The Keeper (2 page)

3

The track through the reserve is cool; the trees would be great for ambushing at night – sometimes I imagine it's me, camouflage on my face, gun at the ready. I hold my rod like it's an M16 and manoeuvre my bucket through the gate and let it swing shut. I manage the back door in the same way. Our place is kind of cool too. One of the oldest cottages in the town with an ancient stone wall. A lighthouse keeper used to live in it years ago.

‘Is that you, Joel?' Gran's voice from the kitchen sounds relieved.
Der
, I feel like saying.
Who would it be? Only us two live here
, but I calm down. Gran's okay. She has a way of talking that gives you space somehow, except when she worries too much about strangers and danger. She's the only person I get on well with, other than Mei. Even if Gran tells me stuff, like cleaning up my room, there's still a choice – I can decide when, or I can choose which part to do first. Not like the teachers at school. They're always in my face, especially Ms Colby, two centimetres away and saying things like ‘Now!' and ‘I don't like your attitude! Don't argue!' Every day's such a battle, one I can never turn my back on.

Nah, Gran's okay. Some days I wake up and – would you know it? I've done exactly what she's wanted after all but it doesn't seem to stick in my gullet like at school. Maybe it's because she's ancient. She has to be fifty at least. Maybe it changes a person to be that old, although with Gran you can't tell until she turns around. That's when you see the stretch lines round her mouth and eyes from years of smiling.

Gran bobs her head into the laundry. ‘Hope you were careful down there on the jetty and didn't talk to people you don't know.'

‘Aw, Gran.' She says this almost every day. I know all her advice off by heart like it was fed into my brain when I was a baby. I've stopped asking why. She never seems to be able to explain, just stands hovering like a mother eagle over a nest built too low on the cliff. It's dumb to worry so much. Everyone knows the town's safe. Kids go everywhere by themselves, even at night. Well, maybe not Mei.

Gran's still watching me. She pulls anchor on the stranger stuff and changes tack like a ketch has to before a storm. ‘Nice tommies, Joel. How many?'

‘Twelve.' I know I sound up myself but this is one thing I can do. Gran says it's the only time I ever sit still long enough for my thoughts to catch up with me.

‘I'll put on some chips then, matey, while you fillet them.'

I pull up the board we use to gut fish and lay it on the laundry trough. Then I reach for the scaler and the knife. It makes me think of Zoe again. She was really weird; couldn't catch anything, even when she did get a bite. Hers got away; she didn't know how to strike. She didn't want to kill anything either. I had to cut across the bottom of the throat and bend the fishes' heads backwards to snap the spines. Should have seen the curl on her lip. ‘Don't they just die or something?' So disgusting.

‘How'd you like to flap to death?' I said. That told her.

I scale each fish, then pick up the knife – it's wide near the hilt and thin where it matters; years of fishing has worn it sharp. It was Grandad's and now it's mine. There're a few things that will be mine. Grandad's boat for one. I lay out the newspaper like he always did, ready to catch the rubbish, then I slide the knife's edge under the back of a tommy's head and move it down, slicing off a fillet. I turn the fish over to do the other side. It's not until I nearly finish them all, when I put more paper out, that I see the column.

Connections. Are you seeking someone? Then try our column
. I push the fish guts to one side.
A great way to meet people or that special friend. Meet voice to voice before you meet face to face.
It takes a while but I manage to read how to ‘place an ad' and ‘how to respond'. This is when I get the Idea. I check all the columns. There doesn't seem to be one for seeking parents.
Male seeking male.
That might work.
Male 33 seeking friendship with same
. Maybe I could ask the paper to make a new column:
Boy seeking dad
. You can't put names in by the look of it, but my dad is out there somewhere. Maybe he'll read it. I quickly finish the remaining fish. Gran comments about the bones in them later. Just my luck she gets those on
her
plate.

‘You're in a hurry to start your homework, Joel.' Gran looks back from the sink as I make a dive for my room after tea. I don't answer. This is something needing my undivided attention. Nor can Gran find out. If she nags about talking to strangers in the town, imagine what she's say about the wide world of the
Sunday Mai
l
?

Now I understand what Mr Sherman meant about rewriting. Damn. Why is this so hard? I've tried writing the ad twenty times. The floor by the bin looks like the classroom when Ms Colby has to talk to someone at the door. Will I ever get it right?
Dad wanted for twelve-year-old boy on Yorke Peninsula. Needs to be tough, like fishing, fighting and fun. Boat licence a must.
Maybe that'll do. I decide to enter it under the messages column. Now comes the hard part. How to actually ring up the
Sunday Mail
when Gran isn't listening? When she's helping at the museum? I'll just have to come home early from school, say I'm sick. That brings a grin. I'm going to do it! Yey! I'm going to have a dad for the holidays!

4

The only person I tell about the ad is Mei. We're down on the rocks, me flicking pebbles into a pool that the receding tide has left behind. Mei has her blue denim hat on, stitched up in the front and longer at the back. With her black hair hanging down like that she looks like a girl on a birthday card I've seen in the gift shop.

‘What if your dad doesn't see it?'

I've already thought that one out. In a way I don't care. Hard to explain. ‘It's okay if he doesn't see it. Someone who wants to be a dad will see it. That mightn't be so bad.'

I stand up to skim a stone further out. Wow! Eight touches.

‘What if
no one
sees it? What if they do and they're a sleaze?' Mei's starting to sound like Gran.

‘Don't be stupid. Of course someone okay will see it.'

Mei kind of fades after that and it takes me a whole five minutes to notice she's gone all quiet. ‘C'mon, Mei. I didn't mean it. Race you to the pool.' She brightens up at that.

The pool always reminds me of an ancient sunken water system that Gran had read about to me when I was little. The old cement wall capturing the sea at low tide looks as crumbly as a Roman aqueduct. Mei's pulling off her shorts, her bathers already on, and jumping in with little squeaks, when Shawn Houser and Prescott turn up. Instantly I know there's not enough room for all of us.

‘Hangin' around with chinky now,' is Shawn Houser's opening greeting. It amazes me that he doesn't hear how dumb he sounds. I steel myself; I feel my hands rolling into fists. Shawn Houser's been spoiling for a fight for days now. All week Ms Colby's been watching me like I'm a goldfish in a food processor – but now no one is here who knows us, no one to stop what has to be done.

I charge. Mei screams.

‘C'mon.' Shawn laughs, for a while. But even with Prescott helping, Shawn doesn't do well this time. Maybe I'm more spooked about the ad than I know, but whatever it is, I don't let up on Shawn even when blood starts squirting out of his nose.

‘Joel! Stop!' It's not Mei. Zoe Trenwith is there on the lawn. Where'd she spring from? She has me by the collar. Vice-like grip – would never have thought she could do that. Doesn't take long for my surprise to turn to something nasty again.

‘Get off! You're not my boss!' I even aim a kick at her shins but she hangs on.

She shouts at Shawn and Prescott. ‘Get going!' Then she gives me a shake. Strange thing is she doesn't get into me for trying to kick her, just calms down and asks, ‘What was that all about?' If she'd got mad like Ms Colby I wouldn't care but, as it is, my heart sinks. I hope it doesn't show. This always happens. Something always goes wrong. Especially if I meet someone new. It's not long before they look at me differently. Now she won't like me either. What do I care, anyway? I shake off her hold and meet her gaze stony-faced with the curl to my lip that drives Ms Colby wild. I'll be ready if Zoe tells me off. It doesn't hurt as much if I attack first.

‘Dunno.' Loud, the right touch of hardness. It's true too, by the way. I never can explain what happens when I see Shawn Houser with that smart look on his face, especially when he picks on Mei. I just can't think straight. It's like being on a galloping colt that hasn't been broken in; if I don't do something I'll fall off. There's nothing I can do to stop it. And who's going to believe that?

Surprisingly, Zoe doesn't say anything else, just mutters that she may as well do this sooner or later. And what do you know? She comes home with me. Can't think why a bit of blood makes women think they have to take you home. Mei comes halfway and stands at the end of her street, watching us, but I'm too annoyed to wave.

When Gran first sees us standing there at the back door it's like her face doesn't know whether to look angry or smile. Nor does she say much, just gets out the Dettol, the biggest bottle from the food mart – as though she'd known she'd need it. The usual telling-off doesn't come either. It's weird – Gran keeps looking at Zoe and back at what she's making sting on my legs and face. Zoe, of course, would be on Gran's list of strangers and dangerous objects, yet Gran doesn't ask her to leave. I wonder what upsets Gran the most – me being in a fight or bringing home a stranger.

It's when I'm coming back from the bathroom that I hear Gran saying, ‘Why didn't you say you were coming?' Honestly, I just feel my steam building up again. How can she be so unreasonable? We were only down at the pool. Zoe doesn't have a mobile and to go to a phone box to ring would have taken longer than coming straight home. Sometimes Gran expects too much of people. Zoe doesn't seem to object either. Which is surprising – I hadn't thought Zoe was the sort to need protection – like Mei. I burst into the kitchen on Zoe's behalf. Gran says I'd storm in where even an angel would fear to go.

‘Zoe's my friend!' That'll let Gran know to be civil. But why does Gran's mouth gape like she's never heard the word ‘friend' before and Zoe's face look like it's been squashed in by a fist? They change their faces quick though and Zoe stays for tea. It's the first time of many – telling Gran all about some boring psychology course she's doing now, how her life's all back together, she's off the stuff and her dad would be proud to see her. It's good she's there actually – it's the first time Gran's concentration isn't totally on me; it's the night I manage to check my voicemail. The night I make the Connection.

5

I asked to meet the man at the jetty. At dusk. It hadn't occurred to me to wait in case more men answered the ad or to make sure this was the best one. Wait? Nah, not me. I can't wait to get on with it. This is something I have to do on my own too, not with Gran breathing down my neck. No sense in getting Gran hyper over a stranger coming to visit; she cracks her lid enough over tourists in the town. I stand by the jetty steps watching the cars pull up. He'd be in a car for sure, coming from Adelaide.

A man in a tracksuit emerges from the latest Holden station wagon. He looks like a sure bet. I stand up straighter as the man takes out fishing tackle and a bucket from the back. Better and better. Father type – greying hair, the fishing gear ready. He comes onto the jetty, he's almost up to me – and then he passes. The man doesn't glance around, not once, just makes for the deeper water at the end. I stare after him, hardly aware of the rev of a motorbike engine as the ignition is switched off. The jetty's full of people dropping in lines or sitting and staring, all in their own quiet world, not needing anything else.

‘You Joel?' I jump and swing round. The voice is deep, laidback sort of, but – jumping dolphins! Cop a look at the leathers: black jacket, jeans, boots, even a black plait with strands of grey, and
earrings
almost as numerous as Zoe's except they're silver! There's a shadow of a grin on the man's face and a shadow of something else. When has he last shaved? ‘I'm Dev. Dev Eagle.' He extends a hand. I don't take it.

‘You're too young,' I blurt out instead, hating the way it's me that sounds too young. ‘Are you really a dad?'

Does the shadow darken slightly? Certainly the man hesitates. I stare past his chest to the bike behind him. It's one of those with a lean to it – a Harley. Like the ones that come to give rides during Gala Days.

‘Why didn't you say? That you were a biker?'

Dev doesn't answer. And I think about this a bit more. Maybe it means he can fight. He doesn't look like a dad, but imagine Shawn Houser's face if this Dev turns up to get me at school. I unscrew my face a bit and Dev moves his weight to his other boot before he speaks.

‘Maybe we could get to know each other – give it a week or two? See what happens?' He doesn't sound as threatening as he looks.

‘Can you fish?'

‘I've had a go.' This probably means he's good at it.

‘Drive a boat?'

‘Shouldn't be too hard.' He's done that too then.

I decide not to insult him by asking if he can fight. I mean, the bike, the leathers, the plait – it says it all, doesn't it? Why hadn't I thought to ask all these things over the phone? ‘You still don't look old enough to be a dad.' Somehow the grey trickling through the black plait doesn't signify. Even with white hair I don't think someone with a bike and leathers would be old enough for fatherhood. But Dev seems amused at last.

‘Never you fear, mate. I'm plenty old enough. What d'ya reckon then? Is it on?'

It feels like I've made up my mind this very instant and impulsively I hold out my hand. I haven't gone through all that hard work putting an ad in the paper for nothing. Although, as I glance up at Dev as we head for the bike, there's double reason now to keep this a secret from Gran. She'd never like a biker, and motorbikes are definitely on Gran's list of dangerous and forbidden.