Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘I had to defend you against their malice. You could be court-martialled for your action . . . if truly a serving soldier. I had to tell them you were not.’

  Jeremy gaped. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I lied to you about there being no record of your resignation of commission. It had been duly dealt with, as you supposed. With promotion, I bribed the records man to expunge it. I confessed as much to the Larrikins just now. Thus, in effect, did I sign and seal my retirement from the fight.’ Esk ended in a gusty sigh.

  Jeremy stared at him. Whiskers’s face wobbled in a weak smile. ‘Anyway, since I couldn’t do without you, I’m better out of it.’ The narrow head drooped again for a moment, to come up with a different expression, the old suave one. He said, ‘I can’t go on loving you, since you’ve destroyed what’s been so dear to me . . . but have no right to hate you, when it was I involved you . . . and, anyway, I couldn’t hate anyone I’ve loved as well as you. Goodbye, dear boy.’ He thrust out his hand.

  Now Jeremy’s face quivered as he took the hand and met the smiling eyes. He could only mutter in reply, ‘Goodbye, Mark.’

  Releasing the hand, Jeremy snatched up his case, went swiftly out. He waited for no elevator, but almost ran down the wide stairs. A long-coated flunkey at the bottom saluted him, asking if he wanted a taxi, then flew ahead to get him one. Within a minute he was settled in one, heading for the Interstate Station.

  At the station he learnt that it would be days before he could find comfortable accommodation on an express train: ‘There’s a war on, sport, y’know.’ However, he was told that he might make the journey in half the time of waiting by doing it in stages aboard local trains, a convenient one of which would be leaving in half an hour.

  Thus, in half an hour he was on his way, standing out on the car platform, watching the Queen City glittering in the afternoon sunlight, fading away into summer haze, gone for ever from his sight — and good riddance to her, to judge by his expression.

  III

  Jeremy arrived in Sydney in mid-afternoon on the Saturday. After establishing himself in a hotel close to Central Station, from his room he telephoned the reception desk and asked if a call might be made for him to a number he gave, to inform a Mrs Candlemas that he was in Town and would like to see her. Within a few minutes he was informed that Mrs Candlemas was expecting him, and to come at once. Evidently Alfie had heard from Frank. Jeremy went out at once, got a taxi, gave Alfie’s address.

  Despite the initial hurry, he had the taximan set him down short of his destination. It was at the little park where last visit he used to take his morning run. Perhaps it was sight again of the Queen Mary, in full view from here, that caused him to curtail the trip. Still, when at length he went on his way, it was with steps showing no sign of eagerness.

  The same elfin face presented itself to his ringing the doorbell, the smile as wide as ever. However, there was a glitter in the black eyes rather like that of a snake about to strike, which probably was what caused Jeremy to drop his own as he took the outstretched hand. ‘Well, hello!’ she cried merrily. Then seeing that his eyes flitted away again, now from what they had fallen on, she laughed: ‘Looks like triplets, doesn’t it!’ Certainly the bulge beneath her maternity gown looked enormous, seen for the first time by one having known her only in girlish slimness. ‘Come on in,’ she said.

  He had a package of wine, brandy, cigarettes. She said, ‘We’ll save it for the head wetting. I’m off booze and tobacco. I’ll make some tea.’

  She had everything ready. While she made the tea, he remarked, somewhat feebly, ‘You’re looking very well.’

  She smirked. ‘The flowering of womanhood . . . or fruiting, is it? Makes every woman bloom . . . till she’s had two or three. But I’m afraid I can’t say the same about you. What’ve you been doing to yourself?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just getting old. You know I met Frank, of course.’

  ‘I’d hardly have expected you to come if he hadn’t asked you.’ She said it easily, and with a smirk that said Don’t Care, even while the snake’s eyes struck.

  ‘I wouldn’t have needed asking if I’d known about the book.’

  ‘It isn’t finished. But you’d have got your copy when it’s published.’

  ‘I understand that’s hardly likely in these times.’

  ‘You never know.’ She settled down with the tea-pot.

  ‘I understand it could get you into trouble if published during the war.’

  She became shrill. ‘The bloody bastards and their war! But you can always publish things secretly. The Commos do.’

  ‘They’d go to jail for it now. Do you want to go to jail?’

  ‘It’d advertise my book.’

  ‘Not in these days. Nobody would know anything about it . . . or about your book. They’d simply lock you up, with the powers they now have . . . and destroy your book.’

  ‘Some books would survive . . . for reproduction.’

  ‘You say you haven’t got it finished yet. They mightn’t let you finish it.’

  ‘Let them try to stop me!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl. Under their National Security Regulations they can do anything . . . and will do anything if their purpose is crossed . . . and I presume you’re not writing something that’ll get you the OBE.’

  As she laughed, he glanced at her writing table by the window, on which, with typewriter, books, and scattered notes, was a pile of typescript. He asked, ‘What do you do with the script as you finish it?’

  ‘Stash it away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ve got a hiding place.’

  ‘Good enough to beat the best sniffing-out noses in the land?’

  ‘I’m not silly enough not to keep a copy, in case anything happens.’

  ‘Keep it?’

  ‘Well, take it . . . and give it to a friend.’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘You’re asking as many questions as Security. You didn’t go to Melbourne to join them did you? If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em, eh? Eeeeeeah!’

  ‘It isn’t funny, my dear. You’ve got a heap of script there. Is there anything in it that could be taken as subversive?’

  She gave a squeak of mirth: ‘Is there ever! I’ll give it to you to read afterwards.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to read your script . . . but to take it off you . . . what you’ve done.’

  The black eyes struck. ‘Oh . . . Frank’s orders, eh?’

  ‘More my own inclination. I guess it’s a red-hot security risk at the moment . . . and also that it’s something too valuable to be lost to this Nation at the hands of the bastards at present in control of it . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Sir!’ She bowed ironically. ‘I didn’t think you had so high an opinion of me.’

  He answered, stiffly, ‘You seem to have forgotten it was I started you on it.’

  She reached to touch his knee, softened, murmuring, ‘No, dear Jeremy . . . only . . . only . . . you’ve been so silent.’

  ‘Will you give the script to me to look after?’ When she stared at him hard, as if trying to read his thoughts, he added: ‘I’ve got hiding places where no one but myself could find anything.’

  ‘Including me?’

  ‘Yes . . . until it’s safe to be published.’

  She turned from him to pour more tea. Giving him his cup, she said, ‘It’s about you, largely, you know.’

  He half smiled. ‘Then it ought to be burnt.’

  She shot a swift dark look. ‘You might burn it, too. You mightn’t like the you I’ve made out of you.’

  He chuckled: ‘I couldn’t have a lower opinion than I have of the present me.’

  ‘That’s your trouble. But I’ve made the You you could be . . . only for that self-rejection complex of yours.’

  ‘Hurrah for that self-rejection complex. It’ll make you famous . . . unless you foolishly let the snoopers get hold of it first.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’

 
‘What’s the good of that? Please let me have all you’ve done, to take away with me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Back home to Lily Lagoons.’

  ‘What about the rest? I’ve got at least another month’s work on it.’

  ‘You can send it . . .’

  ‘With the mail being censored?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. Tom Toohey gets parcels from down here . . . from the catalogues the big stores send, you know. We’ll do it like that.’

  The black eyes regarded him gravely, in that childish way of old. She asked, ‘Why not take me along, too . . . and save the postage!’ The first simplicity was swept away by a smirk.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not going to be so secure from Security myself. Then we’d both be involved. That’s why I’ve thought of Tom Toohey.’

  The black eyes became snake-like again. She flung a hand towards her desk, saying haughtily, ‘The Jeremy Delacy there isn’t afraid of involvement.’

  ‘He doesn’t live in the real world. Besides . . . he isn’t concerned about his creator. If necessary, I can get you a secluded place to live in while you finish it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You know the pub down in the Centre . . . Cullity’s place . . .?’

  ‘Bridie Cullity . . . Finnucane’s daughter . . . your old flame, eh?’ When he coloured, she laughed. ‘As if she’d have me!’

  He frowned muttering, ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘As if I don’t know! Her jealousy of me was the give-away.’

  He asked stiffly, ‘Well, will you let me have the manuscript?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.

  ‘You’ll have to think fast. I’m off tomorrow.’

  She looked dismayed. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘I don’t want to stay round these parts. For a start I don’t like them . . . and then, I’ve had a bit of trouble with the Army . . .’

  She bent to him eagerly. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘When you give me the script.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ll have to get it together. I’ll have to take notes. You forget things . . . like names and things . . . you’re apt to change them as you go along. I have to get the copy back, too.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Several days. My friend lives in the country.’

  ‘Then that could be sent to Tom Toohey.’

  ‘You are in a hurry. I’d like you to read some, too, before you go.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get it for you right away. You can be reading it while I’m finishing off the day’s quota. You’ll stay to dinner?’ He nodded.

  Big-bellied, she lumbered away, not to the writing desk, but to the sideboard, which she opened to reveal a stack of stript. She took out some of the script, came with it, looking eagerly childish again. He remarked, ‘Is that what you call Stashing it Away?’

  ‘I told you I had to keep it at hand for reference. I hide it at night.’

  ‘It’s to be hoped Inspector Ballywick makes his raids by night.’

  The raised child’s mouth fell. Probably Jeremy realised that it was a sacred moment, because his voice changed on the instant, and he reached for the script with a reverent movement, saying, ‘The dream come true, eh?’ He read aloud the outer page, which was inscribed in large letters with black ink: ‘The Last Australians — A Novel by Aelfrieda Tripconny . . . hmm!’

  She giggled: ‘Our first born . . . in the making. One of the twins . . . eeeee!’

  As he turned the outer page, to read, she swung away, took up the tea-tray and went out to the kitchen, whistling: If you Wish Upon a Star.

  When she returned, it was silently, to seat herself at her typewriter, and soon to become as absorbed in what she wrote as he in his reading.

  Sounds from the kitchen a little later told of someone’s being there. Jeremy looked up, looked at Alfie. Evidently it was not Inspector Ballywick sneaked in by the back way. Soon this fact was proved by the opening of the swing-door to the kitchen and the emergence of the lacquered goldilocks of Mrs Marsh, the Helper. The woman smirked and nodded recognition of Jeremy, then went through a dumb show that clearly implied that she was nursing this little-girl genius of theirs with complete understanding of the case, but finished with a hard sharp little look straight at him, surely betraying Alfie’s madcap frankness about things that were, well: Leave it at that! her eyes snapped as she withdrew. Alfie did not notice her, sitting with colour heightening as her story-weaving fingers flew faster with passing time. Withdrawal of each finished sheet was done with a flourish and an impish smile, as if each time she gave an enemy a back-hander he could not hand back.

  It was getting dark; so that Jeremy had to put on the light beside his chair. Alfie, with her young eyes, still worked on by the light from the window. The sky behind her curly head was pink. Already lights were blazing at the Garden Island Depot.

  Mrs Marsh came, this time, right in, to announce in a tone of maternal authority, ‘Enough’s enough. Dinner’ll be ready in ’alf hour.’

  Alfie came out of her trance, smiled at her. ‘All right, dear . . . set up.’ She turned the elfin smile on Jeremy, then back to the typewriter, to tie up the last threads of her spell-weaving. She sighed gustily, dragged fingers through curls like a tired man, rose, came to Jeremy, and as he set aside the script, asked, ‘Well?’

  When Jeremy only pulled a face, she asked, ‘What’s that mean . . . lousy?’

  ‘Means words of praise don’t come easily to me. Anyway . . . it’s what I expected.’

  She eyed him. ‘I suppose you are praising it. Anyway . . . wait till I get something to drink.’ She went to the kitchen, to return with beer and a soft drink. He was reading again, and kept on until she had poured the drinks and was seated.

  She asked, ‘Do you like my hero?’

  ‘Charles Belamy, I presume. I don’t know yet. Seems a bit of a stuffed shirt . . . well, compared with your other very human characters.’

  ‘He’s you, of course.’

  Mrs Marsh came in to lay the table. Alfie called her over to have a drink. Mother again, the woman gave the toast: ‘Here’s to the two babies . . . ought ’o be born ’bout same time. ’Er twins she calls ’em . . . eeeeeee!’ Instantly she became serious: ‘Wonderful bit o’ work, though, ain’t it? So real . . . just rotten like everything really is.’

  ‘You’ve read it?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Well . . not really. The words’re a bit ’bove me edification. But dearie ’ere reads me bits and fills the gaps. In fac’ she started it be tellin’ me what she ’ad in mind to do . . . didn’t you, dearie? Jes the way she tells me she’s goin’ ’o ’ave the baby . . . eh . . . what’m I sayin’?’ She went red, swigged off her beer. ‘Now I got to dish out.’ She departed hastily.

  Jeremy sat stony.

  Alfie, staring at him, chuckled: ‘Charles Belamy to perfection!’

  Now he went red. She reached to touch him. ‘Meant as a compliment . . . the uncompromising enemy of stupidity.’ She lowered her voice: ‘She is that, of course . . . Sydney-stupid. Don’t I show Charles ranting against all the effort put into education . . . yet they remain Unedificated, as rather aptly, if unwittingly, she puts it?’

  ‘Ranting’s right, if I may say so. Perhaps I’m prejudiced . . . but you make your Belamy a bit of a pontificator . . . rather like our friend the Bloke . . . or ex-friend, rather, as I presume he is.’

  She retorted sharply, ‘He isn’t.’ When he stared at her, she added: ‘I know politically he’s a fool . . . But he does know literature . . . and has sustained me. For that matter . . . but for him and Australia Free, where would I be?’

  ‘Has he seen this?’

  ‘Of course. And he’ll see it’s published when possible. Who else would publish it in this benighted country . . . war or no war?’ She said it all quite frankly in Mrs Marsh’s hearing.

  Jeremy said, ‘It doesn’t read anything like as dangerous as I’d ex
pected . . . only people trying to make reality of that old Australia Felix dream . . .’

  She interrupted with a whoop: ‘Wait till you get into it!’ She heaved herself up, to go back to her desk, search amongst the script, and came back with a couple of sheets. Handing them to him, she said with a smirk, ‘There’s something to give you a taste. Although it’s near the end, there’s plenty of stuff like it earlier on.’ She turned and went out after Mrs Marsh to the kitchen.

  Jeremy’s eyes widened, jaw sagged, as he read. He read on, enthralled, while the two women concluded the laying of the table. Mrs Marsh went out. Alfie stood by the table watching, arms folded above her other offspring, her expression impish.

  Jeremy was lost in a description of how Charles Belamy, with a squad of young daredevils, apparently part of a private army of his, while others of them diverted attention by acting as a launch-load of drunken louts clamoring to board the Queen Mary, were fitting magnetic mines to the vessel’s hull the night before troops were due to go aboard.

  As he finished what there was of it and looked up, she came across, took the sheets from him, went back to the desk. As she came back to him and he rose, she demanded, ‘What about it now?’

  His answer was scarcely audible: ‘Christ!’

  She said, ‘Come on and eat,’ and took his arm. ‘I’m starving these days. I’d love to eat and eat . . . but can’t while I’m writing, ’cause it makes me sleepy. Have to stick to two meals . . . like you. Starve one of my twins all day to feed the other. I make up for it at dinner. Watch me!’

  They ate in silence for a while, she quite greedily. Then she said with a smirk, ‘Shocked, are you?’

  He replied warily, ‘It’s certainly a dramatic scene.’ Then with a wry smile he added: ‘Anyone’d think it was written by any old-hand saboteur.’

  She became excited. ‘I’ve spent hours reading on explosives . . . mines and things. I even went in for a secret swim the other night to get the effect of the phosphorescence.’

  He looked aghast: ‘In your condition?’

  She laughed: ‘Scared your baby’ll grow up to be a saboteur?’

  He went red, dropped eyes to plate.

  She resumed her guzzling.