Spirit of Progress (14 page)

As Vic cycles away from the gallery, he touches the invitations in his coat pocket, recalling the talk inside, dwelling once again on that sense of familiarity that accompanied it. And as he pedals towards the North Melbourne Loco yards, the image of Aunt Katherine returns, arm raised as he has so often seen her do, storming across the sodden ground of her block of land, a woman and her tent, caught (like that feeling of taking an engine up a hill in one mighty wallop) in one go.

A
simple heart does not mean a simple mind. But this is exactly what Skinner is thinking as he stands at the back of his farmhouse braving the early-evening cold and staring at the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent (who has now returned from calling on Vic and Rita). Vic is cycling to work from the gallery, Sam is hanging his painting on the wall space that was reserved for him, Rita prepares for another night of uncomfortable, broken sleep, and Skinner gazes upon the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent. Simple of heart, simple of mind. What you see on the outside is what you have on the inside. One a reflection of the other. The face, that happy, smiling face that he shows the world because it comes naturally, these arms and legs and pointed toes, this frame of his (with a lean that he has no memory of acquiring), this frame that he carts through life, this contraption that he seems to be, this is the outward appearance of Herbert — Bert — Skinner. And if he feels puzzled at referring to himself as Herbert, as if
wondering who on earth this Herbert, this Bert, could be, it is because just as nobody else calls him Herbert he rarely thinks of himself as that. To the community he is simply Mr Skinner. Once upon a time, to his parents and his brother, he was Bert, even young Bert because his father was Bert as well. And he retained the title of young Bert while his father lived. Then, quite quickly, when his parents died (one after the other) and his brother was lost in what they then called the Great War, he became Mr Skinner. Or just Skinner, of Skinner’s Farm. And this contraption that is Skinner is what the world sees now. And it is possible that when people look upon the outer Skinner they also see it as a reflection of Skinner’s mind. A bit odd. Even silly. To some, possibly, even touched. Simple of heart, simple of mind. Yes, he is, he nods silently to himself, Miss Carroll’s tent glowing in the early-evening chill just on the other side of his paddock; yes, he is a ridiculous man. At least, this is the judgment that Skinner now passes on himself.

And perhaps he always was, for he is suddenly remembering when the news arrived — a brief telegram — telling the family that his brother had been killed. Somewhere in France. And he remembers, as well, the grim determination with which he told his parents the next morning that he was joining up, and the quiet acceptance with which they received the news. And how he’d come back to the house that evening and said nothing because he didn’t need to. Because they knew all along that no army would take a man approaching forty, with pigeon-toes and a lean like the Tower of Pisa. And, of
course, Skinner knew this too. But he’d been told often enough that in a war the strangest things happen; rules that were once rules weren’t rules any more, and odd contraptions such as Skinner slipped into the army and found their place. No such thing happened and Skinner returned that evening feeling ridiculous. But the feeling left him, as feelings do, and as his parents faded away in front of him, he threw himself into the work of the farm. His parents died, young Bert disappeared, and Skinner, of Skinner’s Farm, took his place.

And he discovered early in his adult life that the few young women he met were unlikely to take up with odd contraptions, especially at dances. Perhaps what they always saw was what Skinner himself now sees: that the outer Skinner is a reflection of the inner Skinner, and that the simple heart that he offers the world is a reflection of the simple mind inside the contraption. And, having concluded this, they decided upon not having much to do with him.

It is the kind of thinking, he knows, that comes from being alone too often and for too long. For the mind of Skinner is far from simple — he knows that, but, nonetheless, this is the judgment that he passes upon himself right now as he stares across the paddock.

Once again he sees himself as that young painter must have seen him. Simple, easy to lie to. He sees the young man telling him how he would like to paint the farm, and sees his own credulous eyes, all too ready to believe, imagining depictions of the farm that the family had owned for three generations hanging in the art galleries of
the country, a record of all there had been before it ceases to be. And he recalls, once again, with maddening clarity, his open, smiling face, a wave at the ready (always a wave at the ready), as he walked across the paddock that afternoon to inspect the young man’s work, pleasantly surprised to see, as he approached, that the painter and Miss Carroll were conversing. And, eager to join the conversation, he waved and quickened his stride. And that was when he saw the sketches, and that was when the smile fell from his face.

But above all, that was when he saw the look on Miss Carroll’s face. Pronouncing him simple, inside and out. Even now he hears his voice afterwards, calling out across the divide of the dirt road, explaining himself, when, all the time, the explanation was written in the eyes of Miss Carroll. And although he first took the look to be an accusation, an accusation of betrayal, as he watched her glare soften he realised it wasn’t that at all. For she had drawn the conclusion that betrayal requires a calculating mind, and that Mr Skinner did not have one.

He barely noticed the young painter leave (only the memory of a wave caught from the corner of his eye, which, this time, he did not return), but he did watch Miss Carroll depart the scene, turning her back on them both in a manner that suggested the world always lets you down, as Mr Skinner had just let her down; turning her back on him in the glare of the mid-winter sun, and walking away in search of firewood.

Even now, standing on his back veranda, he could take that short walk to Miss Carroll’s tent. He could call to her in the dark and she would hear a voice calling to her from
darkness and know that it was Mr Skinner. Know that he was calling because he had to. And she, Miss Carroll, hearing this voice in the night, would answer because she had to. For when someone calls in the night, you must answer. And he would be glad of the night and the darkness, for there may be tears in his eyes and he does not want the world to see his ridiculous tears, especially that part of the world that calls itself Miss Carroll, because, in all of the great world, that bit of it has, in these last few weeks, become the most important part. And what, after all, should he say? When she stands before him in the glow of her tent, what are the words he could offer?

‘I am a simple man. Yet, simple as I am, I have something to give. I have a gift. Much more than milk and butter and cheese. I can give you company. And, with company, I can give you comfort. When you go away I will be here when you come back. And you will know that there is someone out there, after all. And that you are not alone. And I will not be alone. I, too, will know that there is someone out there who lights the darkness. And, together, we shall, each day, reflect upon this fact in wonder. I am a simple man, and I have let you down. But I will never let you down again.’

And she would answer because a call in the night must be answered. But what should she say? What are the words he would have her say to him?

‘Come into my tent, you simple man. And we shall sit and gaze upon the light inside that drew you and we shall know that we are not alone. And, together, we shall, each day, reflect upon this simple fact in wonder.’

So he would have it be. Miss Carroll and Mr Skinner. He the call, she the answer. And, in this way, he would enter her tent and be gathered into its light. Even now. But he does not take that short walk to Miss Carroll’s tent and the simple words of a simple heart are never spoken. Not now, not ever. For the moment has passed when such words could be chanced. The chance was there, but the chance has gone.

The night, as it does at this time of year, surprises him. Suddenly, all is pitch dark. Black. Except for the glow of Miss Carroll’s tent on the other side of his paddock. But it’s a different light now. It doesn’t call any more. Nor does it hold the comforting promise of company. Or, indeed, the potential that it once possessed. It is, he concludes before stepping in from the cold, a singular light, denoting a singular life.

T
he gallery is empty now. All of the lights are switched on, and Tess is seeing the exhibition the way everybody will the following evening. But this is a private viewing. Before everybody else. Her mind is free to wander, to speculate, without the interruption of conversation. It must feel like this, she’s thinking (strolling round the empty floor that will be crowded the next evening), it must feel like this for this assembly of artists or any artist, for that matter, just before you hand something over and it’s not yours any more. That moment between having something and losing something.

She wonders, pausing in front of two soldiers and two young women, all lipstick, shaded eyes and high blonde hair, what there would have been left to say even had there been nobody else in the gallery when Sam delivered his painting in the manner of fulfilling an agreement. Nothing more, nothing less. What, really, was there left to say? Only this. That she should not be misunderstood.
And by this she means his understanding of her. That she’d never thought of herself as having made him: he was
always
going to make himself. She knew that. And those who were suggesting that she was going around saying this kind of thing (for it is a small town, this city, and everybody hears what you said or didn’t say, and sooner more than later) are just plain wrong. Worse than wrong, they are small-town wrong.

She was never even a muse, never thought of herself like that, and never wanted to be. She was just someone who fell in love. And who surprised herself when she did. Just someone who knew a few things and had an eye for the real thing. And Sam, from the start, when he first presented himself to the gallery just before the war, was, she knew instantly, the real thing. And he was always going to make something of himself; she just helped him along. That’s all she ever claimed, nothing more, nothing less. For that’s what lovers do, isn’t it? When you enter somebody else’s life they change you, and you change them. You grow a bit, or a lot, together. And you teach each other things. It’s all part of entering somebody else’s life, and them entering yours. For she, too, is not the same person she was before meeting Sam. And this is what was left for Tess to say to Sam.

The sadness of having something, and losing something, will pass. But rumour and misunderstanding have a nasty habit of being passed on and becoming fact when they were never true in the first place. And she knows that none of this is helped by being seen by them all (the painters and the artists who come to her with
their work, and their friends and their hangers-on, who go around saying all these things about her) as the cool, rich girl. Just the cool, deliberate kind who could steal your eyes and call them her own. And as much as Mr Fitzgerald might like to tell everybody that the very rich are different, she knows better. And if Mr Fitzgerald were alive now she’d tell him so. And if Sam had been alone at the gallery she’d have told him too. And she’d also have told him that if they, the two of them in their brief time, had discovered anything it was that they weren’t so different after all — the son of a tram driver and the daughter with the Swiss education. And, as much as the world might have told them to stick to their own kind, they’d discovered otherwise. But he wasn’t there alone and none of this was said. And now he may or may not be going around (or even go through life) thinking the wrong thing about her, which is no way to part.

As she reaches the end of her wandering, her private viewing, without, in the end, being conscious of viewing anything in particular, she decides to write to him. Like a character from a nineteenth-century novel might write everything down one rainy Sunday afternoon, just to set matters right. And even though he lives only a stone’s throw from the studio, that’s what she’ll do. So that he will know. So that if, in time, the things that people are going around saying are ever passed on as fact, there will at least be this. A record. Which somebody may or may not discover one day. And, in so doing, discover the truth, and ensure that it is the truth, not small-town rumours, that prevail. And so she gathers her coat and her keys,
and, turning one more time, taking in that moment in between having something and losing something, she locks the door and steps out into the chill of the dark street with the scent of rain in the air.

It gives every impression of moving, and at great speed, even when it is standing still, as it is at this very moment on Platform Number 1 of Spencer Street Station. Especially now that the streamlined engine and its carriages, with their distinctive blue-and-yellow markings, have been washed and are gleaming under the platform lights. When was the last time it was washed? Vic can’t remember. And he views the train often. Of course, he is fully aware that this is more than simply a train, and a famous one at that. It is a prize, and tonight a gleaming one. For all the world a new train. A gleaming new train for a gleaming new world. For this new, post-war world will need trains such as this, not simply to carry people from place to place but for people to gaze upon and be reassured that the future they are travelling inexorably towards will gleam like the train that takes them into it. And its destinations, places on a map, are not so important as that reassurance. That all we have lost (and the loss is too great to be truly felt at the moment), all that has been spent and all that has been sacrificed in what people simply call the war will have been worth it. For
this
is what Hope looks like. And this is why the train looks like it is moving, even while it is standing still. It is both an arrow pointing towards the future and it is that future. And, what’s more, it gives every impression of having already been there and back.

Vic, who is standing on the platform gazing at the
Spirit of Progress
, is pleased that somebody has found the time, that somebody has seen fit, to wash the grime of the past off it, for Hope should shine. And even those who will never sit in its air-conditioned carriages will, nonetheless, travel with it because it is that kind of train.

But, for Vic, it is also a prize. For only the best are entrusted with the
Spirit of Progress
. It is understood by all who sit in the driver’s cabin and all of those in the staffing office who put them there that this is more than just a train. Which is why you don’t have to sit in its air-conditioned comfort to travel in it because everybody in this new world will be riding the train of Progress. And it is at this point in his thinking and this point in his stroll that he stops and looks up to the cabin, to the engine that generates the motive force that draws the carriages, taking them from here to there with all the speed the Age expects.

And there, in the cabin, is the bulk of Paddy Ryan. No longer the bloated figure at the bar of The Railway with the loud voice who could be just any drinker with too much in him. He is now Paddy Ryan, King’s driver, the master of the smooth ride. He is transformed simply by being in the cabin. And he is dressed for driving. Underneath his overalls, Paddy wears a pressed white shirt and a tie. For he is a driver of the old school who is in the cabin long before the train leaves, who has already inspected the engine and who is now polishing the instruments inside the cabin so that everything gleams as it should. Vic knows all of this without need of witnessing
it because he was once Paddy’s fireman. And as much as he is tempted to call out to him, he doesn’t, for he sees that Paddy is absorbed in the tasks at hand. Attentive to every small detail, leaving nothing to chance.

And so, leaving the platform, making his way towards his train, a goods train that will bring coal back from the damp open-cut mines in the country east of the city, Vic is left contemplating the scene he has just left. That, and what in time might come to pass. The possibility that he, too, might one day sit in the same cabin Paddy Ryan now occupies, and, in simply being there, become likewise transformed.

While the train sits at the platform, gleaming with Hope, those who will share the future into which it will take them and those who will not share it prepare for evening. Katherine dims the light on her day and Skinner watches her light dim before turning back into the house. No great event, Katherine tells herself, has taken place. She just had a few dreamy thoughts, the way you do from time to time, and now she’s getting on with things the way she always has. On her own, thank you very much. No great event. She was a girl again for a moment; now the moment has passed. No damage. No harm. A chance came and a chance went. The shadow of another life appeared before her, then faded away, back to where it came from. And while Vic walks towards his train, his rendezvous with an awkward situation now behind him, Rita feels movement in her belly and reads impatience in that movement. The impatience of a child who has been too long in the belly and can’t wait to get at life, the child
who is simultaneously travelling towards birth and travelling in the hushed comfort of a TGV towards the west of France, quaint villages and quaint steeples, worlds removed from the one they are all about to enter, flashing by his window. And she likes that impatience because it speaks of energy and Life.

As she registers this movement, George mulls over the contents of the note in his pocket on the train home, and Sam, his painting delivered, his duty done, turns his thoughts towards leaving, while Tess, taking in the hint of rain in the air, is mentally composing the letter she will send to Sam that will set everything right.

And, all the time, Hope gleams under the lights of Platform Number 1, waiting, like an arrow, to be shot into the future, taking them all with it, whether they are seated in the first or second-class compartments of its carriages or not, for they are all travelling in the train called
Progress
, and they are all travelling along those silver rails that stretch out into the distance, and which converge, but never meet.