It was here that Denzil and Prindy arrived. Hearing Denzil’s panted news, Jeremy asked Prindy what he meant by this Singing Inside him. Prindy answered simply, ‘Like people singing long time ago . . . Aboriginal people.’
Jeremy drew a deep breath, then said, ‘Yes . . . that’s it . . . the answer I’ve been seeking for so long. No blackman could, or perhaps would, give it to me. The Voice of the Spirit of the Land. Thank you, sonny!’ He turned his own grey eyes, shining, on the mildly staring other grey eyes. ‘Thank you a thousand times!’
Esk looked from them to Malters, who was watching them with intent that well might be perceptive; or was just the fixed stare of the popinjay on parade. Catching his superior’s questioning glance, he stiffened slightly, murmured, ‘Sah!’
As they were riding homeward, the General, rather more urgently it seemed than even the emergency of things he stressed, got on with his statistical revelation of the might of the menace of Dai Nippon, for the most part secret, he said, because intelligence of the situation was hard to come by owing to this matter of the One Man with the Eighty Million Heads. They were not fiddling with designs for aircraft carriers, like Britain and the other signatories to the tonnage-limiting Treaty of London, but were actually converting their obsolete battleships to the purpose as they floated. Britain, France, America, couldn’t take the aircraft carrier seriously. It was too vulnerable to attack, was the consensus of naval and aviation opinion. But from what attack after the blow of the first one to use it had been struck? What the Japanese were doing now rendered the Singapore Naval Base, keystone of British Imperial power in the Far East, a sitting duck. The Imperial Might must be switched at once from sea to air. Britain didn’t need carriers yet. She had the land to fly her planes from — such planes as she had. Malaya and Burma must be filled with airmen and their aircraft, and ground troops, aerodromes built everwhere, even up into French Indo-China, where the first southern entry would be made by the Japanese when they had completely subjugated China. The Ju-jitsuist at the moment was playing lame. He was giving it out to the world that the cost of the war in China was embarrassing him. He’d lost half a million men, untold millions of yen. But what cared he for men? And the Chinese would give him the yen at the point of the samurai sword.
‘Do you know anything about ju-jitsu, Jeremy? You have to know about it to know the Japanese. The expression means, literally, the soft art. Nothing soft about it, however, except your opponent’s falling for your tricks. The whole art is to throw your opponent off balance . . . let him break his arm, his head, his arsebone . . . with his own weight and stupidity. The very approach to a bout of it is full of tricks, all bows and courtesy. The most polite people in the world, and most treacherous. They soft-arted us into making them a great naval power, the Germans into making them the most efficient army on earth. Then they turned against the Germans. Then they turned back to the Germans against us. What they count on now is our getting embroiled with the Germans again and drawing the USA in with us . . . then the sudden swift and treacherous blow . . . and we’re a goner. Never forget that the Gentleman of Japan is first and last a ju-jitsuist . . .’
‘Or that an English Gentleman is first and last and always simply a gentleman, eh?’
Esk looked quickly. ‘Do I detect a note of the sardonic, dear boy?’
‘The Australian character, what little there is of it, tends to be sardonic, Mark. You want to understand Australian character, don’t you, since I take it you want to use Australians to take the brunt of the Japanese Gentleman’s treachery?’
‘Dear boy!’
Esk left it at that. They talked horses again, and on arrival back at the race track paddock, went off to take another look at what Esk called Your Stable and Jeremy My String. Esk was much taken with Red Rory, and talked of buying him. Jeremy suggested that he ride him tomorrow on a picnic trip to the Rainbow Pool. ‘He’s a nice horse to ride,’ he said. ‘You could ride him on Anzac Day and give them a real treat in Town. He only gets mean where racing’s concerned. Seems to like you, too. His grand-dam, by the way, was a direct English importation. Maybe he’s descended from a line of aristocratic cavalry mounts, and’ll race only for the glory of the regiment kind of thing.’
‘In that case, I simply must have him.’
As they went on to the homestead, they arranged that the General and his men would go in with Jeremy to the Beatrice when he went to meet the train on Wednesday, instead of calling for special transport.
For dinner that night they had a curry made with the flesh of those turtles caught this morning. Such was the effect that Malters became even talkative at table. Curry-eating appeared to be his only vice. He knew a thousand recipes, but had never struck this one, nor one so delicately handled. Nan explained that she had found a book of recipes in the house and worked on it, adapting to local produce. Jeremy added to her explanation that his first wife had been a curry-maker for social reasons — ‘The East, and all that, don’t y’know’ — hence the book of recipes; but Nan was natural with curry. He said, ‘I live for the day when she curries a snake.’ There was much laughter over it, except from one, whose silence went unnoticed.
After dinner Malters and Nan exchanged curry recipes; while the music lesson was resumed between Prindy and Denzil; and Jeremy and the General, after first taking a stroll in the moonlight, when Jeremy talked of the birds they heard and animals they saw, and of the Southern Stars, to his companion’s apparent great interest, retired again to the den in the annexe. The talk there tonight was mainly of British Politics, following a report in the evening’s news of a row between the Prime Minister, Chamberlain, and Winston Churchill, over Chamberlain’s effort to avoid becoming involved in war in Europe. At last Jeremy and his guest found common ground in detestation of Churchill, although on grounds entirely different. Whereas Jeremy declared that Churchill was an Imperial adventurer, a cold-blooded scion of the British Aristocracy, Esk called him a loud-mouthed half-bred Yankee, whose lack of being a real Englishman made him want to appear as the Great Englishman, a man small in stature and outlook, so far from being an Imperial adventurer that he’d scarcely been out of England. Esk said, ‘If we get involved in war in Europe it will be Churchill’s doing . . . and simply to show off. He opposed intervention in the Spanish Civil War, which would have stopped the whole damned madness that’s now raving in Europe. He supported Germany till Hitler came along out of the very things she supported, namely, acknowledgement of the Hun’s grievances for having failed to conquer Europe before. He encouraged the arming of France to turn the Hun’s attention westward instead of eastward where it would naturally have gone. It was the rise of the tin-god Hitler that maddened him. Hitler, a man with a big mouth, is what Churchill himself would like to be, Der Führer. Damn Churchill, Sir!’
‘Do you know him personally?’
‘I wouldn’t Jeremy. But I’ve had personal dealings with him. All who work under him go in fear and trembling of the pot-bellied little giant’s wrath. He was Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1925, when we were involved lunatically in mititary operations in the Middle East. He had no idea of the situation, no conception of the broad issues of the Empire . . . just England, England, England . . . and not even a proper Englishman!’
Sir Mark was wrath — an unusual thing — but Jeremy didn’t seem to notice. Staring ahead, he said, ‘I think I’d’ve killed him if I’d ever met him personally . . . if he’d ever come here, say with Vaisey, as the great and grand have on occasions . . .’
‘Churchill come here! He is the perfect Damned Colonial type. Colonials to be called on when Old England is in danger . . . to die!’
Jeremy looked round at that, stared. Esk said ernestly, ‘Truly, Jeremy. It won’t happen again to your Australians, if I can have my way. If there’s dying to be done, it’ll be in defence of your own country . . .’
‘In Burma . . . in Malaya?’ demanded Jeremy.
‘More realistic than in the mud of Flanders or on the rocks o
f Gallipoli or in the sand of Sinai, isn’t it?’
‘There’s only one place a man should be prepared to die in battle . . . and that’s on the sacred soil of his own country.’
Sir Mark, hollow-eyed again, stared at him for a moment, then sighed: ‘Please God it never comes to that. And it won’t Jeremy, I assure you . . . unless those military adventurers in Melbourne and Canberra can boot me out and get the power to lead boys back to the Brothels of Egypt, as you’ve so aptly put it, and leave Australia to the mercy of the most ruthless, cold-blooded, treacherous race on earth.’
They drank, sat in silence for a while, till Sir Mark, looking his suave self again, said, ‘Tell me more about your life, Jeremy . . . particularly of late. You may not be typically Australian, but you do deal in Australian types . . . and I must know this Australian character.’
So they sat again till midnight.
Next morning was given to the horse-business and a definite arrangement that Sir Mark would buy Red Rory and take possession of him as soon as facilities were organised. He said he would be making a survey of the northwestern part of the country during the next three months, would have a float built to haul the horse about, would ride him whenever possible, and perhaps run him in the minor station races. He had a military groom in England, for whom he would send as soon as he resumed his military contacts. The man was also a good jockey. Jeremy said he hated parting with a horse, but believed Red Rory might be better for getting away from the place. He didn’t get along so well with Elektron who when all was said and done was Boss Horse round here.
The General rode Red Rory to the Rainbow Pool to have lunch there, while Jerry rode Elektron, as usual. As Jerry remarked, Rory looked stuck up already, with a titled General on his back, taking on a mincing military step, with much proud head-tossing, and then in an aside to his own mount, ‘We’ve never been good enough for the bugger, old boy . . . that’s the trouble.’ Elektron joined the laughter with a whinny.
There were the five of them again. At the Pool, Prindy insisted on taking a dip, despite Jeremy’s saying that he ought not to, seeing that they had told the visitors it was a dangerous place. Prindy replied almost insolently, ‘Not danger for me, Mullaka,’ and dived in. The first time he had used that mode of address for a long while. There was still a menacing swirl of water back near the now gently tumbling falls. Prindy had not been there since that day of his deliverance. Jeremy watched him with a strange expression, as if wondering what the boy’s motive was; some secret urge, or just wanting to show off? The General remarked on the boy’s skill in the water. Prindy swam up to the lip of the menace, then showed his golden bottom in a dive. They stared. He burst from the water down in the shallows above the fall to the river. It was too much for Denzil. Behind the other’s backs he slipped out of his clothes, and pink and white and bony, went loping and splashing to join him.
They had also talked of the superstition connected with the Pool. When at the General’s sharp order Denzil came sneaking out, clasped hands hiding his genitals, Jeremy remarked to him, ‘Now you won’t be able to take over your father’s field marshal’s baton, son . . . you’ll finish up here as a ringer for Vaiseys.’
Esk said, ‘I’ve a damned good mind to cashier him on the spot and ask your son to take him on as a jackaroo.’
That night there was another curry, a mystery to begin with, that Malters waxed eloquent over again — till told what it was, when he turned grey. ‘Bandicoot,’ said Nanago with a giggle.
‘Bandicoot?’ muttered Malters. ‘A rat!’
‘No-more rat!’ cried Nan.
‘But . . . but . . . a bandicoot is a rat,’ muttered Malters.
Jeremy chimed in: ‘It’s a marsupial . . . nothing like a rat . . . and the sweetest of food. What gave you the idea of a rat?’
Malters, drawing a deep breath, evidently of relief, replied, ‘In India the bandicoot is a rat.’
Jeremy exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned . . . another non-native name for a native thing! Emu is Portuguese . . . Jabiru’s South American Indian, and Goanna a derivative of the Spanish Iguana. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that Kangaroo is Gaelic or something. We haven’t even got a name for our Aboriginal people . . . except that stupid one. What sort of people are we?’
Esk shook his head. ‘Strange, strange people in many ways.’
They all stayed in the lounge that night and heard an English comic show that caused much mirth. Even on that Jeremy had to comment: ‘We have no real humour. What goes for professional humour is just childish imitation. The only real laughs we get are from sardonic comments. Deep down, I think we’re bitter people . . . all of us . . . bitter for the want of a land to love.’
III
They set out for the siding after lunch next day, an unusual time, but not remarked on by anyone. Jeremy and Sir Mark were left to ride alone in the cabin. Neither had much to say. It wasn’t to be a final parting by any means. They would be meeting again at the Races in September, after which the General intended to make a survey of the northeastern coast. Jeremy was up to something, the way he dawdled the last few miles, so as to arrive in the township almost simultaneously with the mail train, and contrary to custom drove straight up to Finnucane’s. He said to Esk as they were alighting, ‘I want to see how old Shame-on-us receives you.’
The bar was crowded, Shamus and his wife and daughter Peggy going for their lives. But Shamus dropped everything at sight of the General. ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘’Tis yeself, Gineral Sir Mark . . . and Jeremy!’ The great red face was wreathed in Irish amiability.
Over in the gentry’s corner were some of those Esk had left the other day to go with Jeremy, among them Superintendent Bullco, and Martin and Clancy Delacy. All looked somewhat embarrassed, even though the General, and Jeremy with him, waved to them cheerily. Jeremy was holding Esk at the public bar. That was too much for Shamus, who leaned over it to them: ‘Now, you gintlemen would be wanting a little more privacy, I’m sure. My office, eh?’
Jeremy said quickly. ‘No . . . over with the others’ll do.’ He nodded to the gentry. Then he added: ‘But a drop o’ the crayther for the gineral . . . he tells me he’s tried it and’s now what ye moight call addicted to it!’
The black brows shot up, exposing suspicious eyes. But Jeremy grinned like a boy. A moment. Then Shamus said, ‘And whoy not . . . the t’ree of us. Come gintlemen!’ He darted away and out of the bar; while Jeremy and the General walked round to join the others, or rather to enter the so-called Private Bar, and while nodding amiably to those already there, took a place apart at the end of the counter.
There in a moment was Himself, with a bottle of Tullamore Dew and three chased glasses, saying as he passed the others, ‘You’ll excuse us, gints . . . but a little private farewellin’ loike.’ He came beaming up to the waiting pair.
As Shamus was about to fill the third glass, asking about how did the General like his sojourn at that lovely place, Lily Lagoons, Jeremy said quickly, ‘Not for me, Shamus.’
Finnucane looked at him quickly. Jeremy grinned. ‘Many’s the time you’ve told me that my old Da would turn in his grave at something un-Irish I’ve done. Perhaps he has, too. But I don’t want him doing it through my drinking Irish whisky with a British general who was in Ireland during the Throuble . . . no, sir!’ It was said loud enough for all at hand to hear.
Finnucane gasped, gaped, turning purple, his popping eyes moving to the General. Esk was pale. Jeremy thrust his hand out to him, and as Esk took it weakly, said, ‘Well, so long, Mark . . . see you at the Races. Nice knowing you.’
As Jeremy began to turn, Esk moved after him, muttering, ‘Jeremy!’
Jeremy smiled. ‘No offence to you, Mark. Only want to show you Australian character . . . and Irish . . . a lot of Irish about, you know. Guess you can talk yourself out of that bit of a war . . . you’ve nearly talked me into one with the Japanese.’ He nodded to the hollow-eyed man, then to the others, then winked at Finnucane, and went out
.
Malters and Denzil were standing by the utility, the latter with an arm about Prindy’s shoulders. Jeremy told the men they’d better join the General, and shook hands with them. They shook hands with Prindy. Then suddenly Denzil stopped and kissed the boy on the lips, spun around, bounded onto the verandah. Prindy looked astonished, wiped his lips. Jeremy stared for a moment, then commented, ‘Hmmm . . . these Englishmen!’ Then, telling Prindy to hop in, he got in himself, drove down to the station to collect the mail.
In the mail was another copy of Australia Free and a fattish letter from Alfie Candlemas. As Jeremy stowed them in the glove-box of the car, he remarked, ‘I’m supping with so many devils I’ll have to buy a whole set of long-handled spoons.’
Prindy asked, ‘What that mean, Grandfather?’
‘Tell you later, sonny. Want to catch Tom Toohey . . . then off home. Do you know, we haven’t been quietly alone at home for what seems weeks.’
13
I
September again, and inevitably the Beatrice River Races. But could one be so sure any more about what had seemed inevitable? What changes in the old familiar scene! It had seemed odd enough having a few uniformed soldiers moving amongst the squatters, the ringers, the familiar townies, the boongs — astonishing to see them marching with a brass band. To be sure there was talk enough on the radio and space given in newspapers and magazines to threats of war; and the roads were being built in case of war; and the oil tanks and new rolling-stock added to the railway. Still, even in Port Palmeston the Garrison was so far out of town it might not be there at all, and those who manned it didn’t seem to do much more than booze in their messes. Likewise there were these Reffo types, a mere handful to start with, but ever increasing, who would tell you terrible tales of being driven from their native lands, if you’d listen to ’em, which you didn’t, unless you were a Commo. Talk of bringing Reffo Jews into the country and settling them in a sort of New Jerusalem — Sheenies in elastic sides — did you ever ’ear anything so bloody silly?
Poor Fellow My Country Page 116
