The Keeper Read Online Free PDF Page B

want a kid? One like me? And who, except Gran and Grandad, have ever wanted me anyway? Then I start thinking the worst thing possible – what if Dev doesn’t care at all? What if he doesn’t like the way I am sometimes? Maybe I should have handled this ad thing better – I mean how long will it last? Dev said to try it for a few weeks so I guess it’s just a holiday thing, but wouldn’t it be cool if Gran knew about Dev and he could move in too, like Zoe? A dad forever is better than one for a few weeks, surely? Gran would flip her lid for sure. Dev’s a stranger to her. But then, so was Zoe two weeks ago.
    One look at Dev in the daytime blows my doubts out to sea. Dev gets a gleam in his eye when I come down the slope to the boatshed. And when we stand together, reading the beach or the sky, I know I’ll never have to worry about another thing again. As long as Dev stays. And so I do the best thing I can to make that happen, to make Dev care. I show him Grandad’s best fishing spot off Rogue’s Point. The one where Grandad never went alone. It works, though not for the reason I first had in mind.
    â€˜See here?’ I’m hauling down the big white bucket that had been Grandad’s, his rock-fishing rods and tackle box. Dev’s got the other gear: bait, hessian bag for the catch. ‘If we’re quiet, since the tide’s in, they’ll come up close. I’ve caught heaps here on evenings like this.’ With Grandad. I’m talking over my shoulder. ‘And if you’re careful on the rocks nothing will go wrong, even if the swell comes up later on.’
    It’s like a premonition; the wind does come up, splashing the waves onto the rocks, roaring. It’ll be okay if we’re careful but I think it’s Dev’s boots that cause the problem. I should have warned him about those. Not enough grip for smooth wet rocks, for when his line starts to run and he stands to set his hooks a wave suddenly spews up, higher than the rest, washing water over his feet, his knees, splashing his face even. He jumps back. Anyone would – who likes getting wet? On a none-too-hot October evening? But you can’t do that on the rocks, and I shout, ‘Careful!’
    I know what these rocks are like. If you’re not used to them, you have to stay still, wait till someone leads you back to the dry. That’s why Grandad said not to fish on these rocks alone.
    â€˜Here!’ The smashing of water falling back onto the rocks below is louder, but Dev hears me. I hold out my hand, inching forwards; my sneakers have a better grip than his boots. And then Dev does it. He turns towards me – that’s okay – but he lifts his boot.
    â€˜No! Don’t shift your—!’ But I’m too late. You’d think he’d know; in that simple move, Dev’s boots lose any traction they’ve gained. I watch, stunned, as Dev’s legs bow under, his arms beating the air as if that could stop the slipping. Then another wave comes. It’s too soon. ‘Hang on!’ I make a lunge but I’m not quick enough – the crust on the rocks turns to slime in the wet – and I hear the splash as Dev falls. Feel it too. I lean over. There’s Dev in the white froth, using his legs to keep off the rocks, and I throw in everything I can lay my hands on: the Coke bottle we’ve drunk from, the bucket – maybe Dev can keep afloat. I hurry along the rocks, careful (can’t slip too), as Dev drifts down the coast. He’s got hold of the bucket, legs pushing where they can.
    I shout, even though I doubt he can hear me. ‘Swim with the tide. Just hang on!’ But how long can he? All that water, tons of it, and look what it does to debris as it’s dashed up onto rocks. I don’t dare leave – there are holes and submerged caves. I’ve seen them when the tide’s out. I have to find a break in the rocks