Black Water (28 page)

‘Eh, fair go, sport.’ Danny handed two bottles of beer from his coat pockets down to Robbie. ‘Have some bloody faith, mate. Now help me get into this old greyhound o’ the freggin’ seas and let’s just see what’s bloody what.’

Farren slowed the
Camille
as Andy Clouty moved the
Delia Three
up to the imaginary line that ran between the pier and the starter’s boat.

‘Another yard or two, Farren!’ Jack Haggar held a shotgun pointed to the sun. ‘That’s the way. Now, boys, hold ’em there. And…’

Boom
!

The sound of the shot rolled away like compacted thunder, scattering the applause from the crowd on the wharf.

‘
Go!
’

As Henk hauled in the mainsail and Robbie set the jib, Farren felt the
Camille
begin to pick up speed. At least they were moving.

‘See?’ Danny sat back nursing a fresh bottle of beer, the discarded empty bobbing in the
Camille
’s wake like a man lost overboard. ‘See? So
now
who’s got egg on their face, eh?’

‘I hope you are right, Danny,’ Henk said. ‘But if this one does not go well we are putting up the old sails for the race back. That is fair.’

‘Henklestein, my dear friend –’ Danny tucked the bottle into the crook of his arm, flicked up his collar, and squeezed up close to Souki who sat bundled in a new life jacket. ‘You just watch and weep, dear sir. We’re on a winner ’ere, eh, Souk? Good old Danny-boy’s kicked another
big
goal.’

‘You better have,’ Souki said quietly. ‘Or Farren’ll smash yer.’

Farren looked to windward, hoping that a gust might be about to give them a lift. Already the
Camille
was a boat length behind the
Delia Three
, the four Clouty boys and Neddy Craven shouting and waving as if the race was over.

‘Well, it
looks
good, Danny,’ Souki added, squinting upwards. ‘Like a whole lotta shark fins, eh? But God, boy, we’re already gettin’ done like a freggin’ dinner.’

Overhead the sail flogged as if it was providing its own applause. Danny hardly glanced at it.

‘Well, it
does
look good, don’t it, Souk? Sure, it mightn’t
go
too good, but it does indeedy
look
good.’ Danny gazed off down
the bay towards Melbourne. ‘My. What a beautiful day for a sail. Anyone bring any scones?’

‘
Fuck
you, Danny!’ Farren wanted to jump up and punch Danny fair in the face. ‘Dad’d rip your head off for lettin’ those bastards beat us like this. You cut that sail knowin’ it was shit. Whadda ya tryin’ to do to us, ya bloody idiot?’

‘Me?’ Danny settled further down into the boat as if he was about to take a nap. ‘Geezus, Farren, steady on, mate. I’m doin’ me best for a bloke with a severe head injury. Hey, you wanna drink, Robbie? Henky?’ He held the bottle out. ‘Thirsty work, this racin’. What with all this new-fangled gear to get a handle on an’ that.’

Farren felt as if he was about to explode. He swore through gritted teeth, using a word he’d hardly ever uttered out loud, and wished the tiller was a piece of loose timber that he could belt Danny over the head with.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Robbie shrugged and took the beer bottle from Danny. ‘One more drunken sailor can’t slow us down any further, I wouldn’t think.’

Souki, like a fat yellow grub in her bulky life jacket, stuck her hand out.

‘O’ll have some, too. Come on, Dan. I’m freggin’ thirsty and me mum can’t see me from ’ere. Come on. Hand it over.’

‘You won’t.’ Danny dug deep into a coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of sarsaparilla. ‘Here’s yours. Now, is
everybody
happy? Because from here on in, ladies and gennelmen, I intend to
enjoy
myself.’

As soon as Farren had the
Camille
alongside the Portsea pier he set to work dropping the mainsail.

‘This piece of shit’s comin’ down!’ he shouted as Danny climbed awkwardly from the boat up onto the pier. ‘And the old one’s goin’ up. So go get lost, ya bloody donkey! And don’t come back. Piss off!’

Danny managed to get up onto the pier to stand amongst the few interested onlookers, some who held morning papers, others fishing rods and handlines.

‘Don’t worry about grumpy old Captain Blood down there.’ Danny nodded at Farren who swore back at him. ‘He’s just had a dirty mornin’ out on the high seas. But anyway, folks, whadda ya think of our new rig? She a dead-
set
beaut or what?’ When no one spoke, Danny simply shrugged, and smiled. ‘I know. You’re stunned. But anyways, chaps, I must be off.’ He saluted smartly. ‘To re-negotiate a wager with some other sporting gentlemen a little way further down the dock.’

Farren watched Danny walk unsteadily towards the
Delia
Three
. If he’d had something handy to throw, he would’ve hurled it.

‘Go to the bloody pub!’ Farren yelled. ‘Go with them! Get in their boat! Don’t come back!’

‘All right, Farren,’ said Henk quietly. ‘Let’s unroll these old ones, eh? And get started.’

Farren picked up an edge of canvas and lifted. A scrap of the
Camille
’s old sail came away in his hands, revealing what had to be another set of sails, brand-new, and by the looks of things, beautifully cut. Swearing under his breath, he ran his fingers along the seams, seeing what he thought were blood spots almost every half inch. He was speechless. He felt tears jamming his eyes.

‘Geez, look at theezies.’ Souki knelt beside him, running her hands over canvas the colour of soap suds. ‘Geez,
more
newies, Farren!’ She looked at him. ‘Boy, that Danny’s a bloody smarty-pants, ain’t he? I bet we’re gunna freggin’ fly this time. These ones look real good.’

Farren stared dumbly at the new sail in the well of the boat. Henk’s face, normally as smooth and brown as a new paper bag, was bunched-up around a smile that Farren sensed was one of sheer relief.

‘My Gott.’ Henk shook his head, his crop of short grey hair catching the sun. ‘I really thought Danny had lost his mind. But of course, he ain’t. He ain’t.’

Farren wasn’t so quick to agree. ‘These ones might turn out to be bloody square,’ he said. ‘Or round.’ Along the pier he could see Danny shaking hands with the Clouty boys. ‘Who’d know what he’s thinkin’?’ he added. ‘I sure don’t.’

∗

Jack Haggar came along the wharf, the starter’s boat having just arrived from Queenscliff. The old fisherman studied the piles of sails in the
Camille
, Farren and Henk up to their hips in drifts of snowy canvas.

‘You got enough gear in there, boys?’ He laughed. ‘Looks like sail sortin’ day on the
Cutty Sark
.’ Jack scratched his nose. ‘Anyway, this time when we start, yers all simply push off, set yer sails and when I fire the gun, go like blazes for the
Bonny Belle
who’ll be standin’ off the Queenscliff pier. You got eleven minutes.’

Henk unclipped the cover of his watch.

‘You just give us the signal, Jack. We’ll be right.’

Farren caught sight of Danny limping down the pier as fast as he could go. It was obvious he’d been to the Portsea pub; the box he was carrying clinked like Christmas bells.

‘Hold on, fellers!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t go without me. I got
beer
.’

Robbie pushed the
Camille
away from the pier, the boat drifting out over deep water, her boom swinging loose, her jib slapping like a dishcloth. The
Delia Three
moved likewise, her crew poised, waiting for the gun that Jack held pointed out over the bay. Slowly Farren let the boat swing onto the course that would, he hoped, have her catch the wind as soon as Jack fired.

‘
Boom
!’

‘Bloody
go
!’ Souki yelled as seagulls went flying. Henk and Robbie began to haul in, sails filled, and the boat groaned as she tilted with the strain. ‘Let’s get them bloody Cloutys!’

The
Camille
surged as if this time she’d made her mind up not to be left behind, the
Delia Three
heeling over as if she was just as determined not to be beaten.

‘This is
better
.’ Souki stared straight ahead like a jumps jockey watching for up-coming fences. ‘Now we’re bloody goin’!’

Danny, holding a beer, lounged in his usual spot, his hat pulled tight down against the breeze that had risen sharply and now belted in hard from the south.

‘See? And youse blokes all thought I was a mental case. I told yers everything’d be orright, didn’t I? And so far, it is.’

The Clouty boys sailed so close to the
Camille
that the only thing Farren could hear was the yelling of the crews and the smacking of the hulls as they hit the swell. The
Delia Three
, her new sails curved like beautiful great kites, was sailing well but Farren knew the
Camille
was sailing better. To him it felt as if she held him cupped in wooden hands, that she was as confident as he was that she could always produce more speed than the other boat.

‘Haul the jib, Rob!’ Farren yelled. ‘When we clear the Point she’s gunna blow like hell and we’re gunna go like blazes!’

Farren could see clearly the four Clouty boys, and Ned, in their oilskins, sitting close and determined in the
Delia
, a puff of smoke from Mickey Clouty’s pipe disappearing the instant it hit the breeze. She was a nice boat, Farren thought, and when Andy Clouty, the skipper, looked over and saw Farren watching, he gave a wave which Farren returned.

‘Boy-oh-boy,’ said Danny, talking to no one in particular, ‘did I ever fix up a good bet with those jokers.’ He put an empty bottle carefully over the side as if he was releasing something alive, then
took another full one from the box. ‘We gotta win it, Farren. So do not spare the horses. These rags’ll take just about anythin’ yer can throw at ’em, b’lieve me. I sewed ’em
triple
strong.’

Farren didn’t want to know what Danny had bet with the Cloutys. There’d been more than enough money on the line before they’d lost the first race, let alone whatever Danny had put up now. He also knew that Danny was right about the sails; they were cut from the best quality canvas he’d ever seen and he guessed only something like a cyclone would blow them apart.

‘We’re gunna win,’ Souki said matter-of-factly, squeezed in between Danny and Henk. ‘Our sails is
ten
times as good as theirs. And besides,’ she added, ‘we’re the goodies, they’re bloody rat-bags, and God’ll ’elp us because Danny went to the War and none of those blokes
ever
did.’

Danny lifted his bottle of beer high.

‘Yer on the money there, Souk. Because we
are
the bloody good blokes.’ He started to cough, Farren getting a spray of warm beer full in the face. ‘And they
are
a bunch of slippery bloody snakes!

‘Wind’s backed dead south, Farren.’ Henk looked to the headlands of the Rip. ‘But even if it comes in over thirty knots, I think you give ’er everything when we clear the Point. These sails will take it.’

Farren could see the water of the Rip was streaked and troubled as if sharks thrashed there. Beyond was the ocean, black and threatening, patrolled by massive waves.

‘Yeah, she’s gunna blow, all right,’ he said. ‘Yer can feel it gettin’ ready.’

‘We’re in front, Farry!’ Robbie lifted a pale fist, a wet smile plastered across his face. ‘We’re puttin’ those chokers to the sword now!’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Danny muttered, and he did, the red label peeling off the beer bottle to hang like a bloody bandage. Then, suddenly and awkwardly, he ducked below the boom to shout. ‘Car’n you bloody Cloutys! Get goin’, you no-hopin’ bunch of bludgers! You can’t afford to lose this!

Farren could see Danny wasn’t joking. A feeling of fear, cold, heavy, and blunt, slid along his ribs. What was going on? Just what had Danny bet?

‘Eh, Danny!’ Souki poked him in the back with a finger. ‘Hey. It’s
us
who wanna win. Not bloody them! Are you freggin’ mad or somethin’?’

Farren didn’t listen to Danny’s reply; whatever had been bet had been bet, and the only way that he could guarantee it didn’t cripple the Foxes forever, was to get to Queenscliff first.

‘Don’t worry, Souk,’ Farren said. ‘We’re goin’ fine. She’s rippin’ now.’

The
Camille
leapt at the waves. From every gust of the slamming southerly she trapped power and turned it into speed. Farren could hear her humming, loaded with tension as she raced the swell, the vibrations resonating in her like music. Farren was ecstatic. This was how the boat should sail; hard and fast, heading for home, the mighty
Camille
crewed by the flying Foxes!

Suddenly Danny dropped his beer bottle and brought his hands to his face. As the bottle spewed creamy brown froth into the bottom of the boat, he moaned into his palms, every word muffled.

‘Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. What’ve I done?’

Farren didn’t know what was wrong and was too busy to ask. The
Camille
, sailing dangerously fast, needed every bit of his
attention if he was to keep her on course and not bury her bow into a wave. So Danny, he figured, would just have to deal with whatever was on his mind by himself, as Farren Fox had a boat to steer and a bloody race to win.

The wind came up the Rip as if she had the
Camille
in her sights, hitting her like a giant hammer, driving her faster still. Now she surfed, her bow pointed straight for the piles of Queenscliff pier that were gradually assembling themselves out of the distance like the black legs of some massive seaborne insect. Ahead, Farren could see the
Bonny Belle
standing off the wharf, waiting for the winning boat.

‘Oh, we’re goin’ now!’ Souki’s words were blown into scraps and her hair blew like spray. ‘I never seen a boat go like this, Farren! Geez, them sails is beaudies! Boy, we’re floggin’ them Cloutys now! C’mon, Danny. Sit up’n watch!’

Danny, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, in dirty water, had not said a word since his outburst. His face was as stricken as if he was watching someone dying. He looked at Souki but didn’t move.

‘C’mon, Dan!’ Souki patted the seat next to her. ‘Geddup ’ere! We’re slaughterin’ ’em now! We’re freggin’ flyin’!’