‘Jack?’
I was lying on a table in the church. The same one the coffin had been on only minutes before. Was I dead? I couldn’t be. Dad and Mum were there, standing beside me. The coloured lights must have been the sun shining through the stained glass window in the rear wall. Mum held a wet hanky against my forehead. Surprisingly, Mrs Isaacs was there as well, kneeling beside me on the other side.
‘Jack,’ Mum repeated, ‘Captain Anstey is over at the mainland and can’t get back. Why didn’t you tell me your arm was so bad?’
I think I groaned something but I can’t remember what.
‘Mrs Isaacs has offered to help,’ Mum said. ‘She has some medicine she says works for infections. It’s traditional.’
‘Be still, Jack,’ said Mrs Isaacs softly. ‘This is some stuff I remembered from my mother’s mob. It’ll help you.’
She had a jam jar filled with a disgusting-looking paste. It looked just like a bottle of snot. When she gently smoothed some onto my arm I jumped with pain, but the snot stuff immediately started taking away the fire, like she was spreading ice onto my arm. I’d never felt anything so good. It smelled a bit like peppermint and reminded me of all-day suckers. I almost let out a cry of relief after all the weeks it had been hurting.
‘You be a good boy for your mother.’ Mrs Isaacs smiled at me after she’d finished. She knew like everyone else that I had a lot of trouble being good. ‘Be a good boy and keep still for two days, and then you’ll start to feel all right. Not even a scar in a few weeks.’
How she could she be so confident it would work? Captain Anstey had tried all sorts of remedies but nothing had helped.
After a few minutes Dad picked me up as if I didn’t weigh anything at all and carried me out of the church. Mr Isaacs swung open the large door for him. Mr and Mrs Isaacs were the kindest people on the whole island. The kindest people in the whole world, as far as I was concerned.
By the time Mrs Isaacs came to the house the next day, the red tracks up into my armpit had begun to fade slightly and the pain had lessened. For the first time in weeks my arm only ached and didn’t throb. Even the huge, painful lump in my armpit seemed smaller.
‘A few more doses and you’ll be playing cricket like your dad used to,’ she said, opening the lid of the snot-like stuff.
Mr Isaacs didn’t come into the house but stayed outside near the fence. Dad went outside too and they sat on the wall talking in low voices, but not so low that we couldn’t hear them talking about the job at the aerodrome.
‘You’ll have to come down to the pub next time I’m back from Crawley,’ Dad said to Mr Isaacs. ‘We’ll sink a few.’ That was the name all the men called Swan Lager—a few. Not that they got to sink many very often. Five bob a day didn’t stretch to too many beers.
‘That’s kind of you, but we blackfellas aren’t allowed into pubs,’ replied Mr Isaacs.
‘And a good job too,’ laughed Mrs Isaacs from the kitchen.
‘Campbell would have me in the clink before I tasted the froth,’ he said, ignoring his wife.
‘I thought he was your friend,’ said Dad.
‘He is,’ replied Mr Isaacs. ‘I’ve known him since the old days. I used to do some tracking for him up in Mullewa. But you know what he’s like—stickler for the rule book. He’d lock me up for even thinking about drinking.’
I couldn’t understand why, but as much as Dad persuaded, Mr Isaacs wouldn’t come into the house. He stayed on the wall chatting easily with Dad until Mrs Isaacs had finished.
After about a week Mum finally let me go out again. The infection had almost cleared completely and the angry red colour had turned to a sort of pale purple.
Years later, whenever anyone asked me about the scars, I would truthfully answer, ‘Oh, I got those during the war.’ And they would nod knowingly.
The Cricket Match
On the first day of spring, the day before Dad was due to leave for the mainland, the Red Cross volunteer ladies organised a picnic and cricket match. All the previous week storms had lashed the island, but on that Sunday you would’ve been hard-pressed to believe it. Mum put on her light-blue summer frock and her hat and gloves. Dad stepped into the kitchen wearing his old Coolgardie Cricket Club creams and baggy yellow cap, from back in the olden days when he lived in the goldfields. He swung the bat and nearly sent the flour canister flying from the kitchen bench.
‘You’re as bad as Jack,’ declared Mum, though she would’ve been twice as cross if it had been me.
I’d never seen so many people on the island all at once. On the edge of the oval beside Constable Campbell’s police house, several tents and marquees had been put up, including the biggest one with a rope fence surrounding it. It was the beer tent and it was already crowded with blokes gathered round the keg by the time we arrived. Some American naval officers in their white uniforms were talking to the ladies at the tea and scone tent. At the far end of the oval a group of about six black sailors sat under a tree by themselves.
George T Washington leaned against the tree. I waved at him and he lifted his hand in recognition. He didn’t come over or anything, but just nodded at me and grinned.
The cricket match had been arranged between Colonel Hurley’s Army XI and Mr Merson’s Main Roads Board XI. Both teams sat on the bench behind the rope at the beer tent laughing and knocking back the Swan Lager like it was going to be rationed at any minute.
‘The hour approaches, gentlemen. Commander Grant, our special guest from the US Navy, has graciously agreed to spin the coin.’
I recognised the voice behind me and turned. Mr Palmer had risen from a deck chair, a cream panama hat shielding his eyes.
‘Ah, young Mr Jones, I’m glad to see you’re up and about,’ he said. ‘Captain Anstey has kept me informed of your progress. You are well on the mend, I hear. Capital. Though Andrew tells me it was a pretty close shave.’
‘I enjoyed the books you sent me, sir,’ I replied, not quite knowing how to react.
‘Good. Good. And your homework?’
I knew he’d bring that up, but he didn’t wait for me to answer.
‘No, it’s far too fine a day to be discussing homework. No, we are here to watch the workers thrash the army, eh? Show them a thing or two. Workers of the world, unite.’ He winked at Captain Jansen, who stood nearby, and then gave me his warmest smile ever. ‘I’m the official scorer today and it’s about time we began these little ... hostilities.’
I could hardly believe he was the same Mr Palmer.
Mr Merson won the toss and elected the Main Roads team to be first in to bat.
‘Come out fighting but keep it fair. No scratching, no biting, no hitting below the belt,’ laughed the commander.
The audience laughed politely at the commander’s little joke, as the team captains shook hands.
Mr Palmer had the school blackboard for the scores mounted on an easel near the tea tent. I was surprised to see Dad’s name—Rob Jones—as number three batsman after Little Eric and Captain Anstey. Captain Anstey used to play for Perth Cricket Club and had been made an honorary worker for the day to even up the skills. But Dad? Dad was fine at hit ’n’ run on the beach, but at number three?
Colonel Hurley opened the bowling and within minutes both Little Eric and the captain were out, caught from rising bumpers. The colonel seemed to think he was Harold Larwood and Douglas Jardine rolled into one and hurled the cricket ball down with all the power of a live grenade.
Dad strapped on his pads and walked out to the centre. The crowd clapped politely. The first four balls from the colonel rocketed at him, but Dad just blocked them. I thought it would be only a matter of minutes before he’d be out as well, but as the fifth hurtled down the pitch he calmly stepped back and swung his bat at shoulder height like it was a tree-felling axe. His bat caught the ball with a crack as loud as a Webley pistol firing. The muscles in Dad’s arms rippled as he connected and the ball soared off into the air.
‘Did you s
ee that?’ yelled someone at the rope.
Silence fell in the beer tent, and then applause started as people realised Dad had whacked the ball so far over the boundary it had disappeared into the trees.
Captain Williamson, the chaplain, and of course the only one able to be trusted by both sides to umpire for the day, called for another ball.
‘See what you make of this one, then,’ called Colonel Hurley to Dad.
Dad just winked at him and tapped at the concrete with his bat.
I think he hit the next ball even harder. It shot across the ground at head height and towards the deck chairs. Several people ducked out of the way. There was an almighty crash as the ball shattered the window of Mrs Campbell’s front room. I heard someone curse. Several people laughed as Constable Campbell held up his handcuffs and dangled them for Dad to see. Dad shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms out in apology. He was slightly embarrassed at breaking the window but there’d no doubt be a whip-round at the end of the day to pay for it.
Dad stayed at the crease, walloping balls all over the ground until he reached a very quick century and Mr Merson declared.
‘That’s the last we’ll be seeing of him for some time,’ said Mum, as excited players ushered Dad into the beer tent for the lunch break. She pretended to be annoyed as it wasn’t even twelve noon but I thought she was as proud of him as I was.
Dad Leaves for the Mainland
I climbed out of bed and went into the kitchen to relight the stove like I’d been told to do the night before. Both Dad and Little Eric were due to head off on the ferry this morning—Dad to go to Crawley Bay and work for the Americans, and Little Eric to go to Perth to see about joining the navy. With his experience on the ferry he hoped he might get into officer school. Commander Grant had said he’d put in a good word for him with the Australian naval authorities. Colonel Hurley had also given him a good reference. I would’ve too, if they’d asked me. It would be the best reference ever written in the history of references. It’s not every day someone jumps into a wild sea full of sharks to rescue you.
‘Is that you, Jack?’ called Mum from the bedroom. ‘Get the kettle on, will you. We won’t be a moment.’
Dad appeared first, wearing the only suit he owned—his wedding suit—and carrying an old suitcase. ‘Looks like it falls to you now, young man. No more skylarking, you hear,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. I might be able to get away on some weekends, so I’ll hear everything there is to hear about you. And Banjo.’ He narrowed his eyes in a frown.
I nodded. This was serious talk, but what could I say? We didn’t mean to get into trouble all the time. It just happened.
But then Dad couldn’t help himself and he grinned widely and messed up my hair. I opened the front door and carried his suitcase out. It was surprisingly light but then I don’t think Dad owned too much stuff. Mum had left the card table up on the verandah overnight and right in the middle of it, on a little mound of sand, sat a slightly used red cricket ball.
‘Dad?’ I said as he came to the door adjusting his hat.
‘It’s not mine. I didn’t put it there,’ he answered. ‘Strange, but we don’t have time to worry about it now. The boat leaves in less than ten minutes. You know Red Eric. He waits for no man, especially a union member like me.’ He knew perfectly well Red Eric would’ve waited for him. They’d become firm friends and often shared a glass or two of Thor’s Hammer, far too often as far as Mum was concerned.
Watching Dad and Little Eric leave as the ferry pulled out from the jetty was a bit like watching Dafty being taken away, but unlike Dafty, at least this time we knew they’d be coming back.
Mum didn’t make a move to head home until the ferry had almost completely disappeared out of sight. ‘What would you like for tea, Jack? Special treat,’ she said as we walked back along the jetty.
‘Can Banjo come over?’ I asked. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’ Well, I hadn’t seen him since the day before.
Ghosts
Watching Dad and Little Eric leave as the ferry pulled out from the jetty was a bit like watching Dafty being taken Banjo and I decided it was about time we went up to Shangri-la, our secret hiding place above the army jetty to check on the war preparations. We needed to make sure the army was well prepared for when the invasion happened.
‘How’re you feeling? How are your ribs?’ he asked as we trudged up the hill.
‘All right.’ But I had to stop every so often to get my breath. If I didn’t, my chest started burning.
Banjo ran ahead to chase a quokka that bounded off up the roadway.
I was bent over holding my knees and gasping a bit when I heard rustling in the bushes. It wasn’t a snake or a lizard. It had to be something much bigger. Oh no, not the Jap soldier! And here we were, all alone. No, here I was, all alone. Banjo was at least two hundred yards ahead by now. I froze on the spot and didn’t move a muscle. Any moment the Jap was going to plunge a bayonet straight into me. That, or something worse. I couldn’t outrun him in the state I was in. I couldn’t even outrun my little sister.
I didn’t know what to do. If I called out to Banjo I might scare the Jap and he’d kill us both. I felt my heart pounding in my chest and my hands turn sweaty. My mouth went dry, and cold and fear filled me. I was so scared I thought I’d die of fright, there and then.
‘Jack?’ I heard only that one word but my spine chilled. It couldn’t be. I knew that voice as well as my own. As well as I knew Banjo’s.
‘Jack?’ the voice repeated.
I turned around slowly, still half-expecting to be killed. And there he was, standing right in the middle of the road dressed in a torn Australian Army tunic and tight school shorts.
‘Banjo!’ I yelled as loudly as I could. ‘Banjo! Come back here. Quick!’
Banjo’s feet slapped the ground as he ran back down the hill.
I stared at the figure in front of me. The army tunic was stained, his feet were as black as tar and he seemed taller than I remembered. He’d developed muscles on his arms, his legs seemed more solid and his hair had grown much longer and was matted. He blinked at me several times and then spoke.
‘I been watching you, Jack. You were nearly killed. Out by the big gun.’
‘You were drowned,’ I said incredulously. It was the only thing that came into my head. ‘You jumped overboard and drowned. We buried you. Well, we buried your shoe.’
Banjo arrived, gasping, hardly able to speak. I didn’t need to look at him—I knew the joy that’d be on his face.
‘You’re alive!’ he shouted. ‘After all this time, you’re alive.’ He grabbed Dafty in his arms and hugged him, lifting him off the ground. ‘I knew it. I knew it. I just knew it.’
‘But Dafty, how?’ I asked.
‘I can’t be seen,’ said Dafty, ignoring my question. ‘They’ll send me back. Away. To the land. To the loony bin.’
‘No,’ said Banjo. ‘No, we’ll keep you hidden. We have to. We’ll get on up to Shangri-la, above the army jetty. No-one will ever see us there. It’s completely surrounded with huge boulders and thick trees and branches all the way to the ground. We’re the only ones who know the way in.’
‘I stay there, in the days,’ Dafty said. ‘You showed me, remember? I thought you might come there and find me.’
We headed back up the hill toward Shangri-la, Banjo with his arm round Dafty’s shoulder. I’d forgotten all about my sore ribs.
We reached the narrow hollow between the tree roots and slid along on our stomachs into the shelter. Sunlight barely filtered through the thick branches, but I noticed several kero drums, planks of wood and corrugated iron Banjo and I hadn’t brought in. Tin cans and bits of paper also lay about on the thick grass, as well as several grey army blankets and the remains of a fire.
‘But Dafty, you jumped overboard off the ferry and drowned,’ I repeated as soon as we sat down.
‘I don’t know,’ said Dafty, looking confused. ‘I woke up on the beach.
In the night. I was cold and sick. I had to sleep in a cave. It was so cold. So cold. I kept spewing up. So sick. Spewing, spewing. For hours and hours. Spewing.’
‘You’ve kept hidden all this time? How? How did you eat? Where did you sleep?’ asked Banjo. It was still so unbelievable.
‘Sometimes I slept in the empty houses. You know, the ones where the holiday people used to live. Before the war. Sometimes here, sometimes at West End caves.’
‘And no-one saw you? Ever?’ asked Banjo.
‘Someone did once,’ replied Dafty. ‘They tried to shoot me. When I was getting food. In a rubbish bin. Near Jack’s house. I had to hide under a house all night and the next day. The army keeps looking for me. I don’t want them to shoot me.’
‘You’ve been eating rubbish from the bins?’ Banjo screwed up his face, but I’d seen what his dad often served up for dinner, and rubbish would’ve been loads better. Banjo and his dad seemed to live on shark and dripping and sometimes even quokka. I couldn’t count the number of times Banjo came to school with quokka fat-and-salt sandwiches.
‘Sometimes. From the bakery,’ said Dafty. ‘Sometimes I’d cook a snake. There are lots of snakes. They’re still slow at this time. Tiger snakes taste the best.’
‘And the cricket ball at my place? That was you? You put it outside our place?’
Dafty nodded.
‘And the seashells and the bullets?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Banjo, what’re we going to do? Dafty’s right. If they find out they’ll send him straight to the loony bin.’
I still could hardly believe what I’d heard, that Dafty had managed to live so long by himself. I realised he couldn’t be as stupid as everyone thought. To be able to survive, living wild out in the open, you’d need to be clever and cunning, like Mowgli in The Jungle Book.
Jack's Island Page 9
