For several wild minutes they carried on as fast as Darcy dared under the incessant lash of Hannaford’s tongue, which while enough to keep the passengers behind in a bouncing heap, proved of no avail in shaking off that hunting yellow-headed animal behind. There soon were its eyes glinting. Then its strident voice could be heard above the din of the truck: Bairp, bairp, bairp, bairp! Darcy’s eyes were rolling with fear, now not so much of the hazards ahead but the menace behind. Still Pat urged him, ‘Give ’em enough dust they’ll drop back!’ That’s the way it was beginning to look, too — when, turning a sharp bend at too much speed for the clumsy vehicle and the scary driver, the truck skidded in deep bulldust, all but capsized, recovered by the grace of circumstances, but crosswise on the road and with engine stalled.
At the moment they were out of sight of the pursuer. But the roar of his engine was close enough to set Pat fairly screaming when Darcy failed to restart. The engine was so hot that steam from the radiator was turning the dust on the windscreen to mud. Pat took a wild look into the dust behind which the menace was snarling now right on their heels. He leapt out of the cabin, dashed into the scrub.
The police truck also almost turned over in its sudden stopping to avoid collision with the other. Only a glimpse of those aboard, before they were obliterated by their own dust, but enough for sharp eyes to pick them out: Constable Stunke and those two hulkers earlier referred to by Hannaford as Bogies and Gestapo Shit, in front, and Tipperary and his tracker mate with complexions the same colour as their khaki shirts, clinging to the hood behind. Out of the pall of dust came the bully-bellowing of Stunke, ‘What the bloody puggin’ ’ell . . .’
The high wind whipped the dust away. Now the Bogies were revealed as having shirts khaki-spotted instead of white, and yellow eyebrows. No doubt about those hard-staring eyes — they were policemen’s. Stunke, leaning out, yelled at shaking Darcy, ‘What’s idea givin’ us your dust? I been blowin’ the horn at you for a couple o’ mile. Get off the road and let us pass.’
Poor Darcy’s face was jerking as he flogged the starter. A frightful moment. Then the engine started with a roar, blasting the policemen with a cloud of smoke that started them off roaring, too, and coughing and spluttering. Darcy bumped a tree in backing, then nearly hit the utility. ‘You stupid bloody bastard!’ Stunke yelled.
Then the road was cleared for the law, which with savage glares departed.
Pat came out of a konkaberry bush, stared for a moment at the receding dust of the enemy, then came up to Darcy and said, ‘No good me goin’ out there now. Take me back to Beatrice.’ He waited till Darcy got back to the road, then climbed aboard. No word was said.
Nothing was said till they were passing Beatrice Station homestead, the white roofs of which across the river showed starkly against the inky background. The Sun was gone, whether sunk or lost in the liver-coloured cloud now filling the western sky could not be judged. But it was close to darkness. Coming out of black-browed brooding, Pat said, ‘You can drop me at the Racecourse. Don’t want anyone sticky-beakin’ ’bout you coming back. Now, listen. Those blokes’re coppers from the South. They come to take Rifkah away.’ Darcy’s eyes grew large. ‘I was tryin’ to get to her first. I want you to tell her I tried to get out . . . but not to worry, because we’ll be doin’ sumpin to beat ’em. If you can’t talk to her herself, tell the Old Bloke. We’ll be doin’ sumpin, remember. And not a word to the coppers. Right?’
Exhaling fearfully, Darcy nodded.
II
Finnucane’s, always lively of train-day evenings, was doing such a roaring trade tonight that Old Shame-on-us had Col Collings and Oz Burrows to help him behind the bar, as well as that old-maid daughter of his, Peggy. Most of the customers were strangers. However, these were showing just as much interest as the locals in the subject that fairly had the latter by the ears: what was going on at Lily Lagoons to send Stunke dashing out there with his trackers and that pair of mysterious strangers who everybody was now convinced were Johns. It seemed that the pair had attracted attention on the train with their aloofness, but had been taken for official spies of some sort, to do with the Railway, the Telegraph, or the Road-building, since they had not spoken to any policeman along the route. Hush-hush business, it was being said. Might be something to do with them Jews, eh?
When Pat Hannaford arrived with Porky Jones just after dark, he was mobbed, because, he was told, he had been seen riding in the Lily Lagoons truck by the Engineer at Beatrice Station homestead, who at the time was working on the pump on the river. Pat, no doubt already informed of this by Porky, answered easily, ‘Balls! How the ’ell could I be out at Lily Lagoons, if I’m ’ere?’ As the Engineer was not present to refute it, the mob was satisfied with so pat an answer, but still pressed him for his opinion of what was going on. His answer to that was, ‘’Ow the ’ell should I know?’
Chas Chase, the guard, said, ‘You was watchin’ them plain-clothes coppers all the way down.’
That roused the crowd again. But Pat had his answer, ‘That’s ’cause I reckoned they was Railways Department Inspectors . . . and I was watchin’ to see if you dobbed me in to ’em.’
The crowd roared over that one. Red to the ears, Chas departed. Soon afterwards Pat and Porky did the same, Pat’s excuse to the protesting Finnucane, who offered to shout, being that he didn’t like his barmen. ‘Likely to put arsenic in me beer.’
Although he departed leaving mirth behind him, it showed how far from feeling mirthful himself was Pat the way he dealt with Clancy Delacy, with whom he almost collided out on the verandah. Clancy, who had been over in the Squatters’ Corner of the bar and staring hard at Pat throughout his stay, evidently had whipped out and round to meet him as he left. Scowling in reply to Clancy’s staring, Pat demanded, ‘What’s wrong with you, mug?’
Clancy bridled. ‘Nothing. I was just going to ask you a civil question.’
‘There’s nothin’ to be civil about between the likes o’ you’n’ me.’
Clancy swallowed, said with difficulty, ‘No . . . I don’t suppose there is. You don’t know what being civil is.’
Pat sneered, ‘No?’
‘No!’ Clancy flamed as he said it.
Pat also flamed: ‘Wan’ make sumpin of it, Mug Squatter?’
Clancy panted, ‘If you want to . . . Mug Commo!’
Those near the door of the bar had heard, were surging out, crying, ‘Fight!’
The cry went up in the bar, ‘Fight!’
Finnucane slipped under his flap and came barging out in his apron, to find the pair glaring at each other. He leapt in between them. ‘Ah, now, me boys . . . two intelligint laddies loike yo’selves behavin’ loike common navvies . . .’
Pat snarled at him, ‘Get donkey-walloped!’ He turned away suddenly, stepped off the verandah, went off into the wind-tossed darkness towards the railway, followed by Porky.
The mob tried to capture Clancy and get an explanation. He flung them off, also stepped off the verandah, and went walking up towards Barbu’s.
Down in the barracks, Pat and Porky were preparing supper from food from their tucker-tins, when to the surprise of both, Clancy appeared in the doorway of their quarters. Clancy’s face was hardly friendly, as he said, ‘How y’doin’?’
Pat scowled. ‘Still lookin’ for lash?’
Clancy swallowed. ‘I wasn’t looking for it in the first place. I told you I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Nobody’s stoppin’ you now.’
Clancy glanced at Porky. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone.’
‘If you can’t talk front o’ me mate, you can go and get . . .’
‘This is very confidential.’
‘Nothin’s too confidential for me mate to ’ear.’
Clancy hesitated, then cast a glance behind, as if to be assured no one else was near, then in turning, approached by a step or two and gripping the door posts, said, ‘I’ve been down to Ali Barba’s.’
Pat snapped, ‘I d
on’t care you been up in Annie’s room. State yo’ business . . . and then ’op it.’
Clancy swallowed. ‘You were seen in the Lagoons truck . . .’
‘By your scabby engineer. He must’a’ been on the rum again.’
‘Old Ali told me he saw you get into the truck.’
Now it was Pat who swallowed. ‘Did ’e, be Jesus!’
‘He also told me that you took Kurt Hoff away.’
Pat jumped up, his face distorted. ‘What . . . you joined the Gestapo or sumpin?’
Clancy looked haggard, shifted his grip on the door, licked his lips. ‘I’m only worried about Rifkah. Those two who went out with Stunke . . . were they police?’
‘’Ow should I know?’
‘Well, you tried to go out there ahead of ’em . . . I reckoned you must’ve wanted to warn her.’
Pat stared at him for a moment, then asked, ‘What d’you know about Rifkah?’
Clancy swung by one hand in the doorway, looked back again. Pat grunted, ‘Better come in,’ and waved to a canvas stool. As Clancy sat down, Pat asked, ‘Well?’
Clancy cleared his throat. ‘Only that she’s a refugee . . . but I guessed she was worried about something.’
‘Like what?’
‘She did tell me she’d like to get Australian citizenship . . . and when I said it oughtn’t to be hard, she sort of hinted that she didn’t have the proper qualifications. That Lieutenant Dickey, too . . . he dropped something about illegal immigrants.’
Pat was silent for a while, then said, ‘She’s an illegal immigrant all right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m likely to tell you!’
‘Why not? I’m her friend. I was a friend of Kurt’s.’
‘How much of a friend?’
‘There’s only one kind of friend, isn’t there?’
‘I don’ know . . . there ought ’o be. But would you lend a hand gettin’ her away from them Bogies, if they’re takin’ her away?’
‘Bogies?’
‘Secret police . . . Commonwealth Investigation Service. They come up on Sunday’s plane. They got reservations for four to go back on next Monday’s. They got half a coach reserved for Friday’s trip back to Town, too. I guess they think they’ll be pickin’ up Kurt, too.’
‘Where’s Kurt?’
‘Well and truly out of the Country . . . where Rifkah could’a’been, if she had any savvy and wasn’t stuck on hangin’ round with your mob.’
‘She loves it here.’
‘Well, she’s got no bloody hope o’ stopping, what I see . . . unless . . .’ Pat paused, then asked, ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a bloody squatter type . . . Now, don’t get off yo’ bike! You said you were a friend of Rifkah’s. All right . . . the fact that you are a bloody squatter might help.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Look . . . I’m trustin’ you, bozo. You let me down, I’ll find a way o’ killin’ you . . . yes, killin’ you! What we aim to do . . .’
‘Who’s we?’
‘The Party.’
‘What Party?’
‘What d’you think, yo’ silly bastard . . . the United Australia Party, or the Free Australia Party?’ When Clancy looked properly chastened, Pat resumed: ‘There’s been too much o’ this deportin’ business of people with progressive views. We got a real case ’ere. We can make it one o’ persecution o’ Jews, we reckon. I start the ball rollin’ by refusin’ to take a train that’s bein’ used like the trains in Nazi Germany to take Jews to concentration camps. Course that won’t stop ’em takin’ ’er up to Town . . . on a bloody fettler’s trolley, if they can’t go by car ’count o’ rain. But it’ll start sumpin . . . sumpin big . . . through the press. This bloody Federal Government’ll fight us to the limit, o’ course. Still, so long’s we can hold things up. We’ll bung on a general strike up ’ere. They won’t be able to take ’er on the plane, ’cause we’ll pull out the mechanics and fuel men at the ’drome . . . and if necessary stop the mail. Just delayin’ tactics, see. Our idea’s to get ’er away from ’em. Once we done that we’re right. We can get ’er out the country, same’s we got Kurt out . . .’
‘How was that?’
‘Mind your own business . . .’
‘It is my business . . . anything’t happens to that girl . . .’
‘Right. Glad to ’ear you say so. But you was askin’ about Kurt, which’s Party business. Now, we got to stop ’em from lockin’ her up. I think we can do that all right . . . with the persecution business. But we might need some, what they call Respectable Citizen, to stand security for her. That’s where you could come in. Once she’s released, we whip her away . . .’
‘Where?’
‘Party business again.’
‘What’s she got to do with the Communist Party?’
‘Everything.’
Clancy gaped. ‘You . . . you mean . . .’
‘That she’s a Communist. Yeah. That make any difference to you, Squatter Boy?’
Evidently it made a lot of difference, the way Clancy paled and swallowed.
Pat sneered, ‘Won’t ’ave it on now, eh?’
Clancy cleared his throat: ‘Course I will . . . any . . . anything to help her.’
‘Good on yo’, boy! I didn’t think y’ad it in yo’. ’Ave a beer.’
While they drank Pat went on to say that there was nothing to be done till they saw how things were with Rifkah. ‘Yo’ never know.’ he said. ‘They mightn’t ’ave enough on her to bring her in tomorro’. Then, she might do a bunk on ’em there. Others’a’ done it. That creamy kid o’ your brother’s is smart enough to get her away. But what you can be doin’ tomorro’, while I’m doin’ the rest o’ the run, is to find out all you can, if they come in. Okay? Listen . . . here’s that bloody rain comin’. You better do a bunk. We’re goin’ to ’ave supper. See yo’.’
The rain was coming with the roar of a tidal wave, and with almost as much obliterating force struck the township. Clancy all but swam the last hundred yards to the water-wavering beacon Finnucane’s had become. Breathless, he flopped onto the pub verandah, where the mob out to watch the deluge drew back as from a wet dog bound to shake itself.
III
At Lily Lagoons, the Big House was quivering to the monstrous lash of the rain, rocking to the cannonading back over the Plateau. Comfortably at dinner, the tiny household of these days of normal refuge from the world, expressed commiseration for Darcy and his family out there battling what they might well have missed, but for what Jeremy called Darcy’s Funeral-coach Driving. Rifkah said, ‘Poor dollinks . . . and ve so cosy!’
Scarcely had Rifkah said that when what at first had seemed to be the flashing of lightning, proved to be headlights cutting across the yard, to swing towards the house and glare directly in through the eastern windows. The company cried together, ‘Here they are!’
Nanago, Rifkah, and Prindy jumped up, to head for the kitchen, to the back door of which the truck normally would go to unload. Jeremy called after them, ‘Tell him not to bother to get out . . . but go on home. We can get the things in the morning.’
But the vehicle had stopped, with lights still beaming into the dining-room. Jeremy blinked at them. There was a glimpse of oilskinned figures alighting. He looked surprised, then turned at the sudden opening of the swing-door from the kitchen and the entry of Prindy, crying, ‘That not Darcy . . . whiteman, I think.’
‘Eh?’ Jeremy rose, was going to the windows, when there was hammering at the front door of the lounge. He swung to go there, growling, ‘Who the hell’ve we got on our backs now?’
In the front doorway stood a bulky figure in oilskins — the caped oilskins of police. There was another lurking behind. Jeremy stared. The first man spoke: ‘Good evening . . . I am Inspector Ballywick, of the Commonwealth Investigation Service. Would you be the person in charge here . . . Mr Jeremy Delacy, I understand?’
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sp; Jeremy had to clear his throat: ‘That’s right . . . what can I do for you?’
‘We’re concerned with a foreign couple . . . a Dr Kaufmann, and a woman, Rebecca Rosen. We understand they’re staying here.’
Jeremy swallowed: ‘Nobody of that name here.’
‘Perhaps you know them under aliases . . . Doctor and Missus Hoff?’
‘A . . . a Dr Hoff was here . . . but he’s gone.’
‘Indeed? And the woman?’
Jeremy hesitated: ‘I don’t know any woman of the name you mention.’
‘But I’m sure you know the woman we mean, Sir.’ When Jeremy was silent, the Inspector asked, ‘May we come in?’ He motioned to the other man, who had come closer: ‘This’s Sergeant Bugsby.’
With evident difficulty, Jeremy said, ‘There’s a rack there to hang your things on.’
‘Thanks.’
As the two men removed their rain clothes, Jeremy withdrew slightly, glancing out of the eastern windows, where still was to be seen the glare of the utility, as well now as the criss-cross beaming of flashlights, revealing other oilskinned figures.
Coming in, Inspector Ballywick took papers from a wallet, extended them towards Jeremy, saying, ‘My identity, Mr Delacy, and authority to search. Would you be so kind as to lead me to these people?’ The tone was dryly official.
‘What people?’
‘Come, now, sir . . . I’ve told you who these people are, and know they’re under your roof.’
‘I told you Dr Hoff had gone.’
‘We’ll soon make certain of that. Please don’t deny the presence of the woman. We saw her just now at your table.’
Jeremy breathed deeply: ‘What’s your business with this woman?’
‘I’m afraid, sir, it’s just that . . . our business.’
Jeremy went red. ‘It’s my business to protect the people under my roof.’
‘Not such people as I have authority to apprehend. I ask you again . . . please lead me to these people . . . or I’ll use my authority and go and seize them myself.’
Jeremy almost gasped, ‘Seize?’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 155
