To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  In the shelter, the father was just as the boy had pictured him, lying on his mattress with the plans in his hand and an oil lantern beside him licking him in honey, illuminating the pages.

  The boy had noticed there was no fire for dinner outside and so he said, ‘No fire?’

  His father didn’t turn. ‘What’s it look like?’

  The boy set to it and built a fire, which was difficult in the dark, and boiled two billies full of water. They had finished the last of the water in the old oil barrel the day before so had taken to collecting water from a nearby river. They only drank it after they had boiled it well. He wrapped three potatoes in tin foil and threw them in the embers and on his knees chopped up some ham on an old plastic cutting board. He also cut some slices of cheese.

  When he returned to the shack his father had not moved.

  The boy served the baked potatoes to his father on a tin plate. His father barely acknowledged him at all and ate the crumbly spuds with his fingers.

  ‘Only a few more days till we leave,’ the boy observed. In the absence of conversation, he had started asking questions. They were rarely answered to his satisfaction.

  A grunt. ‘I know.’

  ‘Is there anything else we need to do?’

  His father sighed. Said, ‘You sound like your mother when you talk like that. Bloody nag that woman, sometimes.’ He seemed to catch himself then because he looked aside and said no more.

  The comment brought tears to the boy’s eyes. He blinked them away as he thought of her and said nothing in response, just concentrated on his baked potato. Once he was done he headed outside to play with Albert in the dark. He had been using a piece of old rope he had found in the boot to play tug-of-war. He picked up the rope now and immediately the hound was upon him, growling his puppy growl.

  The boy kept looking back at the shack with its flickering internal glow and waited to see his father’s shape materialise in the doorway. But it never did and inside all was silent save for the sputtering of the lamp and the occasional rustle of the paper.

  Later, the boy on his knees looking after Albert, who had run off with the rope, he was startled to hear his father’s voice behind him ‘How’s his training coming on?’ There was a slur to his words and a wobble in his step and his clawed hand grasped at nothing as though to steady him. The boy knew he had downed too many beers.

  The boy said, without looking at his father, ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Can he guard this place yet?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well,’ the boy said, measuring his words, unsure of what argument he was being drawn into, ‘he’s still a puppy. He doesn’t know.’

  ‘He can keep possums out, though, yeah? So the place isn’t covered in their filth when we get back? That’d be good.’ He wobbled forward then steadied himself. ‘They’d get into all of it. He growls at possums at least, yeah?’

  The boy walked over to the dog and picked him up. ‘We can’t leave him here. Who’ll feed him?’

  ‘He gets at the possums, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s ever seen one.’

  ‘We can fix that,’ his father said, and snatched the puppy from the boy’s arms and carried him to the nearest tree. So dark it was hard to see. The boy held a torch and aimed it at his father’s eyes in an effort to distract him but it did nothing except lengthen his stride. As they neared the tree the father threw Albert towards it and said, ‘Get to sitting there, dog.’

  Albert’s head cracked against the trunk and he whimpered then staggered off into the bush as though drunk like his abuser.

  ‘Dad!’ the boy said.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ the father said, lurching. He steadied himself against a tree trunk with his poor hand but slipped so that he was leaning against it for support.

  ‘Go back inside, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  They stared at each other. His father breathed heavily. His whole body shook with effort.

  The boy peered after Albert, who was now engulfed in bush and darkness.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t do this anymore,’ the boy said.

  His father laughed. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get angry. Get drunk.’

  Another laugh, an angry one. ‘You are your bloody mother! I’m not drunk, for God’s sake. I’ve had a few, that’s all.’ He tried to push himself off the tree trunk. ‘The dog’ll be fine. He will. Toughen up, mate.’

  His father stood with his head lowered for a moment, maybe an apology in his posture. Then he walked back to the shack.

  The boy could still feel the thud of his heart as he set to finding the dog, shining his torch at the base of the trees. ‘Albert?’ the boy called. He remained motionless and listened to the sounds of the bush but there was no answering bark.

  The boy walked in the direction the puppy had scampered, pushing through jungle and stumbling over roots, the torch beam the only illumination. He couldn’t see the moon or the sky through the leaves overhead.

  After around an hour of searching he found Albert near a tree, shivering with cold or fear. The puppy’s heart beating through its skin. The boy held him tight to his chest and then tucked him inside his shirt and whispered to the pup that the world was alright. The pup clawed and scratched at his skin, clearly panicked. The boy tried to soothe him with further soft words but the puppy strained so hard against the shirt that the fabric began to tear, so the boy took him out and the puppy struggled out of the boy’s grip and landed hard on the earth. The puppy cried and dashed away with his tail tucked in and his ears down, a slight limp in his stride. The boy crooned and cajoled, creeping forward with his hands out. Stroked him a little before scooping him up again.

  They walked back to the shack, two hurt and bewildered souls. His father’s snoring bounced through the thin tin of their shack and the boy sat down beside the fire and offered the puppy some discarded ham rinds, which he devoured quickly. The boy eyed the car, contemplating taking the keys which were on the seat and putting them in the ignition and gunning it, with Albert beside him, to his grandparents’ house – though he’d have to learn how to drive first. His father was so drunk he would probably sleep through the noise. He would explain to his grandparents what his father had done and beg for sanctuary for himself and the puppy. Then they’d sit around the table and eat bad scrambled eggs and drink cups of tea. The boy could sleep in his mother’s old bed and look at photos of her and forget about this father of his.

  The boy sighed and tied Albert to the tree and put the rest of the baked potato beside him. He tiptoed into the shack, changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. The corrugated iron above him wobbled in the slight breeze.

  FOURTEEN

  A few days later they packed their things into the car in the morning and ate breakfast. The boy dripped runny egg onto his shirt and looked at his father. His father glared, said nothing. The boy changed into a different shirt, which caused them a short delay. His father fidgety as they finished packing. The day before he had fashioned a type of door for their shack. No hinges. More of a barricade. It just stood in spot and shifted when you carried it or pushed it over. He used chains to lash it to the structure. There was a lock on the chain, though it looked weak and rusted through, flaky dust coating the metal. As they drove away they both looked back at their new home, the old barrels next to the tin, the wheelbarrow upside down in case it rained.

  ‘What do you think?’ his father asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About our stuff being safe.’

  They went up the pebbly incline down which Albert had barrelled. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think it’ll be alright.’

  ‘Alright,’ the boy said.

  ‘Shouldn’t worry about it, anyway.’ His father sounding insecure. ‘Why I got the dog, you know? Hoping he’d do it. Take care of our things.’

  The boy said nothing to this but resolved ag
ain in his heart to never let this be. They reached the dirt road and soon the dirt beneath them turned to blurred asphalt. His father sped. The boy kept a subtle eye on the odometer, worried that his father’s nervousness would turn into reckless driving, and petted Albert, who was resting on his lap.

  An hour and a half later they arrived at his grandparents’ home. The boy was so excited to see them he jumped from the car before it had stopped moving. His granddad stood in the doorway with a large smile on his face.

  He said, ‘It’s good to see you again, bud.’ Shaking the boy’s hand warmly.

  His granddad’s eyes flicked up to the man who approached behind the boy, carrying Albert under his arm. The boy was quick to rescue the puppy and held him out for his granddad to see.

  ‘Who do we have here?’

  ‘Albert,’ the boy said.

  His granddad smiled. ‘Why Albert?’

  ‘Sounds like a dog’s name.’

  ‘You know my dad’s name was Albert?’

  The boy looked at his father and then back to his granddad. ‘No, Granddad.’

  His granddad gave the dog a firm pat and the dog’s head bowed beneath it. His granddad looked up at the boy’s father and said, ‘We tried calling.’

  ‘We’re not living there anymore, Charles.’

  ‘Then why did you say that was where you were heading?’

  ‘You don’t have to know everything we do.’

  ‘He’s our grandson.’

  ‘I just wanted a bit of peace, mate,’ his father said. Both men’s voices had remained monotone and steady, but now his father raised his as he added, ‘Alright? I didn’t want to talk to anybody for a while.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I should’ve let you know, though. Not sure I’m making great decisions at the moment. Bit hard with Liz gone, you know?’

  His granddad only nodded at this admission and patted the puppy again. Then he stood and allowed them entry into the house after they had removed their shoes. He stopped the boy, though, as he took a step.

  ‘You’ll have to tie Albert up outside, mate. Sorry. He can’t come in. He’ll make a mess,’ his granddad said.

  The boy carried Albert outside and tied him to an empty hose reel, telling him that he would only be a little while.

  Inside, he found his father and grandparents seated at the round table in the kitchen. They weren’t speaking. At the sight of the boy his grandmother beamed and rose from her chair. She walked over to him and cupped his cheeks in her weathered hands and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘Oh my boy,’ she said, and it sounded as though she had been crying. She held him tight, shaking a little. The boy returned her hold. She stepped back and, looking into his eyes, said, ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t say goodbye to you properly when I saw you last, sweetheart. It’s been weighing on me. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.’ She enveloped him again in her squishy arms and he struggled for breath. She let him go, her hand resting awkwardly on his arm.

  His father eyed them both without expression.

  ‘You want a tea?’ his grandmother asked, moving to the kettle, as the boy took his place at the table.

  ‘No, thanks,’ his father said. ‘We have to keep moving. We’re heading to Kangaroo Point.’

  ‘Oh?’ his grandmother said. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We’re staying with a mate,’ his father said.

  ‘And where are you two calling home now?’ she asked. She was readying three cups of tea, despite his father’s refusal.

  ‘We’re building a house up near the water.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  His father looked down and leaned back on his chair, the two front legs airborne, something the boy knew his granddad hated. The vinyl squeaked. ‘Just thought we needed a bit of a fresh start, you know?’

  ‘Things at home remind you a bit too much of her, eh?’ his granddad said. This was said without sarcasm, with a depth of feeling that told of the man’s own sadness. He went on, ‘I actually threw a few photos of her out before I realised what I was doing. Had to scoop ’em out of the bin.’

  The orange kettle was placed on the stovetop and his grandmother fiddled with the burner for a bit before sitting down. She said, ‘And why are you staying with this friend of yours?’ Her tone was affable, but the boy could see that her mouth was tight.

  His father said, ‘Just for fun.’

  ‘Just for fun?’ his grandmother repeated.

  His father shrugged. ‘We’ll go fishing or something. We’re right near the water up there. Maybe we’ll go out on Phil’s boat, right, mate?’

  The boy nodded and then remembered his manners. ‘Maybe. Yeah.’

  His grandmother cleared her throat. ‘Why have you stopped by then?’

  It sounded like an accusation. There was a strain between his mother’s parents and his dad that the boy had never noticed before. Now he understood that this had always been the case, that what he had taken for affection had in fact been a façade.

  ‘We just thought we’d pop in on our way,’ his father said. He looked at the boy’s granddad and said, ‘Told you we’d visit.’ He tipped the chair forward again. ‘Plus we wanted to see if you wouldn’t mind looking after the dog.’

  ‘The dog?’ his grandmother asked.

  ‘They have a dog now,’ his granddad explained.

  ‘His name’s Albert,’ the boy added.

  The kettle started to whistle and steam billowed from its spout. His grandmother removed it from the stovetop and filled the cups. ‘For how long?’

  ‘A few weeks.’

  She carried the cups to the table, taking care to turn the handles towards the men. The third cup was for herself. As she sat she said, ‘And why can’t you keep him? You bought him.’

  ‘You don’t have to take him, yeah? We’ll take him.’ His father rubbed the back of his head and muttered, ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Mind your mouth,’ his granddad said softly.

  Silence for a bit. Then his father said, ‘Sorry.’

  His grandmother nodded at this but did not look appeased. She turned to the boy and smiled then looked back at his father. ‘So why can’t you keep him?’ she repeated.

  He sipped at the tea. ‘We don’t know how long we’ll be staying with Phil. And he has no fence. Nowhere to keep him, unfortunately.’

  ‘Isn’t it whaling season shortly?’ his grandmother asked.

  ‘Not for a few more weeks this year.’

  ‘And what are you going to do with Sam for those few weeks? Do you want us to mind him for a bit?’

  ‘No thanks,’ his father said curtly. ‘He’s staying with a school mate. He’ll be alright. He needs to go to school.’

  The boy wanted to tell his grandparents his father was lying, that his father was taking him to Tangalooma and that he was scared. But he knew if he did not go then he would forever feel a coward. So, ignoring the tightness in his gut, he said nothing.

  There was a silence. Finally, his granddad said, ‘We can mind the dog. But you better come back for him.’

  ‘What else would we do? He’s our dog.’

  The boy said, ‘We wouldn’t leave Albert behind forever. Plus, I’m coming back to visit at Christmas.’

  ‘I mean come get him before Christmas, yeah?’ his granddad said. ‘I didn’t sign up for a dog. Don’t know why you bought him, Walter, with you out whaling every season. Hard to keep a dog.’

  ‘I bought him for Sam,’ his father said softly. Though the boy knew this was another lie, he saw how his granddad’s expression softened. His father added, ‘And we’ll have a place next time. The dog’ll stay with people.’

  Soon the four of them headed outside so the boy and his father might say goodbye to Albert. Albert seemed to understand they were leaving and whimpered and strained at his leash. The boy felt afraid for the dog’s neck.

  ‘It’s okay, Albert,’ the boy said. He felt overwhelmed by sadness.
The puppy had been his one source of comfort during this whole ordeal; to be separated now was cruel. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t want to look weak in front of his father and granddad.

  His father walked over to the pup and sat down cross-legged on the concrete. The dog jumped eagerly into his lap and his father petted him gently. He said soothingly, ‘It’s alright, mate.’ The boy wondered where this benevolence had been the last few weeks. Seeing his kindness to Albert now made him inclined to forgive his father for his lack of care, his violent temper, but then he remembered their shack in the wilderness, the sound of Albert’s skull colliding with the tree.

  His father petted the dog until he was calm and then stood to leave. The puppy whimpered as they walked away.

  FIFTEEN

  1956

  His mother put her hand on his shoulder and shook him awake. He was instantly wide-eyed and terrified, staring at the formless shadow, fearing monsters and claws, until in the early light the shadow assumed the shape of his mother, and he was able to breathe normally again. He was fairly certain she was smiling.

  ‘Gotta get up, matey,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ he said. He blinked. ‘Why?’

  His mother had already moved to his wardrobe and found some clothes for him.

  ‘We gotta go help Aunty Wendy with her new cow.’

  ‘Why?’

  She helped him dress, tugging on his pants, the ones he’d normally wear outside in the wet. Instead of taking off his pyjama shirt she put a woollen cardigan, knitted by his grandmother for Christmas, over the top.

  ‘Because she asked,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just because, I guess. I don’t know.’ She kissed him on the forehead and rose, saying, ‘Grab your boots.’

  Outside, dawn was breaking through the trees. The boy followed his mother out to the old station wagon. She started the car and let it idle a bit, rubbing her hands together in front of her face and breathing into them for warmth. She was wearing a maroon woollen beanie.

  As they were driving to Wendy’s property, he noticed that his mother was shaking her head as though she were warding off bees.