Indeed, so fetching was the outfit, that Alfie was fairly mobbed when she appeared in it carrying her tray of Golden Horseshoes and the gilded moneybag, on the Racecourse that first afternoon of racing. For those lolly kisses she gave to all and sundry with seeming pleasure she could have got the season’s pay from most of the louts, old and young, master and man, who were game to take them. Quite a number blushed scarlet and fled when she offered her lips to seal the contract. They were the ones about whom the others guffawed in asides in the beery uproar of the bar between the dusty, sweaty, silk-and-tail-and-manes-flashing thunderous excitement of each race: ‘She’d’ve ’ad to black ’er face before Billy Brew could’a’ come at ’er . . . yaaaaaaaaah!’
Alfie didn’t hear them say that, or any of the other bawdy things such as the way her pretty bum wobbled in those tight pants and those little tits filled her red-piped breast pockets as nothing a stockrider ever carried could do to such effect . . . ‘Yoo-hoo, boy . . . how’ yo’ like to pull them corduroys down, eh, get a feel under them pockets? . . . yaaaaaa-eeee-ah. Christ!’
If she had heard she might have thought there was something more than drollery in what was said about the Burnt Cork, and might have acted on it spitefully, in view of her outspoken opinion of Jeremy Delacy given the night before and what can be expected of a woman scorned, when she came face to face with him for the first time for the day. She would have ignored him, but for his asking her if he might have a Horseshoe, and on being sold one quite nicely, ignored the proffered lips. Both parties went red, but she the redder and with eyes ablaze, almost shouting at him, ‘Are you afraid you’ll catch something?’
They were in the midst of a shoving uproarious crowd. A race had just finished, the big race of the day, the President’s Trophy, which had been won by Jeremy’s colt, Red Rory. He had to all but shout back, bending to her, ‘I take my kissing seriously.’
For a moment their eyes locked, grey with black. Then she answered, ‘So do I!’ and with a swift movement, kissed him squarely on the mouth. Then she was gone. Jeremy looked after her in astonishment.
Fergus Ferris, who had been with Alfie, showed his split lip in a wide grin, and leaning close to Jeremy, said behind his hand, ‘Watch it, Daddy-o . . . she went through the boys up Town like a packet of salts . . . yaaaaa-eee!’ He also in a moment was gone.
Someone else was witness to the scene, someone whose grey eyes would have been seen to pop with interest in both parties, only that they were hooded with Indian fly-proof dark glasses — he who was now joked about by the few who took notice of him as Ali Barba’s son-in-law, selling fly-whisks in the Barbu booth.
Jeremy continued on his way, into the saddling paddock, to receive Red Rory and his jockey Darcy Delacy, after the weighing out, took some congratulations from those about, then went on with horse and jockey to the Lily Lagoons stables. There was Nanago, dressed as usual for these occasions, in a very smart frock of flowered silk, but with the inevitable black wide-awake with the silver band, and barefoot. Looking hard at Jeremy, she began to laugh, so that her plumpness shook. He looked surprised: ‘What’s the joke?’
She squealed, ‘You got him lipstick all over mouth!’
Jeremy went redder than the rouge, wiped savagely at his lips. Still laughing, she got him a towel, wetted the corner of it, cleaned the stuff off for him. He muttered, ‘That mad cowgirl who’s selling the Horseshoes. Here’s yours. Here’s yours, Darcy.’
Nan giggled, ‘Might-be dat cowgirl mad about you, eh?’
Jeremy grunted, ‘Ugh!’ Then he said, ‘I’ll take Rory down and give him a swim.’
He went with haste, and with a glance back, somewhat fearfully, as if expecting something like what had happened the last time he had brought Red Rory in like that. But there was no one following.
So the first day’s racing came to a close; with the red Sun sinking in the dust of it and the crowd surging pubward through the dust to quench thirsts that the dust and the excitement and all the beer they’d drunk already only titillated because such thirsts as theirs, the Great Australian Thirst, is soul-deep, like the thirst of the damned in Hell; the thirst of people with a woeful past and naught but woe for the future. The Delacys in their bright camp locked themselves in to escape the dust, then came out to enjoy the freshness following the blowing away of the dust, the smoke, the stench of beer and sweat, and with no less pleasure evidently in their drinking, sat watching young Igulgul winking over the trees.
Up at Barbu’s a bamboo flute was playing The Camptown Races, a piece played several times that day by the Military Band that was now an integral part of a festival that had been so truly rural.
Up at Finnucane’s the beer was flowing as from a magic fountain, while the magician kept an eye on his sweating sons-in-law and an ear on the endless music of the cash-register. Out in the verandah lounge the Candlemases and Bishoffs and Fergus Ferris and others were enjoying the joke about that kiss. It was then Alfie heard the Burnt Cork joke; but, unpredictable little lady that she was, instead of laughing, she waxed indignant, and said, ‘I’m going to apologise to him.’
Fergus cried, ‘But that’s an insult!’
‘How is it?’
‘If I kissed you, and then apologised, wouldn’t that be a slight to you?’
‘No . . . it’d be a blooming miracle!’
That restored the laughter. Nevertheless, Alfie meant what she had said, as proved later in the evening, when, suddenly tiring of the puerile fun and games under the coloured lights, she asked Frank to take her down to the Delacy camp. He looked dubious, but didn’t demur. She said, ‘After all, he did ask us down.’
So they went out, in time to catch the last glow of the Moon, to hear the last distant complaints of the dispossessed cockies, and the not-so-distant din of the cavorting of the common herd in the Dance Hall. Still, it was a relief from what they had just left, so much so, that Alfie, hugging her man’s arm to her breast, commented, ‘Lovely, isn’t it . . . a lovely land . . . only unlovely people . . . Oh, what’s that?’ It was a gang of plovers flying low over their heads, probably scolding them as part of what she was complaining of as unlovely.
They came into the brightly lit circle of the Delacy camp, with its own noise the muffled beat and humming of the lighting plant, but with a mob of other people’s dogs to sound uproarious warning of their coming. Only Jeremy and Nan were there, lounging in deck-chairs, with a brandy bottle and iced water on a low table between them, and a radio talking quietly on a bigger table. Both rose as the pair approached. Jeremy took Frank’s hand and bowed stiffly to Alfie, and in formal fashion introduced Nan, who gravely complied. It was interesting to see the swift interplay of the women’s eyes, the shiny black, the soft brown. Jeremy got seats and offered drinks. The others chose brandy. Nan got glasses. After a few preliminaries in talk about the camp, round which the visitors glanced with pleasure, Alfie said suddenly, ‘I really came to apologise.’
Jeremy looked surprised, and hearing the reason, looked at a loss, turning to Frank. In his easy way, Frank said, ‘Really only an excuse to visit you, I think.’ Alfie was going to protest; but Frank got in again: ‘I want to come out to your place, if I may. It sounds like effrontery, I know . . .’
‘How so? asked Jeremy. ‘It’s your job to report on the health of every community in the country, isn’t it?’
‘But yours . . . with your reputation!’
Jeremy chuckled, ‘Does that mean that with my reputation you thought you’d be chucked out?’
Frank chuckled in return, ‘Could be . . . but I was going on what Charlie Bishoff’s been telling me about its being . . . well, a model place. It isn’t to inspect it, I assure you, but for the honour of seeing what you’ve done.’
‘Thank you. I’m afraid I don’t get much honour paid me. When were you thinking of making the visit?’
‘Well, right after the Races . . . if that would suit you!’
Jeremy stirred as if with slight discomfort: ‘I
t doesn’t really. I usually take a bit of a trip away when it’s all over . . . But you could go out yourself . . . with Madam here, too, of course. My wife’ll be there. She can do you the honours, and explain everything.’
‘Thanks,’ Frank answered. Now both he and Alfie looked uncomfortable.
Pouring drinks for them, Jeremy said, ‘Surely you’ve been apprised of the fact that I have an alcoholic binge after the Races?’
Noting the increased discomfort, Jeremy said, although flushing to it, ‘Sorry to inflict you with my unconventional forthrightness . . . but I know what these people say . . . I’ve lived long enough and hard enough with ’em. I guess you’re not the conventional types yourselves . . .’
Alfie cried eagerly, ‘Ooh, we’re not!’
‘Well . . . there you are. I thought I’d be frank with you. I don’t consider myself a drunkard . . . but I don’t suppose any drunk does. Still, I don’t drink anything near so much per annum as the people who’ll tell you I’m a drunk. Besides, I conduct my binges in what I consider a scientific way. I’m a Druggist, you might know. I see alcohol as the most harmless of all the drugs used to physic a congenitally sick species . . . and use it, I think, to its best effect.’ He met their staring eyes, made a wry face, shrugged, said shortly, ‘Have a drink.’
When he remained silent after pouring for everybody and taking a sip of his own, Alfie said, ‘Go on . . . please. I’d like to hear more about it.’
Jeremy chuckled, ‘I’ve a faint recollection that I discussed the matter with you once before. Anyway, it isn’t really a subject for a lady . . .’
‘I don’t profess or want to be a lady. I don’t see what difference it makes, anyway.’ Alfie’s tone was slightly indignant.
‘I’ve also an idea I told you a man should never drink except with discipline or a woman except with a reliable male escort. But what I meant about its not being a subject for a lady was that women don’t have the same need of drink as men.’
‘Why?’
Jeremy looked at Frank, who nodded. ‘We’re both terribly interested in what you’re saying, Mr Delacy. We’ve got our own ideas about drinking. They’re probably all wrong. The boozing that goes on in these parts has, well, to be frank, rather appalled us . . . although we make a show of going along with it, well, knowing that it’s something of a necessity. To hear someone talk about it sensibly . . .’
‘It doesn’t only belong to these parts, Mr Candlemas . . .’
‘Frank’s the name, if you’d do me the honour to call me that.’
‘I will, son . . .’
‘I’m Aelfrieda . . . Alfie for short . . .’
‘Everybody knows what I think.’ Jeremy said it so shortly that it silenced Alfie. He went on: ‘It’s not just a condition of these parts . . . it’s a national state of things . . . if Australia can be called a nation . . .’
‘Don’t you call it a nation?’ Alfie demanded.
Jeremy shrugged: ‘More to the point to ask me what I think of it. I prefer not to think of it as a nation, because of the pain it causes to a kink I have for nationality . . . because as a nation it’s an abomination in the sight of the Lord. I prefer to regard it as a colony, a collection of colonies, of alien peoples who don’t yet know where they are, or why they’re here. To call it a nation now is to give up hope that it will ever be anything but a community of stupid greedy bastards . . . whereas to call it a colony . . . rather to think of it as such . . . is to retain a little hope that it might become eventually what alone will excuse the murder and robbery, the confidence-trickery and the bombast, the stupidity and the sycophancy it’s been founded on.’ Jeremy ended red-faced and somewhat breathless, grabbed at his glass and drained it.
His audience was breathless, too, with interest; especially the female part of it, the one with dark eyes staring wide and luminous, lovely lolly mouth agape, the other with the brown eyes watching the effect on the black-eyed one.
Jeremy drew a deep breath: ‘Talking about drink . . .’
Alfie cried, ‘No . . . please talk about Australia . . . this’s marvellous!’
Jeremy shot her a glance, then concentrated on replenishing the glasses, saying, ‘Some other time. I get a bit worked up about it... and it’s hard enough to sleep with all the row that goes on these nights. Tomorrow’s Cup Day . . . and I have a horse to win. There’s always a certain strain to it. I usually have to take something to ease the tension as it is. One can communicate one’s feelings to a horse. I don’t want my mare to lose on account of me. I’m going to ask you soon to excuse me, if you don’t mind. If I can get off before the mob really starts their racket after midnight, I’ll have had enough, and with what I can pick up, to put me right in the morning. In case you don’t know, racing for horse and owner . . . a big race like the Cup . . . starts at first light in the morning, not at two-thirty in the afternoon . . .’
‘We’ll go now,’ said Frank, making a rise.
‘Wait till I tell you the bit about booze. I don’t think it will ever matter a lot to either of you . . .’
‘Why shouldn’t it matter?’ asked Alfie.
‘Well, you seem to be a well-adjusted couple. You’re an ambitious little lady. You’ve got talent. You’re going to use it. You’re evidently your husband’s first interest in life . . . so you won’t go wrong for help. So why should you have to bother about drink, except as a social appurtenance? The people it matters to are those who aren’t adjusted.’
‘Does that mean you’re not adjusted?’ Alfie asked.
Frank shot a glance at her.
But Jeremy only smiled: ‘Did it sound like it just now, when I was blowing off about Australia Felix?’
‘Do you mean to say you drink because you hate Australia so?’
He sighed slightly: ‘You’re referring to the binges, of course. My other drinking is medicinal. When I go on a binge to escape a certain sense of futility I have when all this’s over . . . especially if what I’ve striven for all the year, for several years in every case, in fact, the breeding, training, seeing come to its natural perfection a noble animal. It may be that this’s the time of year I have most to do with my fellows . . . the ’Strailyuns, and at their very worst. I even contribute something to their meanness by what I’ve striven for. I know they love my horses . . . but out of greed for money, for excitement . . . never out of admiration for the beautiful beasts themselves. It all disgusts me somewhat. What for? I ask myself. For something to live for, is the answer. I don’t want to die. I still have the hope . . . although it’s fading fast, particularly with the news these days, which makes it sound certain that we’re in for another war . . .’
Alfie put in: ‘But surely this war’s got to be fought to stop the Fascists?’
‘You mean the Italians?’
‘No . . . all the brutes who are trying to walk jack-booted over the world.’
‘That means any military body to me . . .’
‘Surely not the Army of Russia!’
‘Are you a Communist, Madam?’
‘No . . . most certainly not.’
‘You make it sound that way. The Glorious Red Army is just as much a murdering machine as any other . . . and might be worse, because it has an element of religious mania to make its murder justifiable to itself. But please, I don’t want to talk about war. I had enough of the last . . . not through personal suffering, but because of what I saw it do to my native land . . . put it into fiscal and moral bankruptcy. I’m now afraid, especially from what I’ve heard tonight about the likelihood of the appointment of a British General to become Commander-in-Chief of the Australian Army . . .’
‘No!’ cried Alfie.
‘That’s what I just heard. It seems the rows of the local lads over getting power for themselves is worrying Prime Minister Lyons . . . or probably more likely, the Boss, Mother England, who might be wanting her death-or-glory boys, the simple Aussies any moment, with things as they are. But I was saying, that the Great War bankrupted us on
the threshold of nationhood. To be dragged into another one will sell us out altogether. But, as I’ve said, I’d rather not talk about it. This drink business. When the Races are over, I see the family headed for home, then sneak off. I endeavour to get away where I’m not known, where I can drink with fools that I don’t despise and don’t know enough about to pity much. I can enjoy their lies for a while, and entertain them with some of my own. I’m a good liar when in the mood for it . . . I mean for the fun of it. Well, I usually can drink them all out . . . and know I’ve done a good deed doing so. Then I carry on alone till I see the floor coming up to hit me, or the landlady trying to get into bed with me . . .’
Nan, so silent all the while, but so much there in her brown firmness, began to giggle. So did Alfie: then Frank, and in a moment all three were howling with laughter. When they had got control of themselves, Alfie wiping her eyes with a bit of lace, Jeremy said dryly, ‘Nice to know you find it amusing and not disgusting. Actually one does come out of it with a sense of disgust. When I see the end coming, believing in the adage that the measure of a gentleman in drink is never to let anybody see you when you fall down, I get into my bus with a bottle and go off alone to some quiet spot on a creek or river, and flake out. I wake feeling pretty sick; but there’s a lovely feeling of catharsis about it. So there it is. I can’t see either of you having to do it.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 85