The Minnow

by Diana Sweeney

  ‘They want to move her to the nursing wing,’ he says. He turns to look at me, worry etched onto his face. ‘You understand she can’t go back there.’

  I nod. Jonathan turns back to face the road.

  ‘So,’ he continues, ‘I’ve informed Hazel to hire anyone she deems appropriate.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Jonathan.’ He is an angel. I want to tell him this but instead I look out the window. No use rubbing salt in Papa’s wounds.

  We drive the rest of the way in silence. It occurs to me that Jonathan has known Nana longer than I’ve known her. I’ve never thought about that before.

  ‘Thanks, Jonathan,’ I say, as he pulls the pram up the front steps. I give him a hug. Jonathan hugs me back. I can feel his sorrow. Nana hangs between us.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Will you?’ Jonathan replies.

  Neither of us knows the answer.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ I say, ‘and thanks for the lift.’

  Jonathan does a little wave; a hand movement that says a whole sentence. The Minnow and I watch him drive away.

  Pinned to Jonah’s front door is a note from James Wo. Shit, shit, shit. I forgot all about our Saturday appointment.

  Dear Tom,

  I heard about your grandmother. I completely understand that she’s your priority right now. I will, of course, cancel our Saturday meetings if that’s what you wish. Alternatively, I can meet you as per usual and then drive you to the Mavis Ornstein at midday.

  James Wo.

  It took more than a week, but eventually Jonah and I made up.

  Don’t ask me about Caleb. I can’t bear thinking about him. Let’s just say I’m confident there is no future, so I have given up worrying.

  If you’re wondering about my complete one-eighty, blame Oscar!

  I had gone to the inlet for a swim on my own. I often do this when I wake early. Nothing matches a swim for clearing my head, and Jonah is always happy to mind the Minnow. They were both asleep so I left a note. Back in an hour, it said.

  Oscar showed up. He can always tell when something is troubling me, so I told him all about horrible Caleb and my fears for Jonah’s heart. I explained the rift between Jonah and me, and that we weren’t speaking.

  Oscar gave me a crash course in reverse psychology.

  I tried it out when I got home and it worked a treat. I told Jonah that I was sorry for being such a bitch and that maybe I had been unfair to judge Caleb so harshly. After thinking it through, I added, I was prepared to be open-minded.

  Jonah looked so relieved, I actually felt bad about lying.

  That evening, when the Minnow and I returned home from the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, Jonah confessed—over dinner—that he was having second thoughts about Caleb.

  Oh, yes. Oscar is a total legend.

  Friday the 26th of December. The Minnow’s first birthday.

  We celebrated in Nana’s room, and I took lots of photos of the two of them together. I’m not sure Nana knew what was happening. It was so sad, seeing her like that. I kept thinking how different things had been twelve months earlier, when she had returned, jubilant, from the nursing wing. The Minnow’s party was sedate by comparison.

  On Saturday the twenty-seventh of December, at 11.34 am, Nana died.

  Hazel handed me a print-out of Nana’s ‘last hurrah’ that afternoon. ‘If I seem a bit abrupt,’ Hazel said when she saw the look on my face, ‘then I’m sorry.’

  ‘O..k..a..y,’ I said, drawing out the word. ‘She has been dead, what, three hours?’ This was not what I expected.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Hazel, and she turned and walked back into the common room.

  ‘That was weird,’ I said, aloud.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Betsy Groot, who had materialised in front of me. ‘Hazel is an absolute pet, and she grieves for us terribly when we pass.’

  That made sense. ‘Thanks, Betsy,’ I said, but she was gone.

  I walked to the end of the veranda, hoping to find Papa, but the place was deserted. I sat myself in the rocker and began to read Nana’s instructions.

  Nana wanted to be dressed in her whites and buried with her favourite bowling ball. Her favourite photo—the one taken when the Great Eight won the District Champions Trophy—was to be placed on the coffin and given to Jonathan after the service. She had paid in advance for a celebrant. There was to be no religious rubbish. The service was to be brief yet personal.

  Luckily for the Minnow and me, on the Saturday that Nana died, James Wo had a dentist appointment at eleven-thirty, so he dropped us off at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly an hour earlier than usual.

  When the Minnow and I arrived, Jonathan was giving Nana some water. I stood at the doorway for a moment, watching him go through the ritual.

  It was a painstaking process, taking almost an hour to get Nana to drink just half a glass. Jonathan would repeat the exercise four times a day.

  He winked at me as the Minnow and I walked over to the bed and I kissed first Nana, then Jonathan, on the cheek.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Great,’ answered Jonathan.

  ‘Gigi,’ said the Minnow, as I lifted her up and plonked her on the bed.

  ‘The Minnow’s here,’ said Jonathan, leaning forward, gently brushing Nana’s cheek with the back of his hand. No response.

  Jonathan resumed the water ritual. ‘How’s that, Valerie?’ he asked, tipping a fraction more into her mouth. ‘I bet that feels good.’

  ‘It’d be better with a bit of gin in it,’ she replied.

  Her first words in four months.

  Jonathan and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. The Minnow joined in. When we looked back at Nana, she had died.

  Jonathan is devastated. I’m not sure he’ll know what to do with himself after the funeral. He has spent every moment of the last four months at her bedside. The poor thing still wanted to marry her, but seeing as she couldn’t speak, it seemed wrong. Besides, Nana hadn’t officially accepted his proposal.

  Jonah is staying with his grandfather. He might stay for a while as we’re worried about Jonathan being alone.

  Papa, on the other hand, is being really cagey. I want to know what will happen next, but he refuses to discuss it. I get the feeling that he and Nana will disappear after the funeral, and it is really pissing me off that I’m going to lose both of them and he won’t even talk to me about it. I’ve asked Oscar for his thoughts, but he is no help. Says it is none of his business.

  Jonathan is the executor of Nana’s will.

  ‘Everything is yours, Tom,’ he says. He is looking better, if a little too thin. ‘I will have her savings transferred to your account if you let me know your bank details.’ Jonathan shuffled some papers. We are sitting in his study. It’s all brown leather and bookshelves. Jonah describes it as old-school masculine.

  Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘It will take a few months, but eventually her room will be reassigned and her bond will be returned. It’s over two hundred thousand, Tom, and you will have access to it when you turn eighteen.’

  It was a lot to take in. Two hundred thousand. And change.

  I’ve always wanted to say that.

  I’m sitting at Jonathan’s desk. Jonathan’s study door is half open and I can see Nana and Papa sitting on the couch in Jonathan’s living room. They’re holding hands. Papa looks happy, content. He has aged thirty years.

  Nana looks sad and tired and a bit stressed. God knows why they’re here—probably Nana’s weird sense of etiquette, and, knowing Nana, I bet she is wishing Papa wasn’t quite so attentive.

  The Jeffrey Gallico Chapel is crowded. Nana was popular. Bowls players from clubs as far away as West Wrestler and Banyaban Creek have made the journey. All of them are dressed in their whites. There is a collection of trophies at the front of the chapel. Each one bears Nana’s name, with some of the wins going back decades.


  Friends are taking turns to speak. The bowls players tell funny anecdotes. Eventually it is my turn.

  ‘My Nana was one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.’

  I hadn’t rehearsed or written anything down. I had cried so hard on Sunday that I figured I would be able to get through my speech without a hitch. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

  I looked around the chapel. It was hard to tell who was dead and who was alive. Some of the guests were sitting on the laps of others and there was some loud complaining. But what could I do?

  ‘When my family died, Nana saved my life,’ I said. ‘She was strong and no-nonsense and loving and kind and sympathetic. She knew and safeguarded all my secrets, she watched over me and trusted me to survive—even when she disagreed with my choices—and she loved the Minnow and me with all her heart.

  ‘One of the saddest things is that the Minnow will never know my Nana. My Nana wasn’t that old woman, stuck in bed against her will, unable to speak. My Nana was a champion bowls player, a royalist, a gin drinker, an ex-smoker, and a loyal friend. Most of all, she was funny and full of life and I will miss her forever.’

  I turned to the front row. ‘Nana was saved from the nursing wing by a kind and wonderful man, Jonathan Whiting. And, while her last months weren’t what she would have chosen, Jonathan made them bearable.’ Jonathan is sitting next to Jonah and the Minnow. He is crying.

  ‘We love you, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘And Nana loved you too.’ I had to say it. Papa would just have to understand.

  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.

  Acknowledgments

  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!

  Th
ank you.