Eddy cut in: ‘Now look here . . .’
Jeremy continued to the doctor: ‘You’re satisfied with his physical condition, I mean the way he’s been fed and generally cared for?’
‘Oh, quite.’
‘Would you like to see how he lives . . . with a room of his own in the Big House, the run of it like a squatter’s son?’
‘No . . . I can see he’s healthy and happy enough.’ The doctor was looking worried.
‘Would you say he’d be better off in any place Mr McCusky’s likely to take him to?’
Eddy butted in again: ‘Now look here, Delacy . . .’
‘I’m talking to the doctor. Well, Doctor?’
Fox was getting nettled: ‘Look . . . I don’t want to get involved in this thing . . .’
‘But you are. You came here to examine the boy. You admit that he needs further care and that he can get it here . . . and that you don’t know where else he’d get better, and for all you know, Mr McCusky might have in mind something much worse . . .’
Now both Fox and McCusky expostulated: ‘Now, look here . . .’
Jeremy swung on Fisher, demanding, ‘You’re a witness to this, Sir.’
Fisher went crimson, so that his black spots turned purple and he swallowed and sweat burst from his brow.
McCusky came in sharply: ‘There’s the matter of schooling.’
Jeremy smiled: ‘Ah . . . that’s what you’re here for, eh, Fisher . . . all the ends sewn up for an arrest?’ He looked at Prindy, now standing by watching with wide-eyed interest: ‘Boy . . . go into my den and get that Australia Free with the picture in it . . . you’ll find it on top of the desk.’
McCusky asked, ‘What’s that rag got to do with it? I saw the thing Alfie Candlemas wrote . . . it’s bloody rubbish.’
‘You saw the picture of her getting the prize from the Prime Minister?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You’ll see.’ There was Prindy with the magazine. Jeremy opened it at the Alfie part, where her letter lay as he had placed it. He handed Eddy the letter.
Eddy went pink as he read, then shot the thing back at Jeremy, saying, ‘Bloody cheek! Suggesting abduction. Amounts to compounding a felony . . . d’you realise that?’
‘We’re not all as dumb as you silvertails think we are, Eddy.’ Jeremy handed the letter to Fisher, then went on, to Eddy: ‘Abduction on our part wouldn’t be necessary. But if you were to use force, as you’d have to, to remove that boy when all the evidence proves he’s far better off here than where you’re wanting to take him and dare not say out of shame, then in the eyes of the Nation, from the Prime Minister down, you are the one who’s going to be charged with abduction man . . . not me!’
Eddy went white, swallowed, then drew a deep breath and put on the official attitude, declaring, ‘There’s the matter of the schooling to be dealt with. Bill Fisher’s entitled by law to decide whether or not the boy’s getting proper schooling.’
‘Right,’ said Jeremy. ‘Let’s adjourn to the school.’ As they went, Jeremy and Fisher leading, with Prindy swinging alongside, Jeremy explained the absence of the other pupils. Fisher replied mildly that he was only concerned with Prindy.
It didn’t take long. Bill Fisher began by looking through the exercise books, hemming to himself with evident interest, then asked Prindy half a dozen questions out of what was written in them, then to write on the blackboard the squares of numbers up to ten, then to extract the square root of thirteen — to do the last by arithmetical calculation, when Prindy was going to tell him Three-point-One-Six-Two — then to write the words, Sugar, Soap, Salvation. Prindy wrote the last word Salivation. When Fisher said it was incorrect, Prindy looked at Jeremy, who suddenly smiled and said to the man, ‘I think he misunderstood you. Ask him what the word means.’
Eddy put in here: ‘No prompting, if you don’t mind.’
Looking puzzled, but ignoring McCusky, Fisher asked the question. Prindy promptly answered, ‘Spit.’
Jeremy chuckled at the evident bewilderment of the teacher: ‘It’s a house of scientific rather than religious thinking, Mr Fisher. I hope you don’t expect him to have had religious instruction . . .’
‘Why not?’ demanded Eddy. ‘It’s the regular thing in schools.’
Jeremy turned to him: ‘In that school of yours down the Centre?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are Square roots and Cube roots and the Theorem of Pythagoras included in the curriculum?’
Very red, Eddy snapped, ‘What’s the use of stuff like that to . . . to . . .’ He floundered.
‘Yeller kids, creamy kids?’ asked Jeremy. As Bill Fisher cleared his throat, Jeremy turned back to him. ‘I understand, Mr Fisher, that on the Theorem of Pythagoras rests almost the whole weight of higher mathematics . . . is that so?’
‘Yes . . . pretty well . . . by modern theories.’
‘You might be interested to know that I got the information from the young fellow himself. He got it out of some new book he has.’
Fisher nodded: ‘I’m not surprised. The boy’s remarkably intelligent. You should see he goes on to university.’
Jeremy’s face blazed and his eyes fairly popped: ‘I?’
‘Well . . .’ Fisher, looking confused again, glanced nervously at Eddy.
Jeremy demanded of him, ‘Does what you say mean you’re perfectly satisfied with the way he’s being schooled here?’
Fisher hemmed again, no doubt troubled by having to let his silvertail colleague down: ‘I’ve said he’s very intelligent . . . ha . . . he’s . . .’
Eddy snapped, ‘What’s your official verdict on the school and method of teaching? That’s the point we want cleared up . . . also, improper influence.’
‘Well . . . I suppose the school must pass . . . to get those results . . . as far as the boy’s concerned, I mean. It’s not according to regulations . . . but there’s no evidence of improper influence. The boy answered . . .’
Jeremy cut in sharply: ‘What’s this improper influence you’re talking about?’
Fisher screwed his face up, turned it towards Fox, saying, ‘Well . . . that’s really the doctor’s province.’
Jeremy now swung on Fox. ‘For godsake . . . what is this?’
Fox looked troubled now, but covered it up with a chuckle, ‘Aw . . . something Cahoon thought up.’
‘Cahoon . . . what?’
Fox answered with a sickly grin, ‘He reported that he thought you had the boy hypnotised.’
Jeremy gaped, murmuring, ‘Hypnotised?’ Then his astonished face wrinkled up with merriment. He chuckled deeply. Fox joined the chuckle. Fisher grinned. A guffaw burst from Jeremy — and from Fox. Laughter seized Jeremy. He roared. The others roared with him; except poor Eddy, who red to the hair-roots, turned and strode out of the school. Prindy and Darcy also joined in, even without knowing what the joke was, in the manner of their Aboriginal kin, never likely to miss a good laugh, even if it were on themselves.
It took the men minutes to get over it. When they got outside, there was no sign of Eddy. At Jeremy’s question, one of Darcy’s boys said he’d gone walking back to the aircraft. Jeremy said, ‘That’s rather buggered things. I was going to have you over to lunch. Can’t leave him out of it. Darcy, lad . . .’
Fox cut in to say that they didn’t have time to stay to lunch, anyway, that they were heading for the Missions, and had refreshments aboard. ‘I’ll be glad of some gasolene, though. Fergus Ferrus said he’d sent a bit of a stock out here, and that I could draw on it.’
Out at the plane they found Eddy walking up and down with his hat well over an eye. He just shot them a look and went on with his walking as they attended to the fuelling. It was only when Jeremy and Prindy were shaking hands with the others that he came near, and surprised everybody by holding hand out to Prindy, saying, ‘Mummuk yawarra, sonny . . . it’s good to see you doing so well.’
Prindy looked at Jeremy, who nodded. When Eddy had shaken the small
yellow hand then given to him, he flung a crooked grin round the group, saying, ‘Don’t tell me there’s no influence.’ He was turning away to head for the door of the aircraft, when he swung back on the grinning Jeremy. ‘Don’t run away with the idea that you’ve got legal possession of him. You’ll never get that. And the first bit of trouble, we’ll take him off you. Get me?’ He turned again.
Jeremy reddened, but still maintained the grin, saying, ‘That might be dangerous, Eddy.’
McCusky swung back, demanding, ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well . . . I could give him a post-hypnotic suggestion, every time he saw you to give you a kick up the arse . . . that right, eh, Foxy?’
The Flyin’ Fox grinned as he leapt up the stairs, added a silent laugh from the cockpit window.
The engines were started. The plane was rolling. Thumbs up for Good Flying. She rolled away downwind, while the horses, the mules, and the one donkey in the wide oval paddock, from staring at a distance, scattered for the far fences with tails high. Then the roar and dust of the run-up. Then away in take-off — up, up, up, to swing back to make a turn in farewell salute to those waving below. Then off northward into the white-dappled blue above the slate-blue wall that was the Plateau.
Jeremy, with his arm round Prindy’s shoulder, said as they turned towards the utility, ‘Well, sonny . . . where do we go from here?’
‘I want to go and get lunch, Grandfather . . . then listen to Batavia concert.’
‘Right . . . but I meant something more than that.’
Prindy looked at him. ‘What’s hi-hi-potised, Grandfather?’
‘Hypnotise? We’ll look it up in Webster.’
‘I hear that word that time they asking me about Pookarakka . . . Police Station in Town.’
‘Ah, yes? Well, I suppose the old feller does do a bit of it . . . hypnotising . . . in his own way.’
As they took their seats and Jeremy was starting up, Prindy asked, ‘You send letter to Pookarakka yet?’
Jeremy looked at him quickly. Grey eyes held grey eyes for a moment. Then Jeremy answered, ‘Haven’t had a chance yet. But I will . . . I promise. It’ll be necessary to go to Town to get someone we can trust to take the message. We’ll go as soon as your leg’s right. I’ve got some business to do, the leases and things.’
‘Might-be we can bring old-man back?’
‘I don’t know about that. But we’ll certainly get word to him that you’re here and how you’re doing.’
‘He know that all right.’
Jeremy shot another glance as they sped along, then asked, ‘How’s he know that?’
The grey eyes were on the road, ‘He know everything.’
‘Well, why do you have to send him a message?’
‘Tell him I wait.’
Jeremy bit at his lips, as if puzzling over the Aboriginal mind, particularly this one that could extract mathematical roots and understand the implications of the Pythagorean Theorem. He broke the little silence saying, ‘Well, we’ve got to get this leg fixed first. Less study and flute-playing and more massage and exercise, eh? I’ll make you an exercising gadget out of an old bike, I think. Must get those thigh muscles built up again, without putting too much strain on the bone. The bike’ll show which ones are weakest. I think it’s the rectus, mainly. You had bad infection in there. Can’t have you limping round Town, can we. Want to put you in elastic sides, jodhpurs, the whole squatter outfit, to rock ’em. They saw you like a blackfellow before. Now it’s going to be as what to them’s a gentleman.’ Jeremy turned smiling to the boy, to find himself being regarded with what looked like alarm. For a moment their grey eyes clung. Then, turning back to his steering, Jeremy said, ‘It’s all right . . . I know you’re a blackfellow first. I won’t take you away from that. I only want to prove to them that you and your people have as much dignity as they have, given the chance . . . and a lot more, maybe. You remember that word Dignity?’
Rather parrot fashion the answer came: ‘From Latin Dignus . . . Noble, Excellent.’ After a moment the little voice asked, ‘Tell me about Hyp-not-ism now, Mullaka, please.’
‘All right . . . this one comes from the Greek — Hupnos, Sleep.’
II
Before April was out they were on their way to Town in the utility, just the two of them, since it was a special occasion. But first they dropped in at Beatrice township to let the Tooheys and other friends, like Barbu and the Ah Loys, see the transmogrification for themselves, and subtly to let the wurruld know about it and about the joke connected with it.
It was exciting, to walk the streets with that stance of Nobleness and Excellence, beside the big man who carried those qualities so well, so that every head turned to look; to live in a big hotel, sleeping, eating at table, where no non-white had ever been accepted before and Mrs Morgan, the proprietress, so long a friend and admirer of Jeremy Delacy, had to take to her bed for a day or two by reason of the effort it cost her; to be embraced and wept over and almost fought over by Kitty Wyndeyer and Fay McFee; to be taken to Church by Miss Kitty to listen to her handling what she had called Monsignor Maryzic’s Wonderful Organ; and then to be presented to his Very Reverence and eat an apple with him; to go twice to the pictures, once down to the jetty and aboard the mail steamer; to buy a gramophone all of his own and order the list of records made up by Miss Kitty to be sent from South; and surely above all, to be embraced and crooned over by the Pookarakka himself.
This last and loveliest thing came about thus. Jeremy had tried to get Barney Bynoe to take Prindy’s Letter Stick to the Jail for smuggling in to the old man; but Barney had been elevated to Overseer of the Sweet Creek Settlement and appeared to be offended by the suggestion that he should be thought capable of breaking the law, even though evidently thrown into some conflict by the offer of a substantial bribe. He said things were different now. Then while Jeremy was trying to work out another means, he and Prindy happened to meet Judge Bickering in the street. The Judge expressed his delight in the Transformation, as he called it himself, and his mirth over the joke connected with it, which he’d already heard, and asked Jerry would he not come and dine with him, bringing the boy. The Judge lived alone, having, as he put it obscurely, outlived his family. People said they had left him because of his excessive drinking and sarcasm in expressing his opinion of them. Anyway, over the brandy, Jeremy, perhaps on sudden impulse, mentioned the matter of the message, saying that as other prisoners were permitted some degree of contact with relatives and friends, why not an Aboriginal? ‘Why not?’ echoed the Judge. ‘I’ll take you out there myself tomorrow.’
Out at the Jail they were fussed over by Major O’Dowdy and his dotty Dotty. Evidently it was not unusual for the Judge to pay a visit to Bobwirridirridi; and naturally in the circumstances the rule governing supervision by some jail officer of prisoner and visitor was waived. Jeremy went in with the Judge and Prindy to meet the old fellow, looking as much the living skeleton as ever, and just as lively a one, despite his prison garb and shorn beard and hair. He embraced Prindy like a long-lost son, stroked him, jabbered over him in that cackling voice in lingo, having no more than a handshake and a grin for the others. Judge Bickering promptly said to Jeremy, ‘Let’s leave them to their Freemasonry, while we look around.’
Prindy and his Pookarakka were alone in a corner of the exercise yard for a good half-hour. As the boy came out, more eyes than ever were on him, and eyes more knowing and more wondering, seeing him who not only walked with dignity with judges and squatters, but could talk with the earthly deputy of the Old One. Judge and grandfather were too wise to ask him what he had been talking about with the Wise One. Dotty had a go at it while they were sitting over the elaborate morning tea she had prepared for them, but to be silenced by a kick in the shins by the Major that followed a look in the eye he got from the Judge. She made up for it by kissing him goodbye as they left her, tears in her eyes, as she muttered that in just that place she had kissed his poor mother only a year ago.
The day after the visit to the Jail, which was something like a week since they’d arrived in Town, Prindy said to Jeremy, as they were standing in the vicinity of the Court House, looking out on the view they both had yearned for from within the dismal grey stone building behind, ‘Young Nuttagul fly now.’
Jeremy looked at him. Nuttagul was the magpie goose. ‘Why do you say that?’
Prindy sighed, his eyes fixed at a point beyond which Mooragetaghee would be.
Jeremy persisted: ‘Old-man say that yesterday?’ When the fair head nodded, Jeremy asked, ‘It mean you want to go home?’ Another nod. ‘All right . . . we’ll go. Tomorrow morning, eh?’ Prindy turned to him and smiled.
As they went walking on towards the shopping centre, Prindy said, ‘Pookarakka say . . . “You gitchim one young-feller gootch for me, Mora, cook him clay, put him there long o’ hollit tree . . . my lamala come find him. Me too-much hungry long o’ gootch-fat”.’
The first talk yet of any dealings with his master. Jeremy drew a deep breath: ‘Did he now? We must get right out to the billabongs when we get back and get that fat young Nuttagul for him.’
They left at daylight next morning, Friday; and so good the road that was being built for war, that they did the trip in a single day, passing the homing mail train just North of the Caroline. But this time they didn’t call in at Beatrice township, despite the jodhpurs and elastic sides, but turned off the main road at the Racecourse, and headed straight for home, finishing the run in moonlight.
It was the second morning after their arrival home, Sunday, that they went out on the goose hunt, taking the utility and the big truck, because so many wanted to be in it, most of the household now being back from walkabout. The hunt would not be simply for that bird for Bobwirridirridi’s other Self, but for stocking the cold-store. The billabongs would be teaming with geese, and ducks and pigmies. Many hands would be needed, because no shooting was allowed. Nor did you spear or boomerang birds like that, when you could get them without disturbance in any quantity you wished simply by swimming in amongst them in the way Yingganga the fresh-water crocodile did.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 111
