Climbing the Coconut Tree

By S.C. Karakaltsas

Inspired by true events, this is a story about eighteen-year-old Bluey Guthrie who, in 1948 leaves his family to take the job of a lifetime on a remote island in the Central Pacific. Bill and Isobel, seasoned ex-pats help Bluey fit in to a privileged world of parties, dances and sport.

However, the underbelly of island life soon draws hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karadie Publishing
• Release date: Mar 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994503237

S.C. Karakaltsas

S.C Karakaltsas is a Melbourne based writer. This is her debut novel.

Book preview

Climbing the Coconut Tree

Climbing the Coconut Tree

S.C Karakaltsas

Karadie Publishing

Melbourne, Australia

Published by Karadie Publishing 2016

Copyright© S.C Karakaltsas 2016

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Karadie Publishing ([e-mail]).

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Creator: Karakaltsas,S.C, author

Title: Climbing the Coconut Tree/S.C Karakaltsas

ISBN: 9780994503206 (paperback)

Subjects: Historical Fiction

Dewey Number: A823.4

Cover design by Anthony Guardabascio (www.continue.com.au)

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For my father

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S.C Karakaltsas

1

June 1948

Somehow, I’d found myself at the top of a Ferris wheel. I should have been sitting quietly with a pretty girl at my side. Instead, I was hanging upside down swaying in the wind. The terror of my predicament was replaced by a rising nausea and I wondered if death would come from choking on my own vomit or cracking my head when I fell. I didn’t know which would be worse.

A sudden jolt settled my dilemma and I woke up. I tried to sit up but my bed seemed to sway and roll in time with my stomach. Then I remembered I was on a ship. My head ached and I slumped back into the pillow and closed my stinging eyes.

Perhaps it was the beer or the late night or the fact that I’d lost so much money; the cash my parents had given me was all but gone and it was only my second day away from home. How could I have been so stupid and reckless?

I thought of my mother and father back in our big, red brick house in Drouin and wondered if they were thinking of me. They’d be disappointed if they knew how I’d spent my first day away from home.

I pictured the row of red roses lining the path to our front door and suddenly yearned to be a child back in my bedroom lying on my bed gazing through the lace curtains.

‘Never be afraid to make mistakes, son. That’s how you learn,’ I remembered my father saying as he gave the rusted, old bicycle a shove and let go. Under his gaze, I wobbled at first then felt exhilarated as I peddled on my own. Looking for his approval, I turned my seven-year-old head and crashed into a bush. It occurred to me that I’d made my first mistake. Picking myself up, I saw my father deep in conversation with the next door neighbour. With blood trickling down my knee, I picked up the bicycle and rode off down the street. I learnt that day about being on my own and keeping my eyes on the road.

Throughout my life, whenever I made a mistake, I often pondered on my father’s advice and try to justify that I’d learnt a lesson, even when it wasn’t always clear. My mother on the other hand, always worried about mistakes. Where my father was ever the optimist; my mother always saw the downside to everything. ‘Be careful,’ was one of her catchphrases and ‘don’t forget to rug up,’ was another. Her harsh upbringing coupled with a nervous disposition, was no doubt the cause of her pessimism.

The advertisement in The Argus for a surveyor had caught my eye. To my surprise I was offered the job with a two-year contract. I burst into the lounge to interrupt my parents listening to the wireless and announced my news. Tears had sprung into my mother’s eyes but after a quick dab with her handkerchief, she was ready with her famous guilt tactics.

Why do this? What’s wrong with the apprenticeship we got you at the Council? Didn’t you see how I suffered when your brothers were away? She crossed herself, looked upwards and said, Thank you, Lord for bringing my boys safely back to me.

Never mind my brothers returned from their service as fighter pilots nearly three years ago, I’d thought, not game to argue with her. She also conveniently forgot that I’d recently qualified as a surveyor.

It’s bad enough that Morrie’s gone. She was never going to be happy unless, like a mother hen, her brood was under her watchful eye. She ignored the fact that I was the last one left at home. Then, her final blow, How can you do this to me and your father?

I was simply too excited to listen to her arguments and pleas. My father, on the other hand saw the opportunity for me to forge a career and see the world.

Don’t worry about me, Mum. I’ll be perfectly safe, I said, thankful to escape her anguish at the front door.

*

Was it only yesterday that I’d stood at the railing of the Triona watching the hustle and bustle of passengers and cargo being loaded from the wharf below me? I was glad no one had seen me off. My flight to independence was complete. I’d escaped the suffocation of the small country town of my upbringing. I wanted to see the world and what better way than by ship to a remote island?

Then the euphoria of freedom was interrupted when I felt a slap on my shoulder. My surprise turned into dismay when I saw the dopey grin of Arthur Wallace, an irritating boy from my school days.

Bluey. What the hell are you doing here? he yapped excitedly like a small terrier pup anxious for attention.

I’m on my way to Ocean Island, I said, shaking his hand. You?

Gee I was tryin’ hard to dodge you on the train but I reckon you’re followin’ me. He chuckled at his own poor joke. "But I’m hitchin’ a cheap ride on the Triona to Newcastle."

He dived a hand into his trouser pocket, fished about for something, then brought out a tin.

Wanna smoke?

Sure.

Can you believe I bought this tin of fifty Craven A’s for only two shillings? he boasted. You get’em in the galley.

Arthur took out matches from his pocket, struck one easily as I carefully cupped my hand around the match to light my cigarette. He lit his and flicked a greasy lump of hair which had been lathered with too much Brylcreem. The last time I’d seen him, his face had been disfigured with pus-filled pimples which had now left their cratered marks.

Do ya still see Burnsie?

No, I said, trying to feign polite interest, yet secretly hoping he would go away. I wanted to savour my first taste of freedom on my own.

What about Smithy? Now he was a good kick. Pity he ain’t playin’ anymore. Seen him?

Nope. I took another drag and watched the clumsy smoke ring disintegrate in the breeze.

How’s Morrie goin’ … what’s he doin’?

He’s good. He’s up at Dookie. If my twin brother Morrie could’ve seen me he’d have laughed. He knew I’d never liked Arthur. Now I was going to be stuck on a ship for days without escape.

Yeah, I got some work up at Newcastle.

I rested my arms on the railing and stared down at the dock, eager for the ship to sail. Ignoring the slight, Arthur annoyingly continued.

Never been outta the state before. Have you?

Nope.

The Triona began to separate itself from the wharf. I flicked my ash and watched it float in the air to rest on the growing gap of water.

So where exactly is Ocean Island?

In the Central Pacific.

Yeah, I wanted to go there but I gotta stay and help me sister and her kids. . . yeah picked up a job down the dock. . . haulin’ bags.

He was lying about Ocean Island and I remembered his sister; she lost her husband in the war. She’d been the same age as my older brother and they’d gone to school together. Both of Arthur’s parents had died soon after the war ended. I’d played at Arthur’s house when we were small, when our mothers played cards – it seemed so long ago.

I pointed to the growing gap between the wharf and the ship. Look, we’re moving.

We stood in silence for a while watching the crowd’s waving arms grow distant until they were replaced by ocean and the twinkle of far off lights. The sun had just about given up and I was relieved to be on my way.

Look mate, I’m going to find my cabin. Thanks for the smoke.

Rightio, mate.

I ignored his crestfallen face and escaped. My cabin was in the old gunners’ quarters below the deck with an adjacent smoking room and bathroom. My two bags had been thrown on one bed and there were cases on two other beds. It was really comfortable for a ship whose prime work was to bring phosphate out of Ocean Island and Nauru to Melbourne and to return with mail, supplies and passengers.

G’day.

I swung around and saw a man of similar height to me, in his mid-twenties with sandy coloured hair and an open, friendly face.

G’day. I said, taking his outstretched hand.

Jim Henderson.

Blu … Ben Guthrie. Now was the time to get rid of my childhood nickname.

Where are you off to Ben?

Ocean Island … I’m going to be the new surveyor there. I liked the way it had sounded. I still couldn’t quite believe it.

Well, you don’t say! You’ll enjoy it there. I worked on Ocean for a number of years … just going back to Nauru after leave.

I’m looking forward to it but don’t really know what to expect.

I’d be happy to give you some pointers.

It was a relief to be able to talk to someone. I knew so little about where I was going.

Then a tall stony-faced bloke entered. Without a word he grabbed his kitbag and sauntered to the bunk farthest away from us.

Jim walked over to the man who was solidly built with black hair and a pencil moustache poorly disguising his thin lips. G’day. Jim Henderson. The man shook Jim’s hand and muttered, Harry Gilchrist.

I shyly approached him. But he met my gaze with a grunt and a sneer, his lit cigarette hanging limply to the side of his mouth. He turned away to unravel the contents of his kitbag, leaving my hand awkwardly suspended.

So where are you off to Harry? Jim asked, as he returned to his bunk. He neatly hung up his shirts one by one.

Ocean Island.

First time?

Yep.

Same as Ben. Jim smiled at me.

There was a small cupboard and I rammed my bags into it. Not knowing what else to do, I sat on my bunk and watched Harry. I could tell then, that he wasn’t happy. Jim didn’t seem to be intimidated and I admired him for that.

This is a great ship. I’ve been on it many times. Come on. Let’s get something to eat.

Jim took us up to a large dining room which held the other thirty passengers, some were going to Newcastle and others to Ocean Island and Nauru. Arthur was already at another table and I’d been relieved that he was bunking elsewhere on the ship. He waved with a hopeful look. But I merely nodded and followed Jim. We found a table and I glanced down at the cutlery and looked forward to the three course meal.

Jim picked up an opened bottle of beer and held it toward me. Ben?

Of course I nodded and he poured a glass for each of us. My father and older brothers had given me the odd glass or two but this was the first time I’d been treated, well, like a grown up. The beer trickled pleasantly down my throat and I sat enthralled watching and listening to everything. Harry had drunk thirstily and drained his glass.

Harry. What job are you doing on Ocean Island? Jim asked, buttering his bread.

I’m gunna be one of the electricians there, Harry said gruffly, pouring himself another beer.

I was hungry and conscious of not making too much noise slurping my tomato soup; my mother’s clipped voice on table etiquette resounded in my head.

I can’t remember who’s in charge of the electrical crew there, Jim said, swallowing a spoonful of soup.

Yeah, dunno so can’t help ya there. Harry finished his beer and refilled it.

It’s been a few years since I was there so there might be someone new anyway. Are you from Melbourne?

Jim poured himself another beer and topped up mine.

Yep.

What were you doing there?

Nothin’, he replied, scowling. Just odds and sods.

I tucked into a plate of roast chicken and vegetables. What do you know about Ocean, Ben? Jim asked.

I nearly choked, but spat out an answer. I know it’s in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; it sits three hundred and eighty miles from a cluster of islands known as the Gilbert and Ellice Group; its nearest neighbour is Nauru and it’s just south of the equator. Oh and it’s hot!

My head felt fuzzy and I wondered if I’d slurred some of my words. I silently cursed myself for drinking the beer so fast.

You’re dead right and yeah … it’s bloody hot! Jim laughed.

I passed my first test.

I know your boss Bill, and his wife Isobel very well. They’re wonderful people and know everything there is to know about Ocean. They’ve been there for donkey’s years. They’ll help you settle in. Jim wiped the gravy from his plate with the remnants of his bread.

You’ll get used to the heat … I promise. Listen I’d be happy to lend you a book about the island, if you like.

That’d be great. Thanks.

Harry, do you want to borrow a book too?

Harry had drained the last of his beer. I know all I need to know, he growled.

Something cruel lurked beneath Harry’s curled lip and it put me on edge.

Other passengers joined our table. Harry and I finished our meal in silence but I knew, he was listening intently to everyone. It seemed that Jim knew lots of passengers on board and was popular with the crew. Harry finished, then mumbled something and slunk away. I ordered another helping of apple pie and ice cream. Glancing across to Arthur’s table I was relieved that he’d gone.

Later I wandered out on deck. The moon danced on the glistening sea. I hung over the railing watching the white waves break against the ship’s bow; the breeze cool on my face. Then I heard the cheers of men yelling and walked around the deck to investigate.

Come in spinner, a voice yelled excitedly.

The men’s heads strained upward to the sky as the coins spun in the moonlight and landed in the middle of them. Harry was collecting money. One of the men beckoned me.

C’mon lad.

Some turned their heads. Under their scrutiny, I knew I couldn’t back away and decided to try it, even though I had no idea how two-up was played. Harry was busily counting his money when I joined the circle. But I soon worked it out. I bet on heads as the two coins were tossed into the air. I glanced nervously at Harry who had bet on tails. He’d won again.

*

The ship rolled again and my stomach lurched. I struggled to get up. I glanced around the cabin. The empty bunks had been left unmade. I dressed and went up on deck, smiling to see Arthur hanging over the railing looking every bit as bad as I felt. No breakfast for either of us.

Sitting on a deckchair in the fresh air made the nausea almost bearable. The chilly wind and gloomy sky did little to help my glumness and worry over the money. There was nothing to see for miles except white caps. Jim appeared and walked unsteadily to the railing. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Still fretting over the money, I tried to distract myself by watching the crew in their oversized brown jackets and baggy pants, chatting to each other in an unfamiliar language while they worked. I wondered what they were saying. I imagined they were talking about the officers who, dressed in their crisp white uniforms, watched over them, while they swept and scrubbed the deck.

*

On the three-day journey to Newcastle, I managed to keep my food down. Arthur didn’t do so well and I saw very little of him. Finally, the ship docked and I was glad to be on land once again. The sky was cloudless, the sun shone with a hint of warmth and I farewelled Arthur and left to explore Newcastle.

After two days, the Triona was loaded and ready to leave. Harry wasn’t back and the crew asked me if I knew where he was. I’d seen him get into a taxi when we first landed but hadn’t seen him since.

As the gangplank was about to be removed, Harry ran up onto the ship’s deck, head down, no explanation or apology. He was an odd fellow.

The sea was calm as we set sail. But within a couple of days a cyclone bore down. We watched the growing black clouds looming on the horizon and the crew hurried to secure everything on deck. We escaped to our cabins.

Gusts of wind soon shook the ship. I decided to climb up the stairs to the deserted deck. The sky was black. A wall of white water crashed on the deck and swept me off my feet. I managed to crawl to the stairs, cling to the railing and descend below into the hot air which by now was fouled with the stench of vomit. I had nowhere else to go but retreat to my cabin. I swallowed, trying not to let the smell get to me. My mouth was parched and I was soaked to the skin.

Harry didn’t look up when I came in. I was secretly pleased to see him sitting on the edge of his bunk, head in his hands staring into a bucket. The ship lurched and I grabbed the door handle and dry retched.

Lying in bed, listening to the thunderous sounds of the waves and howling wind, I could do nothing but hang on as the sea rolled me from one side of my bunk to the other. I wondered about the location of the lifeboats and shuddered in the darkness. Why had I left? I asked myself, as I remembered my mother’s worried face and muttered a prayer.

*

The following morning, I woke to stillness and a ravenous hunger. Glimpsing clear, blue sky through the porthole, I dressed quickly and went up on deck to be greeted by my favourite smell: bacon!

After a huge breakfast I spent the day up on deck marvelling at the hundreds of flying fish following the ship. They seemed to have wings where their fins should be and used these to propel themselves over the water.  Hundreds of them were flying through the air, silver wings glistening. I was glad of my camera which was a parting gift from my family.

Afterwards, I lay on a deckchair feeling lazy and warm in the sun while the gentle swell rocked me to sleep. I startled awake to a brown weathered face with large black eyes standing over me and blocking the sun.

My name Abdul, said the short stocky man with a multitude of silver chains around his neck. He pointed at the camera and I realised that Abdul wanted to have his photo taken. I obliged, but before I knew it, the rest of the crew surrounded me. I stood and gathered them into a pose, their wide smiles revealing spaces where teeth should have been. A click of the camera and they thanked me profusely.

Abdul barked something at the others and they left, while he stayed to sweep around the deckchairs close to me.

How long have you been working on the boat? I asked.

Oh many years, we Lascar. He stopped sweeping. My father also Lascar sailor.

I’d heard an officer referring to them earlier as this. He’d said they were