Clownfish

by Alan Durant

  I still wasn’t convinced. “Lots of people care about football. I don’t know how many really care about fish.”

  “Then we’ll make them care! We’ll make them see what a vital place the aquarium is – not just for entertainment, but for ecology and learning and making the world a better place.” She paused with her arm outstretched dramatically, then broke into a grin. I grinned back: her enthusiasm was impossible to resist.

  “So, are you with me?” she demanded, raising her right hand.

  “Yeah. I’m with you.” I raised my own hand and we high-fived.

  At lunchtime the next day Violet and I went down to the beach. She said we’d think better if we were away from the aquarium, and I agreed. We found an opening low down in the cliff face, away from the crowds, and sat with our legs dangling, looking out at the departing tide. The hazy sun was like a lazer on the water, cutting the sea into two.

  A small dark spider crawled lightly over Violet’s hand and she lifted it up to take a closer look. “I love spiders,” she said. “I love the way they move, the webs they weave, how they trap and kill their prey.” Her eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Did you know all spiders, except one, are venomous?”

  “No… I thought it was just tarantulas and black widows – and scary spiders like that.”

  Violet looked smug. “Most people do. Spiders use the venom to paralyse their victims. It’s in their fangs.” She opened her mouth in a weird snarl. “I’ve got fangs, too – see?”

  I’d noticed them before: two small, sharp-looking teeth at either side of her mouth. “My dad used to say I was a vampire.” She smiled, almost affectionately.

  “So you didn’t always hate him then.”

  “He wasn’t always an arsehole.”

  She’d bought a cheeseburger on the way to the beach and she started to unwrap it.

  “We can share it,” she said.

  I shook my head. “You have it. I’m not hungry.”

  “Suit yourself.” She took a bite and munched.

  Sometimes, after we’d visited the aquarium on a Saturday, Dad would take me for a burger as a treat. He made out it was a treat for me, but I knew it was more for him really. He loved burgers. He’d started to get a bit of a belly in the last year or so before he … transformed. Mum said he needed to start eating more healthily, to cut out the burgers and the fry-ups he liked to have at the café over the road from the tip.

  You may as well tell me to cut out my heart, Dad replied theatrically. What’s the point of living if you can’t enjoy a burger or a fry up with your mates now and then?

  He’d winked at me, and I’d grinned back. Mum didn’t give up though. She said she was worried about him.

  One evening, about six months before, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d heard them talking downstairs. I crept over to the staircase to listen.

  You really ought to see the doctor, Bob, Mum was saying. You know you should.

  It’s nothing, Dad replied. Just a touch of indigestion.

  But it’s hours since you’ve eaten anything.

  I’ve swallowed a lot of air. Dad burped loudly and I had to stop myself from laughing.

  But Mum wasn’t amused. This isn’t funny, Bob, she said. You always want to turn everything into a joke. But this is serious.

  Violet interrupted my thoughts. “Hey, droopy drawers, we’ve got work to do. We’re going to save the aquarium, remember?” She wiped her mouth and screwed up the burger wrapping. “It’s time to do some serious planning.”

  For the next half an hour or so we talked about the campaign. Well, Violet did the talking really: I just nodded.

  We agreed that we’d start work properly in the office the following day, writing a letter to tell people about the aquarium’s problems and our campaign to save it, and asking for their support. We could hand it out to visitors and email it to people on Stephan’s mailing list. We decided to start an online petition and to write to important people like MPs and ecologists to ask for their help. We’d contact the newspapers too, of course – and local radio and TV. Violet said that we should set up a Facebook page and tweet too. She didn’t think Stephan would have a Twitter account (“he’ll probably think it’s something to do with birds”), but she’d ask him.

  There was lots to do and it needed doing urgently – even more urgently than we realised. When we got back to the aquarium Stephan told us a local developer had offered to buy it for a lot of money.

  “What did you say, Uncle Stephan?” Violet asked.

  “I said I’d consider it.”

  We stared at him horrified.

  “But you can’t sell the aquarium!” I cried.

  Stephan looked at us miserably. “I’m sorry, Dak. But I might not have any choice.”

  I was on edge all evening and couldn’t settle. “Are you all right, love?” Mum asked more than once. I said “yes” – but of course I wasn’t. I was worried sick about what was going to happen to the aquarium … what was going to happen to Dad.

  The next morning I was through the aquarium doors as soon as they opened. Violet was already in the office, waiting for the computer to load. She’d Skyped her parents again the evening before, she told me, and tried to explain about the situation with the aquarium; but they hadn’t really listened. Her mum had moaned about the state of Violet’s nails (“She never lets me paint them when I’m at home”); her dad, as before, “only wanted to talk about his beetles”.

  “You’d think that as a conservationist he’d be interested in what we’re trying to do, wouldn’t you? But no, if it’s not beetles, then he doesn’t want to know.” She glowered. “I hope they eat him alive, I really do.”

  I was used to the way Violet spoke about her dad by now, but I didn’t believe she could really hate him the way she made out. (How could you hate your dad?) OK, he’d gone away for a while and left Violet and her mum, but now he wanted to come back. How could you hate someone for trying to do the right thing?

  Our first job was to write the letter we’d planned.

  “What exactly do we want people to do?” I asked.

  “Well, we want them to … to … support us.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “They could sign our petition.”

  “What petition?”

  “The one we’re starting.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “They could get in touch with the council too. We could find out the contact-details of the Health and Safety men from Uncle Stephan. And they could write to their MP. That’s what people do when they’re unhappy about something. My mum’s always writing to her MP.”

  “What does she write about?”

  “Oh, you know: rubbish collection, recycling, street lights, badgers…”

  “Badgers?!”

  “Yeah, our MP said he wanted to kill badgers because they spread TB to cattle. Mum said he was an arsehole and she wrote to tell him.”

  I smiled. Now I knew where Violet got her straight-talking from. “Did he write back?”

  Violet tossed her head. “Mum just got some standard reply from his office saying her opinions had been noted. Politicians never say what they really think and they never do what they say they’re going to do. That’s why you can never trust them.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “What’s the point of asking people to write to their MP then?”

  “It’s just what you do,” Violet said simply.

  It took us most of the morning to complete the letter and then we showed it to Stephan. He put on his reading glasses and read it aloud back to us:

  SAVE OUR AQUARIUM!

  Dear Visitor

  We hope you enjoy your trip to the aquarium and agree with us what a special place it is.

  There are over 300 species of amazing fish and sea creatures here from all round the world. You can learn about their habitats and feeding habits, watch them swim and eat and listen to fascinating talks about them.

  The aquarium is also vital for conservation.
There are endangered creatures here and we have special breeding tanks that allow their babies to survive and grow. But now this is all at risk. The council has ordered expensive repairs – and the aquarium may have to close. We can’t let this happen!

  Help us save the aquarium and the lives of all of the creatures who live here. Please support our campaign by signing our petition. You can also write to the council at or call on . You could even contact your MP!

  Save Our Aquarium!

  Yours truly,

  Violet McGee and Dak Marsden,

  SOAC (Save Our Aquarium Campaign)

  Stephan took off his glasses and nodded at us. “‘SOAC’…” He pronounced it like “soak”. “That’s clever, I like that.” (SOAC had been Violet’s idea – “It’s an acronym,” she told me.) “It’s a good letter, very well written. Your teachers would be very proud of you.” He sighed. “The problem is, though, it’s cash I need right now, not people’s sympathy. Sympathy doesn’t repair walls.”

  Two rosy spots appeared on Violet’s cheeks. “It’s not sympathy, it’s support, Uncle Stephan. And with support you can do anything. You’ll see.”

  By the end of that morning there was a neat pile of letters on the reception desk. Next to it was a sheet of paper that read, Petition: please support our campaign to save the aquarium – and a pen.

  Our next job was to send the letter out to people on the aquarium’s mailing list. I wasn’t sure it had one (Stephan wasn’t the most organized person), but Violet assured me it did.

  “It was one of the jobs he asked me to work on when I first arrived,” she said. “Uncle Stephan doesn’t know anything about computers. Old people don’t. Can you believe the aquarium doesn’t even have a Facebook page?”

  As it turned out the list was a mixture of email and postal addresses. We decided that Violet would take care of the emails, while I sorted the letters to post. First of all, though, we had to persuade Stephan that this was a good idea and wouldn’t upset his customers.

  “They might think it’s junk mail,” he worried.

  “They’re interested in the aquarium, aren’t they?” Violet asked.

  “Well, yes.”

  Violet beamed. “Then they’ll want to help us save it.”

  “It might even make some of them come and visit,” I suggested.

  “Exactamento!” Violet exclaimed – and so it was agreed.

  Violet and I got busy. Working on the task lifted the gloom of the last few days. I felt useful and excited, like when I’d first got involved in feeding the fish with Johnny. Now and then we’d come across a name or address that made us laugh: Tanya Butt, Cat Pratt, Cherry Stone, Francis Large, misstwinkletoes@mail.com, abominablesnowoman@hotmail.com, biged@me.com.

  There were about two hundred names on the list so it took us a while to get through them all – especially as Violet insisted on “personalizing” every email. “People are more likely to pay attention if the email is addressed to them personally,” she said. “My mum always deletes emails that aren’t.”

  So I set about replacing the “Dear Visitor” with their actual name in my best handwriting, before folding the letter carefully, stuffing it in an envelope, sealing it and sticking on a stamp for posting. It was slow-going, especially as I had to stop a couple of times to go and help Johnny with the feeding. When Violet finished her emails, she helped me with the letters, which speeded things up. It still took us the whole day to finish.

  Johnny offered to post the letters on his way home. “Ya been working so hard, it’s the least I can do,” he said, giving us the warm smile he usually reserved for the fish.

  Even Stephan seemed more cheerful when he came into the office at the end of the day. “You have done a lot,” he said.

  Violet frowned. “There’s lots more to do yet, Uncle Stephan.” But I could tell she was pleased – and so was I.

  The most important thing, though, was that we were doing something.

  The next day we wrote a letter to the council. Violet decided it should be a bit more hard-hitting than the letter to the public, so she ended it with: “Don’t shut the aquarium. Don’t sentence the fish to death.”

  “Are you sure we should put that?” The thought made me feel suddenly sick. “The fish won’t die, will they?”

  “Some of them might,” Violet insisted. “If Stephan can’t find them a new home.”

  Would Stephan find the clownfish a new home? I wondered. And if so, where? It could be anywhere, I thought again, panic rising as I pictured Dad swimming around a tank somewhere far away without me there to look after him.

  “You have to say things like that to make people take notice,” Violet said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It could be true, that’s the point. And it sounds dramatic.”

  I nodded, feeling calmer. Violet was just being Violet. Nothing was actually going to happen to the fish.

  Next we wrote a letter to our MP. We asked Stephan who it was, but he didn’t know, so we researched it online.

  “Maybe he’ll belong to the Green Party,” Violet said. “They like nature. They’ll care about the aquarium.”

  But our MP didn’t belong to the Green Party – and he was a she.

  “Oh, well, at least it’s a woman,” Violet said.

  “Why’s that a good thing?” I asked.

  “Because women care more about nature and stuff. Men MPs like killing fish, not saving them.”

  I looked at her doubtfully. “Really? How do you know?”

  “My mum told me. She says men MPs are a waste of time. They’re never at their desks. They’re always out shooting or fishing or having a really long boozy lunch.”

  “Don’t women do that too?” I said. “Have long lunches, I mean.”

  “No, they eat a salad or a sandwich at their desk like my mum does.”

  “And they don’t kill fish?”

  “No, of course not! Only stupid men do that.”

  I still wasn’t convinced. “I don’t know any men who do that: my dad, Stephan, Johnny, your dad…”

  Violet’s cheeks flushed. “You don’t know my dad! Why are you talking about my dad! I’m talking about MPs!” She glowered at me. “Sometimes, Dak, you’re really annoying, do you know that?!”

  And with that, she stood up and fizzed out of the room.

  I sat stunned for a moment. What had I said that upset Violet so much? I went out into the foyer after her, but she was already pushing open the glass doors to the street. I was going to follow her, but Stephan stopped me.

  “Let her go. Give her some time to cool down. She’ll be all right in a while. She’s like her mum – hot-headed, quick to take offence. Not always easy to get on with.” He sighed. “What did you say to offend her?”

  “I don’t know really,” I said. “I just mentioned her dad.”

  Stephan nodded. “Ah, that does seem to hit a nerve, doesn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “She says she hates him.”

  Stephan stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “She doesn’t of course. She just hasn’t got over him leaving. She’s hurt. It’s almost like she’s, well, grieving.” He winced. “I don’t mean like you, Dak…”

  “I’m not grieving,” I said quickly. “And anyway, her dad wants to come back, so she’s got nothing to grieve about. She should be happy.”

  Stephan raised his thick eyebrows. “If only it were that simple.”

  I took a break from letter writing and went down to see Dad. This was the first time Violet and I had fallen out since the day of her arrival – which, given how touchy she could be, was quite an achievement. I walked into the room where the clownfish tank was … and froze.

  One of the teachers from my school was there!

  She was with a small girl, staring into Dad’s tank. “Look, Mummy – Nemo. Look!” the girl squealed.

  Luckily the teacher was facing away from me, so I slipped back into the room I’d come from. Had she seen me? I didn’t think so, but my heart was beat
ing hard and fast as I hurried away. If I was found out now everything would be ruined. I’d have to be more careful.

  When I was sure the teacher and her little girl had gone I went in to see Dad. He was all action today, his little flippers waggling and his head with its white Alice band bobbing up and down and from side to side. The way he was flipping around drew attention to the white triangle at his middle, which, I noticed for the first time, looked like a pair of pants. A fish in pants! For a moment it all seemed too weird.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” I said.

  “What does it look like? I’m dancing!” he replied breathily and wiggled his belly. “I reckon I could be on one of those TV dance shows. You know, like Strictly Come Dancing.” He waggled and bobbed more crazily than ever.

  I shook my head. “You hate those shows, Dad; it’s Mum who loves them. ‘Come Prancing’, you call it.”

  “Nonsense! You’ve got it all wrong. I love dancing, me.” The clownfish shimmied to the right and then to the left.

  I felt suddenly dizzy. Everything was flickering like a faulty light bulb. I shut my eyes to steady myself and when I opened them again, Dad seemed to have calmed down.

  “Do you remember, when I was small, you used to put your pants on your head and do a mad dance around the room to make me laugh?” I said. The clownfish stared out silently with its small black beady eyes. “You remember, Dad?” I felt a prickle of unease.

  The clownfish continued its silent, empty stare. Then all of a sudden it wagged its head furiously. “Course I do! How could I forget the famous pants-on-head dance?” Dad wobbled and wiggled in a vague impression of the crazy dance.

  I laughed, feeling closer to him than ever. Nothing could come between us.

  “Now, you don’t see that on ‘Come Prancing’, do you?” he chuckled.

  “No,” I agreed, chuckling too.

  “I thought I’d find you here.”

  My laughter died in my throat and I turned round stiffly to see Violet standing there.