Black Water (31 page)

Danny shouted out a laugh. ‘Well, you know how I couldn’t remember
where
I found ’em?’ His words were like baited hooks on a flung line. ‘That’s because I
never
did find ’em in the first place! Bloody Jimmy the Scrounger did!’

‘
What
?’ Farren, for a moment, took his eyes off the stern of the bigger yacht that rose and fell like a dripping blade. ‘
Jimmy
did?’

Danny was smiling and nodding. ‘Yeah. Bloody oath. He give me a bucketful. And they’re all under the bloody doorstep. Dig ’em up, mate! They’re all yours. And most of ’em’s in pounds now. I sold a heap of ’em up in Melbourne when I was s’posed to be seein’ the quack! Good luck, feller!’ Danny waved, smiling. ‘I love yer, Farren! Yer the best bloody kid in the world! And I’ll be back, I promise. Cross me heart.’

Farren could only nod, unable to truly comprehend Danny’s
story of a bucketful of coins. Gold? Coins? Bloody pounds, shillings, and pence? Who cared? It was only Danny’s leaving that he really cared about. How could he leave? Now, like this? After all that they’d been through?

‘I love yer, Danny,’ Farren said quietly, not having the energy to shout it. ‘See yer, mate.’ He waved dismally as Perce swung the wheel and the sails of the
Madonna-Theresa
slapped themselves awake, curved like the petals of flowers in full bloom.

‘Farren.’ Robbie moved as close to Farren as the jib sheet would allow. ‘Hey, Farry-boy.’ His voice cut through a serve of flying spray. ‘You ain’t alone, mate. We’re best mates and we always will be. You’ll be right. Chin up, sport. Chin up. On we go.’

In failing light, in a rising swell, Farren sailed the
Camille
up and down outside the Heads, waiting for the tide to turn. Desolation corroded his every thought as he watched the
Madonna-Theresa
close in on the horizon, balance there like a moth then disappear.

‘Bloody Danny-boy,’ he said, knowing he wasn’t angry with Danny, not really. It was loss and loneliness he was feeling, a whole world of it, too big, too cold, and too desolate for words. ‘Bloody Danny.’

To the west the sun sank into clouds the colour of wet bluestone and Farren knew that when the tide did turn, whether it was in darkness or light, they would have to sail in through the Rip. It would be dangerous and frightening but there was no choice. They could not stay out here all night. For one thing, they’d freeze to death, and for another, he didn’t fancy sailing for hours in blackness when any sort of weather might come up from the south.

‘Hey, ’Roon.’ Robbie pointed with a hand mottled with cold. ‘Behind ya, skip.’

Farren turned, and saw with a rush of relief the
Alexander
Tobias
, the sixty-foot cutter that ferried the sea pilots back and forth between ships and land confidently making for the Rip, her sails full-breasted with breeze. A smile pushed its way up into the stiff flesh of his cheeks. They could follow her in. They were on their way home.

‘Get ready to go about, Pricey.’ Farren felt his confidence return. ‘We just got lucky.’

The cutter sailed on up the bay, leaving the
Camille
behind in the blessedly rumpled water of her wake, Farren so grateful to the boat and her skipper that he wanted to heap praise on them both.

‘She’s bloody beautiful, that thing.’ He looked around, pleased with just about everything he saw. ‘No wonder she sails so good and –’ Then, where the cliffs shrugged off the dark mantle of scrub, where the pier advanced out over black water, he saw a girl. As slender and resolute as a reed, she stood at the rail, arms crossed, staring out to sea possessing a look of aloneness Farren could’ve picked from a mile away. ‘That’s Isla there, Robbie.’ He pointed. ‘There. See? Right at the end of the Lonny pier.’

Robbie, his collar pulled up against the wind, twisted to look.

‘I do b’lieve you are right, Faroon. In fact, I know you bloody are.’

‘We should shoot in then, eh?’ Farren was already calculating how he would do it and what side of the pier he’d come in on. ‘Give her a lift home. What d’you reckon? Wouldn’t be hard.’

‘Absolutely.’ Robbie squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s go. You and me and the bloody boat makes three. On yet another fine mission of mer-cy!’

Farren pushed the tiller, the boys ducked under the boom, and
in moments the
Camille
was heading for the pier where Isla stood as if she was waiting for a ship, or a person, or a sign, or a star.

Isla, in a black dress and black gloves, sat between Farren and Robbie, a shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. Like the boys, if she wasn’t shivering continuously she certainly shook with every wind gust that cuffed the boat.

Farren had told her that Danny had gone with Jardy and Souki, but didn’t have the energy to fully explain.

‘He said he’d come back.’ He had to tell her this, to make it clear that Danny had not deserted him. ‘He promised.’

Isla nodded and Farren knew that she had understood. And when he had more energy, and when the time was right, he would tell her about the coins and the money, and he would give her some, whatever she needed. But that time wasn’t now.

Now, sailing for home, the cold settling amongst them with companionable determination, there was little to say. The waves, small and friendly, tagged the
Camille
then ran on as if to show her the way and the wind, its power blocked by the sea cliffs, pushed them along like a giant’s hand on the back of a child on a bike. Ahead, Farren could see the sparse speckle of Queenscliff’s lights, the familiar outline of one of her grand hotels, and the black shapes of her tall, attendant trees.

With sudden urgency Robbie leant towards Isla.

‘Julian’ll get home,’ he said loudly. ‘And my old man, too.’ Robbie talked as if he could not stop. ‘And the bloody Clouty boys. And Neddy Craven. And Danny.’ He nodded, as if willing what he was saying to be true. ‘The whole lot of them, I reckon. They’ll
all
come back.’

Isla drew her shawl in close around her, her gloved hands clasped like an ornate ebony brooch. She smiled fractionally, Farren seeing something sadder there and infinitely more truthful than hope.

‘Weh, some-un will,’ she said, in her low sing-song voice that he’d always found so haunting and lovely. ‘An we be ’ere waiting.’