Authors: Rosalind James
“Your mum should’ve taken that away by now,” George
grunted. “Soft, having a teddy, a big kid like you.”
“Raffo’s
not
a teddy,” Zack insisted, his eyes
filling with tears again, spilling over now. “And I only have him in bed. Or at
extra-special times. And Mum
said
I could bring him! She
said!
”
“Need to harden up,” George said. He glared at Nic. Nic felt
his hands fisting, the familiar anger overtaking him. He shoved over to sit on
his own sleeping bag, against the wall of the tent. “Bringing Raffo was OK,” he
told Zack firmly. “It’s a bit scary, I reckon, going camping the first time.
Specially if it rains, and you’re sick.” He put a hand out, smoothed Zack’s
hair. “Everyone needs a bit of help sometimes.”
“Really?” Zack asked doubtfully.
“Course they do,” Nic smiled down at him. Ignored his
father’s snort of disgust and lay down next to Zack. “I’m knackered, though.
Ready to give it a rest here.”
“Because it’s a long way,” Zack said. “From Safa.”
“Yeh,” Nic gave Zack’s back a bit of a rub. “You remembered,
eh. It’s a long way.”
Zack really was exhausted from the long day, he saw. Within
a few minutes, he was breathing peacefully.
Zack made it through the night without further mishap, to
Nic’s relief, though they did have to make an early-morning dash for the
toilets.
“Eggs for breakfast,” George said when they returned, having
started the gas cooker. He seemed to have recovered his good humor, Nic saw
with relief. “And I’ve got the water on, make us a cup of tea. D’you drink
tea?” he asked Zack. “Or d’you like cocoa better? Milo, maybe?”
“Yeh,” Zack said shyly. “Cocoa, I mean. Please.”
“Think I have a bit of that, in my camping box,” George told
him. “Have a look, will you, mate? Get your da—Get Nic to help you.”
They were soon working on their camp breakfast of eggs and
streaky bacon, accompanied by jam donuts from the Pak ‘n Save bakery that Zack
seized on eagerly, but Nic refused.
“Watching your figure?” his dad asked with a raised brow.
“Training,” Nic said. “I’ll make another couple eggs
instead. Semis in two weeks.”
“A donut or two couldn’t hurt, surely,” George objected.
“Got a nutrition plan,” Nic said evenly. “Worked out
specially. And it doesn’t include jam donuts.”
“Huh. Probably for the best. Saw you missed a tackle the
other night, handed the Cheetahs that try.”
“And made five,” Dan put in, taking another jam donut. “Plus
a try of your own. Well done,” he told his older brother. “Get to miss out on the
quarterfinals, do you.”
“Yeh,” Nic said with gratitude. Trust Dan to accentuate the
positive. “Let the niggles settle a bit. And play the semis match at home,
which is always a bonus.”
“Surprised you kicked that one back, in the fifty-third
minute,” George put in. “What were you thinking? Had some room to run, offload
to Koti James. He was in the clear. If you’d scored then, that would’ve put the
boot into them. As it was, you left it late, didn’t you.”
Nic thought about explaining, changed his mind. “Strategic
decision,” he said instead.
“Bloody unstrategic, you ask me.”
“We’ll see what the coaches have to say,” Nic said. “If they
didn’t like my choice, they’ll let me know, no worries.”
Dan jumped in with a question or two, and the moment passed
off. “Who’s for fishing?” George asked when they’d washed up, stacked the pan
and camp mugs to dry on a tea towel. “Tide’s running strong this morning. Reckon
we could get a couple snapper before we go home.”
“Do I have to go in the boat?” Zack asked Nic quietly.
“Nah,” Nic told him. “We’ll see how we do from the rocks. I
know a spot.”
Zack held his rod obediently for a while, then began to
shift back and forth. Sat down with a thump, began to wiggle the rod absently,
watching the line play in the water. “Does it take a long time to catch a
fish?” he asked presently.
“It can do,” Nic responded. “Patience is part of it.”
Zack sighed, and silence reigned for a while longer.
“D’you think they all went away?” he finally asked.
“Who?”
“The fish. D’you think maybe they swam someplace else?”
“Nah. Just wait. We may get one yet.”
The jerk, when it came, was on Zack’s line, not Nic’s. By
that point, Zack was holding the rod with one hand, using the other to pick up
pebbles, and the tug of the big fish pulled it straight out of his lax hold. Nic
turned at his yell, only to see the rod slide and bounce across the rocks and
into the sea.
“Shit!” Nic yelped. “Stay here,” he instructed Zack. “Don’t
move.” He bounded down the steep, boulder-strewn bank and dove into the sea,
caught up with the rod, swam back with it and clambered out over the boulders
again. Reached the spot where Zack stood, anxiously hopping from one foot to
the other on the topmost rock, and finished reeling the big fish in. A couple
kilos at least, he saw with satisfaction. He took the hook out of the gaping
mouth and gave the head a smack on a rock to put a quick end to the animal
after its ordeal.
“You killed it,” Zack said with shock. “It’s dead. Isn’t
it?”
“Yeh,” Nic said, shivering now that the adrenaline was
leaving him. “That’s the idea. And you’ve got to hang onto your rod better than
that.”
Zack’s eyes welled with tears. “I didn’t know we’d have to
kill
it.”
“Where did you think fish came from?” Nic asked in
exasperation. “It’s alive, you catch it. You kill it and you eat it. And if you
didn’t want it to suffer, you shouldn’t have dropped your rod. If I hadn’t gone
after it, that poor fish would’ve had to drag it about till it died of
exhaustion.”
“Sorry.” Nic’s lip was trembling again, and Nic was suddenly
overwhelmed with frustrated impatience. “Never mind,” he said curtly, shoving
the fish into the chilly bin he’d brought for the purpose and snapping down the
lid. Took the bin in one hand, the two rods in the other. “Come on. I need to
get changed.”
Zack lagged behind, and Nic cast a couple glances to make
sure he was following. He dropped the rods and bin outside the tent, then went
in and jerked off his wet things, replaced them with the change of clothes he’d
luckily brought with him on account of the rain. Then took a few deep breaths, bundled
the wet clothes away, and climbed out of the tent again.
Zack was sitting at the picnic table, his back to him, head
bent, picking at the wood with one finger.
“Mate.” Nic sat down across from him with a sigh. “It’s OK.”
Zack shook his head without raising it. He was crying, Nic
realized. “I need your help,” he told the boy. “Come help me clean this fish.
It’s caused us enough grief today. We may as well get a good lunch out of it.”
Zack wasn’t too squeamish about the cleaning, at least, Nic
found with relief. His fascination with the fish’s disgusting innards seemed to
divert his mind from his misery, and he watched Nic’s preparations with interest.
“And now we get to eat it,” Nic told him when they arrived
back at their campsite again. “Which is the point of the entire exercise.”
“We had fish last night, though,” Zack said doubtfully.
“Because we’re fishing. That’s what you eat, on a fishing
trip. Fish.”
“All the
time?”
“Well, yeh. We didn’t have it for brekkie, though, did we?
Now, trout, that’s a lovely brekkie. With some eggs, of course.” The fish was
frying in the pan now, turning a golden brown amidst the lavish slatherings of
butter Nic had added.
“D’you have to go in a boat for trout?”
“Nah. Stand in a stream with your waders on, though. Gets a
bit cold.”
“Does it take a long time?”
“It can do. Not too keen on fishing so far, eh.”
“I thought it would be fun,” Zack admitted. “But it isn’t so
much, is it?”
Nic smiled. “Relaxing, that’s what it is. Takes a bit of
getting used to, maybe.”
“I don’t think I like relaxing,” Zack said seriously. “Not
as much as footy.”
“Well, not as much as footy, no,” Nic agreed. “Reckon
footy’s the best thing of all.”
The trip home was just as miserable as he’d expected,
Nic found. Worse, maybe, as all that fish that had gone down was now coming
back up again, and his father’s mood at the delay was even worse.
“Going to be late getting back,” he grumbled. “I was
counting on seven.”
“And it’ll be seven-thirty,” Nic snapped back. “What’s the
bloody difference?” He could see his father’s surprised, angry glance in the
rear-view mirror. He didn’t normally offer a retort. But his last nerve was
frayed by now.
He pulled at last into Emma’s driveway, relief and guilt
warring for pride of place within him. Zack had been quiet on the drive back
from Thames, worn out with carsickness maybe. At least Nic hoped that was it.
He pulled on his own anorak, ran around the car and opened
Zack’s door, feeling the rain soaking any part of him that might have stayed
dry during all those spewing stops.
“Here.” He helped Zack into his anorak, picked up the
booster seat and grabbed the rest of his gear, slammed the car door. Followed
behind as the boy ran around the side of the house to his flat and dashed
through the front door.
“Hi,” Nic said, setting down his burdens. Emma didn’t seem
to notice him in her haste to pull off Zack’s anorak, help him out of his
gumboots, before finally pulling her son into a fierce hug.
“You smell terrible,” she told him, smoothing his hair back.
“Were you sick?”
“Yeh,” he said, burying his face in her side. “It was a
really windy road, Mum.”
She looked up at Nic at last. “How’d it go?”
“Could’ve been better,” he admitted. “We had a few dramas. Didn’t
realize the road would make him so sick.”
“It happens sometimes,” she said. “It must have been worse
because he was nervous. I should’ve given him something, but it can make him so
sleepy and grouchy. Was it really bad?”
“Well, yeh. A few times. And it rained, which wasn’t the
best. Zack caught a fish, though, didn’t you, mate?”
“Nah. I dropped it.” He hung his head, fingered his mother’s
skirt. Wouldn’t meet Nic’s eyes.
“A bit of drama, like I said. But the best part of a trip
like this, sometimes, is coming home, getting warm and dry again,” Nic said to
Zack. “And now you’re here with your mum again, and you can do that. I’ll see
you next week, OK?”
“OK,” Zack said, still not looking up.
Emma glanced down at him, then up at Nic again with a
puzzled frown. He smiled awkwardly at her. He’d ring her later, he decided.
Explain.
“Thanks,” Emma told her landlady 45 minutes later. “I
really, really appreciate it. An hour, I hope. Hour and fifteen minutes, max.”
“No worries, love,” Lois said comfortably. “Makes no
difference to me if I sit down here, or up in the house. Gives me a chance to
look at all your lovely bits and bobs.”
The rain was really coming down now, Emma realized as she
left the flat. She debated going back for her umbrella, but she didn’t want to
take the time. By the time she got to her car, she was regretting the decision.
Too late now. She was already wet. She turned up the heat on the drive to Nic’s
house, glancing down at every stoplight to check the map she’d printed out,
then peering out again as her windscreen wipers tried and failed to keep up
with the sheets of water streaming across them. Finally pulled up the sloping
drive to Nic’s house, parked outside the garage. And was engulfed by rain again
the moment she stepped out.
She dashed across to the front door, stood in the shelter of
the vestibule, and rang the bell. Then rang it again, impatient at the delay.
After all this, he wasn’t going to be home?
A third ring, and the door opened a bare twenty centimeters,
a dark-haired woman glancing around it at her, then opening it reluctantly
wider.
“Yes?”
“I need to talk to Nic.” Emma’s hair was plastered to her
head, her sweater and jeans soaked.
“He’s just out of the shower,” the woman—Claudia,
obviously—objected.
“I don’t care if he’s just off the boat from Siberia,” Emma
said furiously. “I need to talk to him about Zack.”
“I suppose you’re Emma,” Claudia said with resignation. “You’d
better come in.”
Emma stepped into the entryway, all white walls, dark stone
floor, and frosted light sconces, as Nic appeared in jeans and T-shirt, feet
bare, rubbing his wet head with a fluffy white towel. “Who was it?”
He stopped, arrested, at the sight of her. “Emma. What are
you doing here? Is Zack . . . Is something wrong?”
“Something’s wrong, all right.” She was shivering now, her
teeth beginning to chatter. “And it’s you.
You’re
wrong.” She was barely
coherent in her rage. “Nobody asked you to get involved in his life! Nobody
wanted you! Why’d you do it? Why hurt him?”
“Hang on. Wait.” Nic gestured helplessly, looked at Claudia.
“Come inside. Let’s talk.” Claudia didn’t echo the invitation, merely stared at
Emma with the detached fascination she might have shown towards a wreck at the
side of the motorway.
“No! I’m going to tell you right now. Do you know how
excited he was? How much he was looking forward to this trip? He came back so
quiet. So . . . so defeated. How could you
do
that to him?” She was
crying now, shaking with cold and rage, the tears mingling with the rain
soaking her. “Well, you’re not taking him again. You aren’t seeing him. This is
it, do you hear? This is
it.”
“Suits us,” Claudia said at last. “Now, if you don’t mind .
. .”
“Claudia, no,” Nic said. “This is between Emma and me. She
can have her say.” Claudia looked at him for a long moment, then turned on her
heel and left.