Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘I think what you say is mostly significant.’

  ‘Well . . . I hope it’s not just empty words to you.’

  ‘I assure you it isn’t.’

  ‘Well . . . black women mostly aren’t interested in dress like whitewomen.’

  ‘I saw quite a lot dressed up quite fantastically.’

  ‘They’d be halfcastes. It’s the blackman who likes dressing up, if he’s got the chance. You must have noticed the red and yellow shirts and coloured sombreros. It’s like that in their native state. The women even have to give their hair to make string for male decorations.’

  ‘Is it true you want to give the country back to the blacks?’

  ‘They don’t want it back.’

  ‘But is it true what they say?’

  ‘Is this some kind of interrogation? Because I wouldn’t iron things out with Vaisey, as he put it, have you been sent along to do the job?’

  ‘That’s lousy!’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . but Vaisey’s my sworn enemy so long as he holds this land.’

  ‘Would it be any different if anyone else held it?’

  ‘The fact that it’s held by an absentee landlord’s the galling thing.’

  ‘Alfred didn’t grab it, you know. What was occupied he bought . . . and what he’s added to those leases was granted to him readily enough by your Government.’ When he looked at her, she added: ‘I know all about it. There was something in a left wing paper in Sydney when he arrived about his taking over the country.’

  Jeremy sighed: ‘That’s the pity of it . . . Australians are to blame.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make the Black Beast Vaisey rather an image of your own creation?’

  When he looked at her again she smiled: ‘No . . . it’s not an interrogation. Didn’t I start by complimenting you on standing up to him? I meant it. I think you’re a brave man. Because Alfred could break you, you know.’

  He looked at her swiftly. She added: ‘He has enormous power.’

  As he turned away he said, ‘I have nothing to be broken but a resolve.’

  ‘To free the land of Vaisey?’

  ‘No . . . simply to learn to love it enough to feel something of what those it was stolen from feel for it . . . so as not to die feeling like an alien and a thief.’

  He looked at her again, to find her blue eyes serious: ‘Any more questions?’

  She shook her head: ‘No . . . not after that.’

  They were approaching the crossing. She asked suddenly: ‘May I take your arm?’

  He looked surprised. She didn’t wait for his answer, but slipped her thin silk-clad arm into his. Thus they crossed the river in full view of the people in the Lily Lagoons camp: Lord Vaisey seated at a table in the lounge tent with bottle and glass, with him Nanago, Darcy, and Water Lily, Darcy’s wife.

  Near the tent Jeremy disengaged his arm, and went on with Rory, turning to her to say shortly, ‘Goodbye, Miss . . . er . . .’

  ‘Lindbrooke-Esk,’ she said, then added: ‘We’ll be seeing you tonight, I expect?’

  He halted: ‘Where’s this?’

  ‘Isn’t it the Cup Ball tonight?’

  ‘I never go.’

  ‘Oh . . . Well, tomorrow at the races . . .’

  ‘Only Blackboys’ races tomorrow.’

  ‘I should think that rather fun.’

  He said stiffly, ‘They take it rather seriously.’

  She answered at once, ‘So shall I.’

  He nodded, went on to put Rory to grass, turning towards the tent and calling to Darcy: ‘Take this lady and gentlemen in the ute, will you please son . . . wherever they want to go.’

  As Darcy moved to obey, Lydia said to him, ‘No thank you . . . we’ll walk . . . only going up to the pub. Ready, Alfred?’

  His Lordship, already risen, turned beaming to his hostess, took her plump brown hand and bent over it, saying, ‘Thank you, deah lady . . . thank you.’ And he shook hands with Darcy and Mrs Darcy, as he called her. Then he went to the waiting Lydia, who took his arm, giving a wave and a smile to the watching halfcastes. A small crowd of whites was gathering up the road to watch the royal progress.

  The Cup Ball actually began with the Cup Banquet, held at Finnucane’s. This was no treat of old Shame-on-us’s, whose part was only to dance attendance at the head of his slaves on the chosen ones, who were of the Committees, and such owners of winning horses as, being not of the elite, were also not too shy to attend. It was held out in the courtyard of the hotel, at a table arranged to represent a horseshoe, decorated with green and gold, not in concession to Finnucane’s nationality, but to the Beatrice River Racing Club, whose colours they were, initiated by its founder, the late Patrick Delacy, to whom a toast in champagne was always drunk on this occasion. Not a very elaborate or lengthy affair, for all its high-sounding title of banquet and the drinking of champagne. It had to be over in an hour to permit reasonably early start of the ball proper, with its plenitude of initial formality.

  As already observed, the Cup Ball was for everybody, and pretty well everybody attended; but few except the boldest did more than stand about outside and watch the somebodies whose show it really was. Those formalities with which it began were surely enough to put off anyone who went there for sheer enjoyment. In fact, presentation of the Cup was the very purpose of it; and that had to be led up to with the Chairman of Committees’ speech to say how wonderful it all had been and how they looked forward to next year’s meeting, and the speech of the President of the Social Committee to thank all the ladies, and then the presentation, and finally that which alone interested the mob, the drawing of the Golden Horseshoe prizes. The couple of hours of very proper gliding about the floor in waltz or foxtrot, with an occasional stately romp in a lancer or Sir Roger de Coverly and the genteel supper were really only a concession to social convention.

  For the primary purpose the little stage otherwise used by the dance band and now decorated with the Club’s Colours was occupied by such leaders of the Committees as it would hold, the rest being seated on a long church-like pew before it. For the rest the place was tricked out in red, white and blue, presumably the colours of the Nation, with streamers and balloons, and looked very different from the bare barn it had been.

  The speeches dragged through. There was, however, variation in the actual presentation, because again the Chairman deferred to his master, Lord Vaisey, which obviously meant much to those looking on, to judge by their goggling at the great man as if truly believing in the literal meaning of the word aristocrat, one privileged to rule because of the best, and accepting this paunchy, jowly, jolly old fellow as best while they were least. And then there was the tragi-comedy of the Cup’s actual reception by poor old Piggy Trotters, who was so drunk they had to heave him up out of his seat and steady his progress to the dais, then catch him when he bowed in gratitute to his Master, since otherwise he would have made an old-time Chinese job of it by bumping his bald head on the floor. It raised a titter within from the less refined, and a guffaw without from everyone, and very obviously also raised the blood pressure of Mrs Trotters, sitting so stiff in silks and stays and swank, awaiting this crowning glory to her long long climb upward to true gentility. Surely next year they’d have her in the Big House? Perhaps there was more to Piggy’s chronic drunkenness than that reputed guilt of his for the manslaughter of three or four white policemen when he had meant merely to murder a tribe of blacks.

  The prize drawing was also done by His Lordship. Mrs Betty Bishoff, looking very pretty and important, handed to him the butts of the receipts she’d given with each Golden Horseshoe sold, he put them in the little lottery barrel and twirled it a bit, then drew out first prize. The prize was, of course, little Sir Brunette, who was tethered under a tree not far away, with a couple of other horses to keep him company, awaiting his lucky owner.

  The winner was named as Knobby Knowles. He was outside with the common herd, to which he certainly belonged, by the look of him, when at length
he was pushed inside. He was aged about twenty-five, a ringer by his outfit, mean-faced, low-browed, lanky, awkward of step in his laughin’-sides, all of a dither with excitement and embarrassment, and of course with a bit of shirt-tail showing. He handled his wide-awake just as his English yokel ancestors must have in the presence of their betters, twirling it, crumpling it, in lean grubby hands. A typical Australian bushman, one might say. At least it looked as if the eyes of his betters about him now were saying it. Lord Alfred would have talked to him a little, it seemed; but he fled, back to the mob, to whom he could be heard shouting that he’d never won anything in his life before — and now look at him — he was a racehorse owner, than which there is no higher order of citizen in the Commonwealth of Australia.

  There was a rush with Knobby Knowles to see him take possession of his prize. He was rather drunk, like most, and blubbered a bit in embracing the little beast. The instant affection was not mutual. Sir Brunette broke free of the hug, snorted, reared, then tried to bring his hind hoofs round to settle the matter. Knobby was for showing him who was boss; but the crowd dragged him clear.

  Someone offered Knobby twenty pounds for the horse. Another made it fifty. Knobby only guffawed: ‘I wouldn’ take nothin’ f’im . . .’e’s go’n’ ’o make me a big man, that lil ’orse . . . a big man!’

  One lean tall fellow was shoving in: ‘I’ll give yo’ ’undred, mate.’

  ‘Wouldn’t take two ’un’red.’

  ‘Make it two-fifty,’ the thin nasal voice persisted.

  ‘Balls!’

  Here another voice rose above the general babble, urgent, that of a man quite unlike Knobby in most respects, being shorter and thick-set, although in fact his older brother, Nugget Knowles. He was urging Knobby to take the cash. Knobby’s answer to him was the same: ‘Balls!’ and he flung off the hand laid on his arm.

  The thin voice said: ‘Toss yo’ for it.’

  Knobby yelped, ‘Toss me for what . . . me ’orse? Don’ be bloody jitty!’

  ‘Toss you two-hundred-and-fifty . . . you win, you get the dough and the ’orse . . . I win, you still get the dough . . . I on’y get the ’orse.’

  ‘Say’t again? demanded Knobby. It was repeated slowly.

  Knobby growled, ‘Wha’s yo’ game? Gi’ donkey-walloped!’

  But the tall fellow was persistent: ‘Yo’ got ’o ’ave money to train ’im, ain’t yo’? ’Ere’s yo’ chance, mate. It’s yo’ lucky day.’

  ‘’S me lucky day all right,’ Knobby chuckled. ‘First lucky break I ever ’ad.’

  Nugget Knowles was urging his brother again to take the money: ‘We need it, Knob.’

  The thin voice was also urging, and now the crowd: ‘G’im a go, Knobby . . .’s yo’ lucky day.’

  Knobby asked, ‘Wha’ yo’ say . . . I win you gi’ me two-fifty an’ I keep the ’orse . . . I lose I still get two-fifty?’

  ‘That’s it, cobber . . . you won’ get better odds’n’at.’

  ‘Gi’m a go, Knobby!’ howled the crowd.

  ‘I will, too,’ declared Knobby. ‘’S me lucky day.’

  There was movement towards the bright light of the doorway. Some of those inside, hearing of it, began to move out. Someone started explaining to Lord Vaisey that Australians were inveterate gamblers. He said, ‘I know . . . good losers, too.’ Perhaps he was referring to the ease with which they’d let him relieve them of their heritage.

  It was to be an odds or evens toss, by an umpire. Pat Hannaford was umpire. He asked the contestants to call. The tall man who’d started it said to Knobby, ‘You first call.’

  ‘Right,’ said Knobby, and thought a while. He nodded to Pat, who tossed the two pennies. ‘Evens,’ called Knobby.

  The coins jingled on the concrete. Umpire and contestants bent over them. ‘Evens she is!’ called Pat.

  Knobby shrieked for joy: ‘I win . . . I win . . . didn’ I tell yo’s me lucky day? Wha’ ’bout me two-fifty, mate?’

  ‘She’ll be right,’ the thin voice answered. ‘Finnucane’ll cash me cheque. But wha’ ’bout double or quits?’

  ‘Wha’ yo’ mean double or quits?’

  ‘Make it another two-fifty. You win you get five ’undred and keep the ’orse.’

  ‘Wha’f I lose?’

  ‘You lose on’y the ’orse . . . seein’ you ain’t put up no dough.’

  ‘Aw . . . I don’ know . . .’

  Nugget was hissing again, ‘Don’t do it, Knob. Hang on to what you got and sell ’m the ’orse.’

  Again Knobby shrugged him off. The thin voice was urging again, the crowd yelling: ‘Gi’m a go, Knobby . . . ’s yo’ lucky day!’

  Knobby muttered, ‘Yeah . . . it is me lucky day, too . . . never won nothin’ me life before. Okay, mate . . . I’ll ’ave yo’. Your call.’

  Up went the coins again. The thin voice called: ‘Odds!’

  They bent over the spilled coins lying in the acetylene glare. Hannaford said, ‘She’s odds all right.’

  ‘My ’orse,’ said the tall man promptly, and went off to get it.

  Someone gave Knobby a bottle, from which he took a long long pull. Then he went reeling away. His brother went after him, but to be told to ‘Go to buggery.’ He went reeling up to the pub, where tossing off drink after drink, he told the lone barman there, the ginger fellow, Con Cullity, his sad story. Con’s only comment was: ‘Och, man . . . if I could only lay me hands on two hundred and fifty fiddleys that aisey, I know’t I’d be doin’ roight now.’

  ‘Wha’d yo’ be doin’ mate, if yo’s ’n unlucky rint like me?’

  ‘I’d blow me brains out first . . . but not in the bar here, if ye plaise . . . there’s enough to clain up as ’tis. But I was tellin’ you what I’d do meself wit that much money . . . I’d be down there before iverybody, payin’ that ould dog Finnucane what he claims I owe him for the whisky I’ve drunk in me misery as slave to him in the loneness of t’ wilderness . . . and let it be known that he charged me not wholesale price, mind ye, and not aven price by the bhottle . . . but by the nip, bedad . . . by the bloody nip!’

  Down in the hall the prizes were all distributed with a handshake from His Lordship that by the look of them the recipients prized even more. Then it was time to dance. The black orchestra took over the rostrum, and Eddy McCusky as MC. Pat Hannaford, being a bold fellow, led in the few who dared step it with their betters, with none other than Tess Toohey, renowned as a harlot and cheeky baggage. Both leered at those they whirled about, perhaps as much out of pride in the fact that they were the best dancers on the floor as provocation, but to get only blank looks from all except Lord Vaisey and his Lady Lydia, who smiled back pleasantly. Later, after what seemed a long spell of making up his mind, staring at her from the doorway, Pat approached Her Ladyship and asked her, as he put it: ‘How ’bout a dance?’ She readily agreed, but with the warning that she was a poor dancer. He must have seen that, but might have blamed her partners. The fact was she danced so badly that he was probably too much preoccupied with handling her to do more in the way of conversation than utter a few almost polite remarks, when it might have been expected he would give her a round dissertation on the Class Struggle. He didn’t ask her again.

  It went on till midnight, when McCusky called for God Save the King. Most went home worn out. However, a grand party went on all night down on the river below Toohey’s, chief drunk of which was Jumbo Delacy, off the water-waggon for another year. Jumbo’s first expression of triumph and liberty from moral restraint was to issue a challenge calculated soon to have him under restraint again in normal circumstances. An old enemy of his was Sergeant Cahoon, who during Jumbo’s recent period of sobriety had taunted him by telling him he’d soon have him ‘yarded’ again. The burden of Jumbo’s drunken yelling was: ‘Come on, Cahoon, yo’ khaki bastard . . . come an’ try yardin’ me now!’ But it happened that poor Dinny was ‘yarded’ himself, having gone on a bender, as it was his weakness to do occasionally, and been locked in a cell by his co
mrades, who wouldn’t want to add to his raving with another of his like.

  IV

  Saturday and Sport’s Day. Its events, as those of the other days of the festival, were timed to start at ten-thirty. However, the excesses of Cup Day and Night and the fact that the sports were generally regarded as a joke, meant as usual a straggling start near noon. Today the officials were different, although Martin Delacy was there still as Chairman and Lord Vaisey still extended his patronage. Much of the running, jumping, stockwhip cracking, sack-racing, was really only clowning. There was no official break for lunch. You just boozed and ate and boozed again as you felt inclined. The Blackboys’ Races were timed for two-thirty.

  There were four of these races, run not according to properly constituted Racing Association rules, but on a rough and ready classification system worked out in the saddling paddock. Mounts were judged by age and known and apparent prowess. There was no handicapping. Weights of jockeys, all spidery creatures, men and boys, or of gear, which was that used in common stockwork, did not count. The one race with anything like conditions to it was the Pony Race, in which mounts must not be more than three years old or of height exceeding thirteen hands, and jockeys no older than to be reasonably classed as picaninnies. Also, this must be ridden bareback.

  The totalisator was not used. However, betting between individuals was always lively, for the reason that the stock-riding fraternity knew the horses, owned them, in fact, and were very interested in results. There were no black owners. Not that there was any bar. It was just that blackfellows didn’t own anything; not even their wives or the pants they stood up in, such being the peculiar system of their economy.

  Lord Vaisey showed special interest in all the proceedings, no doubt as an act of noblesse oblige to those who, after all, were the mainstay of his monarchy hereabout. What would his managers have done without their black stockriders, their black household staffs? It was traditional to say that they weren’t worth their tucker, which was pricing them pretty low, seeing the kind of tucker they got, inferior stuff specially imported for them. Besides this poor fare, they were given occasional issue of rough clothing. Certain ones were paid something like one pound per month, deposited in Government Trust, and left to the honesty of some police officer to pay out when wanted for such occasions as this annual bean-feast. If a station could claim that it was keeping a worker’s dependants, they need not pay him at all, even while they worked the dependants also. ‘But what’s the use of givin’ ’em money, when they only spend it on booze?’ So said the station people, and most others. They said it to Lord Vaisey when he expressed a wish to add a small gift of money to the prizes given the winners of these races, things like sombreros, fancy belts, spurs, laughin’-side boots. The incongruity of the fact that those who said it to him themselves reeked with booze didn’t seem to occur to anyone.