A Place Called Home (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  In eighteen months away George had grown a little taller and had started to make his adult growth across chest and shoulders. For ten minutes his mother could marvel at nothing else – he was growing into a powerfully built man. His health was low at the moment, but that would cure itself with rest, good food, and a little medical care – she had no great worries there.

  They took him home, talking about very little, content that he should relax. In the morning Ned drove him down to Vunapope, to the hospital, giving George the chance to talk through his experience, man to man; he listened while George accused himself of panic at the crash.

  “Anybody hurt by you panicking, nipper?”

  “No, but…”

  Ned cut in, overbore his reply.

  “Bugger the buts! Nobody was hurt and you came round and saved yer own neck – a lot of men would have died, but you kept yer ‘ead and walked out sensibly. Next time you meet up with a problem you won’t flap at all – you got it out of yer system. We all got to learn, and you learned harder than most – you were on yer own and ‘ad nobody to give any advice. You did bloody well! Sure, you were lucky – you could ‘ave been ate by that crocodile or bitten by a snake while you were taking a crap. So could anybody! Next time you’ll have the knowledge, and six pairs of socks and a spare pair of boots in yer bag!”

  George was lucky again at the hospital; there was a doctor in residence, a volunteer, as ever, but due to stay for a good six months. He anaesthetised George’s feet, dug out the insect eggs from under his toenails, cauterised the worms, scraped and painted the fungus patches, disinfected the dirty scratches; he recommended George to stay away from swamps in future and instructed him to return for dressings every two days for the next two weeks and to keep his feet dry the meanwhile.

  How to shower dryfoot – it made a rich and often vulgar source of conversation for the return as they debated exactly where, and how, he should put his feet and experimented in the establishment of an adult relationship.

  “I’m going to get a car, nipper. What do you reckon?”

  “Fair idea, old man. They even taught us how to drive at school, something to do on a Saturday – so it ain’t exactly a new come-out. You should have got one ten years ago. What about a truck?”

  “No bloody garages.”

  “Open one. Be money in it. Get a partner and put a bloke in from down South to run it and do the mechanics. Pick up someone you can trust as a manager.”

  Ned was amazed, pleasantly so – the boy made sense.

  “Good on yer, nipper. You can be manager.”

  “Not me, Dad. I’ve got a few things to do first, for myself. Better I stay on my own for a few years, make a go of something for myself first.”

  “Up to you – I ain’t giving orders. I’ll stick you in for ten per cent, it’s your idea.”

  “I’ll not argue with that. Thanks. I’m not being ungrateful, old man, but I got to thinking last week, while I was on my own – didn’t have a lot else to do, I suppose!”

  Ned nodded, waited, said nothing. He was none too sure about this thinking business, had never been inclined to indulge in it. He had heard of too many cases where thinking had led to a bad case of religion.

  “Thing was, I worked out, I’d never been on my own before. There’d always been a teacher or a pal at school, or you and Mum here – someone to do it for me or tell me what to do. If I stayed here it would be the same, wouldn’t it? I’d be forever asking your advice, or you’d be giving it anyway. It would never be me own feet I was standing on – not that I want to do that for a week or two anyway!”

  “Can’t say you’re wrong – it wouldn’t do either of us a lot of good. We’d be arguing more than discussing, I reckon. I’m older, so I know better; you’re younger, so you’re awake to what’s new. Better far to leave it for a year or two!”

  George agreed – they would be bound to clash.

  “I’m building a bit of a stake over in Lae, commissions from the miners. I’ve got more than a thousand already. Two more years and I can buy a couple of planes and hire a pair of pilots and then spend a year or two making a name and a profitable business. After that it’s borrow from the bank and buy a Junkers or a Ford or one of the new Douglases, big time! All metal monoplanes, three engines by choice, though the Douglases have only got two. They can carry a real payload and make big money.”

  “You’ll be getting one of them big flying-boats you was telling me about next!”

  “Why not? It ain’t no joke, Dad. The sky’s where the future is.”

  Ned was quite prepared to accept that the future lay in the air, but he wondered where the money might be.

  “Piece of advice, George?”

  George nodded, cautiously.

  “Get yourself in with the Administration. Sign up as a volunteer with the Police or the military. Is there a militia company in Lae?”

  “Heard a bit of talk but I don’t know if anything’s come of it.”

  “Better still, nipper. Talk with the right bloke and get your name on his list so that if it ever does get set up you’re down as one of the first volunteers. With a bit of luck it won’t ever ‘appen and you’ve come out on top – something for nothing!”

  “What do you reckon, Dad? Do you think there will be a war some day?”

  Ned did not know – they had a wireless at the plantation but reception was poor and they rarely bothered to turn it on. He occasionally picked up Australian news broadcasts, but they were thin on world politics.

  “I’ll ask Mr Tse when I see ‘im next – knows a damn sight more than I do, that chap!”

  Ned took George with him on his business trips into Rabaul so that he could become known to the Chinese community – they had international contacts and could offer many opportunities. He warned him to act like a young man should in their eyes, to be silent and deferential in the presence of his elders.

  “They don’t believe it either, mate – but it’s important to show the correct front and you’ll learn a damn sight more with your ears open and your mouth shut.”

  "What was that all about, Dad? You sat down for two hours with four men, talked about everything under the sun, but not a word about copra or cocoa or shop goods that I heard."

  "There was nothing much to say, except that the markets are picking up down South and their investments - the friendly society which is in my name and almost all their money - are safe and well. They knew that anyway, but I see them every few weeks to offer my personal guarantee to keep 'em 'appy."

  "You invest their money for them?"

  "You know what it's like down South. They don't like the Chinese and won't handle their money, and there ain't too many safe places to invest these days so the people up 'ere were keeping gold under their bloody beds! Now their money's working for 'em, and if it all goes wrong they'll have cash when they run."

  "Why you?"

  "Because I've been 'ere forever and they know I'm straight. Besides that, I'd rather deal with them than with 'alf the bastards in the Administration - toffee-nosed sods!"

  George had been too long in boarding school in Australia to accept his father's words unquestioningly - he had been taught that the yellow races were inferior and had never had occasion to question the accepted wisdom of his elders.

  "It's like your boss, Mick - they told you there was something wrong with 'im, just because of what 'e is. You knows they're wrong there - so they are with the Chinamen, nipper."

  "Why did you send me down to that place, Dad?"

  "Because you can talk with their la-di-da accent when you needs it. That gets you to be one of them when you want something from 'em. If it ever comes to a war then it makes you an officer and a gentleman - what is something I never could be. The money lies in their bloody 'ands, nipper, so there's times when you need to be one of them - and it's easier to learn 'ow to do it young!"

  A week later, walking more easily, George accompanied his father into town again, this time going into the
rear of the Tse's big warehouse behind the market in Malaguna Avenue.

  The front was redolent with the stink of copra and trepang, of the rotten fruit dumped from the market, of the smoked fish and pigmeat sat on benches in the hot sun; the offices at the back were cool and comfortable, double doors insulating them from the heat and noise. The furnishings were recognisably Oriental, but more as a decoration than an overwhelming culture - this was the room of a Western-inclined gentleman.

  They sat to courteous greetings, were served tea by an unintroduced lady, presumably Tse's wife, and a big-eyed little girl of twelve or so who stared in fascination at George.

  "I'm sorry if she embarrasses you, Mr Hawkins, but Mary read of your plane crash and trek out. Biggles could have done no better!"

  George knew of Biggles, the fictional pilot and adventurer - he had read some books at school. He grinned boyishly.

  "I was lucky, Mr Tse. No more than that. A proper hero would have had more sense that crash at all!"

  Mary became even more sheep-eyed - true English heroes were always modest and self-deprecating - they were the same in every book she had read of the War and the Empire, and her father had encouraged her to read all she could, being unable to send her to school.

  Her father sent her off, suddenly thoughtful.

  Times were changing and he would never send her back to China. He listened to the news, read the international press, could see nothing for the home country other than conflict between Japanese, Kuomintang and Communists for the next century. Young Mr Hawkins was the right sort for the future - white, born rich and strong in himself - a young gwailo like him could make a very good husband for his girl in a few years, and be an asset to the family.

  George listened to another hour of general conversation before they turned, tentatively almost, to business.

  "I seem to remember, Mr Hawkins, you once talked of motor vehicles."

  "I did, Mr Tse. I thought then, and do now, that a garage and a sales agency would be very useful in our little community."

  "It is, of course, not easy for our families to venture into a new enterprise, Mr Hawkins. The Administration feels perhaps that we should stay in our place."

  Ned shrugged - they knew his opinion of the Administration and its prejudices.

  They talked cars and considered trucks as well and another hour passed before partnership came into the discussion, and mention of investing profits down South only came over light refreshments at midday.

  Putting savings to work was one thing; keeping profits in Australia smacked on intention eventually to migrate, when it became possible. Ned looked interested, was not so crass as to actually ask a question.

  "The Japanese are seeking to create an empire, again. China has always been an ambition but now there is talk of rubber and oil as well, a 'Co-Prosperity Sphere' - which means riches for the Japanese, slavery for the rest of the East."

  "So, safety in Australia, Mr Tse."

  "Just so, Mr Hawkins. Neither Britain nor America will give Australia to them."

  It seemed very unlikely that the question might arise - neither Hawkins could imagine that the little yellow men could offer a military threat to the white nations. It would have been the height of ill-manners to imply that Mr Tse was afraid of an imaginary bogey-man and they politely agreed with him.

  No decision was made, but they decided to have another chat in a week or so.

  "Never rush into anything with the Chinese, George. It ain't the way they do business and they won't be pushed. Mr Tse has broached the matter for us to think about and, when he's good and ready, he will make the next step, knowing that I will have found out all I need and will be able to give an answer."

  "Time for a beer, Dad?"

  "Later - let's just take a wander down to the Administration, have a natter with the Secretary first."

  There was a red carpet, or its close equivalent, when they entered the building; Ned was always sure of a welcome there.

  "Nationality? What's the problem, Mr Hawkins?"

  Ned explained.

  "Your son? This young gentleman? This rather famous young man, I should say! Have you seen the Australian press, sir?"

  The Secretary produced a handful of clippings, half a dozen very similar inside page stories, all from the one stringer in Moresby. With moderate accuracy they told of George's scrape, playing up the tale of 'Digger guts'.

  "Nice of them. What's his nationality? I'm a Pom, his mother was a German and he was born here in the Islands."

  "Simple, Mr Hawkins. You are British and so is Mrs Hawkins. Your son, George, must at the age of twenty-one choose whether he wishes to be British or Australian. A simple Statutory Declaration."

  "Must he wait till he's twenty-one?"

  "I will check."

  Ten minutes of consultation and it was clear that as an adult of marriageable age he could make the Declaration with parental consent.

  "I would like to do that, sir."

  The Secretary was happy to oblige, requested that he produce his passport for the changes to be made. Ned happened to have it with him.

  "This is an Australian passport, Mr Hawkins!"

  The Secretary pointed to the crest.

  "I'm buggered! I got it soon after 'e was born, the wartime people insisted on it. I never checked to see what it was."

  The Secretary had been eight years in Rabaul, had come to terms with the Islands way of doing things, shrugged resignedly.

  "Mr George Hawkins is Australian, Mr Hawkins - we need take no further action."

  "That's good. What about me, could I change? After this long up here I don't see ever going back to England."

  "You must be sponsored by a 'reputable citizen', Mr Hawkins - that will present no difficulty, I am sure. I will speak with the Administrator."

  Ten minutes and he came back, all smiles - the Administrator himself would be proud to sponsor Mr Hawkins!

  "It will take a few months, Mr Hawkins, to send the files South and have them processed and then returned to us, but you may be sure that you will be a citizen by the end of the year. Among other things, your Honours ensure that there will be a trouble-free procedure."

  They retired to the Club for a beer.

  "'Honours', old man?"

  "MBE and King's Police Medal, nipper - picked 'em up after the War. They come in 'andy at times like this."

  "Why go for nationality now, Dad?"

  "Easier for the business. We'll 'ave a word with the lawyers this afternoon, get them to set up a company based in Cairns. Islands Holdings Limited - a hundred thousand shares, say, ten thou' to you, thirty to me, sixty to Mr Tse."

  "I can see you want the shares held by Australians, some of them anyway. What's the point of it?"

  "I'll transfer Tomorang to it. Tse will put in one of his places and a couple of his ships or warehouses or whatever he chooses. With that backing I'll arrange to borrow from a bank down South to set up a couple of businesses."

  Over a pair of steaks Ned explained basic finance and cashflow and outlined the great wisdom of holding debt rather than using one's own money.

  "A director's not liable for anything beyond his own shareholding, George. Suppose we go bust, the bank loses its money, I don't."

  George was inclined to approve - business without risks was a good idea.

  "They talk a load of bull about business, nipper, but it's just rats scrapping in the gutter - you just got to make sure it ain't you rolling in the shit!"

  That did not suit George's dignity, but he remembered the principle.

  They met again at Tse's office and very rapidly agreed on the company.

  "I will, if you are willing, leave you to organise the loan, Mr Hawkins. Even if I could get one it would cost at least five percent more than you can arrange."

  They shook hands formally, all three. George never asked why he was included in the partnership.

  At the end of the next week the Hawkins took a steamer to Lae where George ret
urned to work while his parents went South.

  A leisurely holiday in North Queensland while the company was brought into being and the bank debated a loan of a quarter of a million; a small amount of pressure from the Administration helped the cause.

  Ned hired two mechanics and a manager salesman and negotiated with Ford for the agency for the Islands, then purchased all that was needed for a service station to be built in Rabaul. Going down to Brisbane for two weeks he located and hired the manager of a medium-sized and profitable hotel and sent him north to plan, build and run a business in Rabaul. He took advantage of the opportunity to sell off almost all of his urban land holdings in Brisbane - the Depression was easing at last and house prices were rising - and used the cash to buy himself a small sugar-cane station north of Cairns, a refuge if ever they had to flee the Islands.

  They returned to Rabaul accompanied by a Rolls-Royce and a ton of spares, drove in regal state out to Vunatobung, waving to all they passed in benign mastery.

  A Place Called Home

  Chapter Five

  George returned to work much older; a man rather than the boy who had flown out of Bulolo. He had come very close to death and had not found the experience exciting; adolescents might make much of risking their necks, but he was not impressed by the game. It had been very foolish, in fact, flying out knowing that one engine might be faulty. He knew that he might well take the same set of risks again one day; there were times when a chance should be taken, but next time he would think it through first, would ask just how necessary it might be.

  It was time to grow up, and that meant to take responsibility for his own future. Money first.

  He sat down with his personal account book and worked out exactly how much he was worth in cash. He did not like the figures he came up with.