Black Water (7 page)

In the early morning, the house still dark, Farren woke to see Maggie moving around. He sat up, wide awake, sick and giddy-feeling.

‘The wind’s dropped,’ he said, and it had, a bit. ‘It’s still blowin’ though.’ Reality came back with force; he could not imagine how the
Camille
could’ve survived the night, yet he would not accept that she was wrecked or sunk.

‘A better day,’ Maggie said with assurance. ‘Why don’t you get up and get dressed? Then we’ll head down to the pub for breakfast. Then I’ll go with you, or someone will, to the wharf.’

Farren did as Maggie said, washing his face in the welcome heat of hot water, and soon they were outside, walking down the hill, the wind joining them like some careless, remorseless companion who brought nothing but the sound of slow-booming waves.

‘They might’ve got ashore last night.’ Farren could not stop himself talking. ‘Because this wind’s dead southerly and it’d blow ’em straight in. They’d never have been able to sail any other way.’ And if they hadn’t, they were lost.

Maggie put her arm around him.

‘Yes. That’s certainly true. They could be up
or
down the coast. They could’ve been blown in at Ocean Grove or Torquay. Or run all the way down into Westernport. Yes, you’re right, Farren.’

Farren skirted a wind-wrinkled puddle. What Maggie said was true; it was just possible, even if Farren thought it was more like it was not
impossible
. She squeezed his hand, her gloved fingers imparting warmth that reminded him of his mother.

‘We will not give up.’ She would not put down his hand, allowing him to reclaim it only when he’d agreed.

Across the inlet, Farren could see knots of people on the wharf. He knew he could not go to the pub with Maggie. He was not hungry. All he wanted to do was go to the wharf and wait, and so he left Maggie at the back gate of the Victory.

‘I’ll be down in a minute!’ She waved, her glove a bright hopeful red. ‘Don’t give up!’

And Farren hadn’t. Not quite.

Halfway across the bridge Farren knew there was no good news. There was no sign of the
Camille
, or the
Ocean Gull
, and no one
was doing anything but watching him walk from one side of the estuary to the other.

For a moment he looked toward his house on the island, its two small windows the colour of tin, and although he tried with all his might to make his dad appear, to walk out the front door or come along the path, he couldn’t do it. The place was empty. It was like he hadn’t lived there for years. He stopped on the bridge, unwilling to go down onto the wharf.

‘Farren!’ Maggie caught up, out of breath, her pale face tinged with pink. ‘Are you all right? I’ve left Johnny to help Charlotte.’

He couldn’t speak, although he wanted to tell her that he would remember how his house looked now, empty as an old jar, for as long as lived.

‘No one’s told you anything, have they?’ Maggie watched him closely. ‘You haven’t –?’

‘There’s no boats.’ That’s all he could say.

Maggie, moving as swiftly, got hold of his hands.

‘Yes, that might be so.’ Her eyes held the knowledge of other tragedies and other miracles. ‘But that’s not to say they’re not somewhere else. Come on.’ She put pressure on him to move down the hill. ‘Let’s go and see what they’ve got to say.’

Maggie was right, again, to a point. What was it that Pricey sometimes said? She was right
in theory
, but that didn’t mean she was actually right at all. But he would go with her because he didn’t want to go by himself. And he would go to the wharf because there was nowhere else
to
go.

Maggie kept her hands on Farren’s shoulders as they were met by Jack Haggar, May Flowers, and a woman Farren only knew as Blue Jess, who was different to Tall Jess. Others kept their distance, perhaps not wanting to hear bad news repeated, or to witness Farren’s reaction, or intrude on what was certainly his own business. Jack gently shook Farren’s hand.

‘Eh, Farren. How yer goin’, feller? You holdin’ up orright there?’

Farren wasn’t, but he nodded before looking down at the dirt and broken shells in the cracks between the timbers.

‘Well.’ The old fisherman glanced at the water, as if he’d speak more openly if he was closer to it. ‘Yesterday Jimmy Murano saw your dad and the
Ocean Gull
running to the north-west, probably trying to get to Ocean Grove or somewhere like that. And that was the last sighting.’ Jack was silent for a bit. ‘But don’t give up, mate. There’s bloody miles of good sandy coastline down there. It’s early days yet.’

Farren nodded, to show that he had understood, and had not
given up. He was aware of people watching him and wished hard again that Danny was with him, to do the talking, to make decisions, to shield him, to take him home. Jack held up a bent finger.

‘Farren. He’s a seaman, your dad. All those blokes are. Orright? Y’ad ’ny breakfast?’

Farren shook his head. All he could think of were the long sandy beaches down at Ocean Grove, the
Camille
coming in through the shore break – or his dad and Luther already ashore, trudging slow miles along the coast, the low dunes beside them like desert.

‘I’ll take him up to the pub.’ Maggie’s hands left Farren’s shoulders. ‘That’s where we’ll be if you need us.’

‘Good-oh.’ Jack looked relieved, his news delivered. ‘That’s the way.’

With surprise that drew a short-lived smile, Farren saw Robbie walking across the wharf, dressed for school, his brown satchel slung carelessly across his shoulder.

‘Pricey,’ he murmured. ‘Robbie.’

Robbie came closer, embarrassed, his face flushed, his blue eyes steamy.

‘I just thought, you know –’ he shrugged at Farren. ‘Like maybe you might need someone to feed the rabbit or something like that. While you’re down here.’

Farren felt guilt. He glanced toward his house.

‘Geez, I’d forgotten about her.’

‘Just tell me what to give it.’ Robbie nodded. ‘You stay here.’

‘I don’t want to stay here.’ Farren spoke without thinking. ‘I’ll come with ya. We’ll go now.’ He did want to go to his house with Pricey. With Pricey it’d be all right, for some reason. He thought of Hoppidy and wanted to be holding her, her good front paw and
her little stumpy one on his shirt, her nose poking in under his chin. ‘I gotta go feed the rabbit.’ He spoke to Maggie. ‘And then I’ll come back.’

‘Yes, why don’t you?’ Maggie’s face was touched with sunshine that seemed to belong to a different, better day. ‘And then you can both come up to the kitchen for breakfast. Promise?’

‘Yep.’ Farren was hungry, but that could wait. Going home to the rabbit with Pricey seemed like the only good thing left to do in the world. ‘We will, I promise.’ He wished he was off the wharf already.

In the parlour, Farren held Hoppidy while Robbie poked sticks into the stove. It wasn’t until they’d arrived that Farren remembered Pricey’s dad was also still missing, the realisation leaving him to wonder how Robbie was
happy
most of the time when it seemed that that would have to be impossible.

‘She’s a funny rabbit.’ Robbie screwed his face up against smoke leaking from the firebox. ‘Hey. So, Farry, you can stay at my place. You know, tonight, if you want. If your dad’s not, you know, um, home. But anyway, he should be back by then.’

Farren nodded. It took him a while to think of something to say.

‘I stayed at Maggie’s last night.’ He could hardly remember. ‘I could stay there again, I guess. Or here. I wouldn’t mind.’ He looked around the parlour. It seemed to have changed. It was emptier somehow and colder. ‘I’ve done it before. By meself.’

Robbie sat in Danny’s chair, the fire in front of him a crackling black and yellow framework.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Too lonely. Come up to my joint. Or go to Maggie’s. Don’t stay here.’

‘D’you think the army might let Danny come home?’ Farren spoke slowly. ‘To look after me. If me dad don’t get back?’ He felt a kind of distant hope; a second-best type of hope, as if he knew it was really only wishful thinking. ‘They might, mightn’t they?’

Robbie evaded Farren’s eyes. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ He stood up. ‘What’s the sugar in? Where d’you keep it?’

As Farren went up onto the bridge he saw there was a policeman on the wharf talking to people in front of the fisherman’s sheds. He stopped, and unwillingly, so did Robbie.

‘I dunno what that’s about.’ Robbie’s voice was not convincing. ‘C’arn. Let’s go. You’d better go get something to eat, like Maggie said.’ He gave Farren’s jacket a quick tug. ‘Come on, Farry. Let’s get outta here and go to the pub.’

Farren followed, and when he looked back to see Jack and May talking to the policeman, he felt he might fall to his knees. Robbie got hold of his arm.

‘C’mon, ’Roon. Keep goin’, mate. It’s the only way.’

Charlotte bustled around the kitchen, forcefully cheerful, every so often glancing warily at Robbie as if he was Farren’s protector and dangerous to be near. Robbie appeared not to notice, mostly watching the back door while Farren looked out the window, entranced, as if the day was so hot he could not move or think.

‘Shouldn’t you be off up to school, Robert?’ Charlotte picked up his empty mug. ‘It’s almost ten. Mr Derriweather’ll be wonderin’ where you are.’ She moved off fast, not waiting for an answer, quickly rinsing and drying the mug as if this extra task, if
not completed, might bring the hotel to a standstill. She hung the mug on a hook.

‘Nuh.’ Robbie leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his head. ‘I’m in no hurry at all. So can I have another cuppa tea?’ He laughed at Charlotte’s strained-looking face. ‘Go on, Charley. Mine’s the brown one on the hook there. It’s clean and every
think
.’

Farren didn’t hear what Robbie was saying. But he did hear voices out in the lounge that were gruff, spare, and serious. He turned to the swinging doors, his head as empty as a ploughed paddock, watching impassively as Maggie came in, walked around the table, drew out a chair and sat next to him. Poking out between her knuckles he saw a white handkerchief embroidered with yellow daisies.

‘Farren, they need to talk to you.’ She touched his knee. ‘Come on. I’ll look after you. You’ll be with me. We’ll go together.’

Farren, like a trusting dog about to be shot, did as he was asked.

‘Chin up, Farry.’ Robbie lifted his gaze from the table top. ‘Good luck, mate.’

Now that the policeman and Jack and May had left the hotel, Farren didn’t know what to do. He was aware of Maggie next to him, but all he could do was look at the fire, at the three big logs propped on each other like a fallen bridge.

He lifted his hand then put it down. Then he thought about walking somewhere but he couldn’t think of anywhere to go. Outside he was surprised to see the world was still there. It even seemed pretty much unchanged; the trees moved with the wind,
the grocer’s brown and white horse was at the trough, and there were clouds, not very special ones, just grey and puffy, moving along.

My dad is dead, Farren thought, saying it in his head, testing to see if he actually could and what might happen. Yes, he could say it, and although he did feel some musty old cemetery, funeral-type of fear, it wasn’t much. So he said in his head: my dad is dead, my mum is dead, and Luther is dead.

The words were impossibly heavy and what they meant didn’t sound as if it could ever be true. He couldn’t imagine those three people not breathing, not moving, ever again. Not all three. Not now. Not with Danny away and him here by himself.

Not that anyone had said his dad was dead exactly.

The policeman said he was passed away. The policeman said he was found washed ashore ten miles west of the Heads, with Luther, and the boat. Luther was passed away, too. And May had crossed herself, he remembered, making that magic church sign he knew nothing about. Only Jack said they were drowned when Farren had not known, for certain, what ‘passed away’ really meant.

Well, they would be drowned, wouldn’t they? Farren thought reasonably. What else
could
they be in that storm?

At least his dad was with Luther, he thought. At least his dad wasn’t the only one drowned. Farren couldn’t believe, though, that neither of them, at least
one
of them, couldn’t have got up off the beach and been alive. But he had seen dead things: birds, cows, fish, sheep, his mother, a drowned boy on the wharf, and he knew once something was dead it was really dead, it wasn’t coming back. Then he wondered about the
Ocean Gull
, as he looked into the slow-pulsing heart of the fire.

He hoped she hadn’t been lost. He liked that boat and the blokes who worked her. They were funny. Tony Gallow and Leo Marks. He’d seen Tony throw a fish at the mayor once, across the inlet, over some voting thing.

‘Farren.’ Maggie spoke as if she was waking him from a dream. ‘I’ll go and get you a cup of tea, all right? Then we might work out where you can sit because people’ll be coming in for lunch pretty soon. All right? Do you want some shortbread?’

Farren shook his head and watched Maggie go out through the swinging doors. He was alone. It felt as if the room was expanding, the walls racing away, him getting smaller and smaller but never disappearing. He listened to the fire, a log shifting, the hiss of sap, the clinking of charcoal, and looked at his hands. A sense of hope came to him, as small and bright as a flower or a flame, in the form of something gratefully remembered.

Danny.

The door opened, Isla coming into the lounge so quietly that Farren thought it might’ve been he who was deaf. She touched nothing, not even the floor it seemed, and when she sat next to him he felt only the faintest breath of warmth. She looked at him, blinking once, Farren feeling it like a beat of his heart.

‘Ver sohr, Fah-ren.’ Her hands were in her lap, like Maggie’s had been, fingers woven into a pale pattern. ‘Ver sohr.’

Farren nodded. ‘It’s orright.’

Isla looked at him and Farren looked away. Then he put his elbows on the table, covered his face with his hands, coughed once and felt tears, heavier than blood and endless, flow down his face and through his hands because they were unstoppable because the
world was ended, his dad was gone and never would be back, and now he had no one to look after him, no one to be with him at night or in the morning, or to teach him fishing, or to give him anything, or buy him anything, or make sure he was all right when he was sick, his dad
gone
without even saying goodbye or saying he loved him, or telling him that things’d be all right, like he always did, no matter what was wrong.