He could see across to the long pale stretch of the beach at Boydtown, and dimly through the pines and palm trees the restored and expanded towers of the Seahorse Inn. He knew that it had been built in the 1840s by Ben Boyd as part of the empire that was to begin with whaling at Twofold Bay and take in pastoral leases and banks, an empire which collapsed and was abandoned, though the Seahorse Inn survived, and was now supposed to be emerging as a luxurious resort for rich people. So grandiose at birth and now again in this latest incarnation. The locals were sceptical about its likely success. He knew these things but did not particularly think of them as his eyes gazed at the mist-shrouded edifice.
The boat rod dipped. He reeled in the line: a mulloway, but too small. The minimum length was forty-five centimetres, and he could see that this one was considerably shorter than that. He didn’t pull it out of the water but left it just below the surface, in order to shock it as little as possible. Fish have delicate skins; nets and hard surfaces quickly damage them. And of course the unbreathable air. No point in putting them back if you traumatise them. He tried to grasp the body of the fish and pull out the hook but the fish struggled and he could not get a purchase. Even with his needle-nose pliers he could not get near or steady enough to extract it. Instead he cut the line with scissors, and the fish, released, gave a quick flick and was gone. Sometimes if the fish was very fatigued it was necessary to hold it and push it through the water so that it got oxygen through its gills, until it was strong enough to swim away on its own. The hook should easily dissolve in the stomach acids. So the old fishermen said.
Several more times he caught too-small mulloway and then a trevally. He let that go, even though there was no legal limit; he wasn’t particularly interested in trevally. He poured himself a cup of tea from the thermos, added milk from the jar that had replaced the one he broke. He’d tried various different jars and none of them poured as well as the old one. He ate a Turkish pastry from the deli, oozing honey and knobbly with walnuts. Then another mulloway took the live squid bait. A good big one, at least fifty centimetres. He reeled it in gently. The barbless hooks required a certain skill. When he got it into the boat he clocked it on the head with a small billet of wood. It was a trick an old Frenchman had shown him for killing trout quickly and painlessly, so they didn’t bang about and bruise themselves and drown in air. The old man didn’t do it because it was humane but because he believed the fish tasted sweeter if they hadn’t suffered.
When that was done he realised that the sounds about him were changing. The soft quietness of the mist with only the mild lapping of the water against the wooden timbers of the boat was being invaded by a faint distant groan, and the air felt altogether different, disturbed. And it was no longer the sunless mistiness of a winter’s afternoon but the real twilight of the end of the day. Soon it would be dark. The invisible sun would have set by now. He could feel the weather changing, the storm promised for tomorrow coming early, the wind rising and the formerly tranquil water heaving and slapping; soon it would be choppy and then rough. Twofold Bay was remarkably sheltered, but Nullica Bay was opposite the open sea, the enfolding headlands couldn’t protect it. It would take a while for the storm’s force to hit, he’d have plenty of time to get back to Quarantine Bay. And he had his fish.
He stowed his gear in the careful way that gave him pleasure. He took the hatch off the engine and pulled the cord to start it. It never fired on the first two pulls, but reliably always on the third or fourth it broke into its slow comfortable putt-putt. He pulled up the anchor, turned the boat around and headed for home. The waves were beginning to slap quite hard against the timbers and soon the boat’s forward movement was slowed by her wallowing from side to side. It wouldn’t be a quick trip back.
And then the engine stopped. It had never done that before. Jack took the hatch off. It was almost completely dark now. There was a torch but when he shone it into the compartment he couldn’t see what might be wrong. He pulled the cord again, a number of times, but it didn’t even turn over. Old it was, the engine, probably as old as the boat. But as reliable, he’d thought. He had it serviced, it always worked. Engines weren’t Jack’s thing. Carpentry, painting, any kind of work with wood, but not mechanical.
He knew how dangerous his position was. In a small boat, in a gathering storm. He wasn’t sure what the tides would do; pull him out into the open sea, probably. At least here was no bar, as there was in the ports farther up the coast, Merimbula, Narooma; even in good weather a boat could easily be wrecked on a bar. There was a technique for crossing these sand barriers, pausing for the right moment then moving quickly. And of course the tide had to be high. But no bar was very little comfort in bad weather, rough seas, in a small boat which could make no way, could only toss at the mercy of the waters. He put on his life jacket.
He did have a sea anchor. He’d never used it before but he knew where it was, properly stowed in its locker. That should keep him nose to the waves. He fastened it to an iron ring in the bow of the boat which was probably for that purpose, and it was successful. Campaspe rode nose to the waves, and though the motion was violent he stayed afloat. He used the dipper to bail out the water that drove over the bow. The little craft was seaworthy but not proof against water splashing in. It had a little half-cabin that formed a kind of shelter, but not against the wild seas and the rain that had begun to fall in sheets. The sea water splashed into his face, he could feel his skin becoming crusted with salt and when he licked his lips he got the thirsty gritty taste of it. He tipped his face up to the rain but it did not seem to wash away the saltiness.
He was perfectly safe. He could ride the storm and sooner or later somebody should come, even if he had to wait for daylight, which would be a long night. Some vessel might pass in the meantime. He huddled down into his life jacket. Already quite a lot of time had passed. There was a creaking and scraping noise that worried him and when he shone the torch in its direction he realised that the hook that held the sea anchor was working loose from the old soft wood of the boat’s prow. He made a lunge for it but a fraction too late. The loop flew out and the sea anchor was lost.
He could try to hold Campaspe head on to the waves using the rudder but he knew that would be almost impossible. The boat would keep turning side on to the waves and he could easily be swamped. Nevertheless he had to keep trying.
It was exhausting work. His body was fit and did not often remind him that he wasn’t a young man. But tonight it felt very old. He also felt calm. His child had died, his wife. They had slipped without complaint into whatever death was. It was the least he could do, to follow with the same dignity, if that was what was required. Perhaps it was the desirable thing. There need be no more striving. The thought of peace seemed beautiful.
Just the same he readied a flare. He carried two, had never used one before. When would be the moment? There was no sign of any other boat. He hadn’t reported his trip to anyone. He never did, since he never went out into the open sea. Would somebody on shore see a flare? He had only two chances. Fate would decide.
He thought he heard the sound of a motor; it was hard to tell through the groaning of the elements. He let off the flare; when would he know if anyone had seen? It lit up his boat, the churning water, his engine but not its secrets, hung for a little while, then went out.
Time passed. He could no longer work out where the Seahorse Inn was. It didn’t seem to have any lights. There didn’t seem to be any lights anywhere. Was it the weather, or had he been washed away from any habitation? The shores were quite empty for much of Twofold Bay, what houses there were hidden among trees. He wondered if death meant he would see Rosamund again. He had never thought he knew anything about death, whether there would be life again, and people you loved. Louise might be waiting too. A baby. Or a little girl. Or just a soul. Rosamund was still always there in his mind, still luminous but not so enormous as she used to be, there were hollows and empty spaces that she could no longer fill. Rosamund. He want
ed that she be there, waiting for him.
He saw points of light away across the water, and heard the faint roar of a powerful engine. He let off another flare. He heard the boat slow, and then it was circling, and a searchlight shone down on him. It was one of the game-fishing boats, plunging up and down in the waves, no longer cleaving through them with the speed of its passage.
Hello there, an American voice called. Trouble?
Engine failure, shouted Jack.
Hold on. Here come the marines.
Another voice said, There’s gotta be a rope here somewhere.
Try that box.
The game cruiser towed him into Cattle Bay. That was its destination. That okay, buddy? the first voice asked, and of course it was, any shore would do. His rescuers moored his powerless boat to their buoy with plenty of slack and he put out his anchor to stop it bumping against the big boat in the storm. Unlikely: the bay was tucked into Snug Cove and sheltered. The Americans offered him a lift in the four-wheel drive they had parked there but he refused. He lived just up the hill, he said. It was true, more or less. He was cold, and his legs trembled as he set off. A walk would steady him. And he didn’t want to talk to cheerful Americans full of the sport of the fish they had nearly caught. He had his fish in his bag, though it was far too late to clean and fillet and cook it tonight. He was for a tin of soup, some toast, bed. He’d have to get down to the cove early, he’d left his tackle in the boat, which normally he’d never do, and he had to get the engine fixed so he could sail around to Quarantine Bay and get his car. He should have accepted the lift, he hadn’t realised how tired he was.
You know why it’s called Quarantine Bay? said a voice, a quavering rusty voice that sounded as if it hadn’t been used for forming words in a long time, then after a while they came out in something of a rush, as though the first ones had primed the machinery.
Quarantine Bay, muttered Jack. He didn’t care why. He was tired and worn out and all his limbs trembled, but even rested and well he wouldn’t be especially interested. Things had names, you used them but didn’t concern yourself with them.
The smallpox, said the voice, coming creaking out of the deep-set hood of a duffel coat, while a light and bony hand had fixed itself on Jack’s arm and a pair of round-toed boots kept slow pace with him on the path up the hill.
The smallpox, the voice repeated. A boat came in to the bay and her passengers were infected with smallpox so they made her anchor there, instead of round in the cove. A lot of them died. She picked up the smallpox in India, see, along with her cargo of silk. They buried the silk along with the dead bodies just up the beach there. He pointed.
The man’s hand was bone-white on his arm, not heavy, but when Jack tried to pull away he couldn’t. Weak as a kitten, he was. The man said in his disused voice, If you’ll allow me. My sight’s not good . . .
Jack just wanted to get up the hill, which felt even steeper than usual. And though there was no weight in the man’s hand he seemed a burden that Jack had to drag up as well as himself.
’Course, straightaway folks dug it up, the silk, and sold it up and down the coast. All the grand ladies in mortal silk dresses. Mortal silk. The man’s chuckle was even rustier than his voice.
Jack said nothing, needing his energy for the climb. But the man kept on talking. I’m an Eden man myself, he said, an Eden man, man and boy, and beyond. Spent m’days as a whaler, on the boats.
What he meant was, he went to sea to catch whales, rather than wait for them to come into the bay and harpoon them there and haul them ashore, which had been big business in Eden. Jack knew there’d been no whaling in Eden since the thirties of last century. I thought you could only watch whales, these days, he said.
We watched ’em, sure enough. The man chuckled again. I’ll tell you a story. It’s a strange story, and a true one, though maybe I wouldn’t believe it if it hadn’t happened to me. It was back when I was on Star of the East. Way out at sea we was.
Jack wondered if maybe the man had been a whaling pirate. In the pay of one of those countries people suspected were breaking the whaling ban. Star of the East: the name could have sinister implications.
She was chased by a huge sperm whale. Three of us whaleboats put out after him and got a harpoon into the mighty creature, what dived eight hundred feet before the line slackened. It’s all quiet when that happens, and you sit there in a funk, I can tell you. You know he’s lurking, and you know he’ll break again. Where will he come up next? They’re angry, these whales, they’re mean beasts, they fight. Well, erupt he did, under my very boat, tossing it into the air and smashing it into matchsticks with one blow of his tail. The other boats picked up the survivors, but two men were missing.
That tail, said the man. You know what they call it? The hand of God. The hand of God, down it comes, whack, and you’re destroyed.
Well, by sunset the harpoon had done its job and the whale was dying. They winched it to the side of the vessel to start work on it. They flensed the blubber from the carcass, and then they hoisted its huge liver and stomach on board. The paunch was breathing. In and out. In and out. Well . . . how could that be? The whale’s carcass was cut up for blubber. Its organs weren’t even in it any more. How could they be breathing?
The men sliced the paunch open. Out came a man’s foot, boot on, and a trousered leg. Here the man stamped his round-toed boot on the ground. That was me. I weren’t conscious. I been inside that stomach for fifteen hours. Think of it. Fifteen hours inside of a whale. M’flesh was white as death, bleached by the creature’s digestive juices. The skin of my eyes were damaged, so I can’t see too well. I were delirious for a month. But I lived to tell the tale. What it felt like, the monster’s huge teeth grating across my legs as I slid down the tube of his throat. Jonah, they call me. Tell us the story of the whale swallowing you, Jonah, they say, and they buy me a drink. Used to.
They were at the top of the hill now and walking along the street that would lead to Jack’s house. Well, he said, sorry about that. The pub’s shut and I’ve got no drink. He heard himself sounding ungracious. I can give you a mug of soup, he said, much to his surprise. The last thing he wanted was this stranger in the sanctuary of his house. The rain was sluicing down and his meant-to-be-waterproof jacket no more use than an old shirt. He had to blink hard to shake the water out of his eyelashes.
I thank you, said the man, but I’ll not trouble you. He paused, not far from a street light that was tossing wildly in the wind, and raised his head a little, so the light briefly illuminated his ghastly white face and the opaque glitter of his eyes, then retreated again into the depths of his hood. He tapped Jack twice on the arm with his bone-white hand, a tap Jack saw rather than felt, then slid his hands into the sleeves of his coat, nodded, and ambled back the way they had come. When Jack looked again he was not even a shadow in the dark and rainswept night.
He heated soup and buttered some toast and ate them in a deep hot bath. The warmth calmed the shivering of his body but didn’t overcome the trembling of his limbs. Though that didn’t keep him awake when he went to bed. He fell asleep and stayed there long past the time he had meant to get up. And was only woken by the ringing of the telephone.
It was Lynette, his sister-in-law, number three. To tell him that Bill—William—had died. Last night. Drowned in a pool at a hotel gym. Jack heard himself say, in a kind of wonderment, What time? I nearly drowned last night . . . too.
Lynette said, It was a heart attack that did it. She was thinking, trust Jack to put himself in the picture. Slow Jack. Maddening Jack. William’s energy and spirit snuffed out and Jack who was older as well still maundering along. So far she was more angry with William for dying than she was grieving.
Jack was saying something about his little brother and how hard it was to grasp the idea of losing him, he’d never even thought of such a thing. She interrupted. I’m sorry, Jack, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know about the funeral.
By the time he’d arran
ged for the mechanic to look at the boat and got a mate to drive him to Quarantine Bay—remembering the story of the silk and the victims of smallpox being buried there and how there was no sign at all of such events—and brought his car back and filleted the fish and put it on a plate in the refrigerator, the early evening was closing in. The house, which he had been finally managing to find cosy again, after Rosamund’s death had made it bleak and empty, seemed forlorn once more. Even though he didn’t see much of Bill he was his brother, he did not need to keep visiting him to feel him part of his life, and every winter he wrote him a long letter which Bill eventually always answered so they knew what they were up to. And now that comfortable warm presence whom distance couldn’t diminish had been turned by death to an ache and an absence. He felt hollowed out, and it was as though all his bones and muscles still so sore from yesterday’s fight with the elements were strung together in a flimsy skeleton housing nothing. Oh Rosamund, he said, why did you leave me? He needed her now to console him for the death of Bill. Nothing could hurt him while Rosamund was there to look after him. Now it seemed that everything knocked him about. He could turn into a complete wreck.
Just feeling sorry for myself, love, he said, and went up to the pub. It was warm in the pub, and a couple of stouts would take the cold out of his inside, and there’d be some blokes he knew. George was there, and Leon. George had been on the trawlers. He enjoyed Jack’s story about the engine breaking down and the loss of the sea anchor and being rescued by the game cruiser. You were lucky, mate. Lucky them fuckwits knew one end of the rope from the other. Jack wanted to tell them about his brother dying, but Leon got started on some yarn about how his truck drove up the mountain to Canberra faster when there was a tailwind, and used less fuel too. Should be even better coming back, said George, it’s all downhill. The word downhill made them laugh.
Goodbye Sweetheart Page 5
