Chapters

4

Hey, yelled a man at my door.

Jesus! You scared the shit out of me.

Yeah, he said, you me too. Gidday, I’m Ted Robinson. From Brisbane.

What are you doing here?

I live in a room down the back. You must be the new bloke from Perth.

Must be. Jack Muir.

We shook hands. Ted was one of those blokes you liked, soon as you set eyes on him. Tall, rangy, tanned, broad-shouldered, just what you’d imagine a Queenslander would look like.

Breakfast?

Huh? Yeah. Where?

Up the new mess. Didn’t anyone tell you anything? I’ve got a motorbike. I’ll give you a lift.

You think I should put my pants on?

Ha ha. Might as well. The sheilas up there aren’t worth leaving them off for.

Robinson rode a motorbike like you would imagine a Queenslander would, hell for leather, low around a bend, fast as Flint up a hill, zippy across an intersection, all the while talking his head off over his shoulder.

There’s a good bunch of blokes in the bank, he yelled. Most nights we go to a bar over in the satellite town, Bulimbi. Some of the sheilas go too but they aren’t much to look at. A big night is when a mob of mixed race tarts turn up. Oh, mate, they are something.

As he talked I kept my eyes on the road. It wasn’t much of a road but I grew up in a house at the end of a gravel track, so anything with bitumen was okay by me. This road was sealed but it looked like great lumps of tar had been tossed off the back of a truck. Along the road natives walked, mostly men and some women with things sitting on or hanging off their heads. The vegetation looked sparse and dry, not the lush tropical growth I had expected.

Looks a bit dry, I yelled at the back of Robinson’s head.

Won’t be long, he yelled back. The wet season’ll get underway any minute.

When Robinson turned his bike off in the new bank mess driveway, he stood beside his Honda Black Bomber and said: What do you reckon?

Nice bike, I said.

I love it and there’s one more thing I gotta have before I leave this bloody place.

A trip to the Islands of Love.

You never heard of them?

They’re on the other side of the main island. I know blokes who’ve been there. They reckon you just walk up to sheilas, ask for a fuck and if they like the look of you, you’re in. Sex is just a game for them.

You’re joking.

Nuh. You interested?

Of course I was, but I didn’t say it out loud. I wanted sex, I was clear about that, but I was still a virgin, and still a bit scared of the wrath of a God who was no longer with me, or didn’t exist. Then there was the wrath of a mother who believed that sex was created by the Heavenly Man so we could reproduce, and fucking for fun was a sin and deserving of retribution.

The dining room was nothing like my old boarding school dining room. It was like a large restaurant with modern chairs, tables, no prefects at their heads, all very civilised. People lined up for food served by native men through a servery. The furniture and general decor was plain and functional but the view out the large windows and across the bay was spectacular.

Come on, Jacky, let’s get food, said Robinson. After breakfast I’ll take you down to the bank and we’ll see if we can’t get the day off to ride you around town.

As people passed us they said: Gidday, Robbo. And: What are you up to, Robbo? Then: You already corrupted the new bloke, Robbo? Finally: Jesus, Robbo, haven’t they sent you home yet?

Right after breakfast, we walked into the main branch of the bank. It sat on the ground floor of the two-storey building, just below the old quarters where Robbo and I lived as the only occupants.

You better come meet the branch accountant, said Robbo. He said he knows you. He’s a West Aussie too.

There was no need to find his office, Richard Symons was already out of it and walking towards us. That must have been why I got the job, my big break in the banking world, because Symons had headed the two bank training schools back in Perth, the two schools where Jack Muir shone, rose above the pack. There you are, Jack, said Symons. Good to see you again. How was your flight?

Great, Mr Symons, I said. It was a long flight but I managed to stay above ground.

You still have your sense of humour, Jack. That’s good, you’ll need it here. And, by the way, we are not as formal in the islands, so, please, call me Richard.

Thanks, Richard, I will.

Ted here has asked that you two have the day off so he can show you around town. Are you happy with that arrangement?

Sure, I’m just not so sure about his bike riding.

No one is, said Symons. But look, let’s make it half a day off, because I want you to come back here to see what we have in store for you. Given your knowledge and intelligence, we have quite a challenge for you and I believe you are up to it.

Gee, thanks, Richard. Okay.

Robbo lifted his eyebrows at me as we walked out the main entrance, past two neatly dressed white girls. I almost missed them because I was going over Symons’ words.

Deep inside me there was a small part making noises, maybe wanting to believe in me and hoping to show the disbelievers back home that I had something, could do something, if I wanted to, if I felt like it. The old headmaster. Dad. Mum. My brothers. It would be a new experience, to make good; I’d have to stay focussed, to concentrate, to dedicate, to strive for consistency. I felt nervous, anxious, but ready. I decided to buy some salt to keep in my room because salt would help me keep my cool. When I was a kid I was diagnosed with pinks disease, mercury poisoning, and the family doctor reckoned salt would help me stay calm. I wasn’t sure, I still experienced sudden rushes of anxiety, but I loved salt and most days ate a handful of the stuff. And when drinking I couldn’t keep my hands off the beer nuts and the potato chips.

I laughed out loud.

What? said Robbo.

Symons, I said. Did you hear what he said about me?

Yeah, he’s got the hots for you.

Ha ha. You got any idea what he has in mind?

Nuh, but I’d keep your pants on at night and maybe rig up a piece of string and some tin cans, so if he comes into your room you’ll hear him before he gets to your bed.

Shut up you filthy bastard. Get on your bike. Let’s go see some naked ladies.

The capital looked like a frontier town, a town struggling to find itself in a maze of buildings randomly erected. Robbo rode around it like he owned it, yelling over his head and occasionally whistling at attractive mixed race girls. It might have been 1968 but there was no sign of it here, no hippies and no bearded students marching against colonialism, capitalism, fascism or calling for free love. Not all the white people wore white but they were all neatly dressed and behaving in an orderly manner.

Do you play footy? he yelled.

Aerial ping-pong, you wanker. You sandgropers only know how to play one.

It’s a better game than chimp footy.

Chimp footy. You play an ape’s game.

Robbo took both his hands off the handlebars and made like a chimp, just for a second, but long enough for my guts to hit my throat.

There were no naked ladies in town that day, but Robinson took me up a hill to see the sights from high, then down the hill and across town to the place we would visit often at night in many futile attempts to find the perfect mix of feminine beauty: Melanesian, European and Asian. When I say futile, I don’t mean ladies approaching perfection did not visit, they did, but they were usually on the arm of some flash, rich, or important, prick.