Nightcap At Ningi Creek Page 4

CHAPTER 4

  THE DRUMMING HAND

  Bob Boyd was a small, wiry, old man living alone on a laid-up old prawn trawler moored in Ningi Creek, Queensland. Not far from the Spinnaker Sound Marina at Sandstone Point - you know; just opposite Bribie Island. Anyway, every day he'd cast a line over the side hoping, as he would say, to: 'Catch summit nice for me dinner.'

  Now there was a time, as Bob would remind anybody who'd listen, when that would have been easy. 'Mullet? Gawd - they were so thick here a few years ago you could practically walk across the water, from Sandstone Point to Bribie Island and never even get yer feet wet - that you could!' And he ought to know. After many years of service in the Royal Australian Navy, after coming out from the Old Country, he had been one of the top prawn fishermen of Southeast Queensland; trawling Moreton Bay and the Pumicestone Passage for many years. He had been well known and well liked, amongst the local professional fishing fraternity throughout his long career.

  He'd been something of a hero too at one time, having rescued the radio officer, the sole survivor, from an American freighter which sank during a savage storm in Moreton Bay. Back in the sixties, that was. 'But time,' as Bob liked to say, 'waits for no man - and certainly not for a silly old bugger like me!' So, when the government of the day actively set out to reduce the number of trawlers in the area, by buying up fishing licenses, Bob not only took them up on the offer, he also sold off house and home and everything else that would fetch a dollar or two and moored his only love, his trawler Maid Marion, where she now lay. 'To rust away, mate - just like me,' he'd say at that time.

  Ah... but that was a long time ago now and time itself - or 'Annie Domino' as he liked to say - had not treated him too well. He didn't mind, didn't complain about his arthritis, asthma, or even his 'Me Bloody High' blood pressure - which worried his doctor if it didn't worry him! He reckoned he could live with all that. But something new - something that had come on in the last few months or so, that really had him vexed! This was a nasty shaking of his right hand. 'Well, not so much a flipping shake,' he would explain, 'but more of a drumming of the finger tips’. Whenever his right hand rested on something, the arm of a chair, a table – or anything like that, his right-hand fingers would start drumming away.

  Now this drumming he found most annoying, because it caused people to stare and he never liked that. Because he was naturally right handed, it made it a terrible inconvenience. He could no longer write properly, hold a cup of tea without spilling it, or - even worse - hold a glass of beer steady in that hand, without great difficulty. He'd been referred to one or two specialists by his doctor. But 'them there fancy doctors are alright,' he would say, 'with summit simple like a broken arm or a leg. But give 'em summit a little out of the ordinary, and they're lorst… like a ship without a rudder, or fish without a tail.'

  Annoyance with his drumming hand complaint was somewhat heightened, when he found he could no longer fish over the side of his boat and he had to face the ignominy of being forced to 'go and buy me flipping fish from a crappy fish-shop!'

  One day his friend Ian, who worked at one of the Bribie Island retirement homes, asked Bob if he would come along and talk to an old gent at the home; a new resident who needed cheering up to help him settle in. All he was told about the man was that he was an old sailor - whether that was in large ships or small boats, he didn't know. Anyway, a few days later, Ian took Bob along to the retirement home.

  After the usual introductions, Ian left Bob with the old man and went off to attend to his more regular duties. When he came back an hour or so later he found Bob, clearly upset, pacing up and down outside the old man's room.

  'What's up, Bob - didn't you two get on?' he asked.

  'Get on?' queried Bob. 'You didn't tell me he was off his rocker - round the twist! The silly, nutty, old

  sea-goat!'

  'You're kidding,' said Ian. 'I thought he was a nice old boy.'

  'Nice? Mate, he's a flaming, raving, loony!'

  'Don't exaggerate,' said Ian. 'Just tell me what he said to upset you so. Come on. What was it?'

  'Well… I tried to talk to him about boats, sailing, fishing and that - but all he does is rave on, and on, and on...’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About “Beware the fiery maidens!” Jesus! And this - to me! I don't 'ave nuffink to do with fiery, bloody, maidens – or any other sort.’

  'There must be some mistake…'

  'Mistake? Oh yes, the mistake was letting you push me into coming here! Christ! He must have said it over and over dozens of times: "Beware the fiery maidens". "Beware the fiery maidens". In fact, it was about all he did say!'

  'Oh, dear… I suppose I'd better check on him, Bob. Just in case… you know… he needs treatment, or something. Would you mind waiting, back at the car, if you like - eh?' Bob agreed and about half an hour or so later, Ian joined him in the car.

  'Well?' said Bob. 'Is he nuts - or what?'

  'I'm not sure,' said Ian.

  'Not flamin’ sure? Why ever not? What happened in there?'

  'He's very tired, of course. But when I explained how confused you were – about the fiery maidens - he put on a very brave effort to clarify things. It seems he's a former ship's radio officer, one of the old school and therefore very familiar with the old communications systems - you know, flags, Morse-Code and all that. He reckons - and this is the surprising if not the weirdest part, that you upset him!’

  ‘What…?’

  He seems to have recognised something; something very odd in the drumming of your fingers on his table. Not just random drumming, he said, but something... something like an old naval Morse-Code message.'

  ‘Go on, what nonsense! You're kidding me, mate. You're having me on.'

  'No. No. That's what he said. There were words... coming from your drumming hand! I made him rest for a bit - that's why I took such a long time. Sorry about that. Then I suggested that if he could recall the message - letter by letter - I'd take it down for you. Fortunately, he managed to gather the strength to do that. Here it is, in full - see?' Ian passed the message to Bob, before starting the car and driving off.

  Bob stared incredulously at the message in his hands, which read:

  S P A R K S B E W A R E T H E F I E R Y M A I D E N 1 2 0 4 9 9

  'Make any sense to you?' asked Ian, as they drove along the road back towards Sandstone Point.

  'Sense? No... no, it's rubbish. Utter rubbish - it's gotta be. The old boy’s round the twist! Right?'

  'I don't see any “got to be" about it,' said Ian.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. Oh, come on now. Are you sure – absolutely sure, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die, you haven't had anything to do with a woman, or women, lately - you sly old sea-dog?'

  'No. No, I told you, mate: I 'as nothing to do with women - and never 'as neither. Well, least wise, not since I was in the flaming Navy – and didn’t know any better - an' that was years and years and years ago!'

  'Nothing at all? Come on…. I don't believe it. You must have! You must have had some contact with a women - or women? Come on... it's impossible for any man not to.'

  'Well, there's old Mrs Duff. She's been giving me the glad eye and the odd hot meal now again - because of me wonky hand, you see. She says a man can't live on sangers and take-away. But just dinners, mind - not breakfasts - if that's what you're thinking! It's only her dinners what's fiery - not her! Cor, she's got a face like the back end of my trawler.'

  'What about that S P A R K S bit, then? If I just said 'sparks' to you - that and nothing else; what would it conjure up in your mind?'

  'Sparks… sparks… sparks. Why, I dunno… Old Sparky Spinks, maybe? Him what I pulled out of the water all them there years ago.’

  'Was that his proper name, then?'

  'Well, no. All radio officers is nicknamed Sparks, aren’t they? Or they were in my old Navy days. Probably call ‘em compu
ter nerds, today, eh? Anyway, you know what? Old Sparky Spinks reckoned he would 'ave drowned for sure if I hadn't reefed him outa the drink that day. He was pretty far gone, you know.'

  'Right. So where is he now?'

  'Now? What old Sparky? Dunno, mate. He was a lot older than me, so I reckon he's probably karked it by now, I shouldn't wonder.'

  'Do you think the message - if that's what it is - is in the right order, then? I mean, the old man… well, he was tired and very weak. The message could be a bit garbled.'

  'Rubbish!' said Bob, folding his arms in annoyance. ‘That, so called message, came straight outa a gin or a rum bottle, if youse ask me.’

  'Don't avoid the question!'

  'Oh, alright. Let's 'av another look, then. Now...' he said, picking up the paper and studying it carefully, 'if it was old Sparks sorta guiding… working… me drummin' hand - Gawd: you got me thinking it now! He would 'ave finished his message with his name or appointment. So it should really read: 'BEWARE THE FIERY MAIDEN 120499 SPARKS' - right? Get it? To show the message was from him: Sparks - I mean.'

  'Oh, yes! Right. Do you think those numbers could be a date? You know, a certain date that he is warning you to... beware of?'

  'No… Well, if that is a date: 120499, that's the 12th of April, right? 1999. That's long gone, ain't it? Eh?'

  'Ah, but didn't you say it was an American freighter? If so…'

  'Oh yeah, right! You're not just a pretty face, are you? Yes, them there Yanks, they writes the month first,

  then the day.'

  'So... 120499 would be, December the 4th, 1999! Right?'

  'Yeah... Right!'

  'And you know when that is, mate - that's today!' Ian exclaimed, excitedly.

  'What? Is it? You sure?'

  'I'm sure.'

  'Whatever can- it mean, then?'

  'I don't know. But it sure is exciting… just thinking about it.'

  Bob sat quietly in the car, thinking deeply about the morning's strange events as they drove on in silence. It was only a few minutes travelling time before they arrived back at Sandstone Point. As Ian drove up towards the berth, he startled Bob out of his deep reflections with: 'Hey!' What's going on here? What's all that... that smoke… And look at the crowd!'

  'Never mind the flaming smoke,' said Bob, with deep concern: 'Where's me flipping boat gorn?' as he stared in disbelief at the apparently vacant berth.

  Ian parked the car and they hurried over to join a small band of onlookers standing around, staring down at the water. There was Bob's boat, still there - or what was left of it. Burnt right down to the waterline: the name Maid Marion just barely visible on what was left of the stern.

  'Hey! Mate. What the flipping heck happened here?’ Bob inquired of one of his waterside neighbours.

  'Well,’ said his friend, ‘we heard a big bang aboard your boat. Somebody called the fire brigade. The fire engine came – arriving a bit too late, mind. Nothing they could do to save her, I’m afraid. But I did hear one of the men say something about a possible gas leak. Another said: 'All you needed was a spark from the refrigerator motor and…'

  'Alright. Alright, I know. I get the picture. Thanks, mate,' said Bob.

  'Well, Bob: there's your 'Fiery Maiden' for you,' said Ian.

  'Strewth! Yeah! My dear old Maid Marion! You could be right! Well, I sure am going to miss the old dear – mind you, I’m also damn glad I wasn't on board when it blew up!’

  They wandered together over to the nearby licensed fish restaurant and sat down at a table - Ian hardly knowing what to say.

  'Well, mate, what on earth do I flippin’ do now?' Bob pondered aloud.

  'You insured?' asked Ian.

  'Oh, yeah... yeah. Of course. No problem there.'

  'Well… you're still here, Bob. That's the main thing. So let's have a drink - while you think about getting back on your feet. A nice, long, cold one should do the trick.'

  'Only if they serve it to me with a straw, mate! You know, me and me bloody wonky 'and,' said Bob.

  'No! No: you're wrong... quite wrong there, mate,' said Ian. 'Your hand - just look at it. It's rock steady now. Not moving a bit.'

  'Strike me! You're right! I can't believe it.'

  'I reckon from now on you could find the old drumming hand problem is over and done with. Old Sparky's message is what it's all been about, all this time.'

  'Cor…,' said Bob, taking out the message and reading it again.

  S P A R K S B E W A R E T H E F I E R Y M A I D E N 1 2 0 4 9 9

  'You know, I reckon you could be right there. I weren't none too quick at catching on to 'is message, but it did sorta... well... held us up a bit, didn't it? And.... and, I reckon that little bit of delay was just enough to save me from getting back here in time to get meself blown, bloody, up! I guess that means Old Sparky Spinks and me are now square! I saved his flippin’ life an ‘e saved mine! Bloody marvellous, that is and this poor old hand of mine, it's really lorst all its bloody sparks… hasn't it? Ha, ha. Thank Gawd fer that!'

  'Amen to that, mate,' said Ian, lifting his glass to his lips.

  'Yes. Amen indeed!' added Bob. ‘And farewell and goodbye to that damn, bloody, drumming hand of mine too – eh? Cheers!’