Neptune's Fingers (2 page)

“There you are! I'll need you to take these over to the Graham's,” she said, breathless, holding up some clothes in a bundle. She was a neat seamstress and the proud owner of a Singer sewing machine. She did mending for folks who lacked the means to do their own. Clothes lasted as long as it was possible to make them these days. She traded her skill for vegetables or some other commodity she was unable to provide and had no money to buy. “You been in that channel again?” It wasn't really a question as she gave Bill no time to answer. You too?” looking at Jack. “Lord, I don't know. I think the Good Lord gave boys a self-destruct button. Virginia, get that other bundle will you?”

Crikey, thought Bill with admiration, the woman never drew breath!

“Take this one to Mrs. Hill.” Ella Tarrant ran out of words, at last.

Ginny gritted her teeth. No one called her Virginia. It was too grand for this place and a little overwhelming for her. ‘Ginny' felt more lived in.

“Your face will stay like that if the wind changes,” laughed her mother. “All right. Ginny! That better, Miss?”

Ginny subsided. She only wanted to be noticed when all was said and done. Some of her facial expressions were legendary. People noticed, all right!

“You doing her sewing too mum? I thought she did her own.” Bill wanted to change the subject. Anything was better than Ginny moaning and whingeing.

“Broke her finger, poor thing,” said Mrs. Tarrant. “Can't sew a stitch.”

“Can it wait till Jack goes? He won't be here long.” It was a reasonable request. No one lived by timetables unless the tide was involved.

“Fair enough. There's some lemonade in the jug. Thirsty?” She dumped the bundles on the table where Bill and Ginny could not miss them.

“Sure are,” said Bill. He poured three glasses, including one for his sister who took it silently, mollified for the moment.

“Thanks, Mrs. Tarrant,” grinned Jack.

She crossed to the ice chest, a marvelous cabinet housing a huge chunk of ice that slowly melted as the day progressed. A tray underneath caught the drips. She reached in and took out a huge lobster. It was cooked, Jack was relieved to see. He hated the way lobsters were cooked. To see them in boiling water till they stopped kicking gave him the horrors. “Soft!” Bill called him.

Mrs. Tarrant frowned. She looked at the lobster as though it had done something wrong and said, exasperated:

“What am I going to do with this thing to make it taste different?” In another place and another time it would have raised a few eyebrows or caused a few bemused smiles, but the lobster pots were always full and around here the fleshy creatures were standard fare. It broke up the monotony of fish. She had even curried one last week.

“Dunno, mum. You'll think of something.” Bill downed his drink in a few large gulps. “You want to see my billy cart?” he said to Jack. Mrs. Tarrant shrugged and left the boys to themselves, the dilemma over the lobster hers alone.

Jack had no real toys on the island. His father had a full-time job and had little time to spare making gadgets to entertain Jack.

He would have liked to do more father-son things but his responsibilities ate away at his time.

Jack's eyes lit up. A billy cart! Would he ever? The two boys raced outside where this marvel in engineering lay waiting. It had three wheels, two at the back and one at the front at the end of a long shaft. It pivoted at the urging of two ropes that allowed it to go right or left. Mister Tarrant was a mechanic by trade and he and Bill produced a contraption to be envied. The old crate that formed the seat, still labeled ‘Granny Smith Apples', was a discard from the general store in Guthrie's Bay. Boxes like this one graced most of the shanties and tents, masquerading as seats, cupboards, clothes chests and the like. Bill was going to spruce it up a bit when the holidays started. Right now, it was in its raw state, just waiting for finishing off.

“Wow! What a beauty! Is it fast?” Jack was envious. “Can I have a go?”

“Sure! We'll take it up the track a bit. There's a bit of a slope. Best we can do around here, I'm afraid.” Bill wanted to take it to Bridle Hill where the old horse trails led up from the coast. It was too far to go today, with the tide already on the turn. The two boys dragged the cart by the ropes until they found an incline that was reasonable, and took turns, feeling the bumpy track bouncing them wonderfully as they careered downwards. The iron wheels rumbled along, grinding the stones and sand beneath them, making a satisfying sound.

Time is an enemy of busy boys. It races away like a demon and before you know it, an age has passed. With a gasp of dismay, Jack skidded the cart to a stop and yelled, “The time! I forgot the time. Oh, hell. Sorry Bill. I've gotta go.”

He leapt out of the cart and ran as fast as he could to the shanty and snatched up his schoolbag, Bill skeltering after him with the billy cart in tow.

“See you, Mrs. Tarrant,” he called, without stopping.

“You still here? Oh Jack. Quickly! You'll have to run. Unless you want to share this monster,” she said pointing to the huge plate where the lobster sprawled, legs hanging over the edge. “Lobster a la Tarrant.” Bill raised his eyes to the heavens. He'd heard all this before. The contents of the dish would remain a mystery until he sank his teeth into it.

Jack flew out and along the track leading to False Bay, Mrs. Tarrant's voice losing pitch in a Doppler effect as he ran. The bush was tinder dry and sharp spikes snatched at him as he passed. He did not notice them. The only thing on his mind was getting to the sand spit before the tide swallowed it up.

J
ack saw his peril. Waves crashed over the spit, covering it completely as they fell in tatters, swallowing up the yellow road. The blurred path of sand could still be seen but it was bathed in water. Watching the sea suck the water back before the next wave, his heart sank, because the sand remained mostly submerged. The tide was further advanced than he realized. He remembered other times as the waves broke and retreated, leaving soft, wet sand sucking at his feet as he waded across. Now the way was well below water and he knew he had an extra problem.

The current running through the channel high tide created, was fierce. It dragged you from your purpose and it was hard not to end up in deeper water, carried by the wild undertow. Once in that situation, a swimmer had to fight against the flow of the water's drag. Eddies and whirlpools added to the nightmare. Visitors had drowned here in the past, unaware of the dangers. It only took one wave bigger than the last to take everything out of your control.

Even locals who should have known better had drowned, believing they would be able to get across. Only last year, Merv Brodie was found, washed up on the beach. He was the extra hand at the lighthouse, going across to visit a friend and he should have known better. Since the accident, Jack's father watched his son like a hawk. It would be a testy time tonight when he finally got home. Jack knew he had done wrong.

There was no time to waste. It was hard to tell how deep the water was. All he knew was it would tug at his legs viciously all the way. It was more than a two hundred yard stretch of water to the island. At low tide it never looked far. When submerged it was a frightening, long way.

Jack dumped his schoolbag, now holding his sandals, under the scrubby trees near the shore. He might need his arms free to swim. He'd hate school to be the reason he drowned. It wouldn't be, though, would it? It would be his carelessness. His stupidity. He didn't need the weight of shoes either, and sandals might come off and be lost. There was not much chance of getting another pair. It would be safe, even if it rained, and he never learnt what homework was so nothing in his bag was needed overnight. Kids here had to pitch in and help with chores or fishing when they got home. Mister Bryant, the schoolteacher was pragmatic about these things. He did his best while the children were in his classroom. That was all he could do.

Jack could feel his heart pumping in his chest. There was no panic but he was not happy. I must be mad, he thought. The first rush of water over his feet was not alarming. It swirled around him and retreated. At the extremities of the spit a sandy path still led out towards the beach at either end. Jack set his mind to the task and waded into the water. He knew the sand would not remain level and there were holes that would catch him unawares. Going as fast as he could was not going to be the fastest way across. He needed his wits about him.

His feet groped along the treacherous sand. It gave way under him as he walked, dragging and sucking at his feet, making his heart race as he waited for a hidden trough to swallow him. Waves continued to roll across. He was up to his knees now. The pressure of the water as it dragged and pushed at his legs was getting stronger. Doggedly he pressed on. So far there were no pits to fall into and that was a relief. The comfortable state of affairs was unlikely to continue, however. Either a big wave would submerge him or a gouge in the sand would make him disappear under the water. He was ready for attack at both levels.

A brisk nor'easter had picked up. The dependable wind arrived every afternoon in summer, cooling the place down after the heat of the day. It was a blessing on most summer days. Out here it was a nuisance, whipping up the waves to white caps. Choppy water meant a stronger sea and greater danger.

Then it happened. The ground, such as it was, gave way. He gasped, arms flailing about, caught unaware for all his care. Knowing the danger never prepared you for the shock of the actual event. He knew he must stay above the sand spit. If he let the current carry him away, he was in trouble. Who knew where he would end up?

He found he could still stand up, but the water was up to his neck and waves crashed over his head. He wafted in the water like strands of seaweed as he fought to remain above the spit, his body buoyant, converting him to flotsam. He spluttered and took in deep breaths when he surfaced between waves. He tried to swim, hoping the trough was only a small one. It was bound to get bigger as the tide advanced. It was no place to stay.

Between strokes he felt for the bottom. At first he had no success. Panic mounted and he forced himself to ignore it and focus on the task at hand. Panic would not help in a crisis. A wave of relief flooded him as his feet touched higher ground. Standing here, the water was up to his waist. That was bad enough with the pull of the water. It seemed hell-bent on upending him into the deeper water once more. His momentary foothold would not last much longer.

Halfway. Not enough. Come on, now. He urged his drifting feet to keep going. It was like walking in treacle and being buffeted about the head at the same time. It took a huge amount of energy. His breath labored. He was tired enough after his time with Bill and then a run through the bush to the spit.

He was at the point of no return. It was just as far to go back as to go on. There was nothing for it but to keep going and hope a shark didn't take this path looking for dinner. He shuddered at the thought.

That galvanized his efforts. He plowed through the water with a will but made slow progress.

“Gawd, this is madness,” he gasped.

Something swirled about his legs, making him start. A branch of kelp, torn from the seabed tangled around him, undulating with the movement of the water. He thrashed his leg about to dislodge it, his mind conjuring up unwanted visions to add to his misery. It gave him the creeps.

“Cripes!” he breathed, relieved it was nothing more sinister. A rueful smile hovered on his face as he thought how carefully he and Bill had kept their clothes dry that afternoon. “They're drenched now, all right,” he muttered. There was no humor in his jest. He might laugh later if he got the chance.

He was almost past the deepest part of the channel. There was less chance of a hole closer to the shore but you never could tell. He stayed alert and fixed his eyes on the beach of Narrowgut as the sand under his feet started to rise – and with it, his spirits. The water still pulled him but it was not as deep now. As it receded to his knees, he blew out a long breath of relief. He could manage this bit. He tried to run, lifting his knees comically like a surfer at the end of a race, and burst out of the waves onto the dry sand above the tide line. Exhausted, he flung himself down on the sand and took in huge gulps of air. His heart was racing and his head pounded.

‘A galah,' his dad would call him, referring to the pink and gray parrots not renowned for their common sense. ‘A mug,' another expression well-worn in times of exasperation.

Jack was not about to argue. He was both of those things. He knew he was in for a tongue-lashing when he got home. His father would be frantic if he lost Jack. These expressions were his way of showing he cared. Jack learnt this early in the piece. He would take his punishment. He knew he deserved it. He was too busy being relieved he escaped a worse experience.

When his breathing was back to normal, he sat up and looked back at the channel. Any later and it would have been impossible. Waves covered the spit and to the naked eye, there was no spit at all. It had vanished. There was no evidence of its ever being in existence. Slowly he got to his feet, dragging his fingers though his hair, which was lying flat on his skull, plastered down with water. He succeeded in making it stand up in spikes, like a rooster's comb. He could feel it there, rearing up from his head and drooping over at the top with the weight of the water.

“More like a galah than ever,” he laughed as visions of the ruffled feathers on the parrots head came into his mind. “Gawd a bloke thinks of stupid thing at times.”

He mussed up his hair again as if to eradicate silly thoughts that might linger beneath it, shrugged his shoulders and was about to head for the track and home. He stopped midstride, looking out across the water, now thrashing over the spit. Someone else was over there. Surely he wasn't going to cross over. Who on earth would be so stupid? At least he lived here. He had little choice in the matter. The stranger must have followed him.

Dripping wet, cold and stunned, he stood watching. The person wore long pants. His chest was bare, as were his feet. A boy, he thought. The figure stopped, raised an arm and waved at Jack. Stupidly, Jack waved back, returning his arm self-consciously to his side. What did he think he was doing? It was madness to wave. The boy might be tempted to cross the spit and that would end in disaster.

Suddenly, the figure vanished. One minute he was there waving and the next he was gone. He simply vanished. Jack started, shocked and dismayed as his mind rationalized this scene as best it could. He blinked several times to refocus his unreliable eyes. He was imagining things, surely. Must have swallowed too much water or something, he decided.

When the figure did not reappear, Jack didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. Who was he? Where was he? He watched for a while, in the hope the boy would re-appear. He didn't. The waves continued to buffet the spit, each huge gulp submerging it deeper and deeper until it was deep enough to flow smoothly over the top.

Jack shrugged. “Dreaming!” he thought. “Better get going.” Scratching his head, bewildered, he turned towards the track. Trees grew on this side of the island, hiding the lighthouse from view. A gray sandy track led through it and over the hill to the rocky land on the other side. Now his shock was over, he was surprised his father was not in sight looking for him. Once before when he was late, his father stood on the beach and signaled for him to stay where he was in much the same way as the mysterious boy had done. He spent the night at Bill's place. Mrs. Tarrant hadn't minded but there was little room for visitors in the shanties. His father told him never to be so dense again. He could see for himself when he could cross safely. He was not allowed over the spit for a week as punishment. His absence from school was noted but ignored as foul weather kept him a prisoner at Narrowgut at times, especially in winter, just as surely as the tide did on other occasions.

“Use your brains, son,” his father said. “They're not there just to fill up your skull.”

Today, Jack wasn't so sure. Wet, cold now that the wind fanned his drenched clothes, and exhausted, he trudged to the top of the hill. The stones in the sand did not bother his leathery feet. Most of the children went barefoot from preference, which was lucky. A good deal of them did not own a pair of shoes. There were few places to go where shoes were mandatory so bare feet were the order of the day. Shoes, if you had a pair, lasted longer this way but it was doubtful the children gave that a second thought. Walking bare-foot was synonymous with freedom. As a result, soft feet turned to leather at an early age.

The heat of the sun-baked sand diminished in the nor'easter to a pleasant warmth. Jack stopped at the crest of the hill and looked back over the spit. There was nothing amiss as far as he could see. No boy stood there waving. He was strangely disappointed. He turned for home and reaching the top of the small hill, looked over the buildings below.

The lighthouse commanded his immediate attention. It always did. It stood tall and resolute on the barren rocky ground, gleaming gold in the last embers of the sinking sun. The lamps were already lit as dusk settled down over the sea. It gave him a warm feeling inside to see it there. It never failed to stir up strong emotions. His heart and soul belonged in that monolith. The surety of its light, its own signature pulse announcing its location to sailors, gave him a sense of pride. His family kept it going generation after generation. He would be the next keeper after his father. The austere island, cut off from the world twice a day, was a hard master. Suddenly, after his ordeal and shame at his stupidity, the steadfast, reliable tower gleamed back at him, a pillar of certainty. Tears prickled his eyes.

Jack, you're fourteen years old, he berated himself. The world has gone mad but this place stays the same – a rock – a friend. You're a lame-brain. He realized in one sudden moment what he had. The transient lives of those in the shanties and the tent city surrounding it, that his vivid imagination thought of as romantic, lacked the luxury and security he had here. It was as though the waters washed away his fantasies and focused his vision in reality. The houses beside the lighthouse, one for his father and him, and one for the new hand, Bob, were made of stone. Squat, square and gray, they looked small next to the tall beacon. No, Jack, he thought. This is romantic. It was then he saw his father.

Henry Lambeth had seen Jack too. He waited for the boy to reach him, giving no indication of his mood. Jack felt uncomfortable. He would prefer his father to tell him off rather than this silence. He felt sillier than ever. Henry Lambeth's eyes were fixed on him the whole way down the hill. They were still there when Jack, sheepish, reached him. The look said what words could not. His father had been worried sick. He came out with the express purpose of getting the launch and going in search of his son. A man who lost all his family was a desolate thing. Anger, annoyance, worry, concern, relief, all contributed to his expression. Jack suddenly realized how much he loved his father but it had never before occurred to the boy how much he meant to his father.

“Dad,” was all he could say, and hung his head like a small child. “I'm sorry.”

Henry Lambeth was a no nonsense, astute man. His son's bedraggled state, his meek, embarrassed demeanor made chastisement redundant. He let out a sigh; a breath that had been begging to escape for some time.

“Damned fool,” he muttered. “Brains made of cotton wool.”