Hearing of the arrangements to have the Inquest got over this week, the sisters asked Bullco if he would also ask that a priest be sent down on the train so that their Darlint might be consigned to the Hereafter Daycently, in accordance with the Faith of his Fathers. As it was considered that his mortal remains must be lying somewhere along the bottom of the Beatrice River (no one dared think of crocodiles) the idea of holding the Burial Service beside the River at the township seemed quite proper. As they said, but raising their voices again to make it heard far and wide, ‘We don’t want it held here . . . amongst haythan blacks and yeller divils and atheistic half-bred Irish!’
Bullco, rejoining Jeremy in the annexe, was inclined to apologise for the unseemly yelling. Jeremy put him at his ease: ‘The Irish have relentless memories. The wake only adds fire to the feud. They’re realists, I guess.’
When Bullco got in touch with Town by radio to arrange things as he wanted them, Jeremy also made contact with Bill Billings, the lawyer, whom he asked to come down to hold a watching brief for him and Prindy at the Inquest. When all this was done, including the drawing up, typing, signing, and witnessing Prindy’s Statement, it was decided that the party had no further business here at Lily Lagoons, and would best be getting back to Beatrice.
Thus on Tuesday morning, after a substantial smoke-o to sustain them for the trip, the visitors departed, unfarewelled by the household for fear of rousing the Irish of the tearful sisters to deliver a parting shot. Darcy drove again. Jeremy and Prindy would be following tomorrow, as usual in time to meet the train.
IV
Uncle Clancy also was there to meet the train, nodding amiably to his father and nephew, but keeping his distance, as of old. They let him. Hadn’t he frankly said he wanted to be left out of this messy business? Plain to see how messy it was, the way everybody else kept their distance from them. Even scary old Tom Toohey, with whom they would be spending the night, did no more than pay his respects and then busy himself with railway duties. More so that fearless one, who normally would have braved a lion’s den to be able to Tell the Wurruld what the lions were up to, old Shame-on-us, had only a nod for them, as he came rolling across from his pub when the train came rolling in. The fact that Finnucane was meeting the train rather than standing by to meet the rush from it of those perishing with thirst meant that there was someone very special aboard.
Well, here she was, with Pat Hannaford hanging out as usual, but without the grin either of amiability or mischief. He ignored Clancy, as in former times, his class-enemy. However, he nodded to Jeremy and Prindy, eyeing them sharply. As ever he gave Col Collings the Fascist Salute, but, curiously, bestowed it on old Shame-on-us as well, to the evident surprise of the bushy eyebrows.
As a matter of fact there were several important people aboard. The numerous policemen waiting pressed in to receive him they would regard as most important, the Coroner, dressed in white linen and fanning himself with a panama hat, while assisted, wheezing with exertion, down the steps of the car platform by many hands from behind. It was that amiable mass of humanity, Dicky Doscas. It was to the other end of the car that Finnucane went, along with Bill Bolger and other Irish faithful of the locality, but strangely not the Cahoon Sisters. Here was another massive figure being helped with deference down the steps, he in tusser silk and black hat: Monsignor Maryzic.
Finnucane took possession of the old archpriest, crying, ‘Ah . . . and a grand pleasure indaid it is to be havin’ Your Lordship back wit’ us ag’in . . . even be it an occasion of sad sorrow as well!’
Monsignor Maryzic rumbled, ‘If I do not know der Irish misuse of der English language, Shamus, moost I zink you qvite mad . . . And haf not I told you vun hundret time I am not Lordship?’
Finnucane drooped with humility. ‘Ye Very Riverence, sure, it leaps to me tongue ahead o’ me thinkin’ . . .’
‘Like your famous blarney, man!’
‘Not at all, Father. As oft’ I’ve told you . . . ’tis a bishop ye ought’ve been long since, and therefore as His Lordship the Bishop ye are long established in me moind.’
‘Is all zis blarney worth der awful risk of excommunication it vood mean if der Hierarchy got to hear of your interference in zere judgment?’
‘Ah, now, Ye Very Riverence . . .’
‘Don’t bother! Vere are ze Cahoon ladies? I vood expect zem to be vaitingk, seeingk zey send for me?’
Finnucane got his mouth up under the black hat. ‘As a matter of fact, Ye Riverence, I want to give ye toimely warnin’ . . .’
‘Zat zey do not vont a clergyman so mooch as an Irishman to conduct der service, yes? In zat case, vy not yourself to conduct ze Burial . . . it vood be quite in order?’
‘’Tis not exactly that, Ye Very Riverence . . . although I’ll admit they were rather expectin’ Father Ryan down. ’Tis that they’re in a bad way, poor souls . . . cryin’ ’tis Divil’s Business and such koinds of unholy nonsense, through one thing and another bein’ too much talked about round here, and which, to be sure, you’ll put a stop to. But they’re simple old biddies . . . and their loss has unhinged ’em more than somewhat . . .’
Maryzic stopped the patter by waving his walking stick to Jeremy and calling, ‘Goottay to you, Jeremy Delacy! I’ll be vontingk a vord mit you, as soon as you can spare der time.’
Jeremy nodded.
Another voice said, ‘I’ll be wanting a word with you, too Jerry.’ It was Eddy McCusky, hat over eye, the official strut in his walk, as he went on with the rush of the perishing for the pub.
‘We’re in demand,’ said Jeremy to Prindy. ‘Too much, methinks. Come and get the mail and make ourselves scarce.’
But there was no escaping the demand, it seemed. Before they could get into the Station office, Pat Hannaford, grubby handed and surly, came up muttering exactly the same phrase as the others, and drew them clear of the crowd. He said, ‘You know about Rifkah, I suppose?’
‘That they’ve given her citizenship after all?’
‘Yeah . . . and that it’s the Micks got it for her . . . and’a’ grabbed her as cons’quence?’
‘I only know they’ve called off the hunt. I don’t even know where she is.’
To Jeremy’s evident astonishment, Pat explained his version of Rifkah’s translation to the Leopold Mission. Pat concluded, ‘Catholic Action’s behind this, o’ course. The bastards’a’ been running the country ever since Scullin. The fact the Party was helpin’ her was enough to set ’em in action, once they got old Maryzic’s say-so that she didn’t belong to us. He got the dope about her out o’ me . . . with his Jesuitical trickery. Well, they ain’t goin’ ’o beat us. Will you lend’s a hand . . . get her back to Lily Lagoons?’
‘I presume she’ll be coming back herself, when everything’s fixed.’
‘Not on your life, man. Maryzic reckons he’s been talkin’ to her on the radio . . . and that she wants to stay there . . . workin’ for the boongs. Y’ever hear the bloody like . . . a Jewess brought up with Communists, wantin’ to be a nun!’
‘A nun? Did Maryzic say that?’
‘Well, no . . . but you know them bastards. They’ve talked her into stayin’ . . . they’ll talk her into becomin’ a black beetle. That’s ’cause I was silly enough to tell him we was gettin’ her away aboard the Koolpinya. It’s all fixed for her to sail weekend after next. The Party members’re goin’ ’o kick up a row she don’t go, after all the trouble to arrange her passage.’
‘But there’s no need for it now . . . and she never wanted to leave the country.’
‘She won’t be leavin’ the country. The idea was only to ship her down to Port Hartog. The meatworks just opened now, and the mob up from the South. They were goin’ ’o look after her. She’ll have to make the trip. Otherwise we’re goin’ ’o look bloody bunnies. They’re waitin’ for her. They want her to tell ’em about conditions in Germany.’
‘What can I do about it?’
‘Get her overland.’
‘It’d take a month.’
‘No matter. She could go on the next Koolpinya. So long’s we don’t have to tell ’em Catholic Action pinched her under our very noses, to make her a black beetle . . . Jesus!’
A flicker of a smile passed over Jeremy’s face. Pat saw it, and scowled. ‘You were ready enough for our help before. Now give us a bit. I got ’o do a bit shuntin’ now. See you later . . . tomorro’. I won’t be takin’ the train to the Head. I’m leavin’ it to Porky and Bill Bolger. Goin’ off sick. Want ’o see the Inquest.’
As Pat went off, Jeremy and Prindy looked at each other, grey eyes into grey. Prindy’s were shining. He drew a deep breath. ‘Rifkah Leopold Mission, eh? I been dream dat. I been dream she been sing out me from dere, when I stand up on Sandstone, looking away at sea. We go and get her, eh?’
‘I don’t know, son. Sounds a bit mixed up to me. Old Whiskers says he got her free . . . now Pat reckons it’s Maryzic. Wait’ll we hear more from Maryzic. Let’s get the mail now and get our gear over to Toohey’s. You want to see Barbu about hearing the record, too, don’t you?’
They stopped at Barbu’s. Prindy had the record of the Cantor’s singing, evidently promised for Barbu’s hearing this long while, along with Prindy’s accompanying it on the clarinet. As Barbu had no gramophone, he was to come over to hear the record on Toohey’s after supper.
So it was. The music session was still in progress, when Jeremy and Tom Toohey, who were sitting out on the verandah overlooking the railway and the invisible roaring river, heard slow heavy footsteps on the clinker path outside. Soon against the blaze of the southern stars a bulky figure appeared. It became a yellowish blur as the light leaking from inside the house caught it. The sitting pair could easily see who it was by the time the visitor reached the gate, but made no move, in accordance with the proprieties regarding uninvited callers. Anyway, everybody knew that Tom had quarrelled with Monsignor Maryzic over his children, whom the priest had wanted to put in one of the missions he then administered to save them from what he called Going to the Bad.
The old man entered the gate, came crunching up the path, puffing and pushing hard on his stick, evidently tired by the long walk. In his free hand he carried the black bag of the priest going to perform an Extreme Unction. He it was who gave the greeting, wheezing, ‘Goot night, gentlemen. I presume I am intrudingk. Still, I did ask Jeremy to see me . . . and ze poor old mountain haf to come to Mahomet.’
The others only mumbled greeting, still without rising. The old priest addressed Toohey: ‘How come it I hear psalm-singingk in ze house of Toohey ze free-zinker?’
Tom grunted, ‘’Tain’t psalm-singin’, Father . . . it’s Jew music.’
‘And vot is a psalm but Jew music?’
The walking stick rose to wave like a baton to the Cantor’s cadence and cascading melody of the clarinet. ‘Zat is Psalm Tventy-Four . . . Lift Up Your Heads.’
Then clarinet ceased, and the volume of the music fell. ‘Oh,’ said the old man. ‘But it moost not stop. Ist too beautiful. Ze boy ist playingk ze flute, Jeremy?’ When Jeremy nodded, he added, ‘Vill you tek me to him, zat I might compliment him . . . and ask him to play me more?’
The two men rose at last. Toohey led the way in. Seeing Barbu, Monsignor Maryzic rumbled, ‘How come you to be interest in zis kind of music, Barbu Ram?’
Bobbing, Barbu answered, ‘In all gootness am I interest, Your Graciousness.’
‘Vell said . . . efen if your idea of gootness does not conform mit recognise moral standard.’
‘Sir?’
‘I haf but a little private joke, Barbu Ram. Now, boy. You know me. Do not look at me as if I am policeman. I vish to tell you how sveet your music. Vill you not play more for me?
Prindy glanced at his grandfather in the doorway. Jeremy nodded.
The priest asked, ‘Vill you not play ze record from ze start? I hear but little outside.’
Prindy responded readily, and when he played, did so quite unselfconsciously, even while keeping grey eyes fixed on the smiling, nodding old man. So truly rapt was the priest, perhaps as much in study of the young face as in the music, that he started when Toohey asked him to take a seat. He shook his head, stood leaning on his stick until the first piece was played through, and Prindy lowered his instrument. Then he clapped his hands lightly, saying, ‘Bravo, my little genius! Please keep playing for me vile I am outside mitt your grandfader . . . I vill be listeningk.’ He turned to Jeremy. ‘I can spik to you alone?’ Then he glanced at Tom, who looked at Jeremy. The old man chuckled, evidently at the show of wariness. Jeremy turned to go back to the verandah. The old man nodded to Prindy, followed.
Seating himself, with the sigh of one making himself comfortable for a goodly spell, with eyes on the stars, the old priest said, ‘Ze boy haf mooch talent. Pity to vaste.’
Jeremy, also seated again, eyes on the flattish Slavic profile, answered somewhat dryly, ‘It won’t be wasted . . . if I can help it.’
‘Ah . . . but can you help it?’
Jeremy took a moment to ask, while the old man lay back in the canvas chair waiting, ‘What is it you want to say, Monsignor?’
The priest took a deep breath. ‘Vell, first I haf message for you and ze boy . . . in Yiddish, vich I am told you vill understand. Ess Gezunter hait.’ The stars twinkled in their eyes as they turned. When Jeremy nodded, the archpriest chuckled. He turned back to the stars.
Again silence. Then the priest began: ‘You are avare zere ist conspiracy to tek ze boy avay from you?’
Jeremy swallowed. ‘I’m always aware of the resentment there is over my having him.’
Maryzic talked to the stars: ‘Now, as zey say, ist cut and dried to tek him.’
‘That’s why McCusky’s here?’
The profile nodded. Monsignor Maryzic went on to say that McCusky had been blabbing to him on the train, having some drink in. Since then he had heard more boozy talk, while himself sitting in Finnucane’s office and officialdom gathered in the private bar next door. He mused, ‘For whitemen who so despise ze blackman, ist surprisingk to hear zem spik of zis silly Devil Business as if legal evidence. Of course, der purpose ist to use against you. But, at least in drink, zey more zan half belief der boy haf Satanic power.’
‘They can’t talk that sort of nonsense in court.’
‘Zey can hint at it. Der verdict in boze case ist foregone — Death by Misadventure. But how can der misadventure happen mitout zis boy of Satanic Power acquired tru beingk left in contact mit Blackfellow Business, ven he should be in Mister McCusky’s special school for makingk good stockboy for Lord Vaisey?’
Another silence till the old man resumed: ‘From vot I gazzer, as soon as der verdict in der Cahoon Case tomorrow is giffen, Mister McCusky vill rise . . . he vill haf possession of der boy already, in his legal right as Protector . . . he vill rise after der Coroner haf say No Blame Attachable to anyvun, and vill confess zat blame attach to some degree to himself for havingk permit zis boy to fall into wrong hand.’
Jeremy breathed explosively, ‘The bastards!’
‘Vell . . . ist zere business to boss people. Howeffer, I zink I can beat Mister McCusky for ze boy.’ The old man waited, with the stars in his eyes, till Jeremy was driven to ask how. Maryzic glanced. ‘You may not approve. You may call it Jesuitical.’
Jeremy grunted, ‘You are a Jesuit, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. But to belong to Society of Jesus does not mek vun suspicious character, vich vot Jesuitical mean. Vot I haf in mind is for sake of ze boy.’ Again silence, which at length the old man broke himself: ‘My idea is to forestall our McCusky by risingk in der court before him and sayingk mooch der same zing as he vood . . . only mitout inference zat der fault ist Jeremy Delacy. I vill blame ze native influence. I also am Protector. I am Missionary. I am member of great institution for savingk soul and succouringk life. I vill spik of der talent of zis boy, his intelligence. I vill say zat under proper care he might efen show vocation for der prie
sthood.’
The old man swung quickly at the sharp intake of breath beside him, demanded, ‘You object?’
Jeremy took a moment to answer, ‘Tell me straight out what your intention is.’
‘I haf several intention, Jeremy. Der first ist get der boy avay from McCusky, who vill only mek outlaw of him. I vill ask him, before der court, for custody of der boy. I do not zink he can refuse. He ist free-zinker in his talk . . . but deep down a Catholic. Der Church is der background of born Catholic. Like nationality. But efen zose who are not Catholic moost be impressed by idea of vun call Satanist becomingk a Christian priest.’
The old Jesuit took to contemplating the stars again. Jeremy waited. Maryzic resumed: ‘But moost I not look ridiculous in my claim. Moost I appear to know more of der boy zan in fact I do. He haf been at Leopold Mission, I am told. Who here knows vot happen zere? Who know he ist not baptise Catholic? In court I vont to go to him and place my hand not on Imp of Hell, but on vun of mein flock who haf strayed.’
The square face turned again. ‘I vont to tell der court zat I am usingk zis boy as acolyte in der sacrament of layingk to rest der soul of der man it is implied he haf kill.’
A smothered gasp from Jeremy.
‘But I am not goingk to stand in der court and lie, Jeremy Delacy. I cannot haf acolyte to serve me in my Christian service who ist heathen.’ A long pause. Then: ‘You follow me, my friendt?’
Jeremy swallowed, said huskily, ‘You mean you want to baptise him?’
‘Exactly.’
Jeremy stared into the eyes that seemed to glow with the starlight. ‘You yourself were baptise, Jeremy. I do not see vere it haf done you harm.’
Jeremy swallowed again. ‘There’s the boy to consider. He hasn’t been brought up to respect any religion . . .’
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