VI
Willy Ah Loy’s last words surely entitled him to burial according to the rites of his Aboriginal side. This would mean his being wrapped in bark and placed on a platform in a tree, there to lie till his Shade departed to its Dreaming Place, which could be reckoned by his having ceased to stink; whereupon, with due ceremony, his bones would be cleaned and appropriately apportioned to his relatives, to be carried about for a certain season, then with final ceremony stowed away in some rocky reliquary and thenceforth forgotten. Instead, his Chinese side built him a square coffin from packing-case timber, sat him upright in it, with bits of the funereal baked meats to sustain his Shade on its way to Paradise and funeral money to ensure his admission therein, waked him with a grand feast (to which everybody in the community was invited, except blacks, who nevertheless sneaked the Demons’ share of it left at the grave) then planted him in the Asiatic section of the cemetery.
Tiny as the township of Beatrice was, having long been a centre of pioneering activity, it had a necropolis of no mean order. It stood on the river bank at the western end of the one street, just beyond the Police Station and across the way from the Racecourse. It was plain to see from far off by reason of its two sizeable monuments. One of these stood in the middle, a Celtic cross cut from the limestone of the country, inscribed: Sacred to the Memory of Patrick Delacy, Pioneer of This District, RIP. The other, at the entrance, was the Anzac Memorial, exact replica of the thousands that stand throughout Australia: a concrete soldier in the silly cocked hat, standing drooping over a reversed rifle — an Italian job, it seemed, fashioned by a sculptor whose idea of an Australian soldier had been got from a photograph sent along by whomever it was got the contract for en masse production. The cocked hat looked even sillier than in reality. A number of names of local lads were inscribed on the plinth, among them those of the Delacy Brothers, Jeremy and Jack, with a cross against the latter’s to show that his glory was supreme. A ceremony of sorts was still held at the Memorial on Anzac Days, but nothing like that of most centres, as say Port Palmeston, where the anniversary was the Day of Days.
The Ah Loys were lucky to be able to bury Willy, instead of sink him, as surely they would have had to do had the funeral been delayed but a few hours. For a storm that had been threatening from about the moment of his death came roaring down from the North, as if it had something to do with it, and as indeed simpler people were supposing. The Weather Office in Palmeston reported a cyclone on the northern coast. However, Bobwirridirridi was not so named for nothing; and certainly just now he had reason to use those powers he was credited with, seeing that Coon-Coon and Jinbul were out hunting him. At any rate, whatever the cause of the weather, Christmas was going to be a poor affair for those who would have to spend it out of doors.
VII
The Pookarakka, with his apprentice, was holed up in a cave in the limestone eastward of Lily Lagoons. The boy was sorcerer’s prentice again rather than cult novitiate, because the rest of the Kudijingera had deserted without finishing the job, and the job now was to assist the stricken Wise One with the magic necessary to beat the surely threatening circumstances that prevailed. As the others were not Snakemen, it was too much to expect them to remain in the hideously uncomfortable and scary conditions supposedly due to the machinations of Tchamala. There could be no doubt but that Bobwirridirridi had invoked the storm and deliberately sought this refuge as Snakeman Number One. Stricken as he was, with a thigh-bone shattered, he was soon in a state to frighten away anyone not sure of immunity from such moah. Burning, sweating, panting, sucking up for its magic the white water that soon was seeping through the place, he told of how when last here the Old One had appeared to him and told him how he could destroy the dookyangana, every kuttabah in fact, by leading them to a certain spot near here. This while the lightning ripped the rocks apart and sent them crashing so that the single pair of ears that wanted to hear the wonderous chant had to lean close, although it was fairly screamed:
Alga agula
Numeriji ga
Kill-him-die dat kuttabah
Dat kuttabah
Gwalla gwallu Tchamala
Whiteman kill-him-die.
The others simply vanished.
Prindy got the pipe-clay and the sugar-bag honey to mix with it to plaster the injured limb, which from skeleton skinniness had swollen like a cheeky-yam with onset of the rain, and bound it with paperbark and hibiscus fibre, and plied his master with the magic water.
Then suddenly, out of the chaos, into the refuge leapt what looked and indeed proved virtually to be a squad of shiny black devils. Perhaps Prindy could have dodged past them in their moment of pause to take in the sight, but paused himself to look at his crippled master, and in that moment was lost. A strong lean hand, not exactly white but unmistakably that of a kuttabah, stretching out of an oilskin sleeve, clamped on his naked arm, on the still oozing cicatrices, and a lean pale face looking out from under a dripping sou’wester split in a grin, and a well-known voice came grating: ‘Don’t be fright, Sonny Boy. It’s only Coon-Coon, your Daddy-o.’
The grin was turned on the death’s head out of which even in the gloom of the cave the coals were seen to glow: ‘Got y’ agin, you tricky old bastard . . . and for good this time.’ Reckon your magic more-better’n mine, eh? Ha, ha, ho! Put him on the chain . . . neck and leg.’
It was soon revealed how easily it had been done. There were the deserters, chained by the neck, naked as when last seen, but shivering and drooping in the sheeting rain, the paint and pride of Kudijingera scoured out of them. Coon-Coon caused them to droop lower still, by loading onto their shoulders him they had betrayed, trussed to a pole and with chains connecting him to those professional betrayers of their kind, Trackers Jinbul and Treacle. The police were mounted, Constable Stunke leading. Coon-Coon himself rode at the rear, with his Sonny Boy up on his saddle-pummel and fastened to it with a monkey-strap about a wrist, but sheltered under the oilskin and with his Daddy-o’s warm arm about him and grating voice telling him of cosy things: ‘Christmas Day tomorro’. What-’o-you-t’ink-o’-dat, eh? We camp there long o’ Police Station, me-two-feller. I give you prejent. Daddy Critchmitch, eh? Ha, ha, ho!’
Evidently the place of execution of the kuttabah shown to the Pookarakka by the Old One was that giant’s causeway of great slabs of rock, where now the white water ran knee-deep to man and beast, with a pull that would have washed the men away, but for the greater strength of the beasts they were chained to. For out in the middle Bobwirridirridi began to swing on the pole and sing:
Alga agula
Numeriji ga
Gwalla gwallu Tchamala . . .
Cahoon shouted, ‘Watch the old bastard!’
Too late. The bearers staggered, fell, were swept into the deep — but held by the swift movement of Jinbul, causing his horse to rear. Treacle’s horse stumbled and would have gone over, too, but for Cahoon’s spurring forward to lend his mount’s shoulder to holding him up. Prindy watched with wide grey eyes. His Daddy-o left him to get down and sort things out with roaring and kicking and good use of the slack of the chains. They got the bearing party back on their feet, half-drowned. Swung up again, the Pookarakka howled: ‘Ngoo ninji . . . ninji ngoo!’
Back in the saddle, Coon-Coon cuddled his shivering charge close again, asking, ‘You savvy wha’ name old-man been sing out?’
The wet mop of fair curls shook.
‘I’ll tell you, then. That’s his lingo for Poor Feller My Country. I’ve heard him before. It means he knows he’s beat.’ Coon-Coon chuckled deeply: ‘Can’t beat old Coon-Coon, yo’ know . . . aaaaaaah!’
On arrival at Beatrice Police Station, Prindy was snatched from his Daddy-o by his mother, who first hugged him to her with her one good arm, then rushed him through the rain to quarters made up for her in the fuel-shed, where she examined him anxiously for injury. The cicatrices caused her to howl, ‘Bloody black bastard . . . I kill-him-die properly next time!’ Then she dressed hi
m in cast-offs of the Stunke boy.
The Stunke children, a boy and a girl, down from the Convent in Town for the holidays, were out in the rain in oilskins and rubber boots, watching the locking up of the prisoners. Prindy watched from the shed. Later he lay down on the bed made up with sacks on cases of gasolene. His mother lay down with him, offered her breast in the time-honoured way, but to have him turn his back on it.
At dusk Tracker Treacle’s lubra, who skivvied for the white folks, brought them supper of beef and bread, plus a slice each of iced Christmas cake. Later, sounds of revelry were heard from the house, faintly above the roar of the rain on the iron roof and the distant bellowing of Numeriji, the great white snake that the river had become. Coon-Coon’s tenor could be heard distinctly:
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright . . .
Prindy woke his mother in the middle of the night, murmuring the tune in his sleep.
Early on Christmas morning there was Coon-Coon himself with breakfast of porridge and ham and eggs, grating cheerfully, ‘Merry Christmas . . . Merry Christmas.’ He said he’d cooked the food for them himself. He had a parcel, which he opened to reveal brand-new clothing: boy’s khaki shirt and pants and a bright print dress: ‘Prejent,’ he said. ‘By’n’by more prejent from Christmas tree. I come get you. You wash up nicely and put on clean clothes. Be seein’ you.’
He came for them just before noon, all the jollier for a bit of booze by the smell of him — till he observed the bulge in Nell’s belly, made more noticeable because the new dress was too small for her. The look he then gave her caused her to droop her head. He fairly flung at her the oilskin coat he’d brought. But he smiled again on his Sonny Boy, even though the outfit this time was rather on the big side. He took him up under his own coat. As they went out into the rain he said, ‘Let’s take a look at our caged canaries,’ and swung towards the cell-block. They did not enter, but looked through the wire mesh enclosing the verandah. The Pookarakka was in an end cell, alone, lying on the concrete floor, chained to something. Jinbul and Treacle were on guard inside the mesh. Coon-Coon called, ‘Eh . . . old man!’ The death’s head was raised. The coals glowed on meeting the grey staring out at him. Coon-Coon called again, ‘How ’bout stop him rain . . . I give you drink o’ rum . . . ahahah!’ As they swung away he said to his Sonny Boy, ‘Silly bugger blackfeller reckon old Cock-Eye Bob make this big rain . . . flood us out. Well, he’ll be the one to get drownded, any way, eh? Ha, ha!’
The Christmas tree was on the side verandah remote from the weather, a very elaborate affair, presumably in the German tradition, because hung with bright captions in German as well as presents. Also, the children sang several songs in German before the ceremony of present-giving began. Prindy’s eyes showed how intently he was listening as he stood on one side with his mother. Constable Stunke played Santa Klaus only to his family. Daddy-o Coon-Coon gave the gifts to the others: to her he had lately called his Little Girl a small suitcase, in which was a mirror, towel, scented soap, comb, brilliantine, and another dress: to his Sonny Boy a still smaller case, with a flashlight and belt with toy pistol in holster. Buckling the belt on him, he pointed out that it was fitted with a proper police buckle that he had fitted himself. It was, in fact, slightly out of date, bearing the insignia G V R whereas the one he wore himself was E VIII R. He said to the gathering, ‘There you are . . . little p’lice-man. He’s goin’ to be a big p’liceman when he grows up . . . ain’t you, Sonny Boy?’
Sonny Boy was silent. The Stunke boy piped up, ‘I ain’t goin’ to be p’liceman, but.’
‘What,’ demanded Cahoon. ‘Not goin’ to be a p’liceman like your big daddy?’
‘I’m goin’ to be a engine driver, like big Pat Hannaford.’
The obvious embarrassment was relieved by the girl’s saying, ‘I’m going to marry a p’liceman.’
‘Good on you sweetheart,’ said Cahoon. ‘I’ll wait for you to grow up . . . aweeah!’
The Ah Loys, mother and son, had their dinner down in the gasolene-stinking quarters: roast pork, ham, plum pudding, nuts, lollies. Coon-Coon came down to them later with crackers for them to pull with him. Despite the gesture, he wasn’t in a good mood, probably from having been sleeping off the festivities and wakened with a sore head. He betrayed his mood as he was about to go, frowning again at Nell’s belly and growling at her. ‘Thought you were goin’ to have a bit o’ sense. Who was it . . . Martin, or Clancy?’ When she only drooped, he grated, ‘Bloody rubbish . . . that’s all you are!’
They watched him go — not back into the house, but away out to the street, with oilskins flapping to his angry stride.
It was to Finnucane’s Dinny went. The place was full — an abnormal state of things for this time of year, when everybody from hereabouts and down the line who could get away would have been up in Town truly making merry for Christmas. The reason was the weather. The mail train had not been able to get through owing to washaways; and the road was impassable. A grand thing for old Shame-on-us, it might be thought. But to be sure he was not enjoying the music of his cash-register as normally. Again it was the weather. While his customers kept reminding him that it was a time for nought but good cheer, he insisted on recalling the Old Man Flood of 1914 that had all but swept the town away and actually had swept away a consignment of goods he had foolishly left in the railway goods-shed and not got a penny compensation because it was judged an Act of God, bedad! He kept looking out through the rain for signs of the White Snake, which by the sound of it was knocking the bridge down. Snakes and bandicoots and a couple of Vaisey bullocks had appeared on the street coughing water. The drunks made things worse by harping on the yarn that was going round that it was due to the fact that Cock-Eye Bob was amongst them. It was being said that old Shame-on-us had been seen down on his knees in his office, although not decided whether he was praying or looking for a lost zac.
If it was praying Finnucane had been, then his magic proved more powerful than old Bob’s, because on the day after Boxing Day the rain ceased abruptly and the Weather Bureau announced the passing of the cyclone. The day after that the railway appeared, undamaged hereabout, according to Ganger Toohey. Then Col Collings reported that a train with ballast waggons and workmen was on its way down to repair the washaways, and reckoned that it would get through to Beatrice to be able to take to Town those who wanted to see the New Year in there.
4
I
Station Master Collings’s reckoning to get the train away from Beatrice River for Town on New Year’s Eve was so accurate that the time of departure might have been the usual one for the mail train (7 a.m.), despite the fact that almost a week of celebrating the Festive Season made it necessary to deal with many of the passengers as at the end of the Racing Festival, which is to say Pour ’Em Aboard. What went wrong was Mr Collings’s too great reliance on his own authority, or on someone else’s, combined with underestimation of the person he was asserting it on, namely Driver Hannaford.
Collings and Hannaford were old enemies. Enmity between engine crews and those called Traffic Men, the officials who control the enginemen’s movements and hence restrict the liberty they enjoy more than other railway workers, is common enough, as known to anyone who knows railways. However, that between these two was something much deeper: a temperamental matter to begin with, the one being a big larrikin type with an ideology behind his nonconformism, the other a small man, self-important, a Boss’s Man, as the other would say. The feeling between the two was shown in a clash at Finnucane’s only the night before, when Hannaford had been soliciting the drunks for contributions to a fund to help the Leftist faction in the Spanish Civil War, and Collings, half molo, had questioned even the stated purpose of the fund. There was no fight. Hannaford was no sort of bully in his bellowing. It amounted to no more than an exchange of insults — Bolshevik Bastard and Fascist Shithead — with audience participation according to political bias or sense of humour.
&nbs
p; Another enmity involved in the upset was that between Hannaford and Sergeant Cahoon. Naturally Cahoon as an enemy of Pat’s and a pal of Collings’s. For a certainty there was collusion between station master and police officer in the matter that caused the trouble; but whether with deliberate intent to provoke their enemy or through inability to refrain from expressing natural inclination when opportunity presented itself, even at risk of causing themselves embarrassment, would be difficult to say. As Pat Hannaford later said to his fireman, Porky Jones, ‘Now why should the bastards want to do a thing like that? They must ’a’ known it couldn’t do ’em any good. That’s what bein’ a Fascist is, I reckon . . . a runt who’s got ’o make himself big by having someone to stamp on as a kind of natural right. Course these boongs’re useless bastards. But they’re human bein’s. Plenty whites’re useless bastards, too.’
Sergeant Cahoon hadn’t been at Finnucane’s that night. The collusion between him and his pal would have nothing to do with the incident there. In fact it could have been entered into about the same time as Col Collings made his prediction concerning getting the ballast train away in lieu of a mail train.
Anyway, as usual in order to make what would be scheduled in the Train Notice as Dep. Beatrice R. 7.00 a.m., Pat and Porky climbed aboard their engine at six to prepare her for the journey. She was in the little engine shed, into which she was run always of nights, not so much for shelter as for the facilities there for ash-dropping and tube-blowing and the rest of the things to be done at the end of a long day of operations. Porky had banked his fire and needed only to rake and shake it into life to get up steam. The train was marshalled ready from the evening before. It comprised ten ballast hoppers and two small flats packed with the gear the fettlers had been using in their repair work, two passenger coaches in which the men had travelled and camped, and the brake-van. The coaches were of the single type used locally, old-fashioned things like everything else on this railroad, each consisting of two compartments, with wooden seats running lengthwise so that one sat with one’s back to the windows and looked out through those opposite, the compartments divided by tiny lavatories, one on either side, with a swinging door between, and with platforms at either end.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 36
