To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  ‘A mongrel. A mate,’ his father said. He looked down and back up and maybe there was a softness in his eyes. ‘Come here.’ He held out an arm.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just come here, mate,’ his father said. His crippled hand outstretched.

  The boy walked forward and his father wrapped an arm around his shoulders and clapped him a few times on the arm. An awkward hug, both of them facing the car. ‘He was an old mate,’ his father said softly. ‘Gave him a call and asked him to bring some timber up here for us. And the cement mixer. Paid him, too. But they’re in the wrong spot.’ The boy still held, uncomfortable. ‘Our place is down there a bit.’ He pointed down the road and the boy saw a clearing that at first glance appeared less muddy. ‘So we, you and me, are gonna have to lug this damn wood and cement down the road by hand.’

  The boy was released. He went back to the Ford and scooped the puppy up. He said, turning back to his father, ‘Can’t we put the timber in the car?’

  The father shook his head. ‘We can carry the cement down in the boot but the timber won’t fit inside.’

  ‘We could tie it to the roof.’

  His father sighed, sucked his cheeks in. ‘Yeah, maybe. It might damage the paint, but yeah. It’ll be a bloody pain otherwise.’

  He tousled the boy’s hair. The boy shrugged off his father’s hand and stepped aside and said, ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lose your temper like that and act like it didn’t happen.’

  His father looked as though he might say something in his defence but instead he stopped and said, ‘Alright.’ The weight of this agreement seemed to strike him, but the boy remained unhopeful.

  They spent what remained of the afternoon loading the car with cement bags and driving them down the road to their actual home. The bags were heavy and the boy struggled with them mightily until he learned to drag them backwards and use his heels as leverage. In a possible act of atonement, his father helped him lift and did most of the work himself, not mentioning the boy’s lack of strength.

  The pile of timber was substantial and the boy realised, as he gazed upon it with the sun heading down over the trees, just how long it would take them to rectify Gus’s mistake. He felt an echo of anger similar to his father’s and shook his head in an effort to disperse it.

  The boy watched his father as he loaded wood onto the top of the car. His father turned and said, ‘Walk down, mate,’ and nodded his head. The boy picked up Albert and his box and the bag of pellets the lady had given them and walked to their new home. There he fed Albert some of the pellets, opening and shutting his fist on them as Albert dashed in and sat on his haunches and growled. The boy was used to the dog’s sharp teeth now and refused to strike him, even when he bit too hard. Then the boy sat down near the cement and turned and regarded his father from a distance.

  It was clear to him from his father’s movements that the man loathed his crippled hand. It had no power of its own and when his father had to manage a heavy load he would use his left hand to grip and his right hand would dangle strangely beneath, his forearm taking the brunt. Sometimes it would seem his father forgot he had fewer digits and the poor hand, the thumb and middle finger, the stump of the forefinger, would struggle to grasp until his father remembered and changed hands. The boy had never known his father without this injury. He carried the weight of it to himself as though it were an indictment on his character and his son wanted to tell him to relax, for goodness’ sake, nobody was watching, but knew that if he did he would hurt his father’s sense of himself and the insecurity wrapped up in that hand would only further tighten its hold.

  The father got into the car and, while securing the wood on the roof with his poor hand out the window, started it, put it in gear and rolled towards the boy. The wood swerved beneath the father’s useless grip. The car slowly drew to a stop by the boy and his father climbed out and the two of them lifted the planks of wood off the car roof and settled them in a new pile, next to the cement.

  The boy stood and surveyed their work and felt deep pride. Wiping his brow he said, ‘Where are we sleeping?’

  ‘In the car,’ his father said. He was breathing hard and held his poor hand with his other, massaging between the knuckles.

  The sun, almost down behind the trees, was losing its bright hold on the grey clouds above them.

  ‘Where’s the dog?’

  The boy pointed at the box at the side of the road.

  ‘I wouldn’t leave him out like that, mate,’ his father said. ‘He’s liable to run off. Puppies can jump, yeah? There’s no lid on that thing. You been checking on him?’

  The boy had not thought of this and grew afraid and ran to the box. Albert was still inside, asleep. ‘He’s fine,’ he said. ‘He’s sleeping.’

  ‘Good. Now. You want some dinner?’

  They opened the back door of the car. Inside, milk crates full of supplies were wedged between the front and back seats. The boy had not noticed them the length of their drive and as the crates were unpacked from the car he wondered what other secrets his father had hidden from him. There were cans of baked beans and spaghetti and glass jars of Vegemite. There was one loaf of bread and his father said as he regarded it, ‘We better eat this now, before it goes bad.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest store?’

  His father threw a can of baked beans in the air and stretched out his weaker hand to catch it. He missed, and it rolled beneath the car. He dropped to his belly and reached for it under the chassis, cursing. As he got to his feet and dusted off the can, he said, ‘Far enough away that I don’t want to drive there unless I have to.’

  His father found matches and newspaper at the bottom of a crate and, in the now almost perfect black, the two went hunting in the bushland for twigs and dry leaves to start a fire. Most of the stuff he found was wet or at the very least damp.

  ‘It’s no good, mate,’ his father said after a while, and spat. His hand rested on the hood of the car.

  ‘We can just eat the beans,’ the boy said.

  ‘I don’t want to have to pay for bloody firewood.’

  ‘There’ll be more in the day.’

  His father bit his lip and nodded. He bent down and rummaged through a milk crate and found a Stanley knife. He jabbed the knife blade into the lid of baked beans, stabbing it repeatedly around the rim until the can was opened. It reminded the boy of gutting an animal.

  ‘Come grab some bread,’ his father said.

  They dipped their bread into the mushy cold beans like biscuits into tea. They ate in silence, the soggy bread unpleasant, but the boy did not comment.

  When they’d finished eating, they changed into their pyjamas. It was difficult to find the button holes in the dark.

  His father hauled the food crates out of the car and stowed them in the boot, then lined the front and back seats with sheets. No pillows. His father scrunched up jackets on which they were to rest their heads. Then he lay down across the back seat and the boy across the front, Albert in his box near the brake pedal. The boy looked over and saw his father’s legs jutted up against the car window. As he watched, his father rolled onto his side and curled his legs up. The dirt on the boy’s skin made him doubt he would be able to find comfort, despite his father’s earnest attempt at bed-making. He thought of his old home, and struggled not to resent his father.

  FIVE

  1955

  The boy walked faster, anxious to get home. School had let out only minutes before. With his quickened step he’d halved his normal time, he was sure. His bag whumped against his lower back as he walked. He hiked the straps up with his thumbs, so it would sit a bit nicer. He rounded the corner to his home, the asphalt beside him stopping abruptly, turning into gravel. The cement footpath ended too. He didn’t mind. The dirt felt better beneath his shoes anyway.

  As he neared their home he saw his mother’s sunhat bobbing behind the kangaroo paws. She on her hands and knees, busy with the
dirt. The boy could hear her soft, happy grunting.

  He opened the gate. At this she turned and smiled.

  ‘Guess who’s home?’ she asked.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Go and see.’

  The boy looked at the doorway and did not move. ‘Won’t he be asleep, but?

  ‘That’s alright. He won’t mind. Go on,’ she said, and waved her hand at him.

  As he approached the front door she added, ‘Bring him back out with you soon, though. I have a surprise for you two and we need the daylight.’

  The boy nodded.

  At the front door, he took off his shoes so as to not muddy the carpet. The snoring from his parents’ bedroom distant and muffled. He placed his bag down carefully near the vestibule and took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at his mother, still outside, still gardening. He had to catch his breath.

  He opened the bedroom door. His father draped in sheets, one arm dangling from the bed, his lips pursed up inside his beard, probably drooling. As the boy watched he hefted in a breath; it sounded like a lawnmower turning over. The boy stepped forward and regarded the man. It had been so long since he had seen him. His face seemed different. More tanned and heavier.

  ‘Dad?’ the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The man in the bed didn’t move. He snored in again and coughed a bit, then opened his eyes and rolled over onto his back.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Sam?’ his father said. He sat up, tried to compose a smile, yawned instead. ‘Sorry, mate. Let me look at you. You alright?’

  ‘You’re home?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Yeah. Hopefully for a bit this time, eh?’ the man said. He was shirtless and the dark hair matting his chest made his tan seem darker. The boy looked at the stark white of his own arms in comparison. ‘You’re getting big, mate.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You playing footy?’

  The boy had stopped playing half a year ago. He had always been too anxious about not getting the ball, and more anxious about what he would do were he to get it. He hadn’t told his father.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What do you mean, not really? You’re big enough for it.’

  The boy looked at his feet and then at the lamp beside the bed.

  His father leaned forward and said, ‘Never mind, mate. Your mother tell you she has a surprise for us?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You doing alright at school?’

  The boy brightened. ‘I’ve been doing real good.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been doing good at spelling. You have to get up in front of the class and the teacher says a word and you have to spell it the fastest. And I’m really fast.’

  His father laughed and sat up so he could scuff the boy’s hair. The boy felt warmed by the touch, proud of himself for having impressed his father.

  ‘Let’s go outside, mate. See what craziness your mother has planned.’

  His father groaned up from the bed. From the floor he scooped up an old blue singlet with holes in it. As the two of them walked to the front door he pulled it on.

  The boy’s mother was still busy in the garden but she stopped when she heard the front door swing open.

  ‘You two ready?’

  ‘What’ve you got for us?’ his father asked.

  The boy stood in front of his father, his head up to the man’s belly. He felt both powerful and capable with his father at his back.

  His mother smiled. She had both hands on her hips. ‘Just you wait.’

  They drove. He sat in the back seat and listened to his mother and father talk. There was an aimlessness to their conversation he didn’t understand. His mother would bring up subjects and his father would nod and grunt and sometimes ask simple questions, but he never really responded, not really. Then, when there was a silence, his father would begin to speak about his own world, Tangalooma, about how well he was doing. The boy heard the word promotion and asked, ‘Does promotion mean you’ll be away more?’

  His father didn’t turn, but said, ‘No, mate. It means we’ll make more money. And it means I’m good at my job, which is important.’

  His mother added, ‘It means he’ll be the boss of a team of flensers. You know the principal at school? How he’s in charge of all the other teachers?’

  The boy nodded and said, ‘Promotion. Does it have an s and a h in it?’

  His father laughed. ‘Bright kid, this one, isn’t he love?’

  His mother nodded and laughed as well. In their laughter acceptance and validation. When he had played footy the other fathers had lined the sides of the field and shouted encouragement or abuse towards their own sons. That he had received neither had left him aimless. Now, with this deep acceptance, he knew he could do no wrong.

  ‘Just up here,’ his mother said, indicating.

  The father slowed the car to a stop by the side of the road. Next to them, beyond a barbed-wire fence, was a small hill.

  ‘What’re we stopping here for, Liz?’ his father asked.

  ‘Pop the boot.’

  ‘Why?’

  His mother was already climbing out. ‘Just pop the boot.’

  They climbed out, his father’s face a mixture of anxiety and amusement.

  In the boot, the boy saw two large objects draped in a blanket.

  ‘What’re those?’ he asked.

  ‘Pull the blanket off.’

  ‘What’re you up to, Liz?’

  The boy leaned in and pulled the blanket off. Beneath were two steel barrels lying on their sides, the remains of blue paint flaking from both.

  ‘What’re you up to?’ his father repeated. ‘What are those for?’

  ‘Right,’ his mother said. ‘Help me with them.’

  ‘What’re we doing?’

  ‘Just help me get ’em out.’

  They did so, his father hefting the main weight of them. He stood them next to the car and arched his back.

  ‘So,’ his mother said, ‘we’re going to put these over the fence and then you two are going to roll down this hill in ’em.’

  ‘We’re going to do what?’ his father said, and laughed.

  ‘Shut up,’ his mother said, smiling. ‘My dad did this with me when I was little. So now you’re each going to climb in one of these and roll down the hill here.’

  ‘Why in God’s name would we do that?’ his father asked.

  His mother looked down at the boy then, and met his eyes. Without turning to the boy’s father, she said to him, ‘Sam misses you when you’re away and I want you two to have something together.’

  ‘We’ll have bloody broken necks together,’ his father said.

  ‘Come off it,’ she said, turning finally. ‘It’s a short hill.’

  He looked up at his father, the underside of his beard. He felt braver than he ever remembered being. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said. ‘Come on, Dad.’

  Together the three of them lifted the barrels over the barbed wire. Then his father jumped over awkwardly, his fingers resting atop a wooden post. He levered open the barbed wire with his hands and feet so that the boy’s mother could climb through. He let them go, though, before the boy could follow suit. The boy stood on the wrong side of the fence and looked at his father, feeling rejected.

  ‘You climb over, mate. You’re not a bloody girl.’

  He looked at his mother, who only smiled and nodded at him. ‘Go on, Sam. You can do it.’

  The boy wobbled over the barbed wire, afraid he’d fall at the top. He managed to land clumsily on the grass, his elbow slapping into earth. He hurried after his parents, who had both walked on, rolling the barrels beside them.

  They came to the top of the hill. From here the descent seemed to the boy quite steep. Impulsively, he latched onto his father’s arm.

  His father said, with raised eyebrows, ‘You want us to roll down that?’

  His mother laughed. ‘It’s a bit higher than I’d th
ought it was.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘It’ll be right.’

  His father bent down then and regarded his son. ‘What do you reckon, mate?’

  Buoyed by the new courage his family had instilled in him, he said, ‘It’ll be good.’

  His father sighed, eyed the barrels. ‘Right. Alright.’

  His mother had in her hand a screwdriver, he saw now. She levered off the lids of the barrels with it, like they were giant tins of paint. They bounced onto the wet grass.

  ‘Are we going down together?’

  His mother nodded. ‘Yeah. You’ll be fine.’

  They pushed the barrels onto their sides and climbed in. The boy fit comfortably but his father’s upper body could not be squished in, despite his mother’s boots on his shoulders and his swearing. He waved her off eventually. There they were, the father and son, on top of the hill, enshrouded by metal.

  His father looked at him. ‘Just make sure you stay pressed into the sides.’

  ‘You won’t hit your face?’

  His father smiled. ‘I’ll see you at the bottom.’

  ‘You ready?’ his mother asked, her voice muffled through the metal.

  His father nodded. The boy copied him. He felt the urge to scurry from the drum but then they were rolling. He wedged his body against the metal and felt the earth beneath him fall and rise and all he had known washed away in the chaos of it. He just held on and prayed for relief. No way of seeing what was to come. He felt the drum hit something hard, maybe a rock. It bounced and he wedged his elbows and wrists into the steel until he felt he was a part of it.

  Soon the barrel slowed, then stopped. He crawled from its confines quickly, ears throbbing, head wobbly. He got to his feet then went down again, slopping into something wet, probably a cow pat. The world still spinning.

  The other drum was nearby and from it dangled his father’s body. The boy thought his father was probably dead, the way his form slumped against the earth, but, as his hearing returned, he realised his father was laughing. It was unstoppable, this laughter. The man was pushing against the barrel and laughing. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘give your old man a hand here.’