Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The Chief flung back his shiny white-fringed head, laughed uproariously. In a moment everybody was laughing; except the Führer, who stood wooden-faced as ever. When it was over the Bloke turned to Jeremy. ‘You are duly elected to membership of the Free Australia Movement, Mr Delacy. Do you wish to say something in acknowledgement?’

  Jeremy rose, to loud and long applause. The Führer hunched himself, assuming the Hitlerian scowl. Vos ist das — a Rival Führer?

  Jeremy spoke slowly: ‘Fellow-countrymen . . .’ It brought more applause.

  He resumed: ‘It’s good to have my mode of addressing you so well received . . . in a country where compatriotism has so little meaning . . .’

  Another burst.

  ‘Believe it or not, it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever used it . . .’

  Someone in the audience shouted, ‘First time I’ve ever heard it used!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Aborigines use it . . . or rather, simply the term Countryman . . . in addressing one another. Once it would be applied only to one belonging to one’s own tribal area . . . but lately, with so many tribes broken up, I’ve noticed that they use it in speaking to strangers of their kind. I take it to be a good sign of some growing fraternalism amongst them. Their tragedy has been largely due to their lack of identity beyond what the Anthropologists call the Horde, a relationship grouping that’s not easy to understand. I begin with this reference to Aborigines, not because of my alleged tribal connexions through my wife . . .’ A ripple of laughter, ‘. . . My wife, by the way, although of Aboriginal descent, is hardly what anyone except a complete fool would call black . . .’ What had been a ripple became a roar, not merely of laughter but of applause. When it ended he said, ‘I hope your enthusiasm is based rather on sympathy for Aborigines than for me. Intermarriage with these people can be a very complex business. It would take a lot of explaining to you . . .’

  Someone called: ‘It’s sympathy with the Aborigines. We want to help them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By raising them to our level.’

  Jeremy cried, ‘God save them from that!’

  Silence. He went on: ‘What is our level that we can be, as a Nation, proud of it?’

  ‘Hear, hear . . . hear, hear!’

  ‘I’m not here to discuss the Aboriginal problem. When I began I wanted simply to say that I made mention of the Aborigines because I believe that no talk of Australian nationalism can be made without including them, in fact without considering the case of their ruthless dispossession by us before all else . . .’

  The place vibrated to the applause. Even Chief and Bloke were hard at it.

  When it ended he said quietly into his microphone, ‘That’s good. It shows that conscience is dawning where there was only blank indifference before . . . Now . . . I’ve been given the privilege of membership of your Movement . . .’ A ripple of applause. He stopped it with upraised hand: ‘Wait . . . observe that I didn’t say The Honour.’

  Silence. The Bloke and Chief, from lounging in their seats, stiffened.

  ‘I can’t feel honoured . . . because I can’t accept much of what purports to be its ideals . . .’

  ‘Hear, hear . . . hear, hear!’ It came from scattered quarters. These would be Alfie’s strongest recruits. Some people looked askance. The Bloke scowled. The Chief eyed the audience sharply, as if noting the identity of the dissenters.

  Jeremy resumed: ‘I’m glad so many of you approve of my objections. If Free Australia can’t be originally Australian, with policies entirely our own, but borrowed from other countries, whether Imperial Britain, Imperial Japan, Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy . . .’

  ‘Hear, hear . . . hear hear!’

  The Bloke, wooden-faced again, rapped hard, and when Jeremy turned to him, demanded, ‘What’s this?’

  ‘You asked me if I wanted to make acknowledgement, Mr Chairman.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean giving you permission to stand up and criticise . . .’

  ‘The right to criticise is exactly what we want!’ shouted someone.

  ‘Hear, hear!’ The support was greater than ever.

  The Chief leaned towards the Bloke, speaking behind his hand. The Bloke cocked an ear, then said with wooden severity, ‘You will refrain from taking advantage of this situation to criticise, Mr Delacy . . . or sit down . . .’

  Uproar in the audience. Even some tussling. Jeremy stopped it with a gesture: ‘I refrain. I never used the word criticism. I want to construct . . . not pull down.’

  ‘Good on you!’

  ‘What I want to say is what I’ve learnt through careful observation and inquiry since coming into these parts. Undoubtedly there’s a strong feeling for Australia by Australians, and deep concern over mismanagement of the Nation, worse, over ruthless betrayal of it even by some entrusted with the power to run it . . .’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  The Bloke cut in: ‘We’ve said and published all that long ago.’

  Jeremy did not turn to him. ‘It is also very evident that mere club debating and discussion in a magazine of limited circulation will achieve little . . . in fact the reverse . . . since I understand the Movement has lost considerable ground it gained at first through debating itself into involvement in contentious issues that have nothing to do with this country, even in the matter of religion . . .’

  The Bloke leapt up, red of face, and cried something that was drowned in the roar of applause. He sat down, to intimidate them with the Hitlerian scowl.

  Jeremy continued: ‘My careful study of the matter, along with expert advice, has convinced me that there isn’t a hope of getting what we want, without formation of a political party to take its place with other parties in Parliament . . .’

  A great stir in the audience, with more drowned protesting from the Bloke and an audible shout from the Chief, ‘Our policy is against party politics!’

  But Jeremy, so evidently having the majority of the audience, ignored them. ‘We Australians, for all our contempt for politicians generally, are great believers in Parliament. It’s Parliament ultimately that we trust . . . because we know that if we take the trouble to be wise in our choice of candidates, our voice will be heard . . .’

  The Bloke, on his feet all the while, shouted into Jeremy’s pausing for breath, ‘Parliamentary government is discredited, outdated, outmoded . . .’

  A yell from the audience, ‘Shut up . . . we want to hear him!’

  ‘Yes . . . we want to hear him.’

  ‘I’m Chairman!’

  ‘You think you’re Adolf Hitler. Sit down!’

  ‘I’ll declare the meeting closed . . .’

  ‘What do we care? We’ll carry on regardless. Sit down!’

  ‘Sit down, Adolf!’

  The Führer, wooden but very red, sat down.

  Jeremy went on: ‘Parliamentary government, in its true sense of the unrestricted talking-out of things by freely elected representatives, is essential to democracy . . . and democracy is essential to people like us, who haven’t come so far from our humble origins that we can afford to put on airs, any of us, as Elite . . .’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  Chief and Bloke were now slumped in their chairs, looking as if now they dissociated themselves from the proceedings.

  ‘I propose,’ said Jeremy, ‘that out of this Free Australia Movement, the Free Australia Party be formed . . . with an ordinary political platform like any other party, with concern for all the things that ordinary people want, like reform in taxation, pensions, education, and the like, and the same primary aspiration, which is to get our representatives into Parliament to plead our special causes to the Nation, and, let’s hope, eventually to govern and see that our cause is served.’

  This was received only with a murmur. Now the Bloke perked up, sneered. But no one was looking at anyone but Jeremy. ‘I’ve talked to Parliamentary representatives. They’ve assured me that they’ll be glad to voice any constructive opinions of ours till such time
as we can do so in the House ourselves, and when we can, will give our representatives all support. The Communists haven’t just sat in back rooms debating Marx and Lenin, or slanging Fascists in their newspaper. They contest every possible seat with what looks like not the slightest hope of winning . . . but never give up. We’ll have to do the same . . .’

  Someone called, ‘The Comms get money from Moscow . . . as much as they want. Where are we going to get ours?’

  ‘That will be the test of our sincerity. I understand that you’re all comfortable people. I’d say I’m that . . . by dint of saving. We can surely make some small sacrifice to start with. We don’t aspire to anything yet but formation of the Party and presentation of it to the public. As I see it . . . it’s now or never for the True Australia, Australia Felix, that we and our immediate ancestors dreamt of. Another world war is pending. The last one cut off our growth like cutting off our legs. If we’re dragged into this one, it will mean cutting off our hands, our heads, will spell our utter ruin as anything but a dump for surplus population of the world, a quarry for raw materials for an overpopulated world. I don’t say we have to keep out of it. Maybe we won’t be able to. I said Dragged Into It. We must never again be dragged into war like the colonial oafs we’ve always been, to bleed ourselves to death for some Imperium, be it British, American, Russian, German, Japanese, or any other . . .’

  The applause was deafening. When it had subsided, Jeremy said, ‘All we need to begin with is the money to advertise our coming into existence and then for hiring a hall to show ourselves. I’m sorry now that I succumbed to the urge to push Mr Colt overboard. He could have been a great help, perhaps.’

  Loud laughter. The Bloke took advantage of the pause to sneer, ‘You’ll be the first candidate for election, I take it?’

  Half-glancing at him, Jeremy replied, ‘It’s unwise to judge others by oneself.’

  He turned back to the chuckling audience: ‘I certainly won’t be standing for election. For a start, I’m too old for such a departure from my quiet life. For another, your climate would kill me . . .’ A laugh. He said, ‘For the time I’ll take on the job of Chairman . . .’

  The Bloke leapt up, screaming, ‘Will you, by God . . . I’m the Chairman!’

  Without looking at him, Jeremy said, ‘I’m not talking about the Free Australia Movement . . . from which, herewith, I resign. I’m speaking of the Free Australia Party, an entirely different thing, which will publicly dissociate itself from the Movement. Those of you who are prepared to assist in forming a steering committee and all the rest of it, I’d like to meet in another place. This is no inspiration. We’ve got things well organised already . . .’

  ‘I’ll bet you have!’ screamed the Bloke. ‘I knew there was something fishy about you coming down here . . .’

  ‘It’s your Movement that’s fishy,’ someone yelled. ‘It stinks!’

  Laughter — but with some protesting.

  Jeremy, moving from the table to the steps of the rostrum, now without aid of microphone, cupped hands over mouth to amplify his voice: ‘All that’s required now is to know the strength of your approval. May I ask for a show of hands from those who say Aye to formation of the Free Australia Parliamentary Party?’

  At least two-thirds of the hands shot up.

  The Bloke, hoarse now, croaked, ‘You can’t do that . . . this’s my meeting! All those not in favour?’ The rest of the hands, a poor showing against the others, were raised somewhat feebly, except his own, which shot up like Uncle Adolf’s — up and out — Heil!

  Alfie, rushing after Jeremy as he descended the steps, cried joyously, ‘Almost unanimous!’ She grabbed him, kissed him, clung to him as he made his way through the crowd shoving out to shake his hand and pat his shoulders and pledge their support and say, so many of them, ‘The man we’ve always wanted. A man of true strength and honesty . . . a dinky-di Australian!’

  Thus to the door and out and down in the crowded lift. Strangely, the Chief came down immediately after them and offered use of the foyer of the building for the business of collecting names and addresses, and even put his own name on the list. Jeremy was suspicious. However, Alfie and Frank and Dickey said it was like him to do such a thing, that he never bore malice, treated life as a game. As Frank said, ‘He can afford to.’ This was as they went home, just the three of them, to crack a couple of bottles of champagne that Alfie had in the refrigerator as part of her expert campaign.

  The Steering Committee of the Free Australia Party was formed at a meeting at Jeremy’s flat next afternoon. It would have been earlier had those others concerned been able to locate their Chairman. As it was he walked into the flat at noon to find them waiting. He said he had been out on the Harbour again, this time to learn how the ordinary run of people felt about what they themselves considered vital. The depressing result was plain enough in his face, let alone his words. He began by saying that he found Sydney people honestly approachable only on ferry boats, giving it as his opinion that only under the influence of the hypnotic rhythm of engines and blinding marvel of their waterway were they ever relaxed. He had talked to passengers and crew, even to one captain, leading them into giving their views on the state of the country. Practically all frankly stated that they thought it stank, but in what way no one could say exactly. When one talked money to them, suggesting that the trouble lay in the stranglehold of foreign finance, all showed fear. Monkeying with the finances was the last thing they wanted. They’d had too much of it, ‘In Jack Lang’s time,’ as they put it. All they wanted was security. What did it matter who held the money, so long as they got their little whack? As to patriotism, to Australia’s need to think first of itself in case of war, most had said, ‘Well, we’ve got to stand by Old England if she gets in strife, haven’t we?’ Some added: ‘Hasn’t she always stood by us?’ and looked indignant when he had suggested, ‘Hasn’t she rather stood over us?’ Nearly all had volunteered that ‘We Could Do With A Strong Man’ . . . a Mussolini, according to passengers and that captain, a Stalin in the opinion of a couple of members of crews.

  To that Alfie cried, ‘It all means they want a leader, someone to tell them what they want and show them how to get it!’

  The others, who were Dickey the Banker, the Economist, a retired Judge with liberal reformist leanings, an ex-Senator, and a writer of some repute, agreed.

  They began their business over an al fresco lunch, carried it through till dark. Dickey declared that there would be plenty of money, producing a substantial cheque of his own to start the kitty. The Economist took it as Treasurer. Whether he was appointed as such by acclamation or by his own eagerness would be hard to say. There did seem to be a little doubt about it, as Jeremy, who mainly listened and watched, must have observed. Dickey himself took on the job of Research Officer, in which capacity he would look into all matters that stank nationally and come up with the facts for publicising them with purpose. The Judge promised to chair all meetings and so lend his prestige, and also to lend his very efficient secretary. Mr Rumple, the writer, became Publicity Officer. Alfie was formally inducted as Campaign Director, for which purpose the Treasurer would secure her an office in the centre of the city that would also lend prestige to the Party. He himself would include the Party’s business with his own accountancy practice, for a modest fee, if they would not mind.

  When it was done, the Judge took them all off to dine at an Italian restaurant, where the Secretary, a handsome willowy and evidently quite clever young woman, was awaiting him. There and then Mr Rumple sketched on the back of the half-a-yard-square menu the first of the series of the quite clever pieces that thereafter appeared in the press as quasi-news-items but were in fact expensive advertisements, the expense increasing as the Party’s declared policy differed from the paper’s own.

  Despite Jeremy’s own dismal success in sounding out the populace, the response to ordered campaigning could well be described as Tremendous, as those concerned put it. Offers of support and inquir
ies for more information began to pour in the moment the location of Alfie’s plush office was made known. It could be quite truly said that the interest represented all sections of the community, since amongst the correspondence were abusive and sometimes even obscene letters and phone calls from Communists who called them Dirty Fascists and Anti-Communists who called them Filthy Comms. The Communist Press wiped it off as only the Fascist Free Australia Movement waving a bunch of wattle to try to overcome the stink it had caused with its German Anti-Working-Class and Anti-Semitic filth. The Jewish Press had something to say, warning its readers to be wary of what declared itself to be at war with Anti-Semitism, but which was led by one who had encouraged false prophets to besmirch the name of decent Jewry with that faked settlement for Refugee Jews. Australia Free took it up, not to condemn it, but far worse, to give its blessing and remind everybody that the new Party had its beginnings in the Movement. One could almost see that impish grin of the Chief’s behind the words of fatherly advice that declared that Socialism is Socialism and Nationalism is Nationalism, and never the twain shall meet satisfactorily save when hyphenated by some Great Man, like Adolf Hitler or Benito Mussolini, between whose colossal forms it was hoped eventually the Party Leader would rise up truly to make Australia Free.

  In fact, the Movement’s interest was more than an exercise in impishness. The Chief caught Jeremy at his flat. He was quite humble in approach, saying, ‘I’m prepared to kill the Movement, Delacy, if you’ll let me in with you . . . and I’ll back you to the limit of my means.’

  Jeremy, although he had been dodging him since knowing he was seeking him, sat him down and gave him brandy. The old man said, ‘I’ve got this nationalistic bug like you. I’ve always felt humiliated by being denied nationality . . . proper nationality, that is. I haven’t travelled abroad for years . . . because I refuse to do so on a passport that declares me British-born, when I’m born Australian. I know the Movement stinks. But so does every innovation that forces the mob to face reality.’

  Jeremy demanded, ‘Do you call your printed support of Hitler’s lunatic theory that Bolshevism’s a Jewish plot to rule the world reality?’