Southern Ruby by Belinda Alexandra

recompense for the cruelty of the human race. Momma’s always been a compassionate person.’
    â€˜He’s very handsome,’ I said.
    As if he’d understood, Flambeau jumped down from Grandma Ruby’s lap and strutted towards me. I reached out to scratch him and he turned himself into various poses so that I could reach his favourite spots.
    â€˜Your neighbours don’t mind you having a rooster?’ I asked. I was partial to the sound of a rooster crowing in the morning. It created an atmosphere of waking up somewhere romantically rustic, like Provence. But if anyone acquired one in Roseville the other neighbours would get a petition up to the council about ‘the noise’. Children screaming all day and leaf blowers destroying peaceful Sunday afternoons were acceptable in Sydney’s suburbia, but a rooster crowing a few times in the morning was not.
    â€˜It’s illegal to have a rooster in the city of New Orleans,’ explained Uncle Jonathan, ‘but people here are pretty laid-back about things like that. And besides,’ he said with an affectionate glance in his mother-in-law’s direction, ‘if something is illegal, forbidden or frowned upon it only makes it more attractive to Ruby.’
    Grandma Ruby grimaced, but I could tell by the way she stuck her chin in the air that she was pleased by the description. Flambeau leaped onto my lap and I scratched his head.
    â€˜He likes you,’ Grandma Ruby said. ‘He’s a flock bird. He’s used to protecting his lady friends. Until now he’s only had one henny — me — but now he’s got you too.’
    â€˜Do you have any pets in Sydney?’ Aunt Louise asked me.
    I shook my head. I’d longed for a dog or a cat, as many only children did, but Nan had grown up with animals on her family’s farm and didn’t like them as pets. She thought they made too much noise and created too much mess.
    Aunt Louise swirled her glass thoughtfully for a moment. ‘It’s incredible that you studied restoration architecture,’ she said. ‘You are going to love New Orleans. The neighbourhoods are so different from each other. The Garden District was built by Americans after the Louisiana Purchase. They weren’t welcomed by the aristocratic Creoles of the French Quarter so they settled here.’
    Uncle Jonathan stretched out his legs. ‘Growing up in an antebellum house cured me of the desire to ever live in a historic home myself,’ he said. ‘I hated sitting in the same rock-hard armchair my great-great-grandmother had sat in, and the slave quarters gave me the creeps, although the house servants were all gone of course by the time I came into the world. We only had two maids, and they lived in their own homes and weren’t required to whistle while carrying food to prove they weren’t eating it. Not everything about the past is idyllic, and there’s a lot to be said for a house that stays put, has windows and doors that close properly, and can be heated or cooled in minutes.’
    I noticed the way Aunt Louise gazed at Uncle Jonathan when he spoke, as if every word he uttered was brilliant. I also saw how Grandma Ruby regarded both of them with amused interest. Uncle Jonathan had voiced an objection to historic buildings I’d heard hundreds of times, so I didn’t take any offence.
    â€˜I do like classic design though,’ said Aunt Louise. ‘Our house in Lake Terrace is built in the French provincial style. It has allthe appealing proportions of an historic house but without the need for constant repairs and the inconvenience.’
    Grandma Ruby winked at me. ‘Amandine is starting to look tired,’ she said to her daughter and son-in-law. ‘Why don’t you two hurry along now, and we’ll get together again for dinner tomorrow night.’
    â€˜Good idea,’ said Uncle Jonathan, standing and straightening his