The Ink Bridge (22 page)

‘How was your day? Have you eaten?'

Hec heard the fridge door open.

‘Fancy ordering out?'

The fridge door creaked shut. ‘Let's celebrate you starting your new job?'

Hec walked into the lounge room.

‘Thai? Indian? Vietnamese?'

Any Sudanese? Apparently Froot Loops are a delicacy in
new Khartoum
. There was definitely no mention of Froot Loops when Hec had looked up Sudan on the internet. Instead – years of civil war, ethnic cleansing, poverty, nineteen major ethnic groups, over one hundred languages, snail fever (whatever that was), capital Khartoum, White Nile, Blue Nile (the only river Hec had ever known was brown). Even the internet couldn't link Froot Loops and the Sudan.

‘How about Chinese?'

Kinda suburban, Dad.

‘Why the face? What's wrong with Chinese?'

They all became Thai and Malaysian ten years back.

‘What about Thai then?'

Hec nodded.

‘Your shout?'

Yeah, right.

‘My shout again then.'

Dad lit candles. They got out the best bowls and plates. It was Mum's thing and it felt weird doing it for the first time without her.

The food was good – Pad Thai, red veg curry, steamed jasmine rice. Coriander, lime leaves and lots of chilli; Hec's tongue became a live animal in his mouth. They ate with the thin Japanese chopsticks Mum had bought for sashimi. The noodles slipped and fell, snow peas dodged, chunks of tofu disintegrated at their touch. This was so typical of Dad, mixing everything up and making things harder than they needed to be.

‘So how was it?' he asked.

Hec leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stomach.

‘The job, you idiot.'

He shrugged.

‘Rome wasn't built in a day.'

Rome?

‘Never mind. Here, have a fortune cookie.' Dad threw one at Hec.

They're Chinese, aren't they?

‘I know. Fortune cookies are Chinese, but so was this restaurant ten years ago. Old stock.'

Hec crunched open his cookie then unfolded the square of cheap paper.
Every great journey begins with one step
.

Dad looked at it, and laughed, and opened his.
Spend
time on the important things. The rest will take care of itself.

Hec mimed throwing the dishes at the wall.

‘Nice try. I guess if we broke them it would be very Zen. Or maybe very Greek.'

Hec washed, Dad dried.

‘So, did you make any new friends?'

It's not kindie.

Dad shook his head. ‘It would be so much easier if you talked to me, Hec. I know you can.'

Hec dropped the stainless steel scourer into the sink. It sank slowly, little wiry hairs disappearing into the foam. He nodded to the chalkboard.

It read:

I am working with a racist and assorted nuff-nuffs.

I think school was better.

Dad put the tea towel over his shoulder. ‘If you want to go back, Hec, I can probably still arrange it. But I think you should give the factory more of a go. Those nuff-nuffs as you call them are mostly refugees. I talked to Merrick. Walk a mile in their shoes before you judge them. And as for the racist, challenge his views. It's just ignorance.'

Hec snorted.

‘I know it's hard. But sooner or later you have to stand up for something. Fence-sitting can seem safe, but one day you'll end up with splinters up your arse.'

How true.

THE NIGHT THREW ECHOES ALONG the street. They bumped between the narrow houses and eased under the broken sash of Hec's window. His restlessness had tied his sheets into wet knots on his bed. Sleep wouldn't come.

His body felt alive with electricity. It was an effort to lie still and, when he did, his mind took over the movement. He thought of the fish that the old guy had caught under the West Gate – how it had shaken its life onto the dark pontoon. The pearly jewel from behind its eyes was on the windowsill catching the light of the faraway moon. It was how Mum had cleansed her crystals, but Hec doubted that it could purify the sourness she had tainted his life with.

Eventually, he got up and wandered into the kitchen. Dad was asleep; he could hear heavy breath filling his bedroom. Hec turned the tap on and pushed his lips to the spout to drink. When he was eight, he had lost the corner of his front tooth drinking this way.

As he turned his head, he saw a moth beating itself on the window. Its eyes were tiny fires, wings a tissue-paper blur. They came from the high country, these moths, and would make the trip to the coast to breed and then to die. Dad had told him how they navigated by the moon but the bright lights of the city tricked them and they would end their lives here; sidelined forever. Hec let the water fill his mouth and drain into the sink. He was mesmerised by the moth. It started down at the bottom of the window and fluttered its way to the top, then dropped and started again. If he left the light on, it would have tired itself by the morning and he would find it dead on the ground outside. He went over and flicked the switch. The house sucked in the darkness.

Suddenly he had the urge to be somewhere else. He went to his room, pulled on some clothes, and slipped quietly out of the house. The fish-jewel was in his pocket, a talisman; he could feel it jab his leg as he mounted his bike and pedalled towards the bay. Acland Street was quiet, just a couple of kerb-crawlers, and some junkies looking for a place to hit up. He pulled onto the kerb and sat in the shadows as a police car drifted by. He hadn't brought a helmet and his bike had no lights. All he needed was to be taken back home in disgrace.

When they had gone, he pedalled hard until he hit the Esplanade. The pier cast nets of light onto the calm water. He could see the huddles of fishermen, the red glow of their smokes as he rode further along the bay.

Down Beaconsfield Parade, the bay licking sand off the beach, low tide; Hec could smell the seaweed, a salty tang. It surprised him, here, so close to the city. It was a smell that didn't belong. The rhythm of his pedals relaxed him, the cat's eyes, the white lines and streetlights rolled by. He was alone. The breeze riffled through his hair.

The
Spirit of Tasmania
was berthed at Station Pier, preparing for the trip through the Heads and into the moody waters of Bass Strait. Hec stopped for a moment to look at it. He could feel the restlessness in the great boat, the groans that it occasionally let out, the way it rubbed itself against the pier like an animal scratching an itch. Shutting his eyes, he imagined a huge open-sea swell. The boat muscling into it, feeling its power against the ocean. This was where it belonged; the land was only a resting place before the real business.

Hec pedalled along Beach Street, swung onto the Boulevard and into Todd Road. The moon hung above like a round of soured cheese. He could see gulls in the lights, turning in the updrafts, ignoring the curfew. The bridge looked low to the ground here, the most unflattering view. It seemed as if you could easily step off it and land gently on the grass. But Hec knew better.

As he cruised through the reserve, the stinking mud from the shallow ponds poured into his nose. The bridge was carrying trucks and cars even at this time of the morning and it reminded him of a bass guitar, just one low chord, left long.

It didn't surprise him that the fisherman was there on the pontoon. It was almost as if he had known; like guessing the right window in
Play School
.

The man's fingers were grubby yellow under his small lamp, too thick to bait the hook. It was like watching a seal trying to thread a needle. In frustration, Hec grabbed the hook and bait from the man. He did not say a word and the man didn't complain. Hec had never fished in his life. Never baited a hook. But he knew what was needed. He slipped the barb through the soft pipi and slid it up the shank in one fluid movement.

Silently, the man took the baited hook and, swinging the line, let it sail into the dark. Hec heard the soft plop as it entered the water. With this done, he dragged a bag of White Ox from his pocket and rolled a smoke, still not speaking. He lit up and, turning his head to the bridge, blew smoke straight at it.

‘My family were fishermen.' He took a drag again and released it through his nose. The tobacco was strong and Hec stifled a cough.

‘Hard life. I'm talkin way way back when they were cleared from the land. Some left forever – Canada, America, New Zealand, here.

‘You see, there was more money in sheep per acre than in people. So the crofters – tenant farmers – were booted off. Even though they had been there fer ages.

‘My people went to live on the coast. Up north. It's no a friendly coast like here, mind, just salty cliffs, heather, bare rock. They had to farm a wee patch of dead ground. Eatin kale, dock when things got real tough. Had to rope the wee ones to the house so they did'nae fall.'

The old guy was like a train when he talked, words clack-clacking from the back of his throat, hitting the air between them.

‘They would fish as well. Four or five to a boat, push out from the cliffs in good weather to get at the shoals of saithe and mackerel that came up the coast. When the wee ones grew, the boys would take their place in the boat. Fishin with lines, mind.
Darras
we called them. Wooden spools with six feathered hooks. You'd just pull them up, three or four fish to a line. It wasn't sport, mind, it was food. The bottom of the boat would run red with blood. Fish flappin themselves dead.

‘One day they went out. All the boys bar the wee-est. It was calm, but they knew a storm was brewin. They could see the cows lyin in the fields, a bad sign. The father, my great grandfather, said to turn to home. But they were onto a good shoal. Left the run a wee bit late.

‘Great grandmother took the two kids down to Glasgow after they went under. Took in washin.'

The old man spat his fag at the river. ‘I grew up on the Clyde. The dirtiest river in the dirtiest town. We had nothin. My old man was a boatbuilder and I followed him. But then the yards closed. No profit, y'see. Same old story. And Glasgow became a wasteground. And I left. Nigh on forty years ago.'

He coughed and pulled a bottle from his bag. ‘Well, that's my story, fer what it's worth.' He looked at Hec. ‘So what's your story, sonny-boy? Where your people from?'

Hec looked up at the bridge. He knew so little about his family. His grandparents were dead before he was born. His mum hadn't really talked about them and his dad even less.

‘You have to know where your people come from. That way you know where you're goin. That's what make us.'

Bullshit.

‘You keep that jewel from the fish?'

Hec felt in his pocket for the tear-shaped pearl. It was there.

But he shook his head. The man looked injured.

‘You should be goin. Yer mum will be worryin herself silly about you.'

Hec picked up his bike and wheeled it back off the pontoon.

The man called after him. ‘You keep that hoodjimaquiff, mind. It might just have some power in it yet.' He pointed his crooked old finger at the humming bridge. ‘Maybe it holds the screams of those that went down.'