Joanne d’Arc. Kate’s in your year and Melanie’s a few years behind. He said that you and Kate sometimes have lunch together.’
‘We do? Kate who?’ asked Olive, making a mental note to hunt the mysterious Kate down should Pip ever take ill or end up on school camp at a different time.
‘Kate Smith, I assume. Unless the girls are under their mum’s name. She’s a solicitor as well.’
‘Oh, must be.’ Olive had no idea who Mog was talking about.
Olive picked the album off the ground and headed back to her bedroom. Pip grabbed it from her and pored over the photos. ‘I know there’ll be more clues in here. Hey, check this one out. Mog’s a classic.’ Mog was lying back in a beanbag, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt that said ‘I kissed a fairy at Port Fairy Folk Festival’ . ‘Fairy festival? What’s that?’ Pip laughed. ‘You think she wore fairy wings?’
‘Shush, Mog’ll kill us if she finds us,’ Olive whispered. There really were two types of people, she thought. Olive was quiet. She liked to make herself thin; to creep through life. Pip, however, was loud. Everything she did was noisy, even the way she chewed apples (like a horse) and walked (slapping her feet like a seal). Mog was a combo. She was noisy but she hated talk at certain times, like when she had a hangover. She always said that the worst things in the morning were eggs and noise. After 10 a.m., however, Mog was a foghorn.
Once Pip had gone through all the photos, they added the following to the list:
• Tie-dye
• Port Fairy Folk Festival
• Yoga
• Vegetable patch
‘Study the backgrounds. There must be something else.’ Pip bent back down over the album.
Olive, who had now well and truly abandoned any idea of painting, turned the page to a photo of Mog and a baby in a vegetable patch. There were a number of photos of Mog in shorts and a bikini top pulling weeds in this vegetable patch, her face and back speckled by the sun. ‘Hey, check this out!’ said Olive, her voice high. ‘You’re there, too.’
‘What?’ Pip looked up from her list. ‘No way, shut up, get out of here.’ But Olive was right. There was Mog in the vegetable patch holding not one but two pale babies wrapped in saffron robes.
‘How did that happen?’ Olive’s voice was not only high, it was also squeaky. ‘I’ve seen that photo a thousand times before.’
‘I don’t know, but we’ve got our clue.’
‘How can you think of clues at a time like this?’ Olive looked down at the photo again.
‘Look!’
Suddenly, Olive knew exactly what Pip was talking about and wondered how she had ever missed it. The lighthouse, the lighthouse. Mog was standing in a long vegetable patch. Just behind the garden was a lighthouse. It was not a tall lighthouse, as far as Olive could see, but it was a pretty one. It was quite squat, with a thick base of limestone that resembled lumps of sugar. The top was off-white and peeling. Both the garden and lighthouse were encircled by a picket fence with missing posts, like forgotten items on a shopping list.
‘What’s that thing?’ Pip pointed at a dot where the lighthouse’s peak met the sky. Olive grabbed the magnifying glass she had used to burn ants in J-school. Under the magnifying glass, Olive could see that at the top of the lighthouse was a tiny window, like an eye – only the glass was broken. A purple sheath of fabric – cloth or a towel, perhaps – flapped from it.
‘I don’t know,’ said Olive. ‘But if this lighthouse is flying flags and the window is broken, I don’t think it works.’
‘You’re a genius, Holmes.’ Pip added the final and best clue to the list.
• Abandoned lighthouse
(limestone base)
‘I’m still freaked out about you being in that photo.’ Olive pushed her finger down on the two babies in their saffron robes. The cellophane crackled.
Pip shrugged. ‘Forget the photo. It makes sense that history shuffled a bit to make room for me. It would be kind of
‘We do? Kate who?’ asked Olive, making a mental note to hunt the mysterious Kate down should Pip ever take ill or end up on school camp at a different time.
‘Kate Smith, I assume. Unless the girls are under their mum’s name. She’s a solicitor as well.’
‘Oh, must be.’ Olive had no idea who Mog was talking about.
Olive picked the album off the ground and headed back to her bedroom. Pip grabbed it from her and pored over the photos. ‘I know there’ll be more clues in here. Hey, check this one out. Mog’s a classic.’ Mog was lying back in a beanbag, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt that said ‘I kissed a fairy at Port Fairy Folk Festival’ . ‘Fairy festival? What’s that?’ Pip laughed. ‘You think she wore fairy wings?’
‘Shush, Mog’ll kill us if she finds us,’ Olive whispered. There really were two types of people, she thought. Olive was quiet. She liked to make herself thin; to creep through life. Pip, however, was loud. Everything she did was noisy, even the way she chewed apples (like a horse) and walked (slapping her feet like a seal). Mog was a combo. She was noisy but she hated talk at certain times, like when she had a hangover. She always said that the worst things in the morning were eggs and noise. After 10 a.m., however, Mog was a foghorn.
Once Pip had gone through all the photos, they added the following to the list:
• Tie-dye
• Port Fairy Folk Festival
• Yoga
• Vegetable patch
‘Study the backgrounds. There must be something else.’ Pip bent back down over the album.
Olive, who had now well and truly abandoned any idea of painting, turned the page to a photo of Mog and a baby in a vegetable patch. There were a number of photos of Mog in shorts and a bikini top pulling weeds in this vegetable patch, her face and back speckled by the sun. ‘Hey, check this out!’ said Olive, her voice high. ‘You’re there, too.’
‘What?’ Pip looked up from her list. ‘No way, shut up, get out of here.’ But Olive was right. There was Mog in the vegetable patch holding not one but two pale babies wrapped in saffron robes.
‘How did that happen?’ Olive’s voice was not only high, it was also squeaky. ‘I’ve seen that photo a thousand times before.’
‘I don’t know, but we’ve got our clue.’
‘How can you think of clues at a time like this?’ Olive looked down at the photo again.
‘Look!’
Suddenly, Olive knew exactly what Pip was talking about and wondered how she had ever missed it. The lighthouse, the lighthouse. Mog was standing in a long vegetable patch. Just behind the garden was a lighthouse. It was not a tall lighthouse, as far as Olive could see, but it was a pretty one. It was quite squat, with a thick base of limestone that resembled lumps of sugar. The top was off-white and peeling. Both the garden and lighthouse were encircled by a picket fence with missing posts, like forgotten items on a shopping list.
‘What’s that thing?’ Pip pointed at a dot where the lighthouse’s peak met the sky. Olive grabbed the magnifying glass she had used to burn ants in J-school. Under the magnifying glass, Olive could see that at the top of the lighthouse was a tiny window, like an eye – only the glass was broken. A purple sheath of fabric – cloth or a towel, perhaps – flapped from it.
‘I don’t know,’ said Olive. ‘But if this lighthouse is flying flags and the window is broken, I don’t think it works.’
‘You’re a genius, Holmes.’ Pip added the final and best clue to the list.
• Abandoned lighthouse
(limestone base)
‘I’m still freaked out about you being in that photo.’ Olive pushed her finger down on the two babies in their saffron robes. The cellophane crackled.
Pip shrugged. ‘Forget the photo. It makes sense that history shuffled a bit to make room for me. It would be kind of
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