Black Water (3 page)

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By the time his dad was home, Farren had lit the stove and the lamps and was heating up the leftover roast Maggie had given him. It smelled good and when he’d doled it out onto the plates, potatoes, pumpkin, and cauliflower steaming, he was so hungry his hands were shaking.

‘Geez, what a bloody good cook you are.’ Tom Fox held a knife and fork in fists that smelled of soap. ‘Your mother’d be proud. But p’raps not quite so happy about a bloody rabbit in the parlour.’

Farren flinched, as he did every time his mother was mentioned. He did not ever talk about her if he could help it. He had never said her name out loud since she had died, and each time he said the word, ‘mum’, he felt a choking in his throat and a flat, hard feeling in his head.

‘She wouldn’t mind.’ He knew she would have. ‘Not just while its leg fixes up.’

His dad shoofed air out of his nose, Farren knowing this was a laugh, or at least it wasn’t trouble. Tom Fox wiped his plate with a folded slice of bread.

‘Yeah, well, I’ll give yer the benefit of the doubt on that one.’

Farren collected the plates, smelling the clean dishcloth that he’d hung close to the stove. It was one of his mother’s smells; like the smell of baking, or hot water softened with Sunlight soap. He had to push himself to keep going, think of other things.

‘The wind’s come up.’ He listened as it pressed against the windows. ‘You might not go out tomorrer.’

Tom Fox took a hand-rolled cigarette from a worn tin.

‘It is lifting, that’s for sure.’ He struck a match. ‘So. How’s the pub?’ He leaned back and drew in smoke. ‘Yer gettin’ along with
silly old Charlotte? Yer gotta try, mate. She probably keeps that family together, that kid.’

Farren put the plates in the trough and got the kettle. Charlotte’s father, Clem, was a bludger, the eight Pikes living in an unpainted cottage that would’ve fallen over, except that it leaned tiredly against a tree. Farren knew his dad was right. Charlotte didn’t need any more trouble.

‘Oh Danny-boy,’ Tom Fox said out of the blue, looking up at the white-washed ceiling boards. ‘Make sure you keep your ’ead down, son. We bloody need ya back ’ere. We most definitely do.’

The following Saturday afternoon, after building Hoppidy a hutch from scrap timber, Farren went down to the inlet to look for his father and the
Camille
. Someone, Robbie Price he was pretty sure, had rowed out to Captain Price’s little sailing boat, the
Jane-Eliza
, to haul up the mainsail. And as far as Farren could tell, goody-goody Robbie-boy didn’t have a clue what he was doing.

Farren squatted in the low scrub to watch. Robbie had the yacht facing directly into the wind, the sail flapping uselessly in the stiffening breeze. Farren saw him wag the tiller to get a little forward momentum.

‘Off yer go,’ Farren murmured. ‘One way or the other.’

The boat muddled through the wind until her sail filled, she heeled over and began to move out into the inlet, Farren wondering if Robbie knew enough to sheet in and sail away under control.

‘Nope, dope.’ Farren answered his own question, enjoying what he was seeing. ‘Sheet in, ya goose.’ He watched Robbie push the tiller away, in an effort, he reckoned, to turn the yacht back to shore. ‘Ah, steady, sport. That’s a bit risky.’

The
Jane-Eliza
presented her sail to the wind, and before Farren could shout to duck, the wind flung it, the boom smacking Robbie square across the forehead, knocking him right out of the boat.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Farren jumped up. ‘Oi, Robbie! Robbie, oi!’ He tore down to the shore, dragging off his shirt and jumper, watching the boat muddle away to leave Robbie as a motionless lump in the water. ‘Eh! Pricey!’ At the water’s edge Farren pulled off his boots, socks, and pants, and started to wade out as fast as he could. ‘Eh,
Pricey
! Hang on! I’m comin’!’

Farren ploughed on until the water reached his ribs then he dived and swam, keeping his head above the surface so as not to lose sight of Robbie who wallowed like a drowning animal. And then Farren had hold of Robbie’s jumper and collar, and as he dragged Robbie’s head up Farren felt his own feet meet the soft, weedy, welcoming bottom. The water was only chest-deep. Farren felt his strength double.

‘C’mon, Pricey!’ he yelled at Robbie’s sodden head. ‘C’mon! It’s only shallow. Come on. Stand!’ He heaved, and Robbie’s weight lessened as he did what he was told. ‘See? Just stand.’ Farren kept good hold of him with both fists. ‘That’s it.’

‘Fu-kuh!’ Robbie coughed out. ‘Fu-kuhn-
Farren
!’

Farren had to laugh. It was as if he and Pricey had left the world for a minute but now they were back; he could feel the warmth of the sun and the coldness of the water, the houses and roofs of the town were as clear as a picture on a postage stamp, and the
Jane-Eliza
’s sail was as white as a seagull’s front.

‘Geez, Pricey.’ Farren’s hands were twisted deep into the greasy woollen folds of Robbie’s jumper, ‘I gotta say, mate, you’re one
hell of a
good
sailor. C’mon, start walkin’.’ Farren started to haul him towards shore. ‘But geez, you gotta bump on your head like a bloody cricket ball. It ain’t bleedin’, though.’

Unsteadily Robbie headed inshore with Farren.

‘Where’s za boat?’ He made an effort to look around. ‘Me dad’ll – it didn’t bloody sink, did it?’

The boat had nudged harmlessly into the shore and tipped; Farren knew it was safe.

‘Nah. It’s just over there. I’ll sail it back out to the moorin’ later. You better just get out on the bank and sit for a bit.’

The boys walked around the inlet on the train tracks, Robbie stumbling as if his knees couldn’t carry his weight. Farren stopped.

‘We better rest for a minute. There’s a good big log down there.’ Farren pointed to the shore where a log had lain like a fallen hero for as long as he could remember. ‘I wouldn’t mind a siddown anyway.’

Robbie didn’t argue. Farren led the way, knowing that now he and Robbie were mates. Even though they’d fought at school, off and on for years, it didn’t matter. Things had changed as of about twenty minutes ago.

For a while they sat, Robbie with his head in his hands, Farren running his palms over the old hollow log, wondering if there might be a snake hibernating inside it, right under their bums.

‘How’s your brother?’ Robbie spoke through splayed fingers. ‘He all right over there?’

Farren looked away, along the shore, seeing water that was the colour of black tea and thickened with seagrass. Here and there
birds paddled placidly. He hoped Danny was safe in a cave or deep down in a trench.

‘Yeah, he’s all right.’ Farren picked at the hard silver wood. ‘So far.’ He wanted Robbie to know that he knew about his dad, and that he knew how serious it was. ‘I hope your dad’s all right, too,’ he added. ‘Maggie from the pub reckons he probably is and so do I. Maybe they just got him as a prisoner or somethin’. Or in their hospital.’

Robbie spat, hands to his face like blinkers.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’

The Price’s brick cottage stood in a flat street right at the top of town. Farren had walked past it plenty of times, occasionally seeing Mrs Price working in the garden. There was a painted flagpole, Farren remembering the Australian flag flying there during summer, bluer than the sky, white stars rippling one after the other. Robbie opened the wire gate and went through.

‘Come on in, Foxy. The old girl might not go so spare if you’re here.’

Farren, uncertain, followed. Mrs Price wasn’t real well; everyone knew that, although he’d never seen any great proof of her supposed mentalness. Mostly, when he’d seen her, she was just out in the garden cutting flowers or weeding, wearing a big white hat with a veil on it like a beekeeper. He followed Robbie around to the back step where they took their boots off, Robbie wringing out his socks, producing caterpillars of dirty water.

‘Ah, yes sir-ee.’ He draped them over a garden tap. ‘Further proof of my very good seamanship.’ Barefoot, he opened the door, calling out as he went inside. ‘I’m home, Mum! And I’m, er, a little
bit damp. And we’ve got a visitor. Plus I’ve got a bit of a bump on me head.’

The Price’s kitchen, Farren reckoned, shone with all the brightness of a lolly shop. Drinking glasses sparkled, a set of scales sat on the polished bench, twin bowls of fruit kept each other company, and the comforting smell of a stove just about to produce a cake set his stomach gurgling. It was a bonzer house, all right. The best he’d ever been in.

Mrs Price appeared, and although Farren didn’t know much about town ladies, he knew Mrs Price certainly was one. Her dark green dress was divided down the front by twin rows of pearly buttons, her coppery hair was coiled tightly on her head, and her eyes were a piercing, wild blue. He took a step back.

‘You know Farren Fox, don’t you, Mum?’ Robbie said. ‘He helped me when I fell in the inlet and hit my head on a log.’

‘I really just helped ’im get out.’ Farren shrugged, feeling the lie as a kind of stiffness in his joints. ‘He was a bit dizzy an’ that.’

As Mrs Price inspected Robbie’s bump Farren guessed that he’d have to deal with Captain Price’s boat by himself. He doubted Robbie’d be allowed to go any place else this afternoon.

‘Hmmm,’ Mrs Price murmured, her mouth set in a straight line. ‘That bump is about as unpalatable as your story, Robert. But let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

Farren sailed the
Jane-Eliza
out to her mooring then set about pulling down the sail. He grinned as he worked, wondering how he and Robbie had managed
not
to be mates for so long – even going so far as to decide that despite their ongoing battle they’d always
almost
liked each other. Or at least each knew the other
wasn’t quite the no-hoper he was supposed to be.

Anyway, things had changed between them. But it was Robbie, Farren reckoned, who’d changed the most. He seemed about ten times more reckless than he had been at school. He didn’t seem to give two hoots about anything, and it was all to do with his dad being missing, Farren figured. Compared to that, no wonder he couldn’t have cared less about taking the boat, getting a bump on his head, and telling a few fibs.

So he and Robbie were about even, which was generally the best way between mates. Robbie had a real good house with a piano and pictures, a slightly mad mother, and his dad was missing, but he, Farren, had a dad
and
a brother, a great boat, and no mum and a little old house. Yep, just about even for sure. Whistling quietly, Farren rowed the Price’s dinghy to shore, deciding that all things considered, it had been a pretty good day.

The following weekend, Farren was grudgingly on his way to cadets in his baggy olive-green uniform. His boots, brown and badly polished, caught the sun on their toes and he did his best to avoid puddles, knowing that Captain Gamble absolutely hated mud and muddy boots. ‘
Detested
’ was the word the retired soldier used, a word enthusiastically copied by all the boys whenever possible.

On an impulse, Farren turned up Garderon Street, walked to Robbie’s house and went up the path. Hesitantly he tapped with the brass knocker and waited, standing up straight, thinking that if Mrs Price answered she might not approve of him slouching. But it was Robbie who appeared – in uniform, apart from boots and cap – to sling the door back as if to show that he lived in a house with no secrets. His forehead, Farren saw, was still bruised.

‘Fa-
roon
! What brings you to these distant shores?’ Robbie scanned the road, hand over his eyes. ‘Is it because of all this
detestable
mud that I see? And that you seek a place of
plenty
cleanliness? Or is that you want to go sailing and need some masterly tips?’

‘Nah,’ said Farren, looking nervously down the hallway, wondering what effect this show might have on Mrs Price. ‘I just wanted to know if ya, yer know, wanted to walk up to cadets?’

Robbie stepped out onto the verandah.

‘Yeah, I will.’ He spoke quietly. ‘But my mum’s lying down and I’ll have to see her right, because every time it’s bloody cadets, she gets a stinking headache. You know, because of my dad being missing, and all that other shitty palaver. Wait here.’

Farren waited, looking at the garden. There was not a weed in sight, every shrub had been trimmed, and all the winter-wet dirt had been recently raked. It was quite restful to look at, Farren thought. Very nice. From inside he could hear low voices, the rattle of a cup, and then Robbie came up the hall, boots and cap in hand.

‘All set.’ He sat on the step to pull on his boots, Farren noticing his socks were new and thick. ‘And if she goes to sleep when I’m away, double good and even better, because then she’ll be right as rain when I get home.’

Captain Gamble walked up the uneven line of cadets, peering into their faces. He was a small, heavy man who Farren sometimes saw walking his cocker spaniels on the beach, two golden dogs with shiny brown collars.

‘Boys. A good afternoon.’ A corner of a dangling Union Jack brushed the Captain’s cap. ‘I know the news has not been so bright from the Turkish Peninsula, but we must steel ourselves for the challenges that lie ahead.’ He paused, pinching his moustache. ‘It is indeed a trying time for those who have relatives fighting. And of course, we pray for their ultimate success and safe return.’ Captain Gamble reached the end of the line and turned. ‘But fight we will
and win we must. For Australia. For England. And for our place in the world.’

Farren thought Captain Gamble even looked a bit like his cocker spaniels. He had brown eyes, big ears, and a droopy face.

‘Oh, fellows,’ the Captain said. ‘I am as heart-sick as you when I read the casualty lists posted from Gallipoli and the Dardanelles. But we would be in dereliction of our duty if we did not complete our marching and firearm drills. Then perhaps we might have a game of something then a good brisk hike to finish off. Price, Fox, Sparrow, and Schanker, bring out the rifles.’ Captain Gamble saluted, the boys saluted in return, and headed for the strong room.