Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Jeremy looked at Fergus, who half-shrugged and turned away, looking as if he’d heard a lot of it. Then, as if on sudden thought of a way to get relief from it, he said, ‘I’d like to see Rifkah.’

  ‘Take the horse,’ said Jeremy. ‘I want to talk to Alfie.’

  Snowball remembered Fergus, nuzzled him. Fergus mounted, rode away.

  Alfie asked coldly, ‘What would you want to talk to me about? Not Jews, I hope . . . because to me the subject stinks.’

  He uttered a slight groan, said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re still anti-Semitic!’

  ‘Why not? Isn’t the whole trouble in the world over the damn Jews? Didn’t their Communism and capitalistic greed combined start it all off . . . and then their lies and propaganda about the way they’ve been unjustly treated bring in the Americans, and war right to our own shores?’

  ‘For God’s sake, girl. I thought it was only Rifkah the woman you hated.’

  ‘Rifkah the harpy, you mean . . . who with her Communist mob, destroyed our hope of our True Commonwealth.’

  Jeremy made a despairing gesture. ‘I wanted to try to talk sense to you . . .’

  Alfie’s voice rose: ‘And I’m going to talk truth to you! But for your falling into the hands of that creature, you’d have been our leader . . . and we’d not be the defeated slave people we are today.’

  He flamed: ‘But for that stupid anti-Semitism of your mob, with your Movement you might have got a real leader and done some good . . .’

  ‘The leader was you . . . and only you. With your love of the land, your power to inspire others with it . . .’

  ‘Things only invested in me by your romanticism . . .’

  ‘Things invested in you by the Spirit of the Land you used to talk so much about. Things that I could have brought out . . . if only you’d accepted the love I offered . . . if only you’d dared to accept!’ He blinked, swallowed. She kept on: ‘You seduced me . . . yes, with your passionate talk of Terra Australis, filled me with hope of our Australia Felix, as you did with our child. You took me as an inexperienced girl, and pushed me into war against your declared enemies . . . yes, but when the war really started, you abandoned me, left me to be torn to pieces . . .’

  He cut in sharply: ‘If you really believe I’ve let you down, you can join me now.’

  It stopped the wild tirade, smoothed those hard lines of bitterness from eyes and mouth. For a moment the little girl Alfie looked out of the wide black eyes. A moment of expectant black eyes staring into defensive grey. Then the tight mask was drawn again, the voice came more shrewish than ever: ‘Join you in what?’

  Caught at a loss, he half mumbled, ‘In staying with me here.’

  The black eyes snapped: ‘Sitting round that cave of yours, doing the washing for your Jewess? I understand they give such jobs to Christians, but won’t let them touch food or even dishes. Is that right?’

  The grey head drooped wearily. She went on: ‘Doing that either till the Japs come and murder us who never had a say in declaring war on them . . . or old friend Inspector Ballywick turns up to cart us off to the barbed wire for refusing to be in the undeclared war. No, Jeremy . . . I’m at war . . . with a bastard colonial community that besmirches a beautiful name by calling itself Australia . . . and if necessary, I’ll go down fighting . . .’

  She broke off at a peal of flute-like sound from the scrub: like butcher birds in song, only it ran on into true melody. Jeremy glanced with her, saying quickly, ‘Young Prindy . . . with his flute.’

  Prindy was playing his Butcher Bird Song. In a moment there he was, astride Betsy, swaying to the rhythm of his playing. He was in fresh khaki shorts and shirt now. Hardly the little boy whom Alfie had known. She stared wide-eyed. He played only a little, put the flute away in his saddle-bag. No doubt the bit of tootling was to announce himself to people he’d heard in disputation. He came on with face blank of expression, with only a glance for the waiting pair, then concentrated on the Junkers, running his eyes over her.

  Alfie cried, ‘Prendegast!’ He looked at her, slid from the saddle.

  She came with a rush, seized him by the upper arms, stared into his startled face for a moment, then kissed him hard on the mouth. It was he who withdrew. Still holding him, she gabbled, ‘Where’s that little boy I knew who used to sing so sweetly? You’re a man . . . you’ve got whiskers!’ The interest was real. The Alfie of old was glowing in her face. ‘And, oh, aren’t you a Delacy . . . those eyes!’ She turned to stare at Jeremy, then back to Prindy again. ‘You were my little boy once, you know. Remember our picnics . . . down the beach . . . down the harbour?’

  His voice came growling, ‘Oh, yas.’

  ‘An old man’s voice, too!’ She laughed merrily. When he smiled, she kissed him again.

  Jeremy broke in: ‘You can look after Mrs Candlemas, son, eh? I want to have a word with Fergus. He’ll look for the horses for us.’ He glanced at Alfie. ‘I presume you don’t want to come to my camp?’

  By the sudden twist of her lips she was about to say something savage, but perhaps checked by the intensity of two pairs of Delacy eyes, only muttered, ‘No.’ Pulling Prindy, she said, ‘Come and sit in the shade and play for me. I believe you make up wonderful songs.’

  Prindy went readily enough to get the flute.

  Jeremy said, ‘See you later.’ Betsy trotted up to him. He lengthened the leathers, mounted, in a moment was good.

  The shade Alfie sought was under the Junkers’s port wing. She dropped down, to sit clasping legs, chin on knees. Prindy folded up feet and legs like a blackfellow. She said, ‘Play me something from the dear old Compound days . . . one of those lovely classics the Bible Bashers had the cheek to pinch to make silly hymns out of. God is Love, eh?’

  ‘Melody in F,’ he said, raised the flute.

  Staring at him soft-eyed she softly la-la-la’d in accompaniment. Again the child Alfie. When it was over, she sighed: ‘Those were dear days for me . . . the dearest days of my life, I think. I was really fighting for something . . . and winning!’

  He played Mendelssohn’s Spring Song. Then La Donna è Mobile. She laughed over the latter: ‘How ridiculous to make Praise Ye The Lord out of The Woman is Fickle! Yet it brought beautiful music to those who’d never hear it otherwise . . . and particularly to you . . . so we can forgive the Bible Bashers. Now some of your own.’

  After a while she sighed again: ‘Such talent wasted . . . and only one person to blame for it!’ Her brows rumpled again in anger. ‘If he’d’ve done what I wanted, you’d be nationally famous now. By now you’d probably have composed our National Anthem, that would have us marching in pride . . . instead of cringing in spineless abjection, still singing God Save the Bloody King . . . and now as well The Star Spangled Banner!’ That roused her, so that her face flushed and eyes flashed. Then bitterly she added: ‘God, how I hate that man, Jeremy, sometimes!’

  After a moment she asked eagerly, ‘Would you come with me, Prendy?’

  The grey eyes became wary. ‘Where you go?’

  ‘To a place where you won’t have to run away all the time . . . where people won’t despise you for being coloured, but love you for being beautiful, and respect you for your talent. Do you know where Timor is?’

  He jerked his lips northward. She went on: ‘Fergus and I are going there. Come with us. There’s no war there. We’ll get you a proper flute. You can play all day. We’ll have your music published. You’ll become famous. Will you come?’

  Prindy looked interested, but answered, ‘I ask Mullaka.’

  Her black brows rumpled. ‘Why ask him? He doesn’t care about you. I tried to get him to look after you years ago, when you were only a little boy, and the police were hunting for you. He said you’d have to go your own way, because that’s what you wanted. You were playing about your Own Way just now. But you’ve got to have someone to show you the way . . .’ She stopped as he swung quickly away from her.

  On the edge of the scrub was Savitra, wearing a
bright print dress, standing staring. Alfie turned and stared, asked, ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That one Savitra.’

  ‘Ah . . . the little Indian girl! Fergus said you’re married to her. Is that true?’

  ‘Oh, yas.’

  ‘And you love her, and . . . and . . .’ Alfie broke off, to look across at Savitra again, and beckon to her, calling, ‘Come on, dear.’

  Savitra waited for Prindy’s signal, then came warily, even sulkily, so that Alfie laughed as she got to knees to greet her: ‘Did you think I was stealing your hubby?’

  Savitra’s black eyes looked into the other’s. She kept hands locked behind her, so that Alfie had to drop the one she had extended in greeting. Still, Alfie’s tone was merry: ‘I’d’ve been more careful if I’d realised what a big girl you are now. You were only a little thing last time I saw you. I knew your sisters, too, and your mother.’

  Savitra only blinked, twisting invisible fingers; not shy, not hostile, but certainly not eager to be friends. Evidently baffled, Alfie turned back to Prindy, saying with a nervous little laugh, ‘Matter of fact, I was trying to steal you away, wasn’t I?’ Prindy’s expression was much like that of his bride.

  Alfie dropped back to haunches, looked again at Savitra, asked even breathlessly, ‘Would you like to go to India?’

  Savitra gave a big blink, stared, nodded.

  Alfie rose to knees again, saying brightly, ‘Well, that’s where we’re going . . . to the beginning of India, anyway . . . East Indies. Will you come with us . . . Fergus, Prendegast, and me?’

  Savitra glanced at Prindy, who was concentrated on Alfie. She turned back as Alfie gushed: ‘You could be a true little Indian girl then, wear a sari . . . and a jewel in your nose . . . eeeeee! We could be so happy, don’t you think? You would be my children.’ She reached to touch the girl, only have her draw away, to stand beside squatting Prindy.

  The brightness faded from Alfie’s face. In a constricted voice she asked, ‘Why . . . don’t you like me?’

  Savitra’s answer was to pull at Prindy’s shirt to make him rise. He shook her off. Alfie asked, harshly now, ‘Have you been taught to hate me?’

  Again Savitra pulled. This time Prindy growled at her, ‘I got ’o stop lookout Mitjis.’

  Alfie rose on one knee, eyes flashing ‘You don’t have to stay.’ Then she shot to both feet, crying shrilly, ‘In fact I don’t want you . . . go away!’

  Still they stared. Her voice rose: ‘I said go away!’ She swung away herself, towards the steps into the aircraft’s cabin, rushed up them. She could be heard to slump into a seat. A sob — another — then a storm of weeping.

  The pair under the wing eyed each other. Now when Savitra pulled, Prindy rose, hung for a short while staring at the doorway, then let the dark hand draw him away.

  Back at the camp, Jeremy found Fergus drinking tea with Rifkah. Both looked dejected and received him awkwardly. He said, ‘Surely we can do better for a guest than tea. How about a brandy, Fergus?’ He got a bottle from his store.

  ‘How’s the fire-water hanging out?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘I’ve hardly touched it. I get little pleasure from drinking alone. In fact it’s a couple of weeks since I had a drink . . . till her ladyship, here, turned up.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to talk her ladyship into coming along with me. If anyone’s got a right to leave the damn country, it’s her.’

  After they’d drunk, Jeremy asked Fergus, ‘Whose idea exactly was it to leave the country?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Has Alfie talked you into it?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d think I was a bloke to be talked into things.’

  ‘I mean, the poor girl’s quite crazy with what’s happened to her . . . understandably . . . and you might be being rash on her account.’

  ‘I’m not inclined to be chivalrous, either, Jeremy. No . . . I involved myself. I might not’ve come at it if she hadn’t happened to turn up on the run, as she did. But I’d often thought of the kite up here . . . only needing me to have the guts to get into it and flying out of the lousy hole. You have to see it down South now, to realise what a low-class people the Australians are. They’re not even much interested in war with their old enemies the Japs, now. The Yanks are here. You hear it everywhere . . The Yanks’ll get us out of it. There’s a sort of gala spirit . . expressed in the song they’re all singing . . . Drinkin’ Rum and Coca-Cola . . . Workin’ for the Yankee Dollar. The rich have opened their houses to them. They’re the new aristocracy, the officers. They’ve taken over anything else they want . . . the big hotels, hospitals, office blocks, for their exclusive use . . . Off Limits, as they call it, to the local yokels, under the Stars and Stripes. The only objections you hear down back streets, where the local troops can’t get into the brothels for the conquerors. A few fights. But they’re soon stopped. It perhaps wouldn’t be so bad, this grovelling, if there was anything superior about this Master Race. But from what I’ve seen of ’em, high-ranking and low, they’re inferior even to our mob . . . physically and mentally . . . drooling hillbillies and loud-mouthed cheap-skates from the Bronx and Chee and Filly and such semi-brute communities of Our Great Yew-nighted States, man Ahhhh! To live in that atmosphere I just find impossible, Jerry. To stay in it a moment longer than necessary when I have the means to get out would amount to acceptance of it. I’m only surprised that you, of all people, Jerry, don’t see it like that.’

  ‘It’s . . . well, the idea of deserting the country that bothers me. There is this kinship with one’s country, if not with one’s community . . .’

  ‘Is it really one’s country? I’d always despised it as a colonial dump, till I met you. Contact with you taught me to see the bush and to love it. But already it was being destroyed by exploitation from outside. Now it’ll be destroyed with a rush, won’t it? It’s always been the ambition of every intelligent person born in the place to get out of it, to become part of the mature world. Those who come back are those who couldn’t make it out in the big world . . . like the Bloke, who didn’t become a Patriot till he had to come home broke and beaten. But for you . . . and this one here . . .’ Fergus grinned wanly at Rifkah, ‘. . . I’d have been gone long ago.’

  He took a swig at his replenished glass, stared moodily across the northern wilderness, while the others stared at him. He went on: ‘Very few people are really Australian. I’ve talked to them lately, especially since I’ve heard of the bolt from Palmeston. Actually a similar thing has taken place right down the East Coast . . . and the West, for all I know. You can buy mansions within big-gun range from the sea for a song now. It’s not a nation, Jeremy. It’s never been any better than a federation of British Colonies. Now the Old Dart’s lost her grip, the Yanks have moved in. I don’t feel as if I’m deserting anything anyone with any quality wouldn’t have deserted long ago.’ He drew a deep breath, turned back to take hold of his glass, exhaled savagely: ‘It might have been a beautiful land in its primal state . . . but never since the White Bastards moved in . . . the Lags in chains with their guards wielding the cat-o’-nine-tails, the Scum of the Earth herding in to get rich quick by tearing her guts out for the gold, then those lowest class people in the world, whose own countries were glad to get rid of, the Immigrants. The Australian community, Jeremy, as I see it, is bastard by origin and bastard by tradition, so that I can feel nothing but shame in confessing that I was born into it!’ So passionate was he in final declamation that his face was jerking. He raised his glass, drained it at a gulp. The effect of his feeling was plain in the flushed staring faces of his audience.

  Jeremy broke the strained silence that followed: ‘When do you intend to make the flight?’

  ‘As soon as possible. I’m pretty sure I got away without anyone’s hearing us over the other side there. They’d already started roaring up their track-vehicles . . . and I waited till the wind got up strong. But you never know, with radar and things . . . if they’ve got it at Beatrice yet
. Seems you can beat ’em by gully-raking. I raked the whole Plateau at tree-top. You say that coast patrol will be passing about now, and back about 1300.’ Fergus looked at his watch. ‘I’d like to be over on one of those salt-pans near the mouth of the Leopold well before dark, and with the kite camouflaged. Rifkah says she’ll come with me, with the kids . . . that is to the coast . . . and go on to the Mission by canoe and see how the land lies. If it’s safe to come over, she’ll get Steve Glascock to give me a short R-tok call. All being well, I’d like to leave the Mission somewhere after midnight, to make landfall at first light . . .’

  ‘Midnight tonight?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Hell, no! They’ve got to get to the Mission first. According to Rifkah that can take anything from a couple of hours to a couple of days, according to tide and wind. I’ll wait the two days, if necessary. So long as I’ve got the kite as close to the sea as possible and the tanks full and the engine tuned, I’ll go ahead notwithstanding. I’ve got enough fuel to make the trip as it is. Still, it could be dicey . . . with no weather info’, and the things that can happen over sea . . . wind changes, wind-shears, even storms. I’d like to have my tanks right full, and the emergency tank as well. We’ve even got to think of getting there ahead of time and having to hang about burning up gas for light enough to get down . . .’

  ‘Ku!’

  They looked down through the rocks. Again the call. Jeremy said, ‘The youngsters coming back already. Wonder what happened?’ He gave the answer.

  Prindy, coming with Savitra on his heels, eyes on what could be glimpsed of the camp above, was diverted by a slight sound above him to the right. Here was a great block of sandstone almost entirely enveloped by roots of a big banyan. It was a sound only the keenest of hearing could have heard: the merest Click-click. His eyes flew searching. He halted, turned on his bride, who from looking down picking her way, looked up at his movement. He stood aside for her, saying, ‘You go on up. I want to look horse.’