Jeremy said suddenly to Frank, ‘You know what this lady of yours has in mind?’
‘Not to give that list thing up, you mean?’
‘Yes. How do you feel about it?’
Frank looked at his Alfie, who was regarding him haughtily, and smiled and shrugged. Then he asked Jeremy, ‘How do you?’
Jeremy took a moment to answer, staring at his big hands fiddling with the silver, ‘It was what was to be expected from Her Ladyship . . . and all of them. They need the stockwhip put round ’em now and again. They’re too used to having it in their own hands . . .’
Alfie interrupted joyously, ‘He’s going to back me up by going to the Ball with me . . .’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Jeremy shortly. ‘You’re going to the Ball with your husband . . . if he wants to take you. I’ll just be there to give the courage you said you need, but I’m sure you don’t really need at all. Nevertheless, I guess my presence’ll be a help . . . and it’ll be something of a treat to see someone else showing ’em where they get off, instead of always Poor-bugger-me, as the blacks say. But we can’t just barge into it. First, Frank, there’s you to think of. These people are vindictive. They live by power and for it. Anyone who interferes with it is never forgotten . . . and they have the power to make those who defy them suffer. You’ve got your job to think of.’
Frank said, ‘As a matter of fact, I’m in the process of chucking it. This Public Service set-up here’s too much for me. We aren’t able to do here what we came to do . . . except, maybe, with Alfie’s book. It could be the means to bring down Cobbity and Co. utterly . . . and show up the whole rotten business of the ill-treatment of the Aborigines, the colonial arrogance of the squatters . . .’
‘The book’s real, then?’
Alfie flamed, snapping, ‘I told you about it.’
‘I see lots of people from the South who tell me they’re going to write a book about what they see. They’ve even been going to put me in their books, they’ve said. But I haven’t seen any yet.’
Still snapping, she said, ‘Well, you’ll see mine in the New Year. It’s nearly finished. Actually I only wanted to see these races to wind it up.’
‘This Golden Horseshoe draw’ll be in it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Law of libel.’
‘No need to mention names . . . just tell the funny story . . . the horrible story.’
Jeremy said dryly, ‘That sounds better. If you’re doing it for fun . . . or fame . . . or anything but genuine anger over what your husband so aptly called Colonial Arrogance . . .’
Frank cut in his clever way: ‘Not my words, Jeremy . . . hers.’
It gave Alfie time to swallow what was making her eyes large and her face red and say humbly, ‘I do assure you, Jeremy, that I was never more genuinely angry in my life.’
Jeremy sighed: ‘Okay. But the thing’s got to be planned, so that there can’t be any failure. I happen to know the people you’re dealing with a lot better than you . . .’
‘Of course,’ she said eagerly.
‘Although I haven’t been in the Hall for years, I’ve often gone up to see who wins the horse in the draw . . . if it’s a good one. This is a good one, as I think I told you. I’d like to have him. If he’s got what I think he has, then combined with my filly’s intelligence and courage, I’d have something pretty good in horseflesh . . .’
‘The breeder of classical horseflesh, who renounces his own kith and kin,’ said Alfie.
Even Frank looked at her sharply. But her head remained high. ‘Well, I’ve said it to you before, haven’t I? This proves that I’m not sneaking to you to do me a favour.’
Jeremy searched the hot dark eyes for a moment, then dropped his own, and fiddling again, went on: ‘I’ve bought a couple of good youngsters that way. Never won one . . .’
Eager again, Alfie said, ‘You might this time.’
He ignored her: ‘Unless the winner has any real use for such a horse he’s usually sold . . . on the spot, as a rule. It’s a sort of ritual. I was going up in any case tonight in the hope of a bargain. Don’t like bargaining for horses . . . but I’m not a rich man. So I’ll be there, outside. No one will notice me . . . I mean the Elite. When the Cup’s been won by a horse of mine, the Patron’s always primed to say something like: “I understand the owner’s rather shy of making public appearances,” and gives it to Finnucane to stick up in the pub, as all owners let him do till the show’s over. I’m told that sometimes there’s a bit of a laugh over the remark. I’m never there to hear. Now, I suggest that Alfie keeps out of the way till the last moment . . . but not you, Frank. Gilling is sure to ask you where she is. You say she’s around somewhere and will be along any minute . . . with what he wants. Any suspicion they might work up over her non-appearance’ll be smothered by my appearance. Just as the Patron’s doing his stuff about my shyness, I’ll stroll in . . . with Alfie. But you’ll have to take Alfie off my hands at once. I’ll get the blame for it all. Still, I don’t want it to look like involvement. You stand with your arm around her . . . and well away from me. They’ll then be busy with the other race awards. If Gilling should come to you in the meantime, put him off by saying, sort of whispering and all amiability, that she’ll give it to him as soon as the draw begins. It’ll follow the awards. Then Alfie marches up to the Patron, who’ll be standing on the dais next to the President . . . and next to the President will be his Lady Mother. They might be too scared to ask you for the things after they’ve seen you with me . . . but if they do, as is quite likely, because Rhoda with her mind made up . . . well . . . anyway, what you do is refuse, addressing yourself to the President. He’s the only person who can order you to hand the things over . . . I mean finally. You, Alfie, say they were entrusted to you with special injunction to take care of them, and that you won’t give them to anyone but him. What he’ll do is anybody’s guess. It might depend on how much his mother has talked to him about it. He’s afraid of her . . . but isn’t above defying her in small matters. He won’t be looking at her, but at you. I think he’d like to be gallant with you. But if his mother catches his eye, she’ll have him, from my experience of watching them together. Still, you’ve got a trump. If he asks for the thing, say that first you’d like to know the exact reason why you’re being done out of something you’d looked forward to with great pleasure. However it goes you should sink ’em . . . because everybody’ll know what’s supposed to happen, and if they haven’t the courage to tackle it, the laugh is still on them. Got it?’
So overwhelmed by it was Alfie that the big black eyes swam, and she came and reached for the ruddy hands, choking, ‘Oh, you’re marvellous, Jeremy . . . you’re wonderful!’ He quickly got his hands off the table.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’
The band, now apparently ensconced in the Hall, was playing Advance Australia Fair and surely threatening to blow the rickety old tin place apart with its martial resonance. The music stopped as those who had designs on the social good order and discipline it symbolised joined the crowd outside. Those who presumed to control the order of things were arriving and taking the band’s place on the red-white-and-blue decorated dais.
When the Committee was settled, President Delacy rose and started proceedings according to well-tried plan. He spoke of the great success of the festival, both as a gathering of devotees of what he called the Sport of Kings and a social event, and thanked everybody for their part in it, particularly the Ladies’ Social Sub-committee, to whom he half-turned to bow, with an extra little bow to his Lady Mother sitting so straight and handsome beside him on his right. Then he handed over to the Patron, who rose amidst quiet applause, to say it gave him great pleasure to make the awards, that the horse, the noblest of animals, had always had first place in Australian life, and always would, no matter how lesser people tried to glorify the machine; in fact one of these days Australia might find that she depended for her very existence on the horse, presumably meaning
it in a military rather than an economic sense, seeing he was a soldier, not a knacker. He then eulogised the Cup winner, that is Golden Girl, getting a laugh by saying that it was a pity she couldn’t be present to receive their congratulations, but they didn’t have a chair big enough for her. Then, receiving the silver Cup itself from the hands of the President, he held it up for all to see, pronounced the name of the human owner of it, and was halfway through saying that he understood that the aforesaid was not one to — when, to the pop-eyed amazement of everybody, there was the man himself, looking very handsome and suave for one supposed to be an agoraphobe, accompanied by a pretty smiling girl in blue. Somewhat grim of expression, Jeremy halted before the Colonel, who, giggling with evident embarrassment, said, ‘Ah . . . er . . . Mr Delacy . . . seems I was . . . er . . . misinformed . . . eeeeeeee!’ He thrust his hand at Jeremy, who took it gravely. Then he raised the Cup, which had been dangling from his left hand, and held it out, mumbling congratulations.
Jeremy took the Cup, looked at his staring crimson-faced son, who swallowed and said, ‘Congratulations . . . Father,’ and gave his hand. Again Jeremy gravely took the hand. Releasing it, he turned generally to the pop-eyed Committee, and bowed, then turned away, heading back towards the big main doorway. According to planned procedure, the Committee should have begun to clap as soon as the President had shaken hands. But, again it was the mob, crowding the doorway and falling back for his exit, that started the clapping. Then, somewhat feebly, the Committee took it up. But he was gone, in a way that made it seem doubtful if he had been there at all.
An awkward pause. Then Martin glanced at his mother, who seemed no less at a loss than himself. He turned away quickly, and announced that they would proceed with the Golden Horseshoe drawings. Evidently there was going to be no to-do about it. Mr Gilling brought forward the little brass-bound barrel on its slender legs and placed it before the Colonel. Alfie, burning and smiling, stepped up to the Colonel and from her satchel produced the box of celluloid numbers coinciding with those on the Horseshoes she had sold and the notebook of names. The Colonel returned her smile, likewise the President when she looked at him. She avoided looking at the Lady President. Assisted by Mr Gilling, the Colonel opened up the barrel and poured the numbers in, closed it, announced that the first draw was for the colt Golden Bobby, donated by the Eastern Pastoral Company, and turned the handle briskly, turned it back, turned it yet again. He opened the barrel, took out a number, read it, held it out for those near him to see, and called, ‘Numbah forty-seven, foah seven . . . Who’s the lucky one?’
Alfie consulted her book, raised her eyes to the Patron, at the same time handing him the book with thumb against the number, and turning toward the hoi polloi, called loudly and clearly, ‘Ali Barba!’
There was the usual little silence that followed the announcement most of the crowd were waiting for with more than ordinary interest, indicating the disappointment of all but one, whose shout of joy was sure to come to start proceedings for good sportsmanship — and it came: ‘Ho, ho, ho! Ali Barba? T’at me, ain’t it?’
The burst of laughter that came with the hand-clapping rose up and up to a howl of mirth that surely didn’t merely express amusement at the odd manner of the winner’s response, but surely to the fact that such a figure of fun as Ali Barba, owner of a rickety van and two ricketier old horses, should become a racehorse owner, one of the Elite of the Nation! People round the door were already asking the old man if he would be running the colt in the Melbourne Cup as he came in, bobbing, smirking, ducking, cringing, babbling jocose inanities to cover his fear of the Masters of Mankind. Even the Committee were laughing, including that one who had called his name and worked the initial magic responsible for the miracle. He hadn’t forgotten her. It was she to whom he first bowed, quite low, saying, ‘Ho, peautiful lady . . . my many tan’k you for your most kind chenerosity . . . I moost mek you present.’ It stopped Alfie’s laugh, but no one else’s. Back in the crowd they were hooting with laughter. Someone called, ‘Gawd . . . there’s no doubt about the old bugger, is there!’
Barbu turned to the Colonel, who shaking with laughter he was fighting down was holding out his right hand to him, in his left the rolled document in which was set out the colt’s description, pedigree, brands, and particulars that eventually would declare his rightful ownership. Barbu bowed again, but not so low as to Alfie, and gave his black claw and took the scroll, saying, ‘T’ank you, Sir . . . it is great honour and pleasure you pestow on me and my fambly t’is day.’ Then he bowed, low again, to the Committee. ‘T’ank you all-lot, gennelmen and leddies of Committments.’
Out of the laughing Committee someone bawled, ‘Didn’t you see it coming in your crystal-ball, Ali?’
A gale of laughter. Then as it fell and all craned forward for more, Barbu said simply, ‘Yes, Sir . . . I did indeed . . . and see I too, my son-in-law, riding a race on t’is ’orse fit for a king, Sir.’
Barbu’s show of astonishment at the continued mirth only made more: ‘No doubt about him, is there . . . Haw, haw, haw!’
When it eased again, he asked the Colonel, ‘May I dismissink now, Sir, and go gitchim my lil ’orse and tek him to my son-in-law?’
The Colonel waved him away, saying behind his hand, ‘Go . . . go . . . before I have a fit!’
Offers to buy were flung at Barbu from all directions as he went back through the crowd, but most of them jocular — two bob, ten bob, ten thousand pound — since interest was still centred on the rest of the draw. He went out to the bright blur that was Golden Bobby stamping in fearful impatience under the milkwood tree, and spoke to him, as always to his own horses, in Hindustani. For answer the colt swung on his tether, presented his moon-dappled behind, and lashed out with a pair of nasty little hoofs. The old man leapt clear, to halt at safe distance, crying, ‘Ho, ho! I do not see you do t’at in crystal. Wha’ for? I am Barbu Ram, vit legality of ownershift. See! Turn your face to me, not your pretty arse. Am I not goot enough for you, because I am black?’
Jeremy came up and asked what was the matter, and while Barbu babbled, approached the horse warily, with coaxing words, let him sniff him, then touched and smoothed his shoulder. But when Barbu came up again he snorted and performed. Barbu wailed, ‘It is my bad luck to vin a peautiful ’orse t’at hate me like a bought bride!’
Jeremy chuckled, ‘He thinks you’re going to put him in that van of yours. You better swear him you never will do that.’
Barbu proceeded to tell Golden Bobby that he intended him only as a racehorse for his own peautiful golden son-in-law. When asked by Jeremy if he really intended to keep the beast and being told yes, asked how he would train him, was told: ‘My son-in-law haf mooch talen vit ’orse.’
‘But he’s only a little boy, isn’t he?’
‘He vill become big poy.’
‘Meantime your colt will become a big horse, and it’ll be too late to train him then. Better to sell him to me, eh? About time you pensioned off those I gave you and got new ones. I’ll pay you enough to buy four good van horses, and give you a riding horse for your boy as well . . . how about it?’
But the drawing was over and the crowd pressing round. Golden Bobby began to snort and tremble and stir up the silver dust. Jeremy found himself with Alfie’s arm linked with his. He seemed to suffer it. So they stood while the usual bidding started, in pounds this time, probably out of contempt for Ali Barba’s knowledge of horseflesh. Several young aristocrats were in it, including Clancy Delacy; but the rule was that they were not to throw their weight about in bidding, that if they really wanted a horse, they should wait till after the peasantry had decided the matter between themselves, and then descend in private on the winner. The Knowles brothers were also there, Knobby rather more sober than usual at this stage of the festivities. Knobby was the liveliest of the bidders, soon tossing at two pounds a pop. In vain did poor Barbu declare that he wasn’t selling, that he wanted it for his son-in-law. Some wag got a loud laugh by say
ing that the old fellow wanted the horse for his son-in-law to ride instead of his daughter. Poor old fellow tried to lead the horse away. But it seemed as if even Golden Bobby was enjoying it, the way he was cocking his ears to the bidders, and then to the great delight of most cocked his hindquarters to his owner.
Thus till fifty pounds was reached, when Barbu began to look interested. It was now a contest between Knobby and that Road Works Renchouse Boss of Alice River Siding, Grayball by name. Fifty-five. Knobby kicked it to sixty; and Grayball fell out. Knobby yelled, ‘Mine for sixty-quid, Ali.’
Barbu looked undecided, but didn’t have to decide, because Jeremy called to him, ‘That colt’s worth a lot more than sixty, Barbu.’
Knobby, who had been in the act of going to get the horse, swung on him, all but spitting, the way it sounded: ‘You keep out o’ this, Delacy!’
Jeremy asked, ‘Why?’
‘You ain’t biddin’.’
‘Who says? I was just waiting till the price got up above what small-time shysters can afford to pay . . . I’ll give you one hundred, Barbu . . . guineas.’
Knobby took a step back towards Jeremy, hissing, ‘You call me a shyster?’
Jeremy, still in the grip of Alfie, said easily, ‘Attend to your bidding, boy.’
‘I hast yo’, you call me a shyster?’
Looking past him, Jeremy said to Barbu, ‘He’s mine at a hundred guineas then, Barbu?’
Knobby swung on Barbu, ‘I make it ’undred and five.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 89
