Free Lantana Lane by Eleanor Dark Page B

betraying any discomposure when Herbie sat down nearby and subjected him to a close, and prolonged scrutiny, seemed to find it a natural tribute to his interesting personality. All the same, Herbie had not yet exhausted the wonders of the ute, and the pumpkin problem was growing every day more engrossing, and each night the stars demanded longer study, so he found Uncle Cuth almost an
embarrass de richesse,
and was beginning to lose weight, and get dark circles under his eyes. So when Joe came along and fetched Uncle Cuth home by the scruff of his neck, Herbie saw them go with composure, if not without a lingering regret. And Joe, having marched his violently protesting relative across the threshold of their new abode, delivered himself of one grim sentence : “If y’ gotta be a bludger, y’ain’t gonna bludge on nobody but me.”
    Well, that was that, and they settled down together. Joe couldn’t do as much work now as he had done before, so not many cases of pines went out from his farm, and the cheques which came back must have been small; but the fund tided them over, and Joe made Uncle Cuth throw in his pension—cutting short his attempted remonstrances with the dour remark that if there was one thing he had better not mention in Joe’s hearing, unless he wanted to get thrown out on his ear, that thing was a rainy day. It was also remarked in the Lane, with wonder and satisfaction, that Uncle Cuth (carbuscles or no carbuscles), was sometimes to be seen chipping in the pines, and frequently to be heard hammering in the shed. He raised his voice loudly, of course, against this cruel exploitation, but Joe merely retorted that the trouble with him was that he’d never been exploited enough, but, by golly, he was going to be now.
    Joe didn’t feel equal to going fishing any more, and his injuries made him awkward in driving the ute, so he rarely went in to the store, and never to the pictures. He thought of selling the ute, but he wouldn’t have got much for it, and it saved him a lot of heavy lugging on the farm, so he kept it. The neighbours arranged to fetch his meat, and mail and groceries for him, so that was all right, but, bereft of his weekly movie, his thoughts began to turn longingly to his draughts. He accordingly sent a message to the old lady in Dillillibill enquiring whether their weekly contest might be resumed, and received a reply to the effect that she would be eagerly awaiting him, and thirsting for battle, on the next Sunday, and every Sunday thereafter.
    He was greatly cheered by this prospect—particularly when Gwinny (who has a sister in Dillillibill, and visits her every Sunday), volunteered to transport him there and back. When all was satisfactorily arranged, the Lane dared to hope that his disorganised life was once more settling down to a peaceful and regular routine.
    With what consternation was it learned, therefore, on the Saturday morning, that Gwinny’s sister had just rung Gwinny to tell her that the old lady had died suddenly of a stroke, in the very act of getting her draughts-board out from the cupboard where it had lain unused for so long. Joe was terribly upset by this, and confided to Amy Hawkins that he felt real bad about it, because he couldn’t help being afraid it was the excitement that did her in. He went along the Lane collecting white flowers from everyone, and Biddy Acheson made them up into a very fine wreath, and Jack Hawkins drove him in to attend the funeral.
    It was difficult, now, for Joe to look sad—or, indeed, anything but sinister. But we all knew that he
was
sad, and felt very sorry for him, and very useless, because although we could help him in some ways, we could not help him about draughts. We knew our limitations. We realised that there was now no one within, perhaps, a radius of a hundred miles, who was qualified to compete with Joe at this venerable game of skill.
    But Bruce Kennedy (who is the least