Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Jeremy had to be all but abject to induce Fay not to leave his roof. In fact he settled the matter only by saying that she might regard herself as the guest of Kurt and Rifkah. Quite ungraciously, she acceded, saying that, anyway, she would be staying only one night.

  Fay stayed a week, ‘The happiest week of my life,’ as she described it, not only in words spoken in farewell to her hosts, but in what subsequently she wrote of the experience and had printed nationally. Other superlatives she used were that Kurt was the most charming and intelligent man she’d ever known, and Rifkah the sweetest and most beautiful woman, and a cook par excellence. Even if the pair did begin by beguiling her deliberately, it would have cost them small effort to win her extreme regard, political dreamer and inverted virgin that she was. Half the time she spent at the feet of the sexless Socrates, listening wide-eyed and open-mouthed to his nostalgic dissertation on what would be so much more satisfying to her essentially romantic nature than the crude reality of the domestic politics in which she had to root for a living like a pig, namely, International Socialism, told like a fairy-tale in a foreign accent, with names of places that conjured up visions of barricaded streets, noble fighters for the Brotherhood of Man being trampled under the hoofs of hussars’ chargers, and the Shades of prophets of the proletariat less troublesome than Marx, Engels, Lenin. The rest she spent either playing house with her red-haired girlfriend, cooking, cooking, or out in the rain, the rain, little-girl nature-studying, or sitting cosy of nights singing Jewish folksongs to the music of an Aboriginal child who made the true sap of womanhood rise warm in her ample bosom — ‘Little Boy Pan,’ as she called him, not knowing that he mimicked her braying voice and jenny donkey’s waddle when reporting to his grandfather.

  Jeremy himself mostly kept out of the way, joining the others only for drinks and meals, when he acted the Squatter, which by her own stiff formality in his presence evidently she wanted. It was only at parting that she unbent to him, saying that she regretted the unfriendliness of the past and hoped they might be friends in future.

  The rain was gone and the earth baking, when next Thursday morning Fay departed from Lily Lagoons. She rode in the utility, with Rifkah driving and Prindy between them. Behind them came all the other vehicles on the place, because all those who recognised Christmas as their Yomtov were going to be able to celebrate it after all. This latter circumstance was generally believed to be due to Prindy, who had been approached by his brindle cousins to do something about the rain, seeing that he was supposed to be in the business. Whether or not he did any actual Singing was not clear. Anyway, when asked if he had stopped the rain he gave a solemn affirmative. This greatly tickled Fay. Nevertheless, she did say that she could believe anything of Little Boy Pan, and showed her credulity further when on the way to the Beatrice they turned off to take a look at the Rainbow Pool, and she said that she would like to take the magic dip, ‘Just for the fun of it,’ since, of course, she didn’t believe in such nonsense.

  If Old Tchamala were watching from down below, as Prindy suggested he well might be, there being a hint of rainbow hanging over the now cascading falls, the Old One certainly saw a sight in that mass of human female flesh wallowing and puffing like a pink and white buffalo. Prindy tittered behind the ample back — but only to get a disapproving look from Rifkah. Fay herself, staring frankly at the lissom golden nakedness of her companions, expressed her delight in them with a bovine sigh.

  They were at the siding to see the train come in from the Head of the Road, an event usually of interest only to railwaymen, police, blacks, even when it would be a full train, as this one loaded with people heading to Town for Christmas. There would be plenty of time to see who was aboard, since it would be staying the night. However, Pat Hannaford was driving, and seeing Rifkah for the first time for a while, came in with such a din of whistling as to bring everybody out to see. When Rifkah laughed and waved acknowledgement, Fay scowled, grunting, ‘That bloody larrikin!’ When Pat, immediately on stopping, leapt down from his engine and came loping towards them, Fay snapped, ‘I don’t talk to the lout. See you in a minute.’ She set off towards the alighting passengers, turning to add, ‘Don’t let him spoil our last lovely evening.’

  Pat might easily have spoilt things. He began by saying to Rifkah, ‘You wan’ ’o look out that old bitch. She’s a lez, for a start. She put the hard word on you?’ Rifkah giggled, probably not understanding. Then he proceeded to make arrangements for the night. First he would take her shunting, then for drinks, then to dinner — and, afterwards, well — She told him of the arrangements already made, how she and Fay and Prindy would be having a curry supper at Barbu’s and afterwards Indian music, and then Tom Toohey would be taking her home. The only concession she would make was in the matter of the shunting — provided he took Prindy along too. Pat acceded, even let Prindy do a bit of tail-pullin’ and whistling while he himself disinterestedly lent a ginger hand, while otherwise almost completely preoccupied with his other passenger.

  As they puffed up and down the yards, Pat said to Rifkah, ‘You’re mad to let her write anything about you. She’s a wizard for dobbin’ people in. Beats me why you had anything to do with her at all, seeing that Committee mob o’ yours dodged her when she tried to interview ’em up in Town. Didn’ yo’ know? If I’d’a’ been drivin’ last mail train she’d never got out there to see you . . . if I’d’a’ had to shanghai her to the Head o’ Road and dump her there. She’ll put you in the poo if she writes anything ’bout you . . . sure as Lenin lived, girl.’

  Rifkah explained that she and Kurt had been most careful in what they had said, and had Fay’s assurance that no mention would be made of the Settlement and no identities disclosed — only a Pen Portrait. Moreover, Fay had promised to let them see what she wrote before she handed it to the press.

  Pat shrugged. ‘Well, at least you were wise in tyin’ her up like that. I wasn’t when she did one of her famous Pen Portraits o’ me. Christ, the trouble I had! Nearly booted out of the Party . . . suspended from me job . . . could’a’ landed in clink, only that the bosses hate her guts. And, d’you know . . . she still thinks she done me a favour! I tell you, when it comes to dobbin’ anyone in, old Fay’s a sheer genius.’ Rifkah only smiled, surely still understanding but half of what he said.

  Pat left them to their Lovely Last Evening. They ended it by walking with arms about each other’s waists from Barbu’s, where Prindy was sleeping, down to the roaring crossing, in darkness that glittered with stars and fireflies and Finnucane’s lights and reeked of the cracking mud and the goats. Parting at last at the door of Fay’s room at the Hotel, Fay clung and kissed hungrily, then dashed away to hide her tears.

  There were more tears and kisses next morning at the train. Perhaps that was why Pat, seen to be hanging out of his cab, sounded so impatient with his whistling to get the passengers aboard, and then, in moving off, gave that seemingly spiteful jerk which sent those leaning out of windows for a last touch of hands flopping into seats.

  II

  True to her word, Fay McFee sent the script of the Pen Portrait by next mail, along with a letter for Rifkah. The letter was largely a rather lyrical recounting of the joys of the recent interlude, for the rest a report, penned with the ironic gusto for which Fay was famous in lampooning the local aristocracy. It concerned the Boxing Day Party held at the Delacy place on Rainbow Beach, one of the grand social events of the year, Very Posh, Don’t You Know, but which this year had ended in a vulgar brawl. ‘Scratch a squatter,’ Fay wrote, ‘and you’ll find that beastly common fellow the squattocracy so despise — the ringer. I’m going to call it Scratch a Squatter. It’ll be in next week’s issue — provided my heroic editor doesn’t get the Libel Shits.’

  It seemed that the fracas began as a clash between those two bravos, Clancy Delacy and Fergus Ferris. Half of the other gents had become embroiled through trying to separate them, and then some of the ladies going in to stop their men and seeing a chance to settle
old scores. ‘They’ll never live it down,’ wrote Fay. ‘Lady Rhoda’s gone into smoke — booked on the next plane for the South, I hear, and the Festive Season only halfway through! Next on the list is Captain Shane’s New Year’s Party. I must disguise myself and crash it. Best disguise at the moment as one of the elite is a black eye. But the biggest laugh is that it all started over you. There’s a whisper that the two louts fought over you down at Lily Lagoons. I can’t believe it — but is it true? I wouldn’t mention it in the piece for the paper, of course. I hope you’ll like the Pen Portrait. It’s all ready for whizzing away to Truth. If you have any objection to it, wire me at once.

  As if anyone could object to something written with so much love! It was entitled Rebecca the Refugee, and told of a lovely Jewish girl, who’d come through the hell of Nazi persecution, to find complete happiness in an environment that would be considered utterly alien to her, amongst people quite strange — this surely vindication of those who supported the idea of offering this empty land as refuge for the like of her, the bravest, healthiest, most intelligent and adaptable immigrants any country could wish to have. It went on to tell of Fay’s own sweet experience in company with the lovely gentle girl, away there in the wilderness, where she had come to love everything, from butterflies to blackfellows — and being loved in return. Every intelligent creature turned to her: horse, dog, the injured creatures of the wild that, like the sweet girl herself, had made the place a refuge. There was also something about the Jewish Doctor, with the face and the gentleness of Christ — and about a Little Boy Pan, an Aboriginal waif rescued from the hell of official semi-neglect, to prove, under the guidance of Rebecca, to be a Musical Genius no less. Such was this lovely influence that the squatter, the Big Boss, on whose property this wonderful thing was taking place, from having been the hardest, bitterest man in the land, now sat at his own table with head bowed and covered, while prayers were said in Hebrew on Sabbath Eve.

  That bit about the Big Boss was all Fay had to say about Jeremy — and quite enough, according to him: ‘Just what Fay would do. With one stroke of that pen of hers, make me the laughing-stock of the country.’

  Rifkah asked, ‘Vot is laughing-stock?’

  ‘Oh . . . well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know. Just an expression.’

  ‘You do not like vot she write? I vill ask her to stop it.’

  ‘No, no, my dear. Leave it as it is. What she’s written about you is inspired.’

  III

  Next train-day, in at the Beatrice, waiting for the train, Rifkah, with Prindy and Kurt, found Clancy beside her. She was surprised. He looked wary, muttered, ‘Happy New Year.’

  She echoed the greeting, adding, ‘You ’ave goot time in Town?’

  Avoiding her eyes he answered, ‘Oh, the usual.’

  Further embarrassment was avoided by the coming of the train. As she came roaring over the bridge, they talked of the weather. Pat Hannaford was driving again. He quickly saw Rifkah and Clancy, and after staring at them for a moment as he came rolling in, withdrew from his customary leaning out of the side of the cab, but almost immediately to appear again, with something in his hand, with which he climbed down the steps of the now very slowly moving locomotive — not to alight, but to lean out to the crowd to the limit of his long arms and legs, and thrust the thing into the hands of staring Clancy. It was a copy of The Palmeston Progressive. Clancy took it, gaping now. Winking at Rifkah, Pat hauled himself back, and clambering up into the cab, looked round and back at Clancy, yelled, ‘Read all about it, Squatter-boy!’

  Still gaping, and with many eyes on him, Clancy watched the engine disappear beyond the station, then looked at Rifkah, who was peeking at the paper, then looked at the paper himself. The Progressive never ran a headline wider than a column; but this one was plain enough to see, even blurred a bit by Pat’s engine driver’s thumb: SCRATCH A SQUATTER. He couldn’t have read more in the glance he gave it, or have guessed at the import till he looked up again at Rifkah, to find her eyeing him quite guiltily. She proved her guiltiness by saying hastily, ‘Moost get ze mail,’ and started off into the crowd, with Prindy and Kurt following.

  Clancy watched them disappear, then looked again at the paper, read while his face flamed and rumpled. He looked up again. Everybody was occupied with something. He twisted the paper in his hands as if to tear it, then folded it with a slap, grasped it in one hand, turned and went walking quickly away.

  Hannaford, coming from his engine, found Rifkah and pulled her out of the crowd, saying, ‘You’re famous . . . you’ve hit the National headlines.’ He had the latest Truth, which when they had got clear of the crowd, he opened for her, to reveal a banner headline: REBECCA THE REFUGEE. Subheading declared: From Nazi Prison to Freedom in Never Never — Jewish Girl Becomes Bushwoman Overnight.

  Pat guffawed, ‘Does she wrap you up! Look . . . “This sweet and lovely creature.” Told you she was a lez. If you’d a been a man she’d a tore the tripes out o’ you. You should see what she wrote about the Scrub Bull. Sittin’ up at the table sayin’ prayers like an old Jew . . . Ho, ho, ho! He’ll never live it down.’

  Apparently quite heedless of the ruffling of the lovely brows, Pat went on, after a glance about, ‘Yo’ boy friend skedaddled, eh? So him and the pilot bloke had a go in at Lily Lagoons, eh? ’S all right . . . Ferris told me ’bout it himself.’

  She said shortly, ‘Pliss . . . you talk about my friend!’

  ‘Eh? Rubbish like that your friends?’

  ‘Zey are my friend . . . as you are my friend. I vill not let zem talk about you in such vay.’

  He stared at her. ‘Okay, okay . . . Well, what about a run on the injin . . . then a drink! I got a paper in German . . . supposed to be underground. Like to know what it says. Where’s Kurt?’

  They couldn’t ride with him, because they wanted to get back home. However they had a drink with him and read bits of his paper to him. There was no sign of Clancy at Finnucane’s. Prindy spent the waiting time at Barbu’s, practising on a brand-new clarinet sent him as a present from General Esk. No doubt the instrument had been recommended as a better medium for his own music by Denzil Dickey, passed on from the old flautist, Herschal — perhaps from the latter as subtle protest against use of the flute for the Primitive he abominated.

  IV

  Storm-clouds began to gather from the North again, but only to be dissipated in dry fireworks over the Plateau, the din of which of sultry evenings roused the tree-frogs round about Lily Lagoons to flat-toned croaks that surely were protests, like the angry shouting of the nuttagul geese on the billabongs, which was so loud as to be heard at times at the homestead. The gathering of geese so early for nesting was taken by weather prophets as yet another indication of a poor Wet Season. When the rain did come, they said, it would last no longer than it took the geese to hatch their eggs.

  It was on such an afternoon of dry rioting of the elements while the mocked world wilted that a new sound was heard. Naturally Prindy heard it first, announced, ‘Aeroplane come . . . Fergus!’

  There soon was Fergus grinning down at them as he banked over the mangoes, but only a glimpse of what appeared to be a boy’s face at a cabin window. ‘Who could it be?’ they were all asking. Anyway, only Jeremy and Prindy went out in the utility to be the first to see. Both got a surprise on seeing the face of the trim female figure in light brown that stepped out of the aircraft, smiling and waving, that came running with a twinkle of white legs and shiny high heels and a toss of brown curls, crying, ‘Jeremy . . . Jeremy, darling!’

  It was Aelfrieda Candlemas — Alfie!

  She flung herself into Jeremy’s arms, fastening her red mouth to his, clinging, clinging. When at last she drew back, she laughed in his purpled face. ‘Surprised?’

  He gasped, ‘What d’you think?’

  Her lovely mouth was wide with laughter, her little teeth gleaming. ‘My same dear darling dry old Jeremy . . . mmmm!’ She kissed him again.

  Fergus, c
oming with a single suitcase, grinned. ‘Sorry you put that strip down now, eh, Mullaka? You’ll have to get an anti-aircraft gun.’ When he saw Jeremy looking expectantly at the plane, he added, ‘Nobody else.’

  Jeremy asked Alfie, ‘Where’s your husband?’

  ‘Frank’s in Sydney. He isn’t in this. It isn’t exactly a social call.’ When he looked at her questioningly, she added, ‘I mean that I came for a special reason . . . but, of course, first to see you.’

  ‘Where’d you come from?’

  ‘Sydney. Fergus was down with that General of yours. So I hitched a ride back . . .’ She broke off on noticing Prindy, stared, cried, ‘No . . . it can’t be . . . but it is! I thought when I heard that it must be . . . Prendegast!’ She grabbed him, hugged him, kissed him, held him off to stare at the good clothes, the stance, and turned to Jeremy. ‘I knew it would work. Didn’t I tell you? I knew it would work. But isn’t it wonderful!’ Then to Prindy again, saying, ‘But you lost your poor mother. Fergus told me.’