Past the Shallows (7 page)

Dad had gone up there to buy a chainsaw. He’d said that Daryl was desperate, selling everything, even his car and it was all
as cheap as you liked. And Dad had laughed about the chainsaw when they got home because he didn’t even need one. He already
owned a better one. He said he would sell Daryl’s chainsaw for twice what he paid for it.

‘Bloody fool,’ he’d said.

Harry never went anywhere near that place again. Even though they were almost neighbours. He never went anywhere near that
red metal sign on a chain that hung over the bottom of the driveway, big letters painted in white.
Private Property
.

Harry looked down at Jake. He was lying on the floor now and Harry stroked down his body, patted his warm stomach. The dog’s
eyes fell heavy and then they closed. And he was asleep just like that. Asleep with his head resting on Harry’s foot.

Jake was lucky. George had saved him.

George put his cup down on the table and stretched his arms out by his sides. Harry didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t
know how long he had been sitting there. His foot had started to go to sleep again
under Jake’s head and he lifted his leg gently off the ground. Jake woke, got to his feet. Then he curved his back into a
big stretch, yawned. He looked at Harry.

‘I’d better go,’ Harry said.

George stood up and they walked out onto the verandah. The cold air hit Harry’s face hard and he zipped up his parka. George
picked up the toolbox that was still on the verandah. He said he had to make some repairs to his jetty down the back. He said
Harry could come if he wanted.

‘I’d better go,’ Harry said again, even though he didn’t really have to. He stepped off the verandah.

But then he stopped. He turned back to George.

‘I might come back again, though,’ he said. ‘Another day.’

George nodded and Harry watched him walk away with Jake following close behind.

M
iles began hosing down the deck and ice-cold spray showered his face and hands. If it wasn’t for the ache in his ribs and
the bullet hole in the deck, he might have thought that yesterday had never happened, because everything was normal. They’d
just gone out like normal. Only Martin was gone. Only that was different.

Jeff left early as usual and Dad was in the cabin. Miles walked in as he turned the engine over. It didn’t sound good. It
spluttered and shook, had sounded like that all day. And they had hardly found anything at the Friars. The huge abs that had
been there yesterday were gone. There was nothing at Tasman Head, either. Nothing anywhere, no matter how many times Dad went
down.

‘Will we be able to go out tomorrow?’ Miles asked.

Dad didn’t answer. Miles should have backed away. He should have left Dad alone, but he didn’t. He wanted the engine to be
broken.

‘It sounds bad. The engine sounds –’

Dad slammed his hands down on the dash.

‘You think I can just pick and choose when we go out? You think I have a fucking choice?’ He turned to Miles, clenched his
fists.

‘Get out of here,’ he said.

Miles backed out of the cabin, but Dad suddenly pushed past him and jumped off the boat. Miles watched him march down the
wharf. He stopped at the ute for a minute and Miles thought that he might get in and just drive off, but he didn’t. He kept
walking. He walked across the road. He was going to the pub.

Miles stood on the deck. He wasn’t sure what to do. The boat couldn’t stay here. This spot on the wharf would be needed in
the morning for the cray boats and the night trawlers. Miles looked over to their mooring site in the middle of the bay. It
was marked by a pink buoy and the dinghy was there waiting. One of Mr Roberts’s big 40-foot dive boats,
Reef Runner II
, was pulling in nearby. He had three of them, now, all white fibreglass, clean and new. They
dwarfed Dad’s boat, made her seem more wrecked than she was, more faded.

Miles would have to move the boat himself.

He tugged on the thick rope that kept the boat secured to the wharf, but the loop of rope wouldn’t budge from the stumpy pole.
He climbed up onto the wharf, stood as close as possible to the edge and wrenched the loop free. He threw the thick rope on
deck, leapt after it, and bolted to the cabin. By the time he got the engine into drive the boat had pulled out metres from
the wharf.

But getting to the moorings was the easy part.

The dinghy was always hard to start, especially in winter. Miles pushed the prime button three times to give himself the best
chance. He pulled the cord as hard as he could and it nearly caught. Nearly. He tried again but it wasn’t close this time.
He tried five more times. Nothing. Dad usually got it on the second or third go, but after twelve attempts, Miles was panting.
And he was coughing again. Sweating.

He primed the engine again, pushing the soft button that squirted diesel around inside, and he pulled with all he had, with
his whole body. He
had
to get it started.
Had
to get it this time. But it didn’t start. He let go of the cord and coughed into
his hands. He sat down. He’d have to rest for a bit then try again.

Another dinghy started. Miles looked up and saw Mr Roberts putting in his direction. He waved and Miles waved back.

‘Jump in. We’ll tow it.’

Mr Roberts held the dinghies together while Miles hopped over. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do if he couldn’t start the
dinghy. There wasn’t much he could do.

‘Finishing up on your own today, Miles?’ he said.

‘Nah – I mean, I asked if I could do it by myself.’

Miles looked away. He was embarrassed at the lie. Mr Roberts had probably seen Dad storm off, and he knew Dad, what he was
like.

Back at the wharf Miles said goodbye, but he didn’t have anywhere to go. He walked up to the ute. It was locked. He couldn’t
even wait in the car. And he didn’t want to go into the pub. Not until he was totally desperate, anyway. Aunty Jean’s house
wasn’t too far away, but he didn’t want to go there. He didn’t want to ask her for anything. He could walk to Joe’s and see
if he was home. It was only a forty-minute walk, but if he wasn’t there he was stuck.

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

It was Mr Roberts again. He was suddenly right there behind him.

‘It’s out of your way,’ Miles said, and he covered his mouth as he started to cough again. Mr Roberts pulled something out
of his pocket. It was a packet of Butter Menthols.

‘I’ll just go and tell your dad then,’ he said.

Miles watched Mr Roberts cross the road and go into the pub. He was a tall man. He was like a bear and Dad didn’t like him
much. No one did since he’d got rich off abalone, since he’d bought three new boats and built a new house and sent his kids
to private school. But it was strange. Mr Roberts didn’t seem to care about what other people thought. He really didn’t. It
was the way he walked, the way he talked and laughed like he wasn’t scared of anything. And maybe he really wasn’t scared
of anything.

People said he’d been lucky, but Miles thought he’d been smart. He’d built up slowly so that no one even noticed. And he didn’t
sell to the cannery like everyone else. He took his catch up to Hobart where the larger abs got more money, and were snap-frozen
and sent to Asia whole, shells and all.

He’d started like all of them. He’d started back when Dad and Nick had.

Miles got in the passenger seat of Mr Roberts’s station wagon and sucked on a Butter Menthol. It was the newest, nicest car
he’d ever been in. The seats were covered in thick, soft material and the heater blew warm air as soon as they started moving.

‘Mr Roberts? I’m still a bit wet. Should I sit on a towel or something?’

Mr Roberts shook his head. He slapped his leg to show Miles that his pants were wet, too. ‘I’m always a bit damp,’ he said.
‘Anyway, call me Brian. Nobody calls me Mr Roberts except for Justin’s new headmistress. I forget her name. Cleary or something.
Real piece of work.’

Mr Roberts laughed and Miles smiled too. It was hard to imagine Justin Roberts at a private school in a uniform and wearing
a tie with that long floppy hair of his that hung down over his eyes so that you could only see his big mouth and his teeth
sticking out.

‘Is he doing all right?’ Miles asked.

‘Only thing he likes is the footy team. Good apparently. Haven’t been up to see a game, but he’ll be down here next week.
You boys should catch up for a wave.’

Miles nodded even though he knew Justin and he probably wouldn’t see each other. He hadn’t seen him
for ages, not out in the water, anyway. They used to be friends, used to surf, but that all felt like a long time ago now.
A lifetime.

Mr Roberts drove slowly, even on the straight bit of road. He kept a steady pace and his knees hugged the bottom of the steering
wheel, his hands resting loose on top. The windows were tinted, just slightly, so that the grey sky seemed to be a midnight
blue. Miles would have liked to keep on driving for a long time. To rest down against the warm seat and listen to Mr Roberts
talk. To keep on going until there was no more road.

But then he saw them, on the tight bend before the river.

Flowers tied to the tree. White lilies right there, tied to that river gum. Miles choked on his Butter Menthol. He grabbed
madly at the door, felt the car pull over, and when he got the door open, he leant over and coughed out a pool of phlegm and
spit and whatever was left of the Butter Menthol.

‘Jesus! Are you all right?’

Mr Roberts was out of the car. He’d come round and was standing on the side of the road. Miles couldn’t speak. He wiped his
mouth, sat back in his seat. He didn’t want to look at Mr Roberts, and he tried not to look outside at all, but his eyes kept
finding that tree, kept staring at the tree and at the lilies until he knew that they were real. That the flowers were really
there.

Like they had been after she died. For months and months. Fresh lilies on the tree.

Mr Roberts took his time getting back in the car and when he did he didn’t start the engine.

‘Butter Menthol went down the wrong way,’ Miles said.

Mr Roberts didn’t say anything. Not for a bit. He handed Miles a hankie.

‘I never pass here without thinking of her, you know. Not without thinking of your mum. It must have been bloody terrible.’

Miles blew his nose on the hankie. He shut his eyes.

‘I don’t really remember,’ he said.

When he opened his eyes, Miles looked at the tree again. It still had a scar, a line where the bark had never grown back.
And it was amazing that it had survived at all. They had hit it so hard.

When they pulled up the drive Miles opened the passenger door. He went to get out but Mr Roberts put his hand on his shoulder,
held him back.

‘Don’t you get stuck here with your dad,’ he said.

‘Don’t you let him … You’re too young to be out there working, Miles. It’s not right.’

Miles felt the words sink right down inside him.

‘You’ve had it rough enough,’ he said.

And he let Miles go.

T
he Milo had to last for ages. A month. But Miles looked bad. He looked tired, still coughing all the time and even though
milk wasn’t good for a cold, that’s what Aunty Jean said anyway, there wasn’t anything else. Harry wanted to make Miles the
best hot Milo ever and it was still early and they could watch the afternoon cartoons and put the fire on.

He heaped four tablespoons of Milo into Miles’s cup and the hot milk went dark brown. He sprinkled more Milo on the top, just
a bit, and it looked good. It smelled good. But when he took the cup over, Miles’s eyes were closed. He was already asleep,
his head leaning back, resting on the top of the couch.

Harry sat down beside him holding the Milo.

‘Miles?’ he said quietly. ‘Miles?’

But he didn’t wake up.