Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen Page B

won’t be able to get any wetter.’
    â€˜But aren’t they for Dad’s lunch?’ I argued.
    â€˜He can have bread and cheese tomorrow. And like it. Now do as I tell you.’ She handed me a cane basket with the pasties wrapped up in a tea towel.
    â€˜But I might die from cold,’ I protested.
    â€˜Good,’ she replied. ‘Now get along with you.’
    As I stepped out again into the drizzle, off in the distance Dafty’s chook Lassie started crowing like it was dawn. The stupid chook didn’t even know what time it was. But then it was in its nice new dry chook shed at Banjo’s and I was the one walking down the street in the rain. Stupid Jack, more like.
    Mad Martha turned when I reached the end of the jetty. She looked at me but I don’t really think I registered properly with her at first. Water ran down her cheeks and I couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears. I suspected it was tears because she looked terribly sad.
    â€˜Mrs Small, I’m Jack Jones,’ I said, holding out the basket.
    â€˜You’re Dafty’s friend.’ I was surprised she called him Dafty and not Tim. ‘I’m waiting for him to come back. He’s been gone far too long. His dinner will get cold. He doesn’t like it cold. Not his bangers and mash. Have you seen him, Jack? He talks about you all the time. You and Banjo.’
    I didn’t know what to say. I felt useless. ‘My mum sent you some pasties.’ I couldn’t think of anything else. ‘She makes great pasties,’ I added lamely.
    â€˜They smell good,’ she said. ‘Dafty will enjoy one of those. I’d better get home and put them in the oven. He doesn’t like them cold, you know. He doesn’t like them cold.’ She walked back along the jetty, water dripping from her cardigan and the hem of her dress.
    I stayed out on the jetty and looked out to see what she had been staring at. I was thinking about Dafty as well. I must’ve stayed there for some time because suddenly I heard my name being called.
    â€˜Jack!’ Dad was at the other end of the jetty. ‘Your mother sent me to find you. What the hell are you doing out there in the rain? You’ll catch your death. Get back here, now. And look at you, dressed in your mother’s coat like some sort of nancy boy. For Pete’s sake, get home before anyone sees you.’

The Funeral
    A few months after Dafty disappeared, Captain Jansen found one of Dafty’s new shoes and his sleeveless pullover washed up on the beach near Henrietta Rocks. With his death confirmed, the people of the island held a funeral service on the following Saturday.
    Mum shook me out of bed half an hour early. She made me put on a tie and my good shorts, and then she slicked down my hair with Dad’s California Poppy Oil. The hair oil stank like crazy but Mum reckoned it made me look like a movie star. Looking in the mirror, with my hair plastered down, the only movie star I thought I looked like was Dracula. But I didn’t think it was a good day to complain. Mum was obviously trying hard to keep calm and, if not cheerful, at least normal.
    A lot of people had gathered at the church by the time we arrived, both the Catholics and the Protestants, because no-one seemed to know what religion Dafty and his mum were. His mum was nowhere to be seen. A carpenter at the army base had made a simple wooden box for his shoe and pullover. It lay on the table at the front of the altar like a small coffin. The smell of varnish lingered in the airless church.
    Captain Williamson, the chaplain, wearing his dress uniform and white dog collar, led the service. He slowly walked the length of the aisle with his head bent and touched the small box before turning to the congregation. His shoulders seemed more bowed and a little lower than usual. He looked tired, as if he didn’t want to be doing this.
    Colonel Hurley, the camp commander, was