Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen Page A

to think about it’.

Dafty’s Mum
    Each afternoon at five o’clock and not a minute before, I was allowed to turn on the wireless. It hummed and buzzed and crackled as it warmed up. Eventually I tuned in 6WF and after a while the theme music for the new kids’ programme Argonauts’ Club came on. It started with part four of a serial about some fierce smugglers and the kids who manage to outsmart them. Then Mac, the announcer, gave us lessons on how to make a kite out of brown paper, string and slices of bamboo. I thought that sounded like a great idea. We had plenty of wind on the island. We also had bamboo, but brown paper and a long length of string were going to be a problem.
    â€˜When that’s over I want you to go down to the bakery and get some of yesterday’s bread, Jack,’ Mum called from the kitchen table. ‘I promised Patricia I’d take her to feed the ducks on the lake tomorrow. If you hurry you’ll make it before Mrs Owen shuts up shop.’
    At least she was going to let me wait until the end of the programme. That was a surprise. I wanted to stay and hear The Jap as He Really Is too, but Mum didn’t like me listening to that.
    Before I could reach the bakery it started raining again—cold, driving rain that drenched me. I ran flat out but my ribs still hurt from the accident and I had to slow down and take it easy. I didn’t have my hat on, so freezing cold water ran down the back of my neck. By the time I reached the bakery verandah I was soaked.
    â€˜Young Mr Jones, is it?’ Mrs Owen spoke like that all the time, turning every sentence into a question. Of course she knew it was me. She saw me just about every day. ‘You’ll be feeling a bit wet and sorry for yourself, won’t you?’
    I nodded and shivered for effect. ‘Mum says can she have some stale bread? For the ducks.’
    â€˜It’s not for you, then? Stale bread and water?’ Mrs Owen laughed. ‘You haven’t been getting into trouble again, have you?’
    I shook my head.
    â€˜Had you better come in by the oven, then?’
    It was murder in the bakery. I hadn’t had a thing to eat since lunchtime and the smell of fresh bread and cakes was torture. Mrs Owen took pity on me and handed me a rock cake with sultanas. ‘You’ll not be telling your mother I ruined your dinner, will you?’
    I just laughed. She didn’t really think I’d tell my mum. Who’d be that stupid?
    On the way home I noticed Mad Martha, Dafty’s mum, standing at the end of the jetty. We often saw her there, staring out to sea in all sorts of weather. Today she looked as cold and as wet as I felt, but she just stood there staring out at the grey sea, and the low dark clouds as they swirled and blew on the horizon, hiding the mainland under a grey smudge.
    â€˜Look at the state of you. Not enough sense to get out of the rain,’ said Mum as I opened the front door and handed over the loaf of stale bread. ‘Go and get those wet things off, then come close to the fire before you catch your death. I don’t know, honestly. And what are all those crumbs on your face?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
    â€˜I saw Mad Martha out on the jetty in the rain,’ I said, trying to change the subject.
    Whack! I swear Mum’s hand shot right across the entire room. She caught me under the ear.
    â€˜Ow!’
    â€˜Don’t you dare call Mrs Small that. Ever. Ever again. That poor, poor woman has lost her only child. And who knows what became of her husband. I can’t begin to imagine her grief.’
    â€˜But she was out standing in the rain, staring out to sea,’ I protested, as if that would make any difference.
    â€˜Here, put on my coat. I want you to go down to the jetty and take Mrs Small some of these pasties.’
    â€˜But I’m still wet,’ I cried. ‘I’m soaked.’
    â€˜In that case you