Dunger by Joy Cowley Page B

cod, pale brown. “Too little,” she says. “Take it off the hook and throw it back.”
    I wrap the cloth around its belly and gently ease out the hook. As I throw the cod into the sea, there is a splash, a flash of silver and the little fish disappears.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    â€œWhat was what?” Grandma asks.
    â€œA big fish, silver, maybe it’s a shark.”
    â€œBarracuda!” she calls to Grandpa.
    â€œFlaming barracudas!” he yells. “Lines up, everyone. No use fishing when the barracudas are around. We’ll try somewhere else.”
    We all wind in our lines and put the rods in their holders.
    â€œHey, laddie!” Grandpa calls. “You pull up the anchor. Your sister can take the wheel.”
    Melissa takes off her hat, scoops her hair back and puts the hat back. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I can do the anchor. Let Will drive the boat for a while.”
    Cool! I go up to the skipper’s seat.
    She gives me a cheeky grin. “Your turn, snot-face,” she says.
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    Grandma catches a snapper so big that Grandpa has to bring it into the boat with a net on a pole. “It’s not snapper territory here, but she always does it.” He taps his nose with his finger. “Don’t know how. Magic maybe, she always was a cranky witch.” He laughs and calls to Grandma. “You hear that? A cranky witch!”
    â€œEnvy won’t get you anywhere, you silly old fool!” she yells back. “Are you going to fillet it? Or do you want me to do that too?”
    â€œI might just chuck it back overboard,” he says, “seeing it’s too big for the pan.”
    She snorts. “That’d be more than your life is worth.”
    Grandpa lifts the snapper onto the board, and with a spoon, takes off the scales.
    He cuts a huge fillet from each side, puts them in the salt water with the cod flesh, and throws the snapper head after them. “Lot of meat in that head,” he says. “Best part of the fish.” He stands up straight, putting his hand in the small of his back. “All done, snapper-witch!” he yells.
    â€œI’ll put a spell on you!” she yells back.
    â€œWoman, you did that years ago. If you hadn’t, I’d have walked right past you.”
    I wish they wouldn’t do this. Will says it’s all an act, but I see fight in their faces. They’re like hissing cats, fur prickling with electricity, then laughter, then sparks again. They don’t care who’s listening. And please don’t think I’m being goody-goody. I understand that it’s perfectly natural for a couple to argue when they are getting to know each other, although when I find the right partner, I am sure that won’t happen. He and I will discuss things while holding hands, which is some extremely good advice I read in a magazine. You can’t fight while holding hands, it said. Our differences will never become rows.
    I never knew Mum’s father, but her mother, my Granny Margaret, is very calm and gentle and romantic in her own quiet way. Every time she changes the sheets on her bed, she also changes her husband’s bed, although he’s been dead nearly sixteen years. That is so sweet. I think I will be like her.
    Grandma is having a go at Grandpa. She’s out of her seat, calling him names. He comes back to stow away the tackle box and when he passes her, he reaches around and pinches her on – oh, that’s so gross!
    Fortunately, I need to pull the anchor up again. The chain and rope get stowed under the hatch, and by then Grandma and Grandpa have had to stop yelling at each other because the motor is going and they can’t hear.
    It’s midday and we pass around the meat sandwiches. Will is steering us towards the Sounds and I can’t help but think of the mail delivery. It has taken us two hours to get out here, so I suppose it will be the same going back to