Farren sat drinking sweet black tea, and although he did not want to think about death, he couldn’t help but wonder about his mum and dad. Where were they? Perhaps he didn’t believe in heaven, but he did want to believe that they were somewhere. He looked around the tiny parlour, at the walls, the chairs and the table, and decided categorically that they sure weren’t here. They had been, and although he reckoned he could just about summon their voices out of the air, he couldn’t summon them.
So when you died, Farren thought, what happened the next minute? The next hour? What about the next day? Did they even have days, dead people? He hoped they did but doubted it.
And what would it mean, Farren wondered, if Danny had killed some Turks? Would it mean a lot or not much? You weren’t supposed to kill people, everyone knew that; it even said so in the bible, but in a war it was different, especially because the Turks deserved to die and go to hell – and they would go, on the double, sent there by Danny because he could be ruthless when he’d decided the time for muckin’ around was over. Still. It was confusing.
Outside Farren heard a voice. It called long and loud, as if someone was shouting from the top of the bridge.
‘Fah-rennn! Oh, Fahrennn! We’ve brought you some din-nerrrr!’
It was bloody Robbie.
Farren got to the door fast, letting go without the slightest regret what he’d been thinking about just a few seconds before.
Robbie, Maggie, Charlotte, and Isla came out of the dark, led meekly by their lantern. Farren was delighted to see them, the idea of staying in the house beginning to feel like a decision haunted with loneliness. And he was worried, not that he would ever tell anyone, about ghosts. Though in a way he half hoped his dad or his mum might show up, because that would be better then never seeing them again.
‘Hello, Farren.’ Maggie carried the lantern. ‘We’ve brought you some food and things. It was Charlotte’s idea.’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte added. ‘It was my idea.’
Pricey laughed, his teeth a dim flash. He was carrying a large wooden box.
‘Yes, ’Roon. We’ve brought you some food and things. It was Charlotte’s idea, although I couldn’t be sure. No one’s saying.’
Isla, wearing a hooded black coat, simply smiled and made a flowing hand movement that made Farren think of a swan swimming. He held the door open.
‘Go in. I just had tea,’ he said. ‘But I’m still bloody hungry.’
As Maggie, Charlotte, Isla, and Pricey trooped through, it crossed Farren’s mind that although death seemed big, life was bigger. Or it felt like it, as far as he could tell. And so grateful was he that his friends had come, tears burned in his eyes.
‘Now, Farren.’ Maggie took one of the mugs of tea that Charlotte was distributing. ‘There’s a few things you need to know about your dad’s money and things like that. Perhaps after work one day we can go through it with Mr McTavish from the bank. Don’t worry, it’s not complicated. Oh, and all the letters and things about Danny – is it all right if they come to my place? It might be easier.’
Farren nodded. He hadn’t thought about any of that sort of stuff – and he wasn’t capable of thinking about it now. He let the whole lot leave his head, gone.
‘Anyway, F’roon –’ Pricey entwined his fingers as if he had things of great importance to discuss. ‘Tomorrow arvo. Cadets as usual, right?’
Farren shrugged. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’ He’d missed cadets for two weeks after his dad had died, but he’d been happy enough to go back. Captain Gamble had seemed quite happy to see him.
‘No. Wrong.’ Robbie wagged a finger. ‘I saw old Captain G and got you this Saturday off on compassionate grounds. And I’m helping. So tomorrow we’re going out to locate the famous pirate’s loot. I’ll be over at about one with a shovel. I think we both could do with the dough.’
Farren sat, arms crossed, grinning as if he was posing for the school photo. Quite a few times he’d looked for this treasure, as every other kid in town had, plus a few of the more desperate adults. Supposedly it had been buried near the estuary by some Spanish pirate, obviously well bloody lost, as Tom Fox had said. But to go with Pricey would be a laugh.
‘You’ll never find it.’ Charlotte spoke with grim satisfaction. ‘Because it ain’t there. It’s just some big lie some stupid galoot made up down the pub. Youse’ll be wastin’ yer time, just like the rest of them alkies, drongos an’ bloody fibbers who go out diggin’ like bloody rabbits.’
‘Steady on, Shallot!’ Robbie’s face lit up as if he’d found something good already. ‘What about that little old silver spoon that Jimmy the Scrounger tried to swap for a jug of beer and some roast beef down at the pub? What? You reckon he made that himself? Melted down some of the big silver candlesticks from off the top of his grand piano? What about that, eh?’
‘He would’ve stole it,’ Charlotte said dismissively. ‘Like anythin’ else that’s not nailed down. Anyway, it’s only Farren’s brother who ever bothers to listen to that stupid old coot. And that’s only because of the good of his heart.’
Farren knew that occasionally Danny would slip Jimmy a shilling, or shout him a feed of sausages down the pub. Once Danny’d even given the old bloke a good thick woollen coat he’d bought at a farm clearance sale.
‘Couldn’t let the old bastard freeze to death,’ Danny had said. ‘Besides, it’ll stop him knockin’ off anything that belongs to the Foxes. Plus he said he’ll slip me a handful of diamonds and rubies when he finds the entire kit and kaboodle.’
Isla touched the back of Farren’s hand, Farren feeling how cold her fingertips were. Often he’d seen her holding herself in against the wind, arms tightly crossed, as she went up or down the path to the wash-house. Most of the time she seemed just about to shiver, which was no surprise, given how the wind whipped up off the inlet.
‘Your bra-ther good.’ Isla nodded authoritatively, her arms already crossed again. ‘Magg-ee said.’
Farren was pleased Isla had understood.
‘Yeah, he’s a real good bloke. And I’ll stoke the fire up for yer, Isla, because your hands are like ice.’ He got up. ‘You move in there.’ He pointed to a place right in front of the stove. ‘I’ll shift your chair. You’re in the worst spot in the house.’
NINETEEN
The Saturday afternoon sky was pocked with only the smallest of clouds, the sun extracting colours brightened by an evening’s rain. Carrying a shovel over his shoulder, Farren felt warm and happy.
‘You gotta think like a pirate,’ Robbie said as they scouted the estuary’s scrubby shore. ‘And since they were all such dead-set lazy bastards – which is why they became pirates – I bet they couldn’t be stuffed carrying a box of heavy treasure too far. So they probably buried it as soon as their grog ran out. Which looks like it’d be just about here.’ Robbie stopped.
Farren knew that for Robbie the afternoon’s hunt was just one long, ridiculous joke, which suited him completely.
Robbie looked around. ‘Yep, this looks like just the sort’a place a pirate’d like to sit on his arse for a while. So why don’t we? And see what suggests itself.’
The boys sat on a low bank, boots on the gritty grey shore, shovels discarded.
‘So what’s the story with Danny?’ Robbie took out a cigarette tin, opened and offered it, rows of tailor-made cigarettes in neat ranks. ‘Wanna fag, matey? Pirates bloody love ’em.’
Farren had smoked quite a few times but he didn’t think his lungs were very well suited to it. He took one anyway, thinking that these days, since he had no parents, he could do whatever he liked. He bent his head quickly to Robbie’s match before any signs of sadness set in.
‘He’s on a ship for Melbourne.’ Farren took a light drag. ‘And then he’ll be in hospital. And when he’s outta there he can come home. Maggie got a letter.’ Farren took another drag. The cigarette wasn’t nearly as strong as the ones his dad had smoked. ‘But since he got shot in the elbow as well, he can’t hold a rif
le properly, so he won’t ever be goin’ back. Is there any news on your dad or anything?’
Robbie sat, cigarette burning away.
‘Nope. Nothin’.’ He watched the ash lengthen as if he were conducting a scientific experiment. ‘But you know, Farren, I mean, if he ain’t copped it then where is he? I doubt he’s spent the last three months lying under a tree reading the bloody Sun.’
Farren sat with his hands clasped around his boot, the leather made supple by sunshine. He could feel the day around him, as if the whole world was intent on impressing him with its warmth and innocence, but he was not convinced.
‘Who started this bloody War, anyway?’ He let his chin drop onto the hard cap of his knee, but only for a moment. He owed it to Robbie to cheer him up. ‘Not everybody who goes missin’ cops it, do they? They don’t. And that’s a fact, Robbie. Plenty make it back. Even after a while.’
Robbie took a couple more thoughtful drags before flicking his cigarette into the water.
‘Yeah, I guess some do. But I reckon there’s about as much chance of my old man getting home as you’n me finding this bloody pirate’s stash.’ He looked out at the moored boats as they dutifully met the tide. ‘But I can’t give up on him yet, ’Roon, because of my mum. I have to keep trying to hope.’
Farren couldn’t hear desperation in Robbie’s voice, but he knew it was there, like the pressure in a tree bending in a storm.
‘Yeah, you don’t give up,’ Farren said. ‘That’s right. Or not like until maybe someone tells you somethin’ for sure. But that ain’t happened yet, has it? So, you never know.’
‘No, you never know. But still.’ Robbie stared into the distance as if he could see right across the world. ‘She sure is one fuckin’ tough life in the army. Anyway, shipmate –’ Robbie picked up his shovel and stood. ‘Let’s at least dig some sort of hole to show that we are indeed true believers. Up ya hop, Peg-Leg.’
Farren got up. If Pricey wanted to dig a hole then they’d dig a hole.
‘Where?’ Farren cast around. ‘Where d’you wanna dig it?’
Robbie laughed and speared his shovel down.
‘Right about bloody here. Where X marks the spot. God, I’ve struck something already.’ He flipped loose a rock the size of a fist. ‘Look, it’s Charlotte’s brain. Nope. It can’t be. Too big.’ He kicked the rock away, but without force.
Farren could tell Robbie didn’t have the energy for serious digging. He suggested they go home to get something to eat, a suggestion Robbie accepted.
‘So when do you get your boat back, Roony?’ he asked as they walked.
Farren had had a meeting with Mr McTavish from the bank, who’d told him, amongst other things, that he’d been given twenty pounds by the families of Queenscliff for his future, and that all repairs to the Camille would be done for free by Ollie Hassen and Sticks Coleman, two local boat builders.
‘Jack Haggar said when the weather’s calmer, him and me’ll go and sail it back. The tiller and rudder’s gone, and a bit of shit like that, but we can just put on a new one.’ Farren glanced at Robbie. ‘That town money, it’s in the bank, so I can pay for stuff.’
‘That’s good.’ At every second step Robbie touched the ground with his shovel, as if measuring his paces. ‘You know, ’Roon, you’re one tough kid. You get whacked but you don’t stay down. Up you get. Every time. You’re like bloody Les Darcy. Except you’re not the battling blacksmith from Maitland, you’re the tough bloody fisherman from friggin’ frog hollow.’
Farren knew one thing for sure; he was not as tough as Les Darcy. He wished he was.
‘You’re tougher than me, Robbie.’ Farren believed this. ‘I mean, you got plenty of things to worry about but you don’t even seem to care. I mean –’
‘Let’s just drop it, eh?’ Robbie looked away, across the scrub and the inlet, towards town. ‘Hey, look. There’s Shallot and Isla.’
Farren looked, seeing the two girls on the track that ran between the shore and the railway line. He was surprised to see Isla outside. She’d been coughing all week, and wearing her big coat all day, even in the wash-house.
‘Why don’t we see if they wanna go out in the boat?’ Robbie’s wiggling eyebrows suggested that he had a plan. ‘I bet Isla would.’
∗
Isla, holding a balled-up handkerchief, looked with interest at Captain Price’s dinghy that was pulled up on the beach. Charlotte looked at it as if it was filled with manure.
‘I ain’t goin’ anywhere in that old bucket,’ she said. ‘For one thing, it looks like it’ll sink. And for another, I am a non-swimmer.’ She pointed at Isla, for Robbie’s benefit. ‘An’ heaven only knows what this one can do. So youse two had better work that out. Unless yer happy to have the death of an invalid on yer hands.’
Robbie grinned, as if Charlotte had once again lived up to his expectations for crabbiness. He turned to Isla.
‘Can you swim, Isla? Swim?’ He acted out a few strokes. ‘Yes? No? Maybe?’
Isla laughed, shrugged, and turned her hands upwards. Farren saw she wore a ring, one that he hadn’t noticed before.
‘I doh know.’
Robbie’s forehead compressed.
‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that’s quite the sort of answer I was after.’
‘Bud I come,’ Isla added, nodding keenly. ‘I come!’
Farren handled the tiller and controlled the mainsail. The wind was light but the Jane-Eliza sailed steadily, pushing out a small bow wave that murmured and sang. Farren had asked Robbie to sit in the middle of the boat, and Charlotte and Isla on the windward side, to keep the yacht in trim.
Contentedly, Isla trailed her fingers in the water whilst Charlotte, holding onto a wire stay, appeared to be caught in a state of terror, fascination, and some untried emotion that Farren couldn’t identify. She had not spoken since they’d transferred from the dinghy to the sailing boat.
‘Oh, yeh-heh-hess!’ Robbie slapped the boom that slanted over his head. ‘This is the life for me! Forget your cuppa tea! I’m on the open sea! Drinking buckets o’ rum! With a tattoo on me bum. And a harpoon and a gun. And, er, waving to me mum! How’s it going there, Farren?’ He winked. ‘’Bout time we put old seaman Charlotte in charge, I think. I can see she’s just itchin’ to git her mitts on that rudder.’
‘Tiller,’ Farren corrected.
‘I ain’t touchin’ no bleedin’ tillup.’ Charlotte tightened her grip on the stay. ‘Don’t be bloody daft.’
Farren laughed. He couldn’t help it.
‘Oh, come on, Charlotte. It ain’t hard.’ He wagged the tiller, the boat executing a neat zig-zag. ‘You steer and I’ll do the sail. It’s a bloody cinch. Come on. You can do it.’
‘Yeah, go on, Shallot,’ Robbie put in. ‘You’ll be the first Pike ever to captain a sailin’ vessel across the seven seas. Even if it is the smallest one. Sea, that is.’
‘Oh, orright then, smart alec.’ Charlotte let go of the stay. ‘I will. And if we all drown, it’ll just prove that you and Robbie Price are both A-grade bloody idiots. Now gimme that bloody tillup.’
‘That’s the way, sailor!’ Robbie slapped her knee. ‘And now me’n Farry can sit up in the fokin’ foc’sle and ’ave a fokin’ smoke!’
TWENTY
The day that Farren went with Jack to bring the Camille home to Queenscliff held the luminosity, the unreality, and the fractured time line of a dream. The ride down to Ocean Grove in Ollie Hassen’s cart seemed to take weeks or seconds, Farren couldn’t tell which. All he could clearly remember of it were clouds pasted onto a dazzling sky and the rattling of tools in a crate.
At the beach, in a shed fronted by gold sand and green waves that seemed to break miles out, Farren watched as Ollie and Jack fitted a new rudder and tiller to the Camille. He’d helped to hold the rudder in place, and to steady the combing whilst it was repaired, but was soon exhausted by trying to help rather than actually doing things.
‘Go get a few sticks and we�
��ll boil the billy,’ Jack suggested. ‘Then we’ll get the boys down from the pub to help launch her, all right?’
Farren, his energy renewed by having a task he could do, set off back through the dunes to the scrub. All day he’d been, if not actually close to tears, in the grip of a mood of desolation and grief. He felt that he did not want to see the Camille or have her back – but he also knew instinctively not to trust this feeling, that the day was a strange one, to be survived and then forgotten.
It was all to do with his dad and Luther being drowned on the beach in front of him. And it was something to do with the boat being named for his mother and she being dead, too. And then there was Danny hurt, and maybe it was also to do with the fact that now he and Danny owned the boat, and that he, Farren, would have to sail her because that’s what he’d been telling everybody he would do. But could he sail her? Could he really?
Suddenly the weight of the wood in his arms disappeared. He wouldn’t be sailing the Camille alone, would he? No; he’d have Danny with him, and Danny knew a lot about boats, because you didn’t get to be a sailmaker unless you did.
Farren stood in the dunes, gazing over the ocean that was contained by a horizon that he knew didn’t really contain it at all. In the shed below was the Camille, and in her he could sail toward the horizon, never reaching it because no one ever reached it, although it was possible to sail over it. But that was not going to happen today.
Today was only a day for getting through, a day for getting home, a day for showing Jack that he, Farren Fox, could carry the weight of the end of his dad’s life, and was willing to go to sea from this same beach, in spite of everything. That was today. Tomorrow would be different. And hopefully not so hard.
With a light southerly at their backs, Jack and Farren sailed the Camille along the coast, her wake nothing more than a few gentle swirls and a trail of bubbles.
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