Franklin
“He’s a wild animal, you’ll have to let him go.”
“Silly, wild animals are tigers and elephants and giraffes. Franklin is just a little baby turtle, and he wants to stay with me.” Sophie was in full earnest, holding the tiny creature on her outstretched palm and staring up at Toby.
There was a gentle insistence in his voice. “You can’t keep him, Soph. You really shouldn’t have picked him up last night.”
We were camping on a remote Kimberley beach, miles from anywhere, just Mum, Sophie and me. And Toby.
The previous night, we’d watched as hundreds, maybe thousands of baby turtles had all hatched within hours of each other and waddled, scuttled and crawled across the cool, pitted sand to the warm ocean. We were always doing things like that, since Toby had come along. Taking off to far away places, seeing rare and beautiful sights and events, all explained in careful, colourful detail in that even, modulated voice of his. He was so knowledgeable, so bright, so enthusiastic and so patient. How I hated him.
Dad would have slapped Sophie, hard, for picking up that stupid turtle. If he ever thought to take us see something like like that in the first place. Which he wouldn’t, because the nearest pub was a day’s drive away. And even if he had brought us to such a place, it wouldn’t have been to sit quietly and watch a spectacle like that unfold under a brilliant, starry sky. He was too much of a man for that. He would have brought cartons, and a thumping great music machine, and a recipe for turtle soup. And for sure, Sophie would have copped a belting for picking up that slimy mound of shell and shit, if he’d been there.
I wanted to hit her myself, and squash that fucking turtle under my foot. Squish it into the sand and watch Sophie bawl about it. Then later, Dad and I could laugh about what a baby she was, and what a pussy Toby is.
Sophie’s big eyes filled with tears as she looked up at Toby, and he continued to explain in a gentle, easy tone why she couldn’t keep the turtle. “Franklin belongs in the sea. He wants to swim through seaweed forests, and climb coral mountains, and play with his friends, and grow big, and meet his turtle wife. Then one day, she’ll probably come back to this very beach to lay her eggs, and lots more little Franklins will be born. You don’t want him to miss out on that, do you?”
Sophie responded with a solemn, tearful shake of her head. Mum watched the whole scene, her gaze darting between Toby and Sophie, looking sad and proud. I wondered if she might start to cry, too.
“Well, you know what to do,” said Toby.
Nodding, and holding Franklin out at arm’s length, Sophie picked her way across the sand to the water’s edge. Once there, with the milky blue water lapping around her ankles, she squatted down and with infinite care dropped her palm below the surface. The turtle flipped his little flippers and slipped off her hand. He swam away a few inches, then dived down deeper, and in a few seconds he was gone. “Bye Franklin, have a nice life,” she called, waving.
Mum put her arms around Toby’s waist. His big, brawny arms wrapped around her shoulders, and he kissed the top of her head. He was so tall and muscular, and sickeningly good looking. Sophie ran back from the waterline, and hugged Toby’s leg.
I stood apart, wishing I was in the car, playing with my screen the way I did when Dad left us in the car so he could join his mates in the bar. At least he had mates. All Toby had was us. I looked at them all with loathing. How dare they all look like such a family? How dare they all be having such a moment of pure, natural joy?
Surely Dad taught us better than that?
“Silly, wild animals are tigers and elephants and giraffes. Franklin is just a little baby turtle, and he wants to stay with me.” Sophie was in full earnest, holding the tiny creature on her outstretched palm and staring up at Toby.
There was a gentle insistence in his voice. “You can’t keep him, Soph. You really shouldn’t have picked him up last night.”
We were camping on a remote Kimberley beach, miles from anywhere, just Mum, Sophie and me. And Toby.
The previous night, we’d watched as hundreds, maybe thousands of baby turtles had all hatched within hours of each other and waddled, scuttled and crawled across the cool, pitted sand to the warm ocean. We were always doing things like that, since Toby had come along. Taking off to far away places, seeing rare and beautiful sights and events, all explained in careful, colourful detail in that even, modulated voice of his. He was so knowledgeable, so bright, so enthusiastic and so patient. How I hated him.
Dad would have slapped Sophie, hard, for picking up that stupid turtle. If he ever thought to take us see something like like that in the first place. Which he wouldn’t, because the nearest pub was a day’s drive away. And even if he had brought us to such a place, it wouldn’t have been to sit quietly and watch a spectacle like that unfold under a brilliant, starry sky. He was too much of a man for that. He would have brought cartons, and a thumping great music machine, and a recipe for turtle soup. And for sure, Sophie would have copped a belting for picking up that slimy mound of shell and shit, if he’d been there.
I wanted to hit her myself, and squash that fucking turtle under my foot. Squish it into the sand and watch Sophie bawl about it. Then later, Dad and I could laugh about what a baby she was, and what a pussy Toby is.
Sophie’s big eyes filled with tears as she looked up at Toby, and he continued to explain in a gentle, easy tone why she couldn’t keep the turtle. “Franklin belongs in the sea. He wants to swim through seaweed forests, and climb coral mountains, and play with his friends, and grow big, and meet his turtle wife. Then one day, she’ll probably come back to this very beach to lay her eggs, and lots more little Franklins will be born. You don’t want him to miss out on that, do you?”
Sophie responded with a solemn, tearful shake of her head. Mum watched the whole scene, her gaze darting between Toby and Sophie, looking sad and proud. I wondered if she might start to cry, too.
“Well, you know what to do,” said Toby.
Nodding, and holding Franklin out at arm’s length, Sophie picked her way across the sand to the water’s edge. Once there, with the milky blue water lapping around her ankles, she squatted down and with infinite care dropped her palm below the surface. The turtle flipped his little flippers and slipped off her hand. He swam away a few inches, then dived down deeper, and in a few seconds he was gone. “Bye Franklin, have a nice life,” she called, waving.
Mum put her arms around Toby’s waist. His big, brawny arms wrapped around her shoulders, and he kissed the top of her head. He was so tall and muscular, and sickeningly good looking. Sophie ran back from the waterline, and hugged Toby’s leg.
I stood apart, wishing I was in the car, playing with my screen the way I did when Dad left us in the car so he could join his mates in the bar. At least he had mates. All Toby had was us. I looked at them all with loathing. How dare they all look like such a family? How dare they all be having such a moment of pure, natural joy?
Surely Dad taught us better than that?