Another memorial, and the most interesting because of the legend attached to it, was that standing in Railway Square, outside the station. It was a diminutive locomotive, rather garishly painted, mounted on a concrete plinth, with a bronze plaque describing it as one of the original engines of the railway system. The history of the system was given, but not that of the engine, officialdom not having changed that much as to make public what might make officialdom appear ridiculous. For the little old thing was the Sandfly, whose last run must surely be one of the most famous in railway annals. However, the official omission didn’t matter much, because picture postcards of the memorial had a ready sale at the Manager’s Residence at Knowles Creek and the Painted Caves, and as the old love of gossip still prevailed, those who sold them often told the tale. The story was made more interesting by the fact that two of those involved were still around to be pointed out, a couple of old fogeys known as Lopsided Pat and Red Rifkah, the old fellow swinging along on a single crutch, his withered spouse tailing him, always dressed in stockrider’s outfit except for boots, still copper-haired, despite her crone’s appearance otherwise.
The old couple lived out of town, down river, on a bit of a farm opposite Boongville. They had established the place in order to help their neighbours across the way, before these became better off than themselves with the granting of all forms of Social Service to them tacitly as a sort of pension. There had been a great foregathering of blacks at the settlement following the official decree that Aborigines were to be paid wages according to award, when the squatters, now largely Yankees, had hunted them off their runs. Pat and Rifkah had tried to organise the blacks to make a lively show of protest, to return to the stations (now called Ranches) and claim their old camp sites as their own property, while calling on the Government for support. To begin with, the people had no will to protest. Then there got amongst them crossbreeds who were emissaries of the Communist Party, from whom they learnt that someone from afar called Karlmarkus would soon be putting them back on the stations as bosses, provided that on every possible occasion in public places they shouted the slogan: Land Rights! Any hope of giving real help to the helpless was ruined by Pat’s hostility to the crossbreeds, whose like he had detested ever since being done wrong by his first wife. For his abuse of them as Mongrel Yeller Bastards he might well have come to grief, bred as many of his adversaries were to extremes of violence in reaction to extremes of social injustice in Southern cities. However, he was known for a dangerous man himself. He and Rifkah also had as opponents the Government Welfare Officers, who preached the millennium for the Aboriginal Race with the slogan: Integration! Only learn to live like whitemen and you’ll be saved. These branded the pair as Trouble-makers.
Indeed, that was how most of the community regarded Lopsided Pat and Red Rifkah, despite the general tendency to dismiss them publicly as superannuated cranks. Pat had established himself as a public nuisance even before civil administration was resumed. He had been run out by the military authorities following the Sandfly incident. Then, returning with the Peace and being refused readmittance to the Railway Service, he became a savage critic of just about everything done in the way of rehabilitation, particularly as it concerned the railway. He was right ready for the Germans and Italians when they took over. He never saw a train out without reminding the crew and station staff of the efficiency of the German railways in carrying Jews to the Death Camps by the million. Fettling gangs fled from him, because he wanted to talk to them only of what a brave show the Italians had made in fighting the Australians and how they had sold their daughters to both Huns and Yanks. There was no answer to his vocal savagery but violence, for which he was always more than a match with his crutch. The police did no more than get between him and his opponents. His ready plea of honest comment and self-defence made convicting him impossible. A move was made to get rid of him by having him declared insane. Curiously enough, he was saved by the RSL, which even while he still feuded with it, gave him no less credit as a hero, since of all hereabout, none bore more scars in testimony to the Glory of Anzac.
Pat began his campaign as public nuisance alone. Rifkah did not join him for some five years, having spent the meantime in the North Coast country, along with Nanago. Her intention to become a sort of Queen of the Blacks had not been the success her prototype, the late Daisy Bates, had made of it. The blacks had not wanted her, except in extremes of illness or trouble with the missionaries of the several mission stations now dotting the coast. Perhaps Mrs Bates’s blacks would have been the same, only that being desert people they depended more on her stores, which she was able to replenish, that she had the backing of police, and that, being English, she might be less sensitive about not being wanted. Finally, Rifkah was expelled from the country, in which she had no legal right, it being an Aboriginal Reserve. She was forcibly removed to Palmeston by officers of Aboriginal Welfare. However, her expulsion was initiated by the missionaries, whom she had annoyed all along with un-Christian interference in their business on behalf of the blacks and ultimately angered by charging them with collusion with the mining people when these intruded. They countercharged her with being a troublemonger. Enough was remembered of her career to make her suspect to any decent-minded citizen. There was even a rumour that she had been immorally involved with the missionary at the old Catholic Mission in the Leopolds, who had been abducted by Japanese during the war and subsequently executed. Nanago was not taken with her, but aging and ill as she was, stayed behind at Lady Beaumont Mission, as she wished to do, to work as a teacher.
If only Rifkah had realised in time that all she required to give her legal access to an Aboriginal Reserve, not being either a Government Officer or an Accredited Missionary of the Gospel, was a Miner’s Right. For the Act concerning such Reserves waived the defined inviolability in case of the discovery of workable mineral deposits therein. To get a Miner’s Right she had only to step into the Mines Office in Palmeston. But probably it would have been denied her legally, because soon after her arrival there she was again declared an Illegal Immigrant. So vehemently had she protested to the local press about the violation of the Reserve by the mining boom that, chiefly by reason of the oddity of her career, she became national news. The authorities then discovered a flaw in that hasty naturalisation of hers, rescinded her citizenship, and ordered her deportation. Now she could be departed without causing any heart-burning, because, being of Jewish origin, automatically she had become a citizen of the newly founded State of Israel. The process of deportation was just slow enough to enable her to beat it by marrying Pat.
Thus, with a Jewish wife who only too well knew true German character, Pat was all ready for the Square’eads when they arrived with all that amiability which Winston Churchill, in his own understanding of that peculiar character, had described as the alternative to the Hun’s being At Your Throat — ‘Either At Your Throat or At Your Feet.’
Of course, Beatrice River Races, as the grand annual social event of the country, was one of the first casualties of World War II. After the war, racing was resumed, but only as a local pastime. Even with the establishment of Elizabeth Town and the reintroduction of a Cup Meeting (Queen Elizabeth Cup) as the main social event, it remained chiefly a matter of local interest. Booming Elizabeth had no need of other communities to liven it up. The Cup Meeting was held in October, over the Labour Day holiday weekend, the races being but a one-day affair, held on the Monday. There was nothing like the boisterous behaviour of old times. Just as much booze was consumed as ever (and maybe more, since statistics showed that the Nation as a whole was steadily progressing towards chronic alcoholism) but with a good deal more circumspection — or it might have been that the several pubs and numerous dwellings hid what formerly, of necessity, took place largely in public. Anyway, the boongs made up for the loss in bacchanalian frolic.
When the Germans came in force, being used to lavish festivity in season and ever ready to share their genius for organisation, they
told of their own glorious Oktober Fest and suggested that they incorporate it in the holiday. The idea was well received, naturally, when it meant free beer, and no common local swill, but some Nectar of the Teutonic Gods being especially imported as a gesture of At Your Feet. Already the Square’eads had their Klub Germania and had proved what pleasant hosts they could be. A great crowd turned up at the Klub Halle that Saturday night of the first and only Oktober Fest ever to be held. Pat was there, and was well received, despite the fact that his hostility was already well known, such being the essential simplicity of German character.
He waited till things got nicely under way, then got to work with his crutch, shouting, ‘You dirty bloody Jew-murderin’ bastards . . . you think after what you done, murdered six million Jews, men and women, young and old, babies in arms, and crise knows how many other poor helpless buggers by the million . . . and got the world into the stink it is in . . . you goin’ to take us in with your smoodgin’? As if you won’t do it all over again when you get the chance! Well, I’m gettin’ in first, you square’eaded inhuman bloody monsters . . . cop this!’ Pat was not alone in the rampage. A sufficiently large number of others with memories deeper than their bellies, mostly foreigners who had suffered the Hun in war, some Greeks, helped him wreck the joint and put a dozen Deutschers in hospital. It looked like Palmeston Jail this time. The RSL could not be expected to help, now that it permitted the gallant enemy to lay wreaths to the Glory of Anzac and was even planning joint excursions with him to visit the old battle-fields of North Africa (but never those of Greece!). However, an equally powerful benefactor appeared in the handsome buxom shape of Mrs Bridie Cullity, proprietor of the Royal Hotel and of several other down-country hostelries, an exceedingly rich old lady, and more than that, mother-in-law of Mr Barnabus Bugsby QC, husband of her lovely daughter Jemima, and Crown Law Officer. The charges were quashed.
II
It was during an October Holiday weekend that this tale concludes, a very special occasion in the history of our locality — in fact, in general opinion, second only to that of the Visitation of Her Most Gracious Majesty. Indeed, it was a very close second, because the Personage who made it so special was the First Prince of the Blood. His Royal Highness came as world-leader of the so-called Conservation Movement that lately had come into active being through the all-too-obvious realisation that the destructiveness of Humankind had reached a point where the race stood in danger of destroying itself. The Prince’s particular line was to preach preservation of what was left of unspoiled wilderness, perhaps really more for something to do to justify his otherwise useless existence than with genuine concern, but still with a show of purpose, coupled with personal charm and the mystique of Royalty, that gave the Movement credit it could not hope for otherwise. Who else could have got the entire population of an Australian town dependent for its existence on exploitation of country so recently pristine to pack Queen’s Park that Sunday afternoon? Black, white, and brindle were there — Aussies, Pommies, Square’-eads, Ox-Cheeks, Yanks, Japs — even Wops, neglecting their weekend ring-barking, blasting, ploughing, and otherwise contributing to the making of another Sahara, as their ancestors had so long ago — already the Racecourse billabongs had ceased to exist owing to Italian zeal for labour and the lira.
His Royal Highness had just come from a tour of the North Coast Country, of necessity made in haste, mostly in aeroplanes and cars, and always with a retinue that generally was concerned rather with pleasing than displeasing him with what was revealed. However, not even the smartest guys in the world (nowadays well represented hereabout) could hide the league upon league of havoc wrought by monster machines and high explosives: the pumped-out billabongs, looking with heaped bones of perished animals and withered wreaths of lilies like forgotten cemeteries, fouled rivers flowing to sully the jade and sapphire of the Ocean not far this side of the Terrestrial Paradise. He was most eloquent as he stood on the flag-draped dais under his own personal standard (Oh, what a breathless effort had been made by officialdom to get that Standard here in time!) telling of deserts he had seen about the world that were not the work of Nature but of Man foolishly defying her, and how easily it could happen here. He told of water shortage due to destruction of Nature’s means of dispersing this most precious of all the Good Earth’s bounty — to such degree in same places, he said, that waste including even the inhabitants’ bodily effluent had to be what he called Recycled to maintain supply. He stood before his microphones, tall, slim, handsome, as a true aristocrat should be, in such contrast to most of the males of the press of important people seated behind him. Gone for ever was that affected English bleat, perhaps bombed out of them by their would-be conquerors, the Huns, or laughed out of it by their real conquerors, the Yanks.
He said, ‘Water is a blessing bestowed on our Planet as perhaps as on no other in the Universe. It is from water that the life of Earth burgeoned. Water is the life-blood of Earth. Where it dries up permanently Earth withers, dies. If our beautiful Earth is doomed to die completely, like the Moon, then it will be through destruction of its capacity to maintain Nature’s marvellous cycling of water . . . and perhaps through Man’s interference with that marvel.’
His striking blue eyes were fixed on the river, to be seen beyond the crowd because it was running rather high for the time of year, owing to abnormally heavy early rain — and running milky white, as always now from the earliest rains, since the mining of the Limestone. He could hardly be aware of the significance of its discolouration, when it wasn’t likely that, while being shown around the settlement, he would have had pointed out to him the filtration plant now necessary to make the river water drinkable.
He was saying that he had been distressed to find how little had been done to prevent disturbance of the ecology of the country in the rush to exploit it economically, and how he would like to see co-operation between exploiters and conservationists — when out of the respectful, even reverent silence with which he was being heard, the piping voice of a woman was heard, located about halfway back in the crowd towards the river bank, as to be seen by a fluttering hand. He stopped, eyed, cocked his narrow princely head to catch the words: ‘Vot about ze people . . . ze Aboriginal people?’
All eyes focused with the Prince’s.
The voice rose higher: ‘You talk of saving tree and voter and animal . . . but vot about ze pipple zose zing belong to?’
A murmur of annoyance from the white part of the crowd, which largely intervened, the darkies being further back, many perched on the river bank railings. Far from showing himself annoyed, the Prince raised a hand to cup an ear.
‘Ze Aboriginal people . . . who are part of zat country, and zat country part of zem . . . from Dream Time . . . now pushed out vit bulldozer . . . to die in spirit!’ His Highness blinked and bit his lip, turned his head from the interrupter, but without dismissing her, as shown by keeping hand to ear. His glance was directed to those on the right behind him, the hierarchy of officialdom: His Honour the Administrator, Superintendent of Police, Military Men, Equerry, Aides. Superintendent Gobally turned snowy eyebrows on the District Inspector of Police, who at once sprang from his seat and came, to inform his chief in a stage whisper that was caught by a microphone: ‘That mad Jewess . . . Red Rifkah.’
The voice from the crowd came back: ‘Zat country is last bit of dignity left to Aboriginal Race.’
Superintendent Gobally also rose, to come sidling deferentially to speak to the Prince. Again it went through the loud-speakers: ‘A rat-bag, your Royal Highness.’
His Highness murmured, ‘Rat-bag?’
Gobally simpered apologetically: ‘Loony . . . but a trouble-maker, too. I’ll get rid of her.’
He turned away and signed to several policemen lining the foot of the dais.
Then a voice was heard from amongst the elite on the left of the platform — again female, powerful, mature, and vibrant with indignation: ‘She’s not a rat-bag!’
The Prince swung t
hither, to meet the dark eyes of Bridie Cullity, which in her flushed fleshy old face under heavily pencilled brows were reminiscent of that glare of Old Shame-on-us in wrath. She addressed him boldly: ‘A brave woman, too. Lived for years with the blacks, trying to help them . . . hunted out by Yanks and Japs and Germans . . .’ The effort left the ample bosom heaving.
His Royal Highness eyed her for a moment, then with a slight bow turned and looked back at the interrupter. Now the crowd was in hubbub with policemen pushing into it. Without another glance at cringing Gobally he spoke quickly, curtly, as one used to authority: ‘Silence, please . . . silence!’
Obedience at once. The policemen stopped. He added, ‘I want to hear what the lady has to say. Pray continue, Madam.’
Perhaps through surprise, the voice now came too weak to catch the words. He put his hand to ear again, calling, ‘Speak up!’ Then with a wave of his free hand he added, ‘Stand back from the lady, if you please.’
Rifkah was revealed, dressed as always, in shirt, trousers, wide-awake. Gaunt as she was, judged by her face with high Semitic cheek-bones and sharp hooked nose, and by her flat bosom, in conventional woman’s clothing probably she would have looked a scarecrow. At her shoulder, lean almost as she, standing spread-legged, supported by his crutch, his artificial leg and arm apparently not much use to him, by their stiffness, was Pat. Only by his snapping green eyes would anyone have known him. He nudged Rifkah, saying in that same harsh voice of old, ‘Go on, love . . . give it lip!’
Her voice rose with strength: ‘Vite pipple of Australia have only vun chance left to cure ze Black Pox zat is vages of sin zey have commit’ against ze Aboriginal Race. Give back to ze blackman a vorthvile piece of ze stolen land, and let him live zere as he likes. Zat North Coast Country is ze only vorthvile piece left. If ze kuttabah . . . ze stranger, vich mean everybody not belonging, and zat mean halfcaste, too . . . if zey get out and keep out, ze truly native people, if left alone, vill go back to old vay, ze only vay zey really know. Change moost come. But let ze blackman change himself. Do not count zese ozzer blackfellows in numbering ze Aboriginal Race. Zey have lost zere Dreaming, vitout vich zey are like cripples . . . to be helped vit pity. Do not count halfcastes even vit cripples . . . because zey are really kuttabah, only pretending to be Aboriginal ven it suit zem . . .’
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