‘Sergeant Griffin is looking for you,’ says Papa.

Papa has a habit of speaking to me whenever he pleases. At this very moment I’m fast asleep, but that doesn’t seem to matter to him.

‘Tom,’ he says, raising his voice. His tone tells me he’s getting agitated. If I ignore him for much longer he’ll lean down next to my ear and whistle.

‘Papa,’ I say, keeping my eyes closed and trying my hardest not to wake up, ‘I’m in the middle of a dream about Mum.’

‘Sorry sport,’ he says, ‘but I just passed Griffin on his way here and he was speeding.’

‘Speeding?’ I sit bolt upright. Sergeant Griffin only ever speeds if he’s in a hurry. I know that sounds like I’m stating the obvious, but this is the country. Outside the town there is no speed limit—at least not one that is enforced—and, even though the roads are in bad condition, most people drive at a hundred or more. Sergeant Griffin says the roads are too dangerous for such speeds and, to set an example, he sits on sixty.

‘What’s the urgency?’ I ask, rubbing my eyes. ‘And what’s the time?’

‘Don’t know. Eight twenty-three.’

I haven’t seen Sergeant Griffin since he turned up when I was sneaking around Bill’s boatshed.

‘Maybe he has found out what Bill’s been up to,’ says the Minnow.

‘That doesn’t explain why he would be in such a hurry,’ I reply.

But the thought makes me anxious. I’ve been trying not to think about Bill. Now I realise I haven’t prepared myself at all. The Minnow and I get out of bed and head for the shower.

I’m eating toast when Sergeant Griffin knocks on the door.

I can hear a small beeping sound—soft, constant, regular— as I walk through the backyard to the compost bin. I have a small colander of vegetable scraps and, even though I’m carrying it with both hands, bits of potato peel keep falling onto the ground. By the time I reach the bin I’ve dropped more than half.

‘You afraid you might lose your way back?’ asks Papa. It is a rhetorical question, so I don’t bother myself with an answer. I like the word ‘rhetorical’.

I lift the lid with one hand and tip the scraps on top of the seething mass of worms. Jonah’s compost bin is nothing fancy, just an old plastic bin with a lid. The bottom has been cut out so that the worm castings enrich the ground below, but this has given the rats easy access. Exactly like our old one.

Occasionally Mum would ask Dad to fix it, but he was always busy with something else. One afternoon, Bill arrived with some chicken wire. He pulled the bin off the mound of rotting vegetable scraps, rodent-proofed the bottom of it with two layers of mesh, repositioned the bin and shovelled the decomposing mess back in. The whole job took less than an hour.

‘No worries,’ Bill said. Mum handed him a thank-you beer.

‘You trying to get on her good side, mate?’ said Paul Bunter.

Paul had been helping Dad with the truck’s brakes.

‘Reckon I am,’ Bill replied, and Paul laughed.

Mum liked Paul. She used to say that of all Dad’s friends, Paul was the easiest to talk to. The two of them would often sit and chat.

‘Take no notice, Bill,’ Dad said, as he walked up the steps to the veranda. ‘I reckon I could die tomorrow and Paul would be first in the queue to take my place,’

Dad loved saying stuff like this.

‘What queue would that be?’ asked Mum, standing in the doorway, a six-pack under her arm.

‘The Angie queue,’ said Dad, matter-of-factly.

I love jam doughnuts. I prefer the hot-dog shape, rather than the round version, with real cream, not that horrible mock business. Sometimes I go to the pastry shop before I visit the pet shop. Mrs Blanket doesn’t like people bringing food into the shop. She has a sign on the door that says no food or drink.

I buy my doughnut and walk across to the bus stop. There is no bus service at The Crossing. The government decided it was too expensive. But they left all the bus-stop seats. The one opposite Fielder’s Pets and Supplies is green and grey and has a small bin next to it. Mrs Blanket donated the bin and it has the shop’s logo on the side. I sit on the seat and open the paper bag. Bits of jam have stuck to the sides so I tear it carefully down the middle.

Today is the perfect jam-doughnut day. You can’t eat jam doughnuts on the wrong day. Jonah thought this was a strange observation until I pointed out that the perfect day for pumpkin soup was overcast and cold, even better if it was raining. If you’re wondering what the perfect doughnut day is, it’s clear and sunny, but quite cool. And it’s better if it is autumn rather than spring, so that there is a crisp feeling to the air. It makes sense when you think about it.

I finish eating the doughnut, wipe my hands on my T-shirt, and rummage around in my backpack for my pocket thesaurus. I don’t usually keep it in my pocket, even though it is small enough to fit. The pocket thesaurus is a recent find. I bought it from the op shop behind the Lutheran church on Holly Street. The Lutherans pronounce it ‘holy’ as a bit of a joke. Ha ha.

The church is a simple wooden building painted buttercup yellow, and the parish residence, which is also painted yellow, has housed the Smith Family opportunity shop for as long as anyone can remember. It became a superstore after the flood. Clothes and toys arrived from all over the country and there are still quite a few unpacked boxes in the shed.

I paid forty cents for the Oxford Minireference Thesaurus. Minireference doesn’t look like a word to me. I think it should have a hyphen between ‘mini’ and ‘reference’. I mentioned this to Betsy Groot. She was watching me as I left the shop with my purchase, so I felt I should stop and have a chat.

‘Who are we to argue with a thesaurus?’ she said when I told her about the missing hyphen. She had a point I guess. But I’m unconvinced. Plus, even though it is a mini-reference (I like using the hyphen) I’m not altogether sure I approve of the way some of its listings differ from the normal version. I realise it is short on space, but some of the entries are really compromised. For example, under ‘crisp’ it makes no mention of ‘smart dresser’ or ‘fried to a crisp’. Crisp seems left a bit wanting. Yet it finds room to include ‘pleat’—a word that doesn’t get a mention in my full-size thesaurus. There are heaps of other examples, but I won’t bore you with them.

I really want to get back to the boatshed. Something about the loft didn’t feel right, and even though I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, I can’t figure out what it is.

‘C’mon in,’ I said. ‘Can I get you some toast?’

‘Sure,’ said Sergeant Griffin. He walked over to the tiny kitchen table and sat in Jonah’s chair.

‘Is this about Bill?’ I asked. I felt my face flush, so I turned away and popped a slice of bread under the grill.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘But if you had any information, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, Tom?’

I felt a trickle of water run down my legs.

‘Sit down,’ whispered the Minnow.

‘I feel a bit odd,’ I said. ‘I think the toast will have to wait.’

‘Now!’ insisted the Minnow. I turned off the griller and sat opposite Sergeant Griffin.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but you do seem to have the oddest timing.’

Water continued to trickle. I hoped it wasn’t noticeable.

‘That’s okay, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’m not that hungry.’

He leaned forward and patted my hand. ‘But your Nana has had a turn. She’s all right, but they’ve moved her to the nursing wing and she is raising hell. If you’re up to it, she could do with a visit.’ The news made me relax. Until that moment I’d had no idea how wound up I was over Bill.

‘Is that why you were speeding?’ I asked without thinking.

‘Yes,’ he answered. He looked at me strangely.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘That was a clever question, Tom,’ he answered. ‘You should take up police work.’

‘Just a good guess,’ I said.

I stayed put while Sergeant Griffin phoned Dr Frank and explained the situation with my waters. If things weren’t stressful enough, the Minnow was refusing to talk to me.

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ I told her, ‘but you’re my responsibility.’

She was quiet as a mouse. ‘I don’t want to go back to hospital, either,’ I said. ‘But what choice do we have?’

Sergeant Griffin finished his call. ‘Probably best that I take you straightaway,’ he said. ‘If you need anything, Jonah or I can fetch it later.’ There was no room for negotiation. I hoped the Minnow was listening.

‘You might want to grab a towel,’ I said, and Sergeant Griffin’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He collected a couple of towels from the bathroom and then helped me down the steps and into the police car. With both towels underneath me, Sergeant Griffin adjusted the seatbelt to fit comfortably.

I felt safe with Sergeant Griffin. Solid, dependable. And whether the Minnow agreed with me or not, right now I trusted him with her life.

We headed off. Sergeant Griffin drove at a steady pace.

When we arrived at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, Hazel was waiting with a wheelchair. She took me straight to the nursing wing.

Dr Frank was on the phone, talking to Dr Patek. Every now and then he would look across at me and smile.

But it’s a ruse. I’m still leaking.

By the time I see Nana it is mid afternoon. The nurse is on strict instructions that my visit be no longer than ten minutes. Dr Frank has warned me that even though Nana is quite distressed, I am to remain calm or the nurse will remove me. And I’m not allowed out of the wheelchair.

Dr Patek has advised total bed rest. Dr Frank is to monitor me over the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully the water stops leaking. They’re worried I might go into early labour. I had to beg to see Nana.

‘Thank you, Nurse,’ Nana says in her bossy voice, ‘but I wish to speak to my granddaughter in private.’

The nurse hesitates. She has been told to stay put.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘Just come back when the ten minutes are up.’

The nurse doesn’t look happy about it, but she wheels me over to Nana’s bedside.

‘Please, Tom, stay in the chair,’ she says. ‘And,’ she turns to Nana, ‘push the call button if Tom looks faint.’

‘Of course,’ says Nana. ‘I might be old, but I’m not stupid.’

The nurse turns to leave, gives me what Hazel would call a withering look, then marches out of the room. She doesn’t close the door.

‘Oh darling,’ says Nana, gripping my arm, ‘you have to tell them to move me back. I can’t stay here.’

‘You’ll be all right, Nana. They’re just keeping you in for observation,’ I say, all chirpy.

‘No, Tom. You don’t understand. I can’t stay here.’

Nana looks like she’s going to cry.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask her.

‘I’m dying for a bloody gin and that’s just for starters,’ she says, and a laugh escapes.

For the first time ever, I realise Nana is frightened.

‘Oh, Nana,’ I say, ‘push the call button.’

The nurse must have been loitering near the door because she rushes in almost immediately. She yells for assistance and I’m whisked off down the hall to a vacant room. Two orderlies lift me onto the bed while the nurse rushes off to get Dr Frank.

Poor Nana, she hates being alone. Which reminds me: I wonder what has happened to Papa? I haven’t seen him since this morning.

At the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly there is one hillside that gets a frost so thick that from a distance it looks like snow. It is at the far end of the property, about an hour and a half’s walk from the chapel. Last autumn the frost came early. Papa collected me before breakfast. ‘It’s really cold, sport,’ he said. ‘Get your coat.’

Papa has an old bicycle. I always sit on the handlebars because he straps his tool box onto the pinion at the back. Every time we ride together Papa tells me that I’m getting too big and that I should get my own bike. But I love doubling. There’s a magic that goes with it.

Frost isn’t anything like snow. For a start it is very fragile; if you try to move it, it disintegrates. For years, Papa worked on a snowman-shaped topiary hedge, but he lost interest when he could never get the frost to settle evenly. Now he prefers to build his frostman on the ground, mowing the shape onto the side of the hill a week or so before the frost is due. Sometimes the frost is early, sometimes it is late. Papa says timing is everything.

Nana has good reason to dislike the nursing wing besides the obvious fact that everyone who stays here is about to die or already dead. I don’t like it either. I’m not allowed to get out of bed—even to pee—and I’m really hungry because I couldn’t bring myself to eat the mush called lunch. If I had a phone I would call Jonathan and ask him to bring me something edible. But when I asked one of the nurses about it, she said, ‘It’s not a hotel.’

I wish Papa was here. ‘That nurse is a bitch,’ he’d say. ‘I bet people die just to get away from her.’ Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh, even for Papa.

I wish Hazel would visit. I could ask her to bring Nana’s gin and something for me from the tea trolley. Maybe I could ask her to give Papa a message.

‘Hi, sweet potato.’

It’s Hazel. She’s standing in the doorway with a cup of tea and something on a tray. ‘Hazel,’ I almost shout, ‘I was just thinking about you.’

‘Well, are you going to ask me in?’ she says, smiling. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

Hazel watched as I ate three passionfruit scones. Mrs Fletcher’s daughter, Ellen, brings them every second Tuesday. I’ve never had three.

The tea was cold but I drank it anyway.

‘Thanks, Hazel. I was starving.’

‘I can’t understand why,’ she said, nodding her head towards lunch, which sat untouched on the bedside table.

‘Eating that would probably induce labour!’ I said, hoping to get a response from the Minnow, but there is not a peep. I’m still getting the silent treatment.

‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ said Hazel.

But it was. Things were really bad.

Once, when I was six, I had a fit. Mum said I went blue and my body shook and my eyes rolled back. She said it was the scariest day of her life. She remembers screaming for Dad, who came running from the shed, took one look at me and told her to grab Sarah and the car keys. Then he picked me up and carried me to the car. He held me while Mum drove. I imagine he was scared but he never let on. Mum thinks I have no memory of that day and, for the most part, she is right. But I remember Dad’s face. He never took his eyes off me.

‘Hello kiddo,’ says a man with a thin moustache.

‘Hi,’ I answer, but my voice sounds tiny, distant.

‘You’ve had a bit of a turn,’ he continues. ‘Had your Mum and Dad worried.’

‘I feel sick,’ I say. It takes all my energy to speak.

‘You’ll be right,’ says the man, laughing, but I didn’t catch the joke.

I figure it’s best to write Papa a note. Hazel’s got her rounds to do, but she has promised to return after dinner.

Dear Papa,
Please visit. I realise you’re avoiding us but we need you.
You know where we are.

Love Tom. x

I want to say more but Hazel will read it. And while she’s willing to leave the note on the veranda for Papa to find, if I say too much she might think I’m losing it. Or, worse, she might try to contact Papa herself. He would hate that.

The middle of my chest feels tight and I know something’s wrong. I keep pushing the call button but it doesn’t seem to be working. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe I should try yelling.

‘You after some company?’

‘What?’

‘It’s Peter. I was your stand-in chauffeur while Mr Whiting was away.’

‘Oh, Peter, sure, I remember,’ I say. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead.

‘You want me to find a nurse?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘How do I look? Do I look like I need a nurse?’

‘You look okay,’ he says and smiles. ‘But you’re holding the call button.’

I look at my hand. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I don’t think it’s working.’

‘They’re understaffed,’ says Peter by way of explanation. Then he walks into the room and across to the only chair. ‘Mind if I sit?’

I watch as he picks up the chair and moves it closer to the bed. I realise he is waiting for an answer. ‘Oh, sure,’ I say. ‘Take a seat.’

He sits down, smoothes his trousers and carefully folds one leg over the other. He does this with the grace of someone who has practised the movement.

‘How’s your uncle?’ I ask.

‘Brother,’ he answers. ‘Marcus.’

‘Sorry, that’s right. How is he?’

‘Good. No change.’

Shit.

I’m not sure what to say next. So, instead, I return the call button to its place under my pillow. Peter removes small pieces of lint from his trousers.

‘You hardly seem old enough, if you don’t mind me saying,’ says Peter, breaking the silence.

‘What?’ I reply.

‘Well, unless you’re hiding your age extremely well, you’ve got to be at least fifty years younger than everyone else here.’

‘Oh,’ I say, relieved more than anything. I thought he was about to lecture me on teen pregnancy. ‘My waters are leaking. They’re worried I’m going into labour.’

‘Still…strange they’ve put you here,’ he says, waving his hand to indicate the nursing wing.

‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘Last time they whisked me off to West Wrestler.’

‘Marcus was there for a while. I had him moved here as soon as he was stable.’

‘I was in the women’s hospital.’

‘Oh,’ he says, laughing, ‘of course.’

Annabel and I are sprawled at either end of the tinny, lines cast, eyes closed. It is warmer than usual and we have both stripped down to our swimmers. I’m at the pointy end, one hand holding my line, dangling in the water. I’m just beginning to drift off when Annabel breaks the silence.

‘How long are we supposed to wait?’ she asks, fidgeting in her seat and rocking the dinghy. Small ripples pulse outward, heading for the bank.

I’m not sure how to answer. What I want to say is that it takes a while to learn fishing patience.

‘Tell her you never really learn it,’ says Papa, coming to my rescue. ‘That you just get accustomed to the boredom.’

‘A while longer,’ I answer. ‘Half an hour. Maybe an hour.’

‘What did you say?’

I sit bolt upright, banging my elbow on the oar.

Instead of Annabel, Bill is leering at me from the other end of the dinghy.

‘You were talking in your sleep,’ he says. ‘And who the hell is Annabel?’

‘No one,’ I say, rubbing my arm and trying not to let go of my line.