The path they followed was engulfed in thick jungle. Despite the many years of slaughter the island felt fresh and alive. The green leaves were rich and the tree trunks dripped moisture. The boy touched one and imagined he could feel its beating heart.
They headed towards the station’s living quarters, his dad indicating them with a tilt of the head. The accommodation blocks were sheltered from the bitter wind by a thick tangle of tropical trees. Palms, some gums. The branches like hands locking fingers. On their left was a building with the company logo on top painted in deep blue. The building itself looked like the sky in colour, faded from unyielding sun.
His father put a hand on the boy’s back and steered him up a slight incline towards a building standing on stilts, the ground beneath moist with water. The smell of salt in the air, the blood faint now. The boy looked closely at the construction of the building and wondered at his father’s delusions of carpentry. That they might one day make something so grand.
They stepped onto the verandah and his father produced a key from his pocket and opened the door. Inside were two beds and a television. The boy threw his bag onto one of the beds and was glad to see through an open door a bathroom with a shower. Until now he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed these modern conveniences. His father had never specifically said, but had always given the impression that his time at Tangalooma was torturous, uncomfortable. The boy had pictured little shacks not unlike his new home, with no showers in which to rinse off the blood, oil, dirt. He hadn’t imagined anything as nice as this.
His father was unpacking his clothes into the closet, so the boy opened his suitcase to follow suit. His father said, ‘Leave some room for whoever else they stick in here, mate.’ ‘There’s going to be somebody else?’
‘Yeah. You aren’t getting paid this first time out so you won’t be sleeping on a bed either, unless they didn’t crew enough to fill the rooms – but I bet they did.’ His father must have seen disappointment in the boy’s expression, as his voice softened. ‘Come on, mate. Don’t whinge. It’s better than home.’
The boy looked at the couch. It was long enough, he reckoned. He lay down, found it comfortable. There were telephones on the stands beside both beds and the covers of the beds were thick, quilted and blue. The boy turned the television on and found the reception too sketchy for pictures. He played with the rabbit ears until he could see people and he forgot completely where he was while he focused on this task. When he looked up he saw his father had fallen asleep on his bed, his shoes kicked out in front of him and his arms spread wide.
The boy went outside to stand on the verandah. From here he had a clear view of the flensing deck. There were boilers already cooking, big brown tubes from which steam billowed. There were men cleaning the deck with large, thick-bristled brooms, the sound of their steady scraping reaching the boy.
He went back inside and watched television with the sound turned way down. Some game show he couldn’t follow.
His father eventually woke and, without a word, took some clothes from the closet and went to the bathroom. While he showered the game show ended and was succeeded by a cartoon the boy knew. He watched happily.
His father came out of the bathroom and sat on his bed to put his shoes back on. He looked at his son.
‘You getting ready?’
‘For what?’
‘We have to have dinner.’
They’d eaten sandwiches his father had made for lunch and so the boy had expected something similar for dinner. He had grown comfortable in this new environment; so comfortable he’d forgotten, if only for a short while, their intent in this place. He rummaged in the closet for some clothes to change into. His father added, ‘We might be on late shift tonight, too, so dress warm. Wear boots, your jacket and your shorts. Your legs’ll stay warm as you work. Go on.’
‘I don’t have boots.’
‘What do you mean you don’t have boots?’
The boy looked through his suitcase. ‘I don’t have any boots.’
‘I told you to pack boots.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I bloody did, mate.’ His father put his hands to his face and sat on the bed, then looked sideways at his son. ‘You don’t listen.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to do,’ the boy said. ‘I don’t own boots.’
‘You should’ve said when we were out shopping. You should’ve said this morning. You need boots, mate.’
The boy wanted to protest his innocence, but by his father’s countenance he knew arguing would only anger the man. So he put on his shoes instead, the good leather ones he had worn to his mother’s funeral. Once he was fully dressed he stood before his father with his arms outstretched. His father nodded and said, ‘Yeah, alright. That’s fine.’ He frowned at the shoes, though.
They stepped outside into the dark, which was illuminated by the harsh lights of the verandah. The father looked over at the flensing deck. There was a lot of activity the boy couldn’t make out. At least twenty men at various tasks. There were some other men leaving their rooms along the verandah, and they walked through the darkness as a group. The dirt slope leading away from their quarters was lit only by moonlight and their shadows beneath them were almost circular. The moon somehow seemed brighter on the island, though the boy knew this could not be so. There were bats too, lots of them, flying overhead and alighting in trees. They seemed closer to the boy, nearer to head height. If he were to raise his hand he might touch one’s furry belly and feel its fangs in his fingertips.
The group entered the mess hall. It was loud with conversation. There were men standing over large cooking pots, stirring their contents with giant spoons, and stacks of white porcelain bowls and plates and silver cutlery in trays. There was a crowd of men lined up to receive their portions of spaghetti and sauce, which they then carried over to one of the large tables, chatting nonstop all the while. Spirits generally seemed high, though there was a table of men near the corner who ate quietly and didn’t speak to one another. The boy knew where he and his father would sit.
They lined up with the others. The boy saw Phil at a table talking animatedly, his hands gesturing wildly, the men before him snorting with laughter. Phil saw the boy watching and winked at him. The boy nodded in acknowledgement and then looked at his father, this stoic statue. They shuffled along in the line to get spaghetti. He picked up a bowl like his father and held it out towards the man serving. The man smirked at him and gave the boy more than he could handle, a big sloppy helping. He followed his father to the predicted table. As they moved through the mess hall, his father was stopped by men greeting him. Some even shook his clawed hand – the good one carrying his bowl – and beamed as they said his name. Respect in their eyes and words. One even called him ‘sir’. The boy was surprised.
They sat opposite one of the quiet men, who looked up and smiled. ‘Who’d you get stuck with?’ he asked.
‘Just me and him at the moment,’ his father said, nodding in the boy’s direction.
‘This your boy?’ the man asked. He was thin. The bags under his eyes suggested he’d had little sleep.
‘This is Sam.’
The man laughed and extended a sauce-splattered hand over the table. ‘Aleks. It’s good to meet you.’
The boy noticed a faint Norwegian accent in his speech.
He said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ but the man had already turned back to the boy’s father.
‘You’ll get somebody in there with you tomorrow, though, yeah?’
‘I know.’
‘Can you believe it’s been a year already? I couldn’t believe it. My wife couldn’t, either. I looked at that calendar for a long while to be sure.’ Aleks turned back to Sam. ‘Why’s he here, then? Why are you here, my boy?’ He grinned, small flecks of tomato on his teeth.
‘He’s learning the trade,’ his father answered.
‘Ah. And you’ve checked with Melsom?’
‘No,’ his father said. ‘Not yet.’ He took some grated cheese from a bowl in the centre of the table and sprinkled it over his spaghetti. ‘You think he’ll mind?’
‘No. But you should ask. He won’t be paid, yes?’
‘I know.’
Aleks turned to look at a man who had sat recently down beside him and then turned back to whisper to the two of them, ‘Didn’t think old Mick here would make it back, eh?’ He checked to ensure the man hadn’t heard him then added, ‘Bloody moaned near the whole season last year.’
Aleks went back to his spaghetti. His bread roll was balanced carefully on the side of his plate and when he put spaghetti on his spoon he twirled it around with his fork instead of just scooping it up like the rest. The boy tried this method out himself and found it successful. The spaghetti was quite nice and so was the cheese, which was a type he had never tasted before. More nutty. It was the best meal he had eaten in months.
His father said to Aleks, ‘Thought you’d be out this afternoon?’
‘No, my friend. Soon,’ he said and laughed. ‘You won’t see much of me again.’ He looked at the boy. ‘I don’t see what your dad does and he don’t see what I do. But we’re still friends. I know the boats, your dad knows the factory. He’s one of the few, though. Yes? We’d love it if it was only us –’ he waved his spaghettied fork ‘– doing all of it and making all the money.’
‘I know that,’ his father said.
‘We’d all be Norwegian here if there were enough of us. Oh, my boy …’ He clapped the boy on the back. ‘What a heaven. Not that we begrudge you lot your earnings. But what a heaven! Our food, our ways, our language. My boy! You should see it.’
‘But I’m Australian,’ the boy said.
This made both older men laugh.
Eventually the boy’s father said, ‘I’m lucky I get to flense.’
Aleks swallowed his mouthful quickly so he might say, ‘You are good at your job. You have earned that position, my friend.’
His father nodded and the mood lightened. The boy felt happier. The air of excitement in the room helped him to stop thinking of what must come.
Soon a man stood up, waving his hands and yelling for attention. When this didn’t work he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. The men quietened. While many of the men were heavily bearded this man outdid them all. His beard was black, flecked with grey near his skin. His face looked taut and his eyes shone, and he had close-cropped hair. He looked stocky and fit, thick around the neck.
‘Welcome back, fellas!’ he said. He looked at them all in turn while they were silent and he let the silence grow until the boy was uncomfortable, and then the man’s eyes settled on him and he raised his brows in a question. The boy held his breath.
But instead of asking it, the man just said, ‘Your shifts are posted, as per normal, on the noticeboard.’ He pointed. ‘So make sure you check it out and know where you’re supposed to be. Most of you know what we expect here by now, and if you’re new you’ll soon learn. How many of you are new here?’
A few raised their hands, but not the boy.
The man said, ‘Be on time, work hard. The harder we work the more money we make. Simple as that. We want that barrel bonus, so go at it.’
As he spoke his eyes travelled over the group and the boy watched Phil, who leaned back in his chair with his arms folded.
‘Look after each other too,’ the man said. ‘What else did I have to say?’
He scratched his beard and jutted his chin forward and another smaller man seated nearby stood and whispered something into his ear.
The man’s face lit up and he said, ‘That’s right. Yeah. We had a small slump in how many we took towards the end of last season. I’m sure you all remember.’ Grumbles filled the hall. ‘So this season we’re trying out something new. You might have noticed these hard-looking blokes.’ His eyes scanned the crowd until he found who he was seeking. ‘Boys, stand up, please.’
Four men at one table scraped their chairs back and stood. One bowed. All looked awkward.
‘These men are our new pilots,’ the man said. ‘We’ve got a small landing strip we’ve built north of here and these boys are going to fly out ahead of our boats and spot the whales and call ’em in. This’ll make it that bit easier to meet the quota. We’ll have met it before you know it.’ Murmurs among the men. ‘Anyway, boys, that’s it. Come see me if you want anything. Door’s always open.’
The man sat without further ceremony and his audience did not speak for a moment, then the sound of voices rose again and the hall was soon returned to its previous mood.
His father went to get dessert for himself and the boy. He came back with two bowls of a strange, wobbly trifle. The boy tried it and found the taste bitter. He pushed his bowl away and watched his father eat.
The boy said, ‘Are we going to talk to Melsom?’
His father swallowed. ‘Yes.’
‘Now?’
‘Let me finish my meal.’
When he was finished they emptied their scraps into a large plastic tub and put their cutlery in labelled grey buckets full of soapy water. They stacked their plates as the boy eyed the heavily bearded man, whom he assumed must be Melsom.
The man was involved in an animated discussion as they approached, but as soon as he noticed the boy’s father his face lit up. He said, ‘Walter Keogh!’ and stood and enveloped his father in a hug.
His father smiled, clearly both proud and embarrassed, and returned the man’s embrace awkwardly. ‘Sir. It’s good to see you.’
‘And I hear you’ve brought your son with you,’ Melsom said, smiling at the boy.
The boy returned the smile and shyly extended his hand.
The bigger man was slow to extend his own and he shook the boy’s as though he were weighing him up, taking the measure of his character. He didn’t squeeze the boy’s fingers but his grip was firm.
‘It’s good to meet you, sir,’ the boy said.
‘And how old are you, my boy?’
His father answered, ‘Sam’s fifteen.’
The boy felt rotten that his father had lied on his behalf, but he did not want to correct his father in front of this man he so clearly respected, so instead he smiled and nodded and did his best to hide his discomfort.
Melsom released his hand finally and then looked at his own palms. This frightened the boy. If he judged the boy’s handshake inadequate, then what would become of them?
Melsom said, ‘So you’ll be following your dad around then?’
‘Yes. Sir.’
‘You just do what you’re told and work hard and we’ll have a spot here for you, mate. We can always use good new blood. Just work hard, yeah? You had a job before?’
‘No, sir,’ the boy answered, before his father could lie. ‘Not really.’
Melsom laughed. ‘Well. Welcome, eh?’
The boy was usually frightened of such expectations, sure he would fail to live up to it. But in this man’s grip and unwavering gaze, he found inspiration. His father might expect little of him, but this man expected that he would work. So that was what the boy would do.