Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘My God . . . what a place!’ muttered Lydia.

  ‘You said you wanted to see the Inland.’

  There was no one on the verandah of the hotel, bare except for a couple of cane chairs and a bench beneath a window inscribed bar. The chairs stood on either side of a gaping doorway that gave a glimpse through a hallway of the kitchen out in the backyard. Next to the bar window was another gaping door. Above the verandah was a sign: PROSPECTOR’S ALMS, the l having been roughly substituted for the still visible original R. Nor was there sound of life. As Jeremy drew up before the place and cut the motor, into the silence swept the hum of the telegraph line.

  They alighted, crossed to the verandah, stepped onto it, headed with resounding steps for the bar door. Behind the bar, like dummy figures, staring, were the Cullitys, plump pretty Bridie, rangy ruddy ginger Con. Jeremy hailed them. They answered flatly, ‘Goodday, Jeremy.’

  Grinning, he said, ‘Well, I guess we haven’t taken you by surprise . . . unless your phone’s out of order . . .’

  Bridie cut in, so sharp of tone that Jeremy’s eyes widened in surprise: ‘No, our phone’s all right . . . but we certainly were surprised . . . at you!’ Her plump cheeks were flaming now, her dark eyes wide with anger.

  Jeremy looked at Con, also redder, but stony-faced as before, and rocking on his heels and staring outside. He opened his mouth to speak; but Bridie got in first, asking, in a barmaid’s voice, ‘What’ll you have?’

  At a loss, Jeremy said, ‘Well . . . of all people, I thought you knew my poison.’

  She looked past him at the wide-eyed staring Lydia: ‘Your Ladyship?’

  Jeremy answered, shortly now, ‘Don’t bung it on, Bridie! Her name’s Lydia . . . and she drinks the same as me . . . and you. So three double brandies . . . and Con a whisky, eh?’ He took money from his pocket.

  Con said to the outside world, ‘’Tis on the house.’ Then he swung away to get glasses and bottles from the towel-covered shelves behind.

  Bridie, bending over the Icy Ball, said, ‘If you’ll go along to the parlour it’ll be brought to you.’

  Jeremy snapped, ‘We’ll have it here, thanks.’ With a touch to Lydia’s elbow he urged her towards the bar counter. Then as Bridie set soda bottles down on the counter rather heavily, he asked her, ‘What’s the cool reception in aid of?’

  Whipping the tops off the sodas Bridie asked, ‘What’d you expect . . . the red carpet?’

  Again at a loss, Jeremy fished in his shirt pocket: ‘Brought you a letter, Con.’

  Con glanced at it as Jeremy set it down on the counter, grunting, ‘Ahhgh!’

  Bridie said, ‘Help yourselves to soda,’ and attended to her own glass, then said, again in the barmaid’s voice, ‘Here’s luck!’

  She swigged hers off, as did Con, while the others sipped. Then Bridie said, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me . . . I’m getting our dinner.’ She turned to the flap that would let her out into the hall, sweeping the couple a dark glance as she did so.

  Jeremy said quickly, ‘We were hoping to dine with you.’

  Bridie swung round as she lifted the flap. ‘What . . . on goat?’

  ‘Goat’s just what we wanted.’

  The black eyes shot from one to the other. The red mouth buttoned tight. Down came the flap — Bang! Bridie vanished.

  Jeremy drained his glass, put it back on the counter, asked, ‘What’s the matter with her, Con, boy?’

  Con, proceeding to fill the glasses again, eyes down, said, ‘Ahhh . . . all this rarin’ and tearin’ to get back home.’

  ‘When’d you get back?’

  ‘Yesterday noonin’.’

  ‘That’s travelling, man, on that road.’

  ‘You got to travel wit’ the divil behoint ye.’

  ‘Meaning old Shame-on-us?’

  ‘Mainin’ none but the same, Jeremy . . . and here’s luck to you, and bad cess to the wan as mintioned!’

  They drank again.

  Jeremy said, ‘I must go and put things right with her other ladyship. I’ll leave you to look after this one.’ He turned to Lydia, who shot him a questioning glance: ‘Excuse me, m’dear.’ Then he whipped out to the verandah, into the hall.

  ‘Arrah!’ cried Con. ‘Two ladyships in the house . . . ha! ha!’

  Jeremy strode through the hall and out by the gangway leading to the detached kitchen. Bridie was at the range as he opened the fly-door. She cast him a look out of the corner of an eye and bent to the oven, opened it. He said, ‘Smells good.’ Ignoring him, she turned to get a cloth. He grabbed it before her, saying, ‘Let me,’ and bent and took the sizzling dish out and set it on top of the range. There were two haunches of kid, surrounded by browned sweet potatoes and pumpkin. ‘Hmmm!’ he said. ‘Must have some of that.’

  Still ignoring him, she went to a cupboard for dishes. He asked, ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

  She blazed at him. ‘Don’t call me sweetheart!’

  ‘But I always have.’

  ‘Well don’t do it any more.’ She clattered the dishes down on the big table, snatched open a drawer.

  ‘If it has to do with the lady inside . . .’

  ‘You know very well it has.’

  ‘She isn’t the grand duchess I’ve been kidding everybody she is. She wants people to forget she’s titled.’

  Busy with implements and utensils, Bridie said flatly, ‘Well, I’m not going to forget it, see!’

  ‘Why?’

  She swung on him blazing: ‘Because she’s making a bloody fool of you!’

  Going very red, he stared at her. She held his stare, after a moment demanding, ‘Well isn’t she?’

  ‘In the telephone conversations didn’t anyone tell you how she forced herself onto me?’

  Bridie laughed, the high harsh laugh of an angry woman: ‘Twisted your arm for you, didn’t she?’ As he went beetroot red, she went on: ‘You walked her home from the races Cup Day. You were with her on the course the next day. Next day you took her out to Lily Lagoons . . . and she’s been with you ever since!’

  He sighed: ‘You can ask your old man exactly what happened. What could I do but give her a lift?’

  ‘You could’ve been the man you’ve always been before with Vaiseys.’

  ‘What’s Vaiseys got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything, surely!’

  ‘She’s broken off her engagement to Vaisey.’

  ‘She tell you that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you believed her!’

  ‘Why not? It seemed genuine enough.’

  ‘For godsake!’ panted Bridie, rushing to get the smoking meat. As she came back and slammed the dish on the table, she said, ‘I could see it in your face as you came in from the car . . . that goofy look of a man who’s done his balls on a woman completely.’

  He swallowed: ‘Well . . . I’ve never heard you talk like that before.’

  ‘I never thought . . . .’ her voice quavered, ‘I never ever thought I’d have to speak like that of Jeremy Delacy.’ She broke off, choking.

  He stood at a loss, watching her quivering face. At length he murmured, ‘Do you really want us to go?’

  She looked at him through tears, blinked them back, bit trembling lip to stiffness, then muttered, ‘D’you think I could sit up and eat and drink with someone I knew was ruining the life of my best friend?’

  ‘Ruining my life?’

  ‘What else? Haven’t you given your life to fighting Vaiseys?’

  ‘Well . . . hardly that. But I still feel the same about ’em as I ever did . . . and always will.’

  ‘After Lord Vaisey’s girlfriend has seduced you . . . with his blessing?’

  ‘Seduced my foot!’

  ‘It isn’t your foot she’s concerned with. Look at me and tell me you’re not in love with her!’

  He was very red, but smiling, as he looked at her: ‘Not guilty!’

  She stared at him hard, said after a moment, ‘She’s been playing around
with you, though.’

  ‘She’s a girl who’s used to playing around with men, I suppose . . . but so long as I don’t play around with her.’

  Still staring, she went on: ‘I don’t trust you with her. Where were you going from here?’

  ‘Boulder Creek. I’ve been putting her up somewhere every night. I’ll continue to do so.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you put her up here?’

  ‘That’s a good one, after saying you wouldn’t eat or drink with her . . .’

  ‘Do you think I’m going to sneak to a skinny Pommy bitch with a title?’

  ‘I’ve told you she doesn’t like people sneaking to her. Why don’t you see for yourself by asking us for dinner . . . and see how much I’ve been seduced by Vaiseys, into the bargain?’

  She eyed him long and earnestly. He held the gaze of the big black eyes.

  Her expression was changing. What had been hard lines of anger and suspicion softened to something else: excitement, eagerness. Her colour rose. Her eyes glowed. At length she swallowed, and said breathlessly, ‘Yes . . . all right . . . but not just for dinner . . . for the night.’

  He grimaced: ‘I’ll have to ask her, of course.’

  Anger flared in the black eyes again: ‘Ask her?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t been very nice about it, have you?’

  ‘If you’re not going to stop the night . . .’

  ‘I am . . . but it’ll have to be done discreetly. We start by staying to dinner. You ask her . . .’

  ‘Me ask her?’

  ‘Well, you’re the hostess . . . Look, I’ll go back to the bar and say something about a lovely roast . . . how lovely roast kid is . . . especially this one. Then you come back . . . and be nice. We’ll have another drink. Then you ask us . . . eh?’

  Bridie blinked on it for a moment, then said, ‘All right.’

  ‘Okay . . . I’ll be getting back to the bar.’

  As he went out, Bridie drew a deep breath, and exhaling it, still staring after his dim figure to be seen going up the passage through the fly-wire, said, ‘Yes!’

  Lydia, smiling from something Con had been telling her, eyed Jeremy intently as he entered the bar. Con also shot him a sharp look. He said, ‘Everything’s in order now. How about another gargle, Con?’ As Con hastened to comply, Jeremy turned to Lydia: ‘A bit bothered about the lady-business, that’s all. One of my pupils in anti-toadyism . . . and anti-Vaiseyism.’

  ‘One of your pupils?’ Lydia asked dryly.

  ‘One of my first. I’ve known her all her life.’

  Lydia was staring hard, but Jeremy meeting the stare frankly. ‘Have a drink,’ he said, handing her a brandy and soda. ‘Cheers!’ he said. Having drunk, he said to Con, ‘That’s a lovely bit of venison she’s cooked.’

  Con cried, ‘She’s a queen of cooks, is me darlint Bridie. The wonder is I ain’t loike Piggy Trotters himself.’

  ‘Venison?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘Local name for goat-meat,’ explained Jeremy. ‘I suppose you’ve eaten it . . . goat . . . you must’ve, travelling around the way you have.’

  ‘Oh, I love it . . . roast kid . . . the way the Arabs do it. When I was with my father in Palestine . . .’

  But there was Bridie, in a bright new dress and wearing a brighter smile, coming through the flap, and saying, ‘How many drinks am I behind?’

  Con leapt to pour her a brandy and soda. ‘Here’s luck!’ she said. She smiled over her bubbling glass at the watchful Lydia, who smiled back.

  After a moment Jeremy said to Bridie, ‘Lydia was just saying she likes kid goat.’

  Black eyes and blue eyes flew to meet each other, clashed gently, as women’s eyes do in combat, searched deeply, then called truce in another smile. ‘Do you, really?’ asked Bridie, and getting a pleasant nod, added, ‘Would you like to have dinner with us?’

  ‘Love to,’ said Lydia.

  Bridie turned quickly to Con: ‘We’ve got to have something to drink with it. What’ve we cold, hock?’

  Con whipped open the Icy Ball, pronounced: ‘Sparklin’ hock four bhottles.’

  Bridie looked again at Lydia: ‘Like hock?’

  Lydia cried, ‘Huhmmm . . . hock and venison . . . that’s reahlly something!’

  ‘The hock’s my shout,’ said Jeremy quickly.

  ‘You’re our guests,’ protested Bridie.

  ‘But if you charge it to yourselves you’ll have to pay for it be the nip instead o’ be the bhottle,’ said Jeremy lapsing into the Irish.

  Con cried, ‘Ye heard about that did ye now?’

  ‘Yes . . . Tom Toohey told me. But you tell us.’

  ‘I’ll be tellin’ the woide wurruld, man. This here’s the bill, I will be bound, because I made me departure wit’out it. The mean ould dog!’ Con grabbed at the letter Jeremy had brought.

  Bridie said, ‘I’ll have to go and lay the table.’ She looked at Lydia.

  Lydia smiled and asked, ‘Mind if I come and help?’

  ‘Thank you . . . but you’ll be wanting to freshen up. I’ll show you a room.’

  Bridie went out through the flap, to be joined in a moment by Lydia in the passage. ‘It’s terribly primitive, you’ll find,’ said Bridie. ‘But that’s the way you like it, Jerry says. That right?’

  ‘Hhhhu.’

  ‘Have another wan,’ said Con to Jeremy, and pouring for him, spread the letter on the counter and read it. ‘Oh, gawd!’ he cried. ‘Look at this!’

  It was a single page, written in a large sprawling hand beginning by stating that Con was in arrears with his bar accounting to the tune of £63.14.0 and that no wages would be paid him until his books were balanced, and concluding: ‘If you’d pay more attention to your marital duties like a true man, and less to sucking the whisky bottle like your Mam’s titty, you’d be having the family it’s your constant coronach that you haven’t, and thereby conduct yourself with some of the dignity a man is entitled to expect in the husbands of his daughters.’

  ‘That ould Wexford Wolf!’ howled Con. ‘I cust the day I set oyes on him!’

  Con was still babbling about Finnucane, and by the look of the whisky bottle he’d not so long ago freshly uncorked doing just what old Shame-on-us had accused him of, when Bridie came to call them to dinner. She shot a glance at the bottle. Then she picked up the letter, and flamed crimson, crumpling it in her hand. Con would have started off again; but she said shortly, ‘Shut up, Con. Get the hock. And don’t go talking about it to her. Everything’s going nicely . . . and I want to keep it like that.’

  Things did go nicely. Although they dined in the kitchen, the table was nicely laid, and the food as good as it smelt and looked. Con was a bit morose to start with, ignoring attempts by Lydia to get him to tell her more funny stories about the local prospectors he’d evidently been entertaining her with in the bar before. However, when Bridie took to telling the yarns, the storyteller in him got the better of the slighted man, rousing him to say, ‘Arrah . . . let me tell the story prhoperly, now!’ Thereupon things became even merry. They drank the other two bottles of hock, on the house, at Con’s insistence and with his initial toast: ‘To me bankruptcy at ten bob a nip!’ He then told the story of how Finnucane had charged him for his own drinking, ‘Be the nip, bedad . . . be the flamin’ nip!’ He would have quoted from the letter, too, only for a furious look that Bridie flung him.

  But Con had sworn to tell the wurruld; and on making a trip later to the bar to get brandy and whisky to supplement the vanished hock, and meeting Lydia, who’d gone out to pee beside the utility, he confided the libel levelled at him by Finnucane to her: ‘’Tis herself, poor darlint, can’t have babies. Ahhh . . . if there was only a prhoper doctor in this benoighted land, and not just a gang o’ Government quacks!’ While this was going on, Bridie was confiding to Jeremy that what was in the letter was true, and that it looked as if Con would be doing what she called getting on it again.

  The party went on till 3.30 p.m. when suddenly everybody was dru
nk, except Bridie, who had been taking it easy, and who suggested a lay-off, so that they might have another session in the night. She saw them all off to beds in the little iron boxes behind.

  It was dark, or rather bright moonlight, when Bridie roused Lydia, calling gently into the ear peeping out of a tangle of pale hair on the pillow, ‘Lydia . . . Lydia, dear . . . wakee, wakee, Lydee dear!’

  A groan for first answer, then a heaving up of the yellow silk blouse and the pale face just a blur in the blaze coming in through the fly-door: ‘Who’s it . . . wazzer time?’

  ‘Half-past six, dear. Like to get up and fresh-up a bit?’

  Lydia dropped her bare white feet to the floor, and head to hands, groaning again.

  Bridie said, ‘You’ll be right as pie with a hair of the dog. Just have a sluice and a pee . . . you’ll find everything there on the wash-stand . . . then come along to the kitchen.’

  Lydia stretched and yawned, asked, ‘Wheah’s Jeremy?’

  ‘Listen!’ From the next box came the sound of heavy snoring. Bridie said, ‘The boys had another bash at it.’

  ‘Why’n’t you call me?’

  ‘Thought you’d rather be in good form for a party tonight.’

  ‘Party?’

  ‘Well . . . another bit of a binge. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Freshed-up at length and wearing elastic sides again, Lydia came out of the room, to stand a while on the moonlit verandah, first staring at the bit of daylight still lingering in the West, then at the door from which the snoring issued. She went to the door, opened it, went in. Jeremy lay sprawled on the bed, his face dark against the pillow, his mouth slightly open. She spoke: ‘Jeremy!’ A snort. ‘Jeremy . . . wake up!’ A deeper snore. She laid a white hand on his shoulder, shook it. He groaned, snored again, louder than ever.

  She stood for a moment, then shuddered, turned away, went out and to the kitchen, where a pressure lamp was burning brightly. ‘Ah, there you are!’ said Bridie. ‘Sit down and drink this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘No questions. I’m a barmaid . . . skilled in the art of resuscitation.’

  Lydia sipped, warily at first, then with evident relief. It was a long lemony drink. ‘Thanks,’ she muttered.

  ‘You’ll be sparking in a minute.’