reaching for the jar. I hand her the jar. âAnd the lid,â she says. I hand her the lid.
âNow, Tom,â she says, in what I imagine is her teacherâs voice, âthis is important. Do not drink this. If you do, youâll sleep for a week.â Iâm not sure if sheâs joking or serious. She screws on the lid and places the jar in front of me. She rests her forefinger on top. âAt night,â she continues, âjust before you get into bed, remove the lid and place the jar where the moonlight can reach it.â
âWhat if itâs cloudy?â
âWhen thereâs no moon, it wonât work.â
âThatâs all I do?â
âNo,â she leans closer, âyou need to stir it.â Clare reaches under the counter and rummages around for a bit. âI donât seem to have what Iâm looking for,â she says, more to herself than me. âWait a minute.â Clare walks through the shop and disappears outside.
âSheâs a strange one,â says Mrs Blanket, âbut her cures seem to work. She gave old Mr Cravensbourne a heart tonic from the carp tank a few weeks ago. He swears heâs never felt better.â
I look at the carp. Three blank pairs of eyes look back at me. âWas that around the time Oscar died, Mrs Blanket?â I ask, then wish I hadnât.
âHere you go,â says Clare, walking back through the shop with a twig in her hand. âStir it with this, slowly and carefully.â
âFor how long?â
âGood question. Five turns should do it. Maybe six. Youâll sleep like a baby.â
âJonah,â I say, calling out to the front porch from the bedroom, âdo you think you can walk me down to the inlet?â 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 canât see the point of walking to the letterbox. âJonah,â I call, louder this time.
Jonah Whiting is a dreamer. Itâs one of my favourite things about him, although it can be annoying when I want an answer.
âWhat?â
âThat took a while,â I say. Papa calls it answering via satellite.
âYeah, well, I was thinking.â
I walk out to the porch with the FishMaster. Jonahâs still eating his breakfast. Heâs sharing his toast with a baby magpie, and he has the little bird eating out of his hand.
âJonah,â I say, âif the FishMaster had wheels I could walk to the inlet on my own.â I had been thinking of borrowing Nanaâs shopping trolley. Actually, it was Papa who suggested it. He said Nana doesnât use the trolley anymore because she gets Jonathan to carry all her shopping. Papa nicknamed Jonathan Whiting âthe bag manâ.
âItâs okay, Tom, I donât mind carrying it.â
Jonah says that, but sometimes I wonder.
âBut,â he says, turning to face me, âI could hook it up to my old skateboard if youâre serious about walking on your own.â
âNow?â
âNo, not now. Later.â
âLetâs go then,â I say. âJust give me two secs.â
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.
âYou remember Caleb Loeb?â
âJeez, Jonah. I almost dropped the Minnow.â
âFunny.â
âCaleb Loeb. Tall, skinny guy. Pretended to have a bit of a thing for Mrs Lee.â
âThat wasnât pretend. He was just young. Youâre so wrong about people, Tom.â
âIs that right? Was I wrong about you?â My trump card.
âYeah, okay, youâve