Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Prindy stared, amazed. But Jeremy jerked him out of it, saying they were here to rewind a coil to repair the radio. Now, here was a simple coil, called a Choke, for the simple reason that its purpose was to, well, choke down the liveliness of an electric charge, same as you choke down a colt or a micky-bull or some animal with a rope when he gets too rough. Switch it on. It only gets warm, taking out that wildness. Now let’s shove the screw-driver in the hole in the middle. It’s jumping about and growling like an old debil-debil in the dark — and look, it’s grabbed the pliers! Try pulling them away. No, this won’t give you a shock. It’s cheeky in a different way. Right. Now here’s yet another kind of coil. This is the receiver of a telephone. Even without connecting it up you’ll find it grabs things. That’s called Magnetism — same as the old debildebil thing there, only it’s there all the time. We’ll deal with that later. Let it hold the tin plate. Put your ear to it. No sound. Now I switch on. You hear a hum. It’s become alive with the stuff coming out of the battery. Now I’ll connect up this talking-in piece. Look, it works much the same as the other. Get ready. I’m going into the lab. Hello, Mora! You hear me, my Grandson? So you see, a clever whiteman can do just the same as the Pookarakka with his voice. We’ve got wire on this; but it’s just the same with radio. The music you hear, is played to you thousands of miles away. You know what a thousand is? Well, you know what’s a hundred: ten times ten. A thousand is ten times a hundred. You’ve got to know numbers to know where you really are; except like a blackfellow in the bush. But you can’t live in the bush all the time. You might’s well be a kangaroo, eh? But we’ve got to fix this coil for the radio. Take a bit of the wire. We have to what’s called Gauge it first. That’s only another word for measure. We’ll look all those words up later. Words are lovely things when you get to know them; like music, I suppose, different sounds. I don’t know music like you. Maybe you can teach me music, and I’ll teach you words, eh? But this wire. This is called a Micrometer Gauge, because it measures very small, like the microscope sees things very small — Micro means Little. Measure in what are called thousandths of an inch. See, that’s an inch, on the ruler. A thousand inches is away over there — and a thousandth of an inch — andth, remember — is way back here. Must have pencil and paper for this. Here we are. Figures: one, two, three; they’re really only pictures. Same with written words; only pictures you draw. Want to draw figure One? Right. Now figure Ten. Now figure One Hundred. One Thousand? That’s it! Now, this’s how you do One Thousandth. But you’d better leave that for a while. Measure the wire’s thickness, then see if we’ve got it in stock. Then strip the coil and measure how much you took off or weigh it, to see how much you’ll need to put back.

  ‘You want to do this, son?’ Jeremy asked at last.

  ‘Yes, Grandfather.’ Again no doubt of the sincerity.

  That’s how it began — with a fluke of interest that never waned.

  In discussing it with others, Jeremy said he judged that it was the Tchineke bijnitch that started it, but the boy’s natural bent that kept it going; not a bent for electrical phenomena, but for the Miracle of Sound, since it was to what, taking the words from Webster’s, he described as The Nature of Sound, his mind turned almost at once as means to deal with the Three R’s; or more truly vice versa, since he realised he must have those to deal with the Miracle. While the repair of the transformer went on, the talk was mostly of Sound. Jeremy actually did most of the work, while Prindy consulted Webster on the subject and took notes. There was also the peculiarity, common to people of musical genius, Jeremy recalled having read, of facility with mathematical calculation. Within a week the boy was speaking of the mathematics of Sound and making notes:

  Sound travels in waves, like water. The waves act on the drum of the ear, like electric pulses on the diaphragm of a telephone. Sound travels at about 1,000 feet in 1 second in dry air at 0°C. Sound has Pitch, which is sharp or dull, from what vibrations cause it. Pitch can be measured like speed of sound. Two kinds of sound, 1. Noise not regular, single like Bang, or lots of sounds like tearing or scraping or yelling. 2. Music, regular sound. Noise is harsh, means Make Sick the Ear. Music has Tone, from what is how fast and how strong vibration. Tone may be simple, as from Tuning Fork, or complex, as from stretched string or wire or wind blown note with pitch changing. Music has Harmony, which is mixing tones.

  This sort of stuff was soon going into exercise books, the somewhat mature wording looking very odd in infantile handwriting. There were also diagrams of audio-electrical devices, childishly executed, but with use of conventional electrical engineering symbols taken from a book hastily procured from Port Palmeston, and a tracing of the structure of the human ear taken from Webster. But most interesting were the mathematical calculations. He had only to hear Square Foot to start squaring everything and extracting the roots, and proceeding to cubes, while yet he had to add up with the use of his fingers. When he found the word Comptometer with a picture of the machine in Webster’s he was very excited, declaring that it must be possible to play figures like musical notes. That was just after the flute arrived for which Jeremy sent South for him. Jeremy promised to look into the matter of buying a Comptometer.

  Probably Jeremy was only humouring the boy with the talk of the Comptometer, since the idea of a machine to do your figuring was a bit too much to take seriously in the circumstances, even by him; and just as well, when possession of one might well have been judged even sinister, seeing the way disapproving outsiders took to be a kind of transmogrification of what they heard of Prindy’s acceptance of civilised ways. Jeremy himself was largely to blame for the attitude of his enemies, since he was the one who, while in Beatrice a couple of times, reported on the matter with more loquacity than he usually indulged in. Perhaps he did it with deliberate intent to annoy his enemies. Still, there was no doubt about his delight in the phenomenon. To several people he declared, ‘The boy’s a genius.’ One of these was Finnucane, to tell anything to whom was tantamount to telling it to the wurruld, and not to your credit if he were agin ye.

  First indication of official interest came in the first week of April, when, with sudden changing of the wind to southward, the land began to dry and it was possible to make the journey from Beatrice by motor vehicle. The Watchers gave the warning of the intrusion. The Sharp-eyed ones peeped. The indrawn whisper ran through the place — not Mick Cusky, but Coon-Coon!

  Here was the test of the civilising influence. Jeremy in the annexe, receiving the warning by telephone, at once raced to the schoolroom, where Prindy was alone with Darcy, and told him to stay where he was, because Coon-Coon could do nothing to him. Prindy took it calmly enough, just a widening of grey eyes. The black kids were all away with parents on the walkabout that always followed cessation of the rains and the languishing of the land in fat fertility.

  But Sergeant Cahoon’s visit was unofficial; or so he declared, when Jeremy went out to meet him and curtly asked his business: ‘Just dropped in to take a look at the boy. Quite unofficial, I assure you. Heard so much about him lately. Regular pocket genius, they’re sayin’. Had to see for meself . . .’

  Jeremy cut in, ‘I don’t see how it follows that you had to see him . . . but just the opposite. It was through your hounding him he nearly met his death.’

  ‘Now, don’t go holdin’ that agin me, Jerry. It was my very fear for his comfort and safety that brought that about . . . and all the wurruld knows how I suffered for it . . . and how thankful I am to Almighty God for delivering him.’

  ‘I had a hand in it, too,’ said Jeremy dryly. ‘Well, you may see him, if I have your assurance you won’t mention that day. As far as I can judge, he hasn’t any recollection of what happened after you chased him into the flood. I reported the matter to the Beatrice Officer, who accepted my statement. I consider the matter not only closed, but strictly taboo.’

  ‘I too . . . here’s me hand on it.’

  Jeremy turned away, saying, ‘Your assurance is enough
. . . provided I’m with you to see you stick to it. Come on. The boy’s in school. I won’t have you disturbing his lessons.’

  Jeremy had ignored Jinbul, standing behind his master; but when the tracker moved to follow his master, Jeremy swung on him, saying sharply, ‘You stay here, boy . . . right here!’ Jinbul looked at his master, who narrowing his eyes and twisting his thin mouth, nodded.

  The whitemen went on in silence, till they reached the entrance to the school, when Jeremy said to Cahoon, who was about to enter with his hat on, ‘Seeing you’re not here officially, you’ll kindly remove your hat, Sergeant.’ Dinny went red, but grinned as he complied.

  Prindy was at his desk, Darcy at his table by the blackboard. Jeremy remarked, ‘Usually Darcy has a crowd here . . . but, as you know, it’s walkabout time.’

  ‘Not for the buddin’ genius, though, eh?’ came that grating voice, while the green eyes fixed on the grey that rose momentarily to meet them.

  Jeremy said to Darcy, ‘The Sergeant here’s interested in Prindy’s education. He’ll probably like to see his exercise books . . . do you mind?’

  Darcy answered with wriggling and giggling as he hastened to gather up some books.

  Coon-Coon was interested only in his Sonny Boy, up to whom he strode, with grin wide, holding out his hand, saying, ‘Well, what d’you know . . . me Sonny Boy all dressed up and slicked and doin’ schoolin’!’

  Prindy was wearing a neat suit of good-quality khaki shirt and shorts, Chinese tailor-made for him in Palmeston, and had the fair hair, formerly mostly an unruly mop, nicely cut and combed. He didn’t raise his hand from the desk, but looked at his grandfather. Jeremy said, ‘You remember Sergeant Cahoon, don’t you, son?’ Prindy nodded. ‘He wants to shake hands with you.’

  Prindy slowly raised his right hand, to meet the green slits boldly as he did so.

  ‘Nice to see you doin’ so well,’ said Dinny, and sat himself on a corner of the desk, adding: ‘They tell me you’ve taken to the books like a bloomin’ old goanna to sugar-bag, eh? Aaaaaah! Let’s see what you’re doin’.’ He snatched up the exercise book Prindy had been writing in and the text-book. ‘Eh, what’s this . . . parsin’ and analysis? Jees . . . but you have come on! I forget what it is, even. Spell it to me . . . spell that word Analysis . . .’

  Jeremy cut in: ‘You assured me you weren’t going to question him, Sergeant.’

  Cahoon swung towards him: ‘Only askin’ him about his schoolin’.’

  ‘You’re not a school-inspector, but a police officer.’

  ‘I told you I came here unofficially.’

  ‘You’ll always be a policeman to that boy.’

  Dinny sneered, ‘While he’s under your influence, I guess.’

  ‘I said always. I think it’s useless your asking him questions. He wouldn’t answer you. If you’re genuinely interested in his schooling, you’ll make the best judgment of it as a teacher would . . . by studying his exercise books. Darcy’s got them here.’

  Somewhat red, but still grinning, Dinny took the books, still without taking notice of Darcy, and thumbed through them. ‘Pretty crook writer, I notice,’ he murmured.

  Jeremy said, ‘Good writing only comes with long practice.’

  ‘Spellin’s not so hot, either.’

  ‘How’s yours . . . will you let Darcy test you?’

  Dinny sniggered. Jeremy said, ‘You’re not really studying the work. Take a look at this.’ He pointed out the piece, The Nature of Sound, whipped over the pages to show the diagrams and calculations, Wave Lengths, Frequencies, then demanded, ‘Well?’

  The green eyes fixed on Jeremy’s grey in a hard quiz, as Dinny asked, ‘That’s all that kid’s own work, eh?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Cahoon swung to Prindy: ‘You did that all yourself, Sonny Boy?’

  Jeremy cut in: ‘Don’t answer him, Grandson.’

  Dinny swung back, hard-faced, narrow-eyes: ‘Here, what’re you comin’ at?’

  Jeremy withdrew his gaze from the snapping eyes, to look at Prindy and say, ‘In asking you that question, the Sergeant insulted me. I’ll explain later.’ Then he looked back at Dinny. ‘Now, Sergeant . . . if you’ll be so good as to let the boy get on with his lesson, I’ll see that you and your tracker get something to eat.’

  Dinny went very red, began to fold his arms as he sat. Jeremy also reddening, said, ‘Will you please come at once? I wouldn’t like to have to summon you for trespass.’

  Dinny drew a deep breath, heaved himself to his feet. He looked down at Prindy, whose grey eyes met the green slits calmly. A moment; then he said, somewhat throatily, ‘Be seeing you, Sonny Boy . . . be seeing you soon.’ He shoved on his hat and strode out.

  Jeremy watched him from the outer door, saw him join Jinbul and go striding, the lanky pair of them, back to their muddy utility. He remarked to Darcy at his shoulder, ‘Sorry I had to do it like that . . . but I don’t think he was here for any good. Couldn’t let him make a fool of the boy with spelling. He naturally had to spot the weaknesses . . .’

  Prindy, peeping from behind, cut in: ‘I can spell Analysis . . . ANALYSIS.’

  Jeremy turned to him, smiling: ‘I don’t doubt it, son . . . but he’d’ve tried you with something else . . . something like Egg or Pig or Doggy . . . and you know you’re not too good on the G’s and Double-G’s and such like.’

  ‘But they are silly words, Grandfather. You say yourself there’s no logic in English language spelling.’

  Jeremy put an arm about the slender khaki shoulders, chuckling, ‘I underrated you, son. You’d’ve probably sunk him a lot better than I. I’ll leave you to do it to McCusky. I guess we’ll have him along soon.’

  ‘What’s Under-rating, Grandfather?’

  ‘Well, that’s a job for Webster. Come on over and we’ll consult the old boy, and have smoke-o the same time. Want to come, Darcy?’

  Darcy giggled as he went with them: ‘By’n’by he going to get head big’s old Webster Dictionary . . . eeeeeeeeee!’

  McCusky was there within a week, taking them all by surprise by the manner of his coming. When they heard the drone of the aircraft, or Aeroplane Music as he who heard it well before the others called the tuneful sound, they first thought it was Fergus paying them a visit; and as many as could pack into the utility, went racing out to the race track to make smoke to signal to him that it was safe to land and how the wind lay. Then, as the plane came over the trees it was seen to be that of the Flying Doctor, presumably come at last to take a look at Prindy’s leg. No one thought of McCusky till there he was, the first to come out of the plane as the stairway fell, a bit wobbly in the official strut for having been off the ground for a couple of hours, but making up for it with the tilt of his hat.

  Eddy came marching straight for Jeremy, greeting him shortly, ‘Goodday.’

  Jeremy was as short: ‘Goodday. What can I do for you?’

  Eddy nodded to Prindy, standing by, leaning on his single crutch. ‘I’ve come for the boy.’

  ‘With what authority?’

  ‘That of the Aborigines Department.’

  ‘Something in writing?’

  ‘I don’t have to have anything in writing. I’m Deputy Protector . . . I stand in loco parentis to the boy.’

  ‘Your official designation is Assistant Protector. I was given loco parentis, as you call it, over the boy by the Deputy . . . and it hasn’t been rescinded as far as I know.’

  ‘Well, it has . . . take it from me.’

  ‘I’ll take nothing from you.’ Jeremy looked past Eddy at Dr Fox and another man, dumpy, gingery, bald, with odd-looking melanic spots and patches dotting his ruddy skin. Jeremy would have known him as Mr Fisher, Head Teacher at Palmeston State School and virtual director of education. He spoke to them: ‘Goodday, gentlemen.’ He added to Fox: ‘You’ve come to have a look at the boy’s leg?’

  Fox looked somewhat uncomfortable, answering, ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Right . . . we’ll ru
n up to the homestead . . . if you two gentlemen will get in front with me.’

  Eddy said, ‘The examination will be done at Palmeston Hospital.’

  Jeremy glanced at him, then at Fox, asking, ‘You’re under orders, Doctor?’

  ‘Not exactly . . . it’s only the facilities . . .’

  ‘You know they’re all here. I was given to understand by Dr McQuegg that the boy might stay till you declared him fit to travel.’

  Eddy said, ‘He looks fit enough to me. I saw him hopping about as we came in.’

  ‘I’m talking to the doctor. I should think, Doctor, that the important thing was where he was fit to travel. Is that right?’

  ‘Well . . . I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘Do you know where he was to go?’

  ‘My business was only to take him to Town.’

  ‘Well, I’m thinking past that . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ snapped Eddy.

  Ignoring him, Jeremy said to Fox, ‘If you don’t mind, Doctor.’ He motioned to the car. Fox and Fisher went to it. Jeremy gave Prindy a lift up into the back, walked past the grim-faced McCusky, who hastily scrambled aboard as the car started up, packing himself in with the others, who obviously drew away from him.

  In the hospital section of the annexe, they X-rayed Prindy’s leg. The doctor declared that the healing was perfect, the only trouble some muscular atrophy that should be remedied by regulated exercise. Jeremy asked him, ‘That can be done here?’ Fox didn’t answer. Jeremy pressed: ‘Will you say it can’t be done here as well as anywhere . . . with your direction?’

  ‘Well . . . no.’

  ‘All right . . . I take it that he’s not yet fit to travel anywhere and that he couldn’t be as well treated as here . . .’