On Mondays Captain Jansen took the ferry across to the main-land before sunrise so Mr and Mrs O’Keeffe from the shop could get fruit and vegetables at the Metro Markets in central Perth early enough. With war shortages, whenever they arrived late they missed out completely. And then so did all of us. Not that I minded missing out on vegetables that much. But cakes? That was different. Lack of cakes was the one thing I really hated about rationing.
On my way to Banjo’s house I noticed Dafty sitting by himself on a craypot at the end of the jetty. His whole body rocked back and forward, as if he was in another world.
‘What’s up, Dafty?’ I said.
He stood up, wiped away tears from his cheeks and looked down at his feet, saying nothing.
‘What’re you doing out here?’ I asked.
‘She’s gone.’ I knew immediately he was talking about Bess. ‘She didn’t tell me. She didn’t say to me goodbye. She just went.’
Bess and her mother must have gone on the early ferry run as well, before everyone else was up and about.
‘Maybe she’s just gone shopping or something,’ I replied. ‘She might be back tomorrow.’
‘No, Jack.’ He looked straight at me with those big, wide, tear-filled eyes and somehow I knew he was right. What could I say?
I put my arm round his shoulders for a moment. ‘Banjo and I are going fishing. Want to come?’ I said, thinking it might take his mind off his misery.
He shook his head and slowly walked away with his shoulders slumped.
Banjo and I were sitting on the same craypot fishing when Mrs Merson, Bess’s mum, returned on the ferry in the afternoon. We hadn’t seen Dafty again all day.
‘Banjo? Jack? Give us a hand with the veggie crates, you lazy little blighters,’ called Christian. We always seemed to be in the wrong place when there was work to be done.
Mrs Merson stepped from the gangplank. Clutching her handbag tight against herself, she hurried straight towards home without stopping to talk to anyone.
Outside the hall, Mum, Mrs Carter and Mrs Isaacs sat at a table in the sun rolling Red Cross bandages when she rushed by.
‘Flo?’ Mum called out but Mrs Merson didn’t seem to hear her.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Banjo as we loaded the wooden crates onto a rusty old trolley. ‘Where’s Bess?’
‘No idea,’ I replied. ‘No-one said anything about her going away. I’ll have to listen to Mum and Mrs Carter. They’ll know for sure.’
But, to my surprise, they didn’t. Nobody seemed to really know what happened to Bess, but the rumours were flying.
Mum told me that Bess had gone to join the forces. Dad had heard that from Mr Merson at the aerodrome.
According to Mrs Evans, she’d gone to work at Arnott’s Biscuit Factory.
Mrs O’Keeffe said she was working at Bairds in the city.
The most dramatic rumour of all came from Mrs Purvis across our side fence one day. In all her narrow-eyed authority she whispered to Mum, loudly enough for everyone on the mainland to hear, ‘Bess has been with an American sailor,’ like she was announcing the Bodyline cricket score. ‘You know the one. That big darkie. The one who came to your house that time when Patricia was lost. George Washington, he was called. Something like that. And now she’s gone off to have a black baby. I ask you, can you believe it? A black baby. Really!’ She sucked her teeth and shook her head in disapproval. ‘I knew that girl was no better than she ought to be.’
Mum looked at Mrs Purvis and shook her own head in disapproval—at Mrs Purvis, not Bess. I could see she was getting exasperated. It wasn’t a good thing to get my mother exasperated.
‘Mavis Purvis,’ she said, ‘The things you come out with. You amaze me at times. Precisely where did you hear such a malicious and far-fetched story?’
Then Mum saw me paying too much attention to their conversation and I got sent back inside.
Anyway, it definitely was a far-fetched story. It couldn’t possibly be true, because I knew for a fact George T Washington was married, with his wife and children back in America.