I guess Bill knew I couldn’t stay at the boatshed, but when I told him, he packed all my stuff into his truck and drove me straight to Jonah’s house.

‘Bye, Tom,’ he said. Bill’s not much of a conversationalist.

‘See ya,’ I said. Then I cried. I’m not sure why.

Jonah’s house is tiny. He lived here with his parents and a mangy cat called Runaway. His parents drowned, and they never found the cat. Jonah had fallen asleep on the lilo and no matter how high the water got, he just floated. Dead to the world.

After the flood, Jonah moved in with his grandfather. Jonah and Jonathan Whiting—Jonah is named after his grandfather—spent the next six months clearing debris, repairing and repainting. Jonathan hoped that the physical work would be therapeutic, that his grandson could work through his grief. But as soon as the house was liveable, Jonah begged to be allowed back home.

At first, his grandfather forbade it, saying sixteen was too young to be on his own. But Jonah was miserable. Living in town was noisy; he ached for the quiet, the acres of space. Most of all he missed his parents and the closest he could get to them was the house itself. So, the following March, ten months after the flood and with lots of conditions, his grandfather agreed. A month later, I moved in.

Jonathan hadn’t counted on that.

Jonah’s house is a half-hour walk from the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, which means I can visit Nana every day. I told her about moving in with Jonah. I didn’t tell her why.

‘Marvellous, darling,’ she said on hearing the news. ‘I never liked you living with Bill, but what could I do?’

‘It’s okay, Nana. It’s all good now,’ I said.

We chat as usual. Nana tells me she’s starting an art appreciation class on Tuesday morning in the common room.

‘Painting or drawing?’ I ask.

‘No, no, dear. Art appreciation,’ she replies.

I’m not sure I know what to say, so I say nothing.

‘A young woman from one of the city colleges is doing a study on learning strengths in an ageing population,’ says Nana, in her officious voice. ‘She popped in last week to meet us and she seemed very keen. Apparently we’ll be discussing art in all its various forms.’

Nana abhors blandness on any level.

‘I bet you’ll be her favourite student,’ I say.

Nana laughs and leans forward. ‘Guinea pig more likely,’ she says.

I stay with Nana until dusk.

Her evening meal arrives as I’m leaving. The smell makes me queasy.

Jonah’s house has a bathroom with a separate shower and a small bathtub. We’re on tank water so the bath doesn’t get much use, but Jonah says I should treat myself every now and then. It’s so good to be around him. I think he feels the same. It’s like there’s been no gap.

When I told Nana how easily we fitted back into our friendship, she said we had definitely passed the best-friend test.

‘Really,’ says Jonah, ‘she said that?’

‘Yep,’ I answer.

Jonah and I are making dinner. I’m peeling things and he’s cooking them.

‘She said she has had a few friends over the years who didn’t pass. She reckons that time apart is the key component to sorting the besties from the resties.’

‘She said that?’

‘No. She said “wheat from chaff”.’

Jonah would love some chooks, but the flood took the sheds and most of the fencing. Bill has offered to help. Jonah said he would think about it.

Bill and I hang out occasionally. Jonah doesn’t approve.

Last night Bill and I went night fishing at the inlet. ‘If you’ve never been night fishing, you don’t know what you’re missing,’ Bill says to Jonah, who just nods. Jonah finds it hard to speak to Bill because he knows about the sex. He also knows I have half Bill’s baby inside me.

I grab my new tackle box and hand it to Bill (because it’s heavy and I’m already carrying something of his).

‘Jeez, Tom,’ says Bill, as he feels the weight of my sinker collection.

‘Is it as heavy as gold?’ I ask him.

‘Reckon,’ he says.

The tackle box is from the FishMaster Super Series, and you won’t believe it, but Mrs Peck gave it to me. I think Bill must have told her I was pregnant.

‘There you go, Tom,’ she said, her mouth all dry and clicking. As she handed it to me she suggested I look at all its features while she found Bill some line. It had been ages since Bill and I had been to Mingin’s Hardware and Disposals. Mrs Peck looked desperate, but before she could drag Bill into the paint aisle, old Mrs Beakle came tottering in on her walker.

Mrs Peck rushed over to serve her. ‘Oh, hello dear,’ said Mrs Beakle, ‘I’m just after a few mousetraps.’ Mrs Peck went with her, shuffling along at Mrs Beakle’s pace, ‘…and a couple of plate holders.’

Mrs Beakle took so long deciding between the freestanding or the wall-hanging plate holders that Bill decided to join them. ‘Is that you, Bill dear?’ Mrs Beakle asked when she noticed him. Bill quietly lifted the back of Mrs Peck’s skirt. Mrs Peck dropped one of the mousetraps and lent down to pick it up. ‘I think the free-standing should do the trick,’ said Mrs Beakle, taking one down from the shelf. Then all three of them shuffled to the cash register.

By the time Mrs Peck had rung up the purchases, Bill looked ready to burst. Mrs Peck handed Mrs Beakle her change.

‘Bye bye, dear,’ said Mrs Beakle, forgetting all about Bill.

‘Bye bye, Mrs Beakle,’ said Mrs Peck’s mouth, squashed onto the counter.

‘I won’t keep her out too late,’ Bill says to Jonah as we leave the house. We walk through the dark to the inlet. Jonah waves to me from the window, me with half Bill’s baby inside me and he my best friend.

It’s funny, the fish you throw back. I’m sitting on the pier thinking about this when a little catfish, who looks a lot like the Sarah catfish, leaps straight out of the water. But before she splashes back in, she starts singing happy birthday and that’s just like Sarah to remember. All the other fish at the inlet join in, until the splashing is so loud I can hardly hear the singing.

‘Can you hear that?’ Bill calls to me over the racket.

But I can’t answer because I’m crying. I cry a lot these days.

Dad taught me to swim. Then he taught me to dive.

Diving can be scary if you don’t learn early. Dad always said Mum was a case-in-point. Apparently she had tried to learn in her twenties and she never really got the hang of it, always preferring to jump in, feet first, no matter how much Dad disapproved. ‘You’re a bad influence, Angie,’ he would shout from the bank. ‘Don’t watch, Tom.’

But I always watched. I thought she looked beautiful, swinging out over the dark water at the end of the rope, jumping in with hardly a splash. Mum and Dad took turns swimming and minding the kids, but Dad would always take me with him when it was Mum’s turn to do the minding.

I loved it. He was a strong swimmer and could breaststroke with me on his back, my arms around his neck. When I learned to hold my breath, we would play submarines, taking breaths on his count and plunging underwater. Mum never liked our games. She said we made her nervous.

I haven’t been swimming anywhere but the pool since the flood. I fell in at Crabs Creek once, when Bill and I were fishing. I froze with fear. Bill had to haul me out.

‘What is it?’ I ask Bill when he hands me a small gift box. Bill has come to Jonah’s house to visit me and the Minnow, who is half Bill’s but is beginning to feel like half Jonah’s. It’s an odd feeling.

Even odder is Jonah’s behaviour. Bill and he are being quite civil. I know the two of them had words the other night. Maybe they called a truce.

‘Open it,’ says Jonah. So I undo the ribbon and remove the lid. Inside is a tiny gold sinker on a chain. I place it in the palm of my hand and feel its weight.

‘Oh, Bill,’ is all I can say when I open my eyes.

‘It’s from Jonah, too,’ says Bill.

Jonah grins at me. His face looks a bit awkward, and I realise he has kept this secret for a while. ‘Here,’ he says, gesturing to me. Jonah has pianist’s hands, long delicate fingers. He takes the necklace and clips it around my neck.

The boatshed didn’t have a mirror but Jonah’s house has three. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. The bathroom mirror is smallish, but private, and I stand in front of it for a long time. Then I flush the toilet and go back out to the kitchen.

I am wearing the sinker the next time I go to Mingin’s Hardware and Disposals.

‘Well, what have you got there?’ asks Mrs Peck, licking her lips and probably thinking how much better the sinker would look on her.

‘I tell you what I’ve got,’ I say, lowering my voice and leaning close to her ear, ‘I’ve got half Bill’s baby inside me and if you ever speak to me again I’ll tell Mr Peck everything I know.’

In the quiet that follows, I watch Mrs Peck’s mouth open and close. I notice little marks around her neck where she’s gotten herself all tangled in someone’s line. And that’s not all.

‘Here, let me get that for you, Mrs Peck,’ I say, and I pull a shiny FishMaster Super Series hook out of her ugly bottom lip.

I haven’t left the house for a few days. Jonah says I’m nesting. I doubt it. I’ve just been mooching around. Mooching and pottering. Mum used to say they were one-and-the-same, but I disagree. Pottering is when you actually do something, like pottering in the garden, whereas mooching is when you’re thinking about it. I’m getting very good at both.

Jonah cooked fish and mashed potato for dinner tonight. I washed up and now we’re sitting on the couch. Sometimes I wish we had a TV.

‘You say something?’ asks Jonah.

‘I’m tired,’ I say, ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

I sleep in Jonah’s room. He sleeps in his parents’ room. I hear him crying some nights. We don’t talk about it.

There’s a loud knock on the door. ‘We should make a run for it,’ shouts the Minnow, jabbing me in the ribs. ‘It’s the police.’

I’m way too comfortable to move.

‘I’ll get it,’ says Jonah. He gives my belly a gentle pat before he gets up to answer the door.

‘Hello,’ says a man’s voice.

‘Hello,’ says Jonah.

The man introduces himself and his partner. They’re detectives from West Wrestler. His partner is a woman.

There’s a pause, then the woman asks, ‘Are you Jonah Whiting?’

‘Yes,’ answers Jonah.

‘Does a Holly Thomas live here?’ she continues.

‘She does.’

‘Can we come in?’ asks the man.

The Minnow has stopped swimming and whispers to me to be quiet. I wait for someone to speak. Jonah breaks the silence.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘We’d rather speak to Holly,’ says the female voice.

‘Well, she’s asleep,’ says Jonah.

The couch is old and soft with a really high back, so I’m invisible from the front door.

‘Okay,’ says the woman after a short pause, ‘we’ll come back another time.’

‘Can I tell her what it is about?’ asks Jonah.

‘It has to do with Bill Hamperton,’ says the man.