The Pearman Legend

By Rosemary Wisewould

Life is challenging in the 1950’s, no less so for rebellious Anderson Scot McKenzie who loves nothing better than evading enemy soldiers and creating chaos with his friend Trev. The river holds many secrets with one more added when Andy loses his little sister there. His parents struggle with the loss of a small daughter and their fight to survive amidst the aftermath of World War II. With his friend Trev and his dog, fondly nick-named Pissalot, nobody is safe from the gings, rocks and pranks. One day at the river they meet and become friends with a boy named Gordon but their fun is stifled by the boy’s fears. Two mysteries; can they solve either?

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Nov 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781742845647

Rosemary Wisewould

Rosemary Wisewould (Gamble) was raised in Collie, a coal mining town in the South West of Western Australia. In High School she studied English Literature and enjoyed analysing word structure. She often got lost in daydreams. After marrying, she relocated to Fitzgerald, a wheat and sheep farming community on Western Australia’s south coast where the scope for character building, storylines and daydreaming is unlimited. With encouragement and inspiration from a number of wonderful writing groups, she began putting words together seriously and now writes with a passion. Rosemary writes for her own pleasure and to entertain other people. She hopes you enjoy this story.

Book preview

The Pearman Legend

Would make a Willy Wagtail fight an emu

Rosemary Wisewould

The Pearman Legend

Copyright © 2015 Rosemary Wisewould

Edited by Carmel Forrest

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742845-64-7 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

Dedicated to Joey

who entertained us with stories

of his escapades and antics

These stories make up the basis of the novel

Joseph Ingram

30th April 1944 – 26th October 2013

Acknowledgement

Thank You

To the many people who encourage me.

Without your invaluable support and belief in

my abilities, this book would not have happened.

My very special family who have unconditional

faith in me and all of whom I will love forever.

Judy who made Joey my brother-in-law

and who helped to collate the stories.

And their children who encourage

and support me.

Bianca who listened patiently while I bounced

ideas around and who offered advice on content.

My dear friends from Southern Scribes,

who continually encourage, inspire and support me

And especially to Joey, my big brother and

friend, who got the project started and

waited patiently for the finished product.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

Engulfed in a ball of grey dust, the horse and cart slowed at the front of the farmhouse. A long trail floated behind like the tail of a kite. It swirled and dissipated into the air. The four large wooden wheels groaned as the cart came to a stop, then they rolled slightly, making it rock like a small boat on a lulling ocean.

Most of the horse was as black as coal with a coat like shiny velvet. A long, silky, black mane fell between his peaked ears and down his white forehead and a similar tail flowed behind him. Big hooves were partially hidden by white feathering and he plodded with a steady gait, easily pulling the weight of the cart.

Lancelot ran over and circled it, jumping and barking in familiar recognition. He was a twelve month old, black and brown kelpie dog. He helped to herd the cows and was a constant companion for Andy. As a pup he looked strong and regal and so they named him Lancelot but he continually cocked his leg, sprinkling foul- smelling urine on fence posts, cartwheels and any tools left lying on the ground.

‘Bloody dog shoulda’ been called Pissalot,’ Andrew growled. Andy giggled at his father’s humour and thought the idea was a good one.

Twenty metal milk urns wobbled on the back end of the wooden platform that made up the floor of the cart. They threatened to bounce up and escape the confines of the wooden railing. Heavy clunks reverberated through their empty insides and the bases tapped like a group of Celtic dancers pounding the floorboards with their hard, black shoes.

Anderson, who was kneeling behind his parents, leaped down and with Lancelot close by his side he set off running to a plot of ground halfway between the house and the dairy where he disappeared into the earth. His brown leather boots barely touched the narrow stone steps leading into a small dark cavity that was lined with rock walls and a rusty corrugated iron ceiling.

Across the single wooden driver’s bench, Andrew and Jean sat with Teva protected between them. Andrew folded the reins into the palm of one hand then wound them around the wooden brake lever before stepping over the side of the cart and onto the ground. He reached up to take Teva from Jean and offered his other hand for support as she descended.

Above the cavity, remnants of old hessian sandbags lay scattered over a thick layer of soil that covered the roof. It was one of the first things that caught Andy’s attention when they moved to the farm and it became his favourite place of retreat. It was unusual and obviously man-made and conjured up all kinds of possible conflicts or adventures in the mind of the ten-year-old boy.

‘It’s a bomb shelter,’ his father had explained. ‘The man who sold us the farm built it during the Japanese air raids on Darwin. Nobody knew how far south they would come. Everybody had to take care of themselves.’ This explanation stimulated Andy’s imagination and offered a world of history and intrigue.

The cavity was empty except for one wooden block and a square battered tin. It was cold, dark and smelled musty during the winter months and hot and dusty in the summertime. Andy ignored this as he claimed the space for himself, spending a large amount of his spare time playing soldier, pirate or explorer. Lancelot was always his loyal companion and on occasion, Trev, Andy’s friend from town, joined them.

He threw himself down on the wooden block. With eager hands he opened the tin and took out a plastic handgun. In a split second he ran back up the steps and crouched, holding the gun in a tight fist made from both hands. He pointed it, rigid and threatening, towards the bush, his wary eyes scanning for enemy soldiers – images of slant-eyed men wearing beige shirts and trousers, peering out from under beige caps, and menacing the surrounds with long, brown rifles.

‘Pkuh, pkuh. Look out, Lancie, they’re hiding in the trees.’ The dog looked into the boy’s face, gently wagged his tail and lay down beside him. Andy smiled and gave the dog’s head a gentle rub then resumed his position of defence. ‘We’ll have to radio headquarters and ask them to send more artillery, some tanks and machine guns. We might even need air support. What do you say, Corporal Lance? Should we charge now or wait for backup?’ Lancelot lay flat on his side while his tail pummelled up and down in a cloud of dust.

‘Andy, we’ve got these empty urns to lift off the cart,’ his father called. ‘Come on, lad.’

Andy turned abruptly to focus his attention on the dairy and the cart waiting in front. ‘Change of tactics. We’ll wait for the backup.’ He held one fist to his mouth ‘Number Two unit, can you hold the enemy in the trees until the tanks come? Yes, sir.’ He stood erect and saluted then ran back into the cavity, laid the gun carefully in the tin, closed the lid and raced to the shed. Lancelot jumped to his feet and followed, leaving the enemy and Number One unit unguarded.

After they unloaded the cart, father and son walked across to the house, kicked their boots off at the back door and went inside to wash their hands. Jean had set the table with a clean, cotton tablecloth, china sugar bowl and four small white china plates. Teva sat at the table waiting expectantly and Andy sat on the chair next to her, marvelling at the appetising cake their mother had baked.

Andrew went to stand beside Jean at the sink. With his tastebuds stirred, he carried the hot teapot to the table. Jean got four cups and saucers from the cupboard, set them around the table and Andrew poured tea into each. Milk was poured into the cups from a small china jug with extra going into Teva’s to cool her drink and they sat together around the table to share their morning tea.

‘Dad, how many planes bombed Australia? Did any Japanese soldiers come here? How long ago was it?’

‘Whoa. One question at a time. The war actually started in Europe in 1939. Two days later Australia joined in.’

‘Was that before we bought this farm?’ Andy asked.

‘Yes. It wasn’t until 1942 that the Japanese bombed Darwin.’

‘I was born then, wasn’t I? I don’t remember it.’

‘You were only a baby and the planes didn’t come near here. They bombed Darwin; blew the place to bits. They also hit Derby and Broome. Everybody got scared that they were coming further south. It was too close to home.’

‘Did any soldiers come here?’

‘No, but we built air raid shelters and blacked out the windows just in case. They dropped bombs in Queensland. People over there put barbed wire along the beaches so that the Japanese couldn’t get inland from their boats. The Germans were close to our shores as well.’

‘When did the war finish?’

‘On the ninth of May 1945. You were nearly five. I’ll always remember that day. It was in the newspaper and on the radio. Boy, I sure was glad it was over.’

‘Will the war start again?’

‘I hope not, Andy. Too many people get hurt or killed.’

**

Born on the twenty-ninth of July 1940, Anderson Scot Mackenzie was a strong, boisterous baby with an independent and defiant personality. Thick dark hair framed his stubborn baby face that scrunched like a pug dog when he wailed his authority. Twenty-year-old Jean Mackenzie coped with help from Andrew’s mother and the other town ladies but cried because her husband had enlisted and was shipped overseas two months after they realised they were going to be parents. He was not there to share the wonder of the event, to hold his tiny son and marvel at the perfect features. Although he was sent photographs, Andrew didn’t meet Anderson until he was almost five years old. Pride beamed from his face as he hugged his wife and son, sure that he had achieved something quite unique in producing such a specimen.

Jean and Andrew celebrated the safe birth of petite Teva Iseabal on the fifteenth of October 1947. Like Anderson she had thick, dark hair but unlike him she was placid and content: feeding and sleeping.

Seven-year-old Anderson adored his sister. When she was a newborn he helped with her bathing and dressing. He was adamant