The Minnow (25 page)

I throw my things into the dinghy and climb aboard. I pull on the oars and the tinny glides away from the pier. I steer towards Ponters Corner, keeping my ears tuned for Oscar's familiar splash.

I'm not disappointed.

‘Hi, Oscar,' I call over the side.

‘Tom,' he answers, popping his head out of the water. ‘Ready?'

Oscar has promised to take me to Banyaban Creek. It's too far for me to swim, so I'm following him in Bill's dinghy.

About an hour later, we round the last corner and I get my first glimpse. I haul the oars into the tinny and let the current pull me along. Banyaban Creek is Oscar's favourite spot and he's been promising to bring me here for months.

I can see why. It's mysterious and dark and incredibly beautiful. The trees on either side are enormous, with branches so broad and foliage so thick that they touch in the middle, forming an arch. It feels like we're moving through a cave.

‘Tie up to the stump,' says Oscar, breaking me out of my trance. I look across to where he is pointing and, sure enough, there is a large stump jutting out of the water about ten metres ahead. Once alongside I secure the dinghy with the rope.

It's cold in the shade, and I understand, now, why Oscar insisted I borrow Jonah's wetsuit. I strip off my shorts and T-shirt and start pulling it on. When I'm ready, Oscar reappears. ‘Did you bring everything?' he asks.

‘Yep. Snorkel, goggles, underwater torch, flippers,' I answer.

‘Okay, Tom,' he says, ‘kit up and follow me.'

I pull on the flippers, lean over the side, wet my goggles, spit on the lenses to prevent them fogging, adjust my snorkel. Oscar pops his head out of the water. ‘The torch,' he says. ‘Bring the torch.'

I check everything, grab the torch and jump over the side.

The water is dark, and it's almost impossible to see, but I don't want to use the torch. I'd rather wait until my eyes adjust. Besides, Oscar's silvery scales flicker constantly and it's an easy swim with the flippers and the current. Ten or so minutes later, Oscar turns and stops. ‘Okay, Tom,' he says. ‘Time for the torch and a big breath.'

The torch casts an eerie light and suddenly I'm grateful for the flippers because I can keep pace with Oscar who is swimming fast and deep. The water is green and murky and strangely familiar. My torch flashes on something red.

Dad's truck.

‘It's okay,' says Oscar. ‘This is why you're here.'

I shine the torch through the windscreen, but it is too murky to see inside. I move around to the driver's side, pressing my face to the glass, my heart pounding, my lungs screaming.

The cabin is empty.

Time's up.

I push hard against the truck and kick with everything I have left. My right hand clips something, knocking the torch from my grasp, and for a frightening moment I lose all sense of direction, blind in the gloom.

‘It's okay,' shouts Oscar. ‘You're almost there.'

A moment later my head breaks the surface. I lean back, gulping air, moving my aching arms and legs in slow dog paddle, just enough to keep me afloat.

‘You wanted to know,' says Oscar, bobbing up on my left.

He is right of course. Oscar's always right.

I'd had nightmares imagining Dad trapped in his truck, caught in the seatbelt, unable to get free, helpless as the engine conked out and the flood waters rushed in.

But what I didn't know—what I hadn't realised until now—was that finding Dad in the truck was my greatest fear. Not because I'm squeamish, I'm not, but I have to believe that Dad tried to save us. If I had found him just now, I wouldn't know what to think.

Life. It's the weirdest thing.

‘Thank you, Oscar.'

‘No worries, Tom.'

It is three weeks since Nana died.

Jonathan is inconsolable, and Jonah stays with him most nights. On the bright side, Jonathan's house is brimming with casseroles and orange cakes and scones as all the (elderly) women in his neighbourhood rally around. Jonathan Whiting is a bit of a catch, it seems.

It is January and the school holidays are in full swing. The weather has been really hot for the past two weeks, so Jonah and I devised the holiday-cool-down-plan. It's very simple: every morning Jonah arrives after breakfast and the three of us wander down to the inlet for an early swim. Then we mooch around at home, reading, playing with the Minnow, sleeping. By late afternoon we walk back to the inlet and swim until dusk. Sometimes I catch dinner. Jonah cooks. Then Jonah cycles over to his grandfather's and I read the Minnow a bedtime story.

I haven't told Jonah yet, but a few days ago, while I was making a cup of tea, I thought I heard the Minnow. She was having her afternoon nap, so I tiptoed into her room to check on her. She was fast asleep, teddy scrunched under her arm. The room was hot and stuffy so I walked to the window and opened the curtain to let in the breeze.

As I turned around I caught sight of someone leaning across the Minnow's cot. She was wearing a dress I didn't recognise: orange and pink check.

I knew it wasn't Nana.

‘Mum?'

‘Tom,' the woman answered. She turned and faced me, smiled.

She looked younger, a bit sadder maybe.

‘I've missed you, Mum,' I said, as I walked into her outstretched arms.

We hugged. Tight and hard and for a long time.

I couldn't believe how good it felt.

A
cknowledgments

To David Pollard for his boundless love, belief and support, and for everything in between. I couldn't have done it without you.

Siboney Duff for flagging my story as YA, for her manuscript appraisal and advice, and for her faith in me. Sib, you're a legend.

Tristan Bancks for his feedback and encouragement. Louise Holdsworth for her attention to detail.

Cassidy Light, Danika Cottrell, Sam Whortlehock, Jessie Cole, Nil Alemdar McHugh, Elisabet Mangsten, Petra Sweeney, Sam Toomey, Denise Greenaway, Lynne Casey and Sally Brakha for reading the early drafts.

Jakk Armstrong for always being there.

Jane Pearson for being the kind of editor writers dream about.

Katie Harnett for the beautiful cover illustration.

Finally, to Michael Heyward, Anne Beilby, Imogen Stubbs, Jane Novak, Stephanie Speight and everyone at Text for welcoming me to the family—oh, and for changing my life!

Thank you.