‘All right . . . I go tell dat policeman.’ Prindy moved to go.
Clancy gasped, ‘You little bastard!’ Then he added hastily: ‘Wait a minute!’
Turning back, Prindy asked, ‘Where Rifkah now?’
Panting now, perhaps from anger, or guilt, Clancy answered, ‘She . . . she’s in a good place . . . safe and well.’
‘Where dat place?’
‘I can’t tell you the place . . . not yet . . . later on. But it’s a good place.’
‘I want to go dat place.’
‘Eh? Well, I suppose you can . . . yes.’
‘What time I go?’
‘Go easy! Not yet. Next week might be. I’ll tell father . . . your grandfather . . . and he can fix it up to send you there. But you got to tell me about this policeman getting drowned. This is serious . . . bad business.’
Apparently satisfied, Prindy told a simple story of a horse’s shying on the limestone crossing, the spilling of the party into the flood, his own fetching up against a rock, while the others were swept away.
‘How come they didn’t get to the rock, too . . . seeing you were chained to ’em?’ asked Clancy.
Prindy shrugged. Clancy answered himself, ‘Must’ve unlocked the cuffs, eh?’ Apparently he’d noticed that only one was unlocked. He added, ‘So they wouldn’t pull you after ’em. Rather decent really.’ Then he asked, ‘Anybody here see you come?’
‘No-more.’ Prindy told of leaving his horse back at the gate.
‘We don’t want too many knowing about it,’ said Clancy. ‘But something’s got to be done about reporting this. You just can’t let a sergeant of police . . . expecially Cahoon . . . drown and walk off.’ He pondered a moment, then said, ‘I got an idea. You say no police are at Lily Lagoons now. I’ll take you over there. The old man’ll know what to do. Look . . . you get back to Corella and camp the night there . . . and I’ll ride over first thing in the morning, and pick you up. Right?’
Prindy agreed, and slipped away.
III
At Lily Lagoons, Jeremy, having been warned in good time of the approach of horsemen from the North, naturally believing he knew who they would be, took little notice. However, when apprised of the facts by a breathless informant, he fairly flew out to meet the party. In reply to Clancy’s quite filial greeting, he demanded, ‘What the hell’s this?’
It was left to Clancy to explain. Prindy just met the grey-eyed staring with his own. Concluding, Clancy said, ‘I reckoned it’d be better if you reported it.’
Jeremy asked, ‘Where is Rifkah, then?’
Clancy coloured slightly. ‘I made a promise not to divulge it till the proper time. Anyway, you’ll be informed.’
‘She’s in safe hands?’
‘The best, I’d say.’
‘You couldn’t get to marry her?’
Clancy went redder, hung his head. ‘No . . . that part didn’t work out.’
‘Why?’
Clancy was obviously embarrassed. Avoiding the quizzing grey eyes, he answered, ‘Look, father . . . I can’t say any more . . . only that she’s safe.’
‘I only hope so. We’ll be having the police out again. Will you be staying to see them?’
‘No . . . I’d rather be left out of the whole thing. If you’ll let me have a fresh horse I’ll be getting back to Catfish.’ A rather different Clancy this from the one so hard to get rid of recently.
Giving him a glance that inferred as much, his father said, ‘Well, have a bit of lunch first. You, young fellow . . . have to get the hack-saw to work on you. Then a big feed, eh? You look as if you need one.’
After the big feed, Prindy settled down before the gramophone to play that record of the Cantor’s singing L’Shanah Tovah, snatching bits of it with his clarinet. Then he fell asleep, deeply asleep for the first time in so long.
While Prindy slept, Jeremy worked the radio to rouse officialdom from its Saturday afternoon indulgences. The AWA Station in Port Palmeston got him both Superintendent Bullco and Professor St Clair to speak to personally. Bullco, shocked to hear of Cahoon’s presumed drowning, was much easier to deal with than usual. Evidently the death of Sergeant Bugsby, already known to him, hadn’t caused him much concern. Now he was blaming Inspector Ballywick for the loss of his own Sergeant, the best man he had, as he declared. The death of Jinbul didn’t seem to trouble him at all, although he would be truly the best man he could ever hope to have. Far from dealing with Jeremy with the usual hostility, he said he would be obliged if he would make a search immediately in case there were a chance that Cahoon might still be alive and in need of help and also to provide him with means to get out to Lily Lagoons as quickly and easily as possible, as he intended to come down tonight by special train to investigate the matter himself. Jeremy said he thought it would be possible to take the truck in to Beatrice by tomorrow morning. It was about Prindy that Jeremy spoke to Professor St Clair, telling him that the boy had been involved in no way in any guilty business, but only scared into running away, and asking that he be returned to the custody of himself until such times as it might be proved to the boy’s actual detriment. St Clair, perhaps through not having his official Advising Anthropologist, Dr Fabian Cootes, beside him at the moment, agreed readily enough.
Jeremy went off at once mounted on Elektron to take a look at the Rainbow Pool and such other spots further back as were accessible and likely to yield any evidence. There was nothing. The country was draining fast. He got back to the homestead just on dark.
An early start for the Beatrice was made in the big truck next morning. Jeremy himself went along with Darcy, perhaps making a concession to Superintendent Bullco’s amiability, or for some politic reason not usual in his dealings with police. Prindy was left at home.
The journey took five hours, as against the little more than one when conditions were good. They arrived at the Racecourse to see the special train, driven by Jack Tinball, puffing across the bridge to meet them. An odd thing, as Jeremy remarked to Darcy, when those who were coming could have nipped over on Toohey’s trolly, if too tired or scared of the river to walk. Jeremy exclaimed again at the mob aboard. Soon the reason for the oddity was revealed. Most of the mob leapt out to converge on a bundle of black being helped out by others — the Cahoon Sisters, large and small, clinging to each other in abject grief and being supported in blind movement by as many hands as could get to them, closest of which were those of Shamus Finnucane, towering above all and looking as melancholy as a well-paid undertaker. ‘God . . . do we have to have them?’ muttered Jeremy.
Yes — the sisters would be coming to Lily Lagoons, Superintendent Bullco whispered to Jeremy, after coming up to him and shaking hands like an old friend. ‘Terribly cut up, as you can imagine. Want to see where it happened. Hoping against hope that it didn’t. But there can’t be any hope, can there, seeing you never sent me word?’ Jeremy shook his head, and meeting the eyes of the sisters raised for a moment from large white handkerchiefs, gave a sympathetic nod. All he got for his courtesy were terrible red-eyed glares and a betrayal of how well the stricken pair could operate under their own steam if they wanted to, by the suddenness and stiffness of their turning their backs on him.
Finnucane surrendered his place of honour in conducting the sisters to the truck in order to descend on Jeremy, still looking lugubrious, but with that light in his eyes that told he was after information. There was no avoiding him, because he was holding out as bait the red envelope of an urgent telegram, booming, ‘Jerry, me boy . . . just given to me for ye be Col Collings.’ That he knew what the telegram said was evident enough in his utter lack of interest in Jeremy’s opening and reading it, while he muttered, ‘Terrible thing, terrible business. Haven’t you got the young feller wit’ you? Terrible thing!’ Still, he couldn’t have missed seeing the effect the message had on Jeremy.
Jeremy went red, blinked hard, swallowed. It read: HAPPY INFORM YOU HAVE ARRANGED RIFKAH BE GRANTED CITIZENSHIP STOP ONLY MATTER OF BEING S
WORN SORRY IF DISTRESS CAUSED STOP ASSURE YOU FAULT NOT ENTIRELY MINE STOP HOPE SEE YOU BOTH SOON STOP AFFECTIONATE REGARDS MARK.
Having permitted the reading, Finnucane got down to business: ‘Indaid ’tis a terrible thing . . . wit’ them poor souls besoide ’emselves wit’ grievin’, and that inspector feller ravin’ in drink of the Divil himself behint it all and set on wipin’ out all policemen . . . which doesn’t help much, you may be sure, wit’ two simple and religious ould biddies like themselves here. They’re naturally antagonistic, Jerry. I want to warn ye. But it’s all but out of their moinds they are. Be koind to ’em, Jerry, me boy. A terrible thing. But might I ask what exactly it was that happened, now?’
Jeremy met the avid eyes with brows arched high above them, answered dryly, ‘It’s been reported. Simply an accident.’
‘But so many accidents, man! There’s a limit to credence in coincidence, ye know . . . o’ course I’m only speakin’ o’ the common person . . . but there it is, and what wit’ one thing and another, there’s a lot o’ talk goin’ on. And the gurrl, that lovely gurrl, and all this chasin’ after her and men getting killed, for nothing. How is she, be the way . . . well, I hope?’
‘So do I,’ said Jeremy, and walked away to see to the loading of the truck.
Besides the Cahoon Sisters and Bullco, only two young policemen from Town and two trackers who were strangers would be coming out. Jeremy left it to the solicitous mob to place the sisters in front. Then he found that they wanted to get out again and ride in the back when they found they would have to ride with him. He promptly gave the driving seat up to Darcy, and got in the back, where Bullco quietly congratulated him on his forebearance, adding: ‘They thought the Sun shone out of Dinny, you know.’ As if that were excuse for vindictiveness in the depth of grief.
That wasn’t the end of the vindictiveness by any means. When they arrived at Lily Lagoons, towards evening, and the truck pulled up before the porch of the Big House, the sisters refused to alight with the others, declaring to all the world, except Jeremy, and Nan who was waiting just inside, that just as their Poor Brother had never accepted the hospitality of this place, neither would they.
Jeremy spoke to them then: ‘Look, ladies . . . I respect your constancy in hating me. But isn’t this taking things a bit far? There’re comfortable beds waiting for you. You needn’t eat with us if you don’t want to. Believe me, you have my true sympathy.’
Miss Kitty answered with a tearful shriek addressed to the world again: ‘Our Dinny always said that the place was only a blacks’ camp, anyway!’ What was inferred was made plain by a toss of the silly little old-fashioned black velvet hat towards the plump figure in the doorway. Jeremy went red, but only shrugged, and told Darcy to take them to the harness-shed, then turned to usher Bullco and the young policemen in.
Most likely Nan was there for the very reason of acting the hostess to Bullco in the approved style, instead of her own usually shy appearance after guests had settled in. Jeremy said with ease, ‘You know Superintendent Bullco, dear?’ Nan nodded, smiling her sweet plump-cheeked smile. The fact was that while she and Bullco knew each other by sight, they had never spoken. She wisely refrained from the somewhat unladylike custom of the land of giving her hand like a man.
Bullco, all amiability, nodded and smiled too. ‘How d’you do, Missus!’
The constables did likewise when introduced.
Bullco was equally amiable with Prindy, who rose with squatterling dignity at entrance of the guests. ‘Hello, young feller! Been through some pretty tough business lately, eh?’ Then he added, bending with a sort of confiding air and placing a hand on a small poplin shoulder, ‘You’ll help us, won’t you?’ Prindy nodded gravely.
The bit of a drinking session to begin with and then dinner went well enough, even if there were some strain of over-politeness. However, the rest of the evening was made easy by a momentous announcement in the radio news that gave scope for lively discussion without heart-burning, as no doubt it did throughout the Nation. The Prime Minister had died suddenly. Despite what a legion of mealy-mouthed so-called Leaders of the Nation had to say in simulated sorrow and tribute, the first thought in the minds of most people concerning the Departed One would be summed up with the word Rat. Even those who gained through his betrayal of the principles by mouthing which he had started on his way to political power, namely those ideals of a true Commonwealth of Australia as dreamt of by the Australian Labor Party, had despised him for his arrant opportunism. His Pegging Out, or Turning Up His Toes, as those here more honestly called what the lugubrious legions were calling His Passing, wouldn’t mean so much to the Nation generally, since he had sold out to interests that during his five years or so of office had entrenched themselves too securely ever to be dislodged again except by force such as did not exist in the lousy make-up of Australians as a whole. However, it was likely to affect conditions in these parts drastically, as every change of Government did, even if only nominal, this being a region dominated by bureaurocracy that needs must change with the inevitable replacement of bosses, however petty. Bullco was much Concerned about that. It might well presage complete reorganisation of the local Administration by appointment of a new Administrator.
Jeremy expressed interest in eventualities likely following the death of a strongly Catholic leader of a predominantly Protestant Junta, the ingrained bigotry of Australians being what it is. Everybody knew that it was the Catholic Church broke the old Labor Party, the formation of which it was largely responsible for through its early Irish anti-British-Imperialism, and that the just-dead Sawdust Caesar owed his elevation to it. Now the Church was militant in the very opposite direction, supporting even Imperial vested interest rather than let the Labor Party reach the degree of radicalism inevitable with the encouragement of the Church’s old enemy, Communism. Jeremy’s outspokenness in the matter offended no one, since none of the guests was Catholic, a rather odd circumstance when policemen were mostly of Irish origin, and perhaps in this case due to deliberate policy on the part of Bullco, choosing his men so as not to risk making a Finnegan’s Wake of his investigations. Anyway, none of them liked politicians, and so were at one in expressing contempt for the scramble for power manifest even in the drooling of those who were come to praise their Caesar prior to burying him.
As the guests were tired, the evening wound up fairly early. Perhaps as a precaution against interference, Prindy was taken by his grandfather to the annexe to spend the night. Before retiring they had a long talk in the den. By no means all of it was about the smart way to deal with the situation. There was that red telegram to discuss. Prindy went off to bed with it in his pyjamas’ pocket.
What the Cahoon ladies thought of being served excellent meals in the mean quarters of their vindictive choosing was not disclosed. Perhaps, since served as usual by black hands, they reckoned it simply as service to the superiority of their breed. Anyway, sustained with porridge, omelette, coffee, next morning they went forth, again driven by Darcy, but this time in the utility, to the nearest point reachable on wheels to where, as they put it, their Darlint had been taken from them into the arms of Our Lord Jesus Christ — with a whack in the stomach for the liberty. Prindy, who travelled with the others in the big truck, had a glimpse of them at their whacking and beadtelling, as they knelt at the spot where the party had gone overboard. They could not get nearer to the exact point of Dinny’s delivery because of the intervening ooze, or he nearer to them to see what they were up to because of their having shown a tendency to break off whatever they were doing, no matter how devout, at sight of him, and to scream, ‘Half-bred spawn o’ the Divil . . . you were the cause o’ this!’
Prindy, with his grandfather always close beside him, showed the police the exact spot. Not that anything was to be seen there but smelly slabs of rock under which water could still be heard pouring. Back on the mossy rock of the crossing was ample evidence to corroborate the boy’s simple story of the fall off the horse and what fol
lowed. Still, Bullco, in what sounded like a kindly way and might well have been a policeman’s ingrained habit of talking during investigation, did seem to be trying to trap him and also to get him to speak of Rifkah. Here it was that Jeremy would intervene, saying that there was time enough for elaboration of the story when it came to making out the proper statement — and as for the business of Rifkah, that was Inspector Ballywick’s. Bullco desisted each time without demur.
Bullco said that he wanted, if possible, to get everything cleared up today, so as to be able to make a definite report to Town tomorrow. As an inquest into the death of Sergeant Bugsby was pending and best held at Beatrice, where the witnesses Stunke and Tipperary would be available without further disruption of the police services of the region, and Inspector Ballywick, too, since surely they would have him Dried Out by then, he saw no reason but to have the Coroner down on the next train, to clean up both cases in the same Court Sitting, on Thursday. To that end the investigation was conducted.
While the ladies were returned to the homestead and their hide-strip beds in the harness-shed and their alternate keening and cursing in the good old Irish way, the others went to the Rainbow Pool. Nothing was found but the rainbow — nothing. As the sisters wailed when Bullco went to them with a funereal air and a bottle of brandy to relate the sad news, if only they had something to Remimbrance By of his Last Moments. If only that chevroned arm giving the Hitler Salute could have been found for them!
But Bullco had something for them, at least as a promise. Since Dinny died doing his duty he would be entitled to that highest of awards to policemen, the Medal for Devotion to Duty. That would be something for them to be proud of. So affected were they by the thought of it and the brandy that they wept in a different way. Then the fat-head Bullco spoilt it all, probably owing to his helping himself to the brandy too liberally too, by adding that since there was evidence that the boy had been released from the drag of the chain to save his life at the expense of Dinny’s, why not also the much-coveted George Medal for Bravery? He did not know the Irish. That started them shrieking again, worse than ever by reason of the brandy: ‘If only that yeller imp of Satan had drowned instead of our Darlint! A curse on that divil-child and on this house that shelters him!’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 170
