Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  I felt the familiar panic rise within me – they’d want more than a couple of words I might invent as Bluey’s – Harry’s – last words. On my first visit to the chemist I’d been in such a rush I’d barely glanced at the shop assistant, but now I could see she was an absolute stunner. She gave me a big smile and then said to Mr Walsh, ‘You’ve got Mrs Dougherty’s medicine to get ready – she’ll be here in ten minutes. She’s always on the dot, and she’ll be furious if you’re not here.’

  Mr Walsh gave an impatient jerk of his head and clucked his tongue in annoyance, then looked at me. ‘Would you mind, Mr McKenzie?’

  I then realised that we hadn’t been formally introduced and looked at him, surprised. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘On the radio. It was on the local radio when you won the Military Medal. We were all proud of you.’

  ‘I apologise, sir. I should have introduced myself before.’

  He grinned. ‘I think you had other things on your mind at the time.’

  He turned to the shop assistant. ‘And this is Wendy,’ he said, smiling again.

  ‘G’day, Wendy,’ I said, sticking out my hand, then unnecessarily saying, ‘Jacko McKenzie, Queen Island.’

  ‘The war hero?’ she asked right off.

  I blushed. ‘Nah, lucky – they must’ve tossed a coin. There were heaps more deserved a medal before me.’

  ‘And modest, too!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You’re Wendy, er . . .’

  ‘Kalbfell,’ she said.

  Wendy Kalbfell wasn’t any taller than me – in fact, she was maybe an inch or so shorter. She had brown hair, mousey-brown I suppose, but she had these green eyes you couldn’t believe and was really pretty, with a knockout smile. She was wearing a chemist smock like Mr Walsh, so I asked, ‘Are you a chemist?’ In those days they weren’t known as pharmacists.

  She laughed, shaking her head. ‘No. Mr Walsh insists it looks professional.’

  ‘It does,’ I said. ‘Very.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said.

  The conversation wasn’t exactly progressing, then she said, ‘You knew Bluey Walsh, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, great bloke. He died in my arms.’ Suddenly, I saw Bluey Walsh in flames falling at my feet with me uselessly emptying my water bottle over him and him looking up at me in surprise and saying, ‘Oh shit!’, then dying right in front of my eyes. In my nervous state I started to talk, telling Wendy Kalbfell about the two American planes and the yellow smoke flare the spotter plane had dropped and then our astonishment and horror as the first plane had come in low dropping napalm. I told her about pouring my water bottle over Bluey and trying to beat out the flames. ‘Then he looked at me, and said, “Bloody good life, Jacko, but I’m gunna miss my wonderful family.”’ It was a lie, but it had come out that way without me even thinking about it. Then I realised that Mr Walsh was standing next to me and had heard the whole or part of it.

  Wendy was crying, and I could see Mr Walsh was pretty choked. ‘Could you tell it again when we get home, Jacko, the way you just did?’

  I nodded dumbly. I’d fucked up again! I’d been trying to impress Wendy Kalbfell and it had all come out in a rush with a lie at the end. There are things soldiers see they shouldn’t talk about to civilians, and I’d just broken the cardinal rule. The sheer horror of warfare is something you don’t talk about with anyone, especially women. I realised that the napalm incident and Bluey’s death were all there under the surface, waiting to come out without me knowing. So when it was triggered it just spurted out like vomit. At least I’d managed to say something in the end that wasn’t true but would be of some comfort to them. Later I told myself that it was exactly what I would have said with my last breath, which was probably crap.

  Just then Mrs Dougherty came in, all fuss and bother like a broody pouter pigeon entering the pigeon loft. ‘How are you today, Mrs Dougherty?’ Mr Walsh asked.

  ‘Don’t ask! Worst day of my life!’ she said, then walked right past us with her huge bosom sticking out and halted at the dispensary at the back of the shop, waiting for Mr Walsh to follow.

  ‘Your medicine isn’t doing a thing!’ she said accusingly, as Mr Walsh reached onto the dispensary counter and handed her a paper bag. ‘Might as well take a Bex for all the good it’s doing me.’

  ‘Have you seen Dr Kalbfell lately? Maybe he needs to prescribe something else?’ Mr Walsh offered.

  The pouter pigeon turned slightly to look at Wendy, then turned back and let out a ‘Hmmph!’

  Wendy sniffed back her tears and tried to smile. ‘Silly old cow!’ she whispered. ‘She says exactly the same thing every week: “Don’t ask! Worst day of my life!”’

  ‘I wouldn’t take too many Bex if I were you,’ I heard Mr Walsh caution the pouter pigeon.

  ‘Hmmph!’ Mrs Dougherty replied again, clearly indicating that she wasn’t interested in his advice. She turned and looked over at Wendy. ‘On my account, girl – and why are you sniffing? Have you got a cold? If you have you shouldn’t be here spreading it – kindly don’t come near me!’

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Dougherty,’ Wendy replied sweetly, as the old bag – breast thrust out like the prow of a sailing ship, nose in the air – left the chemist shop without waiting for Wendy to explain her sniffs.

  I knew that you could fall in love instantly because I’d done so with Miss Pat Brand at the concert at Puckapunyal all those years back, when I’d first enlisted to be trained before being sent to New Guinea.

  Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly,

  I gotta love one man till I die,

  Can’t help lovin’ dat man o’ mine.

  The lyrics had become my mantra, and when I was especially lonely I’d play the tune on the harmonica and it would bring me close to tears. Now it was the same thing all over again – I was bowled over by Wendy Kalbfell. She was Pat Brand in spades.

  ‘We should be going,’ Mr Walsh said. ‘Wendy, you shut up shop while I go for the car.’

  I was curious as to why Wendy was coming home with us instead of staying to look after the shop. Then Mr Walsh, perhaps seeing my surprise, said, ‘Wendy was Harry’s fiancée.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I should have twigged something was up when she’d started to cry. But then sheilas cry all the time – how was I to know this wasn’t just a free cry for Bluey Walsh, whom she’d probably known. Oh, Jesus! Bluey didn’t say he loved her when he died! I thought in dismay. My last-words lie hadn’t included her as any decent last words like that would naturally have done. She must have felt devastated that her fiancé hadn’t had the decency to die with her name on his lips.

  Wendy wrote a ‘Back after lunch’ note and pinned it to the door before she locked up. ‘Come on, Jacko,’ she said, as a brand-new 1953 black Humber Super Snipe pulled up. To my delight she took my hand as we walked over to the car. Perhaps she’s decided to forgive me, I thought, which was bloody silly, of course, because she didn’t know I’d been lying about Bluey’s last words in the first instance.

  ‘I’ll sit in the back,’ Wendy volunteered. I’d have done anything to join her but, of course, it was necessary to sit in the front seat with Mr Walsh.

  All the way to the Walsh family home I could feel the effect of her hand in mine – sort of soft and loving, as if she already belonged to me. She hadn’t held it for more than three or four steps, but it seemed as though a lifetime of anticipation had run up my arm and into my heart. But, of course, she didn’t belong to me and couldn’t even if she wanted to, because she was mourning for Bluey Walsh. But on the other hand, I told myself, Kapyong had been just over two and a half years ago and maybe she was coming out of it and I’d have a bit of a chance if I played my hand carefully and didn’t rush things now that I’d found the girl of my life.

  I repeated the story of Bluey’s death to the Walsh family, but without the gruesome details. I thought desperately of inventing something Bluey may have previously told me about his gorgeous fiancée that I coul
d sort of throw in before we got to his last words – something to comfort Wendy and reassure her that he truly loved her. But I couldn’t think of anything, and I’d always been a lousy liar anyway. So I simply repeated Bluey’s ‘made-up’ last words, by which time all three women were weeping – Mrs Walsh and Bluey’s sister, Anne, and Wendy, who was doing it all over again.

  Bluey’s younger brother, Phillip, reached out and shook me by the hand. ‘Thanks, Jacko – thanks for telling us the whole story.’ I could see he was pretty choked up as well.

  Then Wendy stood and came over to me and hugged me. ‘Thank you for telling me about Harry, Jacko. You’re a lovely man. A brave and truly lovely bloke.’ The way she smiled at me, I could see she meant it. At that moment I would have done anything in the world to go back to the meeting in the chemist shop with me knowing about her being Bluey’s fiancée and including her name in Bluey’s last words to make her happy. I knew then and there that I’d do anything and everything in my power to make this incredible woman happy if ever I got the chance. Despite her grief she’d called me a ‘truly lovely bloke’. How good is that? I’d never had a girl, a proper woman, say anything as nice to me – not even a compliment that was close. The best before what Wendy had just said was when Angela Kelly had said in the dark, ‘Buck, you bastard!’

  When we arrived back at the chemist shop Phillip Walsh came as well. He sat next to Mr Walsh in the front, so I sat next to Wendy in the back. After about two minutes I thought I’d have a go at holding her by the hand. But very lightly, so if she didn’t like it she could draw her hand away and no one would notice. At the same time she’d be able to give me the dreaded ‘no trespassing’ message if she wanted to. I reached out and touched her hand with the tips of my fingers, ready to pull back instantly if nothing happened. But she took my hand and squeezed and smiled and I was totally stoked. If anyone had asked me the next day how to get to town from Mr Walsh’s house no way could I have told them, as I’d just climbed the stairway to heaven.

  Sue and Jimmy were waiting when we got back to the chemist shop. They’d been to the museum and when they arrived at the chemist they’d seen the ‘Back after lunch’ sign, so Jimmy had bought Sue lunch at a nearby cafe. I introduced them to Mr Walsh and Wendy and Phillip, and then it was time to leave because the Douglas DC3 left at a quarter to three and we had to catch the bus to the airport.

  ‘We’d better be going,’ Sue said, ‘the bus leaves for the airport in five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, Phillip’s taking you in the Humber Super Snipe,’ Mr Walsh said, pronouncing each word. You could see he was pretty proud of the big black car shining at the kerb in the bright afternoon sunlight.

  Meanwhile, Wendy had walked into the shop to serve a customer who’d arrived while we were chatting on the footpath. I walked in just as the customer emerged. ‘We’ve got to go, Wendy. It’s been—’ but then I couldn’t bear the thought of completing the sentence.

  ‘Jacko, if you come to Launceston again I’d love to see you,’ Wendy said right off, saving me the embarrassment of having to ask her and chancing a knock-back. Her smile seemed to come from somewhere near her toes, because it included her whole being.

  ‘Can I come back next week?’

  She put her head to one side and looked at me. ‘Sooner, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a couple of cray – they’re moulting, but they’re real nice,’ I volunteered, not thinking how stupid this must sound.

  ‘Yum, I’d love that,’ she said, smiling again. Then she came from behind the counter and kissed me, her green eyes closed. Not a big tongue job like Angela Kelly’s, but soft and nice and perfect as anything I might have expected from Miss Pat Brand. ‘See you soon, brave and lovely bloke,’ she said, drawing away again.

  Back on the island, walking in the surf every morning at sun-up was a perfect way to start the day. We borrowed a couple of masks and snorkels from Cory and Steve, and Steve’s flippers for me. Jimmy’s feet were miles too big for Cory’s flippers. I remembered that Busta Gut, who was a big bloke at around six feet, had had enormous feet even when he’d been at school, and had to wear a size-twelve boot in the winter when he was fourteen. Everyone on the island dived, so I reckoned he might have a pair he wanted to sell. ‘What’s your offer? Ain’t got no time f’divin’ no more, Jacko. Me mum makes me work like a friggin’ blackfella.’

  ‘Not the best choice of words around here, mate,’ I cautioned him.

  ‘What I say?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘Mate, Jimmy’s a Negro,’ I replied.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Is that the same as a blackfella?’ he asked ingenuously. What could you say?

  ‘I’ll give you five bob for your flippers, sight unseen,’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘It means they might not be in good shape but I’ll take them anyway.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with them, Jacko,’ he protested. ‘Just a small tear in one.’

  ‘There you go,’ I said. ‘Three bob, not a penny more.’

  ‘Righto,’ he said.

  Jimmy didn’t know a lot about diving but to my surprise he was a strong swimmer. He explained that the Colored Orphan Asylum had been situated on the banks of the Hudson River, where they’d spent many a long summer’s day swimming. It didn’t take long to teach him the technique of finding a crayfish, and after a couple of weeks he was so adept at it that he was bringing more to the surface than I was. September to October is when crayfish moult and the shells are soft. Soft-shelled crayfish were not caught commercially, but it was okay to take a few, always provided that we left the females while they carried their eggs externally and that the males we took measured ten inches or more overall.

  Jimmy and I soon exhausted the immediate family’s need for crays – plus the needs of cousins and assorted visitors – with the gifts we caught exercising our leg muscles. Crayfish are not such a big deal on the island. You had to cook and eat them right off, or get ice from the co-op for the ice box to keep them for a couple of days even when you’d cooked them. So the gift of a brace of decent-sized crayfish had its limitations.

  We ordered a couple of spear guns from the fishing-gear shop in Launceston, and soon enough we were bringing home enough fish to feed the entire neighbourhood – yet another underwhelming gift. In the minds of the islanders, a bucketful of plump young trumpeter equated roughly to a pound of pretty ordinary sirloin steak. We’d all been brought up poor, and as kids had grown to hate the seemingly endless diet of fish. But all this had changed for me. After watery bowls of millet for more than a year, I simply couldn’t eat enough fish. And Jimmy loved fish – especially cray stew – so Gloria had no problem feeding us and we ate like proverbial kings.

  Needless to say, Jimmy was a big hit with everyone on the island, male and female, and I’d been right about the sheilas – they flocked around him like gulls when the sardines, or sprats, are running. And not just the single ones, either. The frenchies ran out after only a month, and I think Jimmy was happy enough to take a rest for a while. ‘Brother Fish, when I pays my com-plee-ments to one dem girls den da other one she want to know what wrong wid her, so I got to do da same wid her. I exhausted, man!’

  As for me, I was using my accumulated leave money on the Douglas DC3. Two years’ salary accumulated while I was a prisoner of war meant I could hop over to Launceston of a Saturday, leaving Jimmy to have his wicked way with one or another of the island girls.

  Worse luck, Wendy lived with her parents. Her dad was the doctor Mr Walsh had mentioned to the pouter pigeon, and her family was very proper and rather posh and certainly what passed for ‘society’ in Launceston. Fortunately, Gloria had this piece she’d cut out of the Women’s Weekly when we were kids that instructed people on correct table manners. She’d pasted it into her recipe book and drilled us mercilessly at every meal, and in every detail. When we ate with our cousins we tried to eat badly so they wouldn’t mock us. Now I was glad of m
y earlier training.

  However, I confess I got caught out once. I’d been invited by Wendy’s mum to come to Sunday-morning breakfast and there was this half grapefruit on the plate in front of me and beside it a little knife with a serrated edge for cutting round the rim, only the one I’d got was badly bent. So I picked it up and took it under the table so no one would be embarrassed that they’d given me a bent knife, and straightened it out. Then I saw Wendy using hers and realised the knife was meant to be like that so you could cut neatly around the edges of the grapefruit and scoop the flesh out and away from the skin. So I let my straightened knife drop on the carpet under the table and told Mrs Kalbfell I wasn’t partial to grapefruit. When I told Wendy later she laughed and said our affair was definitely off – but on the other hand, if I’d do it again the next time I came to breakfast in front of her mum so she could witness her expression, she’d forgive me.

  I stayed in a boarding house of a Saturday night and went back to the island on the last flight in the Douglas DC3 of a Sunday afternoon, usually with a severe dose of lover’s balls. When we’d hit an air pocket flying over the Strait I’d practically scream out in pain, whereupon I’d swear to myself that the next time I’d book a hotel room where Wendy and I could go so I didn’t have to continue the torture.

  I discovered that Wendy had been Miss Launceston and then Miss Tasmania in the Miss Australia contest, and everyone knew who she was. What’s more, she was considered the best catch in town – the blokes had all been waiting until her grieving for Bluey Walsh was over before they came swarming like bees around a honey pot. Everywhere we went there’d be young blokes ogling her, their tongues practically hanging out down to their knees. I’d happened along and for reasons I’ll never understand, she’d decided Jacko McKenzie was going to be the bloke she chose. So no hotel ploy for yours truly. I loved her that much. Anyway, I’d have waited as long as it took – despite the aching gonad flight home of a Sunday afternoon.