‘Mr Palmer?’ I called as I got closer. ‘Banjo? Mum said would you stop in for a cup of tea? She said you both must be frozen.’
‘Thank you, Jack, that is very kind,’ said Mr Palmer. ‘Come along, Andrew. We’ll come back in the morning.’ He took Banjo gently by the arm. But I saw Mr Palmer wince in pain as he took a step. He looked like he might have been crying but I sort of knew it wasn’t because of the pain in his leg.
Mr Paterson Objects to Mod
Nothing seemed fun any more. Nothing at all. Days passed in a slow blur of schoolwork, though Mr Palmer spent more and more time away from school as his leg failed to heal. He’d come in one day and then have to have the next one off resting.
The war news on the radio improved as the Allied armies advanced for the first time in ages, but none of us could get used to the tragic news of Dafty. It was as if it had been a terrible dream and we would all wake up and Dafty would be back waiting for us at the edge of the playground under the Moreton Bay Fig trees. But gradually we accepted the truth and, almost without noticing it, life returned to normal.
On the last Friday before the school holidays I stopped at Banjo’s place to collect him on the way to school. I swung open the gate. On the low wall beside the gate, six small seashells had been placed in a circle round a shiny new .303 cartridge. For a moment I wondered where Banjo had souvenired the bullet from but then didn’t think any more about it.
The front door stood open.
‘Crikey, what happened to you?’ I asked in surprise.
Banjo looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table and peered at me with one eye. His other was swollen over, red and purple and painful looking.
‘Mr Palmer came round last night to discuss me going to Perth Mod,’ he said.
‘What, and he did that?’
‘No, John Steinbeck did it.’
‘What?’ I asked again. ‘Who’s he?’
‘When Palmer came round my dad did his block. He started chucking stuff round the house. Practically threw Palmer out the front door. Then he started calling me names. He called me a traitor to my class. He said I was disgrace. A traitor and ... and a lackey to the bosses and I’d be exploiting my own people next. I’ve never seen him go so wild.’
That was saying something. Banjo’s dad had a famous temper.
‘He hit me in the face with this book, The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck. Palmer lent it to me, to help with my English. He thought I’d like it. He says Steinbeck’s a great new writer. I didn’t duck quickly enough but. Caught me right in the gob.’
I sort of laughed, not meaning to. ‘ Grapes of Wrath? Wrath? What, like angry? How do grapes get angry?’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t hear the racket from your house,’ he said, ignoring my pathetic joke.
‘Oh, we did hear something. Thought it was just the Johnsons again,’ I replied.
And then a single tear ran down Banjo’s cheek and, slowly, he started to cry, quietly at first but then with great sobs he couldn’t hold back. And that was the only time I ever saw Banjo cry, ever. Not when Dafty died, not from the pain of the black eye, not for having an awful life after his mother left him, but because he suddenly saw his future, a rotten future without any choices, lugging cement bags. He’d glimpsed a wonderful chance of not ending up like our dads and it had been snatched away from him.
Not that there was anything wrong with our dads. Most of them were honest blokes and strong and as hard as barbed wire, but so scarred by the Depression they were terrified of not having a job, any job, even if it slowly killed them. A job was more important than anything. If it wasn’t hauling cement, then it’d be carting hay bales or cutting timber or shearing in the outback, hard physical work until the day you died—too young, sick, tired and worn out.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t hug Banjo. Blokes didn’t do that. Instead I put my hand on his shoulder awkwardly and handed him my hanky. It was clean. Mum gave me a clean one every day.
‘You going to school then?’ I asked after a while.
‘I suppose,’ he sniffed, wiping his face. ‘You’d better not tell anyone about me bawling. If you do I’ll beat you to smithereens.’
I laughed. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
Uncle Alf’s Letter
‘Mum?’
She looked up from the kitchen chair. In her hand was a small grey postcard. My uncle Alf, Mum’s brother, had been captured on Crete and was now in a prisoner of war camp, Stalag Luft VIIIB, in Germany somewhere. Sometimes the post would bring a message written months before in blunt pencil on the back of a German air force postcard. They always said the same sort of thing.
Dear Nell and Family, I am well and hope U R well as well 2. The Red X have been and brought us parcels. I rec’d a much needed balaclava as it is v.cold here. It has been snowing 4 weeks. The food is eatable but not enough as I’d like. Buster White from W. Leederville is in the next hut. He sends his regards to you all. Love Alf Whenever one of these cards arrived Mum would sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, preoccupied, reading the few precious words over and over and obviously remembering other times when she and Uncle Alf were younger.
I cleared a chair and sat down at the table.
She smiled at me, sadly. ‘I got a card from your uncle Alf. He says he’s all right and they’re looking after him. The Red Cross has sent him a parcel and a balaclava. He says he needs it because it’s been snowing. Can you imagine that, Jack? Snowing?’
I could easily imagine it. In Lost Horizon Ronald Colman had to trudge through the snow in blizzards and avalanches to get back to Shangri-la. It looked incredibly cold and no fun at all. Though they did all get to live for hundreds of years.
‘I do hope he’ll be all right,’ Mum said. ‘It must be terrible for him, locked up like that so far from home.’
I didn’t know about that. When Uncle Alf was at home he spent most of his life wheeling and dealing, barely one step ahead of the law. Dad said Uncle Alf had got his just desserts, being locked up in Germany. It saved the local police from having to do it here. Though he didn’t say that in front of Mum. I think Uncle Alf might’ve gone off to the war owing Dad some money as well. Dad reckoned there wasn’t a person in the entire world Uncle Alf didn’t owe money to. Now he was in Germany, Dad said, he’d probably have the hide to borrow some from Adolf Hitler himself. And that is not that funny.
Mr Palmer Threatens Mr Paterson
At the pub on Friday nights after payday, we kids were allowed in the beer garden for a lemon squash if we behaved ourselves. Banjo and I were sitting at a table near Dad and his friends when Mr Palmer limped through the pub and out onto the verandah where we sat, his walking stick tap-tap-tapping on the paving. He had on his best pin-striped suit and a starched collar. Under his arm he held a large manila envelope. He walked up to the men’s table.
‘Mr Paterson,’ he began quietly.
Banjo’s dad looked at him in surprise and nearly knocked over his schooner. The conversation and laughter stopped instantly and the place fell completely silent. Everyone turned to watch and listen. They sensed something was up.
Every single person on the island had heard of Mr Palmer’s argument with Mr Paterson and John Steinbeck’s part in it, though none of them knew who John Steinbeck was. They thought he must’ve been a German with a name like that. And hitting a defenceless boy in the face with a book was exactly the sort of thing a vicious German would do.
‘Mr Paterson,’ Mr Palmer repeated. ‘I am a patient man, as you well know, and I am a gentle man, but you, Mr Paterson, have behaved badly and you have stretched the limits of my patience.’
Mr Paterson looked dumbfounded. This was the last thing he expected on a Friday night at the pub.
Mr Palmer continued. ‘In my hand I have the application papers for a scholarship for your boy to attend Perth Modern School, one of the most respected institutions in the entire country. And, Mr Paterson, your son has the brains and the ch
aracter to win one of these scholarships, with a little hard work. And I’ll be damned—damned, I tell you—before I will let you stand in the way of such a fine mind. A criminal waste of a God-given talent cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. Mr Paterson, you will sit down here and you will sign these papers.’
He leaned forward and looked directly into Mr Paterson’s eyes. He lowered his voice very quietly. ‘Or I will quite literally beat you to within an inch of your life. Do you hear me?’ He paused for a moment. ‘I am not a man of violence, but...’
Not a man of violence? Tell that to the back of my legs.
‘I saw far too much brutality at Gallipoli and at the Somme to be a violent man. But Mr Paterson, you are giving me no choice. You will sign these papers here and now or I will not be responsible for my actions.’ He suddenly slammed his walking stick down on the table. ‘Do I make myself clear? I will not allow one man’s pig-headed stubborn pride to stand in the way of—’
‘I hear you, Mr Palmer,’ answered Mr Paterson. ‘I hear you.’ He looked about for support but every person in the garden avoided his eyes. It seemed to me that in spite of Mr Paterson being their workmate, this time everyone in the pub was on Mr Palmer’s side. A boy being able to attend Perth Modern School was an achievement almost beyond their understanding.
Mr Paterson sensed he was beaten and looked for a way to save face. ‘Do you want to sit down and we’ll discuss it like civilised men? Over a beer,’ he added nervously.
‘Yes, Mr Paterson, that is an excellent idea.’ Mr Palmer was clearly relieved. I don’t think he really wanted to tear Mr Paterson apart, though in the state he was in it looked like he might’ve done it easily, limb by limb.
‘We can discuss it at length and then you will sign the papers and I will buy everyone a beer just as soon as you have done so,’ said Mr Palmer.
Mr Paterson might not have liked teachers and books and learning but he admired courage. And he’d just been taught a lesson in real courage. Some of the men nodded and gave each other knowing looks. They too recognised real courage when they saw it. Mr Paterson was twice Mr Palmer’s size, but our teacher had stood up to him like Gentleman Jim Corbett against John L Sullivan for the Heavyweight Championship. He had done a brave and fine thing that evening.
Mr Palmer unscrewed his fountain pen. Mr Paterson signed the form and some of the men then started clapping, slowly at first and then everyone joined in enthusiastically. The applause soon turned to cheering and it wasn’t just the thought of a free beer, it was the knowledge that one of their own might escape from the sheer physical drudgery of their lives.
‘That’s enough flaming discussion then, Pat. My flaming glass is just about flaming empty,’ laughed Mr Carter at the end of the table.
Jack and Banjo Build a Canoe
The sheets of corrugated iron lay scattered and rusting around the wooden framework of the derelict house.
‘We need a bit without any nail holes,’ said Banjo.
We poked a stick under the end of each one and flipped the metal sheets, ready to jump back from any lurking snakes warming themselves under the tin. I hate snakes. Luckily, we hadn’t seen anything deadly so far except a few spiders and centipedes.
‘And one that’s not all rusted through,’ I said, as one sheet broke apart. Eventually we selected the perfect piece with only a few holes and not too much rust.
Making a canoe was easy. We’d made loads before, except they were never very stable and always tipped over and sank, but this time, this time ... We’d seen a Tahitian-style canoe with an outrigger in Mutiny on the Bounty with Clark Gable. An outrigger looked like the perfect solution.
We bent both ends of the iron together either side of a bit of narrow timber. Then we banged the corrugations down flat and nailed them to form a sharp wedge at each end. All we needed now was some tar to patch the holes and seal the gaps around the wood.
‘Where are we going to get the tar? It’s too cold this time of the year,’ I said. In summer we’d just wait until it got hot enough and dig the melted tar out of the edge of the road.
Banjo thought for a moment. ‘At the aerodrome, of course. They’re bound to have barrels of it. Barrels and barrels.’
‘But it’s out of bounds. There’s a huge fence and barbed wire and guards...’ But I knew where this was leading.
‘Jones, you’d have to be the biggest chicken in the world.’
‘If we sneak in there at night the guards’ll think we’re Japs and shoot us,’ I protested.
‘It’s Saturday. There won’t be any guards. Everyone finishes at lunchtime. They’ll be at the barracks getting ready for the pictures tonight. The First of the Few, with Lesley Howard. Spitfires and all. Remember?’
Of course I remembered. I couldn’t wait to see it.
We could ask our fathers to get us some tar, but we’d have to say what we wanted it for and we were absolutely and completely banned from making tin canoes. It looked like the only choice was chancing certain death to get some.
The fence around the aerodrome ended at the edge of Government House Lake so all we needed to do was creep through the reeds, swim across the lake, sneak up the hill, find some tar and swim back across the lake. It should take no time at all. The lake was only a few hundred yards wide.
‘The water’ll be cold, Banjo,’ I said, taking off my shirt and shorts and hanging them over a bush. ‘What we need is a canoe.’
Banjo looked back at me and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said, as he entered the water and it quickly rose up to his waist. I knew he was lying through his teeth.
A flock of ducks scattered from the reeds not far away as I followed Banjo in. Not that bad? The cold stung like six of Palmer’s best. The water wasn’t deep so we could wade most of the way across. We’d only have to swim in the middle bit and because the lake was so salty there wasn’t any danger of us sinking.
Shivering, our teeth chattering and our bodies turning blue, we suffered for every single yard until we reached the other side. We scrambled across the small rock-strewn beach and crawled up the low sandhills. Sand stuck to our frozen bodies and filled our hair. The cuts on my knees stung like buggery from the saltwater.
‘What’d I tell you? There’s no-one about,’ whispered Banjo as we reached the nearest hut. From behind it we couldn’t see across to the gate and the guard post, which meant the guard on duty couldn’t see us either.
‘What if we get caught?’ I said, imagining the public execution we’d face. A full firing squad against the bakery wall, most like. Not to mention the wrath of my mum. That would be far, far worse than any firing squad.
‘We won’t get caught. And look,’ he said excitedly.
Sure enough, straight across the small street formed by the huts, row after row of black forty-four gallon drums stood, lined up like soldiers on parade. There must’ve been hundreds of them.
‘You should learn to trust me,’ Banjo said.
‘We still have to get across there,’ I complained again, ‘without being seen. Without getting shot.’
Then I heard the familiar sound I knew from when Dad and I used to go rabbit shooting in the old days. The double click of a gun bolt being worked. I froze.
‘Halt! Who goes there? Step forward and be recognised!’ shouted a voice from behind us.
‘Don’t shoot,’ I cried. ‘It’s me, Jack Jones and Banjo.’ We both immediately put our hands in the air like robbers captured by the Durango Kid.
‘What in the hell are you two doing, for crikey’s sake? And stark-bollocking naked!’ We slowly turned around to face Corporal Bennett, and a big ugly brute he was too. He and about half a dozen other soldiers stood in a sort of half-circle, all with their .303 Lee Enfield rifles pointed straight at us.
‘We damn near shot you both, swimming across the lake like that. We thought you were Nip saboteurs. What were you thinking of? You know we’ve been on full alert. Surely you two, of all people...’
‘Leave
off, corp. Can’t you see they’re freezing to death?’ said Private Gibson, the soldier at the end.
We stood there shaking like leaves in a storm, our teeth chattering uncontrollably, but in my case it wasn’t from cold. It was sheer terror. All I could see were the barrels aimed straight at me.
Private Gibson took off his khaki tunic and handed to me. ‘We can see the water’s been a touch cool,’ he laughed. ‘Put this on.’
Corporal Bennett handed his tunic to Banjo. ‘Tell me truthfully now, what are you doing here?’ he asked again.
I pulled the large itchy khaki tunic closer round me. ‘We wanted to get some tar. For our canoe. To stop it leaking.’ It sounded pretty lame, even to me.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Corporal Bennett laughed. He nodded towards the drums. ‘Private Mann, fetch that can. The one on the ground there. We can’t have our heroes in a leaky canoe. Why don’t you just go sailing in your dad’s dingy, eh, Banjo?’
Banjo shrugged. ‘Because canoes are more fun, I suppose. And besides, we’re banned from going near Dad’s boat.’
Corporal Bennett laughed again, ‘When has that ever stopped you two from doing anything?’
Private Mann collected a black, encrusted watering can full of hardened tar and handed it to me.
The corporal cleared his throat. ‘Now get back to wherever you’ve hidden your clothes and don’t ever let me catch you in a restricted area again. And that includes that place above the army jetty where you both like to hide. Understand? Do I make myself clear?’
We both nodded.
‘Now scram. And I’ll make sure none of the officers hear about this or you’ll really be in strife.’
We handed back the tunics and walked though the gate and along the road, still naked, the soldiers laughing and making jokes about us. It was embarrassing but at least we had a whole watering can full of solid tar. All we needed now was a good hot fire to melt it and hopefully thaw ourselves out at the same time. That was providing we managed to reach where we’d left our clothes in the cold wind without freezing solid and our privates disappearing forever.
Jack's Island Page 5