watching a falcon swoop into a nearby paddock. ‘Hey, did you see that, Bubba?’
‘Are you sure your parents won’t change their minds? About me staying with you all I mean. They’ve got so many kids of their own already.’
‘Of course they won’t change their minds.’ Jim’s voice was scornful. ‘They never changed their minds with me, did they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ma and Dad aren’t my real parents—I mean, they are now, but they weren’t then. My parents were killed in a fire when I was just a nipper, about two I think. I can’t really remember. Dad and Ma lived next door. They adopted me. They didn’t have any kids of their own then, they’d just got married, and they looked after Sam and Edith for years. Their Ma died and their father worked with Dad. They lived with us till he got married again. Ma cried for days after Sam and Edith left. I think Ma would look after the world if she could. Just like Dulcie.’
‘Like you, a bit,’ said Barbara.
‘Like me? Cripes, I don’t want to look after the world, I want to change it. I mean, it’s just not right the way it is, is it? I mean—’
Barbara laughed. ‘Soapbox,’ she said again.
‘Soapbox yourself.’ Young Jim grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, there’s Dad. Let’s run! The sooner we get to Dulcie’s the sooner we get lunch. I’m starved!’
chapter twelve
Friday
Friday was bath morning. Dad and Young Jim lugged load after load of water in kero tins as soon as the fried tomatoes from breakfast were cleared away. They sweated up the hill from the creek until the creek was nearly dry, Dad said. Barbara and Elaine fed the fire with bits of twig and dry wood to keep it burning hot. The water steamed and bubbled on the coals, sending droplets of water snickering and whispering onto the hot ash where they bubbled and spluttered until they disappeared.
They washed the little ones first, giggling and wriggling and soapy in the old tin bath, and then they washed their clothes in the same water, pushing and scrubbing them until they were clean, then hanging them on the thornbushes to dry. Dad, careful not to lose a drop, poured the water on the tomatoes—the best drink they got all week—and the little ones rannaked in the sunlight, laughing and getting grubby feet and knees all over again.
‘Let them run,’ said Ma comfortably. ‘A bit of sun on their hides won’t do them any harm till their clothes are dry. Come on Young Jim, you fill it up again. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’
Ma washed next, then Elaine. Then it was Barbara’s turn, cramped in the tin bath with the breeze on her shoulders and a kookaburra staring at her from the branch above, with only the thornbushes for privacy. No-one would peek, Elaine assured her, ‘Because they knew if they did we’d peek at them, and anyway, Ma would give them what for if they tried.’
It was strange to bathe outside, with the sun on your skin and the curious ants running along the rim of the bath as though the water was ant soup that they could take away to store. The trees swayed overhead, their leaves bunched like soft green pillows. If only she could reach up and pull one down to rest her head on.
‘Hey, come on slowcoach, it’ll be half past lunchtime before we’re finished at this rate!’
Barbara dressed in the clothes Ma had given her the day before. Ma had put her jeans away for Joey to wear when he got bigger. She wouldn’t accept that they were fit for girls at all. ‘And as for that thing you call a T-shirt, it’s hardly decent. That world you comefrom may be all very well my girl, but you’d think someone’d think to dress a child properly. Look, there’s this real nice skirt that Dulcie sent up last week. If I just take up the hem and give it a good airing you can put it on tonight.’
‘That way it’ll be clean for the dance,’ Elaine explained. ‘Everybody dresses up Friday night.’ She leant over the fire and shook her wet
‘Are you sure your parents won’t change their minds? About me staying with you all I mean. They’ve got so many kids of their own already.’
‘Of course they won’t change their minds.’ Jim’s voice was scornful. ‘They never changed their minds with me, did they?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ma and Dad aren’t my real parents—I mean, they are now, but they weren’t then. My parents were killed in a fire when I was just a nipper, about two I think. I can’t really remember. Dad and Ma lived next door. They adopted me. They didn’t have any kids of their own then, they’d just got married, and they looked after Sam and Edith for years. Their Ma died and their father worked with Dad. They lived with us till he got married again. Ma cried for days after Sam and Edith left. I think Ma would look after the world if she could. Just like Dulcie.’
‘Like you, a bit,’ said Barbara.
‘Like me? Cripes, I don’t want to look after the world, I want to change it. I mean, it’s just not right the way it is, is it? I mean—’
Barbara laughed. ‘Soapbox,’ she said again.
‘Soapbox yourself.’ Young Jim grabbed her hand. ‘Come on, there’s Dad. Let’s run! The sooner we get to Dulcie’s the sooner we get lunch. I’m starved!’
chapter twelve
Friday
Friday was bath morning. Dad and Young Jim lugged load after load of water in kero tins as soon as the fried tomatoes from breakfast were cleared away. They sweated up the hill from the creek until the creek was nearly dry, Dad said. Barbara and Elaine fed the fire with bits of twig and dry wood to keep it burning hot. The water steamed and bubbled on the coals, sending droplets of water snickering and whispering onto the hot ash where they bubbled and spluttered until they disappeared.
They washed the little ones first, giggling and wriggling and soapy in the old tin bath, and then they washed their clothes in the same water, pushing and scrubbing them until they were clean, then hanging them on the thornbushes to dry. Dad, careful not to lose a drop, poured the water on the tomatoes—the best drink they got all week—and the little ones rannaked in the sunlight, laughing and getting grubby feet and knees all over again.
‘Let them run,’ said Ma comfortably. ‘A bit of sun on their hides won’t do them any harm till their clothes are dry. Come on Young Jim, you fill it up again. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’
Ma washed next, then Elaine. Then it was Barbara’s turn, cramped in the tin bath with the breeze on her shoulders and a kookaburra staring at her from the branch above, with only the thornbushes for privacy. No-one would peek, Elaine assured her, ‘Because they knew if they did we’d peek at them, and anyway, Ma would give them what for if they tried.’
It was strange to bathe outside, with the sun on your skin and the curious ants running along the rim of the bath as though the water was ant soup that they could take away to store. The trees swayed overhead, their leaves bunched like soft green pillows. If only she could reach up and pull one down to rest her head on.
‘Hey, come on slowcoach, it’ll be half past lunchtime before we’re finished at this rate!’
Barbara dressed in the clothes Ma had given her the day before. Ma had put her jeans away for Joey to wear when he got bigger. She wouldn’t accept that they were fit for girls at all. ‘And as for that thing you call a T-shirt, it’s hardly decent. That world you comefrom may be all very well my girl, but you’d think someone’d think to dress a child properly. Look, there’s this real nice skirt that Dulcie sent up last week. If I just take up the hem and give it a good airing you can put it on tonight.’
‘That way it’ll be clean for the dance,’ Elaine explained. ‘Everybody dresses up Friday night.’ She leant over the fire and shook her wet
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