Hunger Town (9 page)

This is what they've waited for, I thought, not Nathan but a man to lead them.

‘Direct action to fight the capitalist bosses is what we need, comrades, direct action to defeat the Crimes Act, direct action to fight for the right to free speech. We will fight the tyrannies of the master class, and you, comrades, will be in the vanguard of the action.'

While the loud chorus of ‘hear, hear' strengthened I saw Bernie-Benito flick his fingers across his throat in a gesture of slitting it. I hoped it was merely bravado. Now Jock lowered his voice, as if in reverence, and his audience leaned forward, silent, listening.

‘The twelve IWWs, the twelve Industrial Workers of the World, your persecuted brothers, comrades, railroaded into jail on lies and corruption. They have a right to speak. They should be heard, not silenced by that viper, Prime Minister Bruce. Donald Grant, my fellow Scotsman, knows what poverty is. You, comrades, know what poverty is. Donald Grant, because he's an IWW is prevented from telling you, the working man, what comes to the poor in any capitalist country. In the British Isles, he says, “If Christ came back to earth he would weep to see how women and children lived.” I've been there, comrades, and know it's true. Lived? Comrades, lived isn't the word. Barely existed would be closer. Barely existed. Shall we, too, barely exist? Our babes starve while the likes of Bruce drag down our wages and prevent us from trumpeting our protests?'

He paused. ‘Bloody Bruce!' someone in the audience snarled. Around him sounded rumbles of agreement.

‘That's right, comrades,' Jock applauded. ‘The Crimes Bill strikes at the heart of democracy and strikes at your right to shout out against injustice. Oppose it, comrades. They tell us it is against atheistic communism but, comrades, it's against anyone who protests, anyone who believes they have some rights to the sort of life the bosses lead. They'll fine us and jail us, comrades, that's their Christianity. Now is the time to rise up and throw off your oppression.' He raised both hands in the air and shook them as if casting off the weight of shackles.

The audience cheered and leaped to their feet. He sat down, smiling grimly. The audience, a little deflated after their surge of defiance, also shuffled back into their seats. It had been truly rousing stuff but I had years of defences built up against my father's haranguing and instead of being swept away by the public emotion I felt oddly aloof. Nathan called the meeting to order and asked for those who volunteered to help organise Free Speech rallies to meet him afterwards.

To end the meeting we all rose and the sisters led everyone in singing a song I had heard before at the Working Men's Club. It began with
Arise ye workers from your slumbers, arise ye prisoners of want
, and a chorus:
Then comrades come rally and the last fight let us face, the Internationale unites the human race
. Beside me Harry grimaced and fidgeted. ‘They're singing flat,' he whispered in my ear. ‘They need somebody to set the note.' He endured it to the end, sighing heavily.

Nathan had seen me and clearly intended to speak to me before we left but I was swift in dragging Harry to the door. A quick look back and I saw Nathan surrounded by admirers. Harry had forgotten his boredom at Nathan's speech. ‘Isn't he marvellous?' he said. ‘They call him “The Professor”. He knows everything about history. He's a back-room boy.'

‘What on earth does that mean, Harry?'

‘He educates people but doesn't do any of the action stuff like Jock.'

‘That must be comfortable.' I was cynical. ‘Maybe he's no good at the action stuff.' And I remembered his botched speech in the gardens. Jock was certainly superior as a crowd rouser.

But Harry wasn't listening to me. With dreamy eyes he recalled that Nathan had told him that in the Soviet Union he could be a musician or a dancer and the state would pay for him to have tap-dancing lessons and support him while he was learning. ‘Nathan,' he said, ‘maintains that in the Soviet Union society is run from each according to his ability, to each according to their needs. Isn't that a grand idea, Judith?'

Caught up by his enthusiasm, I said, ‘I could be paid to draw and not have to work at the Chew It and Spew It.'

He was a little hesitant at that. ‘To draw? I don't know about that.'

‘Yes, Harry, to draw.'

‘Well, if that's your ability, I suppose it would be all right.'

Remembering Joe's advice to me, I retorted, ‘Yes, that's my ability. You haven't seen any of my drawings and they're not there for some pie-in-the-sky state to make judgement.'

He was contrite. ‘I didn't mean that, Judith. Truly I didn't mean that.'

‘No,' I was surly, not quite forgiving. ‘I haven't shown them to many people, only Joe at the Club.' I wanted to say that Joe had remarked they were very good but I was suddenly shy. ‘Dear Joe,' I said sadly. ‘He was my friend for many years. Will you come to the cemetery with me, Harry? I'd like to put flowers on his grave.'

He looked solemn, nodded and took my arm.

We were alone in the cemetery. Warm spring days had brought out the wild freesias. Their sweet scent followed us as we searched for Joe's grave and eventually found it. There was no headstone, only a small wooden cross, painted white, with ‘RIP Joe Pulham' in black. I laid a small bunch of flowers on the raised earth of the grave.

‘Didn't he have any family?' I asked Harry.

‘I don't know, Judith. I never knew him. Was he English by birth?'

‘I don't know.' Suddenly it seemed a fault in me that I had never known anything about Joe's private life. ‘He was a compositor on the
Argus
and later worked on some socialist paper, I think. He was leaded, Harry.'

‘Poor bloke. Lead's a terrible poison.'

‘Yes, he told me that industry is a grand killer. Whenever I read the newspaper I think of him. I don't know why it is that when we benefit from something new in society it always seems to have been bought with someone else's sufferings. Look at your job now, Harry.'

He was subdued. ‘You know, Judith, I'd like to learn to tap dance.' He laughed self-consciously. ‘I don't suppose there's any money in that, unless, of course, I become some great Hollywood movie star.'

He did a few dance steps on the path. I felt sad but laughed with him. Joe would not have minded his dancing.

Some weeks later a parcel arrived for me, and a letter bearing the name of a legal firm. Inside the parcel were three books: an anthology of poems and two novels by Charles Dickens—
Great Expectations
and
The Old Curiosity Shop
. They were inscribed ‘To my dear friend Nearly-Twelve with whom I had wonderful discussions about books and life. May your future be bright and your talents recognised. Best regards, Joe Pulham'. In the envelope was a brief letter from the lawyer saying Joe had left the contents of his flat to be sold and the proceeds given to me. They were forwarding the money and would I please send a return letter of acknowledgement.

Shocked and overwhelmed with sadness for a lonely man who had only me to whom to leave his meagre bequest, I sat down, clutched the books against my body as if they had some human warmth and wept. Memories of Joe merged with my visit to the cemetery and the lonely white cross and for some reason I also recalled Harry, his hair bright in the sunlight, his body young and flexible, dancing on the path, and what had made me laugh briefly now made me weep bitterly for futile dreams.

My mother found me sobbing and put her arms about me. I showed her the cheque. ‘You and father should have it,' I hiccuped. ‘You never have much.'

‘Rubbish,' she said briskly. ‘It's yours. You keep it for the future. Maybe that night class at the School of Mines or perhaps some proper drawing paper and good pencils.' I was surprised. ‘I thought about your drawings,' she said, ‘afterwards. You should do more of them. Maybe it's your talent.'

I hugged her.

That summer was a scorcher. We took our mattresses onto the deck and slept under canvas awnings set up by my father. When we were docked he pulled up the gangplank; when we were anchored in the Outer Harbor he considered us safe. Winnie now visited with Harry on most Sundays. We drooped in deck chairs, hoping for a cool breeze off the sea. Towards evening it usually came but there was never much strength in it.

Harry looked longingly at the water. ‘A dip would be nice.'

‘There's been a shark seen in the area,' my father warned.

Winnie squealed. ‘A shark! Good heavens! Are we safe?'

Harry was impatient. ‘Don't be an idiot, Winnie.'

She pouted. ‘Oh, you, Harry.'

Winnie's life was so comfortable that she needed to assert her sensitivities. I thought, if Winnie ever has a personal problem she'll make it her life's work.

Curiously the mention of the shark pricked Harry's interest. He got up, wandered over to the railings, and looked into the water. ‘What are all those bottles doing floating about?'

‘Empty beer bottles,' my father said. ‘They're a damn nuisance.'

My mother was half asleep. ‘Anyone who collects them will make a bit of pocket money.'

‘Ah,' Harry said, and I recognised the birth of one of his adventurous ideas.

‘No, Harry,' I said automatically.

He grinned at me. Winnie looked from one to the other of us. ‘What does she mean, no, Harry? What have you got in mind now?'

‘We could take the little boat out and collect them.' He was eager. ‘I could do with a little extra cash. My dancing pumps have holes in them.'

‘Our banana boat,' I laughed.

‘Why do you call it that?' Winnie asked.

‘We don't really know,' my mother said sleepily.

‘Yes, we do,' my father asserted. ‘I've been to the West Indies and it reminds me of the boats that carry bananas there.'

‘Well,' Harry said, ‘now it could carry empty beer bottles.'

‘Dead marines,' I corrected.

‘Dead marines?' He was puzzled.

‘Yes,' I grinned, ‘our banana boat and dead marines and I'll bet my father doesn't know why they're called that.'

He grunted.

‘What about it, Mr Larsen?' Harry pleaded.

‘No, Harry,' my mother said, ‘don't be tiresome. You can't manage to row and collect bottles on your own.'

‘Judith could come with me, or Winnie.' He threw her a wicked look.

On cue she squealed again. ‘No, Harry, there's a shark out there.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake,' now I was impatient, ‘a shark won't hurt us in a boat. Besides, it's days since it was seen and it's probably gone out to sea.'

‘You're very tiresome, Judith, and you, too, Harry,' my mother repeated. ‘Both of you always so restless.'

‘Oh, let them try it,' my father said. 'Judith is often in the boat anyway and it will fill in their afternoon.'

I changed into more suitable clothes, leaving Winnie bleating that we were leaving her out and it would serve us right if a shark ate us. Harry said, ‘Shut up, Winnie.' We scrambled down the Jacob's ladder and untied the small rowing boat.

‘Let me row,' I advised. ‘I've been doing it for years.'

‘No, Harry asserted. ‘I'm just as good at it.' I sighed. He was always so over-confident. He rowed towards a flotilla of bobbing bottles. ‘You lean over, Judith, and collect them while I ship the oars and keep things steady.'

I leaned out as far as I could but the bottles remained out of my reach. ‘You'll have to row a little closer, Harry.' He tried but the bottles kept bobbing away from our pursuit.

‘The rowing creates a wash that pushes them away,' I complained.

‘No it doesn't. You just don't reach out far enough.'

‘Any further and I'll fall in.'

‘Girls,' he snorted, ‘always making excuses.'

I rounded on him. ‘Girls! Don't lump me together with girls, as if we are all incompetent idiots. You just row the boat so I'm close enough to reach the bloody bottles. It was you, remember, who wanted to collect them, not me.'

‘OK,' he said, ‘sorry, I forgot you're so touchy.'

‘Touchy?' I muttered. ‘Touchy?' And in exasperation I half rose so that I might lean further over the side and reach the bottles.

‘Careful!' he called as the boat rocked viciously.

It happened in an instant. One minute I clutched a bottle in my hand, the next I catapulted into the sea. My first thought was that it was delightfully cold. My next thought was the shark. Panic seized me.

‘Harry!' I screeched. ‘The shark!'

He leaped to his feet. ‘Where, oh my God, Judith, where?' He flung himself on his knees and reached out to clutch my hand. The boat rocked perilously. He tried to drag me over the side. The boat tipped.

‘Where's the shark?' he panted. ‘Did you see it? Oh, my God, it's all my fault. Hang on, Judith.' He was frantic in his terror.

I clung to the gunwale of the boat, trying to help him lift me in. The boat leaned sideways. ‘You'll have to put your weight on the other side,' I said, ‘and I'll try myself. I can't swim back to the hulk, Harry. I'm too afraid,' I moaned.

He scanned the sea for a telltale fin. ‘Where did you see it, Judith?'

‘No,' I said, a bit calmer, but treading water gingerly, ‘I just thought about it, that it might be around.'

He stopped trying to help me. ‘You just
thought
about it? It wasn't actually here?'

‘No.' I looked shamefaced.

He roared with laughter. ‘Oh, Judith,' he said, ‘you're an absolute card.'

Balancing the boat as best he could he helped me scramble over the gunwale. I felt his arms warm about me and smelled the sweet sweat on his neck. As my face touched his cheek I trembled and it wasn't because the water had been cold. I sat down, shivering a little and we laughed at each other.