Black Water (5 page)

‘Oh,
Jesus
,’ he said, and felt that he might faint.

‘I couldn’t lift her.’ Robbie’s face was pasty white in the lamplight. ‘But together I reckon we could. But, you know, she ain’t light.’

Farren was ashamed for being so weak. He was used to the sight and feel of blood – rabbit and fish blood, admittedly – but it wasn’t as if Mrs Price was dead or anything. Her eyes were wide open, she blinked, and the one hand that wasn’t trapped against the wall she moved gently across her forehead, as if trying to find the cause for all the trouble and mess. He could hear her breathing quickly, like an injured animal. Farren felt himself come to his senses.

‘You behind, me at the side,’ he said. ‘And maybe if we can get her sittin’ up then she might try and stand. Then she can go on to the bed. If you don’t mind the blood an’ that.’

‘No. Yeah, all right. Good idea.’ Robbie waited for Farren to get set and they managed, without much difficulty, to get Mrs Price to sit up. Farren was surprised at how heavy she was, her back loose, as if it was broken.

‘Now maybe we get under her arms and you say for her to stand.’ Farren nodded, as if giving Robbie a ready-set-go. ‘Come on.’ Farren moved his hands into the soft cavity of Mrs Price’s armpit, her dress bunched in his grip.

‘Stand up, Mum,’ Robbie said firmly. ‘Come on. Stand. Then you can lie on the bed. Up you get.’ He lifted firmly. ‘Come on.’

Mrs Price nodded and put her arms out, her fingers curling as she brought her legs back in under herself. Farren felt her ribs move as she took a breath.

‘Yes, I will, Robert. I shall try. Why don’t you go and get your father? You boys are just too small. I’d prefer that –’

Robbie looked at Farren. ‘You right?
Lift
.’

Farren matched Robbie’s effort, Mrs Price rising unsteadily between them, her dress sticking wetly to her front, the blood-soaked fabric clammy under Farren’s fingers.

‘On the bed, Mum.’ Robbie steered her onto the bed, and with Farren’s help managed to get her to lie against the pillows. ‘Good. Just rest there while I go and get a towel. Wait here, Farren, all right? I’ll only be a sec.’

Farren waited, standing by the bed in case Mrs Price might topple sideways but she didn’t move, her blood-stained hands folded in her lap, her eyes focused on some point high on the opposite wall.

‘Oh, dear.’ Her gaze didn’t move from the point she found so interesting. ‘When do you think it might all end, Robert? When might I not suffer so?’

Farren wondered how, or if, he should answer. He felt very sorry for Mrs Price. She looked quite badly hurt, blood was everywhere, and she sounded lonely and sad and upset.

‘Everything’ll be all right soon.’ Farren tried to finish his words like Robbie did. ‘Very soon. It will be. All right.’

Mrs Price gave the smallest of nods, a braid of her usually tightly coiled hair falling forward onto her blouse, the tip of it like a fine paintbrush dipped in blood.

‘I hope you’re right, Robbie. It would be such a relief if that were so.’

After Doctor Thomas had left and Mrs Price was asleep, her forehead blackly stitched, the boys sat at the kitchen table with bottles of beer Robbie had taken from a low cupboard.

‘Well.’ Robbie, his right elbow propped on the table, was about to drink. ‘I dunno about you, ’Roon, but that was one little episode I could’ve done without.’

‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ Farren drank as Robbie was drinking; straight from the bottle, the beer tangy and bitter, with a taste that reminded him of the pub and, somehow, of paddocks. The effect of it rose in his head, but not enough to worry him. ‘Be better if your dad was here,’ he added. ‘To help you an’ that.’ The beer freed his thoughts. ‘Anyway, she should be fine now. Now that the doctor’s been.’

Robbie clinked bottles with Farren.

‘Oh, aye, captain. You’re not talkin’ any bullshit there.’

‘So what d’ you think of Isla?’ Farren asked. ‘The deaf sheila from the pub. She’s funny, eh? Like, she’s only been here a month but she’s always pullin’ me leg. I like her.’ Farren thought of Isla’s face, lovely but lined already from work. ‘Pity she’s gotta work in that bloody laundry. It’s a hole. But she never complains.’

‘Yeah, she’s an interesting one.’ Robbie tilted his beer, checking the level. ‘I think old Derry’s quite keen on her. And good luck to him.’ Robbie prepared to drink. ‘Here’s to Mr D, bird watcher, army dodger, and to Isla the smiler. For they are jolly good fellows.’

‘And so say all of us,’ said Farren, because he thought Mr Derriweather was a good bloke. ‘And remember, Robbie, he did try and join up. He did.’

‘Just about, anyway.’ Robbie drank, bubbles rising. ‘Although a miss is as good as a mile.’

Early on Sunday morning, Farren and his father went to the wharf, where the
Camille
was tied. Farren carried an old Gladstone bag that held their lunch and two flasks of tea. Tom Fox carried a hessian sack of bait and bits and pieces for the boat.

‘Not a bad bloody day,’ Farren’s dad said as they walked by boats that Farren knew by name and by reputation as being either fast or slow, or good, bad, or indifferent sea boats. ‘For a bit of a fish out on the old blue bay.’

Farren was both relieved and disappointed they would not be going out through the Heads after barracouta. Sailing the
Camille
out onto Bass Strait was the most frightening and exhilarating thing he’d ever done – but he knew better than to question his father’s decision about where they were to fish.

While his dad stopped to talk, Farren climbed down into the
Camille
, and set to work stowing gear and bailing out a few cupfuls of water with a jam tin on a string. Being in the boat brought him a sense of comfort and belonging he couldn’t describe or understand. Just listening to the water on her hull, smelling her
sea smells, and feeling the motion of her, even when she was tied, thrilled him.

Farren felt important on the boat. His father was on the wharf, but here he was single-handedly getting the
Camille
sea-ready, knowing what had to be done and how to do it. It was as if his father had acknowledged that although he was not a fisherman yet, he was certainly good enough to be one some day.

Farren also knew his dad was not to be hurried, so with a rag he set to work scrubbing dried blood and scales off the woodwork. He thought of his mother – but that only troubled him so he thought of Danny, because Danny was
alive,
and then he thought about Robbie and Robbie’s old man, and how he was missing, and he thought about Mrs Price, who certainly was highly-strung and a bit strange, although Farren still liked her because he felt she was friendly and understanding.

All families had their problems, Farren decided. Or all the ones he knew did. Shaking the rag overboard, he saw that quite a few waterbirds dotted the estuary like a collection of neat, black ornaments. And on the far shore he saw two people watching them, a man pointing, a girl trying to see what he was pointing at. It was Isla and Mr Derriweather.

Farren knew Isla liked the birds. He had seen her watching them in the shallows of the estuary from the broken window in the wash-house. Once he had heard her laughing, her voice breathy and strange, as black swans, ducks, coots and grebes all fussed and muddled together, as if they didn’t know they were any different at all.

Most people didn’t even
see
the birds, Farren reckoned. Maybe they could see the swans, he thought, and seagulls, because
everybody could see them. But they didn’t see the little ones; like the terns and the sandpipers; or hear the plovers, or know about the curlews or the hawks and falcons. And hardly any people knew where these birds came from or went to – well, Farren didn’t know exactly, either, but at least he knew they did come and go from somewhere. He looked up as his dad got down into the boat.

‘Good job, mate.’ Tom Fox looked around the
Camille
, a half-smile softening the hard lines of his face. ‘So if yer right, let’s be off.’

Farren handled the jib, letting the small foresail in or out in response to the slightest change in course or wind. The
Camille
was a fast boat, and he reckoned when Danny got home and cut her some new sails, she’d be even faster.

‘Jeez, you’ll wear yourself out, sport,’ his dad said. ‘You’re like a bloke racin’ for a thousand quid.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, I’ve lined up me marks and I reckon this’ll about do her, so let’s get into action.’

Tom Fox put the yacht up into the wind, the
Camille
taking up the gentle rhythm of the waves as if she was preparing herself to wait. Handlines were baited and cast, Farren waiting impatiently for the first bite, imagining schools of snapper cutting past the hanging hooks. They were tremendous fish, snapper; the fully-grown ones had bulging foreheads and tapered, powerful bodies armoured with scales and spikes. Some were so heavy he didn’t know how they could swim, yet the small ones were rose-pink with tiny scales, delicate and timid like pets.

Without warning Farren’s line jerked, smacking his wrist hard down onto the
Camille
’s timber combing. With both hands Farren started to haul, the fish an invisible zig-zagging force that seemed
as intent on dragging him into the water as he was of dragging it into the boat.

‘That’s the way,’ Tom Fox said mildly. ‘Don’t give the bugger an inch.’

Farren battled with all his strength, a primitive power flowing through locked muscles and flexing bones. Already he loved this massive old snapper; because if he could land it, it would show his dad that not only could he fish, but he also had the luck to fish.

With elbows locked Farren let the snapper hammer back and forth until its energy began to fade. Now he was able to slowly pull it up through the fathoms, pull it further and further away from its mysterious place of weed, reef, current and rock, to show as a rich silver flash in water the colour of emerald.

‘Come
on
,’ Farren grunted, as the flash became a solid steely wedge that turned into a fish almost as long as his arm. ‘In ya come.’ The fish, thick-lipped and big-eyed, broke the surface, fins flaring. Farren dumped it into the bottom of the boat where it slapped and struggled. ‘Gotcha!’

Tom Fox let Farren take the tiller and steer the
Camille
for the estuary. At their feet the snapper slid and bumped like a haul of stolen silver, and the flathead, like big sand-coloured lizards, seemed to lie in ambush, their olive-coloured eyes upturned. Ahead, Farren could see the inlet, the dark stone column of the Queenscliff lighthouse and above, flying in formation, lines of strange spear-like clouds that had brought a sharp south-westerly wind.

‘Ice clouds maybe,’ Tom Fox said. ‘Funny old things, anyway. Still, a nice little breeze for the way home.’

The wind was blowing hard and the mainsail, as tall as a house,
drove the
Camille
into the waves. Farren grinned into the freezing spray, knowing that this was what fishing was, and that it could get a hell of a lot tougher, rougher, colder, and more dangerous than this.

With the town in sight he rehearsed in his head what he would tell Pricey and Maggie about the fish, and he would talk to Isla about the birds, too. Thinking about this, about what lay ahead, made him feel good – bigger and older, and more capable than he ever had – but when he looked out to sea, the sight of the broken water of the Rip lowered his mood in an instant. He could sense the danger, the treachery of the place, and at the same time he could also feel a sense of longing and belonging. And that was why he wanted to go there.

On Monday morning, with rain spattering against the pub windows, Farren was quite content to be in the kitchen with Maggie and Charlotte. He knew, because he’d looked on the way to work, that most of the fishing fleet remained at the wharf, drained of colour and substance, masts standing resolute and bare, rocking in the wind and rain. The
Camille
, he’d seen, was not one of them. She’d sailed for the Rip.

Again, at nine o’clock, Farren had walked out onto the road, hoping that his dad might’ve turned around after having second thoughts about the weather, but there was no sign of him, Luther, or the boat. Less happy now, Farren had returned to the kitchen to finish washing the last few breakfast plates, leaving them to dry in the dish rack, and tried not to think of the rising wind.

Charlotte came around the table, hunch-backed as she dragged a sack of potatoes. Her brown hair was up in a bun, Farren thinking that she was trying to look like Maggie, or more grown-up at least – and sound more grown-up, using words that he didn’t reckon she even knew the meaning of.

‘So you’re associatin’ with Robert Price now?’ She dumped the potatoes at Farren’s feet. ‘I saw yers on Sat’dee. An’ I heard Mrs Price had a turn on Sat’dee night. An’ that the doctor was called and everythin’.’

Farren saw Maggie glance over as she grated cheese, but she said nothing.

‘So?’ Farren took out a double handful of potatoes and put them down on a sheet of old newspaper. Later he’d ask Maggie if he could have the sack, as it was a good strong one, not too big, with
Bungaree Fine Potatoes
printed on it in blue and red. ‘We go ter cadets.’

Charlotte made a show of washing her hands, drying each chubby finger carefully on her apron. Farren saw she wore a couple of small, cheap rings, perhaps trying to look as if she was engaged, or at least had a bloke, which he severely doubted.

‘You didn’t like ’im much at school.’ She stood closer than Farren would’ve liked. ‘So what’s changed, eh? I heard you were at his house when his mum was goin’ mad. Joy Pleasance said there was blood right through the joint. She said that it was like some sort’a catastrophe ’ad hit.’

Farren picked up a potato, dark brown Bungaree dirt clinging, the smell of it cool, damp, and pleasant.

‘How would she know?’ He went to work with his favourite peeler. ‘She doesn’t live within cooee of the joint. And anyway, Mrs Price didn’t go mad at all. She only cut her ’ead and felt sick. Mrs bloody Pleasance is full of it.’ He thought about drinking beer with Robbie after and grinned, not at Charlotte, but at the potato. ‘Robbie’s a good feller,’ he added, rubbing it in that he was friends with a kid from the top end of town. ‘We’re mates.’