The Minnow (2 page)

Right now, she's pushing her tongue into Bill's ear, pretending for all she's worth to be absorbed in his attentions. In actual fact, she is monitoring my every move. The only time she takes her eyes off me is to glance at the door—probably checking for Mr Peck—meanwhile, Bill has his back to the world and nothing to lose.

They've decided to move away from the counter. Bill leads Mrs Peck over to the paint aisle. It's near the back of the shop, which gives them time to finish up if a customer comes in. Mrs Peck's son arrived once. Bill pretended to check the colour chart while Mrs Peck was on her knees. ‘G'day Junior,' Bill called out to the kid, all casual, but keeping his hand hard on Mrs Peck's head until he was done. Sometimes Mrs Peck climbs the paint ladder and Bill stands under her dress. I have a Swiss Army knife that I got the day Bill had Mrs Peck on her back in the Deluxe Family Weekender. Mr Peck was on a buying trip and Mrs Peck had thrown caution to the wind. ‘Here you are, Tom,' she'd said, pushing a small red box into my hand. ‘Be sure to check all its features.' Click, click.

The Swiss Army knife has everything: three knives, a pair of scissors, a toothpick, a bottle opener, a fish scaler, a nail cleaner and a small file that fits easily into the keyhole on the side of Mingin's register. I would have liked some coins to buy a Coke, but the change would have rattled against the sinker in my pocket, so I grabbed a lobster—that's slang for a twenty.

I'm poring over the catalogue when Bill and Mrs Peck reappear.

‘Next time, I'm going to tie you up,' Bill whispers to Mrs Peck as she hands him a brand new roll of line. I make a throat-clearing sound.

‘I'd like that,' Mrs Peck purrs, ignoring me. I imagine her lip all torn and bloody as I pull a rusty hook from her mouth.

‘Thanks for the supplies,' Bill calls over his shoulder as we leave the shop. ‘Hungry?' he asks me.

Martha's Grill is Bill's favourite spot for lunch, which is lucky because I like it too. I order the fisherman's breakfast and Bill orders the soup of the day. Martha is young and handsome and not really Martha. The real Martha sold up when her husband died, but everyone in town just went on calling the new owner Martha, even though he's nothing like Martha at all. I'm too young to remember much about the old Martha, I'm just telling you what I know.

After Martha's Grill, we head to the public pool on Cooper-Brian Street. In order to swim, you have to have a shower first. The boatshed doesn't have a shower, so the pool's amenities come in quite handy. I'm never happier than when I've had a shower, a swim and a fisherman's breakfast, and Bill's at his best after a good workout with Mrs Peck.

After the flood, some of the older folk formed the Mother's Day Survivors, and they've met every Tuesday night ever since. Christmas day fell on a Tuesday last year and the place was packed. Bill and I went, even though we're not official members. No one seemed to mind. I often wish I'd known how to fish before the flood. I could have pushed hooks through everyone's mouths and tied the lines to the roof of the fire station.

Most nights it starts to rain about midnight. Just soft spits, not enough to wake me. Before the weather changed it used to be drier than Mrs Peck's mouth. The ground was hard and dusty. Grass never grew on the oval, and Mum's flowers always died out the front. We used to swim in the neighbour's dam when it got really hot.

‘Are you fishing or wishing?' Bill asks me when there's a tug on my line.

It's a little catfish. Far too undersized to keep. As I unhook it, I think of my sister floating away, her head under the water looking at the things in the sea. The catfish asks me what I'm doing, its little mouth mouthing the words.

‘I'm throwing you back, Sarah,' I say. ‘You belong in the water now, and I belong here with Bill.'

‘Have you had sex yet?' she asks. But I can't answer because Bill is watching me talk to a fish and I feel stupid.

The answer is yes, if you must know. I had sex a few weeks ago. It happened unexpectedly, after a Martha's breakfast, at the public pool. I was in the change room, stripping off my wet boardies when Bill walked in. ‘Tom,' Bill said, staring at me, mouth gapping, ‘you're a
girl
.'

My name hasn't always been Tom. It used to be Tomboy and before that it was Holly. Even Nana calls me Tom. I've been Tom so long, even if I changed back to Holly, no one would take any notice—look at poor Martha. So, for almost a year, living in the boatshed, Bill thought I was a boy. Maybe he wouldn't have taken me in, if he had known I was a girl.

Anyway, we mucked around a bit until I'd had sex. I've never felt like doing it again, and Bill and I pretend it never happened.

But it changed everything.

I want to tell someone. I want to tell Jonah. Jonah is a year and a half older than me and he is my best friend. We have known each other since we were toddlers. He lost his family in the flood, too.

We used to see each other every day, tell each other everything, but we've both been dealing with our own stuff and we've sort of lost touch. Nana always asks after him.

‘You used to live in each other's pockets.'

‘You'd be so good for each other, the things you've gone through.'

‘Don't you miss him?'

‘I can't believe you don't miss him.'

She has been saying stuff like this for months.

I taught Sarah to float in the neighbour's dam. She caught on really fast, and in a really short time she was actually better at it than me. Mum said it meant I was a good teacher. But she was just being sweet. The truth was obvious; I hated the feeling of water in my ears, but it never bothered Sarah. This meant she could lie flat on her back, ramrod straight, her face almost immersed. We used to have competitions to see who could last the longest. She won every time.

It is exactly three weeks since the sex. The thought of it makes me sick.

I lay in bed last night, trying not to think about the events of the past year. But trying not to think about something just makes you think about it even more. In the end, I got up, threw a hoodie and trackies over my pyjamas, crept out of the boatshed and went for a walk.

I'm not afraid of the dark; I can thank Dad for that. Dad always said that the dark had its own brand of solitude, and that people who were afraid of the dark were often afraid of their own company.

‘Relish it, Tom, it's the best time of the day and you have it all to yourself.'

So, I thought about Dad as I walked.

I ended up at Jonah's house. It was still the middle of the night, so I made myself comfortable on the front porch and waited for sunrise.

I guess Bill knew I couldn't stay at the boatshed, but when I told him, he packed all my stuff into his truck and drove me straight to Jonah's house.

‘Bye, Tom,' he said. Bill's not much of a conversationalist.

‘See ya,' I said. Then I cried. I'm not sure why.

Jonah's house is tiny. He lived here with his parents and a mangy cat called Runaway. His parents drowned, and they never found the cat. Jonah had fallen asleep on the lilo and no matter how high the water got, he just floated. Dead to the world.

After the flood, Jonah moved in with his grandfather. Jonah and Jonathan Whiting—Jonah is named after his grandfather—spent the next six months clearing debris, repairing and repainting. Jonathan hoped that the physical work would be therapeutic, that his grandson could work through his grief. But as soon as the house was liveable, Jonah begged to be allowed back home.

At first, his grandfather forbade it, saying sixteen was too young to be on his own. But Jonah was miserable. Living in town was noisy; he ached for the quiet, the acres of space. Most of all he missed his parents and the closest he could get to them was the house itself. So, the following March, ten months after the flood and with lots of conditions, his grandfather agreed. A month later, I moved in.

Jonathan hadn't counted on that.

Jonah's house is a half-hour walk from the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, which means I can visit Nana every day. I told her about moving in with Jonah. I didn't tell her why.

‘Marvellous, darling,' she said on hearing the news. ‘I never liked you living with Bill, but what could I do?'

‘It's okay, Nana. It's all good now,' I said.

We chat as usual. Nana tells me she's starting an art appreciation class on Tuesday morning in the common room.

‘Painting or drawing?' I ask.

‘No, no, dear. Art
appreciation
,' she replies.

I'm not sure I know what to say, so I say nothing.

‘A young woman from one of the city colleges is doing a study on
learning strengths in an ageing population
,' says Nana, in her officious voice. ‘She popped in last week to meet us and she seemed very keen. Apparently we'll be discussing art in all its various forms.'

Nana abhors blandness on any level.

‘I bet you'll be her favourite student,' I say.

Nana laughs and leans forward. ‘Guinea pig more likely,' she says.

I stay with Nana until dusk.

Her evening meal arrives as I'm leaving. The smell makes me queasy.

Jonah's house has a bathroom with a separate shower and a small bathtub. We're on tank water so the bath doesn't get much use, but Jonah says I should treat myself every now and then. It's so good to be around him. I think he feels the same. It's like there's been no gap.

When I told Nana how easily we fitted back into our friendship, she said we had definitely passed the best-friend test.

‘Really,' says Jonah, ‘she said that?'

‘Yep,' I answer.

Jonah and I are making dinner. I'm peeling things and he's cooking them.

‘She said she has had a few friends over the years who didn't pass. She reckons that time apart is the key component to sorting the besties from the resties.'

‘She said that?'

‘No. She said “wheat from chaff”.'

Jonah would love some chooks, but the flood took the sheds and most of the fencing. Bill has offered to help. Jonah said he would think about it.

Bill and I hang out occasionally. Jonah doesn't approve.

Last night Bill and I went night fishing at the inlet. ‘If you've never been night fishing, you don't know what you're missing,' Bill says to Jonah, who just nods. Jonah finds it hard to speak to Bill because he knows about the sex. He also knows I have half Bill's baby inside me.

I grab my new tackle box and hand it to Bill (because it's heavy and I'm already carrying something of his).

‘Jeez, Tom,' says Bill, as he feels the weight of my sinker collection.

‘Is it as heavy as gold?' I ask him.

‘Reckon,' he says.

The tackle box is from the FishMaster Super Series, and you won't believe it, but Mrs Peck gave it to me. I think Bill must have told her I was pregnant.

‘There you go, Tom,' she said, her mouth all dry and clicking. As she handed it to me she suggested I look at all its features while she found Bill some line. It had been ages since Bill and I had been to Mingin's Hardware and Disposals. Mrs Peck looked desperate, but before she could drag Bill into the paint aisle, old Mrs Beakle came tottering in on her walker.

Mrs Peck rushed over to serve her. ‘Oh, hello dear,' said Mrs Beakle, ‘I'm just after a few mousetraps.' Mrs Peck went with her, shuffling along at Mrs Beakle's pace, ‘…and a couple of plate holders.'

Mrs Beakle took so long deciding between the freestanding or the wall-hanging plate holders that Bill decided to join them. ‘Is that you, Bill dear?' Mrs Beakle asked when she noticed him. Bill quietly lifted the back of Mrs Peck's skirt. Mrs Peck dropped one of the mousetraps and lent down to pick it up. ‘I think the free-standing should do the trick,' said Mrs Beakle, taking one down from the shelf. Then all three of them shuffled to the cash register.

By the time Mrs Peck had rung up the purchases, Bill looked ready to burst. Mrs Peck handed Mrs Beakle her change.

‘Bye bye, dear,' said Mrs Beakle, forgetting all about Bill.

‘Bye bye, Mrs Beakle,' said Mrs Peck's mouth, squashed onto the counter.