Authors: Robert Mitchell
It took two days for the wool to be delivered and unloaded, and there seemed to be bales everywhere. We couldn’t do a thing until the cartage contractors had finished, excepting for the stencils that is. Once the carriers had knocked off on the first day, I got a couple of the boys together and we cut copies of the marks that were on the bales already delivered.
The wool had come from all over the State, from twenty-three different properties, and it was well past midnight by the
time we were finished. There were still another fifteen hundred bales to come in on the following day. I hoped there would be a duplication of some of the marks; but there wasn’t.
The stencils worked perfectly. You couldn’t have tol
d them from the real thing, and when I thought about it, they now were the real thing.
As soon as the last of the wool was in the warehouse we started to bring in the marijuana, but only enough to keep the press working non-stop. The stock-pile had grown to twenty-one tonnes.
The marijuana was being packed into the plastic bags at a location somewhere out west that Nick hadn’t revealed to me. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust me, he merely felt happier with me not knowing, and that was fine by me.
I had arranged for strong plastic bags, and showed a couple of his men how each bundle of grass should be packed. It wasn’t possible to compress them as tight as the wool; but by using a primitive press, which they had rigged up from timber and eight large carpenter’s joinery clamps, they were able to do a fairly good job.
Nick put together a team of twenty men to work on unpacking and re-pressing the wool, and they operated in two shifts of twenty-four hours each. It meant that each man worked sixteen hours out of the twenty four, with eight left over for sleep and meals. This way we had at least six men working on the press the whole time, with the remainder busy opening bales, stitching them up again, applying stencils or just generally shifting bales about. But it was the concealment of the grass and the re-pressing that would take the time and I wanted the press running non-stop. I didn’t care if the place looked a shambles, as long as there were always six men at the press.
There were over four thousand bales to get through, and not a lot of time to do it in. I estimated that it would take between two and three weeks to finish the lot. It took just over three. The men couldn’t keep up the pace.
Each shift was rotated at the same time of the day, at five in the morning; at a time when most people are still asleep; and those who are awake aren’t really taking any notice of what is going on around them. The truck would back into the yard, right up to the warehouse door and, once the gates were closed, the men climbed down and moved straight into the warehouse. Ten minutes later the gates would open and the truck would disappear into the early morning.
Our security men kept regular patrols and made certain that they were well in view to discourage anybody showing any sort of interest. The storage of five hundred tonnes of wool was a sufficient explanation for a few lights being on at night; a normal security measure.
The small electric fork-lift was the one piece of equipment that was worth its weight in gold. I don’t think we could have done the job on time without it. It was the only thing that could have brought the deal home to Nick, but he had purchased it second-hand years ago, and the manufacturer’s plates had been removed and the serial numbers ground off the frame.
Three weeks and two days later we had packed the lot. The last two tonnes of grass had arrived just as we were ready for it.
The press was disassembled and removed to one of Nick’s secret places for possible use in the future. I was all for dumping it, but he wouldn’t agree. The original wool bags were taken up to his farm and burnt, and the ashes buried.
The Singapore-registered ship was due to clear port in a week’s time and she still had space available. I had the cargo confirmed and made arrangements for the wool to be carted on to the dockside, into the wharf sheds.
A different carrier was used than before. We didn’t want some over-bright driver noticing that more bales had come out of the warehouse than had gone in – a total of four hundred and ninety-three more to be precise.
M. V. Syrius
: an ordinary freighter of some ten thousand tons and a length of one hundred and forty metres or thereabouts. She was carrying general cargo, mainly wool – which included our consignment and two others totaling about another two thousand tonnes; with the remaining cargo being machinery, foodstuffs, and a miscellany of other crates and boxes.
I had trouble convi
ncing the captain to take me as a paying passenger. He wasn’t interested in talking to me, turning nasty when I insisted on seeing him, advising me in no uncertain terms what I could do with myself. Nick telephoned Tek in Singapore. I wasn’t in the least concerned. The ship could leave without me if that’s what the captain wanted. But Tek spoke to the owners and sorted it out.
The next
time I fronted the captain he grudgingly accepted me on board as a passenger, mumbling something about interfering owners under his breath.
He had no idea that I was interested in the cargo, or even connected with one of the consignors. As far as he was concerned I was merely a friend of a friend of one of the ship-owners. He though
t I was just an eccentric who had decided to write a book and wanted to get some background by travelling on an old freighter. Not that
Syrius
was all that old: about fourteen years from what I could gather.
The captain, an Englishman w
ho bore the unfortunate name of Flint, Captain Vic Flint, had obviously spent more years in the tropics than he would care to remember; his weather-lined face and thinning ginger hair the result of thousands of hours spent on the bridges of countless ships plying equatorial waters. He seemed to be a little over one hundred and seventy-five centimetres in height, but it was hard to tell. He had a tendency to stand with his feet well apart. He even walked that way. The veins coursing through his ruddy complexion were a clear indication of his fondness for a drop of hard drink, which I discovered was whisky, and usually Scottish whisky at that. His hands were strong, and his forearms a tangle of ginger hair. Strangely, for a seaman, he carried no tattoos.
I
t happened that I was not to be the only layabout on board. The day before we sailed we acquired another passenger, one who was to have a far greater effect on my life than I could have imagined.
My earlier entreaties to the captain for a berth had been overheard by a young chap who was considering making the same application. Pete Cameron had only recently gone into the export business. He had a cargo on board, destined for Singapore: six containers of lamb, goat and some of the better cuts
of South Australian beef; all refrigerated and stowed on deck. He got the same initial treatment I had received, but when the captain was obliged to give me a berth, he made another attempt and Flint had no alternative but to let him on board. He couldn’t accept me as a passenger and then refuse someone who was helping to pay his salary.
I found out later that Flint figured that if there were the two of us on board, we would keep each other amused and out of his hair – what there was of it.
Pete didn’t trust anybody to get his cargo to Singapore in a sound condition. If anything happened to this shipment he would be in one hell of a mess. It was covered by insurance, of course, but not the profit he had anticipated, and any loss of this consignment would mean that he would have to start all over again. By travelling on the ship he would be able to keep an eye on his containers and their refrigeration systems, and stop any pilfering.
Pete took over the pilot’s cabin. I had already been allocated the owner’s cabin, which wasn
’t as fancy as you would have thought, but better than most of the others on board. Why they still built owner’s cabins, I don’t really know. I wouldn’t think than an owner has travelled on his own ship since the advent of air travel.
But without such facilities the captain might have denied one of us a berth on the ship; and it would have been Pete, and that would have been tragic – for me.
Being a passenger had its advantages. It meant that I could keep an eye on the loading and watch out for any pilfering that might be lurking in the wings. If only one bale was stolen and the contents discovered, word would spread like wildfire.
The loading was uneventful. We had done our work far too well to catch the eyes of Custom
s or Agriculture. As each bundle was brought up to the side of the ship, it was only glanced at by some quarantine officer. Customs officers prowled about the whole time, apparently with nothing on their minds; but with eyes darting this way and that.
I heaved a sigh of relief when it
was all loaded and stored below deck in the holds. There was nothing to do now but wait, wait until the ship docked in Singapore. Our part of the deal was finished. All that remained was a leisurely trip by sea, and the discharge at the other end. Unloading was Tek’s problem, and once that was completed, and the bales checked, we were rich!
That final evening in Adelaide was the occasion for a private celebration at Nick’s. Angeline knew that something was up, of course, but she also knew well enough not to ask what it was.
It was a small gathering, just the three of us and Sophie. She excused herself after the main course and took off for a girlfriend’s flat to watch television, or talk about boys, or something like that. I was glad. She had been giving me the eye again all through the meal. I had managed to put myself far enough away to keep her wandering toes clear of my thigh, but it was still embarrassing.
Apart from Sophie’s earlier pouting, the evening went well. Nick was in fine spirits. He had achieved what he had set out to do. We had loaded the amount of grass we had promised.
We had kept to our time limits and were within our budgets, and nothing had gone wrong. I nearly agreed that nothing had gone wrong
to date
, but managed to stop myself in time.
The party, if three people can make a party, went on till midnight, with Nick and I dancing to Greek music and Angeline clapping to the beat. We parted company in a mood of high exhilaration, counting our profits, Nick and I shaking hands at the door.
“Good luck, my boy,” he said, still with that patronizing tone. It was wearing thin and once we had the cash in hand I was going to let him know it. But right at that moment there was a feeling in the air that was too magic to disturb.
“Good luck to both of us,” I replied, squeezing his hand, using muscles developed over the past three weeks in the warehouse, and watching him wince. “Although I’m sure we won’t be needing it.”
I looked across at his smiling face. A picture of a grinning skull of death flitted across my mind, a broad feather-plumed black hat, red cape. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I suddenly remembered what day it would soon be.
Captains of ships can be superstitious. Some don’t like clearing port on a Friday, even though most won’t admit to it; but it was surely the reason we were leaving in the morning, the one day of the week I fear – Thursday!
I climbed into the car; one of Nick’s that I had been using for the last few weeks, and started down the drive.
Nick stood at the front door and flicked the switch that opened and closed the gates as I drove through. I could see that he wasn’t too steady on his feet – too much of that Greek wine.
That shiver still tingled along my spine, but somehow it wasn’t the same. It was a feeling of not being alone, of being watched from above, or behind. Uncanny, weird. Was that old man with the scythe even now measuring me?
And then, in the corner of the rear-vision mirror, I saw the hand creep slowly over the back of the seat
: thin fingers reaching for my neck as I felt the blood drain from my face.
Eight
I eased my foot off the accelerator, taking a quick look ahead to see if there was anything I might skid into, and slammed
my foot down on the brake, both hands gripping the steering wheel, bracing myself. The figure behind me crashed into the back of my seat. I grabbed the door-handle. My hand was lifting the lever as a shrill female voice yelled into the quietness.
“Shit!”
I turned slowly, my hand still on the door.
Sophie.
Dear sweet Sophie.
I watched astounded as she pushed herself up from the floor and leaned over the top of the front seat, a smile forming.
“Hello, Jeff.”
The smile broadened
.
“Don’t look so cross, Jeff,” she laughed. “It’s the first chance we’ve had to be alone.” There was a pause and her bottom lip dropped. “I though you would be pleased to see me?”
What did she expect; cries of happiness and joy?
“Sophie!” I yelled. “For Christ’s sake!” I wasn’t just angry, I was furious. “What the hell’s going on? You’re meant to be at a girlfriend’s house or somewhere. What the hell do you want?”
A stupid question. I knew what she wanted.
She sat and said nothing, taken aback by my outburst, petulant.
“How long have you been waiting?” I asked.
“Not long.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Just down the street. I drove home from Sarah’s and saw you were still here, so I drove out again and walked back. There’s my car down there. Don’t you like me?” All said in one breath. She might be blessed with a grown-up body, but inside she was still the little girl.
“Look, Soph’,” I replied, in a more pleasant tone. “Your father and I are very good friends. If he found you here, there would be the devil to pay.” I could imagine Nick waving a shotgun and yelling and screaming in that quiet neighbourhood.
“Don’t you want to do things to me?” she purred. “Like the other boys?” I didn’t really want to hear any more, but short of belting her there was no way to make her stop. “Don’
t you want to, well …… you know?” She paused, waiting for me to fill in the details, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say – she had me stunned.
“You know,” she continued. “D
on’t you want to ….. poke me?” She looked down at her knees, losing the courage to look me in the face.
“Sophie,” I said softly. “Being able to say four-letter words is not really a sign of having attained adulthood. Being an adult is being able to express your thoughts and feelings without resorting to that sort of language.”
Who was I trying to kid? Those big dark eyes looked up at me, sorrowful, misting. If she stayed in the car much longer I was going to jump in the back seat and give her one right there and then – Nick or no Nick. That gorgeous firm round body was designed for exactly what she had in mind. I had been celibate for longer than was normal for me. It had been over six weeks since the night with Mee Ling.
“Sophie, my pet,” I went on, touching my hand to her dark hair. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.” She didn’t look in the least concerned. It wasn’t my mind she was interested in. It was time to try another tack. If the truth won’t work then snow them with heartbreak.
“Sophie,” I began. “I’m going on a journey tomorrow. I could be away for months. If we make love right now, think of the agony it will be for me, waiting until I can return once more into your arms.” She looked up into my eyes like a trusting puppy, the love pouring out. “Can you wait until I return?” I asked. “It will be hard, I know.”
It was already extremely hard, in more ways than one.
She smiled, lips trembling, a tear forming at the corner of one eye, then bent her head and, in a whisper, murmured: “Yes, darling, I can wait.”
I took my foot off the brake and coasted down to her parked car. We both got out and walked across
. She unlocked the door and I pulled it open. She slid across on to the seat, closed the door, and wound down the window. As she turned the ignition key, she looked up at me. “Next time, you beautiful bastard,” she leered, tongue caressing the top lip, revving the engine. “Next time I’m going to screw you through the floor, and never mind the sentimentality.”
Bitch.
We cleared from Port Adelaide at ten the following morning. A bright clear day, with only a few streaks of cloud drifting across a pale blue sky and a breeze hardly strong enough to move the flags on the masthead. I was already feeling considerably better. It was well into Thursday, and not one single thing had gone wrong.
All that previous night – or for what had been left of it – I had tossed and turned; dreaming of customs officers and narcotic agents crawling all over the ship. In the wanderings of my mind I saw bales bursting asunder like great sunflowers with huge woollen petals, and the dark marijuana spreading out as the heart of the bloom: the se
eds. And all the time Sophie was grinning down at my face as she slid a dress of bright red silk down her young body, down over ripe firm breasts, sliding down past snow-white thighs, the thick dark triangle.
I had been swimming in perspiration when I awok
e. It was by far the worst night I’d had for years, the worst since George had gone over the stair-rail and hurtled down to the concrete.
We left port without a rush, without bustle, as the
Syrius
must have left a hundred ports a hundred times before. The steady pulsating beat of the engines throbbed up through the steel hull as she drew slowly away from the wharf and drifted sideways into the stream. There was no bunting and no waving crowds; only Nick standing far back on the shore beside his car, hands firmly rammed into his pockets.
For a vessel of fourteen years she was in fairly good condition, to me at least. The brass-work in the accommodation section was bright, but that probably didn’t count for much. And they hadn’t been sparing with the paint. There must have been twenty or thirty coats in some areas.
The one thing missing was rust. Most of the old ships I’d had anything to do with had been a mass of dirty flaking metal: rust-buckets.
Syrius
had been well looked after.
The crew,
which included the captain and eight or nine officers, comprised a total complement of about forty persons. But this didn’t include the women, of which there were three – all Chinese. It had the makings of an interesting voyage. It seemed that Singaporean owners are not averse to their officers’ wives sailing with them – as long as the rest of the crew don’t become resentful.
The voyage east through Bass Strait, around past the rocky coastline of Victoria, and then northwards up through the Tasman Sea to Cairns was uneventful, even peaceful. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect and I knew that if the slow lazy roll of the ship was going to continue unchanged for the next few weeks I might even get to enjoy it.
After the weeks of preparation and worki
ng my butt off in the warehouse it was a relief to be able to sit back and relax; letting somebody else do the work, not that there seemed to be much work to do. There was no cargo handling; only the routine maintenance through which the crew ambled: unhurried. The deck officers kept to the bridge and the engineers to their great throbbing cavern below decks.
This was no ocean liner with an entertainment officer and bars on every level. There was no shuffle-board court marked out on deck, and no drink waiters dressed in starched white jackets. We didn’t rate a swimming pool and there was no theatre with the latest movies. But we did have a bar; for officers and passengers only.
When I say
bar
, I don’t mean to say that it had a barman, with shiny glasses, drink dispensers and bags of chips. It was simply like the one you might have at home, in the corner of the rumpus room, with a few bottles and a small fridge. This one was up in the officers lounge, sharing the space with a television set, video recorder, dartboard and a cluster of assorted sofas and lounge chairs; comfortable, but nothing pretentious.
The lounge was usually empty during the day, with the officers either on duty or in their cabins.
Pete and I couldn’t resist making a wager concerning the three wives, betting on who would be the first to get one of them into bed. Two were young and pretty, whilst the third was older and well-rounded. Still, as they say, any port in a storm.
As the days wore on I began to regret having got rid of Sophie so quickly.
Pete, for all his bluff, bluster and bravado, was still unsure of himself. From the long talks that became a regular part of our day, it was soon apparent that he was endeavouring to escape the clutches of mummy and daddy. They were both society types: his father employed as a solicitor in some city law firm; his mother playing bridge with the girls with whom she had gone to school – provided they had married well. They lived in some smart rented apartment; lavishly spending the money that would have bought them a house; spending in order to keep up with the old school chums.
They wanted Pete to settle down and become a dentist, and then marry some girl they considered to be equal to their station in life – or above it if that could be arranged; and live happily ever after in some cute house in the right suburb, with a mortgage that would take him thirty years to repay
– or forever if he had any kids.
But Pete wasn’t having any of it. He had seen what it had done to his elder brother. In just three short years his brother had turned from a fun guy into a house-proud buffoon. Instead of talking about parties and fast cars, it was now the rose-garden and their darling little child’s first halting step, and the ever-growing overdraft. It had hit Pete rather hard.
He had gone out and found manual work, much to the family’s horror, and over the years had managed to get a few dollars together. He borrowed a few more from an uncle, his father’s brother – regarded as the black sheep of the family by Pete’s mother. She had struck him off the Christmas card list; apparently because he had sunk so low as to sell used cars for a living; but more likely because he was successful at it.
Pete’s entry into the import-export field was his first venture into the heady world of business, and he was on
a high. It was important for him to succeed, not just because of the money, but to show his parents what he could make of himself. And he had every chance of making good. This shipment was the first of several he had negotiated, and all he had to do was to show the customer that he could perform.
I took to Pete and his down-to-earth atti
tude straight away. He knew who he was and where he was going: forceful, but not full of himself as some of them are. If he didn’t agree with what I said, then he said so, but without being a smart-alec about it.
He was younger than me by about four years – calendar years that is. But by the differ
ent lives we had both led, his sheltered and mine fighting for what I could get, I would say I was ahead of him by about ten. If he had known some of the things I had done he wouldn’t have believed them; for although out on his own, he was still naïve and too ready to believe the good in a person. But he would change.
Some might say that he was better looking than me, in that h
andsome way that mothers prefer for their daughters: blue eyes, blond hair and a winsome smile. I was what the girls themselves fancied – more rugged. Pete was slightly taller than me, but tended to walk with his shoulders hunched over; which made us nearly the same height.
Without Pete along the trip would have been boring. But the captain had been proven correct – we kept each other amused; and without Pete I would have been a nuisance, bothering everybody in sight;
either that or I would have been an alcoholic by the end of the voyage. There was nothing to do but sit and talk, or drink.
After the first couple of days we both
agreed that trying to score one of the officers’ wives was going to be more difficult than we had at first considered. They weren’t let out of their husbands’ sight, and the only times we did get to see them was in the dining saloon or in the officers lounge after the evening meal.
Even
in the lounge it was hard to get a word out of them, and a smile was next to impossible. They were either extremely shy, or held under threat of pain of death if they so much as carried on a conversation with us. I couldn’t see what the husbands were worried about. Two quiet young lads like us!
There was still
a lot of ocean to be crossed before Singapore, and I was prepared to wait for the right moment; as long as I beat Pete. With every evening that passed those three young women looked sweeter and sweeter. And the more I thought about those little lotus blossoms tucked up in their bunks at night, the more I thought of Mee Ling.
Singapore seemed such a long way off.
Six and a half days after leaving Adelaide we berthed in Cairns: the northernmost city in eastern Australia. The
Syrius
had a cargo of bagged sugar to collect, bound for some foreign port that didn’t have bulk-handling facilities. It meant that we would have a night and the rest of the following day in port.
It gave me the chance to call Nick.
I could have made the call from the ship, even whilst at sea, but there was no way I was going to do that; even with a perfectly innocent message. As soon as we were tied up at the berth and the gangplank was thrown across to the wharf, I hurried ashore and called him from a public telephone.