In the same tone she replied, ‘It was a release.’
He withdrew. Mr Melrose did a little whispering to each about the case, to be interrupted by a movement by the Peace Officer standing near a door to the left of the Bench. The Clerk of Court, at a table directly before the Bench, with a typist beside him, rose and said, ‘The Court will rise.’ Everybody rose. The officer by the door opened it. In a moment there appeared a tall man in gown and legal cravat and with a grey short-bottomed wig perched on a pin head. He looked like a dyspeptic suffering a sour stomach at the moment. He swept to his seat, clutching his gown as an old woman does her wrapper. Behind him came two younger men, wearing gowns but not wigs. The Peace Officer leapt to be ready to slide the Judge’s chair under him. But before sitting down, His Honour bowed to Counsel on both sides. He sat. The Court sat. He shuffled papers before him, gave a little belch into his hand, and in an indifferent voice said, ‘This Court is now in sitting. Proceed.’
First move was the Arraignment. The Clerk turned to Mr Melrose, who whispered to Jeremy and Alfie. The Peace Officer who had attended the Judge stepped up to them, motioned them towards a small church-pew-like stand on the left of the bench. As they stood together, the Clerk addressed them, reading from a large legal-looking document, to inform them that they Stood Charged Under Section 13 of the National Security Act, to wit, with Conspiracy to Publish a Document Calculated to Endanger the Security of the Commonwealth of Australia — ‘How plead you, Guilty or Not Guilty.’ Both murmured that they were Not Guilty. The typist tapped.
Jeremy was stood down, leaving Alfie, chief culprit, to face the music alone.
One of the gentlemen of the Prosecution rose, with Alfie’s typescript in his hands, now neatly bound and tied with red tape until he freed it. He proceeded to question her about her writing This Book, as he termed it. He didn’t get far. Mr Melrose rose to challenge the description of the Exhibit, which he claimed to be not a Book but a Manuscript. Here was a pretty point in law. That was evident from the way His Honour and Associates perked up from bored drooping. It took lengthy and lively argument. In point of fact what was a Book? There seemed to be no legal ruling on the matter. According to the Oxford Dictionary it might be considered to be what originally it was, a piece of Beechwood on which something was written, Buk, the Anglo-Saxon rendering of the Gothic Bochus, Beech, being what it derived from. However, according to His Honour, who had all the say here, it was now generally accepted that a book was a compilation of printed matter contained within covers of some sort. Therefore the Exhibit could hardly be described as a Book. All right, conceded Prosecution, This Typescript. But Mr Melrose stuck to Manuscript. Why? Because a Typescript might readily be considered something compiled deliberately for dissemination, as in fact such scripts were by means of various copying devices, whereas a Manuscript could be claimed to be a private documentation of thought of which the purpose was search of truth with complete absence of what might be termed amari aliquid, the essence of a disquisition of which the aim was pernicious. Poor Alfie, author of it all, stood drooped, forgotten. Jeremy sat hunched, expressionless. The Peace Officers stifled yawns. The Clerk appeared to be getting on with other business. The typist dozed. When His Honour, with a peep at his watch, apparently reckoned the legal game had gone far enough, he ruled that, since Manuscript, from the Latin, Manu Scriptus, meant Written By Or With The Hand, and to all intents and purposes an original Typescript amounted to the same, the Exhibit would be called a Manuscript.
Then Mr Melrose, with fat sigh, settled back in his chair, to rouse only when Alfie sounded like getting rattled under examination and needed a cough to remind her of the pact of humility, or the Prosecutor seemed to be stealing a legal march. Alfie was for the most part duly humble, contrite, while sticking to her story of having intended only to fill in the period of her pregnancy with writing what in effect would have amounted only to a sort of spy-yarn, in which the miscreants eventually would have been brought to book. At last she was allowed to stand down.
Jeremy took her place, expressionless, apparently emotionless, answering the Prosecutor exactly as Melrose had directed. One thing Melrose had not foreseen was the bringing up of that incident at Victoria Barracks, Melbourne. However, Jeremy got over it easily enough, explaining that he had been upset by reference to the death of his brother by the General in question in a manner that had seemed feelingless. Asked if he would offer his services to his country as an officer after all, he replied mildly, ‘I doubt if they’d want me now. These things aren’t readily forgotten. Properly I’m not commissioned . . . and I’m too old to enlist and start at the bottom again.’ Pressed to say whether he would offer his services, he replied, ‘If I’m wanted in emergency I shall be more than willing.’ Still the Prosecutor kept at him, wanting to know why he, a veteran, did not belong to the RSL. Here Mr Melrose, seeing him go red, came to his rescue, declaring that the question was akin to asking someone why they did not belong to the Freemasons. The Judge ruled for Mr Melrose.
Examinations and arguments were nicely timed to bring the first part of the sitting to a close right on lunch-time. The Court adjourned. Jeremy was returned to his nice cell, to be served there with tea and sandwiches.
When the Court resumed, it was first Mr Melrose’s turn. He began by putting Mrs Marsh on the stand. She was rather too glib in defence of Alfie’s innocent intent, so that in cross-examination Prosecution demanded to know if she had been Put Up to tell this story. She handled it neatly: ‘Why, no, Sir. I wouldn’t be smart enough to put a clever girl like Mrs Candlemas up to tellin’ a story. But, mind you, I did ’elp. Her idea o’ books, o’ course, is rather classy. She ’adn’t read them books like Bulldog Drummond and The Saint, and Edgar Wallace and all that, which was my kind o’ readin’. I dare say you read that kind o’ book yourself, Sir, and’ll know what I mean . . .’
If the Judge were truly dyspeptic and liable to prove difficult after having lunched, this bit cured him. He smiled broadly over the Prosecutor’s obvious embarrassment. Even before the Prosecutor was halfway through his Address, His Honour said he’d heard enough. Thereupon he retired with his Associates, ostensibly to Consider the Verdict.
No doubt about it, an hour had been allowed for Consideration, which perhaps was spent on other matters, because almost exactly to the minute of that period His Honour was back. He wasted no time over Summing Up. He said he could not accept the plea of absolute innocence of the Accused, the histories of both of whom showed them to have subversive tendencies. However, he considered that there was more folly to their act than the coldly planned subversion charged by Prosecution. The Accused Candlemas obviously was politically immature. Besides, her Condition at the time of the offence must be taken into consideration. On the other hand, although the Accused Delacy could prove that he had taken no part in compilation of the Exhibit, he showed either complete lack of or regard for social responsibility in not seizing the Manuscript after reading the first few pages and demanding its immediate destruction in his presence, on threat of submitting it to authority. He then asked Inspector Ballywick how long the Accused had been under restraint — as if he didn’t know! That was the first time the Inspector had been called on, although reports accredited to him were a large part of Evidence for the Prosecution. He replied that the period was almost exactly six months.
His Honour addressed the Accused, standing side by side in the pew: ‘Although I’ve conceded your misdemeanour as largely one of indiscretion, you are no less guilty according to the Citation. Had you come before me earlier, I should have had no hesitation in sentencing you to a term of imprisonment to bring home to you the gravity of your acts and as a deterrent to others of like irresponsibility. This is no time for any sort of indiscretion likely to hamper our struggle for the Democratic Way of Life. But since already you have had time to rue your unlawful conduct, I will do no more than have your convictions for contravention of the Act recorded and your persons detained until the rising of this C
ourt. Let this be an abiding lesson. The gravest war in history is in progress. You are involved in it. Give your very best to it, like decent citizens . . . or take the consequence of betrayal of your country, which, I assure you, is not light.’ He turned from them to Ballywick again. ‘Your prisoners, Inspector.’
With that His Honour addressed the Court generally: ‘This Special Court now rises.’ He rose himself, bowed to Counsel, belched, marched out with his wrapper held and his henchmen at his heels.
Mr Melrose came to his clients grinning, but with grin directed first at Inspector Ballywick now standing by the convicted parties to see that the law was carried out to the letter, to whom he first spoke. ‘The Court is risen, Inspector.’ Ballywick nodded shortly, marched out of the courtroom. After congratulating his clients, Mr Melrose asked to be excused, because he had other business with his Learned Friends here. ‘See you later,’ he said, adding, ‘At the office,’ as if to hint that it would not be for purely social reasons.
Jeremy and Alfie went out together, went heading for the elevator, with the corridor to themselves. Jeremy said, ‘A brandy’s what I’m needing right now. Will you join me?’
Rather shortly she answered, ‘Of course.’
‘There’s a catch in it. I don’t happen to have any money on me. Will you stand shout?’
‘Of course.’
He eyed her sideways, as if wondering at her curtness. She did not look at him. They rang for the elevator. The driver now bowed them in. He was just closing the door when someone else came running. He opened it — to admit Inspector Ballywick. All three were momentarily taken aback. It was Jeremy who spoke first: ‘Ah, Inspector . . . we meet again.’
Ballywick answered no less dryly, ‘Yes, Mr Delacy. As a matter of fact, I was just wondering when the next time would be.’ With that he turned his back, to continue his early discussion of the weather with the driver.
Down below, Alfie marched out with head erect. Jeremy followed a pace or two behind, and cast a glance back at the Inspector, who met it blankly. Alfie reached the front doorway as Jeremy reached the doors of the Bank. He stopped there, turned to the Inspector, and said, ‘Excuse me, Inspector . . . may I have a final word with you?’
Ballywick looked wary, answered slowly, ‘Very well . . . what is it?’
‘Do you mind coming in here?’ Jeremy pushed the swing-doors open.
Ballywick looked suspicious, glanced at Alfie, who was looking back, at the Peace Officer who was close at hand. Then he followed. Inside the bank they were close to a counter with the sign Interstate Accounts. Jeremy got close to it before he turned to Ballywick, saying, ‘You could always identify me, couldn’t you, Inspector?’
Still wary, Ballywick answered, ‘Have no doubt about that, Sir.’
‘Right!’ exclaimed Jeremy, and seizing his arm, drew him up to the counter, where a clerk stood staring. He smiled and nodded at the clerk. ‘I have an account here, but need to be identified. This gentleman . . .’ Ballywick snatched his arm away. ‘This gentleman’s Inspector Ballywick, of Commonwealth Police. He’s prepared to identify me.’
Ballywick went very red.
Jeremy added, ‘Will you show him your credentials, Inspector?’
The surprised clerk said, ‘It’s all right. I know the Inspector.’
Jeremy smiled. ‘Good. Then, will you let me have the signature form?’ As the man turned to get it, Jeremy turned a grin on Ballywick, gave him a nod. Ballywick answered with something like a snort, wheeled about, almost colliding with Alfie who had come in staring, went marching out. Jeremy turned the grin on Alfie, who, however, met it stonily. He turned back to deal with the clerk.
Alfie turned away, to go to the great windows looking out on the street.
Having completed his business, Jeremy joined her, saying, ‘Now I can treat you. We’ll make it champagne, if you like.’
The black eyes were smouldering. She asked shortly, ‘Why?’
‘I thought you might be in a mood to celebrate.’
They were moving to go out by the swing-doors. Coldly she asked, ‘Celebrate defeat?’
He shrugged. As they reached the crowded pavement he said, ‘It’s nice to walk the streets without manacles. I don’t suppose they did that to you?’
‘I wouldn’t have cared if they had. I wouldn’t have cared what they did. I would never have crawled to them.’
He turned her into a side entrance of the Hotel Australia, standing just as if part of all this mass of masonry erected for the Common Weal.
He asked, ‘Do I detect a note of condemnation?’
The dark head tossed. ‘You asked that creature to do you a favour.’
He was silent for a moment, pondering. As they entered a lounge of the hotel, he chuckled, ‘You mean the identification?’
‘Yes.’
‘Actually I didn’t ask him . . . but tricked him into it . . . made him look a bit of a fool, in fact.’
She stared at him. But there was not time for comment. A waiter came to them, ushered them to a table overlooking the street. Jeremy ordered double brandies. As the man went off, Alfie, staring at Jeremy, said, ‘The Jeremy of old, eh?’
‘Do I still detect condemnation?’
She leaned to him across the table and fairly hissed, ‘Yes . . . that’s what Jeremy Delacy was chiefly renowned for when I first met him . . . making fools of people.’
He reddened slightly, but answered easily, ‘I think I did it only when they deserved it.’
‘It’s a negative thing.’ She fairly spat it, then withdrew as the waiter came.
Raising his glass, he asked, ‘Well, what shall we drink to . . . our liberty?’
She sneered: ‘Our liberty gained at the price of letting those dogs browbeat us the way they did today?’
‘Well . . . my liberty, then.’ He raised his glass and took a good swig, putting it down with a sigh of satisfaction. She fairly gulped hers. As she set her glass down, he said, ‘What we did was simply to obey the instructions of a good lawyer.’
She snapped, ‘I was obeying your instructions.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Melrose told me that you wanted me to take it quietly, so that you could deal with them.’
‘Did he? And how was I supposed to deal with them?’
She snatched up her glass and finished at another gulp, putting it down with a clatter, gasping at him, ‘For godsake . . . what’s happened to you?’
He took a sip, said, ‘I don’t follow you, my dear.’
She was hissing again, ‘If I’d’ve known you were going to give in to those dogs, I’d’ve told ’em what I thought of ’em to their faces . . . and you too!’
He sipped again, murmured, ‘I begin to see Melrose’s strategy now. You were going to fight them, eh?’
‘Of course.’
He sighed, finished his drink, signed to the watching waiter. He said, ‘I’m a free man. I’ve been locked up for half a year . . .’
‘Free?’ she demanded, aloud now. ‘What freedom is there in this cursed country?’
‘Shush!’ he breathed, and took a swift look round.
She sneered again: ‘Scared, eh?’
But the waiter was there again. When he was gone, Jeremy said, ‘You’ve got to be sensible, you know, dear. The dogs, as you call them, happen to be having their day . . .’
‘Yes . . . and they’ll always have it while cowards run away from them.’
He reddened again, took a sip. Again she gulped. He said, ‘I did a bit more time behind the bars and with the stink of tar and phenyle and caged humanity in my nostrils that are used to clean air, than you, you know.’
She snapped. ‘From what I’ve been told, you didn’t have it so bad!’
‘The Schroeders, eh? As a matter of fact, I think that was about the worst part of it, being stuck with those Huns . . . listening to them gloating over the brutality of their mob.’
‘Why shouldn’t they gloat? They’ve put o
ur enemies on the run.’
He took another glance round, murmuring, ‘You really must be careful, Alfie. Even the Schroeders won’t be able to save you from another stretch.’
‘Oh, yes they will! Their side’s winning hands down. We can win with them . . . those of us who’ve got the guts!’ She tossed off her drink, turned to look for the waiter, signalled him. Unseen by her, Jeremy shook his head at the man, who nodded, and withdrew. She turned back, to lean across again, breathing fire with the brandy fumes: ‘I’ve been treated like an enemy in my own country. I am an enemy in my own country, too, while it’s being run by those dogs. I thought you would be, too. How sadly I was mistaken. They’ve knocked all the fight out of you . . .’
‘They nearly knocked the life out of me . . . and you too . . . and who were they that did it?’ He got in before she could answer: ‘The Comms got me. I take it that who got you was that big whiskery woman who would be called a Loyal Citizen. Then the Commonwealth of Australia got both of us. What for? All had different excuses . . . but the same motive. The Germans and the Russians have entirely different excuses for having torn the Poles to pieces. But their motive’s the same . . . brutality. What we’re up against isn’t differences of political opinion . . . it’s the sheer urge to brutality that in some people, people of all nations, is all-powerful. In the majority of people the same urge seems to be latent, only able to come out when those others give them an excuse for it . . . otherwise gentle people . . . who can become Huns . . .’
‘I don’t like that word!’
‘I’m not using it simply against your Schroeders . . . but against all who practise brutality. Brutality, brutality, girl . . . you can’t fight against it, girl . . . at least not with its own weapons. It only gets worse . . .’
‘What weapons would you use?’
‘I don’t know. I only know about the brutality so far. I’m going home to think it out.’
She sneered again: ‘With your black woman and your Jewess!’
He reddened. ‘That’s unkind. Don’t tell me my Aelfrieda, the Enchanted One, has become brutal too?’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 211
