Jack Read online

  tomorrow, then move on.

  If you lend me what I need,

  mate,

  we’ll leave you to it.’

  He’s squinting in the sun,

  waves of wrinkles

  move from the nose up.

  He wipes his hand

  on his shorts

  then holds it out.

  ‘Tom Wallis,’ he says.

  I’d rather shake a palm full

  of maggoty meat

  but I take it,

  then drop it just as quickly.

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Jack …?’

  ‘Brown.’ I say the first surname

  that pops into my head.

  His smile takes heart.

  ‘Brown, eh? I used to know

  some Browns down

  Brisbane way.’

  Not my people, I think.

  Not unless they’ve all changed

  their name

  from Falconer

  and all

  come back from the dead.

  Georgie’s melting up

  and down my side

  like dripping.

  ‘Can we go over to

  that lugger, Boss?

  We might know that crew.’

  I look down at him,

  hoping he sees

  the steel wires

  holding up my smile.

  ‘A fine idea, but I think

  this gentleman’s keen

  to get going.

  Maybe

  another time.’

  For the first time

  I meet full-on

  the stranger’s gaze,

  unblinking.

  He doesn’t look away

  but some easy geniality

  starts backing up

  towards its cave.

  My mood improves.

  ‘Go and find that box

  of compressor parts, Georgie,

  there’s a good boy.

  Never too much trouble

  to help a fellow pearler, eh?’

  Faces

  The overhead’s smudged black.

  I can hear Dickie and Sandy

  squabbling about something on deck

  but I’m ignoring it,

  trying to focus

  on the hanging lamp

  that won’t stay still

  but keeps screeking

  from side to side.

  Who saw Ted and me sail off

  in the fishing boat that day?

  Who saw me come back alone?

  Will they be able to identify him

  after the sharks and fish

  have had their go?

  I’ve had to grow a beard

  to hide the scar on my chin.

  The least he can do

  if he must reappear at all

  is be washed up

  on the beach

  with half his face gone.

  That Last Day

  on the Boat with Ted

  I still go looking for it, old son,

  that mark

  where you stabbed me

  with the fishing knife.

  I run my fingernail

  under the beard,

  over the forest floor

  searching for that alibi,

  the soft new skin

  and around it

  the edges of the wound

  that will never join exactly.

  The Joys of Having

  a Mixed Race Crew

  ‘Break it up.’ I step in between

  Dickie and Georgie

  who are having a stoush.

  ‘What’s going on!’

  Georgie’s left arm’s

  swinging wildly around me

  trying to get to Dickie.

  Dickie’s kicking at Georgie round my shins.

  ‘Stop, damn it!

  Dickie, you first.’

  ‘He say allatime black fella

  clear out from luggerboat.’

  ‘Georgie?’

  I turn my questioning gaze on him.

  ‘It true, Boss,’ he says wide eyed.

  At least one eye’s wide.

  The other one looks as though

  Dickie’s already landed

  a respectable punch.

  ‘Them boys bugger off with the dinghy.

  They go back to the Mission.

  Pleasemen have to round them up.’

  He shakes his head, clicks his tongue

  as if running away

  is the gravest failure

  of human character

  he can imagine.

  ‘I not run’ way Boss.

  Clive and me not run’way,’

  Dickie beseeches me.

  Takemoto puts his crown’s worth

  in from the other end of the lugger.

  ‘I still rather work with mainland

  and New Guinea boys, than

  those Island boys.

  They got too hot temper.’

  He glares at Georgie.

  Georgie sidesteps me and Dickie then

  head down

  prepares to charge Takemoto.

  ‘That a dirty lie,’ he spits.

  I grab him by the waist as he passes,

  hang him over my arm.

  Red-faced he kicks and writhes.

  It’s like trying to hold a sugarbag

  full of wallabies.

  ‘I ain’t got hot temper,’ he yells.

  ‘You take that bloody back!’

  Georgie’s Got the Sulks

  My little firebrand’s

  nursing his black eye

  and sulking.

  He’s been careless With

  his jobs all day,

  muttering to himself,

  shooting murderous glances

  at anyone who goes near him.

  I know how he feels.

  I remember well enough

  that business with Rose and Ted,

  how my guts soaked

  in acid for months.

  I also remember

  how little good it did me

  in the end.

  ‘Snap out of it, son,’

  I warn.

  ‘Take it from me,

  there’s no use

  carrying

  all that dead wood around.’

  King Takemoto

  Only a couple of weeks at sea

  and I’m sick of him already.

  He’s playing King Diver

  who can’t tire himself out

  with mundane tasks

  like fetching his own dinner,

  or his toothbrush and mug.

  Morishita,

  that tender twit of his,

  scuttles round

  after him.

  The Papuan boys

  cater to his every whim

  while he perches

  on the engine casing

  like some mangy vulture

  who’s happened

  on someone else’s crown.

  Well sorry, Your Majesty.

  Seems to me

  it’s time your throne

  was thrown

  overboard.

  Puppets

  ‘Collecting shell is easy

  compared to salvage,’

  I tell them.

  ‘We searched

  a whole hull once

  rib by rib

  for a bucket full

  of silver coins.’

  The sun’s clotting in the west.

  I rub my beard and cast

  a meaningful glance

  at the Jap.

  It’s a bloody miracle

  but he seems to be doing

  something for himself,

  polishing

  his copper helmet

  with a rag.

  The next part is for him.

  ‘Old Can Parks, my Captain

  out of Fremantle,

  made his divers

  use medico air

/>   from the gas company

  in fire extinguisher bottles.’

  I pause for effect.

  The rubbing hand

  slows, then starts again.

  ‘Unlike more generous captains,

  Old Con

  wouldn’t put up

  with sissy divers

  who didn’t like the colour

  of whoever was sending

  down their air.’

  I hear him mutter something.

  He stands up

  and hawks a gob of spit.

  The helmet

  rolls along the deck

  like a fireball.

  ‘Speak up, Takemoto.

  You sound very faint.’

  I roll a match

  between my fingers

  and look at the others.

  ‘What do you think, boys?

  Maybe we could hear him better

  if his Japanese tender

  pulled his string.’

  Ganymede

  Zeus knew abduction

  was the only way

  to handle beauty.

  After one of Ah May’s pipes

  my mind swells big enough to fit

  my heart’s desire.

  Georgie hands me a mug

  of whisky

  and I have a sudden urge

  to dig my claws

  in that hard brown flesh

  of his back

  and soar upwards,

  the wriggling weight of him

  in my talons.

  He bends his head

  and I notice

  the bleach starting

  to grow out of the nest of his hair.

  Don’t look up, baby bird,

  don’t gape at me

  with that open mouth.

  Tonight,

  all I have to offer

  is my own

  unfatherly hunger.

  It’s Raining

  Just a steady mist,

  a mere piddle.

  Enough to

  make everything

  slippery

  grimy looking

  older,

  more ruinous

  and stinking.

  But not

  in a dangerous way.

  More like that boring

  maddening way

  of damp decay

  in forgettable jungles.

  Seventeen Days Out

  I see the rope hiss

  through the tender’s hands.

  He’s not reacting,

  so I grab a coil,

  palms burning,

  twist it back round the rack.

  Takemoto’s down.

  A whale’s tangled

  its fluke in his lifeline.

  I yell to the others

  ‘Get the dinghy,

  see if you can spot him!’

  They don’t move.

  They stand there like statues.

  The rope goes

  slack,

  a dark shadow

  the size of the lugger

  slides away to starboard.

  I dive over the side

  into dazzling waves,

  find him close to the surface.

  Back on board,

  I unscrew the helmet.

  His face is swollen

  from lack of air,

  eyes bulging.

  I sit him carefully down

  as he takes huge

  lung-filling gasps.

  ‘Close go Boss …’ Bing Tang says.

  His voice is small behind me.

  I turn slowly to face them,

  this mob of misfits,

  my brand new crew.

  There is no sound

  but the rigging’s

  tink, tink

  in the breeze.

  My voice is barely louder

  than a whisper

  as I stand there dripping.

  ‘Next time you lot

  ignore my orders

  I’ll feed you

  to the sharks.’

  Punishing the Tender

  It’s hard work

  giving a Jap

  a decent beating

  even when he’s tied

  to the mast.

  Morishita keeps writhing

  and jerking.

  By the time I’m finished

  my shoulders ache.

  I straighten up

  in the marinating sun.

  Now it’s over

  it seems overdone

  like a scene

  from Mutiny on the Bounty,

  that mustard smell of fear,

  those irritating squeals,

  and the spits of blood

  and skin

  we’ll be cleaning off the deck

  for a week.

  ‘Cut him down,’

  I order Sandy and Clive

  in a tired voice.

  ‘Dump him in the hold.’

  He stirs and moans a bit

  when they drag him

  scraping and bumping

  across the hard deck.

  ‘Georgie, take this.’

  I wipe my hand

  on my shorts

  then fish out my eye

  with my index finger.

  ‘Prop it up somewhere

  in his line of vision.

  We wouldn’t want him

  to wake up lonely.’

  My Message to Morishita

  I bail up Takemoto

  on his way

  to the hold.

  ‘Tell your mate to pay attention

  when he’s reading that tender rope

  or a few whacks

  with a mangrove stick

  will be the least of his worries.

  And the least of yours,’

  I add darkly.

  ‘You almost lost your life today, son.’

  ‘I should be one to correct him,’

  he says tightly.

  ‘You weren’t in a fit state

  to correct anyone

  when I dragged you up.

  And if I hadn’t thrashed him straight away,

  he would have forgotten why

  he was copping it.’

  He gives me a quick,

  unreadable glance.

  ‘Don’t think for one minute

  I enjoyed doing your dirty work,’

  I snort in disbelief.

  ‘You should feel my bloody back right now.

  It’s not up to all that caper.’

  Sleeping Beauty’s woken up below.

  He’s having hysterics,

  banging on the closed hatch.

  I wait for Takemoto to thank me

  for saving his life

  but it seems

  that’s too much to ask.

  ‘Tell him to stop banging

  on that flamin hatch,’ I snap.

  ‘And bring my eye back up

  when you come.

  This wind’s making the socket ache.’

  It Takes Some Settling In …

  … with any crew, any time.

  Now they’re avoiding me

  as if I’m dangerous.

  But they wouldn’t know

  a cruel Captain.

  I’ve worked for a few,

  men crazy from too

  many years at sea.

  It comes from a slow

  wearing down of perspective,

  from seeing no mountains

  to measure yourself against,

  just this endless blue paddock.

  All sorts of watery fancies

  can intervene.

  But not with me.

  If I lose my temper,

  it’s to teach them something.

  Even Ted,

  if he was alive

  would tell you,

  I’m fairly elastic.

  It takes a lot

  to make me snap.

  Mates

  ‘He your mate now, that
for sure,’

  Takemoto says.

  Recovered from his close shave,

  he looks at Clive

  who’s thigh-to-thigh with me

  as we’re squatting on deck

  grinding a burned engine valve.

  At least I’m grinding it;

  Clive passes me

  the paste and cloth

  as I need it.

  These days

  there are regular

  flourishing appearances

  of a snot rag

  which he blows his nose on

  then stuffs back into

  his shorts’ pocket.

  I look down at the Aboriginal boy

  with affection.

  ‘He’s my right-hand man, aren’t you, Clive?’

  He doesn’t just nod,

  his whole body pistons up and down.

  ‘You orright with him, Boss,’

  Takemoto allows grudgingly.

  ‘Those mainland boys don’t forget

  who does them good turn.’

  He’s shaking his head,

  lost in the improbability

  of Clive’s devotion,

  considering I’ve earned it

  merely by letting him sit in the shade

  with me at lunchtimes.

  I cock my head and squint up at him.

  ‘Pity you can so easily forget

  who does you a good turn, Takemoto,’

  I say conversationally.

  ‘At least Clive knows

  how to be grateful.’

  Safety and Efficiency

  While they’re both

  having a day off,

  —Takemoto to get his nerve back,

  Morishita to lick his wounds—

  I’ve been stewing

  about the whole affair.

  ‘Fine lot of good your cultural solidarity

  did you in the end,’ I say.

  I’m picking my teeth

  with the tip of my pocket knife

  and watching Takemoto eating dinner.

  I’ve just finished mine,

  some oriental muck

  Ah May’s conjured

  out of tinned corned beef, onions,

  and a spoonful

  of that whore’s-twat paste

  he calls dried shrimp.

  Takemoto and his tender

  are sitting together

  up near the mast.

  Now he stops with a spoonful of rice

  halfway to his mouth.

  ‘What you mean?’ he says in his careful English.

  ‘I mean that boil on your bum.

  He didn’t help you

  in your time of real need did he?’

  I’ve had just enough to drink

  to want to settle this

  once and for all.

  It still rankles

  that he won’t thank me

  for saving his life,

  that his tender

  won’t acknowledge

  he didn’t do his job.

  The trouble with these laps,