Clownfish Read online

  Dad always used to complain about them, when he was on bin duty, before he started working at the recycling centre. “Nasty great scavengers”, he called them. If you left a black rubbish sack out for the binmen then the seagulls would split it and scatter the trash across the street. And who do you think has to clear that up? Dad said indignantly.

  He complained about their pooping too. Every car had seagull poop on it somewhere. Dad was always out in the street with a cloth and a scraper trying to get poop off his car. Mind you, I didn’t see why he bothered – the car was an old piece of junk anyway, an ancient orangey-red Volkswagen Beetle, that Dad called a “classic motor” and I nicknamed “The Wreck”. It was always breaking down, which made Mum mad. That thing’s going to drive me to an early grave, she’d said.

  You’d have to get it started first, I’d laughed.

  But Dad wouldn’t hear a word against “Gertie”. He gave the car that name because it sounded “sort of dignified”, he said. No matter what you do in life, you have to have dignity, Dak, he told me.

  He never explained exactly what he meant by the word, but I think it had something to do with respecting yourself and gaining the respect of others, even if you did work at the rubbish tip and drive an old banger – or stand by a fish tank in an aquarium, like me, soaking wet…

  I didn’t get so wet the second time I fed the sea bass, though – wet enough that the audience laughed, but not dripping from head to toe. I got a laugh when we fed the rays and the small sharks too – but only because I made a bit of a mess of it. I was using a pair of feeding tongs, which we needed (as Johnny explained to the audience) because the sharks were faster than the rays and would eat all the food if it was just thrown into the tank. With the tongs, I could feed the fish individually and make sure they all got their fair share.

  That was the idea anyway. I was a bit hopeless at first and let the sprat I was holding out to a ray slide out of the pincers too early straight into the mouth of a delighted shark. Luckily Johnny was busy warning a woman not to touch the thornback rays and didn’t notice.

  Like his bass talk, Johnny’s chat was a mix of facts and conservation. He told the audience that rays and sharks were related. That they had cartilage but no bones. That they didn’t have scales either, but were covered in hundreds of backward-facing teeth.

  “Shark’s skin’s so rough that back in the past carpenters used to use it as sandpaper,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval. Then, more cheerily, he asked, “Now does anyone here like to go to the chippy?” Lots of hands shot up, lured into his trap. “Well, you’ll see some of these fellas on the menu as rock salmon or hasse. And yet, rays, like a lot of fish, are under threat from overfishing.”

  I was glad I’d never eaten rock salmon. I’d have felt terrible.

  At the end of the afternoon, on my way home from the aquarium, I went to the supermarket, taking money out from the cashpoint to pay. I’d got money out for Mum before, so I knew her PIN. She didn’t know I had her card so I felt a little guilty, but we needed food and there was nothing in the house. I bought some baked beans, eggs, bread and milk – and a bar of Mum’s favourite chocolate. She probably wouldn’t eat it, but I hoped it might cheer her up a little.

  When I got home Mrs Baxter was there, bustling between the kitchen and the dining room. She was standing in the hallway, wearing an apron with a tea towel over her arm.

  “Ah, there you are, Dak,” she said, like it was her house not mine. “Mum looked a bit tired, so I’m making tea. I reckon you could both do with a good meal.”

  I bristled. She was my mum, not Mrs Baxter’s and it was my job to look after her. I saw Mrs Baxter look at the carrier bag I was holding and I slid it behind my legs.

  “Perhaps you’d like to help set the table,” she suggested.

  I frowned. “I’m going up to see my mum.”

  When I went into her bedroom Mum was standing on the bed, reaching up towards the ceiling.

  “Mum, what are you doing?” I asked, bewildered.

  “He’s there,” she moaned, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Can’t you see his face?” She pointed upwards. “There, on the ceiling.”

  My heart sank and my stomach tightened. It was horrible seeing her like this. I didn’t know what to say. I just stood, staring. After a few moments she let her arms fall to her sides and turned towards me.

  “Dad’s not there, is he?” she asked unhappily.

  I shook my head. “You were just dreaming,” I said. “I see him everywhere too.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but wasn’t exactly a lie either. “Mrs Baxter’s made tea,” I added. I got Mum’s dressing gown and helped her put it on, then we went downstairs together.

  Mum sat in silence and hardly ate a mouthful of the macaroni cheese Mrs Baxter had prepared. I wanted to hug her, to take the hurt away. If only she knew the truth – then all this pain would drop away in an instant. I wanted to tell her, but I just didn’t feel she was ready: “She’s really quite ill,” Doctor Doyle had said… What if my telling her made her worse?

  But I might have been tempted if Mrs Baxter hadn’t been there, which made me resent her even more – especially when she brought up the subject of school, suggesting it was about time I went back.

  Mum looked at her as if struggling to recall who I was, never mind whether I should return to school. “Well…” she murmured uncertainly.

  “I’m not ready,” I said firmly. “And, anyway, Mum needs me here.”

  “But the term’s nearly over and you’ll want to see your friends,” Mrs Baxter persisted. “It would do you good, I’d have thought. I can look after Mum—”

  “No, not yet,” I insisted, cutting her off. “I’m not ready.”

  “Well, I think you should consider it,” Mrs Baxter sighed. “You can’t stay away for ever.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it again. I smiled, my irritation gone. Something about Mrs Baxter reminded me of a fish I’d seen that afternoon at the aquarium.

  She looked like a giant pacu.

  Mrs Baxter wasn’t the only one who thought I should go back to school. When I picked up the post the next day, there was a letter from the school’s admission office. It expressed sympathy, plenty of it, but also suggested strongly that a return to school before the end of term was “highly advisable for my well-being”. Mr Hoskins, the headteacher, didn’t want me to miss out on the end-of-year activities, the letter said. He thought they would be a good distraction for me.

  The letter was friendly, but I sensed a note of … well, not exactly threat, but demand in phrases such as “legal requirement”. There was a mention of “counsellors” too. The meaning was clear: the school wanted me back and they expected Mum to go along with their wishes.

  But I didn’t want to go back to school. I didn’t want to have to go through all the business of people saying how sorry they were and treating me differently, oddly. It made me shudder to think of it. It’s why I’d avoided Ruby and Tom – and they were my best friends. I definitely didn’t want to have to speak to a counsellor, to have a stranger poking about in my thoughts, asking me questions and trying to get me to talk about things I didn’t want – or need – to talk about. I didn’t want to sit in a classroom either and do Maths or English or watch films about World War II or go on a trip to some old castle or sailing ship. I didn’t want life to go back to normal. I wanted to be free to go down to the aquarium each day, to talk to Dad and help look after the fish. Nothing was more important than that. I’d finished with school.

  I thought about my options. I could simply throw the letter away – Mum wasn’t reading her post anyway – but the way it was worded, it was obvious a response was expected: either my return to school or a convincing explanation for my absence. Correspondence between school and parents was normally by email. I knew Mum’s email address and her password (I’d sent brief replies to the few messages of sympathy I’d found there after the funeral), so I could easily reply to the admission o
ffice. But would that be enough? If I said that “Dak is still too upset and traumatized by what happened to return to school”, would that satisfy them? No … I needed something more convincing.

  The problem troubled me all day and spoilt my time down at the aquarium. I was so distracted that I upset Dad.

  “What is the matter with you, son? I’d be better off trying to converse with a ray,” he huffed and flounced off to his anemone.

  Johnny noticed my distraction too. “You all right, mate?” he asked when I failed to respond to one of his instructions. I just wanted to get away and think.

  Soon after I arrived home, Doctor Doyle came. Dad used to complain about how doctors never made home visits any more – but here she was visiting for the second time in just over a week.

  She asked me how things were and I shrugged and said, “OK.” It wasn’t really true of course, but I didn’t want her to think that Mum and I couldn’t cope.

  It was only when the doctor went upstairs that I noticed she’d left her large briefcase in the hallway. I looked at it for a moment. Perhaps I should take it up to her? I slipped my hand through the handle of the case, but I didn’t lift it. Instead I laid it flat on the ground and carefully flicked the catches.

  The lid popped open on the expected collection of doctor’s gear – a stethoscope, a thermometer, some wrapped syringes, a small torch, bottles of tablets, wipes… My heart leapt as I saw what I’d been hoping for underneath a bunch of blank prescription notes: a few sheets of headed notepaper. I took one, then quickly clicked the briefcase shut.

  Later, when the doctor had gone and I’d settled Mum back in bed with a cup of tea and some toast (she wouldn’t eat anything more – not even the chocolate I’d bought her), I sat at my desk to write the letter. I couldn’t copy Doctor Doyle’s writing because I didn’t know what it looked like, but then no one at school would either, I reckoned. Everyone said that doctors’ writing was terrible (it used to be a family joke that Dad should have been a doctor because his writing was so bad), so it wouldn’t matter too much if the letter looked a bit scruffy – as long as it could be read, of course.

  I took some time composing the letter on a piece of scrap paper, trying to make it sound convincing. I liked writing and I was good at it. My English teacher often said how mature my writing was and what an impressive vocabulary I had (that was partly thanks to Dad, but also to Mum, who was a big reader – which had rubbed off on me). When we’d done persuasive writing at school, I’d got the top mark, but this was on another level. I wasn’t just trying to get a good mark, I had to be believed. If I didn’t get it right, I’d not only be in big trouble but my plans would be ruined. I’d have to go back to school and see a counsellor and…

  Well, I had to get it right, that’s all. For all our sakes, I had to.

  But I couldn’t do it. I took out the headed paper with Doctor Doyle’s name on and stared at it. It was only a blank sheet of paper but it seemed suddenly as terrifying as a forest of demons. Each time I tried to start writing, my hand stiffened and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to do it steadily and clearly. I banged my hand down on the desk. Why couldn’t I do it? Why was I so weak?

  I didn’t sleep well. I wasn’t someone who got into trouble. I didn’t do bad stuff. My teachers liked me. But what would they say if they knew what I’d done?

  In my dream Doctor Doyle caught me stealing the notepaper and loomed over me like a raging ogre. When I woke up, I was convinced for a moment or two that I really had been discovered… I reached under the pillow and felt the soft hump of Dad’s sweatshirt, imagined its yellow smiley, and, slowly, I started to feel calmer.

  I hadn’t done anything too terrible, I told myself. It wasn’t like I’d stolen the doctor’s drugs or stethoscope – nobody was going to get hurt by what I’d done, were they? I decided to talk to Dad about what I was planning and see what he said. That made me feel a lot better. I wasn’t on my own: Dad was still there. OK, he was a fish – but he was still Dad. He could give me advice – although, I had to admit, his advice wasn’t always that great. Once when I was having trouble with a bigger boy at school, Dad told me to imagine him wearing a pink ballet dress with a wet fish on his head and then he wouldn’t seem nearly as menacing. But it just made things worse because the next time I saw the boy I started grinning – and then he thumped me.

  Still, maybe now Dad was a fish, things would be different; he’d be wiser, more dignified…

  I wanted to go straight to the clownfish tank when I arrived at the aquarium, but Stephan stopped me.

  “Ah, Dak,” he said. “I was hoping to catch you before you left yesterday.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured. “I had to get back home. My mum needed me.”

  “Oh, of course. I understand.” He smoothed his drooping moustache with a finger and thumb.

  “Is there anything wrong?” I asked.

  “No, no, not at all! It’s just that there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I frowned. “Really? Who?” I asked warily. Meeting new people meant having to answer awkward questions.

  “Well, come into the office and you’ll see,” Stephan said with a smile, which made me even more wary. I couldn’t remember ever seeing Stephan smile. “Come on, then,” he urged.

  So I shrugged and followed him into the office.

  The first thing that struck me was the mess. It was like the place had just been burgled. There were files, papers and books everywhere; some lay in untidy piles, but most were just strewn across the floor and the furniture – on the desk, a couple of tables, chairs, a battered metal filing cabinet. On the walls there were a few frayed fish posters, which had faded from sunlight and age. I might have been tempted to call the room a tip, if I hadn’t known first-hand that the municipal rubbish tip (Sorry, Dad, ‘Recycling Centre’) was in much better order than this.

  The second thing that struck me was that there was someone in among the mess, sitting with their back to the door, hunched in front of a computer screen. It was to this person that Stephan now spoke.

  “Violet,” he said. “Violet, I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

  The response was a deep, theatrical sigh. Then slowly (as-if-to-make-a-point slowly) the person turned to face the room and I found myself gazing at the unsmiling features of a girl about my own age, possibly a little older. She had a long, pale face with dirty blonde hair, the colour of a dogfish’s belly. She wore a grey, stripy T-shirt, blue denim shorts and white trainers. Her fingernails, still resting on the computer keyboard, were a vivid turquoise. Her eyes were on Stephan – she didn’t look at me at all.

  Stephan waved his large hand in my direction. “This is Dak,” he said. Still the girl ignored me. She was either very shy or very rude, I thought. “Dak is our most dedicated customer. He comes to the aquarium every day. And now he’s helping out with the feeding too.”

  The girl gave me a quick, hostile glance.

  “Dak, this is my niece Violet,” Stephan continued, “Violet McGee. Her school’s broken up for the summer and her parents are away, so she’s come to stay with me.” He smiled again, but this time less confidently.

  I thought I ought to say something. “Hi, Violet,” I muttered.

  Violet gave me an even more hostile glance. Her eyes were small, fierce and as startlingly bright green as a tree frog – and looked just as poisonous.

  “Dak?” she snorted. “What sort of name is that?” She frowned. “Can I go back to the computer now? I was in the middle of a game.”

  Very rude, I concluded.

  Stephan apologized afterwards, but I was relieved. I just wanted to be with the fish. I’d already forgotten about Violet by the time I was in the murky tunnel that led to the main hall of the aquarium, with the reassuring sound of the water gurgling about me.

  I saw Johnny standing on a table above a new fish tank he’d been setting up. He was testing the oxygen level with some sort of probe and then noting down the reading. The tank was alive with
jellyfish. A light inside it made the jelly fish appear to change colour as they drifted through the water, pulsing like tiny umbrellas opening and shutting, streaming strands of what looked like lace as they floated up and down in a balletic dance. It was beautiful – mesmerizing.

  “Amazing, ain’t they?” said Johnny.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Awesome.”

  “They can give ya a nasty sting though,” he added. “Me mate’s girlfriend was stung once out snorkling. He had to pee on her to take the pain away.”

  I pulled a face. “Is that really true?”

  “Yeah, course it is. It’s what ya have to do if a jellyfish stings ya.” Johnny jumped down off the table, his quiff bouncing and the crab tattoo on his neck twitching as he landed. “So – have ya met Violet?”

  I nodded.

  “Bit of a stinger herself, that one, eh?”

  “She’s not very friendly,” I agreed.

  “Ya can say that again.” Johnny laughed. “She’s pricklier than a lionfish.”

  He packed the probe away in its sheath. “Anyway, enough of her. We got fish to feed…”

  I didn’t get to talk to Dad until the afternoon. I helped Johnny with the feeding – and with some of the testing too.

  Johnny showed me how to use the “optical probe” and check the reading on the unit. Then we tested the temperature of the tanks. These were all different depending on the fish and where they came from. The last tank we came to was Dad’s. Clownfish were tropical so their tank needed to be warm – twenty-five degrees, Johnny said. He checked the temperature and it was fine.

  “Well, what was that all about?” Dad asked when Johnny had gone off to put the equipment away.

  I explained about the testing. “It is nice and warm in here,” Dad conceded. “A bit like that hot tub in the hotel where we stayed on the Isle of Wight. Remember?” He grinned. “My swimming shorts kept filling up with water. I looked like I’d been inflated.”