Jack's Island

by Norman Jorgensen

  ‘That was great,’ shouted Dafty. ‘Let’s do it again. Again! Again!’ He slapped at the water like a seal.

  Mr Carter had stopped his truck and run down the hill towards me, the hem of his leather apron flying in the breeze. His face looked like thunder. Red veins swelled in his neck and I knew he expected to see two dead bodies at the base of the cliff.

  ‘They’re fine, Mr Carter,’ I shouted to him. ‘They landed in the sea.’

  ‘What the flaming heck do you think you’re flaming up to, scaring the flaming daylights out of me like that?’ He glared at me. ‘I’ve a good mind to tan your flaming hides right off your flaming backs here and flaming now. Right off you. All flaming three of you. Especially you, Jack flaming Jones. Dafty doesn’t flaming know any better, he’s not the full quid. But you ... I’d have flaming thought you, of all flaming people...’

  Then, seeing Dafty down at the bottom of the cliff splashing happily in the water, he seemed to relax slightly, as if he’d got it out of his system.

  ‘Banjo? Dafty? Are you two flaming well all right? No broken bones?’ he called down to them. They’d waded ashore and were trying to pull the trolley up the rocky cliff face.

  Mr Carter turned back to me and slowly shook his head. I thought for one horrible minute he was going to grab me by the ear and drag me back to his smelly old truck. Even from this distance I could hear the huge blowies buzzing round the foul-smelling pans on the back.

  ‘I have flaming work to do,’ he said instead. ‘If I ever catch you flaming bludgers trying a flaming stunt like that again I’ll ... I’ll flaming well take to you with a flaming stockwhip. I surely flaming will. You can flaming count on it.’ He glared at me for another second before turning quickly and marching back to his smelly old flaming truck.

  A Scandal Brewing

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mum and Mrs Carter sat in the kitchen dressed only in their petticoats, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘...and then I said to her, I said, “Flo,” I said, “if she were my daughter...”’ They stopped talking the moment I swung open the screen door.

  There must’ve been a scandal brewing, but then there usually was. Adults often stopped talking so us kids wouldn’t find out, but I don’t know why they bothered because we always did find out, eventually. And whatever it was didn’t ever seem that bad anyway.

  ‘And where are your manners, young man?’ said Mum. I knew she wanted me to say hello to Mrs Carter, but Mrs Carter was sitting there in her underwear. I couldn’t even look at her.

  ‘What happened to your knees, Jack?’ asked Mrs Carter.

  ‘Fell off my hill trolley,’ I said truthfully for once in my life, eyes fixed on the floor. There was no point in lying. Mr Carter was sure to tell her soon enough.

  ‘You’d better get out the back and get them washed up. I’ll have a look later,’ said Mum. She didn’t even pause for breath and lifted the teapot. ‘More tea, Mrs Carter?’

  So much for motherly sympathy.

  From the washhouse I could hear them talking about Mrs Merson, Bess’s mum. Bess, the class monitor from my school. I wondered what terrible thing Bess’s mum must’ve done to have Mum and Mrs Carter tut-tutting away like that.

  What a sight when I walked back into the kitchen. Mum was up on a chair with her petticoat hoicked up to her bloomers, and Mrs Carter was rubbing brown liquid from a saucepan onto her leg. Her other leg had already been done.

  They saw the look on my face.

  ‘There’s a war on, don’t you know, and we can’t buy any stockings,’ said Mrs Carter. ‘We don’t want to be seen not properly dressed for the NCO’s ball tonight.’

  With gravy smeared on their legs? And a black line up the back to look like a seam? I tried not to laugh.

  ‘That’s enough from you, young man. You’re skating on thin ice, let me tell you,’ said Mum.

  I ducked back to my bedroom before the thin ice broke and she decided to make more of it.

  ‘And go and get your good Sunday clothes,’ she shouted after me as I closed the door. ‘You’re coming to the dance as well.’

  The Dance at the Barracks

  The non-commissioned officers’ mess at Kingstown Barracks would normally have been in pitch darkness because of the blackout, but that night it shone like a lighthouse. They obviously knew something about the invasion threat that I didn’t. Had the Japs called off the war and no-one had told me?

  Brightly coloured Chinese lanterns hung in a line from the gate to the edge of the parade ground, and the hall had lights blazing from open windows. On the long, wide verandah, trestle tables were almost bent under the weight of the beer kegs and rows of glasses. One table, off to the end of the verandah, had a large glass punchbowl filled with red punch. At the door a lance corporal in a white mess jacket announced our arrival after Dad whispered in his ear.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Rob Jones, Master Jack Jones and Miss Patricia Jones.’

  Dad looked around the room and towards the stage and groaned quietly. ‘Not again. Mrs Mills and the Goodtime Charlies over from Perth again.’ He sighed. ‘Mrs Mills and her right Charlies more like.’

  Mrs Mills, the bandleader, was a big, jolly woman in a bright floral dress. She was old—even older than my grandmother probably. The Charlies—her husband Charles, her brother-in-law Charles, and her son Charlie Junior—sat up on the stage tuning their instruments. They weren’t Glenn Miller and his big band, that’s for sure. Mrs Mills played the piano, and her husband played the drums with wire brushes attached to his drumsticks. The other Charles played a fiddle, and Charlie Junior squeezed away on a shiny red piano accordion.

  They were finally ready. Mrs Mills plonked herself down at the old piano, her ample bum hanging over each side of the stool. She banged the keys with gusto and gradually everyone realised she was playing ‘God Save the King’. We all stood to attention until she’d finished.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced through the crackly microphone, ‘and welcome to the Noncommissioned Officers’ Annual Ball.’ When several people applauded she smiled widely and continued. ‘Will you please take your partners for the first dance of the evening, the Grand March?’

  Regimental Sergeant Major McGregor, the senior NCO on the island, stood, pulled back his shoulders, adjusted the hem of his jacket, and walked the length of the hall to where the officers sat with their wives and guests. He was older than most of the officers and other NCOs and his chest glistened with medals. He’d served in the Great War and everyone on the island respected him.

  The officers sat around a circular table, each wearing a short red dinner jacket. Their wives had on silk evening gowns and long gloves. I noticed several of the workers’ wives glancing enviously in their direction.

  The noise gradually stopped. When the sergeant major reached the table he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘With your permission, Colonel Hurley.’ He turned slightly to face Mrs Hurley, who looked good in her dark green satin dress. ‘Ma’am, it would give me the greatest honour if you would accompany me in leading the Grand March.’

  Mrs Hurley smiled warmly, held up her gloved hand and said, also quite loudly, ‘Sergeant Major McGregor, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  The Charlies’ music started, and McGregor and Mrs Hurley linked arms and marched in time to the end of the hall. Colonel Hurley and Mrs McGregor followed them and soon nearly everyone had joined in the line behind them, marching the length of the hall in time to the music, then peeling off to link arms in fours and then into lines of eight. It all looked very sophisticated to me.

  I sat at the end of the hall with Patricia, watching the dancing for a while and getting a bit bored. Then Dafty walked in. I’d seen Mad Martha, his mum, working in the kitchen so I guessed he’d have to be hanging about somewhere. He pulled himself up on the chair beside me, swinging his legs, his feet not touching the floor. For the first time in his life he wore a pair of shoes.
He had on a new knitted sleeveless sweater and a peculiar bow tie that made him look like Peter Rabbit. He seemed pretty pleased with the effect.

  ‘Hey, Jack, look at all the pretty ladies. Nice. I like pretty ladies.’

  I was about to answer that I did too when the lance corporal at the door announced, ‘Mr and Mrs Merson and Miss Elizabeth Merson.’ Elizabeth? I wondered. Then I realised. Bess!

  I heard Dafty gasp and I reckon his jaw must have dropped to the ground. I know mine did and most other blokes’ in the room did as well. Bess looked a bit shy but absolutely beautiful, just like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Even though her red velvet dress looked like it might’ve been made from the curtains the Mersons used to have in their front window in Leederville, she looked wonderful. She also wore long gloves and her black hair had been curled just like Scarlett’s. I had never seen such a vision, other than the real Scarlett, of course.

  Charlie Junior’s accordion went quiet as he too lost concentration and turned to stare. Mrs Mills’ hand shot out from her keyboard and slapped him on the back of the head without missing a note.

  ‘Look, she’s wearing nylons,’ I heard Mrs Purvis hiss loudly. I’d once heard Mum and Mrs Carter say that only girls who’d been with American sailors had nylon stockings. The whispering raced round the room like a bushfire. Several older women pursed their lips and shook their heads in disapproval.

  Bess must’ve guessed they were talking about her because she’d turned the colour of her dress. She didn’t know where to look or what to do. I suddenly felt sorry for her standing alone with everyone in the room staring at her.

  From the corner Little Eric noticed what was going on. He frowned slightly, handed his beer to his mate and quickly walked across the room to her.

  ‘Bess, how lovely to see you. I believe you promised me this dance.’ He bowed slightly, like a real gentleman, and led her to the centre of the hall. The relief on Bess’s face was clear. Little Eric was a good cove, that’s for sure.

  But the look on Dafty’s face was a different thing altogether. I hadn’t known he felt so strongly about Bess. He knew he couldn’t be dancing with her—he was half her size—and besides, he couldn’t dance. He could barely stop himself from falling over a lot of the time. But it was obviously nearly choking him to see Bess dancing with Little Eric. I saw tears running down his cheek—tears not only of jealously but also of utter hopelessness.

  Mum was glaring at Mrs Purvis across the other side of the room. She couldn’t stand rudeness. My bum can swear to that. She especially couldn’t abide unkindness and Mrs Purvis was good at both. In fact, I think Mum had trouble abiding Mrs Purvis most of the time. Mum sat there fuming, but after the third or fourth dance she must’ve relaxed a bit because she turned to Dad and dragged him up. I sat fascinated, watching them waltz around the polished floor. I hadn’t known they could dance so well. They glided in time to Mrs Mills and the Charlies just like they were in the movies, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, looking only at each other as if no-one else in the world existed. And maybe for a few moments Hitler and the Japs and the stink of tar and the rationing and crying babies and badly behaved sons magically disappeared for them.

  Patricia, Dafty and I went outside to get some punch. The verandah was crowded with blokes drinking beer, and down at the gate several soldiers stood arguing with some workers. Even though they were shouting I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Someone was obviously as mad as a cut snake and wanted everyone else to know. When one of the men started swearing, Mr Evans shooed us back inside the hall.

  Mrs Mills announced the next dance: the Ladies Excuse Me. Out of the blue Bess walked up and stood right in front of us. You could’ve blown me over with a feather.

  ‘Will you dance with me, Dafty?’ she asked.

  Not only did she look stunning, she smelt delicious. I caught a slight whiff of her perfume. Not like anything our mothers wore, like roses or lavender, but something glamorous. Her cheeks were flushed from the dancing and a few drops of perspiration had settled on her upper lip. If he won’t dance with her, I will, I thought, even though I couldn’t dance a step.

  Dafty didn’t say anything. I don’t think he could. The shock was too great. He just nodded and slipped down onto the floor.

  Bess led Dafty round the room and he shuffled in his new shoes as best he could. After a few minutes he seemed to hear the beat in the music and began to sway in time. He couldn’t see where he was going because he looked up at Bess the whole time, not taking his eyes from her face for a second. And he had the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face. Hours later he was still humming to himself the tune they’d been dancing to, ‘The Way You Look Tonight ’.

  After that I thought Bess was the kindest, greatest, best-looking girl in the entire world, even better than Maureen O’Hara or Carol Lombard or even Olivia de Havilland or any other movie star. And that sure is saying something, ’cause I really loved Olivia de Havilland.

  The Fight

  The noise from outside grew louder and people went out to see what was happening. Down at the gate, two men were arguing and pushing each other.

  ‘I’m not a bloody Nazi, I’m Danish,’ one of them yelled. It had to be Christian, Red Eric’s younger son.

  ‘And I’m a Swahili princess,’ a soldier yelled back. ‘And why aren’t you in the army? Nazis wouldn’t have you? Or are you too scared? You’re yella. Yella. Yella. You’re a yella-bellied galoot.’

  Christian said something else but I couldn’t make it out.

  ‘Wanna have a go, do ya? Wanna have a go?’ shouted the soldier. ‘Just try it.’

  Christian did try it. Without warning he swung his fist at the soldier’s face. It connected and sounded like a .303 going off. Blood splattered from the soldier’s nose. He didn’t cry out or say a word. He fell back rigid, like a broomstick, hit the ground and lay still. I hadn’t noticed until that moment that Christian had muscles like a heavyweight boxer. It must’ve been all the years of throwing the boat cables.

  And then it was on for young and old. Another soldier leapt at Christian and grabbed him in a headlock. Christian punched the man in the stomach several times. The soldier yelled in pain and they both collapsed to the ground and rolled over and over, swearing and grunting and tearing at each other.

  Little Eric jumped from the verandah and sprinted to the gate. No-one was going to beat up his brother, that was for sure. He started laying into the others. I’d seen fights at the pictures but this was real—wild and brutal.

  Two military policemen wearing red armbands rushed from the guardhouse to break it up but they too were soon rolling on the ground, caught up in the brawl.

  ‘Jack, flaming well get inside and get the flaming sergeant major,’ said Mr Carter as he jumped from the verandah and headed for the flaming battle.

  I raced inside. ‘Sir?’ I said. Sergeant Major McGregor stood with a beer in his hand, talking to Captain Williamson, the new army chaplain.

  ‘What is it, son?’

  ‘Sir, there’s a right old donnybrook going on down by the gate,’ I said, trying to sound calm but failing miserably.

  The sergeant major stiffened and seemed to grow several inches taller. ‘Leave this to me, sir,’ he said to the captain and turned for the door. ‘No need to concern yourself, sir. No need to turn it into an incident.’

  I quickly followed after him, not wanting to miss the action.

  ‘It’s McGregor!’ shouted a voice from the middle of the fighting.

  It stopped instantly. The men got to their feet and brushed the sand from their clothes. They turned to face Sergeant Major McGregor as he strode towards them.

  ‘Corporal Bennett,’ he said.

  ‘Sergeant Major.’ Corporal Bennett ran his fingers through his hair. His knuckles were bleeding and blood dripped from his nose.

  ‘Be a good lad, now. Get back to your barracks and take this lot of galahs with you. I’ll say no more about this little
...’ he paused ‘...misunderstanding.’ He cleared his throat and waited a moment for the soldiers to realise how lucky they were he was in a good mood.

  ‘And you, Mr Jansen,’ he said, looking at Christian. ‘Perhaps you and your friends might like to make an early night of it. Captain Williamson will be expecting to see you in church tomorrow morning.’

  The sergeant major smiled, but only slightly, and winked at Christian who rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. I wasn’t surprised his knuckles hurt. It had been some punch. The soldier was still spread-eagled on the ground at his feet. Sergeant Major McGregor didn’t seem that mad with Eric or Christian. I think he knew the hard time they got sometimes because their father was a New Australian.

  ‘Help get this layabout back to his bunk,’ the sergeant major ordered, and with the toe of his shiny black boot tapped the unconscious soldier in the ribs a little harder than necessary.

  Dafty Crashes the Truck

  ‘What the...’ I heard my dad exclaim. We were walking to the little white church behind the bakery the next morning to hear Captain Williamson, the new chaplain, give his first sermon.

  Dad, Patricia and me, and Mum pushing Bette in her pram had just reached the church fence when we heard Mr Carter’s truck appear at the end of the street. I thought that was strange because Mr and Mrs Carter, as well as their whole cricket team of little Carters, stood at the church door right in front of us. The truck turned into the street and rolled down the hill toward us, quickly gathering speed.

  ‘It’s Dafty,’ I yelled. ‘Look!’

  ‘It can’t be. He’s too little to reach the pedals,’ said Mum.

  ‘Out of the way, quick!’ yelled Dad. ‘Get behind the fence.’

  Mr Carter ran up the hill, waving his arms about like a fullback. The truck careered wildly down the road, weaving back and forward across the street. With a loud bang it collided with a wall on one side, scattering bits of brick and render. Dafty gripped the steering wheel, his face filled with terror. The truck bounced in a large pothole and several pans catapulted off the back. They hit the road with a clatter, splattering their evil stinking loads against the nearest white house. The truck rolled nearer, heading straight for Mr Carter. He jumped aside at the very last moment.