Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Why . . . to give Alfred one in the eye . . . or because you don’t really hate me as you pretend to?’

  He glanced at her: ‘Sorry if I’ve given you the impression of hating you. It’s only that you’re connected with the Vaiseys.’

  ‘Can’t you forget that?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten it most of the day. I was glad to show you the country. You’re intelligent, sensitive, and a stranger . . . I wanted to see the effect it had on you.’

  ‘Are you pleased with the effect?’

  ‘You’re asking too many questions. I’m worried about the boy. If you want to talk, tell me about yourself . . . about your old duke . . . anything . . . ask me about the birds and the trees and things, if you like . . . but don’t force me into arguments about things you think are real and I think are as silly as you think the things I believe in are.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, and put a hand on his on the wheel, and held it there. After a while she asked, ‘Mind if I lean on you? I feel a bit sleepy.’ She dropped her fair head to his shoulder. The going like that was too rough to begin with. She gave up the attempt with a smile. But when they were out of the rough and speeding along a good stretch of road, she dropped her head to him again, and this time slept out most of the rest of the journey.

  It was close to sunset when they came in sight again of Beatrice homestead. He wanted to put her down so that she might cross over by the private causeway; but she insisted on coming with him to witness what happened when he reported the disappearance of Prindy. The Sun was setting as they crossed the main causeway and drew into the Lily Lagoons camp. Waiting with the household were the Ah Loys, Nelyerri and Willy.

  Nelyerri was already standing on tiptoe looking for her son. As soon as the car stopped she came hurrying to look in the back, then confronted Jeremy as he alighted, demanding, ‘Where my boy?’

  He answered casually enough, ‘He stop Lily Lagoons.’ He kissed Nanago’s cheek, saying, ‘Let’s have something to drink, dear.’

  With voice rising, Nell followed him: ‘Why you leave him behind?’

  Seating Lydia, Jeremy answered, ‘He no want to come back with me.’

  ‘Who dere long o’ Lily Lagoon?’

  ‘Some old people.’

  ‘Where dat koornung?’

  Seating himself, Jeremy said, ‘I don’t know.’ He began to pour the beer that Nanago had brought, adding, ‘Have a drink, Nell . . . come on Willy.’

  Nell ignored him: ‘I been hear dat koornung dere long o’ Lagoon.’ She was panting now.

  ‘I never see him.’

  ‘You been bring him from Catfish.’

  ‘I tell you, girl, I never see him this time.’

  The girl bent over him, her voice rising to a shriek: ‘What for you steal him my boy?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Sit down and have a drink.’

  ‘You been steal him ’way be-fore deelight!’

  ‘That’s because you were too drunk to come. I asked you and Willy the night before to come out with us. That right, Willy, eh?’

  ‘Da’s right, Mullaka.’

  Nelyerri raised clenched hands, screeched through them into Jeremy’s face: ‘You take me out Lily Lagoon.’

  ‘You can go out there with everybody tomorrow.’

  ‘You take me now . . . now . . . now!’ She grabbed his shoulders.

  Jeremy called to Ah Loy: ‘Come and get hold of her, Willy.’

  Willy leapt up, seized the girl from behind. She swung on him, shrieking: ‘Le’ me ’lone, you Chinee bastard!’

  But Willy kept his grip, pinioned her arms behind, avoiding her kicking feet, while she yelled, ‘Dat bloody white bastard been steal him my boy . . . He wan’ ’o put him long o’ school . . .’

  Jeremy cried, ‘If you don’t let me have the boy for my school, McCusky’ll take him away from you, put him Compound school.’

  ‘You bloody white bastard . . . you been steal him my boy. You been leave him long o’ dat no-goot bloody puggin old black bastard koornung!’ Her tone changed to a wail.

  Jeremy said to Nanago, ‘Look after her, dear,’ and beckoning her close, whispered, ‘Give her a tablet.’ Nan nodded, went to Nell and put her arms around her, and kept putting her arms back as they were flung off, and at length got the girl, now sobbing, into her own sleeping tent.

  Lydia was watching with wide blue eyes. Jeremy seemed to have forgotten her. He beckoned to Ah Loy, who when he came, addressing him with the formal name of Jumara, he told what had happened. Willy, with eyes popping, commented with indrawn breath: ‘Eh, look out!’

  ‘Sorry I give you trouble, mate. I pay you. Go out with her tomorrow with the mob. Don’t tell her properly yet.’

  ‘She goin’ ’o go look-about him, Mullaka.’

  ‘She’ll never find him. Nobody can find that old man. When I come back I’ll go with more bre’-milk and brandy. That’ll fetch him.’

  ‘Where you go now, Mullaka?’

  ‘I go for a run down Inland. Go and tell Nanago I want her.’

  Mingled howls and sobs were coming from the tent. But soon Nanago came; and Jeremy repeated what he had told Ah Loy, while she listened with great dark eyes. He concluded: ‘It’ll be all right. Sorry to leave it to you. But if I were round it’d only make things worse. I’ll be back in a week or so and fix it. Roll my swag for me, will you dear . . . and send Darcy up to the pub with the ute. I’ve got to take this lady up there so’s someone from the station can come and fetch her. I’ll wait there.’

  He rose, and as she rose with him, put his arms about her and kissed her lips. She clung to him for a moment, then released him, murmuring, ‘Mummuk, yawarra.’ He repeated the farewell.

  Nanago turned to Lydia, smiled: ‘Goodbye, Missus.’

  Lydia returned the smile, saying, ‘Mummuk, yawarra.’

  It was almost dark now. The Moon, nearing first quarter, hung westward in the unstained violet of the gathering night. As they walked up the road toward the township Lydia took Jeremy’s arm, saying, ‘Well, you handled it nicely.’

  ‘I’m afraid I only handled it. The poor thing’s a bundle of tension all the time. There’s a case of a halfcaste taken too early from the blacks.’

  ‘But I’m surprised at your running away.’

  ‘I’m not really running away. I mostly take a trip off somewhere after the Races. Simple return home’s too much of an anticlimax after the spell of intense purpose, win or lose. I usually go and get on the booze. Haven’t they told you that?’

  ‘Yes . . . but I didn’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not. This is the land of what they call the booze artist.’

  ‘You seemed too balanced.’

  ‘That’s a compliment, from one who so lately declared I was wasting my substance on a dream!’

  ‘I know you better now.’ She squeezed his arm. When he squeezed back, she reached for his cheek and kissed it.

  ‘Careful!’ he muttered, and disengaged himself, adding: ‘Old Shame-on us is out on his verandah, if I’m not mistaken.’

  There was light in the hotel, but not as before on the verandah, nor, in fact light anywhere now but for a spot here and there, where during the festivities there had been brilliance. Even the reek of goats was back in the air.

  Jeremy said, ‘You’d think old Shame-on-us would still be in his counting-house, counting the money he’s made.’ Then he quoted: ‘I wonder what the vintner buys . . .’

  She finished for him: ‘One half so precious as the goods he sells. I’m fascinated by this idea of your going on the booze, as they say.’

  ‘Drunkenness breaks tension as nothing else in all Man’s inventory of remedies for the same.’

  ‘I couldn’t imagine you drunk.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let you see me. When you reach the proper state of what’s aptly called rottenness, you must hide yourself.’

  ‘How can you, when you’re . . . rotten, as you call it. I know when I’m rotten, I make a silly ass of myself, don’t
know what I’m doing.’

  ‘A lady should never get drunk without a reliable male escort . . . and a man never without dignity. A man’s dignity, which is very different from a woman’s, is the last thing to go under. It’s that that stops the room spinning long enough for you to get out of it after having said to your fellow topers: “’Scuse me genlm’n, I have to shee a dog ’bout a man.” You enter the stage of rottenness in strict privacy, crawl out of it similarly, regain your dignity, then back to your crazy purpose of living catharticised, a new man.’

  ‘D’y’know, I’d love to go on the booze with you.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As I’ve said . . . a woman must not drink without a reliable escort . . . and a drunken man is not reliable . . .’

  ‘Not a man of dignity?’

  ‘The man of dignity never gets really drunk while he has a responsibility.’

  ‘I’d still like to get molo with you.’

  ‘When you come back as Lady Vaisey, eh? Shush now! We can’t have Himself hearing such lewd talk . . . or we’ll be the talk of the country an hour after the phones start operating tomorrow morning.’

  Seeing who was coming caused Finnucane to retreat into his lighted doorway. Handing Lydia up the step onto the verandah, Jeremy said easily, ‘Goodnight, Shamus.’

  Finnucane responded quite heartily: ‘Ah . . . gootnoight to ye, Jeremy . . . and gootnoight to your Ladyship!’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Finnucane.’

  ‘Ah!’ breathed Finnucane, standing back to permit their entry and half bowing them in: ‘’Tis aiv’nin we call anny toime after noon, and noight is noight in these benoighted parts . . . isn’t that so now, Jeremy?’

  ‘Very well put in the Irish idiom that’s responsible for it,’ answered Jeremy.

  A black brow cocked with suspicion: ‘And what’s that ye sayin’ about Irish idiom?’

  Jeremy looked at Lydia: ‘The usage evening for afternoon is Irish, really . . . and so many of us round these parts are of Irish origin.’ He turned back to old Shame-on-us: ‘I’ve been showing Miss Lindbrooke-Esk round the district and instructing her in local usages.’

  ‘Ah!’ commented Finnucane, but still with suspicion in the black eye.

  Jeremy went on: ‘She’ll be wanting someone to come from the Big House and pick her up. I thought we might have a drink while she’s waiting.’

  ‘Sure . . . sure!’ cried Finnucane. ‘Ye’ll be wantin’ to use the telephone then, Me Lady. Ye’ll foind it switched t’rough to the Big House. Then we’ll adjourn to me office for a quoiet wan.’

  ‘I’d like to have it in the bar,’ said Lydia. ‘I haven’t had a chance to stand up in a bar and drink.’

  Old Shame-on-us hesitated just a moment, probably because of the impropriety, indeed the local illegality, of serving women in an open bar, but then said, ‘If it plaise Your Ladyship . . . but I insist on ye doin’ me the honour of takin’ a dram of the Dew agin, and not just some common tipple off these shelves.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I lave you to your telephonin’, bewhilst I get a bhottle.’ Finnucane went. Lydia turned to Jeremy standing by and said pointedly, ‘Excuse me.’

  Jeremy looked slightly surprised, but bowed slightly: ‘Of course.’ He went into the lighted public bar.

  Finnucane and Lydia came into the bar together, old Shame-on-us to duck under the counter flap and proceed to set up special glasses and the bottle of Tullamore Dew. As he poured the third glass he looked under brows at Jeremy, saying, ‘Ye have no objections, I presume, Jeremy?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m honoured,’ said Jeremy, but gave Lydia a slight wink as Finnucane gave his attention back to the glass.

  ‘Well,’ said Finnucane, ‘here’s to our meetin’ again in the same happy circumstances.’

  They drank. ‘Very nice,’ commented Jeremy.

  ‘’Tis better than noice, me boy . . .’tis superb!’ Finnucane slapped his long moustachioed top lip: ‘But then, ye’ve never had a proper Irishman’s taste for whisky. Now, your old Da . . .’

  But the utility was drawing up at the step. Jeremy said, ‘Excuse me . . . I must have a word with Darcy.’ He went out.

  Darcy got out, giggled, ‘Full up oil, benzine, everything, Mullaka.’

  ‘Thanks, son. See you in a week or so. Keep your eye on things. If I’m wanted urgently, wire me. They’ll know along the Telegraph Line where I am.’

  ‘Yas, Mullaka.’

  ‘Mummuk, son.’

  ‘Mummuk, yawarra, Mullaka.’

  Jeremy returned to the bar to find another glass poured out. As they drank, Finnucane asked, ‘Ye’d be takin’ the usual little thrip away, then, Jeremy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would ye be anny chanst goin’ Cornelius Cullity’s way?’

  ‘Yes . . . I was thinking of heading for the Centre . . . and I’ll certainly drop in on Con and Bridie. Any message?’

  The broad red face hardened and the rumbling voice lost its smoodging quality: ‘As a matther of actual fact I have a letter for the man. He left in a bit of a hurry. I’d be obloiged to ye for takin’ it and savin’ the week’s delay the mail’ll take. I’ll get it.’

  Finnucane was back in a moment, casting a professional eye on the bottle on the counter and saying, ‘Ah . . . and whyn’t ye help yeselves to another dhrop?’

  As they were drinking again another car was heard and soon the braked wheels on the gravel outside. Finnucane said, ‘Dhrink up . . . and we’ll have another wid whoever’s come for ye, Me Lady.’

  Lydia said with haste, ‘No thanks . . . I’ve had enough.’

  She turned to the outer door. Footsteps on the verandah. It was Mr Gilling, Head Bookkeeper of Beatrice Station. He was holding a small suitcase.

  Jeremy and Finnucane were coming out. As they emerged, Lydia took the case from Gilling’s hand, and gave him her own, saying, ‘Goodbye, Mr Gilling . . . give my regards to everybody.’

  Gilling bent over her hand murmuring, cast a look at the two staring men beyond Lydia, then nodding to them, stepped off the verandah and back to the big car. As the car started up, Jeremy asked, ‘What’s this?’

  Lydia heaved a sigh: ‘I just couldn’t go back there after all the excitement.

  Jeremy looked slightly surprised, but bowed slightly: ‘Of course.’ He went into the lighted public bar.

  Finnucane and Lydia came into the bar together, old Shame-on-us to duck under the counter flap and proceed to set up special glasses and the bottle of Tullamore Dew. As he poured the third glass he looked under brows at Jeremy, saying, ‘Ye have no objections, I presume, Jeremy?’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m honoured,’ said Jeremy, but gave Lydia a slight wink as Finnucane gave his attention back to the glass.

  ‘Well,’ said Finnucane, ‘here’s to our meetin’ again in the same happy circumstances.’

  They drank. ‘Very nice,’ commented Jeremy.

  ‘’Tis better than noice, me boy . . .’tis superb!’ Finnucane slapped his long moustachioed top lip: ‘But then, ye’ve never had a proper Irishman’s taste for whisky. Now, your old Da . . .’

  But the utility was drawing up at the step. Jeremy said, ‘Excuse me . . . I must have a word with Darcy.’ He went out.’

  Darcy got out, giggled, ‘Full up oil, benzine, everything, Mullaka.’

  ‘Thanks, son. See you in a week or so. Keep your eye on things. If I’m wanted urgently, wire me. They’ll know along the Telegraph Line where I am.’

  ‘Yas, Mullaka.’

  ‘Mummuk, son.’

  ‘Mummuk, yawarra, Mullaka.’

  Jeremy returned to the bar to find another glass poured out. As they drank, Finnucane asked, ‘Ye’d be takin’ the usual little thrip away, then, Jeremy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would ye be anny chanst goin’ Cornelius Cullity’s way?’

  ‘Yes . . . I was thinking of heading for the Centre . .
. and I’ll certainly drop in on Con and Bridie. Any message?’

  The broad red face hardened and the rumbling voice lost its smoodging quality: ‘As a matther of actual fact I have a letter for the man. He left in a bit of a hurry. I’d be obloiged to ye for takin’ it and savin’ the week’s delay the mail’ll take. I’ll get it.’

  Finnucane was back in a moment, casting a professional eye on the bottle on the counter and saying, ‘Ah . . . and whyn’t ye help yeselves to another dhrop?’

  As they were drinking again another car was heard and soon the braked wheels on the gravel outside. Finnucane said, ‘Dhrink up . . . and we’ll have another wid whoever’s come for ye, Me Lady.’

  Lydia said with haste, ‘No thanks . . . I’ve had enough.’

  She turned to the outer door. Footsteps on the verandah. It was Mr Gilling, Head Bookkeeper of Beatrice Station. He was holding a small suitcase.

  Jeremy and Finnucane were coming out. As they emerged, Lydia took the case from Gilling’s hand, and gave him her own, saying, ‘Goodbye, Mr Gilling . . . give my regards to everybody.’

  Gilling bent over her hand murmuring, cast a look at the two staring men beyond Lydia, then nodding to them, stepped off the verandah and back to the big car. As the car started up, Jeremy asked, ‘What’s this?’

  Lydia heaved a sigh: ‘I just couldn’t go back there after all the excitement. I’ve arranged with Lord Alfred to pick me up in the plane at Boulder Creek. As you’re going Inland, Mr Delacy, would you be so kind as to give me a lift?’

  From staring at her, Jeremy looked at Finnucane. The black eyebrows had never been higher than now. He swallowed, looked at Lydia again, took a deep breath and said dryly, ‘One can’t refuse a lift to anyone in this country . . . especially a lady.’ He turned to Finnucane: ‘Isn’t that right, Shamus?’

  Old Shame-on-us had scarcely the breath to answer: ‘’Tis truth and all.’

  Lydia smiled: ‘Thanks offly, Mr Delacy.’ She handed him the suitcase, then turned to Finnucane, offering her white hand, which the hairy paw took with evident embarrassment: ‘Goodbye, Mr Finnucane . . . and thanks for everything . . . especially for the Tullamore Dew.’

  Finnucane’s rumble could scarcely be heard: ‘Gootbye, Your Ladyship.’