Tiff and the Trout

by David Metzenthen

  At this moment Lane does not look like Lane the Super Salesman. He looks like someone whose life hasn’t turned out like they hoped. And I know how he feels. But he’s also right about life going on. Around us the river flows, Bob swims, the bush sighs, the little dark wrens flit around, and somewhere in the world Hildy Brooking is doing something normal, I’m sure of it.

  Disappearing days

  ‘And he let her go,’ I tell Dad on the phone on Saturday evening. ‘He put her back when he could’ve kept her.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Dad pauses. ‘I’ve heard he’s not going to Queensland with Mum. She must’ve got as sick of him as she was of me. And the fishing fiasco in the Warrigal wouldn’t have helped. At least your mum could see that.’

  I’m not used to hearing my dad talk like this. I can feel that he is angry, and although he doesn’t sound that angry, it’s scary. His words have an edge to them, thin and hard, like the steel bit on a wooden ruler. I wish so much that my parents still liked each other, but wishing won’t do much, as I’ve found out.

  ‘Anyway,’ I add, ‘how’s Nathan? It was a good shot when he hit the ball over the fence.’

  ‘Yeah, it was.’ The edge falls away from Dad’s words. He’s himself again. ‘He’s got a swing like a gorilla. I’m really pleased with him. I’m really pleased with the both of you. Without you guys I’d be S-T-U-F-F-E-D.’

  ‘What’s stu-fed?’ I say, just for fun – and because there’s far too much information here for me to have to listen to. ‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘I’ve gotta go. Bye, Dad. Bye. See ya. Bye.’ That’s enough byes. I hang up.

  Phew. I’m hot. I fan myself with my hand. Then I walk around in a circle and find myself back where I started from – which sums up exactly how I feel and probably what’s going on in general.

  The days disappear. Mum spends a lot of time on the phone, and one afternoon when she’s talking, I just grab a box and stuff my room things into it for Mittavale. In it all goes; holiday souvenirs, ornaments, headbands, ribbons, scrunchies, jewellery, pictures, posters, postcards, my radio, perfume, a dumb doll or two, lucky pebbles, driftwood sticks, the lot. I do it fast so the feelings I’ve got don’t have a chance to catch up. Then I write VERY FRAGILE on it, and tape it up.

  I don’t feel like crying. It’s just putting stuff in a box – in one way. And it had to be done, so I did it. I’m ready to go, because I know I can’t stay. Actually there’s more stuff in my cupboard, so I’ll need another box, but I’ll do that later.

  I’m tougher than I used to be. I face facts. I have to.

  A few people come through the house to see if they might want to buy it. It’s embarrassing. I go outside or down to Cass’s. I wish I could hide the house so these people couldn’t find it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I would say, opening a front door with nothing behind it, ‘the house is gone and I’m not sure when it will be back. Yes, it is a bit strange, I know, but thanks for coming. I’ll call you if it turns up.’

  Of course, I wouldn’t.

  I lie in bed wondering if it’s snowing. You can’t hear snow falling like you can hear rain. Snow floats and swirls like frozen confetti. It touches your face with tiny cold dabs and lands on things as if that’s the only place it was ever meant to be. I think I feel about snow and mountains like Mum feels about the sea and the sand.

  A truly disastrous dinner

  Mum and I drive down the mountain for tea with Nathan. I know nearly every tree beside the road and I do know every corner and creek. This whole place is my backyard. Going down, down, down, also gives me the feeling that everything – my whole life – is unwinding like knitting being pulled apart row by row.

  ‘Tiff,’ Mum says, from her darkened side of the car, ‘you know I’m going not because I don’t love you and Nathan. Because I do. Totally.’

  I nod. Mum doesn’t look at me. She gets tense driving on the mountain. Mum says she loves me every day – but I don’t get sick of hearing it. I save the words like special coins.

  I watch the headlights sweep and shine. The blackness looks solid. The valleys are invisible. I can feel the mountains looming over us. I am unhappy deep down and through and through. I am unhappy below the words that I say and the things that I do. It’s like a deep cold valley that I’ve gone into but do not know how to get out of.

  I wonder what Hildy was thinking when she made her last trip down the mountain. She must’ve come this way, because there is no other way. She liked the mountains like I do. And she’s a skier. I bet she just looked into the blackness like I am, but I reckon the blackness she felt inside was more scary than the blackness outside.

  ‘It’s dark,’ Mum says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s really dark.’

  Nathan, Mum and I go to the Mitta pub for tea. Wednesday night is Half Price Family Night, but it’s still quiet because we’re early. We sit by the fire and I look up at the deer’s head that’s on the wall. Nathan would like to have it in his room. I wouldn’t. Its eyes are too real and sad, even though they’re glass.

  For tea, I’m going to have home-made meat pie (go pies!) and so is Nathan. Mum’s going to have ravioli, a small serve. I hope she doesn’t put on any Parmesan cheese, because, as Cass says, that stuff smells more like vomit than vomit.

  ‘We’ll order a big basket of chips as well.’ Mum heads off to the wooden counter.

  Nathan jumps up ‘Two!’ he yells. ‘Get two!’

  ‘Save your breath,’ I tell him. ‘She won’t. We’ll have sweets instead.’

  Mum orders, comes back, and sits down. She sweeps her hair out of the way and smiles.

  ‘I am so hungry!’ She neatens up her knife and fork. ‘This was a good idea. I love that fire.’ She looks at it blazing away there in the grate.

  She’s putting on an act – and she knows that I know that Nathan doesn’t know it is an act, which makes it about a hundred times worse.

  Nathan looks at her. He didn’t hear a word she said.

  ‘Are you really going away on Saturday? You’re not, are you?’

  And that’s it. It’s like watching dominoes fall. Mum’s smile goes. Nathan’s face folds up. I turn away, listening to the fire and the sounds of saucepans banging in the kitchen. There are tears everywhere, but for me it’s a bit like watching it all on TV, because I was prepared. Inside me I feel like howling, but I won’t, not in public, no way.

  I wish I was at home. Apart from anything else, it’s embarrassing. I see that Mrs Rondell, who does the cash register, is coming over.

  ‘This is no good!’ she says, and although she’s trying to smile I can see she’s crying, too. ‘This is no good at all.’

  Well, she’s right about that.

  Mrs Rondell is putting full plates and bowls on a tray.

  ‘Hey, Nathan,’ I say, and I can’t help but laugh; the kid looks like he’s been dragged around by wild horses. ‘Some good news. Here come the chips.’

  Mum and I drive back up the mountain. I’m so tired my eyes keep shutting and my head keeps dropping forward. I’m too exhausted to think, but there’s no need, as there are a couple of great big neon advertising signs flashing in my head.

  MUM IS GOING AWAY, is one sign, and the other is, TOMORROW YOU ARE LEAVING SCHOOL.

  As if I didn’t know.

  Leaving what you love

  It snowed last night. Most has melted, but you can still find patches under bushes or on the shady sides of things. Mum walks with Cass and me to school. It’s my last day. I can’t believe it. My last Friday here EVER. And Mum leaves tomorrow.

  ‘I can remember, Tiff,’ Mum says, talking too loudly for the morning, ‘taking you and Cass to preps on your first day. It was hot and windy and you were both tiny.’

  Cass and I don’t say anything. Truly, I wish Mum wasn’t with us. It’s only making things harder. Cass and I’ve got things we have to say.

  ‘Don’t meet me after school, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘Cass and I’ll walk home.’

  Mu
m nods. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘Okay, Tiff.’

  Things have changed between us. I think Mum listens to me more because she knows what she’s put us through – and I think she knows that, because she’s given up the family, she’s also given up some of her authority over me. It’s not good or anything. It’s just how it is. It’s like already she’s further away from me than I could ever imagine.

  ‘This is a pretty woeful day,’ Cass says suddenly. ‘Yeah, you know, it’s, like, just … woeful.’

  I laugh at that. Why not? What’s there to lose? It’s all lost already.

  ‘Woeful?’ I say. ‘You made that up.’

  ‘I did not,’ Cass says. ‘One of the football commentators said it on Saturday. You know, like the Kangaroos have been woefully inaccurate kicking for goal. Woeful. Full of woe. Lots of points and no goals.’

  Can’t argue with that. I’m with the Kangaroos. They’re woeful and so am I.

  Before home time, Mrs Petrucci asks everyone to put their pens down, then she talks about me leaving, which everyone knows already. I stare down at my work. It’s quiet in the room. I can feel everybody looking at me – at the top of my head, anyhow.

  ‘We’ll all miss you very much, Tiff,’ Mrs Petrucci says. ‘You go with all our love.’

  Then everyone starts to clap and I just watch tears drop. I keep looking down, shielding my face with my hands as if the light is really bright, and watch the blue lines on the white page smudge as the drops fall. I hear them hit like rain, plip-plop. The paper lifts up under them.

  Somehow, in a way, this is the worst I’ve felt right through the whole thing. It’s like knowing my mum is going away is down deep in me – in my bones and everything – but leaving school is right up on the surface – I know I’m leaving here today, in one minute, and I am never coming back.

  I feel another wave of crying coming up through my chest, into my throat, and then I am crying so hard I simply cannot stop. I can’t think, I can’t stop, and I hurt with all sorts of pain that come out in tears and I know everybody in the room is shocked, because I’m filling the entire silent room with crying until Mrs Petrucci hugs me, which only makes things worse, because now I’m blubbering like a baby and shaking like a leaf – and if ever there was a bad school day in my whole life, this is it. I am a mess.

  And it’s NOT MY FAULT!

  Cass and I walk up the hill for the last time ever in my whole life. I say goodbye to her at her gate and dawdle on up to my house. The For Sale sign is rocking in the wind. It’s not a very big sign. No way does it tell the whole story of why the house is for sale. I mean, if it did, the sign would take up the entire block. Picture it.

  House For Sale: because this family has broken up, and some people are going to live in Mittavale, and the mother, Sian, is moving to Queensland … etc, etc, etc.

  It’d probably end up on TV. They love stupid stories like that.

  Mum and I have boiled eggs for tea. Then we go to bed early. I sleep in her bed. It’s big and soft and the electric blanket is warm. As soon as I put my head on the pillow, click! It’s like somebody turned off the lights in my head. How good is that? No dreaming, no thinking, no worrying, no caring, nothing but sleep until seven-thirty in the morning. Then it hits me.

  Today is the day.

  Losing who you love

  I get up, I get dressed, but I can’t talk. I sit with Mum at breakfast but eat nothing. She has tea and toast. Every time I look at her she’s already looking at me. I can’t believe this.

  Mum gets off her stool, hugs me, and I get lost in softness and warmth that feels like it will never end, but it does. She says she’s sorry, but I’m so sick of that word because in the end, although it means something, it does nothing. Or not in this case.

  This is the worst Saturday morning of the worst Saturday of the worst week of the worst year of my life. And so say all of us – well, I do, anyway.

  Dad, Nathan and I stand out on the road. Mum’s car is packed and ready to go. It’s a clear, freezing day but I haven’t got my jacket on because I want to feel Mum against me when I say goodbye. Nathan’s got his jacket on, the one mum made him with the silver skateboard buttons.

  Mum gives Dad the house key and hugs Nathan. Hard sobs come out of me so fast I’m gulping for breath. I can hardly hear and my eyes are burning. Mum hugs me and Nathan together and tells us she loves us. She tells us that she’ll ring us and write to us, and that both of us can come up soon, and that we’ve got to look after each other and Dad. She won’t let us go – but I know that she will have to – and she does.

  I let her go. I don’t want to, but I do. Nathan doesn’t. He’s yelling now. He’s lost it. He looks more like he’s fighting someone than hugging them. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I don’t know what to do, either. I look at Dad. He’ll have to fix this. I can’t.

  Dad goes over and separates Nathan from Mum. I can’t watch and I can’t speak – I look down the hill at Cass’s house. Nathan’s howling, his nose is running, then he breaks loose from Dad and runs back to Mum. I look at Dad, and in his eyes he has a distant, serious, lost look, as if he knows how bad this is, but it cannot be changed. Then he goes after Nathan and puts his hands on his shoulders.

  ‘Safe trip, Sian,’ he says to Mum, as if she was driving to Mittavale, and that’s it.

  The three of us stand there, watch Mum get into the car, and drive away. She doesn’t wave and I know why – because you don’t wave to people when you feel guilty about leaving.

  Dad steers Nathan and me back inside and into the kitchen. He sits with his arm around Nathan, telling him everything’ll be okay, and things’ll work out. Every few seconds he looks at me, giving me the feeling that he knows that words are not what Nathan needs, but unfortunately, words are all that he has.

  I’ve stopped crying. I think of Mum’s car going down the mountain, white on the black road, white amongst the big straight trees, and I feel so sorry for her. She’s by herself. She’s in the car and she’s leaving us all behind. How could she do this? What would she be feeling? Could her new life possibly be worth all that? She must think so.

  ‘I hope she’ll be all right,’ I say, and although everything inside me hurts, I’m kind of glad that I’m too exhausted to cry any more. I feel like my bones are broken.

  Suddenly Dad points to the door.

  ‘To the store!’ he says. ‘We need take-away food and plenty of it!’

  Sure. Why not? I can’t come up with a better idea.

  Welcome to the snow show

  We’re on our way up the mountain. Dad’s driving, Nathan’s in the front, and Cass and I are in the back carrying on. We’re all happy, which is a feeling I grab on to and hold. Yes! This is my sort of Saturday at long last. Beside the road there are massive, dazzling banks of snow and it’s far whiter than salt, sugar, or sand.

  ‘I can’t wait!’ Nathan keeps saying, and slaps his hands together. He’s got his ski gloves on already, the dork. ‘I can’t wait!’

  I can’t, either. I just want to be on top of the mountain then I want to be on my way down. And fast.

  ‘You guys have got to take it easy.’ Dad steers the Subaru around a corner that’s sludgy with dirty snow. ‘First day of the season is the most dangerous of all. Just take it real easy.’

  Dad’s right, but I know what will happen. We’ll ski slowly for about the first thirty seconds, then it’ll be flat-chat flat-out for the rest of the day!

  I can see Kennedy Creek ski village. Hotels and lodges nestle in a misty valley amongst gum trees, and ski lifts climb off up the slopes in all directions. I’m nervous. What if I’ve forgotten how to do this?

  ‘Remember, Tiff,’ Cass says, ‘that it’s once again time for the Tiff and Cass H and G Snow Show.’

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘H and G,’ she explains. ‘Hammer and Glamour. We go fast, we look good.’

  I look at Cass, we laugh, and for a while it’s as if nothing h
as changed. And that’s a damn good thing!

  The four of us ride the big chairlift, the snow below our skis passing steadily. It’s a foggy day, but you can see islands of dark trees between the runs, and the roofs of the lodges in the village. I can see Snowhaven where Hildy used to live. I bet she wishes she was here with us now.

  Skiers go under us, swishing, laughing and yahooing.

  ‘This is …’ Dad says, ‘a beautiful day. Feel the air. Fantastic!’

  ‘Yep,’ says Cass, ‘it’s definitely a winter wonderland.’

  Cass and I both hate the words, ‘winter wonderland’. They’re used on every brochure, in every ad, in every magazine around the place. It drives us mad.

  We slide off the chairlift, stop to tighten our boots, tuck in things, adjust our goggles, and do a few stretches.

  ‘Follow me,’ Dad says, ‘for one run.’ He skies off, doing big, slow turns.

  We follow, but already I see that Nathan’s skidding around like a cat on a polished floor. Energy comes zipping up through my legs. I’m ready for this. I’m gunna ski so fast today none of my worries will be able to keep up. I look at Cass. She looks at me.

  ‘Let’s just bomb it,’ I say, turn straight downhill, and take off.

  ‘Tiff!’ Dad yells. ‘Oi! Slow down.’

  Sorry, but not today.

  Cass and I zoom all over the place. Skiing is freedom to me. It’s like flying. I can’t see how Mum couldn’t like it, but hey, there you go.

  Cass and I have both fallen over, but we bang the snow off fast, and don’t get wet. The fog is lifting. I can see other mountains smoothed with snow and spiked with trees. The sun shines as if the holes in the clouds are great big windows. Above us, a chairlift carries an endless line of skiers. Cass points with her ski pole.

  ‘Now there’s a couple of dashing young dudes.’ She waves. ‘Yoo-hoo, boys! Hello there!’ They look down, their goggles like insect eyes. ‘Bet you can’t catch us!’ This is one of her favourite lines. And it works pretty much every time.