It was all the same old committee stuff: the consideration of the nominations, the decisions in handicap, the allotment of the genteel duties for the ladies, yet with an exciting difference that every now and again expressed itself with the mention of a magic name, Lord Vaisey! An oft-repeated question concerning an item of procedure was: Will it suit Lord Vaisey? No one as yet was game to speak of him as His Lordship, except one, the only one who’d had more than the briefest dealings with him, she who was called Her Ladyship behind her stiff back. In fact, only one other had had any dealings with him at all, who had been of small account socially when Lord Alfred was there before, back in the ’Twenties. The rest, comparatively, were Johnnies-come-lately. But Rhoda had been hostess to him while he made Beatrice River his headquarters during his one previous tour of his Antipodean domains, and more than that, had been his guest at his baronial domicile, Castle Kenny, in Ireland, while abroad with her present husband, Lord Alfred’s general manager for Australia, Clement Eaton. Just now Mr Eaton was with His Lordship, somewhere in the air between here and Port Palmeston. Lord Alfred now travelled in his own private aircraft. All ears were cocked for the sound of it now. Indeed, proceedings were brought to an abrupt halt somewhere about three o’clock by a drone unmistakable as that of an aircraft; and everybody rushed out to see, with the exception of Her Ladyship, who never rushed. It turned out to be only the Flying Doctor. As usual, he did a few steep turns over the Big House and one over the blacks’ camp behind the stockyards. Usually his bit of aerobatics here was greeted as elsewhere, with demonstrations of the pleasure of people who had little excitement in their lives; but today he got only a few half-hearted waves. Likewise, whereas one of the more important members of the household, at times even Rhoda herself, would have gone to the air-strip lying between the homestead and the township and in the big car to pick him up, today it was left to the Assistant Bookkeeper. But, of course, everybody else was so busy with committee work; and the big car was standing nicely dusted waiting to pick up His Lordship.
Dr Fox (the Flyin’ Fox as they called him) also did his usual stuff for those at the township, and with a good deal more zest, since having no prize bulls or stallions or milch cows to upset with the racket or Madam to show disapproval of such juvenile conduct in one of so serious a calling. The only animals to scare here were the legion of goats, with whom no one had any sympathy, not even the owners who mostly disowned them, and Ali Barba’s horses, long past being upset by anything. He did a couple of barrel rolls and stall-turns, scattered the Aboriginal crowd waiting at the railway station by appearing to dive on them, then mustering the goats with a wide low sweep of the area, put them on the run, so that for hours afterwards they were seen only as a cloud of red dust away over the bush to eastward, to the calculated effect that the township would be rid of their pestiferous presence throughout the Races.
The aeronautical antics and uproar diverted the crowd from the very purpose for its assembly, namely to welcome the trains. Normally the best ears would have heard the rumbling over the trestle causeways spanning the Racecourse Billabongs some three miles beyond the bridge. As it was the first train had reached the Racecourse, only just across the river, and was already tootling salute to those attending the horses there before it was heard. Young Prindy Ah Loy heard it, while still the doctor’s aircraft was in the air. He yelled, ‘Treen come!’
The cry went up: Treen! Treen! Treen!
Then in no time she was on the bridge, to be seen only as a shadow flitting through the high red lattice of the girders, because the bridge lay at an acute angle viewed from the railway yards, and as a trailing feather of steam from her unceasing whistling — no smoke, because she was now what the knowing would call ‘rollin’ in’.
‘Ah!’ The concerted exhalation announced the bursting of the engine into view.
Cock-a-doodle, she was screaming . . . Cock-a-doodle-doo!
She was pulling a truly mixed train, of open waggons, box-cars, flat-tops, with three passenger coaches and a brake-van at the rear. That all were packed to capacity became evident when she swung round the curve to show all those heads and shoulders hanging out and a list to port far in excess of what the camber of the track would have given her . . . Cock-a-doodle-doo!
Even as she turned into the straight nearly half a mile away, to come running into the yards, sharp eyes had identified the driver. Another yell: ‘’T’annaford . . .’T’annaford . . . Pa’tannaford!’
The carroty head sticking out of the cab glinted like bright copper in the sun. Soon to be seen was the lean freckled face beneath it, with wide crack of a mouth yelling back at the crowd what was lost in the din of their greeting and the grinding of his brakes and the last long scream of his whistle.
There was puke on the sides of some of the waggons and all of the coaches; and the first act of some of those who alighted was to stagger to some point amongst the handy stacks of railway material to do the trick with some degree of privacy. Nothing daunted, save for a few who remained aboard oblivious of the fact that the journey was ended, and a couple who found it impossible to cross the railway tracks lying between the station and the single line of some half a dozen buildings comprising the business section of the town. Scarcely was the train halted when the time-honoured Bacchantes’ rush for the Princess Beatrice Hotel began.
Shamus Finnucane was standing on his front verandah, to be sure a fine figure of a man, as they said of him, with his height and his bulk, his shock of iron-grey hair above the ruddy Irish countenance, the black eyes with great bushy brows above that could so effectively emphasise the expression of his always excessive sentiments, the white silk shirt with discreet little black bow tie and well pressed black lustre trousers, that made him look every inch the prosperous innkeeper he was and liked to be, out to greet with the joy of a man who loved money, that annual tide of it sweeping in a roaring wave to engulf him: ‘Goo’ ol’ Shame-on-us . . . Goo’ ol’ Shame-on-us . . .’ere we are ’ere we are, ’ere we are again!’
Grasping at the flailing hands, he raised his great voice above the uproar: ‘Ah, me bonny boys . . . and it’s good to be seein’ ye all agin and not lookin’ a day older anny o’ ye . . . Charlie, Andy, Vince, Mike, Bogga . . . and a hearty welcome to ye all . . . and as usual ’tis drinks on the house to begin wit’.’
Behind the bar, similarly attired, stood his two barmen, ruddy as himself from sun that would ever be alien to them, one dark as he, the other ginger. They were also his sons-in-law, in from other down-country pubs of his, to manage which he’d imported them from his motherland, with the bright promise of sharing it all with him after they’d married his daughters. How they felt about him was surely expressed by the ginger fellow’s saying to his mate, as they proceeded to fill the lined-up glasses from foaming jugs, ‘Sure, the ginerosity of it fair brings tears to me ears!’
Escaping the mob, as it surged to pack the three rectangular counters of this, the big public bar, Finnucane slipped into his office behind, and out of it again into the still bigger dining-room, and through there to the huge kitchen. Here some six or seven people were madly busy with the preparation of piles of food. One was Willy Ah Loy from Catfish Station, another a full Chinese of middle age wearing a chef’s cap. The rest were women, three youngish and mostly comely, another thin and small and grey with age, with the bony bitter face of the Irish shrew. Addressing her as Mother, Shamus asked where the food for the bar was. She flung him a black look and pointed through a side door. He went out into a passage, where there was a table laden with trays of sandwiches and such things, presumably prepared to absorb the alcoholic excess already in his clients’ guts and make room for more. The passage gave view of the rear of the premises, which consisted of a sizeable three-sided pavilion of groups of small rooms, fronted with common verandahs to each group and built about a concrete courtyard with a rotunda in the middle, all bright with new paint and potted greenery, and hung with bunting and coloured lights. He took a sharp look at i
t, then hoisted a couple of the trays and proceeded with them back to the bar, where he was hailed again: ‘G’wole Shame-on-us . . . G’wole Bung!’
The rush to the pub didn’t mean that the entire trainload had gone with it. Some were heading that way with more or less seemliness, carrying suitcases and the canvas-covered hold-alls of the bushies called swags. Others were still hanging about the station, talking with friends they’d met. A couple of these were Police Sergeant Cahoon and his henchman Tracker Jinbul, not actually together, but close enough to be of the one company without breaking the rules. Cahoon was a lanky gingerish man of forty or so, with long narrow green eyes of which the glances seemed to be darting all over the place, while yet he talked easily with his companions. These were Constable Stunke, the local officer, sticky, squarish, dark, and his not dissimilarly looking wife, and Col Collings, the Station Master. Both policemen were in uniform, khaki shirt and trousers, silver buttons that glinted in the sun, short riding boots of the strap-over type, wide-awake hats with white puggaree and badges. While the Sergeant wore his hat on the back of his head so that a lock of ginger hair hung over his narrow forehead, the Constable had his pulled down so that he seemed to look out from under it furtively. Jinbul, also a lanky fellow, similarly dressed but in obvious cast-offs, with a long black moustache at which he tugged, was talking with the two local black trackers. Like his master, and indeed all of the policemen, his eyes darted everywhere.
Those green eyes of Cahoon’s kept coming back to the Lily Lagoons group, who were crowded about Jumbo Delacy, halfcaste brother to Jeremy, a lean saddle-coloured man of about forty, and his thin worried-looking wife, Possy, and their numerous brood, all just off the train from town. Prindy and his mother were in the group. It was perhaps at Prindy that Cahoon was taking those swift looks, because the boy seemed to be aware of them and to get behind someone out of range, as if having had experience of the like before. Jeremy also was there, although not exactly of the coloured group. He was standing a little apart, talking with Tom Toohey, ganger of the local railway fettlers. Toohey was still in working clothes, the conventional outfit of the fettler: rough grey shirt and dungarees, flat-topped wide-awake and sweat-rag round the neck. He would be in his middle fifties, like Jeremy, but was of very different type, slight and dark, with drooping grey moustache and seamed troubled face.
Another one slow to leave the station was Mr Eddy McCusky, Assistant Protector of Aborigines, a man of considerable importance in the land, and showing it with his strutting about amongst the black and tan groups, looking them over, calling this and that one by name, shaking hands with some, looking rather like a politician on a visit to his constituents, talking all the while, seeming to be inquiring about grievances he could rectify, offering assistance where needed, but not stopping long enough with anyone to be involved. He was a slight man, fairish, thirty-five or so, nattily attired in Chinese-tailored grey poplin, with a panama worn at a rakish angle. It was perhaps the tilt of the hat that gave the impression that he strutted rather than walked.
McCusky came up to Jeremy and Toohey, thrusting out his hand. Both shook with him, obviously without heartiness, but evidently also without damping the man’s air of bonhomie, the cause of at least some of which was detectable on his breath. He asked Toohey, ‘Any news of the boys?’ Tom Toohey merely shrugged. Would one speak of sons who were fugitives from justice to a Government Official, even if that one were classified as a Protector? But evidently the question was just another bit of Eddy’s politician-like rhetoric. Without waiting for an answer he turned to Jeremy: ‘And how’s the set-up out your way, Jerry?’
Jeremy answered with a dry-sounding question: ‘What would you be meaning by set-up?’
‘Regards my own department, of course . . . Aborigines. I must get out there and take another look at that school of yours.’
In the same tone Jeremy asked, ‘You’re not thinking of emulating our methods by any chance?’
McCusky emitted a beery belch and guffawed, ‘That’ll be the day when our departmental Estimates allow for play schools!’
Jeremy snapped, ‘It’ll be the bloody day when your departmental Estimates allow for anything much more than the salaries you blokes cop.’
‘Now, now, Jerry . . . you know very well that getting the money’s been our big trouble always. But things’re changing. You’ll be surprised at what’s coming up, man.’
‘Give me an idea . . . so’s I won’t die of shock when I see it . . . because I’ll be a lot older and feebler when I do . . . if your department sticks true to form.’
‘Next year’s Estimates’ll definitely include the cost of building a new Compound on a new site . . . Native Settlement, rather . . . the old term compound’s been officially dropped.’
‘A shit-house by any other name . . .’
‘Come into my office next time you’re in Town, I’ll show you the draft . . .’
‘Draft my arse!’
‘With a letter of recommendation signed by the Minister attached . . . new site named and all. It can’t go wrong. It’ll be quoted in the Budget Estimates in Parliament.’
‘Then they must be wanting the old site for something pretty important. That’s where the Shell Oil Company’s going to build the new tanks, eh?’
‘No . . . the old site’s going to be used for the new hospital. Building that’s to start definitely next financial year.’
‘Ah . . . new hospital! It always comes back to medical matters. Your boss is the medical man, first, last, and always.’
‘Public health man.’
‘That’s what I mean. He was appointed as just that . . . Director of Public Health. Protector of Aborigines comes a long way second. The Aboriginal Problem’s a Health Problem to him. The Aborigines are a disease, like malaria and leprosy. He was appointed to the job without the slightest knowledge of Aborigines. You were, too. You’re just a Public Service officer, an Estimates man . . .’
‘We’ve done our best to learn. You can’t deny its complexities. You can’t deny we haven’t improved things mightily . . .’
‘Who did you consult . . . the likes of Cahoon there?’
‘Certainly not. You know very well the Doc’s on the outer with the coppers for boong-bashing, with the squatters for exploitation. Do you see him here? Does he ever come to the Races?’
A strangely resonant bass voice intruded into the lively conversation: ‘Did I hear me name taken in vain be anny chance?’ There was a slight brogue to it.
They turned to find Cahoon with them. McCusky cried, ‘Ah, Dinny!’
The bass voice demanded, ‘What’s the big argument?’
McCusky answered, ‘The usual one . . . the Aborigines.’
‘Boongs,’ said Cahoon flatly, as if by way of correction.
Jeremy asked dryly, ‘Do you know what the word boong means, Sergeant?’
Cahoon’s slit of a mouth twisted in a grin: ‘I know what a boong is . . . that’s good enough for me.’
‘You might be surprised to know it’s a Malay word for brother . . . first used by Malays working with blacks on the pearling luggers.’
The grin widened: ‘It don’t mean brother to me, man.’
Grey eyes and green eyes were locked in antagonism.
McCusky said hastily, ‘I was telling Jerry about the New Settlement.’
The deep bass rasped: ‘What we need’s a new jail for the black bastards. Blue Bay’s bustin’ apart with ’em.’
Jeremy said in the same dry tone, ‘I guess that was the idea of letting them out under the Royal Amnesty . . . more to ease pressure than to express His Majesty’s Pleasure, as it said in the Proclamation.’
‘That’s about it . . . and they all be back inside of a year.’
Jeremy, turning away, said with a hard grin, ‘Thanks to you, eh, Sergeant?’
The voice rasped: ‘Thanks to any officer of the law ’t’s doin’ his duty.’
‘But doesn’t that rather make a case of an officer
of the Crown running counter to the wishes of the Crown in his sense of duty?’
The slit twisted again: ‘Maybe it does. But whether the King let ’em out or not, I’m runnin’ ’em back in if I find ’em breakin’ the law ag’in . . . And speakin’ o’ them as got out under the Amnesty, I hear tell that old murderin’ madman Cock-Eye Bob’s out your way. Is that correct?’
‘I’m not a police informer, Sergeant . . . goodday to you.’ Jeremy turned away, saying to Toohey, ‘Coming down the camp for a drink, Tom?’ But he had gone only a step or two, when he swung back, and eyeing McCusky, asked, ‘You were saying you want to come out to Lily Lagoons to take a look at the school. May I ask why?’
McCusky pushed his hat a fraction further over his left eye: ‘The new order’s providing for the education of all part-Aboriginal children.’
‘Why . . . is there any objection to my educating full-bloods as well?’
‘Not at all. But we’ll be wanting the others. We’ll be bringing them all in.’
‘In where?’
‘The Estimates provide for a school for girls and small boys on Lady Beaumont Island . . . for bigger boys at an institution being built down in the Centre.’
‘What’re you going to teach ’em?’
‘To take their place in our system of society.’
‘On several occasions I’ve heard you running down our system of society. Is there some new Public Service rule that’s forced you to change your politics? I’ve heard they’re getting tough.’
Another tilt of the hat: ‘That’ll be the day when anyone forces me to change my politics, man!’
‘You sound like a Conservative now, instead of a Labor man. Anyway, the youngsters out our way are being just as well schooled as you’ll ever do it . . . and better . . . because no one’s going to shove ’em out afterwards into a society that you’ll admit yourself can’t treat its own kind properly, let alone coloured waifs out of Government orphanages.’
‘Sorry, Jerry . . . but you don’t have qualified teachers . . . and we have.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 13