Free An Open Swimmer by Tim Winton Page A

under the eyes. She was out of breath from the climb. Freckles of dust had settled on her forearm; her hair was limp and dull.
    â€˜There are these,’ she said. ‘You were to get them all, but most of them are lost.’
    â€˜What are they?’ Jerra got up.
    She set the gritty box down on the bed, took out the tiny, dark key and laid it on top.
    â€˜His diaries. Your father might like to look at them, later, too.’
    â€˜Finally got it sorted out, eh?’
    â€˜Hmm. Vultures, they are. Never see them otherwise, still, there wasn’t much to argue over. That upset them.’
    â€˜Anybody have anything to bitch about?’
    â€˜No more than usual. Mabel had a migraine, Jean was disappointed.’
    â€˜No more than usual.’
    â€˜Uncle Jim was there. Brought a gigantic wreath for the family.’
    â€˜The Power, eh? Where’d he fly in from?’
    â€˜Don’t know. Nice of him, anyhow.’
    â€˜Oh, a nice man, is ol’ Jimbo. He’s not even family; what was he doing involved with that?’
    â€˜Bit hard, aren’t you? He’s done us well. He was probably just there to see we all got a fair deal. His solicitors are the executors.’
    â€˜He’s a snake.’ Like his wriggling son, Sean. No, he thought. He’s a fox – with rabies. They both are.
    She blew the tiny balls of dust from the hairs on her arm.
    â€˜Better get on with me work.’ She opened the door. ‘And be nice to your Dad, Jem. It’s all been a bit hard on him.’
    He opened the box. Inside, smelling of age and storage, were three parcels in dark, frayed envelopes. He opened them all, carefully fingering the paper. Two were bound ledger books, like thick, hard, exercise books, and the third was a small note-pad, gritty and soiled.
    He glanced at the florid figures, the brownish ink. One of the larger books, ending in 1949, had been torn in half. He was revolted by the smell of the paper. He put them back in their envelopes, and the envelopes in the box.
    Jerra met his father on the way down to the toilet. They nodded, his father haggard from the shift.
    â€˜Comin’ down to the shack? My holidays start next week.’
    â€˜Orright. Yeah, that’d be good.’
    â€˜Have to take your chariot. Your mother’s going to Mabel’s.’
    â€˜Sure. Needs the run.’
    â€˜Don’t leave the packing to the last minute.’
    â€˜I’ll start now.’
    Rain roared like a breaking wave, hammering on the tin. Jerra crossed the lino, his feet bare. He packed the bait into the freezer. A strange smell, whitebait and newsprint. He pulled the greatcoat tighter around.
    His father came in, shivering.
    â€˜Have to bail the bloody boat out before we put it in the water.’
    â€˜Heavy, orright.’
    A backwash of thunder. Rain spraying.
    The tilly flickered on the table. Rain was still pummelling the darkness. Jerra watched his father twist and knot, holding swivels in his teeth, looping, splicing.
    â€˜Why back and over?’
    â€˜When the fish hits here, see, it flips the hook this way. Always a chance of weakening.’
    Jerra held out the garlands of hooks, gangs of barbs glinting in the lamplight.
    â€˜Vicious looking —’
    â€˜Vicious eaters.’ He showed the marks on his fingers. ‘Tailor. Slice up fish bigger than ’emselves.’
    â€˜Funny how the vicious ones have better meat.’
    â€˜Eat better.’
    Smooth skin of the river parted behind, an incision folding back to the banks. The engine chuckled just how he remembered it from his boyhood. The river coiled out to the estuary channel. The estuary was a broad teardrop, meeting the ocean at its narrowest point.
    Jerra sat in the bow, trailing a hand over the smooth flesh of water. Old pickets stood out on either side of the channel. Across the estuary, at the deep cut to the ocean, Jerra stood and rattled the chain over. Rope