Again Jeremy sighed. ‘Has one a right to mind anything said by a superior officer?’
‘Will you not regard me first as your friend, Jeremy?’
For a moment Jeremy looked into the pale blue eyes, then nodded. Esk thrust forth his hand. Jeremy took it. Esk’s face quivered slightly, and his voice was husky, as he murmured, ‘Thanks, dear boy.’ Then he seized his glass. ‘Let’s drink to it!’
Jeremy asked dryly, ‘To what, exactly?’
Esk didn’t have to answer. Footsteps and voices were approaching. Beyond the ring of light of the camp it was dark, with the Moon not yet risen. They could not see beyond the ring, nor those approaching see them, seated as they were. Then there they were — a man and a woman, the one in military khaki, the other in gay print. Rifkah and Pat Hannaford.
Pat halted, exclaiming, ‘Eh, look out!’
He grabbed at Rifkah as she proceeded. She pulled away. He snapped at her, ‘Okay . . . see yo’,’ turned to go.
‘Jeremy called, ‘Care for a drink, Pat?’
Pat looked back, grunted, ‘Company’s a bit too ’igh class for me.’
Jeremy glanced at Esk, who immediately took the cue: ‘Join us, Soldier.’
‘Yes,’ said Rifkah, and turned and caught Pat’s hand and drew him. He came ungraciously, scowling at the two men as they rose for Rifkah. Placing a chair for him, Jeremy said, ‘I don’t know if you two gentlemen know each other.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Esk, but extended his hand.
Without responding, Pat said, ‘We shook ’ands up the ’all.’
Whiskers kept his hand out. ‘That was a formality.’ Reluctantly Pat took the hand. Then, dropping into the chair, being asked by Jeremy what he’d drink, growled that he’d have beer.
Bringing a bottle from the refrigerator, Jeremy broke the silence that had fallen: ‘Lot of water’s run under your bridges since I last saw you, Pat.’
Pat looked at him suspiciously, but only came out with a grunt, ‘Yeah.’
Jeremy mixed brandy and soda for Rifkah. Silence hung again, till he raised his glass, saying, ‘Well, Pat . . . all the best.’
Still Pat could only grunt. He took a long pull at his beer. Esk asked him, ‘What are you thinking of doing in the Army, Soldier?’
That roused Pat. He leered. ‘Getting pushed round, I guess.’
‘You don’t get pushed round if you’ve got an aim in service.’
‘Ain’t the aim just to kill the other bloke?’
‘The aim’s to equip yourself to give the best service to prevent the enemy from overrunning you and forcing his will on you. You don’t have to be in the front line killing. There’re plenty of just as important jobs at the rear.’
After another swig of beer, Pat leered again. ‘You make it sound like a picnic. Prob’ly is . . . up your end of it.’
The General’s voice was even: ‘You sound disillusioned already. How long have you been a soldier?’
Pat reddened. ‘You don’t ’ave to go soldierin’ to know about militarism.’
‘Then why did you join up?’
Because Pat was slow to answer, Esk added, ‘You must’ve gone to some trouble about it, because up here where you’re known they’d’ve turned you down as being in a reserved occupation.’
Pat snapped, ‘I wan’ ’o ’ave to go at them Huns.’
‘That’s the fighting spirit . . . militarism, if you like! But, tell me, isn’t Having a Go at the Huns contrary to the Party Line these days?’
Pat’s green eyes narrowed. ‘What Party Line?’
‘I understood you were a member of the Communist Party.’
‘Who says I’m not still?’
‘I’m merely showing personal interest, old boy. Like everybody else round hear who’s known you in your real job, I’m interested. How could you have joined the Imperial Force without disaffiliation from the Party? After all, the Communists are actively campaigning against enlistment.’
Pat swigged off his beer, then rising, snapped, ‘Nobody tells me what I got ’o do, if it don’t suit me . . . not even generals.’
Esk said quickly, ‘That doesn’t exactly tie in with your declared purpose for enlisting, my friend. After all, you can legally have a go at the Hun only under the direction of generals.’
Pat sneered. ‘What’s this Friend business in aid of?’
‘Well . . . Comrade, if you prefer it.’
‘You’re shootin’ the Party Line now!’
Still Esk’s voice was calm and amiable: ‘No, merely the military one . . . a more sincere one than the Communists’ in respect, I’m sure. The Communist’s comradeship is merely conventional. You can hate a fellow-traveller and still call him comrade. When a soldier uses the term he uses it in true brotherhood . . . even to an enemy in distress. All soldiers serving the same cause as myself are my comrades. Rank is only a degree of responsibility. They have it in the Red Army, as in any other . . . with much more enforcement of obedience to it, too, I understand.’
Pat answered with an off-hand, ‘Yeah?’ Then he added, ‘Well, I’ll be gettin’ back to the ’all. Thanks for the beer, Jerry. See yo’, Bekky.’
General Esk rose, saying, ‘I’d like to come along with you.’
Pat looked at him sharply. ‘Wha’ for?’
‘To prove that I’m your comrade, irrespective of rank . . . and perhaps to give you a tip or two about Army life. Had a lot of it myself, don’t y’know. Any objections, Private Hannaford?’
Pat looked nonplussed, shrugged, grunted, ‘Okay.’
Esk smiled at the others, saying, ‘Be seeing you at the Races tomorrow, eh what?’
As the soldiers went off, Esk said to Pat, ‘Hear what they’re playing . . . Old Soldiers Never Die. Know what an Old Soldier means in military jargon? Not simply grown old in service . . . but one who knows the ropes, knows that the basic principle of army life is Good Order and Discipline, and how to get round it without losing your individuality . . . in point of fact, how to get round without being pushed around . . .’
As Esk’s voice faded away with the two tall slim military figures, Rifkah remarked, ‘He is nice, ze General.’
Somewhat shortly Jeremy replied, ‘I haven’t served under him long enough yet to know.’
She looked at him quickly. ‘Vot means zat?’
He explained. She expressed her pleasure. However, he did not respond to it. He said, ‘Although I think he’s quite honest at heart, I can’t trust him . . . because of his British Commonwealth, or Empire, or Heaven on Earth, or whatever it is . . . the British Sense of Destiny. It’s the most powerful thing on earth . . . and the most dangerous . . . the cause of all the world’s troubles. They’re so Decent, to put it as they do, about everything. He did it more for my sake than his own . . . and I can’t gainsay it . . . while I can’t help thinking he might have cooked those records himself to catch me.’
‘But is only for defence of Australia, you say he say.’
‘There’s nothing Australian about a Commission. It’s the King’s Commission . . . that’s what it’s called.’
‘Ven haf you to start duty?’
‘Not till I’m ready. I’ve got things to do at home. Besides, I don’t want to get mixed up with that AIF gang at GHQ. Let them get out of the way first. Isn’t it amazing, that after all that happened to us in the last wretched business, which everybody was aware of . . . the waste of men and money at the hands of utter incompetents . . . the country should be fairly rearing to get into the same lunacy! Even the same title . . . AIF . . . even the same silly cocked hat!’ Jeremy heaved a sigh. ‘And I thought I was free of it all!’
She laid a hand on his. Then, clasping the slim brown hand, he smiled, and said, ‘But you’re home early. What happened?’
She explained that Pat had been pestering her all evening with a proposal of marriage, resenting her dancing with other men.
‘But,’ said Jeremy, ‘he’s still a married man.’
‘He
tells me zere is new law for soldier going oversea to get qvick divorce. He haf applied. Poor fellow . . . zat is vy he come back. He try to bribe me vit’ allotment pay and don’t have to go to bed vit him . . . and pension if he get killed. He is desperate, because he haf lost a dream vit’ zis Stalin business. He so mooch love Stalin before . . . like Christ, or Moses. Now he hate him like death adder.’
‘What happened between him and the Commos?’
‘He don’t tell me straight . . . only zat he haf big row vit’ Party Bosses. He say ze Party haf been fighting Boss all ze time, but now haf made ze new Bosses, vit’ ze Death Adder on top. He alvays hate any boss, you know.’
‘He’s going to get plenty to hate now, from Lance-Corporals up. If you ask me, he’ll do most of his service in the brig.’
‘Brig?’
‘Military prison. Like me to take you back to the dance?’
‘No . . . I am finish’. Clancy vill only grab me if Pat not. He is ver’ excited.’
‘He doesn’t want to marry you too, does he?’
‘No. He is only showing off as soldier-boy. He is ver’ proud of himself. Nefer before haf I see him so . . . vot vill you call it? . . . vell, joost proud, I zink. He is taking no notice of his lady muder at all.’
Jeremy sighed. ‘That’s the trouble with the rotten business. Boys . . . and men with boys’ minds . . . suddenly become men through hero-worship.’
‘He vood ver’ mooch like to show himself to you as soldier-boy, I zink. He vos talking mooch about you. Vait till he hear you are soldier-boy too!’
‘God help us!’
‘You vill not be cruel to him?’
‘What do you mean . . . as a colonel?’
‘No . . . his fader. He is sure to come to our stable tomorrow. He say he vill. Please, you say you vill be kind to him?’
Jeremy clasped his grey head and sighed again. ‘I can’t give him a show of hero-worship. Being the sort of soldier he is, a colonial oaf trapezing off to an imperial war, isn’t a hero . . . he’s a fool.’
She took one of the hands as they were lowered. ‘You vill not say zat to him tomorrow?’
Meeting the jewel-eyes, he smiled. ‘No, dear, rest assured I won’t.’ Then, looking away hastily, nor’westward, where distant lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, he added, ‘Looks like we could have a storm in the night. If we do we’ll have to go over and see to the horses. Better have your rain things ready.’
It didn’t rain. By morning all threat of rain had disappeared.
Next day’s activities began with an odd little ceremony not listed in the official Program of Events. Not many people were involved in it. In fact, properly there were only about ten. The handful of others, who were those camped near enough to the river crossing to see what was going on up on top of the bank in the vicinity of the Cemetery and up and capable of seeing things so early in the morning after a lively day like yesterday, were really intruders. Amongst these latter, probably the most interested and certainly the first to pop up for a closer look and the smartest in concealing himself so as to keep on looking after the former showed resentment to the intrusion, was Prindy.
It was a gathering of policemen, the full force of those here for the festival, acting in quasi-military style, under the command of Superintendent Bullco. They had come, primarily, to cement the Cahoon Crucifix into the sandstone cairn already erected for it. This they had accomplished before being spotted. Now they were lined up before the edifice. Those in line had their back turned to the sticky-beaks, but not the Superintendent out in front. He quickly dispersed the intruders with a policeman’s peremptory wave of the hand. Then he called his men to attention, smartly about-turned himself, that is to face the shrouded monument, and came to the salute, to be followed in this gesture on the instant by the squad. For seconds they stood thus, stiff as guardsmen. Then the commander dropped his hand, relaxed. Without further ceremony the lot of them broke into a mere khaki group and so went heading back towards their Cop Shop.
What was it in aid of? That’s what the few peepers asked themselves. Why the privacy? One would think that if they were going to Bung Something On they’d do it at the unveiling ceremony. It didn’t look like a rehearsal, in the case of which they would surely have done it several times. Was it some private sentiment — Coppers mourning their dead from their hearts, something they could not do in the presence of their enemies, the Public? Jeremy, and Billy Brew, who was camped with him, were those who discussed the matter thus analytically. Billy Brew’s father, also, had been a policeman. Both confessed that they did not understand the policeman’s mind, and spoke of the odd circumstance, which many a time they must have discussed during their long friendship, that policemen’s sons rarely ever become policemen, that there’s even something wrong with them if they do so, yet most policemen’s daughters become policemen’s wives. Still, these two were no more interested in the event than anyone else. When, by the time the crowd had gathered at the Racecourse and it had become generally knowledge, it was the chief topic of conversation.
Another matter of general interest was the appearance of Lady Rhoda, not in the feminine finery that always had been an essential part of the festival for those who could afford it, but in the uniform of a Red Cross officer. Not that she looked less dressy. In fact, in tailored khaki gaberdine, offset with red tabs and a semi-slouch hat that was no common general issue but a piece of high-class Southern millinery, she made the dressed-up look overdressed. Nor did she sit out the day in state in the grandstand as hitherto, but went out amongst the common herd, chatting to all and sundry with gracious amiability, while shoving a Red Cross collection-box under their noses. No — it was not to all and sundry. She missed out the people of Lily Lagoons. Whether she would have done so, knowing that the head of the clan was now one of Our Boys, couldn’t have been guessed. People had long ago given up guessing about her feelings towards him. Obviously she did not know. That was evident in the fact that Private Clancy made no mention of it when he came to the stables, ostensibly to have a look at Golden Bobby, being prepared for his race. Old Whiskers must have decided to leave announcement of the new order of things to Jeremy himself.
This was Jeremy’s first meeting with Clancy in uniform. When Clancy came up to him, grinning with outstretched hand, he grinned back, saying, ‘That fits you too well for a general issue. You must have had it altered.’ Clancy swore he hadn’t, that it was just as he had, as he put it with pride in his voice for now being able to speak such language, drawn it from the Q Store. Jeremy added, ‘Then you must be the perfect soldier. They only make ’em in one size, worked out in accordance with military statistics.’ Clancy liked that. Judging by his continued animation during the rest of his stay with them, it made up for his father’s showing no further interest in his wonderful new condition, but stuck to the subject of horses.
When Clancy was gone, Rifkah smiled at Jeremy, saying, ‘Zat you do ver’ nicely. Everybody haf been telling him how good he look in uniform . . . but he could not be true ’appy wit’out his fader blessing.’
Jeremy, full of sighs since last night, remarked, ‘I would have felt more like his father telling him that military statistics aren’t concerned with a soldier’s brains.’
All these strange new things, because two super-madmen on the other side of the world had decided to try their devil’s luck together in a game with a thousand million other people’s lives.
Nevertheless, when the show got going properly, it was just like old times.
The milling, boozing, vociferating mob. The dust. The flies. The prancing, whinnying horses. Jockeys’ colours mingling with gleaming hides of mounts. Charlie Bishoff in his coat so gay. The Parade with thoroughbreds doing their stuff. The turmoil of silks and tossing manes and tails at the Barrier: ‘They’re off!’ — manes and tails and silks now billowing above a heaving sea of rumps and thundering surf of flying hoofs. All to disappear in its own dust — to reappear as a spectral cavalcade riding in th
e sky — to materialise on the home-run as bettors’ hopes storming in to realisation: ‘Wonder Lad, Bonny Lassie, Maid of Montijinni, Brunette Boy, Golden Bobby — Golden Bobby — No, the Maid — No, it’s Bobby — Come on, little ’orse — little Bobby — Golden Bobby you little beauty — Golden Bobby wins!’
‘Christ, can’t that Creamy Kid ride!’
‘All them Delacys’s born riders.’
‘Gern . . . Dinny Cahoon was a great rider, too!’
Prindy went, mounted, led by her he now called Mother, whose hair flaming in the sun as it fell from under her wide-awake, was exactly like that of the colt’s main tossing in his striving to regain normal breathing, to receive congratulations from the President, as both owner and rider. He was grave. So was Mr President. The applause, both from mob and elite, was most hearty — perhaps not so much on account of owner-jockey’s youth, as the President’s squattocratic aplomb in dealing with his half-bred bastard, because there was whispering behind hands — ‘Be-jeesus, they look alike!’
Then it was all over for the day — and just as well, with that inky storm-cloud rising. Once again the time-honoured rush over to the pub in a cloud of dust by the mob, and the more sedate withdrawal of the elite by the back road to the Big House and cocktails.
The evening was spent more normally, much as it would have been in the old days, with initial getting together of people, according to ideas of propriety, either at Finnucane’s, the Big House, or the Dance Hall. The Lily Lagoons people stayed in camp, celebrating the victory of their young champion, with such odd company as Barbu, the Ah Loys, the Tooheys, Billy Brew. It came to an end with Tchamala’s putting on the first real show of the season. For an hour the heavens cracked wide open, revealing chaos that rocked the very earth, turned streaming fire to sheeting water. So heavy was the downpour, that when it was over and the timid stars and hump-backed Igulgul came peeping out, the frogs came up out of their deep hide-outs and set up the Hallelujah Chorus: De Wet has come, Now we have fun, Gi’ money, gi’ money, Two Bob!
Poor Fellow My Country Page 192
