Dunger by Joy Cowley Page A

the outhouse is built on to the back of the garage, it’s near the tap where I washed the mussels last night. There’s a tin basin nearby with a bar of laundry soap, but no towel. I suppose we’re expected to shake our hands dry. On that subject, I can’t believe how sore my hands are, all red, with cuts from mussel shells. I show my hands to Grandma, but she can’t see and thinks they’re normal, which is probably also what she’d think if she could see them properly, anyway. I mean, it’s this crazy pioneer lifestyle.
    But back to the outhouse: in the middle of the night I had to go, but there was no way I was making that journey in the dark. A torch could supply a little circle of light. It’s what’s in the rest of the blackness, like wild pigs and possums and rats, you know, real scary stuff, that makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I remembered the story Grandma told about Dad and the lavender bush, so that’s what I did. Of course, there’s no lavender bush now, just grass near the back doorstep. It’s so close to the house that if there was a strange noise or anything I’d be back inside the door in a second. And no one will know, because there’s a heavy dew each night.
    This morning Grandma and Grandpa had another argument. I guess it’s about spectacles or something when I hear their voices through the wall.
    â€œYou’ve forgotten, you silly old bird. Why didn’t you put them in the case?”
    â€œAw, shut your mouth, there’s a bus coming!”
    By the time I’m dressed they’ve forgotten about it and he’s helping her to set the table for breakfast. They’re not lighting the fire yet, thank goodness – it’s a cold meal of cornflakes and peaches. No toaster, no toast, so the follow-up is bread rolls and plum jam. Of course, Will is his usual greedy self. That kid eats enough for both of us.
    My phone and charger are well wrapped and ready for the mailbox. Grandma says I don’t have to do that yet, because the mailman won’t be here till lunchtime, but I’m not taking chances. I slip on my sandals, the Italian ones with little silver bells on the thongs, and go out to the road. The sun is up but not too hot. There are gulls squawking over the water and bellbirds singing in the trees, sounds meeting each other like an orchestra tuning up. The day has a wet, fresh smell, even though it hasn’t been raining, like all the air has just been scrubbed. After a while it hits me what the difference is: no traffic fumes.
    The mailbox is a kind of long tin can on top of a post, and when I open the flap, I see it’s full of birds’ nests. More straw. Don’t those stupid birds know they’re supposed to live in trees? I rake the straw out, all of it, put in my phone package and Grandma’s list, then close the flap and put up the red flag that will tell the mailman to stop.
    Done. It’s a good feeling, like being a prisoner and cutting through the first bars on the window. Well, actually I’ll still be a prisoner, but at least I’ll be able to text Jacquie and Herewini and some of the others, and find out what’s happening in the world. My mind is so full that I don’t look at my feet until I’m back at the house and I see that my designer sandals, worth two weeks of babysitting and shop work, are a wet mess, stuck with clay and grass seeds, and when I kick them off the dye from the red thongs has striped my feet. This place is so primitive that, honestly, I can’t wear half the clothes I packed.
    â€œThat you, Melissa?” Grandma calls. “I found the guitars! They were in the back of the wardrobe, only we couldn’t find the extra strings. They were in my guitar case, sure enough. Silly old fool couldn’t see for looking. I need you to replace two broken strings for me.”
    I had this idea they’d have twelve-string