Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Prindy nodded, put flute to mouth. Pat demanded, ‘What’s this Tanninbum business?’

  But the liquid silver was already flowing from the flute. Rifkah raised her hand for silence.

  Pat became as entranced as Rifkah and Barbu. Then into the cascading sweetness came Rifkah’s voice, softly, singing the German words of the original song. A sad song, so different from that through which, with voices and fists raised, so much satisfying defiance could be expressed by the oppressed — The Master Class may kiss me arse, we’ll keep the Red Flag Flying. That’s what Pat said in effect, when the last of it faded away like the last of bird’s song in evening: ‘Well . . . I never heard the old song like that before.’

  ‘Zat is ze proper vay for it to play and singk,’ said Rifkah. ‘We go now.’ She kissed Prindy. ‘Vos beautiful. I see you later.’ She smiled at Barbu, who bowed low. Prindy did likewise. Pat nodded amiably to them as, with Rifkah on his arm, he went out.

  Out in the street, heading for the brilliance of Finnucane’s some three hundred yards away, Pat asked, ‘What you mean that’s the proper way to play and sing the Red Flag?’ It’s got ’o be militant . . . a fightin’ song.’

  ‘Maybe ze Red Flag. But Oh, Tannenbaum is of peace . . . people who vont peace . . . are tired from too much vor. Ze Communists tek zat simple song of peace and mek vot you call Militant.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t know that. But what’s the use of havin’ simple old songs o’ peace, when there’s a class war to be fought?’

  She giggled. ‘Vot’s ze use of ze stars, yes . . . ven you can’t eat zem?’

  ‘Pokin’ borak, eh?’

  ‘Vot is borak?’

  ‘I don’t know, ’xac’ly. Just a sayin’.’

  ‘You say so many zing you don’t know.’

  ‘Now . . . that’s more borak. You go easy.’

  She hugged his arm. ‘I only play mitt you. And what you zink my leetle music master?’

  ‘He’s good with that flute, all right. But what a pity you can’t do anything with him but tootlin’ on a flute.’

  ‘Vot you mean you can’t do anyzing mitt him . . . wit’ him?’

  ‘You can’t do anything with any of ’em . . . no matter how light their colour. The blackfeller’s there always. You just can’t get ’em to think in terms of betterin’ their lot, of solidarity . . .’

  She snapped, ‘Vot foolishness you talk!’

  He snapped back, ‘It ain’t foolishness. I know ’em only too well. I suppose you’ve heard I got a halfcaste wife and quarter-caste kids . . . or did have!’ The addition was made with bitter emphasis.

  ‘I ’ear.’

  ‘Well, there y’are. Smart girl . . . out of a mission. I give her everything . . . every chance to better herself. What’s she do? She prefers the yeller-fellers o’ the town to me. Gets drinkin’ and whorin’. When I put a stop to it, she picks up with this well-sinker . . . no-good bastard . . . just a lair and a Squatter’s Stooge. They go bush. What’s happened to her and the two kids, gawd knows. He’s sure t’ve dropped ’em.’

  ‘Did you try find zem?’

  ‘What for? They don’t want me.’

  ‘Vy don’t zey vont you?’

  ‘Because they want to live like blackfellers. Talk politics to ’em, and they go to sleep. But tell ’em you seen native plums or apples or sumpin like that gettin’ ripe down the line . . . and they’re on the next train with you, goin’ to get ’em.’

  ‘Pipple say you talk too much politics to zem.’

  Pat’s loud voice rose louder: ‘Do they, the bastards . . . scabby bloody bastards are as bad as the scabby bloody blacks ’emselves . . . bloody bosses’ men . . .’

  They were coming up to McDodds’s, out of the dim-lit doorway of which popped the McDodd himself, cackling, ‘Here . . . moderate ye language, ye foul-moothed larrikin!’

  Pat grunted at him. ‘Aw, shove yo’r ’ead in yo’r ’aggis bag!’

  ‘Pay nae heed to his red-raggin’ fashery, lassie . . . the mon’s a fanatic . . .’

  ‘Up yo’ tree, yo’ Caledonian ape!’

  ‘And off tae Rooshia wi’ ye bog-trootin’ sel’ and pull barges up and doon yon Volga Reever wi’ ye enlightened Comrades leeborin’ under the Commissar’s lash!’ McDodds’s voice rose so high that his fat wife came running out to see, and heads popped over Finnucane’s verandah. Pat growled to giggling Rifkah, as he handed her up onto the verandah. ‘See what you’re up agin in this free and happy land, as you call it?’

  They headed through the gaping group towards the passage leading to the lounge bar. In the passage Rifkah asked, ‘Vot is Caledonian ape?’

  ‘Eh? A Scotch monkey.’

  ‘But no monkey in Scotland?’

  ‘Aw . . . just one of them sayin’s. Let’s get a drink.’

  Four couples were in the lounge, compared with a score or more of males in the bar. At one table sat Constable Stunke and his colleague, Gobally of Charlotte Springs, with their wives, the Goballys also with two small children. The others were Station Master Collings and his wife, and one of Vaiseys small down-country managers and his. All eyed the newcomers with interest little short of rudeness, but as to be expected in those parts and the circumstances. Pat nodded, saying shortly, ‘’Night.’ The others nodded and murmured in reply. Rifkah smiled and nodded and was similarly responded to. Pat chose a table, seated Rifkah somewhat ceremoniously, saying, ‘I’ll get sumpin . . . what you like?’

  But there was Finnucane in the doorway, addressing himself to Rifkah: ‘Ah . . . and ye did decoide to spend the avenin’ wid us . . . but not the good doctor?’ When Rifkah explained, he addressed the lounge generally: ‘Let’s have a bit o’ gaiety, then.’ He looked at Mrs Stunke. ‘Hope you’re in good voice this evenin’, Missus . . . and you, Gil.’ He turned to Gobally. ‘So let’s adjourn to the courtyard.’ He went on out the back, bellowing to his spinster daughter Peggy to come and play and to Mam to stand by to attend the bar. There followed a general slow movement to the rear, with the men carrying bottles of various kinds of tipple. Clancy was amongst those who came from the bar, in company with the young Assistant Bookkeeper from Beatrice Station and a similar superior Vaisey type from off the train. He cast one surly glance at Rifkah and Pat, then with evident deliberateness avoided looking at them and concentrated on his companions. He talked rather too much for one not usually much of a talker, but when the singing started, kept out of it, even hanging his head when not swigging his beer.

  Finnucane initiated the gaiety, as he called it, with his usual rendering of Vive La Compagnie, with his own bits added, insisting on the company’s joining him when he roared the refrain to Peggy’s extra thumping — Vive la comp, vive la comp, vive la Compagnie! — but without stirring them to the required state of liveliness that mostly he could with his flair for hostmanship. Perhaps they lacked the elements to make a lively crowd, and he would have left them to their own devices, but for wanting to make it a special occasion for Rifkah. Everybody who could contribute something did so under the compulsion of the blarney of old Shame-on-us, soprano, baritone, mezzo, and tenor — everything from Mrs Stunke’s Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes to Shamus’s own Finnegan’s Wake — but only to have the audience, when the politeness of applause was ended, turn back into themselves and their glasses. Even Rifkah’s ending a lively Polish-Jewish song with a bit of the dance called Kezatzke, in doing which she showed her shapely long legs a couple of times right up to her drawers, brought forth nothing but a few guffaws, in addition to the bit of clapping. The Kezatzke was in response to a whispered appeal to Rifkah by Shamus for ‘something to loiven ’em up’. As they stood looking at each other after it, baffled of expression, suddenly Rifkah’s face lit up. She said she’d thought of something — just wait a minute. Pat seeing her running out, tried to stop her, asking where she was going. She laughed merrily, saying she vos not runningk avay — would be back in a minute.

  She ran through to the street, turned southward, tr
otting. McDodds’s was closed now; but not Barbu’s, in the faint light flowing from which could be seen the herd of goats, evidently gathered to listen to Prindy’s fluting and Barbu’s high-pitched singing. Because the goats would not make way for her, probably through not being used to having anyone ask so nicely, she had to go through the gate into the yard and round the back. The concert going on in the kitchen stopped at her footfall. She rushed in, told Prindy she wanted him to come and play his flute at the Hotel: ‘Your first publique appearantzingk,’ she said. ‘Come on . . . kvick . . . zey waitingk.’ Barbu began to gabble protests. She didn’t understand, nor try to. ‘I bringk him back to you soon.’

  As they trotted back to the Hotel they planned their repertoire, arriving there to present themselves puffing slightly, but otherwise with dignity that probably added to the gaping surprise of the gathering out in the beer-garden, whose bush-whackers’ tradition demanded avoidance of the dramatic as something aberrant. Beaming her pleasure in the effect, Rifkah guided her quaintly dressed young charge with a hand now on his shoulder towards the piano. Peggy and her father gaped and goggled no less than the rest. She pulled Prindy round to face the crowd, saying, ‘Goot pipple, I present for you ze young Maestro of ze flute, Prendegast Delacy. First he vill play for my singingk some old Jewish songk. Zen for you he vill play anyzing you vish . . . from Bach to Barney Google.’ A titter in response to her own giggle over the joke that probably no one saw. She turned to Prindy. ‘Tek ze bow, Maestro.’ Gravely Prindy bowed. That produced another louder titter, then a few hand-claps echoing those of Pat Hannaford. Failing to observe that some of the company looked anything but amused, she turned to Peggy, asking, ‘You vill vont to accompany . . . now, or after?’ Peggy had been looking at her father. The roll of her eye caused Rifkah to seek the cause of it. Shamus’s eye was rolling too. He shifted it quickly to the police group. Obviously that’s where the trouble lay, in those blank official faces, those disapproving policemen’s stares. Rifkah’s smile faded. She asked, ‘Vot isht?’ Stunke looked meaningfully at Shamus, who after a hesitation turned to her, came up to her, and with hand to mouth, said with comparative softness, ‘Afraid we can’t have him here, me dear.’ Now it was Rifkah who gaped. He added: ‘Agin the law, ye see.’

  She murmured, ‘Vot is meant?’

  Finnucane grimaced, as if to dissociate himself from such a thing. ‘A police matter.’

  ‘Police? Vot is matter for police?’

  Shamus turned back to the group, appealing for co-operation. They all exchanged glances. Then Stunke rose, came over. ‘Sorry, miss . . . but it’s against the law for that boy to be here.’

  She blinked. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Aboriginal Ordinance. Take him away, please.’

  ‘Vot is Aboriginal Ordinance? He is not black child.’

  ‘He’s barred from licensed premises just the same as if he was. In fact he shouldn’t be out at night. Jeremy Delacy ought to know better’n to let you bring him here. Tell him so from me.’

  Rifkah was going to say something, and evidently changed her mind, swallowed, said, ‘Mister Delacy do not know I bringk him. I bringk him meinself.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, take him back to Delacy. Delacy’s got custody of him for a limited time. The boy’s not supposed to be out of his custody. If I find him out of it again, I’ll take him in.’

  Rifkah’s face went red. Staring into the heavy face she asked, ‘You mean you put him jail?’

  ‘I mean I’ll take him into lawful custody.’

  She asked sharply, ‘Custody mean lock up?’

  Stunke’s face darkened. ‘It means that, if anyone gives trouble. Now, get along, please.’

  Rifkah reached for Prindy, panting, ‘Must ve go, kleine menscheleh. It is not free happy country. I vos mistake.’ As she took the boy’s slim yellow hand, she looked round the staring crowd, repeating softly, as if she wanted someone to contradict, ‘I vos mistake . . . I vos mistake.’ They simply stared. Then suddenly her lovely young face took on that old bubbeh look, crumpled and quivered. A gush of tears made her great eyes grow greater. A strangled sob — then dragging Prindy, she rushed back across the courtyard to leave. Pat Hannaford came loping to meet her, caught her free arm, went with her. The staring eyes followed them.

  Across the yard about to enter the passage leading through the Hotel, Hannaford halted his little group, while he swung round to face the crowd. He shot up his right hand, shouted, ‘Heil Hitler!’ Then with the arm going round his charges, he ushered them out of sight.

  For a moment there was silence behind there. Stunke broke it, growling, ‘Cheeky bastard.’

  Finnucane sighed gustily. ‘Sure, ’twas unfortunate . . . so nice a lassie. She should’ve been warned.’

  Stunke said, ‘She should be warned to keep away from Hannaford. Mixin’ up with him won’t do her or her mob any good.’

  Col Collings came into it: ‘Maybe they’re hand-in-glove. There’s lots o’ Jews’re Commos, what I read . . .’

  ‘Now, now!’ boomed Finnucane. ‘I’m sure there’s no harm in that gurrl and that good little doctor. Let’s have a drink. And let’s have no scandal-mongerin’ if you don’t moind . . . or I’ll be callin’ the evenin’ a day. This wan’s on the house.’

  Sobbing on Hannaford’s arm, still clinging to Prindy’s hand, Rifkah rushed them back to Barbu’s, to get Prindy’s things for taking to Toohey’s. Poor old Barbu, in tears himself, said he had tried to warn her. He whispered to Pat that she had too big a heart. Pat only shook his head.

  By the time they reached Toohey’s she was only sniffling, but so obviously grief-stricken that all there stared at her in surprise. It was Pat told the story while she went off to rinse her face. After that she could only sit sighing, staring, staring. Soon she went off to bed. It was then that Jeremy blamed himself in speaking of the incident to the others, saying that he should have known better than to have let her go amongst the mob without him, checking the indignation that Pat was about to express by saying, ‘In some ways she’s very young and innocent. It’s probably because she didn’t get the chance to develop normally as a young girl. She’s wanted to love everybody and everything here . . . in reaction to the hate she’s known, I suppose. Is that right, Kurt?’ Kurt only shrugged.

  Next morning Pat stopped his south-bound train in front of Toohey’s, alighted, and while heads popped from passenger coaches and brake-van, came loping in. The household was already out to wave, including Rifkah, who smiled wanly at his asking how she was. He produced a letter he said Finnucane had given him to drop off, and told the company that he had heard from Porky Jones of Old Shame-on-us’s shortness with the bosses and bosses’ men last night. Then he said, ‘Be seein’ you later, eh?’ and shoved his face at Rifkah in a clumsy kiss that made him go much redder than she, turned on Prindy and tousled the fair hair, waved to the others and went loping back to his engine — while the passengers cheered. Boo-hoot! A wave from Pat — and the train was on its way again — now with passengers and van-crew waving. Rifkah, waving half-heartedly, was suddenly in tears again, and had to go inside. The same mob who had sat and stared last night. Yet the cause of her humiliation then, the one truly humiliated, him of the tousled fair hair, waved with such enthusiasm as to have to hop.

  Finnucane’s letter, as ever a masterpiece of calligraphy and subtlety, was addressed to Kurt, expressing regret for last night’s incident, and inviting him and the Lovely Lady Herself and that Beautiful Boy, and of course his old friend Jeremy, to take a Cup of Tay with the family before returning home. There was no gainsaying it, even by Jeremy, whose only comment was, ‘There’s no doubt about him. He never misses a trick. The dining-room of a hotel is exempt from the other restrictions on licensed premises.’

  It was no mere Cup of Tay the homing party found awaiting them at Finnucane’s. Old Shame-on-us must have had his female slaves up before the dawn to bake that varied spread, seeing they’d also had to prepare and serve
a dozen breakfasts. When the guests protested at such lavishness so early in the day, he protested in return, ‘Shame on us if we can’t do for our personal guests in a stoil befittin’ our regard for ’em!’ The blarney was running full tap from the moment he received them to that when he bowed them into the truck to head for home. He was all apologies for last night, yet laid the blame on no one, nor even blamed the law of the land, although he made it responsible for making kindly people deal with simple ones in a manner they didn’t choose themselves. The Aboriginal Problem was a very difficult one, he declared. But it would be solved, he said; sure ’twould be solved, and all the quicker for having in the community clever people like these new friends of his, helped by the great experience and intelligence of this old friend of his, Jeremy — Ah, yes, to be sure!

  As the party swung away, farewelled with such a show of respect and affection, and passed the Police Station to find no one looking out from there, not even the Tracker and his family, as if an order had been issued to that effect, Jeremy remarked, ‘Well, at least you know how you stand with Germans. Last time that old Irish humbug mentioned Aborigines in my presence it was to say that but for Lord Vaisey’s taking the country over, I with my views would have turned it into a black’s camp . . .’

  Kurt cut in to say, ‘Don’t be so sure you can trust ze Germans. Ven Hitler first make ze trouble for ze Jews, my friends and colleagues express mooch concern, callingk him a madman and svearingk to make no difference in our relationship. But ven ze madman comes to full power . . . vot zen? Vere are my non-Jewish friends and colleagues? I haf none. And it is not fear. At least your Irisher make pretence at friendship. He doesn’t turn his back on you, and call ze Gestapo.’

  ‘The last thing I’d count on myself in dealing with the local variety of Gestapo would be the loyalty of our honey-tongued friend, Old Shame-on-us.’

  Kurt looked at Jeremy searchingly. Jeremy went on: ‘The informer’s as strong in the Irishman as the rebel. It was probably the informer that put the Irish in bondage to the English for hundreds of years, and kept them there . . . till the English, who are only good at games that have rules, gave it up.’