Clownfish Read online

  There was nothing to worry about. It was all going to be OK.

  I was a little later than usual arriving at the aquarium the next morning and I found Johnny talking with Violet.

  “Violet’s been asking me about the fish,” he said.

  I frowned at Violet. “Really? I thought you thought fish were dumb.”

  “True,” Johnny agreed. “I didn’t figure you for a fish lover, Violet.”

  “I’m not,” Violet replied brusquely. “But I’ve got to do something to pass the time. And Dak seems to think they’re ‘fascinating’.”

  “They are,” Johnny confirmed with a nod of his black quiff. “They’re the most fascinating creatures in the world. Ain’t that so, Dak?”

  “Definitely,” I agreed.

  He doesn’t know the half of it, I thought to myself.

  Johnny offered to take us on a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium. We started off in a room full of machines with buttons and pipes and dials that Johnny called the “engine room”.

  “How much water do ya reckon flows into this aquarium from the sea every day?” he quizzed us.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Violet in a tone that suggested she didn’t much care either.

  “Nor me.” I shrugged.

  “A hundred thousand litres!” Johnny exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. “And we have to manage it and make sure it’s right for all the different fish we’ve got here.”

  I knew that a hundred thousand litres was a lot but I couldn’t imagine it. Would it fill a large swimming pool – or two? A football stadium?

  Johnny moved on, pointing out various pumps and filters: the sand filter, the mechanical filter, which got rid of dirt, and the biological filter – “To make bacteria,” he explained. “People think bacteria’s a bad thing, but it ain’t. We all need bacteria – the right kind, that is – to survive.”

  Violet looked less than convinced.

  Next Johnny introduced us to the foam fractionator, an impressive-looking device with a large cylindrical body topped by a transparent drum. Its job was to skim off protein. Protein was bad apparently, as were ammonia and nitrites – though nitrates, in small levels, were fine.

  Science wasn’t my best subject at school and I was lost by this point. Violet nodded, as if she were taking it all in and understood perfectly, but when Johnny’s back was turned she crossed her eyes and grinned at me.

  Johnny was talking about the importance of controlling the tanks’ oxygen levels and temperature, which I knew about from working with him – but then he went on to PH and salinity and I was lost again. It was all too complicated. There was so much machinery and science needed to keep the fish healthy and alive.

  “What happens if there’s a power cut? How would the fish survive?” I asked. Could they survive?

  Johnny smiled and pointed to another row of machines. “Emergency generators. If the tanks fail, these fellas will supply all the power that’s needed.”

  The next stop was the feeding bay, where the food for all the different fish was prepared and stored – the large tubs of flakes that Dad was so sniffy about, as well as piles of chopped vegetables.

  Of course it was the piranhas’ diet that interested Violet. “They eat a mixture of fresh fruit and veg, and meat and fish,” Johnny told her.

  “What sort of meat and fish?” Violet wanted to know.

  “Trout, mice, chicks,” said Johnny. “They ain’t fussy.”

  “Mice? Chicks? That’s gross!” Violet sounded horrified, but I could see again the dark fascination in her eyes. What was it with her and piranhas?

  The last stop on the tour was the breeding area. We looked in a tank of black and white Banggai cardinals.

  “Dad looks after the eggs,” Johnny declared, nodding at the next tanks. “Same as with the seahorses. Those babies are just a few days old. They hatched out of a pouch in their dad’s stomach.” Violet and I stared in.

  The seahorse babies were tiny, hardly more than dark flakes in the water, but they were already perfectly formed.

  “They’ve got more chance of surviving here than if we was to leave them in their normal tank,” said Johnny sombrely. “Baby seahorses ain’t very strong. Even a slight change in temperature can kill them. In the wild only about one in a thousand survives.”

  “One in a thousand!” Violet was shocked.

  I shivered.

  “The dads look after the eggs and push them out when it’s time,” Johnny explained. “After that the babies have got to fend for themselves.”

  Violet tossed her head. “That’s dads for you. They do half the job, then walk away.”

  Johnny disagreed. “It’s just nature. Ya can’t blame the dads.”

  “Violet can. She thinks dads are to blame for everything,” I said.

  “They are,” Violet insisted. “They’re a waste of space.”

  Johnny frowned. “Steady,” he said, looking at me with concern.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “My dad’s not like that.”

  I smiled to myself. My dad was amazing. He was the funniest, kindest, most loving, best dad ever. My dad, the clownfish.

  When I got home the phone was flashing red – which meant there was a message. Anxiously I pressed the button: Mr Hoskins had received the doctor’s letter and was phoning to discuss it. He wanted Mum to call him back…

  I quickly pressed delete, but I couldn’t delete the problem. I could just ignore the message and not tell Mum. But he’d just ring back another day and if he got no reply again, then what? I knew the answer and it made me feel sick: he’d send someone round. I was sure of it. Then I’d really be in trouble, but worse, all my plans would be ruined. I’d have to go back to school.

  The thought made me hot and panicky. My breath seemed to get trapped in my chest and wouldn’t come out. I felt weak and helpless, like one of those tiny baby seahorses. I had to go outside and sit in the porch with my head between my knees, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Maybe Mr Hoskins would understand if I explained…?

  But even as my hopes rose they popped like bubblegum. To make him understand I’d have to explain about Dad, and no grown-up – especially not a headteacher – was going to accept that my father was a fish.

  I went to see Dad as soon as I arrived at the aquarium next morning. I’d slept badly and not even his sweatshirt could soothe me. I needed to see him, be with him.

  He was swimming from one side of the tank to the other, so fast that he seemed to shimmer through the water. I watched him mesmerised. After about the fourth turn I called out to get his attention.

  “What is it? Can’t you see I’m busy?” he hissed.

  “I just came to say ‘hello’,” I said meekly.

  “Well, now you’ve said it. Can I please get back to my practice?”

  “Practice?” I frowned. “What are you practising for?”

  Dad wiggled to the front of the tank. “The damsels have challenged me to a race,” he announced dramatically. “Fifty widths.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready. I’m not racing till I’m sure I’ll win.”

  “But how can you ever know that?”

  “Fintuition, my boy,” Dad said with a wink. “Do you remember the octopus that predicted all the World Cup results? Paul, I think his name was. Well, he’ll look like an amateur next to me.” He flickered with pride. “Those damsels are going to be in distress all right. And no one’s going to rescue them. Clownfish rule OK!”

  Then he was off again, swimming from side to side.

  Upstairs, Toby had finished his painting – the walls were covered with fish quotes in his graceful script. Over the reception desk was the creepy one that had made me shiver: I often sigh still for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom of the fish. The name Robert Lowell was written underneath. Who was he, I wondered? An ecologist, a writer, a poet…? I preferred the other quotes – but, I had to admit, this one suited Stephan best.

  I looked to see if he
was in his office, but he wasn’t. Violet was. She was on the floor by the desk.

  “Hi, Violet,” I said. She didn’t look up. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to put this place in order,” she growled, staring at a mess of papers.

  “Oh.”

  Violet sat up. “Is that all you can say: ‘Oh’?”

  “I mean, it’s a big job,” I offered lamely.

  She nodded. “It is.” She gave me an almost-smile and her eyes were almost friendly. “Fancy helping?”

  I shrugged. “OK.”

  I’d rather have been with the fish, but right now any distraction would do.

  We worked hard, tidying and sorting. Violet made new files and put them neatly in the cabinet. She didn’t say a lot and nor did I. Now and then I asked her where things should go and let her decide. She didn’t know the office any better than I did really but there was an air of confidence about everything she did.

  “You don’t say much, do you, Dak?” Violet remarked after we’d been working for some time. I started to shrug but she went on with a smile, “Unless it’s about fish.”

  I tried to smile back but there was too much going on in my head.

  “Dak’s a strange name,” she said, but not in a sneering way like when we were first introduced.

  “Violet’s not exactly common,” I replied defensively.

  “No, but it is a name.” She paused a moment as if collecting her thoughts. “What I mean is, I’ve never heard the name Dak before. Did your parents make it up?”

  “My dad did. My mum wanted to call me Zak. But Dad thought it was too ordinary. Like his name: Bob. He wanted me to have an unusual name.”

  “So Zak became Dak?”

  “Yes.”

  “But is it short for something, like Zak’s short for Zachary?”

  I shook my head. “No. Although when I was little Dad used to say it was short for pterodactyl.”

  “Pterodactyl!”

  “It was a joke.” I smiled, but again without conviction.

  “You look like you’re worried about something,” Violet said.

  Her sudden change of subject took me by surprise. “Me? Uh…”

  “Is it something to do with your dad?”

  “No, no, it’s… Well…”

  “Tell me,” she ordered, her bright green eyes staring at me.

  And, well, why not? I thought. So I did. Not about Dad being a clownfish, of course, but I told her about the letter I’d written and the headteacher’s phone call and my worry that I’d be found out and have to go back to school.

  In the few days I’d known her, Violet had already surprised me several times. But now her reaction astonished me.

  “Oh, is that all?” she said casually. “I can fix that.”

  I didn’t get Violet’s solution at first.

  “I’m good at acting,” she said. “I go to drama club. Last term I played Mary Poppins and had excellent reviews.”

  I stared at her. “What’s Mary Poppins got to do with my problem?”

  “Mary Poppins hasn’t got anything to do with it,” Violet huffed. “It’s just an example. To show you I’m good at acting and can play different characters, see?”

  “No, not really,” I said. Violet rolled her eyes and sighed like I was being really, really stupid.

  “Look, sometimes, on the phone, I pretend to be my mum. No one ever guesses it’s me. I fool people all the time.”

  “Ah, I get it … I think,” I said hesitantly. “You’re going to pretend to be my mum?”

  “Exactamento!” Violet whooped. “I’ll phone your school and talk to your headmaster. Problem solved.”

  She made it all sound so simple, but I knew it wasn’t. “What if he doesn’t believe you?”

  This possibility didn’t seem to have occurred to Violet and she fell silent for a moment. “I’ll speak through a handkerchief,” she said at last. “It makes your voice sound different. They do it in films all the time.”

  “Does that really work? Won’t you just sound odd?” I said doubtfully. Another problem struck me. “Have you even got a handkerchief? I haven’t.”

  As it happened, Violet hadn’t either but she looked around for something that she could use instead. The best she could do was the sleeve of her hoodie, but that didn’t work – you couldn’t hear a word she was saying.

  “It’s no good,” I said.

  Violet frowned, then asked, “How well does the head know your mum? Have they spoken much before?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe once or twice. Not for a while.”

  Violet’s eyes gleamed. “Perfectissimo! Then we’ve nothing to worry about!”

  “Really? But what will you say?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I thought about this. “I want you to say that you think I should stay at home and not go back until after the summer holidays.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why do I think you should stay at home?”

  I frowned. “You know. Because of … because…”

  “Because your dad died and you’re still in shock.”

  “Yes.” I shuffled some papers on the desk. Facing Violet was almost as bad as facing Mr Hoskins.

  “And what do I say if he wants to come round?”

  I shuddered. “He can’t. He mustn’t.”

  “It’s all right, Dak.” Violet’s face lit up. She was really enjoying herself now. “I’ll tell him the doctor’s said you have to have rest and quiet. People always follow doctors’ orders.” She grinned. “I think I’ll be a doctor one day.”

  I was a bit worried that Violet would say the wrong things, so we had a rehearsal. She pretended to be Mum and I pretended to be Mr Hoskins. It went fine until I asked her a question and she told me to stop being so nosy.

  “I don’t think you should say that,” I told her.

  “With respect, Mr Hoskins, Dak is my son and I think I know what’s best for him,” Violet fired back.

  I shook my head. “I wasn’t being Mr Hoskins then; I was being me. I don’t think you should say that.”

  “Oh,” said Violet. Then she started to giggle and soon I was giggling too. When we’d finally calmed down, I said, “What if you start laughing while you’re talking to Mr Hoskins?”

  “I won’t,” Violet assured me. “I told you, I’m good at this. Very good.”

  I used the office computer to look up the school telephone number. Then I locked the door in case Stephan appeared suddenly and ruined everything. Violet said she’d put the phone on speaker so I could listen in and help out if there were any tricky questions she couldn’t answer.

  “Here we go… Wish me luck,” she said brightly.

  “Good luck,” I croaked.

  “No, you have to say, ‘Break a leg’. That’s what they say in the theatre.”

  “OK. Break a leg.” But how can you act if your leg’s broken? I thought. Then I heard the ring tone and felt my stomach drop down to my shoes.

  “Good morning, Middlemas School,” the school secretary, Mrs Burns, chirruped from the speaker.

  Violet gave me a wink. “Good morning, this is Mrs Marsden, Dak’s mum. I’m returning Mr Hoskins’ call.” Her voice was deeper, calmer. It was amazing how different she sounded. “Could I have a word with him, please?”

  I cringed, waiting for Mrs Burns to laugh or make some sharp remark that showed she hadn’t been fooled – but she just said, “I’ll put you through, Mrs Marsden. And may I offer my condolences. We were all really really sorry to hear of your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Violet replied with quiet dignity. Then she turned to me with a broad grin.

  We waited a moment or two and then, “Good morning, Mrs Marsden.” Mr Hoskins was on the line!

  There was no doubt about it – Violet was a “phenomenon”. That was the word Dad used when he was talking about someone who had extraordinary talent, like a footballer: That guy’s a phenome
non, he’d say.

  Well, so was Violet. Not once did Mr Hoskins sound suspicious – he was very concerned when Violet had told him how shocked and upset I still was by Dad’s death, and how the doctor had advised her that I should have more time to recover before going back to school. The only tricky moment came when he suggested sending someone round with some books and papers so that I could see what the class had been up to while I’d been away. I shook my head wildly. Violet gestured that she needed my help, but my mind went blank with panic.

  Just when I thought everything was ruined, Violet said, “I think Dak and I may go away for a while to help him take his mind off things. A stay in the country perhaps…”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I understand,” Mr Hoskins said at once. “That sounds like a very good idea.”

  “Perhaps you could send some work through by email,” Violet added brightly.

  Mr Hoskins liked this idea. He said he’d tell my form tutor to get in touch. And that was it: problem solved. When Violet put down the phone we high-fived and whooped. Violet had fixed it just as she’d said she would. She was a phenomenon. Prickly, bossy, moody, rude – but definitely a phenomenon.

  Over the next few days Violet and I spent a lot more time together – and I actually enjoyed being with her. She could still have her scratchy moments, but all in all she was much more easy-going than when she’d first arrived. She really got involved with the aquarium too.

  One morning I came in to find her in charge of the reception desk. She was filing her nails, which seemed brighter than ever.

  “Uncle Stephan’s busy showing a couple of men around,” she explained.

  “A couple of men?”

  “Yes, from the council. Health and Safety. Apparently they do random checks now and then. Like those busybody inspectors you get in school.”

  “Ofsted,” I nodded. “We had them at the beginning of the summer term.”