The Slow Natives by Thea Astley Read Free Book Online Page B

him.”
    His arrogance lasted nicely to the side veranda where he slept in a glassed-in study, lasted until he stripped off his jeans and sweat shirt and burrowed his bewilderment beneath the blankets. He knew, and he could not bear to know, that at this moment his father was aware he would be howling like a baby.
    â€œSaint Gretta is patron of the mentally disturbed,” Bernard said mildly to old Bathgate of the Board as they creaked out of the conference room. “We need an icon.”
    Bathgate gave his three-note guffaw, padding beside Leverson along the Terrace. Now and then he waved his stick hopelessly at passing cabs, but none paused, so he plodded on after the other man, his lumbering movements holding Bernard up. “Mad,” he agreed. “Quite quite mad. Lord, I could do with a drink. Couldn’t you, old fellow? After listening to all that nonsense for two hours. Blithering piffle. I say, what did you think of that chestnut Garnsey cracked,eh? Syncopation is an unsteady movement from bar to bar. Let’s syncopate, Mr Leverson. Let’s.”
    â€œSorry,” Bernard flapped his free hand gull’s-wing fashion. “I have to get home. We’re being social this evening.”
    â€œAh! Poor fellow!” Bathgate coughed violently for a few seconds. “By the bye, what did the great Clerihew want you for before the morning session, if one may be so impertinent?” He puffed and panted, looking downhill at the trolley cars.
    Curious geezer, Bernard thought, but he humoured him. “Candidate trouble. Teacher says there’s been terrible domestic upheaval and so on and so on and could I possibly. . .? You know how it goes.”
    â€œDo I not? Don’t want much, do they?”
    â€œAh well, I might pop back in a couple of weeks when things ease off here a bit. There were two others who missed out because of some transport let-down. The milk-truck couldn’t get them in on time. I’ll do the lot. And, to tell you the truth, I’ll be glad of the run back.”
    Bathgate pursed speculating lips, but said nothing. The unsaid hmmmmmmm.
    â€œBlessings!” he chortled. “Blessings!”—as they parted at Edward Street in a tautened crowd swirl. Frantically his stick conducted some plea and a cab at last did slide to a stop.
Portamento, ritardando
 . . .
    Bernard pushed sweatily through peak hour towards the Valley where, in a coffee lounge at the bottom end of Queen Street he bumped into Professor Geoghegan before he had time to conceal himself behind his paper. Cunningly Geoghegan allowed him to be seated first and then dropped into the seat opposite with such surprised warmth (feigned, decided bitter Bernard) he could only click his teeth bad-temperedly and endure.
    Geoghegan was having one of his days when he talked zanily and engagingly about incredible and, Bernard suspected, mythical humans who peopled a Geoghegan Landscape, assembling antics and pranks of exquisite, detached nonsense.
    â€œI remember my aunts,” he was saying dreamily as he sugared his coffee. “They’re dead, thank God, but they werethe most awesome pair. Used to drive a car, the dear old things. A big Bentley, black, thirty feet long like an undertaker’s carriage.”
    â€œLucky them.”
    â€œI suppose. Oh, I don’t know, dear fellow. You see, they couldn’t manage it separately and one used to steer and the other used to change gears. ‘Are you ready, dear?’ Zoe—that was the older one, the one steering—used to say. ‘Right!’ would say Hester. And zoom—off they’d go!”
    â€œWho declutched?” Bernard asked, interested despite himself.
    â€œWell, that I can’t really say. The steerer, I imagine. Sometimes Hester couldn’t get it into gear and Zoe would say, ‘Not quite right, dear. Let’s try again!’”
    â€œIt’s all a fabrication!”