Jack, p.6
Jack, page 6
arms spread
like a pale fruit bat.
The sail is solid canvas,
Rose’s dress
is gossamer.
It dances
and throws back
an eerie dazzle.
She jumps off
and lands
thump
on my chest,
this better half
of mine.
Her sudden weight
whoofs
out my breath.
She murmurs
sweet nothings
in my ear.
I don’t mind
the spit running
down
my neck
or the sour stink
in my face.
All I can think
is
all’s well
that ends well.
See, Ted,
it was me
she wanted
all the time.
Lightning
The yellow flash explodes
then darkens to emerald.
I count the seconds until
the thunder
then open my mouth,
let the wind drive a silver nail
into each tooth’s nerve.
The boys are scuttling, slipping
across the deck.
The green air’s
bruised
as I jump down
from the engine casing
and begin to walk
stiff-legged towards Georgie.
‘Who am I?’ I talk around
imaginary stitches in my throat.
‘I’ll give you a clue.
Boris Karloff, 1931.’
When he doesn’t answer
just backs away
I move closer and closer,
lumbering through another
brilliant flash.
‘I’m your worst nightmare, son.
I’m the man made of corpses.’
Competition
Takemoto’s diving again
and he just can’t help himself.
When I signal Bing Tang
to haul me up
it’s his cue
to start suiting up
so that he can go down.
But as I’m pulled on board
and the Malay unscrews
my helmet,
I see him
half concentrating
as Morishita pulls on his boots.
His neck
is like a double-jointed ibis,
craning
to see how much shell
I’ve brought up.
Craning
to see if my cock
is bigger than his
today.
I Miss the Taste of Chocolate
I’m brooding and hungry
watching
Georgie
pull down the mains’l
for the night.
He’s naked to the waist
and glistening.
I can almost taste his backbone
as it moves
beneath the skin,
each separate knot
like a walnut
covered in chocolate.
Constellations
‘Georgie, come and sit
with me,’
I command.
He hesitates
for a second,
then walks over
plops himself down
unreadable
but close enough
that I could bury my
face in his hair
if I had a mind to.
And the truth is
I have a mind to.
He has a delicate jawbone
when he eats,
those fine bones
moving under the skin,
unusual for a native boy.
‘Good?’ I ask him of the food.
He smiles and nods,
gazing out at sea.
The night sky
has its legs spread wide
exposing all the gaudy stars.
‘Do you know your constellations?’
I say softly.
He points up to a few
navigational markers
in the mass of twinkling.
I raise my hand to his.
‘What about over there?’
I move his arm
to the left.
‘See the Saucepan?
and Orion, the Hunter?’
I feel the heat of his blood
pumping through the skin,
smell the trapped sweat
of armpit hair.
The evening breeze
is ruffling the man-scent
of him
all along my nerve ends.
I move my hand
up and down his arm
in the dark
barely touching,
feeling the way
the small hairs
are full of static,
each separate strand
like a cat’s back
arching to my palm,
sparking
sparking …
‘Boss?’
His voice is insistent,
dragging me out
of my trance.
‘Yes, Georgie?’
‘I have to go.’
He pulls his arm away
with a crackle.
‘I have to pee.’
The First Day I Met Rose
When the inside of my chest
feels like an anchor’s
settled there
I would give anything
to walk across
that fly-strip threshold
of Cosgrain’s general store
again.
The way I did
when I was twenty,
in between commissions,
and on my way to the station
to offload crates of fivepence-a-pair
rabbit skins.
Just to see her again,
like that first time,
behind a counter
stocked with liver pills and Lux flakes,
the sleek pelt of her blonde hair
pulled back with a grass-green ribbon.
To have my heart
like it was
in that moment,
in plague proportions,
leaping,
leaping.
TWENTY-FIVE DAYS OUT
… WEST OF BADU …
Regret
It’s flaring today,
licking from gut to throat.
Grog doesn’t help,
nor does
Ah May’s
twang in a tin.
They’re velvet
hammers
while I long for the knife
bright
and fast
that could bleed
this weakness
out of me.
Worked Out
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
I’m peering into his
almost empty net bag.
He catches his breath.
‘What we got yesterday,
that about it down there.
Some lugger been here
before us.’
He drips sun-dazzled water at my feet.
I scowl at him over the top
of the fingernail I’m gnawing.
Takemoto yells impatiently
to the Papuan boys
to come and take off his suit.
‘We’ve got to get more shell than this.’
I spit the parings out.
‘This is not a bloody pleasure cruise.’
My head tilts to the side for a minute.
Underneath the clang and thump around me,
I can hear Rose rabbiting on
about somebody’s uncle in my ear.
She always was a gossip.
In hindsight
it was better
when she kept her legs open
and her smart mouth shut.
I’m half listening to what she’s saying
and having a go at the next finger,
my teeth chomping
round the half circle
like a cob of corn.
I look at the bleeding quick,
mildly surprised
I’ve gone so far.
When I lift my head
Takemoto’s giving
me a strange look
which I ignore.
‘I’ll go down once more,
make sure you haven’t missed anything,’
I say to him,
then call Georgie:
‘Get ready to weigh anchor and sail up
when I’ve finished this dive.
We’ll head over
to Mabuiag Island.’
The Squeeze
A swarm of aqua-blue
damselfish descend on me
as I’m falling.
My knees are bent,
ready to spring
the minute I hit bottom
but I end up losing my balance
anyway.
On my knees,
in the middle of crushed shell,
the fish
still haven’t lost interest.
They cling tenaciously
to the helmet.
I wave them away
but the pressured effort
makes my arm ache
and they’re not deterred.
I struggle to my feet, blinded,
and stumble into a hole.
My head is suddenly enormous,
trying to force itself back down
the too
small
opening
in my throat.
Now I know how a baby would feel
being shoved back up where it came from.
Twinning
Me and him,
the groper I see,
his shadow in the water
above me,
blocking out the sun.
He turns
and swims closer,
one eye missing
in the battered
ragbag of his face.
The empty socket
is full of seaweed
and rimmed with something
white
that looks
like birdshit.
Needless to say
I’m not flattered
by the resemblance.
One of My Coins Is Missing
Now whose slippery fingers
could it be?
I think I know.
I’ve always had
a sixth sense
for such things.
Each night
I’ve been teaching
him and the others
the finer points
of playing poker.
If I’m right
it occurs to me
it’s time he learned
the true gambler’s
next lesson,
the one
about bargaining chips.
Georgie and I Have a Talk
His eyes are looking anywhere
but my way.
The lashes are flicking, flicking,
like the wings
of trapped birds.
‘Don’t lie to Captain Jack, now.
Georgie,
did you take my coin?’
He’s hopping from one
foot to the other
as if he needs to do a shit
but he’s trying to hold it in.
‘No Boss, I saw that Papua boy,
that one call Hopi Manga.
He look like his nose
in lots of trouble.’
‘Is that so?’
My shoulders are set
in disbelief.
He nods his head
once, twice.
The wings become
calmer, more confident
of escape.
‘That Hopi Manga,
I go get him.’
‘Never mind.’
I walk slowly over to him.
He flinches as I lift my arm
but I just scarf it gently
round his shoulders.
‘Listen, Georgie.’
Magnanimity washes over me
in a warm wave.
‘It’s only one coin, son.
I’m not about
to come unsprung,
but you need to keep
my generosity in mind.
You need to help
me sometimes … specially
you know?’
He’s looking confused,
twitchy.
‘You could be old
Capt’n Jack’s best boy
eh?’ I wink
with my one good eye.
That Clive, he your best boy.’
‘Now, now,’ I say.
That’s for me to decide,
surely.’
I smile
then squeeze his shoulder
once,
twice
so he can
feel the goodwill
in my touch.
So he knows
if I push
a little harder
I could make it hurt.
Slipped Cog
‘Pull up a pew,’ I invite Takemoto.
The rest of us are playing cards.
So far
every night since we left TI,
him and Morishita
take themselves up
the other end of the lugger
where they yabber away for hours,
exchanging miso soup recipes
for all I know.
He shakes his head.
‘What … you too good
to play cards with us?’
Then I remember something
I’ve heard around the traps.
‘You Japanese blokes don’t gamble, do you?’
Something guilty crosses his face,
like a rat running over the moon.
‘I promise my Oyakata
I not play cards,’ he says quietly.
The penny drops.
I whistle and thump my leg.
‘That’s why
you’ve got money problems, isn’t it?
And why you’re my diver
and not running your own boat?
A gambling Jap …
what a turn-up for the books,
and the little wife and kiddies
at home in Kyoto starving, no doubt.’
There are muscles working in his face
that I haven’t seen before.
He looks like he’s about to cry.
I go back to dealing out the cards
trying to hide a smile.
Who would have thought it?
The proud and inscrutable
Takemoto Izabura,
slipped cog in the efficient
oriental machine.
In that moment
I can almost like him.
My Glass Eye
It got me out of the war
and it’s always
been a curiosity
for small children.
But now,
it’s Georgie that’s curious.
He’s not frightened of it
like Morishita.
He likes
shiny things.
I entice him with it
as if it’s a lolly,
let him hold the slimy ball
in his palm,
then quote Cornwall
in a booming voice,
‘Out vile jelly,
where is thy lustre now!’
He doesn’t flinch,
just brings the pupil
round till it seems
to stare him out.
He stabs it deliberately
with his finger,
then looks up to see
if I jump.
But I don’t,
not even when
he pretends
to throw it overboard.
It’s him, not me
who will have to look
at the empty socket.
Riding the Turtle
We need fresh water
so I’ve decided
we’ll stay a few days
on this empty island near Yam.
The lugger’s anchored out
in the glassy-blue lagoon.
I’m sitting under a palm tree
half asleep, listening to its fronds
sweep the air.
With half a languid eye,
I’m watching Sandy and Georgie,
their bodies
sleek brown bullets
in the dinghy.
They’ve got a spear
made from a knife blade,
a piece of branch
and a lead weight
and they’re after
dugong in the shallow grass
near the shore.
I see Georgie dive
over the side, then resurface
as if a giant hand’s lifting him
by a collar
he doesn’t possess.
Dickie laughs like castanets.
‘Turtle, tonight eh, good tucker!’
I stand up, my feet sinking
in the warm shell-grit sand,
and shade my eyes.
The rest of the crew are at the water’s edge
watching the action,
cheering him on.
He’s holding the front of the shell
and rearing back on it
so the turtle finds it hard to dive.
I hear him yelling at Sandy
who ties a noose
in a piece of rope
then rows the dinghy closer.
Georgie’s having the time
of his life,
waiting for the turtle
to exhaust itself.
He’s whooping and hollering.
Each time it manages
to pull him down
my breath catches in my throat.
When he comes back up, arm muscles straining,
there’s a stirring in my belly
that might be relief.
That Night, Around the Campfire
Our bellies full of turtle meat,
we’re all having a smoke
