******
Another interesting passenger we had recently was ordinary in every way, except somehow you could sense from the alert way he looked around that he had brains. “Hi” I said to him, “My name’s Jack." "Hullo Jack, pleased to meet you. I’m Arthur Bottomly.” From his accent and the way he spoke I reckoned he was an Englishman, middle class. We had a chat about things, and after a bit he started to open up. It turned out he was an author. I must confess I’d never heard of him, but then I don’t read much, except the sports pages and the comics. “What are you coming on this trip for?” I asked. “I’m looking around for material for my next book. I travel around a lot, keeping my eyes and ears open and a notebook in my pocket. You never know when you’re going to strike lucky.” “What’s your book about?” “Partly about unusual people, odd people, people with an unusual talent or an unusual lifestyle.”
The words ‘odd people’ triggered my interest. “Well you should work on Annabelle. We regularly get oddballs on board.” I told him about the trio of musicians, Charlie, Bill and Puffer; I told him about Mrs. Crabtree and her chicken and lots of other folk. Arthur was making notes all the time, but I had a feeling they weren’t really what he was looking for. I pointed out the Trevithick’s place we were just passing. It’s a creepy place, a black stone wharf along the riverfront, and a few stone houses facing the river, not at all like Australian houses. “What a strange place” said Arthur, “it looks a bit like some of the little fishing villages I’ve seen in Cornwall.” “Well,” I said, “It all belongs to one family, the Trevithicks, and I seem to remember they had an ancestor that came from Cornwall. The whole family lives there together. They’re a strange bunch, always keep themselves to themselves.” The houses are huddled up against a steep part of the riverbank and facing south so they never get any sun. They always look cold, bleak and damp. “What do they do for a living?” asked Arthur. “Dunno, I’ve often wondered.” “Maybe they’re smugglers, like the fishermen in Cornwall often were." "Maybe, but I don’t know where they’d smuggle from. It’s a hell of a long way to any other country from here. No, I think they’re more likely to be pirates.” I loved the thought of the Trevithicks sailing down the river, waving swords and flying the Skull and Crossbones.
Soon after that we passed the little creek that runs down through the mangroves from Blackman’s Swamp. “Now over there up that creek,” I said pointing, “is a very odd guy, Bill Campbell. He’s a recluse, a hermit almost. He lives in there by himself and hardly ever comes out.” “By golly I’d like to meet him. Perhaps I could hire a boat and go and see him.” “No way, you’d never find your way in, it’s almost a secret passage, and if you did get in he’d just tell you to bugger off.” “Well perhaps you could take me then. I’d be happy to pay your expenses.” I thought about it. It would be an interesting day. I hadn’t set eyes on Bill for many years, and the thought of seeing where he lived intrigued me. I could get time off from dad and I could borrow Lizzie for the day. I wondered how much I could charge Arthur. He didn’t look too flush with cash. “Ok” I said, “I’ll take you tomorrow. A hundred dollars for the boat and one fifty for my time.” “Make it an even two hundred and you’ve got a deal.” “Done.” “Splendid.” We shook hands. I was very happy with the deal since it wouldn’t cost me a cent, and it was fifty dollars more than I was expecting. “Meet me at the wharf tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp. Buy some supplies for Bill to encourage him to be friendly; tea, sugar, flour, salt, matches and stuff like that, and a few bottles of beer too. I’ll bring a cold bag to keep the beer cold. Oh and wear old clothes." "My, this is starting to sound quite exciting.”
The next morning was just about perfect, slightly chilly, with wispy clouds, a gentle easterly breeze with a smell of salt and seaweed, and a slight chop on the water. I met Arthur at the wharf, we climbed into Lizzie, and I went full throttle up the river. I’m not sure if Arthur enjoyed that bit, but I sure as hell did! I slowed down to find the entrance to the creek and steered in. The creek was narrow and hard to follow. The mangroves pressed in on us, dark green and twisted, and we had to push our way through in places. It was quite cold in the shadows under the mangrove, and there was the usual rotting smell from the mud under the mangrove roots. Suddenly at the back of the mangroves the creek went shallow and opened out into a clear space with a patch of wiry grass on the bank and a pile of rusting corrugated iron and old doors that was Bill Campbell’s shack. A wisp of smoke twisted up from the rough stone chimney. An old wooden rowboat was pulled up on the grass, all patched and mended and peeling paint. Lizzie touched sandy bottom and I stepped over the side and pulled her in as far as I could. “You’ll have to paddle a bit” I said to Arthur. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and stepped into the water. “My goodness, this is the first paddle I’ve had in years.” “Just watch out for the crabs” I said. That made him step lively.
Bill Campbell the hermit came out of his shack. He had bare muddy feet, tattered old trousers and the remains of a blue singlet. His long grey hair hung down his back, and he had a straggly grey beard, watery eyes and only one tooth. Arthur looked at him with interest. “Who are you?” said Bill in a high croaky voice, “Go away, you got no rights coming ‘ere.” “You know me Bill, I’m Jack Farley. You’ve known my dad Ted for forty years haven’t you? We’ve brought you some stuff to cheer you up.” I held out the cardboard box, so he could see the food inside. He looked at it a bit suspiciously then took it. “Who’s he?” he asked, pointing with his nose at Arthur, “Is he from the govermint?” “Oh he’s a mate of mine. Don’t worry about him, he’s all right.” “Why’re you givin’ me this tucker?” he asked suspiciously. “Just thought you might like it. Why don’t you put the billy on and we’ll all have a mug of tea.” “Only got one mug, mine." "Well how about a bottle of beer then?” I pulled three bottles out of the cold bag. “Don’t mind if I do” said Bill, relaxing a bit.
We sat down on a log. “Do you live here all alone?” asked Arthur. “Yeh, and I don’t like visitors botherin’ me, in fact I don’t like visitors at all.” “Oh well, we just dropped in to give you the groceries in the box. How long have you lived here?” “Dunno. Must be close on fifteen years. Don’t even know what month it is any more”. “You seem pretty healthy, what do you live on?” “Fish, I eat lots of fish, bream, flathead, mullet, prawns, yabbies, mudcrabs, eels, lots of eels in the creeks around ‘ere. Nobody eats ‘em these days. They’re the best flesh if you know how to skin ‘em, and of course you ‘ave to catch ‘em first, they’re pretty crafty.” “Do you catch elvers?” asked Arthur. Bill suddenly became more interested in talking to him. “Don’t ‘ave an elver net. Anyway I can’t be bothered. They only run when the tide’s comin’ in and the moon’s full, so you ‘ave to stay up half the night, then when you’ve caught ‘em they’re so little they’re fiddly to fry.”
“What are elvers?” I asked. Arthur answered. “Baby eels that come in from the ocean in springtime and migrate up rivers and creeks to grow into adult eels.” “‘Ow come a city bloke like you knows about elvers?” asked Bill. “When I was a lad I lived near the River Severn in England. Tons of elvers came up the river each spring, and fishermen used to catch them by the bucket full and export them live to eel farms in Germany for growing into adults. They eat lots of eels in Germany and France, but not in England for some reason.” “Don’t know what they’re missing then” said Bill. “I used to eat eels when I was a lad” said Arthur, a bit wistfully, “and I still do when I can get them.” Bill got up and went into the shack. “‘'Ere”, he said, “it’s a nice big eel I smoked meself. You won’t find that in your fancy supermarkets.” “Why that’s very generous of you Bill, thank you very much.”
We drank our beer in silence for a bit, and I could see Arthur glancing round the place. “I see you grow vegetables too.” “Yeh, a few, beans, carrots, corn, onions, pumpkin, sweet potato, and I get native fruit from the bush
. You can live in the bush ok if you know ‘ow. I catch a rabbit or a wallaby now and then, or a pigeon." "D’you catch possums?" "You can’t eat bloody possums, They taste ‘orrible.” “You must have plenty of time to think about things Bill, living here all alone. Do you ever ponder the meaning of life and all that sort of thing?” Bill said wearily “What d’you think I am, a bloody philosopher or somethin’?” I could see he was starting to tire of our company.
“Come on Arthur," I said, "we’d better leave before the tide drops too much or we’ll get stuck here.” Bill cackled with delight at the thought of that. “See you Bill!” I called out, but he’d already turned and gone back into his shack. We paddled out to Lizzie and threaded our way back through the mangroves to the river. “Pity we had to leave so soon” said Arthur. “I wanted to ask him so many more questions. When can we come again?" "You were starting to outlive your welcome” I said. “He might talk to you in another year or two. Still he gave you a smoked eel so he must think you’re all right. He wouldn’t do that for many people”
On the trip home I started to pick Arthur’s brains about writing books. Perhaps I could write one. “Do authors make much money?” “No. A few successful ones make a lot, but most don’t” “How do you write a book?” “Well you have to decide what you want to write about, then you have to collect your material. Some authors travel the world doing that. Somerset Maugham for instance wrote a great many books and plays, and he spent a good part of his life travelling the world. He even came here to Australia.” “Did he like it here?” “No, not very much. Still I think he must have been a sour sort of man, I don’t think he liked anywhere or anybody very much. Other authors just head for the nearest reference library and find all their material there. Then comes the hard work. You have to sit down for at least four hours a day for months or years and write.” I decided that perhaps I wasn’t cut out to be an author after all, even though I would probably be one of the famous ones and make lots of money.
When we got back to the wharf Arthur gave me a couple of hundred dollar notes. I glanced round to make sure dad or Tim weren’t watching, and put the notes in my wallet. “Thank you very much for your help Jack, It’s been a most interesting day.” “No worries Arthur, any time.” As he walked off dad came over from Annabelle. “What’s that he’s carrying?” dad asked. “A smoked eel.” “What?” “A smoked eel. It’s a long story, I’ll tell it to you some time. Right now I’m gasping for a beer, can I shout you one?” The two hundred bucks was burning a hole in my pocket.