Tiff and the Trout

by David Metzenthen

  ‘No letters, no phone calls, no nothin’,’ says Cass, like a TV detective. ‘And all their stuff left behind. There was a movie still running in the DVD.’ She raises her eyebrows and holds up her pencil as if it was an important piece of evidence.

  ‘You goose,’ I say. ‘All their stuff was rented. That’s why they left it. Mum told me.’ And Lane told her, because the Brookings got it from where he works.

  ‘Yeah, well, anyway …’ Cass’s forehead wrinkles. ‘They’ll get a really big fine for having their stuff overdue. And how about Hildy’s library books? If she ever comes back, man, her mum’ll be up for a million bucks.’

  I change the subject. ‘We’d better get started on this electricity thing. We’ve only got three days.’

  Cass shrugs. She doesn’t worry about school like I do.

  ‘Why don’t we just draw a great big light switch,’ she suggests, ‘and write On, Off, and The End?’

  ‘Because,’ I say, ‘that would be STUPID, that’s why.’

  The Black Grumbler

  I call Lane’s car the Black Grumbler because, well, it grumbles. Sometimes he winds down the window just to listen to it.

  ‘Ahh, Tiff-a-knee,’ he’ll say. ‘That V-8 motor is music to the ears!’

  ‘Yeah, cloth ears,’ I might say from the back seat. ‘Which yours must be if you like that racket.’

  At least Lane’s not bad-tempered. He’s younger than Mum, I think. ‘Sharney,’ he calls her. He likes saying it, and saying ‘Sian’, too. He used to write it down, blink, and say, ‘That does not look right.’ Lane’s not a nasty guy. But it’s hard to get used to someone else being around your mum. It makes me feel like, well, get me out of here!

  Nathan calls Lane ‘The Alien’.

  ‘It’s the same letters. Alien.’

  I asked him where the ‘I’ came from.

  Nathan just shrugged. ‘Somewhere. Who cares. He’s still an alien.’

  I must admit it is quite a good name for Lane, because he’s not like anyone else I know. He’s certainly NOT like Dad.

  Some Saturday afternoons, when Dad and Nathan drive down to Mittavale, they must pass Lane on his way up, because there’s only one road. This must be embarrassing for Lane, and hard on my Dad – but perhaps Lane thinks he’s invisible because the Black Grumbler’s got tinted windows. My dad probably doesn’t even know tinted windows exist.

  Cass thinks Lane is all-right looking. I think he’s pretty average myself. He’s too neat, too tightly tucked in, too beefy, and his hands are hairy. And he sings and dances to stuff on TV – not that that bothers me, because then he forgets about trying to be cool and he is actually funny in a very dumb kind of a way.

  Dad never danced, but Mum did. She’d just sway her shoulders and go with the music. She looked graceful and beautiful, as if she was allowing herself to be seen like that for just a few minutes. These days she’ll put on music, but she won’t dance, not even with me.

  I don’t dance much, either. Sometimes Cass and I work out a few moves, but you need happy energy to dance, and sometimes I just don’t have any of that at all.

  I hear the Black Grumbler. Lane is taking us out to tea. We’re going up Mount Kennedy to the ski village. There’s no snow yet, but a couple of the restaurants are open. When there is snow, it’s amazing. It’s a little town all covered in white.

  In winter I go skiing with Dad and Cass. You feel like you’re flying. Lane skis, too, but as Cass says, he’s, ‘all show, no go’. Lane wears a red and white suit that makes him look like Santa – which is definitely not good.

  Cass and I are cool – well, we think we are. We’ve been skiing since we were six. Skiing makes me happy inside and out. Maybe it’s the same feeling Mum used to get when she danced? I love skiing so much I can do it even when I am in a foul mood.

  Mum won’t ski. She says she’s un-co, although she’s not. She just hates snow and getting cold. My dad used to race. So how come he can ski, but he can’t dance?

  ‘So what about my dad?’ Cass said. ‘He can’t ski or dance.’ Then Cass gritted her teeth and growled. ‘But by hell, mate, he can drive a bloody bulldozer!’

  Cass’s dad can drive anything. And Jake, Cass’s brother, he can too. And he hunts deer with a rifle.

  It’s interesting what people are good at and what they like. If my mum loved bulldozers and road graders she’d love Tilgong for sure! Cass’s dad could get her a job on the council, NO WORRIES, MATE!

  Lane loves corners. He even makes the noises that little kids make on their bikes. He knows that I think he’s being ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS.

  ‘Oh, please!’ I say. ‘Just get us up there, will ya?’

  We’re in the Top of the World Restaurant. The tablecloths have red and white checks, there are big fat candles all over the place, and outside I can see ski-lift pylons marching off up the mountain. Without snow, the lifts look ugly and useless.

  ‘Can’t wait for the season to kick off, eh Tiff?’ Lane says. ‘Bring on the white stuff!’

  ‘Mmmm,’ says Mum, sipping on her drink. ‘I just love that snow.’ She doesn’t, of course. ‘I might be in Noosa, by then,’ she adds. ‘Who knows?’

  Lane looks at her. There’s a stretch of silence that reminds me of one of those extendable clotheslines that just keeps on going. It’s as if Lane and I have as much space as we want to peg our sad thoughts on to. I wish Mum wouldn’t say stuff like that.

  ‘Yeah, who knows, Sian?’ Lane says eventually ‘Not moi.’

  And not me-moi, either, although I don’t think Mum is serious about being in Noosa by winter. How could she be? She hasn’t got a job up there or anywhere to live. I don’t even want to think about it.

  Luckily the silence ends when the waitress brings our meals. It’s amazing how the sight of big golden chips manages to cheer us up – well, me and Lane, anyway. Even Mum takes one off Lane’s plate. Her meal comes with vegetables.

  ‘Ah, well,’ says Lane, spiking a chip up. ‘Here’s cheers to the big banana.’

  I don’t even know what that means, but I laugh anyway, because it’s so ridiculous. Lane grins at me and for once it’s as if we’re on the same side.

  I think of Hildy Brooking, because she used to live just down the road in a lodge called Snowhaven. It’s a weird-looking place with wooden towers that big black currawongs like to sit on. Cass calls it Ghosthaven.

  ‘Face it, Tiff,’ Cass said a few days after Hildy disappeared, ‘she was a strange kid – like, with those long plaits and everything – and strange things happen to strange people. You know I’m right.’

  ‘That is just so much GARBAGE,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Cass added. ‘But I’d imagine she’d be sticking with those plaits, wherever she is.’

  Later it occurred to me that Cass wears plaits a lot. And I didn’t even mention it. I hate it when that happens.

  Dawdling

  Dawdling is something Cass and I do really well. We dawdle down to school and we really dawdle uphill on the way home. We say hello to people, to cats, to dogs, and we never hurry unless it’s raining or absolutely freezing.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Cass says, the sun rippling down her hair, ‘if your mum does leave, you can come and live with me. Just come on down. Your bed’s got those little wheels on it, hasn’t it?’

  I look up the road. I can see our front windows from here. Mum has put pink camellia flowers on the ledge.

  ‘I could move into your place in two minutes flat,’ I say, but Cass and I know we’re both kidding. You don’t leave your family. You stay with them. Or one of them. Or some of them. If you can.

  We dawdle on. I can see the new green tin school roof. When it rains it sounds great. Our classroom is nice and warm and sometimes I don’t want to go home, because it’s good working on a project with everyone around you talking and borrowing stuff between the tables. I like school. There’s no drama. Not real drama anyway, not like at home.

  ‘Mum’d have to get a job s
omewhere else before she goes,’ I say. ‘How could she do that from here? It’d be pretty hard, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘She couldn’t,’ says Cass. ‘No way. Well, I wouldn’t think she could.’

  We go up the steps into Tilgong General Store. I have to buy ten stamps for Mum. There are signs stuck all over the notice board. If you want a free dog or a second-hand fridge or footy boots, this is where you’ll find them.

  Cass and I love the general store. It’s made of old wood, there’s a potbelly stove, and little tables where you can have hot chocolate. And it’s not painted green, either. It’s white. In the store there are postcards, magazines, fishing gear, Tilgong ti-tree soap, groceries, bad hats, videos, you name it, it’s all here.

  ‘Morning, girls,’ Mr King says. ‘What a beautiful sunny Wednesday!’

  Mr King always wears a white coat like a chemist. He also knows every bird that lives in the mountains. He was on TV once talking about parrots.

  ‘Fair dinkum, now that was a highlight,’ Cass said. ‘There I was waiting for the Simmies, but instead I get old Kingy goin’ on and on about the mating habits of parrots in hollow logs. Truly, I nearly choked.’

  I wish I’d seen it. I like parrots. You get lots around here. Crimson rosellas are my favourites.

  Mr King’s right about today being a nice day. The dew shines on the grass as if it’s been raining diamonds. Some mornings frost is everywhere like frozen sugar.

  ‘And we don’t ever want to leave this beautiful little town,’ says Cass, looking at me. ‘Do we, Tiff?’

  ‘No, Cass,’ I say. ‘We don’t.’

  Cass buys lollies. ‘Well, maybe when we’re, like, twenty,’ she adds, ‘But until then, we’re locals through and through.’

  ‘Best little town in Australia,’ Mr King says.

  ‘Well, that might be stretchin’ it,’ Cass mutters as we leave. ‘But anyway.’

  Fun. I have one of those school days where everything is fun. I get all my homework right, everything we do is easy, and Mrs Petrucci is smiling. I just feel like laughing and the sun shines right in on my table. Winter might be coming, but it’s not here yet. Even Mum must be happy here today.

  Our family hasn’t always lived in Tilgong. We lived near the beach in Melbourne until I was five. Sandringham, it was called. Then Dad got a teaching job in Mittavale, where he grew up, and we shifted.

  I can vaguely remember living in ‘Sandy’ as Mum calls it. Mum’s got plenty of photos from then, but looking at old photos just stresses me out, because you can see that none of us ever imagined we wouldn’t be together forever. Looking on the bright side, though, at least my front teeth turned up.

  I can remember the blue sky in Melbourne, and the bright green water of the bay. I can remember pushing cold, damp sand on the beach. I can remember being under the umbrella, then running out and feeling the sun like a hot hand on the back of my neck. Everything I remember has a different feeling to it, like every kind of fabric has a different texture to it. And the feeling I get for Sandringham is like sunshine on your face early in the morning – with the sounds of little waves around the edges!

  Maybe I might like living at the beach again? Maybe it might be as good as I remember – or, as good as Mum says it is.

  Tilgong has a different feeling. It can be so still and beautiful here, with the smell of the bush and the sounds of parrots, but then clouds can surround us and the fog might stay for days. And storms? Sometimes the lightning cracks right over your head and the thunder seems to explode inside your damn house. But that’s what mountain weather is like. Exciting!

  Cass calls Tilgong ‘Greenville’, ‘Toy town’, or ‘Rainarama,’ and I will admit we do get some truly shocking winter weather. The days are short, the nights are long, the wind is freezing, and when it rains even the smoke from the chimneys gets washed away – but when it snows it’s like magic. Whiteness everywhere!

  In ski season, cars and buses are always on the road. Some even go off the road if they don’t put on chains. Winter is exciting, and even though us locals aren’t supposed to like ski tourists, Cass and I don’t mind them. There are some pretty nice boys around! And we have special season ski passes with our photos on them, which is cool. Cass pretends to be an instructor.

  ‘Mind ze trees, bend ze knees,’ she says. ‘Zat vill be fifty dollars, please.’

  Mum actually met my dad on the mountain. She was buying two hot water bottles in the Alpine Supermarket and Dad was talking to his friend, Godfrey Dockerty, who owns the shop.

  ‘His face was tanned,’ Mum told me. ‘He had on a red and white ski patrol jacket and his hair was swept back. He looked like Errol Flynn. He was quite dashing.’

  Cass and I say ‘quite dashing’ a lot. As in, ‘Gee, that guy’s ski pants are quite dashing.’ Which means they’re not. Or they really might be. It’s kind of complicated.

  Since then my dad’s lost a bit of his hair, so he’s not quite so dashing any more – but hey, he’s my dad, and that’s what happens.

  Anyway, we shifted up here because Dad got the job, and they could afford to buy a house – which was always going to make Dad happy and Mum sad. But if they’d stayed in Melbourne, Dad would’ve been sad, and Mum happy. So what do you do?

  Well, if you’re a kid, you do what you’re told. Look at Hildy. Someone made a decision and she was gone. Cass reckoned she was kidnapped because someone wanted to cut her plaits off. I didn’t even laugh about that. Or maybe I did – but only because I couldn’t help it.

  That time I did remember to remind Cass that she wears plaits just about as much as Hildy.

  ‘Not the same,’ Cass said. ‘No way. My plaits have attitude.’

  Gold sunglasses, red mobile

  Lane hardly ever lets go of the remote control.

  ‘Just tell your old Uncle Lane what channel, Tiff,’ he says. ‘I sell these babies, you know. Electrical stuff respects me.’

  I try not to laugh. Laughing at Lane’s jokes would make me feel like I’m letting my dad down. And it would only make Lane try more of them. He reminds me of an army tank. Nothing seems to worry him. If something terrible happens, like a tornado smashing through a town, Lane will just say something like, ‘Gee, I’m prettyyy glad I didn’t have the old car parked there.’ Lane tries so hard to make me like him that I get sick of it.

  ‘Well, he is a salesman, Tiff,’ Cass says. ‘So you better be careful. He might try to swap you for half-a-dozen saucepans.’

  I actually wonder if Lane does like me – or if he’s putting on a big act so my mum will like him. There is one thing I am sure about, though, and that is I hate the thought of him touching my mother. Yarrrk!

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ is Cass’s advice. ‘He’s probably too busy on his mobile anyway.’

  Lane loves his mobile. He’s always saying Hollywood stuff like, ‘My people will talk to your people, okay?’ Or, ‘Missing you already, babe.’ Then he’ll look at me and wink – but I refuse to laugh.

  My dad doesn’t have a mobile, but if he did, he would only use it on bushwalks – for emergency calls! Dad is old-fashioned. I can see that. Nathan can’t, but he is only in grade four and doesn’t know anything about anything except football and golf.

  Nathan’s not a bad kid. He’s bright, but since Mum and Dad broke up he hasn’t been doing as well as he used to at school. He says it’s because he doesn’t like his new teacher, but I don’t believe that. I bet half the time he feels like me; that your head’s filled up with a kind of a gloomy, angry, feeling that isn’t clear or understandable – it’s just there – getting in the way of everything else, including school work. Sometimes Nathan does hardly any work at all.

  Dad worries more now.

  ‘Gotta tell you, Tiff,’ he said once when I was staying down at Mittavale. ‘This has been the hardest year of my life by one very long country mile.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said, and suddenly this great wave of awful feelings and trouble swelled up inside
me. Dad hugged me until I was all right.

  Cass has a saying for when things aren’t going too well. It’s her dad’s saying, actually. And this saying is, ‘Don’t drop your head.’

  It makes us laugh because it is obviously ridiculous. Don’t drop your head? Well, you wouldn’t want to, would you?

  Boing, boing, boing.

  Once I came home early and my parents were yelling at each other and crying. I don’t know what they were fighting over, and I didn’t ask, because I had the feeling if I knew it might drive me crazy. I just took off down to the swings.

  There are certain things that people might do behind other people’s backs that I do not want to even consider happened in my family. I do not want to think about secrets that parents should never have, but maybe one of them does have. And that’s all I can say about that, Full Stop.

  On to another subject: today I found our phone bill between the cushions. There were lots of calls to Queensland, which is strange, because I don’t think Mum even knows anybody in Queensland. This, I get the feeling, is bad news for me – because I do know that there are plenty of beaches up there.

  Evidently Lane the Pain wants to go fishing. I see him lean his fishing rod near our front door, a tiny gold spinner shining.

  ‘How about it, Tiff?’ he asks. ‘Just a quick walk up the Warrigal on a sunny Saturday afternoon. What could be better?’

  The Warrigal? I can picture it flashing in the sun, wide and deep and wickedly fast. The idea of fishing in it scares me, and although I’m reading a book at the moment, Lane wouldn’t consider that a good enough excuse not to go.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I guess. Just for a little while.’ I put my book down, which isn’t all that good anyway. ‘I’ll go get my stuff.’ I head off to my room.

  Sometimes in spring, when the snow’s melting, you can hear the Warrigal all the way up here in our house. It sounds like a train, and if you get a glimpse of it down through the trees, it is just one long seething line of white.