Douglas poked one finger in his ear. ‘I got blue undies.’
‘Well, really.’
The red dots on Mrs Paterson’s cheeks spread across her face. ‘Underclothing is not a suitable topic for conversation in a sitting room.’
Audrey suspected Mrs Paterson would not discuss undies in any room.
‘Thank you. That will do nicely.’ Mrs Paterson withdrew her hand from Audrey’s. ‘I suggest we put our minds to a higher place.’
‘Heaven?’ guessed Audrey.
‘Not quite that high.’ Mrs Paterson’s mouth twitched in an almost-smile. ‘Perhaps you would like to write your mother another letter. She will be missing you.’
‘That’s the best idea in the whole world.’
‘Thank you for the praise, but I feel it’s a trifle overdone.’ Despite her protest, Mrs Paterson looked pleased.
‘What will I tell her about the dance?’ Audrey watched the old lady’s face for any sign of a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
Douglas rolled back across the room and thumped against the far wall. Audrey waited for him to cry, but he didn’t. He seemed to like thumping as much as he liked rolling. Douglas rolled again and came to a stop at Mrs Paterson’s feet. ‘What age were you when you were my age?’
She looked down at him with one raised eyebrow.
‘If I went to the dance, I’d wear my yellow dress,’ said Audrey. ‘It’s only got one mend in it and you can’t really see it. Boy’s got long trousers. But girls don’t wear trousers to dances. They don’t twizzle.’
Mrs Paterson put one hand to her forehead. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Twizzle. It’s one of my special words. I made it up. You twizzle like this.’ Audrey got up and spun round. The hem of her blue dress floated up around her.
‘You are making me dizzy.’
‘I reckon you’d be a really good twizzler,’ said Audrey.
The old lady looked up at the photos on the mantelpiece. ‘Perhaps I was. Once.’ Light from the fire shone on her face. She looked happier when her skin was bright.
‘Boy’s dad said you dance like a fox.’
Beltana, April 1930
Dear Mum,
I am being VERY good and nemembering Please and Thank you.
When Stumpy is here I make him stay quiet. He plays with his new friends from the camel farm when I go to the Jenkins house.
I am writing a new list so you can see the Do things—
Brush your hair 100 times every night (but then you lie on your hair and mess it up).
Don’t turn your fork over the other way when you eat peas (this is silly becos because the peas fall off—unless you stab them, but then they roll off the plate).
When you finish your food, push the nife knife and fork together so people know you are finished (you could just tell them but I think Mrs Paterson likes to work it out for herself).
Say Thank you for everything you can think of before you eat (so your food tastes betta better. But arsking for a blessing for the poor is like arsking for something for yourself if you are one of them so if you are poor you should bless the rich so you aren’t arsking for something for yourself).
On washing day hang your undies where no one can see them or they will know you wear them.
Love from your Audrey, Dougie and Stumpy
Thirty-three
Audrey wrenched open the front door and ran down the hallway, through the dining room, kitchen and into the laundry. ‘Mrs Paterson!’
Douglas belted along behind her, making noises that not even Audrey could interpret.
The old lady turned her head. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were submerged in water in the laundry trough. ‘What has happened?’
‘Mum’s coming home on Monday and she’s stopped spitting up … I mean, she’s feeling better.’ Audrey waved a sheet of paper. ‘Boy came over with this. Mrs Jenkins sent him. It’s a note from Mum.’
‘I am happy that you will have your mother back,’ said Mrs Paterson.
Douglas, his face pink with delight, bounced over and grabbed her leg.
‘Dougie, don’t squeeze Mrs Paterson’s arthritis,’ said Audrey.
‘Perhaps if he adjusts his grip, I will not lose my leg.’ Mrs Paterson’s voice was steady, but Audrey thought she heard a laugh at the back of it.
Douglas didn’t budge.
Mrs Paterson lifted the clothing she was washing out of the water.
‘Is that my yellow dress?’ asked Audrey, suddenly breathless.
‘I believe so.’
‘Am I going to the dance tomorrow?’
‘If you wish …’
‘I do. I wish.’ Audrey clapped her hands. ‘This is my best day ever. I can go to the dance and Mum’s coming back.’
Mrs Paterson began squeezing the water from the yellow dress. ‘It would reflect badly on this household if you were not permitted to attend.’
‘Can me and Boy be your hescort?’
‘Escort. There is no such word as hescort. Where do you get these expressions from?’
‘It’s my dead language,’ said Audrey, ‘like “ye” and the numbers on the clock.’
‘I wanna dance too,’ yelled Douglas. His voice bounced off the laundry walls.
Mrs Paterson shook her head. ‘It is not polite to shout, young man. Speak quietly.’
‘Quoitly,’ shouted Douglas.
‘When your dress is dry, Audrey, I will press it. Just because you are poor, doesn’t mean you have to be unkempt.’
‘I’m not poor. I’ve got my family.’
The old lady’s mouth tightened.
‘You’re coming to the dance too, aren’t you?’
Mrs Paterson did not answer.
Thirty-four
Audrey stared at herself in Mrs Paterson’s long mirror. Turning left and right, she couldn’t see one crease in the yellow dress. Her face was pink with excitement and her green eyes, clear and bright. Audrey’s hair gleamed after its hundred brushstrokes. She wished her mum could see her shiny hair and new shoes. When Mum came out of hospital there would be so much to tell her.
‘I put a touch of starch in the water, to stiffen the material of your dress. It looks almost new,’ said Mrs Paterson.
Douglas stared at Audrey, his thumb in his mouth. ‘You look priddy.’
‘Thank you, Dougie.’ Audrey leaned over to kiss his cheek.
Douglas pulled away and made a face. ‘Yuck.’
‘He will grow out of it,’ said Mrs Paterson. ‘They always do.’
‘I know he will,’ said Audrey. ‘He kisses snails.’
Mrs Paterson stared down at Douglas as though she was imagining the snail and didn’t like it.
Audrey swished from side to side. ‘Will I crackle like you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your dress crackles when you walk.’
‘Perhaps it is my arthritic knees.’
‘Cake,’ said Douglas.
‘Yes, there’ll be cake,’ Audrey assured him.
‘I will give you an old jacket of mine to wear.’ As Mrs Paterson tied yellow ribbons at the end of Audrey’s plaits, her hands trembled.
‘But won’t you want to wear it?’ asked Audrey.
Mrs Paterson shook her head. ‘No one will care in the least whether I am there or not. You and your brother will be safe with the Jenkins family. They may not bathe as often as I would wish, but they are good at heart.’
‘If you come you can watch me and Dougie. You can eat the cakes. And you can make sure that Boy doesn’t stamp on my feet. I think he could be a real stamper, don’t you?’
Mrs Paterson said nothing.
‘And I’ve got a surprise,’ added Audrey. ‘Boy sold two rabbits to a man who didn’t know they came from the graveyard. Anyway, Boy split the money with me because I showed him how Price skins his rabbits and it was better than the way Boy does it. He was starting at the wrong end.’ She slipped one hand into her pocket and pulled out a length of nar
row ribbon the colour of a summer sky. ‘I bought you this.’
The old lady stared.
Audrey hoped she wasn’t angry.
But Mrs Paterson took the ribbon. She ran one finger down its length, just the way Audrey had done in the store.
‘We’ll both look pretty,’ said Audrey.
‘Pretty wrinkled, in my case. The ribbon is lovely. Just the thing to wear around my neck. Thank you.’
A loud knock at the door announced that Boy and some of his brothers or sisters had arrived. Douglas ran out into the hallway.
‘Please say you’ll come to the dance, Mrs Paterson.’
‘I am not dressed properly.’ Mrs Paterson looked down at Audrey. ‘But it would be a pity to waste such a beautiful ribbon. You go ahead. I will meet you there.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Remember,’ said Audrey, with one finger raised, ‘Ladies don’t tell fibs. Not if they might get caught, anyways.’
‘I’m hescorting you.’
Thirty-five
The wind was nippy. Audrey was glad that Mrs Paterson had loaned her the jacket. Audrey carried her new black shoes in one hand. Her old boots would do for the walk to the hall.
Boy took her elbow. ‘I’m not gunna push you over or nothin’,’ he said. ‘I’m hescorting you.’
Audrey didn’t tell him the word had no ‘h’.
Hugh piggybacked Douglas. Together, they looked like a giant turtle. Audrey hoped Douglas wasn’t squeezing Hugh’s neck too tightly.
It was almost dark, but it was only a short walk to the hall.
Moths fluttered around the outside light above the hall door. More light streamed out of the windows. Audrey heard music and voices.
Boy opened the door to the hall. Inside were swirling dresses and long trousers. Feet clomped, slid and tripped. The air was warm, moist and smelled of wax.
Hugh swung Douglas down. The moment Douglas’s feet touched the floor, he was off like a racing tadpole. He disappeared among the dancers.
‘I’ll f … f … find him,’ said Hugh. ‘He’s p … probably looking for Jessie.’
‘Or cake,’ said Audrey.
She took off her borrowed jacket and swapped her old boots for the new shoes. Boy stood on tiptoes to hang the jacket and Audrey’s boots from a big hook on the wall.
Audrey decided not to try dancing just yet. Someone might scuff the perfect shine on her black shoes.
Packed with dancing couples, the hall was decorated with ribbons and the floor gleamed with polish. Audrey heard boots sliding across the floor. The man playing the squeezebox was huge. His legs oozed over the side of the chair.
Boy looked taller in his long trousers. His shirt had no rips and it was clean. But he still had that familiar cheeky gleam in his brown eyes.
The squeezebox player was really putting on a performance, leaning left, then right. His fingers pressed the keys so fast that Audrey could hardly keep track. Underfoot, the wooden floor vibrated as men pushed their partners around like bouncing wheelbarrows.
Mrs Jenkins walked past with Douglas hanging on one arm and Jessie on the other.
‘There’s me dad.’ Boy pointed to a man with fluffy side whiskers. ‘Mum says he looks like a ferret.’ He gave a lopsided grin. ‘Lucky she doesn’t mind ferrets.’
Mr Jenkins looked a lot like his boys. Except that he was hairier. Mr Jenkins was thin. Audrey was sure that when he stood next to his plump wife, he would seem even thinner.
The hall door opened. A gust of cold wind blew in.
Audrey turned, expecting Mrs Paterson.
But it was Sylvia. The woman with the fluttering, bird-like hands who had helped on the day Mum had fainted. A tall, bald man walked behind her, close enough to be a breathing shadow.
More people arrived and a few red-faced dancers staggered outside for fresh air.
Audrey felt worry niggling at her. Maybe they should have waited for Mrs Paterson. She was old and her ankle shoes might slow her down.
‘Boy.’ She tapped his arm. ‘Mrs Paterson isn’t here yet.’
‘Maybe she isn’t comin’.’
‘She promised. And she was going to wear the blue ribbon around her neck.’
The squeezebox man stopped playing, took out a grey-and-white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his glistening forehead. Dancers stumbled to a stop, laughing and perspiring.
Suddenly there was a deep rumble from outside, followed by crashing. It sounded like thunder.
People stopped talking. Audrey didn’t know what the sound was, but she knew it was bad by the worried expression on everyone’s faces. A shiver ran down her spine.
Thirty-six
The bald man who had arrived with Sylvia shot out the door into the darkness.
‘What is it?’ cried Audrey.
Before Boy could answer, the moving crowd separated them.
Confused, Audrey looked around. ‘Dougie!’ she called, hoping he would hear and answer.
Mrs Jenkins pushed through to Audrey. She had Douglas on her hip. Both of his arms were tightly around her neck. ‘I’ve got Dougie, Audrey.’
‘What is it? What’s that noise?’
‘Sounds like a flash flood. We had one here a few years back.’
Audrey’s heart thumped. She remembered what Boy said about flash floods, and how you could wake up dead.
Mrs Paterson had to walk past the creek to get to the hall.
‘Mrs Paterson might be stuck out there!’
A hand grasped her arm. She spun round to see Mr Jenkins. Up close, his side whiskers looked even fluffier. His brown eyes bulged a little. He held a kerosene lantern in his other hand. ‘Steady on, little miss.’ Several men and a wiry woman gathered behind him. ‘I’m sure she’s fine, but we’ll go and look for her together.’
The cold night air hit Audrey like a wall as she hurried outside. Lanterns bobbed as people strode towards the creek. With the lanterns and the half-moon, it wasn’t completely dark. But Audrey still had to be careful not to trip on the uneven ground.
The nearby creek had risen over the path. It gushed, bucked and roared like a wild animal. Branches were pushed along like strips of paper. Something large, with fur, tumbled over and over, and was washed away. Perhaps it was a kangaroo.
Audrey had never seen so much water.
‘Careful now, folks,’ said Mr Jenkins.
‘What’s that?’ shouted Audrey. ‘Over there.’
It was a strip of light blue around Mrs Paterson’s neck showing against the midnight black of her dress. She clung to a tree trunk and the water was up to her waist. As Audrey watched, the tree bent, then swayed, with the force of the water. If its roots were dislodged, Mrs Paterson would be swept away with the tree.
Thirty-seven
Mrs Paterson’s mouth opened and closed. But the din of the rushing water tore away her words. A tree branch swept past her. Audrey felt sick at the thought of what would happen if a branch like that hit the old lady.
Mr Jenkins slipped off his jacket and tossed it aside.
Someone handed him a length of rope.
Audrey thought he was going to throw it to Mrs Paterson. But if her hands were frozen, she wouldn’t be able to grab hold of it. And if she let go of the tree trunk to take the rope, she might be captured by the angry floodwaters.
Mr Jenkins kicked off his elastic-sided boots, tied the rope around his own waist and waded into the water. The waiting men held firmly to the rope, ready to reel Mr Jenkins—and Mrs Paterson—back to them.
Mr Jenkins edged closer to Mrs Paterson. The rope went slack, then tight, in turns.
He slipped and fell back into the dark water.
Boy shouted something Audrey couldn’t quite work out. But she didn’t need to hear the actual words to understand that Boy was afraid for his dad.
Mr Jenkins scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
He struggled to get nearer to Mrs Paterson.
Finally, prop
ping himself against the tree trunk, he slipped the rope over his head and looped it about the old lady’s waist. Then he flung one arm around her.
People pulled on the rope. Audrey grabbed hold too. Her hands slipped and stung. Boy was beside her, pulling with all his might.
The wobbly tree trunk that Mrs Paterson had clung to snapped and was swept away in the torrent.
Boy’s dad and Mrs Paterson came closer to the edge of the creek. Hands reached from the crowd and helped them out.
Audrey let go of the rope, stumbled to Mrs Paterson and hugged her.
‘Are you all right?’ shouted Audrey. She could feel the old lady shaking.
‘I … will be. If you loosen your … grip. You are … squeezing me to death.’
‘I do believe that you rescued me.’
Thirty-eight
Audrey sat on a straight-backed chair near Mrs Paterson.
The old woman leaned back on the sitting-room sofa, a brown knitted rug over her legs. There was a long scratch on her right cheek. A dark bruise was forming under one eye. Her ankle was swollen. As usual, Mrs Paterson’s grey hair was pulled into a bun, but two small curls dangled over her forehead.
Douglas lay on the rug in front of the fire, sound asleep, with his thumb jammed in his mouth. His sandy-coloured fringe was damp with perspiration. He had refused to leave either Audrey or Mrs Paterson. But it was late and he had fallen asleep. He twitched, his mind busy with dreams.
Now that everyone had gone back to their own homes, it was quiet except for the crackle of wood in the fire. There was a faint smell of smoke. One of the logs had been a little green.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?’ Audrey asked Mrs Paterson. ‘You could be next to Mum. Until they let her out, anyways.’
‘I do not need a hospital.’ Mrs Paterson’s voice reminded Audrey of a bee sting. ‘I prefer my own home. Besides, I’m only resting so you don’t fuss.’
Audrey nodded. ‘Resting is on my “Do” list.’
Mrs Paterson raised one eyebrow.
Audrey wasn’t afraid of that eyebrow any more. It popped up and down all the time.
‘Speaking of the hospital, how are your hands, child?’
The Audrey of the Outback Collection Page 13
