‘No . . . I’d just as soon sit.’
He pulled the windscreen up to give a better view, then put his arm about her properly, drew her to him. She rested her curly head against his shoulder. She sighed. He asked, ‘What’s that for?’
‘I was just thinking that here we are, almost on the rim of Asia, with its teeming millions and its poverty . . . and here there are so few of us . . . and we are so rich . . . at least us white people.’
‘Old Jumbo’s crept back into it again, eh?’
‘Well . . . I can’t forget him . . . and the rest of the poor things.’
‘How about forgetting about everybody but me for a while, eh?’
He bent and kissed her on the mouth. She was submissive. He kissed more ardently, turning round to her. Still she was compliant, if not eager. He ran a long thin hand down over her creamy bare shoulder to the small protuberance of her breast. She struggled away. ‘No, Doctor!’
He uttered a bit of a grunt; ‘Doctor . . . eh?’
‘I’m sorry . . . but . . .’
‘You’re not interested, eh?’
‘Not . . . not just now.’
‘Maybe later?’
‘I . . . don’t know.’
He drew a deep breath, turning away to look out to sea. ‘Depends on Jumbo Delacy, eh?’
She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘It could.’
He looked at her. ‘You mean . . .’
‘I mean if you show yourself less hard . . . less . . . well, bureaucratic.’
He almost sniggered, ‘Bureaucratic is it now? I’ll see if I can mend my ways.’ He reached for the ignition key, switched on, started up, without a word swung the car round, heading back for home. They were silent back as far as the Jail, after which he began to talk easily about plans formulating for the new Aboriginal Settlement, due to have its foundations laid on July 1. Then he spoke of Captain Shane, who he said would be having one of his picnic cruises in his schooner soon, but this a very special one, something not to miss; ‘During Coronation Weekend,’ he said.
She asked; ‘When’s Coronation Day?’
‘May 12. Big day for us. Don’t know what the Boss’ll be handing out.’
‘What boss?’
‘The King, of course.’
‘He’s not my boss.’
‘Hey . . . disloyalty! You’re a servant of the Crown now. You’ll have the Loyalty Swearers down on you, if you’re not careful.’
‘Blow ’em!’ she snapped.
He chuckled, and turned quickly and kissed her on the cheek.
They were coming close to Captain Shane’s, the hilarity from which could be heard above the engine of the car. As they pulled up, Cobbity asked, ‘Enjoy the spin?’
‘Immensely.’
‘Any chance of doing it again?’
‘Every chance.’ He chuckled, reached for her hand and squeezed it, then got out. She got out and joined him. As they went up the stairs together they were hailed by the Captain himself, coming striding from a group on the verandah scuffling in some hilarious game.
‘What’s this?’ cried the Captain. ‘Romance, scandal, or what? What’s this sawbones got that I haven’t, m’dear, that you desert my party for him?’
‘Purely business, you superannuated old gubbernaut,’ said the doctor chuckling.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ was Shane’s comment. ‘Well . . . come’n have a drink.’
The Captain showed plainly that he wanted possession of his pretty guest again; and with a wink, Cobbity left her to him. The old fellow was not drunk, because he drank so much as to be able to act with reasonable rationality always. He was only more-so Lucky Shane than before. He put an arm about her, with fingers rather close to her tit, and took her down to walk in the lighted garden and tell her more about his luck — how as a penniless cabin-boy he had laid the foundations of that pile of his, with a handful of Brazilian gold coins given him by a shopkeeper of Rio to leave his young daughter alone. Alfie was beginning to sigh and weary of those sneaking bony old fingers and kept looking up at the rowdy house for relief, when her interest was caught by what he was yawping, about the latest favour conferred upon him by his sweetheart, Lady Luck. It concerned his property here, which it seemed he’d all but lost through having no legal title to the tide flat, when someone very high had decided to allot it to the Shell Oil Company as a site for what were called Strategic Oil Tanks.
It was no mere local authority he had to deal with, not even a National one, but no less than the Imperial High Command: ‘Part of Imperial Defence, Singapore Base, and all that.’
He seemed a bit surprised at Alfie’s sudden interest and inclined to close up, till she leaned against him and let the claw have its way. ‘You are a witch, you know . . . you got witch’s ears . . . but they’re lovely!’ He kissed one.
Smothering the shudder, she asked, ‘How’d you find out what was happening, when it was all so terribly hush-hush, as you say?’
‘The old Shane Luck. The Imperial Brass was here from Singapore. They were here to see the opening of the Garrison. I ignored ’em myself. Never could get along with Brass . . . naval or military. Don’t mind this Chivvy chap . . . but I never go to his joint . . . he’s got to come here. So I missed what was going on. It’d been all decided. Nothing left to do but put it on paper with the Imperial Coat of Arms and God Save the King and all that damn rot, giving me the order of the boot, with nothing but a lousy compensation for my rather ancient buildings there. But Lady Luck was hanging about looking after the interests of her white-haired boy. It happened that the Imperial Brass, used to taking disease into consideration, wanted to know if there was Malaria to be contended with in the project, which caused their medical experts to confer with a certain someone, who although he’s on the Garrison staff, for want of a proper military MO, doesn’t like the Poms. It also happens that the certain someone is a good mate of mine . . . and so I got the hot tip, and promptly acted on it.’
‘You mean that’s when you started reclaiming the tide flat?’
‘Clever girl . . . what lovely little titties you got!’
‘Stop, stop . . . they might see us from the verandah!’
‘They’ll only see what they expect from Old Vic.’
‘But my husband! Now behave like a good boy . . . and tell me about how you beat the Pommies . . . because I hate ’em too.’
‘Do you, now? I thought by that lovely complexion of yours, the roses under the brown, that you were one. Well, where was I? Yes . . . the reclamation. Well, I got together all my men and have ’em bag up hundreds of tons of dirt . . . sort of thing they were bred to . . . coolie types, you know. Did it during the low slack tides of the middle of the year. So I beat old King Canute, and dammed the tide. I then got a bulldozer . . . first ever used in this country . . . sold it at a profit to Works Department afterwards . . . and filled the whole thing in . . . and having friends in high places here . . . well, it was a simple thing to apply for title and get it. Naturally the local lads didn’t know anything about what the Imperial Brass had in mind.’
‘And so Shell Oil has to use the Coconuts Inlet instead.’
‘That’s right . . . and were they mad! They wanted this place, they said, because it was strategically better placed. But that’s nonsense. Anyone bombing or shelling Port Palmeston could just as easily hit this place as the Coconuts. They didn’t like being outwitted, of course.’ He chuckled, adding, ‘Or maybe they’d reckoned that if it was Japs attacking the place they’d keep clear of my property . . . and they’d get the benefit of it. Japs’re like that. No matter how high they rise, you’re always the Master to ’em. Pretty sure some of my men had Jap naval connexions and’d be in the vanguard of an attack . . .’
She interrupted, a little sharply, drawing away, ‘They never found out who told you?’
‘Eh . . . who tipped me off, you mean? No. Probably never dreamt I was tipped off. Thought it’d just happened . . . Shane’s Luck, like . . . ha, ha, ha!’
/>
She drew a deep breath; ‘I know who it was, though.’
‘You? Bet you don’t!’
‘Like to bet?’
‘I’ll lay you a kiss to a case of champagne you don’t.’
‘Right . . . our friend Dr Cobbity.’
He gaped at her, then muttered, ‘How did you know that?’
‘You said I’m a witch.’
‘You are, too. Well . . . bang goes my case of bubbly. But look here . . . you won’t say anything, will you? I don’t suppose it can hurt the Doc, really. He doesn’t like being MO for the Garrison much. But if there’s a war, he’ll be automatically in it . . . and you never know, they might take it out of him somehow . . . the Imperial Brass, I mean. I’ll give you the bubbly on Coronation Day. Something to celebrate with, what?’
‘You can have your kiss now, though.’
‘Eh?’ The seamed old face lit up.
She gave him her lips. He was devouring her, when she broke away, laughed breathlessly, fled, as he gasped after her, ‘Witch . . . wonderful witch!’
Just round a corner of the verandah she found Frank. She grabbed him, dragged him out of the crowd, whispered, ‘I want to go home . . . come on.’
‘What’s up? What’s happened?’
‘Plenty. But let’s get out of here . . . without being seen. I feel a little sick.’
‘What . . . too much booze?’
‘No . . . the people . . . the awful people!’
VIII
Next morning, that is of the day after Anzac Day, Alfie Candlemas was riding the bike she now used, heading into the Compound to see about the children’s breakfast, when Mr Turkney popped out of his office, hailing her. She swung to meet him. He said, ‘Fraid you got no cook, this morning, Alfie.’
‘How come?’
He told her of Nell’s arrest and confinement in the lock-up in town, the only one captured. He scowled across at the Adult Home, but didn’t express his feelings about the others, instead, complaining, ‘It never rains but it bloody pours. Now they tell me Lucy Snowball’s been eaten by a shark.’
Alfie, quite pale, gasped. He went on: ‘The silly buggers think she was taken by the Rainbow Snake, or something. Mob coming over from the other side by canoe saw her body hung up on the beacon on the reef there, with the legs eaten off.’
‘Good God!’
‘King George reckons she took his dinghy last night . . . it’s gone and her tracks’re there. Must’ve been trying to get to the lazaret again. Big tide last night. Must’ve got stuck on the reef, and lost the boat . . . terrible rip there . . . and tied herself onto the beacon . . . and the sharks got at her when the tide came back . . . Oh, I say . . . sorry! Alfie put her face in a hand and began to cry. Tub took the bike from her, put an arm about her, talked soothingly while she wept, now into both hands, quite unrestrainedly. ‘Clumsy of me . . . just didn’t think. There, now, dear. Poor thing’s better off . . . she wasn’t happy as she was . . . Here, boy, take this bike.’ He led Alfie into his office.
She soon recovered, sat blinking and sniffling. He said, ‘What I really wanted was to ask you if you’d do the Court trick for me this morning.’
She mumbled, ‘Court trick?’
‘You know . . . how when anyone out of the Compound’s pinched, I have to go into the Police Court to defend ’em. It’s only a formality, really . . . as long as there’s a Protector there not a member of the Police Force. There’s this Nelly Ah Loy business. I’ll have to go out in the launch and get Lucy. The blacks won’t. And I’d as soon keep out of this Nelly Ah Loy business, because there’ll be enough row about it as it is . . . and I don’t want old Bundy rooting me for a start. He can be an old bastard of a Monday morning, or after a holiday. But he wouldn’t pick on you. Wouldn’t have any reason. Will you do it for me?’
Sniffling a bit still, she asked, ‘But what do I do?’
‘Nothing. Like I said . . . your appearance is only a formality. The prisoner’s charged with such and such. The Prosecuting Sergeant does his spiel. All you’ve got to say is Guilty . . . they’re not able to plead for ’emselves, unless freed from the Act . . .’
‘What if they’re not guilty?’
‘They wouldn’t be there if they weren’t. They’ve got it all worked out. Most Aboriginal offenders’ve got a record. The old boy goes on that mostly. A month for this, three months for that . . . considering the record, how much of a nuisance they are, and how things are out at the Jail . . . wood-cutting and things.’
‘Has this Nelly got a record?’
‘I wouldn’t know. She’s new here. But he’ll go easy on her . . . unless she gives him cheek, like that silly bitch Dolly. She’ll get a week or a fortnight . . . depends on whether old Dotty needs anyone . . .’
‘Dotty?’
‘Mrs Dorothy O’Dowdy, wife of the Jailer. Has At Homes, and likes to show off the halfcaste maids she gets for nothing. You’d be doing me a great favour . . .’
‘I’d like to do it, Oscar. I’d like to see how it’s done. It all sounds rather callous though . . .’ She was searching for her handkerchief.
‘Now, don’t go getting yourself too involved. You’re doing a grand job as it is. Put in a good word for her and say she’s a good cook and mostly well behaved, if you like. You’ll soon have her back.’ He sighed: ‘It wouldn’t’ve happened only that brass-bound bugger, Colonel Chivvy, caught her himself. Anyone else would’ve rung me up, not called the cops. Right . . . now, you have to be there by ten. Don’t be late, for godsake. There’ll probably be other cases of blacks picked up drunk in town. You’ll have do ’em all. They’ll be no-hopers. Just say Guilty, and leave it at that. You’ll be back by lunch-time . . . might be back with Nelly. Right? Thanks a lot. Now I’ll have to go and . . . sorry! Mind if I wipe your face myself? I . . . I’d like to have such nice tears on my hanky . . . eeeee!’
Alfie arrived at Court in plenty of time, to surprise Fatty Doscas and Miss Williams, the new Court Reporter, and also Fay McFee, who smiled at her, but stiffly, and then stopped smiling altogether when she heard Doscas ask Alfie how things had gone at Old Vic’s party. Then when Alfie explained why she was there, Fay bounced up to stare out at the Rainbow Reef from the verandah, and for a while looked as if she couldn’t make up her mind where she ought to be keeping tabs on the drama of life. There was hardly anybody in the public seats. The Police — Usher and Prosecuting Sergeant Nullity — didn’t come in until just before Stipendiary Magistrate Bundy slipped in from what seemed like the belly of His Gracious Majesty, Our Sovereign Lord, like a slight black gnome. For a certainty his face was buttoned up with misanthropy, due, some said, to the fact that he was a reformed drunk, the reformer being his large wife, not himself. The Clerk quickly explained Alfie’s presence to the surprised and somewhat arch-looking Sergeant, and then again to His Worship, who merely grunted.
After some shuffling of papers and muttering between Mr Bundy and Mr Doscas, the first case was called, that of three ragged blackfellows with crazy whitemen’s names, charged with having consumed intoxicating liquor in contravention of the Ordinance, this that and the other — in fact for being drunk and fighting behind the RSL Hall, it all came out when the arresting Constable was called. But first Mr Doscas asked Alfie how she pleaded. She rose and said very weakly, ‘Guilty.’
After the Constable, the Sergeant read the Records of the accused, adding that they were pests. In no time His Worship grunted, ‘Three months with hard labour.’
Next it was Billy Noseda, a halfcaste, charged with having supplied the former prisoners with the drink, himself being an Exempted Person within the Ordinance. How did he plead? Alfie voiced the plea with more confidence this time. There was also a difference in procedure in that the Prosecuting Sergeant helped out the Defence by telling His Worship that the Defendant was the foreman of the night-cart crew and that there might be some inconvenience if he was jailed. Mr Bundy was impressed. He said to the Defendant, ‘Listen, Billy . . . if you do it a
gain, I’ll give you six months, understand?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Fined Five Pounds . . . to be paid at the rate of one pound per week out of his pay. Next case.’
‘Nelly Ah Loy!’
Nell was marched in from the dungeons region by a young policeman and shoved into the dock. The scene should be familiar enough to her, but the aspect so different that she gave a frightened look at those below. Alfie smiled at her. But she only blinked, drooped.
Fatty Doscas wheezed, ‘Nelly Ah Loy, you are hereby charged that on the night of the 25th April in the year of our Lord 1937, you did make unlawful and unwarranted intrusion and trespass upon an area declared prohibited under the Defence of the Commonwealth Act, Section 34, sub-section iii, to wit the military establishment known as Point Lookout Barracks. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?’
Looking troubled, Alfie rose slowly, hesitated so long as to attract every eye. At length she faltered to the Bench, ‘Isn’t it a rather serious charge?’
Mr Bundy snapped, ‘Of course it is!’
‘Then . . . then . . . should I plead guilty for her?’
‘It’s not for me to tell you how to plead, Madam. Haven’t you been apprised of the case?’
‘Well . . . no. I . . . I was told just to . . . that it was a mere formality.’
‘To do what?’
Sergeant Nullity bent to her, whispering, ‘There isn’t much to it . . . not like Intent to Spy or anything like that. Just a formality.’
She whispered back, ‘Should I plead Guilty?’
‘Save a lot of bother.’
She looked up at the Bench, which snapped, ‘Well?’
She said, weak again, ‘Guilty.’
Sergeant Nullity rose and began to spout from a paper: ‘At 8.15 p.m. on the night of April 25, information was received from the OC Troops that Defendant had been apprehended at the Barracks, with a request that she be taken into custody . . .’ Sergeant Nullity paused to reach for a document in an envelope, with which he walked towards the bench, saying, ‘I have here a communication from Colonel Chivvy, Your Worship.’ He handed it up, then returned to his place to conclude giving details of the arrest, while Mr Bundy opened the envelope and perused its contents. Nell was staring out at freedom beckoning from the familiar wilderness.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 54
