Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles

by Lindsay Johannsen

CHAPTER 28

  The Princess In The Pumpkin Vine; and The Boy With The Cross-Legged Gait

  We reached Mount Isa a little before sunset and went directly to the house. As we alighted we were mobbed by a horde of children, their original number augmented by four of Zack’s younger cousins. Then Jessica pushed her way through the swarm of small-fry and surprise me with a quick wiry hug. Following this Zack and I were hauled off to the pumpkin patch to see the latest version of their cubbyhouse – built in the middle of the long-suffering pumpkin vine.

  Posing in front of the structure was little Cecily. She’d draped herself in an old lace curtain – her only garment – and was standing on one of the pumpkins. “Kebin! Kebin! Lookit me!” she shouted as she bobbed up and down amongst the big leaves of the vine. “I the fairy princess! I the fairy princess!” In her hand was a stick with a Christmas star tied to the end, on her head sat a vaguely crown-shaped silver paper ring.

  Just then came a familiar sounding broadside from the screen door at the back of the house. It was Ma Reiff, shouting for Jessica to gather the littlies for bath time. “...and make sure you get the fairy princess, please luvvey,” she added as she turned to go back inside.

  I returned to the car for my things then retreated to the caravan. Best keep well out of it, I thought, knowing what the bathroom chaos would be like with the extra numbers. It wasn’t long before Zack arrived with the same idea in mind.

  “Mum says we can have our bath after dinner,” he muttered. “… if there’s anything left of the bathroom, she means.”

  So many small hungry faces meant the meal had to be held in shifts, with the littlies going first. Ma Reiff handled it well, sweeping about the kitchen serving, succouring and soothing as necessary. Jessica, Zack and I helped in any way we could.

  Bedlam with food is the nearest the scene can be described with mere words. And the longer it went on, the louder and more chaotic it became.

  For a while I wondered if they would need another bath, but Ma Reiff was equal to this task as well. With nothing more than a flannel about the size of a beach towel she performed a minor miracle as each child left the room, at the same time capturing a couple who thought the moment right to make an escape.

  After tea she rang the presbytery to advise Father O’Long of our return and to find out what further arrangements had been made. Tomorrow we were to have lunch in the presbytery grounds as guests of the parish, she was told. Then, at eleven thirty the following morning, we were to assemble at the railway station in readiness for the train’s departure at twelve. She was also advised that we would need to take plenty of food and refreshments, as none would be available on the train.

  Ma Reiff hung up the phone looking puzzled. “...But the Inlander doesn’t leave at twelve,” she said hesitantly.

  “Course not,” replied her husband. “This one’s a ‘Slowlander’. Anything leaving at that time is a freight train.”

  The next morning we were woken by Jessica’s banging on the side of the van, long after Jasper had departed for Schraeder’s Claim. “Mum says that if you want any Weet-bix you’d better get moving,” she shouted, “and that there’ll be no more until she can get down to the shops.” She knew better than to stand in front of the door, though. At the words “no more” Zack leapt up, grabbed his shorts, pulled them on, slammed open the door and rocketed out.

  I came out a minute or two later to find her still there. She bid me a shy good morning, accompanied me to the kitchen in an offhand manner then sort-of hung around while I had breakfast.

  At the presbytery luncheon I caught up with Doogle and Sash. Under the guise of helping with preparations they’d watched for pavlova trays and taken note of their whereabouts. I told them something of my adventures and learned how, during my absence, they’d visited the Beetle Creek fossil locality.

  They’d found some excellent trilobite specimens, Doogle said. They’d also gone to another place and collected some cross-shaped staurolite crystals.

  “I don’t suppose you got a couple for me?” I asked.

  “I got plenty,” said Doogle. “I’ll trade you for some of that copper ore.”

  Generally speaking the luncheon was incredibly boring – people mostly talking to people they already knew and later giving speeches thanking other people they knew.

  The shortest speech was Duffy’s on behalf of us boys, something we applauded enthusiastically with much cat-calling and whistling … until terminated by a venemous glare from Father O’Long, that is.

  And the gathering was no Gower Abbey speech night. It was much smaller of course and the food was being offered around by girls from the local Catholic High School. This made the battle for a piece of pavlova a somewhat different affair to our usual fracas.

  At Gower Abbey, strategic manoeuvring was the key to success. Positions were taken as close to a pavlova as possible, while still allowing guests to come and go freely. And competition to hold a place was fierce, with feet, fists and elbows having to be used without a ripple of commotion catching Father O’Long’s eye. Also, we were not allowed to serve ourselves until receiving his signal, and even then were expected to act graciously – a tricky act whilst grappling with like minded competitors over the remaining pieces.

  The young lady misfortunate enough to bring one of the pavlova trays our way soon found herself surrounded by a jostling throng of over-enthusiastic boys, all of them trying to charm and impress her while liberating as much of its fragile delight as possible. She was a sturdy, no-nonsense girl, however, and quickly took matters in hand when the pushing and shoving began to escalate.

  Suddenly the melee subsided, without her having said a word ... after which each boy was seen to politely accept an offered portion, politely thank her and politely return to his place. How she’d achieved this was never admitted, though two of the more vigorous competitors had acquired some badly bruised toes, while a third retired to his seat with watery eyes and a curious cross-legged stiffness of gait.

  In due course she came to where he was sitting and sweetly tendered the last piece. And all he could do was smile, accept the offer graciously and squeak his thanks. Interestingly, the pair later became good friends, with their respective letters of apology crossing in the mail. After this they wrote to each other regularly.

  Ma Reiff was delighted to be accompanying us to the luncheon but had to engineer an escape in order to do so. This was achieved by the simple process of giving each child a sixpence (5c), then suggesting they might like to spend it straight away. The Reiff’s nearest shop was more that half a kilometre away, nearly an hour’s round trip for little legs. Jessica had wanted to come with us but her mother promised her something special for taking charge of the expedition.

  Off along the dusty track they went, looking not unlike an entire kindergarten on the move, each bare-footed, grubby-faced child clutching its sixpence in a sweaty little hand (and sixpence then would buy more than a dollar’s worth in today’s money). Jessica and Brian were each given a shilling for looking after them (10c).

  But their lollies were long forgotten by the time we returned to the house. Instead we were greeted by a troop of slightly indignant children, many of whom wanted to know “Where did you went, Mummy?”

  Later in the afternoon Jessica was taken into her mother’s bedroom. After fifteen minutes or so the two emerged, Jessica’s eyes shining with delight. She gave me a big smile as she went past, blushed profoundly and raced outside to the cubbyhouse.

  “Gees, Mum; what was all that about?” Zack asked.

  “You’ll see tomorrow,” came his mother’s reply.

  The rest of the day was fairly quiet. Ma Reiff went shopping and took Jessica with her, this time leaving Zack and I to look after the children. That was easy; we just rebuilt the cubbyhouse in a better location. It was a relatively straightforward job, too, as their cubby consisted mostly of wooden boxes, pieces of batten and a moth-eaten old tarpaulin. “We keep the tarp for Sundays most
ly,” Zack said. Before I could ask what he was talking about he added: “It’s a holey tarp.”

  When they returned I took the opportunity to relax on my bed in the van. There I began browsing in Nugget’s mineralogy book … and came on something I’d not previously noticed.

  On the title page, below where Stefansson had written his comments, Nugget had added – or copied at least in his unpractised hand – “To my good friend Kevin Cassidy. May this book help you find that which you seek. Best wishes, Nugget”.

  Good old Nugget, I thought, suddenly caught up in the emotion of the moment. No surname. How typically informal.

  Later in the afternoon Jasper unexpectedly returned from the mine. “I came back early to make sure you ratbags stay on the train when it goes,” he told me. Apparently, while they were loading, he’d noticed one of the truck’s rear main springs was broken. As a result they had only put about half the usual load on board. For me his early return was a relief as I’d wanted to thank him before we left.

  “Ar get out of it,” he replied when I raised the subject, then added in a slightly embarrassed manner: “You’re a good mate and we’ve all enjoyed your company. And you set a good example for Zack, too.”

  Others, I thought, might well question that latter sentiment.

  “...And don’t let it go to your head,” he continued, “but it’s possible you may have restored a bit of Nugget’s faith in the younger generation.”

  “Yeah, well...” I mumbled doubtfully. “Anyway, Jasper, would you please thank him for me?”

  “I told you before, son; he doesn’t want your thanks. You could write to him, though. He’d really like that. Just send your letters to here, I’ll make sure he gets them.”

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