Free The Cartographer by Peter Twohig Page A

feeling optimistic. Besides, I had to find a way to make myself feel better. One of my little tricks for cheering myself up was to have a conversation out loud with Tom, with me doing both voices, but while it always made me feel good for a few seconds, it usually ended up making me sad, so that I’d have to stop. Today I found myself doing it automatically, probably because I needed cheering up so badly.
    â€˜What d’yer feel like doin’, Tommytoes?’
    â€˜Joinin’ the navy, young feller.’
    This was one of Tom’s favourite games, mine being one where we joined the army. We never worked it out. It was like ‘Who’s On First?’
    â€˜What, you? What would you be, a cabin boy or somethin’?’
    â€˜I’d be a captain. Of a submarine. The HMAS Biggles . Ha!’
    â€˜You can’t have that. Give me the army any day. I’d be a general.’
    â€˜Then I’d be an admiral.’
    â€˜Then I’d be a field marshal. I’d kill heaps of Japs.’
    â€˜Don’t rave.’
    â€˜Don’t you rave.’
    â€˜I could sail away, and not come back.’
    â€˜What, to Tasmania? You might run into Uncle Maury.’
    â€˜I could rescue him.’
    â€˜I don’t think Mum’d like that.’
    â€˜Neither would Dad.’
    â€˜Best you leave him there.’
    â€˜Yeah, bugger ’im. What’s so good about the army, anyway?’
    â€˜Free grub.’
    â€˜We’ve got free grub already.’
    â€˜Yeah. But —’
    â€˜Yeah. I like your new bag — where’d you get it?’
    â€˜It used to be Granddad’s fishin’ bag.’
    â€˜Oh yeah — course.’
    Then the rot set in.
    So I was off for another wander, like Hume and Hovell. It takes a fair bit to put me off exploring, and now I felt like I had to prove to myself that I could do it alone.
    I started out by wandering off up Church Street, feeling the thudding under the footpath as the ponderous trams whined and banged against the gaps in the rails, and noticing that the shadows were growing shorter — that would go into the map. The bottom end of Church Street had no churches, but it did have its own kind of buildings. Apart from the cardboard factory, and a factory that made cream biscuits, and another that made false arms and legs, I saw a gloomy doorway that led to a set of dark, red-carpeted stairs beside a brass plaque that said ‘Dr Abraham Berlin, Dental Surgeon’ — that would go on the map. I saw a shop that sold haberdashery, and smelt like the inside of Mum’s wardrobe. I saw a dark garage for khaki trucks that smelt of grease. I stepped inside and went for a walk around this place, and spoke to a mechanic wearing khaki overalls. He was sitting on the footplate of the truck, having a cuppa.
    â€˜Are you in the army?’ I asked, wondering if soldiers fixed trucks.
    â€˜What does it look like?’
    He had me there.
    â€˜What’s wrong with it?’ I asked, having a critical look at the truck, which had shed lots of panels and black bits.
    â€˜Buggered if I know, mate,’ said the mechanic. ‘It was goin’ all right yesterday.’
    I noticed that the truck had a plate on the back with a picture of a yellow rising sun and two crossed swords, the same as the one Dad wore on his army hat. That was definitely going on the map.
    As I still hadn’t been thrown out, I went for another walk around the workshop, trying to look as if I was used to being there, and examined the parts that had been removed from the truck. When I reached the far end of the place, I saw in the floor something that was worth half a dozen trucks: a trapdoor. I couldn’t see the soldier, so I pulled on the brass-ring handle, and lifted it up.
    â€˜Careful you don’t fall in, mate,’ I heard him say from under the truck.
    I could see right away what was down there. It was the canal, as we