to get hungry, but every time we call Andy to go home he says, ‘Just one more,’ and runs up the bank.
‘C’mon,’ Tezza calls, getting impatient.
But just one more turns into two, then three, then four, till I lose count and lose my patience.
‘I’m starving,’ I say to Tezza. ‘I’m going back without him.’
Tezza looks torn. He’s hungry, too, but he’s also responsible for Andy.
I’m past caring. My stomach is rumbling loud enough to start its own mudslide. ‘C’mon,’ I say, giving Tezza a shove in the direction of home.
Just then we hear voices, laughing and talking and getting closer. I look at Tezza and whisper, ‘Who
is it?’
Tezza frowns. He’s standing with his head cocked to the side. ‘Not sure,’ he says with a shrug.
Andy’s too busy getting bum-burn to notice.
As quickly as we hear them, the voices stop. Mr Bartholomew has walked into the clearing. James and William are with him. They are wearing bright red swimming trunks and carrying floral towels. They look like a brochure for a holiday resort, not the bush.
What are they doing in our secret place? Intruding on our territory!
‘Good morning,’ says Mr Bartholomew. He tries to smile, first at Tezza, then at me. He looks likesomeone with lockjaw of the lip. ‘It’s a delightful day for a swim, isn’t it?’ he says.
James takes a step towards us. ‘Are you playing, Terence?’ he asks. ‘May we join in?’
‘We’re just leaving!’
Even as I say it I know it’s rude, but I don’t want to share Tezza, or our river, with the Bartholomews.
Tezza tries to soften it but what comes out sounds real lame. ‘Caroline’s right. We were just leaving,’ he repeats, softly. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Hunger,’ says Mr Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘It is a terrible thing!’
Somehow, I know he doesn’t mean it.
When Andy comes hurtling past for the fifty-millionth time, Tezza tackles him. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching for Andy’s clothes. ‘Put these on. We’re going home.’
‘No!’ cries Andy, pulling away.
Tezza doesn’t let go of his grip. ‘Get dressed,’ he rumbles, his voice building.
James and William sidle up to their father. Mr Bartholomew stands stiffly, saying nothing, like a blow-in at the pub.
Andy flicks his undies back at Tezza, saying, ‘I’m not wearing these. They itch. Mum isn’t doing the washing properly.’
Tezza seems too embarrassed to argue. ‘Wear your swimmers, then.’
We march home single-file, none of us talking.
And all the while I’m thinking, Why does James want to be friends with Tezz? Why did the Bartholomews have to evacuate here? Why can’t they retreat to their fancy city?
That’s another clue.
The rest of the morning is a non-event. The sort of morning you climb a tree and go looking for spaceships.
So I wasn’t prepared for what happened next …
Chapter Four
At four that afternoon, Mr Worrell from down the way sticks his head in at the Shermins’. ‘Elizabeth is having her kittens,’ he says. ‘You kids wanna watch?’
Would we? Of course we would!
Now, if I tell you what happened at Mr Worrell’s I’m sure you’ll be able to answer, What does Andy’s bum have in common with the new neighbours? Or maybe you’ve already worked it out. If not, this bit might help.
Tezza, Andy and me fly out the door, across the road and round the bend faster than you can say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’
When we get there we find that Elizabeth has settled herself on a towel in a linen cupboard. She is lying on her side, puffing and panting. Mr Worrell kneels beside her, fussing and clucking like a brooding chook. ‘Sssh!’ he warns as we come through the door. ‘She needs quiet.’
Tezza, Andy and I creep in and sit on the floor.
‘Not too close,’ warns Mr Worrell. ‘You’ll upset her. Stay at least two metres away.’
I want to tell him that we could be two centimetres away and she’ll still give birth, but one look at his face and I shut
‘C’mon,’ Tezza calls, getting impatient.
But just one more turns into two, then three, then four, till I lose count and lose my patience.
‘I’m starving,’ I say to Tezza. ‘I’m going back without him.’
Tezza looks torn. He’s hungry, too, but he’s also responsible for Andy.
I’m past caring. My stomach is rumbling loud enough to start its own mudslide. ‘C’mon,’ I say, giving Tezza a shove in the direction of home.
Just then we hear voices, laughing and talking and getting closer. I look at Tezza and whisper, ‘Who
is it?’
Tezza frowns. He’s standing with his head cocked to the side. ‘Not sure,’ he says with a shrug.
Andy’s too busy getting bum-burn to notice.
As quickly as we hear them, the voices stop. Mr Bartholomew has walked into the clearing. James and William are with him. They are wearing bright red swimming trunks and carrying floral towels. They look like a brochure for a holiday resort, not the bush.
What are they doing in our secret place? Intruding on our territory!
‘Good morning,’ says Mr Bartholomew. He tries to smile, first at Tezza, then at me. He looks likesomeone with lockjaw of the lip. ‘It’s a delightful day for a swim, isn’t it?’ he says.
James takes a step towards us. ‘Are you playing, Terence?’ he asks. ‘May we join in?’
‘We’re just leaving!’
Even as I say it I know it’s rude, but I don’t want to share Tezza, or our river, with the Bartholomews.
Tezza tries to soften it but what comes out sounds real lame. ‘Caroline’s right. We were just leaving,’ he repeats, softly. ‘We’re hungry.’
‘Hunger,’ says Mr Bartholomew, shaking his head. ‘It is a terrible thing!’
Somehow, I know he doesn’t mean it.
When Andy comes hurtling past for the fifty-millionth time, Tezza tackles him. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching for Andy’s clothes. ‘Put these on. We’re going home.’
‘No!’ cries Andy, pulling away.
Tezza doesn’t let go of his grip. ‘Get dressed,’ he rumbles, his voice building.
James and William sidle up to their father. Mr Bartholomew stands stiffly, saying nothing, like a blow-in at the pub.
Andy flicks his undies back at Tezza, saying, ‘I’m not wearing these. They itch. Mum isn’t doing the washing properly.’
Tezza seems too embarrassed to argue. ‘Wear your swimmers, then.’
We march home single-file, none of us talking.
And all the while I’m thinking, Why does James want to be friends with Tezz? Why did the Bartholomews have to evacuate here? Why can’t they retreat to their fancy city?
That’s another clue.
The rest of the morning is a non-event. The sort of morning you climb a tree and go looking for spaceships.
So I wasn’t prepared for what happened next …
Chapter Four
At four that afternoon, Mr Worrell from down the way sticks his head in at the Shermins’. ‘Elizabeth is having her kittens,’ he says. ‘You kids wanna watch?’
Would we? Of course we would!
Now, if I tell you what happened at Mr Worrell’s I’m sure you’ll be able to answer, What does Andy’s bum have in common with the new neighbours? Or maybe you’ve already worked it out. If not, this bit might help.
Tezza, Andy and me fly out the door, across the road and round the bend faster than you can say, ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’
When we get there we find that Elizabeth has settled herself on a towel in a linen cupboard. She is lying on her side, puffing and panting. Mr Worrell kneels beside her, fussing and clucking like a brooding chook. ‘Sssh!’ he warns as we come through the door. ‘She needs quiet.’
Tezza, Andy and I creep in and sit on the floor.
‘Not too close,’ warns Mr Worrell. ‘You’ll upset her. Stay at least two metres away.’
I want to tell him that we could be two centimetres away and she’ll still give birth, but one look at his face and I shut
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