The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  The two boys knew better than to try and argue with their father when he was in a grumpy mood. They fled out the front door. Graham knew it would be no use appealing for justice. It wasn’t that his father was particularly unkind or unjust. He was just a hard man who was overworked.

  The game of cricket commenced, with Graham feeling sulky and aggrieved. He only co-operated after more threats.

  It was late afternoon before he could get back upstairs and by then it was time for a shower and tea. Then he had to do his homework and after that was feeling tired so he just watched TV for half an hour before going to bed.

  As he feared, they were required for work on the ship all Saturday. Graham resented it but knew that was unfair. The ship was barely making money. Each year the road network in Cape York Peninsula improved and more and more freight went by truck. Overheads were high and their father had to work hard to made ends meet.

  The five-hundred ton freighter, the MV Malita, was only crewed by five people - Master, mate, engineer, deckhand and cook. This meant that their dad was often on watch four hours in every twelve. But on this trip back the deckhand had gone off in a prawn trawler which offered better wages; so he and the mate had been forced to do ‘Watch and Watch’. Now the ship needed cleaning and painting and money could be saved if the sons helped.

  Early on Saturday morning, as soon as they had eaten breakfast, the two boys set off for Portsmith on their bicycles. It was a good half hour’s pedal but it was a winter morning. In Cairns that meant a clear, cloudless sky; and air just cold enough to need a pullover. Both wore gym boots, shorts and shirt. Graham had a battered old Scout hat on his head.

  When they arrived at the wharf they parked their bicycles against the shed and walked across to look at the ship. She was riding with her main deck just higher than the wharf as it was the top of the tide. Men were busy unloading cargo using the ship’s derrick.

  The Malita was fifty-metres long, twelve-metres wide and drew five-metres of water when fully laden. She was a typical coaster with raised forecastle, main deck with two cargo hatches, then a raised quarterdeck on which the superstructure was built. This was two stories high with cabins, lifeboats, bridge and wheelhouse. A solid foremast supported a ten-ton capacity derrick, worked by an electric winch on the fo’csle.

  The ship’s hull was painted dark green above an orange waterline. The superstructure was white and the funnel green with a black top. All was rust-streaked and stained by the weather. A mixture of familiar smells assailed Graham’s senses: salt water, diesel fumes, paint, hot oil, fish. It gave him an emotional reaction which was a mixture of love and hate.

  The boys walked past a truck parked on the wharf to the break of the quarterdeck and climbed over the ship’s rail. The mate, Steve Doyle, gave them a perfunctory nod and turned back to supervise the unloading.

  Walking aft they went in the first door into the dining cabin. Alex poked his head through the galley door and said hello to Pat Maguire, the cook. Graham didn’t like the man so he didn’t bother.

  The cook pointed aft. “You boys report to Fred. He’s got some jobs for you,” he instructed.

  Fred Polwell was the ship’s engineer. Alex and Graham went back outside and walked aft to the stern. Another door led down almost vertical steel stairs into the engine room. They slid down this with practised ease to where the two huge, thousand horsepower Cummins Diesels sat side by side.

  One engine was throbbing noisily to drive pumps and generators. The other was silent. Oily machinery glistened in the harsh electric light. The smell of hot oil and diesel engulfed them in a stench Graham found nauseating. He didn’t like the engine room much.

  A solid, middle-aged man emerged from behind the silent engine. “G’day kids. Just in time to do some work,” the engineer said, wiping his hands on oily cotton waste.

  “Hello Fred. What do you want us to do?” Alex asked.

  They were directed to what Graham had suspected - cleaning oily engine parts while Fred continued de-greasing the engine. The boys were seated beside metal tubs out on the open deck. The dirty parts were stacked on Hessian sacking.

  “Make sure none of that oil goes on the deck. If it gets in the harbour and we get fined your old man will blow his stack,” the engineer cautioned.

  The boys settled to the work with only occasional comments. They sat with their legs in the sun but after an hour it was so warm they removed their pullovers and edged back under the shelter of the boat deck.

  The cook appeared and shouted down to the engineer. “See ya later Fred. I’ll be orf.”

  “Where you going?” Alex asked as the cook straightened up.

  “Home a ‘course. I ain’t bin home for two weeks,” the cook replied.

  “Don’t we get any lunch?”

  “Nup. Yer’ll ‘ave ter buy yerself sumpin’ at the shop.”

  Alex turned to Graham as the cook walked off. “Did you bring any money?”

  “Not much. A dollar or two,” Graham replied checking the coins in the fob pocket of his shorts.

  Their next chore was to apply thick, black grease to a winch. Then Graham was set to work overhauling the falls of the port lifeboat. He soon tired of this and slowed down. His attention wandered and he looked over the side. The water was a dark grey-green. Visibility was only a couple of metres. He could see a shoal of tiny fish nibbling at the weed growing on the hull. A ‘plop’ attracted his attention. He looked up just in time to see a fair-sized fish leap from the water to splash down a metre away. Ripples and a swirl showed on the surface.

  ‘Something big there,’ Graham thought. He sat staring across the hundred metres of saltwater inlet to the mangroves on Admiralty Island. He swatted a sandfly and began to daydream.

  He was still engaged in this when Alex came up.

  “Stop doing that and go to the shop and buy us some lunch. Fred wants a steak and kidney pie and some flavoured milk and so do I.” He held up a $10 note.

  “You go. I don’t want to,” Graham replied.

  Alex swore. “Don’t argue you little wart. You go or I’ll climb up there and chuck you over the side.”

  Graham glanced down. It was ten-metres to the water and even as he looked several long thin fish flitted in under the hull. Then he got a glimpse of a larger shadow - or did he just imagine it? It was too quick.

  Alex threatened him again. Reluctantly Graham rose and climbed down.

  “And don’t take too long,” Alex added as he walked off.

  The shop was a good half kilometre or more. Graham climbed onto the wharf and noted the rail was now level with the decking. The tide was on the ebb. The unloading had been completed and the wharf was now deserted.

  Graham walked along to the end of the large storage shed and turned left out the gate. Then he turned right and trudged along past the dry dock and jetties lined with fishing boats and yachts to the shop. Twenty minutes later he turned back in the gate carrying two pies in paper bags and two cardboard cartons of flavoured milk. He had eaten a pie while at the shop.

  As he came in the gate Graham noted three bicycles leaning on the end of the shed. Then, as he walked around the corner, his heart seemed to stop and his stomach turned over. Three youths were fishing from the wharf: Burford, Macnamara and Harvey.

  CHAPTER 5

  SMITHS CREEK

  Graham’s steps faltered. ‘Should I turn back and walk right around the shed?’ he thought. But the bow of the ship was only twenty-metres past the three bullies. For a moment he hesitated, struggling with concepts of courage and cowardice and his own pride. Then he bit his lip and forced himself to keep walking.

  Burford looked around as he stood to make a cast. A grin lit his face. “Hello, here’s lunch being delivered!” he cried.

  The other bullies looked around. Graham felt his heart sink. With an effort of willpower he kept walking. He wanted to detour but pride made him walk straight.

  Burford put down his rod and walked over to intercept Graham. “Goo
d of you to deliver lunch. I was just getting a bit hungry,” he said.

  Graham turned to walk around him and made no reply. His vision seemed to have blurred and there was a muffled pounding in his ears.

  Burford sidestepped to block his path. “Don’t just walk past me, you little shit!” he snarled.

  Graham again tried to walk past. Burford sidestepped and grabbed his arm.

  “Let me go!” Graham said. He seemed to have trouble speaking and it came out as a quavering croak.

  Burford laughed and tightened his grip. He seemed to loom twice as large to Graham. Suddenly Burford snatched one of the milk cartons Graham held cradled in his left arm. He tossed it to Macnamara.

  “Here’s yer milk Macca!”

  “Give that back! That’s my brother’s,” Graham cried. He struggled to get free and simultaneously hold onto the food and drink. Burford pulled at the other carton. Graham tried to stop him. There was a ripping sound.

  Splot!

  Graham glanced down and was upset to see a pie splattered open on the concrete. He was scared but now he also got angry. “Let me go you bully! That’s a pie you owe me.”

  Burford’s expression changed to a scowl. “Don’t call me a bully you little turd or I’ll smack yer teeth in.” He shook Graham by the arm.

  Suddenly the other pie was snatched from Graham’s grasp by Harvey.

  “Hey! Give that back,” Graham cried. His anger flared. “You’re just a mob of bloody thieves.”

  Smack! Burford’s left hand struck his face. Graham swung a punch at him but found his arm gripped and twisted up behind his back. A knee struck his stomach and he doubled up in pain. The other milk carton was snatched from his grasp and he was punched hard in the face.

  Afraid but angry Graham struggled fiercely but was punched again on his right ear. His head stung. To his dismay he found he wasn’t strong enough to break free. Macnamara had pinned his arms behind him.

  “Help!” Graham called.

  Buford leaned forward right in his face. “Shut up you little turd!”

  “No! Help!”

  “Little bastard. Chuck him in the creek. That’ll shut him up,” Macnamara snarled.

  “Good idea!” Harvey cried.

  Graham felt his legs grabbed from behind. Fear gave him strength. The creek! As the fear grew he kicked and struggled but they were too strong. “No! Stop!” Graham cried. He saw the edge of the wharf get rapidly closer and suddenly he was over it.

  The water was ten-metres below. Graham clearly saw the sucking whorls made by the outgoing tide around the wharf piles.

  With shocked disbelief he found himself falling head first. He had a glimpse of the rows of pilings under the wharf before he struck the water.

  Even before he had stopped going down he was flailing with his arms and legs. Fear surged quickly to near panic. He had his eyes open but all he could see was bubbles and shadowy murk. It wasn’t the water that scared him. Graham could swim like a fish, both above and below the water. The fear came from what he knew lurked in tropical waters: sharks, barracuda, jellyfish, and up a mangrove inlet like this, crocodiles.

  Even before he reached the surface Graham remembered the recent sighting by a fisherman of a five-metre croc.

  Five-metres! It would weigh half a ton and outswim him anytime. His imagination made him feel its jaws closing on his legs.

  On reaching the surface he sputtered for breath and looked up. All he could see were the laughing faces of his enemies. No help there.

  ‘Calm down! Don’t panic!’ his mind screamed in fear. He spat out salt water and took a deep breath. His skin smarted from smacking into the water and his head seemed to spin and ring. ‘Don’t squirm! Stop splashing!’ he told himself. It was the splashing which would attract the predators.

  Graham made himself tread water and he looked around fearfully, half expecting to see ripples arrowing towards him. Near him was a wharf pile but it was no use to him. Right up to the high-water mark it was encrusted with barnacles, oysters and slimy green weed. A glance showed that all the other wharf piles were the same. No escape there either.

  There was no way Graham would have swum in under the wharf. In the shadows the water was so dark he could see nothing and it only fed his fear with the dread of the unknown. He’d heard of giant gropers lurking under wharves.

  Sobbing with fear he looked frantically for a way out. To his left was the ship but it was no use. It was just a steel wall with no handholds. And it was a long way away.

  Graham realised that the current was taking him away from the ship. A wharf pile went past. He looked up, hoping to see a ladder. Some of the wharf pilings had ladders, he knew. None was visible. All he could see were Burford, Macnamara and Harvey. Their jeers and laughter added to his distress. Even if there was a ladder, climbing it would only lead back to them.

  ‘Talk about the devil and the deep blue sea!’ Graham thought as he looked around. He saw he would have to go down to the fishing trawlers at the jetty near the shop. It looked a long way but his brain told him it must be only a hundred metres or so.

  ‘Should I swim, or let the current carry me?’ he wondered. Swimming would be quicker but fear was gripping his stomach so much he seemed unable to move. He felt an intense urge to draw up his legs. His feet seemed to be dangling down into a cold layer of murk, like bait.

  He realised that hot tears were streaming down his cheeks. The end of the wharf went past. This gave the impression he was in the middle of the inlet. His mind told him this was stupid. He was no further from the shore. He looked at the bank. It was slimy, black mud studded with rocks, rubbish, broken bottles and young mangroves. Then he was drifting past the end of the slipways and dry dock.

  ‘Should I swim to that and try to climb up?’ he wondered.

  He looked around and saw that he was half way to the next jetty. Several dinghies were visible there, bobbing on the current. They were secured to the jetty or to trawlers. They seemed an easier option and nearly as close so he began breast stroking towards them. The panic had subsided but raw fear remained and it took all his willpower to make his arms and legs move. His brain told him that if he did not the current would carry him on past the trawler.

  In the end he had to swim hard to reach the last dinghy. Thankfully he reached out to grasp the gunwale. Heedless of scraped stomach and knees he heaved himself aboard and sprawled in the bottom.

  With a loud sigh he rolled over into a more comfortable position. For a moment he closed his eyes against the sun and trembled. Safe!

  After a minute he opened his eyes and sat up. Ten-metres away a man was looking at him from the trawler.

  “Hey kid. You don’t wanta go swimmin’ in there,” the man called. “I seen a bloody big shark this morning.”

  Graham shuddered and looked at the water. “I wasn’t swimming. I was chucked in,” he said.

  He sat there for a few minutes recovering. In the distance he could see the three bullies. They had settled back to their fishing. Then another problem presented itself. ‘I was sent to buy lunch for Freddie and Alex. Have I got enough money to buy more?’ he wondered unhappily. He felt in his pocket to see how much money was left. Anxiously he counted the coins. Enough to buy another pie and one more carton of flavoured milk.

  ‘Should I go back to the ship and ask for more?’ he pondered. ‘No. I will go back to the shop and buy one lot for Freddie first.’

  Graham made his way up onto the wharf and squelched along it to the shore. By the time he had been to the shop and was on his way back to the ship he was no longer dripping, just wet.

  Now another problem presented itself. He still had to get past the three bullies. This time courage failed him, although he tried to rationalise it as just being sensible. Instead he went the long way around the storage shed. Before he rounded the far corner onto the wharf he paused and peeked around. To his shame he found his heart was beating fast and he knew he was scared.

  They were still there.
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  For half a minute Graham hesitated. Then pride drove him into action. He looked again.

  ‘They aren’t looking this way. If I cross to the outside of the wharf those crates will hide me for half the distance and I can run the rest - I hope!’

  Clutching the pie and milk Graham strode quickly out from cover, hating the whole situation. He was sweating yet he was cold. Worse still, he was ashamed of himself.

  It wasn’t till he was twenty paces past the stack of wooden crates that Harvey glanced round and saw him. Graham felt his heart come up in his throat and his stomach churn. Harvey spoke to the others and Graham watched in trepidation as all their heads turned. Somehow he kept walking. Each step took him nearer to the stern of the ship. Anxiously he gauged the distance. ‘I’m closer to the ship than them,’ he thought. With a feeling of relief he walked the last few paces, pretending to look at the mangroves across the channel. Then he scuttled aboard.

  For a moment he just stood behind the deckhouse and trembled. Then he forced himself to face Alex.

  “Whadya mean you didn’t bring me anything!” Alex demanded.

  Graham indicated his damp clothes and told his story. Alex wasn’t convinced. “What three bullies?” he snorted. He walked out onto the deck and looked. “You’re lying, you little guts. There’s no-one there.”

  Graham followed him out and shook his head in dismay. “They were there Alex! They were! Burford, Macnamara and Harvey. You know them. They took it. Look, there’s one of the pies on the wharf.”

  “Poop! You probably just dropped it,” Alex snorted angrily. “I’m bloody hungry. Go and get me another one.”

  “I haven’t got enough money.”

  The argument went on till Freddie called on them to ‘stow it’ and put them back to work - wisely at different ends of the ship.

  At 4:30pm the two boys hopped on their bikes and began the long pedal home. As they passed the Showgrounds and were approaching the fiveways Graham noticed three figures in white following them on bicycles. He looked more carefully and saw that they were navy cadets. For a moment he felt a sharp pang of regret. Then he recognised them.