Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  Every soldier knows the Military Medal is not the biggest deal in the army. But it wasn’t me wanting all the kerfuffle – the folk at Government House were the ones making all the fuss. If it wasn’t for Gloria I’d have preferred the bloody medal to come in the mail. When I said others had deserved to get it more than me, it was the truth. The more the island people shook my hand to congratulate me, the more isolated from them I felt. No McKenzie had ever been special in the eyes of his peers, and it constantly embarrassed me to be singled out for attention. But if we were going to go through with the whole business then I wanted my family at my side, and I was savvy enough to know that writing a strictly formal letter to the governor wasn’t going to help achieve this end.

  Anyway, I told myself we were yobbos from way back and I couldn’t help it if I’d received a bit of gratuitous education in correct grammar and punctuation from Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan and should probably not have worked the ingenuous angle in the letter. She, for one, would have been appalled at what she’d refer to as ‘theatrics’. But I reckon if anyone else in the family had written the letter, they’d have put it just about the way I’d written it. Only, of course, with Steve and Cory there would have been heaps of spelling mistakes. I confess I even thought of throwing a few in for good measure, but decided that I’d be laying it on a bit too thick and the governor might smell a rat.

  I was sweating on the reply because Gloria kept saying, ‘When are the bludgers goin’ to tell us when it is?’ Her and Sue’s dresses were completed and were hanging on her best satin-covered padded hangers behind her bedroom door. I knew she needed a firm date so that she could pluck up sufficient courage for the boat trip across Bass Strait to Stanley. Gloria worked up to things – ‘slowly, slowly, catchy monkey’ was practically her motto. I mentioned earlier that Jimmy was in the clutches of the dreaded Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan, who, early on in our stay on the island, had asked if she could interview him for the Gazette. She referred to him as James from the beginning, in the same formal way she’d done with me as a small boy seated cross-legged on the library floor. Jimmy, despite my warning not to fall into her clutches, agreed to an interview. When he arrived she said in her typically forthright manner, ‘James, I’m afraid there is a problem.’

  ‘Problem, ma’am – what problem yoh got?’

  ‘With your grammar and syntax. If I write down the words exactly as you say them my readers may find the article distinctly peculiar.’

  ‘It only peculiar iffen I tells you somethin’ dat’s peculiar, ma’am,’ Jimmy said, laughing. He was well prepared for Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan. ‘Foh instance, dat word “peculiar” it also mean “belonging ex-clu-sive-ly” and dat how I talk – ex-clu-sive-ly like me, ma’am. Now what yoh want is I should talk like some honky turkey.’

  ‘Goodness gracious, a turkey! No, no, no! One should never gobble one’s words,’ she replied hastily.

  Jimmy laughed. ‘“Talk like a turkey”, dat mean talk like white folk, ma’am. I can do dat.’ Whereupon he did as he’d done in the POW camp when he’d tried to tell me not to worry about him going over to the Chinese side. He answered all Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan’s questions using the correct grammar and pronunciation, which put her nicely in her place and impressed the pants off her at the same time. I’d learned as a prisoner of war that Jimmy had a wonderful ear and a real gift when it came to learning languages. He’d impressed the Chinese in the POW camp with the way he picked up words and phrases, and towards the end could make himself understood in Cantonese, which was another reason they’d embraced him so willingly when he’d pretended to become a progressive. In later years he would become fluent in Mandarin as well, and also spoke Japanese as fluently as a Westerner possibly could. With my ear for music I wasn’t all that bad myself, but I could never compete with him.

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan wasn’t the first to make the mistake of thinking Jimmy’s way of talking meant he was – well, to put it bluntly – a bit ignorant. But now she became absolutely intrigued by his intelligence and, as usual, wanted to take over. Jimmy went along with her in as much as he accepted the books she recommended and found time, between his various liaisons, to read them. Then he discussed them in depth with her. It was like the old days, except that, unlike myself, who’d been young, callow and intimidated by her formidable presence, Jimmy argued back and often won, though mostly when he pointed out that the life described in the literature he was reading and his own observations were two entirely different experiences. ‘To draw con-clu-sions from dat fiction narration, ma’am, dat a most dangerous exer-cise. Yoh too refine, ma’am,’ he’d often say to her in ‘Jimmy talk’. ‘Yoh ain’t been street-poisoned.’

  For her part, Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan loved him for his ability to convince her that he was right because he could back his arguments with logic or explain how it was different in his own experience. She’d even asked him to stop calling her ma’am and to call her Nicole. Jimmy thought for a few moments, then said aloud, ‘Nicole, baby’, as if he was testing it on his tongue. He shook his head. ‘No, ma’am – it ain’t gonna work none,’ he said, and then addressed her ever after as ‘Nicole ma’am’, adding ‘ma’am’ to her name in the same way he did with Gloria’s name, when she had made a smiliar request.

  Jimmy was working his magic on Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan and she simply loved it. She found him sanguine and open-minded but far from stupid, with a willingness to learn that amounted almost to a hunger. With him she also abandoned her bossy-boots attitude and became less didactic and pedantic. ‘You’ve got a good mind, James,’ she’d sigh. ‘Such a pity I couldn’t cultivate it sooner.’

  ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Nicole ma’am – help yo’self. We got plenty time to plant all dem in-tee-lec-to-al vegie-tables in mah mind.’

  Jimmy had talked to me about returning to the island after he was discharged from the forces. In two weeks he was due to fly to Japan, where he would attend his final parade and receive his honourable discharge from the United States Army. From there he’d head straight back to the island. We’d discussed the future together and decided to give fishing a go. How I’d hated the idea of being a fisherman before I’d left for Korea! But now I found myself feeling differently about the prospect of earning a living from the sea. Jimmy loved fishing and went out on a boat with the professional fishermen whenever he could. To coin an obvious phrase, he took to the life like a fish to water.

  This was despite my initial warning to him that the life of a fisherman working for wages was far from a pleasant or even a prosperous experience. ‘It’s mostly sheer bloody drudgery, mate. What’s more, Bass Strait is a real bitch – unpredictable and treacherous. A lot of what you do takes place in bloody terrible weather. A nor’westerly will blow up out of a clear blue sky, and a full-scale gale can hit you in half an hour. Ask Cory and Steve – they’ll tell you how much fun they’re having making a crust.’

  But, as usual, Jimmy saw it differently. He said nothing until he’d gone out with one or another of the boats in most weather conditions, and he always returned grinning. ‘We ain’t workin’ for some cocksucka foh no wages, Brother Fish. We gonna work foh ourself, man. Der lotsa fish in da sea and some o’ dem belong to us, same as dey belong to dem fish bosses. I reckon we gonna special-lise in crayfishes.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, mate,’ I warned him. In the POW camp I’d once told him about Alf’s venture into cray fishing, pointing out what a bitch of a way it was of making a living.

  In 1939 Alf had decided he’d had enough of working for a bigger boat and being paid barely enough to keep his family eating regularly. So he resolved to branch into crayfish on his own, and managed to borrow fifty pounds from the bank by putting the house up for security. He bought a twelve-foot second-hand dinghy, none too seaworthy, caulked, repaired and painted it the best he could and then fitted it with a new set of sails. He powered the little dinghy with a two-and-a-half-horsepower BSA motorcycle engine from a motorbike our Uncle Les, Percy Pig’s father, p
ranged fifty yards down the lane from us when coming home drunk from the pub one night. We heard the bike go past the house, then the bang that followed as he hit one of the new telegraph poles. We came running only to hear a series of oaths and cusses that would have burned your ears off if you’d been a little closer. Alf told me to wait and went off to see if the driver was okay. It turned out to be Uncle Les, who was all scrapes and bleeding – but nothing seemed to be broken, and he staggered off into the night still cussing. Alf returned and told me to go home and bring the hurricane lamp and the wheelbarrow and his set of spanners from the shed. I was thirteen at the time and when I returned I held the lantern while Alf salvaged the engine from the wrecked motorbike.

  When Les came looking for his bike the next day he found it bent beyond repair from the initial smash, but mysteriously without its engine. He couldn’t remember a thing and had even forgotten that Alf had been on the spot to see if he was okay. Alf would laugh, and say, ‘Next time I was in the pub I waited until he was pissed and skint and starting to bludge drinks, and I bought him a beer and asked him what he was going to do with the smashed BSA.’

  ‘Can’t do nothin’, mate – some dirty bastard stole the fuckin’ engine!’ he’d replied.

  ‘Nah, mate, I removed it,’ Alf admitted. ‘Wouldn’t want someone to nick it, would ya?’

  ‘You’ve got it? Well I’ll be buggered!’ Les said, a little unsteady on his feet. He pointed a finger at Alf, having to take a step back to keep his balance and squinting at him through one eye. ‘Me sister, she was always too bloody good fer ya, Alf McKenzie.’ Les then turned to address the other members at the bar. ‘Lissshin to thish – me fuckin’ brother-in-law nicked me beeza motorbike engine!’

  Alf cleared his throat, preparing for his pitch. ‘Les, mate, the flamin’ BSA’s a write-off! How fast were ya goin’ when ya hit that telegraph pole?’

  ‘Bloody mongrel shouldn’t have been there. Weren’t there last month, were it?’ Les said accusingly.

  ‘Modern progress, mate. We’re gunna have street lights an’ all – you’ll be able to see where yer goin’ next time!’ This caused general laughter.

  ‘Where’s me fuckin’ beeza engine?’ Les said drunkenly.

  ‘Les, yer not thinking of repairing it, are ya?’

  ‘I might,’ Les replied. ‘Bloody good mo . . . bike, that.’

  ‘Not any more it ain’t,’ Alf retaliated. ‘Flamin’ frame’s bent real bad, both wheels gorn – ya couldn’t hope to straighten ’em – handlebars are history, light’s ratshit, the tyres were smooth as a baby’s backside, thread showin’ through the rubber an’ all.’ Alf paused to let all this sink in, then he made his offer. ‘I tell ya what, Les, I’ll buy ya another beer and give ya five bob for the engine, which ain’t in such good shape neither. Whatcha say, mate?’

  ‘Five bob! Yer mad, ya bastard! S’worth two quid attheverylease.’

  ‘Okay, me last offer. Two beers and seven’n’sixpence, take it or leave it – no further negotiations will be entered into.’

  ‘Go t’buggery!’ Les Kelly said, and turned to Greg Woon, the barman, and asked if he could chalk up a beer.

  Greg pointed to the slate at the back of the bar, and shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate – you’ve already chalked up five bob, and you know that’s the house limit. Anyway, you’ve had a skinful.’

  Les turned to Alf. ‘Two beers and eight bob? No nego . . . shins will be . . . ’ he said, losing track of the sentence.

  Alf shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate – seven’n’six, that’s me best offer.’ Alf took the money out of his pocket and slapped five shillings on the counter in front of Greg Woon. ‘That’s to wipe Les’s slate clean, mate.’ He put down an extra shilling. ‘That’s for two beers for Les.’ Then he gave Les one and sixpence, enough for three beers.

  Les sniffed and accepted the money, grumbling that he’d been rooked by his own brother-in-law.

  ‘I’ve gotta go, mate,’ Alf said. ‘Plenty to do.’

  ‘What? Yiz not gunna buy us a beer after I let ya have th’fuckin’ engine?’ Les accused.

  Alf grinned, recalling the story. ‘I just did when I come in,’ he’d pointed out. ‘Greggie says ya had enough.’

  ‘Yeah, but ya got th’ fuckin’ beeza engine cheap!’ Les protested.

  Les was right – tradition dictated that Alf buy him a beer to consummate the deal. Greg would have poured him another beer under the circumstances. It was the right thing to do.

  ‘I was dead broke,’ Alf explained. ‘I’d hoped to get the BSA engine for five bob and the extra two’n’six was for a packet of shag and goin’ to the pub on Saturday night. It was gunna be a long week, I can tell ya. I said to him, “Sorry, mate, buy ya a beer next time. Ya cleaned me out. Tell ya what, though, you’ve got a clean slate and one’n’six in yer pocket. Why don’t ya buy me one?”

  ‘“Get fucked!” Les shouted. “I ain’t buyin’ no fuckin’ beer fer no mongrel wants them street lights jus’ so’s I can break me fuckin’ neck on one them fuckin’ poles so’s he can nick me fuckin’ beeza engine!”’

  Alf would laugh as he told the story – though, of course, when he told it to the family, he left out Uncle Les’s worst expletives. I only heard them replaced where they belonged when he was telling the story to a group of men on the beach while repairing craypots and didn’t know I’d come up behind him. I recall how Uncle Les’s reason for not buying Alf a beer got a big laugh from the men listening. They all knew Les Kelly for what he was, but also would have reckoned Alf had taken advantage of him while he was drunk and so deserved the opprobrious dismissal. Alf knew it too, although, in truth, Les Kelly was always either drunk or had a bad hangover so he was never really in a position to think straight.

  The little BSA engine was cooled by a fan that Alf fitted so it didn’t overheat when pulling a much bigger load than it was originally designed for. Alf claimed it almost never let him down, and never in a crisis.

  He begged and borrowed some disused craypots and bought some new cane and tea-tree. Sue and I would repair the craypots with the cane and tea-tree after school and on the weekend. By this time Alf’s borrowed capital was about used up. He’d load the boat with craypots and a coff, which is a square box made from wooden slats an inch wide and spaced an inch apart, with a hinged lid at the top. It’s roughly six feet long and wide, and four feet high, and is weighted down in sufficient water to cover it even when the tide goes out. A coff could hold up to 1000 crays, fed every day with mutton-fish – that is, abalone – so that they maintained their prime condition.

  Alf would go out for up to a week at a time, camping on shore at night, and set up his craypots behind offshore reefs in protected lagoons of smooth water. He’d bait crayfish in a dead simple but nevertheless ingenious way. On the island no jam tin ever had its lid opened more than three quarters, because once it was empty it could be used as a ‘bait saver’. You’d knock a few holes in the bottom of the tin, then place your bait inside and push down the lid to close it sufficiently to keep the bait inside and anything else out. With the tin placed inside a craypot the cray would smell the bait through the holes in the tin and enter the pot and be caught. Cray after cray would be attracted to the bait without it ever being used up.

  Alf would harvest the full pots every day and put them into the coff, where the crays could enjoy a good feed of mutton-fish. At the end of the trip he’d empty them all into wet hessian spud bags and head for home.

  It was bloody hard work, and Alf said he’d boil the billy and have a brew first thing in the morning and by sundown he’d be that starving he could have eaten a baby’s bum through a wicker chair! On his first trip, Gloria had packed him a feast fit for a king – a roast leg of mutton, corned beef, sausages, flour for damper, lard for frying, a jar of jam for his sweet tooth, spuds and a hessian sack full of vegies from the garden. He’d trapped sufficient crays to cover his expenses and pay back his first fortnightly instalment to the bank, but it soon bec
ame obvious that he couldn’t afford to keep eating like a king. So he’d set off with the basic essentials and take the old .22 rifle. Alf used to amuse us, particularly Cory and Steve, by telling how he got by on the tucker front.

  ‘When the food is gone, ya have to look out for yourself,’ he’d said to them. ‘I’d take the gun just in case I got attacked by a killer kangaroo. Pow! I’d fire in self-defence – and just in time, too, or the monster would’ve ripped me to pieces, took out me guts with its big claws!’ The twins’ eyes were wide as they imagined the scene. ‘After this narrow escape,’ Alf said, ‘ . . . well, you couldn’t leave a perfectly good killer kangaroo there to rot, could ya?’

  ‘No!’ the twins would chorus. ‘Serves the killer kangaroo right!’

  ‘Too right!’ Alf agreed. ‘It was him or me, and this time I won. Can’t waste fresh meat, though, can you?’

  ‘Was the killer kangaroo tough?’ Cory asked.

  ‘How do you mean? Tough like being a killer, or to eat?’

  ‘To eat,’ came the reply.

  ‘Nah, this particular roo was good eating, ’cept for his heart.’

  ‘What was wrong with his heart?’ Steve asked, falling into the trap.

  ‘Mate, he was a real hard-hearted kangaroo!’ Alf laughed.

  He’d tell them how in the season he’d known mutton-birds to mysteriously commit harakiri by flying into the boat and breaking their necks as they plopped straight into a sizzling frying pan. How the odd swan would have a nasty accident by swimming into the boat in the dark and die of fright thinking it must be a killer whale or something.