Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  Alf’s face hadn’t been big, but for its size it was pretty mashed up. Gloria must have really loved him heaps to refer to it in this way. Then she’d glanced over to me. ‘You ought to be grateful, Jacko. That’s when you got your chance to be the lead mouth for the first time.’ She then turned to Jimmy and explained the Al Jolson performance at length to him.

  ‘Hey, man, I always knew dat der a bit o’ da black brotherhood in yoh, Brother Fish.’ Jimmy looked over to Gloria. ‘Anyways, we owe our lives to dat harmonica. Brother Fish done save us wid his music more den one time, dat foh sure, Gloria ma’am.’

  ‘There you go!’ Gloria said happily. ‘We’ll take them along and see what happens. Never know your luck in the big city.’

  ‘Mum, not Government House! We’ll be humiliated, that’s what will happen in the big city!’ Sue protested.

  Gloria, all innocent, looked around the table. ‘Did I say anything about Government House?’

  There was silence. It was stupid of Sue to come in like that now things were more or less resolved. But she knew, as we all did, that with Gloria things were never that easily sorted out. The Al Jolson concert was only one of dozens of humiliating experiences with the harmonica we’d endured at her hands.

  Then Jimmy broke the silence and said right out of the blue, ‘Maybe we can do same as yoh done at da welcome-home party, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”. Dat classical, dat more den one hundred years old. I can sing dat an’ yoh can play it. Den we a sextet.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, not you on her side!’ I protested, bringing my hands up to my head.

  ‘We’ll do our first practice after dinner,’ Gloria declared, obviously dead chuffed with the whole idea now she could blame it all on Jimmy.

  ‘Who’s ready for bread’n’butter pudding? Sue, get the cream, will you love?’

  ‘Mum, promise me it’s only a “perhaps” and not a “definite” – that you’re not going to force the issue with the governor on the day,’ I begged.

  Sue had risen to serve dessert but now stopped midway to the stove, nodding furiously to add emphasis to my plea. ‘Please, Mum, promise on your word of honour!’ she said, like we used to do as kids.

  ‘Of course, love, no “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”!’ Gloria said smoothly, looking at us. ‘Like you said, it’s a vice-regal occasion. These things are organised to the last detail. How could I possibly force anything to happen?’

  I wasn’t the only family member at the table who looked doubtful at these words. We’d all seen that look in her eyes before. ‘Just remember you said that, Mum,’ I said, attempting to drive the final nail into the coffin of what we all hoped was now a dead idea. The medal ceremony was meant to lift Alf’s disgrace ban, and if we didn’t make Gloria promise not to play at Government House, no sooner would it be lifted than we’d bring another crashing down on our heads. After all I’d managed to do to get us all into the ceremony, being humiliated – ‘disgraced’ might be a better word, the laughing stock of Hobart another way of putting it – would have been just too much to bear. I wondered if maybe we couldn’t help ourselves, whether it was genetically bred into the McKenzie family to screw things up, and the Kellys too – Alf and Gloria’s marriage a lethal combination, because this time the disgrace ban would be brought about by Gloria.

  In the days leading up to our departure I became more and more disconsolate about Jimmy’s prospects of staying. I hadn’t heard any more from Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan, other than the news that Canberra was taking an inordinate amount of time to reply and appeared to be stalling her request for information. I wondered how long I would be able to keep from telling him the terrible news, as he had about two months to go before his convalescent leave was up.

  I’m ashamed to say I even thought of saying nothing, letting Jimmy go off and then having him find out later when he tried to immigrate. Then when he informed me, I could play dumb and yell and scream and mentally throw myself around, huffing’n’puffing and making vainglorious promises that I’d get to the bottom of things, come what may. Then I’d suggest I come over and join him on some American island where people fished for a living and we could start up there.

  But I knew I couldn’t run away again, not this time. Jimmy was my mate. More than this, he’d saved my life and given me hope when I’d despaired for my very existence. There could be no duplicity between us, no hiding behind this legislation with a fatalistic shrug and a self-righteous curse at a government prepared to maintain such a heinous racial policy. We simply had to stand and fight. I wanted him to stay more than anything else I could have wished for. My dream was to have Jimmy as my business partner and mate and Wendy as my wife. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one getting the medal for bravery? Shit, what a joke! It was my turn now. This time I was ‘Jimmy in the North Korean cave’. I wondered if I had the strength, the guts, to go through with it, whether my resolve would crack if Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan wasn’t with me – someone who could say and really mean, ‘Nothing in life is immutable – eventually the walls of Babylon fall down.’

  The great day for the medal ceremony at Government House approached, and Jimmy and the family left the island on the morning boat to Stanley two days before the grand event. The idea was that I would take the Douglas DC3 to Launceston to meet Wendy. She had managed to borrow a Volkswagen Kombi from the Red Cross Blood Bank that could seat eight people, and we planned to drive to Stanley, meet the boat and then drive down to Hobart, arriving the night before the ceremony.

  I was learning that Wendy was one of those women who could do things and who wasn’t afraid of being beautiful. ‘People will do things for you when you’re pretty,’ she’d say, laughing. ‘It won’t last forever – might as well make use of it while I can.’ But she was putting herself down unnecessarily. She never took advantage of her looks, and always gave back as much as she received. As Miss Tasmania she appeared in several newspaper advertisements for Volkswagen free of charge. She worked as a volunteer for the Red Cross on Fridays, her day off from the chemist shop. She’d drive the Kombi to bring people from the surrounding district to give blood. ‘As long as we’re back by Friday we have the loan of the Kombi,’ she said to me.

  ‘Won’t they need it in the meantime?’ I asked, amazed at such generosity.

  ‘I’ve made other arrangements, Jacko,’ she said, then added by way of explanation, ‘when I became Miss Tasmania I managed to get the Kombi donated by the Volkswagen people to the Red Cross, so I don’t feel embarrassed asking for it. It isn’t the only vehicle they’ve got, and borrowing it won’t greatly inconvenience them. There’s a blood bank pick-up on Wednesdays, but I’ve organised that with some of my mum and dad’s friends who’ll use their own cars.’

  So there we were in the white Kombi van with the big red crosses painted on either side, off to meet the boat in Stanley. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had managed, through the Gazette, to book us into a boarding house in Stanley that night, and in another one when we arrived in Hobart. ‘I’m told the one in Hobart is very reasonable and spotless – what’s more, they serve a good breakfast,’ she’d announced, looking fondly at Jimmy. She’d booked four double rooms in both places. Her and Wendy, Sue and Gloria, Jimmy and me, and the twins, so there was no chance of Wendy and me getting together for a bit of a cuddle. It would have been nice, but we now had the key to the Walsh fishing shack on the Tamar, which we could use for two weekends each month – although Wendy’s parents, the good Dr Kalbfell and his wife, Joan, didn’t seem too pleased about this arrangement. But more about that later.

  Our group excursion to Hobart wasn’t the first time Wendy had met the family. She’d visited the island on three occasions and met Jimmy and the others, and they’d all fallen instantly in love with her. When Cory and Steve first saw her I thought their eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. I admit, it was nice showing Wendy off. You could almost hear the people on the island thinking, How’d a bloke like Jacko McKenzie

  score a flamin’ beauty li
ke her? Mind you, this wasn’t surprising – I don’t think even a McKenzie thought a McKenzie could manage to end up with a good sort like Wendy.

  Wendy and I arrived at the wharf in Stanley just as the Queen Islander was docking. The family were almost first off the boat, with Steve and Cory at the lead, each lugging a huge suitcase Gloria had brought. She’d also sewn two long bags out of muslin, each designed to carry ‘the frocks’ without creasing them, one of her special padded satin hangers in each bag with the handle poking out the top. These were entrusted to Jimmy on the basis that he was sufficiently tall to hold them up without the bottom of the bags trailing on the ground, as would have been the case if a McKenzie had been given the job.

  At dinner each night leading up to our departure we had been given a blow-by-blow description of the two dresses being made. Gloria called them ‘à la coronation’. If you recall, 1953 was coronation year and Gloria had departed from her usual source of everything female, the Women’s Weekly, and had consulted two magazines, Vanity Fair and Simplicity Magazine, the latter specialising in actual patterns. She’d read Vanity Fair to us at the kitchen table on the subject of style.

  ‘The fashion story of coronation year is a colour story. Out with the greys, the beiges and the other indefinite, muted tones so popular in the post-war years! Brilliant bursts of glorious colour is in! Guardsmen red, crown emerald, sovereign yellow, cavalry tan and two lovely blues often worn by the Queen Mother, garter blue and royal herald. Black, in either contrasting stripes or black accessories, is the smart woman’s answer to all her fashion problems.’

  ‘What do you think about crown emerald for you, darl?’ Gloria asked Sue. ‘Look lovely with your hair.’

  Sue nodded. Green was a colour that always looked great on her.

  ‘Not too fussed with the black – I’d rather have white gloves and shoes, Mum.’

  ‘You won’t be in fashion!’ Gloria cautioned.

  Sue didn’t reply, except to say, ‘What about you, Mum?’

  ‘I think the garter blue. They’ve done colour swatches here.’ She passed the magazine to Sue, who studied it for a few moments. ‘What do you think, love?’ Gloria now asked again.

  Sue moved her head to one side. ‘Sovereign yellow’s pretty.’

  ‘Nah, I’m too old for that. It’s blue, the Queen Mum’s choice. That’ll do me nicely. You’ll have to go into McKinlay’s to match the material, and get the shoes and gloves at the same time.’

  ‘Mum, Jimmy and I would like to contribute. You know, pay for the material and the shoes and gloves and everything,’ I offered.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Jacko. I’ve got a bit put away,’ Gloria said primly.

  ‘Be mah pleasure, Gloria ma’am,’ Jimmy insisted.

  Sue thanked us both, then said, ‘I still think I’d prefer white shoes and gloves.’

  ‘Oh, well – I don’t suppose we have to be slaves to fashion, do we?’ Gloria said, though with a tinge of disappointment.

  ‘It’s just that black’s for funerals,’ Sue replied firmly.

  ‘Only if it’s all over, love,’ Gloria corrected, having the last word. ‘Oh, my God! What about our hats?’ Gloria yelled suddenly, the mention of funerals reminding her. She shot up from the table like a rocket and returned shortly with a copy of the Australian Home

  Journal. ‘Hats, hats, hats,’ she said absently, thumbing through the pages. ‘Ah, here we go. Hats.’ She started to read.

  ‘In England, masses of tiny hats all made of flowers. In Paris, pillboxes in black and brown worn afternoon and evening, and for the day, floral half-hats. In Italy, washed straw cloth worn with earrings made with a combination of brightly coloured china and straw.’

  ‘What’s a half-hat? Cory asked.

  Gloria thought for a moment. ‘It wouldn’t be floppy brimmed, unless they cut out the top of the crown,’ she declared, not really knowing the answer. Then she turned to Sue. ‘Don’t fancy the straw, not for Government House. Definitely not right.’

  ‘Me neither. And the pillbox – look stupid perched on top of our heads.’

  ‘It’s the flowers then.’ Gloria tapped the magazine. ‘There’s pictures in here. They don’t look too hard to make.’

  Sue and Jimmy had gone on a shopping excursion to Launceston, the second since they’d gone together to do the Christmas shopping.

  Sue had returned with two dress lengths of stuff called silk shantung in blue and green that seemed more or less the same as the colours shown in the magazine. She bought black gloves that went right up to Gloria’s elbows and small white ones for herself, and a pair of white court shoes. Gloria had decided to stick with her good church shoes because they were black and sufficiently worn to accommodate her bunions. Sue had also bought a pair of nylon stockings for them both. The dresses, when Gloria had finished making them, had this sheen to them and seemed to change colour when they moved. They looked expensive, and Gloria commented that the material must have cost us an arm and a leg.

  Jimmy was also delegated to carry the ironing board under his other arm. Gloria insisted on carrying the electric iron herself, as she didn’t trust anyone else with it. She’d read that the irons in places you stay can’t be trusted and left marks on your clothes if you were not careful, and that ironing boards in boarding houses were ‘a disgrace to behold’. The article went on to recommend that you take a box of steel wool with you when you travel to scour out the black patch on the surface of the iron. Gloria’s iron was her one big indulgence. She had the latest General Electric with five different settings. ‘It’s not just for us and the shantung,’ she explained. ‘I want the twins to look properly groomed for once in their lives, and you and Jimmy’s uniforms must be perfect. This is a vice-regal occasion and we’re all gunna look regal if it kills me!’

  There was no way possible the twins would look properly groomed. They were grown men but they were fishermen, which meant they were just naturally untidy. A clean shirt wouldn’t last more than a few minutes on either of them – especially Steve, who had an irresistible compulsion to approach and tinker with anything with a grease-covered surface.

  On the trip to Hobart, Steve drove and checked everything was hunky-dory with the Kombi engine every time we stopped for more than five minutes. Like, for instance, on one occasion he decided to check the carburettor, even though the Kombi was practically brand-new. ‘Never know with engines, and this one’s German and in the back,’ he muttered darkly. ‘Don’t want to be caught short in the middle of nowhere.’ ‘Nowhere’ was this dirty great road right down the centre of Tasmania with cars and trucks passing every few minutes. I’m not sure why he mentioned the engine being German and in the back. Maybe, because we’d fought Germany in World War II, he felt the engine might be sabotaged and blow up – a payback by the Germans for us winning the war. Before we’d take off to continue our journey you could count on him having a grease mark somewhere, usually right down the front of a clean white shirt. Gloria would go apeshit, but she shouldn’t have wasted the energy to remonstrate with him – nothing helped, and Cory wasn’t a lot better. Both of them seemed to be experts on basic untidiness, and specialists in accumulating dirt. Gloria would constantly complain that she spent a fortune on bleach.

  I guess I was the same until the army got a hold of me, whereas Jimmy, having been brought up in institutions, was always tidy. Before he went to sleep, he’d ball his socks and place one within each boot so it fitted precisely round the top, preventing any creepy-crawly from entering. I often wondered what kind of dangerous creepy-crawlies might exist in New York City besides cockroaches, which were dirty but basically harmless. Then one day he explained that in Elmira Reformatory a favourite trick among fellow inmates was to put bootmaker’s tacks in your boots when you were asleep.

  ‘But they could still do that,’ I’d argued. ‘They’d simply take the sock out, put the tacks in and stuff the sock back into the boot.’

  ‘I always push dem socks one inch from d
a top, a-range mah boots toe to toe in one line. Iffen dey not perfek like dat in da mornin’, den I know somebody been der wid dem bootmaker tacks.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just turn the boot upside down and shake it before you put it on?’ I insisted pedantically.

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘It six o’clock, it a freezin’ cold mornin’, yoh lie in yo’ bed to da last poss-bill minute. Den da second bell go an’ yoh got to get yo’ ass down to mornin’ parade. Yoh ain’t got no time to do no shakin’ boots, Brother Fish. ’Fore you know you got dem tacks through da sole yo’ foot, man.’

  They all came down the gangplank, ladies first, Gloria carrying her precious GE electric iron perched on top of a big wicker basket we occasionally used for picnics on the beach. No doubt it contained food for the journey, together with a billy and teapot. Gloria was deeply suspicious of cafes. ‘I’m not paying good money for food you can’t eat and tea they have the hide to charge a pound a pot. It’s simply iniquitous! Always lukewarm, and tastes like regurgitated dishwater!’ Nobody ever pointed out to her that you didn’t drink dishwater – this was just one of Gloria’s sayings.

  Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan followed Gloria, carrying a small alligator-skin suitcase and matching hatbox. Even then, in the 1950s, that kind of luggage was a bit old-fashioned and owned only by the very wealthy. Watching her I wondered fleetingly, for the umpteenth time, about her past. Nobody had ever heard her talk about it. She’d simply arrived on the island by boat as a young woman one morning in 1933, and stayed. Sue walked behind her carrying a hatbox and Jimmy’s and my dress uniforms in another muslin bag Gloria had run up on her Singer. The twins were the last to disembark. It was late afternoon when we finally reached the boarding house on the outskirts of Stanley.

  The journey the following day to Hobart was uneventful. Despite Steve’s reservations, the Kombi’s high-revving engine whined along with typical German efficiency. With Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan in charge of the AA map of Hobart we had little difficulty finding the boarding house she’d booked, which wasn’t far from the Botanical Gardens and Government House.