Back in the coach, with the Sun down amongst the trees and gold and violet hurtling through the windows like flights of startled birds, making it hard for anyone to keep awake without a bottle and an argument to sustain them, Prindy mostly slept. From one lap to the other of the grey old men who guarded him he rolled in half-waking, perhaps dreaming through their talk-talk-talk, perhaps singing it in dreams:
Catholicism, Communism,
Anachronism, Despotism,
Christians, Pagans, Fascists, Jews,
Dominus vobiscum, and same to yous!
Hey, out the way there, Kangaroos,
Here come de Revolutionism!
Igulgul woke him, peeping through the window. He knelt on the seat to watch the engine’s headlight swinging round the curves to burn a track for them through the bush. Thus till lights appeared ahead. Pin-pricks at first. At last a blaze.
Yet again Port Palmeston. Policemen waiting as usual, but eyes and hands ready for a gang of black miscreants who, manacled, had been poked aboard at Caroline. There was Fay McFee again, but without the camera and flashlight, only open arms, which she flung about Prindy as he stepped down, muttering between kisses that they must have a quiet talk in which he’d tell her all about it, eh? But also there was Kitty Wyndeyer, who snatched him away, and with the aid of another old acquaintance, Brother David, held off the unholy opposition. Said David, holding one small hand while Kitty held the other in taking him to the presbytery car, ‘You belong our Catholic mob now. Finish no-goot pagan blackfeller bijnitch and rubbitch Communist. I learn him you Catechism.’
Yet another Ism?
David placed him in the front seat of the car, and got in himself to drive. Kitty got in on the other side. Monsignor was helped into the back seat by many willing hands. Jeremy joined him. So up into the blazing town with its residents of many breeds scurrying like meat-ants. They stopped at the Queen Victoria Hotel to drop off Jeremy, who in parting with Prindy reminded him that they would be shopping together tomorrow for things to take to the Leopolds.
At the Catholic mission house they found a nice supper awaiting them. Kitty left them to it, with an arrangement for Prindy to join her tomorrow at the church, to hear her play the big organ for a wedding. That night the other occupants of the mission house, Monsignor Maryzic, Brother David, and Black Bartholemew the gardener, were roused by strange sweet sounds from the netted bed on the verandah outside the Monsignor’s rooms, and for the first time heard My Rown Road.
On the list for Saturday morning’s shopping was first a gramophone for Rifkah, so that she might play her Jewish records without offence to Christian instrument or ears. Other such records would soon be coming from the South. Jeremy also bought some he thought might be pleasing to the Mission people.
While they were dealing with this matter of the gramophone, they found themselves confronted with another old acquaintance, who hailed them with gusto and that deceiving wink of his. It was Judge Bickering. Rumpling Prindy’s hair, while winking at Jeremy, he said he’d been hearing a lot of things lately that he’d like to know the truth about, and insisted on their coming to lunch at his home. It was agreed.
Later they were buying a fishing net, for presentation to the Mission, were out at the back of the store, Jeremy with the salesman in a back room, Prindy out on the back verandah idly examining things stored there, when there appeared still another old friend. This one was black, and peeping round a shed. It was him called Kadjugo, or Daddy in the Alice River lingo, one of that pair who, by the river that day so long ago in experience if not in time, had given his blessing to the final fatal leg of Prindy’s journey with the late Njorjunga, generally known as King George. He gave the Snake Sign, then vanished. Prindy hesitated only so long as it took him to estimate the occupancy of those in the net-room and to make a swift survey of the yard. Then he slipped across to the shed.
Kadjugo was fresh out of jail, as obvious from his stiff new khakis with the store-folds still in them. He grinned, and did the Properly T’ing by dropping on a knee and running slim hands over the tailor-clad small person. Then from out of a pocket of his store-stinking outfit he produced a small paper package, which he unwrapped to disclose a Letter Stick, saying, ‘Pookarakka been send him.’ He didn’t hand over the missive at once, but in the manner of those delivering such things, traced out the glyphs, explaining: ‘Pookarakka talk you come look-him-up.’ Then rewrapping the stick, he gave it to Prindy, who buttoned it in with that other message he had received in secret. Kadjugo touched him again, but now without bending, grinning widely, saying, ‘You too goot, eh? Properly my-boy. All-same Old Man been talk. All-same all-about talk.’ He shook his grey head, no doubt expressing incredulity with the proven — the demons Coon-Coon and Jinbul despatched at a blow by a boy! Then he sighed, said ‘Mummuk yawarra,’ turned, vanished.
Prindy came back across the yard to find Jeremy awaiting him. No questions asked, just an exchange of grey glances.
Judge Bickering was alone as usual, already slightly drunk and full of witty talk about the advantages of having wives and families sensitive enough to find one hard to live with. Still, he did not forget why he had them there, and over lunch tried many lawyer’s tricks to get at the facts of those matters he’d hinted at, nor forget that he was a lawyer and show nothing but appreciation for being outwitted, and winked and winked. His wink was more than a tic when he talked of Monsignor Maryzic, that was certain. He laughed deeply over the Very Reverend gentleman’s intrusion into things. ‘Old Jesuit fox!’ he cried. ‘It’s true the saying that the fox can be beguiled by his own scent in season. The reek of casuistry outstunk that of Awld Reeky himself. Ha! ha! He’s been and gone and baptised an Imp of Satan, a ’prentice Snake Man, neophyte to Cock-Eye Bob . . . because that’s what you are boy, that’s what you are, aren’t you? Ah, how cleverly he holds that tongue! But wait till I have His Very Reverence round to dinner next . . . Ha, ha, ho!’
Was it just coincidence that the Judge should suggest a trip out to see the Pookarakka? He did say that he hadn’t been out to the Jail for some time and would be glad of the run this afternoon to get away from the mob who would make it hideous with their bawling during the football match. ‘Why can’t football be played with the seemliness of cricket?’ he demanded. ‘You might answer that the former is the sport of louts while the latter that of gentlemen. Then tell me the difference between a gentleman and a lout? You may say education. Then what are we but troupes of performing apes, performing according to the methods of some particular ringmaster somewhat more intelligent than ourselves . . . and where is that Divine Spark that we call Human Intelligence? Yes, Prendegast, my boy . . . we’ll pay our esteemed friend, Bobwirridirridi, a visit. You needn’t look alarmed, Jeremy. We’ll be going alone. Therefore His Very Reverence will not be able to charge you with stealing a march on him, and your own indestructible Catholicism will be preserved to get you past St Peter. Of course you’re still Catholic. Don’t the Jesuits say: Give me a child to the age of seven, and he’s mine for ever?’
Was it just coincidence, or another lawyer’s trick, this one to get Prindy away on his own? But there was that Letter Stick in Prindy’s pocket, a magical thing from the Master of Magic!
‘Come, boy,’ said Judge Bickering. ‘Let’s get out to the Jail while I’ve still wits enough not to drive us into the sea.’
Thus did the Pookarakka again lay those claws of his, though in nothing like depredation but the softest touch of love by the look of their caressing motions, on him he called Mekullikulli. They were left to talk for a good hour alone in a corner of the exercise yard. Judge Bickering, knowing when he was beaten, getting nothing from them singly or together, left them to it, to go suffer afternoon tea with Dotty O’Dowdy, the Major being a football fan and absent. Officials were told to leave them alone. Who would want to intrude upon them having heard of the recent doings of the apprentice?
The Judge himself delivered Prindy back to the Mission house, telling Mons
ignor Maryzic, who met the winking with a hard suspicious eye, that they had gone for a long drive to get to know each other better. ‘Ah,’ said His Very Reverence dryly. ‘I haf been vonderingk if he might haf fallen in mitt bad company.’
Monsignor had no time to do any quizzing of his own, because no sooner was the Judge gone, when there was Kitty Wyndeyer come to scold Prindy for failing to keep his appointment with her at the organ, and to tell Maryzic that now the wedding was over people were lining up for him to hear their Confessions. She snatched Prindy away, this time to join her in partaking of the wedding breakfast in the church hall. ‘You never saw such a cake!’ she cried. As they went and she showed him the crowd waiting in the church, she told him how Monsignor was preferred by other priests as Confessor, despite the fact that as likely as not a Confession might be made public by his roaring in castigation. She said with a little giggle, ‘I think it’s because he understands sin as something human. I’ll bet he’s been a great sinner himself in his time.’ She sighed, as if sad to think that time was over.
Before dawn on Sunday morning, Brother David roused Prindy to come join him in service to Monsignor Maryzic serving early Mass. Prindy, again in scarlet and lace, did no more than kneel on the sidelines, swinging a censer, watching. Thenceforth David kept him under his wing. They had breakfast at the Mission house with Jeremy, whom they found awaiting them, then boarded St Francis Xavier, to slip moorings as the Sun rose. David as captain had Prindy beside him at the wheel. He brought the ship close to that beacon on Rainbow Reef. Everbody wanted to see it, stood staring, the blackboys as if seeing again the wonder of that misty morning. David giggled in Prindy’s ear under cover of the engine’s beat, ‘Dem silly-bugger blackboy been reckon she dibble from rock . . . eeeeeee! What you reckon, eh?’ An unanswerable question, probably not requiring answer, but betraying a deep preoccupation with Rifkah that made much of the conversation between the pair throughout the voyage.
Two days and two nights they ran, mostly east-by-north, in Autumnal calm. David rigged hammocks for the pair of them up amongst the bowsprit shrouds, the quietest and pleasantest part of the ship, for anyone with stomach for the pitching and not minding an occasional douching with spray. Here David talked religion and Rifkah, while Prindy lay watching the unfamiliar places rise out of the jade-green sea — the emerald islets, the terracotta cliffs, the violet ranges, all to vanish as if only dreamt of — at night watching the stars dip down almost close enough to grab, only to snatch themselves away, with glimpses of young Igulgul aloft, dragging after them on a cable of gold.
Dat Jewish Woman, as David called Rifkah, every now and again dragging her out of Limbo or Heaven or Hell, the Communion of Saints, the Forgiveness of Sins, the Life Everlastin’, Dominus Vobiscum et idem ad te. That-lot Jew belong to Bible Book, like Dream Time people in Blackfeller Humbug. How come they still knockin’ round? Father Glascock reckon they’s a big mob yet, very clever, and holy, only trouble they ain’t Christian. On the other hand, Sister Dymphna reckon they get kick-out of Holy Land by God, for Muddrin the Blessed Lord Jesus Christ (got ’o hit yourself in the guts every time you say that name). Sister don’t like Rifkah. Jealous, I reckon. But Mother Mathias like her all right, say on quiet, ‘By’n’by we baptise her . . . but don’t matter now . . . she good cook, and we want cook more’n we want convert.’ She was running the kitchen now. Properly good tucker!
David said he was thinking of giving up celibacy and marrying Rifkah and later starting a cook-shop for Asiatics in Town, with her as cook. He’d wait till she put a bit of fat on. As yet she was skinny as a lubra, from being pretty sick when she came to the Mission: ‘I like woman got plenty fat. What dis Jewish woman like before . . . got him fat arse? Father reckon dey fat woman mostly. I don’ know . . . sometime I don’ b’lieve him. But dat no-good t’ing say ’bout priest. I got ’o do a penance now for dat. Wha’ name Penance. All right, I tell him you . . .’
Two days — two nights — and there they were in the Leopold Islands, battling the tide through emerald channels. No pigeons — no Japs. A few egrets, cranes, cormorants, a great flotilla of pelicans, and a couple of sea-eagles. No canoes or campfires on the bits of beaches. The plumes of smoke on the mainland, bending to the beginnings of the Sou’easter, told of the concentrations there for the bounty, and the ceremonial supposed to be the means of producing it, following Wet Season. As Brother David put it: ‘Walkabout Time. You can’t keep dem black bastard for Jesus Christ (whack!) when plenty tucker long o’ bush.’
Then there at last were the white roofs of the Mission, seeming to be floating behind the green-brown wall of the casuarinas. Dots of colour moved before the wall. A flash of copper amongst the dots. Prindy hopped with excitement.
Prindy, in the bow of the boat going ashore, was first overboard, at touch of bottom. Rifkah was first into the water to meet him. They met in a fling of spray, embracing — ‘Mein kleine menscheleh . . . Koiyu, koiyu!’
How the others stared!
A very different-looking Rifkah. She might have been taken for a halfcaste, so lean and brown was she, barefoot and clad in a shapeless mission dress. The girlish look was gone. The bubbeh’s lines about the eyes seemed permanent, while yet the jewels themselves sparkled as of old, as if harsh experience with man and circumstance had taught the final lesson the wise old bubbeh learns, that in the midst of joy we are in terror, in the midst of life in death. It was no lost little girl who greeted Jeremy. She didn’t fly to him, but met him with that sweet smile she had for all who were not her active enemies, placed hands on his shoulders, looked into his face so much aged since last she’d seen it, shook the copper head slightly, then kissed his ruddy slightly jerking cheek. Then she turned to give her hand to the Monsignor, as to an old friend. He bowed over it, touching it with his lips.
The staring crowd!
Father Glascock watched the Monsignor’s courtesy with eyes screwed like an oaf witnessing something he would never have the finesse to do. Mother Mathias stood with arms folded on flat chest and seamed moustachioed old lips pursed and eyes twinkling, as only seeing advantage in it. Sister Dymphna looked sullen. Indeed, Mother Mathias wasted no time in telling Monsignor that now they had this girl who was proving such an asset to them they would be needing more money, money, money. Monsignor Maryzic murmured in reply that, besides advising the Bishop, he would also try touching Mr Delacy: ‘So be a little bit more tactful zan usual, dear Reverend Mudder, yes?’
But there was no time for talking business now. This was a holiday for the Mission. News of the good things for the great picnic on the beach had been radioed ahead. The second boat came ashore so heavily laden with cases of soft drink, tins of cake, biscuits, stringed sausages, as to be, to fearful eyes ashore, almost awash.
That this holiday was a long long day for Jeremy was plain to see in his face as he sat out the picnic, watching the children at their play and feasting, hen-mothered by Rifkah, on whom the Reverend Mother beamed and the Reverend Sister scowled, watching these two in their private striving, watching the two priests in theirs. There was much talk between the priests on Judaism, with mouthings of Seminary Hebrew, excluding him — as if he knew so little of Jews that the knowledge had not completely changed his life! He saw nothing of Rifkah privately all day.
It looked as if the night were going to be not dissimilar, with the clergymen settling down after supper at the presbytery to argue ecclesiastically, politically, philosophically, their differences the more stubborn for those in their age, status, nationality, and the liberal supply of liquor donated by Jeremy. Then there on the moonlit road appeared the glint of copper. Rifkah came in with a smile, excusing herself, saying she’d just got her kitchen clear, declining Father Glascock’s invitation to join them: ‘I come for Jeremy. Alvays at Lily Lagoons ve go valkingk after supper. Ve have mooch to spik. It is permitted?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Glascock.
Both priests eyed her with curious intensity. Jeremy looked at
a loss.
She was wearing one of the good dresses brought to her, but still wore no shoes. As they went off together, Jeremy remarked on the latter fact. She told him that her feet had been so badly lacerated and infected that she had been unable to walk properly until a week ago, having got about on crutches after recovery from her initial illness, and then found that she preferred to go barefoot. She asked, ‘Vot matter? It mek me more like ze ozzers. Zat is how I vont to be.’
She took his arm as of old, guiding him down through the casuarinas to the bright beach. But there was not that tendency to lean against him now, to draw close in looking into his face. In fact she did that only twice, the first time for only a second in response to his asking was she never coming back to Lily Lagoons again. She had been talking eagerly of how she liked it here, making shift on the poor supplies available to make everybody satisfied. The gesture was perhaps a form of renouncing the old sweetness of refuge in him. She sighed before answering, ‘Of course, moost I visit sometime. I vill ride overland. But I cannot stay zere. It was only playing house zere. Here I haf real job to do. Zese holy vomen do not know how to housekeep properly or look out for children. Zey are so different from ze children, zey fright’ zem. Zey are not fright’ of me.’ She giggled. ‘I zink zey do not look on me as vite voman. So no shoe. By’n’by ven I haf ze lingo and can go bush wit’ ze blacks, maybe no clothes.’ She giggled again. ‘Ven I tell zat to ze nuns, I zink zey are goingk to fall down faint . . . eeeeee!’
He said, ‘Look out they don’t baptise you.’
She answered, ‘I do not zink zey are mooch interest. Zey call ze house I haf ze Synagogue, because I light Shabbos candle for myself zere. Zey like me to tell ze children Old Testament Bible story. Father say ze kids pick it up from me like Dream Time story. I mek myself useful to zem. Zey are happy. I am happy, too.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 173