Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Qualified in what . . . understanding of the Aboriginal mind? Because that’s the first qualification required . . . and who’s going to have that who hasn’t lived his life with Aborigines and identified himself with them?’

  Cahoon came in with the slit grin and the basso: ‘Is there such a thing as an Aboriginal mind?’

  The grey eyes met the green again: ‘You wouldn’t know, Sergeant. You don’t find it with a stockwhip and a stickful of shit.’ Jeremy swung away, with the green eyes blazing after him.

  McCusky said quickly to Cahoon, ‘Been a dry argument. Come and have a drink, Dinny . . . or we’ll miss out on old Shame-on-us’s free beer.’

  It was a moment before Cahoon could answer, and then with a heavy exhalation: ‘Okay.’

  Then he glanced again at the Lily Lagoons crowd, seeming to cause them to shrink together. Now Prindy and his mother were not of it. He remarked on it: ‘Where’s that kid from Catfish got to?’ He advanced on the crowd, demanding, ‘Where young Prindy?’

  Shrinking more, they hung their heads. Cahoon snapped at Darcy, ‘You?’

  Darcy, face aquiver, giggled nervously: ‘I don’t know, Boss.’

  ‘Where he camped . . . with you?’

  ‘No-more wit’ me-feller, Boss.’

  The green eyes shrivelled the crowd for a moment longer. Then Cahoon turned away to the waiting McCusky. As they went he asked, ‘You’re goin’ to pick up that boy too?’

  ‘Sure . . . they’ve all got to come in sooner or later. Not quite ready for ’em yet. After next Wet.’

  The Sergeant raspingly cleared his throat: ‘My sisters wouldn’t mind takin’ the kid. They’d teach him some good . . . like they did his mother. What d’you say?’

  McCusky, quizzing from under the panama, answered, ‘I don’t know Dinny. The boss would have to say. I’ll put it to him if you like.’

  Cahoon said hastily, ‘No . . . for crissake, keep Cobbity out of it. Surely you can fix it, can’t you?’

  ‘No . . . the Doc’s the man with the say.’

  ‘You ask me, he’s got too much bloody say. No man should have as much power as he’s got.’

  ‘Gwahn! What about you blokes?’

  ‘P’lice? Jesus man, we’re handcuffed with bloody regulations at every turn!’

  ‘What about your mate McKinn? In the Marraningo business he gets up in court and says: I shot everything that put its head up. Just like that . . . and not a word said officially.’

  ‘That was a punitive expedition, man, to punish a tribe of bloody savages that murdered a whiteman . . .’

  ‘A whole friggin’ tribe for one dirty old combo . . .’

  Cahoon stopped in his tracks, with eyes narrowed and mouth tight: ‘Now, Eddy, if you’re goin’ to talk like a bloody missionary, or that trouble-makin’ rat-bag Delacy . . .’

  McCusky patted the narrow khaki back affectionately: ‘Gwahn, Dinny . . . only kiddin’ you. Come on and get that drink.’

  Prindy and Nelyerri were down in the Lily Lagoons camp. As Jeremy and Tom Toohey arrived, Nanago was giving them lemon squash from the refrigerator. Jeremy and Tom, settling into deck-chairs under the wide striped awning that served as lounge and dining-room, while Nanago waited on them, were talking of the very thing that their enemy Cahoon had just now complained of to Eddy McCusky, namely the all-abiding authority Dr Cobbity, Protector of Aborigines, held over anyone of Aboriginal blood. They were discussing the Ordinance under the Aboriginal Act, whereby anyone deemed to be Aboriginal in the opinion of the Protector was so in law, unless able to prove otherwise, onus of proof being on the person so-deemed. Nanago joined them in discussion of a recent local instance of the operation of the Ordinance, in which he who was generally known as Ali Barba, the Indian hawker, properly called Rabindratha Barbu, had his wife and two adolescent daughters taken from him on the report of Constable Stunke that they were conducting a house of ill fame. They were not charged with any offence, but simply arrested on an order issued by the Protector on receipt of the police report, to the effect that, being Aboriginal, they were to be brought to Port Palmeston and there confined to the Adult Female Halfcaste section of the Aboriginal Compound. Barbu tried to institute court proceedings to effect their release, declaring that they were not of Aboriginal blood at all, but pure Indian. He claimed that he had found his wife in a mining camp of the interior peopled by so-called Afghans, remnants of the cameleers imported from India during the gold rushes in the West at the end of the last Century. Certainly the people as a whole were Aboriginal mixtures; but Barbu swore that his wife was purely Asiatic, daughter of a true Afghan and a woman of South India. Unfortunately she, the wife, looked a South Indian type, a Dravidian, which resembles the Australoid closer than any other race, according to ethnologists. But there were no Ethnologists in Port Palmeston. Nor did Barbu have the money to hire one or even to hire a lawyer with enough interest to try to trace the Indian mother. There was no court case. Barbu made a personal appeal to Dr Cobbity, who called him a ‘dirty old bludger’ for living on the immoral earnings of his wife and daughters, and warned him about his other daughter, a child too young to be suspected even by Constable Stunke of sullying the fair name of the town of Princess Beatrice River by having it known that there was a brothel for what properly took place down on the river bank, or in flood times or Race times under old Jimmy Ah Loy’s mangoes, or amongst his pumpkins and sweet potatoes, or in his goat-house.

  ‘I wonder why Cobbity’s got to act like that?’ mused Jeremy. ‘He seems a more than ordinarily intelligent man. He’s a doctor of some distinction in his field of public health. Why want to tyrannise over simple people . . . the simplest people on the earth, at that?’

  Tom Toohey grunted: ‘He strikes me more as a copper than a doctor.’

  ‘Maybe all doctors are to some degree like policemen . . . like priests. Power, eh? They have special power. And as they say: All power corrupts . . .’ He was interrupted by a cry from Prindy: ‘Aer’plin come!’ It was evident that no one else heard, but so certain the reliance on those sharp ears that all looked whither the grey gaze was directed, across the river sou’westward. A good twenty seconds passed before the concerted breathing of ‘Ah!’ told that it had been heard generally. Still it was a murmur no louder than pijak bees deep in an ironwood. Then it was a kind of music, an aerial drone-pipe, a didjeridoo in the sky. At last there she was, a silver bird skimming the trees far off, rising higher, higher. The white cockatoos, just settled back into the river timber from having been disturbed by Flyin’ Fox, rose again shrieking their hatred of these perpetual disturbers of the peace, the human race.

  But here was something very different from Dr Fox’s little old biplane. She was a shiny metal thing, with but two wings, low set so that she looked like a great predatory bird. She had twin engines, howling now in close proximity and in the added power she was using in the steep turn round the town. Faces could be seen looking down from her many windows. Jeremy remarked: ‘His bloody Lordship for a certainty.’ Prindy and the rest of the piccaninnies, brown and black, set off at a gallop along the river pad that would at a point take them up through Jimmy Ah Loy’s garden in a short cut to the air-strip. When the aircraft landed, out of it spilled quite a crowd, all looking at a loss to find themselves groundings again and at the mercy of what Mother Earth had to offer its children: the heat, the dust, the swarming flies. All soon had out their handkerchiefs, wiping, swiping. To perfect her hostess-ship, Rhoda should have had some sort of fanning and fly-spraying device to greet such distinguished ones with. Besides Lord Alfred, a big paunchy man, sweating profusely and hence a natural target for the flies, were His Honour the Administrator, Colonel Close, Judge Bickering, Colonel Cadogan of the Garrison, Police Superintendent Bullco, Mr Clem Eaton, Australian Manager for Vaiseys, and others to make up a dozen or more, including a fragile-looking youth whom His Lordship introduced as My Son and a skinny fair-haired young woman he named simply as Lydia, who didn’t seem to want to
be introduced at all. But for all the discomfort of it, Lord Alfred, looking the perfect squatter in tusser silk and wide-awake and elastic sides, greeted his hostess most graciously, taking both her hands and calling her Dear Lady. She put him in the back of the big car with his son. Whom she would have chosen to sit with them she wasn’t given the chance to show, because fairly under her arm holding the door wide went Lydia. Rhoda gave her a look, but without effect, even without being seen herself it seemed; for no doubt about it, for all her pushing manner, Lydia was an aristocrat. It was left for Rhoda to jam their two Honours, Administrator and Judge, into the front seat with herself, the driver. Clancy and Martin with other cars and the Bookkeeper with the utility, dealt with the rest.

  Over the very genteel afternoon tea with which the guests were settled in, Lord Alfred, guzzling the dainties that were the result of the co-operative art of Rhoda and Tommy Lim Yu, remarked on the famous Australian Bush Hospitality — which he might have done well to put to test by turning up somewhere incognito. The proof of hospitality is not in the lavish giving of your pudding, but in the matter of whom you give it to and why.

  The Sun went down on all these activities of Wednesday, leaving for a while a saffron sky in which the young Moon hung above the tall trees of the river and into which the smoke of the supper fires of the campers rose like whisps of violet silk, and the flying foxes, looking much like charred bits of rag similarly rising, fluttered undecided whether to work on the paperbark blossoms above the Crossing, where it was safe but discommoding for their pur-blind kind by reason of the glare of acetylene and kerosene lighting, or below where only the tiny fires of blacks were the distraction but there lay the risk of being brought down with a boomerang and finishing up sizzling as supper on one of those fires. The white cockatoos, usually the loud-voiced bosses of the river timber, had departed after the second aeronautical assault on their territory, and now could be heard far down the river disputing roosts with others of their kind. The curlews also were down river tonight, calling along the western bank, doubtless driven off by the whiteman’s glaring lights, but also having no business with people whose baby spirits, stored in hospitals or some such safe places, weren’t subject to the hazards of those of the Old People.

  After moonset, to creatures of the surrounding wilderness looking from afar, it would look, according to the direction of looking, as if either the Moon had got stuck just down below the horizon or another was rising, so bright must have been the glare of the Beatrice River settlement in the deep purple of the night. At the station homestead the big power-plant was thumping out full amperage to light pretty well every lamp on the place. The verandahs of the Big House blazed, and the windows of the several staff quarters and of the big block of offices and stores, and the swimming pool and tennis court with their floodlamps. In fact the only section not ablaze was the dining-room, where the lighting was of the shadowless type built into cornices, bright enough to give full effect to furniture, plate, crystal, napery, and the elegance of the dishes, but so soft as to give grace where it was lacking: as in Lord Vaisey’s beefy baggy features, Police Superintendent Bullco’s bullet head and bruiser’s jaw, the aristocratic Miss Lydia’s colourlessness, Rhoda’s once lovely neck and shoulders so recklessly revealed by her evening gown, and in many a face seared by fierce Australian suns and winds in pursuit of an ungentle calling while wanting to look like English gentlemen and ladies, and in some whom the very pursuit of gentility itself had worn to rags.

  Since it was a warm night, the company withdrew to the verandah adjoining the dining-room, where the lights were promptly dimmed. Then, somewhat tardily, the lights were extinguished, in response to a remark by Miss Lydia that she would like to see the stars and could not do so to advantage with lights on — any lights. Off went all lights outside. The tardiness was due initially to Rhoda’s evident waiting for His Lordship’s sanction to the request. He seemed to realise it, at length saying quickly, ‘Yes, yes . . . Lydia’s a great star-gazer, don’t y’know.’

  The view was sou’western, with a diamond blaze of stars ranging from Antares in the very cream of the Milky Way at the verandah’s edge to two great glittering bloodshot orbs, bloodied by the dust no doubt, lying in the black velvet of the horizon. When Lydia stepped to the edge of the tessellation His Lordship did likewise, although slowly through having difficulty owing to his bulk and age. The rest then rose with alacrity.

  Lydia stepped onto the lawn, remarking, ‘You people are reahlly lucky, don’t y’know, with your quaite mah-vellous southern skay!’

  No response. In fact there was dead silence for the best part of a minute while she made a wide sweeping survey of the celestial scene. She was half-turned back to the verandah when she spoke again: ‘I expect you know your Constellations?’

  Response now, but only in uneasy stirring and some throaty sounds. Then she swung fully on the dim gathering, demanding, ‘My God . . . don’t tell me you’re ignorant of the identity of these . . . these mah-vellous gifts Nature lavishes on you every night?’

  Lord Vaisey cleared his throat noisily.

  Rhoda spoke, rather stiffly: ‘We live out-of-doors a lot, you know. What seems wonderful to strangers becomes commonplace to us.’

  ‘What?’ Lydia almost screamed, ‘Scorpio, Libra, the Centaur . . . commonplace?’

  Again His Lordship hawked.

  Rhoda said with increased stiffness, ‘Here we have different names for the stars.’

  Lydia swung away, and her skinny arm was seen pointing at the twin rubies now on the point of vanishing: ‘Well, what’re your names for those?’

  Rhoda’s voice was vibrant now: ‘My sons will know.’ She turned to Martin beside her.

  Martin had to haw, too. Pointing to the southernmost he said: ‘We call that the Drover’s Star.’

  Lydia asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . it goes down about the time the drover’s night watch starts.’ ‘I see.’ Lydia seemed to be considering it. Then suddenly she asked, ‘But I understand the droving season’s over.’

  Martin answered; ‘Yes . . . that’s right.’

  ‘When does it start?’

  ‘Oh . . . about June.’

  The skinny arm shot towards the zenith and her aristocratic voice rose with it: ‘In June that star would be theah!’

  You could hear Martin swallow. After a terrible moment be said huskily, ‘It must be another one we call the Drover’s Star.’

  The response came icily: ‘It certainly must be!’

  Lord Alfred spoke: ‘Lydia, m’dear . . .’

  But she went on: ‘What would you call the other one . . . the one that’s just gone down?’

  Martin muttered, ‘I don’t know that one.’

  Up rose the aristocratic bray again: ‘Well, you might be interested to know that it’s Arcturus, chief star in the Constellation Bootes, the Herdsman.’ A moment, then it came, like a whip-lash: ‘Being a herdsman yourself, I’d’ve thought you’d know that!’

  By the sound of caught breaths the lash whipped just about everyone.

  Lord Alfred stepped onto the lawn, took a thin arm, saying, ‘Lydia, m’dear . . .’

  She answered with a sigh: ‘Yes . . . I am a bit tired, Alfred. It’s been a dashed long day.’ Then she addressed the dim gathering: ‘Sorry, chaps, and all that . . . but Alfred did warn you . . . about me and the stars, I mean. Think I’ll toddle, if you’ll excuse.’

  Rhoda said quickly and easily, ‘I’ll see you to your room dear.’

  But Lord Alfred intervened: ‘Leave it to me, dear lady.’

  Now arm in arm they moved off. Lydia swung back on the gathering: ‘I do take those old stars seriously, don’t y’know. You have to take ’em seriously . . . cos they’ve been there such a long while . . . like Alfred heah . . . night-night!’

  Lord Alfred guffawed. There was a responding titter and a chorus of goodnight.

  Out of the long moment of intense silence that followed the disappearance of the coup
le, Rhoda spoke quietly: ‘We reahlly must learn something about them . . . the stars, I mean. There’re charts, I believe.’

  Out of earshot Lydia was being nothing like so well-bred: ‘The stupid, ignorant oafs! The more I see of Australians the more I detest ’em.’

  His Lordship murmured: ‘But Lyd dear . . . you said you loved it all!’

  ‘Australia, which is a lovely land . . . but not Australians . . . who’re just colonial louts and toadies!’

  ‘Rilly, m’dear!’

  ‘It’s true. Look at the way they’re treating me . . . because they think I’m your mistress . . . while they grovel to you . . . yes, positively grovel . . . Yes, Your Lordship, No, Your Lordship . . . and you say there’s no class distinction heah!’

  ‘I mean the way it is at Home. Class means nothing to these people rilly. It’s only because I’m the boss that they treat me the way they do.’

  ‘That makes it worse. That makes them sycophants as well as snobs.’ Lydia’s voice had risen.

  ‘Shh, m’dear . . . for God’s sake!’

  ‘As if they’d do anything about it if they heard me . . . the . . . the crawlin’ spawn of convicts!’

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  Lydia chuckled: ‘’s all right, Alfie . . . I’ll play it soft.’

  He sighed: ‘If only you’d let me tell ’em who you are . . . and that we’re engaged.’

  ‘And have ’em fawnin’ on me too? Not bally likely! And we’re not reahlly engaged, old deah, till it’s in The Times. Goodnight, dear old thing.’

  They kissed lightly.

  ‘Goodnight, old gal . . . sleep tight.’

  Back with the company, which he found all standing by their chairs as if sprung to attention at his step, His Lordship seated himself with the aid of half a dozen eager hands. He said, ‘It’s Lydia’s upbringin’, don’t y’know . . . grand-daughter of a crazy duke and all that . . . apple of the old man’s eye. He’s a positive crank on the stars . . . own observatory. I expect she learnt her stars with her ABC. By the way . . . we’re engaged, don’ y’ know . . . but she wants it kept secret till we get back home . . . The Times, and all that rot . . . not The Port Palmeston Times . . . ha, ha, ha! . . . fusty old London Times. She’s secretive about her title, too . . . doesn’t like the Lady business . . . all right for ’em’s had it a thousand years or so, I suppose, not like us parvenus . . . ha, ha, ha! If you’ll only keep the little secret for me . . . eh, what?’