‘What the hell’s wrong’t you?’ demanded Chase. ‘Bloody hour and fifteen behind now . . . and you’re crawlin’.’
‘Don’ blame me,’ snapped Pat. ‘Blame the bloody coal.’
‘They’re goin’ ’o blame me. Gi’s a sample to show the bloke.’
Chase began to climb up to the cab. Pat grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down, demanding, ‘Where you think you’re goin’?’
‘I wan’ some bloody coal, don’ I?’
‘I’ll get your bloody coal.’
‘I wan’ ’o get it meself . . . a fair sample.’
‘You’ll get only what’s given to yo’, mate. Chuck him a couple o’ nuggets, Porky.’
Porky Jones was suspiciously long in throwing down the few chalky chunks. However, Chase only scowled as he picked them up and headed back to his van. Climbing into the cab, Pat chuckled, ‘Just as well we had a bit o’ rubbish to give him.’ Then he saw Clancy peeping in over the foot-plate from the other side, and scowled.
Clancy said with haste, ‘I couldn’t beat him here. I was afraid if I ran he might hear me.’
Pat’s scowl cleared. He grunted, ‘She’s right. I been ’oldin’ her back. Had to ’ave an excuse. I reckoned on it being cloudy enough to be properly dark when we get to the 10-Mile. It’ll be dark enough now . . . if that bloody Moon don’t spoil it.’ Pat cocked an eye at smirking Igulgul, adding, ‘If the Moon’s out, I won’t be able to stop close to the road, like I said. I’ll ’ave to keep goin’ to a curve ’bout half a mile on. Whenever you pull up, the bastards all hang out to see what it is. So might be you’ll ’ave to go lookin’ for her when you come out to pick her up. She mightn’t be able to make it on them feet of hers to the road. You better get back now. We’ll be off in a minute.’
But Igulgul might have been in the plot, the way he ducked into cloud just as the train was coming to the point planned for the stop. The plan was that an act would be put on as if kangaroos were on the track. While the usual procedure of whistling, light-dowsing, blowing off steam, was gone through, Pat would lift Rifkah down and rush her to the cover of thick scrub just off the track there. That’s how it turned out, with Porky doing the stuff on the engine. The only difference was that there was no rush about it. After sitting all day, Rifkah had to be almost carried. Pat gave her a squeeze in parting, saying, ‘Good luck, Comrade . . . till we meet again . . . hey!’ She had kissed him quickly. He stood for a moment. But Igulgul was about to pop out again. He turned and sprinted back to the engine.
The headlight blazed again. The steam hissed, billowed into a moonlit cloud. Silver in the moonlight, the train went rolling on.
As suggested, it might have been, according to some reasoning, that Igulgul came out deliberately, being in the conspiracy all along, because it must have been pretty scary to be suddenly alone at night in the bush for the first time, too much so in darkness — with all those things crowding round, scuffling, hopping, flapping, snuffling, croaking, squeaking, coming to look at one with moon-pearly face and flaming hair — surely the Earth Mother, the Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun, looking ever so young and lovely, but her aged-agelessness to be seen in her great eyes, come back to her children.
Rifkah was amongst old friends, whose like she had been introduced to on those night-walks at Lily Lagoons, or on daytime rambles when the magician Prindy had given her glimpses of them curled up asleep in hollow logs or pipey branches. There was old Mininjorka, the Bandicoot, with his wife and his pack-bag testicles, talking about her — K’nitch, k’nitch, k’nitch — through long sharp nose, making bold little runs towards her and timid retreats again through the silver-jet-emerald grass-tussocks. Murrimo, misnamed Possum by whitemen, always a cheeky one, came slithering down from the tip-top succulence of a tall stringybark, to swing out onto the lowest limb, from which, for better view, he hung by the long jointed finger at the end of his glistening black bushy tail, eyes apop and aglitter in the glare of Igulgul. In a nearby bloodwood Mudburrabah, called Wildcat by the Misnamer although not in the least like a cat, having broad yellow stripes down his black back and furry triangles between legs and body that came in handy for getting about without the trouble of using his claws, took a peep, then came volplaning across to land on that same stringybark branch, causing Murrimo to abuse him deep-throatedly, but answering only with a snicker. Someone coming through the tussocks, dodging as usual, because never up to any good, snatching away other people’s forraging or stealing their eggs, betraying himself with the flash of his long white whip-tail, Boin-Boin, called the White-tailed Rat, while no more like a rat than Mininjorka was like the Malayan pig the silly kuttabah had named him for as ‘Bandicoot’. The flapping, or rather swishing, since the wings that made the sound were spear-swift in motion, came from three circling shadows that called their own names — Karra-Keera, Karra-Keera, Karra-Keera! Plovers they could be rightly called, perhaps, since they belonged to that species — yet why so-called, unless out of some spite against anything native, spite born of guilt of robbery with violence? The birds landed with the grace of sprites, to go trotting round and round the shining visitant, bobbing their wattled heads, still calling their names — Karra-Keera, Karra-Keera, Karra-Keera!
But sight of old friends seemed only to stir up memories contrasting so sadly with present realities that the great eyes swam. Igulgul turned the tears to pearls as they streamed. Now there was sound all round like tiny clicking of tongues in sympathy, culminating in the distant cry of Kweeluks: Kweeluk, Kweeee-luk, even the Mother of the Land is lost! We are all lost who are native to it by birth or love . . . Poor Fellow, Our Country!
Igulgul only stared and stared, even gloating, perhaps, since his business was for ever Wrong side, Negative.
Two or three motor vehicles passed along the main road, so far away it did not matter to the peace of the place, the beast-like roaring no more than a drone, and only the slightest reek of their foul breathing and a little silvery powdering of their dust coming drifting with the tang of the sea on the evening breeze. Then there came a droning that was different, rising, falling, waxing, waxing instead of waning, with a glitter of lights soon, and — toot, toot, toot! The friends vanished in a flash.
Clancy slipped out of the car, to come bounding to prevent her walking to him. She tried to prevent him from taking her up, but failing, gave in with a wobbly smile. Looking into her face as he carried her, he demanded, ‘What . . . crying? When everything’s going to be all right?’ He added, as he placed her in the front seat: ‘God-forsaken place to leave you, I know. But it was safest. I’d’ve been here earlier, only that old fool Hanno’d let a tyre go flat . . . and I had to wait’ll he changed it.’ He got in himself, started up, swung back towards the main road, telling her that while they were hardly likely to meet anyone this time of night, she had better be ready to bob down. ‘That copper knob of yours,’ he chuckled. ‘I saw it at fifty yards. Just’s well no stock around here . . . or you’d ’ve had a bull after you. Bulls go wild when they see red, like the song says. You know that song — Lulu?’ He hummed a bit. Then he went on to say that they would soon turn off the main road to follow back tracks most of the way home, as he called it. He talked rapidly, excitedly. When she asked who Hanno was, the only time she spoke, except a Yes or No to his swift questions, and he explained that Hanno was the Japanese factotum employed by the family in Town, he went on to tell how the man was eternally obliged to the family through having been extricated from serious trouble with the Law and his own compatriots by Grandfather Delacy, in his capacity as Police Inspector. ‘Murder, no less,’ he said. He chuckled, ‘No doubt about old Gran’pa Delacy when it came to cashing in on anything. He never missed a trick.’ He talked of the old man with real admiration. ‘He was a real man . . . in every way. I mean, he knew what’s what about everything. That’s how people took to him . . . blacks and whites, Asiatics. Like old Hanno. He’s still serving Gran’pa, although he’s been dead all these years. We’re all part of Gran’pa
to him. He’d lay his life down for us. Even the Mater.’ He chuckled again. ‘Can be a bit embarrassing . . . because he still regards her as a Delacy . . . so you’ll know who he means when he says Missus Delacy. Missee Delacy . . . that’s Martin’s missus. Reckon he’ll be calling you Missee Delacy Number Two, eh? Awaaaah!’ He guffawed loudly, but shot her a glance that looked a bit scary. He covered it up hastily, by adding: ‘Fortunately, mostly he calls the Mater Ma’am-San. He’s a wizard cook, too. I got him getting a special supper . . . fish, because it’s Sabbath, don’t forget . . . Good Sabbath, by the way!’ He turned and kissed her swiftly, then let out another guffaw. ‘But it isn’t fry-fish. It’s a fish-stew he makes . . . aw . . . it’s . . . well, you got to taste it. You’ll have to teach him to fry fish your fashion. I can see you two having some great old fights in the kitchen . . . aaaah!’
All she did was look at him from time to time as they swung through the winding back tracks. Every time he looked at her he laughed, like a boy, crazy with first love, flung into the presence of his beloved unprepared.
He was too voluble, obviously very excited. To begin with his talk was of his family, the family of today, that is, and with pride, despite the showing of rebellion this morning. She sat silent, mostly watching his face. Often he glanced at her, and always with a sudden happy grin.
They were soon approaching the sea, as evident by the glare of it through the scrub. He told her that at the point where they would come out they would be able to see Rainbow Head, behind which was Rainbow Beach, where they would be going tomorrow. Then suddenly they were out and running across the stretch of clearing above Blue Bay, with the Jail, looking like a mausoleum in its stark whitewashed whiteness, to the North of them. Clancy mentioned what the building was in two short words, as if such an institution meant nothing to him, and as, indeed, doubtless it meant to him at the moment. However, her eyes widened at sight of it, and she stole a couple of glances at it while he talked about the harbour as if he owned it: ‘Port Palmeston . . . one of the best harbours in the world . . . but for that awful tide . . . twenty-eight foot rise at spring. It’s spring tide now. Look at it running in . . . like a river. There’s Rainbow Head.’ He drew up, pointed to the glistening mass across the harbour to southwestward. Then he swung northward, pointing to the black line beyond the harbour’s mouth. ‘The open sea . . . and just across the way there is the East Indies . . . the Isles of Spice . . . nearer to us, in fact, from here, than Beatrice River is. Wouldn’t believe it, would you! Good weather, you can nip across there in twenty-four hours in our big launch. Done it several times.’ He looked at her intently. ‘But I’d like to do it with you . . . go right through all the islands. Would you be game?’
She dropped her eyes from his. Suddenly he seized the hands on her lap, and seeming to crush them in the stress of his feeling, began to babble, ‘Listen . . . I’m supposed to be engaged to you . . . to be going to marry you . . . getting a Special Licence tomorrow . . .’ He went on to tell of the scheme to get her out of custody, and how they would stick to it in case of accidents. She heard it all while staring at him great-eyed. He stopped as suddenly as he had started. A moment of breathless silence, while he still clung to her hands and she stared at him. Then he blurted out, ‘I’ve decided to make the Licence dinkum . . . and marry you!’
She blinked at him. He blinked back, wringing her hands in his. After another little silence he said with a rush, ‘It’d save all the bother. You don’t want to leave the country. You don’t want to get mixed up with the Comms again. So there it is. If only they can be kept down the Beatrice looking for you for the next three days . . . and they don’t know about it up here. I don’t think they do. It’s been strictly hush-hush, apparently. Anyway, I’ll soon find that out when I go to Fatty Doscas in the morning . . .’
He seemed to be stopped by her staring. He stared back for a moment, then demanded, ‘Well . . . what about it?’
She dropped her eyes, swallowed, looked up, was slow to answer, ‘It is . . . it is . . . too impossible . . .’
He interrupted: ‘Why . . . how’d y’mean? As long as they’re not looking for you here, old Fatty and old Maryzic’ll help us do the trick.’
‘I mean I am no goot for wife for you.’
‘Why?’
‘I cannot haf children.’
‘Who wants kids? I want you!’
‘Later children you vill vont.’
‘I tell you I’m not interested in kids. I don’t want to be like my brother Martin, stuck in one place with a family.’
‘But you are very strong for your family . . . Your mutter vood not like . . .’
‘I’m only interested in you. I love you. I told you last night I love you. I’ve loved you ever since I saw you. I never loved any girl before . . .’
‘It is talking mad . . .’
‘It is talking love.’ He stopped. Then in a strained voice he asked, ‘Why . . . don’t you love me?’
‘Lof is . . . lof is . . .’ She was at a loss.
‘Don’t you even like me?’
‘Oh, yes . . . oh, yes.’
‘Well, that’s it, then! You like me’s enough. I love you. I’ll make you love me, too. I’ll make you so happy . . . I’ll . . . I’ll . . . oh!’ He snatched her in his arms, drew her to him, and devouring her lips, twisted her so that she had to turn and lie across his lap. He withdrew with a gasp, to stare down at her. ‘Oh, but I love you . . . I do, I do . . . oh!’
When he released her mouth again, it was to smile down at her. There was fear in her face. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anyone take you from me.’
She began slowly to withdraw herself. He kissed her lightly, helped her up, said, ‘Come on . . . I’d better take you home. Someone’ll be coming out. This’s a favourite courting spot . . . aheeee. Same down the beach there.’ He nodded towards the shimmering stretch of Shelly Beach. Here’s my hanky. She was wiping her slobbered mouth. ‘You’ve got a coal-smudge on your nose, too . . . eeeeah! Your beautiful nose!’ He kissed it swiftly, and in drawing away, sought the ivory glimpse of ear amongst the tangle of copper, and kissed that, settling back in his seat then with a sigh and wide smile.
He slipped into gear, drove on, singing, ‘Home, James . . . and don’t spare the horses . . .’
Down the hill and along behind Shelly Beach, through the coconut grove, where their shadows on the white road looked like the splayed feet of giants — past the Cemetery, where the dead slept decently in their separate divisions according to race and religion — round past the site of the old rubbish-tip, formerly called Long o’ Coconuts, where upon the buried rubbish, human and otherwise, now stood, all silver in the moonlight, looking like moons themselves, in fact, like moons come to earth to rest, the Shell Oil tanks. Clancy drew attention to the tanks, sounding proud of them, despite the proximity of them to what he called Home — perhaps because of the progress they represented, or interest as a Vaisey Man in what was financially involved, since powers like Shell Oil and Vaiseys seem to interlock, at least as far as mutuality in exploitation of the earth and its inhabitants are concerned. But his pride fell on deaf ears, as he discovered when the swing of the car brought the shining head onto his shoulder, and he saw that its owner was asleep. He smiled, murmuring, ‘Tired out, poor pet,’ and bent and kissed the copper.
They reached the hill-top, swung in by the wide gateway, up the drive through the grove of leafy East Indian trees planted this long while by the Chinaman old No-Doubt-About-Him Inspector Delacy had chiselled the place away from, to draw up at the massive stone stairway with its guardian Chinese dragons on either side. Out of the shadows of the trellised and creeper-grown verandah a diminutive white-clad figure popped, to come down bowing — Hanno, dressed like an East Indian servant, with white tunic to the throat but compensating for his race with the incongruous addition of black Japanese canvas sneakers with division for the toe. Rifkah, only now roused and only half awake as she was helped out, was introd
uced as Missee Rifkah-San. She smiled sleepily, while Hanno bowed so low as to reveal the flattish back of his bristly grey skull. He was quite old, judging from his wizened brown nut of a face, but as nimble as a monkey the way he leapt back up the stairs, leading the way for the bridegroom to carry in his Missee-San. They didn’t enter the house by the big front door, but went round the verandah, to a bright-lit bedroom into which Hanno bowed them.
It was a pleasant room, furnished in rosewood, with a narrow white bed above which a mosquito net hung furled. Clancy sat her on the bed, and telling Hanno to go run a bath, dropped to knees and proceeded to remove the grubby sandshoes she’d worn all day. Gently stroking her swollen bandaged feet, he said, ‘Bandages stuck, I’m afraid. Better wait to soak ’em off in the bath, eh?’ He rose, went to a shiny chair and took from it a neatly-folded little heap of clothes. He placed them on the bed beside her, detaching a dark green satin kimono-like dressing-gown, and handing it to her. The other things were pale green silk pyjamas. He said, ‘Get out of that grubby dress, eh . . . and put on the kim. I’ll come back in a minute and take you to the bathroom. You don’t mind having supper in pyjies and kim, do you? I’ll get you a complete outfit at Fang Chong’s tomorrow morning. Right?’ When she smiled up at him, crookedly, sleepily, he bent and kissed her lightly, then saying he’d be seeing her, turned and went out, shutting the door.
She sat for a minute, holding the kimono, staring at the door. Then, with obvious effort, she rose, to stand awkwardly, and pulled the coal-grimed print dress over her head, flinging it over the end of the bed. Her underclothes were scanty lace-edged silk drawers and a short cotton shift. She sat down again, yawned, reached for the kimono where she had placed it in the middle of the bed, found she was sitting on part of it, tugged, overbalanced, to fall backward. She lay there, with legs dangling from the knee over one side of the bed, red hair falling over the other. Her eyes rolled backward, so that she could see her face upside down in the long wardrobe mirror. She stared for a moment. Then her eyes shut. A moment later she was breathing softly in sleep.
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