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George knew Peter would never admit it, but the fish had become akin to his children. In the beginning, he was ambivalent towards the little fish pond that Smiley had insisted on installing in the back garden, even going so far as to say that it seemed silly to have pets that couldn’t be interacted with directly. Patiently, George had simply told him that if he thought the fish were silly, then he didn’t have to deal with them.
That ended any potential for argument.
For weeks after the pond was completed, Peter would sit on the back steps, quietly reading in the fading natural light while George fed the fish. During the day, he busied himself with any number of odd things to keep himself sharp, as he was prone to putting it—though sharp for what, George never knew, but in the evening, he would always settle on the steps with his latest book, remaining there until long after George went back inside. Sometimes, as it grew dark, George saw him standing, book abandoned on the steps, at the edge of the pond, his eyes peering quietly into the water.
Then, a new family of neighbours moved into a house up the street, and as was their habit, the neighbouring children pulled the newcomers into their rite of passage—that is, trampling through the back garden at the Smiley place. Though this was a frequent occurrence, it was one that George had never taken up with the children’s parents, and so the children knew that if they all made it home quickly enough, they would be fine.
This, of course, had never happened. Invariably, a furious Peter would catch one of the younger children, and under the former scalp-hunter’s glare, the child would crack and provide a list of everyone involved. On that particular night, George tried not to laugh into his book as he heard, rather than saw the other man sprint out the back door, yelling as he went. Shaking his head, George returned to his reading, only to stop, alarmed, when he heard a loud splash from the back garden, followed by a muffled curse and a second splash.
Getting up, the older man was met in the kitchen by Peter, soaked to the knees and all the way up one arm, gripping an equally soaked boy by the scruff of the neck. Sitting the boy down in a chair, Peter pulled a notepad and pen from a drawer and placed them in front of him. Sniffling, the boy looked up at him.
“I want names. Everyone involved. From the top to the bottom.”
The boy’s eyes widened and he scribbled down a pair of names, then stopped. Frowning, Peter leaned over his shoulder. “There were more than that.”
“I don’t know anyone else.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched, and sensing the forthcoming of a snapped remark that would surely reduce the child to incoherent tears, George intervened.
“Peter. I’ll handle this. Go get a spare towel, will you?”
At this, the younger man frowned, but reluctantly left the room. Sitting down, George laced his fingers together and looked at the boy’s list briefly before returning his gaze to Peter’s captive. “You just moved in?”
“Yes sir.” The boy visibly relaxed when he realised that George was not going to yell at him or hoist him up by his collar. “Up the street.”
George glanced over the list again. “Then these are your siblings?”
The boy nodded, then added helpfully. “The older boys in the neighbourhood said we had to run through your garden if we wanted to run with them. We didn’t mean any harm.”
“I know.” George glanced at his watch. “We’ll get you dried off and back to your parents.” The boy opened his mouth and was promptly cut off. “Don’t worry about Mr. Guillam. He’s very particular about people running through the garden.”
“He was very sore at me.” The boy lowered his voice a little, as if afraid that the tall man would return and hear him. “He told me that I had better hope I hadn’t hurt Percy.”
“Percy?” George’s eyebrows shot up.
“The big fish at the bottom.” The boy replied earnestly, his eyes wide, and held out two of his fingers, which were already bruising. “He bit me!”
It took a moment for it to register that the boy was talking about the irritable old catfish that lived at the bottom of the pond, and then he had to stifle a laugh as Peter came back with the towel. Taking the towel, George wrapped it over the boy’s shoulders and offered him a mug of hot cocoa before setting off into the night to return the captive to his parents.
He never did mention the boy’s side of the story to the younger man, but when he came back, Peter was in the back garden with a torch, leaning over the water as if looking for something, and sometimes when he knew that Peter thought he was alone, he would hear him talking quietly to the fish, calling each one by a name invented, certainly, by himself.