After that, I don’t feel like writing.
While Brayden showers, I change Seb’s nappy and start thinking about what we should do for the afternoon. Beach? Playground? Should I suggest a drive somewhere so Seb might catch up on a few hours of missed sleep?
Then there’s dinner to think about.
Food must be on Brayden’s mind too, because it’s the first thing he mentions when he emerges from the tiny pink bathroom, hair dewy from the shower, smelling of rainwater and shampoo.
‘What do you want to do for dinner, Jenn?’
He’s pulled on denim jeans but his chest is bare. A towel covers one shoulder. The other has a collection of water droplets milling in his collarbone.
‘Anyone would think you didn’t have lunch.’ I try not to stare at the collarbone posse, or the smooth curve of muscle beneath it, or the firm ridge of abdominals beneath that.
‘I didn’t have lunch,’ he points out.
My mouth is bone dry and I have to swallow to get some moisture to my lips. ‘You ruined your appetite on custard eclairs.’
‘Ouch. Sorry Mum.’ Brayden pushes the screen door open and bounces down the steps toward the clothesline to peg out his towel. Seb and I follow — I need to dump the nappy — and while I’m surrounded by fishing gear and fishy records in the shed, inspiration strikes.
‘I know what I feel like for dinner, Brayden,’ I say, emerging from the shade.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’ His muscles ripple as he pegs up one side of the towel.
‘Squid.’
He pauses, squints at me. ‘Squid?’
‘There are all those squid jigs hanging up in the shed, and fishing rods. I thought we could go squidding off the jetty this afternoon… take a couple of beers — ’
‘You want to go squidding?’
‘We used to do it all the time.’
He tweaks the second clothes peg in place. ‘We used to do it all the time — me and Pope. If we ever caught one you girls kicked up such a fuss we had to throw it back. When they squirted their ink, it freaked you out. Remember?’
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’ He’s laughing now, swooping to pick up Seb to save me carrying him up the stairs.
I don’t remember any of that — the throwing squid back. I remember leaning on the salt-weathered rails with Emmy, holding my hat to my head with one hand and a beer in the other, Pope’s blue-lidded cooler making a table between us as the boys cast their lines in the water.
‘Did not,’ I mutter.
He turns at the top of the stairs, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘If you’re so keen to go squidding, far be it from me to spoil your fun.’
‘Great. I’ll get Seb ready.’
‘Better get in your oldest clothes, Angel Cakes. Squid ink is nasty shit.’
‘Batter up, Buttercup. Bring it on.’
***
For a while we argue logistics. He doesn’t want to take the pram because it takes up too much room, but I say it’s a must.
‘I can’t take Seb on a jetty if he’s not strapped in the pram. I never had to worry about having a toddler out there before.’ I imagine if I lost concentration for a second… Seb leaning over the railing, slipping; hurtling into the sea… God. My spine crawls.
‘Okay, we’ll take the pram.’
Beer is a priority. As is a fishing rod, a selection of jigs and a bucket for all the squid.
‘Make it two buckets. One to scoop them, one to hold them,’ I say.
Brayden fossicks in the shed, comes out with a white four-litre icecream container to add to the yellow bucket he used to wash the car yesterday.
Forty minutes after I suggested the idea we’ve got everything we need, and we’re packed and off.
Seb almost falls asleep in the fifteen minutes it takes us to drive to the famous jetty and find a parking space. When I strap him in the pram, I give him a bottle of milk.
It’s quite a walk to the admission booth, where a grey-haired lady in a pink knitted cardigan takes six dollars from each of us. ‘The pram is free, love,’ she beams, handing me our printed tickets.
‘Thanks.’
We push through the turnstile.
To our left, the beach front is netted to keep the stingers at bay. It’s teeming with toddlers and parents. There’s a boardwalk built around the swimming area. Older kids dot the edge, dangling their legs in the water. Every now and then there’s a squeal or a shout as someone gets shoved in.
Gradually, we put space between us and the shore. The water changes colour. Gone is the aqua-marine, now it’s a steely, cold, kelp-bottomed brown-blue, patched with white where bare sand shines through.
‘Crap. I almost forgot.’ Delving in the bottom of the storage compartment under the pram, I come up with the belt I use to attach the pram to my wrist.
Brayden strolls ahead, bucket and rod held comfortably in his right hand, cooler-pack with beers in his left. He’s pulled a moth-eaten flannelette shirt from his father’s wardrobe at the shack — brown with a beige stripe — over the top of his T-shirt.
It’s not fair that he manages to look gorgeous in it. Unlike me.
The old shirt he found for me is bright orange. I could be a pumpkin. Three times I’ve rolled the sleeves and still they fall over my wrists.
At least if I sink, I won’t be hard to find.
There’s an approaching rumble from far in front of us — the tourist train returning from the café and museum at the end of the jetty. The driver waves his finger at us as he goes past, and most of the passengers smile.
We’re not the only fishermen. When my eyes scour ahead, I see enough buckets to kit out a small fire brigade.
The first skids of black tar slick the jetty’s slabs. Ahead, Brayden stops. He’s waiting for me.
‘Did you see the ink marks?’ I ask.
‘Sure did.’ He peers into the pram. ‘Seb’s asleep, Jenn.’
‘Good. He has a bit to catch up on.’
Brayden gestures over his shoulder. ‘A bit further up was always a good spot.’
We’re almost a third of the way out when he stops again and plants the cooler on a concrete pad not far from a stone tourist marker. It has photographs of the aftermath of Cyclone Alby — the storm that wrecked most of the jetty in 1978. We’re fishing on a restoration project that’s been under way for decades and is ongoing.
Turning the pram so Seb’s face isn’t in the sun, I snap on the brakes and pull the hood over the front. Then I attach the belt from my wrist securely to the guard rail.
Brayden clips the squid jig to the end of his line. ‘Watch and learn, Jenn.’
Fishing line fizzes across the water and there’s a plop and splash as the jig lands. Then he starts reeling it in. ‘You jerk at the line as you wind, like this.’
I giggle. It looks like he’s developed a systemic twitch.
‘You jerk once, then, wait, so it can sink. Then you jerk again,’ he demonstrates. ‘It’s the movement that gets the squid excited but when the jig goes still, that’s when he’ll pounce.’
‘I thought the idea of the jerking was to mimic a prawn?’
‘I am mimicking a prawn.’
‘A dying prawn? A prawn with a busted shell?’ I add, helpfully.
His narrowed blue eyes spear me. ‘You just be ready with the bucket, Jennifer Gates. If I catch one and you let it cover me in ink, you’re for it.’
Another giggle flies from my lips, vanishes in the sea breeze.
Water laps and slaps at the pylons, and there’s the barest sensation of movement as the structure sways.
‘Must be beer o’clock, somewhere,’ I say. Opening the lid of the cooler bag, I pull out two icy Coronas.
‘Did you remember the bottle opener?’
Face palm. ‘I remembered the lemon, does that count?’
Sighing exaggeratedly, he reaches for my bottle. ‘You take this.’
He thrusts the fishing rod into my hands and I keep winding in, adopting my best maimed-prawn impersonation while he tries to pry off the crown seal against the guard-rail.
It’s a specialised task.
There’s a hiss as the seal pops. Brayden repeats the treatment with his own bottle. ‘You remembered the lemon? Serious?’
I nod toward the pram. ‘It’s in a container in the bottom.’
He hunts for the container, pulls out two wedges of lemon, slots one in each neck, then hands me the bottle. ‘Cheers.’
We clink.
‘I so needed this,’ I say, loving the fruit zing that coats my throat. ‘Here. Have your rod back. If I hook the first squid, you’ll never forgive yourself.’
Brayden takes a second slug of his beer and places the bottle at his feet. Winding the line in, he casts out again. Half way back to the jetty, the rod trembles, the tip bounces, then bows. Brayden whoops and starts reeling fast and hard.
An approaching bow-wave of jig and squid bears down on us.
‘Got the bucket, Jenn?’
I put my beer on the concrete and dash for the bucket.
‘Whoa! Did you see that?’ Brayden shouts.
Peering into the water, I see a puff of black jet in the squid’s wake. ‘Yeah.’
‘You want them to squirt all their ink out while they’re still in the water. The stuff stinks. You don’t want it on you.’
Brayden pulls the line vertical and the squid breaks from the water, translucent and pulsing. The animal has two tentacles caught on the barbs of the jig. I’d forgotten how big their jelly eyes are, and how very black.
‘Where’s the bucket, Jenn?’
‘Here.’ I extend it before me and Brayden lowers the squid.
Splat!
Black ink squirts the bucket’s yellow walls and I squeal and shuffle my feet. I can’t help it.
‘Good catch! Stand back though.’
Cautiously, we peer in. I’m ready to jump away in a heartbeat. The squid writhes in a mess of inky slush. Brayden jiggles the lure and the tentacles spill from it.
‘I reckon he’s out of ammo.’
‘Poor little thing.’ I pour Squidly from the yellow bucket into the icecream container and get ready for round two.
***
Brayden hooks two more of Squidly’s mates — that I scoop neatly — before he hands the rod to me and picks up his now not-so-icy beer. ‘Your turn.’
‘Okay.’ I grip the rod.
‘Do you remember how to cast?’
‘I think so.’ Flicking the metal latch on the reel, I hold the line against the shaft with my index finger, lever the rod over my shoulder, and remind myself to let go of the line as I throw.
Fishing line screams and the jig plops into the water. I’ve probably cast it about twenty metres.
‘Nice job,’ he says, taking a slurp of his beer, watching the water with hooded eyes.
‘Thanks. Wait till you see me do the dead prawn.’
He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just slurps his beer and watches the water.
It takes three casts before I get a bite and when it comes, it’s an aggressive snatch that makes me haul hard on the rod.
I reel for all I’m worth — squid, jig and water torpedo toward the jetty — and I lean over the rail with the rod quivering in my hands. Squidly 4 is plucked from the sea.
‘He’s only on by one tentacle, Bray.’ I’ll lose it for sure.
‘Go easy. Don’t knock it off on the jetty.’
I bring the squid vertically up and over the rail and it dangles on the end of my line.
Brayden has the bucket and he’s like a cat trying to catch a swinging ball of wool. ‘You’re moving all over the place, Jenn. Keep the rod still.’
‘Here. Quick.’
Brayden swipes with the bucket. Squid and line hit and there’s a scrabbling sound of tentacles and jig against smooth plastic.
‘Gotcha. Way to go, Jenn. Great —
A black spout jets up, like the bucket just struck oil, and I’m staring into Brayden’s eyes when the geyser implodes in the bristles of his beard.
‘Shit.’ He drops the bucket with a plastic clunk, and his blue eyes snap shut.
Sticky black rivers drip from his chin to the front of his father’s brown-beige shirt. His lips, left cheek and left ear ooze black.
A middle-aged man who’s been reading the tourist plaque beside us, grins, and says, ‘Well, cop them apples.’
And I start laughing.
The bucket jerks and rolls as the squid flops inside.
‘Shi-it,’ Brayden groans, bringing the tail of the shirt up to wipe his eyes.
My back sags against the guard rail. The fishing rod tilts and tips because I’m shaking so much with laughter I can’t keep it straight.
Staggering to the pram, I pull out the baby wipes. Who am I kidding? This job is too big for baby wipes. I keep a towel in the pram and it has seen more than its fair share of gross fluid explosions. Lucky that.
Swiping at the worst of the gunk on his face, I thrust the towel into his hands to let him finish the job.
‘I’d just like it on the record, Brayden, that I scooped all three of your squid without one speck of ink going anywhere — ’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he grumbles, but he’s cleared enough of the black goo from his mouth, I can see he’s smiling.
‘Repeat after me, Brayden. Jennifer Gates is the best squid catcher…’
The corner of his mouth twitches where he wipes. ‘Jennifer Gates is the biggest pain in the —
His mobile phone rings.
Brayden holds up black-stained hands.
‘Shall I get it?’ I say, still helpfully.
‘Please.’
I prompt him, ‘You were saying… Jennifer Gates is the best…’
‘Jennifer Gates is the best squid catcher.’ This time I can hear his smile, too.
The phone is in the rear pocket of his jeans, packed behind his wallet. I try to keep the giggle out of my voice as I answer, ‘Brayden Culhane’s phone.’
‘Is Mr Culhane there, please?’ It’s a man’s voice. He sounds like an accountant.
Brayden wipes his hands on the towel, then his jeans.
‘Yes he is. May I tell him who is calling?’
The answer dries the giggles in my throat.
‘Just a moment.’ I hold the phone toward Brayden. ‘It’s Senior Constable Payne from Major Crimes.’