Evie Wyld - After the Fire, A Still Small Voice

When the sky lightened he tested his limbs to see if they could move and swung himself out of bed. He pissed long and hard out through the door, his eyes fixed on the scribble gums that looked calmly back.

Juice ran down his chin when he bit into a tomato. Wiping his face, he was surprised by the amount of beard hair he was carrying around. He put a can of tea on to steep and sat on the steps reading the day. A yellow cloud in the north signalled work at the sugar plant had begun. A dog barked distantly and Kirk gobbled as Mary took a bath in the dust. There was nothing for it but to go fishing. He wet his lips with tea, pulled on some dirty shorts and an oil-stained T-shirt with the words DETTOL CLEANS across the back. He threw the remains of last night’s meal to the chickens and slotted his reel into the holder on the nose of the truck. He took a pack of frozen green prawns from the cold box and put them in an ice-cream tub of cold water. ‘Prawn net,’ he said out loud. ‘Prawn net prawn net prawn net.’

On the way out to the point, the air was thick with dust. He passed a big white cockatoo standing at the side of the road, looking as if it was waiting for a bus. The creases of its wings were lined with red dust. It watched him pass, feathers ruffled by the breeze, but not in the least bit worried about the truck. In the rear-view mirror the bird shook its head and continued looking up the road in the direction he’d come from. It could be hurt; he’d try to remember to check on it on his way home.

There was no one out at the point and the sea looked soupy. Maybe underneath its surface a dust blew too. He baited up and cast out into the waveless water, the bait plopping like a stone, taking itself down to the bottom with a thud he could feel through the line. There he felt through the pads of his fingers as the prawn rolled in the sand, as it lumbered across small rocks and seaweed. He imagined the sexy-mouthed fish watching it, shaking their heads, rolling their eyes. But he fished on, determined that one of the wrangled tugs on his line would be a fish, not a snag, and that the next cast would be the one. When the sun had melted through the yellow zinc on the tops of his ears he gave himself five more throws.

One, the bait fell off mid-air, slung out on a too hard cast, and he was sure as it hit the water he saw a belly flash, something gobble it as soon as it hit the surface. The next prawn was tightly weaved, aimed at the spot the fish had flashed itself, and the cast was executed, he thought, with minute accuracy. But nothing so much as nosed it. The third throw, when the sun was really hurting his ears and starting on the lower lids of his eyes, was more exciting: a sudden rip of life on the other end of the line, but then nothing, it took just the bait not the hook. Four, nothing at all and he found his interest waning. Normally there was the possibility, endless as the water in the sea, the millions upon millions of chances — what else happened to a dead prawn in the water other than it was eaten by fish? But now he wanted someone to talk to. He wondered if Sal was as keen a fisherwoman as she was a gardener. The backs of his hands burnt on his final throw and he decided just to drag her in, see if something would chase, but when, not far from the shore, he felt a bite, he didn’t do anything other than give it a sharp tug, then whatever had bitten was gone. He unhooked the sucked bait and threw it out — something inhaled it, breaking the surface of the water with silver. Sod it, they were playing silly buggers with him anyway.

In the shade of the bait shop he was blind for the first few minutes. He stared hard at a wall of jelly lures, waiting for the sunspots to go from his eyes. The place smelt like rubber and glue, and it was a good smell, like diesel or chalk dust, the kind you could smell too much. He squeezed the red gummy body of a squid lure and heard the man at the counter behind him shift with annoyance. He gave himself another few seconds to straighten out his sight and turned to him. ‘Got any prawn nets in?’

Without looking, the man, who was younger than Frank had first imagined and who wore sunglasses inside, pointed above his head. ‘Got yer basic, yer midi and yer reinforced.’

‘Reinforced?’

‘Get ’em done meself — weave in a bit of leather round the edge. Keep her going for good.’

‘Sweet. I’ll take one,’ said Frank, knowing he had to buy the reinforced net or risk a long uncomfortable stare from behind those glasses.

The man softened a little and he allowed a small smile. ‘What you after?’

‘Uh, prawns.’

‘Know a good place, do ya?’

‘I’ve seen a few up round the sands at Mulaburry.’

‘Ah. ’S good fishing place. Easiest bet on catching a few bream just off the rocks there — real girl fishing hole, but she’s good if it’s a feed you’re after and not so much the sport. Know the place I mean?’

Frank nodded.

Back in the sun of the main street he sat himself outside the bakery at one of the aluminium tables. He ordered a black coffee and a currant bun, and when the bun came it was the size of his face. He watched the street, not sure what he was looking for — something recognisable in the few people walking by, or someone who might stop and talk. He wished he’d leant up against the counter in the bait shop, quizzed the guy on where to find a jewfish, asked about sharking, as if he knew something on the subject himself. He could have told the guy how he lived on that land, could even have explained that his mother was in that bream hole, could have got the upper hand on the conversation, maybe enough that leaning on the counter could have turned into a few drinks later on, a pub quiz, a joint on the beach. It felt strange to be wishing these things on himself, of someone who didn’t seem the sort of person he would have liked anyway.

He looked at his watch — nearly time for the kids to get out of school. He could give Sal a lift home, think of some things she might be interested in knowing about. Did she know how to wrap dough round a thick stick and bake it in an open fire, then fill it with golden syrup and let it drip all down you, in your hair and eyelashes? Probably. But maybe she’d appreciate the gesture. Perhaps she’d want to have a go at prawning with him, though he wasn’t sure she’d be tall enough.

He paid his bill and walked to the truck, surprised at how much he was looking forward to chewing the fat with a seven-year-old. He parked up a little way from the school gates, thinking maybe it would look better if he pretended to have been passing. A bell rang somewhere inside and for a moment there was absolute stillness. Then the doors opened and a wave of kids wearing light-blue caps with flaps at the back spilled out, and he was glad he wasn’t waiting at the gate. A few parents and older kids pounced, but on the whole the tide of children dispersed on their own, in tight little groups, yapping like seagulls and dropping skinny wrappings and juice cartons not too near the bins.

He nearly missed Sal, whose black fringe was hidden under her cap. He only spotted her at all because she was alone, her head down. Unlike the other kids, who wore their school backpacks slung casually over one shoulder, she wore hers tight to her back, a serious walker. She moved at a determined pace, not late but precisely on time, as if any deviation from her step would throw the whole day off track. He opened the door and realised he’d have to get out, because she wasn’t looking his way. He called her name as she turned the corner. He jogged through the kids, trying not to jostle them, trying hard not to look like a Dangerous Stranger. Rounding the corner, he stopped at the sight of Sal, arms stuck out rigid at her side, being hugged chokingly round the shoulders by Vicky.