Pond People

Even in the hottest weather, the pond would cool down at night, but here in the bowl, the water temperature hadn’t changed.

Molly rested in the darkness. She sensed the others were awake too although they were all exhausted.

She listened to the bubbling of the tank nearby. This was a kind of torture to the mirlings drooping in the tepid stillness of the bowl. Mojo snored softly in his bed somewhere beneath them.

To take her mind off the gurgling tank, Molly asked Sylva and Walter how they’d met. and learned that their families were neighbours. They were more interested in learning about Flash, but Flash hadn’t stayed to answer questions. He’d swum again to the surface and was circling the bowl, as if an escape route might have appeared since he last looked.

Flo turned to check on Grandad.

‘How will we get home?’ asked Walter, and three pairs of eyes fixed on Molly, as if she had an answer.

She shook her head. ‘I wish I knew.’

Flo rejoined them. ’Grandad’s dozing – at last.

Sylva looked puzzled. ‘You all call him Grandad. Whose grandad is he?’

‘N-nobody’s,’ replied Flo. ‘N-none of us, anyway. He had a family before he was taken from the river, but he n-never settled with anyone from the pond.’

Molly had wondered why not but had never asked. Her grandmother had told of how the newcomer had kept to himself for years after he arrived. Few in the pond now were old enough to remember that far back.

As day came and the room lightened, two of the fish drifted up to swim around the bowl, but the carroty one – the former dodger-fish – remained on the bottom.

The parents appeared first. Bethany soon joined them in the kitchen.

‘Daddy, Flipper isn’t well,’

‘Which one’s Flipper, Beth?’ asked her mother at the sink.

‘Flipper’s my flippy orange fish.’

‘The one from the fairground?’ asked her father, coming to the bowl.

‘No, that’s Goldie, he’s more yellowy. The black one’s Shadow. Can I feed them? Maybe Flipper’s hungry.’

‘Maybe he’s homesick for his pond. Just a little pinch of food then, let’s see if he comes up to feed.’

Coloured flakes appeared on the surface of the water. Their aroma drifted, reminding Molly how long it was since she’d last eaten. Two fish rose to the food, but the one Bethany called Flipper stayed on the bottom.

As the flakes were disturbed, some floated down through the water and one lodged in the weed. Molly waited until the humans turned away and broke off a chunk of flake to try it.

It tasted better than the pond pellets, which mirlings rarely bothered with. Pellets had to be hauled down from the surface and soaked to make them soft.

Molly and Flash dragged the flake deep into the weed, and Flash swam up to bring down another before she could tell him not to risk being seen.

The day dragged on, noisy and uncomfortable, as they huddled together in the weed. Molly became accustomed to the weight of fear she carried, her heart no longer quivering as if occupied by damselflies.

With no pump to carry away water for filtering fish waste polluted the bowl. The warm, still water absorbed little oxygen from its tiny surface area, and the creatures inside breathed it quicker than it was replaced. Even Flash grew listless, and Sylva stopped asking unanswerable questions.

Goldie from the fairground was the only fish still swimming by the end of the day. She circled the bowl as the two pond fish rested on the bottom, gills pumping desperately.

‘Daddy, Shadow’s sick too. Are they going to die?’

Joel looked in and tapped on the glass. ‘Probably.’

‘Joel…’ his father growled a warning. ‘They’re sleeping, honey. It’s their bedtime, and yours too.’

‘But their eyes are open.’

‘Have you ever seen a fish with its eyes shut? Go get ready for bed. Mummy will come up for your story when you’re ready. Joel! Homework.’

After the children had gone, their father spoke to his wife across the bowl in a low voice.

‘Make it a long bedtime story. I’ll move the fish over while she’s out of the way. They’ll have a chance to settle before the kids come tapping on the glass. It’s got to be better than three of them in a bowl, whether the water’s ready or not.’

‘You said the pet shop gave you something to start up the filter bacteria,’ said Mother. ‘Didn’t you use it?’

‘I did, but it still says you should wait before you put fish in.’

‘The water came from the pond anyway. It’s not as if you used tap water.’

Flash had recklessly swum to the top of the bowl to listen, although Molly knew he couldn’t understand much. She broadcast to the bowl. ‘He’s going to put the fish in the tank.’

Would he net them again? or tip the bowl in?

A hand reached in to pull out the bunch of weed. Molly felt Sylva’s terror like a scream in her head as she clung instinctively to its fronds.

Above her, Walter’s arms wrapped tightly around his sister and their branch. Flo linked an arm through Grandad’s as they both clung on, and Eddy tried to reach them. Molly didn’t see if he made it before everything blurred as she left the water.

Without its buoyancy, her weight dragged down the fine filaments she clung to. She tightened her grip. Was the weed heading for the tank, or the bin?

Her heartbeat pounded in her throat as they travelled through the air.

A splash beneath them was followed by a whoop and another splash. As the weed entered the tank, the colder water made her gasp, but she could see again. Eddy, Flo and Grandad were swimming for cover.

Flo won’t have been brave enough to jump – Molly didn’t think Flo’s fingers would loosen their grip if her brain told them to. It was more likely Grandad lost his grip and slid off his branch, pulling Flo with him. The whoop will have been Eddy as he launched himself after them.

She had no time to adjust to the temperature change. Father’s fingers moved to squeeze the weed’s stalks into the gravel, and she dived into a neighbouring plant.

When she could breathe normally, she looked around for the others. Flo and Grandad waved from behind a stone.

Amber wriggled free of the weed as Walter backed out, releasing his grip on a branch, finger by finger.

‘Amber, get back in the weed!’

‘I’ll be all right, Wally.’

‘His name’s Walter.’ Sylva still clung to her branch.

Where was Flash?