Black Water

by David Metzenthen

  ‘Wind’s backed dead south, Farren.’ Henk looked to the headlands of the Rip. ‘But even if it comes in over thirty knots, I think you give ’er everything when we clear the Point. These sails will take it.’

  Farren could see the water of the Rip was streaked and troubled as if sharks thrashed there. Beyond was the ocean, black and threatening, patrolled by massive waves.

  ‘Yeah, she’s gunna blow, all right,’ he said. ‘Yer can feel it gettin’ ready.’

  ‘We’re in front, Farry!’ Robbie lifted a pale fist, a wet smile plastered across his face. ‘We’re puttin’ those chokers to the sword now!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Danny muttered, and he did, the red label peeling off the beer bottle to hang like a bloody bandage. Then, suddenly and awkwardly, he ducked below the boom to shout. ‘Car’n you bloody Cloutys! Get goin’, you no-hopin’ bunch of bludgers! You can’t afford to lose this!

  Farren could see Danny wasn’t joking. A feeling of fear, cold, heavy, and blunt, slid along his ribs. What was going on? Just what had Danny bet?

  ‘Eh, Danny!’ Souki poked him in the back with a finger. ‘Hey. It’s us who wanna win. Not bloody them! Are you freggin’ mad or somethin’?’

  Farren didn’t listen to Danny’s reply; whatever had been bet had been bet, and the only way that he could guarantee it didn’t cripple the Foxes forever, was to get to Queenscliff first.

  ‘Don’t worry, Souk,’ Farren said. ‘We’re goin’ fine. She’s rippin’ now.’

  The Camille leapt at the waves. From every gust of the slamming southerly she trapped power and turned it into speed. Farren could hear her humming, loaded with tension as she raced the swell, the vibrations resonating in her like music. Farren was ecstatic. This was how the boat should sail; hard and fast, heading for home, the mighty Camille crewed by the flying Foxes!

  Suddenly Danny dropped his beer bottle and brought his hands to his face. As the bottle spewed creamy brown froth into the bottom of the boat, he moaned into his palms, every word muffled.

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. What’ve I done?’

  Farren didn’t know what was wrong and was too busy to ask. The Camille, sailing dangerously fast, needed every bit of his attention if he was to keep her on course and not bury her bow into a wave. So Danny, he figured, would just have to deal with whatever was on his mind by himself, as Farren Fox had a boat to steer and a bloody race to win.

  The wind came up the Rip as if she had the Camille in her sights, hitting her like a giant hammer, driving her faster still. Now she surfed, her bow pointed straight for the piles of Queenscliff pier that were gradually assembling themselves out of the distance like the black legs of some massive seaborne insect. Ahead, Farren could see the Bonny Belle standing off the wharf, waiting for the winning boat.

  ‘Oh, we’re goin’ now!’ Souki’s words were blown into scraps and her hair blew like spray. ‘I never seen a boat go like this, Farren! Geez, them sails is beaudies! Boy, we’re floggin’ them Cloutys now! C’mon, Danny. Sit up’n watch!’

  Danny, kneeling in the bottom of the boat, in dirty water, had not said a word since his outburst. His face was as stricken as if he was watching someone dying. He looked at Souki but didn’t move.

  ‘C’mon, Dan!’ Souki patted the seat next to her. ‘Geddup ’ere! We’re slaughterin’ ’em now! We’re freggin’ flyin’!’

  Farren could see the Delia was going as hard as the Camille, but not as fast. She burst through the waves, leaning so far to leeward she looked as if she would capsize, every ounce of sail taking as much power from the wind as the skipper could get – but with her clean planks and superior sails, the Camille was inching ahead. Suddenly Danny made to crawl past Henk, almost falling on his face, the sailmaker just managing to hold him upright with a fistful of collar.

  ‘Steady on, Dan,’ Henk said. ‘Things is good now. We are really sailing fine. Your sails are great.’

  ‘Farren!’ Danny broke away from Henk and grabbed Farren’s knee in an iron grip. ‘Farren. Slow the bloody boat! I mean it!’ His eyes, brimming with pain, blazed out over bruised half-moons. ‘We gotta let the bastards win! Haul off, mate. Let ’em go past. You gotta do it, Farren. For God’s sake! For my sake! C’mon. Slow ’er down!’

  ‘What?’ Farren tried to shake Danny’s hand off. ‘Lose? We can’t pay if we lose. We gotta bloody win!’

  Danny looked as if he had been crying for a week, the scars on his forehead a raw, blazing red. But the strength in his good hand was immense. It felt to Farren that it was bolted into the bones of his leg. He could not shrug it off and it hurt like hell.

  ‘Lemme go, Danny!’ Farren hammered at his brother’s wrist. ‘Get bloody off me!’

  Danny didn’t loosen his grip.

  ‘Farren,’ he pleaded, on his knees. ‘We cannot win this.’ Danny’s voice cut through the wind, and although Farren didn’t want to listen, he couldn’t shut it out. ‘See, I bet ’em if we win they’ve all gotta join up for the War. And now I can’t do it.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t go through with it, Farren. It’ll kill me. So, please, mate, slow the bloody boat. I beg of –’

  ‘Geezus!’ Robbie’s voice overrode everything. ‘Look at that!’

  Farren heard a sizzling, ripping sound, looked sideways and saw the Delia’s mainsail turn into great white scraps that flogged like the pennants of a defeated army. The boat stopped as if she was sinking into a hungry sea as unmercifully, like a winning racehorse with the bit fully between her teeth, the Camille bolted on, leaving her opponent and crew to their fate.

  Farren felt Danny’s grip loosen, and with Henk’s help, Danny got himself back up on to the seat where he sat like a prisoner about to be executed.

  ‘Oh, the stupid, stupid, bastards,’ he said, his face wet and green-looking, blood seeping from his scars to drip off his chin. ‘Oh, they’re bloody done for now.’

  Farren looked back. The Delia was stopped, a doomed boat, he thought, crewed by doomed men. Hearing Robbie shout, he turned to see him grinning, his freckled face as wet as a sponge.

  ‘Obviously old Joe didn’t spend quite as much on the new sails as he should’ve!’ he yelled. ‘He should’a got Danny to make ’em!’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Farren sailed the Camille up the inlet to the cheers of the windblown crowd, the Delia Three a straggling scarecrow in the distance.

  ‘C’mon, Danny.’ Souki leaned to pat him on the back. ‘Cheer up. It’s all over now and we won fair’n square.’ She dragged off her life jacket, her face reappearing as if she’d surfaced, smiling, from the sea. ‘So how much dough we got anyway? Plenny, I bet!’

  Danny sniffed as hard as if someone had thrust smelling-salts under his nose. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and tried to sit up straighter.

  ‘Oh, we got a good fair bit, Souk,’ he said. ‘A good fair bit.’ Solemnly he nodded at Farren. ‘You done great, mate. The old man’d buy yer a bloody beer. You did beautiful.’ Danny looked toward the wharf as if it was the place where he would make his last stand. ‘So now all I gotta do is some very fast talkin’,’ he muttered. ‘Or I just might have ter jump head-first off the bloody bridge when the tide’s gone out.’

  ∗

  Jack Haggar bought the two crews together outside the fishermen’s shed, the four Clouty brothers and Ned Craven on one side, Farren and Danny, Souki, Robbie, and Henk on the other. The boats, tied, tidied, in shelter, rocked together companionably.

  ‘Well, she was indeed a grand race.’ Jack clasped his hands in front of himself like a reverend. ‘Both skippers, crews, and boats havin’ a real good dip and showin’ a level of seamanship, and a bit a gamesmanship, that does the town proud.’ Jack waited for the crowd to applaud, which they dutifully did. He went on. ‘In a way she was a draw, the Delia winnin’ on the way out, the Camille winnin’ on the way in, so I’ll let the teams settle up whatever the bets were. But first, let’s give all the boys a fair and decent round of applause.’

  As t
he crowd clapped, Souki muttered.

  ‘An’ what about freggin’ me? O’m no bloody boy, am I?’

  ‘Now I’d –’ Jack held up a hand, but Danny spoke first, shuffling forward, leaving wet prints on the dry planks.

  ‘Before yer go on, Jack.’ Danny faced the crowd, looking like a survivor from a wreck. ‘I ’ave to say something.’ He cleared his throat and clamped his bad hand to his side with the other. ‘See, I made a bet with the Clouty boys that wasn’t exactly for money.’ Danny nodded at the crew of the Delia Three who stood in dripping oilskins the gingery colour of fresh kelp. ‘Which I had no right to do. So now I’m cancelling it. I hope everyone knows that I’ve never been the type of bloke to force other people to do anythin’ and I will not start now. So that’s the end of it. The boys’ll know what I’m talkin’ about. Done. Finished. Kaput.’

  Andy Clouty stepped forward, his hair swept back off his forehead, his wet boots trailing water. In his hand he held a bottle of beer as if it was a bunch of flowers he might be about to present to Danny.

  ‘Ah, Danny-boy.’ He laughed and winked so energetically it looked as if he was trying to get water out of his ear. ‘I appreciate that, mate. But we been one step ahead of yer all the way. Me an’ me brothers and Neddy enlisted a bloody week ago. So we had nothin’ to lose makin’ that bet. Only a bit more leverage on yer, maybe, thinkin’ yer might get the flamin’ colliwobbles or somethin’.’

  Farren saw Danny’s face change, to hold up a smile that seemed to be made of scars.

  ‘You bloody dogs!’ His eyes sparkled like a lit fuse. ‘Well, that’s orright then, isn’t it? That’s great.’ He dragged himself across to shake hands with Andy Clouty. ‘Good on yer, boys.’ He held up a fist to the other four men. ‘And may God go with yers, fellers, all the bloody way.’

  ‘Orright!’ Jack Haggar nodded, as if the world once again had met his approval. ‘That’s what we like ter see. No ’ard feelings and a good result!’

  And as the crowd cheered, straight into the teeth of the southerly wind, Farren saw Jardy make her way across to Danny and kiss him high up on his scarred cheek – a show of affection not missed by Robbie, who elbowed Farren fair in the ribs.

  ‘Hullo, ’ullo, ullo,’ he said, waggling his head like a puppet policeman. ‘Is somefink goin’ on there, d’you fink?’

  Farren didn’t know what to think, or say, although he certainly wasn’t upset that Jardy wanted to kiss his brother.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ he came up with. ‘Maybe.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  On the second Sunday of the school holidays, at Souki’s insistence, Farren and Robbie went with her to see a chestnut foal that had been born in a paddock out on the Geelong road.

  ‘Old Souk’s sure one hell of a character,’ Robbie said, the boys lounging against the fence, watching as she followed the foal and mother down the paddock. ‘I think even old Derri had a tear in his eye when she said oo-roo to him down the station the other day.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s one outta the box, all right.’ Farren watched Souki advancing, right hand extended, laden with sugar cubes she’d borrowed from Maggie’s kitchen. ‘Danny’s gunna miss her somethin’ shockin’ when she takes off.’

  ‘I reckon.’ Robbie put his boot up on the fence rail. ‘So old Derri’s gone.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that. Boy, soon there’ll be no one left, Farry, except you and me.’ He glanced down the wet road towards town. ‘The girls’ll be linin’ up. We’ll be able to take our pick.’

  Farren wished that would happen; not a line of girls, maybe – geez, just one would do for a start, and not some other bloke’s sweetheart, but some available girl who he could kiss, and go around with, and all the rest of it.

  ‘Yeah, well, you’re already right. You and Nerrie.’ Farren saw Souki was trying to sneak up on the foal while its mother wasn’t looking. ‘She’ll do you for a sweetheart, mate. Best girl in town.’ The foal daintily retreated. ‘I think Souk’ll have to give up. She’ll be in Geelong before she gets to pat that thing. Eh, Souk!’ Farren waved. ‘C’mon. Let’s go. It’s lunch time!’

  Souki made a final unsuccessful attempt then turned to trudge back, her pants soaked to the knees, her hair catching the sun like summer hay. Farren saw that she was grinding on a sugar cube as if it was an ice block.

  ‘Ah, freggin’ ’orse,’ she said conversationally, as she clambered through the fence. ‘The liddle brown one was orright but that mother one was just one flamin’ big chook. God, I only wanted to pat the bubby. Who wants a bitta sugar?’ She took a handful of grubby cubes out of her pocket. ‘Maggie gimme plenty. It’s nice. No wonder bloody ants like it.’

  ‘Save ’em for Charlie Tucker’s cart horse,’ Farren suggested. ‘He won’t run away. Let’s go. Snags for lunch.’

  Souki turned back to the mare and foal who had wandered off up the paddock.

  ‘See yer, liddle ’orse!’ She waved. ‘And tell yer mother she’s a freggin’ nuisance!’

  As Farren stopped to do up his boot, Robbie lit a cigarette, and Souki climbed up onto a tree stump where she stood like an untidy fairy on a plain-looking cake.

  ‘You shouldn’t be smokin’, Robbie,’ she called down. ‘My granpa coughed hisself to death because a that.’ She jumped around to face the bay, arms out wide. ‘One, two, three! I can see the freggin’ sea! One, two, three, four, I can see the freggin’ shore – four, five, six, I can see… a great big bloody boat out there and I reckon it’s the…’ She stood, hand over her eyes. ‘I reckon it’s somethin’, all right, anyway.’

  Farren saw Souki crookedly pinch her bottom lip with her top teeth. She jumped down onto the road, the tail of her shirt fluttering.

  ‘That’s Perce’s boat.’ Souki spoke with her eyes averted, as if forced to admit the fact. Then she looked up into Farren’s face. ‘So I guess we better get goin’, eh? You know, down the pier first. And then ’ome to tell me mum and Dan.’

  Robbie offered the cigarette to Farren who took it automatically, a feeling of weakness moving through him as if his blood had been replaced by water. This was it then. This time she was going and she would not be coming back.

  ‘I guess we’d better, Souk,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘Orright.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, we better.’ She turned, took three slow steps then took off at a run, her grey sweater bobbing like a pale little postage stamp on an urgent letter, her black boots hitting the road as if she was punctuating it with a series of exclamation marks. ‘O’ll meet chers there!’ she yelled back. ‘Orright?’

  The Madonna-Theresa had tied up at the pier the big bay steamers used, Farren knowing she wouldn’t be able to stay there for long as two were due in the afternoon, full of Sunday trippers up from Melbourne. He saw that Souki had gone onboard, and was talking to Perce and Nat, if he’d remembered their names right.

  ‘Be a bit quieter around your place,’ Robbie said, as he and Farren headed for the yacht, the sound of the waves under the timbers like a murmured conversation. ‘If she goes. She’s a great kid. And her mum’s a bit of all right, too.’

  Farren nodded. He could feel that his voice would wobble if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘Yeah. They’ve been real good.’ That was about all he could manage without risking tears. He saw one of the men lift Souki up onto the wharf. ‘Hang on.’ Farren nodded. ‘She’s comin’ back.’ He watched Souki wind up to full speed, boots tapping on the timbers, to arrive in a flurry, her hair like frozen flames, one shirt sleeve pulled up, the other fallen right down.

  ‘Huh! God!’ She rested hands-on-knees, looking up from under her straggly fringe. ‘Shit, it’s bloody ’ard runnin’ with no socks. Anyway, well, the tide’s runnin’ so Perce said they only gotta couple a ’ours ’ere at the most – so I gotta go get me mum and quick smart, eh? I’ll see yers at ’ome.’ And she took off again, a small figure running under a blue sky that appeared to meet her at the start of the road.

  Robbie smacked Fa
rren on the back and produced a reckless grin.

  ‘C’mon, Fazza, old son!’ His freckles bounced. ‘Cheer up, sport. Not the end of the world.’ He made a rapid walking motion with two fingers. ‘Come on. Off we go. Gotta catch Goldilocks. Quick sticks.’

  Farren watched Souki run, knowing that he would’ve run, too, if it had ever been possible to run home and find that it was like it used to be.

  ∗

  Everything that Jardy and Souki owned fitted into two pillow-cases and a tiny suitcase of the Foxes that Danny insisted that they take.

  ‘Well, let’s get this show on the road, folks.’ Danny stood at the open door, looking cheerful but weary, as if the day was already pushing him to his limits. ‘Come on, blokes. Time and tide wait for no mouse.’

  Souki went out, hefting the child-sized case which she’d appropriated. Robbie, Farren, and Jardy followed, each carrying various bags and items. Looking across into the distance, Farren could make out the masts of the Madonna-Theresa and thought of the tide dragging insistently down her sides. Setting off, Farren couldn’t think of a single word to say, so he walked along the track in silence, stopping when Souki turned back to the house.

  ‘See yer house!’ She waved at the sunlit cottage. ‘And see yer, Hoppidy! Yer a real good rabbit!’ And with a smile, as if she was now free to go, she set off along the track for the bridge over the estuary.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Farren walked up the pier, Souki struggling along with the case as fast as she could go. He would not allow himself to think that he wouldn’t ever see her again.

  ‘She’ll miss you three fellers so much,’ Jardy said suddenly, as if she wanted to get her goodbyes over and done with. ‘She’ll never forget yers and neither will I. I can’t say how much I think of yers. I can’t even start. So I won’t.’ She brushed her face, sniffed sharply, and looked straight ahead, where Farren could see one of the big black steamers was on her steady way over from Sorrento. ‘But you blokes know.’