that go again. After ten years I make my face smile and say hello back. Iâve spent that much time thinking things I should not think about her. She is that far out of bounds.
âIs your mother in?â
Obviously not. âSheâs gone up the road.â
âOh. I was hoping she would be here.â
Why? She doesnât say; she looks at Beatrice the cow, like she might want to talk to her instead. Sheâs ⦠something to look at all right. Like you wouldnât believe. I canât tell you what she looks like.
She looks at me again. Blink, blink. And says: âSo how are you?â Lips round and pink over the words.
You really donât want to know. I say: âGood.â Barely.
âHowâs the kookaburra?â she says.
I donât know where I get the reflex from but I pick it up from the ground beside me and toss it to her. I oiled it yesterday, and itâs only just dry. Sheâs so close. She nearly drops it, but doesnât. And laughs again; itâs a loud sound that you wouldnât think would come out of her. But it does.
âWhere did you learn to do this?â she says through her laughing.
From Dad; a thousand Sundays of sitting out here with him cut into me. I just shrug.
âYou donât say much, do you,â she says, frowning, like she expected something different.
âNo,â I say. Thatâs true, most of the time.
She lets that laugh out again, and itâs hard not to join her. Donât know what she finds so amusing but itâs good to hear that sound come out of me. I canât remember the last time I heard it.
The breeze catches the hair thatâs fallen down her back and it drifts across her face. Iâm gone. I could look at her forever.
And I reckon she knows it. She lets me. After ten years she says: âWell, Iâll come back another time to call on your mother. Next Friday, about the same time?â
âSure,â I say.
âIn the meantime, is there anything that you need?â
Not that I can tell you about. But there is something, and I get my head out of her hair for long enough to say it: âCan you tell your father that my mother wants to buy the house? The mine owns it; she wants to know if theyâll sell it to her.â
âOf course,â she says. Thereâs that little frown again.
I want to make her a cup of tea or something, to make her stay, but thatâs not likely. No chance Iâm going to lurch around in front of her. Iâm not going to ask her to make me one either; Iâm useless enough as it is.
She goes to hand me back the kookaburra but I say: âYou can have it.â
Her face blooms out in red, and Iâve embarrassed her. She probably doesnât want it; why would she? She makes that little mewling sound like a kitten as sheâs looking at it. Finally she says, âThank you,â and her fingers curl back around it. âI shall treasure it,â she says, suddenly smiling like weâve shared a joke. Then sheâs off.
The breeze tears up through the gully, but Iâm not feeling it. Sheâs that far out of bounds, but a bloke can dream. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing, Iâm that bloody bored.
Â
FRANCINE
Good God, Francine Connolly, what are you like? I waited a week, and couldnât bear it any longer. Like heâs thrown a rope around my waist. And I flirted with him! I have little experience of young men; well, none to be exact, since the only fellows I ever seemed to meet in Sydney were from St Josephâs, all of them so stitched up, and barely more articulate than The Lad himself. This is cruelty. Do I have a streak of wickedness in me that allows this? Likely. The way he looked at me! And I virtually encouraged him! I have no business doing any such thing. As if Iâm practising wiles upon this fellow. I am a disgrace.
But every time I look at the kookaburra my self-admonition is arrested. I
âIs your mother in?â
Obviously not. âSheâs gone up the road.â
âOh. I was hoping she would be here.â
Why? She doesnât say; she looks at Beatrice the cow, like she might want to talk to her instead. Sheâs ⦠something to look at all right. Like you wouldnât believe. I canât tell you what she looks like.
She looks at me again. Blink, blink. And says: âSo how are you?â Lips round and pink over the words.
You really donât want to know. I say: âGood.â Barely.
âHowâs the kookaburra?â she says.
I donât know where I get the reflex from but I pick it up from the ground beside me and toss it to her. I oiled it yesterday, and itâs only just dry. Sheâs so close. She nearly drops it, but doesnât. And laughs again; itâs a loud sound that you wouldnât think would come out of her. But it does.
âWhere did you learn to do this?â she says through her laughing.
From Dad; a thousand Sundays of sitting out here with him cut into me. I just shrug.
âYou donât say much, do you,â she says, frowning, like she expected something different.
âNo,â I say. Thatâs true, most of the time.
She lets that laugh out again, and itâs hard not to join her. Donât know what she finds so amusing but itâs good to hear that sound come out of me. I canât remember the last time I heard it.
The breeze catches the hair thatâs fallen down her back and it drifts across her face. Iâm gone. I could look at her forever.
And I reckon she knows it. She lets me. After ten years she says: âWell, Iâll come back another time to call on your mother. Next Friday, about the same time?â
âSure,â I say.
âIn the meantime, is there anything that you need?â
Not that I can tell you about. But there is something, and I get my head out of her hair for long enough to say it: âCan you tell your father that my mother wants to buy the house? The mine owns it; she wants to know if theyâll sell it to her.â
âOf course,â she says. Thereâs that little frown again.
I want to make her a cup of tea or something, to make her stay, but thatâs not likely. No chance Iâm going to lurch around in front of her. Iâm not going to ask her to make me one either; Iâm useless enough as it is.
She goes to hand me back the kookaburra but I say: âYou can have it.â
Her face blooms out in red, and Iâve embarrassed her. She probably doesnât want it; why would she? She makes that little mewling sound like a kitten as sheâs looking at it. Finally she says, âThank you,â and her fingers curl back around it. âI shall treasure it,â she says, suddenly smiling like weâve shared a joke. Then sheâs off.
The breeze tears up through the gully, but Iâm not feeling it. Sheâs that far out of bounds, but a bloke can dream. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing, Iâm that bloody bored.
Â
FRANCINE
Good God, Francine Connolly, what are you like? I waited a week, and couldnât bear it any longer. Like heâs thrown a rope around my waist. And I flirted with him! I have little experience of young men; well, none to be exact, since the only fellows I ever seemed to meet in Sydney were from St Josephâs, all of them so stitched up, and barely more articulate than The Lad himself. This is cruelty. Do I have a streak of wickedness in me that allows this? Likely. The way he looked at me! And I virtually encouraged him! I have no business doing any such thing. As if Iâm practising wiles upon this fellow. I am a disgrace.
But every time I look at the kookaburra my self-admonition is arrested. I
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