Black Water (2 page)

‘What d’ya think Danny’ll be doin’?’ Farren asked. ‘Like now?’

Tom Fox sat forward with his hands in a heavy, knuckly knot. Farren saw him smile, which was one reason why he’d asked the question.

‘Oh, well.’ Tom Fox breathed in and loudly out. ‘Tonight, Farren, I’d say he’s probably in a big cave down on the beach with all the other boys. Gotta nice fire goin’, their rifles stacked along the wall, the billy’s on and all of ’em are well outta harm’s way. Got a couple a blokes on guard, too, just in case. They done a good day’s work and now they’re restin’.’

Farren nodded. That sounded reasonable and it sounded good. Danny could be in a cave with all the other blokes, where he could sleep safe, then go out and fight in the morning.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘I reckon he would be.’

Tom Fox put a hefty hand on Farren’s shoulder. Farren’s dad was not tall but he was wide and heavy, with a strength that Farren had never seen defeated. His father’s wrists were so thick he kept his watch in his pocket, tired of breaking leather bands every time he lifted something heavy.

‘He’s all right, Farren.’ Tom Fox reclaimed his chipped green mug. ‘Don’t worry, mate. I think I’d know if he wasn’t.’

Farren believed that. Fishermen knew about things you couldn’t see; how wind filled sails, when and where a storm might come from, where rocks would be, and the mysterious ways of fish. His dad would know about Danny for sure. Tom Fox stood up.

‘We’ll do the dishes and hit the hay, mate. I’ll be fishin’ in the mornin’ if this weather holds. Which I expect it to.’ He smiled, the smile making its way through the creases and crags of his weather-worn face. ‘Sunday and all.’

Farren didn’t get up. ‘When can I come’n work with you? I’m gettin’ sick of the pub. Maggie’s all right but Charlotte’s drivin’ me mad. And I’m sick of peelin’ bloody potaters. That ain’t a bloke’s work.’

Tom Fox stopped short of the doorway that led into one of the other two rooms of the house. He smiled as if he felt sorry for Farren.

‘Let’s have a look at it again when Danny gets home, eh? I’m not riskin’ the both of yers at once, him away, and you out to sea.’ Tom Fox dipped his head, as if something significant had just
occurred to him. ‘Yer mother would never’ve allowed it, would she? So I can’t, either.’

Farren knew the truth of this. His mum had not wanted either him or Danny to fish on the
Camille
, even when the War wasn’t on. She’d hugged Danny so hard when he had taken a sailmaker’s job with Henk Smackmann that Danny reckoned she’d cracked his ribs. She would not have wanted Danny to join up for the war, either, but Farren knew she wouldn’t have tried to stop him. There would have been no point.

When Farren woke it was dark, his dad gone from the house, probably already on board with the silent Luther, the men checking lines and lures, the boat softly rocking as the outgoing tide slipped down the
Camille
’s clinkered sides to leave tiny whirlpools like question marks.

Thinking of the boat, Farren felt his life draw in close around him, as if he was cradled in a more secure place. She was strong, the
Camille
, built by the Johansen brothers right down there on the river; planked in pine from New Zealand and keeled with iron-bark that stood like steel. She was fast and beautiful, a good sea boat, a boat built for where she sailed – which was on the open ocean, out through the Heads, on dark and dangerous water.

The whistle of the train came to Farren, reaching across the inlet as the engine stood at the station getting steam up. It was time for him to get going, too.

Outside, the last traces of night seemed to linger under the bridge and in the furthest mud-coloured coves. Farren moved quickly, chilly but cheerful, his rabbiting bag slung over his shoulder.
Crossing the bridge he saw that the fishing fleet had gone on the tide, only two or three boats remaining, empty and forlornly tied.

Farren loved early morning. It was like watching the curtain come up on a picture show. Everything seemed new again, and even the things that usually saddened him, like Danny away and his mum gone, seemed to have not so much power when the day was just starting and full of promise.

As he walked, Farren looked into the distance, the hills empty and endless, combed by the wind, a small mob of sheep sheltering in a distant, grassy dip. A falcon, dark-shouldered and quick, flickered away. Climbing through the slack wires of De Crespigny’s fence, Farren followed a sheep track that sunk and rose with the gullies, checking his traps and snares as he went.

With cold hands he took a dead rabbit from a snare, digging the wire out of its neck with stiff fingers, thinking that maybe he’d try to bake it like his mum used to, with potatoes, pumpkin, and onions. Farren didn’t mind cooking; he was better at it than his dad, who mostly just threw chops in a pan and buttered some bread.

A hundred yards on, in an eroded gully pocked with capeweed, Farren saw he’d trapped a young rabbit. It was too small to drag the trap and sat in the sunshine, eyes dark, ears like silk, as if it was waiting patiently for him to come and finish it off. Farren walked to the burrow, knelt and pinned it, absorbing its light kicks.

‘Hullo, little feller.’ He took no notice of the broken bones of its leg. ‘Now just you hang on for a sec.’

Farren liked rabbits, and although he had killed hundreds and hundreds, he never did stop liking them. They were a nuisance and a pest, they were from another country, and they made a mess of the paddocks, but Farren liked them anyway.

‘Orright,’ he said. ‘Orright. But if you just keep kickin’ I will break your bloody neck.’ He freed the rabbit, and when it showed no inclination to escape, he cradled it, feeling its heart race. ‘A three-legged rabbit,’ he muttered. ‘You won’t do much good out here, will yer, mate? Although I could just put ya back down ya hole and see how ya go.’

It was a good little rabbit, Farren decided. The little ones were better than the big ones, in the same way lambs were better than sheep.

‘I’ll keep yer, then,’ he told it. ‘You’ll be right. Just sit in me bag for a minute while I sort me last traps and then I’ll get yer out.’

The rabbit crouched in the box, shivering in the sparse carpet of grass Farren had sprinkled for it.

‘You can stay in the sun for a minute,’ Farren said, as he carried it around to the sunny side of the shed. ‘But then you gotta go to hospital. Though that won’t take long.’

Farren rolled the chopping block out of the woodshed and into the light. Then he went back in and got the axe. Since he was five or six years old he’d both killed and cared for, with just about equal tenderness, all sorts of fish, birds, and animals.

‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘That busted leg’s gotta go.’

Outside it might’ve been winter-dark but in the Victory Hotel’s kitchen everything was steamy-bright, the electric light shining determinedly over Farren as he fed wood into the stove. On the other side of the table, Charlotte Pike got down on the floor to check a mousetrap, only to get straight back up again like a cow struggling to its feet.

‘Oh, yuk! Disgustin’!’ She scrambled around the table towards Farren. ‘Your job, Farren,’ she said decisively. ‘Yes, you get ridda that mouse. I hate mice. They’re disgustin’ bloody things.’

Farren looked up from the hot mouth of the stove. Charlotte wasn’t tall but she was solid, with roly-poly wrists and a pale face with no real prettiness to it. She had left Mr Derriweather’s classroom a year ago, six months before he had, and was always keen to assert her position of superiority.

‘Yeah, no worries. I’ll get it in a sec.’ In a way, Farren felt sorry for Charlotte. She wasn’t the liveliest girl he’d ever seen. She always dressed in dull colours and he found it hard to tell her apart from her mother from the back.

‘Make sure you wash your hands after, Farren.’ Maggie said, her face softened by rising steam as she poured tea into mugs. ‘This is the cleanest kitchen in Queenscliff.’

Charlotte nodded authoritatively. ‘Yeah, you wash your ’ands, Farren. Good
an’
proper.’

Farren took the trap outside, freed the mouse that was pinned by the neck, and slung it over the fence. Then he stood for a moment, smelling the sharpness of the sea and the fragrance of the wet paddocks, aware that the day beckoned with promises of favourable wind, tide, and weather. But finally he turned and went back into the harsh white electric light of the kitchen.

At morning tea, Farren, Maggie, and Charlotte sat at the table, the smoke of Maggie’s cigarette wafting up Farren’s nose. Between them was a plate of date loaf that Farren was devouring, helped by Charlotte, who always ate with one hand under her chin to catch crumbs.

‘Me dad says Captain Price is missin’ in action,’ Charlotte announced, and took another slice. ‘That means he’s a goner. Them Turks don’t take no prisoners. Cut yer throat as soon as look at yer.’ She chewed delicately yet efficiently, like a rabbit, Farren thought. ‘They’re savages, the bloody lot of ’em.’

Farren had gone to school with Captain Price’s son, Robbie, and had spent just about every lunch time either trying to hit him for six at cricket or out-mark him in footy. They’d shared a desk but no real friendship; the two of them shoving and muttering their way through the years until Farren had got his job at the pub and left – happy to see the back of the whole show, freckly bloody carrot-topped Robbie Price included.

Farren felt Maggie’s glance as she drew impatiently on her cigarette.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Charlotte.’ Maggie brushed ash from her lap. ‘The papers are more often wrong than not. I’d say there’s a good chance Captain Price is alive. Missing in action could mean a lot of things.’

Charlotte didn’t seem convinced.

‘Even so.’ She sat primly, hands together as if she might start praying. ‘I ’eard Mrs Price’s takin’ it real bad. Myra Dunne said she heard her wailin’ all through the night. Maybe she had a vision or somethink, because disturbed people often do, my mum says. They’ve got special sight.’

What bullshit, Farren thought.

‘Well, Mrs Price hasn’t been quite herself lately,’ Maggie said. ‘And this won’t help. Not one
effing
iota.’

Charlotte took a quick breath but said nothing about Maggie’s language.

‘I sat next to Robbie at school,’ Farren offered up, wanting Maggie to know that he didn’t think that it was interesting or funny that Pricey’s mum was mental. ‘I didn’t like him that much, because he’s a goody-goody. But I hope his dad’s all right. And his mum.’ Farren thought of Danny and felt a sharp stab in his chest. Oh God, he hoped Danny was safe ten times as much as he hoped Robbie Price’s dad was.

In the afternoon, taking out the chook scraps, Farren noticed Johnny Lansdowne-Murphy, his boss, come out of the wash-house with a girl Farren had never seen before. The girl looked older than Charlotte but younger than Maggie. She was thin, her face
was milk-pale, and her hair was black, loosely held with a royal blue ribbon. A look of relief crossed Johnny’s round red face.

‘Oi, Farren. Come over ’ere for a sec.’ Johnny waved a chubby hand. ‘Leave the bloody bucket. Magg’s chooks can wait.’

Farren was aware that the new girl watched him closely. There was something sharp and unusual about her, a bird-like brightness coupled with a poised intensity. Her hands, slender and white, she kept lightly together, pointing in Farren’s direction.

‘Now, Farren.’ Johnny stirred the air again, this time with a finger. ‘This is Isla, me niece up from town, orright? She’s gunna be doing the wash-house work from now on since Olive buggered off. But there’s a couple’a things you gotta know.’ Johnny gave Isla a hefty wink before turning back to Farren. ‘She’s deaf, mate. She can’t talk – well, she can but not much and not real well. But she’s bright enough. She writes notes. So you just help ’er out and see how you go, eh?’

The exact meaning of what Johnny had said lingered beyond Farren’s full understanding. He nodded anyway.

‘Yeah, no worries.’ He looked shyly at Isla who looked directly at him. ‘Ah, hullo,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’m –’ Farren stopped talking, his throat feeling as if it was a suddenly capped container. Now he understood.

‘Don’t worry, cobber.’ Johnny’s round face loosened into a smile, his bleary blue eyes recapturing their usual bounce. ‘We all do that. Anyway, she’ll be livin’ on the premises and workin’ in the laundry, so you’ll see her around. Maybe you can help keep the wood up to her?’ Johnny put a hand on Farren’s shoulder. ‘It’s our job to make sure she’s looked after, okey doke? Good boy. And now I’ll go and run her past Maggs. Catch yer, mate.’

‘No worries.’ Farren nodded. ‘And I’ll see yer, Isla,’ he added, ‘because I’d better go feed the –’ he felt like slapping himself.

Isla nodded generously, as if Farren’s statement was just what she had in mind.

‘Bye,’ she said, surprising him, fluttered a hand in farewell, and walked off.

Farren watched her go, her slender flat back hinting at well-worked muscles. He could see that Johnny was talking to her as he talked to just about everyone, quickly, with humour, and lots of hand-waving – not that it seemed to worry Isla, who watched his red face as closely as if it was a clock with an extra hand.

Farren liked her already.

As Farren went down the hill he saw that the fishing boats were home, masts twitching as the men off-loaded the couta, tossing them up onto the wharf like lengths of silver firewood. He could pick out his dad and Luther, men in a boat in a long line of boats, working. He’d also been working, but already he’d decided it would not be the work he was going to do for ever.

As soon as Danny was back from the War, Farren would leave the pub and go on the
Camille
, because he reckoned that was proper work: out to sea, catching fish, handling ropes, knives, hooks, and lures – and racing home flat-out, the fastest boats getting the best berths, and earning reputations known right up through town.

Farren stood on the bridge, watching the water flood slowly in over the low muddy miles of the estuary. Six hours later, after a few minutes of rest, it would flow out to sea again. It was a rhythm Farren felt deep in his body, like the coming of morning after the night. Suddenly he remembered the rabbit at home in her box, and smiled. He was glad he’d saved her. She was a good thing.