Free The Minnow by Diana Sweeney

reaching for the jar. I hand her the jar. ‘And the lid,’ she says. I hand her the lid.
    â€˜Now, Tom,’ she says, in what I imagine is her teacher’s voice, ‘this is important. Do not drink this. If you do, you’ll sleep for a week.’ I’m not sure if she’s joking or serious. She screws on the lid and places the jar in front of me. She rests her forefinger on top. ‘At night,’ she continues, ‘just before you get into bed, remove the lid and place the jar where the moonlight can reach it.’
    â€˜What if it’s cloudy?’
    â€˜When there’s no moon, it won’t work.’
    â€˜That’s all I do?’
    â€˜No,’ she leans closer, ‘you need to stir it.’ Clare reaches under the counter and rummages around for a bit. ‘I don’t seem to have what I’m looking for,’ she says, more to herself than me. ‘Wait a minute.’ Clare walks through the shop and disappears outside.
    â€˜She’s a strange one,’ says Mrs Blanket, ‘but her cures seem to work. She gave old Mr Cravensbourne a heart tonic from the carp tank a few weeks ago. He swears he’s never felt better.’
    I look at the carp. Three blank pairs of eyes look back at me. ‘Was that around the time Oscar died, Mrs Blanket?’ I ask, then wish I hadn’t.
    â€˜Here you go,’ says Clare, walking back through the shop with a twig in her hand. ‘Stir it with this, slowly and carefully.’
    â€˜For how long?’
    â€˜Good question. Five turns should do it. Maybe six. You’ll sleep like a baby.’
    â€˜Jonah,’ I say, calling out to the front porch from the bedroom, ‘do you think you can walk me down to the inlet?’ Dr Patek has spoken to Dr Frank and they both agree that the moderate exercise rule can be extended to include the inlet as well as the letterbox. I can’t see the point of walking to the letterbox. ‘Jonah,’ I call, louder this time.
    Jonah Whiting is a dreamer. It’s one of my favourite things about him, although it can be annoying when I want an answer.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜That took a while,’ I say. Papa calls it answering via satellite.
    â€˜Yeah, well, I was thinking.’
    I walk out to the porch with the FishMaster. Jonah’s still eating his breakfast. He’s sharing his toast with a baby magpie, and he has the little bird eating out of his hand.
    â€˜Jonah,’ I say, ‘if the FishMaster had wheels I could walk to the inlet on my own.’ I had been thinking of borrowing Nana’s shopping trolley. Actually, it was Papa who suggested it. He said Nana doesn’t use the trolley anymore because she gets Jonathan to carry all her shopping. Papa nicknamed Jonathan Whiting ‘the bag man’.
    â€˜It’s okay, Tom, I don’t mind carrying it.’
    Jonah says that, but sometimes I wonder.
    â€˜But,’ he says, turning to face me, ‘I could hook it up to my old skateboard if you’re serious about walking on your own.’
    â€˜Now?’
    â€˜No, not now. Later.’
    â€˜Let’s go then,’ I say. ‘Just give me two secs.’
    I used to be able to fish on an empty stomach, but now I need supplies. I pack some bread and fruit into an old lunchbox, fill a bottle with water and, remembering how uncomfortable the pier has become, grab a cushion off the couch.
    The walk to the inlet is uncomfortably quiet. Jonah seems a million miles away, too far for me to reach. So I get a fright when he speaks.
    â€˜You remember Caleb Loeb?’
    â€˜Jeez, Jonah. I almost dropped the Minnow.’
    â€˜Funny.’
    â€˜Caleb Loeb. Tall, skinny guy. Pretended to have a bit of a thing for Mrs Lee.’
    â€˜That wasn’t pretend. He was just young. You’re so wrong about people, Tom.’
    â€˜Is that right? Was I wrong about you?’ My trump card.
    â€˜Yeah, okay, you’ve