The Persimmon Tree (18 page)

‘So you didn’t find her?’ I asked, almost hopefully. I tried to immediately dismiss the name Mary O’ Rourke from my mind. When Kevin had mentioned his mother’s name the lyrics to a song I’d heard sung in a Rabaul pub jumped into my mind. It had been sung by a drunken Irishman, a broken-down jockey named Tony Crosby, while he strummed a very indifferent guitar. I don’t suppose it was much of a song but it brought the house down when Tony sang it and it had the virtue of earning him copious drinks. I learned the lyrics while playing poker in a room at the back. It was a story of four young Irish lads and their first attempt at seducing a girl in the pub, something I knew it was damn near impossible to do in Rabaul. To pick up a young white woman in the pub, that is.

You could get a mission girl for five shillings and a puk-puk girl for two and sixpence, but it wasn’t the sort of thing the son of the local Anglican missionary could get away with. The funny thing was, hearing the diminutive little ex-jockey singing about a girl in a pub in Ireland made it all seem so wholesome, clean and romantic. You’d imagine this girl with shining titian hair and rosy cheeks with skin so fair it was almost translucent. Whereas imagining a similar scene in a pub in Rabaul seemed impossible. There were the odd hennaed or over-bleached blondes, beaten-up tarts in their fifties known locally as ‘scrubbers’, and the rest were native women, black as the ace of spades, with skin roughly the consistency of a croc’s back.

Sweet Mary O’Rourke

We’re four young jocks who have a thirst like a drain.

We’ve been out doing track work from the break of day.

So now it’s down to the local to ease the day’s strain.

Two pints of Guinness ought to wash the horseshit away.

There at the saloon bar stands Sweet Mary O’Rourke.

She’s a long-legged young filly, pretty and frisky.

We’d welcome her company and a bit of small talk.

So we’ll lash out and buy her a wee glass o’ whiskey!

‘Good day, Sweet Mary, how goes the pretty one?

We’re four young lads who good company seek.

Would you fancy a whiskey and a rare bit o’ fun?

It’ll brighten yer eyes and add a blush to yer cheek.’

Now it’s well known Sweet Mary is fond of a drop.

‘Ta, lads, it’s Irish, pray… how did you know?’

She’s wiggling her bottom and she’s straining on top.

We’ve all got this warm feeling of fire down below.

‘Shall we have yet another, lads? What do you think?’

Mary’s skirt has crept up near the top of her thighs.

We’re laughin’ and clinkin’ with a nod and a wink,

All hoping we’ll be first to win this delectable prize!

Then it’s ice over a double Irish for Mary to gargle.

Her fingers are nimble and she’s willing to please.

Her flick of a fly button is nothing short of a marvel.

Is she checking for size or is she simply a tease?

One last whiskey! It’s clear we’ve won on this track.

She’s home and she’s hosed and she’s willing to star.

It’ll be a romp in the sandpit as she lies on her back.

Then it’s ‘Time please, gents! We’re closing the bar!’

‘Barman! A stall in the stable?’ we boldly request.

‘Rooms are paid in advance, lads, show us the brass.’

Alas, our pockets are empty; Mary drinks only the best.

We’re flat broke and we’re on the bones of our arse.

‘Come, lads!’ says Mary. ‘There’s no need to fret.

Such stabling fees would be my pleasure to pay.

But I’ve looked at the fare and it’s with some regret,

The bangers are too small to put on the menu today!’

The filly had bolted when we thought she was tame.

But she left this message with quite clear directions.

‘Lads, grow up just a wee bit, then we’ll all dine again.

When I promise to sup well on your rampant erections!’

Tony had a voice not all that bad, perfect enunciation and he would sing with a sense of nostalgia that touched every expat, even Mustafa Malouf, the Lebanese cement contractor. He’d be bawling his eyes out at the end of it. That’s the funny thing, it was a comic song, meant to get a bit of a laugh, but in Tony’s hands it turned into pure nostalgia and always brought tears to the eyes of the drunks. Funny, that. I pushed the memory of the song to the back of my mind and brought my attention back to Kevin.

The little bloke was sitting cross-legged on the deck, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose, staring at the deck between his legs. Finally he spoke. ‘I found her. At first I ask they know a Mrs Mary Judge. Nobody heard of no woman got that name. Then I ask them if they know Mary O’Rourke? Then it not too hard. I check all the sleazy saloons in the docks near the Lake. Pretty soon I get the nod, drinkers, regulars, who know her. My mother gone changed back her name.’ He shot me a wan smile. ‘Ain’t nobody like to sleep wit a Judge. “Son, you don’t want to go there,” they say; some they warn me she’s a lush, a two-dollar whore who done blow jobs for drinks.’ Kevin was close to tears. ‘Some say, I should try the Bosun’s Locker but leave my watch and wallet at home. I ain’t got no watch and there ain’t nothin’ in my wallet anyhow.’

‘Did you find her there?’

‘Nah, it was too late, she were already in the hospice wit advance Vee Dee. I seen her there.’

‘Did she know who you were?’ I felt trapped into asking. Suddenly I was desperately anxious to find a way to abandon the subject of Kevin’s mother.

Kevin glanced up at me, his expression somewhat impatient. ‘Course not, but she start to scream when I come in the ward, “Patrick, ya bastard! You fuckin’ dogshit! You left me!” She’s sittin’ up in her bed and she’s shakin’ her fist, her long red hair it flyin’ from her head, it got all grey streaks like a witch. Den she get hold a glass of water and she throw it at me. Der’s water and broken glass on the green polish floor and she’s still screamin’, “You left me with da fuckin’ stoopid ugly brat! Go away, ya bastard! Ya fuckin’ dog turd! Ya piece o’ useless crud! Fuck off, ya Irish motherfucker!”

‘The sisters dey is running every which-way, holding der hands against der face, shooin’ me out the ward. Black cleaner-woman come runnin’ wit a bucket and mop. Outside, the doctor, he says Mary O’Rourke she ain’t right in the head no more. I tell him I’m her son, my name’s Kevin, that Patrick, the name she’s yellin’ out, he my father, maybe he can explain to her?’ Kevin glanced dolefully up at me, his voice uncertain. ‘I jes want to see her once, Nick. Hold her hand, tell her it’s okay, I unnerstan’. Tell her maybe I can go to college. Make her proud o’ me. But he, dat doctor, he says it too late, she got third-stage syphilis, it the final stage, she crazy, she gonna die, I mus’ leave her alone. No excitement allowed in dat place ’cos everybody dere, dey is busy dyin’.’ Kevin was now sobbing softly, his little crew-cut head bowed and shaking, the bright morning sunlight shining crimson through his jug ears.

I moved and sat down beside him. Anna was the only person I had ever held in my arms. I knew I should do the same for the little bloke, hold his head against my chest, embrace him and comfort him. I tried to force myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’m no good at touching. So I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘Steady on, mate, take it easy now.’ It was the best I could do to comfort him. I felt ashamed. He deserved more from me.

Two days later in the midafternoon we were idly watching the sails respond to the variable wind. I spotted a tiny speck on the horizon that I took to be a lone bird, then realised its course was straight and steady. As it came closer the low throb of an engine could just be heard above the slop of the waves. I remembered how the Dutchman, teary-eyed, had presented me with the Dutch flag by way of a handing-over ceremony. With the flag hurriedly hoisted and the two of us waving like mad, the flying boat dipped its wings to tell us we’d been spotted and took a lazy right turn and soon became a slow-moving dot on the cloudless horizon.

‘If I’m correct we ought to sight the coast sometime early tomorrow and with a bit of luck it should be Rottnest Island. They’ve seen us and know we’re here so someone will be looking out for us.’

‘We safe, huh? No more dirty, rotten, stinkin’ Japs. That Captain Bligh, he sure know a thing or two wit the rope trick.’ Kevin reached up, grinned and patted me on the back. ‘You the best, Nick!’

‘Safe?’ I paused for a moment, trying to cover my embarrassment. ‘Yeah, just about, maybe,
nearly
safe. A sailboat without an engine is only really safe once she’s moored, and we’ve got almost a day’s sailing ahead of us. Right now, with the Japs practically in our backyard, everyone would be a bit trigger-happy. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the patrol boat from port defences isn’t a tad wary of us. Notice how the Catalina stayed up above two thousand feet and didn’t come any lower to take a closer look?’

‘Two thousand feet, that pretty damn low, ain’t it?’ Kevin asked, concerned. ‘They seen us good, they said so wit der wings.’

‘Ah, the Catalinas are strange birds, with only a top speed of ninety knots, they’re sitting ducks for any fighter plane or anti-aircraft. I’ve spoken to the crews who occasionally used to fly into Rabaul. Bloody deathtraps they are, made of canvas with no self-sealing fuel tanks, so if they cop a machine-gun bullet in a tank they’re history. They’ve got two machine-guns on board but seldom get to fire them in anger except perhaps at targets like us. On the other hand, we might carry a machine-gun and putting a couple of dozen bullets into their tanks wouldn’t be that difficult. If we were the enemy it wouldn’t be us who were the sitting ducks. That’s why they’re staying well clear. But they’re ideal for reconnaissance and coastal guardwork as they can stay in the air for up to twenty-eight hours. They know we’re here so their job is done. I’ll take down the flag for now but remind me to hoist it again around daylight tomorrow, will you?’

Sitting on deck eating the usual gourmet meal from the paddy and the sea via the cannery, I couldn’t help wondering if this would be our final evening meal together on board
Madam Butterfly
. I guessed I’d give rice and tinned mackerel a miss for a while. I was anxious to hear the remainder of the little bloke’s story and knowing this might well be our last night together I started right out, hoping to somehow skirt around the subject of his mother.

‘So, Kevin, you’re out of Pontiac, you don’t want to go to college and nobody seems too keen to give a reformatory kid a job. How’d you survive?’

‘Spottin’ pins.’

‘Huh?’

‘Tenpins?’ Kevin could see from my expression that I didn’t understand. ‘Bowlin’ alley, players knock down the pins, you gotta collect ’em and stan’ dem up again. End o’ the day, twelve hours, you can’t lift yer arms and your back’s broke, ten cents an hour so you got yourself a buck twenty. If you don’t work fast and the customers complain you keepin’ them waitin’, they don’t get their money-worth, that the end of you. There are plenty of kids outside, dey willin’ to fight you for that shit job.’ He looked up. ‘But that don’t last too long, my big mouth soon seen to that and yours truly is back on the streets where there ain’t no jobs for a kid who bin to reform school, ain’t no jobs anyhow comin’ out of that Depression, ain’t no welfare, ain’t no jobs, ain’t no hope. Ain’t nothin’ for it, I gotta turn back to crime to make me a crust, ’cos I’m starving, man.’

‘What, back to toilet windows?’

Kevin grinned. ‘Nah, numbers racket. That the funny thing, man, the wops gimme the chance, one of the wop kids from Pontiac who is out and he see me in the street. “Hey, Judgie, how ya doin’, man?” he ask me. In the reformatory Irish kids don’t talk to wops and visa-versa. I can bullshit, give him some good rap, but what the hell, I’m broke and I’m hungry and he the first friendly voice I heard in a while. “I’m on the bones, buddy,” I tell him. He gives me his hand. “Mario… Mario Parissi.” We shake hands, I never done that with a wop before. “You et?” he asks. I shake my head. He don’t know I ain’t eaten for two days. “Come. You eat pizza?”’

Kevin glanced at me and laughed. ‘Everybody in the world got a best meal. You know, the best dey ever had. For me that day in the Italian quarter, Maxwell Street Market at Mario Parissi’s uncle Franco’s Pizza and Ice-Cream Parlour that the best, the number one, all-time, big league, home run, best.
Peperoni
, mozzarella cheese, smoked ham, salami, cabanossi, other things I don’t even know you can get before, all sittin’ bubblin’ in this melted cheese that got a brown crust on top. I ate me that whole giant-size pizza. Man, I died and gone to heaven!’

‘Sounds great, I’ve never eaten pizza. I’ve only seen them in films in the cinema.’

‘Whatcha mean? You ain’t got no wops in Australia?’

‘Sure, in Sydney and Melbourne, and we had an Italian guy at school in Brisbane, good swimmer. Some Italian engineers I once met building a road through the jungle in New Britain, but no pizza parlours that I know of.’

‘First chance you get, take my advice, Nick, Italian sausage, the hot chilli one, that the main ingredient you want to get. Remember now!’

‘Yeah, okay, Italian sausage, the hot chilli one.’

‘It called
peperoni
, don’t forget,
peperoni
!’