The wintry twilight was closing in and the ferry to Manly heaved and rolled past the Heads. Back when Ned was a junior clerk, he had stood with the other fellows, feet astride, balancing on the outer deck as the ferry dipped and rose through the swell. It had been a matter of pride not to hold on to anything. Older now, he still took the ferry from the city and his cronies from the office still congregated outside, their hats and caps jauntily tipped back on their heads. But Ned sat inside, his winter overcoat buttoned up, his fedora hat tilted low, to keep the worst of the chill off his exposed ears.
As the ferry approached the wharf, the wind was rising and the waves pitched and tossed. Anxious to get home, passengers folded their newspapers and rose to gather close to sliding doors, packed in so tightly they swayed as one.
All eyes were fixed on the ferrymen standing outside on the deck. Broad shouldered, cigarettes lodged in the corner of their mouths, they looped the sodden rope through their hardened hands, ready to lasso the bollards on the wharf. The tide was low and the wharf loomed high above them, casting the outer deck into gloom. The echo of the seething waves rushed through the pylons barely visible in the darkness under the wharf. Until the ferrymen secured the boat, they couldn’t heave the gangplanks into position. The young lads waited, one foot stretched up to the rail, ready to leap up to the wharf, too impatient to wait for the gangplanks. Over the grinding chug of the engines, they called out, urging each other on, one eye calculating the distance, the other on the women still inside. ‘See, I’m not just a boring office clerk in the city’ their actions boasted.
As the boat rose, the ferrymen cast their ropes.
Missed. With a thwack the sodden ropes fell back against the gunnel.
The ferrymen cursed, coiling back the heavy ropes.
Behind the sliding door, Ned checked his watch. The 144 bus would be leaving any minute. He peered through the salt-misted window, watching his fellow clerk Frank jostle for position with the young lads on the outer deck. He tutted under his breath. When he got home he would tell his wife about Frank’s delusions of youth. That might liven her up a little. Marjorie seemed—he didn’t know quite how to describe it—a bit down. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled. Or the last time she’d cooked something other than macaroni cheese. A chap wasn’t asking too much was he, to have some variety in his dinner?
Marjorie used to like taking a trip on the ferry. From their back verandah they could see out toward North Head. If the water was rough they’d see the ferry rolling and heaving its way into Manly and they’d walk for half an hour to get down to the wharf and buy a return ticket just for the fun of it. How her face had lit up when they’d done that. She’d tuck her arm in his and chatter the whole way home, sharing her thrill at her new life by the sea, so far from her life back on the family property in the dry flat plains.
Perhaps Frank felt him staring, for he turned to look back, grinning and lifting his briefcase by way of a wave. Or was he mocking him? Everything was a joke to Frank. It made the hours in their office cubicle very tedious.
Nettled, Ned set his jaw and edged forward between the other passengers. Stepping outside, the wind blasted him full in the face threatening to lift his hat. He clamped one hand on top. It wouldn’t do to lose it. That wasn’t the sort of story that would make Marjorie smile, not when the cost of a new hat would cut even further into the housekeeping. They’d hoped he’d have been promoted by now, but old Simmons had intimated that perhaps at the end of the financial year, but the financial year had come and gone, and nothing had been said.
Again the ferrymen threw.
Again they missed.
Again they swore.
Silhouetted in the lights from the wharf, Frank was up on the rail, one hand on the floor of the upper deck for balance. ‘Watch me’, said his grin.
The ferry lifted with the next wave and Frank teetered for a moment, as the lads jeered, ‘Come on grandad, show us what you’ve got.’
Ned watched as Frank—a suited, hatted Nureyev—hung suspended mid-air.
‘He’s not gonna make it!’ shouted one of the onlookers.
With a crash, the waves sucked back and the distance between the ferry and the wharf doubled.
Ned, along with the other passengers, leaned over the rail, searching for any sign of Frank in the churning foam.
Then the water surged again and the ferry rolled towards the wharf.
He held his breath waiting for the boat to roll back away. For one dreadful moment, only Frank’s bowler hat was visible in the foam. But then his briefcase followed, still gripped tightly in his hand. And then his head emerged, spitting a spume of water from his mouth.
The lads bent double laughing and the other passengers cackled in relief.
Once more the ferry yawed away from the wharf and Ned leaned over the railing, trying to catch sight of Frank.
The ferryman gave him a shove. ‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, heaving the rope up to the wharf to loop the iron bollard at last.
Ned waited, heart pounding, as the ferrymen roped and made the ferry fast. The gangplank thudded into place at his feet, and he was pushed forward by the press of passengers. Even now, with the ferry tied up, the rise and fall of the water skewed the gangplank this way and that. He fought to stare down to the water as the gangplank groaned and creaked under their feet. There! Behind the barnacled pylon, a hand. Then in the shadows, bowler hat back on his head, Frank emerged, clumsily swimming his way to the next pylon.
Reaching the safe stability of the wharf, Ned picked up his pace. Wouldn’t want to miss his bus – Marjorie would have dinner waiting.
A sploshing sound from behind caught him mid-step. Frank had made it to the beachside pool and climbed the stairs to the street. His suit was sodden and his wet footprints tracked along the concrete but, with a flourish, he lifted his dripping bowler in acknowledgement of the scattered applause of his fellow passengers.
When Ned arrived home, he told Marjorie all about it as he forced down the macaroni cheese. He’d thought to amuse her. When he finished, she didn’t comment, just rose to clear away the dishes.
He made one last attempt. ‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me doing such thing, now would you?’ he snorted.
Her hand brushed his shoulder. ‘No, you would never do such a thing,’ she said, her voice tinged with disappointment.
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