Black Water

by David Metzenthen

  ‘How ya goin’, Souk?’ he asked. ‘You orright? Don’t go so hard. Have a rest.’ He decided she needed more care and attention than she let on. He knew he had when his mum had died. ‘Mornin’ tea in a minute, I reckon.’

  Souki sat back on her haunches, and with an upward-aimed breath, puffed hair away from her face.

  ‘Hey, you know Isla?’ Souki’s cheeks glowed, her eyes glittered. ‘What d’yer reckon her an’ old Derri talk about, eh? D’you reckon they talk much? Or they just’ don’t? Because Isla, yer know, she’s deaf.’

  Farren was caught by the sudden jump in the conversation.

  ‘Well.’ He’d also stopped scraping. ‘I reckon they would have plenty to talk about, eh? Because they’re gettin’ married and old Derri’s goin’ off to the war. And although Isla’s deaf, she can talk a fair bit, and she can write. So yeah, I reckon they’d have plenty to say. One way or another.’

  Souki wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  ‘I like ’er. And she likes me. Because we both turned up ’ere from somewhere else. And we both’ve ’ad a hard time.’

  Farren was surprised at what Souki understood, or how she understood. He was also surprised that she even knew Isla, but figured that if she sat next to Edna Pike, she’d know everyone. He studied her for a moment; whip-thin and wiry, her elbows and knees as hard as oyster shells, her face sharpened by energy and experience. Already, he reckoned, she’d faced a hundred storms, and come through every one.

  ‘So, Foxy.’ Danny came down the side of the Camille, stopping to toss his scraper into a bucket. ‘How about you and me row over to the Vic and we’ll pick up a couple’a dozen from Johnny. I gotta few shillings ear-marked for just that purpose.’

  Farren knew Johnny’d sell Danny beer from the back door, even if it was a Sunday.

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’ He dropped his scraper into the same tin bucket. ‘You wanna come, Souk? We can talk tactics on the way.’

  ‘Yep.’ Souki rocked back in the sand, grabbed a boot in both hands, and began to drag it off. ‘And I c’n go’n see Isla.’

  ‘So what ’appened to yer socks, mate?’ Danny looked at Souki’s feet, bare and grubby, lined from her boots. ‘Is there a world-wide shortage or somethin’?’

  ‘Me socks?’ Souki looked at Danny as if he were mad. ‘They’re in me bloody drawer. O’m not gunna wear ’em for nothin’, am I? O’m keepin’ ’em clean for school, a course.’

  ‘Oh, a course,’ said Danny. ‘Blow me down. What was I thinkin’?’

  Farren rowed away from the town shore, the dinghy weighed down with people and beer, Souki trailing a hand in the water.

  ‘So what’d Isla have to say for herself, Souk?’ he asked.

  Souki dried her fingers on her shirt and pushed her fists up into her armpits for protection from the cold, cutting breeze.

  ‘Oh, she said she’s gunna bet on us to beat them Cloutys. An’ she said Johnny’s gunna do the same.’ Souki freed a finger and pointed back at the town. ‘And she said she saw Joe Clouty pick up some new sails from the train last Thurs’dee mornin’. An’ she said ’e hid ’em under sacks in his cart.’

  Farren felt a slow-moving queasiness, like the first symptoms of seasickness. He tried to pin Danny with his eyes but Danny was having none of it. Instead he flicked his cigarette overboard, took a swig of Victoria Bitter, and burped.

  ‘All’s fair in love ’n’ war, sport.’ Danny sat back to study the boats at the wharf with the ease of a gentleman surveying the attractions of Venice from a gondola. ‘An’ this is one little skirmish that I do not intend to lose.’ He tapped his chest with the top of the beer bottle. ‘In honour of the boys I left behind. But besides that, matey, it’s only money.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Farren sourly. ‘But a bloody lot of it.’

  Souki brushed away fish scales that had stuck to her hands, watching them disappear as if they were threepences into a wishing well.

  ‘If you c’d only remember where you found them coins, Danny,’ she said. ‘Then we’d have stacks a dough. Then it wouldn’t matter. We could bet even more.’

  Danny looked thoughtfully at the shore, as if its shrouded coves and little dark bays held more than just the one secret.

  ‘But, Souk, since I swear on me mother’s grave,’ he said, ‘that I cannot remember where I found them troublesome things, we’ll just have to make do with what we got. Or don’t got, as the case may be.’

  Farren didn’t want to hear Danny talk about their mother’s grave ever again – but he didn’t know how to tell him without saying the words himself.

  ‘I seen other blokes diggin’ aroun’ on our beach,’ Souki added sourly. ‘An’ o’ll tell yer what, I’ll be mighty angry if they find what you found, Dan, and steal it.’ She looked at Danny, a sly tilt to her chin. ‘Give us a drink a that beer. G’arn. I been workin’ like a dog.’

  Danny pulled back a flap of one of the boxes of beer and lifted out a bottle of sarsaparilla.

  ‘Nope. You drink this. Kids don’t drink beer.’

  Souki folded her arms. ‘Farren an’ Robbie do.’

  ‘They ain’t kids.’ Danny looked away as if it was an answer he hadn’t wanted to give. ‘And they ain’t eighteen, either, so they shouldn’t, that’s true. But anyway, nice weather we been ’avin’. Cheers.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  After tea, Farren and Souki took a bag of fishing gear, and headed off around the island to an old jetty where Farren reckoned the flathead and bream’d be on the bite. The jetty, a saggy collection of pot-bellied planks, took them out over black water that looked bottomless but Farren knew was barely over his head.

  ‘Good spot, this.’ He gave Souki a handline before unwrapping a handful of bluebait. ‘Nice to be fishin’, eh? Even if it is school tomorrer.’

  In the soft light of the lantern, he watched Souki thread the tail half of a baitfish onto one hook, and the bony head onto a second.

  ‘Yeah, me’n Edna are gunna do swap cards.’ With a gentle looping action, Souki cast then sat, leaning against a crooked post. ‘Least that bloody bluebait hangs on bedder than that bloody whitebait. That stuff’s shit.’

  Farren didn’t bother to reprimand her for swearing. He figured you were allowed to swear as much as you liked when you were fishing.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all right when it’s fresh,’ he agreed. ‘Bloody useless when it ain’t. So how many swaps yer got, Souk?’ In the lantern light Souki’s hair shone like frost. ‘I could give yer some pocket money to getta few more if you need ’em. You know, you helped us with the boat all mornin’. An’ I see they got a heap of newies up at Scanlon’s. Horse ones and everythin’.’

  Souki fished with the concentration of a sniper, her finger as steady on the line as if it was a trigger.

  ‘Isla already gimme lots,’ she said. ‘She’s still got ’ers, even though she’s old. And so I give her a pitcher I done. That’s all she wanted. A pitcher for ’er room. An’ I’ll give ’er another one of her and Joolan, because I like ’em.’

  Farren smiled out into the dark. ‘I like ’em, too,’ he said. ‘They’re real good people.’

  ‘Bite!’ Souki whipped her hand back. ‘An’ I freggin’ gotcha.’ Hand over hand she pulled the struggling fish in. ‘It’s a flatty. It ain’t goin’ hard like a bream. And it’s a bloody goody. You seen that boat out there, Farren? What’s ’e doin’ comin’ into the big pier this time a night, eh? Bit late, innit? Get in ’ere, fish!’

  Farren hadn’t noticed the sailing boat but he saw her now, bare-masted, ghosting in slowly alongside the Queenscliff pier where the ferries tied up. She was pretty big, he thought; maybe an island or coastal trader. Not a fishing boat. Beside him Souki landed the flathead and pinned it to the planks with a knife between the eyes.

  ‘Outta your misery, mista.’ She used the knife like a guillotine, pulling it back, the blade crunching cartilage. ‘And into the bag you go.’

  Farren watched the two-masted yacht, port
and starboard lights riding high in her rigging like Christmas decorations. And as always when he saw a boat or a ship that he didn’t know, he wondered where she’d come from, where she might be going next, and what sort of trade she was involved in. Maybe copra from Fiji, he thought. Or wattle bark from Tassie. Who knew?

  ‘I know that boat.’ Souki froze, caught in the lamplight like a figure in a play. The sinker on her fishing line rapped on the planks like a dropped marble. ‘She’s from down ’ome. That’s Perce’s boat. The Madonna-Theresa.’ Souki flicked a look at Farren. ‘I bet she’s come to take me ’ome, Farren. I bet she has.’ She stared at the boat, its rigging a temporary fretwork for the resting stars. ‘C’arn, Farren. We gotta pack up.’ She knelt to pick up her handline. ‘We gotta go.’

  ‘You really know it?’ Farren felt a sadness that he would not let taint his voice. ‘You sure, Souk?’

  Souki wound up her line. ‘Yep. It’s Perce and Nat’s. C’mon, Farren. We gotta go.’ She picked up the bait. ‘You want this stuff or’ll I chuck it?’

  ‘Chuck it.’ Farren, without energy, took his line in, collected the gear, and unhooked the lantern. ‘And I guess we’d better go tell Danny before we shoot off down there, eh? Yer right, Souk? Yer all set?’

  Souki put her knife back in its sheath and clipped it.

  ‘D’yer reckon they did come ter get me, Farren?’ Her voice was hushed. ‘They wouldn’a come for any other reason, would they?’

  ‘I dunno.’ Farren found it hard to talk, the sight of the yacht, fascinating in her foreignness, only reinforcing the daft thought that Souki was some wild little princess from some wild place, about to be taken home. And when she dashed off up the track, as quick as a bush cat, he guessed the idea wasn’t so mad after all.

  ∗

  Souki ran ahead, passing through the silvery spheres of the pier’s gas lights. The yacht, pale in the distance, held an air of fleeting permanence, like a migratory bird; yes, she was here now, but she wouldn’t be for long.

  ‘Our little Souk,’ Danny said, limping steadily. ‘Is on her way. Or so it would appear.’

  ‘Yeah, she might be.’ Farren tried to speak as naturally as he could. He saw that Souki had made it out to the yacht where a couple of shadowy figures moved around on deck. ‘I’ll –’

  ‘Yep.’ Danny nodded. ‘So will I.’

  The boys walked on, Farren aware of an emptiness he wished he could banish even before recognising what it truly was. He’d lost a lot of things lately. He didn’t want to lose any more.

  ‘I mean,’ Danny said, and flicked a cigarette butt away on the wind, ‘yer’d want ’er back home if she was yours, wouldn’t yer? I mean, yer’d have to.’

  Farren didn’t answer. They were at the boat’s side now and Souki was not in sight. Obviously she’d gone onboard and was somewhere down below. One of the crew came to the rail, his footfalls soft, his face dark and black-bearded, the stringy smell of pipe tobacco sweet on the breeze. Farren saw he wore a sheath knife on each hip.

  ‘G’day, men,’ he said. ‘How yer goin’?’

  ‘Good, mate.’ Danny spoke. ‘Real good. How are you fellers?’

  ‘Oh, a bit relieved.’ The man’s voice was as quiet as the wind in the rigging. ‘Now that she’s all tied up and squared away. You’d be Souki’s mates, then?’

  ‘We would be.’ Danny dug out matches, a cigarette in his mouth at the ready. ‘She’s been our special little guest.’ He lit up, his face fierce-looking in the flare of the match.

  ‘Well, you’d better come onboard, then.’ The man stepped back, a gesture of welcome. ‘She’s down below with her mam. Pleased to meet yers. I’m Percy Bladin and this is my boat, the Madonna-Theresa.’

  Farren stepped over the rail and shook a hand as hard, but smaller, than his father’s had been.

  ‘I’m Farren Fox,’ he said shyly. ‘And this is me brother, Danny.’ He waited for Danny to negotiate the rail, ready to grab him. ‘The one who saved Souki. After that other boat went down. The Huon Messenger.’

  ‘Oh, aye. We heard about you fellers.’ The skipper showed the boys to the companionway. ‘A terrible thing to lose such good men. Anyway, down yer go. And I dare say we can fix up a drink for yers. Worth crackin’ a bottle a rum at a time like this.’

  ‘No argument there.’ Danny negotiated the ladder. ‘I haven’t ’ad a decent drink for at least half an hour.’

  As soon as the boys had made it down into the galley, Souki scrambled away from the big blonde woman she’d been sitting with, and sidled around the table like a spider. Farren’s first thought was that her mum was even wilder-looking than she was. Souki’s mother’s hair was the same bleached driftwood colour, only a lot longer and thicker, and her face was leather-tanned and hard-lined, one fine silver scar like a crescent moon rising high on her cheek.

  ‘This is Farren ’n’ Danny, Mum,’ Souki said. ‘These are the ones been lookin’ after me.’ Two creases appeared across her forehead as she appeared to re-think that statement. ‘And these are the ones I been lookin’ after, because Danny got ‘urt in the War, and Farren’s got no mum and dad. They’re the ones that sent me to school and everythin’.’

  Souki’s mother came out from behind the table.

  ‘Hello, Farren. Hello, Danny.’ She spoke slowly, each word weighted equally. ‘Souki’s been telling me all about you.’

  Farren could see and sense her strength. It was like the inborn endurance of a ti-tree; it came from the ground up and only increased with age. Her eyes were the colour of mirrors and just as relentless, but her voice was calm and welcoming, and had a low hum to it.

  ‘Yep, well,’ Danny said, cigarette swinging, ‘we met her and she met us.’ Danny was digging deep, Farren knew, in an attempt to find his old charm. ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘My name’s Jardy Cook.’ Souki’s mother was as tall as Farren and square-shouldered, her pants cinched tight with a leather belt, her sleeves pulled up, exposing arms smooth, brown, and muscular. ‘I thank you, Farren,’ she said, and surprised him by putting her hands on his shoulders and looking into his eyes. ‘You’re a good man.’ She kissed him once on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  Farren couldn’t think of anything to say, so he nodded and stepped back, to watch Danny receive the same attention – except that Souki’s mother looked into Danny’s eyes for what seemed a very long time.

  ‘Thank you, Danny.’ Jardy Cook’s voice was low and even. ‘For everythin’.’

  ‘S’our pleasure.’ Danny was embarrassed, Farren could tell. ‘No worries there, Jardy. Yeah, you know, we, ah, love the little feller. Souki.’

  ‘And you met Perce?’ Souki’s mum nodded at the captain of the Madonna-Theresa. ‘And Nat’s aroun’ somewhere. Siddown. I see a drink’s in order.’ Jardy Cook smiled, her face illuminated for a split second. ‘We been waitin’ long weeks for this.’

  Farren sat, taking a cup of rum. And when Nat appeared, a man of about thirty with crinkled black hair, Jardy Cook proposed a toast, Farren standing around the table when everyone else did.

  ‘To Danny and Farren Fox.’ Jardy lifted her tin cup. ‘Men who’re always welcome in my house, on our island, for as long as me, my family, and people, draw breath. Anythin’ I ’ave is now yours. Thank you. You are good and brave men and that’s all that needs to be said.’

  And they drank, Souki taking a sip from her mother’s cup, promptly coughing as if something was caught in her throat.

  ‘Fre – hell’s bells!’ She looked around for something to get rid of the taste, Nat throwing her a tiny apple from a wooden box. ‘That’s poison!’ Souki bit into the apple. ‘But anyhow,’ she added, ‘I can’t go ’ome yet,’ and proceeded to give reasons why Danny, Farren, Julian, Edna, Isla, Charlotte, and Maggie wouldn’t survive without her. ‘And I gotta look after the rabbit,’ she finished with. ‘And we gotta win that bloody boat race.’

  ‘Busy,’ said Nathan, pouring more rum, a silver bracelet clamped tight around his wrist.
‘My word. Busy.’

  Danny laughed, lit a smoke, and pushed the open cigarette tin out onto the table.

  ‘And every word of it’s true. But, Souk –’ he leant forward, resting on his strongest forearm. ‘Look, we’d love yer to stay, mate. But really, yer gotta go home with yer mum because she needs yer as much as we do. Even more, because she’s yer mum. And home’s where yer belong, eh? Everyone does.’

  Souki shook her head. Farren could see she was about to cry.

  ‘I said o’m stayin’.’ She tried to grit her teeth. ‘To ’elp you learn yer job back, Danny. An’ I am.’ She nodded, knocking loose two tears that she quickly knuckled away. ‘An’ what about school an’ that? Joolan’s given me stacks of stuff I gotta do before ’e takes off for the War. So I can’t go now, can I? Though I do wanna go ’ome. But not yet.’

  Farren cast a quick look at Jardy Cook who was looking at Souki over the rim of her cup.

  ‘Yer can’t stay, Souk.’ She put her cup down. ‘Perce and Nat come all this way ’specially to get yer. They mightn’t be back this way for another year. I know yer might like school and things, but this ain’t home.’

  Farren listened to the slow creaking of the Madonna-Theresa, as if the boat was adding its weight to Jardy’s judgement, as if she too wanted to be off, sailing for her home port.

  ‘Well, in fact, Jardy.’ Perce Bladin spoke carefully. ‘We’re due in Sydney for cargo in a couple’a weeks, so if you wanted to stay here with the girl for a wee while, we could probably pick yers up on the way back to Hobart. If that’d work out for yer.’

  ‘Done!’ Danny slapped the table. ‘Yep. We gotta spare room and we won’t take no for an answer.’ He picked up his cup and held it out. ‘And if someone’ll tip somethin’ into me glass that’ll be the end of the bloody argument.’

  FORTY-SIX

  In the clear light of morning, Farren looked back from the bridge and was surprised to see that his house stood as usual, a weathered grey little cottage with a tendril of smoke seeping from the chimney, the clothesline leaning on its one forked stick. With Souki’s mum inside, he thought that somehow the place might look different, but there was no sign that Jardy was at the stove cooking porridge.