Black Water (6 page)

‘Wouldn’t think there’s much in it for him.’ Charlotte adjusted her hair like Maggie adjusted hers, before walking off towards the pantry.

‘I’d think Farren’s a very good friend to have.’ Maggie spoke to Charlotte’s back as she reached for a top shelf. ‘And it is quite unlike you, Charlotte, to say something about Mrs Price that is unfair and untrue. As Farren said.’

Maggie pulled a face for Farren’s benefit, Farren knowing that it was
exactly
like Charlotte to be unfair.

‘You’re normally a generous girl, Charlotte.’ Maggie put the grater into the soapy water in the sink. ‘In your dealings and judgements. And it serves you so much better to be that way.’

Charlotte reappeared from the storeroom with a blue tin of pineapple. She had on her prim and proper face, Farren saw; mouth compressed as if she was struggling gamely on despite the world being against her.

‘I
try
to be fair, Maggie.’ She put the pineapple down as if it weighed as much as a Shetland pony. ‘But sometimes I get the feelin’ that Farren might be tryin’ to make friends with people that just ain’t suitable.’

Farren wanted to laugh. If Charlotte wasn’t such a toadfish, and if Maggie wasn’t so patient with her, he would’ve given her something to go on with – but he reckoned he’d probably only feel worse for it. She was silly as a wheel.

An idea struck Farren as he looked out of the Victory’s kitchen windows. It came to him as he watched a flight of ducks tilt determinedly away over the estuary, as if they’d decided once and for all to escape the winter weather. He would buy Isla a bird book.
Today. It was good idea. She would like it. And maybe, Farren thought, if God saw him do it, he might be more inclined to look after Tom Fox, Luther Binns, and the
Camille
. Or at least turn back the wind that had over-run the town like a rushing army.

At half-past twelve Farren left the pub, heading for Scanlon’s Mixed Business, a shop that sold everything from pencils to shotgun cartridges. As he struggled up the hill he thought about Isla, as slim as a princess in a storybook, and her room, which was more like a grey cupboard tucked away under the stairs.

He’d seen inside it once, cautiously stopping when the door was ajar, curious to see what a girl’s room might look like, only to discover that it was almost as bare as his own. There was a single bed, a chest of drawers and a tiny table, a dress on a hanger, a mirror on a hook, one high window, and that was about it. She didn’t have much, and so the idea of buying her a present seemed even better.

Farren went into Scanlon’s, quickly finding a book on bird watching in Victoria’s fields and waterways, and bought it. As the wind pushed him back to the pub, he would’ve liked to unwrap the book and take a peek, but the weather was so bad it might’ve been ripped from his hands. Instead he tucked it under his coat and looked down to the wharf. The
Camille
, he saw, had not returned. Fear bit deep; any boat that was outside the Heads now was in strife.

The wind, blasting up over the horizon from the south, carried with it the coldness of polar ice, and wielded it like a sword. Already the waves at the Heads would be heavy and huge, Farren knew, the gale rising so fiercely that there’d be wives down at the wharf waiting and praying for the boats that had gone out to come limping back in.

He began to jog, the wind flying past as if to prove that if he wanted a race, it was ten times as quick. Then it dropped, crouching, only to take off even faster, growling as if the town was nothing but a bone in its teeth.

Suddenly Farren found himself knocking away tears, knowing that unless his dad and Luther were bringing the
Camille
down the bay, or sailing her up the inlet, they were in big trouble. And in an instant, the book he’d bought for Isla, about birds that he’d loved every day of his life, was nothing now but a dead weight in his hands.

Farren gave the book to Maggie to mind, told her about the overdue boats, information which already she knew, and left the hotel by the back door, the wind slapping at his back. From the kitchen step Maggie called out, her hair a swirling brown mass as the wind eddied and dived.

‘I’ll bring you down some lunch! It’ll be all right, Farren! I’m sure it will!’ Her voice was strong, as if she was prepared to throw hope straight up into the wind. ‘I’ll see you in a minute!’

Farren, too worried to wave, climbed the picket fence and jumped down onto the road. All the time he was conscious of the wind and the cold. On the inlet sharp low waves were being driven under the wharf like animals to slaughter. Beside him, near the railway line, the gum trees roared and the pine trees hissed, branches tossing, seed cones like riders hanging on for their lives.

Farren could imagine the
Camille
in a sea of breaking waves, his dad and Luther crouched, the image perhaps made clearer as the sun, like a useless bystander, broke through to shine without warmth, turning the train tracks to silver and the water to a rare
silken green that neither cheered nor fooled Farren. The wind was a savage, edged with ice, a rare dangerous visitor from the Antarctic, ready for battle.

Farren had grown up with the power of the wind. Even when he was warm in bed at home on Swan Island, the wind seemed to seek him out, pushing and poking around the house, sliding its cold fingers in between the shrunken weatherboards to touch his forehead, a gentle reminder to him that it was only a bit of timber and flaking paint that kept them apart. He knew this wind was not like that.

This wind, suddenly, had surpassed the type of wind that blew the washing off the line and sent the fishermen happily off to the pub. This wind was really only interested in getting down to business with the sea; of making waves as big as hills that raced for a thousand miles. This wind, Farren knew, was a killing wind and although it hadn’t blown this hard for ten years, and might not again for another fifty, it was blowing like it now.

No, it was howling.

There were more women than men on the wharf. All were dressed in their heaviest coats, scarves tied tightly over their heads, their hard hands soft-looking in woollen gloves. Farren was welcomed by them with a hug, murmured words, and drawn into the circle where Connie Craven, the wife of a deckhand on the
Thelma Jay
, pressed a mug of tea into his freezing hands.

‘He’ll be right, your dad.’ Connie spoke quietly. ‘The men’ll look after each other out there. They’re good sailors. They’re good men.’

Farren nodded, knowing as Connie did that the men
might
be
all right – but there was a bloody good chance that they might not be. He looked away, to watch three or four fishermen securing boats in their berths. A few of the fleet had already been moved to shelter further around the estuary, but the wind had risen so quickly many of the fishermen had yet to arrive, or were already standing by the lifeboat if it was to be launched.

Others, Farren knew, would be up on the cliffs watching the Rip for any sign of a sail or boat. That was where he might go later, he thought; to be up there would be better than waiting here. Up there he’d see the boats a whole lot sooner.

May Flowers turned towards him, loose red curls sneaking out from under a frayed silk scarf.

‘You’re growin’ up, Farren Fox.’ She stood close, her belted coat adding more power to her bulky form. ‘I ’ear you’re doin’ a good job down there at the Victory with Johnny and Maggie, eh? Your mum’d be proud.’

Farren nodded, but he could not let himself think of his mother on a day like this; he’d only end up crying, so instead he moved to the edge of the wharf to watch what the men were doing.

‘Eh, Farren.’ Jack Haggar, one of the oldest fishermen, called up to him from a rocking boat. ‘’Ow ya goin’, mate? You wanna get down ’ere and bail a bit of this out? Then we’ll get some sort a cover over ’er and see what else we can do.’

To help was what Farren wanted most of all, and so he climbed quickly down into the
Gayle Dean
and began to bail with a tin, glad to be working with the men rather than standing with the women. Spray, lifted off the waves and flung like hail, forced him to keep his head low.

The fear of losing his father crippled his imagination. He could
not hold a picture of the
Camille
, or his dad, or Luther, in his head for more than a second before imagined waves swept it away. Farren had felt as bad as this before. When he knew his mother was going to die he’d felt absolutely powerless and lost, but this time perhaps it was worse, because of what the sea was deliberately trying to do to the
Camille
, which was to stop her from ever getting home. And Farren knew, no matter who said what, prayed which prayers, or sung which hymns, the sea would do what it wanted.

He wished Danny was here, and although Danny couldn’t do anything about the storm, either, he could do family things, brotherly things, talking things, that would help.

‘Eh, Farren.’ Jack Haggar’s rasping voice forced Farren to steady himself, to look up. ‘They seen two sails out past the Rip.’ The fisherman lifted an arm then lowered it, as if he was also trying to lower Farren’s hopes a little. ‘Not sure which ones. But the
Camille
’s a good sea boat. So don’t give up, mate. Never give up.’

Farren tried to keep the searing, soaring, unbelievable joy out of his body; because if the
Camille
wasn’t one of those boats, and he’d allowed himself to think that she was, he’d die of agony. He finished bailing and saw Maggie passing through the thin crowd. It was as if she’d given a password, proving she’d brought something of value for someone who waited. And Farren knew that she had; herself.

Farren and Maggie watched waves swamp the pier that the ferries used. Like soldiers they charged, spray spurting as bollards, steps, and railings were overrun, leaving timbers hanging and long black bolts exposed like bones. Along the beach, other waves waged
war, gouging channels and laying siege to the dunes – but of the two sails there was no sign.

‘Your dad’ll be right.’ Maggie bent to Farren’s ear. ‘He can get through this.’

Farren felt it was wrong to say that anyone could get through this, because he doubted that they could. The sea was white and a fierce green, the waves peaked like mountains, and when the sun caught them they looked even worse, the light picking out the charging faces and the deep, glittering troughs.

‘Hope so.’ Farren allowed himself to hope that the
Camille
was at the Heads, because if she wasn’t there now, he doubted she ever would be. ‘I hope so.’

The bike rider dropped his black bike and strode over the bridge.

‘’Ere we go,’ said a fisherman in dirty brown oilskins, moving away from a rail he’d been leaning on. ‘This looks like somethin’.’

Farren knew the man crossing the bridge was Mack McVinny, a fisherman and a boat builder, a friend of his father’s. He walked fast but awkwardly, a man not used to hurrying, a man not used to delivering anything but fish to the wharf or a boat to a buyer.

He had news all right, Farren could tell.

‘Can’t be too bloody bad,’ a fisherman muttered. ‘Or he sure as hell wouldn’t be hurryin’.’

The crowd watched McVinny as he came down off the bridge, the women moving close together, the men shuffling in behind them, heads bowed as they struggled to light pipes and cigarettes. Farren felt as if he might faint and took long breaths to steady himself. Maggie squeezed his hand.

‘Ah, yes,’ McVinny said, standing in front of a nest of craypots, nervously rolling his hands together. ‘The two boats seen on their way through the Heads are the… the
Thelma Jay
and the
Delray Two
.’ He squared his shoulders, shrugging off the wind. ‘So far there has been no news or sightings of the
Ocean Gull
or the
Camille
. I’m sorry for that. The lifeboat is on standby, if it can be launched.’ He stood waiting, like a minister after church, for people to come and talk to him.

Farren was blinded by the news. The world disappeared and if it wasn’t for Maggie holding him, he knew he would simply have turned to stone, petrified like ancient wood, deader than dead, preserved in sorrow forever, never to move again.

A battering rain arrived, driving those on the wharf into the dark shelter of the fishermen’s sheds. Maggie shepherded Farren inside and sat close by him in a corner. Together they watched Jack Haggar and his brother, Len, rig and light kero lamps, even though it was only four o’clock in the afternoon.

Farren could focus on nothing, the people around him as insubstantial as fog. The only things that seemed real were the things that he could least comprehend; and that was death, and the fact that his father was missing at sea.

‘I’ll get you some more tea and a biscuit.’ Maggie gave him no choice. She got up, Farren feeling the cold return as if it had sat down in her place. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

The rain drummed so hard against the wall Farren felt it through his back. Now that the
Thelma Jay
and the
Delray Two
had struggled ashore, driven rather than sailed, those waiting had become even more subdued, saving energy for the oncoming evening.

With two boats in, no one had given up hope that the
Camille
and the
Ocean Gull
might also make it home – but that hope, like
the wicks in the lamps, had to be shielded and so people talked less, looked into the air, and tried to will the men into shelter with whatever type of prayers they believed in.

‘They can make it.’ Maggie put a mug into Farren’s hand. ‘They can.’

Farren knew Maggie had not mentioned the men, or the boats, by name because it was better not to say those things out loud so the storm could not know whom it had in its grasp.

‘She’s a wicked, wicked old night,’ a fisherman muttered, a shadowy figure hunched around a smouldering pipe, a man who Farren had never heard speak more than three words in a row. ‘And not a bloody glimmer of goodness to steer by.’

At midnight, when Maggie told Farren he would stay at her cottage, he simply did as he was told, leaving the wharf to cross the bridge and trudge up the hill in the wind and rain. And when he lay down on his makeshift bed in front of the low glowing fire, sleep, untroubled by dreams, released him as if he had been put down with one swift and kindly hammer blow.