

"You came here to come dancing," O'Hagen said. "You came here to prance around my kitchen."

"No, I assure you."

"Well, what for?"

I could not sell a Ford to a weeping man. He made me feel grubby. I too was smitten with the desire to do something decent.

"I told you," he said, "I'll take the lessons. I'll take them." Tears were now streaming down his cheeks. "I'll pay the three quid. I don't care who laughs at me."

"No one will laugh at you. That's not the point. The point is the Ford is the wrong car."

He wiped his eyes with his grubby sleeve. "So Patrick Hare was right then? The Dodge is a better car."

"Not the Dodge. The Summit. It's the Summit you should have."

"What in the name of God is a Summit?" Stu shouted.

"A car," I shouted back. "A vehicle, made in Australia. An Australian car."

"An Australian car," O'Hagen said. "What a presumption."

"A what?"

"A presumption. Are you sitting there and telling me we can make a better car than the Yanks? God Jesus Christ in Heaven help me. Mary Mother of God," he whispered and seemed to find her in the gloom above the roof joists. "You're a salesman, Mr Badgery," he said. "The country is full of bloody salesmen. You don't have to know anything to be a salesman. All you need to do is talk. That's why everyone does it. But if you want to really do something you need some bloody brains, some nous. Now tell me, tell me truly, is this Australian car of yours a better car than the Ford?"