White Sands of Summer

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘Come with you?’

  ‘No. It’s something I got to do by myself.’

  Shannon watched as Josh sneaked into the cottage. There was no outcry so she reckoned he’d got away with it. She opened the gate to the street and went out. It had started to rain while they were putting the ladder back and now the drops were seeping down the back of her neck. No worries; the more like a drowned rat she looked the better.

  There were no streetlights but those inside the pub shone yellow on the wet pavement. The six o’clock swill had been in force in Queensland for years but in the sugar belt it was mostly ignored. Hell, this was the tropics, wasn’t it? A man needed to quench his thirst in the hot weather and in towns like Proserpine most pubs would stay open as long as there was a thirst to quench.

  Shannon heard the sound of men’s voices, the occasional laugh, the smell of beer. Mateship was what men called these casual friendships; how she wished she could be a man, free to do the things that men could do.

  OK for blokes but not for women. Bars were off-limits for both women and children, so Shannon, thirteen and female, was disqualified on both counts. Too bad. She hadn’t made the rules and saw no need to obey them. Her heart was pounding, but things couldn’t go on as they were. Something would have to be done about Grace and only Dad could do it.

  She drew a deep breath, walked up the steps and into the hotel.

  The bar was crowded but the way the conversation died you’d think every man in the place had had his throat cut. Jabber, jabber, and then silence, as heavy as lead. Silence and disbelief.

  ‘What the hell?’ somebody said.

  ‘You come to the wrong place, missy,’ the barman said, elbows on the counter, broken teeth grinning in a wide and ugly mouth. ‘Kids not allowed. Now you trot along home like a good girl, OK?’

  ‘Darn right,’ someone said.

  The weight of their disapproval would have crushed her if she’d let it.

  ‘Looking for someone, kiddo?’ A more friendly voice, a bloke whose name she knew. Syd.

  ‘My dad.’

  ‘You’re Trav Harcourt’s kid, aren’t you? Hey, Trav, you got a visitor, mate.’

  Dad was fit to be tied. ‘If Grace sent you after me…’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘What you doing here, then?’

  ‘Cause I got to talk to you.’

  ‘Well you can’t.’

  The new Shannon was not to be fobbed off so easily. ‘She belted me, Dad. Twice.’

  Travis’s expression changed. ‘Maybe you better tell me about it, at that.’

  She told him, leaving out the bit where she’d tried to belt Grace back.

  ‘You’re my kid,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘I got a right to belt you if I want but not her. She got no right to do that.’ He cocked an eye at her. ‘What would you do, if I did?’

  ‘Dodge,’ Shannon said.

  He laughed. ‘I bet you would.’

  ‘I’m too old to be belted,’ she said.

  ‘Is that right? How old are you, then?’

  ‘Thirteen today. It’s me birthday, Dad.’

  ‘Stone the crows,’ he said. ‘I thought you was about seven.’

  ‘I was seven when Mum died.’

  ‘I’d shout you a beer if it was allowed. But it ain’t. So what you want as a pressie, Shannon?’

  ‘I want you to stop her belting me.’

  She had an impressive bruise on her right cheek to prove what she was saying and he checked it out.

  ‘You’re on,’ Dad said, face grim.

  Some of the other men in the bar checked it too. Nearly all the blokes there knew her, at least by sight, and sucked their teeth when they saw it.

  ‘Won’t do,’ someone said.

  ‘Too right,’ someone else said. ‘Some sheila come in from outside, starts knocking our kids about, you gotta stop it, Trav.’

  Bowen was just down the road but it might have been another universe, the way they spoke.

  ‘I’m gunna do just that,’ Dad said.

  ‘You say it’s your birthday, little lady?’ Syd said.

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ she said.

  ‘I got a tanner to say happy birthday,’ he said.

  Other blokes kicked in and she ended up with three bob. It was the best birthday present she’d ever had.

  ‘Let’s get home,’ Dad said, face grim.

  He drained his pot, said hooroo to the mates, and they walked back to the cottage in the rain. No sign of Grace when they got there.

  ‘You’ll sleep in the house,’ Dad said as they went in. ‘On the sofa tonight; we’ll bring your bed across in the morning. No more shed for you. I shoulda done something before this.’

  ‘I like it in the shed,’ Shannon said. There she could talk to herself without anyone hearing and pretend that neither Grace nor Jess existed.

  ‘You’ll do what I tell you,’ Dad said, maggoty as always when he’d been on the beer.

  He went into the bedroom and closed the door hard behind him. Shannon listened. There were voices that grew steadily hotter. Shannon knew from experience how it would go; they’d be yelling their heads off before long. She couldn’t use the sofa, anyway; that would be Josh’s place as long as he stayed with them. He was there now, pretending to be asleep.

  ‘Thanks, heh,’ Shannon said to the shut-eyed boy. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  She went back across the yard to the shed. She shut the door behind her, shutting out the world. She lit the paraffin lamp and looked about the closed-in room. The familiar shadows, all her bits and pieces. Such as they were, they welcomed her.

  Home.

  ‘She’ll get her own back on you,’ Shannon said.

  ‘I didn’t do nothin’ to her,’ Josh said.

  ‘You got me out,’ Shannon said.

  ‘She shouldn’t have locked you up in the first place.’

  ‘Won’t make no difference. The way she sees it, you helping me means you’re sticking up your finger at her and she’ll never put up with that. She’ll pay you out. You can bet on it.’

  ‘I’m not scared of her.’

  ‘Maybe you should be,’ Shannon said.

  Two days later Grace’s pet tabby jumped on the table and broke a plate. Grace knew how it had happened but still blamed Josh for it. Now it was his turn to be locked in the shed without any supper.

  ‘Where am I supposed to sleep?’ Shannon said.

  ‘Where he normally does,’ Grace said. ‘On the sofa.’

  Shannon grouched, more for the sake of it than anything else, but lay on the sofa anyway and pulled the blanket over her. The blanket smelt of Josh, but there were worse smells.

  She was determined to help him if she could. Grace had had the skylight screwed shut – in case of burglars, she’d said, which was a load of rubbish, as though any burglar would waste his time breaking in when it was obvious there’d be nothing worth nicking, but that was Grace, a mean woman who didn’t care whether she made sense or not.

  Shannon was determined she wouldn’t let her get away with it. With the skylight screwed shut, she couldn’t get Josh out but she ought to be able to do something about his supper.

  That evening, when she was supposed to be asleep and Grace had gone to bed, with Dad home from the pub early for once, Shannon sneaked a plate of mutton and a couple of cold spuds out of the kitchen cupboard, inched open the door into the yard and took the plate across to the shed. She pushed her mouth close to the door and whispered, scared Grace might still be awake.

  ‘Josh?’

  ‘What is it?’ His voice sounded a bit wobbly.

  ‘I brought some tea for you.’

  ‘How’d you get it?’

  ‘I nicked it out the kitchen.’

  ‘How you gunna get the door open?’

  ‘I’m not. But there’s a gap under two of the planks just to the right of the door. I’ll shove the plate through there.’

  And did so.

  ‘Got a
knife and fork?’ Josh said.

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Don’t matter. I’ll use me hands.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  No worries on that score; in no time he had pushed the cleaned plate back through the gap.

  ‘Thanks, heh,’ Josh said.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She scooted back to the cottage, sloshed water over the plate and lay down on the sofa. Within seconds she was asleep.

  Josh stayed another month. Shannon got on fine with him. They had a lot of laughs – Josh’s laugh was kinda weird, with his mouth wide open but no sound coming out – but they both knew it was a short-term thing. One day he’d be gone and there was a fair chance they’d never see each other again.

  That was exactly how things worked out. Word came after a couple of weeks that Flos had had her baby – another boy – and a fortnight after that Josh boarded the bus and was gone.

  A week after Josh left, Grace found Shannon a job, and a lousy job it was.

  ‘Ironing for Mrs Warburton. It’s only two evenings a week and we need the money.’

  Mrs Warburton was the bank manager’s wife and a snooty cow, with hardly a word for her unwilling helper. Plenty of looks, though, and she checked the ironing with a mean eye when Shannon was through with it. As for the money, Mrs Warburton paid Grace direct and Shannon never saw any of it. And her with not a penny to bless herself with.

  Enough to make you sick.

  For the rest of the afternoons she was at a loose end, kicking stones down an empty road. Then it was school holidays time again; that was when she became friends with Irma Douglas.

  Irma was fifteen, the daughter of Emmet Douglas, the bloke who’d got Dad his job at the mill. She was a looker and knew how to make the most of it, with striking, violet-coloured eyes and a little scar at the side of her mouth where she said her dad had belted her a couple of years back. She didn’t care; she told Shannon the boys found the scar exciting.

  ‘Not only boys, either,’ Irma said.

  Too right. There’d been a scandal about Irma a year before when she’d run off with a passing salesman. She’d come back a month later but would never say where she’d been or what she’d done. Everyone in Proserpine knew the story. When she came back her dad told the world he would beat the devil out of her. With blood. He did so regularly, especially after a few drinks. The gossips said you could hear her yelling halfway to Airlie Beach and agreed her backside must be as raw as uncooked steak.

  ‘Serve ’er right,’ said Mrs Loop.

  People all assumed the worst, which in Irma’s case was a given, and said she was growing up to be a reckless woman.

  Reckless or not, she seemed anxious to be mates with Shannon. ‘You wouldn’t say no to some spare cash, would you?’

  ‘Too right I wouldn’t!’

  Irma explained she was in on what she called the watermelon racket. She said she’d cut Shannon in for some of the action if she was interested.

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  It came down to pinching a few watermelons and selling them on the side.

  ‘Make a bob or two that way, no worries,’ Irma said.

  It wasn’t like it was murder, or something. Stealing watermelons was only a major crime if your name was Charlie Hong, the Chinese bloke who owned the paddock where he grew the melons to sell at the market under the waterside trees at Airlie Beach. As far as Charlie Hong was concerned, pinching his melons should be a hanging offence. He had a habit of carrying a big stick and owned a shotgun that rumour said he’d threatened to use on any kid foolish enough to try half-inching his melons, but a Chinaman taking pot shots at the local kids wouldn’t have gone down well in Proserpine, so thus far he’d resisted the temptation.

  There was always a first time, of course.

  Irma ran with a bunch of boys who tolerated having her along subject to certain conditions. Irma was vague about what those conditions might be, but Shannon had the impression they might be particularly daring and was willing to join in, if invited.

  A bloke called Ollie Gadd came and talked to her about it. First off, he said, she’d have to prove how brave she was. They called themselves the Proserpine Push, after the Sydney gangs they read about in the papers. Ollie Gadd was their leader and told Shannon what she had to do.

  ‘Pinch a dozen of Chinky Hong’s melons.’

  ‘A dozen?’ It sounded an awful lot. ‘How do I carry them?’

  ‘One at a time.’

  Ollie explained how it worked. Charlie Hong had put up a tight wire fence about his precious melons, with strands of barbed wire at top and bottom.

  ‘You’re skinny enough. Irma can’t do it no more but you should be able to crawl under the bottom strand without getting hooked up.’

  It was true Shannon was still as flat as a board whereas Irma’s nickname was Chesty.

  ‘When you’re through into the paddock you cut the melons and lug them back to the fence, one by one. We’ll be waiting. Then you go back for the next one. Get it?’

  ‘And you’ll cut me in for a share of the money?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ollie with his innocent look.

  Shannon didn’t much fancy it but for a bob or two in her pocket was willing to take the risk. ‘What if he spots me?’

  ‘We’ll take care of you, no worries.’

  ‘They might want something more from you later,’ said Irma, eyeing Shannon’s flat chest, ‘but I shouldn’t think you need worry about that for now.’

  ‘What you on about?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Irma said. ‘Melons first, OK?’

  It was a misty morning with water drops hanging from the strands of Charlie Hong’s fence. Shannon lay in the long grass bordering the fence and stared at the paddock on the other side. Everywhere were massive green melons – prize winners, the lot of them – shiny with dew. No sign of Charlie Hong but that meant nothing; he might be anywhere.

  Beyond the perimeter fence marking the far side of Charlie’s property were the first acres of the Maitland estate. Shannon continued to dream about Hal Maitland but had still never spoken to him. Love could be a trial and no mistake.

  ‘You scared?’ asked Irma, lying beside her.

  ‘Of course not.’ Terrified was more like it.

  ‘What you waiting for, then?’

  ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘Got your knife?’

  ‘Of course.’

  But felt the sheath hanging from her waist to make sure. She’d do a poor job cutting the melons without a knife.

  The boys of the Proserpine Push were there too; further back, but Ollie had promised they’d be watching out for her.

  ‘I’ll hoick up that bottom wire so you can squeeze under it,’ Irma said.

  Flatter than the flattest pancake, Shannon squirmed under the fence.

  As soon as she was clear Irma let the wire go with a twang that made Shannon jump. If Charlie Hong had heard it… She waited, expecting to hear his screams of outrage, but there was nothing. Heart and breathing eased. Slower than a legless chook, she crawled away from the fence. With her eyes more or less at ground level, all she could see were the green shapes of the watermelons. Anything could be hiding among them. Rats; snakes; Charlie Hong. He could be looking down at her at that moment, steel-bound stick about to smash into her head. Despite herself she stiffened but nothing happened.

  Imagination was the enemy.

  She reached the first melon. She used her knife to saw through the tough stem and rolled it inch by inch back to the wire fence, where Irma lifted the bottom strand high enough for Shannon to push the melon through.

  One.

  She breathed deeply, puffing out her cheeks. She’d never manage eleven more. A dozen? Forget it.

  Half a dozen, maybe: that would have to do. But she never managed even that. She was on the fifth when there was a banshee scream of rage accompanied by what sounded like the blast of a shotgun.

  I’m
dead, Shannon thought, eyes bolting in her head, but the pellets, if any, came nowhere near her. She felt relief as well as terror, knowing only that she wasn’t going to hang around for Charlie Hong to have another go at her. Abandoning the last melon, she leapt to her feet and hurled herself helter-skelter towards the fence.

  Irma was not there and without someone to lift the bottom strand there was no way she could squeeze underneath. Looking back, she saw the skinny Chinaman powering towards her, brandishing his stick above his head.

  She had two choices: let him catch her or go over the top of the fence. The barbed wire gleamed in the sunlight but she didn’t hesitate. She flung herself at the fence and climbed, feet slipping, sweat pouring into her eyes. She could sense that Charlie was very close to her now.

  She was almost at the top but had no idea how she was going to avoid the cruel brambles of the top strand. Get hooked on them and they would rip her to pieces.

  On the other hand, if she stayed where she was she’d end up in court, always assuming Charlie Hong didn’t kill her first.

  And where was Irma? Where were the blokes who were supposed to help if she needed them? Done a runner, that was what.

  All right; she’d have to sort things out herself. She took a deep breath and hurled herself over the top wire.

  The barbs tore at her. There was blood and a fair amount of pain. But she would live, and she was safe. Limping, blood running down her legs, she staggered away.

  ‘Where’s my cut on those melons I got for you?’

  Ollie whistled a little tune. ‘Mate, I dunno what you’re on about.’

  Ollie Gadd had cheated her. Ollie and Irma. Shannon was madder than the maddest hornet. Nearly got herself killed by the crazy Chinaman and not even a penny for her trouble.

  She went looking for Irma, swearing she’d make her pay, but couldn’t find her. Two days later Shannon found that once again Irma had done a runner after lifting the cash her dad had put aside to buy a wireless. Some people were saying the same salesman had come back for her – come back for another taste, as Mrs Loop said – because someone thought they might have seen her getting into a car heading north. Others had her in Mackay, seventy-five miles to the south, but nothing certain ever came to light. Irma had vanished.

  Shannon was so mad at Irma, Grace and the world that she was tempted to follow her example, but two days after Irma’s disappearance something happened to change not only her mind but her life.