* * *
1950
‘Gran’pa, Gran’pa, you can’t go yet. You promised me another story.’
‘Bless my soul, so I did. I was forgetting.’ The old man winked at his daughter as he re-seated himself. ‘Come on then, young Emma, up on my knee, and we’ll visit story land again. I wonder what we’ll find this time?’
‘I want to hear that one about how you drove the am..am..am-bulance up into the mountains in Africa and brought back the emeny President.’
‘Enemy. It’s enemy, little one. You like my war stories, don’t you?’
Emma hugged herself as she nodded. ‘Mmmm. They’re the bestest, Gran’pa.’
‘Well, here we go, then. Did I tell you the bit about how I was sick and tired of all the drill parades on the Randwick Rifle Range, and about how I joined the Army Medical Group?’
‘Yes, and then you went off to fight the boors for Queen Victoria.’
‘No, darling, it was the other soldiers who fought the Boers. I drove the ambulance that brought our chaps back to camp when they...got hurt.’
‘I want to hear how you captured President Cougar.’
‘Kruger, darling, Kruger. Oh, I caught him alright. I grabbed him when he wasn’t looking, and bundled him into my ambulance.
‘Then I wheeled my team on the mountain side,
And I set them a merry pace,
And I galloped them over the rocks and stones,
And a lot of the Boers gave chase.’
‘But you got away, didn’t you Gran’pa?’
‘My word I did. Those Boers had Buckley’s chance of catching me. I had the fastest team in all Transvaal.’
Emma’s grandfather continued his story, part real, part made up, part stolen from other story-tellers. He had a way with words, and a voice, that tugged at Emma’s emotions, and she was content. But before the old man reached the end of the tale she had stopped asking questions and grew still. Eventually she dozed.
Emma’s mother, working in the kitchen, noticed her father had stopped speaking and guessed the cause. She came in and gently lifted Emma from his lap.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
The old man smiled at his daughter, then looked down and brushed a curl to one side of Emma’s face. ‘You’re certainly one for soaking up the stories, little princess. Sleep tight.’
1975
It was barely 9 a.m. Half a dozen fluffy white clouds floated in an otherwise clear blue sky.
Toby stretched his legs as he sat on the park bench, and breathed deeply.
A young woman approached, running lightly and easily on the perimeter track. She wore skimpy bright blue shorts and a dazzling white sleeveless top, and moved with a loping gait. Toby found that by focussing intently on her figure-which was in any event pleasing to the eye-and ignoring the background, the lope produced an illusion of slow motion. Her short, light brown pigtails danced their own disconnected rhythm, and her hips rose and fell minutely and lazily, like the waves around Taronga Jetty.
An extremely primitive and visceral reaction overwhelmed Toby. He wanted this woman.
Moments later she vanished. She’d been on the far side of the park when, high above, sounds diverted Toby’s attention. He looked up for a few seconds, to discover the noises were sky-divers’ parachutes snapping open. When his gaze returned to the ground the woman was gone.
Toby experienced a sudden sense of loss. He rose from the bench and left the park. The image of the runner stayed in his mind, creating in him a degree of nervous energy that needed an outlet. At home, he began flicking through the pages of the daily paper, simply for something to do. In the lifestyle section he saw an ad for a three-day outdoor festival. One line in particular caught his attention.
‘We’re always keen to find others,’ the voice on the phone said. ‘Just rock on up to the van marked Administration. You’ll find it inside the entrance off Butlers Road. Maggie’ll take your details and slot you in.’
He thought he got through the sessions on the first day rather well. They seemed to like his act. Now, mid-way through the second day, he was having a breather and a bit of a squiz around some of the market stalls.
An open-fronted pavilion tent in striped purple and gold caught his eye. Inside, he found framed art prints on a tiered stand. An attendant wearing beads, a long cotton dress and a spaced-out smile stood to one side.
Toby examined the prints for a few minutes, before something made him turn and look back into the area in front of the tent.
His attention was drawn to just one woman. He felt certain her presence had caused the tingling at the base of his skull, which made no sense. She was dressed like a common prostitute, and they were not a part of his everyday world.
Still, there was something about her. He began to rationalise her obvious life-style, to make excuses, without being quite sure why.
The woman, swinging her hips arrogantly, commenced walking towards the tent. Toby’s puzzlement increased. He studied her face more carefully, attempting to match what he saw with her body language.
Then he became flustered as the dots began to join and he realised the woman was the runner from the park.
He needed to get away. In his confusion he failed to notice a tent peg directly ahead of him, and stumbled. His shoulder slammed into the woman’s upper arm.
‘Oh. Sorry. I slipped. My mistake…’
‘Hey, no worries. If that was the worst thing to happen to me in the course of my day, I’d be a very happy hooker.’
So he was correct. Toby shuddered, not at the cheap literary reference but at her brazenness. He decided to be sociable, and forced a smile.
Automatically, the woman sized Toby up. He looks like he might have a quid, she thought. Ah, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’ll shake the tree and see what falls out.
‘Are you looking for something a bit different?’
He missed the double entendre. ‘Not really. I have an act; right now I’m just doing some browsing.’
Somewhere nearby a truck backfired noisily, and she missed the bit about an act. She abandoned her spiel.
‘And you’re hoping you might find a valuable item?’
‘Hardly. Most of the stuff at these places is mass-produced rubbish. Look at that print of the flamenco dancer in the tight red dress. It’s probably one of fifty or a hundred the same, all turned out in some back street copy shop.’
Did she imagine it or was the deep rich tone of his voice somehow familiar? A thrill ran down her spine, and then she shook herself. It was probably nothing.
‘But don’t you agree it’s still a nice print?’
‘For some people perhaps. I have better taste, thank you very much. When I want to gaze on a woman’s body, I prefer to see a touch of class. Someone like you.’
Oho, cards on the table time is it?
‘You couldn’t afford someone like me.’
By way of reply, Toby gave the woman an appraising once-over. He nodded slowly but did not speak. He’d noticed something he couldn’t identify, about her earlier reaction.
Faced with his scrutiny she became marginally defensive, eventually breaking the silence herself.
‘Well, sir, you know my line of work. How about you? What’s your claim to fame?’
‘Me? I’m just a humble story-teller. See that demountable over against the fence? At two o’clock, fifteen or twenty people will each pay their five bucks and pack in there to hear one of my yarns.’
‘What type of stories do you tell?’
‘Most of them are about my experiences on the armed merchant cruiser Kanimbla, in the early part of the Second World War.’
‘Really? What an amazing coincidence. When I was a little girl, my grandfather told me heaps of stories, about his war. I miss him terribly.’
As she spoke, the woman realised why the tone of Toby’s voice had aroused her. Briefly, she looked away and stared at nothing. She saw herself back on her grandfather’s knee, heard again his rich voice rolling over her.
Toby finally made the connection, and saw an opportunity.
“First, guess a person's ruling passion, appeal to it by word...Find out each person's thumbscrew...You must know where to get at anyone...All people are idolaters, some of fame, others of self-interest, most of pleasure...Skill consists in knowing these idols in order to bring them into play...Knowing any person's mainspring of motive, you have as it were, the key to their will.”
‘I could tell you some of my war stories, if you like.’
‘Oh, would you? Really and truly? That’d be just super.’
For a moment, Toby glimpsed the innocent girl behind the worldly façade.
Now, he thought, while her defences are down, I can spring my idea on her.
‘We’ll have to discuss some kind of a deal, naturally.’
‘A deal? What did you have in mind?’
‘I imagine the old-fashioned barter system might work rather well here. I have a product, and you have a product; I’m sure we can come to an agreement.'
‘But I don’t have anyth…. oh. Oh, I see what you mean.’ She paused, and then a full, genuine smile broke through. ‘Yes, perhaps we might be able to agree on something. Why
not?’
‘I’ll just duck over to the Admin van and cancel my engagement. What you and I’ve cobbled together sounds far more interesting.’
‘Can you do that? Won’t they be annoyed?’
‘Annoyed? This bunch of layabouts and hippies? They’ll take it in their stride.’ He went on, ‘I suppose we should introduce ourselves. I’m Toby.’
‘And I’m Emma.’
#
The details were simple. Emma and Toby agreed that any one self-contained war-based story of not less than fifteen minutes duration possessed the same value as one untimed sexual encounter. The precise nature of such an encounter could be at the whim of either party, with the other person in each case retaining a power of veto.
They also agreed that coition need not necessarily follow directly on the heels of a story; that they might vary the locations where story-telling and/or coition took place; and that a repeat or expansion of any story, following either Emma’s request or Toby’s suggestion, would be regarded as a separate item of barter.
And, finally, the couple agreed that other, non-war stories might at some future time be included in the arrangement.
‘This whole idea is mind-boggling,’ said Emma. ‘Who’d have thought of sex for stories? This could spawn a whole new industry.’ She laughed. ‘I’m really looking forward to this. When can we start?’
‘Any time. Now, if you like. Tell you what. Why don’t we duck in to The Diggers Rest for a quiet ale? They have table service in the lounge bar. I can gather my thoughts, give you an outline of some of my yarns, and you can choose the one you’d like to hear first.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
After seating themselves, Toby caught a waitress’s eye, gave their order, and began providing the promised summaries.
He outlined a story about the beginnings of his naval career at the outset of the Second World War. He told her too of a yarn about seeking enemy ammunition dumps on supposedly deserted islands. After their drinks arrived, he went on to summarise stories about an encounter with river pirates on the Yangtze-Kiang River, and about depth-charge practice involving live targets in the Sea of Japan.
And then, as he was pocketing some change, Toby dropped a 20c coin. It bounced away slightly and he leaned forward in his chair to retrieve it. As he stretched, his shirt rode up, and Emma saw two vicious-looking scars running down his right side, from the top of his ribcage almost to his waist.
‘I know the one I want to hear first.’ Toby retrieved the coin and looked quizzically at Emma. She reached across and pulled at his shirt so that it came up again. ‘I want to find out how you came by these.’ She lightly traced one finger along the scars, as she remembered what he’d said a moment earlier. In her mind she had visions of a fight between Toby and a cutlass-wielding Chinese pirate. Everything seemed to add up. ‘I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a root you’ll never forget, that I promise you.’
‘A man’d be a dill to refuse an offer like that. Right. Let’s see now. Where did it all start?’ Toby paused and briefly squinted into the distance.
‘Okay. My ship, the Kanimbla, was on patrol in the Sea of Japan. Everybody and their dog were in the Sea of Japan at the time. The Japs, naturally, and the Chinks, and the Poms, and a few Germans, and the Russians, and the Yanks…’
‘Just a minute. This was war-time. How could all those enemies be floating around together in the same patch of water? ’
‘Do you want to hear this story or not?’
‘Now don’t get testy. Remember, I have the pussy, so I make the rules.’ Emma leaned closer and tickled Toby, to take the sting out of her words. ‘You can’t blame me for being curious.’
‘Fair enough. War with Japan hadn’t been declared at the time. This was before Pearl Harbour.’
‘And what about the Australians?’
‘What about them?’
‘Where did you and your mates fit, in all that motley collection?’
‘Sorry. I forgot. Kanimbla was originally Australian, but she was commissioned into the Royal Navy in ’39, when war broke out. On paper, we were British.’
‘I think you said some Germans were there too.’
‘Mmmn, but not for long. There were twelve of them, in a gunboat. The Chinks found them in the Yangtze River, and booted them out. They were headed north, making for Vladivostok, when we encountered them and put a shot across their bows. They surrendered, we took them on board, sank their boat and then handed them over to one of the other Pommy ships, for eventual internment.’
‘And what about the Russians? Weren’t they on Germany’s side in the beginning? Were you chasing after them too?’
‘The Ruskies kept a low profile. They didn’t bother us and we didn’t bother them.’
‘It all sounds very complicated to me.’
‘You had to be there. Anyway, like I said, we were on patrol. That meant keeping an eye out for anything and everything. We had a mixed bag for a crew. Most of us ratings were Aussies, there were a few Poms, and the officers were nearly all Pommies too. But there was a ring-in, a Kiwi officer. And it was him, this Loo-tenant Whatsisname, who was the cause of all my trouble. He’d been an officer in the New Zealand Merchant Navy. When he enlisted they gave him two gold rings on his cuff, straight off. And it went to his head.’
Emma was silent. This didn’t sound like a pirate story.
‘Anyway, this particular day, we were steaming along, nice and slow, about six knots. I’d just come off part-time duty in the radio room and was getting some fresh air at my gun position, on the starboard wing of the bridge.
‘When you’re looking at the ocean, one wave seems pretty much like the next one and anything different stands out. I spotted an untethered contact mine, eighty or so yards ahead of our bow and about half that distance off to starboard. I sang out to the Lieutenant Commander who had charge of the ship. He signalled the engine-room to stop engines, and called Action Stations on the tannoy.’
‘What do you mean by untethered?’
‘All the mines in the area were British. The navy laid vast beds of them, each moored by its own anchor, to prevent merchant ships running supplies from the States to the Japs. This one had come adrift. It was a danger to everybody.
‘Then Guns - the Gunnery Officer - took over. He made an announcement on the tannoy, readying the gunners. We were to blow up the mine with machine gun fire.’
By now, Emma accepted that the story would have no pirates. Still, Toby had a way with words. And sometimes just the sound of his voice was sufficient to moisten her panties. ‘Ooh, that sounds like fun.’
‘All in a day’s work, really. Anyway, Loo-tenant Whatsy was the gunner for the pair of Lewises mounted at S8. He shouted he’d take care of it…’
‘Hold on. What’s S8?’
‘Sorry. That’s the rearmost gun position on the starboard side. Almost at the stern. Anyway, he shouted he’d take care of it, all on his Pat Malone, and sprinted off to his position. That suited me. My twin seventy-fives shook like buggery, and if Captain Marvel wanted all the kudos he was welcome. I leaned on the rail to watch the fun.
‘So, anyway, Guns gave the command and the loo-tenant started firing. His guns were pumping out 600 rounds a minute. But Kanimbla was rolling a little, and at first he was having trouble getting the range and elevation correct. So he locked in the local-control FCS, and in theory…’
‘Hold it again. You’re talking jargon. What’s a local-control FCS?’
‘Oops. That was a gunner-operated, electromechanical firing-control system, combined with narrow-beam radar. It calculated elevation and range, and locked on the target. In theory, it meant he couldn’t miss. Sooner or later, some of his shells would detonate the mine.’
‘I’m starting to get a feeling something else happened before that.’
‘Too right it did. The thing was, with our engines stopped, we were at the mercy of the current. And our bow started to swing around to starboard.
‘But do you think the loo-tenant noticed? Not on your life. He was having too much fun. Eventually, Kanimbla’s bow swung into his locked-in line of fire. Silly bugger never even saw it. Guns was yelling at him over the tannoy, but the Lewises drowned him out. I saw what was coming and tried to get down out of the way. He was shooting up his own ship. It was the Kiwi version of friendly fire.’
‘Holy Moley.’
‘Holy Moley’s right. Shells started slamming into the superstructure above my head. Bits of shrapnel tore off and flew in all directions. I’d been too slow to react. Some of it ripped across my side just as I reached the edge of the bridge.’ Toby tugged up his T-shirt and jabbed a finger at the scars. ‘See? And the impact knocked me down the companion-way to the deck.’
‘My god. That was awful. What happened next?’
‘Oh, I died, and went to Heaven.’
For the briefest moment Toby saw a flash of alarm behind Emma’s hazel eyes. And then, as quickly, they lit up with humour. She snorted.
‘You fool.’
‘It wasn’t foolish back then,’ Toby said. ‘When I tumbled down that companion-way, I had just one thought in my mind; I’m dead and there’d better not be any Kiwi officers in Heaven.’
‘That’s two thoughts.’
‘You weren’t there, inside my head. I’m telling you, young lady, at times like that everything speeds up and becomes a blur.’
Emma cocked her head and looked at Toby. He could see she wasn’t satisfied, could tell from her body language she wanted to wring something else from the story.
‘I know exactly what happened. A Sick Berth Attendant was nearby and saw you fall. He applied a pressure bandage to staunch the bleeding. Then you went off and belted the bejesus out of the lieutenant.’
‘Well, no, not exactly. Although it was a good guess about the pressure bandage. We all carried them, and I patched myself up, a bit later. Hey, hold on. How did you know they were called Sick Berth Attendants?’
‘I’m not just a pretty face, Toby. When I was growing up, one of our neighbours used to go off to the Anzac Day march and reunion every year, and the way he carried on, it was like he’d won the War single-handed. But Dad said he was just a Sick Berth Attendant.
‘Anyway, did your lieutenant blow up the mine or not?’
‘He did not. He finally realised what he’d done and stopped firing. But the Lieutenant Commander had a .303 rifle on the bridge. He became fed up with the farce, took two pot-shots at the mine, got lucky, and blew it to kingdom-come.’
Emma was still hoping for a confrontation involving her hero and the villain. She wanted to hear about a fight. ‘There had to be an encounter between you and the lieutenant.’
‘I had an encounter right enough, but not with him. What happened was that Cook had been coming along the deck with a two-gallon bucket full of kitchen slops, to chuck overboard. When I tumbled down the companion-way, I fell right at his feet. Cook stumbled, and spilt the slops all over me. Shit it stank.’
For a second Emma was speechless. Then she glared at Toby, rose from her chair and flounced off. As she left, she flung some parting words at her raconteur.
‘You can forget all about a root, Buster. You should be paying me, making me put up with drivel like that.’
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