Once a Pommie Swagman

by Thomas, Nick Arden

  At three o’clock in the morning the roar of the engine startled us awake and we were lucky not to be thrown off the back when the truck lurched violently, the rear wheels catching the edge of the road as we set off.

  “Jesus!” Glen shouted, grabbing his rucksack as it was about to fall off. “The bastard’s fucking mad!”

  We eventually rolled into Townsville about five o’clock in the morning, having spent over fifty hours doing a trip that a push bike could do in twenty. Still, mad or not, he had got us there, Townsville at last, so as we jumped down we were feeling grateful as well as relieved. “Thanks,” we yelled up to him.

  “Yeah, see youse,” he grunted, and without so much as a glance he drove off.

  We’d met a few strange people on our journey so far, but ‘Mr Personality’ Colin Tucker was certainly right up there with the strangest. Although no doubt he thought we were pretty weird, too.

  As it was so early, we took the opportunity to have a shower and wash our clothes in the bathroom of the first likely looking hotel we came to. Having done it once, it wasn’t quite such a nerve-racking experience, but we still didn’t breath easily until we were outside, clean underpants and shirts wrapped in our towels. Drying them was our first priority, and not far from the hotel we saw a sign: ‘Castle Hill Lookout’ so we set off up the fairly steep road. It looked like a good place to get our bearings, and we weren’t disappointed. The view was just fantastic. Laid out before us was the city and harbour of Townsville, and there in the distance, rising out of a shimmering aqua green sea, was Magnetic Island. We could barely believe it. We’re here! We’ve made it! Whoopee! There was another reason for rejoicing too, or at least going down into town and having a T-bone with the works — it was my seventeenth birthday.

  TWELVE

  Magnetic Island

  The day we arrived in Townsville was exactly nine years after the most disappointing thing that had ever happened to me occurred. The day before my eighth birthday, a parcel — the first I’d ever received actually addressed to me personally — arrived from my grandfather in Queensland. I was at school when it was delivered, and when I came home it was sitting on the dining table. It was a large parcel wrapped in brown paper with a birthday card stuck under the string, and although it was a strange shape it was quite heavy and I knew instantly what it was. Mainly because for weeks I’d been banging on to anyone who would listen that the one present I really, really, really wanted was a Meccano set. And here it was! Yes! Yes! Yes! I was so excited I almost wet myself, and then did wet myself at the other end with frustration when my stepmother said I couldn’t open it until the next day.

  “Why not!” I flounced. “It’s my present!”

  “Yes, but it’s not your birthday yet and birthday presents are for birth days, not the day before!”

  “OOOOOH!! Poop! Poop! Poop!”

  “Don’t talk like that, Nicholas.”

  Fortunately the next day was Saturday, and on non-school days we were allowed to open our presents at breakfast instead of waiting until we came home. For the rest of that afternoon I didn’t go out to play as usual but lay on the dining room floor, staring up at my parcel. By the time I went to bed I’d designed a dozen things I was going to build, foremost among them a crane. It took me ages to go to sleep.

  Next morning at breakfast, my father, sister and stepmother gathered about expectantly as I ripped open the brown paper, heart pumping. Then, after the stifled exclamations, stunned silence reverberated round the room and we all stared down incredulously at the wooden toilet seat. The next hour or so has always been a bit of a blur. I was completely devastated, and have no idea how long I cried. I think my father was as upset as I was, although he would have better understood that my grandfather, being a fourth generation Kiwi farmer, couldn’t help himself. Like many of his kind, he was shackled with that obtuse disposition country New Zealanders like to think is a sense of humour. In fairness, though, he could never have known how disappointed his gift would make me; it was just his way of reminding me of all those rolls of toilet paper I had so assiduously dropped down his dunny.

  * * *

  Of course, Magnetic Island wasn’t the immediate, crushing disappointment of the toilet seat; more it was a gradual, deepening dis-enchantment, but it stemmed from the same error. By the second day I think we both realised, even if we couldn’t have explained it, that we’d made a mistake; not in going there, but in placing so much importance on getting there, like it was the culmination of our journey, rather than just another place along the way. Magnetic Island had become our Holy Grail, our Meccano set, and when we got there and found it wasn’t we gradually became more and more discouraged.

  It was so quiet and peaceful, there was no such thing as a ‘pace of life’; ‘morgue of life’ might better describe it. There was absolutely no work and very little to do other than touristy things like swim in lagoons, go for walks in the bush, build sandcastles and take in the wonderful views. Of course up on the Glasshouse Mountains there had been even less to do, and nobody at all lived there; but we’d expected it to be like that, and at that point all our goals and dreams still lay ahead of us. Now, suddenly, we didn’t have a clue what to do next or where to go. We had no goal, no dream.

  Quite a few people did live on the Island, but they were scattered about on smallholdings or perched up on the hills in their weekenders. It did get a little busier on the weekends, as people came over from Townsville for the day. During the week, however, there were very few people about and they were mostly older, or families with young children; the whole time we were there we barely saw another person our age. Oh, we explored the place alright, marvelled at the fantastic coral reefs, the strange fish and squadrons of birds and we saw our first wild koalas, lots of them in fact — how did they get over there? We climbed Mt Cook, walked virtually right around the island and gorged ourselves on the fruit we pinched from the orchards of the smallholdings. But, pinching fruit apart, those are all occupations for which teenagers have notoriously short attention spans.

  Such an enigmatic emotion is boredom! It doesn’t manifest itself like anger and humour, for example; they are obvious more or less straight away. Boredom dispenses its poison in little doses. Hours take days to pass by, restlessness becomes frustration, squabbles become heated arguments, tempers get shorter, and fuming silences longer. By the time you realise it’s boredom that you’re suffering from, you’ve been crippled by it for days. Had it not been for Harry Melling, Glen and I may well have split up and gone our separate ways from Magnetic Island.

  * * *

  Harry Melling might as well have had ‘salt of the earth’ engraved on his forehead, so obvious it was; solid build, a lived-in face, reassuring serenity and hands worn and battered by decades of manual labour. He’d been visible long before the ferry reached Picnic Bay, standing out like a beacon at the end of the jetty in his outrageously lurid Hawaiian shirt. “Welcome to Magnetic Island, folks!” he greeted the handful of passengers as we alighted. “I’m Harry, and that’s Doris,” he grinned, pointing to a gaudily painted old bus parked at the entrance to the jetty.

  Doris was a 1946 Ford long nose ‘ jail bar’, so-called because of the vertical bars in the front grille. Now seriously rearranged to carry more luggage, it seated about twenty-five passengers. It did have a roof, but that was about all; there was not one window, save for the windscreen, and what was left of the bodywork was painted all over in a complete mishmash of bright colours — a bit like Harry’s shirt.

  Twice a day the bus took those wanting to go to the beaches and holiday shacks on the other side of the island, bringing back those returning to the mainland on the return journey; each trip, roughly an hour long, timed to meet the morning and afternoon ferry. There was no charge, as the bus was owned by the same people who ran the ferry service and one ticket covered it all. Back in Townsville the day before, we’d stocked up on provisions and waited around for a bit to see Mal Dixon at the taxi rank. It was on
e of his driver mates who’d told us the best place to camp was Horseshoe Bay, so we followed the half dozen or so other passengers and clambered aboard Doris.

  “Okey-dokey Doris baby! Let’s hit the road!” Harry yelled, climbing into the driver’s seat, then he whistled and called out “Bing!” and a blue kelpie, panting with excitement, came rushing over and leapt into the bus, taking up a position on the floor next to the gear lever. “First stop Nelly Bay! Then all stations to Horseshoe Bay,” and Doris rattled into life. For the first couple of miles the track hugged the coastline, Harry giving us a running commentary as we went through Nelly Bay and Arcadia, but it wasn’t until we began climbing into the hills in the bush above Alma Bay, engine roaring in protest, that he began to sing at the top of his voice:

  “Oh I love to go a-wandering

  Along the mountain track

  And as I go, I love to sing

  My knapsack on my back.”

  Then he turned briefly into the bus, one hand on the wheel with the other arm vigorously urging everyone to join in, and soon we were all singing as gustily as Harry:

  Val-de-ri; val-de-ra

  Val-de-ri; Val-de-rah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!

  Val-de-ri; Val-de-rah

  My knapsack on my back”

  Once started there was no stopping him, and for the rest of the journey the bus rang out with boisterous renditions of half a dozen popular tunes, the last, as we came down into Horseshoe Bay, being a song by his favourite singer. “Always like to finish a trip with my lovely Doris!” he informed us.

  “Oh the deadwood stage is a-headin’ on over the hills

  Where injun arrows is sharper than porcupine quills

  Dangerous land, no time to delay!

  Whip crack away, whip crack away, whip crack away!”

  Harry was right, of course. Doris Day was lovely! ‘Wet dream Doris’ we used to call her.

  Having dropped all the other passengers off in the main area of Horseshoe Bay, Harry went out of his way a bit to take us as far as he could to the western end where Mal’s taxi mate had told us was the most secluded place to camp. We chatted on the way and learned he was retired and only drove the bus part-time, sharing the job with his neighbour. “One week I’ll do the morning run and he does the afternoons, next week we swap about. Works out pretty good,” he smiled, as Doris squeaked to a halt at the end of the sandy track. “Far as I can go, boys. There’s a track down to the beach just up there. If you need anything just give us a shout. I live about half a mile over there,” he pointed inland. “Can’t miss the place.” He patted the vibrating dash. “Doris will be parked in the front yard,” and he roared off, Bing in the doorway wagging his tail in farewell.

  The first few days were okay as we were busy exploring the area and building our camp. Not knowing how long we were going to stay, we’d bought a couple of pieces of old tarpaulin and some rope from a junk shop in Townsville, just in case we needed more shelter than banana leaves and palm fronds. It took us nearly two days to gather all the material and build our camp, tucked in under the rocks right at the end of the beach. We were quite proud of it, even if the construction had been interrupted by our increasingly ill-tempered, petty arguments.

  In three days we only saw half a dozen people, four of whom had strolled up to our end of the beach one evening, coming from the other end where most of the holiday accommodation was situated. We’d just lit our fire and were preparing to cook dinner when the two couples stopped about a hundred yards away and stared at us. Glen was opening a tin so I gave them a wave. One of the ladies did wave back but it was with some reluctance, as if we were two scruffy teenagers from Epping and they might catch something if they got too friendly.

  I was tempted to yell out, “What are you looking at!” but mumbled it instead.

  “They’re only curious,” said Glen.

  “What about? How would they like if we went down there and stared at them?”

  “Jesus, you’re touchy!”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are! Go and get some more wood!”

  “No. You go and get the fucking wood!”

  We did eventually get around to eating, but it was a silent affair.

  A couple of mornings later we were running out of food so we caught the morning bus back to Picnic Bay with Harry and bought some bread, eggs, sausages and a few other things in the little general store. Then we went to the fish and chip shop to buy lunch; the chocolate bars sitting on the counter were too much of a temptation and while the shopkeeper was distracted I whipped two or three of them into my pocket.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Glen seethed as we emerged. “Can’t you go into any shop without stealing something?”

  “You don’t have to eat them!”

  “Oh fuck off!”

  “No! You fuck off!”

  We sat apart on the harbour wall eating our chips before catching the afternoon bus. Harry ’s friend Doug was not nearly as boisterous or entertaining; which was probably just as well as neither of us felt like singing.

  The next day we set off to explore some of the old forts that are dotted about on the cliffs above Arthur Bay. But it all felt so futile, so shallow; there was no purpose for being there, other than having a holiday, and it certainly didn’t feel like that.

  “But if we only take one rucksack, who’s going to carry it?”

  “We’ll take it in turns.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard that before! I’ll end up carrying the bloody thing all day!”

  “Bullshit! So we’ll take two, see if I care.”

  “You don’t have to get all shitty about it. We can take one if you want. I’m just telling you I’m not going to carry it all day.”

  “Who said you had to? Forget it, I’ll take mine and you take yours! And I’m not getting all shitty!”

  It was about our tenth day on the island that we climbed Mt Cook, or it might have been the twelfth; not much matters when not much matters. At least climbing the mountain was exhausting enough to leave no energy for arguments; but when we got back that evening tempers flared; burst into flames, more like. The frying pan I was supposed to have cleaned that morning before we left was covered in ants, as was our loaf of bread and the sugar. The jam jar was simply swarming with them — they were everywhere!

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Glen exploded, flinging the frying pan out onto the sand. “You were supposed to wash the fucking thing!”

  “So I forgot!”

  “You’re fucking useless!”

  “Oh yeah, okay Mr Perfect! What does it matter anyway! I’ll clean the fucking thing now!”

  “Of course it matters, you stupid prick! Look at this!” and he picked up the bag of sugar, waving it in my face, ants scurrying up his arm, then he turned and hurled it into the trees behind our camp.

  “What did you do that for? That’s all we’ve got!”

  “I don’t give a stuff. I’m getting fucking sick of this, and you,” and as he made to move off he bumped into me, so hard I stumbled and fell, smacking my elbow hard against some rocks.

  “Jesus!” I yelled, grabbing my arm, then all I could feel was white hot anger. “Fuck you!” and I ran after him.

  It wasn’t so much a fistfight, although we did each land a few blows, more a rolling frantic wrestling match in the sand. One moment I was on top, next minute he was and we ripped each other’s shirts. Glen cut his cheek on a sharp stick poking out of the sand and we ended up a hundred yards away from camp. Being quite a bit bigger than me, Glen always had an advantage, and gradually his size began to tell and when eventually he got me in a headlock there was little I could do but flail my arms and try and punch him in the stomach or kidneys. In the end I had to give in. We were both standing up, me bent double with my head tucked under his arm as I tried to push him towards the water — once there I thought I might be able to wriggle free — but he just dug his feet into the sand and closed his arm tighter and tighter around my throat until I coul
d hardly breathe and was forced to cry out.

  “You’re breaking my neck!” He let me go more or less instantly, pushing me to the sand as he walked away, both of us gasping for breath.

  By now it was dark and Glen went wandering off, disappearing down the beach; not that I cared where he was going. I went back to the camp and sat by the fire, rubbing my aching neck and sore elbow. I was still there half an hour later when Glen came back, looking as sheepish as I felt, blood running down his cheek.

  Our camp was a mess, sand and ants were everywhere, but we cleaned it up together as best we could in the dark and then heated a couple of tins of sausages and beans and sat by the fire.

  “Your face alright?”

  “Yeah, it’s not much. Your arm?”

  “Yeah, it’s nothing.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, so am I. I’ll wash the frying pan” and I got up and went down to the water and washed all our implements. When I got back Glen was in bed, so I just put everything away and climbed in beside him.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked ten minutes later, not hiding his despair.

  “I don’t know,” and for half an hour or more we lay there in miserable silence.

  “Why don’t we go and see Harry tomorrow and ask about work,” Glen suggested. “He might even have some work for us,” he added hopefully.

  “I doubt it.”

  “You doubt everything.”

  “No, I don’t!”