An Open Swimmer by Tim Winton

talk. Sean’s mocking glances.
    â€˜A favour. We did him one when Sean needed a home.’
    Jerra couldn’t say anything more.
    Another motor. It was raining. They couldn’t see.
    His father slept on the bunk. As he slept, Jerra brought out the box. He laid the diaries on the table.
    August 3 rd , ’ 36
    Warmer today. Job shaping up well. Ellen helping organise the deliveries. She has a good head for figures. Apples are up. Mr Chambers says they’ll fluctuate. He’s probably right. Young Jeannie is well. Five in October. Alf and Horrie got seven dozen tailor in the river last night. Brought some over.
    6 Eggs.
    The handwriting improved and deteriorated with each entry. Days were often missed. It resumed, usually in poor writing, and got better with successive entries.
    May 6 th , ’37
    Ellen no better. Big confusion over the money. I don’t know where it goes to. They’ll have me out by the end of the week. Mabel is staying home from school to look after Ellen. She worries that Ellen will not get well. The Rugby is playing up.
    4 Eggs.
    May 12 th , ’37
    Have been helping old Henderson with the hens since the weekend. It will do for a quid until I find something else. Nothing interests me, but there is the kids. The trams just get worse. Haven’t seen them so erratic since the bad times. Almost went for a job selling clocks in a shop, yesterday. The sound would send me barmy. Reminds me of the noise prawns make in the trough on the way home. Took Ellen down to the river with the kids last night. Thought it might take her mind off the worry. Will have to sell the old Rugby, though I will regret it.
    2 Eggs.
    Great gaps of months appeared in the rest of the entries, the last being in December 1939.
    December 5 th , ’39
    Joined AIF today. Have asked for Catering Corps, though I do not know whether or not I will get it. Sounds like a good wicket. Could not find boots to fit properly and had to settle for a size too big. Went to church yesterday. Will go again at Christmas if we don’t travel.
    8 Eggs.
    The rest of that diary was empty yellow pages. Jerra tossed it aside and picked up the notebook. Pages were stained and gritty with dust. Many pages were folded back and torn. There was a brown stain on the cover. It could have been ink or bootpolish. Most of the erratic entries, starting from 1940, contained troop movements, rumours, and descriptions of mates. Jerra flicked through ’41.
    December 1 st , ’41
    Greece has given me a bad stomach. Cooking the mush that we do makes it worse. Am writing this because Ernie Morris had a spare pad, and there is nothing else to do. Ernie says it’s hard cooking when you don’t know salt from dust. I don’t know if I care much. There doesn’t seem to be much hope for us.
    A few old photos of men drinking in a café, pinned to the page, blurry shots of buildings and women.
    April 15 th , ’42
    Writing this from hospital (that’s what they call the damn place). Was hit in the foot by shrapnel during the bombardment a few days ago. They say I might be shipped out. What luck! Still, it hurts a lot. I will see young Tommy for the first time. Ellen will be glad.
    The last volume, though incomplete, was better preserved, neater. The little crab scuttled under the table.
    October 5 th , ’46
    The foot has been acting up, lately. Ellen up all last night, trying to help. Work at the markets is no good. Never thought I would see the day when I would hate the smell of fish.
    Saw some kids near the Causeway, paddling in the water (yesterday). It reminded me, for some reason, of a kid I saw in Athens, before I copped my lot. I was sitting with a couple of mates at a café, drinking the vino. A little boy sat on the edge of a fountain. His legs were too short to reach the water, and I could see that he badly wanted to get them wet. He looked at a loss, for a while, then, quite suddenly, he jumped in feet first.