Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  As they came through the casuarinas this time, he made bold to put his arm about her. She suffered it without demur until they reached the road, when she shook him off, saying, ‘Look . . . Fader!’ The priest could be seen with his bright light on the side verandah of the presbytery. It was the same when, reaching her quarters, the little whitewashed shed converted to her use, ‘the Synagogue’, he tried to kiss her Goodnight. The presbytery was even nearer, the priest plain to see, communing with a book and a bottle. She shook his hand, went in hastily, shut the door.

  Sigs turned away with a sigh, not towards the presbytery, but up the road and past the line of white buildings, out along the track on the airfield. When at length he did come home, Father Glascock eyed him sharply. He explained where he had been, saying that he liked a good long walk before retiring. That was fair enough hint that he wanted no arguing. He accepted the drink of whisky the priest offered him, then went to bed. Still, he was awake and tossing on his bed on the verandah long after Glascock was settled down and snoring.

  Next day Sigs Sarge Sims and Prindy perfected the projection apparatus, and made up those Cowboys and Indians cuts of McCusky’s into a sequence of sorts that Sigs declared a Classic that ought to be titled See The Conquering Heroes Come A-Tumblin’ Down. Prindy showed frank pleasure on having the title explained to him. Zig-zag took advantage of this to get information on how and where to take a lady for a strictly private chat. Prindy suggested a trip in the row-boat to the beach beyond the mangroves. Pressing the advantage, Sigs sought assurance that there would be no gooseberrying if Rifkah tried to make it a threesome.

  There was more than perfection of the machine to do. Because of last night’s success it was decided to hold tonight’s showing out of doors. Anyway, that’s how it must always be done eventually. A screen was rigged on the beach, with an alcove of bushes to obviate the interference of Igulgul.

  Why should that Old One interfere? It was only a technician’s term. That night Igulgul was well up, this the night before his fullness, to watch the gathering of the crowd, and smirked no less for not being able to see what was going on that drew such rapt attention from those who knew no other magic of light at night except his own till now.

  Everybody got good viewing. See The Conquering Heroes was a great success, perhaps not nearly so much by reason of its subtle inference as its packed action — that is as regards the less sophisticated of the audience — its success with the others being expressed in amusement over its patent absurdity. These latter got more positive enjoyment out of a length of Quo Vadis, which showed what purported to be their early Christian predecessors’ being thrown to what were very evidently trained circus lions by huge blackmen. ‘Big-feller dog!’ those unsophisticates with English shrieked. No doubt the reason for Mick Cusky’s cutting the piece was this manhandling of whites by blacks. However, the fake was so obvious that knowledgeable ones yelled, ‘No-more blackfeller . . . him whitefeller paint him black!’

  Prindy was as good as his word in removing himself as soon as the show was over. Conditions were perfect for Sigs’s romantic excursion; except that the boat was much too high up the beach for him to handle it himself, so that he had to have help, amongst which was David, who after the launching climbed in and took the oars. In vain for Sigs to protest that he could quite well handle a boat himself. Both David and the Maid stressed how dangerous these waters could be for anyone not experienced in sailing them. From babbling joyfully as he had been, he fell silent, leaving it to David, who said he wanted to learn how to operate a radio. ‘I savvy dat telephone, Sergeant-sir. De talk go long o’ wire, like you talk-talk long o’ bit o’ string and two milk-tin. Spone you put ear to telephone pole in Town you can hear all dat white lady talk-talk-talkin’. But I can’t mek-it-out dat radio . . . how you mek talk jump all dat long way long o’ nutching?’ Under pressure from the Maid, the Answer to her Prayer was forced into giving a sulky dissertation on the basic principles of electro-magnetic radiation.

  David’s sheer enthusiasm for the subject was the means of relieving Sigs at last. He asked to be taken as Sigs’s helper on the rest of the tour of the Mission Stations, saying what a handy-man he was. Sigs, swiping at the mosquitoes that came at them out of the mangroves as they passed, asked sharply, ‘Why are you so keen on seeing all the Mission radios?’

  ‘Keen, Sergeant-sir?’

  ‘Why you want see all these radio stations?’

  ‘For learn him to be radio engineer.’

  ‘Not to tell Japs, eh?’

  ‘Wha’ for I tell Japs?’

  ‘You’re half a Jap yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was stinking you not like other whiteman to look down on colour man.’

  ‘I mean you might be a spy for Japs.’

  ‘What is spy, Sergeant-sir?’

  ‘Aw . . . put a sock in it . . . which means, don’t talk so much. And turn the boat around and go back. Too many mozzies. I don’t want to get fever.’

  David didn’t have to shut up, because Rifkah encouraged him to talk, to ask questions, which seemed his favourite form of conversation, by telling him about the Races. Thus Sims, deep in the sulks by the time they disembarked, quite cruelled his pitch as the Answer-man, that is to Praying Maidens. David accompanied them right up to Rifkah’s door, which she shut on both of them with a smiling Goot-night. As they turned away, David asked if Sergeant-sir would not give him a lesson in radio-operating now. Sims grunted, ‘Aw, go to buggery!’ and stamped away to the presbytery.

  Father Glascock, sitting reading and drinking as usual, didn’t make things any better for Zig-zag, who joined him in a drink, by replying to his complaints about David’s limitless inquisitiveness, ‘I know what a pest David can be . . . but isn’t the greatest thing about having knowledge, to share it?’ At that Sims finished his drink and went off to bed.

  Next day, working with Prindy on the radio, Sims was frank about his desperate love of Rifkah and his hopeless chance to tell her. He asked Prindy to tell her for him and to add that he would like to marry her, tomorrow if Father Glascock would do the trick for them. Prindy agreed. In the course of their tests they picked up Fergus in the Junkers somewhere the other side of Lady Elliott. Fergus said that he would be there about smoke-o time tomorrow morning. Sigs made him translate the casual timing into proper radio terms, to which Fergus responded, ‘ETA, GMT, Zero, Zero, Three, Zero . . . and you may kiss my quoit.’ Dim-sims betrayed the fact that, for all that boyish fun he often indulged in, his sense of humour was not so deep, through ponderously telling Prindy that one could lose one’s Radio-operator’s Licence for taking such liberties on the air.

  Pictures again that night. This was no mere dummy-run, but the real thing, the Big Night, with Rifkah as operator.

  ‘Pictures every night,’ as Sister Dymphna remarked with something of a snicker. ‘My . . . aren’t we getting civilised! We’ll have to get posters printed . . . or is it going to be the same program always?’

  In general, the audience was even more appreciative with repetition, as if it brought them into closer identification with the actors since able to predict the action. At each critical point yells of warning or advice arose. Quite contrary to the knowledgeable Censor’s idea of things, nothing but sympathy was expressed for those whites bested by rampaging savages, this in the universal way of tongue-clicking — Tchit, tchit, tchit — but which comes so explosively from the cavernous mouth of an Australoid.

  When it was over, Rifkah, silver and gold shining under the magic of Igulgul, was moved to say a few words to her audience, using Murringlitch, Lingo, and a bit of Yiddish. To describe the joy she felt in their happiness she used the word Nachas, probably because she could find no other to express herself fully. It is a derivative of the Hebrew, Nachat, meaning the special joy one has in one’s children. If not even Father Glascock understood the meaning, it was shown plainly enough in her face, glistened in her eyes. It was Sigs Sarge Sims they really had to thank, she said — ‘D
ear Sigs Sarge Sims!’ — with which, to his dumb astonishment and the indrawn breath of the crowd, she embraced and kissed him. Then, overcome, she fled — home to her little Synagogue.

  Far from being smug about the praise and the public reward that went with it, Sigs Sarge Sims was obviously distressed. With the priest and Prindy he brought the cinematographic gear to the presbytery, not from choice, but because Glascock ordered it so, somewhat sharply, saying, ‘You could see how it affected her. She probably wants to be alone.’

  The priest got out the whisky bottle. Sims had a long-sleever. Glascock was setting out to tell him about the Japanese, how they had been murdered here by blacks before the Mission was founded, how — but Sigs was not interested. He had to interrupt to say he felt bad about having the projector and things here, when Rifkah might have expected to have them brought to her quarters, that he would like to find out. Quite irritably, the priest said, ‘Her light’s out. She’ll be in bed.’

  ‘She can’t be asleep yet. I’m going to ask her.’ Ignoring the priest’s groan of disapproval, Sims rose, headed for the Synagogue.

  There was no answer to his first knock, to his second: ‘Who zat?’

  ‘Sigs Sarge Sims.’

  Silence, as if the situation might have been anticipated. He told her he wondered if she wanted the gear brought over. She replied shortly, ‘Zank you, no, Sigs. Better for Fader to kip.’

  ‘I didn’t get it for him. I got it for you.’

  ‘Ist for blackfellow.’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  When she kept silent, he asked, ‘Can I have a bit of a talk with you?’

  Sound of the creak of her canvas stretcher. ‘Not now, Sigs.’

  ‘What other time is there? I leave in the morning.’

  ‘Not till mittle-morning. Ve haf hours to talk.’

  ‘Not for what I want to say.’

  Silence. He drew a deep breath. He asked, ‘Did young Prindy give you my message.’ Again silence. It was some time before he spoke again, now with a stridence in his voice: ‘Now you’ve got what you want, you don’t care, eh?’

  ‘Pliss, Sigs . . . zat is foolish . . .’

  ‘I’m not such a fool as you think.’

  ‘I zink you are ver’ nice man.

  ‘Well, then, come out for a walk with me.’

  ‘I can’t. I am tired, I vont to sleep. Pliss, goot night, Sigs.’

  His voice came harshly: ‘But I love you.’

  Silence.

  ‘I want to marry you.’

  Sound of a sigh. ‘Ist impossible for me to marry.’

  ‘Why . . . you’re not already married?’

  ‘Ist impossible. Pliss, dear Sigs . . . do not spoil. It haf been so ver’ nice to know you. You haf been so kind . . .’

  ‘Let me come in for just a minute.’

  ‘No, no!’ Nevertheless he tried the door. It was somehow shut from inside.

  He said bitterly, ‘Lock yourself in, eh?’

  ‘Pliss, Sigs . . . zis is religious Mission . . .’

  ‘So everybody’s got to lock ’emselves in . . . the women . . . what . . . against the priest?’

  ‘You vill mek me angry vit’ you, Sigs . . .’

  ‘That’ll make two of us!’ He sighed sharply, then said, ‘All right. I know when I’ve been played for a mug. Goodnight . . . Goodbye!’ He swung away, went stamping across the road.

  It was not back to the presbytery he went, but with a marching soldier’s step directly across the road and into the casuarinas. Kweeluks were crying on the beach. Perhaps their seeming sadness drew him. They were not up where the blacks were camped, but on the bit of beach to southward. He turned that way. Their crying became excited at sight of him: Kweeluk, kweeluk — here is a lost one! But they took wing, and like silver wraiths, became part of the silver sky, vanishing towards the near black wall of mangroves. He sat down in the silky silver sand. Igulgul, smirking at him from behind, showed him his own Shade, a poor little butter-ball thing, writing in misery in the sand.

  The simplest way to meet failure is to blame it on someone else. That Sigs Sarge Sims was doing just that was soon evident with his sighs’ turning to growls: ‘Bloody Jewess . . . bitch . . . stringin’ a man on!’

  Hermit crabs came up from the blaze of the sea to see if his dumpy Shade were worth a nibble. He kicked at them, hurled sand. Scouting mosquitoes and sandflies found him, signalled for the squadrons. For a while he let off steam on these intruders on his solitude. At last he grunted, ‘Not getting fever for any Jew-bitch!’ He rose, jumped on some hermit crabs, swiped at the whining dive-bombers, went back up through the scrub, to the presbytery.

  Father Glascock was still at his table. He merely glanced at the khaki figure as it came onto the verandah, returned to his book. He did not look up at scrape of a chair, the heavy sigh of sitting, but waved a hand, murmuring, ‘Help yourself.’ Sigs reached for bottle and glass, poured himself a stiff one, added a little water. ‘Cheers!’ he grunted. The priest looked up, nodded, took up his own glass, sipped sparingly as Sims took a long swig. Then he turned back to his book.

  Sigs finished his glass, replenished it, growled, ‘Not very sociable this evening.’

  Glascock raised his head. ‘Meaning you or me?’

  ‘Who d’you think?’

  ‘You have a tendency, I notice, to throw the onus for some ill-considered statement you’ve made on others.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘There you go again! You come in obviously with the hump about something . . . then blame me. Then when I attempt to defend myself you want to put me in the wrong for doing so.’

  Sigs took a swig, demanded, ‘What’ve you got against me?’

  ‘For God’s sake, man . . . nothing! I’m only too glad of what you’ve done.’

  Again Sigs swigged. ‘You’re in the game too, eh?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’ Then when Sigs finished off the second glass and reached again for the bottle, Glascock added: ‘Better go easy with that grog, man.’

  Ignoring the remark, Sims replenished his glass, just as stiffly. ‘Been played for shucker all way through.’ Already his voice was slurred.

  ‘Still talking riddles.’

  Sigs’s little pop eyes glared. ‘I’m talkin’ ’bout bein’ kidded ’long by that Jew-bitch . . . Shtrikes me y’all in it . . . to get a bloody picture show!’ The voice was harsh with anger.

  Glascock’s ruddy face darkened. He swallowed, said with an effort, his voice vibrant, ‘You wouldn’t be talking about Miss Rifkah?’

  ‘I bloody would!’ Sigs took a swig.

  ‘Well . . . don’t!’

  ‘Won’ I! I been kidded to, led on, cock-teased . . .’

  Glascock shot to his feet, voice rising to a shout: ‘Will you shut up . . . you drunken fool?’

  Sims sprawled back in his chair, hiccuped, ‘No . . . I won’ shu’ up . . . and don’ you call me fool . . .’

  ‘Go to bed!’

  Now Sims joined in shouting, lurching forward to glare up at the priest. ‘Don’ you gi’ me orders! Priests don’ mean two bob to me.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you as a priest, but as a man. You’ve insulted a lady under my roof . . .’

  Sims sprawled back again, guffawed. ‘Lady? That! She’s a bloody Reffo Jew-whore on the make . . . Hey!’

  Glascock sprang round the table, seized him by the bosom of his shirt, shouting, ‘You foul-mouthed bastard!’

  Sims lashed out with a boot, caught Glascock on a shin, but overbalanced himself backwards, went crashing with the chair.

  Glascock, after a hop or two, clinging to his shin, came back to the momentarily helpless Sigs, tangled with the chair and trying to rise, not to help, but to bend over him, roaring, ‘Now get . . . before I do something I’ll regret!’

  ‘You?’ howled Sigs, getting his feet on the ground and a grip on the table and heaving himself up. He goggled at the angry bearded face thrusting close to his. Then he l
et out a loud guffaw, turned away, flinging back, ‘On with the bitch yo’self, eh?’

  Glascock grabbed him by a shoulder, swung him round, snarling now, ‘Put ’em up!’ He fell back, to strike a fighting pose.

  Sims gaped for a moment, then leered. ‘I’m not fightin’ a priest.’

  ‘I told you to forget the priest. Put ’em up . . . or I’ll give it to you straight in the moosh!’

  ‘You will, eh?’

  ‘I bloody will!’

  Concentrated as they were, they saw nothing of the three figures racing across the road, or of the small fair head peeping at them round a corner.

  Sims backed off without raising his hands. Glascock leapt at him, driving for his mouth as declared, got home. Sims hooted, crashed against the table, sending the bottle over. Then up come his hands, and down his head, and he came back roaring. Flailing of arms, thuds, grunts, hisses. The table rocked. Prindy leapt in to save the lamp. He swung it towards the figures now on the verandah. Rifkah, clad in light dressing-gown, was leading. The two nuns wore shapeless gowns and towels over their heads.

  ‘You dog!’ gasped the priest, driving hard.

  ‘Bloody hypocrite!’ hissed Sigs, trying to get into a clinch.

  ‘Pliss . . . pliss!’ cried Rifkah.

  ‘Father . . . Father!’ Mother Mathias’s voice was shrill as a shrew’s.

  Glascock threw Sims off, sending him crashing against the iron wall. Then as he rushed with upraised fists to deal with him again, Mother Mathias snatched up a chair and thrust it in front of him. He turned on her, glaring, demanding, ‘What’re you doing here?’ He tried to fling the chair back.

  She held the chair, got between him and Sims, shrilling, ‘What wouldn’t I be doin’ here . . . wid drunken brawlin’ the loike of Donnybrook Fair goin’ on. For shame on you, Father.’ She swung on Sims. ‘And for shame on you, Sir . . . darin’ to lay hands on a priest!’