The Minnow Read online

  ‘Fowlers Hill?’ I said. ‘Why there?’

  ‘No idea,’ she answered. ‘But something strange happens when you die. You think you’re in control, but you end up places you don’t intend.’

  I knew what she meant. Papa has talked about this stuff.

  ‘So, how are Mum and Dad?’

  Sarah stared at me. She definitely looked older. She stood up and smoothed her dress. I realised it was new. I was about to ask her about it when she sat back down, closer this time, and took my hand.

  ‘Sarah,’ I said. ‘You’re scaring me.’

  ‘Mum and Dad are dead,’ she said, in her serious voice.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sarah, I know they’re bloody dead.’

  She pulled back and was gone. It was so fast that I rubbed my eyes a few times in case they were playing tricks on me.

  ‘Don’t leave, Sarah,’ I said. But it was too late.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ said Papa.

  ‘Papa! You almost gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry sport.’

  Papa sat on the small two-seater couch and slowly crossed one leg over the other. He cleared his throat as though he was about to speak, but instead he leaned back and folded his arms.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Papa. ‘She is very young. It takes a while to sort out stuff at her age.’

  I looked at him with a face that said I needed more.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘She tried to explain how hard it was to find you. My guess is she is faced with some tough decisions.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like trying to decide where she wants to be. It was easy for me; I wanted to be near your grandmother. But Sarah’s got lots of options.’

  This was way too weird.

  On the drive to West Wrestler, Jonathan told me that he had booked a hotel room, rather than drive back to The Crossing in the middle of the night. So I’m not surprised, the following morning, when he pops in to check on me.

  He looks fresh, clean shaven.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Mr Neat,’ comments Papa, as Jonathan enters the room.

  It’s too late to say something so, instead, I give Papa one of my looks.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Papa says, ‘I’ll get out of your hair. Anyway, I want to see what they’ve done to the park since the last time I was here.’

  As Papa leaves the room, Jonathan moves across to the windows and opens the curtains. Then he settles in the armchair and we chat, mostly about Nana and how relieved we both are that she has bounced back.

  During a pause in the conversation, I remember something. Jonathan had been telling me that they had found Bill.

  ‘Didn’t you have a question?’ I ask him. ‘You know… about Bill.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ answers Jonathan. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. He stands, puts his hands in his pockets and walks towards the door. When he turns to face me the discomfort has gone; in its place is Jonathan Whiting QC. It makes me nervous.

  ‘Bill Hamperton,’ he says, his voice deep and clear, ‘will go to jail. My concern is thus for your wellbeing and that of your child.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you do, Tom. Bill is the father, is he not?’

  ‘Is that the question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about Bill.’

  ‘Tom,’ says Jonathan, as he walks towards me, ‘I’m sorry to be so formal but this is rather difficult.’ He sits on the chair next to my bed. He clears his throat. ‘Normally I wouldn’t ask you such a personal question. But Bill has money. Some of it is legitimate, some not. It is your grandmother’s wish that I take action to secure what I can on your behalf.’

  ‘Nana knows that Bill is the father?’

  ‘Yes, Tom. She has always known.’

  Mum visits me every day. I feel her sitting next to me when I’m asleep. Sometimes she strokes my hair, sometimes she hums. When I wake up, she’s gone.

  Music is floating into my room. I think it’s coming from one of the birthing suites: a woman’s voice, slow, sad. It sounds like something Dad would play. He used to play the guitar. He was self-taught. He would sit on the veranda, usually after dinner, and play late into the night. Sometimes he would sing and Mum would cry. She said he made everything sound sad. I miss falling asleep to the sound of Dad’s voice. If he were here, he could sing to the Minnow and me.

  Jonah has a small radio in his bedroom which he listens to when he can’t sleep. Once in a while they play a song that Dad used to sing. I imagine it is him, even if it’s a woman’s voice. Nana only listens to movie soundtracks. Her favourite is The Lion King.

  The Minnow is moving. I place both my hands on my belly. I can feel her turning. ‘I miss you,’ I say, but she doesn’t reply. ‘They’re putting up decorations,’ I tell her, ignoring her silence, ‘because we’ll be staying here over Christmas. Jonathan has bought us a tree, and Jonah and horrible Caleb have bought fairy lights. The three of them will be here this Saturday to set it up.’ I really thought the fairy lights would get a response. ‘You’ve no idea how lucky we are,’ I continue. ‘Not everyone gets to have their own tree.’

  I lay back on the pillow and pull the sheet up under my chin.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Once you’re born, you’ll be able to see what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I know about Christmas.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ says the Minnow, in a voice that sounds like nothing has happened. It’s a tad irritating. Tad means ‘a small amount’, but it is actually short for tadpole. Not many people know that.

  ‘You haven’t said boo for weeks,’ I reply, ‘and all you can say is you know about Christmas?’

  I can hear the resentment in my voice, but as I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I can’t get the smile off my face.

  ‘The Minnow’s back,’ I tell Papa, who has been dozing off and on all afternoon, stretched out in the armchair, using the end of my bed as a footstool.

  ‘Well, she couldn’t have been far,’ he replies.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Papa yawns. ‘I found some music for you,’ he says, pulling himself up. He walks over to the TV and plays around with the controls, scrolling through the channels until he finds what he is looking for. ‘I overheard one of the nurses talking about it,’ he says. ‘It is a bit like elevator music, but it’s better than nothing,’

  Music fills the room. Papa and I listen for a while. I fall asleep.

  In second grade, I won the class reading award. It was presented to me by a Visiting Special Person: a nun from somewhere foreign. I can’t remember what brought her to The Crossing. Anyway, she spent a whole month at the school: giving talks, reading from her journals and generally helping out. She was kind. I don’t know what made me think of her just now.

  Mum is stroking my hair. Soft gentle strokes across my forehead from left to right. I can hear faint beeping noises, far away in the distance.

  ‘She seems fine,’ says Mum to someone in the room.

  ‘Yes, she is definitely doing much better,’ is the answer.

  Good, I think. I’m doing better. Better than what, I don’t know, but I don’t seem to mind.

  ‘When will you remove the tube?’ asks Mum.

  The tube? I try to listen for the answer, but I can’t quite make out the words. Everything is foggy. Mum and Sarah are standing at the end of the sand spit. They’re looking over at me but the sun is in my eyes and I can’t quite see their faces. I try to call their names, but my throat is dry and the words don’t form. Suddenly I’m exhausted. My arms are as heavy as lead, impossible to lift. This is it, I realise. I have no way of reaching them. I am up to my neck in sand, only my arms and head are exposed, and I’m sinking. I try to move my legs, but the weight of the sand is crushing my lungs, draining my strength. I try to lift my head, but it doesn’t respond. My breath comes in small pants. Grains of sand start to fill my
nostrils. I’m suffocating and there’s nothing I can do.

  Once when I was small, Dad took me skiing. I was only three. He and Paul Bunter had an army mate who owned a small cabin in the Southern Highlands, about an hour’s drive from the snowfields. Mum and Sarah stayed behind; I’m not sure why, but I think it was because I was jealous of Sarah. Mum probably wanted some time to bond, without me interfering.

  It was freezing outside, but the cabin was warm. It had sets of bunk-beds along one wall and an enormous fireplace along the other, which Dad and Paul kept stoked with huge logs, day and night. There wasn’t much of a kitchen, just an old sink and a small table. We cooked sausages on the coals, and sometimes Dad made stew. We wrapped potatoes in foil and cooked them in the ashes. We ate in front of the fire, the three of us squeezed into the only sofa. Sometimes I sat on the rug. I would inch closer and closer to the hearth, until Dad said my face was so red I was in danger of getting a tan.

  During the day, Dad and Paul went skiing. Sometimes I went with them, strapped to Dad’s back. He held his ski jacket upside down and I put my legs through the sleeves. He buttoned the waistband of the jacket around his neck and tied the sleeves around his waist. I was snug-as-a-bug and I loved it. The air was icy-cold on my face, especially when we were flying down a hill. Once, when Dad and Paul wanted to trek further up the mountain, they left me guarding the pile of ski jackets. I must have snuggled in and fallen asleep, because I have a clear memory of waking up as they pulled their jackets out from under me.

  No one warns you about childbirth. No one tells you that no matter how hard you try to stop it, it is happening with or without your consent. I went to the classes. Jonah and I did all the panting and hand-holding and counting. I listened to the mothers who had done it all before. I watched a disgusting movie. None of it helped. None of it prepared me.

  ‘Annabel? What are you doing at West Wrestler?’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, beaming at me.

  I can’t think what to say. Her beauty has me tongue-tied.

  Suddenly we’re standing at the end of the pier. The sky is cloudy and the water is choppy and dark. ‘Hold my hand,’ she says.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. She has a firm hold of my wrist. ‘No!’ I shout, as I realise what’s happening. But it is too late.

  My body twists as it hits the water. A sharp pain shoots up my legs and across my back. I reach around, frantically searching the gloom, but Annabel has disappeared. Fear grips my heart. My lungs are filling. My body is being pulled under the pier. It is dark and foreboding. Dark green sedge-weed brushes against my face.

  Sarah has her arms around my neck. She is holding tight—too tight—and her weight is dragging me further from the house. I can see small fish and bits of rubbish, but the water is so murky that it’s difficult to tell if the fish are alive. My hair catches on something. The water is rushing past, but my tangled hair keeps me fastened to the spot. Something large hits us, a log maybe, or a fencepost. The impact loosens Sarah’s grip and the floodwater pulls her away. I feel around for her. I try to call her. Sarah! Sarah! But I’m being pulled underwater, and the sound echoes in my ears.

  The water is cold. Too cold. My body is shivering. I’m unable to get my breath, unable to focus. The current is relentless. My hair feels like it’s being ripped from my head. Branches are flying past, things are banging into me. I’m gripped by a panic so fierce that, for the briefest moment, I almost succumb. Suddenly I feel something hard, solid, a rock maybe, and I push against it. I use the momentum to pull my hair free, wrench myself to the surface and take a gulp of air.

  Pain is pulling at my body. I wish it would stop.

  I open my eyes. I’ve been transferred to the birthing suite.

  The room is not what I expected; just a bed and an adjoining room with a bath. There is a chair in the corner, one of those ugly recliner types. At the moment Papa is sitting in it. Soft music is playing; something wishy-washy, no doubt calming, but I think I’d rather something loud and unforgiving.

  A nurse enters. She seems oblivious to my pain.

  ‘How are we doing?’ she asks, not looking at me. She lifts my wrist and feels my pulse. My pyjamas are soaked. My hair is wet. Bits of sedge-weed are dangling from my sleeve.

  ‘I think I’d like to get in the bath,’ I say.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ she says, ‘I’ll get that started.’

  She swans past Papa and into the bathroom and turns on the taps. She pulls towels and different bits and pieces out of a cupboard and places everything on a bench that runs along the wall. When she’s done, she walks back over to me and places her hand on my arm. I imagine she thinks she’s being comforting.

  ‘Don’t try getting in by yourself,’ she says, patting me like I’m a puppy. ‘I’ll be back in a minute with the midwife.’

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ says Papa, standing up and straightening the chair.

  ‘Great.’ My tone is sarcastic and I want to say more, but a contraction is building.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom, but this really isn’t my thing.’

  I try to answer, but I’m doubled over. Noise fills my head. I manage to sit up only to see that the bath is overflowing, water is halfway up the sides of the bed. I reach for the call button, press it again and again.

  ‘Please, Mum,’ I say, in case she’s listening, ‘I can’t do this on my own.’

  Someone takes my hand. ‘It’s okay,’ says a woman’s voice, ‘you’re safe with me.’ I try to see who it is, but my eyes won’t focus.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ says my voice in a whisper.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she soothes. ‘Just relax and let your body remember.’

  ‘No one’s coming,’ I say, handing her the call button.

  The room is swaying. The bed is soaked. I can’t get my breath.

  Softly, and without much effort, I feel myself slipping away. I have the vaguest feeling that I might actually be drowning.

  The bath was filling nicely by the time the midwife arrived. She took one look at me and called the nurse. When neither of them could reach me, they called Dr Patek.

  They cut me open. I have a scar along my belly.

  Mum taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘Sweetie,’ she whispers, ‘time to get up for school.’

  I’m already awake, but I roll over and moan and stretch.

  I open my eyes and Dr Patek is looking at me from the foot of the bed.

  ‘It was too much for you, Tom, and you upped and left,’ she explains.

  ‘I know,’ I answer.

  ‘Have you seen the Minnow?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘I think so too,’ I say. The room is still. I try to move but everything hurts.

  ‘Have you been out of bed yet?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. Everything is a bit of a blur.’

  ‘That’s okay, Tom, you’ve been through quite an ordeal.’ She is clasping a folder against her chest. She takes a step closer, so that she’s standing to the side of my bed. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ she says, alternately patting and smoothing the hospital blanket, ‘and I’ll talk to the nurse about getting you up and moving around.’

  They’re keeping the Minnow under observation for another twenty-four hours. Papa is probably at the nursery, staring at her.

  My curtains are closed but the room isn’t dark. I have no idea if it’s day or night. I should have asked Dr Patek the time. And the date.

  The Minnow looks like Dad. She has his dark olive skin and his eyes. I’m glad about that. I didn’t want her to look like Bill.

  Everyone says she has my mouth. I keep holding her up to the mirror and there it is: my mouth, in miniature. It’s weird seeing a feature you’re so familiar with on someone else.

  We stayed at West Wrestler for most of January. Dr Patek wanted to make sure we were ok
ay before we went home. There were a few complications. I’m not really sure what they were; it was just too much information. They tell you all this stuff when you’re half shot with pain killers and hooked up to a drip. God knows how you’re supposed to take it all in. But suffice to say we’re fine now. Suffice to say; don’t you love that? I got it from one of the tea ladies. Helen. Heavenly Helen, I called her. She had lots of quaint expressions. She fell in love with the Minnow and cried when we left. I promised to send her updates. I told her I would send a photo every month. I’m really hoping Nana buys me a camera.

  Jonathan has done everything. I think I want to adopt him, but I don’t have the heart to tell Papa. ‘Jonathan, you’re amazing,’ I say, trying not to cry. He has filled my room at Jonah’s with baby stuff: a bassinette, a change table, a beautiful baby wardrobe.

  ‘Jonathan, you’re amazing,’ I repeat, this time with added emphasis.

  ‘It’s your grandmother,’ he says. ‘She wrote lists, and I just followed orders.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest, Jonathan Whiting. You’re the kindest man I know.’ I place the Minnow in her bassinette and give Jonathan a hug. I realise I haven’t hugged him before. You’ve got to hand it to the Minnow; she changes everything.

  ‘Oh my god!’ I shout as I realise the tiny cot that was Jonah’s old bed has morphed into a double. ‘Are you serious?’ I let go of the hug and leap onto the bed.

  ‘The bed was my idea,’ says Jonathan, looking a bit embarrassed.

  ‘Well, I think it’s an excellent choice,’ I say, mimicking Heavenly Helen, and Jonathan laughs.

  ‘Come on, Tom. Your grandmother will be counting the minutes.’

  ‘Oh, darling, bring her here,’ says Nana, arms outstretched, eyes focused on her grandchild. Nana is in bed. Ever since her stint in the nursing wing, she spends most mornings in bed, sometimes not rising till after lunch. She hated it at first, said it made her feel old. But it seems to be doing her good. She looks rested.

  ‘Oh, she’s beautiful,’ Nana says, cuddling the Minnow. ‘And the spitting image of your mother.’