Free Black Water by David Metzenthen Page A

days, or not carefully, and for the first time in a week it jumped out at him, the water a sombre green, the distant beaches as pale as paper, the sky receding from blue into black, leaving stars stranded like upturned shells.
    Farren knew he could leave Queenscliff. His mum’s sister had offered him a job on their farm in Nyah West. He could go and live in the country and never see the sea, a couta boat, or a beach again. But he didn’t want to leave, even though his dad had been washed ashore just down the road, his face bruised and broken, because Farren had seen it and knew it was, no matter what the funeral people put on it.
    No, he wouldn’t leave the sea because he loved it still – or if hedidn’t love it now, he would again; as it was the sea and only the sea, and working the Camille , that would allow him to be the kind of person he wanted to be. He heard footsteps, saw Robbie appear at the back door, and opened it before Robbie could knock.
    ‘Eh, Rob.’ Farren was buoyed up at the sight of him. ‘Whadda ya doin’?’
    Robbie grinned, hopping from foot to foot on the stepping stones as if he needed to go to the toilet.
    ‘Lookin’ for you, of course.’ He stopped hopping. ‘You wanna come to my place for tea? My mum’s especially asked. She said she wants to show you her scar now that she’s got the stitches out.’ Robbie grinned. ‘Well, no, maybe she didn’t, but she does want you to come. We got roast chicken and that’s not so bloody bad, is it?’
    No, roast chicken wasn’t so bad at all, Farren thought. Roast chicken was good and he was starving. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had roast chicken. Years ago.
    ‘I’ll have to tell Maggie,’ he said. ‘She’s still down the pub.’
    Robbie swung like a weather vane, arm out, pointing towards the grey paling fence.
    ‘Then, my boy. To the pub!’
    Pricey’s mum, Farren was aware, was looking at him a lot and asking him a lot of questions; but he didn’t mind because talking to her, and to Maggie, was a bit like talking to his mum. He felt cared for, not forgotten, and that he was understood. He felt less lost when he talked to ladies, that his life wasn’t so wrecked. Blokes just offered him advice or told him what to do.
    ‘Will you stay at Maggie’s place?’ Mrs Price asked. ‘Or do youhave other plans? Robbie was saying you might go and live at the Victory.’
    Farren looked at Mrs Price across a table so crowded it reminded him of a model village. There was a butter dish, a bread board, salt and pepper shakers, a sugar bowl, a gravy boat, drinking glasses, napkins, and Pricey’s dad’s napkin, with its ancient ivory ring, which evidently Mrs Price put out at every meal, according to Robbie. Even breakfast.
    ‘Yeah, maybe the pub,’ Farren said. ‘I been at Maggie’s for long enough.’ He didn’t so much want to leave Maggie’s as not be in her way. ‘It’s a pretty small house.’
    Mrs Price nodded. Her burgundy-coloured dress, her carefully secured coppery hair, her languid hand gestures, and her intense way of looking at Farren demanded his undivided attention – but he was not overawed. In fact he was brave enough to think he quite liked Mrs Price. He felt she was interested in him, and she’d thanked him, holding his hands, for helping Robbie when she’d cut her head.
    ‘Living in an hotel is not ideal for a boy.’ Mrs Price corrected the placing of her knife and fork one fraction. ‘But Mr Lansdowne-Murphy runs a decent establishment. There are worse places, I’m sure.’
    Farren was relieved Mrs Price thought the Victory would be all right, because he was worried about being lonely, although the pub was quite friendly.
    ‘Isla’s there, too,’ he said, for his own benefit as much for Mrs Price’s information. ‘And I can take me rabbit. As long as Johnny’s dog doesn’t get it.’ He did not add that he was glad that the pub was close to the inlet, and that from the kitchen door he could