1915 Read Online Free Page B

the base of his glass.
    â€œWhy do you call him Hen-rick,” whispered Billy.
    â€œ Heinrich ,” said Reilly. “That’s his proper name. He likes to be called Henry so I take the mickey out of him.”
    â€œA Dutchman?”
    â€œOne of the Kaiser’s crowd.”
    â€œAh,” said Billy. Then: “Who’s the Kaiser?”
    â€œHe’s the boss cocky of Germany.”
    The girl from the veranda poked her head through the servery.
    â€œIs Dad there?”
    â€œDad?” Her dark eyes startled him.
    â€œYou’re the one for the room. Come on!”
    â€œMy daughter,” explained Reilly, pointing to the door. “She won’t wait around.”
    The girl was standing in the foyer with her arms embracing his swag. His hat dangled from a free finger.
    â€œMy name’s Frances. What’s yours?”
    Billy was reminded of a face that peered invitingly from the family’s Arabian Nights . Even the shawl fitted.
    â€œWilliam,” he said clumsily, “Billy. Billy Mackenzie.”
    â€œBilly big-ears,” said the girl, and giggled.
    On the first landing she stopped and chatted about the “turmoil” of life in Forbes and how this was an oddly quiet night. “We get everyone here, all the best quality.” Billy kept close behind as she climbed the remaining stairs, noting how fully-shaped she was, sweeping her bottom from side to side like a woman. She was fifteen, probably sixteen, with smooth white skin against the lace of her collar and the smell of scented soap drifting around.
    An elderly couple passed them, the woman steadying one heavy-booted foot in the air beforeplanting it with a crash on the stair. Her white haired husband guided her. “Good evening your honour, and Mrs Ward,” said Frances, arching over the bannister to let them pass. But as soon as their backs were turned she poked out her tongue.
    The upstairs corridor was gloomy and deserted. Frances led the way to the end door and fumbled with the key. The chance of putting his arms right round her presented itself now, but instead Billy found himself merely running the palm of his hand under her shawl and up her bare arm.
    Nothing happened.
    She stood there, not looking at him, her fingers on the iron key and the swag still clutched tightly. So he closed his fingers around the lace on her upper arm because there was nowhere else to go, sensing the chill of her response but needing all of a sudden to resolve something that stretched a long way past the rush of his desire.
    â€œYou must never mistake good will for anything else,” she muttered, and with that the door swung open and she almost fell inside — throwing the swag on the bed and turning up the lamp, unclipping the outside double doors.
    â€œThat’s it. Dinner’s on till seven-thirty.”
    Billy moved to the centre of the room while Frances, smiling, backed onto the veranda.
    â€œYou get a splendid view of the town from up here.” Just enough light remained to pick out phantom shapes. A corrugated iron stable peered from the lane, its rickety yards formed by uneven logs. The post office opposite was a substantial white-painted stone building.
    Yabbie howled from the yard and Frances shivered:“It’s getting cold.”
    Then a shape stirred in the post office’s recessed doorway. A woman. She seemed to be keeping watch on the front door of the hotel, and as she shifted position Billy saw that she wore a yellow dress and held something dark over one arm, a coat or a blanket. A dark woman, an Aborigine.
    â€œWho’s that down there?”
    â€œWhere?”
    Before he could point her out Frances darted away through his room and down the corridor.
    For a while, before he washed and changed for dinner, the odour of Frances’s scented soap lingered in the room. Before going downstairs he kicked the wall angrily and then sat on the bed for a minute and laughed.