Brother Fish (72 page)

Lady Cross will have informed you of the result of our subsequent visit to Hobart, so I have no need to elaborate here.

It would be easy to find a dozen good reasons why Jimmy Oldcorn should be allowed to stay, and I dare say the Department of Immigration has heard them all on frequent occasions.

However, the most compelling reason I have heard was the anguished cry Jacko made on the footpath outside the Immigration Office in Hobart after we'd been summarily dismissed by the redoubtable Mr Cuffe: ‘But he's my best mate – without him I'da been dead. Fair go, you don't let a mate down like this. You just don't do it,' he wept, totally distraught.

Is it not equally fair to ask that what is deeply felt as the correct and honourable behaviour between two friends should also be the way two countries that have fought together for the same cause, and that share a deep and abiding friendship, should behave? This especially when a citizen of one has saved the life of a citizen of the other? When both have put their lives on the line for their country? Is it not a question of decency and honour, a matter of being the quintessential Australian?

Mrs Holt, I ask only that you do what you can for Jimmy Oldcorn.

Yours most sincerely,

The draft was not signed.

‘I thought you were angry when I broke down outside on the footpath!' I said first up.

‘I was extremely upset for you, Jack. But it was dashed inconvenient at the time.'

Talk about stiff upper lip! ‘The letter's great,' I volunteered.

‘I wasn't looking for a compliment. I hoped you might be able to contribute to the content – it's only a first draft.'

I shook my head. ‘That's your department. Apart from writing home to Mum from Korea and once to you, I guess I'm not much of a letter writer.'

‘Nonsense! Have I entirely wasted my time, Jack McKenzie? When you want to be you can be very articulate. Wendy says you write lovely letters. Besides, you have a job to do.'

‘A job?'

‘Yes. I want you to write your own version of how and when you met Jimmy, and the subsequent time you spent together as prisoners of war.'

‘But that would take forever! I couldn't say it all in a couple of pages . . .'

‘No, of course not. We need it as an addendum. Mrs Holt will need something further to give to her husband to read.'

‘I dunno,' I said, scratching my head. ‘It's pretty blokey stuff. Besides, my spelling isn't too crash hot.'

‘You have a perfectly good dictionary and, if you like, I'll look it over.'

‘Jeez, I dunno, Nicole ma'am,' I said – because after all these years of referring to her as ‘Miss', that's what I'd finally taken to calling her, thanks to Jimmy.

‘“Jeez, I dunno”? I'm not sure that's even English, Jack!' she replied. ‘Now, hop along. I've got work to do.'

‘Can I ask you a question? I mean, may I ask you a question?' I corrected myself quickly. After all these years Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan still had me by the short and curlies.

‘You may.'

‘The letterhead?
Count
Nikolai Lenoir?'

‘My father,' she replied briskly.

‘Does that make you a countess?' I asked.

‘It makes me a very busy newspaper editor. Can we talk about this at some other time please, Jack?'

The editorial Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan wrote for the
Gazette
that day talked about the dictation test and explained what had happened to Jimmy, but it didn't scream out in angry tones. Instead, the editorial politely asked the people on the island to come into the
Gazette
office to sign a petition saying they wished Jimmy to remain on the island.

I must admit I was surprised at this passive approach. When you own a newspaper, even one as insignificant as the
Queen Island Weekly Gazette
, surely you'd use something like what happened to Jimmy in big block letters on the front page: ‘RACISM BLOCKS GI!'

I'd informed Jimmy about the letter to Zara Holt. While Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan hadn't exactly said she was going to go out with blazing headlines, her mention of writing an editorial had led me to assume this would be the case. I'd suggested to Jimmy to ‘watch this space!' So when the low-key editorial came out, I confess I was a bit disappointed.

But Jimmy saw it differently, and he proved to be right. ‘Brother Fish, Nicole ma'am, she done out-think us. She don't know foh sure how da folk on dis island dey feel, an' now she gonna find out. No pressure – jus' come in nice an' quiet an' put yo' name down iffen yoh want. Iffen she make it big news, she shout an' scream an' carry on – der always someone dey don't want I should stay. Dey gonna put dat newspaper in a big ol' envelope an' dey gonna lick da back o' Her Majesty head an' stick her on da corner an' send it to Can-berra.'

‘Mate, they don't get the
Gazette
in Canberra – they don't even get it in Launceston.'

‘Don't be too sure 'bout dat.'

I tried to think who such a racist might be. Les Kelly, maybe? No way, I decided – he'd be too pissed to care either way. ‘So what are you saying?'

Jimmy smiled and spread his hands. ‘It simple, man. When da minister he read dat ed-it-torial, he gonna say, “Hmm, that's a very reasonable approach”, it gonna reinforce da emotional exception he workin' on in his mind. Da one his wife gone put der foh him to cogitate.'

‘Cogitate! Jesus, Jimmy, where'd you get
that
word?' I held up my hand. ‘No, don't tell me. Nicole ma'am?'

Jimmy nodded, grinning. ‘I'm learnin' good, Brother Fish.' He tapped his chest. ‘I am improving ex-po-nentially,' he said smugly.

I shook my head slowly. ‘Watch out – she's got you by the knackers, mate.'

As far as the editorial not being the most effective way to go, I was quite wrong. By the morning following the printing of the
Gazette
there was a long queue outside the newspaper office.

People continued turning up to sign the petition for the next week, until we had 1600 of a potential 1800 signatures. Only the old and infirm hadn't made a showing.

The Reverend Daintree had even penned a sermon about Noah anchoring his ark on Mount Ararat and promptly planting vines. When the first crop of grapes was picked, pressed and made into wine, Noah became drunk and fell asleep in his tent, uncovered. His son Ham saw his father's nakedness, and reported what he saw to his two brothers. When Noah awoke from his wine and found out what Ham had done, he cursed Ham's son Canaan, condemning him to be ‘a slave of slaves' forever.

Jimmy nudged me. ‘Dat me, Brother Fish.'

The dotty old Anglican minister had then pointed out to the congregation that as far as he knew there had only been one Mrs Noah, and that the laborious study of the Old Testament he'd conducted throughout the past week had shown no evidence of Noah being a bigamist or taking a second wife. This could only mean, according to the good reverend's logic, that Ham was a half-caste and that all of Noah's sons must also be half-caste and that Mrs Noah must obviously have been a black woman. If this was the case then it automatically cancelled out the curse placed exclusively on the children of Ham, as we all came from exactly the same beginning. It was
ipso facto
entirely appropriate that Jimmy Oldcorn should remain among us. But after that the reverend lost the plot and complained that when the bitterly cold south-westerlies blew in over the island it was impossible to get anyone to hew wood for the manse, but that he had sufficient water in the rain tank at the back, thank you very much. He neatly concluded his sermon by thanking Charlie Champion for the half-leg of ham he'd brought over at Christmas, saying it was pink and not black and simply delicious and that on Christmas day he'd enjoyed it with a glass of Madeira wine.

We were just about ready to go with all the stuff we needed when a letter from Mrs Zara Holt arrived. It was short and to the point and seemed to have the right ring to it. Or that's what we told each other, even though it had been written on a typewriter, which I noticed caused Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan to wince. A slightly worried frown crossed her face when she unfolded the letter – she'd waited, not opening it until she'd sent a message for Jimmy and me to come to the newspaper office.

Miss Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan
Queen Island Weekly Gazette
Livingston
Queen Island

16th March, 1954

Dear Miss Lenoir-Jourdan,
I received the letter from Louise Cross written on your behalf and by way of introduction. She has become a dear friend since we met when we both attended the queen's coronation in London.

The very fact that she has been prepared to lend her support to you in the matter she mentioned in her letter means I too will try to be supportive.

Having said this, you will, I feel sure, accept that I must be allowed to make final judgement for myself and in order to do so, I urge you to send me the particulars.

Yours sincerely,
Zara Holt

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan held the letter to her lips and seemed to be thinking. ‘Hmm, she'll take him to the top,' she said, after a few moments.

I looked at Jimmy, and he shrugged. ‘What does that mean?' I asked.

‘She's the right wife – circumspect, clever and conscious of her husband's position without being arrogant. She'll take him a long way.'

‘But what do you think about her letter? Is it okay?'

‘Reading between the lines, I'd say it was encouraging.'

‘Well then, what next?'

Jimmy interrupted before she could reply. ‘Nicole ma'am, Brother Fish he done write about da POW camps, him an' me. He say I da hero,' he said, shaking his head. ‘He don't write nothin' 'bout da harmonica and how it save our ass more den one time. I ain't com-fort-able 'bout dat.'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan smiled. ‘I've read the account by Jack and I must say I think it strikes the correct note. I know how difficult all this must be for you, James, but you must trust our judgement. The people on the island have given you their overwhelming support and that's encouraging, but we're a long way off winning this thing and I'd rather gild the lily somewhat than say too little. I'm sure, if it were necessary, witnesses could be found to substantiate what's been said.'

I wondered how the hell we'd go about that or if many of the white American blokes who'd benefited from Jimmy's courage and leadership as prisoners would come forward to give him a rap.

With very few modifications Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan's original letter was sent along with an impressive package that contained the petition, the fifteen pages I'd written, the official press photographs that had appeared in the Hobart
Mercury
showing Jimmy and me standing with the governor and Robert Cosgrove, the Premier of Tasmania, who, by the way, we were later to discover was an ardent supporter of the White Australia Policy, so the photograph may not have been the greatest idea. Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan had written on the back of it ‘For interest only, this appeared in the Hobart
Mercury
'. She said at the time that she didn't want the minister to think we were exerting undue pressure or taking advantage of a situation where the governor and the premier had acted in a strictly official capacity. But she also included the official photograph of me receiving my gong. ‘It puts a face to the piece you've written, Jack,' she claimed.

We were just about ready to go when Jimmy produced two written pages and handed them to Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan, whereupon he more or less insisted they be included. ‘May I read this?' she asked.

‘Sure, Nicole ma'am, but yoh cain't change nothin', ma'am. Dat da con-dish-un.' Jimmy said it quietly but in an unmistakable tone of voice I'd heard before and which I knew meant business. It made Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan look up in surprise, not having hitherto seen this side of Jimmy.

She started to read and after a while I saw a tear roll down her cheek, and then another. After she finished reading she dabbed her eyes, sniffed and blew her nose real hard. ‘Oh dear, yes of course,' she said finally.

‘And da “Fish Song”, where you done wrote da music an' translate dem chink words, an' Gloria ma'am, her cray-stew recipe – dat gotta go in.'

The good thing was that Jimmy now had a say in the submission to Zara Holt. He wasn't sitting like a shag on a rock while others went to work on his behalf. He had a lot of pride. Lately he'd been going for long walks on his own and I reckon I knew what he had been thinking – that he'd like to crawl into a hole somewhere, disappear and save us all a lot of trouble. I guess he'd been a loner all his life. While I feel sure he knew we loved him, that I was his mate, come what may, love is something you've got to become accustomed to. If you don't get it early in life then it's bloody difficult not to secretly think of yourself as a bit worthless.

Take me, for instance. I didn't lack love as a child. I mean Gloria hadn't dished it out in great big dollops, and Alf hadn't exactly been Australian Father of the Year. But he hadn't been cruel or mean-spirited, and we'd known that Gloria loved us. Moreover, unlike a lot of island men, Alf hadn't taken his Saturday-night drinking out on us. If Gloria hadn't exactly smothered us with affection she'd nevertheless been fiercely protective of her children. She still got teary about having been forced to take me out of school at fourteen. There'd always been food on the table, and I'd had a happy enough childhood. Yet with all this going for me I'd still been pretty sure I didn't amount to a pinch of the proverbial. The Korean War had helped to make me feel more worthwhile and Jimmy had had a whole heap to do with that – much more than the medal, which could have gone to any bloke in our platoon.