Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Ernest and the General found a way to vie as strategists without resort to militarism upon — learning that they were chess-players. Jeremy produced the wherewithal for them, with which they plunged into campaigning that kept them eye to eye throughout much of their subsequent association.

  Herschel was revealed as a music lover, in fact as a very accomplished flautist, which threw him in with Denzil, and also with Prindy for a while, through Denzil’s enthusiasm was for his talent. However, Prindy had to drop out, because Herschel had no enthusiasm for what he called the Primitive. Indeed, he said that the proper instrument for that sort of music was the clarinet. Bach was Herschel’s great love. He played Bach on Prindy’s flute. Now it was Prindy who lacked enthusiasm. He left them with the instrument, and went off to play Jewish music to Rifkah and Catherine on his Indian flute, tucked away with them in the room Catherine shared with Magda. They had ample time alone together there, when the Shabbos ritual was finished, because Magda had found a mate in Malters with whom she went riding.

  It wasn’t riding that brought these last together, but the subject of History. Magda had lectured in it at the University of Prague, while Malters had majored in it at Sandhurst and aspired to return there at the end of his active military career to teach the subject. But surely more than so dry-as-dust a thing kept them riding for miles, and later sitting for hours sipping whisky and looking into each other’s eyes, black into blue, even while they talked pedantically of Albemarle, Charlemagne, Marlborough, Kosciuszko, Ivan the Terrible, Queen Anne. Asked about Magda by Denzil, Malters replied in his stiff fashion, ‘Damned intelligent woman, old chap. Mind like a sword. Attractive, too, by George!’

  Unfortunately, Malters made that remark within hearing of the irrepressible jester Fergus, who said, ‘D’you know it’s worth seventy years good luck to win the love of a Jewess, Malt? Good luck to you! But take my tip . . . if you value your foreskin, don’t go to bed with her without searching her for razor-blades . . . yaaaaaaaah!’

  Denzil fled, with hand to mouth. Malters went red and rigid, muttering, ‘You cad!’

  That was just before the Two Stars appeared, when the trio ran into one another going to and from the bathroom prior to going to the dining-room for Oneg Shabbat.

  What a supper that was, and what a surprise for most who partook of it, for all the evidence of its elaborateness in the way of scents and sounds coming from the dining-room for an hour or so before it, while those not concerned in its preparation sat in the lounge drinking the mango wine and talking, talking. Curiously, those most surprised were the ones who oughtn’t to have been, who must have seen the like so many many times, even if not so often of late. Ernest’s blue eyes fairly popped, and again curiously, with a look not at all of delight, but rather of consternation, as if being confronted with a reality he had forgotten and would prefer to keep so. There was something more like alarm in the faces of Magda and Mendelewitz. But in those of the older Herschel and Zangwill there was obvious wonder, as in the faces of children at sight of a laden Christmas tree.

  It was the same scene, familiar enough here now, of comestible abundance and beauty, with the ritualistic touch given by candles and draped bread and wine, but elaborated because of the larger company, and perhaps subtly also in female defiance of that heavy male disdain of such preciousness already expressed: Vot is kosher in a new country?

  To make it more impressive were three hostesses, all glowing with pride, and with a touch of naughtiness, each, by having a hibiscus in her hair. Catherine looked naughtiest of all, perhaps because feeling most defiant. Nan looked particularly impressive in her Indo-Chinese costume. Prindy was with them. The four spoke the greeting together, this time in Hebrew, no doubt for the special occasion: Shabbat Shalom!

  Only Ernest didn’t respond. Only the General commented, ‘Well, now, isn’t that wonderful! I was hoping for it . . . in spite of the attitude of . . . er . . . well, Haskalah, is the word for Free-thinking, eh what? I confess I’m really hungry for a little show of the old orthodoxy. If you’ve done it for me, thank you, ladies, and my heartiest congratulations on it. But I’m sure that it’s effrontery to think that all you good Jewish people won’t appreciate it a hundred times more than I, a poor benighted Goy, will . . . for all my love of your most beautiful ritual.’

  An odd thing to say; but oddly necessary, it would seem. The others, excepting Ernest, looked at him with something like gratitude. Ernest looked at a loss.

  Jeremy had the head of the table, as usual; while as on other formal occasions, Kurt had the bread and wine and salt set before him. However, this time Kurt looked at Ernest, as if for direction. Ernest just stared at him. Then as Kurt, with a shrug, moved to cover his head, Ernest shook out his own napkin, and covered his large squarish head completely, as if going into hiding. Kurt mumbled the Kiddush, broke and salted the bread, poured the wine. There were responses, but only murmured. The embarrassment was stiff.

  Then the food was served. Away went the embarrassment before its magic. In no time even Ernest was shouting his appreciation in English, German, Yiddish, Hebrew, and perhaps other lingoes, and soon making everybody laugh with his talk of taming dog-fish to round up the treife catfish so that they could start their farming of Barren Mondays and breaking in Straussen for Muster-him-up ze Momzer Bird . . . Ho, ho, ho!

  The happy state lasted right through to retirement at midnight. Only two of the company didn’t share it, Fergus and Clancy, paired now by mutual love for one they could not get possession of and hatred of each other. Rifkah conceded them only a short walk, after the meal, both together and with Catherine, too. Retiring for the night, disgruntled, Fergus remarked to Clancy, as he had to Malters, about the reward for winning the love of a Jewess, but without the bawdy addendum, saying instead, ‘The seventy years that goes with Rifkah are mine, bozo. You get yours from Magda. I understand you’ve been pretty thick with her, taking her home to Mum and arranging to have her for Christmas and things. So you’re set. Just lay off mine.’

  Clancy’s comment was a hissed, ‘You little bastard, I’ll belt the shit out of you!’

  ‘Like you belt it out of the cows, eh, cowboy? Just happens I ain’t a cow.’

  Fortunately, it happened that General Esk, perhaps even concealed for the purpose by a screen in the lounge, the only other person left there, overheard them, and intervened. He was waiting for Jeremy, who was seeing Nan and Rifkah to their room. When Jerry returned and they were walking over to the annexe, he did not mention the incident, but in response to his host’s saying it had been the only jolly day they’d had in the week the party had been there, said, ‘Jewish, perhaps, eh what? Six days of hard work . . . rest the seventh. Don’t forget the example of their God. But it’s hardly religious with them, I think . . . anyway, certainly not with Big Ernest. I wonder about him, Jeremy. Of course he’s playing up to me. I expect it. But I suspect something, also.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Do you know that he did something no good Chess-player would ever do . . . and certainly no Jew without ulterior motive . . . he let me win our game tonight, when it was one that could have been of immense interest in proper finality.’

  ‘Is there anything wrong with that? You look tired. Maybe he was only letting you get off to bed.’

  Esk yawned behind his hand. ‘Yes, I am tired . . . several bad nights and busy days . . . glad to hit the old palliasse. But I’ve a feeling he wanted to see how I’d take the faked win.’

  ‘How did you?’

  ‘With a pretence of triumph. But I’m sure he knew I knew he’d let me win . . . for all the subtlety with which he’d worked it.’

  ‘Where does that get you, Mark?’

  ‘Exactly nowhere, dear boy. I started out by saying that I wonder about him, if you remember. I’ve been wondering if you’ve wondered too.’

  ‘You’re getting a bit muddled by the sound of it. Better call it a night, eh?’

  ‘Thank you, dea
r boy. See you tomorrow.’

  Saturday passed pleasantly enough for everybody, paired as they were. Even Fergus and Clancy were at least well occupied with vying for their beloved’s attention and, as revealed, privily plotting to get it exclusively later on. The hopelessness of getting what they wanted here and now was shown them by General Esk, when once again he came upon them at a moment of confrontation. They were bristling like a couple of dogs out under the grandillo vine on the western side of the house, whence they had retreated separately after having been shoved out of the kitchen following separate approaches to the beloved one. He said, ‘Chaps . . . to a Jewess there’s very definitely a time and a place for everything . . . and I do assure you that the worst possible time and place to choose to make love to one is when she’s working in her kitchen.’

  Frankly curious now about the seriousness of the rivals’ interest in the girl, Esk subequently got each one alone and chatted to him about it. Neither admitted much. Nevertheless, he did learn of those privy plots of theirs. Fergus intended to take Rifka along with him for the trip when he flew the Settlement Party out tomorrow. He would certainly be overloaded, what with the excess of luggage the party had foisted on him; but the wind would be nicely in his favour. Clancy’s idea was to take her in to Beatrice River homestead tomorrow, to stay with his mother till train-day. Something of the sort, apparently, had already been arranged with his mother, who had quite taken to the urbane Magda and Mendelewitz when he had them to meet her and his stepfather. Evidently as curious about the effect of the scheming on Jeremy, Esk told him about it, cloosely watchful, for all his making a joke of it. But Jeremy wasn’t amused. He growled, ‘Bloody pests! The girl’s shown them plainly enough she doesn’t want ’em.’

  The way Rifkah dealt with the schemers, when at length, seizing separate opportunities, they put their propositions to her, could hardly be called plain rejection. In fact, for anyone not blind with love, it was something subtly much worse. She told Clancy that she would be glad to go with him — if Prindy went along, too. He tried to get out of that by saying that he would have to ask his mother first, but was sure she’d agree, and that meantime the boy could stay with his friend Barbu. Rifkah giggled over that, saying, ‘But ve can go to Barbu ourself any time. I vait for your mumma’s invitation card.’ She dealt with Fergus similarly. When he pleaded that to take both of them tomorrow would grossly overload the aircraft, she countered, “All right . . . overload only leedle bit by taking only Prindy. I come vit’ you . . . wit’ Prindy too . . . ven you take ze General to Town.’ Fergus was shrewd enough to leave it at that. Ernest and his party would not be returning to Town to catch the mail plane back to the South, but going down to the Centre to do so, it being financially wiser to do so, as shrewd Ernest had worked it out.

  So Clancy had betrayed himself as that worst kind of laggard in love, the one who lets his mother intrude on it. He was glum for the rest of the day. Nevertheless, he was ready enough to go walking with the crowd after dinner and kept as close to the beloved one as made possible by possession of her by Esk, Ernest and Jeremy, and the jockeying for position of his ‘Racecourse Lout’ rival.

  Straight after breakfast next morning, the Settlement Party departed, with the entire household and much of the stock out to farewell them. Catherine, Herschel, Rifkah and Nan wept openly, Denzil behind the fuel-shed. Malters shook hands with Magda with more than his usual stiffness, then without waiting to see the party enter the aircraft, marched himself off to the fuel-shed, but not by any means to do what Denzil was doing behind. He had a camera planted in there. Through the half-open iron shutter he took the mementoes denied those left behind by Ernest’s objection to his party’s being photographed, a principle strictly maintained by refugees, the reason for which, it was stated, being that photographs could lead to betrayal of the means by which they gained their freedom.

  So they went. Prindy was not co-pilot this trip, but Ex-Lieutenant Mendelewitz. Not that it could make much difference to one who had travelled the red swathe of the Telegraph Line in circumstances so different from now. Catherine had him next to her, giving him the outside seat and hence getting the benefit of his knowledge of the geography. How wonderful — how much in keeping with the expectations of a sorcerer’s apprentice, to skim so easily over a road formerly so hard and beset by hazard! Charlotte Springs — Ilfracombe Station — Mt Prince Albert, the Knowleses’ lousy place, with its rocks and goats, and blacks and all of them out to gape and wave, with never an idea of who it was looking down at them — the long empty stretch, with its occasional windmill drawing silver water with the brisk nor’easter — and then the Prospector’s Arms (or Alms), with Billy Brew’s donks milling about the water-trough, looking like a sprawling mauve growth on the red earth — yes, and Billy himself, white-bearded, out waving with the Cullitys and the boozy weekend mob in from the mines. Again it would never be guessed who was up there looking down with the others to be glimpsed at the windows, as Fergus did a turn.

  Then on southward, up over Piss Ridge, and in a matter of minutes to see the straggle of civilisation about Boulder Creek gather itself out of the wilderness to form the little township. Down, down, down, to hit the red dust and start a little dust-storm that whirled away on the hot wind just as if it were something done by a familiar of Tchamala’s.

  As that wind which had brought them so far so swiftly would be anything but a help on the return trip, Fergus told Prindy they would go into town with their passengers and have lunch and wait till the wind eased off, as it should after midday. So Prindy, at last, came into this town that so nearly had become the centre of his existence, as one of the hundred or so male crossbred waifs who lived in the so-called Home on its barren outskirts.

  Yet, while the place was strange to Prindy, he was not an utter stranger there, as soon proved. They went to the Princess Marina Hotel, to be bowed in by Nikko the Greek as if they were Vaisey People, which perhaps he thought they were, seeing they travelled by chartered aeroplane, instead of a mob of Reffoes.

  They were just settling down to lunch, when into the dining-room, with that official strut, and even with the hat tilted over an eye, as if he were a Jew and had to keep his hat on at table, a familiar figure came. He was going to sit at another table, but in accordance with the custom of the land, turned towards the strangers to pay his respects. He fairly gaped at what he saw. Coming up, he cried, ‘Hello, hello, hello! What’s this?’

  It was Mr Eddy McCusky, Assistant Protector of Aborigines.

  Fergus leered, looking as if about to cut his old enemy down to size, but did not do so, instead, amiably explained the situation, introducing his passengers. But Eddy was not to be put off official business: ‘You had no right to bring that boy. Lawful custody of him is, for the moment, invested in Jeremy Delacy. You’re committing an offence, Ferris . . . and not only the matter of unlawful transportation of an Aboriginal Ward of the State, but in bringing him onto licensed premises.’

  Fergus growled, ‘Aw . . . pull your head in, Adolf!’

  Eddy flamed: ‘Right . . . I take custody of him herewith!’ He laid a hand on Prindy’s shoulder. ‘Come on, my Scarlet Pimpernel. I’m going to put you away where you ought to been long ago.’

  ‘No you don’t!’ cried Fergus, and leapt up and snatched Prindy away, at the same time hurling Eddy back so that he collided with another table and sent the cutlery crashing on the concrete floor.

  The others rose hastily. ‘Vot ist?’ demanded Ernest.

  ‘The local Gestapo,’ said Fergus.

  ‘Gestapo? Vot . . . zis is secret polizei?’

  ‘No . . . only a mug silvertail who big-times himself bullying defenceless blackfellows.’

  ‘Careful what you say, Ferris . . . or I’ll take an action against you. And hand over that boy . . . or I’ll get the police . . .’

  Nick the Greek came rushing in, yelping, dancing about, imploring everybody not to Mek de Troubles.

  Fergus said to Eddy, ‘Listen,
big-boy . . . he stays in my custody till I hand him back to those who gave him to me.’

  ‘You have no authority . . .’

  ‘No, you’ve got it all . . . up your bum! Now, just keep your bum shut for a moment, and I’ll tell you something that’ll keep it shut for a week. This boy’s been with me for the past week, in the company of Professor St Clair and Dr Cootes, on an official survey. These blokes’re now virtually your bosses. You want me to go back and report to ’em that you’re playing the same old game of protection with your boot? Then there’s your old mate, Fay McFee. Wouldn’t she like to have it for the papers . . . Gestapo tactics with coloured kids, in front of Jewish Refugees . . . wow!’

  Eddy blinked and swallowed, seemed to shrink under his hat. But with all eyes on him, and perhaps especially those little quizzing black beads of Nick the Greek, he had to do something. He worked his narrow jaw, thrust it out, pulled the hat down a fraction, turned on Nick, ‘You’re committing an offence having an Aboriginal on licensed premises, Nick. Get him off at once . . . or I go for the police.’ He turned back to Fergus. ‘Sergeant Cahoon happens to be here.’

  ‘Oh, pliss, pliss, Mist’ Ferritch!’ Nick yelped. ‘Tek ’im ’way. I don’ want de troubles.’

  Fergus considered for a moment. ‘Okay. Come on, son.’ He turned to the Jews. ‘You see the unpromising Promised Land you’ve come to, Australia . . . the Land of the Anzacs, the bold and the free. It may be pretty tough for Jews where you come from, brothers . . . but it could never have been tougher than it has been and still is for kids like this . . . and all his black and brindle breed. So long . . . and mazzeltov!’