He dropped what he was doing, and wiping great hairy hands, went to the office. It was the Big House calling, the speaker Martin Delacy. He said ‘Shamus, we’ve just heard something on the big radio . . . a speech of Churchill’s . . . that makes us feel a bit . . . well, we felt it wouldn’t be proper to carry on in the usual way . . .’
Old Shame-on-us cut in with a sort of gulp: ‘England’s had it?’
‘Eh? Oh, no . . . nothing like that. But things look pretty grim. There’s sure to be a re-broadcast of Churchill’s speech . . . y’there, Shamus?’
Finnucane had removed the handset from mouth and ear, as if to get air. His hand was quivering, face jerking. He brought the instrument back into place, to gulp again, but almost inaudibly now, ‘Yes, Martin.’
‘We’ve decided we ought to have a mass meeting tonight . . . in the Dance Hall. Can you stop ’em boozing, and get the word round. We want everybody there. Right?’
Shamus hung for a moment, then asked hesitantly, ‘You couldn’t give me some idea of what to tell ’em?’
‘It’d take too long. Besides . . . well, it’s nothing definite . . . rather an appeal. We don’t want to break up the show, now everybody’s here. But it’s hardly a time for . . . well, kicking up. See what I mean?’
‘Yes, Martin.’
‘Right . . . I leave it to you. Meeting to start about ten, say. See you.’
For a good minute the old man sat, with head lowered sideways to a hand, the fingers of which tore as if in unconscious worry at the silvery mane, while the black eyebrows worked above eyes that might be struggling to hold back tears. Then with a great sigh he heaved his bulk up, went back to the bar. Now his expression was savage. He roared and thumped for silence. Getting it, he told the news quite shortly, silencing the babble of questions that followed with another roar: ‘I’m closin’ the bar. Ye’ve ahll had enough dhrink for the whoile. I’d advoise those of ye that’ve had a drhop too much to put your heads under the tap. Shame on us, but it’s no toime for shenanigans. Out wit’ the lot o’ ye!’
Surely the End of the Wurruld was at hand when old Shame-on-us would do such a thing as empty his bar at the height of its liveliest trading. Although no one was heard actually to mention the phenomenon it was implied in the general mode of the expression as they headed for the Hall: ‘Things must be pretty crook.’ The sobering effect of Finnucane’s announcement was all but miraculous. No more than a dozen of the mob failed to pass that strict scrutiny of those who set themselves up to judge who was fit to take part in so serious a business. It was interesting that Finnucane himself took no part in this vigilance, and did not even seek a place in the Hall. The vigilantes who culled the hopeless ones and lured them away to a fictitious booze-party down the river, were chiefly servicemen of non-commissioned rank, no policemen taking part, probably to avoid antagonism. One of the civilians was Eddy McCusky, at his best at such operations. Another of them who was familiar was Chief Petty Officer Pickles, formerly also of HMAS Arafura, now skipper (or Coxswain as properly ranked) of a small naval patrol-boat, and quite a friend now of Prindy’s, and also Rifkah’s, as revealed when he shoved in to stand with them in the Hall. No doubt he had got to know them together through visiting the Mission. Nanago was with the other two, but not Jeremy, who stayed outside with the packed mob of blacks. Finnucane saw him there, as was easy in the blaze of the Moon almost at the full, and joined him. They exchanged no word except in greeting.
The Elite arrived from the Big House, and took the places reserved for them as usual. The Committee took their usual places on the rostrum. However, there was no other formality. Rising as soon as all were settled down, the President said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . this is an extraordinary meeting to meet an extraordinary situation. We’re gathered together for our annual festival of indulgence in the Sport of Kings, our own favourite sport. But it’s hardly a time for festivity and indulgence, is it, with the Old Country fighting for its life? I am your chairman because I’m a racing man. But the job’s really one for a man of the Armed Services in these circumstances I’ve mentioned. Fortunately, we have as Patron a fighting serviceman of the Senior Service. I propose to hand over command to him. Command’s the word he used himself when we discussed the situation, and the right word, when really the proper thing for us to be doing right now is bear what share we can in the Battle of Britain, even if what we can do is no more than cheer our fighting brothers on to victory. Ladies and gentlemen . . . Captain Roger Toby, commander of the Naval Forces for the Northern Region . . . and our special commander for the time being.’
Martin sat down amidst a thunder of applause, leaving Captain Toby to rise to it. The Captain was in full naval whites, with gold braid and service ribbons, only minus his gold-encrusted cap, which lay so close to his hand on the cane table beside him that it looked as if he were going to grab it and jam it on his bristly iron-grey head to assert command as he would from the bridge of his ship, which with his megaphone voice and blunt manner he appeared to do: ‘Comrades! For that’s what we are . . . and I don’t hesitate to use that honourable mode of address now that the treacherous scum who besmirched it as their password have been discovered for what they are and put where they belong . . .’
Loud applause — perhaps even from some secret Commos if there were any still about.
‘Comrades I call you, because we are all fighting this war together . . . man, woman, child . . . in uniform or out, and whether we like that sort of thing or not, because our ruthless enemy makes no distinction. We are all in the line of battle. Unfortunately, we’re not in the front line with our brothers overseas, much as we’d all like to be, those of us who’re worth our salt as Britishers . . . and as for the rest, they ought to be put up against a wall and shot . . .’
Loud cheers.
‘We’re here for the Beatrice River Races . . . but, goddammit! . . . how can we think of racing when our grand old Empire is fighting for her life as never since the days of Drake. At this moment the bridge of the Ship of Empire, the mighty City of London, the very nerve-centre of our existence, the magazine of our power and our pride, is under attack by the most ruthless and methodical enemy ever known. Every night the watch on that bridge faces the full fury of the aerial blitz. Every day they pick up the pieces and make things shipshape . . . and bury the dead. Don’t forget that . . . bury the dead . . . for night after night our comrades there . . . our brothers and our sisters by blood and culture and everything else . . . die by the hundreds, fighting to keep the grand old ship afloat. What if she sinks? It’s unthinkable! But the odds are great and terrible. Not long ago we heard a broadcast by our beloved leader, dear old Winny. I won’t go into it, because you’ll be hearing a repeat of it. Enough to say that it chilled us to the blood. The enemy is poised to strike the final blow. Now’s the hour we British face our destiny. Never, never, never will they break our will and chain us, of course. But superb as we are in every way, as never any other race of men has been or ever will be, we are but flesh and blood . . . and that’s about all we have at present to meet the Hun’s steel and fire . . . but we are steel and fire in our resolve, and will fight to the end, bitter or sweet. Please God, who has always stood by us in our hour of need, it will be sweet!
‘That’s how things stand at the moment. Even as we stand here now our last brave Spitfire may be falling from the sky, shot down by the Hun’s Armada . . . and the invasion he has ready mounted from the sea in progress. It is like that now . . . at any hour . . . at any minute. How can we do anything but sit with our ears glued to our radios and our minds and hearts in the fight? I know I speak for you all. There couldn’t be anyone so low and mean and despicable amongst us who could feel otherwise.
‘Now, we are gathered here at Beatrice River, representative of every section of our country. Our country is at war. So why not fight this greatest battle of this war, of all history, together . . . if only with the only means at our disposal, our ears and our hearts? The big military ra
dio at present installed at Beatrice Homestead gives direct contact with London. The BBC has pledged itself to twenty-four hour service. Britain is on constant Red Alert. I propose to put the whole community on Stand By, and to that end am having the radio transhipped to the Racecourse, the point of muster.
‘At the moment all military action within the British Isles is confined to the hours of darkness, the enemy having found that for all his numerical superiority he can’t beat our skimpy but superb RAF, and wanting to weaken the will of the British people as much as possible while at the same time conserving his forces for the final shattering blow that will be followed by invasion. Of course, if it may be permitted a jest at such a time, as the song says, When it’s Night-time in Italy it’s Wednesday Over Here, by which I mean we’re nine hours ahead of ’em . . . that is in terms of sidereal or solar time . . . because actually we’re synchronous with them in terms of heart and mind. Thus, until the invasion actually comes, we’ll be doing most of our listening by day, during the period One Thousand Hours to Sixteen Hundred, which is to say 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., the hours usual for racing. Of course racing’s out of the question. But we won’t just sit glum. There’ll be the bar and refreshment stalls and the Band . . . and speaking of the Band . . . Bandsmen, there . . . if you’ll be so good as to form up . . . I’ll be needing you for a bit of music when I’ve done talking.
‘Yes . . . well . . . there it is, Comrades. My technicians will rig amplifiers so that everybody can get full hearing without having to crowd round. We’ll sit round in our groups and listen . . . and in between times sing . . . the way they do it At Home in the Underground and such places . . . listening, singing, but ever on the alert . . . and joking, too. The good old British humour has never failed. Listening to the BBC broadcasting under fire, sometimes you’d think you were listening-in to a commentary on a cricket-match or something, and expect someone to yell Get a Bag! . . . only, of course, the English don’t yell like us at cricket-matches . . .’
Laughter.
‘That’s the stuff,’ roared the Captain. ‘Laugh! We’ll laugh the Hun out of existence. Now . . . these are the orders . . . all hands muster at Racecourse One Thousand Hours tomorrow, Thursday. Don’t bother to bring riding boots. Only kit required is ears to listen with a tongue to sing the praises of Old England. Let us begin our singing right now, with that grand old song that has sustained our Motherland throughout many an ordeal, Rule Britannia . . . Band!’
As the Band struck up, the Captain led the singing with his in-built megaphone. Soon the flimsy old Hall was rocking to it:
When Britain fir-ir-ir-ir-irst at Heaven’s command,
Aro-ooo-o-ose fro-o-om out the ay-ay-ayzure main,
This was the Charter, the Charter of the Land,
And Guardian Ay-ay-ay-ay-angels sang this refrain:
Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves,
Briton never, never, never shall be slaves!
Jeremy withdrew, so unobtrusively that only the blacks noticed it. He went down to the still-lighted but deserted camp. First he took a look at the quietly-running power-plant, then entered the shelter used as lounge and dining-room, took brandy and water from the refrigerator. Still standing, he was pouring a drink at the table, when he heard steps, turned to see the massive figure of Finnucane, bright as a wraith in the moonlight with his immaculate whites and silver mane. He came up to Jeremy with his usual amiable greeting, but without the engaging smile: ‘First I’ve seen of you in a very long whoile.’ Jeremy asked him what he would like to drink. The silver head shook. ‘I’m not drinkin’ just now, Jerry.’
Raising his own glass in silent toast, Jeremy asked, ‘What, saving yourself for the big moment?’ Jeremy took a swig.
Eyeing him with head a little aside as when he was fishing for special information, Shamus countered, ‘And what big moment would that be, now?’
Jeremy finished the drink, returned with the bottle to the refrigerator. ‘I’m only going by what seems to be the general anticipation.’
‘Ah . . . and what, then, would be your own anticipation of events?’
Coming back to the table, Jeremy asked, ‘What would we be talking about, Shamus?’
‘’Tis yeself who raised the subject, Jerry.’
Jeremy regarded the quizzing black eyes for a moment, then said, ‘Well, in that case I drop it.’ He added: ‘If you’ll excuse me . . . I’m off up to the Course. I want to let my horses run.’
As he moved off towards the crossing, Finnucane went with him, saying, ‘I’d be obloiged to go along wit’ ye. It’s a beautiful noight for walkin’, sure.’ When Jeremy gave him a look that plainly hinted that he would prefer to be alone, he added hastily: ‘Besoides, yon music’s not to the taste av me ear.’
Back at the Hall they were now blaring and roaring Sons of the Sea . . . All British born, Sailing every ocean, laughing foes to scorn . . .
The pair went on in silence. As they crossed the causeway, the Shade of old Igulgul winked at them from the shallows of the river. They did not speak until they were climbing the further bank, when Jeremy’s hard breathing became so obvious that Finnucane remarked on it: ‘I hear’d that ye’re but half the man ye went away, Jerry . . . but I didn’t think ’twas as bad as that.’ When Jeremy made no reply, the old man went on: ‘Although it’s a matter of deep consarne to me, I wouldn’t have the impertinence to ask ye what happened to ye, seein’ ye’ve made a point avoidin’ me . . . although for whoy, I can’t for the loife of me imagine.’
Jeremy managed a little laugh, which caused Shamus to say with a note of indignation, ‘Ye regard consarne for the son of me dearest friend, God rest him, as a laughin’ matter?’
‘No,’ panted Jeremy. ‘I was thinking of the old man, as a matter of fact . . . and his way of asking questions as a policeman . . . “I wouldn’t be worryin’ ye about so small a matter, Mick, only Knowles claims the hoss is his . . . so would ye be koind enough to settle matters be producing your proofs of ownership?”’ He chuckled.
Shamus sighed: ‘Ah, your dear old Da! If only he were here today to confoide in. Niver in me long loife have I wanted a trusted confidant the more.’
Jeremy made no reply. They reached the top, went in silence to the Lily Lagoons stable. Scraps of the warlike fervour of the community came to them across the river on little gusts of wind like bits of old rag . . . Oh, God our help in Ages Past, our Hope in years to Come . . .
The horses came crowding to Jeremy. He let them out, led them up to the flat and across and through onto the track, and slipped a rail so that they could go into the inner paddock. They waited for him, but when he replaced the rail and waved them off, went off at a gallop, to become a silver cloud of dust.
Finnucane was waiting at the gate to the flat. He said as Jeremy rejoined him, ‘Could we have a little bit of a tahlk, man.’
‘On what subject?’
‘There’s but wan at the moment . . . as is all too plain to hear.’
Lest we forget, Lest we forget . . .
‘The least subject I’m interested in, Shamus, is politics.’
‘Politics?’ cried Finnucane. ‘You call the changin’ av the course av history politics?’
‘What’s politics mean but the so-called science and art of government . . . and isn’t what’s going on just a climax to the lunatic business?’
‘Ye’ve no consarne for the defeat of England?’
‘Is England defeated?’
‘Sum up the news of the wurruld, man . . . and the answer’s Yes. D’ye listen-in to wurruld news?’
‘I’ve been much too busy with neglected things, since I came home, Shamus.’
With hands and eyebrows Finnucane made a gesture of despair, and almost groaned, ‘I was countin’ on ye as the wan and only hope of disburdenin’ meself av what’s fairly tearin’ at me heart.’
‘Unburden yourself as much as you like . . . so long’s you don’t involve me.’
‘In what?’
‘Now listen, Shamus . . . I know you want to talk to me . . . and I can guess about what. You don’t have to beat about the bush. You know I’m no informer . . . unless I see a gross injustice being done that I can’t rectify myself . . .’
‘Infahmer? Begob, that a day should come whan I regarded the son of me could friend as an infahmer!’
‘Cut it out, Shamus. I was brough up on Irish bullshit. It’s the Irish bullshit that’s smothering you now, I’ll be bound. Come over to the grandstand steps. I get tired standing too long these days.’
Loudly clicking his tongue in sympathy, Finnucane went with him. As they sat down, with Igulgul peeping over the roof at then, Shamus said, ‘I don’t suppose ye’d be up in Irish news at all at all.’
‘You know I have no interest in Ireland.
‘Shame on you to say so, the son of a great Irishman, and ould Ireland bein’ the single wan of all England’s vassals to stand out agin her!’
Jeremy simply leaned back with arms folded and referred it to Igulgul.
Shamus went on after a moment: ‘I have meself now a grand and powerful radio be which I can pick up Americy. So I know a lot that doesn’t come through our censorship. For instance . . . Churchill has inflamed the English public agin what he calls De Valéra’s Republic, wit’ transparent intent to invade Ireland if it becomes necessary to break the German blockade of southern England. All the ould tyranny is there. The craytur’s already expressed indignation at not bein’ allowed to use Irish ports . . . whan he should be thankful Dev doesn’t let the Germans use ’em. The only thing stoppin’ him from invadin’ is fear of American opinion. Although Roosevelt’s a bloody Dutchman, as indaid was William of Orange, he knows the strength of Irish opinion in Americy. Forbye, Americy, loike the rest of the civilised wurruld that’s not taken in by British conceit, is doubtful that England can hould out.’ Looking at Jeremy and changing his tone from what had sounded belligerent to wheedling, he said, ‘That’s whoy I was wonderin’ what ye moight be thinkin’ yeself about England’s chances.’ When Jeremy sat straight and eyed him back, Shamus added quickly: ‘’Twas only to disburden meself of me own doubts and difficulties, as I was tellin’ ye.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 213