By Mike Fox
‘Isn’t that a rip tide?’
Clive Carey released his grip on the thwart which bore his weight and pointed towards a fierce-looking swell. Jimmy Cross, boatman, or self-described ‘coastal pilot’, continued to pull on his oars.
‘Just a bit of turbulence, Mr Clive. Nothing to fret about. I could traverse this stretch in my sleep. Probably have.’
Clive Carey refreshed his grip and set his jaw. He reminded himself that Jimmy Cross had been recommended by someone who might be deemed an expert. Clearly neither man was without fortitude, but one had a distinct preference for dry land.
In fact, apart from the spring breeze, the sky was unclouded, the weather gentle. As could be hoped, visibility was good, and Cape du Couedic lighthouse already apparent, tapering elegantly toward the bulbous cupola that crowned its lantern room. Clive Carey focussed his gaze on it, and returned his thoughts to the letter tucked in his pocket.
‘I have been on the sick list for a fortnight, thought my number had been called. These isolated places are not for sick people, £41 to get a Dr from Kingscote. An abscess was bearing on the bladder, but the Dr just managed to reach the abscess with HER knife. (Lady doctor) All A1 now.’
Not having anticipated such intimacy in a first correspondence, Clive Carey wondered what manner of human wreckage he was about to spend the week with. In fact, when the dinghy reached the sparse sands of the southwest cove, the man who stood awaiting him defied all preconception. Short, stocky, spry and upright, George Pattison looked both kempt and robust, wading into the spume and hauling the dinghy onto the beach as if it was made of balsa. He held the bow steady while both men disembarked before patting the shoulder of Jimmy Cross then extending his hand to his esteemed visitor.
‘Mr Carey, I take it? Welcome to Kangaroo Island.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pattison. Very good of you to spare me your time.’
The two men smiled at one another, George Pattison’s gaze both steady and enquiring. He noted the distinguished, aquiline features of his guest, the suggestion of military service in his bearing. Simultaneously, Clive Carey, drawing upon means of assessment learnt in more taxing circumstances, scrutinised the lighthouse keeper and was pleased with what he saw.
‘I’ll be getting back while the tides are in my favour,’ Jimmy Cross broke in. ‘I’ll come again this time next week. If you’d be so good as to give me a shove.’
He climbed easily into his boat and gripped the oars with corded forearms, while both passenger and lighthouse keeper pressed the small vessel back into the water. Having waved it off, George Pattison turned to his new companion.
‘Let me take some of your things, Mr Carey.’
He picked up a broad leather portmanteau initialled CC, while Clive Carey strapped on his rucksack, shook its contents level, and took a moment to scan his surroundings. As they climbed the slope that rose from the beach, a small cottage, built from the same stone as the lighthouse, came into view.
‘It’s not a palace, but it will stand anything the sea throws at it,’ George Pattison explained, his manner suddenly confidential.
*
‘“Have you got any brandy? Then take a swig and pull down your trousers.” That was all she said to me, Clive.’
It was later that evening, and over supper George Pattison was sharing the circumstances of his operation.
‘And you’re fully recovered, George?’ As a ward orderly, not to say major, Clive had witnessed plenty of off-the-peg surgery in Normandy. His solicitude hid a certain relief that the precious songs he had come for had survived along with their singer.
‘Never better. She stitched me up and that was it.’
The sea being calm and the heavens clear, George was allowing himself to relax. He had settled his guest in the room with a view of the Southern Ocean, and Clive’s luggage had included a companionable bottle of single malt. Clive reached now to replenish both glasses.
‘Yours is a singular occupation, George. May I ask how you came to be here?’
George swirled the whisky in his glass.
‘My boys grew up and all of a sudden I was under my wife’s feet. She saw an advert in the paper and noticed the job came with a pension – she’s a forward thinker you might say. I can manage here, she told me, and they’re bound to give you plenty of leave. So I took the hint and applied. Never thought I’d get it though. When the letter came offering me an interview you could have struck me down with a feather. And when I went to the Marine Board Offices the panel didn’t even want to talk about my apprenticeship. “Engineers are ten a penny,” they said. “We want a man who can make of fist of keeping himself company for months on end. The supply boat will come every quarter, weather allowing, and apart from that you’ll have the place to yourself.”’
‘No-one can say they weren’t to the point,’ Clive observed.
‘True enough. And after that they even got poetic. Your duties will give shape to your days, they said – cyclical maintenance of the lighthouse mechanisms and fabric. You’ll be in charge of a beam with the power of thirty-thousand candles, enough to light every church in the country. It has a reach of twenty-three nautical miles – further than eyesight and almost as far as imagination. Your task will be to foster that beam of light.’
‘I’d say by that point the job was yours,’ Clive commented drily.
‘That was the conclusion I came to. Turns out I was the only candidate.’
*
It could be said that George Pattison’s wife was not the only forward thinker. Immediately Clive Carey’s request had been delivered to her and sent on via the steamer, George had replied before the ship had a chance to leave the jetty. His response had been brief.
‘Say yes and find out everything you can. Your loving husband, George.’
Now, having settled his guest, lit the lighthouse lamp, and wound the clockwork mechanism that caused it to flash and rotate, he descended the spiral steps of the tower and took to his bed to re-read what information his resourceful spouse had come up with.
‘A lightish baritone of modest volume but unusual expressiveness. As accomplished as he undoubtedly is, in his mode of performance one senses the eager child who’d sung at school assembly and found it fun.’ So quoth the Adelaide News, according to Mrs Pattison.
‘He’s the teacher of singing at the Conservatorium,’ her letter continued, ‘and he’s been on tour with Nelly Melba! He sings a lot of old lute stuff, but he’s learned some shanties from a cattle ship on the Albert Docks back in England. The Conservatorium folk think he’s a great gain to the musical life of Adelaide. Better get practicing George!’
George, in fact, had been practising. Upon arriving on Cape du Couedic, he’d found himself the inheritor of a somewhat asthmatic harmonium, so in recent weeks had taken the trouble to ensure that he was at least singing at concert pitch. He began to run through some shanties in his head, and was soon fast asleep.
*
There was something church-like in the high sandstone tower, Clive thought: the exterior adhering to tradition, the interior groping for modernity. Both men had woken early, and George had offered a tour of the lighthouse before breakfast.
‘It’s the same thing every day. Clive.’
They were climbing the eighty winding steps, and as he spoke George trailed a cloth along the brass handrail to ward off tarnish. Above them a revolving white light flashed every thirty seconds.
‘Funny thing is I never tire of it. Excuse me a moment.’
They had reached the lantern room and, pulling a bucket and chamois from a cupboard, he spent a few minutes sluicing the panes.
A job that would take most a good hour, Clive thought, admiring his companion’s practised movements.
‘Water laced with vinegar – nothing like it,’ George confided over his shoulder. ‘One day inside, next day out.’
Having satisfied himself, he produced an oil can and set about applying lubricant to various mechanisms, the process so sequential it spoke to Clive of ritual. Perhaps George picked up the thought, because he stopped for a moment to explain.
‘I always stick to an identical pattern. That way your body remembers even if you don’t.’
Duties accomplished, he beckoned Clive to join him on the shallow balcony, where the ocean spread before them, sparkling and tranquil in the morning sun. The two men stood looking out, instinctively silent, with only the waves and seabirds to lend sound to the moment.
*
Back in the cottage, breakfast was proving a leisurely experience, and Clive quelled a growing impatience. Time, as he supposed might be expected, was a slower phenomenon on Kangaroo Island. A treasured week of learning lay ahead, and he was eager to commence. Observing his guest was starting to fidget, George rose to clear the plates, but as he did so a series of dull thuds sounded on the thick oak panelling of the door.
‘That will be Bluey,’ he explained.
‘Bluey?’ Clive queried.
‘I’ll introduce you.’
George opened the door and a small kangaroo with a bandaged foot hopped into the kitchen. George filled a bowl with leaves from a colander, spread them with what looked like oatmeal, and placed the concoction on the floor. He stooped to stroke the animal as it ate.
‘I found him in a trap, poor little bugger. The last bloke left traps everywhere. I got him out and fed him up, and now he seems to think I’m his dad.’
‘So I see.’
Clive committed the scene to memory. As a song recital veteran he’d seen more than one arid performance redeemed by a well-timed anecdote.
‘He can get all he needs outside, but he doesn’t like to dine alone.’
Clive nodded thoughtfully.
‘Camaraderie can take many forms,’ he murmured, not necessarily thinking of Bluey, or indeed George.
*
‘I’ll give us middle C to start us off.’
George stepped over to the harmonium and placed a definite finger on the note in question. Clive, appreciating the gesture, forbore to mention that he could produce middle C on request since the age of nine. This, after all, was the moment. As a man who’d been known to describe music as his first language, it was impossible not to feel a thrill. What he envisaged now was more than a simple committing to memory, it was the sharing of a lineage: songs honed by the fact of being sung, each the survivor of time’s erosion. Sharp, Holst, Vaughan-Williams, that queer fellow Grainger, roving the countryside on bike or foot in search of ‘the gifted primitive makers of folksong’, intent on the guardianship of a precious oral tradition. To resume one’s place amongst such company…
George, meanwhile, looking purposeful, moved a chair and sat directly opposite him.
‘I haven’t written anything down, Clive – do you want to take notes?’
Clive inclined his head. It was almost a bow.
‘Please sing, George, simply that.’
‘Right you are.’
George sat upright and, looking his visitor in the eye, stamped his heel in a set rhythm and commenced.
‘In Amsterdam where dwelt a maid
Ask well what I do say
In Amsterdam there dwelt a maid
And she was mistress of her trade
I’ll go no more a roving with you fair maid.’
A-roving, a-roving, since roving’s been my ruin
I’ll go no more a roving with you fair maid.’
George’s voice was clear and artless, his face suddenly impish, and it would be fair to say that several things were happening to Clive at once. Though not religious, he was thanking whatever gods might hover above Kangaroo Island for providing this moment. Simultaneously, he was imagining the shanty sung, with brio and nuance, in a concert hall to pianoforte accompaniment. And, far from least, he was experiencing an atavistic urge to join George and every seaman who had ever felt compelled to bellow out the chorus. After the third verse he succumbed, slapping his thigh, as a very old magic tangled with the morning light of the room.
*
‘I think they’d all have been sung in unison, Clive. No harmonies for a shanty as far as I know.’
‘Indeed, George. That’s my understanding too.’
It was early afternoon and, after lunch, not to mention two strenuous hours of modulated vociferation, the men had gone out in broad rimmed hats to tramp the coastal path. George cleared his throat.
‘I’m a bit hoarse after all that. Haven’t sung so much since I was a kid.’
Clive smiled at him amiably, all formality between them now gone.
‘I may be able to help you there. In its essence the voice is a mechanism. I’d be happy to pass on a few tricks.’
‘I’d be glad of that, Clive. Singing to the night sky keeps me going when the days get short.’
They walked on in easy silence. Clive, gregarious since a toddler, wondered about his new friend who, despite his circumstances, did not give the impression of an innately solitary man.
At length a shape formed on the horizon. George saw it caught Clive’s attention.
‘Cargo ship,’ he explained. ‘Going to London that far out. Probably wool at this time of year.’
The shape fluctuated in the haze.
‘Have you ever had to pull crewmen out of the soup?’ Clive enquired.
George stroked his chin reflectively.
‘Once or twice, when they’ve got close enough to reach by boat. Show me a mariner that can swim. They don’t learn, silly buggers.’
There was a pause while Clive continued to look out to sea.
‘Sometimes one faces danger by ignoring it.’
George noticed the quietness with which his guest spoke, and that he chose not to elaborate.
*
Oh Sally Brown I love your daughter
Weigh ho! Roll and go
I’ll sail to her across the water
I’ll spend my money on Sally Brown
Sally Brown was a Creole lady
Weigh ho! Roll and go
She lived by palm trees tall and shady
I’ll spend my money on Sally Brown
Clive treadled the wheezy harmonium while George beat out a rhythm with tablespoons. The week was passing quickly, the transcriptions accumulating, the small cottage transformed into a vessel of joy. Annotation had become essential, George’s store of shanties, not to mention variants, having proved so extensive. Even Clive’s chorister-trained memory couldn’t cope.
And what songs they were. Virile songs of male companionship, of lost love requited in memory, of droll encounters in distant ports: each vigorous, forthright and age-hardened, each with its own core of truth. This was the bounty of Kangaroo Island.
*
‘Just hum, or make a musical sound, George.’
George hummed obediently.
‘Good. Now try that again, but as you exhale, retain the height of your sternum, in order that your chest doesn’t collapse as you produce the note.’
Clive placed a hand on his own ribcage and let out a sound to demonstrate. George, astonished by its clarity, tried to copy.
‘No need to hold yourself too rigidly, it’s important to keep your abdomen
soft. Chest high, belly relaxed.’
George tried again, and a purer, more sustained tone emerged.
‘Excellent. That might be the clearest note you’ve ever produced.’
‘Reckon it was, Clive.’
George had the bemused expression of a man who had taken himself by surprise. Clive grinned at him.
‘The next stage is to maintain the width of your back.’
Clive stood behind his pupil and placed his palms upon his shoulder blades.
‘Now sing a line or so from one of the shanties, any one you like.’
George, sternum high, gut unclenched, set out to oblige.
Oh whisky is the life of man!
Whisky Johnny, whisky Johnny
Whisky is the life of man
It’s whisky for me Johnny!
As he sang, George sensed the encouragement of Clive’s hands, and his back, already broad, kept its breadth. Gradually, as the lesson progressed, such disciplines became doable, then almost natural. He began to enter a mindset he would later be unable to describe. Undoubtedly, with repetition, something more than singing was happening. It was as though the new purity of his voice plucked burdens from his spirit. Clive observed, but said nothing. He had seen this happen before.
*
Their final night had arrived. Clive and George sat on the stone veranda, sharing a herbal concoction of uncertain proof, which George had produced with a flourish.
‘My nan kept a still, and I got her recipes,’ he’d explained.
Two hundred yards away waves lapped mildly at the sands of Kangaroo Island, and not even the prospect of another boat trip with Jimmy Cross could disturb Clive’s equanimity. Perhaps the two men, outwardly so dissimilar, found themselves united by a certain buoyancy of temperament. Their generation, after all, knew much about survival, despite showing little wish to talk about it.
George, for the first time, had lit a pipe, Clive having declined the offer of a spare. He tamped a mix into the bowl with his thumb.
‘Not quite Capstan Blue, but it does the job,’ he explained.
Clive made a mental note. A hamper of non-perishables, several ounces of plug tobacco, and a case of very drinkable claret would arrive at Kangaroo Island on the next scheduled steamer.
High to their right, the lantern rotated and flashed, flinging its beam towards the horizon. Both men looked out at the blistered stars hanging above the ocean. They glanced at one another, and, with a slight nod from George, took to their feet in readiness, to sing the songs they both now knew, together, in unison.
Mike Fox
– May 2026
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Printed with permission of the author.
The Composer
Clive Carey
Clive Carey (1883-1968), baritone, opera producer, composer, and folk song collector.
Francis Clive Savill Carey was born into an artistic and talented family at Sible Hedingham in Essex. He was educated at King’s College choir school, Sherborne School, and at Clare College, Cambridge, where he studied as an Organ Scholar and gained his MusB in 1906. He was also Grove scholar at the Royal College of Music.
Read more about his life and work ENGLISH FOLK AND DANCE SOCIETY
THE AUTHOR
Mike Fox
Recently published by Ballerini Book Press, Mike Fox is known for his formidable award-winning short stories. Discover more on his Author page