The Archbishop eyed him with keen if faded blue eyes, while an Irish smile played about his wide thin lips. ‘Delacy . . . Delacy. Now that remoinds me of the ould song . . . And they say that it’s Frinch for her name! It was common Lacy back in the Ould Sod, I’ll be bound.’ Jeremy acknowledged it. The old man chuckled, ‘Sure, ’tis noice to come so far up in the wurruld that you nade to change your name to mate the new circumstances. You’d be a drinking man, Mr De-lacy?’
Jeremy had been prepared for this. ‘Yes, Your Grace . . . and I took the liberty of bringing along a little something.’ He had given a case of the best whisky to the servant who admitted him.
‘Sure, and it was thoughtful of you.’ The long thin ringed hand reached for a small bell. A hunched old man in black appeared, bearing a tray with the wherewithal.
Sipping and savouring, the Archbishop began his sly quizzing. Jeremy stuck to instructions.
‘Patriotism,’ said His Grace. ‘A much bandied and misused wurrud. Patriae solum omnibus carum est, says Cicero . . . The soil of their native land is dear to all men’s hearts. Or, according to Field, Patriotism has its roots deep in the instincts and affections. Love of country is expansion of filial love. Yet Dr Johnson, who was nobody’s fool, declared for posterity, Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. What say ye to that, my son?’
Jeremy shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say, Your Grace. I only know that my own feeling for my country is all-abiding, however it may be judged.’
‘An honest answer, from one I’m sure is an honest man. As to Dr Johnson, I think we may ignore him on the ground that he was Cockney. Dwellers in great cities have no love of country as we peasantry have. Their city is their fatherland. They are more like soldiers in a garrison . . . with the surrounding country to support them. That has not yet come to our own cities. We are still at heart frontiersmen . . . I mean those of us who don’t come from great cities abroad.’
Evidently the old priest loved to talk, and having satisfied himself about his visitor, let flow the Irish wit and the subtle savagery that can go with it: ‘Spayking of Cockneys, Patriotism, and Scoundrels . . . we have the perfect example of it all in that one of dubious fame a few years back, our own Cockney who called himself also a Welshman and an Australian . . . if indade he was true Cockney even, and not, as I suggested one toime at risk to my liberty, born on wan of those garbage barges that ploy the River Thames at a toime whan it was out of the traditional sound of Bow Bells. You may be interested to know that my saying that at a public meeting during the First Conscription Referendum was wan of the raysons the Commonwealth Police, or Peace Force, was formed. There was no State police officer prepared to swear that I had said it. The other rayson, as is well known, of course, was that of his being hit in the eye with a rotten egg during the same lively period of our history. Do you know, that funny little runt of a man made himself so powerful that we’re lucky we still haven’t got him dictating our lives . . . and deaths . . . for he was a great advocate of death . . . The Last Man, the Last Shilling, for King and Country . . . what country? The crayture didn’t have one. Sure, the scum that roises to the top in this benoited country of ours! I look forward, Mr De-lacy, to what you moight do with your Party to put an end to it.’
Thus did Jeremy get The Blessing. The benefits were forthcoming almost immediately. Labor leaders dropped in at Si’s. Jeremy was asked to executive meetings. He received what Si called The Accolade in being asked to attend a meeting of the Ballarat Branch of the ALP. Si said, ‘Every true reform has to start in Ballarat . . . according to the Ballarations.’
It lasted a week. Old Si would have kept it going indefinitely. But there was that Party Initiation Meeting to be dealt with in Sydney. Si had himself taken to the train in a wheel-chair, carried into their reserved compartment, along with a basket containing two magnums of champagne and decorated with a Good Luck horseshoe tied with ribbon. He grinned in toasting them, saying, ‘Happy honeymoon!’ Alfie giggled. Jeremy burnt. It looked as if he would be burning more, since Si’s intention evidently was that his last words were meant to bind the couple together as irrevocably as a marriage service — when the situation was saved by someone’s stepping into the doorway from the corridor, perhaps with no more intention at first than to give way to someone passing, but after a moment of staring, coming right in, with hand outstretched, booming, ‘Why, Si . . . up and about again!’
It was a big man, aged about fifty, handsome in a flabby way, Mephistophelian, with hair sticking up at the side like little horns, eyes slanting and mocking, mockery in his laugh, so that Si answered rather appropriately when, taking the plump small hand, he cried, ‘Speak of the devil!’ He had mentioned a little earlier, referring to a certain official-like bustle, that he guessed the new Prime Minister, the Spieler, as he called him, this old Yiddish-Australian slang-word for a clever but none too honest talker, evidently being what the gentleman was called by those of his calling, was on the train.
The Prime Minister sat down, showing genuine interest in Si’s health. ‘Shows I’m out of the running,’ laughed Si. ‘When I was on the Ministerial Benches you’d’ve been glad to see me dead.’
‘Now, now . . . that’s unkind. I’ve always admired and liked you, Si. And how’s Alfie? Your book’s a greater and greater success they tell me. If I’d’ve been PM when they gave you that prize I’d’ve made a condition that you gave me a kiss in public. How about it now?’
Flushed and laughing, she leaned with her lips to meet his.
Then Si introduced Jeremy. The Prime Minister was interested at once: ‘Oh, yes . . . I’ve heard of Mr Delacy. Very glad to meet you. Like a bit of a chat with you, as a matter of fact. You’re travelling right through, I suppose? See you on the train the other side of the Border, eh?’ He rose then.
Si said to Jeremy, ‘He’s going to try to talk you into joining his mob. Be careful . . . he’s got the silver tongue!’
The Prime Minister went off laughing. Si laughed, too, with evident pleasure in dealing with his kind again. His kind? Jeremy was staring at him as if surprised. What had Si not said in derogation of this man he contemptuously called the Spieler before and now called the Silver Tongue and whose hand he grasped with such warmth, a hand he had declared would always be against the common people, against Australia as anything but a colony ruled over by a king! Si had said, ‘The bastard will drag us into war at the drop of the British Prime Minister’s top hat. He won’t call for a referendum on conscription. He’s already got his manpower trap set. You’ve got to get behind us, Jeremy, to help get that bastard out . . . or we’ll have him on our backs for years . . . and that will be the stone end of any hope of an Australian Australia.’
So excited was Si by the meeting that he delayed his homily too late. There were the bells ringing, the whistles blowing. All he could get out as they carried him away was a choking cry, ‘Look after my little girl, Jeremy . . . look after my Enchanted One!’ Only a glimpse of him waving from his wheelchair — a wave back as they sped away into the night.
So obviously was Jeremy affected by the anomalous behaviour of Si in the presence of the Prime Minister that even Alfie, bubbling with champagne and excitement, noticed his set expression as he sat watching the flaring glimpse of things within range of their bright windows, and despite his vagueness, divined what was troubling him. She told him that the etiquette of parliamentary politics demanded inviolate truce off the hustings, as in law all lawyers are comrades outside the court. He tended to be ironic about it. She silenced him, saying that the alternative was perpetual civil war. No doubt about it, she was a politician’s daughter.
At the Border, with change of trains they parted to go to their respective sleeping cars. Jeremy found himself sharing a berth with a little bald man, who without delay told him the Prime Minister was travelling with them: ‘A great man. Certainly a silver-tongued orator, but a great statesman, too. Now we’ll be safe from the Unions. That’s what’s wrong with this c
ountry . . . Unionism. No man’s allowed to do a decent day’s work for a decent day’s pay any more. They’re stopped by the bloody agitators that live on their gullibility. I’m a Manufacturing Chemist. I’d make twice the money with half the trouble if it weren’t for these damn Bolsheviks. D’you know, five years ago I could get a qualified Chemist for a fiver a week and work him any hours, and get a first-class job done. Now I’m paying ten and fifteen . . . for a forty-hour week . . . and getting what they deign to give in service. Make you sick, wouldn’t it? But our silver-tongued boy’ll fix all that . . . mark my words!’
Jeremy had so little to say in reply, that his companion lapsed into suspicious silence, perhaps thinking that he may have chanced to unburden himself to one of those very agitators travelling First-class at the workers’ expense. He got into striped silk pyjamas and red bed socks and was just climbing up to the top bunk, when a young man of official mien came and asked for Mr Delacy, saying that the Prime Minister would like to see him in his berth if he would care to come. The little Chemist hung on his ladder like an astonished monkey.
Jeremy found the PM alone, already in pyjamas and dressing-gown, but by no means ready for bed, judging by the array of beverages set up on the collapsible table, together with cheeses, biscuits, cigarettes, cigars. He greeted Jeremy simply: ‘Brandy-man, I understand. Help yourself.’
Pouring himself brandy and soda, Jeremy asked, ‘Do you keep such close tabs on citizens that you know their drinking habits?’
The other’s growing chins shook in a chuckle: ‘No. But I’m interested in a man’s choice of drink. It often betrays his character. And I happened to learn what yours is from a friend of yours.’
‘Yes . . . and who might that be?’
‘General Sir Mark Esk.’
‘Oh!’
They were silent for a while, eyeing each other as they drank. Then the PM said, ‘It’s this military business I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me, how interested, really, are you in getting the Northern Area Command?’
‘Not a scrap.’
‘Ah . . . I thought as much!’
‘Did General Esk tell you I wanted it?’
‘Not exactly. He said he wanted you for it. He was vague about your aspirations. What he insisted on was that you’re the perfect man for the job. Would you consider yourself that in the event of war?’
‘That’s a tough question for any ordinary man to answer. But war with whom?’
‘Anyone.’
‘Are we likely to go to war with anyone?’
‘Anything’s likely these days.’
‘If we were attacked by any nation, I’d serve in any capacity.’
‘You’d wait to be attacked?’
‘I’d wait for war.’
‘Defence?’
‘I’m always on the defensive myself.’
Smiling, the Prime Minister raised his glass to him: ‘Spoken like a politician . . . although you hardly strike me as the type.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then why have you entered the political arena?’
‘I want to see my country free from outside interference. I always have. Apparently the only way to make the Nation aware of it is by shouting about it from the National Parliament.’
‘What you call outside interference . . . where do you think we’d be without it?’
‘We would be independent . . . and by being so would have the self-respect we utterly lack now as a Nation.’
‘Do you realise the enormous task that complete independence would throw on an undeveloped unprotected country like ours?’
‘I spoke of self-respect as the issue. Without that we’ll never amount to anything.’
‘How many of our nine million people do you reckon have any sense of what you call self-respect?’
‘I haven’t any idea. I come from remote parts.’
‘With a dream, I’m afraid, my friend. Do many people where you come from have self-respect?’ When Jeremy was silent, the silver voice went on: ‘Alfie Candlemas in her book, which I understand you inspired, tells of the surrender of your pioneers to the great outside interests, the absentee landlords. Where’s the self-respect there? How much less will be in the cities, where all the masses want is a home of some sort, a job, a little pleasure.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of the people you’re responsible to.’
‘I’m responsible to the Nation, not the people.’
‘Do you have so much respect for that?’ Jeremy coloured as he said this.
The PM eyed him curiously. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I understand that it’s through you the Treaty of Westminster was never ratified.’
‘Why didn’t the Labor Government do it after signing the Treaty?’
‘They might have been too preoccupied with politics.’
‘Maybe I am, too.’
When Jeremy was silent, the Prime Minister added: ‘Where would ratification get us?’
‘It would give us the independence that we only have in token now . . .’
‘You’re on that independence again. I’ve said that we can’t afford to be independent. We’ve neither the population nor the quality of people fit for it. We are still colonial people. The Empire is our country. Let us stick to our countrymen as long as we can. We make a formidable force standing together. Divided, we fall. That’s the ideal I walk the high-wire of Prime Ministership for every day . . .’ He broke off with a yawn.
‘I’ll go,’ said Jeremy.
‘No . . no! Just recollection of the high-wire, the eternal balancing. I’ve had rather a hard day of it today. Tell me something I don’t know about and should. Damn politics. What about the Aborigines? I’m surrounded by experts, each with a different theory. I’d say you’re an expert without claiming to be one.’
‘Do you want to help the Aborigines?’
‘I want to set right a condition that’s giving us a bad name throughout the world, and particularly at Home.’
‘You mean Britain?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you’re Australian born.’
‘To me Britain is spiritual home. But this is politics. Can’t we talk of Aborigines . . . as people, not as political pawns?’
‘But you spoke of our bad name in what struck me as a political sense.’
‘I’m always a politician first. But you tell me about them as people . . . and I’ll see them as that. Politics regarding them can follow. Give me the credit for heading a Government that’s implemented sweeping reforms in Aboriginal administration since having Aborigines presented to us more as human beings than we’d seen them before, thanks directly to our Alfie, and indirectly to yourself . . .’ Another yawn. ‘I’m afraid I will drop off if you stick to politics, old boy.’
Jeremy proceeded to explain his ideas of maintaining the Aboriginal Ethos. To begin with, undoubtedly the PM was interested. However, as it went on, the lids fell lower, lower. Time after time the bulky frame shook itself awake. Aborigines, Aborigines, Aborigines — the lips were framing the words as if in sleep. At length Jeremy broke off, saying, ‘I think we’d better call it a night.’ The bulk became alert. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . but I heard it all . . . most instructive. Glad to have met you.’ The neat plump hand was extended. The silver voice shook off the husk of sleepiness: ‘Take my tip, old boy . . . keep out of politics. You’re not the type. If you persist . . . I’m afraid you’ll come to grief . . . Goodnight!’
Back in his own cabin, Jeremy found the little Chemist reading in bed, ready to pounce. Gravely, as he undressed, Jeremy told how the Prime Minister said he was going to ban both Unionism and Communism in Australia. The red bed socks, hanging over the side of the bunk, fairly danced: ‘I told you so . . . I told you he’s our man!’ Then as Jeremy got into his own bunk he added that the great man also had said that he was dissatisfied with the efficiency of Australian industry and intended to encourage the establishment here of branches of the big British m
onopolies, like Imperial Chemical Industries. ‘What?’ squeaked the Chemist. ‘After we’ve done all the spade-work? I’ll get my Association onto this. If this’s the kind of thing he’s going to do . . . out he goes! Politicians . . . bah, you can’t trust one of ’em!’
Early next morning, Jeremy rose, got a cup of tea, and went through to the Parlour Car. He was standing out on the observation platform, watching the countryside tumble in on the vanishing silver tracks, hill and gully, homestead and siding, to become embroiled like yarded cattle, herd upon herd, when Alfie found him. When she remarked on the stripped bare hills, the eroded gullies, he answered, ‘But it’s still alive . . . and could be brought back to full living with a little love. It’s got like that because it was hated. If only they’d asked the blackman about it, how it was named, why it was named, and seen it as he did, as the sleeping beasts of the Dream Time. Perhaps, through your pen, they may yet see it.’
‘You sound a lot more optimistic than you did last night,’ she said. ‘What happened? Did you see Silver Tongue?’
‘Yes. He spoke of you and your writing.’
‘That’s nice of him. I’ll have to kiss him again when he gets off at Goulburn to go to Canberra.’
‘We’ve passed Goulburn. He also told me to keep out of politics.’
‘He would! He’s shrewd enough to know that you’re the only one to topple him.’
‘I don’t want to topple anyone. I only want people to love this country . . . so that I can have countrymen.’
‘You won’t get him to love it.’
‘I realise that. But he asked me about the Aborigines.’
‘He did that?’
‘Yes . . . mentioning you. Admittedly he said he wants to put things right with them because our treatment of them’s giving us a bad name abroad. But it’s the first sign of guilt . . . the first sign of hope for the future.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 183
