‘Oi-oi, eh?’ He looked like an elf, Farren thought. Or one of the Seven Dwarfs. ‘A liddle bit of good news for yers. Isla’ll be home on this arvo’s train. I’ll be pickin’ her up in the car. So maybe a couple of familiar faces down the station’d be nice, eh? So how many starters?’
‘Me.’ Farren answered immediately. ‘I’ll be there.’ He glanced at Maggie. ‘Yeah, probably, anyway, for sure.’
‘We’ll all be there.’ Maggie held an unlit cigarette. ‘I’m sure Isla’ll be especially pleased to see Farren.’ She tapped his hand with the tip of a finger. ‘Her knight in, let’s say, shiny armour.’ She smiled.
Farren blushed and looked away out the window.
‘And I’ll certainly be pleased to see her,’ Charlotte announced righteously, arranging her skirt with care as if Farren was trying to see up it. ‘Because I am sick to death of that draughty wash-house, them filthy sheets, and that blasted smoke. I’ve ’ad significant ’ealth problems for the last ten days. It’s weakened me quite considerable, that laundry has, I know it has.’
Johnny barked a laugh. ‘You, Charlotte? Weakened? Bloody hell, girl, you’re strong as a Mallee bull. Anyway, I’ll see yers down the station at four. Toodle-oo and goodbye to you.’ And his head disappeared.
Farren looked down the track, seeing the train come through the cleft in the hills, its cherry-red carriages obscured by smoke that was the colour of lead. People came and went, he thought, just like trains, only when people went sometimes they never came back.
‘The train,’ he said, getting up. ‘She’s comin’.’ He saw Julian Derriweather hurry onto the station, Robbie trotting along behind, grinning like a sheepdog. Farren jumped up, calling out, ‘Afternoon-ee!’
Robbie yelled back. ‘Fah-rah-roony!’
‘And anyway,’ Charlotte announced, holding a handbag that Farren saw had no clasp, its lining torn like old brown paper. ‘I ain’t never goin’ back inter that wash-house again, no sir-ee, no matter what. It’s no good for me spine nor me kidneys nor me liver all that pokin’ around with a stick. It could ruin me for childbirth, me mum reckons. Or worse.’
Farren allowed himself a private grin, watching the trackside scrub bow to the train, the engine passing with a ponderous dignity to eventually stop like an exhausted elephant. Doors opened, Farren seeing no sign of Isla until he spotted her stepping delicately down, having let others go first as if she was scared that she might be knocked over or pushed aside. She appeared even thinner than he remembered.
Robbie, as usual, was amused by some angle or other of the proceedings; or perhaps he was remembering the stolen car, Farren thought.
‘She’s a bloody good girl, old Isla, isn’t she?’ Robbie watched Julian usher her away from the train. ‘We did good, you and me, ’Roon. Real good.’
Seeing Isla, Farren felt that the taking of the car didn’t seem anything like a crime. It made him laugh. It’d been bloody good fun.
‘And right there before your very eyes,’ Maggie said, ‘is both the luckiest and unluckiest feller in the world. I think we should all be praying for our Julian – for him and Isla, actually. And right now.’
Farren figured Maggie wasn’t joking, although he saw that no one seemed too keen to take up her suggestion.
‘Anyway, troops,’ she added, in a different tone, as if she’d told herself off. ‘Let’s go see the two love-birds and make them very welcome.’
Charlotte stood like a teapot, her old moss-coloured handbag hanging from one spout-like wrist.
‘Well, I’ll betcha Isla ain’t particularly lookin’ forward to gettin’ back inter that wash-house.’ Charlotte seemed quite sure of herself on this point. ‘But it’ll give her somethin’ proper to do whilst her fiance is off servin’ the country, won’t it?’
Anyone only had to look at Isla, Farren thought, at her skinny waist and featherweight shoulders, to know that she was not halfway strong enough to do that sort of work again. Charlotte was wasting her breath.
‘Hey, Farren.’ Robbie touched Farren’s elbow. ‘Have a squizz behind yer, mate.’
Farren turned, and with happiness that soared, he saw Danny limping down the platform from the last carriage of the train. Holding his slouch hat in the air and grinning, it was as if he was trying out for an army recruitment poster, the scars on his forehead a reminder of what price a soldier might have to pay.
‘Oh, it’s Danny!’ Maggie’s hands descended onto Farren’s shoulders so quickly it was as if she wanted to dance. ‘Oh, Farren. How fantastic!’
Farren couldn’t move. He could only watch Danny limping along the platform, a broken-down young soldier in the sun, his shadow limping along beside him. But he arrived grinning.
‘G’day.’ Danny nodded genially and generally. ‘G’day, Maggs.’ He put out his good hand to Farren. ‘See, sport? Just like I said. Old Danny-boy’s back.’
Isla kissed Farren, her lips cool on his cheek, her breath a mere puff of peppermint.
‘Than’ you, Fah-ren.’ She took out a gift wrapped in purple tissue paper from her bag and gave it to Farren. ‘An’ for Roh-bee.’ She produced another, wrapped in green. ‘Than’ you.’
The sound of clapping gave Farren a fright. He stepped back, not knowing if he should open the present, just hold it, or put it in his pocket. He guessed it might be a watch. It looked and felt like one. He hoped it was; then told himself off for being such a greedy dog.
‘G’arn, fellers!’ Johnny Lansdowne-Murphy whipped his hands up. ‘Rip into ’em! Yer don’t get presents from good-lookin’ sheilas everyday of yer life! G’arn! Show us what yers got!’
Farren took out the watch, its case as silvery as a fish. He felt it tick in the tips of his fingers, each second passing like the struggle of an ant.
‘Geez, ya didn’t have to do this, Isla.’ He meant it; he didn’t want anything for what they’d done. Escaping punishment and the success of the adventure was more than he’d hoped for. ‘But, thanks. I never had a watch before.’ He looked at Robbie, to divert attention from himself.
Robbie wasn’t embarrassed. Sometimes it was like he was about twenty years old, Farren reckoned, he was that sure of himself.
‘Yeah, thanks, Isla!’ Robbie spoke as if she was on the other side of a plate glass window. ‘It’s a beauty! You made stealin’ that motor car all worthwhile. And we’d do it again tomorrow, wouldn’t we, Farren? If we had to.’ Robbie’s grin widened as if he was keen to up the stakes. ‘Or this afternoon. Given the chance.’
More applause saved Farren from answering, and when Johnny stepped forward, the subject of car-stealing was forgotten.
‘How about a flamin’ drink?’ Johnny’s hands jumped as if he was flipping coins that he had no intention of catching. ‘Eh? Come on, everybody. It’s on the house! C’mon, Danny-boy! Back to the Vic!’
Danny adroitly put Farren between himself and the enthusiastic publican.
‘Sorry, mate, no can do.’ Danny hissed apologetically. ‘The old army quack said I ain’t allowed a drink for a month. But anyway, I’ll see yers around, eh? And good luck to yers all. Now off yers go. I’ll be right as rain.’
Johnny settled down like a disappointed rooster.
‘Strike me dead, Danny. You gotta find yerself a better bloody doctor than that. Still an’ all.’ He extended a chubby red hand ‘Welcome back, son. And may you never leave us ever again.’
Halfway between the bridge and the house Danny stopped, and Robbie and Farren, like men under command, did the same. The sounds of the place, of birds, of the sea, and the skimming wind, held the trio as if by threads.
‘Listen, boys.’ Danny lifted his hat as if to let the sounds reach his ears. ‘And take a good look round.’ He moved slowly around as if to set an example. ‘Now tell me, whadda ya see? Go on, speak up. Don’t be shy.’
‘You know what.’ The silence had got too much for Farren. ‘Just this.’ He nodded dismissively, although he did not want to dismiss the place, or Danny, just the emba
rrassment of the question. ‘Home. Scrub. Water. You bloody know.’
‘Which adds up to?’ Danny kept Farren in his sights like a demanding teacher. ‘A true bloody miracle, that’s what. I’m home, fellers. I bloody made it.’ He slapped his hat back on as if it was a full-stop to the conversation and took a limping step forward.
‘Hey, Danny.’ Robbie talked to Danny’s back. ‘Did you mean what you said about not drinking back there? Or, ah –’ He took a small flat bottle of rum from his pocket. ‘Because I’ve got this, you know, ah, just in case.’
Danny turned slowly. Seeing the bottle he straightened, a sly smile stealing over his face.
‘You champion, Sir Robert.’ He put out his good hand. ‘Just what the doctor didn’t order. ’
The boys sat at the table, Robbie’s rum ensconced in Danny’s hand, the rabbit with them in her box.
‘Them coins you left us, Dan,’ Farren said suddenly. ‘Like, where’d you get ’em from? I mean, did you find ’em here? Or did you, like, buy ’em overseas, or somewhere else, or somethin’?’
Danny sipped rum. ‘And what coins’d these be, mate?’ He took another sip as if to reassess, or reinforce, the taste of the honey-coloured alcohol. ‘Did I leave yers a few bob before I went back to Geelong? Well, don’t worry about it.’ Danny shrugged. ‘I got paid when I was away.’ He sat patiently, waiting for Farren’s answer.
Desolation, like a sodden raft of heavy black logs, sat squarely in Farren’s consciousness. In Danny’s face he could see neither the flicker of a fib nor the glimmer of a remembered fact.
‘Fair dinkum?’ Farren searched Danny’s uneven features. ‘You can’t remember? Them coins you left on the table? And the note?’
Danny grinned, shrugged, and rubbed his hair up into little dark stooks.
‘Nah, mate, fair dinks, I can’t.’ He came up with a smile so crooked a marble could’ve run down it. ‘But say la vie, eh? Just forget ’em, sport. Because it seems I have.’ He took another quick nip as if he wanted to make sure he would not forget the taste of rum.
From the wharf Farren could hear gulls complaining, a winch grinding, and at the door the wind scraped and scratched, but nothing he could hear, or think of, suggested anything that he could say.
‘Hey, Farry.’ Robbie leant towards Farren. ‘P’raps it might help if you went and got a couple of the bloody things from your tin. That way at least Danny’ll know what we’re on about.’
Farren laid the coins on the table. The note he’d left in the tin. He could get it later if Danny really wanted to see it.
‘On the day you went back to ’ospital,’ he said, watching Danny as Danny watched him, ‘you left these things on here and a note sayin’ you found ’em. And that there was more where they come from. And not to tell anyone.’ Farren was struck with shame about dropping the coin in the bar, but bad luck, that couldn’t be changed. ‘Which we haven’t, really. So this is them.’
Danny picked up a coin, rolling it around between his fingers like a wheel.
‘And you say I found ’em? Round ’ere?’
Farren nodded. ‘In yer note yer said yer did. But yer didn’t say where.’
‘Farren gave me one.’ Robbie spoke fast, as if to get this admission over and done with. ‘I’ve got it hidden at home. No one’ll ever find it. Although Nerrie Turner did see it, but she’s a top girl, Danny, and she won’t gab.’
‘Oh, yeah, Nerrie Turner.’ Danny smiled as if he’d seen Nerrie out through the window. ‘Yeah, she is a good sort.’ Danny’s forehead wrinkled, each wrinkle translating a measure of his good nature. ‘Now I can say I do remember her. And it’s not to say that if I tripped over a few of these blessed coins once, that I can’t do it again, eh?’
‘That’s right,’ said Robbie, pulling his chair in closer to Danny’s. ‘All you have to do is remember where you found them last time, keep your eyes peeled, and bingo!’
‘Well, that’d be nice.’ Danny nodded a little. ‘But let’s remember, boys, that money ain’t everythin’.’ He looked at Farren, his oddly-paired eyes, assisted by his haphazardly healed eyebrows, giving away little of what he might be thinking. ‘You still got that knife I gave yer, Farren? That yankee one?’
‘Yep.’ Farren answered quickly, his hand going to his pocket, even though the knife was in his fishing bag. ‘And I’ll never lose it again. I promise.’
‘No, that’s not what I was drivin’ at.’ Danny stood up, dominating the room, although he was scarecrow-thin. ‘What I’m sayin’ is that history does have a silly way of repeatin’ itself. So who knows what’ll turn up out there?’ He bent slowly to lift Hoppidy from her box, the rabbit hanging like a handful of wet washing. ‘Now what are we callin’ this animule again? Apart from dinner.’
THIRTY-TWO
Danny stared into the stove’s firebox, watching a horde of flames feast on wood that Farren had just shoved in. If he was listening to the wind that wailed in the eaves, crashed around the sheds, and shook whatever it could get to grips with, he wasn’t showing it.
‘Biggest blow we’ve had in a long time.’ Farren tried to sound casual. ‘Glad we’re in ’ere, eh? Bet she’ll start bloody pourin’ soon.’ He tried not to think of the storm that had taken their father and Luther but failed; an image of his dad appearing to him, a white face in a wild sea, swimming in the dark with no hope of ever reaching shore.
‘Yep. Reckon.’ Danny held his hands unevenly out to the heat. ‘She’s a bit furious, all right.’
Farren knew this was an automatic response. Danny wasn’t hearing the storm, and as much as Farren might want him to talk about the wind, and so break down its power, he knew he wouldn’t. Silence was now something Danny sheltered in. And often when Farren saw his brother looking across the estuary, or up into the hills, it was without expectation, as if what he hoped to see would never be there, or what he’d seen in Gallipoli overshadowed everything else in the whole world.
‘How’s that kettle lookin’, Dan?’ Farren hoped to snap Danny out of his silence. ‘Be gettin’ close, eh?’
Danny didn’t take his eyes off the flames.
‘Just about to sing,’ he said vaguely, though the kettle’s whistle had been lost years ago. ‘Be right in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
Farren got the mugs from the sideboard, where they had been pushed up to make room for the small box that held a ball Danny squeezed to strengthen his bad hand, and various silver tubes of vile-smelling ointment that he rubbed onto his wounds, with no visible results so far that Farren could see.
‘You little beauty,’ Farren said, just to say something cheerful to fill in the silence. ‘A bloody good cuppa, eh?’ But Danny offered no response.
Farren poured the tea and gave Hoppidy a fleeting smile. How she’d become so much a part of the household was a mystery to him, but he was glad they had her. Sometimes Danny took her out on his walks, on a soft lead he’d managed to cobble together from old cord and a small collar. Farren had seen them by the water, Danny gazing at the fishing fleet as if the boats were sailing towards him, or away from him, in a dream.
‘Tea, mate.’ Farren put the mug into Danny’s hand. ‘Watch it. She’s hot.’
In the yard the wind bounced buckets and rattled the loose trellis as if it was playing with its toys – or trying to cover up a fragile, distant, insistent man-made gonging that was doing its best to make itself heard over the gale.
‘You hear that?’ Farren listened, the ringing coming and going on the wind but never vanishing. ‘That’s the bloody wreck bell. God, someone’ll be in strife out there on a bloody night like this.’
‘Could be,’ Danny said. ‘Big waves in a big wind.’
Farren put his tea down and stood, looking around for his coat, seeing it in a heap by the door.
‘I’m gunna go, Danny.’ Never before had Farren gone out when the wreck bell sounded; his dad had told him to stay at home, that he was too young to help the rescuers, but now that Tom Fox wasn’t around
to head out into the storm, Farren decided that he would. Pushing his hand down a cold coat sleeve he headed for the door. ‘I’ll see yer later, Dan. I’m off. To see if I can give ’em a hand, eh?’
Danny nodded, almost in time with the distant tolling, as if he was trying to fully understand what the sound of a bell at this time of night truly meant.
‘Yeah, good on yer, mate,’ he said vaguely. ‘Duty calls.’
Farren was running into a hard, pummelling wind when he heard a shout.
‘Eh, Farren! Oi! Hang on!’
Danny.
Farren stopped, hardly able to believe what he’d heard, and hardly able to see anything else but the house that knelt in front of a few flogging trees. Of Danny there was no sign. He cupped his hands and shouted.
‘Hey, Dan! I’m here! By the bridge!’ Farren waited, the scrub around him moving like a swirling sea, his ears filled with the hard, hollow booming of the wind. ‘I’ll wait!’ He would’ve, for years. ‘C’mon! I’m right ’ere on the track!’
In a minute Danny arrived, a dark, limping spectre in his old army greatcoat, his head bare, a cigarette glowing defiantly.
‘Geez, Farren, you run like a bloody rabbit.’ Danny heaved in a breath, let out a wheeze, and wiped his nose. ‘Mate, anyway, look, this is the score as it stands. I’ll come cross the bridge with yer, orright? But after that, I ain’t promisin’ nobody nothin’.’
A group of at least a dozen men had gathered at the lifeboat station, the place lit by swinging lamps and surrounded by ti-tree. The wreck bell was now silent and the wind, unable to turn from its raging path to the north, managed only to divert a few errant breaths down into the shelter of the cove. Farren stood with Danny at the rear of the crowd as Jack Haggar addressed them from the back of Will Conellan’s flatbed truck.
‘Accordin’ to the lighthouse blokes –’ Jack spoke steadily, ‘some two-master went aground outside the Heads, was washed inside, and has broken up. The lifeboat’s already on her way down, so the rest of us’ll follow down on the truck. Although I fear all this might already be too late.’
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