The Audrey of the Outback Collection (17 page)

Audrey tipped the left-over dishwater on the garden.

Thirty-one

Audrey felt the warm sun through the fabric of her smock. The previous day’s clouds had moved away. The sky was blue and clear. Careful not to spill water on her boots, Audrey tipped the left-over dishwater on the garden. Just as Mrs Paterson had instructed.

The old lady adjusted her straw hat, then continued trimming the leaves of a grey bush with a large pair of scissors. Douglas sat on the ground, pushing a stick through the damp dirt and making
vroom
,
vroom
noises. Now that he’d seen a car, he imagined one in every piece of wood or stone.

‘That grey bush smells funny,’ said Audrey.

‘It’s wormwood. Grows anywhere and it’s as tough as old boots.’

Audrey tipped the last drops of water from the tin bowl. ‘Mrs Paterson, can I …’ She corrected herself. ‘
May
I ask you something?’

Mrs Paterson looked doubtful, but she said, ‘If it is not too personal.’

Audrey swung the bowl in one hand. Drips flew sideways. ‘How do I know if it’s too personal?’

‘I suppose I’ll have to tell you, won’t I?’

‘But I’d have to ask it first. Then, if you said it was too personal, it would be too late. I would already have asked it.’

‘Must you always make everything so complicated?’ said Mrs Paterson. ‘Is it about religion, money or politics?’

‘I don’t
think
so.’

‘
Vroom
,
vroom
,’ said Douglas. His stick-car turned a wide circle in the mud.

‘Speak then,’ Mrs Paterson told Audrey.

‘Why don’t you like colours?’

The old lady paused for a moment, then she said, ‘I am in mourning.’

‘But it’s the afternoon.’

‘I mean that I am remembering someone who died … This is hardly the place to discuss such things.’

‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’

‘It is no
secret
. The whole town knows.’

‘Would you tell
me
then?’

Mrs Paterson’s mouth tightened as though she was not going to answer. Then she said, ‘My son, Lionel.’

‘Is he one of the men in the photos on your mantelpiece?’ said Audrey. ‘Was he sick?’

‘You ask too many questions. Children should be seen and not heard.’

‘But then we wouldn’t find out anything.’

Mrs Paterson sighed. ‘He was killed in the Great War. In 1917.’

‘That’s a long time with no colour.’

Mrs Paterson’s face looked like a crumpled cloth.

‘My two sisters, Pearl and Esther, died when they were little,’ said Audrey. ‘But I don’t reckon they’d want me to be sad for a long time. They’d want me to have colours. What’s your son’s favourite colour?’

‘I am not certain. Perhaps … blue.’

‘You’d look pretty in blue. It’s the colour of your eyes,’ said Audrey. ‘I don’t want
my
mum to be sad. I bet Lionel wouldn’t want you to be either.’

The old lady was quiet. Perhaps she was remembering her Lionel.

‘I’m a girl so I can’t be a son,’ said Audrey, determined to cheer the old lady up. ‘But I’m your project. That’s the next best thing.’

Thirty-two

Audrey sat on a stool at Mrs Paterson’s feet in the sitting room. Despite the metal screen with its pattern of Afghans and camels, the fire heated Audrey’s back. She held Mrs Paterson’s fingers, massaging hand cream into her skin. The afternoon’s gardening had left a few scratches, but nothing deep or painful.

The old lady’s eyes were half-closed. Although her cheeks were unusually red, she made no move to shift away from the fire.

Douglas rolled across the floor, from one wall to the other. Then he stopped and sat up. ‘Howolderyu?’

‘What did that boy say?’ Mrs Paterson spoke without fully opening her eyes.

‘How old are you?’ repeated Audrey, smoothing a trail of hand cream over Mrs Paterson’s knuckles.

The old lady’s eyes did shoot open then. ‘Young man, it is rude to ask a lady how old she is.’

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 narrow 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.’