Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Who?’ I shouted back, cupping my ear.

  ‘Zara Holt! They went to the queen’s coronation together!’ I shook my head, still not understanding. ‘Harold Holt, the Minister for Immigration! His wife!’ she shouted.

  The secret women’s business had begun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Secret Women’s Business

  God may indeed work in mysterious ways, but perhaps not as mysterious as the female mind – unless of course, God is a woman, which would explain a lot of things. Men, it seems to me, either obey a law, never questioning it, or they break it with intent. Women see it for what it is – legislation or a set of rules usually promulgated by men for what they consider the common good, assuming invariably that the common good has only one gender.

  In essence, at the time of which I write it was a man’s world, and a man’s tacit ownership of the woman he married even extended to her first name. In conventional society a married woman was referred to in newspapers, journals and at official functions by her husband’s first name. For instance, ‘Mrs Harold Holt, the wife of the immigration minister, will attend the coronation of the queen.’ She had not only lost her maiden name but also her given name. In 1954 in Australia there were no women in the House of Representatives, no female judges or magistrates, no female bank managers – in fact, a woman couldn’t get a loan from a bank without the signature of her husband if she was married, or her father if she was single. There were no female heads of public-service departments and law firms, no female directors of Australia’s top ten companies, no female vice-chancellors of universities, and only a handful of female academics and medical practitioners. In fact, teaching and nursing were almost the only areas where a woman could rise to seniority, either as the headmistress of a girls’ school or the matron of a hospital. The marriage vow ‘love, honour and obey’ was invariably seen as a one-sided promise with the female partner doing all the obeying – or else.

  Consequently, women learned that confrontation doesn’t work and that circumvention is much more likely to bring about a result that serves their interests. Solving problems the long way round invariably proves the shortest means in the end. ‘Secret women’s business’ is an Indigenous term drawn from more recent times, but it best describes the recognition amongst thinking women at the time of which I write of the power of each other’s collective presence and the need for covert cooperation with each other in order to achieve their ends.

  At the time we had tea at Government House with Lady Cross and her daughters, women in Australia were at a distinct disadvantage in society. Where they lacked direct influence in a male world, they were forced to resort to alternative ways of achieving a purpose – as women have done for millennia.

  Please don’t think that I worked all of this out for myself – far from it. Like most men, I had never questioned the status quo. But under Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan’s tuition, over a fairly protracted period, I slowly acquired an awareness of the gender inequalities in our society, and how very unfair things were at the time for the female gender.

  The day after returning to the island following Jimmy’s ‘dictation test’, I went to the Gazette office to see Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan. With the disaster at the Immigration Office the previous day I hardly slept and Jimmy too seemed restless, so we went diving at dawn and brought home half a dozen decent crays. We didn’t talk much about what happened in Hobart – after all, we’d been present and the result had been so shattering and terminal there wasn’t much we could add. No ifs, buts or maybes – the dictation test was easily explained and so completely lacking in justice with its infinite application and inevitable result that no discussion beyond a series of inwardly expressed expletives became possible. We couldn’t even get the day properly off our chests by repeating what had happened. Sue was on night shift and the boys were out at sea for a couple of days. I’d told Gloria, of course, who’d promptly burst into tears, called out ‘The bastards!’ and rushed over to kiss and hug Jimmy.

  Jimmy, for his part, had entertained her at supper with the story of the Cross girls and the translated ‘Fish Song’, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself. Anyway, after breakfast I took a nice crayfish over to Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan at the Gazette, using it as an excuse to have a bit of a chat.

  ‘How does Zara Holt come into all this?’ I asked, after she’d brought me a cup of tea and closed the door to her tiny office.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked, pushing the bowl over to rest beside my cup. Then she smiled. ‘I really ought not to be telling you this, Jack. It’s what I’ve come to term rexposure.’

  ‘Rexposure?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, Rex is Latin for king, and exposure – well, you know what that means. So rexposure is when a woman exposes an idea to a male that will enable him to change his mind and perform a given task without being seen to move from his previous position.’

  ‘Like the Chinese not being seen to lose face?’

  ‘Well, yes, but it’s not only about pride.’

  ‘But if he is seen by his mates to change his mind,’ I protested, ‘he’s bound to lose face.’

  ‘You’re thinking like a male, Jack. He isn’t seen to change his mind – in fact, he doesn’t change it at all.’

  ‘I’m still not sure I understand – but then, of course, I am a male.’

  ‘Forget rexposure – it’s just a silly word I’ve invented for my own amusement. As you know, I have to deal with a lot of men on the island who often have to change their mind but can’t afford to be seen to have done so. Think of it like this. There are rules and there are exceptions. A man prides himself on dealing with rules, while a woman’s currency is in exceptions.’

  ‘Ah, I see – the exception to the rule.’

  ‘No, quite wrong. The exception to a rule becomes fixed, a rule in itself. The exceptions are not precedents, they are emotional judgements that bring honour to the rule. They are seen to soften its harshness and give it a sense of charity, and even endow it with a conscience. When a male is able to perform one of these “emotional exceptions” he becomes a hero in the eyes of his contemporaries, and also ends up pretty pleased with himself.’

  ‘So that’s how women influence men?’

  ‘Go about attempting to influence men. It doesn’t always work – men can be stubborn creatures.’

  ‘And you’re hoping to get to Zara Holt through Lady Cross, who will try to get her husband to accept Jimmy’s case as an emotional exception?’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan sighed. ‘I admit it’s drawing a long bow, Jack. But if we can get Zara Holt, who is a modern gal with a contemporary outlook and, I am told by Lady Cross, a determined woman with definite opinions, we may just have a chance.’

  ‘Do you know how she feels, you know, about the White Australia Policy?’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub. I don’t, and nor does Louise Cross. It’s not the sort of thing women in polite society talk about.’

  ‘So it could be sudden death? She could simply take her cue from her husband?’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked directly at me. ‘A great many wives of politicians do – that way there are no complications, no moral dilemmas to face. It is a curious condition that the longer an immoral law exists, the easier it is to justify in the mind. “It’s what the people want” is the usual political mantra. Justification is a bad habit easily acquired.’ She sighed again. ‘We can only live in hope, Jack.’

  ‘Hope Mrs Holt is different? What if she doesn’t bother to reply?’

  ‘Oh no, she’ll reply all right.’

  ‘Okay, so why should she help us?’

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up, surprised. ‘Because one might sincerely hope that she is not a racist and is prepared to make up her own mind about an unjust law.’

  ‘No, no – that’s not what I mean. Why should she see Jimmy as an “emotional exception”?’ I was beginning to quite like the term.

  ‘Oh, I see. Why Jimmy, and not simply anyone – or ever
yone? Well, of course, one feels somewhat hypocritical singling out Jimmy, but that’s the essential weakness in the emotional-exception argument – it does nothing to change the law.’ She gave me a wan smile. ‘It’s an attempt to solve a specific problem, not to bring about a universal solution. Women know that progress is one small step at a time and seldom occurs in leaps and bounds. As a woman, Mrs Holt would instinctively understand this. She knows she must be given a series of specific and unique reasons why Jimmy is to be that single step, why he can be made to be seen by her husband as the emotional exception.’

  She opened a drawer in her desk and produced two sheets of writing paper, which I saw at once were covered with her own neat handwriting. ‘It’s only a draft, but I’ve written it on good paper to put it in . . .’ she paused, smiling a little guiltily, ‘. . . the right context.’ She handed me the two sheets of paper. ‘Perhaps you’ll read it, Jack? Please, I’d appreciate your comments.’

  I accepted the heavy, cream-coloured pages and noted that the paper was of a beautiful linen-based quality. Then I saw the embossing at the top of the page, through which Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had struck a line with her fountain pen, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head.

  COUNT NIKOLAI LENOIR

  Mrs Harold Holt

  c/o Mr Harold Holt, Minister for Immigration

  Parliament House

  Canberra

  13th March, 1954

  Dear Mrs Holt, Thank you for accepting the letter from Lady Louise Cross written on my behalf. It is good of you to respond so promptly, and agree to accept my submission in the matter concerning Private James Oldcorn, a member of the American Armed Forces engaged until recently in the Korean War.

  Private Oldcorn (soon to be demobbed) has expressed a desire to make his future home in Australia and, in particular, on Queen Island, where we are overwhelmingly anxious to welcome him as one of our own.

  Jimmy Oldcorn is the guest of Private Jack McKenzie, known affectionately to us as Jacko.

  I looked up, amused. ‘You’ve never called me Jacko in your life,’ I accused.

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan smiled. ‘It’s what I call you in my head, Jack.’

  I continued reading.

  Jimmy accompanied Jacko back to Queen Island on convalescence leave after hospitalisation in Japan, where they were both treated for wounds to the leg received in battle. Each had a bone in one of their legs broken and reset where it had knitted incorrectly due to medical neglect as prisoners of war under the Chinese.

  They first met each other under the most appalling circumstances in a hospital cave in North Korea. Both were seriously wounded, and Jacko asserts that Jimmy undoubtedly saved his life. According to Jacko, Jimmy saved his life on two further occasions in what became a remarkable and touching friendship between two men of vastly disparate backgrounds.

  Throughout almost two years of captivity, in the most onerous and heart-rending conditions, against all odds, their friendship flourished and allowed them to survive. Each maintains that had he been ‘alone’ he would almost certainly have perished.

  Throughout their ordeal, often when all hope was lost, Jacko would say to Jimmy, ‘After the war, when you come home to my island, my mum is gunna make you a cray stew.’ This simple promise became the hope that gave them the strength to continue when those around them lost the fight for survival through despair, starvation, disease and torture. When the armistice was declared and prisoners exchanged, Jacko weighed just fifty-two pounds (normal weight 125 pounds) and Jimmy 112 pounds (normal weight 280 pounds).

  Jacko kept his promise and returned with Jimmy to his island and his mother’s cray stew. I confess, the American GI and the Australian soldier, one nearly seven feet tall and the other five feet and five inches, make an improbable if lovable pair, and are both thoroughly decent young men.

  Almost everyone on the island turned out to meet the ferry from Stanley that brought them home, and there was great rejoicing at the return of our beloved Jacko McKenzie. When it was announced on the evening of their return that Jacko had been awarded the Military Medal for bravery in battle, the cheer that rose from the spontaneous party at the dockside must have been heard on the mainland.

  Jimmy has proved to be enormously popular on the island, and not only among the ‘gals’. I must say he is a truly splendid-looking chap. So, as you can imagine, we were enormously encouraged when, upon inquiry, we were told by Mr Cuffe of the Commonwealth Department of Immigration in Hobart that American ex-servicemen had been placed in Category A as preferred immigrants.

  Lady Cross will have informed you of the result of our subsequent visit to Hobart, so I have no need to elaborate here.

  It would be easy to find a dozen good reasons why Jimmy Oldcorn should be allowed to stay, and I dare say the Department of Immigration has heard them all on frequent occasions.

  However, the most compelling reason I have heard was the anguished cry Jacko made on the footpath outside the Immigration Office in Hobart after we’d been summarily dismissed by the redoubtable Mr Cuffe: ‘But he’s my best mate – without him I’da been dead. Fair go, you don’t let a mate down like this. You just don’t do it,’ he wept, totally distraught.

  Is it not equally fair to ask that what is deeply felt as the correct and honourable behaviour between two friends should also be the way two countries that have fought together for the same cause, and that share a deep and abiding friendship, should behave? This especially when a citizen of one has saved the life of a citizen of the other? When both have put their lives on the line for their country? Is it not a question of decency and honour, a matter of being the quintessential Australian?

  Mrs Holt, I ask only that you do what you can for Jimmy Oldcorn.

  Yours most sincerely,

  The draft was not signed.

  ‘I thought you were angry when I broke down outside on the footpath!’ I said first up.

  ‘I was extremely upset for you, Jack. But it was dashed inconvenient at the time.’

  Talk about stiff upper lip! ‘The letter’s great,’ I volunteered.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for a compliment. I hoped you might be able to contribute to the content – it’s only a first draft.’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s your department. Apart from writing home to Mum from Korea and once to you, I guess I’m not much of a letter writer.’

  ‘Nonsense! Have I entirely wasted my time, Jack McKenzie? When you want to be you can be very articulate. Wendy says you write lovely letters. Besides, you have a job to do.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to write your own version of how and when you met Jimmy, and the subsequent time you spent together as prisoners of war.’

  ‘But that would take forever! I couldn’t say it all in a couple of pages . . .’

  ‘No, of course not. We need it as an addendum. Mrs Holt will need something further to give to her husband to read.’

  ‘I dunno,’ I said, scratching my head. ‘It’s pretty blokey stuff. Besides, my spelling isn’t too crash hot.’

  ‘You have a perfectly good dictionary and, if you like, I’ll look it over.’

  ‘Jeez, I dunno, Nicole ma’am,’ I said – because after all these years of referring to her as ‘Miss’, that’s what I’d finally taken to calling her, thanks to Jimmy.

  ‘“Jeez, I dunno”? I’m not sure that’s even English, Jack!’ she replied. ‘Now, hop along. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question? I mean, may I ask you a question?’ I corrected myself quickly. After all these years Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan still had me by the short and curlies.

  ‘You may.’

  ‘The letterhead? Count Nikolai Lenoir?’

  ‘My father,’ she replied briskly.

  ‘Does that make you a countess?’ I asked.

  ‘It makes me a very busy newspaper editor. Can we talk about this at some other time please, Jack?’

  The editorial Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan wrote for the Gaze
tte that day talked about the dictation test and explained what had happened to Jimmy, but it didn’t scream out in angry tones. Instead, the editorial politely asked the people on the island to come into the Gazette office to sign a petition saying they wished Jimmy to remain on the island.

  I must admit I was surprised at this passive approach. When you own a newspaper, even one as insignificant as the Queen Island Weekly Gazette, surely you’d use something like what happened to Jimmy in big block letters on the front page: ‘RACISM BLOCKS GI!’

  I’d informed Jimmy about the letter to Zara Holt. While Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan hadn’t exactly said she was going to go out with blazing headlines, her mention of writing an editorial had led me to assume this would be the case. I’d suggested to Jimmy to ‘watch this space!’ So when the low-key editorial came out, I confess I was a bit disappointed.

  But Jimmy saw it differently, and he proved to be right. ‘Brother Fish, Nicole ma’am, she done out-think us. She don’t know foh sure how da folk on dis island dey feel, an’ now she gonna find out. No pressure – jus’ come in nice an’ quiet an’ put yo’ name down iffen yoh want. Iffen she make it big news, she shout an’ scream an’ carry on – der always someone dey don’t want I should stay. Dey gonna put dat newspaper in a big ol’ envelope an’ dey gonna lick da back o’ Her Majesty head an’ stick her on da corner an’ send it to Can-berra.’

  ‘Mate, they don’t get the Gazette in Canberra – they don’t even get it in Launceston.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure ’bout dat.’

  I tried to think who such a racist might be. Les Kelly, maybe? No way, I decided – he’d be too pissed to care either way. ‘So what are you saying?’

  Jimmy smiled and spread his hands. ‘It simple, man. When da minister he read dat ed-it-torial, he gonna say, “Hmm, that’s a very reasonable approach”, it gonna reinforce da emotional exception he workin’ on in his mind. Da one his wife gone put der foh him to cogitate.’

  ‘Cogitate! Jesus, Jimmy, where’d you get that word?’ I held up my hand. ‘No, don’t tell me. Nicole ma’am?’