Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  The old copper had proved very efficient over the years. Maggie had gladly donated it in order to preserve her kitchen from the stench of seafood and the assault of grey gunge boiling out of huge pots over her stove. By then she'd acquired her brand new washing machine with its labour-saving hand-operated wringer, so she didn't need the old copper.

  Jim McAllister was not a wealthy man. He was an agriculturalist employed by the government, and the comfortable middle-class existence he provided for his wife and children was the direct result of hard work. He'd put a deposit on the old house shortly before his marriage with a small inheritance he'd received from his grandparents, and after that it had been his own labours and Maggie's clever budgeting that had paid it off.

  A stalwart member of Claremont Yacht Club and a keen yachtsman, Jim was also a talented carpenter, and boat-building had become his leisure-time passion. Alana, his pride and joy, was the result of a year's relentless weekend labour, and he raced her regularly in the CYC meets. But, unlike many a boating man, Jim shared his yacht with his family. Alana had provided successful Christmas holidays at Rottnest Island for the past several years, despite the cramped living accommodation aboard, and her mooring at Rotto's Thomson Bay had become the McAllisters' annual retreat.

  Jim was currently applying his boat-building skills to the restoration of a dilapidated second-hand Vee Jay he'd acquired for his son. Mike would soon be twelve, and twelve was a good age for a boy to have a racing yacht.

  Jim and Maggie McAllister were caring parents, but they weren't physically demonstrative. It wasn't the nature of either to cuddle and cosset their children, and Jim could at times be a strict disciplinarian. He was rarely unfair and rarely lost his temper, but when true disobedience demanded retribution he believed in corporal punishment. That was when the slim bamboo stick, which remained threateningly on top of the wardrobe, came into play. It was pliable and whip-like, and several smart blows to the bended backside, even through clothes, delivered a hefty sting. But Jim wasn't without a sense of humour. The day the kids nicked the stick and replaced it with the rolled-up and firmly taped newspaper that was reserved for Baxter when he was going through one of his chewing or digging phases, and which made a heck of a racket but didn't hurt, Jim allowed himself to see the funny side.

  Maggie McAllister, far less conventional than her husband, had a very clearly defined sense of humour. She was not a water baby herself, and remained seated on a deckchair under a large-brimmed hat reading a book while her husband and children cavorted in the river or the sea. Nor was she a boating person, and steadfastly refused to adopt the jargon. 'Port' and 'starboard' remained 'left' and 'right', 'aft' and 'forward' were the 'blunt end' and the 'pointy end', and the galley, the cabin and the head were the kitchen, bedroom and toilet respectively. It became a running family gag, and Maggie enjoyed being the butt of the joke during the annual holidays at Rotto, which was the only time she ever set foot on Alana.

  An attractive woman, she'd been a dedicated teacher, but had given up her career to raise a family, as most of her contemporaries had done. But unlike her contemporaries, she'd returned to work when her children were both of school age. 'Relief teaching – just three days a week,' she'd assured her husband. Jim, a conservative man, had found his wife's decision confronting at first, but he hadn't stood in her way. Maggie was a clever and imaginative woman who needed mental stimulation, and he decided to ignore the odd critically raised eyebrow and admire her for her independent spirit.

  Maggie instilled her own form of discipline in her children by appealing to their basic common sense.

  'Wendy Halliday's mum chops it up fine.' Nine-year-old Jools was propped against the kitchen's Laminex-topped island bench, chin on fists, critically watching her mother tear up the lettuce.

  'Oh dear, I suppose that makes me a bad mum.'

  'Well, no . . .' That hadn't been exactly what Jools had meant.

  'It's a pity they don't teach you how to be a mum. I wonder if I could start taking lessons?'

  'I just meant that –'

  'Mind you, there are probably quite a lot of different ways to make a salad when you consider it. What do you think, Jools?'

  Jools pondered the question, which had been offered in all seriousness, and, as she viewed the array of salads and herbs on the kitchen bench, she also pondered the options it raised.

  'Yep,' she said. 'I bet there'd be lots and lots of different ways.'

  The quickly developing independent streak in Jools came directly from her mother.

  Jim McAllister's effect upon his children, apart from his disciplinary measures, was by example. He was an accomplished man. Heralded during his university days as a sportsman, he'd retained his fitness, and at forty could defeat men half his age on a tennis court. Furthermore, he was academically respected. One of the government's leading agriculturalists, he was currently working on the Ord River Scheme, the audacious and innovative irrigation system intended to cultivate the arid north of the state. Jim was an all-rounder, good at anything he tackled, and it rubbed off on his children. They wanted to be able to swim like Dad, and to handle a boat like Dad, and to gather mussels from down deep just like Dad did. They'd been emulating him from their earliest years.

  Now that Mike had turned twelve, and was about to embark the following year upon his secondary school education, he wanted more than ever to emulate his father. He wanted to do important work, work that really meant something, work like his dad did.

  'I'm going to be a scientist.'

  'You mean space rockets and all that sort of stuff?' Spud Farrell was impressed.

  It was lunchtime and, having kicked the footie around, the boys were sitting on one of the benches in the school's gravel playground, empty lunchboxes beside them, swigging back the remnants of their milk. The miniature bottles were doled out at midday and were always lukewarm, particularly on a hot summer's day like today. But the kids drank them uncomplainingly nonetheless.

  Claremont Primary School was a couple of blocks from the McAllister house, in Bay View Terrace, which led up the hill to the suburb's village centre. Its location was even more convenient for Spud, who lived just around the corner in Pennell Road.

  The boys had been discussing their forthcoming exams. The students of sixth standard A were to sit for the Perth Modern School state-wide scholarship and entrance examinations, which were held every year. Perth Modern School, or 'Mod' as it was known, took the top sixty boys and top sixty girls across the state into their seventh standard. It was the beginning of secondary school and serious stuff, and the boys' conversation had progressed to ambition. Spud's was simple – he wanted to be rich.

  'No, not rockets,' Mike corrected him. 'I'm going to be a scientist, like my dad.'

  'But your dad works for the Department of Agriculture.'

  Spud's tone was dismissive and Mike couldn't help but register it.

  'Yeah, but he's still a scientist,' he protested.

  There was a pause. Spud's scepticism was so obvious that Mike took offence.

  'He is so! You should do your homework, Spud,' he said as scathingly as possible. 'Agriculture's a science, you know.'

  'All right, all right, keep your hair on.' Spud backed away, hands in the air in mock surrender, a look of wounded surprise on his face. 'Strewth, I didn't even say anything, there's no need to jump down my throat.'

  His reaction was so successfully that of the wrongfully accused that Mike felt guilty, just as Spud intended he should.

  'Sorry,' he muttered, aware that he'd over-reacted, but still smarting at Spud's inferred slur upon his dad.

  'Cripes, Mikey, I wouldn't say anything against your old man.' Spud chose a different tack. 'Your dad's a top bloke.' Manipulative as he was, Spud was genuinely keen to make amends. Mikey McAllister was his best mate – heck, they were so close that he was the only one allowed to call him Mikey, and that really meant something.

  'I only wish my old man was more like him,' he said, and this
time it wasn't altogether an act. Not that he'd swap his old man for Mr McAllister – well, not when the old man was halfway sober, anyway – but cripes, look at what Mikey had! That great big house, holidays at Rotto on his dad's yacht, and his old man had just given him a Vee Jay for his twelfth birthday! Whether Mr McAllister qualified as a real scientist or not – and Spud was doubtful of the fact – the bloke was one heck of a dad. 'My old man could take a leaf out of your dad's book,' he added, 'and that's the truth.'

  Spud had been two years old when his family had emigrated from Ireland and he was a dinky-di Aussie – all the Farrells were, they'd embraced citizenship and were proudly Australian – but Spud had adopted quite a few of his father's phrases, and on occasion sounded very like Sean Farrell himself.

  Mike was tempted to call Spud's bluff and tell him to stop bunging on. He admired his friend's talent as a con man – it had got them out of trouble on many an occasion – but he didn't like it when Spud practised his talents on him, which he suspected might be the case right now. But then he couldn't be sure. It was often the way with Spud – it was hard to tell sometimes when he was conning and when he wasn't, even for Mike, and they were best mates, which, he supposed, showed just how clever Spud was. But for all Spud's cleverness, Mike sometimes felt sorry for him. Spud did it hard. An early morning paper run before school, babysitting his little sister every Saturday while his mum and his older brother and sister worked, and a dad who was drunk most of the time. Spud's wasn't an easy life.

  Mike decided against confrontation and changed the subject instead, reverting to their original discussion about the entrance exams.

  'So do you reckon we'll get in?' he asked, ignoring Spud and picking up the footie that sat on the bench beside him, bouncing it idly between his knees on the pavement.

  Spud, aware that he couldn't get around Mikey as well as he could others, was grateful that he'd been let off the hook. He really hadn't meant to insult Mikey's dad. Heck, Mikey idolised his old man.

  'Sure we will,' he replied with his cheekily irresistible grin. Snub-nosed, freckle-faced and ginger-haired, Spud could be very beguiling. 'If anyone can get us through, you can bet your last quid Mr Logan can.'

  Mr Logan was a sure-fire topic for conversation. The one-eyed ex-POW, survivor of Changi, the infamous Japanese prison camp in Singapore, was a hero to every boy in his class.

  Colin Logan made a habit of sharing his wartime experiences with his students. He'd tell his stories to each new classroom of pupils who came under his tuition. Never in a gruesome way, and nor was he boastful – his stories were often funny, invariably informative and always downright compelling. He had his pupils eating out of his hand, and he knew it. Colin Logan was a born teacher.

  Spud's and Mike's altercation was forgotten as they talked about the forthcoming exams. Mr Logan had them all fired up.

  'There's not one among you,' he'd assured his students of sixth standard A, and he'd taken a slight dramatic pause, 'not one who isn't capable of making the grade and getting into Perth Mod. It's simply a matter of application and hard work.'

  'I reckon he's right, Mikey,' Spud said, with a self-assurance he didn't really feel. 'Mr Logan wouldn't try and con us.'

  Spud's doubts were not of Mr Logan, but rather of himself. He wouldn't be able to cheat his way through these exams as he had so often in the past, and even at his tender age he realised this was a defining moment in his life. He needed to get into Mod, it was his only chance. And he needed a full scholarship what was more, other-wise he'd be doing the paper run full-time, or working as a brickie's labourer like his big brother Eamon. And he sure as hell didn't want to finish up at the Swan Brewery like his dad, washing out the beer kegs and replacing the old seals with new ones. That was the end of the line in Spud's opinion. Not that his old man thought so. Sean Farrell thought his job was the best thing since sliced bread. Well, he would, wouldn't he? The brewery turned on free beer for its ten-minute morning and arvo smokos, and for another ten minutes at lunch break too. No wonder his old man was in seventh heaven.

  ''Tis a God-given job, Eileen,' his dad'd say to his mum when he came home via the pub, pissed as an owl and happy as a pig in shite. 'What other employer would so appreciate its workers?' And then he'd regale the whole family with tales about his buddies at work and the jokes he'd heard that day, omitting the filthiest ones for the sake of the kids. Spud had to admit that although his dad was a drunk, he was always a happy one. People liked Sean Farrell, they found him funny. Spud did too. His dad was always good for a laugh, but it didn't stop him being a loser.

  'He's a good man, your da,' his mother would say when she sensed her son's disapproval. 'He's grand with you kids and he's never laid a hand on me in anger. You've no cause for criticism, Patrick.' She always called him Patrick when she was ticking him off and Spud hated it. 'You could do a lot worse than your da, you know.'

  Eileen herself knew only too well. Both her sisters back in the old country did it a lot worse than she did. One had a husband who beat her when he was on the grog, and the other had no husband at all – Seamus had run off and left Mary with four kids just a year back. Eileen sent her a bit of money every now and then, from the wages she earned cleaning the houses of the rich who lived around the bay in Peppermint Grove.

  The Farrells had emigrated from Ireland shortly after the war. The Australian government's call for migrants and its ten-pound Bring Out a Briton campaign had been an offer too good to refuse for many who were feeling the hardship of post-war Britain. Sean and Eileen, together with their three children, of whom Spud was the youngest, had been housed at the migrant hostel in Bicton on Point Walter Reserve, the other side of the bay from Claremont. But when Sean had scored his job at the brewery, they'd moved across the river to the little rented cottage in Pennell Road. From there it was just a short walk up the hill to the Stirling Highway and the regular buses which, en route to the city, passed the imposing brick edifice of the Swan Brewery where it sat on the banks of the river in Crawley.

  Eileen had been happy with the move. She loved the cottage with its verandah and tiny front garden. She'd never had a garden before, or a verandah for that matter – they didn't exist in the back streets of Dublin. But after Billy's birth two years later, with their finances stretched to the limit, she'd told Sean they were to practise the rhythm method in order to avoid another pregnancy. 'If God considers it a sin, then so be it,' she'd said defiantly, more for her own benefit than her husband's. Sean was a lackadaisical, if not altogether lapsed, Catholic who only went to church to keep his wife happy. Their birth-control strategy had worked for a good seven years, until 1953 when a mishap had occurred, resulting in baby Caitlin. But by that time, Eamon, the oldest of the boys, was fourteen and had left school to work for a mate of Sean's who had a milk delivery truck, so there was an added income to the household. And it wouldn't be long before twelve-year-old Maeve opted out of school. Maeve had her mind set on working in a shop.

  Neither Sean Farrell nor his wife had received a secondary education themselves, and although they didn't urge their children to leave school and seek employment, they saw no problem if that was what the kids wanted. But Spud did. Spud saw a huge problem. His brother Eamon was sixteen now, a bricklayer's apprentice with no ambition beyond being good at his job. 'Brickies are always in demand,' he'd boast to Spud. 'You can earn a big quid if you're good.' And fifteen-year-old Maeve now served behind the counter at the Claremont newsagency. Her sole aim in life was to be a shop assistant in Boans Department Store in the city where she'd get to wear a snazzy uniform. Spud had set his sights far higher than his siblings. He was going to be rich and successful. At what, he wasn't sure. But the way to success was through education. And the way to education was a scholarship to Perth Mod.

  For the first time in his short life, Spud had truly applied himself. He'd received special encouragement from Colin Logan, who believed it his duty to inspire the under-privileged to seek an education, and who secretly h
ad a soft spot for the canny little Irish-Australian.

  'You're a smart boy, Spud,' he'd said. 'You could land a full scholarship if you tried.' A scholarship was the kid's only option, Colin knew it. There was no way his parents could afford school fees. 'But you'll have to study hard. No bludging. No trying to take the easy way out.' The one eye had flashed a distinct warning – Colin had never caught the kid openly cheating, but he'd had his doubts.