‘No worries,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll take it down every morning if you like. It can be one of my jobs, like collecting the eggs.’
Mum smiled. ‘I’ll still have it to do it myself next year, if you’re off to school.’
Harry shrugged.
chapter five
The Hole in Time
The chooks strutted and clucked inside the netting, impatient to get out for the day’s pecking around the flat, scratching under the blackberries for beetles and fallen caterpillars, wriggling ecstatically into the dust under the lavender bushes. It must be hard to be a chook where they made you stay inside all day, thought Harry.
He unlatched the wire gate and propped it open. If you didn’t prop the gate open it might swing shut and then the chooks couldn’t get back in at night, and flew up to the trees instead. Once chooks got used to roosting somewhere it was hard to get them to change their minds. Chooks weren’t very bright, Harry guessed. The chooks clustered round him, unwilling to leave till they’d feasted on the contents of the scrap bucket.
Harry tipped it out at the far end of the run—two banana peels, half a piece of toast and plum jam, congealed gravy, a mouldy end of cheese, a quarter of a loaf of stale bread, his lunchtime apple that Kevin Briggs had trodden on yesterday, potato peelings, silver beet stalks and outer lettuce leaves, pumpkin peel and seeds, six bacon rinds, half a piece of fruit cake (where had that come from, wondered Harry—he hadn’t known they had a fruit cake), tea leaves and three crushed eggshells (Mum crushed them so the chooks wouldn’t get the idea of eating the eggs).
The chooks began to scratch the pile apart, pecking first at the cheese and bread and leaving the greenery till later.
Harry checked their water (still flowing well) and their food container (still half full), then hesitated. He was almost scared to look through the hole this morning. But of course there was nothing to be scared of. Cissie had been happy yesterday. The sadness was just a dream.
The chooks were still busy with the scraps at the end of the run. Harry peered through the gloom of the chookhouse. Faintly, in the distance, he could hear the sound of the ute bumping across the ramp as Mum and Dad headed off to town.
The hole was still there. He’d half hoped it wouldn’t be, but it was shining just the same behind the perches.
Harry ducked, making sure he didn’t bump his head on the perches. Someone would be sure to notice if his hair was mucky and ask why. Harry pressed his eye to the hole.
There was no one there.
What had he expected? Harry thought, almost in relief. Of course there was no one there. They’d only been there yesterday for their picnic. They’d all be back at the garrison today. He’d probably never see Cissie again; never see anything again through the hole, except the creek and trees.
Wait a second—something moved on the far side of the creek. It leapt out of a bush, then bounded down along the creek bank, out of sight.
Harry grinned. A wallaby. Maybe it was the zillion times great-grandaddy of the wallaby who lived nowadays over on the flat on the other side of the creek. He could see a wallaby any day he wanted to, without glueing his eye to a hole …
Someone was coming! That’s why the wallaby had fled. Perhaps it was Cissie and her parents again. Perhaps it was someone else from the camp.
It was Cissie. But she looked different, thought Harry. She was taller, surely, than she’d been yesterday. How could she have grown so much taller in just a day?
Maybe it hadn’t been just a day for her, Harry realised. She looked at least eight now, or nine. Maybe more time had passed in her world.
Cissie came closer. She’d been crying. Her face was swollen, her eyes were red. She breathed in funny shaking gulps, as if it was hard to run and cry as well. She sank onto the rock where she had sat the day before—or had it been two years before, or more—and sobbed.
It was like his dream, and yet it wasn’t. The dream had been indistinct, as though reality wobbled to and fro. But this was real.
What was wrong? wondered Harry. Had someone hurt her? Had she quarrelled with her parents? What had happened? Harry pressed his mouth close to the hole.
‘Hello!’
There was no response from the other side of the hole. He tried again. ‘Hello! Cissie! Cissie, can you hear me?’
The girl kept sobbing.
It was no use. It was just like it had been yesterday. He could hear her, but she couldn’t hear him. But there must be something he could do to help. Her sobs sounded so desolate.
‘Cissie? Cecilia, love.’ The voice sounded out of breath.
‘Papa?’ The girl looked up. Both she and Harry had been too intent to hear him come. ‘Papa … I … I’m sorry I ran. I just couldn’t stay there. I just kept on running …’
‘It’s all right, Cissie love. I understand.’ The man stepped into view.
Cissie’s father was short, thought Harry. Why had he thought a soldier must be tall? He had black hair that stuck up like he had run his hands through it, and bushy side whiskers that nearly met at his chin. He looked like he had been crying, too. Did soldiers cry? He knelt by the girl and took her into his arms. ‘Mama is with the angels now.’
Harry froze under the perches. ‘No,’ he thought. ‘Oh no …’
‘I don’t want the angels to have her!’ cried Cissie. ‘She’s mine, not their’s! I want her here. She shouldn’t have gone away.’
‘But she can’t be here, my love. She would be if she could.’
Cissie nodded without speaking. The man stroked her hair. ‘We must go back. They were worried about you. Sergeant Wilkes has made a johnnycake for your supper.’
‘I couldn’t eat, Papa.’
‘He wants to be kind,’ said the man. ‘Try to eat it for him, Cissie. It’s all he knows what to do to help.’
Cissie nodded. She took his hand. They walked together down the creek.
The sun glared down outside the chookshed. Harry sat by the creek where Cissie had sat, so many years ago. He wished Mum and Dad would come back, but somehow he wanted to be alone as well.
That poor little girl, crying on the rock. It must be terrible to have your mother die—especially in a strange place.
What must it be like to lose your mother in a strange land, wondered Harry. Because Australia must be strange to Cissie. She’d have come here from England, or maybe Scotland or Ireland … no, it would be England. Her accent hadn’t been Scots or Irish. Harry calculated … no, he was wrong, she might have been born here. Maybe this place hadn’t been so strange to her at all … but still, how horrible … how hard for a kid to bear …
If only he could help her. But he couldn’t. She looked so close, but she was far away. A hundred and fifty years away. All he could do was watch.
He should go back. He should watch again. Next time it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she wouldn’t be so unhappy next time. You’d never get over your mother’s death … but happy things would happen too. Maybe she’d be laughing again, next time. Her father might marry again, someone really nice and …
He had to go back. He had to see what happened next.
chapter six
What Happens Next?
Harry went back into the chookhouse. A tomato seedling was already growing out of the pile of chook manure just outside the door that he’d scraped out last weekend. (Mum said his nan had told her that chook manure was the best thing ever for the roses.) The nesting boxes were full. Midnight Sky, the Australorp, and Hazelnut, the Rhode Island Red, and Smokin’ Joe all glared at him with tiny shining eyes.
‘Sorry,’ said Harry.
Squarrkk! yelled Smokin’ Joe. She flung herself out of the nest and ran shrieking down the flat. Arnold Shwarzenfeather trotted a few steps after her then, realising she was all right, strutted back into the shade of the oak trees.
‘Dumb chook,’ said Harry. He glanced down at the egg in the nest, dark brown and still warm from Smokin’ Joe’s body. She laid good eggs though, thought Har
ry.
The hole shone in the corner. It didn’t look quite so noticeable at the moment. The rest of the chookhouse was too light. It was only in the afternoon when the chookhouse grew dimmer that the light seemed to shine so brightly. Harry stepped over to it reluctantly. He squatted on the dusty floor, and pressed his eyes to the hole.
She was there. She was a little older perhaps, her hair perhaps a little darker, like hay a week after it’s been cut. She sat on her rock, just as she had before.
She was reading a book, but the scene was too far away for Harry to be able to read the title. She pulled at one of the plaits and nibbled the end of it—just like that little kid in Year Three who bit the end of her plaits sometimes, thought Harry.
The creek swirled around her, sending the waterlilies wobbling in the current. It must have rained a little while before, thought Harry; not enough for a flood but a freshening. The water still looked clear. In Harry’s day the water turned muddy after even a little rain, the topsoil from the paddocks upstream washing down it.
‘Say something,’ muttered Harry. ‘How do I know if you’re happy or not? Say something!’
The girl was silent, reading her book.
She must come here often, thought Harry. It was her spot, her special place. She’d come here when she was unhappy, and she came here just to read or think as well.
Harry scratched the back of his neck absently. One of the chooks must have mites … something had to happen soon! He could feel it!
Cissie laid down her book and yawned. She stretched.
She didn’t look unhappy, thought Harry. She didn’t look particularly happy either. She just looked bored. Perhaps it was a dull book. Did she have to do lessons, he wondered? How had she learnt to read if she didn’t go to school?
Cissie bent and picked up the book. She stuck her tongue out at it. Yes, thought Harry, it probably was a lesson book. She lifted her skirts with both hands, longer skirts now—they came almost to her ankles. Before Harry realised what had happened she had leapt from her rock with her book and was gone.
Harry leant back from the hole. He had been so sure something momentous was going to happen! But at least she was okay. At least she wasn’t crying. After all, everyone was bored some of the time.
Maybe the next time she’d be happy.
Everyone got their own lunch on Saturdays. Harry spread chunks of bread with tomato and cheese and black olives—sort of like a cold pizza, except he never could get the bread to cut straight. Mum and Dad listened to the weather report on the radio. Harry sat down quietly at the kitchen table so as not to interrupt.
‘Looks like that low over the Bight will miss us,’ said Dad, and took his plate to the sink. ‘Pity—we could do with the rain. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a thunderstorm though. It’s building up to it. Is there any more cheese left, love?’
‘In the fridge,’ said Mum. ‘I bought some of that stuff we had at Sally’s, you know, you said you liked it … Did you get your homework done, Harry?’
‘Not all of it,’ said Harry, guiltily. ‘I’ll finish it later.’
‘I picked up a video,’ said Dad. ‘It looks pretty good. I might watch it with you tonight.’
‘Sure,’ said Harry. ‘That’d be cool. Dad, I was wondering. Would you mind if I made another chook run?’
‘If you like.’ Dad sounded surprised. ‘Where do you want to put it?’
‘On the end of the old one, I think. Just to give them more space. I’m not sure. I might just poke around down there and get some ideas.’ It would give him an excuse for being down at the chookhouse all the time.
‘There’s some old wire in the shed if you need it,’ said Dad. ‘Sing out if you want a hand.’
‘I’ll be right,’ said Harry. He prodded at his sandwich. How could he eat when who knows what might be happening down at the chookhouse? ‘Hey, can I be excused?’
‘But you’ve hardly eaten anything!’ protested Mum. ‘Do you feel all right Harry? Come over here and let me feel your forehead. Maybe you had too much sun. Linda at the checkout said this morning there was a wog going round. Two of her kids have had it and—’
‘Mum … Mum, I’m fine.’ Harry broke away ‘Really. Just not hungry.’
chapter seven
Captain Piper
It was going to rain tonight for sure, realised Harry, as he stepped outside onto the verandah. The air sort of pricked at your skin, and was almost too dense to breathe. The sky was a high pale blue, as if it had been washed a lot. Was that why he’d felt that something was going to happen earlier? It was just the coming storm.
Down on the flat the hens raced in widening circles, pecking newly-hatched flying termite queens out of the air. Soon the termites would lose their wings, thought Harry, and scurry down into shelter. He watched as Midnight Sky flapped her wings, half flying up to grab a high one.
The termites only flew when it was going to rain. Sometimes it might be just a sprinkle, half damp, half dust; other times a downpour; but the termites always knew.
The ants would probably be frantic, too, scurrying in and out of their holes, erecting sandy barriers against a flood, and yes—there were a pair of golden skinks, tearing at each others’ throats. Lizards always got niggly before a storm. That meant a thunderstorm, then, not just a gentle rain …
It was hard to breathe in the chookhouse, as though the coming storm had sucked out all the air. Even the world through the hole looked breathless, as though a storm was building there as well. The water rippled and nibbled at the edges of the rocks, as if they would like to bite them but weren’t sure how.
Cissie was there. Somehow Harry had known that she’d be there. She gazed at the creek, though it was the sort of look, thought Harry, that didn’t really see what was in front of you. She chewed her plait again. And then her face screwed up and she began to sob, resting her head against her arms upon the rock.
It was the most desolate sound that Harry had ever heard.
No! It wasn’t fair! Things couldn’t be bad for her now. Not again! Things had to be getting better! Cissie deserved to be happy now!
The sobs echoed from the rocks, the trees. They seemed to clutch at him, tear at him; he was no longer in his world, but in hers. What was wrong! It had to be something big, something important. You didn’t cry like that for a torn dress, or if you’d got your homework wrong.
If only he could cross over to Cissie’s world, just for a while, just long enough to comfort her … or to bring her here, to Mum.
‘Cissie! Cecilia! Where are you, child?’
The girl’s head rose. ‘Captain Piper? I’m over here.’ Her voice was hoarse with tears.
There was a man in the distance, but the hole was so small it was hard to make him out. He came closer, striding confidently through the shadows, and now Harry could see him clearly.
He was taller than Cissie’s father. He wore a uniform of some kind, or part of a uniform anyway. A faded red coat with some sort of braid at the shoulders and a white shirt open at the neck. His boots were long and black and shiny, but even from Harry’s vantage point you could see they were worn right down at the heel, and one was patched up towards the top.
‘Cissie, my dear, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. You shouldn’t have run away like that.’ The man’s voice was kind.
‘I know.’ It was a whisper. ‘I’m sorry, Captain Piper.’
‘They’ve taken your papa to the mortuary, child,’ said Captain Piper. ‘He’s at peace now, Cissie. He’s in heaven with your mama.’
No!
The man’s words screamed in Harry’s mind. Not her father! Not her father, too! The shock was so great he hardly heard Cissie’s next words.
‘I know.’ The girl’s voice was very low.
‘It’s all right, child,’ said Captain Piper gently. ‘We’ll look after you. Your father had good friends in the regiment. We’ll keep you safe.’
‘Thank you. Thank you, Captain Piper.’ Harry
could hardly hear her voice.
‘Come on now. Mrs Sorrel has some bread and milk for you.’
‘I … I wouldn’t want to bother Mrs Sorrel. Not when she’s had the fever, too.’
‘It’s no bother.’ Captain Piper smiled slightly. ‘You two are the only women here now. She needs you too, Cissie.’
The girl nodded. She smoothed her plaits. She took the Captain’s hand and they walked back through the trees.
Harry sat in silence in the chookshed. It was some time before he felt able to come out.
That night the dream came again.
Harry burrowed his head into the pillow, trying to convince himself the crying was the gurgle of the rain pouring into the water tank, an owl yelling above the storm …
But it was Cissie.
He had to find her, but the hole was gone! He hunted through the chookhouse, but still it wasn’t there!
He had to find it! He had to! He had to comfort Cissie … then suddenly the hole was back and he was peering through but still he couldn’t see her. The world was grey and blurred as though the colours had melted all together.
Someone had to help her! It couldn’t be him. He was too far away. No matter how he tried he couldn’t touch her, speak to her, or comfort her! If only Captain Piper, Sergeant Wilkes …
But this time no one came to find her. Cissie kept crying, crying, crying through the years …
chapter eight
Sunday
Harry had to force himself to go down to the chookshed on Sunday morning, but the bucket of scraps was ready for the chooks. Part of him longed to go, the other was afraid of what he might see. Surely the worst had happened to her now, surely things must get better now!
But what would she do, orphaned, so alone? What was this Mrs Sorrel like? Was she good to her? Was her husband a soldier at the garrison as well? He must be. There was no one except the soldiers there … and Cissie.
Maybe the Sorrels would adopt her. Maybe Captain Piper had a wife and she’d come to look after Cissie … maybe, maybe, maybe …
Daughter of the Regiment Page 3