Next day, in mid-morning, Alfie, very smart in a blue tailored suit and little felt hat, came to take Jeremy to the rendezvous with the Chief and the Bloke. They were all to lunch together. She took him to one of the largest buildings in the city — owned and built, she declared with what sounded like pride, by the Chief himself. ‘A remarkable old man,’ she said. She had said it several times.
Curiously, instead of going up from the palatial foyer to something perhaps even more luxurious, hauled by the plush elevator, they went down, by way of plain concrete stairs, into a basement, into a very rough and ready place of business, partitioned into sections with unpainted plywood, where lights glared without shades, and stacks of blue-covered copies of unsold Australia Free stood about untidily with reft-lidded packing cases and packing, and harassed-looking people were bent over various tasks.
Chief and Bloke were waiting in one of the cubicles, amidst a pile of literary junk of all sorts such as to make movement awkward. They leapt from their chairs as the visitors appeared. Again the effusive greeting of cityites. The Chief was quite an old fellow, tubby, almost bald. The Bloke was biggish, stoutish, aged about forty, with small moustache and lick of corn-white hair over forehead so that he looked rather like Der Führer, and was just as wooden-faced, despite all the yelping and gesticulating of his greeting. Chairs were drawn up for the visitors. Jeremy was watchful, sparing with words. The others were watchful, too, but quite vociferous. They asked him questions, then proceeded to answer themselves; or rather to conduct small debates between themselves on each subject. They seemed to be knowledgeable on all subjects, from Aborigines to Determinism, Religion to Rationalism, with just enough difference of point of view to make debate of it. Thus, till suddenly the Chief hauled from his waistcoat pocket a large old-fashioned gold watch, and announced that it was time for lunch.
The elevator was called down for them by the doorman. The driver cringed in admitting them, and passed people waiting on other floors, but without even a glance for his sycophancy. They were delivered with deep deference into the heart of a large restaurant. A lanky man in black came rushing to greet them, only to turn and rush away to stand by their table. He properly seated Alfie first although with lackey’s eyes fixed on the Chief, to settle whom he positively leapt. He took their order, departed.
Their table would be the best in the place, in the only windowed corner, with wide views of the city. The Chief set about showing Jeremy the landmarks. Then suddenly the Chief whipped out his Hunter again, shoved it back, clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Service there . . . service!’
The clatter of tongues and tools eased off as nearby people stared. He took advantage of the lull to shout even louder. The tall man in black came running again. The old man demanded of him, ‘Why aren’t we served?’
The man panted, ‘Sorry, sir . . . rather rushed . . . at once.’ He raced away. The place was packed.
The gustatorial din arose again. The Chief resumed his entertainment of Jeremy. But still no service. Suddenly he flamed into anger, thumped the table now, and roared, ‘Service . . . service!’
Now a waitress came, tight-faced, eyes glinting. She was clumsy, slopped soup in serving. The Chief snarled at her, ‘Why did they send you?’
She flushed, tossed her pile of silly synthetic waves, snapped, ‘Why shouldn’t they?’
‘Don’t be insolent. You don’t know your job. I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.’
‘The place’s packed. You’s last in. You expect to be first served?’
‘Yes, I do. Stop serving. Get me the manager.’
The girl looked alarmed, faltered, ‘What for?’
He roared, ‘I said get me the manager!’
She vanished. The lanky man appeared in her place, cringing. ‘Sir?’
‘That girl was grossly impertinent. Dismiss her . . . and send me a senior waiter.’
‘Yes, Sir . . . sorry, Sir . . . the girl’s new . . .’
‘I said dismiss her and send me a senior waiter . . . with fresh soup!’
‘Yes, Sir.’ The manager fled.
Meeting Jeremy’s surprised eye, the Chief said, ‘Slipshod’s anathema to me.’
Jeremy swallowed. ‘You own the restaurant?’
‘No . . . but I own the building.’
A male waiter came with finely balanced tray. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ commented the Chief, watching the swift expert service. When the man was gone and they were settled to their soup, the old man caught Jeremy’s eye again. ‘You don’t approve, Mr Delacy?’
Jeremy flushed slightly, lowered his spoon, said shortly, ‘Well . . . since you ask me . . . no.’
A glimmer of amusement in the faded eyes. The ghost of a grin. ‘May I ask why?’
Jeremy drank another spoonful, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m unused to city ways.’
‘Please don’t hedge. I like frankness. I think you’re a frank man. Why don’t you approve?’
Jeremy flushed. ‘Well . . . you admit that you don’t own the restaurant . . . yet you interfere with its management, simply because you own the building.’
‘You’re wrong there. I’d’ve done the same at any restaurant when I was kept waiting at a reserved table and served so badly. I told you I abominate the slipshod.’
‘Was there any need to demand the waitress’s dismissal?’
‘It was meant as a dressing-down for the manager. How dare he send me a novice!’
‘The girl will be the sufferer, though.’
‘The lesson will teach her to wait on people properly . . . if that’s the job she chooses to do. I find that stupid people learn only by drastic lessons . . . don’t you?’
Jeremy concentrated on his soup.
The Chief, slopping his soup, went on: ‘This whole Nation needs drastic teaching. That’s why I formed our Movement. Australia as a whole is slipshod. I thought we would be agreed on that.’
The waiter was hovering to take the soup plates and serve a silver grill he had under a dome on a dumb-waiter. When Jeremy declined the portion offered him, the Chief exclaimed, ‘Come, come, Mr Delacy . . . from what I’ve heard and read of you, I’d hardly think you were a man to get in a pique!’ But the eyes were glittering with amusement, the thin mouth twitching with a grin.
Jeremy met the eyes calmly. ‘I’m not piqued, Sir. I’m not in the habit of eating in the middle of the day. Mrs Candlemas will tell you that.’
‘I beg your pardon. Very wise. You look a fit man. It’s true we dig our graves with knife and fork, most of us. But don’t deny me the pleasure of contentious debate. I see I haven’t won my argument for efficiency. Where did I fail?’
Reddening again, Jeremy replied, ‘Well, Sir . . . your demands on others seem to amount only to arrogant assertion of your power over other people.’
The eyes gleamed with pleasure. ‘Why should I not assert power when I have it?’
Jeremy turned quite red. ‘I beg your pardon, as your guest . . . but you sound like the supreme egoist.’
The grin split wide. ‘You compliment me with the word Supreme. Aren’t we all egoists? Isn’t egotism the primary incentive to human endeavour?’
‘You may have a philosophical point there. But I’m sure the majority of people, however precious their ego might be to them privately, are simply bewildered about it, thinking themselves of no account at all.’
‘They are of no account if they think so. Are we, who are aware of the fact that we account and can increase our accounting, to truckle to these what’d you call ’em . . . bewildered No-accounts?’
‘At least be kind to them.’
‘Explain yourself. The word Kind is vague in usage, I find. It means actually to do with Kin . . . the natural feeling one has for one’s kindred. Are No-accounts my kin?’
Jeremy blinked, fiddled with his napkin, while the old fellow chewed his steak and watched his discomfort with evident glee. At length he said, ‘Well, take the case of the young woman. In her inexperience she thoug
ht you lacked consideration for others there . . . last in, want to be first served. Presuming the manager’s been callous enough to carry out your order to sack her . . . callous being my word for the opposite feeling to kindness . . . and presuming that kinship basically is identification with one’s species . . . what if she has domestic problems, drunken husband, children to feed . . . I presume she wouldn’t be working for the sheer love of it . . .’
‘So much presuming by an obviously logical mind! If she has such problems, can she not come and state her case?’
‘And grossly humiliate herself!’
‘Humility’s part of her job. That’s why I said she’ll be a better waitress for the lesson.’
‘Suppose she can’t get a job after this . . . has to Go On the Town, as they say?’
‘I’ll suppose nothing but that she’s a fool if she can’t get herself out of this difficulty.’
Jeremy drew a deep breath. ‘I must say, Sir, that for one advocating a Free Australia, you sound to me like some old English overlord.’
The old fellow laughed merrily, glanced at his tame Führer who was eating as if numbering the chews, and who, as if feeling it required of him, raised his wooden face, to glare at this one taking liberties with his Chief.
Jeremy, still red, said, ‘This Brave New Australia of yours sounds like being what they call Tough Country . . . at least for some.’
The old man cried eagerly, ‘Naturally, my dear fellow . . . for those who, because they can’t make the ranks of the Elite, kick against the traces.’
‘You make it sound like dictatorship.’
‘What else could it be?’
Jeremy blinked. The old man pressed: ‘You’re a patriot . . . you want to be proud of your country . . . well, how do you envisage it?’
‘As a brotherhood . . . with the land the bond.’
The Bloke broke in with a laugh and a spurt of spittle: ‘Egalitarianism? It died on La Guillotine!’
The Chief chuckled and twinkled: ‘I guess the Eskimos have brotherhood . . . only the bond is ice.’
The Bloke roared with laughter. Alfie giggled. Jeremy’s face didn’t change. When they fell silent, he said dryly, ‘Your conception of Free Australia is evidently very different from mine.’
‘You’ve read our published views,’ said the Chief. ‘And as you’ve experienced yourself, we’re quite prepared to publish others’ . . . provided they’re rational. By the way . . . this’s a good subject for literary debate in the paper . . . How Would You Have The New Australia Run . . . eh?’
Here Alfie cut in quickly: ‘There’s the meeting for him tomorrow night. Jeremy should be given the chance to voice his opinions there!’
‘Of course, of course!’ cried the Chief. ‘It could be the liveliest meeting we’ve had yet. I understand a lot of people want to meet our hero here . . . some simply because he chucked the Colt in the drink . . . ha, ha, ho!’
The Bloke echoed the laugh, then looked dreamily away as if at a vision of himself as having the power that the Chief was telling Jeremy the Colt had but such as in which no one would dare throw him in any drink. That incident tickled the Chief very much. Evidently, for all the Colt’s power, which included even dictating to the Labor Newspaper because he had a financial lien on it, he despised the man. ‘You ought to be afraid of him,’ he said to Jeremy. ‘But I guess you’re not . . . ho, ho, ho!’
After the meal the two great ones went back to what Jeremy, while he and Alfie went to the Hotel Australia for a drink, called their Fascist Forge in the basement. Calling their hang-out a forge was due to the Bloke’s having claimed that his father was a country blacksmith. Jeremy remarked that he was more modest than Mussolini, who claimed to have been a blacksmith himself. ‘Don’t you believe it?’ asked Alfie.
‘Not after hearing that he also claims to tame wild horses. The two things suggest the strength to mould powerful objects to one’s will.’
‘You can’t say Mussolini isn’t a strong man!’
‘I’ll bet my boots he isn’t a horseman of any kind. He hasn’t the build for it. You’ve got to be long in the legs to stick on anything but some old jade. He’s the same build as Napoleon . . . who was so poor a horseman, I understand, that horses had to be carefully selected for him so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself falling off.’
‘Don’t you think Napoleon was, in his way, a great man?’
‘I suppose Ned Kelly was.’
She squeezed his hand, laughing. Whether it was the brandy they drank, or the infection of Alfie’s enthusiasm for what lay ahead, Jeremy was in much brighter spirits than he had shown since his arrival. When they went home to her place, Alfie got busy with her planning on the phone.
That night there was quite a big gathering at the Candlemases’. Eager talk went on till midnight, with Jeremy the centre of it. He looked different tonight, not appraising, but lending himself for appraisal. Alfie flitted about like an excited moth, one that has got the wavelength of a mating male. Nevertheless, all the organisation of this momentous meeting was hers. She had mustered the most worthy of those interested in Free Australia, many of whom had dropped the idea completely in disapproval of the course the Movement had taken. She’d had to convince them that Jeremy was their true Messiah. Now in her knowledge of the inner circle she had to tell them what must be done to overthrow the false prophets. Jeremy must be declared Leader tomorrow night. Every available hand must be there to hail him; and the opposition must be taken completely by surprise. Yet she could act the love-excited little girl.
Next day she was a little bee in her busyness. So much had to be done to follow up last night’s decisions. She did it. Over early dinner the trio had at the Candlemases’ flat that evening, she declared that she was positive every available member of the Movement, some two hundred, would attend tonight’s meeting, all with a sense of great expectation, although few would know of what. Many times she cried, ‘This is really living, isn’t it!’ She told of some lively campaigning with her ex-politician father, but added: ‘It was never like this! This is really living . . . with all that’s involved!’
Again it was to that large building belonging to the Chief they went. This time it was straight into the elevator and up again to the top floor, now into a compact conference room. Already the place was filled, with the principals on the rostrum. The Bloke had the Chairman’s place. He leapt up to give Jeremy the Sydney Hug. The Chief remained seated, but reached for Jeremy’s hand and wrung it with no less hearty insincerity. Jeremy was seated next to him. On the other side of the Bloke was the Secretary, a bald whisp wearing pincenez and crouched over minute-book.
When the place was full, proceedings began with the usual rigmarole of Secretary. Then the Bloke rose to announce, in his somewhat high-pitched but flat and echoless voice, that this meeting was special in that its purpose was formal induction of one already well known to the Movement for his forthright contributions to their organ — a Nominator, please? Alfie sprang to do the job, fairly shining as she told of the candidate’s patriotism and his courage in dealing with all who negated that precious thing, concluding rapidly, so as to beat the sob the eulogy in its crescending emotion threatened to use as a full stop: ‘Not only the truest, greatest Australian I’ve even known . . . but . . . but . . . the greatest . . . truest . . . man!’
Such was the emotion of it that it compelled silence for a long moment — except for a small nanny-goat bleat from right at the back. Eyes on those on the rostrum focused on that point. It wasn’t a goat at all, but one who fancied himself as a stallion, Mr Colt. Then the applause broke forth, as perhaps never before at one of those flat-voiced Führer’s meetings. There was even stamping. Alfie, dropping back beside Jeremy, blinking on tears, whispered, ‘There . . . I told you they’d love you!’
The Bloke restored order with a Hitlerian thumping of the table with a fist. Then he barked, ‘Seconder!’
Dickey the Banker rose, and would have given a Boy Scout’s breathles
s forecasting of the wonders the new Scout Master was bound to work for the Troop, only the Bloke intimidated him with an irritable gesture, and took advantage of his faltering to pipe to the audience, ‘All those in favour?’
Almost every hand shot up.
Alfie was on her feet as the hands came down, crying, ‘Speech . . . speech!’
The crowd took it up. ‘Speeeeech!’
Jeremy was rising. But there was Mr Colt, already up and shouting, ‘Wait on . . . what about those not in favour?’
The Bloke snapped, ‘Those against?’
Only the Colt’s hand. The Bloke snapped, ‘Carried almost unanimously.’ The bald little scrivener wrote.
But the Colt wasn’t done: ‘Opposition has a right to state objections. If the majority knew what kind of man the candidate really is, they’d think twice . . .’
The Chief called through cupped hand, ‘We all know he chucked you in the drink last Sunday, Tom. You advertised it too thoroughly . . . ha, ha!’
There was a general laugh, above which the Colt fairly screamed, ‘That shows what a thug he is! But what I want to tell you is . . . he’s got a black wife!’
Dead silence. The Colt looked round, grinning now. But old Dickey leapt up, he the screamer now: ‘Shame . . . shame!’
The crowd took it up: ‘Shaaaame!’
There was tussling round the Colt. He appeared in the aisle, apparently about to deliver an address from there. The Bloke hammered for order. The Colt yelled, ‘I’ll have my say!’
The Chief spoke to the Bloke, he hammered again, crying, ‘Sit down, Mr Colt . . . or remove yourself!’
The Colt gaped. ‘Eh?’
The Chief whispered again to the Bloke, he passed it on: ‘Sit down or get out!’
‘Right!’ yelled the Colt. ‘Accept my resignation . . . and no more ads in your dirty Hun rag!’
‘Let us weep!’ bawled the Chief.
The Colt swung round towards the entrance, glared over the audience watching him in silence. At the door he wheeled, yelled, ‘I’ll ruin you, you bloody bunch of cranks . . . ruin you!’ He vanished.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 180
