Holden's Performance by Murray Bail Read Free Book Online Page A

appearance of a miniature city with the buildings, streets and pedestrians removed. Nothing but the statues.
    Some of the figures were immediately recognisable.
    The Colonel William Light was an exact replica of the one overlooking the city at North Adelaide. The cocked hat, tight trousers and outstretched arm and finger pointing to the back door were similarly splashed with lime droppings; pigeons were attracted to Light. Nearby the coiffured head and the horizon-stare of Captain James Cook, preferred by the seagulls, transmitted the essence of his famous reliability, long before his ghost appeared on the pound note. Surveyors and navigators: Vern Hartnett looked up to them. Other figures had been specially commissioned and required explanation. The foxy features of Daguerre were sensitively caught: back bent, glancing up, pleased with himself. Nicholas Jensen with a type of Roman nose stood alongside the angular Aldus Manutius. According to Hartnett, John Loudon McAdam, as the inventor of the modern street and road, was one of the most influential men of all time. ‘His achievement is easily measured, it's there in black-and-white.’ Even his surname and life (1756–1836) possessed an inevitable symmetry.
    â€˜I look up to these men,’ he ran his hands over some other obscure autocrat. ‘They're always there. It doesn't hurt to be reminded. I take my hat off. I shouldn't say that, I don't wear a hat. Clarity and accuracy—master them, like these blokes there, and goodness, you can name your own price. Never exceed the facts. You get what I'm driving at? If you become one half as strict…’
    Standing out against the turbulent growth of the Hills, the stony clarity of their vision seemed beyond dispute. These were men with their feet well and truly on the ground. No room for Leichhardt, the Burke and Wills of this world, nor Rasputin nor Isaac Newton. No dreamers. Look at McAdam! No politicians and no women.
    And Hartnett shepherded and protected them. After careful deliberation he occasionally added another; it took years to select a candidate. There was only so much space. Economic factors also kept the numbers down.
    â€˜Just by looking you can imagine…’ Holden squinted.
    â€˜There's no imagining.’
    But seeing the boy's confusion he smiled, treating him as an equal, ‘Who would you erect a statue to, if you had a backyard? Perhaps I know the man?’
    Holden, who never tired of moving among the outstanding figures, now found his mind completely blank.
    â€˜I don't think I'd be allowed…’
    Blinking he pictured Corporal McBee in uniform.
    â€˜What about a soldier?’ Holden suggested.
    The one he had in mind stood before him as a solid force, someone different, even when horizontal on a bed, releasing cigarette smoke to the ceiling where it flattened into architectures, minarets spreading into dream-cities of cupolas. The corporal was a man who seemed to be making up his mind; biding his time.
    Confusion crossed Hartnett's face. ‘A soldier did you say?’
    Holden had told him about the boarder. Surely the boy didn't mean—?
    â€˜Don't be deceived by the uniform! Take it away from a soldier and what have you got?’
    But that was the point. Holden could never entirely agree with his uncle. More active than the larrikin soldier, always on the move, always after something, his uncle seemed unhappier. This fully grown man could be found in the kitchen pressing his thumbs to his temples, and staring at the floor, waving his hand blindly for silence. At first Holden thought he might be straining to recall some fresh fact or other, such as the inventor of linoleum or the History of Floorboards, and he obediently looked down at his feet too. But a migraine was no joke if the proofreader was about to set off to work, checking the spelling and veracity in general of the entire edition of next morning's Advertiser .
    Although always attentive