Big River, Little Fish

by Belinda Jeffrey

  ‘Been lookin’ for you,’ says T-Bone and Biscuit nods. She smiles and runs her fingers over the end of her plait with the undone ribbon.

  ‘Wanna help us on the line here?’

  Tom looks behind T-Bone where men and boys – and some girls even, with oversized pants belted at the waist – are busy on the levee bank. The place smells of mud and dead fish. Tom sniffs and wipes his nose.

  It’s the smell of dead fish everywhere. Been like that for weeks; it’s only every now and then you think about it. A gust of wind and you remember; it’s not always like this. The rising river has made pools of water where the levee has broken, or the river has risen right over the top. Fish are flowing freely on the current, everything’s churned up, and they wash over the top of the bank and they’re stuck in the pools. Bloated dead fish all around the town. Stinking out old lavatories, people’s lounge rooms. Water has even blown up through toilets and drainpipes. People tried clearing the fish out for a while until it was too much effort. Take away one dead fish and there’s two more in its place. Besides, the best thing to do is concentrate on keeping the water out.

  It’s not just the fishermen that are cashing in on the turning tide. Pelicans are too fat to take off for days at a time. Just bob on the water or waddle to a branch or a cliff hang and wait it out. There’s just that much fish around. Tom’s seen it first hand from the ferry. Pelicans flapping their wings but their bodies too weighed down to lift off. It’s not such a good time for fish.

  ‘My dad says his tractor runs a dream since you looked at it, Tom,’ Biscuit says, smiling.

  ‘That so?’

  ‘You’re a legend around school, Tom,’ says T-Bone.

  ‘That so?’ Tom says with less enthusiasm, imagining all the names they’re calling him behind his back. It’s strange how excited Biscuit and T-Bone are to see him, though. It’s beginning to make him nervous.

  ‘Even I tried writing backwards and mixed up to see if I could get away from Pinny,’ T-Bone says, laughing. It’s the same gurgling, childish noise as always.

  Biscuit hits him on the arm.

  ‘You seen Harry?’ Tom says, folding his arms. He clears his throat. It’s as close as he can come to saying Hannah’s name.

  ‘Don’t see him much at all anymore,’ Biscuit says, looking down. Her cheeks flush.

  ‘Just wondering,’ he says.

  ‘My dad says there’s nothing you can’t fix. Reckon he wishes you were his son,’ T-Bone laughs again.

  Tom laughs. ‘Funniest thing I’ve heard all day.’

  ‘It’s true, Tom,’ Biscuit says. ‘You going to the dance?’ she adds quickly.

  ‘I ... I,’ Tom stammers.

  ‘Everyone’s going,’ she says. ‘Could be the last time for who knows how long. People are saying the levee might not hold.’

  ‘I hadn’t much thought about it.’

  Biscuit twists her hair.

  ‘Harry’s going,’ T-Bone says and Biscuit hits him on the arm. Her face goes red and Tom feels like she must understand. How that night brings shame up inside him. But if Harry’s going, that means Hannah is going.

  ‘Sure. I’ll be there,’ Tom says.

  Biscuit stands there, smiling, as T-Bone waves and leaves to join the others on the line.

  There’re stories circulating about the Crash Crew. A wild bunch, that’s for sure. Larrikins every one of them. Blokes coming in from all over South Australia, bunking down for weeks at a time, up with the sirens and sent to the levee banks or people’s houses. They don’t sleep much, but they can drink a river dry. Only way to stay warm. Some of the Crash Crew pull onto the ferry in their small truck, Swanson at the wheel; he and Oliver have become mates over the past weeks. The truck is jammed with furniture and household items. None of it packed too carefully. Just thrown on and tied down. Three kids perch on top, clutching tie-down ropes to avoid falling off. Their parents sit in the cab, squashed in with Swanson and another bloke. They look like a picture from a history book. Some wild family from the olden days moving in from the bush.

  ‘Just got out. I tell you the water was chasing us out down the road it was rising that fast.’ Swanson’s cigarette bounces from the corner of his mouth. The red tip recedes along the shaft and ash puffs away onto the ground. You don’t see Swanson without a cigarette very often. Maybe only when he’s asleep.

  ‘We need more in our crew,’ Swanson says. ‘If we don’t get a move on, the Rutherglens are going to lose their crop. Orchard is as good as lost anyway. Water’s halfway up the trunks. They’ve already lost their house, but they want to harvest the last crop of fruit. Gotta get there quick.’ The Diamond-T-Reo shakes slightly with her idling engine. Tom glances up to the kids on top and waves. The girl waves back, but the boys look out across the water.

  The ferry bangs against the bank and the truck takes off slowly.

  ‘Hooroo,’ Swanson says. ‘We could use you on the team, Oliver,’ he says as the gears grind and the truck heaves and wheezes. It lurches from side to side and the kids up top hold on tight.

  Oliver doesn’t look at Tom after they’ve gone. He busies himself in the engine house and nods to Tom to get the gate.

  ‘I’m sending you back with the Crash Crew when the truck comes back through, Tom,’ Oliver calls. ‘I can handle the ferry on my own.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘You heard the man. They need the help.’

  ‘I heard they can’t even stand to pick the fruit,’ Tom yells back.

  ‘You manage with your canoe, don’t see why you can’t steer a tinny and pull oranges from trees.’

  Resourcefulness is one of the better things to come out of the flood. And there’re bucketloads all over the riverland. In Mannum, the waters are so high in the main street, the hotel publican cut a hole in the top floor veranda rail and anyone seeking a drink can hitch their tinny to the railing post. One farmer carried his entire herd of pigs from his flooding property to higher ground in his tinny. Took him a full week with hardly any sleep. The Rutherglens are harvesting by boats, canoes, anything that floats.

  ‘True story. Gerty Humphries can’t swim but every morning she rows her kids to school in the bathtub. She said that the river came inside, lifted it off the floor and carried it away. Wasn’t any reason she couldn’t make use of what nature provided.’

  Tom laughs as he pulls a handful of oranges into his tinny. His tinny rope is tied around the trunk of the tree to keep the boat close, but if he moves his body too much, or he steps clear of oranges that all roll towards the middle, the boat edges out into the river.

  Swanson is beside him, on the next tree, his boat almost full with fruit. When your boat is completely full, there’s no way to sit down and you have to row standing up, being careful not to let the boat rock too hard, or the oranges fall out and bob away on the river with everything else Old Mother is taking away. Branches, trees, sheets of iron, dining chairs and tables, rabbits and kangaroos. And snakes; dangerous buggers coming up out of the water anytime. It’s a wonder no one’s been bitten.

  ‘This other bloke,’ Swanson is saying loudly so everyone in boats nearby can hear, ‘made his farmhand row the tinny away from the flooding waters while he held onto the rope of his prize jersey swimming behind. The river was wild this day. You know, one of them days when the winds were lashing the water against the levee and the sky was grey and rain came down like it was never going to stop. It were dangerous being out in the river that day anyway, but Jackson were determined to get his cow out one way or the other. Anyway,’ he says, dropping the last orange into his boat, ‘his farmhand’s a reffo from Europe and his English ain’t so good. Jackson’s facing the cow and the reffo’s paddling hard facing forward. Jackson’s yelling out to his cow, “faster, mate” to keep her up with the speed of the boat. And the reffo, thinking Jackson’s talking to him, paddles faster, which makes Jackson
shout all the louder to keep the cow from lagging behind. The reffo rows harder and Jackson yells, “come on, mate, faster.” I saw it all from the Blanchtown ferry and, when they pulled up on the bank, the reffo was that out of puff I thought he were going to cark it right there.’

  Tom’s laughing and loses three oranges to the water. They bob away happily on the current and he doesn’t want to risk toppling the boat to pick them up. There’s laughter from guys around their stretch of the grove. Swanson is a man who loves his audience.

  ‘When he can talk, and Jackson has the cow up out of the water and he’s leading her away over the ground up the hill, the reffo says to me, “Dat Mr Jackson he’s tough man.” I near piss myself laughing.’ Swanson paddles his boat away from the tree, around the grove. He disappears in-between the trees and Tom can see the line of orange zig-zagging through the grove as he steers his boat to the bank.

  ‘Thumper lost his entire grape crop,’ says one guy on the other side of the tree to Tom. ‘People are losing everything, you know.’

  Later that day, as the sun falls down past the horizon, Swanson takes Tom home. They lean their arms out of the truck windows and Tom feels the wind in his face. He looks down at his hands and flexes them. Cuts and blisters and splinters from working all day. Swanson is quiet for the most part. He yawns and shakes his head and runs a hand through his thick greasy hair. A curl seems to constantly break free and hang down over his eyes. The truck bounces over the ground and ash drops from Swanson’s cigarette. The gears grind and the engine struggles, but she never once threatens to give in to how tired she must feel.

  Tom rests a hand on the seat and listens, like a doctor might with a stethoscope. She’s a strong old girl. Tom decides to take a look at her when he gets back to Swan Reach. It’s the least he can do, he thinks. She’s a Mary, this one.

  A potato bag of oranges bounces in-between them on the seat and the smell of citrus fills the cab. ‘You take ’em all, Tom. Give ’em to Mrs Guthrie.’

  ‘Na, you take some,’ Tom says.

  Swanson flicks the butt of his cigarette out of the window and turns the wheel hard as they come into town. ‘No can do, son,’ he says. ‘You take ’em for her, okay?’

  Oliver waves as they arrive. He latches the gate and favours his good leg as he walks up from the ferry to the road.

  ‘Your boy’s a champ,’ Swanson says as he pulls away leaving Tom on the road with the oranges. ‘Drop by the pub later for a drink, Oliver,’ Swanson adds.

  ‘Leave the truck at the garage,’ Tom says. ‘I want to take a look at her after my levee shift.’

  ‘Na, she’s right,’ Swanson says.

  ‘It’s not an offer,’ Tom says. ‘Or I’ll leave the oranges right here.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger.’ The truck disappears and Tom smiles.

  ‘Grab a feed,’ Oliver says, touching Tom on the shoulder and leading him to the side of the hall where a group of women have a stew bubbling away. Soup in three large pots, and hot tea.

  ‘Salvos delivered a truck of pies, today, Tom. Real treat tonight.’

  Tom lines up for his stew and his mum’s there with Biscuit’s mum. Each of them with ladles in their hands. ‘Hi Mum,’ Tom says.

  ‘Tom,’ she says, and there’s a pause. ‘You been okay? Taking your lessons?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom says.

  ‘You wouldn’t know him,’ Oliver says excitedly. Too enthusiastically. ‘He’s a damn good help around the place. Everyone says so.’

  ‘Oh,’ Marge says slowly. ‘That right.’

  ‘Dead right,’ Oliver says.

  Marge looks at Tom like there’s something he should be saying. Or confessing. Or doing. ‘How’s your reading?’

  Tom mumbles, ‘Fine.’ He takes his stew and moves out of the line to the side of the crowd with Oliver beside him. They sit with their backs against the levee and the steam from the stew warms their faces. Tom wraps his hands around the bowl and he’s tempted to close his eyes. The gravy is thick and brown and it warms him up inside. He drinks his tea and feels refreshed. He clears his throat. ‘Um,’ he says and he hears Oliver grunt. His spoon scraping on the enamel bowl. ‘We’ve got company back at the shed.’

  ‘How’d you mean, son?’

  ‘Well,’ Tom says, catching sight of Ted coming back with a group of blokes along the levee line. Mud covering his shoes and halfway up his trousers. His jumper rolled up to his sleeves.

  ‘Some folks had nowhere else to go.’

  Oliver places his bowl on the ground. ‘How many folks are we talking about?’

  ‘Two so far. Few more to come. Thing is,’ he adds quickly. ‘I haven’t told Mrs Guthrie but Jimbo will help with the rabbits and Mrs Cath–’ he stops short. ‘Needs looking after.’

  Oliver sighs and coughs. He stretches out his bad leg and rubs his knee. ‘It’s not for me to say, son.’

  Mary is not like most trucks. She’s running on empty, long past empty, and Tom talks to her a little. Like he used to do with Old Mother. He drains her oil and refills the water in the radiator. She has arthritis in her joints and her bones aren’t what they used to be. Her timber railings around the off-centred tray are cracked and splintered and her weight’s unbalanced. But she keeps going. Swanson – Tom likes the man – but he doesn’t treat her right. Tom could take her apart, scrub her back and piece her together almost as good as new, but Mary doesn’t want that. She’s happy for the water and oil and that’s enough. She’ll keep going where and when she has to. And then some. Girls like us, she seems to say, we don’t expect much.

  Ted sits with Tom for the first ten minutes he’s with Mary. He passes him a rag, a wrench. He runs a hand along her bonnet. He sighs and digs his hands in his pockets. Clears his throat and tunes in the transistor for Big Band Hour. A bulb goes out in the string of lights and Ted sighs again. ‘Have to get onto that,’ he says, tut-tutting. ‘Okay, then,’ he says to Tom. ‘You can always stay here, you know,’ he says as he disappears out the side door towards the house.

  ‘Ready?’ Oliver is at the door with Harley.

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom says.

  ‘Leave your bike here.’

  Even on a night that’s so cold your teeth feel frozen, it’s good to be on the Harley. Tom’s hands are warm, wrapped around his pa and tucked inside his jacket. It’s the feeling of speed. Nothing holding him back. And, just for a while, no water. At all.

  Halfway back to the farm, Oliver pulls over to the side of the road and makes Tom hop on in front. ‘Your turn,’ Oliver says, climbing on behind him.

  It’s late when they arrive home to find Mrs Cath at the kitchen table. She’s clean – her hair’s still slightly damp – and she’s wrapped in a pink dressing-gown. Slippers on her feet. She wears a vacant smile and fiddles with the tablecloth. A cup of coffee steams in front of her.

  ‘Jeez,’ says Tom, swallowing hard. He turns to look at his pa, wondering how to account for the people in the house.

  ‘What the–?’ Oliver says cutting himself short.

  ‘Oh-o,’ Tom says, scratching his head wondering how things got this out of hand. They were supposed to be in the shearers’ quarters.

  ‘Tom,’ Oliver says, his voice low and accusing.

  Jimbo is at the sink, whistling. A tea towel is strung over his shoulder and his hands are elbow-deep in dishwater. Oliver plants his bag and helmet beside the door and sits down opposite Mrs Cath. There’s no sign of Mrs Guthrie. Or Hannah for that matter.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello,’ Jimbo says, wiping his hands and coming quickly to the table before Tom can think of an explanation. ‘Sit down, Tom. You must be that done in.’

  Mrs Cath seems oblivious to the conversation. Oliver digs right into the stew that Jimbo places on the table and Tom’s not sure what to say. Or where to start.

  ‘Rabbit hotpot,’ Jimbo says, waving his hand over the two
plates. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘So,’ Tom says sitting down, looking around him nervously. As though another world has turned into the one he left that morning.

  ‘So there was a small incident this afternoon, Tom,’ Jimbo sits down with an excited look on his face. ‘See I was out shooting rabbits like you asked me and I made good, too. Had a handful I could barely carry back to the shed. And when I got there, Mrs Cath was gone and it took me an hour to find her.’

  ‘But–’

  Oliver looks at the table.

  ‘Well, I looked everywhere outside and she was nowhere to be found. So I came inside and there she was,’ he points to the lounge room. ‘Starkers on one of them fancy chairs over there. Her clothes were in the kitchen and she had mud all over her feet and legs.’ Jimbo looks over to Mrs Cath and he laughs. ‘Silly old goat. Anyway,’ he continues, ‘the missus came in and wasn’t I the one with some explaining to do.’

  Tom can’t swallow the rabbit.

  ‘So I told her the truth of what I knew of the situation.’

  Tom glances to Oliver.

  ‘You needed help with the rabbits,’ Jimbo says, not appreciating there may have been any other explanation.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She gave her a bath,’ he points to Mrs Cath, ‘and asked me to make myself useful. I showed her the rabbits and she showed me the kitchen,’ Jimbo finishes, smiling. He leans back on his chair with his arms folded, whistling.

  ‘So she’s okay about it, then?’

  ‘All except Mrs Cath over here sleeping out there with the likes of us. She,’ he points to Mrs Cath again, ‘gets the spare bedroom inside the house.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Tom.

  ‘Yes,’ says Jimbo.

  ‘I see,’ says Oliver, engaging with the conversation for the first time.

  ‘Where is Mrs Guthrie?’ Tom asks.

  Jimbo shrugs. ‘She took off in the car ages ago.’

  Tom feels sick in the stomach, thinking she must be out looking for Hannah.