Dunger by Joy Cowley Page A

side. One, two, three, heave! We try again. One, two, three. I dig my feet in and pull with all my strength. Hee-ee-eave! The trailer comes off the car and we step back. Grandpa is puffing. He gives me the plastic bag of fish and waves me towards the house. “Freezer,” he says. “Kitchen.”
    I look at the house, dark and quiet. Even the dog kennels are empty. “How do I get in?”
    Grandpa is leaning against the wall of the shed. “Key under mat.”
    It feels a bit like breaking and entering, except that the key is under the doormat, which is next to a pair of gumboots, and the door opens as though it has been expecting a visitor. Over the fence, about a hundred sheep stare at me as I go inside. In the laundry, actually before the kitchen, is a chest freezer. I open the lid, put the fish in and head back out, locking the door and replacing the key. The sheep are still staring. When I run back to the implement shed, they break into a run and stream away, rattling across the paddocks. Maybe they are not intelligent after all.
    Grandpa sits in the passenger seat with his knees close to his chin. He’s still huffing. Lifting the trailer has knocked all the wind out of him and it’s a while before he can talk easily. He shows me how to switch on the car’s headlights. We have another two hours to sunset, but the sky is pressing down and making darkness. “Off you go,” he says. “Drive carefully.”
    The road is familiar, so is the car, and the space between Grandpa and me is comfortable. He says, “Wasn’t that snapper something to write home about?”
    â€œIt was good.” I hesitate for a moment, then ask, “Why do you and Grandma fight?”
    â€œFight?” He sounds surprised.
    â€œYes. Argue. Call each other names.”
    He shifts in the seat and I think he’s laughing but I’m not sure. “You’re too young to know.” Then he says, “Why do you think we fight?”
    I keep my gaze firmly on the road. “If you really want to know, I’d say you two are incompatible.”
    â€œIncompatible?” He snorts. “You mean I’ve got the income and she’s pattable?”
    â€œGrandpa, you know what I mean. You and Grandma don’t get on together. You torture each other.”
    He laughs out loud and I feel my face get hot. It’s that old pecking order again, adults rejecting truth from kids. When he stops laughing, he says, “You are totally lacking in judgement, boyo.”
    â€œThat’s an oxymoron,” I tell him.
    â€œReally? You know some big words.”
    I don’t dare take my eyes off the road. “If something is total it can’t be lacking.”
    He laughs again. “I’ll oxy you, you little moron. Just drive us home.”
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    It is exactly 1.25am on the fifth day, and I have to go to the outhouse. This can’t be a quick trip to the grass by the back door, and I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried going back to sleep because Dad said intestines slow down when we’re sleeping, but this is getting extremely urgent, and I simply cannot go out to that hellish black hole in the dark.
    I try to think of other things, like last night, the grandparents off to bed early and Will and me practising the guitars by lantern light, eating his milkshake lollies, and getting to feel the frets without looking. It sounded good. I showed Will how to pick, easy as long as you are holding down the chord, and keeping to the rhythm, strong first beat: pluck, da, da , da, pluck, da, da , da. It felt good. But under the good feeling was a tension that wouldn’t let go, and I knew what it was about: my phone charged up and useless. Isolation! What’s the use of a smart phone in an unsmart place? We might as well be in confinement in some eighteenth-century penal colony. I’m sure it’s the phone business that’s disturbed my stomach.
    I