Watching the Climbers on the Mountain (22 page)

Crofts had expected Ida to be there as well, and that some kind of immediate and possibly even violent settling-up between the three of them would take place, a sorting out or confrontation that would happen suddenly and be over and done with at once. This was clearly not to be the case. It was even something of a relief to find that he was alone with Rankin, who was busy at the sideboard. Crofts tried to see the book. Had it simply acted as a message stick? Back on its shelf it no longer possessed the same power to threaten him, but he did have the feeling that its replacement there had been far too easy, that there had to be a sting in the tail somewhere—its spine, rather more faded than the others, made it stand out as if it could still attract special attention to itself.

‘How are you anyway?' the station owner asked, to Crofts' surprise, turning round and thrusting a glass of whiskey at the stockman—there was already a strong smell of the liquor in the room. And when Crofts hesitated Rankin insisted, ‘Take it! Drink it!' and then he sat down heavily in an old-fashioned office swivel chair. It was wooden with a black horsehair seat and it squeaked loudly, making a clicking sound at the slightest shift of Rankin's weight, as if the winding mechanism had broken. Rankin seemed not to notice.

From his brief glimpse of it on arrival at the station Crofts did not remember the room being so crowded with furniture and books, nor had he realised till now that it possessed no windows. It was hot and stuffy and as well as the odour of whiskey there was a more pervasive, more established, musty smell of old, settled dust which had impregnated everything.

Rankin blew out a huge blue cloud of cigarette smoke and said, as if it required a great effort, ‘It's my wife I want to talk to you about.' And he blinked rapidly several times, nervously puffed his cigarette again and gulped down some more Corio, his chair squeaking and clicking incessantly.

‘I know,' the stockman said, surprising himself with his ability to go on meeting his boss's enquiring gaze—which faltered suddenly, however, at the last admission.

‘You know?' Rankin asked warily. The smoke from his cigarette drifted from his nostrils and from his slightly agape mouth as though he had a small damp fire smouldering inside him.

Crofts gulped the whiskey down in one go, coughed and stood up. ‘I'll just go. I'm sorry. I don't know what to say . . .'

Rankin almost shouted, ‘Sit down! She's done it before!'

Crofts sat down very slowly, his eyes on Rankin.

Rankin re-filled Crofts' empty glass and handed it back to him. ‘She used to do it all the time.' He waved his cigarette around, looking for a way of explaining it simply to someone who could understand nothing of the complexity of the whole matter. ‘Then she stopped.' He looked directly at the stockman and shook his head. ‘And now, well, she's off again. Sit down, Robert! I understand. You saw the vegetables. We can get our own dinner. It's irrational.'

Crofts felt the neat whiskey affecting his brain and a small tight headache beginning to form low down on his forehead, exactly between his eyes. He pressed the bone with his fingers and massaged it slowly in the hope that it would clear. Rankin said, ‘I just wanted to explain.' He leaned forward as if he would put his hand on the stockman's arm, then thought better of it and made a dismissive gesture. ‘There's no need to get upset. She's gone and that's that.'

‘Gone?' Crofts echoed him.

‘And I suppose she'll be back when she's good and ready.' Rankin paused; he was looking a little calmer. ‘I suppose the kids told you? I mean about her getting up to her old tricks? I don't think they realise yet that she's at it again.'

‘Where has she gone?'

‘Out! Who knows? Off into the scrub. Up the creek. Not a word. In the middle of the vegetables, as you saw. It might be a little inconvenient for you, for both of us. I hope you'll understand. Once she's started you can never tell whether you're going to get your dinner on time or not. But I'm not a bad cook, you'll see.' Rankin sighed deeply. He had drunk a lot of whiskey before getting up enough courage to ask the stockman in. The business with Ida was not simply a pretext, but he felt they'd dealt with it. ‘I never thanked you properly,' he said.

‘You mean she's just gone bushwalking?'

‘You can call it
bushwalking
if you like, I suppose. You should be prepared. It's not rational.'

‘She's not
with
anybody though is she?'

Rankin looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? Like who?'

‘I mean, did she go into the bush with people in the past?'

Rankin glanced around him, as if he thought he might see people about the place whose presence he had not detected before. ‘What people, Robert?' It occurred to him that it was just possible he might be about to stumble upon a rational explanation for Ida's behaviour. He did not know what the stockman was talking about but decided to act as though it made sense to him all the same, just in case it could enlighten him. ‘Who were these people?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I see.'

‘There
were
other people though?'

‘Were there?'

‘Well . . .'

‘There may have been.'

‘Many?'

‘That's hard to say.' Rankin thought it best to be cautious.

‘Just the stockmen?'

Rankin thought about this for a while but could make nothing of it, so he deliberately repeated it in the hope that it would sound more meaningful if he said it himself. ‘Just . . . the . . . stockmen.' He waited. Nothing happened. ‘I can't say. I thought you said you knew all about it?'

Crofts sipped a little of the whiskey. ‘I didn't say that.'

If she had tried to set up a rendezvous with him, Crofts was thinking, how was he supposed to know where she had gone? He felt sickened with jealousy at the possibility that she had made love with other stockmen before him, that it might be a calculated habit with her, a practice, a vicious mockery of everything they had said to each other and felt for each other. He felt humiliated and angry, and above all else he felt afraid that it might be true. In his heart he knew it could not possibly be true.

Yet some things did add up. He was conscious of having penetrated below the surface of things, of having tapped into something that might extend far beyond what he had understood. Rankin's air of defeat about worthwhile things, this cynical attitude whenever anyone attempted to set something up properly, his lack of interest and absence of purpose about everything—if it were connected with Ida's behaviour, it would all begin to make sense. He took another sip of whiskey. He had to see her. He knew he wouldn't be able to think straight about anything until he had seen her and cleared it up one way or the other. He glanced up and found Rankin watching him closely.

‘You enjoyed the Gulliver then after all?' Rankin said, and he smiled, making an effort to be particularly friendly. But his eyes were glazed and his voice too was affected by the drink. He leaned forward.

Crofts waited for what he knew was coming.

‘I never thanked you properly for pulling me out of the tank that day, Robert,' Rankin said, his chair squeaking and pinging. He blinked rapidly, emotion suddenly welling up in him and catching him off guard. ‘I believe you saved my life. I never thanked you.'

‘That's okay,' Crofts said quietly, impressed by the older man's intensity of feeling. So that's it, he thought. He thinks he owes me something special.

‘You need something,' Rankin said, drawing himself up and waving his arm, indicating the room, taking it all in with his gesture and possibly implying much more.

Crofts wished he could leave now and go in search of her. He nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, sure,' he said, wondering without much interest what Rankin might be getting at.

‘And I'm pleased you enjoyed Gulliver. Not everybody,' he took a large gulp of air and lit another cigarette, pulling himself together, struggling against the alcohol, ‘would have. Not everyone. Only some people. Not many. Not as many as you might think. I can't help feeling grateful, Robert.'

‘Yes,' Crofts said, aware of having missed his one chance to reveal to Rankin that he had not read a word of the book. He was desperately impatient to be gone. He was struggling to concentrate on an image of Ida lying naked on her bed, her beautiful body glowing like the sunset. He wanted to make sure that he was the one with her and that the expression in her eyes was exclusively for him. But the image grew luminous and would not be still for him. He longed to be reassured that they belonged just to each other: his jealousy was sharpening his feelings to a painful degree. He said to himself ‘I love you, Ida! Please don't let this other stuff be true!' and closed his eyes for a moment.

‘What about you, Robert?'

‘What?'

‘What do you need? I've never known anyone work the way you do. As if it meant everything to you. Work? We all need things . . . something.'

‘I haven't done much lately,' Crofts said, making the most of the opportunity for being strictly truthful. He thought he could hear someone moving around in the next room, in the kitchen. He glanced at Rankin. There was a knock on the door and Janet looked in. Alistair stood behind her peering round her shoulder.

‘Where's Mum? What's
he
doing in here?' Her gaze roved around the dim interior and she screwed her face up in disgust. ‘God it stinks!' She slammed the door and was gone.

‘What do you think, Robert?' Rankin went on as if there had been no interruption. ‘You don't understand. It doesn't matter. You understood Gulliver! That'll do. Robert!'

‘What?'

‘We are relaxing in here together having a quiet drink.' He gazed steadily at the stockman then said, ‘I thought you hated me.'

Crofts was so puzzled by this unexpected statement that he forgot Ida for the moment. ‘Why should I hate you?' He wondered just how drunk Rankin was.

‘I thought you might have shot Julia on purpose.'

Crofts didn't know what to say. He blinked uncomfortably, embarrassed by the feeling that Rankin had somehow managed to read his motives more exactly than he had read them himself. For there
had
been something—though he only admitted it now—in firing that quick chancy shot that morning, not exactly a motive, but something that he had not examined. It was true, he hadn't shot Rankin's mare on purpose, but he very well
might
have.

‘But you're right. And I believe you,' Rankin said charitably, despite getting no response. Then his mind jumped ahead and he thumped the desk hard and exclaimed, ‘Why didn't you just smash him into the ground, Robert? Beat the miserable bastard into the ground with your fists while you had the chance! They are nothing, those people! Pigs! That's all. You have to be vindictive with them.
Vengeful,
Robert!' he said with hatred in his voice. Then he smiled. ‘Damn them, eh? It doesn't matter. I
know
why you didn't. You don't need to tell me. I'm talking too much. You're not an animal. Forget everything I've said. Let's start afresh from now. Tell me about yourself, Robert. Do you think we're all fools? Mrs Rankin is probably mad. Going mad. Her mother was strange, always pitting her strength against life to see who'd win. Well, who won?' He laughed. ‘I shouldn't laugh.'

Crofts half rose from his seat. He had thought of a means of escape. ‘Perhaps I could go and look for her?'

‘Sit down! You don't understand. She doesn't want you to look for her. She's not lost. She's hiding. She hides out there and I hide in here,' he said and laughed—this comparison had not occurred to him before. ‘She wants to be on her own.' He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if he were about to tell him a secret. ‘She's with
the people,
eh? The
people!
You said it yourself, Robert! Out there? What? Voices in her head. That's what. Sacred mountains and silent groves! Tea-tree swamps! Hidden places for Ida! Wild pig country! She's on her own, eh? Alone. Like me. Like
us
, Robert.' He wiped his mouth and sighed. ‘That's why you and me ought to be friends.' He nodded as if he expected a response. ‘Hm?'

‘Of course.'

‘“Of course.” That's right.' He looked directly and openly at the stockman. ‘You are intelligent, or you would not have bothered to read Gulliver, would you? I'll give you more books. As many as you like. They're all here. All the good ones. The ones you need. The ones that matter—they're better than people.' Swivelling about and half-rising from his chair, Rankin looked as if he meant there and then to take down a particular volume; but he decided against it. ‘That's a lie. Never mind. You are young,' he went on with deliberateness, and then paused, ‘And you are beautiful, Robert.'

Even though it was clear to him that Rankin was by now more than a little drunk, Crofts nevertheless was pleasantly if somewhat uneasily gratified at having these flattering things said to him—drunk or not, Rankin was obviously sincere. The difficulty was to know how to respond. If he had not been so desperate to see Ida, he might have been able to enjoy, in some ways, this conversation with Rankin. To say thank you, now would have seemed too weak, so he held out his glass for a refill.

‘Friendship,' Rankin said, taking the proffered glass but making no move to replenish it, wobbling unsteadily on his squeaking chair, ‘is the greatest thing.' He watched Crofts for a moment as if he were waiting for something to settle in the stockman's mind and then asked, ‘Have you ever had a friend, Robert?'

Crofts thought about it. ‘There was a kid at school. When I left home we swore to meet each other again on the same spot in ten years' time.' He considered the memory—the bricked ‘red patch' in front of the flats where he and Ernie had stood and made their solemn vows of everlasting friendship, come what may—their whole childhood gathered into that place and moment! With the wretchedness of school behind them, one setting off for a distant point, the other staying on. And doing what now? Crofts had never written to give an address, had been caught up too quickly in his new circumstances. He pursed his lips. ‘No,' he said, ‘I can't imagine it.'