Black Water

by David Metzenthen

  ‘Well, even so, Dan,’ he said, ‘you shouldn’t like the bloody Turks.’ Farren spoke with conviction. ‘No one does ’ere. We bloody hate ’em all.’

  Danny took in Farren’s words in the same calm manner he absorbed smoke.

  ‘I didn’t say I liked him, Farren. I said he’s not a bad bloke. There’s a difference.’ He looked away for a moment to the low green hills. ‘No need to tell anyone else about this, is there, eh? Stuff like that’s too easy for the experts to misunderstand.’

  Farren couldn’t speak. He looked at his brother’s hands; the right lithe, veined and brown, the left, clutching the matchbox, was thick, pale, and without power. He couldn’t truly imagine what had happened to Danny, or what he’d done, or what’d happened to all his mates, but he knew it could never be undone. And that it was beyond words, even though words had been said.

  ‘Not much fun, sport.’ Danny spoke quietly, looking down, Farren thought, at his battle-scarred boots. ‘Not much fun at all.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Farren went out the pub’s back door at lunchtime he was surprised to see Robbie.

  ‘Pricey,’ he said, unsuccessfully trying to remove all traces of suspicion from his voice. ‘What are yer up to?’

  Robbie gave Farren a tilted, cheeky grin.

  ‘No, the questions is, Farren, what’ve you been up to? I mean, what with climbin’ in people’s windows, knockin’ off cars, and drinkin’ grog.’ He began counting with fingers. ‘Smoochin’ girls and hidin’ your brother out. And then rippin’ into the boss. By golly, ’Roony, I just can’t keep up. You’re a dead-set goer.’

  ‘How come yer not at school?’ Farren shot back. ‘You wanna get us into more trouble?’ He looked around. ‘Come on. Let’s get outta ’ere. Go down the inlet or somewhere.’

  ‘Trouble?’ Robbie followed Farren towards the gate. ‘We’re not in any trouble, are we? Besides, old Derri’s still down at the hospital, and since he left Nerrie Turner in charge, I can do what I like. She won’t tell. And hey, speakin’ of telling, did you hear old Jimmy the Scrounger kicked the bucket?’ Robbie snapped his fingers. ‘Ker-plunk! Carked it in bloody Collins Street and had a roll of pounds in his pocket as big as a cricket ball. No bullshit.’

  ‘In Melbourne?’ Farren stopped, more amazed that Jimmy had found his way to Melbourne than that he’d died; everyone had expected Jimmy’s lungs to give up years ago. ‘He never got ’ny further than the pub or the island. What was he doin’ up there?’

  Robbie shrugged. ‘Blowed if I know. Anyway, he’s gone to heaven now, where hopefully they might have a bar or two of soap, otherwise there’ll be angels leavin’ in droves.’

  ‘He was orright, old Jimmy,’ Farren said thoughtfully. ‘Danny reckoned he was a good bloke. Didn’t hurt no one. Where they gunna bury him?’

  Robbie pointed in a general way towards Melbourne.

  ‘In the Commonwealth Bank, I reckon. With the amount of cash he had on him.’

  The boys walked down toward the water, a few grey gulls circling optimistically over the wharf.

  ‘If bloody Charlotte knows about the car,’ Farren muttered, keeping his voice down although there was only a chained-up goat to hear, ‘then everybody else in the whole bloody town’d know as well.’

  Robbie kicked his way through the cape weed, green scraps flying.

  ‘Well, the good doctor did have a few quiet words.’ He stepped over the bluestone gutter and back out onto the road. ‘And he did say that if I ever borrowed his bus again, I’ll be breakin’ rocks in Pentridge gaol until the cows come home.’ Robbie laughed at Farren’s stricken face. ‘Eh, relax, Farry. Nothin’ll happen. I explained.’

  Arriving at the shore, the boys picked up stones to throw at a stick in the water.

  ‘My mum’d like Danny to come up for tea,’ Robbie said, in between shots. ‘Would he, d’you think? It’d be quiet. You know, just us four.’

  Farren liked the sound of that, of four people together, because four was the number of people he missed the most. But he knew Danny wouldn’t go. In the old days he’d do pretty much what anybody asked, if it was reasonable. Not now.

  ‘He reckons he won’t cross the bridge.’ Farren looked at the bridge that hunched over the water like a scruffy caterpillar. ‘Till he sorts himself out. And it’s s’posed to be a secret he’s even here. Good secret, eh?’

  ‘Well, perhaps my mum could visit him?’ Robbie seemed to be trying to keep hope out of his voice. He threw a stone. ‘She needs to talk to someone who was there, Farry. And she wants to help. You know, she’s pretty cluey. Could you ask him?’

  Farren was certain Danny would say no, but said he would ask. Then he thought of something good that he could tell Robbie.

  ‘But you know what?’ Farren hurled a stone, thinking it made a splash like a bullet might. ‘Dan was tellin’ me how the Turks let some of our wounded blokes go. So maybe they could be just keepin’ your dad in hospital or gaol or somethin’? He said that the Turks are all right. That they’re fair fighters.’

  Robbie buried his fists in his armpits and watched a small sea-bird flicker low and fast over the water.

  ‘I dunno what to think, Farry. But I do know they like to knock the officers off first. It’s like crows pickin’ the eyes from bloody sheep.’ He watched the bird, black and white with razored wings, until it disappeared. ‘So the old man’d have to be the luckiest bloke in the world to still be up and running. Just quietly. Still.’

  Farren knew that if he carried on any more about Robbie’s dad being alive it would start to sound like a fairytale.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least we helped Isla out. That was good.’

  Robbie took a bent cigarette from his shirt pocket and pulled it straight.

  ‘Yeah, it was.’ He lit up, the smoke cutting across the salty smell of stranded seagrass. ‘Yeah, it’s good to do things.’ He passed the cigarette to Farren. ‘And maybe you an’ me’ll get stuck in and do a few more. Because you’re about the only kid around here who could.’ Robbie stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Or would. Or will.’ He flashed Farren a grin. ‘Ya mad bastard.’

  ‘Geez,’ said Farren, handing the cigarette back, the taste of smoke making him want to spit. ‘I dunno about that.’

  After work, Farren took his dad’s dinghy and rowed out to the Camille. Once onboard he bailed out a few cupfuls of rainwater then sat in the stern listening to the water on the planks, the motion of the boat smoothing out his thoughts. Even though a lot of bad things were happening overseas it was still pretty good around here, he reckoned. There was the fishing, the beaches, the island, and the birds and – a rifle shot smacked the air, fracturing the afternoon, coming, Farren knew, directly from his house.

  Wondering why Danny would be shooting, Farren stood up in the Camille, trying to get a look at the house, but there was too much ti-tree in the way. Well, Danny wouldn’t be shooting, he thought. Why would he? Suddenly Farren’s mind leapt and what he was thinking made him feel sick.

  Quickly he scrambled into the dinghy and rowed for shore, leaving rings on the water like the rises of giant fish. If Danny had shot himself, that would be it. That would be it. Forget about the birds and the fishing and the beach. Forget about the Camille and the future. Forget about everything for ever and ever and for always.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Farren ran hard, gulping with fear, the low scrub tearing at his pants, his house standing in front of him like the cottage in a clearing in a story. Someone, he saw, was coming along the track, but it wasn’t Danny. It was Joe Clouty. Farren slowed, seeing that Joe cradled something like a big baby. It was a black and white dog and Farren knew its name was Sneezer. And Joe looked furious.

  ‘Your bloody idiot of a brother!’ Joe came at Farren like a storm. ‘Just shot my bloody dog!’

  Farren felt his body expand with relief. His eyes filled with tears of intense, hot, happiness. He felt as if he was floating. He wouldn’t have been surprised to
see an angel. Or ten angels. It was as if Danny had come back from the dead. Danny hadn’t shot himself, he’d shot Joe’s bloody dog!

  Farren got off the path to let Joe go past. He saw that the dog wasn’t dead. It had its head up, eyes open, and tongue out, although blood was streaming from its hind leg. He was glad Sneezer wasn’t dead. He wasn’t a bad dog. Joe pounded past, looking as if he wanted to give Farren a good hard clip, except that he had his arms full.

  ‘Coppers’ll ’ear about this!’ Joe hissed, through horse-yellow teeth. ‘He’s a bloody madman, your brother. He’s a bloody disgrace!’

  Farren watched Joe go, Sneezer’s tail hanging. He wanted to laugh but allowed himself only a grin.

  ‘Up yours,’ he muttered. ‘You and your bloody dog. You fuckin’ idiot,’ he added, just to see how it felt.

  Danny was sitting on the doorstep smoking, Tom Fox’s old rifle resting slantwise across Hoppidy’s box. Farren didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  Danny watched him coming, lifted his cigarette, and drew on it for a long time. ‘G’day cobber,’ he said. ‘Got anything for tea?’ Smoke puffed out as he spoke. ‘I nearly had us a dog but it got away. Take a seat. Move the rifle.’

  Farren picked up the .22, checked the safety-catch, and sat on the step, the gun across his knees. Suddenly his stomach crunched with panic; Hoppidy wasn’t in her hutch.

  ‘Where’s the rabbit?’ In panic, Farren looked around the yard. ‘That bloody dog didn’t get her, did he? Because if he –’

  Danny pointed with his cigarette toward the door.

  ‘Nah. Bloody tried, but. She’s inside. God, you should’a been here, Farren. It was a fair-dinkum circus. Dogs ‘n’ rabbits and Joe jumpin’ up and down and me as busy as a one-armed paper hanger. She was a regular little sideshow.’

  Farren’s heart beat hard. The rifle was cold and comforting across his legs. He liked guns; the deep blue-black of the barrels, the shapes and richness of the wooden stocks, the different ways of loading them, and the danger of them. And he liked the fact that he knew how to shoot them.

  ‘What’d Joe want?’ Farren asked warily. ‘To buy the boat?’

  ‘Well, in a word, yes.’ Danny shuffled his worn old boots. ‘But first he wanted a cup of tea. And then the dog wanted the rabbit. And then I wanted to shoot the dog. And it all kind of went from there.’ Danny grinned through escaping smoke. ‘Then Joe wanted to shoot me. Then you came along.’

  ‘Why’d you have the gun out?’ Farren asked.

  ‘I didn’t.’ Danny bowed his head to spit, the sun tracing the scars that ran in under his hair. ‘I was puttin’ away a few slugs that fell outta your dirty pants when the dog boxed the rabbit up under the tank stand. So I grabbed the gun, managed to put one in, and took a one-handed potshot.’ Farren saw Danny’s eyes were unreadable, oddly-focused. ‘And then I went and had a good spew out the back. But I’m orright now.’

  Farren wondered if Danny might be joking about the spewing, but he didn’t appear to be.

  ‘You didn’t sell him the boat though, did ya?’

  Danny lifted his left hand with his right, put it on his knee, and kindly instructed it to stay there.

  ‘Shit, no.’ He coughed up a smoky chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t sell that ratbag the time a day. Anyway, why doncha go make us a cuppa?’ Danny ruffled Farren’s hair with a hand as hard as wood. ‘But first you’ll have to find the bleedin’ teapot, because I appear to have temporarily misplaced it.’

  ‘As the days get longer,’ Danny said, sitting in front of the stove, sipping on a small bottle of rum Maggie had bought for him, ‘the winds get stronger. Summer’ll be along before you know it.’

  Farren poked at the pale skins of boiling potatoes with a fork. In a frying pan six chops sizzled, their tails coiled like springs.

  ‘Yep. And maybe,’ he put forward hesitantly, ‘when the weather’s good we can take the Camille out for a bit of a fish or somethin’.’

  Danny delicately sipped. ‘Yeah, may-be.’ His left hand was tucked up into his right arm pit, to keep it warm, Farren thought, as if it were an egg in a nest.

  Farren sat on a chair arm, within easy reach of the fizzling chops.

  ‘Will we win at Gallipoli, d’you think?’

  ‘Win?’ Danny carefully sipped rum, as if it tasted of memories, and that too much would be dangerous. ‘It’s possible. If our boys get a couple of good breaks. But it depends. Yes, indeedy it does.’

  Farren leant forward to push the chops around.

  ‘Robbie Price’s dad’s been missin’ for months,’ he said. ‘D’you think there’s any chance he might be alive? Like a prisoner or somethin’?’

  Danny took out a dirty handkerchief and wiped his left eye.

  ‘Well, I’m ’ere, aren’t I?’ He pushed the handkerchief down into a pocket. ‘Which just goes to prove God does work in funny ways. Or old Allah, as the case may be.’

  Farren wasn’t sure what Danny meant.

  ‘Robbie’s mum wants to come’n see yer,’ he said. ‘To talk to someone who was over there. She’s real nice, Danny. She is. Would that be all right, d’yer think? Like one day?’

  Danny stared at the stove, a vein visible in his temple, Farren imagining it to be a tiny creek of thought.

  ‘I doubt it, mate. I only know what I saw. And that won’t cheer her up.’ He brought two bent, broken-looking fingers to his temple and gave them a twist. ‘Better it’s locked away. Better for everyone, really, if the truth be known. But you tell her I’m sorry. And on to another subject, you gunna be a good bloke come’n see me off at the railway station tomorrer? Because I think I’d better go back before they send a mob of nasty bastards to bring me back.’

  ‘What?’ Farren was on his feet. ‘You’re goin back? Why? You just bloody got ’ere!’

  ‘Eh. Shoosh, mate.’ Danny gently shook an unlit cigarette. ‘Look, the sooner I go the sooner I’ll get back home. But if I don’t go, especially after the dog-rabbit-gun thing, they’ll lock me up.’ He managed to strike a match. ‘Yer see, they don’t care that I can’t do up me boots or boil a bloody egg, but they certainly do care if they think that I’m gunna shoot someone. Or someone from our side, anyway.’

  Farren sat with Danny on the station, their boots in the damp brown gravel.

  ‘Yer got enough dosh to keep yer goin’, mate?’ Danny unbuttoned his tunic pocket and brought out a thin wad of notes. ‘Here. I borrow’d a few quid off one of the boys before I took off. ’ He flipped his hand, offering it. ‘Don’t need a penny down the horse-piddle. She’s poker for matches, cordial on the house, and free smokes all-round. It’s like bloody Christmas. Take it.’

  Farren could hardly speak, or even shake his head, his face so taut with unshed tears he knew he’d start crying if he made the slightest wrong move.

  ‘Nah. I’m right.’ He hoped Danny would look away. He cleared his throat. ‘I got plenty.’

  Danny plucked a blue five pound note and poked it into Farren’s top pocket.

  ‘Put it in yer piggy bank. You’n me’ll have a few beers in the Vic when I get back. A couple’a weeks at the most.’

  Farren could only nod and look down, seeing Danny’s boots, which he’d cleaned for him, a shiny nut-brown against the speckled gravel. Danny lit up and leant forward, the brim of his slouch hat low over his eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell yer one thing, mate.’ He broke the match and dropped it, a tiny shattered wishbone of pale wood. ‘You’re about as bloody brave as any of the blokes I been knockin’ around with since this whole mess started. You been in a real tight spot ’ere. And you’ve got through it pretty much all on yer own. I’m bloody proud of yer.’

  Farren would not look up. Elbows on knees, he kept his fists up to his face as if resting his head, but it was to hide his eyes.

  ‘Nah, I ain’t. I just been ’ere. You been where it’s been real hard. Bloody battles and everythin’. You know you have.’

  The hard weight of Danny’s arm aro
und his shoulders brought Farren undone. Tears burst loose and he swiped at them furiously, as if he could catch them all before Danny would notice.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered, the sleeves of his jacket scraping his face. ‘Fuck this.’

  Danny pulled him in close, the soft brim of his hat scrunching against Farren’s temple.

  ‘Look, no, you ain’t been where I was.’ Danny’s smoky breath was warm on his cheek. ‘But I know what you got, mate. And it’s like bloody granite. You already saved that Isla sheila, didn’t ya?’ Danny laughed and Farren felt it go right through him. ‘Shit, yer pinched a car and everythin’!’ Danny’s hat fell off. He picked it up and tugged down tight and low. ‘The boys’d be proud of ya. I am. And Mum’n Dad – well, p’raps leave the car out of it, but all the rest. You’re a bloody ripper, Farren.’

  Danny looked off down the estuary, giving Farren time to wipe his face and blow his nose.

  ‘It was Pricey’s idea.’ Farren’s throat felt stiff and swollen. ‘He’s bloody wild. I wouldn’a taken it without him. But I’m glad we did. For Isla’s sake.’

  Danny’s hand, cigarette between his fingers like the twitching beak of a dangerous smoking bird, hovered in front of Farren’s face.

  ‘And I’ll bet yer,’ he said, ‘he wouldn’a done it without you.’ He glanced down the platform towards the ticket office. ‘Jesus, what’s goin’ on now? Half the bloody pub’s here. Look there’s Maggie ’n’ Charlotte ’n’ bloody Johnny ’n’ Mrs etcetera.’

  Half the pub was here; Farren guessing someone must’ve seen himself and Danny walking to the station. It was the only explanation.

  By the time the train appeared, sending up tight clouds of dense grey smoke, Danny had backed up against the fence, propping his bad foot on the seat, in an effort, Farren reckoned, to keep the well-wishers away. In his eyes Farren could see a trapped look, and in the set of his elbows, anger, as if he’d let fly if someone came too close.