To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart.’ She sighed. ‘Just shaking away the bad memories.’

  ‘What bad memories?’

  ‘About something that happened when I was a kid.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Aunty Wendy’s new cow is birthing now and she’s struggling a bit. And one time, when I was a girl, we had a cow in trouble like that and your granddad had to shoot her. I keep remembering the way the cow looked at me, you know? Her face keeps popping into my mind – and I don’t like thinking about it, that’s all.’

  ‘And shaking your head makes the thoughts go away?’

  She smiled. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Why’d she call you?’

  ‘Aunty Wendy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think she just wanted somebody to be with her. Maybe I told her once about what happened when I was a girl.’

  ‘What are you going to do when we get there, Mum?’

  His mother gripped the wheel. ‘I don’t know. Bit of an adventure, hey, sweetheart?’

  ‘An adventure,’ he repeated. ‘Yeah, it is.’

  He sat in silence and watched the township pass by outside the window until they were driving through rolling greenery, cordoned off by barbed-wire fences.

  When they pulled into Wendy’s gravel driveway she was standing waiting on the verandah. She said, ‘Thanks so much,’ then led them through a gate at the side of the house. The boy found himself struggling to keep pace with the two women as they hurried across the small backyard, went through another gate, and came to a large shed stacked to the spilling with hay. A cow lay in front of it and its legs weren’t moving but as they drew closer the boy could hear it breathing heavily. It was swollen and its rear was sodden with something.

  ‘Oh, Wendy,’ his mother said. ‘She looks bad, honey.’ She shuffled to her knees near the head and looked into the cow’s eyes. The boy didn’t know what she thought she might see there.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ve been looking after her like Brett said, but I don’t know what’s gone wrong.’

  ‘You call the vet?’

  ‘He’s coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘He said when he could.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ his mother said. She shuffled on her knees to the rear of the cow and lifted the tail. She cupped her hand and reached down and grimaced. Aunty Wendy hugged the boy to her side as his mother inserted her hand into the cow. The boy wasn’t sure what to think but knew he felt like his mother was doing something dirty, and also knew she really wasn’t.

  ‘Come look,’ his mother said to Wendy, who released the boy and went to her.

  He also crept forward to stare.

  ‘She’s good and stuck in there,’ his mother said. Her hand went back into the cow and when she withdrew it the boy saw it was covered in a sticky white fluid like glue. ‘She’s stuck in there and she’s not moving at all when I’m grabbing her. She’d buck, or something normally, I think.’

  Wendy seemed to be crying. She nodded once and said, ‘You sure?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure. I’ve barely got a clue what I’m doing here.’

  ‘Is she suffering?’

  ‘The cow? Or the calf?’

  ‘Both.’

  His mother drew a breath and squinted at the newly risen sun. ‘I’d say the calf is dead, and the cow won’t be long after it.’ She stood, wiped her hand on her pants leg and looked at her son. ‘You alright, sweetheart?’

  The boy, who was feeling sick and ashamed without knowing why, nodded once. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Aunty Wendy’s cow has a baby inside her that she can’t push out,’ his mother explained gently.

  ‘The baby’s dead?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  The boy nodded and Wendy moved over to the head of the cow and stroked her snout. The cow groaned a bit and lifted her head. The boy looked into the eyes beneath the lashes and tried to imagine what his mother had seen.

  ‘I think we should shoot her, Wendy.’ His mother moved forward and put her clean hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘I think we gotta stop her suffering.’

  ‘We can’t pull the calf out?’

  ‘I think she’s gone further than that, honey.’

  Wendy stood, gave her friend a sad smile. ‘I thought so. Didn’t want to hear it, but that’s what I’d guessed.’

  ‘You want me to do it?’ his mother asked.

  Wendy looked at her cow, then nodded.

  ‘Where’s the gun?’

  Wendy pointed at the shed full of hay.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Daisy,’ Wendy said, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Tried another smile. ‘Stupid name, really.’

  ‘No. It’s a good one. She’s a good one. She tried, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. She tried.’

  His mother was speaking to her friend the way she spoke to the boy when he didn’t understand something.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ his mother said, turning to him. ‘Aunty Wendy’s going to take you back to her place while I look after Daisy here.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to shoot her.’

  ‘You’re going to kill her?’

  His mother nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s in a great deal of pain, and I want to put a stop to it.’

  ‘But then she’ll be dead.’

  ‘You understand what dead is?’

  ‘Yeah. She won’t be alive anymore.’

  ‘No. She won’t.’

  ‘So. That’s worse than pain. Isn’t it?’ He looked at Aunty Wendy desperately, but she refused to meet his eyes.

  ‘Well, she’ll be in heaven then. So she won’t feel any more pain.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Honey, can you just go with Aunty Wendy, please? I’ll explain it a bit better later.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, Mum.’

  ‘I know, honey.’

  His mother nodded at her friend, who put her hand between the boy’s shoulders and walked him from the paddock. He thought Aunty Wendy might say goodbye to the cow she seemed to love so much but she just kept on walking.

  She took the boy inside and they sat together in the living room, Aunty Wendy hugging her knees to her chest on the couch, the boy cross-legged in front of the fireplace. From outside there was the crack of a gunshot, louder than he’d expected, like some giant cannon. He pictured in his mind what the cow’s face might look like now after the shotgun and then shook his head to clear it of the thoughts. Wendy was quietly sobbing, still hugging her knees.

  When his mother returned from shooting the cow her face was grim and hard like he’d never seen it before. When she saw him, though, she forced a smile and bent down and spread her arms. The boy rushed into the hug and felt her warmth through her jacket and his itchy woollen cardigan. Wendy came to stand beside them, snuffling. His mother pulled her into the hug and Wendy bawled and said, ‘Shouldn’t’ve bloody bought the stupid thing.’

  ‘No, no,’ his mother said, one hand on the boy’s back, the other on her friend’s. ‘No.’

  ‘Did she suffer?’

  ‘No, she went quick,’ his mother said, and released the two of them. ‘Let me go and wash my hands.’ She walked into the laundry and the boy heard the sound of running water. His mother called out, ‘You’ll have to get that damn vet to take care of her body, yeah?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Wendy replied.

  His mother came back into the living room and said firmly, ‘I mean it, honey. You can’t go back out there, alright? You don’t want to look at her. Get the vet to do it.’

  Wendy nodded and said, ‘This how it was for you?’

  ‘Well, I was a bit younger.’ His mother smiled. ‘You reckon you could fix us a cuppa?’

  Wendy went obediently to the kitchen and
a few moments later the boy heard the normal sounds of a kettle being filled and a burner being lit.

  His mother fixed her eyes on his and said, ‘You understand about heaven?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, when somebody dies they go to heaven to be with Jesus.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s just the way it is, I guess.’

  ‘What’s heaven?’

  ‘You haven’t heard about it at Sunday school?’

  The boy thought, then nodded slowly. ‘Yeah, but I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Well,’ his mother said, ‘heaven is just the best place ever. Everybody is always happy in heaven.’

  The boy considered this for a moment. ‘So when you die you’ll go to heaven?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And me too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘We’ll all be there, sweetheart.’

  ‘But what if you die before me?’

  ‘Then I’ll see you when you get there.’

  His mother was smiling but the boy felt a tremendous fear as he tried to take in all she’d said.

  She hugged him again. ‘Come on, we should go look after Aunty Wendy a bit.’

  They went into the kitchen and sat at the table, and Wendy served his mother a cup of tea and put some biscuits before them on small flowered plates. They sat around the table eating and drinking in silence.

  The boy eventually spoke up. ‘You okay, Aunty Wendy?’

  She smiled. ‘I’m alright, Sam. Just a bit sad.’

  ‘Hey,’ his mother said, ‘you know what we should do?’ Grinning now, she slapped her hand down on the table and stood. ‘I know what we need to do. Come with me.’

  ‘What do we need to do?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Just something my dad showed me. Same thing he did when my old cow died.’

  Wendy and the boy followed his mother out the back door. She went into the garden shed and found a chisel in a toolbox draped in cobwebs. She then led them to the front garden and hefted a large charcoal-coloured stone from the border of the flowerbed. She kneeled down and, with a hammer and chisel, inscribed Daisy’s name on the stone. Then she lifted the stone onto a fence post and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘To remember her,’ she said.

  Wendy nodded and the boy looked at the stone and the name so roughly etched.

  When his mother walked away Wendy went with her, but the boy remained and ran his hand over the rock. He tried his best to remember the eyes of the cow but found in his conjuring no life there at all.

  SIXTEEN

  1961

  His mother’s gravesite looked the same as it had weeks ago. The earth he had shovelled still looked fresh on top and the headstone, now erected, looked just as newly hewn. His father stood to one side and allowed the boy his time.

  What worried the boy most was the thought of his mother’s body not yet decomposed. He wondered what she might look like with some of her skin no longer there. He also understood that this body in the grave was not his mother and that her spirit was elsewhere – in heaven, like she’d said – but found it difficult to reconcile the two strange pictures: the body decomposing and the heavenly creature. This idea too strange to fathom but also what must be. If his mother was not heaven-bound then there was only the rotting corpse beneath this mound of dirt. His luminous mother, with her gentle nature, could not be so decayed or destroyed. So surely her spirit was no longer confined to this earth. Surely this dead body with its almost-face was no longer her.

  Staring at the stone he wondered what he might say but could not muster words. So he did his best to capture the feeling he had and he held out his hands and laid them on the stone and cried for a short while. Then he wiped his eyes and walked back to his father.

  SEVENTEEN

  The night before they took the boat across to Tangalooma, the boy slept in Phil’s living room on a mattress on the floor.

  He slept fitfully and was already awake, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, when his father stumbled out from the spare bedroom.

  His father walked over to him, bent down and shook his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate. Get up.’

  The boy sat up, and immediately was struck by how cold it had become.

  ‘Grab your things,’ his father said. ‘You going to shower?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I’m going to.’

  The boy decided he would too. He cleaned his teeth looking in the frosted mirror and scratched a shape in the mist with his fingertips.

  When he was done he went to the kitchen where, around the mess of plants, his father had set two bowls of cornflakes and two glasses of orange juice. The boy drank the orange juice, forgetting he had just brushed his teeth, and almost gagged at the bitter taste. He forced it down anyway. He felt so sick after he could barely manage the cornflakes.

  His father put their car keys and the keys to the padlock of their shack in a bowl on the kitchen bench. As the two of them stepped outside, lugging suitcases, the boy stopped and vomited into one of the potted plants on the verandah.

  Phil, who was locking the door behind them, laughed aloud, but his father put a hand on his back and said, ‘You alright?’

  The boy nodded. Spat.

  ‘You don’t need to worry, you know? It’s not that hard. And today especially is easy.’ His father’s voice was warm and pleasant. ‘I’ll just introduce you to a few folks and we’ll find you a place to sleep and we’ll be all set. There’s nothing required of you. Not for a while.’

  The way his father’s moods swung from sympathetic to resentful, and the speed at which they did so, utterly confused the boy. Made him untethered to the world. Though his father’s heart was clearly in this speech, it did little to alleviate the boy’s deep fear. He was afraid that he would fail and that his poor performance would indicate that he was of little worth. He spat again into the dirt and the orange juice and cereal mixed with this brown made him want to keep throwing up, but he convinced himself not to.

  They bundled into Phil’s car, a black Holden, with their things piled in the back, and the boy whispered a prayer. Phil heard him, and laughed.

  ‘What’re you afraid of?’ Phil said as he started the car.

  The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘All blokes have to do something for a living. You can’t rely on this old man here to support you the rest of your life.’ He turned to the boy’s father. ‘You got what? Ten good years left in you?’ He grinned. ‘Twelve?’

  The boy, sitting behind his father, could not see the man’s expression, but he heard, ‘I reckon I got a few more than that.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Phil said as he manoeuvred the car up the driveway and onto the street. ‘I remember when I first went out there I was nervous. But it went fine. It’s not that hard, really. Your dad’s right. It’s not like plumbing or something. Any old bugger can do this.’

  ‘Then why don’t more people do it?’ the boy asked.

  Phil laughed, a sound the boy realised was native to the man. ‘The smell, mainly. Don’t know. It’s physically hard sometimes, I guess. Plus the blood. But it’s no worse than being a butcher.’

  The boy said nothing, but as the car stopped at a set of traffic lights Phil turned around and looked him up and down. The boy squirmed beneath his gaze. ‘You afraid you’re small like your old man? Don’t worry about that. This bloke here –’ and he clapped the boy’s father on the shoulder ‘– is one of the best I’ve ever seen. And he’s only got one good hand.’

  The boy could see his old man’s fist clenched by his side, between the car door and the seat.

  ‘You’ll be fine, mate,’ his father added.

  They drove across a bridge, the water below dark in the pre-dawn. There were other cars already on the road. Their headlights hurt the boy’s eyes, making him squint. The few skyscrapers in the city were almost completely devoid of light. A fe
w neon hotel signs stood out as they drove and the boy watched the barrier of the bridge flick past his eyes and become blurred. He did his best to lose focus.

  They drove alongside the river and eventually they came to a jetty, a boat bobbing beside it. They went a little further and parked the car. The boy mimicked the older men as they walked with their suitcases dangling over their shoulders, one hand securing it by the handle. The boy almost stumbled beneath the weight.

  They walked the short distance back to the boat. It was mostly white except for green splotches of mould near its base and blue trim along the edges. There was ample space at the rear for people to stand and there was shelter from rain and sun. Several men were already on board, and as the trio approached the boy could hear the low murmur of these men merging with the sound of the running motor.

  ‘Walter!’ said a man as they reached the side of the boat. He grinned at the boy’s father. ‘Bloody cold this morning, no?’

  His father nodded. ‘Rob. This is my son, Sam.’

  Rob laughed and extended a hand to haul the boy aboard. ‘Coming with us, are you?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  This made the man laugh mightily, and he was still laughing as he reached down to help the boy’s father and Phil aboard.

  Phil clapped the man in a bear hug and lifted him from the deck, jiggling him up and down as though emptying a sack. The man chortled and choked.

  There were other men on board whom the boy was introduced to with his father’s hand at the back of his neck. He stood then, uncertain, near the front and watched his father navigate conversations, then followed his father below deck to stow their suitcases.

  Back on deck, he watched as more men turned up in their cars. Rob seemed to know everybody’s name and story and greeted them all with the same warmth with which he’d greeted the boy. The boy felt at once welcomed and forgotten.

  Soon there were twenty men on board. Rob turned to the boy and said, ‘Hope you packed your balls, mate. It’s set to be a tough one,’ and grinned the worst grin the boy could imagine.