Read Online Changeling's Island - eARC by Dave Freer - Free Book Online
Authors: Dave Freer
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the sea really, but, well, we never went. But I used to go swimming quite a lot. I can swim well,” he said defensively, feeling, somehow, that he’d moved down in McKay’s estimation of him.
“I suppose you’ve never been on a boat either?” asked the man, a smile twitching his lips.
“No, I haven’t,” admitted Tim, feeling like he was saying he hadn’t done his homework, and thinking just how unfair that was. Something about this man made Tim want to be liked by him, want to be respected.
“Hmm. I’ll take you out sometime. We’ll go and catch a few flathead. It’s a part of your heritage. I reckon you’ll see enough of the beach here. You can get down to Marshall Bay from Mary Ryan’s place. There’s a track through the scrub.”
They’d arrived at the old gate. “I can walk from here. Really. It’s not far.”
“Hop out and open it. It’ll be easier for me to turn around down at the house, if I remember it right. I came down with my uncle Giles when I was about your age to go netting off the beach.”
So Tim did as he was told. Letting the ute and the boat go past before he closed the gate, Tim got a really good look at the boat on the trailer for the first time. It was obviously rugged and cool looking, metal underneath, with long, sleek blown-up pontoons on the sides.
They bumped down to the farmhouse. “Stock looks in fair shape,” said McKay, sounding faintly surprised. “I don’t suppose you know much about sheep or cattle either.”
“No. I have to milk a cow this afternoon,” said Tim.
That got a snort of laughter. “You’re going to have some fun out here, youngster.”
Tim hadn’t quite thought of it as “fun.” They arrived at the house, and his grandmother was striding towards them, garden fork under one arm. McKay got out of the ute. “Mrs. Ryan. I’m Jon McKay. You probably don’t remember me, but I used to come along with my Uncle Giles to net garfish about, oh, fifteen years back.”
Something about the way the old woman walked changed. That might almost have been a smile on that severe face of hers. “You want to net some more fish?”
“No, I’m diving abalone these days. I just brought your boy home. I was stuck at the side of the road and he gave me a hand to fix the ute.”
“Ah. Not in trouble, is he?”
“No. He was a real help,” said McKay. “I said I’d take him to catch some flathead someday.”
“I haven’t had a good feed of flathead for a while,” said Tim’s grandmother. “If he’ll go, he can.”
“If we have some decent weather on the weekend, I’ll take him. He’s got some adventures ahead of him. I hear he’s learning to milk a cow this afternoon. And he says he’s never been to the beach or the sea.”
His grandmother snorted. “That’s the trouble with city people. They can’t do much.”
“Yes,” said McKay cheerfully. “I came from Lonnie for holidays. Best time of my life was learning stuff from Uncle Giles. Anyway, I have to get these fish packed and down to the airport, and my deckie has taken off again. Would you like a few abalone for your tea, Mrs. Ryan?”
That was almost definitely a smile. “That’d be good. Yer want some spuds?” asked Tim’s gran.
McKay nodded. “Please, if you can spare some. Mine aren’t doing as well as yours. I’ve got a place up towards Boat Harbour. The soil is pretty sandy.”
“This was too, but it’s had fifty years of manure in it. Here, Tim, run and get a carrier bag from behind the door in the kitchen, and you can take the fork and dig up some potatoes.”
Tim fetched the bag, was handed the fork—his grandmother and McKay having walked over to the vegetable garden, talking—and realized he had a problem. There were a lot of plants there. None of them had a sign on them that said “potatoes.”
* * *
Áed could see the fenodree, lurking among the broad beans, scowling. The woman of the place might regard this as her domain, but the fenodree regarded
“I suppose you’ve never been on a boat either?” asked the man, a smile twitching his lips.
“No, I haven’t,” admitted Tim, feeling like he was saying he hadn’t done his homework, and thinking just how unfair that was. Something about this man made Tim want to be liked by him, want to be respected.
“Hmm. I’ll take you out sometime. We’ll go and catch a few flathead. It’s a part of your heritage. I reckon you’ll see enough of the beach here. You can get down to Marshall Bay from Mary Ryan’s place. There’s a track through the scrub.”
They’d arrived at the old gate. “I can walk from here. Really. It’s not far.”
“Hop out and open it. It’ll be easier for me to turn around down at the house, if I remember it right. I came down with my uncle Giles when I was about your age to go netting off the beach.”
So Tim did as he was told. Letting the ute and the boat go past before he closed the gate, Tim got a really good look at the boat on the trailer for the first time. It was obviously rugged and cool looking, metal underneath, with long, sleek blown-up pontoons on the sides.
They bumped down to the farmhouse. “Stock looks in fair shape,” said McKay, sounding faintly surprised. “I don’t suppose you know much about sheep or cattle either.”
“No. I have to milk a cow this afternoon,” said Tim.
That got a snort of laughter. “You’re going to have some fun out here, youngster.”
Tim hadn’t quite thought of it as “fun.” They arrived at the house, and his grandmother was striding towards them, garden fork under one arm. McKay got out of the ute. “Mrs. Ryan. I’m Jon McKay. You probably don’t remember me, but I used to come along with my Uncle Giles to net garfish about, oh, fifteen years back.”
Something about the way the old woman walked changed. That might almost have been a smile on that severe face of hers. “You want to net some more fish?”
“No, I’m diving abalone these days. I just brought your boy home. I was stuck at the side of the road and he gave me a hand to fix the ute.”
“Ah. Not in trouble, is he?”
“No. He was a real help,” said McKay. “I said I’d take him to catch some flathead someday.”
“I haven’t had a good feed of flathead for a while,” said Tim’s grandmother. “If he’ll go, he can.”
“If we have some decent weather on the weekend, I’ll take him. He’s got some adventures ahead of him. I hear he’s learning to milk a cow this afternoon. And he says he’s never been to the beach or the sea.”
His grandmother snorted. “That’s the trouble with city people. They can’t do much.”
“Yes,” said McKay cheerfully. “I came from Lonnie for holidays. Best time of my life was learning stuff from Uncle Giles. Anyway, I have to get these fish packed and down to the airport, and my deckie has taken off again. Would you like a few abalone for your tea, Mrs. Ryan?”
That was almost definitely a smile. “That’d be good. Yer want some spuds?” asked Tim’s gran.
McKay nodded. “Please, if you can spare some. Mine aren’t doing as well as yours. I’ve got a place up towards Boat Harbour. The soil is pretty sandy.”
“This was too, but it’s had fifty years of manure in it. Here, Tim, run and get a carrier bag from behind the door in the kitchen, and you can take the fork and dig up some potatoes.”
Tim fetched the bag, was handed the fork—his grandmother and McKay having walked over to the vegetable garden, talking—and realized he had a problem. There were a lot of plants there. None of them had a sign on them that said “potatoes.”
* * *
Áed could see the fenodree, lurking among the broad beans, scowling. The woman of the place might regard this as her domain, but the fenodree regarded
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