The Minnow

Diana Sweeney was born in Auckland and moved to Sydney at the age of twelve. She now lives in northern New South Wales.

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Copyright © Diana Sweeney 2014

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

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First published in Australia by The Text Publishing Company 2014

Cover and page design by Imogen Stubbs
Cover illustration by Katie Harnett
Typeset by J&M Typesetters

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author:     Sweeney, Diana.
Title:          The minnow / by Diana Sweeney.
ISBN:         9781922182012 (paperback)
ISBN:         9781925095012 (ebook)
Subjects:    Bildungsromans.
                   Grief—Juvenile fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4

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Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

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16

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20

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22

Acknowledgments

‘I think Bill is in love with Mrs Peck,' I confide to an undersized blue swimmer crab that has become all tangled up in my line. The little crab doesn't appear to be the slightest bit interested, so I finish pulling it free and toss it over the side of Bill's dinghy. It makes a plopping sound as it enters the water and I watch it swim away. Bill, as usual, is asleep. He sleeps with his hand dangling over the edge, the line tied to his little finger. Sometimes I have to kick him awake, although he swears he always feels the fish tugging. That's Bill. Bit of a liar.

I live with Bill in the boatshed at Jessops Creek. I moved in after the Mother's Day flood. I'm used to it now, but I missed my old room at first. Nana says you get used to anything if you've got enough time. She says she still misses Papa—my grandfather—even though he died before I was born. I keep a photo of Papa next to my bed. Nana gave it to me after the flood. She said Papa would keep me company. She said he had been doing such a fine job of keeping her company over the years, she was sure he had special powers. Nana lives at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. She has given photos of Papa to everyone there.

I sleep in the loft. It's small, but perfect for me. It used to be Bill's bedroom, but the ceiling is really low so I don't think he minded moving downstairs. When I asked him about it, he just shrugged and said headroom was highly overrated.

I totally disagree. My old bedroom had lots of headroom. I could stand on the bedside table with my arms outstretched and still not reach the ceiling. Now, if I stand up really straight, the top of my head already touches the beam. If I keep growing I'll have to bend my neck. I often think about that headroom. I miss it.

Instead of windows, the loft has large double doors that open onto the roof. They're closed during the day to keep out the heat, but at night, with them propped wide open, I can watch the sky. One of the old ladies at Nana's home gave me her astronomy chart when I told her about my stargazing. She said ‘such enthusiasm should be nurtured'
.
Her name is Mavis; she is ninety-eight, and she thinks the home is named after her. She also thinks Papa is her late husband. Nana said she almost regretted giving a photo to Mavis until she realised it was just another example of Papa's special powers. Mavis was happy, Nana said. Why spoil it with the truth?

There is a flash of silver near my line, so I keep my hand steady and my body still, willing the fish towards the bait. Bill yawns loudly. I ignore him. Bill hates to be watched as he wakes.

‘Not much is happening,' he says.

Bill has a beard, and his arms and legs are thick with hair. He always jokes that no one ever got sunburnt wearing a fur coat and, generally speaking, he's right. But today he has forgotten his cap and his nose and forehead are quite red.

‘Your face has copped it,' I say, without a trace of smugness.

I always wear a long-sleeved shirt and a hat when I'm outside. It was one of Mum's rules.

The last time I saw Sarah she was floating head down with her arms and legs out from her sides like a star fish. I watched her from the roof of the fire station, counting the seconds. She held the record at fifty-two. I counted to sixty as she disappeared around the side of the newsagent. I remember thinking she was probably sneaking a breath.

Bill and I usually fish from the pier, where the fish come in only two sizes: dinner-for-four or not-worth-it. We always let the little ones go. Bill says it's one of the laws of fishing. But I feel sorry for the ones that get thrown back, swimming around with a hole through their lip (or worse).

‘I think it's kinder to keep them and eat them,' I said to Bill, once.

‘Don't put a hook on your line if it bothers you so much,' Bill snarled back. Sometimes Bill can be mean.

When it's too windy at the pier, we fish down at Crabs Gully. It takes ages to get there. Bill says Crabs Gully is one of the Seven Wonders of the World because it's a wonder we ever make it out alive. Ha ha.

There are heaps of blowholes at Crabs Gully, so we usually get soaked-to-misery. Soaked-to-misery is one of Nana's favourite sayings. She has a particular hankering for cold and wet situations and loves to say stuff like, ‘the shivers are no match for Bovril' or ‘you can't stay miserable on a full belly'. Bill doesn't understand Nana's sayings.

Anyway, by the time we make it back to the boatshed I'm usually so cold my teeth are chattering. Bill always lights the pot-belly, then we eat soup till we burst. Bill only ever eats soup. He says he can't see the point of anything else. Nana reckons his teeth are probably crook.

Some days Bill and I catch the bus into town. Bill always needs new line and I like to look around at stuff. The best shop in town is Mingin's Hardware and Disposals.

‘Hi, Bill,' says Mrs Peck.

‘Why, I believe you've had your hair done, Mrs Peck,' says Bill in a voice he never uses with me. Mrs Peck flicks her head. ‘And is that a new dress?' Bill continues, all smooth and soothing, like maybe he wants to see her naked.

‘I'm going to look at the sinkers,' I say to no one in particular, because no one in particular is listening. I love sinkers. I love to feel their weight in my hand. It amazes me that something so small can be so heavy. Bill says gold is even heavier. I can't imagine.

Bill's hand is moving under Mrs Peck's dress. I slip a number-four sinker into my pocket and move over to the tackle boxes. You'd have to be mighty serious about fishing to want a tackle box. I stop in front of the FishMaster Super Series. It comprises three layers that concertina for ease of access. It says that on the lid. I don't usually use the word ‘comprises', but I think it sounds just right. I open it. It's got a separate lock-up storage compartment for sharps and a see-through sinker box. If you buy the deluxe model you get the sinker box for free. I've never owned a tackle box. Bill and I only ever take a roll of line, a dozen hooks, a few sinkers and a knife. Bill reckons anything more is window dressing. Sometimes we buy worms, but usually we collect cabbage off the rocks. The fish love it. I've gotten most of my sinkers from Mingin's Hardware and Disposals.

Bill is pushing himself against Mrs Peck's hip. I should tell you I don't like Mrs Peck. She has an ugly grouper's mouth which she paints bright red and she makes a dry clicking sound when she speaks. She has a horrible habit of wetting her lips with her tongue, something she does at the end of every sentence. I try not to look.