Big River, Little Fish

by Belinda Jeffrey

  Tom is called on up and down the levee banks to fix tractors where they stand. Sometimes it’s only moonlight and his own sense he’s got to work with. And the more he repairs, the more he’s needed, and there’s no time to think about anything else much at all. He forgets that he’s not alone but no one says anything about his ways because the tractors work better than ever when he’s finished talking to them.

  At nights when he and his pa come back home, Mrs Guthrie is there with hot food and tea. Oliver protests every night and she ignores him and eventually he gives up. One night he says to Tom, ‘It’s a fact of life that getting comfortable can be trouble. Nothing hurts more than losing something you’ve grown fond of.’

  There’s not much talk between Tom and his pa. But there’s a lifetime of being together in the past month and it doesn’t need saying at all, really, everything about comfortable and trouble, because Tom has begun feeling that way himself.

  Two weeks into the emergency, there was a deal struck between Ted, Marge, Oliver and Mrs Guthrie.

  They’d stood in the garage – Ted, Tom and Oliver – while Tom looked around at the cars and parts piling up around the place. The garage needed a clean out but he supposed Ted had more important things to do with his time. Tom being expelled from school wasn’t mentioned but Oliver made it clear that Ted and Marge had a say in what happened with Tom and, if they didn’t give their permission, then Oliver would make Tom go back home. Ted said that if Tom was a help to Mrs Guthrie then it suited him for Tom to stay a while. Said he was so busy, himself, with the river. He said that so often Tom had begun wondering if it were true at all.

  ‘We had a deal struck with Mrs Guthrie,’ Marge said. ‘Before the accident. And I think Kate had plans for the money. You can stay there with Oliver,’ Marge added, ‘as long as you fit in your lessons. Whatever time it suits Mrs Guthrie, you’ll make yourself available.’

  ‘But,’ Tom protested as the thought of finding even ten minutes in his day – to be reminded how backwards he is – felt impossible. He’s got a thousand reasons why he’s needed at other places. Men rely on him for their tractors and without the Fergusons, Old Mother will wash their town away, for sure.

  ‘Final,’ Ted said, immovable.

  Beside Tom, Oliver scratched his head and his shoulders slumped. ‘What will I owe her?’

  ‘Tom’s mother and I will take care of it,’ Ted said.

  Tom kicked the ground.

  ‘Won’t be long and the ferry will have to be shut down,’ Ted said, turning towards the house. ‘River gets too high,’ he waved his hand. ‘Not safe.’

  ‘Okay, Tom,’ Mrs Guthrie says. ‘I think we should stop for a while.’

  Tom throws the chalk and it breaks into two pieces as it hits the slate. Mrs Guthrie winces. He pushes his chair back and stands up. It’s just no use. There is something so broken inside him it won’t work and it can’t be fixed. And outside, down there over the hill, Old Mother is flooding out Jimbo and Mrs Cath and Bum-crack and he should be spending his time helping them. Or sleeping.

  He and his pa were finishing their shift when the bank broke close to midnight and they stayed making sure it held for another couple of hours. They were up again at dawn making sure Mrs Guthrie didn’t lose her property. ‘Have to do something about shearing those white buggers,’ Oliver said just that morning.

  The slate was a blur in front of Tom’s eyes. Like thick, black syrup. Every time he tried forming letters it was dragging chalk through mud. And with the effort of concentrating, and holding the chalk, he’d forget what word he was writing and which way the letters were supposed to go and, if he concentrated on the word, the letters wouldn’t form themselves properly.

  ‘It’s all right, Tom.’

  ‘No it’s not. You ever met a fifteen year old like me?’ Tom doesn’t wait for the answer. He runs out the back door, past the fences and over the paddocks. Wasting time on getting words out seemed completely insane.

  Tom arrives at the line of shacks and the sight of the river lapping through the doorways raises a panic inside him. With all the emergencies and effort of keeping the ferry running, Tom hasn’t been down here in what feels like forever. He finds the canoe bobbing in water that has flooded the ground right inside Lil’s old hut. The fishing gear is gone and the peg holding the canoe rope leans over in the water and, when Tom pulls it out, there’s no resistance. Another day and his canoe would be floating on the current. The water swirls around Tom’s knees, cold and brown, as he wraps the canoe rope around his hands and drags it out of the hut against the weight of the water. The fishing beach is gone, as if it never existed at all. Tom continues to drag the canoe. Up past the water line, over the uneven ground. His muscles sting with the weight dragging against him, but he’s determined to take it higher. The canoe carves through the ground, clunking into rocks and sapling trunks. Stopping to rest, Tom turns to face the river and it’s like she’s become someone unknown to him. Unpredictable and beastly. He leans over against his knees, his breathing heavy and fast. The feeling of his heart beating strong, of the blood pounding in his ears, changes the way the river feels. Like he should be frightened. Like there’s nothing she might not do.

  Tom takes hold of the canoe again and the rope burns against his hot skin. He doesn’t stop until he’s up the hill at the edge of the Guthries’ property line where he ties the rope to the fence.

  He lies flat on his back on the grass and his skin prickles and itches. When he closes his eyes, his mind is wild with pictures, and he imagines what it would be like to be washed away. He holds his breath, his blood pumps faster, and he lets it out, coughing. Standing, he glances across the paddock towards the Guthries’ house before running back towards the river.

  Mrs Cath is standing in knee-deep water, the bottom of her nightgown billowing up like a balloon with air trapped between the fabric and the skin of the water. Her hair is wet and her skin hangs from her arms like soggy paper. Furniture and books, cups and cushions are carried around the room by a circular current. Like Old Mother is a magnet drawing everything towards her.

  ‘Mrs Cath,’ Tom says, wading through the water, his arms held to shoulder height, his stomach retracting from the cold. ‘What are you doing?’

  She doesn’t answer, just sways with the water pushing up around her knees.

  ‘How long has it been like this?’ Tom says, even though he realises she is lost to herself again. He thinks how frail she really is, though he doesn’t have any idea of her exact age. How it would only take a floating chair to knock into her and she could fall and drown. How she might not even know to stand up. The water is brown and muddy inside the shack, like sewerage overflowed. Branches and twigs and sprigs of river deluge clump around the edges of floating objects.

  Tom takes Mrs Cath’s hands and tugs her gently. The top half of her body bends forward, but her feet are stuck. The edge of her nightgown lifts up and the air escapes, the fabric clinging to her legs.

  ‘Come on,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll fix you a nice cup of tea.’ He tugs again, she bends, but does not budge.

  Tom is sterner. ‘Come on,’ he says, his voice raised. He feels an urgency. As if he has been tugging for months and people are a force against themselves.

  ‘If you don’t move,’ Tom says, gripping her wrists tightly, ‘I will drag you out one way or another.’ He regrets dragging the canoe up the hill, realising he may have been able to row her out.

  Her eyes flicker and she turns her head. She looks at Tom, but it’s not him she’s seeing. At least it’s something. She holds her hand to Tom’s face and her fingers flutter like cold spiders on his skin.

  ‘Beautiful boy,’ she says. ‘Lovely boy.’

  ‘Mrs Cath.’

  ‘Read my book,’ she says. ‘Won’t leave my book.’ She turns her head as if she’s looking for something. ‘Now,’ she says moving her feet forward. The water
is too much pressure for her frail frame and she lurches, her hands rushing out in front of her body. ‘Oo ah,’ she says. ‘Don’t be like that, Muriel.’

  Tom pulls her, thinking she might move now that she has taken a step herself, but she is still rooted to the floor.

  ‘You want your book?’ Tom says, looking around the room wondering where to begin. It could have floated out to the river by now. He leaves her, striding through the water towards the kitchen. The water hasn’t reached the top drawers and Tom opens them. Cutlery rattles in the first drawer and Mrs Cath laughs. He opens the next drawer which is full of tea towels and tablecloths and he can’t close it completely. He leaves it, opens the next, and then the next. In this drawer he finds papers and clippings, a small book rests on top and Tom has no idea if this is the one she wants. Either way, he thinks, it might settle her enough to leave with him. He clutches it and wades through the water towards her and takes her hand.

  ‘Here it is,’ he says, wrapping her fingers around it. ‘Now we have to go,’ Tom hesitates. ‘Muriel will be waiting.’ He has no idea who Muriel is, but she must be wherever Mrs Cath is, and that place is more real to her than Tom, and Old Mother swirling around her legs.

  ‘Oh,’ Mrs Cath says, pleasantly surprised. ‘I do like Muriel.’

  It occurs to Tom on his way out of the shack that he has no real idea what to do with Mrs Cath now that he has her moving. He changes from leading her, pulling her by the hands, to taking her arm and walking beside her. She stumbles and Tom catches her, she says ‘Ouch, ooo,’ and she begins favouring her inside leg. It didn’t occur to Tom to check whether she had any shoes and the ground underneath the water is covered in mallee roots and stones. He stops and thinks about going back to the shack, but he’s worried what Mrs Cath will do while he’s gone. He decides to push on through the water, up behind the shacks to where the water runs out and the land dries up. He leads her away from the water and she’s quiet and compliant. A child beside him. He follows his nose, so to speak. Just up the familiar path from the river to the Guthries’ fence line. He has no idea how long they’ve been walking as he leads her slowly, step by step, to avoid rocks and burrs with her bare feet. He thinks about Doc, all of a sudden, in his pouch in the Guthries’ laundry. He’s angry with himself for forgetting about him for so long. ‘Come on Mrs Cath,’ he says.

  They pass the canoe and walk along the fence line and in through the gate. Tom hesitates beside the shed, unsure what he’s going to do. And an idea occurs to him. He quickens his step as the ground softens with grass and loam. He leads Mrs Cath to the shearers’ quarters where he sits her down on one of the beds on the opposite side of the room to his own. She doesn’t resist as he brings her legs up and lays her flat. She closes her eyes. Tom looks at her feet and there’s a trickle of blood running from her big toe back towards her ankle. First things first, he thinks.

  Tom finds Jimbo lying on his bed on the ground beside a large gum tree behind his shack.

  ‘Well what the blazers else was I supposed to do, Tom?’ he says.

  Boxes are stacked in jiggled piles around the bed. On the ground is a small gas stove covered with enamel cups and plates and knives and forks. A fire-ring beside it.

  ‘Won’t hurt me to sleep under the stars,’ Jimbo says, pulling out his slingshot. ‘You seen how many rabbits race across the paddocks escaping the water?’ He laughs. ‘Bloody keep me fed for a month. Thanks Old Mother,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘You seen Old John or Bum-crack?’

  ‘Na, you know how it is. Keep to ourselves down here.’

  ‘Yeah, but I thought. You know, with the river.’

  Jimbo shrugs his shoulders.

  Tom sits on the end of the bed watching the river. It’s true about the rabbits. It’s been like Noah’s Ark with all the animals appearing out of the bush escaping the flood. Damn near thousands of rabbits at a time, one farmer said. And then there’s the birds and the snakes and the fish. Everything’s getting out of her way.

  ‘I did see Bum-crack with close to a ten-pound cod in his boat. Never seen him so happy.’

  ‘Few blokes from our place on the levee line say blokes have been catching big ones all over. Fishing has never been so good.’

  ‘I’d believe it,’ Jimbo says. ‘Always good and bad mixed up together.’

  It almost feels like talking with Murray and the memory of him makes his stomach heavy. ‘You seen Murray Black around?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Na. Even the boongs run off. Just like the animals.’

  It’s sickening to hear Jimbo talk of Murray like that and Tom begins to say something, but he stops because he knows there’s no use. Trying to explain how things really are. How backwards some people have things.

  ‘Just wondering,’ Tom says. ‘You know.’

  They’re quiet for a minute.

  ‘Hey,’ Tom says. ‘You wouldn’t be able to help me out, would you?’

  ‘Sure thing, Tommygun. What do you need?’

  ‘Well, the Guthries’ have a big problem with rabbits and I’m out all day on the ferry. Usually. And then there’s the levee banks at night.’

  ‘What are you askin’?’

  ‘Come up with me and see if you can’t clear out a few?’

  Jimbo looks to the river. He breathes in deeply and Tom watches his chest expand. ‘So, what you’re saying, Tommygun, is that you need a man to come and handle things on higher ground?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom says. He can feel Jimbo taking to the idea and he realises that the trick to helping people is making them think you’re the one needing help. One way of writing Jimbo’s story is to say that he’s a man homeless; no job, no money, nothing to do with his time except perfect the art of killing rabbit. Another way of writing it would be to say he’s the only man with the skills, time and resources to deal with a unique problem threatening the Guthries’ farm.

  ‘Aw, Jeez, Tom. Why didn’t you show him to me before?’ Jimbo takes Doc in his arms. ‘He’s a little beauty you know. Bloody beauty.’

  Tom’s on a roll now. He can feel everything turning out fine. ‘I have to get on down to the ferry and I’ve left Mrs Cath inside. You’d be doing me a huge favour if you could look after her and Doc for me until I get back.’

  Jimbo scratches his head and looks confused for a second. ‘Well, I sure don’t have anything better to do, now do I?’

  ‘Na, you’d be doing me a favour. For sure.’

  ‘Well, all right then. Until you get home.’

  ‘Just,’ Tom says, realising it could all come undone. ‘Stay out in the shearers’ quarters for now.’

  Jimbo winks. ‘Sure thing, Tommygun.’

  Tom runs off towards his bike.

  Tom pedals half the way into town trying to make up for the time he lost with Mrs Cath, and then down the river. Tildon drives past in his ute and pulls over to the side of the road in front of Tom, dust and small stones skidding up around his tyres.

  ‘Hop in the back,’ Tildon says, leaning out the window.

  Tom climbs up in the tray and sits with his arm resting on his bike. He moves a stack of empty potato sacks bound with binda-twine with his foot, and wonders how long it will take him to fill them with sand that evening, for the levee bank. Come on, he’s thinking, wanting to get to the ferry as quick as possible. Seeing the rest of his evening disappearing inside those bags.

  Tildon pulls over beside the ferry bank and Tom drags his bike down from the tray. His tyres bounce as the bike hits the road. There’ll be some explaining to do with Mrs Guthrie, Tom thinks. But he’s got nearly a whole day to think about how to apologise about the people in the shearers’ quarters. He doesn’t know what Mrs Guthrie’s thoughts are about people like that – his mother’s are quite clear. The kind of people that live their lives backwards. Starting out with more than they end up with. Losing people instead of gaining them.
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  Tom wonders what it takes for a person to end up like that; feeling safer alone than with others. Depending only on yourself come hell or high water. Then again, perhaps he does understand. He thinks of that day so many years ago when it seemed possible an adult might understand him, remembering how he felt when Miss Ladley wanted to see where his name had been written on the cliff; how she looked at him with wonder instead of worry. The real world, with her in it, with her smiling at him, felt safe because she really saw him. And then she left, just like that. There are no words for those moments. Just a feeling of time peeling away, backwards and forwards, folding over each other to wrap you up in that instant.

  Tom thinks about Bum-crack and how soft his face looked the night he helped Mrs Cath. It doesn’t seem right calling him Bum-crack anymore, after seeing his face like that. Looking just a little more like the person Tom used to know.

  Tom waves to Tildon as he steers his bike away from the ute towards the river. The cold is setting in today and Tom worries about Mrs Cath and Doc. He should have made things clearer with Jimbo about looking after Doc. And he should have gone back for clothes for Mrs Cath. Tom pulls his coat around him and leans his bike up against the grocery store. His boots are slightly too big and they clod on the ground as he runs down to the ferry.

  ‘Tom!’ he hears someone call to him as he’s about to leg-over the ferry fence. He turns to see Biscuit beside the levee wall against the post office. She’s waving to him. T-Bone appears behind her.

  ‘Tom!’ shouts T-Bone.

  Tom glances at the ferry and, thinking it wouldn’t hurt if he missed just one more run across, heads over to them instead.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in ages, Tom,’ Biscuit says. A ribbon has come undone on one of her plaits and two pink streamers wave about in the wind.

  ‘Yeah,’ says T-Bone.

  ‘Been busy,’ Tom says.