‘Poor dear . . . poor dear!’ breathed Jeremy. Then he heaved up again, hoarse with anger: ‘That bloody . . . bastard . . .’
‘Now, take it easy. Don’t go setting yourself back, when you’ve done so well. I’ll see her for you. And I’ll get you Melrose . . . the lawyer.’
V
Mr Hector Melrose, Barrister at Law, was of much more the Syrian type, a fusion of ancient Levantine tribes, than Dr Solomon, the more or less pure Semite. He was fleshy, kinky-haired, of no determinate complexion, grey-eyed. But so un-English did he look that it was no wonder Jeremy asked him how he came by his very English name. He answered with a shrug, ‘We live in a country of English prejudice. A rose by any other than its English name smells not so sweet in our English courts of law. My name translates that of my forebears. Now, this case of yours.’
A smart fellow from the outset.
Like that Mr Sorbey, who so ineffectually had guarded Jeremy’s rights in his brush with Commonwealth Law, he admitted that under this peculiar jurisdiction one had practically no right at all. Nevertheless, said he, he could guarantee Jeremy and Alfie a very great deal of protection from the tyranny of which the system was capable. He said, ‘Since bureaucracy lusts for power only for its own sake, the simplest means of combating its machinations is to make a show of acceding to them.’ When Jeremy objected, saying that this was no sort of combat at all, but surrender of rights, the lawyer declared, ‘You must not look for rights under Commonwealth Law. Australia, as a national entity, has no Bill of Rights, as has the United Kingdom of Great Britain or the USA. Commonwealth Law is by decree, which can be made to meet expedience at the drop of the Chief Justice’s wig . . . and, of course, His Honour’s wig is the property of the Attorney-General’s Department. Without a doubt you’re guilty of subversive activity, as they see it, and as, in fact, they could probably charge you for failing to wave a flag in a patriotic procession. Don’t forget the powers wielded and exercised under the War Precautions Act of the last war. It is on record that you’ve said that Australia’s entry into another war not of its making will ruin it. You’ll have to recant that when it’s levelled at you. Your late friends of the Free Australia Movement have done that. Of course their rabid anti-Communism has been useful in their case. If only you’d’ve been attacking the Commos at that Rally, instead of them attacking you, as you allege. From inquiries I’ve made they actually say they’ve nothing against you.’
Mr Melrose went on to outline his tactics: ‘Basis of the charge against you and Mrs Candlemas is this unfinished manuscript of hers. Mark the term Unfinished. The fact that it’s unfinished constitutes incomplete evidence. A fair claim can be made that what’s already written is only preliminary to the book’s ultimate purpose, which is one diametrically opposed to subversion. In effect, we claim that Mrs Candlemas, wife of a serving soldier, had no other intention than to point a moral. By creating a band of saboteurs, she wished to show how easily it could be done . . . and if given the time to complete the book, would have given the scoundrels their deserts. Fortunately, I’ve been granted the first interview with her, and have already established with her the fact that such was her intention. Likewise with Mrs Marsh, her former servant, who can be quite helpful to us as a witness. I’ve read the manuscript. It was rather hard to get hold of. However, I managed it through contacts in the Attorney-General’s office here. I’m afraid, though, the cost of doing so is going to add rather to costs generally.’
Jeremy was hard to impress with the efficacy of such patent deception.
In answer Mr Melrose said, ‘You must realise that it’s deception you’re up against. The thing started with Ballywick. He chanced to find you, an old enemy, involved in something. He and his boys have nothing much to do just yet as watchdogs of the Nation’s internal security. They have extraordinary powers. They want to exercise them. They won’t be so much concerned with convicting you. In fact I am convined that legally they’ve got no case against you. Nevertheless they have the power to punish you to some degree. You’ll be tried by Special Court. Such courts don’t follow the normal course of the Legal Calendar. They are convened . . . and only at someone’s convenience. Both you and Mrs Candlemas are bound to do a term of imprisonment. That’s normal Commonwealth Legal procedure. Commit ’em before trial. Dr Solomon assures me he’ll hold you both here as long as possible. I assure you I won’t let you languish in jail too long. There are ways and means. What I advise is that you try to forget the whole thing. Your affairs at your home apparently are in good hands. I’ve written assuring your wife that all is well with you. You’re a man of science, I understand. Why not an absorbing course of study? I’ll see to it that you get the books. This will help you not to fret and cause further vindictiveness. Remember this . . . you can’t win with them. To antagonise one bureaucrat is to antagonise them all. Whatever the protestations of the political party in power . . . the same bureaucracy holds the standard bearing the Kangaroo and Emu.’
Jeremy raved for a while, but not loud enough for his guard to hear. There was raving in his eyes when able to take his first look out through the linked-wire screen of the balcony. There wasn’t much to see from away up there: only a rising ridge of tiled roofs, with scarcely a tree amongst them, but a sliver of azure sea beyond, and silver clouds in which Waianga slept, silver clouds in the blue, the blue. He calmed down when able to express his feelings in walking the fifty feet of balcony. This he was able to do fairly frequently, despite the rule that only one prisoner at a time was allowed out for such exercise. There were some half-dozen ward-cells abutting it, most with a prisoner-patient and a separate guard, all the other guards being uniformed officers of the State Police. Fortunately for Jeremy, his fellow prisoners were all too sick or too used to confinement to exercise their privilege. Thus he had the balcony to himself for most of the day. He was unable to walk fast because of the condition of his lungs. He wheezed and puffed continuously. He made up the necessary exercise with distance. Otherwise he was engaged with the books brought him by Dr Solomon. These were mostly on Animal Diseases. He had a large loose-leaf notebook, inscribed on the outside: Effect of Diseases of Imported Plants and Animals on Indigenous Fauna and Flora.
It was a good three weeks after his hearing of Alfie’s being in the hospital that he was told of her now being an inmate of this section called Refractory. He kept a lookout for her on the balcony. As Dr Solomon had said, a mere mesh barrier divided male and female sections. There was hardly chance of male and female shenanigans with all those guards about. However, it was three days before he saw her, and then in the corridor outside, when they both happened to be going under escort to the male and female lavatories that adjoined. Although they came within a dozen feet, for all their staring, it was evident that they didn’t recognise one another, so greatly changed in appearance were they both, till there was time only to give a little gasp and a wave, before being headed off by their guards and ushered into their separate lavatories.
Two days later they met on the balcony. He was swinging away from the barrier, walking in the warm level sunshine of early morning, when he heard his first name called by a female voice. He swung round to see her coming running. They crashed against the wire together, linking fingers, pressing lips.
‘Here . . . none o’ that!’ It was a harsh male voice from behind Jeremy, who turned to see a uniformed policeman pop out of the nearest cell-ward.
But the man stopped, to look through the wire beyond the couple. Jeremy also looked, to see a few feet behind Alfie the squat blank-faced female guard he had seen her with before. Evidently a signal had passed between the officers. The policewoman was halted. Turning back to Alfie, seeing her mouth open to say something, Jeremy jerked a finger away from her hand to place it against her lips, whispering, ‘Careful what you say . . . looks like this’s rigged.’ Aloud he said, ‘And how are you feeling now?’
The black eyes were swimming. Brokenly, she replied, ‘Awful. It’s a . . .’ He cut in: �
�The doctor tells me you’re getting better every day.’
Her face was pinched and lined, her dark eyes hollow, like a starveling child’s. She tried hard to stem the tears, but in a moment dropped curly head against the wire, snivelling, ‘Oh, Jeremy . . . Jeremy . . . I feel . . . as if I’d died.’
He fingered and kissed a protruding curl. ‘You’ll soon be all right again. Everything soon’ll be right again.’
‘No . . . never . . . now . . .’
‘Have you heard from Frank?’
She struggled, whispering inaudibly. Her guard called out, ‘No whispering. Speak up!’
Alfie panted, ‘He . . . he’s in . . . Egypt.’
He chuckled: ‘Dear old dirty Egypt. He’ll have the lesson of his life there in un-hygiene.’
‘Why must our men be sent to Egypt?’
He countered: ‘Why must the oldest civilisations be the dirtiest?’
Still she didn’t respond, sobbing, ‘It’s like a . . . an awful . . . dream.’
He squeezed her fingers. ‘Life’s like that . . . when you’re really living it. Only the dull everyday things seem real.’
When the beaten-child’s face wobbled again, he bent quickly, offering his lips in a kiss. Then, having kissed her, he drew back, saying, ‘Better go now. Chin up. See you later. I’ve got a lot of things to talk to you about . . . animals. I’m writing something. I want your help. Right?’ He turned to find his own guard at about the same distance from him as the female from Alfie. He passed him as if not seeing the man, returned to his room.
There, now, he had a canvas lounge chair. On the arm was that notebook of his and a bound volume entitled Diseases in Swine. He picked up the notebook. However, it was a long while before he wrote in it. He sat staring out through the wire of the balcony, by the look of him, thinking more about human agony of soul, surely the worst disease in the world.
Nevertheless, when he saw Alfie again later in the day, and she came to meet him at the wire, at once he began to dissertate on how utterly the Australian Continent must subsequently be changed, not simply by human immigration, but even more so by that of other creatures. Giving her no chance to vent her obviously overflowing self-pity, he said, ‘We’ve always thought of Terra Australis as more or less permanently like the way our forebears found it . . . there being so much of it. Of course we’re all aware of the ravages of well-known pests like rabbits and rats, of weeds, erosion, river-silting, deforestation . . . but as things to be remedied by common sense. But when you consider the vast ramifications of the changes wrought from the very start of immigration, remedy is out of the question. The first known immigrants were the pigs released by Captain Cook while he was repairing the Endeavour in 1770. Pigs, while hardy things, are prone to all sorts of diseases, contractable by other creatures, man included . . . and you can be sure that Cook’s pigs were a pretty seedy lot . . . maybe that’s why he committed the seemingly idiotic act of releasing them in a wild unknown land . . . to be rid of ’em. Well, there are millions of those pigs now through the North. Captain-Cookers they’re called, to distinguish them from less wild domestic pigs that have taken to the bush. Captain-Cookers are truly feral animals . . . the most dangerous creatures in the bush.’
When she drooped as if it were too much for her, he urged her: ‘Listen, darling. This is important. We have to face facts. Terra Australis is our first consideration. Politics mean little more than weather patterns. Won’t you join me in this? It’s lonely doing it on my own.’
When she looked up again, puzzled now, he went on eagerly: ‘Now, take pigs. The pig, like the rat, has great powers of survival, because it can live on practically anything under pretty well any conditions. You’d wonder how a pig, the barn-yard wallower of the old world, could flourish in our stony and mostly waterless wildernesses. In need of water, it will uproot the kind of tree that stores it in its roots. Goodbye tree, of course. Goodbye even to all species of water-storing trees eventually . . . likewise all edible tubers. The dingo, himself non-indigenous, I suppose, but with a very lengthy claim to the territory, while useful in checking over-proliferacy of other species, is helpless against the pig. To begin with, the dingo’s hunting method is to isolate large individuals of his quarry. You can’t isolate pigs. They never break herd in danger. Then there’s the savagery of the mature ones. The dingo is too wary to take them on. So any territory a pig lays claim to is his. That means progressive and irreversible destruction, complete destruction, because of their omnivoracity. A family of pigs can reduce an abundant billabong to a sterile hogwallow in a week. Everything’s eaten . . . birds eggs, turtles, fish, yabbies, even the rushes and the roots of trees. My worst enemies in fighting for the restoration and preservation of the so-called lagoons back home have been pigs. Because they’re very intelligent animals, they soon saw what they were up against and lay off to a great degree, so that control of them now is easy. But what about all the other billabongs and lagoons . . . all the rest of the couple of million square miles of wilderness so far undestroyed? I feel like doing something about it on a bigger scale, even a national scale. Say I can find a method, through disease, of wiping out the whole of the wild pig population of a defined area of the North . . . a method against which domestic pigs can be immunised. You could help me, by reading with me, and listening to my yip-yap about it. Then when we get clear of this, you can come to Lily Lagoons and help me with research. How does that strike you?’
She took a deep shuddering breath: ‘It sounds like retreating into a laboratory . . . to find out what someone’s dying of . . . and doing nothing about their dying.’
He blinked, at a loss for a moment, while she stared at him great-eyed. Then he said, ‘Death is a process of life. It’s only negative when the life has been futile. You can make a negative death positive by discovering the cause of it.’
Again the shuddering breath: ‘My baby died . . . my book . . .’
He cut in: ‘Research for the truth of things is the highest human endeavour . . .’
‘You said, Courage, Kindness, and Awareness.’
‘This is the Awareness part of it. And you’re a bit down on Courage at the moment, if you don’t mind my saying so. But listen. There’s a special job I’d like you to do for me. The Indian myna, a bird related to the common European starling that’s proliferated so tremendously in these southern parts, is establishing itself in the North in numbers that could easily menace native bird life there. Like the starling, it’s a great carrier of bird diseases. Heaven knows how many native species have been wiped out here by the starling, and not simply by being pushed out of habitat. I’d like you to make a study of the myna and the starling for me. Our Melrose will supply the books. Now . . . don’t look glum. It can be interesting, and even amusing. Mynas are really remarkable birds, with an intricate social system. They’re much more interesting than starlings. You can drop the starlings if you like . . . till we get onto their diseases.’
When she still stared glumly, he touched her pointed pixie chin, chuckled and said, ‘Let me tell you a yarn about mynas that takes us back to the things we know and love so much. Mynas can be taught to talk. You remember old Billy Brew, of course. He had a couple of the birds that he’d caught to keep for picking ticks off his donkeys. Delousing cattle is one of the bird’s more useful attributes. Anyway, being Billy, he taught them to talk . . . or, at any rate, they picked up the bad language he uses when driving his donks. Mynas, being social creatures, are quarrelsome . . . and particularly so amongst themselves. When Billy’s birds fell out, they used to swear at each other. Well, eventually they cleared out and joined other mynas. According to Billy, if you listen carefully to any row between mynas, or Myna-birds, as they call them up there, you’ll hear the best of his donkey-walloping language.’
She smiled only feebly, and with a negating shake of the head.
He chucked her chin again. ‘Chin up, sweetheart. Make the best of it. It won’t be for long.’
To express such
optimism when, either through other ears or some phonographic device, these too-easy chats were being monitored by Inspector Ballywick, according to Jeremy’s suspicions, and to use such expressions in them in seemingly innocent talk of pigs and starlings as Spiroptera strongylina, Distomum in its varieties, Filaria clava, Mecator suillus, Trichostrongylus, Trichenella, Myna Lice, which could hardly mean anything but secret code to a policeman’s mind, was hardly wise. If indeed the Inspector was eavesdropping, he got sick of it after a fortnight. That was when he turned up, after weeks of non-appearance, with a doctor of his own to check on Jeremy’s condition.
Still, Ballywick’s sudden move might have had to do with the sudden change just then in the war situation. The lengthy Phoney War had become a menacing reality. The Germans had invaded Norway. Although it might seem a silly thing to do with Norway half a world away, local people classed as enemy aliens but so far permitted the leniency of mere periodic reporting their whereabouts were being rounded up for proper internment. Perhaps, by reason of the elasticity of Commonwealth Law, Jeremy could be classed as an enemy alien, being the declared enemy of most of what the so-called Commonwealth stood for, and surely alien in the truest sense of the word, which is Wholly Different in Nature from the Common Herd.
At any rate, there that day was Ballywick, accompanied by a long stick of a doctor who, judging by his fiery ruddiness and white hair in a youthful face, must have been an albino. Although the doctor did not appear to see with those strange almost colourless eyes, he made a thorough job of the examination. Jeremy may have been a cadaver for all the notice he took of him. He wrote a lot of things down on a form, but uttered only one word, and that at the end of the examination: ‘Fit.’ He then departed with his form.
Ballywick then spoke for the first time to Jeremy since last hurling that remark from the door about the likelihood of their not meeting again. He said shortly, ‘You’re finished here.’
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