by Ben Hobson
‘Dad?’ The boy was still crying. ‘Dad, look.’
‘What is it?’ His father sat up, grunted. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Dad, I ran into some bushes on my bike.’
‘Ah, mate,’ his dad said, and swivelled to a sitting position. ‘Let me look.’ He reached over to turn on the lamp so he could see better. He held the boy’s arm tenderly. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I know it hurts, but it’s okay, alright? It’s just going to sting a bit and then it’ll cool down.’
‘Dad, it hurts.’
‘I know, mate. I know.’ His father rubbed the boy’s head. ‘Alright, come with me.’
Still in his pyjamas, his father ushered the boy down the hallway and into the bathroom. His father helped him to take his clothes off a bit and then went down the hall to the kitchen as the boy stood there in terror, checking his body. The fiery rash had spread up his legs and came near his private parts. It was under his arms, too. When he looked in the mirror he saw his eyes were surrounded by it.
His father returned, carrying a jug of milk, the liquid sloshing over the sides.
‘Dad, that’s milk,’ the boy said.
‘I know, mate. Get in the tub.’
The boy obediently climbed in and sat down and his dad poured the freezing milk over him. He shut his eyes and felt it slither down his back and pool beneath him.
‘Rub it all over, bud. Where’s it really stinging?’
‘On my hands and arms and eyes.’
‘Alright. Well don’t rub your eyes. But put your arms and hands in it a bit. Here.’ His father scooped up some of the milk in his own hands and then cupped them against the boy’s eyes. ‘Blink your eyes in it, if you can.’
The boy did what he was told and felt the stinging subside.
‘You feel any better?’
The boy nodded. ‘Mmm. Yes.’
‘All better?’
‘I think so.’
‘Alright, bud. You just sit there for a bit. I’ll leave the milk.’
‘Wait,’ the boy said, and scrambled onto his knees. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just going to call your mum and let her know what happened.’
The boy nodded.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, okay?’
He nodded again and then his father was gone.
The boy splashed the milk all over himself and heard the sound of muffled speech coming from the hallway. His father’s voice grew heavy, quiet, then loud. The boy couldn’t understand what he was saying. Then he saw his father storm past the bathroom door – heading back to the bedroom, the boy assumed.
His mother soon returned. By this time the sting had gone and the boy had calmed down entirely. She flung open the front door and the boy could hear her running to the bathroom. She wrapped her arms around him, not even caring about the milk.
‘Sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. Let me look.’
‘I think I’m okay, Mum.’
She examined his rash on his arms, near his privates, around his eyes.
‘Does it hurt? Does it still hurt?’
‘It’s okay, Mum. The milk made it better.’
She turned to yell down the hallway, ‘And what were you bloody doing letting him go out riding his bike on his own?’
‘I was asleep,’ his father shouted from somewhere. ‘Alright? He’s fine.’
‘He’s not fine!’
‘It’s probably just a stinging nettle. It’ll fade,’ his father said, appearing in the doorway. ‘He’s alright. You’re alright, aren’t you, mate?’
The boy nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘We need to take him to the doctor’s.’
‘Come on, Liz.’
‘I can’t leave him alone with you for one bloody morning,’ she said, almost to herself. She smiled at her son. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll go see Dr Richards.’
‘Dad didn’t let me go riding, Mum. I just went for a ride down to see the bridge.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’
‘He shouldn’t get in trouble, though, Mum.’
The boy looked at his father, who was leaning against the doorframe with his hairy arms crossed. His father smiled a little and said, ‘Your mum’s just worried about you, mate, that’s all.’
‘But you didn’t let me go riding. I just went and I didn’t even ask. I’m sorry.’ He looked at his mum. ‘I’m sorry.’ And the tears started again.
‘Ssh,’ his mother said. ‘Honey, you’re okay. You did nothing wrong.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t’ve gone off riding without asking, right?’ his father said. The boy looked and saw his father’s face wide with a grin. ‘But I guess we know for next time now, hey, mate?’
The boy was swept from the tub in his mother’s arms and so did not see the look she gave his father, though he imagined there was one.
They went into his bedroom, where he was towelled dry and then dressed, then they hurried out to the car. As his mother pulled out of the driveway, the boy looked back to see his father watching from the front door, his arms still crossed.
TWENTY-SIX
1961
In the early dawn the sun suffused the dark about it with its seeping gold. The boy, on the hose, squinted down. There had been more whales this night than the one prior. More teams and new faces the boy did not know. Another man, not Brian, beside the boy, also hosing, unhappy with his lot. The man from their room was in a team of his own working across the deck. The boy was yet to meet him or learn his name. Strange to think this man had slept right near him.
The dinghy with two men aboard and whale lashed to it approached and another man ran out and hooked the chain around the whale’s tail. The whale bobbed free from the dinghy and then, without shark intervention, was yanked onto the slipway. When it reached the flat section another heavier cable was attached and the winch started anew. After one night it felt to the boy that this rhythm had always existed.
The men, all assigned specific tasks, operated at high capacity. The boy happy to be included at all. He found himself striving to please these men and perform his task well. He hurled the water further than he had the first night and watched as it soaked in and wet the sections starting to dry beneath the new sun. He shifted his feet as this fresh whale drew closer and soaked its approaching skin. The bulk of it filled his vision and when it did so he looked down. He found himself looking less often in the direction of the flensers. The blood, innards and bone. The blubber as it sprang forth and slapped onto the wood and wobbled. The seagulls perched atop the pink and runny mess. He would not look that way unless he had to.
As the boy was forced to step aside to allow the whale entry onto the flensing deck he extended a hand and patted the dead creature. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, mimicking Dan from the previous night. He felt stupid saying this but glad he had made an effort.
The sun in the sky soon filled the new day so completely that the boy was forced to squint as his eyes adjusted. His legs were gravy beneath him and his arms had grown thick with exhaustion. He looked to the mess hall and considered finding breakfast. The will to continue with his task slowly ebbed from him and, cursing his lack of discipline, the boy shook his head free of fatigue and turned back to the slipway. There were no new whales approaching and with deliberately unfocused eyes he looked at his father, who had set upon the new carcass, the flipper already lumped near his feet. The boy turned to the man beside him on the hose and said, ‘You mind if I duck inside and grab something to eat?’
The man scratched at his eyes. ‘I’ll go when you get back.’
The boy squinted out to sea. ‘There’s no chaser heading in.’
‘I see that.’
‘We could both go.’
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t want to risk it.’
The boy walked away, his eyes fixed on the ocean instead of the bloodied whale as he passed.
His father saw him and said, ‘You going inside?’
The boy n
odded and kept walking.
‘You sharpen this for me?’
His father unsheathed his knife and handed it, with the blade facing towards himself, to the boy.
‘It looks sharp already,’ the boy said.
‘Mate. Come on.’
The boy took the knife. He went down the steps, along the path and entered the busy mess hall, where he fixed himself a cup of coffee and sat at a table. He looked at the knife with its dried blood on the blade. It was sticky to handle. He patted his pockets for the whetstone bestowed on him by his father and, with rising panic, realised he no longer had it. He double-checked each pocket and found nothing. Looking at the knife on the table, he contemplated his mistake, trying to work out where he could’ve lost the whetstone.
When he finished his cup of coffee he had another and helped himself to some of the cold pancakes. He rubbed and rubbed at his tired eyes. Growing still weaker in spirit. Unable to make it halfway through a shift without needing a break. Losing things. He needed sleep.
A man sat down opposite him and the boy blinked his tired eyes and realised it was Phil, smiling. ‘You leave the hose out there, mate?’
The boy nodded. ‘I needed a coffee. And breakfast.’
‘You should’ve said something,’ Phil said. ‘Or put somebody else on it. Another chaser’s come in. How long you been sitting there?’
The boy swore loudly for the first time in his life, which made Phil laugh. He stumbled from his seat, leaving his dirty plate. Phil called out as he left, ‘Hey? This your knife?’ The boy wheeled around and grabbed it and as he exited the mess hall he heard Phil ask, ‘You liking the boots, mate?’
On deck, the hose was now manned by some other bloke; the man the boy had left in charge was nowhere in sight. His furious father was flensing, aiming his anger at the whale carcass before him. The boy imagined having strips torn from his own body as he stood uselessly by the whale, watching the new man hose. A bloke was on the carcass and slipped in the gore of it. The blubber made a ripping sound like sticky paper when it was winched off. There was so much blood and smell up close. The coffee at risk of coming back up.
The boy watched his father for a time and considered asking if he could head inside but felt weak for even having the thought.
While his father’s attention was fixed on the whale, he wandered around the deck, looking for the whetstone, but found no trace of it. Near another team he spied a whetstone sitting beside a coil of rope. Inspecting it, he decided it was probably not his own, though it was of a similar make. Still, desperate not to anger his father, he slipped it into his pocket. Then he walked over to a hose, wet the stone and sharpened his father’s blade. When he handed the knife back he received no thanks or acknowledgement from his father, who merely sheathed it and carried on with his work. The other team did not seem to notice the missing stone. The boy watched them work, feeling guilty and ashamed, but all the same he did not return the whetstone for fear that his father would have need of it again. No telling what he might do if he discovered the boy had lost it.
As the day dragged on he found himself standing motionless, watching his father work. His eyelids were heavy and his gut was heaving so eventually he said, ‘Can I go in?’
‘We need to know when somebody leaves. You should have said something.’
The boy said, ‘I left some other guy doing it. And I did say something. I told you.’
‘Don’t blame others for your mistakes,’ his father said, attaching the winch that would flip the whale onto its underbelly. The boy thought of his mistake with the whetstone. ‘I didn’t see nobody else hosing but you.’
The boy muttered, ‘I wasn’t even supposed to be working.’
‘What was that?’ his father said. He let go of the winch and leaned on the carcass. He wiped his forehead with his bloody forearm, leaving a red smear, and stared at the boy. ‘What did you say?’
‘You said I wouldn’t have to work for a bit,’ the boy said, hating the whine he heard in his own voice. ‘And I told you. You gave me the knife to sharpen, remember?’
‘Don’t give me excuses, Sam,’ his father said, then returned his attention to the winch.
When the whale was flipped and had rested and his father had started in with the flenser again he said, ‘Thought it was good that you found something you could do, keep you occupied. Now you’re bloody whingeing about it. Anyway –’ he made another three clean cuts ‘– head inside then, if you have to.’
His father refused to look at the boy, instead giving instructions to a man closer to the whale. The boy looked at this man, who also refused to meet his gaze. He looked at the other men on the deck working, the men from whom he had taken the whetstone, and felt invisible to all. He walked from the deck with his hands in his pockets and his head down, the sun biting hard into his neck.
As he showered in his room he regretted all his actions. He sighed and leaned his head against the shower door and let the water slosh over him until he couldn’t feel the texture of it anymore.
He stepped out of the shower, dried himself and dressed in his pyjamas. With head in hands he sat on the couch that was his bed and sobbed. Then he covered himself in blankets and was soothed to sleep by the sound of his colleagues working.
He woke. It was early afternoon and his father and the other fellow were still asleep. The boy sat up and then lay back down on the couch and shut his eyes. Sleep eluded him. He walked to his father’s bedside and looked at this older version of his self, his mouth agape, his heavy beard. The boy quietly opened the bedside table and found a Bible, then returned to the couch and read it until he felt sleepy. He put the book down, fell asleep for a short time, then woke again. Frustrated, he walked outside, leaned on the rail, and watched the activity on the deck.
The new bloke woke up before his father did. When the boy returned to the room the larger man was patting his belly and looked contented, still sleepy. He smiled at the boy and said, ‘You the bloke who stole my bed?’
The boy replied, ‘Sorry,’ and looked at his still-sleeping father.
The larger man’s smile widened. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m Steve.’
The two shook hands; the boy measured his grip and gave three firm pumps before release.
‘You’re a bit young, aren’t you?’
‘I know.’
‘How old are you?’
With his father asleep the boy decided he would tell the truth. ‘Thirteen.’
‘Bloody hell. Why’re you out here?’ Steve walked to the mini-fridge in the corner of the room, opened it and withdrew a bottle of milk. He sculled a great quantity then turned his attention back to the boy. ‘I mean, why’re you out here when you’re so little?’
The boy glanced at his father then said, ‘My mum died. And Dad wanted me to come with him and learn, I guess.’
‘Your mum died?’
The boy nodded.
‘Bugger, mate. Sorry to hear that.’ Steve scratched the top of his head. His hair was longer hair than the boy’s father’s. He sat on his bed and the springs squeaked. He put on a shirt he found nestled among his bedsheets and started on his shoes. ‘Bugger me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How?’
The boy was confused. ‘You mean how did she die?’
‘Yeah. I mean –’ Steve looked guilty ‘– if it’s not too personal.’
The boy sat on the couch. ‘She was sick.’
‘Ah, mate …’ Steve sat forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Kid your age shouldn’t have no mum.’ He smiled. ‘Guess the work helps distract you from it a bit, yeah?’
‘A bit.’
‘You think about her much?’
The boy nodded. ‘A bit.’
‘Yeah. Good to think about her.’
They fell silent, and the boy knew he should ask a question of his own, so he tried, ‘How long you been doing this?’
Steve looked relieved at the change of subject. ‘It’s my third year.’
&nbs
p; ‘You like it?’
‘I like the bloody money. Could do without the smell.’
Another silence. The boy stood and looked for something to do with his hands.
Steve watched for a few seconds then said, ‘I might head down and grab some breakfast. You want to come?’
‘No, thanks.’ The boy shook his head. ‘I’ll wait for my dad.’
‘No worries, mate.’ A pause, then a chuckle. ‘Did I hear that you’ve been thieving other blokes’ whetstones?’
The boy turned and stared. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘Who, though?’
‘Mate, don’t worry about it. Really. Guy’s just a bugger stirring up trouble, yeah? Who cares if you did? It’s just a whetstone. Anyway –’ he clapped his hands on his knees ‘– I’m going.’ He stood and walked to the door, stopped, and looked like he wanted to say something else. He soon managed, ‘I am sorry about your mum.’ Then he left.
The boy sat alone in the room with his sleeping father and watched the man breathe.
Then he said quietly, ‘Me too.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
They ate a late dinner, the boy seated across from his father. The noise of the room was less jubilant than on the previous nights, the men now used to their new routine and weary from toiling beneath the glare of the gigantic lights.
Phil sat nearby and when the boy looked over he winked and smiled, maybe aware of the boy’s sins. The boy felt shame for his mistakes from the previous night deep in his gut. Steve walked by and patted him on the head.
When he and his father walked onto the deck to begin their shift they were approached by a bloke who looked like a possum in a spotlight, all wiry and fearful, but with his chest raised in a show of aggression. The boy realised with a sick feeling that this was the bloke to whom the stolen whetstone belonged. This must be the man who had accused him.
‘Walt? This your kid?’
His father looked around in bewilderment before settling his gaze on the man and the boy saw immediately the fire kindle within him, his bad fist clenched, the tendons on his wrist. ‘You alright, Harry?’