I pushed out my chest, pressed back my elbows, felt stronger already. Then I got down on my mark, readysteady, waited for it, go! Shot off for home, bare feet hardly touching the ground as I whizzed along.
Dibs called to me when I got as far as his house. He was
on the veranda with Cal. They each had a piecey, thick with plum jam.
‘Where you been?’ asked Dibs. ‘We’re going to the cave. You coming? Or you staying with Caroline?’
‘I’m coming,’ I said. That bread and jam looked good; I was very fond of Mrs Kelly’s plum jam, but it was ages since I had tasted any of it. ‘I was talking to Buster,’ I told Dibs.
‘Not all the time you weren’t,’ Dibs said, sounding suspicious. ‘He only just left your place. Said he’d taken Caroline a telegram. That’s what he said, wasn’t it, Cal?’
‘I know about the telegram,’ I said before Cal could chip in. ‘Buster told me about the telegram.’ I could bop Dibs. Trying to make the telegram sound like a secret his brother had specially told
him
about!
‘So where were you before that?’ Dibs asked.
I remembered Fat Norman; it seemed a long time since I had been listening to him. ‘I was with the teacher,’ I said. I lowered my voice. ‘I’ll tell you something about Fat Norman when we get to the cave. Boy, he’s a strange fellow! Wait for me, you kids. I’ll tell Caroline where I’m going.’
‘Why tell her?’ Dibs asked.
I didn’t reply, I was on my way.
I found Caroline on her bed. She was not asleep, but she looked drowsy. She was lying on her back on the counterpane, her dress rumpled above her knees. Though she seemed to be looking straight at me, her head on a pillow, she said an odd thing, she said: ‘Who’s that?’
I moved to the bed. ‘It’s Harry. What’s the matter, Caroline? Are you sick?’
‘Not sick, Harry,’ she said, taking my hand when I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Little sleepy, that’s all, Harry.’ She let go of my hand; she had not moved her head or her legs.
‘Are you sure you’re not sick?’ I asked.
‘Just sleepy,’ she said. ‘I’ll get up soon and peel the potatoes.’
‘Don’t do that,’ I told her. ‘You heard what Dad said last time. He said you mustn’t do the potatoes again. It wasn’t only because you cut yourself, Caroline. He thinks you needn’t bother with things like potatoes.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Uncle Frank’s very kind.’
I looked around the room, wondering if it would be wise to leave her alone, she might really be sick. On the dressing-table and shelves were some of her presents and prizes—vases, dolls, little ornaments. In the wardrobe were her dresses. It was her room, all right; it was no longer my parents’ room. And I didn’t mind.
‘I was talking to Buster,’ I said. ‘On my way home from school.’
She did not speak. I looked at her. She had closed her eyes.
‘Harry!’ It was Dibs shouting.
Caroline’s eyes were still shut.
‘Think I’ll go to the cave for a while,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I go to the cave, Caroline?’
‘You go,’ she said, not opening her eyes, not seeming to care what I did.
‘Will you be all right?’ I asked.
She nodded, eyes still shut.
So I left her. I went out to Dibs and Cal. I didn’t want to, but I had to.
T
HE
S
UNDAY
before Mr Wiggins died, I was at the wharf with Cal and Dibs and Bruce Norman. Bruce Norman, who had turned out to be not a bad kid, was trying to catch up with all the things in Calliope Bay we other kids had taken for granted for years. He seemed specially eager to talk to Sam Phelps about Sydney Bridge Upside Down, reckoned he had always been interested in horses and would very much like to know more about the old fellow’s crock. Unfortunately, said Bruce, his father had warned him never to go near Sam Phelps, and because of his father’s maniacal behaviour when angry he did not dare disobey, at least not unless there was no risk of his father finding out. In that case, I told him, the best day would be Sunday, when Sam Phelps was not as busy as he was on week-days, and the best time on Sunday would be midafternoon when, as Bruce had once mentioned, his father usually snoozed for two hours after an enormous dinner. Bruce said this sounded a crafty plan. So we met him near
the works after he’d had his share of the dinner and we took him across the beach to the rocks, then across the rocks to the wharf. He was amazed by the funny steps, got annoyed with Dibs and me when we couldn’t tell him how come the steps had been put in the wrong way up. One of the fairly interesting things about him, I thought, was that even though he was a fat kid who would not be much good in a fight he was not scared to let older kids see when he was annoyed. Another thing: although he was apparently very clever, he was not against kids having fun, he did not act superior, the way Susan Prosser had, he would never tell tales. So we didn’t mind taking him to the wharf. In fact, it was good going to places we knew well—such as the beach and the rocks and the wharf—with somebody who did not know them well, it was like seeing everything for the first time, the way it had been with Caroline in the beginning.
‘Mr Phelps must be having a snooze too,’ I said after we’d discovered there was nobody on the sunny wharf. ‘Bet he doesn’t eat as much as your father, Bruce. He’s skinny as a rake, old Mr Phelps.’
‘So’s his horse,’ said Dibs. He asked Bruce: ‘Have you had a good look at Sydney Bridge Upside Down?’
‘I’ve seen him in the distance a few times,’ Bruce said. ‘Pulling the wagon. Seemed rather a large wagon for such an elderly steed to be pulling. I want to ask Mr Phelps about that point. Whether he thinks there is any cruelty in it.’
‘Better not be cheeky to him,’ I said. ‘He might tell your father.’
‘He’d do well to avoid Fat Norman,’ said Bruce. ‘Not that I’ll be cheeky to him. He may have good reasons for keeping the crock working.’
‘Sydney Bridge Upside Down mightn’t be as ancient as he looks,’ I told Bruce. ‘He doesn’t get very sweaty when he’s pulling the wagon. And I remember the time Mr Phelps let Caroline have a ride. She sat in Sydney Bridge Upside Down’s hollow, and it was all right—nothing broke.’
‘What do you think of Caroline?’ Dibs asked Bruce.
I stopped. We had been strolling towards the sea end of the wharf because Bruce had turned in that direction and we had kept up with him; he apparently fancied a walk in the sun before looking for Sam Phelps.
The others stopped when I stopped. Dibs glanced at me. Cal and Bruce didn’t.
‘I’d have to talk to her before I could answer that,’ Bruce told Dibs. ‘Why do you ask? Do you want to tell me something about her?’
‘No, I was only wondering,’ said Dibs. ‘Like, you’ve seen more grown-up girls than us. I was wondering if you thought she was prettier than other grown-up girls you’ve seen.’
Bruce shrugged. ‘I take little notice of girls, grown-up or otherwise.’
Dibs looked at me and grinned, as if he had just proved something. He turned to Bruce: ‘Same as me, boy. I reckon it’s sissy to take much notice of girls. Girls are no good, eh?’
Bruce did not reply. He had seen that Cal had gone to the wharf edge and was staring down at the water;
he went across to Cal, knelt beside him.
‘Are you calling me a sissy?’ I asked Dibs.
‘What?’ said Dibs. He was playing dumb. He was also making sure he stayed in the middle of the wharf.
‘Who’s a sissy?’ I asked.
Bruce looked across, asked: ‘Do you do much fishing here?’
Dibs took a few steps before he remembered not to move too far from the middle of the wharf. He told Bruce: ‘We fish when old Phelps lets us. Plenty of fish down there, boy.’
‘What sort of fish?’ asked Bruce.
Dibs said loudly: ‘Millions of herrings, boy. We can use the herrings for bait. We can catch snapper and gurnard and barracoutas and kingfish. Barracoutas are the ones to fight. Once I caught a huge couta and he nearly bit my leg off, he was so angry.’ He glanced at me, said in the same loud voice: ‘Remember that time, Harry?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘What was that you said about being a sissy?’
‘Have you got any lines, Bruce?’ Dibs called.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Bruce said.
‘You can buy them at the store,’ Dibs said. ‘Or you can borrow one of ours. Dad’s got plenty of lines. He doesn’t care when we use them. Specially if we catch a couta or a kingie. What do you reckon, Harry? Shall we come fishing here with Bruce next Saturday? Or after school one day.’
I said: ‘What I want to know—’
Dibs called: ‘Make sure you don’t fall in, Bruce! The currents are dangerous down there. Ask Cal. Cal fell in
during the holidays. He was drowning. Harry saved him. Remember that time, Harry?’
Bruce turned to Cal. I could see Cal flapping his hands and bobbing his head as he told Bruce how he had nearly drowned.
I said to Dibs: ‘What I want to tell you, boy, is that it’s stupid to call anybody a sissy without knowing what you’re talking about. Here, I want to show you something.’
He stopped moving away, watched me closely.
‘Feel this,’ I told him, flexing my arm. ‘Go on, feel it.’
He felt it.
‘Not a bad muscle, eh?’ I said.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘That’s a pretty big muscle, Harry. Yes, that’s a big one, all right.’
‘Know how long it’s taken me to get it that big?’
‘How long?’
‘Eleven days,’ I said.
‘Only eleven days?’ he said, astonished.
‘That’s all,’ I said. ‘A few more days, boy, and I don’t know
how
big it will be. Not only that, either. I feel stronger all over.’
‘How come?’ asked Dibs. ‘You eating more meat or something?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Training.’
‘Training for what?’
‘Nothing. Just training.’
‘You must be training for something!’
‘Well, I might go in for boxing when I’m older,’ I said. ‘Buster reckons I’d make a good boxer, he reckons I could be as good as his friend Kid Savage. But I want my body
to be strong before I go in for boxing. I want to be as hard as nails, I want to be able to fight anybody, anybody in the world. That’s why I’ve been doing all these press-ups, all this running. Part of my training.’
‘I didn’t know you were doing that, Harry,’ said Dibs. He sounded very impressed.
‘If you get up early enough any morning you’ll see me belting along the road,’ I said.
‘What do you know?’ said Dibs.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘What do you know?’
‘Anyway, Harry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean you were a sissy when I said that to Bruce. That wasn’t what I meant.’
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Remember, though. Remember this muscle.’
‘Yes, I sure will,’ he said. He was studying my arms and legs. ‘What’s the other part of the training, Harry?’
‘Some of my training is secret,’ I told him. ‘The other part’s secret.’
‘What’s a secret?’ asked Cal. He and Bruce were walking towards us.
‘It’s a secret why Sam Phelps keeps using Sydney Bridge Upside Down to pull the wagon,’ I said. ‘It’s Sam Phelps’ secret.’
‘Some secret!’ Cal said. ‘I don’t care about that secret.’
‘Bruce does,’ I said. ‘What say we go and see Mr Phelps now?’
We headed back along the wharf. Today I was not scared by the thought of what Sam Phelps might say to me. It must be because I had grown so much stronger, I thought. It was good to be strong, I was afraid of nobody.
‘Better let me handle Mr Phelps,’ I told Bruce when we were nearing the woolshed. ‘He doesn’t like people barging in on him, especially strangers.’
‘Recluse, is he?’ asked Bruce.
‘What?’ said Cal, who was tip-toeing along one of the rails used by Sam Phelps’ wagon.
‘Sort of hermit, is he?’ asked Bruce.
‘He’s a bit that way,’ I told Bruce. ‘He was all right in the old days, Dad says. Before his daughter ran away and his house was pulled down. He gets sulky nowadays. But I can handle him.’
‘He doesn’t like Harry,’ said Cal, leaving the rail.
‘What gave you that idea?’ I said. ‘We get on all right. He’s a nice old bloke.’
Cal laughed. ‘That’s a good one!’
‘I got nothing against Sam Phelps,’ I told that cheeky Cal. ‘I wouldn’t say anything against Sam Phelps.’
‘Hear that, Dibs?’ said Cal. ‘Hear what Harry said? What a fibber, eh?’
‘I wasn’t listening,’ Dibs said, not looking at Cal. ‘I was thinking the planks are getting wobbly down this end of the wharf. About time Mr Phelps put in new planks. This wharf has been up a good few years. Bet it was used a lot in the old days, bet a lot of heavy cargo went across it when the works were going full blast. Eh, Harry?’
Pleased that Dibs was being so friendly, I tested a plank by pressing several times with my foot. ‘It’s pretty wobbly,’ I said. ‘Mr Phelps better take care. He might have an accident.’ I saw Cal staring at me and added: ‘It would be terrible if he had an accident. Poor old Mr Phelps!’
I led them behind the woolshed and along the rough path towards the clearing where Sam Phelps had his shack. It was a rickety-looking place with silvery-grey boards and rusty spouting and pipes; the tin chimney was rusty too. The shack was sheltered by the cliff and the trees, and this was just as well; a good wind would blow it away. On the edge of the clearing was the shed, also rickety-looking, where Sydney Bridge Upside Down was kept.
The shack door was shut. A sack hung across the little window near the door.
‘He must be having a snooze,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a peep at Sydney Bridge Upside Down.’
‘If Mr Phelps is having a snooze it would be risky to wake him,’ said Dibs. ‘We’ll have to come back another time.’ He sounded relieved.
‘I don’t mind waking him,’ I said. Sam Phelps doesn’t scare me, I thought.
But I was not quite so brave after I had looked into Sydney Bridge Upside Down’s shed. Because the horse was not alone. Sam Phelps was in there too.
‘Whoops whoosh groan groan!’ I said, ducking. Sam Phelps had been looking straight at me.
Instead of running, the other damned kids crowded round me to find out why I’d ducked. Then Bruce Norman looked into the shed, and he didn’t duck, he stayed looking.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Phelps,’ Bruce said. ‘Do you have a few minutes to spare?’
Sam Phelps appeared in the shed doorway. He looked past Bruce at the rest of us, at me the longest. He did not
seem angry. He was not happy, either. Just rough-looking, scarred, whiskery—just like always.
I decided it would be cowardly of me to leave it to Bruce to do the explaining. I could handle Sam Phelps without any help from a smaller kid.
‘We called to see if Sydney Bridge Upside Down is feeling better,’ I said, moving up beside Bruce. I touched Bruce’s arm. ‘This boy is Bruce Norman. He hasn’t had a good look at Sydney Bridge Upside Down yet. What do you think, Mr Phelps? Is Sydney Bridge Upside Down well enough for Bruce to have a look?’
‘I promise not to touch him, Mr Phelps,’ said Bruce. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m very fond of horses. I’d like to own a horse. Even a pony would do.’
‘You can touch him, son,’ said Sam Phelps. He was not smiling, but his voice was friendly. ‘He’s well enough, always has been. I don’t know what Harry Baird’s talking about.’ He looked at me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Sydney Bridge Upside Down. What do you mean? You’ve seen him with the wagon, haven’t you?’
‘Not lately, Mr Phelps,’ I said as Bruce entered the shed. ‘I haven’t been down this way lately.’
‘Don’t lie, son,’ said Sam Phelps. ‘Who did I see tossing bricks at the works on Friday. Who did I see looking at me? Are you saying it was another lad?’
‘Oh, that’s right, Mr Phelps,’ I said. I’d known from the start he had trapped me, but I wasn’t sure if he would bother to say anything. ‘I forgot about Friday,’ I said. ‘Yes, that’s right, Mr Phelps. What I remembered was Dad saying Sydney Bridge Upside Down had been sick. I clean forgot
about seeing him back on the job—on Friday, eh?’
‘You Baird fellows seem to go in for lies,’ Sam Phelps said. ‘Unless you’re making it up about your Dad, too.’
‘No fear,’ I said. ‘He did say that, Mr Phelps. Hey, Dibs, you heard Dad saying Sydney Bridge Upside Down was sick. Remember? That day we went to the carnival. He said it just before we left, didn’t he?’
‘Did he?’ said Dibs, looking surprised. Then he saw my stare. ‘Yes, I remember now. That’s what he said.’ But I could tell he did not remember, and I knew Sam Phelps could too.
Blow Sam Phelps for being so talkative today, I thought; blow Dibs for not remembering. It didn’t really matter, of course. It had not been an important lie, more like a small half-fib. Anyway, I didn’t care what Sam Phelps thought. Sam Phelps was nobody.
Bruce Norman came from the shed. He told Sam Phelps: ‘Thank you for letting me touch him. He’s much stronger than I’d imagined. Seeing him from a distance was rather deceptive. His back gives the wrong impression. Why is his back such an unusual shape, Mr Phelps?’
‘Too many heavyweights on him when he was a youngster,’ Sam Phelps said. He talked to Bruce in a much friendlier way than he talked to me. ‘Would you like to ride him, son? Give me a call when I’m along at the works end of the line some afternoon.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Bruce said. ‘Yes, I’d love to ride your steed, Mr Phelps.’
‘He certainly goes for Bruce, eh?’ Dibs said to me when we were leaving the clearing. ‘Fancy offering him a ride!
He’s never let me ride Sydney Bridge Upside Down.’