are needed. That, and the trucks.’
Price tilted the letter so the lantern shone more brightly on the page. ‘They have a thing in Adelaide called air-conditioning . It’s a machine that blows cold air.’
‘Don’t the houses have windows?’
Price ignored Audrey and kept reading, ‘Don Bradman got 452 runs, not out, in a cricket match in Sydney. That’s the highest score anyone has ever made, in the whole world.’ He refolded his letter. ‘What about your letter, Mum?’
‘There’s a nice song that’s popular at the moment called Tip-toe thru’ the tulips . There was an orchestral concert on the radio. And Jimmy’s dad is doing well in his new job.’ Mrs Barlow rubbed her leg. It ached more at night. ‘Anything interesting in your letter, Audrey?’
Audrey took a small white shell out of her envelope and held it out. ‘It’s from the beach and it smells like salt. Price, you want to smell it too?’
Price pressed his lips together. He did that when he was trying to look like a grown-up man. But Audrey thought he looked more like a boy with wind.
Mum held up a needle, squinting as she fed blue cotton through its eye.
‘This is the best bit,’ said Audrey. ‘A man in Yass had an operation on his foot because he got a horrible weeping sore …’
‘No need to describe it,’ said her mother. ‘Just tell us what happened.’
‘The doctor found a bullet that had been stuck in his foot for thirteen years. That bullet is older than you, Price.’ Audrey looked down at Jimmy’s letter again. ‘A man called Francis … C … Ch.’ She held out the first page of the letter for her mother to read.
‘Chichester,’ said Mum.
‘That man flew from London on a moth.’
‘I think Gipsy Moth might be the name of the man’s plane.’
‘Oh. A real moth would be better.’ Audrey refolded her letter and said nothing about the second, hidden, page. She didn’t want anyone else to see it.
Twenty-four
Price flung down the shovel and wiped one hand across his forehead. ‘Your turn, Audrey.’
Audrey looked down at the shallow dent in the sand that was supposed to become their new dunny hole.
Price had grunted a lot and the shovel had scraped on the hard-baked sand. But the size of the hole was disappointing.
‘We’re not going to finish this till Christmas.’ Audrey twanged the straps of the braces which held up her loose trousers and spat on her hands, then bent to pick up the shovel. She wasn’t sure why you had to spit on your hands. But Dad always did it before picking up the axe to chop wood.
Usually, Audrey liked spitting. It was fun aiming at targets. She and Stumpy sometimes had spitting competitions out in the scrub. Stumpy usually won because he had a longer neck. But spitting on her hands wasn’t so much fun. Her spittle was warm and slimy.
She rested one foot on the shovel blade and leaned her weight on it. It didn’t go down far.
Price flumped onto the red sand and wrapped his arms around his knees.
From inside the house came the sound of a magpie. Its name was Douglas.
‘I’ve got a question,’ said Audrey.
‘I know.’
Audrey stopped digging. ‘How do you know? I haven’t asked it yet.’
‘You’ve always got a question.’ Price opened the water canteen and took a deep swig. A trickle ran down his chin.
‘Do you think Dad’s all right?’ She hadn’t been able to ask Mum because the look on her face was like a shut door.
‘’Course I do,’ said Price. But his voice was too cheerful, too loud. ‘He can look after himself.’
‘But if the fire was that big …’
‘There’s always fires when it’s dry.’
‘But Mr Akbar …’
‘Peanuts,’ said Price.
Despite her worry about Dad, Audrey giggled. ‘Can I ask you one more question?’
‘If you keep digging.’
Audrey scraped half-heartedly at the sandy soil with the shovel. ‘What will happen if Dad … if he doesn’t come home?’
Price’s bottom lip seemed to quiver. Just for a
Price tilted the letter so the lantern shone more brightly on the page. ‘They have a thing in Adelaide called air-conditioning . It’s a machine that blows cold air.’
‘Don’t the houses have windows?’
Price ignored Audrey and kept reading, ‘Don Bradman got 452 runs, not out, in a cricket match in Sydney. That’s the highest score anyone has ever made, in the whole world.’ He refolded his letter. ‘What about your letter, Mum?’
‘There’s a nice song that’s popular at the moment called Tip-toe thru’ the tulips . There was an orchestral concert on the radio. And Jimmy’s dad is doing well in his new job.’ Mrs Barlow rubbed her leg. It ached more at night. ‘Anything interesting in your letter, Audrey?’
Audrey took a small white shell out of her envelope and held it out. ‘It’s from the beach and it smells like salt. Price, you want to smell it too?’
Price pressed his lips together. He did that when he was trying to look like a grown-up man. But Audrey thought he looked more like a boy with wind.
Mum held up a needle, squinting as she fed blue cotton through its eye.
‘This is the best bit,’ said Audrey. ‘A man in Yass had an operation on his foot because he got a horrible weeping sore …’
‘No need to describe it,’ said her mother. ‘Just tell us what happened.’
‘The doctor found a bullet that had been stuck in his foot for thirteen years. That bullet is older than you, Price.’ Audrey looked down at Jimmy’s letter again. ‘A man called Francis … C … Ch.’ She held out the first page of the letter for her mother to read.
‘Chichester,’ said Mum.
‘That man flew from London on a moth.’
‘I think Gipsy Moth might be the name of the man’s plane.’
‘Oh. A real moth would be better.’ Audrey refolded her letter and said nothing about the second, hidden, page. She didn’t want anyone else to see it.
Twenty-four
Price flung down the shovel and wiped one hand across his forehead. ‘Your turn, Audrey.’
Audrey looked down at the shallow dent in the sand that was supposed to become their new dunny hole.
Price had grunted a lot and the shovel had scraped on the hard-baked sand. But the size of the hole was disappointing.
‘We’re not going to finish this till Christmas.’ Audrey twanged the straps of the braces which held up her loose trousers and spat on her hands, then bent to pick up the shovel. She wasn’t sure why you had to spit on your hands. But Dad always did it before picking up the axe to chop wood.
Usually, Audrey liked spitting. It was fun aiming at targets. She and Stumpy sometimes had spitting competitions out in the scrub. Stumpy usually won because he had a longer neck. But spitting on her hands wasn’t so much fun. Her spittle was warm and slimy.
She rested one foot on the shovel blade and leaned her weight on it. It didn’t go down far.
Price flumped onto the red sand and wrapped his arms around his knees.
From inside the house came the sound of a magpie. Its name was Douglas.
‘I’ve got a question,’ said Audrey.
‘I know.’
Audrey stopped digging. ‘How do you know? I haven’t asked it yet.’
‘You’ve always got a question.’ Price opened the water canteen and took a deep swig. A trickle ran down his chin.
‘Do you think Dad’s all right?’ She hadn’t been able to ask Mum because the look on her face was like a shut door.
‘’Course I do,’ said Price. But his voice was too cheerful, too loud. ‘He can look after himself.’
‘But if the fire was that big …’
‘There’s always fires when it’s dry.’
‘But Mr Akbar …’
‘Peanuts,’ said Price.
Despite her worry about Dad, Audrey giggled. ‘Can I ask you one more question?’
‘If you keep digging.’
Audrey scraped half-heartedly at the sandy soil with the shovel. ‘What will happen if Dad … if he doesn’t come home?’
Price’s bottom lip seemed to quiver. Just for a
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