by John Harris
“Won’t be much good if it is there, if the engine won’t start, Mama,” Frankie said.
Rosa thought about it, then she nodded and Joe began to beam again. “OK,” she agreed. “You get it going. Then you stop it till we need it.”
“I’ll have to keep starting it, Mama.” Willie picked up the spanners and began to put them away. “Now and then. Just for a bit from time to time. To make sure she’s working. But I’ll tell you what – while I’m at it, I’ll charge the batteries of that old radio you got down there. They’re all right. Only want hotting up. Then you’ll be able to hear the news and listen to a bit of music. There’s a dynamo – if it works – and I oughta be able to fix up something.”
Frankie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, boy, boogie woogie!”
“I can do without music,” Rosa said, feeling that any additional comfort was something they ought to do without under their straitened circumstances.
“Mama, music’ll do us good,” Frankie pleaded.
“I’ll only run the engine while I’m tinkering with it,” Willie promised. “It’ll be enough to hot up your batteries again.”
Rosa thought about the weak sound they got from the ancient radio and decided that a little music might give the boat some semblance of home. “OK,” she said finally. “Just a bit then. It’ll be nice to hear the news.”
As Frankie hooted her delight, Rosa realized she was thinking of Surry Hills again, and Lucia and Tommy, and she pushed the thought briskly out of her head.
“We got to get away from here,” she said. “The wind’s dropped.”
“It won’t stay dropped, Mama.” Joe was thinking of how the work increased when they left the shelter of the land. “I watch the clouds. The air is full of cock-a-tails.”
“All the more reason to go while we can,” Rosa said. “I’ve seen canoes in the lagoon. They might have told somebody. We got to go. We’ve been here long enough.”
Four
The bad weather which had started while the Boy George lay in the lagoon at Tyburn, although it caused them considerable discomfort from damp and cold, saved them from being caught in the growing net that Flynn had thrown out from Papeete.
The wind that sprang up almost as they slipped through the reef prevented the island fishermen from making their way to Fleet where Tavita Ohoa’s transmitter could sound a warning and, by the time they could safely travel, the Boy George had made her getaway to the north-east and to the south of Tahiti. There, she narrowly avoided a copra schooner taking her time from the neighbouring islands to Papeete and bustled before the wind like a hurrying old hen over the horizon just in time.
It was at this point that the wind changed again and for a week as it became worse they buffeted head-on into it, through the Tubuais, struggling to make headway north-east. Then the wind grew stronger from the north and the fat old ship just wouldn’t hold her course and they had to run before it under a rag of jibsail.
Through two days and nights, they ran south-east, with no certain knowledge of where they were. Only luck kept them from running foul of the reefs that sprinkled the sea, for always they managed to see or hear the surf and claw off before they struck. There was nothing they could do to make the unhandy Boy George pull up into wind and, unable to help themselves, they fell asleep in their exhaustion, still driving south-west along the fringe of atolls, while Flynn in Papeete cursed his infuriating luck.
When the wind had dropped sufficiently for them to turn east again, they found themselves off a large palm-fringed atoll with a mile-long lagoon the colour of a kingfisher’s wing, where immediately two or three native pirogues came out to meet them.
In a conversation conducted in pidgin English, they managed to discover that the island was on the southern and western edge of the Tuamotus, so they said they were the schooner Tiapi bound for Pitcairn and shooed the islanders away with gifts of rice and an old frock of Rosa’s.
Willie watched them go, staring after them at the wide white beaches beyond them shimmering in the sun.
“We ought to stock up on food while we’re here,” he suggested. “Might not get another chance and we shifted a bit at Christmas. She’s nice and lonely here and we ought to try ashore for eggs and things.” He looked round at Joe. “Howja catch turtles, Joe?”
“You going to catch turtles?” Frankie stared at him in amazement. There seemed to be no end to his imagination and inventiveness.
Willie looked down at her. “Sure. Why not?” he said. “We can eat ’em, can’t we?”
“We can eat-a them,” Joe agreed. “But what you think you are? A turtle he is pretty strong. He is fast like a racehorse. It is hard for the islanders to catch ’em. You think you are cleverer than the islanders?”
“No.” Willie was unperturbed by Joe’s baiting. “But we might catch a little one. I’ll have a go. If I don’t do it the first time, I’ll try again. We’ve got plenty of time.”
For three days, his skin glistening with salt from his repeated duckings, he waited off the beach with the dinghy, with Frankie to act as driver, trying hopelessly to chase the turtles they found in the water up the flat and shining beach. They ran splashing through the shallows, yelling with laughter, till they were both drenched and breathless, and had to sit down to recover from their exhaustion. Then, in the end, with Joe’s instructions still in their ears “–keep him away from the deep water. Don’t let him swim–” they were lucky enough to corner a small female and chivvy her up the beach away from the sea until she was in water too shallow to escape. With Joe’s shouts coming like a distant echo across the wide beach to them, they flung themselves together on top of her, splashing in a fury of movement in the water so that the bright drops rose in rainbow fans against the sun, struggling until they had her on her back, her flippers flapping helplessly. Still holding tight to their catch, they laughed until they were tired, sprawling and entangled in the water.
Finally, Willie lifted his head off his arms, still grinning, and saw Frankie’s face close to his, its brown skin dewed with splashes of salt water, her hair over her forehead.
Abruptly, he leaned forward and putting his hands on her shoulders, pulled her closer and kissed her hard. She looked startled – this was no Christmas kiss – then she brought round her arm in an instinctive resounding clout that came all the way from the wharfside at Woolloomooloo and the days when she had had to keep the friendly drunks at bay. Willie rolled over in the shallow water, his ears ringing, and sat there, the wavelets lapping at his feet.
For a moment, Frankie stared at him angrily, then she scrambled to her knees at his side, panic-stricken at what she had done and terrified of the consequences.
“Gee, Willie, I’m sorry! Did it hurt? Honest, I’m sorry. Only it scared me for a moment. Those old bums back home used to try that. You didn’t kiss me like that last time.” A look of wonder was crossing her face now. “Willie,” she said. “You kissed me properly!”
He slowly rose to his feet, brushing the water off himself. “Sure thing,” he said. “Why not?”
He looked at her a moment as she knelt on the sand, her clothes plastered to the contours and curves of her thin young frame, then he hoisted her to her feet and kissed her again, a long kiss to which she responded wholeheartedly, her whole impulsive being flowing out towards him.
“Willie,” she whispered joyously, flinging her arms round his neck.
But the warmth suddenly went from him and, unexpectedly, he pushed her away and bent over the feebly flapping turtle.
“Willie, what’s the matter?” Her voice was flat with disappointment.
“Nothing,” he said, frowning, his eyes angry and preoccupied.
As he knelt down, she knelt beside him, indifferent to her saturated clothes, trying fumblingly to help, still breathless and apologetic and scared of him all at the same time. “Gee, Willie, was it because I donged you? I wouldn’t have if I’d thought – truly, I wouldn’t – only – well, I’ve never been kissed that way before –
not to mean anything.”
Willie looked round at her, his eyes puzzled, then he bent to work again.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” he said gruffly, his eyes on the turtle as he tied its flippers. “You ought to see me give a real one.”
“Yes, Willie. I bet that’d be nice. All the same–” she stared in front of her unseeingly “–that was real enough for me.”
“Gah!” Willie was busy knotting the cord now. “I didn’t mean it.”
Frankie stared back at him, her expression changing. Her young heart, untutored in adult emotions, shrivelled inside her at his words and her mind suddenly blackened at his treachery.
Willie saw the look on her face. “Here,” he said quickly. “Don’t stare at me like that. What’s got into you, kid?” he asked brusquely.
“Nothing, Willie.” She moved nearer to him and knelt by the turtle, still helping but without enthusiasm now.
“You don’t want to go falling for me,” Willie went on. “You want to pick a nice bloke.”
Frankie’s anger was subsiding a little. “You’re nice, Willie,” she said. “You never laugh at me like the others always did. You’ve always been kind to me – helping me and playing tricks and things.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said irritably. “I meant someone who’ll work hard and look after you.”
“You work hard, Willie. You’re always working. You look after me. You always lift heavy things for me.”
Willie shook his head, as though he were trying to clear his brain of confusing thoughts. “Frankie–” he tied the last knot and they started to drag the turtle up the beach towards the dinghy “–I mean a nice young bloke who works in an office and wears a collar and tie. Some bloke who’ll stand you to the pictures and buy you things. Chocolates and so on.”
“Wouldn’t you, Willie? I mean, if we had any money to spare and you could buy chocolates here.”
“Aw, hell–” Willie had a driven look on his face. “–Frankie–”
“Soon I’ll be old, Willie. We aren’t young for long.” There was despair in her tones, the despair of the inexperienced at the thought of age. His indecisive answers frightened her and she saw herself too old for love before she had enjoyed it. “What’s the matter, Willie? Is it something I said?”
“Frankie – look–” Willie seemed desperate “–I like you. I like you more than any girl I’ve ever met. But, listen, you’re only a kid. And I’m no good for you. I’m not the right kind.”
“Willie!” Frankie’s large eyes were fixed on his face. “A girl doesn’t think of things like that. I don’t, anyway. And you did kiss me, Willie.”
“A kiss is nothing. I told you, I didn’t mean it.”
Willie turned brusquely away from her. “Listen, Frankie,” he said over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have done it. Just get it out of your head. There’s no good can come of it. Wait till you get home and then look for some honest bloke who’ll be good for you.”
“Aren’t you honest, Willie?”
“No!” Willie’s head was flung back and the word was torn out of him. “You know I’m not. I’m rotten. Now shut up.”
The following morning, they hoisted their anchor and let the breeze blow their bow round towards the entrance to the lagoon.
Frankie was watching Willie as he let the anchor cable clatter to the deck. Her face was sulky and there was a frustrated look in her eyes.
“From now on we gotta to stand watch all-a time,” Joe announced, blissfully unaware of her expression, as he moved aft towards the wheel. “That ole barometer she swing about like a monkey-up-a-stick. We get too damn’ near the hurricane season.”
Willie turned to the sail and caught Frankie’s look, young, rebellious and uncertain.
What he had said to her on the beach had come from his heart but, as he saw her thin face, doubtful and unhappy, he hadn’t the will to stand by it.
He glanced towards the stern and saw Joe was out of earshot. Rosa was below, crouched over the stove.
“On your feet, kid,” he said quietly. “Work to do. And don’t scowl like that. You’ve got a nice little dial when it’s not looking like you want to kill somebody. I didn’t mean it, what I said on the beach. Honest, I didn’t.”
“But you meant it when you kissed me, didn’t you?” Frankie hissed back. “You can’t kid me. A girl can tell.”
“Yeah,” Willie said as he took hold of one of the yards. “I meant it. Only don’t start getting serious. You’re too young to get serious.”
Her face lit up, once more full of hope, her black eyes larger and darker, her face suddenly more mature, and she scrambled to her feet and took hold of the rope with him. Willie smiled at her and, without saying anything, put his hand over hers as they pulled.
As they began to trudge north again in the deteriorating weather, they found the rain squalls had their compensations in that they were able to maintain their water supply and even managed to bathe in the downpours, lathering themselves all over in the rain, with Joe and Willie pushing the coarse soap under the width of the sail to Frankie and to Rosa who squatted half-naked and burning-faced with embarrassment on the other side.
The days went by with no sign of pursuit and, as the feeling of being harried died a little, they began to feel better again, varying their diet with turtle and occasional tinned food, and even able to put up with damp clothes and the absence of comfort in the straining old boat.
Frankie was sustained through the hardship by the warm glow that ran through her every time she thought of Willie. Nothing was suddenly too much trouble for her and she performed the most menial tasks happily, her shrill whistle cheering them all, her eyes bright, her thin face alive with happiness. Even Joe was affected by her ecstatic behaviour.
It was while Willie was on watch on deck, inevitably with Frankie listening to him talk, that Joe heard an unexpected broadcast from Papeete that for the first time gave him some idea of the odds they were now facing.
It came from Radio Tahiti, in French, and made no reference to Willie, but only to Joe and Rosa and Frankie and their ship.
Joe listened to the dispassionate voice coming from their newly envigoured set, describing their voyage from Sydney to the Barrier Reef and beyond, detailing the points where it was known they had been seen – Efaté, Noumea, Fleet Island and Tyburn. One eye on Rosa, to whom French was a meaningless babble, he listened carefully to the announcement, his rusty border patois good enough to make out the meaning. He had heard the first words without realizing what they were about, but he sat up so sharply as he caught his own name that Rosa put down the coat she was sewing and started to ask questions.
Joe fiercely signed her to silence. “Mama,” he pointed out. “He talks about us.”
Rosa stared at him disbelievingly.
“Mama,” Joe said angrily. “Don’t I understand French? Don’t I talk with Mama Piaf back home?”
Rosa still stared, still not quite believing, and Joe began to translate hesitantly. Rosa sat up and even Joe – fat, lazy, home-loving Joe – began to feel a twinge of pride as he heard the distances they had travelled.
“Mama,” he said. “Perhaps we are cleverer than we think.”
Then the announcer went on to describe the growing search. The crews of American vessels and even aeroplanes were keeping their eyes open round Pago Pago in American Samoa; the French – as Flynn had described to Voss – were hunting through the Marquesas, the Societies, the Tubuais and the Gambiers; and the British through the Ellice, Gilbert and Tongan groups. Australian and New Zealand ships were also helping and even the Dutch authorities had been persuaded to assist in case the Boy George had doubled back towards the Coral Sea. No mention was made of Flynn’s personal search among the Tuamotus to the north of them.
As they listened to the growing array of the opposition, Joe’s face lost its first rosy look of pride and grew longer and gloomier as he translated for Rosa, who said nothing, sinking back in her seat, her face expressionles
s, silently rubbing at a bunion at the side of her foot.
As the announcer went on to the next of his news, Joe stood up.
“Mama,” he shouted. “They hunt us like the jack-a-rabbit. French, Americans, English, Dutch, New Zealanders. Even Australians. Why don’ we go home?”
“Because, you old fool,” Rosa said slowly, “we’d lose the boat and Tommy would get nothing and you’d end up in gaol. That’s why.”
She looked up through the hatchway to the stars that whirled round the truck of the mast, and stared at the black square of the sail that carried them through the night, then she put her hand on the ladder and heaved herself up.
Willie was sitting by the lashed wheel. He had his back against the mizzen mast and was busy with his own thoughts. He could feel Frankie’s thin shoulder against his, and occasionally her hair, hacked enthusiastically short for Christmas, brushed his cheek.
He glanced down at her, trying to analyse his emotions. In spite of their difficulties he was happy. He was accepting a challenge for the first time in his life and his existence among the alleys of King’s Cross and Surry Hills was far enough behind him to be only a blur. He had seen thousands of miles of the greatest ocean in the world. He had seen islands like jewels set round the glossy mirrors of lagoons where the coral shone in blacks and blues and reds and jades. He had seen the biggest fish and the biggest birds, and had pitted his strength and courage against the weather.
Occasionally he thought of home but, unlike Joe, never with regret. Occasionally, too, he thought of the fracas which had caused him to be aboard the Boy George sharing his life with three Italians whom he had once regarded simply as Wops and not as human beings, but when he did he thrust it hurriedly from his mind until, with the passage of time, he had almost convinced himself it had never occurred. Almost, but not quite, for Joe was given to probing and even Frankie’s adoring curiosity kept raking it back into the daylight.
He frowned. The complication of Frankie was something that had never occurred to him when he had put forward his plan to disguise the Tina. Now, the very thought of living out his life in this fugitive abnormality seemed to be out of the question. But he had undertaken the venture for Rosa and he could think of no good reason for abandoning it. From being allies only out of necessity, he and Rosa worked together now because they needed each other, because they drew strength from each other’s plight and sustenance from each other’s encouragement.