A Different Land

by Paul Jennings

  ‘Well, you can thank Christopher for that,’ said Pat. ‘The dog ran under the train. He rescued Lonely just in time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anton. ‘He threw a sausage into the bush and the dog went after it.’

  The man grinned. ‘Food is the only thing that will move him. He’ll chase a sausage. Or a bone. But he won’t do anything else you say. He drives you crazy with it.’

  Crayfish patted Christopher on the shoulder. ‘Thanks a million,’ he said. ‘I really love this little fellah.’

  His voice was shaking.

  ‘You can help out in the pub until the next train,’ he said to Pat. ‘But don’t get your hopes up. It’s no place for a sensitive woman like you.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m capable of,’ she said quietly.

  He didn’t seem to know what to say. He turned to Christopher.

  ‘You should be wearing a hat,’ he said. ‘With that bald head you won’t last a day in the tropical sun.’

  Christopher flushed.

  ‘It’s called hypotrichosis,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘I haven’t heard of that, son,’ Crayfish said softly. ‘But take a look at this.’

  He pulled off his hat and revealed his own hairless head. He grinned but Christopher didn’t return it. Being bald when you are a man is not the same. He had only just met this person but could sense his feelings changing like a thermometer. At the moment the temperature was definitely cool.

  ‘Come on,’ said Crayfish. ‘Let’s go. I was only expecting one … er, passenger. But there’s room in the truck for three.’

  A muffled yelp came from Lonely.

  ‘Four,’ he said. ‘Make that four.’

  He released a metal canteen that was attached to his belt and poured water into his hat. The dog lapped furiously.

  ‘Good fellah,’ said Crayfish. He put the wet hat back on his head and handed the water bottle around. They all gulped thirstily.

  Crayfish walked towards the pile of boxes and sacks. ‘Come on, men,’ he said. ‘You can earn your keep. Give me a hand.’

  Both boys began loading the boxes of supplies onto the truck. ‘Leave the anchor,’ said Crayfish. ‘There’s not enough room. I’ll get it next Mundy when I bring you back.’

  Pat started to carry a sack of flour over to the truck.

  ‘Not you,’ Crayfish said.

  She gave him a stare and then said, ‘I worked with soldiers in the war. I’m as good as any man.’

  He nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Pat.’

  She smiled. Christopher scowled. Why did his mother waste a smile on this rough character? He suddenly thought of his father – smart, brave and polite. And dead. He blinked back a tear. And this place. He knew he could never call it home.

  When they had finished loading the truck, Crayfish climbed in behind the wheel and turned on the headlights. Darkness had fallen suddenly. As if someone had thrown a switch.

  ‘Jump in,’ he said. ‘It’s a long way. We’ll have to sleep out in the bush for the night.’

  The two boys climbed into the back seat, leaving Pat to sit next to Crayfish. The dog immediately curled up on the floor at their feet.

  The engine burst into life and they lurched onto the track. The headlights lit up a narrow corridor between the trees. The forest was dark and sombre.

  ‘So, what’s your story, Pat?’ said Crayfish. ‘What brings gentlefolk like you to this wild country?’ His tone was friendly.

  ‘Our story?’ said Christopher in a low tone. ‘Our story. I’ll tell you our story. Our home town is a bombed ruin. My wonderful father is dead. So is my twin brother. Anton’s whole family is dead. He ran off from a cruel boys’ home. We met him on a ship and he fell overboard. Then we adopted him.’

  Crayfish’s eyes widened. ‘Jeez,’ he muttered. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He saved me,’ said Anton. ‘And—’

  Christopher cut across Anton, almost shouting. ‘When we got to this country we were sent to a migrant hostel in the middle of nowhere. The three of us lived in one tiny room. It was boiling hot in the summer. Freezing in the winter. No shops, no transport, not even a blade of grass. And no way out.’

  ‘Unless I found a job,’ said Pat quietly. ‘And I did. I answered the ad you put in the paper. Your offer of work at The Last Coach was enough to get us released.’

  She turned around and shook her head at Christopher, trying to cool his outburst. But it didn’t work. There was no stopping him.

  ‘And now you want to send us back to the migrant hostel,’ he went on. ‘I don’t want to go back there. I want to go home.’

  ‘We can’t go home,’ said Pat. ‘You know we can’t.’

  Three

  They all sat in silence as the truck began to climb into the mountains. Crayfish changed gear and the engine growled.

  ‘I need to pee,’ said Christopher.

  The truck came to a halt. Christopher opened the door and stepped into the night.

  The forest was black and silent. He walked to the back of the truck where no one could see him and began to undo his trouser buttons. A loud thump made him gasp. An unknown wild creature bounded past.

  Christopher gave a scream and scrambled back into the truck.

  Crayfish scoffed.

  ‘It’s just a roo,’ he said. ‘They’re harmless.’

  He drove on, looking for another place to stop.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Have another go.’

  Once again Christopher stepped out into the darkness.

  Three faces stared out of the cab.

  ‘Don’t look,’ he said.

  A sudden thunder of hooves filled the air as five or six huge shapes galloped past. Christopher screamed again and rushed back to the truck.

  Crayfish chuckled softly. Pat gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. ‘Don’t,’ she said softly. ‘He’s embarrassed.’

  ‘Wild brumbies,’ said Crayfish. He began to laugh. He couldn’t help himself.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Crayfish. ‘Look, reach under the seat. There’s an empty beer bottle there somewhere. You can do it in that.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Christopher.

  Despite his words, he found the bottle. He could feel his face burning with shame as he emptied himself into it. Anton grinned but said nothing.

  The truck ploughed on, higher and higher, crawling through the night. Finally, Crayfish turned off into a small clearing and killed the engine.

  A decaying caravan was revealed by the headlights. It had no tyres. Instead, long lengths of thick garden hose had been wrapped around the wheels. The caravan had cracked windows that were covered in cobwebs.

  ‘Our overnight accommodation,’ Crayfish said. ‘The locals stay here in emergencies. But it’s used mainly by me and sometimes passing ferals.’

  ‘Ferals?’ said Anton.

  ‘Pig hunters. Rough as guts. But don’t worry. We’ll be okay here for the night. There’s bunks and some blankets. You lot can sleep inside. Me and Lonely will kip in the truck.’

  He stepped out and returned holding a kerosene lantern, which glowed softly with a yellow light. He handed it to Christopher. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘The caravan’s not locked.’

  Christopher held out the half-filled beer bottle. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he said.

  Crayfish gave him a penetrating look and began to raise the beer bottle to his lips.

  ‘No,’ yelled Christopher. He struck the bottle and it fell to the ground with a soft thump.

  There was a moment of silence, then Crayfish grinned. ‘I only drink Four-Ex,’ he said.

  ‘You fell for it,’ said Christopher. ‘You were going to drink my p—’

  ‘No way,’ said Crayfish. ‘There’s no flies on me, mate.’

  ‘But you can see where they’ve been,’ said Christopher.

  They both started to laugh.

  Pat was laughing
too. Crayfish looked at her approvingly.

  ‘I like a sheila with a sense of humour,’ he said.

  ‘Sheila?’ she growled.

  He grinned sheepishly. ‘Okay, woman.’

  Christopher headed for the caravan, pulled open the door and looked inside. He fell backwards with a scream and landed on his back. Then he turned over onto his hands and knees and began to vomit.

  ‘What is it?’ yelled Anton. ‘What, what, what?’

  Christopher was dry retching and couldn’t get his breath. Finally, he gasped, ‘Something dead. With its guts hanging out. And flies everywhere.’

  Suddenly a loud blast filled the air.

  ‘A shotgun,’ said Pat.

  ‘The ruddy ferals,’ said Crayfish. ‘Shooting wild pigs. Nothin’ to worry about.’

  He rushed over to the caravan and came out with one hand held over his mouth and nose.

  ‘It’s a whopping big boar. There’s maggots everywhere,’ he yelped. ‘It’s been there for ages.’ He looked around the campsite.

  ‘The ferals have moved on. They’re squatting somewhere else.’

  Another two blasts echoed through the dark trees.

  ‘Double barrelled,’ said Pat.

  Crayfish looked at her, puzzled.

  ‘You lot get into the truck,’ he said. ‘I’ll get rid of the boar.’

  The two boys scrambled into the truck and shut the doors. Crayfish tied a large handkerchief across his nose, took a deep breath and started towards the caravan.

  Pat tied a thin scarf around her face. She followed Crayfish and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded, hesitated and led the way into the caravan.

  The boys stared out with horrified expressions. The caravan, illuminated in the yellow glow of the headlights, rocked slightly on its hose-covered wheels. There was a sound of scraping and grunting. Pat emerged, stepping down backwards from the door. She moved gingerly, holding on tightly to the back legs of the pig, which was shedding entrails and showers of maggots. Crayfish followed, holding the front legs. The boar’s eyeless head lolled to one side and its curled tusks scraped the ground.

  Christopher closed his eyes but the terrible sight remained with him. This new land was supposed to offer a haven of peace and promise. Not an untamed wilderness of snakes, maggots and fear.

  Pat and Crayfish staggered into the darkness with the boar. After a short while they emerged, puffing but saying nothing. They climbed into the truck and Crayfish started the engine. The truck lurched forward, made a wide arc and continued along the track, leaving the caravan behind with its door still hanging open.

  ‘I’ll never get the stink out,’ said Crayfish. ‘That caravan’s finished.’

  ‘I could get it out,’ said Pat. ‘I’ve dealt with much worse than a dead pig.’

  It started to rain. Heavily. There was no wind and it was still warm and clammy. The windscreen wipers scraped from side to side, not properly clearing the flooding water from the glass.

  They drove in silence through the dark forest. Crayfish looked over his shoulder at the boys and saw that they were already slumped on the seat with closed eyes. He lowered his voice.

  ‘You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But this is a hard land. It’s beautiful but dangerous. And there’s not much company. It can get lonely.’

  ‘Have you family?’ said Pat.

  He leaned towards the windscreen and seemed to be peering out as if he had seen something on the dark track. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘I did have. Peggy,’ he said.

  ‘Peggy?’ she queried.

  ‘Me wife. You know. The Bot called her Peg but her real name was Peggy.’

  ‘The Bot?’

  ‘Yeah, The Bot,’ he said. ‘He smokes OP’s.’

  ‘OP’s?’

  ‘Other people’s. He bots cigarettes.’

  She laughed out loud. He ignored her and went on with the story.

  ‘There’s three of us run the pub. There’s me, The Bot – he’s me best mate – and then there’s The Beard.’

  ‘What about Peggy?’

  ‘She drowned seven years ago,’ he said slowly. ‘This place killed her. We searched everywhere but her body was never found.’

  In the back seat Christopher opened his eyes. And listened.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Pat said quietly.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘My husband was killed on D-Day,’ she said.

  ‘That’s tough,’ he said. ‘Really tough.’

  Four

  When dawn broke a wonderful sight greeted the weary travellers. A golden sun was rising from the sea beneath a towering sky. The track before them curled along the side of a mountain like a dusty snake clinging to a precipice. The cliff on the left-hand side was sheer and dropped onto a white beach. The boys gazed out of the truck window nervously.

  ‘It is beautiful,’ said Pat. ‘You’re right about that.’

  ‘And hot,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Not like home,’ said Anton cheerfully. ‘Not a snowflake in sight.’

  Crayfish put the truck into gear and began the descent of the winding, narrow track.

  After four hours of slow driving the track reached sea level, and for a while ran along a muddy mangrove shore. Finally, around noon, they stopped outside a large shed made of corrugated iron. It had two heavy iron doors but no windows. A sign hung over the top.

  THE LAST COACH

  Hotel and General Store

  ‘What’s it say?’ said Anton.

  Christopher, who had been teaching his brother to read, shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘It’s where we are staying,’ he said. ‘The Last Coach.’

  ‘Last Hope, more like it,’ said Anton.

  Crayfish stepped out of the car followed by the others. Lonely trotted after him, sniffing the ground as he went.

  ‘Get a load of this,’ said Crayfish. He pulled open the doors and waved at the interior enthusiastically.

  They stared in astonishment, not knowing what to say.

  ‘What is it?’ said Anton.

  ‘Home,’ said Crayfish.

  The three travellers looked around in silence.

  The large tin shed had a dirt floor. The left wall was covered by rough shelves holding glasses and a variety of bottles. These were protected by a long wooden bar. Bare log tables were scattered across the eating area. At the back was a battered piano.

  On the opposite side of the shed was the general store. Here, a long counter separated customers from packets and tins of foodstuffs stacked up the wall in open boxes.

  A flock of coloured parrots flew inside and began noisily pecking at the litter in the dirt. Lonely ran among them as if they were old friends. They largely ignored him.

  ‘He should be called Friendly,’ said Anton.

  ‘A good word,’ said Pat. ‘Friendly.’

  Crayfish grinned. ‘Like you,’ he said.

  Christopher scowled.

  In the centre of the room was an enormous welded-steel barbecue attached to a gas bottle.

  Christopher surveyed the pub and shook his head.

  ‘We can’t sleep here,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right about that,’ said Crayfish. ‘Follow me.’

  As they left the pub, Crayfish indicated another dilapidated shed with half its roof missing.

  ‘That’s the long-drop,’ he said.

  ‘Long-drop?’ said Christopher. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Er, toilets. And a shower. We share with the customers.’

  They began to walk along a dirt path that ran through brightly coloured vines and drooping eucalypts. Finally, they reached a crumbling asbestos-lined bungalow with a long verandah looking out to sea.

  ‘There’s two empty rooms,’ he said. ‘I set the first one up for the new man – er, worker. That’s Pat’s. The other one is a spare for rough nuts who drink too much and can’t make it home. The boys can have that. Get your th
ings, unpack and have a rest. I’ll bring you some grub.’

  The boys made their way to their room. It was not quite what Christopher had imagined. To say the least. There were two rickety camp stretchers covered with smelly army blankets. An open window had only a bamboo blind to keep out the buzzing insects. The air was humid. In the corner was a clutch of brooms, buckets and mops.

  After they had settled, Crayfish arrived with some cheese, ham and pineapple slices, which they quickly gobbled. In no time the boys were asleep, exhausted from the journey.

  * * *

  When they awoke it was dark. The sound of the generator hummed through the trees and voices in the bar floated above it like the blurred words of a distant choir. Pat knocked on the door of their room.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Get dressed, I’m hungry.’

  They made their way back to the pub with her. The front doors were wide open to let in the night sky and a fresh breeze off the sea.

  The boys were in their best clothes: neatly creased shorts, short-sleeved shirts and shiny black shoes. Pat wore a classy coloured scarf around her head that she had bought when the boat stopped in Ceylon.

  ‘We should have come casual,’ she said with an ironic smile as she surveyed the men at the bar – some with bare feet and all wearing blue singlets and shorts. She walked behind the long counter and grabbed the handle of the single beer tap. The men looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Who’s for a pint?’ she said.

  A laugh went up.

  ‘I think you mean a schooner,’ said a whiskery man. ‘And make it cold.’

  Pat tipped up a glass and filled it with a flourish.

  Crayfish introduced her. ‘This is Pat and her two boys. They’ll be helping out for a few days.’

  ‘Where’s the new bloke?’ said the whiskery man.

  ‘That’ll be me,’ said Pat with a grin.

  Crayfish gave a foolish chuckle and whacked a hand down on the bemused man’s shoulder.

  ‘This is The Beard. The young bloke over there by the barbie is The Bot.’

  Crayfish handed Anton a pair of tongs and a huge fork. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You two look after the snags.’