A Different Land

by Paul Jennings

  ‘Snags?’ said Christopher.

  ‘Mystery bags,’ said Pat cheerfully.

  ‘You’re picking up the lingo,’ said Crayfish approvingly.

  ‘Ah, sausages,’ said Anton.

  Crayfish put a hand on each boy’s shoulder and gave them a gentle push towards the barbecue.

  ‘Off you go,’ he said.

  He smiled at Pat.

  ‘You don’t have to work tonight,’ he said. ‘Just join in and get to know people.’

  The boys stared hungrily at the sizzling sausages. Anton enjoyed turning them over and putting them onto a slice of bread for the customers. They were a rough but cheery mob.

  The Bot gave a toss of his tangled hair. He had a snake tattooed on his chest and neck. The head of the snake covered his voice box and when he spoke it seemed to open and shut its mouth.

  ‘Eat up while you can, boys,’ he said. ‘The place is closed tomorrow.’

  ‘Why is that?’ said Anton.

  ‘It’s Wednesday,’ he answered. ‘Crayfish always goes off in the truck on Wednesday.’

  At that moment a loud chord rang out from the piano. Christopher looked up.

  It was Pat. She started playing an old tune – ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’.

  A cheer went up and in no time a crowd had surrounded her and was singing loudly. Lonely began to howl an accompaniment.

  ‘I didn’t know Pat could play the piano,’ said Anton.

  ‘She talks posh,’ said Christopher. ‘But Mum has mixed with all sorts. She drove an ambulance in the war and tried to cheer up wounded soldiers.’

  As the evening progressed, Anton and Christopher began to tire.

  ‘Off to bed,’ said Pat. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Back in their room the boys lay looking up at the ceiling, from which one small light globe hung. The window was open and the moist air made everything they touched feel damp. Mosquitoes buzzed in the gloom.

  ‘You should give him a break,’ said Anton.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who. Crayfish.’

  ‘What have I done?’ said Christopher.

  ‘You don’t laugh at his jokes. You frown when Pat does laugh at them. When you gave out the snags you handed him the two burnt ones. He’s not a bad bloke.’

  With that, Anton turned over and was soon asleep, but Christopher lay staring at the dim globe with unfocused eyes.

  Something moved.

  A beautiful black moth with enormous wings had settled on the ceiling. A small lizard also clung there, hanging on with delicate toes. It was stationary, watching, not betraying its presence. Every now and then it would move just one leg, slowly drawing closer to the moth.

  Christopher had never seen a lizard that could walk upside down. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. He was just about to jump up and save the moth, but he was too late.

  The lizard had shot out an enormously long tongue and pulled the moth into its mouth. There was a tiny fluttering of black wings and then it was gone.

  ‘Aagh,’ he screamed.

  In the nearby bed Anton groaned but did not wake.

  Christopher’s head spun.

  The world was a bleak place. Death and deception could strike at any time.

  There was something wrong with Crayfish’s story about his dead wife and he couldn’t quite figure it out. But there was one thing he knew for sure.

  Crayfish was not going to get the moth. His mother was not there for the taking.

  Five

  The next morning Christopher awoke to find himself alone. Anton had disappeared. Christopher guessed that he was already at the pub, stuffing down cold sausages.

  He quickly dressed and walked towards the store. He was surprised to see a number of scruffy men heading towards the long-drop. They looked as if they had been sleeping rough, either in the bush somewhere or in the wounded cars that were scattered under the trees.

  The boy was busting to sit down and relieve himself, so he followed them into the battered building. His jaw dropped in surprise and confusion. He could feel a red flush creeping up his neck.

  The toilets were made up of one long, wide plank in which six holes had been cut. The first four were occupied by men already sitting there with their pants around their feet. The Bot was one of them.

  He looked up and grinned. ‘Help yourself, mate,’ he said in a friendly, rasping voice. The tattoo of the snake on his neck opened and closed its mouth.

  The man next to him lowered the paper he was reading and added his own welcome. He farted loudly.

  A red-headed youth sitting nearby sensed Christopher’s discomfort. He felt moved to give the newcomer a piece of advice.

  ‘Don’t fall in. It’s a long way down and no one’s going to reach in and pull you out by the hair.’ They all began to chuckle.

  Christopher’s face burned. It was not the first time he had heard a joke about his lack of hair.

  The Bot scowled at the youth and then spoke to the other man.

  ‘Hey, Dave,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got a spare smoke, have ya?’

  Dave lowered his newspaper, sighed and handed over a packet of cigarettes.

  Christopher was confused and embarrassed. Never in his life had he been faced with sitting on a toilet that had no door. Even during the worst of the war back home he had been able to creep off to a private space behind a tree or a fence.

  He had experienced terror in the Blitz when the bombers came over. But that seemed nothing beside the prospect of pulling down his pants and sitting next to these crude men. Dave suddenly let out a satisfied, ‘Ah.’

  A soft plop came from the pit far below.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  The distressed boy could not join them. He turned and rushed out, followed by laughter. ‘You’ll be back,’ shouted Dave. ‘Sooner or later you’ll be back.’

  Christopher let his belt out a notch and made his way to the store.

  His mother, Anton and Crayfish were just finishing off an egg and bacon breakfast. The three of them were laughing.

  ‘G’day,’ said Crayfish. ‘Come and get some grub. Make yourself at home. See you later, Pat,’ he said. ‘You’ve made a good start.’

  They exchanged a warm glance. He shoved the wide-brimmed hat onto his bald head and walked towards the truck.

  ‘See you later,’ Pat called out happily.

  Christopher frowned and dropped into a seat.

  ‘Have you seen the toilets here?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘They’re incredible.’

  ‘A good place to make new friends,’ said Anton.

  Christopher’s eyes opened wide. ‘You went?’

  Anton nodded. ‘When in Rome…’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Pat. ‘Use the ladies’.’

  ‘What?’ said Christopher. ‘Never.’

  She gave him a kindly smile. ‘You might have noticed that there’s not many women around here. You’ll be okay.’

  Christopher blushed.

  ‘But there will be one day,’ she said. ‘This place has potential. Look at the reefs. Look at the beaches. Look at the clear blue sky and the trees. In the winter it’s warm and lovely. It’s a paradise.’

  He stared out. It was true.

  The forest surrounding them dropped onto a golden beach. A brilliant blue and green sea was dotted with coral reefs and densely wooded islands. Brightly coloured butterflies flitted crookedly through the air while birds of every hue tried to match their splendour. Only twenty yards away a sea turtle was slowly scraping a hole in the sand with its back flipper.

  ‘It might be nice now,’ said Christopher, ‘but up here things can change just like …’

  He snapped his fingers.

  In an instant the sun vanished and rain began to fall.

  ‘That,’ said Christopher with an amazed grin. He stood up and bowed, pleased that nature had provided him with a joke.

  They all laughed.

  ‘Do it
again,’ said Anton.

  Christopher shook his head with a smile.

  They wouldn’t have heard him even if had spoken. The sky had opened up. The sea and the distant islands were obscured by the downpour. The rain fell so heavily that the small pub seemed to be the only thing that existed in the universe. It thundered on the tin roof.

  Paradise was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  A week passed. Nothing had changed. And everything had changed.

  No one mentioned the fact that they had not been packed off on the next train. So, Pat had the job for at least another seven days.

  Christopher stared out from the pub. They were all sitting around the table eating a meal that Crayfish had prepared – cold roast pork with apple sauce, potatoes and canned vegetables.

  The constant rain had not stopped once in a week. And the damp heat continued all day and night. Mosquitoes made it impossible to sleep, as did the noise of the coarse men and a few women drinking and singing until midnight.

  These people travelled great distances to reach the only pub for a hundred miles. There were fishermen from the cray boats that pulled in for supplies and workers from a far-off lumber mill.

  A group of Aboriginal people had a camp nearby. And scattered through the forest were a few families living in caravans and tents. These campers scratched a living from the forest and shot feral pigs, which they sold to Crayfish.

  Basically, the pub was a small island in a huge ocean of trees.

  Pat was getting on well with Crayfish. They joked and teased each other a lot and she even played the old piano while he sang to the customers in the evenings. He had a deep, strong voice that could be heard above the noisy group, who often clapped and cheered his renditions.

  Crayfish, The Beard and The Bot had started making changes to the pub. They had taken down the huge front doors and framed up a wall where these had once been. There were spaces for windows and a regular door.

  ‘Next comes a new toilet,’ said Pat, throwing a look at Christopher.

  ‘And then a wooden floor,’ said Crayfish.

  ‘What about a library?’ said Anton, who was reading the only book in the place for the second time. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of The World’s Best Pubs.’

  ‘Library,’ scoffed Crayfish. ‘Hardly anyone around here can read.’

  ‘I can,’ said Anton proudly. ‘Well, just about.’

  Christopher didn’t join in the conversation. He knew he was sulking but he couldn’t help it. There was something about Crayfish that wasn’t right. No one ever mentioned Peggy. Maybe it was because Crayfish missed his dead wife so much and they were just respecting the grieving man’s feelings. Or was there some other reason they never spoke about her?

  A row of battered trucks was parked outside and the occupants, all men from the timber mill, were making the best of the bar.

  Christopher’s stomach still had the hard pain that began in the toilet block a week ago.

  He had not been able to go into the long-drop toilet and sit there next to The Beard or The Bot or any other customer who might wander in. He had been down there and got as far as dropping his pants. But every time he had heard approaching voices he pulled them up and hurried out.

  He had tried to relieve himself behind a tree, but the unending rain was heavy and Pat scolded him for getting wet. After two days he had constipation and by now he was really in trouble. He needed to get onto a toilet seat and sit there until the deed was done.

  The pain in his guts was becoming unbearable. He glanced outside and saw that the rain had stopped.

  There was not one woman in the place except for his mother. He looked across at the toilet block. He jumped up and made a dash towards the ladies’ loo, followed by Lonely. He disappeared inside and shut the door after the dog.

  The Ladies’ had no cubicles, just one proper toilet with a shiny brown seat. He lowered his pants and sat. He patted Lonely, who started to lick his hand.

  ‘You are the only one in this place who knows how I feel,’ he said to the dog.

  As if wanting to cheer the boy up, Lonely jumped onto Christopher’s lap.

  ‘I’ve never sat on a toilet with a dog before,’ said Christopher.

  Voices floated over the partition from the men’s side. He recognised them at once.

  ‘Have you got a spare smoke?’ said The Bot.

  There was a sigh from The Beard and then the sound of a match striking.

  ‘What do you think about the new woman?’ said The Bot.

  ‘A bit of all right,’ said The Beard. ‘A really great sheila.’

  ‘Her lads are okay too. Nice boys.’

  ‘The bald one’s a bit shy. But he’ll fit in once he gets used to the place.’

  ‘Tomorrow is Wednesday,’ said The Bot. ‘So, Crayfish will be off at the crack of dawn as usual.’

  ‘To visit Peggy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s looking terrific.’

  ‘He’s a lucky bloke. She’s a beauty.’

  ‘With a great bottom.’

  ‘I wish she was mine.’

  ‘No hope of that, mate. Not in a million years.’

  They both chuckled.

  ‘Well,’ said The Bot, ‘we can’t sit here all day. The rain’s stopped so let’s get that wall down.’

  Christopher was still sitting on the ladies’ toilet with the dog on his lap. His head began to swim. The men he had overheard seemed friendly. But really, they were insensitive brutes. Describing people by their physical characteristics. He knew his mother would be outraged.

  But worst of all, Crayfish’s wife was not dead. And he was flirting with Christopher’s mother. Crayfish was a liar.

  Well, if Crayfish was going to visit his wife in the morning, Christopher would follow him. But first he would have to get his bowels moving. He tightened his stomach muscles and pushed.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s better.’ He heard the sound of a plop far below and shuddered.

  A dark thought entered his head. He was in danger of turning into one of these men himself. These long-drop toilets were terrible. And so were the men. He had to get away from this place.

  At that moment there was another, louder sound. Someone was banging furiously on the outside wall. He heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Knock out the props,’ yelled The Beard.

  There was another loud bang and the wall in front of Christopher began to move. It swung outwards and fell flat on the ground with an enormous crash.

  Looking straight at him were the two amazed men and a small crowd from the timber mill who were just leaving the pub after lunch. A startled cry went up at the sight of Christopher sitting there in the open with his pants down and a dog on his lap.

  A roar of laughter filled the air.

  Christopher, red in the face, jumped to his feet and desperately pulled up his pants. Lonely leapt at him playfully.

  The onlookers’ cackling grew even louder. The Beard had fallen on the ground, holding his sides with mirth.

  This was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to Christopher. There had to be something he could do to beat the shrieks of merriment. His mind spun. He wanted to run into the forest and hide his shame. But his survival instinct kicked in. Years of teasing about his bald head had taught him to use every weapon he had. And there was only one available.

  Humour.

  He bent over, picked up Lonely and held him under one arm. Then he did a little tap dance and bowed to his audience.

  The applause was loud and genuine. Now the crowd was laughing with him, not at him.

  But inside, Christopher was not amused.

  He hated this crude place of secrets and lies. And he wanted to know the truth about Crayfish and his wife, Peggy.

  Six

  Christopher went back to his room and thought about confronting Crayfish. He needed to be careful. If he caused a big fuss Pat would turn against him for being rude. And he had to get his f
acts straight.

  There were two things for sure. Crayfish was flirting with his mother. And he already had a wife whom he visited every Wednesday.

  He had to say something. He couldn’t help himself. He ran down to the long-drop toilet where Crayfish was banging nails into the new wall.

  ‘I know about Peggy,’ he blurted out.

  Crayfish looked at him. ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘So, stop flirting with my mother,’ he shouted. ‘Leave her alone. You’ve already got a wife.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Crayfish. ‘Look …’

  The boy wasn’t listening. He was already running across the grass towards the bungalow.

  Christopher avoided Crayfish for the rest of the day. That night he tossed and turned in his bed. Crayfish was guilty as charged. But he had not owned up about Peggy. Christopher had to prove that Crayfish’s wife was still alive.

  All night the rain drummed on the roof. Finally the dawn broke, dark and grey. He dressed quietly so as not to wake Anton. He quickly scribbled a note and left it on the end of his brother’s bed.

  He heard a car door slam. It was Crayfish, leaving in the truck. Christopher rushed along the verandah and sprinted through the rain. The truck was shaking gently, with a whiff of smoke rising from the exhaust pipe.

  Christopher ran to the passenger’s side of the truck and scrambled inside. Lonely was curled up on the floor. He looked up and wagged his tail as the boy slammed the door behind him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ growled Crayfish.

  ‘We didn’t finish our conversation,’ said Christopher.

  ‘You’ve said enough already.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  Crayfish answered slowly, giving weight to every word.

  ‘This is not a good time,’ he said. ‘I have to get going.’

  ‘Not before you’ve heard what I have to say.’

  ‘No,’ said Crayfish. His voice was urgent. And forceful. ‘There’s a cyclone off the coast. And we’ve had heavy rain. Really heavy rain. For a long time. And there’s going to be a king tide.’

  ‘So?’ said Christopher.

  ‘So, when those three things combine the tide rushes up the river. And meets the flooding water coming downstream. Where they meet the water rises. Quickly. There’s a big flood. Last time it happened someone drowned. I have to go and … check on things.’