Suddenly Walter throttled back. “Come on, Shirley. It"s time you learnt how to drive. It"s your boat, after all.”
“Me? No, I couldn"t…” but Walter was leaving his seat.
He passed her back down the boat to sit in the stern. “That"s it. Now you hold on to the tiller and push that little lever around with your thumb.”
Shirley was unhappy to be sitting there but she guessed that Walter knew what he was doing. And steering a boat did not look too difficult. She pushed tentatively with her thumb and the motor picked up. The boat started to move.
“More,” said Walter, “You can"t steer properly unless you have a little bit of way on her. More, more, that"ll do for the moment.”
She was feeling the life in the boat. She tried moving the tiller and immediately the bow moved in response.
“Whoa! Move it just a little and hold it there until you see how you"re turning. That"s it. Be gentle. Now back again and hold it. You"ve got it – it"s easy. Now – keep to the Port Bruce side of the river as we go around the bend – that"s where the deep water is. It"s normally deeper on the outside of the bends. There"s a great big sand bank opposite Port Bruce. Out of the water at low tide. You can get around behind it in a small boat, but only at high tide. Better to stay in deep water and then you won"t have to get out and push.”
They were moving closer to the mangroves that separated Port Bruce from the river. Under their shiny green leaves, Shirley was looking into a dark tangle of trunks and roots. It would be impossible to pass through. Literally impenetrable. She could imagine there would be swarms of insects waiting for anyone foolish enough to try.
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“There"s a lot of life in the mangroves. All sorts of birds and insects. And fish living and breeding around the roots. They"re safe in there.”
“Is that where the crocodiles live?”
“Maybe the babies. At low water anyway. But adults are too big to get in through the roots. They spend most of their time lying in the water doing nothing but they come out on the banks to enjoy the sun. We"ll see if we find any.”
They passed on up the river with Walter directing and Shirley steering. Her nervousness gone, she could relax and watch the banks flow by. It was a very relaxing way to travel. They passed Uncle John"s house with Walter"s home moored beside it. It beckoned to her.
“When are you going to move in? Seems a bit silly to be paying money to Byrnsie when you"ve got a perfectly good house of your own.”
Shirley did not know. Part of her wanted the excitement of living high above the river; part of her was frightened. Walter was watching her face. “I"ll tie up nearby, if you like. You"ll only have to call if you need anything.”
She left his question unanswered.
The trees were drawing in on both sides now. She was steering into a dark ravine of trees. “Slow down,” said Walter, “You have to keep watching for submerged trees. You don"t want to get hung up in their branches. And you don"t want to frighten the crocs.”
They were winding on deep into the interior of the country and the riverbanks were mesmerising. Each bend brought more jungle into view, indistinguishable from the jungle they had just passed. The sun was directly overhead and she had lost all sense of direction.
“Here – let me take her now,” said Walter in a low voice, “If we"re going to be lucky, it"ll be just around the bend. There"s an old crossing there. On the right.” She throttled right back and they changed places. She was searching the river ahead as Walter took them slowly onwards.
Up ahead, on their right as Walter had said, there was a sudden splash and swirl of brown water at the foot of the trees. Something large and heavy had just entered the water.
“Damn,” said Walter, “Jumpy. Mostly they don"t hurry. Some even just lie there. Oh well, that was a long way to come for nothing.” They
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cruised on until they came abreast of the spot. An old roadway had been cut down the bank to the water. At the water"s edge, there were slide marks in the mud where a crocodile had slipped into the river. “Hmm – that"s the fellow. A really big salty lives up here. Must be coming up to twenty feet. It"s a shame we missed him.”
Six metres. Shirley looked at their boat. A six metre crocodile would be longer, she guessed. “Where is he now?”
“Lying on the bottom looking up at us, I suppose. We won"t see him now, I"m afraid, and there won"t be any others around either. I"m sorry about that. Perhaps another day.” He turned the boat around while Shirley watched the water in apprehension. She wanted to be on the move again.
“So – let"s go and visit Tom Bombadil. At least he"s at home.” They set off back down the river.
Tom Bombadil lived a little way below Uncle John"s house, on the other bank of the river. “Look carefully,” said Walter, “It"s hard to spot coming downstream – easier coming up river. Do you see the tops of those coconuts? I"ll show you how to get in – you have to be going against the current or you"ll miss.”
She could the see the untidy heads of two coconut palms above the mangroves. Walter swung wide. For a moment Shirley was looking up a narrow tunnel in the trees, and then they had passed. The boat turned right around and, balancing the motor against the current, Walter brought them up to the mouth of the tunnel. It was a small creek of black velvet water leading into the swamp and she could not see the end of it. They crept in, the overhanging vegetation arching over them. The creek turned first one way and then the other until she could see their exit shining bright. They puttered out into the sunlight to find a man in a straw hat and faded, knee-length shorts standing on the bank above them.
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Chapter 6
“Hey, Walter! This your new girl friend then?” He had a huge smile. Between his unruly brown hair and curly beard, his face was open and welcoming. He hurried along the river bank to the steps where his own canoe was moored and stood waiting for their painter. Shirley handed it to him and he helped her out onto the bank.
“Welcome – I"m Tom. And you must be Shirley. Welcome!”
She climbed the bank and emerged onto a closely cropped lawn. An island of garden had been cut out of the jungle and planted with haphazard fruit trees. She was looking at Tom"s house, a hundred metres away on the edge of the jungle. It was a long, low building with a roughly thatched roof, sitting on low stumps. A deep veranda stretched across its front, and dark windows peered from the inside. Rough bush poles held it up, and the walls had been woven from strips of golden cane. There was a smell of wood smoke in the air. It was enchanting. She stood and stared while the men talked behind her.
She was suddenly aware that she too was being stared at. A few metres away, in the shade of a banana clump, a small kangaroo was sitting up and watching her intently. “It"s a kangaroo!” she said as Walter came up beside her.
“A wallaby. Plenty of them around here. Tom"s their daddy, I think.”
“Not quite. But they like to hang around, and they don"t give much trouble as long as they stay out of the veggies.”
“But it"s tame.”
“Why not? It"s safe enough here. And all its friends. And they help keep the grass down.”
“Don"t listen to him,” said Walter, “They"re like goats. Eat everything except what you"d like them to eat. And he feeds them every day, just so as they don"t have the effort of looking out for themselves.”
“I like them,” said Tom apologetically, “They"re friendly. And they don"t answer back. Come on - I"ll make you some coffee.”
He led the way off across the grass and the wallaby hopped lazily
away.
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“We"re honoured,” said Walter as they walked, “Or at least, you are. He normally spends his day in a ratty old sarong. When he remembers, anyway. He only wears the shorts to go to town. You"ll like the coffee; grows it hims
elf.”
Tom wiped his bare feet on the grass and hopped up onto the veranda. Walter kicked off his thongs and followed. At one end of the veranda, protected by the low woven walls, were two bamboo benches and a simple tabletop, resting on the railing at one end and on a single leg at the other. Shirley sat with her back to the house and her elbow hooked over the railing, and looked out over Tom"s plantation. She did not recognise most of the trees. The coconuts she knew; they were easy. She was becoming used to mangoes, and the bananas with their heavy dangling purple flowers were obvious. And the dark green orange and lemon trees were given away by their fruit. But there many others that meant nothing to her.
Walter was watching her face. “Like it?” he asked.
“It"s wonderful. I"ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yes – it"s pretty good. It makes him beer money, anyway. The trees and the veggie garden. And Mr Hing"s made a big difference.”
“Mr Hing?”
“Oh yes. A big difference. I expect you"ll meet Mr Hing in a minute. Not that you"ll get much out of him – not unless you speak Chinese, that is.”
They could hear Tom making kitchen noises at the back of the house. “It"ll take a while,” said Walter, “He doesn"t believe in gas. Says he can"t afford it so they cook on wood or charcoal for special occasions. Doesn"t have a fridge either, so don"t expect any milk. He gives me some home brew and I keep a few in my fridge ready for him.”
Tom appeared with two mugs of coffee. Behind him with the other two was a Chinese man dressed in a white shirt and long trousers tied at the waist with a length of rope. He was thin and hollow cheeked.
“This is Mr Hing, Shirley. He lives here.”
Mr Hing bowed his head and set a mug of coffee in front of her. „Welcome, I am ver" happy,” he said deliberately.
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Tom smiled again. “That was very good, Hing. Just right.” He continued, speaking slowly and clearly, “Mr Hing is learning English. He is a good student.”
Mr Hing gave a little nod and said, “Not good.” in a low voice.
“You like sugar?” asked Tom, “I"ll just get some.”
“Don"t let the coffee get cold, Tom,” shouted Tim after him. He turned to Shirley. “Now you"ll see something.”
Shirley could not identify the noises from behind the house. There was chopping to start with and then more before Tim came back with a small jug of milky grey liquid.
“Crushed sugar cane,” said Walter, “Fresh from the garden – go on.” She added some to her cup and passed the jug around.
“So – what do you think of Tom Bombadil"s Kingdom?” asked Walter.
“It"s magic,” said Shirley, “Like a story book. It"s so green. And the wallabies… I wish I"d brought my camera. They"ll never believe it in London.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment.
“Yeah - ,” said Tom, “It"s not a bad way to live. It keeps us going. You liking Port Bruce? When are you going to move into Johnno"s house?”
“I – I don"t know. It"s so…” She wanted to say, it"s so isolated, so lonely, but her companions lived out here and they did not look lonely. And Uncle John had lived there. “Maybe I should give it a try.”
Walter and Tom approved immediately. “That"s good!” said Walter, “Come on out. We"ll take care of you, don"t worry. And you"ve got everything you need there. No need to bring anything except food and some beer. Or whatever you drink. Tell us when you"re coming and we"ll help you move in.”
“Yeah – how about tomorrow? Walter"ll pick you up in the morning and we"ll eat at your place. Hing"ll make us something nice, won"t you Hing? We"ll get her to bring some beef, shall we?”
Hing was searching for words. “Not sausage,” and his friends burst out in laughter.
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“Hing doesn"t like Australian sausages,” said Tom, “I can"t think why. Never mind, if you can bring some beef, we"ll supply the rest. Beef – that"ll be nice for a change. But it"s fish today – fresh barra. Shall we get cooking, Hing?”
Shirley and Walter were left alone on the veranda. “They"ll be a while. Do you want to look around?”
“Tom won"t mind?”
“Not at all. Let me give you the grand tour.”
Shirley did not recognise most of the fruit tree names or the shapes of the fruit that some of them were bearing. There were just too many to take in at once. She concentrated on the things she knew but had never seen, like the coffee bushes with their brilliant red berries under luxuriant leaves. And the pepper vines growing like ivy. And especially the two cocoa trees with pendulous purple and yellow pods hanging from their trunks.
At the edge of the lawn was the chicken house – the chook shed as Walter called it – with busy hens and guinea fowl. It was carefully wired with fine mesh to keep snakes out. Walter said the jungle was full of pythons that were happy to make a meal of a chicken, and other snakes that would take chicks or eggs. They went on to the vegetable garden, stoutly fenced with split logs against the pigs. Shirley looked over the fence and tried to identify the plants. No orderly lines of cabbages and parsnips here. There were tomatoes, capsicums and chillis – those she could recognise. And aubergines and lady"s fingers. Chinese cabbage. And many others that she did not recognise.
“Hing has really got the place going,” said Walter.
“Who is Hing? Why doesn"t he speak English?”
“We don"t know just who he is. Tom found him on the north shore about two years ago. Actually, it might have been a bit more. He didn"t speak any English at all then, but he was hungry and thirsty so Tom brought him home. And he stayed. Look – we don"t talk about Hing. He"s probably illegal. He"s got a passport apparently, but no Australian stamps in it. He never goes into town. Tom goes in to sell the vegetables and buy supplies and so on: they split the money. But we don"t know where he came from or how. But remember – never a word to anyone in
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town. The immigration people would just love to find someone like him and lock him up. God knows why – he"s worth a deal more than a lot of people I could think of.”
Eventually they were returning to the house. Mr Hing and Tom were cooking in the kitchen, a wall and a thatched roof set apart from the main building. They were cooking on a massive block of masonry with a fire in its belly. There was a large black pan steaming on top and Mr Hing was effortlessly flicking something over and over in a wok. Tom was washing up in a plastic bowl.
“You guys ready to eat? We"ll be there in just a minute…”
The large fish was brought to the table whole, its skin scored and crisped by the grill. A light orange sauce had been poured over it and there was a garnish of parsley, finely chopped ginger and red chilli rings. It would have graced a table in the best restaurant in London. The accompaniments were simple; white rice and stir-fried vegetables. Tom was setting out bowls and chopsticks when he suddenly said “Damn – I forgot!” and ran off around the house. Mr Hing nodded knowingly and brought out tumblers.
Tom returned with a bottle of white wine, a long wet string trailing from its neck. “Special occasion,” he said and passed it to Walter who was readying his Swiss Army knife, “We were keeping it cold in the well.”
It was a fine meal. The fresh barramundi had a flavour both clean
and rich. She had never tasted a fish like it. And the delicate ginger sauce, and Mr Hing"s vegetables – she was dining in style. Soon they were smiling and chattering, and Shirley had a chance to look at her companions. They were obviously very used to each other"s company at the table. She was not frightened of the chopsticks – she was from London after all – but she did not have the familiarity that they showed.
She wondered how old Mr Hing was. Walter was definitely in his sixties, but Mr Hing was harder to place. Tom was nearer to her age. He was a very solid man. Not fat, but broad and, although h
e was by far the tallest of the three, his broadness made him appear stubby. Now she was looking at him across the table she could see he was hairy. He was covered with fine, light brown hairs. Furry, she thought, he"s almost
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furry. His pelt was a little thicker on his chest and shoulders, and he had a little trail of hair that left his navel and ran under the waist of his
shorts. He was a strong, healthy animal. He must have weighed as much as the other two put together.
Walter was sitting back and cradling his tumbler. “So what did you think of the Makepeace River?” he asked.
“Strange,” she answered, “Very strange. I liked the drive out there. It was just like Australia"s supposed to be. But that big dredge; I was so surprised. And Japan and the bikies… I"ve never seen anyone like that before.”
Mr Hing had been silent but now he spoke. “Japan ver" bad man. I kill him.”
That was a shock to her, but the others just nodded. “Yeah – he"s a bad bit of work, right enough,” said Tom, “Bad and dangerous. Marilyn"s the only outsider he lets come and go up there, and even she has to be careful. He doesn"t come down to Port Bruce much, and that"s good. The people down here don"t buy his drugs. They grow their own mostly.”
“Do you know his woman Midge? She"s strange.”
“Heard of her. Is she pretty?”
“Depends what you like, I suppose. No worse than the rest of us. She"s got some spectacular tattoos, if you like them.”
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