Jack's Island

by Norman Jorgensen

  ‘Time to carve the turkey, Rob,’ Mum called to Dad as she and Mrs Carter carried out the large steaming bird.

  Every bit of meat disappeared in no time at all.

  ‘Delicious, Nell,’ said Mr Purvis, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach. ‘Never had such a good Christmas turkey in all me life.’

  Which could have been because it wasn’t a turkey. I would’ve bet anything it’d been swimming round on Government House Lake that morning. I thought I’d heard a shot just after breakfast, and Banjo’s dad was pretty good with a .22. I’ll bet it was the first time anyone at the table had sat down to black swan for Christmas dinner! Although I did see Mr Palmer frown slightly as he bit into what looked like a spent .22 bullet.

  For afters, Commander Grant from the US Navy base had sent us a huge metal container lined with ice and full of vanilla ice-cream. Banjo, Dafty, Patricia and I ate so much of it we were as sick as dogs. It was great.

  Banjo Leaves

  Banjo and Mr Paterson were due to leave the island the day after Boxing Day. Banjo was going to live at his auntie’s house in Subiaco, just down the hill from Perth Modern, and Mr Paterson was heading up to Cunderdin to work on a new aerodrome.

  I walked up to Banjo’s house and knocked on the doorframe. The door stood wide open, with their suitcases ready in the kitchen.

  ‘We’re off on the early ferry,’ Banjo said.

  ‘I won’t come and see you off then,’ I answered. ‘It was bad enough when Dafty got sent away.’

  ‘No danger of me jumping overboard. Especially at that time of the morning. It’ll be far too cold.’

  Banjo knew that my family was leaving too. We were going to Gran’s house in West Leederville, not far from Banjo’s auntie’s. Dad was going to work on the new aerodrome at Dunreath near Guildford.

  ‘I’ll see you in about a month then,’ said Banjo. He held out his hand and we shook like two elderly farmers who’d just sold a prize ram, all serious and businesslike.

  ‘You said goodbye to Dafty?’ I asked.

  ‘I reckon he’ll be at the jetty in the morning,’ answered Banjo. ‘Don’t you?’

  I nodded. Of course he would be.

  I wondered if Banjo realised poor Dafty would soon be all alone. His mother worked for the army in the kitchens and was staying on when the army took over the whole island. When my family left there’d be no other kids on the island at all. I wondered if Dafty knew that, if his mum had told him there’d be just him and his chook and nobody else except loads of soldiers.

  ‘I’ll be going then,’ I said to Banjo.

  It seemed so weird. We’d spent nearly every waking minute together. I knew everything about Banjo. I knew him better than I knew myself and now it was all going to change. Nothing could be the same once we got back to the mainland. Banjo would find new friends at Perth Modern, and besides, they’d probably expect him to work hard for his scholarship. Afternoons and weekends and times like that—times when we did decent, worthwhile things, like exploring and fishing and building carts and canoes.

  I lifted my hand in a sort of wave and stepped out through the front doorway. We both realised this moment was really the end of our time on the island.

  ‘Jack?’

  I turned back.

  ‘Want some Anzac biscuits before you go? I found them in the cupboard.’ He smiled. ‘They taste just like the ones your mum makes.’

  ‘They are the ones my mum makes. Won’t your dad kill you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah. I can’t seem to do anything wrong anymore. I reckon Dad thinks after I leave Perth Mod I might become a police inspector or a judge. He doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of me anymore. Just in case.’

  Return to Perth

  The missionary and thousands of the natives came down to bid us God-speed, and to see us sail away. As the vessel bent before the fair wind, we glided quickly over the lagoon under a cloud of canvas.

  Just as we passed through the channel in the reef, the natives gave us a loud cheer; and as the missionary waved his hat, while he stood on a coral rock with his grey hairs floating in the wind, we heard the single word ‘Farewell’ borne faintly over the sea.

  That night, as we sat on the taffrail gazing out upon the wide sea, and up into the starry firmament, a thrill of joy, strangely mixed with sadness, passed through our hearts; for we were at length ‘homeward bound,’ and were gradually leaving behind the beautiful, bright green coral island of the Pacific Ocean.

  I closed Coral Island. ‘That’s it, Major Small,’ I said. ‘That’s the end.’

  We slid off the thick branch of the Moreton Bay Fig tree together and wandered slowly down the slope towards the jetty.

  Dafty corrected me. ‘ General Small. Just like us, eh, Jack? Jack and Ralph and Peterkin on an island. Just like us. I like Peterkin best. He’s like me. Exactly the same.’

  ‘He sure is, Dafty. He didn’t have a real army hat like you, though.’ I tapped his hat brim. Dafty’s slouch hat had never been off his head since Christmas morning. His mum had also made him some medals from ribbon and bottle tops, which he wore all the time as well.

  I’d been reading Coral Island to Dafty every day since Banjo had left. After dinner in the longer evenings, before Mum called me home, Dafty and I would sit in the branches of the huge fig tree and I’d read the adventures aloud. What a great audience Dafty was. He’d laugh so much he’d nearly fall out of the tree, or he’d hide his eyes in terror when the cannibals or pirates approached, almost whimpering in fright.

  We reached the pilot’s house and I took a last look at our own coral island in the Indian Ocean as I walked down the road towards the jetty. No ‘thrill of joy’ passed through my heart, that’s for sure. There was nothing bright-green and beautiful about our island. Pig face and scraggly seagrass grew sporadically on the sand dunes, the tracks were sandy and dirty and the bush scrubby and khaki-coloured. All the buildings had seen better days and now weeds, peeling paint, rusted gutters and broken lattice enclosed nearly every house. But I felt as miserable as sin about leaving. And there was hardly anyone left to say ‘farewell’ and have it ‘borne faintly over the sea’.

  ‘Don’t come down to the ferry, Dafty,’ I said. ‘You’ll just upset my mum. She hates goodbyes. You know what she’s like.’ I shook his hand just like I had when Banjo left.

  ‘Say hello to Bess,’ he said.

  I was surprised. I thought he’d forgotten Bess. He hadn’t mentioned her at all since the day she left. I nodded. ‘If I see her.’

  He frowned slightly, not understanding why I wouldn’t.

  ‘ When I see her,’ I corrected, not wanting to disappoint him, but I really had no idea where Bess had gone. No-one ever mentioned her. It was as if she’d never existed.

  ‘Attention, Private Lassie,’ he said. ‘Quick march.’ Lassie ignored him and continued pecking at the ground.

  And then, as if it was just another day on the parade ground, Dafty marched away back up towards the fig tree, swinging his arms and whistling the tune of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. Although he was such a bad whistler, it could just as easily have been the national anthem.

  Mum and Dad and the girls were already on the bench in the stern of the Valkyrie surrounded by our few suitcases, tea-chests and bikes. Patricia clutched her new rag doll as if her life depended on it. Mum looked nervous about the journey, even though the sea looked as flat as a millpond.

  ‘Captain Kidd, you’ve finally joined us,’ said Christian when I jumped aboard the ferry. He pulled in the gangplank. I wondered what would happen to him and Red Eric now everyone had left. Would the army still need the ferry or would they be out of jobs?

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Mum. ‘We were starting to get worried.’

  Over her shoulder I saw Mr Palmer limping quickly down the jetty towards us. He lifted his hat and waved.

  ‘Christian, stop. I have to see Mr Palmer. I have to give his book back,’ I yelled over the engine noise.
I climbed up onto the rail and jumped across to the jetty and ran up to Mr Palmer.

  ‘Your book, Mr Palmer,’ I said, handing it to him. He frowned at me, not understanding. ‘ Coral Island. I’ve finished it.’

  ‘You enjoyed it then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. Very much, sir,’ I answered honestly.

  ‘In that case I’ll expect a thousand-word book report as soon as you get settled,’ he said in a serious voice. But I knew he didn’t mean it. ‘Tell you what,’ he continued, ‘you keep it until you find someone to pass it on to. Someone you think will enjoy it as well. I always say books are best shared.’

  ‘Can you give it to Dafty?’ I asked. ‘He likes the pictures in it. He thinks he looks like Peterkin.’

  ‘Of course I can. I hadn’t thought.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Palmer,’ I said. I paused and nearly got choked up, ‘Thanks.’ And it wasn’t really for Coral Island. It was more for what he’d done for Banjo. He’d rescued my best friend. Banjo might end up as a doctor or an engineer or a stationmaster because of Mr Palmer. He’d be able to get a gold pocket watch and wear a collar and tie to work. And never have to know how much a cement bag weighed.

  He nodded, as if he understood. ‘And thank you too, Jack,’ he said, lightly tapping his bung leg with his walking stick. We stood in silence for a moment, aware of the throbbing of the ferry engine and the squawk of seagulls.

  He gripped my shoulder briefly and winked at me. ‘Good luck, lad. And remember, Jack, the highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.’ He smiled at me, sort of sadly, but then winked, I suppose asking me to understand, or perhaps forgive him for belting the hell out of me. But that was probably going too far. He hadn’t turned that soft.

  Mr Palmer nodded and smiled at Mum and Dad, then turned and limped away, back towards the almost deserted settlement.

  Christian caught me by the arm as I jumped back across the gap onto the deck. And the last noise I heard, before Captain Jansen revved up the ferry engine and the roaring drowned out everything, was the tap-tap-tapping of Mr Palmer’s walking stick on the uneven grey planks of the jetty.

  As the Valkyrie reached the marker buoy at the reef and turned towards Fremantle Docks I looked back, but I couldn’t see either Dafty or Mr Palmer. I hoped I might’ve seen them waving, a bit like the natives in Coral Island.

  ‘What’s up, Jack?’ asked Mum. ‘We’re going home at long last, back to West Leederville. I’m sure you’ll catch up with some of your old friends. Just like the old days.’

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘And then there’s always the lake. You always liked the lake,’ she said, obviously trying to make me feel better.

  I hadn’t thought about that. Just down the hill from Gran’s house, Lake Monger spread out for acres and acres. Brumbies roamed wild on the far side, and in the bush behind it we had hiding places and great forts. Countless birds nested in the reeds and the bushes, and all sorts of animals lived near the water. We even used to catch a few good fish at the right time of the year.

  Although I was still sad, suddenly the prospect of leaving our island wasn’t as dismal as I’d first thought. And what’s more, I’d heard from Commander Grant that the US Navy planned to put on a huge party at Gloucester Park trotting ground for all the kids of Perth—for everyone who could possibly get there. There’d be fairground rides and pony rides, magnet cars, sideshows and movies, the new black fizzy drink the sailors drank all the time and gallons of ice-cream. He said there’d be unlimited ice-cream, even enough to make every single kid sick for a whole week. That suited me fine.

  And besides, before long I’d be off to high school and as soon as possible after that, the Air Force and Spitfire flight school. Or maybe even PT Boat Training School if I didn’t like the Air Force.

  But what if the war ended before I was old enough? It sounded more likely with all the Allied successes we’d heard about on the wireless recently. What would I do? Then I remembered the miniature Tommy gun wrapped up in the tea-chest and had a great idea. Maybe I could go to America, join Al Capone’s gang and become a Chicago gangster. I reckon I’d make a first-rate gangster.

  Acknowledgements

  Jack was a very real boy, based on my father, and his experiences growing up with his family on Rottnest Island off the coast of Western Australia in the 1940s. Although Jack’s Island is a work of fiction, all the sites of Jack and Banjo’s adventures exist and many remain largely unchanged since World War II. My grandparents, Norm and Nell and their children, Jack, Rob, Norma and Rayma lived on the island through those troubled times. I thank them for allowing me to plunder our family folklore for Jack’s adventures and for overlooking the liberties I’ve taken with historical times, places and events.

  My most sincere thanks and love go to Jack, of course, for sharing his memories and for his unflagging enthusiasm, and to my ever-stylish and charming mother, Barbara, who helped with the Rottnest exploration and research.

  Thanks to Cate Sutherland, my wonderful editor and publisher, for her eagle eye and ever so gentle scalpel, as well as Tracey Gibbs, Ray Coffey and all the talented staff at Fremantle Press.

  The Rottnest Island Volunteers and the Rottnest Island Authority staff were all so kind, knowledgeable and generous with facts and stories when I lived on the island whilst writing the story, especially Sue Fox and Nardia Katich.

  For their friendship and encouragement, especially in the early stages, I’m grateful to Allen Newton, Dr Glyn Parry, Mich Gillespie and my brothers Ian, Bruce and Colin.

  Thanks also to Elspeth Adair, David Lean and John Mills for inspiring Dafty, and to John Ford and John Steinbeck for so clearly setting the tone of the times.

  Gratitude especially to David Turton, who set me on a wondrous course and whom now, sadly, I cannot ever thank properly.

  Also by Norman Jorgensen

  In Flanders Fields

  Call of the Osprey

  A Fine Mess

  Another Fine Mess 002

  Jack’s Island is Norman Jorgensen’s eighth book following on from his popular comic novels A Fine Mess and Another Fine Mess 002 and his award-winning and poignant picture books In Flanders Fields and The Call of the Osprey, both illustrated by Brian Harrison-Lever.

  Norman and his wife Jan have been slowly restoring an old Federation house near central Perth, and they live surrounded by tools and paint tins, but also by books and old movies. They enjoy travelling and Norman’s love of history has resulted in a large collection of photographs he has taken while roaming among the castles, cathedrals and battle grounds of Europe—the sites that make the past so exciting.