Praise for Past the Shallows
‘A work by a new master. Like Winton’s That Eye, The Sky, Parrett’s debut is an uncompromising and memorable tale.’ Sunday Tasmanian
‘Parrett’s debut marks the addition of a strong voice to the chorus of Australian literature.’ The Canberra Times
‘a finely crafted literary novel … genuinely moving and full of heart’ The Age
‘a fresh and vital voice in Australian fiction’ Australian Women’s Weekly
‘a small gem of a story’ Who Weekly
‘a rare work of fiction’ Good Reading
‘An amazing book by a wonderful writer – Cormac McCarthy meets David Vann meets Favel Parrett. Read this book.’ Sunday Times
‘clearly the work of a talented new novelist’ The Weekend Australian
‘her prose is as powerful as a rip’ WISH Magazine, The Australian
‘Wintonesque’ Herald Sun
‘sparsely and simply told, with an unwavering clarity, Parrett’s controlled, unadorned narrative completely immerses the reader.’ Judges’ notes, Miles Franklin Literary Award
Copyright
Published in Australia and New Zealand in 2011
by Hachette Australia
(an imprint of Hachette Australia Pty Limited)
Level 17, 207 Kent Street, Sydney NSW 2000
www.hachette.com.au
This edition published in 2013
Copyright © Favel Parrett 2011, 2013
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be stored or reproduced by any process without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the National Library of Australia.
978 0 7336 3049 1
978 0 7336 2770 5 (ebook edition)
Author photograph by David Kneale
Cover design by Josh Durham, Design by Committee
Past the Shallows has been written with the encouragement of Queensland Writers Centre (QWC). Favel Parrett participated in the 2008 QWC/Hachette Australia Manuscript Development Program, which received funding from the Queensland Government through Arts Queensland.
This project has also been greatly assisted by the Australian Society of Authors (ASA) through its mentorship program; and the Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) with its support of the ASA mentorship program through its Cultural Fund.
Contents
Praise for Past the Shallows
Copyright
Begin reading
Acknowledgements
Reading Group Guide
No Man is an Island
Waterproof, Lightweight and Good in Snow
The Little Kingfisher
To Linda – for always listening
It would be vain of me to attempt to describe my feelings when I beheld this lonely harbour lying at the world’s end, separated as it were from the rest of the universe – ’twas nature and nature in her wildest mood …
ADMIRAL D’ENTRECASTEAUX, 1792
Out past the shallows, past the sandy-bottomed bays, comes the dark water – black and cold and roaring. Rolling out the invisible paths. The ancient paths to Bruny, or down south along the silent cliffs, the paths out deep to the bird islands that stand tall between nothing but water and sky.
Wherever rock comes out of deep water, wherever reef rises up, there is abalone. Black-lipped soft bodies protected by shell.
Treasure.
Harry stood on the sand and looked down the wide, curved beach of Cloudy Bay. Everything was clean and golden and crisp, the sky almost violet with the winter light, and he wished that he wasn’t afraid. They were leaving him again, his brothers, Miles already half in his wetsuit and Joe standing tall, eyes lost to the water.
Water that was always there. Always everywhere. The sound and the smell and the cold waves making Harry different. And it wasn’t just because he was the youngest. He knew the way he felt about the ocean would never leave him now. It would be there always, right inside him.
That was just how it was.
‘What should I find?’ he asked.
Joe shook his dry wetsuit out hard. ‘Um … A cuttlefish bone, a nice bit of driftwood …’
‘A shark egg,’ Miles said.
And there was silence.
Harry waited for Miles to say he was joking, waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just kept waxing his board.
So Harry stood up and ran.
He followed the marks of high tide left behind on the sand and his eyes skimmed the pebbles, the shiny jelly sacks, the broken shells. Cuttlefish were easy but shark eggs were impossible. They looked just like seaweed. He kept thinking he’d found one only to realise it was just a bit of kelp or a grimy pebble. There was hardly any point trying. But he did try. He always found everything on the list. Always.
There was a cormorant gliding low, its soft white stomach almost touching the water, and Harry watched it as it moved. He watched it slow down and land on a rock on the shore. He walked close, walked right up to the rock, but the bird didn’t move. It just stayed still. And he’d never seen one alone. Not like this, on the land. They were always in groups, cormorants. Huddled together in groups on the cliffs and rocks, long necks reaching up to the sun. Sometimes they stayed like that all day. Together. Waiting and watching. Resting.
The bird called softly, and Harry was so close that he felt the sound vibrate inside him. He wanted to reach out and touch it, to stroke the silky shimmering feathers down the cormorant’s back. But he stayed still, kept his arms by his sides. He thought that maybe the cormorant was sick. That maybe it couldn’t find the others. And he didn’t know how they made it, how they survived. Flying over all that ocean, flying and flying in the wind and in the rain. Diving into the cold water.
They washed up in the surf sometimes, the lost ones.
The bird called again. It bobbed its head up and down and spread its wings, then it was gone.
Harry left the beach and ventured into the dunes. Might find a good bit of driftwood in there or something interesting at least. He ran up and down the small humps and valleys, the loose sand getting firmer under his feet, and he kept on going. He could hardly see the beach anymore. It was further than he had ever been. He slowed down, started walking. He looked ahead. There was some kind of clearing, small trees all around. Shrubs. It was a good sheltered place, the wind wouldn’t get in this far even if it was really blowing. You could camp here. You could stay here and it would be all right.
Behind a shrub, a pile of shells. A giant pile – old and brittle and white from the sun. Oyster and mussel, pipi and clam, the armour of a giant crab. Harry picked up an abalone shell, the edges loose and dusty in his hands. And every cell in his body stopped. Felt it. This place. Felt the people who had been here before, breathing and standing alive where he stood. People who were long dead now. Long gone. And Harry understood, right down in his guts, that time ran on forever and that one day he would die.
The skin on his hands tingled and pricked.
He dropped the shell and ran.
He had to wait for ages but finally Joe came in. Miles stayed out. He was way out deep and it didn’t even look like there were any waves out there. He was just sitting in the water. Just sitting there and Harry was starving, couldn’t stop thinking about those sandwiches. The cheese and chutney ones.
‘I didn’t find it. The shark egg.’
Joe was struggling with his wetsuit, getting his arms free and he was twisting and panting, not looking at Harry. ‘Maybe next time,’ he said, but Harry didn’t think it was likely.
When Joe
was finally back in his clothes he started unpacking the stuff from the dinghy, the thermos and the tin cups and the rug and the sandwiches. As long as they didn’t have to wait for Miles – no, Harry wouldn’t be able to wait for Miles even if Joe said he had to because Miles could stay out in the water forever, even if it was freezing, and Harry just had to have one of the sandwiches now.
‘This place is old,’ he said, his mouth full of bread.
Joe made a sound but he wasn’t really listening. He was somewhere else, maybe still out there in the water with Miles. But it didn’t matter.
This place was old. Harry knew it.
As old as the world.
Miles got in the dinghy with the men, with Martin and Jeff and Dad, and he didn’t speak. No one spoke on the way out to the boat. He hadn’t been able to eat his toast at home in the early darkness, and now just on dawn he wished he had.
His stomach was empty, this first day.
First day of school holidays. First day he must man the boat alone while the men go down. Old enough now, he must take his place. Just like his brother before him, he must fill the gap Uncle Nick left.
Because the bank owned the boat now. Because the bank owned everything.
The boat chugged and rattled its way through the heads, and Miles felt the channel grab hold, pull on her hard. She was weak, the Lady Ida, she seemed old now, and the crossing was slow. She ploughed through the deepest part of the channel leaving a wide wake of ridges behind, and Miles knew this was where it would have happened. Where Uncle Nick would have been dragged out alone in the dark where the rip ran strongest.
And they never found him.
Not one bit.
Not his beanie.
Not his boots.
Not his bones.
Just the dinghy floating loose, empty and washed clean.
Nobody talked about it now, but back then Dad talked about it. He said Uncle Nick must have gone out to check the mooring. He said he’d never forgive himself.
The boat was almost new, anchored out at the mouth of the bay because the swell was right up – a big winter swell, and all the boats were out there. But Nick wouldn’t leave it alone. He wouldn’t stop worrying about the boat. Dad said he went on and on about it at the pub and in the end Dad told him to go and check the damn thing. To go and check it or just shut up about it.
And Miles knew exactly how dark it was that night, the sky blacked out by cloud so thick that nothing came through – no stars or moon or anything. Uncle Nick wouldn’t have been able to see the dinghy or the land or even his own hand in front of his face.
And everyone forgot about him out there because that was the night of the crash.
That was the night when everything changed.
Martin touched his shoulder, stood close.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.
Dad and Jeff were in the cabin and Jeff was staring at him again so Miles looked away. He slipped his yellow windcheater over his jumper. Dad didn’t have any small enough for him, so he had to wear a man’s size and it was baggy, hung way down past his hands. It was almost better not to wear one at all. He’d get soaked anyway. The only part of him that would stay warm was his head under the tight wool beanie that made his scalp itch.
He rolled up the sleeves, he put on his gloves.
Bruny was coming clear in the new light.
Miles watched the surface change colour – come to life. And even though they were still out deep, away from land, there were places where the water rose like it was climbing a hill, places where the water was angry. And it wasn’t the back of a wave. It wasn’t a peak in the swell. It was the current surging into rocks that hid below, rocks that you couldn’t see even when the tide was low. And if you didn’t know what the rise in water meant, you would never guess those rocks were there. The Hazards. They were called the Hazards of Bruny.
They were all around here, out deep. Rocks that weren’t attached to land but were big enough on their own to disturb the water – to change its path. And maybe they had been islands once, those rocks. Small islands or maybe even bigger ones before they got worn away. Worn by the water and by the wind and the rain until they were gone from sight. And only the foundations remained, hidden and lost under the sea.
There were things that no one could teach you – things about the water. You just knew them or you didn’t and no one could tell you how to read it. How to feel it.
Miles knew the water. He could feel it. And he knew not to trust it.
The air was cold and the house was quiet. Harry got out of bed and shoved his bare feet into his sneakers. Out in the kitchen, if he stood right on the tips of his sneakers, he could just reach the peanut butter jar up in the top cupboard. He ran his finger around the inside of the almost empty jar. There was only enough peanut butter for one slice, so he put two pieces of bread in the toaster and made a toast sandwich.
Even though the embers were dead, Harry sat down by the wood heater to eat. He ate quickly. Aunty Jean would be here soon to take him to the Regatta and he’d better get dressed properly. He’d better find the scarf she’d made him and wear it. He’d better put on the navy blue parka she’d bought him for Christmas. He didn’t really like the parka because it was too big and he didn’t like the colour, but it was warm. Anyway, he didn’t have another coat. Only a thin rain jacket.
He wished Joe would take him to the show instead of Aunty Jean, but at least she didn’t talk much in the car. She had the radio on, but it was mostly a man talking and not enough songs. Harry tried to listen to the talking so that he didn’t have to think about the road. It was a long drive and the worst bit was still to come. The bit where the thin little road curved around and around as it climbed up the back of Mount Wellington. That was where his ears usually popped and where he usually got carsick.
He tried hard not to get carsick. Aunty Jean might turn back and take him home if he got sick. He kept his eyes on things inside the car. He looked at the dash and down at his legs. He looked at the black mat that his feet rested on. He looked at Aunty Jean’s white lumpy hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel.
Finally, they were at Fern Tree. Harry opened and closed his jaw a few times to help his ears clear. He thought about asking Aunty Jean to stop so he could go to the toilet, but he decided to hold on. They were finally on the other side, going down. He could look out the window and see Hobart in slithers through the trees that lined the road. Parts of houses and bits of roads, flashes of blue water and white sails. And as the trees thinned out, there were more and more houses. The city finally came into view as a whole and Harry loved it. All the buildings and the cars and all the things to do.
Aunty Jean parked the car on the grass near the cenotaph. She wanted to see the wood chopping and it started at eleven. That meant they had forty minutes, so after finding the portable loos, Harry led them straight to the rides.
He wanted to take his time, look at them all because he knew he would only be allowed to go on one. Some of the rides looked scary and some were boring, like the merry-go-round. The Gee-Whizzer looked the best, but he needed Miles here to go on it with him. If he went by himself he would slide along the seat every time the ride spun in a new direction. There was no way he could get Aunty Jean on the Gee-Whizzer. Maybe she’d go on the ferris wheel.
As they walked around, Harry noticed all the game stalls; the moving clown faces, darts, hoops, and one he didn’t know. There were lots of jars arranged on a table, and some had money in them. Notes. The jar in the middle had a ten-dollar note in it. You had to throw a one-cent piece into a jar containing a note and, if you did, you won the money.
‘Maybe I could have a go at that?’ he said.
Aunty Jean looked over at the stall.
‘Nobody ever wins those games, Harry. They’re set up so that no one wins. If you spend the money I give you there, you won’t be able to go on a ride.’
Harry looked over at the Gee-Whizzer one more time. Kids were screami
ng their heads off as the carriages twirled. ‘I don’t think I want to go on a ride,’ he said.
‘Well, don’t be disappointed when you don’t win anything.’
Harry took the dollar note from her hand and ran over to the stall. A hairy, red-eyed man gave him three one-cent pieces to throw at the jars. He threw the first way too far and it missed the table altogether. It landed on the grass. Harry thought that maybe it didn’t count and he could start again, but the man shook his head. It counted.
He threw the second and it hit the rim of an empty jar and then fell onto the table. Harry threw the last coin more carefully. And it worked. The coin bounced off the rim of one jar and landed in another that had a five-dollar note in it.
‘I won! Aunty Jean, I won!’
‘No, you didn’t. It doesn’t count.’ The bearded man pointed to a large sign that had a lot of black writing on it. ‘The coin must go straight in. It can’t bounce off another jar first.’
Aunty Jean was suddenly right beside him.
‘Come away, Harry. I told you it was a waste of money.’
Harry felt his face getting hot. People were looking over and he kept his eyes down as he walked away from the stall. Aunty Jean kept on talking, going on about how he’d wasted his money and Harry stopped listening. He studied people’s feet as they walked. He looked at all the shoes that passed by. There were lots of gumboots. There were lots of strollers and prams, and even though it was only the first day of the Regatta the grass had already been worn away where people walked. The dark sticky earth was covered in wrappers and plastic bags and squashed hot chip buckets. Then Harry saw it. Twenty bucks. It was just lying there and a woman trod right on it, and she didn’t notice it. She just kept on walking.
Harry dropped down and grabbed it. It was crumpled and muddy but it really was twenty bucks. It really was.
Aunty Jean stopped walking. She looked down.
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