Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  Ian put his hand over his glass, which still had an inch of beer in it.

  Muzza jumped to his feet before Pembo could refuse Tubby's offer. 'I'll give you a hand,' he said.

  As the two of them left for the bar, conversation at the table ground to a halt. Ian drained his glass in sulky silence. Fats turned expectantly to Mike. His eyes, set deep in the crinkles of a face weathered well beyond its thirty-four years, appeared eager for another question or some sort of comment, but Mike was at a loss as to what to say. Tubby's potted history of the Lard family had been so succinct that no further question or comment came readily to mind.

  But Fats wasn't seeking question or comment, he was seeking an answer. He'd been prepared to wait patiently for Tubby to bring up the subject, as Tubby no doubt would, although, in Fats' opinion, Tubby sometimes took a long time to get to the point. But as Tubby wasn't here now, and there was a hole in the conversation, Fats decided to ask for himself.

  'Whaddya wanna catch tammars for?'

  Mike was relieved that Fats had started the ball rolling; he was unaccustomed to feeling socially awkward. 'For study,' he said. 'It's a research trip.'

  Fats nodded, he'd gathered that.

  'We're earning extra money during the summer vacation,' Mike went on, 'assisting in the research for a PhD student on a Fulbright Scholarship –'

  'What about the tammars?' Fats asked. He didn't really want to know about the scholarship part.

  'Well, they're remarkable animals,' Mike explained. 'They thrive here on East and West Wallabi and we want to find out how. You see, there's virtually no fresh-water source on the islands, particularly on West Wallabi. There's no fresh water at all there, except for rain, of course . . .'

  Fats kept nodding as the kid talked, taking it all in slowly, sifting the information. He hadn't known that tammars were so interesting.

  Ian Pemberton looked at the cray fisherman, nodding like a metronome, and his irritation grew to boiling point. How dare the yobbos crash their party. How dare Mike ask them to the table. And look at him now! Good old Mike McAllister, everybody's favourite, giving his all to a retard who didn't understand a word he was saying. Ian wanted to deck him. What about the nurses they'd met last night? There was a party on at their flat, starting about now. What the hell were the three of them doing sitting here entertaining a couple of local cretins?

  'From an environmental point of view it makes them a very valuable source of study,' Mike said.

  'So what is it you do with the tammars?' Fats was fascinated.

  'Protemnodon eugenii to be precise,' Ian cut in, the disdain in his voice matching the sneer on his face.

  Fats turned to look blankly at him, just as Tubby and Muzza arrived with the beers. Ian waited until the glasses had been placed on the table before once again addressing Fats, in exactly the same tone.

  'We study the water metabolism of genus Protemnoden, species eugenii, otherwise known as the tammar.'

  There was a deathly silence. Tubby stared at the kid with the bat ears and the pointy face and the built-in bad smell under his nose. He'd sensed his antagonism the moment they'd come to the table, but what had Fats done to rile him? Fats might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was a good bloke, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, not unless the fly hurt him, and even then he had to be pushed. Tubby was about to challenge the snotty-nosed little prick, but someone else got in first.

  'Stop being a smartarse, Pembo,' Mike said good-naturedly. 'Sit down, Tubby, there was no offence intended. Was there, Ian?' The question was pointed.

  'Course not.' Checked by Mike's warning tone and the threat of danger, Ian attempted a smile, which wasn't successful.

  Tubby sat. Very slowly, his eyes darting about the group, like a cat ready to pounce.

  Fats, too, looked around the table, aware of the sudden tension. He'd gathered that some sort of insult had been intended, and while he wondered what he'd done to warrant it, he wasn't particularly offended. But he could tell that Tubby was ready to do battle, and he was prepared to join in. Tubby only ever picked a fight when there was good cause for it.

  'I'm here on a dual study period myself,' Mike said to the brothers, as if nothing had happened. 'Doing some advance research for my PhD next year, and the topic's right up your alley.'

  'Oh yeah?' Tubby said, distrustful. One word in the wrong direction and these little uni pricks wouldn't know what'd hit them. But he couldn't help himself, he was impressed by Mike. It was obvious the other two took their lead from him. Muzza wasn't a bad kid, but he seemed younger than the others and, Tubby suspected, a bit of a 'yes' boy. As for the bat-eared snotty-nosed bastard . . .

  'And how exactly would your advance research be right up our alley?' he asked, his tone a dangerously supercilious imitation of Ian's.

  Mike turned to Fats. 'What do you reckon I'm studying, Fats?'

  'Eh?' Fats was caught out; people usually addressed their questions to Tubby.

  'The topic I'm studying – what do you reckon it is? What's right up your alley?'

  'Crayfish?' Fats asked hopefully.

  'Spot on.' Mike once again addressed the older brother. 'As well as the study of tammars, the Pelsaert and her crew are doing a preseason cray census. The object of the exercise will lead to a better estimate of the catchable cray population later in the season, and maybe even the following year as well. Does that interest you?'

  'My oath it does,' Tubby said. Any insult was forgotten, the kid had won him.

  Twenty minutes later, as they were polishing off the next round of beers – Muzza's shout – Mike was still talking, Tubby was still asking questions, and Fats was still hanging on every word. The brothers knew only too well that the whole of the Abrolhos was a hatchery and nursery area this time of year. All down the west coast the cray season ran from mid-November until the end of June, with the exception of the Abrolhos where it didn't start until mid-March. They'd been wondering what the Pelsaert was doing laying pots, and now Mike was explaining the mark-and-recapture techniques employed in the research.

  'Tail-punching,' he said. 'It leaves an identifiable mark when they're recaught.'

  'Well, bein' a Fisheries vessel, we didn't exactly think you were doin' something illegal,' Tubby said. Fats nodded, although they'd both had their doubts. 'Whatever experiments they're up to, I bet they're keepin' a good few crays on the side,' Tubby had said as he'd watched them blatantly setting their pots, and Fats had agreed.

  Mike didn't go into detail about the recent break-through. The discovery of puerulus in numbers – the elusive settling phase before the juvenile hard-shelled crayfish emerged – had caused much excitement in academic circles. But it wasn't necessary to explain the finer points; both brothers understood the impact of the research. An advance and accurate prediction in the numbers of mature crayfish would revolutionise their industry.

  'Time to go.' Ian replaced his empty glass on the table with a little more force than was necessary. Aware that he'd overstepped the mark earlier, it was the only way he could signal his boredom and irritation. He stood. 'The girls are waiting.' He forced another smile, his second of the evening, and again it didn't work. 'Nice to meet you, Tubby, Fats.'

  Muzza looked to Mike for his cue. He was a bit bored himself. The cray fishermen had lost their appeal now that the girls were beckoning.

  'Sorry, Muz.' Mike smiled apologetically. 'I got a bit carried away. You go and have a good time.'

  Muzza shook hands with the brothers as he rose from his chair, but Ian kept his distance, his eyes on Mike.

  'You're not coming?' he asked.

  'I never said I was.'

  'Jeez, mate,' Tubby said to Mike, nudging Fats as a signal they should make a move. 'If you've got women lined up don't let us stand in your way.'

  'You're not.' Mike's tone was definite, but his reply was directed to Ian. 'I told you from the start I didn't want to be in it.'

  Fats rose from the table, a decision seemed to have been made. 'Goo
do then,' he said. 'My round.'

  'No, it isn't.' Mike continued to look at Ian. He was wondering how on earth he'd remained friends with Pembo for the past several years. But he knew the answer. He was sorry for the bloke. 'It's Ian's round. Isn't it, Ian?'

  Tubby watched, intrigued by the second or so of power play between the two young men, but it was no competition.

  'Sure,' Ian said, 'my shout', and he went off to the bar where he ordered three beers. He and Muzza certainly weren't hanging around with the Lard brothers when there were women to be had. Mike had turned into such a square, he thought. God, Mike McAllister had been the biggest womaniser of them all – the bloke could score in a convent, women always gravitated to him. But he'd changed since he'd met Johanna. What a bastard, Ian thought as he paid for the beers. Without Mike he probably wouldn't score tonight. Mike had always been his lucky draw card, and now he was left with young Muzza who, in his opinion, was a definite loser.

  He returned to place the three beers on the table. 'You ready, Muzza?' he asked, and Muzza once again stood.

  Mike leaned back in his chair, raising his glass to them both. 'Thanks, Pembo,' he said pleasantly. 'You guys have a great night.'

  Ian made his farewells tightly but politely.

  'See you, Muzza,' Mike called as they left. 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

  'Leaves me plenty of licence,' Muzza called back over his shoulder.

  'You sure you don't want to go with your mates?' Tubby's question was incredulous. Why didn't Mike want to chase after women? Crikey, they'd be queuing up for a young stud like him.

  'Yep, quite sure. I'm not interested.'

  As he said it, Mike realised that he genuinely wasn't. He certainly would have been six months ago – six months ago he would have been leading the troops – but since he'd met Jo, he'd lost the urge to bed other women. Not because he felt the need to remain faithful – he'd made no commitment and neither had she – but for some reason the thrill of the chase no longer seemed important. Funny about that, he thought.

  'I've got a girlfriend in Perth,' he said to avoid any further questioning.

  'Ah,' Tubby replied, sharing a nod with Fats. The kid was in love – that explained it. He took a long draught of his beer and settled back in his chair. 'So, where were we up to, Einstein?' He could listen to the kid all night.

  'The Batavia.' Mike decided it was his turn to ask the questions.

  'Eh?' The non sequitur took both brothers by surprise.

  'Do you know about the wreck of the Batavia?'

  'Do I what!' Tubby's grin was triumphant. 'She was a Dutch East India trading vessel that foundered on the Abrolhos in 1629.' He looked like a schoolboy who'd topped his class; he was glad of the opportunity to show off his knowledge to the kid. 'There was a bunch of mutineers on board and they were going to pirate her, but she hit the reef instead. And after the shipwreck they murdered just about all the survivors.'

  'Women and children as well,' Fats interjected, the gleam of morbid fascination in his eyes. 'Them islands is covered in bones.'

  It was more historical fact than Mike had anticipated from the brothers. 'Do you know where the wreck is?' he asked.

  'Too right.' It was Fats again, suddenly and uncharac-teristically articulate. 'Tubby and me was on hand when it was discovered a couple of years back. We know the exact spot, don't we, Tub?'

  'Yep, we helped the expedition team when they were diving on it. They needed our local knowledge of the area,' Tubby said with a touch of pride.

  'I've heard it's in shallow water, is that right?'

  'Around twenty feet or so.'

  'Could you take me to it?'

  The look Tubby exchanged with Fats was dubious. 'Well, we could,' he said tentatively.

  Mike presumed the brothers were concerned about money. 'I'll pay . . .' he added hastily.

  'Nah, nah, it's not that.' Tubby waved a hand airily. 'It's just that you need the right day. If the weather's crook, you can't make an approach, it's bloody impossible.'

  'So if the weather's right, will you take me out there?'

  Fats was nodding vigorously. Fats had taken to Mike. But then so had his brother.

  'Yeah, if the weather's right,' Tubby agreed.

  Mike tried to negotiate a price, but the brothers would have none of it. 'Well, at least let me pay for the fuel,' he insisted.

  Tubby shrugged. 'If you like, but we'll be takin' the boat out anyway. We gotta make a living.'

  Prior to the commencement of the cray season, the brothers fished with set-lines for dhufish and baldchin grouper, both prize table fish for the West Australian market.

  'Okay, it's a deal. And I'll bring along a case of beer.'

  'You're on, Einstein.'

  Three days later, the squally winds had died down and the weather was perfect.

  Tubby followed the deep channel that led from the safe anchorage behind the reefs out into the open ocean. He and Fats would lay their set-lines before taking Mike to the wreck site. The Maria Nina churned smoothly through the gentle swell, the sea and the sky so peacefully clear they seemed to merge as one. Mike sat on the icebox helping Fats bait up the lines. An hour or so later, when they'd set them, floats bobbing on the ocean's surface, Tubby turned the vessel about.

  'You can only approach the wreck from the open sea,' he said as Mike joined him in the wheelhouse. 'Treacherous bastard of a place – no way you can come into it from the land. That's Beacon Island,' he pointed at the low, rocky island up ahead. 'Batavia's Graveyard, it's known as. The wreck's just a mile south of it.'

  Mike gazed at the island, barren and desolate like the rest of the Abrolhos. Batavia's Graveyard, he thought, and couldn't help feeling a thrill of anticipation. This was the highlight of his trip. It was strange, he hadn't expected it to be – there'd been far too much else to preoccupy him. He'd been intrigued by the lunatic notion of nightly tammar chasing, and excited by the prospect of next year's PhD study when he'd be working as a field assistant with Dr Bruce Phillips of the CSIRO, the man who'd made the breakthrough puerulus discovery. Not once had the Batavia entered his mind, and why should it? He'd known little about its actual history when he'd left Perth – only that the site of an old Dutch wreck had created headlines when it had been discovered on the Abrolhos in 1963. But he'd been enthralled by the tales he'd heard aboard the Pelsaert on the night of his arrival, the crew members infecting him with their own fascination with the Batavia's brutal past. The very vessel that was accommodating them, he'd been told by the crew, was named after the actual commander of the Batavia, Francisco Pelsaert. And then they'd embarked upon the grisly story of mutiny, murder and acts of such atrocity that surely the leader of the mutineers must have been the devil himself.

  Ever since that night, young Mike McAllister had viewed the islands of the Abrolhos through different eyes, perhaps through the eyes of a seaman. He was seeing them now with a sense of history.

  Ecologically, their make-up was simple – in studying the ecology of the crayfish, Mike had also studied their habitat – the islands were formed of coral shale and sand built up by the conflicting currents on the shallow plateaus. Plants sprouted from seeds in bird droppings to form sparse vege-tation, binding the sand with roots and resulting in a series of low-lying islands that somehow defied the elements. It was that very defiance which he found remarkable. For hundreds of years, these desolate and insignificant-looking outcrops, little more than a combination of reef and sandbank, had withstood the full force of nature. They, and the treacherous submerged reefs surrounding them, had become indestructible demons feared by seamen over the centuries. Infamous graveyards to many a ship and its sailors. In fact, as the crew of the Pelsaert had told him, the very name Abrolhos meant in Portuguese, 'keep your eyes open'.