you what’s to be done out front,’ she said at last, breaking the spell.
The cicadas were shrieking and screaming from every bush and tree; Mary put her hands over her ears, grimaced at Tim and then went to her only weapon, the hose.
‘This is the worst year for cicadas I can ever remember,’ she said when the din had subsided somewhat and the heavy oleanders dripped steadily onto the path.
‘Breeeek!’ gurgled the basso profundo choirmaster, after all the others had ceased.
‘There he goes, the old twirp!’ Mary went over to the oleander nearest her front door, parting its soggy branches and peering futilely into the cathedral-like recesses of its interior. ‘I can never find him,’ she explained, squatting on her haunches and turning her head to smile at Tim, who stood behind her.
‘Do you want him?’ Tim asked seriously.
‘I most certainly do! He starts the whole lot of them off; without him they seem to be dumb.’
‘I’ll get him for you.’
He slipped his bare torso in among the leaves and branches easily, disappearing from sight above the waist. He was not wearing boots or socks this morning, since there was no concrete to blister and crack his skin, and wet humus from the grass clung to his legs.
‘Breeeek!’ boomed the cicada, drying off enough to begin testing.
‘Gotcha!’ shouted Tim, scrambling out again with his right hand closed around something.
Mary had never actually seen more of a cicada than its cast-off brown armour in the grass and thus edged up a little fearfully, for like most women she was frightened of spiders and beetles and crawly, cold-blooded things.
‘There he is, look at him!’ Tim said proudly, opening his fingers gingerly until the cicada was fully exposed, tethered only by Tim’s left index finger and thumb on his wing tips.
‘Ugh!’ Mary shuddered, backing away without really looking.
‘Oh, don’t be afraid of him, Mary,’ Tim begged, smiling up at her and stroking the cicada softly. ‘Look, isn’t he lovely, all green and pretty like a butterfly?’
The golden head was bent over the cicada; Mary stared down at them both in sudden, blinding pity. Tim seemed to have some kind of rapport with the creature, for it lay on his palm without panic or fear, and it was indeed beautiful, once one forgot its Martian antennae and lobsterish carapace. It had a fat, bright green body about two inches long, tinted with a powdering of real gold, and its eyes glittered and sparkled like two big topazes. Over its back the delicate, transparent wings were folded still, veined like a leaf with bright yellow gold and shimmering with every colour of the rainbow. And above it crouched Tim, just as alien and just as beautiful, as alive and gleaming.
‘You don’t really want me to kill him, do you?’ Tim pleaded, gazing up at her in sudden sadness.
‘No,’ she replied, turning away. ‘Put him back in his bush, Tim.’
By lunchtime he had finished the front lawn. Mary gave him two hamburgers and a heaping pile of chips, then filled his empty corners with a hot steamed jam pudding smothered in hot banana custard.
‘I think I’m finished, Mary,’ Tim said as he drank his third cup of tea. ‘Gee, but I’m sorry it wasn’t a longer job, though.’ The wide eyes surveyed her mistily. ‘I like you, Mary,’ he began. ‘I like you better than Mick or Harry or Jim or Bill or Curly or Dave, I like you better than anyone except Pop and Mum and Dawnie.’
She patted his hand and smiled at him lovingly. ‘It’s very sweet of you to say that, Tim, but I don’t really think it’s true, you haven’t known me long enough.’
‘There’s no more grass to mow,’ he sighed, ignoring her refusal to accept the compliment.
‘Grass grows again, Tim.’
‘Eh?’ That little interrogative sound was his signal to go slow, that something had been done or said beyond his understanding.
‘Can you weed garden beds as well as you can mow a lawn?’
‘I reckon I can. I
The cicadas were shrieking and screaming from every bush and tree; Mary put her hands over her ears, grimaced at Tim and then went to her only weapon, the hose.
‘This is the worst year for cicadas I can ever remember,’ she said when the din had subsided somewhat and the heavy oleanders dripped steadily onto the path.
‘Breeeek!’ gurgled the basso profundo choirmaster, after all the others had ceased.
‘There he goes, the old twirp!’ Mary went over to the oleander nearest her front door, parting its soggy branches and peering futilely into the cathedral-like recesses of its interior. ‘I can never find him,’ she explained, squatting on her haunches and turning her head to smile at Tim, who stood behind her.
‘Do you want him?’ Tim asked seriously.
‘I most certainly do! He starts the whole lot of them off; without him they seem to be dumb.’
‘I’ll get him for you.’
He slipped his bare torso in among the leaves and branches easily, disappearing from sight above the waist. He was not wearing boots or socks this morning, since there was no concrete to blister and crack his skin, and wet humus from the grass clung to his legs.
‘Breeeek!’ boomed the cicada, drying off enough to begin testing.
‘Gotcha!’ shouted Tim, scrambling out again with his right hand closed around something.
Mary had never actually seen more of a cicada than its cast-off brown armour in the grass and thus edged up a little fearfully, for like most women she was frightened of spiders and beetles and crawly, cold-blooded things.
‘There he is, look at him!’ Tim said proudly, opening his fingers gingerly until the cicada was fully exposed, tethered only by Tim’s left index finger and thumb on his wing tips.
‘Ugh!’ Mary shuddered, backing away without really looking.
‘Oh, don’t be afraid of him, Mary,’ Tim begged, smiling up at her and stroking the cicada softly. ‘Look, isn’t he lovely, all green and pretty like a butterfly?’
The golden head was bent over the cicada; Mary stared down at them both in sudden, blinding pity. Tim seemed to have some kind of rapport with the creature, for it lay on his palm without panic or fear, and it was indeed beautiful, once one forgot its Martian antennae and lobsterish carapace. It had a fat, bright green body about two inches long, tinted with a powdering of real gold, and its eyes glittered and sparkled like two big topazes. Over its back the delicate, transparent wings were folded still, veined like a leaf with bright yellow gold and shimmering with every colour of the rainbow. And above it crouched Tim, just as alien and just as beautiful, as alive and gleaming.
‘You don’t really want me to kill him, do you?’ Tim pleaded, gazing up at her in sudden sadness.
‘No,’ she replied, turning away. ‘Put him back in his bush, Tim.’
By lunchtime he had finished the front lawn. Mary gave him two hamburgers and a heaping pile of chips, then filled his empty corners with a hot steamed jam pudding smothered in hot banana custard.
‘I think I’m finished, Mary,’ Tim said as he drank his third cup of tea. ‘Gee, but I’m sorry it wasn’t a longer job, though.’ The wide eyes surveyed her mistily. ‘I like you, Mary,’ he began. ‘I like you better than Mick or Harry or Jim or Bill or Curly or Dave, I like you better than anyone except Pop and Mum and Dawnie.’
She patted his hand and smiled at him lovingly. ‘It’s very sweet of you to say that, Tim, but I don’t really think it’s true, you haven’t known me long enough.’
‘There’s no more grass to mow,’ he sighed, ignoring her refusal to accept the compliment.
‘Grass grows again, Tim.’
‘Eh?’ That little interrogative sound was his signal to go slow, that something had been done or said beyond his understanding.
‘Can you weed garden beds as well as you can mow a lawn?’
‘I reckon I can. I
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