wailing, ‘Mum! Mum, when’s Dad coming back?’ over and over again.
‘Poor Lonnie,’ Clara would whisper, staring into the dark, and she’d wish (childishly, she knew) that she had some kind of time machine which would transport her back there, so that she could take the little boy who’d been Lonnie into her arms and comfort him.
If only her dad had run away! If only she could say, like Lonnie, ‘I can hardly remember him.’
A knock sounded at her door.
‘Come in,’ called Clara, and Jessaline appeared, carrying a tray on which rested a beautiful golden cake, with a frosting of snowy powdered sugar. She laid the tray gently on the coffee table, then she stood back, skipped a little, and flung her arms out wide. ‘I’ve done it!’ she exclaimed.
Clara looked down at the cake. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘Oh, not that!’ said Jessaline dismissively. ‘I didn’t mean the cake. It’s just an apple cake Mrs Murphy and I whipped up this afternoon. What I meant was –’ Jessaline clasped her hands together, and behind the gross glasses her eyes were shining like stars. ‘Clara, guess what? I’ve made a start!’
‘A start? How do you mean?’
‘In changing courses!’
‘You mean, dropping Linguistics for Hospitality?’
‘Yes! I went there today, at lunchtime, to the School of Hospitality. Clara, I felt really at home there, the minute I went through the door. Isn’t that strange? How I’d feel at home in a place I’d never been?’
‘No,’ said Clara. ‘You felt like that because you were meant to be there.’
‘That’s what I thought! And then, when I came out, it was such a beautiful afternoon, so I skipped my lecture and went straight round to Mrs Murphy’s flat, and we made this cake – Biba’s apple cake, it’s called, and, and –’ Quite out of breath, Jessaline sank down onto Clara’s bed. ‘Oh, I’ve never felt so happy!’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Clara.
‘Oh no, let me!’ Jessaline sat up and glanced at the computer. ‘You’ve been doing brainwork, I can see.’
Brainwork. How Jessaline loved that word, and others like it: vegies, and uni, and cossie, words her parents would have hated and been appalled to hear their daughter use.
Clara smiled. ‘Not much brainwork. You stay there.’ She jumped up from her chair, took the electric kettle from its shelf and turned on the tap above the tiny sink.
‘I saw you with that boy again,’ said Jessaline.
‘What boy?’
‘ You know! The one I saw you with last Monday, that dreamy looking fair-haired boy. And the Friday before that, and the Wednesday before that, and – you know,’ she finished teasingly.
‘Oh, that one,’ said Clara carelessly. ‘He’s just a friend.’ She felt the colour rising warmly to her face and turned her head a little, hoping Jessaline wouldn’t see.
Jessaline did. ‘You’re blushing !’
‘No, I’m not. It’s just this room; it’s so hot!’ Clara switched the kettle on and crossed to the window, sliding the glass aside. Behind her, she heard Jessaline say softly, ‘You looked really good together. You know how people look when they’re somehow right for each other or – or something.’
‘He’s just a friend from my English tute, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. You don’t want to talk about him.’
‘It’s not that.’ Clara swung round. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Honest.’
‘Okay, I’ll shut up. Shouldn’t be sticking my nose in, anyway. Promise me one thing, but.’
‘What?’
‘When you get married –’
‘Jessaline!’ Clara should have felt cross. Instead, she giggled like a Year 7 and Jessaline giggled too. ‘When you get married, bags I make the wedding cake.’
After Jessaline had gone, Clara stayed at the window, looking down on the ocean of city lights. Lonnie’s light was far out in the smoky golden haze where the edge of the city rolled on to the darkness of the hills.
Was he thinking of her?
Yes, he was, she sensed it.
‘Poor Lonnie,’ Clara would whisper, staring into the dark, and she’d wish (childishly, she knew) that she had some kind of time machine which would transport her back there, so that she could take the little boy who’d been Lonnie into her arms and comfort him.
If only her dad had run away! If only she could say, like Lonnie, ‘I can hardly remember him.’
A knock sounded at her door.
‘Come in,’ called Clara, and Jessaline appeared, carrying a tray on which rested a beautiful golden cake, with a frosting of snowy powdered sugar. She laid the tray gently on the coffee table, then she stood back, skipped a little, and flung her arms out wide. ‘I’ve done it!’ she exclaimed.
Clara looked down at the cake. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘Oh, not that!’ said Jessaline dismissively. ‘I didn’t mean the cake. It’s just an apple cake Mrs Murphy and I whipped up this afternoon. What I meant was –’ Jessaline clasped her hands together, and behind the gross glasses her eyes were shining like stars. ‘Clara, guess what? I’ve made a start!’
‘A start? How do you mean?’
‘In changing courses!’
‘You mean, dropping Linguistics for Hospitality?’
‘Yes! I went there today, at lunchtime, to the School of Hospitality. Clara, I felt really at home there, the minute I went through the door. Isn’t that strange? How I’d feel at home in a place I’d never been?’
‘No,’ said Clara. ‘You felt like that because you were meant to be there.’
‘That’s what I thought! And then, when I came out, it was such a beautiful afternoon, so I skipped my lecture and went straight round to Mrs Murphy’s flat, and we made this cake – Biba’s apple cake, it’s called, and, and –’ Quite out of breath, Jessaline sank down onto Clara’s bed. ‘Oh, I’ve never felt so happy!’
‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Clara.
‘Oh no, let me!’ Jessaline sat up and glanced at the computer. ‘You’ve been doing brainwork, I can see.’
Brainwork. How Jessaline loved that word, and others like it: vegies, and uni, and cossie, words her parents would have hated and been appalled to hear their daughter use.
Clara smiled. ‘Not much brainwork. You stay there.’ She jumped up from her chair, took the electric kettle from its shelf and turned on the tap above the tiny sink.
‘I saw you with that boy again,’ said Jessaline.
‘What boy?’
‘ You know! The one I saw you with last Monday, that dreamy looking fair-haired boy. And the Friday before that, and the Wednesday before that, and – you know,’ she finished teasingly.
‘Oh, that one,’ said Clara carelessly. ‘He’s just a friend.’ She felt the colour rising warmly to her face and turned her head a little, hoping Jessaline wouldn’t see.
Jessaline did. ‘You’re blushing !’
‘No, I’m not. It’s just this room; it’s so hot!’ Clara switched the kettle on and crossed to the window, sliding the glass aside. Behind her, she heard Jessaline say softly, ‘You looked really good together. You know how people look when they’re somehow right for each other or – or something.’
‘He’s just a friend from my English tute, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. You don’t want to talk about him.’
‘It’s not that.’ Clara swung round. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Honest.’
‘Okay, I’ll shut up. Shouldn’t be sticking my nose in, anyway. Promise me one thing, but.’
‘What?’
‘When you get married –’
‘Jessaline!’ Clara should have felt cross. Instead, she giggled like a Year 7 and Jessaline giggled too. ‘When you get married, bags I make the wedding cake.’
After Jessaline had gone, Clara stayed at the window, looking down on the ocean of city lights. Lonnie’s light was far out in the smoky golden haze where the edge of the city rolled on to the darkness of the hills.
Was he thinking of her?
Yes, he was, she sensed it.
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