Black Water (17 page)

‘Me brother bought it back from the War.’ Farren clamped down on a rising sense of panic. ‘He give it to me for a lucky charm.’ Farren didn’t put his hand out, not wanting to look like he didn’t trust the bloke to give it back.

‘Your bloody brother.’ Joe Clouty pulled a face as if he’d just discovered a weevil in his pie. ‘That clown. Puttin’ a bloody bullet into a man’s dog, the bloody idiot.’

The man holding Farren’s coin winked, the lines on his forehead sloping down like broken pencils.

‘Oh, I did hear about that. Dearie me. The perils of doing business, eh?’ He smiled at Farren, a tooth missing. ‘You sure this brother of yours didn’t dig this thing up down the beach ’ere? Because crikey-Moses, it’d upset old Joe even more if he’d missed out on the pot o’ gold at the end of the pier.’ He flipped the coin to Farren who slid it straight back into his good pocket.

‘Nah,’ Farren said. ‘He got it at Turkey and he only got one. For good luck.’

Joe Clouty held his beer between two big fingers as if he was weighing it.

‘Your brother’ll be the one needin’ the luck,’ he said. ‘And if he hadn’t fought for the country, and if he wasn’t such a lame duck, I’d take him outside and give him a thump.’ Joe hoisted his beer as if the conversation was over because he’d decided it was.

Farren couldn’t hold back. ‘He’d flatten you before breakfast!
And there’s nothin’ bloody wrong with him that won’t come right.’ Tears threatened. ‘You better watch out what yer saying because he’ll be back in a couple’a weeks and then –’

Joe looked at him sourly. ‘Get lost. Go on. Off.’

The third drinker, who had the healed-up look of a broken-down old jockey, put his beer down next to a small green hat.

‘Yeah, on ya bike, kid.’ His eyes were cloudy, like an old dog’s. ‘We got business.’

Farren grabbed his broom and left.

Farren leant on the fence, waiting for school to finish. Since leaving Queenscliff Public he hardly ever thought about the place, and when he did it was without much affection. He knew his mum would’ve been disappointed that he had not stayed on, but that was something that couldn’t be helped, especially now. He had stuff to do.

The double doors opened, Mr Derriweather presiding over the orderly procession of exiting children who, at the first sniff of fresh air, made a break for the open gate like newly-shorn sheep from a shed. Robbie and Nerrie Turner, the most senior students, were last to appear, Mr Derriweather nodding at them before disappearing inside. Unnoticed, Farren watched the pair, feeling a sliver of jealousy and a pang of regret.

‘Robbie,’ he called out, moving off the fence. ‘Hey, Robbie.’

Robbie stepped away from Nerrie, as if speaking to Farren required an immediate change of direction. He headed across the playground, Nerrie following, tall and loose-limbed, her curly black hair trapping the sunshine. Farren had always thought she was one of the best girls around the place.

‘Oi, Farren.’ Robbie slapped his satchel. ‘Just in time for your homework. Interested? I gotta stack.’

‘Nah. Stick it.’ Farren felt ill at the thought. ‘G’day, Nerrie.’ He’d known Nerrie Turner for at least ten years. Her dad was the manager of the smaller of the two Queenscliff banks, she was as smart as Robbie, and she could run like the wind, when she chose to.

‘Hello, Farren.’ She smiled. ‘How are you?’

Farren was momentarily fixed to the spot. He hadn’t remembered Nerrie being so striking; her face had not changed so much as declared itself to be wide, bony, and elegant, almost grown-up. She seemed aware of her power, but held it modestly.

‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ he said. ‘How ’bout you? I ain’t seen you for a while, either.’

‘I’m fine.’ Nerrie managed to carry her satchel, strap across her front, as if it was a fashionable bag. ‘My mum was in Geelong yesterday taking some Red Cross parcels to the hospital, and she saw Danny. Evidently he might be coming home in a couple of days.’ She smiled again, her teeth whiter and bigger than Farren remembered. ‘They were
very
impressed he made the effort to come back under his own steam.’

‘Really?’ Instantly Farren was so happy he forgot why he was at the school – until Robbie undid the top button of his shirt, Farren seeing the gold coin there on a leather lace. He almost made a grab for it. ‘Geez, Rob, the coin. You shouldn’a –’ Too late; he lapsed into silence.

Robbie’s hand hovered. A look of guilt shaded his face. The coin gleamed.

‘Oh, Jesus,
sorry
, ’Roon.’ He winced. ‘I forgot. Bloody hell.
Anyway, no one’s seen it. Well, only Nerrie now. And maybe my mum.’

Farren turned to Nerrie. She was a girl he’d always liked; she smelled nice, she could draw, she always did good work but she never dobbed or lied. He checked that the schoolyard was empty.

‘Danny found some coins.’ He spoke to her as quietly as he could without whispering. ‘When he was home. They’re like that one Robbie’s got and anyway, he said not to tell anyone but, like, a few people know already. So, you know, just don’t go tellin’ any more.’

‘I won’t, Farren, I promise.’ Nerrie pushed aside an errant strand of wavy hair and smiled.

Farren turned for the school path that was ridged with tree roots he remembered as clearly as the lines on his hands, ‘Anyway,’ he said, almost cheerful again, ‘let’s get goin before old Derri comes out, and I’ll tell yers somethin’ really stupid that I done at the pub. It was
bloody
frightful.’

Maggie took off her apron and draped it over the back of a chair. The kitchen, filled with food prepared for dinner, made Farren think of Christmas. Lidded saucepans sat on the stove and benches, bowls and colanders of vegetables surrounded the sinks, and trays of meat, covered with white muslin, sat on the table like presents for rich people.

‘Cuppa tea and a biscuit is what I need.’ Maggie pulled out a chair and gratefully sat. ‘So who’ll join me?’

‘I will.’ Farren felt a plunging shaft of hunger, although he’d had a big lunch. ‘I’ll get the biscuits and the mugs.’

Charlotte took off her apron, folding it like a magician might fold a favourite cape, and placed it on the table.

‘Yes, I do need a rest and a cuppa.’ She sat, a hand to her brow, her feet barely reaching the floor. ‘Empty the teapot, will you, Farren? I just don’t have the energy. I think I must be comin’ down with sumthink. Women’s problems, maybe. Sumthink, anyway.’

Farren accepted a wink from Maggie, got the biscuit tin and
mugs, and was turning for the teapot when Johnny Landsdowne-Murphy stuck his red face between the swing doors.

‘Oi-oi, eh?’ He looked like an elf, Farren thought. Or one of the Seven Dwarfs. ‘A liddle bit of good news for yers. Isla’ll be home on this arvo’s train. I’ll be pickin’ her up in the car. So maybe a couple of familiar faces down the station’d be nice, eh? So how many starters?’

‘Me.’ Farren answered immediately. ‘I’ll be there.’ He glanced at Maggie. ‘Yeah, probably, anyway, for sure.’

‘We’ll all be there.’ Maggie held an unlit cigarette. ‘I’m sure Isla’ll be especially pleased to see Farren.’ She tapped his hand with the tip of a finger. ‘Her knight in, let’s say,
shiny
armour.’ She smiled.

Farren blushed and looked away out the window.

‘And I’ll certainly be pleased to see her,’ Charlotte announced righteously, arranging her skirt with care as if Farren was trying to see up it. ‘Because I am sick to death of that draughty wash-house, them filthy sheets, and that blasted smoke. I’ve ’ad significant ’ealth problems for the last ten days. It’s weakened me quite considerable, that laundry has, I
know
it has.’

Johnny barked a laugh. ‘You, Charlotte? Weakened? Bloody hell, girl, you’re strong as a Mallee bull. Anyway, I’ll see yers down the station at four. Toodle-oo and goodbye to you.’ And his head disappeared.

Farren looked down the track, seeing the train come through the cleft in the hills, its cherry-red carriages obscured by smoke that was the colour of lead. People came and went, he thought, just like trains, only when people went sometimes they never came back.

‘The train,’ he said, getting up. ‘She’s comin’.’ He saw Julian Derriweather hurry onto the station, Robbie trotting along behind, grinning like a sheepdog. Farren jumped up, calling out, ‘Afternoon-ee!’

Robbie yelled back. ‘Fah-rah-roony!’

‘And anyway,’ Charlotte announced, holding a handbag that Farren saw had no clasp, its lining torn like old brown paper. ‘I ain’t
never
goin’ back inter that wash-house again, no sir-ee, no matter what. It’s no good for me spine nor me kidneys nor me liver all that pokin’ around with a stick. It could ruin me for childbirth, me mum reckons. Or worse.’

Farren allowed himself a private grin, watching the trackside scrub bow to the train, the engine passing with a ponderous dignity to eventually stop like an exhausted elephant. Doors opened, Farren seeing no sign of Isla until he spotted her stepping delicately down, having let others go first as if she was scared that she might be knocked over or pushed aside. She appeared even thinner than he remembered.

Robbie, as usual, was amused by some angle or other of the proceedings; or perhaps he was remembering the stolen car, Farren thought.

‘She’s a bloody
good
girl, old Isla, isn’t she?’ Robbie watched Julian usher her away from the train. ‘We did good, you and me, ’Roon. Real good.’

Seeing Isla, Farren felt that the taking of the car didn’t seem anything like a crime. It made him laugh. It’d been bloody good fun.

‘And right there before your very eyes,’ Maggie said, ‘is both the luckiest and unluckiest feller in the world. I think we should all be praying for our Julian – for him and Isla, actually. And right now.’

Farren figured Maggie wasn’t joking, although he saw that no one seemed too keen to take up her suggestion.

‘Anyway, troops,’ she added, in a different tone, as if she’d told herself off. ‘Let’s go see the two love-birds and make them very welcome.’

Charlotte stood like a teapot, her old moss-coloured handbag hanging from one spout-like wrist.

‘Well, I’ll betcha Isla ain’t particularly lookin’ forward to
gettin’
back inter that wash-house.’ Charlotte seemed quite sure of herself on this point. ‘But it’ll give her somethin’
proper
to do whilst her fiance is off servin’ the country, won’t it?’

Anyone only had to look at Isla, Farren thought, at her skinny waist and featherweight shoulders, to know that she was not halfway strong enough to do that sort of work again. Charlotte was wasting her breath.

‘Hey, Farren.’ Robbie touched Farren’s elbow. ‘Have a squizz behind yer, mate.’

Farren turned, and with happiness that soared, he saw Danny limping down the platform from the last carriage of the train. Holding his slouch hat in the air and grinning, it was as if he was trying out for an army recruitment poster, the scars on his forehead a reminder of what price a soldier might have to pay.

‘Oh, it’s Danny!’ Maggie’s hands descended onto Farren’s shoulders so quickly it was as if she wanted to dance. ‘Oh, Farren. How fantastic!’

Farren couldn’t move. He could only watch Danny limping along the platform, a broken-down young soldier in the sun, his shadow limping along beside him. But he arrived grinning.

‘G’day.’ Danny nodded genially and generally. ‘G’day, Maggs.’
He put out his good hand to Farren. ‘See, sport? Just like I said. Old Danny-boy’s back.’

Isla kissed Farren, her lips cool on his cheek, her breath a mere puff of peppermint.

‘Than’ you, Fah-ren.’ She took out a gift wrapped in purple tissue paper from her bag and gave it to Farren. ‘An’ for Roh-bee.’ She produced another, wrapped in green. ‘Than’ you.’

The sound of clapping gave Farren a fright. He stepped back, not knowing if he should open the present, just hold it, or put it in his pocket. He guessed it might be a watch. It looked and felt like one. He hoped it was; then told himself off for being such a greedy dog.

‘G’arn, fellers!’ Johnny Lansdowne-Murphy whipped his hands up. ‘Rip into ’em! Yer don’t get presents from good-lookin’ sheilas everyday of yer life! G’arn! Show us what yers got!’

Farren took out the watch, its case as silvery as a fish. He felt it tick in the tips of his fingers, each second passing like the struggle of an ant.

‘Geez, ya didn’t have to do this, Isla.’ He meant it; he didn’t want anything for what they’d done. Escaping punishment and the success of the adventure was more than he’d hoped for. ‘But, thanks. I never had a watch before.’ He looked at Robbie, to divert attention from himself.

Robbie wasn’t embarrassed. Sometimes it was like he was about twenty years old, Farren reckoned, he was that sure of himself.

‘Yeah, thanks, Isla!’ Robbie spoke as if she was on the other side of a plate glass window. ‘It’s a beauty! You made stealin’ that motor car all worthwhile. And we’d do it again tomorrow,
wouldn’t we, Farren? If we had to.’ Robbie’s grin widened as if he was keen to up the stakes. ‘Or this afternoon. Given the chance.’

More applause saved Farren from answering, and when Johnny stepped forward, the subject of car-stealing was forgotten.

‘How about a flamin’ drink?’ Johnny’s hands jumped as if he was flipping coins that he had no intention of catching. ‘Eh? Come on, everybody. It’s on the house! C’mon, Danny-boy! Back to the Vic!’

Danny adroitly put Farren between himself and the enthusiastic publican.

‘Sorry, mate, no can do.’ Danny hissed apologetically. ‘The old army quack said I ain’t allowed a drink for a month. But anyway, I’ll see yers around, eh? And good luck to yers all. Now off yers go. I’ll be right as rain.’

Johnny settled down like a disappointed rooster.

‘Strike me dead, Danny. You gotta find yerself a better bloody doctor than that. Still an’ all.’ He extended a chubby red hand ‘Welcome back, son. And may you never leave us ever again.’

Halfway between the bridge and the house Danny stopped, and Robbie and Farren, like men under command, did the same. The sounds of the place, of birds, of the sea, and the skimming wind, held the trio as if by threads.

‘Listen, boys.’ Danny lifted his hat as if to let the sounds reach his ears. ‘And take a good look round.’ He moved slowly around as if to set an example. ‘Now tell me, whadda ya see? Go on, speak up. Don’t be shy.’