‘Anyway, folks,’ he said, and waved a freshly-lit cigarette at the train as it clanked slowly past. ‘Train’s here, I’ve drunk five glasses of plonk, and now I must be off. Thanks all, but best I get a move on.’ He limped out from behind the seat. ‘Because it’s back to the jolly old horse-piddle that I must go.’
The train came to a squeaking, steaming, dignified halt.
‘Thank God for the Victorian Railways,’ he muttered to Farren. ‘Another minute of this an’ I might’a been callin’ for the stretcher bearers.’ Danny got hold of Farren’s hand and gripped it hard. ‘Remember what I said.’ His eyes sparked like winter stars. ‘I’ll be back real soon.’ His attention swerved to the train. ‘Oi! Eh! Are you two big buggers lookin’ for Private Danny Fox? Because if so, that’s me!’
Farren saw two massive soldiers, alike as twins, step down from the train. Both wore revolvers on their hips and were hard-faced, as if they might have to fight their way through the crowd. But Danny was already on his way to meet them.
‘Military police,’ Johnny Lansdowne-Murphy said. ‘Or Essen-don ruckmen resting in a seaside pocket.’
Farren watched Danny shaking hands with the military policemen who, if not looking friendly, had at least taken their hands away from their guns.
‘It would appear that he’s going to go peacefully.’ Maggie stood beside Farren, her scent of lavender and roses soothing and warm. ‘He’s a wonderful feller, your brother. He’ll be right. And he’ll be back. And look who’s here. It’s Julian. I bet he’ll be wondering what this is all about.’
Farren saw Julian Derriweather step down from the train, look around, smile, then lift a large light-brown envelope overhead like a goal umpire about to signal a point.
‘I’ve enlisted, everyone! I’ve joined up!’ His broad fleshy face made Farren think of a happy Man in the Moon. ‘They’ve agreed to take me. It’s such good, good news!’
‘I would suggest that’s debatable,’ Maggie murmured to Farren. ‘Although I am sure no one would agree.’
TWENTY-NINE
The coins, five or six, sat in a small sand-encrusted pile on a sheet of paper on the kitchen table. Farren stopped right where he was.
‘Toot toot.’ Robbie was stuck behind him in the doorway. ‘C’mon, laddie. Get a move on. These bottles are effin’ ’eavy.’
Farren, hardly hearing, took a step into the parlour, his eyes never leaving the coppery-coloured coins that gleamed, shyly almost, under scabs of sand. Each was the size of a halfpenny and the thickness of two, but that was where the similarity ended. Already he sensed they held a value that was other-worldly. Something extraordinary had happened and Farren knew Danny was responsible.
‘Oh, boy,’ he murmured. ‘Look at these things, Rob. Danny must’ve left ’em.’
On the sheet of paper Farren saw two lines of Danny’s terrible, tangly writing. He picked up the note as Robbie put down a sack of Captain Price’s beer, the bottles subsiding with a few desultory clinks, their value as contraband suddenly overshadowed.
‘Well, they’re either things he got from overseas.’ Robbie looked sideways at Farren. ‘Or, from somewhere else a little bit more local.’
Come across a few of these in me travels, Farren read. Keep em safe and everything quiet till I get back. Might even be a few more where they came from. Your loving brother, Danny.
Farren handed the note to Robbie. A sense of unlimited possibilities, of problems solved, of sheer wonder, expanded and kept expanding as if beyond the bounds of Farren’s body and imagination. Danny had found the treasure! Then, suddenly, as if he had to share the responsibility of Danny’s discovery, as if he had to dilute its power as quickly as possible, Farren gave three of the coins to Robbie.
‘Here. Half and half. And don’t tell no one, all right? That’s what the note says.’
Robbie, holding the note, would not take the coins.
‘Nah. Can’t Farry. You blokes keep ’em. For the future. You know. Just in case.’
Farren was thinking fast. Robbie was his best mate, no doubt about that. And Danny liked him, too. Best mates you looked after. He pressed a coin against the back of Robbie’s hand.
‘Well, just take one, then. For good luck and mates. I mean it. Take it. You have ter.’
Robbie accepted the coin.
‘All right, Farry. Just one. Thanks. I won’t lose it.’ He closed his hand around it. ‘Now why don’t we open a couple of those ’ere bottles? You look like yer could do with a beer. And so could I.’
Robbie flipped the caps off two bottles, handed one to Farren, and sat down on the outside step.
‘Chairs, old chap.’ He grinned. ‘To Faroon and his one million doubloons.’
‘Hell,’ Farren said, still stunned. ‘Holy mackerel. What a day. I can’t believe it.’ He leant against the door, looked out into the yard, and imagined a whole dump of rotten old treasure chests bursting with coins. He could imagine scooping them up, cold and heavy, to let them slither down again in a golden, clinking stream. ‘Geez, God, whadda yer do with money?’ He’d hardly meant to speak aloud. ‘Like, lotsa money.’
‘Spend it.’ Robbie drank, burped, and with his free hand took out the coppery-coloured coin from his pocket. ‘I reckon this thing really is a gold doubloon, you know, ’Roon. From Spain.’ He tilted the dark beer bottle at shirts hanging on the line. ‘Buenos dios, senoritas! Would you like to go to zee bullfight with me and my amigo? Or sail right around ze world! As we are vairy wealthy men!’
‘You’re bloody mad,’ Farren said happily, the possibility of going around the world more dizzying than the beer. His mind spun like a globe. ‘Geez, c’n you imagine it, Rob? Goin’ to America or somewhere like that? Strike, what do yer reckon Spanish sheilas would be like?’
‘Zey would be fantastico!’ Robbie grinned . ‘So what about old Derri, eh? Joined the army. At last. He has had a busy weekend.’
Farren hunched against a pushy breeze.
‘Yeah, Maggie thinks he’s mad.’ Farren found it hard to picture Mr Derriweather in army uniform. He wouldn’t wear it like Danny did, carelessly and comfortably, as if it was all he’d ever worn. ‘You know, like just when he’s gunna get married to Isla, and she almost dyin’, and now he’s gunna take off and maybe get knocked himself.’
‘Yep, bloody mad,’ Robbie agreed. ‘As a snake. But what’s the choice, eh? Stay here and live with that. Or go and fight.’ Robbie watched the rabbit lolloping around on the grass. ‘And maybe not come back.’
‘Danny reckons it’s a mess over there.’ Farren grinned at Hoppidy. ‘But he said he’d go back tomorrow to help his mates. And he also reckons the Turks ’ave got every right to shoot yer. Since it’s like where they live or somethin’.’
‘Well, you can’t expect the bastards not to,’ Robbie said. ‘It’s just a pity that they seem so keen on keeping it up.’
THIRTY
In an old tea tin he kept hidden in the shed, Farren stashed four of the gold coins. The other, the shiniest, he took with him to work, cleaning and polishing it, trying to make out the date as he walked up over the bridge.
‘Seventeen forty… six.’ He thought that’s what it said. ‘Boy. Strike me. That is old.’
Farren looked back at his house sitting on the island, thinking that even though the land was low and pretty flat, it was still mysterious. Narrow paths, used mostly by animals at night, crossed it and there were lots of little coves tucked away around the shore, some visited only by the tides that slipped in and out like smugglers, in daylight and dark. Yes, it was mysterious, and Farren knew it was where Danny must’ve found the coins – or the coins’d found him, because he’d only ever left the island once, and that was to go back to hospital.
Farren also knew, without being told, that his brother had been involved in terrible things. But although they were terrible, they were also somehow great – which didn’t make sense but it did, Farren accepting this and simply hoping that one day Danny would feel be
tter, or just think less about what had happened in Turkey.
Still, things weren’t that bad, he decided, as he came down off the bridge; him and Danny were still lucky blokes. In his hand, warm, round, and real, he had proof of that.
After morning tea, when a bad-tempered Charlotte had gone out to check on the sheets boiling in the copper, Farren showed Maggie the doubloon. He had tried to stop himself but the coin seemed to have a will of its own, surfacing from his pocket.
‘Look what Danny found.’ He held it out. ‘I dunno where, though.’
Maggie put the mugs down and took the coin, turning it, rubbing it between her fingers as if she was judging the quality of a tablecloth she might buy for the hotel.
‘D’you mean he found it around here?’ She held the coin between fingertips. ‘Or did he bring it back from overseas? It’s beautiful. You take good care of it, Farren.’ She gave it back. ‘It looks, well, quite valuable.’
Farren checked out the window to see that Charlotte wasn’t coming back up the path. He could picture her in the wash-house, scowling and poking at the squid-like mass of boiling sheets.
‘I think he found ’em on the island.’ Farren kept his voice low. ‘There’s a few more. I hid ’em in a tin. And I gave one to Robbie. You know, for good luck.’
Maggie’s brow accumulated lines and this worried Farren.
‘It might be an idea to hide this one, too.’ She smiled, as if trying to lessen the seriousness of her suggestion. ‘And perhaps not tell anyone else, Farren. The same goes for Robbie. Or, you could even take them to the bank or the police. I could go with you. What d’you think?’
Maggie’s concern frightened Farren. It was not a reaction he’d expected.
‘No, I’ll hide ’em. And I’ll tell Robbie to hide his, too. But I don’t want to go to the coppers or the bank.’ Not until he’d talked to Danny he wouldn’t, anyway. ‘Maybe when Danny gets back I might. But not now.’
Maggie produced a smile that he wasn’t convinced by.
‘All right. Good.’ She closed his hand around the coin. ‘Just be careful, Farren. A lot of people have been looking for those things for a long time. And if this is where Danny found them, well. You know.’
Farren swallowed, attempting to replace fear with determination. If Danny found the coins, Danny could keep them. That was the rule. Finders bloody Keepers.
One of Farren’s afternoon jobs was to stoke the pub’s fires and load the woodboxes for the evening. That done, he was sweeping up wood scraps in the public bar when the coin, which he’d transferred to another pocket, fell through a hole and slid straight down his pants’ leg. He slapped at it, missed it, and watched it roll across the floor to stop short of a group of three men, one of whom was Joe Clouty. The sound of the coin spiralling on its rim went on like a drum roll.
Farren went straight after it, but already one of the men at the bar, a bloke whom he didn’t know, had bent down and beaten him to it.
‘Don’t go throwin’ it away, mate.’ The man, who was as big as Joe, was about to flip it back when something about it struck him. He held it as if it was a monocle he was about to put into his eye. ‘Geez, well, how’d yer luck onto this, sonny-Jim? It sure ain’t no silver shillin’.’
‘Me brother bought it back from the War.’ Farren clamped down on a rising sense of panic. ‘He give it to me for a lucky charm.’ Farren didn’t put his hand out, not wanting to look like he didn’t trust the bloke to give it back.
‘Your bloody brother.’ Joe Clouty pulled a face as if he’d just discovered a weevil in his pie. ‘That clown. Puttin’ a bloody bullet into a man’s dog, the bloody idiot.’
The man holding Farren’s coin winked, the lines on his forehead sloping down like broken pencils.
‘Oh, I did hear about that. Dearie me. The perils of doing business, eh?’ He smiled at Farren, a tooth missing. ‘You sure this brother of yours didn’t dig this thing up down the beach ’ere? Because crikey-Moses, it’d upset old Joe even more if he’d missed out on the pot o’ gold at the end of the pier.’ He flipped the coin to Farren who slid it straight back into his good pocket.
‘Nah,’ Farren said. ‘He got it at Turkey and he only got one. For good luck.’
Joe Clouty held his beer between two big fingers as if he was weighing it.
‘Your brother’ll be the one needin’ the luck,’ he said. ‘And if he hadn’t fought for the country, and if he wasn’t such a lame duck, I’d take him outside and give him a thump.’ Joe hoisted his beer as if the conversation was over because he’d decided it was.
Farren couldn’t hold back. ‘He’d flatten you before breakfast! And there’s nothin’ bloody wrong with him that won’t come right.’ Tears threatened. ‘You better watch out what yer saying because he’ll be back in a couple’a weeks and then –’
Joe looked at him sourly. ‘Get lost. Go on. Off.’
The third drinker, who had the healed-up look of a broken-down old jockey, put his beer down next to a small green hat.
‘Yeah, on ya bike, kid.’ His eyes were cloudy, like an old dog’s. ‘We got business.’
Farren grabbed his broom and left.
Farren leant on the fence, waiting for school to finish. Since leaving Queenscliff Public he hardly ever thought about the place, and when he did it was without much affection. He knew his mum would’ve been disappointed that he had not stayed on, but that was something that couldn’t be helped, especially now. He had stuff to do.
The double doors opened, Mr Derriweather presiding over the orderly procession of exiting children who, at the first sniff of fresh air, made a break for the open gate like newly-shorn sheep from a shed. Robbie and Nerrie Turner, the most senior students, were last to appear, Mr Derriweather nodding at them before disappearing inside. Unnoticed, Farren watched the pair, feeling a sliver of jealousy and a pang of regret.
‘Robbie,’ he called out, moving off the fence. ‘Hey, Robbie.’
Robbie stepped away from Nerrie, as if speaking to Farren required an immediate change of direction. He headed across the playground, Nerrie following, tall and loose-limbed, her curly black hair trapping the sunshine. Farren had always thought she was one of the best girls around the place.
‘Oi, Farren.’ Robbie slapped his satchel. ‘Just in time for your homework. Interested? I gotta stack.’
‘Nah. Stick it.’ Farren felt ill at the thought. ‘G’day, Nerrie.’ He’d known Nerrie Turner for at least ten years. Her dad was the manager of the smaller of the two Queenscliff banks, she was as smart as Robbie, and she could run like the wind, when she chose to.
‘Hello, Farren.’ She smiled. ‘How are you?’
Farren was momentarily fixed to the spot. He hadn’t remembered Nerrie being so striking; her face had not changed so much as declared itself to be wide, bony, and elegant, almost grown-up. She seemed aware of her power, but held it modestly.
‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ he said. ‘How ’bout you? I ain’t seen you for a while, either.’
‘I’m fine.’ Nerrie managed to carry her satchel, strap across her front, as if it was a fashionable bag. ‘My mum was in Geelong yesterday taking some Red Cross parcels to the hospital, and she saw Danny. Evidently he might be coming home in a couple of days.’ She smiled again, her teeth whiter and bigger than Farren remembered. ‘They were very impressed he made the effort to come back under his own steam.’
‘Really?’ Instantly Farren was so happy he forgot why he was at the school – until Robbie undid the top button of his shirt, Farren seeing the gold coin there on a leather lace. He almost made a grab for it. ‘Geez, Rob, the coin. You shouldn’a –’ Too late; he lapsed into silence.
Robbie’s hand hovered. A look of guilt shaded his face. The coin gleamed.
‘Oh, Jesus, sorry, ’Roon.’ He winced. ‘I forgot. Bloody hell. Anyway, no one’s seen it. Well, only Nerrie now. And maybe my mum.’
Farren turned to Nerrie. She was a girl he’d always liked; she smelled nice, she
could draw, she always did good work but she never dobbed or lied. He checked that the schoolyard was empty.
‘Danny found some coins.’ He spoke to her as quietly as he could without whispering. ‘When he was home. They’re like that one Robbie’s got and anyway, he said not to tell anyone but, like, a few people know already. So, you know, just don’t go tellin’ any more.’
‘I won’t, Farren, I promise.’ Nerrie pushed aside an errant strand of wavy hair and smiled.
Farren turned for the school path that was ridged with tree roots he remembered as clearly as the lines on his hands, ‘Anyway,’ he said, almost cheerful again, ‘let’s get goin before old Derri comes out, and I’ll tell yers somethin’ really stupid that I done at the pub. It was bloody frightful.’
THIRTY-ONE
Maggie took off her apron and draped it over the back of a chair. The kitchen, filled with food prepared for dinner, made Farren think of Christmas. Lidded saucepans sat on the stove and benches, bowls and colanders of vegetables surrounded the sinks, and trays of meat, covered with white muslin, sat on the table like presents for rich people.
‘Cuppa tea and a biscuit is what I need.’ Maggie pulled out a chair and gratefully sat. ‘So who’ll join me?’
‘I will.’ Farren felt a plunging shaft of hunger, although he’d had a big lunch. ‘I’ll get the biscuits and the mugs.’
Charlotte took off her apron, folding it like a magician might fold a favourite cape, and placed it on the table.
‘Yes, I do need a rest and a cuppa.’ She sat, a hand to her brow, her feet barely reaching the floor. ‘Empty the teapot, will you, Farren? I just don’t have the energy. I think I must be comin’ down with sumthink. Women’s problems, maybe. Sumthink, anyway.’
Farren accepted a wink from Maggie, got the biscuit tin and mugs, and was turning for the teapot when Johnny Landsdowne-Murphy stuck his red face between the swing doors.
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