Brother Fish by Bryce Courtenay Page A

half-grin. ‘No such luck, mate.’ He produced a pocket knife with a well-worn blade, and placed it on the bar in front of us and indicated the surface of the bar. ‘Go ahead, fellas, do us the honour. Carve your initials.’
    I have been the recipient of a few honours in my life, not all of them deserved, but I count this one above most and, I confess, at the time I was hard put not to shed a tear. Jimmy would later confess that he felt much the same way. The publican then instructed us to leave the sum of one pound in our respective wills for the purpose of shouting drinks for the house when the time came, as he put it, ‘to hammer in the nail’.
    â€˜One pound! That’s two bucks, not much of a shout,’ I said, amused. He’d paused, unnecessarily wiping the surface of the mutilated bar, ‘Yeah well, that’s what it was way back in 1920 when we hammered in the first nail and we’ve never bothered to change it; the house shouts the rest.’
    I’m now sitting directly in front of my carved initials lamenting the fact that I made a proper botch of them when I feel a hand the size of a soup bowl on my shoulder. Jimmy has arrived. ‘Hiya, Brother Fish, how ’ya been, buddy,’ he announces in his cement-mixer growl. ‘Sorry I’m late, mate. Couldn’t get a taxi from the airport, bunch of nuns commandeered the lot.’ He grins. ‘Extra! Extra! Giant black man slams nun to sidewalk and hijacks taxi!’
    â€˜Footpath, not sidewalk,’ I correct him, grinning.
    â€˜Nah, footpath don’t sound dangerous,’ Jimmy laughs.
    I have often wondered why other nationalities so easily pick up an American accent while Yanks, no matter how long they remain away from their birthplace, never lose theirs.
    The barman, hearing Jimmy shout, appears a moment later from somewhere out back and pours him a draught beer, checks the level of my own, which I’ve barely touched, places an ashtray in front of Jimmy and returns from where he came.
    â€˜Cheers, Brother Fish,’ Jimmy says.
    â€˜Here’s to being mates, mate.’ I sigh. ‘The thirty-third time, the saddest of them all.’
    That’s about it. The formalities are over. It is the being here together on this day, the 9th of August, that matters, and we don’t need any further ceremony or fanfare. Besides, there isn’t anything to say that isn’t already known between us. We remain silent for a while, easy in each other’s company. I guess, like me, he is thinking back, gauging the distance travelled and the ups and downs that measure the sum of the lives we’ve led together.
    He’s been flying all night on the Qantas red-eye special from Hong Kong and he’s failed to remove his coat – that’s not like him. Jimmy, like me and most kids who grow up poor, is careful with his clobber, and accustomed to stepping off a plane after an all-night flight and walking straight into a board meeting. He produces a soft pack and a lighter, takes out a cigarette and places the rest on the bar. He lights up and takes a short, sharp drag, then places the fag into the lip of the glass ashtray and blows the smoke out through his nostrils. He turns to me and says, ‘It’s been a long journey, Brother Fish.’
    â€˜No longer than usual. I’m the one can’t sleep on planes – you always look like you’ve just stepped out of Johnny Chang’s tailor shop in Kowloon.’
    â€˜Nah, not da trip – da journey.’ He picks up his glass. ‘Our Countess,’ he says, his voice low and gentle. ‘Hell, man. I done love her so much.’ Jimmy, his beer halfway raised to his mouth, is crying, softly, without a sound – just tears running down his ‘high-yella’ face.

CHAPTER TWO
    K Force
    Army training is much the same whatever war you are about to fight, and Puckapunyal is where it usually happens if you