Stories by Jerry Waight

It has to be remembered the stories were written in a different era and views may appear racist. In fact in later life Waight was a proponent of aboriginal culture.

Hilda’s Christmas Surprise

The table had been laid for two. On one side a girl sat. The opposite chair, drawn up to the table, was empty, awaiting a guest who would never come.

Hilda Morris looked across at the empty place with eyes in which the tears gathered, in spite of the brave air with which the girl dashed her hand across them. How different this Christmas dinner from that of last year, she reflected. “Dear old dad,” she murmured to the empty chair. “This time last year you sat there and laughed and joked. I wonder if you can see me now. Do you remember how you lifted your glass and we drank to the Years To Come? Why aren’t you here now?”

The girl’s head sank on the table and a sob shook her shoulders. The last year had been tragic in the changes it had brought. Her father had gone out to Africa, and a few weeks later word had been brought to her that he had died in the desert. Now she was making an effort to be the brave little girl he had always called her. Before he had gone he had agreed that nothing should ever prevent them being together in spirit, even if they could not be together in person. Hilda had remembered the words, and she had determined to do her best to carry them into effect. Though he could never occupy it, she had drawn his chair up to the table and had laid his place. “For companionship,” she had told herself.

But the very sight of the empty chair seemed to cause the girl more poignant sorrow than she could bear. Presently she pulled herself together and gravely raised her glass to her lips. “Well, daddy dear, wherever you are, I hope you’re very, very happy.” She drained the glass right to the end and set it down. “Anyway, it’s the last Christmas here. Do you know I’ve had to sell our home? Perhaps it’s just as well, for everything here makes me think of you. But oh, I shall simply hate to leave — hate it!”

It seemed to bring her some comfort to talk aloud, even though there was no visible person to hear. “You didn’t guess, did you, you old dear, what a lot of debts you were leaving behind you?” she continued presently on a stronger note. “You always used to tell me you were no good at business, and really you weren’t, you know. Such a big lot of debts. It took everything in the house, and the house itself, too, to pay them. Oh, daddy, I do want your help. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t any money left, and I can’t do anything, can I, to earn money, except cook and that sort of thing? That’s not much good, is it?”

A wan smile crossed the girl’s face, and she appeared to feel that her words were perhaps being heard. “What shall I do? Do you know Sir John Mortimer wants to marry me? But, oh, I don’t want to. He’s old, and he only thinks of women, and he hasn’t got beautiful ideas like you, daddy mine. But I almost think I shall have to. Oh, what would you advise me to do if you were here? I do want to be happy, indeed I do. I’ve promised to let him know before the New Year, and that’s only another week now. You’re not here and you can’t talk to me, but won’t you — oh, can’t you, give me a sign that you do understand? Can’t you help me to know what to do? Your little daughter stands right at the crossroads.”

At that moment, as though in answer, a knock sounded at the door. Hilda started in her chair, not believing the evidence of her ears. After a pause, the knock was repeated. Springing up from her chair, the girl ran into the hall and threw open the front door. A man leant heavily against the portal.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you,” he apologized, and his voice, she noticed with relief, was the voice of a gentleman. “The fact is I’ve had a spill off my motor bike close to here, and I’m afraid I’ve done my ankle in. I can hardly walk.”

“Oh, come in, do!” Hilda cried, helping him over the threshold. He had certainly not exaggerated. He found it impossible to do more than trail his left leg, and it was with some difficulty that she at last got him seated in one of the easy chairs.

“Where is your bike, and however did you get to the door?” she asked.

The young man jerked his head towards the window. “It’s only about twenty yards away — in the ditch, I think. I saw your light and hopped on one leg.”

“You stay quietly in that chair while I get your machine into the shed,” she ordered him, as he would have tried to rise.

As he had said, the bicycle was only a few yards away, and was not much damaged. Hilda soon wheeled it into a shed and rejoined him.

“How did it happen?” she asked him.

“It was rather dark,” he told her, “and I didn’t notice that corner till I was right on top of it, and then I cut it rather too fine and ran straight into the ditch. I’m more sorry than I can tell you to have to trouble you, especially on Christmas night. I daresay if you’d be so good as to ring up the doctor, he’d fetch me away.”

“There’s no telephone here,” Hilda answered. “And, anyway, there isn’t a doctor for miles. In fact, there isn’t another house anywhere near. You must let me bandage your ankle now.”

He protested, but the girl insisted. “It hasn’t swollen much yet,” she remarked, winding a cold bandage around it. “It’s lucky we’ve been able to treat it so early. There, is that comfortable?” she asked, as she completed the task and drew his sock on again.

The man leant back with a sigh of relief. “That’s much better, thanks,” he replied, contentedly. Then his eye fell on her half-finished dinner. “I say, I’ve spoilt your dinner!” he exclaimed in dismay.

“Quite on the contrary,” Hilda assured him. “In fact, I was feeling dreadfully lonely. You’ve no idea how pleasant it is to have a companion.”

He looked across at her sharply. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to tell me you live here alone?”

“Absolutely,” she replied evenly. “Not another soul for miles. I do everything for myself here.” His eyes took in the laid place at the table.

“You’re expecting a visitor, though,” he said.

“No” — she shook her head — “I’m not.”

“But, anyway, you’ve laid for another,” he persisted.

Hilda looked at him closely. “I wonder whether you’d understand,” she mused.

“Try me,” he suggested lightly.

“My father died this year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” There was a gentle note of sympathy in the man’s voice as he spoke. Then, puzzled, he added, “But, pardon me, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“No, perhaps not,” Hilda agreed. “I daresay it must seem just the foolish sentiment of a silly girl. You see, daddy was with me last Christmas, and then — then he died. So today I thought I would like to set his place just as if he were here. It somehow doesn’t seem quite so lonely that way.”

His hand went out in an impulsive gesture, then he withdrew it sharply.

“Poor little girl,” he murmured softly; then he seemed to fear he had committed an impertinence, but Hilda had only taken notice of the sympathy in his voice.

“I don’t expect you’ve had dinner yet” — she changed the subject briskly. “Do you think you could eat it in that chair? I’m afraid you won’t be able to sit up to the table.” As she spoke she commenced to serve him.

“It’s infernally good of you,” the man began. “Fact is, when I had this spill I was riding over to dine with some friends another twenty miles or so on.” A thought appeared to strike him. “By the way, I’m afraid I’ve neglected to introduce myself. My name is Conway — Ralph Conway.”

Hilda gave him her own name, and both settled down to the enjoyment of this strange Christmas dinner. Their talk was animated, but for some time it did not again border on personal matters. In spite of this, there was in the atmosphere a strange sense of quiet friendliness, and Ralph could not help feeling the peculiar attractiveness of this lonely girl. He realized already that she was going to mean very much more to him than any other girl that he had met. It is not clear how the girl considered the situation, but there was undoubtedly a more contented look in her eyes than could have been seen there before her companion’s arrival.

Suddenly she appeared no longer to be able to resist the desire to share with somebody else part of the trouble that she had up till now sternly kept to herself.

“Do you know, Mr. Conway,” she said, “that you’re assisting at a sort of ritual?”

“How so?”

“This dinner is the last Christmas dinner I shall ever have in the house where I have lived since I was ever such a little girl.”

“You mean you’re leaving here?”

“I’ve got to. When daddy died there were such a lot of debts to be cleared off that I had to sell everything as it stands to clear them off. Oh, I don’t know why I’m telling you, a complete stranger, all this. It can’t possibly be of interest to you.”

“Please go on.”

“Shall I? You don’t know what a relief it is to talk about it to somebody. Till now I’ve kept it all bottled up, and — well, it hasn’t been very nice.”

“I bet it hasn’t,” the man agreed. “So you’ll be leaving soon?”

“Next week.”

“What are you thinking of doing then?”

“Oh, I wish I knew! What can I do? I’ve never been taught to do anything except look after a house.”

“Isn’t there anyone who — “ The man seemed to have difficulty in putting his thought into words, but the girl understood.

“Yes, there is. There’s a man who has asked me to marry him.”

“And you’re going to?”

“I don’t know. He’s a lot older than I am, and — and — “

“And you don’t care for him,” the man supplied.

“No, frankly, I don’t; but sometimes I like him quite well.”

“Plenty of money, I suppose?”

The girl nodded. “It would solve so many difficulties. I think he’d be good to me.”

Suddenly Ralph looked straight at her. “You’ve told me this because I am, as you say, a complete stranger, and, in that capacity, I’m going to take the liberty of giving advice.” Here he leant forward. “Don’t do it, little girl, don’t do it,” he entreated, earnestly. “If you don’t love this man it isn’t worth it. I’ve seen it too many times. Anything is better.”

The girl smiled wanly. “That’s just how I’d like to think,” she said, “but it’s so difficult. It’s good of you to try and help me. And now,” she continued, more brightly, “I’ll go up and see about your bed.”

“But, I say,” the man protested, “I can’t stay here. You’re all alone.”

Hilda looked at him levelly. “You certainly can’t do anything else,” she remarked. “You can’t even walk, and there isn’t a house for miles. Anyway, what does it matter?”

“But people — “

“Oh, I don’t worry about them. Besides, if I did, it isn’t likely that anyone will know of it.”

“You’re great,” the man said, simply. “I shan’t ever forget what a good Samaritan you’ve been.”

“That’s all right then,” Hilda laughed, and went out, leaving Ralph a prey to many emotions, of which the chief was the tragedy of the girl’s position. Also, he knew for certain that he who had always laughed at love at first sight, had fallen a victim in very truth now.

Next morning Hilda brought his breakfast up to him in bed. Later he managed to get downstairs, and was again ensconced in the easy chair, where he remained most of the day. In the afternoon they had rather a heart-to-heart talk, and were getting to know each other more than slightly when there came to them the sound of a car drawing up outside.

Hilda jumped up and looked out of the window. “It’s Sir John,” she exclaimed. “Whatever can he want?”

A minute later she was bringing the newcomer into the room.

“Sir John Mortimer — Mr. Conway,” Hilda introduced the two men. “Mr. Conway was unfortunate enough to have an accident with his motor cycle close to here last night and has sprained his ankle.”

Sir John regarded the young man coldly. “Oh, really?” he said. “And do I understand that he passed the night under your roof?”

Hilda looked at him steadily. “Of course he did,” she replied. “There isn’t a doctor for miles, as you know. Perhaps, now that you are here, you would be so good as to fetch one to have a look at Mr. Conway.”

The older man waved this aside. “Do you mean to tell me you allowed this man, who, you tell me, is a stranger to you, to spend the night alone with you in this house?”

“Sir John, I don’t quite know what you mean, but I find your conversation distinctly unpleasant.”

“I daresay you do. All I can say is I’m darned glad I came. As a matter of fact I thought I would drop in to see how you had enjoyed Christmas, and also to see if you had made up your mind on that other matter about which I spoke to you.”

“Oh, I told you — “ the girl was beginning, when Sir John broke in again.

“I know what you told me, but we needn’t discuss that. All I have to say now is that I shall not have to trouble you for that decision. At the time, I confess I was surprised at your hesitation, but certainly I had no idea that the girl I proposed to marry was another man’s — er — mistress.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Ralph had sprung from his chair and struck him a heavy blow across the mouth.

“How dare you insult this lady!” he cried.

The baronet uttered a sharp oath and swung his arm at the younger man, but the latter sidestepped and his left arm shot out in a blow that caught Sir John neatly under the chin. As he staggered back Ralph seized him by the collar and hustled him out of the room. The other man was only too glad to get out of the front door and into his car, swearing viciously, and uttering dreadful threats.

Ralph came back into the room. “Well, that’s the end of Sir John, I fancy,” he remarked.

Hilda did not answer, but continued to look at him steadily.

Ralph caught the look and stood stone-faced.

“It’s pretty obvious, I suppose,” he managed at last. “The game’s up, of course. I guess there’s nothing else to be said.”

“Yes. I’d like to see what you’re really like,” Hilda replied quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“The other day I was in my club, and I chanced to hear that bounder mention your name and say a few things I didn’t like the sound of at the time. Among other things he said he was marrying you. I felt I must find out how things really stood.”

“But you didn’t know me,” the girl interjected.

“Pardon me. I’m just coming to that. As I say, I felt I must find out how the land lay. You see, I’m afraid I’ve been acting under false pretences all along. I knew your father, Miss Morris.”

“You knew dad?” Hilda cried sharply.

The man nodded. “I was with him when he died. I had hoped to tell you this in another way at another time, but it must come out now. I had been with him throughout the whole expedition. I shall have much to tell you about that another day, if you will let me. Your father was a fine man. As he was dying, he gave me certain instructions, and among other things there was this letter.” As he spoke he took a paper from his pocket and handed it to the girl, who seized it with a little cry and opened it feverishly.

When she had read it she looked at the man with eyes that were shining through the tears.

“Daddy says here I’m to trust you implicitly,” she said.

“Can you now?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you come here in the ordinary way?” she asked.

The man hung his head. “I’m ashamed of that. You see, your father made certain suggestions.” He halted, embarrassed.

Hilda’s cheeks were a bit scarlet. “Yes, I know. He says so,” she whispered in a low voice.

“And I — oh, do please forgive me if you can — wanted to see you as you really were — especially after I heard Sir John speak of you. The ankle was a rotten imposture.”

“I knew it all the time though,” the girl remarked softly.

“What!”

”When I went out of the room for a moment once last night, I happened to see — “

”And then, knowing that, you let me stay here all alone with you?” the man demanded in amazement.

”Yes. I wanted to find out what you were doing it for — and why — and I knew nothing could happen,” she replied calmly.

”Well, you’ve certainly solved that problem,” he remarked.

”It was settled already,” Hilda replied calmly, going over to the desk and taking up a letter.

“Please read this. I wrote it to him this morning declining his offer.”Ralph glanced through it.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asked.

”I wanted you to know,” she answered, “that your advice had borne fruit.”

”By-the-way,” Ralph said suddenly, “you won’t have any more money difficulties. Your father had quite a lot of money, really. The papers I have in my pocket will clear all that up.”

”Then I’ll be able to buy this house back!” Hilda exclaimed joyfully.

”That’s already done,” the man replied quietly. “I saw your lawyer two days ago, and settled that.

”Hilda looked at him and smiled the smile of one who sees happiness beckoning.

”You seem to have been taking a pretty large part in my affairs lately,” she remarked.

The man jumped at the chance.”Nothing to the part I hope you’re going to let me play one day, little girl,” he said, tenderly.

The girl was silent a moment. “For daddy’s sake?” she asked

then.”No,” he answered, firmly, “for mine.”

”And mine, too,” Hilda answered gently and laid her hand in his, well satisfied.

THE LURE

(By George Waight)

Vi spoke of it as her boudoir. Other people called it her bedroom. Both were right, though Vi’s utmost justification lay in the slender fact that the bed was hidden behind a curtain drawn in front of a small niche in the wall. The presence of a telephone in the room might possibly be cited as a further proof of the boudoir theory, though that instrument could also be placed beside the bed, and, at night, was. The existence of the telephone was due to Vi’s profession in life, which she summed up rather broadly by describing herself as a “lady journalist.” That and her extravagant habits constituted her sole claim to distinction. Both gave her an air of importance in the eyes of her female friends.

At the moment two of them were wandering round the boudoir, examining the fittings, though Madge knew them well enough seeing that she was accustomed to drop in on her friend at all hours of the day. But to Evadne Stanton the room was new, and everything was to her an attraction. At the imitation Sheraton desk near the window she paused abruptly, facing a cabinet photo of a man in a large, rather too conspicuous frame.

“Good gracious, what’s this?” she exclaimed, picking it up. She turned to her hostess. “Have we here your future Lord of Creation?”

Vi gave a foolish laugh, but before she could answer Madge had spoken for her. “Vi doesn’t know yet. She evidently believes in the primrose path of dalliance, with plenty of dalliance. To my certain knowledge these two have been dallying for the last five years and it seems the man won’t come up to the scratch.”

“That’s sure annoying. But why?” Again Evadne addressed her hostess, but again it was Madge who answered, although Vi supported her with a fatuous giggle.

“Whisper it not in the streets of Ascalon,” Madge prattled lightly, “but I fear that the hero of the portrait can’t quite make up his mind to tie himself to this little bundle of extravagance” — (she indicated Vi, who replied by a

pout) — “for a permanence, though I don’t see why not. He can afford the luxury right enough. So they compromise,” she concluded drily, “by talking to each other every night in bed — over the telephone.”

Evadne laughed at this recital and Vi blushed. “It sounds very intriguing,” said Evadne. “But I guess it wouldn’t suit this child.” She turned again to Vi. “Why do you stand for it? Bring the man up to scratch, my dear.”

Vi opened her eyes wide. “I wish I could,” she admitted. “But… but he won’t speak,” she finished with a deprecatory laugh.

“Shucks!” said Evadne elegantly. “Put some ginger into it, girl. Do you know how I corralled my husband? He’s dead now, by the way,” she added complacently. “He also was one of those guys who seem to think they can saunter on indefinitely in the old sweet way and never line up to the mark. However, I soon put the kibosh on that. Men are all jealous — jealous as cats. For one solid month I handed him the frozen mitt, refused to go out with him, and was just as sweet as molasses to some of the other lads of the village. Before the month was up, believe me, that man was clawing at my feet, my dear, begging and imploring me to marry him. That’s the general idea,” she went on. “What’s this guy’s name, by the way? … Well, you let Mr. Geoffrey Arkwright wake up with a jolt to the fact he is not the last man God created; try it, kid.”

At first Vi put such a revolutionary suggestion aside with distaste, but it came back again, and again came back. It would be rather nice to settle down once for all with Geoff. The proposal had been so near his lips so many times and so many times it had just failed to materialize. The trouble was, of course, as that strange friend of Madge’s had so cleverly realized, that he had got used to having her at his beck and call and hadn’t awakened to the fact that she had become necessary to him. Very well, then, he should realize it. She would do as Evadne had suggested. For a month he should go without her. Then soon enough he would realize what she meant to him.Before evening that resolution had already weakened several times, but when she got into bed that night she still was not quite certain what she was going to say to him when he rang her up, as she knew he presently would do. They had both come to value the little intimacy of those nightly talks over the wire from one bed to another bed half a mile away. At least, did Geoff value them? Well, he precious soon should.Vi’s thoughts were interrupted by the tinkle of the bell at the bedside table. With a happy little sigh of anticipation Vi raised herself on one elbow of the pillow and put the receiver to her ear.”That’s you, Vi?” “Geoff?”The preliminaries were quickly over. Then, after some desultory talk, “I say, Vi, don’t forget tomorrow’s Saturday; dinner at the Troc at 8 as usual, I suppose, and then Murray’s?”Vi breathed quickly. Now or never. When she spoke her voice was tinged with a soft regret. After all, she was breaking the habit of five years.”So sorry, Geoff, I can’t possibly,” she managed firmly; “I’ve promised to go out with someone else.” (That was a lie.)After the conversation was over she lay back in bed and wondered breathlessly whether she had already sowed the first seed of knowledge in the man’s unconscious need of her.She spent Saturday evening in her own rooms. As usual, he rang up after she had got into bed. “Oh, yes, thanks, I had a scrumptious time,” she told him in response to his question; she already detected a note of uneasiness in his voice.The next time he asked her to dinner, Vi again told him that she had a previous engagement — only this time it was the truth. She and the man — he was young and attractive — dined at the Savoy (Vi had accidentally dropped a hint to Geoff that that was her destination), and Geoff was there, as she made sure he would be, to inspect his new rival anxiously. By now Vi began to feel that Evadne was the best friend she had ever had.The next step was to cut off the nightly talk over the telephone. That was not so easy, but by now Vi was thoroughly entering into the spirit of the game. After Geoff had rung up several nights without any response he desisted, and Vi felt she had gained one more point. She was sure now that every pore of his being must realize the need of her.Two or three times in two weeks she managed to run into him and every time she was with the same escort. The latter, by the way, was due back in India within a month and meanwhile was filling in time very agreeably with no after-thought in the background. So Vi felt safe enough on that score.The last time Vi had met Geoff, he had distinctly scowled at her escort. Yes, Evadne was certainly an expert in the art of bringing husbands-to-be to a realization of the indispensable qualities of their future wives.Two weeks lengthened into three, and by this time Vi herself was feeling pretty acutely her own need for the tardy husband-to-be, but she stuck to the programme gamely. It was about the first thing that Vi ever had stuck to, which of itself shows how much she was in love. Separation had evidently awakened more than one party.Only three days remained of the prescribed month, when Vi caught scarlet fever, and it was nearly two months later before she was pronounced well again. She was reduced to a shadow of her former self. Moreover, she burned with anxiety to get in touch with Geoff again. The one letter she had been able to write must have gone astray. One month was all very well, but three months…Anyway, the very first night she was back in her own little room, safely tucked up in bed, she lifted the telephone, and spoke Geoff’s number into it.After a moment. “Geoff?” “Yes.” A pause. “It’s me, Vi,” said Vi. “Oh, er, you’ve got the wrong number I’m afraid,” said the man at the other end, and hung up his receiver hastily.His left arm was still round his wife.”Who’s your midnight friend Geoff?” asked Evadne Arkwright (late Stanton), stretching lazily in bed.Geoffrey switched off the light before he answered: “Only somebody making a mistake, dearest,” he said, and did not see the smile on Evadne’s face. — (“London Mail.”)

“THE BREAK”

By G. W. WAIGHT

On a hot and heavy January night, the full summer moon was reflected on the calm waters. It was just past midnight and I sat out across the lagoon, looking into the blue distance beyond. Around me I could hear the hum of a hundred mosquitoes, and I knew that to be awake outside a mosquito net would mean torment. I sat doped, pulling automatically on a cigarette. When my senses started going, I heard the continuous metallic twang of a steel guitar floating down to me in the still night. I could hear a rhythmic shuffle of feet as dancers moved in time to the slow, native wail of the music. A voice called out an old Hawaiian love song. This sound carried in that tropic way only the islands in the Pacific know, penetrating the night with an uncanny clarity. I found myself swaying unconsciously, keeping time to the song. The singer ceased and for a while I heard the low hum of voices above the shuffle of the dancing. A moment’s pause and the metallic tremolo started again. I listened to the joyous peals of laughter that sometimes overwhelmed the melody. Everybody seemed happy in that dancing throng which I heard but could not see. Suddenly a crash rang through the night. The rhythmic shuffle of feet changed to a wild stampede. A babble of voices rose and fell in quick cadences. Above them all a woman’s voice spoke, shrill and yet clear: “Is there a man in the place who will help me?”Although I listened intently, there was no audible response. Again the voice spoke out.”You can all go home now. There will be no more dancing here for a while.”. Then I knew what had happened. The spring of the phonograph in the flat upstairs had broken again.

CHECKED

By G. W. WAIGHT

Perhaps it was my bewildered look after an hour in the dentist’s chair that attracted the attention of a perfect stranger to me as I stood on the steps of Flinders Street station early this week. My mind was certainly discussing the problem as to whether I should cross the road and have just one more reviver before going home to dinner. Maybe I did look perplexed. Wives are such suspicious creatures regarding an alcoholic odor. All the perfect stranger asked me was if I could tell him the next train to Seddon, and I must admit that my reply was of an uncertain quality. ”Down for the Show?” he asked. And, before I could gather my senses for a stinging retort, he invited me to have a drink. My protests were unavailing, and, under his Ancient-Mariner-like insistence, I crossed the road and passed through the folding doors which lead to mixed results. He bought a drink for me, and produced a £25 note, a cheque and some small change. The change just paid for the two drinks. For a while we talked of rural subjects. I learned that crops were looking well in the Mallee, but that there was a drought in the Riverina. The pub at Ned’s Corner had been improved, and altogether the agricultural community was in a prosperous way. I was intensely gratified, but made no comment because I did not want to get the cold air into my guns. At last I told him I was a city dweller, but he still remained affable. In 10 minutes we were old acquaintances. At this stage I suggested another drink, and really desired to pay for it; but the perfect stranger would not hear of it. With the bar full, he did not like to tender his bank note, and offered the barman the cheque. Firmly although politely it was refused, and then the perfect stranger asked me to change it. ”It is only for a mere fiver,” said my affable friend, “but as it is on my country account it is hard to negotiate.” He inquired if I could get it changed anywhere. At first I demurred, but his anxiety so impressed me that I was almost forced to admit that I could. He handed me the cheque as we went outside, and, a little further down the street, I stopped outside the main entrance of a big warehouse.” Stop here a minute while I go inside and get it changed for you,” I said with an indifferent air.” All right. Now don’t be long as I’m in a hurry,” he replied rather commandingly. Up the stairs I bounded, and the big doors closed behind me. I passed right through into Flinders Lane, walked along to Swanston Street, and caught my tram home. Being honest I took the cheque to my bank and asked them to send it back to the branch in the Mallee on which it was drawn. I now have it marked “No account” by a brutal, disbelieving rubber stamp. Somehow I feel I would like to renew my acquaintance with the perfect stranger, if only to apologize to him for having left him in the cold in Flinders Street awaiting my return.

That Guinea Look

By G. W. WAIGHT

A blur came across the eyes of Myra Bernas as she glanced at a small paragraph in the newspaper she was reading in bed by the light of a candle which flickered fitfully. By the merest chance she had read a name which might mean so much to her in the future. The clock in another room struck midnight as she blew out the light. Next morning she tore out the paragraph and left for the city without having breakfast. Travellers who jostled her in the crowded tram did not notice her reddened eyes, which told of a sleepless night. An occasional tear left her lashes and coursed down her cheeks, indicating her agony. With hurrying footsteps she left the tram and hurried to the address she had read. Outside the door was a veritable directory of nameplates. Instinctively her eyes were drawn to the name she had read in the newspaper. “First Floor” was the direction given in one corner of the plate, and, disdaining the lift, she bounded up the stairs.A nervous stammer attacked her as she spoke to the girl who appeared at the little window bearing the word “Enquiries.” ”Do you want to see Mr. Pearson urgently?” the girl asked casually.”Yes. I — er — er. At once, please.” ”Well, go into that room, and wait a few minutes,” the enquiry girl told her in a tone full of an understanding sympathy.She walked into the room and waited. Every moment seemed an age. Gloomy forebodings mingled with anxious and terrifying fears in her brain. Swift footsteps woke her from the fearsome imaginings which troubled her. She looked at the door. There stood a man, but she did not recognise him. He stared at her for a while and then spoke softly: ”Come with me, Miss Bernas,” he said in a pleasant but commanding way. Without a word she followed him into a dimly lit apartment.”Sit down,” he said in a quite casual sort of way, and quite unconsciously she obeyed. Presently, he advanced towards her without a word. His steel-blue eyes gazed deeply into hers. She felt his warm breath on her face. She did not feel his embrace. Suddenly he stepped back and removed his penetrating gaze from her. A big sigh broke from her lips involuntarily, as though her mind was free from some awful suspense. She knew that now he knew and in a moment his lips would tell her his decision. A moment’s pause, which seemed an eternity, added to her anxiety — “I don’t think you need glasses, but don’t strain your eyes by reading at night,” was all he said. Oculists do these things every day.

Melbourne’s First Steps: Some People of “The Village”

By Geo. Wensley-Waight

As the years roll by and Melbourne grows larger and older, we are apt to lose sight of the everyday events and commonplace people that figured in the first years of the little village founded by John Batman and others on the banks of the Yarra Yarra in 1835.

Early Growth and Establishment

The growth of the community during the first three years was such that the shopkeepers who had congregated around the spot where now stands the Western Market decided that it was necessary to establish a savings bank. A committee was formed and the bank was duly gazetted on December 17, 1838. Its governors were Captains Lonsdale and Baxter, Revs. Clow and Grills, and Messrs. Craig and Smith, merchants. It began operations under the direction of Mr. “Jemmy” Smith, who was an identity, in the top story of a building in Collins Street, opposite the Bank of Australasia. However, this place was destroyed by fire in 1843. Fortunately, the astute manager always removed the money each day to a safe place, and thus the deposits were not endangered, and the bank continued unhampered.

Melbourne’s First Fire

In 1838, Melbourne’s first fire occurred. It was late one Saturday night when the populace was roused by the blowing of whistles, the clatter of police rattles, and the ringing of bells. Some weatherboard shops in Flinders Lane, near Market Square, were blazing and the shopping centre was in danger. The chief constable, Mr. Henry Batman, brother of John Batman, and Melbourne’s first police force, consisting of four constables, took charge of the situation, but the first fire brigade had not yet been formed. Among the willing workers were:

• The first hairdresser, Mr. Lamb
• The first gunsmith, Mr. Blanche
• The first carpenter, Mr. Robert Marr
• The first architect, Mr. Samuel Jackson

The shop of the first modiste, Miss Lyll, was in danger, but after carrying much water from the Yarra, a friendly wind turned the flames away from the adjoining places. As it was, the shops destroyed were not covered by insurance, and from this episode, the first insurance company was started.

First Insurance Company

With a capital of £50,000, the Melbourne Fire and Marine Insurance Company was floated, with premium rates ranging from 6/6 to £1/5/ per cent. However, it was not very long before the company went into liquidation.

An Explosion and Early Executions

Soon after the fire, the first gunpowder explosion occurred in the gun shop of Mr. Blanche. One afternoon, he was having a friendly chat with the first tobacconist, a Scot, when a drunken shepherd entered the shop and began shooting wildly with a revolver. The Scot had just lit his pipe when the man fired a shot into a barrel of gunpowder. When the smoke had cleared away, the shepherd was dead, the tobacconist’s legs were badly injured, and Blanche was blinded. With due regard for detail, the chronicler of the event mentions that the Scot’s pipe was out.Melbourne’s first gaol was a brick building which stood in Collins Street below King Street. Two natives who had murdered a shepherd were the first people publicly executed before a large crowd at Gallows Green, on a site where the Melbourne Gaol for so long stood.

Water Supply and Early Improvements

The water supply was a big problem in those early days. Mr. Mills, noticing the reluctance of the populace to use the muddy water of the Yarra for drinking purposes, started the first brewery in Flinders Lane. Other breweries quickly followed, and after a while, the first water works were started by building up the rocks at the falls on the Yarra opposite Queen Street.At intervals, on the north shore of the river bank from the falls to the site of Prince’s Bridge, rudely constructed pumps were installed. By means of these, the water was transferred to barrels mounted on wheels or fixed into carts and then sold to householders at prices from 2/ to 10/ a barrel. The average rate was 3/ a barrel, except in dry seasons.The first real improvement in the water supply was the erection of proper pumping machinery on the weir at the extreme end of Spring Street and corresponding works in a huge reservoir at Apsley Place. Afterwards, a process of sand filtration was introduced, and this continued until January 1858, when Yan Yean was inaugurated.

Firsts in Melbourne

• First cabbage garden: Cultivated by Mr. James Eddy at the Adam and Eve Hotel in Little Collins Street near the Eastern Market.
• First crop of wheat: Raised by John Batman at Indented Head.
• First potatoes: Grown by John Fawkner over the Yarra.
• First cricket match: Played between teams of Benedicts and Bachelors, with the Benedicts as winners. Mr. George Cavanagh, the founder of The Herald, played in this game.
• First sod hut: Erected by Mr. George Evans.
• First pair of boots: Made by Mr. Evan Evans for Buckley, the runaway convict who lived with the blacks for many years.
• First brick building: Erected as a store by Mr. J. F. Strachan of Geelong, on the site of the Union Bank.
• First private brick residence: A large house built for Mr. John Hodgson, erected on the site of the Port Phillip Club Hotel in Flinders Street. It was so large that it was known as “Hodgson’s Folly.”
• First theatre: A wooden place which stood on the site of the Bull and Mouth Hotel in Bourke Street.

Government Supplies

An interesting item from the early days is the list of the first supply of stationery sent over by the New South Wales Governor for the use of the Inspector of Works and Buildings in Melbourne. It reads:

• 6 bottles of red ink
• 6 bottles of black ink
• 1 bundle of quills
• 1 quire of foolscap
• 20 fathoms of red tape

This list, particularly the last item, shows how little government departments of today differ from their predecessors, yet progress continues.

Failure! — A Story that Sounds Grim

By G. Wensley-Waight

It was a grey day, with the rain tapping incessantly on the window as a reminder to persons indoors that everything was cold and miserable outside. Mary needed no such reminders, for she herself was even more miserable than the weather. She had looked out several times, and on each occasion had tumbled back into bed with a hope that soon the rain would cease. But it didn’t.The clock in the South Melbourne Town Hall had just finished striking eleven when she heard the sound of footsteps hurrying along the passage towards her room. They ceased at her door, and then turned and went away again before she could slip on her dressing jacket and see who was there. Things like this often happen in apartment houses.She sat up in bed and from this vantage point she observed an envelope that had been pushed under the door. Crawling along the bed she executed a strange acrobatic feat in order to grasp the letter without leaving the four square temple of Morpheus. From inside the envelope she withdrew a neatly folded piece of notepaper on which the only written words were: “Can see you today at 3.30 p.m. No other time suitable.” She knew who had sent it. She looked out of the window again. It was raining harder, and she grew more miserable.A thousand thoughts, mainly excuses, filled her brain as she put on her dressing gown and walked over to her dressing table. She found some notepaper and commenced to write a short note in reply, but her hand grew unsteady. Even the pencil became possessed with a stubbornness and would not put her thoughts on the paper.She looked into the mirror and found herself saying in a strangely pitched voice, “How awful! How awful!” At last she walked over to a corner of the room and opened a small suit case. He, the man who mattered most to her, had left it there for her to look after. It was filled with all the little things a man usually takes away with him when he goes on a short holiday. She sorted them all over, then carefully folding the garments, she replaced them in a manner that told of her feelings for the one they belonged to.There was one thing she did not put back. It was a white handled razor. She opened it. The gleaming steel blade seemed to have a hypnotic fascination for her which she was powerless to resist. Again she looked into the mirror and flourished the razor, first in one hand and then in the other. Again she looked at the note that had been pushed under her door, biting her lips in a determined manner as she did so.”I wonder if I have the courage to do it,” she asked herself as she gripped the ivory handle with twitching fingers.She touched her warm flesh with the chilly blade and her whole frame quivered convulsively.”I won’t go. I won’t go,” she said aloud in a tremulous voice that frightened her. Then for a moment she pondered and looked at the note again. Thoughts of what would happen, and what her man would say when he discovered what she had done, crossed her mind.She looked at the deadly thing she held in her hand. Her fingers relaxed their hold and it fell with a clatter on the linoleum. “I must go. I must go. There is no alternative,” she said.And she went, although she was miserable. For the shingled woman does not live who can give herself a proper neck shave, so barbers’ appointments must be kept.

Originally published in The Herald (Melbourne, Vic. : 1861–1954), Saturday 20 March 1926, page 17 (corrected by AI)

COMPETITIVE DANCING: Points That Win Contests

In view of the early commencement of the heats of the Australian Amateur Dancing Championship, and other competitive dancing contests, the following information and points from the pen of the well-known writer, Mr. G. Wensley Waight, will prove of interest at the present moment.

Competitors should carefully study the following article, for it contains very sound advice.

ESSENTIAL ELEMENTS

Trifles in technique, says Mr. Wensley Waight, have won many important contests conducted before leading judges in Australia, and a knowledge of these small things, that mean so much in competition work, is essential to competitors. Since the Australian amateur dancing championship was first contested there has been a steady growth towards the English style of dancing, and today the heats in every State are conducted on the basic movements of the British standard ballroom dances. Many promising competition dancers have had their chances spoilt by omitting to obtain a full grounding in the basic steps before taking the floor, and relying on movements picked up haphazard from more skilful friends. The first step for every aspirant for ballroom dancing honours is into the studio of a qualified teacher, for, upon the basic knowledge, which only a teacher can impart, must be built the whole structure of those variations which catch the eye in contest dancing.

KEY QUALITIES

There is so much that goes towards making the difference between an ordinary dancer and a first-class contest exponent that it is first necessary to divide the necessary qualities into groups in order of importance: They are: — (a) Rhythm — (b) Balance and movement — © Deportment and style — (d) Movements, i.e., steps — (e) Footwork — (f) Showmanship

RHYTHM FIRST

This is the first principle of correct dancing, and if the dancer cannot feel the natural impulse of the rhythmic beat in the music, it is a waste of time to take up contest work, for anything taught in the way of steps and movements will be lost. The closing of the feet in the third beat of the waltz, and the blurring of movement in the fox trot are rhythmic features for which every judge looks and makes his first selection upon when eliminating those couples who need no longer be considered. Upon the true interpretation of the rhythm depends the whole objective in dancing, which otherwise becomes a series of mechanical exercises.

FOX TROT TIPS

There was a time when judges would almost determine a contest on the manner in which the contestants performed the waltz. But those days are nearly gone and today the main faults in the big contests are to be seen quite clearly in the slow fox trot. The rhythm — “One two-oo, Three fo-ur” — is the backbone of the fox trot, and although it is very simple when properly acquired through constant practice, the beginner will probably find it difficult. Dancers are inclined to think that this timing means that their steps are to be Long-short-short, but the rhythm refers to the timing of the steps rather than their size. The exceptions to this rule in long striding are to be found in the Natural and Reverse turns, as your teacher will demonstrate.

JUST “WONDERFUL”

In the Waltz the rhythm is to be found in the natural pronunciation of the word, “Wonderful,” by giving the three syllables their proper emphasis. The feet are invariably together on the third beat, and the accentuation in movement is on the first beat as indicated by the drum beat in most melodies. The rhythm of the Quickstep is so simple that any explanation is unnecessary, for it is a natural appeal to the Australian dancing temperament.