Tiff and the Trout Read online

  Puffin Books

  Tiff and the Trout

  David Metzenthen was born in Melbourne in 1958. He began to write fiction after abandoning a career in advertising. He has lived and travelled overseas, but regards Australia and its citizens as a major source of inspiration for his work.

  He has won several awards for excellence, including the 2003 Queensland Premier’s Literary Award and the 2004 Ethel Turner Prize for Young Adult Books in the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards for Boys of Blood and Bone; and the 2003 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Wildlight.

  David lives with his wife and two young children in Melbourne.

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Group (Australia), a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd, 2004

  Text copyright © David Metzenthen, 2004

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228320-3

  www.puffin.com.au

  Tiff and the Trout

  DAVID METZENTHEN

  Puffin Books

  For Fiona, for her patience and faith

  About trout, swings, and other things

  Saturday. The swings in the park have new wooden seats but the chains are the same.

  ‘Oh no!’ Cass yells. ‘These things are slipper-eeee! Hang on, Tiff!’

  I lean back and as I swing I can see the river. It’s below the playground and it sparkles like an avalanche of barley sugars falling through the big gum trees on the mountain. I laugh, because the world’s right there in front of my face, and the cold air tingles on my teeth.

  ‘I’m fly-ingggg!’ I shout.

  I swing higher. The river below the park is the Brumby Run River, where Dad and I go trout fishing. I know some people don’t think girls are really suited to fishing, but I am. I love it. It’s one of my best things. Even from here I can see smooth dark places where a brown trout or a rainbow trout might hide, because there are two types of trout that live around here – and I like to catch them both. And then let ’em go again!

  ‘Swing together, Tiff,’ says Cass. ‘You slow down and I’ll speed up.’

  I push instead of pulling. Cass leans back like a maniac, her long red hair trailing. Cass is my best friend. We live here in the same town, on the same road, and we’re in the same class – although I’m not sure for how long that will be, because my mum and dad have split up, and everything is changing.

  My life doesn’t seem to fit together like it used to. In the old days there was home, school, fishing, and holidays – and, well, I just did things. Now my life feels like it is full of jagged holes.

  ‘Hey, you’re slowin’ down,’ says Cass. ‘C’mon, Tiff. Catch up, dude!’

  I lean back hard and the good wild world of the mountains comes back to me again. In front of me is the shining river, the gum trees, the mountains, and the high blue sky. I love this place, even if it is really quiet. And I love Cass, too, because she can always make me laugh, no matter what’s gone wrong.

  ‘Whoopsy,’ she says. ‘My tooth just fell out. Don’t step on it.’ Cass grins, showing me the black hole. Her brother’s dog, Wally, knocked one of her big front ones out with his head, which is like a rock.

  Cass’s shiny pink plate is on the ground, with her false front tooth on it. And it looks ABSOLUTELY REVOLTING!

  I, Tiffany Jane Porter, know about trout. The rainbow trout comes from America – well, I’m pretty sure it does, and the brown trout comes from England. They are really good fish, trout. They’re speedy, smart, and beautiful. And both rainbow and brown trout live in the two rivers here in Tilgong, which is where I catch them.

  The wildest river around here is called the Warrigal and the quietest river is called the Brumby Run. I live in a small wooden house above them. Our house, like a lot of the houses in Tilgong, is painted light green. This is because all the houses were made and painted exactly the same for the workers on the hydro-electricity power station – and although the workers left years ago, most of the houses are still painted that delightful light green.

  Tilgong is halfway up Mount Kennedy, and Mount Kennedy is where we go skiing in winter. In Tilgong all the houses have gardens, but the forest is right around us. I live with my mum at the moment. Sometimes my mum’s boyfriend stays with us. His name’s Lane Mason and I’ve got to say I don’t like him all that much. My mum’s name is Sian. You say it, ‘Sharne’. My dad’s name is Ian and he lives down the mountain in Mittavale with my little brother, Nathan.

  As I was saying about the trout, well, my dad and I pretty much always let them go when we catch them. We fish with flies made of feathers and fur and stuff, which can be tricky, but I love it. Every time I go fishing it’s like re-reading one of my favourite stories because I basically know what will happen, but with fishing, I never know exactly what will happen. Otherwise, what’s the point?

  Trout face upstream. If you’re careful, you can see them in clear water. They hover, waiting for insects to come down with the current. Rainbow trout have a stripe down their sides like smudged red lipstick. Brown trout can have backs that are golden-brown or olive-green, depending on where they live. And trout have spots. Whether or not they’re like freckles I don’t know.

  My dad and I used to go fishing nearly every weekend in summer, but since he’s left, we only go when he visits. We fish in the Brumby Run River because it’s nowhere near as dangerous as the Warrigal. The flies we use are supposed to look like insects a trout would eat, and, like real insects, some flies float and some flies sink.

  You cast a fly a bit like you crack a whip.

  You wave the rod backwards and forwards and the special thick line carries the fly out. The end of the line is very light, so the fly floats down like a moth or a flying ant landing in the water. It takes a while to get the hang of it, but it’s not as hard as it looks. My dad ties his own flies and gives plenty to me. Some of their names are the Royal Coachman, Hare’s Ear, and Red Tag, and when I look at them in my fly box, it’s like looking at a swarm of prickly pet insects.

  It’s beautiful to walk up the river and cast. The rushing water sounds like pouring rain and the current twists and turns like a living thing. It’s great to see a fly drift
ing down on the current … then get grabbed by a trout! And if your fly doesn’t get taken, you just cast again.

  My dad teaches English at Mittavale High School down the mountain. He says about ninety per cent of the kids are taller than him, but that’s not true. Whatever, they don’t seem to give him any trouble. Dad hardly ever yells – but now that he and Nathan live down the mountain, it’s quiet all the time at home.

  I don’t feel like the whole complete me without them. The world seems different when your family breaks up. Not so safe. But at least I have a kind of emergency family – Cass’s mum, dad and brother. I know them and they know me. And I can go there whenever I want and stay for as long as I like. Which is lucky, because sometimes if I didn’t have a different place to go, I’d go mad.

  One funny thing is Cass’s house and my houses are exactly the same. Same size, same rooms, same front steps, same green, same everything, except perhaps tidiness. So when I’m there I kind of feel like I’m at home anyway. It’s just at Cass’s house there’s more noise, bigger people, more stuff not put away, and Wally the dopey dog – but I never feel like I’m not welcome.

  There was another girl in our class whose parents split up. Her name was Hildy Brooking and she lived with her mum up in the Mount Kennedy ski village. Her dad was an American guy who ran the ski lifts, but he went back to America a year ago. Then one day Hildy didn’t come to school. She and her mum disappeared from their flat on the mountain. Mrs Petrucci, our teacher, told us that they had just moved away. I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Well, people do that,’ my mum said. ‘Although it would’ve been better if they’d told somebody.’

  I could tell my mum didn’t like talking about it.

  ‘I’m sure she’s safe,’ Mum says, whenever I mention Hildy’s name. ‘Wherever she is.’

  I hope so, because I have the feeling that whatever happened to Hildy could happen to me.

  Two rivers, one lake

  I’m in grade six at Tilgong State School. From my classroom, I can see Tilgong Lake and both rivers. When it’s sunny the Warrigal is white and foamy, but the slower Brumby Run is gold. The hydro-electricity station is on the Warrigal, and every few days they let water out of the holding dam. This water comes down the river like a wave, so people say – but I’ve never seen it. Dad and I nearly always fish in the Brumby.

  Lane, Mum’s boyfriend, fishes in the Warrigal. He doesn’t ring to check if they’re going to dump water, either, he just risks it.

  ‘The Brumby’s too quiet,’ Lane says. ‘And besides, Tiff, by the time that water’s come all the way down here, the river’d only rise a little bit anyway.’

  Maybe, maybe not – but the hydro people don’t tell anyone when they’re dumping water, they just do it. So Dad and I keep away. I get a cold feeling in my stomach when I look at the Warrigal. I dreamt about the wave once – but when I woke, the sound I could hear was only the wind in the trees.

  Lane’s younger than my dad, and more solid. He’s noisy and his jokes are shockers. He always wears bright shirts, tight jeans, and riding boots. His hair is black and neat and his chin is always blue with whiskers, even though he shaves a lot.

  Lane lives in Ranleigh, which is down the mountain and out along the highway. He sells electrical stuff at Ranleigh Bulk Store. He got us a new video. It looks better than the old one, but it doesn’t go much better, as far as I can see.

  Lane uses spinners to catch trout. You don’t cast a spinner like you cast a fly. You toss it out, then reel it in, to make it spin or wobble. Rainbow trout generally go for spinners more than brown trout. Dad says brown trout are harder to catch because they’re shy.

  There’s a monster trout in the Brumby Run river. Dad and I call him Bob, which stands for Big Old Brown trout, because that’s exactly what he is. Once Dad hooked him.

  Bob rose up like a submarine to Dad’s little brown and white fly … then ger-lump! I remember this so clearly. Dad’s rod was bent double, his line was like tight wire – then it wasn’t. Bob jumped and smashed free.

  ‘Damn!’ Dad said, but he wasn’t really unhappy.

  After that we sat on a log for a rest. In front of us the river ran dark and deep. I didn’t know then that my dad was going to leave our house – but I do now, and it’s like having something sad to think about all the time.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Cass said, about my parents splitting up, ‘at least your mum lets you have Foxtel. And hey,’ she added, ‘also, when it comes to secret women’s business, you won’t have your dad freakin’ out trying to tell you anything. Or maybe buying you any products.’

  That’s true, but I miss my dad a lot – and my little brother, although he’s a nuisance most of the time. I can’t put it into words. It won’t fit into words; the feelings are way too complicated and big for that.

  Anyway, there goes the bell. So much for Monday.

  Shadow mountain

  On the way to school on Wednesday Cass gives me a romance novel to read. It’s called The Desert Flower and it belongs to her mum. Mrs Jurgens reads romance stories all the time, even when she’s cooking.

  ‘This one’s a classic,’ Cass says. ‘He’s a daring pilot and she’s a raving green-eyed beauty.’

  I take the book. I like them, mostly. They always have happy endings. Mum reads them, too. Once she tossed one into the wood heater.

  ‘Bloody trash!’ she said, and looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘As if!’

  I just sat there. Mum never wrecks books – she doesn’t even write her name in them. And she doesn’t often swear, either.

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read, Tiff,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll buy Cass’s mum a new one.’ And then she went to her room.

  I watched the book burn. Oh well, it wasn’t as if it was the Bible or a library book.

  My mum’s a hairdresser, but she never spends much time doing her own hair. It’s just blonde and straight, or she might wear it in a single French plait. She’s not very old, thirty-six I think, and she’s slim. I don’t have blonde hair. I have mousy-brown hair. I wish I did have blonde. Cass’s hair is long and so incredible. It’s coppery-red. In the sun it looks like flames.

  ‘I’d be such a babe if I was blonde,’ she says as we go down the hill. ‘But red? I look like a piece of carpet. And I’m too pale,’ she adds. ‘You’ll never see me on Baywatch. I burn like toast.’

  Cass and I have sat next to each other at school for seven years. Cass likes my mum and my mum likes Cass. Cass can even make Mum laugh, which is good, because my mum isn’t happy living in Tilgong. She wants to leave. She doesn’t like the mountains – she likes the beach or the city.

  ‘Just look at that gloomy old Mount Power,’ she will say, looking out from our kitchen window. ‘It scares the life out of me.’

  Mount Power is opposite us across the valley. It is massive and wild. In winter, or when it rains, it turns black. Wisps of cloud get caught high in the trees and the wind tears off branches that fall with a ripping, roaring, crash. When it has snow on it, it glows. I would like to climb it!

  ‘That darkness, Tiff,’ Mum’ll say, looking up and shivering. ‘And those trees. You could get lost up there forever. And I bet it’s always cold. Even in the middle of summer.’

  My mum hates being cold. That’s another reason why she’d like to live at the beach. She seems to have lots of reasons why she’d like to leave – and I have lots of reasons why I want her to stay!

  Cass said I could live at her house if Mum does go.

  ‘We’ll just get rid of Wally,’ Cass says. ‘Then your teeth’d be safe. That dog’s mad. He’d be happier in a mental institution anyway. More people to play with.’

  Wally is a big Malamute – but with or without Wally, I don’t want to live at someone else’s house.

  I want to stay RIGHT HERE!

  Tilgong only has about five shops, but it’s friendly. And our school is great. It’s like two old wooden houses joined together that ov
erlook the lake. The whole place smells of trees. And besides, if I left with Mum, when would I ever get to see Dad and Nathan?

  Cass is not impressed that Mum wants to live at the beach.

  ‘You’d look pretty stupid wearing your skis at the beach,’ she said. ‘I mean, sand doesn’t even look like snow.’

  Cass and I love skiing. And we’re good at it. Every winter we go up to Mount Kennedy and we blitz. And that’s another reason why I want to stay.

  Hildy Brooking, the girl from our school, is still missing. Adults just shrug when the Brookings are mentioned, or say something like, ‘Yeah, now that was strange.’

  ‘I guess she’s not really missing,’ Cass says. ‘It probably was just a family thing, but you never know …’

  We go into our classroom. It smells like old paper and new pencils.

  ‘You’d reckon her mum would’ve sent a letter or something,’ I say. ‘To explain.’

  ‘Then again –’ Cass stops dramatically, ‘maybe they all did just disappear into thin air.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Just like that.’

  I doubt it.

  Pierced ears and sensible shoes

  My brother Nathan reminds me of a brown trout. He’s got plenty of freckles and can disappear fast. He has a good time living with Dad. They go bushwalking, mountain-bike riding, and play golf. Nathan is nine. Sometimes he acts younger, like about three. But that’s what kids do, I guess. When Dad was here we all used to do outside things. Not now. Occasionally, Mum and I go for walks, but mostly we do inside stuff.

  We make clothes that turn out like the ones in magazines and we watch movies. We do work-outs and we read – not always romance things – not since Mum burnt the last one, even though Cass’s mum thought that was hilarious. My mum bought Mrs Jurgens flowers to make up for it.

  Mum grew up by the beach, and she’s got like about ten photo albums. Dad’s got one. In Mum’s photos she’s always smiling and always got a tan. She doesn’t ever look that happy here.