Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Wha’ trouble, Mitchis?’

  ‘You hold him back.’

  ‘I don’ do nothing . . . only look out his house . . . tchileep wit’ him sometime.’

  ‘That’s the . . . the inertia that’s gripping him!’

  ‘Wha’ name Inertia?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand words. I know you can speak quite well if you want to. That’s all part of it.’

  ‘I don’ know dat Inertia.’

  ‘Well, look in the dictionary.’

  Alfie, vigorous now, and determined looking, charged up the stairs. As she was packing her little case she kept saying to herself, ‘He told me he loved me. We went to bed together.’ She was down again in a few minutes, to find Nan still in the lounge. She would have ignored her, was heading for the front, where the Rolls stood.

  Nan asked, ‘What you runnin’ after my old man for?’

  Alfie flung back: ‘To get him out of the dead grip of this place . . . to get him to do the great things he was meant to do.’

  ‘What great t’ing?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Oh, yas . . . I understand all right. I live long time wit’ dis man . . .’

  Alfie halted in the front doorway. ‘I told you that’s the trouble. I’m going to change all that . . . Goodbye!’

  She went out. But Nan came hurrying after her, called to her, ‘You goin’ ’o get hurt, spone you go chasin’ after him. You can’t catch him up.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘You can’t . . . ’cause he don’t want you . . . I talk you true.’

  Alfie, about to get into the car, turned. Coming up to her, Nan, now with arms folded on that small but somehow ample bosom, said, ‘You tell me wha’ for you want dat man . . . and if dat goot t’ing I help you. Spone he love you, he want you . . . I let him go. I never stop him.’ Alfie stared at her. Nan urged: ‘Come on . . . you tell me.’

  It took Alfie a moment to get it out: ‘He’s too great a man to be stuck here doing nothing. There’re great things for him to do. I can help him to do those great things. You can’t.’

  ‘Wha’s dis great t’ings?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Why don’t I understand. You reckon I can read-an’-write all right. You talkin’ ’bout politics and t’ings . . . he not interested, on’y so dey don’ hurt dis country . . .’

  ‘The great things are for this country.’

  ‘He do ’em if he t’ink right. He done plenty. All the time he fight Vaiseys . . .’

  ‘That’s not enough. That’s a negative. He has to do positive things . . . and I can make him.’

  ‘How?’

  Alfie hesitated: ‘With . . . with my love.’

  ‘Wha’ you know ’bout love?’

  ‘What do you?’

  ‘I don’ know ’bout chasin’ after man . . . and man chasin’ after me . . . but I know plenty ’bout how I feel for dat man . . . and how he feel for me.’

  ‘You? You’re only his servant.’

  ‘Might be . . . but I t’ink he like me lot more too. He tell you how I come to be his wife?’

  Alfie said shortly, ‘He took you out of a blacks’ camp to annoy his first wife.’

  ‘Dat not true. I was dyin’ o’ gonorrhea and starvation. Dat lot Delacy chuck me out. No matter who been chuck me out. Jeremy help me all-same. Plenty other black girl, halfcaste girl, he help like o’ dat. He don’t fix ’em up for pug ’em after. He fix ’em up like he fix up ev’t’ing weak and sick and nobody else care about. He kind man . . . brave, kind, clever man. Da’s what git him down . . . what you call negative . . . all meanness, unkindness, cruelty in country, in world. He don’ wan’ ’o go puggin no woman . . . on’y dat woman wan’ him for some real, true, honest t’ing. You wan’ ’o get him puggin you last night, ain’t it? It didn’t work.’

  Alfie went deep red; and her eyes widened; and she was about to clamber into the car, when Nanago added: ‘Jes minute . . . I tell you sumpin, you can put in you book.’ Alfie paused, turned. Nan went on: ‘Blackfeller reckon dere one kind debil-woman . . . Min-minya dey call-yem. Dat same name for Fly-catcher Plant . . . you know, dat lil gold and rainbow t’ing, got him honey dew, you see him dark place or night-time. Well, dat Min-minya, she wait for lonely blackfeller. Den she change into pretty girl . . . aw, tweet-one, tweet-one! Got’m tit like o’ dat Mangan plum. Spone dat man too weak, he listen dat Min-minya sing him charada, love-song, he finish. All-same dat Fly-catcher gitchim moth and flyin’ ant and t’ing, she get him into kumara . . . She touched her pubic region. She suck him . . . she suck him dry. No matter he go home . . . he die finish. Das only blackfeller yarn. But plenty woman like o’ dat properly . . . some black woman, but mostly halfcaste, and whitewoman. Dat first wife belong ’o Jeremy like o’ dat. Dat one Lady Lydia, too. Might be you lil bits, eh? You wan’ sitrong man . . . mek you sitrong. You husband, he weak man. Might-be you been suck him too much . . . oh!’ Alfie’s pale hand flashed out — Slap!

  While Nan blinked and clasped the stinging cheek, Alfie leapt into the big car, started it with a roar, slipped into gear, swung round the turning circle, headed for the gate. The crowd of black kids who had been lurking waiting to open the gate since seeing Mitchis Elfie come out, raced to do their job, but gave no such squeal of farewell as might be expected, perhaps having seen what happened, but at any rate too observant to be taken in by the twisted smile and the little wave she gave them, and which was as much as they gave in return.

  So fast did Alfie drive that great old juggernaut for the first couple of miles that it was a wonder she and it survived them. After a couple of near-misses of biggish trees on bends she eased up. She was going fairly slowly, brows ruffled in thought now, instead of arching in anger, when she came to the turn-off to the Rainbow Pool. She recognised it, which was a feat for a non-bushwoman, looked along it as she passed; then, after having gone past some fifty yards, suddenly applied the brakes, went into reverse, and back to it, turned into it, drove the short distance to reach it. She sat a while staring, then got out, went to the little beach, stood staring some more, then retreated to shade back amongst the flood debris. She sat down with a heavy sigh. The pool was ablaze with noon. Perhaps her head was aching. She dropped it to her hands.

  She had been sitting there for about half an hour when she became aware of a sound: a droning. But for the fact that the wind was blowing from the northeast and pretty fresh she might have heard it earlier. As it was, it was quite close at hand . . . obviously a motor vehicle slowly following the rough track in from the road. First surprise in her face; then excitement. She jumped up, was coming out of the shade, but stopped. When she heard the car stop, she went swiftly back to the spot and sat down again. A car door slammed. In a moment the sound of hurrying steps. Her husband appeared, hastening to the water’s edge. The excitement vanished, she looked even annoyed. Frank looked at her tracks in the sand, saw them slanting back, looked, saw her. No doubt about his relief. The tense look was swept away by the usual smile: ‘Hello!’

  Her answer was barely audible. He went to her. She avoided his eyes, staring out across the pool. He asked, ‘Something go wrong?’ She was silent. He sank down beside her with a sigh. After a moment he said, ‘Saw the old boy arrive in Beatrice while I was sitting out waiting for breakfast. He didn’t stop . . . just waved and went on to Ali Barba’s. That struck me as odd. But I thought he might be coming back . . . so I waited. After a while I saw him go on . . . heading for the open spaces, no doubt. That’s what the others said, anyway. McCusky had a bit more to say. He was a bit hung-over from a party they’d been having to get over the christening party. He said, ‘You’re lucky he didn’t take your Missus along with him . . . like he did Lord Vaisey’s girlfriend last year.’ I thought it better to laugh than hit him. Anyway, I thought you’d be along in the car sooner or later. But the way he did it . . . the old fellow, I mean . . . worried me. I went along to Ali
Barba just to see if he’d have anything to say. But he looked positively frightened. McCusky and Cahoon had been bullying him the day before, I know. They’re still looking for that little boy, Prendegast. So I thought I’d take a chance and come out and see how things were . . . and I sure did get a fright when I saw the old bus’s tyremarks coming in here . . . like on second thoughts.’

  She asked dryly, ‘Why should I want to drown myself?’

  ‘I never said anything about you drowning yourself. I was worried about you swimming here alone.’

  ‘I might have had someone with me.’

  ‘Remember the second thoughts of the tyres.’

  ‘Quite a detective, aren’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t afford to miss anything, when your welfare’s at stake.’

  She looked at him. He smiled. ‘You look a bit down in the mouth, my love.’

  ‘I had too much to drink last night.’

  ‘That all?’ She nodded to the pool. ‘Were you on your way back?’

  ‘Yes . . . I just came in to take a last look at the place.’

  ‘Last look? I thought that once you’d been in that pool you’d always have to come back.’

  She gave a sickly little smile.

  ‘Where next?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to go back South . . . straight back South. I don’t want even to go back to Port Palmeston. We left nothing much behind. I feel like getting on and finishing the book . . . but down there . . . not here.’

  ‘Might be a good idea, too . . . to get it into better perspective.’

  ‘It isn’t that. I’ve got to hate it.’

  ‘So suddenly?’

  ‘No . . . I think I’ve rather hated it all the time. They’re horrible people. That’s what the book’s about . . . horrible people, who think they’re wonderful . . .’

  ‘Jeremy Delacy, too?’

  ‘He’s part of it . . . even in fighting the others. He only fights them for the sake of it. Negative, as I’ve said all along. The whole country’s negative . . . the land too, I mean, the climate. It doesn’t seem like Australia, does it? That’s what we first said when we came into it, remember?’

  He said slowly, ‘Maybe Australia’s really the civilised part of Terra Australis . . . the part we Europeans’ve made out of a wilderness. This’s still Blackfellers’ Country, as you hear some people who don’t like it say.’

  She looked interested, and then quite animated: ‘Why, yes,’ she cried. ‘You’ve got something there. Being an Australian isn’t being a blackfellow . . . just the opposite. That’s where Jeremy Delacy’s wrong. It’s got to be civilised . . . the blacks’ve got to be civilised. We’ve a continent to win . . . a nation to build!’

  ‘Atta gal . . . the book’s working!’

  ‘Yes . . . let’s go and do it.’ She leapt up.

  He leapt up and grabbed her. ‘What about just a wee little swim in the nuddy first, eh? We mightn’t ever get the chance again.’ When she looked doubtful, he added: ‘Just to defy that old Rainbow Snake . . . just to show he doesn’t mean a thing to us Dinky-di Aussies . . . eh?’

  She chuckled, ‘Okay.’

  They went to the beach. She let him undress her, caress her. They plunged in, swam close to the pull, came out. This time when he laid hold of her on the beach, her skin darkened in a flush all over, her eyes grew wide, her red lips fuller. He pulled her down, and while she lay with eyes closed, caressed her all over, with hands and mouth, until she reached for him, drew him onto her, into her, clasping him with what seemed like sheer ferocity, with arms, with legs — until he fell limp.

  As they lay like that, after a while she asked, ‘D’you think I’m a harpy?’

  He raised his head quickly from her shoulder: ‘Eh . . . why d’you say that?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I just asked.’

  ‘Did somebody say you were . . . the old fellow?’

  ‘No . . . no!’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I was just wondering. They’d been telling me about black devil-women who catch men and make them make love to them, and steal their souls or something.’

  ‘Who told you that.’

  ‘Er . . . the blacks.’

  ‘Sort of succubuses . . . or succubi, or whatever the plural is, eh? Nice way to lose your soul, anyway.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I can think of no lovelier way of dying . . . except in your arms, my beautiful, my wonderful . . . harpy!’

  She kissed him hard. Then struggled to get free of him, saying, ‘Come on . . . we’ve got to go . . . nearly three thousand miles of a continent . . . a continent we’ve got to win!’

  BOOK TWO

  AUSTRALIA FELIX

  11

  I

  There was no denying the combined astuteness and relentlessness of those mantrackers, Police Sergeant Cahoon and his Black Shadow, Tracker Jinbul. When they turned up again together at Beatrice River township, which was some six weeks after the Races, you could tell by their beards, their leanness, and their raggedness, that they’d travelled a long hard track in the meantime, and also by the smugness of their expressions that they had, as usual, accomplished what they had set out to do; or as near as dammit.

  It was mid-November, which meant the height of the Mango Season, a very important matter to everybody in the country where they happened to grow; and not simply to human beings, but to manifold species of birds and beasts as well; such being the weakness of pretty well all creatures for the fruit’s golden lusciousness in this mostly harsh and bitter land. Pretty well everybody and everything not too shy to come amongst men get the gripes from gorging. Still they gorged. And this season, probably no one gorged themselves more than those two hungry and thirsty wanderers in from who knew where, Coon-Coon and his Shadow. They dropped in for their gorge at Ali Barba’s, where the fruit were not only the best in the district but in the whole country, because old Ali had grown his trees from seed specially imported from his native land for that most important of his several industries, the famous Barbu Chutney.

  Barbu gave them the very special attention such powerful personages had a right to expect from such as he, offered them the pick of his pick, which were those got down with some difficulty by means of a net bag on a long bamboo pole to the top of which a knife was attached. He also offered them chutney to take home with them, since they would be going up on the next mail train. He was much too polite to ask how came they to be so unkempt. Anyway, they were renowned for coming in from the wilds looking like wildmen, and for maintaining the look as long as decently possible; this perhaps as a warning to would-be malefactors of what tough boys they were as man-hunters, or maybe because they were just plain show-offs. But they were also polite to him, as never before, declining his offer of the special pickings, preferring to go round picking up for themselves those fruits, essentially somewhat bruised, knocked down by flying foxes, in so doing covering quite a lot of ground with hawk-eyes missing nothing of interest besides mangoes. On leaving, bowed out by Barbu, who promised to have a case of the specials and another of the chutney waiting for them on the train on Friday, Coon-Coon asked kindly after the little son-in-law, supposed to have gone back to the Centre after the Races, but sounded rather like his old self when, asking if he might expect an invitation to the christening when a grandchild should appear and being told that Hindus didn’t practise baptism in the Christian way, he grinned and remarked, ‘We can soon fix that, can’t we!’

  That was on Tuesday afternoon. On Wednesday morning, in the silver clarity of dawn, these bravos, along with Constable Stunke of Beatrice and Constable Kinelly of Caroline River, and their trackers, ‘moved in’ on a shed a couple of miles down river that was the remains of one of those long-since abandoned peanut plantations established by the Government with Lord Vaisey’s blessing for so-called White Russians. The conditions were perfect for a raid. Bright though it was, a colossus of a cloud, rearing from the northwest, almost overhung the place, with a b
attle going on behind it, as to be expected at this time of year, so that the still air shook with its reverberating; and ripe mangoes were dropping all about — plop, plop, plop! — and a few flying foxes were still there and all the more vocal for being late, and the true birds of the air were waking, but not wide enough to call alarm. Even a real goanna could not have got away, let alone a mere two-legged little brother to one. Still, he tried. ‘No doubt about him!’ as his Daddy-o chuckled, slipping that officially-declared most-humane of devices for restraint of his like, the neck-chain, about the slender golden neck. Then Daddy-o sounded hurt: ‘Wha’s a matter my little Sonny Boy go make that big-feller walkabout and knock his poor old Daddy-o up follerin’ him?’

  As usual Sonny Boy had nothing to say. But Coon-Coon was very amiable: ‘Been lose him tongue again, eh? No matter . . . you got plenty time while you long o’jail for grow ’nother one . . . all-same that one lizard . . . what-you-call-yem, Yang . . . grow new-feller tail . . . aaaah-yaaaaah!’ Then he asked him would he like to ride his Lily Lagoons pony back, adding: ‘You smart feller with a ridin’ horse and a racehorse, ain’t you? Who goin’ to race that Golden Bobby for you while you long o’ jail waitin’ for tongue to grow, eh? No good leavin’ it to old Mullaka or Ali Barba . . . ’cause looks like they goin’ ’o be in jail, too.’

  Prindy said, Yas, he would like his pony — and also to keep the bamboo flute that they snatched off him perhaps on suspicion that it was some kind of weapon. Riding along with him, himself holding the chain, Dinny asked him to play something. Prindy obliged with some Indian music; but Dinny soon silenced that, asked didn’t he know anything Irish, and on learning that he didn’t, sang him Danny Boy till he got it. ‘Arra!’ he yelled to his khaki subordinates, ‘Who say’s the kid’s non compos mentis now?’

  Thus did Prindy again become a guest at the Beatrice River Police Station and under the same special patronage as before, but this time in different quarters, not the fuel-shed with sack-covered cases for a bed; instead in a room of his own, one of those four little narrow ones in a row at the back, with their own netting-screened verandah, each with a tiny barred window high up at the rear, and a barred door with a dirty big lock on it in front, and an iron bed and all the rest of it in accordance with the regulations. That officially he was in fact a guest and not a prisoner was something he might have learnt for himself later in the day had he known enough English to follow a heated argument over the matter that took place in the office under the residence. This was when Jeremy Delacy came storming into the place demanding release of the child, not as someone for whom he himself claimed responsibility, but simply as a child, who even without a charge for any offence laid against him, was being treated like an adult felon. Sergeant Cahoon, who dealt with the matter, did not storm back, but even almost cooed in the certainty of his rights as a Protector of Aborigines, as he claimed. A heavy storm was about to break. The child must have shelter. He himself could not compel the district officer to take him into his private residence. Nor could the boy be kept there in the office where official business was being done and there was, anyway, no amenity for his comfort. He had every comfort in the cell, even his flute to play. He wasn’t even locked in, as Mr Delacy might see for himself if he chose. In fact Mr Delacy could go and share the next cell with him if he liked for the next forty hours or so, and quite without cost to himself, because herewith he was charging him with complicity in the abduction of an Aboriginal Ward of the State, and would be requiring him to accompany him, along with the abductor, one Ali Barba, to Port Palmeston aboard the next train to face the charge in court. ‘Ah!’ said Dinny, with that crack of a grin probably wider than it had ever been before, ‘Yo’ve several times said you’d like to stand in a court o’ law with me. Now here’s your chance. I’m doin’ it as a kind o’ favour to you. I’d like you to see it like that, Jerry . . . because I am grateful to you, you know. If it hadn’t been for the dirty trick you did on Knobby Knowles that day we last had dealin’s, I might never have got on the track of the boy and his poor mother . . . for, you see, it was from the mother, God rest her, that Knobby got his affliction . . . and one thing just led to another, as they say. But if you’d like to be locked up . . .’