Neptune's Fingers (11 page)

“The yardarm? You really have been reading up haven't you? You mean up the derrick!” Bill was turning into more of a realist than Jack. Yardarm indeed!

“The derrick. Yardarm. What's the difference. I was up there and I took my shoes off so I wouldn't slip. I left them there. I don't remember how I got down again. It happened too quickly.” Maybe it was a mistake to tell Bill. You think you know someone and how they will react, but then they show you don't know them at all. Jack felt strangely upset. “Never mind,” he said and made to stand up again.

“Hold on,” said Bill, grasping his shirt sleeve. Jack always listened to him when problems bothered him. Jack was genuinely upset and on Christmas Day too. What harm would it do to listen? “Is that all that happened?”

“No.” Jack no longer felt secure with his friend.

“Tell me. I'm sorry I laughed. You caught me by surprise. Honest.” Bill cajoled as gently as he knew how. Something here was not right.

“I've been on board The Kestrel three times now,” said Jack. Bill nodded encouragement. He could not trust himself to speak for fear his tone should betray him. These were dreams. Maybe there was a reason for them that could be explained away. He chose to listen in silence.

“The second time I met someone else.” Edward McPhail as a boy was described along with the appalling conditions he endured. Jack described the scene in graphic detail, including the smells, the ship's sounds and the language of the sailors of the day. Jack had never mentioned sailing ships before. If he'd been reading about them, it was a recent study and Bill thought there had been scant opportunity for that. Come to think of it, Jack was not a boat person. He, Bill, was. He was pretty sure Jack had not been on a night trip like the one he had with Harry and yet here he was describing a ship at night time with no indication of having to think too hard about it. Doubt gnawed at the back of Bill's mind.

“Did you see the same boy again?” he asked.

“Not that time. I don't know where he was. He knew I'd been there though” said Jack.

“How do you know?” The story was now compelling. Bill was fascinated.

“By the way he greeted me the third time I was on board.”

Jack related the third time as he watched the deck being swabbed and the young boy, now identified, as a cabin boy, dressed in cleaner clothes and no longer starving.

“Geez,” breathed Bill. “And are you sure it was your Grandfather?”

“Yes.”

Bill no longer felt inclined to argue. True or not, it was a terrific story.

“What about the first boy? Who's he?” he asked, intrigued.

“I don't know but I feel I should know him. It's frustrating to get this far and be left foundering. I feel as good as that wreck down there.” He let out a long sigh.

Both boys sat with the drowned ship in their sights, lost in a world of yesterday. Suddenly Bill said;

“I'd like to touch it too.”

“Really?” Jack checked to make sure Bill was not making fun of him. “We'd be skinned alive if we even thought about it today,” he said.

“Ah, but there's always tomorrow,” said Bill, holding out his hand to Jack's, like one of the musketeers making a pact.

Jack took his hand and grinned. Good old Bill. He was wrong to doubt him. Tomorrow would do. The tide would be much the same as today.

“Yoo-hoooo!” came the summons. Ginny let fly with a call rivaling a dingo, announcing the much-awaited feast. Ella's culinary delights were prepared. It was time to do justice to them.

E
ight people sat around the oak table. Actually, seven sat and one alternately sat and got up and fussed about one thing or another and then sat again.

“Will you rest, woman? Sit down and eat it, lass. It's too good to let grow cold.” George knew she would fuss and flit around for the whole meal if allowed. It was only her excitement and pleasure in the opportunity to look after everyone, he knew, but it wore him out looking at her in action.

“I forgot the beans,” she said. “Look. Ginny did these. She's a gem.”

“Best looking beans I ever saw,” said Jim, who arrived during the boys' absence.

Ginny beamed. Keeping up with her brother often left her with the feeling of being inferior. Praise did wonders for her. A sunny, radiant smile shone on her face all through the meal.

It appeared Bill's pleas for the fate of the lobster were heeded. It did not lay wallowing in beer or flavored with curry. Instead, it was cut lengthwise and left cold and natural, its legs falling over the edges of the plate. Ginny commandeered several of these and proceeded to break them open and suck on the juicy flesh. She claimed it was sweeter than the rest of it. No one argued. They were happy to have the larger pieces of meat. A mound of tiger prawns, still in their shells, formed a mini mountain between the lobster and the next dish. The snapper, baked to a turn, overflowed another large plate in the center of the table. It was surrounded by an array of potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and onions, enough to feed an army. The group present at the table made a silent vow to do their best with it all. Two large jugs filled with freshly squeezed lemonade guaranteed the heat of the kitchen and the summer's day would go unnoticed, at least for the moment.

In front of each person was a small parcel, each wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bow. They were intriguing.

“They are for later,” said Ella. Ginny gave a knowing smirk. She knew the secret as she helped her mother wrap the parcels.

A lot of good-natured complaints followed this, but no one went against her wishes. She had provided a wonderful meal. Henry stood and helped dole out the fish in large slices. Wedges of lemon accompanied it. They tucked into the fish first, while it was hot. Conversation slowed. Soon a pile of shells and bones was all that was left to show for Ella's work.

“It didn't take us long to demolish that. Well done, Ella.” George's pride showed.

“Got any room for pudding?” Ella had to be joking. Groans erupted all round the table. Her face fell.

“Only joking, Mum,” said Bill, laughing. “Just let us get up and shake this lot down first.

“Plenty of time,” said Ella Tarrant, brightening. “I have to make the custard. She jumped to her feet and went about her work, while the pudding continued to heat in its cloth on the stove.

“What about these parcels, Mum?” said Bill.

“All right. They'll keep you occupied while I finish this.”

Rustling of paper and speculation from the receivers filled the room. When opened, each one revealed a confection, hand-made, and all different. There was a marzipan sailor for Bill. Jim had a small marzipan whelk like some of the shells he collected each day. A marzipan lantern hid in Bob's parcel while Henry discovered a marzipan lighthouse. Ginny's was a candy horse on a stick, the closest she would come to owning the horse she dreamed of. Ella had some marvelous moulds in animals shapes and this was Ginny's favorite. George found a marzipan marlin, the fish of his dreams. How he longed to hook something that big!

When Jack opened his, he found a sailing ship, made of marzipan with wonderful detail piped in hard frosting. The personal nature of these gifts hit home. She knew them all well and went straight to the heart. Jack wondered about his gift. His connection with The Kestrel had not been shared with Bill's mother. How did she know? He looked at her in wonder as she continued to stir the custard. Delighted shrieks and comments, the only thanks she wanted, made a symphony to delight. Lifting the saucepan from the stove, she turned to them, still holding it before her, and looked straight at Jack. Suddenly he knew the answer to what had been unanswerable only an hour or so before.

No one else seemed to notice the long gaze between them. They were busy showing their delicious treasure to one another. Finally, she smiled, and turned back to the stove to deal with the pudding. Jack's mind was awhirl. What if someone asked him about his gift? Bill knew about The Kestrel. Jack did not want to share with the others yet. But one thing he knew for certain. Ella Tarrant had the same face as the mysterious boy on the derrick. Jack was amazed he had not noticed before. Usually her long hair fell around her small face in a mass of curls. Today it was pulled back in what Bill called her ‘going out' hair-do. The boy on the ship wore a sailor's pigtail, covering none of his face, but showing his features clearly. No wonder Jack felt there was something he should know. He had to find out more.

“The detail, Mrs. Tarrant. It's great. Do you know about sailing ships?” He had to ask.

“Surely. My father was a sailor when he was young. He talked about the sea a lot. I don't think I could ever live anywhere else. It's ingrained in me, somehow.”

“Yes. I know what you mean.” How do you ask questions without giving yourself away before you are ready? Jack searched for the right question to ask. It is a peculiar thing how humans think they must ask everything themselves, even when surrounded by other able bodied folk. This was the case here. Jack strove to find a way to ask when a simple remark was at this very moment sitting on the tip of someone else's tongue. Sometimes, all he had to do was wait and listen.

“It's a shame he died so young, Ella,” said Jim Madigan. “I remember him well. You have his sparkling eyes and his mischief.”

Ella was now placing bowls of delicious pudding before each person. She laughed and said to Jim;

“Mischief? Me? Get away with you. But you're right. I was a young girl when he drowned. I can't imagine what he was thinking. Everyone around knows how dangerous the spit is.”

“He drowned on the spit?” The question came out before Jack could think. The mind is a smart thing. It can produce more than one picture at once and Jack could see the boy on the other side of the spit, and up the mast and on the deck of The Kestrel. Now he knew what happened to the second survivor. He did not vanish. He just turned up and stayed. The only person who seemed aware there were two survivors at all, was Jim Madigan and possibly Ella. Jack turned to look at Jim.

Well, I'll be…. thought Jack. Am I the only one who doesn't know?

Jim's face was enigmatic. He gave little away. A good poker player, I bet, thought Jack. He turned back to Ella Tarrant who had reached his place to serve him his pudding.

“What was his name, Mrs. Tarrant?” Jack longed to give a name to the boy.

“Bert, they called him, short for Albert. Albert Madigan.” She sighed.

“Madigan?” It sounded like a yelp. Jack felt as though he was fourteen, going on two.

“Lord, yes. He was my father and Jim's, this weather-beaten character here.” she said with an affectionate smile to her brother. “My brother, James.”

“That'll be enough of that, Ella. Jim's grand enough for me.” Turning his squinting eyes on Jack, he continued. “It's not a secret. Just that no one ever asked. I know where she is and she knows where I am. I don't want to move too far from the spit. It holds me, somehow. Though, I don't walk over it like some silly people. That's what boats are for.”

“You're telling me!” said Ella.

“I know I always called you Uncle Jim when I was younger, but I was pretty vague about why,” said Bill.

“I knew,” said Ginny, superior to the core.

Bill's eyes flew to the ceiling. Honestly! “I thought everyone knew that,” he said to Jack, with a shrug.

Jack wondered why his father never said anything about it. Come to think about it, Henry only offered information about others when asked or if he thought it necessary. Everyone liked Jim. Who cared who's brother he was! Fine. Now he knew. In the final analysis, it did not change a thing. The issue for Jack was that Albert Madigan sought him out. Why? Why not Bill? He was his grandson. For that matter, why not Jim? Jack remembered the strange sensation he felt the day after his near miss on the spit. He thought Jim had seen the boy too, even though he said he didn't. And as far as Albert Madigan was concerned, he, Jack, was the grandson of a stowaway. Some credentials!

The conversation passed to other things and left Jack behind. He let it happen while his mind took stock of things. It was more important to him than ever to explore The Kestrel. This, however, was Christmas, his last day of freedom because tomorrow he would be an apprentice Lighthouse Keeper and bound to the will of his father.

T
he island felt deserted after the Tarrants' farewells. Even Jim went to visit friends further up the coast on Boxing Day. He took his boat and headed north. Jack watched until it became a tiny speck and then disappeared altogether. Being a lighthouse keeper was something Jack had looked forward to all his life but with the recent turn of events, the whole idea of it got in his way. He wanted to explore The Kestrel. It poked its fractured, seaweed-strewn mast out of the water each day. He felt as though it was thumbing its nose at him. ‘The secret is safe. Foiled, you nosey parker.' The whole idea was red rag to a bull. Jack's determination mushroomed until it was all he could think of. His father tolerated his erratic behavior for a while but even he lost patience when Jack continued to stomp around like a caged lion.

“For heaven's sake, Jack, pay attention. If you spill that kerosene we will have all sorts of problems here.” Henry took the container out of Jack's hands and finished filling the lamp himself. “This is serious business, son. We want a light, not a fire.”

Jack pulled himself up with a start. His father was right. Oh, why had all this started? He was content with life before he saw the boy. Now, his perspective was altered and unimaginable things were more important than his lifelong dream. He felt annoyed. He was losing control of his own life and being led down one not of his choosing. Or were they really dreams, those amazing trips into the past?

“Sorry, Dad. Daydreaming,” he said. He silently vowed to be more careful. He would be here all day today, preparing the lamp for the dark. Today, he and Henry were to look at the bearings that allowed the light to turn and so give out its signature pulse – one red flash followed by a white one. If the light jammed, it could be mistaken for a different signal causing sailors to veer onto the waiting rocks. That signature said ‘this is Neptune's Fingers' as clear as words.

The rest of the day, Jack concentrated with all his might. The Kestrel vanished like a submarine and ceased to taunt him. That was much easier. His will to do well for his father resulted in a lighthouse that gleamed. All its surfaces winked back at him in the sun like a jolly old face. The day sped away at an astonishing rate as though it wanted to flee this frenetic apprentice and hide in the darkness of night. All Henry could do was shake his head.

“It's either feast or famine with you, isn't it? I thought the glass was in danger of being rubbed away for a while there.” Henry puffed sagely on his pipe, his eyes twinkling under his bushy eyebrows. “Off you go lad. After dinner you had better practice up your signals. You're a bit slow even if you do know all of them.”

“Yeah. I need to do it more often. We don't get many calls for it,” he said.

“Thank the Lord for that,” answered Henry.

Jack skipped down the stairs and out into the late afternoon. A few clouds lurked on the horizon but they often did. They were usually further away than they appeared and any rain they held was dumped out at sea more often than on the land. As you approached them in a boat, they retreated further like the intangible end of a rainbow. Jack believed clouds and rainbows were related to one another. The tricksters of nature. Let them lurk, then. Meanwhile, sunny days continued at Neptune's Fingers.

Although he was tired, he made a detour through the vegetable patch. The tomatoes were ripe and in need of picking. He decided to get as many as he could hold. “Tomatoes and onions tonight! I couldn't face any more seafood today.”

Neptune's Fingers was well known for its tomatoes that thrived in the gray sandy soil. Each week over the summer, they were loaded on the steamer from the city and sold there for a disappointing sum. Still, it was better than nothing. Jack looked at the fine crop sprawling on the trellis his father erected and felt great satisfaction. These were very large. Only the other day, Jim asked if he could buy a pound of tomatoes but Henry told him he thought it was a shame to cut one just for a pound. They both had laughed and Henry ended up giving him a bagful.

I'm not the only one who works on ‘feast or famine', he thought. Look at these beauties. We'll never get through all of these. There was a limit to how many pickles could be made too. Lack of containers put paid to that. It's nice to share, thought Jack. I feel better about it when I see those poor devils in the shanty town at Sandy Bay. It's not their fault they have no jobs.

It appeared there were a few things in young Jack's life he thought could stand some attention. The Depression was one, for a start. Then again, work wasn't all it was cracked up to be. If he didn't have to work, he would have time to explore The kestrel. Ohhhh! What a perverse thing life was!

By the time Henry came in, Jack had produced a fine batch of fried tomatoes and onions and piles of toast. He spooned the mushy mess onto two thick pieces of toast each and set them on the table.

“That's a nice surprise. I didn't relish having to get dinner tonight. I'm still getting over yesterday,” said his father.

“Yeah. I know what you mean. Want some tea?” asked Jack.

“Oh, lovely,” said Henry, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

Jack was surprised how tired he was. The physical work he put in, linked with the over-activity of his mind, wore him out, and his bed beckoned him early. Tomorrow would be better. Bill was coming over at low tide to stay for a couple of days. Jack knew his father was weaning him from his boyhood gently by giving him some latitude. He still had his work to do but Bill could help – or hinder – as the case may be.

Bill thought the lighthouse was fun but his soul belonged
on
the sea, not overlooking it. Jack was glad to have his company. When he explored The Kestrel, he wanted Bill to be there with him. The two boys shared all their great moments so it was unthinkable not to include him. Now he knew Bill's connection to the boy, it was even more imperative. Jack fell asleep, secure in the knowledge the world would be less vexing with the arrival of Bill.

Jack peered out of the lighthouse windows into the gray day. The clouds on the horizon must have heard his jibe yesterday, for here they were, crowding about the island in a thick blanket. A brisk wind hustled them along, nipping at their heels like a sheepdog and driving them into a bunch of gray cotton wool. Low tide was near midday so Bill would be lucky to arrive dry. Gone was the vivid blue sky and the heat with it. A southerly arrived during the night, bringing welcome relief from the desiccating sun. It would rain before long.

The Kestrel pointed its mast into the wind as though checking its direction. A crazy notion made Jack laugh. What if The Kestrel thought it was too cold today and decided not to come out? The poor old thing was wedged so tight in the rocks, and many a rough sea had failed to dislodge it. No doubt it would survive a bit of a southerly. Chuckling to himself, he sought his father to receive his instructions for the morning. He found him frowning in front of the barometer. The needle lay like a dead thing on the far left hand side of the glass face. It was not surprising it was low as the weather was changed from yesterday, but to see it as low as this was a shock.

“Gosh!” he gasped.

“Mm,” said his father, distracted. Air pressure this low promised severe weather, possibly for a few days. He checked his log to see what vessels were out. He prided himself with knowing the state of the fishing fleet as these people were his people. Most of the boats had their own barometer and checked the weather regularly. Their lives depended on it. Today, Harry Landy was out. He left at first light to make up for the time off at Christmas. He would trawl a few miles out and come home late in the afternoon. Harry's routine was well-known. Lofty Lynch went out yesterday and should be home this afternoon. Jack saw the dark green Eileen, churning through the water and carving a white wake on the deep sapphire blue sea. The rest of the fleet either had enough fish or heeded the barometer, considering the turn in the weather too great a risk to venture out.

It bothered Jack that Harry was out there. He was a game fellow and was not frightened of much but this might be some seriously bad weather approaching. Jack had been around barometers long enough to know they changed as the air pressure changed. The effects of that change usually took a day or two to eventuate. That meant, if the barometer fell, there was time to get to safety, as a rule. He looked back at the silent face on the wall with a sense of foreboding. Something told him this would not be an ordinary blow.

Henry said nothing about his thoughts. No doubt he wondered at the prudence of experienced sailors ignoring a warning like this. It was not his job to question, however, but to provide assistance if required and a light in the dark.

Jack realized he would have plenty to do today as it was getting darker by the minute. He quietly worried about Harry Landy. Please Harry, come home now. My father is worried. I am worried.

The tide retreated and more of the mast of The Kestrel poked up into the air. The tip of the keel pierced through the waves but vanished as quickly, as the sea foamed in the wind's growing intensity. Playful waves were breaking up and shattering on the rocks and the wreck in white foam. The sea was slopping over the rocks, flung there by the wind, mocking the pull of the retreating tide. The rocks and The Kestrel would have to endure this for a little longer. At least at low tide, the rocks lay exposed and passing vessels could see them.

Jack doubted it would rain at present but it couldn't be too far away. Gray was turning to a bruised gray, green and black and a flash of lightning burned across the sky like an vivid, overcrowded, crazy roadmap. The sea went from gray to white in an instant and back again to gray, followed by a volley of thunder announcing the arrival of heaven's artillery. The storm was closer than he thought.

Had either Henry Lambeth or Jack been a bird in the sky, they would have known the storm was part of a major front racing up the coast like a mad thing. The far south coast, under siege all night, lay drowning in the aftermath and listening to the diminishing rumbles of the thunder as it rolled inexorably northward. The vanguard of the storm was not far off as the scouts had arrived, flexing their muscles in warning.