Jack's Island by Norman Jorgensen Page B

choice. You will sign these papers here and now or I will not be responsible for my actions.’ He suddenly slammed his walking stick down on the table. ‘Do I make myself clear? I will not allow one man’s pig-headed stubborn pride to stand in the way of—’
    â€˜I hear you, Mr Palmer,’ answered Mr Paterson. ‘I hear you.’ He looked about for support but every person in the garden avoided his eyes. It seemed to me that in spite of Mr Paterson being their workmate, this time everyone in the pub was on Mr Palmer’s side. A boy being able to attend Perth Modern School was an achievement almost beyond their understanding.
    Mr Paterson sensed he was beaten and looked for a way to save face. ‘Do you want to sit down and we’ll discuss it like civilised men? Over a beer,’ he added nervously.
    â€˜Yes, Mr Paterson, that is an excellent idea.’ Mr Palmer was clearly relieved. I don’t think he really wanted to tear Mr Paterson apart, though in the state he was in it looked like he might’ve done it easily, limb by limb.
    â€˜We can discuss it at length and then you will sign the papers and I will buy everyone a beer just as soon as you have done so,’ said Mr Palmer.
    Mr Paterson might not have liked teachers and books and learning but he admired courage. And he’d just been taught a lesson in real courage. Some of the men nodded and gave each other knowing looks. They too recognised real courage when they saw it. Mr Paterson was twice Mr Palmer’s size, but our teacher had stood up to him like Gentleman Jim Corbett against John L Sullivan for the Heavyweight Championship. He had done a brave and fine thing that evening.
    Mr Palmer unscrewed his fountain pen. Mr Paterson signed the form and some of the men then started clapping, slowly at first and then everyone joined in enthusiastically. The applause soon turned to cheering and it wasn’t just the thought of a free beer, it was the knowledge that one of their own might escape from the sheer physical drudgery of their lives.
    â€˜That’s enough flaming discussion then, Pat. My flaming glass is just about flaming empty,’ laughed Mr Carter at the end of the table.

Jack and Banjo Build a Canoe
    The sheets of corrugated iron lay scattered and rusting around the wooden framework of the derelict house.
    â€˜We need a bit without any nail holes,’ said Banjo.
    We poked a stick under the end of each one and flipped the metal sheets, ready to jump back from any lurking snakes warming themselves under the tin. I hate snakes. Luckily, we hadn’t seen anything deadly so far except a few spiders and centipedes.
    â€˜And one that’s not all rusted through,’ I said, as one sheet broke apart. Eventually we selected the perfect piece with only a few holes and not too much rust.
    Making a canoe was easy. We’d made loads before, except they were never very stable and always tipped over and sank, but this time, this time ... We’d seen a Tahitian-style canoe with an outrigger in Mutiny on the Bounty with Clark Gable. An outrigger looked like the perfect solution.
    We bent both ends of the iron together either side of a bit of narrow timber. Then we banged the corrugations down flat and nailed them to form a sharp wedge at each end. All we needed now was some tar to patch the holes and seal the gaps around the wood.
    â€˜Where are we going to get the tar? It’s too cold this time of the year,’ I said. In summer we’d just wait until it got hot enough and dig the melted tar out of the edge of the road.
    Banjo thought for a moment. ‘At the aerodrome, of course. They’re bound to have barrels of it. Barrels and barrels.’
    â€˜But it’s out of bounds. There’s a huge fence and barbed wire and guards...’ But I knew where this was leading.
    â€˜Jones, you’d have to be the biggest chicken in the world.’
    â€˜If we sneak in there