Black Water (12 page)

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘But at least Johnny fixed that broken window. Still, when it’s blowin’ hard, the wind comes through that door like a cyclone.’

After a cold wet week, Farren was pleased to see that Sunday was going to be fine, although a freezing wind whipped gleefully across the water. He stood at the back step watching Hoppidy move around, her shadow beside her as she nibbled at a patch of new grass.

‘Well, after I’ve had
my
lunch,’ he told her, ‘I’ll go up and see Pricey.’ And perhaps, he thought, they’d go fishing or take the gun out or something. ‘And you can go back in yer box.’

Farren was getting used to living by himself. The O’Learys had dropped the rent to just a bob a week, and since he ate most of his meals at the pub, he was managing to save more than half his wage – which he hid in an old tea tin under his dad’s workbench. His mum had always told him to save money, and to please her as much as anything else, he saved as much as he could.

So far the ghosts had stayed away, although sometimes Farren awoke, his stomach pulsing with fear at some unexplained or unexpected noise. And when Maggie suggested he stay at her house for a night he always did, and they’d sit talking in the parlour until he
was exhausted. But later, even if he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, he did know he always felt lighter and better.

Farren saw someone come down off the bridge and start along the path. For a moment he thought it might be Robbie but just as quickly realised that it wasn’t. It was Joe bloody Clouty.

Farren waited, watching as Joe came off the track and crossed the yard, ducking under the clothesline, and calling out.

‘G’day, Farren. Cool old day.’ He stopped, stripping off dark leather gloves like a motorist after a long drive. ‘Yer doin’ all right over here on ya lonesome?’ He looked around as if he was putting a price on the place. ‘Geez, is that a bloody rabbit? Lucky I didn’t bring old Sneezer. He would’a cleaned up that little pest quick smart.’

Farren immediately wanted to pick up Hoppidy and put her in her box, but he didn’t. He tried to pretend he wasn’t worried about anything.

‘She’s tame,’ he said. ‘An’ yeah, no, I’m doin’ all right over here. I like it. No worries.’

Joe took in the state of things, which Farren knew wasn’t all that good. The wheelbarrow didn’t have a wheel, his mum’s vegetable garden had gone wild, and the woodshed door hung like a broken wing.

‘Look, Farren.’ Joe lightly slapped his gloves. ‘I won’t keep yer, but speakin’ of money, I just thought I’d tell yer that if yer ever lookin’ to sell your dad’s boat to come’n see me. You’d end up with a good few quid in the bank for a rainy day. I’ll give ya the best price in town, anyone’ll tell yer that, no trouble at all.’

Farren fiddled with his boots, knowing he had to look up. And so he did, briefly.

‘I ain’t sellin’ her. Me an’ Danny’ll fish her. When he gets home and comes right. Which shouldn’t be long. That’s what the army doctor said.’ He hadn’t, but Farren didn’t mind lying to Joe, especially when he knew they were lies that could never be checked.

‘Yeah, true,’ Joe said, casting around as if looking for somewhere to sit. ‘But if Danny’s not quite the full shiny shilling he won’t be much chop out fishin’, will he? And if the boat’s not bein’ used she’ll just rot out at the wharf.’ Joe thoughtfully rubbed his nose. ‘Besides, you gotta nice job at the pub, Farren, and you’ll want to look after yer brother properly. So maybe fishin’s not gunna be the thing for ya, after all. Perhaps it’d be just best to take the money.’

Farren knew he and Danny had been insulted, but he didn’t know how to defend himself, or what exactly the insults had been. Joe had been a fisherman once but he wasn’t one anymore. His four sons worked his boats and Joe owned some houses. Farren had heard Joe call himself a ‘mixed businessman’ down at the pub.

‘I ain’t sellin’ her,’ Farren said. ‘Me dad wouldn’t want me to,’ he added bravely. ‘Or would Danny. But if I change me mind, I’ll tell Jack, and he said he’d tell you.’ Farren was pleased with that angle. It might keep Joe even further away.

‘Have it yer own way, then.’ Joe tugged his hat down like a lid that didn’t quite fit. ‘But you just think about yer brother, orright? And if you change yer mind we’ll talk. Anyway, I’ll be off. See yer.’ And he went, ducking back under the clothesline and getting back onto the track, staying to one side to avoid the puddles.

Farren and Robbie rolled up the handlines, picked up their bag of bream, and set off around the inlet for home. Black swans and smaller waterbirds floated sleepily on the darkening water and the call of a plover, sad and wild, made Farren think of Danny. At least the other fellers in the hospital had joked around, he thought; they’d all acted like schoolkids when the nurse left the room, but not Danny. All the fun seemed to have gone out of him, or over his head. Looking at the birds, Farren thought of Isla.

He guessed she was probably in her room, in the gloomy Sunday quiet of the closed pub. He hoped she would marry Julian Derriweather. It didn’t seem good for her to be in that place seven days a week, working in the wash-house, alone and in silence all of the time.

‘Let’s go see Isla,’ he said suddenly to Robbie. ‘I dunno, maybe she can come to tea or somethin’? Be bloody lonely in the pub all the time, eh? Like, there’s only Johnny and his missus, and they go down to Geelong every Sundy.’

With a
whoosh
, Robbie hurled a stick out into the inlet. He watched the ripples widen.

‘Yep, all righty.’ He turned, smiling around a cigarette clamped in his teeth. ‘Let’s go see her. P’raps we could cook her a fish.’

The boys knocked on the pub’s back door, but no one answered. For a while they stood around stamping the mud off their boots and trying to see in through the kitchen windows.

‘We could go round the front.’ Robbie looked along the path made narrow by the spiky arms of overgrown geraniums. ‘But if only Isla’s here, she won’t hear us, will she?’

True enough, Farren thought.

‘I guess we could go’n ’ave a look through her window,’ he said, wondering if this suggestion was really all that good or proper. ‘Might be the only way we can get hold of her.’

Robbie grinned, his eyebrows roaming slyly upwards.

‘But, monsieur ’Roon, if zhe’s in ze privacy of ’er
own
room, who knows what zhe may be doing.’

Farren knew what Robbie was driving at. Perhaps it would be better just to forget the whole thing – but he knew what being lonely was like, and he knew that Isla had to be lonelier than most. Or he thought so.

‘Well, let’s just go round and see,’ he said. ‘And if we hear her or somethin’, then maybe we can wave a hanky on a stick or chuck some stones.’

Robbie grinned, freckles hopping. He slapped Farren’s arm.

‘A
hanky
on a
stick
? My God, Farren, you’re a bloody genius!’

Farren led the way around to the side of the hotel to where Isla’s one small, high window was. From it came the sound of coughing.

‘Well, it sounds like she’s home.’ Robbie looked doubtfully up at the window as the coughing went on. ‘But she sure doesn’t sound too good. If that’s her, which I’m
presuming
it is.’

‘It is.’ Farren knew it had to be. ‘She’s been crook all week. Jesus, listen to that.’ The coughing had become a drawn-out sobbing that ended in hard retching.

Robbie stepped close to the pub wall and cupped his hands.

‘Up you go, sport. If she’s that crook, maybe we might have to go and get the doctor or something.
Again
.’

With his knife, Farren prised open one of the Victory’s kitchen windows, climbed in, and dropped down onto the floor. The silence made his skin prickle. What was familiar seemed strange. The stove sat like a big, fat, silent judge and the saucepans hung like weird musical instruments waiting for an equally strange band. He let Robbie in and together they went out through the swing doors and into the chill stillness of the lounge. Isla’s coughing, muted by walls, sounded miles away.

Twisting and turning through the hotel, Farren led Robbie to Isla’s door, and stopped.

‘Go in.’ Robbie shrugged. ‘We’re here now.’

Farren went into the small room, the smell of sickness as much a memory to him as an odour. Carefully, almost tip-toeing, he went over to the low, narrow bed where Isla lay, eyes shut, one fist tightly held at her cheek. He touched her shoulder, feeling a moist chill, and saw that her lips were stained with blood and phlegm. She opened her eyes, her pupils wide and black.

‘Isla.’ He spoke even though he knew she couldn’t hear. ‘Um, we’re gunna get you the doctor, all right?’

‘You stay, ’Roon.’ Robbie spoke from the doorway. ‘I’ll go. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ And he left, Farren listening to his running footsteps until the sound of Isla’s wheezy breathing was the loudest thing he could hear.

Hesitantly Farren neatened Isla’s sheet and blankets, seeing a distant, troubled look in her eyes, as if she was fighting her sickness somewhere else other than in the room.

‘Maggie said that bloody laundry job was no good for ya,’ he muttered, then pulled over the one chair to sit on. ‘Bloody wind blowin’ through there all day. Dark and damp as a bleedin’ swamp. Pongin’ birds’ nest in the bloody rafters. Johnny should’a known better.’ Feeling cold air seeping in from the freezing hallway, Farren got up and shut the door. ‘Go, Robbie,’ he muttered, sitting again. ‘You bloody fly, mate.’

Farren, hearing footsteps, turned to see Robbie come sweeping in through the door, his face flushed, bringing cold air in with him as if it was caught in the folds of his clothes.

‘Not there.
Bloody
doctor.’ He shook his head, his cheeks pink, and carelessly pushed at his untucked shirt. ‘Not home, ’Roony. No one. Bloody dog, that’s all. Hopeless. But anyway –’ He lifted a hand, about to go on.

‘Not
there
?’ Farren swore. ‘Well, so why didn’t you get your mum or someone?’ That would’ve made sense, at least. ‘God, I mean, Robbie, what are
we
gunna do?’ He pushed the chair out of the way, back against the wall.

‘Hey, steady on, sport.’ Robbie grinned tigerishly. ‘I might not’ve got some-
one
but I did get some-
thing
. I found this on me way through the pub.’ He pulled out a small flat bottle that
Farren saw was brandy. ‘And –’ he lifted a thumb, ‘I’ve got the doc’s motor car out the back purrin’ like a beaut.’ Robbie laughed. ‘It’ll do us for an ambulance, eh? So let’s get crackin’ and get her out of here.’

Farren was stunned. Absently he took the bottle Robbie offered, took a mouthful, swallowed, and began to cough. He managed to take a breath, which felt like hot brandy-flavoured mist.

‘But where’ll we take her? I mean –’

‘Geelong hospital.’ Robbie reclaimed the bottle and hammered in the cork. ‘I’ll drive. You be nurse. C’mon, mate. No time to waste. Ally oop. Let’s get movin’.’

Robbie turned to look over into the back seat, his profile lit by the big headlamps of Dr Thomas’s car.

‘Yer right there, Sister Fox? There’ll be a few bumps gettin’ outta here but from then on she should be smooth as a baby’s bum.’ Robbie worked the gear stick, the motor car barking like a dog. ‘Oopsy. Remember the clutch, Robbie-boy, remember the clutch.’ This time he drove off, in fits and starts, towards the gate. ‘And away-ay-ay we go.’

Farren said nothing. Holding Isla upright, pillows between them, blankets over her, was about as much as he could manage. Now she coughed less, but Farren was not so sure that this was a good sign. She sat, hardly blinking, allowing everything to pass her by.

‘We’re takin’ you to hospital, Isla,’ he said. ‘Orright? To the
hospital
.’ He glanced around the car. It was like a neat, miniature room made of leather. ‘Geez, this is a good motor car, ain’t it, Rob? How’d you learn to drive it?’ Pricey’s working of the gear stick, the steering wheel, and the pedals, amazed him.

‘From a book.’ Robbie laughed, bringing the car to a sudden stop
at the crossroads, the headlamps lighting up the windows of a house opposite. ‘And from a few other slightly more
illegal
excursions.’ He turned out onto the Geelong road. ‘But I always put ’em back where I got ’em from, Farry, just like my mum always said to do.’

Farren felt the car speed up, the sensation of movement and acceleration thrilling. Houses, lit up by the car’s raw white lights, passed one after the other like turned playing cards until they were trumped by a wide paddock and then trees, their branches up like the arms of a cheering crowd.

‘How fast we goin’?’ To Farren it felt like the world was a flooding river running under the wheels. ‘Boy, we’re bloody flyin’! We must be doin’ a hundred miles an hour!’

‘Nah.’ Robbie consulted the dials that glowed green in the dashboard. ‘No. Just about forty-five. I mean, she’ll go faster but this road ain’t the best. Still, gimme half an hour, Mrs Nightingale, and I’ll have us at the front door.’

Isla coughed, the wet crackle of phlegm making Farren feel sick. He helped her spit into the towel before carefully rearranging her blankets.

‘D’you know where the hospital is?’ Farren spoke to the back of Robbie’s head. ‘It won’t be the same one as Danny’s in. That’s only for soldiers.’

Robbie sipped brandy, one hand on the wheel.

‘Gotta fair idea.’ He passed the bottle back without looking. ‘My aunt used to live next door. I doubt they’ve moved it.’

Farren took a sip and kept the bottle.

‘No more drinkin’.’ He figured that this made sense. ‘Until we get home. If we’re gunna have to explain somethin’, we better not be pissed. Ya got the cork?’

‘Spoil sport.’ Robbie handed it back. ‘Oi, oi, what have we got here?’ He reached across the dashboard and slapped a flat peaked cap on his head. ‘My word, it is indeed a doctor’s
motoring
hat. P’raps we can make a few house calls on the way home. Just to cover costs.’

Robbie drove through the dark streets, humming as he guided the car around corners, looking left and right for landmarks.

‘And around
here
we go,’ he muttered. ‘Past the church and the footy ground, and it should be
just
about –’ Robbie crested a small hill and Farren saw a building that looked like a huge house. ‘Here.’ Robbie drove into the driveway and stopped at the front double doors. ‘Brilliant, Doctor Price! Just brilliant.’ He turned to Farren. ‘And remember, ’Roony, we haven’t done anything wrong.’ He pulled on a handle. ‘Or not until we get caught.’