Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen

down?’
    â€˜Well, I managed to climb up here, didn’t I?’ I said, more confidently than I felt.
    We slowly reached the ground and I fell back onto the carpet of pine needles. Every inch of me ached.
    â€˜You’re really going to be in for it. Look at your clothes,’ said Banjo.
    He wasn’t going to be in as much trouble as me because his dad didn’t care what he looked like. But my mother ... My shorts had split completely in half. My shirt collar had been ripped off and all the buttons down the front were missing. The jumper Mum had spent weeks knitting had come unravelled and holes gaped all over it.
    â€˜We’d better get back,’ I said. I struggled to my feet but nearly fainted and fell back to the ground. A stabbing pain shot through my ribs and round my back. My left knee and my shoulders throbbed. Both my arms were grazed and cut and they stung like crazy.
    â€˜I’d better go and get you some help,’ said Banjo, and I saw the worry in his eyes.
    â€˜Who from? We’re in the middle of the Restricted Area, remember. Who can you get? Corporal Bennett said he’d shoot us if he caught us again.’
    â€˜What about Little Eric and Christian?’ he suggested. ‘They won’t care we’re here.’
    By this time I was beginning not to care either. An overwhelming tiredness had descended over me and I couldn’t hold my eyes open any longer. When Banjo headed off to find help I lay back and tried not to let the pain bother me too much. Fat chance. If I’d been squashed flat with a streamroller I’d have felt better.
    I could smell cooking. I thought I must be dreaming. I opened my eyes and saw to my surprise I was in my own bed. As I lay still trying to work out what had happened, I overheard Mum and Mrs Carter talking outside my window by the washhouse. How did I get here? I tried to prop myself up and get comfortable, but the pain in my ribs instantly returned, stabbing me like a knife. Agony! I had a tight bandage round my chest and both arms were also bandaged.
    â€˜Well, it seems mighty suspicious to me,’ I heard Mrs Carter say. ‘I remember him from Subiaco when Martha Small—Martha Cook she was then—when Martha was working as an usherette at the Empire Theatre. She knew Clive then. Very well, I’m told, if you know what I mean. After her husband disappeared. Very well indeed. Dafty was born then, more than a year after her husband left. I’m not one to gossip, as you well know, but look at the colour of his hair. And his eyes.’
    â€˜Mum?’ I called.
    â€˜Ah, he’s awake,’ said Mum quickly, obviously glad to shut her up.
    Clive who? I wondered. Who could Mrs Carter be talking about? Did she mean Dafty’s father? The only Clive on the island was Mr Palmer. And he couldn’t possibly be Dafty’s father. He was far too old to be a father, and besides, he had a gimpy leg.
    Mum appeared at the door still holding the thick white stick she used for stirring the copper on washdays.
    â€˜I hope you aren’t going to belt me with that,’ I said, trying to be funny.
    â€˜I very well ought to, that’s for sure. Thrash you within an inch of your life, you little blighter. The worry you cause me. You know the guns are out of bounds. How many times do you have to be told? I don’t know how much more trouble you can get into. I really don’t. And don’t tell me it’s all Banjo’s fault. If it weren’t for him you’d still be out there, being eaten by ants. Or worse.’ She stopped for a moment, still obviously annoyed with me.
    â€˜Captain Anstey, that new army doctor, has been round to see you. I’m to get him back here as soon as you wake up. He thinks you have concussion and broken ribs. He’s given me this medicine for you. Three times a day.’ She picked up a blue bottle from the bedside table and shook it. ‘It smells