Little Tim, Big Tim by Tim Roy Page A

hut on the right and know it’s where I live. I instinctively grab Little Tim’s fishing rod and head for the water that I can’t see and have no memory of; I just know.
    I almost have a panic attack as I fish the day away, avoiding everybody. The anxiety of having to deal with this situation drives me into a hyperventilated state. But as it turns out, the anxiety level is not necessary; Little Tim’s family is used to my unusual behaviour. Fitting in with Little Tim’s family is easier than I thought—to them I am having another episode. They are completely unaware that I exist and of my purpose. Their deduction is that I’m a weirdo and choose to behave differently on purpose, choosing to have a separate reality to theirs.
    A couple of months later, I have caught up and have secured the knowledge of my environment and those who live in it. Even at school, at first a disaster, I’m now getting passes in all subjects. I come home from school, grab my fishing rod, which is always outside, and quickly change into some old clothes stashed from the night before. I put my school clothes into my school bag and dump it at the front door so nobody will bother searching for me.
    I run down to the swimming enclosure that reaches thirty metres into the bay. The U-shaped platform, which is six feet wide, provides plenty of space to fish. I never go home until dark, and then I amuse myself in my bedroom which I share with Little Tim’s brothers.
    Our time at the college seems to drag on, especially for us. We still avoid adults as much as possible. There is some controversy in the air that revolves around our parents, especially Dad. He is under a lot of pressure to remain on the course. Nightly arguments between him and Mum are intimating that we will be leaving soon.
    The magical milestone of eighteen months arrives. Dad quits his course and Mum has to do the same. We are heading back to the Blue Mountains. Other family members are excited about going back home to their friends and old schools. I freak. I don’t know anybody or any school back where we came from. I have the knowledge but no memory to connect the knowledge to an image.
    Something unusual happens at this point. Dad has been out picking mushrooms for the family breakfast. Being quite a fussy eater, I refuse to eat the mushrooms. Mum hasn’t touched her breakfast when the first signs present themselves—the mushrooms are poisonous. Everybody is vomiting and Mum’s rapid remedy of drinking salt water induces more vomiting.
    No one comes to my family’s aid. Mum is doing her best to control everybody who by now are stoned from the effect of the poison. It is rather hilarious to watch Dad and my brothers and sisters walk around describing the grass as being multi-coloured and the horses swaying with the breeze.
    Mum is starting to panic. She has to get all of them to hospital. She turns to me and gives me orders in a tone that demands immediate action.
    ‘Get some towels and some buckets, put them in the car,’ she orders.
    I do as she asks, realising how serious this situation is. Our little sister is extremely sick and is having difficulty breathing. Mum carries her to the car and lays her in the back of the station wagon. Our older sister is less affected than the boys and Dad, and Mum makes her sit with Dorothy. Getting the boys into the car is some feat. Once Mum and I have them in the car, the unattended ones get out and start wandering around, describing the colours they are seeing.
    Mum and I decide that once they are in the car we will put their seatbelts on. This confuses them long enough to get them all in and ready to go. The sight is hilarious now as they fumble to undo their seatbelt locks; they have no co-ordination to achieve the simple task. The attempts to unclip their belts cause Mum and me to laugh out loud. It is a brief but oddly enjoyable moment.
    The joviality is short-lived. The seriousness of the situation escalates rapidly. Mum has