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  Penguin Books

  A TASTE OF COCKROACH

  Yates was cautiously lifting a cooked and curried crescent to his mouth. He stopped and looked at Pettit. ‘It’s a cockroach,’ he said. ‘I’m going to eat it.’

  ‘What in hell for?’

  ‘To find out what it tastes like.’

  Here is a journey that begins with a shuddering disaster in the Himalayas, and ends with an ill-starred romance on Mars. In between are adventures down the rivers of Cambodia and Laos, battles with bulls in Australian country towns, encounters with French agents, freelance photography assignments, handbag-snatchers in Naples, flying footwear in Rangoon, bread queues in Afghanistan, and more.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Allan Baillie in Cambodia, 1985, playing a Cambodian flute

  Since the publication of his first novel, Adrift, in 1983, Allan Baillie has become one of Australia’s most important writers for children. On leaving school, Allan worked as a journalist and travelled extensively. Many of his books draw upon this background and give his readers invaluable insights into world politics, with a particular focus on Asia.

  Allan Baillie’s novels, which include Little Brother (1986), The China Coin (1992), Saving Abbie (2000) and Treasure Hunters (2002), have won him acclaim, awards and international recognition. He is also the author of several highly successful picture books, including Drac and the Gremlin (1989). His books have found success in Japan, Sweden, Holland, Germany, France, Spain, England, the United States, New Zealand and South Africa.

  Allan now lives in Sydney with his wife and they have two children. He writes full time.

  Also by Allan Baillie

  Adrift

  Little Brother

  Riverman

  Eagle Island

  Megan’s Star

  Mates

  Hero

  The China Coin

  Little Monster

  The Bad Guys

  Magician

  The Dream Catcher

  Songman

  Secrets of Walden Rising

  The Last Shot

  Wreck!

  Saving Abbie

  Treasure Hunters

  The Excuse

  Foggy

  Imp

  Picture Books

  Drac and the Gremlin

  The Boss

  Rebel!

  Old Magic

  DragonQuest

  Star Navigator

  Archie the Good Bad Wolf

  Castles

  Non-fiction

  Legends

  Heroes

  A TASTE OF COCKROACH

  ALLAN BAILLIE

  Penguin Books

  For those nudging editors who got the best from me, AB

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M4V 3B2 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11, Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi -110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  ‘The Domestic’ first published in Skin Deep by Penguin Books Ltd, England, 2003;

  Taste of Cockroach’ first published in Taste of Cockroach and Other Stories by Australian Association for the Teaching of English (AATE), 1976; ‘Snap’ first published in Home and Away by Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1987; ‘Snatch’ first published in Goodbye and Hello by Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1987; ‘Only Ten’ first published in Mates and Other Stories by Omnibus, 1989; ‘The Bed-Sitter’ first published in Bitter Sweet by Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 1991; ‘The Pencil’ first published in Ten out of Ten by Phoenix, 2003; ‘The Outcast’ first published in Blue Dress by Heinemann, 1991.

  This collection published by Penguin Group (Australia), a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd, 2005

  Text copyright © Allan Baillie, 2005

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228314-2

  www.penguin.com.au

  CONTENTS

  THE OFFER

  (Kathmandu, 1964) It was a shuddering disaster, a total embarrassment – but I wouldn’t change any of it …

  THE DOMESTIC

  (Australia, 1863) When Mary Ann started work in Balmain she had an incredible secret plan.

  THE GOLD BUDDHA

  (Luang Prabang, 1887) The barbarians are at the gates, but in the city Uncle Henri has his eyes on a glittering prize.

  THE BULL

  (Australia, 1953) Two boys learn to understand each other before the terrifying Coloss.

  TASTE OF COCKROACH

  (Laos, 1969) A reckless youth meets an old coward on a perilous bus ride.

  SNAP

  (Cambodia, 1979) A freelance photographer is losing his nerve in a tinder-box refugee camp.

  SNATCH

  (Italy, 1988) The content of a girl’s handbag destroys the gang of young thieves.

  ONLY TEN

  (Australia, 1989) A race reveals the reason behind a boy’s strange actions.

  REBEL!

  (Rangoon, 1990) Will the soldiers find the rebel without a thong?

  THE BED-SITTER

  (Australia, 1990) A farewell beach party to remember.

  THE PENCIL

  (Afghanistan, 2002) A hunted young girl threads through the shattered city to reach a hidden room.

  THE OUTCAST

  (Mars, circa 2300) A young couple try to overcome their different backgrounds.

  THE OFFER

  The stories in this book are tales of fiction with a sliver of fact – apart from this one. This one is quite true. After almost killing myself in a stupid fencing accident, in 1964 I left Australia on a two-year journey around the world.

  Many young people charge around the world and that great journey often changes them for all time. Sometimes the changes take place in a moment. With me the moment was the Offer. From this flowed several books and these stories …

  After the Offer my mates and I kept climbing towards the hill post of Nagarkote, 2000 metres high. I had trouble with the thinner air and slowed down as the others ploughed on. At one stage I sat in the middle of the dirt road, panting and feeling sorry for myself. But when a passing young girl asked if I was all right I immediately sprung to my feet, said

  I was fine and continued tottering on. I found my mates in a primitive bungalow on the hill, had a meal and collapsed onto my bed …

  In the darkness of early morning the following day we were woken by a tall Nepalese, who gave us tea and led us to a lookout. For this moment, we had clung to a rattly bus from Kathmandu to the small town of Telkot and shuffled up that brutal hill.

  We watched the eastern sky be
ing touched with a faint lavender glimmer, until a long silhouette of jagged shark’s teeth was etched out of the darkness. Slowly the sky was washed with pink as the sun’s rim nudged the peaks of the Himalayas. Those massive snow peaks caught the sky’s glow, and suddenly Mount Everest was on fire.

  At that particular moment I lost control and crashed.

  The others moved away from Misery Guts and stayed that way for most of the day. I followed them down the hill with many visits to a flowing ditch.

  When we saw the crowded bus in Telkot we all thought I was doomed. There were no seats.

  The others stayed near the front of the bus while I stood in the middle. I thought it might help me miss the impact of the wheels. I hung on a strap as the bus careered down the road, bounced across craters and thudded over ridges. I stared out the dusty windows and tried to concentrate very hard.

  Incredibly I made it to Kathmandu. The others went off elsewhere, but I had a craving for goat’s milk and there was a goat dairy close to the bus terminal. I thought my trouble was over, but it wasn’t. I didn’t quite make it past a constable weeding the garden in his police station.

  The constable grinned at me. ‘You seem to have trouble. Do you want help?’

  ‘Um …’

  So he threw a bucket of water over me.

  * * *

  The story of the Offer finishes with a giggle there, but it started on that steep road up to Nagarkote the day before.

  The four of us had stridden up from Telkot, with me carrying the only pack. I wasn’t terribly smart on that day. The pack was almost empty so the others put their water bottles in it. We overtook a small Nepalese man carrying a load of wood, to show that we were fitter and faster – and of course smarter.

  I had had a few moments of similar arrogance before. As with the trip into Nepal. The bus driver allowed two of us to ride on bags tied to the roof of the bus. We got an incredible view as the bus climbed from the plains to the high hills, the Great Ghat – a chasm like the Grand Canyon. After a while the driver asked us to come down, but we wouldn’t. We hung on for a long time, until a passenger told us in English that the driver would be sacked if he drove into Kathmandu with us on top of the bus. Lovely lads, we were.

  But anyway, on the Nagarkote road the others were faster than me, too, so they ploughed ahead. Until they wanted water. I reached them and collapsed on a rock, gasping, gulping from my water bottle as the others raided my pack. While we sprawled and slowly recovered, the slow wood-carrier plodded past us. We never caught up to him again.

  After a while we continued. The others moved ahead again, and again they waited for the water-carrier. Soon the water was gone and the bottles tinkled in my pack. We were getting desperate when we reached the small village.

  ‘They must’ve water,’ said one.

  ‘That would kill you.’

  ‘We’ve got the pills.’

  So we put the purification tablets in the bottom of the bottles, knowing those would kill any bugs in the water within fifteen minutes. I took the bottles and marched into the village and saw a small boy.

  I pointed to my mouth, clutched my throat and showed the empty bottles.

  He nodded and rubbed his fingers, meaning: ‘It will cost you.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ And I reached for my wallet.

  Then an old man rushed from a mud hut, clouted the boy and grabbed the bottles. He shouted at the boy and suddenly I knew what he was saying:

  ‘Boy, you never, never try to get money from water! It is a gift.’

  I had heard similar things from farmers in the bush. This man could fit in the Australian bush, in Thailand, Singapore, Mexico – anywhere. Mountains, customs, religions change, but people don’t.

  The man held up a finger to me. ‘Just wait, all right?’ He hurried back to his mud hut and lifted a straw cover on a large urn. He returned with the bottles filled and their tops screwed back. He bowed his head for a second. ‘Please excuse us …’

  ‘No, no, really. And thank you for your great water. We will have it a little bit along the road.’

  But he frowned at me for a moment and then nodded. He stepped back to the urn and came out with an enamel mug filled with gleaming water. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘But I’ve got your water in my bottle.’

  ‘Never mind, you look very hot and dry. This is for you.’

  And I realised that there was no way to say to the old man that his cold clear water was not good enough to be drunk by me.

  I toasted him and drank the water …

  It was still a great offer.

  THE DOMESTIC

  I learnt about Mary Ann and her part in the astonishing incident at the Cockatoo Island prison in 1863 while chasing another book. This is based on her story.

  Sophie opened her door at Balmain, Sydney, a quill pen in her teeth, on a September day of 1863. Without removing the pen, she said, ‘Yuwanlinda?’ to the young woman on the step.

  The woman smiled and said, ‘I think so.’

  Sophie glanced at the woman’s plain grey dress and small hat and rejected the smile. She pulled the pen away from her mouth. ‘Yes?’

  The woman’s smile faded. ‘I’m looking for work …’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophie looked at the woman’s face – sun-touched cheeks, lips hinting a smile and still, brown eyes – and turned away.

  She wants to work here, Sophie thought. No, she can’t. Then you will have two nagging aunts chasing you all the time. This one would echo Aunt Linda and then have a go at you herself.

  ‘I don’t know, it’s a bad time now,’ Sophie said.

  ‘Perhaps I should see your mother.’

  ‘My mother is dead,’ Sophie snipped. No, that was a stupid thing to say, she thought. You’ve given her the open door.

  ‘I am sorry. But possibly I can help your father, aunt …’ Then the woman tilted her head. ‘No, you don’t like the idea. All right.’ And she turned away from the door.

  God, she’s really going. Sophie stared in stark amazement at the retreating woman. She had never seen any adult change anything from something she had said. Until now. She lifted her hand in uncertainty.

  ‘Who’s there, Sophie?’ Aunt Linda called from the shadows.

  The woman hesitated.

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Sophie called after her, then turned. ‘Someone wants work.’ You don’t need this woman, she thought. But there’s nothing you can do to stop her now.

  Aunt Linda pushed past Sophie and almost glared at the woman, inspecting her face and clothes.

  They had been carefully washed and ironed, but the woman couldn’t hide the patches and frayed edges. Sophie knew Aunt Linda would see that.

  ‘Hello, ma’am.’ The woman was clutching her gloved hands. ‘I was wondering –’

  ‘Domestic,’ said Aunt Linda, measuring her by the clothes and the face.

  ‘I can do anything. Chop wood, cook. I can help your girl with her schoolwork. I have been at a Sydney school …’

  ‘School?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can read, write, do arithmetic and I’ve even acted in Macbeth…’

  Aunt Linda frowned. ‘But why?’

  ‘Ah …?’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘You are a darkie.’

  The woman stood on the step in silence for a long moment.

  Sophie stared at the woman in surprise. Yes, there was a faint touch of shadow in her face, as if a cloud had drifted over the sun. But it wasn’t much.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said flatly.

  ‘A waste of time in a school. Domestic,’ said Aunt Linda firmly. ‘All right, I can use you. This is a big house, too much for me. You clean, wash, cook and anything I think of, but, missy – what’s your name?’

  ‘Mary Ann –’

  ‘Mary. That’s enough. If things go missing you will be dragged away by the police. Understand?’

  Mary’s top lip flicker
ed, but she nodded.

  ‘Good, just so we understand each other. Come in, I’ll show you your room.’ Aunt Linda turned away.

  But Mary remained outside.

  Aunt Linda stopped. ‘Well?’

  ‘I have two children. Two small children …’

  Aunt Linda sighed for a long moment. ‘You want them here? All right, all right. Just keep them quiet. Very quiet.’

  ‘You’ll never hear them.’

  * * *

  Mary moved in that afternoon with a little girl and a baby, and Sophie just waited for trouble to start. And on the third day there was trouble, bad trouble, but it wasn’t how she had expected.

  The children had disappeared into their room, so quiet that Sophie wasn’t quite sure that they were there. Mary had been bustling around the house from before sunrise until way after sunset. Sophie glimpsed her polishing knobs, dusting tables, washing clothes, sheets, scrubbing the floor, and always blindly following Aunt Linda’s orders. Sophie heard her murmured words, ‘Oh yes,’ ‘I’m sorry about that,’ ‘Yes, immediately,’ ‘Yes, ma’am’, and knew that she would always follow Auntie in any argument. She was Auntie’s Yes woman. But she never joined Auntie’s constant chipping at Sophie.

  At least that was something, Sophie thought.

  Aunt Linda’s sister Grace, who lived in the bush, dropped in for a quick visit. Sophie was pulled from her room when Mary served scones and tea. Things began pleasantly enough with Grace nattering away …

  ‘You must come up. The coaches are about as comfortable as a barrel rolling down a hill, never mind. But the troubles we have, those damn birds, trees of galahs shrieking every day. And kangaroos! You haven’t seen them like this – it’s a plague. You shoot one and it looks like the entire country is moving. And then there are the blacks – they are worse than the thieving galahs … What, oh, your domestic? Never mind, they know what we think of them …’