‘I’m not much concerned about it, Mark . . . believe me. Actually I was interested only in Finnucane’s duplicity. He keeps his Tullamore Dew for the Absentee Landlord. Your . . . your . . . what would your relationship be to old Alf . . .?’
Sir Mark chuckled, ‘Old Alf’ . . . that’s a good ’un. Must tell him you called him that. He’d probably laugh. He claims to be Irish himself, the old scoundrel. But tell me about yourself, Jeremy . . . your ancestry, history. Your father was a Police Inspector, so the Superintendent informed me . . . rather like telling me that you’d sold your mother, seeing what your attitude is to policemen. Said your father was a Grand Old Man. I’ve done enough talking. Let me hear something about Australian character. For that’s what I’m up against, I fear.’
‘A drink first,’ said Jeremy. Then he proceeded with his story.
They talked till midnight, drinking sparingly, as the intelligent do, just enough to maintain the illusion of bridging the gulf of personality. Esk also talked freely of himself and his ancient recorded lineage, pressed by Jeremy, whose frankly stated purpose was to show the utter alienness between the true Englishman and the true Colonial. ‘And never the twain shall meet, except in political falsehood,’ as he said. Esk protested at that, declaring that without overcoming this alienness there must ever be bitterness between men, becoming bitterer unto Armageddon. Surely the British Commonwealth, of all institutions that had ever existed, had done more to bring men together as brothers than any other; and if blood brothers could not sink their differences in the cause of the progress of humanity, what hope was there for the human race? ‘What hope, indeed?’ asked Jeremy dryly.
They might have gone on, but for an arrangement made over dinner to have an expedition on horseback to the Painted Caves tomorrow. Jeremy took Esk out across the moonlit yard towards the apparently sleeping Big House. The General made a move to take his arm, but checked it obviously. Jeremy took him to the outside stairway, left him to go aloft himself.
The General, going quietly round the verandah towards the guest-side of the house, on hearing a faint sound like crying, cocked an ear, then stopped, turned back to a screened doorway. Here the moonlight was fairly strong. He stood listening. It was stifled singing. Gently he opened the screen, to see two figures, one small one on the white bed, the other, lanky, darkish in a dressing-gown, bent over it. He stared a moment, then entered, hissing explosively, ‘Dickey!’
Denzil straightened in a flash, swung round, gaped, gasped, ‘Sah!’
The hiss was dropped to a whisper as Esk came up to his lieutenant: ‘What’re you doing?’
‘N-nothing, Sir . . . it’s fantastic, Sir. He’s asleep . . .’
‘I’ll give you fantastic! Come out of here.’
Denzil slipped out of the room. Esk stared at Prindy singing in the way of old, then followed. Major Maltravers was now with Denzil. He stiffened in pyjamas too big for him, softly barking, ‘Sah!’
Esk made a peremptory sign towards the guest-side. The three went marching. Around the corner, Esk demanded quietly, ‘Well, Dickey?’
Denzil gasped, ‘On my honour, Sir. I heard the sound. It was like crying . . . a child. I thought it was he and . . . and went to comfort him . . . because . . . because, Sir, you see he’d been so emotional about the music. Sir, he was singing in his sleep!’
Esk looked at the Major, as if for corroboration, and got it in the usual word: ‘Sah!’
Esk murmured, ‘Sorry, Denzil . . . but you’ve only got yourself to blame for my suspicions.’
‘Yessir.’
‘Very good . . . Goodnight.’
‘Sah!’
When Jeremy went for his early morning run round the race track next morning, there was Malters pacing it out in pyjama shorts and singlet and sandshoes too big for him. There had been some talk over dinner about Jeremy’s regular vigorous exercising, but not a word from the Major. Scarcely any words now, as coming together in their jog-trot side by side; simply a clipped greeting, then when Jeremy attempted friendliness by remarking on the fact that God had made the miles, like the night, too long, the inevitable: ‘Sah!’ After doing the two miles, Jeremy headed off without a word to see about getting the horses ready for the expedition.
The party went straight to the horse-yard after breakfast. First there had to be a lesson in mounting an Australian horse in the Australian fashion; that is with your left hip to the beast’s left shoulder, left rein tight and on the pummel of the saddle, instead of your right to his left flank and his head free. A safer method, the Australian, since a fractious horse could only pull you into the saddle instead of off your balance; and anyway, Australian horses were used to it. Jeremy insisted on a couple of trials. Perhaps he sounded contemptuous of English riding manners. Malters was stiffly uncompliant until directed by his General.
As they rode off, with Prindy and the young men beginning with a gallop and the seniors taking it easy, Jeremy said, ‘Hope you don’t mind my saying so, Mark . . . but your Major Maltravers strikes me as representative of all that I’ve found wooden-headed in military men.’
Sir Mark chuckled, ‘Yes . . . jolly old Malters is a typical British soldier in his manner. But you may guess that I wouldn’t have him, if he didn’t have some extraordinary talent. As a matter of fact, inside that wooden skull works the most amazing cerebral apparatus.’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed it.’
‘You wouldn’t. He’s a man of few words. One of the misfortunes of our breed, as I told you . . . generally a difficulty to communicate that leads to misunderstanding.’
‘What’s this talent of his . . . other than to limit conversation to one word?’
Again Esk chuckled, ‘Well . . . he has the most extraordinary powers of observation, interpretation, and retention . . . in a military sense, I mean. There wouldn’t be one facet of anything of importance that’s occurred in his presence since I’ve been here . . . since I’ve been in Australia, for that matter . . . that he wouldn’t be able to give me what he’d call an Appreciation of months hence, if called on. Do you play chess, by any chance?’
‘No . . . I’m afraid the game of life’s taken all my powers.’
‘Well put! Malters is the best chess-player I’ve ever known . . . not that I’m one myself, but it’s a favourite military pastime . . .’
‘With men if necessary?’ asked Jerry dryly.
The General pinked slightly, but smiled. ‘I was going to say that Malters isn’t interested in life. He’s unmarried . . . treats women as other-worldly, rather. Would have made a scientist, I always think, if he hadn’t come of a military family . . .’
‘You’re all of military families. That’s why you find our men hard to understand. You’re bred to it. We use our militarism only in emergency.’
‘By gad, Sir, you may be right! It may be what makes you better soldiers in the field than we are, too. But I do wish you’d see the dire emergency now . . . and act on it. Mind if I return to my all-abiding subject of the Japanese menace? I do so want to convince that “one just man in Sodom”, you know.’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Jeremy.
‘Before I start,’ said Esk, ‘speaking of Malters and the Japanese in the same breath as it were, he delivered one of his Appreciations to me early this morning that might interest you.’ Jeremy looked at him sharply. He went on: ‘Your friends of the Free Australia Movement. You remember that they were the most vocal of all in denouncing me as the Old Gang. Malters would have checked ’em thoroughly. Seems he learnt through your Security . . . Civil, not Military, save the mark! . . . that they have pretty close connexions with the Japanese. The burden of Maltravers’s report to me was a thing on the radio last night that we missed because of our talk. A Japanese speaking from Japan on trade with Australia, the great advantages to Australia that lie in her breaking her trade ties with Britain and transferring them to Japan, becoming a partner in the Great East-Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, so-called . . . and mentioned the magazin
e Australia Free as supporting this.’
‘So?’ asked Jeremy somewhat dryly.
‘I know you’ve said it’s all a matter of trade . . . that Britain merely fears to lose her Eastern trade to Japan, that we’ve got no more right to it than the Japanese or anyone, that you’re not fighting any more wars for Old Alf and his fat friends . . .’ Esk paused as Jeremy looked at him hard, to go on: ‘The point I want to make is that your patriotism will be seized on by the Japanese, and used by them through certain channels to show your advantage in being more friendly towards them than towards the British . . .’
‘Well, if there is advantage in breaking the economic stranglehold of the absentee landlords . . .’
‘Wait, please. You admitted yesterday in talking of the stranglehold that it is primarily Australians’ own fault. They’ll sell out at any price. They have no love of the soil. All they want is money, beer, sport, a good time. Don’t you think that they’ll sell out similarly to the Japanese if the Japanese come to dominate the trade of this part of the world?’
‘No . . . because they hate the Japs.’
‘What for?’
Jeremy was at loss, had to say, ‘Just because they’re Japs, I suppose. It’s traditional.’
‘I think it’s instinctive. You came as Europeans into Asia, and wanted to keep your European identity . . . and saw the Rising Sun as something likely to burn you up.’
‘The Japs could never get here to invade us. I’ve told you of the thousands of Chinese who were here and could have stayed . . and left to go home . . .’
‘We’re talking of Japanese, dear boy . . . a ruthless militaristic nation, a tricky race of ju-jitsuists. Do you know that the Japanese now have a saying: “There are eighty million people in Japan . . . but they have only one head”? It doesn’t mean the Mikado . . . it means the Purpose . . . Dai Nippon . . . meaning Greater Japan. But my point at the moment is that there are elements who, for power, will sell you into the hands of the Japanese, on any pretext, trade, patriotism. But enough of that . . . it was only to put in a word for old Malters, without whom, I’ll confess, I would be utterly lost in this terrible job of mine, the worst I’ve ever tackled . . . because the threat of failure is so great and the thought of it unthinkable.’
Jeremy asked dryly, ‘Has your Malters passed me as a good security risk?’
‘As a matter of fact, with his Appreciation this morning he made one of his rare unasked-for comments in praise of you. Speaking of this Free Australia thing and their wanting to involve you in it, he said, what a pity you aren’t still a serving soldier, since you’d make the perfect commander for this northern region, what with your knowledge of it and integrity, plus your ardent patriotism.’
Jeremy smiled grimly. ‘But minus my enthusiasm for Britannica. Does he know about that?’
‘It’s been pretty evident in your conversation, old man.’
‘What’s he know of my conversation . . . unless he eavesdrops?’
Esk frowned slightly. ‘Can’t say I like to hear my Old Faithful referred to as an eavesdropper. But he has long ears. It’s his job.’
‘To be checking on me while pretending to be reading!’ Suddenly Jeremy turned on Esk, his face flaming with anger, grey eyes flashing. ‘Look here, man . . . what is this? Am I under surveillance or something?’
‘You’re under particular notice as the “one just man in Sodom”.’
‘Is that what you’re here for, purely and simply, trying to inveigle me into giving my life to your goddamned phoney Empire, the very beast that devoured my brother, bled and bankrupted my country to save its own skin, and then put the bailiffs in?’
The General turned pale before the sudden storm of passion, swallowed, took a moment to answer: ‘Primarily, Jeremy, as I think I’ve frankly enough shown, my preoccupation is service to this thing you detest through, as I see it, a distorted image of it . . . but truly, there’s much more to it, a feeling of attachment to you that I hope to be able to number amongst the few great friendships of my life. Will you believe me?’
Jeremy, who had been looking ahead with set expression, now turned, to meet the pallid thin face, the haggard eyes almost pleading, looking so much like the pale fair girl in the cave that day, who had fled, crying that the man and the country had rejected her. He stared for a moment, then said with a nod, ‘Yes . . . Mark.’
Esk drew a deep breath, looked ahead, and in exhaling murmured, ‘Thank you, Jeremy.’
They rode on, their horses ambling, a little while in silence. Esk broke it, saying, ‘I hope you won’t deny me talk of what presses my heart so sorely. The strength of your patriotism is in the bitterness you feel about the general lack of true love of country in your compatriots. So I can’t offend you by my criticism of your countrymen. Besides, whatever your feelings about the Pax Britannica, its failure, which God forbid, is going to affect your country drastically. As a man of good sense you should know from an expert what the political climate is that creates the threat. I want Australia strong militarily to meet the threat against the British Commonwealth of Nations. I’m sure you want it to be the same, for the sake of your own Commonwealth. So, although we may not be speaking quite the same language, we’re speaking about the same thing. I wish with all my heart to enlist you in my cause . . . and will try with all my might to impress you with its worthiness . . . but I promise to shove no Imperialism down the neck of a man who, having seen it at its worst, has had a gutful of it. But have I your permission to talk about it . . . if only aloud to my deeply troubled self?’
Jeremy smiled slightly. ‘You have, Sir Mark.’
‘Sir Mark? What’s this . . . a subtle rejection of me?’
‘No . . . the contrary. Your earnestness reminded me of your daughter . . . in her occasional moments of sincerity . . . very English, I think, and innocent, so different from the local . . . well, to give it its proper name, Bullshit. As to the title . . . it’s your own, part of the usage of your own country. I object to such things only if held by my own countrymen, who must kowtow to the Imperium to get them . . . the Imperial Honours. Yours are not . . . just aristocratic tags. I was just trying it out on my tongue.’
Sir Mark looked relieved. After a while he said, ‘I’d like to begin by telling you how Japan altered the whole picture of Imperial defence in this region by adoption of the aircraft carrier. Not their invention, of course . . . nothing ever is. But they are the world’s greatest adaptors . . . the Clever Monkey-men, as the Chinese call them. By the way . . . presuming you hold no brief for the Japanese, such as Australia Free seems to have . . .’ Esk looked at Jeremy inquiringly. Jeremy shook his head. ‘Good, then, since it’s a good joke . . . except from a Japanese point of view. It’s the Chinese story of the origin of the Japanese Nation Nippon. Whether it’s an old one, or come only out of recent events, I couldn’t say. Nippon, you might know, is the Japanese name for Japan . . . I think the word Japan is a French or Spanish distortion of it. Anyway, it’s a Chinese word, like most classical words of Japan, and means The East, or the Rising Sun. Now . . . a certain Chinese Emperor had a daughter of whom he was so jealous that he couldn’t consent to her marriage to any man in the world, and fearing her abduction, because she was beautiful and so well endowed, had her removed to the uninhabited isles of Nippon, with none but female attendants. Supervision of whoever went to Nippon was frightfully strict. Not even a little boy could go there, and all females were stripped to prevent masquerading. The perfect purdah, it seemed. But, alas . . . while the island was not naturally inhabited by humans, it was by apes of both sexes . . . and the Emperor became grandsire to a little half-ape . . . and the Japanese Nation was born.’
Jeremy laughed heartily.
Esk kept the laughter going with more amusing stories, mostly of army life, to make it look ridiculous. Thus all the way to the Turtle Hole and yard. There they found the others, with a sugar-sack of turtles hunted while waiting for them. The party had smoke-o there, then climbed to the c
aves.
No such dramatic effect, either genuine or faked, this time as on former showing of the galleries to visitors. Esk confessed himself completely at a loss to find meaning in it; and if the supposedly so-perceptive Malters did so, he gave no Appreciation. Denzil Dickey tried to wax arty about it, using modernistic terms, but ended lamely by suggesting that it might make good design-motif stuff for modern household drapes. However, Prindy, also seeing this particular set for the first time, was obviously deeply affected, but only showing it with the intensity of his staring; for when asked by Jeremy what he thought of it, he merely muttered: ‘Properly!’
When the show had been viewed and they were scrambling down, Prindy, alone with Denzil, said that the pictures had made him Sing Inside. Denzil became very excited, shouted to the others, and rushed Prindy to join them to tell them also. At the moment Jeremy was telling Sir Mark that while he himself did not presume to grasp the true significance of Aboriginal Art, he felt drawn to the Galleries as to holy places, shrines to the Genus Loci of Terra Australis, which only true Aborigines could feel at one with. Nevertheless, he said, he believed that it was only through the medium of it that the non-indigenous would ever come truly to feel at home. ‘Teach it in the schools,’ he said, ‘so that children grow up to accept it as part of their own heritage . . . as they now do pictures of the Battle of Hastings or the Bayeux Tapestries . . . learn to respect it. This is something you don’t understand, Mark . . . the awful emptiness of the colonial-born. You yourself have a country, and an Empire or Commonwealth or whatever you like to call it, as well. But it’s your country comes first. As children we were taught at school . . . and I suppose it’s still much the same, with King’s Birthday and Empire Day and all that . . . The Empire is My Country, Australia is My Home. It used to hang framed on classroom walls. How can an Empire be anyone’s country? And how can a man live without . . . a country . . . “Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, this is mine own, my native land?” Australia’s filled with millions of men with dead souls. I believe that’s what’s chiefly wrong with us . . .’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 115