Jack & Harry (31 page)

‘We're too young to go to the pub, boss,' Jack said.

‘You won't be able to get on the turps with us that's for sure but you can sit out in the lounge. Have a feed, a couple of lemonades or something and at least feel a part of what's going on. You're part of the team so you gotta celebrate as well.'

‘They wouldn't let us in, boss.'

‘You're with me, boys, they'll let you in all right! Wanna come?'

‘You bet,' Jack said.

Jack Ferguson Senior was in Adelaide with the main cattle buyer for South Australia, a man named Bill Martin. Bill knew the market well and Jack had worked with him before. Jack was staying in a hotel in the city, having travelled over from Perth, as his company had a client that was looking for quality beef to build up the herd on his property.

Jack was not happy leaving Alice particularly so soon after Christmas. The day had been a traumatic time for them all with their son still missing, even though he had contacted them. Another letter had arrived from Jack just prior to Christmas saying he was well and for them not to worry but it did not ease their concern of not knowing exactly where he was, or lift the sadness at not having him home. Jack also had an uneasy feeling about leaving Western Australia believing that his son and Harry were still in the state, somewhere in the goldfields. It was an irrational thought, he knew, but he felt he was letting his son down by leaving the state as it just put him further away from where he was. He nonetheless welcomed the chance to be involved in a buying trip as at least he could concentrate on something other than finding his son.

Bill Martin joined him for drinks then they went for dinner in the hotel dining room. Martin knew nothing about his son's disappearance so Jack decided not to mention the subject as it only disturbed him, and the buyer would not be able to help here in South Australia anyhow.

‘What time we leaving in the morning, Bill?' Jack pressed the serviette to his lips, folded it and placed on the table.

‘Need to get away early, Jack, got a long drive up to Marree.' Martin looked at his watch. ‘Saying that, I better make a move.' He stood up from the table. ‘Let me get this, Jack.' He reached for the bill.

‘No, mate, I'll just put it on my room account. Charge it to the company.' Jack signed the docket and then walked through the lobby to the hotel entrance to see his guest off.

‘You sure these cattle are there, Bill? We don't want to drive all the way up there to find they're still on the road somewhere.'

‘Talked to Marree this afternoon, Jack. They arrived today and are yarded. The drover in charge is a bloke called Tom Cooper. He's very reliable … always gets his mob in on time. You'll meet him tomorrow as he also acts on behalf of the owner. See you in the morning, Jack. I'll pick you up early.'

‘See ya, Bill.' Jack walked to the lift to go to his room.

Wide-eyed with fascination the two boys sat in the lounge captivated by the atmosphere of the pub. There were two couples at one table in the lounge, their voices raised to be heard over the din coming from the front public bar where Tom Cooper and Toffy stood leaning on the counter engrossed in animated conversation with a dozen or so other men. As the bar serviced both areas they could see everything that was going on so felt they were definitely a part of the celebrations. On more than one occasion Tom Cooper or Toffy would look in their direction to give them a wave and the barmaid, a large woman with yellow blonde hair piled on her head, large gold earrings and red painted lips kept filling their lemonade glasses and smiling at them. ‘You're part of Tom Cooper's team, lads, and that's good enough for me,' she said as she topped their glasses up again.

The front bar was packed with men of all ages. There were drovers, ringers, railway workers and a smattering of town folk distinguishable by their dress. A group was playing darts at one end of the bar and a pool table was fully occupied at the other. The room was filled with laughter, loud voices and a haze of blue tobacco smoke.

Nobody knew, or really cared for that matter, how the fight started.

There was a sudden commotion as two men struggled with each other before one let fly with a right hook that sent his opponent flying into the mass of drinkers at the bar. Tom Cooper was shoved against the counter, his beer spilling over his shirt. Placing the empty glass carefully on the polished bar top he made a show of wiping the beer from his dusty shirt then turned around slowly. Grabbing the offender by the collar with his left hand he hit him hard on the chin with his right fist. The poor bloke, having taken two solid punches, collapsed in a heap at Tom's feet.

As if that was a signal, the whole bar erupted in curses and wild swinging punches. The barmaid screamed for them to stop, ducking to avoid a bar stool that narrowly missed her head and smashed into the bottle display on the back wall with a crash of shattered glass. She continued screaming abuse at the men as she ran up and down behind the counter yelling and waving her fists. At one stage she leaned across the bar and grabbed a man by the hair, yanking his head back, fortunately just in time to miss the punch aimed at his nose.

Tom Cooper was right in the middle of the heaving mass of men towering about six inches over them. He was bareheaded now, his hat somewhere trodden underfoot on the beer-swamped lino, swinging punches with devastating effect at anyone unlucky enough to be in range. Toffy, to the boys' amazement, ignored the brawl and just went on calmly drinking his beer, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem around him.

The publican appeared suddenly from behind the boys and pushed through the counter door into the bar servery. He was not a big man and was dressed in a collarless shirt and waistcoat and wore silver armbands to keep his shirt cuffs from swallowing his hands. He yelled loudly for the fighting to stop but was ignored completely. He stood for a moment surveying the damage to his hotel. There were broken glasses, smashed chairs, a front window shattered, tables overturned and a sea of spilt drink sloshing on the floor.

Jack and Harry sat transfixed watching the fight, unable to believe what they were seeing. They yelled in shock and jumped from their stools however when the gunshot exploded. The men fighting stopped in mid-punch and stood frozen in action like comical statues, staring at the publican.

The little man stood behind the bar, the still smoking twelve-gauge double-barrelled shotgun in his hands, this time pointed across the counter. Nothing was said for what seemed like minutes then Tom Cooper spoke.

‘Bloody hell, Bert … you've blown a dirty big hole in yer own ceiling.'

All the men looked up to see where the shotgun pellets had hit the ceiling leaving plaster hanging in straggly threads from the gaping hole. Laughter, just a ripple at first, turned to great gales that swept through the bar. Men had tears in their eyes, holding their sides while rolling around bumping into each other. Men who just minutes before were attempting to murder each other were now slapping the very same people on the back like great mates, laughing and pointing at the damaged ceiling.

‘You blokes have a good time?' Cooper asked as they walked with him and Toffy back to the camp.

‘Geez, boss,' Jack said, ‘that was some fight! Never seen nothin' like that before.'

‘Yeah, wasn't too bad,' Tom said as if he was discussing the meal. ‘Said we always celebrated at the end of a drove didn't I?'

The cameleer was a tall beared man with a hooked nose separating dark wary eyes under hooded brows, his height accentuated by the long striped shirtlike garment he wore down to his ankles. The boys could see he wore boots, weathered and scuffed, that seemed out of place with his garb. He didn't have a hat on but wore a cloth over his head secured with a woven band of cord so only his face was visible. Jack started to giggle furtively because the man reminded him of the costume the teacher had made him wear in a Christmas nativity play a couple of years ago. Jack whispered to Harry that he thought the play costume looked more authentic than what the cameleer wore.

Tom Cooper and the man were obviously aquainted. After greeting each other they talked for some minutes glancing in the boys' direction several times. A number of tawny coloured camels were in a nearby post-and-rail yard, their flat elongated heads swivelling on long necks. They had haughty expressions on their faces as if they were superior to everything about them, and made half-grunting coughing sounds while they snapped viciously at each other.

‘They look pretty bad-tempered those camels, Harry.'

‘Too right, Jack. Glad we've got horses. I wouldn't like to get too close to them.'

Tom Cooper signalled for the boys to join him with the camel driver so they dismounted and walked over, leading their horses. Tom Cooper introduced them by their Christian names to the Afghan.

‘Ishmael Mohamed Hassan, at your service.' The man flashed a smile, bowing his head slightly to them but not extending his hand, so the boys just nodded awkwardly in response.

‘Call him Ishmo, lads; everyone else does,' Tom smiled. ‘He acts a little strange at times, doesn't speak much English and in fact, saying his name is about the longest sentence he says.' Tom laughed at his own joke. ‘He's all right though, aren't you, Ishmo?'

‘You go to Coober Pedy with me?' The tall man asked.

They both nodded, unsure of what to say in the presence of this comical-looking character.

‘You may be joining me then. This afternoon we are leaving.'

On the way back to the wagon to pick up their belongings they were concerned about whether they were doing the right thing. Travelling with bad-tempered, biting camels and heading off into the desert with a cartoon character was not what they imagined would be part of their journey to Coober Pedy.

‘Ishmo's all right, lads, no need to worry,' Tom said when they expressed their concerns. ‘He's well respected for his bushcraft and he's never been in an ounce of trouble all his life out here. People are a bit suspicious of the Afghans but Ishmo is as honest as the day is long. I wouldn't let you go with a no-hoper, you know that. Just takes a bit of getting used to is all.'