Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  So on with the Fantaisie Impromptu, ever so quietly, so as not to disturb the Boors and Boches, who should by rights come running in to hear, to stare, to acclaim it afterwards. No one to hear those sweet sounds so sweetly played. His face plainly told his frustration, and his voice went on to tell more, assuming now a sissy squeaking that was deliberate and expressive of a sissy’s anger: ‘Old bag, to stop me from having him here! “Reahlly . . . the boy is no connexion of ours whatsoever . . . and I do not have coloured persons in may house, except as servants.” Pooh to you, Lydy Wassis, up-jumped butcher’s wife!’ All the melancholy that can be in the Fantaisie fell from the long pink fingers.

  Then another change of mood, that made the fingers fly and the chords come crashing, to drown a subdued screaming: ‘And you, too, old Esky-mo . . . sack me, sack me! I’ll go with him into the wilderness . . . and live on love and music . . . bugger you, Esky-mo, bugger you, bugger you old Brown-and-Malt, bugger you all . . . bugger, bugger, bugger! I’m going to get him and bring him and tell him I love him with Chopin!’

  Crash! went the chords. Denzil leapt up, went loping out on long legs through the conservatory on the western side, out across the lawns to the big car sheds. He got into a green military car, started up, backed out, swung round, out by the main gate and away towards Beatrice township.

  Meanwhile Clancy, having taken Rifkah for a run round the perimeter of the homestead and up along the river a little way to show her the lush pastures used for stud stock, was with frank reluctance showing her through the blacks’ camp. ‘It isn’t a pretty sight, I warn you. They’re primitive people. Don’t blame us. We’ve done our best to civilise ’em.’ He pointed to cement foundations, cracked and fire-blackened, evidently the remnants of burnt-down cottages. He explained that proper Native Lines, as he called them, had been constructed with the new homestead: ‘Most of the iron those humpies’re made of came off the good cottages, after they’d burnt ’em down . . .’

  ‘Burn down?’ Today Rifkah was clad in a bright Austrian dirndl, with the bandana over her red head and tied under her lovely chin.

  ‘Carelessness and stupidity. They can’t sleep without a fire . . . a fire and a dog . . . security, warmth, enemies after your kidney-fat, devils prowling. You can’t sleep with a dog on concrete. You’ve got to dig into the dirt with him. Then there’s relationship. You can’t live with this one or that one, can’t eat with ’em, can’t even look at ’em. So you see what you’re up against trying to house ’em properly. They sort it out themselves. You’ve got to let ’em . . . and there you’ve got their idea of housing. You mustn’t forget you’re dealing with primitive people. Better if you don’t look too close . . . it’ll only disgust you.’

  Rifkah was already obviously disgusted, the way her beautiful nose was wrinkling; but doggedly she carried on with the inspection. It would be worse even than usual, because the younger ones were away, preoccupied with the Races. Here were only the very old and the very young, lying in dust and ashes or on sacks and rags of blankets. Even the dogs were either old or crawling puppies. Bones lay about, encrusted with flies. Meat-ants ran in armies. Rifkah made no comment, except to say to one tot who had gone crawling in haste to the safety of the skeleton arms of a crone squatting in the ashes of a fireplace, ‘Ach, dirty schnozzel . . . let me clean!’ Long candles of snot were hanging from the baby’s nostrils. Rifkah took out her handkerchief, reached for the child, which whimpered and ducked its matted gingerish head under the old woman’s arm, who cackled with amusement, although keeping the child in hiding. An old brown and white mongrel showed a few teeth, growling deeply.

  Clancy growled at the dog, ‘Siddown, you mongrel!’

  The old woman flung a stick at the dog, then held up the skinny hand to Clancy, quavering, ‘Tobacco, Boss . . . lil bits.’ Clancy drew his gold cigarette case, fished out a couple of cigarettes, flung them. The old woman skilfully caught them, promptly put one right into her mouth and began to chew on it. Rifkah looked appalled, then startled as other dogs looked out of dark little hovels snarling.

  Clancy said, ‘Have to have a dog shoot. Getting too many old uns and pups.’

  ‘Shoot?’ she asked.

  ‘They never kill a dog. Part of the family. They get that many they start eating each other. Got to take the gun to ’em every now and again.’ He seemed to take that as an example of how things were generally, adding: ‘Come on away and I’ll show you something nicer . . . the bulls.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘Bools?’

  He reddened, smiling. ‘Well, they’re pretty to us. Most important thing on a station, of course, the bulls. The Bull’s King, as they say. We’ve got some real royalty here . . . and not overseas stuff, either. These were bred from stock my father pioneered.’ As he drove her away, to a special place of low shelter sheds and sprinkler-misty lucerne pastures, he told her how Jeremy had been the first man in the land to experiment with crossbreeding of the British types of cattle of the first settlers, which had suffered so badly under the harsh local conditions, with Asiatic. ‘We breed all Vaisey bulls here,’ he said. ‘Look at those beauties . . . yearlings. Can’t see much of the Zebu in them now.’ He chuckled, adding: ‘But old-time stockmen do . . . still can’t regard ’em as a kind of buffalo . . . ha, ha! Father’s first trouble was getting people to accept ’em merely on appearance, no matter superiority of stamina and weight. People don’t like strange-looking things, do they . . .’

  She looked at him. ‘You are proud of your fader, yes?’

  ‘For this . . . oh, yes! He’s made a great contribution to cattle breeding. I understand what he’s done’s even been taken up in America.’ He laughed again: ‘Next thing the Yanks’ll be claiming the beasts as theirs, and trying to sell ’em to us.’

  ‘Only for zis you are proud?’

  He looked at her, then away towards the homestead, frowning slightly. ‘Well . . . my father’s a difficult man. He’s made things difficult for us.’ Then he swung to her again, smiling, and said, ‘But come on . . . I want to show you everything . . . then take you over the Big House to smoke-o . . . morning-tea, you know . . . and then you’ll meet the Mater. Then we’ll have to be getting to the Course.’

  At the Big House, Denzil was sneaking Prindy in, coming from that direction where earlier he had seen Clancy and Rifkah pass, having left the military car out there. Prindy was dressed as King of the World. Denzil was leading him by the hand. Seeing the way Prindy looked about, he asked, ‘Haven’t you ever been here before?’ When Prindy shook his turbaned head he added: ‘But you know that the lady of the house was your grandfather’s first wife, don’t you?’

  Prindy just stared. Denzil said, ‘That enigmatic grey stare! Fancy calling you coloured . . . the old snob! Your grandmother’s coloured, of course. Where is she?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Prindy.

  ‘You always say Don’t Know about your family. That means Mind Your Own Business, I suppose. All right, I will. But it doesn’t worry me . . . about colour, you know. You are more beautiful than any white boy I ever knew. Do you know you’re beautiful?’

  Prindy nodded. Denzil made a gurgling sound and slipped an arm about him and hugged him, and holding him thus, led him into the drawing-room. As Prindy looked about in surprise, the room being so different from what he’d previously seen, Denzil said, ‘Not bad, is it? Must have been Sir Watsiss, the husband, who did it. He’s English . . . very pukka . . . still, he’s a bloomin’ butcher to me . . . they’re all butchers . . . even old Vaisey. Wonder they don’t have His Lordship’s picture hangin’ on the wall instead of the King’s, eh? Wearin’ bull’s horns instead of a crown . . . Eeeeeeee! But come on . . . we’re here to worship the god Chopin . . . I’m going to initiate you into Chopinism.’ He swept Prindy along to the piano, and as he sat down, and drew the boy alongside him, drew him to him, whispering somewhat hoarsely, ‘Initiate you . . . my dear!’

  Denzil turned swiftly to the piano, began to play, this
time the Prelude in A. He swung to Prindy after a while, noting his rapture, smiled, ‘You love it, eh? I knew you would. Better than those bloomin’ pipes you play.’

  Prindy’s eyes dropped before the ardent blue stare. Denzil turned back to his playing, softly, softly, and ever so sweetly, bending, caressing the keyboard, it seemed. When he looked again at Prindy he said, ‘I’m going to sophisticate you. Do you know what Sophisticate means?’

  The turbaned head shook. ‘You soon will.’ The long fingers sprang from the keys, to reach for the small golden-brown face, seize it, squeezing it so that the full rose-brown lips protruded. With his own lips protruding, Denzil bent to kiss, murmuring, ‘Oooo!’ but seeing alarm in the grey eyes, stopped, said huskily, ‘No . . . I’ll seduce you with Chopin first.’ He turned back to the piano, ‘Listen . . . listen with all your might.’ He began with Fantaisie Impromptu again. Prindy was clearly fascinated. Denzil swaying to the tempo, softly crooning, turned again and again, smiling, eyes shining. He murmured, ‘He hears . . . he hears at last something sweeter than the Indian Pied Piper . . . he hears the sweetest of all sounds, singing strings!’ As he stopped with the end of the piece, he turned quickly and kissed Prindy fairly on the lips. Prindy stared, startled. Denzil laughed at him, chucked him under the chin, turned back to the piano, began a Polonaise.

  The music completely changed his mood. His face contorted, blue eyes blazed. Both soldier and artist rampant now. On and on and on it went in its magnificence, seeming to make the very air a solidity of chorded sound. It ended with thunder like the voice of an angry god — Tchamala! He did not turn smiling now, but glaring, panting, to meet the unwinking grey stare. Then he leapt from the stool, fell on his knees, crying hoarsely, ‘My darling, my darling . . . I have won you!’ He seized Prindy, kissing him wildly.

  Prindy woke, struggled, got free, only to be snatched back by a long reaching hand, dragged to a mouth croaking, ‘Don’t deny me, my darling . . . I love you, love you!’ A bony hand began to drag at the jodhpurs.

  Prindy yelled, ‘Le’ me go . . . what you do!’ He slipped free again, ran for the door, dodged as Denzil leapt long-legged after him — CRASH! A table with a vase of flowers went flying. Denzil got him, bore him to the floor, while Prindy yelled and fought.

  Someone else was there — elastic-side boots and fawn trousers, a male voice grating, ‘Hey . . . what’s goin’ on here?’

  Prindy found himself free, looking up at Clancy, who had Denzil by the scruff of the neck. Denzil hacked at his skins. Clancy smacked him across the mouth, sending him reeling, yelling after him, ‘You dirty bloody bastard . . . what’re you doing to that kid?’

  Denzil, reeling, goggling, bloody spittle running from his mouth, panted, ‘Just . . . a game . . .’

  ‘Game me fat aunt! I guessed you were one of them.’ Clancy turned to Prindy, to find him slipping into the conservatory, at the moment looking back, then looking towards where the conservatory opened onto the verandah at the other end. Then he cried, ‘Hey . . . wait a minute!

  Prindy was out, heading for that door. But it opened, to reveal a stately grey-haired lady. Prindy turned back, to head for the further door, ran into Clancy’s arms. Clancy pulled his arm behind him when he would have slipped away, stared down into the grey eyes.

  Lady Rhoda came up, demanded, ‘What’s all this?’

  Clancy swung the boy towards her. ‘Look!’

  ‘Who is it . . . an Indian boy . . . what’s he doing here?’

  Clancy said it sharply, spitefully, ‘No . . . Martin’s kid!’

  Rhoda stared at the staring grey eyes, her own face greying. After a moment she asked hoarsely, ‘How did he get here?’

  Clancy, still with the small arm locked, turned towards the drawing-room door. Denzil was coming out, smiling with bloody lips. He answered Rhoda, ‘I brought him.’

  Her eyes grew wide. ‘You?’

  ‘I told you I wanted him to hear me play . . . he’s my pupil.’

  ‘How dah you!’

  Denzil mocked her: ‘Yes . . . how dah I disobey your royal command!’

  Clancy grated, ‘Don’t you talk to my mother like that, you . . . you . . .’

  ‘What, stockman?’

  Clancy in his anger pulled on Prindy’s arm. Prindy kicked him hard, twisted to get out of the grip, went down to his knees in it. Clancy snarled at him, ‘No you don’t. You stop here and tell me whether you were a consenting party or not . . . oh!’

  There was Rifkah rushing from the outer door, crying, ‘Let him go zat little boy . . . vot you doingk to him?’

  Clancy let the boy go. Rifkah grabbed him. Rhoda blazed at her. ‘What are you doing here in my house?’

  Rifkah, wide-eyed, pale, sweat on her lovely lip and brow, looked at her, then at Clancy, who had gone red and blinking. Clancy looked at his mother, cleared his throat. But Rifkah answered for him, to both mother and son by her darting fiery glance: ‘Shtick fleisch mit augen!’ Pulling Prindy after her, she went rushing off outside

  Denzil laughed shrilly. Clancy, all confusion, swung on him, snapping, ‘What’re laughing at?’

  ‘Eeeeaah, dear boy . . . at what she said . . . I understood it . . . eeeeaah!’

  ‘What’s she say?’

  Rhoda snapped, ‘We don’t want to know!’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Denzil with a giggle. ‘She called you chunks of meat with eyes . . . eeeeee! Good name for butchers, what?’

  ‘You pommy bastard!’ hissed Clancy.

  ‘Clancy!’ snapped his mother.

  ‘Veneer comes off these colonial aristos all too easily, doesn’t it, Your Ladyship?’

  ‘Will you kindly leave my house young man?’

  ‘I’ll leave with pleasure, Ma’am . . . but only after striking a little bargain.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ demanded Clancy.

  ‘Well, you see, I overheard . . . Martin’s kid. Awful secret, or I’d’ve heard it before. You say nothing about myself and the boy . . . I don’t tell the world about him and Martin, eh what?’

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘Clancy!’

  Clancy flung away towards that outer door. His mother leapt after him. ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘I’m going to take that girl back to Beatrice . . .’

  ‘No you’re not . . . after what she called us!’

  ‘I can’t let her walk all that way.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Denzil silkily. ‘I’ll pick her up . . . and the boy. So long. Give my regards to the Boss Butcher, won’t you, now . . . aaaaaeeee!’ Denzil set his long legs into swift motion as Clancy turned on him.

  Denzil, now with his baggage in the green car, caught Rifkah and Prindy up about halfway to the township. As they got in beside him, he asked Rifkah, ‘Did you hear me playing Chopin?’

  She answered shortly, ‘No.’

  ‘Pitay . . . I play it rather well, you know. Loveliest of all music, I think . . . with all due respect to the masters of your persuasion, of course. I’d like our young friend to come to think of Chopin like that, too. Are you musical, Madame?’

  ‘I do not play, if zat vot you mean?’

  ‘I’m told you have a sweet voice. Pity we can’t get hold of a good piano, somewhere where the owners aren’t stuffy cow-punchers. I’d like to hear you. Our young friend here is so full of music, he even sings in his sleep, don’t you know? He’s got great musical talent. But it’s all primitive wood-wind as yet. I’d like to see him . . . hear him . . . converted to strings.’

  Prindy was silent. Then Denzil fell silent, chewing his lips and looking troubled. He took them to the Lily Lagoons camp, to find it deserted, then took them on over to the Racecourse, set them down, staying only long enough to whisper to Prindy, ‘Forgive me, Prendegast. It was the music. It won’t happen again. Please don’t tell. Please don’t cut me . . . please!’

  The grey eyes regarded him calmly as ever. Denzil made a movement to touch him. Prindy dodged, went running away into th
e gathering crowd to Barbu’s Rusoyee Khokha.

  The Lagoons people were sitting down to smoke-o. Jeremy asked Rifkah how things had gone at the Big House. In answer she shrugged, said with finality, ‘Now mooch better I understand Delacy.’

  ‘Hmm!’

  Clancy was not amongst those gentlemen and others who again closed in on the Jew-girl whenever she appeared. She wasn’t as merry as yesterday, but amusing enough, meeting their jests with that engaging accent of hers, itself a kind of merry jest when she demanded translations of their bushwhacker’s vernacular — and even more beautiful for not being a ringer today. An addition to the admirers was Pat Hannaford, making his first public appearance since literally being knocked out of things by that first shot in the outbreak of class-warfare the other night, able to get a hat on at last and suffer the light of day. As an avowed enemy of the forces of which she was a victim he was inclined to take possession of her, had to be teased to stop talking politics, even gently threatened. Hearing that she had promised Fergus to take a flight with him tomorrow morning, he asked her to come with him for a run on his engine, from which she’d see far more, wild birds and animals even. She accepted, but on condition that there were to be no politics then or now. But in his zeal, getting her alone for a moment, he told her there was going to be a demonstration of protest at the Cup Ball that night, in favour of her and Kurt and their fellow victims of Nazism, against those representative of the filthy thing who would be accessible to him and his comrades for the first time. The Party boys had tried demonstrating several times before the Herrenvolk up in the grandstand, but with little effect, since the mob they wanted to impress with the idea that the Devil was on their very doorstep were interested only either in the races while they were on or in beer-swilling or curry and dim-sim gorging in between; and Superintendent Bullco, rubbing shoulders with what looked rather like his kind, had his khaki boys on the alert to deal with anything unseemly. But tonight at the Ball, while the mob were crowded outside, and the Bosses and the Fascist Beasts packed inside, all you had to do was take a stand in the doorway and, as Pat put it, ‘give ’em your true guts’; and there was this girl who should welcome the opportunity to leap in and spit in the faces of the bastards, crying out in protest of her own, ‘No, no, no . . . ve vont no trouble, pliss!’