Inlet Boys

by Chris Krupa

  James raised the small glass to his lips and drained it in one gulp. He belched. Since he’d come to live in the remote pearling town, his manners and his dress had both deteriorated. This evening, the beachcomber wore his entire wardrobe—old, torn, salt-stained moleskin trousers, loose shirt, and sweat-stained bandana. All had seen better days.

  “That may be true.” Gilbert recalled how he’d departed England in a hurry following a failed career in the Army. “But most of the people who live here work for a living.” He kept his voice impassive, not allowing any hint of how close to the mark James’s comment had come.

  “I tried me hand on a lugger once. I was no good at divin’. No use when it came to mannin’ the pumps, an’ I cut meself every time I tried to open a bloody oyster.”

  Gilbert sighed. He liked reasoning with James as much as he liked arguing with a piece of sailcloth. The beachcomber always gave back more than he received. Not for the first time, Gilbert wondered why he put up with the man. Then he recalled what James knew.

  Humouring his drinking partner was better than having him mention his suspicions to the authorities. “And what are you running from, James?” Gilbert directed the conversation away from himself.

  “This an’ that.... More rum?” James licked his lips and extended his hand.

  Gilbert sighed again but reached for the bottle and poured another tot. He needed to dole out the amber liquid with care, or the silly blighter sitting opposite him would drink his liquor supply dry. “Here’s mud in your eye.” During his years in Broome, Gilbert had adopted a few of the local idioms. “I’m about ready to turn in.... Big day tomorrow.” He hoped James would take the hint and leave.

  His companion raised his glass and saluted. “Here’s to me findin’ that special tomorrow.” He gave no indication of departing before they’d emptied the bottle.

  “You’re sailing north... just like you planned?” Gilbert took a sip from his glass. Unlike his drinking partner, he’d lost few of his manners and other affectations, despite the time he’d spent in the rough West Australian seaside town.

  “Yep.” James gulped the rum and held out his glass again. “Gonna make a sweep of the northern beaches... see what’s been washed up in the last coupla weeks.”

  Gilbert sighed and refilled the glass tumbler. “You’re not worried about the war?”

  “The Nips? You must be bloody jokin’. The Japanese war machine’s never gonna come here.”

  “Since they attacked Pearl Harbor, they’ve taken Malaya and Singapore. It’s only logical they’re heading this way.”

  James drained his glass again. He wiped the back of a hand over his mouth. Like the rest of his body, it hadn’t been bathed for some time. “Nah. They don’t have the long-range fuel tanks for that kinda operation. I heard it the other day on the ABC.” He spoke with all the confidence of a man fully informed on the affairs of the world.

  “So, you don’t think they’ll try to invade this country?”

  He laughed and held out his tumbler again. “Nah. Australia’s as safe as houses. They’ll never launch an attack on our soil.”

  Reluctantly, Gilbert refilled his drink. “I hope you’re right.” He poured himself another tot. “I’ve invested too much time and money in this business to risk losing it now.”

  At the mention of money, James looked around. Gilbert’s eyes followed the direction of his companion’s gaze.

  They sat in the back of the store, reclining in canvas chairs beside a large brick fireplace, the chimney of which thrust through the corrugated iron roof like a termite’s nest rising from the red pindan dirt. Of course, in Broome the nighttime temperature rarely dropped below sixty degrees, so it was an unnecessary addition built only to remind Gilbert of his homeland.

  Behind them stood trestles and counters displaying the Englishman’s wares. In this one shop, every pearl diver, deckhand or lugger owner could outfit himself and his boat with any of the numerous items required for long stretches at sea.

  In this modest establishment, Gilbert had amassed the bulk of his fortune, but it wasn’t his only source of income. His less-than-legal pursuits, which he tried to keep secret, represented a large proportion.

  White women had always been a scarce commodity in the rough-and-tumble pearling town. Some wives tolerated the harsh conditions, but their status and the heat precluded them from menial labour. Single women—what few braved the harsh climate—worked as barmaids. With an eye towards remedying the imbalance, Gilbert had hit upon an audacious scheme. Once a year, he and a bunch of his deckhands sailed north to a remote beach. Going ashore, they’d acquire a cargo of young aboriginal women.

  If the tribe co-operated, he purchased them with a bag of flour or a side of beef. If not, he took the women at gunpoint. If he killed aboriginals in the process, who’d object? Once employed as prostitutes or housemaids, the women received meals and clothes, and Gilbert collected their earnings for his trouble. Both illegal and immoral, but the offices of those authorities who might seek to remedy the situation were thousands of miles to the south.

  “Mmm.” James returned his attention to his companion.

  Does James’s interest lie in the clothes, diving suits or the other paraphernalia I sell? Or is it the legality of my business dealings that concern the beachcomber tonight? He preferred it when his companion’s fascination lay in the bottles of rum kept in cases behind his main counter.

  “It’d be a shame to waste all this good product.” James held forth his glass yet again.

  Gilbert stood. Much taller than James, he carried himself in the manner of trained military personnel. He poured another glass of rum, and then made a show of replacing the stopper. “You might be right.” He relaxed. Tonight, at least, James had no interest in anything other than rum. “But I’ve got an early start in the morning. Customers to outfit, and all that. I’ll bid you good fossicking on the morrow, and may fortune smile upon you.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” James rose unsteadily to his feet and swallowed the contents of his glass. He placed the tumbler on the upright wine barrel doubling as a table and turned towards the door.

  Prologue, Part II: Lucky Jim

  ~~~

  March 1942

  ~~~

  The Miss Nancy, an old lugger with paint peeling like paperbark from its hull, decking and superstructure, glided over the smooth waters of Roebuck Bay. Despite the boat’s dilapidated appearance and the patchwork quilting of its three sails, the Miss Nancy returned James Planter in safety from his beachcombing tour of the northern beaches of the remote, uninhabited Australian coastline.

  In excellent spirits, he reefed in the sails and swung the tiller towards land. He hummed a little ditty and turned his gaze towards the shoreline. As the boat rounded a bend and nosed into the mangrove-lined inlet leading to Streeter’s Jetty, his euphoria faded.

  Something was dreadfully wrong.

  For one thing, none of the pearlers sat at anchor beside the narrow wharf. As a rule, there should have been a hundred or so. As he contemplated the reason for this unusual event, something else came to his attention. He spotted no sign of life as far as he could see. Apart from the hotels, this was the busiest location in town. Sailing closer to land, he discerned clusters of ruined buildings, where a week ago there’d been solid structures.

  Dread tied knots in the pit of his stomach as James brought the Miss Nancy bumping against the jetty and jumped over the side. Running beside her, he made fast to a stanchion and directed his feet towards the centre of town.

  The closer he came to the main business district, the more damaged buildings he saw. As yet, he hadn’t sighted a solitary person. His heart in his mouth, he mounted the timber steps of the Roebuck Bay Hotel and pushed open the doors.

  In the dim interior, he barely made out the shapes of twenty faces turning towards him from the bar. All drinking and conversation ceased. Hands holding glasses froze, half raised towards mouths. James scanned the faces before him, not s
eeing one he recognised.

  “James,” said a voice from the deeper gloom at the far end of the bar. “Where the hell did you stem from?”

  James turned in the direction of the voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognised Harry Potts, the postmaster. “Harry.” His relief at finding a familiar face was evident in his tone. “What the hell’s been goin’ on here? The place looks like a bomb’s hit it.”

  Someone laughed. James turned, but he didn’t recognise the man who wore army fatigues. Then it hit him. All the men either seated or standing at the bar, except for Harry, wore uniforms.

  “Let me buy you a beer, James,” said the postmaster.

  James moved to that end of the bar.

  “Where the hell have you been?” asked Harry.

  “Beachcombin’, up north. Forget about me. What’s happened?”

  “The Nips!” said Harry.

  “Pull the other one.”

  Harry laughed at the surprise in James’s voice. “No, seriously.”

  “The Japs’ve been here?”

  “Bloody oath, mate!”

  The bartender pulled two beers and placed them on the counter.

  Suddenly parched, Harry grasped one in his huge, dark paw while James snatched the other. “Cheers.” He raised his glass.

  “Yeah.” James lifted his beer and drained half the contents in one swallow. “Tell me about the bloody Japs. When did it happen?”

  “Just over a week ago, I reckon.” Harry drank again, his manner soberer than his companion’s. “They bombed the town twice.”

  “Shit!” James started, almost spilling his drink. “I left here only a month ago.”

  “You were lucky then.”

  James thought for a moment. “Anyone killed?”

  “Some.”

  “How many?”

  “A coupla hundred, maybe. Nobody knows for sure.”

  “Jes-us!” James downed the second half of his beer in a single swallow.

  “Yeah.” Harry continued drinking in a sedate manner.

  “Where is everyone?” James glanced around at the strange faces lining the bar.

  “Been evac-u-a-ted, mate.” Harry pronounced every syllable of the word with care. “Everybody who’s not considered essential’s been packed off to Perth. Pretty much just these army fellers left... and yours truly.”

  “Where’s all the luggers an’ their crews?”

  “The Army made the owners burn the boats or sail ‘em south. The Japanese divers have been interred.”

  “Jesusssss!” James drew the word out in a long, sibilant hiss. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “My shout!”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Have a bit of luck up north, James?” He eyed his companion with more care, and James made note of the curiosity on his face.

  “Bit a luck. You better bloody believe it!” He reached into the pocket of his salt-stained trousers, and his hand emerged holding a metal caddy. Old and sporting a multitude of blemishes and scratches, it had clearly once contained Bushells’ tea.

  “Sorry, James.” Harry grinned. “Tea’s not legal tender here.”

  “What? Oh.... Ha! Ha!” James sneered. He opened the container and tipped it forward.

  Harry craned his neck to see what tumbled out. He gasped but said nothing. In the dirt-smeared palm of the beachcomber’s hand, gleamed numerous round, lustrous stones.

  “Whattaya think of them babies?” James grinned from ear to ear.

  In seconds, everyone had left their seats and crowded around, making for one of those rare occasions in an Outback pub where curiosity took precedence over beer consumption. Questions flew from every direction.

  James held up a hand and silenced them all. “No questions, no lies, fellers. This is just between me an’ the Nipponese Air Force.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Anyway, I’ve got more of these than I can spend in a lifetime. The beer’s on me!”

  Cheers and laughter echoed out into the hot, deserted Broome street.

  ***

  That evening, James strolled to Gilbert Newberry’s store overlooking Roebuck Bay. Harry had informed James that, as soon as the second raid ended, Gilbert had packed his belongings, loaded several of his luggers, and set sail for safer environs.

  Although saddened his drinking partner had deserted the town, James had another reason for visiting the captain’s place of business.

  One night, as they sat talking and drinking by the fireplace, Gilbert detached a loosened brick and levered it free with his fingers, revealing a hole gouged in the brickwork behind. “I don’t believe in banks,” he’d said in reply to James’s questioning glance. “It’s much safer to secrete my valuables in this homemade safe. With the brick and mortar returned to their former positions, no one can tell they’ve even been disturbed.”

  A part of James wondered whether Gilbert had left his stash behind. Another didn’t care. He simply wanted to use this secret place—to have somewhere safe to hide his pearls. He didn’t distrust the men in the pub, not even the ones he didn’t know. He dreaded the thought of police intervention.

  If the authorities paid a visit to the town and investigated the source of his sudden wealth, James would be in trouble. By then, everyone would know he’d come across a lugger, shot up and run aground in a bay to the north. Burnt almost beyond recognition. No sign of survivors. Knowing where he’d acquired the pearls was one thing. Taking them away from him was quite another.

  The door of the deserted building was unlocked. He opened it and entered and was struck by the strangeness of the now empty, forlorn store. Without the trader’s benches and merchandise, it no longer possessed any allure.

  Although the only illumination to the room came from moonlight streaming in through the windows, James walked straight to the fireplace beside which he’d spent many hours drinking and chewing the fat with Gilbert. Squatting, James prised the brick free and reached inside. The hole was empty. He smiled to himself as he extracted his own treasure from his pocket.

  He opened the tea caddy and emptied all but a few jewels into his hand. From another pocket, he took a white Vegemite jar. Into this he deposited the bulk of his pearls. He replaced the lid of the caddy and tucked it back into his pocket. Then he sealed the jar and inserted it into the space behind the brickwork. When he’d replaced the outer brick and the mortar, he stood and dusted off the knees of his pants.

  As he left the building and strolled down the main street to the pub, James pursed his lips and whistled. From somewhere his mind had plucked the song, ‘I’m Sittin’ on Top of the World’. Al Jolson had made the tune popular in the late ‘20s, but James couldn’t recall when he’d last heard it.

  It didn’t matter. His thoughts focussed on his fantastic luck. He’d never need to work again.

  Chapter 1: Aftermath

  ~~~

  Thursday, April 27, 2000

  ~~~

  Cyclone Rosita had raged for several days. It stood out to sea and buffeted the coast with howling wind, horizontal rain and towering waves. It lingered, hovering, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. When it finally headed for land, it unleashed its full fury on the desolate northern coastline of Western Australia.

  Gusts up to two hundred kilometres per hour raced in from the Indian Ocean. Huge breakers hurtled with astonishing force against the dunes, rocks and mangroves lining the shoreline from Port Headland in the south to Derby in the north. Rain, driven by the all-powerful wind, lashed both sea and land. Assisted by savage gusts, the torrent tore fronds from palms, paint from exposed buildings, and tiles from roofs. Structures that hadn’t allowed the elements access for many years succumbed to the terrible onslaught.

  All of the shoreline suffered, the beachfront along Cable Beach and further south of Broome bearing the full brunt of the ferocious onslaught.

  ***

  “I’d swear this was the strongest, wildest cyclone ever to batter these shores,” said Maude Rowley one morning, a week
after the hurricane passed. “I’ve lived here all me life and never seen anything like it.”

  “If you ask me,” said Heather Fochs with authority, “there was nothing natural about it.” She plonked down onto one of the aluminium chairs outside the Boulevard Café and massaged her arthritic joints, wincing in pain.

  “The way it stayed out to sea for so long, sort of waiting.” Velma Garden had coloured her white hair bright blue, and her faded eyes appeared almost colourless next to it. “I mean, to be so powerful and yet do so little damage in the town.”

  “It’s almost as if it was directed by some entity... something evil, maybe,” said Heather, following up her first train of thought.

  Maude’s high-pitched giggle was out of control. “You and your evil spirits. You were going on about things like that in the days when you used to tell fortunes. Next, you’ll be telling us Mildred’s been abducted by some wicked spirit.”

  “Where is Mildred?” Heather’s voice showed sudden concern. “She’s usually the first to arrive, and she did suggest this place.” She looked around the shopping centre, distaste evident on her weathered face. “Although why, I’ll never know.”

  “I’m here, my dears. I’m here. Never fear.” Mildred Jones stepped from the doorway of the chemist shop, where she’d been watching her friends and listening to their conversation. She pulled up the last vacant chair and sat. “What’s all this nonsense about spirits?”

  “We’re just talking about the cyclone.” Maude laughed again. “What have you heard?”

  “They say,” said Mildred in a conspiratorial tone, “that Cable Beach’s been washed away.”

  “The whole of the beach?” Heather always took everything literally. Even after seventy-one years, she hadn’t yet learned the art of small talk.

  “Nah,” said Velma, “just the sand from the area near the access road.”

  “Access road? What access road?” At eighty-two, Maude suffered from a mild case of Alzheimer’s, and today was one of her vague days.