The Quicksand Pony by Alison Lester Page B

up at the front of the house and hurried around to see who was there. It was the Frasers. Good, Biddy could tell her about the muster.
    â€˜Hi, Mr Fraser, Mrs Fraser, Old Mr Fraser.’ She and Biddy always called each other’s grandfathers Old Mr Fraser and Old Mr Rivers, so they didn’t mix them up with their fathers.
    â€˜Evening, Irene.’ Biddy’s father didn’t smile. Usually he made a big fuss of Irene and called her McGerk. Biddy was Erk and she was McGerk. ‘Is your father home?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Irene led them up the front steps. ‘Where’s Biddy? Why isn’t she with you?’ Nobody answered.
    The door opened, spilling inside light onto the verandah, then all the adults were talking at once: quicksand, Bella, bogged, Biddy, lost, Joycie, Joe, tracks . . .
    Irene tugged her mother’s sleeve. ‘Are they alive, Mum? Has Biddy found them?’
    â€˜Be quiet. Let me listen.’ Her mum shoved her little brother into her arms. ‘Take Tom and read him a story.’
    There was no way Irene was leaving the room. She sat Tom on the sink and fed him bits of banana—anything to keep him quiet while she listened.
    â€˜Do you think she’s met up with them? With Joycie and Joe?’ Irene heard her father ask.
    Dave took off his hat and ran his hand over his head. ‘I don’t know. I think I’d have found her if she’d been hurt. And I made it clear she was to stay put. Really drummed it into the little beggar.’
    â€˜She must be with them,’ Lorna’s voice cut in, softer than normal. ‘That’s the only reason she’d disobey you. I think she’s gone with Bella and Joycie and Joe.’ She turned to Irene’s father. ‘This is a terrible question, Mick, but do you think Joycie would harm her? Would she chase her away?’
    â€˜No. You’ve got nothing to worry about there.’ Irene’s father started to roll a map out on the table. ‘I don’t care how loopy she might have got, she wouldn’t hurt anybody. She’s just too gentle.’
    Irene cleared the plates off the table to make a space for the map. ‘Good girl.’ Her dad passed her the bowls. Whew, thought Irene, I’m not invisible any more. She hated the way parents ignored you when something serious was going on. She bumped Tom onto her hip and stood behind her grandfather. He was very pale.
    â€˜It’s almost nine years.’ His voice wavered. ‘Nine years. It’d be a bloody miracle. It’d be like getting her back from the grave.’
    Biddy’s grandfather pulled out his pipe and started to light it. ‘Don’t go putting the cart before the horse, my old mate. It might not be them. We’ve only seen one set of tracks, remember. Let’s have a look at this map.’
    The two old men reached into their top pockets and put their glasses on exactly the same way. Irene smiled, and her father caught it. ‘That’s right. Like an old mar- ried couple, they’re that alike.’ He spun the map to face them.
    â€˜Now. We’ve got three horses down there, low tide at four a.m., and what should be a fairly clear set of prints. And,’ he tapped his fingers on the table, then pointed to Mick and Pops, ‘we’ve got two of the best trackers south of the divide. Let’s be down there, so we can start looking at first light.’

    â€˜Do you think we should tell anyone?’ asked Irene’s mother. ‘Should we tell the police?’
    â€˜And what do you think the police are going to do?’ Pops had been feuding with the local policeman for years. ‘You know, Jean, who they’d get to lead the search, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yeah. You and Mick. I know. Righto then, let’s keep this to ourselves.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Give Tom to me, Irene. You’d better get to bed.’
    Irene stomped across the