Deeper Water by Jessie Cole Page B

imagined that before, not with anybody’s hands. He pressed his fingers against his eyes and made a low sound. Not a word, more a hiss.
    ‘Alright.’ He turned and looked at me finally. ‘No cane-toad killing today. But I’m not showering with the buggers. You’ve got to get them out.’
    I handed him the clothes I’d been clutching and went to get the broom. It was a pretty inelegant business, sweeping toads. They rolled right over onto their backs, legs dangling in the air, soft pale bellies exposed. After a bit of jiggling around they’d right themselves and then try to jump away into the corners, but I was used to that. A couple of brushes and they were gone. Swept out onto the grass. But I knew they’d be back.
    ‘It’s not much of a victory, Mema,’ Hamish said quietly, looking down at the floor.
    I leaned on the broom a second, watching his shuttered face.
    ‘I’m not playing to win,’ I said finally, thinking of all the squashed toads on the road. I didn’t think I was playing at all.

9.
    While Hamish was in the shower I had a scramble around in the fridge to see if there was enough stuff to make us all sandwiches. The stand-off about the cane toads had left me uneasy. I guess I was looking for a distraction.
    When Mum got working in the shed, sometimes she forgot to eat, so I usually tried to take her out something. The bread was a bit stale. I popped it in the toaster to freshen it up. Found some tomatoes, some cheese, picked a few lettuce leaves from the garden. That’d have to do. I wondered about what we could make for dinner. We’d been trapped in for a few days now and our supplies were getting low. I’d have to investigate what was at the back of the pantry. No one in my house was too good at cleaning things out, so sticking your hand into the depths of the cupboard was a bit of a lucky dip. Sometimes you might come out with something—a laksa paste and some rice stick noodles or a nice-looking tomato pasta sauce that wasn’t out of date. Anything was possible. Shopping was a haphazard activity for us, not a regular one, so it was a bit hard to keep track.
    Out at the shed Mum was spanning the whirling pot in her arms, its final shape solidifying. I stood on the threshold with the sandwich, watching her, appreciating how she knew the precise moment when it was ready. When I threw pots I was always unsure. Could they use a little more? Should they be a little thinner? Thicker perhaps? It was all indecision, but for Mum there was a precise moment. I watched her hands waiting for the moment. It wasn’t anything she could describe in words, though I’d asked her many times. Maybe it was the simple knowledge of when something was done that made her the master and me the novice.
    When the pot was finished she glanced up at me, smiling at the sandwich.
    ‘Thanks, Mema.’ She always emerged from throwing pots softer than when she went in, like it offered her some private solace. ‘You’re such a good girl.’
    ‘There’s not much left in the fridge,’ I said. ‘So don’t get too excited.’
    She took one last look at her giant creation and then moved across to wash her hands in the sink.
    ‘You go down to the creek and do some ochre painting?’
    I could see her checking out my face. I’d tried to wash it off in the water, but I guess it needed a good scrub with soap.
    ‘Yeah, Hamish was getting stir-crazy. He started talking about computers .’ I didn’t want her to know we’d gone creek-riding.
    ‘He’ll be gone tomorrow.’ She reached out and took the plate. ‘Back into the world. He’ll be happy.’
    ‘He thinks you don’t like him.’
    I didn’t mean to say it, but suddenly it was out of my mouth. My mum studied me a moment and then took a bite of the sandwich, chewing it slowly.
    ‘He’s alright,’ she said finally. ‘Just one of those guys, Mema.’
    I wondered what exactly she meant but I didn’t feel like asking. She took another bite of her sandwich and