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Still she did get me thinking that maybe I should get my own place. Ever since I was born I’ve lived in dad’s crappy old house, just as he’s lived in it all his life too. In theory it’s on the riverfront, but in fact the river is so silted up you could never get a boat in there, and it’s next to a stinky mangrove swamp, which isn’t the best outlook. It’s an ancient house, tin roof, timber cladding, a falling-down verandah and wonky floors. The single bathroom with its single toilet is always causing traffic problems, especially when I want to have a long soak in the shower. The plumbing and electrical bits are old and some are broken. We aren’t even on a sewer system, a smelly truck comes along once a week and pumps out our septic tank. Dad said he might get some renovations done, but I told him it would be cheaper and better to knock the house down and get a new one built. He could have an en-suite bathroom off the master bedroom. That made him think. I told mum she could have a brand new kitchen instead of the clapped out one she’s got now. That made her think.
I know it’s very convenient living at home and having mum cooking my meals and doing the housework and the washing, and I do have my own room, but I can hardly invite a girl there. Mum would be casting an eye over her, wanting to know who she was and were we serious. Mum would never understand that we just wanted to screw all night. In her younger days girls didn’t do that sort of thing before they were married. If I had my own pad I could have a girl to stay the night as often as I wanted. I really must find out how much it would cost to rent a place. I could do it all up with posters of rock bands and racing cars. I could have a fridge for the drinks, and I could mix expensive cocktails to impress the girls, and get them pissed. I could have a really powerful hi-fi, and a big bed with black silk sheets for the action. I’d have to learn to cook a bit, but I expect I could still take my washing home to mum.
Our town has only got one lousy pub, the Hawkesbury Arms. It’s been tarted up a bit but it’s still basically a beer and spit place, with nowhere comfortable to sit. If you order anything more unusual than a gin and orange the barmaid has to look it up in a book of cocktails. I hate to say it but there’s not much class in this town. Mind you there is a very flash restaurant up the river a bit. It’s got no access by road, so customers usually go there by boat, or they can hire a seaplane from Sydney that lands on the river and drops them off directly on the restaurant jetty. I’m told it’s very popular with salesmen who want to impress overseas clients. Mind you I’ve never eaten there myself, you’d probably have to hand over a week’s wages to the headwaiter just as a tip. Maybe one day I’ll be rich enough to try it out. Meanwhile I keep trying to think up ways of making a bit of extra money on the side. One time I asked dad if I could sell souvenirs to the tourists on Annabelle. I decided to start out selling postcards, so I got a mate of mine who’s got a good camera, to take photos of Annabelle moored at the wharf and coming in to the pier on the Island. Then we borrowed Lizzie and went out early one morning and took photos of Annabelle cruising up the river. The photos were really good, even dad was impressed, but then I found out about how you have to print things in big quantities. Printers aren’t interested in printing twenties and fifties; they want to do hundreds or thousands. In the end the whole project fizzled out when I decided the little bit of profit wasn’t worth the effort, especially when dad told me I’d have to pay tax on the profit if the tax office found out about it.
Another time I suggested to dad that we could get extra passengers by rigging a string of coloured lights from the masthead to the stern, like the tour boats in Sydney Harbour have. “Don’t be daft” he said, “the only time we sail in the dark is in winter when the days are shorter. Who’s going to want to go for a trip on a cold winter’s night?” “Oh I dunno, we might get parties to hire Annabelle on summer evenings. That’s what the Sydney tour boats do.” “We don’t have a liquor license. Anyway we’re working twelve hours a day as it is. I don’t want to start working all night as well”. I asked Tim if we could rig a string of lights from the masthead. “Does dad know about it?” “Oh yes, he’s ok with the idea.” Tim had a word with the electrician in the boatyard. Turned out we could run extra lights on our generator if we used low power bulbs. We rigged the lights when dad wasn’t around, and at first he didn’t even notice till it got dark that evening and he switched on the navigation lights. Tim switched on the coloured lights too. We were all lit up like a Christmas tree. Annabelle looked very cool. “What the hell’s going on?” dad asked. “Oh, a little experiment in sales promotion dad.” Dad didn’t say any more that day, but a couple of weeks later he said, “ Your lights are all very pretty Jack, but I don’t see any extra money in the cash box yet.” “Well perhaps we should get a liquor license then and start running trips like I said. I don’t mind being barman.” I was thinking of the tips coming my way. “Forget it Jack. I don’t want to be taking bunches of drunks up and down the river when I could be home in bed.” Miserable old sod.
I had a bit of bother one day with a guy who fancied himself in the muscle department. He came on board at the Island and I guessed he’d been labouring out there on a building job. He was wearing worn boots, filthy jeans and a torn dark blue singlet. His head was shaved, and his arms had so many tattoos there was hardly any unused space left. He hadn’t showered for several days, and trotting behind him was an ugly-looking dog, a bull terrier of some sort, which smelt almost as bad as he did. He was obviously trying to impress on everyone what a tough guy he was, but I could see he had a weak face. I reckoned that inside he was as soft as jelly. He came aboard and sat down. The other passengers looked at him and sniffed, then got up and moved away. A few minutes later I went round collecting the fares. “Like your aftershave mate.” “What bloody aftershave?” “Oh, I thought I could smell ‘Eau de Chien’” He glowered at me, suspecting I was taking the piss out of him. “Six bucks for you and one for the dog” I said. “A dollar for a bloody dog? You must be joking!” “The fare for a dog is one dollar, whether you like it or not” I said. “Well I don’t like it, so fuck off” The other passengers looked alarmed.
Now if anyone tries to get tough with me I don’t believe in backing away. I took half a step towards him, and he jumped to his feet. “How would you like my dog to have a piece of your ass?” he snarled in his toughest voice. Just then Tim came up behind me holding a twelve-inch spanner, and the guy sneered at him too. I guess I started to lose my rag just about then. I looked down at the dog, who was sitting there just looking stupid. I grabbed te dog by the collar and tail and heaved him overboard. “No fare no ride” I said, “He can swim the rest of the bloody way”. “I don’t know if he can swim” said the guy, suddenly all feeble. “Don’t worry mate, all dogs can swim”. I knew we weren’t far from land, but when I looked back the dopey dog was swimming after Annabelle instead of making for the riverbank. “Looks like he’s too stupid to head for shore” I said," maybe he’ll drown after all.” The guy half choked out “I’ll get you for this.” He ripped off his boots and dived overboard to rescue his dog. “There” I said to Tim “he wasn’t so tough after all”. Tim looked like he was about to burst into tears. “That poor dog. What a bastard you are.” After we tied up at the wharf dad asked what all the fuss had been about. Tim filled him in, and dad was pretty mad with me. “It’s about time you learned to control that temper of yours Jack, and it’s about time you learned a little diplomacy too. Violence only leads to more violence.” Yeh, yeh, I’d heard it all before. I thought I’d handled the situation pretty well.
Half an hour later the guy came striding along the wharf, dripping wet, bare foot, mad as hell, and obviously out for revenge. His wet dog came trotting along behind him. “Here comes trouble” said Tim, and went to fetch his spanner again. The guy started to march up the gangplank, but dad suddenly appeared and barred his way. “We don’t want any more trouble from you mate” he said, “why don’t you just go home”. He held out the guy’s boots. The guy had no
room to maneuver on the narrow gangplank, the dog was stuck behind him, and dad can look quite tough when he wants to. He stepped back a little, and grabbed his boots. “I could have drowned” he said, “I’m going to get some of my bloody mates and come and sort out you fuckers.” “Yeh. I’m sure they’ll get a good laugh when they hear how your fierce dog got chucked overboard”. Dad reached in his back pocket for his wallet and held out a ten-dollar note. “Here, go along to the pub and have a beer on me.” The guy snatched the note, tore it up, threw the pieces into the water, and took off. “At least you smell a bit better after your swim” I called after him. “Shut up Jack, you’ve had enough to say already. Now you’ve seen what a little diplomacy can do and I’m going to take my ten dollars out of your wages to help you remember it in future.”