‘Then I choose later,’ I say, and roll over on my side. I try to fall back to sleep, but the disruption has ruined my chances.
‘Ow, that one really hurt,’ I complain, louder this time, following another sharp jab.
‘I feel seasick on your left side,’ she says, in her whiny voice. I roll onto my back and I listen to the quiet for a while. I decide it’s safe to get up. The Minnow and I walk to the bathroom. I pee a lot. On the way to the kitchen I notice Jonah’s bed is empty. It must be after nine. Jonah works at the pie shop on Saturday mornings. He used to work after school on Thursdays too. I’m not sure why he stopped.
The school was badly damaged in the flood. Classes were cancelled indefinitely and it seemed that they would never restart, until a politician turned up a week before Christmas, with a film crew. People were saying things like, ‘it’s a disgrace’ and ‘an appalling lack of essential services’ and ‘just a country town’ and ‘this would never happen in the city’. Two weeks later, trucks arrived. Building commenced on the first of January and halfway through January, four teachers appeared. The mayor put them up in caravans out the back of the town hall. Classes started in February, but had to be held in the hall for three months until the work was completed. The politician came back with the camera crew and opened the new school building on Mother’s Day, in honour of the tragedy.
Jonah loves the new school. ‘Better than the old building,’ he says. ‘All the rooms have air conditioning and there’s a basketball hoop and they’ve fixed up the netball court and the toilets don’t leak anymore and the boys have got a stainless-steel urinal that flushes automatically.’
‘Anything else?’ I ask.
‘Lots of kids are missing.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Miss Pearson is there, but Mr Buckle drowned and Mrs Lee is too upset to return.’
‘Is that what they said?’
‘No, they said it was stress leave. She lost Ling and Betty.’
‘What about “the fish”?’
‘The new art teacher, Mr Wo, repainted.’
‘What do you mean, repainted?’
‘R.e.p.a.i.n.t.e.d,’ he spelled out as though I was too stupid for tea cake. That’s another Nana saying. Papa’s favourite is ‘too silly for roast beef’.
‘But has he kept it like it was?’
I loved ‘the fish’. Someone, years ago, had drawn an underwater scene across the western wall of the hall. I made a point of walking past it every day and knew every detail. The scene was a dark deepwater, and the fish and jellyfish were especially weird. No one really knew who the artist was. No signature, just ‘the fish’ written in the bottom right corner. But I’m guessing it was a bloke we knew called Dave McKewen, because it appeared around the same time that Mum started calling him ‘a bit of a romantic’.
The entire thing was drawn in chalk.
Which was fine, while it never rained.
‘You should see it, Tom.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What if it’s not the same? What if it’s ruined?’
‘Tom,’ Jonah said, like he was trying to understand, ‘it’s beautiful. Mr Wo is really sensitive.’
‘Sensitive?’
‘That’s what one of the other teachers said; that it was a sensitive rendition.’
I thought this over for a moment. ‘I think I need to see it for myself,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Jonah, ‘it’s about time you came back to school.’
Jonah was right. I did need to go back to school.
I went the following weekend, but only to see Mr Wo’s mural. Jonah and I walked there on Saturday afternoon, right after he finished work. He brought sausage rolls and sauce and we sat on the bench under the callistemon and ate them in silence, staring at the most beautiful painting I’d ever seen. The whole wall was covered in fish and coral and seahorses and jellyfish and seaweed, with tiny little starfish on the rocks and sharks in the background. And everything swayed with the current. It was even more beautiful than the original, although I wish that one wasn’t lost. Now that I can never see it again, I’ll probably imagine it differently. In years to come I’ll be like Nana who remembers things the way she wants them to be and I’ll lose Dave McKewen’s drawing forever.
‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Jonah.
‘I love it,’ I replied, and it was the truth.
‘Then why the sad face?’
‘When Mum lost her wedding ring, Dad saved up for two whole years and bought her a new one. It was beautiful. And Mum loved it. But I understand, now, why she cried when she put it on. It reminded her of how much she missed the old one.’
We sat there until it got cold. When we decided to leave, Jonah walked me the long way, past the new school buildings and the netball court. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Jonah,’ I said, ‘but I’m not ready.’
‘I know,’ said Jonah, ‘but you’ve already missed a year.’
It’s a cold and windy Saturday. The Minnow and I have an hour or so until Jonah finishes work, so we’re killing time at the pet shop. Mrs Blanket has the heating on, so it’s nice and warm.
As usual I’m parked in front of the carp tank. And I’m daydreaming, which is why I get a bit of a shock when Oscar starts talking.
‘I saw her,’ he says. ‘She had long brown hair and she was carrying a snorkel. I told her the snorkel was no good unless she was going to use it, but she said it was already too late.’
‘Thanks, Oscar.’ I can’t believe he has finally decided to speak to me. ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’
‘I was afraid I’d hurt you.’
‘I’m tough.’
‘I figured that out.’
If it is possible for a fish to smile, I’d swear he was smiling.
‘The Minnow says you’re dying.’
‘She’s a smart one, your Minnow.’
All four carp are side by side, almost motionless, looking at me and the Minnow. Mrs Blanket is fussing with a customer over a guinea pig.
‘Oscar,’ I say, pausing for a moment so this comes out right, ‘why haven’t you told the others?’
‘There are carp and there are carp,’ he replies. ‘These three are sweet but uncommunicative. They’ll find me floating on my side in a couple of weeks and the only one who’ll grieve will be Mrs Blanket. This lot will just take it in their stride.’
‘And me,’ I say, ‘I’ll miss you heaps.’
‘And you,’ he says back.
I turn to walk out the door.
‘Tom,’ Oscar calls after me. ‘The police were here asking questions.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just stuff about your family.’
‘Thanks, Oscar.’
And then I think of something else. ‘Did they mention Dad?’
‘I don’t remember.’
No one mentions Dad. I can’t figure that out. Nana and Papa only talk about Mum. Of course, she was their daughter. But still. It’s weird isn’t it? Or maybe I’m just extra sensitive.
Dad was tall and thin and brown. He didn’t like being inside and he spent all his time in the yard. He ate his dinner on the porch and he slept in the hammock. He didn’t come inside to shower because he had a shower in the shed and a thunderbox behind the garage. Mum said he was a paradox. She could never figure out why showering in the shed was okay, but being in the house upset him. I really like the word ‘paradox’. And I like all its alternative words except ‘absurdity’. I don’t understand how that one fits.
Everyone said Dad was talented. Mum said he could turn his hand to anything. We had a pond down the back. Dad had dug it close to the creek, with a little channel that fed it fresh water and a spillover to stop it flooding. In the middle was a fountain made entirely of scrap metal that he had scrounged from the Bunter and Davis recycling centre. Paul Bunter and Jacko Davis were Dad’s mates and would give him anything he wanted. In return, Dad did all their electrics. Dad wasn’t certified. He just
knew how to do it on his own.
Dad and I got along better than Dad and Sarah. Probably because Sarah was a girly girl and I was a tomboy. And Dad never said much about anything and Sarah was a chatterbox. So Dad and I never argued, never got on each other’s nerves, never got in each other’s way. Mum said we swam in the same direction. I guess she was right about that. I never really thought about how comfortable I was around Dad until I had to fit in with Bill. Bill’s a loner. People were surprised when he took me in.
I have a beautiful new dictionary. The Chambers English Dictionary. It has one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two pages. I found this great word: ‘solivagant’. It means ‘wandering alone’. I was looking for a word to describe Dad, but I’m not sure solivagant is the one. But it’s a great word.
Mavis bought me the dictionary for my birthday. She says her husband (who is really Papa) told her to buy it. Mavis says her husband is quite sure I’m brilliant. I know this is really Papa telling her these things because Mavis has a room-mate, Betsy Groot, and Betsy told me that Mavis has never been married. I suppose Nana has always known this, too.
‘Thanks for the dictionary.’
‘You’re welcome, sport,’ says Papa. He is sitting in the rocker on the front veranda. He looks out of place at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. He looks too young.
‘I know,’ he says, when I tell him, ‘but I’m old. I’ll be eighty this November, just behind your grandmother.’
‘You’re not old, Papa. You’re fifty.’
‘No, Tom, I was fifty. Looks can be deceiving when you’re dead.’
Sometimes Papa and I sit on the veranda all afternoon. Some of the old people say hi to him as they walk past, some don’t. I guess some of them recognise him from his photo. Some don’t see either one of us. Papa calls them the sad cases.
Every hour or so, he checks on Nana. They never chat or anything. Nana has imaginary conversations with him, rather than the real thing. But I think she knows. Little things give her away. For example, she never sits on the rocker if Papa is already there. She always walks around him, not through him (like the sad cases do). And it would be just like her to ignore Papa for thirty years as punishment for leaving her so young. Mum and Dad are lucky they are together. I wonder if they have found Sarah.
Sarah is three years younger than me. Well, in a way she is four years younger now. It’s a bit confusing. When she drowned she was three years younger and that is over a year ago. Anyway, in between Sarah and me, Mum had a miscarriage. Twins. I wish I knew if it was two boys, two girls, or one of each.
I often keep an eye out, just in case they’re swimming around with the Sarah catfish. Jonah says I am getting ahead of myself when I worry about such things. He says to let it go.
I have never understood the let-it-go advice. What does it mean? Let what go? And how do you let something go if you’re not even sure you’re holding on to it? And anyway, what’s so wrong with holding on?
Papa says ‘letting go’ is new-age bullshit.
I’m wandering back to Jonah’s house in the dark, when I hear voices up ahead. The Minnow is fast asleep and I don’t want to wake her, which is a shame because she’s really good at hearing from a distance. The gravel is crunchy and noisy so I stand still. I recognise Jonah’s voice. He is laughing about something. There is a man’s voice. Older and more musical, almost like he’s singing rather than speaking. I concentrate really hard but I can’t make out any words.
‘Tom!’ It’s Jonah. I don’t answer. ‘Tom!’ he yells. ‘Come and meet Mr Wo.’
I realise I am standing in a pool of light. The moon has appeared from behind a cloud and given me up. ‘Okay,’ I call back, trying to sound normal and not like a complete idiot, and I walk the thirty or so metres to the house.
Mr Wo is really young. His name is James and he says it’s okay to call him that outside of school. He says he’d prefer everyone to call him James but that Mrs Haversham, one of the new senior teachers, thinks it is disrespectful. He has come to the house to meet me. This is Jonah’s fault, I know it. He keeps avoiding my eyes.
‘So, Tom, when do you think you’ll be coming back to school?’ Mr Wo says, getting straight to the point.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I say, and I can feel my eyes sting. Please don’t cry in front of Mr Wo, I beg them, but they ignore me, and small tadpoles drop onto my cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mr Wo. ‘Can I help?’
‘It’s all right,’ says Jonah. ‘She’ll be okay in a minute, won’t you Tom?’
I nod. Yes.
I stop crying, eventually. I blow my nose and look up to find Jonah and Mr Wo smiling at me. ‘What?’ I say to both of them.
‘Nothing,’ Mr Wo says. ‘Are you okay to talk now?’
‘I guess.’
‘You haven’t been to school since the flood, which means you missed most of year nine and it’s already September so year ten’s going the same way.’ He waits for me to speak, but I don’t say a word.
‘Okay,’ he says, pausing to take a breath, ‘how do you feel about using the next few months catching-up on year nine, with the idea of going into year ten next year?’
I look across at Jonah. ‘It wouldn’t be too bad,’ he says.
He’s right. But I’m still going to feel like a loser.
‘Tom,’ says Jonah, reading my expression, ‘it’s not like you’re repeating.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ I reply.
‘I know,’ says Jonah.
The three of us are quiet for a minute or so. Eventually Mr Wo breaks the silence. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I was thinking I could send some work home with Jonah. And I could come here once a week and check how you’re doing.’
He raises an eyebrow at me. Jonah makes a face. ‘How does that sound, Tom?’
‘Good. It sounds good. Thanks, Mr Wo,’ I say.
‘James,’ he says, and smiles. He’s nice. He has a really pretty face.
Mr Wo—James—stands to leave. ‘I’ll see you Monday, Jonah,’ he says. Then he turns to me and says, ‘and I’ll see you Friday afternoon, Tom.’
‘Yes, okay,’ I say, leaving out his name. ‘Thanks.’
Jonah and I stand and watch him walk down the drive to his car.
‘Oh, no,’ I say to Jonah, ‘I forgot to tell him how much I love the mural.’
‘Tell him on Friday,’ says Jonah.
The Minnow and I are down at the inlet. Jonah walked us there when he got home from school. He carried the Fish-Master. He’s returning at dusk to walk me and the Minnow and the FishMaster back home.
I’m not really enjoying it. There is no Bill, there has been no sign of Sarah, the Minnow can’t seem to get comfortable and, to put the pie in the freezer (another Nana saying), a cold breeze has picked up from behind Ponters Corner and I’m starting to shiver. I should walk home, but I don’t want to leave the FishMaster.
‘Look at who the cat dragged in.’
‘Hi, Bill, I was just thinking that if you were here you could walk me home.’
‘You’re a lazy pike,’ he says.
‘I’m getting cold.’
‘Come on then,’ he says, helping me to my feet. ‘Where’s your line?’
‘I didn’t cast,’ I say, feeling a bit silly. ‘It’s not the same,’ I say, stopping before finishing the sentence. But Bill knows how the sentence ends.
He leans down and grabs the FishMaster. ‘How’s the Minnow?’ he asks.
‘Uncomfortable,’ I answer.
It is Saturday afternoon and I’m in town. Jonah finishes work at two today, so I’m pottering around till then. The pet shop shuts anytime between midday and one-thirty (depending on business) so the Minnow and I go there first.
‘You look well,’ I say to Oscar.
‘I’ve felt better, truth be known,’ he says back. ‘How’s the Minnow?’
‘Good, thanks. Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘You know how the po
lice have been asking around about stuff.’
‘I told you they’d been here.’
‘Should I go see Sergeant Griffin?’
I’ve known Sergeant Griffin all my life. He’s been the town cop for as long as anyone can remember. He, Dad, Paul, Jacko and Bill go way back. The five of them used to fish together, in the early days, before Dad met Mum.
Before the flood, Sergeant Griffin was everyone’s friend But the flood changed everything. Papa says it changed everyone, just some more than others.
But Sergeant Griffin looked on The Crossing as his responsibility, so he took it personally. Small communities can be like that.
Before the flood, things were predictable. Every Friday night, Sergeant Griffin would lock up the drunk’n’disorderlies. Bill says they weren’t bad blokes if it weren’t for the drink (although I’d have thought that was the point). Anyway, they would be given a bed in the cop shop, they would sleep it off and then, in the morning, the wives would come and take them home. Sergeant Griffin had been doing it for years. Some of the women thought he was better than a marriage counsellor.
The rain started to bucket down late Thursday, and by Friday evening the creeks had begun to rise. At ten o’clock, Sergeant Griffin did his rounds, collected a couple of drunks from the Pearl and Swine, tucked them in for the night and went home. But the rain turned angry around midnight. The storm became fierce. The power went out at one, and Sergeant Griffin was caught between staying at home with his wife and four-week-old baby daughter, or battling the weather and driving to the station. I don’t know if he debated it much. From what I know of Sergeant Griffin, he has always been a cop first.
When the rain hadn’t eased by two, he headed out. But he didn’t get far. He had only driven a few kilometres when the flood waters threatened to sweep his truck into the creek. He had to turn back.
He made it home. The two men in the lockup drowned.
The flood peaked at around midday, Sunday. Mother’s Day. When the water subsided, there were bodies and trees and mud and dead cows and upside-down cars and rubbish. It smelled pretty bad. Sergeant Griffin borrowed a tinny with an outboard and was rounding up people by first light, Monday morning. He rescued me from the roof of the fire station. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t know how long I’d been there. By the time he found me, I was cold and hungry and probably in shock.