Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  They had to hold him hard for ten minutes, during which he raged even worse, seeming to believe that the Churchill Thing had him in chains and was dragging him down to Hell — ‘The harp he loved ne’er spake agin . . .’twill niver sound in slavery . . . oh, oh, Mother o’ God!’ He started vomiting. He fairly puked his heart up, so that they had to let him get up to hands and knees so as not to smother in the alcoholicy slime he was disgorging. When he stopped, he would have fallen into it in instant sleep, had not they hauled him clear. Jeremy said, ‘He’s right now. Let’s get him to the bathroom.’

  Jeremy himself bathed him, while he snored under the tap, dried him, put him in pyjamas, saw him into bed. Asked by Stunke what he had given the old man, Jeremy replied, ‘Apomorphine. Its chief use is as an emetic. Very powerful. Useful in cases of poisoning. But it also has the happy effect of calming delirium quickly and completely. The old fellow should sleep like a log for a good twelve hours . . . and wake up quite sober and refreshed.’

  The Finnucane women were for taking advantage of the log-like condition to whisk their chieftain away at once. Jeremy wouldn’t have it, arguing that for him to wake and find himself virtually shanghaied most likely would set him off again. As much of his trouble was due to his having to do something against his will, the best thing to do would be to mitigate the feeling of dispossession as much as possible. Hearing them say that the old man had said he wanted to have what he had called Me Last Christmas in the Land o’ the Livin’ in his own house, heading his own table, Jeremy suggested that a world of good would be done him by giving him just this. For a start, after long subsistence on alcohol alone, feeding him up with food was essential; and how better do it than with a tasty Christmas Dinner with Himself presiding? He assured the doubtful women that even if his lordship got on the grog again in celebration, he would see to it that he went off with them tomorrow as quiet as a lamb.

  Therefore, sucking pigs and fowls were got from Ah Loy’s, a ham and such canned Bush-Christmas goodies as pudding, cake, dessert, from McDodds, grog broached from the crates packed ready for transference to the Prospectors’ Arms, and invitations sent out to those remaining of the old hands and such as were passing through who could be considered as worthy to sit at the Finnucane board. The latter condition, of course, ruled out all of the Lily Lagoons household except the head, and Fergus, if now he were to be included. On another occasion it would have ruled the head out, too. However, he promised the troubled-eyed Finnucane women that he would be there, to act as it were, as the power behind the throne of old Brian Boru.

  McDodds was invited, but didn’t even deign to decline. For one thing, as a Good Scot, he didn’t believe in the Pagan Shoneenin’ imposed upon decent Presbyterian Christianity by his Norse ancestors, and for another hadn’t set foot in Finnucane’s since their declaration of war an age ago and wasn’t one to let a piddling world war interfere with his private hostilities. As regarded the exigencies of the piddling business now disrupting the community, he had declared his intention of staying on till the dead-line for evacuation, New Year’s Day, to see out what he grimly predicted would be the last Hogmanay ever to be celebrated here according to decent tradition. As he said, ‘Moot tis nae the heathen Jap the bye, ’twill be summat nae mooch lessen veecious . . . twite yon khaki lootin’ loons!’ The bitter reference was to passing soldiers, some of whom had robbed his fowl-house, and a couple had bought things over his counter, telling him to send the bill to John Curtin.

  So Beatrice River had its two traditional Christmases after all, even if in circumstances very different from those of long-established tradition. Gentlemen of the Big House had always topped Finnucane’s list of guests: these the lesser of the staff’s hierarchy: Second Bookkeeper, Head Stockman, Engineer, and such. In the past, of course, the top ones had always gone to Town for Christmas and New Year. However, with all truly social events channelled into the War Effort and the local ladies fled to do their bit where it was safest, the gentry were all here this time. Hence heading the list was Mr Martin Delacy, OBE.

  To the evident momentary astonishment of Jeremy, down in the camp just before noon on Christmas Day, Martin called in there. Jeremy was alone, the others of the household being busy in the bush kitchen built for cooking for the blacks, and Fergus already up at the pub. It would be the first time Martin had set foot in the camp. But the way he approached his staring father, smiling and walking with complete ease, it might have been everyday. No doubt the years of success had taught him that he could be at ease much as he chose. He was the Big Boss. He looked it, every inch of him, in his good olive poplin clothes, shiny tan elastic sides, fine Stetson. He had grown to be a bigger man than his father — unless his father had shrunk. But there was something gross about the bigness. Even his handsome ruddiness looked more like a flush of self-satisfaction than of health. He addressed his father easily as he came up to him holding out his hand: ‘Goodday, father . . . Merry Christmas.’

  Jeremy took the hand, as he often had on formal occasions, and likewise mumbled a reply that could have meant anything. Unaffected, Martin looked away at what was going on concerning Blackfellows’ Christmas. The mob of blacks were already in brand-new Christmas clothes and sitting in their family and horde groups waiting for the feast. He looked again at his father. ‘Good of you to take over this business. We just couldn’t manage it. I appreciate it very much. You can charge it all to us, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jeremy. ‘Have a drink?’

  ‘Thanks . . . yes.’ Martin sank with a big man’s sigh into the canvas chair he was waved to. ‘A beer’ll do nicely.’

  Turning to the refrigerator, Jeremy also signalled to Nanago and Rifkah and Prindy, who were staring. They came slowly. As the women and the boy came up and Jeremy set out bottles and glasses, he said, ‘You know these ladies, of course.’

  Already risen, Martin bowed gravely, saying, ‘Merry Christmas.’

  Nanago returned the compliment with a smile. Rifkah, her eyes somewhat narrowed, merely returned the bow. Martin concentrated on Prindy. ‘And how are you, young feller?’

  The response was rather startling, by reason of its raucous tone, like a cockerel’s crow, ‘All right, thank you, Sir.’

  The somewhat piggy eyes opened wider. Then Martin chuckled: ‘Voice breaking, eh?’

  As the company sat and took their drinks, Prindy a lemonade, Jeremy said, ‘That beautiful soprano gone for good.’

  ‘It happens to us all,’ said Martin.

  Jeremy raised his glass, toasted: ‘L’chaim!’

  The others echoed him; except Martin, who blinked and made a mumble.

  A little silence. Martin broke it, looking again at Prindy, saying, ‘Getting whiskers, too, I see.’ He looked at his own father, away from the grey eyes of his son so much alike, gave a little guffaw: ‘You give him a razor for Christmas?’

  Jeremy grimaced slightly, shook his head, turned from the closed smooth red face of the father, to the open golden one of the son with its soft fuzz of glinting gold about the chin.

  Martin also looked again at Prindy, chuckled: ‘What say I make you a present of your first razor?’ Still chuckling, he gave attention to a tunic pocket of his beautiful shirt, took out a wallet. Opening the wallet and fishing out notes, he said, ‘A Rolls Razor. They’re the best. As a Christmas present from me.’ He held out what looked like a fair sum. Prindy cast a swift glance at his grandfather, who merely blinked. ‘Here,’ urged Martin.

  Prindy looked at him, squeaked, and then rumbled, ‘No thank you, Sir . . . Christmas not our yomtov.’

  Martin’s ruddiness darkened. ‘Eh?’

  Jeremy cut in: ‘We don’t go for Christmas, you know.’

  For a moment Martin was at loss, his blue eyes rolling between the two pairs of grey. Then, shoving the notes back in the wallet and the wallet in his pocket, he said, now in the dry tone of the disapproving Boss, ‘I understood he was going to be a priest.’ He looked up and met Prindy’s eyes. P
rindy nodded. Martin asked, ‘Then how come you don’t go for Christmas?’

  For all its dissonance the breaking voice was precise: ‘Christmas not Christian properly.’

  Again a moment of loss, by the change in colour, the blinking. But the Boss was ready to hand. ‘Go on with you! Christmas is the Birth of Christ.’ Martin looked at his father, chuckled again: ‘Fine priest he’ll make! We’d better make him a Vet, I reckon.’ So natural-sounding was that expression of shared responsibility. Yet it might have been only the Big Boss’s way of having a hand in everything.

  Jeremy answered dryly, leaning forward to refill Martin’s glass, ‘As a matter of fact, Christmas has its origin in an old Nordic festival celebrating the return of the Sun after its couple of days’ disappearance during the northern winter solstice . . . and there’s no authenticity about the date of Christ’s birth.’

  Martin went quite red, swallowed. Jeremy raised his glass. ‘Well . . . a Happy New Year, anyway . . . however grim the portents.’

  Martin took refuge in drinking. Lowering his glass, Jeremy said to the others, ‘Well . . . I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back to your job . . . I’ll be trotting along to Finnucane’s in a minute, too.’

  They all rose. Jeremy rose. Martin rose, too, just a fraction behind.

  Nanago smiled at him. ‘Excuse us.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘And thank you for doing everything. My mother will be glad. I’ll write and tell her.’ They went off.

  Jeremy said, ‘I suppose you’re going to the pub?’

  ‘Yes. I heard you made a wonderful job of the old man. Come in the car with me.’

  As they headed for the car, Martin said, ‘I hear the Army’re taking over your place.’ When Jeremy murmured affirmative, he added: ‘How do you feel about it?’

  Jeremy’s voice was dry again: ‘How would you?’

  They paused beside the car. Martin said, ‘Maybe I could do something.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well . . . from what I understand, your occupation’s not considered essential. What say I appointed you Company Vet . . . and we could work round to saying we wanted the Lagoons for, say, quarantine purposes?’

  ‘You only understand half of it. I’m also considered a security risk.’

  ‘Eh? But that’s absurd!’

  ‘Not really. I’ve already been twice jailed for alleged breaches of National Security.’

  Martin stared at him, utterly at a loss now. But again he struggled to be the Big Boss: ‘I’ll see someone about this. I’ll fix it.’

  Jeremy chuckled now, turning to get in: ‘Thanks all the same. But you don’t know these boys playing at war. The only thing that’ll take their power off ’em is a gun bigger than the one they’re packing. You wouldn’t be able to do any good, even if you got old Alf to have a word with Winston Churchill. It’s war, man, war . . . something I know a lot more about than you.’ He got into the big car for his first and last ride in it.

  As they drove up to Finnucane’s, Martin said to the road in a rather strained voice, ‘I would very much like to do something to help, father . . . I could, you know.’

  Jeremy looked at him quickly. Martin turned. Genuine concern was in blue eyes. Jeremy reached and touched his knee lightly. ‘Thanks, son . . . but I’ve got things working my own way. I’ll be right.’

  They entered the pub, to join the male crowd about towering old Shame-onus and the table laden with all kinds of grog under hanging paper Christmas bells out in the courtyard. The place was redolent with the pagan smells of Christmas: booze, rich food, cigars.

  Jeremy took charge of old Shame-on-us. He was easy to handle, well and truly drubbed by the Demon Liquor as he had been and right ready to take it now in sips and with a drop of Paraldehyde along with it. He was content to talk, to tell old tales, for corroboration in which he often called on Jeremy. He harped on that good old one which had laid the foundations of the Finnucane and Delacy fortunes: ‘A pound o’ beef for a pound o’ tin . . . ye can’t ate ye tin, boys . . . but a pound o’ beef bought wid a pound o’ tin will give ye muscle to get a bag o’ the stuff . . . Come on, there . . . A pound o’ beef for a pound o’ tin! Rimimber it, Jerry, me boy?’

  Jeremy was able to get Bridie aside to tell her of his intentions and his requirements of her. She was appalled by the revelation of his secret, but readily agreed to keep it and to do all she could for his people.

  She had a secret of her own to share. She’d had a letter from her mother-in-law, Cullity, in Ireland. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines that it had been dictated by Con himself. Con had been listed as Missing for some time, but not along with the rest of Our Boys, because he hadn’t gone into Greece with them for Jack the Ripper. Soon after going away he had got into the Canteen Service, with promotion to Sergeant. According to the insinuations of ex-Private Hannaford, because all Canteen Sergeants made fortunes, he probably retired into the wilds of Arabia with a harem. However, officially it was thought likely that Con had been taken prisoner by hill-tribesmen in Syria, where he had been sent with other Australians to fight the French, Churchill’s only true enemies. Judging from the letter, he’d used his fortune to do exactly what he’d enlisted for, to go see his Old Mam. She had written an extraordinarily cheerful letter, saying how delighted she would be to see Bridie and the children when it became possible for them to make the journey — and that she had a bonny surprise for her.

  Jeremy’s response was: ‘Good on him. That’s the only way for a true man to fight a war . . . his own way.’

  But Bridie was troubled over Jeremy himself, making him promise that if he found things too hard in the bush to sneak down to her.

  The shivoo ended at about three, with the cutting out of the grog. Old Shame-on-us was maudlin, but no more. He raised no objection to his women’s urging to be on their way. A heavy thunderstorm was threatening from the northwest. He took affectionate leave of everyone, even of McDodds, who unbent before his blarney to the point of taking his hand. The other Finnucane women went ahead in the big truck with the heavy dunnage. Himself travelled alone with Bridie in her utility. The last Beatrice saw of him was his great red face turned back to them gleaming with tears.

  McDodds was mean enough to sneer after him: ‘Och . . . for all his craikin’ o’er the yearn o’ his sobriety in the feece o’ tumble tempteetion, he gangs awa’ a ceese for the Hame for Inebriates!’

  Nugget Knowles was the only one to take umbrage, and that perhaps only because there was an ancient feud between the Knowles and McDodds clans: ‘You lousy old bastard . . . I can see you turnin’ on the grog like he did at the last . . . I don’t think!’

  McDodds struck a fighting attitude. ‘Forebye, I’ll breek the bone heed o’ ye for tha’!’

  It was stopped by Nugget’s catching a look from his Big Boss that clearly told him, sozzled as he was, that if he wished to remain of the true squattocracy, he’d better act it.

  Jeremy dispersed with the others, leaving behind the House of Finnucane, more shut-faced than ever. He went down to his camp, where he found Nan and Rifkah resting after the labours of their own shivoo. Most of the blacks were sleeping it off in huddles under bush and bough. A few who had got grog were over the other side of the river hurling insults and bamboo spears at each other in brave mime of ancient feuds.

  Jeremy suggested to Nan that they go for a walk. As they came out, she looked at the inky sky. ‘Big rain tonight.’

  ‘Yes. I’d better be getting back before sundown . . . or the road might be out for a couple of days.’

  She sighed and reached for his hand. ‘Last walk together.’

  He put both his arms around her and drew hers about himself, fell into step with her. ‘Who says?’

  She sighed again. ‘Mullaka.’

  They dodged the sleeping crowd of blacks by going up the bank and skirting the railway yards. Then they dropped back to the river, to follow the horse-pads that, cut in the thick couch beside the shall
ow stream, meandered with it. She kept him talking about the Finnucane party, wanting every detail. When that was exhausted he tried to get her onto the subject of her own affairs; but without much success. They fell silent, walking hand in hand, not letting go even when bushes cut their separate paths, either swinging hands over them or coming round. A couple of times when they came thus close they kissed swiftly. Occasionally they looked at the sky. The storm was holding back, apparently. The Sun was on the edge of it, turning the boiling black surf to silver. So they kept on, as if drawn by something, till they were close to where the old Russian Settlement clearing began. Here the river was wider and the banks lower and less steep. She said, ‘We go up, eh . . . take last look?’ Up on top there, before the Russians had come, had been the blacks’ camp in which he had found her, a skinny bit of a thing, scarcely more than a child in age, with two dying children — twenty years ago. Was it to recapture that grim scene?

  They climbed the soft micaceous bank. On top was comparatively clear of trees, all the bigger ones having been cut down by the alien settlers and the secondary growth retarded by the termites that had taken over the abandoned place. A myriad antbeds crowded the flat to the clump of dark exotic trees that marked the centre of the settlement, reared amongst saplings and spear-grass like head-stones in a neglected cemetery. The Sun, getting clear of cloud, blazed fiercely. ‘Too hot,’ said Nan. ‘Come, we sit down lil bits.’

  The only substantial shade was under a mangan plum, a well-grown tree near the edge of the bank. Without comment on the significance, they went to it.

  It was a snug spot for a camp; used as such by wallabies, judging by the mat of flattened grass. They sank down sighing. He tumbled up sand and grass and placed his hat on it to make a pillow, then, stretching out, drew her to him. She put head on his right shoulder, undid his shirt to push her hand across his breast, forced his thighs open to insert her own leg. Lying thus, they kissed lightly a few times. She stopped it, saying, ‘We tchileep lil bits.’ Both relaxed, sighed, shut eyes. In fact soon both were breathing steadily in sleep. Two bustards that must have been watching all the while, stole out of the long grass to take a peep, stole away again. A pair of fairy wrens, called Biaiuk, the male vivid blue, the female russet, arrived, to peep from branches, to twitter faintly, fluttering wings at each other.