Jeremy demanded, ‘Hundred and five what . . . trouser buttons?’
Without turning, Knobby yelled, ‘’Undred and five quid . . . done?’
Because Barbu only gibbered, Knobby made another step towards the horse.
But Jeremy now shook Alfie off and set after him, got in front of him, saying, ‘Not so fast, boy. You’re still outbid . . .’
‘I bid ’undred and five ’gainst your ’undred!’
‘You went to school, I know . . . but not for long. You bet in pounds, and I in guineas. You’ve only equalled my bid, not topped it.’
There was a loud laugh. Knobby swung on the crowd, then swiftly back on Jeremy, snarling now, ‘Out o’ me way, old-man . . . or I’ll flatten yo’!’
Jeremy asked, ‘Yes?’
‘Yes!’
‘You’ve been in the wars with me before, Knobby . . . and you were the bloke to hit the dirt . . . remember?’
Knobby shaped up, panting, ‘’S goin’ be you this time, bozo!’
Nugget leapt at his brother, crying, ‘For chrissake no, Knob . . . you know what he’s like.’
Knobby flung him off, snarling, ‘I know’t ’e’s like with the dirt. But let him try it this time. Come on, Delacy . . . up with ’em.’
Others intervened this time, amongst them Clancy. Jeremy snapped at them, ‘Get to hell out of it. Let the half-wit get it out of his system . . .’
‘’Arf-wit am I?’ cried Knobby. ‘Well, cop this!’
He came rushing in bull-headed, arms flailing. Jeremy stepped aside, and as he blundered past, hit him hard in the midriff. Knobby gasped, grabbed at his gut, collapsed on his knees, fighting to get his breath back. Some men leapt on him, to pound his back and rub his stomach, stretching out his legs; but not among them Nugget, who came at Jeremy roaring, ‘You dirty bloody bastard . . . you done it to ’im again!’
‘Want me to do it to you, too?’ asked Jeremy, heaving a bit for breath now.
‘You try it . . . you dirty stinkin’ rotten robbin’ bastard!’ Nugget came in in the proper style, left extended, right hand guarding his face, right elbow over that vital region his brother had left exposed. Now Jeremy shaped up. Nugget jabbed at the ruddy face with the left. Jeremy ducked. Nugget’s right shot out and struck his shoulder. Jeremy’s right shot out and hit Nugget in the midriff. Down went Nugget with a grunt like a pole-axed bull.
Now someone else yelled, ‘’E done it again!’
Jeremy said, ‘Yes . . . it’s the simplest thing in the world to do to fools . . . doesn’t bust your hands, either.’
‘Below the belt,’ muttered someone.
Jeremy said, ‘If you’ll look you’ll see it was fair in the solar plexus region. You can’t drop anyone like that merely by hitting them in the guts. Anybody else like to try?’
Everybody except the very elite were there now. One of them, amongst the tallest, with dark pinhead silhouetted against the blaze of the hall, demanded in a strangely harsh yet not unmusical voice, ‘Throwin’ your weight about, eh, Delacy?’
It was Dinny Cahoon. He added, sharply: ‘I’d get along back to camp if I were you.’
Jeremy said, ‘If you were me, Sergeant . . . then pigs would have wings.’
There was a burst of laughter, that stopped as Dinny turned quickly on those about him. Then he pushed through those in front of him, and coming up to Jeremy, asked, ‘Did you be any chance refer to me as a pig?’
Dead silence. Jeremy broke it: ‘Are you on duty, Sergeant?’
‘I am.’
‘You’re not in uniform.’
‘I don’t have to be in uniform to be on duty . . . so I’m telling you to get along home.’
‘What I meant to infer was that, if you’re on duty, you shouldn’t be drinking . . . and to judge by your breath, you’ve had quite a lot.’
A gasp from the crowd.
‘If you’re not careful I’ll run you in.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Disturbin’ the peace. Those two men lying on the ground there were knocked down by you.’
‘I’ve got a lot of enemies, Sergeant, including your noble self . . . but enough friends to bear witness that I merely defended myself when attacked. But by all means take me in. That’ll give me the opportunity to call in the Police Superintendent and the Government Medical Officer to substantiate the charge I’d lay against you for drinking on duty.’
Another burst of laughter. Cahoon swung on the crowd, which fell silent again. Then he barked at them, ‘Get moving . . . the lot o’ yo’ . . .’ and he took a couple of long strides towards those nearest, who at once fell away.
Jeremy turned to the gaping, cringing Barbu: ‘Well, is he my horse, Barbu Ram?’
Barbu began to gabble, ‘My son-in-law vill be mooch sorry if I sell ’im.’
‘But you need money, don’t you? I’ll give you the money and a horse for the boy . . . and a couple of horses for the van, if you’ll give me back those old ones to die in peace on my run.’
‘You are a very goot man, Sir . . . but I tell my poy of vot I see in t’e crystal . . . and he vill be very disappoint.’
Barbu hung his head. Jeremy put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re a good man too, Barbu . . . if only you’d leave those little birds alone . . .’
‘T’e awk tek t’e lil pird mooch more t’an I, Sir.’
‘I know . . . you’ve given me that one several times before. It still doesn’t make you anything but a destroyer of life . . . you a good Hindu.’ Barbu drooped lower. Jeremy, still clutching the thin shoulder, went on: ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have a pony for your boy . . . if you’ll let me have this colt to train.’
Barbu looked up quickly. There were others looking, too, including the Knowles brothers, on their feet now, although somewhat bent from their usual erect postures. Jerry added: ‘We’ll make it all Legality, as you say . . . your properly horse . . . I the trainer. You can have him back after he’s won his first race . . . with the prize.’
Barbu took the hand that lay on his shoulder and kissed it. ‘That’ll do!’ snapped Jeremy, snatching the hand away. ‘Let’s take the horse up and show him to your son-in-law, eh?’ He went to the horse, stroked his neck and nose, spoke to him gently, untethered him, took him by the halter. There in a flash to join him was Alfie, to take the other side. She was about to start a tête-à-tête again, but was interrupted by shouting from behind.
It was Knobby Knowles: ‘We’ll get you, Delacy . . . just you wait!’
He half-turned to call back, ‘I first heard that from your old man, nearly twenty years ago. Can’t a Knowles’s mind run to something new?’
Nugget Knowles had his say: ‘We’ll get you all right, Delacy . . . just you wait!’
Jeremy said, ‘Sounds like there’s no such thing as a Knowles’s mind.’
A burst of laughter from some of those behind.
‘Shut up, yo’ bastards!’ yelled Knobby.
When Jeremy chuckled, Alfie asked softly, ‘What was all that in aid of?’
‘Tell you some other time. All went well, then?’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘No thanks to me at all. You started it alone, and finished it alone.’
‘Inspired by you. I’ve never felt so strong in my life as in your company.’
‘That makes me sound like a bad influence . . . and you can bet people are saying it right now.’
‘What do I care?’
‘Think of me!’
‘What do you care?’
‘I have my reputation as trouble-maker to guard. This country isn’t big enough for two.’
She laughed, ‘Oh, you darling!’ and leaned across the little horse’s drooping head to kiss him. But he brought the head up smartly, so that she kissed the horse.
‘Behave yourself,’ he said. ‘We’re coming to the respectable house of Barbu . . .’
‘Not so respectable from what I’ve heard of it!’
‘It was n
ever declared a house of ill-fame . . . and never was that. The assignations alleged took place on the river bank. What man in this community is frank enough to have dealings with a coloured woman except like a furtive animal in the bush . . . except myself and Tom Toohey?’
That silenced her.
Barbu had run ahead, had opened the gate. There under the mangoes were two diminutive figures in white, one with covered head and black face, the other of much lighter complexion but inky hair and wearing dark glasses. Barbu cried out to the children in Hindustani, waving to the horse. Then to the white visitors he said, ‘My daughter and son-in-law, Sir and Madam.’
Jeremy said, ‘Here’s your little horse, sonny. He’s a little beauty, too. You want to make a racehorse of him, eh?’
The black head nodded gravely. Jeremy said: ‘I’m going to train him for you.’ Then he asked: ‘Why’re you wearing goggles in the dark?’
Prindy was silent; but Barbu answered, ‘He haf t’e bad sore heye.’
‘Let’s have a look at ’em.’
‘Oh, no t’ank you, Sir . . . it is not necessity. I am myself vit success treatink him.’
‘Yes? Well, be careful you don’t blind him. Better let the Flying Doctor take a look at him before he goes back to Town.’
‘And so vill I, Mr Delacy, Sir, so vill I.’
The little horse, attracted by the little figures, strained towards them. Jeremy let him go. Alfie had already done so. He went up to them, sniffing. Prindy stuck a yellow finger out. The colt sniffed hard at it. The finger stroked the golden nose, then the hand. The colt whickered. The small hand ran up and along the gleaming neck. The muzzle sought the boy’s jacketed breast. Jeremy said, ‘Looks like they’re going to get along fine. Right, old-man, we’ll leave him with you . . . till Sunday. Then when my family go home, we’ll take him along with us. The boy can come too, if he wants to.’ With that he wheeled about.
As they went out through the gate, with Barbu bowing behind them, Alfie took Jeremy’s arm again; but he shook it off, saying, ‘Well, I’ve disposed of the colt for the time being . . . now I’ve got to get a filly off my hands.’
‘What filly?’ she asked.
He looked at her, and meeting the dark eyes wide with query, answered, ‘You sound as dumb as the Knowles brothers.’
Then she caught the meaning, and flamed, so that the colouration could be seen even in the moonlight. He added: ‘But it won’t be hard. She’s got a husband . . . a nice chap too. I think I even see him there outside the Hall. I’ll hand her right over to him.’
She took a moment to speak, then asked huskily, ‘Jeremy . . . when can I see you again?’
‘Is it necessary?’
‘Frightfully.’
‘On account of what?’
‘Everything.’
‘You must have everything for your book by now?’
‘I want to see Lily Lagoons.’
‘You have my permission to go there whenever you like.’
‘I want you to take me.’
‘Sorry . . . nothing doing. Hello, Frank . . . here’s your lady back. Thanks for the loan of her. She probably kept me out of trouble.’
Frank laughed, ‘I guess you can look after yourself when it comes to trouble.’
Jeremy said loud enough for everybody round the door to hear, ‘A man’s a fool who can’t. But having a lady with you is perfect assurance of peace around these parts, I do assure you . . . a white lady, that is . . . but it isn’t gallantry so much that keeps thugs off your back, as fear of whitewomen . . . yes, man, most of ’em go in holy dread of ’em.’ There was some male guffawing and female tittering, in which Alfie and Frank joined.
Someone at the back of the crowd called out, ‘That why you married black the second time, Jerry, eh?’
Another guffaw. Jeremy answered, ‘No, man . . . because I didn’t need a bodyguard.’
Only a chuckle over that one. Jeremy said to the Candlesmases, ‘Suppose you’ll be going to the Blackboys’ Races tomorrow? See you there, then. Goodnight.’
He set off up the street. After staring for a moment, Alfie took her husband’s arm, murmuring, ‘Let’s go for a run somewhere in the car.’
Frank responded with alacrity, and setting off with her in the same direction as the thick-set figure now only a blur in the moonlight, asked her where she’d like to go. She answered, ‘Out to that place they call the Rainbow Pool.’
‘Weren’t we to go there with the Bishoffs?’
‘I want to go alone. It’s supposed to be a magic place.’
‘Okay.’
Jeremy had to pass Finnucane’s to reach the road that would take him directly down to the crossing and his camp nearby; but on the bright-lit verandah, reclining in deck-chairs, saw a couple of persons he evidently wanted to avoid, so swung down towards the railway yards. However, he’d left the move too late, not having been able soon enough to see who the couple were because of bunting hanging at the end of the verandah. In fact there were three persons, the third cuddled up to its mother’s breast. Jeremy heard his name called in a melodious soprano. He hesitated a moment in his stride, then swung to go as called. ‘Hello, Bridie . . . Con,’ he said, coming to the edge of the verandah. Con Cullity leapt up to take his hand in both of his, dragged him up to Bridie, who pulled him down with one hand and kissed him on the cheek. Con was babbling about where had Jerry been, never come to see the baby. Bridie said it was mean of him — and look what a wondrous darlint it was!
Rather red, Jeremy mumbled, ‘Don’t forget I’m the Scrub Bull . . . and bulls aren’t interested in calves.’
‘Go on!’ cried Bridie. ‘It’s because you heard we want you to be her godfather.’
‘For godsake, no!’
‘Aw, plaze, Jerry,’ cried Con. ‘Plaze, man, plaze. ’Twould do us the greatest honour. Haven’t we named the darlint after ye?’
‘But it’s a girl, isn’t it?’
‘Sure, ’tis a gurrl . . . and the most beautiful and wonderful gurrl that ever was, so help me gob!’
‘Well . . .’
‘Jemima,’ said Bridie.
‘Hell!’
‘What a thing to say about my baby!’
‘I’m sorry . . . but . . . but . . .’
‘We’ll call her Mimi . . . Mimi Cullity . . . isn’t that a lovely name to go to bed with?’
Con guffawed, ‘Sounds loike the name of an Afghan! But what’s in a name, as Saint Patrick himself said whan he named the shamrock and t’others didn’t loike the sham part of it . . . yawhawyaw! If she’s Mimi to Bridie she’s my little Jem, the gem in the crown of the king she’s made me feel bein’ her daddy-o, man. And you’re surely not goin’ to do us out of the great honour and goot fun ’twill be to have you shtand up there on Sunday in front of the Reverend Monsignor and everywan, and especially that slave-drivin’ old splapeen himself, old Shame-on-us, who declares you an atheist, and say, “I do shtand godfather to this choild and renounce the divil and all his wurrks,” or whatever . . . You’ll do it old friend, for us . . . for me and me lovely Bridie, who wants it so bad, too . . . ye will, ye will? Den come’n’ have a drink on it man . . . come’n’ have a drink . . . and on the house, and divil care whet’er the old skinflint’s got the contints o’ the bhottle measured or no!’
Out at the Rainbow Pool, just the faintest iridescence hung where the water tumbled over the ferny rocks on the top side. Alfie declared to Frank that she felt the magic of the spot, despite the fresh litter of empty beer bottles and food cans and cigarette packets lying on grassy bank and shining bit of beach. They both remarked the fact that although the sand was well and truly trampled, only a couple of sets of tracks went into the water. Frank said, ‘They talk about the blacks for being superstitious!’
She added, ‘Jeremy believes in the magic of the place.’
‘So the Bishoffs say . . . but I’d like to hear him say it himself. The Bishoffs’re getting to criticise him like the rest, you notice.’
‘He’s a hard man to understand. Look, I’m going to clean up the rubbish. He wouldn’t like it. He was telling me how the Races are turning the whole place into a rubbish dump. Come and help me.’ They dumped the stuff into old flood debris beside the fall to the river, from where eventually it would be swept away. This done, Alfie kicked off her white shoes, then began to unbutton her blue dress, saying, ‘Now I’m going to take a dip.’
‘Eh . . . you know what they say about going in there?’
‘That’s why I’m going . . . and who was talking of superstition?’
‘It isn’t the hokus pokus I’m afraid of . . . it’s supposed to be dangerous . . . and talking of superstition, why are you going in?’
She was out of her dress and standing in bra and petticoat. She said, ‘Unhook me,’ and as he slipped the bra free from behind, she slipped out of the petticoat, and then out of pants, to stand and stretch herself naked, so that the little tufts of axillary hair and pubes stood out like patches of jet on ivory. Eyeing her with head cocked, he remarked, ‘Psyche at the magic well.’
She asked, ‘You coming in too?’
He began to pull his shirt off, answering in a muffled voice, ‘Course . . . didn’t I for better or worse?’
Alfie went to the water’s edge, stepped into it carefully. Dragging off his pants, Frank cried, ‘No, wait for me . . .’
But she took three long steps and flung herself down into the silver, to send it flying in iridescent spray. Frank was in after her in a moment. They swam only a little way, aware of the pull beneath, came back into the shallows, and played there. He, getting amorous, would have carried her up onto the beach. But she repulsed him vigorously, crying, ‘No . . . no! It would be like sacrilege.’
He desisted at once, but asked, ‘How come sacrilege?’
‘This’s been like a dedication . . . to . . . to what he calls the Spirit of the Land.’
‘Hmm!’ commented Frank. ‘Well . . . we’re dedicated. Let’s get out and have a drink on it, eh?’
IV
Highlight of the Blackboys’ Races was not any race at all, although an equestrian event in some degree. Prindy had ridden Golden Bobby to the Racecourse, not to ride him in a race, since the colt was as yet much too immature for anything but play riding (and surely Barbu, for all his simplicity, was too wary to let the boy show himself off too boldly), but simply to tie him up behind the Barbu turn-out and feed him bread left over by the guzzlers of Barbu’s curry who couldn’t eat anything without a hunk of bread to stuff it down. It was during the luncheon break, between races and so-called Sports, when there was a goodly crowd at the curry, amongst them Knobby Knowles and that big Grayball fellow, both rather drunk. Grayball saw Golden Bobby and began to burble to Barbu about him, and so revealed the fact that the colt had not been sold at all. Knobby hearing it, whooped, and went round to inspect what he was declaring was his property. The little horse had his head in through the fly of the canvas curtain at the back of the turn-out. When Knobby put a hand on his golden rump he lashed out at him. ‘You little bastard!’ exclaimed Knobby in that mean nasal voice of his, and made a wide and somewhat stumbling detour to get to the colt’s head. Prindy, who could see through the fly, slipped the halter rope off the projection that had held it. As Knobby placed a hand on his shoulder, the horse backed out suddenly, saw him, perhaps recognised him, and lifting up his dainty hindquarters, pivoted smartly, and as Knobby turned to get clear, kicked with both hoofs fair in the backside, sending him hurtling into the crowd that had followed him round, causing them to stagger, so that he was without support, and fell sprawling in the dust, face down. There was a howl of laughter. A mob was gathering from everywhere: ‘Wha’s wrong . . . wha’s a matter?’
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