Another Night in Mullet Town

by Steven Herrick

  to catch someone leaving

  as they’re arriving.

  Patrick’s mouth hangs open

  like a laughing clown at the sideshow.

  His mum winds down the window,

  and I say loudly,

  ‘Sorry, wrong house.’

  It’s easy to look guilty;

  there’s no need for acting,

  just a hurried pedal,

  back to where I belong –

  the poor side of the lake.

  All the way home,

  I tell myself

  my plan to save Manx

  will work.

  The rich don’t always win.

  Shimmer

  I text Ella and arrange to meet her

  at the end of the pier.

  She sits down beside me

  on the hardwood landing.

  Our legs dangle over the edge

  as we watch the shimmer of bait fish below us.

  Ella reaches for my hand

  and I look at the ring on her finger:

  a single stone of jade on a silver band.

  I touch its smooth surface.

  ‘My grandmother’s,’ Ella says.

  Clouds scud across the horizon

  and a jet takes off from Balarang Bay

  wheeling north towards Sydney.

  ‘I’ve never been on a plane,’ I say.

  Ella smiles and kisses my cheek.

  ‘It’s like the world is in freeze-frame,’ she says,

  ‘and you’re above it all, watching.’

  The wheels of the plane

  contract into the fuselage

  and a single light blinks on the wing.

  Mr Huth strolls along the sand,

  carrying a rod and an esky.

  He puffs on a pipe

  and the acrid smoke

  drifts towards us.

  ‘My parents won’t be home for hours,’ Ella says.

  She stands and pulls me to my feet.

  We walk off the pier.

  ‘I like your parents,

  even though I’ve never met them,’ I say.

  ‘You almost met Dad.’ Ella grins.

  I remember stumbling around her bedroom

  trying to get dressed,

  my stomach churning,

  my knees shaking.

  ‘Are you sure your parents won’t be home for hours?’

  Ella laughs.

  ‘Positive!’

  A clattering sound

  In the cool of the evening,

  I arrive home to find Dad

  loading garbage bags into the truck.

  He walks into the bedroom

  and returns with a suitcase

  attempting a smile

  that he can’t quite manage.

  ‘I’m going to camp at the workshop,’ Dad says,

  ‘now Suzy is home.’

  He pushes the screen door open

  with his boot

  and struggles through with the suitcase.

  The door bangs shut

  with a clattering sound.

  For as long as I can remember

  Dad has been away for days at a time

  on some forgotten highway,

  but it still felt like he was around.

  I go to the kitchen,

  open the fridge

  and take two beers from the shelf.

  I carry them out to the front step

  and sit down,

  twisting the tops off the bottles.

  When Dad returns from the truck,

  I offer him one.

  He watches as I take a deliberate swig

  and sits down beside me.

  ‘You’re too young to drink,’ he says.

  I take another swig

  and reach across with my bottle

  to clink it against his.

  We drink until it gets dark

  and the streetlights flicker on.

  The bicker of blackbirds in the casuarina

  mark the hours.

  When Dad gets up to leave

  I tell him I know where the workshop key is hidden

  and I promise him he won’t be alone,

  that I’ll visit most days.

  He kneels down and cups his big hands

  around my cheeks.

  He nods his head

  and I know,

  just like me,

  he’s too afraid to say anything more.

  Coming ashore

  In the early morning light,

  I take the kayak from Manx’s front yard

  and silently carry it to the lake

  casting it and myself adrift.

  Against the breeze

  I slowly paddle

  towards Tipping Point.

  I’ve chosen the kayak

  instead of my bike

  because Manx owns it

  and I’m doing this for him

  and for me.

  Last night, Rachel gave me Patrick’s number

  and I’ve texted him

  to meet me on the beach,

  or else.

  I smile to myself

  at the implied threat

  knowing I have nothing to lose;

  despite Patrick’s two word response,

  I’m sure he’ll be there.

  The sun shines on the row of houses

  along the point,

  each one a mansion of pastel colours,

  well-tended gardens

  and insufferable neatness.

  I think of my dad

  setting himself up in the workshop:

  a large room with one crusty window,

  Peachy whining at the door,

  the smell of oil and grease in the air.

  I think of my mum

  working overtime

  to pay off repairs

  to a second-hand car.

  The kayak glides easily onto the sand.

  I step lightly

  along the bow

  before dragging the kayak ashore.

  Stand up

  ‘What do you want, loser?’

  Patrick’s voice

  comes from the shadow of a tree.

  My spine tenses.

  ‘I’ve got your dope, Patrick.’

  He steps forward and grins.

  ‘So?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘I can get more where that came from.’

  I turn and stare across to Manx’s house,

  my silence

  inviting Patrick to think

  all the wrong things.

  He steps in front of me.

  ‘So?’ he repeats.

  I look him in the eye.

  ‘I’m not going to smoke it.’

  My voice is measured and relaxed,

  even though it’s not how I feel.

  ‘I’ve hidden it,’

  I glance towards his house,

  hoping he’ll take the bait,

  ‘somewhere that will prove

  embarrassing for you

  if it was found.’

  He steps forward and grabs my shirt,

  his face a few inches from mine

  and spits out,

  ‘I’ll beat the shit out of—’

  ‘No you won’t,’ I interrupt,

  ‘because if you do,

  the cops will be the first to know

  where the dope is.’

  He loosens his grip

  and steps away.

  A vein pumps in my temple,

  but I keep my voice quiet, calm.

  ‘I’ve added more dope,

  enough for the cops

  to lay charges.’

  He raises a fist,

  but I don’t flinch.

  ‘Think about it, Patrick.’

  He spits at my feet,

  his face flushed with anger.

  ‘Here’s what you can do.

  Convince your parents

  to drop the charges against Manx.

&
nbsp; Tell them it was too dark,

  tell them you were mistaken

  and you’re not sure it was him anymore,

  tell them anything you want,

  and I promise you, the dope

  will stay hidden forever.’

  I take a deep breath

  and step forward.

  ‘Or you can

  spend today

  trying to find it.

  But if Manx is charged,

  I’ll ring the cops

  and you’ll be in deep shit.

  Your choice, Patrick.’

  His shoulders slump.

  He looks back towards his house.

  I remember Mr Lloyd-Davis

  outside Batley’s Cafe

  and the way he spoke to his son.

  I almost feel sorry for Patrick.

  Almost.

  ‘You have to stand up to him sometime,’ I say.

  I walk slowly to the kayak,

  step aboard

  and use the paddle

  to push myself away from the sand.

  Floating gently in the shallow water,

  I glance towards Patrick’s house:

  the green lawn,

  the wide double-glazed windows,

  the diving board and swimming pool.

  Then I turn and paddle back to Turon,

  the sunlight bright on Manx’s shack.

  A pact

  The Holden isn’t in Manx’s yard

  so I take a smooth round stone

  and toss it onto the roof.

  A second later he swears

  and comes barrelling through the door,

  almost tripping on the front step.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  He runs towards me

  and grabs me in a headlock,

  pretending to punch me again and again.

  I squeeze free –

  neither of us can stop laughing.

  ‘You’re always fighting someone,’ I say.

  ‘Only those who deserve it,’ he answers.

  We walk across to the lake and sit on a log.

  Manx slaps a mosquito on his arm.

  ‘It’s the swamp and those mozzies

  stopping you from having

  rich neighbours building next door,’ I say.

  ‘Nah,’ he says.

  ‘People like you and me, Jonah,

  we drag down the price of everything we touch.’

  I think of Ella and me,

  the simple pleasure of holding hands

  and the honour of Manx

  not letting Rachel get caught.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’re wrong, Manx.’

  I look towards Tipping Point.

  ‘Let’s make a pact,’ I say.

  ‘In five years’ time,

  you and I will be sitting here,’

  I look meaningfully at Manx,

  ‘drinking the beer you bought,

  and we’ll count off the residents

  at Tipping Point.

  I bet none of them will be the same ones as today.

  They’ll all move out

  bored with the lake,

  the sunsets,

  and the salt of the ocean.

  They’ll return to Sydney

  or build an even bigger house

  further up the coast.

  We’re as permanent as gold.

  They’re as temporary as …’

  I try to think of the word.

  ‘… as paint?’ Manx grins.

  So much like happiness

  Saturday lunch

  and I’m teaching myself

  how to scramble eggs

  from a cookbook,

  even though I reckon

  Dad’s the expert,

  not this glossy recipe.

  Lined up on the bench

  are grated cheese, capsicum,

  and thinly sliced ham that I bought

  with my own money

  because, if you’re welcoming a guest,

  then you should treat them right.

  Mum is doing an extra shift for double time

  and Dad’s at the workshop.

  The table is set with napkins

  and the best plates I could find,

  even if they don’t match.

  I open the window

  and smell the ocean.

  Someone knocks quietly

  on the screen door

  and I check my reflection

  in the kitchen window.

  I hear Ella’s voice

  say, ‘Jonah’,

  and it sounds like happiness.

  So much like happiness.

  Melting

  After lunch,

  Ella and I sit on the lounge.

  Ella leans in close

  and traces a line up my arm

  with her fingers.

  ‘My dad has a tattoo

  of Mum on his forearm,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll get some ink and a needle,’ Ella replies.

  She squeezes my skin tight between her nails.

  ‘That doesn’t hurt, does it?’

  I think of Dad, in his workshop,

  tossing a ball for Peachy.

  Tomorrow,

  he’ll be back on the road.

  Love stains.

  Ella jumps up,

  walks to the kitchen

  and takes a container from the fridge

  that she put there

  when she first arrived.

  She tells me to close my eyes.

  I lean forward, in darkness,

  and hear the crackle of something plastic.

  ‘Tell me what I’m holding,’ Ella says.

  I can smell something sweet and nutty.

  ‘Pistachio,’ I guess.

  ‘And?’

  I lick my lips.

  I know it’s lemon gelato,

  but I joke, ‘Salted caramel.

  I love salted caramel!’

  Ella smacks me lightly on the arm.

  I open my eyes

  and she jumps on me,

  pinning me down on the lounge.

  We both laugh.

  She leans close and kisses me,

  while the gelato melts in the container.

  Trust

  The following Sunday,

  Manx casts a line into the lake

  and sits against the tree trunk

  looking across the water to Tipping Point.

  He doesn’t turn around when I approach.

  ‘Let’s imagine you’re a mullet,

  stuck in the lake,’ he says.

  ‘There’s no way out, Manx,’ I say.

  He spits between the gap in his teeth.

  ‘Someone has let a few sharks loose.

  They’re big ugly monsters

  that take up lots of space.

  What do you do?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s a big lake, Manx.’

  ‘But sharks don’t just swim

  innocently around

  smiling at the locals.

  They feed off the weak,’ he says.

  I think of Ella and me,

  the gentle hope of skin on skin.

  ‘Mullet stick with mullet,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe some are impressed

  with the size of their …’ He laughs.

  I shake my head.

  ‘We trust mullet with mullet,

  no matter what.’

  The line screams;

  it’s a big fish.

  Manx smiles

  and indicates for me to take it.

  I rush to the rod

  and quickly begin reeling it in.

  Manx whistles as

  I let the fish play

  for a minute

  to tire it out

  before reeling again.

  It comes easier now.

  A silver flash breaks the surface.

  I bite my lip

  and reel harder

 
focused only on the catch.

  At the last moment,

  I flick the rod

  and the fish sails over our heads,

  landing with a thump on the bank.

  It’s the biggest we’ve caught.

  Manx grips the fish in both hands

  and carefully removes the hook.

  He smiles at me.

  ‘Mullet.’

  I grin back.

  He walks to the water’s edge,

  kneels down in the sand

  and holds the fish under the water;

  the fish stops wiggling.

  ‘What’s that word again, Jonah?’ Manx asks.

  ‘Trust,’ I say.

  Manx releases his grip

  and the fish darts into the deep.

  Manx stands, walks towards me,

  and wipes his hands dry

  on my t-shirt.

  A horn sounds from the road.

  Mr Gunn waves from the Holden.

  Manx takes the rod from my hands

  and walks away.

  When he reaches the car

  his dad says something

  and Manx turns,

  cups his hands and yells,

  ‘Fish and chips for dinner!

  You want some, Jonah?’

  I look across the lake

  for just a moment

  to the row of houses at Tipping Point

  before turning away,

  and striding up the embankment towards

  Manx and his dad.

  THE SIMPLE GIFT

  Steven Herrick

  Shortlisted CBCA Book of the Year for Older Readers

  Shortlisted NSW Premier’s Literary Awards

  My hand in his

  stops trembling

  for a moment.

  When the paths of a runaway teenage boy, an old hobo and a rich girl intersect in an abandoned train yard, each carries their own personal baggage. Over early mornings, long walks and cheap coffee they discover, no matter how big or small, it’s the simple gifts in life that really make a difference.

  A life-affirming look at humanity, generosity and love.

  ‘Herrick is an expert writer.’ Weekend Australian

  ISBN 978 0 7022 3133 9

  First published 2016 by University of Queensland Press

  PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia

  www.uqp.com.au

  uqp@uqp.uq.edu.au

  © Steven Herrick 2016

  This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cover design and illustration by Jo Hunt

  Typeset in 12/14 pt Adobe Garamond by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group, Melbourne

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  National Library of Australia

  catalogue.nla.gov.au