Eucalyptus by Murray Bail Page A

corners of the different species of trees. Other times she sat in her blue room brushing her lovely hair, which reminded Holland of her mother. She made her own clothes. She did sewing and general tidying and could be heard humming in the kitchen. The same small books were read over again. For all her beauty she ate noisily.

    In gentle replay of when he had first arrived in the district, invitations were received from the same big houses, and in these houses the tables, the walls, the English clocks and their chimes, the pattern of plates, the side of lamb and boiled potatoes had remained the same. The hesitant young women in florals from Holland’s day were larger, looser figures, mothers now with altogether different concerns. And attention this time was directed not really at Holland but his daughter who sat with a straight back, alongside (for instance) a broad-shouldered son clearing his throat in a new shirt. Ellen assumed a distant expression, as if she was obeying the obligations of her father.
    Afterwards the man of the house, knowing Holland’s interest, would sometimes toss the keys to the son to drive everybody around the property, while Holland sat in the back and identified each eucalypt in the headlights.
    â€˜She’s a gem, that one of yours,’ the grazier would concede, meaning Holland’s daughter.
    Loudly, as well as quietly or through emissaries, it was pointed out a marriage would deliver impressive agricultural synergies, guaranteed to leave a smile on the face of everybody at the table. Holland gave the impression of weighing up each proposition in his hands. With these men he’d look thoughtful and make sucking sounds with his teeth while nodding or offering another cigarette, which is the way they themselves would have handled it, visually.
    A certain restlessness entered Ellen’s beauty.
    The town women and women in the surrounding homesteads looked on and waited. One of the things Holland had learnt from his many years observing trees was don’t rush, there is natural speed . And Ellen, she seemed more comfortable with the careless faces of seasonal workers, the filthy motor mechanics, and the afternoon drinkers; at least with them she looked on, bemused.
    Holland said to his daughter, ‘I want you to promise me something: keep away from the commercial travellers. You’ve seen them in town with their Windsor knots and their fancy cigarette-lighters. A few have come to the door here, as you well know, thinking we’d buy ribbons and strips of cloth. They carry samples of jewellery and medicines in special suitcases. That little bloke who’s been here—moustache—he sells hair oils, soaps and whatnot. I’m told what they do now is spread out a printed catalogue, where you put your finger on something that takes your fancy, and it gets delivered later. I’d say that was very clever.’
    These were older men who had built dusty careers out of hearing the sounds of their own voices. They worked on commission. They knew when to advance, when to draw back. Holland had seen how the sturdy town women became lovely and childlike under their words. Could they spin a story! As an example, Holland pointed to the coloured curtains he himself had bought from one of these persistent silver-tongues, which had faded after one summer. Yet these natty men had an easy generosity. Later, that same peddler of shonky curtains who specialised in puns and perpetual dirty jokes had volunteered to pick up from a faraway town and deliver to Holland a scarce sample of Silver Princess, of the vaguely musical name, E. symphyomyrtus , which Holland then managed after much difficulty to breed in a gully.
    â€˜Beware,’ Holland told his daughter, ‘beware of any man who deliberately tells a story. You’re going to come across men like that. Know what I’m saying?’ He wanted to take her hands until they hurt. ‘I want you to listen to me.