Peter Carey: Illywhacker

I do not believe in luck. It was not luck that I was adopted by a Chinaman. I was adopted by a Chinaman because I chose to be. I did it, you might say, to spite my father. I did it because I liked his gravelly voice, because I saw him pat a little Chinese boy on the head, and pet him, and give him something to eat. (This was Goon Tse Ying and there is a whole story concerning him that I will come to later.)

Now if Jack McGrath had been a shrewd man he would have seen the pattern of my life already, i. e., there I was at ten years old telling lies, saying my father was dead, getting myself put up, and giving value to the Chinese by working in the market. But Jack did not see it. He was full of pity for the little boy who had to be adopted by filthy old John Chinaman and this common prejudice kept him from thinking about anything else. He stood up and stamped his stockinged feet on the ballroom floor. He dug his big hand deep in his pocket. "Here's a pound," he said.

I went to bed at four o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, not in misery, but with the sort of uncontrolled excitement of a man who knows he is, at last, where he should be.

I was up at six and strolling in the garden. I wasn't tired at all. I breathed deep and smelled the salt and seaweed from Corio Bay. I had that loose-muscled feeling of a man on holiday. I strolled across to the beach with my hands deep in my pockets. The peculiar shell-grit sand of Western Beach crunched beneath my brand-new patent leather shoes. TheCasino, a steamer carrying wool from the Western District, rode at anchor in the bay. The Blackheath with ninety thousand bags of wheat was berthed at the Yarra Street pier. The big wool stores rose high above the bandstands, bathing boxes and steep manicured lawns.

Geelong, that clear fresh morning, struck me as a town of wealth and sophistication, a lush green oasis, a natural compensation for the endless plain of wool and wheat behind it. It would be a city of parks, gardens, grand public buildings and elegant private ones.

I did not intend to laze around, bludging on my new friends. I had work to do, making certain unstable parts of my story become strong and clear.

There was, for instance, the snake, about which I had made certain claims. I did not intend to shirk my obligation to care for the snake, although if I could have seen what this would lead to (all this industry on behalf of a casual lie) I would have shipped it off to Mr Chin on the first train.

I strolled along the beach in the direction of that wide-verandaed weatherboard building which in those days housed the Corio Bay Sailing Club. In front of the Sailing Club there was an old man shovelling shell-grit into a hessian bag. I did not need to be told why he was doing it: the shell-grit from Corio Bay was, and still is, particularly beneficial to hens – it gives an eggshell substance.

I wasn't normally one for idle chat, but I liked all the world on that morning, and I stopped for a yarn.

"Grit for the chooks?" I said.

"That's right."

"Laying well, are they?"

"Not bad."

The old man did not seem inclined to talk, but I wasn't offended. It was peaceful standing there with my hands in my pockets watching him work.

"Would you happen to know", I asked after a while, "a good spot for frogs?" The frogs, of course, were for the snake.

He was a little man, dried up like a walnut. His freckled skin hung on his arms, like the skin on a roast chicken wing.

"Yes," he said, "I know a good place for frogs."

"Where's that?"

He was an old man used to being granted his due of respect and patience. He drove his spade into the sand with a grunt.

"France," he said.

I could imagine the old bugger sitting at the head of a table and calling his fifty-year-old son "the boy". He was far too content with himself for my liking.

"You should be on the wireless," I said, "telling jokes like that."

"You reckon, do you?" he said, and he made a slow study of me. He did not rush over any of the details. He observed, as I had not, that the trousers of the new suit were an inch too short and the jacket was a fraction too tight. "That's what you reckon, do you?"

"Yes, I reckon," I said. "I reckon you're a bit of a wit."

He wasn't frightened. He knew he was too old to be hit. "What do you want the frogs for?"

"I'll pay sixpence a frog. I'll be wanting two frogs every day." This scheme was not what I'd intended, but now I wanted to force him to do something for me.

"You don't say," he said without a sign of interest. He went back to his spade and shell-grit.

"That's a shilling a day, seven shillings a week. It's good money."

"Who'd pay money for a frog?" His eyes were half clouded with cataracts but his scorn glowed through them.

"Do you want the seven bloody shillings or not?" I said.

"No," the old man said with great satisfaction. "I don't." He picked up the sack of shell-grit and hoisted it on to his shoulder. I watched him trudge down the beach – a sack-carrying burglar who had stolen my sense of well-being.

I was always up and down in my moods and now I looked around the bay with a jaundiced eye. I saw a broken lemonade bottle in the sand. I began to suspect that Geelong might have the capacity to let me down, to be one more malicious, small-minded provincial city with no vision, no drive, no desire to do anything but send young men off to fight for the British and buy T Model Fords. However, the rest of that December Monday restored my faith in the city which, although it was not quite as grand as my vision of the morning, was still more than receptive to Herbert Badgery, Aviator.

I have had a long and wearing relationship with Henry Ford and it was only weakness that brought me back to him. The first thing I did in Geelong was introduce myself to McGregor, the Ford agent. I showed him my newspaper clippings and he was happy enough to engage me as a commission agent at five pounds a car. So when I arrived at theGeelong Advertiser I was able to park outside their window in a brand-new T model. I put my book of newspaper clippings under my arm and went to see the editor.

The suit I was wearing had previously belonged to Mr Harold Oster, and the Osters being the Osters I made no secret of the fact. So although Harold Oster's arse was built too close to the footpath and although his arms were an inch too short, I made no secret of the fact. I even ventured, as few in Geelong would have done, a few jokes at Mr Oster's expense. My familiarity with the Osters served as a better introduction to Geelong than any suit I could have had tailor-made in Little Collins Street.

My clothes, I told the editor, were at present in transit to Ballarat where I had been on my way to investigate the establishment of a new aircraft factory. Now, forced to spend the time in Geelong while the craft underwent repairs, I was keen to conduct discussions with local business men. I had already, I was pleased to inform the editor, found a degree of intelligence and enthusiasm in regard to the idea which was quite extraordinary. I would not let myself be drawn on the possibility of switching the site from Ballarat to Geelong but the editor foundhimself bold enough to run the following headline which my host, bright red with pleasure, read to me at breakfast: "aviator's MISHAP MAY BRING NEW INDUSTRY TO GEELONG."

Jack McGrath was not only flattered to find himself described as intelligent but also gratified to learn that his new friend had flown the first air mail in South Australia. He read also that I had served in the Air Corps, was a "noted zoologist" and a "motoring enthusiast whose Hispano Suiza is currently on loan to a distinguished Ballarat family".

Photographs, supplied by yours truly, were also used by the Advertiser (this, mind you, at a time when photographs in the newspaper were a rarity). The most notable of these showed the Morris Farman "in three positions of flight in a storm above Digger's Rest Racecourse". Quite a lot of this information was correct.