The Four Seasons of Lucy McKenzie

by Kirsty Murray

  Lucy bit her lip to stop herself from shouting at the old lady, and her cheeks burnt bright red.

  Big turned back to the sink full of dishes. ‘You’ll get used to me and I’ll get used to you and before you know it, you’ll be back with your parents,’ said Big.

  Lucy sat on the bed and ran her hand over the silky coverlet. From the kitchen she could hear Big whistling. How was she going to last the whole summer? Maybe she could phone Dad and tell him he had to come and fetch her. She’d do anything. But she simply couldn’t stay with Aunty Big. The old lady was crazy.

  Lucy pulled her mobile phone out of her backpack and stared at it. The battery had gone flat from having to search and search and search for a network. She plugged it into its charger and cradled it in her hand. The bar at the top read No Service. Her hands itched for the comfort of a computer keyboard. If only she could get online and Skype her mum or one of her friends. Or maybe she could sneak out into the hallway and use the house phone. But then Big would hear her. And Dad would tell her it was impossible and she’d only make everything even worse.

  Lucy lay on her bed and watched the light fading outside her window.

  It didn’t feel as if anyone had slept in the room for a long time. Big had put a little bowl of homemade potpourri on the dresser to try and mask the mustiness but it still smelt funny. There was a huge, dark wardrobe against one wall. It had a long, speckled mirror in the middle panel but when Lucy studied her reflection, it was like gazing into one of those mirrors at a fun fair where your body looks as though it belongs to someone else. It made Lucy’s face seem pinched and thin but her chest and shoulders looked huge and then her body narrowed into tiny wobbly hips.

  Old wardrobes made Lucy nervous. Ever since she’d read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe she’d imagined that wild things might be on the other side. What if they came through? She wrenched the door open, but inside there was nothing but a couple of empty coat hangers.

  From somewhere deep in the house, Lucy could hear Big talking to someone – maybe herself, maybe someone on the house phone. Lucy heard her own name float up from from snatches of conversation. Big was probably telling one of her crotchety old friends that Lucy was ‘a fussy little princess that wouldn’t say boo to a goose’.

  Lucy slipped out of her room and wandered out onto the front verandah.

  She was stiff from the long day in the car. She thought about walking down to the river before it grew completely dark but didn’t like the idea of coming across a snake in the grass.

  In the soft evening light, the river curved through the valley, changing from a smooth shade of mauve to silvery blue as a pale moon rose above the hills. Darkness fell in the crevices of the bush while a pinkish glow lay across the far horizon. Lucy stepped out onto the flat stretch of lawn that lay in front of the house. A small bed of wild roses was cut into the grass, with a birdbath in its centre. Further down the hill lay a stand of fruit trees. Lucy walked along the edge of the rose garden and stared up at the sky. As long as she stayed close to the house, nothing bad could happen to her.

  White and gold feathers of cloud flecked up into the darkening blue. It was like a scene from a movie, thought Lucy. She couldn’t take her eyes off the beautiful play of colours. As she turned back towards the house something butted into her legs. She lost her balance and tumbled headlong into the roses, letting out a cry as she fell.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing?’ called Aunty Big, as she came dashing down from the verandah to help Lucy to her feet.

  Lucy rubbed her arms where the rose thorns had scratched her and stood up straight. ‘Some wild thing attacked me,’ she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

  ‘That must have been my old mate Wally the Wombat,’ said Big. ‘Perhaps not the best way to introduce himself. You’ll see and hear quite a bit of him while you’re at Avendale. He’s very fond of burrowing under the front steps.’

  ‘I read about a man that was mauled by a wombat. And one chased Olly Johnson when my class went on school camp last year. Wally doesn’t bite, does he?’ asked Lucy.

  Big laughed. ‘Not unless you bite him first,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re not a wombat biter.’

  Lucy tried to force a smile, even though she thought Big’s joke wasn’t funny at all. ‘I think I might go to bed and read, if that’s okay,’ she said.

  She glanced around to make sure Wally was out of sight and then jumped up the two wooden steps to the verandah in one go. She wanted to get back inside the safety of the house before anything else could happen.

  Back in her bedroom, the house was too quiet. Lucy sat on the end of her bed and listened with her whole body. From far away came a low moan, which made her shiver, even though she knew it was only a cow. The cicadas had fallen quiet. Lucy didn’t want to go to sleep despite the fact that she was very tired.

  She was still sitting up rereading the last few chapters of a book when Big put her head around the door.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ said Big. ‘I’m glad to see you’re grown-up enough to put yourself to bed.’ Then she disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

  When Lucy heard the sound of Big turning off her bedroom lamp, she climbed out of bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress and wriggled her toes. She couldn’t get to sleep. She needed to be able to hear the lapping of the ocean, like she could from her bedroom at home. It was scary to know there was no one else in the valley.

  When Lucy lay down and switched off her light, she couldn’t stop thinking about Claire lying in that white hospital bed in Paris. What if she had damaged her spine? What if she never walked again? Lucy shut her eyes and said a prayer for her sister. She thought she would lie awake all night worrying, but once her eyes were closed, she fell into a deep sleep.

  It was the middle of the night when the noise woke her. Was it a bang or a shout? She sat up, her ears straining to catch the sound again, and heard a strange scuffling noise. Wally the Wombat. He must be digging under the front steps. But this sound was closer, not from the front of the house but from somewhere nearby.

  Lucy listened again. It wasn’t coming from outside the house or from under it. It was from inside – a shuffling sound like someone walking about the house.

  Lucy swallowed hard. Did Big go wandering the house at night? Lucy didn’t like the idea of bumping into her. Why would Big be walking around in the dark? There was no sign of the hall light. Lucy opened her bedroom door a crack and peeped out. There was no one in the hall, but the sound was much clearer now.

  The rustling died down, and then Lucy heard a voice. Very small, very far away, but definitely a voice. Maybe Big was calling out in her sleep. Lucy opened her bedroom door and stepped into the hall. It was as dark and quiet as before she went to sleep, but something had changed.

  Lucy turned to go back to her bed when the voice called out again, clearer this time. It was a small voice, definitely not Big’s, coming from the other side of the house. Lucy stepped into the hall and listened again. The door to the dining room was open. Moonlight streamed through the far window and shone on the polished wood of the dining table. The room was full of moon shadows and dancing light. But it was the wall around the window that Lucy couldn’t stop staring at. It was as if the painted image was lit from behind. At first glance, she thought it must be the reflected glow from the shiny French-polished tabletop that illuminated the painting, but when she crossed the hall and stood on the threshold of the dining room she knew it wasn’t moonlight. The other three walls looked like ordinary paintings in the dark, but the wall that was painted with Spring was as bright as a sunny day, and the tiny yellow flowers that covered the fields were moving, as if a breeze had blown through the painting and set all the petals dancing.

  Then she heard it again. The voice. It sounded like a child, and as if it were coming out of the painting. She looked again, and in the distance, on the far side of the painted valley she could see the tiny figure of a girl.

  And th
e girl was waving, beckoning to Lucy and calling her name.

  Walking Through Walls

  Lucy tiptoed across the room, as if she was afraid she might frighten the figure in the picture. The more she looked at the painting, the more it seemed as though it wasn’t simply a picture, but a window – a window into another world.

  A cool breeze wafted from the wall, and the air was sweet and clean, not fusty as the old room usually smelled when the windows were shut.

  Lucy looked over her shoulder, back to the dark doorway that led to the hall. It felt as though not only Aunty Big but the house itself was asleep – except for the springtime painting on the wall. It shimmered with life and movement. Lucy stepped closer to the picture and stretched out her right hand. When her fingertips touched the painted wall, they slipped straight through. Warmth shot up Lucy’s arm. She pulled her hand away as if she had been electrocuted. But her hand didn’t feel sore. It didn’t hurt at all. A tingling feeling radiated up her arm. It was like the pleasant rush of blood she felt stepping out of a hot shower into a cold bathroom.

  As she stood staring into the landscape, the tiny distant figure turned away from her, walked through the pasture and began climbing up the hill. Very faintly, she heard the girl call her name again. Lucy knew she should feel afraid but instead she was seized by a strange longing. It was as if the girl was summoning her into a wonderful dream. Lucy took a deep breath and stepped into the field of yellow flowers.

  The warm rush that had enveloped her hand encompassed her whole body. Her cheeks stung as if they’d been lightly slapped and her tummy grew woozy, as if she’d been swooping through the air on a fairground ride. Then the moment was over and she was inside the painting. Lucy looked over her shoulder and saw the outside–inside room had disappeared. She was standing in the middle of a field of yellow dandelions. I must be dreaming, thought Lucy.

  The tiny figure of the other child didn’t look so far away now. Lucy stared hard at the person running through the long grass. She was singing in a loud, sharp voice. Lucy heard the tune drift across the morning air – for it was no longer night but a bright, sunny morning inside the painting.

  The singing child stopped abruptly in her tracks, turned towards Lucy and waved.

  ‘Lucy-lu!’ she called down the hill, ‘Hurry up!’

  Intrigued that the girl knew her name, Lucy ran towards her. As she drew closer, she saw that the girl had long, swinging gold plaits and a wide, laughing mouth. She was dressed in a pair of pale-green dungarees and a yellow shirt with a scalloped collar. She was almost exactly the same height as Lucy but there was something very young and cheeky about her expression, like a toddler who was about to do something mischievous.

  ‘Oh,’ said the girl. ‘You’re not our Lucy. Our Lucy was there a minute ago. Did you see her? She must have run inside. She’s such a baby.’

  ‘I’m no baby. And I may not be your Lucy, but I’m someone’s Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy Someone,’ said the other girl. ‘I like your costume.’

  ‘Costume?’ Lucy looked down at her flowery pink-and-yellow cotton pyjamas and blushed.

  ‘What are you doing in our valley? I suppose you came up the river,’ said the loud girl, shading her eyes with one hand and scanning the wide blue river that snaked through the valley. ‘Is that your boat?’ she asked, pointing down to where a small rowboat was moored at the end of a jetty.

  ‘No, it’s not my boat, I came—’ began Lucy. But before she could finish her sentence the other girl grabbed her wrist and shouted ‘Run!’

  ‘Why are we running?’ Lucy panted breathlessly as they tore up the hillside towards the bush.

  ‘Because I just realised who that boat belongs to! It’s that rat Jimmy Tiger. Don’t stop. He mustn’t see either of us.’

  They dove under a bush that was covered in spiky, bright-red flowers.

  ‘Is he a really horrible boy?’ asked Lucy. Down by the river, the boy Jimmy Tiger was lashing his boat to a branch.

  ‘Of course he’s not horrible!’ said the girl. ‘He’s my best mate.’

  ‘Then why are we hiding?’

  The girl rolled onto her back. ‘He tried to kiss me. So I’m not talking to him. Not until he apologises.’

  Lucy stared. A smattering of spiky red petals had fallen onto their heads, and they looked like little flames against the girl’s fair plaits.

  ‘He could be your boyfriend,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I don’t want a boyfriend,’ said the girl. ‘I’m never getting married. Never ever. So there’s no point having boyfriends.’

  ‘You can have boyfriends without having to marry them,’ said Lucy.

  ‘That’s a bit wicked and not very romantic,’ said the girl. ‘If a boy kisses you, then you’re as good as engaged, aren’t you?’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Now I know two things about you and I still don’t know your name or where you come from.’

  ‘What are the two things?’

  ‘That Jimmy Tiger tried to kiss you and that you’re never getting married,’ said Lucy, counting the facts on her fingers.

  ‘I’m April,’ said the girl. ‘I’m twelve years old and this is my valley.’

  ‘Now I know five things,’ said Lucy. ‘Actually, six including the fact you have a sister. Which is kind of weird, considering that I think I’m imagining you.’

  But April wasn’t listening. She was lying on her tummy watching Jimmy Tiger with narrowed eyes. It was hard to make out how old the boy might be or even what he looked like, except for the fact that his hair was fiery copper-red. He lifted a brown sack out of the boat and began hiking up the path from the riverbank, whistling as he walked. April rolled onto her back and shut her eyes.

  ‘Do you ever think that maybe you never, ever want to grow up? That growing up is plain scary?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Lucy Someone Sometimes,’ said April. ‘I think you and I are going to be great friends.’

  Lucy wanted to tell April that their friendship was impossible. How could she be friends with a girl who lived inside a painting? But when a breeze blew off the river and another smattering of petals showered down upon them Lucy couldn’t believe she was only imagining the girl and the springtime valley.

  She shut her eyes. It had to be an amazing dream, one of those dreams where you thought you were awake.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked April. Lucy could feel the other girl’s hand on her forehead, as if she were checking her for a fever.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Do you live upriver? If that wasn’t your boat, how did you get here? Did you come by water or did you ride? Where did you leave your horse? I ride everywhere. I love to ride. Do you go to the school at Boggra? I used to go there but then Mum said I could have one year at home before they send me to boarding school in Sydney. It takes too long to get to Boggra. Dad has to row us kids across the river and then we have to walk to Dudleys’ farm and ride horses the rest of the way. It takes forever but it’s faster than going by road.’

  April spoke so quickly, the words bubbling out of her, that Lucy could hardly take it all in. It was like something out of Alice in Wonderland. A mirror world where everything was familiar but nothing quite the same. She gazed around half-expecting to see a giant caterpillar sitting on a mushroom, or a Cheshire cat.

  ‘Can you pinch me?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Pinch you?’

  ‘Yes, so I know that all this is real.’

  April frowned and took Lucy’s hand, pinching a fold of skin on her wrist.

  ‘Oww!’ cried Lucy.

  ‘You’re a very strange girl,’ said April. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I was just thinking,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Thinking what?’

  ‘This is all kind of cool. I can’t believe I’m here.’

  ‘Cool? Yes it can be cool in spring,’ said April, looking a little puzzled.

  For a moment they were both silent, st
udying each other. In some ways, looking at April was like looking at herself. They both had long blonde hair, blue eyes and a dimple in their left cheek.

  As if she was thinking exactly the same thought at exactly the same moment, April said, ‘You could be my twin sister.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Not really! But I wish I could be like you. I always wished I could have a pony but I live in the city and I never get to go horse-riding.’

  ‘So you’re here visiting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m sort of visiting.’

  ‘Well, I can take you riding, if you like.’

  April checked to make sure Jimmy Tiger was out of sight and then she took Lucy’s hand and dragged her to her feet. ‘Follow me.’

  April was barefoot like Lucy but she didn’t seem to notice the rough ground. Lucy wished her feet were a little tougher. They trekked a long way around the edge of the bush, watching the valley, until they reached a wooden hut. The door flew wide and two boys on horseback cantered through the yard, sending dust up in all directions. The riders were halfway down the road before Lucy had wiped the dirt from her face.

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘My big brother, Tom, and that rotten Jimmy Tiger,’ said April, her eyes smouldering. ‘The kings of Broken River.’

  Another Avendale

  Lucy’s head reeled. Up until the horses went thundering past, she could still half-believe that April was a figment of her imagination or a dream. But as she stood looking at the horses cantering down the hill and saw the wide river curving through the valley, she began to doubt herself. The house below them looked suspiciously familiar, but there were no stables at Avendale, and these people didn’t belong here at all.

  How could they be at Broken River? In the real Broken River it was night and inside Avendale her great aunt was asleep and Wally the Wombat was snuffling around the edge of the verandah.