Past the Shallows (2 page)

The skin on his hands tingled and pricked.

He dropped the shell and ran.

He had to wait for ages but finally Joe came in. Miles stayed out. He was way out deep and it didn’t even look like there
were any waves out there. He was just sitting in the water. Just sitting there and Harry was starving, couldn’t stop thinking
about those sandwiches. The cheese and chutney ones.

‘I didn’t find it. The shark egg.’

Joe was struggling with his wetsuit, getting his arms free and he was twisting and panting, not looking at Harry. ‘Maybe next
time,’ he said, but Harry didn’t think it was likely.

When Joe was finally back in his clothes he started unpacking the stuff from the dinghy, the thermos and the tin cups and
the rug and the sandwiches. As long as they didn’t have to wait for Miles – no, Harry wouldn’t be able to wait for Miles even
if Joe said he had to because Miles could stay out in the water forever, even if it was freezing, and Harry just had to have
one of the sandwiches now.

‘This place is old,’ he said, his mouth full of bread.

Joe made a sound but he wasn’t really listening. He was somewhere else, maybe still out there in the water with Miles. But
it didn’t matter.

This place was old. Harry knew it.

As old as the world.

M
iles got in the dinghy with the men, with Martin and Jeff and Dad, and he didn’t speak. No one spoke on the way out to the
boat. He hadn’t been able to eat his toast at home in the early darkness, and now just on dawn he wished he had.

His stomach was empty, this first day.

First day of school holidays. First day he must man the boat alone while the men go down. Old enough now, he must take his
place. Just like his brother before him, he must fill the gap Uncle Nick left.

Because the bank owned the boat now. Because the bank owned everything.

The boat chugged and rattled its way through the heads, and Miles felt the channel grab hold, pull on her hard. She was weak,
the
Lady Ida
, she seemed
old now, and the crossing was slow. She ploughed through the deepest part of the channel leaving a wide wake of ridges behind,
and Miles knew this was where it would have happened. Where Uncle Nick would have been dragged out alone in the dark where
the rip ran strongest.

And they never found him.

Not one bit.

Not his beanie.

Not his boots.

Not his bones.

Just the dinghy floating loose, empty and washed clean.

Nobody talked about it now, but back then Dad talked about it. He said Uncle Nick must have gone out to check the mooring.
He said he’d never forgive himself.

The boat was almost new, anchored out at the mouth of the bay because the swell was right up – a big winter swell, and all
the boats were out there. But Nick wouldn’t leave it alone. He wouldn’t stop worrying about the boat. Dad said he went on
and on about it at the pub and in the end Dad told him to go and check the damn thing. To go and check it or just shut up
about it.

And Miles knew exactly how dark it was that night, the sky blacked out by cloud so thick that nothing came through – no stars
or moon or anything. Uncle Nick wouldn’t have been able to see the dinghy or the land or even his own hand in front of his
face.

And everyone forgot about him out there because that was the night of the crash.

That was the night when everything changed.

Martin touched his shoulder, stood close.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he said.

Dad and Jeff were in the cabin and Jeff was staring at him again so Miles looked away. He slipped his yellow windcheater over
his jumper. Dad didn’t have any small enough for him, so he had to wear a man’s size and it was baggy, hung way down past
his hands. It was almost better not to wear one at all. He’d get soaked anyway. The only part of him that would stay warm
was his head under the tight wool beanie that made his scalp itch.

He rolled up the sleeves, he put on his gloves.

Bruny was coming clear in the new light.

Miles watched the surface change colour – come to life. And even though they were still out deep, away from land, there were
places where the water rose like it was climbing a hill, places where the water
was angry. And it wasn’t the back of a wave. It wasn’t a peak in the swell. It was the current surging into rocks that hid
below, rocks that you couldn’t see even when the tide was low. And if you didn’t know what the rise in water meant, you would
never guess those rocks were there. The Hazards. They were called the Hazards of Bruny.

They were all around here, out deep. Rocks that weren’t attached to land but were big enough on their own to disturb the water
– to change its path. And maybe they had been islands once, those rocks. Small islands or maybe even bigger ones before they
got worn away. Worn by the water and by the wind and the rain until they were gone from sight. And only the foundations remained,
hidden and lost under the sea.

There were things that no one could teach you – things about the water. You just knew them or you didn’t and no one could
tell you how to read it. How to feel it.

Miles knew the water. He could feel it. And he knew not to trust it.

T
he air was cold and the house was quiet. Harry got out of bed and shoved his bare feet into his sneakers. Out in the kitchen,
if he stood right on the tips of his sneakers, he could just reach the peanut butter jar up in the top cupboard. He ran his
finger around the inside of the almost empty jar. There was only enough peanut butter for one slice, so he put two pieces
of bread in the toaster and made a toast sandwich.

Even though the embers were dead, Harry sat down by the wood heater to eat. He ate quickly. Aunty Jean would be here soon
to take him to the Regatta and he’d better get dressed properly. He’d better find the scarf she’d made him and wear it. He’d
better put on the navy blue parka she’d bought him for Christmas. He didn’t really like the parka
because it was too big and he didn’t like the colour, but it was warm. Anyway, he didn’t have another coat. Only a thin rain
jacket.

He wished Joe would take him to the show instead of Aunty Jean, but at least she didn’t talk much in the car. She had the
radio on, but it was mostly a man talking and not enough songs. Harry tried to listen to the talking so that he didn’t have
to think about the road. It was a long drive and the worst bit was still to come. The bit where the thin little road curved
around and around as it climbed up the back of Mount Wellington. That was where his ears usually popped and where he usually
got carsick.

He tried hard not to get carsick. Aunty Jean might turn back and take him home if he got sick. He kept his eyes on things
inside the car. He looked at the dash and down at his legs. He looked at the black mat that his feet rested on. He looked
at Aunty Jean’s white lumpy hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel.

Finally, they were at Fern Tree. Harry opened and closed his jaw a few times to help his ears clear. He thought about asking
Aunty Jean to stop so he could go to the toilet, but he decided to hold on. They were finally on the other side, going down.
He could look out the window and see Hobart in slithers through
the trees that lined the road. Parts of houses and bits of roads, flashes of blue water and white sails. And as the trees
thinned out, there were more and more houses. The city finally came into view as a whole and Harry loved it. All the buildings
and the cars and all the things to do.

Aunty Jean parked the car on the grass near the cenotaph. She wanted to see the wood chopping and it started at eleven. That
meant they had forty minutes, so after finding the portable loos, Harry led them straight to the rides.

He wanted to take his time, look at them all because he knew he would only be allowed to go on one. Some of the rides looked
scary and some were boring, like the merry-go-round. The Gee-Whizzer looked the best, but he needed Miles here to go on it
with him. If he went by himself he would slide along the seat every time the ride spun in a new direction. There was no way
he could get Aunty Jean on the Gee-Whizzer. Maybe she’d go on the ferris wheel.

As they walked around, Harry noticed all the game stalls; the moving clown faces, darts, hoops, and one he didn’t know. There
were lots of jars arranged on a table, and some had money in them. Notes. The jar in the middle had a ten-dollar note in it.
You had
to throw a one-cent piece into a jar containing a note and, if you did, you won the money.

‘Maybe I could have a go at that?’ he said.

Aunty Jean looked over at the stall.

‘Nobody ever wins those games, Harry. They’re set up so that no one wins. If you spend the money I give you there, you won’t
be able to go on a ride.’

Harry looked over at the Gee-Whizzer one more time. Kids were screaming their heads off as the carriages twirled. ‘I don’t
think I want to go on a ride,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t be disappointed when you don’t win anything.’

Harry took the dollar note from her hand and ran over to the stall. A hairy, red-eyed man gave him three one-cent pieces to
throw at the jars. He threw the first way too far and it missed the table altogether. It landed on the grass. Harry thought
that maybe it didn’t count and he could start again, but the man shook his head. It counted.

He threw the second and it hit the rim of an empty jar and then fell onto the table. Harry threw the last coin more carefully.
And it worked. The coin bounced off the rim of one jar and landed in another that had a five-dollar note in it.

‘I won! Aunty Jean, I won!’

‘No, you didn’t. It doesn’t count.’ The bearded man pointed to a large sign that had a lot of black writing on it. ‘The coin
must go straight in. It can’t bounce off another jar first.’

Aunty Jean was suddenly right beside him.

‘Come away, Harry. I told you it was a waste of money.’

Harry felt his face getting hot. People were looking over and he kept his eyes down as he walked away from the stall. Aunty
Jean kept on talking, going on about how he’d wasted his money and Harry stopped listening. He studied people’s feet as they
walked. He looked at all the shoes that passed by. There were lots of gumboots. There were lots of strollers and prams, and
even though it was only the first day of the Regatta the grass had already been worn away where people walked. The dark sticky
earth was covered in wrappers and plastic bags and squashed hot chip buckets. Then Harry saw it. Twenty bucks. It was just
lying there and a woman trod right on it, and she didn’t notice it. She just kept on walking.

Harry dropped down and grabbed it. It was crumpled and muddy but it really was twenty bucks. It really was.

Aunty Jean stopped walking. She looked down.

‘Don’t sulk, Harry. It doesn’t suit you.’

Harry held the note up, ‘Look!’

Aunty Jean huddled over him. ‘Get up and put it in your pocket before someone says they dropped it.’

Harry stood up, shoved the note in his pocket and he kept his hand on it so it wouldn’t fall out. It was his now. He wasn’t
going to lose it.

‘It’s a lot of money, Harry. A lot of money. You can buy your own show bags now, OK? But don’t spend it all. You should save
it. Save it,’ she said.

But Harry was way ahead of her. Now he could get two show bags and one for Miles and go on a ride, and maybe get a show bag
for his friend Stuart because Stuart never got to come to the show, and when Ben at school busted Harry’s He-Man’s head off,
Stuart let him play with his He-Man. Stuart had He-Man and Battle Cat and Beast Man and Skeletor. Harry should probably buy
him a He-Man show bag.

Aunty Jean was looking at her watch. Harry knew her legs would be hurting by now and that she wanted to get off to the wood
chopping, but he didn’t care. He had twenty bucks. He could get whatever he wanted and Aunty Jean couldn’t say anything about
it. He could get ten show bags if he wanted. Ten!

‘We’d better go and get a seat. Brian Roberts’s boy is competing. Heath? Is that his name?’