Jack's Island (3 page)

A few weeks later we were at Crackpot Pete's old place up from Crayfish Rock at Stark Bay, searching through the rubbish scattered about. Years before, Crackpot Pete had built a shack from flattened forty-four gallon drums and driftwood and anything else he could scavenge. It leaked like a sieve, and stood brown and deserted as it rusted away in a small hollow in the sandhills.

We prised open the door but didn't dare go inside. The shed was dark and creepy. There was an old iron bed, and a small table and an upturned chair in the opposite corner. Rags and other rubbish lay strewn across the dirt floor.

Crackpot Pete had lived here by himself for years until one fine, still day late last summer when he'd sailed out to check his craypots and never returned. No-one knew what had happened to him. His boat was never found, not even any wreckage. Not a scrap. No body, nothing. He'd just disappeared into thin air. The men had searched for him for days but he'd completely disappeared. Since we'd found the gun and the helmet, people had been saying it was the Japs on a scouting party who'd got Crackpot Pete.

‘Reckon this place is haunted?' asked Banjo. He wasn't keen on meeting any ghosts.

I wasn't that keen on meeting them either. ‘It's ten in the morning,' I said. ‘Ghosts don't come out in the mornings.' I was trying to convince myself. It was bad enough to have to keep looking over our shoulders for Japs without ghosts to worry about as well.

‘Hey, look at these.' Banjo had lifted a sheet of rusty tin and uncovered about a dozen ship's pulleys. Large wooden blocks with four-inch brass wheels fixed inside them lay scattered about. Termites had made a good feast of the wooden parts. ‘We'll break 'em open and take out the wheels,' he said excitedly. ‘We can make hill trolleys.'

This was the best idea Banjo had had in ages. All thoughts of ghosts and spooky unknown dangers suddenly disappeared as we imagined ourselves racing down hills on the brass wheels.

‘Can we go to your house?' I asked Banjo. ‘My dad gets really mad when I use his tools. He reckons he can never find any of them afterwards. Besides, your dad has hundreds of tools.'

‘My dad gets mad whether I use his tools or not, so I suppose so,' Banjo said with a resigned shrug.

‘And we'll need some fruit boxes,' I said. ‘For seats. There's usually some outside the shop.'

‘All right, then. You go to the front of the shop and carry on like an idiot as a decoy while I sneak out the back. That should be pretty easy for you—carrying on like an idiot.'

But Mrs O'Keeffe had run out of things to sell and had closed the shop early and gone home for the day. We took two fruit boxes without being noticed. Then we hung round down by the ferry, watching Little Eric, Red Eric's son, wash out the deck of the ferry.

‘Bugger off,' he called when he got tired of us staring at him.

‘We need some rope, Eric. For steering reins for our hill trolleys,' I said. ‘Give us some rope and we'll let you have a ride.'

‘I'll give you a length of rope,' he called back, flicking us with dirty water from his mop. ‘Bugger off, I said.'

‘Aw, come on, Eric. We only need a few feet,' said Banjo.

Little Eric pulled out his clasp knife from the leather pouch on his belt and I thought for a moment he was going to kill us, but instead he cut off a length of white rope from a coil near his feet. ‘Here. Go hang yourselves. Now bugger off.' By the afternoon we'd built the two best hill trolleys the world had ever seen. They each had a fruit box with the front cut out for a seat, a wooden T-shape for steering, and a brass wheel in each corner.

‘I reckon we should paint them,' said Banjo.

‘Why? Don't you want to be known as Chin's Fruit and Vegetable Market Garden, South Perth?' I said.

Banjo looked at the sign stencilled on the side of his new seat and just grunted.

I couldn't believe the noise of the brass wheels on the bitumen road as we headed out of the settlement and past the Carters' house, pulling the trolleys behind us. But as loud as the wheels were, we still heard Mr Carter's 1928 Chevy truck start up. It was one of those models with no doors and a flat tray on the back. The muffler had fallen off years before.

Mr Carter was the nightcart man. Carter the Nightcarter, we called him. It was his job to drive down the dunny lanes to collect all the stinking dunny pans and replace them with empty ones. What a job. Often they overflowed and a couple of times Mr Carter had even had the bottoms fall out of rusty ones while he carried them. Re-volt-ing!

When his truck was new, Mr Carter had built a wooden frame on the back to hold the pans. The frame had once been painted white but it was impossible to believe that, looking at it now. Disgusting brown splashes and stains covered every surface. Huge blowflies swarmed around it all the time, even in winter, and the smell was bad enough to stun a mallee bull. Mr Carter smelt even worse than the truck—more like a long-dead, maggot-blown mallee bull.

We pulled the hill trolleys up towards the lighthouse at Bathurst Point on the road to the rubbish dump, the only bitumen road on the whole island, and the steepest. As we reached the highest point, something rustled in the shrubs off to the side.

‘Jack! Banjo!' Dafty's head popped up like a circus clown from behind the steep sandbank at the edge of the road. He had a huge silly grin on his face. But then he usually did.

‘What are you doing out here, Dafty?' I asked.

‘Nuthun,' he replied, looking guilty.

‘Wanna' ride?' asked Banjo. ‘There's enough room in the seat for both of us.'

‘Can we race? Can we race, Banjo?' Dafty asked, instantly excited.

We turned the trolleys to face downhill and Dafty scrambled in. He sat with his back against the fruit box, and Banjo climbed in front of him, gripping the reins.

We moved off very slowly at first, almost together. I pulled on the reins to get clear of Banjo's cart and then suddenly leaned back in fright as the hill dipped and the trolley bolted forward like it had been fired from a cannon. The roaring of the wheels sounded just like the Beaufort bombers that often flew low over the settlement on training flights.

I was almost out of control.

‘Weeeee!'
screamed Dafty. Banjo's trolley raced ahead of me, even though there were two of them in the seat.

‘Jack!' Banjo yelled back at me.

‘What?'

‘The bend!' he said, pointing.

Two hundred yards directly ahead of us the road turned sharply to the right, away from the cliff edge. Unless we made the bend we'd fly over the cliff and down onto the rocks below.

The road dipped steeper and steeper. I could feel the steering going, the wheels skidding sideways. Every bump shuddered up into my seat and chattered my teeth. Now I definitely had lost control. I raced through my options. Tip up the trolley and end up sliding down the bitumen road and have all my skin torn off? Hit the sand on the edge of the cliff and go flying through the air and break my neck? Turn left, go straight over the edge and onto the rocks below and die a horrible, mangled death?

Suddenly I had no choice. Mr Carter's truck appeared at the bend, lumbering straight up the road towards us. In seconds we'd all be under the wheels and squashed flat.

Just before I closed my eyes and pulled the reins hard to the right, I saw Jack and Dafty swerve to the left. They bumped across the flat rocks, shot out into space and plummeted over the edge. My trolley slammed into the sand bank and I felt myself being pitched forward as if in slow motion. I remember thinking how mad Mum would be with me—if I survived.

Dafty yelled in sheer excitement as he and Banjo plunged to their deaths, just like he was on a roller-coaster at the Royal Show.

‘
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!'
all the way down. And then silence. The only sound was the splashing of the waves. I couldn't even hear the roar of the Chevy motor anymore.

I climbed to my feet. My knees were bleeding and stinging, but I ran across the road towards the edge. I felt the blood running down my shins but I didn't stop to look. I felt sick. I thought I was going to throw up. I expected to see Banjo and Dafty smashed to bloody pieces on the rocks below.

‘Hey, Jack!' From far away, I could hear the sound of Banjo's voice. It couldn't be. It was a sheer drop over the edge. He had to be dead. They both did.

‘Hey, Jack!' he called again.

I peered cautiously over the edge of the rock outcrop. Banjo and Dafty stood up to their waists in water, completely drenched, laughing and giggling. The hill trolley, half submerged, floated upside-down nearby. They waved up at me.

‘Lucky the tide's in,' called Banjo.

‘That was
great,
' shouted Dafty. ‘Let's do it again. Again! Again!' He slapped at the water like a seal.

Mr Carter had stopped his truck and run down the hill towards me, the hem of his leather apron flying in the breeze. His face looked like thunder. Red veins swelled in his neck and I knew he expected to see two dead bodies at the base of the cliff.

‘They're fine, Mr Carter,' I shouted to him. ‘They landed in the sea.'

‘What the flaming heck do you think you're flaming up to, scaring the flaming daylights out of me like that?' He glared at me. ‘I've a good mind to tan your flaming hides right off your flaming backs here and flaming now. Right off you. All flaming three of you. Especially you, Jack flaming Jones. Dafty doesn't flaming know any better, he's not the full quid. But you ... I'd have flaming thought you, of all flaming people...'

Then, seeing Dafty down at the bottom of the cliff splashing happily in the water, he seemed to relax slightly, as if he'd got it out of his system.

‘Banjo? Dafty? Are you two flaming well all right? No broken bones?' he called down to them. They'd waded ashore and were trying to pull the trolley up the rocky cliff face.

Mr Carter turned back to me and slowly shook his head. I thought for one horrible minute he was going to grab me by the ear and drag me back to his smelly old truck. Even from this distance I could hear the huge blowies buzzing round the foul-smelling pans on the back.

‘I have flaming work to do,' he said instead. ‘If I ever catch you flaming bludgers trying a flaming stunt like that again I'll ... I'll flaming well take to you with a flaming stockwhip. I surely flaming will. You can flaming count on it.' He glared at me for another second before turning quickly and marching back to his smelly old flaming truck.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Mum and Mrs Carter sat in the kitchen dressed only in their petticoats, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

‘...and then I said to her, I said, “Flo,” I said, “if she were my daughter...”' They stopped talking the moment I swung open the screen door.

There must've been a scandal brewing, but then there usually was. Adults often stopped talking so us kids wouldn't find out, but I don't know why they bothered because we always did find out, eventually. And whatever it was didn't ever seem that bad anyway.

‘And where are your manners, young man?' said Mum. I knew she wanted me to say hello to Mrs Carter, but Mrs Carter was sitting there in her underwear. I couldn't even look at her.

‘What happened to your knees, Jack?' asked Mrs Carter.

‘Fell off my hill trolley,' I said truthfully for once in my life, eyes fixed on the floor. There was no point in lying. Mr Carter was sure to tell her soon enough.

‘You'd better get out the back and get them washed up. I'll have a look later,' said Mum. She didn't even pause for breath and lifted the teapot. ‘More tea, Mrs Carter?'

So much for motherly sympathy.

From the washhouse I could hear them talking about Mrs Merson, Bess's mum. Bess, the class monitor from my school. I wondered what terrible thing Bess's mum must've done to have Mum and Mrs Carter tut-tutting away like that.

What a sight when I walked back into the kitchen. Mum was up on a chair with her petticoat hoicked up to her bloomers, and Mrs Carter was rubbing brown liquid from a saucepan onto her leg. Her other leg had already been done.

They saw the look on my face.

‘There's a war on, don't you know, and we can't buy any stockings,' said Mrs Carter. ‘We don't want to be seen not properly dressed for the NCO's ball tonight.'

With gravy smeared on their legs? And a black line up the back to look like a seam? I tried not to laugh.

‘That's enough from you, young man. You're skating on thin ice, let me tell you,' said Mum.

I ducked back to my bedroom before the thin ice broke and she decided to make more of it.

‘And go and get your good Sunday clothes,' she shouted after me as I closed the door. ‘You're coming to the dance as well.'

The non-commissioned officers' mess at Kingstown Barracks would normally have been in pitch darkness because of the blackout, but that night it shone like a lighthouse. They obviously knew something about the invasion threat that I didn't. Had the Japs called off the war and no-one had told me?

Brightly coloured Chinese lanterns hung in a line from the gate to the edge of the parade ground, and the hall had lights blazing from open windows. On the long, wide verandah, trestle tables were almost bent under the weight of the beer kegs and rows of glasses. One table, off to the end of the verandah, had a large glass punchbowl filled with red punch. At the door a lance corporal in a white mess jacket announced our arrival after Dad whispered in his ear.

‘Mr and Mrs Rob Jones, Master Jack Jones and Miss Patricia Jones.'

Dad looked around the room and towards the stage and groaned quietly. ‘Not again. Mrs Mills and the Goodtime Charlies over from Perth again.' He sighed. ‘Mrs Mills and her right Charlies more like.'

Mrs Mills, the bandleader, was a big, jolly woman in a bright floral dress. She was old—even older than my grandmother probably. The Charlies—her husband Charles, her brother-in-law Charles, and her son Charlie Junior—sat up on the stage tuning their instruments. They weren't Glenn Miller and his big band, that's for sure. Mrs Mills played the piano, and her husband played the drums with wire brushes attached to his drumsticks. The other Charles played a fiddle, and Charlie Junior squeezed away on a shiny red piano accordion.

They were finally ready. Mrs Mills plonked herself down at the old piano, her ample bum hanging over each side of the stool. She banged the keys with gusto and gradually everyone realised she was playing ‘God Save the King'. We all stood to attention until she'd finished.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,' she announced through the crackly microphone, ‘and welcome to the Noncommissioned Officers' Annual Ball.' When several people applauded she smiled widely and continued. ‘Will you please take your partners for the first dance of the evening, the Grand March?'

Regimental Sergeant Major McGregor, the senior NCO on the island, stood, pulled back his shoulders, adjusted the hem of his jacket, and walked the length of the hall to where the officers sat with their wives and guests. He was older than most of the officers and other NCOs and his chest glistened with medals. He'd served in the Great War and everyone on the island respected him.

The officers sat around a circular table, each wearing a short red dinner jacket. Their wives had on silk evening gowns and long gloves. I noticed several of the workers' wives glancing enviously in their direction.

The noise gradually stopped. When the sergeant major reached the table he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘With your permission, Colonel Hurley.' He turned slightly to face Mrs Hurley, who looked good in her dark green satin dress. ‘Ma'am, it would give me the greatest honour if you would accompany me in leading the Grand March.'

Mrs Hurley smiled warmly, held up her gloved hand and said, also quite loudly, ‘Sergeant Major McGregor, nothing would give me greater pleasure.'

The Charlies' music started, and McGregor and Mrs Hurley linked arms and marched in time to the end of the hall. Colonel Hurley and Mrs McGregor followed them and soon nearly everyone had joined in the line behind them, marching the length of the hall in time to the music, then peeling off to link arms in fours and then into lines of eight. It all looked very sophisticated to me.

I sat at the end of the hall with Patricia, watching the dancing for a while and getting a bit bored. Then Dafty walked in. I'd seen Mad Martha, his mum, working in the kitchen so I guessed he'd have to be hanging about somewhere. He pulled himself up on the chair beside me, swinging his legs, his feet not touching the floor. For the first time in his life he wore a pair of shoes. He had on a new knitted sleeveless sweater and a peculiar bow tie that made him look like Peter Rabbit. He seemed pretty pleased with the effect.

‘Hey, Jack, look at all the pretty ladies. Nice. I like pretty ladies.'

I was about to answer that I did too when the lance corporal at the door announced, ‘Mr and Mrs Merson and Miss Elizabeth Merson.' Elizabeth? I wondered. Then I realised. Bess!

I heard Dafty gasp and I reckon his jaw must have dropped to the ground. I know mine did and most other blokes' in the room did as well. Bess looked a bit shy but absolutely beautiful, just like Scarlett O'Hara in
Gone with the Wind.
Even though her red velvet dress looked like it might've been made from the curtains the Mersons used to have in their front window in Leederville, she looked wonderful. She also wore long gloves and her black hair had been curled just like Scarlett's. I had never seen such a vision, other than the real Scarlett, of course.

Charlie Junior's accordion went quiet as he too lost concentration and turned to stare. Mrs Mills' hand shot out from her keyboard and slapped him on the back of the head without missing a note.

‘Look, she's wearing nylons,' I heard Mrs Purvis hiss loudly. I'd once heard Mum and Mrs Carter say that only girls who'd been with American sailors had nylon stockings. The whispering raced round the room like a bushfire. Several older women pursed their lips and shook their heads in disapproval.

Bess must've guessed they were talking about her because she'd turned the colour of her dress. She didn't know where to look or what to do. I suddenly felt sorry for her standing alone with everyone in the room staring at her.

From the corner Little Eric noticed what was going on. He frowned slightly, handed his beer to his mate and quickly walked across the room to her.

‘Bess, how lovely to see you. I believe you promised me this dance.' He bowed slightly, like a real gentleman, and led her to the centre of the hall. The relief on Bess's face was clear. Little Eric was a good cove, that's for sure.

But the look on Dafty's face was a different thing altogether. I hadn't known he felt so strongly about Bess. He knew he couldn't be dancing with her—he was half her size—and besides, he couldn't dance. He could barely stop himself from falling over a lot of the time. But it was obviously nearly choking him to see Bess dancing with Little Eric. I saw tears running down his cheek—tears not only of jealously but also of utter hopelessness.

Mum was glaring at Mrs Purvis across the other side of the room. She couldn't stand rudeness. My bum can swear to that. She especially couldn't abide unkindness and Mrs Purvis was good at both. In fact, I think Mum had trouble abiding Mrs Purvis most of the time. Mum sat there fuming, but after the third or fourth dance she must've relaxed a bit because she turned to Dad and dragged him up. I sat fascinated, watching them waltz around the polished floor. I hadn't known they could dance so well. They glided in time to Mrs Mills and the Charlies just like they were in the movies, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, looking only at each other as if no-one else in the world existed. And maybe for a few moments Hitler and the Japs and the stink of tar and the rationing and crying babies and badly behaved sons magically disappeared for them.

Patricia, Dafty and I went outside to get some punch. The verandah was crowded with blokes drinking beer, and down at the gate several soldiers stood arguing with some workers. Even though they were shouting I couldn't make out what they were saying. Someone was obviously as mad as a cut snake and wanted everyone else to know. When one of the men started swearing, Mr Evans shooed us back inside the hall.

Mrs Mills announced the next dance: the Ladies Excuse Me. Out of the blue Bess walked up and stood right in front of us. You could've blown me over with a feather.

‘Will you dance with me, Dafty?' she asked.

Not only did she look stunning, she smelt delicious. I caught a slight whiff of her perfume. Not like anything our mothers wore, like roses or lavender, but something glamorous. Her cheeks were flushed from the dancing and a few drops of perspiration had settled on her upper lip. If he won't dance with her, I will, I thought, even though I couldn't dance a step.

Dafty didn't say anything. I don't think he could. The shock was too great. He just nodded and slipped down onto the floor.

Bess led Dafty round the room and he shuffled in his new shoes as best he could. After a few minutes he seemed to hear the beat in the music and began to sway in time. He couldn't see where he was going because he looked up at Bess the whole time, not taking his eyes from her face for a second. And he had the biggest grin I've ever seen on anyone's face. Hours later he was still humming to himself the tune they'd been dancing to,
‘
The Way You Look Tonight
'.

After that I thought Bess was the kindest, greatest, best-looking girl in the entire world, even better than Maureen O'Hara or Carol Lombard or even Olivia de Havilland or any other movie star. And that sure is saying something, 'cause I really loved Olivia de Havilland.