A Penny in Time

by Anna Bartlett

  ‘Shirley,’ she said, shaking her shoulder, ‘can you hear me? Are you alright?’

  Shirley stirred and opened her eyes. ‘I’m thirsty, Violet,’ she said in a croaky voice, then frowned. ‘And I did never get my iceblock.’

  ‘Maybe another day,’ Violet said. ‘We have to get you home to Mother now.’

  She lifted Shirley to her feet and gripped her shoulders as she swayed back and forth. Violet could tell that Shirley was exhausted, so she crouched down to let her climb onto her back. When she stood up she saw the Aboriginal girl walking back the way they’d come, so she followed her, Shirley clinging on half-asleep around her neck.

  To Violet’s surprise the girl soon stopped beside a large red gum tree and began examining its blue-green leaves. She pulled off several with her spare hand and passed them to Violet, who took them, looked at them with a frown, then noticed small white crystals stuck to them. The girl had now plucked more leaves from the tree; as Violet watched she put one in her mouth and ran it through her teeth, then mimed to Violet to do the same.

  Violet looked at the leaves doubtfully, then slowly put one in her mouth and scraped the crystals off with her teeth. To her surprise they tasted slightly sweet. She smiled at the girl, who nodded, passed her some more and began to lead the way downstream again. Violet followed, scraping sugary crystals from the leaves with her teeth as she walked.

  In their search for Shirley, Violet and the girl had left the Mostons’ block and been hiking through the Truscotts’. Now, after a few minutes’ walking again, Violet thought they must be almost back to the edge of their own property. She noticed that the girl seemed less nervous now they were heading back downstream.

  The four children were winding their way between tussocks of grass – Shirley on Violet’s back and the baby boy on the girl’s hip – when all of a sudden the girl froze. She glanced around, a startled look on her face, then dashed towards a small leafy bush ten yards ahead.

  Violet didn’t know what had frightened the girl, but she ran after her as fast as she could, Shirley bumping up and down on her back. The girl was crouching behind the bush when Violet caught up with her. Her little brother had started wailing and she looked up at Violet with a desperate expression.

  ‘Here,’ she said, beckoning. ‘You fella here.’ She tugged at Violet’s hand.

  Violet looked around at the empty bush then lowered herself to the ground beside the girl, Shirley still clinging drowsily to her back.

  ‘What is it?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Bad,’ said the girl, pointing through the bush. ‘Bad fella.’ She had her whimpering baby brother in her lap and now bounced him up and down, crooning to him.

  Violet sat very still and before long she could make out the faint sounds of men’s voices coming from near the river.

  ‘Bad?’ Violet said. ‘Why? Who are they? What will they do?’

  But the girl just shushed her and kept murmuring to her brother. Her face was tense and her eyes were darting from her brother towards the river and back again. Whoever the men were, Violet thought, they must be scary.

  ‘Keep quiet, Shirley,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let the bad men find us.’

  The baby boy’s whimpers stopped at last and the four of them huddled under the bush in silence as two well-dressed men came into view across the river flat. Violet squinted at them, but didn’t think she knew who they were. They mustn’t have been from town, she thought. They must have come from further away. They were walking roughly parallel to the river, but closer to the river than the children were. If they kept moving the way they were headed Violet thought they would probably walk straight past.

  Violet’s heart raced as the two men gradually grew closer, picking their way between bushes and trees, and looking around them as they walked. When Violet turned her head slightly she could see the girl beside her; she was sitting frozen, her eyes large in her face. Soon the men were close enough for Violet to just make out what they were saying.

  ‘They could be anywhere,’ the larger man said.

  ‘Not too far from the river,’ said the second man. ‘If they went too far from the river they’d run into the orchards.’

  There was silence for a moment as the men kept walking, then the first man said, ‘Maybe we should go back. Take the dinghy and try further upstream of the camp.’

  The men stopped almost level with the children and Violet waited, her muscles tense, hoping that, whoever they were, they would turn around and go back without finding the children. But just then the baby boy began to whimper again. The girl desperately jiggled him and whispered in his ear, but his whimpering continued. Violet looked at her taut face and didn’t know what to do; if the boy started crying properly the men would be sure to find them. And with the two little ones to slow them down, Violet and the girl wouldn’t be able to outrun them.

  The little boy’s cries were growing louder, and Violet’s mind whirled as she tried to think of something she could do to distract him. If she had any toys or sweets she could have given them to him – sometimes when Shirley was upset those things helped to calm her down. But Violet didn’t have anything like that with her. She didn’t have anything with her, except the coin Shirley had dropped. Violet caught her breath. The coin! She pulled it from her pocket and held it out so the girl’s brother could see it.

  ‘Look,’ she whispered, twisting it from side to side. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’

  He whimpered a few more times and reached out a hand for the penny, then grasped it in his fist and brought it close to his face. Violet watched him anxiously, holding her breath as he inspected the coin. As he started chewing on the penny the two men slowly turned and began to make their way back towards the river.

  Violet watched the men until they disappeared between the trees, then finally let her muscles relax. She turned to look at the girl beside her, whose little brother was still happily playing with the coin. The girl saw her looking and smiled at her.

  ‘I think they’ve gone now,’ Violet said. ‘They’ve gone back upstream.’

  She clambered to her feet and made sure Shirley was still firmly in place on her back. The hem of her frock was dirty from kneeling on the ground, and Violet wondered what her mother would say. She took a few steps towards home then looked back at the girl sitting playing with her brother.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Violet said. ‘Thank you for helping me to find Shirley.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name, but maybe I’ll see you again some time.’

  When his nanna finished talking Yared slowly drew the penny out from underneath the covers. It was warm from lying cupped in his hands for so long, and he gave it back to her reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you,’ his nanna said and stood up to leave. ‘Goodnight, Yared. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Yared said and closed his eyes. He fell asleep thinking of Violet and Shirley, and the two children they’d met by the river. How did the girl know what marks to look for on the ground? he wondered. Would he be able to follow someone by their tracks?

  A Trap, a Tap and a Trip to the Tip

  ‘Now tonight,’ Yared’s nanna said once he’d cleaned his teeth, ‘seeing as it’s a Saturday, you may watch a video if you wish.’

  ‘What video?’ Yared asked. He hoped it wouldn’t be Thomas the Tank Engine again.

  ‘Well that depends on you,’ she said. ‘I have a few out there to choose from.’

  ‘And then a story after?’

  ‘There won’t be time for a story after. It will have to be one or the other.’

  ‘A story then,’ said Yared.

  His nanna raised her eyebrows. ‘If you wish,’ she said. ‘Go to the toilet and hop into bed while I pour my cup of tea, then I’ll come in and find you.’

  When his nanna was settled on the end of the bed she took a sip of tea then said, ‘This story takes place in the 1930s, during a time called the Great Depression, when many people lost their jobs and a lot of families were very
poor.’

  ‘Wait, Nanna,’ Yared said, pulling one arm out from under the blankets. ‘Can I hold the penny again?’

  ‘If you must,’ she said.

  The morning air bit at Alan’s nose and ears, and his feet were going numb. He stumbled on a stone and hurried to catch up with his brother. Together they rounded the last bend in the track and came in sight of the old shed, with its weather-beaten boards and rusty iron roof: their home for the last year and a half. Alan followed Pat across the flattened dirt clearing to the open front door of the shed, where their mother was standing with little Donald on her hip. She glanced at their empty hands, her face lined.

  ‘Did you not catch any, then?’ she asked.

  The two boys shook their heads. Rabbits were becoming harder to trap now that it was the winter breeding season.

  ‘One of our traps was set off but there was nothing in it,’ Pat said.

  Their mother gave a sigh, then tried to smile. ‘Well, we still have some oatmeal left. Come in and eat.’

  She turned and stepped inside, and Alan and his older brother followed. The inside of the shed was gloomy, with only the doorway to let in light, but they couldn’t afford to waste kerosene by using their lantern in the daytime. A hessian curtain ran down the middle of the shed to separate the bedroom from the kitchen.

  Alan sat at the rickety table in the middle of the kitchen. It was too small to fit the whole family, but it was useful; Alan and Pat had found it missing a leg at the tip one day, and had brought it home to fix. Janet and Eileen were already sitting at one end of the table, and Bridget was standing over the makeshift cooking range at the far end of the shed, stirring the oatmeal porridge.

  After a few minutes of stirring, Bridget took down the nearly empty tin of golden syrup from the shelf above the range. She poured in a trickle of the thick, sugary syrup and mixed it into the porridge. Once she’d replaced the tin she carefully carried the saucepan to the table and began spooning out the grey porridge.

  ‘Don’t serve me any, love,’ their mother said. ‘I’m not hungry this morning.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Bridget asked.

  ‘I’ve had a cup of tea. I’ll be fine.’

  Alan watched hungrily as Bridget spooned dollops of porridge into his bowl. He wrapped his hands around the bowl to warm them, and waited as she scraped out the last of the porridge in case she would serve him some more. Their mother reached down and passed little Donald, who was whingeing and whimpering, to Bridget.

  ‘Make sure he gets enough,’ she said as Bridget took him on her lap.

  They ate their porridge quickly then licked their bowls and spoons clean. Alan still felt hungry, but he knew it was useless to ask for more. He wished he and Pat had managed to catch even one rabbit – meat was so filling, and even better, it meant there’d be dripping to go on their bread the next day.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off into town,’ their mother said. ‘If she hasn’t found time to do it herself, Mrs Jenkins may have some sewing for me, or else one of her friends may want help with her washing. The Lord knows we could do with a few shillings just now.’

  ‘Are you going near the harbour?’ Pat asked. ‘Will you see the new bridge?’

  ‘I might,’ their mother said. She gathered up her worn coat and felt hat from a hook behind the door. ‘Bridget, look after the little ones. Pat, we’ll need some more water. I should be back by dark, but if I’m not, light the lantern and leave it burning for me.’

  Once their mother had gone, Bridget put Donald down to totter off into a corner while she stacked their bowls and spoons. Alan watched Pat walk to the doorway, pick up the branch with the kerosene tin tied to each end, and sling it across his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll come, Pat,’ he said. ‘We could go to the tip after.’

  ‘Why don’t you take Janet,’ Bridget asked, ‘and go while Pat’s getting the water?’

  ‘Alright,’ Alan said, standing up from the table. ‘Come on, Janet.’

  They had no shoes to put on and were already wearing their coats, so the three of them immediately headed outside and set off down the dirt track, leaving Bridget with the two youngest children. Although she was only eleven, Bridget had had plenty of practice looking after the little ones, and would have no trouble keeping them occupied. In fact, her task was easier than it had been a year ago, before Muriel, who came between Eileen and little Donald, had sickened and died within a week.

  ‘What are you looking for at the tip?’ Pat asked as he, Alan and Janet straggled along the track, which was bordered on either side by gumtrees and scrub.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alan. ‘Maybe food someone’s chucked away.’

  ‘You won’t find much,’ Pat said. ‘If there was any there it’ll probably be bad by now.’

  The best day to visit the tip was Wednesday, when the garbage carts had just dumped their loads. Today was a Monday, so the pickings would be poor, but Alan didn’t mind. He had nothing else to do today, and besides, there was always the chance he’d find something that others had overlooked. Donald had been listless and whingey lately, and Alan knew he needed more food. Muriel had been the same just before she began to sicken.

  Janet had been trailing along a few steps behind the boys, but skipped forward to walk beside them.

  ‘What’s your bestest thing?’ she asked.

  ‘Eh?’ said Pat. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What’s your favouritest thing ever?’

  ‘Dopey little sisters,’ Pat said. ‘I don’t think.’

  ‘Mine’s playing ladies with Bridget and Eileen.’

  ‘Bluurrk,’ said Pat. ‘Sounds boring.’

  ‘Mine’s swimming in the river,’ Alan said, remembering how cool and refreshing the water was in summer when they splashed about among the rocks. ‘What’s yours, Pat?’

  Pat shrugged and swung the empty four-gallon tins that were dangling near his hands back and forth. ‘Running,’ he said. ‘Racing.’

  Alan often wished he could run as fast as Pat; Pat had even won the boys’ race at school a few years before. Nowadays they didn’t often run around, because it used too much energy.

  Up ahead Alan could see the point where the track split into two. One path led to the makeshift tents and shacks of the nearby dole camp, where other unemployed families lived in even worse conditions than Alan’s. The other branch of the track curved away towards the sealed roads and neat houses of the suburbs.

  To reach the tip Alan and Janet would follow this second track, but Pat was heading for the tap at the dole camp. Although Alan’s family didn’t live in the camp itself, they knew most of the people there, and they visited it quite often. Whenever Alan went there he was reminded of how lucky his family was to have a roof that didn’t leak, walls that kept out most of the draughts, and a cement floor instead of packed earth.

  They hadn’t yet reached the branch in the track when Alan heard voices shouting and laughing, and around the curve in the path that led to the suburbs came four boys about Pat’s age. They were carrying nets and bamboo poles and the three children knew them from school.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ Alan asked, stopping short.

  Pat’s eyebrows lowered. ‘Must be going to the river.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘Come on, keep walking.’

  Alan and Janet trailed after Pat, hanging back behind him. As the distance between the two groups grew smaller, the town boys began to call out.

  ‘Look, it’s the Conolly kids,’ the tallest, a dark-haired boy, called.

  ‘You’re missing some kids, Conolly kids,’ another said in a sing-song voice. ‘Where are the rest of you?’

  ‘Probably out begging for food,’ said a third, who had curly hair and a scrunched-up nose.

  Alan felt his face growing hot.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Pat repeated to Alan and Janet as they reached the group of boys. His face was set and he glared at the boys as he pushed through the middle of the bunch. Alan followed, his eyes fixed
on the back of Pat’s legs.

  ‘Don’t let them touch you,’ the dark-haired boy said, pulling another back a few steps. ‘They could have been anywhere.’

  Pat turned and shot the boy a look. ‘Make sure you don’t fall in the river, Gordon. You’d swallow the whole thing with a mouth as big as yours.’

  Gordon reached down to pick up a stone and the Conollys hurried along the track.

  ‘Susso brats,’ someone called, and the stone went whizzing past them. ‘Dirty camp kids.’

  ‘Bet you won’t catch anything,’ Pat yelled back.

  Alan thought Pat would probably be right; it was too cold for fishing now. In summer he and Pat could often catch fish, eels and sometimes even crabs to take home, but in winter it was hard to catch anything.

  When the three of them reached the turn-off to the dole camp they halted for a moment. The town kids had lost interest and headed towards the river again, so Alan, Pat and Janet were on their own.

  ‘Are you coming to the tip after?’ Alan asked.

  Pat shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. I’ll see.’ He turned down the path to the camp, the kerosene tins bumping against his legs. ‘See you later.’

  Alan and Janet began walking again, following the track as it curved away through the scrub towards the suburbs. The sun fell in patches across the trampled dirt, but it wasn’t strong enough to warm Alan’s feet.

  After a while the track ended at a bitumen road, and the children were soon among the ordered streets of the suburbs. To reach the tip they still had to walk several blocks – past the empty, boarded-up corner store, past the house of Mr and Mrs Matheson, who had once given Alan and Pat a jar of apricot jam, and past the road that led to the school.

  ‘Do you think,’ Janet said slowly as they walked, ‘that there are goblins living at the tip?’

  ‘No,’ said Alan. ‘Why would they want to live there?’