Neptune's Fingers (9 page)

J
ack sat up. He furrowed his brows together. He was back in his room. He let his thoughts travel to the long-gone world of The Kestrel. He could still feel the wind on his arms and in his face, carrying the salty odor of the sea to mingle with the tar and sweat and carbolic, making a cocktail for the senses unique to a sailor's world. Even Harry's boat did not smell like this. Jack knew he was not imagining the odor as it filled his nostrils most provokingly. Yet, it could not be coming from his room. There had never been tar in there as long as he could remember. He worked hard enough to raise a sweat but his chores paled into insignificance beside that of a sailor. He went out with Harry sometimes and even there, the smell was predominantly of fish and blood mixed with petrol.

The Kestrel smelt of another time. He tried to recapture the sounds of the vessel as it churned through the water like a swimmer in a race. The movement of the deck under his feet made the ship feel alive, as though it had a soul of its own.

His eyes flew open. That dead ship, or what remained of it, wedged in the rocks below the lighthouse, had been the home of brave sailors. Most of them died right there, outside his door – all but two; the frightened stowaway, lurking in the longboat and the boy on the derrick. Jack was pleased he could not see the faces of the rest of the crew. Their faces would always be a mystery to him. The survivors, however, he now knew well.

The boy, still nameless, with his jaunty stride and careless laugh, came ashore and vanished. What happened to him? On a ship of strong sailors, why did only two boys survive when men could not?

The boy in the longboat was no mystery. Jack could still see his puzzled eyes staring through him. He knew those eyes very well. His own mother had them and when he looked in a mirror, he saw that he, Jack, did also. The McPhail characteristics were very strong. The boy from the longboat was his Grandfather, Edward McPhail. A compassion that surprised him welled up in Jack. The tough man everyone disliked was once a lost boy. His loneliness and fear were as strong as his determination. In all his life, Jack had never known such need. He saw a small boy content with weevilly ship's biscuits and a slither of salted pork when he was able to get it. He saw a boy prepared to face whatever punishment was dished up if he was discovered.

“My God! My Grandfather was very brave,” he thought. “He looked so frightened.” A shudder went through Jack. “I could smell his fear.” Emotions raged in Jack without benefit of words. They rolled about inside his skin, and he felt Edward McPhail's terrors as surely as if he were the man himself. Beneath all the fear and hunger was an overwhelming feeling of intense anger. Jack was not given to anger. The power of the anger coming from the boy disturbed him. He felt violated himself knowing someone from his family had been so abused and unwanted. Never again would he hear a word against his Grandfather.

The tide was on the wane so most of the day the wreck would be within reach. Jack made up his mind to explore The Kestrel that day. The need and the opportunity dictated that it would be so. His grandfather's de facto world was the breeding ground of his personality. A determined boy survived where others were lost. Edward McPhail had not travelled half way around the world only to die without having set foot on shore. He was made of sterner stuff. Jack could not believe how effortless his own life was, here on the secluded island. There was plenty of work to do but there was plenty of love to go around too.

He climbed out of bed and washed. He had a strange sense of salt on his body, residue of his adventure on The Kestrel. He did not want to wash it off. It seemed perfectly logical and gave credence to it all. Jack knew it was not a dream. He became a believer when he lost his shoes.

The water felt cool on his warm body. The huge galvanized iron water tank stayed amazingly cool in the heat of the day. It was the best water on earth, straight from the skies. He dunked his head in it and washed his hair before toweling it dry with vigorous rubbing. The end result was a frightening array of spikes and tangles. The harsh soap kept his hair clean but knotted it up with a vengeance. Long hair was not the fashion but Jack's was longer than most other boys. There was no woman to fuss over his appearance so Henry Lambeth only took to the shears when it was completely unruly. With a sigh, Jack took out the comb and fought the tangles until order was restored. Feeling more human, he ventured into the kitchen.

Henry Lambeth was there already. He looked up as Jack entered, and smiled.

“I was wondering when you'd get rid of that salt,” he said.

Jack shrugged and grinned. His father noticed everything even when Jack was sure he had no idea. It was a comforting feeling to know someone watched him so closely. He had met a boy who could not boast the same luxury.

“Dad, I love it here,” he said.

“I know you do, son,” said Henry Lambeth. “The world's changing for you, though, isn't it? How do you feel about it?”

It took a few seconds to realize his father meant his new life outside school. For a fleeting moment, he believed his father knew of his ‘dreams'.

“There's so much to do and so much to learn,” he said, although he knew he was answering a different question to the one asked.

His father grunted, satisfied apparently, and continued with his breakfast. Jack helped himself to some bread, cutting thick slices from the high round loaf. The wonderful bakery that wafted the most mouth-watering smells up the hill to tantalize the captive children in Guthrie's Bay School, also did the rounds delivering bread each day. The Baker had a horse and cart, a square, box-like structure that reminded Jack of a gypsy's caravan. He delivered to Sandy Bay and made the trek to False Bay. It was usually Jim Madigan who picked it up as everyone else was too busy. Bread was a large part of the diet in Sandy Bay and places thereabout. Often the baker was paid in fish or oysters and such. To the baker, it was all very satisfactory.

“It will be a bit crowded here tomorrow,” said his father, once Jack had settled. “Might be nice if you got things shipshape around here. Can't have the Tarrants think we are slovenly.”

Jack could see the humor. Anyone would think the place was the Palace, or something. It always looked the same. It just needed a bit of a dust and a sweep. He knew what his father meant, though. Tomorrow was special and a clean house was one thing. A clean oven was another. Jack sighed, for he knew his plans to explore The Kestrel were not going to happen today.

Tomorrow would be Christmas Day and the Tarrants were coming, turning the quiet of the lighthouse keeper's home into a bustling noise. Here in the southern seas, summer bathed the trees in sparkling sunshine. Millions of diamonds glittered from the sea while the sun, unimpeded by even the most intrepid cloud, gloried in this special day. Deep red Christmas Bush dressed the countryside and no self-respecting family was without a bunch picked and taking pride of place in wherever they called home.

Tradition, according to Mrs. Tarrant, began last year when she would not hear of the Lambeths being on their own with no one to cook a grand meal. She had arrived with her brood and commandeered the kitchen, bossing everyone about mercilessly until they left her to revel in her own creativity. The cheerful bustle the Tarrants brought with them made the first Christmas without Jack's mother just a little more bearable. This year Mrs. Tarrant was set to repeat her mothering, arriving early in the morning by boat and laying siege to an array of seafood before serving up a culinary miracle.

Resigned to his fate, Jack busied himself with the oven first thing. It was hot work and better done before the sun took a stranglehold on the day. He remembered Christmas cards with snow scenes and a warmly clad Santa Claus on them. It had nothing to do with an Australian Christmas where summer baked everything it touched. The stone cottage was as cool a place as could be found in summer. It was like living underground, hidden from the heat or the cold. It was much the same all year unless the westerly's blew in the winter. They found their way into every cranny until they found a warm body to chill.

Jack worked like an automaton but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about the wreck. It was a barque and fairly big, but the sea had carved it up and thrown the pieces about like matchsticks. Little was left, wedged in the rocks, except the hull and part of the mainmast, sticking up like an arm of a drowning man, trying to hold onto the dry air. The rotting wood was black and covered in barnacles, oysters and periwinkles. Seaweed draped over it like a Spanish mantilla, protecting the modesty of this fine lady of the sea.

The grating of the steel wool over the oven surface and the sound of the waves breaking were all he heard, background noises to his thoughts. Rasp, rasp. Crash, splash. Rasp, rasp. Crash, splash. The mesmerizing sounds wove round him like Scotch mist until he was in a cocoon, severed from the drudgery of his task and thrown into the drudgery of another.

Rasp, rasp, slosh. Rasp, rasp, slosh.

His vision cleared and the origin of the sounds were different. A sailor, pigtailed and tanned, scrubbed the deck with vigorous sweeps of the arm and strength from his bulging biceps. A much practiced action, covering the boards with ease, his arm arced a wet soapy path like a river in flood. Jack was standing behind him, horribly exposed, in his bare feet and flannel pants, plain cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He felt conspicuous in his twentieth century clothes. The only thing comparable was his suntan. He was as swarthy as any sailor because of his life near the sea. There was nothing he could do about his shorter hair. It was long for his time but falling short of the mark for now. He wondered if he was visible. He was never sure.

The sailor scrubbed without pause. On the other side of the deck, another gallant fellow was engaged in the same task. He looked up and winked at Jack. It was the boy from the derrick. He looked merry. It was a good joke to see Jack looking so stunned. Jack always felt wrong-footed for a moment when he arrived on board The Kestrel. The feeling of familiarity was always a surprise. It was becoming ‘his ship'.

He wondered where his Grandfather was. He felt strange thinking of him this way. It was hard to equate the terrified boy with the bristle-bearded, taciturn man his father had known. It was no use thinking this way, he knew. He was here to observe, maybe to understand. Maybe to walk a mile in his shoes. With that thought, Jack forgot his apprehension about being seen. Somehow, he felt it did not matter. There was purpose to these visits, he was sure. They were meant to happen.

A huge coil of rope lay behind him. It was as good a place as any to sit. For the moment, he had nowhere to go so he sat on the uncomfortable pile without any sensation of discomfort. The smell of the sea and the splashing of the waves had taken him under their wing. Lord, there was no feeling like it!

The vessel was in full sail, its mighty sheets bulging like cheeks laden with air, the masts creaking and straining, the smell of tar and hemp wafting by with each breath of the wind. High overhead, birds swung along with the ship, hoping for some fish for dinner. A cheeky seagull sat perched on the spar of the mizzen gallant mast, safe from the frenzy of operation on deck. Now that he looked, Jack was aware of sailors coming and going, some disappearing below decks, nimble as you please.

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in shock. The next sailor to appear from the hatchway was Edward McPhail. The stealth he witnessed during the last visit was gone. Instead, a grim lad, with the lines on his face etched by constant frowning and looking into the sun, hove to with a book in his hand. He turned abruptly and hurried up the stairs, no longer needed as a hiding place, it seemed. Jack's eyes followed him until they took in another figure. This one was dressed like an officer, another stern-faced man, who took the book from Edward with not so much as a thank you and opened it. Shortly after, he turned and enquired something of Edward, who pointed to an entry on the page and stepped back to await instructions.

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.