some too!’
Eloise daubed some cautious black marks in a corner.
‘More! Bigger! Darker!’ Damp strands of hair clung to Anna’s neck and forehead.
Eloise slapped on the black paint, thicker and darker, spreading black smudges of thundercloud across the walls. She swept her arm in wide arcs, bolder and bolder, slapping it over Anna’s flickers of yellow and purple and green, blotting out the bright streaks with grim darkness.
‘Your turn for yellow.’ Anna thrust a dripping brush into Eloise’s hand and seized the black brush from her. Now Eloise was painting over the black cloud-shapes with yellow, jumping to spread the paint in jagged strokes as high as the ceiling, shooting up onto the underside of the roof. Eloise had never painted like this before, outside the lines, wild and fierce and reckless. Anna danced about, laughing and sweating, and Eloise felt the sweat slide down her own back as she stretched and swished.
When they’d covered every bit of the two walls with paint, they stood back, panting for breath.
Anna slowly tilted her head, gazing up. Her forehead crinkled. ‘It’s horrible!’ she wailed. ‘It’s dark, it’s ugly! I hate it!’
She crumpled to the ground and buried her head in her arms. Awkwardly Eloise patted her shoulder. Then she put her arm around Anna and squeezed the small shaking figure. I’m hugging my mum , she told herself, and the black walls blurred as her own eyes filled with tears.
‘I hate it. I hate it,’ Anna sobbed. ‘We’ve ruined everything!’
Eloise let out a hiccup of laughter.
‘Don’t laugh !’ Anna pulled fiercely away. ‘Don’t laugh at me. It’s not funny .’
Eloise sobered. ‘We can fix it,’ she whispered.
‘How, how can we fix it? It’s a catstrophe .’
‘Paint . . . over it.’
Anna sat up. She sniffed, and wiped her face on her arm, considering. ‘You think we can? Really?’
Eloise lifted her shoulders and let them fall.
And then all at once she was sitting among the dead leaves on the floor of the empty summerhouse. The sun was going down, and she was alone. She could smell smoke from the bushfires, and when she came out of the summerhouse, a smoky haze lay over the garden.
There had been no rain; the concrete around the empty pool was dry. But as Eloise pedalled home she heard the distant rumble of thunder over the hills, and lightning flashed, a thin metallic thread between earth and sky. That’s how we should have painted it , thought Eloise, and she watched the horizon so intently that she almost wobbled off the road.
‘Those Durranis have left us dinner again. Rice and chicken something.’ Mo gave Eloise a sharp look. ‘Are you all right? Not sunstruck? Maybe you should stay home tomorrow. You shouldn’t be out exploring in all that smoke, anyway.’
Eloise made an effort to straighten up, and she shook her head vigorously.
‘You are all right, aren’t you?’ said Mo. ‘Made some friends? Got things to do?’
Eloise nodded firmly. The last thing she wanted was for Mo to forbid her to go out. And she did have a friend; she did have things to do.
But she was so exhausted that she went to bed straight after dinner and fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. In her dreams she heard the phone ring on and on, and the grumble of Mo’s voice; then she dreamed someone touched her shoulder and murmured, ‘Are you awake? Your father’s on the phone.’
But Eloise just rolled over and pushed herself further into sleep, and she thought she heard another voice, a deep kindly voice, explaining that sometimes there was nothing to say.
The next day Mo was back at work on her book of sea voyages, tapping away in the study, and Eloise rode off again to the big house. The radio said the fires in the national park had been contained, but smoke haze still lingered over the town. Eloise could taste it in her throat.
Smoke lay over the garden like a dirty mist, tinting the sunlight orange. Eloise squeezed her
Eloise daubed some cautious black marks in a corner.
‘More! Bigger! Darker!’ Damp strands of hair clung to Anna’s neck and forehead.
Eloise slapped on the black paint, thicker and darker, spreading black smudges of thundercloud across the walls. She swept her arm in wide arcs, bolder and bolder, slapping it over Anna’s flickers of yellow and purple and green, blotting out the bright streaks with grim darkness.
‘Your turn for yellow.’ Anna thrust a dripping brush into Eloise’s hand and seized the black brush from her. Now Eloise was painting over the black cloud-shapes with yellow, jumping to spread the paint in jagged strokes as high as the ceiling, shooting up onto the underside of the roof. Eloise had never painted like this before, outside the lines, wild and fierce and reckless. Anna danced about, laughing and sweating, and Eloise felt the sweat slide down her own back as she stretched and swished.
When they’d covered every bit of the two walls with paint, they stood back, panting for breath.
Anna slowly tilted her head, gazing up. Her forehead crinkled. ‘It’s horrible!’ she wailed. ‘It’s dark, it’s ugly! I hate it!’
She crumpled to the ground and buried her head in her arms. Awkwardly Eloise patted her shoulder. Then she put her arm around Anna and squeezed the small shaking figure. I’m hugging my mum , she told herself, and the black walls blurred as her own eyes filled with tears.
‘I hate it. I hate it,’ Anna sobbed. ‘We’ve ruined everything!’
Eloise let out a hiccup of laughter.
‘Don’t laugh !’ Anna pulled fiercely away. ‘Don’t laugh at me. It’s not funny .’
Eloise sobered. ‘We can fix it,’ she whispered.
‘How, how can we fix it? It’s a catstrophe .’
‘Paint . . . over it.’
Anna sat up. She sniffed, and wiped her face on her arm, considering. ‘You think we can? Really?’
Eloise lifted her shoulders and let them fall.
And then all at once she was sitting among the dead leaves on the floor of the empty summerhouse. The sun was going down, and she was alone. She could smell smoke from the bushfires, and when she came out of the summerhouse, a smoky haze lay over the garden.
There had been no rain; the concrete around the empty pool was dry. But as Eloise pedalled home she heard the distant rumble of thunder over the hills, and lightning flashed, a thin metallic thread between earth and sky. That’s how we should have painted it , thought Eloise, and she watched the horizon so intently that she almost wobbled off the road.
‘Those Durranis have left us dinner again. Rice and chicken something.’ Mo gave Eloise a sharp look. ‘Are you all right? Not sunstruck? Maybe you should stay home tomorrow. You shouldn’t be out exploring in all that smoke, anyway.’
Eloise made an effort to straighten up, and she shook her head vigorously.
‘You are all right, aren’t you?’ said Mo. ‘Made some friends? Got things to do?’
Eloise nodded firmly. The last thing she wanted was for Mo to forbid her to go out. And she did have a friend; she did have things to do.
But she was so exhausted that she went to bed straight after dinner and fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. In her dreams she heard the phone ring on and on, and the grumble of Mo’s voice; then she dreamed someone touched her shoulder and murmured, ‘Are you awake? Your father’s on the phone.’
But Eloise just rolled over and pushed herself further into sleep, and she thought she heard another voice, a deep kindly voice, explaining that sometimes there was nothing to say.
The next day Mo was back at work on her book of sea voyages, tapping away in the study, and Eloise rode off again to the big house. The radio said the fires in the national park had been contained, but smoke haze still lingered over the town. Eloise could taste it in her throat.
Smoke lay over the garden like a dirty mist, tinting the sunlight orange. Eloise squeezed her
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