A chorus answered: ‘Oo, yis . . . Your Lordship!’
‘Good, good . . . or as you put it yourselves . . . ha, ha, ha! . . . Good-o! I expect those lights there are Finnucane’s pub, what? I must look him up. My last visit here he promised to have for my next a supply of my favorite tipple, Tullamore Dew . . . wonderful stuff, distilled by the Little People themselves, the Irish say. I wonder if he reahlly got any . . . or didn’t drink it all himself?’
Martin assured Lord Alfred that indeed there was a stock of Tullamore Dew at the Princess Beatrice Hotel, broached on the very rarest of occasions.
‘Good-o . . . I’ll drop in on him tomorrow after the races.’
Rhoda protested: ‘But an awful crowd gets into the hotel then, Your Lordship!’
‘I’d like that, deah lady. I like your crowds. I like your Jack’s-as-good-as his-master attitude.’
Now, where Lord Vaisey got the idea that class distinction meant nothing in Australia would be impossible to say. Perhaps it’s a foreign fiction like our hospitality. But there it was in full sway over at the Princess Alice Hotel also — second-class-distinction to be sure, but no less strict, even for being merrier through being less stiff. There had been a grand dinner at which those of social eminence insufficient to get them a place at the Big House table had been guests of old Shame-on-us — people like Eddy McCusky, the two Police Inspectors, Mr and Mrs Bishoff, Col Collings the Station Master, other lesser silvertails and business men from Town, some squatters lacking the gentility to be classed squattocracy in a social sense, among these latter even a couple of Vaisey managers, one being Piggy Trotters. It was a gathering of a score and more. Finnucane himself had presided and made one of those speeches of his that were considered highlights of the festival; and Eddy McCusky, who despite his silvertail assertiveness, was a natural-born showman, had replied in like comic vein for the guests. The food had been excellent, probably to beat that at the Big House since less fancy. Hock had been the drink. Champagne would be reserved for the Cup Dinner that would be put on for the Cup winner (human), on Friday night. The festive board, made up of table sections of special design, had occupied all one side of the large dining-room, and the feast partaken of in the presence of the other diners; that is the lesser ones with the lesser fare that they had to pay for, so that everybody could have some share in it, meaning everybody qualified for admittance to the dining-room at this season, which was certainly not anybody.
But when the dinner was over, it was everybody from the dining-room who trouped outside to the colourfully lit courtyard to take part in the fun and games there. Outsiders of the proper kind were also admitted here, people from the camps mostly, the train crews, who were accommodated in their own barracks (but not including Pat Hannaford), the lesser policemen, camped at the Police Station, among them Dinny Cahoon (if one could speak of him as being a lesser member of his kind), and some soldiers from the garrison who had bivouacked in military style on the other side of the river, making a sort of military manoeuvre of it perhaps so as to do it at the public’s expense, much as the Navy converges on Melbourne at the time of the Melbourne Cup. Police, but not soldiers, were in mufti. The latter were an asset in that they augmented the usually indifferent orchestra with a couple of accomplished bandsmen, a trumpeter and a drummer. With them were playing two of the old regulars, Bridie Cullity, one of the Finnucane girls, at the piano, and Eileen, another, on the fiddle. Master of Ceremonies and doing it very well was Eddy McCusky. There was dancing, singing and reciting. Best voice of all was that of old Shame-on-us himself-himself, a fine Irish tenor, Irish because that’s all he sang, and with effect to bring tears to many an eye in a gathering largely Irish at least at second-hand. Apart from his solos, he sang a couple of duets with his third daughter, Colleen. The crowd roared the choruses. Another good voice, a baritone, was that of Dinny Cahoon, who oddly enough chose Australian songs, so-called, which are mostly concerned with lawlessness, of course: The Wild Colonial Boy, Since Dad Got Put in Jail, The Jolly Swagman. Perhaps his holy sisters had made a policeman out of him to prevent his becoming a criminal. Eddy McCusky recited comic verse. Occasionally someone from the packed bars up front, carried away by the music, would wander in, usually with shirt-tail out if he were a ringer or fly half-gaping if he were railway fettler, fencer, well-sinker, but always to be gentled out again by Shamus and his blarney, his promise of a free drink tomorrow, and his talk of the better fun to be had along at the Dance Hall. Here was no real trouble at all with intruders, as if in this famous egalitarian society everybody knew their place quite well. The occasional intrusion might even make the intruded-upon feel snugger and smugger in their exclusiveness. Surely sight of the faces, black, brown, and yellow, peeping from just beyond the lamplight through spaces between the groups of rooms, must have had that effect on those within. The yellow faces were those of the veritable little horde of Ah Loys of the district. For a short while there were also a couple of white faces, although not wearing the expressions of respectful interest of the others, but rather of disdain over the boozy frolicking of people who should know better. These were the McDoddses, the storekeepers, skinny old Angus and fat old Fan, who confined their junketing to a single day and night of the year, Hogmanay, and were always at daggers drawn with the Finnucanes. In fact few of the peepers stayed for long, there being that other show to divert them, the romp of the really common herd at the Dance Hall.
The Dance Hall was across the railway from the rest of the town, just beyond the eastern termination of the shunting yards, but easy enough to locate just then by reason of the acetylene glare from open doors and wide-canted louvres, and the glitter of what was claimed to be the biggest heap of broken bottles in the land. It was just a big corrugated iron barn, sapling-framed on a concrete floor, with the entire lower part of the walls louvred to permit maximum ventilation and observation from the outside to suit a community where most of its members were debarred from inside. Benches flanked the walls, while a small platform stood in a rear corner to accommodate now the orchestra of four young coloured men, two guitarists, a piano-accordionist, a drummer. There was a goodly crowd dancing, mostly crossbred girls dancing with whitemen of the ringer type with shirt-tails out. The louvre spaces were crowded with blacks and brindles, while round about were giggling and guffawing groups of blacks, a lot of them tipsy. Jinbul and his black brethren of the law were there, in uniform, and more or less drunk by the look of them. There wasn’t a truly black person within the walls, except one of the musicians, who appeared to be some sort of Torres Strait Islander. The whites would barely number two dozen, four of them being slatternly women with snotty kids, perhaps belonging to men of the newly arrived road-workers’ gangs and not yet aware of their distinction, but even so sitting apart from the dusky ones. Nelyerri was there, dancing in high-heel shoes on which she wobbled when walking back to her seat. Young Prindy was perched in a louvre space with a bunch of the Lily Lagoon kids.
Pat Hannaford had danced with Nelyerri. He was MC, naming the dances, calling the movements of the old-style set-dances. He himself was married to a halfcaste, but not now in possession of his wife or creamy child, who had left him to go off with a halfcaste drover. It wasn’t that Pat hadn’t treated his wife well, but the contrary, according to him. ‘You’ve got ’o belt ’em,’ he would say. ‘Cantankerousness’s part o’ their make-up. I couldn’t belt a woman.’ But others said she left him because he talked nothing but politics.
But it wasn’t long before Hannaford was yawning, and most of the company with him, and a number slumped sound asleep on the benches. Prindy had fallen asleep in his window and been picked up and passed out to Willy Ah Loy, on whose shoulders he now slept. That it was likewise in more select quarters was soon revealed to these lowly ones by the indrawn hiss through the crowd of dookyangana. Those who didn’t do the disappearing trick on the instant began to yawn the louder and prepare to depart. Sharp eyes had spotted the lanky silhouettes against the stars and known t
hem for what they were despite the lack of buttons and badges. They were Constable Stunke, officer in charge here, Constable Gobally of Caroline River, and his nibs, Sergeant Cahoon, in a moment standing blinking in the bright doorway. Assuming the twisted slit of a grin, Cahoon asked, ‘How you all doin’?’
Pat Hannaford answered, ‘Fine . . . till you come along.’ Then he turned to the orchestra: ‘Okay, boys . . . pack it up.’ He looked round the hall, in every direction but that where the policemen stood, adding: ‘Goodnight all . . . see’s tomorro’.’ With that he stalked out by the back door. Suddenly the lights went out. There was scuffling in the darkness, and the sound of Cahoon’s vocal vibrance as he and his colleagues walked away.
The Ah Loys — that is to say the Catfish Creek Station branch of this multitudinous and multifarious family, Willy, Prindy, Nelyerri — had been amongst the first to leave, going along with the left-branch Delacys, down to the Lily Lagoons camp. Evidently it was a customary thing, since Jeremy and Nanago, sitting in their lounge tent, showed no surprise at their arrival, and Nan went to the refrigerator for refreshments while the others settled themselves down. Prindy, still sleeping, was laid on a cane lounge. Nelly was now barefoot and rubbing sore feet. Nan brought brandy and rum and milk and certain essences, with which Jeremy proceeded to concoct nightcaps. The rum drink was for Willy. They talked of the dance and then of Jumbo Delacy, Jeremy’s halfcaste brother, who was down from Town not simply to attend the Races, but to ride for Piggy Trotters.
Jumbo, Jerry’s junior by a score and more years, was considered the best racing rider in the land. He had been riding in the Beatrice River Races since their inauguration by his father when only a small boy. It was through Jumbo’s riding that the custom of permitting employment of halfcaste jockeys along with whites had persisted. From the conversation now it seemed as if Jumbo, mostly drunk, was strictly on the water-waggon at times like this, and keeping so by staying at the Toohey homestead, where drink was never allowed for fear of trouble for Tom himself from the law for ever keeping tab on him, he being the only one of the household legally permitted the privilege. The way the company were talking, it seemed as if Jumbo was very likely to carry off this year’s Cup too. The only serious rival to his mount, Rajah of Timor, was the Lagoons horse Red Rory, as yet not to be relied on. Darcy Delacy, Nan’s son by Jeremy’s dead brother Jack hence Jumbo’s nephew in whiteman style, would be riding Red Rory. He was considered almost Jumbo’s rival as a rider. Jumbo didn’t get along with the Lagoons people, hence the fact of his camping with the Tooheys. In fact Jumbo didn’t get along with anyone.
The talk was interrupted by faint strange-sounding cries from Prindy, still asleep but half-risen from the lounge. When Jeremy inquired what was wrong with the boy, Willy Ah Loy whispered, ‘He goin’ ’o sing . . . might-be walkabout too.’
‘Sing?’
‘Yeah . . . like o’ dat now time he get too-muchee what-you-call-yum ’cited.’
‘He walks in his sleep, too?’
Mother and stepfather shook their heads to express concern about the boy. Aborigines believed that a sleepwalker was under the influence of a moomboo. Nelyerri muttered: ‘Dat old koornung been do it, I reckon.’
‘Old Cock-Eye Bob?’
‘Where dat old-man now?’
‘He’s up in the Painted Caves.’
‘He been do it sumpin long o’ my lil boy. All-day he walkabout look-about him.’
Ah Loy whispered, ‘He reckon dat old-man goin’ learn him sumpin. No-goot bijnitch dat.’
But Prindy was not going to walk. He sank back, gasping. Evidently the singing, if the few sweet strangled sounds he uttered could be so called, caused him great effort. Jeremy rose and bent over the boy, whispering; ‘Sleep, little man . . . sleep . . . you can sing me your song tomorrow.’ The boy murmured, then fell silent, sleeping peacefully. Jeremy turned back to the others, saying, ‘That old-man can’t hurt him. He been promised me he no-more hurt nobody round here. Better take him home now, eh?’
Ah Loy picked the boy up with the greatest care, since to wake anyone suddenly was to risk parting Shade from body permanently. As the Shade might wander far during sleep, time must be given for it to get back home. For one to wake without one’s Shade, meant to live out the rest of one’s mortal existence as an idiot, a husk, while the Shade went wandering as a poot-poot, a tick, for ever looking for a body.
Still sound asleep, the boy locked his legs round the man’s shoulders and arms about his neck, dropping his pale cheek to the black Chinese fuzz of hair. They followed the water’s edge, walking in the single file of blackfellows, the man ahead, past the bark and bough humpies of the blacks, mostly invisible in the gloom, only a glimpse here and there where a fire burnt brightly round which the campers still sat, giggling and guffawing softly while passing the bottle round, their restraint due as much to the convention concerning others sleeping as to wariness of the dookyangana. Likewise the dogs beside the fires that were but glowing embers gave warning to their people only in soft growling.
It was a very different matter with dogs when they swung up the bank and, coming to a fence of netting and barbed wire, entered a gate, and what seemed to be man-eating mastiffs roared and raged at various points of the wide garden. Evidently the dogs were chained, since they made only a noise about their misanthropy. Through the groves of pawpaws, bananas, and other plants, could be glimpsed a few dim lights. They were almost up to them, when a flashlight caught them, causing them to drop their heads. A squeaky old Chinese voice spoke in its own lingo. Willy replied to it similarly. The light was dowsed. They went on past iron houses, odd-shaped structures of the Chinese style that adds bits and pieces as required, at length entering one, a mere shed, as revealed when Willy struck a match and put it to a hurricane lamp. There were a couple of hide-strip beds and a sapling table, built into antbed. Willy set Prindy down on one of the beds, straightening the rumpled blanket and the canvas roll that served as pillow. In a moment Nelyerri had her flowered dress off, to hang it on a peg. Her shoes she placed beneath the bed. She had nothing on now but cotton drawers. Thus attired, she got into the bed with the boy, slipped a slender arm about him, whereupon he cuddled up to her, setting lips to one of her small dark breasts and sucked. Willy, stripping to the buff, did no more than glance, as one used to the sight — as well he might be, when it was the convention of those he lived amongst for mothers to give their breasts to children of all ages to puberty. Ah Loy blew out the light, settled down in the other bed with a gusty sigh.
II
The racing began at eleven on Thursday, after the customary Address by the Patron, delivered from the steps of the little corrugated iron grandstand. The difference on this occasion was that it was listened to generally as not for many a year. This was proper, seeing who the Patron was, not merely His Lordship, as those about him called him, but the Big Boss, as called by lesser ones, and by the least ones, who knew so many bosses, little and big, Boss Number One, the last surely the most apt appellative, seeing that he, almost utter stranger though he was, virtually was monarch of all he surveyed as he stood there. Not that he even hinted of his great power, but rather belittled himself, saying in concluding his address: ‘You don’t know what it means to be amongst you as one of you in this good Australian style, paying homage to what, after all, is the true king of Australia, the horse.’ And he asked for three cheers for the equine species — although not in those terms, else, scarcely anyone would have understood what he meant, literate nation though Australia is supposed to be, at least as far as its white citizens are concerned.
Only one person in all the gathering of hundreds ignored the address. That was Jeremy Delacy, who remained with the Lily Lagoons horses in their stalls. The rest of his household were there, even Nanago, very nicely and even expensively dressed, to match any lady in the grandstand, but without the floral or frilly headpiece that seemed to mean so much, hers being a squatter’s wide-awake, black, with a band of fine silver. Als
o, very sensibly for that dusty place, she wore no shoes. Most of the young halfcaste women were wobbling round in high heels, and even a couple of the blacks.
Even that high priest of class-consciousness, Pat Hannaford listened, in the very front of the crowd, primarily to provoke by the leer he presented, but only to be disconcerted himself by getting a friendly smile from Lady Lydia when she caught his leery eye. Turning very red, he gave a wobbly grin in reply. When later he heard that she was a duchess, as everybody was soon saying, despite that injunction of His Lordship’s, he muttered, ‘Christ . . . and I smiled back at her!’
There was nothing elaborate about the Racecourse, as there never is about such places in the bush, for all the swank that goes with them. Besides the grandstand, which was self-contained to protect the elite from the mob, with its own privies and lunch-room beneath, there were some half a dozen tin lean-tos, serving as totalisator, scales room, jockeys’ room, privies for the mob (tacitly for whites only), and largest of all, the bar, with annexes of bough-covered saplings for those who chose to drink sitting down instead of holding up the counter. Of course blacks of all shades were barred from here by law. Here old Shame-on-us and his slave sons-in-law laboured, while most of the females of the Finnucane family swilled the myriad glasses. It was generally referred to as Finnucane’s Gold Mine. Other bush shelters lined the rails of the course proper on the flats to either side of the grandstand for the convenience of the mob (white). A couple of others served as annexes to the refreshment booths run by Barbu and his little daughter, and the Ah Loy family. Barbu specialised in curry, with fly-whisks made by himself from cows’ tails, and cheap dark glasses imported from India as sidelines, and the Ah Loys in Chinese delicacies as well as common-herd tack like meat pies and saveloys. Barbu would also give you a winner for a fee by consulting some sort of occult apparatus. Ah Loy’s sideline was grog for the blacks in the guise of what was called lolly-water. The horse stalls were also of bush materials, a shelter and a yard with a water-trough for each string of beasts of which there would be a good hundred.
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