‘A real good sea boat,’ Jack Haggar said. ‘Sail her anywhere, Farren. Come’n take the tiller.’
Farren did so, feeling the life and speed in the couta boat, knowing that his father had spent far more on the Camille than he could afford. He’d seen his dad take an extra twenty pounds from a worn leather pouch, the bank notes soft and old, and hand them to Michael Johansen who willingly turned them into the best timber and finest fittings he could get his hands on.
And when Danny got home, Farren reckoned he’d ask him to cut some new sails, and the Fox brothers’d be first boat home from the fishing grounds every bloody night. And maybe they might even enter the real races against the flash fellers from the city, give them a hiding, and take home a hundred pounds!
‘Joe Clouty’ll buy her off yer.’ Jack sipped water from a lemonade bottle wrapped in newspaper. ‘If you and Danny decide you don’t want to fish. He’ll give you a good price. He told me to tell ya.’
Farren absorbed the words like a series of heavy, measured hits.
‘She ain’t for sale.’ He could tell his words didn’t equal the weight of the offer. What if Danny did want to sell the boat? Or wasn’t able to sail it? What then? ‘I ain’t sellin’ her.’ Farren didn’t know if he was telling the truth. ‘I’ll be fishin’ her with Danny as soon as he’s right.’
‘Good on yer,’ said Jack. ‘If that works out.’ The fisherman looked towards the scrubby coast, the sand dunes lying low and seductively-shaped. ‘I’ll tell Joe when I see him.’
‘All right.’ Farren hoped that Joe Clouty might just forget about him and the Camille. But he knew that the boat was something others might want, and that it was possible for anything to be taken from anyone at any time, no matter how valuable, or tightly held. That had already happened to him twice, almost three times.
Ahead, the cliffs of Point Lonsdale, gullied and steep, rose from the water. Farren wondered if the ones in Gallipoli were much like that. From the pictures in the paper he reckoned the Turkey ones looked a lot higher and steeper; more like rows of huge shark teeth, but that hadn’t stopped Danny and the boys from crawling right up them to fight, no matter how many bloody Turks there were trying to bushwack them from above. So he’d fight, too.
From now on, no matter what, nobody’d ever take anything off him that he didn’t want to give. Or not if he could help it.
The Camille was tied up at a sheltered berth out of the way of the working fleet.
‘She’ll be right here, Farren,’ Jack said. ‘You’ll be able to see her mast tip from yer back door.’
For a while, after Jack had gone off to the pub, Farren stayed by the boat, legs dangling over the wharf, the sound of the water on the Camille’s hull like a quiet conversation between friends. Just looking at her, with the sun warm on his head, knowing she was his, strengthened Farren’s feelings of belonging right where he was right now. This was his place and he was happy, in a way. Even after everything. He still was.
‘Farren!’
Farren looked up, saw Maggie on the bridge, and waved.
‘I’ve got some news!’ She held up a sheet of paper. ‘About Danny! Wait there!’
Farren didn’t wait. He got up, jumped off the low side of the wharf, and ran to pull up puffing where Maggie stood at the bottom of the bridge. She held out the letter but Farren didn’t take it. Instead he asked her to read it. Army letters used stiff, proper words that didn’t easily give up their meanings, or not to him.
Maggie scanned the single, neatly-creased page, murmuring as Farren watched her eyes travel downwards. Then she folded the letter, as if it had served its purpose. She smiled.
‘Danny’s in Melbourne. He’s coming down to hospital in Geelong. You should be able to go and see him in a couple of days.’ She didn’t stop smiling. ‘So how will that be, Farren? Good, won’t it? Marvellous.’
Farren felt a type of happiness he couldn’t remember ever feeling. It brought warmth into his face and energy into his body. He looked around, thinking there might be something special to see, something as silly or bright as a rainbow, but there was just what there always was: the wharf, the island, the boats, the town, the hills, and the railway line. Still, he felt good. No, he felt really good.
‘Will you come with me?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I know –’
‘Of course.’ Maggie tucked the letter into its envelope. ‘He’ll be in a place called Osbourne House. And all going well, in a few weeks he’ll be comin’ home to stay. I’ll keep the letter, all right? So we’ll know where to go.’
Suddenly the day was too much for Farren. He felt his forehead go hot then clammy-cold, and he knew that if he didn’t sit down he’d fall down.
‘I gotta sit,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel too good.’ He sat on the ground, arms across his knees, took deep breaths, and felt the breeze chill the sweat on his forehead.
Maggie knelt next to him. He could smell her perfume; it reminded him of musk sticks from the sweet shop and ladies’ soap that came wrapped in slippery paper.
‘You’ll be right, Farren. It’s just been a bit of a shock, all of this.’ Maggie sighed. ‘Just one of many, eh? One of many.’
TWENTY-ONE
Farren stopped three steps inside the hospital ward. He could see Danny sitting by a window, looking out, a cigarette burning away beside him in a round brown ashtray. Or was it Danny? Maybe it was only a picture, Farren thought; a picture done in those thick oil paints that looked so real from a distance but perhaps, when he got closer, Danny’d disappear into a hotch-potch of clever brush strokes – because that’s what Danny looked like, a picture, dead-still, his face turned to the red tile roofs of Geelong.
Farren looked at Maggie for direction and with a gentle nod she urged him forward. Slowly Farren walked across the shiny floor between the beds, towards Danny and the windows that let in harsh white light. He stopped.
‘Danny,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Hey, Danny. It’s me, Farren.’
Danny turned slowly, a white patch over his left eye, silvery-red scars branching across his forehead like lightning, another heading off behind his ear like a wandering old country track. He wore a perfectly pressed khaki army shirt, which only served to emphasise the imperfections of his darkly tanned face.
‘Farren?’ Danny looked at Farren as if he’d come from some distant place, unexpectedly, and perhaps beyond belief. ‘Well, geez, blow me down, it is you.’ A tremor moved through Danny’s shoulders, bone-deep. ‘I thought I was dreamin’. Strike me lucky, I think you’ve grown.’
Farren knew immediately that Danny was different, and it was plain that Danny knew it, too.
‘I been missin’ you a lot,’ Farren said. ‘Since you been gone. Geez, boy, a lotta things’ve happened. God, like a real lot. But I been missin’ you the most, Danny. You know, like almost the most, anyway.’
For the first time in Farren’s life, or for the first time that he remembered, he wanted to hug Danny, put his face against Danny’s and feel what was special about him, feel it coming through Danny’s skin, which was tanned brown as army boots where it wasn’t scarred like folded tin. And then he would know Danny was home forever, and that they were still brothers, like always.
Danny nodded slowly, as if what Farren had said was a complicated proposal for the future.
‘And I’ve been missin’ you, too, matey. A real lot. And I’m real sorry I ain’t been around to give yer a hand to get through things.’ Danny spoke deliberately and evenly, as if he was being careful not to over-fill the air with words. ‘But I’m back now. No worries.’
Farren nodded; it was as if he and Danny were signalling to each other, maybe from down the opposite ends of a long road, but with the intention of moving closer.
‘Well, it’s been pretty hard,’ Farren said. ‘Sometimes. You know. A bit.’ Still he wanted to hug Danny, but he didn’t because he didn’t know how Danny might react. ‘I brung the boat back from Ocean Grove and now she’s down the wharf. I’m gunna take her fish
in’ pretty soon, you know, dependin’ on what ’appens.’ Already he figured he couldn’t include Danny in his plans; or not yet. He didn’t even look strong enough to go outside.
‘You’re a bloody trooper, mate.’ Danny grinned slowly, as if he knew it would hurt. ‘You done good. But Jesus, you know –’ He gazed around, up into the corners of the hall-like room, as if it was a most peculiar place he found himself in. ‘I feel like I’ve been away for a hundred years.’ He looked past Farren, the scars on his face catching the light. ‘Hello, Maggie. You look like an angel.’
Danny spoke so seriously it sounded to Farren as if he actually did think that Maggie was an angel.
‘Hullo, Danny.’ Maggie stepped forward and put out her hand, which Danny softly shook. ‘You’re as handsome as ever and as brown as a berry. We’re so glad you’re home.’ She bent down and kissed him noisily on the cheek, Danny accepting the kiss as if it was a serious gesture, formal and proper, rather than a cheery show of affection. ‘We are so glad.’
Again Danny smiled his weighted, wounded smile.
‘Well, I’d drink to that.’ He looked up, bravely it seemed to Farren. ‘Except the bloody doc’s warned me off the grog. But anyway, come’n gimme a hug, mate. Because I’ll tell yer, little feller, when I was lyin’ out on the ground with the slugs buzzin’ around me like bloody bees, it was you I was hopin’ to see more than anyone else on earth.’ He lifted his arms, the left lagging behind the right.
Farren stepped forward, hugging Danny, and it was how he’d imagined it’d be. His brother’s face was warm, bony, smooth and hard, and inside of them both he knew that they still had the same good, hot Fox blood.
‘No more goin’ away anymore for this old battler,’ Danny said. ‘Or not if I can bloody help it.’
Maggie and Farren hardly spoke on the way home in the train.
‘It’s going to be hard, Farren.’ Maggie broke a stretch of silence that had lasted for four or five rattling miles. ‘But you won’t be alone. He fought for his country, now they’ll have to look after him. And help you. And everybody in town will, as well, of course.’
Farren watched the land go by, the paddocks divided by mossy fenceposts, the sky darkening, the clouds edged with black. Danny was still Danny, he thought. He was. He was like a single hot coal buried deep down in a cool fire, and all that he needed to get going again was a bit of time and care.
‘D’you think he’ll ever be able to go back to cuttin’ sails?’ Farren asked. ‘In a while? If his arm and eye get right?’
Maggie moved her handbag, Farren seeing the itchy red patches on her wrists that the soap at work made worse.
‘Yes, perhaps. In a little while.’ She flashed him a hopeful smile. ‘And if he can’t do that, I’m sure he’ll get around to doing something else.’
Farren sat up straighter. Yes. That was right; if Danny couldn’t cut sails then he’d do something else. It would be hard for him to fish, though, Farren knew, with his arm like that. And he doubted, although he didn’t know why, that Danny would want to fish. Farren just couldn’t picture him stripping in couta after couta, to let them die in piles around his boots. Danny appeared to have had every bit of the killer instinct knocked right out of him.
Maggie renewed her grip on her handbag, as if it annoyed her even having to hold the thing.
‘And while we’re on the subject of work,’ she said, ‘I wish Johnny’d find something else for Isla to do. I worry about her down there in that wash-house. She sounds dreadful with that cough she’s got.’ Abruptly Maggie looked out of the window, as if she felt she might’ve said too much.
Farren hadn’t really thought about Isla being sick. He’d hardly noticed that she coughed, but he did agree that the wash-house wasn’t a good place. It was made, walls and floor, of bare red bricks, and for years, in the high corners under the roof, starlings had stuffed their dirty stinking nests.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘But at least Johnny fixed that broken window. Still, when it’s blowin’ hard, the wind comes through that door like a cyclone.’
TWENTY-TWO
After a cold wet week, Farren was pleased to see that Sunday was going to be fine, although a freezing wind whipped gleefully across the water. He stood at the back step watching Hoppidy move around, her shadow beside her as she nibbled at a patch of new grass.
‘Well, after I’ve had my lunch,’ he told her, ‘I’ll go up and see Pricey.’ And perhaps, he thought, they’d go fishing or take the gun out or something. ‘And you can go back in yer box.’
Farren was getting used to living by himself. The O’Learys had dropped the rent to just a bob a week, and since he ate most of his meals at the pub, he was managing to save more than half his wage – which he hid in an old tea tin under his dad’s workbench. His mum had always told him to save money, and to please her as much as anything else, he saved as much as he could.
So far the ghosts had stayed away, although sometimes Farren awoke, his stomach pulsing with fear at some unexplained or unexpected noise. And when Maggie suggested he stay at her house for a night he always did, and they’d sit talking in the parlour until he was exhausted. But later, even if he couldn’t remember what they’d talked about, he did know he always felt lighter and better.
Farren saw someone come down off the bridge and start along the path. For a moment he thought it might be Robbie but just as quickly realised that it wasn’t. It was Joe bloody Clouty.
Farren waited, watching as Joe came off the track and crossed the yard, ducking under the clothesline, and calling out.
‘G’day, Farren. Cool old day.’ He stopped, stripping off dark leather gloves like a motorist after a long drive. ‘Yer doin’ all right over here on ya lonesome?’ He looked around as if he was putting a price on the place. ‘Geez, is that a bloody rabbit? Lucky I didn’t bring old Sneezer. He would’a cleaned up that little pest quick smart.’
Farren immediately wanted to pick up Hoppidy and put her in her box, but he didn’t. He tried to pretend he wasn’t worried about anything.
‘She’s tame,’ he said. ‘An’ yeah, no, I’m doin’ all right over here. I like it. No worries.’
Joe took in the state of things, which Farren knew wasn’t all that good. The wheelbarrow didn’t have a wheel, his mum’s vegetable garden had gone wild, and the woodshed door hung like a broken wing.
‘Look, Farren.’ Joe lightly slapped his gloves. ‘I won’t keep yer, but speakin’ of money, I just thought I’d tell yer that if yer ever lookin’ to sell your dad’s boat to come’n see me. You’d end up with a good few quid in the bank for a rainy day. I’ll give ya the best price in town, anyone’ll tell yer that, no trouble at all.’
Farren fiddled with his boots, knowing he had to look up. And so he did, briefly.
‘I ain’t sellin’ her. Me an’ Danny’ll fish her. When he gets home and comes right. Which shouldn’t be long. That’s what the army doctor said.’ He hadn’t, but Farren didn’t mind lying to Joe, especially when he knew they were lies that could never be checked.
‘Yeah, true,’ Joe said, casting around as if looking for somewhere to sit. ‘But if Danny’s not quite the full shiny shilling he won’t be much chop out fishin’, will he? And if the boat’s not bein’ used she’ll just rot out at the wharf.’ Joe thoughtfully rubbed his nose. ‘Besides, you gotta nice job at the pub, Farren, and you’ll want to look after yer brother properly. So maybe fishin’s not gunna be the thing for ya, after all. Perhaps it’d be just best to take the money.’
Farren knew he and Danny had been insulted, but he didn’t know how to defend himself, or what exactly the insults had been. Joe had been a fisherman once but he wasn’t one anymore. His four sons worked his boats and Joe owned some houses. Farren had heard Joe call himself a ‘mixed businessman’ down at the pub.
‘I ain’t sellin’ her,’ Farren said. ‘Me dad wouldn’t want me to,’ he added bravely. ‘Or would Danny. But if I change me mind, I’ll tell Jack, and he said he’d tell you.
’ Farren was pleased with that angle. It might keep Joe even further away.
‘Have it yer own way, then.’ Joe tugged his hat down like a lid that didn’t quite fit. ‘But you just think about yer brother, orright? And if you change yer mind we’ll talk. Anyway, I’ll be off. See yer.’ And he went, ducking back under the clothesline and getting back onto the track, staying to one side to avoid the puddles.
TWENTY-THREE
Farren and Robbie rolled up the handlines, picked up their bag of bream, and set off around the inlet for home. Black swans and smaller waterbirds floated sleepily on the darkening water and the call of a plover, sad and wild, made Farren think of Danny. At least the other fellers in the hospital had joked around, he thought; they’d all acted like schoolkids when the nurse left the room, but not Danny. All the fun seemed to have gone out of him, or over his head. Looking at the birds, Farren thought of Isla.
He guessed she was probably in her room, in the gloomy Sunday quiet of the closed pub. He hoped she would marry Julian Derriweather. It didn’t seem good for her to be in that place seven days a week, working in the wash-house, alone and in silence all of the time.
‘Let’s go see Isla,’ he said suddenly to Robbie. ‘I dunno, maybe she can come to tea or somethin’? Be bloody lonely in the pub all the time, eh? Like, there’s only Johnny and his missus, and they go down to Geelong every Sundy.’
With a whoosh, Robbie hurled a stick out into the inlet. He watched the ripples widen.
‘Yep, all righty.’ He turned, smiling around a cigarette clamped in his teeth. ‘Let’s go see her. P’raps we could cook her a fish.’
The boys knocked on the pub’s back door, but no one answered. For a while they stood around stamping the mud off their boots and trying to see in through the kitchen windows.
‘We could go round the front.’ Robbie looked along the path made narrow by the spiky arms of overgrown geraniums. ‘But if only Isla’s here, she won’t hear us, will she?’
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