Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Boo-hoot! — and on the move again, with the engine so close now that the laughter of the crowd aboard it came sweeping back into the coaches with the steamy smoke. Sergeant Cahoon, sitting with his Sonny Boy to show him the sights as they came to them, frowned. Could they be laughing about him? At least they weren’t singing the Red Flag.

  Lights now everywhere, and bright-eyed cars racing them. It was fine here. You could see the stars, soon see them glinting on water. The Harbour, Daddy-o explained. Those other watery lights, the long golden splashes, were from the pearling luggers — the Japs. That bright-lit shed built over the water was the Japanee House, where they were celebrating New Year: ‘Like we do . . . not like them bloody Chinee mob, got silly New Year their own.’ And that big house blazing up there on the hill was Captain Vic Shane’s, the Pearling Master — Big Man. And here we are, coming into Port Palmeston Station. The lights. The cars. The people. ‘Right, Sonny Boy . . . I got ’o go, I’ll see they look out for you all right. And you . . . you bloody rubbish Nelly . . . you behave yourself . . . or I’ll let ’em put you long o’ jail.’ One last rumple of the fair hair — and Daddy-o went loping through to the van.

  Clatter of points and squeal of brakes. They were slowing down. They were stopped amidst a sea of white faces, in a reek of grog and kuttabah and the babble of kuttabah speech — Happy New Year, Bill — same to you, Harry — Happy New Year . . . Happy New Year all!

  The yellow ambulance was there, as ordered from early morning to pick up Piggy Trotters for conveyance to the Hospital. He would still be going there, but to the morgue, instead of to that pleasant louvred corner overlooking the Harbour, reserved for the sick elite. Mrs Piggy was also there, throwing herself upon the unresponsive lump as they loaded it, weeping wildly, but whether for the loss of her pig just when he had become a prize one, or for the inconvenience he was causing her by choosing such a time to die, probably not even she would ever know. Her two classy daughters were with her, looking even sulky about it, although that may have been their particular way of showing grief. The fact remained that it was the party night of the year; and they were great party gals, all three. There was Captain Shane’s party, the grandest of all, although a bit on the vulgar side. There was Rhoda Eaton’s, so refined. There was the RSL binge, for everybody who was white and loyal, the loyalty being to the Traditions of Anzac and Old England. A real party-goer would drop in at the lot, that is if acceptable at all, finishing up at the RSL, since part of the famous Traditions was to get as rotten as possible after winding things up officially by singing God Save the King. Piggy would have done the rounds with wife and daughters, and ended up at the RSL and stayed on to become the rottenest of all. Wife and daughters could hardly be in any of it now. But there was no reason why a damper should be put on anyone else’s jollity; for as they were saying, although out of earshot of Piggy’s bereaved: ‘That’s the way old Piggy would have liked it.’ Time enough to mourn at his funeral. When’s his funeral? Christ, not tomorrow, New Year’s Day, with everybody hung-over! They’d have to pack him in ice till the day after.

  Dr McQuegg, Government Medical Officer, took a look at Piggy to make sure. There was no doubt about it. He was beginning to stink already. Then he took a hasty look at the other two patients he’d been advised of, hasty because he was a Committee Member of the RSL and a keen party-goer. But he was kind to these humble ones, gave Nell something out of his bag to take when she went to bed, because she said she suffered pain at night, and said he’d do an X-ray on her later. He said she’d be all right at the Compound. Perhaps he was being considerate of the one or two nurses only who would be on duty at the Hospital that night because of the partying. He greeted Bobwirridirridi like an old mate: ‘You old bugger, you’re back again, eh? Couldn’t keep away from the bre’-milk and lum. Made a good job of your leg, eh? You’re a better doctor than I am, Ghunga Din. Let’s write a medical paper together on the use of clay in surgical dressings, eh? Ha, ha, ha!’ Old Bob cackled as if in mirth. The doctor added to the police crowding round: ‘Yes, you can put him in a cell, seeing you’re so scared he’ll do a bolt on you . . . on only one leg. But I want to X-ray him before you put him in jail.’

  The police loaded Bob into their utility with the other prisoners. Prindy and he had time to exchange a sign before Nell snatched the boy away. A tall lean halfcaste came to take possession of them, introducing himself as Barney Bynoe. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘See you long o’ Races.’ To Prindy he added: ‘Long o’ your lingo you call ’m me Baranga, ain’t it? Dis one, my Mumma . . . he-he-eeeeee!’ He nodded at his tribal mother, Nelyerri, who frowned at the liberty.

  Barney Bynoe was pannikin-boss at the Compound. He had another halfcaste with him, a little fellow with a limp, whom he referred to as Hoppy. Barney said, ‘Dis first time you come Town, eh? Tarjen Coon-Coon tell me give you run roun’ look-see. You goot friend’ long o’ old Coon-Coon, eh? He-he-eeeee!’

  He was in charge of a big yellow truck, up into the front seat of which he helped mother and son, while Hoppy jumped up into the back. There were no other Aborigines about. As Barney explained as they drove slowly up the hill from the station behind the weaving line of tail-lights of other vehicles heading into the centre of the town, such as they were not allowed out of the Aboriginal Compound, or places where they were permitted to reside as servants of a household, on any nights but Saturdays between sunset and sunrise, except in possession of a pass issued in the name of the Protector. A special proclamation was made in the Government Gazette by that gentleman every week to the effect that his charges were permitted ‘To enter the Town Area for the purpose of attending the Pictures’. Barney put it in no such words and quite without bitterness, in fact even with something like glee, since he was able to add that when what he called citizen rights were proclaimed, as expected soon, types like themselves, that is crossbreeds, would be able to move at will — and booze. ‘We can go in to pub like whiteman!’ As if that were the acme of the longed-for grace of acceptance. He didn’t add that there were a lot of whitemen saying that any pub that served a bloody boong was going to be blackballed.

  They swung from the traffic to the left, into what Barney described as Chinatown — although there were Greek names on many of the shops interspersed with those with garish Chinese signs; where swarthy whitemen, with moustachios and bellies like Grand Turks, were sitting out in cane chairs close to where skinny Chinamen in pantaloons and high-necked jackets sat on hunkers squabbling over games of chance, or fat rich yellow-faced tycoons lay on cane lounges with pretty silk-clad wives around them and yellow children rolled in play in littered gutters. ‘You can buy anyt’ing you want in Chinatown,’ said Barney. ‘Spone you got him money. But pretty harcarse girl can mek plenty money.’ He turned to Prindy, as if remembering something: ‘You Chinaman, ain’t it . . . Ah Loy . . . yu na mukka hai lo! . . . he-heeeee!’ The incongruity evidently tickled him deeply.

  They came through Chinatown to the edge of a cliff, over which they had a full view of the wide harbour; or rather of what could be seen of it in the darkness, only a black line over the other side with the stars dropping down behind it; but almost immediately below them the bright-lit shipping section, the L-shaped jetty with its L of lights and a blazing steamer at the end. Another blaze of light was the floodlit Flying Boat base, with a big boat, looking with spread wings and fat body like a giant pelican just landed. Barney explained that both ship and flying boat plied between what even he called The East (which was northwest) and the South.

  They turned from there to pass other shops, then come to the Government Offices. ‘Protector dere . . . Dr Cobbity,’ said Barney. ‘Boss number-one longo we-lot. Nex’ door dere . . . das Cop Shop . . . see dem khaki bastard inside dere! You don’ wan’ o’ get in dere, eh, young feller? He-he-eeeee! But you got him mate, dere, ain’t it . . . old Coon-Coon . . . Eeeeee!’

  Round again. There was Government House, so called, the residence of the Administrator. ‘Boss over eve
rybody,’ explained Barney.

  The Anzac Memorial, with the concrete soldier wearing an Italian’s comic version of the comic hat. ‘Anzac Day,’ said Barney. ‘All-lot kid from Compound come down ’ere. Blowin’ the bugle, an’ singin’. Den everybody go long Oval and sports . . . lollies and lolly-water, cakes, Good fun.’

  Round to show all the pubs, all packed and uproarious and reeking of the goods they sold, crawling past, so that Barney could look inside in obvious proud anticipation of that day next year when he would be able to breast the bar like a whiteman. ‘Nex’ year!’ he whooped. ‘Da’s tomorro’, next year . . . you savvy date? Da’s what for Happy New Year bijnitch, and all them white peoples goin’ mad.’

  They pulled up across the road from the RSL where the crowd were beginning to gather. It was a big bungalow-type place, on high piers, the bottom part serving as refreshment room, as evident from the laden tables and the mob, the men in starched whites, the women in all colours, standing with glasses about that biggest of the tables packed with bottles. ‘Look-it all dat bloody grog!’ said Barney, and smacked his lips.

  ‘Pretty dress,’ remarked Nell.

  No hope of their kind ever getting in there.

  Down a long long street of houses obviously too big and well built for anyone like them, and mostly in darkness because of the crowding into town. Then down a hill and through a grove of trees, to be suddenly confronted with a blaze of light. Well-dressed white people could be seen on the wide front verandah and the flood-lit lawn before it. ‘Mitchis Eaton . . . you know, Mitchis Delacy before,’ said Barney, and cast a look at his passengers as if to show he knew of their relationship to the luxuriance. Both stared with interest. ‘Dey got good place over ’nother side . . . Rainbow Head,’ Barney went on, jerking his lips forward, where through the windscreen above a line of trees could be seen the dark luminosity of the sea against the black line and starlight of the western horizon. ‘Big picnic dere tomorro’ New Year Day . . . white peoples. You see him tomorro’ from Compound. We lot got picnic tomorro’ too. New Year Day big holiday.’

  Down the hill and swing to the right, with the silhouette of coconuts against the stars and below a glimmer of light. ‘Das Jumbo Delacy place. Old Jumbo him in jail . . . for goin’ mad Chritchmitch! Him mad bugger, dat Jumbo, Him mitchis dere, and mob kid. Poor bugger.’

  They swung round the cemeteries. Only two here, European and Asiatic, the latter being very large. Aborigines were buried in what was shown on the map of the town as the Sanitary Reserve, also used for the dumping of rubbish. Along through a coconut grove, with no sight of the sea but strong smell of it for nostrils not used to it and now flaring to sniff at it. Then up another hill and back onto the long promontory on which the town of Palmeston was built, to have revealed in the headlights that part of this community of human beings reserved for those to whom the land it was built on had belonged and whose compensation for having it taken from them in the name of civilisation was to live on subsistence rations behind that barbed wire fence on which was a notice declaring what it was: Aboriginal Reserve. Any person entering upon this Reserve without authority may be prosecuted according to the Law. Protector of Aborigines — A ghostly looking city of whitewashed hovels. ‘Compound,’ said Barney Bynoe shortly. The passengers, who must have heard so much of it, since it constituted the ne plus ultra of their kind, the place that eventually would swallow them and obliterate them, stared out at it. There were a few dim lights, a few small fires with ghostly figures standing or crouched beside them. But for the sound of the motor they might have heard the old familiar click of the minga-minga, the drone of didjeridoo, a stanza or two of the ancient chanting, sadly, from those who still remembered, or the whoops and squeals of those who had learnt to forget — with the grog.

  Across the corner of the place was to be seen a big bright house. It was outside the city of hovels, as revealed when they turned the corner and headed for it. Barney said, ‘Boss live dere . . . Sup’tendent Turkney . . . good bloke . . . spone you don’ mek him wild. Havin’ big party tonight . . . so all-lot inside . . .’ he jerked his head to the ghost-city, ‘. . . havin’ party too . . . He-he-eeeee!’

  He pulled up with a squeal of brakes as well as mirth before the Superintendent’s residence. He shut off the engine. Sound of hilarity within and blare of gramophone music. The sounds from the hovels across the way also swept in. As Barney got down to go into the house he nodded to a similarly built place next door to it that was in complete darkness. ‘Da’s you call-yim Harcase Home . . . for kid.’ Then he disappeared through the wire gate leading into a well-kept garden of shrubs. The garden could be pretty plainly seen from light shed from the latticed verandahs above. As usual, the house stood on high piers. But below this one was in darkness.

  After some minutes a tubby figure in white came out of the gate, swinging a bunch of keys in one hand, in the other a flashlight, which, coming up to the truck, he shone into the cabin, calling in a thick boozy voice, ‘Hello . . . hello . . . who we got here, eh . . . the Ah Loys? Eh . . . where you get that name Ah Loy, young feller, with that hair and those Irish eyes? . . . When Irish eyes are smilin’. Ah . . . I see it all now . . . why old Coon-Coon rings me up and says: “Want you take special care that boy.” Ha, ha, ha, ho, ho! I heard somethin’ like that . . . but didn’t b’lieve it . . . ho, ho, ho! . . . wait’ll I tell ’em inside. Ah Loy, eh? That’s good! Come on . . . get down . . . I’ll show you where you sleep tonight.’

  He swung the torch on the white gate that was the entrance to the Compound. Not a sound out of there now. Silence had fallen as if by magic at Mr Turkney’s emergence. He took them to the gate, unlocked it. As they went in he flashed his light on a big building on the right: ‘That’s my office . . . where I keep the cane to belt him cheeky boys.’ Then, chuckling, he rumpled Prindy’s hair, he added: ‘I no-more belt him boy . . . I only gammon.’ He turned the beam to another sizeable building on that side: ‘That’s the laundry. My girls work there. Keeps ’em out of no-good business . . . ha, ha, ho!’

  Still jollying, he led them to the left, where there were other bigger buildings, these of whitewashed iron and soon seen to be behind a fence of their own. There was a glimmer of light here and there, but no sound. As he unlocked another gate he said, ‘I wonder what the buggers’re up to? They’re only quiet when they’re up to no good.’

  There were half a dozen of these buildings, not much better than sheds it could be seen at closer quarters, with shut doors and windows consisting of tin shutters, open but backed with stout wire mesh. A prison, it might be thought. But as it was a place of protection, not correction, such a thing could not be said.

  Turkney, after some fumbling with keys, opened one of the blank-faced doors. His light revealed nothing inside but some institutional furniture, bare table, forms. There were a couple of other rooms behind, light in one of them. He called in, ‘Wha’s matter . . . all-about been die-finish, eh?’

  Silence. He added: ‘Yu-ai, he been die all right. I can smell him . . . pooh!’

  A titter from within.

  He said, ‘Must be dibble I can hear him. I ain’t goin’ in there. Go on, you two. Goodnight.’ Then he raised his voice: ‘Happy New Year, girls!’

  An answering chorus of rough, half-Aboriginal female voices: ‘Hap’ New Year, Mist Turk’ey!’ He shut the door, locked it. His footsteps receded on the gravel.

  A torch flashed from the rear, dazzling them. Then someone came with a hurricane lantern and placed it on the table, saying, shyly, ‘Ullo.’ She was about sixteen, a quarter-caste, wearing a one-piece pale blue cotton dress with darker blue fine stripes and thick blue hems to short sleeves and skirt.

  Then there was a rush of figures similarly clad, and a babble of voices and dark hand grasping.

  ‘Nelyerri!’

  ‘Prindy!’

  ‘Nelly . . . my cujin . . . Nelly!’

  ‘Julama!’

  It was the Barbu women, mother and dirty daughter
s, whom Constable Stunke had had removed from Beatrice for the good of the morality of that community. They were panting questions about those they’d left behind there, old Ali Barba, Savitra their sister and daughter. There was a strong smell of grog on them. Maggie the mother whispered on intaken breath, ‘We got bottle lum for New Year. You like lil bits, Nelly . . . cujin Nell?’

  They produced the bottle and pannikins and cake.

  Over at the residence they were whooping it up: Roll out the barrel, We’ll have a barrel of fun . . .

  The minga-mingas were clicking all around, the chanting voices raised: Kah-kai, kah-kai, imberrunni kah-kai . . . Brau, brau, brau!

  The black drunks were yelling, screaming: Bloody puggin bastard!

  The white drunks bellowing, shrilling: Show me the way to go home . . .

  Then the tooting of cars and banging of cans and a bang or two of explosives from near and far, the giant’s didjeridoo of the steamer at the distant jetty — Boomb-boomba-booooooo! and the crowd with Mr Turkney bellowing and shrilling to beat it all: Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind . . . should auld acquaintance be forgot in days of auld lang syne . . . Happy New Year, everybody . . . Happy New Year!

  It dwindled away to silence — to silence over which Igulgul rose, misshapen almost unto death. As if his peeping through the prisoner-protecting wire had to do with it, Prindy sleeping on sacks in a corner of that room with the big table, began to murmur, to try to sing in that sweet strangled voice: