Those who had seen it were too helpless with mirth to lend Knobby a hand. It was left to Sergeant Cahoon, in uniform today, since it was Blackboys’ Day, to raise him, asking him what had happened. Clutching at his stern and grimacing with pain, Knobby panted, ‘That bloody puggin lil bastard of a colt kicked me!’
Cahoon saw the horse, waved those intervening out of his way, and rasped at gaping Barbu, ‘What’s that horse doin’ here?’
Barbu bobbed and simpered, ‘Oh, not’ing, Sergeant Coon-Coon, Sir. Only ve brink him like pet doggy.’
‘You know horses aren’t allowed in the public enclosure.’
‘He iss so lil, Sir . . . I t’ought it no matter.’
‘Well it does. Get rid of him at once.’ Then Dinny turned and looked at Knobby, still grimacing and clutching his behind: ‘You could sue him for this, Knobby.’
‘Got a bloody good mind to, too!’
Another voice came in, deep and quiet-spoken: ‘Knowles laid hands on the horse twice before he was kicked . . . he wouldn’t have a case.’
Dinny and Knowles looked. Dinny’s thin mouth twisted. He said dryly, ‘You, eh, Delacy, stickin’ your bib in.’
‘Somebody’s got to keep an eye on the proper administration of the law.’
Dinny snapped, ‘The law’s my job, Delacy.’
‘Maybe, Sergeant . . . but it’s everybody’s protection. You were advising your poxy mate here to take a liberty with the law that he had no right to . . . ‘
Dinny’s blue eyes, usually not much more than slits, popped, and the grating voice fairly split the air: ‘What’d you say?’
‘I think you heard quite clearly . . . and Knowles, too. Why don’t you advise him to sue me, too?’
‘By God I will!’ cried the Sergeant, and turned to Knobby, who was pale now, and cringing, looking down at his dusty elastic-side boots, where something white was dangling by tape from his moleskins. Cahoon saw it, too, glared at it, then turned the glare on Jeremy.
Jeremy said quietly, ‘See what I mean?’
Knobby bent and groped for the thing, pulled it out, crumpled it in his hand, shoved it hastily in a trouser’s pocket. Cahoon saw the move out of the corner of a now slit of an eye, and turning back to Knobby, demanded, ‘What was that?’
Knobby muttered, ‘Bandage,’ and began to turn away.
Jeremy said, ‘It’s a surgical dressing used to absorb urethral discharge in cases of venereal disease . . . commonly called a Nose-bag.’
Cahoon grated, ‘What d’you know about it?’
‘You forget I’m a Pharmaceutical Chemist.’ Knobby was dodging away. Jeremy demanded of Cahoon, ‘Aren’t you going to do something about that man? Don’t you know it’s an offence for anyone suffering from VD not to be receiving proper medical treatment?’
‘How d’you know he isn’t?’
‘Where’s the treatment centre here? What doctor would let him get boozed while being treated?’
Silence. Jeremy broke it: ‘If you don’t look into the matter, Sergeant, I will. I’ll go to your Superintendent and ask that in the interest of the health of the community Knowles submit to examination by Dr Fox. Are you going to?’
For a moment Cahoon, beetroot-faced, stared at Jeremy, then swung away, in the direction Knobby had taken, but swung back after a stride or two, to fling at Barbu, ‘Get rid of that horse!’
As he went, someone in the crowd growled, ‘Dead bloody nark!’
Jeremy asked, ‘Meaning whom . . . myself or the policeman?’
No answer. But eyes turned away from him. He said, ‘Teach you all to be careful how you tie on your nose-bags.’ Then he turned from the crowd and went to the horse, now secured again, and spoke to it coaxingly, going to its head. Goggled Prindy was watching. Jeremy ran a hand along the pony’s flank, causing the hind legs to jerk as if giving warning of more kicking. Jeremy withdrew his hand, and looking at the boy, said, ‘The little feller’s a bit too handy with that kick. Might be something wrong with him. I take a look-see, eh?’
The turbaned head nodded. Jeremy ran a hand down a front leg of the horse, talking softly all the while, got a fetlock, gently lifted the unshod hoof, touched the frog with a finger. The horse started, shivered. ‘Hmmm!’ Jeremy commented. He went to the other side, examined that hoof. Then, looking again at Prindy he said, ‘Little horse got sore foot. They must’ve walked him too far and too fast coming here. Horse that young got very soft hoof . . . ought to be specially shod if he got to come long way. More better time we take him Lily Lagoons we carry-him-up, eh?’ The goggles were regarding him gravely. He asked, ‘How’s the eyes?’ No answer. He added: ‘I’ll take the little horse back for you, eh? Mustn’t ride him for a while. You’re lucky he didn’t pelt you.’ The turban nodded.
Jeremy led the colt away to the Lily Lagoons stable. Now that the racing was over they were packing up. The lunch table was also set, but not awaiting Jeremy, as seen when the other pursuits were dropped on the announced approach of Alfie and her husband. Then all came to the table. There was evidently a certain awkwardness never seen in this company before, surely having something to do with what had just now occurred up on the flat, and the reason, the newcomers’ feeling about it. No word was said of it as the company settled down to eat. The first part of the conversation consisted only of jocular remarks about the Cullity christening tomorrow. It seemed from what was said that Old Shame-on-us, for all his allegedly having previously disapproved of Jeremy as godfather to his grand-daughter on the ground of atheism, was in fact so pleased with his acceptance as to be broadcasting the news of it. However, it was noticeable that Frank, usually so ready with his laugh, only smiled now and had practically nothing to say. Then Jeremy changed the subject abruptly, to say to Alfie, ‘You said you wanted to have a last long talk . . . and also wanted to go out to Lily Lagoons with me . . . well, you can do both this evening, if you’re free. I’ll be running out there straight after lunch.’
Alfie expressed her readiness and eagerness. Jerry went on to explain that because of the condition of Golden Bobby’s hoofs he would have to go home and get special gear for transporting him, hoof-cushions (a kind of boot for strapping over hoofs) and a vehicle specially fitted for hauling injured horses: ‘That colt could be ruined as a racehorse for want of a little care. I’d like to know the mongrel responsible for knocking him up, and make him walk five hundred miles barefoot at thirty miles and more a day.’ Jeremy’s feeling was obvious in his mounting colour.
Frank then said, ‘You have enormous compassion for animals, haven’t you.’ The tone was strangely dry. Jeremy looked at him quickly. Frank dropped his eyes. Alfie was silent. Jeremy made no reply. For a moment there was slight awkwardness. A few minutes later Jeremy and Alfie rose. When Jeremy looked at Frank inquiringly, Frank smiled, ‘Leave me out. As it’s to be the last long talk, I’d only be in the way.’ Jeremy simply nodded, turned to Nan, pecked her cheek, saying he’d be back somewhere after dark.
Out of the Racecourse boundary and running northward, with Beatrice River homestead white-roofed through the trees across the river, Jeremy cut in on a pause in Alfie’s excited chatter about her delight in what she was seeing, to ask, ‘What was wrong with Frank?’
She looked at him quickly, then away. He added: ‘If it was a private thing, no matter. I just thought it might concern me.’
She bit her lolly lip for a moment, staring ahead, then said, ‘Well . . . as a matter of fact it was.’
He waited. At length she said, with another swift glance, ‘He didn’t much like what you did to Knobby Knowles back there.’
‘Hmmm! A lot of ’em didn’t. But I didn’t see either you or Frank there.’
‘No . . . we didn’t see it. But . . . but, as you say, a lot didn’t like it.’
‘You too?’
She glanced again: ‘Well . . . I wasn’t there . . . and knowing you . . .’
He waited, had to urge: ‘Knowing me?’
‘Well . . . you’d have a
reason.’
‘The reason was well and truly stated by the crowd . . . by one of them aloud, although out of my line of vision . . . but by the rest by their looks. According to them, the reason was that I’m, as the hidden bravo declared, a Dead Nark. Do you know the meaning of the term?’ She nodded. He asked, ‘Then tell me.’
‘Well . . . it means . . . well, a spoil-sport.’
‘That’s the Australian meaning. The English dictionary meaning is a Police Informer. Comes from the Gypsy word Nak, meaning a nose . . . nosey. In English it’s equivalent to the Australian term Pimp which, as anybody knows who looks up a dictionary, properly means a Pander, a procurer of women for prostitution . . .’
She cut in: ‘Is that the proper meaning of Pimp?’
‘When I say proper I mean according to the English dictionary . . . which I take it is the one we have to go by, seeing that English is our language, that we don’t have even an accepted Australian usage. You should know words better than that, being a writer.’
She smiled, but looked rather red. He went on: ‘Misuse might land you in trouble . . . with the law, I mean. The King’s English must be the language of the courts, however confused it might be made by lawyers . . . so you’d hardly be able to plead innocence through saying that you thought the language handed down to you from thieves, murderers, and guttersnipes, our noble ancestors, was quite proper to use without checking it . . . you, a writer.’
She looked at him somewhat bewildered. With eyes on the road he went on: ‘I’ve been called a pimp as well as a nark . . . and’ve thought of taking court action for the fun of it . . . you know, claiming heavy damages for gross libel . . . but with the aim to show the awful ignorance of my fellow-countrymen of the language they speak. I wouldn’t have taken the damages . . . or would have given the money to the blacks. The curious thing is that I’ve never been called a Wowser, which is what I really am . . . and the word is good Australian, even if not in the English dictionary. Do you know what Wowser means?’
‘Well . . . a . . . a spoil-sport . . . yes?’
‘We’re back to your definition of Nark again, eh? You’ll really have to read your dictionary, literary lady.’
He flung a smirk at her red face.
After a moment he resumed: ‘Well, we’re back at Nark, in its local ignoramuses’ usage, so let’s discuss the condition of being such a type in those terms. Spoil-sport. Let’s first take what spoil-sport means. I take it to mean one who through some perversity of nature spoils what more natural people would call innocent fun . . . right? Let’s then take the great Spoil-sports of history. I think of Moses as the first . . . although there must have been lots before him. Read your Bible and you’ll see what a Nark he was, with regard to the fun and games of his people. Then there was Jesus . . . the Biggest Nark of All. Literally Dead Narks, both. I’m called a Dead Nark . . . but the adjective has no meaning, as so much that our people say. I presume it means I stink in my condition of Nark . . . but why not say just that? Narkery, if there is such a term, is apparently a valuable thing . . . seeing that our very way of life is founded on the principles of the two dead narks aforesaid.’
He looked at her. Her eyes were round with what looked like fear. Turning from her, he said, ‘You should have thought twice before coming out with me . . . seeing what you’d hear about me. Your husband, clever fellow, was too wise . . .’
She said breathlessly, ‘He didn’t come, only so we could be utterly alone together . . .’
He snapped, ‘His idea or yours?’
She went very red now. After a heavy silence, but for the roar of the utility, he said, ‘You confessed yourself to not much liking what I did to Knobby Knowles back there. Will you explain why?’
She swallowed, struggled, at last got it out: ‘Well . . . it seemed like bullying, to tell the truth . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Did you know why I intervened in the first place?’
‘Something about the little horse, wasn’t it?’
‘When he found that Barbu hadn’t sold the horse he proceeded to bully Barbu about it again. I happened to be going to take a look at the colt, because I’d seen the little boy on his back coming over this morning, and thought by his gait he was foot-sore. I saw Knobby handle him, and get kicked. Then Cahoon intervened and after bullying Barbu for having a horse in the enclosure, decided to make things worse by advising Knobby to sue the poor old man. Knobby said he bloody well might, too. I guess he wouldn’t . . . but words are words, and the aim was to scare and bully a simple old blackman. Was it the act of a perverse and misanthropic person to chime in with the evidence that stopped the bullying . . . please answer me?’
Her big dark eyes looked near to tears as they met the grey. She muttered, ‘Of course not.’
He waited a moment, then said, ‘It’s not that that’s worrying you, though, is it . . . not what caused Frank to join the Dead Nark haters?’ When she didn’t answer, he went on: ‘It was the fact that I exposed Knowles in public as suffering from gonorrhea, wasn’t it?’
She nodded, eyes blinking on tears now as she stared at the road ahead. Again he waited, then said, ‘I presume you don’t know much about the matter, even though you were a Protector of Aborigines and in charge of a large number of women of Aboriginal blood, who if not actually suffering from VD were very much exposed to infection. You would not know that this country is rotten with gonorrhea . . . for one reason that the blacks, victims of the whiteman’s lust and filthy dishonesty, have no comprehension of the disease except as some sort of affliction, for another, and most important, that the diseased whitemen will not seek proper treatment. If you knew enough about it you’d ask: Is proper treatment available? The answer is: No. The Medical Service is concerned only for the health of the whites . . . and the type of whiteman who gets Lit-up, as they call it, is hardly likely to infect a whitewoman. If it started to get about among whitewomen and hence among the whites of social standing, there’d be treatment enough then. Another thing is that types like Knowles are so proud of themselves as the Master Race, they just can’t go and confess to a doctor that some poxy gin lit ’em up. They’d have to say, as the saying is: “Down the creek.” They won’t. What do they do? They go to the Chinese, who have all sorts of rubbish to give them. Some, I believe, get stuff from the Government Pharmacist at the hospital in Town, on the sly. There is no proper treatment but that of segregation and constant expert surveillance and tests. It can be cured. I know. I’m a Pharmacist. I treat it myself . . . illegally . . . but only in the case of blacks, who wouldn’t get treatment elsewhere, and in complete defiance of the law, because I would be glad to stand in court and take my punishment and make known to the Nation why I did it. The doctors and police know that. I’m too hot to handle in the matter.’
He paused a while, went on: ‘Why didn’t I report Knowles’s condition privately? Because I know the bastard . . . because I saw him chasing after black girls only last night, because I know he’s got no scruples. He must have howled like a hell-hound when he got his dose . . . but what would he think of passing it on? Any man might get it . . . but a man truly a man would seek treatment at once, even if it meant taking the first mail plane South to deal with a proper doctor. Why didn’t I report his condition privately? To whom would I report it whom I could trust to do anything about it . . . policeman or medical man . . . when the information came from one known as a Dead Nark because he spoils sport that burns the life out of simple black women, sterilises simple black men, blinds innocent black children?’ Jeremy’s khaki poplin breast was heaving, sweat on his brow.
For moments they both stared ahead. Then suddenly she shoved her curly head against his arm, one cheek against the back of the seat, the other clutched in a hand, and wept without restraint. He didn’t even look at her, just stared grimly at the yellow road, swinging the wheel to its many bends, moving the streaming face a little with each movement.
When at long last she withdrew from him, dabbed her
eyes, straightened up the mess she had made of herself, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy.’
‘What for?’
‘For doubting you.’
‘It was natural enough. I don’t like spoil-sports myself. My trouble is I’ve got a different idea of what most of my fellows call sport. I truly hate this continued feuding with the Knowleses. My stomach turns over when I see one of them, knowing there must be trouble. Do you think I got any pleasure out of socking those two last night? I assure you I didn’t. I know that no man can give me a beating. Those that could wouldn’t want to. It’s a very simple thing to knock a man down . . . unless you’re a professional pug and dealing with your peers. The average man is a coward, and’s driven by his fear to rage. It’s glandular . . . adrenals. What a negative business to hurt people who can’t help themselves! Yet, with the like of the Knowleses, what else is there to do? I’m their declared enemy because I picked up what they threw away, their Tantalite . . . and gave it to the blacks. That’s what hurts them, and most of everybody else, worse than anything . . . I gave it to the blacks.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 91
