I am. I feel like a floppy doll. My legs won’t work. Cass trundles back down then starts to push me uphill.
‘C’mon, Tiff. Just get home and ask – and then you’ll know – whatever.’ She stops pushing.
Right. I start to walk. I am going to find out what’s going on – because if Mum’s going somewhere else then that means I am, too.
I go inside. The house is quiet, but I can smell something cooking, which means she hasn’t left yet! I put my backpack down. The TV is on, but Mum is outside bringing in the washing, the wind blowing her hair. Mount Power is behind her, looming, looming, looming.
Mum picks up the blue basket we’ve had forever, turns, then sees me at the window. She smiles and waves, I wave back, then she comes up the concrete path.
I think, in a way, my mum did sneak away from Dad. And she hates herself for it. And Dad hasn’t forgiven her, either. On their wedding anniversary this year he sent back every photo he had that she was in. It didn’t matter if Nathan or I were also in them – bad luck – we were sent back, too. It seemed pretty mean – but I guess compared to what Mum had done, it wasn’t much.
‘Well, at least he didn’t stick voodoo pins in ’em,’ Cass had said. ‘Especially if he like, danced around the kitchen wavin’ a wooden spoon with a bone through his nose.’
Yes, that’s true.
Our house is cosy. There’s a wood heater, Dad put timber panelling in the bathroom, and the garden’s got a nice, interesting slope. My bedroom’s small, though. Sometimes Mum says, ‘Okay, cupboard-time now, Tiff.’ She’s joking, but I know from her magazines that she’d like to live in a big really modern house with lots of bedrooms and bathrooms, by the sea.
‘I could look at the water forever,’ she says. ‘It always changes. It’s always beautiful.’
Which is just about the same thing my dad says about open fires!
‘I’d prefer to watch a fire than a movie,’ Dad says.
I’d prefer a movie, but that’s just me.
My dad likes country houses, like Uncle Mark’s place. Uncle Mark is Dad’s brother and he has a farmhouse with a veranda. Inside there are fireplaces, brass lights, and a huge kitchen table.
Dad’s brother is a vet. His wife’s name is Penny and they’ve got four horses and two kids, one called Sophie and one called Harry. They’re little but nice. Dad says that one day he’d like to have a house like Mark’s and I think he might. I’m not so sure Mum will end up with what she wants. Two-storey houses at the beach look pretty expensive to me. God, even the couches she wants are worth, like, about ten thousand dollars.
Mum takes our tea out of the oven. It’s lasagna, which is okay. I decide now is the time to ask about Queensland, but when I open my mouth, nothing happens. I’m like a fish blowing bubbles. Suddenly I just blurt it out.
‘Are you going to Queensland? I saw the phone bill.’ Words fly out like air from a balloon. ‘Why do you always ring there? We don’t know anybody up there. Why do you?’ Suddenly, I’m all out of air.
Mum slowly takes off her oven glove, which is like a blue and yellow fish. Behind me the TV weatherman talks about severe conditions in all alpine areas. Sheeezus, I’ll say! Now Mum is looking at me, but I don’t look at her. I tap my thumbs. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. SOS! HELP!
‘I’m only thinking about going up there, Tiff,’ she says quietly, as if I’ve really surprised her. ‘I’ve made a few calls about jobs and flats and things, but only to see if there’s anything available. I haven’t made any plans at all.’
My heart feels like it’s tripped over and fallen flat. Enquiring means she wants to go, which means she will go – and soon, I bet. She won’t wait for years like Cass said. No bloody way.
‘But you’re gunna go!’ I yell. ‘And as soon as you can, I bet!’ I feel as if my whole life is falling down. The walls swing around. ‘I know you are, you liar!’
I kind of wish I hadn’t said ‘liar’, but too late – I can’t get it back now. A hopeless feeling overwhelms me, black and bottomless, like the deepest, darkest coldest lake.
If Mum goes I’ll have to go, too, and that means leaving my school – and I love my school! I’ve been there forever. It’s like home. It’s mine. And what about the kids? And my view out the window? It took me six years to get that table! School is one of my best things. It’s the safest place there is. There’s only small stuff to worry about at school, like homework or losing your dumb jumper. At school is the only place I can ever forget about home. I can’t leave there.
But no one will listen to me. They’ll say they will, but they won’t. They’ll do what they want to do, because that’s what they always do.
‘You’d better not go without telling me,’ I say. ‘When I’m at school or something. You’d better not.’
Mum’s face changes. It’s still for a few seconds then it melts into tears. I just watch. She puts her hands up to her eyes. She doesn’t wear any rings now. She used to wear lots. I don’t know where they’ve gone. She grabs my hands. Hers are warm from cooking, mine are cold.
‘Oh, Tiff.’ Tears make wet tracks. ‘I would never do that. Never. You couldn’t think that? I never would.’
Well, that’s good to hear, I suppose. That’s one good thing anyway.
‘But you are gunna leave,’ I say, and I take my hands back. ‘Because you didn’t say you weren’t. And then what’s going to happen to me? I can’t stay here, can I? So what about school and Cass and –’ Oh, forget it!
It feels like the roof’s fallen right down on top of me. I wish it would. And then sweep me into the lake with those dead people. I would not care. I’m sick of all this thinking and thinking and then things only get worse. They sure never get any better.
Mum’s eyes don’t let me go. Every time I look at her she’s looking at me.
‘You can come with me, Tiff,’ she says. ‘Of course you can. Always. If that’s what you want. I just want you to be happy.’ Mum breathes in. ‘And I would like to be happy, too.’ Her voice is hushed. ‘I want all four of us to be happy. Now and for always.’
I feel as if I’ve been locked out of my head. I can’t think about this any more. Not now. I look at the calendar, which has the photo of a guy on a brown and white horse by a river. I wish I was there. It’d be warm and quiet and dusty. I’d like to pat that horse. Horses are great for calmness, some of them. My dad got the calendar. I’m surprised Mum hasn’t thrown it out. She probably forgot where it came from.
My head aches from the outside in, as if it’s being pressed. Words arrive. I let them say themselves.
‘But Dad and Nathan –’ I say. ‘If I go to Queensland I’d never see them and –’
Mum has one hand up to her temple.
‘I know, Tiff, I know.’ She looks exhausted. ‘But I wouldn’t force you to come. Only if you want to.’ She looks at me. ‘It will work out. I promise.’
Not true. Whatever happens from now on, my life is going to be wrecked because I’ll be living in a different house, going to a different school, and living in a different place. No Cass down the road. No lake, no river, no bush, no mountains, no snow, no fishing, no Dad, no stupid Nathan. Everything different and useless, for sure.
Mum sits on the closest stool. Her make-up is smudged. My face feels like a squashed pie. I’ve been crying and I didn’t even notice. I feel sick in my stomach.
‘I have to leave here, Tiff.’ Mum’s eyes look red and sore. ‘I tried to stay for you and Nathan, but it’s like prison. I know you don’t understand, but I just cannot live here for very much longer.’
How can she say that Tilgong’s like a prison? No way. This is the free-est place on earth. I look out and in the last light of the day Mount Power is rising and black, and maybe it does look scary – but it’s only a mountain. It’s only trees and rocks and things.
Maybe if it weren’t right there above our house, Mum would feel better? Maybe if we – oh, forget it! I’m out of here. There’s nothing I can do abou
t a mountain. So I get up and walk out. Why not? It’s better than staying, that’s for sure.
I wish Cass was here. She’d look at me, then she’d say something like, ‘Well, at least you still have your health.’ That’s what Cass’s mum says when things aren’t going too well. At least you still have your health. Yeah, right. I almost grin. Well, I guess I do have my health – apart from a headache, stomach ache, neck ache, and total exhaustion.
So bring on the Olympics! I’m ready for anything.
Instead of the Olympics, Mum brings me my tea, and once I start, I eat it all. We don’t say much. What’s there to say? I feel like I did after the river thing with Lane; worn out, bruised and battered, but hungry.
‘Does Nathan know you’re going to leave?’ I ask. ‘Because he’ll go crazy when he does.’
Mum smooths and smooths my bedspread. I wait for her to answer, but she can’t because she’s crying. I think about Nathan. He won’t understand any of Mum’s reasons, however hard she tries to explain. He’s dumb that way – but I know one day he will understand and then – I don’t want to think about it. Whatever, it’ll be ugly. Little kids aren’t ready to think about stuff like this. Their brains aren’t big enough to deal with it.
‘God,’ I say, looking around at my posters, ‘it’d be easier if you just stayed.’
Mum wipes her eyes. She’s heavy on my bed. I wish I was in bed, and asleep.
‘In the end, Tiff,’ she says, ‘I think it’d just work out worse.’
For her, maybe. Not for me. Mum takes my plate and goes to the door.
‘I can promise you, Tiff,’ she says, ‘that I would never take off without telling you. Or in the middle of the night like the Brookings. I promise that absolutely. Anyway, Tiff, good night. I love you.’ And on that positive note, she leaves.
Hey, I didn’t even know Hildy and her mum did leave in the middle of the night. How weird would that be? I imagine driving down the mountain in the blackness not knowing what was going on. Oh man, you’d be freaking out! It’d be like a scene from a movie.
I don’t want my life to be like a movie. I’d just like it to be like it was, with everyone here and in this house. And I bet Hildy wishes she was back in her flat on the mountain, with her mum, and still going to school with me and Cass. That, I think, would be good for everybody.
But guess what?
It won’t happen.
Places and spaces and iffy words
I think what it would be like to walk out of my bedroom for the last time. I’d leave the door open, because a shut door would mean I was finished with all those memories, things, dreams, and stuff that I had in that room. But I haven’t finished with them. I don’t want to be a different person or start a new life. I know what Cass might say.
She’d say, ‘You know everyone wants you to be mature about this, Tiff, don’t you? You know, like really mature. As in shut your mouth and don’t complain!’
True. ‘Maturity’ is a word that’s just about as bad as ‘puberty’. And I don’t want to hear either, thank you very much.
*
Dad comes up the mountain by himself on Saturday. Nathan’s staying out at Uncle Mark’s. Sometimes I go there, too. Dad thinks it’s a good idea for us to have a total break from … ourselves. And I won’t argue with that.
At Uncle Mark’s, I’m always so busy feeding the horses and chooks and getting the vegetables that I hardly even think about my high-maintenance family. Yep, we’re high-maintenance, all right – and spread all over the place like a fat pig’s breakfast – as Cass’s dad would say, which is a saying that I like, as it is very descriptive.
I meet my dad at our gate.
‘Fishing, Tiff?’ He looks at the sky. ‘It’s kind of grey, but not too bad. Considering.’
It is, but it’s not cold. Or not like it can be.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say. ‘It might be our last chance for the year.’
The river hardly sparkles when the sun’s not out. Far above us the trees sway, but down here the air is still. Dad and I are quiet today. I definitely do not mention my fishing adventure with Lane – but I can feel as a subject it’s coming up. And I’m not wrong.
‘I heard about your episode on the Warrigal,’ Dad says carefully. ‘Lane rang me. You’re banned from ever going up there ever again, Tiff. You don’t go, all right? I told him that he was a bloody idiot. Several times.’
‘I didn’t really want to go,’ I say. ‘I won’t go again. I promise.’
Dad surveys the Brumby Run. ‘I’m not angry with you, Tiff. But it’s you who I worry about. All the time.’
I hope that’s the end. I don’t want to talk about the Lane/Warrigal thing any more. Dad looks at me.
‘You’re safe. Thank God. Right. Now let’s fish.’
With pleasure!
I cast my fly and watch it float downstream – until glump! It disappears, my rod bends, my heart goes boinggg and a little trout goes struggling away.
‘Got one!’
The fish charges around like a mini bucking-bronco.
‘He’s a goer,’ Dad says. ‘Look at him dive.’
The fish is down in the deepest part of the pool. I see a dull gold flash and my heart thumps. I reel in gently, watching the trout come towards me across the current. It swims smoothly then jerks away. Behind me, Dad’s boots crunch in the gravel.
‘Just glide him in, Tiff.’
I bring the brown trout into the shallows. He’s golden really, with lots of tiny spots. In his mouth I can see teeth like tiny white thorns and his bright red gill rakers further back. I get the fly out, release the little fish, and with a flip and a splish, he’s gone.
‘One to you,’ says Dad. ‘My turn next. There’ll be one waiting in the next pool, I can sense it.’
Right now I feel pretty happy – although I sometimes get mad with Dad when we fish. He’s so slow. And he takes photos of things he’s seen a hundred times before – like trees and rocks … and me.
‘Quit it!’ I say, but he doesn’t.
I hear a ‘click,’ and I’ve been caught, like a fish.
‘Hey, kid,’ he says, stashing his camera, which of course is not digital, ‘I am your father.’
A shock goes through me. Maybe Dad is taking photos of me because he thinks I’m going away with Mum soon? Maybe he knows something I don’t? But the idea of asking is far too complicated. Where would I start? I mean, man, all these questions are killing me.
I kneel beside an old grey stump to watch Dad fish. He casts so smoothly it’s as if he’s stroking the water. It could put you into a trance. So why is it that adults always seem to know what’s going on, yet kids are kept in the dark? See? There’s another question. Dad casts, letting his fly roam down the river, but no trout are interested.
‘I was sure there would’ve been a little rainbow in there,’ he says. ‘But obviously I was wrong.’
My dad will always admit when he’s wrong, which is good, because it makes me feel that I can trust him; that he’ll always tell me the truth.
It starts to rain, so we put on our jackets. The rain patters gently on my hood and my hands go an ugly blotchy red colour that’s very unattractive. I don’t like fishing in the wet. I’d prefer to be home in front of the heater.
‘We’ll just check out old Bob’s pool,’ Dad says. ‘And then we might go. It’s getting a bit miserable.’
We climb to Bob’s pool. Ferns cling in mossy crevices and the big wet rocks look like old black turtles parked side by side. The rain on the water makes a quiet hissing sound, the place is dark and gloomy, but it is still just as beautiful.
Your mind is like a camera. Your memories are photos. And so I take a mental picture of my dad and the river on this wet old day just in case …
‘I think we’ll let Bob off,’ Dad says. ‘What d’you think? He’s probably asleep anyway.’
I agree. Everything is starting to drip and the rocks are slippery. I think the mountains seem to have more sec
rets in the rain. They become solemn and misty, but if I went away, I would miss them so much. I feel like they’re part of my family, too.
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ I say. ‘Catch you later, Bob.’
Catch him? Well, maybe catch and release him – but keep him? Never. That would be murder.
Smooth grey sky
Dad and I sit in Tilgong General Store, eat toasted sandwiches, and drink hot chocolate. The wind rattles in the skinny old tin chimney and the sky is the colour of possum fur.
‘So, Lane and the Warrigal –’ Dad holds a spoon like a judge holds his hammer.
Oh, here we go again. I’m all ears … not.
‘Look, Tiff,’ Dad says, ‘you trust your judgement, mate. If you think something’s dangerous, don’t do it – no matter who’s telling you. Adults, anybody. If they have a problem, they can bring it to me. I’ll be going around to see Lane later. To explain this further.’
I understand, but I also think I have to explain some things.
‘He never would have let me go,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t all that bad, anyway. I just got wet and bruised my leg. He threw his rod into the river so he could look after me. He knows it was stupid. He said sorry a hundred and fifty times. He did ring the hydro people, but his phone never worked.’
Dad’s eyes seem to be a much brighter blue. He’s angry. I sip my drink. The steam feels nice in my eyes. I feel like going to sleep. I wish I could.
Suddenly Dad puts his cup down if he’s about to say something serious, but instead he just pats my hand, smiles, and says my name.
‘You’re a good kid,’ he says. ‘One of the best. Just stay safe.’
I know Dad wishes he was looking after me all the time, but that’s just not how it is at the moment. I see it’s raining, drops playing Join the Dots on the windows. I feel pretty foul. And sad, annoyed, miserable, hot, cold, itchy and uncomfortable from getting wet. And weak and hopeless and stuck.
But at least I have my health!
‘What’s Nathan up to?’ I ask, not that I care all that much – but I guess I care more now than I used to, because then I didn’t have to care, because the kid was always in my face.
Tiff and the Trout Page 5