‘Oh, well, now, hmmm, I guess we –’ Danny hobbled along beside Farren, a cigarette in his good hand, his bad hand tucked away in a trouser pocket. ‘Of course, well, the pleasure’s been all ours, Madam Cook. All ours. Come again any time.’
Jardy looked as if she wanted Danny to explain, but finally, she simply put her hand on his arm. ‘Oh, Danny. If only we lived –’ She squeezed his arm, smiled and then shrugged, as if she admitted that she was unable to put her feelings into words.
‘Well, we do,’ Danny said. ‘We do only live once. That’s the one thing that I am pretty sure about.’ All the time Danny was talking to Jardy he held her gaze, a broken smile refusing to leave the jagged terrain of his face.
Farren walked quickly past, realising there were depths to Danny’s words he didn’t think he should be hearing. At the end of the wharf he could see Souki beside the Madonna-Theresa, waiting undecidedly, as if for permission to go on board. Nat had taken the case off her and Perce sat in the sun, on the roof of the wheelhouse, smoking his pipe.
‘C’mon, youse!’ Souki yelled down the wharf. ‘Gedda move on! The ferry’s comin’ and the tide’s goin’. Quick. We gotta sail.’
Farren walked faster, passing over the water, light green and shallow, and soon stood empty-handed with Souki, waiting for the others. Without warning she turned, dragged him down to her level and pressed her face hard against the side of his head, her arms around him like thin, unbreakable bands.
‘O’ll miss yer, Farren.’ She spoke into his cheek, hugging him, her breath warm and damp, her skin hot and smooth. ‘I love yer, Farren. You an’ Danny an’ the rabbit ’n’ Robbie ’n’ Maggie ’n’ Isla ’n’ Charlotte ’n’ the house ’n’ school ’n’ everyone and everythin’. And I wish –’
‘Ah, don’t wish, Souk.’ Farren held her out at arm’s length, knowing he was crying, and that there was nothing he could do about it. ‘We’ll miss you, too, mate. But yer gotta go home, don’t yer?’ He released her and stood. ‘You’re the best kid ever, Souk. But we’ll see yer again, no worries. So anyway, you’d better go give Danny another hug.’ He sent her off with a gentle push.
Farren, with Robbie, watched the steamer closing in. Black and massive, she pushed a white wave before her and drew a long cloud of black smoke behind her, a hundred sightseers lining the rails. Behind him, Farren heard Danny’s voice and turned, to see him standing stock-still halfway down the pier.
‘Orl-right-ee, everybody!’ Danny began to back off towards town, his good hand up in farewell. ‘Bon voyage and ’appy days! Oo-roo and au revoir!’ He kept moving. ‘C’arn, Farren. C’arn, Robbie! Boat’s gotta go, boys! Tide’s on ’er way out, ferry’s on her way in, Danny’s gotta have a drink. That’s it. Let’s get a move on. See yer, Souk. I love yer, little mate! See yer, Jardy. You’re a bit of orright, too! Goodbyee! Goodbyee!’
And Farren, after making one quick and final farewell, walked away, Souki’s and Jardy’s voices reaching out to him, like paper streamers made even more fragile by the wind. He turned and waved once, twice, and then again, and once more before he and Robbie caught up with Danny, who waited where the wharf became road.
‘Well, that’s another day in me old life.’ Danny said, his eyes red-rimmed, sagging into half-moons the bruised colour of passionfruit. ‘And not a very good one, either. But what’s a bloke to do, eh? You tell me.’ He held up a hand, for once without a cigarette spiked between his fingers. ‘Bon voyage, ladies and gents. Bon voyage.’
Farren watched the yacht easing away, her mainsail rising up the mast to perform a slow, familiar dance with the westerly wind. Beside him Danny had backed away to rest against the stone sea-wall, hands folded on his knee like an elderly gent taking a spell halfway through his morning stroll.
‘Too many goodbyes are not good for a bloke.’ He took his cigarette tin from his pants pocket. ‘If you ask me. Which you didn’t. So, any of you fellers want a smoke? Since we haven’t got ’ny beer. Or are yers just content to sit and think for a minute, or talk amongst yerselves, whilst we watch that boat sail outta me life once and for ever and for always?’
At the top of the bridge Danny stopped and dutifully so did Farren and Robbie. The Madonna-Theresa was under way, making her escape like a butterfly back into the wild as visitors from the steamer poured down the gangplanks like ants from a nest.
‘To the cold, cold, south she goes.’ Danny rested, arms crossed on the rail. ‘And where she stops nobody knows. Well, they do, but anyway, hey Farren, look, I was just thinking – ’ he put a cigarette into his mouth as if he was plugging a leak. ‘The Camille, mate. She could catch that thing, couldn’t she? I reckon she could.’ Danny grinned, his face seeming to renew itself, the pain lessening as if his scars were siphoning it away. ‘Whadda you reckon?’
Farren didn’t hesitate. ‘Of course. Why? When? Now?’
Danny hitched up his pants, like a cartoon policeman about to go and break up a fight.
‘Of, course now, yer berk.’ He blew out smoke like a happy gambler on a winning streak. ‘Because I don’t want ter die wonderin’. Which was somethin’ that was well on the cards not so long ago.’
As soon as Farren had the Camille beyond the steamer wharf, he turned straight for the Heads, catching sight of the Madonna-Theresa well down the bay.
‘She ain’t in the Rip.’ Danny had to lift his voice above the wind. ‘And if we keep goin’ like this we might get to her before she is.’
Farren doubted it. The wind was a decent westerly, the tide was ebbing fast, and although the Camille was sailing quicker than the bigger twin-masted yacht, he didn’t think they’d catch her before she left the bay.
‘Unless she sees us and stops,’ he said, feeling the flat, sliding water of the Rip gently take hold of the Camille as if to guide her, or lead her astray. ‘But Perce’ll be lookin’ ahead not behind. He wouldn’t know us if he saw us anyway.’ He figured that it was unavoidable where they were going to go.
‘All these millions of tons of water.’ Robbie gazed at the constantly moving sea. ‘All headin’ for the same rocky little plug hole. And us.’
‘If we can’t catch her,’ Farren said, ‘we can follow and get to her outside. The wind’s good and the tide’s right. Just follow in her wake. I’m game. What about you blokes?’
Robbie turned as if someone had poked him in the back.
‘Game, ’Roony?’ His freckles seemed to gang up on his nose. ‘Of course we’re bloody game. Whadda ya reckon? We didn’t come all the way out here for a bloody ham sandwich.’
FIFTY-FIVE
Farren could feel the power of the tide. The Camille was still sailing where he pointed her, but at the same time she was gliding on a mass of water that was going only one way and that was due south, running like a huge river between headlands so close Farren could see the gullies in the dunes and rock pools on the wave platforms. He wondered if this was at all what it felt like to be flying.
‘Yes, interesting,’ Robbie said, peering from one headland to the other, his face drawn with tension that Farren, if not Danny, shared. ‘Geez, that lighthouse could do with a spot of paint. I must write to the council.’
Danny laughed, feet propped, a touch of his old wildness managing to find its way up through his scars and contorted joints.
‘Yer can feel her skimmin’, can’t yer?’ He watched the water, dense and heavy, silent and unstoppable, on its way to the open ocean. ‘We’re ridin’ the tide o’ the world, boys. The tide o’ the world!’
Farren concentrated on the narrow expanse of blue-black water that was streaked with foam and flanked with swirls, dips, and strange, unnatural gullies that hinted at forces he had no idea about.
‘Jesus, rocks,’ he muttered, trying to steer the exact course the Madonna-Theresa had taken. ‘Hell’s bells. Come on. Please. Let us get through.’ Farren didn’t know who exactly he was asking for safe passage; perhaps it was God, perhaps it was the sea gods, or perhaps it was the tide of the world,
as Danny had said, as if an ocean might care about one tiny boat on its immense liquid surface.
The Heads, close, opposed each other like two dangerous countries in an uneasy alliance. This was a place of harsh reality, Farren knew; where a sailor’s life was in his own hands, unless the sea decided it wanted to have a say.
‘Ah, she’ll be right, Farren.’ Danny sounded more relaxed than he looked. ‘We’re waltzin’ along three beats to the bar. Speakin’ of which, bars that is, boy, I wish I’d brought a drink.’
To Farren it did feel like the Camille was dancing. She skimmed and swung and curtsied, each current a partner vying for her attention before falling back, as if the boat knew full-well that it was the music and not the partners that made her dance.
‘The cliffs look quite a bit different from out here,’ Robbie observed. ‘If you could just get in even a fraction closer, ’Roon, I think it’d be rather spectacular.’
Farren laughed. ‘You’re a bloody idiot, mate.’ But the weight of worry, of where they were and what they were doing, did not lift. He knew that in two seconds, one-two, they could disappear. ‘Just keep an eye out. And I bloody mean it.’
‘Ah, as good as gold now.’ Danny watched as the headlands drew level, as close to each other as they were going to get, the colours and textures of rock, sand, and scrub bright like wet paint on a just-finished canvas. ‘Mate, you’ve waltzed her out to beat the ba–’
The Camille jinked hard to port, as if she was a horse side-stepping a hole – then just as quickly straightened up, Farren not having to do anything. Or, at least, he didn’t think he’d done anything. His hands reverberated with fear, but the feel of the tiller, made of ironbark, held for years in his dad’s big hands, kept him steady.
‘Didn’t like that much,’ he said. ‘Still, we’re right.’
Ahead the Madonna-Theresa was etched clearly against the sky, her sails hollowed like empty shells. There was someone standing in the stern, he reckoned, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they were waving. And then, before he could ask Robbie to wave back, he felt the Camille’s rhythm alter, lengthening as she lifted over swells that were unchanged in size or shape by the outgoing tide or the ocean bottom. They’d made it.
‘Beautiful work, Farren.’ Danny hunched down against spray that was starting to fly. ‘Now let’s round ’em up!’
The Madonna-Theresa stood bow to the breeze, riding the swell like a rocking horse, her sails a wind-blown mane. In the stern Farren could see Souki jumping and waving, restricted somewhat by Jardy’s powerful hand.
‘Danny! Farren! Robbie!’ Her words arrived like a flight of ragged finches. ‘Whadda ya freggin’ doin’?’
Farren was too busy trying to work out how to bring the Camille up close to answer.
‘Good question,’ he muttered. ‘So, Danny, what have yer got in mind, since we’re here? I mean, how close to her do you want me to get? This is bloody dangerous, if you hadn’t noticed.’
Danny put a hand on Farren’s head, as if he was blessing him.
‘Go right in alongside, mate. Close as yer can.’ He grinned, Farren looking into his damaged face, seeing eyes flinty with humour. ‘I haven’t quite decided what I’m gunna do yet. But you’ll be the first to know when I do.’
Around them the dark miles of sea stretched away, the Camille a speck, the Madonna-Theresa hardly larger, but large enough to sink them if they got in under her stern.
‘This’s bloody mad,’ Farren said. ‘Just quietly.’
‘No,’ Robbie said from the bow. ‘This is fun. My mum’d be thinking that this is a terrific idea for a Sunday afternoon, if only she knew.’
‘She’s a smart woman, your mother.’ Danny nodded at Robbie. ‘God bless her.’
Farren had the leeward rail of Percy Bladin’s boat in his sights.
‘I’m goin’ in along her starboard side, Danny.’ Farren indicated his course. ‘So you just say what you’ve gotta say, then we’re out. Or we’ll get smashed.’
Danny’s smile sunk without a trace. With his good hand he got hold of Farren’s wrist.
‘Farren –’ Danny’s face, hard-set, still somehow remained soft. ‘I’m not sayin’ anythin’, mate. I’m goin’ onboard.’ His eyes simmered with the liquid intensity of burning oil. ‘I ’ave to. It’s me only hope. Otherwise I’ll never know and I’ll never make it. I ’ave ter go, Farren, but I’ll be back, mate. I promise. I’ll be back.’
A feeling of grief, re-awoken, wound itself around Farren like a cold bandage. Then it set to work weaving through his ribs, arriving at his heart.
‘You can’t go, Danny,’ he said. ‘You gotta stay. Here. With me. I need yer.’
But Danny, watching the Madonna-Theresa, didn’t hear.
‘Hello the Madonna!’ Danny waved. ‘Get ready, boys and girls! Ya gotta new crewman comin’ onboard!’
Farren managed to get the Camille in close enough to the plunging side of the larger yacht for Danny to step across, Nat and Perce hauling him unceremoniously into the small aft deck where he now stood at the rail, his face branded with pain.
‘Hey, Farren!’ Danny gripped the rail, leaning far over the falling sea. ‘You remember them bloody coins I left yer?’
Coins? The coins? Farren didn’t care about the coins. The coins were nothing but bloody money. Who cared about bloody coins?
‘Yeah.’ He could hardly raise his voice. ‘What about ’em?’
Danny shouted out a laugh. ‘Well, you know how I couldn’t remember where I found ’em?’ His words were like baited hooks on a flung line. ‘That’s because I never did find ’em in the first place! Bloody Jimmy the Scrounger did!’
‘What?’ Farren, for a moment, took his eyes off the stern of the bigger yacht that rose and fell like a dripping blade. ‘Jimmy did?’
Danny was smiling and nodding. ‘Yeah. Bloody oath. He give me a bucketful. And they’re all under the bloody doorstep. Dig ’em up, mate! They’re all yours. And most of ’em’s in pounds now. I sold a heap of ’em up in Melbourne when I was s’posed to be seein’ the quack! Good luck, feller!’ Danny waved, smiling. ‘I love yer, Farren! Yer the best bloody kid in the world! And I’ll be back, I promise. Cross me heart.’
Farren could only nod, unable to truly comprehend Danny’s story of a bucketful of coins. Gold? Coins? Bloody pounds, shillings, and pence? Who cared? It was only Danny’s leaving that he really cared about. How could he leave? Now, like this? After all that they’d been through?
‘I love yer, Danny,’ Farren said quietly, not having the energy to shout it. ‘See yer, mate.’ He waved dismally as Perce swung the wheel and the sails of the Madonna-Theresa slapped themselves awake, curved like the petals of flowers in full bloom.
‘Farren.’ Robbie moved as close to Farren as the jib sheet would allow. ‘Hey, Farry-boy.’ His voice cut through a serve of flying spray. ‘You ain’t alone, mate. We’re best mates and we always will be. You’ll be right. Chin up, sport. Chin up. On we go.’
FIFTY-SIX
In failing light, in a rising swell, Farren sailed the Camille up and down outside the Heads, waiting for the tide to turn. Desolation corroded his every thought as he watched the Madonna-Theresa close in on the horizon, balance there like a moth then disappear.
‘Bloody Danny-boy,’ he said, knowing he wasn’t angry with Danny, not really. It was loss and loneliness he was feeling, a whole world of it, too big, too cold, and too desolate for words. ‘Bloody Danny.’
To the west the sun sank into clouds the colour of wet bluestone and Farren knew that when the tide did turn, whether it was in darkness or light, they would have to sail in through the Rip. It would be dangerous and frightening but there was no choice. They could not stay out here all night. For one thing, they’d freeze to death, and for another, he didn’t fancy sailing for hours in blackness when any sort of weather might come up from the south.
‘Hey, ’Roon.’ Robbie pointed with a hand mottled with cold. ‘Behind ya, skip.’
F
arren turned, and saw with a rush of relief the Alexander Tobias, the sixty-foot cutter that ferried the sea pilots back and forth between ships and land confidently making for the Rip, her sails full-breasted with breeze. A smile pushed its way up into the stiff flesh of his cheeks. They could follow her in. They were on their way home.
‘Get ready to go about, Pricey.’ Farren felt his confidence return. ‘We just got lucky.’
The cutter sailed on up the bay, leaving the Camille behind in the blessedly rumpled water of her wake, Farren so grateful to the boat and her skipper that he wanted to heap praise on them both.
‘She’s bloody beautiful, that thing.’ He looked around, pleased with just about everything he saw. ‘No wonder she sails so good and –’ Then, where the cliffs shrugged off the dark mantle of scrub, where the pier advanced out over black water, he saw a girl. As slender and resolute as a reed, she stood at the rail, arms crossed, staring out to sea possessing a look of aloneness Farren could’ve picked from a mile away. ‘That’s Isla there, Robbie.’ He pointed. ‘There. See? Right at the end of the Lonny pier.’
Robbie, his collar pulled up against the wind, twisted to look.
‘I do b’lieve you are right, Faroon. In fact, I know you bloody are.’
‘We should shoot in then, eh?’ Farren was already calculating how he would do it and what side of the pier he’d come in on. ‘Give her a lift home. What d’you reckon? Wouldn’t be hard.’
‘Absolutely.’ Robbie squared his shoulders. ‘Let’s go. You and me and the bloody boat makes three. On yet another fine mission of mer-cy!’
Farren pushed the tiller, the boys ducked under the boom, and in moments the Camille was heading for the pier where Isla stood as if she was waiting for a ship, or a person, or a sign, or a star.
Black Water Page 24