‘She is marrying you for citizenship?’
‘Oh, no . . . we love each other!’ Clancy was looking expectant at the broad face with its long snout.
A moment. Then the old man held out an age-freckled hand, evidently to have the Licence back. Clancy came hurrying to give it. Taking the paper, the old man said, ‘I vill marry you . . . if ze voman agree to be baptised.
Clancy looked surprised, murmured, ‘Baptised?’
‘If she is of Jewish Faith she is not baptised. Don’t you know zat?’
Clancy shook his head.
The deep voice rumpled again: ‘You call yourself Christian . . . yet do not know zat ze first Article of our Faith is Baptism into ze Church!’ When Clancy dropped his eyes again, the voice went on, as menacing: ‘You vill yourself fulfil your duties as a Catholic in preparation for ze Sacrament of Marriage . . . Confession, Communion . . . and vill svear on your immortal soul to bring up your children in ze Faith?’
Clancy looked up again quickly. ‘Yes, Father . . . Monsignor.’
‘Very vell. You cannot marry before t’ree day. Ven is it you vont?’
‘Could we make it Monday, Monsignor?’
‘Provided ze voman is properly prepared. She is here?’
‘Not with me here . . . but in Town.’
‘Bring her to me zis afternoon.’
Clancy was beaming now. Then his face clouded slightly. ‘Couldn’t we make it tonight?’
The eyes were boring. The answer came curtly, ‘No, ve couldn’t. Zis afternoon at t’ree.’
The cloud vanished. Clancy cried, ‘Thank you, Monsignor . . . thank you!’ He rushed out. He kept on rushing, so that Father Glascock and the black gardener stared after him.
He leapt into his car, went roaring round to Chinatown, to stop with a scattering of gravel at Fang Chong’s high-class drapery. Such was his excitement as he bought the things listed, as well as other bright bits that caught his eye, that the fat young Chinaman serving him remarked slyly, ‘Velly nice plesent . . . must for velly nice lady, I stink, Mist’ Clancy, hey?’
Clancy guffawed, ‘You’re stinkin’ right, Gong . . . awaaaaah!’
He rushed out with his large parcel, almost into the arms of Fergus Ferris, who was coming into the store with an armful of packages with southern labels. Evidently Fergus had just arrived back from the South. He glared at Clancy, but only got an amiable grin. He turned to see Clancy start up, and got another grin and a wink with it.
As Clancy drove through the middle of the town, approaching the squatters’ hotel, the Queen Victoria, he slowed as if to stop, but then accelerated and went on, soon fairly racing. Thus back home, to stop at the front steps with another scattering of gravel.
The sound of his steps coming round the verandah must have told Rifkah of his elation well before his bursting in upon her with it, to toss the parcel on the bed and grab her, crying, ‘Worked like a charm . . . married Monday . . . oheeeeah!’ He silenced himself by planting his lips on hers. At length withdrawing, breathless he laughed joyously in her staring face, unwitting of the lack of reciprocity. ‘So everything’s set . . . and you’re as good as Missee Clancy Delacy . . . wow!’ Again he kissed her. Then he turned his attention to the parcel, snapped the string and ripped the paper, causing the bright things to burst out onto the white counterpane like a gaudy opening flower. When he looked at her with shining eyes, this time she smiled — to have him seize her again, panting, ‘When you smile I could . . . eat you, eat you!’ He proceeded to do almost that. Then again to the things, to separate them, babbling of his certainty that they would suit her, his hope that they would please her.
One of the articles was a beautiful Chinese tea-gown in black and red satin. He snatched the kimono off her to replace it with the lovely thing, kissing her swiftly in the process, then swinging her to the wardrobe mirror. When she smiled at his smiling image behind, he seized her from that direction, kissing the back of her neck, and would have taken liberties with her bosom, but for her taking possession of his hands. He showed no resentment at the check in his ardour, only swung away to fish from the bright heap on the bed what he called a Play-suit, trousers and jumper in apple-green, with silver sandals to go with it. ‘Wear this this arvo to go round to see old Maryzic,’ he babbled. ‘He’s got an eye for the ladies. You’ll rock him! We’ll go by launch. Not likely to run into anyone that way. Anyway, there’s football at three, and a wedding. Nobody’ll be on the water. After we’ve seen the old bloke, we’ll take a run over to Rainbow Beach . . . and come back in the moonlight on the high tide. Like that? I’ll get Hanno to pack us a picnic tea. I was going to get a couple of bottles of bubbly to celebrate . . . I thought I’d better keep clear of the mob, who’re sure to be in the pub.’
She smiled again. He was proceeding to deal with her again in response to that cannibalistic urge he’d confessed to — when loud sounds outside arrested the attention of both. A motor vehicle was coming up the drive. Loud male voices could be heard as it swept past the house. They stood listening. The car stopped at the steps. The skurr of feet on the gravel, scraping on the steps. Raucous voices bawling, ‘Clancy . . . Clancy o’ the Overflow . . . Where’re you, ol’ bastard, Clance . . . Wha’ yo’ up to?’
Clancy groaned, ‘The mob! It’s all right. I’ll get rid of ’em. Just stay put.’ He kissed her quickly, went out, shutting the wooden door. She stepped after him and locked it.
Getting rid of the so-called mob proved no easy business. Evidently they were drunk. Their vociferating could be heard in the bedroom: ‘Great party last night . . . where’d you get to, Clance? You got a girl here, eh? Who’s she? What’s she? Creamy piece, eh? Gi’s look at her! Gi’s a drink! We ain’t goin’ till we ’ad a drink . . .’
There was tramping through the house. By the sound of it they’d settled down in the breakfast-room, if settling down could be called that stomping about, scrape of furniture, whooping, harsh laughter, and incessant babble. Rifkah sat on the bed facing the direction of it, arms folded across her bosom and hands clutching nervously at her shoulders, the attitude of a woman fearful of molestation, of brutal manhandling only too well known, the fear plain in her wide eyes. How often had she heard such raucous hilarity as preliminary to the bestiality that only man of all the beasts is capable of?
It lasted more than an hour. Then it ended in clumping back through the house to the front steps, a boozy farewelling, crash of car doors, roar of motor and swish of whirling wheels. Clancy’s footsteps sounded wary as they came back round the verandah. She opened up when he knocked and called.
He flung himself on the bed, smelling of booze but evidently not what could be called Boozed. ‘Lord!’ he sighed. ‘Thought I’d never get rid of ’em. Come and sit by me. What . . . did you get a fright, eh?’ She sat primly on the edge of the bed. He took her hand and tried to pull her down to him. She resisted. He did not seem to mind, just kept clinging to the hand, and talking: ‘They guessed I had someone here. That bunny-faced Ferris told ’em. He saw me come out of Fang Chong’s . . . and must’ve asked the Pong who served me what I’d bought . . . and then round to the pub and told ’em I was buying clothes for a gin. I didn’t think Pongs had such big mouths. I’ll have to have a word with old Fang about that son-in-law of his. I let ’em think it. It’ll keep ’em away.’ He sat up. ‘Now . . . how about trying the things on. Here’s some nice Chinese-silk undies . . . like ’em?’
He looked as if he intended to stay to watch the trying-on. However, when she made no move, he took the hint, gave her a kiss, and said, ‘Okay . . . leave you to it. Put the play-suit on, eh? We’ll be going straight after lunch. Getting a bit late.’
So nicely did the play-suit fit and suit her, together with the silver sandals and a large multi-coloured straw sun-hat Clancy found for her, that she herself was cheered up, and suffered Clancy to show her off to the only one possible at the moment — Hanno, whose little oily eyes popped for a moment, after which he bowed deeply, saying,
‘Ver’ bootchifoo raidy.’
Hanno had prepared them a roast-chicken lunch, and had packed chicken and salad and other things for their picnic tea. Soon after lunch they set out in the car, going by way of the Old Compound site, where now the New Hospital building was, and round to skirt the Old Hospital, to come out at the edge of the cliff above a deep little bay where the big Delacy launch lay at moorings. A stairway led down to a small pontoon jetty to which a dinghy was moored. Rifkah made the descent easily enough, with Clancy’s arm about her. She limped only a little, quite comfortable, as she said, in the rubber-soled sandals. On the jetty, as he was hauling in the dinghy, he stood off and looked at her, exclaiming, ‘I’d like the whole town to see you like that. Jees what a shock they’re going to get after Monday . . . on Monday . . . ’cause I’m going to take you straight into town and let ’em see. You’ll knock ’em cock-eyed!’
She had to stop him from kissing her. The Hospital was just across the bay there, pretty well hidden by trees, but with a fair view of what lay below. He got his kiss secretly as he lifted her into the dinghy. Then with eyes shining at sight of her as she sat in the stern, with great strokes he rowed them to the launch.
Aboard the launch a marked change came over Rifkah. The haggardness of days past lifted almost instantly. Her eyes shown like jewels again. Her face, revealed fully when she removed the floppy sun-hat, glowed. It certainly wasn’t the luxury she found aboard that affected her, because she merely glanced at what Clancy proudly showed her of the vessel’s appointments. Clearly it was the wide vista — of jade sea, emerald shores, far-off sapphire hills — that kept catching the shining eyes and holding them. But it was something more that made eyes shine, something expressed in her exclamation, ‘It is so . . . so vide and free!’
Still, one even so freedom-craving, surely would have lost the joy of even the illusion of it had she understood what Clancy told her when she asked what a certain place was shimmering away whitely in the green of the mangroves southward. It was the leper lazaret, the only sign of civilisation in that direction. If she had understood the words and known the fact that this single spot in what looked so wide and free was the filthiest and most hopeless of all prisons imaginable! She showed she didn’t understand by giving a questioning glance to his answer. But even if he had interpreted the glance and been any more interested in the place than all the rest of the like of him who took it for granted, he would hardly want to talk about a thing so utterly unlovely in the sight of such loveliness as hers. As he steered the vessel the little distance they had to go, just round the next headland to the bay below the Catholic church, he scarcely took his eyes off her, while she stood gazing, gazing — dreaming?
They passed the St Francis Xavier swinging abandoned at the buoy. When Clancy told her the ship belonged to the Leopold Islands Mission, Rifkah’s eyes shone again — just for a moment, as if happy old memories were stirred — then took on that haggard look again, as if she were yearning for that old happiness again in face of the fading of the illusion of freedom with the looming of the cliff before them. As if to remind her of the menaces surrounding her reality there came a great roar of human voices from somewhere back of the cliff-top. She started, stared in the direction of it. Clancy chuckled. ‘Only the mob at the footie. It’s a good way from where we’re going. We go straight up those steps there.’
At the foot of the stairway was a pontoon jetty similar to that they’d come from, and sufficient water under it, according to Clancy’s reckoning of the tide, for them to tie up there during their stay ashore.
They climbed the stairs, stood for a moment under a shady tamarind to reconnoitre. Across in the street from the mission house, outside the church, was a line of cars and crowd of people, only to be glimpsed from here because of intervening shrubbery. ‘Wedding,’ said Clancy with a grin. ‘Ought’ve been ours, eh?’ He took her hand as they headed towards the bungalow. There was no chance of their being seen from the church, with garden and other buildings obtruding as they went.
However, they did not make the little journey completely unobserved. They had just reached the back verandah at the western end, when round the other corner came Father Glascock, still breviary-walking. Again he raised his book in answer to Clancy’s wave, but stared so intently that at the distance of fifty feet or more the blue of his eyes could be seen beneath the bushy black brows, doubtless arrested by the sudden splash of colour, verdigris and burnished copper. Coming out of the sunlight and the risk of being seen again, Rifkah had removed the cumbersome hat. An ivory hand came up to give the inevitable feminine touch to hair as she met the blue eyes. The meeting was only momentary. She and Clancy went straight on up the side verandah towards the Monsignor’s quarters. ‘That was the Missionary from the Leopolds,’ Clancy explained. ‘Well . . . here we are.’
Monsignor Maryzic was in his study, now seated at his desk. He looked up over his glasses. ‘Ah, der bridal couple. Come in.’
They entered shyly, to take chairs he indicated. He stared hard at Rifkah, who lowered her own gaze. With a sort of wriggle of his massive body, he said, ‘You are ver’ ’andsome, my daughter.’
She looked up quickly, evidently startled by the term of address. He went on: ‘I haf read of you in der papers. You haf been cruelly treated. Your people haf been cruelly treated. Der Deutscher still largely is der barbarian of der forest . . . like der Russki.’ He paused. ‘But sufferingk for der Jew is nuddink new, is it? To suffer sufferingk is der strength of Israel, is it not? Der Judenhassen is silly. Der best vay to deal mitt Juden is mitt pity.’
Her eyes widened. Slaty and hazel eyes held each other for a long moment. As she lowered hers again, he asked, ‘You are of Jewish faith?’
She murmured, ‘Yes.’
‘Jewish tradition mitt regard to marriage ver’ strict is, yes?’
‘Yes.’
His tone became sharp suddenly: ‘Den vy you vont to marry dis young man who is Christian?’
The hazel eyes blinked back at his stare. The harsh wheezy old voice went on: ‘You vill cease to be Jewish. Your people vill scorn you.’ When she remained silent, he demanded, ‘Vy do you not spik?’
Clancy put in: ‘She isn’t really religious, Monsignor . . .’
Maryzic silenced him without looking at him: ‘Let der girl spik for herself.’
Rifkah swallowed. ‘I am not of strict religion.’
‘Den prepared you are to become Christian?’
She started, blinked.
He went on: ‘You understand dat baptised moost you be before I can marry you?’
When she looked uncomprehending, the old man looked at Clancy. ‘You haf told her der condition I marry you?’
Clancy reddened. ‘Well . . . as a matter of fact, Monsignor . . .’
The slaty eyes swung back to Rifkah. ‘I haf told dis young man dat you must be baptised. Evidently he haf not told you.’
She glanced at Clancy, murmuring, ‘Baptised?’
The priest cut in shortly: ‘Tauchen.’
She stiffened, paled.
‘You vill submit to tauchen. I haf make arrangement mitt nuns for your instruction.’ Now there was terror in her face. He demanded, ‘Vot is der matter?’
She swallowed, licked her lips. She muttered, ‘I cannot do.’
The fleshy old face darkened. ‘Vy cannot?’
She swallowed again, said miserably, ‘I am Jewish.’
The old face purpled. A large hand slapped the desk. The voice came rumbling: ‘Jewish? Dat you say like it is someding you cannot ’elp . . . like apology you mek for your difference . . . vile alvays it is arrogance. Your cursed unbelief you fling in Christian face like mud!’
Her eyes rolled as she turned to Clancy. He, red with embarrassment, asked throatily, ‘What’s the matter?’
Maryzic gave the answer with a roar: ‘Der matter is der voman refuses to be baptised!’
Clancy dodged the eyes, now glaring at him redly, looked at Rifkah, asking, ‘Why not?�
��
She breathed, ‘Zat I cannot.’
‘But . . . there’s nothing to it . . . just put holy water on you . . .’
The hand banged the table again. The roar rose: ‘Noddingk to it? You . . . you pretender to der Grace of der Lord Jesus Christ! Shut your silly mout’, boy! I vill do der talkingk.’ The slate smote Rifkah again. ‘You vill not baptised be?’
She drooped her shining head, shook it.
The priest shot to his feet, flinging up a hand to point to the door, bellowing, ‘Den go, Jew voman . . . go from dis Christian house!’
She rose at once, turned to the door. Clancy leapt up, grapped her arm, held her while he turned back to the priest, panting. ‘There must be some mistake, Father . . .’
The old man rumbled, ‘Der mistake is yours, my son. Tek dis voman avay. I vill not again see her . . . unless she haf been baptised in der Christian Faith. Here your Special Licence is. Take it. It is not licence to insult der Holy Name of der Lord Jesus!’
Rifkah was drawing away. Clancy looked back gaping at the priest to the last.
With haggard eyes on the blaze of sea and sky, Rifkah limped back along the side verandah. The clinging Clancy muttered, ‘The old bigot! I didn’t think he’d be like that.’
They reached the back verandah to find Father Glascock just around the corner, looking at them with even sharper interest than before, surely having heard something of the roaring that must have reverberated through this old sounding-board of a building. Rifkah did not seem to see him, but stepped as it were blindly off the verandah, to go heading back to the cliff, and was deaf to the burst of cheering and clapping from the vicinity of the church. Clancy looked across to the street, to see the confetti flying. Turning back to her, still clinging to her arm, he said, ‘I forgot about what he said about your getting baptised. I didn’t think it mattered really.’ His voice trailed off, since it was evident that she was not listening.
Nevertheless, when they reached the stairway and she would have gone hobbling down without his assistance, staying her, to get a grip on her arm, he asked, ‘Can’t we do something about it, darling? It’s nothing, really. It’s usually done to babies. They just make the Sign of the Cross over your brow and mumble something, and . . . well, you’re in, like. Couldn’t you put up with that?’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 161