Black Water

by David Metzenthen

  The Price’s kitchen, Farren reckoned, shone with all the brightness of a lolly shop. Drinking glasses sparkled, a set of scales sat on the polished bench, twin bowls of fruit kept each other company, and the comforting smell of a stove just about to produce a cake set his stomach gurgling. It was a bonzer house, all right. The best he’d ever been in.

  Mrs Price appeared, and although Farren didn’t know much about town ladies, he knew Mrs Price certainly was one. Her dark green dress was divided down the front by twin rows of pearly buttons, her coppery hair was coiled tightly on her head, and her eyes were a piercing, wild blue. He took a step back.

  ‘You know Farren Fox, don’t you, Mum?’ Robbie said. ‘He helped me when I fell in the inlet and hit my head on a log.’

  ‘I really just helped ’im get out.’ Farren shrugged, feeling the lie as a kind of stiffness in his joints. ‘He was a bit dizzy an’ that.’

  As Mrs Price inspected Robbie’s bump Farren guessed that he’d have to deal with Captain Price’s boat by himself. He doubted Robbie’d be allowed to go any place else this afternoon.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Mrs Price murmured, her mouth set in a straight line. ‘That bump is about as unpalatable as your story, Robert. But let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

  Farren sailed the Jane-Eliza out to her mooring then set about pulling down the sail. He grinned as he worked, wondering how he and Robbie had managed not to be mates for so long – even going so far as to decide that despite their ongoing battle they’d always almost liked each other. Or at least each knew the other wasn’t quite the no-hoper he was supposed to be.

  Anyway, things had changed between them. But it was Robbie, Farren reckoned, who’d changed the most. He seemed about ten times more reckless than he had been at school. He didn’t seem to give two hoots about anything, and it was all to do with his dad being missing, Farren figured. Compared to that, no wonder he couldn’t have cared less about taking the boat, getting a bump on his head, and telling a few fibs.

  So he and Robbie were about even, which was generally the best way between mates. Robbie had a real good house with a piano and pictures, a slightly mad mother, and his dad was missing, but he, Farren, had a dad and a brother, a great boat, and no mum and a little old house. Yep, just about even for sure. Whistling quietly, Farren rowed the Price’s dinghy to shore, deciding that all things considered, it had been a pretty good day.

  SIX

  The following weekend, Farren was grudgingly on his way to cadets in his baggy olive-green uniform. His boots, brown and badly polished, caught the sun on their toes and he did his best to avoid puddles, knowing that Captain Gamble absolutely hated mud and muddy boots. ‘Detested’ was the word the retired soldier used, a word enthusiastically copied by all the boys whenever possible.

  On an impulse, Farren turned up Garderon Street, walked to Robbie’s house and went up the path. Hesitantly he tapped with the brass knocker and waited, standing up straight, thinking that if Mrs Price answered she might not approve of him slouching. But it was Robbie who appeared – in uniform, apart from boots and cap – to sling the door back as if to show that he lived in a house with no secrets. His forehead, Farren saw, was still bruised.

  ‘Fa-roon! What brings you to these distant shores?’ Robbie scanned the road, hand over his eyes. ‘Is it because of all this detestable mud that I see? And that you seek a place of plenty cleanliness? Or is that you want to go sailing and need some masterly tips?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Farren, looking nervously down the hallway, wondering what effect this show might have on Mrs Price. ‘I just wanted to know if ya, yer know, wanted to walk up to cadets?’

  Robbie stepped out onto the verandah.

  ‘Yeah, I will.’ He spoke quietly. ‘But my mum’s lying down and I’ll have to see her right, because every time it’s bloody cadets, she gets a stinking headache. You know, because of my dad being missing, and all that other shitty palaver. Wait here.’

  Farren waited, looking at the garden. There was not a weed in sight, every shrub had been trimmed, and all the winter-wet dirt had been recently raked. It was quite restful to look at, Farren thought. Very nice. From inside he could hear low voices, the rattle of a cup, and then Robbie came up the hall, boots and cap in hand.

  ‘All set.’ He sat on the step to pull on his boots, Farren noticing his socks were new and thick. ‘And if she goes to sleep when I’m away, double good and even better, because then she’ll be right as rain when I get home.’

  Captain Gamble walked up the uneven line of cadets, peering into their faces. He was a small, heavy man who Farren sometimes saw walking his cocker spaniels on the beach, two golden dogs with shiny brown collars.

  ‘Boys. A good afternoon.’ A corner of a dangling Union Jack brushed the Captain’s cap. ‘I know the news has not been so bright from the Turkish Peninsula, but we must steel ourselves for the challenges that lie ahead.’ He paused, pinching his moustache. ‘It is indeed a trying time for those who have relatives fighting. And of course, we pray for their ultimate success and safe return.’ Captain Gamble reached the end of the line and turned. ‘But fight we will and win we must. For Australia. For England. And for our place in the world.’

  Farren thought Captain Gamble even looked a bit like his cocker spaniels. He had brown eyes, big ears, and a droopy face.

  ‘Oh, fellows,’ the Captain said. ‘I am as heart-sick as you when I read the casualty lists posted from Gallipoli and the Dardanelles. But we would be in dereliction of our duty if we did not complete our marching and firearm drills. Then perhaps we might have a game of something then a good brisk hike to finish off. Price, Fox, Sparrow, and Schanker, bring out the rifles.’ Captain Gamble saluted, the boys saluted in return, and headed for the strong room.

  ‘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 st
raight 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. ‘Soh-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.’

  SEVEN

  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.’