Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  She stepped off the verandah, went to the door of the cabin of the car, opened it, looking back. Jeremy hadn’t yet moved. Then with a nod to Finnucane he followed, going to the rear to lift the dust sheet now covering it and put her suitcase in. He went round to the driving side, got in, started up at once. The distant mob of goats was revealed by the headlights as a mass of twinkling golden gems. The car was moving, Lydia waving to the staring Finnucane. Jeremy dowsed the lights, switched on again to reveal that the goats were gone, but leaving powerful evidence of their presence as they ran through the spot where the mob had been. Lydia held her nose, smirking at Jeremy. He took no notice of her.

  They ran on in silence through the township, came onto the red road lined with scrubby trees. Staring at his grim profile, lit by the dashboard lights and the refection of the glare ahead, she asked, ‘Well?’

  He snapped at the road: ‘Well what?’

  ‘Just well.’

  He was silent. She sighed, settled back in her corner.

  VI

  They ran on for half an hour in silence. Lydia, by her attitude, was asleep; but when in the red barrel of the road ahead two sets of fiery sparks appeared and Jeremy slowed down and momentarily dowsed the lights again, she sat up asking, ‘What was that?’

  Jeremy answered shortly, ‘Dingoes.’

  ‘Anybody else would have run them down, I expect?’

  ‘For sure.’ Jeremy got up speed again.

  ‘Tell me about dingoes.’

  He glanced at her and turning back to the road asked, ‘For your true edification or just to make you feel more at ease?’

  ‘Do you wish me to be ill at ease?’

  ‘I haven’t got over wishing you weren’t here yet.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Depends on your behaviour.’

  ‘How must I behave to please you?’

  ‘Are you so irresponsible that you have to be told how to behave?’

  She was silent for a while, then asked, ‘Have I done something so terrible?’

  ‘Evidently you are irresponsible. But why? Is it bad upbringing, or because the class you belong to doesn’t feel it has responsibility to others . . . sort of Dieu et mon Droit?’

  ‘Don’t rub my class in, please.’ She sounded humble.

  He fell silent, staring grimly ahead and driving at what was high speed on that ill-made road. The road ran dead straight, towards the Southern Cross, hanging above reach of the headlights in what looked like black void. The Moon was now peering at them through the flying trees.

  At last he said, ‘May I ask what you said when you phoned Beatrice homestead?’

  ‘Of course. I spoke to Alfred, and told him that I’d had such a marvellous time with you I just couldn’t face people who hated you . . . and as you were about to take a trip Inland, would he mind much if I went with you, and he came and picked me up somewhere later.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Almost word for word.’

  ‘And he said?’

  ‘What he always does . . . “Just as you wish, old gal!”’

  ‘You make a practice of this sort of thing?’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Attaching yourself to strange men?’

  She was silent, for so long that several times he glanced at her huddled in her corner. At last he asked, ‘Are you crying?’

  The answer came in a sob. Then suddenly she flung herself against him. He cried, ‘Steady! I’m doing fifty . . . which is a lot for this road.’

  She withdrew somewhat, but kept her head against his shoulder, sniffling now into her handkerchief. After another long silence he said, ‘I presume you never had the slightest realisation of the implications of your act?’ When she didn’t answer he added, ‘That it’d start the biggest scandal in the country since . . . since . . .’

  She raised her face suddenly: ‘Since your wife Rhoda divorced you for adultery with a halfcaste?’

  He swallowed, keeping eyes on the road.

  ‘Are you afraid your halfcaste wife will now divorce you for adultery with a whitewoman?’

  He remained silent. She demanded, ‘Well . . . are you?’

  ‘No . . . my halfcaste wife’s got too much sense.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, too. So what are you afraid of?’

  He swallowed on that one, too, but answered at length, ‘You.’

  She sat up straight, staring at him. He added hastily, ‘Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t you the woman I’m afraid of . . . but you the irresponsible spoilt child of charlatans whose racket is to hold place and power by kidding half-wits that a thousand years of inbreeding makes them somehow holy.’ He ended with voice vibrant with feeling.

  She drew a deep breath: ‘Christ . . . you do love us, don’t you!’

  After another lengthy silence she asked, ‘Well, explain how it is that this . . . this despicable, wretched, inbred creature you describe makes you afraid. I don’t get it.’

  He sighed: ‘Because she’s made me responsible for her. Because I have to drag her half a thousand miles and more introducing her as Lady Something-or-other, fiancée to my enemy Lord Vaisey, and suffer the lunatic toadying of the nitwits I present her to and her arrogance in the face of it all.’

  ‘I’m not being presented to anybody dear boy. I’m taking a trip through the wilds of Australia with the greatest Australian of them all to show me the wilds.’

  ‘No . . . by God you’re not! Every homestead, every pub, every telegraph station, all the way to Boulder Creek . . . I take you in and present you for what you are!’

  She was breathing heavily. After a moment she said, ‘You bastard . . . Jeremy Delacy!’

  ‘You were probably warned that I’m just that, My Lady.’

  She was silent. After a longish while and in a different voice she asked, ‘How else could I have done it? You wouldn’t have taken me if I’d asked you beforehand, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of the goddam implications I spoke of, for a start. The moment the telephone system and the Flying Doctor radio network start to operate tomorrow morning, it’ll be blabbed all over the country. Didn’t you see stupid Finnucane staring? I’ll bet at this moment he and his two biddies back there are just talking themselves hoarse about it . . .’

  Her voice had changed again: ‘You make it sound as if you haven’t been involved with other women in exactly the same way before.’ When he was silent she added: ‘I told you I’d heard a lot about you. What about those other women you’ve taken overland after the Races?’

  ‘At least they did ask me first . . . and the circumstances were different. They were heading somewhere South, or East, or West.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’

  ‘They had a real purpose for going . . . if it was only that they were tramps and had been ordered out of the country.’

  ‘So have I a purpose.’

  ‘State it.’

  She swallowed first, then in a strangled voice said, ‘I . . . I’ve fallen in love with you!’

  He stiffened, swallowed, stared at the rushing road. A moment of staring at his dim-lit profile, the craggy manly beauty of it; then she leaned against his arm and wept again.

  She fell asleep weeping, stayed like that, undisturbed by frequent gearing down and revving up, in the negotiation of sudden curves, sand-drifts, the avoidance of kangaroos, curlews, an owl that hit the windscreen. Twice they passed through a railway settlement where figures stood out to stare at them from lighted doorways.

  She slept out the best part of an hour, no doubt exhausted by the efforts of the long day and dopey from the Tullamore Dew, looking very much the child in the little light. He must have been cramped with the weight of her, but made no move to disburden himself. The Moon went down. She was wakened at last by a mighty cacophony, to start up and stare out on a veritable heaving grey sea of hairy backs and flopping ears. She gasped, ‘What on earth?’
>
  ‘Donkeys,’ he said.

  A seemingly limitless mass of the beasts blocked the road. He kept shoving into it, adding the braying of the horn to the unearthly din.

  ‘What huge things,’ she commented. ‘I’ve never seen donkeys like that.’

  ‘A special breed . . . team-donkeys . . . bred by Billy Brew. He must have at least five hundred of ’em. The squatters hate the sight of them and him, but daren’t do anything. For one thing, old Billy’s cartage rates are about half those of the truck carriers . . . for another, he can get stuff to ’em where the trucks can’t . . . and for a third, he’s sworn that when the stations stop employing him, he’s going to distribute his donks in small mobs over the best parts of the country. Donkeys breed fast. They could become an awful nuisance. So long as Billy’s got control of ’em, the squatters’re safe. He’s one of the few free spirits in this land of alleged liberty.’

  ‘Good for Billy Brew! I’d like to meet him.’

  ‘You pretty soon will.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘We’re getting close to Charlotte Springs. He’s sure to be in the pub there. The mob back from the Races’ll still be boozing.’

  ‘Are we going to the pub?’

  ‘Where else will you sleep?’

  ‘I thought we’d be camping out.’

  ‘You didn’t bring a swag.’

  ‘Swag?’

  ‘Bedding.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You see what doing things rashly in this country means. You need more than a toothbrush and pyjamas when you travel here.’

  After a little silence she asked, ‘Are you still angry with me?’

  Without looking, he replied, ‘How could I be angry, when you’ve paid me the greatest compliment a woman can pay a man . . . even if she really doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘Oh, but I do mean it!’ She snuggled up to him, murmuring, ‘Dear Jeremy.’

  He shrugged her off. ‘You make it hard driving on this rough road. And please remember what I said about being afraid of your irresponsibility. There’ll be people at the Charlotte. I hope you’ll behave nicely.’

  ‘For you I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Well, here we are.’

  An iron shed appeared . . . goats . . . a fleeing cat . . . lights. In a minute or two they were running into the tiny township: just a couple of iron buildings across the way from the whitewashed sheds and water-tanks of the railway. From one of the buildings the glare of acetylene gas spilled onto a low verandah where figures could be seen seated on forms and packing cases. Jeremy caught the group, all glass in hand, in his headlights as he swung from the road to run up a lane and reveal at the rear something like the accommodation set-up of the Beatrice River Hotel, although much meaner and all in corrugated iron. ‘The hotel suites,’ said Jeremy, letting her take a good look before switching off the lights. He added: ‘But first we’ve got to see if they’ll have us.’ Dogs began to bark as they alighted.

  She asked, ‘Why shouldn’t they have us?’

  ‘It’s a Finnucane pub . . . run by his daughter Colleen and one of his imported slave sons-in-law, Mick Curry. You wouldn’t know, perhaps, that of all the sins in the catalogue, the one that Finnucane can’t tolerate is that listed in the Catholic Church as, against chastity, or as Finnucane himself calls it, indeed roars it when confronted with it, farnication. People can do what they like, says he, provided they’re not objectionable to others . . . in his pubs, he means . . . “But farnication I’ll not abide under anny circumstances!” Many’s the couple Finnucane’s thrown out when he’s discovered they’ve been occupying his daicent beds without a marriage certificate . . . and the travelling lady come to the Races on the make. Didn’t you see the eyebrows raised at us? Only for knowing the reception he’d’ve got had he tried to rouse the men at the Telegraph Station, sleeping it off with their yeller girls, I’ll bet he’d have made a special request to be put through on the phone to warn ’em here of what to expect. Please act the Lady Lydia . . . No, don’t take my arm . . . it isn’t done in these parts.’

  Faces peering round the corner of the front verandah vanished as they came into sight. They reached the verandah to find everybody seated again and looking indifferent. Jeremy said easily, ‘Goodnight, all.’ A mumble of replies.

  He guided Lydia into a narrow passage, lit only by the glare from a door opening onto the bar and serving window further in. He stopped her at the window. Behind the bar were thin Mick Curry and his plump dark Colleen, all eyes and alertness. Jeremy called to them, ‘Hello, Colleen . . . Hello, Mick. You know Lady Lydia Lindbrooke-Esk, Lord Vaisey’s fiancée, don’t you?’

  Those outside were crowding into the outer door of the bar, those inside gaping.

  Colleen came to the window and dropped a sort of curtsy. Lydia smiled and extended the white hand, saying, ‘We haven’t been introduced . . . but I saw you, of course . . . at the Races.’

  Colleen wiped her hand on her dress first, murmuring, ‘Your Ladyship.’

  Jeremy said, ‘I’m giving Lady Lydia a lift through to Boulder Creek, where Lord Vaisey’ll pick her up in his aeroplane. She wants to see the Inland. Can you put her up for the night?’

  Flushed and breathless, Colleen answered, ‘Oh . . . but . . . but . . .’

  Jeremy said, ‘Don’t worry about what sort of room. I’ve warned her what the Inland’s like.’

  Smiling still, Lydia said, ‘I want to see the real Australia.’

  Colleen recovered, gasped, ‘Oh, yes, Your Ladyship . . . certainly, Your Ladyship. But I must get a room ready for you . . .’

  Jeremy cut in: ‘Let’s have a drink first, eh?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Colleen sprang to obey.

  ‘In the bar, if you don’t mind. She wants to meet everybody.’

  Colleen gaped: ‘In the bar?’

  Jeremy nudged Lydia back to the communicating door and into the bar. He addressed the gaping dozen or so: ‘How’s everybody?’ Then he introduced the girl as he had to Colleen, adding, ‘You must’ve seen her with the Big Boss at the races. I won’t introduce you by name. You can get to know her yourselves . . . except you, Billy Brew. She wants to meet you personally.’

  A little old man, leathern brown and wrinkled as bark, with blue eyes and fuzz of white beard, gaped more than all the rest, murmuring, ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes . . . I told her one of these days you and Lord Vaisey are going to have to shoot it out over those donks of yours . . . and seeing she’s going to marry the bloke, she’s naturally interested.’

  The old fellow gasped, ‘You told ’er that, Delacy?’

  Lydia laughed: ‘No, he didn’t Mr Brew. But he did tell me a lot of nice things about you, when we met your donkeys along the road. I’m so glad to meet you.’ She went to him with hand outstretched. The famous squatter-baiter took it as in a dream.

  Then she swung on the others, with hand out: ‘I’m glad to meet you all . . . please shake hands.’ She had to insist to move them. Each took the hand as if it were porcelain.

  ‘My shout,’ said Jeremy, turning to the bar counter. ‘Come on, everybody!’

  Everybody had warmish beer, including Lydia, but excluding Jeremy, who had the usual brandy. He called another round. Billy Brew, recovered now, and even looking perky, declared that the next was his. Lydia said, ‘Then mine.’

  ‘Can’t ’ave a lady buyin’ drinks,’ said Billy, ‘Specially a titled one.’

  Jeremy said, ‘What about all the dough her old man’s done you for?’

  ‘Wasn’t ’er ol’ man . . . was them lousy managers of ’is.’

  At her insistence eventually they let her shout, wherewith, she went onto brandy with Jeremy. ‘Bung-ho!’ she cried as she tossed it off. Everybody laughed.

  They drank again. Jeremy loaded Lydia’s glass, watched sharply by Colleen. Billy Brew called for rum as well as beer, using the beer to chase it. Billy waxed bold, declaring his feuding with Vaisey managers. Jeremy said, ‘Tell us the yarn about
Delhunty and the donkey in the bed, Billy.’

  The old fellow protested: ‘Eh look out! That ain’t for the ears of a lady.’

  ‘She isn’t a lady, Billy . . . she’s more than that. She’s really a duchess.’

  Old Billy’s beard gaped wide: ‘’S a fact, Missus, You’re a dutch-ess?’

  Lydia, catching a slight wink from Jeremy, answered, ‘Something like that, Billy.’ Her voice was slurring.

  ‘An’ I shook ‘an’s ‘t a dutch-ess!’

  ‘Tell her the yarn,’ Jeremy insisted.

  Colleen tried to interfere, muttering about no dirty yarns. But Jeremy kept insisting: ‘It isn’t dirty . . . only funny. Tell it, Billy.’

  ‘Yesh . . . tell’t Billy,’ cried Lydia.

  ‘Well . . .’ mumbled Billy, tearing at his beard in embarrassment, ‘. . . if Yo’ Dutch-ess-ship insists . . . well, there was this ba . . . er, Vaiseys manager Delhunty, o’ Lake Leichhardt Downs . . .’

  It seemed that in the course of clashing with Billy over the intrusion of the donkeys into the sacred precincts of his homestead, Mr Delhunty had declared, ‘One o’ these nights I’ll be goin’ to me bed to find one o’ your bloody hairy canaries asleep in it.’ That had set Billy thinking. So next time a donkey died on him, he removed the hide from its head and stuffed it. But how to get it into the Big House at Leichhardt? Impossible, Ah, but something better offered. Mr Delhunty had a fancy piece amongst the yeller girls working there and housed her so that he could conveniently sneak out to her of nights when his wife happened to be away visiting. Billy camped on Leichhardt Creek against the day, having bribed the girl to co-operate, with finery for the next races such as Delhunty would never give her. So it was that one dark night Mr Delhunty came tchinekin, as they say, and with his flashlight found exactly what he’d predicted — and what’s more, a donkey snoring in the bed he considered his, Billy himself being under the bed — and more again, one that let out a terrific hee-hawing as the gentleman went galloping for home.’

  Lydia laughed till she wept. Jeremy had a brandy ready for her that nearly choked her with its potency; but she downed it like the donkey teamster his rum.

  Jeremy said to Billy, ‘What about Piggy Trotters’s mare?’