Charlie Bishoff in his coat so gay manoeuvred them somehow to the barrier.
‘They’re off.’
Red Rory shot away in the lead, then seemed to regret it and fell back into the ruck even before the dust enveloped them. Soon the crowd were yelling the placings at the second furlong: ‘Sovereign out in front’, then Rhymer followed by Winsome, Arafura, Rajah of Timor, Red Rory, the lesser half-dozen strung out, all taking it fairly easy; yet as they crossed the direct line of vision of the half-mile and were running in the sky, they were streaking like lesser horses at their best. Round and into the straight, in much the same order, with a thunder of hoof-beats and storm of straining lungs, and past the stand like a flash of tattered rainbow.
Now was the test, the second mile — that awful gruelling second mile. The crowd now on their toes. Furlong ten. They were bunching now, really trying, boring in for that position on the rail. Furlong twelve across the way saw them bunched in the sky like a dark cloud driven by a hurricane; yet there were those who with binoculars dared declare the placings: the twin favourites in the lead — yes, but who of the leaders leading? ‘It’s the Rajah — It’s Red Rory — No, the Rajah — I’ll give you ten to one the Rajah!’ But who could tell when both horses soaked with sweat were the same colour now — and what price jockeys’ colours in mirage?
But there it was plain enough at the twelfth. Rajah of Timor in front, Red Rory on his heels. The crowd were yelling — hoarse. But not Jeremy, who groaned to Nanago, squatter-hatted and barefoot at his side, ‘Same old thing . . . follow-my-leader . . . unless he’s chasing a bloody mare!’
Into the straight — the home straight this time and the end in sight and the crowd gone mad because of the half-and-half fancy of most of them.
‘Come on Red Rory, you can beat him. Stick to it Rajah, he can’t catch you — Rory, Rajah, Rajah, Rory’ — while the thunder waxed and the storm came raging. The post — and it was over — with Rajah of Timor winning by that length it seemed Red Rory could have snatched off him even in the last ten yards. Half the crowd crowing, the other half groaning.
Piggy Trotters being helped down from the grandstand to waddle out to meet his champion as he came in heaving, steaming, with smirking Jumbo on his back. When Piggy tried to kiss the flaring muzzle the horse swung away from the grog-blossom presented to it and that boozy breath. A great cheer went up for gross man and graceful beast as they came through the gate. Jeremy was first to take Trotters’s trembling hand. They weren’t friends; but it was a great occasion. ‘Thanks, Delacy,’ Piggy wheezed.
Jeremy took the reins of Red Rory and led him heaving through the crowd, many of whom snarled, ‘Shoot the bastard, Delacy . . . he could’a’ won!’
From the scale room the Lily Lagoons people walked with their shame back to the stalls. So often had they seen The Chairman come down from his dais on the grandstand to take the hands of their Mullaka and their clever boy Darcy in congratulation on winning the Cup that they had no interest when the victor was someone else. But Prindy stayed with his mother, surely not knowing that the hunk of red meat in the squatter’s tusser silk and wide-awake was equally his Granny with the one he called Mullaka.
As a matter of fact, it wasn’t the Chairman who offered congratulations this time; or at least not he alone. It was only fitting that the job he left to the Patron of patrons. Lord Vaisey came down with Martin Delacy. Grasping the sweaty shaky trotter of Piggy, he said, ‘A victory for Vaiseys too, by Jove! Congratulations to us all, eh, what?’
When Jumbo’s surname was given in introducing him, His Lordship, reaching up to take the lean mahogany hand, stared into the smirking mottled brown face, murmuring, ‘Delacy?’
His sudden blinking surely showed he’d realised the faux pas almost as he made it; but by what gentlemanly means he would have extricated himself he was not given the chance of showing, because Jumbo answered promptly and loudly, ‘Da’s right, Boss . . . I old-man Paddy’s boy. I huncle long Martin ’ere.’
Lord Alfred couldn’t have missed the deepening of Martin’s natural ruddiness. He responded: ‘H’m . . . I knew your father . . . grand old gentleman, and a great horseman . . . and you’re a credit to him, Jumbo . . . as a horseman . . . a credit.’ He shook hands heartily.
There was no hope of beating the mob in their wild townward rush this evening. Jeremy was still at the stalls, waiting with his people for the dust to settle before going down to the camp, and watching the rubbing down of Red Rory, when a stir amongst those about him caused him to turn, to find just behind him Lord Vaisey and Lady Lydia. His Lordship said, ‘Mr Jeremy Delacy, I presume?’
Colouring and swallowing, Jeremy replied stiffly, ‘That’s me.’
Smiling, Lord Alfred extended a plump red hand: ‘I’m Vaisey.’
Without responding to the gesture, Jeremy answered, somewhat breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry . . . but I don’t take handshaking lightly.’
Vaisey’s colour deepened too; and he dropped his hand, but said easily enough, ‘I understand . . . I should have known better.’
A little silence, which Jeremy broke, saying stiffly, ‘You want to see me about something?’
‘Oh, simply to pay my respects.’
‘Respects?’
‘Well . . . I’ve heard a lot about you. I knew your father, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘He was a grand old man.’
‘If you’ve really heard a lot about me, you’ll know I have a very different opinion of my father.’
Vaisey cleared his throat: ‘Well, yes . . . I understand that . . . er . . . oh, I’m sorry . . . but may I present Miss Lydia Lindbrooke-Esk?’
Jeremy met the cool blue eyes of Lydia, who smiled, and extended a thin white hand. His face flamed. For a moment he hesitated. Then he met the challenge, met the hand, saying huskily, ‘How d’you do?’
She shook like a man, but spoke like the lady she was. ‘I’m honoured, Mr Delacy.’ Then she swung towards Red Rory, saying, ‘He’s a handsome beast.’
Evidently somewhat at a loss, Jeremy said, ‘He’s not popular with us at the moment.’
‘Poor old boy!’ she said, and put out the white hand to touch the horse.
‘Careful! said Jeremy. ‘He’s a biter.’
Nothing daunted, she touched the sweat-soaked ruffled neck. Red Rory swung towards her, but only to rub his head against her arm. Vaisey said, ‘Lydia’s got a way with horses.’
Lydia looked at Jeremy and smiled slowly, as if she had a way with men as well, despite her aristocratic plainness. Her eyes were intense blue, her lips full, and rosy with more than make-up. She brushed away the flies. She said, ‘I’d like to ride him!’
Jeremy said, ‘He’d be too rough for you.’
‘I ride fairly well.’
Vaisey put in: ‘She’s a dashed good rider.’
‘You’d have to be a rough-rider for this one.’
She asked, ‘Do you ride him?’
‘Only when he plays up.’
‘Plays up . . . meaning misbehaves, I take it? I like that. I’ll have to use it at home.’
Lord Vaisey came into it again: ‘You wouldn’t care to sell him, would you, old man?’
Jeremy answered shortly, ‘No.’
‘Pitay . . . I’d like him.’
‘He’d be useless for the lady. When I say he’s rough he really is. It takes half a dozen of us sometimes to sweat the misanthropy out of him.’
Lady Lydia chuckled again: ‘Misanthropy . . . I like that, too.’
His Lordship said, ‘I was thinkin’ of him for racin’ reahlly. I race, don’t y’know.’
‘He’d be useless for your kind of racing, too. We breed for stamina here, more than speed.’
‘That’s what we need. We’re losin’ stamina over there. Your horse could’ve won that race if he’d wanted to. He wasn’t nearly as blown as the winner.’
Jeremy asked, ‘Where’s Over There?’
‘Ireland. I’m an
Irishman, don’t y’know.’
‘Transplanted, eh?’
‘No . . . born. Very proud of it’s matter of fact. You’re of Irish descent yourself, of course.’
‘My mother was Welsh.’
‘Ah . . . a true Celt! A mighty combination Welsh and Irish.’
‘More a complication than anything else, I’m afraid.’
‘How so?’
‘We’re aliens in this country . . . those of us not of Aboriginal blood. The more complex our origins, the more alien we are.’
‘You surprise me. I understood it was us you regarded as the aliens.’
‘Vaiseys, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
Jeremy’s face darkened again as he said, ‘More than aliens.’ When they both looked at him quickly, he added: ‘Enemies.’
Both blinked. A moment. Then His Lordship said, ‘Come now, old man . . .’
Jeremy was breathless again. ‘You must have heard what I said to Finnucane last night about the all-abiding curse of his country and mine . . . the English landlord?’
The blue eyes were regarding him intently. Another moment. Then Jeremy moved to turn away, saying, ‘Well . . . if you’ll excuse me . . . I have my horse to see to . . . and I want to get my people back to camp.’
He turned right away, to speak to Darcy: ‘Give him a bogey, son. He looks as if he needs it.’
Lydia’s voice asked, ‘What’s a bogey, Mr Delacy?’
Jeremy swung round to find the pair still there. He blinked. She added: ‘A medicine?’
Throatily he answered, ‘No . . . a swim . . . a bath. He . . . he likes the water.’
She asked, ‘May I watch you swim him? I love to see horses swim.’
Plainly at a loss, Jeremy looked away, glanced over the deserted flat even a little desperately, saying, ‘It’s rather late. Won’t your people be waiting to take you home?’
Lydia said, ‘They’ve gone without us.’
He looked at her quickly.
Vaisey cleared his throat: ‘As a matter of fact, old man, we . . . er . . . that is to say . . . well, we rather hoped to go along with you.’ Jeremy stared at him: ‘With me . . . where?’
‘Well . . . to that very cosy-looking camp of yours . . . like to see it at close quarters.’
Jeremy took a moment to reply, and showed his uneasiness in his hesitancy: ‘I hardly bargained for anything . . . like this. I don’t like being inhospitable . . . but you must realise the depth of my enmity to you.’
Vaisey said, ‘Can’t say I do, old man. Anyway, isn’t it something we ought to iron out, so to speak, what?’
Jeremy was red again: ‘You’ll never iron that out.’
‘At least let me hear your views.’
‘It’d be a waste of time . . . so long as you hold a stake in this country.’
Lady Lydia, watching him intently, shook her head slightly and said with almost a sigh, ‘We were warned.’ She turned to Vaisey, who looked back at her blankly.
Jeremy swallowed hard. ‘Well . . . seeing you’ve got no transport, you’ll have to go in one of my vehicles. I don’t use cars, though.’
The others said together, ‘Thank you.’
Jeremy turned to Darcy and said, ‘I’ll take the horse now. Drive these people down to the camp, will you.’ He looked at Nanago: ‘You can look after them, eh, dear.’ He turned back to the pair, saying shortly, ‘My wife. She’ll be your hostess. There’s a tradition of hospitality in the land . . . but it doesn’t force one to be host where one doesn’t want to be . . . at least not me. Hope you don’t mind. Dissemblance is something I can’t bear.’
Lydia nodded, murmuring, ‘So I should imagine.’
As the utility came up, Jeremy said, ‘There’s seating for only two in front, besides the driver. My wife doesn’t drive. So that means one of you . . . not my wife, of course . . . will have to ride in the back.’ He looked at Vaisey, saying, ‘It’d better be you, I suppose. Your fiancée looks as if she’ll stand the bumps better. Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned away towards the horse-stall.
Lydia called after him, ‘Wheah’d you get this fiancée business?
Jeremy looked back: ‘Sorry if I’ve offended you. I’d been given to understand you were to be married.’
Lydia looked at Vaisey, who reddened, then back at Jeremy, who was turning away again: ‘Who gave you to understand it, Mr Delacy?’
Jeremy shrugged: ‘I just heard it . . . and if I heard it . . . well, the dogs must be barking it.’ He went on his way.
Lydia swung on His Lordship, snapping, ‘You bastard, Alfred . . . you bastard!’
She wheeled on high heels and swung away towards the flat. Jeremy, hearing the sharp retort, looked back, stopped. Vaisey, standing at the door of the utility, looked helpless. He called after her rather weakly: ‘Lydia, old gal!’
Without turning, she called back, ‘I’m not coming with you.’
‘But . . . for God’s sake m’dear . . . how are you going to get back?’
She swung right round, stood, looked at Jeremy: ‘Will you take me . . . with the horse?’
Jeremy stared at her for a moment, then looked at His Lordship, then at Nanago watching wide-eyed. Then he turned back to Lydia and said shortly, ‘All right.’ He swung away again towards the horse.
Lydia came strolling back. To His Lordship she said coolly, ‘Be seeing you, Alfred.’ Whereupon he let himself be assisted into the car by Darcy. She stood by while the car started up, arms folded, thin legs apart, in mannish stance. As the car moved off she waved, to those with which the rear was packed as well as to those in the front, then went after Jeremy.
As Jeremy set off leading Red Rory by the halter she fell into step with him, saying, ‘Refreshing to see someone standing up to Alfred.’
Jeremy took a moment to answer: ‘He isn’t an easy man to stand up to. I mean his manner’s so pleasant it . . . it cramps your style.’
She chuckled: ‘Cramps your style . . . I like that. Yes, he is persuasive. Still, you didn’t appear to find it so hard.’
‘Well . . . I’m not in his power . . . and feeling about him as I do, I’d take an awful lot of persuading.’
‘How do you feel about him, reahlly?’
‘It’s not the man personally . . . it’s the concern . . . Vaiseys. I’m afraid that’s just about my bête noire.’
They were heading straight for the river, now down a steep track well-trodden by much coming and going of horses. She was forced away from him by the roughness onto another pad. She was going awkwardly in her high heels. He appeared not to notice. She seemed in no way daunted. She asked, ‘Why do you say afraid?’
Jeremy shrugged: ‘Sort of apology, I suppose . . . for excess of feeling.’
‘You don’t seem the apologetic kind.’
‘I’m trying to be polite.’
‘Are you finding it hard?’
‘No madam . . . I find nothing hard I have to do.’
She chuckled again: ‘I asked for that.’
The difficulty of the track forced her behind somewhat. He didn’t slacken pace. But at the bottom of the slope, which was hedged with thick prickly growth, he stopped and called back: ‘Careful how you go through this rubbish . . . it might scratch . . . and it stinks.’ The growth was flowering. He passed through with the horse onto the grassy verge. He slipped the long lead from the horse’s neck and let the beast, straining with impatience now, go down the slight bank to the big waterhole below.
She came up sniffing at a piece of stuff she’d picked, saying, ‘It does stink, too . . . what is it?’
‘A damn weed with half a dozen names. Everything you see around here’s weeds . . . except the big trees . . . and they wouldn’t be here only they want the shade for the Race camps.’
‘I’ve heard about your passion for conservation of the pristine landscape.’
Holding hard to the rope as Red Rory swam snorting for the joy of it in circles, he looked at her, sayin
g, ‘I’m pretty sure you never heard it put like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Conservation and pristine landscape . . . they’re not the sort of words they use round here.’
She laughed: ‘Well, no . . . as a matter of fact they said you want to put the country back the way it was and give it back to the blacks.
He muttered, ‘The fools . . . they’ve no idea that the destruction they do is cumulative and must catch up with them sooner or later.’
‘It’s an offly big country to destroy, though, isn’t it?’
‘What’ve you seen of it?’
‘Well . . . mostly from the air, of course . . . but a lot of stations.’
‘You probably never saw a bit of natural growth about the station homesteads. The rule is to cut down every native tree . . . well, they want it for firewood and fencing. But it could be replaced. It’ll replace itself if given a chance. But they must plant alien trees . . . and the weeds . . . the rubbish of the earth they’ve brought in here.’ He waved his hand towards the township, adding: ‘Behind the buildings there you’ll find nothing but rubbish . . . weeds, weeds, weeds . . . old iron scattered everywhere, heaps of broken glass . . . a million goats, rats, cats, every abomination known to man . . . and none of it here till the whiteman came . . . and all of it eradicable even now.’ He hauled on the rope, calling to the horse, ‘That’ll do you boy. Come on out.’ He spoke to the girl without looking at her: ‘Better stand clear . . . or you’ll get a shower when he shakes himself.’
Rory came up and gave a mighty shake. Jeremy looked round and saw that Lydia hadn’t moved and had been well and truly spattered from flowered wide hat to dusty shoes. ‘Your lovely clothes!’ he exclaimed.
She shrugged: ‘Silly things to wear in a place like this. I wanted to put on jodhpurs and riding boots. Alfred wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘That’d be mean. This is the one chance of the year for a lot of these women to dress up . . . even some of the black women.’
He replaced the rope on Red Rory’s neck and began to lead him up river towards the crossing. She asked, ‘Why do you say even the black women?’
‘You seem to question my every utterance.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 17
