'Magnetic North' Taster

‘Australia - Land of many dreams.’
Lyall Rowe 1985

‘Magnetic North is the direction towards which the compass needle points, whereas the absolute geographical northern spot on the planet is the North Pole, some 1500 miles away.’
Encyclopaedia Britannica

Prologue

For centuries, it seems people have been drawn to a mysterious island in the Coral Sea, off the coast of North Queensland. Ben just didn’t know that he was one of them.

Chapter 1 - 1986

The Garuda Airlines 747 shudders again as it encounters another small pocket of turbulence. Out of the window I can see that the early morning European skies are a gloomy slate grey. The gruelling flight from Sydney is almost over. I turn to Rosie, my girlfriend, soul mate and travelling companion for the last eighteen months and force a half smile. She doesn’t return my show of affection and wearily turns her head towards the aisle. I start to speak but stop. I realize there’s nothing to be gained from my attempts at reconciliation. I realize we have nothing left to say to each other. I realize our dream is over.

If the truth be told I am ruined and penniless. All I have in the world are a few possessions and mementos hastily thrown into a battered overnight bag. I’ve been deported. Run out of a country I longed to visit for so long. Within such a short space of time, paradise had been found and lost. Truly lost. My fall from grace was like a plummeting stone Only a few weeks ago the Australian Police and Immigration Authorities were knocking on my door and prison seemed a real possibility.

Recent traumatic events have left deep scars in my consciousness. My relationship with Rosie is soiled; irretrievably ruined. College sweethearts no more. It is the mother of all disasters. I wonder what the future holds for me now. I have no money, nowhere to live, no family waiting at the airport to greet me. The return flight is more a wake than a heroes return. For me, at least, the dream is over.

‘Ben it’s time for both of us to move on,’ Rosie had said as we boarded the plane in Sydney.

As we descend through the thick cloud to Gatwick Airport below, I close my eyes embracing the darkness, wishing the plane would turn round and return from where it came. But I know I can’t return, maybe never. Eighteen months ago it had been so different. So very different.

Chapter 2 - 1985, Sydney Bound

I turn to Rosie and smile. A broad, winning smile. A smile that means ‘trust me, I will take care of everything. Everything will work out just fine.’
‘Nearly there,’ I say and Rosie grips my hand in anticipation of our eagerly awaited landing . After months of planning we are finally about to land on the other side of the world. Sydney! Australia! My ultimate dream is soon to be realized. A fresh start and a new life beckon for both of us.

‘Where shall we go first Ben?’ Rosie had asked, sitting on a threadbare sofa in our rented flat back in Pimlico.

‘After seeing Sydney, I want to head North, to the tropics, to Queensland. I want to dive on the Barrier Reef,’ I replied.

Over the last year I had studied the East coast of Australia in great detail. I’d scoured maps and read magazine articles. I felt I knew it like the back of my hand. Unbeknown to Rosie I had put pen to paper and sent my CV to as many island resorts as possible. Most replied politely, saying I should contact them again, if and when I arrived in Australia. I kept the most promising ones. Because, as I figured, one of these letters could be the ticket that would land me the job of a lifetime.

In my mind I imagined parts of North Queensland as an undiscovered utopia with perfect beaches, unspoilt tropical islands and of course the turquoise-blue icing on the cake, the Great Barrier Reef - teeming with extraordinary marine life. I was right of course, tropical Queensland turned out to be a magical place for many reasons.

Without my financial assistance Rosie would still be working shifts at a Ladbroke’s hotel overlooking Lords cricket ground in St. John’s Wood. Supervisor of the Galleria bar and restaurant, dressed in an ice cream Sunday uniform with matching cap. In her first 6 months of hotel life Rosie had proved a valuable asset, working up to her recent promotion. During her short time at the hotel she already had some unusual highlights to recount to her friends. While the England cricket team were staying at the hotel she had been propositioned by a well known English batsman, and she had to discipline two young Malaysian chamber maids after she found them, semi-naked, making out in a store room. Now instead of serving BLT’s and creamy milkshakes to overweight American tourists she is sitting next to me, embarking on a journey of a lifetime.

Rosie turns from the window, pale face, piercing blue eyes, her blonde hair cut in a shoulder length bob .She is smiling and pointing to something below. A warm contented feeling invades my body. I’m glad she’s here. Rosie is twenty-three, a year younger than me. She’s tall with a lean boyish figure. A not too dissimilar resemblance to Samantha in TV’s ‘Bewitched’ due to her turned-up nose. I was initially attracted to her slightly husky voice. Slightly too deep for some of my male friends but I found it sexy. Oh, and we both liked Bruce Springsteen and Meatloaf, and both smoked Marlboro Lites. Rosie had no airs and graces, not like a lot of the other girls I dated. Back then she had adopted a boyish dress sense, baggy jeans and men’s shirts, which I found strange as she had a great figure. She wore little or no make-up and I always felt there was a beautiful butterfly trying to emerge from her tomboy cocoon. I put her ‘au naturelle’ look down to teenage insecurities or the result of a previous relationship gone sour . Some people found her deep smoky voice intimidating and slightly scary but not me.

We first met at a party at our flat in West Kensington. A real student dive. It was our first year at college. She came with her friend Vicky (who was lusting after my flat mate Charles at the time) and admitted she was really after a drummer called Mathew. He was in our year at college and rumored to be in a band. Unfortunately he had to leave early to get the last train. He was still living at home. He caught his train but missed his one chance with Rosie. With Mathew gone I was a willing substitute. She stayed the night in my narrow single bed with a grainy poster above it advertising the dangers of unprotected sex, - ‘sleepless nights in an HP bed’ was the strapline. In the morning, during our hushed pillow talk Rosie admitted, among other things, she hadn’t realized what amazing eyes I had. Lovely warm brown eyes. Windows to the soul.
‘Come to bed eyes, my mum calls them.’ She had whispered in my ear.
Then she confessed the real reason she had slept with me. She said she wanted to sleep with me because a lot of the other girls thought I was unobtainable, so for her I was a challenge. Then she spoilt the moment by admitting she hadn’t had sex for over eight months, which was rather a long period of unforced celibacy. We’ve been together ever since.

Rosie comes from a large stable family. They live in a small rural village in Kent. Her two elder sisters are already married and live nearby but as yet there are no grandchildren. She has a brother, closer in age, who sells hands-free telephones and answering machines.

Her idol, her father wanted her to join the police force. He didn’t approve of me. This twenty-one year old guy with permanently streaked hair, and a ponytail, taking her away from her family. Even if I had been to private school and spoke properly. Rosie’s dad was a policeman. A D.I. at Scotland Yard. His powers of deduction were spot on. He saw right through me. He saw me as a bit of a maverick, privately educated, but more interested in music, fashion and looking good than getting a proper job. He didn’t understand how anyone could spend so much time skiing unless they were being paid to do it. In 1985 I was the last of the new romantics a good-looking chancer with attitude .

Last year, completely out of the blue, her brother had become very ill. Doctors diagnosed a congenital heart defect and he was immediately placed on Papworth Hospital’s donor list. He was one of the lucky ones.They found a match quickly and in October he had a successful but traumatic heart transplant. Sadly after the operation he changed, he became moody and morbid, obsessed with his own death and mortality. He never self-harmed but abused his new organ in other ways and never seemed able to accept he had been given a second chance. In short, he just wasn’t grateful. He stuck two fingers up to the doctors, nurses, and specialists who had given him a new life. He hadn’t died but it was a family tragedy on a grand scale. David was only 25.

Rosie and I had finished college the Summer before. Since then neither of us had been overly concerned with our long term futures. At least Rosie had a proper job. I was just killing time, ‘chewing the fat,’ picking up casual work here and there. I honestly didn’t have any solid career plans. I just knew I wanted to travel and I wanted to see Australia.

Before we left in July I was helping a close family friend keep his restaurant afloat. I helped him in the kitchen. He wasn’t a qualified chef but he taught me the culinary ropes. Well, he taught me how to cook his small modern English menu. We had fun and he paid cash . Sometimes after service we would go back to his house to unwind. We would drink until the early hours while he tried to mate his children’s hamster’s on the kitchen table. Sadly the restaurant didn’t stay afloat, I heard it closed shortly after we left but my creative skills in cooking were honed. As for the poor hamsters. The least said about our voyeuristic behavior the better.

I wanted to visit the country that had produced two of my cricketing heroes
from the 1970’s - Dennis Lillee and Jeff (Thomo) Thompson . I saw them once, at Lords in 1974. Sitting at Mid Wicket amongst several inebriated Australian supporters, I felt pangs of kinship for these rowdy supporters and their new country. Inside I felt like a traitor but I kept my passion for the Green and Gold a well-guarded secret. That evening, as the shadows lengthened Lillee and Thompson bowled so fast neither I or the English batsmen could see the red Duke ball. Co-incidentally the hotel that Rosie worked in overlooked the Nursery End at Lords. It’s a small world.

I hummed and hawed for months before asking Rosie if she wanted to come, I knew she was short of money and I just wasn’t sure I wanted to take her with me. I agonized for weeks over the decision. Did we have a future together? She was good in bed and she was good at blow jobs! I wasn’t sure that was a good enough reason, but maybe it summed up my view on twenty-something boy-girl relationships.

We never discussed any forms of serious commitment like engagement or marriage, we were just drifting along . When the initial, all-consuming passion started to wane we became just another item. Ben and Rosie. Rosie and Ben. Like most young couples we had our disagreements but mostly we got along without having to work too hard at it. Did we love each other? We said we did. I wasn’t sure, it’s just a word isn’t it? But we looked good together and like most twenty-something’s pretended to be in an adult relationship.

So we had two options. Go overseas together or go our separate ways. Finally my conscience spoke. Rosie deserved it. She had put up with a lot of my indiscretions over the last three years. So it was time I thought that I acknowledged her role as long-suffering girlfriend and soul mate. In a rare moment of lucidity her ill brother told her it would be a fantastic experience. He offered to lend her some of his hard earned commission, if she needed it.

‘Just make sure you don’t miss out on an opportunity of a lifetime,’ he said through a fog of drugs.
I think David wished it could be him. Sadly he wasn’t going further than the end of the hospital ward. He was the one person she would listen to and ironically the one person she would miss the most. In the end I was surprised she agreed to come.

Once Rosie agreed in principal to my financial offer, I was surprised how good it made me feel. The sudden death of my dear old Grandmother helped Rosie’s cause. God bless Gran. In inheritance terms it wasn’t a life-changing amount but ten thousand pounds in 1985 went a long, long way. For a twenty four year old I felt richer than most. Personally I had no regrets about leaving the UK, especially with the turmoil of my parent’s divorce causing rifts in all our relationships at home. I had a sister but we weren’t close. Ever since Skippy hopped across our black and white TV screens, and Jacques Cousteau’s Calypso brought the barrier reef into our dreary suburban living rooms, I had dreamt of this day. I spent entire school days dreaming of eating Vegemite sandwiches on white beaches where the sun shone all day . Simple, uncomplicated sun-drenched pleasures. Underneath of course I was running away from all the shit. That’s what it really felt like. I had no desire to return to the UK for a very, very long time.

The 747 banks steeply and begins its final descent. Looking through the small porthole towards the inlets and harbour’s of downtown Sydney, the morning sun glints off the glass towers and polished steel skyscrapers of the city below. Beyond, the shimmering, sapphire pools of the Sydney suburbs sit like postage stamp beacons promising warmer days to come. Finally the dream is real, I tell myself.
Sitting in row 26, sandwiched between Rosie and a sweaty salesmen from Singapore, my mind is full of unanswered questions. What will we do here? Will it live up to our expectations.? Will we fit in? Will we make new friends? Will we be successful? Will our relationship last? Will we ever return to the UK ? I guess only time will tell.

Rosie closes her eyes, grips the armrest, then my forearm. She hates taking off and landing. The red ‘Please fasten your seat belts’ sign illuminates.

‘Ben, tell me when we’ve landed,’ Rosie says. Her eyes tightly shut, her head leaning on my shoulder.

As the plane begins its final approach my heart leaps. A surge of pure adrenalin courses through my body. I have no such fear, flying for me has always been a thrill, a buzz, a key part of the whole travelling experience.

‘At last., ’ I whisper to the gleaming city below, ‘At last.’ And I wonder what adventures this new country has in store for us?

Chapter 3 - Kissing Australian soil

Seconds later the plane’s wheels kiss the tarmac and we touch down on Australian soil. As we taxi towards the terminal, I crane my neck to follow the curve of the nearby shore and the gleaming Tasman Sea beyond. It is a beautiful clear winters day in Sydney. The plane jolts to an unexpected stop. Rosie lets out a huge sigh and I prise her fingers from my arm.
‘We are down, you can relax now,’ I say unbuckling my seat belt.
‘Fuck, I hate landing. Look at my hands Ben I’m still shaking,’ Rosie says as she reaches into her handbag for a compact mirror.
‘How do I look?’ she adds.
‘How do you look? You’ve been travelling for over a day, eating crap food and not drinking enough water. How do you think you look? Come on let’s get out of this flying sauna.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence darling,’ adds Rosie as she leans over and twitches her nose. Her mocking tone evident.
‘By the way you smell of Malaysian curry. Who eats curry for breakfast?’
‘Well it looked tastier than your toxic omelet. I swear I saw it move,’ I reply.
As I unbuckle my seat belt Rosie says, ‘I hope Terry found out about our lengthy delay and didn’t turn up last night.’
‘So do I. That wouldn’t be a great start would it?’
I’m just about to reach up to the overhead locker when an announcement comes over the tannoy. A stewardess asks all passengers to remain in their seats.
‘I hope it’s not a security alert. That’s all we need,’ I say under my breath.
From the forward galley two members of the flight crew appear and walk the length of the plane spraying aerosol cans. I’m not sure if this is to dissipate the heady, stale body odours or some form of war against foreign germs and bacteria. All I know is that after a day on various planes I can’t wait to get out into the fresh air.

After the mad scramble to disembark we collect our luggage from the carousel and follow the line of weary bedraggled travelers through immigration. At a customs booth an official, in smartly pressed shorts and shirt, singles me out and beckons me towards his table. He points to my red ski boot bag.
‘What’s in the red bag mate?’
‘Ski boots,’I reply.
‘Long way to come skiing,’ he says in a thick Aussie drawl.
I sense him taunting me. I try not to rise to the bait. Rosie throws me a ‘told you so’ look. Even she doesn’t understand why I’ve brought my ski boots half way round the world.
‘Might be looking for winter work as a ski guide in Thredbow or Perisher,’ I reply authoritatively. Not really sure I’ve pronounced either place correctly.
He calls his mate over for a second opinion. For no apparent reason I feel guilty and fidget nervously.

Since I was sixteen I had spent my winter breaks skiing some of the most challenging mountains in Europe. It was my passion. As an unofficial ski guide I scoured the resorts for rich clients looking for the best powder and then spent many hours entertaining them in the hippest bars. Thanks to the friendship of one Australian bar owner I became an expert in both disciplines. I became renowned for slamming tequila shots and downing ’Flaming Jiggers’ (the hazardous occupation of drinking Sambuca while still alight) as much as I was for my skiing. During these highly charged and mightily dangerous evenings I quizzed him about his beloved country. I discovered:
1. Australians are all extremely confident.
2. They are immensely patriotic and fiercely competitive, especially where sport is involved.
And 3. Australia actually does have ski resorts.

So not being very sure for how long I may be away, I envisaged using my talents in some shape or form during a winter season. A grizzly ski bum in Meribel, France had told me that lift attendants were always in short supply. So the ski gear was packed. I told Rosie I was reluctant to leave all my expensive equipment behind, gathering dust in someone’s loft. She’s only skied twice and doesn’t have the same enthusiasm for the sport. She told me in no uncertain terms that I was just wasting valuable luggage space.

‘Most people come here for the surfing mate! Go on, on your way you two. Enjoy your water skiing,’ he says smirking to his mate.
Then under his breath, ‘Bloody Poms.’
‘I heard that,’ I say turning my head
‘Heard what, young man?’ says the other custom’s official, before nonchalantly turning away to delve into another poor passengers personal belongings.
‘Just keep following the green arrows ladies and gentlemen.’

Relieved not to have been strip searched again for illegal substances, Rosie and I pass through passport control without any further problems. In the bustling arrivals lounge we scan the crowd looking for a familiar face. We don’t have to wait too long.
‘Ben, Rosie over here,’ Terry shouts, waving his arms in the air behind a very large lady in a wide brimmed hat.

We move towards the end of the barriers. Terry is dressed in white knee-length shorts and white shirt with blue trim. Ray Ban sunglasses pushed back into his hair. He looks very smart, like a navy officer, not a typical Aussie at all. Back in the UK, his elder brother is in a sort of relationship with my Mother, and Terry has his brother’s thick, jet-black hair. Terry is rumoured to be a bit of a prankster and showman. People have commented that from a certain angle his profile reminds them of Bryan Ferry.
‘Good to see you guys at last.’ Terry’s drapes an arm around my shoulder.

Before we left for Australia we saw Terry displaying his various stand-up talents in a grainy home video sent to his brother. Friends and family gathered round the television to watch the video. The beginning contained the usual cringe making messages of goodwill from a family separated by thousands of miles of ocean, but then it cut to Terry wearing a full-face crash helmet pretending to be Barry Sheen. The interview conducted by his other brother John, who lives in Brisbane was very funny. Another cut and the tape rolls on to the lounge of a badly lit Surf-life Saving Club in Sydney. The camera work is unsteady. A jerky, but obviously confident Terry stands on a small stage while he runs through a repertoire of one-line gags and raunchy stories. He finishes by singing a popular Australian ballad. At the end of his routine, the audience break into a crescendo of wolf whistles and thunderous applause. It seems Terry is a talented chap. He helps us steer our heavily laden trolley, which is piled high with luggage, towards the concourse. Numerous sports bags obscure his view, and a very large, blue, suitcase is balanced precariously on top. Our only other piece of luggage is a yellow rucksack, which is strapped to Rosie’s back, but, if the truth be known we are not expecting to do a lot of hitchhiking.

Stepping outside into the bright sunlight we get our first glimpse of Australia. For a second we shield our eyes from the sun’s glare as it reflects off the parked car roofs.
Terry is leading the way. ‘Cross here. Careful with that trolley,’ he advises.

My first impressions are mixed. The car park looks and feels like any airport car park, cold and functional, but then I notice the people. Colourful and cheery, substantially underdressed for winter. And the air smells different. Purer, refined, healthier. We walk past a newspaper billboard. A headline catches my eye.
‘Government inquest into repatriation of ancient skull.’
Inexplicably, I remember watching a dated, sinister film starring Peter Cushing. God knows why. Maybe breathing recycled cabin air for twelve hours has affected my thought processes. I am a child again sitting alone in front of a small black and white television. The film is a Hammer House of Horror production about a disembodied skull. The plot, ridiculous now, caused me many sleepless nights and for my parents and increase in their electricity bill.

In front of me two postal workers ogle a playboy magazine centerfold.
‘Hey mate look at this chick. Bella Madonna.’
‘She doesn’t look like a virgin,’ the other one replies
I try to sneak a look, the headline and film forgotten.
I’m about to step into the road when Terry shouts a warning,’ Ben watch out.’
I manage to jerk the trolley back as a blacked out service car speeds past, nearly hitting me.
‘Hey Ben. Stop daydreaming. Pay attention to the traffic if you want to see anymore of Australia,’ says Terry

So first stop is the Sydney suburbs. Terry lives in Bardwell Park. He drives a bright yellow Commodore, which reminds me of a Vauxhall Cavalier. I sit in the passenger seat, while Rosie curls her long, spindly legs up onto the back seats. Her long legs are her best feature although she worries that her knees are too knobbly for a girl.
‘Look at my footballers knees,’ she always whines as soon as spring arrives. Although today her pale legs are hidden beneath baggy Benetton track pants.
‘You guys must be exhausted after that flight?’ Terry asks.
From the back seat, through a series of yawns Rosie explains to Terry why we were delayed.
‘ Everything was fine until we landed in Jakarta to refuel. The Captain advised us there would be a lengthy delay due to a technical problem. We were told to disembark and take our hand luggage with us. From the arrivals lounge we watched while engineers erected a platform around the plane’s tail section. A fellow passenger said there was a rumour another Garuda 747 had developed a fault in its rudder which didn’t imbibe us with confidence when ten hours later the time came to re-board.’
‘Better safe than sorry. It made little difference to me but I’m glad I called the airport before setting off last night,’ says Terry.
To pass the time we had been treated to a light meal and an impromptu display of Balinese dancing in an airport courtyard, overrun by very large rats. Rosie has a phobia about very large rodents and I do wonder how she will cope here?

It’s Saturday and the roads are busy, Australians are out enjoying their leisure time. With Rosie dozing, I chat excitedly to Terry, any feelings of fatigue washed away in the brilliant Autumn sunshine. Terry says that during our stay we will see that there are subtle differences between our two languages. To expand on this point he explains that in Australia any property with two storey’s is called a mansion, and that flats are called units. I’m just about to ask him what mansions are called if they can’t be called mansions when a large four wheel drive with an exhaust snorkel protruding from its bonnet cuts across the freeway, in front of our car. Terry is forced to break hard before unleashing a tirade of abuse at the other driver. The other driver leers back. Now very awake, Rosie starts laughing because the other driver is giving Terry the bird in his mirror.

‘Blimey Terry, dangerous country this. I thought it was only the wildlife that was a health risk,’ I say
In his mid-thirties Terry is an exuberant, genial man. Already I’m warming to him. As we drive, Terry reminds us of his own Australian pedigree. He emigrated here some years ago after marrying his Australian girlfriend and securing suitable employment in her Father’s successful motorbike equipment company as Warehouse Manager. He has a young family now and has embraced the Australian lifestyle with both hands, but says he will always be a Pom to his workmates especially when cricket is involved. He has a two-year-old son called Michael; a bundle of trouble he warns us. The journey takes about twenty minutes.

Bardwell Park is a hilly, middle-class, Sydney suburb, and a cornucopia of pastel coloured bungalows, carports and manicured lawns. Their one storey house (Australian’s don’t use the word bungalow.) is green and white, tidy, with a side- drive and covered carport where his wife’s pristine white beetle is parked.

When we arrive Michael, who has a round face and his father’s dark hair, runs to the door singing the theme to the new Ghostbusters film( Go-busters he mimics ). The singing continues until Terry suggests Michael shows us his pet tarantula. As Terry feeds it a live locust, Michael resumes his monotonous singing. I can’t understand why Terry doesn’t tell him to stop. I wonder who the disciplinarian is? Obviously not Terry. Rosie is a lot more tolerant of children than I am and asks Michael to show her his room. Our room as it turns out. We are saved from any further hearing damage by the appearance of his wife from the garden. Her name is Julie. She’s raven-haired and prudish. Her angular, feline features softened by full lips and a welcoming smile. Dressed in a floral, sleeveless dress, her hair backcombed and tied with a red ribbon, Julie looks more TV host than secretary. For dinner she tempts us with a gastronomic treat, her renowned spicy ribs and chicken wings, as much to show off her cooking prowess as a candid attempt at Aussie Hospitality. During the evening Julies smile slowly evaporates and the conversation becomes strained. I think entertaining two strangers is all a little too much for Julie. As she begins to quiz me on my own culinary expertise I can’t help thinking that she looks like a oriental cat . She certainly had her claws in. I felt like I was being interviewed for a job. It was obvious to me from the outset Julie and I weren’t going to see eye to eye.

On Monday morning Terry leaves early for work. Julie takes Michael to playgroup before going on to the solicitors where she works as a secretary. Left alone with a free day to enjoy, Rosie and I lay in bed listening to the morning chorus. Every so often we hear the distinctive cackle of a Kookaburra. Michael showed us a picture of one yesterday. After showing us what it looked like he then proceeded to imitate its laugh for the next five minutes until Julie told him to stop. Returning from the toilet naked I notice the Kookaburra is perched on the telephone wire opposite. Like Michael I try to imitate the bird unsuccessfully.
‘Ben people can see you, put some clothes on,’ says Rosie as I get back into bed. Rosie pinches me and giggles.
I lean over and brush my lips against her ear.
‘Are you happy you came?’ I ask, my arm sliding around her naked waist.
But she arches her back, avoiding my clutches and slips through the middle of the two camp beds.
‘Shit. Ouch! I knew that would happen sooner or later. These beds are a death trap Ben. Of course I’m glad I came,’ she replies.
‘Good. I’m glad you’re here as well’
I kiss her nose and nibble her ear.
‘Come on, get dressed. They’ve all gone out. Let’s see what’s in the fridge. I need breakfast and a strong coffee.’
‘ Hey, what about one of Ben’s special breakfasts? They won’t be back for hours,’ I ask hopefully.
‘Ben do you ever think about anything else? I hope you haven’t brought me all this way just to satisfy your carnal urges.’
I give Rosie my pleading look. She says I look like a spaniel when I do this. As if to reinforce the point she often talks to me like I was her favourite dog.
‘Maybe later if you’re a good boy, but certainly not on these contraptions if you want to remain in one piece. Anyway it’s too nice to lie in bed. We’ve got so much to see. Let’s not waste the day.’

Since arriving, the days have been warm and the nights chilly. Yesterday dressed in shorts and t-shirts we spent much of the day in the neat, leafy back garden. Julie was gardening when she suddenly stopped digging and pointed to a gap in the rockery where a large blue-tongued lizard was sunning itself. We are amazed by the plethora of exotic wildlife living cheek to jowl in such a suburban area. It is so different to London. Before the ubiquitous barbeque tea, Terry takes us to a local park with Michael singing in his pushchair. Here, instead of drab starlings and pigeons, the powder blue-sky was full of colour and noise as striking red and white cockatoos, competed for bragging rights in the nearby Gum trees.

We spend the first few days acclimatizing as neither of us had flown further than Greece before. My stomach, still suffering from chronic jet lag, doesn’t appear to want to settle into its new Australian life, and I get to visit every public toilet in the neighbourhood. Not due to the after- effects of Julie’s cooking or Terry’s barbeques I must point out. Rosie suffers no after-effects from the journey and thinks it’s all in my mind. I accuse her of being less than sympathetic, before rushing off to find another toilet. Rosie says I should write a book entitled ‘ An in depth guide to Sydney’s Shitters.’
We’ve found some local tennis courts. It’s not Rosie’s favourite sport either but playing tennis in winter without three layers of clothing on, is a novelty. The public courts are floodlit and a couple of dollars inserted into the timer buys you an hour of light. I’m very impressed by this public facility, something I have only seen at some of the more prestigious fee paying clubs in SW19. It’s a shame they can’t remember to unlock the toilets, as each day our practice is hurriedly curtailed by a sudden bowel movement and a comic dash back home.

With my stomach more settled and energy levels returning to normal, it’s time to hit the tourist trail properly. Rosie and I walk to the local station and board a train to the city. Foolishly we decide to try and see everything Sydney has to offer in one day; The Harbour Bridge, The Opera House, The Botanical Gardens, Sea World, and Manly. When we arrive at BondI in late afternoon, Rosie’s shoes are rubbing. She sits on a beach wall, picking at her frayed jeans refusing to walk anymore. Her white pumps discarded below her feet.
‘I told you to wear socks,’ I say.
‘Okay, Mr. Clever Clogs. I didn’t realize we were taking part in a sponsored walk,’ she replies.

Bondi Beach is our first disappointment. Looking around many of its cafés and shops boarded up for the winter. It’s like Croydon-by-the-Sea, a concrete eyesore and we both admit we loathe it. Mustering our last ounces of energy, we take a bus to The North Shore beaches of Dee Why and Curl. Even though it’s the middle of winter we sit on the waterfront, outside a cosmopolitan café, order some seafood and watch the beautiful people heading for the bars and restaurants after work. It’s nearly dusk and Rosie has finally stopped complaining about her feet.
‘Look at the surfers Ben: isn’t dangerous to surf now?’ she asks
About half a dozen dark shapes paddle out through the huge waves.
‘From what I’ve heard early morning and dusk are sometimes the best times. You just have to watch out for the sharks.’
‘Sharks? These guys are crazy,’ she says
‘I’m told it’s all part of the rush.’ I reply
‘Sharks or no sharks, I think I could live in Sydney but I’ll leave the surfing to the experts.’ Rosie adds.

I agree with her but secretly I still pine to see tropical Queensland. I make a mental note to retrieve my wad of contact letters, which are lying in a folder at the bottom of my bag. I remember how the colourful stationery of Dunk Island fired my imagination the moment I opened the letter.

One particularly fine day, Terry and Julie drive us along the northern peninsula to Whale beach where we are reliably informed they film an Aussie soap called ‘Home and Away.’ At a viewing point nearby Terry pulls over. We all get out.
‘What do you think?’ Julie says proudly, pointing out to sea.
From our elevated position we gaze across the bay to Lion Island, so named because it looks like a huge sleeping big cat. Julie has an ulterior motive for driving out here; she wants to show us her parent’s summer house at Palm Beach. Since we arrived she has talked about nothing else. She has talked about it like it was her own. Very few people we know in England have a beach house but I don’t consider us any the poorer. Julie has a chip on her shoulder about the status of summer houses and most things British. After staying with them for a relatively short time it’s been obvious from day one that Julie and I would always agree to differ. I sense that underneath her authority and poise lays a very insecure person. Why else does she continually try to impress me with her families achievements and acquisitions? My parents this… my brothers that…. She has never once asked me about my skiing.

When we eventually arrive at the house I am disappointed. I was expecting something a little more ostentatious than the surf shack we have just stopped outside. Rosie tells me to keep my mouth shut, she thinks I’m itching for a fight and she can sense trouble brewing.
‘Ben they’ve been really good in letting us have Michaels room,’ says Rosie, ‘It’s their house and sometimes I think Julie thinks we are taking advantage of their hospitality. We are staying here free, if it hadn’t escaped your notice. It’s a shame that you and Julie just rub each other up the wrong way. I think it might be time for us to move on soon.’

‘Is that what they call female intuition? Look you might be right. Terry likes us but Julie hasn’t exactly held out the olive branch of peace. Anyway I think she has made a rod for her own back. She just try’s too fucking hard to be the perfect Australian housewife. It’s a great country. I totally love it here. I’m the last person she needs to impress. If we are thinking about heading north we need to make a call to Ken,’ is my response,
My speech stops abruptly as Terry and Julie reappear from behind the house with Michael. In Julie’s defence the property does have beachside access. We ferry sausages and burgers down to the sand for a barbeque on the beach, while watching a film crew interview local red-capped lifesavers.

Despite Julie’s minor feelings of resentment to all things British, the family are generous with their time and hospitality. But they have a young son to look after so after a few more days we decide it’s time to move on. Obviously keen to have their house back to themselves (we are sleeping in their son’s room after all), Terry calls Ken Staunton, a mutual family friend who lives in North Queensland. Ken is a catering consultant in a small city called Townsville and he has his fingers in lots of pies.

I first met Ken in a restaurant on the Kings Road when he was over in the UK. I was immediately taken by his larger-than life persona, his excessive use of the F word, flamboyant dress sense and down-to-earth Australian attitude. That night, Ken was a fucking riot. By the end of the meal I’d fallen in love with this chap. He was like the long-lost uncle I never had. In a couple of hours he had sold Australia to me. The next morning, all I wanted to do was get on the next plane heading down under.

We are standing in the kitchen. Terry hands me the phone. Ken sounds very distant and I struggle to hear him. Then the line quality improves.
‘Ken speak up; it’s a bad line.’
‘Glad you made it….crackle…… may have a useful contact for you ….. crackle……. want to head north. As luck would have it I’ve recently met…….. crackle…….
plastic surgeon whose wife is looking for a couple to help her open a restaurant on....... crackle……what do you think?....crackle…. sounds interesting?’
‘Where did you say it was?’ I ask through the crackle.
‘Are you listening Ben……crackle ….. island near Townsville.’
Listening excitedly over my shoulder, Rosie tries to hear what he is saying.
She is jumping up and down squeaking in my ear so much I am struggling to get all the details.
‘Ben. What job? Tell me. Is it a restaurant or bar? Do we have to cook? Where is it? Where’s the island? What’s it called?’ She squeals excitedly.
‘Rosie shut up. I can’t hear myself think.’
Rosie visibly shrinks and sits down quietly at the kitchen table like a naughty child. Terry and Julie have gone into the lounge to watch TV.
‘Sorry Ben,’ she whispers sulkily, stroking my arm.
Ken continues talking. Something about travel arrangements.
‘Ken, say again? Overland by what, takes two days?
More static. I listen intently.
‘Coach, got it. Cheaper than buying a car or flying. We’ll ring you….Shit.’
The call ends abruptly - the line goes dead

Even with many unanswered questions due to the irritating telecom gremlin, the brief phone call to Ken has left us both in a state of excitement. The prospect of full-time work and a potential move to warmer climes is more than we expected so early into our trip. We can’t wait to go. Unlike her husband, Julie I sense is biting her lip, unable to offer us sincere good luck wishes. Anyway thanks to Ken, the sunshine state and possible work beckon. Our time in Sydney is nearly over. After a last supper with Terry and his family, Rosie and I sift through our clothes and belongings trying to decide what we take to Queensland and what to leave behind in Terry’s loft. For some inexplicable reason, this turns into a heated discussion between Rosie and I about the two sexes differing attitudes to packing, and what equates to necessity and what doesn’t. The ski boots remain in Sydney along with jackets and jumper.
‘It doesn’t look like you’ll be doing a lot of skiing Ben,’ Rosie says.
In fact, that was the last time I saw them. The argument continues as we lie in bed and I hope it’s not a precursor for our weeks and months ahead. Rosie has her period, which isn’t great timing for the long coach journey ahead but may well explain her sudden mood swings.

The following morning, we are up early and our heated debate is forgotten. Terry will drive us to the coach station. Julie gives us a frost-tinged farewell from the back porch. I think she is just jealous of our youthfulness and zest for life. Compared to her our lives are uncomplicated, unhindered by their own adult responsibilities. ‘Get over it Julie you’ve had your time’, I want to say to her. But I bite my tongue. I won’t miss her. She probably thinks the same about me. Just before we get in the car, Julie hands me a bit of paper. It’s a handwritten bill! I’m speechless. I think Terry is embarrassed by the whole charade and try’s to laugh it off, but we both know Julie isn’t joking.

‘Good luck you two. Say hi to Ken for me and be lucky. You know Ben, there’s a side to Julie you haven’t seen. Hidden underneath that tough exterior she’s really a playful pussycat. She means well, she just doesn’t always show it. She was a backpacker once just like you. That’s how we met,’ Terry tells me

I think Terry hit the nail on the head. We’re not backpackers and never will be. And Julie thinks we’re spoilt rotten. So irritatingly Julie has the last word and we leave Sydney on a slightly sour note, as we refuse to contribute to an increase in their home phone bill, caused, supposedly by our interstate and international phone calls.
‘Goodbye Sydney. Goodbye nice but tight Aussies!’ Townsville here we come.

Chapter 4

Paradise via Brisbane and Townsville
In Coach Bay Three we find our transport to Townsville - a freshly jet-washed double decker. Its growling exhaust emitting dark plumes of black smoke. The coach is blue and white and has ‘ Australia Land of Many Dreams’ emblazoned on the side. Rosie grabs my arm and pulls me towards the front door.
‘Come on Ben, you’re daydreaming again. Hurry up and get on.’
I am still staring at the words on the side of the bus, my mind pre-occupied with the prospect of working on a tropical island so close to the Barrier Reef. It’s almost too good to be true. I can’t believe our good fortune. I really hope the words on the side of the coach are an indicator of our days, weeks and months ahead.
‘Ben, he’s going to leave without you.’
Distracted I reply, ‘ Ok. OK I’m coming.’
We are the last two to board the coach. The automatic doors close with a swish behind me.

It’s the first day of September and spring is in the air as we leave the glare of the city behind. We shuffle down the gangway towards our seats. Once seated I tell Rosie to prepare for a long arduous journey. After studying a large wall map in Terry’s kitchen we began to realize just how far we were going to travel along this coast. But our spirits are high and sitting on the top deck feels a little akin to being on a plane, especially as we travel through the night. I’m sure we have only scratched the surface of this huge country and what it has to offer but already I’m singing Australia’s praises. Everything here is bigger, brighter and better? I feel a synergy with its people. I like the wide-open spaces, the classless society, the strange euphemisms, the ability to wear shorts for longer than a few weeks each year. In a nutshell, I feel at home here. I think Rosie is just as enthusiastic but there’s a chauvinistic side to the country that irks her. Before we left Sydney, to cement my feeling of Aussie accord Rosie bought me my first pair of board shorts. A veritable feast of color. I’ve worn them with pride for the last week. In the confines of the coach Rosie says they are starting to smell and lectures me on my personal hygiene again.

I fail to see how anyone can do this mammoth journey in one go, so we decided to break the two- day coach journey in Brisbane. Switching the overhead light on I leaf through my diary looking for the address and phone number of Fiona’s parents. We met Fiona at college in London. She was born and bred in Australia, but once at college in London she quickly ditched her Aussie roots, lost her accent and embraced Sloane Rangerdom in its entirety. Fiona is still living in a smart flat above ‘La Tante Claire’ restaurant in Royal Hospital Road but has prepared her parents in advance for our potential visit. At the next food stop I find a pay phone that works and I call them to see if it still possible to stay. Mission accomplished I give Rosie the thumbs up as I return to the coach with two steaming coffees and donuts.

In Brisbane we hire a car and cruise through an affluent suburb before eventually finding their rambling, kitsch, seventies house. It’s situated at the top of a steep hill with magnificent views of Mount Coot Tha. Mrs Wilkinson senior is a small, sprightly lady who has Fiona’s looks and distinctive nose. Within a couple of hours we realize her current obsession is watching TV. She readily admits she watches too much. Her favourite programs involve re-runs of real-life survival stories, featuring crocodile or shark attacks. To make sure that we don’t miss any of the gore she brings us tea on our laps. Before the next program starts Mrs W. and Rosie disappear into the kitchen to get some ice cream. She leaves the remote control lying temptingly on the seat next to me. I seize my chance to change programs .The first channel is full of static then I tune into what appears to be a documentary. The narrator, whose name I missed appears to be an authority on ancient history and archaeology. He is standing at the entrance to a large cave recounting the history of aborigines in North Queensland. I sit perched on the edge of the sofa listening to the man talk...
‘ 10,000 years ago, in a rugged inhospitable land, a naked warrior held aloft the severed head of an aboriginal elder. The warrior’s cheeks were daubed in yellow and red ochre. His neck was stenciled with the charcoal reminders of his status within the tribe. Around his neck he wore a necklace of shells and small human bones. In his right hand, the primitive axe dripped fresh blood. Below him, tribesman waved their spears and grunted their approval as he tossed the headless torso into the deep pit where other headless bodies already lay. Huge prehistoric flies swarmed around the fresh kills. The massacre over, the warriors moved on. They carried their numerous trophies triumphantly back to their waiting wooden canoes before beginning the hazardous journey home.’
He gestures to the images along the walls.
‘ Back in the 1770’s, when Captain Cook navigated his way along the same stretch of North Eastern Australian coast, he found a magnetic pull interfering with his compass. This interference appeared to emanate from a nearby island. Many people have explored the general area of the island and used various instruments to try to discover what may have caused this phenomenon - this strange pull. But nothing has ever been discovered. No one knows what caused the interference. Perhaps it was the souls of the dead?’
He is joined by another presenter an attractive lady in beige shorts and white T shirt. She moves in front of the camera.

‘ More recent archaeological discoveries of aboriginal drawings ( rock art) depict a time when the Island’s earliest inhabitants were believed to be the Wulgurukaba, known as the canoe people. In the Pleistocene era the single continent which combined Australia, Tasmania and Papua was an enormous land mass called Sahul. Extensive research by an Australian University suggests that some indigenous tribes of Papua New Guinea travelled vast distances in primitive boats to hunt the Wulugurukaba for their heads. It is rumored there are still a number of undiscovered ancient aboriginal burial sites on the island.

According to Aboriginal folklore the custodians of this rocky outcrop, lying half way between the mainland and the Great Barrier Reef called the island by its aboriginal name - ‘Yunbenum. ‘

The cameraman pans the rock face highlighting pictures and images that he says could be thousands of years old. ‘Rock Art’ he calls it. Rock Art resonates with me. I stand transfixed. I’ve never seen such incredible drawings. In some ways it reminds me of the ancient Egyptians who, in a similar fashion celebrated the lives of their dead pharaohs.

I’m distracted by the sudden ringing of the phone in the hall. I’m not sure if I should answer it. The phone keeps ringing. My attention is diverted from the screen.

‘Shall I get the phone?’ I shout in the direction of the kitchen. No answer. I go into the hall. As I reach the phone it stops.
‘Shit.’ I hate it when that happens. I lift the receiver but the caller has hung up. Fiona’s parents do not have an answer phone. They should speak to Rosie’s brother I think to myself. As I return to the TV room the archaeologist is talking into the camera again. I try to turn the volume up but I’m pressing the button the wrong way. I only manage to catch the end of a sentence.
‘ ….an island off the coast of Townsville.’
I’m not sure but I think he just said the word Magnetic. This is where we are headed. I rush down the corridor to find Rosie.
When we return the commercials are on.
‘Honestly Rosie I’m sure he said the Island was near Townsville. It could be the island Ken was talking about,’ I blurt out excitedly.
‘Could just be a co-incidence. You’ve told me there are loads of islands dotted along the coast,’ Rosie replies
‘The presenter was talking about unearthing ancient aboriginal treasures in North Queensland. They were in a cave. The walls were covered in intricate drawings of hunting scenes and strange animals. It was a fascinating program,’ I continue
‘Really?’ says Rosie unimpressed.
‘Hear me out. Did you know Aborigines are one of the world's oldest societies? Our descendants, a direct link to all of our pasts?’
‘I didn’t realize you were so interested in primitive cultures, ’ Rosie says sarcastically.
I can tell she thinks I’m making some of it up. But I continue.

‘I was thinking, it could be the island that the restaurant is on. How weird would that be? We could use an aboriginal theme for the restaurant. What do you think?’
‘I suppose so. You and your wacky ideas, we haven’t even got the job yet. To be perfectly honest Ben, I’m not that interested in half- naked men running around, throwing spears and playing with their didgeridoos.’
‘ Boomerangs Rosie, they throw boomerangs. Well, when we get there i’m going to be on the look out for.............’.
We hear a loud crash in the kitchen.
‘What was that? ’ Rosie says
‘Boomerang probably,’ I answer with a grin.
‘Piss off Ben. I better go and see if she’s all right.’
‘Hang on a second. I don’t think I can watch anymore middle-aged men and women describe in gruesome detail how they survived the death roll of a crocodile? I’m bushed. Which bedroom am I in?’ I ask.
‘You’re at the other end of the corridor,’ says Rosie. ‘It’s her house - her rules. You’re in her brother’s room; he’s away at Uni. As soon as this is finished I’m off to bed as well. I’m going to read for a while. I’ve seen enough chewed limbs to last me a lifetime. By the way Ben did you know you’ve started talking in your sleep? I’m glad you’re down the end of the corridor tonight I need a decent night’s sleep. On the coach it was quite embarrassing you were wittering on about poisonous jellyfish. Whatever next? Dingoes? You seem to know so much about this country are you sure you haven’t been here before.’
‘ Only in another life. Anyway why didn’t you wake me up if I was being so disruptive,’ I reply.

‘What ? And then have you pestering me for a blowjob when everyone else was asleep. Let’s change the subject. What flavour ice cream do you want? She’s got them all,’ Rosie says and disappears down the hall to help Fiona’s Mother.

Her husband returns to find us all still sitting on the sofa, discarded ice cream bowls at our feet. Another lady in a faded bush hat is describing how a crocodile knocked her out of her canoe in the Danetree River. Part of me wonders why people keep swimming and canoeing in rivers and streams they know are inhabited by large predators. It’s nearly eleven when the program finally ends. Mr Wilkinson turns the television off and produces a book of old family photographs. He is a tall man, a retired engineer, and very proud of his daughter. Most of the Polaroids are of Fiona at school, before her nose job. He tells us the family have a cosy beach house in Mooloolaba and a motor cruiser. He has a lot of photographs of the house and his boat. Rosie politely feigns interest while I make my excuses and go to bed. Much to my chagrin and frustration Fiona’s parent’s parochial attitude to sex has prevented us sleeping in the same room. So for another night the tropical Brisbane air is filled with sexual tension. After the confines of the coach I am becoming desperate for an outlet for my rising libido.

Our long journey resumes northwards. My ardour doesn’t wane but grows. The uneven road doesn’t help and I spend much of the next leg of our journey fighting off erection after erection. Rosie finds this highly amusing and keeps poking me in the crutch. As the hours and ever changing landscape slip by I begin to contemplate fulfilling my childhood dream of visiting ‘The Great Barrier Reef. ‘ Jellyfish or no jellyfish. After all this planning I hope that when the moment comes I won’t be disappointed. The scenery begins to change from a lush sub-tropical to a more flat, arid landscape. A young backpacker next to us tells me that this region is called the dry tropics. The flat scrub is littered with huge termite mounds, interspersed by barren creeks and petrified trees. It seems desolate and slightly apocalyptic, not quite what I expected.

As dark falls again we snuggle down with our travel pillows for another night’s intermittent sleep. In the middle of the night we are woken by a loud bang. The coach brakes hard and swerves, luggage falls from the overhead shelves. A young girl has hit her head and is crying. Most of the passengers were sleeping but are now awake. They want to know what happened.
‘ Is there something wrong with the coach?’ someone asks.
No one seems to know.
‘Shouldn’t we stop and check out any damage?’ another lady says.
Word filters back from the driver.
‘ Everything’s okay, we hit an animal, a cow or kangaroo,’ a man says
‘That’s what the bull bars are for,’ I say to a petrified looking Rosie.

Eventually at sunrise the bus enters the sprawling suburbs of a town. I nudge Rosie awake and we both crane our heads towards the window. In the distance Townsville’s skyline is instantly recognizable. The shadow of Castle Hill rises up like a huge, sandy termite mound, and then as we get closer we see the top of the ‘Sugar Shaker.’ I’d seen this strange building in a book. Now a Hilton Hotel , it is still a particularly un-inspiring concrete monstrosity.

After fourteen cramped, sweaty hours we finally step off the bus. With aching limbs we drag our bags away from the terminus and are immediately hit by the searing heat and high humidity. The early morning temperature is already well into the 30‘s. It’s like walking into an oven. Under my unkempt dirty hair, sweat runs down the side of my face and my thin shirt clings to me like a second skin. Rosie dons a red baseball cap to conceal her bad hair day. She pulls on the rucksack while I struggle with two heavy sports bags.

Under a bridge we see a group of aborigines. Their cracked skin the colour of mahogany. They are drinking from brown paper bags and all appear to be very drunk.
‘ Hey Mister, give us a dollar,’ an old crone with rotten teeth says.
Flies buzz round her head. I ignore her and keep walking.
‘Fucking tourists,’ I hear her say as we walk by
‘I thought you said they were a fascinating link to our past,’ Rosie says
‘Obviously not all of them. Come on let’s go and find Ken. Boy, do I need a shower. I think I smell as bad as they do.’
‘In this heat I am glad we are not walking far. These flies are a nightmare,’ Rosie says walking a little faster.

We walk to Flinders Mall, our prearranged meeting place. The mall is a pedestrian street and the hub of early morning activity in Townsville. We watch local people saunter past on their way to work. We notice how in this heat, no one is rushing. We sit on a bench opposite the Commonwealth Bank and watch the bank workers arrive for work. We both laugh at the incongruous Queensland dress code of blue shorts, grey socks and smart lace up shoes.
I point at a bank worker
‘Look Rosie everyone’s in shorts; this is my sort of place. No more long pants for us. We’ll have to go shopping. It’s shorts, singlets and flip-flops from now on,’ I say to Rosie
‘Do you think Ken will be here Ben? You only met him once in England,’ Rosie says apprehensively as she sips a cool drink through a straw.

‘Rosie trust me. If Ken says he’ll be here at eleven. He’ll be here come fire, flood or earthquake.’

We are not to be disappointed, as at ten to eleven we glimpse Ken swaggering through early morning shoppers towards us. He wears bright yellow dungarees, white trainers, no socks, and an Akruba bush hat. A cigarette hangs jauntily from his lower lip . We stand and wave. I introduce Rosie, trying not to let on how relieved I am to see him.
‘Ken, this is my girlfriend Rosie.’
‘G’day Rosemary. Welcome to Townsville.’
Ken raises his hat.
‘Ben’s told me lots of bad things about you. Only joking! I hope you have a great time in Queensland. You’re lucky it’s a bit cooler today.’
Ken winks at me as he turns to pick up one of our bags. He obviously approves.
‘Ken, its Rosie. She prefers Rosie, ’ I whisper as we walk slightly ahead of her.
‘ Got ya. Anyway, you’re looking spunky as usual Ben. Like the hair! Very Michael Hutchence,’ Ken says slapping my drenched back.
I look blankly, unsure who this Michael is. After exchanging further pleasantries and some ardent Aussie banter, Ken guides us to his white, slightly battered, Holden station wagon. Not the vehicle that I was expecting.

‘Here we are kids. Sorry the Jaguar’s in the garage. Put the bags in the back we’ll all squeeze in the front. Mind the gear stick Rosie we don’t want any accidents.’ Ken explodes with laughter and then starts coughing. A real smokers hack.
‘Are you ok? That’s a nasty cough,’ Rosie says.
‘ I know. I’ve gotta quit this habit before it kills me.’
We pull out into the traffic, Ken talking animatedly.
‘First we’ll drive home and drop your bags off. I’ll introduce you to my new wife Cheryl. Her daughter is called Layla, she stays with us sometimes. Then we need to go and feed my horses. We’ll catch lunch later,’ says Ken, lighting another Alpine Light, as he steers one handed through the traffic.
‘I didn’t know you had horses?’ I say.
‘There are a lot of things you don’t know about me Ben.’

Ken and Cheryl reside in a rural neighbourhood about ten minutes from the centre of town. The timber-framed house is full of colonial character and has a fully-decked veranda, which encircles the property. We are greeted by a hospitable Cheryl, a natural brunette with chiseled facial features her hands beautifully manicured and her hair cut into a trendy symmetrical bob. She doesn’t look like someone who gets her hands dirty. We carry our bags in while Ken talks to Cheryl on the veranda. We reappear after using the bathroom. Cheryl is leaning over the balustrade.
‘Ben do you like mud crabs? I bet you do. Kens told me all about your epicurean tastes,’ Cheryl asks
‘Cheryl‘s an excellent cook Rosie. Cook up some chilli bugs, and chill some Champagne,’ Ken hollers as we head down the steps to the car.
In the back of the Holden I exchange quizzical looks with Rosie. Cheryl looks and smells good. Lucky Ken. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be another Julie.
‘Chilli bugs Yuk? Sounds like bush tucker food to me,’ Rosie whispers in my ear.
Ken can tell we haven’t the faintest idea what he is talking about.
‘You’ll love the Bug’s Ben. The fishmongers over here call them Moreton Bay Bugs, shovelled-nosed lobsters to you,’
‘Sounds great. We are both starving,’ I say.
‘Cheryl is lovely. You’re a lucky man Ken. How long have you been married,’ says Rosie.

‘Three months. Yep, Cheryl is a babe. Stunning isn’t she, and spirited. She’s very lucky to have me.’ Ken raises a wry smile as he lights another cigarette, while steering with his knees.

Ken is one of life’s bon viveurs. The man loves a party. I am particularly fond of his legendary stories involving his first wife. She convinced him to move with her to the UK. Little did she know what a terrible mistake she had made. Ken was not for changing. She was a posh London type, who organised lavish social gatherings only to find out her brash, loud-mouthed Australian husband hated all the airs, graces and pretence of the English middle classes. Invariably he brought respectable social gatherings to a heated finale when he became bored. Quite intentionally, he would single out some poor unsuspecting guest for a barrage of whisky fuelled insults, and I quote…
‘You’re such a bunch of stuck-up, boring cunts!’
He always had a way with words.

The marriage, fortuitously childless, was doomed from the start and the split, when it came, was unsurprisingly un-amicable. They hated each other with a vengeance. He told her to fuck off, and find some boring little accountant to live with. She did. She also kept the house and Ken returned to Australia to start a fresh. After a short period of enforced celibacy he met Cheryl, also a divorcee. They hit it off immediately, fell in lust then in love , and then married in a whirlwind romance a few months before we arrived. The wedding service, vows and reception were all held at their favourite quayside restaurant in Townsville.

‘Just a small gathering of close friends. We do informal so well in Australia,’ Ken told us as he showed us the wedding pictures, which included quite a few of him and Cheryl in the bath drinking champagne.

It’s only a short car ride to the livery stables where Ken keeps his horses. Funny that Ken never mentioned he rode. As we talk I find out Cheryl shares his passion for equine activities. Although Cheryl prefers hacking out to mucking out! She looks more like a fashion icon than a horse owner. While Rosie helps as a stand-in stable hand by filling buckets with water and preparing their feed, Ken ushers me to one side. He explains that on the surface, things are not what they seem and recently they have been having terrible problems with Cheryl’s daughter.

Layla is only fifteen, and keeps running off with an undesirable and unsavoury local lad. This is putting quite a lot of stress on their new relationship. And much as he is pleased to see us, unfortunately we can only stay with them for a couple of nights because Cheryl wants Layla to move back home for a while. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear after travelling the length of the country and I try not to look down beat. Sensing my change in mood Ken’s face becomes more animated.

‘There is some good news Ben. I’ve arranged for you to meet the plastic surgeon I told you about last week. If my sources are correct, he has just completed the purchase of a rundown property on nearby Magnetic Island.’
‘Which Island did you say ?’ I asked
‘Magnetic. Maggie Island. Have you heard of it?’
I can’t believe it. It must be the same island.
‘Ken why is called Magnetic Island?’

‘Good question. I’m not entirely sure. Something to do with the poms. Captain Cook and Magnetic Fields I think.’
‘I think it was mentioned on a TV programme I saw in Brisbane.’
‘Very likely. Interesting history, Maggie Island. Protected us from the Japs in World War Two. Lots of relics from the war and a beautiful National Park, full of koalas and rock wallabies. At weekends the deserted beaches get a little busy as Townsville’s upwardly mobile arrive for some R&R. Just watch out for box jellyfish. ’

We walk back to collect Rosie who is feeding carrots to a chestnut mare. Excitement written all over my face. This is just the news I have been hoping for. I’m itching to tell her the good news.
‘See I told you I wasn’t making it up. It’s the same island the presenter was talking about at the Wilkinson’s.’
‘Okay. So you were right. What do you want? A medal? I don’t see what difference it makes. Hopefully we are going to be too busy working and earning dollars to be traipsing around tropical islands looking for traces of aboriginal life. Anyway, if the group we saw in the causeway are anything to go by I think I’ll give the natives a miss. Smelly, dirty drunks.’

Ken lights a cigarette and clears his throat. He wants our attention.
‘Rosie, Ben listen up. I want to give you some advice. I hope it will help you during the interview. Firstly, you’re a good-looking couple so just be yourselves, don’t try and be somebody you’re not. Now don’t take this the wrong way Rosie but Paul is an admirer of the female form, so it wouldn’t do any harm to undo a couple of buttons and flaunt a bit of cleavage. He’ll probably offer you a boob job at a reduced rate. Come to think of it, if it wasn’t for Cheryl spending many hours under his knife, you wouldn’t be meeting him at all. In fact, it’s Cheryl you have to thank for this opportunity, not me.’
He accentuates an imaginary cleavage with his hands in confirmation of Cheryl’s recent breast enlargement.
‘I’ll remember to thank her this evening,’ I say
‘You make this doctor sound like a bit of predator - pervert,’ says Rosie
‘What do you expect? He’s a plastic surgeon for fucks sake. He nips and tucks women’s bodies for a living.’
‘I wonder what he’ll think of us?
‘I almost forgot Ben - this guy is one of the snazziest dressers in Townsville. A-list. He likes people who dress well. A bit like myself.’ Ken gives us both a wink.

After sampling Cheryl’s’ delicious stir fried Chilli bugs, Ken sorts me out with some cast-offs from his impressive wardrobe. The trousers are a little long so Cheryl tacks them up. The next morning Ken drives us to the surgery and Rosie and I get our opportunity to secure some much needed income and employment.

‘Hey kids don’t fuck it up now.’ are Ken’s only words of encouragement, as he drops us off at the front door of the surgery for our early morning interview.
‘Fingers crossed. If this goes according to plan we might be rid of you at last,’ he says,as he points out to sea towards a small island in the distance. Sadly I think he means it.
‘Hey Rosie don’t forget to show Paul your twin assets and Ben, dig the lime green trousers and white shoes,’ Ken shouts from the smoke filled interior of his Holden, as he drives off.

Rosie and I sit nervously in reception waiting for our chance to impress. Finally we are called into his office. The far wall is lined with hundreds of journals and books. Tasteful prints hang on the others. He is sitting behind a large black desk with a glass top. The plastic surgeon Paul, is a genial confident man, with a prominent Jewish nose .His Hawaiian shirt is open at the front to reveal a thick sprouting of dark chest hair. He reminds me of Magnum P.I. minus the ’tache. Rosie and I sit opposite him feeling slightly intimidated. On close inspection I notice his wrist is adorned with a heavy gold bracelet and if I’m not mistaken one of his perfectly white teeth is embellished with what looks like a small diamond.

Paul places his hands behind his head, leans back in his expensive leather chair and explains how he was first introduced to Cheryl. He talks fondly of Cheryl (I wonder why) but freely admits he doesn’t know Mr Staunton very well. Do I suspect a slight undercurrent of hostility here? He asks us about our backgrounds and whether I can cook. To which I reply I am a very capable chef and run off a few restaurants in London that sound impressive. At this point Rosie kicks me in the shin. She hates me lying. Rosie tells him about her experience at the Galleria. But Paul seems to have taken the bait. He tells us about his wife’s passion to open a restaurant on the Island. She has been studying Food and Beverage operations at the local University, so as Paul says she knows what she wants and how to do it.
‘Don’t underestimate her,’ he says ominously.
Happily for us a premise has just been secured. They have decided to keep the restaurants old name, The Bay Garden.
‘Your timing is impeccable,’ he says with a smile.
Rosie dressed in a low cut blue and white cotton dress, leans forward and tells Paul we have the experience and won’t let him down. After twenty tense, sweaty minutes I think Rosie’s cleavage and my boyish charm finally win him over. He stands up and says he will give us a shot.
‘I just hope I’ve made the right decision. As for you Ben, I hope you can actually cook.’

He doesn’t ask about our work permits so I don’t mention that we only have working holiday visas. This is a remote island I’m sure the long arm of immigration policy doesn’t reach this far. His wife appears through a side-door. Smiling through a mouth of perfect white teeth, she is cradling a bottle of sparkling wine and holding four glasses. She looks perfect, a Playboy centrefold, until I notice the dusting of chocolate on her top lip. It looks like she has been eating a Cadburys Flake. She senses my eyes on her.
‘Dermabrasion,’ she says. ‘In a week it will be gone. No more lines.’
Frankenstein’s creation I think to myself.
We kiss Julie (very carefully), shake hands and toast the future success of the Bay Garden Restaurant. For Rosie and me it’s a remarkable stroke of luck, which sees us not only in full-time employment but partners in the prospective opening of this new venture. Julie excuses herself she has a call to take.

Paul brings us up to speed on the task in hand. The restaurant is situated in Alma Bay on Magnetic Island, about fifteen minutes ferry ride from the mainland. I can’t believe we are within spitting distance of the Barrier Reef . Co-incidence or fate ? I’m not sure but we do seem to have a lucky guardian riding along with us.
Paul continues speaking. Initially we are to assist in restoring the empty shell to its former glory. Paul explains that it has been empty for some months after the previous owners disappeared.
‘What happened to them? I ask.
‘No one’s sure. Just up and left. A couple booked for lunch found the restaurant all laid -up, and food in the fridges, but empty. The island’s a transient place; people come and go. No one seemed surprised,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

‘Sounds a bit spooky to me. The restaurants not haunted is it?’ says Rosie.
‘Only by the ghosts of hungry customers, unless we get this place open again . It will need a lot of hard graft to begin with .You both seem young and enthusiastic so I’d like to open in a month, if possible,’ Paul says as we stand to leave his office.
I’d been so wrapped up in convincing him to give us the jobs, I completely forgot to ask where we were going to stay. Rosie reads my mind.
‘We can’t wait to get started. Is there any accommodation at the restaurant?’ Rosie asks.
‘ Unfortunately not. You’ll get a good wage but you will have to make your own arrangements. I’m sure Ken and Cheryl can help.’
‘ So what’s it like?’ Rosie asks.
‘The island you mean? I get to visit very rarely but by all accounts it’s a magical place. Julie says it’s hedonistic. There’s only one policeman, little or no crime rate. Nothing ever happens on Magnetic Island, except people having a good time. In fact, I’m a wee bit jealous of you two. If you have any questions or want to speak to either of us, here’s Julie’s number at home’
He scribbles the number on the back of his business card.
‘When you’re settled in maybe you should come over for dinner and stay the night.’ He raises his glass.

‘Here’s wishing you and the new Bay Garden good luck. Oh, one more thing before you go. I realize you’re both young and eager but please don’t neglect the restaurant. Julie and I are sinking quite a bit of money into it. Work hard, play hard and make us all some money,’ are his parting words.

Outside on the street Rosie and I high-five with joy and relief. We can’t wait to tell Ken our good news. As we sit on the wall waiting for him to return Rosie turns to me.
‘I can’t believe we did it. I’ve been pinching myself; a restaurant, a tropical island. Amazing Ben, really amazing. I want to go now.’
I put my arm round Roise’s shoulder and give her a squeeze.
‘O ye of little faith, all good things come to those who wait.But first we must find somewhere to live.’
‘The way things are shaping up it shouldn’t be a problem. Let’s ask Ken if he knows anyone.’
Even as Rosie said the words, I couldn’t help but think to myself that it all sounded a little too perfect. Too perfect to be true. And I was right, as we
were soon to find out.