Читать книгу Sharkey’s Son - Gillian D’achada - Страница 5

“Naand, boytjie. Evening, son.”

Grant looked around. This was the fourth evening that he had kept vigil at the edge of the lagoon, hoping for sight, or at least news, of his father. The lagoon looked so safe to inexperienced eyes, like a giant bath. But Grant knew that just beyond its mouth, the wild Atlantic fumed. His eyes were focused on the gently swaying ripples of the lagoon, but his mind was wrestling with the cold, green, mile-deep swells of the ocean. Only last year a boatload of Paternoster fishermen, one of them the father of a boy in his class at school, had been sucked into its merciless depths. Only one body had been recovered by the divers, half-eaten and crawling with crayfish.

“Dis ’n weer wat inkom,” Oom Daan pointed to the hedge of clouds gathered on the horizon. “Ons ga’ mis kry.”

Any Langebaner with eyes to see knew those clouds meant a thick mist was coming. Grant wondered why Oom Daan was speaking to him as though he was a visitor.

“Is dit nie al te laat om nog so langs die lagoon te sit nie?”

“No, Oom, it’s not too late to sit here.”

“Oh.” Oom Daan smoothed his hair. “I’ve just come from your house. When I didn’t find you home, I thought I would look down here. Are you catching crabs?”

“No, Oom, just sitting.” He’d been sitting so still for so long, in fact, that a group of gulls had gathered around him, as if he was just a rock, or piece of kelp. But they had moved away since Oom Daan had made his appearance.

Oom Daan stroked his chin and cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s nice to sit sometimes.” He eased himself slowly onto the sand beside Grant. Grant knew then that Oom Daan had come to talk about Sharkey.

“You’re a real Weskus boytjie, aren’t you?”

“What Oom says is true,” Grant replied.

“Ja, boytjie. You know, here on the West Coast we haven’t got much, so what we do have we don’t give up easily. Now look at Sharkey. You know, Sharkey wasn’t always like he is now. Once he was a fine man, that’s why he’s still my friend.”

He’s still a fine man! Grant addressed his thoughts to the largest and most handsome of the gulls because he didn’t dare speak them out loud.

“And strong! Sjoe! That fellow could stay out for a day and a night without even getting the slightest bit tired. Good, too. He was the best kind of skipper you could get. It was hard on him when the netting was banned. Fishing was his life.”

Grant let a handful of sand trickle through his fingers. He hoped his impatience wasn’t showing. Nothing offended a Lagooner more than that.

“Sharkey used to stand leaning on the kitchen door all day,” Oom Daan continued the story that Grant had heard so many times before, “waiting for those ministers in Pretoria to make up their minds. And you know a minister is a thing that takes a long time to make up its mind.” Oom Daan stared out across the lagoon. “They sent forms, you know, boytjie. They wanted to know where he was born, what his house was made from … all sorts of nonsense.”

He hasn’t looked at me once since he sat down, Grant thought. He knows what’s happened to Sharkey.

He felt a tingle of panic rise up from his toes and lodge in his stomach. An accident? Was Sharkey lying in a hospital somewhere, paralysed? He’d heard stories about fishermen who had slipped on the deck and hurt themselves badly. Not that there’d been a storm on the lagoon since Sharkey had gone missing, but perhaps at sea?

“Sharkey didn’t get a permit. I don’t know why,” Oom Daan continued. “We couldn’t find out. Sometimes a minister can be more slippery than a harder. They only gave twelve permits and those that didn’t get permits either joined the army or they left. But Sharkey, he refused to go. ‘The day a Boer tells me, a visserman, where I can and can’t fish is the day you bury me, Daan.’ That’s what he said. That’s all he knew, fishing. He wasn’t a learned man.” Oom Daan turned at last and looked at Grant. “So, how does a man who only knows fishing get money to bring up his son if he’s not allowed to fish?”

Grant returned his gaze. He knew the answer to that question. Hadn’t he mended the nets every week with Sharkey?

“I’ll tell you, boytjie. He fishes. But skelm-skelm, on the sly. And that’s no good for a man.”

Grant could no longer contain his anxiety. “What’s happened to my father, Oom? He’s been gone four days now. Where is he?”

Oom Daan looked hard at Grant, then his expression softened. “He’s all right.”

“But where is he? Tell me, please!” Grant pleaded.

Oom Daan heaved an enormous sigh and looked down at the sand before he answered Grant. “Sharkey’s gone to Lüderitz.”

That was the last thing Grant had expected to hear. “For how long?”

“He couldn’t keep on struggling, boytjie. He’s gone to work, for a year.”

“A year! But … Is he gone? Already?”

Oom Daan nodded.

“No, no, Oom. You must be wrong. Sharkey wouldn’t go away without telling me.”

“But he has gone, boytjie. He’s gone. He asked me to tell you.”

Grant stared down at the sand and tried to take in what Oom Daan was telling him.

“Boytjie, I have to take you through to your uncle in Cape Town tonight. And I’m to sell the house for your keep.”

“No, Oom, you must be wrong, Sharkey would never sell it. It’s his and mine. And all mine when I grow up. That’s what he’s always said. He … he …” Grant opened and closed his mouth like a baby gull looking for food. He felt helpless and, suddenly, terribly afraid.

“I’m sorry, boytjie,” Oom Daan stood up. “He didn’t want to go, but he had to.”

“He didn’t have to go without me. He didn’t have to go without even speaking to me,” Grant raised his voice. “He didn’t have to sell the house. Sell the house! You don’t understand, Sharkey would never sell the house. Never. He didn’t have to send me away from here.” Grant felt a hot flush of anger spread from his neck to his face.

He’d been worried about Sharkey, so worried. And now this! “He must have drunk too much and gone mad!” he yelled.

“It’s not right for a boy to speak like that about his father.” Oom Daan cuffed Grant on the side of his head, hard. “I told you he had to go. There are some things a boytjie like you can’t understand. Loop kry nou jou goed bymekaar.”

Grant hesitated. Oom Daan was having none of it.

“Go get your things. Now! And, boytjie,” Oom Daan caught hold of Grant’s chin and held it firmly, “listen carefully to me now: you must find your father’s cellphone. I’ve already been there in your house but I couldn’t find it. You must find it for me. There … there are some important numbers – you remember that I gave that phone to Sharkey? He says I must take it back. Okay, then?”

Grant nodded dumbly, as best he could with his chin held in a vice-like grip and his head still thick with the after-effects of Oom Daan’s cuff.

“I’ll come fetch you later with Hasie Viljoen’s truck,” Oom Daan said, in a gentler tone.

Grant swung out from under Oom Daan’s hand and walked quickly up the beach. He could hardly see where he was going. His head was spinning – from the blow and from the news – and the collective anxiety of the last four days was forming tears behind his eyes that he would not allow to fall.

He heard Oom Daan calling after him, “The Lord is your Shepherd, boytjie. He’ll take care of you wherever you go.”

“He can take care of me right here,” Grant muttered thickly to himself. “If you think I’m going anywhere with you tonight, old man, in Hasie Viljoen’s truck, you don’t know Sharkey’s son.”