The Grass is Singing Read Free

stood Ivlarston, his hands in his pockets, in a pose that seemed negligently calm. But his face was pale and strained.
    `Where were you?' asked Charlie at once, accusingly. 'Normally Mr Turner wakes me,' said the youth calmly.
     
    `This morning I slept late. When I came into the house I found Mrs Turner on the verandah. Then the policemen came. I was expecting you.' But he was afraid: it was the fear of death that sounded in his voice, not the fear that was controlling Charlie's actions: he had not been long enough in the country to understand Charlie's special fear.
    Charlie grunted: he never spoke unless necessary. He looked long and curiously at Marston, as if trying to make out why it was the farm natives had not called a man who lay asleep a few yards off, but had instinctively sent for himself. But it was not with dislike or contempt he looked at Marston now; it was more the look a man gives a prospective partner who has yet to prove himself.
    He turned and went into the bedroom. Mary Turner was a stiff shape under a soiled white sheet. At one end of the sheet protruded a mass of pale strawish hair, and at the other a crinkled yellow foot. Now a curious thing happened. The hate and contempt that one would have expected to show on his face when he looked at the murderer, twisted his features now, as he stared at Mary. His brows knotted, and for a few seconds his lips curled back over his teeth in a vicious grimace. He had his back to Marston, who would have been astonished to see him. Then, with a hard, angry movement, Charlie turned and left the roam, driving the young man before him.
    Marston said: 'She was lying on the verandah. I lifted her on the bed.' He shuddered at the memory of the touch of the cold body. `I thought she shouldn't be left lying there.' He hesitated and added, the muscles of his face contracting whitely: `The dogs were licking at her.'
    Charlie nodded, with a keen glance at him. He seemed indifferent as to where she might be lying. At the same time he approved the self-control of the assistant who had performed the unpleasant task.
    `There was blood everywhere. I cleaned it up.:. I thought afterwards I should have left it for the police.'
    `It makes no odds,' said Charlie absently. He sat down on one of the rough wood chairs in the front room, and remained in thought, whistling softly through his front teeth. Ivlarston stood by the window, looking for the arrival of the police car. From time to time Charlie looked round the room alertly, flicking his tongue over his lips. Then he lapsed back into his soft whistling. It got on the young man's nerves.
    At last, cautiously, almost warningly, Charlie said: `What do you know of this?'
    Marston noted the emphasized you, and wondered what Slatter knew. He was well in control of himself, but as taut as wire. He said: `I don't know. Nothing really. It is all so difficult…' He hesitated, looking appealing at Charlie.
    That look of almost soft appeal irritated Charlie, coming from a man, but it pleased him too: he was pleased the youth deferred to him. He knew the type so well. So many of them came from England to learn farming. They were usually ex-public school, very English, but extremely adaptable. From Charlie's point of view, the adaptability redeemed them. It was strange to see how quickly they accustomed themselves. At first they were diffident, though proud and withdrawn; cautiously learning the new ways, with a fine sensitiveness, an alert self-consciousness.
    When old settlers say, `One has to understand the country,' what they mean is, `You have to get used to our ideas about the native.' They are saying, in effect, 'Learn our ideas, or otherwise get out: we don't want you.' Most of these young men were brought up with vague ideas about equality. They were shocked, for the first week or so, by the way natives were treated. They were revolted a hundred times a day by the casual way they were spoken of, as if they were so many cattle; or by a