When Fabers came strutting into the lounge for the evening drink, his gait was such that Fergus put Denzil in hysterics again by remarking behind his hand, ‘Looks like she’s pooped her panties this time.’
That night it was Professor St Clair who shared the ritual walk. He also shared in the talk at first, although it was evident that he would have preferred to listen to Jeremy on the subject of the Aborigines. Jeremy brought him to confess, honest man that undoubtedly he was, that he knew nothing of the people but from his reading and the reports of those he called his men, most valuable of whom, he was quick to say, was Fabian Cootes. His own field experience, he admitted, had been gained in other countries, particularly New Guinea, amongst people he freely owned bore little resemblance to Australian natives. Nailed by Jeremy about his likely appointment as director of the proposed new system of dealing with the Aborigines, he avoided a straight answer, perhaps quite truthfully saying that the thing was still in the talking stage, adding that he would prefer to stay in his University Chair.
Jeremy asked, ‘Why appoint you, and not Cootes, who you say is the expert?’
The Professor shrugged his stooped narrow shoulders. ‘Governments worked in mysterious ways, I’m afraid.’
‘There’s hardly anything mysterious about the way any government of ours has been dealing with these people over the years.’
‘I understand that there’s to be a completely new deal for them.’
‘Let’s hope so. I’m only afraid your appointment may be a sort of sop. You’re a distinguished professor of anthropology. What can critics of the system say to the Government then?’
St Clair said somewhat stiffly, ‘If I’m appointed, I hope there’ll be no need for criticism.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Jeremy then left the obviously troubled man alone, to talk of his own ideas on the subject, this being the first chance he’d had to do so to the Professor without argumentative intrusion by the Coot. St Clair listened cloosely.
Tomorrow St Clair was to be taken to see the Painted Caves. Jeremy said he was particularly interested in how he would be affected by them, more so than he had been in the case of anyone else to whom he had shown the galleries.
In fact the trip to the Galleries had been taken over by Cootes, who wanted to use it as what he called an Exercise, drawing on his new military vocabulary, to test the efficiency of his men, horses, and accoutrements. It was Jeremy who provided what, in bushman’s parlance, he called the Plant, and who actually had plotted the route, or rout in local usage. Perhaps if he had used more dignified terms the Coot would have acknowledged his part in it, when, as it was, he seemed oblivious of it.
Certainly it didn’t look anything like a horseback picnic or stockman’s riding out, this cavalcade, strung out in pairs of riders, with pack-beasts running head to tail, horse-tailers bringing up the rear. The packs, which normally would have been running free, were roped. This was also Jeremy’s idea, its purpose the fact that the early part of the planned expedition, would be through the rocky gorges East of Catfish, the only means of getting horses over the sandstone Plateau, where it would be difficult to handle free horses that, fresh from home, would have turned for home at the first opportunity. Roping them early would get them used to it before the rough country was encountered. But Jeremy’s idea of early had been the leg to Catfish, not this so-called Exercise.
In the circumstances it was proper that the Expedition Leader should lead the Exercise. Fabers made no announcement to that effect, but simply rode off ahead with Napoleonic dignity on his big horse, beside him his purloined aide, Lieutenant Dickey. Jeremy and General Esk, who had been about to take the lead as a matter of course, exchanged half-smiling glances, and followed. General Sir Mark Esk today was looking anything but what he was, wearing a rather old stockman’s outfit, battered wide-awake and all, borrowed from Jeremy. Nevertheless, while it was academic anthropology that was being discussed by the military-looking men in front — Malinowski, Frazer, Margaret Mead — militarism was the General’s subject, prognostications concerning that war he was spoiling for with the Japanese, more anxious than ever about it, while Jeremy apparently was no wit more concerned. Next came Rifkah, riding Red Rory again, in company with Professor St Clair, who with evident interest and surprise was listening to her telling of common Jewish ritualistic practices, going to show that preoccupation with savages can blind one to odd things one’s contemporaries are doing under one’s very nose. Then came Fergus and Prindy, mounted on Black Cloud and Golden Bobby respectively, talking of flying, by the way Fergus’s hands were making the movements of ailerons, flaps, angles of attack; while yet his eyes kept on the gracefully swaying female figure just ahead of him, seeming to run over it, from ivory neck with the bit of copper peeping from under the black hat, down over the swell of trim buttocks to spreading thighs. Behind were Malters and Darcy, earnestly talking of the early official history of the country, which, perhaps surprisingly, Darcy seemed to have made a close study of, and Malters interested in because, as he said, his chief interest was history. In that clipped manner he had of speaking, Malters explained that only by its history could you understand a community, adding sententiously: ‘Of course history is always repeating itself.’ Last came the four black horse-tailers, in fits over some private joke.
It wasn’t so surprising then, that what ordinarily would have been the picnic lunch before the climb to the Galleries, turned out to be a kind of military bivouac, with tent-flies rigged, all cooking equipment unpacked and lined up, bedding laid out. Fabers had asked Jeremy if they might eat as though truly roughing it as an exercise for his men; and Jeremy had provided buffalo beef and lily roots and flour for damper making. Fabers himself made the damper, declaring himself a dab at it, but producing such a sod as to be uneatable even by the horses. He then declared that he would make another to prove himself, and that they should have it for smoke-o when they came back from the Galleries. The awful failure was probably what caused him to produce a part of the commissariat hitherto undisclosed. From a pack-bag in what might be described as the Mess Tent, be brought out a neat canvas satchel from which he took a packet of biscuits and a small can of raspberry jam, at the same time discoursing like a military lecturer, explaining that his experience in roughing it in the bush had taught him that small indulgences in the way of food worked wonders. ‘It is no departure from the necessity to keep the commissariat down to the barest essentials, as is demonstrated by the fact that everything of the kind is of miniature size,’ he insisted, emptying the satchel onto a groundsheet, to show that besides biscuits and jams, it contained little cardboard boxes of triangular Swiss cheeses and anchovies. ‘Every ounce counts, as I’m always saying,’ he added, addressing himself to those he might call his Men. ‘We must never lose sight of the fact that, as much an Anthropological Survey as this expedition of ours is, it is also an exercise in the mobility that would be required in the event of guerilla warfare here. As experts in the way of living and thinking of the native people who are going to be the first consideration if this country is invaded, we must be able to advise on how to live in it indefinitely in harassment of the enemy. Now, experience has taught me that even the anticipation of a dainty bit of something will give you appetite for the poorest bush tucker. Of course it must be rationed according to strict military procedure . . . one biscuit per man, one dab of jam. So! Come on . . . who’ll have one with me?’ Only Prindy and Rifkah did. He addressed the others: ‘Well, then, a nibble of Schweitzerkase . . . no? Very well, then. Away it all goes, not to be opened up again until we’ve crossed the Plateau.’
Jeremy, eyeing the uncanned stuff, as Fabers repacked, remarked, ‘You’ll have to be careful of ants. They’ll find anything not canned in ten minutes. It’s a wonder they haven’t got at those biscuits of yours before now.’
Fabers smirked. ‘You evidently haven’t observed.’ He slipped out one of the hooks from which the pack-bag was suspended from a sapling rigged for the bags under the f
ly, and brought it, showing that it was bound with a slip of adhesive cotton tape. ‘Take a sniff,’ he said. ‘No self-respecting ant would cross that.’
Jeremy did so, handing it back, saying, ‘Citronella, eh? Quite ingenious. Trouble with citronella, though, is carrying it around. It has the invariable habit, I find, of getting into everything you’ve got . . . and there’s nothing fouler than food it’s got into.’
Fabers smirked again, swung away and replaced the hook, then from another bag took out another satchel, a tiny one. Opening it, he produced a metal can with screw top, held it up, and at the same time held up the satchel, to show that it was printed in large letters with an indelible pencil: ‘Citronella — NOT to be stowed with food’. Then having satisfied everyone of his ingenuity, he said, ‘Well, now I must prove my boast about that damper.’
He also made a lecture of his damper-making, not having opportunity for it with the last one, since the company was preoccupied with the bivouacking. He demonstrated the need for liberal kneading for effective aeration. All paid him close attention, perhaps mostly fascinated by his faculty for didacticism in all things — except Fergus and Prindy. Catching Prindy’s eye, Fergus signalled him to withdraw; and the pair slipped away unnoticed, to confer behind the mess tent. The result was Prindy’s stealing into the tent and, hidden by that hanging pack-bag, taking from it the Coot’s patent satchels and bringing them to Fergus. After Fergus had poured a tot of citronella into that containing the delicacies, Prindy as unobtrusively returned the things. Then they joined the others to watch the placing of the camp-oven in ashes of just the right temperature to ensure a piece of culinary perfection by the time the party returned from the Galleries, estimated period two hours and fifteen minutes.
Perhaps Fabers might have presumed to leadership even in the trip up to the Galleries, only for being delayed in starting out by having forgotten where he had stowed his photographic and other gear required for what he called the Parietal Recordings he wanted to do, knowing the caves from that former visit, when he was here as expert in the case of the King Against Cock-Eye Bob. Thus Jeremy got away in the lead, with the Professor immediately behind him, then Rifkah, who also hadn’t yet seen the Galleries, at least from the ground, with Prindy to help her up the steep pinches. The blackboys and Darcy, for reasons best known to themselves, remained behind in the camp.
Jeremy talked to the Professor of Aboriginal affairs as they went. Speaking of the Galleries, he said that one of the first reforms of the so-called new deal should be to declare the like of them not merely inviolate against destruction, as had been done in some Southern States where Aborigines now existed only as pariahs with no tribal life whatsoever, but against intrusion by anyone except Aborigines, who would have sole right to admit anyone else; and that preservation of such places as these here, where proper responsibility had ceased with disintegration of the tribes, be vested, at Government expense, in such tribesmen as still practised the ancient arts. As the law stood, these galleries might be despoiled by anyone choosing to have a day out in them, without even official censure.
Probably at no other time of year, in addition to the usual advantage of the time of day, could a better show of the Galleries, or at least of the main one, be expected. The reason was that there was extra lighting from the sunlight’s striking rock faces below, which usually were in shadow. At least that would be the scientific explanation, perhaps necessary, since men of science were today concerned. A blackfellow would give other reasons, and perhaps quite good ones, since it would seem that for all mankind’s advance, man still can’t live by bread and measurement alone. To a blackfellow, of course, the Sun was Koonapippi, Mother Nature herself. Does the capacity to measure its distance from earth and its temperature make so much difference to any kind of man?
As usual, Jeremy called a halt outside the big gallery for accommodation of vision. He then remarked to the Professor that he always felt here like a devotee introducing proselytes to holy places. St Clair looked alarmed, and with his eyes searched away down into the tumble for Fabers lagging behind burdened as he was with Denzil — for Fabers and his scientific sanity.
Jeremy led the way into the Gallery. Both the Professor and Rifkah gasped and gaped. The Professor seemed to be seeing all of it, but with eyes rolling, as if he felt it crowding in on him. Rifkah was concentrated on a single piece, the great Moomboo Figure rearing almost from sandy floor to lip of the overhang, her great eyes rising with it in its upward curving, as if drawn, from splayed-out six-toed feet to the face directly above, the two blank yet seemingly all-seeing eyes created out of the single looping line that also made the only other feature except the nether-worldly bunny-ears. Suddenly she covered her own eyes, lowered her head, and with that posture turned towards those behind, saying in a tone strangely muffled by emotion and her hands, ‘No . . . I cannot look!’ She uncovered her face, to reveal that aged pained expression. She merely glanced at Jeremy, then concentrated on Prindy, extending a hand to him, saying in a hoarse undertone, ‘Take me avay now . . . ve come back togezer ven I am ready.’ She turned the haggard look again to Jeremy. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. Prindy already had her hand. As she went with him she averted her head so as to see nothing more of the bright spectacle.
As the pair disappeared, Professor St Clair, who perhaps had taken relief from his own confusion to watch Rifkah’s, murmured, ‘What a strange reaction!’ He glanced back at the paintings, concentrated on what might be taken for a lewd one, presumably depicting a sexual orgy, adding, turning to Jeremy, ‘She didn’t appear to look at anything that normally might be thought likely to shock her. How do you account for it?’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘I’ve found strangers to the country more susceptible than ourselves . . . particularly women. She’s also very much attached to the Aborigines, as you know.’
‘Hmm! It’ll be interesting to hear her explanation.’
‘In the meantime I’d be interested to hear what you have to say, Professor.’
Again St Clair looked alarmed, shot a glance towards the entrance, as if in the hope of seeing the Coot, then another at Fergus, who looked only like a cat watching a mouse. Then with a little sound rather like a bleat, he swung on his long legs back to the pictures: ‘Well, now . . . words are superfluous, really. It’s . . . well, I’m not one for superlatives . . . but it’s magnificent.’
‘Do you mean as art or an anthropological or archaeological find?’
‘Oh, come now . . . art, of course . . . primitive art.’
‘Define Primitive Art for me.’
The Professor chuckled, although he looked troubled. ‘What’s this . . . are you having a go at me?’
‘Truly, no. I’ve told you I’m most interested in your reaction.’
‘But I’m sure a man of your intelligence and your interest in the Aborigines knows all these things.’
‘As I’ve said to you, the more I see of these things the less I know I know. But this matter of Primitive Art, as something different from just Art. My conception of the term Art is vague enough. Not my fault . . . the dictionary’s. It seems to be simply something a man can do with some degree of skill. That’s as near as I can get to it.’
‘How much nearer could anyone get?’
‘Then why differentiate . . . Art and Primitive Art? Surely not because of the use of crude materials and ignorance of rules of perspective and light and shade and such things? These people can draw quite realistically if taught.’
‘I know . . . Namitjira and all that. But there you go . . . asking me what you already know.’ The Professor chuckled again. ‘Primitive Art is magico-religious, of course. You surely know that.’
‘I know that everything these people do is . . . well, I prefer to call it simply bound by magic.’
‘Well, there you are. You don’t have to ask me anything. I should be asking you.’
‘You’re the expert . . . the man chosen by the Nation to clean up the hideous mess we’ve m
ade, in our greed, of this other nation of people, who live by magic. I want to know what you feel about all this . . . should it be pulled down?’
St Clair’s eyes popped. ‘For God’s sake, man . . . what’re you saying?’
‘I mean the whole structure of Aboriginal culture.’
‘I know you do. And you know I’m not going to pull anything down, but preserve what’s preservable, as I’ve told you.’
‘That’s why I want to know your true reaction to this.’
St Clair looked trapped, looked at Fergus, perhaps in the hope of help from a former pupil, but surely only saw a lout who’d never appreciated his teacher’s wisdom and was waiting now with half a leer to see it pissed on, and to have to turn towards the entrance looking for succour from there. He looked back, almost haggardly, at Jeremy. ‘What more can I say than what I have . . . that . . . that words can’t convey one’s feelings in such a matter . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Does that mean we can expect your feelings to be expressed in deeds . . . in what you’re going to do about these people?’
The pale blue eyes rolled as if in agony — then shot towards the entrance and the sound of voices. Saved by the bell! He almost started towards the Coot as the plump one entered, seeming to bounce in, the way he was puffing and his accoutrements were swinging about him as he proceeded to unburden himself. Jeremy sighed, as if in resignation.
The Coot’s voice, usually near-alto in timbre, positively boomed in the cavernous place: ‘Well, Prof . . . what do you think of it?’
St Clair answered glibly, ‘I was just telling Jeremy here that it’s magnificent beyond words.’
‘It’s that all right,’ boomed Fabers, beginning to set up his photographic gear with a mere glance at the blazing wonder. ‘These parietals represent as perfect an expression of the Paleolithic ethos as you’d find anywhere in the world . . .’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 130
