The Minnow Read Free

art appreciation class on Tuesday morning in the common room.
    â€˜Painting or drawing?’ I ask.
    â€˜No, no, dear. Art appreciation ,’ she replies.
    I’m not sure I know what to say, so I say nothing.
    â€˜A young woman from one of the city colleges is doing a study on learning strengths in an ageing population ,’ says Nana, in her officious voice. ‘She popped in last week to meet us and she seemed very keen. Apparently we’ll be discussing art in all its various forms.’
    Nana abhors blandness on any level.
    â€˜I bet you’ll be her favourite student,’ I say.
    Nana laughs and leans forward. ‘Guinea pig more likely,’ she says.
    I stay with Nana until dusk.
    Her evening meal arrives as I’m leaving. The smell makes me queasy.
    Jonah’s house has a bathroom with a separate shower and a small bathtub. We’re on tank water so the bath doesn’t get much use, but Jonah says I should treat myself every now and then. It’s so good to be around him. I think he feels the same. It’s like there’s been no gap.
    When I told Nana how easily we fitted back into our friendship, she said we had definitely passed the best-friend test.
    â€˜Really,’ says Jonah, ‘she said that?’
    â€˜Yep,’ I answer.
    Jonah and I are making dinner. I’m peeling things and he’s cooking them.
    â€˜She said she has had a few friends over the years who didn’t pass. She reckons that time apart is the key component to sorting the besties from the resties.’
    â€˜She said that?’
    â€˜No. She said “wheat from chaff”.’
    Jonah would love some chooks, but the flood took the sheds and most of the fencing. Bill has offered to help. Jonah said he would think about it.
    Bill and I hang out occasionally. Jonah doesn’t approve.
    Last night Bill and I went night fishing at the inlet. ‘If you’ve never been night fishing, you don’t know what you’re missing,’ Bill says to Jonah, who just nods. Jonah finds it hard to speak to Bill because he knows about the sex. He also knows I have half Bill’s baby inside me.
    I grab my new tackle box and hand it to Bill (because it’s heavy and I’m already carrying something of his).
    â€˜Jeez, Tom,’ says Bill, as he feels the weight of my sinker collection.
    â€˜Is it as heavy as gold?’ I ask him.
    â€˜Reckon,’ he says.
    The tackle box is from the FishMaster Super Series, and you won’t believe it, but Mrs Peck gave it to me. I think Bill must have told her I was pregnant.
    â€˜There you go, Tom,’ she said, her mouth all dry and clicking. As she handed it to me she suggested I look at all its features while she found Bill some line. It had been ages since Bill and I had been to Mingin’s Hardware and Disposals. Mrs Peck looked desperate, but before she could drag Bill into the paint aisle, old Mrs Beakle came tottering in on her walker.
    Mrs Peck rushed over to serve her. ‘Oh, hello dear,’ said Mrs Beakle, ‘I’m just after a few mousetraps.’ Mrs Peck went with her, shuffling along at Mrs Beakle’s pace, ‘…and a couple of plate holders.’
    Mrs Beakle took so long deciding between the freestanding or the wall-hanging plate holders that Bill decided to join them. ‘Is that you, Bill dear?’ Mrs Beakle asked when she noticed him. Bill quietly lifted the back of Mrs Peck’s skirt. Mrs Peck dropped one of the mousetraps and lent down to pick it up. ‘I think the free-standing should do the trick,’ said Mrs Beakle, taking one down from the shelf. Then all three of them shuffled to the cash register.
    By the time Mrs Peck had rung up the purchases, Bill looked ready to burst. Mrs Peck handed Mrs Beakle her change.
    â€˜Bye bye, dear,’ said Mrs Beakle, forgetting all about Bill.
    â€˜Bye bye, Mrs Beakle,’ said Mrs Peck’s mouth, squashed onto the