by Bill Condon
‘I didn’t mean to bother you.’ I get off the chair and trudge to the door.
‘Back here.’
‘But you said—’
‘Oh Stephen, I don’t mean half the things I say. You should know that by now. It’s a habit I’ve fallen into so that people leave me alone. Not a very pleasant habit.’
‘I can come back later.’
‘No. I don’t really want you to leave me alone. I believe you’re growing on me.’
‘Aw. That’s good.’
‘Not if you’re growing on me like a wart.’
‘Huh?’
‘What did I tell you about using that poor excuse for a word?’
‘Um … not to use it?’
‘That’s correct … I’ll overlook it this time. Now, do you still want me to read to you from my book, or not?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Then I shall. I wonder where I should start … ’
‘If you like, you can read it all.’
‘There are thousands of words, Stephen.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Let’s try a small piece and see if you like it.’
‘Okay.’
Aunty Lola reads.
‘In 1826 Margaret Evans married Jacob Standish. She was eighteen and he was twenty-two. They lived in Newfoundland – that’s in Canada, Stephen.’
I scratch my nose, then my ear. It’s funny how when one part gets itchy, everything gets itchy …
‘Margaret had nine children. Three others died during birth. Jacob worked as a—’ Aunty Lola stops when she sees me yawning.
‘I’m listening,’ I say. ‘It’s really good. Will you read some more?’
‘Yes, but not this. I know a better piece. One I think you might like a little bit more.’
Aunty Lola flicks through the pages. I try to get all of my yawns and itches out of the way before she reads again.
‘Ah. Here we are. This is about your great-great-grandfather.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Long John Silverman.’
‘That’s a cool name.’
‘He was a pirate.’
‘Nooo. Was he?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Do you have any photos of him?’
‘He was around a long time before there were photos. But I’m sure you can imagine what he looked like. Go ahead.’
‘Er … what do you want me to do?’
‘Put a photo of Long John in your head.’
‘How do I—’
‘Use your imagination, Stephen. It’s best if you close your eyes.’
‘All right.’
‘Now tell me what you see.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Squeeze that imagination. Go on. You can do it.’
‘Um … he has a wooden leg.’
‘Now you’re getting the hang of it. Are there any termites in it?’
I open my eyes and grin.
‘Eyes closed. And continue. What else can you see?’
‘A sword. It’s silver and it’s got gold on the handle.’
‘Very good. And?’
‘He has a parrot on his shoulder.’
‘Colour?’
‘Green – and yellow.’
‘What’s this parrot doing?’
‘Just sitting there.’
‘Are you sure? What would a parrot do on a shoulder?’
‘Um … I know! It’s doing a poo!’
‘Oh! You disgusting child!’
‘It’s green poo!’
‘Horrible boy, you are. I am shocked!’
Aunty Lola’s only pretending to be shocked. I can tell.
‘This is fun!’ I say.
‘To you it may be. To me it is simply appalling. Now whenever I think of our pirate ancestor I’ll have visions of … what you said.’
I laugh and laugh as Aunty Lola screws up her face. Like she’s sniffing parrot poo!
‘See, you didn’t need a photo at all.’ She pushes herself up from her chair. ‘Your imagination is in good working order, Stephen.’
‘Was Long John Silverman really a pirate? Or is he just a made-up story?’
Aunty Lola’s back straightens. Her eyes bulge.
‘A made-up story? Would I tell you a made-up story?’
I say ‘No’, but I think ‘Yes’.
‘I’m going into the house,’ she says. ‘So are you. Come along.’
‘But I haven’t told you my news yet.’
‘Tell me on the way.’
I wait while she packs away her pen and her family history book, and switches off the light. Then she clicks the lock shut and closes the door.
We walk along the path that leads to the house.
‘Go on then, Stephen, what’s your news?’
‘Allie told me that Mr Smith is sick.’
‘Is he? I didn’t know that.’
‘Not just ordinary sick. Allie’s mum told her she had to “be prepared”, because he might die.’
‘Oh … Are you sure you heard that correctly?’
‘It’s what Allie said.’
‘I see.’
‘Mr Smith is a nice man. I hope he feels better soon. Don’t you, Aunty Lola?’
‘Yes.’ She nods slowly. ‘I very much hope that.’
The next morning I help Dad pull weeds from the back garden. We’ve been doing it for nearly half an hour. Now I hear Mr Smith calling us. Allie is with him.
‘I’m taking my favourite girl fishing at the bridge later on,’ he says. ‘Would you like to come with us?’
‘It’s tempting.’ Dad rubs his bristly chin. For a second I think he might say yes. But then he says, ‘I’d like to, but I’ve got lots of work on around the house. Maybe another time.’
‘Can Stephen come with us?’ Allie asks.
‘Nah. He’s got to help me. We’ll be working here till dark. Maybe all through the night. Besides, he really doesn’t like fishing. Do you, Steve?’
‘I do so! You know that, Dad. I love it!’
He tries to look surprised, but his grin gets in the way. ‘Of course he can go,’ he tells Allie.
‘Thanks, Dad!’
‘But you’ll need to buy a fishing line first.’
‘We’ve got a spare one. Haven’t we, Poppy?’
‘We sure have, Al.’
I know Allie wants to run to the bridge as much as I do, but we can’t leave Mr Smith behind. He walks almost as slow as Aunty Lola. Allie holds his hand and swings it up high as they stroll along. He’s got one free hand but I don’t know him well enough to take it.
Halfway to the end of the street Allie says, ‘Are you fishing today, Poppy, or watching?’
‘You know the answer to that one, Al. Nothing’s changed.’
‘Just checking … Poppy never goes fishing, Stephen. When he was young he used to hunt and shoot all the time. But then he shot this bird and—’ She swings back around to Mr Smith. ‘You should tell the story yourself, Poppy. I can’t tell it as good as you.’
‘Remind me later, Stephen,’ he says.
It takes nearly fifteen minutes to reach the bridge. Allie times us with her watch. That’s got to be a record for slowness.
‘This is perfect,’ Allie says when we see there’s no one else here. ‘More fish for us.’
We unpack our gear from the fishing basket Mr Smith has brought.
‘I dug these up myself, Stephen.’ Allie shows me the bait. ‘They were in really gooey, oozy mud, but I washed them so they’re good to go. Now we have to put them on the hooks.’
When I dream about catching a fish the hook is already baited. Having to do it myself is a lot harder.
‘It’s only a worm, Stephen. It won’t bite you.’
I think worms should be called squirms. It’s a much better name, and it describes them just right. I know this kid called Michael Foley who’s got a worm farm. He says the worms in the farm are his pets. It’s true! I’d much rather have Blue any day. She�
��s never squirmy. Always soft and good to touch. I don’t like worms very much, but I still feel sorry for them. It must hurt being stuck on a hook. Then they get thrown into the water. And sometimes a fish comes along and bites into them. It’s not a happy life.
‘Stephen, why are you taking so long?’
‘I don’t want to hurt it.’
Allie grabs the worm from me and pushes it onto the hook.
‘There!’ She passes it back. ‘It didn’t feel a thing.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m older than you. So I just know. Okay?’
I nod.
Older kids know more than younger kids. It’s a rule. I can’t wait till I’m older.
‘Goodbye, worm.’ I drop my line into the water.
Mr Smith looks up from the book he’s reading. ‘I know how you feel, Stephen. Next time I’ll buy some prawns for bait. Frozen ones.’
We fish for an hour without getting a single nibble. I didn’t know fishing took so long. First I think about worms and wonder if they can swim. Then I switch to thinking about fish, and catching them. I like eating fish that doesn’t have bones. It’s even better with hot chips and chicken salt. Maybe a couple of potato scallops, too. Suddenly I feel hungry.
‘Is it time to eat yet?’ I ask.
‘Any time’s a good time to eat, Stephen.’ Mr Smith stands and points to a shop down the street. ‘Food’s okay there.’
We buy fish and chips and cans of drink. Dad gave me ten dollars for lunch but Mr Smith says, ‘Keep it in your pocket.’ He pays for everything.
After we wash our hands – mainly because of handling the worms – we sit down at a picnic table overlooking the water. I sprinkle vinegar over my chips. (The shop didn’t have chicken salt.) I’ve never tried it before but Allie does it, so I copy her. Vinegar makes the chips taste pretty bad, but when I squirt on loads of tomato sauce they’re good again.
‘Remind Poppy, Stephen.’
‘What about?’
‘His bird story. He said you had to remind him.’
‘Aw, okay. Will you tell me the story, Mr Smith?’
‘It’s not very exciting.’
‘Tell him, Poppy. He’ll like it.’
‘All right then.’
Mr Smith takes a swig of drink. Then he starts …
‘I used to be gun-crazy when I was a youngster. My brothers were the same. We all had rifles. I had three of them. Our dad would go out hunting with us on weekends.’
‘Did you ever shoot anything?’
‘My word I did. I’d kill an animal and it wouldn’t bother me at all. But then there was this day when I was eighteen – sixty years ago. I saw a bird land on a branch. Amazing colours, it had. I didn’t think twice. Took aim, squeezed the trigger – Bang! I walked up to where it fell and—’
‘Wait till you hear this part, Stephen. It’s spooky.’
I stop eating. And just listen.
‘Well, before I fired, it was beautiful. Glorious. A moment later, as I stood over it, I saw all of its colour disappearing. It happened right in front of my eyes, Stephen. Its feathers became a washed-out, dirty grey colour. It was nothing but ugly. A piece of rubbish. And it was all because of what I’d done. I went home and broke up my guns and threw them away. Dad wasn’t too impressed. My brothers thought I was mad. But I had to do it. And I’ve never killed anything since that day.’
‘It’s different with fish. Isn’t it, Mr Smith?’
‘I don’t know, lad.’
‘Oh, it’s heaps different,’ Allie says. ‘Everyone catches fish, all the time. And fish are really stupid. If they get hooked, they don’t even feel it.’
‘Do you know that for sure, Allie?’
‘Ye-ah. Everyone knows that. You told the story good, Poppy. Did you like it, Stephen?’
‘Yes.’
We’re all quiet for a little while, eating our lunch. Then Allie says that maybe we’re using the wrong bait. Or we could try fishing further down the bridge, to change our luck. Mr Smith says the fish we’re eating is cooked perfectly. He licks his fingers as he says it. All the time while they talk, and even as we walk back to the bridge, I can’t stop thinking about that dead bird.
Soon we’re fishing again. Well, really, you can’t call it fishing if there are no fish in the water. I think they’re somewhere else, and I don’t blame them.
‘If I was a fish I wouldn’t go anywhere near water that was so close to a fish shop. Would you, Mr Smith?’
He laughs as soon as I say it. ‘You’re right there.’ And, even though I didn’t mean it to sound funny, he laughs some more.
‘Shh!’ Allie glares at me, not Mr Smith, even though he made more noise than I did. ‘If the fish hear you talking, you’ll scare them away.’
‘Can I talk if I whisper?’
‘No. All you can do is think.’
‘What about?’
She shrugs. ‘Up to you.’
Mr Smith coughs. Not just once. It’s a cough that goes on and on.
‘You okay, Poppy?’
He’s hunched over, breathing hard and noisy. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ He clears his throat, and then straightens up again. ‘Good as gold now. Must have swallowed a fly. Go back to your fishing, kids.’
Mr Smith reads his book. He doesn’t notice me looking at him. His breathing is still all gaspy. I wonder if he’s scared about dying. I would be. Allie’s looking down at the water, but I reckon all that coughing has made her think about her poppy. Maybe she thinks about him all the time.
When I squeeze my eyes shut really hard I can see fish on ice at Con’s seafood shop at the mall. Dad always ends up buying perch or salmon, but not before we’ve had a good look at all the other fish, just in case there’s something better. Whatever fish I point to, Con knows what type it is. Now I can see all the fish from his shop. They’re gliding by in the water below us. Yellowtail, whiting, trout, swordfish, flathead, perch, salmon. They’ve all got their heads on and they stare at me with their black eyes, probably wondering what kind of fish I—
‘I’ve got a bite!’
Allie screams it.
‘It’s not a snag! It’s a fish!’
Mr Smith stands up and looks over the side of the bridge. ‘Reel it in, Al.’
‘I am, Poppy!’
Her line isn’t loose like mine. It’s pulled tight. There’s something strong on the other end. She really does have a fish.
Allie reels it out of the water. She groans when she sees it.
‘It’s only a can, Allie.’
‘I know that!’ She groans even louder.
‘Never mind, Al,’ says Mr Smith. ‘At least you caught something.’
She takes the can off the hook and has a quick look inside. I have a longer look. Are those eyes in there?
‘You better watch out, Allie.’
‘What for?’
‘I think it might have something in it.’
‘Where?’
She holds the can close to her face, so she can have a better look.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? There’s nothing – arrgh!’
Long red claws pop out. Then a head.
‘Crab!’
Allie heaves the can back into the water. She shivers, and then hugs Mr Smith.
It’s hilarious!
‘Make him stop laughing, Poppy. Make him stop.’
‘She’s right,’ Mr Smith says in a serious voice. ‘You shouldn’t laugh, Stephen.’ He turns his face away from Allie, so she can’t see his big, wide, happy grin.
It’s raining, so Allie doesn’t come over to play. Mum and Dad have gone out. That means it’s only me and Aunty Lola together all day. I like being with her. She lets me help with her family history; cutting out newspaper stories and pasting them into the book. And she talks to me, like she hasn’t done before – like I’m not a kid. I hear all about when she was a little girl, how strict her parents were, how there were lots
of rules, and how she was always getting into trouble. Then – without me asking her to – she talks about her secret room.
‘I have a case in there, Stephen. A very special case.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Some little bits of long ago. Precious things I can’t bear to part with. They’ve been hidden away for sixty-three years. No one has seen them in all that time. I can’t even look at them myself, because they’re too sad – too many memories.’
‘Sorry they make you sad.’
‘I often tell myself: “I must do something about that silly old case of mine.” I don’t want people finding it after I’m gone, when I’m not here to explain what happened, how it was for me … I suppose one day it’ll go into the fire. Soon, I think.’
‘Will you show me what’s in it, Aunty Lola? I promise I won’t tell anyone.’
I expect to hear a big No, like a door slamming shut, but she thinks about it for a while, before saying, ‘I’d like to, but I don’t think I can.’
Aunty Lola stands on the front verandah and looks at the sky.
‘It’s fining up, Stephen. How would you like to come to bingo with me?’
‘That would be great! What’s bingo?’
‘I’ll explain on the way. The bus leaves in half an hour. Do you think you could be ready by then?’
‘I’m ready right now!’
‘Can I have the window seat?’
‘You may.’
As the bus bumps along, Aunty Lola teaches me all about the game. I like that winners get prizes. Usually money. She says she’ll give me half of anything she wins. ‘Because tonight we’re partners.’ That is so good. But the most exciting thing will be when I get to call out BINGO, as loudly as I can. Like this –
‘BINGO! BINGO!’
‘That’s enough, Stephen.’
‘Did I do it right?’
‘You did.’
‘One more?’
‘No. We’ll get thrown off the bus. Keep it for the actual game.’
‘What if I don’t know when to say it?’
‘You’ll know. I’ll make sure of it.’
At the bingo hall I head for the food table. There are pieces of cheese on crackers – not interested in them much – but I also see chocolate brownies and a plate of rocky road.