Illywhacker

"But you can make a quid, Mr Abbot," I said. "There is a good quid to be made by us selling aircraft to Australians. That is the point. This is the country for the aeroplane, Mr Abbot, not Europe."

"I must say", Oswald-Smith said sternly, "that I had no intention of investing my money in a political party."

"This is not a political party." My voice rose in frustration. "I could not give a fig for politics." And as far as I understood politics, I was right. It was an understanding I shared with the shivering sergeant in the street outside, a man who had killed an officer and would not join a union.

"It sounds like politics to me," said Oswald-Smith. "Why do you have this chip on your shoulder about the English? Dear God, you are English. You talk English. You look English. You have an English name."

"Not a chip on my shoulder," I said, relieved that Oswald-Smith would at least look at me. "Common sense. Anyone can see that the English are as big a pest as the rabbit. No offence, but they're identical. They come here, eat everything, burrow under, tunnel out -look at Ballarat or Bendigo – and when the country is rooted…" I faltered, "it'll be rooted."

"Watch your language," said Cocky Abbot Junior, retrieving his fist.

But Oswald-Smith was a more complete Imaginary Englishman than Cocky Abbot Junior and felt relaxed enough to be amused by this analogy. In fact he was now amused by the whole turn of events and was pleased, more than ever, that he had come. "It makes no sense to the rabbit, surely," he said, "for when the country is," he paused and smiled, "rooted, there will be nothing left for it."

"Then they'll get on boats and go home and leave their tunnels and heaps behind."

"Rabbits? On boats?" Oswald-Smith smiled at the fancy.

"Oh, for God's sake, man, this isn't an argument about rabbits. It's about aeroplanes."

"If you two would shut up for a moment," said the older Cocky Abbot, as much irritated with Oswald-Smith as he was with me, "I'd like to say something. The first is I couldn't care if you was a German from Jeparit and I don't mind what you vote about. You can stand on your soap box till the cows come home. The second is I don't think you know a thing about rabbits. And the third thing is I'd like to listen to Jack McGrath, our host, who has had to put up with all this bulldust about rabbits. I'd like to hear Jack tell us how all this is going to make us a quid. And fourth, son," he told me, "I'd like you to shut up and listen."

I pointed a straight finger at him. "I'll be right back," I said.

I strode from the room.

"Come on, Jack," Cocky Abbot said. "What's it to be?"

But Jack felt ill and his deep depression, normally kept at bay by the company of other men, pushed its way into the room and claimed him in public.

"Come on, Jack," said old Cocky Abbot kindly, "let's have a look at what you want."

But Jack could be persuaded to say nothing, and Oswald-Smith, who had been entranced by the scene he had chanced upon, now wondered where Molly had hung his overcoat.

49

Whilst dining on goose Phoebe had seen Mrs Kentwell attack the Morris Farman with her umbrella. It had done no more damage than a knife in water. The craft was a figment, a moth attracted by the electric light of the house. It was Mrs Kentwell's natural enemy and the old hag had recognized it, gone to battle, and discredited herself.

Mrs Kentwell, Phoebe thought, would have no allies in this house. She had attacked the dream and proclaimed herself mad.

Phoebe retired to a chair in the music room and wrote, triumphantly, in her erratic left hand: "Nor shall the bosom proud, / Be hid with shame."

Tomorrow, please God, Herbert Badgery would permit her to fly with him to Barwon Common. She had chosen a scarf. ("Vermilion wraps the And then, if he still wanted to, she would go with him to the She was recording these intentions in her notebook when I burst from the meeting in the dining room and strode down the passage.

She assumed I was going to get the snake, that a performance had been called for.

She tucked her notebook inside her sling and was waiting in the passage as I rushed back carrying the snake. When she saw me she knew that something was wrong, and the snake looked like some writhing demon exorcized from my guts, the source of the twisting emotions hinted at in my angry face.

"I love you," I said, so loudly that she thought her mother, hunched over the wireless in the next room, must surely hear.

She fled to her bedroom and closed the door. When her mother did not appear she took out her notebook and began to write again, attempting to cage the snake with rhymes.

50

"This", I said, as I walked back into the dining room, "is a true Australian."

Oswald-Smith stood up, and then sat down again. Jack stayed at the table shaking his head.

"Ha," I said. "Ha." I threw the snake at young Cocky Abbot who leapt into the air and knocked over the chair he had been sitting on. He scrambled backwards and stood on a wingback chair.