Stillwater Creek by Alison Booth

girls,’ said Lorna, laughing. ‘Glad you’ve come, Dizzy.’
    â€˜Me too,’ Zidra said automatically. Afterwards she realised she meant it.
    They sat in silence for a while. The light shimmered off the water like little light bulbs going on and off. Soon the water began to advance up the lagoon again, in small ripples that slapped against the piles of the jetty. The tide was turning, just as Lorna had said it would.
    â€˜Time to go,’ she said. ‘Mum’ll worry if I take too long to get home.’ The word Mum still sounded strange but Mama was acquiring many names. There was the indoor name of Mama and the outdoor name of Mum, and then there was what she called herself, Ilona, and what the others like Mr Bates had started to call her, Elinor. Four words for the one person:Mama, Mum, Ilona and Elinor. ‘Mum’s still not used to me coming home on my own.’
    â€˜She’ll learn.’
    Zidra wasn’t so sure. It would be good to have a sister like Lorna, or maybe even a brother like Jim, to share some of Mama’s attention. Though at least she had some friends now. And a present too – Lorna’s beautiful pink shell.
    Lorna headed off around the edge of the lagoon and into the bush, while Zidra trudged up the hill. When she was almost home she heard shouts from the top. Boys with billycarts were milling about in front of the war memorial. Her hands started to tremble and she wished Lorna were with her. Hoping the boys wouldn’t see her, she walked more slowly, close to the ragged hedge bordering the gravel verge. Then she realised that one of the boys was Jim. He waved at her and she waved back. The others didn’t notice, they were so intent on lining up their carts. Once through the front gate she felt safer. Now she could hear the sounds of Mama giving a piano lesson, a five-finger exercise that was being endlessly repeated.
    â€˜I’m home, Mama!’ Zidra stuck her head around the door of the lounge room. Elizabeth, a girl of about eleven from school, was sitting at the piano next to Mama.
    Mama looked around briefly and said, ‘You’re a little late, darling.’
    â€˜Had stuff to do,’ Zidra said vaguely, but she needn’t have worried. Mama was focusing on the piano keys again; you’d have thought daughters would matter more than an old piano. Maybe she could have stayed out later with Lorna after all, though Mama was probably saving up her complaints ready to tell her off once the lesson was over.
    Zidra went into the kitchen. She took the milk jug out of the ice chest and poured a glass. After gulping this down, sheselected the largest apple from the fruit bowl on the dresser, and wiped her milky upper lip on the tea towel. Anxiety about Roger did not prevent her from going outside again. Down the back steps, along the side passage and under the hedge without being seen by anyone. Munching her apple, she watched the billycarts race down the hill. Maybe the Cadwallader boys would let her have a go one day but she wouldn’t be asking any favours while that Roger was hanging around.

Jim took the pail from his mother. She gave him a push in the direction of the back door, as if he wouldn’t have known which direction to take unless she guided him. ‘Feed the chickens, there’s a good boy,’ she said. She never called the chickens chooks; that was common. His dad never did either, except when she was out of hearing.
    â€˜Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ Jim clucked, once he was inside the chicken coop, ducking his head because he could no longer stand up in the run. After distributing the food, he refilled the water trough. ‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ he said, and grinned as the fowls clucked back.
    His favourite hiding place was under the fig tree behind the back of the run. Well fertilised by chicken manure, the tree formed a dense canopy over an amphitheatre-like depression. He