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end was a spacious open area with a canvas awning. The flat roof had a solar electric panel and a miniature solar water heater. All very neat and shipshape, and cleanly painted in white and yellow.
Walter had put a small kettle on the heater and was rinsing cups. “It will have to be powdered milk, I"m afraid. I"ve switched Johnno"s fridge off.” He came to stand beside her and look down at his house.
“It"s very pretty,” said Shirley.
“Keeps me comfortable,” he said, “And I don"t have to mow the lawn. You drove here, I suppose?”
“Bicycle. It was very interesting, but very hot.”
“Ah, yes. Well, it would be, if you"re not used to it. At least you"re wearing a sensible hat. Always wear a hat, especially you ladies. This sun will dry you up in no time, if you don"t wear a hat.”
“You"re from England as well?”
“Used to be. Used to be. From Port Bruce now. I"ve been here since
the war, you know. Left England in "46 and never been back. And you"re from London. Well, well, you"ll be finding this all a bit different, I"m
sure.
“Johnno talked about you and your mother, you know. Especially near the end, when he knew he was going. Before he only mentioned you at Christmas, when he got your cards. He was glad of them, you know. He didn"t get many and yours were the only ones from outside Port Bruce.”
“He sent me cards too, but he never wrote anything about how he lived. I kept saying I"d come out and visit, but somehow…”
The kettle began to whistle and Walter went to make the coffee.
They sat together looking out over the river. The coffee was terrible and she did not feel like a hot drink, but she sipped it anyway. “This place is wonderful. I had no idea.”
Walter smiled at her. “Yes. It"s pretty good. Johnno built it himself, you know. Years ago. Never be allowed to build it nowadays, of course, but he"d bought an old freehold with rights to a jetty and buildings, so there was nothing they could do to stop him. Not that they would have interfered back then. Now it"s all inspections and certificates and green people everywhere. God knows what would happen if this got burnt
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down or flattened by a cyclone. You"d be in all sorts of trouble trying to build it up again.”
“But didn"t he get cold with only three walls?”
“Cold? Not in Port Bruce. We don"t know the meaning of the word. And the trades – they blow in the season, you know – the trades blow all day and night, but they come from the south-east and so it"s completely sheltered. No – he bought a good spot here. The mid-day sun is from the south in summer – like today – and the house has its back turned to them. At the height of the dry season, when the sun"s gone north, you get a little mid-day sun under the veranda roof but not much. No, he got that just right. And not many mozzies really. They only bother you as the sun goes down, and then they pretty much leave you alone.”
They sat in silence until Walter finished his coffee and stood up. “Would you like me to give you a lift back to town? I always go in on a Thursday. Pick up my pension, and get a good lunch and a game of bowls later.”
“But my bike...”
“Not a problem, my dear. Bring it through and we"ll pass it down to the dinghy. That"s Johnno"s, by the way. Yours now, I suppose. It"s better than mine and I"ve been using it. Pays to turn the motor over regularly.”
Walter was waiting for her with a length of rope as she wheeled the bike through the house and out onto the veranda. He tied it around the crossbar. “I"ll slip down, my dear, and you can lower it to me.” He stepped over to one side of the veranda and dropped out of sight. He reappeared below and Shirley lowered the bicycle to him.
She found the steps and followed them down. Viewed from below, the house was a mass of stout black tree trunks driven into the mud. It
did not look attractive from underneath. The bottom steps were wet and slippery and she had to step carefully to the houseboat railing and pull herself aboard. She hurried around to where Walter was pulling the bicycle onto the dinghy. It was a long fibreglass boat with a primitive outboard motor. Walter laid the bicycle across the bow and tied it down.
“Now, young lady, if you"d like to untie the painter and step aboard, we"ll be off.”
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Shirley settled amidships and watched Walter give a quick tug on the motor"s starting rope. It coughed into life and puttered quietly. They picked up speed slowly and the brown water gurgled along the sides.
“There you are,” said Walter waving proudly at the outboard, “A Seagull. The best outboard ever made, and English too. You won"t go very fast with it but it starts every time and it"ll run forever. They can hardly sell a new one, there"s so many old ones chugging away. As good as gold. Not like these modern ones. They"re all power and speed, but talk about trouble! Forever needing to be repaired or adjusted or replaced. And who"s in a hurry in Port Bruce anyway?”
Shirley was watching the riverbanks slide by. “Walter, why did the lawyer in Cairns give me a key?”
Walter was smiling again. “He"s never been here. I spoke to him on the phone and he told me to lock the place up and send him the key. Stupid – locking up a place here! Whatever for? And we didn"t know how long it would be before anyone came to look at the old place. So I found an old key in my junk pile and sent it off to him. Made him happy, I suppose, and I tied up alongside just to keep the place lived in now and again. When are you going to move in?”
She did not know. Back in London, she had pictured Uncle John living in a proper house, with a garden and perhaps a lawn with palm trees, and a garage. From her perch she was looking back at the little house on its stilts disappearing into the mangroves and quickly decided that this was much better. A house on the river. What a blessing Uncle John had given her.
“I don"t know. I hadn"t really thought. My visa – it"s only for tourism.”
“Hmm – I wouldn"t worry about that. Not too much anyway. If you can get a proper visa that would be good but if you can"t, well, it doesn"t matter too much. Tom Bombadil came on a tourist visa, and that must have been ten or fifteen years ago.”
“Tom Bombadil?” The named sounded familiar.
“Yes, he lives on the other side, up a little creek. We"ll pass him in a minute. He"s been keeping an eye on Johnno"s place too.”
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She sat enjoying the breeze and the gentle movement of the boat.
She wanted to think.
“Walter, would you mind keeping an eye on it for a bit longer? And the dinghy too? I"m not sure what I"m going to do. I suppose I"ll have to make up my mind.”
“No problem. But look behind you.”
They were rounding a bend and Port Bruce was coming into view. Ahead the river swung towards the sea and opened out into a wide estuary. The houses of Port Bruce were a distant cluster on its bank. Shirley turned around to watch them grow.
She left Walter with a promise to see him in the club after his game of bowls and rode down to the wharf to find Lulu. She was sitting on the veranda reading a woman"s magazine. She jumped up as soon as Shirley walked in.
“Ah – you come back. You like barramundi and ginger sauce?”
“A drink. It"s so hot.”
Lulu giggled. “Not so hot. Never mind – you like Australian ice"
coffee?”
“Iced coffee? How do you… Never mind - yes. Let"s try one of those. As long as it"s wet and cold.”
It was not long before Lulu reappeared carrying a tall glass of milky coffee piled high with ice cream and whipped topping. Shirley looked at it suspiciously. It was unlike any coffee she had seen before. She sucked experimentally at the straw.
“But that"s nice!” and she sucked again. Very cold milky coffee. Why had she never thought of that?
“Now
you have barramundi, yes?”
Shirley looked at her watch. After two already. Why not?
Marilyn woke her by pulling on her big toe. She jolted awake and scrambled to remember where she was. She had lain down under the fan, still wet from the shower, wanting to escape from the moist heat. She was still lying there, wrapped in her towel and confused. Marilyn pulled her toe again.
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“Come on – it"s beer o"clock. Let"s get down the club. I"ll be waiting with Byrnsie.”
She did not know what to wear. Marilyn was dressed in shorts and a string top - the same as yesterday but cleaner. Obviously, the club was a casual place. She slipped into a tee shirt and summer skirt, buckled her sandals and hurried to the shower room to comb her hair.
Marilyn was with Byrnsie, propped against the reception counter, drinking beer from bottles.
“Here she is,” said Byrnsie, “The English Rose. Have a beer?”
“No – no beer for her. Not here anyway. We"re off to the club and she can drink all she likes there.”
“Fair enough. I"ll be down there myself soon. I"ll just get a bite first. Enjoying Port Bruce, Shirley? What did you think of Johnno"s?”
“It"s - it"s pretty, but I was surprised.”
“Not like London?”
“No – not like London. Much better than that. But – I don"t know –
there"s no wall… How did Uncle John manage? I mean – there"s no privacy.”
They were smiling at her. “No one to see you up there,” said Byrnsie, “Just the crocs, and they don"t care. I don"t suppose Johnno saw anyone from one day to the next, unless he came into town. You could get up to all sorts of mischief up there and no one would be any the wiser. You"ll have trouble remembering to put your clothes on after a while, I expect.” His joking made Shirley feel stupid.
Marilyn tipped her bottle back and drained it. “Thanks for that – I"ll buy you back tonight. Come on, girl, time for the bright lights.” She led Shirley out into the moonlight and her motorbike. It was American, big and evil, its chrome glinting in its blackness.
“My God… This is yours?”
“Yup. My secret vice. Like it?”
“I"ve never seen anything like it. It"s so big. I don"t think they have ones like that in England.”
“Harley Davidson. Only way to travel. At least, it would be if we had proper roads.” She handed Shirley a round black helmet. “Here, it"ll be
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too big but it"s better than nothing. You going to hitch your skirt up or
ride side-saddle?”
She stood beside the beast for a moment before lifting her skirt high and reaching a leg over it. She found the footrest on the other side and settled onto the pillion seat. The bike was wide and her legs were spread indecently.
Marilyn chuckled. “Beautiful. I"ll give you a ride to Cooktown next week, if you promise to dress like that. Or even Cairns, if you like. We can have a night on the town.” She skipped into the saddle and pushed the bike upright. It rumbled deeply and came alive. She swung the bike confidently onto the road and, with the monster throbbing beneath them, they rushed down towards town.
The club was an old building, classic Queensland, with a wide veranda. The double doors were wide open and light flooded out. Inside
it was crowded. Men were talking at the bar, holding bottles of beer in insulated sleeves or small glasses that disappeared in their large paws. Behind them the room opened seamlessly onto a wide deck. Ceiling fans whirled amongst the rafters. Most of Port Bruce must have been there, sitting at the tables in family groups and either waiting for their food or tucking into large meals.
Marilyn dived in and elbowed her way to the bar.
“Move over, guys. Can"t a girl get a drink around here? What are you drinking, Shirl?”
“Beer?”
“But what sort of beer? Oh – never mind. You wouldn"t know yet.” She called to the girl behind the bar. “Two Four-X, please. We"ve got a new Pom in town so we"d better start her off right.”
Shirley found herself shaking hands around the bar with men who all had sympathy to offer and kind things to say about Uncle John. Beyond those few words, they did not seem to know what to say and drifted back to their own conversations.
Marilyn passed over her glass of beer. “Come on, let"s order something to eat. I"m starving.” The serving hatch was in the far wall. Above it, a hand-written menu board offered a limited menu; steak, mixed grill, lamb chops, fish and chips, fisherman"s basket. None of it
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looked suitable for a tropical climate. They ordered, took their table number – a stand with a numbered card to catch the waitress"s eye – and went looking for a seat.
Walter was waving and she found herself shaking hands with a tall old man called Snowy White and another whose name she missed. It did not seem to matter. Two chairs were found for them and she sat down to listen to the banter that Marilyn was so good at.
The food was terrible. Marilyn had classic English fish and chips, the fish over-fried in batter and a mountain of chips with tomato sauce. Her own lamb chops were equally simple and came with another chip mountain. She could have stayed at home and eaten exactly the same. It was impossibly heavy food for this heat, and she resolved to do all her eating out at Lulu"s.
The beer was better but the men insisted on placing full glasses at her elbow before she had a chance to finish the one she was working on. Soon she was feeling bloated and the room was becoming vague.
Marilyn guided her out arm in arm. “We"d better get you home, girl, before you leave your dinner on the table. You going to be right on the bike?”
“Yes – I think so. It"s just that – I don"t know, I think it"s the jetlag.”
“Oh – that"s what you call it where you come from, is it?”
“No! But that beer was strong…”
“Full strength. But you can get mid-strength and even light, if you want. You can try those next time.”
Someone was shouting in the bar behind them. “It"s nothing – just the meat tray,” said Marilyn. Shirley did not understand and she went on, “They have a raffle every Friday. For a meat tray. I didn"t buy tickets because you"ve got no use for it, and my freezer"s full anyway.” She passed Shirley her helmet. “You are going to be alright, aren"t you?”
“So much meat,” said Shirley, “It"s too hot…” and she struggled to get onto the beast. This time she did not manage to get her skirt under her bottom and the feeling of the leather seat under her make her giggle. It felt so shameless to be riding a motorbike with her skirt hitched up around her waist.
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“Now hold on tight – I don"t want to be losing you.”
Shirley pulled herself tight against Marilyn"s back. She liked Marilyn. She was big and solid. She rested her chin against a muscular shoulder and sighed. “I like Port Bruce,” she whispered.
“And I think Port Bruce might like you too,” said Marilyn gently.
Marilyn took her all the way to her door. Shirley wanted a shower but once she hit the bed, it was too late. She did manage to get out of her clothes and drop them on the floor. She lay back and stared at the ceiling. Her head was going around with the fan. Something from earlier in the day jumped into her mind, something Walter had said. Tom Bombadil – of course, she thought, I know who he is. Well, well, well. He must be another aging hippy. Tom Bombadil of Port Bruce. I wonder if there"s a Goldberry too.
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Chapter 3
She was in the shower when Marilyn called for her.
“Come on, girl. Got to rise with the sun in Port Bruce, or you"ll miss the fish.”
“What? Fish?”
“Yes – we"re a lazy bunch of bastards up here, but we"ll always get up early to go fishing. Are you ready?”
“No, silly. I"m taking you out to the goldfields, remember?”
The goldfields? There was something at the back of her mind now she thought about it. Marilyn had said something about them last night. God – she should have been ready.
“I"m sorry – I"m late.” She turned off the shower and reached for her towel.
“No worries. No one"s ever late in Port Bruce. What did you think
of the RSL?”
“The what?”
“RSL. The club. The Returned Services League. It"s meant to be for old soldiers. Every town has an RSL, but there"s hardly any old soldiers left nowadays so they"re just clubs like ours. All the old white piss-heads hang around there. The old black piss-heads use the pub. But we always have a bit of a night on Fridays – it"s a tradition. Used to be that we"d have a film, but everyone has videos now so we just have the beer and the raffle. Sometimes a darts match. There"s a small green out back so the old folks can have their bowls too. We"re going to get some floodlights and then we can play at night. „Spect we"ll all turn into old farts playing bowls every night.”
Shirley wrapped herself in the towel and stepped out of the shower. “What do I wear?”
“Why don"t you come like that? It"ll entertain the guys anyway. But you might be a long time getting home. No – just skirt or shorts. And thongs. What else?”
“Thongs? You mean – you mean panties?”
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“Them too, if you like. No – thongs – on your feet. Thongs. It"s what we call them.” She lifted a foot to be inspected.
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