The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  Burford snarled, “Back off you little shits. If I say ya can’t cross then ya can’t.” He swung the fishing rod again, somewhat hampered by the railings. The hook jagged the metal grille of the railings, jerking the rod to a standstill. The look of mystification on Burford’s face made Graham and the others laugh. This angered Burford even more as he turned to disentangle the hook.

  “You shouldn’t be fishing here,” Max called. “The sign back there says ‘No Fishing’. We will tell on you.”

  Harvey jeered. “Gutless little dobbers eh? You wouldn’t want to.”

  Kylie tugged at Graham’s sleeve. “We could always go back.”

  Graham clenched his jaw. “No!” he grated. He hated the idea of a fight, but he feared the mocking jeers of the bullies more. To back down would just make things worse.

  Max agreed with Kylie. “We can walk back to the road bridge, then come around past the Freshwater Lake.”

  “No, that’s two or three hundred metres back, then you have to come along the other bank there just past them,” Graham replied. “You can if you like.”

  Burford had disentangled his hook and again raised the rod.

  Peter started forward again. “You hit me with that Burford and you’ll regret it.”

  Burford swung the rod back fast as Peter came within range, then began the forward stroke. Two things happened simultaneously: again the hook unreeled, swung and jagged, this time in Harvey’s shirt; and Peter suddenly sprang forward. The bamboo pole came down hard on Peter’s upflung left arm but he missed the worst of the cut. He began punching at Burford who dropped the pole and began to defend himself.

  “Come on!” Graham cried. He motioned Roger to go along the footbridge while he began walking along the small pipe towards Harvey. As he advanced he saw that Peter and Burford were still trading punches in the middle of the bridge but Burford was backing off and yelling to his friends.

  As Graham came closer Harvey put his fishing reel on the railings and raised his fists. He didn’t look very happy, or very confident which heartened Graham who kept moving forward.

  The fight between Peter and Burford had moved back behind Harvey. This gave Roger a chance to dash forward. Faced with this flank attack as well, Harvey tried to retreat, half turned, and slipped. He seemed to dance for a moment then gripped the railings with one hand and swung at Graham with the other.

  Graham landed a solid punch on Harvey’s chest. ‘He’s right handed,’ Graham thought. ‘While he’s holding the railing he can only fight with his left.’ Heartened by this he closed in and punched again. Roger tried to loosen Harvey’s grip on the railing.

  As soon as Graham moved he realised he had made a mistake. Harvey grabbed his arm and began to twist it. Graham tried to pull free with his left. Harvey twisted and Graham cried in pain and snatched at him. He was off balance and clung to Harvey for support.

  Macnamara came running along the pipe towards them. Graham tried to pull free. Roger pounded Harvey’s fingers where they gripped the rail. Macnamara rushed to grab Harvey but Roger sprang and hit at him across the railing.

  Macnamara ducked, then slipped. He dropped straight down, to land astride the pipe. He screamed in pain, then buckled up, clutching the pipe. Roger turned his attention back to Harvey’s right hand. He gripped the little finger and yanked it up. Harvey yelped and let go. For a moment he and Graham teetered. Graham clawed at the railing and missed. He tried to pull free but Harvey was too strong. Over they toppled.

  It wasn’t much of a fall, only two or three metres, but it was into murky, muddy salt water. Even as he fell the words on the sign on the bank flashed through Graham’s mind.

  ‘Estuarine Crocodiles inhabit this waterway.’

  He had begun to panic even before he hit the water.

  Splash! They went right under. Harvey fell heavily on Graham and kicked at him. Graham struggled frantically, broke free, then felt a nylon fishing line wrap around his ankle and snare it. He kicked desperately and felt it tighten and pull him off balance as Harvey struggled to free himself.

  ‘Knife! Cut myself free,’ Graham thought as he squirmed and kicked upside down. He made himself go still as he bumped into the muddy bottom with his head. His fingers closed on his knife and unclipped it. Careful not to drop it he slid it out and felt down his leg. Water went up his nose and he feared he would drown. In a near panic he slashed at the fishing line.

  It didn’t seem to work. He began to feel his lungs burning. ‘Don’t panic! Don’t breathe. Go slow. Slip the knife in,’ he told himself. He curled into a ball and felt for the cord but Harvey was jerking it tight so it cut into Graham’s flesh. Instead he sawed at the line, cursing himself for not keeping the blade sharper.

  The nylon line parted. Graham pushed, lungs bursting. It was so dark and murky only a faint lightness told him which way was up. He broke surface and gasped in air. Harvey was thrashing in the water nearby. Graham saw faces peering over the railings at him but the fear of crocodiles was in him so they were just a blur as he struck out for the bank. The closest bank was the Edge Hill side. He floundered in mud, clawed his way up the steep bank through long grass and small mangroves and stopped on the slope of the embankment, dripping wet and gasping for breath.

  Harvey came splashing ashore behind him but stopped when he saw Graham with the knife in his hand. Graham looked around. Burford had retreated right off the footbridge and was just near him. Macnamara still straddled the pipe, moaning in pain. Max and the girls still stood on the far bank.

  Roger moved up beside Burford. Burford backed off, saw Graham only a few metres down to his left, then spun round and bolted. He ran so fast it took them by surprise. Then they jeered and whistled. Graham gave a dingo howl and laughed. At the Y junction nearby Burford went to the right and vanished from view.

  Max and the girls walked across the footbridge. Harvey stayed down on the creek bank. Max picked up Harvey’s fishing reel as he passed and tossed it into the creek.

  “Max!” Graham called. “There was no need for that.”

  At the end of the bridge lay three bicycles. Max bent to pick one up, clearly intending to toss it into the creek.

  “Max! That will do! Stop it!” Graham snapped. He eyed Harvey and Macnamara. Both stayed where they were and glowered at them.

  The group started walking.

  Kylie shook her head. “What horrible bullies. Why did they do that?” she asked.

  “Those are the mongrels who’ve been picking on me for weeks,” Graham replied. “I hate it. I wish they’d leave me alone.”

  Peter grinned. “That was a good effort though. Did you see old Macnamara slip and crush his nuts - oops - sorry Margaret, sorry Kylie.”

  But they all laughed. They walked along the left hand track into the park opposite the oil tanks, still laughing and discussing the fight. There was no sign of Burford.

  They came to Collins Avenue and stopped. Cars whizzed past in both directions. In front of them was an overgrown gravel pit, all tall blady grass, trees and lantana. Off to the left was a high concrete wall behind which were two huge oil tanks. These were set into the hillside. To their right the road curved to where a house and more oil tanks could be seen. Just before the house a side road angled up the hill through trees. Above it was a stand of bamboo.

  They eyed that bamboo. Some of it looked big enough.

  “What about one of those?” Max suggested.

  Peter sucked his teeth. “Aw! A bit public. It’s right on those people’s driveway.”

  “Let’s go up the hill and see if we can find a good one,” Graham said. He knew there was a public walking track that went up through the Bamboo Patch but it started several hundred metres further left along Collins Avenue and he thought it would be too public as well. So he led the way across the road and along a foot track which led up through all the long grass and weeds. The grass was dry and scratchy and there were prickles and large patches of sensitive weed. There were almost certainly snakes so
Graham went carefully.

  A hundred paces up through the overgrown old quarry they came to the ‘Bamboo Patch’. The bamboo was like a solid wall. It grew so close together that, except where tracks had been cut, it was very difficult to force a path. Inside it was so gloomy as to give Graham an eerie, spooky feeling. He had been there dozens of times but this time he felt quite uneasy.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE NEW MAST

  The bamboo patch wasn’t really very large. It was only about a hundred metres from one side to the other. There was no undergrowth, just a thick mat of deadfall. The group walked around the tracks looking.

  “Not much here,” Peter said. “It’s all pretty small stuff.”

  Most stalks of bamboo were so thin they could put their fingers around them. One clump of large bamboos looked so yellow with age and so rotten they ignored it.

  “Hurry up. I don’t like this place,” Kylie said.

  “Yes. It is a gloomy thicket,” Peter agreed.

  “There are mosquitoes too,” Margaret added, slapping at her legs.

  They stopped at a fence. Beyond it were several stands of very large bamboos, then a concrete retaining wall, and below that, a house.

  “These are the best,” Graham said.

  “We can’t just sneak in. They are in someone’s yard,” Margaret said.

  “We will just have to go and ask,” Peter agreed.

  Graham went to climb the wire fence. Kylie stopped him. “Not that way Graham. You don’t come in to people’s back door.”

  Roger led the way back through the bamboo. He knew every track intimately - and wanted to be out of the place.

  Max stopped and sniffed. “I can smell smoke,” he commented.

  Graham sniffed and looked ahead. Wisps of smoke were drifting through the bamboo.

  “There must be a fire somewhere,” Peter commented.

  In another twenty paces Roger reached the lower edge of the bamboo. He let out a cry of alarm. “Fire!”

  The others crowded out into the long grass. Thick clouds of smoke were billowing up the hillside and Graham saw leaping flames. The whole bottom of the gravel pit seemed to be on fire.

  For a minute the group stared in amazement. Then they began to cough. The smoke billowed around them, making their eyes water. The realisation that they were in danger came as a patch of molasses grass half way up the slope went up in a roaring ‘whoof!’. Flames leapt five-metres high.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Peter cried.

  “Which way?” Max asked. The track down through the gravel pit was clearly impassable.

  Roger turned. “Back that way?”

  “No. Not into the bamboo. Fire burns uphill,” Graham said. Margaret moved over beside him and quite spontaneously he took her hand to comfort her. She looked frightened and started to cry.

  Max started to go to the right. Peter yelled at him. “No!...cough, cough...not that way. There’s a cliff, then the naval fuel tanks. You’d never get through.”

  Naval fuel tanks! Images of exploding oil crowded their minds. Margaret gasped: “Oh my God!”

  “Left,” Graham said. He turned and led off, still holding Margaret’s hand. The others followed.

  There was an overgrown foot track threading the edge of the bamboo along the top of the quarry. In the clouds of smoke the track was hard to follow. The flames were crackling loudly and seemed to be moving up the hill very fast. Soot showered on them. Margaret was crying now, as well as coughing. Graham’s own eyes were weeping from the smoke. His throat felt dry and he began to fear for their lives.

  The path led down into dry rainforest. The children were forced back uphill by the advancing flames. A wire mesh fence blocked their path. Flames were licking up the hill only metres from them. They could feel the heat.

  “Oh hurry! Hurry! We’ll be burnt!” Kylie cried.

  Graham looked for an easy way over the fence. There was none. It was hard to see in the smoke. Then he heard the siren of a fire engine approaching. “Calm down!” he shouted. “We are just in the rainforest here. It won’t burn very well. Follow me.”

  Graham began walking down the fence line, just inside the trees. Burning guinea grass down to the right ten-metres away flared and crackled. Sparks and ash flew. He shielded his face from the heat with his arm.

  The sound of the fire engine’s motor could be plainly heard. There was a distinct change and it turned off the main road and went roaring up the steep driveway just above the group. Graham glimpsed it through the smoke and trees. ‘It will be making sure the houses are safe,’ he thought.

  Graham kept on downhill. They came to the end of the fence at a gateway on the side road, just near a clump of large bamboos. Without thinking they ran down through the smoke. They were past the flames now. Another fire engine raced past just as they burst out of the smoke onto the edge of the main road.

  A police car was following the fire engine. It skidded to a stop.

  “Hey! You kids! Stop!”

  Graham looked in astonishment as two police sprang out. He recognised the tall pimply one and his heart sank a little. Not him again!

  The other policeman began stopping traffic. A third fire engine roared past towards the naval oil tanks. Spectators began to gather.

  The tall policeman walked over to them. “Just stay there you lot. I want to talk to you.”

  The children looked at each other in surprise, tinged with apprehension. Graham hadn’t liked the policeman’s tone of voice. It began to dawn on him they might be in some sort of trouble.

  They were. A second police car arrived and a burly sergeant was brought over by ‘Pimples’.

  “These are the kids Sarge. I caught them coming out of the scrub.”

  The sergeant scowled at them. “We’ve had a report that a group of six kids; four boys and two girls, were seen lighting fires here ten-minutes ago. What do you say to that?”

  Graham gulped. He felt sick. At the same time his mind raced. Burford!

  Peter answered. “It wasn’t us. We didn’t light any fires,” he said.

  Margaret began crying again. Her tears ran down leaving two streaks in the grime on her cheeks. Graham put his arm around her and hugged her to his shoulder. Kylie came to pat her. She said to the sergeant, “We didn’t light any fires, honest. We haven’t even got any matches.”

  “No? That’s easy to check. Empty your pockets.”

  Graham released Margaret to turn his pockets out. He had no qualms about that.

  “So what are they?” the sergeant said. Graham looked. Max was holding a packet of matches. ‘Max, you bugger!’ he thought.

  “I didn’t light a fire, honest,” Max cried. He looked scared but defiant.

  “So who did?”

  No one answered. The sergeant glared at them. He gestured angrily along the road to where the firemen could be seen hosing the grass. “Bloody stupid! What do you think would have happened if the fire had reached those fuel tanks eh? There would have been a bloody great explosion, that’s what! People could have been killed. Now who lit the fire?”

  Graham swallowed. He pictured the navy fuel tanks blowing up. Nausea and fear combined. He looked at the others. They were all looking worried and scared.

  Peter answered. “It wasn’t us. We didn’t light the fire.”

  “Oh yeah? So who did?” the sergeant flared angrily. Then he stepped forward to stare at Roger who had been standing at the back. “Aren’t you Dunning? You are. You’re one of the kids who was in that gang trouble here last year aren’t you?”

  Roger nodded miserably. Graham saw tears flow down Roger’s cheeks. He knew that Roger and Stephen Bell had been involved in some sort of war between two gangs in which a kid was killed, just over there in the Pandanus Swamp, but he did not know the details. Neither had ever said although there had been some sordid rumours whispered about black magic and homos.

  The sergeant stepped closer to Roger. “So what were you doing up there? This is your
old stamping ground isn’t it? You up to your deviant activities again?”

  “No sir,” Roger whispered miserably.

  “What were you doing?”

  Roger pointed at the bamboos. “We were looking for a mast for our boat.”

  The answer so surprised the sergeant he raised his eyebrows. Graham spoke up. “We’ve got a catamaran. It had a bamboo mast but it broke yesterday. We were looking for another one.” He gestured at the nearby bamboos.

  “A mast!” the sergeant repeated in surprise. ‘Pimples’ then spoke to the sergeant. “I’ve seen this kid a few times. He and this fellow,” he pointed at Peter, “were the two we thought were firing a gun over near the cemetery last weekend.”

  “Did you?” the sergeant growled.

  Graham hung his head. Tears prickled his eyes. He looked up. “Yes sir. Only it wasn’t a gun. It was a cannon.” He described it, feeling a real Judas as it was Peter’s.

  The sergeant was even more amazed. “A bloody cannon! What were you doing that for? This I’ve got to see,” he cried.

  “We thought we could use it as a starting gun for our sailing races,” Graham said. “We just wanted to see if it worked.” He described the competition.

  The sergeant scratched his chin. He was obviously intrigued and mystified. “You’re not just making this up?”

  “No sir.”

  ‘Pimples’ supported Graham. “We’ve seen them out on the bay a few times. We rescued you the day you lost your oars.”

  Graham nodded, embarrassed.

  “So who lit the fire?” the sergeant asked again.

  Max now spoke. “Burford and Harvey and Macnamara,” he said.

  They all looked at him. “Who are they?” the sergeant asked.

  “Our enemies. We just had a fight with them over there,” Max said, pointing across the road.

  ‘What’s this we!’ Graham thought, both angry and relieved.

  “Did you see them light the fire?” the sergeant asked.

  “No sir,” Max admitted.

  “Did any of you?”

  They shook their heads. ‘Pimples’ spoke to the sergeant again. “I know the three they mean. We’ve had a bit of trouble with them.” He turned to Graham. “Aren’t they the three who swamped your boat up the inlet the other day?”