Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  They reached her home. Next door was in darkness. Miss Wyndeyer would be at religious instruction with her Monsignor Maryzic, following her organ-playing for Vespers. They went in. Fay produced a bottle of whisky, with the injunction to go easy with it, because she wanted him to use his wits. ‘Now, if only I had tits instead of wits,’ he said, ‘I might work on Cuthbert himself . . .’

  She snapped, ‘Shut up!’

  After a while she said, ‘She’s going to phone him first thing tomorrow, she said. If we can get in on that phone call, and it’s something really nifty she’s got on him . . . then we’re set.’

  ‘Well, tap the phone.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Hell . . . every newspaper’s got a phone-tapping system . . . don’t tell me the mighty Palmeston Progressive only listens at keyholes!’

  ‘This’s very different from down in the cities, where people can get in and out of places without being noticed. We’ve planted our dictaphone more than once, I can tell you. But the trouble with phones is getting into places. I can get the mechanic, all right. But is Cobbity going to let him into his office on some pretext of fixing the phone? Are the Candlemases going to let him look ’em up just tomorrow morning? Do you know any way? You say you were in the racing game . . . that’s all phone-tapping, isn’t it?

  ‘It’s done through exchanges. Anyway, I was an apprentice jockey, not a telephone mechanic. What about your own exchange . . . the Post Office? Didn’t you say the dame next door works there?’

  ‘You won’t get anything out of her. For a start we don’t speak. And that’s how the trouble between us started. I tried to get her to let us record a talk between two big shots over a snide deal they worked to sell the land now used as the Aerodrome to the Department of Civil Aviation. I’d’ve had ’em on toast if she had. But her bloody conscience wouldn’t let her.’

  ‘What about other telephonists?’

  ‘There’re only four altogether, one working at a time. The others are Government Officers’ daughters. They all hate me.’

  ‘It’s that endearing way you have . . .’

  ‘Shut up! We’ve got to get this done somehow.’

  ‘Want me to work on the female next door?’

  ‘This’s got to be done before nine tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m a fast worker . . .’

  ‘You’re a conceited ass! I brought you here because I thought, with your smart-alecry and your racing experience you’d see a way. Don’t forget, the money you get depends on what’s got from the story. At the moment it looks like nil.’

  Fergus stroked his fair moustache, after a moment asked, ‘No harm in trying the lady next door. Could promise her a flight. Where’s she now?’ Fay explained, with frank contempt.

  Fergus said, ‘I want to meet old Maryzic myself. Want to try to get some charter work from their missions.’

  Fay had a swig of whisky, grunted, ‘Bugger your charters! I want this story.’

  Suddenly he looked excited, tossed off his drink, said, ‘Listen . . . Maryzic hates Cobbity and Co., doesn’t he?’

  ‘The boot’s on the other foot, more likely. He’s been a great critic of ’em. He’s been more or less retired by the Church for picking at ’em.’

  ‘Well, he’s going to be glad about what we did today, eh? About the thing for Truth, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so. But what’s that got to do with the bloody phone-tapping?’

  ‘Everything . . . if my hunch’s correct. I haven’t met him. The Coot kept me away from him . . . at least he didn’t take me with him when he went to see him, because the old boy had been poking borak at him about anthropology, and he thought, I suppose, that I’d make it worse. I want to meet him for business. You take me round to introduce me . . .’

  ‘He won’t have a bar of me!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I attack the Church. I wrote an attack on it as the agency of Fascism only a few weeks back . . . just after Easter.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, what the hell? Maybe he believes you’re right. There’s plenty of Catholic clergy against it. They’re persecuting ’em in Germany. Doesn’t he speak to you?’

  ‘Only sarcastically.’

  ‘Can’t you take it?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘For the cause, gal, the cause.’

  ‘What cause? You don’t share any of my causes. You’re a bloody Fascist yourself!’

  Fergus shot his hand up in the Fascist salute, crying, ‘Heil . . . Viva da Musso!’ When she showed her teeth at him, he went on eagerly: ‘I’m talking about our cause, sweetheart . . . this Truth thing. You take me round to the old boy in all humility . . .’

  ‘Me humble myself to that old tyrant?’

  ‘Like I was saying . . . in all proper humility of one tyrant to another . . . you’ve got nice teeth, you know, but you don’t show ’em to advantage with the way you smile . . . like this’s the way. Now, you go round there smiling nicely. You introduce us. We tell him about what we did at the Compound today and why we did it. If he’s what I’ve heard he is, he’ll be delighted . . .’

  ‘And he’ll get someone to tap the telephone for us tomorrow!’ Fay said it with heavy sarcasm. Then her eyes popped, and she cried, ‘Hey . . . I’ve got it!’

  ‘Exactly! We’ve got to catch ’em together, your coy telephonist and him. We’ve got to talk the ethics of telephone-tapping to down tyrants, to overthrow bureaucracy, to smash an evil system . . . Viva il Papa!’

  Her hairy face was flushed, her grey eyes popping, with excitement; but she had to bare those teeth and say, ‘You’ll come at anything, won’t you!’

  ‘That makes two of us, sweetheart. Now, we’ve got to move, so’s to get your girlfriend with him . . . and you’ve got to be nice to her . . . introduce her to me, and I’ll promise her a flight, promise to go to bed with her, if you like. Yes . . . I have it. You bring up that matter of why you fell out. Yes . . . yes . . . that’s it! You discuss the ethics of that. . . not of this job. If he supports betrayal of the confessional by the Hello-girls when they hear evil things, then we’ve got this Windy Kitty of yours . . . eh?’

  They perfected their planning rapidly while they drove round to the Catholic Church, stopping en route, as part of the plan, at the Queen Vic, to pick up a bottle of first-class whisky. The Church itself was dark, save for the red eye of God winking from the altar. Next door was the lighted Presbytery, from which came the sound of male laughter and the clink of glass. They went to a building on the other side, down a gravel pathway, a rambling old place as seen by the bit of moonlight shining through the big fig and mango trees, originally the Convent, but since the new one had been built on the main road beside the Church, serving now as a town centre for the Church’s mission people and a portion of it as quarters for Monsignor Maryzic. There was only one light to be seen, spilling onto a side verandah. Fay led the way thither.

  A glimpse through the wide-open double glass doors of a huge high chamber built in the old style. On a cane lounge, protuberant of belly, cassock-clad, a red-edged biretta propped up on one of the top corner pieces of the lounge, feet in Japanese sandals, lay a massive figure, face brown and seamed and broad in the Slavic way, with a whisp of white hair, head clasped in hands as he lay back on a cushion. At a barish desk nearby sat Kitty Wyndeyer, taking notes out of a book. Both looked out at sounds of steps on the verandah. Monsignor Maryzic called, ‘Who isht zere?’

  Fay, looking rather red, showed herself in the doorway. The old priest stared at her in surprise. Kitty looked alarmed. Breathlessly, Fay said, ‘Hope I’m not intruding . . . just brought a young man round to meet you, Monsignor . . . Mr Fergus Ferris . . . he’s an aviator . . . and . . . and . . .’

  ‘Anthropologist,’ the old man finished. Fergus had shoved into the doorway, with split lip twisted in a grin.

  ‘How do you do, young man.’ The Monsignor heaved his huge body up from the lo
unge. ‘I haf heard about you. Vot vood you be vontingk mit me?’ Hard slaty blue eyes were fixed on Fergus, who reddened under them.

  Fergus said, ‘Well . . . it’s about getting some flying to do for your missions, Your Excellency.’

  ‘I am not Excellency, my son . . . Fader vill do. Come in.’

  Kitty, gathering up her things, said hastily, ‘I’ll go, Father.’

  Fay said as quickly, ‘Oh, no, Kitty . . . don’t let us intrude.’

  Kitty stared at her.

  Maryzic now looked at Fay for the first time: ‘You knew she vos here . . . vy are you concerned not to intrude?’

  Fay went crimson: ‘I thought she may have left by now, Monsignor.’

  ‘But vy should you come at all?’

  ‘I told you . . . to bring Mr Ferris.’

  ‘Has a man who can fly across der Continent mitout seeink der ground, I presume, got to be led across zis little town to find der most prominent place in it, der Church?’

  Fergus cut in: ‘To tell you the truth, Father, I was scared to come on my own.’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Well . . . you did appear to be something of a bête noire to my colleague, Dr Cootes.’

  The broad face split in a grin; and the fat belly began to shake. The old man laughed heartily: ‘Ha, ha, ha! Der learnt doctor . . . Ho, ho, ho!’

  Fergus echoed him: ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  Maryzic stopped laughing suddenly to glare and demand, ‘Vell, vot has brought you?’

  Fergus produced the bottle of whisky: ‘A little gift, Father.’

  The old man waved to a side table: ‘Put it zere.’ And as Fergus came back from doing so, he added, ‘Bevare der Greek who comes mit gift.’

  Fergus smiled that split-lip smile, attractive in its being at once insolent and pathetic: ‘I am not a Greek, Your Reverence.’

  ‘But you are a sly fellow, I can see. Sit down . . . both of you. I am very glad to haf you. I vont to say a vord or two to your female accomplice mit regard to false statements made by her in jealous rage over der loss to der Church of somevun she vonted to dominate herself. Attack on der Church herself can be forgifen. Der Church isht human. Zat is ze greatness of der Catholic Church. She isht composed of peoples who know zere frailty and confess it . . . from Pope to peasant . . . but keep on beingk frail because zey are human. Zere isht no institution in der vorld so human zan der Catholic Church. Zere are no people in der vorld of simple frail human beingks so happy as Catholics. Ven you, Fay McFee, still told your beads and vore your Veil of Mary, you vere a lot happier zan since you haf taken to followingk der Red Banner of vot isht claimed as Rationalism . . . as if any human beingk can be rational zis side of der grave! I say zat attack on der Church herself for her own sake isht forgivable easily . . . but not not ven it is borne of personal spite, as vos yours last Easter.’

  Fay’s face was purplish, her bosom heaving.

  The booming voice went on, getting louder: ‘Your friend found joy in our organ. You’ve denied her der joy of your piano. Because she isht generous, she vonted to pay by converting. She need not haf. But she had glimpsed der beauty of zis human zing you yourself vos born into as your heritage and turned your back on because it deprived you of personal power, demanded humility of you. So she haf found another joy . . . vile all you find is somezingk to make yourself a nuisance about so as to attract attention to yourself.’ The voice suddenly dropped: ‘All right . . . I haf vot I vont. Now tell me vot you vont?’

  Fay looked capable only of rushing at him and throttling him or of bursting into tears and fleeing. Fergus, with his eye on her, took over: ‘Father . . . did you hear that we had a forced landing on the Compound beach this morning?’

  ‘I hear of most zings zat happen in zis little town, my boy. Vot has it to do mit me?’

  Fergus started from the point of effecting the ruse to photograph the squalor of the Compound before it could be hidden for ever by those who had created and perpetuated it. The old man smiled with satisfaction. Fergus went on to tell the whole thing. Only once did the priest interrupt his early part of the story, when he said, ‘Are you doink this for der Aborigines, my son?’

  ‘No, father. I know it stinks, the whole thing. But the truth is I’m in it for what I’m being paid.’

  ‘Goot . . . proceed! No . . . first open der bottle. Zere are glasses in der cupboard . . . and vater outside if you vont it. No, you get it, my dear,’ Maryzic added to Kitty.

  When it came to the need for phone-tapping the old man laughed again: ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, ho!’

  He kept them waiting while he took a long drink. Then he said, ‘You led up to zis mit reference to der confidence of der confessional. Zere is no rule or law concerningk such confidence. It is a matter for der conscience of der priest. If evil haf been done zat must be undone or paid for, it isht der duty of der priest to see to it, even if he haf to betray his trust. He isht not zere to protect der conscience of der evil-doer, but to encourage der confession of evil and der condemnation of it. I vill say zat Miss Vindeyer here, ven she refused to divulge to Miss McFee vot she chanced to hear of zat zing about der aerodrome did right . . . but not in keepingk it to herself just because of a rule made by der Post Office to discourage tattlingk about ozer people’s business. Der proper protection of der public who use der telephone is der law. If people are silly enough to tattle zomezingk zat vill be tattled about, it isht zere own fault. Zere isht no sin called tattlingk. Zere isht no sin in eavesdroppink. Zere is sin only in bearingk valse vitness against zy neighbour. I am interested in zis story of Mrs Candlemas. I haf heard a lot about der lady. I vood like to see zis vicious bureaucracy broken. I vill concede that Fay McFee is der person to do der job, newspaper publicity beink vot it lamentably isht in zese days. I am villingk to say zat a goot zing vill be done if some ozer bureaucratical evil of Dr Cobbity’s is uncovered by tappingk his telephone. Zere is no law against eavesdroppingk of any kind, only against trespassing for ozer purposes. But der matter must be left to the conscience of Miss Kitty. She must be left der night to deal vis der matter. Zen, if she decide to comply mit your request to haf der svitchingk of her board arranged so zat a recordingk can be made of der conversation, I vood advise her not to permit der switchingk to der office of der Progressive, but to me here. I haf a telephone in anozer room. I vill be der eavesdropper, truly in ze name of ze betterment of ze Aborigines. If I consider zat purpose served, I vill advise Miss Kitty to zat effect. Does zat satisfy everybody? Goot! Zen let us drink to its success.’

  It was at five-thirty next morning that Kitty Wyndeyer knocked on the nailed-up door, and rousing Fay McFee, told her she’d decided to do as she asked. Fay asked her in to have a cup of tea. Then in the ruddy dawn, Fay drove round to the home of Mossie Makins, PMG mechanic, and after having some difficulty in waking him from boozy slumber explained her need. He agreed readily enough, evidently more for mercenary reasons than political ones, since he haggled over the fee.

  Kitty went into the Exchange to relieve the night-shift girl at seven, looking so distraught that the other remarked on it, and when Kitty said she’d only had a bad night, offered to get one of the other girls for her. Kitty was made more distraught by the girl’s hanging about talking. Then the girl was gone; and Mossie came in and got behind the switchboard, soon to emerge to say cheerfully, ‘She’s sweet,’ while Kitty in her earphones hung her burning face.

  There were a couple of calls to the aerodrome concerning the flight of the mail plane later in the day, and one from the Hospital for Dr McQuegg — then suddenly, just after eight, there was the Candlemas’ indicator blinking. Kitty plugged in, panting, ‘Number please?’ It was Alfie, asking for the number of Dr Cobbity’s residence. Kitty reached automatically for the plug, almost pulled it, then looked at the clock above the board, then wildly at the board itself. A moment. Then she gasped, ‘Hold the line, please.’ Her right hand flew to another plug, her left to the magneto handle. She cranked madly. Fay’s voice answered. When she h
eard the gasped news she told Kitty to check with the Monsignor, but that she thought everything would be in order, because she’d told Mossie the call could be made privately. Kitty gave another breathless hold the line to Alfie, checked, heard His Very Reverence say, ‘She sveet.’ Then with a sigh she plugged in the Cobbity residence, cranked her little handle — heard a female voice, said to Alfie, ‘You are through.’

  It was Mrs Cobbity, who began by being nasty, saying that Alfie had no business ringing the doctor at his private house and indeed no business to be ringing him at all, since she had been dismissed from the Service. She was interrupted in the middle of a sentence. A male voice, somewhat hoarse, came in: ‘Yes . . . what is it?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Alfie.

  Cobbity was silent for a moment, then asked, ‘What would you be wanting?’

  ‘Just a word with you.’

  ‘I can’t get you your job back, if that’s what it is.’

  ‘It isn’t . . . it’s another bargain.’

  ‘I don’t make bargains. You ought to know that.’

  She was silent so long that he asked, ‘Well . . . does that settle the matter?’

  Alfie came out with it breathlessly: ‘No . . . it doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, don’t make it too long . . . I have to shave.’

  ‘Right. I’m being asked by newspaper people to give my story of everything I saw while at the Compound . . . everything that was done to me . . .’

  ‘Fay McFee.’

  ‘I understand it’ll be a much bigger thing than just something in the Progressive.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell how you took over an institution already condemned by the Administration and about to be replaced in a matter of weeks, and proceeded to reform it by sitting on the beach all day, and got dismissed for refusing to comply with simple Public Service regulations . . . eh?’