Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  She looked across the sea, towards the lazaret, with old bubbeh’s eyes that now seemed to know what it was, what it meant, in a world where compassion must for ever be cancelled out by the urge to dominate. She answered shortly, ‘No.’

  As he helped her down the stairs he went on: ‘It’s such a simple way out. Otherwise you’ll have to go to the Comms.’

  She said, ‘I vont to go to ze bush.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Anywhere . . . vit’ blacks . . . who vill hide me . . .’

  ‘Not them! They’d betray you for a stick of tobacco.’

  ‘I do not believe it. All haf been goot friendt to me. Pliss vill you tek me in ze launch somevere zere are blacks?’

  ‘That’s mad, darling . . . you can’t live with blacks!’

  ‘I cannot live free vit’ vites . . .’

  ‘Now, be reasonable . . .’

  ‘Pliss, Clancy . . . pliss!’

  They reached the launch. Sighing he helped her aboard, started his engines, cast off, swung out to sea. But he kept looking behind, and before they were out of the bay, while she was staring at St Francis Xavier, said, ‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’ When she shook her head, as if himself taking inspiration from the tall-masted ship, he added: ‘That Father Glascock, the missionary . . . that’s his boat. He might be able to help. He’s a nice chap . . . not a bit like a priest. What say we go back and have a word with him?’

  Now her eyes were back on the lazaret. ‘No.’

  He sighed again. ‘Okay. Well, we’ll go over to Rainbow Beach, just the same. We can think about it there.’

  They were silent until they had turned the headland and were heading into the jade and silver blaze of the West. Then he remarked, ‘I thought you were only particular about Jewish food. Why can’t you get baptised?’

  ‘Zat mek me Christian.’

  ‘Does that matter so much?’

  ‘I am Jew.’

  He sighed. ‘I still don’t get it.’

  She said, ‘For Jew, ze tauchen . . . that is German word . . . is ze vorst zingk.’

  ‘But you were telling me at the Lagoons about ritual baths and things that Jews have. Isn’t it much the same thing?’

  ‘Ze Jews hafsuffered mooch from tauchen.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It is vay Christians haf to hurt Jews. In ze pogroms . . . ze persecution . . . zey vill catch Jews and tauchen zem . . . sometimes vit pissen, urine. My Zaydeh tell me of ven he is little boy, some Jewish children are drowned in tauchen business. I have been tauchen vit’ stinkingk urine in Nazi camp . . .’

  ‘The bastards, eh! I see what you mean. But . . . well, old Maryzic wouldn’t do an awful thing like that. It’s only that it means a lot to him . . .’

  ‘To me it means a lot to be Jew.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘For Jew to give up beingk Jew is like blackfellow give up Dreamingk for viteman vay . . . it only mek him what blackfellow call Bloody Nutching. You understand?’

  He didn’t. That was evident in his turning quickly away. Another little silence while they cut the jade tide with purring engines. Then he said, staring ahead, ‘There’s still a chance with Fatty Doscas. I’ll get in touch with him early Monday morning . . . ring his house. I’ll be able to tell if he’s heard anything from the police about you. If he hasn’t, I’ll arrange for him to marry us as soon as he opens his office.’

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes were on the turmoil, exaggerated in mirage, of the tidal waters on the Rainbow Reef.

  He overcame the silence, for himself at least, by pointing out the features of the harbour and talking again of its potentialities as a great seaport but for the perversity of its tides. He showed her where lay the best points for fishing, crabbing, prawning. He told how his family had scored a point on the tides by having a passage blasted in the reef so that they might have access to their beach resort at all times — only, as he laughingly confessed, to create a shifting sandbank problem at their front door. ‘Almost makes you believe in that old Rainbow Snake, doesn’t it?’ She appeared to be listening to him, while dreaming over the distant places. When eventually they made the passage, passing through walls festooned with dripping seaweeds, she was plainly fascinated by the myriad sea creatures scuttling from their noisy intrusion, among them a red octopus, that having with amazing facility packed itself into a crevice a fraction of its extended size of a square yard or so, regarded them balefully with golden eyes. Clancy shouted above the clangour of their passing, ‘Greeks eat ’em. Greeks’ll eat anything.’

  The western shore was now revealed, but still as something of a realm of fantasy by reason of mirage, the bush behind and the Delacy buildings appearing to be perched on white cliffs cut with purple bays beaten by sweeping silver seas. In fact the seeming cliffs were Those Blasted Sandbanks, as Clancy called them. ‘You never know where they are. They shift about with the tide. What’s needed’s an extension of that wall of rock there . . . see, to the South of the houses . . . to make a groyne. Trouble is to get labour these days. Blacks won’t work since they’ve been feeding ’em so well in the Sweet Creek Settlement . . . and the Greeks and the rest’re all on the defence works, the oil tanks and the road. There’s some Greeks there . . . see ’em away there on that big bank?’ He pointed to elongated stick-like figures. ‘Fishing. They can’t live without fishing. Lot of ’em been imported lately by local Greek contractors. They come over here weekends to fish and booze and . . .’ he chuckled, ‘. . . chase the gins.’ He added: ‘Better take a look at ’em, I think. The old halfcaste women we got there as caretakers can deal with ’em usually. Still, it’s best to show ’em the Boss’s around. Greeks can get cheeky.’ He swung the launch southward.

  Soon two small launches were to be seen lying in a channel between sandbanks. The so-called Greeks, who were really Aegean Islanders, had a net across the channel. There must have been a score of them. Assisting them were some naked blacks. More blacks, mostly women and children, were well back on the beach, sitting in the shade of the first line of scrub, the casuarinas. All watched the approaching vessel, evidently much more interested than afraid. Clancy quickly guessed the reason. ‘They’ve spotted your hair. They’re fascinated by red-haired women . . . blacks, I mean . . . you know, the old Koonapippi business, and all that . . . and I suppose the Oxes are, too, being dark people.

  Clancy was the happy boy again, evidently having forgotten what had happened to his romance so recently. Swinging the launch so as to give the watchers a full view, he grabbed her, put an arm about her. The blacks, at least, fairly hopped with excitement. He let go the wheel to wave. Everybody waved back vigorously. He looked at her smiling. She smiled back. He kissed her. They missed the effect of that. Nor did it interest them, he glowing, she looking as if surprised and perturbed by his sudden renewal of ardour. He guffawed, ‘That’s what I like to see . . . that smile!’

  He swung the launch back northward. He said, ‘That mob’ll be along to take a closer look at you, don’t worry. But wait’ll they hear you’re a new Mitchitch Delacy!’ He met her eyes. ‘Because you’re going to be that after all, aren’t you!’

  Her eyes rolled slightly. Still, she smiled. He kissed her again.

  They entered a wide channel, to see two female figures coming towards them down the steep beach, accompanied by a brace of dogs. ‘The old girls,’ said Clancy. ‘Don’t bother to take anything ashore. They’ll bring everything . . . except you . . . that’s my job.’ He chuckled gleefully.

  They ran in for about a hundred yards before the launch grounded. ‘That’s it,’ said Clancy. He took a boat-hook to depth the sand-murky rushing water, then removed shoes, tucked up trousers, and slipped over the side. He extended his arms to her. Without hesitation she slipped into them.

  As they approached the women, now splashing towards them in the shallows fed by streamlets bubbling from the sand, Clancy murmured, ‘Let me kiss you. It’ll give ’em a great thril
l.’ He did it without waiting for agreement. The dark wizened faces split into grins. Leathery claws came up to hide eyes in pretence of not seeing. Beaming, Clancy said, ‘Goodday Loochee, Mylee. Look what I been bring him you . . . new Mitchitch!’

  The pair squealed with delight behind their hands. When they peeped, Rifkah smiled at them, saying, ‘Hello!’

  Guffawing his delight now, Clancy continued on his way with his bright burden. ‘You simply got to marry me now!’

  Once again her mood changed utterly, in coming to land now as when formerly she had left it. Her eyes shone with delight at what she saw about her, no less than his at sight of her. As they came out of the water, she slipped from his arms, to bend and touch the satin-shiny micaceous sand, patterned as it was with tide-ripples and the tracery of tiny claws. She pounced on the little denizens of the region, laughing when they so skilfully dodged her. He caught her a largish hermit crab and showed her how to whistle it out of hiding. She would have stayed there on the water-line, marvelling at the life, but for his pulling her towards the house. Then she found more childish delight in the form of a scattering of bright seeds under a large abrus tree. He could stop her from gathering them in large quantity only by telling her that she would disappoint the old servants, who would want to give her one of the many necklaces they’d strung with them. She was then diverted by the variety of tropical fruits, mostly fruiting: tamarinds, jacks, monstereas, and a rose garden, and bougainvilleas of many hues. ‘Vot a loffly place!’ she sighed when at last he dragged her away from it all and made her lie in a hammock under the trees before the house, while he swung her.

  ‘Lovely place for a honeymoon, eh?’ he said. ‘D’you know, there’ve been lots of honeymoons here. We’ve often lent it to couples. And yet, there’s never been a Delacy honeymoon. Would you believe that?’ He smiled eagerly. ‘What about we’re the first, eh?’

  When she smiled at him he bent and kissed her, then snatched her up, and ran with her to the house, across the front verandah, into the big sitting-room into which the front door directly led. She was alarmed, struggled, protested, while he only laughed. When he set her down and saw the alarm in her face, he asked, ‘Don’t you know the old custom of carrying the bride across the threshold?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Don’t Jewish bridegrooms do that?’

  Perhaps because he looked downcast now, she smiled again, saying, ‘I zink moost it be cave-man custom, yes?’

  He glowed again, grabbed her, kissed her, let her go, panting, ‘Oh, I do love you!’

  Another delight she found was an ancient phonograph with cylindrical records of songs popular about the time of the instrument’s manufacture. She played White Wings, Thora. Clancy chuckled, ‘Gran’pa Delacy’s idea of music.’ She said it was very sweet, and had him take it out onto the verandah. There was a large box of records: Nelly Bligh, Killarney, The Exile of Erin, Will You Stop Tour Ticklin’ Jock. He played them to her while she lay on a cane lounge, looking out across the now flooding harbour at the town extravagantly high-perched on its cliffs because of the light effect. Windows there were already blazing in the level light of the Sun.

  The musical session was interrupted by Clancy’s crying out, ‘What’d I tell you!’ He pointed to that rocky wall of quartz which shut the Delacy place off from the stretch of beach to southward. At the top end the quarters of the servants stood under trees. The blacks were crowded there, peeping across. Seeing the Boss laugh, the bolder ones came out to stare frankly. Clancy said, ‘I’ll call ’em over, so they can have a good look at you and put it on the bush-telegraph. But I’d better get some tobacco. They never fail to put the nips in, given the chance.’ He signalled to the blacks to come, then ducked inside, to return in a moment with a box of trade tobacco.

  The crowd hung well back from the verandah, except for two old fellows wearing loin-clouts of flour-sack most likely put on for the occasion, who came with what they described as Prejent for Mitchitch. The present consisted of a pair of huge mangrove crabs, alive, with murderous claws bound, carried in a bag of paperbark.

  Clancy asked them, ‘How you like him my Mitchitch?’

  They answered together, ‘Properly!’ The sentiment was echoed by a murmur from the others, staring hard. There was an audible indrawn gasp as Rifkah smiled at them.

  Then Clancy handed out the tobacco and told the admirers to clear out, which they promptly did, well knowing their place in the scheme of things. As they went, Clancy remarked, ‘Those two old yeller pieces didn’t waste any time marrying us, did they?’ He guffawed, and called the women over, not to chide them, but also to give them tobacco and the crabs to cook for the picnic tea. Rifkah confessed that she had never yet tasted crab, that she guessed it wasn’t kosher, but that didn’t matter, because she wished to try.

  While they waited for the crabs and the setting of the fixed table out under the trees the Sun went down, causing the town windows to blaze with gold.

  They had tea in twilight that became moonlight as Igulgul, hanging in turquoise above the town, took over. For a few minutes the town looked enchanted, like one of fairy castles. If only Igulgul could do that occasionally to the inhabitants, they might have got used to living less meanly, since, as it is said, use is second nature. As it was, it being Saturday evening, at least half the town would be getting drunk and the rest preparing to take the consequences. So it was over here, too, where sounds coming from down the beach told of the beginnings of those revels for which Clancy had said the Greeks came over of weekends. Although he had laughed over it then, now he growled, ‘Sounds a bit close. Have to have a word with the police about it. If they start making a habit of that sort of thing, it could spoil our own parties over here.’

  With the tide at the full by now, the launch looked a long way off, lying out in the blaze, like something detached from time. The dinghy, moored to an oar stuck in the sand, was actually hugging the shore-line of the moment, broached to the little lap of the tide, gently moving, as if breathing against a gleaming white mothering breast. Here and there a big fish leapt as a momentary fiery flash, plopped back to its fight or its fate. Quiet plop-plopping everywhere in the stillness. Scented smoke from smudge-cans of cypress sawdust, lit at sundown by the halfcaste women to discourage the sandflies and mosquitoes, rose like incense.

  Clancy and Rifkah sat on deck-chairs, out in the moonlight, just clear of the trees. He held her hand, talking most of the while, but softly, as the conditions demanded. She just sat staring at the sea, half smiling. He talked mostly of his boyhood, how he had loved coming home to this sort of thing from school down South and had always hated going back: ‘The South’s like a foreign land to us Northerners. Even the country people’re like townies compared with the townies here. I’m so glad you like it and want to stay here. I never want to leave it myself. What I’d like’s a small place of my own, to get away from Vaiseys. Father was right not to give into ’em. I can see that now. I only wish he’d take me in with him and teach me stock breeding. I could take the place over from him when he dies.’ When she looked at him, he gave a little laugh, ‘Well, he can’t last for ever, can he?’

  He raised her hand to his lips. ‘How’d you like to be mistress of Lily Lagoons?’

  She smiled. ‘You are dreamingk.’

  ‘Maybe . . . but my dreams all seem to be coming true.’

  The slow swinging of the launch to the change of the tidal flow caused Clancy to talk again of that trip to the East, as he called it, meaning northwest to the Isles of Spice. The breeze started by the outward movement of the vast silver mass brought the sweet smoke drifting through the trees — and louder sounds of what was going on along the beach to southward.

  Soon it became evident that it was not simply the breeze making the sounds of revelry louder, but approach of the revellers. They were singing. A musical instrument was playing. Clancy growled, ‘If they think they’re coming in here they’ve got another think coming.’ He sat stiff now, eyes o
n that natural barrier against intrusion on aristocratic privilege, the gleaming wall of rock.

  It was an accordion that was making the music. Mingled with music and singing was the mirthful squealing of blacks. The dogs of the halfcaste women began to yap, to be silenced by their owners. ‘Wonder what the bloody fools are up to?’ said Clancy. ‘Come and have a look-see.’ He helped her up, supported her with an arm about her waist.

  They had gone but halfway to the rocks, while the riot beyond increased, when the sparkling mass close to the halfcaste quarters became alive with leaping figures. They were pale-skinned, with black heads, most stripped to the waist and wearing only shorts or drawers, and all seeming to have in hand masses of vegetation, creepers, some of which they waved above their heads. The accordionist leapt onto a peak of rock and stood there swaying to the wild music he was pumping from the snorting squealing instrument.

  Clancy roared, ‘Hey . . . what the hell you think you’re doing?’

  The mob answered by coming racing towards them, babbling their lingo, waving the wreaths, which proved to be lengths of the beach convolvulus, so-called Bindweed.

  Clancy kept on roaring, ‘You got no right here. I’ll get the police . . .’

  But undeterred, the intruders formed a half-circle round the couple, while one of them, a tall well-built young man wearing khaki trousers rolled to the knees, came right up to them, laughing and gesticulating, speaking a mixture of his own language and what went for English in the local Greek community, from which it could be gathered that they were there to wish the newlyweds luck. ‘Belong Greek fashion!’

  The blacks were showing at the rocks now, but staying there.

  The young man shouted, ‘We-lot dance-dance!’