Past the Shallows

by Favel Parrett

  ‘Don’t sulk, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.’

  Harry held the note up, ‘Look!’

  Aunty Jean huddled over him. ‘Get up and put it in your pocket before someone says they dropped it.’

  Harry stood up, shoved the note in his pocket and he kept his hand on it so it wouldn’t fall out. It was his now. He wasn’t going to lose it.

  ‘It’s a lot of money, Harry. A lot of money. You can buy your own show bags now, OK? But don’t spend it all. You should save it. Save it,’ she said.

  But Harry was way ahead of her. Now he could get two show bags and one for Miles and go on a ride, and maybe get a show bag for his friend Stuart because Stuart never got to come to the show, and when Ben at school busted Harry’s He-Man’s head off, Stuart let him play with his He-Man. Stuart had He-Man and Battle Cat and Beast Man and Skeletor. Harry should probably buy him a He-Man show bag.

  Aunty Jean was looking at her watch. Harry knew her legs would be hurting by now and that she wanted to get off to the wood chopping, but he didn’t care. He had twenty bucks. He could get whatever he wanted and Aunty Jean couldn’t say anything about it. He could get ten show bags if he wanted. Ten!

  ‘We’d better go and get a seat. Brian Roberts’s boy is competing. Heath? Is that his name?’

  Harry nodded.

  Inside the marquee they sat on plastic seats near the front. It was crowded and the competitors in their white t-shirts were already standing on the centre stage of grass, checking their equipment. Harry recognised Heath Roberts. He was the skinniest man up there, but he had the most hair – thick blond hair just like his brother Justin. Justin had been in Miles’s year at school.

  The first four men took their positions on top of the huge logs. The starter gun fired, and four sharp metal axes swung through the air. Wood chips went flying and the metal swung and swung. It was making Harry hot, all the movement and noise, all the metal slicing into wood. And it wouldn’t stop, the hack, hack, hack. And the crowd were grunting and yelling and a man next to him kept screaming, ‘Come on, boy, come on!’

  Harry tugged on Aunty Jean’s coat sleeve.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, but she didn’t move her eyes. They stayed with the axes, stayed fixed on the men.

  Harry tugged harder. ‘I feel sick,’ he said.

  ‘Damn! Heath’s out.’

  The metal noise stopped, and the crowd clapped and cheered. Harry looked over and a big bald man with a sweaty head had busted through his log. It lay on the grass in two pointy pieces.

  ‘I feel sick,’ Harry said again.

  Aunty Jean looked at him now. ‘Yes, you do look pale. Go and get some fresh air and come and get me if you need me. I want to see the final.’

  She turned her attention back to the action and Harry pushed his way through to the exit before the next heat started. Out in the light, away from the noise and crowd, he started to feel better. He could breathe again. He could think about the show bags.

  Cadbury’s bags were the best. They had the most chocolate, but they were pricey. Four bucks. He bought one for Miles, and one for himself, and he looked at the He-Man bag. It was OK, with a face mask, colouring book and a plastic belt, but he decided it was probably better to get Stuart a lolly bag. He got a Redskins bag because it had stacks of Redskins, Choo-Choos and Toffee Apples. He got one for himself, too, and a Bertie Beetle bag because it was cheap and came with a cowboy hat and an orange dart gun. Then he bought two hot American donuts and a can of lemonade.

  He had $4.50 left.

  He sat down on a patch of grass that overlooked the water. The Tasman Bridge was a giant concrete frame and underneath it the Regatta was all going on. Rowing races, sail boats, larger ferries patrolling up and down with large colourful flags. Harry ate the donuts and felt good. Miles would love the Cadbury’s bag. He could give him a Redskin or a Toffee Apple, too, if he wanted.

  He saw one of the animal sheds and decided to go in. He wanted to make sure the chopping was over before he went back to Aunty Jean. Inside it was warm and smelled like manure. A huge bull gave him the evil eye as he scooted by. Harry didn’t care what people said about cows being dumb. He knew they were smart by the way they looked at you. They were just waiting to get you as soon as you turned your back.

  In the next aisle there were goats – white ones, brown ones, and a strange looking black and tan one with big ears. There were four babies with it and above the pen was a blue ribbon that said ‘Best In Show 1983’. Harry squatted down and stuck his hand through the bars. One of the babies ran over and tried to bite his thumb. It didn’t seem to have any teeth, so it didn’t hurt. After a few bites, it gave up and started rubbing the top of its head against Harry’s arm.

  ‘They’re real beauties, aren’t they?’

  Harry shot up. A tall man wearing overalls was standing right behind him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said, and the baby goat bleated. It looked up to see where its scratching post had gone.

  ‘You’re all right, son,’ the man said. He had a lined, smiling face. He bent down and picked the little goat up.

  ‘Here – you can hold it if you like. It’s an African goat. It’s called an Anglo-Nubian.’

  Harry looked at the goat. It had started chewing the man’s overalls. He wanted to hold it. He wanted to climb in the pen and sit down and play with all the goats. Like the time with Mum, when they had come to the show and they had all sat down in the straw and a little goat came up and licked Harry’s face and its tongue was hard and rough, but its breath was warm on his cheek and it let out a little bleat right in Harry’s ear. Harry bleated back and it had made Mum laugh. ‘I love goats,’ she’d said.

  ‘My aunt’s waiting,’ Harry said.

  The man nodded and he smiled. He put the little goat back in the pen with the others and Harry ran out of the shed holding his show bags tight as he wove his way through families and packs of screaming teenage girls.

  ‘Looks like somebody did well,’ Aunty Jean said, look ing down at the show bags Harry carried in both hands.

  ‘They’re not all for me.’

  ‘Well, just don’t eat too many lollies now. We’ll have a bit more of a look around and then we’ll go into town for lunch. They only seem to have dagwood dogs and chips here.’

  Harry decided not to tell Aunty Jean about the donuts and lemonade.

  ‘I can buy lunch.’ Harry pulled out the crumpled notes and coins he’d stuffed in his pocket and put them on the table.

  ‘Oh, Harry.’ Aunty Jean’s eyes closed for a second. ‘You’re so much like your mum.’

  She went to touch his head, but her hand only got part of the way before she pulled it back. Harry stared at the last toasted sandwich triangle on the table. It was cheese and ham.

  ‘Go on, you have it,’ she said.

  Harry grabbed it and started eating. He tried not to look at Aunty Jean because he knew she was crying. She wiped her face with a hankie and took a big breath.

  ‘Tea always makes things better, doesn’t it?’ She poured some into her cup and added milk.

  Harry nodded.

  ‘We’ll do a big shop at the supermarket before we leave town, but I want to get back before dark, so we’ll be quick.’

  ‘Can we get peanut butter?’ Harry asked.

  Aunty Jean closed her eyes again and Harry pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

  ‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ he said.

  He took his time, washing his hands twice and drying them carefully with the paper towel. When he opened the door that led into the café, he saw that Aunty Jean was back to normal. She smiled at him when he sat down.

  The trip home went by quickly. The sun was on its way down, but there was still enough light for Harry to inspect his show bags, piece by piece. He wondered what Miles would choose to eat first. Whatever it was, he’d choose the same.

  ‘Thanks!’ Harry said, and he meant it.

  Aunty Jean nodded and smiled. S
he unloaded the shopping but left the bags by the front door.

  ‘Get your brother to give you a hand. I won’t stop in.’

  This wasn’t unusual if Dad was home. Aunty Jean and Dad didn’t speak anymore, not since she made Dad buy Uncle Nick’s share of the boat and he had to get another loan.

  ‘Here.’ She put his smaller show bags inside the Cadbury’s bags so it looked like he only had two. ‘Best not show off. Give Miles the rest of the money to look after.’

  Harry was desperate to get inside in case she started crying again, but he waited until she got back in the car. He waved, then opened the front door.

  Dad was on the couch watching TV.

  ‘We got some shopping, Dad. It’s all here.’

  Dad barely looked over, but nodded.

  ‘Miles and I will unpack it.’

  Harry ran though the lounge carrying the show bags. Miles was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Miles! I got you a show bag!’

  ‘Sh! Dad’s got a headache.’

  Harry shut the door. He tried to talk quietly.

  ‘I found twenty bucks! I got you a Cadbury’s bag. A Cadbury’s bag! ’ Harry held the purple bag up higher so that Miles could see it properly. ‘I got Stuart a Redskins bag and I got a Cadbury’s bag, too, and a Redskins and a Bertie Beetle. You can share if you want. There’s a dart gun game. We can play it later.’

  Harry noticed that Miles was holding his hands strangely. They were red and swollen. They looked bad.

  ‘Did you hurt your hands on the boat?’

  Miles sat up slowly. ‘I just gotta wait for the blisters to heal up, that’s all.’

  ‘You could put fish cream on ’em?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  Miles went to lie back down but Harry stopped him.

  ‘We’ve got to unpack the shopping. It’s at the door. I’ll carry the bags, you can put the stuff away. We got six bags – we got everything! Cup-a-soups, macaroni, Milo, peanut butter.’ Harry dumped the show bags on the bed and headed back to the door, hoping Miles would follow.

  They unpacked quickly, without talking. Harry grinned when he handed Miles a family-sized packet of Teddy Bear biscuits.

  ‘Another beer, Dad?’ Miles asked.

  He nodded, and Miles took over a can from the fridge.

  Harry walked back to the bedroom and started arranging his chocolate and lollies on the floor.

  ‘What are you gonna have first?’ he asked, when Miles came in.

  Miles just shrugged.

  ‘I think I’m going to eat the plain Freddo and one Redskin. Then I’ll choose two things tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe you should just eat what you want now.’ Miles sat on his bed and looked at the pile. ‘What are you saving it all for anyway?’

  Harry put all the sweets back in their bags, except for the Freddo.

  ‘If I save them they’ll last longer – they’ll last until school,’ he said.

  He looked up at Miles.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have any of yours?’

  ‘I’m just tired.’ Miles lay back down on the bed again. ‘You’re lucky you get seasick, Harry. You won’t ever have to work on the boat.’

  Harry sat on the floor and took small, quiet bites of his chocolate frog.

  Miles kept his eyes on the water and listened to the engine. He listened to the chug-chug and the air pump’s whirling churn. As long as it kept pumping, as long as he sorted in time, as long as he steered the boat carefully, everything would be OK. But out at the Friars, steep and black, seals watched the boat from the rocks where they lay in piles half asleep. The cliffs behind were like giant guardians standing tall.

  And God, it felt like some kind of ancient place.

  The water sucked and moved, smashed against the rocks, and no matter how Miles positioned the boat, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep a clear fix on the airlines. He wiped the sea spray off his face, checked the air pump one more time, and he thought about going into the cabin for a minute to thaw out. To get out of the wind. But he saw something on the water. A catch bag.

  It broke the surface, inflatable buoys pulling it up from deep, and Miles edged the boat closer. He hooked the bag with a long metal rod and dragged it around to the back where the boat was flat and low. With his hands on the netting he leaned back and used his body weight to get the abalone up on deck. Yesterday he had fallen backwards when the bags lurched out of the water, but not this time. This bag was light, not even half full.

  Inside, the abs stuck fast to each other and formed one giant rock. Miles used the blunt metal blade to separate them out. He sorted them by size and put them in the plastic tubs. Most of them were small, undersize, but Miles knew better than to throw them back. Dad would kill him. The cannery turned a blind eye to these things. They never asked questions. Not of Dad, anyway.

  When the bag was empty, Miles checked over the abs. Most of them had stuck to each other again, piled high in the corners of the blue plastic tubs. He reached into the water and picked one up, held it upside down. The black slimy disc of flesh flinched against the cold air. And it was strong, that muscle. If you put it against your skin, it would grab on, suck hard. It was the only defence it had.

  He used to feel sorry for the abs when he was young. The way they pulsed and moved in the tubs, sensing the bright light and heat. But he couldn’t think about them like that now. He was only careful not to cut or bruise them, because once abs started to bleed, they kept on bleeding until all the liquid inside them was gone. They just dried up and died.

  Miles looked up as Martin’s bald head appeared in the water. He dropped the abalone back in its tub, watched Martin pull himself up on deck and sit on the back of the boat. He was such a big man, just a thick, wide back and a thick, wide neck. And he never wore a hood, so his skin was always red from the cold. But he wasn’t like he looked. He wasn’t like Dad.

  He took his mask and mouthpiece off but he didn’t speak. He was just breathing. Taking big breaths in and out with his head down. Miles stood behind him for a moment and waited. He went to get the bag Martin had brought up with him out of the water, but Martin stood up and stopped him.

  ‘I’m the one being paid,’ he said, and he winked.

  Miles stood back, watched Martin work. He watched his hands – so quick and careful. And even when his bloodshot eyes looked out at the water, his hands never stopped moving. The tool never slipped, his hands never hesitated. They just separated and sorted smoothly until the bag was empty. Then he put the shucking knife down, walked into the cabin and poured some tea out of the thermos. He handed Miles a cup.

  ‘They’ll be up soon,’ he said.

  Miles took his gloves off and held the warm cup against his bare hands. The sun was high now and the water had changed from black to deep blue, and the white water churned up against the rocks was so bright against the sky that it was almost blinding. It must be at least ten, maybe even eleven already.

  There was a seal resting in the swell, its head and neck reaching out of the water, and Miles could see its black eyes, its long whiskers. It looked right at the boat, right at Miles, and sniffed the air like it knew exactly what had been taken. What was on board. It opened its mouth, let out a hoarse protest, before it disappeared back under the surface.

  Jeff lurched on board. His face was pink, squeezed tight by his protective hood and he peeled his head free, sat on the back of the boat.

  ‘Glad to see you working hard, Miles,’ he said.

  Miles looked at the tin cup in his hands. He had only taken a few sips but he chucked the rest over the side and returned the cup to the cabin. He walked over to Jeff, picked up his flippers, gloves and hood and put them in the fresh water bucket. And he could hear Jeff’s breathing, over the sound of the water and the sound of the engine. Jeff’s heavy breath. And he stayed where he was for a long time. He didn’t even try to get up. He just sat there, the skin on his face still pink.

  Martin
paced around the boat. He held the slack airline in his hands and looked out at the water. Miles watched his eyes, the way they skimmed back and forth over the surface. Dad had been down for a long time.

  Miles looked over the side.

  Below in the murky darkness, in the swirling kelp, all you had to guide you was one hand touching the rock wall while your legs kicked you down blind. And that’s where they were, the abalone. Down where the algae grew thick, where the continental shelf dropped away. They could eat their way across kilometres of submerged rock, those creatures. And there were caves and crevices, places to get stuck. Places where the air hose could get snagged.

  Miles had only been down once, but that was enough. He’d been scared of the darkness and of the kelp wrapping around his legs. He’d been scared of the heavy feeling in his chest. And it made his head buzz like crazy, the pressure. The weight of all that water.

  In a few years he would have to dive down there for real.

  Dad surfaced close to the rocks and Martin had him. He pulled him in. And Dad was still in the water when he ripped his mouthpiece away, let out a roar.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus!’

  He was still saying Jesus when he clambered on deck. He’d brought up two full bags and the abs were huge.

  ‘A few days of this! A few days of this and we’re back.’

  He looked at Miles and he smiled.

  Harry put his parka on and picked up the Redskins show bag he’d got for Stuart. He wasn’t meant to walk around by himself, not if he wasn’t going to Aunty Jean’s, but he thought going to Stuart’s would be OK. Anyway, Dad wouldn’t know.

  He walked through to the lounge and slipped his feet into his rubber gumboots. They were freezing. He thought about grabbing another pair of socks, but he couldn’t be bothered. His feet would warm up if he walked fast.

  He’d walk fast.

  Outside, the light was flat and even, the same grey light that there always was. Sometimes right in the middle of the day the sun shone bright and broke through, but it never made anything warm. Not the air or the ground. Not really.