Illywhacker

There he goes – out the driveway, Molly sitting rigidly in the front, Phoebe hiding behind a wide-brimmed black hat in the back. They lurch on to Eastern Avenue. Jack rides the clutch. The engine roars. He grates it into second before he has sufficient revs and then shudders along beside the beach, heading north towards the brass tap at Balliang East.

To the McGraths' neighbours the style of departure proved everything, i. e., that he had no right to own such a car. He had no right to be in Western Avenue at all or, for that matter, to send his daughter to the Hermitage. He had built an ugly yellow-brick garage to house his flashy auto, and offered his filthy hen eggs across the fence, holding them out in a hat whose sweaty felt radiated an offensive intimacy.

But as Jack drove north he gave not a thought to the effect of grating gears on neighbours' ears. He held the wheel so tight his burly arms would later ache. He called this ache "arthritis" but it was caused by hanging on too hard. His wife suffered similar aches and pains which, although occurring in different places, were caused by the same fearfulness. Only when they were past the cable trams, the Sunday jinkers and the T Models did the older McGraths relax a little.

It was a hot day and the wind was dry. Phoebe sat in the back and reduced the landscape to its most pleasing essentials. She half shut her eyes and allowed her eyelashes to strain out that which was not to her taste. She removed those piles of hard volcanic rocks, those monuments to the endless work of young soldier settlers. She eliminated those lonely treeless farmhouses with the sun beating on their shining gal-iron roofs. She abracadabra'ed the sheep with their daggy backsides. She turned those endless miles of sheep and wheat into something the men who farmed it would never recognize. All she retained was the cobalt blue sky above a plain of shimmering gold. You couldn't make a quid in one of Phoebe's landscapes.

She loved the hot dry wind. She liked speed.

"Drive fast," she demanded. "Oh please, Mother, let him."

Did Jack want to drive fast? I doubt it. As for Molly, I know she didn't. But they knew also that this was what a Hispano Suiza was for.

"All right," Molly commanded, "drive fast, as far as the saltpans."

Jack tensed his great thick arms and gripped the wheel until his fingers ached. The Suiza's eight cylinders responded to his large foot without reluctance and did not question (with the slightest hesitation or hiccup) whether he was man enough to manage it.

They made the wind rush faster for her. They made the flat dull land exciting. She drew down her eyelashes and thought of humming-birds' wings. They spoilt her, of course. They flew across the saltpans at fifty miles an hour and didn't even slow down.

4

There had been too many Germans in Jeparit. The minute the war was over Ernie Vogelnest sold up his farm there and moved away. It had been too hard to be with other Germans. It made the Australians afraid and then nasty. In 1917 there had been all the fuss when they found the dug-out on his property. They said German prisoners of war had been hiding there and he had been feeding them. The Jeparit paper as good as called him a liar. Well, maybe he had lied, and maybe he had not lied, but he was determined to live in a place where there were no other Germans and perhaps there was time yet – he would learn to speak so they could not know, to speak like his son.

When the war ended he bought this land at Balliang East. Not the best land in the world, but better than Jeparit. Five hundred acres and, for an old man, he was working hard. There was another German twenty miles away, at Anakie, but he was happy with the land and the number of Germans.

They made fun of him at the shops at Bacchus Marsh when he went in for supplies, but at least no one said they were going to lynch him. When they said, "Ja, ja," he grinned and ducked his head as if to say, "Ja, ja, I know." Sometimes they cheated him, not much, just a little. He smiled. But now they had written things about him on his road, well, not his road, of course not (the road belonged to the Australian government) but the road that ran in front of his house. It was the soldier settlers, he supposed. They had painted an arrow with whitewash and written words, "Kaiser Bill, the silly dill". He did not know what a dill was but it gave him a sick feeling in the stomach just the same. He had the feeling even now as he tried to remove the paint with turps, kneeling on the hot macadam.

He did not hear the Hispano Suiza until it was nearly on top of him. The wind was swinging around to the north-east and all he could hear was that bit of gal iron from the O'Hagens' place: bang, bang, bang. Sometimes at night it kept him awake, but he did not like to ask the O'Hagens to shift it. He was a German and he wanted no trouble.