Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Clancy sighed: ‘Neither can I. But there it is. The dinghy knocked about . . . the oars miles apart. I suppose we just got to face it.’

  Pat looked at him. ‘Face what?’

  ‘That, well, she’s missing, anyway . . . and report it.’

  ‘We?’

  Clancy flushed, blinked. ‘Well, me.’

  The green eyes were narrow. ‘What you goin’ ’o say?’

  Clancy was hesitant. ‘Well . . . as a matter of fact . . . I thought of seeing my lawyer first.’

  ‘You bloody bastard!’

  Clancy looked astonished ‘Eh . . . what’s wrong with that? Got to protect myself don’t I?’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Well, wasn’t she wanted by the police? They’d want to know what she was doing with me.’

  ‘And what would you say?’ The tone was menacing.

  Clancy swallowed, answered rather feebly, ‘That’d be up to my lawyer.’

  Pat’s tongue, though obviously kept under restraint, was no less stinging: ‘You’n’ your bloody lawyer . . . you rotten bloody boss-bastard! You’re goin’ to dob me for this.’

  Clancy, pale and sweating, panted, ‘No . . . why should I?’

  ‘To get out o’ the shit yo’self.’

  ‘It was your idea I take her over there . . .’

  The restrained man whip-lashed venomously: ‘There you are! You tell your lawyer that. He tells the cops . . . how the gallant young squatter got himself involved with the dirty Communists, tryin’ to help a pretty girl. They’ll grab that. That’s what they want. They’re your mob, paid by you to put down my mob. You won’t take no rap . . . Oh, no . . . you dirty, sneakin’, shit’ouse, bloody, product-of-capitalism rat!’

  Clancy glared, but with eyes that rolled somewhat and voice that had a quaver to it, as he protested, ‘You be careful what you say.’

  ‘And you be careful what you do, squatter-boy! ’Cause, be the livin’ Jees, you dob me . . . and it’s the last bit o’ dobbin’ you’ll ever do. My mob don’t take dobbers easy. I’m tellin’ you, boy . . . it’ll be more than your testicles’re worth for a start. Got that?’

  Clancy’s glance wavered before the green lightning of those eyes. Pat had to get the breath back to go on: ‘You said nobody knows ’bout this but them Greeks, who know they’re to blame, and your boongs, who you can keep quiet.’

  Clancy panted, ‘Someone’s sure to let it out sometime . . .’

  ‘Well, let’em!’

  Clancy turned his eyes to sea again. Pat went on: ‘You said she might’a’ got ashore. I got a couple o’ days off. I’ll get out in that launch again. I know an old yeller-feller’ll track for me. You just keep out of it . . . and your trap shut. I’ll be gettin’ along now.’ Pat tossed off his beer. As he rose he leaned over Clancy. ‘Jes one thing more.’ His voice shook slightly: ‘That was a nice girl. Don’t matter ’bout the Commo business. She was the nicest thing I ever seen in female flesh. Boy . . . if she’s dead, I ain’t never forgivin’ myself for puttin’ her in your hands to die . . . and I certainly ain’t never ever forgettin’ that it was in your hands she died . . .’ He straightened suddenly at sound on the drive. A car was coming. He asked quickly, ‘Who’ll that be?’

  It was one of the town taxis, driven by a Chinaman, with Monsignor Maryzic as passenger. The Chinaman leapt down to help His Very Reverence to alight. The young men, both now on their feet, stared.

  The old man, wearing yellow tusser silk, with beaded black vest, dog-collar, clerical black hat, dismissed his driver with a wave of his stout walking stick, then headed for the steps. As the car swung away and he was climbing, darting sharp glances at those above, he cried wheezily, ‘Vot ist I see . . . der Proletariat hob-nobbing mitt der Master Class!’ He chuckled deeply as he reached the verandah, ‘Not for der classical purpose of kissingk der arse, I hope . . . eeee?’

  Clancy only blinked. Pat scowled. The old man made his way to the seat Clancy had vacated, and eased himself down into it, still chuckling, ‘Anyvay . . . nice it is to see der lion lyink down mitt der lamb . . . even if only to get up ze appetite to eat him . . . aaaaah!’ He sighed gustily.

  Pat grunted, ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

  ‘No, no!’ cried the priest. ‘You are joost der man I vont to see.’

  The green eyes glinted with suspicion, which swung from the priest to Clancy, then back. He snapped, ‘What would you want to see me about?’

  ‘This,’ said Maryzic, and took from a capacious pocket a folded copy of what, by its vivid blueness, was obviously a copy of Australia Free. ‘You voodn’t haf seen it, I suppose. It haf joost come in der mail. But for luck . . . or Divine Providence . . . I vood not see meinself . . . only der name catch my eye . . . see?’

  He held up the spread-out cover, on which in large red letters were the words RED RIFKAH, and under them, in the usual black-on-blue: COMMUNIST-JEW PLOT TO TAKE OVER OUR EMPTY NORTH. The pair goggled at it. Hannaford reached for the magazine. The priest withdrew it, saying, ‘No . . . you can read it in goot time. All I vont you to do is answer me straight: Iz ze girl a Communist?’

  Pat swallowed, blinked. The priest continued: ‘I full vell know ze vord of Communist is govern only by expedience. Still, I vont your honest answer. I haf zis zingk read and do not belief. It is malicious. I vont to ’elp zis girl. I am bound to ’elp zis girl, because I haf uncharitable been to her in anozzer vay. But if she is of Communist Party, she do not need my ’elp. So. You haf no need of expedience, Kamerad Hannaford. Yes . . . or No?’

  Pat swallowed again, muttered, ‘No . . . she isn’t one of us . . . never has been, as far as I know.’

  ‘Goot! I zank you from my ’eart for zat. Now you may depart from my obnoxious presence, mitt its reek of ze Opium of Ze People, and go dispense your soothing syrup of All Men are Equal Under ze Commissar. Goottay.’

  But Pat hung there. ‘Tell me . . . what’a’ you got ’o do with Rifkah Rosen?’

  Monsignor Maryzic shrugged, looked at Clancy, who showed embarrassment so plainly that Pat demanded of him, ‘Wha’s goin’ on?’

  Clancy cast a glance at the sea as if wishing himself away on it. Maryzic chipped in, ‘Yes . . . vot ist goingk on?’

  Clancy swallowed hard, looked at the priest, at Pat, and then back to the sea, muttering, ‘We were going to get married.’

  Pat gaped. ‘Eh? You and Rifkah?’

  Clancy suddenly looked belligerent. ‘Well, wasn’t that the idea . . . that I was her fiancé . . . that I get a Special Licence? Well, I thought I might’s well make it fair dinkum. I asked her if she would. She said Yes. I took her to Monsignor, here.’

  Still astonished, Pat asked, ‘Is this all since we got here Friday night?’

  ‘Well . . . yes. I asked her that night. But . . . but . . . well, I’d always wanted to . . .’

  Clancy broke off as the green eyes blazed. It burst from Pat in a pent breath: ‘You lousy little bastard!’ Then heaving for the breath again, he resumed: ‘Behind me back . . . while I and others were riskin’ jail to arrange things for her . . . you . . . you go and put the hard word on her when she can’t say No. Jesus Christ!’ Pat looked as if he were about to leap at Clancy.

  Maryzic raised his stick. ‘Zat vill do! Vot ist zis about behind ze back and jail and arranging zingks?’

  The pair looked like schoolboys checked in a quarrel, and as likely to confide in the one who’d checked them. The priest waited a moment, then demanded, ‘Vere is ze youngk lady?’

  The young men eyed each other. There was that rumble in the old man’s voice now: ‘I am askingk, vere is ze lady. I vont to see. I haf apology to mek.’ Then when they both looked at the sea, the voice roared, ‘Vot is ze mystery? You, boy . . . Delacy! Vere ist zat girl you vont to marry yesterday?’

  Clancy met the slaty eyes, licked his lips, faltered, ‘I don’t know, Father. She . . . she’s disappeared . . .’

  Pat snarled, ‘You bastard! You done it after all!’

 
Clancy flinched. Maryzic roared at Pat, ‘Vy is he bastard? Vot haf he done?’

  Pat showed his teeth at him. ‘You mind your own bloody business!’

  The old man pressed on his stick, shot to his feet, bellowing, ‘How dare you spik to me like zat! Ist all my business . . . vot has happen to zat poor, hunted, frighten’ Jew-girl. Tell me vot you haf done . . . or . . . or I vill beat it from you!’ He raised the stick. Pat stepped out of reach, looking alarmed.

  Clancy looked at Pat, who said quickly, ‘You tell him, he’ll tell the police.’

  The old man roared, ‘Ze police I vill tell if you do not tell me!’

  Pat glowered at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘Give your vow as a priest that you won’t repeat it . . . your Confessional Vow . . .’

  Again the bellow: ‘Vot, Confession from atheist? I vill vow nuzzing . . . only zat if any vun of you haf hurt zat sveet girl, I vill . . . vill . . .’ The massive frame shook. Tears drowned the slaty eyes. The old man struggled for speech, got it out hoarsely: ‘Yesterday . . . I vos guilty of ze moost un-Christian charity to zat child. I vos zingkingk she vont only to marry for citizenship. If zat so . . . if she ist vot zis dirty paper call her . . . Communist and Whore . . . she vill get vot she vont at any cost. But she vill not gif avay ze faith of her fathers. I insult her. I drive her from my door in her vonting . . .’ He choked, hung his head for a moment. Then up it came, tossed like an old bull’s, roaring, ‘Damn you both! Tell me vot has happen zat Child of God?’

  Clancy let it out in gasps, ‘I think . . . I think she got . . . drowned . . . Father . . .’

  ‘Drowned you say . . . drowned . . . vot . . . vere?’

  Clancy began to mumble the story, his version of it, while the old man, red in the eyes now, leaned menacing towards him on his stick. Clancy was telling of the futile search, when suddenly the old man’s face changed remarkably, and he stood erect, crying, ‘Vait . . . vait!’

  They stared at him. He said. ‘Zis morningk I get radio message from ze Mission ship. Ze AWA station isht goot to us like zat. Ze ship haf limited radio range. Mostly she call only ven comingk in. Zis morningk she leave at dawn. Father Glascock is aboard. At nine o’clock I get message in Latin. Vot for, I vunder . . . about vot? It is in Morse Code. You do not know Latin, of course. You do not know anyzingk! Ze message say: Ze lost lamb of Israel isht safe mitt me. Vot can it mean but zat he haf pick up our Rifkah?’

  ‘God!’ exclaimed Pat.

  Maryzic snapped at him, ‘Yes, Kamerad . . . ze sort of zingk zat Gott do . . . not Marshal Stalin!’ Then, while they stared at him, the Monsignor went on excitedly: ‘I am sure ist true. But ve moost vait for confirmation from Mission radio ven Father Glascock get zere. I vill call him. If it is by der Grace of Gott he haf found her, I vill proceed to secure her citizenship.’

  ‘How you goin’ ’o do that?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Ah . . . now ve do come to mindingk my business! You Communist haf your secret vays. Ze Church also . . . but for mooch more truly humanitarian ends. Ve do not vont to rule ze vorld . . . ve vont to save it.’ Maryzic looked challengingly at Pat, who appeared to be about to answer mockingly, but refrained. The old priest continued. ‘Now I am askingk a vow of silence from both of you. Not vun vord to anyvun . . . you understand? Ozzervise you might spoil my plan. I haf your vow?’

  Both nodded. ‘All right. Gif me some beer. I am t’irsty from too mooch talk. Zen I vont you tell me all about zis business. Vy is ziz girl here? Vy ze secrecy? Moost I know everyzingk to do vot I haf in mind.’

  19

  I

  That same strange Sunday afternoon (or Evenin’) away in the Sandstone beyond Lily Lagoons, in fact well back on the Plateau, young Prindy was still leading Inspector Ballywick and his posse the dance arranged to divert them. They had been there for a full three days, mostly spent struggling through the very worst of the maze of caves and chasms supposedly created by the Old One for the hell of it. Those not frankly sick of it were they who simply would not be frank about it, the two Federal Officers, the Inspector and his Sergeant Bugsby. Already one member of the expedition had fallen out, and he one of the least to be expected of such weakness. This was Tracker Splinter, who had fallen victim to acute diarrhoea. His immediate master, Constable Stunke, declared that it was due to the too-soft living his Black Bastards had been enjoying back at his station, a condition of things he swore to put an end to forthwith.

  Splinter’s own diagnosis of his complaint, privily communicated to and shared by his dusky colleague, Tipperary, was that he was a victim of the moah of the region and as likely as not would die of it. Tipperary himself hung on, perhaps because being more used to breaking the blackman’s law to maintain the whiteman’s, he got some kind of satisfaction, above his miserable pay and little status, by being able to get away with it. Nevertheless, with Splinter’s falling victim to disregard for what was wahji, he became very wary, never entering any place he considered might be dangerous for the like of him, except when in the company of his alien superiors, who could be blamed for the intrusion. When sent off to track and hunt alone, he made only a pretence of it.

  Splinter had been sent back to what Inspector Ballywick called Base, meaning Lily Lagoons homestead, carrying a note to the head of the household there, requesting medical attention for his man, and also verbatim instructions to watch for anything fishy going on about the place. Poor Splinter, being told not to forget that he was a policeman even while his bowels were in a state of flux! It must have been a tough trip for him, not simply because he was ill and afraid and the first half of it was through the worst kind of terrain, but besides having to erase his tracks wherever possible to ensure his not being followed by hostile devil or man, had to remove all trace of his frequent defecation, since for a pursuer to have found the least bit of his goona would mean he could be dealt with without the trouble of pursuit.

  Sergeant Bugsby also had a touch of diarrhoea, or as he called it in making light of it, the Tom-tits, the term being rhyming slang, a crude form of Cockney humour still indulged in by the transplanted Cockneys of Australian cities. He put it down to what he called the Bad Water, which actually was very sweet stuff, filtered through the rocks, but lacked his native tang of chlorine and the rust of pipes. He carried on quite cheerfully, evidently well compensated by the joy of man-hunting. Constable Stunke, however, while apparently well enough, was not happy. A single day of being made a fool of by that voice which could come from anywhere and those tracks leading nowhere caused him to declare that the hunt, as they were conducting it, was waste of time and energy. ‘You’ll never get that slippery, yeller-haired, grey-eyed, little, black bastard without Dinny Cahoon and Jinbul,’ was his verdict.

  Whether the Inspector himself suffered even chagrin could not have been guessed at, so grimly set in his purpose did he remain always. He silenced Stunke at once by saying, ‘Constable, you’ll never get anywhere as a police officer by admitting that anyone else can do what you can’t. You’ve got to make up your mind to get your man yourself . . . and, by God, get him!’

  Meanwhile, he who was leading them the dance was acting in no way like the man Inspector Ballywick was sworn to get, which is to say like a human being. For much of the three days and even some of two nights the rocky wilderness had rung to his mournful crying: Moomboo, moomboo, moombooooo! . . . Amerrna, amerrna, amerrna kumeri! . . . Where you go-oh-oh-oh-oh! It could seem to come from right behind one, but when one turned to grab it, was half a mile away in another direction. Often distinct tracks of two pairs of feet, one small and bare, the other in smallish riding boots, led to where a voice was singing sweetly in female timbre, only to vanish completely when those who followed reckoned they were at the point to pounce. Inspector Ballywick was moved at the beginning to express admiration for the elusive one, saying that he must curry favour with the kid to learn how he did it. Later he spoke of braining the Pesky Little Bastard, although quite without anger in his tone.

  As for the Pesky On
e, so bored with the game had he become by this afternoon as to fall asleep gorged on brush-tail cooked in an overhang of a cliff-face in which was a crevice to disperse the smoke in many directions blown by the rising westerly. The wind was wet, heralding Mokorrnbo, the last heavy rain of the season. It was not the kind of day when anyone but a complete mungus could be sneaked up on even from downwind, let alone across it. Yet, Sergeant Bugsby, with all his bulk, got right into the overhang, and would have got his man, but for breathing like a winded horse from the climb from the rocky ledge below.

  Prindy was up and off like a brush-tail, to vanish into the crevice so swiftly that a more imaginative person than the Sergeant might have doubted if he had been there at all. The Sergeant’s lack of imagination plus his bulk, useful as they might be to him as a policeman, proved his undoing in this odd chase. With a bellow that must have been heard half a mile away, he dashed after the seeming wraith, did not see the crevice that cut his path till too late to halt the momentum of so large a person, went down feet first, through jagged rocks, spiky timber debris, thorny scrub, thirty feet. Fortunately a good clip on the back of the head spared him from knowing anything much of the mess the precipituous descent had made of him. He was fortunate again in having bellowed as he did. Otherwise he might never have been found in such a place.

  Such a place was it, that it was dark before his comrades reached him, having to traverse that tumble of rock which formed the ledge where the crevice ended, with another thirty-foot drop for anyone who missed his footing. It was Full Moon tonight, but of no advantage here under a cliff facing westward and the western sky inky. There was no moving Bugsby that night. His mates did what they could for him with bits of stick and rags of his ripped clothing. He had a left foot like a football, a right leg like a boomerang, bruises to the trunk that suggested anything might have happened beneath, and that bleeding emu’s egg at the base of his skull. Yet actually he had it better than any of the others, at least for the time, since he must have the only bit of flat available to stretch out on, and wasn’t troubled by the glare of Igulgul when he topped the cliff at midnight and hung so long there as if out of heartless curiosity, nor by the creature somewhere up top that kept up an unearthly laughing sound — Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! — a Laughing Owl so Stunke said, although without conviction in his voice and certainly without impressing either of his comrades, Tipperary who fairly cringed whenever it let loose, or Ballywick, who kept muttering that it was getting on his nerves. Then when the Moon dived into the black wave heaving up the western sky and the creature ceased laughing, it rained, heavy and cold. Sergeant Bugsby snored through it all.