The Fancies, page 24
‘Trisha,’ he said. ‘Why’d he do it?’
‘I told you. He’s getting old.’
‘And?’
‘Do you need it spelled out?’
She waited, but he continued to stare at her.
‘Dicky,’ she said, and she leaned so far towards him that a lock of purple hair swung free from her hood. ‘It’s worth more as an insurance claim.’
Young Dick sat back. He waited until Trisha fired up the motor, then he began to laugh.
Unfortunately for Col Morton, he could not swim.
Almost no one knew this about Col—not even Little Jase Turner, who had worked on Col’s boat for several years. This was poor human resource management, as it could put Col’s deckhand and winchman in a precarious and potentially traumatising situation should Col ever fall into the ocean, but good HR practices tended to be something that the fishermen of Port Kingerton associated with hoity-toity office blocks in the city, not out on a boat with the swell and the gulls and the crays.
This was the reason for the widespread reluctance on the jetty to go after Col, when he was seen falling into the water. Everyone assumed Col could swim.
Except for Nell Fancy, who knew he could not.
‘Col, get out of there,’ Nell demanded into the dark water below the jetty, hoping Col could stay calm enough to put his feet on the bottom and stand up. Col had confided in Nell many years ago, not long after the foot-shooting, in what Nell had assumed was a way to inveigle himself into her good graces, but whether or not he was also afraid of water, and would panic and flail about, making things worse, she did not know.
‘Col, answer me right this minute.’
Nell did not want to enter the water herself. It was cold. She did not want to leave Abigail alone with this crowd. And she did not want to turn this into more of an incident than it already was. If Col could simply stand up and climb out they would all forget about it and, now that Lofty’s boat was gone, soon would all go home.
‘Col!’
Damn it, Nell thought. Bracing herself, she took off one shoe, but before she could reach for the other, Twitch, Adrian and Little Jase Turner appeared, kicked off their boots and slid into the water.
Something was happening in the crowd behind Nell, but she was too focussed on finding Col to notice. The smell of old fish guts oozed from the warped timber and the strong stench of weed lifted from the water. The bottom was a thick disgusting mess—would Col even be able to put his feet on it?
Twitch surfaced nearby, spitting water. Adrian and Little Jase were wading away, gazes darting about.
‘Where is he?’ said Nell.
Twitch shrugged, but the big man was beginning to radiate unease. They were both racking their minds: How long since Col went in? A minute? Two? More?
Twitch may not have known that Col could not swim, but he was far more aware of Col’s current state than Nell. Nell did not know that Col Morton was stoned off his nut—Twitch did. Nell knew that Col had a broken nose, but she did not know that he had, only minutes ago, fainted onto the gravel. Twitch did. So while Nell hoped Col could simply stand up in the waist-deep water, Twitch knew the depth was irrelevant—the man should not be in the water at all.
Then, barely audible over the noise of the crowd, Nell and Twitch heard it at the same time: a groan.
Col was clinging to the jetty pylon.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Twitch, sloshing towards him.
‘Were you right underneath me the whole time?’ said Nell. ‘Why didn’t you answer me?’
Col’s teeth were chattering, hair slicked to his head. He mumbled something incomprehensible. Twitch got to Col but Col would not release the pylon. The pylon was sharp with barnacles and slimy with weed. Tomorrow Col would notice his hands and face covered in tiny cuts but for now, he did not feel the barnacles jabbing into his flesh. He was just grateful to have his head out of the water and the ability to draw air into his lungs. The plunge into cold water had been terrifying and unexpected but Col noticed that at least now he felt sober. His sinuses burned from the salt but he knew it would be good for him. Seawater, as much as Col did not like to enter it, was healing. Everyone knew that.
When it became evident that Col would not let go of the pylon, Twitch took one of Col’s wrists, peeling back his arm, but Col just clamped more firmly with the other.
‘It’s healing,’ Col mumbled.
‘He doesn’t want to come,’ Twitch said to Nell. ‘I’m not going to stand here persuading him.’
‘Maybe he’s scared of you,’ said Adrian, appearing alongside Twitch.
Twitch looked between Col and Adrian. ‘Why?’
‘Because, you know—’ Adrian made a fist and brought it to his own nose.
‘Huh?’
The three men stared at each other. Then Adrian said, ‘You took him to the lighthouse this arvo?’
‘Yeah,’ said Twitch. ‘To help me pick up an engine block from Sparky. Not to beat the shit out of him.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Why would I?’
Little Jase waded up. ‘Col’s told everyone you clocked him. For, you know—’ He made a pumping motion with his pelvis. Seawater sloshed about.
‘I lied,’ moaned Col. ‘I tripped over. My shoelace was untied … I thought it sounded better …’ The rest of his sentence was inaudible.
A ripple of alarm went through the crowd. Everyone, even Col, looked up.
Over the top of the crowd they heard a shout: ‘Nobody misses that Bram fellow, do they?’
Col let go of the pylon, slipping beneath the water.
Col Morton was shot in the foot on the last day of summer in 2010.
The end of February in Port Kingerton could be unpredictable: hot, dry and windy or cold, wet and windy, or anywhere between the two. On this particular day it was hot. And windy. A severe fire danger warning was in place for the entire south east but Young Dick had a wether who needed to go in the fridge sooner rather than later. Maybe the summer grass had stayed unusually rich, or maybe it was a genetic quirk, or possibly the lamb had only got one testicle in the castrator band and had managed to keep one hidden up in its belly, pumping out testosterone, but whatever the reason, the lamb was growing rapidly, approaching the size of a small horse. For weeks he had been watching the lamb, clocking its massive growth, and he did not want to wait any longer. Young Dick did not like mutton. Something about the greasy smell of it boiling all day reminded him of the meaty-lanolin smell in his grandfather’s outbuildings and it always made him feel queasy.
But Young Dick’s butcher was also a CFS volunteer, so on that hot day the butcher was on standby to head to the fire station, unavailable to take the monster lamb himself. But no matter, the butcher said, if Young Dick could drop the carcass in the butcher’s cool room he would get to dressing it tomorrow.
It just meant it would be Young Dick who would need to turn the wether into a carcass.
Young Dick wasn’t squeamish. A fisherman couldn’t afford to be. Bait, roe, guts—if one wanted to pull in several tonnes of crays a year, one had to be okay with gore. But it wasn’t until he had the wether yarded, its bright eyes and fuzzy head looking up at him, hoping for a bucket of oats, that Young Dick faltered. He considered waiting until tomorrow, when the butcher would be available again, but he’d already troubled to yard the thing. Its fat flanks were heaving in the heat. He thought again of the smell of mutton, called himself a fool and shouldered the rifle.
The barrel quivered. The lamb blinked at him. Its nostrils flared with its breath.
Young Dick lowered the rifle.
Then Col Morton appeared. Young Dick had known Col since he was an infant. Col’s father, although recently moved away, had been a good friend to Dick and Col himself had gone to school with Dick’s kids. Col had been one of the few who had attempted to stick by Abigail, and although it had made not a scrap of difference, Young Dick had not forgotten the display of loyalty. Also, Col had recently purchased his own boat and that was no small thing.
‘Morning,’ said Col, reaching the yard.
‘Yeah,’ said Young Dick, surveying the wether. He swore he could see the animal growing before his eyes.
‘Jeez, that’s a whopper,’ said Col.
‘Yeah,’ repeated Young Dick.
‘Sorry to interrupt. Just got a question about my catch quota. I’ll wait.’ And Col waited politely for Young Dick to shoot the animal but the animal did not get shot. It kept breathing. It kept growing. Young Dick imagined its muscle fibres turning from melting tender to jerky tough as it stood in front of him.
Although he had never been one for machismo, Young Dick did not want Col to witness his hesitation. Mostly because that would give the sense of it dragging out longer. But somehow, without either of them uttering a word, Col seemed to understand. Nonchalantly, without spooking the wether, the younger man slipped into the yard. He stood alongside Dick and then an invisible question seemed to be asked: May I? And answered, Be my guest. Young Dick handed Col the rifle. Col raised the gun.
The hot wind gave a ferocious gust, lifting dust and grass seeds. Col inhaled lightly, held his breath, fingered the trigger.
And sneezed.
Aside from the fact that Young Dick was supposed to have surrendered that particular rifle in the amnesty in 1996, and also that Col held no valid firearms licence, none of them—not Young Dick, not Nell and certainly not Col—were willing to face the wait times at the hospital in the bigger town, which had blown out to stupendous proportions. There was blood, but it slowed swiftly. There was pain, but there was also the Fancys’ brandy and codeine. There could have been infection but a twice-daily hobble through the seawater at high tide, Col’s arm tucked firmly about Nell’s shoulders, took care of that.
Besides, mere minutes after the gun went off, Col had felt his foot was quite fine. As soon as Young Dick Fancy had picked Col up and made a joke about Col having ‘taken a bullet for him’, Col found himself radically healed.
‘Just promise me you won’t tell anyone,’ Col found the courage to say, reclining on Young Dick Fancy’s couch with his foot elevated on a stack of pillows while Nell doused him with antiseptic and wrapped a clean bandage firmly over his entire lower leg. ‘I’d never hear the end of the teasing.’
‘Our secret,’ promised Young Dick, fetching Col more brandy.
The wether lived for ten more years, eventually dying peacefully of old age beneath a pine tree.
But Col Morton had forever taken a bullet for Young Dick.
OLD DICK
There’s something strangely beautiful about a boat on fire. Especially at night. At night you can’t see the thick black smoke. You can’t see anyone beating a hasty getaway. Black sea glinting orange, the glow like a sun out on the water.
All right, it’s unlikely you’d find it splendid to look at if you own the boat, your livelihood blazing away like that, but what I’m saying is, sitting here in this car watching that boat burn—I like it. I can’t say I haven’t seen the odd boat torched but it’s been a long time since I could take a back seat, watch the flames and say, I had nothing to do with that.
At least, I don’t reckon I had anything to do with this one.
The young fella is carrying on a bit, though. Acting unsettled. He could stand to be a bit more stoic in the face of a torching. Stuffing us all into this car, racing down the hill into town, and now I’m sat here and there’s a throng of people wandering past and peering in the windows. I’m starting to feel like the Pope. I wonder if this glass is bullet proof.
Boom. There she blows! What a sight, fire raining down.
They say, now, that nothing ever really goes away. I’ve heard kids talk about there being no such thing as erased. Nothing can be truly deleted from the internet, they say. But I think folks these days are just too out of touch with the earth. Too busy worrying what’s on their phone to make use of what’s real, what’s right in front of them. No one takes the trouble anymore to learn about the earth’s elements, to study those things in nature that have been around long before the first humans stood up on two legs and started thinking we were better than everything else. Earth, fire, water: you respect those things, you harness them right? You’re set for life.
Nothing disappears things like fire.
Nothing swallows things like deep water.
Nothing holds a quieter dignity than giving a man’s mistake back to the earth. Or, for that matter, a mistake of a man.
I’m trying to take a short stroll along the jetty to watch the boat burn.
Clear off, you bastards. A man can’t watch the boats when you’re gathered around bleating.
Oh, but it’s all Mr Fancy this, Mr Fancy that. It’s How’re you doing, sir? and Old Dicky, old boy, old buddy, old pal, howthebloodyhellareya.
I’m dying, thanks for asking. Now go away so I can watch the fireworks in peace.
I see a flash of pale yellow hair. It’s moving through the crowd, bobbing up here then disappearing, reappearing over there only to blink away again. The yellow hair looks like a bright light waxing and waning. A lighthouse, calling the boats home. The yellow hair flashes closer, closer, until it’s standing right in front of me, attached to a young woman.
Hello, Mr Fancy.
Well now, there’s a face a man could never forget. Haven’t seen you for a very long time. Call me crazy, Ed, but are you wearing a blonde wig?
It’s me, Mr Fancy. Jessica.
You’re not Ed?
She laughs. Are you talking about my grandfather?
Could be, I say. Is your grandfather Ed Bram?
He is. He died a long time ago.
How long is a long time ago?
Twenty-four years.
You call that a long time?
It is when you’re forty. That’s over half my life.
I suppose you’re right. What did you say your name was again?
Jessica.
Whose boat is that, Jessica? I ask, pointing out to sea. But there isn’t much left of the boat anymore, just a fizzing red spot on the water. As we look towards it, it blinks a few times and disappears.
That’s Lofty’s boat.
Was Lofty’s boat, I say, and we both laugh at that.
Tell me, Jessica, why are these dickheads still carrying on? The boat’s gone. What are they het up about?
The sea mist has gathered on her hair, glinting under the streetlamp. She’s a nice girl. I appreciate that she has helped me across the grass towards the jetty. She has a gentle but steady grip on my elbow and now a man can walk onto the jetty like he used to do every day of his life. I can smell the salt and weed and fish. I can hear the ocean crashing against the breakwater like she’s trying to get through it. Maybe one day she will.
Well, I think everyone’s excited to see you.
Nonsense. I’ve been here every day for a hundred years. Nothing special about me.
Oh, Mr Fancy, says the girl. That’s not true at all. Don’t you think everyone would be excited to see the man who killed Ed Bram?
Why? I say. Nobody misses that Bram fellow, do they?
ABIGAIL
Crouched on the jetty beside her mother, Abigail was watching the men in the water trying to talk Col Morton off the pylon when someone behind her said, ‘Um, Abigail?’
‘Not now,’ she said.
‘Is your grandpa okay?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘I don’t think he is. That’s him standing there—’
Abigail turned her head and saw the vaguely familiar man from the end of the jetty pointing a finger. She followed his finger to see her grandfather standing at the foot of the jetty, surrounded by a horde of townsfolk.
‘Last time he walked was 2020,’ the man was saying, but Abigail wasn’t listening. Rushing through her was a dizzying sensation of having been flung back in time. Streetlamp picking out the tops of heads, faces cast in shadow: a leering, tittering swarm. All of a sudden she was fifteen again. It hit her with such ferocity she grabbed the man to steady herself.
Grappling to her feet. Shoving her way along the jetty. How was it possible that she’d ended up back here again? Surrounded by a cold night, a clustered town, feeling alien, an outlier among a species she did not understand?
‘Back off,’ Abigail barked, her voice as hoarse as it had been twenty-four years ago. Silence descended and she felt the weight of their faces trained on her. ‘Are you just going to stand there ogling?’
Her grandfather wobbled on his feet. She saw him lift his chin, open his mouth and shout, ‘Nobody misses that Bram fellow, do they?’
That’s when she saw the blonde woman standing in front of her grandfather.
The last time Abigail found herself face to face with Jessica Bram on this lawn, they were fifteen. Abigail with bark chips in her hair, Jessica a trail of blood down her face. Jessica crying angry tears, Abigail stony faced, wiping rock grit from her palms. There’d been a crowd watching then, too. Slut, Jessica had bawled. Just admit it. It wasn’t the first time she and Jessica had clashed, but it was the first time no one had jumped to Abigail’s side. The way her gut had dropped, to look around and find herself alone. The surge of utter disbelief and panic. She’d been the tall poppy they couldn’t wait to cut down. It went on for a long year. For a whole year she put up with it, endured the blacklisting and jeering and lies, until she couldn’t take it anymore and she was never coming back.
As she approached Jessica now, Abigail could hear the pulse of blood in her ears. Every cell in her body wanted to launch at Jessica and start tearing.
‘Oh, hey, Abigail,’ Jessica said. ‘If I haven’t said it already, welcome back.’
Abigail ignored her. She took her grandfather’s elbow in a gentle grip and made to steer him towards the car, but he planted his feet and would not move.
‘I said hello,’ Jessica said.
Finally Abigail looked at her. She allowed her ribs to lift and fall once, twice. A host of responses ran through her mind before she decided on: ‘Fuck off.’
