Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Along with the Monsignor came those two holy ladies, the Misses Cahoon, who brought a great basketful of flowers, as well as a change of shirts and socks for their little brother, a mission harmonium for Kitty Wyndeyer, and two small mission acolytes — full black and Aboriginal. By the way people stared at the little blackboys, the like had never been done before. When the Monsignor saw Jeremy staring, he winked at him slyly, as if to say: ‘It vos der sort of t’ing you vood haf done yourself, ja?’

  If the black altar-boys were something to stare at as they rode into town and up to the Hall seated in the back of Finnucane’s big car on either side of the Monsignor, so nicely dressed in blue shirts and black shorts, with trim oiled hair, and leather sandals, they were indeed sight for sore eyes when they emerged from the kitchen-confessional-vestry clad in scarlet cassocks and snowy lacey surplices and with white birettas on their heads. Eyes fairly popped, all sorts of eyes, even one pair whose popping could not be seen for dark goggles. That hidden pair were inside the Hall with most of the others, because Monsignor Maryzic, before going behind for his own final investment, had got out amongst the mob who otherwise would have watched from outside and urged, and in many cases actually pushed, as many inside as could be got there, black and brindle for preference. He quickly pounced on Barbu, whom he knew, and his two children, and even found a place for them well forward on one of the forms. Prindy was dressed as usual, as the King of the World, but without the turban. He was sitting in full view of Miss Wyndeyer, who had her organ against the wall to the left of the altar-bandstand. She smiled at him and Savitra as she rolled out a Bach voluntary while awaiting the entry of His Reverence. Savitra smiled back; but not Prindy.

  The blackboys, swinging their censers, chanting Latin in alto voices, led the Monsignor in — a magnificent figure in blue and white, a great blue flower-worked Y-shaped design decorating his silken white chasuble, with all the colourful appurtenances of his rank and order; such a sight, the three of them, as to turn the poor place into a cathedral and the drooping sweating beery-breathed mob into stiff worshippers at the Throne of God. They ascended to the golden cross and glittering candles, while the tin-pot organ did its stuff and the boys chanted of the Glory of God — Gloria in Excelis Domine — that a Bloody Boong could spout Latin!

  So it went. Master of Ceremonies was, naturally, Sergeant Cahoon. He led the responses for the congregation, never missed a trick. Had he not himself been an acolyte to Monsignor Maryzic? His sisters looked at him as he stood with as much joy in their faces as had the Blessed Lord Himself appeared in his place.

  Then when everybody who was qualified and could not escape the sharp eyes of His Reverence and Sergeant Cahoon had been effectively purified to take part in the act according to the canons of the Church, the Cullity Christenin’ began. The font could have passed for a tall brass spittoon. It was set up just below the altar. The tiny red-faced silk-clad squealing bundle of humanity produced by the shining silk-clad mother and vouched for by the beetroot-faced tusser-clad godfather, with renunciation of the Devil and All His Works, became Jemima Mary, and fit to enter the Kingdom of God instead of hangin’ about in limbo for eternity — in der Name of der Fader, der Sohn, unt der Holy Ghost, Amen!

  It was all over bar the Head Wettin’, to which those qualified to partake were pushing out of the holy place to get to. There was to be a grand dinner and booze up at Finnucane’s. Monsignor Maryzic and his boys had retired to the kitchen to disrobe. Miss Kitty Wyndeyer was rolling everybody on their way with a Bach fugue, rocking to the lovely rhythm of it herself and her own pedal-pushing and nodding and smiling to one with goggled-eyes who sat on longer than the rest and rocked slightly with her. Suddenly Miss Kitty stopped playing, rose swiftly, and came to the lingering little figure, said, ‘Hello, you liked the music, didn’t you?’ The answer a nod. With a swift movement she snatched off the glasses, looked into the wide grey eyes, gasped, ‘Oh!’ As quickly as the glasses were snatched off they were snatched back by a small yellow hand and replaced — just in time, because there was Old Coon-Coon coming from behind, where he’d been to help disrobe His Reverence. The Barbus, father and daughter, were staring back in alarm at what they had seen. Barbu Ram cringed as Coon-Coon came up with them, staring sharply. But Coon-Coon was too full of his churchly duties. He went on past and out, pressing through the last of the mob. As Prindy turned as if to fly, Miss Kitty whispered, ‘It’s all right, Prendegast . . . I won’t tell!’ He looked back at her. She smiled in a wobbly way, whispered again, ‘Goodbye, Prendegast!’ He nodded. There was an open tin louvre clear of people just beside him. He pulled at Barbu, who, grabbing at Savitra and ducking a bow to Kitty, followed him through it.

  Now the unreliability of women in keeping others’ secrets is proverbial. However, Kitty Wyndeyer had proved that doing just that was a basic principle of her existence. When she did depart from it in the past it was only where she was convinced that a more important principle was at stake. Then, what made her betray that secret she had herself declared — the whereabouts of him she called Prendegast? Was it true concern for him, for her own troubled conscience, or simply that natural female tendency released by a drop too much to drink?

  The grand Christenin’ Dinner was over and the proper Head Wettin’ just getting under way, with the Tullamore Dew flowing loike the River Shannon and the Irish comin’ out in all of us that had a drhop to boast of. It had been Champagne before that. Kitty had had her whack and got to the point of giggling, along with the Sisters Cahoon. She had been seated with them, perhaps as another maiden lady, while they were actually seated with their lanky little brother between them, and she had on her other side Mr Eddy McCusky. With what was bubbling in her mind and in her stomach and in the circumstances the temptation to tell must have been tremendous. Dinny’s sisters, concerned more than any but official people in the existence of her known officially as Nelly Ah Loy, because as they said there and then, they had Grown the Poor Wretched Gurrl Up, asked their brother at table, this probably being the first opportunity they’d had for doing so, if he’d learnt anything yet of the whereabouts of the girl and her son. It so happened that Dinny had, and was loud-mouthed in saying so, because he had to shout above the din, for the reason that Eddy McCusky had to shove into it. Dinny didn’t go into details, as was proper in such company and circumstances, but reported that he had definite evidence that the pair had been in the locality of Hang Gong Creek and heading this way. So Dinny, in his official capacity, must really have done his duty in dealing with Knobby Knowles. How much of the truth he would have learnt would be doubtful, Knobby being what he was. Dinny would want to know where he had got his dose of the clap and might have done a bit of arm-twisting to facilitate confession. Knobby was the sort of nobleman who would be more likely to tell who had given it to him, when the lady had not been as co-operative as he’d have liked, rather than to dob in the one who had donated it to him with at least a show of what to his like might be called Love. Dinny said he had sent his faithful Jinbul back by drunks’ train, with instructions to drop off at Finish River Siding and go to Hang Gong Creek and work his way down from there. He himself would take another look round this district, because you never knew the pair might be smart enough to lie doggo till the Races were over. If he drew a blank again here, he would go to join Jinbul. Evidently McCusky had already been apprised of the situation and was very pleased thereby. As he confided to Miss Kitty: ‘Those two made an awful goat o’ me.’ Surely that gleam in Kitty’s eye meant: If only you knew what I know!

  Despite the temptation, it wasn’t to these people that she betrayed her self-imposed trust, nor there and then. As mentioned, the dinner was over and the Irishing on. Those not of the ilk or enough to become carried away wit’ it, were either departed hence or in process of departing. Jeremy Delacy, perhaps loth to be suspected of being likely to spoil the sport or maybe out of sheer guilt, was the first to go. He looked as if sneaking off, but was caught in the act by Alfie Candlemas
, who primed with champagne as well as in what was obviously genuine grief over his going, made a demonstrative and weepy business over it; so much so that the mother of the cause of the whole business, Bridie, as primed as anybody, cried, ‘I’m in this too!’ and leapt into it with kisses and tears. Then when the object of so much affection had forcibly detached himself and fled, Fergus Ferris, about to depart for the airport with Monsignor Maryzic, who being no Celt was even impatient to be on his way again, leapt in to lap up the wasted kisses. Perhaps even this had an effect on Kitty, who standing out on the front verandah with the glowering Monsignor, saw it all. Anyway, when it was all over, Fergus called to heel by His Reverence and seeing to getting Finnucane to do something about transport, and Alfie standing staring wet-eyed after the broad-backed figure footing it as fast as dignity would allow for the river and his all-but-dismantled camp, Kitty walked over to Alfie and said to her softly, ‘There’s something I think I ought to tell you . . . but first you must promise not to tell anyone else.’ Alfie looked at her angrily, perhaps thinking that an old-maid associate of an archpriest was expressing subtle disapproval. Undeterred, Kitty hastily told what she knew and feared, concluding, ‘I don’t know what should be done about them . . . but the authorities must not be told . . . not directly, anyway . . . not that horrible pair, McCusky and Cahoon. I thought you might be able to help them someway . . . with the grandfather. I’ve heard you speak about it. But if you tell anyone . . . I mean the police or anyone official . . . I’ll never forgive you.’

  Alfie, suddenly quite sober, breathed, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  The Monsignor was roaring, ‘Kitty . . . Kitty . . . do you vont to stay here und dance der Highlandt Jig till next train . . . or vont to come back mit me?’

  ‘I must go,’ whispered Kitty, pressed Alfie’s hand, fled.

  First Alfie looked down towards the Lily Lagoons camp, then up the road towards Barbu’s. She put a hand to her mouth, nibbled rose-haw fingernails with cherry lips. Then she looked behind her. Although by the sounds the place was busting apart, there was no one in sight. She stepped off the verandah, went hurrying down to the river. She was crossing the railway when she saw the utility with the horse-float in tow swing out from the sapling frames that were all remaining of the camp. She began to run. But there wasn’t a hope. No one was looking up; and in a moment the vehicles were on the road, on the causeway. She eased up as they went climbing the further bank. But she kept on. No one was left in the camp, she found, but some blackboys who told her the others had gone in the morning, except for the couple who had gone with the Mullaka, and that themselves would stay to stow away the camp-gear that was left here, then go home riding, maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow by’n’by.

  She left them, to take a slantwise course heading towards Barbu’s, first along the mostly deserted river flat, then up the bank, over the railway beyond the station, to stop to reconnoitre from the shelter of the now work-a-day Hall, then to slip across the road to the little old shop, with its weatherbeaten tin sign: Barbu — Indian Herbalist & Gen. Merchant.

  The shop was open, Barbu behind the counter, bobbing servility. ‘Vot is it your pleasure, Memsahib? So mooch am I in debts to you.’

  Alfie looked over the shelves of herbs, the charts of fortune, obviously at a loss for the moment, then said, ‘I didn’t come for anything, really . . . I mean . . . I came to see the little boy.’

  ‘T’e lil poy, Memsahib?’

  Somewhat breathlessly Alfie said, ‘The little boy you call your son-in-law . . . that’s Prendy Ah Loy, isn’t it.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement merely wanting corroboration.

  Barbu’s black eyes blinked rapidly, but held the others steadily enough: ‘I not understand you, lady.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Ali. I only want to help.’

  ‘In vot vay help, Madam?’

  ‘You know Miss Wyndeyer, the organist, recognised him. She knows him well. I do too. She told me. I won’t tell the police or anyone. I only want to tell his grandfather, Jeremy Delacy.’

  ‘Vot for you vont to do t’at?’

  ‘So he’ll look after him.’

  ‘You not t’ink I can look after?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’m sure you can. But you’ve got no legal right to him. They can take him away from you.’

  ‘Nopody got legality for poy like o’ t’at . . . on’y policeman, Mick Cusky, Dr Cobbity . . .’

  ‘It would be fought in the courts.’

  ‘I haf my rown vife and children tek from me . . . and in court t’e magistrate on’y call me dirty name.’

  ‘You’d have to go to higher courts than you’ve been to. His grandfather’ll do it. I’ll ask him. He’ll do it . . . I know. If necessary I’ll abduct the boy and take him down South with me . . . and make the biggest row ever heard in this country over the wicked thing.’

  ‘Abduct, Memsahib?’

  ‘Steal . . . run away with.’

  ‘Goodness gracious me!’

  ‘It can be done. My husband and I are going away soon . . . overland. He can stay with his grandfather till we’re going. Then we’ll abduct him. His grandfather’s gone home now. But I’ll take him. I’ll take him now, as soon as I get my car. Will you get him ready?’

  ‘He not ’ere, lady.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘After ot’er lady see, he runned avay.’

  ‘Oh, lord! Where?’

  ‘I do not know. He joost tek lil bits tucker and flute . . . and he is go.’

  ‘Oh, they might catch him. Sergeant Cahoon’s still here . . . and McCusky!’

  ‘He is too clever to ketch.’

  ‘He’s only a little boy.’

  ‘But very clefer lil poy. Nefer do I see such clefer child for anyt’ing.’

  ‘Where’s his mother?’

  ‘He say he do not haf mot’er.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous. She ran away from the Compound with him. When did he come to you?’

  ‘He not come to me. I gitchim in net.’

  ‘You what?’ Barbu explained somewhat. She demanded, ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘To me he come from Paradise, Lady.’

  ‘This is ridiculous . . . tell me the truth!’

  ‘Vy should I tell you liar, Madam?’

  ‘I told you you can trust me. I swear I won’t tell a soul about him except his grandfather. Don’t you trust me . . . don’t you?’

  Barbu shrugged. ‘Ze ot’er memsahib say she not tell nobody.’

  ‘She told me only so I could help him.’

  ‘And you tell grandfat’er so he can ’elp him . . . and who grandfat’er tell?’

  ‘Oh, what’s the use . . . you’re not going to tell me anything, are you?’

  Barbu shrugged again. ‘I haf tell you everyt’ing I know, My Lady.’

  Alfie’s black eyes rolled desperately. For a moment she clung to the counter, then swung from it, crying, ‘I’m going out to tell his grandfather . . . and get his grandfather to come and get him.’ She rushed out, went running up the street, to the amazement of the goats just returned from their sojourn in the wilderness. She slowed down.

  She found Frank, rather tipsy, looking for her. ‘Where you been . . . kissing the old boy goodbye all this while?’

  She snapped, ‘Don’t be silly! Look . . . I have to go out to Lily Lagoons . . . ‘

  He shrugged, smiling mockingly. ‘He’s changed his mind, eh?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with changing minds. He’s already gone. But I have to go and see him about something urgent that’s cropped up since.’

  ‘Yeah . . . like what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Can’t tell your own old man?’

  ‘Now, don’t be silly, Frank. This is terribly urgent and important. Come along to the room, while I pack a few things . . .’

  ‘Won’t just a toothbrush do?’

  ‘You’ll make me mad in a minute. Is there enough
juice in the car to take me out?’

  ‘She’s full up. But take you, eh? That mean I’m not wanted?’

  ‘I can’t take you.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I’m bound to utter secrecy.’

  He stared at her, somewhat bleary-eyed, while she put a few things in a small case, among them the stockrider’s outfit. When she was done, he took the case from her, and when she looked at him sharply, grimaced good-humouredly, saying, ‘’S all right . . . not stopping you. Have I ever stopped you? Just carrying it out for you.’

  The old Rolls Royce was out in the parking lot behind, standing amongst a score of other and much smarter vehicles that nevertheless looked like dressed-up serving-maids around a somewhat battered but no less queenly dowager. As he shut the door on her he said, ‘If he hurts you, I can’t do anything about it but grieve, you know . . . not because he’s an old man and could knock spots off me just the same . . . but because you’re asking for it, you know?’