Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Billy drew Prindy into the bar, picked him up again and swung him onto the counter, roaring to those behind it, ‘Lookit I found . . . know him?’

  Bridie stood gaping at the grey eyes staring at her, murmured, ‘Course I know him.’

  ‘Dead ring the Scrub Bull, ain’t he?’

  ‘Too right,’ said Bridie, then looked, craning, as if to see if Jeremy were there.

  ‘No . . . old Jerry ain’t here,’ said Billy. ‘He come with McCusky . . .’

  Eddy came shoving in, demanding, ‘Here . . . what you doin’ with that boy?’

  He would have laid hands on Prindy, only Billy Brew laid hands on Eddy, demanding, ‘What you doin’ with him, you mean?’

  ‘He’s in my lawful custody . . .’

  ‘McCusky’s cuskody . . . haw, haw, haw!’ There was a howl from those who understood.

  Eddy dropped the official tone, for a matey one: ‘Go easy, Billy. The kid’s not supposed to be in a place like this.’

  ‘’Ear that, Bridie . . . Con . . . place like this, eh? What you runnin’ . . . a moll-shop . . . Hey, where’s them molls?’

  Everybody laughing except Eddy, who appealed to Bridie: ‘You know it’s an offence for him to be on licensed premises, Bride . . .’

  ‘Offence me arse!’ cried Billy. ‘Where you reckon you are . . . the Queen Vic Hotel, or sumpin?’

  ‘Fair go, Billy. Just let me put him back in the car . . . and then I’ll have a drink with you.’

  ‘You don’ say, your lordship . . . you’ll have a drink with me on them terms, eh?’

  ‘I mean I’d like to have a drink with you . . . and the boys.’

  ‘Make a bargain with you, Eddy . . . you can put him back in the car if you shout for the bar . . . ’ow ’bout it, sport?’

  Eddy’s eyes rolled as he surveyed the shoving roaring mob about him.

  ‘You can put it down as expenses . . . travellin’ expenses,’ said Billy. ‘That’t you silvertails do, ain’t it . . . travel at the public’s expense?’

  Eddy swallowed: ‘Okay.’

  As Eddy reached for Prindy and was lifting him down, Billy called to Con, ‘Set ’em up, Cornelius, boy . . . scotch all round.’ Eddy, as if making a swift count of heads, or rather of grinning faces, seemed to wilt. As he disappeared, leading Prindy, Billy said, ‘Better watch the bastard don’t do a bunk.’ He leapt to the door.

  Indeed Eddy looked as if he would have leapt into the car after putting Prindy into it, but for finding himself under observation. Billy grinned at him through his whiskers, and yelled, ‘Don’t forgit your cheque-book . . . Old Shame-on-us won’t let ’em use the slate.’

  Eddy came back, took the glass Billy handed to him. ‘We goin’ ’o drink to you,’ said Billy, ‘To good old Mick Cusky, as them’s you keep in mickustody calls you . . . you know they calls you that?’

  ‘I know,’ said Eddy, assuming some of the old leeriness. ‘You know what they call you?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah . . . the Donk with the Biggest Walloper in the Team.’

  What Eddy would have said was silenced by a roar of laughter.

  Billy raised his glass and his voice: ‘’Ere’s to old Mick and his Custody!’

  Billy downed his whisky in a gulp, and amidst the uproar of the toast, unobtrusively disappeared. Eddy, rather slow with his drink, raw as it was and no doubt a double seeing who’d handed it to him, looked about for Billy. And there in a moment Billy was, pushing through the crowd, again with Prindy on his shoulder. Prindy had his flute. Eddy uttered a cry of protest, and would have snatched Prindy away, only for the intervention of a couple of dozen large red hands along with half that number of square red grinning faces. He almost whimpered, ‘You reckoned . . .’

  Billy said, ‘All I reckoned’s we’d let you take him out the car if you’d shout. Now all you got ’o do’s shout again . . . and you can take him out again . . . and so on.’ Billy set Prindy on the bar again, calling to Bridie, ‘Gi’im some lolly-water . . . Mick Cusky’s shout.’

  Eddy groaned, ‘Aw, for chrissake . . . you’ll get me into trouble!’

  ‘Wha’ for?’

  ‘Permitting an Aboriginal Person to be on licensed premises.’

  ‘Who’s goin’ ’o report you . . . yo’self? Christ, you blokes get pretty flamin’ low mockin’ on yo’selves!’

  Eddy could only droop amongst the laughing mob. Billy pounded his shoulder. ‘Cheer up, man. Have another drink. Look, you got ’bout forty drinks comin’ your way to ketch up on that big shout. Fill’em up again, Con . . . my shout.’

  Eddy protested, ‘I don’t want to catch up with the shout. You forced me into it . . .’

  ‘What . . . don’t tell me you’re one o’ them’s got to be forced to shout . . . a bloke’t drinks’t the bar’flies?’

  ‘I got to get on me way, Billy . . .’

  ‘Where you goin’?’

  Eddy jerked his head southward. Billy demanded, ‘You ain’t takin’ that lovely kid down that bloody boys’ home o’ yours?’

  Eddy screwed his face up, turning from Prindy, hissing, ‘Shhhh!’

  ‘What you shushin’ for . . . you ’shamed the place?’

  Eddy snapped, ‘No I’m not ashamed of it. I don’t want official business discussed here, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you ought to be bloody ’shamed of it, seein’ the last bastard runnin’ the place was caught buggerin’ the poor kids . . .’

  There was uproar in the bar, and more as Billy raised his voice to explain that a Superintendent of the Home for Halfcaste Boys had been dismissed for alleged sodomy, but never formally charged, and as Eddy, almost screaming, tried to explain that there was nothing like that there now, that it was a model institution. It was stopped by the shouted intervention of Bridie and Con and the handing round of more drinks.

  Billy said, ‘Let the boy gi’s a bit o’ music. I heard him playin’ that flute thing out there . . . and I never heard nothin’ so sweet me life, fair dinkum . . .’

  Eddy tried to protest, but was ordered to drink. When everybody had drunk and another shout was on the way, Billy spoke to Prindy, who was looking scared, ‘Koyada humeri, Ngahgung . . . play us that pretty toon you was playin’ out there . . . Don’t be fright’ . . . your old huncle lookin’ out you.’

  Prindy raised the pipe. ‘Shush, shush!’ cried Billy.

  The sweet notes were a little weak and tremulous to begin with, but soon found strength and clarity: Brahms’s Lullaby. Some of the Square’eads exclaimed in surprise; a couple began to sing in German.

  When it was over there was great applause. Red hands reached to pat the musician, praising him in foreign lingo. Some pale blue eyes were magnified with tears. They were calling for more drink, all wanting to shout.

  Billy said, ‘Well, what d’you think o’ that, from one so young, and classed as an Aboriginal Person not capable of managin’ his own affairs . . . if he ’ad any.’

  There was a burst of burbling talk about it, mixed with requests for more music, and mopping up the booze. Prindy rippled a scale or two.

  Eddy had to take charge of it: ‘I taught him a lot meself. Gi’s The Road to Gundagai, Prendy.’

  Prindy was already off into La Golondrina, with some Square’ead singing it in lingo. But Eddy stopped him, urging, ‘Gundagai . . . Gundagai . . . that’s ’t we want.’

  Prindy stopped, looked reluctant, till urged by Billy Brew. Then he played it, while Eddy and Billy sang. When it was over, Eddy asked, ‘Well, how you like that?’

  Some Square’ead answered with a snort, ‘Bloddy robbish!’

  ‘Eh? That’s a good Australian song!’

  A mob of Square’eads shouted, ‘Bloddy robbish!’

  ‘Here, careful what you say!’ cried Eddy.

  Billy backed him up: ‘Yeah . . . suits us!’

  Eddy turned to Prindy: ‘Give it to ’em again.’ Prindy stared at him: ‘Come on!’ Eddy urged. Prindy looked at the Square’eads, then back at Eddy, and shook his
fair head. ‘Why?’ demanded Eddy.

  Prindy said simply, ‘Bloody rubbitch.’

  Even Eddy joined a little in the storm of laughter. They all had another drink on it, while Prindy concluded La Golondrina. But Billy Brew wanted something he knew, named a few, like Annie Laurie and Silver Threads Amongst the Gold, none of which was in Prindy’s repertoire as yet. It was he himself made the suggestion, ‘I play lil bits Narishman, eh?’ Billy knew what he meant, that was certain from his guffaw, but not any of the others until he started so-called Danny Boy. That suited half the company, anyway. Prindy went through what he’d been taught by his Daddy-o, Coon-Coon. He went on to play things of his own — and Indian bits — and things that the boozy ones, getting boozier, came and took him aside and sang to him, Eddy amongst these and so boozy now as to have lost utterly his earlier scruples about the boy’s being there; and so until the mob was roaring drunk and Prindy looking scared. Then Bridie unobtrusively whipped him off the counter and out through that half-door leading to the passage, and through to the kitchen, where she sat him down and gave him a plate of the curry and rice she had in huge pots on the stove and now proceeded to dish out into smaller vessels for taking up to feed the drunks without interruption to their drinking. While she worked she asked him questions about himself, out of a fair knowledge of his recent doings she would have culled, especially through her interest in his white grandfather, from the Truth story and telephonic gossip that probably had begun with Cahoon’s apprehension of him. As usual, Prindy answered only what it suited his peculiar unfrankness to divulge. Naturally, Bridie wanted to know what had happened to his mother. He acted as if he hadn’t heard her, simply went on eating, gazing out through the fly-wire of the window at the donkeys round the waggon and the trough. She left him, telling him to stay out the back. He sat on the back steps, amusing himself by imitating the donkeys and making up a tune from their odd vocalising that might truly be called a Donkey Serenade, with the background uproar of the bar.

  When Bridie returned after about half an hour with the empty dishes, accompanied and assisted and being fiercely talked at by Billy Brew, she appeared to be alarmed. Prindy glanced up at them. Billy signed to him to follow them into the kitchen. As the boy came in, Billy asked him, ‘You savvy where that Mick Cusky takin’ you?’ Prindy made no vocal answer, but showed by his expression that he might have an idea. Billy went on: ‘You want ’o go long o’ him?’ Prindy blinked, then shook his head. ‘Would you like to come long o’ me . . . dat-a-way?’ Billy jerked his beard in the direction the boy had come. Prindy, mostly slow to answer, either from sharpness of wits or the opposite, no one had yet decided, looked into the pale blue eyes for a moment before giving a nod. Billy swung on Bridie, declaring, ‘There!’

  She said breathlessly, ‘You’re mad, Billy . . . you’re drunk . . . playing a trick like that . . .’

  ‘I tell yo’ it ain’t a trick, girl. Not’t I wouldn’t be glad to make a fool of the bloody blatherskitin’ silvertail bastard. But puttin’ this lovely kid in that lost-dogs’ home of his is goin’ to make jes another crazy mixed up yeller-feller. This boy’s been free right up to now. He thinks he’s a blackfeller. They’ll teach him there he’s a bloody nothin’. I know it, Bride. Didn’t I have yeller kids me own? Ain’t I watched the rotten system most me life? A blackfeller, no matter ’ow crook things get for him, no matter he’s starvin’ and in rags, or even in jail . . . he’s got the satisfaction of knowin’ he belongs to sumpin . . . he’s got dignity . . . and he needn’t be true black, so long’s he’s been brought up black. Even if he’s taken out of his country for good, he can lie down and die and send his Shade back to it. That’s a blackfeller, no matter how dark or light in colour he is. But being a yeller-feller, thinkin’ you’re a bit white anyway, and hatin’ the black in you so’s to justify the white, is being, as I said, a Bloody Nothin’. That’s Jeremy Delacy’s idea, too, you know . . . why he didn’t take this kid before. He tried to take him now, ’cause now’s the time . . . now’s the time to save his very life . . . and I’m goin’ to save it. If you won’t give that big-mouth bastard knock-drops so’s he jes don’t know what happened to him today, then I’ll give ’im a rabbit punch and knock him cold. He’s bellyaching to go now. If we can’t ’old him for another ’arf hour, he’ll take the boy . . . ’Ere’s the bastard comin’ now . . .’ Billy glanced out at sound of footsteps.

  Eddy, blinking bleerily and swaying, came into the kitchen, looked at Prindy, and said, ‘Come’n boy . . . we goin’ . . . hic!’

  Billy said, ‘Yo’ll wan’ a bit a tucker for the road, won’t yo’?’

  ‘We ’ad good feed.’

  ‘You’ll never get over Piss Ridge, Eddy, with all that booze aboard.’

  ‘So long’s we get goin’ . . . I’m’n duty, not s’pose be boozin’. Camp ’long road.’

  ‘So you’ll want some tucker.’ Billy looked meaningfully at Bridie.

  She said, ‘I’ll get you a few sandwiches, Mr McCusky.’ She leapt to do it.

  ‘Sit down a minute,’ said Billy. ‘Sit down and ’ave one for the road. Ge’s a drink, Bridie . . .’

  ‘I ’ad ’nough,’ said Eddy, but sat down. ‘No more grog f’me.’

  ‘Well, cup o’tea then . . . like a cup o’ tea, straighten you up?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I’ll ’ave cup o’ tea . . . no grog . . . no grog.’

  ‘All right we’ll have a cup o’ tea . . . and finish our argyment.’

  ‘What argumen’?’ demanded Eddy.

  Bridie was hastily making tea, getting cups and saucers.

  ‘What you was tellin’ them Square’eads about Aboriginal Hordinance . . .’

  ‘I’s just tellin’ ’em . . . not arg’in’ wit’ ’em . . . I don’ argue them bas’ds . . . I don’ argue any bas’d ’bout Ab’rig’nal Ord’nance . . . I adminishter Ab’rig’nal Ord’nance, my goo’d feller . . . admin’shter it, see?’

  ‘Yeah . . . I see, mate . . .’

  ‘We got ’o go . . . boy! Where that boy?’

  ‘’Ere he is . . . waitin’ for his big boss. ’Ere’s yo’ tea, Eddy.’

  They sat arguing boozily about nothing at all till suddenly Eddy declared that he’d got to go, and lurched up out of his seat, to stand swaying, while Billy steadied him. ‘Come on, boy . . . we go’n!’ muttered Eddy. Billy winked at Prindy as he guided Eddy out, and inclined his head as sign for him to follow.

  As they went through to the front verandah, Eddy muttered, ‘Feelin’ bit crook . . .’

  ‘Now, don’t you go puikin’ all that good booze up,’ said Billy. Eddy was swaying widely as Billy helped him off the verandah to his car. Opening the door and hoisting him in, Billy said, ‘You can’t drive like that, Eddy. Jest lay over and ’ave a bit of a kip . . . then you’ll be right.’

  ‘Where that boy?’ demanded Eddy, blinking about as Billy settled him to lie down on the front seat.

  ‘’E’s ’ere,’ said Billy. ‘There ’e is. You get in the back, boy, till your boss wakes up. You right now, Eddy?’

  ‘Right . . Billy . . . old bas’d . . .’ And with a snore Eddy flaked out.

  Billy watched him for a moment, then took a quick look at the hotel. No one was watching. The few out on the verandah were asleep. He turned to Prindy, signing him to go round the far side of the car, where in a moment he joined him, then, with another look at the hotel, picked him up and set out with him towards his waggon, soon getting lost to view amidst his donkeys. He took another look at the hotel on reaching the high waggon, then bunked the boy up over the hanging tail-board, and climbed up after him.

  It was like a great barn inside the waggon, empty of the loading it was made for, except for a few small bags of ore samples, containing only a jumble of harness, with cases and sacks of Brew’s own stores. The hind end served as living-quarters, with a bushman’s bed made up on the floor beside a cupboard constructed of several kerosene cases containing folded clothing and a goodly number of books that dea
lt with surprising subjects like Astronomy, Botany, Geology, History, Greek Mythology. Billy motioned Prindy to sit on the floor, while he himself sat on a case padded with sacking. As he sat down, Prindy looked about quickly. It was unlikely that he had ever been inside the waggon, or perhaps even seen it, since Billy rarely brought his team beyond the railhead. However, he would know donkeys, because a few still roamed round about the Beatrice, which had been the terminus up till ten years ago, and were sometimes run in races on Blackboys’ Day. Billy asked him, ‘You can ride a donk, eh?’ Prindy nodded. Billy then, speaking a mixture of Murringlitch and the lingoes of the Beatrice Country and its neighbourhood, described how he intended to outwit Mick Cusky. The boozy miners would begin heading for home round about sundown, a truckload or two at a time, as they were able to bring themselves to it. There might be a couple who’d sleep till morning. Anyway, so many would be gone by the time Eddy woke, that when he started looking for Prindy it would be easy to make him believe that some of them had taken him along with them. Eddy would then dash out to the goldfields. How long he would be away was anybody’s guess. Maybe the miners would have him scouring the whole district for the joke of it. One thing was certain, that he wouldn’t call the police until utterly desperate, and then not without first getting his boss’s permission, as Billy had learnt from what the big-mouth had dropped when complaining of being held up and expressing fear of losing his charge through letting him out of sight. It would be fun giving the fool the run-around. But what was more important, all-important, was that it would help to take suspicion off Billy himself. Mick Cusky might even begin by suspecting Billy, seeing he had a reputation for making goats of pompous asses. So Prindy must get away from here as soon as possible, and stay away for several days alone, because Billy must be here in all seeming innocence when the bloke came back from the goldfields. He, Billy, had only just come in from the fields himself, after delivering a load of heavy machinery brought down from the railhead, and was known for the way he took things easy, hanging about places so long as there was feed for his donks and money for booze if there were a pub handy. There was no reason for his hurrying back to the railway. His next load was not due there from Palmeston for a couple of months. His only excuse would be that he wanted to get to the Charlotte for Christmas, which was a month away. He must show no signs of untoward activity whatsoever.