Tiff and the Trout

by David Metzenthen

  Dad grins, puts his hands on the table. His hands are tanned. They always are, winter or summer.

  ‘Yeah, he’s going along all right.’ Dad is using his best Dad’s voice, which is a lot easier to deal with than his teacher’s voice. ‘He’s trying hard and that’s just about all I could ask for at the moment. He’s a good kid, too, Tiff.’ Dad looks squarely at me. ‘And he misses you.’

  I look away. That one I will leave right alone!

  Mountains don’t move

  For five days in a row it’s windy, cold, and wet. The wind seems to have moved into Tilgong for the winter – then it vanishes, leaving the town washed and dried under a sky so clear you can see jets flying over. Where are they going, those jets? I can see one now, so high and sharp-looking I reckon it might put a scratch right across the sky.

  ‘Hildy’s on that.’ Cass says, grins, then she tries to get me to grin, too.

  I refuse.

  ‘Ah, come on, Tiff.’ Cass won’t leave me alone. ‘She’s all right. She’s just gone somewhere else with her mum. Hey, how about Cuba, maybe. Dream-world? The Antarctic? Ayers Rock? Wang-ga-ratta?’

  ‘The Antarctic,’ I say, just to shut her up.

  ‘That’s what I reckon,’ Cass nods wisely. ‘In an igloo. Definitely. With plaits.’

  Hopeless. That girl is hopeless.

  I like it when it’s stormy here. I lie in bed thinking of the mountains that surround Tilgong as protectors, and the trees as guards. But the storms bother my mum. She’ll stay up reading, because the sound makes her nervous.

  On wild nights my dad used to say, ‘Imagine being up in Teeton’s Hut right now? The fire’d be hot and the wind’d be roaring. It’d be like the beginning of the world all over again!’

  Teeton’s Hut is a cattleman’s hut high up on Mount Gurra. It has a huge stone fireplace and a wide view down the valley. Nathan, Dad, and I used to hike up there and stay. No way would Mum come. There’s not much she likes about this place I guess, including her job.

  Mum works at Mittavale Fine Cutz, but she doesn’t want to cut hair any more.

  ‘I’m so sick of talking and cutting,’ she says. ‘And cutting and talking. I need to do more, Tiff, and when I …’ She lets her hands drop and looks out the window. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  I do. ‘When you move away from here,’ I say, ‘then you’ll do other things.’

  Mum will start to live her brand-new life as soon as she gets away from the mountains – and perhaps me, Nathan and Dad will only ever be a couple of crosses each on the calendar, for Christmas and birthdays.

  It might happen like that. It has to other kids, I bet. Outside I can hear a currawong. Their call is lonely and sad. Currawongs are birds that leave the mountains during winter but come back in spring. This one must be late going. I hope Mum doesn’t notice it.

  Mum gently gets hold of the corner of the collar of my school shirt.

  ‘I will never ever not be your mum,’ she says, and gives my collar little jerks to match her words. ‘Never ever.’

  I say okay, but I’m not sure about how that can be true. Like, it would be difficult for her to be my mum if she lives five thousand kilometres away. But when someone has got hold of your collar it’s hard not to agree with them.

  I see the currawong now. He’s up a little gum tree. Some currawongs do stay in the mountains all winter, but only some. And those ones don’t seem to mind it.

  When Mum is designing clothes she’s happy. I can feel it. She concentrates hard and works for hours after I’m in bed. She shows me sketches and asks me what fabrics and colours I like. She thinks about what I say, a finger to her lips. And she’s always reading Italian and French fashion magazines that cost a fortune.

  Mum rings and writes to people about her designs. It makes me feel funny to see her trying so hard at something. I suppose you always expect adults to either have their jobs worked out, or to succeed at everything they do. In one way I really hope it will work out for my mum, but on the other hand, if it doesn’t, she might be more willing to stay here.

  ‘I’m just starting out, Tiff,’ she will say, her new clothes spread all over the lounge. ‘I wish I’d studied this instead of hairdressing, but too late. So I’ve got to show people what I can do this way.’

  I think the kids’ things she does are best. They’re sunny and light and modern, not like anything you would see in Tilgong or Mittavale. They put you in a summery mood just looking at them. I can see she’s really good at this.

  ‘She’s smart all right,’ Cass said once, looking at a top my mum had done. ‘All my mum can make are those great big green jumpers she knits with crowbars. Joffa said she ought’a give horse blankets a go because they’re probably about the only animals strong enough to wear ’em. Or Wally boy.’

  Mrs Jurgens did knit a jumper for my dad and it’s one of his favourites. It is heavy though – and dark green. Say no more!

  I’m watching TV at home when the phone rings. I pick it up then wait for some beeps before saying hello. A man tells me his name is Sasha-someone from White Sand Design Company on the Gold Coast, and would Sian Porter be home. He says ‘Porter’, as if it’s got a bend in it. Por-turrrr! Instantly I’m worried.

  ‘If you’ll hold the line, please,’ I say politely, but all I do is put my hand over the phone and yell. ‘Mum! Phone!’ I hand it over, thinking this call might be good news for her, but very bad news for me.

  And in sixty seconds I’m proved right.

  Mum stands with her hands up to her face as if someone has given her a fantastic present. She reminds me of a flower that’s about to open as far and wide and brightly as possible – while I feel myself getting smaller and smaller, and closing up tighter and tighter. Mum doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Oh, Tiff!’ She sits next to me, but somehow I feel as if she hardly knows I’m here. ‘I’ve just been offered the best job in Queensland. I can’t believe it. I’ve been trying for this for years.’

  ‘Great,’ I say, and look at the smiley face of a glass dolphin. ‘Great.’

  Some of the happiness leaves Mum’s face.

  ‘I haven’t said yes, Tiff.’ She fiddles with a bracelet, turning it around and around. ‘Maybe I could do it from here or something? It’s possible, I guess. It might be.’

  Well, why didn’t she say that before? That would be great. And then EVERYONE would be HAPPY!

  Queensland quicksand

  I tell Cass about Mum’s job as soon as we start for school on Tuesday morning.

  ‘It’s to design kids’ clothes,’ I say. ‘Up in Queensland. But she thinks she might be able to do it from here. This guy just rang and offered it to her.’

  ‘Wow.’ Cass pulls a kind of a fishy face. ‘I mean, boy. I didn’t think she’d really get rung up and –’

  ‘I didn’t either!’ I blurt out. ‘But she said maybe she can do it by computer or something. You know, fax. Send ’em stuff. Oh, I don’t know! She said she might be able to. Who knows? Somehow.’

  We walk slowly. I can hardly see where I’m going. Everything is shiny. I don’t want to cry, but I’m pretty close to it. Cass pushes me with a finger until her finger bends right back.

  ‘But you could … ’ she says slowly, ‘always stay? Couldn’t you? With your dad down in Mitta.’ Cass waggles my arm. ‘Please.’ I can see she’s crying, but she’s also trying to smile. ‘Stay, Tiff. Go on. Things’ll be no good without you.’

  ‘But she can’t go by herself!’ I almost yell, because I can’t stand the thought of Mum being alone and far away. What would happen if she gets into trouble, or was sick, or lonely or something? Who would be there to look after her or cheer her up?

  Cass drags my sleeve. ‘But Lane’ll go, won’t he? She won’t be by herself. You don’t have to go as well.’

  Well, hey, yeah, I guess that Lane probably would go … then I wouldn’t have to – but I do want to go with her. But I don’t want to leave Dad and Nathan – or Cass or the mountains o
r – oh, this is hopeless!

  ‘Lane’ll look after her.’ Cass pinches a fold of my parka and holds onto it. ‘Hey, they love each other, don’t they? That’s what he said on those cards and things. There you go. Proof.’

  I don’t know about any of this, not really. I don’t really know what my mum thinks. Or Lane. I mean, at first I didn’t think Lane did love Mum, but I suppose I do now. He gives her flowers, chocolates, perfume – he gave us a new big screen television. He told me once that Mum is ‘absolutely beautiful’.

  ‘I guess maybe,’ I say. ‘I mean, I suppose one day they might get married or something.’ Oh, forget that! I couldn’t handle that. ‘She – I dunno. It’s just stupid.’ Which all makes a real lot of sense, but there you go.

  Five seconds ago my head was full of a million things, now it’s empty. Really, what can I do about anything? Nothing. I just have to wait around like some sort of skittle, or whatever you call them, to be whacked by a big heavy bowling ball. I wipe my face. Cass has seen me cry so much lately she doesn’t get that worried any more. She looks at me, one eye closed, one eye open. She grins.

  ‘Don’t go, Tiff. You’re my best friend. Just stay.’

  I blow my nose. The tissue I’ve got isn’t very good. It’s the last one from the little pack in my bag. After that there’s only cardboard.

  ‘Tiff,’ says Cass quietly. ‘If your mum does go, who’s gunna cut our hair? Only Cherry Tyler’ll be here and she’s got that missing finger, which worries me a lot.’

  True. That worries me, too. Now that I think about it.

  ‘We could just let it grow,’ I say bravely. ‘To our bottoms. Never get it cut again.’

  ‘Yes!’ Cass claps. ‘In summer we could be like mermaids, sit on rocks in the river, and the boys’ll go crazy.’ She stops clapping. ‘Do mermaids wear anything? Or is it just that tail thing? Geez, fish-green with the red hair. That’d look pretty crap.’

  Cass would say anything to make me laugh. She’s the best kid I know. And now that I’m smiling she thinks she’s on a roll.

  ‘Your health?’ She points a wiggly finger. ‘What have you got to say about that, since we’re here?’

  I blow my nose and it’s quite disgusting.

  ‘Not much,’ I say. ‘Got any tissues?’

  And so we go to school.

  I think Mum has already made up her mind about Queensland. She’ll go no matter what. She breezes around the house as happy as a lark and once even apologised for being so happy – which made me angry because she thinks getting away from this place is about the bloody best thing in the world.

  I go to my room. I might do some homework or I might read a book. Or I might just look out the window like a zombie. Or I might jump out of the window, it depends. Later Mum knocks and comes in carefully, like she feels guilty – and so she should.

  ‘Nothing like this has ever happened to me before,’ she says, sitting on my old blue wooden chair. ‘No one has ever told me that I’m really good at anything other than cutting hair. But if they decide I can’t work from here, then I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I say, because I can’t think of anything else. ‘You’ll work it out.’

  After a while, Mum says goodnight, gives me a quick kiss, and leaves. It’s getting dark so I turn on my bedside lamp. I’ll read my book. Escaping into somebody else’s life seems like a really, really, good idea at this point. So I do.

  And hopefully there’ll be a happy ending.

  My dad likes his job. He likes being part of the school, part of Mittavale, part of everything. He teaches the kids, he knows their families, and they know him. Dad also used to do volunteer ski patrol. Once he skied down a really steep slope covered with ice and rocks to help a guy who had fallen. It was in the paper. No wonder Nathan thinks he’s a hero.

  Why would my mum suddenly decide she doesn’t like Dad? I don’t want to think about it. The idea of people not liking each other is all right amongst kids – because generally kids hardly even mean it – but when it’s grown-ups you’re talking about, they mean it all right. And they don’t forget.

  And when it’s your parents it’s just too terrible for words.

  Broken

  Mum makes pizza for tea. No one delivers pizzas in Tilgong. No one sells pizza in Tilgong. We sit at the table, just the two of us.

  ‘Have you said yes to that job yet?’ I ask. The words stay in the air like stars. ‘Have they said you can do it from here?’

  Mum puts her knife and fork down. She’s hardly taken a bite.

  ‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘I’ve asked for a few days to think about it.’

  I speak without thinking.

  ‘I don’t want you to leave. And I don’t want to leave, either.’ I look up. ‘I like it here.’

  Mum nods carefully. ‘I know, Tiff. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Her eyes are glittering. ‘I didn’t mean to wreck everything like this, but I have, haven’t I? And I’m very sorry.’

  She takes a tissue from her sleeve and wipes her face. No need to say I begin to cry, too. It’s like a shipwreck, our family. Everyone’s splashing around in the deep, cold sea.

  Mum looks straight ahead, but there’s nothing there to see but the wall. She dabs at her eyes.

  ‘People aren’t perfect,’ she says. ‘And I guess the plain fact is, Tiff, that I’m just not very smart. I thought I was, but I’m not.’

  How can she say that? She is smart. She’s smart for sure! I can see pain on her face. It shows in her eyes like the worst headache can. It’s in me, too. In a way I wish Lane were here. At least he might be able to cheer us up.

  ‘You are smart,’ I say. ‘You know you are.’

  Mum smiles, but the smile gets lost pretty much straight away.

  ‘Perhaps sometimes, Tiff. But certainly not as often as I’d like – but anyway, that’s me. And I’m stuck with me, there’s no doubt about that. ’

  I don’t cry myself to sleep. I just lie looking at my lamp. It’s like looking out at the setting sun from the beach of a deserted island. I’m alone and the loneliness feels endless. I hear the phone ring, the sound drilling into my stomach. I lie there listening, hoping it might be Cass, but Mum doesn’t come walking down the passage.

  The call is for Mum, of course, leaving me stuck right here by myself on my deserted island. And I can see the black fins of sharks going round and round and round.

  Mum is taking the job. The people in Queensland decided she couldn’t do it from here. So she’s going to leave. And so am I.

  Plenty of plans

  All around me, people are making plans and trying to sort things out. Mum told us she’s leaving in three weeks. Cass is almost as worried as me.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she says, as we walk to school, ‘I guess you’ll just have to see what happens, Tiff.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I say automatically. ‘I guess I will.’

  There sure seems to be a lot of guessing going on.

  Cass stops. She raises two eyebrows and one finger.

  ‘Your health? Any comments you’d like to make at this point?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I feel crap.’

  She laughs, scaring a magpie off a fence. I’ve surprised her for once.

  I grin and we dawdle on, me thinking that I don’t even remember what day it is. And I don’t care.

  Tomorrow night is Friday night and Dad and Nathan are coming up the mountain to have tea with us. There’s some ‘sorting out’ to be done, which won’t be good, I’m sure. I hang around the fridge, grabbing things to eat, talking to Mum. Lane says I’m skinny, but he’s wrong. And he isn’t skinny, either – and I am right about that.

  I’ve almost forgotten about Lane lately, not that he’s been around much. I’ve been too worried about what’s going to happen to me to wonder about what’s going to happen to him. I wonder if he’ll be going to Queensland with Mum. I could ask, but sometimes anything else in the world seems easier than asking questions.
r />   Before tea, Mum makes me some hot chocolate and we sit down together. No TV allowed.

  ‘I’m going to tell you everything,’ she says, ‘about this job. Ask me anything. It’s going to be okay, Tiff, I promise.’

  Yeah? For who?

  So we sit and Mum tells me that her job in Queensland will be right in Surfers’ Paradise, it will be fulltime, and mostly she will design kids clothes and swim wear.

  ‘I’m going to try and get a place near the beach,’ she says. ‘But quiet. Away from the main part.’ She smiles. ‘It’s easy to drive around up there. Big roads. No snow or ice. Wonderful. And you’ll –’

  And I’ll what? To me Surfers’ Paradise sounds as different from Tilgong as Mexico might be. I’ve seen it on TV and there’s heaps of apartment blocks poking up everywhere. The beach looks nice, though. I like the waves and sounds and sand. Surfing is cool, too – not that I’ve ever tried it.

  Dad looks funny on the beach. You can tell he doesn’t belong. He’s not fat or anything, just awkward. And when he dives through waves he’s too stiff. People who understand the surf swim like dolphins.

  I guess it makes sense that Mum will move away from the mountains. Some people, like some fish, birds, and flowers, are only suited to certain places and certain weather. And if they don’t find the right place to be, they can’t survive. Look at trout. They need clear fresh water and the right sort of insects to eat. My mum is no trout! She needs warm salty water, sand, sun and a new job – which won’t help me or Nathan or Dad much.

  When Mum told Nathan she was leaving he went wild. Dad told me. I’m glad I wasn’t there. Tears fly out of his eyes. Everything that kid does he does fiercely. Even crying.

  I wish I didn’t have to feel sorry for Nathan, but I do. Sisters aren’t supposed to feel sorry for their brothers, they’re supposed to have nothing to do with them. But that’s only when things are all right. I do have to think of Nathan and it hurts – and it hurts more because there’s not much I can do to make things better. Mum is leaving and that’s that.