‘Living in an hotel is not ideal for a boy.’ Mrs Price corrected the placing of her knife and fork one fraction. ‘But Mr Lansdowne-Murphy runs a decent establishment. There are worse places, I’m sure.’
Farren was relieved Mrs Price thought the Victory would be all right, because he was worried about being lonely, although the pub was quite friendly.
‘Isla’s there, too,’ he said, for his own benefit as much for Mrs Price’s information. ‘And I can take me rabbit. As long as Johnny’s dog doesn’t get it.’ He did not add that he was glad that the pub was close to the inlet, and that from the kitchen door he could see his house across the bridge. ‘And when Danny’s back, I’ll go home. Mr O’Leary won’t let nobody else have our place ’til Danny comes back, he said.’
‘I’m sure he won’t.’ Mrs Price cut a slice of bread in four. ‘He also has a boy overseas.’ Meticulously she buttered a quarter. ‘This War is a truly nasty business. I sometimes wonder what can be achieved, if anything at all.’
It startled Farren to hear Mrs Price say the War was bad, because hardly anyone ever did, except for Mad Billy the bottle-oh, but no one had listened to him for years. You weren’t supposed to say that the War was bad, even if your husband was missing, or someone in your family had been killed. You had to say that it was worth it.
It suddenly occurred to Farren that he hadn’t given Isla the bird book. Maggie still had it. He’d give it to her tomorrow. The thought cheered him, but he was worried now to see Mrs Price rubbing her temples, as if she could smooth out the tight, close lines across her forehead. He could hear her humming, too, a gentle little tune perhaps intended to soothe away troubling thoughts.
Suddenly Robbie smacked the edge of the table, sending up a hard, silvery rattle from the knives and forks.
‘Oh, it’ll be all right, muvver!’ He began to thump a pretend piano, the table shaking. ‘Because good old Captain Price! Will bounce out in a thrice! As he’s been known to do at least twenty times before! Da dah!’ Robbie lifted his hands with a flourish. ‘Now what’s for sweets?’
Farren laughed. He’d never seen anyone do what Pricey could do, and at the drop of a hat. Mrs Price was also smiling, even if a plaited strand of her hair had come loose and hung down her cheek, giving her a wild look, Farren thought, like an actress or a mad queen in a book.
‘Good God, Robert.’ Mrs Price did not look displeased. ‘Where did you come from I do not know. But I will fetch some dessert. I believe there is trifle.’
The boys watched her leave, the flames of the candles bending obediently after her.
‘Bloody hell, sergeant Roon.’ Robbie arched his eyebrows. ‘Lucky I had that piano handy, eh?’
‘So what are you gunna do with your boat?’ Robbie asked as they wandered back to Maggie’s. ‘When they bring it home?’
Farren side-stepped a pothole. Do with the boat? Jesus, there was only one thing he was ever gunna do with the Camille.
‘Go fishin’,’ he said. ‘Just fix ’er up and quit the pub. As soon as Danny gets back.’
Robbie nodded appreciatively.
‘Well, you can count me in. You can be skipper and I’ll bring lunch. I mean it. I’ll quit school and everything. In fact, let’s go and get it now. It’s only a fifteen mile walk.’
Farren knew Robbie was joking, but not entirely.
‘Well, you can come out with me –’ Farren felt the words accelerating. ‘Like any time you want. But you ain’t a fisherman, Robbie. You’d go mad in a week. You should be a – a…’ Farren was stumped. He didn’t know what Robbie should be.
‘I should be a what?’ Robbie stood, hands on hips.
‘A –’ Farren tried to think of something exciting or difficult that Robbie could do. ‘I dunno. An explorer. Or a doctor or somethin’. ’ Inspiration struck. ‘No, I do know. You said so yerself. You should be a bloody airman.’ Beyond the end of the road Farren could see the Rip, broad and silver, as if a tide of moonlight was running. Yes! As the sea would be for him, the sky would be for Pricey. ‘You know, you should fly planes. Maybe even in the War. If it lasts that long.’
Above Farren the sky had never felt so close. The sheer potential it held for unknown freedoms and adventures was written all over it. If anyone could fly, Pricey could.
‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right, old boy.’ Robbie gently kicked the road. ‘Because that’s what I’ve been thinking myself, actually.’
SIXTEEN
Farren went down to the wash-house, carrying the bird book, pleased to be giving it to Isla although it weighed him down. Now, as well as the stories of the birds, it held the story of the last day of his old life, the last day when he had felt safe in the world. He hoped that she wouldn’t detect it was such a big heavy thing, and only see the pictures and the writing.
He stopped at the door, the heat pressing outwards, the smell of smoke smoothed by steam. Isla sat at the glassless window looking out at the estuary, her stick in the copper with the boiling sheets as if she was a neglectful witch bored with her brew. Farren wondered how the world might seem to her.
How different would it be, he thought, when you couldn’t hear? Would it be like watching a play? Or being in a country where all the people spoke some special silent language? And wouldn’t you always be worried that someone might be about to grab you from behind? Or be calling you, but you couldn’t hear?
Farren wondered if Isla could hear, like, really loud sounds. Perhaps thunder or a cannon? Or inside sounds, like her own breathing, or her heart. Or the voice that told you your thoughts.
Watching her, Farren decided that perhaps he and Isla saw the world in a similar way; that, like now, they looked at the same things out of the same window, alone. Well, they were more alone and more the same than other people, anyway. He went in, truly glad that he had bought the book, because it was a good idea to give Isla something. And although it was not the same book it had been, it was still the book that he’d bought for her.
Isla began to cry and Farren didn’t know what to do. The heat of the wash-house rose like flooding water. He began to sweat.
‘It’s orright.’ He came up with a smile that he hoped might persuade her that everything was fine. It was only a book, not much of a present really. It didn’t cost much. It wasn’t even wrapped in proper paper. Hesitantly he touched Isla’s wrist, her sleeve dark and damp. ‘Don’t worry, Isla. Don’t cry.’ He hoped that she would understand. ‘It’s only a book.’
Isla’s eyes, brimming silver-blue and bright, sparkled.
‘Fah-renn.’ She sniffed loudly, smiled sharply, and pressed the book to her front. ‘Than’ you.’ She hugged the book as if it was a baby.
Relief rose in Farren like the steam from the boiling copper.
‘They’d be down there, too.’ He pointed towards the glassless window. ‘Some of them birds in the pictures. Not all of ’em, but some of ’em. Some’d be down there.’
Isla opened the book and tapped at an illustration in a general kind of a way. It was a tall white wading bird, Farren saw. Probably a heron, he reckoned.
‘I see some.’ Isla smiled, Farren seeing the tip of her tongue tucked up behind her front teeth. She touched Farren’s hand as she’d touched the illustration. ‘On na wa-tah.’
Farren laughed, as happy as she was, because sometimes he felt she might be quite unhappy – which was why, probably, that he’d wanted to give her a present in the first place. It wasn’t because he was in love with her. He liked her. And maybe he did love her, but he didn’t mind that she was keen on old Derri, because she was a lot older – and apart from everything, he just wanted her to be happy.
Isla stepped forward, kissing him so quickly on the lips he couldn’t have avoided her, even if he’d wanted to.
‘Than’ you.’ She patted the book. ‘Vair much.’
Behind them Farren heard the clatter of a tin bucket hitting concrete. He turned, catching sight of Charlotte ducking away, the contents of the bucket on the path like
a puddle of vomit. Dread plummeted as embarrassment soared.
‘Bloody Charlotte.’ Farren felt his face flush. ‘I bet she got the wrong idea. She always does.’ He doubted Isla understood, but he figured that didn’t matter half as much as making sure that Charlotte did. ‘I’d better go sort it out.’
SEVENTEEN
Farren didn’t have to see Brig Briggingham to know he was on his way down the hill. Hearing Brig’s red and white post-office bike rattling its guts out, and Brig shouting, made sure of it. Farren shut the woodshed door, watching the telegram boy dump his bike by the road and stride to the fence.
‘Hey, Farren! Gotta telegram for ya, mate.’ He waved it. ‘It’s from the bloody army, but don’t shit yerself, ’cos it ain’t one of them death jobs. They get good old revsy Purdue to deliver them-mies –’ Brig winked mightily, ‘because funnily enough, they don’t reckon old Briggsy-boy can be bloody trusted!’
Farren felt something jagged lodge in his chest. This telegram could only ever be about Danny. Brig handed it over.
‘Heard ya gotta sweetheart, mate.’ He fired off another wink. ‘Heard ya was pashin’ her in the wash-house.’ Brig grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth he evidently didn’t care too much about. ‘Ya sly old dog.’
Farren was desperate to open the telegram, but he knew if he didn’t straighten the telegram delivery boy out about Isla first, the wash-house story’d be fifty times worse by five o’clock.
‘That ain’t true about Isla,’ he said. ‘Charlotte tell ya that, did she? Because if she did, she’s a bloody liar.’
Brig grinned, harder and wider, and backed off towards his bike.
‘Always two sides to every story, sport. Anyways, Farren, yer sexy secrets is safe with me, cobber. Won’t go not a ninch further.’ He picked up his bike. ‘But good luck to ya, anyhow. She’s not a bad sort, for a bit of a funny bunny.’ Brig smiled on and on.
‘Don’t worry about Isla,’ Farren said. ‘She’s orright.’ Farren knew that Brig wasn’t nearly as dumb as he made out; it was just that he’d decided early on that it was a lot more fun to act like an idiot than not. ‘Anyway, thanks for this, eh?’ Farren waved the telegram. ‘And if ya see Charlotte, give her a good hard boot up the bum.’
Brig swung his leg over his bike. ‘Will do.’ He set off up the hill, standing on the pedals. ‘And congrats on the bun in the oven, Foxy! I’ll see yer at the weddin’!’
Farren sat with his back against the woodshed door, took a deep breath, and opened the envelope. The telegram was barely one paragraph long and all it said, in heavy black type-written sentences, was that Private Daniel P Fox had been wounded in the head and arm and would be sent back to Melbourne, Australia, on board the hospital ship, Aurelia.
Farren sat stunned. Danny hit in the head? Hit in the head by what? How could that happen? That couldn’t be right. They couldn’t get Danny. Danny was gunna get them!
Farren sat without moving; it was as if he’d smashed his finger with a hammer and was waiting for the pain to come, which it did, and with such force he was overwhelmed by what was gone from his life, what had happened to him, and what was happening to him now. It was as if everything he’d ever had, everything he’d ever relied on, everything he’d ever hoped for, was being wrenched from his grasp and smashed into a million unrecognisable little pieces.
And now this.
Farren could not, and would not, think of Danny hurt. He refused. He would not think about Danny – but he would think about the Turks.
Those fuckin’ Turks!
Farren smashed the letter into the ground. How could those bloody hopeless, useless gypo wog Turks have got Danny? Especially if Danny had made his mind up to get them? They shouldn’t have even got close to him! Never! Not ever.
But they had.
And now he, Farren, had no idea how he was going to cope with it. He needed help, he needed help now, but who was going to give it? His mum and dad weren’t here, and although Maggie had helped him to write a letter to the army and stuff, it wasn’t that sort of help he needed. He needed his family, but there was only one other of his family left, and that was Danny. And Danny couldn’t help because now he needed help more than bloody anybody else. It was a wreck. The whole thing was. A bloody wreck.
Farren was caught in a torrent of despair so great, so black, the only thing he could do was go with it. And so he buried his head in his arms, and howled into the heat and darkness because he was powerless to stop any of this stuff. His life was a mess, he was finished, and that was bloody that.
‘Farren, are you all right? Has somethink happened?’ It was Charlotte, her two timid questions creeping up on Farren like mice.
Charlotte’s words raked him, Farren lifting his head, knowing only one thing and that was that she could not see him like this. Standing behind him on the path, Charlotte looked as if she was just about to make a run for it, although Farren hadn’t seen her run since school and even then she’d only managed as much speed as a fat, woolly sheep.
‘No, I’m not all right.’ Farren cuffed away tears, the soft cloth of his shirt pulling at his face, a loose button scratching under his eye. But there’s not much I can do about it.’ He shrugged, hard. ‘Danny’s got hurt in the war.’
‘Oh.’ Tentatively Charlotte put one worn brown shoe forward then drew it back. ‘That’s terrible. That’s awful.’
Seeing her there, her hands bunched up in her apron as if it was her only protection against the world, Farren felt anger leave him like he imagined a ghost might leave a body. He didn’t want Charlotte to know what he was feeling but he didn’t want to scare her, either, because she was scared by enough things.
‘Danny got wounded in the head,’ he added. ‘And he’s coming home. I just got a letter from the army. That’s it there.’ It lay on the ground, bearing the imprint of his fist.
‘Oh, dear me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Like cautious moths her hands crept out. ‘D’you want a cuppa tea? I just made a pot. It’s fresh.’
Farren shook his head. He wouldn’t have minded having a cup of tea with Charlotte, but he was thinking of something more urgent.
‘No, thanks.’ He stood and brushed off his pants. ‘I’m just goin’ up to Maggie’s to get my stuff and then I’m goin’ back home. To my place.’ He waved at the bridge that vaulted the estuary. ‘You tell Maggie. And I’ll see yers later, all right?’
‘All right.’ Charlotte hadn’t moved from the path. ‘But what about yer letter? You better not lose it, not if it’s from the army.’
Farren didn’t even look at it. ‘I never want to see it again.’ And he set off for the gate, feeling as if he was already more than half the way home.
For company, Farren left the door of the firebox open. He sat with Hoppidy on his lap and looked at the fire, his thoughts climbing over one another as the flames climbed through the kindling. He’d swept and cleaned the parlour, brushing away the black mouse droppings before he scrubbed down every flat surface with soapy water.
It felt good to have cleaned the place and it was nice to hear the fire, but now the house seemed to hover over him as if waiting for him to say something. So he did.
‘I’m stayin’ ’ere,’ he announced. ‘I’ll pay the rent and everythin’. And when Danny gets home he can ’ave the big room and I’ll ’ave the little one. That’s it.’ That was enough for now. That was plenty. It was what he intended to do.
EIGHTEEN
Before it got dark, Farren put Hoppidy in her box, and took it inside. Then he knelt next to the stove, reached back, and took out his dad’s rifle and a small cardboard box of .22 cartridges.
‘Back in a while,’ he told Hoppidy, and went out, walking away from the house and climbing two fences until he was amongst the low, bracken-covered undulations where he knew there’d be rabbits.
Farren stopped to load, the metallic precision of the rifle satisfying. Again he set off, slowly this time, moving with purpose around the fallen skeletons of ring-barke
d trees, their bleached branches like broken limbs. In the distance a rabbit flickered. Then another took off at Farren’s feet, abandoning its squat to run full-pelt, white tail flipping, to disappear under a log.
A minute later, Farren spotted a rabbit sitting above a burrow, and another just below. Using a stump as a gun rest, he sighted on the one above, knowing it would be less likely to struggle back down the hole if he hit it. Bunnies were tough. He didn’t like them to get away wounded.
Farren settled in for the shot, the front sight like the tip of a black thorn in the rabbit’s fur. Gently he squeezed the trigger, the sound of the shot sudden and wicked, whipping away as the rabbit somersaulted. Farren got up and ran, caught the scrabbling animal, and with one pull that took nearly all his strength, broke its neck.
Back-tracking, Farren collected the rifle, and with the rabbit dangling from his fist, set off for home. To counteract the cold company of the gloomy dusk, he conjured up a picture of Danny in a well-lit hospital in a big white bed, with a clean white bandage wrapped around his head, looking like a pirate. He’d be all right, Farren thought, for no other reason than he was Danny Fox.
Surely.
With the lamps lit, his tea of rabbit and onions eaten, and Hoppidy on his lap, Farren was very aware of the house and what was in it. In the main bedroom, in a small chest of drawers, were two of his mum’s best dresses that his dad had not allowed to be given away, and on a peg in the wall was the thick corduroy jacket his dad wore out for special occasions. Out in the shed, too, was his father’s oilskin fishing coat.
Jack Haggar had put it there, coming to the pub a week after the funeral, the heavy jacket over his arm.
‘I thought you might want this,’ Jack had said. ‘It’s too big for yer now but it’ll fit ya one day. What about you and I just walk over the bridge and hang it up in the shed, eh?’
So they’d crossed the bridge and Jack, using a bit of wire and a gum stick, had hung the jacket on the wall, where it held the outline of Tom Fox’s work years rather than Tom Fox’s bones, blood, and muscle.
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