Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The Patron’s call for cheers for the horse was the signal for the parade of all the beasts that would be racing — a circling of the area between grandstand and post by excited animals led by nervous owners and trainers, round and round, prancing, rearing, bay and chestnut, black and white and roan and grey — while the mob packed along the rails of the flat named them — Bonny Beau, Silver Lad, Franjipani, Red Rory, Night Queen, Rajah of Timor, Last Toss, Last Hope and all the rest — and pronounced grave judgments on their chances with statistics of their breeding. Included in the parade was the youngster who would be First Prize in the Golden Horseshoe lottery, a handsome little black colt named Sir Brunette, donated by the North Australian Pastoral Company, another great foreign land-holder, subsidiary of British banking interests.

  At the head of the parade, mounted on a white horse and tricked out in the get-up of an English huntsman, was the steward, otherwise known as Charlie Bishoff, the stock inspector.

  First race the Maiden Stakes, with untried colts and fillies, fearful of the crowd and suspicious of each other, quivering, sweating, champing, stamping, bucking, striving with might and main against the intentions of their exasperated jockeys and Charlie Bishoff’s directions, bunching at the barrier, tangling, swinging from it, essaying to run the race the other way, coming back to tangle and bunch again, a hopeless mess of variegated horseflesh, of tossing names and swishing tails, of multi-coloured silks and flaying whips — until, as if by the intervention of some unseen power, chaos for an instant became order, the field was strung out behind the barrier, and the steward signalled, the barrier shot up — ‘They’re off!’

  The shuffle of hoofs became a sudden steady drumming, waxing to rolling thunder, as heaving rumps and flying tails and flickering hoofs and the flapping silks of crouching backs vanished in a cloud of dust, and the thunder waned with distance, only to be seen as a flying ruddy cloud at which the crowd stared in silence. Then round the first curving quarter of the great oval of the course, the two-furlong mark, the creatures of the storm appeared again as what they were, hard striving units of flesh and blood. Binoculars were raised, and voices: ‘Blue Bob’s leading’ — ‘Last Hope Lassie next’ — ‘Come on Blue Bob!’

  The course was one mile, the distance for every race, except the Cup, which was a gruelling two. No fancy little gallops and sprints for these beasts, emphasis being placed on stamina as much as speed and more so, since the underlying purpose was to breed horses for stockwork. Rarely was a gelding run. The champions of these events became the stations’ studs. Nevertheless it was racing, chief interest of the so-called Nation of Australia.

  There was a grand view across the weedy waste, the field strung out now, still with Blue Bob out in front but the placings different. Short people were jumping up and down for glimpses over the shoulders of the tall, while the gabble became excited: ‘Coolibah second’ — ‘Grand Slam’ — ‘Bill Bailley’ — ‘Last Hope Lassie!’

  But no — past the fourth furlong Last Hope Lassie was third and gaining ground. ‘Come on, Blue Bob — Grand Slam — Lassie, you little beauty!’

  Round the southern curve and coming up to six furlongs, and significance lost by change of view so that they appeared to bunch again, just a madly heaving mass against the rails backed by the red dust cloud.

  But here they come, with the straight ahead — into the straight, with the leaders bunched but the others strung out, the leaders Grand Slam, Blue Bob, Last Hope Lassie — anyone’s race — stamina for the last burst would decide it: ‘Come on Slam — Bob — Lassie — Lassie, you little beauty — look at the mare: Billy Button, look at your mare, she’s out in front — no, no, Blue Bob’s got her’ — they’re girth and girth — they’re neck and neck — the post ahead and neck and neck they come before the screaming crowd, their thunder and the storm of their breathing drowning out the little human sound — ‘the mare a head ahead — the mare, the mare’ — the post — and it’s Last Hope Lassie’s by a head — and Billy Button is crying into his wide-awake.

  Poor old Billy Button, railway ganger at the Caroline, married to a yeller piece, father of a mob o’ creamies, got a bit of a stock-run, tryin’ to win a race for twenty years — and now he’s done it! ‘Good on you Billy, come’n’ave a drink. I did me dough on Blue Bob — but come’n’ave one on me, jes’ the same!’

  Then it happened all over again, this time in somewhat more orderly fashion to begin with because the horses were better experienced. It was listed as the Trial Handicap, with rather good mounts that aspired, or more truly their owners did so through them, to run in next year’s Cup race. But still it was much the same thing, the jostling, the cavorting, the patient marshalling of Charlie Bishoff in the guise of John Peel, the miracle of the lining up, and — ‘They’re off!’ But no less excitement for the repetition — even more so — the wild staring after the heaving rumps and flying silks, the dumbness with lost vision at the second, the goggling and the gabbling at the fourth, the shouting and the screaming as they swing into the straight and come a-roarin’ and a-thunderin’ in to leave half the mob whooping for joy and the other half groaning. The same old thing each time — yet always different.

  Flying Welter. President’s Trophy. Ladies’ Committee’s Bracelet. It mattered not the name.

  Then the break for lunch. Those in the grandstand came down in stately fashion to their cold meat and salads and chablis, hock and lager, served by the Chinese waiters from the Big House; while the mob (white) pressed and buzzed like bluebottles on a carcass about Finnucane’s bar and vied like meat-ants for the savouries of Ali Barba and the Ah Loys. As to the boongs, none in this classless society knew their place better. What they drank they did so in the bushes behind the stinking privies, while what they ate was what was left when the kuttabah had had his fill, and at twice the price for the privilege.

  At two-thirty the racing was resumed. The same old thing, but with the difference now of seeing the field between the third and fifth furlong racing in mirage in the sky and then coming into the straight as a great rolling blob of quicksilver. Still there were people who tipped the placings in these conditions and rushed to the tote to bet on them. And always there was that subtle something that made it different and no less but even more exciting every time.

  It ended at five-thirty with the copper Sun glinting on the dust-encrusted tree-tops beyond the course, and soon to be obliterated by the cloud of dust raised by the rush back to the township. It was Finnucane’s they were mostly headed for, the man himself and his minions having hastily departed earlier for just this. Even Lord Vaisey was in the rush, with the Delacy Boys and some of the lesser other Big House guests, including Lady Lydia. They had no need to expose themselves to such crudity, when there was a private road running up the river on that side and another causeway by which to cross to the Big House. But His Lordship said he wanted to go with the mob, for the fun of it, and also because he wanted to take a dram of that Tullamore Dew.

  Jeremy Delacy, having seen two of his horses win minor races, had left the Racecourse well before the mob. He was in his camp when it rolled by in its cloud of dust and gasolene fumes, out of sight of it himself and with all tents closed to keep out the contamination. He emerged from the sleeping tent on hearing his name called. A big truck stood near, driven by Tom Toohey, and packed with crossbreeds of various shades. Billy Button alighted. He was to go up with Jeremy to join the small drinking party that Finnucane customarily put on for owners of winning horses. Perhaps Jeremy, who so far during the festival had not had any dealings with Finnucane, was going as a kindness to the nervous carroty little man. Jeremy took him into the lounge tent to have a drink, while Toohey and his mob, which included Billy’s creamy family and Jumbo’s halfcaste, drove on. Jeremy and Billy Button waited till the mob were past and the dust a little settled.

  They walked up to the pub, a distance of about a third of a mile from the river, went round the verandah to the private bar reserved for such occasions, to fin
d the lucky owners there, with filled glasses before them on the counter, but no host. Jeremy asked, ‘Where’s the bung?’

  The others looked towards the open door leading to Finnucane’s own sanctum, which served as both office and place of very special entertainment; and one said in a voice hushed with the momentous news, ‘Lord Vaisey’s in there.’

  Another hissed, ‘With that young duchess.’

  Then Finnucane appeared, again in his hosteller’s neat rigout, ruddy face glowing with evident pleasure. His black eyes lit on Jeremy, and the bushy brows shot up: ‘Ah, Jerry, my boy . . .’tis good to see ye! I know ’tis but little winnin’s for the loike o’ ye ye’ve had today. ‘Twas good o’ ye to come along and join us.’ He swung to address his guests generally, lowering his head like an old bull and lowering his voice, rumbled: ‘His Lordship says he’d loike to do the honours be ye too . . . so if ye’ll shtep t’is way, gintlemin.’ He reached with a great hairy black hand for the flap in the counter and raised it. When no one moved, he urged softly: ‘Now, don’t be shoy . . . he’ll not ate ye . . . he’s the most amiable of gintlemen as a matter of fact.’

  They began to file through. ‘Go right insoide,’ said Finnucane.

  Jeremy, the last outside the bar, reached for the flap and lowered it between himself and Finnucane. The black brows came down on narrowed black eyes. Finnucane rumbled, ‘Ye’ll not be joinin’ us then?’

  Jeremy answered shortly, ‘You ought’ve known I wouldn’t.’

  Finnucane cast a glance at the last of the crowd pushing through the office door, then leaned over the counter hissing, ‘I didn’t anticipate ye’r comin’.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have, only to bring Billy Button.’

  The hiss became more intense: ‘Always the same stiff-necked bloody fool, now aren’t ye!’

  Jeremy answered quite loudly, ‘And you’re always the same sneaking, crawling hypocrite.’

  The brows shot up and the hiss was like a jet of steam: ‘Don’t ye hypocrite me, ye . . . ye misanthropical sod, ye!’

  In the same loud voice Jeremy replied, ‘You don’t mind the sneak and the crawler . . . it’s the hypocrite that hurts, eh? Talking nothing but the total independence of Ireland . . .’

  The steam was rumbling under pressure: ‘Will ye koindly lave me house, Delacy?’

  ‘Until along comes one of the greatest curses of your benighted country, and the all-abiding curse of mine, the English Landlord . . .’

  The rumble became a subdued roar: ‘I’m askin’ ye to lave me house!’

  ‘And not only do you let him piss in your pocket, but import the stuff for him to piss with.’

  Finnucane choked down a bellow, let off the mighty head of steam by bringing a hairy hand down on the counter with a clap that made the glasses dance, then said hoarsely, ‘Shame on us for kaipin’ in our midst the loike o’ ye . . . son of a good Irishman, son of a man who through knowin’ how to be politic saved this counthry from becomin’ the blacks’ camp the loike o’ ye’d’a’-had it be now . . . but for the quality o’ that man in there!’ The hairy hand was flung towards the inner door, and the fierce black gaze with it — to see standing watching it all and listening with head cocked, His Lordship himself, with Lady Lydia peering with evident interest over his shoulder.

  Jeremy looked too, held the blue-eyed stares for a moment, then swung away from the counter towards the outer door. As he strode out of it, Finnucane roared after him, ‘An’ good riddance to bad rubbish!’

  Jeremy chuckled as he stepped from the hotel verandah onto the gravel, looking away to the crescent Moon all bloodied from the dust of the day. He went on chuckling down to his camp, repeating some of the things he had said. Nanago greeted him with a wide inquiring look. He answered, ‘Had a bit of a barney with old Shame-on-us . . . right in front of His Holiness the Big Boss, too . . . ha, ha, ha! Give us a brandy, dear . . . a stiff un.’

  He drank with relish, still watching the Moon, still chuckling.

  The Moon went down — and the fun and games started as last night, but with a good deal more purpose for enjoyment, as was evident from the different quality of the noise, even of that refined murmur that went for noise at the Big House, where they played a game new to these parts, called Bingo, organised by Lady Lydia, whom everybody was treating with great cordiality now. The singers at the hotel were in such fine voice that they could be heard word for word down on the river. The Dance Hall throbbed and thumped till midnight. When the Ah Loys came down to get their nightcap, Nanago gave it to them in whispers, saying that Mullaka had taken a pill to get in a good sleep for Cup Day; then she sent them on their way.

  III

  Cup Day dawned cloudless as all days at this season of the year. But the silver quickly darkened to blood owing to the dust of yesterday. Jeremy walked the mile to the Racecourse by way of a bridle pad, arriving to find those attendant on the Lily Lagoons horses, Darcy and a couple of blackboys, dead to the world in snuggeries of straw, and likewise the chief object of their attention, Red Rory. The big beast was lying on his side, stretched out as if dead. Jeremy, staring at the scene, frowned, but not in annoyance with the somnolent attendants, as was evident when, after waking them by quietly moving about, he spoke: ‘Looks bad . . . the bugger’s down to it again.’ It didn’t mean that the horse was sick, because he rose lively enough when roused, to create a storm of chaff and dust with a mighty shaking of his brindle hide. From the conversation that went on between Jeremy and Darcy it would seem that the horse’s taking it easy when others of his trained-to-the-limit ilk were restless was an ill omen for success. Jeremy expressed his puzzlement over it saying, ‘Do we train him so that he gets muscle-bound and has to flake out like this to relax? Or does he just decide to give up when he knows we want the best out of him? He’s the strangest cuss I’ve ever had to deal with.’ He sighed. ‘Well, get the bugger moving. See if you can get him alongside the Rajah this time with young Prindy’s help. The Rajah was definitely interested in that little mare of Prindy’s yesterday. If we can get the three of ’em close together and make the two stallions jealous, we’ll get this one interested in winning . . . perhaps.’

  While the boys curry-combed Red Rory, Jeremy went along to fondle his old black stallion Elektron, there only to share the excitement of the season.

  Soon there was Prindy, breathless from his long run from Ah Loy’s, giving a salivary grin in reply to his grandfather’s greeting, going to the saddle-rail for the wherewithal for the pony mare Sugarbag, whom he would be riding in the Blackboys’ Races tomorrow and had come to exercise.

  The Sun rose bloody as bandit’s gold, to pick the gold out of Red Rory’s glistening roan hide as, prancing along with the little mare, he headed for the Course for exercise. There was nothing sleepy about him now. He played up, trying to throw Darcy, till Jeremy came and lectured him on his fate if he failed them: ‘It’s definitely the crows, Rory boy, if you don’t behave.’ The horse stopped his tricks, evidently out of regard for the man, but without the whinnying affection of Elektron, his sire.

  The scheme they had worked out to bring Red Rory and Rajah of Timor together for a preliminary encounter that might fire them for a great battle of rivalry in the afternoon’s race did not work, for the reason, evidently, that Jumbo Delacy saw through it and kept his mount away from them. There was nothing Jumbo need be told about horse-racing tricks.

  The brassiness of early morning changed to the blue enamel. A breeze sprang up. The flies sprang out. The crowd began to roll back to the Racecourse.

  Ten-thirty — and it was on again — the prads parading, showing either their conceit with arching necks and mincing steps, or their nervousness with sweating, champing, rolling of eyes — the proud owners, the nervous trainers, the tight-lipped jockeys going with them round and round — the shining horseflesh and the gleaming silk — the jostling — then, ‘They’re off!’

  The drumming, the thunder, the dust, the screaming, yelling, agony of the home-run to t
riumph or defeat. Again — and yet again — the same thing, and yet subtly so different.

  Then lunch, with the same dignified descent of patricians, and, even though there was much more time for it today, the same starveling scramble of the plebs. The Cup Race, last event of the day and hence of the season, excepting the Blackboys’ events of the morrow, which really did not count, was timed for three.

  Everybody belonging to Lily Lagoons was round their champion during the interval, munching on refreshments dished out by Nanago and her girls. Prindy and his mother were with the Catfish crew.

  Red Rory was restive enough now, in a foul mood, lashing and snapping even at those who were keeping the flies off him. Jeremy’s talk of handing him over to the crows had no effect. He seemed to know they were all depending on him, and was making them pay for it.

  Then it was three and the bell tolling for the weighing-in. They had to keep a halter on Rory to get him moving. Then he defied them to remove it when they set about bridling him, as if perversely wanting to add to his already top weight of ten stone two. Darcy on the scales was shivering, so that the Clerk of Scales, Clancy Delacy, his unofficial cousin, asked him if he felt all right.

  Then out to the Grand Parade. It took Jeremy all his strength to hold the great roan head. When he talked of the crows, Rory tried to bite him.