Worry Warts (3 page)

She slumped back against the bed and stared dreamily at a poster of the Victorian Arts Centre on the wall.

‘Melbourne sounds great,' she said. ‘Anywhere sounds great when you've never been further than Proserpine.'

Before Keith could explain that the brochures were for a second honeymoon for Mum and Dad so they could rediscover how deeply in love they were and never think about splitting up ever again, Tracy's mum came in with two cans of lemonade.

‘Tracy earbashing you about her travel dreams, is she?' grinned Tracy's mum to Keith. She winked at Tracy.

‘If you and Dad split up,' said Tracy, ‘I'd pick Dad cause at least he'd go to Venice for the fishing.'

Keith nearly choked on a mouthful of lemonade. He wished Tracy would change the subject.

‘I want to travel,' said Tracy's mum indignantly ‘When we've got a new roof and had the house restumped and saved up for an air conditioner for the lounge, I'll be off for a week in Proserpine like a shot.'

‘Rack off, you boring old chook,' said Tracy. Even though she and her mum were both grinning, Keith was shocked.

Dad called out the moment Keith stepped in through the fly-screen door.

‘Keith, in here.'

Mum and Dad were in the lounge, Mum on the settee next to the fan and Dad standing in the corner.

‘Keith,' said Dad, ‘we're very angry about the car.'

Keith looked at them.

They didn't look angry, they looked sad.

Mum's eyes were red and she'd rolled the TV guide into a tight tube and was gripping it with both hands. Her forehead was more corrugated than the dirt road out to Meninga.

Both corners of Dad's mouth were pointing to the floor and so were both his shoulders.

‘We're very angry and disappointed,' said Dad.

‘Is it the colours or the bumper bars or the spelling?' asked Keith in a small voice.

Dad's eyebrows went lower and now he did look angry.

‘It's because you didn't discuss it with us first,' he said, his voice suddenly louder.

‘I'm sorry,' said Keith miserably, ‘I wanted to surprise you.'

‘We know you did, love,' said Mum, ' and it was a lovely thought, but you should have talked to us about it first.'

‘I can fix it up,' said Keith. ‘If it's the Tropical Parrot and Hot Sunflower you don't like, I can fix that. Have a look at these, and I'll have it repainted any colour you like by the time you get back.'

He thrust a wad of holiday brochures at each of them.

‘There's a great motel in Hobart,' he said as Mum and Dad stared at the brochures. ‘It's on a hill and at this time of the year the winds down there have already started. It'll be freezing. You'll love it.'

Now they were both staring at him, mouths open.

‘How about Adelaide?' said Keith. ‘The Barossa Valley's great for bushwalks and crosswords and they get heaps of rain at this time of year.'

Dad stared at the brochures again and then at Keith again. ‘For God's sake,' he said, ‘we can't think about holidays, we've got a shop to run.'

‘It's OK,' said Keith, ‘I've worked it out. I'll take a couple of weeks off school and Tracy can help during the tea-time rush. She knows her way round a fish from going snorkelling with her dad. And Gino Morelli can help too, his dad used to run the aquarium in . . .'

‘Keith,' Dad broke in, ‘we are not going on any holiday.'

‘It's a nice idea,' said Mum, ‘but it's just not possible.'

‘You've got to,' said Keith. ‘How about a hang-gliding holiday in New Zealand? You go up to the snowfields in a helicopter and you can bungy-jump too if you want.'

‘We are not,' thundered Dad, ‘going on holiday.'

‘But you've got to,' pleaded Keith.

‘Why have we?' asked Mum.

Keith took a deep breath. He had to say it.

‘So you can stop talking about splitting up.'

There was a long silence.

Mum and Dad exchanged a look.

Keith's insides felt like they were in a spin-dryer.

Then Dad stepped forward and put his hands on Keith's shoulders and spoke slowly and softly.

‘If you've heard us saying anything about splitting up, it's not what you think. We've been talking about splitting up in the shop, that's all.'

There was another long silence.

Keith struggled to work out what Dad meant, but his head felt like it was full of uncooked batter.

‘What Dad's saying,' said Mum softly, ‘is that the shop isn't making enough money so we've been talking about me getting a job outside the shop.'

Keith stared at her.

‘That's right,' said Dad. ‘Me and Mum don't like the idea, but the shop just isn't pulling in the trade, what with the new resort, and the new snack bar in the pub.'

‘We should have told you,' said Mum, ‘but we were worried about how you'd feel because we know how much you like us working together.'

Suddenly Keith felt weak with relief. It was like having ninety kilos of ungutted cod lifted from his shoulders.

All the long faces and headaches and arguments and corrugated foreheads and droopy mouths hadn't been because anyone had stopped loving anyone.

They'd been because of a totally different problem.

A much easier one to solve.

Money.

Keith put the coins into the slot and dialled.

‘G'day,' said the wholesaler on the other end of the phone.

‘This is Keith Shipley from the Paradise Fish Bar in Orchid Cove,' said Keith, ‘and I'm in a phone box so I can't talk for long.'

‘Do you want to place an order?' asked the wholesaler.

‘No,' said Keith, ‘I want to ask a favour.'

‘I'm listening,' said the wholesaler.

‘Well,' said Keith, ‘our shop's operating in a pretty cutthroat business environment up here at the moment what with the new resort up the road and the new snack bar in the pub and it's really hard to make enough profit which is putting a serious strain on Mum and Dad plus we're living in a small house with really thin walls so they can't even have sex that much so I was wondering if you could lower the price of your flour and oil a bit.'

There was a long pause at the other end.

‘Is this a joke?' asked the wholesaler finally.

Don't be ridiculous, thought Keith. How could it be a joke? It's not even funny.

‘It's an emergency,' said Keith, ‘honest.'

‘Look,' said the wholesaler, ‘I'm operating in a pretty cutthroat business environment down here too. How would you like it if I rang you up at eight o'clock in the morning and went on about my financial problems?'

‘You did,' said Keith. ‘Last month.'

‘Do your parents know you're doing this?' asked the wholesaler crossly.

‘Sorry to bother you,' said Keith, and hung up.

He looked at the piece of paper with the phone numbers on it that he'd borrowed from the wall in the shop, and dialled again.

The potato distributor was even grumpier than the flour and oil wholesaler.

‘Get nicked,' he said. ‘Who do you think I am—Santa Claus?'

No chance of that, thought Keith, the only thing you've got in common with Santa Claus is a big bum.

He told the potato distributor that even a small price-cut would help and that he himself had slashed his charge for peeling potatoes from five cents a potato to two cents, and the only reason he was charging Mum and Dad anything was that he had a car to repaint.

The potato wholesaler hung up.

Keith decided to try a different approach with the fish co-op.

At first it worked well.

Keith explained what he had in mind and the fish co-op man at the other end listened patiently even though Keith could hear people in the background yelling something about getting a move on and shifting some squid.

But when Keith had finished, the co-op man wasn't much help either. He explained that there wasn't any point in Keith getting up at three in the morning and coming down to the coop with Tracy's dad's fish-gutting knife as all the fish were gutted on the boat. And anyway the co-op weren't allowed to give their fish-gutters cut-price fish as all the catch had to be sold at auction.

Keith asked if there was anything at the fish co-op that needed a paint job.

The man said 'fraid not.

Keith thanked him and hung up.

He felt panic bubbling up inside him.

It wasn't working.

Calm down, he told himself. Stop being a worry wart.

He took another deep breath.

It was time to tackle the problem face to face.

Keith found the pub owner in the bottle department, hosing down the drive-through section.

‘G'day young fella,' said the pub owner, hitching up his pyjama shorts, ‘you've come to replace the compressor in my coolroom, have you?'

Keith remembered that the pub owner was famous throughout Orchid Cove for his sense of humour, which included putting blackcurrant syrup in blokes' beers when they weren't looking.

‘I want to ask you a favour,' said Keith.

‘Fire away,' said the pub owner.

Keith explained how it would really improve the quality of Mum and Dad's lives if the pub owner could leave fish and chips off the menu in his new snack bar and replace them with liver and onions, say, or rissoles.

The pub owner laughed so hard he hosed himself on the leg.

What's so funny? thought Keith. I didn't mention blackcurrant syrup.

‘Nice try, young fella,' said the pub owner. ‘If you're passing the new resort could you drop in and tell them how much they'd improve the quality of my life if they'd stop selling beer. Replace it with tea, say, or flavoured milk.'

He started laughing again.

As Keith walked away he noticed the girder with the off-white paint on it where Mum had hit it with the car door.

Keith wished she'd hit it harder.

The foyer of the new resort was as big as a soccer pitch and the carpet smelled like underarm deodorant.

Keith walked over to the reception desk.

‘Excuse me,' he said to a woman who was tapping the keys of a computer with fingernails that matched her Hot Sunflower jacket. ‘Could I see the manager please?'

‘The manager's not in till nine,' said the woman. ‘What was it in connection with?'

Keith explained it was to do with the fish and chips on their menu.

‘Bistro, coffee shop or the Coral Room?' she asked.

‘All of them,' said Keith.

‘We don't have fish and chips in the Coral Room,' she said, glancing at a menu. ‘We have Reef Fillets And Deep-Fried Potato Skins In A Basket With Mango-And-Oyster Mayonnaise. Did you want to make a complaint?'

Keith explained that he didn't want to make a complaint, he was just wondering if the fish and chips could be taken off the menus. He explained about Mum and Dad's financial difficulties.

The receptionist said she'd pass his request on to the manager.

As he was leaving though, he glanced back and saw her pointing him out to a man with the same colour jacket and a ponytail.

They were both sniggering.

Alright for them, thought Keith angrily. They obviously haven't got depressed parents to look after.

Keith stared out the classroom window and wished Mr Gerlach would talk a bit more quietly when a person was trying to think.

He looked down at the list he'd made on the last page of his exercise book.

 

Ways For A Fish Shop To Earn Extra Money

1. Charge for salt.

2. Sell steamed vegies (not broccoli).

3. Let people dry their washing over the fryer.

4. Raffle the really big potato scallops.

Keith sighed. It wasn't a lot for a morning's hard thinking.

He started to write down the idea he'd just had about letting kids have a go of the chip-cutting machine for five cents a turn. Then he stopped. Even if a hundred kids a week did it, which would totally disrupt Dad's chip-cutting routine, it would still only bring in five dollars and at least one of the kids was bound to lop off a finger which would cost more than that in medical bills and needles and cotton.

Keith sighed again.

There must be other ways to get rich in Australia.

Only last week in geography Ms O'Connell had been saying that Australia was a vast country full of natural resources. Iron ore was one she'd mentioned a lot.

Keith was in the middle of wondering whether the Health Department would let a fish shop sell iron ore when Mr Gerlach's voice burst into his thoughts.

‘Keith Shipley,' said Mr Gerlach, ‘could you see your way clear to sparing us a bit of your attention when I'm talking about your work?'

Keith looked up.

Mr Gerlach was holding up a painting that Keith had done in art.

‘As I was saying, Mr Shipley, your use of texture around the chin and neck here, giving a sort of warty, rough appearance to the skin, suggests the person is a man and quite an old one, am I right?'