HUMOUR: it’s murder and mayhem in the fishpond

When there’s bloodshed at the neighbours’ on their watch, can the Blairs crack the case?

Mum, there’s been a murder at the neighbours.” I ran down there immediately to search for the perpetrator. Had they fled the scene of the crime or also gone to God? We stood in a huddle, confused, sad and not really knowing what to do. Do we cover it up or deal with the consequences by fessing up to our part in it.

I instructed the kids to check the perimeter. Like Grisham in CSI, we wandered with torches searching for a body or the escape route. We turned over rocks, checked under the agapanthus and even got down on hands and knees and looked up the drainpipe. No signs of life. Anywhere.

I felt sick, not that I’d had anything to do with it, but ultimately it was my fault. I was the one who’d borne the

children who’d agreed to take care of the neighbours’ aquatic life. And now, due to their laziness and lack of responsibility (genes from their father kicking in), Gertrude the turtle had eaten the fish in the pond and couldn’t be found herself.

To be fair, Gertrude had no option. Those familiar with the 1972 story of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 and the movie Alive will know Gertrude wasn’t the first to eat her mates when faced with unbearable hunger. The kids hadn’t been down to drop the pellets of turtle food into the outdoor pond/feature rockery garden for five days when they were supposed to do it every two, so what else was a hungry turtle to do?

One child suggested we pop to the pet shop and buy more fish and a new turtle, he being of the opinion they all looked the same anyway. But how many gold and black fish had called the pond home? Inaccuracy could arouse suspicion and the plan to cover and conceal would be foiled. Did Gertrude have significant markings? I struggled to remember, having only seen her head once before as she swam past the miniature Buddhist temple water feature. Eleven-year-old asked for my phone. I told him now was not the time, we were in the middle of a murder mystery/neighbourhood crisis. He told me he wanted to Google “turtle death” to see if a turtle corpse floats, reasoning that perhaps Gertrude’s just hiding. I handed him the phone and asked him to type “Where do turtles hide?” into the search engine, something I never thought I’d need to know.

But I did need to know, as the neighbours were back in two days. Eldest child went on a rant about the efficacy of turtle ownership. What joy could be had owning a turtle? You can’t hug them, can’t walk with them, can’t watch footy with them. What, he asked, is the point? I told him now was not the time to judge the neighbours’ choices in life but, if he was going to start judging, could he go inside the house and check out their curtains as I wondered if he found them as distasteful as I did? Did he also have any opinion on the pelmets?

It was getting late and we decided there was nothing we could do till morning and we should sleep on it. I needed to consult husband and a glass of gin to work out the best way forward.

I was awoken the next morning by a text. The neighbours were back and wanted to drop over a thank you gift.

I wanted to make like a turtle and retreat under my shell but, wanting to be a good role model to the kids, decided to face my problem head-on. I didn’t mince words. “So sorry, we’ve killed them all” read my text. I received a reply immediately. My fears were allayed. Gertrude and the fish were fine – the cold snap caused them to retreat to the pond’s murky corners. The kids just hadn’t looked hard enough. Hmm. If

I’d had a “mum’s look” in the first place I’d have saved a lot of bother …