Cindy Jones

by Margaret Pearce

  “I’m only thinking them, stupid,” she exploded. “What do you care? All you want is your breakfast.”

  “Yeeoow,” agreed Horace and Pearl in chorus.

  Cindy gave them their milk, cleaned up the kitchen, and took a shovel out to the fishpond, thinking hard as she worked.

  She had nine short weeks to get rid of that woman. But how? Hooper snored peacefully in the shade of the lemon tree. Cindy dug and dug. The pile of rubbish by the fishpond grew steadily higher.

  She wiped the sweat and dirt off her face and stared at the fishpond. The only thing left was to throw her father and Jennifer together until her father changed his mind about Mrs. Barry.

  What she needed was some sort of anti-love potion so Mrs. Barry couldn’t stand the sight of her father and her father couldn’t stand the sight of Mrs. Barry. Perhaps she could dye her father’s hair gray while he was sleeping or paint all his teeth black.

  It was a pity they didn’t live in the old days when you could poison off people you didn’t like. Life must have been much simpler then. What was the name of the family of Italian poisoners she had read about? Barneo? Borley? Borgia?

  “What are you muttering about?” asked Gretta, amused.

  Gretta stood watching her. She had a white baby goat under one arm and carried a large hessian bag. Hooper came snuffling over.

  “I was thinking if I was a Borgia, I could poison people I didn’t like,” Cindy explained.

  “Well, don’t invite me around for a meal” Gretta chuckled. “How did your Irish stew turn out?”

  “Very successfully. What are you doing with that gorgeous kid?”

  “I need her hand fed until I can find a foster mother,” Gretta explained. “I’ve brought the milk powder with me.”

  “No problems.”

  Cindy found a bowl, and Gretta showed her how to mix the milk. The baby goat, that Cindy named Mayberry, slurped greedily. Gretta left. Cindy put Mayberry into the pen with Amanda, and continued cleaning out the fishpond, stopping to feed Mayberry every few hours.

  It took nearly all day to finish cleaning the pond properly and rake away the rubbish. She filled it with water and tipped the tadpoles into their new home.

  Cindy showered and changed into clean clothes. She mixed up more milk for Mayberry and went outside to feed her.

  “What’s that?” Prunella asked as she appeared from around the side of the garage.

  “What do you want?”

  “We’re going the same way, so we may as well walk home together.” Prunella patted at Mayberry. “It’s rather cute.”

  “Do you want to feed her while I fix the other animals?” Cindy asked.

  “Oh yes!” Prunella’s brown eyes opened very wide.

  She tilted the bowl and held it carefully until Mayberry had finished every drop.

  “My father liked pets. I had a goldfish and a canary, but after he died, Mother said they were dirty and unhygienic,” Prunella confided as they walked along the street.

  Cindy ignored her. Prunella veered off the subject of pets.

  “Isn’t Jim Plumstead just dreamy? He was really upset about Frazzle trying to tie a can to your cat’s tail. Everybody will be go ape over us dancing with him at the dinner dance. What are you wearing? I’ve never seen you in a dress. Are you getting a new one for the dance?”

  Cindy didn’t bother to reply. She had outgrown all her dresses years ago. Her wardrobe consisted of jeans, tee shirts, and jumpers with a few long sleeved shirts for in-between days.

  Over the dinner of roast lamb and potatoes, baby carrots, and green peas, Prunella brought the subject up again.

  “Mother, Cindy hasn’t got a dress to wear to the dance. Are you going to buy her a new one when we chose ours?”

  Cindy glowered at Prunella. She hadn’t actually admitted to Prunella that she had nothing to wear.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Barry said.

  “Don’t put yourself out,” Cindy snapped. “I wouldn’t wear anything you picked.”

  "Mrs. Barry is trying to be helpful, Cindy.” The professor sounded cross.

  “It’s all right, Godfrey.” Mrs. Barry was all smiles. “Young girls don’t like adults’ taste in clothes. Prunella has plenty of clothes Jacinda can borrow.”

  Cindy was silent. Mrs. Barry had scored again. She didn’t want Prunella’s cast-off dresses either, but it was safer not to say so. After dinner, Mrs. Barry and the professor took their coffee into the lounge room, while the girls washed the dishes.

  “I really don’t know why your father is taking you to the dance anyway,” Constance said with a sneer as soon as the kitchen door was shut.

  “But everyone is going,” Prunella protested. “Can you dance?”

  Cindy flushed, which was answer enough.

  “Who cares.” Constance shrugged, inspecting a saucer she was taking a long time to dry. “No one is going to dance with a scruffy kid like her.”

  The dishes were nearly finished. Cindy concentrated on washing a cup very carefully. Soon she would be able to make the excuse she had to go home to feed Mayberry.

  “And I don’t know why Mother offered to lend you Prunella’s clothes,” Constance taunted. “They won’t improve the way you look.”

  “Who wants to look as silly as you?” Cindy asked.

  “I didn’t notice anybody asking you to save them any dances, little Miss Grubby,” Constance sniggered.

  Cindy felt the heat rush up into her cheeks. Her head throbbed, and her eyes became hot and prickly.

  “Grubby yourself,” she retorted as she flung the cupful of dirty sink water over Constance.

  “Little pig,” Constance snarled and slapped Cindy hard across the face.

  No one had ever slapped Cindy across the face or anywhere else. Her father didn’t believe in corporal punishment.

  “Pig yourself,” Cindy yelled and hurtled the cup towards Constance’s head.

  Constance ducked. The cup shattered loudly on the tiled floor. The door opened.

  “Really, girls! What’s this nonsense?”

  Mrs. Barry’s eyes were narrowed, and her mouth thinned to a straight red line. For the first time, Cindy realized that not only did she dislike Mrs. Barry, but she was also scared of her.

  Her father was behind her. His eyes were fixed on the shattered white fine bone china cup on the floor. He had a stunned expression on his face.

  “It’s not my fault.” Constance lowered her voice and put a goody goody expression on her face. “She threw the cup at me for no reason at all.”

  Everyone, even the professor, looked at Cindy as though she was the pig, and not Constance.

  “I’ve got to feed Mayberry.” Cindy tried to keep the quaver out of her voice.

  She dropped the tea towel and rushed out the front door, banging it shut behind her before she burst into tears.

  Chapter Nine

  “You will have to stop being so unpleasant and rude, Cindy.” Her father was still cross when he arrived home that evening. “Mrs. Barry and her daughters are going to be living with us soon.”

  “They’re stupid and spiteful, and I hate them.”

  “You might be happier in boarding school,” her father said thoughtfully.

  “Send them, not me,” Cindy yelled back at him. “Why do I have to be kicked out of my own home?”

  “Goodnight, Cindy,” her father answered coldly.

  The next morning, he and Cindy ate their tomato sandwiches in silence. He only spoke once and that was to ask Cindy to pass the raspberry cordial. A car horn tooted.

  “Guinevere wants me to talk to someone who is interested in buying the fish.” The professor pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “You’re going to sell your fish?”

  “Some of them.” Her father looked uncomfortable. “Do you want to come with us?”

  “No.”

  The horn tooted again, and her father left. Cindy rubbed at her eyes. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go awa
y. Her father had never left before without saying goodbye.

  She thought about running away, but who would feed and look after the animals if she wasn’t around? This reminded her about Mayberry. She mixed up a bowl of milk and went outside. Prunella was in the pen patting Mayberry.

  Her pale blue slacks had stains on them, and her frilly blouse was all crumpled. She almost didn’t look like Prunella, with that soft, happy look on her face and her grubby clothes. Cindy felt the hard lump in her throat go away.

  “I didn’t want to go with Mother and Constance. Can I feed Mayberry?”

  There was a humble note in her voice. Cindy handed over the bowl. Mayberry slurped all the milk and bleated for more.

  “She’s still hungry,” Prunella exclaimed.

  “If she has too much, it will make her sick. We can give her more in a few hours.”

  “No need to,” said Gretta from behind them. “I’ve found a foster mother. Like to come down to Seaview for the drive?”

  “Me too?” Prunella asked.

  Cindy tried to say she didn’t want her, but the words stuck. She couldn’t be nasty to Prunella with that eager expectant look on her face. It would be like being unkind to fat old Hooper.

  Seaview was a small fishing town down the coast about an hour’s drive away. Gretta explained that a friend with a herd of milking goats was taking Mayberry.

  When they arrived they admired the herd of goats, introduced Mayberry to her new mother, and met a new foal. They were given hot scones with jam and cream for morning tea, and then Gretta had to examine a sick cow.

  “I’m going to be at least another hour,” Gretta said, looking at her watch. “Can you both amuse yourselves until I’ve finished?”

  “Prunella and I will take a walk down to the jetty,” Cindy replied.

  “This is the nicest day I’ve ever spent,” Prunella said. “Weren’t those hot scones delicious? Isn’t this a lovely place? Wish we lived somewhere like this.”

  Cindy let Prunella’s chatter wash over her. They reached the jetty. A short, stout, old lady wearing a loose stained shirt over rolled up trousers was fishing with her bare feet dangling over the edge. A man’s battered old felt hat was perched on the back of her head.

  “Isn’t that Miss Hopkins?”

  “It’s an old lady tramp,” Prunella scoffed. “What would Miss Hopkins be doing here wearing such peculiar clothes?”

  It was Miss Hopkins, however, and she glanced around as they approached. The sun shone across her blank, round glasses.

  “Hello, Miss Hopkins,” the two girls chorused.

  “Hello, Cindy and Prunella. What brings you both to Seaview?”

  “We came with Gretta Carson. She had to bring a baby goat down,” Cindy explained.

  “Gretta! I didn’t think of her. She will do,” Miss Hopkins said.

  Cindy couldn’t think of any reason why Miss Hopkins should think Gretta would do and do for what? Miss Hopkins caught two fish while they watched.

  “I enjoy fishing,” she told them. “I have a weekend place down here.” She darted a look at Cindy. “How’s your cooking going?”

  “Improving,” Cindy replied. “I made an Irish stew the other night.”

  “Good,” Miss Hopkins replied.

  She stared at the water as though she had forgotten the girls were there, so they strolled off. After awhile they got bored and headed back from the beach.

  The street running from the jetty was lined with small cottages with upturned dinghies and drying nets across their front yards. Prunella stopped to look at the large cage of canaries hanging from the front porch of one of the cottages.

  “I just love canaries. Look at that red one.”

  “It’s orange,” Cindy said.

  “I know, but it’s called red, and they’re very expensive.”

  “You like birds, missy?” called an old fellow mending nets in the front yard.

  “I think they’re so nice,” Prunella said eagerly. “My father used to breed them.”

  Cindy nudged at her. The old man’s dirty feet were stuck in holey old slippers, and a ragged flannel shirt hung over paint-stained baggy trousers. He was bald with untidy gray whiskers covering most of his wrinkled brown face. Three broken stained bottom teeth showed when he spoke.

  “Your father, hey?” the old man repeated.

  “He died years ago,” Prunella said eagerly. “He was the cleverest and nicest person in the world.”

  “Was he now,” said the old man, and then he took another puff of his pipe, and the smoke streamed upwards, veiling his face.

  “He was a bank manager, you know,” Prunella gabbled. “He wore beautiful gray suits. He was very good looking and terribly important, and he bred red canaries and let me have one for my very own.”

  “Fancy now,” said the old man. “And you still got it?”

  “Oh no! Mother sold it, but I’m sure it was as red as one of yours.”

  “She shouldn’t have done that!” the old man muttered.

  He bent over his nets and went on mending, ignoring the girls.

  “We met Miss Hopkins,” Cindy told Gretta when they reached the car. “And Prunella got talking to an old fisherman who breeds red canaries.”

  “Seaview is full of retired people who do a bit of fishing,” Gretta said. “Was he a professional fisherman?”

  “He had nets all over the place,” Cindy explained. “But he didn’t look very successful. He wore the most dreadful old rags, and he needed new bottom teeth.”

  The conversation returned to the red canaries. Gretta spent the rest of their drive back explaining about the difficulties of breeding canaries to hold their red color.

  “It’s been raining up here,” Prunella exclaimed, as the car turned into Turkscap Drive. “Look at all the water running down the gutter.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Cindy said. “The sky is as clear as anything.”

  Gretta stopped the car in front of Number Six. A large flexible pipe snaked around the side of the house and disgorged muddy water into the gutter.

  “All that water is coming from our place.” Cindy was suddenly uneasy.

  “Interesting,” Gretta commented. “I’ll see you both later.”

  She drove off. Cindy and Prunella hurried around the back. A motor chugged by the side of the swimming pool. The shallow end of the pool was dry, and the pipe slurped in the puddle of muddy water remaining at the deep end.

  “We put the turtles and the carp into the fishpond, miss,” a man called when he saw them.

  “My tadpoles,” Cindy groaned.

  She rushed over to the fishpond. In the crystal clear water the turtles drifted around lazily. There was no sign of the carp or the tadpoles, but Horace and Pearl sat by the fishpond with smug contented expressions on their faces.

  Cindy breathed hard. It was no use getting upset! It wasn’t the fault of the workmen. Her tadpoles and carp were just more casualties of Mrs. Barry’s campaign to marry her father.

  Chapter Ten

  Cindy watched her father over breakfast. He was eating rice bubbles and correcting essays.

  The puzzling question nagged at her again. What had caused her sensible normal father to want to marry Mrs. Barry? Jennifer was much more likable, attractive, and intelligent.

  “Dad?”

  “Fourteen minus, I suppose,” he muttered, placing another essay aside.

  “Do you really like Mrs. Barry?”

  “What?”

  “Do you really like Mrs. Barry?”

  “A very nice human being.”

  “Do you kiss her?”

  The professor gave all his attention to Cindy. His face went dull red. “You’re being impertinent.” He gathered up his papers and shuffled them into the briefcase. “Remember, we’re having dinner at Guinevere’s tonight. I don’t want any ill-mannered or embarrassing performances from you.”

  He grabbed his car keys and rushed off before she could answer.

  ****
>
  “Do you think he really likes her?” Cindy asked Gretta when she dropped into the surgery on her way to school.

  Gretta gave the tiniest of sighs. She was sprawled at her desk checking her appointment book.

  “He’s marrying her, isn’t he?”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Your father knows what he’s doing.”

  “How do people act when they’re in love?”

  “You ask the stupidest questions, Cindy.” Gretta flushed up to the roots of her untidy hair. She put away her appointment book and checked the instruments, bottles, and tubes in her bag.

  “Well, I wish he wasn’t marrying her,” Cindy grumbled, as she followed Gretta out to her car.

  “Yes,” Gretta muttered back in a low voice as she yanked open the door of her old station wagon.

  Cindy picked up her bike. She blinked. Miss Hopkins suddenly stood beside them, holding the limp form of Horace. Cindy hadn’t seen her arrive. She was just there!

  “Good morning, Cindy and Gretta.”

  “Good morning Miss Hopkins.” Gretta looked uncomfortable.

  “What’s Horace been up to?” Cindy asked.

  “He keeps visiting me,” Miss Hopkins explained. “When I pick him up, he goes completely limp as if there’s something wrong with him.”

  “He won’t stay home,” Cindy explained, as she took his limp body. “There’s so much upheaval at our place now, he keeps leaving.”

  “Sensible of him,” Miss Hopkins agreed. “But he can’t stay with me. He will swim in my laundry trough, and he’s flooding me out.”

  Gretta looked at her watch. “I have to go. Put him in one of the runs, Cindy. I’ll check him over this afternoon.”

  She drove away. Miss Hopkins walked off. Cindy ran around the back of the surgery and gently locked Horace into an empty pen.

  “Yeeow,” Horace spat as he realized where he was, but Cindy was leaving.

  That afternoon, Gretta looked harassed as she confessed she couldn’t find anything wrong with Horace. “I’ll do a few more tests overnight and bring him around tomorrow night if he’s all right.”

  Cindy rode her bike home. It didn’t look like her home anymore. The outside had been painted white and reared stark and clean among the nakedness of the front yard. After she fed the animals and cleaned out cages and pens, it was time to leave for the Barrys’ flat.