Souki had backed away toward her bedroom door and stood staring at Farren as if she was trying to melt him down.
‘Yeah, you tell ’em that, Farren!’ She nodded twice and pointed once. ‘I ent goin’ ter no bloody school! O’m stoppin’ ’ere with Danny and the bloody rabbit! And that’s that!’
After Souki had gone to bed, Danny and Farren sat drinking tea. The door to her room they’d left ajar, to let warmth in, and in case she had to be woken from one the nightmares she’d had since the Huon Messenger had gone down – but Danny had looked in on her, reporting that she was sound asleep, as was the rabbit in its box beside the bed.
‘The easiest way to get her home,’ Danny said, ‘is probably the same way the copper’s letter went. You know, up to Melbourne, boat to Hobart, then some sort of mail or supply boat across to the island. You could take her.’
‘Me?’ Farren couldn’t imagine himself and Souki going too far together – especially, if at any point, she decided she didn’t want to. ‘Whadda ’bout you? You’re the only one she’ll listen to. And besides, you might like it. Get away from ’ere for a bit.’
Danny took his cigarettes from a pocket, putting the tin on the arm of his chair. Next, with the same hand, he took his matches from another pocket, and with agile fingers extracted a match from the small blue box.
‘Yeah, but you know me, mate.’ Danny lit up, matchbox awkwardly trapped in his bad hand. ‘I’m quite happy I am, strollin’ around the place listenin’ to the birdies and exercisin’ the bunny. I ain’t got any plans to go anywhere.’
So that was that, Farren thought. He decided to try a different approach.
‘I spoke to Joe Clouty the other day. Down the wharf. He reckons we’ll never sail the old man’s boat again and she’ll just end up rottin’ out in the river. And he reckons that even if we did, we couldn’t keep up with the fleet anyway. He reckons we’re a couple of no-hopers.’
Danny inhaled as deeply as if cigarette smoking had been prescribed by a doctor.
‘Old Joe seems to ’ave come out of his shell,’ he said, ‘since the old man went west. He never ’ad that much to say in the old days, did he?’
‘He wants to race us.’ Farren watched Danny, who as usual watched the stove. ‘His fastest boat against the Camille. A sportsman’s bet, he said. But he wouldn’t bet with me and Robbie because we’re not old enough. He said he’d only bet with you. I think he’s still pissed off about his dog.’
‘His dog?’ Danny’s eyes, like a pair of ill-matched lamps, gradually brightened until they seemed to require a matching grin. He looked at Farren. ‘Oh, yeah, the dog. Poor old Sneezer.’ Danny smoked with renewed pleasure. ‘So, d’you wanna race these dills or not? I mean, I’ll put the bet on for yers, but that bloody boat ride into Johnny Turk’s own private beach was the last one I’m ever goin’ on.’
‘O’ll go’n the bloody boat,’ said a scratchy, determined voice from behind the boys’ chairs. ‘I ain’t freggin’ scared of no boat, no bloody fear!’
Farren swung around to see Souki standing in a pair of red boy’s pyjamas Maggie had supplied. In her hands she held the rabbit as if she might be about to sacrifice it.
‘O’ll go in the boat race,’ she repeated. ‘I like races. I been on boats all me life. I ain’t scared. You bet ’em, Farren, and we’ll freggin’ flog ’em!’
‘Holy smoke!’ Danny laughed, and pivoted, his head tilted on his stiff neck. ‘Strike me, Souk. You gotta go home soon. This race mightn’t happen for months.’
Souki stood with her socked feet well apart, as if she expected to be pushed back to bed.
‘Well, I ain’t goin’ anywhere until we done it. And Danny, you ’eard Farren.’ She nodded at Danny. ‘He needs yer to help. It’ll be good for yer. You can’t sit around ’ere all day twiddlin’ yer bloody thumbs.’
Farren was lost for words; obviously Souki understood a lot more than she let on. Farren watched Danny deliberately shut his cigarette tin and place his matches on top, as if he was raising the stakes in a poker game.
‘Oh, orright then, Sergeant Souk.’ Danny tapped the tin and the matches, his lit cigarette sending up miniature smoke signals. ‘I’ll do you a deal. I’ll help out with sails and the boat although I can’t promise much. And you –’ he pointed a nicotine-tipped finger, ‘have gotta go to school. Orright? Okey dokey? Deal?’
Souki’s face tightened, her eyes glimmering. In her arms Farren saw the rabbit was about to be squeezed to death, but guessed it was too late to do anything about it. Then he saw her take a breath as if she was about to dive underwater.
‘Orright, then. But I ain’t goin’ to no freggin’ school tomorrer because I got a hundred bloody things to do aroun’ ’ere!’ And she disappeared into her room with the rabbit, pulling the door hard shut.
‘You don’t ’ave to go to school tomorrer,’ Farren called out. ‘It’s freggin’ Sat’dee.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Shoving their cadet caps in their pockets, Farren and Robbie walked down the track from the hall to the main road. The wind, an exuberant south-westerly that harried the clouds and turned the roadside gums into a line of roaring pennants, carried a shout.
‘Farren! Farren Fox! A word if I may!’
Farren turned to see Captain Gamble trotting after them, his khaki uniform blending so perfectly with the earth, grass, and eucalypts he looked like a short Christmas tree come to life. The boys waited, muttering as their senior officer closed the distance.
‘Thank you, boys,’ Captain Gamble puffed as he pulled up. ‘Good Lord, just give me a moment. Catch my breath. That wind’s got damn teeth.’
‘It’s a seven-goal breeze,’ Robbie said cheerily, returning an unlit cigarette to a pocket. ‘At least.’
‘Indeed.’ Captain Gamble straightened his cap. ‘And I hope those blessed Cats use it wisely for once. Now Farren, my friend, I was wondering – come on, fellows, walk on, I don’t mean to hold you up – now, Farren, d’you think that Danny might like the opportunity to address the cadet corps about his time on Gallipoli? I thought perhaps it might prove beneficial, you know, for him to put his experiences out into the open and for the boys to hear about the real thing. What d’you think?’
Farren didn’t have to think.
‘He wouldn’t do it, Mr Gamble. Even if you held a gun to his head.’ Farren was sorry that Danny wouldn’t do what the Captain asked, but it just was not possible. ‘He never wants to talk about it ever.’
Captain Gamble stopped on the road, the wind whipping around them.
‘I completely understand.’ He waited for a moment, perhaps for more unwelcome thoughts to arrive or depart. ‘In Africa I saw things that I have no wish for any of you boys to ever see or hear about. Anyway, Farren, give him my kindest regards and if I can offer him any assistance of any kind, you only have to ask.’ Captain Gamble touched his officer’s cap. ‘And Robert, my best wishes to your mother. Please tell her that we are praying for Captain Price on a daily basis. Enjoy your weekend, lads. I shall leave you at the corner.’
The boys walked with Captain Gamble until he turned out along a straight, tree-lined lane that led to his property.
‘He’s a good bloke, old Giddy,’ Farren said impulsively as they kept on towards town. ‘Isn’t he? He was at the siege of Ladysmith ’n everything. Got medals and the lot, but he’s not a mad bastard at all. He’s not a bloody idiot like some blokes who haven’t even shot anybody.’
‘Yeah, he is a good bloke.’ Robbie extracted the hidden cigarette and straightened it. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? That pretty much any feller who’s ever actually been in a war wouldn’t want to go near another one with a barge pole. Yet all the other dingbats around the place reckon it’s like a game of bloody British Bulldog.’
Farren agreed and was sure that Danny would, too. But sometimes what the other blokes said in the pub – that thrashing the Turks was the best sport in the world, and that our boys loved it – sounded good and made F
arren feel better, as if the War was just like a big game and everyone got to go home after. But he believed Danny more than the blokes down the pub. He knew Danny didn’t think it had been good fun or top sport, because he had shot people and been shot, and that didn’t add up to any sort of a game.
‘Still, we’re over there now.’ Robbie came up with a match and the torn corner of a matchbox. ‘For better or for worse. Probably for worse, but anyway.’ He lit up, the wind dashing away the smoke. ‘Can only see what happens, eh?’
‘Yep.’ Farren nodded; that was true, and that was where he got stuck trying to work out whether the War was good or bad. ‘But if we win then I guess it’s worth it, ain’t it?’ he added. ‘Because I reckon we will win. In the end.’ He was glad to be patriotic, to say that the Aussies were belting the Turks. He wanted to say things that he could say down at the pub.
Robbie grinned, but Farren saw the stiffness in his face.
‘Well, all I can say is that it looked good on paper.’ Robbie flicked the corner of matchbox away. ‘Whether or not my dad, or Danny, or the thirty thousand blokes who are brown bloody bread would agree, is another thing.’ He looked up at the clouds, in no way convincing Farren he was studying the weather. ‘I wish I knew. But I probably don’t. And it wouldn’t matter if I did anyway.’
Farren took two puffs of the shared cigarette as they passed a low wire fence, the racket of a pushmower coming at them like the growling of a beast. Robbie, accepting the cigarette back, took a final drag as they came down into the shops then tossed the butt into a puddle.
‘However – ’ he pronounced the word as if it had a trick ending, ‘if the War’s still on when we’re old enough, Farry, you know we have to go, don’t you? There’s really no other choice, even if it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ And Farren did know.
The boys, holding a bag of boiled lollies each, tried to out-balance each other on the train tracks.
‘So, is this boat race actually officially on?’ Robbie said. ‘And if so, when?’
Farren shrugged, taking a couple of neat, quick steps back.
‘I dunno. Whenever, I guess.’ Nerves, like tadpoles, fled through his stomach. He wasn’t sure that the race was a good idea, although it was good that Danny would help, because he didn’t seem to be too interested in doing anything else. ‘Danny said he’d give us a hand and Souki’s dead keen. So how much money d’you think we should bet? I mean, I haven’t got a lot. Like a pound or somethin’.’
‘I reckon I can get three.’ Robbie headed off up the track, arms out like a tightrope walker. ‘And I reckon Danny’ll come up with a bit,’ he called back, ‘because I bet he knows that none of the Clouty boys have joined up. And that’s a bloody disgrace.’
Farren didn’t know what Danny might think about the Cloutys not joining up for the War, but he did know that he could see Smackmann’s sail loft from where he stood; and that Danny had said he might go over there one night, when only Henk was around, for a look. And that had pleased Farren a lot.
‘I dunno what he thinks about the Cloutys,’ Farren said. ‘But I know he can’t keep walkin’ around the bloody island for the rest of his life, can he?’
‘Shit, no.’ Robbie stepped off the track, the rock ballast clacking under his boots. ‘He’ll wear it out. But hey, even if we lose, at least we can say we got him to go back over the bridge. So, d’you want to go for a sail tomorrow for a bit of practice?’
The reality of the race scared Farren. More often than not he wished they could get out of it, even though it wasn’t even officially on. It would involve money that no one could really afford to lose, he knew that. These types of races, between boats and families, always did.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he said slowly. ‘But Joe’s boys sail every day of their lives. They’ll probably thrash us.’
Robbie’s eyes glinted. ‘So what? We’ve gotta have a bloody go at ’em, Farry. For the sake of all the fellers who’ve gone off to fight while they stick here, the bludgers.’
‘But you don’t have to go,’ Farren said reasonably. ‘The Cloutys don’t ’ave to go if they don’t want to. There’s no law says they do.’
Robbie placed a farthing on the track for the train to flatten.
‘Yeah, well, yeah, there’s no law. But –’ he moved off the track, taking two stuck-together lollies from his bag, twisting them apart, ‘but we’ve gotta take ’em on anyway, Farry. To show them we’re not scared. Who cares if we lose? Or drop a quid or two? That ain’t the point.’
To Farren this sounded a lot less serious and a lot better; especially if they could make the bets for not much money. Then the whole thing might actually get to being close to fun, like the bets Danny put on the Melbourne and Caulfield Cups. But around here, in a boat race especially, the idea was to win.
Like the War.
THIRTY-NINE
Danny, Souki, Farren, and Robbie stood on a moon-sliver of beach embossed with broken shells and scraps of stringy green weed. It was Souki, the boys knew, who they were waiting on. Farren watched her as she eyed the Camille nodding innocently at her mooring.
Farren thought that Souki, in her patched jacket and ancient pants, her white hair poking out from under a black beanie, looked like a pirate kid about to be shipped off somewhere she didn’t want to go. With one small black boot she kicked at the hard grass.
‘I, well, maybe…’ She swung around as if she’d caught Farren laughing at her. ‘I ain’t freggin’ scared of no boat, Farren!’ She jabbed out a finger. ‘An’ if you say I am – well, just you bloody don’t. Because it’s just that other night I gotta fright.’ She spun on Danny, finger at the ready. ‘An’ you, too, Danny! I ain’t scared, I ain’t! I just need to get meself right.’
Danny lifted his good hand, a cork-tipped cigarette planted deeply between fingers.
‘Hey, mate,’ he said, ‘I ain’t scared, either. But maybe I am a little bit worried. But that’s orright, because you ’n’ me ’ave got very good reasons to be worried, seein’ that you was in a ship-wreck and I was a sittin’ duck in a wooden boat at Gallipoli’s best shootin’ gallery. So, take yer time, Souk. We got plenty.’
Souki turned back to the Camille, as if the boat might suddenly and inexplicably do something dangerous.
‘I do wanna go,’ she said wishfully. ‘I do wanna be in the race. Only somethin’s bloody stoppin’ me an’ I don’ know what it is.’
Danny smoked on. ‘Bein’ scared don’t mean you ain’t brave, Souk.’ He sniffed as if testing the air for old, familiar smells. ‘Bein’ brave is all about bein’ scared. And then decidin’ what yer should do and if yer have to do it. You don’t have to go in that boat, little mate. But if someone’s life depended on it then you would. I know you would.’
‘But I do wanna go in the freggin’ boat!’ Souki scrubbed at her eyes as if she could change what she was seeing. ‘And you ’ave ter go too, Danny. But I just freggin’ can’t!’ And she took off, running for the house, black beanie in hands, the scrub slashing at her pants, her hair like ball lightning, white, bright, and hypnotic.
Danny watched her run for a few seconds before turning back to the water. Farren wondered what he might see there in the shallows, because everybody knew what had happened on the first morning at Gallipoli.
‘I ain’t goin’ either, gentlemen.’ Danny’s glance rested on Farren and Robbie equally. ‘But I think I will go and catch up with me pint-sized pal before she flattens the house.’ Danny grinned and spat. ‘Be careful, eh? See yers at home.’ He set off back up the track, his unbuttoned coat out like the soft brown ears of a jaunty dog.
‘I reckon we give ’em a few minutes,’ Farren said. ‘Because if we go, and Souk misses out, she’ll never forgive herself. Or me.’
The Camille’s sails set with a snap and she dipped like a runner taking off in a race. Farren could feel the life in her as she cut through the water. This is still the old man’s boat, he thought. It still is; and he
knew that sailing her, feeling her work with the wind, was as close as he was ever going to get to being with his dad again.
‘Cheers, chaps,’ Danny said shakily, and tapped a bottle of brandy on the boom. ‘To the Camille, the loveliest b-boat in the bay. And to her crew, a motley bunch but not a b-bad bunch, the same.’
Souki, padded in the only life jacket on board, stared at Danny, her eyes stony with disapproval.
‘Y’aint s’posed to drink when yer sailin’, Danny. If yer go overboard you’ll sink like a bloody brick. ’Specially in them big glumpy boots.’
‘True, Souk. True.’ Danny cradled the bottle as delicately as if it contained a model ship. ‘But the thing is, if I don’t have a couple of sips, I get absolutely chronic seasick. And anyway – ’ he took in the width of bay, the low blue hills, and the cloud-strewn sky. ‘God, I’m glad to be home. Good boy, Allah. You’ve done all right by me.’
Farren saw Robbie shift uncomfortably, and look off up the bay towards Melbourne, the expanse of glittering water like a broad road paved with fallen stars.
‘Eh, Robbie.’ Souki leant forward to see around Danny. ‘I ain’t got no dad, either, yer know. ’E got bit by a big black freggin’ tiger snake and that was that. You’ll be right. You got ya mum, ain’t yer? An’ yer mates.’
Farren saw Robbie brush his face with a sleeve.
‘Well, I think maybe my old man might still be alive, Souki,’ he said steadily. ‘You know, so until I hear any different, I’m trying to believe that he is. But you’re right, whatever happens, I’ll be fine.’
Souki sat back, satisfied.
‘Too right. You just see what ’appens. That’s all yer can freggin’ do. An’ keep yer fingers crossed.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘Eh, Farren. These bloody sails look a bit crook.’ She studied the deep bellying curve of dirty canvas, wrinkles running towards the mast like ripples. ‘They ‘angin’ like freggin’ curtains.’
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