continued reeling in the line until a bare hook burst from the water.
He muttered and strode across the river sand to the bait bucket. He squatted on his haunches and picked through clumps of dirt. He chose a thick, squirming worm.
“I’m sorry, Micky,” said Barry.
He sounded pretty serious about a lost fish.
Micky threaded the worm onto the hook. “Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it right.”
Micky stopped and looked up at Barry, his face grave. “You know, it’d probably be better for you if I didn’t work here.”
I realised they weren’t talking about the lost fish, but the Bakers and MacIntoshes at the caravan park.
“They won’t be the only ones,” continued Micky.
“Probably not.” Barry rubbed his nose. “But they can’t win, Micky.”
The fishing rod jerked in my hand. “What the hell?” The reel whirred as the line zipped through the water.
“Keep your rod up.” Micky grinned. “You’re on, Robbie. Reel it in. Slow and steady.”
He was standing beside me.
Barry ground his cigarette butt into the sand. He picked up the net and rushed to the edge of the water. “You’ve hooked him, man, good and proper. Keep going, Robbie.”
“Bloody thing hooked itself,” I said, adrenaline surging through me.
The water boiled around the taut line and a silver flash broke the surface.
“Yellowbelly!” said Barry. “Good size.”
“Don’t stop winding,” said Micky, so close I could feel his warmth. “That’s it, steady.”
The fish flipped and flopped in the shallows, gold and fat.
Barry readied the net. Micky fired off instructions.
“Got ‘im!” hooted Micky as Barry scooped the fish into the net. Micky slapped my shoulder and raced to where Barry lifted the fish by the line. Sunlight sparkled off the fish’s scales.
“Your first fish, Robbie,” said Barry.
“He’s a beaut,” said Micky. “Good eating.”
I watched Micky remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. I’d never been this close to a fish before. Its belly was creamy yellow but its dorsal fin and tail were dark, almost black. Its gills flapped, exposing red flesh. Its mouth opened and closed.
“I’ll dispatch it with the priest. Help Robbie bait his hook, Micky,” said Barry.
“Dispatch it with a priest?” I turned in time to see Barry hit the fish on the head with a small club. “Right,” I said, looking away.
After Micky had helped me thread a worm onto the hook, he gave me a few tips on casting. Lines all set, we returned to our fishing spots.
“You fish much?” I asked, not directing the question to either of them.
“Only way we survive,” said Micky, face serious. “Catch fish, chuck a boomerang at a kangaroo, spear a possum.”
My mouth gaped. Micky burst out laughing. “Joking, Robbie, joking.”
“You’re a bugger, just like your uncle,” said Barry.
“Which one?”
“Dwayne.”
Micky looked pleased. “He’s okay, Uncle Dwayne.” He turned to me. “Lots of white people think we only eat kangaroos and that. Probably have to if it wasn’t for the Station store. Most of the shops in town won’t serve us.”
“But I thought it was okay if …?” My voice was small.
“What, if there are no white people in the store? Some of them, like Wobbly at the milk bar, will serve us eventually, but most won’t let us inside.” Micky stared at the river. “Wilkinson’s chemist lets us buy stuff if we go around to the back door.”
“How is your grandmother?” asked Barry.
Micky shrugged. “She’s back to bossing everyone around. Sits in that chair like a queen. She’s driving Mum nuts. Uncle Dwayne keeps her sweet.”
“Can I borrow him?” I asked. “My nan is a …” I searched for the right words. “… gossipy old dragon.”
“Who has a mean aim with a broom,” added Barry, who went on to tell Micky about his encounter with her and our mulberry tree.
Time passed so fast the shadows seemed to race each other down the sand and
He muttered and strode across the river sand to the bait bucket. He squatted on his haunches and picked through clumps of dirt. He chose a thick, squirming worm.
“I’m sorry, Micky,” said Barry.
He sounded pretty serious about a lost fish.
Micky threaded the worm onto the hook. “Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make it right.”
Micky stopped and looked up at Barry, his face grave. “You know, it’d probably be better for you if I didn’t work here.”
I realised they weren’t talking about the lost fish, but the Bakers and MacIntoshes at the caravan park.
“They won’t be the only ones,” continued Micky.
“Probably not.” Barry rubbed his nose. “But they can’t win, Micky.”
The fishing rod jerked in my hand. “What the hell?” The reel whirred as the line zipped through the water.
“Keep your rod up.” Micky grinned. “You’re on, Robbie. Reel it in. Slow and steady.”
He was standing beside me.
Barry ground his cigarette butt into the sand. He picked up the net and rushed to the edge of the water. “You’ve hooked him, man, good and proper. Keep going, Robbie.”
“Bloody thing hooked itself,” I said, adrenaline surging through me.
The water boiled around the taut line and a silver flash broke the surface.
“Yellowbelly!” said Barry. “Good size.”
“Don’t stop winding,” said Micky, so close I could feel his warmth. “That’s it, steady.”
The fish flipped and flopped in the shallows, gold and fat.
Barry readied the net. Micky fired off instructions.
“Got ‘im!” hooted Micky as Barry scooped the fish into the net. Micky slapped my shoulder and raced to where Barry lifted the fish by the line. Sunlight sparkled off the fish’s scales.
“Your first fish, Robbie,” said Barry.
“He’s a beaut,” said Micky. “Good eating.”
I watched Micky remove the hook from the fish’s mouth. I’d never been this close to a fish before. Its belly was creamy yellow but its dorsal fin and tail were dark, almost black. Its gills flapped, exposing red flesh. Its mouth opened and closed.
“I’ll dispatch it with the priest. Help Robbie bait his hook, Micky,” said Barry.
“Dispatch it with a priest?” I turned in time to see Barry hit the fish on the head with a small club. “Right,” I said, looking away.
After Micky had helped me thread a worm onto the hook, he gave me a few tips on casting. Lines all set, we returned to our fishing spots.
“You fish much?” I asked, not directing the question to either of them.
“Only way we survive,” said Micky, face serious. “Catch fish, chuck a boomerang at a kangaroo, spear a possum.”
My mouth gaped. Micky burst out laughing. “Joking, Robbie, joking.”
“You’re a bugger, just like your uncle,” said Barry.
“Which one?”
“Dwayne.”
Micky looked pleased. “He’s okay, Uncle Dwayne.” He turned to me. “Lots of white people think we only eat kangaroos and that. Probably have to if it wasn’t for the Station store. Most of the shops in town won’t serve us.”
“But I thought it was okay if …?” My voice was small.
“What, if there are no white people in the store? Some of them, like Wobbly at the milk bar, will serve us eventually, but most won’t let us inside.” Micky stared at the river. “Wilkinson’s chemist lets us buy stuff if we go around to the back door.”
“How is your grandmother?” asked Barry.
Micky shrugged. “She’s back to bossing everyone around. Sits in that chair like a queen. She’s driving Mum nuts. Uncle Dwayne keeps her sweet.”
“Can I borrow him?” I asked. “My nan is a …” I searched for the right words. “… gossipy old dragon.”
“Who has a mean aim with a broom,” added Barry, who went on to tell Micky about his encounter with her and our mulberry tree.
Time passed so fast the shadows seemed to race each other down the sand and
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