Floodtide by Judy Nunn Sample Chapter

THE AUSTRALIAN BESTSELLER Over the wrought-iron table and the bloodied newspaper and fish guts, they toasted each other. ‘Mates forever,’ they said. Floodtide is the story of Mike, Spud, Pembo and Murray, and the friendship that binds them over four memorable decades in Western Australia. The prosperous 1950s when childhood is idyllic in the small city of Perth . . . The turbulent 60s of free love and war . . . The avaricious 70s when WA’s mineral boom breeds a new kind of entrepreneur . . . The corrupt 80s, when greedy politicians and powerful businessmen bring the state to its knees . . . Each of the four has a story to tell. An environmentalist fights to save the beautiful Pilbara coast from the mining conglomerates; a Vietnam veteran rises above crippling injuries to discover an extraordinary talent; and an ambitious geologist joins a hard-core businessman to lead the growth of Perth from a sleepy town to a glittering citadel of skyscrapers.

Floodtide

But, as the 1990s ushers in a new age, all four are caught up in the irreversible tides of change — and actions must be answered for . . .

‘An honest portrait of a place, peopling it with fascinating, flawed characters . . . A stunning blockbuster’ Woman’s Day www.randomhouse.com.au ISBN 978-1-86471-247-6

Cover photograph © Photolibrary/Chris Garnett Cover design by Blue Cork

FICTION

9 781864 712476

Floodtide

Floodtide is a character-driven, merciless rush of blood from the pen of Judy Nunn, one of Australia’s master storytellers.

Four men. One unbreakable friendship. Forged in the mighty Iron Ore State. Copyright © Judy Nunn 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All central characters are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental. In order to provide the story with a context, real names of places are used as well as some significant historical events. A number of high-profile people, such as Brian Burke, Laurie Connell and Alan Bond, are also referred to, but there is no suggestion that the events described concerning the fictional characters ever actually happened. An Arrow book Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060 www.randomhouse.com.au First published by Random House Australia 2007 This Arrow edition published in 2008, 2011 Copyright © Judy Nunn 2007 The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry Nunn, Judy. Floodtide / Judy Nunn. ISBN 978 1 86471 247 6 (pbk) Western Australia – History – 20th century – Fiction. A823.3 Map by Caroline Bowie Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by Griffin Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004 Environmental Management System printer 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 The paper this book is printed on is certified against the Forest Stewardship Council® Standards. Griffin Press holds FSC chain of custody certification SGS-COC-005088. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.

Copyright © Judy Nunn 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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CHAPTER ONE

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oung Michael McAllister could swim before he could walk. At least that was his mother’s claim. ‘He just crawled into the river one day and started swimming,’ Maggie would say. ‘He was barely a year old.’ Three years later, Mike’s baby sister, Julie, followed his lead. Literally. Baby Jools crawled across the sand into the river and dogpaddled out to her brother. It wasn’t really that extraordinary. Their father, Jim, was a boating man and a prodigious swimmer himself. His children, like many youngsters brought up by the banks of the river, were born to the water, and throughout the years of their childhood the river would continue to serve as a never-ending playground. For hours, Mike and Jools and their mates would chuck bombies off the end of the jetty, or hurl tennis balls with all their might out into the river and try to reach them before Baxter, the McAllisters’ two-year-old black Labrador, beat them to it. It was some time before they met with success – Baxter was an obsessive ball-chaser and a powerful swimmer. There were also the repeated attempts to break the record of eight aboard the inflated tractor-tyre inner tube, an exercise that met with no success at all. But

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as the children grew older, Baxter would concede defeat, the tractor tube would be replaced by dinghies and sailing boats, and the competition would begin in earnest. The McAllister home, a rambling old colonial house, fronted on to Victoria Avenue and sloped down the hill to Freshwater Bay, with Claremont jetty to its right and, further along the beach, the old Claremont swimming baths to its left. Built in the latter part of the nineteenth century, during the early development of the area, the house had seen better days, but it had a ramshackle elegance. Deceptive in design, it appeared from the street to be a single-storey bungalow with surrounding verandahs, but steps at the rear led from the balcony, which overlooked the river, to a below-stairs area that had once been the ‘batman’s quarters’. The original owner had been a military man. The ‘batman’s quarters’ now housed mainly storage space along with a large playroom, Jim’s extensive workshop and a laundry. The house’s sprawling back garden was abundant with fruit trees and grape vines, and a large vegetable plot yielded corn, tomatoes, beans or peas according to the season. Beyond the garden was a flat grassy area with an open boatshed where the dinghy and tackle was stored, and beyond the boatshed was the Swan River where, fifty yards from shore, Jim’s modest twenty-four-foot yacht, Alana, named after his mother, rested peacefully on her mooring. It was a comfortable home that offered a comfortable lifestyle. Perth was a sleepy town in the fifties, and there were many such homes along the banks of the river, providing an idyllic childhood for those like Mike and Jools. On hot summer nights Mike and his best mate, Spud Farrell, who was in the same class at school, would trawl for prawns. They wore old sandshoes to protect themselves from cobbler stings, and Spud’s brother Billy, two years younger, carried a hurricane lamp. Wooden poles

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over their shoulders, Mike and Spud would drag the twenty-foot funnel of netting behind them, while Billy led the way, the lamplight attracting the prawns to the net and warning the boys of snags up ahead. Relentlessly, they trawled between the jetty and the baths; it was hard work but rewarding. Each time they returned to the beach Jools would be jumping up and down excitedly, Baxter by her side letting out the odd bark, both of them eager for the thrilling moment when the contents would be spilled from the net’s pocket onto the sand and the prawns would jump and glitter, pink-eyed, in the light of the lamp. Jools was always allocated ‘guard duty’. She wasn’t strong enough to haul the net and too young to be trusted with the lamp, but Mike had assured her of the importance of her role. ‘Someone could come along and nick our catch,’ he told her, and so, during their absence, she paraded the beach like a diminutive pig-tailed sergeant major. Upon the boys’ return, she and Baxter had a tendency to get over-excited and Mike had to constantly warn her, as they sifted through the weed and gobbleguts and other small fish, to keep Baxter away and to be wary of cobblers. The stings of even the smallest cobblers occasionally caught in the net were shockingly painful. The boys would boil up the prawns in the laundry’s old copper, and after they’d feasted there was always an ample supply for both the McAllister and Farrell households. Mike invariably gave Spud the lion’s share though – there were five Farrell kids so it seemed only fair. The old copper came in for a great deal of use. The blue manna crabs that Mike and Jools caught at dusk in their witch’s-hat drop nets off the end of Claremont jetty ended up in the copper. So did the mussels they dived for during the baking hot afternoons of midsummer, when others were indoors beside fans praying for the arrival of the Fremantle Doctor – the welcome afternoon breeze that came in from the sea.

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The mussels, which grew in abundant clusters on the pylons of the jetty, were Jim McAllister’s personal favourite. When the children returned with their catch, he’d pour himself a glass of beer and join them, hauling a bucketload of steaming mussels from the copper and emptying them out in a heap onto the old wrought-iron table that lived in the back garden and served the specific and ingenious purpose of mussel strainer. Jim always made his own contribution to the exercise, mixing the vinegar and mussel juice in the pickling jars, and concocting a hot dipping sauce which the kids avoided like the plague. They’d sit around the table, each with a pickling jar, and Mike and Jim would do their best to ignore Jools who always insisted on chanting ‘One for me, one for the pot’, and was quick to catch her father out if he ate two in a row without contributing to his pickling jar. Not that it mattered. By the time they’d pickled and eaten their way through the first lot they were bloated, and the second bucketload from the copper was purely for pickling. The old copper had proved very efficient over the years. Maggie had gladly donated it in order to preserve her kitchen from the stench of seafood and the assault of grey gunge boiling out of huge pots over her stove. By then she’d acquired her brand new washing machine with its labour-saving hand-operated wringer, so she didn’t need the old copper. Jim McAllister was not a wealthy man. He was an agriculturalist employed by the government, and the comfortable middle-class existence he provided for his wife and children was the direct result of hard work. He’d put a deposit on the old house shortly before his marriage with a small inheritance he’d received from his grandparents, and after that it had been his own labours and Maggie’s clever budgeting that had paid it off. A stalwart member of Claremont Yacht Club and a keen

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yachtsman, Jim was also a talented carpenter, and boatbuilding had become his leisure-time passion. Alana, his pride and joy, was the result of a year’s relentless weekend labour, and he raced her regularly in the CYC meets. But, unlike many a boating man, Jim shared his yacht with his family. Alana had provided successful Christmas holidays at Rottnest Island for the past several years, despite the cramped living accommodation aboard, and her mooring at Rotto’s Thomson Bay had become the McAllisters’ annual retreat. Jim was currently applying his boat-building skills to the restoration of a dilapidated second-hand Vee Jay he’d acquired for his son. Mike would soon be twelve, and twelve was a good age for a boy to have a racing yacht. Jim and Maggie McAllister were caring parents, but they weren’t physically demonstrative. It wasn’t the nature of either to cuddle and cosset their children, and Jim could at times be a strict disciplinarian. He was rarely unfair and rarely lost his temper, but when true disobedience demanded retribution he believed in corporal punishment. That was when the slim bamboo stick, which remained threateningly on top of the wardrobe, came into play. It was pliable and whip-like, and several smart blows to the bended backside, even through clothes, delivered a hefty sting. But Jim wasn’t without a sense of humour. The day the kids nicked the stick and replaced it with the rolled-up and firmly taped newspaper that was reserved for Baxter when he was going through one of his chewing or digging phases, and which made a heck of a racket but didn’t hurt, Jim allowed himself to see the funny side. Maggie McAllister, far less conventional than her husband, had a very clearly defined sense of humour. She was not a water baby herself, and remained seated on a deckchair under a large-brimmed hat reading a book while her husband and children cavorted in the river or the sea.

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Nor was she a boating person, and steadfastly refused to adopt the jargon. ‘Port’ and ‘starboard’ remained ‘left’ and ‘right’, ‘aft’ and ‘forward’ were the ‘blunt end’ and the ‘pointy end’, and the galley, the cabin and the head were the kitchen, bedroom and toilet respectively. It became a running family gag, and Maggie enjoyed being the butt of the joke during the annual holidays at Rotto, which was the only time she ever set foot on Alana. An attractive woman, she’d been a dedicated teacher, but had given up her career to raise a family, as most of her contemporaries had done. But unlike her contemporaries, she’d returned to work when her children were both of school age. ‘Relief teaching – just three days a week,’ she’d assured her husband. Jim, a conservative man, had found his wife’s decision confronting at first, but he hadn’t stood in her way. Maggie was a clever and imaginative woman who needed mental stimulation, and he decided to ignore the odd critically raised eyebrow and admire her for her independent spirit. Maggie instilled her own form of discipline in her children by appealing to their basic common sense. ‘Wendy Halliday’s mum chops it up fine.’ Nine-year-old Jools was propped against the kitchen’s Laminex-topped island bench, chin on fists, critically watching her mother tear up the lettuce. ‘Oh dear, I suppose that makes me a bad mum.’ ‘Well, no . . .’ That hadn’t been exactly what Jools had meant. ‘It’s a pity they don’t teach you how to be a mum. I wonder if I could start taking lessons?’ ‘I just meant that –’ ‘Mind you, there are probably quite a lot of different ways to make a salad when you consider it. What do you think, Jools?’ Jools pondered the question, which had been offered in all seriousness, and, as she viewed the array of salads and

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herbs on the kitchen bench, she also pondered the options it raised. ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘I bet there’d be lots and lots of different ways.’ The quickly developing independent streak in Jools came directly from her mother. Jim McAllister’s effect upon his children, apart from his disciplinary measures, was by example. He was an accomplished man. Heralded during his university days as a sportsman, he’d retained his fitness, and at forty could defeat men half his age on a tennis court. Furthermore, he was academically respected. One of the government’s leading agriculturalists, he was currently working on the Ord River Scheme, the audacious and innovative irrigation system intended to cultivate the arid north of the state. Jim was an all-rounder, good at anything he tackled, and it rubbed off on his children. They wanted to be able to swim like Dad, and to handle a boat like Dad, and to gather mussels from down deep just like Dad did. They’d been emulating him from their earliest years. Now that Mike had turned twelve, and was about to embark the following year upon his secondary school education, he wanted more than ever to emulate his father. He wanted to do important work, work that really meant something, work like his dad did. ‘I’m going to be a scientist.’ ‘You mean space rockets and all that sort of stuff?’ Spud Farrell was impressed. It was lunchtime and, having kicked the footie around, the boys were sitting on one of the benches in the school’s gravel playground, empty lunchboxes beside them, swigging back the remnants of their milk. The miniature bottles were doled out at midday and were always lukewarm, particularly on a hot summer’s day like today. But the kids drank them uncomplainingly nonetheless.

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Claremont Primary School was a couple of blocks from the McAllister house, in Bay View Terrace, which led up the hill to the suburb’s village centre. Its location was even more convenient for Spud, who lived just around the corner in Pennell Road. The boys had been discussing their forthcoming exams. The students of sixth standard A were to sit for the Perth Modern School state-wide scholarship and entrance examinations, which were held every year. Perth Modern School, or ‘Mod’ as it was known, took the top sixty boys and top sixty girls across the state into their seventh standard. It was the beginning of secondary school and serious stuff, and the boys’ conversation had progressed to ambition. Spud’s was simple – he wanted to be rich. ‘No, not rockets,’ Mike corrected him. ‘I’m going to be a scientist, like my dad.’ ‘But your dad works for the Department of Agriculture.’ Spud’s tone was dismissive and Mike couldn’t help but register it. ‘Yeah, but he’s still a scientist,’ he protested. There was a pause. Spud’s scepticism was so obvious that Mike took offence. ‘He is so! You should do your homework, Spud,’ he said as scathingly as possible. ‘Agriculture’s a science, you know.’ ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’ Spud backed away, hands in the air in mock surrender, a look of wounded surprise on his face. ‘Strewth, I didn’t even say anything, there’s no need to jump down my throat.’ His reaction was so successfully that of the wrongfully accused that Mike felt guilty, just as Spud intended he should. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, aware that he’d over-reacted, but still smarting at Spud’s inferred slur upon his dad. ‘Cripes, Mikey, I wouldn’t say anything against your old man.’ Spud chose a different tack. ‘Your dad’s a top

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bloke.’ Manipulative as he was, Spud was genuinely keen to make amends. Mikey McAllister was his best mate – heck, they were so close that he was the only one allowed to call him Mikey, and that really meant something. ‘I only wish my old man was more like him,’ he said, and this time it wasn’t altogether an act. Not that he’d swap his old man for Mr McAllister – well, not when the old man was halfway sober, anyway – but cripes, look at what Mikey had! That great big house, holidays at Rotto on his dad’s yacht, and his old man had just given him a Vee Jay for his twelfth birthday! Whether Mr McAllister qualified as a real scientist or not – and Spud was doubtful of the fact – the bloke was one heck of a dad. ‘My old man could take a leaf out of your dad’s book,’ he added, ‘and that’s the truth.’ Spud had been two years old when his family had emigrated from Ireland and he was a dinky-di Aussie – all the Farrells were, they’d embraced citizenship and were proudly Australian – but Spud had adopted quite a few of his father’s phrases, and on occasion sounded very like Sean Farrell himself. Mike was tempted to call Spud’s bluff and tell him to stop bunging on. He admired his friend’s talent as a con man – it had got them out of trouble on many an occasion – but he didn’t like it when Spud practised his talents on him, which he suspected might be the case right now. But then he couldn’t be sure. It was often the way with Spud – it was hard to tell sometimes when he was conning and when he wasn’t, even for Mike, and they were best mates, which, he supposed, showed just how clever Spud was. But for all Spud’s cleverness, Mike sometimes felt sorry for him. Spud did it hard. An early morning paper run before school, babysitting his little sister every Saturday while his mum and his older brother and sister worked, and a dad who was drunk most of the time. Spud’s wasn’t an easy life.

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Mike decided against confrontation and changed the subject instead, reverting to their original discussion about the entrance exams. ‘So do you reckon we’ll get in?’ he asked, ignoring Spud and picking up the footie that sat on the bench beside him, bouncing it idly between his knees on the pavement. Spud, aware that he couldn’t get around Mikey as well as he could others, was grateful that he’d been let off the hook. He really hadn’t meant to insult Mikey’s dad. Heck, Mikey idolised his old man. ‘Sure we will,’ he replied with his cheekily irresistible grin. Snub-nosed, freckle-faced and ginger-haired, Spud could be very beguiling. ‘If anyone can get us through, you can bet your last quid Mr Logan can.’ Mr Logan was a sure-fire topic for conversation. The one-eyed ex-POW, survivor of Changi, the infamous Japanese prison camp in Singapore, was a hero to every boy in his class. Colin Logan made a habit of sharing his wartime experiences with his students. He’d tell his stories to each new classroom of pupils who came under his tuition. Never in a gruesome way, and nor was he boastful – his stories were often funny, invariably informative and always downright compelling. He had his pupils eating out of his hand, and he knew it. Colin Logan was a born teacher. Spud’s and Mike’s altercation was forgotten as they talked about the forthcoming exams. Mr Logan had them all fired up. ‘There’s not one among you,’ he’d assured his students of sixth standard A, and he’d taken a slight dramatic pause, ‘not one who isn’t capable of making the grade and getting into Perth Mod. It’s simply a matter of application and hard work.’ ‘I reckon he’s right, Mikey,’ Spud said, with a selfassurance he didn’t really feel. ‘Mr Logan wouldn’t try and con us.’

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Spud’s doubts were not of Mr Logan, but rather of himself. He wouldn’t be able to cheat his way through these exams as he had so often in the past, and even at his tender age he realised this was a defining moment in his life. He needed to get into Mod, it was his only chance. And he needed a full scholarship what was more, otherwise he’d be doing the paper run full-time, or working as a brickie’s labourer like his big brother Eamon. And he sure as hell didn’t want to finish up at the Swan Brewery like his dad, washing out the beer kegs and replacing the old seals with new ones. That was the end of the line in Spud’s opinion. Not that his old man thought so. Sean Farrell thought his job was the best thing since sliced bread. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? The brewery turned on free beer for its ten-minute morning and arvo smokos, and for another ten minutes at lunch break too. No wonder his old man was in seventh heaven. ‘’Tis a God-given job, Eileen,’ his dad’d say to his mum when he came home via the pub, pissed as an owl and happy as a pig in shite. ‘What other employer would so appreciate its workers?’ And then he’d regale the whole family with tales about his buddies at work and the jokes he’d heard that day, omitting the filthiest ones for the sake of the kids. Spud had to admit that although his dad was a drunk, he was always a happy one. People liked Sean Farrell, they found him funny. Spud did too. His dad was always good for a laugh, but it didn’t stop him being a loser. ‘He’s a good man, your da,’ his mother would say when she sensed her son’s disapproval. ‘He’s grand with you kids and he’s never laid a hand on me in anger. You’ve no cause for criticism, Patrick.’ She always called him Patrick when she was ticking him off and Spud hated it. ‘You could do a lot worse than your da, you know.’ Eileen herself knew only too well. Both her sisters back in the old country did it a lot worse than she did. One had

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a husband who beat her when he was on the grog, and the other had no husband at all – Seamus had run off and left Mary with four kids just a year back. Eileen sent her a bit of money every now and then, from the wages she earned cleaning the houses of the rich who lived around the bay in Peppermint Grove. The Farrells had emigrated from Ireland shortly after the war. The Australian government’s call for migrants and its ten-pound Bring Out a Briton campaign had been an offer too good to refuse for many who were feeling the hardship of post-war Britain. Sean and Eileen, together with their three children, of whom Spud was the youngest, had been housed at the migrant hostel in Bicton on Point Walter Reserve, the other side of the bay from Claremont. But when Sean had scored his job at the brewery, they’d moved across the river to the little rented cottage in Pennell Road. From there it was just a short walk up the hill to the Stirling Highway and the regular buses which, en route to the city, passed the imposing brick edifice of the Swan Brewery where it sat on the banks of the river in Crawley. Eileen had been happy with the move. She loved the cottage with its verandah and tiny front garden. She’d never had a garden before, or a verandah for that matter – they didn’t exist in the back streets of Dublin. But after Billy’s birth two years later, with their finances stretched to the limit, she’d told Sean they were to practise the rhythm method in order to avoid another pregnancy. ‘If God considers it a sin, then so be it,’ she’d said defiantly, more for her own benefit than her husband’s. Sean was a lackadaisical, if not altogether lapsed, Catholic who only went to church to keep his wife happy. Their birth-control strategy had worked for a good seven years, until 1953 when a mishap had occurred, resulting in baby Caitlin. But by that time, Eamon, the oldest of the boys, was fourteen and had left school to work for a mate of Sean’s who had

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a milk delivery truck, so there was an added income to the household. And it wouldn’t be long before twelve-year-old Maeve opted out of school. Maeve had her mind set on working in a shop. Neither Sean Farrell nor his wife had received a secondary education themselves, and although they didn’t urge their children to leave school and seek employment, they saw no problem if that was what the kids wanted. But Spud did. Spud saw a huge problem. His brother Eamon was sixteen now, a bricklayer’s apprentice with no ambition beyond being good at his job. ‘Brickies are always in demand,’ he’d boast to Spud. ‘You can earn a big quid if you’re good.’ And fifteen-year-old Maeve now served behind the counter at the Claremont newsagency. Her sole aim in life was to be a shop assistant in Boans Department Store in the city where she’d get to wear a snazzy uniform. Spud had set his sights far higher than his siblings. He was going to be rich and successful. At what, he wasn’t sure. But the way to success was through education. And the way to education was a scholarship to Perth Mod. For the first time in his short life, Spud had truly applied himself. He’d received special encouragement from Colin Logan, who believed it his duty to inspire the underprivileged to seek an education, and who secretly had a soft spot for the canny little Irish-Australian. ‘You’re a smart boy, Spud,’ he’d said. ‘You could land a full scholarship if you tried.’ A scholarship was the kid’s only option, Colin knew it. There was no way his parents could afford school fees. ‘But you’ll have to study hard. No bludging. No trying to take the easy way out.’ The one eye had flashed a distinct warning – Colin had never caught the kid openly cheating, but he’d had his doubts. ‘Yes, sir.’ And Spud had studied as hard as he knew how. ‘I dunno about the others, Mikey,’ he now said with his customary bravado, ‘but you and me, we’ll get in, no two ways about it. Like my old man says, carpe diem.’ His dad

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had picked up the expression in some pub somewhere. ‘It’s Latin,’ Sean Farrell had boasted to his son, ‘means “seize the day”,’ and Spud had adopted the expression ever since. Spud was really firing himself up more than Mikey. What did it matter if Mikey didn’t get in? Mikey didn’t need Mod, his parents could afford to send him to private school. Heck, they already had him booked into his dad’s old school, Scotch College. The only reason Mikey was sitting for the entrance exams was because his mum had gone to Mod, and his dad reckoned that she’d had a better scholastic education than he had. ‘Dad reckons Mod offers the best education in the state,’ Mikey had said. Jeez, Mikey had it easy. Spud was envious, but not bitter. It was a simple fact of life: there were the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’, and he was one of the latter. But he didn’t mind firing Mikey up. Mikey was his mate and, besides, they were always best when they worked as a team. ‘We’re winners we are, you and me,’ he said. Spud proved right about a number of things that summer. He was right about Mr Logan getting them through. Ten students from Colin Logan’s class found their way to Perth Modern School the following year. The previous record for Claremont Primary entrants had been five. The grateful students of sixth standard A, knowing their hero to be an inveterate smoker, pooled their resources and bought him a Ronson cigarette lighter, which Maggie McAllister took to the jewellers and had personally engraved. ‘I told you we were winners, Mikey,’ Spud said. He’d been right about that too. He and Mike McAllister had been amongst the ten selected. But it had been Spud who had won the full scholarship. And he hadn’t cheated once! ‘Look out, Mod, here we come,’ he crowed. Spud Farrell was on his way.

Copyright © Judy Nunn 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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5/8/11 3:48:34 PM

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