It’s hard to imagine a virus in the Glamorgan River. It looks so perfect and clean.
‘So the water,’ I say, ‘is it …?’
‘The water’s fine,’ says Mick. ‘Clear and pristine like you wouldn’t believe, and the fishing’s never been better. This virus only affected the oysters. Killed them off overnight. Bloody devastating, it was. Anyway, the months ticked by, a year, and then families, friends, people who’d been in the business for a hundred years, they started selling their farms, packed up their things and left.’
I rest my fork on the plastic dinner tray. ‘But not you?’
Mick sits back in his chair and half smiles. ‘Where would I go?’ he says.
‘What about Broome?’
‘Nah, it’s home here. And, anyway, they’re doing what they can – the scientists, the marine biologists. Actually, there’s been some good tests of late so the green light might not be far away.’
‘So, what do we do?’ I say.
I check myself without letting on and wonder where the ‘we’ came from.
‘I mean what do you do?’ I say. ‘For work. For money.’
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Your mum left some money for you. It’s not much, but it was all she had. Anyway, I’ve set up a bank account with a card attached so you can dip into it if you need to.’
Mick looks up with a serious kind of face. ‘I’m trusting you with this, Nate. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, course.’
‘I mean it, Nate. Taking off, leaving now … it’d be a really bad idea.’
While Mick might not rate much as an uncle so far, he’s smarter than I thought he was. With a bit of money behind me I could go back – back to my old life in the city. It wasn’t much, but it was familiar, and I knew people there. It’d breach my parole, but maybe it’d be worth it. Maybe I could get a cash job, get a room with some friends. Live someplace where things actually happen.
‘Nate?’
‘Relax, Mick. I’m still here, aren’t I?’
‘You are,’ he says. ‘Do I need to tell you about responsible spending.’
It doesn’t really sound like a question so I don’t answer. He turns himself around on the chair and reaches a hand into a ceramic bowl on the servery bench. He grabs a red card and pushes it across the table towards me.
I’ve never had a bank card before. I don’t pick it up. I just sit there and stare at it, stare at my name, Nathaniel Cole, branded into the bottom of the card in silver typewriter font.
‘I think you should get your boat licence,’ says Mick.
I can tell Mick’s put some thought into what he’s just said. It sounds important, like the start of a story.
I look up. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I’ve been thinking it through all day and I’ve decided – I want you to take over the deliveries.’
‘What deliveries?’
‘People come from all over the place to holiday on the Glamorgan and its islands,’ says Mick. ‘You’ll see them in town. It’s mostly city folk, really. In the summer. For some reason they seem to like the isolation. They think there’s something romantic about a holiday house on an island that’s only accessible by boat. Truth is, it’s a pain in the arse.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not following.’
Mick takes a deep breath, then downs his fork as if the utensil is somehow interfering with what he’s trying to tell me.
‘When the virus hit, I had to think of something else besides oysters,’ he says. ‘I racked my brain for weeks but couldn’t for the life of me think of anything that might turn a few dollars. I thought about fishing, but competing with the established fishing families wasn’t going to work. Anyway, one day I was in Chester’s buying a few things and this couple from the city were stocking up on supplies, whingeing about how much of a hassle it was having a holiday house on an island, having to do the back-and-forth trips to the store and lug all their food in a tinnie. And that’s how we came up with the delivery idea.’
‘We?’ I say.
‘Singlets and me. Tom Chester. You met him.’
‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Are you telling me that Tom Chester and Singlets are the same person? That the old bloke in the footy shorts who sits out the front of the store actually owns it?’
‘Yeah, I am. We started a business together. It’s all online now. People order what they want beforehand. They buy the stuff at Chester’s, and I boat it out to their house so it’s all there when they arrive. People pay good dollars for convenience.’
‘So you want me to be the delivery boy?’
‘That’s the plan. Gem does most of the computer stuff and invoicing now, and I could do with a break, to be honest. I’ll deduct some money for board, naturally, and pay you a wage into your account. It won’t be much, but at least it’s something. Sound all right?’
No one’s ever offered me anything like this before. It feels serious and heavy in a grown-up kind of way.
‘You do understand what this means, Nate?’ asks Mick.
‘I think so.’
‘Part of delivering hampers requires you to enter peoples’ homes.’
I think about what Henry told me that Mick said – about the bad blood.
‘You don’t trust me,’ I say.
‘Actually, I do trust you, Nate. Or I wouldn’t have asked. But the people who own those houses might not be so understanding. I’m sticking my neck out, Nate.’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘Good.’
The two of us look at each other and when our eyes meet it feels like a handshake.
‘Is it hard to get?’ I say. ‘The boat licence?’
‘Nah. There are two parts to it. I’ll teach you all the practical stuff, and then there’s some general boating knowledge you’ll have to learn. I’ve left the booklet in the boatshed on your bed. It’s all multi-choice. Easy.’
‘Really?’
‘Put it this way. Doug Tomkins got his. Took him three goes, mind, but he got it.’
The two of us pick up our forks, Mick first and then me. We go back to eating but after swallowing a mouthful of Lasagne, Mick puts his hand on his stomach and grimaces in pain.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’m fine. Bloody indigestion, that’s all.’
Mick expects me to tidy up so I make quick work of the dishes and wipe the benches down. After cleaning my teeth in the bathroom, I say goodnight to Mick and head for the boatshed. Barry comes with me. He trots along beside me and looks up at me as we go.
‘Don’t start, Barry.’
Barry responds with his eyes.
‘Because I don’t need you on my back, as well,’ I say. ‘You’re a dog, okay? I know you might not think you are, the way Mick spoils you, but you are. You’ve got four legs, a tail and you lick your balls.’
Barry snorts.
‘You do, Barry. I saw you, yesterday. You were lying on the verandah in the sun.’
He rolls his eyes.
‘There’s plenty wrong with it, actually. It’s gross. And the fact that you don’t see that proves my point about you being a dog. People don’t do that.’