Farren wasn’t sure what to make of Souki’s mother. Jardy hardly spoke, she restrained Souki with the touch of a finger, or a single warning glance, yet she was calm and polite. But she was tough. Farren was in no doubt about that. He did wonder, though, how Jardy and Danny would get along during the day when Souki was at school. He wondered what they’d talk about. He wondered if they’d talk. And he wondered if he’d see any changes when he got home. It was strange, but he figured it wasn’t bad.
Farren walked on, seeing the morning train wreathed in rising steam. In less than two weeks Julian would be on that train, and leaving for the War; which was pretty brave, Farren thought, considering he really didn’t have to go, and that he knew what had happened to Danny and Captain Price, and to other blokes from Queenscliff. But he would go with a smile, a wave, and a cheerio, like all the others. And that would be that.
Late in the morning, Farren went into the public bar of the Victory, taking in some clean rags and tea towels. He saw Joe Clouty on his usual stool, a beer untouched at his elbow, a ledger book open in front of him. And Joe saw him.
‘Well, look what the bloody cat dragged in.’ Joe turned his back on his work. ‘One of the big betting men from Swan Island.’ He held a gold pen as if it were a poison dart. ‘I ’ope yer boat’s halfway seaworthy, Farren, because I’m thinkin’ that Saturday fortnight’d be a good day for a race.’
Farren approached the bar with the rags and tea towels. Joe Clouty was the only person present, Carl the barman out the back swearing about something lost, broken, or missing.
‘Sat’dee fortnight,’ Farren repeated, putting down his load. ‘Orright. I’ll tell Danny. We’ll be right. Sat’dee fortnight.’
‘My boys are lookin’ forward to it.’ Joe lifted his glass, bringing his big lips down to it like a horse drinking from a bucket. ‘Should be a good race. There’s a fair bit at stake. Which is just how we like it.’
Farren didn’t want to look at Joe but he did, quickly.
‘Same with us,’ he said, and headed for the lounge door. ‘We’ll be right. We’ll be ready to go.’ With relief he left the bar and turned into the hallway, the cold press of air meeting him head-on.
Two weeks. It wasn’t long but Farren figured Danny would’ve finished the new sails by then, even though he only worked at night, and seemed to be half-drunk most of the time. And he got headaches, saw things in the dark, and lost everything he touched, but he’d do it, because he was Danny.
‘Yep, there’s a fair bit at stake!’ Joe called out, his voice pursuing Farren down the hall. ‘Yer wouldn’t want ter lose this one!’
Across the estuary, even before he got onto the bridge, Farren saw exactly what Jardy Cook had been doing all day. The clothesline was so full it looked like a queue of people waiting to buy Grand Final tickets. He reckoned everything that he, Danny, and Souki ever wore, was on that line.
It made him laugh; and he knew that when he got home things would be all right.
FORTY-SEVEN
The days passed, Farren realising Jardy had been with them for a week. Having her in the house was not like having his mum back. Yes, she cooked and cleaned, but Farren saw she barely touched anything in the room she shared with Souki. She made the bed the instant she got out of it, and even the few clothes she had, she would not put in the wooden chest of drawers.
Jardy Cook seemed to hardly take up any space, although she was tall and strong, and impossible to ignore. It was as if she’d brought her other existence with her and lived within it. Her clothes, which were mostly black, dark blue, or burgundy, were embroidered with tiny coloured flowers and birds that reminded Farren of tattoos. And slowly, hour by hour almost, he came to the conclusion that she was, in a way, beautiful. She wasn’t happy and forgiving like Maggie, or elegant and funny like Isla, she was tough and breathtaking, rare like a diamond.
‘We are guests in your house,’ she’d told Danny, when he had asked her why she had not hung up, or put any of her clothes away. ‘This is your mother’s and your father’s room, not mine and Souki’s.’
Danny had disagreed. He’d said that they were not guests, they were friends, good mates, and if she didn’t use the blinkety drawers or the blankety coat hangers, then she was a bit on the dim side, and that Camille Fox would’ve insisted that she did and then checked that she had.
But Jardy didn’t use the drawers or hangers and Farren doubted she ever would.
Julian Derriweather had sent home a notice announcing there would be an Open Day on the last day of term, with the work of all students on display. And so, at a quarter past three on Friday afternoon, Farren found himself walking up the main street of Queenscliff with Jardy but without Danny.
‘He said he’ll try’n come up later.’ Jardy adjusted a black comb spiked deep into her hair. ‘But Souki’ll understand if he don’t. She knows he’s battlin’ his demons.’
The breeze was fresh on Farren’s face, bringing with it the fragrance of ti-tree and seaspray. He liked being with Jardy; she seemed to recognise, without having to be told, just about all the hard things that he and Danny’d been through.
‘Yeah, maybe he’ll come later,’ Farren said. ‘When there’s less people. He don’t like crowds. But he likes Souki. So I reckon he’ll try.’
‘And she likes him, too.’ Jardy spoke so straightforwardly she might have been reading from a soup label. ‘She thinks ’e’s gotta bit a magic in him, the way he found her in the dark when nobody else even got close. And I can’t argue with that. I owe him everythin’, Farren. He’s one in a million. He’s a beautiful feller.’
Beautiful? Farren wasn’t so sure he knew what Jardy meant by that, but he did want to tell her how much better Danny used to be.
‘Oh, you should’a seen him before the War.’ Farren spoke without having to think. ‘He could run and fight and shoot and make bloody anything and at the dances all the girls –’ Suddenly Farren realised he didn’t want to tell Jardy this. Danny wasn’t like that any more and never would be again. ‘I mean, he’s still good now.’ The words came to Farren slower but they meant more. ‘He was different. Like, younger. And not so broken-up. Before he went off for the fighting.’
Jardy walked with her arms crossed, looking at the ground as if she had lost something, or was lost in thought. On her sleeves, Farren saw small flowers embroidered and entwined, mauve, yellow, and pink, three on each wrist. She stopped, as if she’d found the thing she’d been looking for.
‘He’s still got everythin’ he ever had, Farren,’ she said. ‘Except that now he’s got more.’ She looked out at the sea, visible over the trees, a broad glittering plain, ink-blue. ‘He’s been tested a thousand times and he ain’t never come up short. You have to know that.’ She looked at Farren. ‘And he might falter once or twice because of what’s happened, but believe me, mate, he’s tougher now than ever. He’s special.’
Farren was so glad to hear Jardy say that Danny was tough, because blokes like Joe didn’t seem to think Danny was tough at all. But they didn’t know Danny; that all the time, even when he was asleep, Danny was still fighting, fighting his memories, and fighting with how wrecked his body was, and how wrecked it always would be. Danny was tough all right. He was bloody tougher than all the other blokes in town put together.
‘Yeah, like before,’ Farren said, ‘everything was easy for him. He didn’t even have to try. But now he does. Even just to do small stuff.’
Jardy turned down the school track, the schoolhouse framed in the opening between the low, dark trees.
‘That’s right, Farren,’ she said. ‘And he does try. And he does do it. And you help him. And he helps all of us. And so, here we are.’
The dismal smell of the cloakroom met Farren like an accusation, but the open door beyond that led into Julian Derriweather’s classroom was an invitation to all. The high-ceilinged space that Farren remembered so well was filled with people of all ages, the volume of talk at a level unequalled in all his time at sc
hool.
Souki pounced, towing Jardy off between the toffee-coloured desks. Farren followed, feeling in a way that he’d never felt before; that he was somehow involved in another family. Souki abandoned her mother’s hand.
‘Come’n see what I done, Farren.’ She looked to the door. ‘Where’s Danny? ’E said he was comin’. I already been waitin’ ’alf an ’our.’
‘On his way, I think.’ Farren stood with Souki and Jardy at the back of the room, the wall covered with a rainbow of drawings. ‘I hope he’ll get here, Souk. I know he’ll do his best.’
Souki accepted Farren’s statement, and stood looking with satisfaction at a series of pictures that stretched virtually from one side of the room to the other.
‘Mine start ’ere.’ She tapped a picture of a mint-green island rising from a sky-blue sea. ‘An’ go all the way up t’ there. I done nineteen.’
Farren walked slowly along Souki’s row of pictures, seeing that she had drawn, boldly and brightly, much of what had happened to her over the past couple of months. She’d started at Furneaux Island, he decided, and had ended up with what he thought was a boat race between the Foxes and the Cloutys, two couta boats side by side, crewed by stick figures in hats like black fried eggs.
‘Geez, you’ve been busy, Souk.’ He reckoned she must’ve gone through a hundred pencils. ‘This is a power of good work.’
Souki didn’t disagree. ‘An’ o’ll tell yer,’ she said, ‘I ’ad stacks more to do, but Joolan said I’d done enough for a while, and I ’ad ter rest. Besides, I didn’ wanna hog all the space.’
Farren looked at her final picture, to see how she’d dealt with her proposed departure from Queenscliff and saw, sure enough, the last picture was of a big sailing boat heading out to sea, a tiny island on the horizon, seagulls over it like jointed eyebrows complicating the sky.
‘Is that you leavin’ to go home?’ Farren asked. ‘Is that the Madonna-Theresa?’
Souki’s eyes darkened. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it is. But I ain’t sure who’s on her, yet. See? There’s no one on deck.’ Souki avoided her mother’s attention with perfect, cunning timing. ‘I ain’t got that far. Anyway, come’n o’ll show yer the new pencil sharpener we got. It’s got three holes and it bloody ploughs through ’em.’
Farren was aware of a sudden drop in the level of noise. He looked to the door, as he always had at school, hoping for some unexpected and interesting interruption. Seeing Danny there, his heart surged.
‘O’ll go get ’im!’ Souki darted between the desks like a terrier. ‘’Bout time he got ’ere!’
With a desperate, ever-deepening feeling of sadness, Farren saw that Danny was staggering drunk. He leant on the door frame, breathing hard as if he had just come in from a howling gale.
‘Aft’noon,’ he said generally, dragging off his battered slouch hat. ‘Sorry I’m late. But I didn’t ’ear the blasted bell.’
Farren moved uncertainly towards Danny but was headed off by Fergus Myer, a big, red-headed farmer with hands like grappling hooks, who steered Danny towards Julian’s chair.
‘And let me jus’ say –’ Danny lifted a finger, as he allowed himself to be manoeuvred sideways, ‘that there’s no finer thing in this world than a good education. Oh, ’ullo there, Souk.’ Danny lowered his sights to concentrate on her. ‘Told yer, little mate, that I’d be ’ere and ’ere I am. Bingo! Legs eleven! Beaudiful bowling figures for Danny!’
Farren made it to Julian’s table and put a hand on Danny’s shoulder, who now sat, hands clasped, giving a fair imitation of a teacher, right down to the clean shirt and shaven face.
‘Eh, Danny.’ Farren leaned close, smelling laundry soap, tobacco, and rum. ‘I think p’raps you’d better come outside with me for a minute to get a breath of fresh air. We’ll come back in when you’ve straightened up a bit.’
Danny considered Farren’s request and took a deep breath.
‘Well, orright, if y’ insist.’ He stood, the chair falling away behind him. ‘But only if all books is away and all bins been emptied. But first I’ll see young Souk’s work, because that’s why indeed I come over ’ere in the first place.’
Farren figured he had to get Danny out.
‘Nah, I think –’
Julian walked over, smiling, which Farren noticed changed his face considerably.
‘Danny’s fine, Farren.’ Julian shook Danny’s hand with warmth. ‘Welcome, Danny, you’re very welcome. I’m sure Souki would like to show you around while I organise a decent cup of tea for everybody.’ He gestured. ‘Go right ahead. I’ll leave you in Miss Cook’s capable hands.’
‘Right you are, Mr D,’ Danny said, lifting a finger. ‘And good luck. You know. Down the bloody track. Watch out for potholes.’
Souki latched onto Danny’s sleeve and began to haul like a tugboat.
‘C’arn, Dan.’ She kept up the pressure. ‘But don’t trip over them kids’ models or Joolan’ll have the freggin’ hide off ya!’
Farren couldn’t stop blushing, although most people were either grinning at Souki, or busy getting out of Danny’s way. With the hint of a smile, Jardy eased in beside Farren, and told him to take it easy.
‘Relax now, Danny’s orright.’ Her voice flowed. ‘He’s already done the hard part just gettin’ ere. I think he’s enjoying himself.’
Cautiously Farren agreed; after all, it wasn’t that rare around Queenscliff to see a bloke who’d had one, or ten, drinks too many. Glancing around, he was pleased to see Robbie ushering his mother in. He waved, Robbie waved back, and Mrs Price smiled.
‘That’s me mate, Robbie,’ Farren told Jardy. ‘And his mum. She’s real nice.’
Jardy accepted Farren’s judgement, watching as Robbie guided his mother towards the tables of student-made models and projects.
‘I’ve never seen anyone in a dress like that,’ Souki’s mother said quietly. ‘Except in a picture. She looks like the Queen of England.’
Farren saw that Mrs Price wore a dress the colour of autumn leaves dipped in gold, and that her hair was intricately coiled and tightly restrained with a thin black band. She looked as breakable, he thought, as a glass ornament.
‘Yeah, she gets done up, all right,’ he said. ‘But she’s nice. And pretty tough, too. In a way.’ He didn’t try to explain.
On one of the tables was a model aeroplane so well-made Farren wondered if it might actually be able to fly. Robbie’s name was on the hand-written card where it rested.
‘It’s a Martinsyde.’ Robbie stepped away from his mother who was talking to Julian Derriweather about Isla’s health. He looked at the aeroplane as if less than impressed by his handiwork. ‘A war plane. English. Unfortunately they’re renowned for catching fire, which is a bit of a drawback, you’d have to say.’
The plane was painted green, its wheels red, its wings made from fabric stretched tight over a light wooden frame. The motor, Farren figured, was also wooden but painted silver to look like metal.
‘How’d you know how to make it?’ Farren thought it was one of the best things he’d ever seen. ‘D’you get some drawings or somethin’?’ Many of the boats around Queenscliff were made from sets of drawings. That’s how it was done mostly.
‘Nah.’ Robbie picked up the Martinsyde and handed it to Farren. ‘I just kind of knocked it up from a few photographs. It’s not really to scale or anything.’
The aeroplane was light. Farren held it delicately, thinking of bird bones because they were light, too, filled with tiny bubbles of air.
‘He did make another.’ Mrs Price had returned to stand next to Robbie. ‘But he wasn’t happy with it. D’you think he’ll be an airman one day, Farren? I dare say I can’t think of anything that might serve to stop him. Although I’ve tried.’
Farren didn’t know how to answer and Robbie pretended not to have heard. Robbie looked around the classroom as if he had somewhere else to go.
‘Anyway, ’Roon –’ he glanced at the model as if it was of no particular
interest. ‘You want it? You can have it if you like. I’ve got the other at home.’
Farren would’ve loved to have the plane. In its own way it was as beautiful as a bird. He could make room for it on top of his chest of drawers or hang it from the roof on fishing cord; it would be one of the best things he had. But he knew it would be wrong to take this one, Robbie’s best.
‘I’ll have the other one,’ he said. ‘Your not-so-good one, if you really reckon I could. And I’ll look after it real careful, I swear. It’s fantastic.’
‘It’s yours.’ Robbie made way for Souki and her mother, introducing Jardy Cook to his mother, impressing Farren with the ease with which he conducted the operation.
‘My husband’s a captain in the army, Mrs Cook,’ Mrs Price told Jardy, her hands tightly clasped. ‘He’s missing in action at the moment, you see. And I must say I would prefer that Robbie didn’t want to join the Air Corps, or whatever it’s called, because that sort of thing worries me so.’ Farren saw pain flicker in Mrs Price’s eyes, as if a too-bright summer sun had caught her unprepared. ‘But, oh, what is it with men? The things that they want to do?’
Jardy gently released Souki, easing her one step away from the table of model aeroplanes, ships, and houses.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Souki’s mum looked at Robbie and Farren, as if comparing their heights. ‘But these two seem smart enough. An’ ’opefully the War’ll be over by the time they’re old enough to get into it.’
Mrs Price nodded, Farren getting the feeling that she was about to say, ‘amen’.
‘Oh, I hope for that,’ she said. ‘I hope for that so very much.’
FORTY-EIGHT
At nine o’clock on Wednesday night, as Jardy darned socks and Farren was thinking about going to bed, Danny started the slow process of putting on his coat. Farren couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Rain and wind slammed at the house like stand-over men working in tandem.
Black Water Page 21