‘Where are you goin’?’ Farren stood up. ‘Whadda ya doin’, Danny? Hey, I’ll come with ya.’
Danny deftly did up a top button, and produced a grin as he might’ve produced a good luck charm, something reserved for special occasions.
‘Nah, you won’t.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Qualified sailmakers only, sport. But don’t worry, I’ll be back in two shakes. Why don’t yer just make Jardy a cuppa tea and tell her how nice I am?’ Danny pulled his old army hat down low over his brow, giving himself the look of a highwayman. ‘See you twose later, eh?’ And he left, blowing Jardy a kiss before shutting the door.
Farren, blushing, took the kettle to the sink, and, in order to not think too much about Danny’s departing gesture, he thought about the race that was now less than three days away.
He could picture the Camille and the Delia Three racing side-by-side on the bay, blue water splashed with silver, the boats heeling with the wind, brand-new mainsails reaching for the sky, the two crews concentrating on reaching the far shore and reaching it first. He ached with the wish that his parents could be here to see the Camille race, but they wouldn’t be, and the pain of that, of what he had lost and would never have again, was cold, hard, dark, and unrelenting.
‘That Danny-boy,’ Jardy said, looking up from her sewing. ‘Did you know he gave Souki a little bracelet of your mother’s the other day? I tried to stop him but he insisted.’
‘Yeah?’ Farren didn’t even know his mother had had any bracelets. ‘Did she like it?’
Jardy nodded, poised over her sewing. ‘Oh, yeah, she loved it. But I’m mindin’ it for her until she’s older. You know what kids are like.’
Farren did; but he was pleased Danny had given something to Souki, because he reckoned Souki had given plenty to the Foxes, even if it was not the kind of thing you could hold in your hand.
‘He loves Souki,’ Farren said impulsively. Well, it was true. He did.
‘And she loves him.’ Jardy looked at Farren then turned her attention back to her sewing. ‘And I do, too,’ she murmured, or that’s what Farren thought she said, although he couldn’t be sure over the hurrying, harrying sound of the wind.
FORTY-NINE
Walking to the wharf, Farren saw there wasn’t a place that didn’t sparkle. Dew drops clung to each and every thing, and on the bay silvery waves juggled light as if it was too hot to handle. Overhead a stiff southerly breeze was at work clearing the sky, pushing clouds away like a collection of puffy white pianos. Farren was more nervous than he could ever remember. His stomach ached, he yawned constantly, and he wished keenly that the race would be called off.
‘Now hopefully Henk and Robbie’ll bring down the new sails,’ Danny said, winking at Farren as they sploshed along the muddy track. ‘But don’t worry, skip. I’ve rolled up the old ones in case of an emergency and stowed ’em on board.’ He stopped to light what Farren saw was a short, torpedo-shaped cigar. ‘And I’ll handle all bets, thank you very much. The bets today is Danny-boy’s business.’
‘No more bets.’ Farren stopped right where he was. ‘Please. No more, Danny.’
Danny smiled through smelly grey smoke. Around his neck he had knotted a green silk scarf that had belonged to their mother, and on his slouch hat he had stuck a faded blue paper flower.
‘You just get us pier to pier to pier first, Farry,’ he said. ‘And let me worry about the rest. And cheer up, sport!’ Danny spat happily into the ferns. ‘It wasn’t you who got poked and prodded by that bloodthirsty quack in Geelong last week. So just enjoy yerself, mate. This is just a bit of bloody fun!’
Farren supposed Danny was right. He knew the hard, sweating effort Danny had made to get into Geelong to see a doctor about his injuries. He’d come back looking as if he’d walked a hundred miles and had gone straight to bed.
‘Now all I need –’ Danny took a flat bottle of golden rum from a pocket, ‘is one wee sip to overcome me natural shyness and we’ll be on our way.’
The further up the mast Farren hauled the new mainsail, the more embarrassed he became. He’d never seen a sail cut like it; a tight triangle with a jagged edge, and a strange panel across it like a deep gutter. The crowd on the wharf were silent until somebody started to laugh.
‘That ain’t a bloody sail,’ said Kyle Kendrick, a retired fisherman, renowned for his bad temper. ‘That’s a bloody kite. Whadda ya think yer doin’, you bloody Foxes? There’s people’s good money ridin’ on yers, ya bloody no-hopers. Jesus!’
Farren was stunned. The sail Danny had cut was bizarre. He looked at Henk, desperate for some reassurance, or a way out.
‘Don’t ask me.’ Henk, wearing a clean white shirt the same colour as the new sail, shrugged. ‘I had nothing to do with it. Danny would not let me into the loft while he was working. I just hoped he knew what he was doing.’ He looked at the sail, his forehead like corrugated cardboard. ‘But this I think is crazy.’
‘A little bit strange,’ Robbie said slowly, head tilted. ‘I’ll admit. But who knows, Farry? It is a bit like an aeroplane’s wing. Maybe it’ll go like the clappers?’
Farren felt like he might vomit; if he could’ve wished himself a thousand miles away he would’ve done it in a second. Beside him Souki looked up, shading her eyes, the sail impressing itself against the blue, windblown sky.
‘It’s funny innit, Farren? How d’yer reckon it’ll go?’
It bloody won’t go, he wanted to say, but didn’t. He felt as if every ounce of energy had been beaten out of him. The air of embarrassment around the boat was crippling, the crowd fast dwindling. Farren thought the sail was a shocker.
‘I dunno how it’ll go, Souk,’ he said, and although it was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, he hauled it right up the mast and tied it off. ‘But I guess we’ll soon find out. Who knows? It might be all right. But I bloody doubt it.’
Only eight or nine people, apart from Charlotte, Isla, and Maggie, had stayed to watch the Camille being rigged.
‘He’s never been quite the full quid since he come home,’ someone said as Farren bent to check the tiller. ‘And now Joe’s gunna get himself some easy money, more’s the bloody shame of it.’
‘It’ll be fine, Farren,’ Maggie called down determinedly. She flicked a hand as if she was sooling a dog onto a rabbit. ‘You blokes get out there and win!’
‘We’re bettin’ on you,’ Charlotte added, her voice flattened by doubt. ‘Yeah, you get out there and win, Farren. Youse c’n do it. Even with them things.’
Farren tried to square his shoulders and get himself right, but he only felt worse when he saw Danny coming through the crowd like a fish swimming the wrong way through a school, a bottle of beer locked in his good hand.
‘Geez, what’s yer problem, blokes?’ Danny arrived, cigar clenched in his teeth to look up at the sail that was as white as a washed hen, its jagged edge like a badly clipped wing. ‘Bet youse ’ave never seen anythin’ like that before, eh?’ He swapped his cigar for his beer, drank, and burped. ‘Yeah, I saw it in a dream, and I swear to God she’ll go like a cut cat. Now gimme a hand down and let’s get this party started.’
Farren didn’t move. ‘Let’s use the old sails, Danny.’ He felt as if each word he was saying stank. ‘I just don’t think this thing’ll go. And neither does Henk. We got fifteen minutes till the start. We can run the old mainsail up, no worries, and maybe work on this new one later. There’s people bet a lot of money on us, Danny.’
‘Eh, fair go, sport.’ Danny handed two bottles of beer from his coat pockets down to Robbie. ‘Have some bloody faith, mate. Now help me get into this old greyhound o’ the freggin’ seas and let’s just see what’s bloody what.’
Farren slowed the Camille as Andy Clouty moved the Delia Three up to the imaginary line that ran between the pier and the starter’s boat.
‘Another yard or two, Farren!’ Jack Haggar held a shotgun pointed to the sun. ‘That’s the way. Now, boys, hold ’em there. And…’
Boom!
The sound of the shot rolled away like compacted thunder, scattering the applause from the crowd on the wharf.
‘Go!’
As Henk hauled in the mainsail and Robbie set the jib, Farren felt the Camille begin to pick up speed. At least they were moving.
‘See?’ Danny sat back nursing a fresh bottle of beer, the discarded empty bobbing in the Camille’s wake like a man lost overboard. ‘See? So now who’s got egg on their face, eh?’
‘I hope you are right, Danny,’ Henk said. ‘But if this one does not go well we are putting up the old sails for the race back. That is fair.’
‘Henklestein, my dear friend –’ Danny tucked the bottle into the crook of his arm, flicked up his collar, and squeezed up close to Souki who sat bundled in a new life jacket. ‘You just watch and weep, dear sir. We’re on a winner ’ere, eh, Souk? Good old Danny-boy’s kicked another big goal.’
‘You better have,’ Souki said quietly. ‘Or Farren’ll smash yer.’
Farren looked to windward, hoping that a gust might be about to give them a lift. Already the Camille was a boat length behind the Delia Three, the four Clouty boys and Neddy Craven shouting and waving as if the race was over.
‘Well, it looks good, Danny,’ Souki added, squinting upwards. ‘Like a whole lotta shark fins, eh? But God, boy, we’re already gettin’ done like a freggin’ dinner.’
Overhead the sail flogged as if it was providing its own applause. Danny hardly glanced at it.
‘Well, it does look good, don’t it, Souk? Sure, it mightn’t go too good, but it does indeedy look good.’ Danny gazed off down the bay towards Melbourne. ‘My. What a beautiful day for a sail. Anyone bring any scones?’
‘Fuck you, Danny!’ Farren wanted to jump up and punch Danny fair in the face. ‘Dad’d rip your head off for lettin’ those bastards beat us like this. You cut that sail knowin’ it was shit. Whadda ya tryin’ to do to us, ya bloody idiot?’
‘Me?’ Danny settled further down into the boat as if he was about to take a nap. ‘Geezus, Farren, steady on, mate. I’m doin’ me best for a bloke with a severe head injury. Hey, you wanna drink, Robbie? Henky?’ He held the bottle out. ‘Thirsty work, this racin’. What with all this new-fangled gear to get a handle on an’ that.’
Farren felt as if he was about to explode. He swore through gritted teeth, using a word he’d hardly ever uttered out loud, and wished the tiller was a piece of loose timber that he could belt Danny over the head with.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Robbie shrugged and took the beer bottle from Danny. ‘One more drunken sailor can’t slow us down any further, I wouldn’t think.’
Souki, like a fat yellow grub in her bulky life jacket, stuck her hand out.
‘O’ll have some, too. Come on, Dan. I’m freggin’ thirsty and me mum can’t see me from ’ere. Come on. Hand it over.’
‘You won’t.’ Danny dug deep into a coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of sarsaparilla. ‘Here’s yours. Now, is everybody happy? Because from here on in, ladies and gennelmen, I intend to enjoy myself.’
FIFTY
As soon as Farren had the Camille alongside the Portsea pier he set to work dropping the mainsail.
‘This piece of shit’s comin’ down!’ he shouted as Danny climbed awkwardly from the boat up onto the pier. ‘And the old one’s goin’ up. So go get lost, ya bloody donkey! And don’t come back. Piss off!’
Danny managed to get up onto the pier to stand amongst the few interested onlookers, some who held morning papers, others fishing rods and handlines.
‘Don’t worry about grumpy old Captain Blood down there.’ Danny nodded at Farren who swore back at him. ‘He’s just had a dirty mornin’ out on the high seas. But anyway, folks, whadda ya think of our new rig? She a dead-set beaut or what?’ When no one spoke, Danny simply shrugged, and smiled. ‘I know. You’re stunned. But anyways, chaps, I must be off.’ He saluted smartly. ‘To re-negotiate a wager with some other sporting gentlemen a little way further down the dock.’
Farren watched Danny walk unsteadily towards the Delia Three. If he’d had something handy to throw, he would’ve hurled it.
‘Go to the bloody pub!’ Farren yelled. ‘Go with them! Get in their boat! Don’t come back!’
‘All right, Farren,’ said Henk quietly. ‘Let’s unroll these old ones, eh? And get started.’
Farren picked up an edge of canvas and lifted. A scrap of the Camille’s old sail came away in his hands, revealing what had to be another set of sails, brand-new, and by the looks of things, beautifully cut. Swearing under his breath, he ran his fingers along the seams, seeing what he thought were blood spots almost every half inch. He was speechless. He felt tears jamming his eyes.
‘Geez, look at theezies.’ Souki knelt beside him, running her hands over canvas the colour of soap suds. ‘Geez, more newies, Farren!’ She looked at him. ‘Boy, that Danny’s a bloody smarty-pants, ain’t he? I bet we’re gunna freggin’ fly this time. These ones look real good.’
Farren stared dumbly at the new sail in the well of the boat. Henk’s face, normally as smooth and brown as a new paper bag, was bunched-up around a smile that Farren sensed was one of sheer relief.
‘My Gott.’ Henk shook his head, his crop of short grey hair catching the sun. ‘I really thought Danny had lost his mind. But of course, he ain’t. He ain’t.’
Farren wasn’t so quick to agree. ‘These ones might turn out to be bloody square,’ he said. ‘Or round.’ Along the pier he could see Danny shaking hands with the Clouty boys. ‘Who’d know what he’s thinkin’?’ he added. ‘I sure don’t.’
∗
Jack Haggar came along the wharf, the starter’s boat having just arrived from Queenscliff. The old fisherman studied the piles of sails in the Camille, Farren and Henk up to their hips in drifts of snowy canvas.
‘You got enough gear in there, boys?’ He laughed. ‘Looks like sail sortin’ day on the Cutty Sark.’ Jack scratched his nose. ‘Anyway, this time when we start, yers all simply push off, set yer sails and when I fire the gun, go like blazes for the Bonny Belle who’ll be standin’ off the Queenscliff pier. You got eleven minutes.’
Henk unclipped the cover of his watch.
‘You just give us the signal, Jack. We’ll be right.’
Farren caught sight of Danny limping down the pier as fast as he could go. It was obvious he’d been to the Portsea pub; the box he was carrying clinked like Christmas bells.
‘Hold on, fellers!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t go without me. I got beer.’
Robbie pushed the Camille away from the pier, the boat drifting out over deep water, her boom swinging loose, her jib slapping like a dishcloth. The Delia Three moved likewise, her crew poised, waiting for the gun that Jack held pointed out over the bay. Slowly Farren let the boat swing onto the course that would, he hoped, have her catch the wind as soon as Jack fired.
‘Boom!’
‘Bloody go!’ Souki yelled as seagulls went flying. Henk and Robbie began to haul in, sails filled, and the boat groaned as she tilted with the strain. ‘Let’s get them bloody Cloutys!’
The Camille surged as if this time she’d made her mind up not to be left behind, the Delia Three heeling over as if she was just as determined not to be beaten.
‘This is better.’ Souki stared straight ahead like a jumps jockey watching for up-coming fences. ‘Now we’re bloody goin’!’
Danny, holding a beer, lounged in his usual spot, his hat pulled tight down against the breeze that had risen sharply and now belted in hard from the south.
‘See? And youse blokes all thought I was a mental case. I told yers everything’d be orright, didn’t I? And so far, it is.’
FIFTY-ONE
The Clouty boys sailed so close to the Camille that the only thing Farren could hear was the yelling of the crews and the smacking of the hulls as they hit the swell. The Delia Three, her new sails curved like beautiful great kites, was sailing well but Farren knew the Camill
e was sailing better. To him it felt as if she held him cupped in wooden hands, that she was as confident as he was that she could always produce more speed than the other boat.
‘Haul the jib, Rob!’ Farren yelled. ‘When we clear the Point she’s gunna blow like hell and we’re gunna go like blazes!’
Farren could see clearly the four Clouty boys, and Ned, in their oilskins, sitting close and determined in the Delia, a puff of smoke from Mickey Clouty’s pipe disappearing the instant it hit the breeze. She was a nice boat, Farren thought, and when Andy Clouty, the skipper, looked over and saw Farren watching, he gave a wave which Farren returned.
‘Boy-oh-boy,’ said Danny, talking to no one in particular, ‘did I ever fix up a good bet with those jokers.’ He put an empty bottle carefully over the side as if he was releasing something alive, then took another full one from the box. ‘We gotta win it, Farren. So do not spare the horses. These rags’ll take just about anythin’ yer can throw at ’em, b’lieve me. I sewed ’em triple strong.’
Farren didn’t want to know what Danny had bet with the Cloutys. There’d been more than enough money on the line before they’d lost the first race, let alone whatever Danny had put up now. He also knew that Danny was right about the sails; they were cut from the best quality canvas he’d ever seen and he guessed only something like a cyclone would blow them apart.
‘We’re gunna win,’ Souki said matter-of-factly, squeezed in between Danny and Henk. ‘Our sails is ten times as good as theirs. And besides,’ she added, ‘we’re the goodies, they’re bloody rat-bags, and God’ll ’elp us because Danny went to the War and none of those blokes ever did.’
Danny lifted his bottle of beer high.
‘Yer on the money there, Souk. Because we are the bloody good blokes.’ He started to cough, Farren getting a spray of warm beer full in the face. ‘And they are a bunch of slippery bloody snakes!
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