Brother Fish

by Bryce Courtenay

  I did as he asked, introducing each of us in the order of age, leaving Jimmy for last so that I could single him out. But when we got to Wendy, who wore her break-your-heart smile, he said, ‘How very nice to meet you, Miss Kalbfell. May I offer my sincere condolences to you on the death of Private Harry Walsh, who, I am assured, was a brave soldier and fine man.’

  Well, I can tell ya, we were gobsmacked. What a bonzer sort of a human being he turned out to be, doing his homework on Wendy like that. Wendy lost her composure for a moment, her bottom lip quivering, but then immediately regained it and smiled – although her eyes glistened and she reached out and took my hand. ‘Thank you, Your Excellency, you’re very kind,’ she said quietly.

  I introduced the twins, who kept their eyes on their boots when they shook his hand, and then I turned at last to Jimmy. ‘And this is my great friend, Jimmy Oldcorn, Your Excellency.’

  Jimmy drew to attention and took the governor’s extended hand. ‘I is honoured, Yo’ Excellency. Dis a great day foh Brother Fish an’ I thank yoh foh invitin’ me.’

  The governor smiled. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you. How is your leg coming along?’

  ‘It fine, Yo’ Excellency, jus’ fine. I done me a complete re-coo-per-ration in dis fine country. Brother Fish an’ his family, dey been real good to me.’

  ‘Brother Fish?’ the governor asked, suddenly confused.

  Jimmy pointed towards me. ‘Dat Jacko. He called dat because o’ da “Fish Song” and his harmonica when we prisoners of war,’ Jimmy explained, no doubt leaving the governor even further confused.

  The governor turned to me. ‘You play the harmonica? I’ve always been rather fond of the little instrument but could never get past “Daisy, Daisy”. It looks so easy, but it’s dammed difficult to master.’

  ‘He da master!’ Jimmy chuckled. ‘He da best. Brother Fish done save our lives with da “Fish Song” and his harmonica.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have your harmonica with you?’ the governor asked me.

  ‘No, Your Excellency,’ I said, vastly relieved.

  ‘Yes we do!’ Gloria said, holding up her big black bag.

  Oh Jesus! Bloody Gloria’s tricked us! I was suddenly overcome with embarrassment. That’s why she’d demanded the keys to our rooms in the boarding house – her excuse to get an extra handkerchief had been to nick our harmonicas. I should have bloody known.

  ‘Would it be too much to ask you to play this “Fish Song” for us?’ the governor asked quietly.

  ‘What – here, now?’ I said, too surprised to remember to add ‘Your Excellency’.

  ‘Of course! If you’d rather not, I completely understand. However, it could just add a little bit to the proceedings. I do get so very tired of that damned quartet playing Mozart and Brahms. Never was too fond of Jerry music.’

  ‘Jimmy can sing it, Jacko’ll take the lead and we’ll be the backing,’ Gloria volunteered, bold as brass and back in charge, bossing us around as usual.

  ‘Oh, you all sing?’ the governor asked.

  ‘No, we play the harmonica – modern and classical,’ Gloria said proudly, dead chuffed with the outcome. Then she remembered and added, ‘Your Excellency.’

  The governor laughed. ‘That’s excellent!’ He seemed genuinely pleased, and motioned for his aide-de-camp, the lieutenant in the white uniform, to come closer.

  So there we were up on this little stage, previously occupied by the quartet, who’d taken their instruments through to the kitchen and were now munching cake and holding cups of tea and looking, I thought, a bit superior as we got ourselves organised in a half-circle around the microphone.

  People had started to crowd closer, sensing something was about to happen – all the dignitaries and big nobs, as well as the folk like us. The governor stepped up and addressed the crowd from the microphone. ‘I have just heard the beginnings of what I think may turn out to be a remarkable story,’ he announced. ‘The McKenzie family, along with Private Jimmy Oldcorn, will honour us with a performance of what is known as “The Fish Song”. He paused momentarily, and turned to Jimmy. ‘Perhaps, Private Oldcorn, you would introduce the song and give us the background before the performance begins?’

  We all knew Jimmy was good – a raconteur not easily equalled – but now he excelled himself, telling the story of the North Korean hospital cave and giving me much too much of the glory when it really belonged to him.

  ‘Ladies and gennelmen, and o’ course Yo’ Excellency,’ he began. ‘Iffen my fren Jack McKenzie he got dis medal from yo’ queen for bravery at Kapyong, it ain’t nothin’ compared to da bravery he done show when we prisoner o’ war. I gonna try mah best to be respectful o’ da occasion here and da del-lee-cate feelin’s o’ da ladies present, but iffen I gonna tell o’ true bravery it ain’t no purty story.’

  The large room grew completely silent as Jimmy described the hospital cave – the freezing temperatures, the stench of illness, the lack of food, the cruelty of the North Korean guards and the sense of hopelessness and despair among prisoners. He then turned and pointed to me. ‘Dat how it be, da day dat da Aus-tra-lian he come. He got his leg broke bad an’ he ain’t got no splint. Da side his jaw, it swollen bad where dey hit him wid da rifle butt. He wounded real bad and he cain’t walk. I am in dat cave and he lie next to me and I think he gonna surely die.’ Jimmy proceeded to leave out all the details, which, of course, was how he’d had to convince me to be a part of trying to change the morale in the cave, how with great pain and suffering he’d secured a splint for my leg and boots for my naked feet, how it was his idea that I play the harmonica.

  ‘Den he take out his harmonica an’ he begin to play sweet an’ low. In dat hell he done bring dat beautiful music. We all American dat time, so he play da Glenn Miller classic “In the Mood” an’ follow wid “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy”. He play so good, so sweet, we done weep, but now from da music we also got hope and we got us some spirit.’ Jimmy smiled. ‘Dis good man, Jack, he ain’t a real big dude, but man, he got a heart it da size a trolley bus.’

  By this stage I was completely mortified. People were looking at me and smiling, eyes glistening. I could see they admired me greatly and my face burned with the terrible embarrassment of it all. Jimmy then told them how, with the power of music, the cave had been reorganised and the morale improved.

  He then went on to tell the story of how one day I had heard a guard singing and had learned to play the tune on the harmonica, then patiently over several days sat in the freezing cold and learned the Chinese words so that we could teach them to the choir. How this had changed the attitudes of the guards towards us and we’d eventually been transferred to a field hospital where our broken legs had been placed in casts. How we’d learned the meaning of the lyrics from a Chinese officer who spoke English, so that Jimmy had dubbed me Brother Fish, in honour of saving so many American lives, including his own.

  I wanted to rush forward and tell the story of the real hero, but it would have disrupted everything and spoiled the proceedings. The place was a mess – women were openly weeping and by the time he’d finished, even the governor’s wife was sobbing into her handkerchief.

  We then performed the song, me leading in with the haunting introduction, and then Jimmy coming in, singing the words in the Chinese dialect with the other harmonicas sweet and clean in the background. I came in solo in several parts, building up the storm at sea with the backing carrying the effects of the roaring wind and waves. Then came the calm after the storm as the great fish guided the fisherman back to his village, and then the joy of the villagers as they gave a feast for the fisherman’s return and in honour of the great fish. Finally the beautiful opening melody repeated, but softer this time as the fisherman’s mother gave thanks and prayers to the goddess for returning her son. When the song came to an end you could have heard a pin drop, and then the applause started and continued and continued. And just when I thought it was all over, Gloria stepped up to the microphone, held u
p her hand and brought the mob to silence.

  ‘Your Excellency, premier, chief justice, members of parliament, ladies and gentlemen,’ she began. Where’d she get all that from? The sneaky bugger’s been practising this all along! ‘Almost one hundred years ago my great-grandmother was a convict in the Female Factory here in Hobart. Her name was Mary Kelly, and she played the harp beautifully. Lady Jane Franklin would often send a redcoat to fetch her so she could play to the ladies at one of her soirées . . .’ Gloria stopped, and gave the crowd a smile, ‘. . . I think that’s how you pronounce it, anyway,’ she said, then added ingenuously, ‘it’s French.’ There was a bit of a titter and then laughter among the crowd, and then she continued. ‘Among other tunes, she played a particular melody from her childhood in Ireland that became a great favourite with Lady Jane and her ladies.’ Gloria paused and smiled and then, with just the right touch of humility, said, ‘I . . . er, just thought you might like to have us play it for you today?’

  There were cheers and claps, some of the ladies still dabbing their eyes from ‘The Fish Song’. Gloria looked over at the governor, who nodded his head. I admit I was a bit confused – we’d discussed ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’. What was she on about, bringing Mary Kelly into it?

  Gloria stepped up to me. ‘I’ll take the lead, Jacko,’ she said quietly. I nodded, still confused, and stepped back with the others. ‘It’s called “Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye”,’ she announced. She turned to face Jimmy. ‘Jimmy will sing the lyrics – though, except for the first few lines, it’s really a women’s song.’ Sue and the twins looked at me, mystified, our harmonicas at the ready. ‘I’ll solo the first verse and Jimmy will come in on the reprise,’ she announced to us. The crowd fell silent and Gloria led us in and we realised immediately that with very little rearrangement the melody was identical to ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’. I glanced over to Sue and the twins and could see their relief. Gloria was a sly one, but what about Jimmy? He would have had to learn the lyrics – the buggers had planned this behind our backs all along!

  Gloria played the opening verse and then did a reprise to let Jimmy come in. Jimmy had a deep baritone, but it was pure and clean and you could hear every word, sharp as a piano note. Incredibly, he sang it with an Irish brogue. Later he would tell me he’d got the inflections from Doug Waterman, the brave Irishman from the Royal Ulster Rifles who’d died of shame in the POW camp.

  ‘While goin’ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo,

  While goin’ the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo.

  While goin’ the road to sweet Athy,

  A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye,

  A doleful damsel I heard cry,

  Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo,

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo.

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums,

  The enemy nearly slew ye,

  Oh my darling dear, ye look so queer,

  Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo.

  Where are your eyes that were so mild,

  When my heart you so beguiled?

  Why did ye run from me and the child?

  Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo . . .

  Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo,

  Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo.

  Where are your legs that used to run,

  When you went for to carry a gun?

  Indeed your dancin’ days are done,

  Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo . . .

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo,

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo.

  Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg,

  Ye’re an armless, boneless, chickenless egg,

  Ye’ll have to be put with a bowl out to beg,

  Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye.

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo . . .

  They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo,

  They’re rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo.

  They’re rolling out the guns again,

  But they never will take our sons again,

  No they never will take our sons again,

  Johnny, I’m swearing to ye!

  With your drums and guns and guns and drums, hurroo, hurroo . . .’

  Well, you wouldn’t believe the cheering and the weeping. The governor and the premier came over and stood with us, together with Wendy and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan, while the aide-de-camp used Jimmy’s camera to take a photograph. Then the two dignitaries stood with Jimmy and me and he took another. There was also a press photographer snapping away for all he was worth, like we were really important.

  What a day it turned out to be. Gloria not only saw me get the medal; she’d come full circle. It had taken a hundred years to return to Government House and to openly sing a song her great-grandmother had played on the harp as a protest against the English killings in Ireland. Every disgrace ban that ever was had been lifted, and as for a pinch of the proverbial – that too had been blown to smithereens. It would have been perfect except for two things: Jimmy not being allowed to stay, but I comforted myself that that wasn’t over yet, and darling Wendy being put through the agony of Bluey Walsh’s death. Oh God, I loved her so much!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Admission Impossible

  Jimmy gave Wendy the film he’d taken at Government House to be developed at the chemist shop. She visited the island the following weekend and brought the photos with her. Jimmy selected several to be blown up as keepsakes for the family and unbeknownst to us asked Wendy to have each of these framed as his farewell gifts to us before leaving to demob in Japan.

  Wendy packed them with enormous care in tissue paper and several layers of protective cardboard, then sent them via Douglas DC3 air freight. She was not prepared to trust the Busta Gut delivery system and its casual approach to parcels, known to be even more unreliable and careless than in the case of letters or telegrams. A precious parcel was likely to lie in his van at the bottom of a pile of heavy objects for days so that the originally posted version seldom resembled the one he eventually delivered. Busta Gut would hand over a badly mangled parcel with the words, ‘Me mum’s very sorry. She says they must’a damaged it in the post.’ It never occurred to him that he was the they. He’d shrug philosophically and announce, ‘’Fraid yiz’ll have to blame the queen,’ which was his much-loved private joke, delivered with a serious face. Once you’d turned to go back indoors the cretinous bugger would snigger behind his hand, enjoying his joke for the hundredth time. For this reason he was also referred to on the island as ‘The Royal Saboteur’, because he seemed to do everything possible to sabotage the Royal Australian Postal Service.

  In addition to the photographs Jimmy had taken and had framed, he organised for Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan to get the three official press photographs – one of the group of us standing with the governor and Sir Robert Cosgrove, the Tasmanian Premier; one with Jimmy, me and the two bigwigs; and the official photograph of me receiving my medal.

  He sent these to Wendy to be framed in solid-silver frames. With the addition of the new framed photographs Gloria’s cluttered kitchen mantelpiece was finally stretched to capacity, with various objects teetering on the edges. When the three splendid silver frames arrived it meant removing treasures from the back of the shelf that hadn’t been seen since my childhood.

  We watched as Gloria picked up a small, faded, orange-coloured cardboard box, scuffed at the corners and generally much the worse for wear, and hugged it to her chest. ‘Your father brought these for me the fir
st time he came calling,’ she said, suddenly all misty-eyed. I couldn’t help wondering if Alf had bought the small box of MacRobertson’s ‘Old Gold’ chocolates with the same lascivious thought I’d entertained the night I’d called on Percy Pig’s wife, Angela. Gloria opened the battered box to reveal the little dark-brown serrated paper cups that had once held the soft- and hard-centred chocolates. ‘I can’t possibly part with this,’ she said, and placed it back on the shelf. She proceeded to do the same with every object in residence, including an abalone shell onto which Alf had scratched the first verse of ‘Summertime’ from the George Gershwin opera, Porgy and Bess. It had been a favourite of Gloria’s at the time and she now told us Alf would play it to her on his harmonica last thing at night – a romantic touch none of us would have suspected. Alf’s spelling wasn’t all that crash-hot, but then he was no worse than most of the blokes on the island.

  Summer time and the livin is eazy

  Fish are jumpin and the coton is high

  Yer daddys rich and yer mamas good lookin

  So hush little baby, don’t ya cry

  Happy Birthday

  Love Alf 8/6/1936

  When Gloria reached the abalone shell she started to sob quietly, again clutching it to her breast. ‘It was the tail end of the Great Depression, Alf hadn’t worked on the boats for a year and was thinking of rolling his swag and heading for the big island to try to find work. We didn’t have a brass razoo between us and I honestly didn’t know where our next meal was coming from.’ She turned to me. ‘You were just nine years old and your clothes were made from sugar bags. I remember how terribly ashamed we were because we owed the shop two pounds for groceries. It was my birthday and Alf went out and dived for this shell and cleaned it up and then wrote the words of “Summertime” on the mother of pearl, scratched them in with his penknife. He could’ve given me a diamond ring and I wouldn’t have valued it more.’

  Placed in chronological order, the pictures, ‘objects’ and paraphernalia on the kitchen mantelpiece represented her entire life. Gloria was a collector and a compulsive hoarder. Her kitchen drawers bulged with bits of uninteresting everything – scraps of ribbon, bits of string, carefully folded tissue paper, ancient coupons from packets of Bushells tea where she hadn’t collected the required number to send off for the set of EPNS teaspoons, bottle tops and lids, corks and bottle stoppers of various sizes that might some day fit something, and, of course, recipes. These were yellowed and crackly with age and had never been attempted – they were the ‘maybe somedays’ of Gloria’s cuisine. Her tried-and-true recipes were cut and pasted into an old, used leather-bound accounts ledger she’d found somewhere as a young girl. Its pages were covered with descriptions of various plumbing fittings, and neatly ruled columns showed amounts ordered and monies due, debits in faded red ink and credits in blue, all wrought in a beautiful copperplate hand over which she’d neatly stuck her favourite recipes using paste made out of flour.