Free Birrung the Secret Friend by Jackie French Page B

had the fever and I might take it back to our house. I scrambled along the rocks above the harbour though, to see if Old Tom and Scruggins were working like they should have been.
    They weren’t. The bare apple and cherry trees looked dismal in the wind. But there was orange fruit on some of the trees, which meant it was ripe, and no one had pinched it, either because they respected Mr Johnson or because most convicts wouldn’t eat fruit. They said itgave them the runs and stung their gums, and was too new and strange.
    I half filled my bag with the really orange ones — I wasn’t sure what they were. The tangerines were still green. Then I hurried over to the storehouse.
    â€˜Why, it’s Barney Bean. Ain’t seen you in an age. How are you growing, little bean?’
    â€˜Ha ha. Very well, sir,’ I said politely. ‘Can I have the rations for Mr Johnson’s house?’
    The storeman went in to get them just as someone spoke behind me. ‘What are you doing here, boy?’
    It was Scruggins. He looked tired. Huh. Tired with doing nothing while Mr Johnson was busy, I thought.
    â€˜Getting the rations because you didn’t.’
    â€˜Well, I’m getting them now, ain’t I?’ But Scruggins sounded weary, not defensive. ‘As you’re here, you can do it. Saves me lugging them up the hill. Tell Mrs Johnson I’m sorry they’re late.’ He rubbed his whiskery face and I realised his hands were trembling. ‘I were down at the tents, holding down this poor bloke while Surgeon White cut off his arm. All rotten it was. Surgeon said it was the only thing that might save him. I stayed with him till he slept. Held his other hand. Man shouldn’t be alone at a time like that. I’ll head back there now.’
    My heart gave a little thunk , like it was made of stone. I’d been bad-mouthing — well, bad-thinking — Scruggins, and he’d been doing far more than me.
    â€˜Old Tom down there too?’
    â€˜Won’t leave Mr Johnson’s side, except to get him what he needs. You tell Mrs Johnson we see he eats, at least. Can’t get him to rest. He reckons he can feed the sick and tend their bodies and pray for them at the same time. He says the Lord will give him the strength to do his duty.’ Scruggins looked at me, almost man to man. ‘I’ll tell you what, Barney boy. Every convict in this colony thinks that man is an angel. Don’t know how many lives he’s saved.’
    I thought: Mr Johnson saved mine too. And Elsie’s.
    When I got back, I took off my clothes behind the shed and scrubbed them in the trough, then scrubbed myself, over and over, till my skin was red and my hair was sticking up like a rooster’s comb. One louse or flea could carry the ship’s fever, could kill Elsie and Birrung and Milbah and Mrs Johnson and Sally, and me too.
    Then when everything had dried in the sunlight, I dressed and went inside to help Birrung, who was peeling potatoes for more soup. She never slipped down to swim in the harbour now, or went roaming in the dusk.
    It had been weeks since Birrung had laughed. Suddenly I needed to hear laughter. Birrung’s laughter would drive away the shadows that flickered through me after Scruggins’s words.
    I took one of the potatoes and carved it into a man’s face, with holes for eyes, and a pointed nose, and a big grin. I held it up to Birrung.
    â€˜Hello,’ I said in a funny voice. ‘I am a potato man.’ I held up a carrot, and made it bow to the potato. ‘Hello, Mr Potato,’ I said in another voice.
    Birrung laughed, just as I’d hoped she would. She picked up a long parsnip, and made it bow to the potato too, just like Mr Johnson bowed when he met the governor. ‘Hello, Mr Potato,’ she said in Mrs Johnson’s most polite voice. ‘I am Mr Parsnip.’ She laughed again.
    Someone made a noise behind us. I turned.