Past the Shallows (15 page)

‘What do you think you’re look’n’ at?’

Harry stood still. He didn’t know what to do, but Stuart pulled at his sleeve, dragged him forward towards the shop.

‘That’s Robbie Pullman’s sister,’ Stuart said.

‘She’s a fat bitch.’

He must have said the last bit too loudly because his mum turned around and gave them both a look. She didn’t say anything
though. Stuart’s mum didn’t talk much.

Inside the shop, Harry and Stuart looked at the poster of all the different ice-creams. Harry could feel all the coins in
his pocket. There were a few notes in there, too. He could buy them both an ice-cream if Stuart’s mum didn’t mind. Stuart
moved away after a bit and joined his mum who was busy filling a wire basket with tins and groceries from the two small aisles,
but Harry stayed where he was. He kept looking at the pictures.

Bubble O’ Bill, Eskimo Pie, Splice. It wouldn’t cost much to get two Bubble O’ Bills.

Harry could smell the hot chips that had just been dumped into the bain-marie. He turned and Mrs Martin was looking right
at him. Watching him. All the kids hated her. Sometimes she locked the door so kids from school couldn’t get in while they
waited for the bus. Some of the older boys called her ‘troll’ through the windows, but she knew all their names, knew who
they were.

‘I’ll tell your parents,’ she’d yell out, and the boys would just laugh at her and throw stones at the glass. Harry and Miles
never had any money so they never had to worry about Mrs Martin shutting the shop or not shutting the shop. Harry only ever
came in here with Aunty Jean, or Stuart’s mum. Even so, Harry thought that Mrs Martin probably knew his name, too, and knew
Dad.

He moved away from the ice-creams and stood behind a shelf so Mrs Martin couldn’t watch him anymore. There were jars of instant
coffee and sugar and cans of condensed milk and tea on the shelf. There were all different kinds of tea bags in boxes. All
different kinds. And there was one shiny black tin with silver writing on it that said English Breakfast. It was the loose
tea, the kind George liked. Harry picked it up. The price at the bottom said $3.25. It was nearly all the money he had left.

Stuart’s mum had paid and she and Stuart were waiting for Harry by the door. Harry walked over and put the tin on the counter,
but Mrs Martin ignored him and stayed near the bain-marie.

‘I’ll buy this, please,’ Harry said, and he looked right at Mrs Martin, but she still didn’t move.

Stuart’s mum came over.

‘Harry, if you need tea at home, I’ll get it. But your dad would use tea bags. We’ll put this one back.’

Harry pulled the money out of his pocket and put it on the counter. He looked up at Stuart’s mum. ‘I need this one. It’s for
Aunty Jean.’

Stuart’s mum didn’t say anything else but she stayed near him, and Mrs Martin came over, started counting the money on the
counter.

‘I’ll get two twenty-cent bags of mixed lollies as well,’ Harry said, and he smiled at Stuart. Stuart smiled back.

The girl was still there by the bus shelter when they left the shop. She was smoking a cigarette now, still looking down the
road. She had definitely missed the bus. As they drove off in the car, Harry turned and looked through the back window. The
girl chucked her cigarette on the gravel and kicked at it with her foot. Then she kicked the bus shelter.

She was stuck here, too.

‘You can drop me off near the bridge.’

It would save him having to walk all the way to George’s from home, only he regretted saying anything now. He could see Stuart’s
mum’s eyes in the rear-vision mirror and she looked worried, like she was about to ask a question.

‘Aren’t you coming back to ours?’ Stuart said.

Harry shrugged. He felt bad. Stuart was nice and staying there was good except that they had to sleep in the annex of the
caravan and the air was a bit cold on your face. But Stuart’s mum always put hot water bottles in their beds so that the sheets
and doona were already warm when you got in. So warm you couldn’t help but go straight to sleep, even if you didn’t want to,
even if you wanted to stay up talking.

Harry put his hand in his pocket, felt for his dart gun and pulled it out.

‘You can take this. You can keep it till I come and stay again.’

Stuart took the orange plastic gun in his hands.

‘When?’

‘Maybe tomorrow, or the next day? Don’t lose the darts.’

Stuart nodded. He took the darts from Harry’s hand and put them in his pocket. Harry knew Stuart would lose at least one.

Near the bridge the car pulled over. Stuart’s mum turned. She looked right at Harry, held onto the seat with her arm.

‘Maybe you should come home with us, sweetie. I’ll make some lunch later.’

‘There’s food at home. Dad will have left something out. Thanks for having me, Mrs Phillips.’

Her eyes were big, but she didn’t say anything else.

Harry got out of the car and shut the door. He waved to Stuart and Stuart waved back. And Harry kept waving, hoping the car
would drive away. But it didn’t. Stuart’s mum was taking ages. She was worrying, having one of her moments where nothing happened
and she just went still for a bit. Went quiet. Dad said she was cracked, but Harry thought she was nice. She was just nice.

Finally the car pulled off. Slowly. Stuart turned in his seat and pulled a funny face and waved again with the dart gun firmly
in his hand. Harry coughed in the dust, waved one last time. When they were gone, he ran down the road to the path that led
to George’s, clutching the tea.

H
arry knew it now – every step, every tree, and the tea in his hands shook inside the tin, a hollow metal ring with each step.
He couldn’t wait to give it to George. They would have tea and sandwiches and sit down and it would be warm in the shack.
Jake would be excited, then he’d settle down and fall asleep right on Harry’s feet like he always did. But where was Jake?
Usually he’d run up to meet Harry by now. Jake could always hear Harry coming long before he reached the shack, and the shack
was in view now. No smoke coming from the chimney. No Jake anywhere.

Harry kept running anyway, all the way to the door.

It fell open, silent.

He stood there out of breath, his heart beating, and the place was so still – so quiet. It felt like it had
been empty for a long time, empty for years and years. And it felt like it would be empty forever. Looking into that dark
quiet room Harry thought he might never see George or Jake again.

The metal tin felt cold in his hand. He heard the wind rustle in the trees and he had a feeling in him like he wanted to run.
To run and run, to keep on going until he found George and Jake. And when he did, he would beg them to take him with them,
wherever they were going.

But George’s pipe was right there on the table. And his clothes were still hanging up. His pots and pans, his billy. Jake’s
blanket there on the floor. Harry was just being silly. They would come back. They were probably just out walking somewhere
or fishing. And Harry bet that if he ran down to the jetty, George’s dinghy would be gone and they’d be back soon.

Harry put the tea down by the door and headed straight for the wood shed. He found George’s axe wedged in a thick round stump,
but he wouldn’t need to use it. There were high piles of dry kindling stacked neatly and lots of bigger logs, too. George
was good at chopping wood. Harry was good at chopping wood if he got to use the blockbuster, but Miles hardly ever let him
use the blockbuster. He said it
was too heavy for Harry and that he hit the concrete more times than he hit the wood. Miles made Harry use the hatchet. The
hatchet was stupid. It was small and light and you couldn’t get any momentum. You had to whack the wood so hard that it hurt
your arm all the way up like lightning when it struck the log, and if you missed the grain, if the hatchet came down wrong,
then the wedge got jammed and the whole bloody log would be stuck to the end of the hatchet and you couldn’t get it off. That
happened nearly every time Harry cut kindling with the hatchet. Then Miles would say ‘Leave it Harry, I’ll do it’, and he’d
look disappointed and Harry would just stand there, useless, and watch Miles sweat and grunt and bust logs with the blockbuster.

Harry piled kindling in his arms, cradling as much as he could, and he took it inside and dumped it in the metal bucket next
to the wood heater. He knelt down by the fire and scrunched newspaper up into tight little balls. The tighter you scrunched,
the longer it lasted, but you had to leave one corner flat so that the flame would catch the paper. He built a triangle of
kindling, giving it space to breathe, and he swept the floor clean with a dustpan and brush. He put the tea on the table and
sat down on a chair. Then he waited.

Anyway, it was still quite early, maybe past lunch, but not too much past. The sun was still clear and high, even though it
didn’t warm anything up much. Harry had forgotten to bring his parka. He must have left it in Stuart’s mum’s car. But he’d
start the fire just as soon as he heard them coming. It wouldn’t be long. Jake would come in first. He’d come running and
Harry would hear his nails
chip-chipping
on the verandah and then feel Jake’s cold nose pressed right up against his hand. George would be way back, carrying all
the gear – the lines and buckets of flathead or salmon or squid, and Harry would go to meet him as soon as he’d lit the fire
and he’d help him carry the buckets or whatever was needed.

Harry reached over and grabbed the small folded blanket from the end of George’s bed and put it over his legs. Lunch would
be good – fish, if George had caught any. He pulled the bag of mixed lollies out of his pocket, fished out a bullet, a freckle
and a raspberry to keep him going, then he twisted the paper bag closed and put it back in his pocket. Billy stared at him
as he ate the lollies. Billy – George’s brother – the man in the framed photograph on the table standing up tall and straight
and smiling in his uniform.

George had told Harry about Billy. About how he’d gone to war and how he’d gone missing and about how he’d never come home.
And Harry had thought about it quite a lot. He’d even walked into town on his own and looked at the old war memorial to see
if Billy’s name was there. But he didn’t tell George about it because he didn’t know what to say.

All those names carved in the old stone. Familiar names like Blackall and Bones, Bradley and Good. Three Donnellys all in
a row. Roberts and Young and Nelson and Taylor. And there in the middle was Billy’s name: Fuller, W. W for William, but George
called him Billy. He’d been lost all that time ago and he never came home.

Harry leant his head back against the chair and thought that if Miles got lost, if Miles never came home, Harry’s insides
would go wrong and they might never come right again. If Miles got lost.

And he wished that Miles was here now.

And he wished that George would come back.

Then he must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes the light outside the window had changed. At first he thought
that maybe it was just the clouds and perhaps it was going to rain, but when he got up and opened the door it wasn’t the clouds
or a storm. It was just late.

He had to go.

He took one last look around the room, the tea on the table, the fire all set, and he knew that when George got home he’d
know that Harry had been here and left him the tea and set the fire, and he’d be glad. Harry shut the door. He ran up the
paddock, he ran through the trees, and after looking back quickly one last time, he ran towards the road with the day slipping
into darkness right behind him.

M
iles was so tired in the ute. The sun was down but it wasn’t quite dark yet, and Dad had the heater on for once, blowing up
on one side of Miles’s face. He put his hands in front of the vent, let them warm through.

Joe had been right. There was something coming. Miles had felt it in the water. Seen it. Swell coming in steady, the wind
right on it, pushing. It was ground swell. Brand new and full of punch – days away from its peak. Joe would be lucky if he
made it across the strait in time. It had even made Miles queasy, the way the boat rocked. The way the water rolled up under
it. And he never got sick.