With cold hands he took a dead rabbit from a snare, digging the wire out of its neck with stiff fingers, thinking that maybe he’d try to bake it like his mum used to, with potatoes, pumpkin, and onions. Farren didn’t mind cooking; he was better at it than his dad, who mostly just threw chops in a pan and buttered some bread.
A hundred yards on, in an eroded gully pocked with capeweed, Farren saw he’d trapped a young rabbit. It was too small to drag the trap and sat in the sunshine, eyes dark, ears like silk, as if it was waiting patiently for him to come and finish it off. Farren walked to the burrow, knelt and pinned it, absorbing its light kicks.
‘Hullo, little feller.’ He took no notice of the broken bones of its leg. ‘Now just you hang on for a sec.’
Farren liked rabbits, and although he had killed hundreds and hundreds, he never did stop liking them. They were a nuisance and a pest, they were from another country, and they made a mess of the paddocks, but Farren liked them anyway.
‘Orright,’ he said. ‘Orright. But if you just keep kickin’ I will break your bloody neck.’ He freed the rabbit, and when it showed no inclination to escape, he cradled it, feeling its heart race. ‘A three-legged rabbit,’ he muttered. ‘You won’t do much good out here, will yer, mate? Although I could just put ya back down ya hole and see how ya go.’
It was a good little rabbit, Farren decided. The little ones were better than the big ones, in the same way lambs were better than sheep.
‘I’ll keep yer, then,’ he told it. ‘You’ll be right. Just sit in me bag for a minute while I sort me last traps and then I’ll get yer out.’
The rabbit crouched in the box, shivering in the sparse carpet of grass Farren had sprinkled for it.
‘You can stay in the sun for a minute,’ Farren said, as he carried it around to the sunny side of the shed. ‘But then you gotta go to hospital. Though that won’t take long.’
Farren rolled the chopping block out of the woodshed and into the light. Then he went back in and got the axe. Since he was five or six years old he’d both killed and cared for, with just about equal tenderness, all sorts of fish, birds, and animals.
‘All right,’ he said finally. ‘That busted leg’s gotta go.’
THREE
Outside it might’ve been winter-dark but in the Victory Hotel’s kitchen everything was steamy-bright, the electric light shining determinedly over Farren as he fed wood into the stove. On the other side of the table, Charlotte Pike got down on the floor to check a mousetrap, only to get straight back up again like a cow struggling to its feet.
‘Oh, yuk! Disgustin’!’ She scrambled around the table towards Farren. ‘Your job, Farren,’ she said decisively. ‘Yes, you get ridda that mouse. I hate mice. They’re disgustin’ bloody things.’
Farren looked up from the hot mouth of the stove. Charlotte wasn’t tall but she was solid, with roly-poly wrists and a pale face with no real prettiness to it. She had left Mr Derriweather’s classroom a year ago, six months before he had, and was always keen to assert her position of superiority.
‘Yeah, no worries. I’ll get it in a sec.’ In a way, Farren felt sorry for Charlotte. She wasn’t the liveliest girl he’d ever seen. She always dressed in dull colours and he found it hard to tell her apart from her mother from the back.
‘Make sure you wash your hands after, Farren.’ Maggie said, her face softened by rising steam as she poured tea into mugs. ‘This is the cleanest kitchen in Queenscliff.’
Charlotte nodded authoritatively. ‘Yeah, you wash your ’ands, Farren. Good an’ proper.’
Farren took the trap outside, freed the mouse that was pinned by the neck, and slung it over the fence. Then he stood for a moment, smelling the sharpness of the sea and the fragrance of the wet paddocks, aware that the day beckoned with promises of favourable wind, tide, and weather. But finally he turned and went back into the harsh white electric light of the kitchen.
At morning tea, Farren, Maggie, and Charlotte sat at the table, the smoke of Maggie’s cigarette wafting up Farren’s nose. Between them was a plate of date loaf that Farren was devouring, helped by Charlotte, who always ate with one hand under her chin to catch crumbs.
‘Me dad says Captain Price is missin’ in action,’ Charlotte announced, and took another slice. ‘That means he’s a goner. Them Turks don’t take no prisoners. Cut yer throat as soon as look at yer.’ She chewed delicately yet efficiently, like a rabbit, Farren thought. ‘They’re savages, the bloody lot of ’em.’
Farren had gone to school with Captain Price’s son, Robbie, and had spent just about every lunch time either trying to hit him for six at cricket or out-mark him in footy. They’d shared a desk but no real friendship; the two of them shoving and muttering their way through the years until Farren had got his job at the pub and left – happy to see the back of the whole show, freckly bloody carrot-topped Robbie Price included.
Farren felt Maggie’s glance as she drew impatiently on her cigarette.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Charlotte.’ Maggie brushed ash from her lap. ‘The papers are more often wrong than not. I’d say there’s a good chance Captain Price is alive. Missing in action could mean a lot of things.’
Charlotte didn’t seem convinced.
‘Even so.’ She sat primly, hands together as if she might start praying. ‘I ’eard Mrs Price’s takin’ it real bad. Myra Dunne said she heard her wailin’ all through the night. Maybe she had a vision or somethink, because disturbed people often do, my mum says. They’ve got special sight.’
What bullshit, Farren thought.
‘Well, Mrs Price hasn’t been quite herself lately,’ Maggie said. ‘And this won’t help. Not one effing iota.’
Charlotte took a quick breath but said nothing about Maggie’s language.
‘I sat next to Robbie at school,’ Farren offered up, wanting Maggie to know that he didn’t think that it was interesting or funny that Pricey’s mum was mental. ‘I didn’t like him that much, because he’s a goody-goody. But I hope his dad’s all right. And his mum.’ Farren thought of Danny and felt a sharp stab in his chest. Oh God, he hoped Danny was safe ten times as much as he hoped Robbie Price’s dad was.
In the afternoon, taking out the chook scraps, Farren noticed Johnny Lansdowne-Murphy, his boss, come out of the wash-house with a girl Farren had never seen before. The girl looked older than Charlotte but younger than Maggie. She was thin, her face was milk-pale, and her hair was black, loosely held with a royal blue ribbon. A look of relief crossed Johnny’s round red face.
‘Oi, Farren. Come over ’ere for a sec.’ Johnny waved a chubby hand. ‘Leave the bloody bucket. Magg’s chooks can wait.’
Farren was aware that the new girl watched him closely. There was something sharp and unusual about her, a bird-like brightness coupled with a poised intensity. Her hands, slender and white, she kept lightly together, pointing in Farren’s direction.
‘Now, Farren.’ Johnny stirred the air again, this time with a finger. ‘This is Isla, me niece up from town, orright? She’s gunna be doing the wash-house work from now on since Olive buggered off. But there’s a couple’a things you gotta know.’ Johnny gave Isla a hefty wink before turning back to Farren. ‘She’s deaf, mate. She can’t talk – well, she can but not much and not real well. But she’s bright enough. She writes notes. So you just help ’er out and see how you go, eh?’
The exact meaning of what Johnny had said lingered beyond Farren’s full understanding. He nodded anyway.
‘Yeah, no worries.’ He looked shyly at Isla who looked directly at him. ‘Ah, hullo,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’m –’ Farren stopped talking, his throat feeling as if it was a suddenly capped container. Now he understood.
‘Don’t worry, cobber.’ Johnny’s round face loosened into a smile, his bleary blue eyes recapturing their usual bounce. ‘We all do that. Anyway, she’ll be livin’ on the premises and workin’ in the laundry, so you’ll see her around. Maybe you can help keep the wood up to her?’ Johnny put
a hand on Farren’s shoulder. ‘It’s our job to make sure she’s looked after, okey doke? Good boy. And now I’ll go and run her past Maggs. Catch yer, mate.’
‘No worries.’ Farren nodded. ‘And I’ll see yer, Isla,’ he added, ‘because I’d better go feed the –’ he felt like slapping himself.
Isla nodded generously, as if Farren’s statement was just what she had in mind.
‘Bye,’ she said, surprising him, fluttered a hand in farewell, and walked off.
Farren watched her go, her slender flat back hinting at well-worked muscles. He could see that Johnny was talking to her as he talked to just about everyone, quickly, with humour, and lots of hand-waving – not that it seemed to worry Isla, who watched his red face as closely as if it was a clock with an extra hand.
Farren liked her already.
FOUR
As Farren went down the hill he saw that the fishing boats were home, masts twitching as the men off-loaded the couta, tossing them up onto the wharf like lengths of silver firewood. He could pick out his dad and Luther, men in a boat in a long line of boats, working. He’d also been working, but already he’d decided it would not be the work he was going to do for ever.
As soon as Danny was back from the War, Farren would leave the pub and go on the Camille, because he reckoned that was proper work: out to sea, catching fish, handling ropes, knives, hooks, and lures – and racing home flat-out, the fastest boats getting the best berths, and earning reputations known right up through town.
Farren stood on the bridge, watching the water flood slowly in over the low muddy miles of the estuary. Six hours later, after a few minutes of rest, it would flow out to sea again. It was a rhythm Farren felt deep in his body, like the coming of morning after the night. Suddenly he remembered the rabbit at home in her box, and smiled. He was glad he’d saved her. She was a good thing.
∗
By the time his dad was home, Farren had lit the stove and the lamps and was heating up the leftover roast Maggie had given him. It smelled good and when he’d doled it out onto the plates, potatoes, pumpkin, and cauliflower steaming, he was so hungry his hands were shaking.
‘Geez, what a bloody good cook you are.’ Tom Fox held a knife and fork in fists that smelled of soap. ‘Your mother’d be proud. But p’raps not quite so happy about a bloody rabbit in the parlour.’
Farren flinched, as he did every time his mother was mentioned. He did not ever talk about her if he could help it. He had never said her name out loud since she had died, and each time he said the word, ‘mum’, he felt a choking in his throat and a flat, hard feeling in his head.
‘She wouldn’t mind.’ He knew she would have. ‘Not just while its leg fixes up.’
His dad shoofed air out of his nose, Farren knowing this was a laugh, or at least it wasn’t trouble. Tom Fox wiped his plate with a folded slice of bread.
‘Yeah, well, I’ll give yer the benefit of the doubt on that one.’
Farren collected the plates, smelling the clean dishcloth that he’d hung close to the stove. It was one of his mother’s smells; like the smell of baking, or hot water softened with Sunlight soap. He had to push himself to keep going, think of other things.
‘The wind’s come up.’ He listened as it pressed against the windows. ‘You might not go out tomorrer.’
Tom Fox took a hand-rolled cigarette from a worn tin.
‘It is lifting, that’s for sure.’ He struck a match. ‘So. How’s the pub?’ He leaned back and drew in smoke. ‘Yer gettin’ along with silly old Charlotte? Yer gotta try, mate. She probably keeps that family together, that kid.’
Farren put the plates in the trough and got the kettle. Charlotte’s father, Clem, was a bludger, the eight Pikes living in an unpainted cottage that would’ve fallen over, except that it leaned tiredly against a tree. Farren knew his dad was right. Charlotte didn’t need any more trouble.
‘Oh Danny-boy,’ Tom Fox said out of the blue, looking up at the white-washed ceiling boards. ‘Make sure you keep your ’ead down, son. We bloody need ya back ’ere. We most definitely do.’
FIVE
The following Saturday afternoon, after building Hoppidy a hutch from scrap timber, Farren went down to the inlet to look for his father and the Camille. Someone, Robbie Price he was pretty sure, had rowed out to Captain Price’s little sailing boat, the Jane-Eliza, to haul up the mainsail. And as far as Farren could tell, goody-goody Robbie-boy didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
Farren squatted in the low scrub to watch. Robbie had the yacht facing directly into the wind, the sail flapping uselessly in the stiffening breeze. Farren saw him wag the tiller to get a little forward momentum.
‘Off yer go,’ Farren murmured. ‘One way or the other.’
The boat muddled through the wind until her sail filled, she heeled over and began to move out into the inlet, Farren wondering if Robbie knew enough to sheet in and sail away under control.
‘Nope, dope.’ Farren answered his own question, enjoying what he was seeing. ‘Sheet in, ya goose.’ He watched Robbie push the tiller away, in an effort, he reckoned, to turn the yacht back to shore. ‘Ah, steady, sport. That’s a bit risky.’
The Jane-Eliza presented her sail to the wind, and before Farren could shout to duck, the wind flung it, the boom smacking Robbie square across the forehead, knocking him right out of the boat.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Farren jumped up. ‘Oi, Robbie! Robbie, oi!’ He tore down to the shore, dragging off his shirt and jumper, watching the boat muddle away to leave Robbie as a motionless lump in the water. ‘Eh! Pricey!’ At the water’s edge Farren pulled off his boots, socks, and pants, and started to wade out as fast as he could. ‘Eh, Pricey! Hang on! I’m comin’!’
Farren ploughed on until the water reached his ribs then he dived and swam, keeping his head above the surface so as not to lose sight of Robbie who wallowed like a drowning animal. And then Farren had hold of Robbie’s jumper and collar, and as he dragged Robbie’s head up Farren felt his own feet meet the soft, weedy, welcoming bottom. The water was only chest-deep. Farren felt his strength double.
‘C’mon, Pricey!’ he yelled at Robbie’s sodden head. ‘C’mon! It’s only shallow. Come on. Stand!’ He heaved, and Robbie’s weight lessened as he did what he was told. ‘See? Just stand.’ Farren kept good hold of him with both fists. ‘That’s it.’
‘Fu-kuh!’ Robbie coughed out. ‘Fu-kuhn-Farren!’
Farren had to laugh. It was as if he and Pricey had left the world for a minute but now they were back; he could feel the warmth of the sun and the coldness of the water, the houses and roofs of the town were as clear as a picture on a postage stamp, and the Jane-Eliza’s sail was as white as a seagull’s front.
‘Geez, Pricey.’ Farren’s hands were twisted deep into the greasy woollen folds of Robbie’s jumper, ‘I gotta say, mate, you’re one hell of a good sailor. C’mon, start walkin’.’ Farren started to haul him towards shore. ‘But geez, you gotta bump on your head like a bloody cricket ball. It ain’t bleedin’, though.’
Unsteadily Robbie headed inshore with Farren.
‘Where’s za boat?’ He made an effort to look around. ‘Me dad’ll – it didn’t bloody sink, did it?’
The boat had nudged harmlessly into the shore and tipped; Farren knew it was safe.
‘Nah. It’s just over there. I’ll sail it back out to the moorin’ later. You better just get out on the bank and sit for a bit.’
The boys walked around the inlet on the train tracks, Robbie stumbling as if his knees couldn’t carry his weight. Farren stopped.
‘We better rest for a minute. There’s a good big log down there.’ Farren pointed to the shore where a log had lain like a fallen hero for as long as he could remember. ‘I wouldn’t mind a siddown anyway.’
Robbie didn’t argue. Farren led the way, knowing that now he and Robbie were mates. Even though they’d fought at school, off and on for years, it didn’t matter. Things had changed as of about twenty minut
es ago.
For a while they sat, Robbie with his head in his hands, Farren running his palms over the old hollow log, wondering if there might be a snake hibernating inside it, right under their bums.
‘How’s your brother?’ Robbie spoke through splayed fingers. ‘He all right over there?’
Farren looked away, along the shore, seeing water that was the colour of black tea and thickened with seagrass. Here and there birds paddled placidly. He hoped Danny was safe in a cave or deep down in a trench.
‘Yeah, he’s all right.’ Farren picked at the hard silver wood. ‘So far.’ He wanted Robbie to know that he knew about his dad, and that he knew how serious it was. ‘I hope your dad’s all right, too,’ he added. ‘Maggie from the pub reckons he probably is and so do I. Maybe they just got him as a prisoner or somethin’. Or in their hospital.’
Robbie spat, hands to his face like blinkers.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I hope so.’
The Price’s brick cottage stood in a flat street right at the top of town. Farren had walked past it plenty of times, occasionally seeing Mrs Price working in the garden. There was a painted flagpole, Farren remembering the Australian flag flying there during summer, bluer than the sky, white stars rippling one after the other. Robbie opened the wire gate and went through.
‘Come on in, Foxy. The old girl might not go so spare if you’re here.’
Farren, uncertain, followed. Mrs Price wasn’t real well; everyone knew that, although he’d never seen any great proof of her supposed mentalness. Mostly, when he’d seen her, she was just out in the garden cutting flowers or weeding, wearing a big white hat with a veil on it like a beekeeper. He followed Robbie around to the back step where they took their boots off, Robbie wringing out his socks, producing caterpillars of dirty water.
‘Ah, yes sir-ee.’ He draped them over a garden tap. ‘Further proof of my very good seamanship.’ Barefoot, he opened the door, calling out as he went inside. ‘I’m home, Mum! And I’m, er, a little bit damp. And we’ve got a visitor. Plus I’ve got a bit of a bump on me head.’
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