The Persimmon Tree

by Bryce Courtenay

  We’d reached the outside of the building where I expected to catch the bus to the hotel. But one of the naval patrol guys, not the one who’d taken me upstairs, ushered us to a huge Packard sedan with two stars on the fender pennant. He opened the back door for me and the little bloke went around to the other side of the olive-green car and climbed in. Behind the wheel sat a big black guy.

  ‘Meet Joe “Hammer-man” Popkin,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Howdy,’ the black bloke said, glancing back. ‘Nice meetin’ yoh at las’, Nick.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’ I pointed towards him, not believing my ears. ‘The Joe “Hammer-man” Popkin from Illinois State Reformatory?’

  ‘One an’ da same,’ Joe Popkin laughed, drawing away in the Packard.

  The little bloke was grinning like a chimpanzee. ‘Joe and me, we got ourselves together again.’

  ‘A coincidence?’ I asked, knowing it was probably no such thing. I was learning fast.

  ‘Dis war not long enough for coincidence, buddy; yoh wait for coincidence, ya gonna be an old man.’

  ‘Opportunist?’

  ‘Yoh got it.’

  Joe Popkin, steering expertly through the lunchtime traffic, glanced quickly backwards. ‘I’s glad you’ve come, Nick. Since we seen you in da noospaper I ain’t heared nothin’ else. My head got so many Nicks in it, it bleedin’ internal, man. My friend heah, he owes you big time, but he sure don’t stop talkin’ ’bout it.’ He paused. ‘Like I owes him big time. One day I’m workin’ in da blacksmith shop in San Diego wid dah Seabees, de navy construcshun crowd, an’ da next I’s comin’ here.’ He laughed. ‘I ain’t even evah heard o’ dis place, Australia, man!’

  The big Packard parked outside the Bellevue Hotel and we got out. ‘You want me to wait?’ Joe Popkin asked.

  ‘Nah, go back to Turbot Street. I’ll call yoh, buddy,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Joe’s not coming to lunch?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, this fuckin’ navy, army, air force — black guys wash da dishes, dig da ditches, pick dat cotton, tote dat bale… even dah chief ain’t got enough influence to change dat,’ Kevin replied.

  It accounted for the fact that there were no black marines at Guadalcanal, something I’d been curious about but hadn’t dared to ask why. ‘It’s the same with our Aborigines,’ I said. ‘Although many of them fought with distinction in the First World War they still have to deny they’re Aboriginal when they enlist. They say they’re Maoris or Islanders to get in, or pass themselves off as dark-complexioned whites. Once they’re in the ranks they mysteriously turn back into Aborigines, by which time, of course, nobody gives a stuff; they’re totally accepted for what they are — mainly bloody good soldiers. Make no mistake about it, we’re also a racist society, mate.’

  Kevin stopped at the entrance to the hotel and turning to me said, ‘Da blacks is not accepted wit us, buddy. If dem Southern recruitment sergeants say ya black, den yoh is black. Den it’s diggin’ ditches or kitchen dooty for you in a labour battalion. Wit’out Joe, I’d ’a been a dead kid up-State in dat reformatory. Like you, buddy, he is my brudder. Fuckin’ brass pissin’ in der boots again! Most o’ dem from da fuckin’ South.’

  We walked into the Bellevue Hotel — a posh-looking hostelry and certainly not likely to be mistaken as the corner pub. It wasn’t hard to see the little bloke was well known, with greetings flying around like bats at twilight. The clientele was essentially businessmen and officers, American and Australian, who seemed to have less of an antipathy towards each other than did the enlisted men. I guess at the officer level access to the good sorts evened out a bit.

  The little bloke, with me not far behind, was probably the lowest rank in the room, yet seemed to command a great amount of respect. Prosperous-looking business types called out greetings and one or two came over, but Kevin gave them the brush-off. ‘I ain’t doin’ business today,’ he said, smiling. ‘Call me in da office, day after tomorrer.’ He withdrew a card from his shirt pocket and handed out one; I noticed it was blank except for a number. ‘Say dis number when you call,’ he instructed. They nodded, grateful to have been granted an audience.

  ‘You still in the numbers racket?’ I joked.

  ‘Wit’out a number dey don’t get no appointment. No names until dey sittin’ in da chief’s office and dey bin checked out.’

  One bloke, well dressed, with a rather pretentious air force moustache, a gold wristwatch and starched cuffs showing under an expensive suit, approached. ‘I can explain, Mr Judge, it was a —’ Kevin put up his hand to silence him. ‘Not here, not now!’ The bloke with the moustache quickly backed away. ‘Asshole! He tried to substitute blade f’r sirloin in a beef contract to the officers’ mess at naval headquarters. Big mistake. Stoopid!’ I was quickly learning that the facts of life involved more than knowing where babies came from.

  A waiter, his dark hair combed straight back and plastered with Brylcreem so that it shone and looked like a lacquered shell closely fitted to his head, and wearing a white apron that hung from his waist to his ankles, came over. ‘Your table is ready whenever you are, sir,’ he announced, his manner polite, bordering on obsequious.

  ‘Thank you, Fernando, we’ll have a drink at the bar while we wait for Chief Lewinski to get here.’ Two bar stools mysteriously appeared and a truly terrific-looking barmaid with breasts as nice as Marg Hamilton’s came over. She had a great open smile and gave me a quiet up-and-down appraisal, so that I reckoned it might be well worth returning at a later date to check out its meaning.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Judge,’ she said, giving what she had upfront just the tiniest nudge forward. ‘Same as usual?’

  ‘Thanks, Sally,’ Kevin replied.

  She turned to me, her eyes widening slightly — or perhaps I imagined that bit. ‘Coke, please, miss,’ I said politely. She was an absolute knock-out.

  ‘Coke? Wha’ cha mean, Coke!’ Kevin cried out, horrified.

  ‘Jaundice — can’t drink for another six weeks. It’s a bitch — er, bugger,’ I said colouring, realising the nice-looking barmaid was still present.

  ‘Irish over ice and a Coke,’ Sally said as she moved away, giving me a look that seemed to suggest she’d prefer me sober. Oh God! Her breasts were lovely.

  ‘She likes you, buddy; half this cockamamie town is tryin’ to get into her pants.’

  ‘What about you, then?’ I teased.

  The little bloke shook his head. ‘Nah, she’s outa my class, buddy. Money don’t buy her sort.’ Then he added, ‘Beside, she gets all the chocolates and nylons and whatever she wants free. She don’t have ta put out for nuttin’ to nobody.’ He paused. ‘I got an arrangement wit a young widda, her husband was killed in North Africa.’ He didn’t explain any further.

  I hadn’t brought up the subject of accommodation. The bus from the airport had taken me to Brisbane Railway Station where I’d left my kit in the luggage room before walking to Turbot Street. ‘You didn’t happen to find a boarding house where I could kip?’ I now asked.

  ‘Sure, you staying right here, buddy.’

  ‘Here?’ I laughed. ‘Mate, I’m on a naval lieutenant’s pay.’

  ‘On da house,’ he smiled. ‘Matter o’ fact, da owner’s suite. Da publican gives it to us for nuttin’. He owes us big time, dis de only hotel in Bris-bane dat never runs outa Scotch.’

  ‘I thought you said you don’t deal in goods.’

  ‘We don’t. Not like dem hams. We buy it ourselves from ourselves. It’s all fair and square on the books. It’s what Chief Lewinski calls “kosher”.’

  ‘Thanks, Kevin. I could use a bit of luxury, but what I had in mind was a firm mattress, clean sheets changed once a week, a hot shower and a good breakfast.’

  ‘Dey got all dat here upstairs, Nick.’ He chuckled. ‘And Sally downstairs.’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ I said, grinning.

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nbsp; ‘Well, dat your only problem, Nick. You gotta work out how to bring her from downstairs, up da stairs. Other dan dat, I pick up da tab while you’re here.’

  ‘I can’t allow that, mate,’ I protested. ‘Let me pay for drinks and meals.’

  The little bloke sighed. ‘Nick, it ain’t a big deal, buddy. We don’t pay for nuttin’ in dis establishment.’

  ‘A little Scotch goes a long, long way,’ I said.

  ‘It ain’t such a little,’ Kevin replied. ‘Give me da luggage ticket. Joe will go fetch your kitbag an’ bring it here.’

  The drinks arrived, carried by the magnificent eyeful. Not long afterwards Chief Lewinski joined us. We finished our drinks and the waiter with the lacquered head led us to a table in a private alcove. ‘I’ll send the drinks waiter right away, sir,’ he said.

  One or two minutes passed and Sally arrived. She looked at me and grinned, eyes twinkling. ‘The drinks waiter was busy, sir, I hope you don’t mind?’ she explained in a mischievous voice.

  I laughed. ‘I want to make an official complaint to the management, miss,’ I replied. Then I added, ‘Please, call me Nick.’ I was trying not to look at her breasts, fixing my eyes on her very pretty face, freckles around her nose.

  ‘Thank you, Nick. Same again?’

  I nodded. ‘The Coca-Cola kid.’

  ‘Don’t take no notice I’m here,’ Kevin grinningly complained.

  ‘Irish over ice?’ Sally asked, throwing him a gorgeous smile and then turning to Lewinski. ‘Scotch on the rocks?’

  ‘You’ve got me in one, young lady,’ the chief replied. ‘Mr Johnny Walker.’

  We watched as she left — tall, nice legs, and the way she swung her hips wasn’t at all painful to the eye. Thinking about her later created a definite stirring elsewhere. I was recovering from hospital fast.

  The owner’s suite was more luxury than any one man needed: big bedroom, lounge and its own bathroom. I’d never been in a place as posh as this. Kevin explained that sometimes they needed to use the lounge for meetings they couldn’t hold in the office, but he’d let me know well in advance.

  On the second night, Sally agreed to go to the movies with me and then dancing later at the Trocadero. She was a terrific dancer and undertook to teach me, picking up where Mary Kelly had left off, and managing my clumsy big feet with expert ease. The Yanks had brought jitterbug and jive to Brisbane; Sally already had the hang of both and I had a go, though I wasn’t very good. Holding her and swinging her around, we laughed a lot and by the end of the evening I hoped I was getting better at them. I took her home in a taxi. She lived in a block of red-brick flats and shared with three girlfriends. I said goodnight at the front door, and although I’d flung her around all night like a rag doll, I didn’t attempt to kiss her despite multiple stirrings.

  The following night I met Kevin’s widow lady, Brenda. She was a plumpish, pretty girl in her early twenties and the three of us went to dinner together. She appeared to be quiet and loving, and although nothing was said (how could there be with her still in mourning?), it wasn’t too hard to see she liked the little bloke a whole lot and, while he was acting a bit tough, it was obvious he felt the same about her. She was even tinier than he was and he referred to her as ‘Bren Gun’, a weapon I didn’t know he knew about. ‘She get mad at yoh, it rapid fire, she don’t take no shit,’ he explained in her presence at dinner.

  Brenda’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Kevin! I beg your pardon? Mind your language! Wash your mouth! You’re not with your navy friends now, Kevin Judge. Apologise at once!’ I must say her chastisement came out spontaneously without too much pausing for breath.

  ‘See what I mean?’ the little bloke said happily, not apologising. I guess, like Father Geraghty, the cruel cut of a nun’s tongue at the orphanage had left a mark on the little bloke. We never quite recover from our childhood, him with this and me seeking the comfort of a woman’s breasts.

  After we’d dropped Brenda and Kevin at her flat in Ipswich and Joe Popkin was driving me back to the hotel, he casually enquired, ‘How ya going wid da barmaid, Nick?’

  I laughed, and asked, ‘How do you know about that? Is nothing sacred around here?’

  Joe threw back his head and laughed. ‘Da Judge, he tell me she a mind blow an’ she like you, man!’

  I explained that I’d taken Sally to a movie and then dancing, but that was all there was to it. We were going out again in two nights’ time, I told him, that was providing her mother didn’t come into town from Toowoomba.

  ‘Yeah, man, da mudder factor, dat ain’t easy,’ Joe said, consoling me. ‘But nevah yoh mind, yoh take it nice easy, slow action, dat always da best way. Some chicks, dey see a uniform, dey cain’t wait. But, my experience, yoh take it easy, play da game smart, slow, polite, keep ya tongue in ya own mouth, wid ya hands doin’ a little bitty more movin’ evertime yoh gonna touch her. Dat way dey gonna come to da party nice and natural and wake up in ya bed like it der own.’

  ‘How long should this slow process take, Joe?’ I asked, thinking I had just over three weeks of my leave left.

  Joe Popkin appeared to be giving this some serious thought. ‘Well now, I reckon about fordy-eight hours,’ he said finally. When we arrived at the Bellevue we shook hands and I thanked him. He handed me a box. ‘Da Judge, he says you cain’t keep a mudder an’ chil’ on a lootenant pay. Dere two dozen US naval issue in dere; yoh wan’ more, jes ask, yoh heah now?’ I thanked him and secretly appreciated his optimism that I’d be fortunate enough to use twenty-four and then request more! ‘Now remember, Nick, slow action! Wid a woman evert’in’ gotta be reeeaaal slow — evert’in’,’ he advised. He pushed the Packard into gear and pulled away. I could hear him chuckling as he steered the big car through the browned-out streets.

  The following day at lunch with the little bloke and the chief, Sally was in attendance looking good enough to eat with a spoon. When she’d left to fetch our drinks, Chief Lewinski asked, ‘How’re you going with the pretty broad, son?’

  ‘Does everyone know everything around here?’ I protested. ‘I’ve taken her to the movies, then dancing, just the once. We’re going out tonight again, touch wood. She’s agreed, but thinks her mum may be coming from Toowoomba.’

  ‘Joe told me,’ Kevin said. ‘Her mom got herself a nice bunch o’ roses and all three girls in da apartment dey gonna take her to da movies and den dinner. Sally gonna be available. It’s all set up, buddy. She’s comin’ and she’s wearing her best gown.’

  ‘Huh? What’s all that mean?’

  ‘Joe says, one o’ da most certain moves in slow action is ta show da object o’ your desire dat yoh a real classy guy.’ He spread his hands. ‘So yoh gotta take her to a real classy joint.’

  ‘What, Lennons?’ Lennons Hotel was where General MacArthur was billeted.

  ‘Nah, any two-bit officer can do dat — too many guys promisin’ der girlfriend dey gonna see da cockamamie general.’

  ‘Where then?’

  Chief Lewinski then said, ‘Wear ya uniform wit all da ribbons and take your Navy Cross ribbon. When ya get dere, take my advice, son, pin it on — ain’t going to be no fuckin’ limeys dere.’

  ‘But where’s “there”?’ I asked again.

  ‘It’s wait and see time, buddy. Joe will pick you up nineteen-hunnert hours outside, den to Sally. Your table’s booked for twenny-hunnert hours. No tips to da waiters — ya keep ya money in ya pocket.’

  Promptly at seven Joe Popkin arrived in the Packard wearing his dress uniform. I jumped in the front. ‘C’mon, Joe, play fair, where are we going?’

  He grinned. ‘Nick, I get mah black ass kicked iffen I tell yoh, man!’ He handed me a small box and I opened it to see it contained a large white orchid with a pinkish throat. ‘She wearin’ a nice blue dress, like da sky, dat orchid go nicely wid it,’ Joe said, smiling in a proprietorial manner.

 
‘Does everyone except me know everything around here?’ I asked.

  ‘Dis da best slow move, Nick, patient is da virtue. Forty-eight hour it nearly passed, man. Soon yoh got yohself more chick love dan I sincerely hope yoh can handle.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s all settled then?’

  ‘It’s da slow movin’ guy dat catch da fly,’ he said mysteriously.

  Arriving outside the block of flats, I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, a bit nervous at the idea of meeting Sally’s mother and the three flatmates who might not approve of me. A lady opened the door and, holding it open, stood back and looked at me.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Forsythe,’ I said.

  ‘Well!’ she said. ‘Oh yes, I do approve.’ It wasn’t hard to see where Sally’s looks came from.

  Sally came to the door. ‘Hello, Nick,’ she said. Then twirling around to show off her dress she asked, ‘Do you like it?’

  She looked stunning: her blonde hair and deep-blue eyes matched the blue silk taffeta gown, which had a bodice that was cut low and off the shoulder. It clung to her body so that her every movement was accentuated. Before the war, the evening dresses I remembered seeing had wide extravagant skirts, but wartime austerity demanded the use of minimal material (if any could be found), and I must say, austerity had one good thing going for it — the result was drop-dead sexy. She also wore silver sequined high-heeled shoes (I mean, they were really high!) and pearl earrings which she later told me she’d borrowed from her mum. She’d done something to her eyes that was marvellous and her lips were painted Rita Hayworth-red. I stood there like a dimwit with my mouth half open. She’d simply blown me away.

  ‘Well, come on, handsome. How do I look?’ she urged, her head held slightly to the side, smiling.

  I swallowed hard. ‘Wonderful,’ I said; my voice suddenly grown hoarse came out almost as a croak.

  ‘I think he approves, darling,’ her mum said, laughing. ‘Come in, Nick.’

  I handed Sally the box and she squealed with delight when she opened it. She ran to the bathroom and appeared a minute or so later wearing the orchid, not on her dress as I’d assumed, but in her hair. ‘Wow!’ was all I could think to say; I was honestly and truly bowled over.