Black Water by David Metzenthen Page A

know he was on his way down the hill. Hearing Brig’s red and white post-office bike rattling its guts out, and Brig shouting, made sure of it. Farren shut the woodshed door, watching the telegram boy dump his bike by the road and stride to the fence.
    ‘Hey, Farren! Gotta telegram for ya, mate.’ He waved it. ‘It’s from the bloody army, but don’t shit yerself, ’cos it ain’t one of them death jobs. They get good old revsy Purdue to deliver them-mies –’ Brig winked mightily, ‘because funnily enough, they don’t reckon old Briggsy-boy can be bloody trusted!’
    Farren felt something jagged lodge in his chest. This telegram could only ever be about Danny. Brig handed it over.
    ‘Heard ya gotta sweetheart, mate.’ He fired off another wink. ‘Heard ya was pashin’ her in the wash-house.’ Brig grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth he evidently didn’t care too much about. ‘Ya sly old dog.’
    Farren was desperate to open the telegram, but he knew if he didn’t straighten the telegram delivery boy out about Isla first, thewash-house story’d be fifty times worse by five o’clock.
    ‘That ain’t true about Isla,’ he said. ‘Charlotte tell ya that, did she? Because if she did, she’s a bloody liar.’
    Brig grinned, harder and wider, and backed off towards his bike.
    ‘Always two sides to every story, sport. Anyways, Farren, yer sexy secrets is safe with me, cobber. Won’t go not a ninch further.’ He picked up his bike. ‘But good luck to ya, anyhow. She’s not a bad sort, for a bit of a funny bunny.’ Brig smiled on and on.
    ‘Don’t worry about Isla,’ Farren said. ‘She’s orright.’ Farren knew that Brig wasn’t nearly as dumb as he made out; it was just that he’d decided early on that it was a lot more fun to act like an idiot than not. ‘Anyway, thanks for this, eh?’ Farren waved the telegram. ‘And if ya see Charlotte, give her a good hard boot up the bum.’
    Brig swung his leg over his bike. ‘Will do.’ He set off up the hill, standing on the pedals. ‘And congrats on the bun in the oven, Foxy! I’ll see yer at the weddin’!’
    Farren sat with his back against the woodshed door, took a deep breath, and opened the envelope. The telegram was barely one paragraph long and all it said, in heavy black type-written sentences, was that Private Daniel P Fox had been wounded in the head and arm and would be sent back to Melbourne, Australia, on board the hospital ship, Aurelia .
    Farren sat stunned. Danny hit in the head? Hit in the head by what? How could that happen? That couldn’t be right. They couldn’t get Danny. Danny was gunna get them!
    Farren sat without moving; it was as if he’d smashed his fingerwith a hammer and was waiting for the pain to come, which it did, and with such force he was overwhelmed by what was gone from his life, what had happened to him, and what was happening to him now. It was as if everything he’d ever had, everything he’d ever relied on, everything he’d ever hoped for, was being wrenched from his grasp and smashed into a million unrecognisable little pieces.
    And now this.
    Farren could not, and would not, think of Danny hurt. He refused. He would not think about Danny – but he would think about the Turks.
    Those fuckin’ Turks!
    Farren smashed the letter into the ground. How could those bloody hopeless, useless gypo wog Turks have got Danny? Especially if Danny had made his mind up to get them? They shouldn’t have even got close to him! Never! Not ever .
    But they had.
    And now he, Farren, had no idea how he was going to cope with it. He needed help, he needed help now, but who was going to give it? His mum and dad weren’t here, and although Maggie had helped him to write a letter to the army and stuff, it wasn’t that sort of help he needed. He needed his family, but there was only one other of his family left, and that was Danny. And Danny couldn’t help because now he needed help more than bloody anybody else. It