eyes shut and tiptoed toward the summerhouse, her mind full of that other world.
As she came past the screen of trees and the raucous chorus of cicadas gave way to the buffer of silence, the smell of smoke lifted, replaced by the smell of fresh paint, and there was Anna, beaming, her clothes spattered with white.
‘I found a ginormous tin of white paint,’ she said at once. ‘And a roller, look.’ A huge paint roller, taller than Anna herself, was propped in one corner. Anna gave Eloise a little shove. ‘You didn’t come and help! You never come when it’s a really big job, I had to do it all myself.’
Eloise peered around. ‘It’s gone.’ The walls were blank again, but faintly grey, where the black paint still showed through.
‘Why didn’t you come? You haven’t come for three whole days.’
How could one day in her time stretch to three in Anna’s? ‘Sorry,’ said Eloise helplessly. ‘Can’t help it.’
‘Oh, never mind.’ Anna bounded around the summerhouse. ‘You’re here now. What are we going to paint today?’
‘A shipwreck,’ said Eloise without thinking.
Anna clasped her hands. ‘Oh, yes ! How will we do it?’
Eloise stared around the summerhouse. The two walls where they’d painted the storm were still damp with white paint; better to use a different section. After a minute she sketched with her hands. ‘The sea – storm at the back – and the ship there – and in the front . . .’ She stopped.
‘People drowning,’ said Anna with relish. ‘Where’s your pencil? You better draw it on first.’
Eloise dragged the pencil across the walls, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as Anna cheered her on. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘Drowned people . . . next to a swimming pool?’
Anna laughed. ‘I don’t care. No one’ll see it except us. This is my place. What’s that?’
‘Rocks,’ said Eloise. ‘To wreck the ship.’
‘Can I do them?’ begged Anna, and without waiting for a reply, she grabbed a brush and began to dab the rocks into existence, filling Eloise’s pencilled outline with streaks and blobs of brown.
Eloise painted the ship. It was a white ocean liner with red funnels, like the one in the movie Titanic . Eloise painted it up on end, poised at the moment before it slid beneath the icy waves. She used the finest brush, tipped with black paint, for the tiny figures that spilled over the sides and into the water. Jab, jab, jab, she sent dozens of passengers to their doom.
‘I can’t see them,’ complained Anna. ‘Do bigger ones, up the front.’
Eloise sketched a face. Its mouth was open, its hair plastered to its skull, eyes squeezed shut. One hand clung to a rope that floated, useless, not attached to anything. The face could have belonged to a man or a woman; it was a blank face, a face of blind terror. Eloise’s stomach felt cold, looking at it. A dead person. Dead, like her mother.
She looked across at Anna, busy dabbling green and blue to make the sea, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. It was impossible to believe that in Eloise’s time, Anna wasn’t alive, that there was no Anna.
Anna looked up, frowning. ‘Don’t stop,’ she ordered. ‘There’s heaps to do yet.’
‘Not stopping,’ said Eloise.
She took up a thicker brush and began to swirl black and grey and white across the sky for the storm. The colours massed and congealed along the top of the summerhouse walls. Eloise stepped back. All that black was too heavy, it crushed the whole picture.
Eloise swapped to a thin brush and broke up the mass of darkness with the threads of white lightning she’d seen the night before. No, last night was in the future. She was in the past now. Safe in the past. Nothing could hurt her here, back here before she was born. This time was a safe place, the safest place there was . . .
There was too much lightning now. Eloise started to paint out the zigzag strands.
‘No!’ cried Anna. ‘Leave it alone, you’ll
As she came past the screen of trees and the raucous chorus of cicadas gave way to the buffer of silence, the smell of smoke lifted, replaced by the smell of fresh paint, and there was Anna, beaming, her clothes spattered with white.
‘I found a ginormous tin of white paint,’ she said at once. ‘And a roller, look.’ A huge paint roller, taller than Anna herself, was propped in one corner. Anna gave Eloise a little shove. ‘You didn’t come and help! You never come when it’s a really big job, I had to do it all myself.’
Eloise peered around. ‘It’s gone.’ The walls were blank again, but faintly grey, where the black paint still showed through.
‘Why didn’t you come? You haven’t come for three whole days.’
How could one day in her time stretch to three in Anna’s? ‘Sorry,’ said Eloise helplessly. ‘Can’t help it.’
‘Oh, never mind.’ Anna bounded around the summerhouse. ‘You’re here now. What are we going to paint today?’
‘A shipwreck,’ said Eloise without thinking.
Anna clasped her hands. ‘Oh, yes ! How will we do it?’
Eloise stared around the summerhouse. The two walls where they’d painted the storm were still damp with white paint; better to use a different section. After a minute she sketched with her hands. ‘The sea – storm at the back – and the ship there – and in the front . . .’ She stopped.
‘People drowning,’ said Anna with relish. ‘Where’s your pencil? You better draw it on first.’
Eloise dragged the pencil across the walls, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as Anna cheered her on. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘Drowned people . . . next to a swimming pool?’
Anna laughed. ‘I don’t care. No one’ll see it except us. This is my place. What’s that?’
‘Rocks,’ said Eloise. ‘To wreck the ship.’
‘Can I do them?’ begged Anna, and without waiting for a reply, she grabbed a brush and began to dab the rocks into existence, filling Eloise’s pencilled outline with streaks and blobs of brown.
Eloise painted the ship. It was a white ocean liner with red funnels, like the one in the movie Titanic . Eloise painted it up on end, poised at the moment before it slid beneath the icy waves. She used the finest brush, tipped with black paint, for the tiny figures that spilled over the sides and into the water. Jab, jab, jab, she sent dozens of passengers to their doom.
‘I can’t see them,’ complained Anna. ‘Do bigger ones, up the front.’
Eloise sketched a face. Its mouth was open, its hair plastered to its skull, eyes squeezed shut. One hand clung to a rope that floated, useless, not attached to anything. The face could have belonged to a man or a woman; it was a blank face, a face of blind terror. Eloise’s stomach felt cold, looking at it. A dead person. Dead, like her mother.
She looked across at Anna, busy dabbling green and blue to make the sea, her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. It was impossible to believe that in Eloise’s time, Anna wasn’t alive, that there was no Anna.
Anna looked up, frowning. ‘Don’t stop,’ she ordered. ‘There’s heaps to do yet.’
‘Not stopping,’ said Eloise.
She took up a thicker brush and began to swirl black and grey and white across the sky for the storm. The colours massed and congealed along the top of the summerhouse walls. Eloise stepped back. All that black was too heavy, it crushed the whole picture.
Eloise swapped to a thin brush and broke up the mass of darkness with the threads of white lightning she’d seen the night before. No, last night was in the future. She was in the past now. Safe in the past. Nothing could hurt her here, back here before she was born. This time was a safe place, the safest place there was . . .
There was too much lightning now. Eloise started to paint out the zigzag strands.
‘No!’ cried Anna. ‘Leave it alone, you’ll
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