Jack's Island (7 page)

I opened my eyes and looked about. The smell of bacon drifted into my bedroom. We always had a good fry-up on Sundays whenever the rations allowed, which hadn't been too often lately. Mum banged on my door and walked straight in.

‘We'll be off to church after breakfast,' she said. ‘But you can stay in bed this morning if you like. Just this once, mind.'

Wow, that'd never happened before. I'd have to try and get killed more often.

‘When we get back we're all going to see Captain Jansen,' she continued. ‘I'll leave your breakfast in the oven.'

Little Eric and Christian sat on the wall at the front of their house idly chucking rocks at a tin can on the other side of the road. They were pretty good shots. They slid off the wall when they saw us coming.

‘Christian, Eric,' Mum said, smiling at their manners. They were obviously well brought-up young men, unlike her rebellious, badly behaved son.

‘Mrs Jones. Hello, youngster, feeling better?' asked Little Eric. He nodded at Dad. ‘Mr Jones. Dad's out the back. I'll just get him.'

Mrs Jansen came to the door and ushered us into the front parlour, as she called it. At Gran's it was the drawing room but at our house it was just the front room. We all sat on the lounge while the two boys collected chairs from the kitchen.

Red Eric stepped into the parlour. He had on a grubby turtleneck sweater just like U-boat captains wore.

My father stood and shook his hand. ‘Captain,' he said. ‘I am a man of few words, as you know.' He got that part right. ‘However, it's at times like this, when a man puts himself in certain danger, like you did, to help...' Dad didn't seem to know how to continue. He wasn't choked up or anything, more like lost for words. He'd never had to say anything like this before.

‘Captain,' he tried again before reaching down and picking up the brown paper parcel he'd been carrying. ‘Mrs Jones and I would appreciate it if you would accept this small gift, this token as a mark of our thanks in saving...'

‘Mr Jones, you have no need...' started Captain Jansen, holding up his palm.

‘Indeed I do have need. And Little Eric. Christian.' He looked at the two young men. ‘Indeed I do. I cannot be beholden to any man and you have no idea what your actions yesterday meant to us. No-one else would have taken a boat out in those seas. No-one. And Little Eric? Diving into the sea like that...'

Captain Jansen smiled. He looked at his two big sons and said, ‘I think I just might have some idea, Rob. I think I might. I'm very proud of them.' He ruffled Little Eric's hair like he was just a kid and took the parcel. Little Eric looked embarrassed. He was taller than his father.

As Captain Jansen undid the paper I recognised the polished mahogany box. It contained the antique matching flintlock pistols that had belonged to my grandfather in England. They were worth a fortune. He opened the lid, blinked and stared for a long time. ‘Rob, for the love of Odin, I cannot accept these.'

Mum rose to her feet. ‘For the boys, then. For their future.'

‘But your son?' Mrs Jansen spoke for the first time. ‘For Jack's future?'

‘He very nearly didn't have a future. If it hadn't been for you and your family...' Mum left the sentence unfinished, obviously not wanting to imagine her favourite son floating face down, or worse, bitten in half by a huge shark.

In the awkward moment and embarrassed silence that followed, everyone in the room had the same thought. Did any of us really have a future? Darwin, Broome and Onslow had been bombed by the Japs. The HMAS
Sydney
had been sunk just off the coast, and the Japanese invasion fleet could still appear over the horizon.

Then Dad seemed to relax. As he'd said, he hated being beholden to anyone and the pistols helped even the score. And as far as my dad was concerned, this was a big score.

Captain Jansen went to the sideboard. ‘Rob, this calls for a glass of my special winter warmer. In the old country we called it Thor's Hammer.'

Both Mum and Mrs Jansen stared at him aghast. It wasn't even lunchtime.

Dad sipped from the small glass and his eyes widened in surprise. He coughed several times. ‘Thor's Hammer, eh? For obvious reasons, I see.'

‘The nights are very long and very cold in Denmark. A shot or two of Thor's Hammer warms the blood,' said Captain Jansen with relish. ‘And guards against trolls.' He laughed and threw his drink back in one gulp. ‘Death to trolls,' he said before reaching for the bottle again.

That afternoon I had to chop the wood and do extra chores because as soon as we got home Dad stumbled straight into bed and stayed there until the next morning. And boy, did he look crook.

Banjo and I were riding past the pilot's house when we saw the poster on the noticeboard. It was written by Colonel Hurley warning everyone at the settlement not to be alarmed because the army was going to test-fire the huge naval guns that guarded the island. Us alarmed? He had to be kidding. We couldn't wait.

‘When's it going to happen?' asked Banjo.

‘This afternoon. Two o'clock.'

Banjo looked up at the sun. We didn't have watches and we were pretty good at guessing the time. ‘We should just make it.'

I sighed. ‘Banjo?'

‘Don't say anything. I know. It's in the restricted area. We'll be shot. We'll be arrested. Blah, blah, blah. Are you coming?' He made me feel like a complete chicken without even saying it.

The main gun emplacement sat carved into the tallest hill in the middle of the island. The barrel of the enormous nine-inch naval gun pointed to the horizon, and concrete bunkers covered in green-and-brown camouflage nets poked from the sandhills.

We hid our bikes and started up the path we'd made to the hole under the fence. We'd dug our way under the fence months before, when the army engineers had first started work on installing the guns, finding a way through the maze of rusting barbed wire defences.

‘The Lone Pine?' I suggested. We'd called it that after the famous one at Gallipoli. It had plenty of branches and we'd be able to climb a fair way up it. From there we'd have a perfect view across the small valley between the sandhills, directly in line with the barrel.

The concrete gun platform was swarming with soldiers. They looked more like khaki-coloured toy soldiers from this distance.

‘Ooo-ooo-ooo! Me Tarzan, you Cheetah,' yelled Banjo, sounding nothing like Johnny Weissmuller in
Tarzan.
He was several branches above me and climbing higher.

‘Shut up. They'll hear us,' I said.

‘Don't be so daft. How can they? They're miles...'

One of the soldiers on the gun platform suddenly looked our way as if he'd heard Banjo. We froze. He turned and climbed down a ladder out of sight and suddenly, within seconds, the whole area was deserted.

‘Banjo...' I began, but then the shock wave hit me. I didn't hear the blast straight away. I just felt like a huge cricket bat had belted me in the chest, like a gigantic Don Bradman had used me for batting practice. The shock wave threw me backwards and I felt myself falling. I hit a branch and felt it snap, and then another and another cracked as I tumbled over and over towards the ground, hitting each branch in turn. With a sickening thud I crashed to the earth. Winded, I lay there staring stupidly up through the pine needles to the sky and listened to my ears ring as pain overwhelmed my body.

‘Jack? Jack?' I heard Banjo calling but he sounded far away. Then my head cleared slightly and I saw him. He hung from a branch high above me, his legs swinging like he was hanging from playground monkey bars.

‘Hang on, Banjo.' I stumbled to my feet. Every part of me ached and I couldn't get my breath. My left side felt like it was on fire. The ringing in my ears screeched and my head pounded. I jumped to reach the lowest branch and nearly passed out with pain, but I managed to haul myself up and grab the next branch. The rough bark tore at my hands as I climbed higher.

‘Hang on, Banjo,' I pleaded again. It sounded like a cough. Somehow I managed to reach the branch where Banjo hung, staring at me, his eyes filled with fear. He couldn't hold on any longer. I lunged at him with my free hand. My fingers closed on the front of his shirt as his hands slipped from the bough. I heard the fabric of his shirt rip as he dropped and then I felt my arm nearly tear from its socket. Somehow I managed to keep hold. My eyes closed and my heart pounded in my head.

‘Jack,' he gasped.

I opened my eyes. I still had hold of Banjo's shirt but now his legs were wound round the branch below. He had managed to grab hold of the trunk. We clung to the tree in silence, our chests just about bursting as we took in huge breaths. The smoke and stink of gunpowder drifted over to us, filling our lungs and stinging our eyes.

‘Are you hurt?' asked Banjo after the shock had eased. ‘Can you climb down?'

‘Well, I managed to climb up here, didn't I?' I said, more confidently than I felt.

We slowly reached the ground and I fell back onto the carpet of pine needles. Every inch of me ached.

‘You're really going to be in for it. Look at your clothes,' said Banjo.

He wasn't going to be in as much trouble as me because his dad didn't care what he looked like. But my mother ... My shorts had split completely in half. My shirt collar had been ripped off and all the buttons down the front were missing. The jumper Mum had spent weeks knitting had come unravelled and holes gaped all over it.

‘We'd better get back,' I said. I struggled to my feet but nearly fainted and fell back to the ground. A stabbing pain shot through my ribs and round my back. My left knee and my shoulders throbbed. Both my arms were grazed and cut and they stung like crazy.

‘I'd better go and get you some help,' said Banjo, and I saw the worry in his eyes.

‘Who from? We're in the middle of the Restricted Area, remember. Who can you get? Corporal Bennett said he'd shoot us if he caught us again.'

‘What about Little Eric and Christian?' he suggested. ‘They won't care we're here.'

By this time I was beginning not to care either. An overwhelming tiredness had descended over me and I couldn't hold my eyes open any longer. When Banjo headed off to find help I lay back and tried not to let the pain bother me too much. Fat chance. If I'd been squashed flat with a streamroller I'd have felt better.

I could smell cooking. I thought I must be dreaming. I opened my eyes and saw to my surprise I was in my own bed. As I lay still trying to work out what had happened, I overheard Mum and Mrs Carter talking outside my window by the washhouse. How did I get here? I tried to prop myself up and get comfortable, but the pain in my ribs instantly returned, stabbing me like a knife. Agony! I had a tight bandage round my chest and both arms were also bandaged.

‘Well, it seems mighty suspicious to me,' I heard Mrs Carter say. ‘I remember him from Subiaco when Martha Small—Martha Cook she was then—when Martha was working as an usherette at the Empire Theatre. She knew Clive then. Very well, I'm told, if you know what I mean. After her husband disappeared. Very well
indeed.
Dafty was born then, more than a year after her husband left. I'm not one to gossip, as you well know, but look at the colour of his hair. And his eyes.'

‘Mum?' I called.

‘Ah, he's awake,' said Mum quickly, obviously glad to shut her up.

Clive who? I wondered. Who could Mrs Carter be talking about? Did she mean Dafty's father? The only Clive on the island was Mr Palmer. And he couldn't possibly be Dafty's father. He was far too old to be a father, and besides, he had a gimpy leg.

Mum appeared at the door still holding the thick white stick she used for stirring the copper on washdays.

‘I hope you aren't going to belt me with that,' I said, trying to be funny.

‘I very well ought to, that's for sure. Thrash you within an inch of your life, you little blighter. The worry you cause me. You
know
the guns are out of bounds. How many times do you have to be told? I don't know how much more trouble you can get into. I really don't. And don't tell me it's all Banjo's fault. If it weren't for him you'd still be out there, being eaten by ants. Or worse.' She stopped for a moment, still obviously annoyed with me.

‘Captain Anstey, that new army doctor, has been round to see you. I'm to get him back here as soon as you wake up. He thinks you have concussion and broken ribs. He's given me this medicine for you. Three times a day.' She picked up a blue bottle from the bedside table and shook it. ‘It smells absolutely disgusting. And it serves you right. You ... you ... hooligan.'

She often used that sentence and it was usually followed by, ‘You're as bad as your father.' But not this time. Maybe because this time I was actually worse than my father.

I slept through that night and nearly all the next day, and woke with the afternoon sun streaming through the window onto my face. I climbed slowly out of bed to close the curtain. My ribs seared with pain as I stepped onto the floor. It hurt even to breathe. I dared not cough. I sat back on my bed and noticed a row of coloured starfish had been neatly arranged in a straight line on the window ledge.

‘Mum?' I called, ‘Did Banjo come round?' Who else would bring starfish? Bess, maybe?

‘Yes,' she shouted from the kitchen, ‘and Mr Palmer.' She appeared in the door. ‘And the Jansens. Mr Palmer's leg is still causing him gyp though. It's getting worse. I think it's infected, poor man. It must've been agony for him to walk all the way from his house. He left a book for you. Said you might enjoy it.'

Mum nodded at my table. A small black-covered book called
Coral Island
by R M Ballantyne sat there. ‘He said one of the heroes is called Jack and he seems to get into as much trouble as you do, though for the life of me I can't see how that's humanly possible.'

I smiled but felt uncomfortable. Mr Palmer was at my house? Bringing me presents? Maybe he was turning human after all. Then I remembered ‘The Highwayman'. About as human as Frankenstein.

‘And he left some schoolwork for you,' she added.

Once a school teacher, always a tyrant, I reckoned.