Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Sharp black eyes of those who wouldn’t have been told who was driving the train or, in their humility, have thought to ask, identified him as his engine burst bewhiskered with steam from the bridge — ‘Patannaford!’ — excitement in the voices, as if the name conjured the likelihood of exciting events. Pat cock-a-doodled at the road crossing, came rolling into the yards. Col Collings was standing by the track outside his Station, ready to take the running staff from Pat’s hand and the insult of the Fascist salute that inevitably the hand would give afterwards. But Pat, glancing, grinning, over the waiting crowd, as was his way in pulling in, saw Rifkah. The casual grin changed to a smile of delight. He waved like a happy blackboy. She responded with equal animation. Thus he missed seeing Collings, who scowling and yelling, had to run after the engine, and when Pat did see him, have the staff chucked at him and the hand change its salute to the one of up-jerked thumb. A titter from the crowd. Then the engine disappeared in passing the Station. Freight waggons rolled slowly by with clanking couplings. The three passenger coaches, seeming to be bursting with passengers, the way they were hanging out of windows and platforms, drew up, stopped with a jerk as Chas Case applied his brake.

  The little crowd was augmented by the mostly staggering passengers. People — white to the left, boongs to the right — were clasping and pounding and fondling each other. Then there was tall Pat pushing through them, black driver’s hat on the back of his head, showing a forepeak of ginger hair, freckled face glowing. His green eyes were only for Rifkah. ‘Hello!’ he cried. ‘Thought you’d gone bush with the Murris. How yo’ doin’, sweet’eart? Can’t shake ’ands.’ He showed his grimy paws. But then, grinning, he added: ‘Me mouth’s clean, but.’ He kissed her fair on the lips. She laughed, looking radiant with a blush. He tried again. But she held him off. All who saw it looked amused — except staring Clancy, scowling.

  ‘What ’bout that ride on the engine you promised?’ asked Pat. ‘Come on now, while I’m shuntin’. What . . . you got ’o ask permission?’ She had looked at Jeremy. Pat also looked, belligerent now.

  Jeremy said, ‘It’s okay . . . but we’re going to Toohey’s for supper.’

  ‘I’ll drop her right off at Tom’s door for you. Come on, sweet’eart.’ He grabbed her hand, dragged her away. Passing Collings and Guard Chase and Oz Burrows sorting out their waybills and looking up to stare at the couple, as everybody else was doing, Pat winked broadly. Collings scowled. Pat said, ‘Come and un’ook us, Oz. We’ll do the shuntin’ ourselves . . . extra crew . . . ahaaaaa!’ He was happy as a boy, rushed his flustered captive along to the engine, out of which Porky Jones was gaping. ‘Give her a ’and up, Porky.’ Pat got on the shiny steel steps behind her, hands grasping the stanchions so that his arms were about her shapely bottom as she climbed, although evidently he was being careful not to touch her.

  Up in the cab, Pat got out clean cotton-waste and carefully cleaned the driving seat and helped her into it, all the while talking: had she ever been on a locomotive before, what sort of trains did they have in Germany, did drivers wear brown shirts with swastikas on their arms? She was too bewildered to answer much. Anyway, he didn’t require it. He just talked and drove and occasionally cast her the unbelieving glance of an adoring boy. Thus while they ran to the goods shed and dropped off a couple of waggons, with Porky handling points and couplings. Then, ‘light’, as they say of a locomotive without a load, they headed for the main line southward, got onto it. ‘We’ll go for a burn,’ said Pat. Burn it was literally, with Porky shovelling incessantly and sulphury steamy smoke pressing down on the cab and hanging like a grey screen over the tender owing to the suction of their speed. The engine rocked like a bolting horse. Wind howled through the ventilators. Pat stood swaying to the rocking, one hand on the fully open regulator, the other on a stanchion that Rifkah was gripping with all her strength by the look of her knuckles, his hand above hers, his arm almost about her, while he stared ahead through the bull’s-eye window and sang the old engine driver’s song, Paddy had an Engine but he Couldn’t Make her Go. Rifkah’s face had something of that aged look. Her eyes were great with staring at the dead straight track, an arrow-head of silver lying on scarlet between folds of grey, and the purpling sky into which it bored. She heaved a sigh when at last he pulled off steam and let the engine roll out her momentum until she came wheezing to a stop.

  ‘How’d you like that?’ asked Pat.

  She smiled weakly, shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me you were scared?’ he demanded. ‘What you been through . . . with them Fascist bullyin’ dogs?’

  She glanced round the barish box of steel, at the roaring fire, having to raise her voice above the bubble and the hiss: ‘Ist different . . . like beingk carried away by storm.’

  He chuckled. ‘Safest things in the world, railway locomotives . . . properly handled, course . . . and a reliable track. You can trust old Tom Toohey.’

  ‘Ve go back now? I do not vont to be late. Not before haf I had meal vit’ Mrs Toohey.’

  ‘You’ll get goat. Jews allowed to eat goat?’ Pat was turning the reversing gear.

  She giggled. ‘Did not old Rifkah in ze Bible cook kid goat for Ya’acov to gif to his old fader Yitzchak . . . you call Isaac?’

  ‘One thing I’m not up in is the bloomin’ Bible, lady. Religion’s the opium of the people.’

  ‘Not politic, too?’

  He looked at her quickly. ‘Depends on the politics. Right . . . here we go. Swing your seat round.’

  ‘Pliss, not so quickly.’

  ‘Can’t go like that backwards . . . or we would come to grief. But what about you havin’ a go pullin’ her tail. Come on.’ He drew her from the seat, placed her reluctant hand on the regulator. ‘Hold it . . . press the little lever to get the movement. Right. I’ll start you off. Away we go. But we ought ’o give a toot to let ’em know we got the right-o’-way. There’s the whistle. Come on. Pull!’

  Boot! They were on their way home, nicely and quietly now, so much so that Pat, swaying beside her, started talking politics again: ‘A lot o’ your mob’re Comms, you know. Fact, Karl Marx was a Jew. Some o’ best brains in Communism are Jews.’ He leaned towards her. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be an undercover member yo’self, be any chance?’ When she looked at him, he turned hastily away. ‘’S all right . . . forget it.’

  He whistled a bit to himself, what, mixed up with the mechanical din, might have been The Red Flag. Then he turned back to her. ‘What about takin’ you along to the pub for a couple of hours tonight? When there’s a lively crowd they have a bit of a sing-song . . . eh?’

  ‘But I am guest of Tooheys.’

  ‘What’ll they do tonight? The two old fellers’ll just sit up and drink and talk about yell . . . eh . . . halfcastes, or the news they don’ know nothin’ about . . . and the old girl’ll go to bed after she’s washed the dishes.’

  ‘Still I am guest.’

  ‘Tell you what . . . when I drop you there, I’ll take you acrost, and ask ’em. You’re young an’ you ought ’o ’ave a bit o’ fun.’ She half smiled in answer, sitting now, with hand on the regulator, the regular engine driver.

  He was silent for some time, staring along the track, frowning, biting a lip, as if chewing something over. Then suddenly he turned to her, came close, spoke in her ear: ‘They reckon old Delacy’s in love with you . . . that right?’

  Her eyes grew great looking at him. Their eyes clung. He blinked, swallowed ‘I only said what people’re sayin’.’

  ‘Vot pipple?’

  ‘Aw, forget it. They’ll say anything.’ He swung away, to look at the boiler gauges.

  And there they were back in civilisation, goats along the line, glimpse of tents of laid-up drovers down by the river. Pat took over to stop before Tom Toohey’s place. He went with her as arranged. Jeremy and Kurt were there with the Tooheys. Prindy was stopping with his father-in-law, Barbu. Pat told them that he’d like to take Rifkah to Finnucane’s. When no one answered, he dem
anded angrily, ‘What’s wrong with yous . . . ain’t I good enough for ’er?’

  Jeremy said, ‘Why ask us . . . can’t the lady answer for herself?’ He looked at Rifkah.

  She smiled at him, then at Pat, saying, ‘I mek up my mind later, Pat. If you like to come back. Zank you for engine ride.’

  Pat blinked, swallowed, then muttering, ‘Okay,’ turned and went off back to his fretting engine.

  The engine slipped in starting, snorted as if angrily in getting a grip of the rails, so aptly expressing the mood they supposed the driver was in that those who listened laughed over it, but without comment. It wasn’t until they were eating that Mrs Toohey asked Rifkah why she didn’t want to go to the Hotel. When told that it was out of consideration for herself, Nolly said that was silly, that she should go and have fun, a pretty young girl like her. The others agreed. Then Rifkah said, ‘Ve vill all go together, yes?’ An awkward silence. How tell a stranger to the ways of the country, and so friendly a one towards all kinds, the humiliating facts — that never in her life had Nolly been on what was called Licensed Premises, because the Law of the Land had for so long forbidden it to the like of her unto any generation decided upon by a so-called Protector of Aborigines, and still forbade it unless the party applied to such an officer for a permit to do so and was by him considered a fit and proper person to get drunk with the dignity of a pure white; something that Nolly, perhaps less out of pride than disinterest, had neglected to do. No doubt feeling the awkwardness, Rifkah added: ‘No matter.’ Jeremy said he’d take her along for an hour or so. No one seemed to think that Pat would be back.

  It was about eight, and Rifkah and Jeremy just about to go out, when the dog began to bark, steps sounded on the front verandah, there was a hammering, and a shout, ‘Well . . . you comin’, lady?’

  They had him in. He was nicely got up, in the uniform of his class in this classless society: cream silk shirt, black peg-top pants, patent dancing pumps, with ginger hair slicked with oil as no one had ever before seen it. To begin with he was a bit uppity, but relaxed with a beer and the sight of Rifkah and Jeremy’s prompt surrender of his charge to him. Rifkah, wearing a bright dirndl and glowing herself in the soft reflexion of the shaded brilliance of the pressure lamp on the table, looked lovelier than ever.

  So black did the night appear as the couple were going off, seen out by the others, that Tom Toohey offered use of a flashlight. The darkness was worse for the footpath’s being of railway cinders, and there being the wall of the tops of the tall river timber across the way, and perhaps because the heavens were so bright. At any rate, Pat declined the offer, saying that he had eyes like a cat in the dark and telling Rifkah to take his arm. As they went, following the main railway track, of which the stars gave a hint here and there, owing to Pat’s recent lively polishing of them, he told her how he’d had often to drive of dark nights when the headlight failed, saying that he had developed this special night-sight of his through having trained in his calling on engines fitted only with kerosene lights, by which, he declared, you couldn’t see further ahead than twenty feet. ‘Yeah,’ he added, ‘I got eyes like a cat in the dark . . . ow!’ He stumbled, fell on his knees, got up staggering, yelping, while she picked her way carefully over the rusty rails of the turning triangle: ‘Jesus bloody Christ . . . bloody stinkin’ bastard . . . I hurt me knee!’

  She was giggling. Limping, he demanded, ‘What’s funny ’bout it?’

  ‘Vot you sayingk.’

  ‘What’s wrong’t it . . . don’t you like bad language?’

  ‘You call zat bad language?’

  ‘Christ, no . . . but I couldn’t let really loose in front o’ you.’

  ‘Vy?’

  ‘Aw, Jesus!’

  She took his arm again, ‘Vy you call name of Jesus Christ, ven you don’t believe religion?’

  ‘Aw . . . just a bad bloody habit.’

  ‘Vy you say bloody, bloody, bloody . . . everybody say?’

  ‘Jees — hell — aw, I don’ know. Don’t Jews swear?’

  ‘Yes . . . but wit’ meaningk.’

  Like what?’

  ‘Vell . . . like, if you hurt yourself, or somezingk go vrong, you say, “Fits on ze Goyim”.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Zat English.’

  ‘Don’t sound like it to me.’

  ‘Of course. You vish all ze Goyim, ze Christians, to haf fits.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s a good one. I’ll have to use it. Fits on the bloody Goyim, eh?’ He added: ‘You could say Fits on the Fascists. I’ll try it on Collings, the bastard. He pulled me up tonight for takin’ that burn on the engine with you.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  ‘No . . . just usin’ the per-way without his permission, he says.’

  ‘Vot is per-way?’

  ‘Permanent way . . . the main line . . . the Fascist bastard.’

  ‘But he not belong to Fascist Party.’

  ‘He’s a bloody Fascist all the same. He’s a bosses’ man. He’s a scab . . .’

  ‘You talkingk politics.’

  ‘Well, what’re you goin’ ’o talk about?’

  ‘Ve talk about stars. You know anyzing about stars?’

  ‘What’s the good o’ knowin’ anything about stars when our own bloody world’s in the state it is?’

  ‘Zen you can forget ze bloody vorld for leetle vile . . . and know how leetle ze vorld is, and yourself. See zat bright star up zere . . . zat is Altair, in ze constellation of ze Eagle. Do you know how many million miles it is avay, and how long it take light to reach us?’

  ‘What’s it bloody well matter when we got a social system like we have?’

  ‘Mankind first begin to zing . . . stink . . . think . . . from lookingk at ze stars. Ze first true science vos astronomy.’

  ‘It don’t feed people. It don’t stop Nazis persecutin’ Jews.’

  ‘Human intelligence vill do zat. Ven everybody look at stars and understand infinity of Universe.’ The sort of stuff talked on those ritual walks at Lily Lagoons.

  ‘You talk like that after the way you been treated by them bloody bastard Nazis!’

  ‘I am free and ’appy now . . . in free an ’appy country . . .’

  ‘Says you!’

  ‘Vot you mean by zat?’

  ‘You’ll find out, lady . . . you’ll find out.’

  She exclaimed suddenly, ‘Vot’s zat . . . all zose eyes?’

  ‘Aw . . . only the famous heap of bottles. The biggest heap of bottles in the world, they reckon . . . stupid bastards . . . as if it’s sumpin to be proud of, how much bloody grog you drunk!’ He was starting off to give statistics on Australian drinking. She interrupted him.

  ‘Listen!’

  Across the road into which they were turning from the Hall, the sound of music.

  He grunted: ‘Silly old Ali Barba tootlin’ on his bamboo flute.’

  ‘No . . . ist not Indian music . . . it is Jewish . . . la, la, la, la, lalala!’

  ‘What’s he doing with Jewish music?’

  ‘Not him . . . zat Prindy. Come, ve go see zem.’

  ‘Eh . . . what about the pub?’

  ‘Can vait. I vont to see my leetle boy.’ She headed for Barbu’s dimly lighted shop. Grunting reluctance, Pat had to go along with her.

  The music stopped at the sound of their footsteps in the shop. A moment, evidently for scrutiny through the peep-hole, then Barbu appeared, bowing low to Rifkah, while cocking a wary eye at Pat, asking what he might do for them. Rifkah said they’d heard the music as they passed and were just looking in to say Hello. Where was Prindy? Barbu, jabbering and gesticulating vaguely, appeared not to know anything. At length there was Prindy in the back doorway. Rifkah went to him, kissed him on the brow, told him how sweet the music had sounded. She said, ‘You know Mister Pat Hannaford?’ Prindy, eyeing Pat somewhat as Barbu had, nodded.

  Pat said shortly, ‘Course he knows me. Didn’t I help him to get away from the Gestap
o? Didn’t I offer to help to send him to Russia?’

  Rifkah looked astonished, murmuring, ‘Gestapo . . . Russia . . . vot ist joke?’

  ‘No joke,’ snapped Pat, and briefly explained, concluding: ‘But he wants to stop in the bush like a bloomin’ blackfeller!’

  Prindy appeared to be quite unmoved by the terse dissertation on his ingratitude. From looking at him, Rifkah turned to Pat. ‘Better stay in bush, too. Zat vot I vill do. Who vont to go to Russia . . . cold, and hunger, and only vork, vork, vork.’

  Pat growled, ‘You ain’t been to Russia.’

  She snapped, ‘You ain’t, too!’

  Pat glared. ‘It’s the Workers’ Fatherland . . .’

  ‘Zat is vot I say . . . only vork. Blackfellers do not vork . . . not like slave vite pipple.’

  ‘They’re primitive people. You’ve got ’o work in the modern world. The Workers of Russia work for ’emselves . . . that’s the difference.’

  Prindy said, ‘Worker of Russia work for lib’ration de masses of de world.’

  They all swung on him. Pat exclaimed, ‘Eh . . . where’d you get that?’

  ‘I hear on radio.’

  ‘Good on you, sonny!’ Then when Rifkah giggled, Pat demanded, ‘What’s wrong’t that?’

  ‘So much he hear on radio. He hear Adolf Hitler ze ozzer night and imitate him beautifully . . .’

  ‘That yapping mongrel bastard . . .’

  ‘Also he hear Josef Stalin . . . and imitate him. He is very clever at imitation. He imitate King George, and Joe Lyons, and dingo, and donkey.’

  Pat scowled. She said, ‘He vill play us zomezingk . . . zen ve vill go. You vill play for us, kleine menscheleh?’ Prindy nodded and went out. Pat swung on his long legs, evidently impatient to be gone. When Prindy returned after a moment with his flute, Rifkah turned to Pat. ‘Vot you like him play?’

  Pat grimaced his indifference — then suddenly leered: ‘Yeah . . . how ’bout The Red Flag?’ He turned the leer on Prindy. ‘Know that one, Comrade?’

  Prindy blinked, looked at Rifkah, who nodded, saying, ‘Zat Oh, Tannenbaum.’