A couple of weeks later we had the day off school and Dafty and I were waiting for Banjo on the cliff above the army jetty. It was sort of out of bounds but only just inside the barbed wire fence. A circle of huge sandstone boulders surrounded by thick tea-trees lay back from the cliff directly above the jetty. We called it Shangri-la after the hidden valley in Lost Horizon, the Ronald Colman movie we’d seen a while back.
We were sitting up on the largest boulder watching the workers unload bag after bag of cement from an army barge. There must’ve been thousands of the grey dusty bags. It seemed to go on for hours. The men had stripped off their shirts but in spite of the cool wind they all sweated like racehorses. Their bodies glistened in the sun and soon clouds of cement dust rose into the air and stuck to them, making them all look like grey ants in felt hats. Backwards and forwards they trudged, each time swinging a cement bag up onto their shoulders and staggering along the jetty to a waiting truck.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I asked Banjo when he reached the top of the hill.
Banjo propped his bike against a tree. ‘Palmer came round to my house. He had a letter.’
‘Jeez, are you all right?’ I asked. Anything after hours with Palmer usually meant six of the best, or twelve if he was in one of his black, eye-twitching, moods.
‘Yeah, I’m all right. He still doesn’t look too good though. He had real trouble walking.’ Banjo nodded at Dafty. ‘No thanks to you, sunshine.’
‘Well, what did he want?’ I asked.
‘I don’t understand,’ continued Banjo. ‘He reckons I’ve got a chance at a scholarship.’
‘A what?’
‘A scholarship to Perth Mod. Perth Modern School. He reckons if I can improve my English then maybe. All my other marks are good enough. He said he’d give me extra tutoring. An hour after school every day.’
‘No-one goes to Perth Mod. You have to be a genius,’ I said, hardly believing him. Banjo at Perth Mod? What a laugh that would be, seeing him in a blazer and a school cap and ‘Jolly well done, old chap’, and all that sort of twaddle.
‘What’d your dad say?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t told him yet. I came straight here. But last week he said I’d soon be strong enough to get a job at the aerodrome. Earn some proper money.’ Banjo sat down on the rock next to me.
I nodded down at the grey ants below. ‘What? Doing that?’
‘Palmer said he’d talk to my dad about it. The scholarship.’
‘Do you want to go?’ I asked.
‘Course I do. Wouldn’t you? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life humping cement bags like those poor blighters,’ he said, also nodding towards the jetty.
‘Do you reckon your dad will listen to Palmer?’ I asked again.
‘You know my dad. He doesn’t go much for books and learning. Doesn’t trust teachers. Can’t work them out. He thinks they’re all weird. But he might listen to Palmer because he served in France in the war and got a Military Cross and all those other medals.’
‘Military Cross? Palmer’s got an MC?’ I couldn’t believe it.
‘Didn’t you see him at the Anzac parade?’ said Banjo. ‘His chest was covered in medals.’
‘No, I was home with the measles. Remember?’
‘ I saw him,’ said Dafty, ‘Lots of medals on pretty ribbons.’
So it really was true. Palmer’s limp was caused by the Germans. Grumpy old Palmer the Harmer was a full-blown hero.
We sat quietly for a while until Dafty spoke. ‘What is a mod?’ he asked.