Neptune's Fingers (6 page)

S
unday dawned with all the sunshine Jim predicted. Not one cloud blemished the clear blue of the sky. The Regatta was a fun day on a calendar where daily grind was the norm. Needless to say, everyone was involved one way or another. As many as possible, young ones in particular, found a trawler to call their own and clambered on board with great expectations. The Aurora was resplendent in colored bunting, rescued from some dark cupboard where they hid from one year to the next, all thought of fishing banished for the day.

At Guthrie's Bay, it was a Public Holiday, proclaimed by everyone who lived there. No one was going to argue. Some things were sacred. Twelve trawlers moored in the Bay each night and ten of them were ready for the contest. Lofty Lynch's boat, The Eileen was still out fishing but no one worried. He would be back in time. Wild horses could not keep him away. Trawlers were work horses – glorified tubs – built for stability no matter what the weather. Speed was not essential. If Lofty's boat had a full hold he might even be given a head start to save him unloading. Fair was fair.

The Dawnwind, painted a splendid ochre with orange trim, stood out amongst the gray or white of the other boats, red and blue bunting fluttering from the derrick. Only The Eileen, a deep green, kept the Dawnwind company in the fashion stakes but until it returned to port, Dawnwind drew the eye.

“Damned nonsense,” Harry called it. “If I wanted to be a decorator I'd have taken up a paintbrush for a trade. Gray hides a multitude of sins. Fishing is a bit messy once the fish are on board.” Rust colored stains added a lived-in look along the hull where water escaped from the bilges.

Ginny disagreed. Her small feet led her straight to the Dawnwind, secure in the knowledge it had the biggest motor and therefore was the fastest boat.

“Sound Mathematics,” Mrs. Tarrant said when Bill complained of her disloyalty for Harry. “You can't argue with the numbers.”

The irritating thing was, she was right. Nothing rankled Bill more than when his younger sister won anything over him. She took first prize in gloating and it was insufferable. She would eventually be told to cut it out, but she had a look that gloated better than her words.

Bill's feet strode to The Aurora, leapt across the gap between wharf and boat and found Jack, already entrenched on the bow, just under the cabin window. There was a space saved for Bill. He settled down and gave a contented sigh. Every day ought to be like this.

“Thought you weren't coming. I got here quick smart to get our spot up here,” Jack said in greeting.

“Yeah. Ginny's carrying on! You know how it is? She's on the opposition as you might expect. The Dawnwind!” Bill may have sounded disparaging but he would love to own a boat like the Dawnwind. He would never admit to jealousy so he took out his frustration on Ginny. “Harry said I could go in the wheelhouse while we're racing. I'd love to work on a boat like this,” he said, changing the subject. Bill was suddenly in heaven.

“You've got salt water running in your veins,” said Jack with laugh. If Bill wasn't in the water, he was on it. He'd sleep there if he could. “Plenty of time. I think I'll stay out here. I get cooped up at home so out in the open sounds good to me.” Jack determined to enjoy every moment of his last days of freedom. It would end next week, after Christmas. It was hard to think about it now it was upon him. No more jaunts with Bill in his billy cart. No more impromptu swims or hikes. Life was about to change.

Harry's boat was popular. That is to say, Harry was popular. His laughter was effervescent and contagious. His boat filled up first every year. Everyone knew everybody. This day of frivolity belonged to the locals. It was compensation for the hardships endured in order to make ends meet. It was an escape for those with no employment; anesthesia to dull the hopelessness of no income. There were families out for a thrilling ride. Wal even forgot his oysters today and joined in, although he headed for The Marlin, a gray trawler with the derrick at the fore and the wheelhouse aft. Jack laughed. “It doesn't know if it's coming or going,” he often said.

“There she is!” Jack didn't know who shouted but everyone looked out towards the point at the end of the beach. The Eileen came into view. She rode round it into Guthrie's Bay, increasing in size as she hastened to the wharf. A small group of expectant passengers cheered when they saw her. It was beginning to look doubtful they would be in the race. Now, their loyalty was rewarded. Here she was, and not a moment too soon. There was half an hour to go to get to the starting line, a pre-ordained spot marked by buoys. Jack found it hard to believe a better day could be had. All augured well for a spectacular display of boats, sea foam, bunting and cheering passengers.

Waiting is always the hardest part but finally the time arrived, to the cheers of the passengers, and Harry and the other fishermen started the engines. The fumes from the fuel filled their nostrils. That would be short-lived, though. Once underway, the wind took care of that. With consummate skill, Harry reversed from the wharf. Some of the other boats were on their way as well. It was hard not to feel excited.

“I hope we're next to Dawnwind. I want to give Ginny a hard time.” Bill knew what was expected of an older brother. “Girls. What do they know about boats?”

Jack only grinned. Ginny was on the best bet that he could see if winning was your aim. She seemed to know a fair bit about boats. Bill would be happy no matter where they came. Being here was fantastic. With few rules to get in the way, the boats jostled for a spot on the starting line, motors idling, ready for a quick getaway. Eleven boats, chunky, serviceable workboats, stood proudly as though they were a fleet of sailing craft on the playground of the rich. Today, Jack felt like a millionaire.

No sign of The Pelican, though. She was a white boat with a black trim, for some reason, unable to get back in time. It hardly mattered. Most of the people of Neptune's Fingers were here, either on a boat or lining the beach, or sitting in their own dinghies close to the action. Even Henry Lambeth was on the beach, Bob doing the honors in the lighthouse during the day. Henry brought Jack around to Guthrie's Bay and left him to his own devices. The tides were favorable today so Jack was given leave to make his own way home and so prolong his day as much as possible. Jack was glad his father was there. He never took time off. The care lines on his face were relaxed as he stood talking to old timers from Guthrie's Bay.

Suddenly, a shot rang out; the signal to start. Eleven boats lurched forward, churning up the calm water into a frenzy of foam. The wake of each vessel sent waves rolling across the water so the boats in the rear rode them like surfers. Shrieks and laughter filled the air to mingle with the cawing of seagulls who were bound to be disappointed today as the boats were empty, save for the passengers. Jack could see Ginny on The Dawnwind. She sat on top of the wheelhouse, her long hair flying in the wind and her dress flapping about her legs. A huge grin announced her delight to the world.

“Just look at her! What a show-off!” said Bill.

“She looks pretty happy, at that,” said Jack.

Bill snorted in disgust. She'd better hang on, that was all. His attention was diverted before long. Ginny could not hold Bill's attention for long. The boats were spreading out, each in order of their engine capacity. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Still, no one wanted to come last. The roasting from the others for that dubious honor was unbearable.

“I'm going in the wheelhouse,” announced Bill. “Coming?”

“No. Have fun.” Funny how driving a boat did not appeal. It took your mind off feeling the experience of being here. People leaned over the rails, arms waving and pointing. Jack stood up and moved away from in front of the cabin window, making sure Harry's view was not hindered. The Aurora would not come first, but there was no reason why she would not come second.

Jack moved to the point of the prow. He felt like a figurehead up here. Amused, he turned back to watch everyone on board. The deck swelled out either side of the wheelhouse and disappeared behind it in a tangle of nets and rope, while the tall derrick……

The derrick? There was someone standing on it! Jack thought Ginny was being stupid sitting on the wheelhouse, but here was a chap with no brains at all. If he fell, it would be a hard landing. He stared at him and was stunned to see the boy grinning back at him, familiarity written all over his face. The sun was behind Jack so he was able to see the boy very clearly. His baggy trousers, torn at the hem, were tied round his middle with a piece of rope. His shirt, tied in a knot at the front, filled with the wind, like sails. He stood on the spar of the derrick, as nimble as a cat, one casual hand resting on the vertical mast as he leaned against it with the nonchalance and ease of one who is much practiced in the art.

Jack's mouth hung open. Movement below caught his attention. Harry and Bill, peering through the wheelhouse window, were making hideous faces at him and laughing fit to burst. It was like looking in a mirror and Jack realized with a shock how he must look. He shut his mouth and shrugged, grinning to hide his embarrassment. That made his audience laugh all the more. Jack waved them away with an impatient hand and smiled. It was good fun. No harm done.

He remembered the boy. He was at his post on the spar, a lost expression on his face. It was as though Jack's smile gave him life, and now, deprived of its power, had nothing to sustain it. As Jack lifted his gaze upwards, the boy's face lit up and life coursed through him again. He waved at Jack and beckoned to him.

“Does he want me to go up there? He's mad!” Jack had no fear of heights as he took his turn cleaning lighthouse windows often enough, walking round the iron balcony encircling it. As he watched, he could see the movement of the boat mirrored in the gyrations of the derrick waving against the sky like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Standing up there with the whole thing moving about did not fill him with confidence. At least the lighthouse stood still.

The boy waited, his hand on his hips, his stance screaming impatience. He beckoned again, this time more vigorously. In spite of his rational mind, Jack's treacherous feet took it upon themselves to walk behind the wheelhouse where the derrick was fixed through the deck. Smiling faces were all about him but no recognition showed in their eyes. They were ignoring him. It was like being in a dream.

He searched for footholds to enable him to climb safely. There must be a way. The boy was up there wasn't he? Jack was never sure how he managed it. One minute he was standing on the deck, the next he was halfway up the derrick, almost to the spar. The sun burned into his eyes as he climbed and he could see nothing. He blinked several times and opened his eyes wide. Nearly there. He could see a pair of feet in front of his face – bare feet, calloused and hard. The noise up here was unexpected. A flapping sound, foreign to him dominated all else. He shinnied up the next few feet and climbed onto the spar, a pair of guiding hands helping him up. Puffing and blowing, he stood up.

“You've no stamina, cully,” said a lilting voice.

It was then Jack took in his surroundings. Expecting to see Guthrie's Bay and the competing boats, it is not to be wondered at that his balance faltered so he snatched out in desperation at the main mast. The land was no longer there. Water, as far as the eye could see, undulated in ever rolling troughs and crests, while the ship rolled with it, sails flapping in the stiff breeze. The power of speech eluded Jack. Once more his mouth was open as though it had a faulty hinge. The boy was all mirth. Now it was Jack's turn to look out of place.

“It's better without shoes, mate,” he suggested. His feet clung to the yard like a monkey. Jack had never seen anyone look so at home anywhere. While the world rolled and lurched beneath them, the boy stood solid as a rock on the thin piece of wood stretching out from the mast, and he, Jack, teetered like a tightrope walker without a pole. “Sit ye down, now.” The boy pointed to the yardarm beneath their feet.

Jack was glad to sit. Not one to be seasick, he ventured there could be a first time. There was less of him to sway while seated. His rebellious stomach subsided for the moment and as yet, his tongue would not work. He looked wildly about him. Where was The Aurora? Where were the other boats? Where was Guthrie's Bay?

“You're on Her Majesty's Ship, Kestrel, as fine a Barque as ever sailed.” Jack's face still held its frozen disbelief. “Don't mind the noise of the sheets. They always talk to one another up here.”

“Sheets?” mumbled Jack.

“The sails, cully. The sails be sheets. Look up yonder. The gallant mast is a treat for the eyes way up there, is it not?”

Jack could not argue. They were a treat for his eyes all right but he was willing to wager it was a different kind of treat to the one the boy talked about. Merciful heaven, how grateful he was not to be up there. His face visibly paled.

“You'll get your sea legs, mate. By the time we get to Sydney Town, you'll be able to do it with your eyes closed.”

Sydney Town? No one's called it that for years, he thought. Stone the crows! Panic was the overriding emotion within him. “Where are we?” he managed to ask.

“Not sure but we must be near the straits. You need your wits about you there. Always bad in the straits.” This was not reassuring news, at all. Jack would have preferred to hear something more comforting. Which straits? Surely not Bass Strait. That was hundreds of miles from home. His next question sat poised on the tip of his tongue but would not jump off for fear of the answer.

“What year is it?” he managed, after a bit.

“1853,” he said. “What year is it with all those boats with no sails?”

“1933. They are fishing boats. Trawlers. 1853? Crikey!”

“Trawlers smell. It's a blessing, it is, the fish drown it out.” The petrol-driven engines had a smell of their own.