Isla, in a black dress and black gloves, sat between Farren and Robbie, a shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. Like the boys, if she wasn’t shivering continuously she certainly shook with every wind gust that cuffed the boat.
Farren had told her that Danny had gone with Jardy and Souki, but didn’t have the energy to fully explain.
‘He said he’d come back.’ He had to tell her this, to make it clear that Danny had not deserted him. ‘He promised.’
Isla nodded and Farren knew that she had understood. And when he had more energy, and when the time was right, he would tell her about the coins and the money, and he would give her some, whatever she needed. But that time wasn’t now.
Now, sailing for home, the cold settling amongst them with companionable determination, there was little to say. The waves, small and friendly, tagged the Camille then ran on as if to show her the way and the wind, its power blocked by the sea cliffs, pushed them along like a giant’s hand on the back of a child on a bike. Ahead, Farren could see the sparse speckle of Queenscliff’s lights, the familiar outline of one of her grand hotels, and the black shapes of her tall, attendant trees.
With sudden urgency Robbie leant towards Isla.
‘Julian’ll get home,’ he said loudly. ‘And my old man, too.’ Robbie talked as if he could not stop. ‘And the bloody Clouty boys. And Neddy Craven. And Danny.’ He nodded, as if willing what he was saying to be true. ‘The whole lot of them, I reckon. They’ll all come back.’
Isla drew her shawl in close around her, her gloved hands clasped like an ornate ebony brooch. She smiled fractionally, Farren seeing something sadder there and infinitely more truthful than hope.
‘Weh, some-un will,’ she said, in her low sing-song voice that he’d always found so haunting and lovely. ‘An we be ’ere waiting.’
Black Water Page 25