Sole Survivor

“Here’s another.”

She reached up and grabbed the second carryall.

“How are you going with the torch?”

“Give me a chance!” she snapped.

Give her a chance. Yes, Red thought, he should give her a chance. But what if he did and what if she stayed? Oh Christ! Old Bernie had a lot to answer for. Red waited until she’d dumped both bags by the box of supplies. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let up on her.

“Don’t forget the diesel.”

“Who could forget the diesel?”

Red reached for the jerry can, not daring to smile. “While you’re here, I’ve got something else for you.”

“What?”

“My clothes.”

Red peeled off his oilskins and handed them to her. Then his woolen sweater, shirt and trousers. He was determined to do things the way he always did, woman or no woman.

“What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Just keep them dry. Now let me push her out. C’mon, Archie.” Red jumped naked onto the sand, followed by Archie, and began to push his boat off the beach sternforemost.

“Where are you going?”

“To the mooring.”

“Oh.”

Red grimaced. There’d been a touch of anxiety in her voice when she’d thought he was leaving her all alone. It was enough that their plan worked without having to feel the hurt it caused. He started the motor and ran up to the buoy. The deck was slippery with vomit, and it seemed no part had been spared. His instinct was to clean up the mess immediately, but the trip had been hard enough, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her standing alone on the beach while he did. Reluctantly he let things be, knowing he’d have to beat the sun up in the morning and get back to his boat or it would stink to high heaven. He tied off the mooring rope, jumped over the side and swam ashore. When he reached the shallows he stood and waded the rest of the way. A torch beam caught his crotch and held it unwavering.

“Nice penis,” said the voice behind it.

“If you want me to help carry your things up the hill, would you mind not shining your torch in my eyes.”

“Strange place to have eyes.” Rosie turned the torch away so that it shone on her bags. She picked up Red’s trousers and held them out to him. “Your eye shades.”

“I’ll put them on when I’m dry. Leave the jerry can here and pick it up in the morning. There’s diesel up there. In the end, Bernie couldn’t be bothered running the generator. You carry the bags and I’ll carry the box of supplies.”

“Then lead on. Do you need my torch?”

“No. I know the way. C’mon Archie.” He set off up the track at his normal brisk pace.

Rosie followed, trying hard to keep up with the shape in front of her, the smaller of the bags and torch in one hand, the larger bag in the other. The track shone smooth and white in the torch’s beam, well worn and friendly. Then it began to steepen and crisscross with roots. She couldn’t keep up no matter how hard she pushed herself and fell farther and farther behind. She tried to picture the beach and her bach as she’d seen them from the amphibian. She gasped as her legs gave way and she stumbled. “Bastard!” she muttered. But curses didn’t make her stronger or the track less steep. She vomited, then lay down on the track unable to continue. She’d vomited up every last ounce of energy as well.

“Red! Wait!” she called weakly.

Red put down the box of supplies and turned back. “Stay, Archie.” At last she’d cracked. Now he could afford to show some kindness. Not too much, but enough to make him feel better about what he’d done. He found her sitting on the track with her back to him. Her shoulders slumped, her head in her hands. He thought she was weeping and was stricken with guilt. He’d seen men slumped that way before, their spirit broken and no longer able to drive their weary, wasted bodies. He’d been the same way himself.

“I’ll take your bags.”

“Thanks, Red. How much farther?”

She sounded tired, but her voice didn’t waver as it would have if she’d been crying.

“About halfway.”

Rosie closed her eyes. How would she possibly manage when she could hardly take another step?

“Need a hand up?”

“Mister, I need a crane, closely followed by a taxi. But no, I’ll manage.” She dragged herself to her feet. “How about slowing down a bit?”

Red grunted noncommittally. He slipped his arms through the handles of both bags, flipped them over his shoulders and set off back up the track, moving noticeably slower than before. He paused briefly to pick up the box of supplies and kept walking. He could hear her plodding along slowly behind him, stopped and waited for her. “This is where your track branches off. Not far to go now.” He listened for a reply, but Rosie was too weary to give one.

As they neared Bernie’s bach, Archie ran ahead to see if he could surprise a careless bush rat. Red heard him suddenly crash into the undergrowth, so at least he was on the trail of one. “Here we are.”

Rosie looked up wearily and saw the dark, looming shape of the bach and the welcoming glow of a lamp within.

“Didn’t think you’d want to arrive to a dark house.”

“Red, you surprise me. You really do.” Without thinking she reached forward and briefly put her hand on his arm to acknowledge his kindness. It was a nothing gesture, but it totally unnerved Red. That was something Yvonne used to do. It aroused memories he kept hidden in the dark, buried parts of his mind. The nights when the touch of her hand and the comfort of her nearness were his only medication. He remembered his gratitude and the love that grew from it. All gone. Wasted. Destroyed by the Japanese. Then the pain came and he felt himself hurtling headlong into a flashback. He jerked forward as if reacting to the starter’s gun. Work could drive her from his mind. Work could give him back his control. He took the veranda steps two at a time and pushed the door open, threw the box down on the table and the bags alongside it, then raced back out the door. Don’t think! Don’t think! Don’t think!

“I’ll start the generator.” Not a statement, nor a shout. More a plea.

Rosie didn’t move. Her mouth hung open in surprise. Her hand still reached out in front of her. She wondered what had suddenly got into the man. Perhaps she’d just hit him with a massive dose of static electricity. Maybe it was her vomit breath. Or maybe—just maybe—she was the first woman who’d ever touched him. Christ, don’t tell me, she thought. All this way and the bastard turns out to be queer. But weariness overcame speculation, and she dragged herself up the steps and into her new home. She slumped wearily into a chair and looked around her. It didn’t occur to her to turn up the brightness of the propane lamp. The place looked clean, though, which surprised her. Dying old men weren’t noted for their housekeeping. A generator coughed, and the bare bulb above her head flickered into life. She was wrong. The place wasn’t clean, it was spotless. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. Even the gold and silver flecks in the tacky Formica countertops shone. Fresh flypapers hung from the ceiling. The screen door creaked open as Red returned.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Whatever devils had got into Red had gone back into hiding. He looked away, embarrassed.

“The flowers are a nice touch.”

“Thought I’d better check the place out before you arrived. Make sure the water was all right and the generator worked.” Red felt guilty about the work he’d done around the house and was beginning to regret the fact that he’d done it. Angus would never have agreed to it and would be furious if he ever found out. But Archie would’ve approved. Whenever they heard more prisoners were moving up to the camp, they always did their best to prepare huts for them, dug latrines and organized whatever food they could. Invariably, the new troops arrived hungry, exhausted and in no shape for work. It wouldn’t have been right to leave them to fend for themselves. Survival depended on helping each other.

“I appreciate what you’ve done, Red.” Rosie looked down at the tabletop, weighing up what next to say. The contradictions in the man staggered her. He’d made it clear she wasn’t welcome, then laid out the welcome mat, having vacuumed and fluffed it up first. The absurdity of sitting there having a normal conversation with a stark bollocky, naked man who was a virtual stranger added to her confusion. Nothing made sense. “I think if I’d walked into a mess here tonight I wouldn’t have bothered to unpack my bags.” She looked up quickly to catch Red’s reaction, but he’d already turned away from her.

“Kettle’s on,” he said, and began to put on his clothes.

Rosie took a good look at Red while they drank their tea. Fred Ladd had been right on a number of scores. He was certainly wiry, pleasant to look at and totally devoid of small talk. But there was no sign of the thousand-yard stare or anything that would make her want to drop her knickers. Even in the dull light she could see his eyes had a brightness, but they were as lifeless as a dead fish’s. He stared silently into his tea like a fortune-teller into her crystal ball. She guessed he was trying to come to terms with whatever had spooked him.

“Well, are you going to show me around?”

“Sorry!” Red shot up like a startled bird.

“No hurry, take your time.” Rosie laughed to ease the tension, but her gesture was ignored. He took her on a tour of the house, slowly reverting to the cold and distant person who’d picked her up from Fitzroy. Red had remembered the game plan. He introduced her to the kitchen, living room, two bedrooms and bathroom. She smiled when she saw the way the blankets were folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Only soldiers and nurses folded blankets that way. The bed sagged slightly in the middle but looked comfortable enough. At that point, she would have given anything just to curl up in its hollow, but there were things she needed to know. He introduced her to the outside lavatory, which operated on the big-drop principle. It was enclosed in weatherboard for privacy, and for ventilation, the bottom and top two planks were omitted on three sides and the door cut to match. Red had dropped a couple of buckets of soil down the toilet to try and smother the odors, but had met with only limited success.

“Needs a new hole dug,” said Red. “That’ll take some digging.” He flashed her torch around the vegetable garden. “Needs weeding and new topsoil,” he volunteered. “Ages since Bernie did a trip down to the flats for more soil. Needs fencing and a secure gate. Henhouse could do with a clean. You’ve got half a dozen chooks, but they don’t all lay.” He led her back inside. “The whole place needs fixing and painting,” he said, “particularly the gutters.” Rosie realized Red was about to provide a whole catalogue of things that needed doing, all of which were calculated to discourage her.

“All it needs is love, Red,” she said. “And all I need right now is sleep. I need to wash and clean my teeth and rinse my mouth out. My breath could melt asphalt. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow and show me how the stove works.”

Red hesitated. The temperamental old stove was one of the cornerstones of their plan. “Do one thing for her and we’ll be running after her for the rest of our lives,” the old Scot had said. “There’ll be precious little peace then.” In his heart, Red knew that Angus was right and that their plan was sound. But old Shacklocks could be tricky to operate. They’d agreed to drop her in at the deep end, but just how deep did it need to be? Surely just having to rely on an old woodstove for cooking, heating and hot water would be enough to discourage any woman accustomed to limitless electricity. Surely it couldn’t do any harm to show her how it worked. But he wouldn’t cut firewood for her. He’d draw the line there.

“I’ll come around sometime tomorrow,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Red, before you go.”

“What?” What else did she want? Surely she wasn’t going to start making demands on him already.

“Thank you,” she said. And reached up to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Eight

Only one person at Wreck Bay greeted the new day with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t Angus. He rose early and made porridge to ward off the cold. He hadn’t slept well because he was worried about the woman, and he wasn’t ready to start writing because he was worried about Red. Change was in the air, and he was consumed by a feeling of unease. The thing that concerned him most was that he didn’t trust Red to stick to their agreement. Some people were just born to do good works, and it was a condition he knew to be incurable. But it could be managed if one was diligent enough. Aye, he thought, and when it came to diligence there were few better than he. He’d almost had to take a gun to stop Red from leaving too early to collect the woman from Fitzroy. He’d forced Red to see that it made sense to pick her up when it was cold, dark and wet. To let her know right from the start that life on the Barrier didn’t come any harder than at Wreck Bay. The sooner she was forced to face the truth, he’d argued, the sooner she’d be gone. Red had acquiesced but was plainly unhappy about it. The man was soft, no doubt about it, and that was cause for worry.

Angus poured himself a cup of tea, wandered out onto his veranda and automatically looked over the bay. The madman was already up and cleaning his boat. The fool was obsessive! He looked up at the sky to see what sort of day would be forthcoming. Clouds and more clouds tumbled down the hillside, big and puffy, roiling and boiling, charcoal hued and swollen with rain. He almost cackled with glee. When he concentrated he could hear the roar of the wind in the treetops high up on the ridge. It was going to pour down, nothing surer, and provide precisely the sort of welcome he wanted for the city woman. Soaking wet and no hot water. He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he contemplated her discomfort. Shut indoors with no television and no telephone. And no food other than what she’d brought, unless … unless the madman gave her some fish. The thought caused his brow to furrow. Damn the man! That was exactly the sort of fool thing the man would do. He looked up once more at the sky to see if he’d have time to get down to the beach and back before it rained. It was time for words, no doubt about it.

In every respect, Red’s day had begun as any other except for one thing—he couldn’t keep the woman out of his mind. She’d interrupted his sleep and intruded into his consciousness. She’d kept him company over breakfast. Accompanied him on his rounds of garden and chookhouse. The only time he’d escaped from her was during the discipline of his exercises, when he’d emptied his mind and looked inward as he had been taught, calming himself, strengthening his body and keeping the many parts of his fractured mind together. But when he’d finished, she was there waiting patiently for him. He’d resented that. She disturbed and unsettled him, made him feel guilty for having to do things that went against his instincts. The woman did not belong. She had no right to come where she was clearly not wanted. He set off for the beach the instant he’d brought his calendar up to date.

The stench of her vomit as he cleaned out his boat didn’t upset him. He’d grown accustomed to the smell of vomit and human feces while helping out in the camp hospital, helping the men dying of cholera and dysentery, washing fouled sheets and Jap-happies, the loincloths the men wore after their trousers had rotted away. He’d looked after men dying from injuries inflicted by swinging boots and rifle butts. He’d scraped tropical ulcers and putrefying sores. He’d lanced boils. Vomit didn’t upset him, but it was unhygienic, and hygiene was important to survival. He couldn’t help wondering if Angus’s embargo on help extended to the woman’s toilet. Perhaps he should help Rosie sink a new hole. Whenever newcomers arrived at the camps, those already there always helped dig new latrines.

“You! You out there!”

Red looked up from his work. Angus was waving to him from the beach, lean and angular in khaki shirt and baggy, knee-length khaki shorts.

“What do you want?”

“Come ashore. We need to have words.”

“I’m nearly finished.” Red continued cleaning the boat in his usual methodical way. He thought about topping up his fuel tank but hadn’t used enough on the run back from Fitzroy to justify it. He rinsed his brush over the side and put it away. He picked up a bucket filled with fresh water and a clean cloth and began to wipe all the interior surfaces so salt wouldn’t build up.

“C’mon, man, I haven’t got all day!”

Red wiped down the console and his seat. He wiped down all the metal around his controls. Things rotted in saltwater and salt air as quickly as they rotted in the jungle, unless they were properly cared for. He tossed the dregs over the side, stowed the bucket and went forward to the bow locker where he kept his storm cover.

“For heaven’s sake, man! Can you not do that later?”

Red could see that Angus was getting agitated. He couldn’t understand his impatience. Neither of them was going anywhere. There was work to be done and an order for doing it in. He fastened the cover off at the stern cleats, checked to make sure that all of the clips were secure and dived into the water.

Angus watched the madman swim toward him, Archie dog-paddling by his side, and looked around to see where Red had left his clothes. Unless the madman had buried them, he hadn’t brought any.

“Have you got nothing to make yourself decent?”

Red shook the water out of his hair and cocked his head to each side to release the drops trapped in his ears. “You said we needed to talk.”

“Aye. How did it go, then? Picking up the woman.”

“She was seasick all the way from Fitzroy.”

“Good, good. Was she frightened at all?”

“Angus, you would have been frightened.”

“Good, good!” There was genuine glee in the Scot’s voice, and he’d come as close to a smile as Red had ever seen.

“So? What next? I trust you just left her standing on the beach.” There was something indecent in the delight Angus was taking in Rosie’s suffering, and it disgusted Red.

“I took her up to Bernie’s.”

“You didn’t carry her bags?”

“Some of the way, yes.”

“Then you’re a bloody fool, man!”

“She’d collapsed on the track, Angus. She could hardly put one foot in front of the other. She’d spent the best part of the previous two hours puking.”

“Collapsed, had she? Very good. You probably did the best thing. You didn’t stay there?”

“Not for long. Started her generator, showed her how to switch it off and where the lavatory was.”

“I assume Bernie had left the place in a mess?”

“No. When I looked after Bernie, I looked after his place as well.”

“Pity. How did she seem? Disappointed?”

“No, just tired and sick. She seems to have lots of spirit.”

“Lots of spirit, eh? Well, we’ll see about that. If anywhere can knock that out of her it’s here. Provided you don’t go soft on me. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah.”

“Now tell me, you didn’t make any arrangements to see her today?”

“I said I’d show her how to work the stove.”

“Heaven’s sake, man! We have an agreement! Are you already hell-bent on becoming her slave? Has she sunk her claws into your soft, daft hide already?”

“No!” The anger that had been building all morning began to seethe and foment.

“Now don’t you take that tone with me. I’ll not put up with it. I thought we had an agreement. You’ve gone soft already, haven’t you, you gormless fool?”

“No, I told you!”

“You have, man. Already she’s got you running after her. ‘Start my generator. Light my stove.’ Next she’ll have you digging her garden and sinking a new toilet. Help her now and you’ll help her forever. I’m telling you, man. Do this! Do that! Fetch this! Mend that! There’ll be no letup. There’ll be no peace for either of us.”

“All I said was I’d show her how to work the stove!”

“You’ll not do any such thing!”

“I gave my word!”

“Then un-give it. Don’t you see?” Angus sensed he’d pushed Red far enough and softened his voice. He didn’t want to be the cause of one of Red’s turns. “Any minute it’s going to rain cats and dogs. Let her sit up there all alone, no television, no telephone, no heat and nowhere to go. She won’t last long. Every time she wants a pee she’ll have to go outside and get a soaking. She’ll have no hot shower and no hot bath. No city woman is going to put up with that for long.”

Red could see that Angus was right. He forced himself to breathe deeply, felt the ebb of his anger and frustrations.

“Okay. I’ll do it your way.”

“There’ll be no taking her fish, either. Not fresh, not smoked. You’ll give her nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Then it’s agreed.” The Scot turned abruptly and strode back up the beach toward the track.

Red turned around to look for Archie. He could hear the first rain squall battering the leaves on the trees high up on the ridges. It wouldn’t be long before it reached them. At least it would wash the salt out of his hair and off his body. He spotted Archie farther down the beach, about thirty yards out from shore. His tail was wagging furiously as he dog-paddled after small mullet. Red smiled. If there were no seagulls to chase, Archie chased fish. If he ever caught one it would be because the fish had collapsed laughing. Red shaped his lips to whistle him in but thought better of it. Archie was enjoying himself and not hurting anyone. Red wished he could say the same for himself.

The curtains Bernie had hung over his bedroom window so that he could sleep late worked just as well for Rosie. She slept until the rain squall began its frenetic tattoo on her iron roof. She opened her eyes and looked around her. The room was not unlike many of the bachs she’d weekended in, practical, even comfortable, but in no way cosy. There was a tired-looking tallboy and an empty wardrobe with its door half open. The linoleum on the floor was worn, and there was a tattered wool rug that might once have been cream-colored, covering what she suspected was a hole. But there was no doubting the place was clean. Hospital clean.

It didn’t bother her that she was lying in the bed Bernie had died in, because she’d been brought up around hospitals. When somebody died you changed the sheets, not the bed. What did worry her was that she desperately needed a pee. She got up, unzipped her bags and rifled through them to find something warm to put on. She shivered in the cold and pulled her jeans and sweater on as fast as she could in preparation for the mad dash to the outhouse. The pounding on her roof swelled to a continuous roar. Thunder crackled and threatened to split her roof apart. She thought of the wet run up to the smelly toilet and considered squatting over the washbasin in the bathroom instead. According to a salesman she knew who stayed in country pubs, the old trick of peeing in the washbasin was an institution. You could do whatever you liked in them, he’d maintained, so long as you never actually washed in them. She dismissed the idea. This was her new home, not a country pub. And if she was going to make a go of things, the sooner she started doing things properly, the better.

She reached under the bed to find her shoes, and her hand touched something cold and smooth. And round. She pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed and looked at it with an overwhelming sense of relief. Of course the old bastard would have had a pot. Sick and probably lazy, there was no way the old codger would have crawled out of a warm bed on a cold, wet night to go up the hill for a pee. Down came the jeans. She couldn’t help smiling. Excitement mixed with relief and she felt like a kid again. And it wasn’t just the novelty of squatting over a potty, she was excited about her new life and the prospects of a new beginning. She looked for her tissues. Where had she seen them and were they in reach? She blessed Bernie’s weakness and then realized she was thanking the wrong person. Red could have cleared out the pot along with Bernie’s effects, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d scrubbed it as he’d scrubbed everything else, and popped it back under the bed where he knew she’d find it. He amazed her. Both Captain Ladd and Col had been right about him. He was a decent bloke and he did have a heart of gold. It wasn’t buried very deep, either, just hidden away behind a veneer of stupidity.