Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘What’s he mean flying foxes made that trouble?’

  ‘I do not know. Zat trouble is secret zing for him.’

  They walked far, into the southern stars, and back into the northern, mostly talking of them, she in her new knowledge of astronomy and legend instructing him. Back home, she found that Jeremy had retired to his den, and went in search of him. His first remark was: ‘Well, did he pop the question?’

  ‘Pop?’

  ‘Ask you to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, Jeremy!’ She sank at his feet, to lean on his thigh.

  ‘Aren’t I supposed to be interested in my son’s doings?’

  She giggled, ‘I vos teaching him astronomy.’

  ‘Isn’t star gazing the first step to romance?’

  She said rather shortly, ‘I vos surprise’ to find he had not been taught about ze stars as a boy . . . by his fader.’

  He ignored it, asking, ‘Well, has he settled in permanently? If he has, as a proper father I must find him something useful to do.’

  Again she giggled, ‘You are jealous. But, no, he goes avay tomorrow. I fix it by telling him I gif him fry-fish to tek home for lunch. Zat mek you happy again?’ She kissed his cheek, rose, saying, ‘Now I am going to bed. Moost early start to mek ze jam.’

  III

  Over breakfast next morning, Clancy confirmed the presumption that he would be leaving today. However, he made no haste about it. First he hung about the lounge, talking with Kurt of Vaiseys and the old White Russian Settlement, of how he would speak to his stepfather and brother about it. This brought the time to smoke-o. After dawdling over that, there was no alternative for him to do anything but say goodbye to those in the house and go to his utility. Still, there remained a final bit of hanging about to talk with Prindy over the erection of more of the Delacy Deleter apparatus. He was still talking to Prindy, when the latter cocked that ear of his, listened a moment, then declared, ‘Aeroplane come.’ He jerked his lips northwestward. Sure enough, at length there was the musical drone for anyone to hear, even Uncle Clancy. By that time Prindy was able to identify it, at least by naming the pilot: ‘Fergitch Ferritch.’

  Clancy scowled.

  Prindy dashed away to the annexe to inform his grandfather, with whom he soon reappeared, to get into the utility and head for the landing-strip. Clancy, standing by his own ute, now looked as if buffaloes wouldn’t budge him from the place.

  It was the Junkers sure enough. However, there were strange faces at its cabin windows. Fergus winked from the cockpit. He was the first out, to come bounding down the steps, that usual glint of mischief in his green eyes, though his face solemn and his voice the same, as taking Jeremy’s hand, he asked, ‘The Land of Canaan, I presume, Sir?’

  Jeremy, staring at him, murmured, ‘Eh?’

  The meaning should have been obvious in the faces now crowding the exit doorway. Fergus got closer to Jeremy and whispered, ‘The first of the Chosen. And don’t forget what their ancestors did to the Canaanites when they got amongst ’em . . . circumcised ’em to a man, if my recollection of my Bible studies serves me truly.’ He stopped. Large suspicious eyes were on him. He reached for Prindy, rumpled his hair, asking, ‘How are you, mate?’ Then he walked to meet his descending passengers, saying, ‘Well, here you are, ladies and gents . . . the Promised Land. This is the boss of it, Mr Delacy. Introduce yourselves while I get your luggage out.’

  There were five men and two women, all very different from each other, in build and complexion. They were big and small, plump, lean, dark, fair, grey, bald, with eyes black, brown, hazel, blue, yet with a resemblance, something hard to define. Most would be in their forties. The youngest was a trim, tallish, black-eyed, inky-haired woman. The eldest was the other woman, flabbily plump and grey. All wore the conventional clothes of cities, except one in a riding outfit, breeches and top boots, a handsome young man, slender and dark. One of the other men wore a white solar topee. He was a massive man, clearly the leader. All were again alike in having briefcases tucked under their arms, and in hard-eyed staring.

  Jeremy said, ‘Goodday. I presume you’re the people Dr Hoff’s expecting?’

  The big man answered, in harsh thick tones, ‘Dr Hoff, ja, ja. Dr Hoff isht vere?’ He whipped out a large white handkerchief, to swipe viciously at flies singling him out as the bulkiest and juiciest prey, and then to mop his already streaming face.

  ‘He’s at the homestead. We didn’t realise it might be you. I’ll get him. We’ll need his big car, anyway.’ Jeremy turned to Prindy. ‘Grab a horse and get Kurt to come, will you, sonny?’

  As usual the horses were approaching out of curiosity after having bolted in alarm. Prindy, heading for them, whistled. Golden Bobby broke out of the mob trotting. The newcomers stared as he leapt onto the pony, and with nothing but knees to guide him, swung him to go galloping towards the homestead. Surely an unusual sight for them; but the look in their eyes was not so much curiosity as that same with which they had emerged from the aircraft, as if from experience always wary of traps. They turned the look on Jeremy, until the thumping of Fergus in the luggage-locker drew it that way, and all went marching thither. The big man snatched a polished wooden box from Fergus, to bring it to the utility himself. A small fat man took possession of the folded legs of a theodolite as if resentful of Fergus’s touching it. Fergus, coming with the suitcases, and happening to catch Jeremy alone, nodding to the polished box, muttered, ‘Bet that’s the knives!’

  ‘What knives?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Why . . . circumcising knives!’ Pretending to struggle in placing the cases, Fergus went on: ‘Haven’t you read the Bible? Don’t you know that the Israelites conquered the Canaanites by circumcising ’em first, then while they were sitting up holding their sore tossicks, sneaked up and cut their throats?’ When Jeremy stared at him in astonishment, he muttered, ‘Prepare to meet thy doom!’ and fled.

  A little later, while the company were walking about surveying the scene, ignoring Jeremy and Fergus utterly, to the evident displeasure of Jeremy, Fergus explained that such was their manner, that they had treated him like the cabman ever since taking up with him, and said that probably they would treat him, Jeremy, like the innkeeper. He went on to say that he happened to be flying them because, when he had received word by radio in Town from Leopold Mission that they were wanting to charter an aircraft, the General, at the moment involved with Japanese pearlers anchored off the Mission during spring tides, had gladly let him go. ‘To get their guts,’ he added. ‘Like I get the Japs’ guts for him. Old Whiskers sends his affectionate regards, don’t y’know? and to tell you he’ll be dropping in in a few days’ time to meet your Israelites. I’ll be going back for him tomorrow, then to pick up those wondering boys of his. By the way, I’ve got a parcel here, from him . . . present for Rifkah and your Missus. He asked me to pick it up in Town. Mind if I deliver it to ’em personally?’

  There was Kurt coming in his old red juggernaut, with only Prindy beside him.

  Either Kurt was a stranger to the newcomers, or subscribed to the same formalism that caused them to limit greetings to heel-clicking and nodding on the part of the men and stiff little bows from the women, with the minimum of verbal exchange in what could have been any East European language, harsh, terse, and sounding anything but friendly.

  When Kurt formally introduced Jeremy, only the big man shook hands. His first name was Ernest, odd sounding as applied to him, the rest of the name surely lost on Jeremy through its foreignness; like the names of all the others, acknowledging him with stiff clickings and bows. With almost military direction Ernest bundled his squad into Kurt’s car, while fighting a flank action with the flies, then himself got in with Jeremy. Fergus and Prindy got in with the dunnage behind.

  As they drove off, Fergus said to Prindy, ‘I’ll get even with Colonel Cutcock in there, next time I get him up in the kite. He messed up my centre of gravity all the way by walking about.’ Prindy, evidently familiar with the term, ask
ed Fergus what he meant by his centre of gravity. Fergus replied, ‘Explain it to you next time we fly together. But speaking of G, how’s things going with my real C of G, Rifkah? You been buildin’ me up, like we arranged, makin’ my alley good, puttin’ in a plod for me?’ On hearing that Clancy was there, Fergus became angry, but soon relaxed with evidence that it was without the blessing or encouragement of anyone. However, he said, ‘I’ll have to think of a way to keep that snoopin’ bloody dingo away from here . . . like this flyin’ fox gadget of yours. Reckon you could rig me up a trap for him?’ Thus when they came upon Clancy, still standing scowling by his utility, Fergus was able to greet him with a guffaw: ‘Hi, cowboy! Still lookin’ for strayin’ stock?’

  Rifkah, out from the Big House to greet the newcomers, did so with much the same stiff formality as they observed, to be addressed by Ernest, evidently in German, with as scant courtesy as a ranker by a military officer. In fact, for several minutes Ernest spoke and acted just like a military commander detailing a military operation, completely ignoring everybody but his troop. Most of his harsh alien speech was directed at Kurt, who all but cringed to him. Fergus cocked a wink at Jeremy, who grimaced in reply, and another at Clancy, who scowled. Then Clancy said to his father that he would like to stay and meet the people. Jeremy only nodded.

  At length Ernest acknowledged Jeremy’s presence by turning to him. Jeremy at once suggested refreshments and off with coats, and led the way to the lounge. Rifkah went back to the kitchen, watched by Fergus and Clancy. As she disappeared, Clancy started off after his father and the others, with Fergus calling softly after him, ‘If you value your foreskin, brother, keep out of it.’ Clancy ignored him. Fergus winked at Prindy, said he wanted to deliver the General’s parcel, and with him went to the kitchen.

  In the lounge the visitors drank the house brew with enthusiasm, comparing it with European beers of quality. Ernest finally declared for everyone that it resembled the Einbecker of Hanover, and therewith called for military action again. Kurt produced maps. Thenceforth the lounge became the centre of operations. Jeremy and Clancy were left out of it, except for an occasional apologetic acknowledgement by Kurt, usually only to tell them what were the qualifications of the one who at the moment was under the fire of Ernest’s questions concerning some piece of expert knowledge required to substantiate a factor noted in Kurt’s stack of research material. All were experts in some department of agrarian activity. Herschal, the bald man, was an Engineer specialising in irrigation and soil conservation, who had worked in South Russia, North Africa, Palestine. Zangwill, the fat one, was a Geologist, Baum the thin man, an Agricultural Scientist, Mendelewitz, the handsome fellow in the riding gear, a specialist in stock breeding. The ladies, Magda the young one, Catherine the plump old hen, were both Biologists.

  Clancy was introduced by Kurt not simply as a son of the host, but an important man of the land as a member of Vaiseys. Since evidently neither Ernest nor his people knew anything about Vaiseys just then, the added information seemed only to render Clancy less important. Then he, trying to be helpful, barged into the map-reading with talk of the old White Russian Settlement, and caused a furore. Obviously the newcomers took it to mean that they had rival settlers to deal with, and dangerous ones at that, the way they reacted, especially Ernest, gesticulating and shouting at Kurt. Having learnt that the enemy had long since quitted the field, Ernest turned on Clancy a look that clearly dismissed him as Schlemiel.

  Later on, Ernest’s attitude to Clancy changed suddenly, doubtless owing to his having been apprised in an aside by Kurt of the significance of Vaisey. By the look of things it was just in time. Denied access to Rifkah through pressure of domestic affairs and with the alternative of having to suffer the doubtful company of Fergus now if he were to rejoin Prindy at work on the Deleter, Clancy, sitting moodily on the sidelines, might well have been thinking of going on his way. It would be during a holdup in the vigorous campaign-planning in the lounge, due to an argument over the matter of stopping proceedings for lunch, that the aside must have occurred. When it was announced by Nanago that lunch would soon be served, Ernest in his forthright manner declared that they didn’t want it, for one thing because they’d not long had beer and sandwiches, for another that they were scheduled to make a reconnaisance flight as soon as their mapping was done. Rather coldly, Jeremy remarked that the ladies had been at great trouble to prepare lunch, and besides, it being Shabbos, there was fry-fish. Obviously it was the last bit that got Ernest in, stirring up gustatory memories. ‘Fry-Fish?’ he cried. ‘All right . . . ve loncheon.’ It was as they all went towards the dining-room that he slipped an arm about Clancy’s shoulders, telling him that he would be glad to have any help he could give them.

  There was no religious ceremony, or evidence that the newcomers even thought of it. Nevertheless, it was with zest little short of religious fervour that they gave themselves to eating food evidently long denied them. Rifkah and Nan beamed over it. Ernest pronounced the fish the best he had ever tasted, demanding to know what it was. When told about the Barramundi, its proliferacy under good conditions, the great size to which it grew, he declared, ‘Moost ve farm zis ver’ goot fish.’

  It would be the first the locals had heard of fish farming, an idea that tickled them as they heard it elaborated. Prindy turned the chuckles into a laugh by saying to his grandfather, ‘How we going to muster him up that barramundi and brand him?’

  Ernest glared suspiciously at that, demanding, ‘Vot ist foney?’

  A quick remark from Kurt seemed to put the matter right; and Jeremy helped by asking how they would go about the farming in a locality like this. Little thin Baum, in very indifferent English, said he thought they had the very place for it in the extensive swampland they had seen to northeastward as they flew in. Jeremy said, ‘The billabongs. But barramundi wouldn’t live there . . . not with catfish.’ Ernest wanted to know what a catfish was. When Jeremy explained that it had the power to sting and paralyse other fishes, Ernest asked if it could be eaten. Jeremy answered, ‘Well, that depends.’ He looked at Rifkah.

  ‘Vot depends?’ demanded Ernest.

  Prindy gave the answer: ‘Catfish not kosher. Got no scale.’

  All stared at him. Fergus choked on a guffaw. This drew Ernest’s attention to him, but not to show offence, rather to express impatience: ‘Kosher! Vot is kosher in new country like zis . . . in new society ve mek?’ Then, perhaps concerned over the looks of surprise the locals gave him, he grinned. ‘Haf you not ze dog-fish, too, to chase avay ze catfish?’ So for all his heavy Teutonic manner he had the Jewish humour.

  But no siesta for the like of Ernest. When Jeremy, perhaps ironically, remarked as they left the table that it was the custom of the country to take it easy in the middle of the day, his comment was one of disgust: ‘Ach!’ Then he spoke in lingo to his two women, with sharpness that suggested he was telling them that during his absence on the aerial survey they were not to join the rest of the household in sloth.

  The males of the party, with Fergus, Jeremy and Clancy, headed straight out to the Junkers. In no time they were in the air. The survey was northward to the edge of the Plateau, eastward to Catfish homestead, southwestward across the Beatrice to meet the railway at Granite Springs, then swing southeastward back to the Beatrice flowing past the old White Russian Settlement site. They flew up and down the site at tree-top level, while Ernest dashed from window to window, giving Fergus a lot of trouble with the aircraft’s trim. Kangaroos, wallabies, brumbies, brolgas, went flying through the grass before them. When they flushed a mob of emus Ernest all but put them in a spin with his excited leaping, shouting: ‘Strauss, strauss!’ perhaps seeing himself in business selling ostrich plumes.

  They did a turn over the township, with everyone out to see, and probably everyone knowing who they were, since Fergus had radioed his flight details to Port Palmeston and the community in its lust for minding other people’s business was hardly likely to fail to take full advan
tage of modern methods of doing so. Shamus Finnucane was the only one to show any enthusiasm, standing out before his pub waving a bar cloth. Fergus dipped a wing to him, to the annoyance of Ernest, who was sent sprawling. Ernest’s only comment on the civilised scene was: ‘Ver’ primitive.’

  So up the river, scattering the cockatoos and white egrets, and home to land. Then back into the lounge and what might well be described as An Appreciation, by Ernest, taken down in short-hand by slim handsome Magda, while the others listened in silence. Although unable to understand a word, Clancy stayed. Not Jeremy, however, who slipped away, heading for the annexe through the kitchen, where Rifkah and Nan were up to their eyes in preparing a great dinner of roast bustard. He paused to ask Rifkah what was the Yiddish or Hebrew for Boss. She answered with a giggle, ‘Macher.’ The voice of the Macher in the lounge could be heard right through to the kitchen.

  When Jeremy returned for the drinking session, Clancy was the centre of talk of Vaiseys, and looking very pleased with himself. He told his father that he would be taking some of the party over to Catfish and then down to Beatrice homestead, but that those who would be going with him, Magda and Mendelewitz, both accomplished riders, would first like to look around on horseback; so would he mind letting him have horses tomorrow? Not a word about his staying overnight again, nor evidence of a thought about asking permission.

  Again Jeremy merely nodded. Thus there again at the paternal board that evening sat the prodigal son, now looking and acting as if he had never left home, and doing much of the talking about the pièce de résistance, the fatted bustard, in answer to the eager inquiries of the new-come guests. With the bustard went baked sweetbucks and spiced pawpaw, followed by pineapple pie. The guests were particularly delighted with the information that none of it cost money, that either it ran wild in the bush to be taken in flocks as wanted or grew prolifically wherever planted.

  Ernest demanded, ‘Tell me more of zis bastard bird.’