The Minnow (8 page)

I'm beginning to understand Jonah's crush.

Jonathan Whiting's car is an old Bentley, with cream duco and cream leather seats. Papa says it's a tribute to creaminess. Jonathan Whiting's favourite part of the car is the steering wheel. He tells me he had it custom made by the same people who make guitar plectrums. He said he asked for a shimmering mix of pearl, soft white and buttercup, and he is very pleased with the result. He runs his hands around the wheel while he tells me this, proudly admiring every facet. I hope he's watching the road.

‘So, Tom, how long have you and Jonah been together?'

‘Oh, we're not
together
,' I answer. ‘Jonah's just letting me stay.'

‘Well, he's obviously taking his responsibilities seriously, which is the main thing.'

‘The Minnow isn't half Jonah's, if that's what you mean.'

Dad would've called that a conversation stopper. I prefer looking out the window, so I'm happy that Jonathan Whiting is lost for words. My hand is resting on my tummy and I can feel the Minnow's tail-fin.

Nana has missed me.

‘Let me look at you, darling,' she says, squashing my face between her hands. I've missed her too. Lucky I had Papa with me, but I don't tell her that. ‘What did the doctor say?' she asks. ‘Does he think you ought to rest more?'

‘Dr Patek is a
she
,' I reply.

‘Patek? What kind of name is that, dear?'

‘Indian, I think. She's nice,' I say, ‘and she's organised stuff for me at home.' But Nana is distracted.

‘Jonathan,' she says, ‘what kind of doctor is a patek?' Jonathan looks at me and smiles. I know that smile. It says welcome back. I feel so happy I could bust a gut. That's a Nana saying, but you probably guessed.

Nana has been knitting booties for the Minnow. She sent Jonathan to the wool shop, but (as it never gets very cold at The Crossing) he bought only one ball of wool in pale blue and eleven balls of cotton. Nana is knitting one bootie in each colour because she thinks matching pairs are boring. There is a line-up of completions on the card table.

I'm not sure why I'm quiet, so I don't know what to say when Nana asks. It's probably because I'm being swept along with the Minnow and I'm not sure I wanted any of this in the first place.

A counsellor talked to me at the hospital. She said all kinds of stuff about responsibility and preparation. I realised I'd only been thinking in small chunks. I told her I felt anxious whenever I thought about the future. The counsellor said it was an understandable reaction. She said this while staring at me and nodding her head which made me feel really uncomfortable. Papa, who was sitting beside me throughout the session, said, ‘Just stare back at her until she looks away.' So I did. The counsellor flinched and looked down at her watch.

‘Round one to you,' said Papa, elbowing me in the ribs.

Round two was all about the big picture. Bill always said the big picture was for Hollywood. ‘Small chunks is all most folk can handle,' he'd say. ‘Any more and you're just asking for trouble.' I realised I was starting to think of Bill in the past tense.

‘The big picture is all about imagining the future,' said the counsellor, pausing and looking at me for a response.

‘Oh, right, here we go,' sighed Papa, a little too loudly. I was glad only I could hear him.

I said nothing, so she continued. ‘For example,' she said, ‘I have a vegetable garden. At the moment I'm growing parsley and cauliflower, but I plan to add potatoes, beetroot and herbs. Maybe some spring onions.'

Papa couldn't help himself. ‘What does she want? A round of applause?'

‘You see,' she went on, mistaking my silence for interest, ‘a garden is about planning and hard work, but I had to imagine it first, design it in my mind.'

‘Oh, Christ, this is tedious,' said Papa.

I love Papa, but I hate it when he does this. He knows I can't react. If I tell him off in front of the counsellor, she'll think I'm crazy. But I had to say something soon—I just couldn't think of anything appropriate.

‘Do you see?' she asked, one eyebrow raised.

‘Yes, sport,' said Papa, standing behind the counsellor and leaning over her shoulder, smirking at me. ‘Tell the nice well-meaning shrink that you see just fine.'

This was too much.

‘No!' I said, almost shouting, ‘I don't see.'

Papa fell silent and the counsellor leaned forward. She stretched her arm towards me and I thought she was going to touch my knee, but then she changed her mind and settled back in her chair. She waited for me to say something else.

‘Before the flood, I used to think I'd be living at home with Mum and Dad and Sarah forever,' I said, ‘or at least till I was old enough to leave school.'

‘That's my girl,' said Papa. ‘It's about time someone stopped fart-arsing around and cut to the chase.' He was sitting next to me again. He took my hand and patted it gently. We both looked at the counsellor. She appeared distraught.

‘I'm sorry for your loss,' she said. ‘This must all seem so irrelevant.'

‘No, really?' said Papa, in his sarcastic voice.

‘Not really,' I lied.

The three of us sat in silence.

I could hear the hum of the fish tank down the hall.

‘Don't worry, sport,' said Papa as we left the counsellor's room. ‘No one is expected to predict the future.'

‘Then why, when you're pregnant, does everyone assume there's some kind of plan?'

‘A plan makes people feel comfortable, that's all.'

‘Then why do I feel more comfortable without one?'

‘I don't know, sport. You've always been something of a free spirit.'

Dad had great plans. Mum said so all the time.

‘Papa,' I say, watching Nana through the window as she walks across the terrace and down to the pond. She's carrying a bag of stale bread to feed to the ducks and the magpies. ‘When you die, do you feel responsible?'

Papa has a habit of scratching his ears when he is hiding something. Nana says he could never keep a secret, because the scratching always gave him away. He is doing it now, and I can't for the life of me think why.

There is a commotion outside. I love the word ‘commotion'. I have a notebook that I carry with me everywhere. I try to write a new word in it everyday. Commotion was Thursday's word. Anyway, it seems Nana has caused the commotion by falling into the pond. Papa and I stay put. We both know she dived in. We have seen her do it more than once. There are nurses and orderlies running about and making a fuss. Nana will be lapping it up.

‘Hi, Tom,' says Sergeant Griffin, startling me. He is alone. ‘Can we talk for a minute?' he says, moving over towards the chair occupied by Papa.

I used to feel dreadful when this happened. Sometimes I'd leap to my feet and offer my seat, or I'd say I felt like going outside; anything to avoid upsetting Papa. But we both know the score. So I watch and wait. At the last minute Papa moves and Sergeant Griffin sits down.

‘Your grandfather is quite the star around here,' he says, nodding at the framed photo on the wall.

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘Nana gets special deals on print runs over a hundred.'

This is an in-house joke. Mike Spice started it after Nana refused his dinner invitation. It must have been hard for him, especially when one of Papa's photos turned up in his room.

‘Last time we saw each other,' Sergeant Griffin continues, ‘you were coming into the station. I just wondered what it was you wanted to talk about?'

Bill always said Griffin was careful and considerate. And ultra smart.

‘I forget,' I say. ‘So much has happened.'

‘Yes', he says with a nod. ‘You'll remember there were two people from West Wrestler,' he pauses. ‘Detectives,' he says, pauses again, catches my eye. ‘Well, they were asking about you; they wanted some information about Bill.'

‘Uh huh.' My heart has started to race. I can feel small beads of perspiration on my upper lip. ‘I've been in hospital, Sergeant Griffin,' I say. ‘I don't know why the police would want to speak to me.'

‘Of course not,' he says sweetly. ‘They are just running their enquiries, is all. I said I would follow up on the loose ends. You're just a loose end, Tom. Nothing to worry about.'

But I am worried. I have a growing feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The Minnow can feel it too.

‘Well, if it isn't Miles Griffin!' says Nana, appearing in the doorway. Her hair is plastered to her head and she has a towel wrapped around her shoulders. ‘You're a sight for sore eyes, young man,' she says. ‘What brings you out here?'

Sometimes Nana's timing is impeccable. That will be today's word.

Nana and Sergeant Griffin start up a conversation, so I excuse myself and leave the room. Papa has disappeared. He is probably down at the car park, checking out Jonathan Whiting's car—which is good because I want some time alone. I need to sort through some of my feelings about Bill before Sergeant Griffin springs another visit. I sneak quietly along the front veranda and around the corner. I'm heading for the day bed at the far end. I can see it's unoccupied, but I have yet to get past the common room without being seen. This isn't easy because there are windows running the full length of the veranda. If it weren't for the Minnow, I would crawl some of the way, but she makes that impossible.

‘G'day, Tom,' says Hazel, leaning out of the doorway.

Hazel is the residential unit manager. She ran the hospital wing for almost a decade before she was transferred. Nana adores her.

‘You after some peace and quiet, darl?' she asks.

‘Heading for the day bed, Haze, but I was hoping to get there unnoticed.'

‘Common room's deserted,' she says, with a wink. ‘Your granny's latest pond-dive was too much excitement and everyone, except Campbell, is off having a nap.' Campbell is the common-room cat.

Hazel walks over to me, takes my arm and leads me to the day bed. She helps me up, arranges the pillows under my knees and covers me with one of Betsy Groot's hand-knitted blankets. ‘There you are, ma'am,' she smiles. ‘Will there be anything else?'

‘Thanks, Haze,' I say. ‘You're the best.'

‘Give me a yell when you want to get down. Campbell and I will be in the office, catching up on paperwork.'

Bill has secrets. I know this because I've seen them: small canvas satchels stashed in various cubbyholes in and around the boatshed. He used to move them from one spot to another every few months, usually late at night when he thought I was asleep. But how could I sleep? I was homesick. I missed Mum's laugh and Sarah's morning snuggles. Mostly I missed the sound of Dad rummaging around in the dark.

The first time I heard Bill digging, I thought it was Dad. I snuck out of bed to get a better look and there he was, spade in hand, like always. I sat on the floor and watched him, filled with relief that the nightmare was over and my life was back to normal, until something made me realise that I was watching Bill. Suddenly I felt sick and frightened. I watched for hours, frozen to the spot, as Bill dug a hole large enough for me. It was still dark when he finished and I crawled back into bed. I lay awake till dawn. I was living with a stranger who, by the look of it, was going to kill me and bury me in the yard.

In the morning the hole was gone and the ground was flat. I walked over the spot a few times, trying to feel if it was looser than the surrounding dirt, but it all felt the same. ‘You worried about something, buddy?' asked Bill, leaning against the screen door. I realised I had no idea how long he had been watching me.

Bill cleared his throat and spat the contents onto the dirt.

‘Because you look like you're pacing,' he said.

Mrs Blanket's assistant, Clare, is from Kansas. I know Kansas from
The Wizard of Oz
. Clare moved to Australia to be a teacher but changed her mind once she arrived. She decided she liked animals more than kids, and she worked as a jillaroo for a few years out west, until the drought forced her to look for work in town. It flooded not long after she settled here. She says if she was ever going to leave, she would have done it then. I'm glad she stayed.

‘You're looking a bit tired,' says Clare, using her index finger in a simple back and forth motion to mimic the dark circles under my eyes. ‘You need a sleeping tonic,' she says, and disappears out the back.

‘Hi, Mrs Blanket,' I say, waiting for Clare.

‘Hi, Tom,' she says. ‘You're looking tired.'

‘Sorted,' Clare says, reappearing suddenly, clutching a small glass jar and a large syringe.

‘You ever had a Kansas sleeping tonic?' she asks, knowing my answer. I shake my head, no. Clare walks over to the axolotl tank and hands me the jar. With the syringe she draws a full measure of water. ‘Well,' she says, looking at the jar in my hand. ‘Open it.' I take off the lid and she squirts the water in. She does this twice more until the jar is about a third full. ‘Follow me,' she orders, and I follow her back to the counter. ‘Give it here,' she says, reaching for the jar. I hand her the jar. ‘And the lid,' she says. I hand her the lid.