In partnership with Commonwealth Foundation, Granta presents the regional winners of the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. Kathleen Ridgwell’s story is the winning entry from the Pacific.

The girl runs in and hangs her leather bag on the hook. She pulls an apron on over her cashmere sweater, rolls up her sleeves and ties her blonde hair back into a ponytail.

‘Late again!’ her dad bellows from the kitchen. ‘One crab stick for the young black fella outside the takeaway window.’ The boy and his kind do not eat inside the cafe.

She grabs the crab stick from the galley counter. It is lukewarm. Like always, she discreetly throws a few hot chips into the bottom of the bag, free of charge, and delivers it to the boy. He is sitting on a stump, drinking a hot cup of Milo. She tries not to make eye contact with him as she delivers the food.

Later, the girl glances up from the fryer to check out the boy when she thinks he is not looking. She takes in the broadness of his shoulders and the tattoo of the crayfish on his arm. He wears a leather necklace of shark teeth around his neck. The wet sheen of his dark brown skin sparkles in the morning sun. Fine grains of white beach sand coat his legs and bare feet. His bodyboard is leaning on the gum tree behind him. He flicks the black curls from his eyes and scans the ocean. She is captivated by the warm, earthy hue of his soulful eyes. He meets her gaze and smiles. She quickly looks away, feeling a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks.

As she drains the oil from the battered lobster tails, the girl thinks about how they charge ten times the price for a lobster roll compared to a crab stick. Lobster rolls come smothered in truffle mayo and kale slaw in a brioche bun. But, to her, lobster tastes the same as a crab stick. Her dad won’t let her eat crab sticks. They are bad for you, he says. She tries one anyway. The boy is one of the only customers who consistently orders the crab sticks.

She looks outside. The boy is still there. He is surrounded by seagulls. They clamour for his chips. At a table next to the boy is a group of surfers. She has seen them before. They are out-of-town fly-in-fly-out mining workers, down from a swing. She watches as they walk back and forth to their shiny new four-wheel drives, tying their custom-made boards to the racks.

The girl delivers the lobster rolls to the surfers. Her dad says they are on the house. The surfers stuff the lobster rolls into their mouths with their filthy hands, and chew with their mouths open. She looks away in disgust. They turn their attention to the surfing footage they have captured on their action cameras.

‘Would you like a lobster roll, too?’ she asks the boy. She has intentionally made an extra one.

‘No, thanks. My totem animal is the gilgie, a fresh-water cray. Lobsters are a bit like gilgies, so I won’t eat them. We don’t eat our totem animals.’

‘Fair enough,’ she says. ‘I’ll bring you some more crab sticks, then. They’re made of fish, you know. Not crabs.’

‘Totem animals! What a load of shit. It’s lobster, mate. Winners like us eat lobsters,’ says the man next to him.

The girl rolls her eyes and looks out at the ocean.

‘The swell’s backing off now,’ she mutters to no one in particular.

‘It was going off this morning,’ says one of the surfers.

‘Yep, that’s just how it is,’ says another. The others nod in agreement.

‘It’s because the moon affects the tides,’ says the boy. The surfers turn their attention to him, as if they have never seen the boy before. It is the first time she has heard the boy speak to them.

‘So, you think you’re smart?’

The boy doesn’t respond.

‘Mate, going to school and having smarts will get you nothin’ in life. Busting your gut up in the red dirt like us is the only way you’ll make a decent buck these days.’

After her mum died of cancer, the girl was forced to quit school to help her dad out in his cafe. She wonders how the moon affects the tides, and how the tides affect the waves. Who controls the moon?

The next day, the girl arrives at work with her father and there are a group of tourists waiting to enter the cafe for breakfast. She watches as they pose in front of the wall mural and wonders if they are influencers. The artwork is called The Natives, a fresco of Aboriginal people drinking beer around a campfire with native animals – kangaroos, emus, numbats, black cockatoos. As the girl rushes past to unlock the door, she hears one of them say, ‘Post it to your story!’

The boy and the surfers come in from the ocean.

‘What’s with the esky lid, grom?’ the surfers taunt the boy, pointing to his bodyboard.

‘Found it on the beach.’

‘Stole it, more like it.’

‘You’re not a real surfer,’ says another. ‘Better watch your back in the line up. If you drop in on us, we’ll shred your esky lid up with our fins.’ The surfers howl with laughter and throw his bodyboard over the railing.

The girl runs outside and watches as the boy sprints down the dune towards his bodyboard. It has landed on the rocks below.

By the time the boy returns, the surfers have diverted their attention back to their cameras. The boy inspects his board, and she can see a large crack in the foam. He looks dismayed and sighs. She runs inside to get some duct tape and hands it to him.

‘Thanks, but I’m gonna let it dry out for a bit then I’ll patch it up with some glue,’ he says. ‘It’s not the first time this has happened.’ She lightly traces the intricate web of repaired cracks in his board.

‘Some of the cracks are caused by me. The sea can get rough. I normally throw a handful of sand into the ocean before a session, so the Waugul comes down to protect me whilst I’m out there.’

‘I’ve seen you do that.’

‘You been watching me?’ he asks, teasingly.

She nods.

‘Solid,’ he says, with a wink.

‘You know, you should report them to the police if they keep harassing you,’ she says in a low voice, gesturing towards the surfers.

‘I want to be a cop one day,’ he says.

‘For real?’

‘Yep. I want to help my people from the inside. They think I’m a traitor for wanting to be a cop. They say I’m too wadjela – too white.’

‘I want to be Taylor Swift,’ she says wistfully. The boy laughs at this.

‘That’s deadly,’ he says.

‘Oi! Get away from that boy and get your arse back in the kitchen!’ her dad yells.

‘Sorry,’ the girl mouths silently at the boy as she skulks back inside.

The next day, the boy doesn’t turn up. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Each day the girl arrives and looks over at his empty stump stool with disappointment. She scans the waves and the beach for the boy. He is nowhere to be seen but hiding in every corner of her mind.

A couple of weeks later, the girl visits her local library. She searches for books on bush tucker food. She wants to convince her dad to revise the cafe menu to include saltbush and lemon myrtle calamari, wallaby dumplings and wattle seed damper.

As she searches for the books, she’s surprised to find the boy sitting at a nearby desk. She watches him quietly for a short moment, before finding her voice.

‘Hey, Gilgie,’ she says, tentatively.

‘Kaya! That means hello in Noongar language.’

‘Kaya. I haven’t seen you around the cafe lately.’

‘Nah, I’ve been studying for exams.’ He stands up to join her next to the bookshelf.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asks, looking at the shelf behind her.

‘Bush tucker books.’

He leans over her and pulls a book from the shelf. ‘What about this one?’

He is so close now she can smell the woody scent of his deodorant, and the watermelon vape on his breath. She watches the steady pulse of his jugular vein and imagines what it would feel like to kiss his neck.

‘I got you something,’ he says.

‘Me?’

‘Yeah, I was gonna give it to you after exams, but since you’re here I can give it to you now.’ He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a friendship bracelet. The beads spell out the word F.E.A.R.L.E.S.S.

His hand touches hers as he gives her the bracelet. An electric current shoots up her arm. He leaves his hand there for a moment. It feels warm and soft like a cozy blanket on a chilly day.

‘Coz you’re a Swiftie!’ he says.

‘Thank you. I love it,’ she says as she puts it on her wrist. She sleeps with it on that night. She never takes it off.

The girl waits forever for the boy to return to the cafe. She wonders how many exams he has. When she thinks about him, the sun shines brighter, the salt air feels crisper, the beach daisies look more yellow. She wears a push up bra and a low-cut top, much to the admiration of the surfers. But it is not their attention she seeks. She paints her nails bright pink, applies lipstick every day and plays Taylor Swift music loudly. She sings the words ‘But with you I’d dance in a storm / In my best dress / Fearless!’

‘Turn that shit down!’ her father shouts.

Finally, she sees the boy walking up the beach stairs. He is smiling straight at her.

‘Oh, look! The prodigal esky lidder has returned,’ a surfer jibes, ditching a plastic bottle at him.

The boy ignores the surfer without breaking eye contact with the girl.

‘Hey, Swiftie.’

‘Kaya, Gilgie.’

‘Exams are done.’

‘Great! How do you think they went?’

‘I think I did alright. I also applied for a cadet traineeship with the Western Australian Police.’

‘Wow, that’s awesome. It’s good to see you again.’

‘You too. You’re still wearing the bracelet I gave you.’

‘Yeah.’ She coyly twists the bracelet around her wrist and looks up at the boy. He is looking down at the bracelet with a lopsided grin. She watches as his gaze veers to her chest.

A thunderstorm is rolling in. Lightning flashes across the horizon. The sky darkens and rumbles. A curlew takes flight, filling the air with a haunting wail. She must get the chairs and tables inside.

‘Oi! Grom! Come ‘ere,’ a surfer calls out. The boy looks around and hesitantly makes his way over to the group.

‘Sit down and have a lobster roll with us,’ the man instructs.

‘No, thank you,’ the boy responds, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground. The man ignores him and tells the girl to make another lobster roll. The girl starts frying up some crab sticks instead of lobster tails. She keeps a watchful eye on them.

As she delivers the lobster roll to the table, she subtly nods to the boy. She is not sure he understands she has swapped the filling to crab.

‘Eat it,’ instructs the man. The boy brings the roll to his mouth and hesitates.

‘What, you don’t like lobster?’ the man says with a smirk.

‘EAT, EAT, EAT,’ the surfers chant, banging their fists on the table.

‘I said eat it!’ the man yells as he smashes the roll into the boy’s face. Bits of crab stick, kale slaw and brioche bread fly across the table. The seagulls swoop down fighting for the scraps.

‘Wait, what the hell is this?’ the man asks, picking up a piece of crab stick. The man glances across at the girl in the kitchen.

‘Righto, let’s step it up,’ he says turning back to the boy. ‘Time for you to go for a swim!’ The surfers jeer as they carry the boy down the beach stairs towards the ocean.

The girl runs out of the kitchen and follows them. A gale whips at her dress. Her hair lashes her cheeks. The sand stings her legs.

‘Let him go! He’ll die out there!’ she screams. They ignore her, pushing the boy and a surfboard into a dinghy with them. Amidst the roar of the wind and crash of waves, she can hear the boy protesting. She momentarily watches from beneath the shelter of a limestone cliff until they are out past the steep crest line of waves, bereft that she cannot help him. She runs back up to the cafe to tell her dad what has happened. He shrugs and flips another burger. ‘Get back to work,’ he says. She calls the police, then runs back down to the beach.

Minutes later, the dinghy returns to shore with the surfers but no boy. She imagines him out there by himself. The fury of the ocean. Sharks. Her tears mix with the rain and salt spray, and she cannot tell the difference. She throws a handful of sand into the sea.

‘Gilgie!’ The wind drowns out her voice.

Days turn into weeks. The girl surveys the ocean for signs of the boy. She walks along the shoreline looking for broken pieces of board. There is nothing. Nobody notices the boy is gone. It’s as if he didn’t exist. She grieves for him. The surfers come and go, eating their lobster rolls. She paints over the mural.

‘I’m leaving. I’m going back to school,’ she tells her father one day. ‘And I’m going to sing,’ she adds.

‘Fair dinkum. You’ve got rocks in your head, girl.’

She ignores him.

‘I don’t want to cook lobsters anymore. Their numbers are declining, and we’re destroying their habitat. It just doesn’t feel right anymore.’

Her father looks bewildered. She leaves and doesn’t look back.

After school one day, the girl walks through the hospital wards, pausing now and then to serenade the patients with songs. This is her new job. Her eyes fall on a familiar tattoo etched onto the arm of a patient. A small crayfish.

‘Gilgie?’ she calls out to him.

‘Swiftie!’

‘You’re alive!’ She reaches down and embraces him. He winces and she takes a step back, afraid that she has hurt him.

‘The Waugul saved me,’ he declares. ‘The Rainbow Serpent.’

‘For real?’ she asks, imagining the giant, colourful sea-snake carrying Gilgie safely to shore. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah. Feeling a bit crook. Broke my leg and hit my head. I was in a coma. Still got a bit of a headache, aye.’

‘I’m just glad you’re alive, Gilgie.’

‘It’s Ethan. My wadjela name is Ethan.’

‘I’m Grace.’

An awkward pause settles between them as they stare at each other like they are meeting for the first time. No longer under the sharp shadows of others. Free of the weight of histories untold. She sees only the soft glow of possibilities now.

‘Would you like me to bring you some crab sticks tomorrow?’ she asks him.

A smile spreads across his face.

‘I reckon scallops might be better from now on. If that’s okay? Will you share them with me?’

Grace loves the delicate sweetness of scallops. They are pricier than crab sticks, but he is worth it.

‘Absolutely. I’d love that, Gilgie. I’ll bring you scallops every day, if you want. Whatever you need to help you heal, just let me know.’

‘Just you, Grace. I just need you.’

She leans down and kisses him gently. Sealing the beginning of their journey together. Carrying the legacy of their two worlds. Bound by love and hope.

Kathleen is incredibly grateful to Dr Marion Kickett – a respected Noongar Baladong woman, writer, academic, and Board member of Writing WA – for her cultural review of her story.

Image © James St. John