‘I’m not sure I could front a hardware
and ask for ten litres of erect nipple.’
Manx licks his lips and repeats,
‘They’re vacant … now.’
Fish guts
All of a sudden,
Manx’s reel squeals
and the floater ducks under the water.
The rod bends wildly in his hands.
Manx widens his stance,
grits his teeth and says,
‘Fish fillets here we come.’
‘Biggest pile of seaweed you’ve ever caught, Manx.’
‘It’s a mullet,’ Manx yells
as he reels slowly, the line tensing.
‘Seaweed’s fine, Manx. The Japanese eat it.’
Manx is about to respond
when the fish breaks the surface,
twisting and squirming on the line.
‘Seaweed, my arse,’ yells Manx
as he flicks the rod.
The mullet sails overhead
landing in the kidney weed on the bank.
Manx grips the fish tightly in one big hand
and carries it to a boulder.
Then he smacks its head hard on the rock.
‘Here, mullet king,’ I say,
tossing a knife
onto the sand near the boulder.
Manx scrapes the scales from head to tail,
wipes the blade on his shorts
then inserts it into the vent
and cuts along the belly of the fish,
all the way to the lower jaw
before reaching in and removing the guts.
He turns to me, holding them in his hand.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I yell,
leaping to my feet.
‘Jonah, trust me,’ says Manx.
He flings the guts into the lake.
A flock of gulls descend,
flapping and squawking,
arguing over the feast.
Manx washes the fish in the cool lake water.
‘We’ve got the mullet.’
He looks across the lake to Tipping Point.
‘Now all we need is a barbecue.’
Stepping into a catalogue
Our kayak glides onto the sand
at the far reach of Tipping Point.
Manx bows elaborately.
‘You may step ashore, King Jonah.’
The bottles of beer clink in the esky
as we drag the kayak up onto the sand.
I look across the lake to Manx’s house
and I notice the surface of the water
creasing in the wind.
‘If the southerly builds,
we’ll be walking the long way home,’ I say.
Manx pats me on the back.
‘After a feed of fish and a few beers,
you’ll be able to paddle into a cyclone, Jonah.’
He lugs the esky along the beach.
I follow, watching for movement
in any of the houses.
The sand is blinding white
all the way to the point
where the cliff of sand-blasted rock
shines rust red in the afternoon light.
A sea eagle floats on the breeze.
Twenty metres from the pink house,
Manx stops to survey the scene.
A grassy lawn leads up from the sand
to palm trees lining the east fence.
A newly built wooden pagoda
with a hammock strung between two palms
entices us forward.
Hardwood stairs lead up to a deck covered by
a shade cloth, like a gull’s wing
shielding a shiny silver barbecue
and a teak dining table with eight chairs.
Leading from the deck
are glass double doors, heavy pink curtains
with blue seashell patterns
and, when my shoe touches the bottom step,
it’s like walking into a rich man’s catalogue.
A meal, well earned
Manx strolls across the deck
and puts his arm around my shoulder.
‘Does the banker wanker
ever sit here and enjoy the view?’ he asks.
‘Nah, he’s too busy making deals,’ I say.
‘Here’s a deal.
This place for my crappy bedroom.’
Manx slaps the mullet on the grill
and opens a beer, offering it to me,
before taking his bottle to a chair
under the shade cloth.
He flops down, puts his feet up on the table
and snaps a selfie.
‘Maybe I’ll post it on Instagram.’
‘Exhibit one in a court case for trespassing,’ I reply.
‘We could invite Rachel around,’ suggests Manx.
‘Tell her not to knock at the front door,’ I say.
‘It’s a deck party, Jonah.
All the rage among the rich.’
I take a swig of beer
and look out to the lake.
‘Shit, Manx! Patrick’s dad
is on the beach,
and he’s heading this way.’
Manx quickly flips the fish onto a sheet of foil,
and turns off the gas.
I grab the esky
and we clamber over the railing down to the garden
and scamper into a vacant block next door.
Manx stops near a fallen log.
I keep looking behind for Mr Lloyd-Davis,
but Manx sits down, carefully unwraps the fish
and offers me a fillet.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, breathing heavily.
‘Enjoying the fish before it gets cold, Jonah.’
‘What if he sees us?’ I ask.
‘We’re having a picnic.’
‘He’ll smell the fish,’ I say.
Manx shrugs, takes another bite
and wipes the juice from his lips.
‘So?’
Mr Lloyd-Davis stands
looking out across the lake,
more interested in his mobile phone
than a feast of mullet.
The pink house blushes,
the sea eagle tilts away from the lake
and Patrick’s dad turns and walks back
towards his mansion.
Manx rolls his eyes
before returning to the deck
to enjoy the sunset of
a meal, well earned.
Sharks
‘My dad told me
when he was my age
he used to bring his girlfriend
to a fishing cabin here on the sand
that most of the kids in town
thought was haunted.’
Manx takes a swig of beer.
‘Dad said the girl
was holding him so tight
expecting a ghost at every turn.’
Manx looks around the deck
at the shiny barbecue,
the teak furniture
the plants in terracotta pots.
‘Dad spent most weekends
dragging a net offshore
catching mullet with every run.
The old blokes who lived here
shared their beer
if he cooked them fish.’
I realise Manx is talking to himself
more than to me.
‘They’re all dead now,
except old man Beattie.’
I picture Beattie’s shack
of rotting timber and corrugated iron
wedged between these mansions.
‘Dad reckons Lloyd-Davis
offered Beattie three hundred grand
and a place in an old people’s home.
Mr Beattie told him to come back
with a serious offer,’ Manx says.
‘I wonder how long he’ll last,’ I say.
Manx sculls his be
er
and tosses the bottle off the deck.
‘Every day he hangs on
is spitting in the face
of these rich bastards,’ Manx says.
‘Just ’cause they’re rich doesn’t make—’ I start.
Manx holds up his hand.
‘Imagine someone let loose a shark in the lake.’
He sneers. ‘Make that two sharks
and they start feeding off the mullet.’
‘Everyone’s got to eat,’ I say.
‘But these are ugly bull sharks
who take more than their share
and they have baby sharks
and, pretty soon,
there’s no food left for anyone.’
Manx looks at his reflection in the window.
‘And no-one can swim in the lake anymore,’ he says.
‘Sharks are territorial,’ I add.
Manx grins. ‘So am I.’
Impossible to talk
Manx picks up the paddle
and tosses it to me.
I catch it with one hand
and look across the lake.
A wedge of egrets
battle into the breeze.
‘Your dad doesn’t visit
our house much anymore,’ Manx says.
Our families used to get together every Sunday,
the adults with beer and stories,
me and Manx promising to catch dinner,
and Mr Gunn cooking sausages, just in case.
When Manx’s mum left,
just Dad and I would visit,
as if my mum was a reminder
of what Manx was missing.
Our dads would get slowly drunk
and play darts.
‘He’s taking longer hauls,’ I shrug,
‘to pay off the truck.’
I dig the paddle into the sand,
and remember Mum standing
in the kitchen with her bags packed.
‘The Magna is cactus and Mum’s …’
I can’t bring myself to say it.
The wind is pushing white horses across the lake
but neither of us makes a move.
‘You can stay at our place
whenever you want,’ Manx says.
He steps into the kayak
and wedges the esky between the seats.
I nod and attempt a smile
before pushing off.
We paddle across the lake
and the wind is so loud
it’s impossible to talk.
I’m grateful.
Left alone
When I get home
I find a note on the table.
Mum has drawn a heart
on a piece of paper
with red nail polish.
There are no words.
I fall asleep on the lounge,
just like Dad does,
only without the encouragement of beer.
The wind slams the screen door
and wakes me in darkness.
I shuffle to my bedroom
and pull my blankets up high.
Every teenager’s dream
is to be left alone
with the run of the house.
I remember the day
Mum and Dad paid off their mortgage.
Dad brought home a bottle of champagne
and they pretended to enjoy it
before switching to beer.
Dad helped me do the dishes,
while Mum played country music
and threatened to dance us
around the lounge room.
The next day Dad told us
one of his regular customers
had gone out of business,
the truck needed an overhaul
and the only way to pay for it
was another loan.
I wriggle further under my blankets.
I haven’t seen my parents smile since.
The fundamentals of grammar
Monday in English,
I arrive too early
to find Ella reading a paperback
in an empty classroom.
I study Mrs Sutcliffe’s handwriting
on the whiteboard:
The differences between an adverb and verb.
Even in year ten
we’re still learning –
or not learning –
the fundamentals of grammar.
‘Ella reads quietly,’ I say.
Ella looks up. ‘Pardon?’
I feel the heat rush to my cheeks.
‘I was thinking of adverbs and verbs.’
I point to the whiteboard.
‘Reads is the verb, quietly is the adverb.’
I should have written nerd
across my forehead in texta.
‘Now I’ll jump out the window,’ I mutter.
Ella smiles imperceptibly.
‘Ella smiles imperceptibly,’ I say.
Ella’s smile broadens.
‘Ella—’
‘Jonah!’ Manx thunders into the room.
‘Trust you to be early for English.’
He tosses his bag on the desk
and swings his leg over the chair.
‘Did Sutcliffe give us homework?’
I glance back at Ella.
She’s engrossed in her book.
Or pretending to be.
Tequila
Mrs Sutcliffe starts the period
by announcing we’re going to read,
‘The greatest book ever written’.
Manx groans and says,
‘Anything but the Bible.’
Rachel makes the sign of the cross.
‘Save me,’ she cries.
Everyone laughs.
‘It’s called To Kill a Mockingbird,’ says Sutcliffe.
‘Tequila Mockingbird?’ asks Angelo,
leaning across his desk
to slap Patrick on the back.
Patrick jumps up from his chair
and threatens to punch Angelo.
His face is red, fists raised
and he’s shaking in rage.
Angelo slinks down in his chair.
‘It’s a joke, Patrick,’ I say.
His eyes cloud over
as if he were somewhere else.
‘Sit down, Patrick,’ says Mrs Sutcliffe,
‘and we’ll forgive Angelo’s attempt at humour.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ says Angelo,
who, like the rest of us,
has absolutely no idea
what’s got into Patrick.
Follow
At the end of English,
Ella waits until everyone
has left the classroom,
before picking up her books.
I untie my shoelaces
to avoid looking at Manx
who gives up waiting for me
and charges towards the canteen.
Ella walks slowly past my desk.
‘What’s the term for
suffering Sutcliffe stoically?’ she asks.
‘Alliteration,’ I answer.
She reaches into her backpack,
pulls out a pear
and places it on my desk.
‘Your reward,’ she says.
I pick up the fruit
and feel its soft warm skin.
‘I could learn more from you
than Sutcliffe,’ Ella says.
She smiles and walks to the door.
‘And without Patrick’s violence,’ I say.
‘Do you want to share the pear, Jonah?’
I gather my books quickly,
but, in my eagerness to get to the door,
I trip over my untied shoelace.
Ella reaches out a hand
and stops me from falling.
‘One of us rhymes badly,
the other can’t tie his shoelaces,’ she says.
I follow her out of the build
ing.
I’ll follow her anywhere.
The list of embarrassing
Ella leads me to a seat
behind the library in the sunshine
away from the traffic of year nine.
She looks at the pear.
‘You first,’ she offers.
I take a bite and the juice dribbles on my pants.
‘Lucky we’re in the sun,’ Ella says,
‘so it’ll dry before Science,
or it could look awkward.’
‘Everything I do is embarrassing,’ I say.
She takes a bite,
cupping her hand under the pear to catch the juice
and hands it back
with a knowing look.
‘Tell me the most embarrassing moment
ever in your life,’ she says.
I think of the long list
and slowly begin talking.
Once I start I can’t stop.
‘In my first year of high school,
before you came,
a boy from year eight
pushed me out of the canteen line.
When I tried to get back in
he punched me in the mouth.
I fell over,
with nowhere to go
but to the end of the line.
When I got home,
Dad asked what’d happened.
I didn’t want to tell him.’
I shake my head
as Ella offers me the pear.
‘When Dad found out
he jumped in the car
and was gone for hours.
I spent all that time
in my bedroom
imagining the worst.
He came home just before dark.
I heard him talking to Mum
in the kitchen
and, when I crept out,
I saw him passing her money
to pay for a visit to the dentist.
The knuckles of Dad’s hand
were swollen
and I wondered how
I could possibly face the boy the next day.’
A place in line
Ella is quiet for a long time.
She takes the last bite of the pear
and hops up to toss the core in the bin.
She sits back down,
closer to me than before.
I take a deep breath to finish my story.
‘The family left town
owing six weeks rent.
Ever since, I’ve tried to imagine what the boy
who’d hit me
was thinking
barrelling down the highway
in the back of an old car,
all their belongings packed in the boot,
his father cursing and wondering
how a place in the canteen line
was worth all that trouble.’
The bell rings for the end of lunch.
Ella stands