The Audrey of the Outback Collection Page 9

  Memories of home made Audrey feel itchy. She frowned, then turned a page of Mrs Paterson’s book and found a drawing of a gully with rocks each side.

  Outside, Douglas squealed.

  Audrey jumped.

  Then she heard another sound that sent her running down the hallway.

  Twelve

  Mrs Paterson’s garden was full of goats. Starving goats. Douglas jumped up and down, clapping his hands.

  ‘We have to get them out,’ shouted Audrey. ‘Dougie, that goat’s eating the grey bush …’ Her sentence ended in a squeal. She dashed forward to grab the goat as it ripped off a branch, leaving a bitter smell from the crushed leaves. The goat trotted away with the branch in its mouth.

  There were seven goats, but it seemed like many more.

  ‘Dougie, go round that way,’ said Audrey, shooing goats towards the gate. Two shot out onto the road.

  The others found something better to do. One took a mouthful of the ivy and tore it from the wall. Tiny black marks were left behind from its suckers. Audrey grabbed the nearest goat and shoved its rump. Bleating a protest, it gradually moved towards the open gate. The goat smelled like old cheese. Audrey gave one last heave and the goat was out. She clanged the gate shut behind it.

  The evicted goat bleated even louder. It was still hungry, and now it was annoyed. It reared up, hooking its front legs on the gate, as it scrabbled to climb over. Audrey hoped the gate was stronger than the goat.

  But the next goat in Mrs Paterson’s garden was not so easy to grab. It danced to one side and then the other whenever Audrey came close. She started to panic.

  The only part of Douglas that moved was his jaw. It bounced up and down as he sucked on his thumb.

  There was a flash of movement to Audrey’s right as something jumped over the gate into the garden.

  But it wasn’t a goat. It was a boy in grey shorts.

  Audrey glimpsed dark eyelashes above freckled cheeks. As though he had springs on his feet, the boy leapt lightly onto the back of the nearest goat.

  ‘Open the gate!’ he yelled.

  Audrey was quick to obey.

  The boy leaned forward, one hand on each side of the goat, and nudged it with his knees and heels. He rode the goat with the same skill that a drover would ride a horse. The goat ran out onto the dusty footpath to join its hairy friends.

  Flustered, Audrey aimed a look down the road. If Mrs Paterson came back and the goats were still in the garden, there’d be big trouble.

  He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.

  Thirteen

  Far sooner than Audrey expected, the garden was goat-free.

  Douglas’s bottom lip quivered.

  ‘It’s all right, Dougie,’ said Audrey. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘I don’t wike goats now.’

  ‘I like eating them,’ teased the boy.

  A little shorter than Audrey, he had an uneven and very short haircut. He must have wriggled while it was being cut or else his mother had saved time by doing two haircuts at once. A curved scar marked his chin and his brown eyes were flecked with yellow.

  As though he guessed Audrey’s thoughts about his haircut, he said, ‘Just had me ears lowered.’

  Suddenly shy, she shrugged, as though she hadn’t been thinking about that at all.

  ‘I’m Boy.’

  ‘Oh. You’re the boy, Boy. I mean, the boy called Boy.’

  ‘Sounds like stuttering, doesn’t it?’ He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Me brother Hughie’s got a real stutter. When he’s excited he calls me “B … B … Boy”. Which is a lot of B’s.’ Boy slid the back of his hand down the right leg of his grey shorts. ‘Mum sent me down to see if you’re all right.’

  Audrey wiped perspiration from her forehead. ‘You won’t say anything about the goats …’

  ‘Heck no! The old lady could pin your ears back with that voice of hers. My dad reckons she broke a glass once just by raising her voice when she was cross.’

  Audrey swallowed with difficulty. At home, she was sometimes in trouble. But no one shouted.

  ‘I’m takin’ a goat home for the pot.’ Boy nodded towards the goats, which had moved down the road, but were still milling around searching for lunch. ‘I can catch ’em real quick. I catch rabbits too, with my hands. You just have to know which way to run. They kind of zigzag.’ He gestured with one grubby hand to show Audrey the path a fleeing rabbit would take.

  ‘Don’t the goats belong to somebody?’

  Boy shook his head. ‘There’s hundreds of ’em. The explorers brought ’em because they were food that could walk by itself. But they didn’t eat ’em all. Now the goats run all over the place. The police station’s got a sign that tells goats to keep out. Goats can’t read so they get into the horse paddock anyway and eat the grass.’ His eyes sparkled.

  ‘I’m hungwy,’ interrupted Douglas.

  Audrey knelt beside him, one finger against her lips in a shushing gesture. ‘You mustn’t tell Mrs Paterson about the goats. It’s a secret. You like secrets, don’t you?’

  Sometimes Douglas opened his mouth and words burst out by themselves. No one in the family paid too much attention. But Audrey had a feeling that Mrs Paterson would.

  From behind them, came the squeak of a hinge.

  ‘What is going on here?’ said a voice that cut like a knife.

  Mrs Paterson stood by the gate, one eyebrow raised. She seemed to use her eyebrow instead of words quite a lot. Right now, that brow looked annoyed.

  ‘We got a seecwet,’ said Douglas.

  Fourteen

  ‘It’s a game we’re playing,’ explained Audrey. ‘While we … um … do some gardening for you.’

  It was true, in a way, except that all the gardening had been done by goats, not by Audrey or Douglas.

  ‘Do you have permission to touch my garden?’

  Douglas slipped his hand into Audrey’s.

  ‘Not really,’ said Audrey. ‘But the weeds will choke your nice plants.’

  ‘I believe I gave strict instructions that you were only to play in the side part of the garden.’

  Audrey couldn’t think of a single thing to say. That didn’t happen very often. And when it did, she was surprised.

  ‘I saw goats when I turned the corner.’ Mrs Paterson sounded suspicious.

  ‘I was tryin’ to catch one, Mrs P,’ said Boy. ‘Good tucker if you get one that’s not too old and you cook ’em long enough.’ He jammed his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Mrs Paterson. Your abbreviation makes me sound like a legume.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A pea or bean,’ said Audrey. She often helped her mum in the vegetable garden at home, which meant she knew all kinds of gardening things. Like the meaning of legume. That tomatoes and potatoes shouldn’t be planted together because they were cousins. And that it didn’t work if you stuffed a plant back in the ground and pretended you hadn’t ripped it out by mistake. The plant always shrivelled.

  Thinking of home and her mother made Audrey feel like someone had pinched her right where her heart was beating. ‘Did you see Mum, Mrs Paterson?’

  ‘Mum!’ said Douglas, as though he was calling her.

  Audrey rubbed his back with the flat of her hand.

  ‘Yes, I saw her. Come inside.’ Mrs Paterson aimed her eagle eyes at Boy. ‘You may go home, young Jenkins.’

  ‘Boy,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I can see you are a boy. I am no spring chicken, but I am not blind yet.’

  ‘My name is Boy.’

  ‘Oh, you’re that Jenkins. There are so many of you.’

  Boy nodded. ‘Mum says we all look the same, too, ’cept we’re different sizes. Peas in a pod. Don’t feel bad about forgettin’ me name, Mrs Paterson. Dad forgets too. He calls us by number. I’m eight.’

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his grey shorts. ‘Mum sent you a note.’

  Mrs Paterson took it with two fingers. ‘You didn’
t read it, did you?’

  ‘I couldn’t. And I tried real hard. Looks like a fly crawled across the page. Not many people can read Mum’s writin’. I don’t reckon she can neither. She just remembers what she wrote.’

  ‘Boy Jenkins, looking at your mother’s note to me is highly improper. Go on now.’ The old lady strode along the path towards the door, her starched skirt rustling around her thin ankles.

  Douglas and Audrey, hand in hand, followed close behind.

  Audrey tried to think of something nice to say that might melt the stern look on the old lady’s face. ‘I’m glad you’re not blind yet, Mrs Paterson, even though you’re really old.’

  Fifteen

  Mrs Paterson strode into the sitting room. The wrinkles on her forehead bunched up like the ridges on a washboard. ‘My window. It’s open. How do you explain that, Audrey Barlow?’

  ‘The room smelt funny. I let some fresh air in for you. And the sunshine looks pretty.’

  Mrs Paterson marched across the room. She pushed back the net curtains, closed the window with a snap, then half-closed the heavier curtains. Audrey’s spirits dulled with the room.

  ‘Sunlight fades carpet,’ said Mrs Paterson.

  Audrey looked down at the floor. The threadbare carpet square was already faded.

  ‘Obviously my instructions fell on blocked ears. I see that you have a problem with remembering things. Do not enter this room without permission.’

  Douglas resumed sucking his thumb.

  ‘Stop that,’ commanded Mrs Paterson. ‘Thumb-sucking is for babies. And your teeth will grow crooked.’

  Douglas didn’t take out his thumb. Though he did stop slurping, which was some improvement.

  Mrs Paterson sat in a high-backed armchair without removing the white covers. She held herself so stiffly that she seemed in danger of snapping a bone. ‘You may sit.’

  Audrey perched on the edge of the two-seater sofa. Mum would call it a ‘lounge’. Audrey raised one eyebrow, just the way Mrs Paterson did, to show she was listening.

  Douglas stood beside Audrey, jiggling his legs.

  Audrey’s palms were damp but she didn’t dare wipe them.

  Mrs Paterson reached up and unpinned her hat, then placed it on her knees. ‘Your mother has instructed me to tell you she is in a certain condition.’

  Audrey frowned. ‘In the hospital?’

  ‘Yes, she is staying at the hospital.’

  ‘Hostibool,’ repeated Douglas.

  ‘What’s wrong with Mum that she’s in the hospital condition?’ asked Audrey. ‘Is her leg bad?’

  ‘No worse than usual, I believe. But I don’t think you quite understand my meaning. By condition, I mean that your family will, in the course of time, grow larger.’

  Audrey was confused. ‘Is Mum getting fatter?’

  Douglas threw himself across Audrey’s knees.

  Mrs Paterson went pink. Her fingers fiddled with the brim of her black hat. Audrey thought it was strange. Mrs Paterson didn’t seem a fidgety sort of person.

  ‘You will notice some changes …’ Mrs Paterson took a deep breath. ‘Your mother is expecting.’

  ‘What is she expecting, Mrs Paterson?’

  ‘A baby. Your mother is expecting a baby. Do you understand?’

  ‘Oh, that’s what it is. I watched Sassafras squeeze out Buttons.’

  The pink on Mrs Paterson’s face deepened to red. ‘You watched …?’ Her voiced cracked and her words fell into the gap.

  ‘Sassafras is our mother goat. Her baby is called Buttons, because she is cute as a button.’

  ‘Sassafwas eats eveyfing,’ said Douglas. ‘Me too. I’m hungwy.’

  ‘When is Mum leaving the hospital?’ asked Audrey.

  ‘I do not know. Things are not quite right. She has to stay for a while. Perhaps several weeks.’

  ‘Weeks?’ Audrey felt her face go hot. That sometimes happened before she cried. But she was determined not to cry today. Not in front of Mrs Paterson. And not in front of her little brother. He might be scared. Certainly, he would cry too. ‘What … what about me and Dougie?’

  ‘You will stay with me.’

  Audrey wished her family had never come to town.

  She sat on the sofa, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.

  Sixteen

  Audrey’s lunch was left-over stewed meat between thick slices of bakery bread. It felt like a solid lump in her stomach. Normally she would have loved every mouthful. But not today.

  She sat on the sofa, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.

  ‘Do try not to slouch, child,’ said Mrs Paterson. ‘Else your back will bend like a horseshoe.’

  Audrey had never seen anyone whose back looked like a horseshoe. But what Mrs Paterson said was probably true. She was old and had seen more backs than anyone.

  A tickle began on the end of Audrey’s nose. She tried to think of something else, anything else, rather than scratch it.

  Mrs Paterson looked over her round glasses. ‘Ladies sit still. They do not wiggle their lower limbs.’

  Audrey held her legs still and wondered if proper ladies felt as bored as she did. She looked up at the shiny brown clock on the mantelpiece. Its ticking could be heard right through the house. The clock didn’t have proper numbers, just lines, V’s and X’s. Maybe it was one of those ‘two-bob’ clocks that Bloke had talked about.

  ‘Mrs Paterson, why doesn’t your clock have numbers?’

  ‘It has numbers. They are in Latin. They are usually called Roman numerals.’

  ‘We only have Australian words in our house,’ said Audrey. ‘We don’t know how to do Latin.’

  ‘I am sure you do not. In any case, it is a dead language.’

  Audrey blinked. Why would Mrs Paterson have dead numbers on her clock?

  ‘Do you think ghosts can read dead numbers? That’d help if they were supposed to come out at exactly midnight.’

  ‘Tommyrot.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That was not intended as a compliment.’

  Audrey fiddled with the end of her plait. Although she was tempted to chew on it, she decided to let it drop. Price said that chewing your hair gave you a hairy chest.

  She longed for Douglas to wake up from his nap. He would totter out with sweaty, mussed-up hair and a confused expression. His thumb would be in his mouth. Audrey glanced down the hallway, but it was empty. The rumble of snores from the end bedroom told her that he was sound asleep.

  Stumpy was still hiding. He was probably scared. This house wasn’t much fun for a camel like him.

  ‘You may begin writing your list of house rules now,’ said Mrs Paterson. ‘It might aid your memory. Although the school is closed for the holidays, you should keep up your skills.’

  ‘I don’t have any skills,’ said Audrey. ‘But I can write words. Not big ones. But they’re proper words.’

  She picked up the pencil and paper from the small table beside her. ‘Do you think people are the same as the list?’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ said Mrs Paterson.

  ‘I reckon there might be “Do” and “Don’t” sorts of people. If you’re born a “Don’t”, you can’t help it. You just see “Don’ts” everywhere.’

  Mrs Paterson’s mouth drooped.

  Audrey wondered if Mrs Paterson ever laughed. Audrey’s home up north was small and there was nothing fancy about it. But her family laughed a lot. Sometimes at each other. Sometimes at themselves. And sometimes at nothing at all.

  Here, the old house was large and there was a lace tablecloth on the sitting-room table. But the clock had dead numbers and the rooms were filled with shadows.

  Seventeen

  Mrs Paterson made a click-clack sound as she knitted with her wooden needles. The yarn wriggled and the needles wobbled and somehow it was all growing into a red something-or-other.

  ‘That Jenkins family,’ said Mrs Paterson, ‘I’m not certain they are suitable company.’

  Audrey
held her breath. Mrs Jenkins’s note had asked if Audrey and Douglas could come over to play with her children. Audrey wanted to go. She needed to go. It was part of the secret plan she was hatching.

  ‘They have … foibles.’ Mrs Paterson tossed her head like a sulky horse.

  ‘What’s a foydool?’

  ‘F-o-i-b-l-e.’ Mrs Paterson spelt out the word. ‘It’s a bad habit. Those children run wild and they always have runny noses.’

  Boy had wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then hidden the evidence on the side of his shorts. Audrey didn’t care about that. Camels often had runny noses. Sometimes they snotted on purpose to annoy people. Stumpy didn’t do that, though.

  ‘There are some girls amongst that brood. Mrs Jenkins herself is a good-hearted woman. And it is a duty to be kind to the poor. Faith, hope and charity.’

  ‘Are they the names of the girls?’

  Mrs Paterson made a tsk sound. ‘They are the three great virtues.’

  ‘Is virtue like washing dishes?’ asked Audrey.

  ‘I would say so.’ Mrs Paterson tugged on her knitting yarn.

  So it’s a bad thing, decided Audrey. But she didn’t say that aloud.

  ‘We could consider it part of your social instruction. And I can’t be expected to keep two children amused all day long.’

  Mrs Paterson was so old she had most likely forgotten how to play.

  Audrey studied the mantelpiece above the fireplace. There were several pretty plates, a small vase holding stalks of lavender and two old photographs. The men in the photos looked alike, although the older man had a crooked nose.

  Mrs Paterson held up the red rectangle. ‘This should fit you.’

  ‘Where would my arms go?’

  ‘I have not reached that far yet.’ Mrs Paterson’s eyebrow did its jump. ‘Don’t you know how to knit, child?’

  ‘Mum tried to show me once. But I was little and the stitches kept dropping off the sticks. It was too hard.’