Black Water (4 page)

‘His nephew got knocked last week,’ Ollie Sparrow whispered to Farren as Captain Gamble fiddled with the padlock. ‘Reckon that’s why he’s lost the heart for it today. Should be a nice slack old ’arvo, then. No trenchin’ and none ’a that flag-wavin’ bullshit.’

‘Hope not,’ said Farren, though he wasn’t thinking of flag drill but of Danny-boy in the war, where Captain Gamble’s nephew got knocked.

The door was opened, Farren seeing the wooden swords, signal flags, ropes, tents, tarpaulins, and mallets on various shelves. The place smelled like a hardware shop. On the floor lay the two crates of .303 rifles that were without proper bolts, and could not be fired.

‘The rifles, boys,’ the Captain said tiredly. ‘Let us have at those good old rifles.’

On the grassed area behind the hall, the boys played football, using white-painted saplings as goal posts. Farren and Robbie were on
the same team, playing in the back line. From the sideline Captain Gamble watched, striding along, avoiding the mud where possible, and waving his stick.

‘You are playing for your country!’ he shouted. ‘You must do the hard thing! Well marked, Mister Sparrow. Yes, play on! Good boy, Oleg.’

Farren watched Oleg Schanker line up for goal, the sun shining on his face, turning his cheeks gold and his hair russet. Farren glanced sideways at Captain Gamble, and saw with something more than shock that he appeared to be wiping away tears.

Farren heard boot connect with ball.

‘Good kick, Leggy!’ he yelled, moving off quickly. ‘Ripper goal, Leggy! Got ’em on toast now!’

The football was retrieved, the game re-started, this time Robbie snaring the ball at the bounce then running backwards with it rather than forwards until he was standing in space as if he was playing keepings-off. The players stopped, the game mired in a state of muddy confusion. Farren saw Robbie laugh, his face split with a grin like a cut in a pumpkin.

‘Eh!’ He held the ball up. ‘If ya
want
it, boys, why don’tcha come’n bloody
get
it!’

Robbie jogged on the spot, keen for the pursuit to start, which it did, skinny Knocker Thompson heading straight for him like an angry praying mantis. Next, Robbie simply handballed the football to Farren who handballed it straight back, Knocker veering from one to the other like a windmill on the move, arms and legs whirling.

Robbie set off up the oval pursued by swearing cadets.

‘Can’t catch me!’ he shouted, taking off into the trees, leaving
everyone, apart from Farren who watched hands-on-knees, to shout at him as he jogged out into the sunshine on the other side.

‘I think that will do us,’ Captain Gamble said drily, Farren thoroughly relieved to see that he’d regained his composure. ‘For one reason or another.’

Farren walked off the shadowy oval and went up the rear steps of the hall. As he glanced back he saw that far beyond the oval the paddocks had been picked out by the sun, green and brown, like rectangles of paint in a paint box.

‘And so the afternoon moves on, boys.’ Captain Gamble held out a bag of shoe rags to each cadet. ‘And the days they do disappear. What lies in store for us indeed?’

‘I think you said a short march, sir,’ said Robbie. ‘Then we could go home.’

‘I did say that, Mr Price, didn’t I?’ Captain Gamble took a rag for himself. ‘But perhaps we shall forego that and enjoy our afternoon instead. So let us clean our boots, boys, salute the flag, and depart.’

Farren and Robbie bought a bottle of ginger beer each from Scanlon’s shop and walked down toward the water. Ahead, in the vacant land beside the pub, Farren was surprised to see Isla. She appeared to be talking to someone on the other side of the picket fence – or, at least, she appeared to be listening intently to the person who was talking to her.

‘That’s bloody old
Derriweather
,’ Robbie said suddenly. ‘Talking to that sheila, there. Geez, I think the old charmer’s tryin’ to work his magic on a sunny Saturday afternoon.’

Farren saw that it was his former teacher, Julian Derriweather,
dressed in brown trousers and a white shirt, talking to Isla, his curly black hair bright in the sun.

‘Well, I dunno how,’ Farren observed. ‘Because that girl’s Isla from the wash-house and she’s deaf and dumb.’ He knew this was unfair. ‘Well, she can talk a bit, but not much. But,’ he added, ‘she’s a real good girl. And old Derri’s all right, too. But, gee, maybe you’re right. Maybe he is, ah, tryin’ to get friendly.’

‘I’m right, all right,’ said Robbie. ‘And old Derri’s all right, too – except that he doesn’t seem too keen on joinin’ the bloody army like the rest of the boys. And that
ain’t
right. Is it?’

Farren had heard that Julian Derriweather had tried to join up, but had been knocked back by the army doctor.

‘I heard he was an inch too short and his knees are funny,’ Farren said. ‘And besides, aren’t teachers supposed to stay behind and do their jobs?’

Robbie shrugged. ‘Well, they don’t if they’re fair dinkum. You just keep on tryin’ at different places until they
do
let you join up.’ Robbie pushed his empty bottle into a hedge and they walked on down the hill.

‘Afternoon, Mr D’weather!’ Robbie lifted his cap. ‘And top of the day to you, madam!’

Farren muttered an embarrassed ‘hello’. Isla, in response, smiled and fired off a salute.

‘Fah-
ron,
’ she said loudly. ‘S
oh
-jer!’

Mr Derriweather nodded at the boys, as formal as a bank manager.

‘And a good day to you, fellows. It’s pleasing to see you both so well turned-out in the cause of duty. Enjoy the afternoon.’

It occurred to Farren that he liked Julian Derriweather. He had
never used a strap or cane as some of Farren’s other teachers had done. And it was pretty plain to see that he was suffering because he could not go to Gallipoli, despite what Robbie said.

‘See yer, sir,’ Farren said. ‘Bye, Isla.’ He waved and she waved back.

‘So what d’you make of all this war business, ’Roon?’ Robbie surveyed the loose flotilla of moored boats. ‘What’s the bloody story?’

‘I hope we win.’ This was the first thought that came into Farren’s head. ‘Those bloody Turks.’

Robbie nodded, studying the far shore of the estuary as he considered Farren’s answer.

‘Yeah, hope you’re right. I mean, I think we will.’ He squinted as if he wasn’t so sure about this. ‘But I must admit I don’t think about
winning
it all that much. I think about… well, you know, other fuckin’ stuff.’

Farren understood. And he knew why Robbie had to swear.

‘I just hope my brother and your dad get home safe,’ he said. ‘And that we win,’ he added, to get rid of bad luck. ‘Bloody oath, I do.’

Robbie plucked leaves off a saltbush, holding them pinched as if they were a hand of tiny cards.

‘Yeah, me too, ’Roon.’ He dropped the leaves. ‘So, will we go for a quick sail in the boat or what? I doubt I can do any worse than I did last time.’

Farren took the tiller and Robbie controlled the mainsail, their laughter flashing across the water in the falling dusk.

‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!’ Robbie sang out. ‘Stick the cork right up yer bum! Look out, Turks! Because here we come!’

Farren grinned, but he didn’t know what to say. It was like Robbie was almost out-of-control, like a skittish horse about to bolt.

‘I’m gunna quit school like you, Farroon.’ Robbie held the white mainsheet rope. ‘Bloody oath I am. Then we’ll sail this tub to the South Pacific and get our hands on a few of those big brown girls with boosies like footballs. You bet it’ll be bloody bonzer beside the bloody bonfire.’

Farren couldn’t add to Robbie’s story, or work out how Pricey could even think up stuff like he did. He liked the idea, though, and wished it were true.

‘Maggie’s got big ones.’ He hardly meant to speak out loud. ‘She’s bloody beautiful.’ He thought of her in the kitchen in one of her various blouses, bosoms shaking as she grated cheese, or
stirred one of her fruit cake mixes that were the colour of wet sand.

‘Absolutely,’ said Robbie. ‘I’m damn sure I’d like to see them let out for a decent run.’

Farren laughed but not for long. He’d imagined much the same thing but didn’t feel right talking about it. Maggie was a friend of his.

‘This is a nice little boat,’ he said. ‘She nips along pretty good. Rolly Mills built her, didn’t he? Down Portarlington near the slips there.’

Robbie shrugged. ‘Blowed if I know.’ His gaze roamed briefly over the
Jane-Eliza
and her varnished woodwork. ‘So Farry, why don’t you show us how to turn this thing around? Without anyone getting decapitated, that is.’

For long seconds Robbie said nothing as the
Jane-Eliza
moved off down the estuary, Farren content to sail on in silence.

‘Jeez, Farry.’ Robbie flipped his collar up. ‘I know it’s time to go home, but bloody hell, I wish we didn’t have to. It’s good out here, ain’t it?’

Farren saw that the dusk was slipping out between the blue hills to silently surround the inlet. It was good out on the water, but it was also getting cold, and he’d been hungry for hours.

‘Why don’t yer come over to my place for somethin’ to eat?’ he suggested. ‘Maggie gave me some apple pie. We could ’ave it with a cuppa tea when I get the stove goin’. Me dad’ll be down the wharf but he wouldn’t mind anyway.’

Robbie sucked air back through his teeth.

‘Well, I know I shouldn’t. But… as long as I’m not
that
late
home, who cares?’

‘Nah, you’ll be right.’ Farren searched for the Price’s mooring and spotted it, a white buoy wrapped in weed-green cord. ‘It don’t take too long to cook a cold fruit pie.’

Robbie finished his mug of tea. Farren had been a bit shocked by the amount of sugar Robbie used, because sugar was dear, but Farren didn’t really care. It was just good to have Robbie around.

‘Guess I’d better go.’ Robbie raised his mug. ‘Thanks, ’Roon, for the tucker and the tea.’

Farren was suddenly worried about Mrs Price. Maybe Robbie shouldn’t have stayed so long. It was dark now, properly night-time.

‘I’ll come with yer across the bridge.’ Farren stood. ‘Yeah, perhaps we’d better get goin’. You know. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘Yep.’ Robbie’s shadow unfolded itself on the wall. ‘But you can stay here. I won’t fall in.’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Farren slipped into the cold embrace of his heavy coat. ‘I’ll go’n see me dad at the wharf. I like it outside at night.’

Farren and Robbie crossed the bridge, looking down at the wharf where lamps burned and a few men loaded boxes of couta for the morning train. Below the boys the water was silver-slicked, as if the reflection of every star had melted there and the sound of voices, boots, and sliding boxes was distant and desolate.

‘I’ll walk up the hill with yer,’ Farren said. ‘And go’n see me dad on the way back.’ Farren watched the fishermen, the lanterns emphasising the darkness, and he thought of Danny, wondering if
ever, somehow, the sights and sounds of the War might travel to him, perhaps on a storm or in a cloud – although in dreams they already had; dreams where men died choking and he woke gasping but utterly relieved to find himself in familiar darkness, the close wooden walls of his small room like the answer to a prayer.

‘Would you join the army, F’roon?’ Robbie asked. ‘Like, when you’re old enough? Like, if it was like it is now?’

Farren had answered this question a hundred times in his head.

‘Yep. Yer have to, don’t yer? You?’

‘Yeah.’ Robbie flashed a smile as they went slowly on up through town, the smell of smoke drifting from the pubs and houses. ‘Well, I wouldn’t, actually. I’d join the flying corps. You know, the blokes who fly the aeroplanes. They’re just down the road at Point Cook. I’d like to fly. Better than being a rabbit in a bloody rabbit hole. And being shot at like one.’

‘People shoot ducks, too.’ Farren was somewhat insulted by Robbie’s view of the army, where Danny was. ‘And if the bullets don’t kill ya, the bloody fall will. Still, I reckon you’d be good at it. Flying.’ He didn’t want to start anything with Robbie. ‘Those air ’planes are ripper.’

Farren had only seen pictures of aeroplanes. They were flimsy things, like dragonflies, and only a few existed, so the airmen would have to be specially chosen; but he guessed that Robbie would have a good chance of being picked. He was even smarter than he let on.

‘Hey, I’ll see ya, Farry.’ Robbie pushed in through his front gate. ‘It was a good day, eh? And next time we’ll –’ Farren saw as Robbie did that the Price’s front door was open. ‘Shit. I gotta go. Bye, Farry.’ Robbie ran, boots clattering as he disappeared inside,
leaving the door ajar, as intriguing as a question mark.

Farren waited at the gate, listening to the silence that was suddenly pierced by a fear-filled wailing that he knew was made by Mrs Price.

Slowly Farren walked up the path and onto the verandah, his heart hammering. Then, hearing a kind of a hiccoughing sobbing from some distant room, he stepped into the hallway.

A door opened, Robbie stepping out into the light, a dark stain on the front of his tunic.

‘Robbie.’ Farren spoke from where he stood just inside the front door. ‘Hey. Yer need a hand?’

‘Farren?’ Robbie brushed vaguely at his chest, looking at Farren as if he was someone he recognised from years ago. ‘Yeah, yeah, come in. Yeah, my mum’s a bit crook. She’s hit her head. There’s blood everywhere. I can’t lift her. That’d be a help.’

Farren walked up the hallway, expecting Robbie to lead the way, but he didn’t seem to know what to do next. ‘You just tell us what to do,’ Farren said, ‘and we’ll go’n do it.’

‘Oh, yeah, of course.’ Robbie nodded. ‘C’mon. Follow me.’

Farren had never been in a room like Mrs Price’s. The walls were patterned with wallpaper, there was a big brass bed, photographs on the walls, and the air, although cold, was perfumed and heavy. With a shock he saw Mrs Price on the floor, Robbie having to squeeze in between the bed and the wall to kneel beside her. He saw she had a gash across her forehead as long as a finger, and one side of her face, neck, bosom, and the hand that Farren could see, were covered in blood.