Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘A purely official term. I’ve no wish to deal with the prisoners roughly . . . unless they’re non-compliant.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ demanded Jeremy. ‘Why . . . you haven’t even laid a charge . . .’

  ‘They became my prisoners the moment I was entrusted with the duty of delivering them into the hands of the authorities seeking their custody. Now, if you’ll . . .’

  ‘You haven’t even identified this girl . . . yet you call her your prisoner! You sound like an agent of the Gestapo or something . . .’

  ‘How dare you, Sir!’

  ‘You object to being identified with anything so abominable as the Gestapo?’

  ‘I resent being called an agent of any service but what I serve.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I told you . . . Commonwealth Investigation Service.’

  ‘But virtually you are acting as an agent of the Gestapo.’

  ‘I tell you I resent that . . . and warn you that insults to an officer in the course of his duty are actionable . . .’

  ‘Act and be damned to you!’ cried Jeremy. ‘This girl you call Rebecca Rosen is a refugee from Gestapo persecution. Since childhood, when she saw her father murdered before her eyes, knew her grandparents had to kill themselves, was herself dragged away to become the helpless victim of these monsters . . . she . . . she’s been nothing but bullied and hurt, imprisoned, dragged around like an animal, for no reason but that she’d been anathematised by a madman because of her race . . . No, shut up . . . I’ll have my say!’ Jeremy was beside himself. Crimson and strangling for speech, he went on: ‘By the grace of God she managed to escape, managed to find refuge, safe from the brutality . . .’

  Ballywick cut in: ‘I know nothing but that she’s an illegal immigrant, and as such is my prisoner until delivered up to the proper authorities.’

  ‘Does that mean that without questioning the right or wrong of what you’re doing you’ll drag her away, to see her flung back into prison, to have her given back to you eventually to escort to some ship that will take her back, stateless, into a world that doesn’t want her . . . except for one dirty purpose?’

  Ballywick was red now and heaving for breath: ‘I’m here simply to carry out my orders . . .’

  ‘Whose orders?’

  ‘My chief’s.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘That’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘Is yours a secret service, then?’

  ‘I’ve told you it’s the Commonwealth Investigation Service.’

  ‘Run by anonymous persons.’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘But you won’t name them.’

  ‘It’s a matter of security.’

  ‘To secure what . . . the fact that you take your orders ultimately from the Gestapo of Germany?’

  ‘Really, Mr Delacy . . . if you persist in this line . . .’

  Both swung towards loud sounds in the dining-room indefinable against the din of the storm, but the cause of which was revealed in a moment. Out into the lounge through the hanging screen burst six struggling streaming figures — Rifkah in the combined grip of oilskinned Stunke and Tipperary, right behind them Prindy held by the hair and an arm by the other tracker, and Nanago beating this other on the back — the women sobbing wildly, the men gasping, grunting, growling.

  For one long moment Jeremy stared. Then with a bellow, he rushed at the group, grabbed Stunke, flung him off so violently that he collapsed in a shiny heap, turned on Tipperary, who let go the girl and skipped clear. Rifkah fell into his arms. But the embrace lasted only seconds. The Inspector and his Sergeant leapt on Jeremy from behind. Sergeant Bugsby got a lock round his throat. Inspector Ballywick grabbed his arms and forced them down. Rifkah fell into the swiftly reaching arms of Nan and Prindy.

  ‘What’s this?’ demanded Ballywick.

  Stunke, rising, gasped, ‘She tried to do a bunk . . . with the kid. They gave us a chase.’

  Ballywick turned on Jeremy. ‘So that’s what the talk was for . . . delaying tactics?’

  Jeremy, half-throttled, could only gurgle.

  Ballywick went on: ‘I told you I didn’t want to deal with you roughly . . . but you’ve brought it on yourselves. I warn you all if you don’t submit to my authority, I’ll put you in handcuffs. Let him go, Bill.’ He pulled Rifkah away from those who held her, pushed her against the wall when she staggered as if about to fall, demanded, ‘Are you Rebecca Rosen?’

  Rifkah’s head hung, jerking to unrestrained sobbing.

  ‘Answer up!’

  Jeremy croaked, ‘For chrissake, man . . . let the girl recover . . . let her sit down . . . she’s . . . she’s . . . let me take her . . .’

  ‘I warn you . . .’

  ‘There’s no need. You’ve got her. Only for God’s sake don’t torture her.’

  ‘She tried to escape . . .’

  ‘Probably because she heard you talking like a Gestapo bully. Please, please, let me have her. I know what’s she’s been through. You’ve frightened her to death.’

  Ballywick reluctantly let Jeremy take her. She fell against him again. He led her across to the armchairs, seated her in one, stroked her bright sodden hair for a while, while she wept into his other hand. Then he bent and said he would get her a brandy.

  The police were standing round. Ballywick asked Stunke, ‘Did you see anything of the man?’ When Stunke replied that they hadn’t looked, being preoccupied with the girl, he said shortly, ‘Well, see to it with your men. Search all outbuildings, question occupants. We’ll attend to things here.’ He turned to Jeremy. ‘I’ll require all keys to the place, if you don’t mind, Sir.’

  Jeremy rose from attending to Rifkah. ‘I do mind. I mind every highhanded damned thing you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m doing nothing but my duty.’

  ‘Duty?’ Jeremy’s voice rose. ‘What crimes aren’t committed in the name of duty?’

  ‘Kindly give me the keys . . . or I’ll be obliged to arrest you for obstruction, put you under restraint, and have everything I consider might conceal a criminal or evidence of crime broken open.’

  Jeremy gasped, ‘You horrible official bastard!’

  Ballywick’s heavy face darkened. But he swallowed it, turning to his sergeant. ‘Put that down, Bill.’ He added. ‘You stop here and keep an eye on things while I make the search.’ He turned back to Jeremy with outstretched hand. ‘The keys.’

  Jeremy heaved for the breath to answer, ‘There aren’t any . . . At least, there’s nothing locked. We live here in a world where locks aren’t necessary. At least we thought we did. But you’re wasting your time. Dr Hoff’s been gone a fortnight and more.’

  The Inspector turned from him to his man. ‘Watch this man, Bill. He’s got a reputation for trickiness and contempt for the law . . .’

  Jeremy shouted, ‘It isn’t contempt for the law I have, but for the brutes and bullies like you who use it for the power they weren’t born with!’

  ‘I’m doing my duty . . .’

  ‘You’re doing what some other brute and bully, whether he wears a top hat or a judicial wig, tells you to . . . and because you want to do it.’

  ‘To protect the public from law-breakers . . .’

  ‘To perpetuate the power of those who seize it . . . the destroyers of true human values . . .’ Jeremy’s voice, wild as the storm now, cracked.

  ‘Take that down, Bill.’

  But Bill looked so much at a loss, with pencil poised over his notebook, that his master said, ‘Okay . . . leave it. But watch him.’ He added to Jeremy: ‘I warn you that we’re armed.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ panted Jeremy. ‘With rubber truncheons, too, that leave no bruises.’ As Ballywick swung away from him glowering, he said to Nan, ‘Go with him, dear . . . don’t let’s have to suffer the last indignity of that creature’s invading our privacy unwatched.’ But as Nan moved to follow the Inspector lumbering towards the stairs, he added: ‘No. We’ll have to get Rifkah out of
these wet clothes.’ He looked at Prindy, hanging over Rifkah from the back of the chair. ‘You go with him, sonny.’ Prindy leapt away.

  ‘Now, little girl,’ said Jeremy to Rifkah, helping to raise her with Nan. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll get you out of it somehow . . . if I have to blast Hell open to do it. Now come on.’

  Still sobbing wildly, Rifkah moaned, ‘I vill kill meinself.’

  ‘No you won’t. You’re going to live . . . and be as happy as ever. Trust me.’

  ‘If I go from here my heart vill die.’

  ‘Now, now, now my darling.’

  It was a slow sad procession upstairs, with Sergent Bugsby plodding at the rear. Prindy broke away from the foraging inspector to come and help Rifkah into her room. Bugsby would have gone in, too, only Jeremy blocked his way, snarling, ‘No you don’t, you ape. You’re supposed to be watching me . . . not a young girl dressing.’

  Bugsby concurred without verbal comment, but wrote something in his notebook.

  Rifkah stayed in the bedroom. When Jeremy was told by Nan that she had put her to bed and was staying with her, he said he would go below. Bugsby promptly told him to stay where he was, and when Jeremy ignored him, came after him, tried to place a hand on his shoulder, only to have it flung off. Bugsby stopped at the corner of the verandah, seemingly at a loss what to do.

  Jeremy went down, to find Ballywick going through the broom cupboard under the stairs. They merely glanced at each other. Jeremy went and poured himself a brandy, turned on the radio, sat down. Soon Ballywick came across, but to look out through the rattling windows at the roaring flashing night. He was still looking out, when Jeremy called to him, ‘When’re you taking the girl in?’

  The Inspector swung round, approached, saying, quite amiably, ‘Tomorrow, Mr Delacy.’

  ‘I want to pack some things, then. My quarters’re across the way.’

  Ballywick stopped. ‘Your presence will not be required.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you’re going to be plagued with it.’

  ‘I tell you, Sir . . .’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, man. I’m going to Port Palmeston to see what I can do to prevent you by legal action . . . and failing that there, I’ll be going all the way . . . to see that that poor persecuted child isn’t pulled back into the clutches of the monsters whose dirty work you’re carrying on for them.’

  ‘I’ve warned you, Delacy!’

  ‘Keep your warnings for the poor little people you live to browbeat. I want to go to my quarters.’

  ‘You may go when an escort’s available.’

  ‘Am I a prisoner, too?’

  ‘No, Sir . . . you’re merely under surveillance as a suspicious character.’

  ‘Suspicious for what reason?’

  ‘It’s alleged that you’ve given shelter to wanted criminals on several occasions.’

  ‘If you’re referring to unfortunate Aboriginal people, who’ve not only had everything taken from them, but in trying to maintain the last shreds of human dignity have come to me . . .’

  ‘I’m talking about wanted criminals.’

  ‘The Aborigines I gave shelter to were like this unhappy girl . . . whose only crime in her own country was to be born a Jew, and whose crime here has been to think that this is a free country with its arms open to the hunted . . .’

  Ballywick fairly roared, ‘Wanted criminals!’

  Jeremy stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Oh, what’s the use of talking to a hunk of meat like you . . . Shtick fleisch mit augen . . . how appropriate!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Like to put it in your notebook?’

  But Ballywick’s eye was caught by the flash of a torch outside. He went to look. In a little while Stunke came striding in by the front door, heading towards Ballywick with water streaming from his outfit. Jeremy yelled at him, ‘Take those clothes off and hang them in the porch!’

  Stunke merely glanced at him, and coming up to the Inspector, said, ‘The man Kaufmann isn’t here. It’s pretty evident from what I learnt from the native staff that he left a couple of weeks back . . .’

  Jeremy leapt up, roaring, ‘Get out, you German pig . . . or I’ll throw you out!’

  Stunke swung on him. ‘You lay a hand on me, Delacy . . .’

  Jeremy did, shouting, ‘You’ve got no warrant to come into my house!’ and began to hurl him backwards.

  Ballywick rushed up to intervene. But Jeremy flung him off, got Stunke outside. Ballywick roared, ‘Unhand that officer. He’s under my authority.’

  ‘Well, use it, you bastard, and make him act like a civilised human being . . . or, by God, I’ll throw the whole lot of you out, and be glad to take the consequences, for the opportunity of showing the Nation the animals it employs to keep its peace.’

  Ballywick choked on it for a moment, then snapped at Stunke, ‘Take it off!’ As they were coming back from the door, he said to Jeremy, ‘I was given to understand that your own father was a police officer.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then I’d’ve thought you had more respect for the police.’

  ‘I saw nothing my father ever did as a policeman to respect him. He was just as big a bully as the rest of you. But at least I never saw him lay violent hands on a woman, black or white.’ As Ballywick turned away from him, he added: ‘I understood you people are properly called not police but Peace Officers.’

  Ballywick snapped, ‘That’s correct.’

  Jeremy said, ‘I like the term. It shows the basic goodness in the Constitution of our Commonwealth . . . just the same as we have no War Office, jingoistic thing in proper name, but a Department of Defence . . . and no King’s Crown or depradatory animal in our coat-of-arms, but two of the gentlest creatures on earth surmounted by a star . . . Star of Hope for Better Things, as I like to think of it. But you so-called Peace Officers have certainly brought no peace to this haven of peace, my household . . . and may God damn you for it, and you and the mongrel bastards that have seized control of my lovely country!’ His voice gave on the last of it. He swung away, went striding to the dining-room, disappeared.

  For a moment the policemen stared after him. Then they looked at one another. Stunke shrugged. ‘I told you he’s a rat-bag as well as a trouble-maker.’

  ‘Have you got someone handy to keep an eye on him if he goes over to his quarters?’ Stunke nodded. Ballywick went on: ‘He insists on coming in with us . . . in going all the way, if he can.’

  ‘Christ . . . that’ll mean trouble!’

  ‘He won’t give any trouble to me! But, man, I don’t know about you . . . I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ll get rations from the truck.’

  ‘No . . . there’s a roast and some wonderful bread in the kitchen.’

  ‘I told you he never lets us eat here. We always have to bring our own.’

  ‘You don’t know your way about as a policeman, son. You can take what you want, if you leave a chit for it, saying it was commandeered in course of duty. Any court’ll uphold you in that.’

  ‘But you don’t know what a bastard Jeremy Delacy can be in trouble-making . . .’

  ‘I know what a bastard I can be, though, in dealing with trouble-makers. Come on . . . we’re having a feed. Then you can go and relieve old Bill.’

  Jeremy, coming over later with Prindy, to spend the night in the Big House, found the signed chit on the kitchen table, rolled it up and stuffed it in the range. In the lounge he found Ballywick and Stunke seated in armchairs, listening to the radio. He was about to climb the stairs, when he wheeled about and came to the pair, who rose. Laying hands on Stunke’s chair, he dragged it back savagely, saying, ‘I can’t keep you out of my house . . . but I can out of my favourite chairs.’ He then hauled the other away. ‘There are other chairs.’ He glanced at the radio, as if about to deny them that, too, but after listening for a moment, said, ‘Sounds like your Master’s voice. Better listen. Last time I heard him, he was calling Hi
tler a Great Man. Seems to be back-pedalling now that the British Prime Minister’s decided he’s a cad after all. Will that cramp your style with the Gestapo?’

  Any satisfaction Jeremy may have felt in acting thus didn’t last long. Upstairs, inquiring at the door of Rifkah’s room of Nan about the girl’s condition and being told that she was still weeping, he produced a bottle of tablets, saying they were barbiturate and telling her to give a couple. He had to speak loudly because of the rain on the roof. Sergeant Bugsby, with ear cocked, snatched away the bottle as it was being handed over, growling, ‘No you don’t. She doesn’t get anything without the Inspector’s permission.’

  So Jeremy had to go down and ask. Ballywick promptly said, ‘No . . . how do I know it isn’t poison?’

  Jeremy cried, ‘Would I want to poison someone I’m trying to protect?’

  ‘You might. She was heard to say she’d kill herself. Anyway, it’s against regulations for a prisoner to be given any medicine, unless prescribed by a legally qualified medical officer. I understand you’re only a horse-doctor.’

  Jeremy ground his teeth on it: ‘I only hope you never have a good night’s sleep again . . . you fat-headed official feelingless bastard!’

  Ballywick only snickered, and went aloft to instruct his Man Friday.

  Jeremy, in the room he was sharing with Prindy, later gave a couple of the tablets to Prindy, who had been able to pass in and out of the prison-room unhindered. Prindy suggested that they give them to the police instead, in a drink of tea or something, and when they were sleeping, he would whisk Rifkah away. Patting him, because the boy had been showing deep distress all evening, Jeremy said, ‘I’d like to, sonny . . . but it wouldn’t do any good. I’d only go to jail and be stopped from helping when you were caught.’

  ‘They can’t catch me,’ declared Prindy.

  ‘They did at last, you know. And you were on your own . . . and you belong to the country, and can live as easily in the bush as in a house. But she can’t. She hasn’t even spent a night in the bush yet . . . and listen to this rain. Country’ll go under water in a couple of days.’

  ‘I can look out for her, Mullaka.’

  ‘No, son. She’d get sick. There’s fever, and all sorts of things for people not used to it. Trust me. I promise to do everything I can. There is goodness in most people . . . more than badness. We’ve got to fight for that . . . people’s goodness . . . to save Rifkah.’