The Fourth Estate (15 page)

When he reached
the deck, he dropped it into the gaping hole.

Lubji repeated
the exercise several times, learning a little more about the layout of the ship
with each circle he made. An idea began to form in his mind. After a dozen or
so drops, he found he could, by speeding up, be on the heels of the man in
front of him and a clear distance from the man following him. As the pile of
sacks on the quay diminished, Lubji realized he had little opportunity left.
The timing would be critical.

He hauled
another sack up onto his shoulder. Within moments he had caught up with the man
in front of him, who dropped his bag into the hold and began walking back down
the gangplank.

When Lubji reached
the deck he also dropped his sack into the hold, but, without daring to look
back, he jumped in after it, landing awkwardly on top of the pile. He scampered
quickly to the farthest corner, and waited fearfully for the raised voices of
men rushing forward to help him out. But it was several seconds before the next
loader appeared above the hole. He simply leaned over to deposit his sack,
without even bothering to look where it landed.

Lubji tried to
position himself so that he would be hidden from anyone who might look down
into the hold, while at the same time avoiding having a sack of wheat land on
top of him. If he made certain of remaining hidden, he almost suffocated, so
after each sack came hurtling down, he shot up for a quick breath of fresh air
before quickly disappearing back out of sight.

By the time the
last sack had been dropped into the hold, Lubji was not only bruised from head
to toe, but was gasping like a drowning rat, just as he began to think it
couldn’t get any worse, the cover of the cargo hold was dropped into place and
a slab of wood wedged between the iron grids. Lubji tried desperately to work
his way to the top of the pile, so that he could press his Mouth up against the
tiny cracks in the slits above him and gulp in the fresh air.

No sooner had he
settled himself on the top of the sacks than the engines started up below him.
A few minutes later, he began to feel the slight sway of the vessel as it moved
slowly out of the harbor. He could hear voices up on the deck, and occasionally
feet walked across the boards just above his head. Once the little cargo ship
was clear of the harbor, the swaying and bobbing turned into a lurching and
crashing as it plowed into deeper waters. Lubji positioned himself between two
sacks and clung on to each with an outstretched arm, trying not to be flung
about.

He and the sacks
were continually tossed from side to side in the hold until he wanted to scream
out for help, but it was now dark, and only the stars were above him, as the
deckhands had all disappeared below. He doubted if they would even hear his
cries.

He had no idea
how long the voyage to Egypt would take, and began to wonder if he could
survive in that hold during a storm. When the sun came up, he was pleased to be
still alive. By nightfall he wanted to die.

He could not be
sure how many days had passed when they eventually reached calmer waters,
though he was certain he had remained awake for most of them. Were they
entering a harbor? There was now almost no movement, and the engine was only
just turning over. He assumed the vessel must have come to a halt when he heard
the anchor being lowered, even though his stomach was still moving around as if
they were in the middle of the ocean.

At least another
hour passed before a sailor bent down and removed the bar that kept the cover
of the hold in place. Moments later Lubji heard a new set of voices, in a
tongue he’d never encountered before. He assumed it must be Egyptian, and was
again thankful it wasn’t German. The cover of the hold was finally removed, to
reveal two burly men staring down at him.

“So, what have
we got ourselves here?” said one of them, as Lubji thrust his hands up
desperately toward the sky.

“A German spy,
mark my words,” said his mate, with a gruff laugh. The first one leaned
forward, grabbed Lubji’s outstretched arms and yanked him out onto the deck as
if he were just another sack of wheat. Lubji sat in front of them, legs
outstretched, gulping in the fresh air as he waited to be put in someone else’s
jail.

He looked up and
blinked at the morning sun. “Where am l?” he asked in Czech. But the dockers
showed no sign of understanding him. He tried Hungarian, Russian and,
reluctantly, German, but received no response other than shrugs and laughter.
Finally they lifted him off the deck and frog marched him down the gangplank,
without making the slightest attempt to converse with him in any language.

Lubji’s feet
hardly touched the ground as the two men dragged him off the boat and down to
the dockside. They then hurried him off toward a white building at the far end
of the wharf. Across the top of the door were printed words that meant nothing
to the illegal immigrant: DOCKS

POLICE, PORT OF
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

ST.ANDY

12 SEPTEMBER
1945

D
awn of a New Republic “ABOLISH THE
HONOR, System” read the banner headline in the third edition of the St. Andy.

In the editor’s
opinion, the honors system was nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of
clapped-out politicians to award themselves and their friends’ titles that they
didn’t deserve. “Honors are almost always given to the undeserving. This
offensive display of self -aggrandizement is just another example of the last
remnants of a colonial empire, and ought to be done away with at the first
possible opportunity. We should consign this antiquated system to the dustbin
of history.”

Several members
of his class wrote to the editor, pointing out that his father had accepted a
knighthood, and the more historically informed among them went on to add that
the last sentence had been plagiarized from a far better cause.

Keith was unable
to ascertain the headmaster’s view as expressed at the weekly staff meeting,
because Penny no longer spoke to him. Duncan Alexander and others openly
referred to him as a traitor to his class. To everyone’s annoyance, Keith gave
no sign of caring what they thought.

As the term wore
on, he began to wonder if he was more likely to be called up by the army board
than to be offered a place at Oxford. Despite these misgivings, he stopped
working for the Courier in the afternoons so as to give himself more time to
study, redoubling his efforts when his father offered to buy him a sports car
if he passed the exams. The thought of both proving the headmaster wrong and
owning his own car was irresistible. Miss Steadman, who continued to tutor him
through the long dark evenings, seemed to thrive on being expected to double
her workload.

By the time
Keith returned to St. Andrew’s for his final term, he felt ready to face both
the examiners and the headmaster: the appeal for the new pavilion was now only
a few hundred pounds short of its target, and Keith decided he would use the
final edition of the St. Andy to announce its success. He hoped that this would
make it hard for the headmaster to do anything about an article he intended to
run in the next edition, calling for the abolition of the Monarchy.

“Australia
doesn’t need a middle-class German family who live over ten thousand miles away
to rule over us. Why should we approach the second half of the twentieth century
propping up such an 61itist system? Let’s be rid of the lot of them,” trumpeted
the editorial, “plus the National Anthem, the British flag and the pound. Once
the war is over, the time will surely have come for Australia to declare itself
a republic.”

Mr., Jessop
remained tight-lipped, while the Melbourne Age offered Keith C50 for the
article, which he took a considerable time to turn down.

Duncan Alexander
let it be known that someone close to the headmaster had told him they would be
surprised if Townsend managed to survive until the end of term.

During the first
few weeks of his final term, Keith continued to spend most of his time
preparing for the exams, taking only an occasional break to see Betsy, and the
odd Wednesday afternoon off to visit the racecourse while others participated
in more energetic pastimes.

Keith wouldn’t
have bothered to go racing that particular Wednesday if he hadn’t been given a
“sure thing” by one of the ]ads from a local stable. He checked his finances
carefully. He still had a little saved from his holiday job, plus the term’s
pocket money. He decided that he would place a bet on the first race only and,
having won, would return to school and continue with his revision. On the
Wednesday afternoon, he picked up his bicycle from behind the post office and
pedaled off to the racecourse, promising Betsy he would drop in to see her
before going back to school.

The “sure thing”
was called Rum Punch, and was down to run in the two o’clock. His informant had
been so confident about her pedigree that Keith placed five pounds on the filly
to win at seven to one. Before the barrier had opened, he was already thinking
about how he would spend his winnings.

Rum Punch led
all the way down the home straight, and although another horse began to make
headway on the rails, Keith threw his arms in the air as they flew past the
winning post. He headed back toward the bookie to collect his winnings.

“The result of
the first race of the afternoon,” came an announcement over the loudspeaker,
“will be delayed for a few minutes, as there is a photo-finish between Rum
Punch and Colonus.” Keith was in no doubt that from where he was standing Rum
Punch had won, and couldn’t understand why they had called for a photograph in
the first place. Probably, he assumed, to make the officials look as if they
were carrying out their duties. He checked his watch and began to think about
Betsy.

“Here is the
result of the first race,” boomed out a voice over the PA.

“The winner is
number eleven, Colonus, at five to four, by a short head from Rum Punch, at
seven to one.

Keith Cursed out
loud. If only he had backed Rum Punch both ways, he would still have doubled
his money. He tore up his ticket and strode off toward the exit. As he headed
for the bicycle shed he glanced at the form card for the next race. Drumstick
was among the runners, and well positioned at the start. Keith’s pace slowed.
He had won twice in the past backing Drumstick, and felt certain it would be
three in a row. His only problem was that he had placed his entire savings on
Rum Punch.

As he continued
in the direction of the bicycle shed, he remembered that he had the authority
to withdraw money from an account with the Bank of Australia that was showing a
balance of over £4,000.

He checked the
form of the other horses, and couldn’t see how Drumstick could possibly lose.
This time he would place B each way on the filly, so that at three to one he
was still sure to get his money back, even if Drumstick came in third. Keith
pushed his way through the turnstile, picked up his bike and pedaled furiously
for about a mile until he spotted the nearest bank. He ran inside and wrote out
a check for C 10.

There were still
fifteen minutes to go before the start of the second race, so he was confident
that he had easily enough time to cash the check and be back in time to place
his bet. The clerk behind the grille looked at the customer, studied the check
and then telephoned Keith’s branch in Melbourne. They immediately confirmed
that Mr. Townsend had signing power for that particular account, and that it
was in credit. At two fifty-three the clerk pushed E 10 over to the impatient
young man.

Keith cycled
back to the course at a speed that would have impressed the captain of
athletics, abandoned his bicycle and ran to the nearest bookie. He placed B
each way on Drumstick with Honest Syd. As the barrier sprang open, Keith walked
briskly over to the rails and was just in time to watch the rn~16e of horses
pass him on the first circuit. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Drumstick must
have been left at the start, because she was trailing the rest of the field
badly as they began the second lap and, despite a gallant effort coming down
the home straight, could only manage fourth place.

Keith checked
the runners and riders for the third race and quickly cycled back to the bank,
his backside never once touching the saddle. He asked to cash a check for 00.
Another phone call was made, and on this occasion the assistant manager in
Melbourne asked to speak to Keith personally Having established Keith’s
identity he authorized that the check should be honored ...

Keith fared no
better in the third race, and by the time an announcement came over the P.A. to
confirm the winner of the sixth, he had withdrawn E 100 from the cricket
pavilion account. He rode slowly back to the post office, considering the
consequences of the afternoon. He knew that at the end of the month the account
would be checked by the school bursar, and if he had any queries about deposits
or withdrawals he would inform the headmaster, who would in turn seek
clarification from the bank. The assistant manager would then inform him that
Mr. Townsend had telephoned from a branch near the racecourse five times during
the Wednesday afternoon in question, insisting each time that his check should
be honored. Keith would certainly be expelled-a boy had been removed the
previous year for stealing a bottle of ink. But worse, far worse, the news
would make the front page of every paper in Australia that wasn’t owned by his
father.