Dad, Mum, Nathan and I eat tea at the round table. Without warning, Dad gets hold of one of my hands and one of Nathan’s.
‘I want to say,’ he says, looking at me and then at Nathan, ‘that although Mum is leaving, you two are the most important things to us in the world. We love you two so much and nothing –’ Dad stops talking, squeezes our hands, then he walks quickly to the front door and goes out.
Instantly Nathan is worried, and so am I, to tell the truth. Nathan gets up, but he doesn’t know what to do next. He looks like a worried dog.
‘What’s Dad doing?’ he asks Mum. ‘He’s not goin’ home, is he? He can’t go without me!’ And then he takes off, leaving the door wide open.
I can see the pearly glow of the streetlight. A spark of pain crosses my stomach. There’s a look in my mum’s eyes like she’s lost.
‘They’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘They’ve just gone outside. Dad’ll get him in two seconds flat.’
Dad’s by the front gate hugging Nathan and I think they’re both crying. Holy moley, what a mess. I wish I was at Cass’s, or maybe curled up in some little warm bush cubby, away from all this rubbish. That would be nice.
‘So what’s for dessert?’ I ask, even though we haven’t had our tea yet.
Mum plonks an elbow on the table and rests her head against her hand.
‘Oh, a bloody family apple pie,’ she says, and laughs once. ‘That’s what it had on it and that’s why I bought it.’
‘Oops,’ I say, ‘big mistake.’ I laugh, too. Sometimes when things seem like they can’t get any worse I actually feel a bit better – because the only way is up! ‘Lane likes pies,’ I add. ‘He was telling me the other day. All sorts, he said. Any pie, any time.’
We both laugh. I guess there is something funny about pies, but what exactly I wouldn’t have a clue.
Anyway, BRING ON THE PIE!
‘So,’ says Dad, as we do have the stupid pie, ‘this place’ll be empty in less than three weeks, then.’
It hits me. The truth of it. This house will be empty. It will not be my house any more for-ever. Mum puts her hand on my hand.
‘I’m sorry, Tiff.’ She looks at Dad. ‘I’ll tell the real estate people tomorrow to get moving.’
Nathan is saying nothing. He eats ice-cream slowly, spoonful after spoonful, like a machine. His eyes aren’t focused. He’s on autopilot – but I’m not. I’m thinking hard and all my worries are stacking up right in front of me.
‘I don’t want to leave school,’ I say, but already I know I’ll have to.
Dad and Mum won’t look at me. I feel shivery. It’s like I’m crying with my whole body. Then I get angry. I point at Mum.
‘This is all your fault!’ Then I jump up and take off out into the dark.
Down the hill I go in the blackness. Then I stop dead. Mount Power seems to block my way. The street feels strange, lopsided, and mysterious. There are no stars. Suddenly I’m scared and I think of Hildy Brooking – and in the dark everything, like the future, is unknown and frightening – so I turn and run back up the hill, a hot sick feeling pounding in my throat.
Someone’s standing there. It’s Dad.
Thank God for that! And when we meet, he tows me up the hill like he used to do when I was small.
‘This whole thing,’ he puffs, ‘is driving me nuts.’
Ditto. Me too. Big time.
Lost and found
Sunday. I’m in my bedroom at Dad’s house. It’s bigger than mine at home, but pretty empty. Outside I can see Nathan practising golf. Beyond the back fence there’s open land and then the river. There’d be trout in there for sure, and tiger snakes in the grass – but they wouldn’t stop me from going fishing. That’s if I end up living here.
When Mum goes to Surfers I’ll come down here and go to the school with Nathan. When I think about going to a new school it scares me a lot. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t like them? What if the teacher picks on me? What if I can’t understand the work?
At school I’ve seen what can happen to kids who don’t fit in. They have a bad time. They spend lunchtimes alone and they seem to become shyer and shyer. I never pick on anyone. Loneliness hurts like nothing else. If people pick on me at this new school I’ll quit. I’ll run away, I will. I feel lonely already.
I guess Mum’s lonely, too. And Dad. But there’s not much I can do about that. Once Mum said that the sound of wind in the trees at Tilgong was about the loneliest sound on earth, but the sound of waves on a beach was as beautiful as music.
I felt hopeless hearing that. What could I do about the sound of the wind? Nothing. I think the sound of waves could be quite lonely, too. That crash, crash, crash. Outside I see a couple of crimson rosellas fly past. They’re dark red and bright blue, like flying flags, and they chatter to each other. I wonder what they talk about? They always seem busy and happy.
I wish I was a damn parrot!
In the afternoon, the phone rings. It’s Cass’s mum and she wants to talk to me.
‘Look, dear old Tiff,’ she says, ‘if you do end up leaving Tilgong, we just want you to know that any weekend or any holiday that you’d like to come up and stay, you just say so. And Nathan, too. Okay?’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’d miss Tilgong too much if I could never come back.’
‘I know,’ says Mrs J. ‘But changing places and schools isn’t quite the worst thing in the world, is it? And if you do go with your mum, Tiff, it’ll be lovely up by the beach. And Cass can always visit. We could arrange it.’
I guess so – but Queensland is a long way away from Victoria – a really long way.
Dad and I sit in the lounge room. We can’t look across to the mountains or down to the lake like we could in Tilgong. We can only look across the street to other houses that are painted white. I wish they were light green!
‘I was thinking, Tiff,’ Dad says carefully, as we watch Rex Hunt catching a fish, ‘that perhaps during the next school holidays you could visit Mum.’ He looks at me. ‘To see if you might want to live up there.’ I see Dad’s throat move as he swallows.
I nod. A trip to Queensland. Hey! Well, that’s not all bad.
‘Do I go on a plane?’ I ask. ‘And what about Nathan?’
‘He can go another time,’ Dad says. ‘But yes, you’d go on a plane. It’s only a couple of hours.’ Dad grins, kind of off-centre. ‘It’d be an adventure.’ He taps my knee. ‘You know we’ll get through this, Tiff, don’t you? We will.’
Get through it? This is not something you get through or go through, like a door, and then everything on the other side is fine. We won’t get through it. We’ll just have to survive it.
Looking on the bright side, though – bring on the jet!
Boogie board
I go into the backyard where Dad is helping Nathan with his golf swing.
‘Keep that grip,’ Dad says. ‘Now try.’
‘And put your tongue back in,’ I suggest.
Nathan looks up. ‘Get lost. Ya idiot.’
He swings. Whack! He’s a strong little critter, Nathan, I’ll give him that much. He’s still got his tongue out, though. The ball slaps into the net and drops.
‘Good shot,’ says Dad. ‘Spot on. Go again.’
The sun is low over the old back fence and shines on the fluttering leaves of the poplars in the paddock. Quietness surrounds us and if we weren’t all together, it would feel really sad. Sunday afternoons get to me. It’s like time is running down. Or maybe it’s just because it’s school the next day. Nathan waggles the club over the ball, then swings.
‘Snick!’
The ball zooms out over the fence like a white shooting star.
‘The kid can hit,’ Dad says. ‘Not always straight, but he can smack it.’
Dad’s always telling us things like that. The kid can hit. The girl can fish. He always tries to encourage people.
‘Come’n help us look you two,’ Nathan says. ‘Car’n. That was my best ball.’
/> So we go out through the gate and stomp around in the long grass. Nathan searches hard, like a dog looking for a rabbit. Me, I just wander around hoping for the best. I’ve never been a great looker for things.
‘Here, ball,’ Nathan mutters. ‘Here, boy. Come on.’ He looks so concerned I guess I’d better help him out.
‘It’ll turn up,’ I say. ‘Besides, Dad’s got some more inside.’ I want to help him find the ball. I want him to be happy. He looks so worried!
He checks me out to see if I’m joking. I spot the ball in a dried-out wheel track.
‘There it is.’ I toss it to him. ‘See. I am a dead-set genius.’
‘Geni-arse,’ Nathan says, which is about what I expected. He is nine years old, after all.
*
We go out for tea. Dad, Nathan and I sit on a big red padded seat and eat hamburgers. This place is called Mitta Mighty Burgers and there are posters of Marilyn Monroe, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Madonna, and people like that. There’s a jukebox and lots of mirrors. I like it. Big milkshakes and big pancakes, too.
‘I’m going to Queensland to see Mum at Christmas.’ Nathan picks up a bunch of French fries. ‘You’re going next holidays, but I’m going at Christmas. Dad promised.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘He told me.’ God, these chips are good!
‘I’m gettin’ a boogie board, too.’ Nathan stuffs chips in his mouth like an elephant eating hay. ‘Extra. Not for birthday or Christmas.’
‘You are a boogie board,’ I say, and although that doesn’t make a lot of sense, it shuts him up. ‘So how many weeks is it before Mum goes?’
‘Two,’ Dad says. ‘Thirteen days to be exact.’
There’s utter silence. Nathan looks totally baffled by this. And for the second time in four hours I feel really sorry for him. And not even a golf ball to cheer him up.
Looking into next week
All I have to do is go to school while everybody is talking endlessly and the phone is ringing constantly.
‘Hello, my name’s Peter Pederson and I’m your mum’s real estate agent in Surfers Paradise …’
‘Hello, my name’s Dianne from Interstate Removals …’
Hello! My name’s Tiffany bloody Porter and I’ve had enough of all this yabbering! But worse than that, when I get home on Sunday afternoon I see a For Sale sign hammered into our lawn.
The cosiest of cottages, it says. An exquisitely presented package. I can’t believe it. It makes me sick.
I’m reading a book when Mum comes into my room with the phone. She looks worn out.
‘It’s Lane. He wants to talk to you, okay?’
I take the phone. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Tilgong little fat piggy pie shop. Can I take your order, please?’
Lane laughs. ‘I’ll have a mixed dozen with a bucket of sauce. So, Tiff, how’s it goin’? You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ I say. ‘Whadda ya want?’ I laugh. I’m not really that rude.
Lane asks me if I want to go fishing next Saturday.
‘Only in the Brumby, Tiff. Just by the picnic ground. I’ve asked your mum and she says it’s all right. But I wanted to ask you.’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘You bring the Tim Tams.’
‘Done,’ says Lane. ‘See you next Saturday.’ He hangs up.
‘Don’t go if you don’t want to,’ Mum says. ‘I’m not happy about it.’
I shrug. ‘It’s all right. The Brumby’s cool.’
And I’ve got days to get out of it if I really want to.
Shock waves
Lane and I sit on a rock and eat chocolate biscuits. You can tell he doesn’t have kids – he doesn’t care how many we go through.
In front of us the Brumby Run fills the air with its gurgling, endless water talk. Lane hasn’t said a lot today and neither have I. We haven’t caught a fish, either, although I lost one in a small pool I call the Treasure Chest, because the rocks in it glow like gold.
‘Well, Tiff,’ he says, looking at the water, ‘I’m not going to Queensland with your mum. I wanted to tell you myself. I think it was the fishing thing in the Warrigal that kind of sealed things but – anyway. That’s the story.’
Wow. Well. So, what do I say to that? Or perhaps this is one of those conversations where you’re not supposed to say anything?
‘I would’ve married your mum tomorrow,’ Lane adds. ‘And that’s the truth, Tiff. Absolutely.’ He looks at me. ‘It’s been pretty hard on everyone involved, hasn’t it? For you guys especially. You and Nathan. It’s been real tough. And your dad.’ Lane nods, his hair not moving a millimetre. ‘But it’ll be okay, Tiff. Things work out.’
I look at the mountains. The world seems so huge; an easy place to get lost in.
‘I hope so,’ I say.
The sun has gone behind a cloud and Bob’s pool looks black and bottomless. Lane flips over the silver arm of his reel. His spinner twirls like a miniature ballerina.
‘Mind if I have a shot, Tiff? There has to be something decent in here.’
What can I say? No, don’t go near Bob because he’s the one and only king of the river? No, don’t go near Bob because he’s my special fish friend? No, I can’t say a word. Lane has every right to catch Bob if he can, because Bob is just another trout. Oh please, Bob, don’t be too hungry or dumb!
I wave my rod around, hoping to send some shadows racing over the water to spook the big fish. Would my dad let Lane have a go at catching Bob? He would, because he would have to. My dad and I don’t own this river. We love it, but we don’t own it, or any of the fish in it. But still, we care for it and we try to look after everything in and around it.
‘Lane,’ I say, ‘I think there are platypuses in this pool. We’d better leave it alone.’ This is a lie. There might be platypuses, but I severely doubt it.
Lane doesn’t look at me. ‘Tiff, I’ll give you a thousand bucks if I even see one flipper.’ Lane casts.
Under the dark water the spinner flashes – and then I see a long black shadow move and suddenly Lane’s rod is bent like bamboo in a storm. My heart pushes into my ribs. I can’t believe Bob could be so thick when usually he’s so smart.
Lane looks stunned. He steps into the water and doesn’t even notice.
‘Got one!’ He tries to reel in but Bob pulls the line out. Lane laughs wildly. ‘God, it’s a monster, Tiff. I can’t budge it!’
Bob is pulling back like a dog that doesn’t want to go for a walk. I see him come to the surface, roll, and head down deep again. Go, Bob! Get under a log or a rock. Break the line! Spit out that spinner!
‘I cannot believe this,’ Lane says. ‘This fish has gotta be enormous.’
I can’t move. I can only watch, and hope that Bob can get away. It’s up to him to fight for his life.
Lane is reeling hard, dragging Bob in, the trout’s big silver side as bright as a new knife. I can see Bob’s fins; they’re as wide as four of my fingers, and in the corner of his jaw I can see the spinner dug in deep and tight. I know I said Bob could break a steel cable, but he can’t. He’s only a fish and he’s running out of strength.
Lane lifts his rod, dragging Bob up and onto the surface where he splashes and thrashes.
‘Come on, big feller! In ya come.’
I watch as Bob comes down with the current, side-on, drifting like a lost boat. He tries to free himself with a surge of strength, but it’s hopeless. I feel so sorry for him. His mouth is open and white, his round eye is steady, and I can see his beautiful spots and his dark soft fins. Poor old fish!
Lane kneels, drawing Bob in to the pebbly shallows.
‘All right,’ Lane mutters. ‘Un-believable.’
Bob looks like a length of carved silver steel, except his back is black and shiny. I can see his teeth and the big red gill rakes that take the oxygen out of the water.
‘Let him go, Lane,’ I say. ‘He’s too big to keep. Put him back.’
Lane ignores me. ‘What a fish,’ he says. ‘What a bloody fish!’<
br />
Bob is the biggest trout I’ve seen in real life. He’s the one who should always get away, but this time he’s the one who’s been caught. Lane pins him in the shallows.
‘Gotcha!’
‘Let him go, Lane,’ I say, and there’s a sob in my voice. ‘He’s too big to keep. Let him go. Please.’ I move close to Lane and see that Bob is struggling, kicking up silt and sand. ‘Please.’
Lane doesn’t take his eyes off Bob. ‘I never thought there were fish like this in here. Never.’
I feel hopeless. ‘Don’t kill –’ I mumble, but my voice stops.
Lane doesn’t hear me. ‘Come and give me a hand, Tiff. You hold the old girl while I get the spinner out.’
Girl?
‘Not if you’re going to kill it,’ I say, and take a step back. ‘No way.’
Lane looks around. ‘I’m not gunna kill it, Tiff. I think it’s a female. See? It hasn’t got that funny old hook jaw the males have. I saw that on TV.’ Lane holds the trout steady. ‘Come on, Tiff. The quicker we do this the better it’ll be.’
I think Lane is right about Bob being a female. Dad and I have never been close enough to see.
Pebbles clack as I kneel. The water’s cold, and Bob feels like a bar of bendy soap. She smells like wet moss, she smells like the river, and she’s nearly too wide for my hands. Lane frees the spinner and now all that’s holding Bob back is me. And then I just give her a slow push into deeper water. And away she glides, across the current, and back into her underwater world of rocks and logs and gravel.
Man, I’m exhausted!
‘That was good to let her go, Lane,’ I say. ‘Most people would’ve kept her for sure.
Lane gives me a look, as if the tone of my voice has caught his attention.
‘Yeah, well, Tiff,’ he says, wiping his hands, ‘I guess there’s no point in keeping something against its will, eh? That generally doesn’t do anybody any good.’
‘No, it doesn’t,’ I say. ‘It only makes people angry. And fish.’
Tiff and the Trout Page 7