Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  When she had recovered, driving homeward, he talked lightly to her of things she might use to leaven the heavy criticism of the country that was the main purpose of her book — Billy Brew, for instance. She said she had sought out old Billy on a station where she’d found him camped, and got nothing out of him but a dissertation on bush astronomy and native grasses. Jeremy chuckled, ‘He was probably terrified of you because you weren’t black. You’ll have to get him boozing, and with a mob of other whitemen to protect him.’ He told her some Brew yarns, made her laugh. But mainly she was silent.

  Back at the homestead, he handed her over to Nan with a deliberate air of getting her off his hands, and in turning to leave them, directed his attention to Nan, saying that he had finished the business that had brought him home, and would be, as he put it, ‘Off first thing in the morning,’ — and would she have his tucker-bags got ready? Then he was gone. Alfie looked utterly at a loss. Nan asked her, ‘You have nice time?’

  Alfie murmured, ‘Yes . . . very nice, thank you.’

  ‘I give you photo of cave, you like. I got plenty. People send ’em. Mullaka never take photo . . . not dat kind, only sick horse, or microbe, or sumpin like o’ dat . . . but not country. He like to photo dat wit’ his eye. Come, I show you, and you tek what you want. Den have bath, eh?’

  Alfie was obviously at loss throughout the evening, despite the easy host and hostess manner of Jeremy and Nan. It lasted till about nine-thirty, when suddenly Jeremy said that, as he had an early start to make, he must ask to be excused. ‘Keep on with the riding,’ he said to Alfie. ‘And the ointment, too, of course. In a week you ought to be able to get off old Bay Rum Betsy and ride a real horse. Darcy’ll look after you . . . and Nan, here. Well, goodbye, my dear. Good luck with the book. We’ll want to see it, of course . . . and you yourself again, someday . . . as is pretty certain, seeing you went swimming in Rainbow Pool.’ He took her hand, and when she looked up at him miserably, planted a kiss on her rumpled forehead. Then he turned to put an arm about Nan’s plumpness, to kiss her on the lips lightly, and say he’d be seeing her in a week or two. Nan clung to him for a moment. Then with a wave to Alfie, he was gone.

  Alfie stood for a moment, staring with wobbly eyes, then, dropped back to her armchair, dropped head to hands, and wept softly. Nan also dropped back to her chair and watched her. When at last Alfie looked up with a shuddering sigh, Nan smiled, saying, ‘You like him too much, eh? Plenty woman like o’ dat. But he don’t belong to no woman. He don’t belong to nobody . . . on’y hisself.’

  Sniffing, Alfie said, ‘I . . . think I’ll go to bed.’

  ‘All right.’ Nan went up with her, slowly, not saying anything. They paused together in the doorway of Alfie’s room while she held open the fly-screen door, as if they had something to say. But perhaps it was only a politeness. Alfie murmured Goodnight, and went in.

  Slowly, in the luminous gloom, Alfie undressed, was getting into pyjamas when she bethought herself of her bottom, and slipped down her pants and did a bit of anointing, sighing the while, as if the ache were less local than of the heart. Then into bed, to lie face down, dark head turned on the white pillow, one ear listening to the sad little thumping of her own heart, the other to the soft beating of the heart of this place that seemed to have no other but this central mechanical one: Home, a-home, home, home, home! To the synchronising rhythm of what was not synchronised at all she fell asleep.

  When she woke it was about midnight, and she lying on her back, and Igulgul just beginning to peep in, big enough for causing humbug now. Perhaps it was the Moon, maybe her bottom, that woke her. She rolled on her side to avoid the stresses of both. But she did not sleep. She lay a while staring — then rose, pulled her pants down and did a bit more larding, round and round the beautiful gluteal curves, up and down the smooth hot glacillic planes. Perhaps it was the nature of the operation, maybe something that had declared itself in the wilfulness of dreams; but she began to breathe deeply, and instead of going back to bed, stole out of the room, went round the North side, stopped to peep through a louvre. There was a light in the den. She peeped only for a moment, then went into the bathroom just back of her, peed, took a drink of water at the washbasin and washed her hands, then out and back to her room for dressing-gown and scuffs. Then ever so quietly out to the outside stairway, to go slinking down in the blaze of moonlight, then to scuttle across the yard, with her short shadow bobbing along beside her like an attendant gnome. Somewhere in trees close at hand a mopoke was calling that the coast was clear, and afar a Willy wagtail singing of Wrong Side Love.

  She stopped to stare for a short while at the fluted glass louvre window with its light golden compared with the silveriness outside, then went to the porch-covered door, tried the handle, opened it, entered. Jeremy was in his den. An electric percolator was hubble-bubbling coffee, while he, in pyjamas, was taking stuff from a cupboard. He looked up as she appeared in the doorway, said casually, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘You timed it nicely. Sit down. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute.’

  As she came in she asked, ‘You were expecting me?’

  ‘More or less.’ He was busy with the cups.

  ‘Joyfully or otherwise?’ She dropped into a lounge chair.

  ‘One accepts the inevitable without much feeling.’

  ‘You thought it was inevitable?’

  He was getting out brandy. For answer he said, ‘You’ll have your coffee royalled, of course.’ He put everything on a small low table between the chairs.

  He poured brandy into the cups, then the coffee, then spooned in honey, handed her her cup. She sipped, said, ‘It’s strong.’

  ‘Isn’t that how you want it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They drank in silence. He was first finished, poured strong brandies into glasses, waited for her, handed her the glass as he took the cup. She asked, ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’

  ‘Isn’t it your idea to get drunk with me?’

  ‘I came . . . to say Goodbye.’

  ‘I thought we said that last night . . . formally, at any rate.’

  ‘Then why did you say you expected me?’

  ‘I said more or less. Well, you did ask me to take you on my binge.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Will you, then?’

  ‘No.’ Her eagerness fell. He added: ‘We’ll have it here.’

  ‘But . . . how can we?’

  ‘Why not? This is my den. My rights here are inviolable . . . except to pretty girls. Drink it up.’

  Flushing, she downed the glass. He immediately refilled it. She asked, ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘Which one?’

  She looked miserable, murmuring, ‘Oh, Jeremy!’

  ‘Now, no down in the mouth . . . down the hatch. Let’s get properly steamed up, and see what comes out of it, eh?’

  She drank again, shuddered slightly now. As quickly he replenished her glass. She said, ‘You’re not drinking with me.’

  ‘I’ve had some already . . . besides, don’t forget that the gentleman in the arrangement has to be perfectly trustworthy.’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘You’ve never been with me when I’m drunk.’

  ‘Well, get drunk then.’

  ‘I will . . . with you . . . with Alfie . . . Aelfrieda, the enchanted one.’

  She smiled somewhat wetly, was already slurring a bit in speech: ‘D’you think I’m enchanted?’

  ‘Enchanting’s a better word at the moment. Drink it. Come on . . . you’ve got to lay a foundation quickly, bring up the blood-alcohol content . . . then you can take it nice and molo.’

  She drank again. She was blinking now. She leaned forward in her seat, said, ‘You know why I came?’

  ‘You said to say Goodbye. That was a fib, eh?’

  ‘Yesh. I came . . . I came . . . I came . . .’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘You call me darlin’!’

  ‘Why not?
You’re quite dear to me.’

  ‘Am I . . . Jeremy . . . darling?’

  ‘Should be obvious. Come on . . . drink this one . . . and then you can take it easy.’

  She swigged, coughed, then put her glass down very deliberately: ‘Thash all I want.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘On’y . . . on’y to talk to you.’

  ‘Okay . . . talk away.’

  ‘I wan’ ’o be near you.’ She slipped out of her seat, came on knees to his knees, leaned on them, chin on hands, bleary great eyes looking up at him, lifted her face to him. ‘Kiss me, Jeremy.’ When he bent to kiss her hair she pulled her head back so that he could kiss only her lips, and when he did, flung arms about him and clung with them and with mouth, until want of breath forced her to desist. Falling back to haunches, she gasped, ‘I love you, Jeremy!’

  He put hands on her shoulders, held her back when she would have come forward again. She cried, ‘I shaid I love you. Doesn’ it mean an’thing to you?’

  ‘I find it most gratifying.’

  ‘Don’ be a bastard!’

  ‘What else can I say?’

  ‘’T you love me . . . or you don’ love me . . . do you, don’ you?’

  ‘Love’s a very complex thing . . .’

  ‘Now, don’ shtart philos-ph’los-fisin’.’

  ‘I have to. They say a man’s a fool or a philosopher at fifty. I’m well past fifty . . . and I don’t want to be a fool.’

  ‘You wan’ me to be the fool.’

  ‘That’s just what I don’t want.’

  ‘Then love me, Jeremy.’

  ‘One more brandy . . .’

  ‘No more brandy, I shaid . . . and you shaid . . .’

  ‘Just one more . . . and then you can come and lie in my arms and tell me about it.’

  He rose and raised her and placed her back in the seat, and she fell back somewhat helplessly, poured her a stiff brandy, gave it to her. She swigged it, goggled, coughed, spluttered. He took the empty glass from her, set it down. She began to struggle up. He took her hand, helped her, went with her to his own chair, sat, and pulled her down onto his knees. She tried to kiss him; but he held her off, held her against his left shoulder. She took his right hand, and shoved it into her pyjama jacket onto her left breast. He left the hand there, fondling her gently. She smiled foolishly: ‘I love you, Jeremy . . . I love you from . . . from . . . when . . .’

  ‘Why do you love me?’

  ‘Why’s anybod’ love anybod’?’

  ‘There are lots of reasons. But for a young woman like you to love a hoary old thing like me . . .’

  ‘You’re not a hoary old thing . . . you’re beau’ful . . . and that’s why I love you.’

  ‘Just for my beauty.’

  ‘For yo’self . . . Jeremy Delashy. Le’ me kiss you ’gain.’ She devoured his lips wetly, released him, to pant, ‘Take me bed, Je’my . . . take me bed an’ love me . . . love . . .’

  ‘All right.’ He sat her up on one knee, holding her, because she was swaying. ‘Just one more drink . . . and then off we go.’

  ‘No more drink . . .’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be having a binge aren’t we? Come on now.’ He slipped out of the chair while slipping her into it, filled glasses, gave her hers, and standing over her, said, ‘Bottoms up!’

  She giggled, ‘My bo’m’s all red . . . eeeeee!’

  ‘I’m sure it’s no less beautiful.’

  ‘You ointment it for me?’

  ‘With pleasure. Now . . . you right?’ He drew her up. She swayed widely. ‘Better carry you.’ He slipped an arm under her thighs, lifted her. With arms about his neck, she sighed deeply, dropped her curls onto his chest.

  Out of the den, into the passage, round into the other passage, and into the bedroom, twilit through curtained glass louvres. He laid her on the narrow white bed. She began to fumble with the belt of her gown. He removed her hands. ‘Let me do that,’ but instead of doing it, sank down on his knees beside the bed, and began to stroke her hair.

  She smiled at him wetly, mumbling, ‘Love me . . . J’m . . .’

  He whispered, ‘In a minute. I want to look at you. Now lie still.’

  She tried to speak again, but instead began to gasp and goggle. He asked, ‘What’s the matter . . . feeling giddy, eh? Turn over on your right side . . . that’ll stop it.’ She tried to turn towards him. ‘No . . . the right side . . . or it’ll get worse.’ He rolled her over.

  She caught one of his hands, breathing, ‘Hol’ me . . . Je’my . . .’

  He laid one hand on her breast, and with the other stroked her hair. In a moment she was sleeping, snoring softly. He knelt, caressing, for several minutes, then rose quietly, left the room. This time he went to the front door, looked out at the Big House, standing starkly white. Curlews were crying somewhere beyond it. After a moment he stepped off the porch, crossed on Alfie’s tracks, climbed the stairs, went round to Nanago’s room, paused at the screen door, whispered, ‘You awake?’ The answer was a soft Yu-ai.

  He entered. She was sitting up in bed, her skin dark against the white of her nightdress. He sat on the edge of the big bed, sighed. She murmured, ‘She all right now?’

  ‘Yes, poor kid. I’ll let her sleep till she’s really out to it, then bring her over and put her back in her bed. She might wake up thinking she dreamt it.’

  Nan giggled. Jeremy asked, ‘Like a drop of fire-water?’

  ‘Oh, yas.’

  ‘Right . . . I’ll bring the bottle up.’

  When he came back with brandy and soda Nan was sitting on the edge of the bed, now wearing a dressing-gown of some pearly-glowing silky stuff with a faint Chinese pattern, and not the nightdress now, as could be seen by faint revelation of her breasts. Plump as she was, she had small breasts, like most women of Aboriginal race, not the flattish dugs of the half-starved of her age, but full, like a quite young whitewoman. He put the tray on a table by the bed, dispensed the drinks. They had two, while they talked of Alfie.

  Nan asked, ‘She chase every man like o’ dat, you reckon?’

  ‘I think she’s used to being chased by the boys. Men like her very much.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes . . . she’s quite attractive.’

  ‘Den what’s the matter you don’t sleep with her?’

  ‘That’ll do, now. You know very well I wouldn’t do it for fun.’

  ‘Might be good for her. She want you for somet’ing special.’

  ‘Yes . . . some insecurity somewhere.’

  ‘Den didn’t you do wrong t’ing?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, stop arguing about it. I didn’t come here to talk about her.’

  ‘What you come for?’

  ‘What you reckon?’

  She giggled, touched his hand with her dark one, ran her hand into his pyjama jacket around his navel, an Aboriginal woman’s trick. He pulled the jacket off. She released the cord of his pyjamas, rolled back on the bed and wriggled out of the pearly gown, while he pulled off his pants. He turned to her, chocolate against the bright whiteness of the sheet. She reached with dark arms for him. They strove in kissing, caressing — until at last they were locked together, panting and groaning in ecstacy. They fell limp, lay together, cheek to cheek, stroking each other gently, black hand on pale back, pale hand on dusky shoulder. They slept a little while. Then he roused, rose, kissed her awake, said, ‘How about getting me breakfast . . . and I’ll be on my way.’

  VII

  Alfie woke mid-morning, lay blinking for quite a while before she saw beside her a tray of resuscitants: a thermos that proved to contain coffee, a long glass of some mixture of pineapple juice with brandy and cloves, two white tablets. She smiled wanly, rose with some difficulty to the edge of the bed to partake. Then she dropped back to her pillow. It was a good half an hour before she rose properly, went to the bathroom, showered. At last, looking something like her bright self again and clad as a stockrider, she came downsta
irs, although with careful steps, as if each gave her a whack on the head. Nan, evidently having heard the steps, came through the dining-room screen to greet her with the usual smile, to ask her did she want breakfast, and when being answered with a grimace, suggested a fizzy brandy, and led the way to the armchairs. Alfie sat down with a gusty sigh, while Nan did the dispensing. Nothing was said till Nan, with some dark and fizzy drink of her own, also sat down. She asked Alfie would she go riding again. Alfie said with a rueful smile that her head might fall off, which made Nan giggle. Then Alfie asked, ‘Where’s Jeremy?’

  ‘He gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dat trip . . . he say Goodbye you last night. You forget, eh?’

  Alfie blinked, furrowed her brows. ‘But . . . but . . .’

  Nan said. ‘You all right by’n’by.’ She rose.

  As she was going, Alfie said, ‘Jeremy told me last night he wasn’t going after all.’

  ‘Oh, he gone all right . . . bee-fore deelight. I see him off.’

  ‘You?’

  Nan smiled: ‘All-day like o’ dat. He come tchileep wit’ me lil bits . . . den he haf breakfast . . . den he go.’

  Alfie went red. As Nan was turning away again she said, ‘But I heard him say Goodbye to you last night too.’

  Nan smiled. ‘Dat only gammon.’

  ‘What d’you mean gammon?’ Then Alfie’s voice, soft and somewhat hoarse till now, became suddenly harsh: ‘I was with him last night . . . late last night.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I help put you bed.’

  The brows ruffled again. Then the dark hot eyes blazed. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘No . . . dat after he carry you over.’ Nan started off again, heading for the dining-room. She looked back before entering it, to see Alfie rise suddenly. She stopped.

  Alfie, heading for the stairs, without looking at her, muttered, ‘I’m going after him.’

  Nan asked quickly, ‘Wha’ for?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘My business, too . . . he my old man.’

  Alfie stopped and looked at her, said thickly, ‘It’s you that’s the trouble with him.’