Neptune's Fingers Page 9

  Jack learnt from his father that his education was valuable as many people could not read or write. His own father ‘had his letters’, as he put it, and it was part of the reason he got his job as lighthouse keeper. In Jack’s time, everyone got a rudimentary education, even in the bush. He was no scholar, but reading and writing was not a problem and he had a good head for figures, so Mister Bryant said. Henry Lambeth knew the worth of an education and instilled its importance in Jack. Many pupils left school earlier than they should have as they were needed to keep the family income churning over. It was a shame, but the Depression was a hard taskmaster.

  But in Grandfather’s day, it was mostly the boys who received education and then only if they were rich enough. That drew a new perspective to Edward. If he could read, it showed he was from a wealthy family. It was hard for Jack to comprehend leaving a comfortable home for a life like this, poor and uncertain, on the high seas, headed halfway across the world.

  He focused again on the scene before him. The stowaway was trim and tidy in sailor’s rig. He even had shoes. He was faring well, considering he should not be here at all. The lessons his father taught had solid foundation, it appeared. A boy who could read and write was an asset, not just another mouth to feed. Jack tucked that scrap of knowledge away for future reference. Maybe he would be able to tell his own children.

  Mission accomplished, Edward descended the stairs and disappeared down the hatch. Jack’s eyes remained riveted to the dark hole that swallowed him up, which is why he did not realize the boy from the ‘derrick’ was standing beside him, wet, soapy brush still in his hand.

  “Who’d ’ve thought?” he said, making Jack nearly jump out of his skin. His legs flung out and arms flailed, sending the bucket of suds sloshing across the newly scrubbed deck.

  “Oh, blast,” he gasped. Now he would be visible, that was for sure.

  “It’s a small job, cully. Wait about.” The boy got down on hands and knees and cleaned up the spill as though he were the guilty party.

  “Watch what yer about, you clumsy lubbard,” came a thunderous voice from above. The boson heard the crash. That man seemed to relish shouting, Jack thought, remembering Regatta Day.

  The boy grinned. He was a happy monkey and the harsh voice rolled off him like water off a duck’s back.

  “All shipshape now, sir,” he called. He picked up the bucket, much lighter now its load was all over the deck, gave Jack another knowing wink, and swung down the deck, whistling merrily. He stowed the gear and returned to where Jack sat, glued to the coil of rope.

  “He’s a smart boy, your kin,” he said. “Has his letters an’ all.”

  Jack could not answer. He became aware his mouth was open like a codfish. He shut it smartly, hoping he did not look a fool. Every visit to The Kestrel presented him with new shocks.

  “You think he’s in from the cold now, cully? No. I wouldn’t trade places for anything.” The boy began rearranging the ropes in an attempt to appear busy while he talked. “He’s a worn soul.”

  “Why are you on this ship? Where are your family?” It was beyond Jack why this boy felt better off than Edward.

  “Dead,” he said simply. “Came from an orphanage in London.”

  “But you’re both orphans,” said Jack. “How is he different?”

  “Never knew my folks. Didn’t get to love ’em and then lose ’em. I took the first opportunity to get a job and find a life for me. This one suits me just grand.” And he did look happy. It was the simple happiness that needs little to feed it and shuns problems that threaten it. Was life really that simple, thought Jack? “Now, him!” the boy continued, “ He’s a ship without a rudder. Going places and going nowhere.” He leveled his gaze at Jack. “For now,” he added.

  “My mum died,” said Jack. It was a lonely sound, forlorn in the brisk wind.

  “You know how he feels, then,” he said.

  “No I don’t,” said Jack after a bit of thought. “I have my dad. I have the Tarrants. I have the folk of Neptune’s Fingers. I might have been lonely and pining for my mother, but no one ever let me be alone and unwanted. No I don’t know how he feels. It breaks my heart.”

  “It broke his too,” said the boy. “It will mend. It must have mended. There’s you.”

  Jack was still thinking of his own grief. He was a boy without his mother. His father grieved too but he gave his time for Jack before he turned to his own healing. It appalled Jack that he had been such a drain on his father. That must have been so hard. He worked so hard. Jack felt selfish.

  “Na, na, lad. You still don’t have the right of it. You are the reason you father survives. Your mother and her sisters were the reason this lad survived, for a time.”

  “How do you know all this? How long do your lives meet?” Jack asked.

  “Many years, Jack. We are very different but we are also the same.”

  That made no sense. You had to be one or the other. He was about to ask when a roar filled the air again. The Boson was determined to make a sailor of the boy who was obviously a malingerer. The boy made a show of finishing off coiling the ropes which now lay in magnificent piles at his feet. He turned and saluted, “Aye, sir,” and marched briskly toward the mizzen where he climbed with that monkey dexterity that always amazed Jack. He continued to watch as he climbed higher and disappeared behind a flowing white, billowing sail.

  “Is there any paint left on that?” a voice cut into his mind.

  He made to jump off the rope but cracked his head on something hard and unyielding. He rubbed it while the yellow splotches of light behind his eyes settled down, squatting on his haunches to prevent himself from falling further.

  “Sorry, Jack. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He recognized his father’s voice. As his vision focused, he could make out the familiar kitchen and the gaping oven, now gleaming and bright.

  “I think that might do for a while. Go get some air. You’ve done a good job.” Jack clambered to his feet, mindful of the painful pins and needles in his legs, from sitting on them while he worked.

  CHAPTER 12

  George Tarrant was a quiet, easy-going soul. This was fortunate as he lived in a home in turmoil. Ginny and Bill squabbled mercilessly and noisily. Ella Tarrant was a ball of energy, good nature and loud chatter. There was little room for George’s comments and they would hardly be heard if he uttered any. This was not to say George was unhappy. On the contrary, he knew his family was happy and healthy. In his eyes, he was a rich man. His launch was laden to the scuppers with everything Ella Tarrant deemed necessary to make a festive Christmas Day.

  The children dressed in their Sunday best and had used extra soap in honor of the occasion. Ginny’s long hair, freshly plaited, swung down her back, like a cosseted show pony’s mane. Beautiful green ribbons bowed at the ends. These treasures only saw light of day for church or momentous occasions like birthdays and Christmas. Her best dress was a pretty apple green and set off her strawberry blonde hair. She looked a far cry from the minx who screeched and wailed when not getting her own way. Today, she was a lady and sat primly in the launch, determined to remain unsullied by sea spray or whatever grotty things Bill could arrange. He in turn wore his better pants, a clean shirt and had slicked down his hair which was parted with mathematical precision in the centre.

  Already in the boat was a quantity of seafood that could have fed a few families, vegetables from the Tarrant garden, and a Christmas pudding that had hung in a cloth for over a month.

  Ella Tarrant did not approve of drinking but the rum in her pudding made up for her temperance during the rest of the year. It smelt like Christmas. A huge bunch of Christmas bush reclined in a bucket to stop it from wilting in the heat.

  “I haven’t had a Christmas without Christmas Bush in the house and I don’t intend to start now,” she said to quell any comments.

  Ella wore her church dress, the one she wore to the midnight service the night before. It was not for long. It would do again today
. Her apron sat perched on top of her basket holding bits and pieces she felt positive she would need. After a final sweep of the kitchen with her eyes, she declared everything was ready and she joined her waiting family in George’s boat. It would take about half an hour to reach Narrowgut in the launch. The sea was calm and the journey was part of the fun of the day.

  She clambered in, last of all, and George started the motor. Pleasure trips were unthinkable as there was no money for gas for such unnecessary outings. Christmas was different. Ella believed Christmas was the most important day of the year. It was a time for her to give. Her meager income cramped her generous efforts severely. At Christmas she made amends.

  It took only a short time for Ginny’s magnificent plaits to look like well-worn rope as the wind teased out the tiny ends. Amazingly, Ginny didn’t care. Last time she looked in her mother’s hand mirror, it looked stunning. It never occurred to Ginny to look again. Ella was grateful for this. Today, of all days, was to be a good one.

  Bill’s slicked hair fared worse than Ginny’s. It had not helped after the water dried. Hair cream was too expensive. Like Ginny, he knew it was done before he left home. The effort was what counted.

  Ella beamed at her children. They were her treasures. They were healthy and strong – if a little rowdy – and thanked the Good Lord for this most precious gift.

  “Stop grinning at me, Mum,” said Ginny. Her sensitive side still lay buried and hopefully would emerge as she got older. Ella smiled all the more. She could not help it.

  The trip was uneventful and the motley family arrived at the small cove near the lighthouse. The girls got out first and the men handed down the cargo. There were too many bundles for the two of them to carry. Jack learnt that last year and as he saw their arrival from the lighthouse, he hastened down to lend a hand. While George and Bill hauled the boat ashore, the food was carried to the house. The kitchen would be all bustle the minute Ella Tarrant set foot in it.

  The wonderful fuel stove taking pride of place was a dream for a frustrated cook. Ella’s tiny oven at Sandy Bay was not adequate for her family needs – which is to say, for Ella’s needs. There was a wonderful oak table in the centre of the room, fast disappearing under the food flooding into the place. Each helper deposited a load on the wooden surface. Jack stared at it all. He had plenty to eat each day, try as the Depression might to deprive them of everything, but this was unbelievable. It was a good thing Christmas came once a year. A chap could become fat in short order around Ella.

  Bill and George arrived, the boat secured against the will of the tide, and joined in the bon homi in the crowded room. Bob, who was not on duty this morning, was there. Henry Lambeth did the chores on Christmas morning to give Bob a holiday, of sorts. He would have his turn on the night shift. The four Tarrants, who, when together, felt like a crowd, filled the room with noise, laughter and a good deal of activity. Quiet Bob could only stare, bemused.

  “Jim not here yet?” asked George, accepting a glass of beer.

  “Not yet,” said Jack. “He’ll be here closer to lunch time. He’d have slept in this morning, I reckon.”

  “Never!” said Ella Tarrant. “He’ll be having a quiet puff of his pipe somewhere peaceful. We’re a bit noisy for Jim.”

  “Us? Noisy?” said Bill. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The bustle was set to increase. Jack thought Jim knew what he was about keeping out of it but was sure he would stay a good while when he arrived about lunch time.

  There were no gifts. The gift of friendship was freely given in their place. The food on the table and the expectations of Ella Tarrant’s magic preparing it, was better than anything. Jack could not have been happier if he were rich. Even Ginny was a delight today. She was pretty as a picture in her dress that Ella’s nimble fingers made.

  “That woman could take the most dowdy material and turn it into a gem,” thought Jack.

  Ginny felt special, it was written all over her face. Jack’s perspective of Ginny shifted. Not one whinge did she utter, instead smiling and twirling about in her dress, to make the skirt fly about. It made him smile. Ginny was ok.

  Henry came in briefly to welcome the Tarrants. The lamps were full and the windows were pretty clean. He could spare some time to be sociable. Few boats were about today. Even the fishermen looked forward to a day of rest. Henry gave a rueful smile. There was no rest in his kitchen this morning. The assault of the Tarrants had begun. It was good for Jack to have some company. Henry forgot he needed it too and was surprised to discover how much he looked forward to a repeat of last Christmas.

  “Oh, Henry. Happy Christmas,” beamed Ella Tarrant.

  “There’ll be some sort of order here by lunch time. We take over, don’t we?”

  “Welcome, Ella. Happy Christmas.” He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and shook hands with George. “George,” he said, with a small incline of the head. “You must have been the only boat out there. I haven’t seen any others all morning.”

  “Nope,” said George. “Had it all to ourselves. It’s going to be a scorcher today. It’s warmish already.”

  “It’s going to get a lot hotter in here,” said Bill. “Mum’s in a frenzy.”

  “Oh, you!” said his mother, her smile spoiling the effect of her scolding. “I’ve yet to see you pass up any food.”

  Bill grinned. It was nothing less than the truth.

  “I don’t know why we have a hot meal on Christmas Day. Just like merry England, eh?” said George. There were some traditions that even the lack of money would not erase. Christmas called for a banquet, and it was his Christian duty to eat it, hot or not, and be grateful. He always was. How could he not? The bustling bundle of creativity that was his wife was one of the riches he still had. Let her cook up a storm.

  “The tide’s out,” said Jack. “Come and have a look at the wreck with me Bill.”

  “Don’t you two get wet and disgusting. This is a special day,” chided Mrs. Tarrant. “That wreck should be left alone, anyway,” she added as she lifted a huge snapper onto a baking tray ready to put its Christmas dressing on the cold, forlorn creature.

  “We won’t go out to it Mum. Keep your hair on,” said Bill. He was dreaming last night of the monstrous fish Harry Landy handed over, in return for some of his mother’s famous melon jam. The thought of missing out because he was too disreputable to be allowed at the table was deterrent enough. “Just going to have a look.”

  Ginny looked envious, but her pretty dress was sacred. It was indoors for her today. Before she could summon up a grizzle, Ella plonked a bundle of string beans and a knife in front of her.

  “Do these for me, love. You make such a good job of them. I’d like your company, anyway.” Ella knew it was easier to smooth feathers before they became too ruffled, than after. Ginny actually enjoyed stringing beans and cutting them into long slithers. Mollified, she opened up the paper wrapping and took up the task.

  “Just promise me, mum, you aren’t going to cook that lobster in beer again. Dad’ll hit the roof.” Bill was eyeing the huge crustacean with concern. Maybe this mother of his should not be left alone.

  “Trust me,” she said, and winked at Ginny.

  “Pair of conspirators,” muttered Bill under his breath, and shaking his head.

  The two boys wandered off towards the wreck while the three men headed outdoors to the shade of a clump of sheoaks, their spindly needles sighing as the breeze fluttered playfully through them. Henry loved the sound. It was so incredibly Australian. A mat of needles covered the ground about their trees’ roots, daring the weeds to grow. The men took a chair each and some of Henry’s home-brewed beer. They would be out of the kitchen while the worst of the hurricane took hold, venturing back to gaze in wonder at the laden table and proud faces of the ladies.

  Jack and Bill strolled across the grassy clearing. The water had receded, exposing a stretch of rocky teeth covered in oysters and pocked with small pools harboring urchins, periwinkles and s
mall crabs. Fossicking in this playpen filled much of Jack’s early childhood. It didn’t take much to satisfy these simple creatures. In a strange way, it was rather like his life. He never went anywhere to speak of and all his needs were met by his immediate surroundings.

  The only unnatural thing here was the wreck of The Kestrel. Its skeleton reared up out of the jaws of the rocks while waves sloshed about it. It puzzled him because he knew the ship was headed for Sydney with a cargo from England. It was more than a hundred miles to Sydney from here. How did it manage to be so far off course? Gales could blow up from the south, he knew, and ships could lose their way. It must have been a real howler to have driven them so far north only to smash to pieces on the submerged reefs surrounding Narrowgut.

  “Looks like a small ship,” said Bill as they approached the shoreline.

  “A hundred and twenty feet,” said Jack. “Average for a Barque.”

  “Really? You the expert now?” said Bill.

  “There’s a book in the lighthouse about sailing ships,” said Jack, evading Bill’s enquiring gaze.

  “Yeah, well I s’pose books like that were necessary when the light was built. All sailing ships then, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t built when The Kestrel went down, though. It must have been as black as the ace of spades with no moon and no stars.”

  “Harry took me out overnight last year. It blew up something fierce through the night and we had to try and get home. Your lighthouse was a Godsend. I was pretty glad to see it. Harry took it for granted. He wasn’t worried, ’cos he knew it was there and he had his bearings. I would have been terrified in the dark with no idea where I was.” Bill lapsed into thoughtful silence. The comparison had not occurred to him at the time. Now it chilled him on this hot summer’s day.