Peter--The Banana Incident

High in the Arctic, low mist hung over the snow-clad hills of Howlett’s Island in the Davis Strait.  But the earth on the  plain below lay exposed brown, congealed and scattered with blacks rocks that seemed surprised to be without their coat of ice and  exposed  to the light.  A tall derrick stood in the middle of this blighted area,  a wild tongue of flame licking out from the top.  On its platform  miners in hard white hats and vermillion overalls were sending a drill, which roared, deep into the ground.

Leading foreman Ray Dagworthy’s jeep bumped and jumped over the rough terrain as it made its way from the derrick towards the Radex Oil onshore depot,  a collection of fortified Portakabins surrounded by a tall  security fence lying close to the beach.

Gazing through a window of the central cabin, Survey Director Bob Newington was munching a sandwich thoughtfully and watching the progress of the jeep with more than a little concern.  He was half preparing himself for more bad news.  In all the years and all the places he had worked for Radex there’d never been on  a survey so jinxed as this. 

‘That strange kid...  The polar bears ....and those weird  walrus.”   He hadn’t dared tell HQ in Dallas.  He could  hardly believe it himself.  They  would have laughed their heads off.  “Bob’s past it”,  they’d say.... “Having delusions.  Sack him!”

“And the oil…Where was the oil?”  Bob thought.  For months they’d  been drilling for the stuff in the bay and on this damned forsaken island ...and there was nothing, nothing  worth reporting.  With a sigh, he watched the jeep enter the security yard.

Soon a knock on the door.  “Come in Ray.”  Dagworthy was a tall fellow  -  a seasoned rigger, who’d worked all over the world.  A broad-faced, pale,  bespectacled man of few words who spoke in a quiet tone in simple, direct sentences.  Now he was in front of Newington, Ray could hardly find his tongue.  With growing concern the Survey Director studied him questioningly, expecting the worst from his colleague’s hesitancy.

“What is it Ray?”

“Bob it’s...”

“Well…?”

Dagworthy’s  eyes lit up and he beamed, the dam broke and a stream of  words came tumbling out:.  “IT’S  THE  BIGGEST  STRIKE  WE’VE  EVER  MADE!  THIS  WHOLE  ISLAND’S  SITTING  ON A  WELL THE  SIZE  OF WALES!   MILLIONS OF BARRELS OF TOP-GRADE  OIL.  THE  VERY  BEST!!!!!”

For a moment  Bob Newington couldn’t believe his ears.  His face  remained frozen with concern then melted into joy and delight.  He rushed  round the table and the two men embraced like a couple of footballers who’d scored the winning goal in the  European Cup final.

As Ray Dagworthy gave more of the hard details, Bob drew a bottle of whiskey from his desk  “This calls for a celebration.  Here’s to Howlett’s Island!”

“Howlett’s Island!” echoed Dagworthy.  Their glasses clinked loudly and in their excitement they  threw back the shot in one throw.  “I’ll send the good news to  HQ in a coded message immediately,” said Bob Newington  putting down his  glass  and settling down excitedly to his computer.  “Help yourself Ray.” 

It was as he passed the whiskey bottle over that he noticed the fruit in his open lunch box.  Suddenly, he froze.  His face went red  with anger as he stared at the box.  Ray Dagworthy took the bottle and looked at him, puzzled. In a low, furious tone as though he were asking himself the question Newington said, “Who drew on my banana?”

For a moment, Ray struggled to fight down an outburst of laughter.  “Who drew on.....?” –  trying to keep a straight face, till his eye fell on that fearful Inuit symbol of a mask, drawn in black in the middle of the banana.  It was the face that  had haunted them from the very first day they had set foot  on Howlett’s Island.