Jeremy got a hearing again: ‘But what I say is un-natural, is how the spirit of those Currency Lads and Lasses, so strongly assertive at first, has gradually been lost . . . until today we find that it hardly exists at all . . .’
Prolonged applause from everywhere but the left with its tight faces and tight-folded arms.
‘While I was in jail I had plenty of time and need to think . . . and gave my thoughts largely to this matter of love of country . . . Patriotism, Nationalism . . .’
‘National Socialism!’ was shouted from the left.
‘Shit Commos!’ came from the right.
‘Shut up . . . or out!’ bawled the sergeant.
Jeremy kept on at the main body: ‘Patriotism, of course, comes from Pater, Father, one’s Fatherland. Although I’ve called myself a patriot in the past, I’m inclined to reject it now as jingoistic . . . despite the fact that its dictionary meaning is “One zealous for the freedom of one’s country”. Nationality comes from Natus, Birth . . . so, the land that has borne me. But that’s come to stink somewhat, too . . .’
‘And it’s yoour jab to stop stink, ee?’ a loud voice demanded from the left.
Jeremy swung to it. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘Sticks oot a mile, choom!’
‘I’m not your chum . . . but explain yourself. I’m sure there’s a meaning behind your words. Enlighten me . . . and stand up and do it . . . like a man!’
A big hard-faced man rose slowly. He looked official somehow, at any rate better dressed than most of the others. He said in a grating voice, ‘You can’t poot it o’er uz, snoozer.’
‘I’m not trying to put it over anyone. Come on . . . out with it!’
‘Yoou’re heere to wheetwash the Free Awstreelia Fascist Movement.’
‘Aw, rubbish!’ Jeremy turned back to the mass. ‘I was talking about those words, lovely words, really, but distorted by rogues and fools . . . and therefore I’ll avoid them, and use instead the simple expression Love of Country, clumsy though it is. I don’t think anyone can object to that . . . even our immigrant friend over here who can’t shut up and can’t sit down . . . what a pity I called on him . . . I should’ve known better than to call on a Liverpool-Irish Commo!’
The man was still jabbering and gesticulating. The sergeant had to go halfway in to where he sat to shut him up.
Jeremy added: ‘They decry nationalism . . . but I’ve yet to meet the Scotch or Irish or Welsh Communist who ceased to identify himself with his native heath by dropping his accent in favour of one showing he now belongs to the Worker’s Fatherland.’
Loud laughter — except from the left-block.
He continued: ‘Speaking of objections to such a simple natural thing as national identity, let me remind you of all the efforts that are made to deny it to us. You had the example earlier in the compulsory playing of the British National Anthem. You have it in the practice of making school-children salute the Union Jack before going into school, of having the picture of the British Monarch hung on classroom walls. You have it in what I think is its worst example in the Passport. There, despite the fact that the Australian Coat-of-Arms, which, by the way, is not surmounted by a crown but by a star, is on the cover, even if you were born in Boorooloola or Wyalcatchem, inside you are classed as British Born. In fact, there is no such thing as being Australian, legally. We are British Born, British Born, British Born ad nauseam! This is all flagrant denial of that simple thing I now call Love of Country. This is the sort of thing, the supine acceptance of it, that we have to overcome before we can hope to become a nation, before we can hope . . .’
The Liverpool-Irishman was on his feet again, shouting, ‘Before you can start yoour Nationalist Soocialist Party.’
Jeremy looked at him, and perhaps somewhat tired, despite the ruddiness of his face and the shine of his eyes, sighed, ‘You again, Geordie!’
The man shouted, ‘You coom ’ere to launch yoour party. All reet . . . gi’ uz yoour party policy.’
‘I belong to no party. I’m here to talk of Love of Country . . .’
‘This ’ere meetin’s advertoised to launch yoor Free Australia Party.’
‘Don’t you believe in a free Australia?’
‘I doon’t believe in no dirty National Socialist Fascists workin’ their way in to teek o’er country loike bluidy Hitler.’
Cheers from the left. Hoots of anger from the right.
‘You sayed yo’self this Love o’ Country stoof’s only anoother neem for Nationalism . . .’ It ended in a compact Plop and a gasp, as an egg, thrown from the right, hit the speaker fairly in the broad face. Amidst the howls of wrath the action roused in the man’s supporters were whoops of disgust at the smell. The egg was very rotten.
But it was not only the right who were armed for conflict. An egg went flying back from the left. More eggs from the right. Both factions to a man were on their feet. Tomatoes and other vegetables were flying — and abuse — Fascist Bastards — Commo Shit! The police were hurled aside or trampled down. The factions were at grips. People at the back were shouting, screaming. Those on the rostrum were on their feet, staring, gaping like actors on a stage who suddenly see the drama stolen from them by the audience. Press cameras were flashing and popping at the back.
Then there was the drama back on the stage, its actors not the staring ones to begin with, but the Bloke, with that big Liverpool-Irishman after him, the Bloke all eyes and mouth, squealing, ‘Help, help!’, the other all eyes and teeth and reeking egg-yolk, grabbing at his flying coat tails. The coat came off in the pursuer’s huge hands, with the sleeves ripped out and dangling foolishly down the Führer’s arms to make them look like a chimpanzee’s.
The Bloke gave a last strangled cry of Help! as the huge hands spun him and one fastened on his shirt at the throat. They were right before Jeremy, the other side of the table. The Bloke’s bulging eyes looked into Jeremy’s. Jeremy vaulted the table, shot his arm in between them so as to strike the big man’s throat and force him back. The big fellow howled his wrath and came in shaped to fight. Jeremy dodged the blow aimed at him, and as the mass of man lumbered by, gave him his favourite poke in the midriff. The man went at the knees. The Bloke grabbed at Jeremy, who promptly flung him off to face the mob surging up the steps. But perhaps it wasn’t for help the Bloke was grabbing. The Judge was shouting, ‘Jeremy . . . come on, quick . . . this way!’
Jeremy looked round. The manager of the hall was there, urging the Committee out through a back door. The Bloke was already flying through it. Jeremy flung off a couple of would-be assailants and followed. The manager held off pursuit with a heavy chair, and when Jeremy passed through, flung the chair at those behind, then leapt to the door, slammed and locked it. All went clattering down a narrow stairway.
At the bottom of the stairs the manager said, ‘Out that door, and into the lane. Turn right. When you come to another lane turn left. That’ll bring you out into Hunter Street. Quick. They’re breaking the door down. I want to go to my office and call more police. Damn you and your National Socialism!’
Out in the lane, Jeremy found the Bloke grabbing at him again, panting, ‘Thanks, mate . . . the good old Aussie mateship!’ Jeremy flung him off again.
Out in Hunter Street, there was the Bloke plucking at Jeremy’s arm again. Jeremy turned on him angrily. ‘What d’you want?’
The other, with his high-pitched voice, sounded like a pleading little boy: ‘To come with you.’
Jeremy roared, ‘No, by God, you don’t! You’re the one responsible for all this.’
‘I ? Why, it’s you’ve done all the harm!’ In indignation the Bloke’s immature voice cracked like an adolescent boy’s: ‘Everything was going smoothly till you poked your ignoramus nose into it.’
‘You’re as mad as the bloody lunatics overseas you worship! Can’t you see that it’s because of your silly aping of Fascist and Nazi systems that the whole idea of Free Australia now stinks?’
‘Here .
. . I say! What do you know about social science, human bionomics . . . you horse-doctor! The high-pitched tirade ended in a neigh of a laugh.
‘Gentlemen!’ cried the Judge.
Jeremy’s voice came thick with anger: ‘You bastard . . . with your nit-wit conceit you’ve fouled up for ever any hope we had of true nationality!’
‘It’s you’re the bastard.’ Again that neigh: ‘The Bastard from the Bush. Get back where you belong!’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ the Judge protested. ‘This is most unseemly.’
Dickey the Banker also was calling for propriety. He tried to take one of Jeremy’s arms, Alfie another. He shook both off. He was turning to leave them, when the Bloke called after him, ‘Back to your black wife . . . and your Jews!’
Jeremy swung back. Now he was fairly hissing with subdued anger. ‘Listen, you . . . you Aryan Storm Trooper, you white-haired alien in my brown-land . . .’
With most of the group behind him, the Bloke must have felt braver than he had appeared to be back at the hall; and perhaps had it in mind that he had to do something to put that little matter right; or it may have been the taxi approaching looking for fares; but his hand shot out, to catch Jeremy fairly across the face — Smack!
He turned to the taxi now halted just clear of the curb, took the necessary couple of steps, laid hold of the handle of the door, looking back as he did so, to pipe at blinking Jeremy, ‘That’ll teach you to keep your place, bush-whacker. In future just keep out of my way!’ He opened the door, was about to enter, when Jeremy leapt at him, grabbed him by an arm. He took a swing at Jeremy, who ducked, and drove home that punch of his. The Bloke grunted, sagged at the knees, collapsed in the trickle of water running downhill like quicksilver in the moonlight.
‘For godsake!’ cried the Judge. ‘Brawling in the streets!’
The blow must have been one of Jeremy’s best, or the Bloke’s solar plexus particularly sensitive, because the Bloke lay utterly insensate in appearance, white-faced so that his strange wheat-white hair looked dark against his skin, eyes wide, mouth agape. The Judge looked at him, let out a howl, ‘You’ve killed him!’ The group leapt to attend the stricken one.
Not the Judge, who looked aghast, looked around, as if struck with the thought that he had taken his liberalism too far. It must have seemed so when he heard Jeremy growl that he hoped he had. That made him start and stare at Jeremy, who having glanced at his victim and seen that he was in no worse condition that many another he had dealt with similarly, began to get into the cab.
The Judge expostulated, ‘You can’t go away, man . . . and leave him like this!’
‘Can’t I!’ grunted Jeremy, and stepped inside.
Jeremy was just too late in closing the door behind him. As he reached for it, Alfie rushed up, panting, ‘Don’t leave me!’
He said shortly, ‘I want to be alone.’ His arm barred her way.
But she ducked under the arm and flung herself against him, wailing, ‘Oh, don’t abandon me, Jeremy.’ He fell back to the seat with her clinging to him. The taxi driver, indifferent as ever, reached back and slammed the door.
Then the taxi was rolling down the hill. Those left behind shouted something. Alfie, still clinging, wept unrestrainedly. Jeremy sat like stone. The cab swung into Pitt Street.
When they reached his flat, Jeremy would have sent Alfie on to her own, and actually paid the driver to take her — only to find her out behind him. As he tried to induce her to get back in, she sobbed, ‘If you send me away I’ll die.’ There was nothing for it but to wave the bored driver away.
Jeremy suffered her clinging to him down the stairs and into the flat. That was plain by his expression. Perhaps he was thinking of the Desperateness of a Woman’s Love, as described by the knowing one, the father of this woman; perhaps of the desperateness of a dying father’s love for an immature daughter. He sat her in an armchair as one does someone sick, got her a brandy and held it to her lips while she sucked at it and salted it with her flooding tears. The drink steadied her. The wild storm of weeping abated to snivelling. He got her another drink, but left her to drink it herself, poured one for himself and with it dropped into the other armchair, close enough to be able to reach across and give her his big handkerchief. She muttered, ‘Am I a wreck?’ She dabbed and sniffed, and sipped her brandy. After the second glass she got out her compact and began to set herself to rights.
It was a long job, and none too rewarding with those puffed and bloodshot eyes. Taking a last look, she did not ask if she were a wreck, but asserted it. However, the very act of shutting her compact and putting it away changed her mood. For the first time she raised the curly head and looked at him. He met the black shiny eyes for a long moment, then reached for her glass and proceeded to recharge it. She spoke then, low-toned, husky: ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
He took a swig of brandy. ‘How could I want anything as lousy as all that?’
‘But anything . . . so long as you could give it up.’ When he said nothing, she went on: ‘You gave it up before you started. You admitted you didn’t come to form the Party . . . only to talk Love of Country.’
‘What else had I to offer? I’ve always said I’m not a politician. Wasn’t it only my inspiration, so-called, that you all wanted?’
‘The purpose of the meeting was to start the Party.’
‘I don’t recall doing anything to stop it. The stoppage was planned, apparently. You people, with your experience of the meanness of politics. should have foreseen something of the kind and been prepared for it.’
Her face quivered. A moment more of staring at him. Then suddenly she rose, came and flung herself at his feet, head on his knees, arms reaching to get around him. He dropped a hand to her silky dark head, smoothed it while she wept out a second storm. When it was over, she lifted her wet smudged face to his, muttering, ‘What’re you going to do now?’
‘What is there for me to do? I’ve done all I ever could. I couldn’t go ranting up and down the country indefinitely . . .’
‘It’s not ranting. It’s inspiring people with love. Look how they loved you tonight!’
‘Yes . . . particularly that big Liverpool-Irishman, or whatever he was . . . and the Bloke!’
‘They were a minority . . .’
‘But they had all the say, didn’t they?’
‘You always get opposition in politics.’
‘I don’t regard this as politics. I’ve had a dream of a Nation I could be proud to belong to, not as something like a football team to barrack for, or an organisation of clever-dicks to plunder and murder other tribes of men . . . but a grouping of people who by the example of their own honest and dignified living could be an inspiration to the world, a contributing factor to the high destiny I hope for for my species. From my experience since I came down here, it strikes me that I’m the only one with the dream . . . and that makes me the odd man out . . . a freak.’
‘But that isn’t true. So many of us have the same dream.’
‘How many?’
‘You heard how they went quite mad when you called them Fellow-Countrymen.’
‘What’s the population of this city . . . a couple of million? There might have been five hundred people there tonight . . . two hundred in violent opposition . . .’
‘No . . . only the Communists. The others would have listened to you, I’m sure. I was watching them.’
‘How comes the Bloke, then, to treat me with contempt afterwards, to tell me to get back to the bush?’
‘He tried at first to be friendly with you. You told him he was the cause of all the trouble. You hurt him.’
‘Hurt his vanity. That’s what I’m up against in my dreaming . . . the reality of the conceit of others who have another dream . . . one of personal power . . . and the vast majority with no dream at all but of filling their bellies. Maybe the couple of hundred in opposition are all there are in this city. But three hundred out of two million who bothered to come along
and give support! And that three hundred. What supporters! What did they do when the fun started? Skedaddled to a man.’
‘They need a leader.’
‘To leave him to be torn to pieces when things go wrong!’
‘Oh, Jeremy!’ The black eyes welled again; the head sank.
He reached for her glass. ‘Here . . . have a drink. You’ve got yourself all messed up again.’ He reached for his handkerchief, dabbed, while she raised her face to him like a child, eyes closed. She still kept her eyes closed when he had done. A moment. Then he bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. She grabbed him at once, clinging with arms and mouth. When he got free and his breath back, he said, ‘Now, pretty yourself up again.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like to see you looking pretty.’
When she sat back to stare at him, he reached for her compact, gave it to her. She began on her face again, squatting on haunches now. He leaned back, watching, sipping his drink. After a moment, he said, ‘You know . . . it’s really up to you now.’
She stopped her tissuing to stare again. He went on: ‘As your father insisted . . . The Pen’s Still Mightier than the Sword. All the great reforms were done with books. Uncle Tom’s Cabin freed the American Negroes. Tolstoy’s War and Peace freed the Russians . . . at least from Czarist tyranny . . . someone else will have to get rid of the present one for them. There’s your own book, which in a year or so has had more effect on the conscience of Australians about their treatment of the Aborigines than all that’s been preached in pulpits, and spouted by others who saw the evil, in a hundred and fifty years. The old order’s on the skids on account of it. Now’s the time for you to put the skids under those who won’t let us white Australians be what we want to.’
She looked up from her mirror. ‘How am I going to do that?’
‘That’s your job. You did the other pretty well.’
‘Inspired by you.’
‘Inspired by no one but Aelfrieda.’
‘That isn’t true. I haven’t got the strength to do it alone. I’ll have to have you to help me.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 186
