The Man in the Shed Read Online Free PDF Page B

laps at our crotches and we cast our home-styled lures to land in the frothing water.
    All at once, rods bend and reels screech. By the dozen we are reeling in fat kahawai, big muscled fish that we walk backwards with and heave up onto the wet sand. Some of the fishermen quickly dig a hole in the sand and throw their catch into a soapy basin of water.
    I happen to be inspecting a kingie someone has been lucky to hook when I look up to see everyone’s eyes on a fisherman standing next to Dad. He is leaning back to get a sense of the weight of the catch. Some of the other fishermen have switched their attention to what he has on the end of his line. Everyone is waiting for the fish to break the surface so we can get a look at him. We follow the taut line dripping with light and we make searching glances to see where the sea might rip next. A large fish will usually show itself. But this fish is not behaving in the expected way. It does not come and go and there is no slack line to reel in. The same weight on the line is maintained, and the reel methodically clicks over. The fisherman tries switching the rod from his right to left hand, and now, to my surprise, he hands his rod to Dad. Dad hands his rod over in exchange. As they do so the stranger imparts some information on the breaking strain of his line. Now Dad wades into deeper water; he’s up to his waist and that’s when I see, along with the rest of the beach, that he is slowly reeling in Mum.
    She is making some effort to help. It is clearly difficult forher. I have an idea she is hooked in the region of her back, which would account for her awkward crabbing movement. As Dad reels he walks towards her—reeling and walking, up to his chest now, and for her part Mum appears to be doing her best to work with Dad, coming to the pain as they did from different directions. I notice the disturbed water moving away. Some fishermen set off after it, but a number have stayed back to watch Dad and, I suppose, to see what will happen next.
    It being mid-tide he’s able to wade nearly halfway out to the raft, where he shifts the rod to his left hand and reaches his more powerful welder’s arm around the front of Mum and scoops her out of the sea. He gets her into the shallows and that’s where he hands the rod back to the fisherman. Taking great care he sits Mum down on the sand. She looks up but does not appear to see me. She’s crying out to Dad to do something. To, please, please, get the thing out of her. Her shoulders are raised and her buttocks pushed out. I can see what she is trying to do. Fish do the same. They bend and arch as the hook is removed. Mum is trying to loosen the skin around the hook. I wonder if anyone else has noticed her stomach. It’s large and resistant to the moment. It’s as though it shouldn’t be here, has separate business of its own to attend to. Dad glances up, sees me and waves me closer. He gets me to kneel down beside Mum. He gives me the instructions. I am to open her mouth and stick my forearm in.
    He was so calm and matter of fact that I followed the instruction. He said it would probably hurt but not as much asit will your mum, remember that. And I did. He grabbed the skin around the hook and bunched it up. It gave him something to work with and had the effect of isolating the hooked-flesh part of Mum from the rest of her. When the moment came Mum made a muffled sound like that of someone trying to breathe through a pillow—then she spat my forearm out and swore loudly, a word I didn’t know she had in her. That alone brought a smile to Dad’s face. With a fat grin he held up the lure and a number crowded around for a closer look; one or two clapped. The man whose rod had hooked Mum patted Dad on the shoulder. Just beneath Mum’s right shoulder you could see where the hook had embedded. A watery trickle of blood oozed down her back. I was inspecting the tooth marks over my forearm—Jesus, I was thinking, she’s actually broken