Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  It was in meeting Golden Bobby that she met his owner, Prindy, who had deserted the household to become again Shah Jahan, King of the World, all dressed up again, living and working with Barbu Ram. She was delighted enough with him as the little Indian she thought he was to start, but on learning who he truly was, embraced him, crying in that sweet husky voice, ‘Kleine menscheleh!’ Prindy seemed no less pleased with her. Indeed, fascinated would be a more apt expression, the way, in leaving to go back to his duties in Barbu’s Khokha Rusoyee, he walked backwards, staring. Nan breathed to Jeremy, ‘Look like he see his mumma.’

  She had arrived in a mannish outfit, somewhat outlandish too; a German’s idea of a bushwoman, maybe. Nan and Water Lily had put that to rights by getting her something more appropriate from McDodds’s and amongst their own effects. She went to the Racecourse wearing white riding moleskins that fitted her trim figure perfectly, elastic sides, a grey silk shirt, a grey wide-awake, a red bandana round her neck. She was tallish, long-legged. Plenty of ringers were similarly outfitted. But there was no confusing her with them. Even the glasses of the silken ladies in the grandstand sought her out when she came up with each rush of the household to watch the races from the public enclosure. Even Lady Rhoda remarked on her beauty, moving General Sir Mark Esk to say rather loudly, probably for the benefit of the meaty white-clad and bespectacled Herrenvolk sitting amongst the very elite, that Jewish women were the most beautiful in the world. Shrewd eyes up there doubtless observed how much more interested Her Ladyship became in the Jew Gal, as she dubbed her, when standing beside her ex-husband, he so erect, so elastic of step, for a man of his age, and very evidently much interested in his lovely company. She even said, rather tactlessly in the circumstances (but for all her usual social talent she may not have been well enough aware of these), that they might have used her for the Golden Horseshoe selling, which hadn’t been so good this year, left to a somewhat horse-faced young squatteress visiting from the South. Perhaps it was this bit of lack of tact that encouraged her son Clancy, also much interested, by the frequent directing of his binoculars towards the Jew Gal, to join the General when he declared that he must go have a word with Mr Delacy Senior about Red Rory, who was playing up badly.

  The Hoffs, as generally they were being called, were together with Jeremy when Esk and Clancy approached them, Kurt having turned up from a round of the scene with the camera he was using to get material for his survey. Much of his time had been taken up by Fay McFee, who wanted to know all about the persecution business, and a little by the Comrades, whom subsequently he appeared to avoid. Jeremy, seeing the approaching pair, murmured, ‘Hello, what’s this?’

  The Hoffs turned, as if still on the alert for danger, Rifkah asking, ‘Vos ment?’

  Jeremy muttered, ‘General Esk and one of my sons.’

  ‘General?’ murmured Kurt, staring hard.

  Jeremy nodded shortly to the two men as they came up. Already he had renewed acquaintance with the General when the latter had sought him out in the crowd yesterday watching the arrival of that oddity, the military train. Esk said, ‘Excuse me, Jeremy, old man . . . but a word of your advice about Red Rory . . . playing up, don’t you know?’

  Jeremy grinned. ‘Yes . . . I saw it this morning. Better have the band playing in his stable, I should say.’

  Esk chuckled, eyeing the Hoffs. Jeremy introduced them, contrarily to proper usage, and no doubt deliberately, by presenting Esk, with full titles, to them. Not that the procedure appeared to affect the great man himself, who only smiled and extended his hand, saying, ‘Shalom!’

  But despite the Hebrew greeting, Kurt was thoroughly Germanic in response, clicking his heels and bowing, murmuring, ‘Excellency!’

  Rifkah also bowed, answering, ‘Shalom,’ and adding other words to it.

  Esk said, ‘I missed that bit. Afraid my Hebrew’s got rather rusty.’ He looked at Kurt, asking, ‘What did she say, Doctor?’

  Kurt shrugged. ‘I am afraid also my Hebrew is rusty, Excellency.’

  When Esk looked again at Rifkah, she smiled, from being stiff-faced at first, saying that she had merely added that she was glad to know him, adding to this, ‘How you come spik Hebrew, General?’

  Esk explained, then asked, ‘Have you been in Palestine?’

  ‘A short time . . . passing from Europe.’

  ‘You didn’t think of settling there?’

  Kurt shrugged in his way. ‘Zat is difficult.’

  Esk smiled. ‘In my official experience there, I found that the difficulty didn’t deter so many Jews.’

  Again Kurt shrugged. ‘Ve are not Zionist.’

  ‘I see. But I guess you’ll have no less talent for settlement than your more zealous brethren.’

  Rifkah asked, ‘Jealous brethren?’

  Kurt explained in German. Esk said afterwards, addressing her, ‘You might be interested to know that the word Zealous has a Jewish origin.’

  ‘Zat is so?’ she asked with interest and looked at Jeremy.

  Jeremy looked at Esk, who explained, ‘The original Zealots were a Jewish tribe who most bitterly opposed the Roman occupation of Palestine . . . and, in fact, their fellow Jews who surrendered to them. There’s much of the Zealot in all Jews. They can be very brave and steadfast people when roused. I’m wondering when they’ll make a stand against Hitler.’

  Kurt said, ‘Ze whole vorld must make ze stand against Hitler.’

  The General looked a little vague, ‘Yes . . . I expect so.’ He smiled when Kurt looked at him rather foxily. ‘We have our problems, here, of course . . . the Japanese.’ He looked at Jeremy, who was moving to leave the couple.

  ‘Yes, Excellency, of course.’

  ‘I only hope your people can settle quickly and lend their courage and intelligence to defending Australia.’

  ‘You can depend on that, Excellency.’

  Esk gave Kurt his hand again. ‘I’m very happy to meet you, Doctor . . . and hope to do so again . . . by which time I hope our friend Jeremy, here, may have taught you not to call mere military men Excellency. Shalom . . . Madame!’

  Clancy, all the while hanging in the background, stayed on as the others withdrew.

  Out of earshot, Esk said to Jeremy, ‘By jove, what a smashing girl that is! Never saw a better looker in my life.’

  ‘Yes, she’s handsome, all right,’ said Jeremy. ‘And as pleasant-natured as she’s lovely.’

  ‘If they all come like that, eh? They’re making a survey, I understand. Any idea where they might be settling?’

  ‘I’ve been telling them about the old White Russian settlement down the river. Vaisey could hardly refuse them that, after being so free with it to useless broken-down petty aristocrats.’

  ‘We’ll have to see he doesn’t . . . a job for our Lydia, what? A test for her sincerity about breakin’ with the Mosly Set.’

  They came up to the Army stable to see a scatter of khaki-clad figures before the snapping teeth and lashing hoofs of Red Rory. The strappers were evidently all Australians, except one bandy little fellow, wearing military riding breeches and leggings, with a singlet and braces, his exposed skin flaming with sunburn, his face a ruddy ball, while yet he wore only a short-peaked British Army cap, instead of a wide hat like the others. All had their backs turned to the visitors. The little man, almost whimpering, declared to the others, in a strong West Country accent, ‘It baint be no ’oss, it baint . . . it be a hoofed devil!’

  Awareness of the General caused instant springing to attention. Esk addressed the little man, ‘Still having trouble with him, Trooper?’

  ‘Naithin’ boot trooble, General . . . naithin’ boot.’

  ‘This is Mr Delacy, who owned him and bred him. Perhaps he’ll quiet him down for you.’

  The trooper whimpered, ‘Boot I still got ’o roide him, General!’

  ‘You did well enough before with him, man.’

  ‘It moost be these ’ere flois, I think.’

  ‘Well, start wi
th the flies. I’m told he’s a certainty to win the Cup if he behaves. If you let flies beat us for that cup, man, I’ll break you . . . I’ll have you sent home as a disgrace to the British Armay!’ Esk winked slightly at Jeremy.

  The Trooper mumbled, ‘Yessir, thank you Sir.’

  Red Rory whickered at Jeremy and nuzzled him when he went to him.

  Having quieted the horse and given a few instructions about how to deal with him in his moods, and with the flies, Jeremy went off with Esk to have a drink at the bar. There was Clancy still talking to Rifkah, who was looking lovelier than ever, laughing, perhaps at Clancy, because he was looking so serious. Esk shook his head. ‘Yes, indeed . . . a smasher, a stunner . . . if I were only ten years younger . . . no, twenty, thirty! How old is she, d’you know?’

  ‘From what she’s told me she can be barely twenty-one . . . and been through hell. Sometimes you can see it in her face . . . she looks quite old and hurt.’

  ‘Jewish women are like that . . . as if they embody the gaiety and the tragedy that’s so much a part of Jewish temperament and life.’

  ‘This girl’s certainly seen tragedy. She’s scarcely talked about it, doesn’t want to . . . what she has, murder, torture . . . her father shot before her eyes, and she a bit of a kid dragged off to God knows what . . . the Hun bastards!’ Jeremy was ruddy with feeling.

  Glancing at him with searching eyes, Esk asked, ‘Speaking of Huns . . . what about our Kruppsers? I understand from my Malters that they’re very keen to meet you and make a big deal over your Tantalite . . . but aren’t pleased with your association with the Juden.’

  ‘The bloody square-headed bastards . . . let ’em come hear me!’

  Esk chuckled, ‘When it happens I must be at hand. Can’t say I care much for the Herr Direktor and the Herr Doktor myself. The flying men aren’t so bad. And speaking of the Junkers chaps . . . you know, I suppose, that young Ferris will be taking over one of their kites. I intend to use it for my survey of the northeast coast. Mind if I make a base of your place? Everything’ll be paid for. I’d also like to bring along Professor St Clair. We’ve become quite pally. Quite a nice chap. Told him of your work for the Aborigines, the Painted Caves and things. Very much wants to meet you. Will that be all right?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They were passing Barbu’s stall, when Prindy, selling Chorry, saw them and waved. Esk stared at the yellow face beneath the turban, muttering, ‘By jove . . . I know that face . . . it’s not . . .’

  Jeremy said, ‘Yes . . . it is. He’s a great friend of the old Hindu’s, and helps him out.’

  ‘Ah . . . the Indian music, eh?’ Esk swung over to greet Prindy, to take his hand. The mob, gorging curry as absorbent and incentive for more beer, gaped at the lordly military man with his gold and red tabs, his flat topee, his swagger-stick, shaking hands with what to them was just a yeller-feller. Barbu, dishing the stuff out, also saw, and slipped in behind Prindy to bob and bow. Esk spoke to the old fellow in Hindustani: ‘Kesey ho, desi doast.’

  A deep bow from Barbu with the answer, ‘Ap kesey ho, Meharban.’

  ‘Tu — kahan say aiy ho?’

  ‘Meha Suba Bombay say aia hoon.’ The crowd was pushing round, amongst them Cahoon, McCusky, Col Collings.

  ‘Ap kia phrokhat kartey ho?’ asked the General.

  Barbu made an excited search of the fly-whisks, selected the best. ‘Kia ap chorry tuhfa manjoor kergey?’

  The General smiled. ‘Shukria. Agar Ap mera tuhfa manjoor kero.’ He slipped the encased field-glasses he wore from off his shoulder, handed them over, in return for the gift of the chorry.

  Barbu’s eyes popped as he took the beautiful pigskin in his black claws, saying in a trembling voice, ‘Meharban, ma in key sath ap ko taraki kertey dekoon.’

  The General chuckled, ‘Shukria. Hum fir kavi miley gey or bateny kerangay . . . khush hoonga Hindustani mey batan kerkey.’

  Barbu bowed low. The General bowed almost as low. They parted. Pushing through the crowd, Esk said to Jeremy, ‘The old gentleman paid me a lovely compliment in taking the glasses . . . said, “With these I shall watch your noble career for ever”.’

  Eddy McCusky, overhearing it, remarked, ‘Well . . . I never thought old Ali Barba had it in him!’

  The General swung on him, saying with a smile, ‘There’s an old English saying you ought to learn my friend . . . Never judge a sausage by its skin.’

  That got a good laugh. Esk waved amiably to the mob, and parted from Jeremy to join Malters and Colonel Chivvy and others evidently troubled by his absence.

  When Rifkah returned to the Lily Lagoons stable she had two escorts, Fergus Ferris as well as Clancy. She got rid of them both by telling them she was too busy to talk and actually running from them in amongst the horses. Talking about the young men over afternoon smoke-o, pressed by Nan, she laughingly said that they had both been wanting to take her to the party at Finnucane’s tonight, that is to say separately. Catching Jeremy’s glance at Nan, she asked why he had looked like that, and he replied, ‘If you haven’t yet heard about my relations with my sons you soon will. People like to keep you well informed in these parts. The fact of the matter is that I’ve never known either of them ever to come anywhere near this stable of mine before.’

  ‘So? Zat is bad . . . for fader and sohn.’

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘You don’t know the story, my dear.’

  ‘Tomorrow maybe I know.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Your Clancy haf ask me to come Big House tomorrow morningk . . . to see place, to meet his mutter.’

  ‘Hell!’

  ‘You not like?’

  ‘You please yourself, my dear . . . better if you do go.’

  ‘Zen I vill. I do not gif answer before. But tonight I say Okay. You vill tek me to hotel party tonight . . . you and Nan and all of us?’

  ‘We never go.’

  ‘Vot ist?’

  ‘You’ll get to know in time. I’ll take you and deliver you there if you like.’

  ‘No . . . I vill go mit zat flyingk young man. He ist funny. Also he ist mix up zose Deutschers . . . I vont to know vot for. Also, to mek Clancy jealous. He ist ver’ jealous boy.’

  ‘But he hardly knows you!’

  ‘Perhaps I haf been free mit him because of you. He ist so mooch like you . . . even he spik like you.’

  ‘Hmmm!’ It was Nan who glanced significantly at Jeremy this time.

  It was easy enough for so lovely a girl to fulfil her plans with men. She was fairly mobbed by men for the rest of that day, among them McCusky with his black eye hidden under dark glasses bought from Barbu, a number of young Australian army officers, ringers, squatters young and old, Dinny Cahoon even. She laughed with them all, and at the last moment told Fergus that he might take her to the party, in front of the glowering Clancy, whom she at once cheered up by saying she’d be glad to see him there too.

  Thus it was. She charmed pretty well everybody in the place that night, including Himself, whose old biddy of a wife savaged him about it, and Fay McFee, who savaged all the men. She danced well and sang sweetly. Already Bridie knew a couple of Jewish folksongs taught her down Inland. Now she played them for Rifkah to sing. All the Irish had tears in their eyes after Raisins and Almonds, a children’s song, which Rifkah told her audience first she’d heard children singing in a packed and stinking railway cattle-waggon. Fay, also brought to tears, slapped Fergus’s face when he, perhaps bitter over the fact that taking the lady to the party didn’t mean anything like having sole possession of her there, remarked in an aside that she was falling for Yiddisher propaganda. Fay tried to pass on the information to Rifkah that she was in the hands of a Nazi agent, when she saw Fergus taking her home, but was rather too far gone in her cups to make herself understood. Not that it mattered much to Rifkah, who also had lined up as escorts Clancy, Eddy and Dinny. She came home like Cinderella on the stroke of midnight. Not one of her escorts dared take her past the outer circle of
bright light that poured from the pulsing portable plant, because in the middle of it, watching, sat that menace of the land, the Scrub Bull. They had to let the adored one go running to him, to see her kiss him on the brow as if he were her father, and sit down to tell him all about it with girlish giggles that surely made fools of them every one. Only one walked with any spring in his step back up the hill — Clancy, with the promise of tomorrow morning.

  Cup Day tomorrow.

  II

  At the Big House, Cup Day always began as early almost, and certainly with as much general activity, as on the most climactic day of its functioning not as a mere social centre but of economic industry, which would be the beginning of what was called the Turn-off (when all that had been done in the way of husbandry throughout the year would virtually be turned into hard cash with despatch of the finished product bawling to the various points at which it would meet its doom). Today everybody was up for early breakfast and promptly to their various posts of social service; except those who had no part in the festival nor any more feeling for it than boredom, like the fat Kruppsers and Lieutenant Denzil Dickey. There were half a dozen in all who lay abed until a bobbing Chinaman came to tell them that ‘late blekfus was leddy in blekfus loom’. Their boredom was expressed in their silence, when after formal greetings they sat down to the several dishes offered them; silence that is in the matter of verbal expression, because the Herrenvolk, in the manner of their kind, did slop and slobber over their portions, to the evident English distaste of daintily picking Denzil. Otherwise there was no sound but the whine of the electric fan, the faintest clatter from the Chinese waiter, and the hum of voices in last-minute conference coming from those regions where the several committees sat, such as big dining-room, side verandah, the office block. Denzil, perhaps seizing a unique opportunity to show his contempt for non-Englishness or because something had got into him to make him restless, left the table after a mere nibble at a boiled egg and a slice of toast, and betook himself to the deserted drawing-room, there to drop with a sigh before the grand piano, and opening it, strike a gentle note or two, then to drift into Chopin: the Fantaisie Impromptu. He played very nicely, and smiled boyishly in delight of his skill, looking out of the big window that gave the best view of the garden and beyond it the paddocks — until a sleek utility truck appeared, running along a road just beyond the homestead fence, when his fingers slowed, stopped. Although a goodly distance off, the occupants of the car could be recognised by one sharp-eyed, by reason of its slow going and the fact that its occupants were viewing the homestead, one with brilliant copper hair, the other, the driver, leaning towards the copper, pointing things out: Rifkah the Jew Gal, and Clancy the Bullock Whipping Boor. That seeming to be how Denzil saw them, the way he drew his mouth down at the sight, and the things he murmured as, with disappearance of the car behind trees and sheds, he resumed his playing: ‘Naughty, naughty . . . when Lady Mumma told you last night when you asked her . . . “Don’t be ridiculous, boy, you can’t bring that gal heah!” Oh, what sharp ears I’ve got . . . sharp almost as my dear sweet Prendegast . . . sweet, sweet Prendegast . . . so lovely in his Indian clobber . . . oh, dear!’ He sighed deeply.