The Minnow (15 page)

‘So when he was there the other day—and those two men with the rifles—you and he were…fishing?'

‘Yes.' It sounded weird. ‘You don't understand, Jonah.' I couldn't expect Jonah to understand—I didn't even understand it. ‘Sometimes I miss him and it's good to catch up. Other times he just appears.' Like a bad egg.

‘Then, yes, you should tell Sergeant Griffin.'

‘But I'm scared, Jonah.'

‘Sergeant Griffin's a pussycat, Tom.'

‘No, Jonah, I'm scared of saying anything against Bill.'

Jonah looks at me. He can see the fear on my face. Just showing him how I feel, not hiding it for once, is terrifying.

‘Then we'll speak to Grandpa. He's a lawyer and he has to keep what you tell him confidential. He'll know the best way to handle Bill.'

‘Okay. But let me think about it first.'

‘Sergeant Griffin is looking for you,' says Papa.

Papa has a habit of speaking to me whenever he pleases. At this very moment I'm fast asleep, but that doesn't seem to matter to him.

‘Tom,' he says, raising his voice. His tone tells me he's getting agitated. If I ignore him for much longer he'll lean down next to my ear and whistle.

‘Papa,' I say, keeping my eyes closed and trying my hardest not to wake up, ‘I'm in the middle of a dream about Mum.'

‘Sorry sport,' he says, ‘but I just passed Griffin on his way here and he was speeding.'

‘Speeding?' I sit bolt upright. Sergeant Griffin only ever speeds if he's in a hurry. I know that sounds like I'm stating the obvious, but this is the country. Outside the town there is no speed limit—at least not one that is enforced—and, even though the roads are in bad condition, most people drive at a hundred or more. Sergeant Griffin says the roads are too dangerous for such speeds and, to set an example, he sits on sixty.

‘What's the urgency?' I ask, rubbing my eyes. ‘And what's the time?'

‘Don't know. Eight twenty-three.'

I haven't seen Sergeant Griffin since he turned up when I was sneaking around Bill's boatshed.

‘Maybe he has found out what Bill's been up to,' says the Minnow.

‘That doesn't explain why he would be in such a hurry,' I reply.

But the thought makes me anxious. I've been trying not to think about Bill. Now I realise I haven't prepared myself at all. The Minnow and I get out of bed and head for the shower.

I'm eating toast when Sergeant Griffin knocks on the door.

I can hear a small beeping sound—soft, constant, regular— as I walk through the backyard to the compost bin. I have a small colander of vegetable scraps and, even though I'm carrying it with both hands, bits of potato peel keep falling onto the ground. By the time I reach the bin I've dropped more than half.

‘You afraid you might lose your way back?' asks Papa. It is a rhetorical question, so I don't bother myself with an answer. I like the word ‘rhetorical'.

I lift the lid with one hand and tip the scraps on top of the seething mass of worms. Jonah's compost bin is nothing fancy, just an old plastic bin with a lid. The bottom has been cut out so that the worm castings enrich the ground below, but this has given the rats easy access. Exactly like our old one.

Occasionally Mum would ask Dad to fix it, but he was always busy with something else. One afternoon, Bill arrived with some chicken wire. He pulled the bin off the mound of rotting vegetable scraps, rodent-proofed the bottom of it with two layers of mesh, repositioned the bin and shovelled the decomposing mess back in. The whole job took less than an hour.

‘No worries,' Bill said. Mum handed him a thank-you beer.

‘You trying to get on her good side, mate?' said Paul Bunter.

Paul had been helping Dad with the truck's brakes.

‘Reckon I am,' Bill replied, and Paul laughed.

Mum liked Paul. She used to say that of all Dad's friends, Paul was the easiest to talk to. The two of them would often sit and chat.

‘Take no notice, Bill,' Dad said, as he walked up the steps to the veranda. ‘I reckon I could die tomorrow and Paul would be first in the queue to take my place,'

Dad loved saying stuff like this.

‘What queue would that be?' asked Mum, standing in the doorway, a six-pack under her arm.

‘The Angie queue,' said Dad, matter-of-factly.

I love jam doughnuts. I prefer the hot-dog shape, rather than the round version, with real cream, not that horrible mock business. Sometimes I go to the pastry shop before I visit the pet shop. Mrs Blanket doesn't like people bringing food into the shop. She has a sign on the door that says
no food or drink
.

I buy my doughnut and walk across to the bus stop. There is no bus service at The Crossing. The government decided it was too expensive. But they left all the bus-stop seats. The one opposite Fielder's Pets and Supplies is green and grey and has a small bin next to it. Mrs Blanket donated the bin and it has the shop's logo on the side. I sit on the seat and open the paper bag. Bits of jam have stuck to the sides so I tear it carefully down the middle.

Today is the perfect jam-doughnut day. You can't eat jam doughnuts on the wrong day. Jonah thought this was a strange observation until I pointed out that the perfect day for pumpkin soup was overcast and cold, even better if it was raining. If you're wondering what the perfect doughnut day is, it's clear and sunny, but quite cool. And it's better if it is autumn rather than spring, so that there is a crisp feeling to the air. It makes sense when you think about it.

I finish eating the doughnut, wipe my hands on my T-shirt, and rummage around in my backpack for my pocket thesaurus. I don't usually keep it in my pocket, even though it is small enough to fit. The pocket thesaurus is a recent find. I bought it from the op shop behind the Lutheran church on Holly Street. The Lutherans pronounce it ‘holy' as a bit of a joke. Ha ha.

The church is a simple wooden building painted buttercup yellow, and the parish residence, which is also painted yellow, has housed the Smith Family opportunity shop for as long as anyone can remember. It became a superstore after the flood. Clothes and toys arrived from all over the country and there are still quite a few unpacked boxes in the shed.

I paid forty cents for the Oxford Minireference Thesaurus. Minireference doesn't look like a word to me. I think it should have a hyphen between ‘mini' and ‘reference'. I mentioned this to Betsy Groot. She was watching me as I left the shop with my purchase, so I felt I should stop and have a chat.

‘Who are we to argue with a thesaurus?' she said when I told her about the missing hyphen. She had a point I guess. But I'm unconvinced. Plus, even though it is a mini-reference (I like using the hyphen) I'm not altogether sure I approve of the way some of its listings differ from the normal version. I realise it is short on space, but some of the entries are really compromised. For example, under ‘crisp' it makes no mention of ‘smart dresser' or ‘fried to a crisp'. Crisp seems left a bit wanting. Yet it finds room to include ‘pleat'—a word that doesn't get a mention in my full-size thesaurus. There are heaps of other examples, but I won't bore you with them.

I really want to get back to the boatshed. Something about the loft didn't feel right, and even though I've gone over and over it in my mind, I can't figure out what it is.

‘C'mon in,' I said. ‘Can I get you some toast?'

‘Sure,' said Sergeant Griffin. He walked over to the tiny kitchen table and sat in Jonah's chair.

‘Is this about Bill?' I asked. I felt my face flush, so I turned away and popped a slice of bread under the grill.

‘No,' he answered. ‘But if you had any information, you'd tell me, wouldn't you, Tom?'

I felt a trickle of water run down my legs.

‘Sit down,' whispered the Minnow.

‘I feel a bit odd,' I said. ‘I think the toast will have to wait.'

‘Now!' insisted the Minnow. I turned off the griller and sat opposite Sergeant Griffin.

‘Sorry,' I said, ‘but you do seem to have the oddest timing.'

Water continued to trickle. I hoped it wasn't noticeable.

‘That's okay, Tom,' he said. ‘I'm not that hungry.'

He leaned forward and patted my hand. ‘But your Nana has had a turn. She's all right, but they've moved her to the nursing wing and she is raising hell. If you're up to it, she could do with a visit.' The news made me relax. Until that moment I'd had no idea how wound up I was over Bill.

‘Is that why you were speeding?' I asked without thinking.

‘Yes,' he answered. He looked at me strangely.

‘What?' I asked.

‘That was a clever question, Tom,' he answered. ‘You should take up police work.'

‘Just a good guess,' I said.

I stayed put while Sergeant Griffin phoned Dr Frank and explained the situation with my waters. If things weren't stressful enough, the Minnow was refusing to talk to me.

‘It's not that I don't trust you,' I told her, ‘but you're my responsibility.'

She was quiet as a mouse. ‘I don't want to go back to hospital, either,' I said. ‘But what choice do we have?'

Sergeant Griffin finished his call. ‘Probably best that I take you straightaway,' he said. ‘If you need anything, Jonah or I can fetch it later.' There was no room for negotiation. I hoped the Minnow was listening.

‘You might want to grab a towel,' I said, and Sergeant Griffin's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He collected a couple of towels from the bathroom and then helped me down the steps and into the police car. With both towels underneath me, Sergeant Griffin adjusted the seatbelt to fit comfortably.

I felt safe with Sergeant Griffin. Solid, dependable. And whether the Minnow agreed with me or not, right now I trusted him with her life.

We headed off. Sergeant Griffin drove at a steady pace.

When we arrived at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, Hazel was waiting with a wheelchair. She took me straight to the nursing wing.

Dr Frank was on the phone, talking to Dr Patek. Every now and then he would look across at me and smile.

But it's a ruse. I'm still leaking.

By the time I see Nana it is mid afternoon. The nurse is on strict instructions that my visit be no longer than ten minutes. Dr Frank has warned me that even though Nana is quite distressed, I am to remain calm or the nurse will remove me. And I'm not allowed out of the wheelchair.

Dr Patek has advised total bed rest. Dr Frank is to monitor me over the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully the water stops leaking. They're worried I might go into early labour. I had to beg to see Nana.

‘Thank you, Nurse,' Nana says in her bossy voice, ‘but I wish to speak to my granddaughter in private.'

The nurse hesitates. She has been told to stay put.

‘It's okay,' I say. ‘Just come back when the ten minutes are up.'

The nurse doesn't look happy about it, but she wheels me over to Nana's bedside.

‘Please, Tom, stay in the chair,' she says. ‘And,' she turns to Nana, ‘push the call button if Tom looks faint.'

‘Of course,' says Nana. ‘I might be old, but I'm not stupid.'

The nurse turns to leave, gives me what Hazel would call a withering look, then marches out of the room. She doesn't close the door.

‘Oh darling,' says Nana, gripping my arm, ‘you have to tell them to move me back. I can't stay here.'

‘You'll be all right, Nana. They're just keeping you in for observation,' I say, all chirpy.

‘No, Tom. You don't understand. I
can't
stay here.'

Nana looks like she's going to cry.

‘What's wrong?' I ask her.

‘I'm dying for a bloody gin and that's just for starters,' she says, and a laugh escapes.

For the first time ever, I realise Nana is frightened.