Transcript
Saturday night, summer of 1920. Mowbray Park is where the local lads go for a laugh, a beer, and a smoke. Eight-year-old Lucky sneaks out of bed to discover his brother and hero has taken a dare that could cost much more than his one shilling bet.
Debbie Terranova
Mowbray Bathers
lucky took a deep Breath and leapt
feet-first from the timber edge of the Mowbray Park baths. With scarcely a splash he speared into the brown-green water. The balm of the river doused the sunburn sting on his legs and back. Coolness thrilled along the full length of his young body, through to the freckles of his nose and the ends of his home-cropped straw-coloured hair. Aah! That’s better! He pushed off the sandy bottom and rocketed to the surface, lungs bursting. He sucked in the humid air and flicked river water from his ears. Then he dogpaddled the twenty or so yards to where Amos, legs dangling in the brackish water, sat laughing at his pathetic efforts. ‘When will you ever learn to swim? A crook chook could do it better.’ Lucky hand-chopped the surface of the water to send a spurt into his older brother’s face. Amos grabbed him by the wrists and, still chuckling, heaved him onto the board beside 119
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him. Lucky struggled, but his eight-year-old’s strength was no match against someone twice his age. ‘Watch me, squirt.’ Still sitting on the edge, Amos moved his arms like a slow windmill, one following the other a halfturn out of sync. ‘You’ve got to stretch your hand right out in front and pull back hard. Look at my fingers how they’re cupped. Now you try.’ Lucky copied the instructions in double-quick time. Next thing he was back in the water, flailing and gasping for air. ‘Keep your head up so you can breathe,’ yelled Amos. Lucky thrashed to the river-side edge and caught hold of the floating timber barrier. Seeking a foothold, his toes slicked slime from the underwater boards. Hairlike tufts of moss-green pirouetted into the sunlight. He spat and looked through the gaps in the boards at the bright painted cot tages on the opposite bank. One day he would swim like his brother. Then he would challenge him to a cross-river race – from East Brisbane to New Farm. And back too, just like the night before. Lucky was not supposed to have been there. He was sup posed to have been home in bed, in the shoebox of a room he shared with his only brother. But Amos had not come in for dinner at six. In fact Lucky had not seen him since he picked up his fishing gear from under the house after his half-day Saturday at work, and disappeared down Latrobe Street in the direction of the river. Usually he would be back by nightfall with a string of black bream or mullet or catfish or even a young shark. Enough to feed the family of ten. 120
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Last night Amos had still not returned by the time Ma lit the gas lantern. Nor by eight o’clock when Lucky was bundled into bed by his eldest and most belligerent sister. No one seemed concerned, certainly not Ma. Ma never worried about anything. Not even when Lucky was in the Diamantina Hospital a year ago, half-dead from diphtheria, a feeding tube in his stomach. Ma and Pa would drop by twice a week. Pa would stroke Lucky’s forehead and tell him funny made-up stories while Ma chatted with the nurses. Once discharged, he was as weak as a newborn. His delicate stomach could tolerate only broth and blancmange, and he often woke sick in the night. Pa had been his nurse maid and his comforter, while Ma slumbered peacefully. Last night Lucky had lain wide awake sweating in his hot bedroom and listening to the noises of the night. Muffled chatter through the tongue-in-groove walls. The clatter of the treadle sewing machine, click-click of the scissors. The creak of the front steps as Pa left as usual for a few beers at the bowls club. The hollow clip-clop of hooves on gravel. The clink of a tram trundling along its tracks. He pictured Amos fishing under the light of the full moon. His solitary figure silhouetted against the shimmering flow of the river. The rustle of bait worms in the jam-tin at his side. The slap of the tide against the timbers of the baths. The herbal breath of the mangroves. The fish must be really biting tonight. Lucky slid out of bed and pulled on his shorts. In bare feet he padded across timber floorboards to his bedroom door and opened it a crack. The kettle was whistling in the 121
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kitchen. The aroma of fresh-baked scones and strawberry jam wafted down the hall. Supper for Ma and the two eldest sisters, whom he envied for being allowed to stay up as late as they liked. But his interest was not the kitchen. He turned toward the door that opened to the street. Five big paces and he was safely on the veranda. Caressed by the fresh night breeze that always seemed to bypass his window. Freedom. He crept down the stairs, taking care to avoid the wobbly board two from the bottom. He didn’t want to risk a clip over the ear from Ma. Like a shadow he glided along the footpath, past white picket fences, down Latrobe Street towards the river. In the cottage next to the corner store a party was in progress. Thick voices sang to the accompaniment of a twangy piano. Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parley-voo? Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parley-voo? It was a tune he knew well. The verses changed every time, depending on the company and the amount of grog con sumed. He squeezed in close to the fence under the cover of a hedge. She had four chins, her titties would knock, And her face would stop a cuckoo clock. Lucky sniggered. Hinky, dinky, parley-voo. Hinky, dinky, par…ley…vooooo. The song was over. He’d better get away before he was found. He bounded across the main road near the bowls 122
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club, where Pa would be propped up against the bar, and entered the park. Beyond the brooding trees the river was a galaxy of flickering lights. He headed directly for the baths. Amos’s fishing hole. Lucky was one of only two people in the world who knew that the sweetest bream feasted nightly on the moss on the inner side of the shark-proof enclosure. It was their secret. Part of the bond between them. He had sworn a blood oath never to tell another soul. Jocular male voices echoed on the water. Five human forms sat near the river’s edge. Lucky trotted towards them and tripped on a soft-drink bottle wound with fishing line that lay on the grass. He felt about for the hook. He knew the pain of having a fish hook in his foot. There it was – stuck in the cork in the neck of the bottle. He brushed himself off and picked a way through patches of bindi-eyes. The lads were close but still no one noticed him. The glowing end of a cigarette revealed their identities. One was Amos. The other four were the O’Rourke brothers who lived out on Kangaroo Point; their ages ranged from thirteen to eighteen. They were having a roaring good time. Jokes that made no sense to Lucky bounced from one to the other. Amos raised a bottle and drank, then wiped his lips and passed it around the circle. A not unpleasant aroma wafted into Lucky’s nostrils. Tobacco and hops and sweat. What if Ma found out? She would think nothing of giving Amos the strap. All five foot nothing of her. He would be in the poo for weeks. 123
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In the darkness Lucky smiled. This was an even bigger secret than the fishing hole. Mind, if he told, he would be in for a lick of Ma’s leather too. Lucky squatted on his heels and listened in. The talk turned to serious matters. The Ashes, the Wal labies, the Olympic games. ‘I can do the Aussie Crawl better’n all those blokes in Antwerp.’ ‘Ya can’t beat me.’ ‘Betcha I can.’ ‘How much?’ ‘I’ve got a bob in my pocket says an O’Rourke can beat a mug lair like you any day of the week.’ ‘I’ve got a bob that says different.’ ‘You serious?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘You’re on.’ They were on their feet, running along the floating edge of the baths. The boards bounced under their weight as they ripped off their shirts and tossed them like rags onto the timber. They stood about four feet apart at the centre of the barrier, Amos on the left and Stan O’Rourke on the right. ‘Ready. Steady. Go!’ The pair dived head-first into the dark river. Lucky could no longer contain himself. He ran along the narrow boards to where the others were standing. ‘C’mon, Amos!’ ‘How did you get here, squirt?’ An O’Rourke boy ruffled Lucky’s hair and received a punch in the thigh in return. 124
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Amos was first to surface. His arms were powerful, graceful; diamonds glistened in his wake. He was a natural. It looked effortless the way he swam. Lucky’s chest swelled – he would be just like his brother when he grew up. Stan blew water from his nose and began swimming. He matched Amos stroke for stroke. ‘Go, Stan, m’lad!’ ‘Go, Amos!’ The pair battled side by side until they hit the current. Instead of making a line straight across the river, they were swept downstream towards the mouth of Norman Creek. The moonlight faded behind a cloud and they were lost to sight. ‘You okay out there?’ yelled an O’Rourke into the black night. No answer. ‘Coo-eee!’ This came from the edge of the baths. The unsteady adolescent voice bounced off the river, eerie as a storm-bird in the grey light of dawn. ‘Shhhh!’ Everyone held their breath and listened. The only sound was the lap-lap of the water against the wall. ‘What do we do?’ ‘Sit and wait.’ They settled on the edge of the barrier with their feet kicking the water and their backs to the park. Cigarettes were passed around. Even Lucky was given one. When it was lit he sucked in the way his brother did. The tip glowed and 125
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crackled. He coughed and coughed. The others were rolling about laughing at him. Someone thumped him on the back but it didn’t help. He gathered his dignity and drew back again. His tongue singed somewhere near his tonsils, his head whirled, and his whole body filled up with smoke. He imagined it bursting out of his ears, his nose, his bum. How could anyone enjoy this? He tossed the unfinished dumper in the river. ‘What a waste!’ Minutes passed in complete darkness. A cloud, backlit by a pale silk-like sheen, drifted across the full circle of the moon. The Southern Cross hung sideways in the east. The summer scent of rotting mangoes lured flying foxes to soar and screech across the river. Ma hated them, called them sky rats. She hated the mess they left each morning. Big orange splotches as stubborn as set concrete. Lucky put a fingernail to his lips. There wasn’t much to bite for he had chewed them all to the quick, but he found a hangnail and harassed it with his tongue. There was still no sign of the swimmers. What if they didn’t make it to the other side? The bowls club was running distance. Pa would know what to do, even if that meant getting himself and Amos into trouble. ‘They’ll be a while yet. Let’s finish that bottle.’ The older boys filed out of the baths and back onto the grass. Lucky was alone on the barrier wall. He stared across the wide expanse of surging water, willing his eyes to see the unseeable. By day sharks roamed the river. Big ones. He 126
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hoped they slept at night, or had already eaten supper and weren’t hungry for young men. What would he do if Amos … His stomach hurt and a mosquito buzzed about his ear. He wanted to go home, flop into his little bed and wake up in the morning alongside his brother. But he couldn’t leave his watch. If he did, he was sure, something awful would happen. Wait a minute. He was Lucky, wasn’t he? So dubbed by the one-legged digger who played poker with his mates in the shade in the park. ‘Hey Lucky, come and cut m’cards. I’m not doin’ too good today.’ Lucky would cross his fingers and whisper his secret word Shalakazam. Whenever the old codger won, he would give him an aniseed humbug from the white paper bag in his pocket. ‘Lucky by name, lucky by nature.’ Lucky focused all his energy into the night, into the river. Crossed his fingers and said Shalakazam three times in a row. Projected all that luck onto his brother. Then he closed his eyes, searched his mind, conjured up an image of hope. ‘Amos, swim like a dolphin,’ he whispered like a prayer. He opened his eyes. One thousand moons, as bright and bold as daylight, danced on the water. On the far bank two dark figures waved their arms over head. ‘Coo-eee!’ Lucky jumped to his feet and shouted back, ‘Who won?’ ‘Me!’ This was Amos. The others ran onto the pool edge. ‘Race back! Race back!’ 127
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‘Give us ten,’ from the other bank. The two walked along the water’s edge until they were a long way upstream from where they had landed. When they began to swim, the current swept them down and across in a wide arc towards the baths. They stumbled up the bank and dropped puffing onto the grass. ‘Bloody won’t be doing that again,’ said Stan. ‘Me neither.’ ‘Any beer left?’ ‘Nah.’ ‘Little buggers’ve drunk the lot!’ ‘I’m done in,’ said Amos. ‘Might head off home.’ He pulled his shirt over his wet body and stooped to pick up his fishing gear. ‘Come on, squirt. You should’ve been in bed hours ago.’ They walked through the park by the bowls club. Lucky had no idea what time it was. Most houses were in darkness. Even the party was finished. Their shadows rippled across fence palings all the way to number fifty-three. ‘Not a word to anyone. Promise,’ said Amos. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ They spat on their palms and clamped them together. A vow unto death. In the sticky heat of Sunday afternoon Lucky pulled himself along the timber edge of the baths and turned once again to face his instructor. He stuck his foot into the slime and 128
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pushed off towards the centre. This time he remembered to kick his feet and stretch his arms right out in front as Amos had shown him. He took one big windmill stroke. Another. The thrill of doing it right broke his concentration. He laughed, sank, swallowed a mouthful. ‘Keep going, squirt. A bit more practice and I’ll race you to the other side.’
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