To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  They sat opposite one of the quiet men, who looked up and smiled. ‘Who’d you get stuck with?’ he asked.

  ‘Just me and him at the moment,’ his father said, nodding in the boy’s direction.

  ‘This your boy?’ the man asked. He was thin. The bags under his eyes suggested he’d had little sleep.

  ‘This is Sam.’

  The man laughed and extended a sauce-splattered hand over the table. ‘Aleks. It’s good to meet you.’

  The boy noticed a faint Norwegian accent in his speech.

  He said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ but the man had already turned back to the boy’s father.

  ‘You’ll get somebody in there with you tomorrow, though, yeah?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Can you believe it’s been a year already? I couldn’t believe it. My wife couldn’t, either. I looked at that calendar for a long while to be sure.’ Aleks turned back to Sam. ‘Why’s he here, then? Why are you here, my boy?’ He grinned, small flecks of tomato on his teeth.

  ‘He’s learning the trade,’ his father answered.

  ‘Ah. And you’ve checked with Melsom?’

  ‘No,’ his father said. ‘Not yet.’ He took some grated cheese from a bowl in the centre of the table and sprinkled it over his spaghetti. ‘You think he’ll mind?’

  ‘No. But you should ask. He won’t be paid, yes?’

  ‘I know.’

  Aleks turned to look at a man who had sat recently down beside him and then turned back to whisper to the two of them, ‘Didn’t think old Mick here would make it back, eh?’ He checked to ensure the man hadn’t heard him then added, ‘Bloody moaned near the whole season last year.’

  Aleks went back to his spaghetti. His bread roll was balanced carefully on the side of his plate and when he put spaghetti on his spoon he twirled it around with his fork instead of just scooping it up like the rest. The boy tried this method out himself and found it successful. The spaghetti was quite nice and so was the cheese, which was a type he had never tasted before. More nutty. It was the best meal he had eaten in months.

  His father said to Aleks, ‘Thought you’d be out this afternoon?’

  ‘No, my friend. Soon,’ he said and laughed. ‘You won’t see much of me again.’ He looked at the boy. ‘I don’t see what your dad does and he don’t see what I do. But we’re still friends. I know the boats, your dad knows the factory. He’s one of the few, though. Yes? We’d love it if it was only us –’ he waved his spaghettied fork ‘– doing all of it and making all the money.’

  ‘I know that,’ his father said.

  ‘We’d all be Norwegian here if there were enough of us. Oh, my boy …’ He clapped the boy on the back. ‘What a heaven. Not that we begrudge you lot your earnings. But what a heaven! Our food, our ways, our language. My boy! You should see it.’

  ‘But I’m Australian,’ the boy said.

  This made both older men laugh.

  Eventually the boy’s father said, ‘I’m lucky I get to flense.’

  Aleks swallowed his mouthful quickly so he might say, ‘You are good at your job. You have earned that position, my friend.’

  His father nodded and the mood lightened. The boy felt happier. The air of excitement in the room helped him to stop thinking of what must come.

  Soon a man stood up, waving his hands and yelling for attention. When this didn’t work he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. The men quietened. While many of the men were heavily bearded this man outdid them all. His beard was black, flecked with grey near his skin. His face looked taut and his eyes shone, and he had close-cropped hair. He looked stocky and fit, thick around the neck.

  ‘Welcome back, fellas!’ he said. He looked at them all in turn while they were silent and he let the silence grow until the boy was uncomfortable, and then the man’s eyes settled on him and he raised his brows in a question. The boy held his breath.

  But instead of asking it, the man just said, ‘Your shifts are posted, as per normal, on the noticeboard.’ He pointed. ‘So make sure you check it out and know where you’re supposed to be. Most of you know what we expect here by now, and if you’re new you’ll soon learn. How many of you are new here?’

  A few raised their hands, but not the boy.

  The man said, ‘Be on time, work hard. The harder we work the more money we make. Simple as that. We want that barrel bonus, so go at it.’

  As he spoke his eyes travelled over the group and the boy watched Phil, who leaned back in his chair with his arms folded.

  ‘Look after each other too,’ the man said. ‘What else did I have to say?’

  He scratched his beard and jutted his chin forward and another smaller man seated nearby stood and whispered something into his ear.

  The man’s face lit up and he said, ‘That’s right. Yeah. We had a small slump in how many we took towards the end of last season. I’m sure you all remember.’ Grumbles filled the hall. ‘So this season we’re trying out something new. You might have noticed these hard-looking blokes.’ His eyes scanned the crowd until he found who he was seeking. ‘Boys, stand up, please.’

  Four men at one table scraped their chairs back and stood. One bowed. All looked awkward.

  ‘These men are our new pilots,’ the man said. ‘We’ve got a small landing strip we’ve built north of here and these boys are going to fly out ahead of our boats and spot the whales and call ’em in. This’ll make it that bit easier to meet the quota. We’ll have met it before you know it.’ Murmurs among the men. ‘Anyway, boys, that’s it. Come see me if you want anything. Door’s always open.’

  The man sat without further ceremony and his audience did not speak for a moment, then the sound of voices rose again and the hall was soon returned to its previous mood.

  His father went to get dessert for himself and the boy. He came back with two bowls of a strange, wobbly trifle. The boy tried it and found the taste bitter. He pushed his bowl away and watched his father eat.

  The boy said, ‘Are we going to talk to Melsom?’

  His father swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Let me finish my meal.’

  When he was finished they emptied their scraps into a large plastic tub and put their cutlery in labelled grey buckets full of soapy water. They stacked their plates as the boy eyed the heavily bearded man, whom he assumed must be Melsom.

  The man was involved in an animated discussion as they approached, but as soon as he noticed the boy’s father his face lit up. He said, ‘Walter Keogh!’ and stood and enveloped his father in a hug.

  His father smiled, clearly both proud and embarrassed, and returned the man’s embrace awkwardly. ‘Sir. It’s good to see you.’

  ‘And I hear you’ve brought your son with you,’ Melsom said, smiling at the boy.

  The boy returned the smile and shyly extended his hand.

  The bigger man was slow to extend his own and he shook the boy’s as though he were weighing him up, taking the measure of his character. He didn’t squeeze the boy’s fingers but his grip was firm.

  ‘It’s good to meet you, sir,’ the boy said.

  ‘And how old are you, my boy?’

  His father answered, ‘Sam’s fifteen.’

  The boy felt rotten that his father had lied on his behalf, but he did not want to correct his father in front of this man he so clearly respected, so instead he smiled and nodded and did his best to hide his discomfort.

  Melsom released his hand finally and then looked at his own palms. This frightened the boy. If he judged the boy’s handshake inadequate, then what would become of them?

  Melsom said, ‘So you’ll be following your dad around then?’

  ‘Yes. Sir.’

  ‘You just do what you’re told and work hard and we’ll have a spot here for you, mate. We can always use good new blood. Just work hard, yeah? You had a job before?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the boy answered, before his father could lie. ‘Not really.’

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nbsp; Melsom laughed. ‘Well. Welcome, eh?’

  The boy was usually frightened of such expectations, sure he would fail to live up to it. But in this man’s grip and unwavering gaze, he found inspiration. His father might expect little of him, but this man expected that he would work. So that was what the boy would do.

  TWENTY

  After dinner they walked back in the new night and found their room unaltered. His father grunted at this and said, ‘Normally have another bloke in here by now.’

  His father showered again, despite having already done so, and the boy sat on the edge of his father’s bed. He eyed the other bed covetously and hoped that nobody else would show up so that he might sleep there. Outside, he could hear other men walking along the verandah to their own rooms.

  His father came out of the bathroom wearing tan shorts and a white t-shirt. There was coarse black hair coating his arms and through the thin white cotton stretched across his chest the boy could see the matted black beneath. On the back of his neck, too. He sat next to his son on the bed and yanked on his thick woollen socks with difficulty and pulled them up his shins. Then he put on his heavy gumboots. He stopped once they were on and looked at his son’s footwear, still near the door.

  ‘Should’ve thought about it, hey, mate?’

  The boy looked down at his feet. ‘Will I be alright?’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I don’t need gumboots?’

  ‘You won’t be handling the flensers, so no. But for next time we’ll make sure we buy you some,’ he said. ‘What did you think of what Melsom said?’

  ‘About me working here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  His father stood and said, ‘It might be a good opportunity. Did you read the posted shift we got?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘The men work two twelve-hour shifts here. We’ve scored the worst of it to start with. Midnight to midday. The other blokes will come on when we finish. It’s a hell of a slog.’ He crouched over his suitcase and rummaged through it till he found a leather belt. He looped it through his shorts then positioned a black holster on his left side. In it was a knife with a wooden handle. The father removed the knife from the holster and laid it on the bed with something like reverence, and then went back to the suitcase and removed a black velvet stone from one of the front pockets. He threw it to the boy.

  ‘That’s a whetstone.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ the boy said.

  ‘You know how to use it?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, sharpen my knife for me.’

  The boy rose and went into the bathroom. The mirror was still steamed up from his father’s shower. The boy stood before the mirror and wiped it with his hand. He looked at himself. He didn’t measure up to the other men in any way. He was scrawny up top and there was no hair on his face. There were a few pimples on his chin. He turned the faucet on and wet the stone, then went back into the room and took his father’s knife from the bed. Under his father’s gaze, he scraped the blade across the stone.

  When he was finished he showed the knife to his father, who nodded once – his only expression of satisfaction – then took the knife and returned it to the holster.

  The boy tried to hand the whetstone back, but his father shook his head. ‘You look after that, mate. That’s your first job.’ Then he added, ‘Go on. Get ready.’

  ‘I thought we weren’t starting till midnight?’ The boy looked at the clock near the bathroom. ‘It’s only ten.’

  ‘I like to get there early the first night. Make sure my flenser is sharp.’ He laughed. ‘You’ve never flensed a whale till you do one with a blunt bloody knife. I should choose a blunt one for you to start with. Get you used to things.’ His father grinned. Then he saw his son’s expression. ‘Don’t look so worried, mate. You aren’t starting tonight. But you will soon, yeah? Stay close to me, do as I say. It’s just like any other job, really.’ His father was lecturing now. ‘I always get there early. I’m the leader of this team. If you want to lead men, you gotta get there first and do things by example. You want ’em keen, you show ’em you’re keen first.’

  His father put on a sheepskin jacket and shrugged it up so it covered his neck and put his hands in the pockets.

  ‘What do I need?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Wear what I’m wearing. You got a belt on?’

  ‘A belt?’

  ‘What did I say?’

  The boy found his leather belt in his suitcase and quickly slipped it through the belt loops of his shorts. He still felt ill-prepared. His shorts now felt much too tight, the waistband squeezing his stomach. His leather shoes felt stupid. He sat on the bed and looked up at his father. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘Experience. What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, what if I can’t do it?’

  ‘You’ll be fine, mate.’ His father sighed and frowned. ‘I don’t know why you worry so much.’

  ‘But what if I’m not fine?’

  ‘It takes weeks to learn how to do it well. You just gotta keep at it.’

  ‘But what if even then I’m no good?’

  His father took a breath and raised a hand as if he might place it on his son’s knee. Instead he dropped it to his side and said, ‘What are you worried about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If you don’t know, why are you worried?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘When I was in New Guinea,’ his father said, ‘we had a bloke with us and he was always doing what you’re doing now. Expecting the worst and always worrying. A glass half empty kind of guy. You heard that expression?’ The boy nodded. ‘And he was always making mistakes because of it. He was so focused on what might go wrong he forgot to concentrate on what he was actually doing. So I don’t want you worrying when we get on deck. Okay? I want you just to watch me and do what I ask. You’ll do fine. Alright?’

  The boy nodded and his father stood in front of him and lifted him off the bed by his underarms as though he were an infant. Then his father straightened his shirt and adjusted his belt. Small gestures that made the boy feel loved.

  When the father was satisfied with the boy’s appearance they left the room together and walked along the wooden verandah, down the steps and onto the muddy path that led to the factory floor.

  TWENTY-ONE

  As they made their way up the stairs towards the flensing deck, the boy tried to look into the room beneath, but there were no windows, just the sounds of machinery and men’s muffled shouting through the walls. At the top of the stairs was a small iron gate and his father opened it and ushered the boy through. There were men swarming over the wooden deck already, wearing clothing similar to his father’s. A few of them looked up and smiled at the new arrivals before turning back to whatever it was that kept them busy.

  There were more buildings adjacent to the deck and their rusted iron roofs extended from beneath the boy’s feet, bristling with antennas. The deck itself was around one-third the length of a footy oval and about half that width-wise. Barrels and ropes and other items lined the edge. As the boy watched, a heavyset man bent down and picked up a coiled rope and slung it over his shoulder. As he moved towards the stairs they’d just walked up, he gave the boy’s father a small nod of recognition.

  The floor beneath the boy’s leather shoes was panelled wood. The boy bounced a little to test that it could hold his weight and then he stopped and looked about. The panels held whales, of course they’d hold him, and he had just looked stupid in front of these men. Two of them smiled at him but kept about their work. The others did not turn.

  Two men came over to shake his father’s hand and the three of them began to talk, the boy silent beside them. His father made no move to introduce him, so he walked away to look at the ramp. The ramp’s wood gleamed wet beneath the huge lights shining down from above. The timber
was much rougher than the panelled flooring, as though trees had been arbitrarily chosen and laid side by side in whichever order they’d arrived. It looked like his boat. The boy smiled and breathed in the ocean. There were several large winches at the rear of the deck. A strange tower too, to his left, made of dull red iron. He heard the two men laugh and his father join in.

  The boy walked to the left side of the deck. Another winch near his feet. A hole in the floor. He stuck his head through. There were boilers and black barrels and men hard at work. A dulled saw towards the rear. He could see the men’s shapes as they moved, reflected in the polished metal. The teeth were large. Ready to sever a car. The smell of burnt sausages. The boy stood and breathed salty air and looked around for his father.

  His father was bent down and had in his hands a long pole with a curved blade at the end, like a sickle. The wooden pole was as tall as the boy. His father held it upright and motioned for the whetstone, which the boy placed in his hand. His father sharpened the blade with methodical care. This blade had probably cut the flesh of a thousand whales. His father looked with pride at the blade and smiled as he sharpened it.

  ‘You gotta sharpen these,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘You gotta be able to cut clean in with it. Very important tool, this whetstone. Don’t lose it.’

  He handed the stone back to the boy, who pocketed it. The boy kicked at the deck and looked at the busy men. ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘We’ll just get used to where we are a bit.’

  ‘I mean, when will the whales get here?’

  ‘They’ll get here when they get here.’

  ‘And what should I do?’

  ‘Just watch, mate. Take it easy. We’re going to be here twelve hours. All night. You’re going to be exhausted. You need a break, you take one. You remember where the coffee was in the mess hall?’