by Derek Hansen
‘One coffee. Freshly filtered.’
He looked up in surprise.
‘Well, it’s no secret you don’t like instant.’
Actually, Mickey didn’t mind instant. It was what Gloria did to it that he objected to. He raised the cup to his mouth and sipped. It wasn’t bad; in fact, it was pretty good. ‘Well done. This is the best coffee you’ve ever made. Excellent.’
‘Well, actually, I didn’t make it. Sub-Lieutenant Zoric made it for me. But now that I know how, I’ll make it in future.’
Mickey smiled bleakly at the prospect. Filtered coffee from a girl who couldn’t make instant. It didn’t bear thinking about. Reluctantly he turned his attention to his real problem, the Shoto Maru. He knew there was very little he could do until the fisheries protection squadron’s new instructions came into force on New Year’s Day. Commander Wainscott had succeeded in having the squadron’s tactics revised, against ministerial opposition and obvious reluctance on the part of Lieutenant Commander Scriven, whose only input had been to delay the adoption of Mickey’s ambush tactics until January. The delay served no purpose. Nonetheless, the Lieutenant Commander had been quite proud of his contribution.
The two nearest patrol boats were on station north and south of the Shoto Maru but neither was within one hundred miles. Mickey knew the Kotaku was back at its berth outside his window, but didn’t fancy his chances of commandeering the old mine sweeper again. It had been a miracle the first time, and Mickey didn’t think Shimojo had believed a word of his threats until the old tub had tucked in behind him. His only hope of holding Shimojo at bay lay with the Airforce and sustained grovelling.
‘Gloria,’ he yelled, and waited for her to come running, ever eager. ‘Send our friends in the Airforce a thank you for this morning.’
‘Already done that, sir, under your name.’
Mickey sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you would have.’ The irony in his voice was lost on Gloria. ‘Any word from Great Barrier?’
‘Able Radioman Press thinks I have a lover there.’
Mickey winced.
‘Angus McLeod calls up every morning and night, rain or shine.’
‘Anything to say?’
‘Nothing much happening during the daytime. He’s going to do a couple of overnighters at what he calls his observation post.’
Mickey laughed at the image of the old Scot camping up on Tataweka Hill but it didn’t lighten his mood for long. ‘Shimojo will try again, you know. If he’s not getting the catches he wants, he’ll be back.’
‘What about your warning?’
‘Words. Shimojo can count and knows the score. He knows where our patrol boats are and he knows our tactics. Only two things can stop him. A change of tactics and the Orions. Until both things happen he can laugh at us. I just hope Red and Angus will be smart enough to keep out of his way.’
‘Haven’t you warned them, too?’
Mickey looked up dolefully. ‘Gloria, do you ever get the feeling that nobody takes a blind bit of notice of what I say?’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
‘What the heck are you going to do with these things?’ Rosie had asked the question a dozen times and got nowhere. She didn’t expect this time to be any different and wasn’t disappointed.
‘I’ll tell you soon enough.’
‘Listen, Red, if you want me to keep pumping out these bloody vases you’d better tell me before I go on strike.’
Red ignored her and kept shaving and sanding the cork net floats he’d salvaged from the beaches. Every now and then he’d check on Rosie’s production by making sure the corks were a tight fit in the flared necks of the flat-bottomed oval vases she was making for him. She’d already made eighteen, all around ten inches high. Red had told her not to be too fussy about the height. But Rosie was nothing if not meticulous in her work. She took pride in her skills, keeping the shape, height and the thickness of the walls uniform. Red insisted that she make the walls half an inch thick, which annoyed her because she’d become very skilled in making them thin. If she’d known how Red intended to use the vases she would have been downright furious. If nothing else, the work was bringing her rusty hands back up to their former skill. She watched Red fitting the corks to the necks of her vases.
‘You’re a bit premature. They’ll shrink in the kiln, you know.’
Red smiled. ‘Then I’ll just have to shave off a bit more.’
‘How many more do I have to make?’
‘How about half a dozen. I’ll go fire up the kiln.’ Red rose and strolled under the house to choose suitable firewood. The previous few days had brought a marked improvement in his condition. His ribs still hurt but nowhere near as fiercely, provided he didn’t try to lift or carry too much. Earlier that morning he’d managed to swim a slow and uncomfortable length of the beach. Still, it was a good start. Archie had certainly enjoyed the exercise, dog-paddling just off his shoulder and barking encouragement. Red chose tinder-dry pieces of hakea and carried them out to the kiln a few pieces at a time. He picked off the wetas and put them on the timber supports. The repulsive looking, heavily armoured insects did him no harm and he could see no point in harming them.
‘This reminds me,’ he said, turning to Rosie. ‘I’m out of smoked fish. Fancy a spot of fishing this evening?’
‘Sure.’ She watched Red go back to the task of lighting the kiln. Since the brush with the trawler he’d begun to relax in her company and even engage in small talk. She saw this as something of a victory. However, she’d studiously avoided any mention of Burma and changed the subject whenever his memories had begun to surface. She’d decided to wait until he’d moved back to his own place and back into his routine before she started questioning him again. The key parts of his self-administered therapy were his exercises, his routine and his work. Not all of these were back in place and she realised that if she was going to make any progress she needed everything working in her favour. There was so much she wanted to investigate. Important things such as what happened at the One-oh-five? What happened to Archie? Why was Red so riven by guilt and despair? Silly things such as why his vegetable plot was protected like Fort Knox and why he walked around naked. She wondered if she could ever free him from his anxieties, if she could ever bring him home from Burma.
Another blessing of his recovery was that he made breakfast for her less often. When he slept with her, she’d lie in bed and wait until he went to feed his chooks, then jump up and preempt him. Eggs were another problem. She couldn’t face them scrambled nor smiling back at her, sunny-side up with the rooster’s signature in the middle. But she didn’t mind them boiled or poached. Toast and jam, toast and honey, toast and Vegemite, they were her staples. But there were the mornings when he’d keep the chooks waiting and let the snails have an extra half-hour nibble at his lettuces while he cooked his fish rice. Then the bach would fill with the pungent oily aroma and Rosie would have to rush out to the lavatory. She wondered whether it had even occurred to Red to speculate on why she spent so long in there.
She placed another vase on the ground and carved off another lump of clay to throw on the wheel. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine what Red wanted them for, or what possible relevance they could have to the Shoto Maru. She decided that the time had come to insist on a proper answer. Her hands were willing, but they’d become a darn sight more willing once she knew what she was doing. She made up her mind to question him again during their afternoon fishing trip.
‘Red, where the hell are we going? I thought we were just going to the pinnacles.’
‘Secret place, Rosie.’ Red steered his boat due north, taking his bearings from Aiguilles Island and Miners Head. ‘The last resting place of Bernard Arbuthnot.’
‘Why now?’ A four foot swell was running with steep pointed waves kicking off the top. The lifeboat rode the swells easily, but even so its rolling motion was making her feel queasy.
‘We want big fish for smoking. We’re more likely to
catch them out here. Right, Archie?’ The dog barked on hearing his name. He stood with his front legs propped up on the foredeck, alternately searching the water to port and starboard for a sign of his playmates. ‘Nearly there.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ In fact, Rosie was anything but. She knew the rocking and rolling of the boat would be three times worse once they were at anchor. There again, maybe she’d be okay. At least she’d have a fishing line in her hands and something to do. Big fish had a way of concentrating the mind.
Red checked his bearings, looked critically at the waves and how they steepled. He turned into the wind and cut the motor. ‘I’ll do the anchor.’
Rosie settled back and reached for the bait bucket. She took out two pieces of salted-down yellowfin and baited both lines. They had fresh trevally for bait but Red insisted that they used the salted-down bait first. He didn’t like anything to go to waste. She handed him a rod and smiled as he unthinkingly adjusted the bait on his hook. She couldn’t see anything wrong with the way she’d baited it but guessed she still had a lot to learn.
‘Whoever catches a fish last empties the lavatory can.’
‘You’ll regret saying that.’ Red released his line and watched it disappear into the depths. It had hardly hit bottom before he began reeling it in.
‘Don’t look so smug, Red O’Hara!’ Rosie struck hard and unnecessarily because the fish that had grabbed her bait had bypassed the formality of a bite and simply swallowed. She groaned as her fish made a powerful run, stripping line off her reel, and groaned again as Red effortlessly swung a four pound snapper aboard. Her fish chose to make another desperate lunge for freedom at precisely that moment. Rosie held on as the fish took more line. ‘I think I’ve caught your fish’s grandfather.’
‘Take your time,’ Red said innocently. ‘Game’s already over and won. Save your strength for the lavatory bucket.’ He released his line and waited for it to hit bottom. Almost immediately the rod doubled over. ‘Told you they were big out here.’
Rosie finally dragged her struggling fish to the surface and sank a gaff into its head. She lifted it one-handed into the boat.
‘Nice fish, Rosie. It’ll go twelve pounds.’ Red gaffed his. It was marginally bigger and both knew it.
‘You’re a bastard, Red O’Hara.’
‘We’ll quit when we have a dozen.’
It took them just on ten minutes to reach their bag limit. Rosie sat back and watched Red drag the last snapper on board. They’d caught well over a hundred pounds of fish. ‘Well done, Mr Clever-Dick. Ready to clean out the toilet, are you?’
‘I thought we’d already settled that,’ said Red amiably.
‘Learn to listen, Clever-Dick. I said whoever catches a fish last empties the toilet bucket. I believe you just qualified.’
Red rolled his eyes and raised his arms in surrender. ‘I’ll get the anchor.’ He grabbed hold of the anchor warp and made a big show of pulling on the rope. He had a lesson for her as well. He dropped the rope and clutched at his ribs.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Anchor’s caught.’
‘Motor over it.’
‘No, it’s on solid. I’ll dive down and have a go at freeing it.’
‘You’re kidding! It has to be at least a hundred foot deep.’
‘About seventy.’ Red steadied himself and began to draw long, deep breaths, felt them push down on his diaphragm and fill his chest. He repeated the process five or six times, picked up his fishing knife and dived over the side. The waning afternoon light hardly made for ideal conditions but the water was clear enough. He followed the anchor rope to the bottom and pushed aside the seaweeds and grasses until he found what he was looking for. He pulled on the anchor warp until he had enough slack to make half a dozen loops, and slipped a five inch shell through them. He cut the reef anchor free and finished tying the shell on with a couple of half-hitches. He grabbed the anchor and set out lazily for the surface, slowly exhaling as he went.
Rosie watched the quicksilver bubbles break apart on the surface, wishing Red would hurry up. Without fishing to occupy her mind the motion of the boat was getting to her. Twice she thought she was going to start burleying. There was nothing like vomit for bringing the trevally around. She gazed intently at the spot of bubbling water until Red’s head broke clear. ‘I was about to send Archie down to look for you.’
‘Hang onto this, Rosie.’ He handed her the anchor.
‘Eh? What’s going on? She took the reef anchor from him and put it on the deck behind her. She turned to Red, puzzled. ‘If this is our anchor, what’s holding us on the bottom?’
‘A surprise. Shimojo’s surprise.’ He hauled himself on board and gave her a wry smile. He made his way forward and started pulling on the anchor warp. ‘Might just surprise you as well.’
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
When Red had told Rosie what he intended to do with the old artillery shell, she’d been stunned speechless. His scheme smacked of insanity and she regarded the risks as unacceptable. She wanted to tell Angus what Red was up to so that the old Scot could try to talk some sense into him, but Red had sworn her to secrecy until he’d finished making his prototype bombs. And that depended upon how successful he was at dismantling the five inch shell.
She hunted around and gathered up eggs from the new hiding places the chooks had found to lay them, trying to occupy her mind so that she wouldn’t have to think about what Red was doing. Why go to the trouble of building a new escape-proof chook house, she wondered, if she forgot to lock the stupid hens in at night? They followed her around, pecking at whatever took their fancy, clucking to one another as if sharing a private joke at Rosie’s expense. She nestled the eggs in her pinny, using both hands for support, and opened her screen door with her foot. She froze when it slammed shut behind her. All morning she’d been on edge, fearing a bang coming from Red’s place signalling the end of Red’s little scheme, the probable end of Red and the end of a friendship that had grown beyond the usual boundaries. Her hands shook as she placed the eggs on her egg rack. Red had shown her how to store them for months on end without refrigeration simply by turning them over once a week. Now she had more than five dozen. Red had told her not to worry, that she’d work her way through them all once the hens took their annual break from laying. Not for the first time, she wondered how she’d have managed without him, how she’d cope if the silly bugger blew himself up. She felt close to tears, which was silly, but over the past few days her tears had seemed to have a mind of their own.
‘Damn you, Red O’Hara!’ she said softly. She ripped her apron off and strode purposefully out onto the veranda. She sat and pulled on her gumboots. The suspense and her apprehension had got to her. What was the point of hiding at home when her mind was elsewhere? She simply wasn’t used to worrying about other people. At the last moment she remembered the old squeezed-out toothpaste tubes Red had asked for and went back inside for them. She had no idea what he wanted them for this time, but he always found a use. He’d used the aluminium tubes as flashing when he’d repaired a rotting window frame. He made shapes and suspended them on string over his garden to keep the birds off. He made windbreaks for seedlings. Red found a use for everything, so nothing was ever wasted. But try as she might she couldn’t imagine what toothpaste tubes had to do with making bombs. Red was working at his veranda table when she burst into the clearing below his bach.
‘Hi, Rosie.’
‘Still in one piece, then?’
‘Yeah. So far so good. I wouldn’t come any closer though if I were you.’
Rosie stopped dead in her tracks, eyes blazing. ‘Red O’Hara! If it’s too dangerous for me to come any closer it’s too dangerous for you to do whatever you’re doing. So stop it this instant!’
‘It’s not so dangerous, Rosie. I’ve unscrewed the priming charge. It’s in that brass rod over there. If it goes off it won’t affect what I’m doing here.’ Red pointed over towards h
is outhouse. Rosie spotted the brass tube resting on a nest of hessian bags by the shed door. She looked back at Red.
‘What if it blows your dunny up?’
‘It won’t.’
She hesitated, uncertain of her next move. She watched Red carefully. He appeared to be sawing with almost surgical delicacy. His caution screamed risk. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m cutting into the cartridge case so that I can get the cordite out.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’
‘Shouldn’t be, so long as I’m careful not to let the hacksaw blade heat up.’
‘Red, stop it!’
‘It’s something that has to be done.’
Rosie bit her lip. Something that had to be done. Just as the track through to Tataweka had to be cut. The man was programmable and once programmed, utterly inflexible. She realised there was nothing she could do to stop him, so she turned her attention to finding a way to make sure he took no unnecessary risks.
‘It’s okay for you to get blown up but not okay for me, is that it?’
Red stopped sawing and put the hacksaw down flat on the table. ‘You can come up and give me a hand if you like, Rosie. I was thinking more of the baby.’
Rosie was about to take the first step towards him when the significance of his words hit her. They struck home like a sledge-hammer, made even more forceful by his calm, matter-of-fact delivery. They didn’t invite a denial. They were simply a statement of fact. But how had he found out when she thought she’d been so careful? She tried to gather her wits together but it was already far too late. Red was watching her, had been ever since he’d spoken. ‘H-h-how did you know?’ she stammered.