Brother Fish Read Free

two at every place setting, sparkled as they reflected the light from an enormous crystal chandelier that dominated the centre of the room.
    I’d never tasted wine, it wasn’t the sort of thing a bloke drank in those days. Maybe if you were taking a girl out and wanted to impress the pants off her you’d order a bottle of Porphyry Pearl, but you’d drink beer and she’d drink that and you’d hope it had the desired effect. It was the wineglasses more than anything that told me this was the wrong place for my sort. It hadn’t been long since I’d frantically grabbed at rice gruel from a communal dish hoping to get two fistfuls into my mouth before it had all disappeared. I’d dreamed of one day sitting at a table with a clean cloth, cutlery and a plate of my own, but slap-up dinner notwithstanding, this didn’t appear to be the sort of restaurant I’d have instinctively chosen to eat my prodigal son’s return dinner. The menu stuck into a little frame in the window left me further confused.
    Canapés Riche
Cream of Asparagus Soup
Fillet of Sole Meunière
Chicken Maryland
Bombe Henri
Welsh Rarebit
Coffee
    What the fuck was Canapés Riche and why was it necessary to Bombe
Henri ?
    I was hungry and tired and my leg hurt. I’d barely slept on the plane coming over and except for the meat pie, hadn’t eaten all day. So I summoned up the courage to enter.
    I’d hardly taken a step inside when a waiter in a penguin suit loomed above me. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.
    â€˜I’d like to dine,’ I replied, hoping that by using the word ‘dine’ I’d make the right impression. He gave me the once-over, slowly, starting at my feet, noting the crutches and plaster cast sticking out of the end of my trousers. He appeared to be passing silent judgement on my new clobber, which hung like a Charlie Chaplin outfit on my skinny frame, and finally he brought his gaze up to my pale, freckled face and shaven head. His expression was not welcoming.
    â€˜Do you have a reservation?’ he asked, omitting the ‘sir’.
    â€˜Well, er, no. As a matter of fact I’ve just flown in from Japan,’ I said, smiling pleasantly in an attempt not to appear nervous. I felt less assured in front of this jumped-up kitchenhand than when the Chinese had interrogated me.
    Maybe it was his attempt not to laugh. I guess, in 1953, not too many people dropped into Melbourne from Japan on crutches, in oversized clobber, sporting a haircut of the type usually undertaken at His Majesty’s expense in Pentridge Prison. His expression changed into a sort of half-sneer, not the full disdain, but more a ‘ Don’t take me for a
bloody fool, sonny boy! ’
    â€˜I’m sorry, we’re fully booked tonight.’ Again the ‘sir’ was absent.
    I nodded towards the empty room behind him. ‘But there’s nobody in the place!’
    â€˜People are inclined to dine late at the Society Restaurant,’ he replied haughtily.
    After two years as a prisoner of war under the Chinese my self-esteem wasn’t up there with Laurence Olivier’s. ‘I could eat quickly,’ I offered, inwardly cringing at the pleading tone my voice had assumed without my permission.
    One eyebrow shot up. ‘That is not the purpose of this restaurant – sir!’ Except for the pause in front of the ‘sir’ he pronounced each word as if it stood alone.
    I knew I was beaten neck and crop, though at least the ‘sir’ was back. Feeling piss-weak, I hobbled away grumbling to myself, ‘ Welcome
back to civvy street, Jacko, real nice to be home from the war, mate .’ Then, in the middle of the street I turned back to face him. ‘BASTARD!’ I yelled, then again, ‘BASTARD!’ But the restaurant door was shut and he’d disappeared.
    I hobbled back to Swanston Street with my crutches burning into my