Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Local lads who had become Our Boys were, in order of social grading, Clancy Delacy, Knobby Knowles, Ozzie Burrows, a young fettler named Tim Healy, and the younger of Tom Toohey’s quarter-caste sons, Brumby. Although Martin Delacy declared that he would Give Anything to be in it, he was precluded as a married man, such not yet being accepted. Again, the General Managership of Vaiseys Australia had devolved on him with resignation of his stepfather, Sir Clement Eaton, to go home to England and rejoin his old corps, now with the rank of Brigadier. In much lesser degree it was the same with the Knowles Brothers. Nugget lately had married Miss Phyllis Lilyponds, former teacher at the Old Compound School, in which state of respectability he had been appointed to take Clancy’s place as manager of Catfish.

  Brumby Toohey’s enlistment was motivated by more than patriotism. Vanishment from the scene of those worse enemies of his, Sergeant Cahoon and Tracker Jinbul, had emboldened him to pay a sneak visit to his parents. Then when recruits were called for, he saw further advantage in answering the call, since being a soldier would put him out of reach of civil law completely. That’s how he declared himself to Jeremy Delacy when tackled on the subject. Jeremy said, ‘You’ve beaten the bastards so far with your wits. Why risk your life to do it now?’

  Jeremy should have realised that there was greater advantage in it for Brumby than he declared. An example was his being treated like a whiteman the night before the local boys entrained to go up to enlist and were fêted at Finnucane’s. Apart from being coloured and a wanted man, Brumby was also not exempted from the Aboriginal Act in respect of partaking of intoxicating liquor. It did look as if Constable Stunke would have said something about it, only for Finnucane’s swift intervention. Finnucane declared, ‘Shame on us, if a man who’s considered good enough to foight for us can’t take a drink wid us!’

  Jeremy, who was present at that impromptu little send-off, subtly scored off Finnucane for what he said by remarking, ‘Who’s this us you’re talking about, Shamus? I thought you were neutral.’

  It was a fact that, at outbreak of war, old Shame-on-us, in his delight as an Irishman in Eire’s asserting her independence of Britain by declaring herself neutral, had boasted a bit about the war’s having ‘Nowt to do wid me.’ However, since then, patriots had been saying that those who were declaring themselves Irishmen first should be compelled to register as aliens. It was typical of Jeremy to have that shot at Finnucane. Still, it was done with a grin, which was returned, along with a general chuckle. Jeremy’s amiability these days had been noted. He had not spoken out against the war as expected, even when provoked a bit by people like Col Collings and McDodds. As people said behind his back: ‘The Scrub Bull’s not nearly so hard to get along with these days. Must’ve been what happened to him down South. They must’ve de-knackered him or sumpin.’ That was before it was heard that the lovely young Jew-girl was back at Lily Lagoons, when the old smirking innuendoes were resumed.

  Rifkah and Prindy, along with Savitra Barbu in Rifkah’s care, were brought across from the Leopolds by Fergus a week or so before the new date fixed for the Meeting. Thus Lily Lagoons was brought back to something like that bright life it had known during the spell of magic following last year’s Races. Even if there is no recapturing magic, the glow of it remains.

  Nanago would have handed the kitchen over to Rifkah again. However, the girl had no need of such a shrine as formerly. Cooking had ceased to be the essentially ritualistic thing it had been to her, since becoming aware of the primitive reality of food as basic means of survival. She told Jeremy as much, while remarking on the strangeness of the fact that while the people she came from were learning the same truth in the concentration camps now spread over the greater part of Europe, she herself had discovered it through rubbing shoulders with simple savages whose no less precious ethos had been bludgeoned to the point where they sold their wives’ bodies and their children’s souls for food. The intensity of her feelings in the matter took the music out of her voice whenever she expressed them. It wasn’t that she criticised anyone. She even praised the Mission for its dedication, even if it stole far more than it gave since its motive was ulterior. She did not damn the despoiling Japanese, even for spreading gonorrhea with the largesse, because, as she said, the whiteman did the same, but with comparative lousiness. Her own dedication was surely demonstrated by her disinterest in the war and even in the plight of the Jews suffering worst in it of all others, of whom she said, ‘For five t’ousand year ze Jews haf suffered. Zey can take it, zose who suffer now. Zere are plenty more not suffering. Zey vill help ze ozzers . . . and all vill rise up stronger zan effer. But my poor black children . . . vot is zere for zem but extermination of ze spirit if not of ze body. Ze pox of Shinto is blinding ze babies, sterilising ze muders . . . vile ze Blood of Christ . . . urrgh! but maybe I still haf old Jewish horror of blood as unclean. Moost I finish wit’ old Jewish t’ing.’

  Nevertheless, the household was treated to the miracle of fry-fish each Jewish Sabbath of her stay.

  Otherwise Rifkah was preoccupied completely by day with the training of Red Rory, and also of herself in co-operation with him, because she was to ride him for the Cup. Such a thing as a woman’s riding in any race but the occasional Ladies’ Hack that got into the program, if there were a number of horsey women on the Ladies’ Committee, was without precedent. Still, as Jeremy had told her when she named her jockey in applying for nomination of her horse, there was nothing in the rules against it. Only eyebrows could be raised in objection, and since she had not been asked to join the Ladies’ Committee, no doubt these were already raised on her account.

  There were two reasons for her wanting to be her own jockey — or rather, perhaps, just one twofold reason. She was almost frantically concerned about the horse’s chances, which in the opinion of those experts, Jeremy and Fergus, would be greatly enhanced by her ability to handle him in the race, because his special liking for her decreased that worst of hazards against him, his unpredictable crankiness. However, the basis of her concern was her blacks. She wanted the money that went with the Cup — two hundred and fifty guineas.

  Fergus popped in to instruct her whenever free from flying. He was not now flying General Esk, who since the outbreak of war had been accommodated thus by the Royal Australian Air Force. That suited Fergus, so he said, since he didn’t want too much attention attracted to the aircraft he had literally purloined. He was doing well enough with private charter work, especially through the postponement of the Races, which had caused a number of people to seek his services to obviate the inconvenience of traditional modes of getting to the festival. Although he kept on telling Rifkah of his love for her, he had become sufficiently aware of her dedication not to pester her with it as he had in the past. He took training her as seriously as she did, knowing the horse and her purpose.

  She wanted the money to buy two things she considered essential to the success of her vocation, namely, an easily portable and operable motion-picture projector along with some film, and a similar machine of phonographic-recording type. The first was to cause the blacks to attach themselves to her with no other motive than pleasure, the second to help her in the very difficult task of mastering their several lingoes. She had learnt at the Mission how, of all the things the whiteman had to offer, none delighted the blackfellow like the motion picture. Evidently it didn’t matter what the picture was about. The magic of seeing life reproduced on a screen was enough for complete enjoyment. Few tribes-people of the Leopold District had seen pictures. However, the delight of those who had was such as to be one in which the rest lived in anticipation. She had got the idea from Father Glascock, who told her that he would like to have an outfit for showing religious pictures, but that the Hierarchy in its wisdom frowned on it as interfering with proper Christianising of primitive peoples by reason of the suggestion of magic. He himself had no objection to her doing what she wanted, provided the films were not of any kind his superiors could object to or their showing
in any way intruded on the Mission’s purpose. While such apparatus ordinarily would be priced far beyond her capacity to buy it, she had been given to understand from a concern in the South with which she had corresponded that owing to the great advances made in recent times in the technology of the systems of cinematography and phonography there should be obsolete gear that one could buy quite cheaply. It was only a matter of finding out where to locate these old things. She wanted help in this matter; that is in the finding, but very definitely not in the matter of buying it.

  She explained to Jeremy: ‘Moost I not look like I am rival to Mission or Government . . . specially vit’ help of Jeremy Delacy. If I do it myself, only zey can say, Mad Jewess . . . like Mad Daisy Bates. Zat I vont to be, also, to do all by myself. So zese people become my children . . . and I can votch over zem. Zere own pride I vont to save . . . from everybody. I vill cure zere body sickness if zey vill let me. But I vill not be doctor to zem . . . only Mumma. Moost I stop zat bloody pox. Zere you can help me. I vont your magic Sulphanilomide, and all advice. Maybe, by’n’by, ven zey trust me as Mumma, you can gif me microscope. But ze ozzer t’ing moost I buy myself in my own vay . . . mad vay, zey vill say, and laugh. I vont Eddy McCusky to laugh. He haf been out to Mission to question me like ze Gestapo . . . “Vot you up to, you and zat boy and Jeremy Delacy?” he ask me. So you see. Only ze medicine from you . . . and by’n’by, two leedle donkey from Billy Brew for hacking my picture show round ze bush. You like it . . . yes?’

  They talked like this on their evening walks. There was no clinging now as formerly, of lost little girl to love-starved father-lover. They walked arm-inarm, but with circumspectness that baffled Igulgul ready to wink and silenced Kirrikijirrit ready to tell the world about it in song.

  One night while they were walking and could see lightning flickering away to the northwest, Rifkah expressed fear of a thunderstorm on Cup Day to upset Red Rory. Jeremy laughed: ‘Don’t let that worry you. A thunderstorm could win him the race. He was born in one . . . as I remember only too well . . . because his mother nearly died delivering him, what with his size and her fright. I do believe he thinks thundery weather’s the normal condition of things. If we happen to have a storm while we’re training, just you watch the difference in his behaviour from the rest. He’ll gallop with ’em. But you won’t see fear in his eyes . . . his tail will be up instead of down. He enjoys thunderstorms, I’ll swear. If you can’t handle him on Cup Day, get young Prindy to call up his old mate, Tchamala . . . or doesn’t he do that any more, since he’s become a Missionary Man?’

  A little stiffly, Rifkah replied, ‘I tell you he is joost ze same. No matter he mek Sign of Cross at table, Jesus is only ’nother-kind bijnitch to him.’

  Jeremy chuckled. Much of her talk was in Murringlitch these days.

  Then, out of a little silence, he began, haltingly, to tell her of that experience in bijnitch he had that night on the Plateau. He gave no explanation, made no mention of the sequel, simply stated the facts, if such they could be called, keeping his eyes fixed on distance all the while, probably because aware of how intently he was being watched. When at last he turned to meet the jewel-eyes, wide and shiny, he said with a smile, ‘Got to be quite an old blackfellow since you left, eh?’

  She leaned on him then, saying with soft intensity, ‘But zat is vunderful!’

  ‘I’m glad you think so. I thought it wonderful, too. It’s made me feel I truly belong here at last.’

  ‘Ah . . . zat is ze difference I see in you!’ Then, after a slight pause, she added swiftly, ‘I also haf see.’

  They stared at each other as they walked, closer now. She went on: ‘Zat night on ze Rainbow Reef. I see ze Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun in ze sky. She is black, vit’ red hair. I see her face plainly. It is ver’ smooth and loffly. She . . . vot you call sign me vit’ ze finger . . . beckon . . . beckon me to come. Zen she is gone.’

  He signalled complete acceptance with a nod, then asked, ‘Do you know they thought you were the Ol’Goomun when first they saw you?’

  She smiled. ‘Fader Glascock tell me.’ Then, looking ahead as he had, she said, ‘Tvice I haf seen . . . vun night at Mission ven I am trouble’ because Sister Dymphna don’t like me. Zat day she mek row about I tell children Bible Stories of Old Testament, so zey don’t vont to hear about Jesus. Do I haf to go avay? I don’t know vot to do, and valk on beach, and lie down and go sleep. Zen I vake at calling of my name . . . softly, like my Bubbeh use to call me in morning . . . Rebkin, Rebkin! I look . . . and zere from sea come ze Ol’Goomun . . . all shiny black now from vater, but hair like fire in ze moonlight. She stop back at vater. I can hear her vord but not her voice. She said: “Don’t run avay. I vont you. I vill show you ze vay, like ze Bandicoot Sisters.” Zen, like before, she is gone. But I am not dreaming . . . no!’

  Now both were looking ahead, still close. After a while he asked, ‘Did you tell anyone about it?’

  ‘How can I tell it in Mission . . . vere superstition is vickedness?’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Superstition! If you’d told them you’d seen the Virgin Mary come out of the sea . . .’

  ‘I also zink she might be ze Virgin . . . who zey call Star of ze Sea. She also is muder of ze vorld. But zis vun is black . . . and vy is Virgin come to a Jewess, Sister Dymphna vill ask?’

  ‘The answer is that Mary was a Jewess, too.’

  ‘You tell me before she is Greek.’

  They both laughed. Then he asked, ‘But why this trouble with Dymphna, when you say the priest himself likes you to tell the Bible stories and’s become so interested in Judaism he’s brushing up his Hebrew and going to study the Torah?’

  ‘He does not know. He does not haf mooch to do vit ze vomen. Alvays he is ver’ stiff vit’ me, but kind.’

  ‘Well what about the old girl? You say she’s nice and kind to you. She’s the boss. Why let the other make your life a misery?’

  ‘It is not misery . . . not now . . . only for leedle vile, ven Dymphna is all-day vonting to argue about Christianity, saying ze Old Testament only keep people in darkness. I am only svopping my own tribal Dream Time stories vit’ the blacks for zere’s, she say. Mother Mathias belief zat, too . . . but she don’t mind. It is true. So I stop telling ze stories . . . till by’n’by, I tell all-about.’

  ‘What about Prindy . . . didn’t you tell him about the Ol’Goomun?’

  ‘He is being goot Missionary Man. Soon he vill be taking First Communion. I do not vont to upset him.’

  ‘But you’ve both said you’re going bush together later. How can he go with you if he’s a Missionary Man?’

  ‘Nefer properly vill he be zat. He is beliefing in Jesus only like vot he call Dat Lot On Top . . . like Tchamala and Ol’Goomun. He like ritual. He is mooch Tchineke Man, leedle bit Jew, leedle bit Christian. I promise not to interfere wit’ zey mek him Christian. It cannot hurt him. You vill come to church in Town and see him tek First Communion?’

  ‘Hell!’

  ‘Please. Also . . . vy don’t you tell him about how ze Shade come to you. Zat vill be goot for him. Zat vill draw him close to you. He like you mooch as Mullaka . . . but still you are kuttabah to him. I zink if you tell him, he vill loff you.’’

  ‘Hmm! I might do it, too.’

  The opportunity for it occurred a couple of days before the household set out to make camp at the Beatrice. Jeremy and Prindy were alone together, training Golden Bobby to stand before the barrier, a thing he did not like doing. Bobby was to run his first race this Meeting, with Prindy Up, as they say. Jeremy was mounted on Elektron, who was helping to discipline the colt by nipping him occasionally. They were spelling the little horse, and remarking on a hint of thunderstorm away over the western Plateau. Jeremy reckoned the storm might reach them, seeing that the wind was blowing towards it. Prindy shook his head. Jeremy asked, ‘Why’re you so sure . . . because you’re a Tchineke Man, eh?’

  Prindy met the grey eyes quizzing him, nodded, answering shortly, ‘
Yu.’

  Jeremy pressed him: ‘How can you be Tchineke Man and Missionary Man, too?’

  Prindy answered, ‘Das all right.’

  ‘Yeah? Shade of that Old One still come to see you?’

  ‘Sometime.’

  Then, with eyes on the Plateau, Jeremy said, ‘One time up there . . . after you go away . . . I was camping the night . . . and a Shade came to me . . . my Yalmaru, I reckon.’ He turned to find the other grey eyes wide with interest. He went on, as if casually, to describe the event, while listened to with intensity that scarcely permitted blinking of the staring eyes. From looking away again at the Plateau, he turned in conclusion to ask, ‘You reckon that Yalmaru?’

  Instead of answering, Prindy asked, ‘What he say?’

  ‘He didn’t talk at all. Shade doesn’t talk, does he?’

  ‘Got ’o say sumpin. Don’t come for nutching.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t.’

  ‘He don’t talk wit’ tongue. He tell you inside head.’

  ‘I see. Come to think of it, he did tell me something inside my head . . . something very important.’