Somewhere around the Corner by Jackie French

and they wandered back up the road towards the dairy farm. Barbara and Young Jim began to walk past the pub and the butcher’s, towards the police station.
    ‘Does it take long to get a dole ticket?’ asked Barbara.
    Young Jim shrugged. ‘Can take hours. It’s not so bad now—most of the blokes who came here at the start have moved on again. It’s a real cow for Sergeant Ryan to get through everyone. It takes him most ofWednesday and Thursday every week. Sergeant Ryan’s real good about it though. Some coppers search you to make sure you haven’t got any money on you before they give you your ticket. Sergeant Ryan wouldn’t do a thing like that. He can be tough—you don’t find any smart alecs trying to get the dole twice here.’ He shook his head. ‘It makes me so mad when stuck-up whingers like old Nicholson complain about the dole. What would old Nicholson know about going hungry, or losing your job?’
    ‘Soapbox,’ suggested Barbara.
    Young Jim chuckled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I know I go on a bit. You just shut me up, Bubba. Hey, what did you think of Dulcie? She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she? She’d do anything for anyone, Dulcie would.’
    ‘I liked her,’ said Barbara slowly.
    She wondered if she should mention the touch of sadness, the hint of loneliness in Dulcie’s eyes. Was that why she helped other people, to lessen the loneliness inside? She shook her head. If Dulcie was lonely it was none of her business.
    Young Jim took a deep breath. ‘Smells good, doesn’t it,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe there’s air anywhere in the world like the valley—cow pats and dry grass and trees and all. You don’t know what you’re smelling half the time in Sydney, and when you do you don’t like it.’
    They walked in silence for a while, the road dusty beneath their feet, the cattle curious on either side. The valley houses seemed perched among the paddocks, not crowded together like a town at all. Perhaps there’d been more houses once, thought Barbara, before the gold ran out. The road curved and narrowed into a bridge made of thick unpainted timber above a trickle of a creek choked with weed and watercress. A boy about her age dangled his legs off one side of the bridge. A bit of string like a fishing line dropped from his fingers into the thin snake of water.
    The boy stared at them. He looked vaguely familiar.
    ‘Pretend you don’t see him,’ muttered Young Jim out of the corner of his mouth.’
    ‘Why?’ whispered Barbara, but it was too late. They were on the bridge. Young Jim took Barbara’s arm and hurried her along it. The boy didn’t speak till they were off the bridge and onto the road again. Then they heard his voice behind them.
    Hallelujah I’m a bum,
    Hallelujah bum again,
    Hallelujah give us a handout,
    To revive us again.
    Barbara turned. The boy was gazing down at his fishing line, as though the song had nothing to dowith Jim and Barbara at all. ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Nicholson’s son, of course.’ Young Jim’s voice was grim. ‘The lousy so-and-so knows I can’t deck him one.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘’Cause he’s had scarlet fever and strained his heart. That’s why he’s not up in town at school. Come on, don’t pay any attention. He’ll stop soon if we pretend we can’t hear.’
    ‘What’s scarlet fever?’
    Young Jim stared at her. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t get sick in your world? Scarlet fever’s…well…you’re sick, that’s all, and you get a red rash. Kids can die of scarlet fever.’
    ‘Can’t they give them antibiotics or immunise them or something?’
    ‘Immu—who?’ Young Jim shook his head. ‘Here, have another musk stick. Maybe it’s lack of food.’
    Barbara chewed the musk stick. It was as though the boy’s song had made the strangeness of this world come alive again, as though only the comfort of the O’ Reilly’s, and Dulcie of course, and Gully Jack, was holding it back. ‘Jim?’
    ‘Mmmm.’
    Jim was