Jack's Island (9 page)

Each afternoon at five o'clock and not a minute before, I was allowed to turn on the wireless. It hummed and buzzed and crackled as it warmed up. Eventually I tuned in 6WF and after a while the theme music for the new kids' programme
Argonauts' Club
came on. It started with part four of a serial about some fierce smugglers and the kids who manage to outsmart them. Then Mac, the announcer, gave us lessons on how to make a kite out of brown paper, string and slices of bamboo. I thought that sounded like a great idea. We had plenty of wind on the island. We also had bamboo, but brown paper and a long length of string were going to be a problem.

‘When that's over I want you to go down to the bakery and get some of yesterday's bread, Jack,' Mum called from the kitchen table. ‘I promised Patricia I'd take her to feed the ducks on the lake tomorrow. If you hurry you'll make it before Mrs Owen shuts up shop.'

At least she was going to let me wait until the end of the programme. That was a surprise. I wanted to stay and hear
The Jap as He Really Is
too, but Mum didn't like me listening to that.

Before I could reach the bakery it started raining again—cold, driving rain that drenched me. I ran flat out but my ribs still hurt from the accident and I had to slow down and take it easy. I didn't have my hat on, so freezing cold water ran down the back of my neck. By the time I reached the bakery verandah I was soaked.

‘Young Mr Jones, is it?' Mrs Owen spoke like that all the time, turning every sentence into a question. Of course she knew it was me. She saw me just about every day. ‘You'll be feeling a bit wet and sorry for yourself, won't you?'

I nodded and shivered for effect. ‘Mum says can she have some stale bread? For the ducks.'

‘It's not for you, then? Stale bread and water?' Mrs Owen laughed. ‘You haven't been getting into trouble again, have you?'

I shook my head.

‘Had you better come in by the oven, then?'

It was murder in the bakery. I hadn't had a thing to eat since lunchtime and the smell of fresh bread and cakes was torture. Mrs Owen took pity on me and handed me a rock cake with sultanas. ‘You'll not be telling your mother I ruined your dinner, will you?'

I just laughed. She didn't really think I'd tell my mum. Who'd be that stupid?

On the way home I noticed Mad Martha, Dafty's mum, standing at the end of the jetty. We often saw her there, staring out to sea in all sorts of weather. Today she looked as cold and as wet as I felt, but she just stood there staring out at the grey sea, and the low dark clouds as they swirled and blew on the horizon, hiding the mainland under a grey smudge.

‘Look at the state of you. Not enough sense to get out of the rain,' said Mum as I opened the front door and handed over the loaf of stale bread. ‘Go and get those wet things off, then come close to the fire before you catch your death. I don't know, honestly. And what are all those crumbs on your face?' she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

‘I saw Mad Martha out on the jetty in the rain,' I said, trying to change the subject.

Whack!
I swear Mum's hand shot right across the entire room. She caught me under the ear.

‘Ow!'

‘Don't you dare call Mrs Small that. Ever. Ever again. That poor, poor woman has lost her only child. And who knows what became of her husband. I can't begin to imagine her grief.'

‘But she was out standing in the rain, staring out to sea,' I protested, as if that would make any difference.

‘Here, put on my coat. I want you to go down to the jetty and take Mrs Small some of these pasties.'

‘But I'm still wet,' I cried. ‘I'm soaked.'

‘In that case you won't be able to get any wetter.'

‘But aren't they for Dad's lunch?' I argued.

‘He can have bread and cheese tomorrow. And like it. Now do as I tell you.' She handed me a cane basket with the pasties wrapped up in a tea towel.

‘But I might die from cold,' I protested.

‘Good,' she replied. ‘Now get along with you.'

As I stepped out again into the drizzle, off in the distance Dafty's chook Lassie started crowing like it was dawn. The stupid chook didn't even know what time it was. But then it was in its nice new dry chook shed at Banjo's and I was the one walking down the street in the rain. Stupid Jack, more like.

Mad Martha turned when I reached the end of the jetty. She looked at me but I don't really think I registered properly with her at first. Water ran down her cheeks and I couldn't tell if it was rain or tears. I suspected it was tears because she looked terribly sad.

‘Mrs Small, I'm Jack Jones,' I said, holding out the basket.

‘You're Dafty's friend.' I was surprised she called him Dafty and not Tim. ‘I'm waiting for him to come back. He's been gone far too long. His dinner will get cold. He doesn't like it cold. Not his bangers and mash. Have you seen him, Jack? He talks about you all the time. You and Banjo.'

I didn't know what to say. I felt useless. ‘My mum sent you some pasties.' I couldn't think of anything else. ‘She makes great pasties,' I added lamely.

‘They smell good,' she said. ‘Dafty will enjoy one of those. I'd better get home and put them in the oven. He doesn't like them cold, you know. He doesn't like them cold.' She walked back along the jetty, water dripping from her cardigan and the hem of her dress.

I stayed out on the jetty and looked out to see what she had been staring at. I was thinking about Dafty as well. I must've stayed there for some time because suddenly I heard my name being called.

‘Jack!' Dad was at the other end of the jetty. ‘Your mother sent me to find you. What the hell are you doing out there in the rain? You'll catch your death. Get back here, now. And look at you, dressed in your mother's coat like some sort of nancy boy. For Pete's sake, get home before anyone sees you.'

A few months after Dafty disappeared, Captain Jansen found one of Dafty's new shoes and his sleeveless pullover washed up on the beach near Henrietta Rocks. With his death confirmed, the people of the island held a funeral service on the following Saturday.

Mum shook me out of bed half an hour early. She made me put on a tie and my good shorts, and then she slicked down my hair with Dad's California Poppy Oil. The hair oil stank like crazy but Mum reckoned it made me look like a movie star. Looking in the mirror, with my hair plastered down, the only movie star I thought I looked like was Dracula. But I didn't think it was a good day to complain. Mum was obviously trying hard to keep calm and, if not cheerful, at least normal.

A lot of people had gathered at the church by the time we arrived, both the Catholics and the Protestants, because no-one seemed to know what religion Dafty and his mum were. His mum was nowhere to be seen. A carpenter at the army base had made a simple wooden box for his shoe and pullover. It lay on the table at the front of the altar like a small coffin. The smell of varnish lingered in the airless church.

Captain Williamson, the chaplain, wearing his dress uniform and white dog collar, led the service. He slowly walked the length of the aisle with his head bent and touched the small box before turning to the congregation. His shoulders seemed more bowed and a little lower than usual. He looked tired, as if he didn't want to be doing this.

Colonel Hurley, the camp commander, was sitting in the front pew with his wife. He stood, walked to the lectern and cleared his throat.

‘Timothy, or Dafty, as everyone affectionately called him, was one of us,' he said, before pausing and looking slowly round the room, taking in all the faces. ‘Us,' he repeated. ‘An Islander. One of our small band who are here on our island at the first line of Australia's defences.' He paused, and swallowed several times.

‘We often forget in these dark days that we are at war precisely to protect children like Dafty,' he continued. ‘The very reason that our young men are overseas risking their lives is for the sake of their families and their loved ones. Dafty was one of God's special children and we are gathered here today to ensure, in our own humble way, that he is remembered with the benefit of a decent Christian funeral service and is welcomed into God's care.'

The colonel paused again for a long time. Eventually he said, ‘We will begin with “The Lord's Prayer”.'

It surprised me to see about half the people immediately kneel down. The rest stood, but bowed their heads. Catholics and Protestants used the same church but at different times on a Sunday so there wouldn't be any fights.

The hymn the colonel chose was ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea', just like the title of a film we'd seen at the picture house. Pretty appropriate, I thought. You don't get into any worse peril than what happened to poor Dafty.

It was a very sad service, the saddest day of my entire life.

I heard Mrs Owens sniff. ‘That poor, poor little boy,' she said quietly. ‘He never had a chance, did he? Not in life and not in death. It's just not fair, is it?'

Dad had offered to be the pallbearer. When the service ended we followed him as he carried the box on his shoulder down the short, tree-lined road to the cemetery on the side of the hill. Mr and Mrs Isaacs followed at the back of the line. Dad and Constable Campbell, two paces behind him, walked very slowly, stepping in time. When they reached the small graveyard they used ropes to lower the box deep into the ground and then, after another prayer, this time by Captain Williamson, they shovelled sand on top of it.

Several people were sniffing and others were crying, but I didn't want to cry, not in public. Men didn't cry. I was far too big for that sort of thing, and besides, I knew that if I let go of even one single tear, I'd never be able to stop. I'd end up on the ground sobbing and blubbering like a baby. I concentrated on the things around me, trying not to think about them burying only Dafty's shoe and pullover because they had no body.

I didn't feel too good. I was hot and sweaty and felt like I wanted to spew. I felt myself swaying slightly, so I tried counting the number of pickets in the cemetery fence and then the branches on the tall Norfolk Island pine trees at the top of the hill. I'd reached ten when I caught a glimpse of white amongst the trees. Banjo stood, half hidden behind a trunk, all alone, perfectly still, watching the funeral from the top of the hill. I can't describe the look on his face; it wasn't sorrow or pity like most people at the graveside, but more like deep resentment, like he'd lost something precious and was angry. I caught his eye, nodded and lifted my hand to wave, to show him I understood that nothing would ever be the same again. That our best friend and best times had gone forever.

‘Stop fidgeting,' hissed Mum, quietly, and more gently than usual.

Someone in the crowd beside me shifted and brushed up against my sore arm and then my world exploded. I felt a searing pain, and then blood and pus gushed down my arm and into my hand. I looked down in horror and suddenly wanted to throw up. White lights flashed in front of my eyes and, strangely, I seemed to be staring at the sky. A roaring noise filled my ears and I felt as if I was floating. Coloured lights flashed through my head.

‘Jack?'

I was lying on a table in the church. The same one the coffin had been on only minutes before. Was I dead? I couldn't be. Dad and Mum were there, standing beside me. The coloured lights must have been the sun shining through the stained glass window in the rear wall. Mum held a wet hanky against my forehead. Surprisingly, Mrs Isaacs was there as well, kneeling beside me on the other side.

‘Jack,' Mum repeated, ‘Captain Anstey is over at the mainland and can't get back. Why didn't you tell me your arm was so bad?'

I think I groaned something but I can't remember what.

‘Mrs Isaacs has offered to help,' Mum said. ‘She has some medicine she says works for infections. It's traditional.'

‘Be still, Jack,' said Mrs Isaacs softly. ‘This is some stuff I remembered from my mother's mob. It'll help you.'

She had a jam jar filled with a disgusting-looking paste. It looked just like a bottle of snot. When she gently smoothed some onto my arm I jumped with pain, but the snot stuff immediately started taking away the fire, like she was spreading ice onto my arm. I'd never felt anything so good. It smelled a bit like peppermint and reminded me of all-day suckers. I almost let out a cry of relief after all the weeks it had been hurting.

‘You be a good boy for your mother.' Mrs Isaacs smiled at me after she'd finished. She knew like everyone else that I had a lot of trouble being good. ‘Be a good boy and keep still for two days, and then you'll start to feel all right. Not even a scar in a few weeks.'

How she could she be so confident it would work? Captain Anstey had tried all sorts of remedies but nothing had helped.

After a few minutes Dad picked me up as if I didn't weigh anything at all and carried me out of the church. Mr Isaacs swung open the large door for him. Mr and Mrs Isaacs were the kindest people on the whole island. The kindest people in the whole world, as far as I was concerned.

By the time Mrs Isaacs came to the house the next day, the red tracks up into my armpit had begun to fade slightly and the pain had lessened. For the first time in weeks my arm only ached and didn't throb. Even the huge, painful lump in my armpit seemed smaller.

‘A few more doses and you'll be playing cricket like your dad used to,' she said, opening the lid of the snot-like stuff.

Mr Isaacs didn't come into the house but stayed outside near the fence. Dad went outside too and they sat on the wall talking in low voices, but not so low that we couldn't hear them talking about the job at the aerodrome.

‘You'll have to come down to the pub next time I'm back from Crawley,' Dad said to Mr Isaacs. ‘We'll sink a few.' That was the name all the men called Swan Lager—a few. Not that they got to sink many very often. Five bob a day didn't stretch to too many beers.

‘That's kind of you, but we blackfellas aren't allowed into pubs,' replied Mr Isaacs.

‘And a good job too,' laughed Mrs Isaacs from the kitchen.

‘Campbell would have me in the clink before I tasted the froth,' he said, ignoring his wife.

‘I thought he was your friend,' said Dad.

‘He is,' replied Mr Isaacs. ‘I've known him since the old days. I used to do some tracking for him up in Mullewa. But you know what he's like—stickler for the rule book. He'd lock me up for even thinking about drinking.'

I couldn't understand why, but as much as Dad persuaded, Mr Isaacs wouldn't come into the house. He stayed on the wall chatting easily with Dad until Mrs Isaacs had finished.

After about a week Mum finally let me go out again. The infection had almost cleared completely and the angry red colour had turned to a sort of pale purple.

Years later, whenever anyone asked me about the scars, I would truthfully answer, ‘Oh, I got those during the war.' And they would nod knowingly.