Read Online The Denniston Rose by Jenny Pattrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenny Pattrick
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off. Lady Alice clucks and walks around in circles while the child picks up two little eggs. In the fourth box one brown egg is half hidden. Rose puts Lady Alice’s eggs on the ground, makes her apron into a hammock with one hand, picks up the three eggs with her other hand, puts them in the hammock and brings them inside.
‘Shut the door,’ says her mother, and then she sees the eggs. ‘Someone is on a fuss today. They must know it’s your birthday.’
Rose stands and looks at her mother.
‘What now?’ says her mother.
‘You’re smiling.’
‘Well, the hens are coming in to lay and the sun is shining,’ says her mother, ‘and I have a secret worth three golden eggs.’
‘Tell me!’
‘You have your fancy friends and I have my secrets. Now, let us make some soft little pikelets. Hungry as a horse I am, and no doubt you too, madam five-year-old!’ And she smiles again, so Rose thinks the picnic might be different this time and sings a make-up song about eggs and pikelets while her mother takes the frying pan and lays it on the fire. She rubs a little lard into it, then pours batter in three lovely round pools onto the smoking iron. When bubbles rise in the creamy batter she flips them over with a knife. The cooked side is brown and smooth as skin.
‘Bring a fresh tea-towel, quick, quick!’ says her mother, and when Rose has unfolded it her mother flips the pikelets, one two three, into the cloth, and pours three more rounds and three more until there are fifteen pikelets in the cloth.
‘Where did you learn to count like that?’ says her mother, and Rose says she doesn’t know and then counts up to fifty-four.
‘That’s enough of counting, you are wearing my ears to stumps!’ says her mother. ‘Count yourself into your coat, or the day will be gone before any picnic is begun.’
They put the tea-towel of pikelets and a jar of jam, a knife and an apple into the basket and button their coats. Eva Storm wraps a blanket around her neck like a giant scarf, and off they go on their picnic.
They walk past the tree-trunk house but Mrs C. Rasmussen’s rocking chair on the porch is empty, and they walk up past the Bins with all its clattering and thumping, and skip quickly across the railway lines in case a wagon is coming. Rose waves to Uncle Con the Brake, and Rose’s mother shouts ‘Cooee! Cooee!’ so that all themen look at her, but Con is busy and doesn’t notice. They walk up Dickson Street past Hanrattys’ and Rose waves to Mrs Hanratty, who is hanging washing in the yard. Mrs Hanratty doesn’t see them either.
‘We are going on a picnic,’ shouts Rose to Mrs Hanratty’s back.
‘No need to tell all the world,’ says her mother.
They walk up above the skipway and watch the boxes of coal coming and going. Rose counts all the wagons full of coal going past on their way to the Bins and all the empty ones going back to the mines, the same way they are walking. She counts twenty of each, exactly equal, and tells her mother how the coal gets tipped out at the Bins and how Mr Carmichael counts all the wagons of coal and writes them all in a book and adds them all up at the bottom of the page.
‘For pity’s sake,’ says her mother, ‘give my ears a rest and enjoy the sunshine.’ And Rose looks at her mother and sees she is half smiling, so tells her some more things: her names for all the hens (Annabella and Clementine and Queen Victoria and Lady Alice and the rooster, Prince Charming), and a song Mrs C. Rasmussen knows about sailing home to Ireland. Then her mother waits, looking away and standing black like a fencepost, while Rose walks behind a bush to do her business because there is no toilet anywhere.
‘Will the picnic be soon?’ asks Rose.
‘Very soon, because this fat old body will go no further,’ says her mother, puffing and blowing. ‘Oh, my dear God, Rosie, this lump of a baby is a curse. I will be glad to take my own good shape again. Keep an eye sharp, now, for
‘Shut the door,’ says her mother, and then she sees the eggs. ‘Someone is on a fuss today. They must know it’s your birthday.’
Rose stands and looks at her mother.
‘What now?’ says her mother.
‘You’re smiling.’
‘Well, the hens are coming in to lay and the sun is shining,’ says her mother, ‘and I have a secret worth three golden eggs.’
‘Tell me!’
‘You have your fancy friends and I have my secrets. Now, let us make some soft little pikelets. Hungry as a horse I am, and no doubt you too, madam five-year-old!’ And she smiles again, so Rose thinks the picnic might be different this time and sings a make-up song about eggs and pikelets while her mother takes the frying pan and lays it on the fire. She rubs a little lard into it, then pours batter in three lovely round pools onto the smoking iron. When bubbles rise in the creamy batter she flips them over with a knife. The cooked side is brown and smooth as skin.
‘Bring a fresh tea-towel, quick, quick!’ says her mother, and when Rose has unfolded it her mother flips the pikelets, one two three, into the cloth, and pours three more rounds and three more until there are fifteen pikelets in the cloth.
‘Where did you learn to count like that?’ says her mother, and Rose says she doesn’t know and then counts up to fifty-four.
‘That’s enough of counting, you are wearing my ears to stumps!’ says her mother. ‘Count yourself into your coat, or the day will be gone before any picnic is begun.’
They put the tea-towel of pikelets and a jar of jam, a knife and an apple into the basket and button their coats. Eva Storm wraps a blanket around her neck like a giant scarf, and off they go on their picnic.
They walk past the tree-trunk house but Mrs C. Rasmussen’s rocking chair on the porch is empty, and they walk up past the Bins with all its clattering and thumping, and skip quickly across the railway lines in case a wagon is coming. Rose waves to Uncle Con the Brake, and Rose’s mother shouts ‘Cooee! Cooee!’ so that all themen look at her, but Con is busy and doesn’t notice. They walk up Dickson Street past Hanrattys’ and Rose waves to Mrs Hanratty, who is hanging washing in the yard. Mrs Hanratty doesn’t see them either.
‘We are going on a picnic,’ shouts Rose to Mrs Hanratty’s back.
‘No need to tell all the world,’ says her mother.
They walk up above the skipway and watch the boxes of coal coming and going. Rose counts all the wagons full of coal going past on their way to the Bins and all the empty ones going back to the mines, the same way they are walking. She counts twenty of each, exactly equal, and tells her mother how the coal gets tipped out at the Bins and how Mr Carmichael counts all the wagons of coal and writes them all in a book and adds them all up at the bottom of the page.
‘For pity’s sake,’ says her mother, ‘give my ears a rest and enjoy the sunshine.’ And Rose looks at her mother and sees she is half smiling, so tells her some more things: her names for all the hens (Annabella and Clementine and Queen Victoria and Lady Alice and the rooster, Prince Charming), and a song Mrs C. Rasmussen knows about sailing home to Ireland. Then her mother waits, looking away and standing black like a fencepost, while Rose walks behind a bush to do her business because there is no toilet anywhere.
‘Will the picnic be soon?’ asks Rose.
‘Very soon, because this fat old body will go no further,’ says her mother, puffing and blowing. ‘Oh, my dear God, Rosie, this lump of a baby is a curse. I will be glad to take my own good shape again. Keep an eye sharp, now, for
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