Fifty-five minutes late
by Paul Wenz
A
short story about life in the Australian bush by French-Australian
writer Paul Wenz of Nanima Station via Forbes.
First published in 1910 and republished here as part of the Paul and Hettie Wenz Project.
More on this story's publication history >>.
A minor branch line in New South Wales, and nobody
knows why it was built except the few travellers it jostles
every week - a twice weekly service which doesn't even
pay for the axle-grease.
The train stopped
at a siding where there was a little shed and a water
tank: the name Billingora was written imposingly on a
long signboard. It was a station after all.
The passengers
appearing at the doors looked hot and tired, dusty and
rumpled. George, the guard, was the only one to get down,
to give the mail bag to the woman who was acting station
master and to get another in return. The two bags were
limp and only a quarter full.
After a few
minutes a salesman, doubtless on this line for the first
time, asked in a loud voice what they were waiting for.
Even if they
had known nobody had enough energy to reply to such a
question. The heat had long since stifled any social instinct.
So the city-type could only sound off at those who were
"trying" to run the New South Wales railways.
Eventually,
the train set off and soon reached its maximum speed:
fourteen miles per hour. From the train, there was nothing
to be seen but low hills which looked like red humps among
the yellowish grass.
The plain was
scattered with clumps of spindly trees, and whatever the
miners had left behind them twenty years before. Three
thousand men had made holes in this land as worms do in
wood: they had accumulated all these piles of red earth,
destroying a forest which was slowly rotting in the shafts.
Now the burning sun mercilessly consumed these hills and
no amount of clay lifted hastily from the depths could
rejuvenate the stricken grass.
The train had
been going for about thirty minutes when a man standing
between the rails flagged it down and brought it to a
sudden halt. George ran towards the engine to see what
was happening.
"Is there
a doctor on board?" the man asked anxiously.
"I don't
think so," said George, who knew almost all the passengers
and could guess who the others were. "Has there been
an accident?"
"My wife
took sick an hour ago."
The passengers
were all at the door; George soon knew for certain that
there was no doctor.
Then, Mrs Kelly
got down from a second class compartment (with more ease
than her large person would have led people to think).
She called the man to her and in a low voice, she asked
him several questions.
"Yes,"
he answered. "It started an hour ago, but the house
is nearly a mile from here."
After a brief
moment of hesitation, Mrs Kelly made up her mind.
"George,"
she said to the guard, "I'm going to have a look
at this woman: you can wait for me or go on as you please;
in any case I'm off."
Turning towards
the passengers who were dying to know what was happening,
she demanded whisky. This appeal was not made in vain
for several bottles of different shapes and with varying
levels were produced straight away. Decisively she chose
a bottle more than half full and began to follow the man
towards a clump of trees which seemed to be wavering in
the heat.
"Christ!
That's the end!" wailed the travelling salesman as
he watched them go. "We've had it now!"
Nobody else
complained: they all lived in the bush where time is not
money, where a man is always ready to help his neighbour
in case of need. The passengers got down from the train;
farmers went to look at the sheep panting in their open
wagon; three little children inspected the engine while
others, strolling among the hills, gathered bits of quartz
in the hope of finding specks of gold.
During this
time, under a leaden sky, Mrs Kelly valiantly continued
with her companion. The flies were terrible, it must have
been at least 110°F in the shade, but the lady’s
majestic frame showed not a sign of bad humour. The man
did his best to explain what was wrong; he was a miner
and his work in the long since abandoned shaft gave just
enough gold to keep him alive.
Mrs Kelly was
the undisputed Good Fairy of the district; her only preoccupation
in this life seemed to be to do good, to give help to
those who needed it. She could be seen on any road, at
all hours of the day and night, going to visit someone
who was sick, tending someone injured or helping some
poor soul cross in the great beyond. Last month, she had
saved Joe Smith for his wife and five children when he
was brought in, his foot almost severed, cut by an axe.
The number was not negligible of the sick and dying she
had helped, or the voices which rose to bless her.
The miner's
hut was a miserable shanty patched together mainly with
bark and old jerry cans; a grubby little boy and a puppy
were playing in the dust. Both fled at the arrival of
the visitor.
Mrs Kelly went
into the hut and the man began to cut wood, looking steadfastly
at the door. After what seemed a long time, Mrs Kelly
emerged.
Her face was
radiant; her joyful smile lightened his heart. "It's
a girl," she called, "come and hold her now."
The patient
was resting and the man now that everything was going
well, wanted to take Mrs Kelly back. He listened carefully
to all her instructions; she promised to send what was
necessary by the next day train.
The poor man
could find no words to express his thanks; he did not
know how he was going to show his gratitude. The he asked:
"What
is your Christian name?"
"Elizabeth,"
replied Mrs Kelly.
"Well,
we are going to call our little one Elizabeth too, and
God bless you!"
Mrs Kelly was
greeted by the anxious passengers.
"What
was the matter?" she was asked as soon as she was
within speaking distance.
"It's
a bonny bouncing girl," said Mrs Kelly, "and
she is doing very well."
The salesman
forgot his troubles; he lifted his hat in the air and
cried: "Three cheers for the little one!"
Thirty voices
replied with three loud hurrahs, while the steam engine
gave three thrill salutes. Then the miner, his voice thick
with emotion, yelled: "Three cheers for Mrs Kelly!"
Once again, the deserted plain resounded with hurrahs
and strident whistles.
"All aboard,"
shouted Georges!
The train resumed
his journey and as the sun slid behind the horizon, the
miner watched the carriages disappearing whilst handkerchiefs
and hats continued waving to wish him good luck.
"Fifty-five
minutes late," said George the guard, looking at
his watch. "That's nothing - Australia needs its
kids!"
PAUL WENZ
Nanima Station, Forbes, NSW
Copyright
1987 ALFA and Le Lérot for the French text. Copyright
1988 ALFA and Patricia Brulant for the English translation.
Republished here as part of The
Paul & Hettie Wenz Project with permission.
Publication history
1910 - first published in French
in Contes australiens: sous la Croix du Sud [Australian
stories: Under the Southern Cross], a collection of Wenz’s
stories, by Plon.
1987 – republished in Paul Wenz, Français
et Australien: A la recherche d'un écrivain perdu [In search of a lost writer], a collection of Wenz’s
stories selected and introduced by Jean-Paul Delamotte,
by Le Lérot.
1988 – English translation published in Australian
Short stories N° 22, edited by Bruce Pascoe.
1990 – republished in Paul Wenz, Diary
of a New Chum and Other Lost Stories, with a foreword
by Frank Moorhouse, by Imprint,
Angus & Robertson, Australia.
2004 – republished on-line as part of the Wenz
Project on www.merrillfindlay.com
This short story was kindly contributed by Jean-Paul
Delamotte in Paris.
Page revised 17 June 2005 and again 21 January 2008.
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