Big River, Little Fish

by Belinda Jeffrey

  A few of the Crash Crew blokes run up to Swanson.

  ‘Beers needed,’ they say, thrusting a long-neck beer bottle into Swanson’s hand. Swanson passes it to Oliver.

  Oliver holds up his hand. He goes to say something and shakes his head.

  ‘Now, it’s just not Australian, mate,’ Swanson says, laughing to the other guys.

  ‘It’s not,’ Oliver starts to say. He looks at the bottle and the smell of yeast makes him swallow. Even after all these months, the lure towards it is so strong he stops thinking and it’s just the feeling of wanting it.

  Swanson shoves the bottle against his chest and Oliver takes it around the thin part of the neck.

  ‘I’ll keep my end up,’ Swanson says, holding the bottle to his lips and drinking. Oliver looks over to the levee line. It’s a sorry sight. Mud and rain and the river lashing the men standing with shovels and branches on the line. There’s the sound of snapping and metal ripping.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ someone yells. ‘Ted’s garage has gone under. River’s ripping her apart.’

  Oliver watches Ted walk up from what’s left of the ramp. He limps towards Oliver, clutching something under his arm.

  The rain slows and stops, but the river continues her assault. Oliver feels his hands tremble and the urge to drink is so damn strong. He convinces himself he could stop at one. That he could be like most other men and get happy and rowdy for a night, sleep it off and go back to work the next day. But there’s a throbbing memory about who he used to be, pulsing there, too. He looks back at the ferry. The ferryman’s house. They’re gone to the drink, why not him?

  Ted arrives at Oliver’s side. He feels Ted grab his arm and he turns to look at the man who’s been Tom’s father. It’s only a moment they share, looking at each other like that, but to Oliver it feels like forever. Something passes between them, thoughts, memories, not something you could ever explain. Ted reaches over and takes the beer from his hands. And he holds out the tin.

  ‘There’s enough going under around here without you doing it too,’ Ted says.

  MURRAY

  September 1956

  Murray Black catches one more glimpse of Oliver Richardson walking away from the ferry before the tractor clears the hill. He parks the Ferguson beside the levee bank and gets out, grabbing a shovel.

  It’s so dark and there’s so much going on that no one much notices Murray and the other blacks standing side-by-side them, digging the same dirt, lashing the same branches, brushing hands. Working together to hold a greater threat back.

  He remembers that night Lil was with Oliver at the pub. A desperate fear made him run to the pub that night, thinking that she would be lost to that racing boy for good. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being gone to him like that, never for a minute thinking that she could be taken from him in other ways, greater ways, than another man. If only she had been lost to him that night, if Oliver had taken her with him, away from this town.

  She walked home alone that night, after he showed up at the hotel. She couldn’t bear the way they talked about him, the way she couldn’t explain what was true and what wasn’t and then there was the way Sprint looked at her. She cried until her tears blinded her from anything else. She ran, at first, straight down the road out of town. Staggered along Big Bend Road and collapsed on her bed inside the hut.

  Murray came the next morning and cooked her damper on the fire outside the hut down by the river. He caught cod for her and cooked it fresh. He salted the rest of his catch and left it there and he almost said things, then. He had words forming in his mind for a good year about Lil. And at night, when the stars were high and bright, he imagined the way they might sound said out aloud. But he didn’t say them. There were too many things between all those perfect words in his head and what they meant when they were said aloud in the real world. He even imagined she had the same words stuck in her mind, too. And she knew. They both knew how dangerous those words were. They had never been said and still people talked. Threw dreadful things in her face all because those words hung there like a possibility.

  Until Sprint.

  Lil’s mother hadn’t minded Murray coming round when Lil was small. He saved Lil from the boredom of a dreary day and her mother was free to wander. It never occurred to her what people might say as they grew older. How it would look when Murray refused to be moved on with all the other Aboriginals. How he seemed too fond of Lil and Lil too fond of him. He hunted food, he cooked. He was company.

  I won’t love anyone else, Lil said that morning after Sprint, and Murray listened to those words said out aloud, the same words he had in his own mind.

  Except for you. And that’s different.

  I’ll be fine, Lil said when Murray mentioned the job cutting mallee wood for the army. Tom was already large inside her. I want you to go. Earn your own money so you won’t be beholden to other men telling you what you can and can’t do. She kissed him on the cheek before he left.

  Murray lifts another sandbag on top of the levee bank and reaches for his shovel to fill the next one. He feels the rain on his face, on his skin. He smells fish everywhere, dead fish, bloated fish. But he senses life down there, too. Old Mother is alive. And it’s time he let her go.

  TOM

  September 1956

  There’s no telling where Mrs Cath is and the dark could hide an old woman in a thousand pockets. Tom tries to think about where she might go, what might pull her along. Whether her body wanders aimlessly when her mind is lost, or whether there’s a part of her that remembers, that takes her on some well-worn track.

  Tom’s uneasy about Mrs Guthrie coming with him. She walks behind him, following slowly. ‘Do you know where she might go?’ Mrs Guthrie says.

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  They’ve skirted the house, the shearers’ quarters, the garden shed. Wandered up to the top road and back again. Tom heads down the paddock towards the shearing shed, mentally ticking off possibilities as they come to him. He stops for Mrs Guthrie to catch up. ‘You should go back to the house.’

  ‘You might not be able to help her on your own, Tom.’

  The sheep, waiting to be shorn, are restless in the pens by the shearing shed, but there’s no sign of Mrs Cath there.

  ‘She asked me to write her stories down,’ Tom says for something to say, ‘before she forgot who she was.’

  ‘Really.’

  The ground is uneven and Tom helps Mrs Guthrie, taking her hand as they go down the hill. She sounds breathless and Tom stops. He’s worried. Like part of him is torn between too many things. His pa, the levee and Mrs Cath and Mrs Guthrie. His pa is going to fume when he hears Tom let her come with him. He should have brought Hannah and left her mum at home and he thinks about taking her back, and doing it right, but they’re almost at the river now anyway and if Mrs Cath is hurt or...

  ‘Come on,’ Mrs Guthrie says, passing him. ‘Maybe she went back to her place. Where is it?’

  Tom runs in front of Mrs Guthrie and they leave the shearing shed behind. They pass the back of where John’s shack used to be and there’s nothing there. Just trees and water.

  ‘Mrs Cath!’ Tom calls. They’re nearing her shack and Tom sees the roof, then. It looks like the water’s come about halfway up the walls. He runs. ‘Mrs Cath!’

  ‘Stay here,’ he says to Mrs Guthrie. ‘I’ll go in and see if she’s there.’

  Tom steps into the water, his arms held out to the side of his body. The wind is strong and the water slaps him. It comes up to his knees, his waist, his armpits. He takes hold of the side of the house and trips and he lurches forward. It would be easier to do what his pa did, just dive in and swim, though there’s no telling how deep it is.

  ‘Mrs Cath!’

  He rounds the front of the shack and edges along the wall. The door is pushed open with the water and Tom wa
des inside. Debris floats everywhere in the room. A chair is pushed up against a cupboard in the corner. Tom looks around. He calls for her but there’s no answer.

  Tom wades back to Mrs Guthrie who is leaning against a tree.

  ‘You okay?’

  She nods. She straightens up and rubs her back. ‘Anything?’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘I’ll try up further. Stay here and I’ll call if I need you.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand the thought of her being taken by the river, Tom. Not while we were out.’

  Tom shivers with the cold and his legs are heavy as he runs on the ground at the water’s edge towards Larry’s shack.

  His makeshift camp is still there, a few plates float in a puddle. His tinny bobs and slides in the water, still tied fast to the outhouse toilet bowl. The shack seems to suck water in through the back door like a funnel. It eases and the door closes slightly, and then the shack sucks in again. The tinny moves to the side with the pressure each time.

  Tom reaches the edge of the camp and calls. He stands, hands on hips, looking around and he feels helpless. His breathing speeds up and his chest constricts. And then he reaches the tinny and there she is, inside. She lies with her head against the seat and seems to be asleep. Tom puts his hands on her shoulders and shakes her. Her skin is cold and Tom tries to remember how to check if someone is alive. He feels her neck and it’s warmer. A flutter in the vein against his fingers. He shakes her again, and she rouses, slightly. Her eyes open, but they have their unseeing look about them.

  ‘Book,’ she says. ‘Muriel, is that you?’ Her teeth chatter and Tom wishes he had a coat or a blanket to put around her. He takes her hands and tries pulling her out of the boat, but she won’t budge. It’s almost funny, Tom thinks, how often he’s had to pull her away from herself like this.

  ‘Tom!’ He hears Mrs Guthrie calling.

  ‘Tom!’ he hears. Louder this time.

  ‘I’ve found her,’ he calls. ‘I can’t get her to move.’

  ‘Come on, Mrs Cath. We’re that worried about you. You have to help me.’

  She chuckles.

  ‘Please.’

  Tom leaves her and runs back towards Mrs Guthrie, finding her coming along the path. She holds her back as she walks.

  Tom and Mrs Guthrie both try pulling her out of the boat, but they can’t. Tom slides his hands under her and tries lifting, but he slips in the water and Mrs Cath bangs her head on the seat. ‘I’m going to have to row her,’ Tom says, looking around. ‘Maybe I should row her behind the shacks towards town. Reach the levee.’

  Mrs Guthrie nods. She’s bent over the boat and she straightens awkwardly before leaning over against the boat again.

  ‘Mrs Guthrie!’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘I’ll get in, too.’

  There’s just enough room for them all in the boat, with Mrs Guthrie sitting awkwardly in the space with her baby so large in front of her. Tom tries starting the motor, pulling on the ripcord, but it doesn’t start. He pulls again, but there’s not even a purr from the engine. It’s probably been a while since Larry used it. Or there’s no petrol. Tom takes the oars from the inside of the boat. He unties the rope and pushes the tinny out into the shallows.

  Tom drags the boat on the backside of the shack line, not wanting to broach the river proper, all her currents. He realises, as he rows, that at some stage the backwaters will run out and, to round the cliff face, he’ll have to brave the open water. Either that or come across someone who can help.

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ll find a flat spot near the dirt road and run back for the car. You could wait with her and I’ll come back for you.’ Tom’s arms burn, but he drags the oars through the water. Mrs Cath is quiet. Like a stone in the bottom of the boat.

  Mrs Guthrie looks up at Tom. ‘It’ll all be fine, Tom,’ she says as if he had asked. ‘Your pa and the ferry, too.’

  Tom nods. The muscles in his face tighten with the effort of rowing. He looks over his shoulder to see where he might be able to pull in and he rests the oars on the edge of the boat. There might be a place not too far up.

  Mrs Cath laughs as the first drops of rain fall on her skin. She blinks and splutters as the rain comes down harder, then cowers around herself and shivers.

  Tom rows faster, but the water feels thick and the wind pushes against him. The water whips up like the ocean and kicks the tinny towards the bank. Tom resists for a moment before succumbing and rowing with the tide. The boat hits the edge of dry ground and Tom jumps out, taking the nose of the tinny and turning the boat to face land. Holding the nose, he looks around for something to tie her to. A wave lashes against the boat and his feet slide in the mud as the tinny twists and he slips into the edge of water.

  ‘Tom,’ Mrs Guthrie calls, standing up and leaning over the boat.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he calls. He’s finding it hard to think. One thing turning into another before he has time to solve the last. The only thing he can think of is that he shouldn’t have let Mrs Guthrie come with him. He sees her shivering and she looks so fragile and uncomfortable.

  Mrs Guthrie bends lower, gripping the side of the boat, before stepping out onto the ground. Mrs Cath starts shivering so hard, Mrs Guthrie rubs her shoulders. She looks around as if something useful might appear. Her wet hair sticks to her face.

  Tom runs up the bank, slipping again, with the rope in his hand. He wraps it around the nearest tree, no matter it doesn’t seem strong enough for the job. He ties it, quickly, and is back at the boat.

  ‘We have to get her out,’ Tom says.

  Mrs Guthrie nods.

  ‘Mrs Cath you have to get out. You’ll drown!’ Tom says, taking her arm. Mrs Guthrie manoeuvres herself on the other side of her and takes her other arm. Together they pull and she slowly moves. Instinctively she falls on her knees, but they keep pulling so she has no other option than to help herself and stand. They drag her to the side of the boat and the top half of her body leans across the edge. Tom suddenly fears they might break her or kill her with the effort of saving her. He looks to Mrs Guthrie. Her dress clings to her body and the shape of her baby seems grotesque. Some appendage, not quite human, attached to her. It looks larger, this way. Magnified by the night and Old Mother and the fear of Mrs Cath. The thought of that baby scares Tom.

  Tom leans over Mrs Cath and scoops her knees around to the side of the boat. He lifts her knees while Mrs Guthrie takes her hands and they succeed in getting her out of the boat, only to drop her in the edge of the water. Tom stands in front of her and firmly pulls her upright and she stands. He pulls and her feet move forward, and he takes her up out of the water across the grass with Mrs Guthrie following behind.

  ‘It’s too far for you both to walk,’ Tom says stopping. ‘Best we can do is find a shelter and I go get the car.’

  The rain has eased a little, but it still blinds him. What he’s hoping for is a large tree. Otherwise they’ll have to head back the way they came in the hope of finding a shack not too far back.

  ‘I don’t feel right about leaving you here,’ Tom says. ‘We could just wait it out.’

  Mrs Guthrie shakes her head. ‘She’s too cold, Tom.’

  ‘I’ll be as fast as I can, okay?’

  Mrs Guthrie sits down beside the tree trunk and pulls Mrs Cath down beside her. She puts her arms around Mrs Cath and pulls her close.

  ‘Where...’ Mrs Cath begins to say. ‘Muriel. Tom, is that you?’

  ‘You’ll be right Mrs Cath. Mrs Guthrie’s with you.’ Tom runs off through the rain. He keeps to the line of shacks knowing it’s the quickest way up to the farm. He passes them all and, finally, when he’s at the place where the fishing beach used to be, he turns and runs up the hill. It feels like Old Mother is in his ears. She has him from every which way.

  ‘Hannah!’
Tom calls running inside the house. He calls again, but there’s no answer. His heart beats fast and his mind is a muddle. He runs to her door and places his hand on the door knob and hesitates. ‘Hannah!’

  The door opens and Hannah appears.

  ‘I need your help. Your mum and Mrs Cath are down past the shacks. I–’ Tom stops. ‘I haven’t got time to explain. Come on.’

  Tom grabs the keys from the bench and expects to find Hannah beside him, but she’s standing in the doorway of her room leaning on the doorframe.

  ‘Hannah!’ Tom yells.

  ‘This is it, Mot,’ she says. ‘You can’t take me where you’re going.’

  ‘Just get in the car!’ Tom yells but she stands there, quiet and serene looking, as if she’s not quite...

  ‘Don’t you dare leave me now,’ he screams. He runs back to her. ‘Don’t you dare!’

  ‘They need you, Mot. You have to go.’

  ‘No,’ he yells.

  ‘You have to get real on me, Mot.’

  Tom turns the key and Mabel groans and stops. ‘No,’ Tom says, ‘not now. Come on.’ He turns the key again and she comes to life. ‘Thanks, Mabel’ he says. ‘This is not the time to be giving out on me.’ He turns Mabel around and steers her over the bumpy ground to the road, speeding all the way to Big Bend, turning too quickly across the cattle grate onto the dirt road, skidding the tyre on the gravel.

  Tom kills the engine as close to the edge of the river as he can though he has to walk the rest of the distance to where he left Mrs Guthrie. He hops out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and takes off.

  ‘Mrs Guthrie!’ Tom calls.

  Tom has a fair idea where he left them, but he can’t be exactly sure. It’s too dark to get his bearings and the only other way is to find the tinny and trace his steps.

  ‘Mrs Guthrie, Mrs Cath!’ Tom calls again. Panic kicks him in the chest. He knows he’s close enough for them to hear, even if they can’t see each other.