

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Prologue

February 1965

Light pierced the Venetian slats, casting horizontal planes of brilliance against an otherwise drab wall. Maggie stretched indolently. She put her hands behind her head and studied the wall intently. She knew the routine well by now. First she would silence the alarm clock, just as she had done a couple of minutes ago. Then, she would run through the list in her head, one item at a time, invariably giving herself another ten minutes in bed.

She closed her eyes and recalled the list. The Venetian blinds were still at the top of the ever-changing register. They had been condemned for months now. As soon as she found the time to select the fabric for the new drapes, they would be gone for sure. And she wouldn't be sorry to see them go.

Not like the wardrobe; it was next on the list. It was the first item of furniture Maggie and Peter had purchased together. If that wasn't reason enough to keep it, what it represented should have been. In Maggie's mind, the wardrobe marked the first step towards transforming the chic, but impractical designer house of Peter's first marriage into the relaxed and comfortable home they now shared.

Despite the metamorphosis that had taken place, it took little effort for Maggie to visualise the house that Peter had occupied with his ex-wife. She dismissed the wardrobe from her mind and waited for the familiar image to appear. When it did, she remembered how she had felt when she first walked through the door all those years ago. It was as though she had stepped into the pages of _Home Beautiful_. Every item in the room was perfectly matched and placed with the flair of an interior designer.

Glazed chintz drapes framed a large picture window and provided the perfect backdrop for the chartreuse walls. In the corner, a tall, olive green lamp stood alongside a blonde wooden lounge suite with matching green cushions. On the opposite wall, another lamp, indistinguishable from the first, stood guard over a large, boxy armchair, also in the same green velvet. The exaggerated line of its curved armrests, inlaid with blonde veneer, gave the chair a relaxed look that defied its formal proportions. A magazine rack tastefully placed near the matching wheat coloured buffet and overflowing with a fashionable selection of _Meanjin_ and _Angry Penguins_ provided the finishing touch. At the time, Maggie recalled being somewhat reassured to learn that Peter was not responsible for stocking the magazine rack. As it happened, the magazines were years old and Peter had simply not bothered to throw them away.

No sooner had her focus returned to the present than Maggie remembered the large mirror with the mosaic border that had hung above the buffet. She wondered how she could have missed the enormous looking glass that effectively created the illusion of a room twice as large as it really was. She smiled as she remembered six year old Michelle running into the backyard where Maggie stood hanging washing on the line, gleefully exclaiming that she had made millions of pretty diamonds. Maggie had been so pleased by the mirror's demise that she hadn't roused on Michelle for playing with her Hula-hoop in the house.

With the offending mirror gone, had it not been for the fact that Peter's first wife had decorated the entire house single-handedly, Maggie would have conceded that she may have eventually grown to like it. But, since Marjorie had so vividly left her mark in every corner of the house, Maggie believed that her only option was to initiate a makeover that would to take the best part of a decade to complete. Now, much to Maggie's delight, apart from the kitchen and bathroom fixtures, not a skerrick of the original décor remained. Even the original varnished floorboards were buried under the shag pile that was now underfoot.

Determined to stay in bed as long as possible, Maggie cast her mind back to her list. Unlike the blinds that were destined for the tip, the wardrobe was being moved to Michelle's room. Maggie had still not come to grips with the amount of space a sixteen year old girl needed, but she was certain the wardrobe was a step in the right direction.

"Mmm," Peter snuggled in close, "good morning, lazy bones."

Maggie gave up on the choice between barely beige and whipped cream for the walls and turned onto her side. She tucked in closer to Peter. "Who are you calling lazy bones? I'm not the one who slept through the alarm clock."

"Come closer," Peter nuzzled into her neck, "you're way too far away."

Maggie giggled. She felt Peter's body molding to fit hers and regretted not being able to sleep in. She enjoyed the rare occasions they got to stay in bed past seven and considered how much damage staying in bed for just a few more minutes could do.

Five more minutes, she told herself, as Peter ran his hand down her thigh. The warmth of his hand gave her goose bumps. She loved the way he felt. If truth were told, she loved everything about him. She often amazed herself by not being able to come up with a single thing that she would change if she could. Once she would have changed his past, but she knew it was not possible to change even the smallest thing without changing everything else. Take the kids for example; if Peter hadn't married Marjorie, Michelle and Stephen would never have been born.

Wishing the kids out of existence was simply inconceivable. Michelle and Stephen had been such a big part of her world for so long now that she could no longer imagine life without them. Still, as much as she loved having them in her life, she knew it was the kids that clinched it with her mother in the end. If it wasn't disastrous enough that Maggie had fallen in love with a married man, to make matters worse, he had children as well.

In a society that constantly reinforced the importance of the family unit and the traditional roles of mother and father as the homemaker and breadwinner respectively, divorce was viewed as a social evil not to be tolerated. Maggie had known that already. She had expected some initial disagreement from her mother on the matter; but had naïvely assumed that, as with her decision to go to teachers' college, her mother would eventually see reason.

She had been wrong.

Maggie had been aware that her mother had not been the same since her father had passed away, but the years Maggie spent boarding with her aunt while she attended teachers college had ill prepared her for the changes that had taken place. Her infrequent home visits had hinted at a waning benevolence, but she had dismissed her mother's behaviour as a reaction to her father's unexpected death. Had she not been so careless in her judgment, the dogmatic fanaticism with which she was confronted when she told her mother of her intention to marry Peter might not have come as such a surprise.

Maggie's mother informed her that she could not survive the scandal that would surely come once the whole church found out that her daughter – a daughter whom she believed had been bought up with higher principles than what Maggie was displaying – had taken up house with a married man. The only solution, her mother had said, was to disassociate herself from her immoral daughter and get on with her life as though Maggie had never existed.

And that is exactly what she did.

Maggie was devastated. She pleaded with her mother to see reason. Even her news that Peter was getting divorced and intended to marry Maggie made no difference. According to her mother, the Church did not recognise divorce. Put simply, Maggie had disgraced herself and her family and had bought shame upon the church.

Maggie was astounded by the idea that someone's faith in a seemingly merciless God was so much stronger than their faith in their daughter. When months went by and all attempts to re-establish contact failed, Maggie gave in and accepted her mother's decision. What she refused to accept was that God wanted to keep her and Peter apart. Surely God was not about depriving people of the joy of being together when they loved each other as much as Maggie and Peter did? Since when had God become so mean?

The more Maggie considered her mother's words, the more she believed her to be wrong. God was not mean; people were mean. If her mother could be so blinded by the church that she could not see that, then as far as Maggie was concerned, the church could go to hell; she would find spirituality elsewhere.

Peter reached around and cupped Maggie's breast. While she certainly had her regrets where her mother was concerned, she had none when it came to Peter. In the husband stakes, Maggie was well aware of her good fortune. She knew enough from listening to her workmates dump on their husbands to know a good deal when she saw one. And, if getting the perfect husband wasn't good enough; she found a best friend as well.

Rolling Maggie onto her back, Peter kissed her full on the mouth, deliberately making a wet smacking sound as he did so. The finality of his action left Maggie with no doubt that the sleep-in was over. She groaned. Going through the list one more time wasn't going to save her now. She knew she had to get up and face the day. They had a long drive ahead of them and she still had a hundred things to do before leaving.

"Have you got the address written down?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, it's on the letter."

"Well, have you got the letter?"

Maggie pushed him playfully. "Are you suggesting I might have misplaced it?"

Peter laughed. After twelve years together, Maggie's carelessness was well known. According to Peter, she never put the effort in on the front end, she always left things to the last minute, and she almost always paid the price. She did it so often that Peter suspected she did it just to get even with him for making fun of her about it.

Maggie lay on the bed and watched Peter walk to the wardrobe and take out a shirt. Unlike Maggie, who preferred to leave wet footprints through the house while she scrounged around for something to wear, Peter always got his clothes ready to take into the bathroom with him. She admired his naked body. Standing at six foot and four inches, his broad shoulders and narrow hips belied his thirty-eight years. Maggie thought he was more handsome now than when she had first met him and she never missed an opportunity to tell him so.

Noticing the time, Maggie jumped off the bed and raced up the hall. Peter laughed. "There's no doubt about that woman, she'll be late for her own funeral," he mumbled.

Maggie ran past the kids' rooms and rapped on their doors. "Stephen! Michelle! Come on, up and at 'em."

The kids were going to stay at Peter's brother's place for the day. Maggie had told them it was too long a drive for them, and that they would just fidget all the way. It was even true. Driving all the way from Newtown to Martinsville was a long way by anyone's standards, but deep down Maggie knew that she was just making excuses. She was mindful of her mixed feelings about the excursion and she wanted time to organise her thoughts before arriving. A couple of hours in the car with two teenagers would leave her with zero time to contemplate anything.

While Peter showered, Maggie packed some sandwiches for the drive. Not sure if they would be back in time for dinner, she included some Vegemite SAOs for the return trip. Then, just to be sure they wouldn't starve, she added a pair of bananas and some fruitcake to the Esky. She left the Vegemite out for Michelle's toast, popped two slices of bread in the toaster, and took out the Weet-bix for Stephen.

"Hurry up, kids! Breakfast's ready."

Maggie left the kids to their breakfast and exchanged places with Peter in the shower. Peter patted her bottom as she squeezed through the opening in the shower curtain, reminding her as he did so that they were in a hurry.

"I'll be out in a jiffy," she reassured him, "I don't need to wash my hair, I did it yesterday."

Unlike most women Peter knew, Maggie refused to fall victim to Vidal Sassoon's vigorous marketing strategies. Rather than spend unnecessary shillings and pence on the bouffant styles, long lashes and heavy makeup that most women believed were a necessary adjunct to everyday life, she chose to wear minimal makeup and her long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. As far as Peter was concerned, no amount of make up or false eyelashes could improve her distinctive, ice-blue eyes and thick, dark lashes.

Guilty of dawdling, Peter left Maggie to shower and deftly cleaned up the breakfast stuff. While he busied himself in the kitchen, he instructed the kids to tidy their rooms and put their dirty clothes in the laundry. Michelle grumbled about the unfairness of having to clean up despite not staying home and no one being there to do the washing. Peter knew that to argue with her would mean an all-out battle, so he ignored her complaints and loaded the car.

Maggie came out a short time later looking fresh in a floral skirt and white cotton blouse. Peter smiled at her as he hurried her along with a gentle push. They had no sooner piled into the car when she remembered the Thermos of cordial still sitting on the kitchen bench and raced back in to get it. Peter sat patiently while she locked the house for the second time and took the mugs out of the Esky that was stowed in the back of the station wagon.

Climbing into the car, Maggie put the Thermos and mugs on the floor in front of her. "There," she said triumphantly, "who's got the courage to call _me_ disorganised?"

"Not I," Peter admitted.

"Uh uh, me either," concurred Stephen.

Michelle recognised Maggie's question as rhetorical and chose not to respond. "So Mum?" she asked instead, "when do _we_ get to see it?"

"Another time," Maggie answered idly.

"I figured _that_ much out on my own." Clearly, Maggie had not given Michelle's request sufficient consideration.

"Hey," Peter said, "watch your tone, young lady."

Maggie intervened. "Honestly love, I don't know. It's a long way to go and your dad and I have already made two trips by train just to sort everything out."

"Maybe we can come at Easter time," Stephen suggested, "yous'll have time then, won't you?"

"Stephen Thompson! Please tell me I did not hear you correctly."

"What?" Stephen sounded confused.

"As a school teacher, I cannot allow my son to say dirty words like _yous_." Maggie pretended to be horrified.

Peter joined in. "Really? What would people think?"

"I imagine they'd think he was an imbecile," Michelle informed them. She was in no mood for frivolity.

Peter sighed gratefully as he pulled into his brother's driveway. He silently thanked Maggie for insisting they leave the kids with Roger and Mary for the day. Mary saw them pull up and waved from the kitchen window. By the time Peter stopped the engine, she was standing beside their car drying her hands on a tea towel. Maggie wound down her window and explained that they really didn't have time to stop.

Mary nodded her understanding before waving them off.

Seeing the sombre look on Maggie's face, Peter reached across and put his hand on her knee. "You alright, babe?"

Maggie sighed. "I feel a bit bad about leaving the kids, that's all."

"Don't fret, they'll be fine. Michelle will be off gasbagging with Susan by now and she'll have forgotten all about us."

She knew he was right. He usually was when it came to the kids, especially Michelle. Maggie knew that Michelle's behaviour was typical for a sixteen year old. She accepted nothing and questioned everything. Normally that wouldn't bother Maggie, quite the opposite in fact. She and Peter had always taught the kids to think for themselves and not let others do it for them, but since her mother's death a month ago, Maggie could feel her cloak of resilience beginning to unravel.

As much as she had mixed feelings about the trip, she looked forward to the closure that had been denied her the past twelve years. Maggie felt certain that the visit to Martinsville would extinguish the last ember of hope she'd left smoldering all these years and allow her to finally get on with life. Despite this, she still wasn't sure how she would feel seeing the house in which her mother had spent the last five years of her life. While the news of her mother's death had come as a shock to Maggie, the news that her mother had sold the family home in Morisset and had relocated to the neighbouring village of Martinsville had caused her greater surprise.

Maggie remembered Martinsville as little more than a one-horse town, miles from anywhere. And by the sounds of it, the place had not prospered since Maggie had left home. It no longer had its own post office. According to Mr Harris, the executor of her mother's estate, it closed down a couple of weeks ago.

Maggie found that trying to make sense of her thoughts and feelings regarding her mother's death was dampening her spirits. Rather than spoil both their day by moping about it, she turned on the radio. Something bright and gay was bound to cheer her up.

Sure enough, like an omen, the Beatles' latest hit, "I feel fine", was playing.

"Hey, they're those uni kids I was telling you about," Peter said, turning the radio up and causing Maggie to start as she realised the music was no longer playing.

Maggie and Peter listened while the reporter told of a bus load of students making trouble at Moree. Apparently the students had protested against the municipal baths' policy that no aborigines be admitted.

"Do you teach any of them?" Maggie asked.

"Nah, I think they all go to Sydney University, but I couldn't say for sure."

Maggie thought about what she always told the kids whenever they complained about the injustice of not getting what they wanted. Much to their annoyance, she was constantly reminding them that they should consider themselves fortunate, as there was always someone worse off. "Well, good for them," she said, passionately. "It's an absolute tragedy the way those people are treated."

"Although, one has to ask what good it'll do them," Peter proposed. "When all's said and done, they don't even have a vote."

Maggie shook her head in disgust. "What on earth has to happen before people wake up to themselves? This is their country for Christ's sake and they don't even have the vote. Does that sound fair to you?"

Peter smiled. Once Maggie got on her high horse about something, there was no stopping her.

They eventually gave up on enticing an ongoing reception from the radio and spent the next hour or so discussing social injustices facing Aborigines. Being able to discuss a diversity of subjects was one of the things they liked about each other. Despite working in professions that claimed to promote independent thought and intelligent debate on a wide range of issues, Maggie and Peter were often flabbergasted at the number of their friends and colleagues who simply regurgitated everyone else's tripe and never had an opinion of their own.

For Maggie and Peter, conversation was never as good with others as it was between them. They spent hours at a time discussing everything from the absurdity of the Vietnam War, to more important issues, such as whether the Beatles would outlast the Rolling Stones. Today was no exception. In fact, it was times like this that Peter was thankful that he had spent the extra one hundred and eighty odd pounds on the automatic transmission. It was so much easier not to be changing gears all the time.

Peter's car was his pride and joy. He'd had it for three years, but he still got as much joy out of it as he had when it was new. Despite the luxuries like the carpet and heater, Maggie still hadn't forgiven him for the bucket seats. She complained that driving had been much more fun when she could sit close enough for him to drive with his arm around her.

Peter pointed to the sign up ahead indicating the turn off they were to take. As he turned the car into Hue Hue Road, Maggie sat quietly watching the landscape evaporate behind them. She knew that they would be at Martinsville within the hour and she was beginning to feel restless. The old insecurities came flooding back and she wondered for the hundredth time how she would cope with the task ahead.

As the moment of reckoning drew near, a realisation dawned. It occurred to Maggie that she was annoyed with her mother. In justifying her anger, Maggie asked herself what kind of person would remove themselves so completely from their only child's life, with the knowledge that when they died the burden of dealing with their estate would fall to their sole heir?

Until now, Maggie had dismissed her mother's righteous intolerance as a symptom of her father's death, but now she saw it for what it was; blatant selfishness. Why couldn't she have just left her estate to her beloved church? At least then Maggie wouldn't be left with the unsavoury task of disposing of it.

"Keep your eye out for Martinsville Road," Peter instructed, "We need to take a left turn there. According to Mr Harris, the place is about five miles down Martinsville Road, past Wilkinson's Road on the left. He reckons it has a red letterbox that can be seen from the road."

Maggie expected the slow drive over the rough corduroy road to fuel her anger, but instead she found that the picturesque landscape had a calming effect. She hadn't remembered Martinsville being so beautiful. She was right about it being a one-horse town, but what a spectacular one-horse town it was.

The heavy rain of the last couple of days was evident everywhere. They drove past a property whose creek had overflowed into the paddock, creating a large pond of water. The long grass swaying beneath the surface caused the pool to sparkle and shimmer with an infinite number of tiny stars. A lonely pair of Willow trees waded in the shallow water, inviting the weary traveller to take off their shoes and join them.

They passed a small building that claimed to be the public school. The sign above the veranda boasted an age of seventy years, reaffirming Maggie's notion that they had stepped back in time. The gatepost at the front of the school stood ajar, daring them to cavort like kids in the school grounds.

The magnificent Watagan Mountains provided the ideal setting for the delicious green landscape. Maggie had a sense that Martinsville was a place of rejuvenation. With its rainforest climate and remarkably little evidence of civilisation, it was difficult to imagine the unspoiled wonderland tolerating even the smallest of life's trivialities or tensions.

As they crossed a shaky bridge, Maggie could see the clear, dark water wind its way through overgrown reeds and make its way under the bridge. She wondered where it was headed and turned in her seat so she could follow its trail under the bridge and out the other side. Instead of solving the mystery, the tangle of plants wrapped the creek in its protective arms until it was no longer possible to distinguish the water from the shrubbery.

Maggie felt the emotional seesaw she was on hit the ground and bounce back up again. Instead of exploiting twelve years of regret to stimulate her rising temper, she fought desperately to dam the last trickle of anger as it slowly dissipated.

"Look at this place, it's absolutely glorious." Peter wound down his window so he could get a better view. "This must be what it looks like in paradise."

Maggie smiled.

Peter pointed to a red letterbox up ahead.

"My God!" exclaimed Maggie. "Mr Harris wasn't joking when he said it had a red letterbox, have a load of that."

Maggie took the impertinent red structure as further evidence of her mother's misunderstanding of God's intent and doubted that anyone could have conceived of a more offensive construction to mar the unspoiled landscape.

Peter slowed the car and contemplated the precarious looking driveway. It was barely more than a couple of logs flung across a ditch. He looked at Maggie questioningly.

Maggie spotted her mother's Morris Minor parked next to a ramshackle shed and was reminded of her dad's delight at driving it home for the first time. Dismissing the image from her mind, she put on a brave face. "Well, if my mother managed to get that thing in and out using this driveway, I think we'll manage."

Taking up the challenge, Peter slowly navigated the rickety bridge. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the back tyres regain traction on solid ground. He followed the dirt driveway around a clump of Eucalypts before coming to rest in front of an old weatherboard cottage. In spite of the flaking paint and the overgrown weeds, Maggie thought the cottage was far more charming than she had anticipated. Her first impulse was to run around the veranda like a wayward toddler, but she doubted the rotten planks would guarantee her safety.

Peter lifted the Esky out of the car and stood beside Maggie. "Listen to the bellbirds, don't they sound beaut?"

Maggie stood transfixed by the image before her, _"...and softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing, the notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing."_

"Maggie Thompson?"

Maggie shook her head. "Nope, Henry Kendall."

"Oh. And for a minute there I thought you'd gone all romantic on me."

With all thoughts of selling the place and paying off their mortgage forgotten, Maggie's face was as lively as Peter had seen it since her mother's death. "Can we keep it?" she asked. "We'll come up on weekends and do it up, it'll be the perfect place for holidays."

Chapter 1

Friday, 14 December 1979

"C'mon, I'll race you home." Tom took off up the hill faster than I could complain. I hate it when he does that. I can never keep up with him and he knows it. Mind you, I'm better at climbing trees than he is, so I guess that makes us even. Besides, he's my best friend and Mum always says that best friends should like each other no matter what, even if one of them is being a retard, or can run faster than you.

Mum thinks that because Tom and I have the same birthday, we were meant to be best friends. She's been saying so ever since Tom moved into our street when I was six years old. She believes in all that stuff about destiny and whatever will be will be. I found out last year that Liam Flannery and Kenny Pritchard have the same birthday and they're not friends. When I told Mum about Liam and Kenny, she said that it was different. "What are the chances they were both born at the same hospital within an hour of each other?" she asked. "And that they would end up living in the same street?"

I wondered how anyone could know exactly what time they were born, and since most of the kids in my class were born at the Western Suburbs Hospital, I still thought it was no big deal. I was just about to say as much, but then I remembered Liam has a funny accent. I doubt that two babies could be born in the same hospital and only one of them grow up with a funny accent, and since I know they don't live in the same street, I gave in and admitted that maybe Mum was right after all.

Before Tom could get too much of a head start, I grabbed my school port and raced up the street after him. Mr Drury let us take a whole heap of Christmas stuff home today and it weighed a tonne. I enjoy school the most at Christmas time. Not that I don't like it normally, I do. I just wouldn't admit it to anyone, that's all. Well, maybe to Tom, but not to anyone else. We hardly do any schoolwork and mostly just spend the days crumpling up bits of crepe paper and sticking them onto Santa cut-outs and stuff.

Just because I like making Christmas stuff, doesn't mean I believe in Santa or anything like that. I've known for ages that Santa's not real. Johnny Woodford said that everyone knows he's not real. He said only babies believe in Santa, so I had to pretend that I'd known he wasn't real all along. Sometimes I still pretend I believe, but that's only for Mum and Dad's benefit.

With Tom in the lead, we ran up the hill and around the corner to his place not stopping to catch our breath. I caught up with him just as he jumped over his mother's Geraniums and cut across the front yard. He'd done it so many times he'd worn a path in the grass. We pulled up just in time to avoid crashing into Tom's mum. She walked through the front door carrying a plastic bucket and a pair of gardening gloves. "G'day Mrs Simmons, can Tom come and play at my place til tea time?" I asked.

"Of course he can, dear."

The house was dark inside after being in the bright daylight. I could just make out the Undertaker sitting in his usual spot in the corner. I couldn't really see his face, but I could sense him peering out over his can of KB in that strange way that he has. "Hello Mr Simmons, how are you?"

No response.

It was hard to believe that this creep was actually Tom's Dad. Once I heard Tom's brother talk about a movie he'd watched with someone in it called the Undertaker. Apparently the Undertaker rode a motorbike and worshipped the Devil. He sounded mean and nasty, and I was sure that if he'd been real, everyone would have been scared of him. I thought it was a perfect name for Tom's dad, because he was mean, and I sure as hell was scared of him.

The Undertaker is pretty old. He's much older than the other dads in the street. He never works or does anything. Tom told me that his parents had already stopped having kids when he came along and that he shouldn't have been born. Tom's sister was already grown up with a family of her own when he was born. That makes Tom an uncle to someone older than him. Weird huh? Tom's brother, Jim, is in the Army and Tom hardly ever sees him, so he's practically an only child.

I asked Tom once what was wrong with his dad, but he just shrugged and said he was always like that. Tom doesn't seem to like the Undertaker very much either, but he never says anything. Just like I never tell him I call his dad the Undertaker.

There isn't much I don't tell Tom. Compared to most of my friends he's really good at keeping secrets, but Mum always says some things are better left unsaid, and I suppose she's right. Besides, I do like Mrs Simmons, and that's the main thing. Mrs Simmons is usually nice to me even if the Undertaker isn't.

From where she stood in the front yard, Mrs Simmons must have thought I was Tom standing behind the screen door. "Do you have homework Tommy?" she asked. By now, I knew the drill well. Tom's never allowed out until his room's clean and his homework's done. I think it's odd how Tom will do whatever his mum asks but practically ignores everything his dad says. I would get into deep trouble if I did that. Not that I ever would, my dad is way cool and not a bit like the Undertaker.

"Mrs Simmons, you don't get homework on the last day of school," I explained, before realising that she was smiling at me in a way that told me she was only kidding and that she knew that already. She likes to mess around like that. Mostly her sense of humour is pretty spastic, but I knew she was just trying to be nice.

Tom rolled his eyes at his mum's attempt at humour and told me to wait where I was. Then, he dashed across the room and into the kitchen, leaving me stranded with the Undertaker. Rather than speak or make eye contact with him, I studied the photographs on the wall as though I were seeing them for the first time. It wasn't until I heard Tom re-enter the room that I took my eyes from the pictures and faced the room again.

"Here, catch," Tom said, tossing me an apple. "C'mon, let's go play."

We slammed the door behind us causing Mrs Simmons to look up with a start. "Don't be late home," she said.

We got as far as the footpath when she called Tom back. She'd noticed his school port on the front veranda where he'd chucked it and sent him back in to put it away. Tom has a real Globite port. Not like mine, I've got one of those daggy brown cardboard ones with plastic corners.

"And change out of your school uniform too," she shouted after him. My mum never makes me change out of my uniform when I don't have school the next day, but it was just like Mrs Simmons to do that. Their house is always so tidy and clean. She's one of those clean freaks. Not like my mum who's always complaining that the place looks like a bomb hit it.

I often wonder if it has anything to do with God. You know, that whole cleanliness is next to godliness thing? Mrs Simmons and the Undertaker are Catholics and go to church every week, sometimes more if it's Easter or Christmas. Mum says we're Atheists, and Atheists don't go to church or believe in God. I don't know what else they do, but if it means I don't have to keep my room as clean as Tom's then I don't really mind being an Atheist.

***

I could hear Mum clunking dishes in the kitchen. "Hi Mum, I'm home."

"Hi Jenny, hi Tom, don't slam the door!" The door slammed behind us.

Tom gave me an astonished look, as if to say, how does your mum know I'm with you? I just shrugged. I've learned not to question how Mum knows the things she does.

Tom flopped back onto my bed and put his feet up. "I thought the last day of school was never gonna get here. It felt like I'd been counting down the days for ages."

Dreary Drury keeps telling us that we shouldn't wish our lives away, but seriously, what would he know? I bet _he_ doesn't have a birthday coming up just before Christmas. I bet he doesn't even count down to Christmas, for that matter. It must be so boring being a grownup and not have anything to count down to. I'm not even eleven yet, but I will be soon, in just eight more days. I can't wait. Mum's letting me have a party and she's making all sorts of party food like butterfly cakes and fairy bread and she said I could even have some fizzy drink and hand out party bags like all the other kids do at their parties.

"What are you wearing to the party?" I asked Tom.

"How the hell should I know? Only girls worry about that kind of stuff."

Tom always swears a lot when his mum can't hear. He thinks it makes him sound tough. I suppose he's right though, boys never seem to worry about stuff like clothes. Mum's making me a new halter dress, just like the one I saw at Verdun Hiles. I don't usually like dresses, but Mum says I should dress more like a young lady and less like a hooligan, especially at my own birthday party. I figured if I had to wear a dress, I might as well pick one I like, so I did. Except, Mum said it was too much money and bought some material to make it instead.

Tom's face lit up when I first told him I was having a party. It gave me the brilliant idea of letting him share it with me. He was coming anyway, but that way he'd get presents too. I knew he wouldn't get to have a party otherwise, because even though his mum said he could have one, he didn't want to. I think he is too embarrassed to have all his friends over with the Undertaker around. Tom told me once that the Undertaker thought it wasn't right that he had a friend who was a girl. He reckons only sissies have girls for friends.

I grabbed some clothes off the pile on my bed and went to get changed in the bathroom. I never used to care if I got changed around Tom, but Mum says I'm getting too old for that now.

"What do you wanna do?" I asked on my way out.

"Let's go and see if Ed and Shortie want to go for a swim."

"I better check if I'm allowed first." I'm not usually allowed to go all the way into Toronto on a school day, but I thought Mum might let me today because it was the last day of school. "Mum! Can I go to the baths with Tom? I'll be back by tea time."

"Don't yell, if you want to talk to me, come here and talk to me," she yelled back.

"How dumb is that?" I asked Tom. "Fancy yelling out to someone just to tell them not to yell out." I rolled my eyes and huffed out of the room.

Less than thirty seconds later I was back. "Mum said I can go, but if I come back late this time, I'm not allowed out tomorrow," I told him. I knew that unless I was really late, she'd never make me stay home. If she did, she'd be stuck with me moping around the house all day. I think that's the reason Tom's parents let him out so much. They don't want him around messing up the house. The only time they don't let him out is on Sundays when he has to go to church.

Poor Tom, fancy having to go to church every week, how boring!

"Tops!" Tom said, bouncing off the bed. "Let's stop and get my pushie, it's too hot to walk."

I offered to get Ed and Shortie and meet Tom at his place. That way, I wouldn't have to see the Undertaker again.

"You will stay inside the baths, won't you Jenny?" Mum shouted as I was leaving.

"Yes, Mum," I called back. I'm not supposed to swim outside the baths, but I do anyway. It's not like she'd ever find out, so it's no big deal.

Ed wasn't home, but Shortie was, so we walked back to Tom's place together. Shortie didn't ride his bike, he pushed it. That way I could keep up with him. I ask Mum for a bike every birthday, but she always says they cost too much. It's hard to argue money with Mum, so I don't even try. What I do instead is add it in big letters to my Christmas list each year. After all, what parent would want to shatter a young girl's faith in Santa by not getting her a bike for Christmas? Especially when she asked _him_ for one to save her parents the expense?

I sometimes feel slack for asking Santa for a bike when I know my parents can't afford it, but I think it's a good way to prove I still believe in him, so I figure I'm not so bad for doing it. Besides, ten year olds aren't meant to be _that_ good, especially when you want a bike as much as I do.

I looked at Shortie's Malvern Star with envy. Next to him, it looked big. It isn't though, he's just heaps short for his age. His real name is Darren, but no one calls him that except his mum. Even his dad calls him Shortie, which is pretty funny really, because his dad's short too. We've been friends almost as long as Tom and me. He moved in about six months after Tom did and he's hung around with us ever since.

Shortie has five brothers and no sisters. Yuk! Imagine all those smelly feet in the one house. Their place must smell like a cheese factory. They all have red hair and freckles, and they all look the same. I can't tell them apart half the time. Except for Shortie, that is. Shortie has a big scar on the side of his face where he got hurt at last year's cracker night. He was picking up crackers that hadn't gone off when one of them blew up and hit him in the face.

Tom was waiting for us when we arrived. "Come on, get up. I want to get there before it gets dark."

It doesn't get dark until around eight o'clock during daylight savings time, but it's one of those things Tom always says when he's in a hurry to do something. He needn't have bothered though; we were all in a hurry to get there. It had been a scorcher all day. According to the thermometer on the kitchen wall, it was still over thirty degrees at four in the afternoon.

Stepping from one foot to the other on the hot road, Tom steadied the bike so I could climb onto the handlebars. "Bloody hell, it's hot," he complained. Having taken my thongs off so they wouldn't fall off my dangling feet, I had sympathy for his burning soles. I threaded a thong through each handlebar and climbed up as quickly as possible without making the bike fall over. We rode the fifteen minutes or so it took us to get to the baths with me sitting on the front of Tom's bike, my skinny, tanned legs sticking out in front of me, and my hair blowing back into his face. Sometimes Tom lets me double him, but I get puffed out more than he does, so he usually does the pedalling.

***

The baths were full by the time we got there. I could see heaps of people I knew. I waved to a couple of girls from school and Tom yelled hello to Craig Wilkinson who was just about to take a dive from the top of the handrails at the back of the baths. He almost fell off waving back.

"Last one in's a rotten egg," Shortie challenged, as he dropped his bike, ran full-pelt up the jetty, curled himself into a ball, and hit the water with an enormous splash.

"Typical," said Tom in a haughty voice. "That boy has no class."

"Uh oh," I nudged Tom, "guess who's here?"

Tom followed my gaze and looked around. The Dumbrell boys stood at the end of the jetty throwing a towel to each other. The towel appeared to belong to Jason who is the youngest of the four. "Give it back or I'll tell Dad," he complained.

"Dobber!" Dean threw the towel over Jason's head into the water. "Dobbers wear nappies!"

"Just pretend we didn't see them," I said, under my breath.

"Too late."

Duncan, the biggest of the boys, was walking towards us. He's also the oldest. He used to go to my school, but now he's in high school. I heard that his dad grew up at Dr Barnardo's boys' home and that's the reason Duncan and his brothers are uncontrollable. If you ask me, I reckon they're just a pack of brats.

Duncan turned and called to his brothers to hurry up. Dean is younger than Duncan by about two years, but almost as tall. "Just leave the little turd behind, see if I care," Duncan said to Dean. "He's going to cop it when he gets home anyway."

Just when I thought they were going to walk straight past us, Duncan looked over at Tom. "What are you staring at, retard?"

"Dunno, I haven't worked it out yet," I snapped.

Duncan leaned over and gave me a shove. "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to your sissy boyfriend."

"Leave her alone you pig," Tom shouted. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"You are my size, so shut your trap or I'll punch your face in."

Duncan's actually a lot bigger than Tom, but that didn't seem to matter. Next thing I saw, Tom lunged across and pushed Duncan backwards into the water. "Quick!" he screamed. "Let's get out of here."

I was just about to yell to Shortie when I saw him running up the jetty at a hundred miles an hour. Dean and Andrew had their backs to him and never saw him coming. Jason was still fishing his towel out of the water, so he didn't see him either. As Shortie ran past Dean, he pushed him as hard as he could. "Bombs away!" he called, as Dean landed in the water with an almighty crash.

Chapter 2

Thursday, 7 November 1968

In all the years Peter had been teaching, he had never encountered a more reliable way of knowing that the academic year was coming to an end than that of the dwindling number of students in a lecture theatre. This year was no exception. Notwithstanding the meagre class numbers, Peter's attitude towards the matter had not changed in almost ten years. He refused to penalise the students who endured to the end by slackening off in the same fashion as his student numbers.

"Righto!" Peter tapped his ruler on the desk and waited for everyone to quieten down. "I know you're all keen to get going, but before you do, I'd like a moment of everyone's time."

Everybody sat back down and waited for Peter to continue. "The year's not over yet, folks. I'd like to remind everyone that you are running out of time to get your applications in. So, if you're considering applying for any of the advertised positions, and you haven't already done so," he raised his voice so that he could be heard over the collective murmur that had broken out, "may I respectfully suggest that you get on with it? From memory, most of the applications need to be in by the end of next week, at the latest."

Peter gave the class a moment to consider what he had said before continuing. "My offer of assistance still stands. If you need me to help you with your application, please come and see me right away." He noticed a couple of students talking in the back row and turned up the volume. "In other words - Mr Davies, Mr Percy - do not come to me after next week, I will be unable to help you."

The offending students looked up.

"Is that clear?" he asked the class.

Without answering, they all got up and rushed for the door. "Don't forget," he called as they filed out of the lecture theatre, "I have Wednesday and Friday afternoons set aside if anyone needs to see me. Oh, and good luck with your exams."

"Do you get the distinct impression, Sir, that your assistance is not required?"

Without turning around, Peter knew that the question had come from Jane. Jane was one of the few female students in his engineering class. Unlike the usual women's libber type that graced his classes, Jane was the epitome of femininity, all curves, perfume and makeup. With her long, dark hair, knee high boots, and mod attire, there was no doubt that Jane stood out amongst the faded denim, scruffy tee-shirts, and thongs that characterised most of his students.

Her delicate looks and big, baby doll eyes gave the misleading impression of helplessness. Peter knew by now that Jane Lester was anything but helpless. In fact, he no longer had any doubt that she was coming on to him. When she originally started hanging back after class to seek his help, he assumed her motives were innocent. However, over the last couple of weeks he had given up trying to convince himself that the signals she gave were those of a struggling student vying for her teacher's assistance. On the contrary, he had come to understand that there was nothing inept about Jane Lester, academically or otherwise.

Peter framed his response carefully, so as to avoid the innuendo she invariably heard in his words. "I wouldn't want it any other way," he said, in a voice that contradicted the butterflies in his gut.

"Every teacher's dream, no doubt," she said playfully.

Peter thought that Jane had a way of making even the simplest of statements sound suggestive and he fought the temptation to flirt. While he acknowledged that it felt terrific at the time, he knew that any further flirting from him would only serve to fuel her conviction and make him feel like a rotten bastard afterwards. Initially, he'd thought the flirting was harmless enough, but when it progressed to long intense looks from Jane across the lecture theatre, Peter became uneasy.

That was last week, and around the same time that Peter realised he needed a reality check. This morning, Peter's reality check had come. The images of Jane that had snuck into his thoughts while making love to Maggie were intolerable. Whatever transpired between him and Jane was not about Maggie. Maggie was his soul mate, his best friend. Jane was a mere ego trip and had no place in his life next to Maggie.

He realised that he was rationalising the situation again, and felt doubly bad. Peter knew there was no excuse for his behaviour. Maggie's trust in him was unconditional and she did not deserve to have her husband carrying on like a schoolboy behind her back. He had no doubt that if she ever found out she would justifiably ask what the hell a balding, middle-aged man was doing flirting with someone young enough to be his daughter; one of his students no less.

It was a good question, he thought, and one he had asked himself many times. Unfortunately, it was a question he couldn't answer. Peter kicked himself for being such an idiot. Did he really think Jane was interested in anything other than conquering another hapless male? And so what if she was; then what? Peter had no interest in a relationship with anyone other than Maggie. Yet, as awkward as things had become, Peter decided that it wasn't too late to extract himself from the situation without losing everything he held dear. After all, he reassured himself, he'd been faithful up until now, hadn't he?

Having returned to the path of righteousness, Peter was determined to find the strength to continue his fidelity. But, that was this morning. Now that Jane stood before him in all her glory, he found it took a lot of effort to keep their interactions banal.

Peter looked into Jane's startling green eyes and realised that now was not the time to contemplate such matters. He was determined not to waver on his newfound pledge and he turned away from the captivating face before him. "And what about you, Miss Lester?" he dared to ask while packing documents into his briefcase. "I trust you've considered all the employment opportunities currently on offer and have completed the required applications."

"I have, Sir. My preference is to work with Shell, but I've applied to the Department of Main Roads and the Australian Post Office as well.

"Well, I'm sure with results such as yours, you won't find it too difficult to find work."

"In case you haven't noticed, Sir, I'm a girl."

"Oh, I've noticed, Miss Lester."

"Well then, I'm sure you'll agree that I'll find it difficult to get work in the field of engineering."

"I suspect you're correct; however, I have every confidence, Miss Lester, that your powers of persuasion will prevail and you'll find yourself in gainful employment in no time."

Jane looked him in the eye. "I hope you're right."

Peter looked away uncomfortably. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"

Jane made no move to leave despite the faltering conversation. "And, what can I help you with today, Miss Lester?" Peter naïvely expected his question to bring an end to proceedings.

"Well, that depends."

"Depends on what?" Instantly recognising his wrong move, Peter hoped that this wasn't another one of her ambushes. She often reeled him into conversations of the kind he was now desperate to avoid, with nothing more than a seemingly innocent question.

"Well," she sidled up next him, "it depends on how much time you have, Sir. My problem might take a while to fix."

"I'm sure things can't be all that bad."

"You'd be surprised, Sir."

"Oh, I doubt that, Miss Lester."

"So, tell me," Jane challenged, "what _would_ it take to surprise you?"

Peter felt his fortress of determination crumbling. Whoever said males were the weaker sex knew something, that's for sure. "Well, Miss Lester," Peter said, avoiding her question, "as you heard, I'm free Wednesday and Friday afternoons, if you'd like to make an appointment, you can tell me about your problem then."

Now that classes had finished for the year, Peter had a lot more time on his hands and could have easily accommodated her during any number of alternate timeslots. The last thing he needed; however, was to let her believe that she was worthy of special concessions, so he extended no such offer.

"Hmm," she considered his comments, "I'm not sure my problem will hold out that long."

"You're a resourceful girl, Miss Lester, I'm sure you'll find a way to manage."

Jane never batted a heavily mascaraed eyelid. "Okay then, what if we say four o'clock Wednesday, how does that sound?"

"That sounds fine. I'll see you then." Peter picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

"Oh, and one more thing, Sir?"

Peter stopped but didn't turn to face her. He was certain that had he bothered to turn around, she would have been giving him one of her smoldering looks. Like the kind she reserved for when she sat in the front row, knowing that the only person that could see her was Peter. "Yes?" he asked.

"I look forward to it, Sir."

"Good day, Miss Lester."

Peter left the lecture theatre and headed in the direction of his office. Remembering he had a couple of free hours before his next class, he decided to take a walk to the Roundhouse for a coffee and a cigarette. After that little encounter, a long walk would do him good.

***

Peter took his coffee outside and sat on the grass under a tree. While he smoked his cigarette, he contemplated the conversation with Jane. He was well aware that the situation had reached a point where his actions could no longer be excused as careless. While he may be able to frame the situation in such a way as to fool Maggie, he knew that he was contributing to a position that had the potential to blow up in his face. It was one thing to say that Jane had misunderstood his intentions and that, apart from some harmless flirting, nothing had happened between them, but, the moment he crossed that line there would be no coming back. Then what? Will it have been worth it, he asked himself, to give up almost sixteen years with Maggie for a stupid fling with one of his students? Never mind what would happen if Sir Phil found out. Phillip Baxter, the head of the university, had quite a formidable reputation, one Peter would do well not to experience firsthand.

Peter stubbed his cigarette out on the lawn, threw his empty cup in a nearby bin, and headed back towards his office. With the gorgeous sky above and Jane off his radar screen, he felt his resolve return. Who knows, maybe he was just being egotistical and Jane really did have a problem she needed to see him about.

Just as Peter was beginning to think that his day was looking up, he was provided with clear evidence that he'd been mistaken. When he got back, his colleague informed him on his way out of their shared office that Jane Lester was waiting for him inside.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, "now what?"

Barry Leeman looked confused. "Something wrong, mate?"

"Nah, it's nothing."

"Hey, you going to Warnie's party?" Barry asked. "His missus is nagging him about numbers, so he said to let him know."

Peter looked confused.

"Warnie's party, remember? It's on the thirtieth, we talked about it yesterday."

"Oh yeah," it was all coming back to him, the Warner's end of year bash, the invitation was on his fridge, "I'm pretty sure we'll be there," he told Barry.

"No worries mate, me and the old girl look forward to catching up with that pretty young wife of yours." Barry started to walk off and stopped. "Can you lock up when you go, mate, I'm shootin' through after this class and I won't be back today."

"Sure thing," Peter managed, desperately hoping that Jane had not overheard Barry's last comments.

Oblivious to Peter's discomfort, Barry left him standing by the door wishing that he could simply turn and leave. Of course, he could do no such thing. Instead, Peter sighed deeply and walked into his office with as much enthusiasm as walking into a snake pit.

Chapter 3

Friday, 14 December 1979

The three of us grabbed the bikes and took off up the street. "Quick, pedal faster!" I looked back over my shoulder and saw Duncan and Dean get on their bikes. Andrew and Jason seemed to have lost interest already and were still on the jetty where we left them. "Go faster!" I repeated.

I could see Shortie out of the corner of my eye. He actually appeared to be enjoying himself. He leaned forward on his bike with a crazy grin on his face and a wild look in his eyes. His hair and clothes were dripping wet and his dry towel was still tied to his bike rack. We flew up the hill and down the Boulevard. We could hear one of the boys yelling out that we were going to cop it when they caught us. "Stop at Eddy's Corner," I yelled back at Tom. "They won't dare get us in there."

We dropped the bikes on the footpath and barged through the fly strips. Mrs Eddy looked up from the counter with a start. "Oh, hi love, what can I get you?"

"Is Grandma here?" I asked, breathless.

"She's just out back slicing some devon, she won't be long."

What a relief, Grandma was working today. Grandma has worked at Eddy's Corner for as long as I can remember, but I never know what days she's on. I wasn't sure exactly what I expected her to do, but just knowing she was there made me feel better.

We only had to wait a couple of seconds before Grandma walked into the shop. "What's all the noise about?" she enquired.

"Some boys are chasing us," I blurted. "They called Tom a retard and shoved us around. Then, Tom and Shortie pushed them in the water, but now they're following us. They said they would punch our faces in when they caught us." I took a deep breath.

"Oh, did they now, we'll see about that."

We heard the bikes crash down outside and waited with anticipation for the boys to come through the door. Grandma gave me a wink and said rather loudly, "Constable Ryan said he'd be here in a minute. You can tell him all about it when he arrives."

We held our breaths and waited, but they never showed their faces. When I finally took a breath and looked up, Grandma nodded towards the window, indicating for me to look. When I turned around, Duncan and Dean were leaving.

"Scaredy cats!" said Tom. We all burst out laughing.

"Now," Grandma said. "Do you mind telling me what _that_ was all about?"

"Oh nothing, just a bunch of hooligans, that's all," I answered casually. I didn't want anyone to know how frightened I really was. I thought we were goners for sure.

"They're always picking fights with someone," Tom added.

"Sounds like they need a good hiding to me," she replied.

That was Grandma's answer to everything. She believes there's nothing that a good hiding won't fix. I don't think she means it though, I asked Mum once if she used to get a hiding from Grandma when she was little, she just laughed and told me not to be silly.

"Would you kids like to earn two bob?" Mrs Eddy asked.

"Sure," I answered.

Tom was about to answer and thought better of it. "Is that each, or between us?"

"What do you want us to do?" asked Shortie.

Mrs Eddy laughed, "What an enterprising lot you are. I just need you to break up some cardboard boxes for me, that's all. Don't worry, I'm not asking you to paint the shop."

Tom and Shortie looked relieved.

After stacking thousands of boxes, Mrs Eddy called us in. "Here you go kids, payment as promised." She handed us each a twenty cent coin and a glass of cold cordial.

Tom's face lit up. "Gee thanks, Mrs Eddy."

"I have to go," said Shortie, sculling the cordial. "Thanks for the money."

She looked at him curiously. "Aren't you going to spend it?"

"Nope, I'm saving up for a new racing bike," he told her.

I reckon he's too short for a racing bike, but I'd never tell him that. He's been saving for it forever. He even got a paper run, so he could earn extra money. I've tried to save before, but it never works. I always end up spending it. Shortie never does. He's saved almost fifteen dollars so far.

Since I wasn't saving for anything and neither was Tom, we stayed and bought some lollies. It's good when Grandma's working, because she always gives us extra.

"Don't eat them all before tea," she called as we were leaving.

"We won't," Tom replied.

"Speak for yourself," I said, arranging myself on the handlebars for the ride home.

***

We rode all the way home with our mouths full of lollies. By the time we got to Tom's place I'd already finished mine. "I better get going," I said. "See you tomorrow."

It was starting to cool down a bit, but it was still pretty hot. I put my thongs back on because the road was boiling and the grass was full of bindies. Leah and Andrew Jenkins were sliding down their driveway on a Slip'n'Slide when I walked past. I remembered that I didn't get to have a swim and wondered if Dad would let me play under the sprinkler when I got home. The thought of running through the cool water made me walk faster. Our street isn't very long, so I didn't have far to go. There were still a bunch of kids playing outside, even though it was almost teatime. Most people ate tea later in summer because it stayed light longer, but Mum insists that we eat at six o'clock every night, no matter what.

All the houses in the street have a tree on the footpath. The Council planted them after finishing the first bunch of houses. I grabbed a handful of the leaves from the closest one and crushed them between my fingers. The scent of lemon tickled my nose. I scattered the crushed leaves along the footpath, but the smell lingered all the way home.

The smell of food wafting down our driveway competed with my lemon-scented hands. Despite eating all my lollies, I was starving. "What's for tea?" I asked, entering the kitchen.

Mum wiped the bottom of the saucepan dry and put it on the hotplate. "Lamb cutlets and mashed potato."

"Great, I'm starved." I was really wishing that she'd cook something different for a change.

Dad was sitting at the table going through some paperwork. He looked up when I came in. "G'day, Blondie."

He always calls me that. His favourite singer is Blondie. He has an old record player in the shed and that's all he ever plays; her and Linda Ronstadt. "So, it's your last day of school for how long?"

"Six weeks."

"I wish I got that many holidays."

He says that every year. Mum finished turning the cutlets over and looked up. "How was the water?"

"Dunno, we never got to go for a swim. The Dumbrells were there and they tried to pick a fight with Tom. Then, they chased us all the way to Eddy's Corner, but Grandma scared them off."

"Someone needs to do something about those brats," Dad said.

I agreed.

"I'll tell you what they need," said Mum, pointing the wooden spoon at Dad, "they need a mother, that's what."

I heard Mrs Dumbrell left when the boys were little. Mr Dumbrell used to bash her up all the time, so one day she just up and went, leaving the boys behind.

Mum sent me to have a bath while tea was cooking. I could hear the Bay City Rollers coming from my sisters' room, next door. That's Kate and Tracy for you. If I were sixteen, there'd be Buckley's chance of catching me sitting around in my room all day listening to the dumb Bay City Rollers. I'd be out doing all the things Mum says I'm too young to do, like catching a train all the way into Newcastle or staying out after dark.

I laid in the bath with only my face sticking out of the cool water. I made a list in my head of all the things I needed for tomorrow. Tom and I were going to make a cubby house. We hadn't had one for a while. Someone wrecked the last one and we never bothered to rebuild it. Dad said he had some scrap wood we could have and we'd already collected four sheets of tin for the roof. Ed and Shortie are going to help and Dianne said she might be allowed to come over too.

Dianne lives two doors up from me. We've been friends for a while, but she doesn't hang around us much, so it's not like we're best friends or anything. I suppose it's fair to say that she's more like the kind of friend you play with when there's no one else around. Her mum babies her all the time, which is really annoying. She told me she's not allowed out very often because she's an asthmatic. I don't know why though, Cameron Kelly has asthma, and he's always at our place playing with Brian.

Ed had the idea of dragging an old car seat home from Deefie's Hill. We agreed to look for one first thing in the morning. Tom said he'd bring his dad's saw so we could cut the branches and wood to the right size. He's going to sneak it out of his dad's shed and return it when we're done with it. We're still not sure where to make it yet. Shortie wants to build it in the bush where no one can find it, but I reckon we'd have to walk too far to find a spot that no one knows about. I still think the best place is just behind my back fence. There's lots of bush there and it's not too far to carry all the stuff. Besides, there's a big tree that's fallen down right there. You can walk all the way along the trunk to the top of the tree. The branches are so big that the top of the trunk is still way off the ground and there are lots of hidey-holes underneath that would make a perfect spot for a cubby.

Brian bashed on the bathroom door. "Tea's ready!"

Shit! I'd laid in the bath so long day dreaming that I hadn't even washed myself yet. Mum can always tell if I don't use soap because the water stays clear. I couldn't stand another lecture, so I quickly soaped up, making the water all cloudy. Then, satisfied with the level of murkiness, I dried off and put my pyjamas on. I hung the towel back up and joined the others at the table.

Chapter 4

Thursday, 7 November 1968

"Hello Peter, I was starting to think I might have missed my opportunity to catch you today." Jane put so much emphasis on the word _catch_ that she left no doubt as to its actual intent. Nevertheless, it was the use of his first name that stood out the most. Peter always encouraged his students to call him by his Christian name, but for some reason, Jane never did. She either called him Sir or Mr Thompson.

"Ah, Miss Lester, I see you couldn't wait until Wednesday after all."

"You see correctly, Sir." Jane got up and closed the door to his office. "And please Sir, call me Jane."

Peter looked at Jane questioningly. "Please open the door, Miss Lester."

"Why? What's the matter Sir, scared someone might knock and find us locked away?" Jane walked over to Peter and ran her hand across his chest.

"How perceptive of you," he removed her hand and placed it at her side. "That's exactly what I'm scared of."

"Relax," Jane purred, "I heard Mr Leeman say he had a class to attend to, so I'm sure we'll be safe for a while."

Peter doubted that he could ever be safe alone with Jane, but he wasn't about to find out. "I have a load of work to get through, so unless you've come to see me about a genuine problem with class work, I can't stop and chat now, sorry." He realised that she had such a hold on him that he had softened his words to reduce the likelihood of hurting her feelings.

Jane's killer instinct was already exploiting such an obvious weakness. She walked back over to him and took hold of his hand. Instead of pulling it away, he stood hypnotised like a rabbit in the spotlight. When she spoke, she did not enunciate her words, she let them ooze out. "Mmm...I like a man with big strong hands," she turned his hand over to examine his palm. She drew a line across his palm with her finger, stopping at his wrist. Then, before Peter could anticipate her next move, she lifted his hand and pressed it against her breast. "See," she said, as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do, "can you feel how fast you make my heart beat?"

Peter's hand instinctively cupped her flesh. It was impossible not to notice the firmness of her breast beneath the thin fabric, and he was surprised at how large it was for someone of Jane's small stature. Maggie, who was a good five inches taller and at least two sizes bigger than Jane, had smaller breasts than Jane.

Thinking of Maggie's breasts was sufficient to break the spell. Peter snatched his hand from her in a manner befitting contact with a leper. "I'm sorry, Jane," he said, using her Christian name for the first time, "you really are going to have to go."

"Oh come on Sir, the fun's just starting."

He was too shaken by the events unfolding before him to notice the desperation in her voice. Before she could protest any further, he walked to the door and swung it wide open. "Have a good day, Miss Lester."

Jane loitered a few seconds before stealing past him with a knowing look in her eye. "Good day, Mr Thompson."

Chapter 5

Tuesday, 12 November 1968

Maggie was inconsiderately dragged from her daydream by the gate's noisy protests. That'd be right, she thought, I finally get the first bit of peace and quiet for the day, and someone rudely interrupts me. Maggie huffed loudly and turned around to see who the intruder was. She hoped it wasn't Peter's mum dropping in for a cup of tea. She didn't think she could face the woman's neurotic personality today. Not after the day she'd been having. It had been one disaster after another.

Belinda Stanton had set the tone by dirtying her pants. She was too embarrassed to tell Maggie about her mishap, so she sat tight and hoped for the best. Subsequent to inspecting thirty sets of school shoes, Maggie could stand it no longer and insisted that the guilty party step forward. For her troubles, she spent the next twenty five minutes trying to calm the hysterical child and cleaning up a mess that was made significantly worse for having been sat in for a good length of time.

She had no sooner walked back into the classroom when young Paul Whiting vomited all over the desk and floor. Maggie shuddered with the memory of it. Not only did he manage to get it all over Cheryl Pane who screamed so loudly she had Mrs Wilson running in from next door to see who was being murdered, he even succeeded in projecting it into the pencil cup and all through the Cuisenaire rods.

"Hello? Is this still the Thompson residence?"

Maggie had yet to take the first sip from the cup of tea balanced on her arm rest. She carefully moved the hot drink to the table and stood up. She shielded her eyes from the afternoon sun and looked at the person standing before her. "Yes this is the Thompson residence; can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Michelle and Stephen." The attractive, well-presented woman offered no further explanation.

Maggie looked at her with open curiosity. "And can I tell them who is enquiring after them?"

The lady gave Maggie an icy smile. "Of course," she said arrogantly, "you can tell them their mother is here to see them."

Before Maggie could respond, Stephen came bounding through the back door. He walked over to Maggie and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Hi Mum, how was your day?" Maggie looked nervously from Stephen to the lady who had only seconds before contradicted this greeting. Looking from one to the other, Stephen apologised for the intrusion. "Sorry for interrupting," he smiled sweetly at Maggie's guest and turned back to face his mother. "Mark's waiting for me out the front. I just came home to grab some stuff."

"Where are you off to?"

"I'm going over to Mark's place to listen to his new record. I'll be home in time for dinner." With that, Stephen turned and left the yard without another word to either of them.

"Well," Maggie said smugly, "that was Stephen, and as you can see, he's no longer home."

Marjorie glared at Maggie.

It was the first time Maggie had seen Marjorie in the flesh. She knew that she was almost a year older than Peter and reluctantly decided that she looked remarkably well for someone who was approaching forty-three. She wore a sleeveless shift dress and a pair of sling-back sandals, not dissimilar to Jean Shrimpton's infamous Derby Day outfit, thought Maggie. Despite the twenty-something year age difference between the pair, Maggie acknowledged Marjorie carried it off well.

Unlike Stephen who had inherited Peter's brown eyes, the dark blue eyes that looked back at Maggie were the same as Michelle's. As was the dark, straight hair, which Marjorie wore pulled up at the sides and fashioned on the top of her head with a twist. In contrast to Michelle, who chose to wear her long hair free from any styling, Marjorie's hair was cropped smartly above her shoulders.

All in all, Maggie decided that Marjorie was far prettier than what Peter had led her to believe.

"Well, perhaps I could speak with Michelle then?" Marjorie suggested.

"Michelle no longer lives here," offered Maggie.

"Oh, I see."

While Marjorie considered what to say next, Maggie made no attempt to alleviate her discomfort. She stood waiting for Marjorie to say something in the same way that she waited for one of her first class students to recite the times tables.

Marjorie indicated the chair next to Maggie's. "Do you mind if I sit down?" Maggie stepped aside, clearing the way between Marjorie and the chair. Marjorie took it infer that she was allowed to sit down and graciously did so.

Sounding far more welcoming than she had intended, Maggie offered Marjorie a drink. Marjorie spied Maggie's full cup on the table and correctly deduced she was drinking tea. "Yes thanks, a cup of tea would be lovely."

Standing in the kitchen pouring the tea, Maggie could hardly contain her anxiety. What the hell did she want, turning up out of the blue like this? How long had it been seen she had last seen Michelle and Stephen? Maggie did the sums in her head. Marjorie had left the day after Stephen's second birthday and Stephen turned eighteen in July. That meant that Marjorie had not seen her children in over sixteen years, so why now, Maggie wondered. Not knowing the answer made Maggie uneasy. She couldn't explain what she felt or why, she just had a hunch that Marjorie's sudden appearance meant trouble.

Maggie considered changing out of the kaftan she wore and putting on something more sensible. For the first time ever, she felt uncomfortable dressed in her hippy attire. Even though it was her preferred style of dress when she was at home or on holidays, she felt decidedly drab next to Marjorie. In the end, she decided that changing would cause more interest than not changing, so she resisted the urge to do so and took the tea out to her unlikely guest.

"So, I take it you must be Peter's wife." Marjorie appraised Maggie, not too discreetly.

"You take it correctly," Maggie handed her the tea, "I'm Maggie."

"Pleased to meet you Maggie." Marjorie said, sounding anything but pleased. She took the tea from Maggie and continued to eye her critically as she sat down. "I'm Marjorie, by the way."

"I know."

Marjorie faltered at Maggie's directness. "I'm sorry to turn up unannounced like this, but I was in the area and I wanted to see if Peter and the kids still lived here."

"Well, now you know," Maggie said.

Marjorie laughed as though what Maggie had said had been genuinely funny. It was then that Maggie realised just how uncomfortable Marjorie was with the situation. Knowing Marjorie was as nervous as she was had a therapeutic effect on Maggie, and she regained some of her usual confidence. "Michelle lives in Newcastle now. She goes to the technical college there."

"Oh, I see. What is she studying?"

"Engineering."

Marjorie sounded surprised. "Oh, I see."

Maggie doubted that she saw at all. She suspected that Marjorie must have conceived that she could simply turn up and all would be right again. Well, thought Maggie, if she got her way, things would prove far more difficult for Marjorie than that. "When did you get here?" Maggie asked.

"A couple of weeks ago."

Maggie responded by raising her eyebrows. Realising what Maggie must have been thinking, Marjorie quickly added that she would have dropped by sooner, but it had taken her this long to find the courage. For a fleeting moment, Maggie wondered if Peter had known that Marjorie was back in town. That would explain his preoccupation with whatever it was that was bothering him lately. The timing certainly lined up with Marjorie's arrival, it had been a couple of weeks since she had first sensed that something was troubling him. She had broached the subject a couple of times now, but Peter kept insisting he was fine. A little fed up with work, but otherwise everything was okay, he said.

Maggie was surprised by Peter's reluctance to discuss his problem with her. Nothing was sacred between them; they had always been able to talk about everything. On this occasion; however, and for reasons she didn't understand, Maggie did not follow her natural inclination and interrogate him. Rather, she let him be. She knew that if she gave him enough space, he would eventually tell her what was bothering him. In the end, he always did.

Maggie studied Marjorie's face without her knowing. "How long are you staying in...sorry, where did you say you were staying?"

"I'm staying with a friend in Darlinghurst."

Maggie frowned. Somehow the image of this well presented person staying so close to the riff raff that wandered the streets of Kings Cross just didn't fit. Kings Cross had always been such a fascinating place for Maggie, but she couldn't imagine someone like Marjorie being comfortable so close to there. "And how long are you staying for?"

"Oh, I'm not sure yet, probably just a couple more weeks. I have to get back to Melbourne. My husband runs a club down there."

This time it was Maggie's turn to be surprised. "So, you've remarried also?" Maggie realised as soon as she asked the question how redundant it was.

Marjorie didn't seem to notice. "Yes, we've been married for two years now. What about you and Pete, how long have you been married?"

Maggie felt a twinge of jealously at the familiar use of Peter's name, but was determined not to let Marjorie see it. "We've been together for almost sixteen years, and married for nearly thirteen," Maggie said with more composure than she felt.

Marjorie was taken aback. "Oh, I see. You've been together a while then?"

"Forever," Maggie confirmed.

"Do you have any kids?"

Maggie flinched. There was no way she was going to confide her disappointment at not falling pregnant with this stranger, Peter's ex-wife no less. Rather than let Marjorie see that she had touched a raw nerve, Maggie smiled deceptively. "Uh huh, we have two; their names are Stephen and Michelle."

"Oh, I see."

Maggie was becoming inpatient with Marjorie and her procession of _I sees_. How dare she just waltz on in and expect to have a jolly old discussion with her ex-husband's wife. What was it that she wanted anyway? Maggie suspected that she just wanted to have a happy reunion with her children, convince herself that she had done the right thing by leaving them with their father, and go back to Melbourne with a clean conscience.

"Perhaps I could come back another time when Stephen is home?"

Maggie considered Marjorie's request. She decided that it wasn't really up to her. Stephen was a big boy and could make up his own mind. "Why don't you leave me your number and I will give it to Stephen. If he chooses to call, then all well and good, if not...well, that's his choice."

"Oh, I see, alright then." Marjorie fumbled in her bag for a pen and paper. She scribbled her name and number on the back of an envelope and handed it to Maggie. "Here, he should be able to reach me on that number."

Maggie took the paper from her without looking at her details. She folded it up and slipped it into the pocket of her kaftan. "I'll pass it on when he gets home."

"I'd better be going," Marjorie put her cup on the table and stood up. "Thanks for the tea."

Maggie stayed seated. She watched as Marjorie turned and left the back yard. She waited for the sound of her car's engine to fade before getting up and going inside.

Chapter 6

Saturday, 15 December 1979

Tom watched _Fat Albert_ in the lounge room while I finished my breakfast. Mum reckons he gets up with the roosters; he's always the first one to knock on our door every Saturday morning. I put my gym boots on and grabbed the bag of stuff I'd collected for the cubby. It was mostly bits of string and material torn into strips, but it was bound to be useful for something. I told Tom to put his dad's saw in my room til we got back. When we got outside, Shortie was sitting on the edge of the gutter waiting for us. He looked like he'd just got out of bed. His red hair was sticking up all over the place and his clothes were all crumpled. That's Shortie for you, Dad always says he looks like nobody owns him. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Tom and I had already decided to get the car seat later. "We thought we'd scrounge around the new house and see if we can find anything for the cubby," I explained.

"Which one?"

"The house next to the Grainger's place."

There are still a couple of houses being built in our area. Most of them look the same as what's already there. Our place and Shortie's place are the same, only opposite. His lounge room is on the left side of the front door and ours is on the right. The same goes for the bedrooms. All up, there are probably only about ten different types of houses in the whole area.

The Graingers live around the block from me and the house next door to theirs is still being built, which makes it fair game for us kids. We're not supposed to play in the new houses, but we always do. You can find all sorts of stuff lying around if you're lucky. There are usually bits of plaster everywhere, which is really good for writing on roads and for drawing hopscotch squares. It works just like chalk.

Shortie cursed for forgetting to call in at Ed's on his way to my place. I told him it was no big deal; we'd stop on the way and get him. "I better go and see if Dianne wants to come too," I added. "Stay here, I'll be back in a minute."

I ran the short distance to Dianne's place, taking extra care not to knock over any of the awful garden gnomes leering at me from her front veranda. One day, I'd love to just skid straight into them and watch them explode like a bunch of bowling pins. Of course, I'd have to pretend it was an accident, but at least I wouldn't have to look at them every day when I walk past.

I knocked on the door and waited for a response. Nobody answered. I knocked again, still nothing. Then, resisting the urge to kick in the gnomes' smarmy faces, I gave up and ran back home.

***

Whenever I see an empty house, my first impulse is always to run around and make as much noise as possible. Tom must have had the same idea, because he tapped me on the shoulder and yelled, "you're in," and bolted. The others followed his lead and left me there alone. There was no point arguing about why I had to be the one that was in, so I chased after them without giving the matter a second thought.

I ran through all the rooms a number of times until I finally caught Shortie hiding in a broom cupboard. "You're in!" I poked him in the arm and ran away.

The four of us spent the next hour chasing each other around the house, trying to outrun one another and not get tagged. Our footsteps in the empty house made an awful racket, but we were having too much fun to remember we weren't supposed to be there. Whenever one of us got caught, we'd squeal loudly and run off after our next victim. Shortie was the loudest by far. We had to tell him to shut up or else we'd have the whole street on to us. Tom even threatened to gag him a couple of times, but it made no difference.

Running around so much puffed us out. After exhausting all the possible hiding places, we plonked ourselves down on the bare floor and lay back breathing loudly. Tom reached across and poked me in the ribs. "Let's go build the cubby."

We had so much fun playing catchies that we almost forgot to scrounge. Determined not to leave empty handed, I grabbed a selection of plaster off-cuts and shoved them into the bag. I claimed a box of nails that the builders had left behind and quickly inspected the room for anything else of value. Then, making sure no one saw us come out, we snuck out through the back window. Tom sprinted up the side of the house and squatted beside the fence. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he waved to let us know it was safe to join him.

***

We built the cubby under the fallen tree like I suggested. We leaned two sheets of tin against each side of the tree trunk, just like a tent, and then we made it longer with bits of wood and sticks. Dad gave us an old tarp to cover it with so we don't get wet when it rains. I used the nails I got from the new house to keep the tarp and tin in place. We put some rocks against the sides for when it gets windy and covered the sheets of tin and tarp with branches, making it look like it was just part of the tree. We could still walk along the tree trunk and across the top of the cubby house. Shortie's dad gave us a milk crate to use as a table and Mum said I could have one of her old tea towels for a tablecloth. We still haven't worked out what we're going to put on the floor. Ed reckons we should put newspapers down, but I think they'll get soggy when it rains.

Tom and I arranged an extra layer of branches over the outside of the cubby while Ed covered the top from where he was standing on the tree trunk. Shortie stood admiring our efforts. "What a ripper."

Ed walked down the tree trunk and landed with a deliberate thud behind him. "I've gotta go."

Shortie gave him a crow peck. "Already?"

"Ouch." Ed rubbed his head. "Mum said I have to mow the lawn today."

"Fine, we'll get the seat without you then."

We walked out the front to say goodbye to Ed and headed towards the barbed-wire fence at the end of the street that marks the beginning of the bush. We took it in turns holding the barbed wire up so that we could climb through without snagging our clothes or flesh. I've done both many times, and neither is pleasant. Mum goes bonkers if I tear my clothes and it hurts like hell when the bits of sharp metal dig into my skin.

Deefie's Hill is a fair walk from my place so it takes us a while to get there. Not that we let that stop us, we go there all the time. There's not even much there, but we really like it anyway. Probably because it's so big and there's lots of places to explore and loads of cool trees to climb. There's a huge blackberry bush right in the middle of the hill that's so big you have to climb up on the old cars to reach the ones at the top. Sometimes we put a log or some tin over the bushes so we can reach further without getting scratched. Mostly though, we just leave the ones that we can't reach easily.

We joined the dirt track that goes all the way to Deefie's Hill. It's been walked on so often it's smooth and dusty. It's so smooth I can walk on it barefoot without getting sore feet, but Mum won't let me play in the bush without shoes on. I love playing in the bush. I can stay out all day and never run out of things to do. I like the way it smells, especially the Wattle trees. There are caves along the back ridge, up behind our block. You have to walk through the paddock and climb lots of steep rocks to get there, but when you reach the top, you can see for miles. You can even see the wreckers all the way over at Awaba.

Everybody reckons that the aborigines used the caves when they lived in the area. Mr Drury said aborigines used to live all around Toronto and Lake Macquarie. There are lots of aborigines in our school now, but they live in houses like ours. Our school is even named after an aborigine. It used to be called Toronto West, but it changed to Biraban last year. The school had a competition to pick the best aboriginal name. Mum looked through the World Book Encyclopedia and came up with a whole list of aboriginal words for me. I even won the competition, but the school ended up using the name Mr Hallinan chose instead. I did get my name on the news though, and the school gave me a big book of fairy tales, so that was okay. Besides, I didn't really pick the names, Mum did.

"Guess what I'm getting for Christmas?" Shortie asked.

Tom threw a handful of gumnuts at a Magpie. "What?"

"A slot car set and a model Torana just like the one Peter Brock won the Hardie Ferodo in."

Tom was impressed. "Deadset? How do you know that?"

"I saw them in the top of Mum's wardrobe. She always hides our Christmas presents there."

Shortie was mad on anything to do with racing cars. His bedroom wall was covered in pictures of Peter Brock and his shelves were lined with model cars he'd made. Lucky his brother didn't mind, because he had to share a room with him.

There was no one around when we got to Deefie's Hill. Shortie took off in search of a seat he reckons he and Ed saw last time they were here and Tom and I said we'd have a look along the creek. People sometimes dump old cars near the creek where there's lots more shrub to hide them in. They're usually burnt out or smashed up, but sometimes the seats are still good.

There were two cars hidden under a mass of Lantana. Tom cleared a patch so he could have a better look. One of the cars had a fallen tree on it, but you could see inside it well enough. The front seats were no good, but the back one didn't look too bad. There was a big rip in the upright section, but the bottom half was still intact.

"Go get Shortie," he instructed, "he can crawl in under the tree and push from the other side while we pull from this side."

I left Tom clearing Lantana from the doorway of the old car and walked back along the path in search of Shortie. I couldn't see him anywhere, so I called out. I waited a second or two and headed off in the direction I'd seen him go earlier. I walked around the bushes cautiously, half expecting Shortie to be hiding there, ready to pounce. At first, I thought the place was deserted, but a couple more steps brought me face to face with something far scarier than anything Shortie could drum up.

Chapter 7

Wednesday, 13 November 1968

Peter walked up behind Maggie, threaded his arms through hers, and wrapped them around her middle. "See ya babe, I'm gonna miss you."

Maggie stopped washing up and turned around to face him. With her wet hands outstretched so she wouldn't drip on him, she kissed him languidly before escaping to find a hand towel. "Do you think she'll come back?" she asked

He knew that she was referring to Marjorie. They'd been up half the night talking about her. He thought about their late night discussion and immediately felt bad for arguing with Maggie. When she was convinced that something was up, she was usually right. Worse still, she always confronted everything head on. Unlike Peter who was always the peacemaker and didn't like conflict of any sort, Maggie would not give up until she had every detail of whatever it was that was bothering him. While he could not really blame her for concluding that it had been Marjorie that was on his mind, he could hardly confess that the truth was much worse than that. If having Marjorie turn up unexpectantly could throw her out of sorts so much, he could only imagine what impact knowledge of his recent antics with Jane would have.

Luckily, it was no longer an issue, he reasoned. That was all behind him now. He hadn't seen Jane in almost a week and was unlikely to again, given exams had started and classes had finished for the year. The fact that this was Jane's final year gave Peter a sense of relief, knowing that their paths were unlikely to cross again.

As much as he knew he had no right to, he felt decidedly proud of himself for not letting things get too far out of hand with Jane. He looked at Maggie and wondered how he could have ever contemplated such a thing. When Maggie dried her hands on the hand towel and wrapped them around his neck, Peter knew without a doubt that he was a lucky man. He pulled her closer to him. "No, I don't think she'll come back, do you?"

Maggie looked concerned.

"Hey," Peter consoled her, "Stephen rang and told her not to, didn't he?"

Maggie smiled. She had been so proud of Stephen when he had rang Marjorie and told her that he didn't want to see her. Marjorie had cried on the phone and asked how he could not want to see his own mother. Stephen had calmly explained that he saw his mother every day and that Marjorie was a complete stranger to him. Maggie had been touched by his response. She knew that Stephen and Michelle considered her their mother, but it was nice to have real proof of their commitment, especially given how long it had taken to gain their approval in the first place. Besides, Maggie was only human, and like anyone else, she thought it was good to know that her family loved her.

Speaking of family who loved her, it was time for Peter to go to work. They both resented the time they had to put in at work as opposed to spending it together, but they knew there was nothing that could be done about it. Maggie would like to have played hooky for the day and stayed in bed with Peter, but they both had so many things to do at work before the holidays started that they couldn't afford to have a day off. Besides, the holidays would be here soon enough. Less than a month to go, thought Maggie, and they'd be relaxing at Bellbird Cottage.

She couldn't wait.

Maggie reluctantly loosened her grip on Peter and turned back to the sink. As she did so, she noticed the clock on the wall. "Shit! I better get a move on or I'll be late for school."

Peter laughed at the familiar comment and kissed her one last time before heading for the door. "I don't have any appointments today, so I might even get home early."

"Mmm, that'd be nice. Stephen's going straight to Mark's, so we'll have the place to ourselves."

"I better try extra hard then." Peter picked up his case, blew Maggie a kiss, and left. The phone rang as soon as he got out the door.

Expecting Peter to come back in, Maggie stayed put. "Thanks Peter," she said sarcastically when he didn't return to answer it. She dried her hands again and walked into the lounge room. She picked up the neglected phone, "Hello."

No response.

The second time she said it a little louder, "Hello?"

Still no response.

She tried one more time before hanging up the phone. "Hello? Anyone there?" When she got no answer for the third time, she slammed the handset down hard on the off chance that whoever was on the other end still had the phone to their ear.

***

Maggie unlocked the front door, dropped her bag in the entry, and raced in to answer the phone. With a bit of luck it would be Peter ringing to tell her he was leaving work. Because school finished earlier than uni, Maggie got home before Peter most days. And since Stephen often went to Mark's place after school, Maggie frequently had the place to herself. She was so used to it by now that she doubted she could get through the week without her afternoon recovery sessions.

That's not to say that she didn't like it when Peter was able to sneak home early, she did. She always looked forward to it, but it was not like he did it that often. Although, when he did, they would invariably make the most of it. Sometimes they would duck out for a coffee at their favourite coffee shop in Kensington, but more often than not they would spend the time in bed. They would lock the front door, turn off the television so no one could tell they were home, and sneak off to their bedroom like newly-weds. They wouldn't even answer the phone if it rang. Occasionally, one of the kids would come home unexpectedly, but Maggie suspected they knew the signs to look for by now, and would deliberately not disturb them.

"Hello?" Maggie had already forgotten about the phone call on her way out that morning, but as soon as she failed to solicit a greeting, she was reminded of the phantom caller. "Hello, is anyone there?"

No answer.

"This is getting boring," Maggie mumbled into the phone.

She waited a couple of seconds longer, but never said anything more. She listened for the obligatory heavy breathing, but the line was quiet. She could hear a lot of background noise and thought it sounded like the caller was ringing from a busy street, but apart from that, there was no hint as to who was calling.

Maggie looked at the non-responsive receiver as though it might provide some clues. Who could it be and what did they want, she wondered. She tried to think of anyone that might have a bee in their bonnet about something she or Peter had done, but came up with a blank. Over the years they had both received the occasional prank call from students, but unlike today's phantom caller, they were usually unable to resist saying _something_.

As soon as she hung up the phone, it dawned on her. I bet it's that selfish bitch Marjorie, she thought. Peter had told her about her frequent outbursts and irrational behaviour when they were married. This sort of thing sounded like it was right up her alley. Maggie considered what she hoped to achieve by phoning them up and not saying anything. It was hardly an effective method of getting a point across, assuming that is what she was trying to do.

Maybe she was pissed off because Stephen didn't want to talk to her, and this was just her way of getting even. Nah, thought Maggie, too childish. The idea appeared to align more with the thinking of a juvenile than that of a middle-aged woman. Or, perhaps she was hoping to get Stephen on the line. That seemed to be the most logical explanation, decided Maggie. In future, she would try to remember to get Stephen to answer the phone. If nothing else, she would at least get to see if her theory was correct. In the meantime, Maggie did not like to generate negative energy by thinking bad thoughts, so she dismissed the matter from her mind and went to change out of her work clothes. If she hadn't heard from Peter by the time she had changed, she would surprise him with a phone call.

Chapter 8

Saturday, 15 December 1979

Duncan Dumbrell sat on a log squashing ants with a stick. He saw me coming, stopped what he was doing, and stood up. I nearly walked straight into him, but jumped back just in time. He puffed his chest out and stood to his full height. "Look who's here," he snarled, "if it isn't that bitch, Jenny Dawson."

Dean stood beside him aiming his slingshot at a Kookaburra perched in the tree behind me. I looked around frantically for an escape route. Before I could so much as take a step, Dean reached out and grabbed my arm. "I bet she's not so tough now her boyfriend's not here to protect her."

He dug his fingers into my flesh, causing me to cry out in pain. I looked around in panic, but there was no one in sight. I opened my mouth to scream and Duncan slapped me hard across the face, knocking me backwards into the dirt. My face burned where he hit me and I started to cry. Duncan spat on me. "Cry baby."

I looked up at them towering above me. Dean aimed his slingshot at me and released the elastic. A small rock flew past, just missing my head. "I should bash your face in for pushing us in the water, but I reckon you deserve worse than that." Duncan reached down and grabbed my top. He pulled me to my feet so hard I almost lost my balance and fell down again. I'd no sooner steadied myself when he pushed me backwards into Dean. Dean immediately reached around and pinned my arms behind my back. I had no idea what was worse than having my face bashed in, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.

Duncan stood as solid as a wall in front of me. He's at least two feet taller than I am, but his threatening manner made him appear even taller. He came so close I could smell his breath. I was surprised that it had a fruity smell to it, I was expecting it to smell as foul as his personality.

Despite his sweet smelling breath, his nearness was repulsive. It gave me the shivers. I tried to struggle, but Dean held my arms so tight I was sure he'd break them if I moved too much.

"Hey Duncan, why don't you pants her?"

This time I really panicked. I kicked Duncan so hard he fell backwards. I watched in terror as he got back up and rushed at me. He punched me hard in the tummy, making me double over in pain. "You get her shorts and I'll get her top," he suggested.

Dean rearranged his grip on me to free up one of his hands. I twisted and squirmed as much as I could, making it almost impossible for him to keep his hold. While Dean held me, Duncan grabbed at my top. I heard a ripping sound and looked down. My top was torn down the side and twisted around, exposing one of my nipples. I tried to rearrange my top to cover myself, but without the use of my hands, I couldn't. I begged them to leave me alone, but Duncan reached out and pinched me hard. "Cripple nipple," he said nastily, laughing at his own joke.

Taking his brother's advice, Dean pulled at my shorts. I felt his hand slide under my waistband and into my underpants. I kicked and jerked, but was unable to break his hold on me. I felt his fingers poking around in places I hadn't had the courage to explore yet, and I started to sob hysterically. From where Dean stood behind me, he tucked his face into my neck and rubbed his cheek against mine. "I bet you like that, don't you?" he asked.

I shook my head from side to side, trying desperately to break contact. Duncan grabbed my face in the same way Mum used to when she combed my hair. "If you don't keep still, I'm going to fuck your brains out with this bottle." He held up a dirty coke bottle that he'd found on the ground to show that he wasn't kidding.

The menace in his voice made me stop struggling. I was unable to stop crying, but I didn't move a muscle. Dean stopped groping me and wrapped both his arms around my chest from behind, pinning my arms to my side. "Hey Dunc, wanna cop a feel?"

Duncan leered at me. "I'm gonna do more than that."

I must have looked as petrified as I felt, because he laughed at me. "Look at her, she's not so tough now," he mocked.

Smiling, he forced his fingers inside me and pushed hard, making me scream in pain. He tried to remove my underpants with his free hand, but I started to struggle again and he was unable to get them down. I kicked and thrashed like a lunatic, no longer caring if I got bashed up.

He removed his hand and slapped me across the face. He bent down and picked up the coke bottle and shoved it in my face. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, I heard a huge cracking sound and he lurched forward with such force that the three of us fell over.

It took me a moment to work out what'd happened. I looked up in time to see Shortie swing a large stick at Dean who was trying to stand. Duncan was lying flat on his face in the dirt next to me.

"Leave her alone you fucking mongrels." Shortie swung out and hit Dean across the face with all his strength. Something cracked and Dean's nose started pouring blood. He reached up with both hands to hold it. When he did, Shortie swung the stick across his middle, knocking him back to the ground.

Dean landed on Duncan who was struggling to get up. "Get off me you fucking dropkick." He pushed his brother away and tried to stand. Shortie swung his stick again, hitting Duncan across his neck and shoulders and causing him to fall down once more. "Run Jenny! Quick, get out of here!" Shortie instructed.

I was torn between my fear of what would happen when Duncan got up and not wanting to leave Shortie alone.

"Jenny, I told you to go, now get! Go get Simmo and I'll catch up in a sec." Shortie kicked Duncan back down and I took off around the corner. I ran as fast as I could, screaming for Tom at the top of my lungs the whole way.

Tom came out from the bushes looking worried. "What's the matter?"

"Quick, we gotta get out of here," I sobbed, "the Dumbrells are here and they'll come after us."

Tom looked around. "Where's Shortie?"

"He's still there, he told me to get you and he'd catch up."

"I better go help him." Tom started to take off but I reached out and grabbed his arm. "Don't go, they'll get you too."

"I can't leave Shortie there by himself."

I was petrified of going back. I didn't want Tom to go either, but I knew I couldn't stop him.

"Hide in the bushes, I'll go help Shortie." He said, and then bolted before I could object further.

I ran back towards the creek and into the protection of the bush. I quickly settled on a big bunch of cut grass and crouched down out of sight. I had a good view of the hill without being visible to anyone. I straightened out my clothes and tried to stop crying. My tummy hurt from where Duncan had punched me and my face was still burning, but the soreness between my legs was by far the worst.

God! I was so glad Shortie came along when he did.

I heard a loud yell and looked up. The Dumbrells were riding away on their bikes. Shortie ran after them, waving a stick above his head and swearing like a trooper. "I'll break your fucking legs next time you poxy bastards."

The Dumbrells waited until they were out of reach before looking back. By then, Shortie had stopped running and was leaning against the stick. Duncan reached out behind him and stuck his middle finger up at him. Shortie didn't move. "Ooh, I'm scared."

I waited until the Dumbrells were well out of sight before coming out of hiding. I caught up with Shortie at the same time as Tom did.

"Look at the chickens run," Tom said.

Shortie watched me approach. "Are you alright?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

I put on a brave face. "Yeah, I'll live."

He wasn't convinced. "Did they hurt you?"

I had no idea how much he'd seen, so I considered my answer carefully. "I'll be okay. Duncan slapped me across the face and punched me in the tummy, but then you got there and sorted them out."

"Fucking mongrels," spat Tom. "How tough do they think they are, picking on a girl?"

Shortie agreed with him. "Only sissies pick on girls."

Tom came over and stood beside me. "Are you sure you're okay?" He had such a look of concern on his face that I nearly started to cry again. "I'm fine," I said, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. "I told you, Shortie sorted them out for me good and proper."

"Didn't he what?" Tom said proudly, "I don't know why you let them go."

"What was I supposed to do with them?"

I felt I had to stick up for Shortie. "Shortie's right, we're better off without them."

"Come on," Shortie said, looking very calm for someone who'd just taken on two much bigger kids and won, "let's get that car seat and get out of here."

***

The car seat trailed in the dirt leaving a line to mark our progress. Tom and Shortie walked in front of it, each pulling a piece of rope tied to the seat. I walked behind them, jumping at every sound, terrified that the Dumbrells would jump out and attack us. I doubt I would have been more scared had the Yorkshire Ripper been on the loose. I was still shaken up from what had happened. I tried to play it down as much as possible, but Shortie had seen way too much to dismiss it as nothing. "I reckon you're mad if you don't tell your dad," he said.

"Nah, there's no point, they'll just deny the whole thing and then Mum and Dad will treat me like a baby and not let me out of their sight." I felt bad for lying to my friends, but I had no choice. If I told them I was too embarrassed to say anything to my parents, then I'd have to tell them everything the Dumbrells did, and I don't think I could ever tell anyone something that private, not even Tom.

"Shortie's right, Jen," Tom agreed. "You can't let them get away with it."

"I'll think about it." I knew I wouldn't tell Mum and Dad, I just said that so they'd stop hassling me. It seemed to work. Tom went straight back to bragging about how unreal Shortie was for beating the Dumbrells in a fight. I walked behind them quietly, not joining in their conversation. When we finally entered the clearing at the end of our street, I let out a sigh of relief. At least I could stop worrying about being ambushed by the Dumbrells.

Instead of dragging the seat down the road and through our back yard where we'd have to lift it over the fence, we took it through the bush and along the row of back fences. We slid it into the cubby and left it under the tin section. It felt good to be back in a safe place. I still couldn't believe Shortie had scared them off single handed, but he had. Boy was I stoked to see him standing over the Dumbrells with the stick.

"By the way, thanks Shortie," I said.

"Thanks for what?" he asked.

"You know, the Dumbrells. I hate to think what might have happened if you hadn't turned up when you did." I think that's what Dad calls an understatement. He said it's when you say something in a way that the other person doesn't realise how much you really mean it. I gently touched my tummy and felt where Duncan had punched me. I bravely resisted the urge to wince from the pain. I didn't want the others to know how much it hurt.

Shortie looked embarrassed. "It was nothing. I enjoyed beating the shit out of them anyway." He got up to go. His dad was taking him and his brothers to the Motordrome and he didn't want to be late.

"It's Mum's turn to go to Uncle Harry's tomorrow if you want to come." I said, as he was leaving.

"You bet. What time?"

"Dunno, just come down when you get up."

"No worries. See ya then."

"I better go too. I've got to help Mum sort out Jim's room. He's coming home tonight." Tom got up and followed Shortie out of the cubby. "Wait up Shortie, I'll walk with you."

It's hard to believe there could be anything to sort out in that house with Mrs Clean Freak around. No doubt, she'll have Tom scrubbing the skirting boards with his toothbrush and personally fogging the window with his hot breath, only to polish it off again with her best rag, which used to be her best pair of cottontails. I swear, you'd think the Queen was coming to stay. "Hey Tom," I called after him. "We'll come over when we get back from Uncle Harry's, okay?"

"Alright, see you then." Tom took a few more steps then stopped. "Don't forget to tell your dad about what happened."

"I won't," I said, holding my hand behind my back and crossing my fingers.

Chapter 9

Wednesday, 13 November 1968

"Where the hell is it?" Peter often spoke out loud when he was angry, but luckily he was alone in his office with no one around to hear him rant. He frantically sorted through the stack of papers on his desk for the third time. "Come on, where _is_ it? It has to be here somewhere." He had spent too much time preparing the report. There was no way he was going to write it up again.

"Bloody hell, it's not here." Peter put the papers back on his desk and ripped open a drawer. Ignoring the first drawer, which was full of stationery, he pulled everything out of the second drawer and dumped it on his desk with a thump. He sifted through the files, one page at a time. "Come on you bastard, where are you?" For a moment he thought he had found what he was looking for, but it was only the draft copy. He consoled himself a little. At least he wouldn't have to prepare the thing from scratch in the event that he was unable to find the final version. Still, he didn't cherish the thought of having to re-do the fifteen page report.

Peter piled the files back into the drawer and opened the third one. "Please let it be here," he pleaded. So much for getting out of work early, he thought. If he were unable to find the report, there would be no likelihood of that happening. The damn thing was due today. The third drawer represented his last hope.

He rearranged the files in a neat pile before searching through them. As though the speed with which he had previously searched the files had everything to do with his inability to locate the report, he looked more slowly this time.

Defeated, Peter threw the files back into the drawer and slammed it closed. He was angry. It was not like him to misplace things. That was the sort of thing Maggie did, not him. Now he had no choice but to start the report all over again. "Damn, damn, damn!"

He tried to yank open the top drawer to get out a pen but it was stuck. "Shit, what next?" He took a deep breath and tugged on the drawer less forcefully, still getting the same level of resistance. He reached his hand into the small slot and felt for the obstruction. A piece of cardboard had folded back and lodged in the space between the top of the drawer and the desk top, preventing it from opening. He snagged the corner of it with his finger and forced it down. He impatiently pulled the manila folder out of the drawer and flung it on to his desk. "Who the bloody hell shoved that in there?" he cursed.

The manila folder slid off the pile of papers on the desk and fell to the floor. As Peter reached down to get it, he noticed a corner of paper sticking out. "Yes! You little beauty!" He picked up his report and kissed it. As he did so, he noticed a note with Barry's scribble on it clipped to the other corner and remembered that he had asked him to proof read it for him. Barry had obviously done as Peter had asked and had slipped the report into his top drawer when he had finished.

"Why Sir, I didn't expect you to be _that_ excited to see me."

The familiar voice made Peter's heart race. He looked up at Jane standing in the doorway. She smiled at him radiantly and shrugged, as if to say, here I am.

Despite his panic, he managed to sound calm. "I didn't expect to _see_ you, would be a more accurate assessment of the situation."

She was all innocence. "Have you forgotten our four o'clock meeting?"

"Ah...sorry? What meeting?" Then he remembered today was the day they had originally planned to meet. How could he have been so stupid, he wondered. If he'd had any sense about him, he should have realised she would pull a stunt like this.

Without turning around, Jane kicked the door closed and leaned back against it with her hands behind her back. "I came up to see you earlier but you weren't here."

"Um...yes, well...I assumed you no longer needed the appointment since you...um...came to see me already last week."

"Then I called – twice – but you never answer the phone."

"Oh," was all he could manage. The accusation in her voice made him uneasy. As did the knowledge that Charlie was still off work recovering from a burst appendix and Barry was not coming back today.

So, this is what it feels like to be the mouse, he thought, right before the cat pounces. As though she were reading his thoughts, Jane's face softened into a pout. She slithered towards him and looked up at him with her big green eyes. "Never mind" she said, "you're here now."

"Um...actually, I was just on my way out."

Jane never took her eyes off him. "Now why would you be doing that, Sir? You _did_ promise to help me with my problem."

Peter took a step back so that she didn't have to look up at him so alluringly. "I'm...ah...not sure I can help you with your problem, Miss Lester."

Jane hitched herself up onto Peter's desk and crossed her legs. "Well, Sir, how do you know that if you don't even know what my problem is?"

Peter laughed uneasily. "I could hazard a guess."

She gave him a cheeky look. "Come on then, why don't you tell me what it is?"

Accepting that he had been outsmarted, he carefully considered how to respond. Even though he felt guilty for flirting with her in the past, he knew he was going to have to keep it together and be blunt if he were to get rid of her now. "Look, Miss Lester," Peter put on his best teacher's voice, "I am flattered that you have taken in an interest in me and I apologise if I have mislead you in any way, but I am a married man." His tone indicated that he'd managed to find some of his usual composure.

"And?" she challenged.

"And, I am very happy with my wife."

"I don't want to be your wife, Mr Thompson," she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, "but I think you know what I _do_ want."

He maintained his no-nonsense manner. "Yes, Jane, I think I know what you want. And, I am very sorry, but I am unable to give it to you."

"Are you sure about that, Sir?" Without waiting for his response, she uncrossed her legs for the second time. This time she did not re-cross them, but rather, she let them fall open just enough for Peter to see the dark shadow beneath her short hemline.

Oh Jesus, thought Peter, she _cannot_ be serious. From where he was standing it looked for all the world like she was not wearing any panties. He looked again. Sure enough, the hint of flesh shining through the dark shadow confirmed that she was indeed not wearing anything underneath her tiny skirt. Peter looked away, but it was already too late, the look on her face said it all. She smelt victory.

Without warning, she slid off the desk and came over to him. Running her hand up the outside of his thigh she asked him if he'd seen anything he wanted. "I think you should leave Miss Lester," he said by way of reply.

"Oh no, not that line again, surely." She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. As she did so, she shuffled backwards towards the desk. Still holding on to his shirt, she slipped her other hand behind him and pulled him gently towards her. Once he was in close, she propped herself on to the edge of the desk and wrapped her calves around the bottom of his legs.

Barely resisting her attempts to pull him closer, Peter stood stiffly. He considered pulling away altogether when her hand on his crotch stopped him in his tracks. Despite the anxiety the situation was causing, he felt himself growing hard beneath her hand and silently cursed his body for the betrayal.

"Mmm...it seems you saw something you liked after all," she teased. As she emphasised the last two words, she tugged on his shirt, not so gentle this time, and he lost his balance and fell forward. She leaned back on the desk so that her face was within an inch of his. She slid a hand behind his head, and running her fingers through his hair, pulled him closer. Then, leaning forward, she kissed him.

Peter let out a small sigh as her soft mouth pressed against his. The enormity of what he was doing dawned and he pulled away and tried to stand up. Jane held on tight, she tilted her face towards him, and kissed him again. This time it was more than he could resist and he felt himself kissing back, his tongue finishing the betrayal that his groin had started.

Needing no further encouragement, Jane traced the back of his thigh with her foot. All consideration of refusal momentarily forgotten, Peter slipped his hand under her blouse and ran his fingers along her spine. As his hand slid further along the bumpy ridge, he felt her smooth, warm skin shrink into tiny goosebumps. Her nipples hardened through the flimsy fabric of her shirt against his chest. He was well aware that what he was doing was wrong, but at the same time, she was everything he wanted. Without warning he felt the mounting excitement of the past couple of weeks, the playful taunts and innuendo, and the illicit touches, rapidly escalate until he was overcome with a desire for her so strong that only a monk might possess sufficient power to deny her.

With a sense of imminent success, Jane sat up just enough to allow Peter to straighten his back, her legs wrapped around him, her skirt slowly riding up, threatening to expose the nakedness that he knew lay waiting. In order to steal a look at what she was offering, he leaned back a little. She caught his downward glance and forced her thighs against the already straining fabric of her skirt. Despite the restriction posed by the denim, he managed to catch a glimpse of that which he so ardently sought before it was forced from view again by her protesting skirt.

Dissatisfied with only an appetising glance, Peter removed his hands from her blouse and without restraint shoved her skirt up beyond the point of resistance. Her thighs fell open appreciatively. Jane mumbled something that he didn't catch. He reluctantly tore his gaze from her nakedness and looked at her face expectantly. Despite her dishevelled look, he thought she had never looked more appealing.

Instead of repeating what she had said, she interpreted the look on his face as one of understanding – and acceptance. She took his hand from where it rested on her bare thigh and placed it between her legs. He groaned as he felt her excitement wet his fingers. She changed her position, making it impossible for him to withdraw his hand, and slid forward on the desk, forcing his fingers inside her. Instead of arousing him further, her sighs hit him like a slap in the face and he stumbled backwards.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice breathless with excitement, "don't stop."

When he didn't respond, she took the opportunity to reach for his trousers. With one hand fumbling with the button, she snuck her free hand under the waistband. She slid her hand slowly downwards, encircled him with her fingers, and gently massaged her prize. It took all of Peter's strength not to tear his clothes off and climb on top of her.

The slow, involuntary pushing of his lower body, and the small sounds of pleasure escaping his lips, told her that his momentary case of the guilts was forgotten. The smugness she felt at her own persuasive powers showed on her face. Peter didn't notice. He was busy applying kisses to her hungry mouth and kneading her firm, full breasts.

With her free hand, Jane finally undid the button on his jeans and opened his zipper, liberating him from the confines of his clothing just as he had done for her. Then, releasing him from her grasp, she used both hands to slide his jeans and boxer shorts down past his bottom and over the bulging obstacle hidden behind the cloth; the newfound freedom caused him to spring to attention and silently demand to be encircled once more. This time, she didn't fold her fingers around it like she had done previously, instead she leaned forward and gently stroked it with her tongue, lingering at the tip of the shaft long enough to lick away the slippery evidence of his excitement, before taking him into her mouth greedily.

"Holy shit," he mumbled. It took all of Peter's self-control not to explode like a schoolboy. It felt so good that he knew he could not withstand the warm wetness of her mouth engulfing him for long, and determined not to embarrass himself with an early exit from the game, he withdrew from her mouth. Before she could object to the apparent rejection, he pushed her back on the desk, gently persuading her legs open as he did so. This time it was Jane's turn to contain herself. Peter slowly tortured her with his tongue, lingering in each place just long enough to exhaust the taste that drove him wild, before moving on to the next delicious spot. What started as gentle sighs of pleasure quickly became stifled sounds of ecstasy as she covered her mouth to guard against uncontrolled noise, as he flicked his tongue, back and forth, probing with his fingers.

The difficulty she had in muffling her cries, and the frantic gyration of her hips pushing against his mouth told Peter that unlike him, Jane was not bothered about achieving a result within record time, quite the contrary. He wondered for a moment if he should slow down his actions and prolong the inevitable, but her pleas for him to go faster and harder told him that she was not prepared to wait longer than necessary to reach the climax she felt her due, so he met her demands, her cries and moans becoming louder as his fingers pushed deeper.

Jane let out an unchecked cry of pleasure as she reached the summit on which she'd set her sights. She slumped back against the desk with a long, appreciative sigh. Peter felt her grip on his fingers relax and slid them out gently, taking the opportunity to rub her swollen flesh one more time and causing her to shudder involuntary at his charged touch. Then, with a perverse sense of excitement, he watched as she robbed him of the opportunity to enjoy the glistening evidence that smeared his fingers by taking his hand and putting the offending digits in her own mouth, leisurely sucking them clean, and withdrawing them slowly.

"Mmm, that was wonderful; I can taste how excited you got me." She sat up and shuffled towards the edge of the desk, looking very self-satisfied, her face flushed. The look she wore told Peter that she believed a victory had been had, and not by him. He began to pull up his trousers, but she slid her foot between his legs, preventing their ascent. "Not so fast," she purred, "now it's your turn."

Before he could protest, she had him back in her mouth and was gorging herself on his hardness. Silently cursing his body for responding with so much enthusiasm, he took a step backwards, thereby robbing her of her feast. She looked at him questioningly, too smug to be offended by his rejection, the memory of her conquest still fresh on her mind.

Peter responded to her enquiry with a question of his own, "What if someone comes in?" He tried for the second time to get dressed, but before she could reassure him that no one would bother them, the phone on Barry's desk started to ring.

"Don't answer it," she insisted.

Peter took the opportunity to straighten his clothes and take stock of the situation. What the hell was he doing? The persistent noise of the phone made it difficult for him to think straight, let alone answer a question like that. "I better get it otherwise whoever's calling is likely to come looking for me."

Jane agreed that his point had merit. "Just get rid of them and be quick," she said breathlessly, creeping up behind him and reaching around to grab the front of his trousers, determined to finish what she had started.

Peter pushed her hand away and picked up the phone. "Hello this is Peter Thompson, can I help you?"

Jane watched the colour drain from his face and for the first time since arriving, she took a backwards step.

Chapter 10

Sunday, 16 December 1979

Since Uncle Harry is Grandma's brother, that really makes him my great uncle, but because great uncle is too much of a mouthful, we just call him uncle instead. He's pretty old now and lives by himself. He's always forgetting things and gets everyone mixed up. Mum and her sisters take it in turns with Grandma to visit him once a week. Dad mows the lawn while Mum does some house work and a few loads of washing. Mum reckons he'd happily live in a pigsty if nobody came to clean up for him.

I like going to his place. Not because I like him that much, I don't. His house smells like pee and he farts all the time. I like going there because his backyard is full of fruit trees. He never picks any of it, he just lets it ripen and fall to the ground. Every time we go there, we take plastic buckets with us and fill them up with fruit.

We always go to Uncle Harry's on Sundays, that's why Tom never comes; he has to go to church. Shortie usually comes with us though. His family never goes to church. Brian never comes either; he's scared of Uncle Harry. He thinks he looks like Catweazle and he's scared of Catweazle too. Kate and Tracy stay home and look after Brian.

Mum carried her mop and bucket out to the car. "You coming?" Shortie and I were sitting on the floor playing Snap. Dad was already waiting in the car. Mum shut the screen door behind her and called to Tracy and Kate. "See you in a couple of hours."

Brian was playing in the front yard with Cameron. I bent down on my way past and spoke softly so Mum couldn't hear. "We're going to see Catweazle," I told him, "better make sure you don't answer the tellingbone while we're gone, it might be him."

"Muuum!" Brian whined, "Jenny's being a retard."

I checked to make sure Mum wasn't watching and gave him a thickhead. "Muuummm!" he whined even longer and louder, "Jenny just hit me."

Still not getting any attention from Mum, I laughed at him and ran to the car. Shortie and I climbed over into the back of Dad's station wagon. We sat opposite each other with our heads against the windows. My tummy was even sorer today than when I first got punched, but I tried not to show how much it hurt as I climbed over. We could've sat on the back seat if we wanted, but we preferred to sit over the back where there's more room.

Uncle Harry lives at Dora Creek, which is almost half an hour's drive from Toronto. To fill in time, Shortie and I played eye spy. I spotted a group of old people playing golf and thought of something to use. "I spy with my little eye, something beginning with J."

Shortie looked around him to see what he could find starting with J. "Jeans?" he suggested.

"Who's wearing jeans?"

"The hitchhiker back there."

"Nope; it's not jeans."

Mum joined in. "Jacaranda?"

"What's a Jacaranda?"

She pointed to a big tree that was just visible from the road. "That tree is, see the one with the mauve flowers?"

"Nope, that's not it."

Shortie looked baffled. There's no way he'd guess what I spied. "Do you give in yet?"

"Hang on, give me a sec, I'll get it?" He waited a respectable time and gave in.

"Geriatric," I announced victoriously.

"Jenny," Dad said, "Geriatric is spelled with a G not a J. You should know that."

"Oops. It is too, I forgot."

Mum turned to face us in the back. "Where are the geriatrics?" she asked. "I hope you're not referring to your father and me."

"No, I was talking about those old people back there."

Dad laughed. "Jenny! Those old people couldn't have been more than fifty."

"So? How old do you have to be before you're a geriatric?"

He sighed and shook his head in disbelief. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be ten years old again."

"Nah," I corrected, "I'm almost eleven."

Dad laughed. "Well, I guess that makes you a year closer to being a geriatric."

We drove under the Wangi Bridge and the horn beeped. "Don't forget to wave to the man," Dad called from up front.

Every time we go under the bridge, Dad beeps his horn. He reckons it's the little man that lives under the bridge doing it, not him. Even though I haven't caught him yet, I know that it can't really be a man like he says. I've long since given up trying to catch him doing it, because even when I remember to check, which isn't very often, he manages to do it without being seen.

"Did you tell your dad about yesterday?" Shortie asked.

"Nuh. I don't think I'll bother either."

"Jenny! You said you would."

"Yeah, but I had my fingers crossed, so it doesn't count."

***

We helped Mum and Dad carry the stuff inside. It's mine and Shortie's job to go around and open all the windows. Squinting, Uncle Harry put his face close to Shortie's. "Who's that?"

"Hello Uncle Harry, it's me Shortie." Shortie's been coming to Uncle Harry's with us for so long now he even calls him Uncle.

Uncle Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Oh, it's young David. How are you?"

Shortie rolled his eyes and laughed.

Uncle Harry farted.

Mum tapped him on the shoulder, "How are you Uncle Harry?"

"There's nothing wrong with me, it's just those bloody beans."

He hardly eats anything except baked beans on toast. Mum laughed at him. "You're good, I see."

"Why don't you kids go and get some fruit," Dad suggested.

We each picked up a bucket and headed into the backyard. The yard was much bigger than ours. It was really deep and overgrown with trees and shrubs, most of which had fruit on them. We held our noses as we walked past the outside dunny, which always smelled bad, even though it isn't a pan toilet and flushes like an inside one. Apart from the old wooden door with the flaky paint, the entire structure was covered in passionfruit vines overflowing with fruit. Once you got over the fact that they were growing over a smelly toilet, the fruit was delicious, especially spooned over ice cream or made into passionfruit butter.

We left the passionfruit for later and walked further into the shady grove. Insects and butterflies were as much a part of the garden as the weeds and the long grass. Spiders worked hard building webs in every corner of the yard while bees hovered on nearby leaves. Without having a clue as to what an old tree looked like, I instinctively knew that Uncle Harry's fruit trees were old. Actually, the whole garden felt old, and magical. If fairies were real and little people really did live under toadstools, Uncle Harry's garden is exactly the kind of place I'd expect to find them.

Many of the trees were so large I could walk under them or hide in their hanging branches. I like the big droopy ones that grow down by the creek the best, they're my favourite. Dad said they're called Weeping Willows. I think they're tops. The branches hang down so low. I can make a cubby under them.

Uncle Harry's yard was also excellent for playing hide and seek in. Shortie and I have managed to lose ourselves in it for hours at a time without ever getting bored. Summer's the best time. Most of the fruit's ready to be picked by then.

I headed for the plum tree and suggested that Shortie fill his bucket with oranges. The oranges were the nicest I'd ever eaten. The thick skin peeled off easily like a mandarin and there were no seeds to pick out. They were almost impossible to eat without leaving sticky trails all down our faces, but we didn't care.

I could already see that he'd have no trouble filling a whole bucket. The tree was decorated with orange balls, with loads more on the ground that were still good. I managed to half fill my bucket with plums, making sure I didn't take any that weren't ripe. As I walked towards the pomegranate tree, I felt something hit me in the back of the head and turned around to see what it was. Shortie was poking through one of the Mulberry branches, grinning like a lunatic. I couldn't see the rest of him, just his face. "You look like a monkey," I told him.

He climbed down and swung from the branch with one arm. "Hoo hoo, ha ha." His mouth was purple from eating mulberries. "Go get a bucket, there's tonnes of ripe ones."

"Get it yourself. I'm going to pick pomegranates."

Another mulberry hit the back of my head. I knew I'd have two purple splotches in my hair now. Once we had a huge mulberry fight and my hair got covered in them. By the time I washed them out my hair was stained and I had to walk around for days with purple marks on my head.

I climbed to the top of the tree to get the ripe ones. There were lots up high but none down low. I regretted making Shortie get his own bucket now, because I needed him to give me a hand. "Hey Shortie, come and catch these for me?"

He came straight away and stood under the tree. Shortie never holds a grudge.

"Here, catch." I reached out and dropped the fruit, trying to miss the branches on the way. It fell straight through and Shortie caught it. After filling the bucket, I climbed down and went to help him pick some mulberries. If you're really lucky, you can find silk worms on the branches. Mum never lets me take them home though. She says it's cruel to take them out of their natural habitat.

We lined the buckets up at the back door and went inside to tell Mum we were going down to the creek. The house smelt much better now that all the windows were open. Mum was vacuuming the lounge room. "Don't go too far," she told us, "we're almost done."

I said we wouldn't and headed off towards the creek with Shortie. The creek wasn't a normal creek like the one that runs through the bush at my place, it was massive. In fact, it was more like a river than a creek. We sat on the edge of the jetty with our feet dangling in the water. I threw my orange peel into the water, but stopped when I realised it was floating.

Uncle Harry's place wasn't far from Dora Creek Bridge. We watched the tops of the cars drive across but couldn't see what kind they were because the walls were too high. We could even see people walking across the bridge. Last summer I saw two boys jump from the bridge into the water. There was no way I'd do that. Mum told me once that when she was a little girl, someone jumped off and never came back up. She reckons there are all sorts of cables and stuff under the water and that they got tangled up and drowned. I don't know if it's true or not, but I wasn't taking any chances.

We watched as someone walked across the bridge and leant over. They dangled something that looked like a bag of rubbish. Then turning their head from side to side to check that no one was watching, they dropped the bag and ran away.

"Did you see that?" Shortie asked. "They threw something over." The bag landed right on the edge of the creek, half in and half out of the water. "Let's go check it out."

Mum said we couldn't go far, so we had to be quick. We looked around for somewhere to put our peels and decided to throw them in the creek after all. We rinsed our hands in the water and ran up the jetty. I followed Shortie who ran too fast for my sore tummy. It was much further than it looked from the jetty, so I slowed down and let him run ahead. When I caught up with him, he was leaning over to grab the bag from the creek's edge. It was a plastic garbage bag tied into a knot. "It's probably full of smelly prawn heads or something," I warned.

Something in the bag moved and I jumped back in fright. Shortie put the bundle down and ripped open a hole near the top of the bag. "Ah look," he said, "kittens."

There were three kittens and a rock in the bag. Shortie picked up one of the kittens and handed it to me. It was a tiny ginger cat with white socks. It was so small and cute. I couldn't imagine who would want to drown it. He handed me another one, which was totally black except for a white spot on its throat. They were both wet and shivering, so I lifted my shirt up and wrapped them in it to keep them warm. Shortie lifted the third one out. It was another ginger one.

"I think this one's dead." He lifted it up but it didn't move.

"Oh no! Poor thing. Are you sure?"

He turned it over to look at its front. Instead of having a cute little face like the other kittens, it had a bloody mess. We hadn't noticed at first, but the other two had spots of blood on them also. We checked them over but they looked okay. The blood must have come from the dead kitten. "We better take them with us," Shortie advised, "if we leave them here, they'll die for sure."

"There are two chances that my mum's going to let me keep them," I said, "Buckley's and none."

"My mum will. She loves cats."

"You sure?" I doubted her love for cats would be sufficient to let him keep two kittens.

"Yep, she used to have three cats but one got run over by a car and one died of a tick, so now she's only got Sylvester."

It sounded promising. I looked down at the little bundles of fur in my arms. I was envious of Shortie for having a mum who loved cats. "We better get going," I said.

"Yeah, hang on a sec." Shortie dug a small hole and buried the dead kitten. He covered it with dirt and put a big rock on top. "There! Nothing will be able to dig it up now."

***

Dad looked uncertain. "You sure your mum's not going to hit the roof? Why don't you give her a call first?"

"Um, she's not home at the moment." He said in a not so convincing fashion. "I guarantee she won't mind though. She loves cats. She was just telling Dad the other day that she missed Chester and Chloe, so I'm going to give them to her for Christmas."

Dad put his hands up and laughed. "Okay, okay, I give in."

We said goodbye to Uncle Harry and loaded our stuff into the car. We didn't have anything to put the kittens in, so we had to nurse them all the way home. "What are you going to call them?" I asked.

"Dunno, what do you reckon?"

"I think we should call this one Bluey."

"But it's red."

"Exactly, that's why he should be called Bluey." It made perfect sense to me. Shortie looked a bit puzzled but agreed it was a good name.

"I think I'll call this one Rex."

I screwed up my nose. "That's boring. Besides, Rex is a dog's name."

"How about Caesar then? It means emperor you know?"

Dad looked at us through the rear view mirror. "They better not wee in my car."

"They won't," I assured him.

I kept my fingers crossed all the way home and hoped that they wouldn't let me down.

Chapter 11

Sunday, 16 December 1979

Mum gave Shortie a shoebox to carry Caesar and Bluey in. We poked holes in the top so fresh air and light could get in and put them in the box and closed the lid. He couldn't carry them on his bike so he left it at our place and walked home. I walked with him as far as Tom's place. "What are you going to do with them if your mum won't let you keep them?"

"She will."

"But what if she doesn't?"

"She won't be able to say no if I tell her it's an early Christmas present."

He had a point. It's very hard to tell someone that you don't want their present. I'm not sure it'd work with my mum but I could see he had a good chance of it working on his. Mrs O'Connor loved cats; my mum hated them.

Shortie crossed the road at Tom's place and headed off up the hill. "See ya."

"See ya. We'll wait for you here."

"Okay, I'll be as quick as I can."

I knocked on Tom's door and was greeted by Mrs Simmons. "Hi Jenny, how are you?"

"Good thanks. Is Tom here?"

She opened the door and let me in. "He's in Jim's room, I think."

I could hear music coming from down the hall. I was pretty sure it was Jimi Hendrix. Tom plays it all the time. I don't know if he really likes the music or if it's because there's naked ladies on the record cover. Jim lets Tom play his records when he's not home, but only if he doesn't scratch them. I always ask him to put Bob Dylan on. He's my favourite. I like that song, 'Blowin in the Wind'. It reminds me of something but I don't know what. It's really weird; I get to a point where I almost remember where I know it from but I can never work it out. I reckon Mum must have played it lots when I was a baby or something. It's like that song 'Turn, Turn, Turn' on the Seekers' record she has. It makes me feel the same way. Mum says she didn't have the record when I was a baby but that the Seekers were very popular and were always on the radio.

Mr Drury said it's called déjà vu when you see something for the first time and it feels like you've seen it before. He said déjà vu is French for "having seen", but that it works the same way with things you hear too. He reckons people only forget they've seen or heard them before and that it's just a forgotten memory that causes it.

I knocked on the door and waited. Tom stuck his head out. "Oh it's you. I thought it was Mum coming to tell us to turn it down." He opened the door and let me in. I sat on the bed next to him. Jim carefully lifted the needle off the spinning record and put it to the side. He waited for the record to slow down before taking it off the player and handing it to Tom to put away. Tom slipped the record into the cover that was lying on the floor and put it on top of the stack. Jim took the Split Enz record out of its cover and carefully placed it on the player.

"Where's Shortie?" Tom asked.

I told him about the kittens and how Shortie reckoned his mum would let him keep them. "I hope she does, they're so cute. Dad said they're both boys, so we called them Bluey and Caesar."

Tom couldn't wait to see them. He used to have a cat but it got run over. He said he didn't want to get another one after that. You can tell he still likes cats though; he always pats Greg and Max's cat when it's in our yard. Cats like him too. They never run away from him like they do when I go near them. Tom reckons cats can tell if you like them or not, and if you do, they purr when you pick them up.

We felt very grown up hanging out with Jim and listening to music. It's better than being with Kate and Tracy. Jim's in the Army and drives a car. Kate and Tracy still go to school. When the last song ended, Jim took the record off and flipped it over. I handed him _Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits_. "Can we play this one next?"

He turned it over and read the back cover. "Sure, I'll put it on now." He took the Split Enz record off and replaced it with the one I handed him. "You have good taste, Jenny."

When song two finally came on, I sat back and let the feeling of déjà vu wash over me, _"... Yes 'n' how many times can a man turn his head an' pretend that he just doesn't see? The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind..."_

The spell was broken by a knock on the door.

Shortie was back, grinning from ear to ear. "Mum said I can keep them."

***

The kittens were far more exciting than Jim's records. We took them into the back yard and watched them play. If I didn't know better, I would've said they were putting on a show for us. Their antics were as entertaining as any circus clown I'd seen. Not that I've been to a real live circus or anything, but I have seen one on telly. I still couldn't believe someone tried to drown them.

I lay back on the grass and put my head next to Bluey. He was a lot more active than Caesar. He jumped around excitedly at the smallest thing. Tom flicked a tea towel near his face and he jumped up to snatch it, catching his little claws and tumbling down to wrestle with it when Tom put it within his reach. Caesar watched intently but wasn't quite ready to join in.

"Who wants to come to Kennelly's with me? Jim gave me four Sunnyboy wrappers."

"Unreal, where'd he get them from?" Shortie asked.

"He stole them, what do ya think?"

Shortie snatched the tea towel from Tom, spun it around until it was long and thin, and flicked him with it. "I mean, why give them to you? If I were him, I'd keep them for myself."

"Well lucky for me, you're not him."

Shortie caught up with Bluey just in time to prevent his escape under the back fence. "What about the kittens?"

"We can take them with us."

Shortie carried Bluey and I carried Caesar. We took our time getting there, stopping to show the kittens off to some kids along the way. There was no doubt about it; they were cute. No one could resist asking to hold them and everyone cooed over them like they would over a newborn baby.

Tom walked along the top of someone's brick fence. He walked with his arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. Anyone would've thought he was ten feet off the ground, not two. When he got to the end of the fence, he jumped off. "When I grow up, I think I'll join the circus."

We knew he wasn't serious. Tom wanted to be a fighter pilot. Shortie laughed. "What as, a clown?"

"Nuh, an acrobat." Tom did a cartwheel.

I tried to clap and almost dropped the kitten. Handing him to Tom to give my arms a rest, we crossed Awaba Road and walked along the footpath. Grandma lives down the road from Kennelly's but I didn't feel like dropping in. It'd be alright, just as long as I didn't run into her at the shop. She'd expect us to visit her for sure if we did.

I could see the fly strips hanging lifelessly in the heat. Tom handed me back the kitten and took the Sunnyboy wrappers out of his pocket. A scraggy-looking man came out of the shop carrying a loaf of bread and a packet of winnie reds. We stepped aside to let him pass. When we turned to go back in, we came face to face with Andrew Dumbrell. "Sorry," I said, without even thinking.

He held the fly strips open for us and stood aside to let us pass. "That's okay," he said with a smile. Tom raised his eyebrows at me. Andrew obviously hadn't talked to his brothers lately.

When we stepped inside the shop, Dean was standing there with his arms crossed. He looked as though he was expecting us. His nose was red and swollen and he had two black eyes, making him look more like the thug that he is. I quickly looked to see if anyone else was around. There were two kids buying lolly necklaces and bubblegum at the counter. I was sure Dean could sense my fear. He just stood there leering at me. My impulse was to spit in his face but I didn't have the guts.

I didn't recognise the scraggy man as Mr Dumbrell until I heard him call to Dean. "Jesus Christ! Hurry up will ya, I haven't got all day."

As Dean stepped through the fly strips, he turned back to look at us. He ran his finger along his throat indicating that we were in for it. I instinctively shrank back from him at the same time as Tom and Shortie stepped protectively in front of me. Despite the difference in size, he didn't intimidate Shortie one bit. "Yeah, you and what army?"

"This army and this army." Dean pointed to one arm, then the other.

Mr Dumbrell started the Ute and threatened to drive off without Dean, causing Dean to turn and run. Using the bumper bar to hoist himself up, he jumped over the tailgate and into the tray. Shortie stepped out of the shop and gave him the finger. Dean looked up and pointed at Shortie before running his finger along his neck one more time.

"Holy crap, that was close." I hoped my voice didn't give away how scared I'd been.

"Fucking poofter!" Shortie spat.

The shopkeeper looked up from behind the counter to see where the swearing had come from. Shortie kept a straight face and looked around indifferently. Tom handed the shopkeeper the Sunnyboy wrappers and waited while he checked to make sure they were winners. Satisfied they were, he put them into a box under the counter, slid the freezer lid open, and got four new ones out.

He handed the iceblocks to Tom. "Anything else with that?"

"No thanks." Tom ignored the filthy look he got from the shopkeeper and ripped open an iceblock with his teeth. He handed one to me, opened another one in the same manner, and gave it to Shortie.

"Thanks," I said gratefully.

Shortie was just about to shove the iceblock in his gob. "Yeah, thanks, mate."

***

We walked to Keith Barry Oval and sat in the playground eating our iceblocks. Tom and I sat on each end of the seesaw and Shortie sat in the middle. The kittens played in the sandpit under the swings. Tom was the first to mention the Dumbrells. "Someone should blow them up. We'd be doing everyone a favour, ya know?"

"One day they'll pick the wrong person and they'll get the shit beat out of them." Shortie predicted.

"You mean like you did?" If what he'd done to them yesterday wasn't beating the shit out of them, then I don't know what was.

"Nah, worse than that."

"Hey, did you check out his black eyes?" Tom asked, "you must have hit him a beauty."

This time it was my turn to brag. "He did. You should have seen him swing that stick. I heard his nose crunch from three feet away." Don't get me wrong, I like making fun of the Dumbrells, but can't help wondering what'll happen the next time we see them. There's no way they'll just let it go without getting even with us somehow. We can try to keep out of their way but we never know when we might bump into them. I mean, it's not as though we knew they would be at the baths last week or at Deefie's Hill yesterday, or at the shop today for that matter, so I don't know how we're supposed to avoid them exactly.

I reconsidered telling Dad about what happened. I figured I could leave a few bits out but tell him the rest. Maybe he could have a word with their dad. The problem is, I think it'll make things worse, not better. Mr Dumbrell has a mean reputation. If the boys get into trouble with their dad because of me, they'll be especially pissed off with us, making them more determined to get even with us.

Maybe Tom could talk to Jim about them. Jim and his friends might be able to scare them off, especially if they wear their Army uniforms.

Tom finished his second Sunnyboy and checked inside to see if he'd won another one. He threw the screwed up wrapper on the ground near the kittens and Bluey crash-tackled it. "Let's go, it's too hot here," he suggested.

We reached the intersection where we had to turn off. Shortie suggested we keep walking straight ahead. "Let's see if there's any water in the drain."

The storm water drain is near the high school, which was only a couple of blocks away. It's a wide concrete channel that gives easy access to the maze of drains under the road. If there's been no rain for ages, the drains dry out and you can walk inside them. There are stacks of tunnels disappearing in all directions. If we knew the way, I reckon we could walk all the way to my place under the roads. We never go that far though, after a while, all the tunnels look the same and it's easy to get lost. Besides, Mum would have a fit if she knew.

Last summer, Linda Palmer got lost in the drains and couldn't find her way back. Someone heard her calling out from a gutter in the side of the road. When they looked down to see where the voice was coming from, they saw her. I thought it was hilarious. Imagine looking into the gutter and seeing a face peering back at you?

I handed Tom the kitten and raced ahead of them. The drain was dry except for a small trickle of slimy water running down the centre. I climbed down the edge of the waterway and walked into the mouth of the pipe. I had to hunch down a little so I wouldn't hit my head. I must have grown taller since I was there last. I used to be able to walk straight through it without having to duck.

I was still reading the writing on the walls when Tom and Shortie caught up. I wish I had some chalk, I would've written something horrible about the Dumbrells. "Walk over to that corner and wait for me," I said to whoever wanted to take me up on my offer. "I'll walk through the drains and meet you there."

Tom and Shortie both walked off in the direction I'd indicated. I ducked my head and walked to the end of the pipe. When I got to the end I turned right and then left. I could see a shaft of light shining down from the opening in the gutter and walked towards it.

Tom called out. "Cooee! Anyone there?"

"I'm coming, hold you're horses." When I got closer to the opening, either Tom or Shortie – I couldn't tell who – reached down and offered me a kitten. I took Bluey off them and turned my face up to the light. I could see Tom and Shortie peering down at me. Shortie got down on his hands and knees so he could get a better look in. I screwed my face up and pointed at him. "Yuk, you've got boogies."

He squeezed his nostrils together and slid his fingers off the end of his nose, checking for boogies. He reached in and tugged on my hair. "I have not."

"Hah, got ya there." I took off with Bluey and headed back to the channel. I held him tight so I wouldn't drop him in the drain. He could easily get lost in there just like Linda Palmer. Only, no one would hear _him_ from the road.

By the time I got back, Bluey was meowing frantically. "What's wrong with him?" I asked Shortie. "He seems upset about something."

Shortie shrugged. "I dunno."

"Maybe he's scared of the dark," I suggested.

"Don't be a dill," said Tom, "cats aren't scared of the dark."

"How am I supposed to know that, I've never owned a cat?"

"I reckon he's just hungry, that's all," Shortie said. "I'd better take 'em home and give 'em something to eat."

Chapter 12

Wednesday, 13 November 1968

"Hello, Peter Thompson here, can I help you?"

"Hi there gorgeous, it's me. What are you up to?"

"Um...nothing much," Peter looked guiltily at Jane, "I was just on my way out."

"Great. Meet me at the Piccolo in fifteen minutes."

"The Piccolo?"

"Yeah, you know that little coffee shop you used to take me to after a show."

"I know where it is, I just thought it was a strange place to meet."

"Oh, come on now, I thought it would be nice and romantic. But...if you prefer, we could go somewhere else..."

Peter could hear the disappointment in Maggie's voice and quickly tried to make amends. "No, no, the Piccolo's fine. I'll see you there in fifteen minutes." He hung up the phone and looked at Jane. "I...um...I have to go."

"When will I see you again?" she asked, much more confident after her recent triumph.

Knowing that he had behaved atrociously, Peter tried to let her down gently. He stood in front of her and held her hands. "I'm sorry Jane, I shouldn't have let that happen."

She looked at him accusingly but never said a word. Her silence made him uncomfortable and she made no attempt to break it. He struggled to find the right thing to say. "Look, I think you're a wonderful girl. You're pretty, you're smart, you could have anyone you want. I'm really flattered and everything but this was a huge mistake – I should never have let it happen in the first place, I know – but that's no excuse, I simply can't let it continue." Peter knew that he was rambling but her silence made him persist. "Look, Jane, I really am sorry, but it can't go on, okay? It's over. You'll thank me for it later, you'll see."

Jane slowly shook her head. "Oh no, Sir, you're wrong about that."

"What? I mean, I beg your pardon?" Peter didn't know if she meant that it wasn't over, or that she wouldn't thank him for it. He tried again. "I'm sorry, I'm wrong about what?"

Without answering, she pulled her hands away from his and straightened her clothes. "You better go then," she instructed, "you don't want to keep her waiting." Her manner became visibly defiant, some of her previous gloating gone. But not so much that the triumphant smile she gave him as she left the office didn't send a chill up his spine and leave him with a sinking feeling in his gut.

***

Maggie parked the car and walked the short distance to the Piccolo. She could smell the coffee before she had even entered the tiny café. It had been ages since she and Peter had been there, but the moment she walked through the door, the memories came rushing back. Not specifically of the Piccolo – although, they were certainly amongst some of the fondest – but of Kings Cross in general.

Despite its reputation, Maggie loved coming to the Cross. The bohemian atmosphere and sordid notoriety were certainly part of the attraction, but Maggie knew it was more than that. To Maggie, the place pulsed with such radiant energy and life, despite its tawdry inhabitants. No, not despite them, thought Maggie but because of them. Without the prostitutes and drag queens, artists and crooks, writers and restaurateurs, the Cross would just be another inner-city suburb. And while many were repulsed by the corruption and desperation - mingled with the glamour and ritz, given the choice, Maggie would change nothing. She loved it just as it was.

She ordered an espresso and sat at one of the benches along the wall and waited for Peter. She was glad she'd decided to come. She lit a cigarette and looked around her. The stress of work seeped away as she sat looking at how little the place had changed since the last time she had visited. There were a couple of new pictures amongst the collage of celebrities adorning the walls, but otherwise the only changes were those that had taken place outside. The area was teeming with men in uniform. It seemed that the rest and recreation culture that Maggie knew existed during the Second World War was back in full swing, thanks to Vietnam.

Maggie looked at her watch. She couldn't wait to see Peter. She was sure he would be as happy to be here as she was. As odd as it sounded, it was one of the first places he had taken her when they started dating. When asked what she wanted to do for the day, Maggie had been quick to suggest they include a visit to Kings Cross on their agenda. Peter had been surprised by her request, it was not the sort of place you took a girl on the first date, he explained.

At the time Maggie had laughed at him. "I have been there before you know," she taunted. "We Novocastrians are not the philistines you sophisticated Sydney-siders take us for."

"Oh really," he said with an invisible plum in his mouth, "I never would have guessed."

Taking the bait, Maggie went on to explain that she had visited with her aunt earlier in the year. She and Bea had caught a train to Sydney and had spent the day sightseeing and shopping. With a couple of hours to fill, Bea had suggested they stroll down William Street. Before they knew it, they had entered Kings Cross.

Later that day, Bea had confessed that she'd deliberately misled Maggie. She had intended to show Maggie the Cross all along but was not sure how she would take to the idea. Having previously lived in Sydney for some years, Bea had been to Kings Cross many times and was sure that Maggie was just the sort of person to appreciate its charm.

At the time, Peter seemed genuinely shocked by her confession. "But, who escorted you?" he asked.

"No one, it was just Bea and I." Maggie couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"What were you thinking, two women on your own wandering through a place like that?"

Maggie recalled the event, "...and didn't we feel deliciously naughty for venturing through the streets alone." She remembered the initial exhilaration she had felt. She wasn't sure if it had more to do with the mysterious new world they were entering, or if it was the liberating effect of leaving the old one behind. Either way, she had experienced an affinity with the place that had stayed with her since.

Peter was not of the same mind as Maggie on the matter. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

"Well, there was no one to take us."

"No, I mean, why would you want to go there at all? Did anyone bother you?"

"Now why would _anyone_ want to do a thing like that?" Maggie was beginning to think it might have been a mistake to tell him about her visit to Kings Cross. His reaction was not unlike what she would have expected had her mother learned of their sojourn to the Mecca of depravity. Luckily for Maggie, Bea was just as good at keeping a secret as Maggie was and her mother was spared the details of their adventure. "Besides," she said, steering the subject away from her trip to the Cross, "I'm glad I came to Sydney that day, or I never would have met you."

Peter looked at Maggie questioningly.

She shook her head. "Uh huh, that's right, it was the same day I met you at the bookshop."

Peter's face softened at his first memory of Maggie. She had been browsing the shelves of the Theosophical Society's bookshop with her head cocked to the side so she could read the titles on the spines. Not watching where she was going, she had bumped straight into him. She had been sufficiently embarrassed by her clumsiness that she had blushed and won him over instantly.

After spending the next half hour exchanging small talk, Bea signalled Maggie that it was time to go. Peter had been so captivated by Maggie's mischievous blue eyes and pleasant nature that he had brazenly asked her for her address so that he could continue their conversation another time.

Without asking Bea if she minded, she handed over her aunt's address and made Peter promise he would write. True to his word, she received his first letter a week later.

It was to be the first of many.

After a couple of months of writing to each other, they arranged a day out in Sydney. It was to be their first official date and Maggie had caught the train all the way from Newcastle to be with him. She had hoped like mad that she had not spoiled it before it had even begun by suggesting he take her to Kings Cross.

She was just about to change her mind on the matter when Peter gave in. He reluctantly admitted that he had never been there himself, and despite his unease, he agreed to the excursion. Besides, he told her, he wanted to share some news with her and he wanted her to be in the right frame of mind when he did.

It turned out that Peter was well practised in understatement. Sitting in the Kashmir coffee shop, surrounded by some of the most fantastic murals Maggie had ever seen, Maggie was to learn of Stephen and Michelle. Amidst the exotic images, Peter told her that his kids were the joy of his life and that he couldn't wait for her to meet them.

She had been somewhat taken aback by his news, and rightly so.

Waking her from her daydream, Peter reached down and gave Maggie a kiss on the cheek. "Hi Babe, been here long?"

She smiled up at him, "A couple of minutes."

"I'll just grab a coffee. Be right back." Peter ordered his coffee and sat down opposite Maggie.

"What's up?" she asked.

Peter picked at his nails. "Nothing, why?"

"You look a bit frazzled, that's all." Maggie reached across and tenderly stroked his hand. "You look flustered as well."

"It's warm outside," Peter offered.

"Is it too warm to go for a walk through the Cross?"

"Should be okay if you want."

"Mmm, that might be nice. It's been a while since we've been here, wouldn't you say?"

Peter shrugged. "Hmm, it's been a while."

Sensing something really was up, Maggie persisted. "You sure you're okay? You seem a little distant."

"I'm fine," Peter reassured her, "just another shitty day at work."

Maggie let go of Peter's hand and leaned back against the seat. "I can't wait til we're on holidays, can you?"

The question seemed to relax Peter a little. He couldn't help but smile at Maggie's childlike enthusiasm. "We'll have to remember to take more records this time," he suggested.

Maggie laughed. As much as she loved Hendrix, she had to admit it could get a bit boring when it's the only selection available for a whole week. "That's okay, I'll have to remember to take _Electric Ladyland_ too," she teased.

"Gee thanks."

The waitress brought Peter his coffee and emptied the ashtray. Maggie passed him the sugar and studied his face while he put some in his cup and stirred it. He wasn't his usual self, she could tell. After last night she was sure that whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with her. His gentle lovemaking had convinced her of that. "Marjorie called again," she told him.

"What did she want?"

"It's difficult to know since she never says a word."

"Oh, one of those calls." Peter raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip. As he did so, the unmistakable scent of Jane on his fingers caused his heart to start. Great, that was all he needed. Maggie had already held his hand. It would be just his luck that she would sniff out his guilty secret.

"I think she must want to speak with Stephen and she hangs up if he doesn't answer. I'll have to make sure he picks the phone up whenever he's home. Maybe we can catch her out."

Peter surreptitiously stirred his hot drink with his fingers, hoping to replace the smell of Jane with coffee and thus silence his pounding heart. He was sure Maggie must have been able to hear its tortured thump from where she sat. "I'm sure she'll stop once she talks to Stephen," he agreed.

Maggie frowned at Peter's display of bad manners but didn't bother to chide him. "Yeah, I suppose you're right," she agreed. It was apparent to Peter that for the time being he was off the hook. Maggie looked way too concerned with her own problems to notice his discomfort.

The idea of Maggie being upset about something made him feel even more of a bastard. Instead of giving her his full support, he was too busy replaying recent events in his mind. The enormity of what he had done still hadn't sunk in, but he had a horrible feeling that in time it would. What would Maggie say if she knew? He had asked himself that question a thousand times in the time it had taken him to arrive at the coffee shop, but so far, he had no idea.

Maggie mistook Peter's melancholic look for one of tenderness, making her instantly feel better. Peter reached out and reclaimed Maggie's hand. Without saying a word, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it gently before putting it back down on the table in front of her.

"Isn't this romantic?" Maggie propped her head in her hands and gazed at Peter adoringly. "We always used to come here, how come we don't anymore?"

Peter shrugged. "It's just one of those things. You know how it is; kids, work, busy lives..." he let the sentence trail off as his thoughts returned to the events of the afternoon.

Unfortunately she did know how it was. Just as she had often done, Maggie imagined how much busier life would be if she and Peter were to have more children. While she still hadn't given up on her dream to have a baby with Peter, she was enough of a pragmatist to know that given her awful luck thus far, it wasn't likely to happen any time soon. If it didn't happen shortly, thought Maggie, she would be too old to have babies. Then what?

Then, she'd be left with one more regret, that's what. For her thirty-five years, Maggie had remarkably few regrets but not being able to have a baby with Peter would surely be the biggest of them, by far. Apart from not having patched things up with her mother, the only other regret Maggie had was one she was powerless to change. It was irrational she knew, but for Maggie, the idea of having shared her entire life with Peter was one she cherished. She would have given anything to have experienced the triumphs and tragedies of childhood with him, and for them to have grown into adolescence together. As far as Maggie was concerned, the magic and wonder of youth was one of God's greatest gifts. Unfortunately, as she had learned far too late, the innocence fades, and the reality of the memories – untouchable and fragile – lay out of reach forever.

When Peter and Maggie first started dating, one of the hardest things for Maggie to overcome was the knowledge that Peter had shared his life so completely with another person. Peter had been Maggie's first love. She had known that even before he had told her about Michelle and Stephen. The fact that Peter had children was not, in itself, a bad thing. What they represented however, was a problem. They were a constant reminder of his previous life.

The dilemma for Maggie lay in the fact that she would not change the past even if she could. Just as she had said many times before, the problem with changing the past was that changing even the smallest thing could have the largest of consequences.

So it was that Maggie had learned to deal with the things she could not change. If she couldn't share the gift of youth with Peter, she could at least resign herself to the knowledge that they would grow old together. Besides, Maggie was certain that the time would come when they would cherish the recent years in the same manner that they cherished their lost childhood.

"What are you staring at mister?" Maggie wondered how long Peter had been watching her while she sat lost in thought.

"You, you're beautiful."

She smiled at him. How simple life appeared to be, sitting in the Piccolo on a sunny afternoon. It was times like this that she could almost forget about the rat race and the speed with which their lives fled by. Hell, it was times like this that Maggie could forget that Peter had ever shared his life with anyone but her.

Suddenly eager to finish her coffee and get back home, Maggie suggested they leave.

"I thought you wanted to go for a walk?" Peter enquired.

"I did, but now I have a better plan," she gave him one of her looks, the kind she reserved for when she was feeling frisky.

"Oh really, do tell?" he teased.

His playful response made Maggie smile but left him feeling rotten. It was the second awful thing he had done in one day, the first one had left him feeling as horny as hell and wanting more. If he were in a more thoughtful frame of mind, he would have resisted Maggie's advances. Not just because he thought it was in bad taste to be intimate with his wife after fooling around with someone else, but because he was mindful of the fact that Maggie would be left with the task of finishing what Jane had started.

The more he thought about it, the more he decided he couldn't do that to his wife. He still loved her with all his heart, despite his recent transgression. But the look of passion he saw on Maggie's face took his breath away, and his body reacted with enthusiasm in spite of his self-recriminations. Peter returned her smile. He knew that to deny her now would be even more selfish, so he resigned himself to the knowledge that it would be the first deed in a long line of many whose sole purpose was to atone for his sins. If such a thing were possible.

Oblivious to his discomfort, Maggie looked at him in anticipation of what was to come. She leaned across the table and whispered in his ear, shamelessly recounting what she intended to do to him once she got him home. Then, with Maggie giggling like a school girl, and Peter overflowing with guilt and anxiety, they left the rest of their coffee and headed back to their cars.

"I'll race you home," Maggie challenged.

Peter hurried across the road and headed for his car. "You're on," he said in as normal a voice as he could muster.

Chapter 13

Sunday, 16 December 1979

As soon as I sat down, the phone rang. Kate got up and answered it. It was Shortie's mum. "Mrs O'Connor wants to know if you know where Darren is."

"He said he was going home."

"What time was that?"

"I dunno, a couple of hours ago, I suppose."

"Well, he isn't home yet."

"Tell her to try Mitchell's place. He might have stopped there to show him the kittens."

Kate passed on my suggestion to Mrs O'Connor. "Oh, and tell her his pushbike's still here, he hasn't come to get it yet," she added before hanging up the phone and joining us at the table. "Mrs O'Connor said she'd send Shortie up to get it when he got home," she explained.

Teatime at our place is always noisy. Mum insists that we all sit at the table to eat. We aren't allowed to watch TV but she doesn't mind if we talk as long as we don't talk with our mouths full. I asked Mum if she'd finished my dress yet. "Almost; I'll get you to try it on after tea."

It was my turn to wash up. Brian and I took it in turns with Kate and Tracy. They always fight over who gets to wash, but Brian's too little, so I always get to wash and he always has to dry. Suck eggs pansy boy!

After the dishes were done, Mum got me to put the dress on and stand on a stool so she could pin the hem. It looked exactly like the dress in the shop. Except, mine was blue and white and the one in the shop was green. "I think I like this one better," I told Mum.

She looked pleased.

I stood on the stool watching a Bugs Bunny Christmas special. Most of the usual programs were finished until next year, so I knew we'd be stuck with Christmas specials and repeats until then. It didn't make a lot of difference anyway, because I don't usually watch much TV. Mum makes me go to bed before all the good shows start. Except Disneyland on Sundays, that is. It starts at six o'clock, which is before my bedtime. Kate and Tracy always complain when we watch Disneyland because it's on at the same time as Countdown. Mum makes them watch Countdown on Saturdays, but they still complain because Saturday's show is a repeat from the previous Sunday, and by the time they get to watch it, their friends have told them everything that happened.

Wile E. Coyote tried once again to catch the Road Runner. This time he used an ACME snowmaking machine. An ad came on just as the snow landed on Coyote. Mum was getting impatient with me for trying to watch TV. "If you want this hem straight, I suggest you stand straight."

I turned around and stood to attention. A straight hem is far more important than watching Saint Joseph's High School sing some stupid Christmas carol in the ad break. I saw Frank Pollard sing "Joy to the World" with the NBN choir the other night. Hopefully, by the time school goes back everyone will have forgotten about it. He's already up himself because he's in the choir. If he thinks everyone saw him on TV, he'll be a total pain in the backside.

Mum patted me on the bum. "There you go, all done." I took the dress off and went to get ready for bed. I got as far as the hallway when the phone rang. "I'll get it," I yelled. It was Shortie's Mum again. Shortie still wasn't home. She sounded very worried. It was already dark and he should've been home by now. She asked me again if I was sure that Shortie didn't say anything about stopping on the way home. I said he hadn't. What is it with grownups? They ask you a question and when they don't get the answer they want, they ask you if you're sure – as if it's somehow going to change the answer.

After I hung up the phone, I told Mum who it was. She rang Mrs O'Connor back to see if she needed her and Dad to help look for Shortie. Mrs O'Connor said that they'd already driven around the streets a few times but hadn't been able to find him. They'd also rung most of his friends, but no one knew where he was.

Mum and Dad left Kate and Tracy in charge and drove to the O'Connor's place. Mum said I could stay up until they got home but she made Brian go to bed. Kate went to have a bath and Tracy and me stayed and watched TV. I wasn't paying much notice to what was on because I was too worried about Shortie. He'd never done this kind of thing before, at least not to my knowledge.

Mum and Dad knocked on the front door, waking me with a start. I must have fallen asleep on the lounge. Tracy and Kate were in their room listening to Tracy's Sherbet record. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost eleven. "Where was he?" I asked.

"They still haven't found him," Mum explained. "They've called the police, but they said they couldn't do much until tomorrow, so we came home. His parents and brothers have gone back out to look for him. They said they'd call us as soon as he gets home."

***

I dreamt I heard the phone ring. I was sitting at the kitchen table eating lamb cutlets and it just kept ringing. No one got up to answer it. Dad was talking about a customer who didn't know they had to put oil in their car. They'd owned it for four and a half years and had never checked the oil once. Mum was telling Dad about Mrs Saunders' kidney stones, but he wasn't listening, he was too busy telling us how to do an oil change. The weird part was that I knew I was dreaming, so I didn't bother to answer the phone, I just let it ring.

Dad's voice woke me "...I'm sure he'll be just fine. Try not to worry about it and get a good night's sleep."

The phone really had been ringing. I had no idea what time it was but I figured it must have been late because the room was pitch black. I got out of bed to see who was calling. I was sure it would be the O'Connors ringing to say that Shortie was home, so I got out of bed and tiptoed into the dining room. "Is Shortie okay?"

The look on Dad's face told me that he wasn't. He hung up the phone and pressed his fingers to his lips. "Shush, don't wake the whole house," he whispered.

I lowered my voice. "Well, where was he?" He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear him. "Shortie's been found but he's been bashed up pretty bad and they've taken him to hospital for a check-up. Shortie's brother found him tied to a tree in the bush behind their house."

"He's been there all this time? Why didn't he call out to someone?"

"Apparently, whoever bashed him up shoved a paper bag in his mouth so he couldn't call out."

"I bet it was the Dumbrells. You'd better call the O'Connors straight back and tell them," I demanded.

"I'll do no such thing! Mr and Mrs O'Connor are still at the hospital. There'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow." He reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. "Why don't we go back to bed for now, I'm sure we'll hear more in the morning."

I gave Dad a goodnight kiss and turned to walk down the hallway.

"Um, Jenny, there's something else you should know."

"What?"

"Whoever bashed up Shortie killed the kittens."

"What? That can't be. Are you sure?" I started to cry.

Dad held me while I cried for the kittens. "It's not fair, we just saved them and now they're dead."

"Shhh," Dad stroked my hair, "at least Shortie's going to be alright."

I hate the Dumbrells!

Chapter 14

Monday, 17 December 1979

The police came to visit me this morning. They said they were investigating the assault on Darren O'Connor. They made it sound very official. I told them almost everything that happened on Saturday, but I left out the embarrassing bits. I also told them what the Dumbrells did when we saw them again yesterday and about what happened at the baths on Friday. I told them how they said we were going to cop it. I even told them to check with Grandma if they wanted. They said they would.

Dad was angry with me. "Jenny, you should have told us what happened?"

I wondered how long it would take him to start on me. "I didn't want to get into trouble for fighting and I knew you wouldn't let me out again if you knew." I told him.

"Firstly, it wasn't your fault, so you wouldn't have got into trouble. And secondly, maybe we could have done something about the Dumbrells sooner if you'd told us what happened."

I hadn't thought if it that way before. If Dad was right, then it meant that it was my fault Shortie got bashed up. I started to cry again. One of the constables took over. "Jenny, it's not your fault this happened to Darren, but your father's right. Maybe we could've talked to the boys before things got out of hand." I sniffed back my tears and nodded. The constable looked at me seriously. "Promise me that if anything like this happens again, you'll report it straight away."

"I promise."

The other constable took a photo of my tummy and asked to see my ripped top. Mum looked at him questioningly. "We may need it for evidence," he explained before taking a plastic bag from his back pocket and placing my shirt inside it.

"Evidence of what?" she asked. "Surely, it's not going to come to that?"

Come to what, I wondered. Maybe they were going to take the Dumbrells to court, why else would they need evidence?

"It's just a formality at this stage ma'am," he said politely, as though that was all the explanation required.

Before Dad went to work, he gave me a lecture on how I should've told him what happened and how he could never forgive himself if something happened to me. I made such a point of telling him that I was worried that he and Mum would baby me like Dianne's mum does, that he didn't say I wasn't allowed out on my own like I thought he would.

"Can we ring and find out how Shortie is?" I asked, as soon as he was done lecturing me. Mum overheard me ask and said she would call the O'Connors after lunch to find out how he was. She didn't want to call them now because they'd been up all night and were probably sleeping.

***

I was getting ready to go to Tom's place when he knocked on the door. Tom also got a call from Mrs O'Connor last night but he assumed that because she didn't call back, everything was okay. He couldn't believe it when he heard the news. "I bet it was those poofter Dumbrells!" He looked around quickly to see if anyone overheard him swear. Realising no one else was around he relaxed. "I heard they go mental all the time and throw things around the house." I told him that the police said they were paying them a visit this morning. "They better be!" he added.

Andrew Dumbrell told us once that Duncan would have go to a boys' home the next time he did something wrong. I hope he was telling the truth.

"Well, let's go find out when he's coming home," Tom suggested.

Dad walked out of his shed when he heard the back door shut. He tried to sound cheerful to make up for being angry with me earlier. "Well, if it isn't the Tom and Jenny show." He always says that when Tom and me are together. If Shortie's with us, he calls us the three musketeers.

"Can we ring and find out how Shortie is now?" I asked Dad.

Ignoring my question, Dad closed the shed door. "I'd better get back to work," he said to Mum, whose legs I could see sticking out from under the sheets on the line. He gave us a wave and walked up the driveway.

I heard Mum's muffled voice from behind the washing. "Mrs O'Connor called before while you were in your room. She said he was doing okay. The police talked to the Dumbrells this morning, but they won't find out until later if any charges will be laid."

"Can we go and visit him in the hospital?"

"He'll be home shortly, you can visit him then."

Mum said he was in Wallsend Hospital and it was too far to drive just for a quick visit. I couldn't understand why he had to stay in hospital so long; he'd been there all night. I thought he was just having a check-up. When I asked my parents how come, they said the hospital just wanted to make sure he was okay before sending him home. Mum said he'd be home in plenty of time for my party and told me to stop worrying.

I tried not to worry like she said, but I kept thinking about him anyway. I felt really bad that he got bashed up, it was all my fault. If I'd dobbed on the Dumbrells like Tom and Shortie said I should, this wouldn't have happened. Dad said I was being silly. He reckons bullies like the Dumbrells pick on anyone who's smaller than them and if it hadn't been Shortie; it would have been someone else. Personally, I would have preferred it to be someone else.

"Can me and Tom have some lunch?" I asked.

"You mean may Tom and I have some lunch? And yes, you may. Make yourselves a sandwich and clean up when you're done." Mum always does that. She corrects everything I say. She even corrects Tom. When I grow up and have kids, I'm never going to do that to them; it's so annoying.

We made ourselves a Vegemite sandwich and took them down to the cubby to eat. Mum won't let me take glasses outside, so we skulled our cordial before we left. "Let's go see what Ed's doing," I said with my mouth full. Just as well Mum wasn't around, because I'd get into trouble for that too. I often wonder what people did before manners where invented.

I shoved the last of my sandwich into my mouth. Tom had already finished his. I went inside and quickly packed away the lunch stuff. Tom was waiting out the front for me by the time I'd finished, so I yelled to Mum to tell her that I was leaving.

"Okay, don't be late," she called back.

We walked to Ed's place to see if he wanted to play. His place smelled delicious, even on a full tummy. It always does, no matter what time of day it is. I'm never sure what it is, but his mum's always cooking something that smells good. His family is Italian, so maybe that has something to do with it. Ed had to go visit his cousins at Kilaben Bay, so he couldn't come with us. That left just Tom and me, so we left Ed's place and walked back down the hill towards my place.

"Let's go to Deefie's Hill and pick some blackberries," Tom suggested.

"What if the Dumbrells are there again?"

"They won't be. The cops have been to see them today so they wouldn't dare."

***

I raced in and grabbed an ice cream container and was back out without anyone realising I'd been home. I wanted to surprise Mum with them when we got back. I might even be able to talk her into to making a pie if we pick enough. We'd just started walking along the track towards Deefie's Hill when Tom asked if I wanted to go to the creek first. I was happy to get off the main pathway in case the Dumbrells turned up again. I thought it was unlikely but I was worried nonetheless.

We turned off the track and followed a narrower path into the bush. The path wound through the bush for a bit before twisting around some Paperbark trees and dwindling away to nothing. We had to walk around a big pile of Lantana to get to the creek. The mud at the edge of the creek was dry and cracked. Whenever it rains, the water gets really deep. Sometimes it comes all the way up to our bums, but not today. Today, the creek was only about three feet wide and not very deep. We sat on the old tree trunk that had fallen across the water years ago, making a bridge. We took our shoes off and dangled our feet in the water. It was nice and cool. I noticed Tom had a row of fine scratches across his thigh were he'd brushed up against some cut grass walking to the creek. I reached across and ran my fingers along the rows of red lines. "Tom?"

"Yes."

"What do you reckon will happen to the Dumbrells?"

"I hope they get locked up in a home for boys where they get bashed up every day."

Trust Tom to say something like that. I wasn't sure if I wanted them to get bashed up _every_ day, but I did think the boys home sounded like a good idea. "Do you think they'll come after us?"

"They wouldn't be game. Besides, if they lay a finger on you, I'll beat them black and blue."

I didn't dare tell Tom that, even though I thought he was really brave for saying so, I didn't think he'd win two against one. I know Shortie did, but he took them by surprise.

We put our shoes back on and walked the rest of the way to Deefie's Hill. The sign at the bottom of the hill warned us one more time that "trespassers will be prosecuted". I'm not really sure what it means but I think it has something to do with the death penalty. It must be a really old sign though, because Dad said we don't have the death penalty in Australia anymore.

We heard the voices before we saw who they belonged to. My heart raced and I felt the colour drain from my face. I was sure Tom could hear my heart pounding from where he stood. I must have been holding my breath without realising it because I heard myself let it out slowly when I saw that it was only Mitchell Morgan and Craig Wilkinson. They'd made some jumps out of old logs and planks of wood and they were riding their bikes over them.

Tom snickered. "Check out Evel Knievel and Dale Buggins, will you." Craig jumped over the ramp and skidded up beside us, almost suffocating us in a cloud of dust. "Did ya hear what happened to Shortie?" he asked.

"Of course we did, the police were at my place this morning," I said with an air of authority. I was certain the police hadn't talked to anyone else except me.

"Who do you think did it?" Mitchell asked pulling up beside Craig.

Tom was quick to answer. "Who else, it was them fuckwit Dumbrells."

"I heard they shoved a paper bag in his mouth and pissed on his head," Craig added.

"They did not," I said. "I would know about it if it they did. They just tied him up and put a bag in his mouth, that's all."

"Who told you that?" asked Tom.

Mitchell told us that his brother David found out from Jason Morley who lives next door to the Dumbrells. David reckons Andrew Dumbrell told Jason that he heard the police talking to his dad. He also said that Duncan and Dean told the police they had nothing to do with it.

"Fucking liars," Tom spat.

We left Craig and Mitchell doing jumps on their bikes and walked behind the blackberry bushes. Tom pointed to a patch of blackberries near his feet. "Here's a good spot."

Pastel coloured flowers poked their perfectly formed petals through every gap making it difficult to tell the blackberries from the Lantana. There were thousands of blackberries, they were everywhere I looked. Tom had already eaten a handful by the time I got there. Mum says we shouldn't eat them without washing them first but we always do. We've never been sick from eating them unwashed yet.

We took our time and filled the container three quarters full, eating almost as many as we collected. We even managed to climb up onto an old car and get right into the middle where there was a mountain of them. Mum won't be very happy when she sees all my scratches but I'm hoping the container full of blackberries will make up for that.

I wasn't sure how long we'd been gone, but it looked like it was getting late. Neither of us had a watch, so we didn't know what time it was. Craig and Mitchell had left ages ago. "We better get going," I suggested.

"Just a couple more," said Tom. "There's almost enough to make a pie."

As if he knew how many blackberries you needed to make a pie, I thought. We both noticed a pile of berries at the bottom of the bush that we'd overlooked. We knelt down to pick them, staining our knees on the squished berries. I looked over to Tom and laughed. His mouth was all red from eating the berries.

"What are you laughing at?" he asked.

"You, your mouth's all red."

"So's yours," he said, and leaned over and kissed me smack on the mouth. "Mmm... just as I thought, blackberries!"

"What'd you do that for?" I could feel my face turning red and I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I just wanted to see what you taste like, that's all." He stood up to go. "C'mon, that should be enough, let's get out of here."

Just like that! He kisses me on the lips and then pretends nothing happened. Jeez! I had no idea what to say, so I chickened out and also pretended like it never happened. Only, I couldn't stop thinking about it all the way home.

***

Dad was in the shed when I got back. Mum and Brian were at Grandma's, and Kate and Tracy were at a friend's place. Dad looked up from his workbench and came over to the door where I was standing.

"How come you're home early?" I asked.

"I had a few things I needed to sort out, so Doug said I could get away early."

I wasn't sure how to say what I wanted to ask next, so I just jumped straight in. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Is it true that the Dumbrells weed on Shortie's head?"

"Who told you that?"

"Mitchell Morgan told us that Jason Morley found out from Andrew Dumbrell."

"I see."

"Well? Is it true?"

Dad sighed and I knew straight away that it was. He had that same look on his face he always gets when I ask him something he doesn't want to answer. Like the time I asked him what a rug muncher was. He had that same look then. "How come you didn't tell me about it?" I demanded.

"Well, your mother and I thought it best you didn't know," he said. "You know, to save Shortie the embarrassment and all that."

"What else happened?"

"Nothing, that's everything."

"Promise?"

"Promise!"

Chapter 15

Saturday, 23 November 1968

Peter grabbed his car keys and kissed Maggie on the cheek. "See ya babe, I'll be back before my oldies arrive."

Maggie turned back to the sink and continued making the salad. "What time did you tell them to get here?"

"Same as usual, around five."

That meant they would arrive at four. They always arrived an hour early. Faye was convinced that something would happen on the way and John humoured her because it was much easier than arguing. By now, everyone was so used to Faye's ridiculous insistence at arriving early that they simply added an hour to the scheduled start time of any event. Faye was so adamant of her need to take such precautions that it never even struck her as odd that despite the considerable time she allowed herself and the absence of any tragedy befalling her along the way, everyone else still got there within minutes of her.

Stephen snatched a piece of carrot from the chopping board as he walked past. "Hey Dad, can I grab a lift to Mark's place?"

"Sure. C'mon."

Maggie called after him. "Aren't you staying for the barbie?"

"Yeah, I'll be straight back. I just have to get a few things from Mark's then he's going to drive me back home."

"Will he be staying for the barbie too?" Maggie asked.

"Yeah, probably."

For as long as Maggie could remember, Saturday afternoon barbeques at their place had been a tradition. Roger and Mary almost always turned up with Susan and Rebecca, as did Peter's parents, Faye and John. Friends and neighbours were often invited and the kids would invariably have one or two friends along as well. When the kids were younger – and Maggie and Peter's life was less hectic – the Saturday afternoon barbecue was almost a weekly occurrence. Now with the kids grown up, Michelle home infrequently, and everyone busy doing more of who knows what, they were lucky to get together once a month. In fact, it had been five weeks since the last barbecue and Faye had been nagging Maggie for almost two of those weeks to set a date for the next one.

It was no secret that Faye looked forward to the family get-togethers. She often complained that apart from the occasional barbecue, she hardly got to see her family anymore. Of course, her complaints were totally unfounded. Their house was only five minutes by car from Maggie and Peter's and fifteen minutes from Roger and Mary's, but because their car spent more time at the pub with John than in their driveway, the task of driving Faye about often fell to Maggie. Hardly a week went by that Maggie did not have to drive her somewhere or run an errand for her. Maggie knew that Faye was not beyond asking Mary to taxi her around either. Whenever she felt she had run out of goodwill with one daughter-in-law, she would move on to the next.

Of course nobody bothered to argue the point with her. Arguing anything with Faye was not a good use of anyone's time. She was relentless in her conviction that she was correct in everything she said and believed, and to challenge Faye was to invite an endless string of illogical and often irrational arguments. Peter always joked that his mum would die at echo point. Maggie thought that the trick was to ensure that you didn't die there with her.

Peter dropped Stephen at Mark's place and drove the short distance to the university. He was already regretting his decision to take up the additional task of marking exams. He knew that with the repairs needed at Bellbird Cottage, the money would come in handy. However, before he had even begun his first assignment, he was starting to doubt if it was worth his time. God knows, he had precious little of it as it was without having to work on weekends as well.

He pulled into the almost deserted car park and walked across the campus to the engineering faculty. He was not used to everything being so quiet. Only a handful of people could be seen wandering through the grounds. The absence of the normal hustle and bustle made the place appear somewhat larger than usual. Peter unlocked the building and headed towards his office. Since he was not going to be long, he did not bother to lock the door behind him. His footsteps reverberated through the office block as he walked down the empty corridor. Normally he would try to muffle the noise by treading softly, but since no one was around, he didn't bother.

The garbage bin on his desk confirmed that the cleaner had been and gone. He unlocked his filing cabinet and grabbed the bulging manila folder out of the top drawer. He checked through the papers to make sure he had the marking guide. Looking at the exam paper on top of the pile, it was obvious that the student in question had already made at least one mistake. He was about to flick through the next paper when he realised he was dawdling, so not wanting to waste any more time, he closed the folder, turned the light off, and pulled the door shut behind him. Before departing, he gave the handle one last turn to make sure that he had locked the door properly.

"Well, hello there."

Peter jumped so high he almost dropped the folder.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Peter felt his stomach sink. What the hell is she doing here, he wondered.

"Thanks for leaving the door open for me."

Peter turned to face her. "I didn't," he said, sounding far colder than he intended.

Jane never missed a beat. "No? Well, you could have fooled me. I watched you enter the building. You looked straight at me, inviting me to follow you."

Peter was flabbergasted. He didn't know what to say. Surely she didn't really think he had left the door open for her. "I'm sorry Jane, you're mistaken. I never even saw you."

"Nice looking kid."

"Sorry?" Peter sounded confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Your kid. Well, I assume it was your kid. The one you dropped off on the way here."

"You mean Stephen?"

"I don't know. The tall guy you had with you in your car. I assumed he was your son. He sure looks like you. Very groovy, if you don't mind me saying so."

"What are you doing here? Did you follow me?" Peter's voice had a distinct edge to it.

"Whoa, hang on a minute Sir, one question at a time. What am I doing here? Well, let's see. I was getting bored, so I went for a drive. I decided that, since my exams were over, it was time I got myself a little R and R. Then, before I knew it, I accidentally found myself driving past your place. I saw you and your kid get into your car, and well... you don't need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out the rest."

Peter was stunned. She had followed him. Determined not to let her see how much her confession had shaken him, he tried to sound calm. "Maybe you should check out the Bourbon and Beefsteak, I hear it's a great place for a little R and R." He realised he was being mean but he couldn't help it. She had no right to be stalking him this way. Peter decided the best thing he could do was to get the hell out of there.

Jane was obviously not in her usual state, and he wondered if she was on something. Peter didn't know much about drugs, but he had heard of things like French Blues and Purple Hearts, as well as the more common stuff like LSD and heroin. Whatever she was on, he did not think it was weed. He and Maggie were not beyond having a joint or two from time to time, so he was familiar with marijuana's calming effects. Jane, on the other hand, looked like she was jumping out of her skin, and he had no idea how to deal with her.

She pretended to be shocked by his suggestion. "Oh, come now Sir, that's not the kind of place a young lady should go on her own. Besides, I think I've found exactly what I need right here."

You're not a lady, thought Peter as she inched towards him; succubus is more fitting a term for you. He stepped back as far as he could but was restricted by his office door. "Look," he stammered, "like I said, I'm flattered, but I'm sorry, I'm just not interested."

She stood so close to him that he could see the pores of her skin. If it had not been for the folder he held like a shield in front of him, he had no doubt that he would have been able to feel her body against his. Knowing that he was at his most vulnerable when she was close, he tried to sidestep her and put some distance between them.

Jane realised what he was doing and put her hands up in a resigned manner. "It's a little late for propriety, wouldn't you say?"

Now that she was further away, he felt his panic subside and anger take over. How dare she put him on the spot like this? Why couldn't she just take the hint and leave him alone? "No, I wouldn't say," he responded curtly, "I told you already, it's over."

Jane stared at him coldly. "Well Sir, I'm pleased to hear you think so, but given this whole _affair_ involves me as well, don't you think I should have some say in when it's over?"

Peter looked Jane in the eye and spoke firmly. "Jane, I don't know how much clearer I can be, it's over. In fact, it never even began. I just let myself get carried away and I shouldn't have."

Jane shook her head from side to side. "No Sir, it's not over. We still have some unfinished business." With that, she began unbuttoning her blouse.

"Please don't do that, Jane. You'll only embarrass yourself." Peter could hear the panic return to his voice and looked around for an escape route. He took a step forward but Jane stepped in front of him and blocked him. Satisfied that he was not going to run away from her, she took a step back and undid the last button.

Peter cast his eyes over her head and down the hall so that he would not have to look at the smooth skin being unveiled in front of him. "Jane, please leave."

"You don't mean that, Sir. I can tell by your eyes that you want me, so here," – she opened her blouse, exposing her breasts – "come and get it."

"Jane, please don't make me be rude to you. Just do up your shirt and leave."

Jane stared at him in disbelief. The look on her face told Peter that she finally understood that he was not about to continue where they had left off over a week ago.

Recognising her change in mood, Peter almost felt sorry for her. "Look," he said more gently, "I'm sorry Jane, but I have to go." Then, without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out.

***

"Shit," Peter swore out loud as he remembered he had to lock the door. He sat on a nearby bench and lit a cigarette. Jane would not be able to see him where he sat unless she turned around on her way out. He waited impatiently for her to appear. If he didn't get home soon, Maggie would wonder where he was.

A short time later, she appeared. She ran out of the building and towards the car park without a backwards glance. In less than a minute, she was out of sight. Peter stubbed out his cigarette, locked the door and walked briskly to his car. Half expecting to see her waiting for him, he was relieved to find the car park almost empty. The few cars that were there were also empty. He took a couple of deep breaths before getting into his car and driving away.

Despite not finding her in his rear-view mirror once, he nervously looked over his shoulder all the way home. He pulled into his driveway and got out of the car. He noticed his parents' car parked on the street and silently thanked God for their presence. With a bit of luck, there would be too much commotion for anyone to notice his edginess. He locked his car and took one last look around. As far as he could tell, he had not been followed. Maybe this time she got the message and today would be the last he heard from her.

Chapter 16

Tuesday, 18 December 1979

It's been nearly two days since Shortie went to hospital and he still isn't home. Mum keeps telling me he'll be home in time for my party. She better be right!

I still have four more days to go. So far, there are eleven kids coming from school. Meagan Little isn't coming and neither is Karen Dobson. Michael Simpson and Jeanette Davis still haven't told me if they're coming. Mum invited Aunty Audrey and Uncle Mick as well as Aunty Joanne and Uncle Dennis. Between them they have five kids. Kerrie-Anne and Bridget are the only ones around my age, but because they're my cousins all five will be there. Even my Aunty Clare is coming, only she doesn't like being called Aunty, she reckons it makes her sound old.

Clare is Dad's sister. Out of all my aunties, she's my favourite. I don't think my other aunties like her much though, because they always talk about her whenever she comes around. They reckon she's a hippy and that she should act her age. They think that because she's nearly twenty-seven, she should be settling down and having a family, not gallivanting around like she's still at uni.

Whenever Clare comes to visit, she always talks to me about stuff. Not just kid stuff either, grown up stuff. She told me once that she likes to talk to me because I still know how to have fun. She reckons that most grownups don't know how to have fun so they spend their lives gossiping about those that do. I thought it was nice of her to come all the way from Hamilton just for my party, especially since she doesn't have any kids to bring.

If you count the grownups, there'll be over twenty-five people all told. I can't wait.

Tom's mum said he had to stay home today and spend some time with Jim, so he isn't allowed out. I hope he doesn't have to stay home the whole time Jim's here. Mum and Dad are both at work. Dad said that the holidays are the busiest time of the year for him because lots of people want to get their cars tuned-up before going away for Christmas. We never go away at Christmas, or any other time for that matter. The closest we came to going away was the year before last when we went camping at the Watagans. We'd only been there a day when Brian got sick from drinking the water and we had to come home early. We even got a tent especially for the camping trip and it hasn't been used since. Dad said he'd think about letting me use it during the holidays. I asked him if I could camp out in the back yard and invite some friends.

Mum only works two days a week. She works at the doctor's in Toronto answering the phone and serving customers. Even though she's not there much, she seems to know everything that's wrong with everyone. I always hear her telling Mrs O'Reilly things when she comes over for a cup of tea. Mrs O'Reilly is Mum's best friend. She comes over all the time for a cup of tea. Sometimes Mum goes to her place instead. I don't like her very much, but I would never tell Mum that. She always looks down her nose at us and makes fun of us. I don't know why either, because her son is a delinquent who can't even read or write, even though he's twelve. I'm sure she'll be over this afternoon when Mum gets home. She usually is. The only time she doesn't come is on weekends when Mr O'Reilly is home.

Kate and Tracy are in charge when Mum and Dad are at work. We're usually at school when they're at work, so it doesn't happen very much. Today is the last day Mum has to work before Christmas. She usually works Tuesdays and Fridays, but the doctors are shut this Friday because of Christmas. She doesn't have to go back for two weeks after that. Dad said he's working right up to Christmas and then straight afterwards as well.

Kate and Tracy aren't too bad when they're in charge. They hardly ever tell me what to do. They just stay in their room all day listening to their stupid music. Mum says I'm not allowed to go too far when she and Dad aren't home and I have to make sure I tell Kate and Tracy where I'm going. Not that they care.

I went to tell Kate and Tracy that I was going to see if Dianne was home. I opened their bedroom door and stuck my head in. Tracy was sitting on her bed cutting out pictures from a _Teen Beat_ magazine. Above her bed was a huge poster of the Bay City Rollers and a smaller one of Sherbet. Kate was sitting on the floor flicking through an old copy of _16_.

Even though they're twins, they look nothing alike. Kate takes after Dad with her long brown hair and curls, and Tracy looks more like Mum. Tracy is taller than Kate and has straight blonde hair like me. All of us have blue eyes, even Mum and Dad. Like most twins, they have a lot in common, especially their bad taste in music. Kate's wall matched Tracy's, except her posters were of Skyhooks and Abba. On the far wall, which they share, are posters of Leif Garret, Scott Baio and one of John Travolta with Olivia Newton-John. It looked just like I'd died and come back on the set of Countdown or something. Only Scott Baio's an actor, so he wouldn't be on Countdown.

"I'm just going to see if Dianne's home," I let them know.

"Mmm," replied Kate, without even looking up.

"Then, I'm going to run away with a black fella." I wasn't really. I just wanted to see if they were listening.

"Okay," said Tracy. "Don't be late."

Just as I thought, not listening.

***

"Dianne! Jenny's here!" Dianne's Mum steered me into their lounge room. I always have to remember not to stare at her. She's got the biggest bum I've ever seen. The rest of her isn't very big but she has this enormous backside that jiggles from side to side like a bowl of jelly when she walks. "She's in her room playing, why don't you go and join her."

I walked down the hall to Dianne's room, only it wasn't her room anymore. "Here I am," she laughed.

She'd changed rooms since I'd last been at her place. Her new room was her mum's old sewing room. The light shone in through the sheer curtains, making it impossible for me to see into the bedroom with any detail. All I could see was the silhouette of Dianne sitting on top of her double bed, which she had all to herself. Standing at the door squinting, I must have looked odd to Dianne who could see me clearly. "Well, come and see for yourself, it's just lovely," she gushed.

I entered her room with as much enthusiasm as one about to be shown someone else's boring holiday slides. Puke, everything was pink! The walls, the bedspread, the frilly pillows on her bed, even the rug on the floor. All pink! The only things that weren't pink were the yellow Romper Stompers and the red Hoppity Hop ball on the floor. You can tell she is an only child, she's spoiled rotten.

"I like your new room. It looks really nice." Mum says that when you tell small fibs they're called white lies. She said white lies are okay if you're only saying them to be nice. "What are you doing?" I asked.

What a dumb thing to say. I could see she was playing with her Baby Alive. Dianne's only a couple of months younger than me but she still plays with dolls all the time. I have dolls too, but I don't have anything as good as a Baby Alive. My best doll is the bride doll Grandma got me for Christmas when I was eight. She stands in the corner of my room. I don't play with her or anything, she's not that kind of doll. Besides, I'm too old to play with dolls! "Wanna come and see our cubby? It's already finished."

"I'm not sure if I'll be allowed," Dianne said in a sooky voice.

"It's not far. It's just behind my fence so your mum can yell out from here if she wants."

Dianne went to check with her mum who said it was okay for her to come out, but she wasn't allowed to get dirty. I don't know how she's supposed to do that. I can never stay clean no matter how hard I try. That's why Mum always makes me wear old clothes to play in.

We walked back to my place and squeezed through the gap in the back fence where the palings were missing. "Can you see where we made it?" I asked.

I knew full well she couldn't. Before we left yesterday, Tom covered the front of the cubby with branches to make sure it was hidden properly. They were still there today, which meant no one's found it yet. I moved the branches away so we could get inside. I can even stand up inside, but only in the middle where it's tallest.

"Far out," Dianne gushed, "this is _so_ tops."

We thought so too. Dad came and had a look yesterday and he said it was the best cubby he'd ever seen.

Even Dad thinks it's okay to tell white lies.

We went back outside and walked along the tree trunk. If you're really careful you can walk almost to the end. The top part of the tree broke off when it fell down in the storm. Dad tied some rope to the end of it and made a tyre swing for us. He had to cut lots of branches off first so that we didn't swing into them and hurt ourselves. Mum said it wasn't safe because the swinging might make the tree fall over, but Dad said he checked it out and the branch that's holding the tree off the ground is rock solid.

I noticed that someone had twisted the rope around the trunk of the tree to make the swing shorter. I bet it was those brats Gregory and Max from next door. They're always playing with our stuff when we're not around. I walked to the end of the trunk and laid on my tummy to unwind it. The tree dug into my bruised tummy and it hurt like hell.

I told Dianne I would give her a push, so we got up to walk back down the trunk. Dianne tripped on a bit of branch and fell off. The tree isn't too far off the ground so she didn't fall far. When I looked down, she was lying on her back, trying to speak but no noise came out. Holy shit! What was happening? I raced down the trunk and knelt beside her. "Are you alright?"

When I panic, I say stupid things, I can't help it, I don't know what else to say. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to work out that she wasn't alright, but I had no idea what to do. I was just about to get her to sit up so she could breathe better, when Dianne offered a better suggestion. "Get Mum," she wheezed.

Now there was something I could do, I didn't need to be told that twice. I got up and ran as fast as I could to Dianne's place.

Chapter 17

Saturday, 23 November 1968

Maggie handed Peter the tray of sausages and rissoles and instructed him to take them outside. The coleslaw and potato salad was already made, so apart from cooking the barbeque, there was nothing left to do. Scanning the kitchen to make sure she had everything, Maggie grabbed two beers from the fridge and followed Peter outside.

Stephen and Mark were playing cricket with Susan and Rebecca. "Who's winning?" Peter asked, "girls or boys?"

"Boys of course," Mark responded.

"Do you girls need a hand?" Maggie enquired on hearing Mark's reply.

"No thanks Aunty Maggie," Rebecca answered, "we'll be fine. We're just letting them win because we know how much they'll sulk if they're beaten by a pair of girls."

Stephen laughed. "Is that right? We'll see about that."

"That's a six!" yelled Mark, as Stephen's ball hit the fence.

Susan looked at Maggie and shrugged good-naturedly. "Okay. I give up, the boys win."

Rebecca scolded her sister for letting her side down. "You can't just let them win."

"Watch me," she challenged. She put the ball next to the wicket and walked over to where the others were sitting. Rebecca shoved Mark playfully and said something to him that no one else could hear. Maggie smiled. It was nice to see the kids getting along so well. Rebecca was only a month younger than Stephen and Susan was six months older than Michelle. But, despite their age, they still enjoyed messing around like they did when they were little. The only difference being that the teasing got more serious as they got older.

Watching the kids interact together, Maggie suspected that Mark fancied Rebecca. There seemed to be a lot of flirting going on between them. Even Mary had noticed. "What's that Mark like?" she asked Maggie. "He seems to have taken more than a passing interest in Rebecca."

"He's a nice kid. She could do worse."

"Good, I'd hate for her to get hurt again. She's just gotten over Joey."

Maggie tried to recall if she'd had the pleasure of meeting Joey. For an eighteen year old, Rebecca had already had a remarkable number of boyfriends, most of whom were so fleeting that Maggie never really got to meet them. "Which one was Joey?"

"He was the one that got drunk at Rebecca's eighteenth. You know the dark brooding guy?"

"Ah yes, the rebel without a cause, how could I have forgotten him?" Maggie recalled the Bryl-creamed, bodgie wanna-be who stood holding the fence up all afternoon. Despite his fashion sense being at least a decade out of date, he acted for all the world like he was the coolest guy on earth. With his slicked back hair, snake-proof trousers and delinquent tendencies, Maggie was not surprised that Mary was concerned for her daughter. Mary knew that Joey was taking advantage of Rebecca who was almost five years younger than him, but her worst fear was that she would become his widgie girlfriend.

For three months Mary watched helplessly as Joey's influence over her daughter became more apparent. Then, without warning, he was gone and it was over. Within weeks, Rebecca had returned to her usual vivacious self. Rebecca did not tell her mother what had happened, and she refused to answer any questions. In the end, Mary was so thankful that Joey was no longer a part of Rebecca's life that she counted her blessings and asked no more. That had been over a month ago. At the time, Rebecca had sworn off boys. Now it seemed that Mark had rekindled her interest in the male species. The two of them had spent most of the afternoon with their heads together, leaving Stephen and Susan to mingle with the adults.

Even though Susan was the older of the two, she had yet to have her first serious relationship. While it was true that Rebecca was the pretty one, what Susan lacked in looks, she made up for in wit. Without a doubt, it was Susan that would make something of her life. Having completed an Arts degree last year with a major in anthropology and political science, she had all but finished her honours year at Sydney University. From all accounts, she was topping her class in most subjects.

Susan and Stephen sat down, leaving Mark and Rebecca standing next to the back veranda talking.

"So, how's uni going?" Peter asked Susan.

"Good, now that my last exam is over."

"Did you get involved in any of the protests?" Stephen enquired.

Susan responded with an air of impatience. "There's more to uni than student protests you know."

On hearing the word protest, Roger piped up. "Bloody kids! Don't they know they're there to learn. Should think 'emselves bloody lucky. They don't know how good they got it, if you ask me. When I was a kid, we knew our place. Not like kids these days. They're always protesting about one thing or another."

Stephen took up his uncle's unintended challenge. "Didn't you protest about anything when you were growing up?"

"Nuh, I didn't go to uni. Besides, we just did as we were told. We didn't argue and question everything like you kids do."

Susan jumped in before Stephen could respond. "Dad, I'm not arguing just for the sake of arguing, you know? The facts are that our government is doing lots of bad things every day. Surely you don't expect us to sit back and do nothing."

Roger rolled his eyes. "So, what've they done now?"

"They're killing thousands of innocent people every day in Vietnam, that's what," she said, flabbergasted by her father's ignorance.

"And what's that got to do with us?"

She sighed loudly. "That's my point. It has nothing to do with us. Not that it stops them from sending thousands of our young men over there to help kill those innocent people, mind you. Young men like Stephen and Mark, I might add. And do you know why?" Susan pointed at her father, "I'll tell you why. As a bribe; so that good old Uncle Sam won't reduce investment in Australia. That's why."

"So? Why should you care what happens to a bunch of slants?"

Peter looked at his brother and wondered for the hundredth time how it was that they'd turned out to be so different. As much as he loved his only brother, it was fair to say that he thought his views were racist and narrow-minded. Like Susan, Peter could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he had long given up trying to argue any sense into Roger and made a point of not discussing politics with him.

Susan looked at her dad incredulously. "Dad! How can you say that? Do you know how many people have been murdered so far? Almost two million. That's two million innocent people – women and babies included – that have died as a result of bullets, napalm and white-phosphorous, or that have been ripped up by cluster bombs. What's worse, this is supposed to be the International year of Human Rights. Can you believe such hypocrisy?"

Roger laughed at Susan's impassioned response. "So that's the rot they teach you at uni is it? It's no bloody wonder..."

Susan interrupted him before he could say anything else. "The so-called allied forces are undertaking deliberate and wide-spread bombing of civilian targets, and you ask me why I should care." She turned to face Stephen. "Can you believe my old man? Do you suppose he would feel the same way if I had been born a boy?"

Stephen knew that his dad had the same views as Susan on the subject. So did his mum for that matter. It was probably just as well she was inside or else Roger was likely to cop it with both barrels. Not wanting to sound like a dill, Stephen didn't bother to point out that the whole issue of Vietnam was a little confusing to follow. He knew that what was happening was bad and he didn't agree with killing innocent people, but he did not have the political understanding required to get as worked up on the matter as what Susan did.

Luckily for Stephen, Roger deprived him of the opportunity to respond by answering Susan's question for him; "It doesn't make no difference one way or another. I still wouldn't give a shit about no bunch of slopes if you'd been born a boy."

"Dad, surely you're not that much of a yobbo that you don't understand the implications of having a twenty year old son in this day and age?" The look on Roger's face told her all she needed to know. He had no idea what she was talking about. "Dad, please tell me you're pulling my leg. You _have_ heard of conscription, haven't you?"

"Yeah, of course I have."

"So, knowing that had I been born a boy, there would have been a good chance that I would have been forced to risk my life to fight in a war that I don't believe in, you still think the government's done nothing wrong?"

Roger turned to Peter. "There's nothing like a good war to make a man out of a boy, is there mate?"

Peter looked at Roger sympathetically. "Sorry mate, I'm with Susie. I don't support conscription. The idea of Stephen turning twenty in less than two years frightens the crap out of me. I don't want to see my son forced to fight someone else's war. And I definitely don't want to find out that he's been found lying face down in the mud with a bullet in his back."

"Yeah, I hear ya mate. But you know what young blokes are like. They'll enlist whether we like it or not."

Susan could hardly contain her frustration. "Dad, don't you know anything? All twenty year old boys are required to register for National Service, it's the law. Conscription is the process of drawing out dates like a bunch of bingo numbers. All the boys registered for National Service with the same birth date as the numbers drawn have to enlist whether they like it or not. They don't get any choice in the matter. If you're birthday's drawn out, you go, and that's all there is to it."

Roger looked at Susan like she was a simpleton. "Well, that's easy, don't register."

He mistook the look of astonishment on Susan and Peter's faces. "Hah, bet you never thought of that, hey? Even blind Freddy could've worked that one out."

Maggie just caught the tail end of the conversation as she sat down next to Peter. "I think it's best if we change the subject," she suggested.

"About bloody time," applauded John, "I'm getting sick to death of hearing about the same thing all the time. Bloody protesters everywhere ya go. Why don't they get a bloody job instead of makin' a public nuisance of 'emselves all the time? Pack of bludgers if ya ask me. I damn near ran one of them over the other day."

Taking some encouragement from his father, Roger continued. "Hey, who was that politician guy that said it was okay to run protesters over? He's got my vote, that's for sure."

"You're referring to Premier Askin," Peter advised, "and he never said you were allowed run them over."

"He did too, I heard him on the telly."

Peter sighed. Maggie took over. "I think you'll find, Roger, that when the car he and Lyndon Johnson were travelling in was confronted by a group of protesters, he was reported to have been heard telling the driver to "run over the bastards"."

"That's hardly giving them permission is it, Dad?" added Susan.

"Well, the driver shoulda done what he was told and ran thmy fmy faem over." John argued.

"I'm sure Graeme Dunstan and his fellow protestors do not agree with you Dad," said Peter.

Roger was finding it difficult keeping up with the conversation. "Huh? Who's Graeme Dunstan and what's he got to do with the price of eggs in China?"

"He was one of the protesters Premier Askin was referring to. He was one of my students at the time."

"Referring to when?" Roger asked as though he had just walked in on the conversation for the first time.

"See," added John, pointing at Susan as though she were somehow responsible, "it's always them bludger students that protest. It's never people with real jobs." He turned to Peter, "One of your students huh, why don't you teach them something useful for a change?"

Peter looked at Maggie and threw up his hands in surrender. "I'm with you babe, let's change the subject."

***

Roger burped loudly and rubbed his well-rounded belly. "That was delicious Maggie, thanks." He got up from the chair and hitched up his shorts. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I think I'll go and siphon the python."

As usual, when Roger was being crass, Mary looked embarrassed. Maggie felt sorry for her. She was such a gentle-natured person and Roger was so loud and overbearing. Giving Mary a supportive smile, Maggie wondered for the hundredth time how it was that Mary had managed to stay married to him for over twenty years.

Luckily for Mary, no one seemed to notice her husband's bad manners. The kids were inside listening to Stephen's records and Faye was too busy berating John about overeating to take in anything that was going on around her. Maggie looked up at Peter with admiration. It was times like this that she thanked her lucky stars for the life she had.

"Don't know why you posh people can't just have a dunny outside. It'd sure save an old man a lot of walking," Roger complained.

"Just ignore him," Mary suggested, "he just likes the sound of his own voice. At home he complains about having to go outside."

The phone rang as Roger got to the back door. "I'll get it," he said, picking up the phone before Maggie could protest. She cringed as she heard him offer his usual greeting. "Newtown Morgue, you kill em, we chill em. Can I help you?"

Maggie got up to rescue the unsuspecting caller from Roger's lame jokes. The bewildered look on his face said she was already too late. "Um...this is Roger. I think you might be after Stephen."

It seemed that Roger was more in need of rescuing than the caller. Maggie held her hand out for the phone. Roger handed it to her gratefully. "Hello, this is Maggie."

Roger waited with anticipation to hear the rest of the conversation.

"That's odd. They hung up." Maggie looked at Roger, "who was it?"

"Dunno, but she was crying hysterically."

Maggie frowned. "Crying? You sure?"

"Yeah, she sounded really upset."

"She?"

"Yeah, a very upset she, I'd say."

"Well, what did she say?"

"She must've thought I was Stephen. She asked me why I didn't want to see her."

Peter appeared at the back door "Everything Okay?"

"Do you always have sheilas crying on the phone mate?"

Peter looked confused. "Sorry?"
Roger explained, "just then, some sheila bawling her eyes out on the end of the line."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face and hoped no one else noticed. Great, just what he needed – Jane calling him at home – what a nightmare. "Is it any wonder with the way you greeted them?" Peter hoped his remark sounded casual enough.

Maggie put her hand on Peter's shoulder. "Don't panic, it was just Marjorie. She already rang once, before you got home."

"Oh," he nodded, "what did she want?"

"She wanted to take Stephen out to lunch, but he refused."

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? He's already told her he doesn't want to see her, and she rings up and invites him to lunch. What did she think, by enticing him with free food, she'd get what she wanted?"

"It'd work for me," Roger announced proudly, before losing interest and joining his parents in the backyard.

After he was gone, Maggie looked at Peter affectionately. "You alright love?"

"Yeah, why?"

"You look like you just saw a ghost, that's all."

"Oh...yeah well, I thought for a minute it might have been Michelle on the phone."

Maggie stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the nose. "How lucky am I?" she asked, not expecting an answer. Peter gave her a reluctant smile and took her proffered hand. She led him through the back of the yard to where the others were gathered.

Chapter 18

Tuesday, 18 December 1979

"Mrs Cowan! Mrs Cowan! Come quick, Dianne's fallen off the tree and she can't breathe." I tore across the front yard and pounded on the front door, missing the perfect opportunity to go bowling with the garden gnomes. I could see Gregory sticky-beaking through the gap in the fence next door, so I stuck my tongue out at him.

Mrs Cowan came running out. "What happened?"

"We were walking along the tree trunk and she slipped and fell."

"What the bloody hell were you doing walking along a tree trunk?" she asked accusingly.

I don't think she expected me to answer, so I didn't. She took off like a rocket towards my house, mumbling to herself the whole way about letting Dianne out with a tomboy. Instead of thinking what a bitch she was for saying such a thing, I wondered how the hell she didn't hurt herself with that backside swinging from side to side like it did. I hadn't seen anything so funny in ages. Any other time, I would've laughed til I wet myself, but I was too frightened to think straight. I ran towards my back fence. "It's this way."

She followed me down the backyard towards the gap in the fence. Oh Jesus, she was too fat to fit through. Now what? I panicked. She'd have to climb over. I was just about to suggest it when she threw me something. "Here, give her this."

Dianne must have been having an asthma attack because she threw me her asthma puffer. I silently hoped that's all it was as caught the blue plastic device and held on tight. I was surprised to see Dianne still lying on the ground where I left her. I didn't think you could have an asthma attack just from falling off a tree. She looked like she was dead and I was just about to say as much, but then I saw her move.

"Dianne darling," cooed Mrs Cowan, "Jenny's going to give you your puffer. When she does, I want you to take deep breaths and try to relax. You're going to be alright honey."

I climbed through the fence and ran to where Dianne lay. I knelt on the ground next to her and lifted her head so I could give her the puffer. Her mouth was turning blue and she was breathing in really short wheezy breaths, making high-pitched raspy sounds.

"Not like that, you stupid girl," snapped Mrs Cowan, "you'll block her airways. Get her to sit up first."

Oh shit, I hope I can do this right, I thought. I moved around behind her head and tried to get her to sit up. Mrs Cowan was trying to pull another paling off the fence so she could squeeze through. I'd seen Cameron Kelly use his puffer before, so I had a fair idea how to use it. I managed to get her to sit up a bit, but she was like a dead weight, so I leaned her against me so she wouldn't fall down again. I reached around from behind her and put the puffer to her mouth. As I pushed down on the cylinder, I told her to take a breath. Before I could tell if I had done it right, her mum pushed me out of the way. "Watch out, I'll do it," she barked.

I stood back and watched her mum give her the puffer. When she squeezed down on it, she made Dianne take a few breaths and then she did it all over again. Within a couple of minutes Dianne's breathing had eased a bit and the colour slowly started to return to her mouth.

Kate must have heard all the fuss and came out to see what was happening. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Dianne's having an asthma attack," I said shakily. She came over and stood beside me. She put her arm around my shoulder and watched as Mrs Cowan propped Dianne up against a nearby log.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

Kate always knows exactly what to say. Not like me, I get all tongue-tied when things go wrong.

"No thanks, love, she'll be okay. She just needs to sit and rest for a while and catch her breath." Mrs Cowan caught me glaring at her. "Sorry I snapped, Jenny," she added resentfully.

She didn't sound sorry to me.

I didn't respond. She had no right to take it out on me. It's not my fault Dianne has asthma, or that she fell off the tree, for that matter. I stood there close to tears wondering what to do next. Tracy came and joined us. She must have been able to tell I was a bit rattled by what was happening, because she asked me what was wrong.

"Nothing." I tried not to let the others see I was upset. "Dianne fell off the tree and had an asthma attack and Mrs Cowan thinks it's my fault." I turned and ran inside and into my bedroom. I threw myself down on my bed and burst into tears. Hendrix looked at me curiously. No doubt wondering why I was upset. Hendrix was a gift from Clare. I've had him since I was five. When she gave him to me she told me everyone needs a teddy to talk to. She found him at the markets and thought he looked like he needed a good home and someone to love him, so she got him for me. It wasn't even my birthday or anything. Now, he's my favourite thing in the whole world. Not just because Clare got him for me either. He just is, that's all.

A little while later, Tracy knocked on my door and asked me if I was okay. I didn't want her to know I'd been crying so I answered as cheerfully as I could. "Mrs Cowan said Dianne will be fine," she informed me. "She's taken her home to rest and said you can visit her tomorrow if you like."

"Okay," I said, and whispered to Hendrix, "I doubt that I'll visit her place ever again." He looked at me like he knew exactly what I meant.

"Oh, and Jenny; it wasn't your fault, so don't you listen to what that fat bitch says, okay?"

Tracy's comment made me feel better. "OK, I won't."

I waited until I heard Tracy's door close and sat Hendrix back on my pillow where he belonged. When I ventured back out, Brian was still sitting in the front yard playing with his friend Michael. They were pushing their Matchbox cars through Mum's garden and had been there all morning. Brian's messy brown hair was covered in dirt. So was Michael's. It looked like they'd been throwing dirt at each other. "Don't let Mum catch you playing in the garden," I warned, "she'll go off her nut."

"Get nicked."

I couldn't be bothered answering back, so I just left them to their mess. It'll be his problem if Mum gets home and catches him, not mine. I helped myself to the last piece of blackberry pie and sat on the front veranda eating it. Mum wasn't around to see me, so I used my fingers as cutlery, licking them clean after each mouthful. Brian and Michael ignored me, which suited me fine. I didn't feel like talking to anyone anyway. I remembered the book I was reading and went inside to get it. _The Naughtiest Girl in the School_ is my favourite book at the moment. I've already read it once and I'm half way through it again. It's almost as good second time around, but nothing can change the fact that I know what's coming, and that's never a good thing.

I'd just sat back down when Mum pulled up. She drops Dad off at work on the days she has to work and takes the car. We've got a station wagon just like the Brady Bunch. I don't know what kind theirs is, but I know ours is a Kingswood. Dad surprised us with it one day. He went to work in our old car and came home with a new one. Only it wasn't really new, it was second hand. He bought it for his thirtieth birthday. I thought it was strange that he'd buy a birthday present for himself. He's thirty-six now and he hasn't bought himself a birthday present since.

Mum looks pretty when she's dressed for work. She has long blonde hair just like me, only hers is a bit darker. It's normally straight like mine too, but today she set it with hot rollers and now it's all wavy and curly on the ends. Her shoes clip-clopped up the driveway. "Hi there princess. What are you up to?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just reading."

She tilted my book up so she could see the front cover. "Hi Brian, hi Michael, how's your mum going?"

Michael grunted.

"You'll have to tell her to drop in for a cup of tea; I haven't seen her in ages." She clip-clopped past me and into the house. "Don't sit on the cold concrete Jenny, you'll get piles."

"What _are_ piles anyway?" I asked.

"Never mind, you'll know what they are when you get them."

Far out! She walked straight past Brian and didn't even notice the mess he'd made of her garden.

"My goodness, the place looks like a bomb hit it," she said entering the lounge room.

Ha! Looks like he's in for it after all! Brian's Lego was all over the lounge room floor. The room isn't very big, so it doesn't take much to make it look messy. Last year Mum and Dad put up new wallpaper and built a unit. Well, Dad built it, Mum just helped. Now, the whole sidewall of the room is made up of shelves. The shelves are all different sizes to suit whatever's on them. The World Book Encyclopedias are on the bottom shelf because they're the heaviest. Mum put Pa's wooden caravan on the shelf above the books, because she said it needed to be the centre of attention. Pa even put curtains and bunk beds in the caravan and bought some draught horses to pull it. Actually, I think he already had the horses and he made the caravan to fit them. Either way, it's a beauty.

Next to the caravan was Mum's bull. She told me it's carved from a single lump of wood and it cost her eighteen dollars. She put it on lay-by and paid it off at a dollar a week. A big bowl with a glass cat hanging over the side sat on one of the top shelves. The bowl was shaped like a fish bowl but it had no fish in it. It was full of matchboxes that we'd collected from different places. Except, other people collected most of them and then gave them to us.

Two wooden aborigines stood stiffly on the shelf next to the fishbowl. They were really tall and skinny and one had a spear in his hand. I think they're kind of ugly, but Mum says they're art.

At the moment, the lounge room sparkled from one corner to the next. The wall unit was covered in cards hanging from threads of tinsel. Hand-made decorations hung from every shelf and Christmas lights were strung around the windows and on the tree. The place looked like a fairy palace at night when all the flashing lights were on.

The Christmas tree is supposed to look real, but it's not. It's the same one we use every year. Like the wall unit, it was covered in hand-made decorations. There were matchboxes wrapped in Christmas paper with tiny bows and dried pine cones painted red and green and sprinkled with glitter. Chains made from strips of red and green crepe paper were criss-crossed around the tree. Last year's tiny felt stockings with coloured trim hung from the branches, making them sag. I could even tell which ones were mine. They were the ones with the cardboard presents in them. The messy ones were Brian's.

The Santa with the moving arms and legs was stuck to the top shelf of the wall unit. His arms and legs were sticking straight up making it look like he was jumping in the air. The angel I made last year sat on top of the tree. Apart from the face, which Kate helped me draw, I made it all by myself. I know it's not cricket to brag, but I think it's a ripper. Everyone else thinks so too.

I made the angel's body from cardboard rolled into a cone and the head from a ping-pong ball. The arms are actually pipe cleaners wrapped in cotton wool and covered with scraps of material and the hands are just bits of cardboard stuck to the ends of the arms. I sewed a long-sleeved dress, trimmed with lace and bric-a-brac to go over the body. She has strands of wool for hair and wings made from pipe cleaners covered in white pantyhose. I glued patterns out of silver glitter on the wings and sewed sequins along the hem of the dress. When the lights flash, she sparkles.

She looked lovely sitting on top of the tree. A bit cross-eyed maybe, but otherwise lovely.

There are presents for each of us under the tree already. Aunty Christine sent them over from South Australia. Last year she came to visit, but this year she's staying home. By the time it's Christmas, there'll be plenty more under there. We're having Christmas lunch at our place this year. Mum and her sisters take it in turns each year and this year it's our turn. Usually we take the presents to whoever's turn it is and put them under the tree before Christmas. That way, we don't have to worry about leaving them behind on Christmas day like Aunty Audrey did a couple of years ago. She had to drive all the way back to Belmont to collect them and we had to wait until she got back to open our presents.

The cross-eyed angel sat on top of the tree looking down at the mess Brian had made. She looked almost as upset as Mum did. Luckily for Brian, only one of them could rouse on him and Mum had already claimed that job. She called for Brian to come and clean up his mess. I could hear her going on about her not going to work all day just to come home to a messy house and decided it might be a good time to find something else to do. She was just as likely to get me to help clean up otherwise. I could still hear her going on as I snuck quietly past her and into my room.

"Mrs O'Reilly is coming over this afternoon, so I'd like to have the place looking respectable." Mrs O'Reilly's house is always spotless, but that's only because she never lets anyone do anything in it. We have to stay outside whenever we're there, which, thank God, isn't very often.

The last thing I wanted was another boring afternoon listening to Mrs O'Reilly and Mum talk about who's sick and who's faking it. Then, when they stopped talking about that, they'd just talk about everyone.

I think I'll go and see what Ed's up to.

Chapter 19

Friday, 29 November 1968

Maggie had no sooner curled up on the lounge with a cup of tea and a book when Stephen came in. "Can I borrow the car please? I won't be back too late."

"Where are you going?"

"Just over to Stanmore to pick up Mark, then we're off to see Tully at the Royal later on tonight."

"Off to see who?"

"Tully. Remember that new band I was telling you about?"

"No, not really." Stephen was always talking about some band or another. Girls and music seemed to be the only things of interest to him at the moment. Maggie was still a bit uneasy about him being out late, but she knew she couldn't keep him home forever. She figured he would be off to uni next year anyway, so she might as well get used to him doing his own thing. If Michelle was anything to go by, they would see even less of him as he became more entangled in his own life.

"Keys are on the hook," she told him.

"Thanks," said Stephen, leaving her to her book.

"Will you be home tomorrow," she called after him. "Your father and I are going the Warner's place. You're welcome to join us."

"What's the occasion?"

"Just their annual recovery _cum_ Christmas party, I'm pretty sure their kids will be there too."

"It's a bit early for a Christmas party isn't it," he called from his bedroom.

Maggie hadn't really thought about it. It wasn't that uncommon to hold Christmas parties in late November. She supposed the Warners didn't want to compete for guests by leaving it until closer to Christmas.

Stephen came back out in his usual attire of denim jeans and a tee-shirt. "Aren't you going to change for the concert?" Maggie enquired.

"Nah, it's not that sort of concert."

"Well, what sort of concert is it?"

"I dunno, just not _that_ sort, I suppose."

Maggie knew when she was asking too many questions, so she let the matter drop. She detested sounding like a nagging parent almost as much as she disliked sounding like a whinging wife. Maggie and Peter had always tried to treat their children like individuals, with needs and wants of their own, and not try and take control of their lives like some parents did. The way they saw it, unless their kids gave them reason not to trust them, then the default position should be one of trust, not mistrust.

"See ya Mum."

"So, you coming to the Warners' or not?"

"Yeah, probably. Unless I get a better offer, that is."

"You could do worse, you know," Maggie said playfully.

Stephen was still laughing as he headed down the front path. "Yeah, I know."

She had to admit, it was not easy watching the children grow up and embrace their independence. With Michelle away, Stephen was the only one left for Maggie to worry about. Not that she didn't worry about Michelle, she did. But, she knew that Michelle's fierce independence meant she would survive no matter what. Michelle's insistence at studying in Newcastle was enough evidence of her determination to succeed. She wanted to study engineering but refused to do so under the tutelage of her father, so she moved to Newcastle. Now, just like Maggie had done fifteen years before her, Michelle boarded with Maggie's Aunt Beatrice and travelled home by train every couple of weeks or so.

Of course, things were different then. The conservative values of the fifties could never compete with the more liberal and free-spirited attitudes of today, and Maggie was glad about that. She had often wondered how things would have turned out had she met Peter fifteen years later. Would it still be such a crime for a young girl to fall in love with an older, divorced man with two small children? She didn't think so.

In spite of the restrictive attitudes that permeated Australian society in the fifties, Maggie recalled her time at teachers college warmly. She remembered the Tuesday night dances in the assembly hall where students on the piano provided the music. Each week, one of the four college houses was responsible for organising the dance, and they would occasionally pick a theme to make it more eventful. Then, there were the dances at the YMCA hall in King Street where they would dance to Nat King Cole and the Glenn Miller band. Every so often she and her friends would pool money from their paltry allowances and buy a new frock for the dance. They would take it in turns to wear the new dress, so that by the time their second turn arrived, sufficient time had transpired for nobody to notice it was the same outfit.

It was impossible for Maggie to think about her college days without her best friend Dianne Pembroke coming to mind. During the two years of college they were inseparable. In their free time they would go to the beach together or walk to Civic Park and sit under the trees with their favourite books. Sometimes Bea would insist Dianne stay for dinner so that she would not be forced to "give the blokes coming out of the Trades Hall, half pissed on second-rate beer and Fovene, something to gawk at".

Dianne much preferred Bea's colourful, laissez-faire personality to that of her stupendously boring parents. So much so, that Maggie suspected Dianne would arrange her departure from Bea's place to deliberately coincide with the six o'clock closing of the Workers Club, which was located upstairs in the Trades Hall building, and thus ensure a dinner invitation from Bea.

Maggie laughed. Thinking about Dianne made her remember the time she and Dianne went Christmas shopping at Scotts in Hunter Street. Dianne had taken the good part of an hour to painstakingly select a smart white blouse as a gift for her mother. As they were leaving the store, a young boy raced past and accidentally bumped her, causing her to drop the parcel. The sleeve of the blouse fell into the soot and grime that coated the streets of Newcastle and the blouse got filthy.

Dianne swore like a trooper while Maggie tried to suppress her laughter at Dianne's most unladylike display. Maggie told Dianne she sounded remarkably like one of the shift-workers coming out of the culpable powerhouse in Zaara Street. Dianne had been so worked up about Maggie's lack of empathy that she had stormed back into the store and demanded they exchange the blouse for a clean one. She told them that she had been careless in her haste and had not noticed the stain on the sleeve. Had she done so, she never would have handed over her savings for such an item, and could they please remedy the situation without delay. Of course Dianne forgave Maggie for her impertinence and they laughed about the incident all the way home.

On the weekends that Maggie stayed in Newcastle she spent most of her time with Dianne. They would sit for hours at the local milk bar, sipping spiders and discussing their futures. Maggie had clear memories of Dianne telling her that she was not planning to stay and teach in Newcastle once she had fulfilled the conditions of her scholarship.

It was the end of Trinity term and their second year of college was almost over. Until then, Dianne had not discussed such a notion. Dianne informed Maggie that she intended to graduate from college, finish her three-year stint at a local school, and move to Sydney. According to Dianne, she was not going to settle for the parochial, small-town life of Newcastle. There was no way that was going to happen to her. She was going to be the headmistress in some posh girls' school, living in one of Sydney's wealthier suburbs.

Maggie had not known it at the time, but the promises she and Dianne had made to each other to stay in touch were as naïve as every other plan they made that day. The last she heard, Dianne was married to a mechanic, had three children, and was still living in Newcastle. Maggie on the other hand, did not stay in Newcastle as she had told Dianne she would. She moved to Sydney to be with Peter as soon as her teaching bond allowed.

Maggie picked up the book she was reading and smiled. When the principal told Maggie and the other students on their first day of college that the next two years would shape their lives, she had no idea to what extent that would be the case. Yet, looking at the book in her hands – _A Critical Examination of the Belief in a Life after Death_ – Maggie knew without a doubt that Mr Griffith Duncan had been correct.

It was during her time at Newcastle Teachers College that Maggie had developed an interest in reincarnation and life after death. It was just after the Drama Club's performance of _Blythe Spirit_. At first, the antics of Charles, his dead wife Elvira, and his second wife Ruth had simply entertained her. It was not until after the show that Maggie found herself thinking more and more about the séance scene. While Helen Clark's performance as an inebriated Madam Arcati had been genuinely funny and convincing, Maggie had been more intrigued by the séance itself.

Maggie asked herself a pile of questions to which she had no answers. Was there really life after death? If so, was it possible to talk to spirits? Maggie realised that she had never really given the matter any thought until then. Even though Maggie had always been dissatisfied with the idea that if you were good you went to Heaven and if you were bad you went to Hell, she was embarrassed to admit that until she had seen _Blythe Spirit_ , she had never bothered to critically analyse what those well-established views meant.

So, although the twenty third of September 1952 would be remembered by most as the night of the performance, Maggie preferred to think of it as the first day of her new life. It was that unmistakable point in time at which she came to realise that she could no longer continue through life without exploring the matter further. She read everything she could find on the subject. Books on life after death, spiritualism, reincarnation, and parapsychology, she read them all. And while she no longer believed in Heaven and Hell – her mother's intolerance and prejudice had contributed significantly towards that outcome – it was fair to say that her beliefs could no longer be summed up in a simple sentence or two. If you asked Maggie, she was still on that clichéd road to discovery.

And who better to share her journey than her soul mate. The knowledge that Maggie and Peter had met as a result of their mutual quest for information pleased Maggie immensely. At the time, she had believed their meeting at the bookshop was a good omen. Standing amongst the numerous books on spiritualism and theosophy, Maggie's concern that her independent and unorthodox views were likely to be a deterrent for would-be suitors was quashed. Instead, it turned out that she met a man who delighted in her inquisitive mind and encouraged her to explore to her heart's content.

Although Maggie conceded that her work and family life prevented her from spending the kind of time needed to thoroughly research and understand a subject, that didn't stop her from reading as much as she could whenever she got the chance. Sadly, even that had become more difficult of late. It seemed that it was a very rare day indeed that she got the opportunity to sit quietly and read. Take Ducasse for example. Maggie was convinced that she'd been reading it forever and she still had a handful of books she hadn't even started. Being the pragmatist that she was however, Maggie had already resigned herself to the fact that she was unlikely to get to any of them until her much-anticipated holidays.

Only two and a half weeks to go, thought Maggie. She couldn't wait.

***

Maggie considered ignoring the wretched phone that insisted on disturbing her peaceful afternoon, but decided against it in case it was Peter or Stephen. On hearing Michelle's familiar voice, Maggie was glad she had decided to answer it after all. "Hi love, how's everything?"

"Good, how are you and Dad?"

It didn't take Maggie long to work out that Michelle had something on her mind. "What's up love, you okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed loudly before changing her mind. "No, not really, I had a call from Marjorie."

Maggie was surprised to hear Michelle call Marjorie by her Christian name. She supposed it was better than calling her mum, and she wasn't really sure what else she should call her, but it sounded strange nonetheless. "I'm not surprised," said Maggie, "she's been around here to see you and Stephen. I told her you were living in Newcastle but she never asked me for your address. I think Stephen must have given her your number when she spoke with him."

"Yeah, that's what she said. She also told me that he didn't want to see her."

"He didn't, that's right."

The line went silent. "You still there?" Maggie asked.

Michelle didn't answer Maggie's question. Instead, she asked one of her own. "Would you mind if I saw her?" Then, without giving Maggie time to respond, she blurted, "If you don't want me to, I won't. I don't want to upset you or anything, but I think she owes me an explanation and I don't want to let her off the hook as easily as Stephen did."

Maggie couldn't help but laugh. It was so typical of Michelle to say something like that. Even though they never really discussed Marjorie much, Maggie knew that Michelle had not forgiven her mother for leaving without a word. "Look love, you have every right to see her if you want. You don't need my permission."

"Yes I do, you're my mum and I don't want to offend you. I wouldn't even blame you for being angry or hurt about it. I know I would be."

Maggie was touched by Michelle's concern but she understood her need to see Marjorie. "That's very sweet of you Michelle, but I understand how you might need to see her after all this time, and you have my blessing. Besides, you're a big girl and I know you can look after yourself."

"Thanks Mum, you're the best. By the way, Bea wants to know when you and Dad are going to the cottage again."

"We'll be coming up as soon as school finishes. We have my works' Christmas Party on the fourteenth so it'll be sometime after that. It'll also depend on when your dad's new car's going to be delivered. They told him it would be sometime in the next couple of weeks. With a bit of luck it'll be here by then. If all goes well, we should be in Martinsville by the Monday or Tuesday after my party. Either way, we'll give you or Bea a call and let you know when we arrive. We'll probably come and get you the day after we get there if that's okay, that way we can spend the whole day with Bea before driving back to Martinsville."

"Um...yeah...about that," Maggie sensed reluctance in Michelle's voice. "I hope you don't mind, but I don't think I'll be staying for Christmas."

Maggie was stunned. It would be the first Christmas that they hadn't spent together. "What do you mean? Why not?"

"Well, I was getting to that. I've been invited to spend Christmas with a friend whose family lives in Taree, so we'll be gone for a few days."

"Oh, I see." Maggie knew without Michelle saying so that the friend must have been someone special and she didn't know whether she should have been happy for her daughter or upset with her that she wasn't coming home for Christmas.

Michelle heard the disappointment in her mother's voice and tried hard to make amends. "We'll be back in time for New Year's and I'll come and spend some time with you then. I might even bring my friend with me if that's okay. Unless of course you want me to come alone, I can catch a train to Morisset and you can drop me back at the station on your way back to Sydney."

"Don't be a duffer. Of course your friend's welcome to join us." Maggie knew that the time would come eventually when the kids would no longer be satisfied to spend Christmas with just the four of them, but she hadn't expected it to be so soon.

"Thanks Mum, I knew you'd understand."

"May I ask what his name is; this friend of yours?" Maggie enquired.

Michelle laughed. "How do you know it's a he?"

"Have you forgotten already? Parents know everything, remember?"

Michelle scoffed. "You can say that again."

"Well then, tell me I'm wrong?"

"His name is Paul," she confessed. "We've been seeing each other for a couple of months. I didn't want to tell you about him until I was sure about what kind of relationship we were having."

"And what kind of relationship are you having, if it's not a rude question."

Michelle didn't need much encouragement to confide in her mum. "A serious one," she offered.

"That's great," encouraged Maggie, "you better tell me all about him. And don't leave anything out."

Michelle laughed again. This time she sounded significantly less tense. "Mum, are you sure you want to know _everything_?" she teased.

"Oh, I see. That serious is it?"

"Well I said it was, didn't I?"

"You did," Maggie conceded, then realised the implications of what Michelle was telling her. "You are being sensible about things I hope?"

"Mum! Of course I am. What do you take me for, an idiot?"

Maggie knew that Michelle was not an idiot, but she also knew that many doctors would not prescribe the contraceptive pill for unmarried women and hoped that she was sensible enough to take other precautions.

After reassuring her mum again, Michelle told her all about her new boyfriend. Maggie had to admit that he sounded like a nice fellow. Given that Michelle thought so highly of him, Maggie was satisfied he must be alright. Michelle was notorious for the unrealistic expectations she set with regard to potential suitors. Unlike most people Michelle's age, she wanted nothing to do with the abundance of free love currently on offer. Before any man could win his way into Michelle's heart, he had to jump through a few hoops. Not only did he have to have a job, he had to be accepting of Michelle also wanting a career. He had to be willing to treat her as an equal and not as "the old girl" that many of her friends were turning out to be. Michelle demanded respect and intelligence from her boyfriends and she would never allow herself to be anyone's "missus".

Thinking about how different things were now compared to when she was Michelle's age, Maggie was reminded of an article that had appeared in one of her mother's _Women's Weekly_ magazines. From memory, the article explained the types of girls that men should beware of. It explained the many faults that women have, and how, if a girl should be unfortunate enough to possess any of them, she should be left to a braver man. Independence and wanting a career were amongst the many unfavourable qualities that a pretty face could not compensate for and Maggie concluded that Paul must be a brave man indeed.

By the time she had finished her conversation with Michelle, Maggie was comfortable that she had no cause for concern. From what Michelle had told her, Paul seemed like the perfect match for her daughter. He possessed all the right qualities and thought very highly of Michelle.

Maggie hung up the phone and returned to her book. As usual, she could no longer concentrate on the text before her. Admittedly, as fascinating as she found the topic of reincarnation, Ducasse was not easy reading. Unlike like _Looking for Bridey Murphy_ , which she had recently finished and had thoroughly enjoyed, this one did not entertain. Rather, it presented a well-informed but clinical assessment of its subject.

Maggie was not really in the mood for something quite so heavy. So, instead of continuing with her book, she sat and silently processed the information Michelle had shared with her. She liked the fact the kids told her things. She listened to so many of her colleagues complain about how their children never told them anything and how they had to snoop through their stuff to find out what they were up to. Maggie and Peter believed that if you were honest with your kids and treated them like people rather than possessions, they would be honest and open about their lives in return. Especially if they knew you were not the kind of parents to overreact at the smallest transgression. After all, kids had to learn about things and experience life for themselves. Being a parent was not about controlling your kids' lives so tightly that they would resent you for it. It was about being supportive and being there for them when they get into trouble.

At least, that was Maggie's philosophy. And so far, it was one that had served her well.

Chapter 20

Tuesday, 18 December 1979

Ed's dad opened the door. "Jennefah! How are you today? You looking beautiful as usual. Come inside, I will get Eduardo for you." He went to the back door and called to Ed to come in. "Hurry up, you lazy boy. It's not polite to leave a beautiful lady waitink." He turned and gave me a wink.

"When are you going to marry my boy and have twelve bambinos?" he asked.

"I'm too young to get married Mr Ricci, you know that."

I've already decided that I'm going to marry Tom anyway, so there's no way I would marry Ed even if I wasn't too young. Of course, I didn't tell Mr Ricci that. That would be a bit silly now, wouldn't it? Especially since I hadn't even told Tom yet.

Mrs Ricci came out and offered me a cold drink, which I gladly accepted. Mrs Ricci's punch is the most delicious drink I've ever tasted. Even better than Fanta. Ed came to the back door and said that he couldn't come in because he was dripping wet, so I went out the back instead. Trevor Preston and Mick Austin were in the pool. Both Trevor and Mick are kids from my neighbourhood. Ed climbed over the side of the pool and lowered himself into the water. "Go and get your swimmers and come for a dip," he suggested.

The pool wasn't very big but it looked especially inviting. It was only about two feet high and six feet wide. The walls looked like they were made from some kind of tin and the inside lining was blue rubber. It even had plastic steps to climb up, but the boys didn't look like they needed them. They just stepped over the wall.

"Sure," I said, "I'll be back in a tick." I ran all the way down the hill to my place. I could tell Mrs O'Reilly was there already because her shoes were on the front veranda and no one else takes their shoes off before coming into our house, except her.

Sure enough, Mum and Mrs O'Reilly were sitting in the dining room when I walked in. I could hear the jug boiling in the background. I don't know how they can drink tea on such a hot day. I walked straight past them and into my bedroom.

"That didn't take long." Mum commented as I walked past. "Isn't Ed home?"

"Ed? I thought Tom was your boyfriend," asked Mrs O'Reilly.

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my swimmers. I walked outside and took my towel off the veranda railing where I'd hung it to dry. "Ed asked me to go for a swim in his pool."

"You just missed Tom," said Mum.

"Was he here? I thought he wasn't allowed out today."

"No, he phoned. He wanted to know if you would like to go to Newcastle with him tomorrow. Jim's taking him to see _Star Trek_ for his birthday."

"What'd you tell him?"

Mrs O'Reilly butted in as usual. "She told him that you'd rather stay home and clean your bedroom."

I wish she'd just mind her own business. I looked hopefully at Mum. "You didn't really say that, did you?"

"Of course I didn't. I said you'd love to go, but only if Jim supervises and doesn't let you out of his sight." Jim turned twenty-five last year, so I'm sure he's responsible enough for Mum's liking. "They'll pick you up at nine thirty tomorrow morning," she added.

"Do I need any money?" It'd be just my luck Mum won't have any and I won't be able to go after all.

"Jim's said he'd pay for you since it was your birthday too."

I couldn't stop the grin from spreading across my face. I couldn't wait. I've only been to the pictures once before and that was two years ago. Mum took us to see _Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo_. We caught the train to Newcastle because Dad was at work. At first, Mum was too scared to take us on the train because of the big train crash in Sydney, but Dad said she was just being silly. I think she was too embarrassed not to go after he said that, so we caught the train after all.

"Can I wear my new dress?"

"I don't see why not," she said. "You may as well get your money's worth."

"Don't you mean _your_ money's worth?" I corrected.

Mum laughed and told me to go and play while she and Mrs O'Reilly were talking.

***

I knocked on Ed's front door for the second time in half an hour.

"Jennefah, you came back! I was worried you had left for good and we would never see your beautiful face again."

"Vincenzo, you leave that poor girl alone," Mrs Ricci called from the kitchen. I went through the house and into the back yard.

"Quick, hop in, we're making a whirlpool, you can help," said Mick.

I took my shorts and top off and threw them on the veranda with my towel. I climbed into the pool and was immediately swept around by the water. Ed and Trevor splashed each other from opposite sides of the pool.

"Hey," said Trevor, "now that Jenny's here we can make teams."

I was happy for the chance to stop walking around in circles. "What do we need teams for?" I asked.

The three of them screamed at once. "Shoulder fights!"

Since I was the lightest, I got up on Trevor's shoulders. Mick was the second lightest so he climbed up onto Ed's.

"Right," Ed said, "these are the rules. We start at opposite sides of the pool and come together on the count of three. The first team to knock the other team over wins. No punching, scratching or biting allowed. Everyone ready?"

We all nodded.

"One, two, three, go!"

Trevor and Ed lunged at each other. Mick howled like a banshee. While Trevor and Ed tried to knock each other over, Mick and I tried to do the same, only from a greater height. "Gotcha." I knocked Mick off balance. Both Mick and Ed fell backwards with a splash. They came up from the water with their hair plastered to their scalps.

"We have a winner!" Trevor held up my arm like a prizefighter.

Mick pointed at Ed. "Snot face! Snot face!"

We all looked to see what he was pointing at and cracked up laughing. Ed had a big gob of snot sliding across his face like a garden slug.

"Any greener and you'd look like the Incredible Hulk," said Trevor.

"Only punier," I added.

Ed wiped his face with the back of his hand and pretended to fling it at Mick. Mick tackled him. "Rack off, hairy legs." They both fell back into the water laughing.

We played shoulder fights until Ed's mum came out with a tray of drinks and some iceblocks. Boy is she good to have around. She always brings us food and drinks without being asked. I don't know how Ed stays so skinny.

We got out of the pool and sat on the veranda slurping our iceblocks. "Guess who's moving out," Trevor asked.

"Dunno," I said, "who?" It's always a big deal when someone moves in or out of our neighbourhood. We know almost everyone in our area. There aren't many families around who don't have kids, so it's not surprising, really.

Trevor waited until he had everyone's attention before answering. "The Dumbrells."

"Get outa here," Mick sounded surprised, "they are not."

"They are so. Jason Morley said he saw them loading their furniture into their Dad's Ute with a whole heap of boxes. He asked them where they were going, but Duncan just told him to nick off and mind his own business."

Trevor's news made me feel both relieved and angry. I was relieved because I still believed that they'd come after me and Tom, and angry because if they moved out now then how would they pay for what they did to Shortie?

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," Ed said.

We all agreed.

***

By the time I got back, Mrs O'Reilly had gone and Dad was home. I walked down to the shed to say hello. "Hey Blondie, how's your day been?" he asked.

"Good. Dianne fell out of a tree and had an asthma attack and her mum pulled one of the palings off our fence so that she could fit through."

Dad laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, I was just imagining Mrs Cowan getting stuck in our fence. What a sight that must have been; one bum cheek either side."

We both burst out laughing. It's just like Dad to see the funny side of things. I wasn't game to tell him how frightened I was at the time. I was sure he would've handled everything just fine.

I quickly changed the subject. "Guess where I'm going tomorrow?"

"Let me think about that for a minute." Dad pretended to be deep in thought. "Is it somewhere close by?"

"Nope."

"Does it involve running away with the circus?"

"Of course not," I laughed.

"Are you going to elope with Tom?"

"Dad!"

"Then I give up. Where are you going tomorrow?"

"To the pictures with Tom."

"I was close. What are you going to see?"

"We're going to see _Star Trek_. Jim's taking Tom for his birthday and said that I could come. He's even paying and everything."

"Wow," Dad sounded impressed. "I thought _Star Trek_ was on the telly."

"It is, but they made it into a movie too."

Dad reached into his pocket and handed me a crumpled one-dollar note. "Here," he said, "it was only going into my cunning kitty anyway."

"Gee, thanks!"

"And don't tell your mother. She thinks I'm broke."

I left Dad to whatever he was doing and went inside to see what Mum was cooking for tea.

Yuk, corned beef and white sauce. I wondered what we'd have for lunch tomorrow. It still seemed like ages away.

I couldn't wait.

Chapter 21

Wednesday, 19 December 1979

I thought today would never get here. I was so excited last night about going to the movies that I couldn't get to sleep. I even went to bed early so the day would get here sooner, but it didn't help. It just made the night last longer. Normally, I fall asleep straight away, but since the other day, I haven't been able to. No matter how much I try not to think about the Dumbrells, I lie awake for ages thinking about what happened. My tummy's much better, but I mostly think about the other things they did.

I'm so glad they moved out, because now they won't be able to brag to everyone about it. They'd probably lie about it anyway and tell everyone that I wanted them to do what they did. That'd be so much worse. I'm pretty sure no one would want to be friends with me if they thought I was like that. At least this way, I'm the only one that knows about it. I just hope they move to the back of Bourke or somewhere just as far. Then, I'd never have to see them again, and could pretend it never happened.

Last night I mostly thought about going to the pictures with Tom today instead of the stupid Dumbrells for a change. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning, too. As soon as I was up, I put on my new dress and got ready to go. I didn't even think about the Dumbrells once. Mum said I could wear my JCs now that school was finished. I'm not usually allowed to wear them when it's not a school day, but because school's over I can. I get a new pair every year anyway. I even plaited my hair so that it wouldn't look scruffy. I put the money Dad gave me into my purse and put it on my bed until it was time to go.

"Jenny, Tom's here!" Tracy yelled.

When I got to the front door, Tom and his brother Jim were standing there. I let them into the house while I went to say goodbye to Mum. Dad had already left for work. Jim said that we might be going to the beach and suggested I get some swimmers and a towel, which I did. I quickly shoved them into a bag with my purse and slung it over my shoulder. I walked back to where Tom and Jim where waiting.

"Hello." Mum joined us in the lounge room. "Make sure she doesn't go in past her waist, won't you Jim? She's not used to the beach, so I don't want her taking any chances."

"No worries, Mrs Dawson, she'll be right."

Mum smiled. She thought Jim was a nice boy. I heard her say so to Mrs O'Reilly. "You be a good girl and listen to what Jim says, okay?"

"Yes Mum." I rolled my eyes at Tom who tried not to giggle.

Mum turned to Jim. "What time can I expect her home?"

"We should be home in time for dinner," Jim informed her.

Tops! That meant we were staying out all day.

"Drive carefully," she called after us as I climbed into the back of the Undertaker's car with Tom. Jim said his dad has owned it ever since Tom was a baby but he hardly ever drives it anymore. Except to church, that is. Jim started the car and pulled out of the driveway. Mum stood at the front door waving goodbye. Tom and I waved back. Jim said that he had to pick a friend up on the way. Tom asked him which friend.

"Lisa Pritchard."

Lisa's brother Kenny is in our class at school, so we knew who she was. Jim reckons he used to go with her before he joined the Army, but everyone called him a cradle snatcher, so he dropped her.

"Is she your girlfriend again?" Tom asked his brother.

"No she's not, Mr Busy Body. We're just good friends, that's all."

Tom smiled at me knowingly. Jim turned off at the end of our street and drove the short distance to Lisa's place. We waited in the car while Jim went inside to get her. "Did you hear that the Dumbrells are moving out?" I asked.

"Who told you that?"

"Jason Morley told Trevor he saw them packing their things into their Ute but they wouldn't say where they were going."

"Good riddance."

"That's what we said."

"I hope they still cop it for what they did to Shortie," he added, "no matter where they go."

It's been almost three days since Shortie got bashed up and he's still in the hospital having a check-up. I was so excited about going to the movies today, I forgot to ask Mum how much longer he'd be there.

Jim came back out with Lisa in tow. She was wearing a skimpy little skirt and a red tank top. I could see her boobs bounce up and down as she walked towards the car. The high-heeled shoes she wore made her almost as tall as Jim. With her long brown hair blowing out behind her, she looked like a movie star.

Tom whistled, "Holy Dooley."

I shook my head in disgust. "Perve."

Mum would've said she looked like a tart. I would've agreed. I couldn't wait until I had boobs like that. So far, there was no sign of anything though, but I was hopeful there would be by the time I started high school in another year. Kate and Tracy were sixteen and they'd had boobs for ages.

Jim and Lisa climbed in the front. Lisa turned around to say hello. Even though she must be at least twenty, she still sounds like a little girl. She giggles a lot too. We heard her giggling at Jim walking down the driveway. "Hi kids, how are you?"

"Good."

She turned towards Jim and smiled. She had that dreamy look on her face that Kate and Tracy get when they look at their stupid magazines. "I've really missed you Jimmy," she purred.

Tom and I rolled our eyes and looked at each other in disgust. I sure hope we don't have to put up with _that_ all day. Even Jim looked embarrassed by her confession. "What do ya wanna do first kids?" he asked. "Catch a movie or go to the beach?"

"Catch a movie," we both said at the same time.

"I hope it's not a scary one," pouted Lisa.

"Baby, where _have_ you been?" asked Jim. "We're going to see _Star Trek_ , surely you've heard of that."

"Of course I have, I just wanted to check that it wasn't scary, that's all."

Tom looked like he wanted to puke.

We drove the rest of the way trying not to listen to Jim and Lisa. I told Tom about Dianne's asthma attack and how her mum couldn't fit through the fence. "Serves her right, the fat bitch," he said.

I could always count on Tom to take my side in things.

***

It took us almost an hour to drive to Newcastle. We parked the car in David Jones' car park and walked to the movies from there. Jim said it was okay to leave the car there all day and walk to the beach as well. Jim and Lisa walked ahead of us holding hands. From behind, her short skirt flicked up with every step. It sure attracted a lot of looks from passers-by. Anyone would've thought they'd never seen a girl before.

I waited with Tom while Jim bought our tickets. After a few minutes he came back carrying a large carton of popcorn, a box of Jaffas and a drink. Lisa carried another carton of popcorn and a drink. "Here you go, Champ." Jim handed Tom the popcorn and lollies and gave me the drink.

"Gee, thanks."

"Yeah, thanks a lot," I repeated.

We had a while to wait for the movie to start so we sat in the foyer and watched people pour out from a previous session. You could tell it was school holidays, there were kids everywhere. I was having a great time with Tom just watching people walk by. Whenever we saw anyone that was dressed funny or looked strange we tried to think of a name for them. Mum reckons that if you haven't got anything nice to say, you shouldn't say anything at all, but we didn't necessarily agree with her.

A fat man with a droopy face was the first person to be named. He was Yogi Bear. Barney Rubble and Betty Boo followed not long after. "Ladies and gentlemen, for your listening pleasure, may I introduce," Tom pretended to do a drum roll with the popcorn perched between his knees, "Elvis Presley!"

A heavy-set man wearing tight white slacks and a white jacket walked towards us. His hair was slicked back and he wore a pair of dark sunglasses.

Tom gave me a comical look. "What's with the sunnies? It's dark in here."

I shrugged. "All he's missing is the blue suede shoes." We both giggled like a pair of pre-schoolers.

Lisa tore herself away from Jim and looked over. "What are you kiddies laughing about?"

"Kiddies?" Tom repeated under his breath, causing me to laugh some more. "Nothing," he said innocently.

Jim smiled and winked at us. "They're just having a good time, aren't you, Champ?"

"Yep," confirmed Tom.

We went straight back to naming people. "Hey, check this guy out," I said. Spock was walking straight towards us. A man with cropped dark hair and a high-necked grey jumper walked past. His ears even looked pointy. We cracked up again.

"Far out! He must be hot in that jumper," said Tom.

Jim must have worked out what we were up to because he leaned across and said to Tom, "Beam me up, Scotty."

The three of us burst out laughing. Lisa gave us a filthy look. People were starting to file into the theatre, so we got up and waited our turn to hand over our tickets. Tom and I raced to the back row leaving a trail of popcorn behind us. Being the first ones back there, we sat right in the middle, looking down on everyone. "This is choice," Tom said, offering me the popcorn.

Jim and Lisa sat five rows in front of us. "Look," Tom pointed at them, "they've only just got here and Lisa's all over him like a rash already." We could hear her girlish giggle all the way up the back.

"Eek," I said.

"Yuk," agreed Tom.

The movie started. We settled back and made ourselves comfortable. I kicked my shoes off and put my feet up on the seat in front of me. Tom did the same. I could see the criss-cross suntan marks from my JC sandals on the tops of my feet. By the time the holidays are over, they will have been replaced with thong marks.

***

The theatre was reasonably full, but there were still empty seats around. There were a number of people sitting in the back row, but the chairs to either side of us were vacant, so we could talk quietly without annoying anyone. Tom was pretty absorbed in the movie. I was enjoying myself more than I should have been, considering I thought the movie was dumb. It had been on for almost an hour and I still couldn't follow what was happening. Spock had just fixed the USS Enterprise so it could travel at warp speed, whatever the hell that was. I could see Lisa and Jim sitting in front of us, still pashing off. "Check 'em out," I whispered. "She looks like she's sucking his tonsils out."

Tom laughed. "I bet his face is all wet from her slobber."

I thought about Tom kissing me the other day and wondered what it'd be like to kiss like Lisa and Jim. Apart from kissing my parents and relatives, Tom was the only person I'd ever kissed. Even though I counted it as a real kiss, it was nothing like the one I could see going on in front of me. I looked across at Tom to see if he was watching them as well. "What do you reckon it feels like?"

"How should I know, probably all wet and slimy."

"Wanna try?" I asked, before I could chicken out and change my mind.

Chapter 22

Saturday, 30 November 1968

The closest parking space Peter could find was almost a block away, so he dropped Maggie and Stephen off out the front of the Warner's place and went to park the car. Stephen surveyed the cars parked up and down the street. "Looks like a full house."

"Well if it's not already, it soon will be," Maggie commented.

The Warners were famous for their Christmas parties. Half the engineering faculty usually received an invite, as did most of the neighbourhood. From what Peter had told her, Maggie knew that tonight was going to be as big a night as any.

Despite arriving on time, the party looked like it was already in full swing. A couple of empty beer cans had been inconsiderately tossed into the garden and someone had drawn crazy looking faces on the bunch of balloons that had been tied to the pink flamingos to indicate to first timers that they were at the right house.

As he caught up with Maggie and Stephen, Peter took Maggie's hand and guided her along the side of the house, towards the backyard. Stephen followed, carrying the Esky. Emerging from the pathway and into the crowded backyard, they were greeted by the unmistakable jingle of _Sadie the Cleaning Lady_. How Maggie hated that song. She offered up a silent prayer that it would be the last she would have to hear of it again that night, but just as someone yelled, "play it again Sam," she knew that just like so many of her prayers, it would remain unanswered.

Shutting the syrupy-sweet voice of Johnny Farnham from her mind, Maggie focused on her most frequently uttered prayer. It was beginning to look as though it might finally come true. She was eight days late with her period. The latest she had ever been until now was four days. She knew that it was madness to be getting her hopes up so soon, and that the more hopeful she became the more disappointed she stood to become, but nothing she could tell herself could dampen her optimism.

Yet, despite the almost impossible task of not saying anything, she was not about to mention it to Peter just yet. For the moment it would remain her secret. Peter knew how desperately she wanted a baby and she didn't think she could cope with the well intentioned – but nonetheless annoying – mollycoddling that was certain to follow once she shared her suspicions with him.

"Hey Thomo, don't leave that pretty wife of yours standing all the way over there, come and have a beer with us, mate."

Peter gave Barry a nod before turning to Maggie and Stephen. "You remember Baz, don't you?" he asked them both. Maggie nodded. Stephen shook his head.

Peter explained, "Barry Leeman. He's an associate professor in my faculty. We share an office."

Stephen nodded absent-mindedly. His attention was already lost to some other point of interest. Peter and Maggie both followed his gaze to see what had caught their son's eye. On seeing the two attractive, but over-dressed, young ladies pouring themselves a drink from the makeshift bar by the back door and brazenly eying Stephen, Peter's heart went into overdrive. He was certain that anyone standing within a five-foot radius would be able to hear its frantic beat. Unable to take his eyes of the girls, Peter studied them intently. He was almost certain that the tall girl with the elaborately styled hair was Charlene Warner. Maggie stood between him and the girls, partially blocking Charlene's face. If it was indeed Charlene, she had grown a good four or five inches since the last time he had seen her.

Just as he was beginning to think he was wrong, the tall girl turned slightly and looked right at him, revealing a face that was so unmistakably like her dad's that any doubt as to her identity was immediately quashed. While there was little doubt that Charlene had matured into an attractive – albeit a bit on the heavy side – young lady, it was her companion that had been responsible for causing Peter's near coronary failure. Dressed in an elegant, long, black evening gown, hair piled tastefully atop her head, and looking more stunning than ever, was Jane. She stood looking back at him, burning him with her gaze. Peter instantly diverted his eyes, but not before he caught the look on her face that told him that she was abundantly aware of the effect she was having on him.

"Hey Steve," Peter tried unsuccessfully to get Stephen's attention and demonstrate to Jane that he was unperturbed by her presence, "why don't you go put the beers in the fridge, mate?"

Maggie nudged Peter, "I think you've lost him babe," she joked.

Peter tapped him on the arm. "Steve? The Esky?"

"Oh sorry, here you go." Stephen handed Peter the Esky and headed straight for the bar.

Maggie laughed. "Well, he certainly doesn't waste any time," she observed. "Is that Charlene? I can't believe how grown up she looks. Who's that with her? Surely it's not Katie?"

"Nah, Katie's older than Charlene. That's Jane Lester. She's a student in my class." Peter hoped like hell that his voice wasn't betraying the panic he felt as a result of Jane's presence. "Well she was until recently. She finished this year."

"She's very pretty, don't you think? And she seems to be very interested in Stephen."

Stephen and Charlene had known each other for as long as Peter and Dave had worked together, so it didn't take them long before they were chatting like old friends. Jane gave Stephen her full attention. She stood really close to him, nodding enthusiastically at his comments and laughing when it was appropriate to do so.

Without answering Maggie's question, Peter started towards the old laundry tub he'd noticed propped against the side fence, overflowing with ice and beer. "I'll just go and put these drinks on ice," he told her.

Spying Pam Warner through the kitchen window, Maggie set off in the opposite direction. "And I'll go let Pam and Dave know we're here."

As Maggie approached the back door, Stephen caught her attention. "Hey Mum, got a sec? I just want you to meet someone."

Flattered that Stephen had wanted to introduce her to his new friend, she decided Pam could wait a little while longer.

"You remember Charlie, don't you?"

"Well of course I do." Maggie turned to Charlene. "Wow, look at you, you're all grown up. You look lovely."

Charlene beamed. "Thanks Mrs Thompson, you look pretty good yourself."

"Please, call me Maggie, only my students call me Mrs Thompson."

Stephen could hardly wait a second longer to introduce the girl by his side. "Mum, this is Jane Lester. Apparently she's in Dad's class at uni."

"So I hear." Maggie extended her hand towards Jane, "Nice to meet you, Jane."

"Likewise, Maggie."

Maggie was pleasantly surprised by Jane's demeanour. She had expected to get the typical giggly response, but instead she was greeted by a confidence and directness that was uncommon in someone so young. Maggie was certain that what Jane lacked in stature, she more than compensated for in presence. She also suspected that Jane was not unaccustomed to getting what she wanted, and if Maggie was reading the body language properly, Stephen had made it to the top of her list in record time. For an instant, Maggie felt sorry for Stephen. No doubt he was way out of his depth with someone like Jane, but then again, seeing the mature way he was behaving, Maggie was confronted with the realisation that her baby boy was more grown up than she had given him credit for.

"I hope you don't think I'm being rude," Maggie said with such sincerity that she sounded anything but rude, "but I must say, you girls don't look like you belong here. You both look far more dashing than this party warrants." Maggie was conscious of the stylish but casual pantsuit she was wearing. Next to Charlene and Jane, she felt decidedly frumpy. The only consolation was that she had bothered to take the time to style her hair and apply a small amount of makeup, so she knew she wouldn't be looking too plain. She smiled when she remembered Peter's earlier compliment that she was going to be the best sort at the party and knew that while ever Peter found her as attractive as he did, she had no reason to feel insecure about her looks. Besides, Charlene and Jane were young enough to be Peter's daughters. What on earth made her think she had any reason to compete with a pair of teenagers, she asked herself.

"We're not staying for the party," Jane explained, "we're going to a ball. I'm surprised that Peter – I mean Mr Thompson – didn't tell you that the Undergraduate Society of Engineers Recovery Ball is being held tonight."

"You mean you're not staying for the party?" Stephen questioned.

Charlene laughed at Stephen's obvious disappointment. "Sorry Steve, you're out of luck; we're not staying."

"What time does it finish?" he asked hopefully.

"About two in the morning," answered Jane.

"Shit."

Feeling like a fifth wheel, Maggie left the young adults to negotiate the rest of their evening and went inside to say hello to Pam Warner.

***

Pam had redecorated since Maggie had been over last. The effect of the green, swirling wallpaper, combined with the crushed velvet cushions in a variety of bold, primary colours, all blurred together by a rainbow of light spewing forth from a rotating globe that looked to be constructed from nothing more than a plastic ball full of holes and covered in coloured cellophane, made Maggie want to vomit. She closed her eyes and steadied herself against the door handle. Without having had a single drink, Maggie felt like she had already drunk too much.

Maggie told herself that it could not have been as ghastly as she had first imagined and opened her eyes. She looked at the room for the second time. Unfortunately, her first impression had been correct. Instead of creating the latest in psychedelic grooviness, Pam had succeeded in creating nothing more than a hotchpotch of nauseating images that were sure to send even the most drug-soaked hippy running for the hills, swearing off mind-altering substances forever.

Grateful for the conversation coming from the kitchen, Maggie headed towards the welcoming distraction in the same manner she might walk past an old friend that she really couldn't be bothered talking to; with her eyes fixed on a distant object, so as to ensure that the she did not inadvertently make the eye-contact that was crucial for such a reunion to take place. In this instance, it was the silhouette of a rather large backside that provided Maggie with the focal point necessary to survive the journey through the vertigo-inducing lounge room and into the relative safety of the kitchen. A closer look at the backside revealed that it had been mercilessly forced into an undersized pair of denim jeans, flared at the bottoms and overflowing at the top like a patty cake spilling over the top of its paper casing.

My god, thought Maggie, does she not own a mirror?

Being the eternal optimist that she was, Maggie told herself that after looking at that enormous arse, she had no cause for insecurity, no matter how inadequate Charlene and Jane had made her feel. Then, just as she contemplated how she was going to fit through the door, Pam squeezed past the protesting backside, almost showering her in biscuits and French onion dip. Rebalancing the plate in time to avoid a messy collision, Pam squealed with delight at Maggie's sudden appearance.

"Well, hello there Maggie, it's _so_ good to see you darling. Kiss, kiss." Proceeding to kiss the air beside each of Maggie's cheeks, Pam demanded Maggie stay put, and insisted that she would be back in a jiffy.

Maggie was well acquainted with Barb Poole and Vicki Cotham, but did not know the owner of the big arse. According to Barb, her name was Vivian Auld and she was the wife of the new Senior Lecturer, Doug Auld. Maggie vaguely recalled Peter saying something about a new staff member and assumed it must have been Doug he was referring to.

"This is Viv's first recovery party," informed Vicki, "she and her hubby moved to Sydney six months ago. They're from Leeton, aren't you Viv?"

Vivian nodded enthusiastically, instantly reminding Maggie of the nodding dog that Stephen had won at the Easter show last year, and that still occupied a place of honour on the shelf above his bed. Maggie welcomed Vivian and excused herself so that she could get a glass of water. "Oh dear, don't drink that," Vicki said as though Maggie were contemplating drinking from the toilet, "drink this, it'll work _much_ better." While Maggie wondered what was in the drink that made it work so well, the three women laughed as though Vicki had said something truly humorous. In that not so funny moment, Maggie was reminded, just as she was every year, why she never fitted in with many of the other wives. They were superficial and boring, that was why. Understanding the importance of being a member of the wives club nonetheless, Maggie took the offered glass good-naturedly. The last thing she wanted was everyone thinking she was a snob.

"Vivian was just telling us about the time she saw Edna Everage at the Trivoli Theatre, weren't you Viv?"

Viv nodded.

Vicki continued. "Viv was saying how he, I mean she – Edna Everage, that is – told the audience to...what was it again Viv...oh yes, she told the audience to hold their gladioli in the erect position for maximum gladi thrust."

Maggie tried her hardest to summon a genuine laugh, but settled for one that sounded somewhat contrived instead. Not that it made a difference; the others were too busy laughing hysterically to notice.

"Oh dear me," said Vicki, wiping the tears of laughter from her face, "Viv, you have a knack for making people laugh."

Downright hilarious, thought Maggie.

"Viv was saying, Maggie, that despite coming across as vulgar and uncouth, Barry Humphries is really quite clever, weren't you Viv?"

The big-bummed, nodding dog dutifully nodded her head again. Maggie actually had difficulty imagining Vivian saying anything. From the time she had entered the kitchen, Vicki had done all her talking for her.

Pam re-entered the kitchen with a blast of fragrance certain to finish the job the awful décor had started. "There you are, Maggie. It's been _such_ a long time since we've seen you darling, you look absolutely fabulous. Doesn't she girls?"

They all nodded in unison.

Pam took Barb's empty glass from her and dunked it in the punch bowl from which Vicki had filled Maggie's cup. "Here you go Barb, that'll put a tiger in your tank."

They all laughed in unison.

This time Maggie laughed too. Not because she found Pam's comment particularly funny or witty, but because she suspected Barb was closer to the truth than she realised. The punch tasted like a blend of Pineapple Pearl and gasoline.

"So Maggie, darling," Pam said with such sharpness Maggie jumped and almost spilled her drink, "what have you been doing with yourself?" Pam patted Maggie's forearm as though she were patting a dog. "Oh, before I forget, remind me to tell you all about Billy," she said conspiratorially.

Maggie nodded amiably. "All about Billy," she repeated as though the comment had made perfect sense, when it made none whatsoever.

Vicki, Barb and Vivian nodded in agreement.

"He's absolutely amazing, I'm sure you'll just love him," Pam added.

"Wonderful," echoed Vicki.

Wondering who the hell Billy was, but not game to ask in case Pam told her, Maggie told the group of nodding dogs that she needed to speak with Peter about something and quickly turned to leave. If it hadn't been for the need to once again negotiate the roadblock in the doorway, she might have made her escape. As it was, Vivian stood as solid as a statue in the opening and made no attempt to move aside, once again confirming that she was unaware of her own bulk.

"So Maggie, what are your plans for Christmas?" Barb asked, as though Maggie had made no mention of leaving their delightful company. "Don't you usually go away for Christmas and the New Year?"

Maggie was pleasantly surprised that Barb had remembered that she and Peter spent Christmas at Bellbird Cottage every year. She never really had her pegged for someone thoughtful. "That's right; we try to spend a couple of weeks at our holiday place in Martinsville during the school break."

"Well, I guess I'd be wasting my time then – again – if I sent you an invitation to our New Year's Eve party, wouldn't I?"

So that explained it. Maggie should have known that there was more to Barb's interest than thoughtfulness. She was still dirty with Maggie and Peter for not coming to her New Year's Eve party last year and the conversation was just a means of having another stab at her for it. "I guess so," confirmed Maggie.

"Well that's a shame; you'll miss a great party. It's going to be fancy dress this year."

"Mmm," agreed Maggie, "a real shame."

Pam squealed with delight at Barb's mention of fancy dress. "You'll never guess who Dave and I are going as?"

Forgetting all about Maggie the traitor, Vicki and Barb responded on cue. "Who?"

Pam was already shaking her head. "Mnh-mnh, not telling," she taunted, "it's going to be a surprise."

"Oh come on, tell us," pleaded Vicki.

"Pleeeease," whined Barb.

Seizing the opportunity to escape, Maggie mumbled something about Peter and squeezed past Vivian.

"Hang on a minute Maggie," Pam called, thereby putting a halt to Barb and Vicki's pleas for costume disclosure, "I better come and say hello to that handsome hubby of yours. He'll think I'm a terrible host if I don't."

So much for escaping, thought Maggie.

***

With Pam in tow, Maggie crossed the backyard and headed towards the large group of bodies gathered around the laundry tub. It didn't take her long to spot Peter standing amongst the party of men, deep in discussion. He was a good couple of inches taller than everyone else. He looked up and smiled when he saw Maggie headed his way.

"Hey, do you want to know who we're going dressed as?" Pam stopped walking and waited for Maggie to do the same.

Maggie couldn't have cared less. "Sure," she replied.

"Well, Dave is going as Billy, and I am going as Big Pretzel."

There was that name again. Maggie was certain she should have known who he was, but she couldn't think of a single Billy. "Who's Billy?" she asked, with the full realisation that her curiosity could land her in trouble.

Pam looked at Maggie incredulously. "Maggie you're hilarious. I'm referring to Billy Graham of course."

Ah yes, of course. Billy Graham. How could she have forgotten Pam's obsession with the divine celebrity? The last time Maggie had seen Pam she was off in La-La land over her encounter with the evangelist at the show ground. That had been months ago, and Maggie had written it off at the time as another of Pam's outrageous foibles. She was somewhat surprised to hear that Pam was still going on about him after all this time, her fads usually tended to wane much sooner than that.

"Dave looks just like him, don't you think?"

Maggie nodded. Of course she thought no such thing, but she was not about to engage in any conversation that was likely to set Pam off again. She recalled how easy Pam had stepped up onto the soapbox last time. There was no way Maggie could stomach a repeat performance of that.

"And you're going as Big Pretzel?" Maggie thought that Pam had selected a most unlikely pair to represent. Given Billy Graham's lack of distinguishing features, he'd have to be one of the least appropriate people to dress up as. What was Pam going to do exactly, dress Dave in a business suit and rely on his questionable likeness to the man?

Unaware of the skepticism in Maggie's voice, Pam nodded. "I'm going to wear Charlie's boots and have my hair done in the same style as Big Pretzel's. I bet I'll look just like her, don't you think?"

Maggie had to admit there were definite similarities between the two women. Pam was tall, big busted, and had long platinum-blonde hair. With the right outfit, Maggie thought that Pam would look just like the Go-Go dancer, only twenty years older, and a stone heavier. "Well, I'm sure you'll be the talk of the party," Maggie said, and meant it.

"Don't tell the others, will you? I want it to be a surprise."

Maggie had no doubt that Pam would get her wish. Thankful that the topic was all but exhausted, Maggie reassured Pam that her secret was safe with her and started toward Peter once more.

Looking extremely self-satisfied, Pam called a cheery hello to her son David, who was standing by the side of the house with Stephen and the others. As she did so, she stopped suddenly and grabbed Maggie by the arm, causing her to slosh drink down the front of her pantsuit. "Oh my God," exclaimed Pam, oblivious to the mess she had made, "is that _your_ Stephen? Hasn't _he_ grown up?"

Taking Maggie by the hand, Pam led her towards the small gathering by the side of the house and further away from Peter. "Stephen darling, is that you? Don't you look dashing?" Pam stuck her face towards him. "Come and give your Aunt Pam a kiss."

Looking somewhat embarrassed by their mother's display, Charlene and David screwed up their faces. Jane observed the proceedings with a small, but stately, smirk on her face. Thinking she sounded more like a dirty old tart than the wife of his father's colleague, Stephen reluctantly gave Pam a kiss on the cheek.

"Come on Jane," interrupted Charlene, "we better go wait out the front. Brandon will be here in a couple of minutes."

Pam reached across and gave her daughter a hug. "Have a great time darling. Be good." Charlene excused herself and headed up the side of the house. Jane said goodbye to everyone and turned to follow her. As she got out of view of all except Stephen, she called back to him. "I'll see _you_ later," she promised, and blew him a kiss.

Chapter 23

Wednesday, 19 December 1979

I couldn't believe I just said that. I just asked Tom to kiss me. Just like that. And not just any kiss either, a real pash. My heart pounded hard and I could feel my face going red. Luckily the theatre was dark, so Tom couldn't see how much I'd embarrassed myself. I was just about to tell him not to worry and say that I was only joking, when he answered me.

"If you want."

"Only if you want."

He shrugged. "Okay."

We both looked around nervously to make sure no one was looking. Everyone appeared to be too interested in watching Admiral Kirk and the starship Enterprise trying to intercept an earth-bound alien spacecraft. I took one last look at Jim and Lisa, noting carefully how she had her head turned to the side and how they both seemed to move from side to side without taking their mouths off each other. Tom must have done the same, because as we came together we both turned our heads to the same side. We nearly cracked our heads together. How embarrassing that would have been. Luckily, I realised what was happening and quickly turned my head the other way.

We closed our eyes and brought our mouths together. I was expecting him to be all wet and slobbery, but he wasn't. His mouth was nice and soft and dry, and he tasted like popcorn. I could feel my heart pounding on the inside of my chest and wondered if Tom could feel it too. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to keep my eyes shut the whole time, but decided that it was probably best if I did.

Wow! I thought, as we came up for air. We both sat back, not sure what to do next. I quickly looked around to make sure no one had seen us. Everyone still appeared to be watching the movie as intently as before. Tom picked up the popcorn and joined them. I sat back, smiling to myself. Dad would've said that I looked just like the cat that swallowed the canary.

It was just as well he couldn't see me now.

***

If I thought it was hard to concentrate on the movie before, it was even harder now. I kept replaying the kiss over and over in my head, wondering if I had done everything right. I hope Tom didn't think it was a dumb idea.

"Hey Jenny," Tom whispered, interrupting my daydream.

"Yeah," I asked nervously.

"It feels better than it looks."

I grinned to myself. "Sure does."

I tried very hard to focus on the rest of the movie, mostly without success. I was sure Mum and Dad would ask me all about it when I got home and I didn't want to have to make the whole thing up. Yet, instead of making a last ditch effort to work out the plot in case I was required to do just that, I spent the remaining time wondering if I'd get the chance to kiss Tom again. So much so that when V'Ger's true purpose was finally discovered and the galaxy was made safe again, my level of understanding with regard to all things _Star Trek_ was no better than before I entered the cinema.

At least I got to pash Tom.

My excitement suddenly gave way to panic when I considered that maybe things would be different between us now. I didn't want to stop being Tom's best friend just because we kissed, and we were too young to go together. Besides, I was certain Mum wouldn't let me have a boyfriend until I was in high school.

Despite how nice – and grown up – it felt to kiss Tom, I was beginning to think it might have been a dumb idea after all.

We waited for everyone to leave the theatre before getting up. Jim and Lisa were still sitting in their chairs smooching. They totally ignored the people walking past them. I looked at Tom and he rolled his eyes. "C'mon," he said, barging past a group of people in front of us, "I'll race you outside."

I was relieved to see that nothing had changed between us. He was still Tom and I was still Jenny, and we were still best friends.

***

As we left the pictures, I could see a group of kids sitting in the foyer where we'd sat earlier. I wondered what name they'd give Tom and me when they saw us coming out. Probably Bobby and Cindy Brady. Tom has brown curly hair and freckles just like Bobby Brady and with my blonde hair in plaits, we certainly could've passed as the youngest of the Brady children.

We stepped outside into the blinding day, and waited while Jim considered what to do next. "How about some fish and chips for lunch?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure we can get some from the shop near the beach."

Tom looked my way. "How bout you, do you want some?"

"Sure."

"C'mon then," he said, taking off like a bullet, "last one to DJ's is a rotten egg."

I didn't complain about having to run in the heat, there was no way I wanted to watch Lisa's bum bounce all the way to the beach. Besides, her little-girl voice was starting to get on my nerves.

By the time we stopped out the front of David Jones, we were both hot and sweaty and were out of breath. We sat on a bench and waited for the lovebirds to catch up. I looked around me, delighted. I thought the mall was the most amazing place I'd seen. Decked out with spectacular Christmas decorations, the shops glittered and sparkled from every angle. David Jones' window looked like a scene from a fairy tale. A variety of Christmas characters danced and twirled while Santa's helpers hammered away beside them.

Crowds of people walked past. Some of them were loaded up with more parcels and bags than they could comfortably carry. We even saw an old hobo who looked like he carried sufficient germs to give my mum a coronary and ensure I copped a week's worth of Dettol baths just for being within ten feet of him. He scrounged through garbage bins, picking out empty drink cans and putting them in a sack that he dragged along behind him. His clothes were dirty, brown and tattered, and he looked and smelled like he hadn't had a bath in months. He didn't seem to notice how out of place he looked with the cheerful music playing from hidden speakers and the streamers and tinsel slung around everywhere.

Jim and Lisa finally caught up and we followed them through the crowds, slowly making our way to the top of the mall and stopping along the way for them to window shop. We waited outside while Jim went into Sound World to get AC/DC's new album. While he was in buying the record, Lisa went into the shop next door and came out with some bangles. "To go with my new red dress," she explained in her little girl voice.

As if we cared.

Jim said if we had time after the beach, he wanted to get his parents a Christmas present. "What do reckon I should get Mum and Dad for Christmas?" he asked Tom.

"How the hell should I know?"

"Hey, watch your mouth there, Champ. You're not too big to put across my knee and give a good hiding, you know." Jim ruffled Tom's hair.

Mum was right, Jim is a nice guy. I wish I had a big brother like him. He's certainly a lot better than that little pansy, Brian. I know Tom likes him too; he always looks forward to him coming home.

"I was thinking of getting them one of those Soda Stream thingys. You know; the ones they advertise on telly."

"Fair enough," said Tom. "I'm sure they'd love that."

I wasn't. The Undertaker was the last person on earth I could imagine enjoying a fizzy drink, other than a KB that is. Still, I felt it was my duty as a best friend to help Tom out. Besides, I hadn't overlooked the possibility that such a gift would be far more useful to Tom and me than it would be to the Undertaker. "Yeah, I'm with Tom. I reckon they'd love one," I added. "I know my parents would."

Jim seemed pleased with himself for having thought of the idea in the first place. "I'm sure David Jones will sell them," he said. "If not, we can stop at Waltons. It's just down the road."

We walked the rest of the way uninterrupted. Lisa and Jim stopped at the shop to buy some fish and chips as promised. It was too hot and crowded in the shop for us, so we waited outside. Eventually, they came back out carrying a big parcel wrapped in newspaper and a large bottle of drink.

We walked the rest of the way to the beach and found a clear patch to lay out our towels. It had been so long since I'd been to the beach that I'd almost forgotten how much fun it was. Just like the mall, the beach was packed out. I could see kids building sandcastles and writing in the sand and grownups roasting in the sun or sitting under umbrellas. Jim thought it was low tide because the waves were a decent size without being too big. I looked over to the left of me and saw people out near Nobby's point surfing. From where I sat they looked dangerously close to the rocks.

The sky was deep blue with not a cloud in sight. The heat of the sun burned my neck, but I didn't want to take my plaits out because my hair would get tangled. I could feel the hot sand through my towel. Every summer I get so burnt that my nose gets red and scabby. Mum says I'm supposed to wear a hat and sun block when I go in the sun, but I forgot to bring them.

We sat on our towels and ate the fish and chips. They sure were delicious. I like hot chips the best when they're wrapped up and eaten from a hole in the top of the paper. The chips stay nice and hot that way and you never know when you're going to reach the bottom. Sometimes when I have money, which isn't very often, Tom and me ride all the way to Pedro's so we can get a bag of chips each and eat them straight from the newspaper. Whenever Mum buys chips she always gets one big lot like Jim just did, and puts them on plates or opens them up and lets us eat from the paper. They're still nice that way, but not as nice as when you have a bag all to yourself.

By the time I'd finished, my hands were slippery from the grease. Jim said to wash them in the surf and suggested Tom do the same. He said we weren't allowed in the water for a swim for half an hour after eating, so we decided to dig a big hole instead. I took my dress off, folded it up carefully, and put it in my bag. We left our things with Jim and tiptoed across the hot sand and down to the water's edge.

After washing the grease from our hands and splashing each other until we were soaked, we dug a hole so big we could both sit in it. The deeper we made it, the more water got inside. Eventually, we ended up with a small wading pool. We sat in the pool cooling ourselves, impatiently waiting for half an hour to go by so that we could go into the surf.

We looked over to where Jim and Lisa were sitting and waved. Jim was sitting up smoking a cigarette, he waved back. Lisa was lying on her towel sunbaking. She was wearing a pink crocheted bikini that left very little to the imagination. If I thought she attracted a lot of attention walking down the street, I was wrong. That was nothing compared to the looks she got in her bikini.

She must have covered herself in baby oil, because her skin glistened in the sun. I don't know how she stands that greasy stuff all over her. I smothered myself in it last summer and lay in the sun for a couple of hours. Mum was so angry with me when she found out. So was Kate, I used her oil. I got so burnt I blistered and couldn't wear my school uniform. It's even worse at the beach. The sand sticks to you and you end up looking like a lamington.

Lisa saw Jim waving and sat up. When she saw that it was us she was waving too, she waved also. I looked at her round curvy body and inspected my firm skinny one. I wondered if I would ever have curves like that. Even though Tracy and Kate have boobs, they still don't have curves like Lisa. They're both skinny and lanky like me. Kate's a bit rounder than Tracy, but she still has a long way to go before she has a body like Lisa's. Come to think of it, she probably never will. Mum's older than Lisa and she still doesn't have that many curves.

Tom pointed animatedly towards the water and then to his wrist. Jim looked down at his watch and gave us the thumbs up. We didn't need to be told twice; we jumped up and ran for the waves. The water was cold enough to take our breath away. I could feel the stickiness dissolve as soon as I hit the water. After a short time, it no longer felt that cold. We went in as far as our waists and waited for the waves to come. When they did, we dived through them and out the other side.

"Here comes a big one," Tom yelled. "Let's ride it in."

We both stood facing the sand with our heads turned towards the oncoming wave. It looked huge. As the wave reached us, we let it pick us up and carry us away. I kept my head up so I wouldn't get a mouthful of water and rode the rest of the way to shore. Until today, I didn't know how to do that, but we watched the other kids and copied what they did.

"Hey, we're starting to get really good at this," I said with satisfaction.

Tom was looking the other way and never heard what I said. "Watch out," I screamed. Another wave was just about to crash on top of us. Tom heard me just in time. He turned around and jumped up, letting the wave pass around his neck and shoulders.

We waded back out and waited for the next big one. At the exact moment that I turned around to check behind me, a mountain of water crashed down on top of me, knocking me off balance and pushing me under. The weight of the water took me by surprise. I felt myself tumble around and around, without knowing which way was up. I struggled to get up but the force of the water kept me under. I tried to breathe and got a mouthful of water instead. I could feel myself being tossed around like a rag doll, and hoped like hell that my arms and legs were sewn on a lot stronger than some stupid stuffed toy.

I caught a glimpse of blue sky and reached for it. As I did so, I felt the sensation of being drawn under once more. By the time I opened my mouth to take a breath, it was too late; the water had engulfed me completely.

Around and around I tumbled.

Chapter 24

Saturday, 30 November 1968

"Hey Pete," Barry Leeman slapped Peter on the back as he approached the group, "good to see you mate."

Peter grudgingly took his eyes off Maggie, and acknowledged Barry Leeman. Beside him, Paul Stanhope and Reg Delaney indulged in their usual antics. It was Reg who was holding forth this time, something about engineering reform or some equally uninteresting subject. It didn't matter what they discussed – it could have been anything from the merits of President Johnson ordering a halt to the US bombing of North Vietnam, or whether or not the Rabitohs were capable of surpassing St George's eleven year reign – the common theme throughout was that they always did it with such fervour and seriousness that any witness to the event would be forgiven for thinking that a debate of historic proportions was taking place. As such, it was not uncommon for Paul and Reg's two-man show to attract an audience. Of course, once it became apparent that the only point of interest was the manner in which two otherwise reputable and well-educated university professors conducted their debate, the crowd would invariably disperse.

Peter reluctantly conceded that over the years he had been skillfully wrangled into a number of their debates before finally gaining sufficient experience to recognise the warning signs. It was therefore with considerable skill that Peter assessed the size of today's audience and concluded that the conversation was still in its infancy. The realisation was almost enough to make him groan audibly, but he checked himself just in time.

Barry talked over the top of the two-man show. As hard as it was to ignore him, Peter was more interested in Maggie, who was on her way inside, to pay attention to anything that Barry was saying. Peter's heart skipped a beat as he watched Maggie stop by the back door at Stephen's insistence. He held his breath as she extended her hand and introduced herself to Jane, who stood looking absolutely ravishing next to Charlene.

He was not surprised to see Jane sneak a look his way as she shook Maggie's offered hand. Peter couldn't believe the cheek of the girl. More importantly though, he couldn't remember the last time a situation had made him feel as uneasy as the one unfolding before him. If that wasn't bad enough, it was clear that where his son was concerned, Jane's mesmerising personality was already paying dividends. Despite the distance between them, Peter could see the soppy way Stephen looked at her and the intent way he hung on her every word.

Peter felt the butterflies in his gut take flight. It was so apparent that Stephen had become smitten with the girl that it was almost too much for Peter to watch. Unfortunately, Peter's morbid fascination with the situation was too great for him to do the sensible thing and look away, and he was forced to witness his wife chatting away happily with the one person capable of destroying their world.

Barry's voice intruded on his private hell. "Whadya reckon?"

"Um – sorry, what was that mate?"

Barry caught Peter looking in the direction of Jane and mistook Peter's lack of attention for something more perverse. "You dirty dog, you."

Peter looked confused. "Huh?"

Barry gave Peter a friendly nudge. "She's not a bad sort ay?"

"Who?" It took Peter a moment to realise what Barry was implying.

Barry chuckled loudly. "Ah, come on mate, it's me Baz. You got nothin' to worry about with me. It's not as if I'm going to let your missus know you were perving on one of your students."

Peter looked horrified. "Um, I was actually watching Maggie," he said unconvincingly.

"Yeah, sure you were mate," Barry answered dismissively. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be thirty years younger. They sure didn't build them like that when I was young."

Peter was so desperate to change the subject that he actually took the time to listen to the conversation taking place between Reg and Paul next to him. Reg pointed his finger repeatedly at Paul. "I'll tell you what we need. Consistency, that's what. We need a set of general principles for course arrangement and a program for each course that fits within the defined set of principles. And I don't just mean for our university, I mean for all universities; Australia wide. As it stands, course length from one university to the next isn't even consistent. It's anywhere from three to five years. Staff to student contact hours range from eighteen hours a week to twenty-two, for Christ sake. Why can't we just get the basics right?"

"Never mind that airy-fairy set of principles; it's nothing but a load of codswallop, if you ask me," Paul swiped Reg's finger from his face. "What we need to do is spend more money on research and development and to start facing our responsibilities with regard to highway construction, water resources development, urban renewal and waste disposal.

"And that's not all," Paul raised his voice to let Reg know he hadn't finished talking yet, "we need to start investing more in our primary and secondary education system. That's where our engineers of tomorrow will come from."

Peter pretended to listen intently to Reg and Paul waffle on, but in reality he was paying more attention to Jane and Stephen than he was to anything they were saying. As soon as Maggie had walked inside, Jane had immediately set to work on Stephen. He watched as she cleverly cast her spell. She started by giving Stephen her undivided attention; taking her eyes off him only to throw an occasional look Peter's way. Judging by the way Stephen beamed at her, Peter guessed that he was unaware of her intermittent indiscretions.

Peter had to admit that she was good. Within seconds of laying her eyes on Stephen, she had sized up the situation and had begun to reel him in. She had not looked back once. He watched as the three of them walked towards the side of the house and stopped to talk to David. The subtle brushing of Jane's arm against Stephen's thigh and the slight way that they both hung back from the others did not escape him. In fact, the obvious intimacy between them made him unreasonably furious. What game did she think she was playing? Did she think that by latching on to Stephen she could somehow get back at him? Peter had no idea what she was up to, but whatever it was, it made him extremely nervous.

Vaguely listening to Reg ramble on about Professor Wood and the absurdity of compulsory humanity subjects for engineering students, Peter was thankful to see Maggie headed his way. She looked a bit green around the gills, but smiled at him when she caught his eye. He wondered if she was okay. For an insane moment he considered that her pallor must have had something to do with her conversation with Jane. Realising that it was just his paranoid state causing the irrational thoughts, he returned Maggie's smile and waited for her to reach him. Just as he was certain that he was about to be rescued from the continuing debate, Pam grabbed Maggie by the arm and dragged her over to where the kids were standing, leaving Peter to fret about Maggie's close proximity to Jane once more.

For Peter, time stood still. Had he been thinking logically, he would have correctly gauged the length of time that Maggie stood next to Jane as no more than a minute of two, but in his heightened state, it felt more like an hour. Peter couldn't remember the last time a situation had made him feel so tense. He had no way of knowing what Jane was saying to Maggie. Assuming she was saying anything at all, that is. He couldn't be sure either way, because Pam stood in front of Maggie blocking his view, but naturally, he assumed the worst. In his mind, Jane was quietly telling Maggie everything that had transpired between them.

Pam leaned over and gave Charlene a hug. As she did so, Peter caught sight of Maggie again. The pleasant smile on her face and the friendly wave she gave Jane and Charlene as they walked up the side of the house and off to an evening someplace else reassured Peter that, once again, his imagination was working overtime.

Maggie and Pam left Stephen and David and walked back in Peter's direction. Despite Maggie heading his way, he was unable to tear his eyes off Jane as she turned and walked along the side of the house and towards the front gate. For a split second he felt a flash of annoyance for being so weak, but then he saw Jane blow Stephen a kiss and felt his annoyance subside and fury take over. He was not furious because of the inviting way she looked at Stephen as she blew him the kiss, but because of the unexpected stab of jealousy that hit him like a rock in the head when she looked at his son that way.

***

It was almost midnight and only a handful of people remained. The cheerful tones of Cher belied the mellow and tranquil ambience that came from sitting around a fire on a hot summer evening, after having spent a good portion of the night consuming copious amounts of alcohol and overeating. _Bang Bang_ came on for the second time. Someone had obviously gone to the trouble of restarting the record but had not bothered to put in the supreme effort of taking the record off the player and changing it for something else. Maggie wondered if she should get up and do it, but one look at the group before her told her that the act would go unappreciated, so she resigned herself to listening to Cher once more.

Peter sat beside Maggie nursing the same can of beer that he'd held for the last hour or so. The edginess she'd sensed in him when they had first arrived seemed to have left him and he looked very peaceful and relaxed sitting in the fold-up chair with his long legs stretched out before him. He chatted away quietly with Doug Auld who sat beside him. Vivian sat next to her husband dutifully nodding at everything he said. Despite the woman's lack of appeal, Maggie felt sorry for her. She struck Maggie as the kind of woman that measured herself by her husband's success and not by her own achievements. Maggie doubted that she even had any achievements of her own and suspected that her main purpose in life was to be a good wife to her husband.

Maggie knew that women like Vivian Auld were plentiful. She supposed that she knew less of them than most for two reasons. The first one being that she worked and therefore associated more with working women than housewives, and the second one being that women like Maggie were not generally welcomed into the social circles of the likes of Vivian Auld, Barb Poole and Vicki Cotham.

Over the years, Maggie had given the matter considerable thought. Not because she yearned to belong to such a group and was hopeful of finding the key to acceptance, but because she was baffled by their superiority and righteousness. Maggie got the distinct impression that housewives considered their working counterparts inferior. Maggie recalled many a conversation amongst Peter's colleague's wives that had intended to leave her feeling like she had failed as a wife and mother simply because she chose to have a career. She often felt that working mothers – herself included – were being blamed for all the perceived problems facing young people today. Drug use, the demand for independence, the whole free love, hippy scene; all of it a direct result of negligent mothers who choose a career over their family responsibilities. Of course, Maggie thought that such views were outdated and naïve and were probably borne more from a sense of insecurity than a genuine belief in what they were espousing.

Either way, Maggie was mildly amused and only a touch annoyed by the whole situation. In her mind, neither was better, it was simply a matter of preference – and in some cases need. Experience told her that women worked because they either needed the money or, like Maggie, because they enjoyed it. Maggie was well aware that many women believed, just as her mum had done, that it was not their role to work and that they should be at home looking after their husband and raising a family. Maggie was not one of them. Maggie enjoyed the sense of worth and independence that came from having a job. She liked the interaction with other working people and looked forward to the intellectual stimulation that she found lacking in a group of housewives.

Slumped in the chair next to her husband, Pam Warner slept with her head tilted to the side, dribble trickling from the corner of her mouth. She snored loudly. Maggie correctly assumed that she had drunk too much. Luckily, Pam was not a boisterous drunk and her usual ostentatious personality waned considerably after a healthy number of drinks. Occasionally, she would recognise the signs early enough to retire with some dignity, but more often than not, she simply fell asleep in her chair.

Maggie felt embarrassed for her and wondered what kind of a husband would leave his wife in such an unsightly position. Looking sideways at Peter, she was thankful that he was such a considerate and caring partner. Maggie was certain that Peter would have whisked her away and tucked her into bed at the first hint of trouble.

Maggie waited politely for Peter to finish his sentence before gently tugging his sleeve. "You ready to go?" she asked quietly.

Peter leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I'll go get Stephen," she said, taking Peter's empty beer can and standing up.

Peter looked up at her from where he sat. Despite the late hour, he thought she looked radiant. The firelight cast a golden glow around her, giving her an aura befitting an angel. He couldn't wait to get her home and into bed. He didn't even care if they didn't make love. He would be more than satisfied to wrap her in his arms until he fell asleep.

Chapter 25

Wednesday, 19 December 1979

The taste of salt water took me by surprise. I was certain that I must have drowned by now, but I was pretty sure I wouldn't have been able to taste the water if I was dead. I could also feel the sand rubbing my skin raw. Yet, despite the possibility that my swimmers were about to be ripped off and rudely tossed away, having my skin shredded by sandpaper felt wonderful. It meant I definitely hadn't drowned.

Too happy to be alive to care about my dignity, I prepared myself for the final insult of being washed ashore naked. I felt the first rush of fresh air hit me in the face and gulped it down hungrily, sucking it into my lungs as I came up from the water. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my thrashing. Everything looked exactly as it had a minute ago. For some reason, I found that weird. I was expecting things to look different somehow, but I wasn't sure why.

Disappointed by the lack of change, but thrilled about not having drowned, my dignity became a priority once again. I rearranged my swimmers and squatted down under the water to flush the sand from my swimmer bottoms. When I looked over, Tom was waiting expectantly for the next wave. No doubt he saw me go under and just assumed it was another wave dump. Truth is it scared the hell out of me. So much so, that I was actually grateful to see Jim signaling to us from the beach that it was time to go.

I yelled to Tom that we had to get out and waited while he rode the last wave in. Together, we walked back to where Jim and Lisa were waiting for us. I couldn't wait to get out of my swimmers, they were still full of sand and scratched like hell.

"Time to go kids," said Lisa. "Jim wants to get to DJ's before they shut."

We only had about an hour to get there. Tom showered under the outside shower while I went to the change rooms. I wanted to take my swimmers off and wash all the sand from my body properly.

I stepped under the shower, and turned the tap on. The water was cool and soothing and took the sting out of my newly grazed and sunburned skin. I remembered that Jim didn't have much time to finish his shopping so I quickly washed the sand from my hair and turned the shower off. When I stepped out, Lisa was standing in front of the mirror. "I better not go out dressed like this," she giggled. "I'd have to beat the boys off with a stick."

"So don't," I said rudely and walked out. No doubt she would take another five minutes to admire herself before getting dressed.

I don't know what Jim sees in her. Well, actually, I do, but I reckon he could do so much better. Dad always says it's what's on the inside that counts, and Lisa didn't seem to have much on the inside except giggles. Jim was way too smart for her. He didn't carry on like most boys, and Tom said all the girls thought he was a spunk. I wasn't sure who the all the girls were, but I assumed he meant girls older than me.

Lisa finally came out of the change rooms and we all walked back to the mall together. I still hadn't spent the money Dad gave me and considered getting some lollies for the trip home. I wandered around David Jones with Tom while Lisa and Jim went off to find a Soda Stream. He said he'd meet us out the front in half an hour. Neither of us had a watch, but we could see the time on the watches in the shop.

I thought the lollies were too expensive and decided to save my money for when I got home. One dollar would buy heaps more at Eddy's Corner or Stan Kennelly's. Without anything in particular to do, we rode up and down the escalators and checked out the toy section. I saw a choice bike with a basket on the front and no sissy bar on the back, just a small seat. Mostly though, everything cost too much.

When we went back down stairs, the lady behind the counter sprayed some expensive perfume on me. She said it was called Chanel No. 5. When I asked her what Chanel No. 1, 2, 3 and 4 smelt like, she laughed at me. Tom said it smelt nice, but I thought it smelt awful. I wondered if the other numbers smelt any better.

Jim and Lisa were waiting for us when we got to the front of the store. "Mmm...someone smells good," Jim inhaled loudly through his nose.

Lisa beamed. "Here, she said," offering him her wrist. "I sprayed some _Youth Dew_ on when I was inside."

"Yuk, that smells more like old hag's piss than youth dew," he joked.

Tom and I burst out laughing. Lisa glared at us, but we couldn't stop. I laughed so much my tummy hurt.

Uh oh, he was in for it now. She had that sulky look on her face, the same one that Mum gets when Dad makes fun of her.

Jim realised his mistake and put his arm around her. "I was only kidding," he soothed, "besides, you don't need that stuff to smell good," he lied.

Jim was right though, she smelt a lot worse than I did.

***

The trip back from Newcastle seemed to take a lot longer than the trip there. It had been a long day and I was feeling tired by the time we were almost home. I asked Tom if he was allowed out tomorrow and he said he was. We talked quietly so Jim couldn't hear us. Tom said he would see if Jim would take us to the hospital to see Shortie, but he didn't want to ask him until later. He said Jim would probably have a couple of beers with his dad when he got home, so he would ask him then. Tom reckons he was much more likely to say yes after a few tinnies.

Lisa didn't say much on the trip home. She was still sulking about the perfume. When Jim dropped her home, she whispered something in his ear and giggled. She must have gotten over her sulks after all. Whatever she said made Jim raise his eyebrows and consider her for a moment. "We'll see," he said.

That appeared to satisfy her and she hopped out of the car. She waved goodbye to us as she walked inside. Jim didn't get out of the car to walk her in this time.

Jim dropped me off out the front of my place. "Thanks for taking me to the movies, Jim, I had a great time," I said as I got out of the car. "Oh yeah, and thanks for lunch too." Mum said you should always say thank you to someone if they do a nice thing, because it's not very often people do nice things. Anyway, I meant it; I had a lot of fun.

Tom and Jim waved goodbye and drove off. When I got inside, Mum was serving tea. I walked into the dining room where everyone was seated. "Talk about perfect timing," said Dad. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yep, sure did,"

"Look at you, you're all sunburnt," Mum complained.

"How was the movie?" asked Tracy.

Brian talked over the top of Tracy. "What was it about?"

Damn! I knew someone would ask me that.

Chapter 26

Thursday, 20 December 1979

"Mum! Do you know where my red shorts are?"

"Which ones?"

"You know, the terry toweling ones with the white trim."

"They're in the ironing basket in my room."

Everything always ends up in the ironing basket, even stuff that doesn't need ironing. Mum usually folds up the washing every couple of days, but until then, the ironing basket is the most likely place to find anything. I don't even know why I bothered asking, because I already knew the answer. Wishful thinking I suppose.

I rifled through the clothes basket in Mum and Dad's room. Not only did I find my shorts, I also found my black tank top that I'd been looking for, and my blue skirt as well. I grabbed the clothes and headed back to my room.

"Wanna come and play Lego with me?" asked Brian.

As if! "No thanks, I'm going out with Tom," I said instead.

"Can I come?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I thought about telling him that he was a smelly little slime bucket and the last person in the street I wanted to play with, but I could hear Mum in the bathroom and knew there'd be hell to pay if I said that. So, instead, I gave him the mum answer and told him that we were going for a ride on Tom's bike and he could only double one person at a time.

"I can ride my skate board," he offered.

Boy, eight year olds are thick! Talk about not taking the hint. Just as I was about to tell him that he wouldn't be able to keep up with us – another mum answer – I was saved by a knock on the front door. Michael wanted to know if Brian could come and play. I could've kissed the little weevil. Now there was no chance that Mum would inflict Brian on me like she sometimes does. I'm sure she only does it to get back at me for all the non-mum answers I give, which is why I'm trying really hard to limit them to when she's out of hearing range. Even though I still have the occasional problem with her bionic hearing, I am getting better at it.

Apart from the fact that I'd rather play with an ants nest than Brian, I didn't want him coming with me in case Jim agreed to take us to the hospital. I hadn't mentioned it to anyone yet because I didn't know if Jim was going to or not. I wouldn't know until I saw Tom.

I put on my red shorts, black top and thongs and tied my hair back into a ponytail. I went to tell Mum I was going to Tom's place.

"I'm going to drop Grandma's containers back, do you want to come?" she asked.

Grandma has this thing about not throwing away left overs while children are starving in Africa, so she gives it all to us. I don't know how it helps the starving children exactly, but at least it gets her out of washing up. "No thanks, me and Tom are going to catch some tadpoles." I remembered I'd told Brian we were going somewhere on Tom's bike and added, "And then we're going for a ride to Keith Barry Oval with Ed and Trevor to play cricket." It wasn't strictly a lie, because that's what we _might_ do if Jim couldn't take us to the hospital.

"Don't you mean Tom and I are going to catch some tadpoles?" Mum corrected.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you wanted to come too," I said, trying to sound funny. "I thought you were going to Grandma's." I was really thinking that I wish she wouldn't correct me like that all the time, it's so annoying. Of course, I didn't tell Mum that. I'm not that stupid.

"Smart aleck," was all she said. I smiled to myself and left. I knew Kate or Tracy – or both – would be home when I got back, even if Mum wasn't.

I walked to Tom's place and knocked on the door. Hopefully the Undertaker wouldn't be home. No such luck, he answered the door. "Hi Mr Simmons, can Tom come and play?"

He turned and called to Tom without saying a word to me. I waited on the veranda for Tom to come and let me in. When he did, we went straight into his bedroom and closed the door behind us. I bounced on his bed, which was not yet made, and said in a stern voice, "Tommy, look at this mess, the place looks like a bomb hit it."

He just laughed and threw his pyjamas at me. He knew I was only joking, and besides, his room was spotless except for his bed not being made. "Well?" I asked impatiently. "Can Jim take us to the hospital or not?"

"He said he can't take us today because he has to take Mum Christmas shopping, but if we still want him to, he can take us tomorrow."

I was a bit disappointed, but it was better than nothing.

"He wants us to find out what room he's in and when visiting hours are so that we don't have to wait around all day."

Tom thought we should call in at Shortie's place and check with his parents. That way we could also find out if he'd be home before then. Maybe we wouldn't need Jim to take us after all.

I helped Tom make his bed before letting his parents know we were going out. As we got close to the dining room, I thought I heard the Undertaker laugh. That'd be a first. I don't think I've ever heard him laugh or seen him smile in all the time I've known him. I followed Tom into the room where Mr and Mrs Simmons were having a cup of tea. Jim sat at the table next to his mum smoking a cigarette. The light shining in through the window made the room look hazy. Just like one of those old gangster movies where everyone sits around playing cards and smoking. Maybe the Undertaker was a gangster. That sure would explain a lot.

If the Undertaker had been laughing before we entered the room, he'd stopped by the time we walked in. He sat at the head of the table frowning. His dark, beady eyes peered out from under his bushy eyebrows, which stuck up at the ends making him look evil, just like that guy from the Cuckoo's Nest movie that my dad has a poster of on his wall at work. His shiny black hair was going bald on top and I could see his scalp through it. It always looked wet and showed the comb lines, especially on top of his head.

I think he's really creepy. He's tall and skinny and looks like a praying mantis. I read in an insect book that female praying mantises eat the male once the eggs are made. It's a shame Mrs Simmons didn't eat the Undertaker once Tom was made.

Tom told his mum that we were going out to play and would be back later. She said she was going shopping with Jim and that he'd have to make his own lunch. We'd probably just eat at my place anyway so we wouldn't have to come back here while only the Undertaker was home. Before we left, Tom got a couple of plastic containers from the cupboard. I waited for him on the front veranda while he went to get his fishing net from the garage. The net's just an old coat hanger bent into shape with a pair of pantyhose stretched over the frame and tied at the end, but it's excellent for scooping up tadpoles. We both made one in the last holidays, only I forgot to bring mine.

Tom came around the corner and snuck up behind me. "Boo!"

I swiped him across the head for making me jump. "What do you want to do first? Go to Shortie's or go tadpoling?"

"Go tadpoling."

We walked down the street and past my place. We climbed through the barbed wire fence and followed the path to the left of us. The path led up behind the houses in our block and into a big open paddock. The path to the right of us led around to the bush between our place and the school. We're not supposed to cut through the bush to get to school but we always do. It's much shorter than going all the way around the block, however some of the land belongs to the Desreaux's and they complain to the school if we cut through it. The school then makes us use the road again, but after a while they get slack and stop checking, so we cut through the bush again until the next complaint is made.

At least we could play in the paddock as often as we liked because nobody owned the land there. The grass had even grown back from last year's fire. At the moment, it was waist high and full of little seeds. If you walked through it with wet feet, the seeds stuck to you and you had to wait for them to dry before they'd brush off.

Looking at the place now, there's no way I could tell there'd been a fire. The grass looked just like it did before we set it alight. The fire is a secret that only Tom, Shortie and I know about. Well, everyone knows about the fire, but they don't know that we started it. Anyway, it was an accident. We didn't mean to set fire to anything. Shortie found a lighter in the gutter and Tom used it to melt a plastic dog's bowl that we nicked from under someone's back fence. Tom got me to hold the bowl steady while he held the lighter under it, but it got too hot and I dropped it. As soon as it hit the ground, the grass went up in flames. We tried to stamp it out, but it took off and we panicked. We ran as fast as we could through the bush and over towards the back of our school, which is in the opposite direction from where we'd been.

At first we didn't think about where we were going, we just bolted so we wouldn't get caught. But then we realised that if we came back through the gap in my fence, no one would know that we'd been anywhere near the fire. They'd just think we were playing in the bush behind my house. Luckily we hadn't told anyone where we were going.

By the time we got as far as the Desreaux's place, we could already smell the fire. It's one of my favourite smells. Probably because it reminds me of summer and I love summer time. Don't get me wrong, I felt bad for starting the fire, I just thought it smelt nice, that's all.

We heard the fire engines arrive and decided to stay in hiding a bit longer before heading home. While we waited, we played hide and seek in the cornfield behind Desreaux's. We're not supposed to play in the corn, but it's too much fun not to. It's taller than we are and we can hide in it forever without getting caught.

By the time we got back, the fire was almost out. We stood around with the crowd of people that had gathered, watching the fire trucks. No one suspected that we started it, so we never got caught. Bush fires happen all the time in summer, so everyone just put it down to the heat and the dead grass. We've never shared our secret with a living soul, but sometimes we talk about it when no one's around.

Tom looked across and gave me a smile. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was thinking about the fire too. It's kind of strange really. Sometimes all he has to do is look a certain way and I know exactly what he's thinking. "Got a light?" he asked.

I smiled back. I knew he wasn't expecting an answer. It was just his way of letting me know what was on his mind.

We cut through the long grass and out the other side, leaving a trail wide enough to impress Hansel and Gretel. Tom picked one of the Wet-the-bed flowers that grew amongst the long grass and held it under my chin. The yellow flower reflected on my fair skin, unreliably confirming that I'm a bed wetter.

"Jenny wets the bed, Jenny wets the bed," he teased.

I knew he was only kidding so I didn't bother responding to his taunts. Instead, I snatched the flower from his hand and tucked it behind my ear.

As the bush thinned out a little, big clusters of rocks started to appear. The caves were a bit further up and the closer to the ridge we got, the rockier it became. We weren't going that far today though. We were only going as far as the creek. It's the same creek that goes all the way past the back of the school and eventually comes out into the storm water drain. Not many people play this far up, so the place is usually deserted. I couldn't understand why though, it was one of our favourite spots. The creek ran through a deep gully, which couldn't be seen until you got right up close. That meant we could play there all day without anyone finding us. Unless they walked right up to the edge, that is.

There was a small waterfall further up, with a pool at its base. That's where we were going. It's always shady and cool there, no matter how hot it is. The waterfall is surrounded by masses of tangled vines, which grow thick and spongy over the edges and down the sides, making it a perfect place for jumping into. Sometimes we just lie on the leafy mattress looking up at the sky, making pictures from the clouds. It's so soft and comfortable, we're happy to lie there all day.

We climbed down the side of the waterfall and squatted on the edge of the creek, looking in. I could see the tadpoles wriggling through the clear water. They ranged in size from huge to tiny. We usually got the big ones because they were likely to turn into frogs quicker. I filled the container with water and Tom skimmed the net through the creek. We've tried catching them without a net, but it takes too long. The net came out of the water with at least eight tadpoles on it.

"Good catch," I told him. Tom scooped the biggest two into the container and dunked the net back in. "There," I pointed, "that one has legs, get it." Tom reached across and scooped where I showed him. He caught a net full of mud and weed, but no tadpoles, and made the water cloudy so we could no longer see the tadpoles.

We climbed to the top of the ditch, jumped across the trickle of water at the top of the waterfall, and climbed back down the other side. An amount of water remained clear along the edge of the creek and the tadpoles that hadn't escaped to the safety of the muddy water wiggled their tails happily. I scooped the net, making sure I didn't touch the bottom. When I lifted it out of the water, there were three tadpoles in it, but they were too small, so we put them back.

We eventually caught ten tadpoles, six of which had legs. We divided them equally into two containers so we each had three tadpoles with legs and two without. We decided to keep a set at each of our places and see which ones turned into frogs first. Tom handed me a container with some creek water in it and my share of the tadpoles. I carefully decorated the bottom with rocks and sand from the creek, making sure I didn't squash any tadpoles along the way. We didn't know for sure what they ate, but we assumed they liked weed from the creek, so I put some of that in too. Then, just to be sure, I gave them extra.

I wanted them to grow big and fat, not starve.

We agreed that we needed to come every week and get some new water because we're pretty sure they don't like tap water. They always die when we put it in their containers. Last time I used nothing but creek water and none of them died. Well, that's not strictly true. They all died in the end, but that was because I forgot about them and the water dried up completely. The tadpoles went all crunchy and stuck to the bottom and I had to throw the whole container away. What I meant to say is that when I _remembered_ to put creek water in their container, they didn't die. One of the tadpoles even grew legs. I assumed it turned into a frog and jumped away because one morning it was gone. Either that or next door's cat ate it.

***

We left our tadpoles in the shade and played around in the vines for a while. Tom stood at the top of the waterfall and jumped. He landed next to where I was laying. We weren't even sure what was under us. The leaves were too thick to see through and when we put our hands under them, all we got was more leaves.

We lay in the green bed, stretched out our legs, and studied our muddy feet. "What are you getting for your birthday?" I wiggled my toes to see if the mud would crack, but it was still too wet.

"Dunno, I think Mum's getting it today while she's Christmas shopping. I asked for an Atari, but I'm not sure if I'll get it."

Tom's parents are on a pension, so they don't have much money.

"What about you? What are you getting?"

I told him again how much I hoped I was getting a bike.

"Maybe I should've asked for a new bike for Christmas. That way, you could have my old one," he suggested.

"Nuh, it's too late now anyway, your mum's shopping today."

"Well, if you don't get one this year, I'll definitely ask for a new one next year and you can have it then."

Is it any wonder I was going to marry Tom? He's always so considerate.

There's only two days to go until our birthday. I can't wait. I so hope I get a new bike. If I don't get one this year, I might have to let on that I don't believe in Santa and suggest I get one for my birthday and Christmas combined. Surely that's got to improve my chances.

I was starting to get very excited about my party. Jeanette's mum rang last night to say she would love to come, so now the only person I hadn't heard from was Michael Simpson. I don't really mind if he doesn't come, I only asked him so he wouldn't feel left out. I still can't believe Mum's letting me have a party. Kate and Tracy had one this year also, but that was because they turned sixteen and Dad said that turning sixteen was special. Turning eleven wasn't, so I'm so glad Dad talked Mum into it for me.

It was getting close to lunchtime, so we decided to head back home. We walked all the way back, being extra careful not to spill the tadpoles. They're really hard to find in the grass. I should know; many tadpoles have never made it to froghood because of my clumsiness.

***

Mum stood in the kitchen stirring a large pot of soup. No doubt Grandma had managed to offload her washing up again. "Would you kids like some soup for lunch?"

I hate soup, so I said no. I don't even know why she asked me, she already knows that. Tom accepted, so I made myself a devon and tomato sauce sandwich while Mum served the soup. She turned the stove off and carefully carried Tom's bowl into the dining area, putting it on the table in front of him. "Michael's mum called," she informed us, "he's going to stay with his Grandparents for Christmas so he won't be coming to your party. She said to wish you both a happy birthday."

"No worries, I still have eighteen kids coming all up," I informed her. Even though I was sharing the party with Tom, none of his relatives were coming. Most of them were grown up anyway, so it's not like they'd want to come. Besides, the only reason the other grownups are coming is because of their kids. Except Clare that is, she doesn't have any kids.

"Have you thought about what games you want to play yet?" Mum asked.

Musical chairs or statues were the best I could come up with on short notice. "I know," said Tom, "what about pin the tail on the donkey?"

We'd been to stacks of parties where they played that and everyone always had lots of fun. The party is starting at one o'clock and going until four, so we had plenty of time to play all of them if we wanted.

Mum suggested Tom and I draw a donkey on butcher's paper and cut up some cardboard for the tails. Mum had a scarf we could use as a blindfold and some drawing pins to put through the tails. We agreed to make the donkey before the party on Saturday, and since it was only Thursday, we had plenty of time. Besides, we didn't have any butcher's paper yet. Mum said she'd get some next time she went down the street.

We finished lunch and took Tom's tadpoles home. I'd already put mine on the shelf in the laundry so they wouldn't fry in the sun. No doubt, if Mum found them, she would make me find somewhere else to put them, but at least they were safe for now.

Oh no, I just remembered what happened last time I left something on the shelf in the laundry. Only the last time it was a mouse. Ed's mouse had babies and he gave me one, except Mum said I couldn't have it, so I hid it on the shelf in the laundry, like I'd just done with the tadpoles. Brian must have seen me sneak in there though, because when I went back in later the box was lying on the floor empty. The stupid idiot probably never even found out what was in the box; mice can run really fast. That afternoon, Mum made me hang the washing on the line. When I got to the bottom of the washing machine, I found a dead, washed, little mouse with no fur left on it. Boy, did Brian cop it for that, and I didn't even tell him why.

Tom put his tadpoles on the workbench in the shed. Their shed was as tidy as their house and didn't look like it got used much, so we figured they were unlikely to be in anyone's way there. Not like our shed, it's full of stuff. Dad's always working on something. Sometimes, I spend hours with him in his shed just talking and watching him work. He likes to fix up old things. Once he found an old record player at the dump and bought it home and made it work. It's the one that he's always playing his Blondie and Linda Ronstadt records on. It's got a radio on it and everything. In the summer he puts the cricket on the radio and listens to it while he works. I hate cricket, it's so boring.

Tom needed to go to the toilet so we closed the shed and went inside. The Undertaker was back in his usual spot in the corner with his can of KB. Mrs Simmons and Jim still weren't home, so I preferred to wait in the dining room for Tom. When he came out, we left via the back door so we didn't disturb the Undertaker.

Shortie lives up the hill from Tom's place. It's really steep and never fails to puff us out by the time we reach the top. Today was no exception. It's an excellent hill for roller-skating down though. I got roller skates for Christmas last year and have ridden down it stacks of times. Once, I fell off and scraped my shoulder and knees. I got gravel under my skin and everything. The scars are still there, but they're fading. Mum said they'll eventually disappear, but they haven't yet.

Shortie's place is on a dead end street. His street joins the one that goes all the way around the block and comes out in front of my place. There are only four houses on each side of his street. There's lots of bush behind the houses, which you can cut through to get to the next block. That must've been where they found Shortie after the Dumbrells bashed him up. Dad said he didn't know how the kittens were killed, just that they were. I don't think he's telling the truth, but I haven't bothered to ask. It's probably best I don't know.

I wondered if the Dumbrells had finished moving out yet and hoped that Duncan and Dean were in the boys' home already. Tom suggested we check it out on the way back. The Dumbrells lived down the hill on the other side of the block from Shortie's so we could go the long way home and have a look.

Shortie's dad's car was in the driveway, which meant they were probably home. We crossed their front yard and knocked on the door. Heaps of ferns and plants with coloured flowers hung in baskets from their front veranda. I wondered how they didn't hit their heads on them, but then I remembered the entire family was short. One of Shortie's brothers answered the door. I wasn't sure which one. All I know is Shortie's the youngest, so he must've been an older one.

"Hi," said Tom, "we just came to see what time visiting hours are so we can visit Shortie."

"Jim's going to take us tomorrow," I added, "unless he's going to be home before then, that is."

Shortie's brother stood there staring at me as though I were Mork from Ork. I felt like saying na-nu, na-nu, but of course I didn't. After what felt like ages, he looked from me to Tom and finally recognised us. He told us to wait there and turned around and walked off, closing the door in our faces. I looked at Tom as if to say, what was all that about? Tom was just about to say something when Shortie's dad came to the door. At least he seemed to know who we were. "Oh Jenny and Tom, it's you," he said.

Things went downhill from there. He just stood there looking at us, making me extremely uncomfortable. I looked at Tom who didn't seem to know what to say so I told Mr O'Connor that we wanted to find out what room Shortie was in and when we could visit him. He didn't appear to hear what we said. He just stood there looking at us like his son had done earlier. It was weird. I didn't remember Shortie's family being so odd.

"Who is it?" Shortie's mum called from inside. She walked up and stuck her head around the door to see who was there. She looked terrible. Her face was red and her eyes were puffy. She looked like she'd been crying for a week straight. Shortie's dad walked off absentmindedly, leaving Mrs O'Connor staring at us through the screen door.

Chapter 27

Sunday, 1 December 1968

Peter slept soundly beside Maggie. Careful not to disturb him, she snuck out of bed quietly. She didn't bother to get dressed. There was no need. Stephen had stayed overnight at the Warner's place, so they had the house to themselves. She tiptoed into the bathroom and sat on the toilet with a sigh of relief. She inspected the toilet paper before dropping it in the bowl with a silent thank you. Her period had still not arrived. She knew it was still too early to get her hopes up, but she allowed herself the small indulgence of thinking about what it might be like to have Peter's baby.

The phone rang, causing Maggie to reluctantly abandon her daydream. She didn't want the phone interrupting Peter's long awaited sleep in, so she quickly raced through the house to answer it.

"Hi Mum, sorry to be calling so early, but I figured you'd be up already."

Maggie's delight at hearing Michelle's voice quickly turned to concern when she realised that it had only been a couple of days since she had last spoken with her. It was unlike Michelle to call twice in one week. Something must be wrong. "Is everything alright?" Maggie asked.

Michelle jumped in quickly when she realised how her call must have seemed to Maggie. "Everything's fine. I know it's early, and I would've left it til later to call, but we need to get underway shortly."

"Why; where are you going?"

"Paul and I are coming for a visit, that's why I'm ringing. We're catching the train down. We should be there around three fifteen. Can you pick us up from the station?"

"When? Today?" Instead of being reassured that everything was okay, Maggie was now convinced that it wasn't. "Why; what's up?"

Michelle feigned insult. "Well, if you prefer we didn't come, we could always go and visit Paul's parents instead. I'm sure they'd be delighted to see their son who they haven't seen in almost two months."

"Sorry love, of course you're welcome to come. I guess your short notice just threw me, that's all. You're usually far more organised than this."

Michelle laughed. "No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just that we only decided to come about half an hour ago. Paul was coming down tomorrow anyway. He has a job interview in the city, and I decided to come with him. That way you and Dad can meet him and we can spend some time with you."

"That'd be lovely. How long will you be staying?"

"We'll be coming back tomorrow. Paul's interview is at two-thirty and we hope to catch the ten past five train back from Central."

"Oh well, one day's better than nothing I suppose. You're father and I have to work tomorrow, but you're welcome to stay around until Paul finishes his interview."

Michelle hesitated before responding. "Um – do you remember me saying that Marjorie called?"

"Well, of course I do. Has she been prank-calling you too?"

"No, of course not – nothing like that. I just thought I should let you know that I'm having lunch with her tomorrow."

Despite Maggie having given her blessing, she was still surprised to hear that Michelle was going to meet Marjorie. Determined not to let it show she responded coolly. "Oh. No worries. I trust you won't want to get up as early as us, so you can lock up when you leave."

"You can say that again. Anyway, gotta go, we'll see you this afternoon."

"Okay love, bye." Maggie hung up the phone and tiptoed back into the bedroom.

"Who was that calling at this ungodly hour?" Peter asked, way too cheerfully for someone who had been woken up at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning, after a big night out. Maggie told Peter about her conversation with Michelle. "Hmm, I suppose that means we better ask Mum and Dad around. They'll never forgive us if Michelle came to visit and we didn't tell them about it."

Maggie groaned. It had only been a week since their last barbeque and she didn't think she could face them again so soon. "Well, I won't tell them if you don't," she offered.

Peter grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down on the bed next to him. "That's what I love about you; you're not beyond lying and cheating to get what you want."

Maggie giggled like a little girl. "Who are you calling a liar and a cheat? I'm not the one who hid in the house and pretended I wasn't home when my parents came to visit."

"Oh, you'll pay for that." Peter tickled Maggie in the ribs. "How cruel you are, Maggie Thompson. You promised you'd never bring that up again."

Maggie pleaded with Peter to stop tickling her. "Stop, please!"

"Say uncle," he demanded.

"I'll say no such thing," she giggled.

"Then, I'll tickle you til you wet yourself."

"Okay! I'll say it!"

"Well?" he tickled her some more, "I'm waiting."

Maggie held out for as long as she could before giving in to the tickling and called out "uncle".

"There, let that be a lesson to you." Peter smacked her on her bottom with a gentle slap.

Maggie lay next to Peter on top of the sheets, breathless and naked. Peter rolled her on to her side so that he could pull the sheets out from under her and throw them over her instead. As he did so, he moved in closer, wrapping her in his arms. "Mmm, that's better, now you can't get away."

Still breathless from the struggle, Maggie snuggled in closer. "That's alright," she assured him, "I have no intentions of ever getting away."

Peter brushed her hair away from her neck and gently kissed her exposed skin. "Have I told you today how much I love you?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, you haven't."

"Well," he kissed her neck in between each word he spoke, "let this be the first."

Maggie reached behind her. "And what do we have here?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Peter nudged her to indicate that she should turn around. "Why don't I show you?" he offered.

"Mmm, please do," Maggie giggled.

***

"You can ring them," Maggie curled up on her side and snuggled under the sheets, "they're your parents."

Peter groaned. He climbed out of bed and tucked the sheets in around Maggie's back to avoid a draught. "I guess I deserve that."

"Yep," she agreed, "you do."

Laughing, Peter slipped on a pair of boxer shorts and left the bedroom. "Don't you think it's a bit early?" he called from the kitchen.

Maggie rolled over and looked at the clock. It was almost ten. Had they been at it that long, she wondered. Still feeling very relaxed from the activities of the past hour or so, she smiled. "Don't think you're going to get out of it that easy," she called back. "You know they get up with the roosters."

"Okay, okay, I'll ring them."

Maggie contemplated staying in bed a bit longer, but decided against it. She still had a couple of loads of washing to do and, now that Michelle and Paul were coming to stay, she'd have to clear out the junk that she had let build up in Michelle's room. She pulled on a dressing gown and walked towards the bathroom. She got as far as the hallway when she heard a car pull up. The front door was still closed, so she walked into the lounge room and pulled the curtains aside, just enough to see out. It was only Stephen being dropped off. Thank God for that, she thought. For a minute there she thought it might have been Peter's parents. They weren't beyond dropping in unannounced.

Stephen opened the door of the rundown old Ford. Maggie was surprised to see him lean across and kiss the driver before getting out. Closer inspection revealed that it was Jane driving the car, not Charlene or David as she had first assumed. Maggie smiled. So that was why he had wanted to stay overnight. Maggie would have happily bet that it had nothing to do with the game of Monopoly he and David had been playing and everything to do with Jane and Charlene's return at two in the morning.

By the time Maggie had straightened the curtain and returned to the hall, Stephen was coming through the front door. He started to say hello then realised that his dad was on the phone and whispered it instead.

"Have a good night?" Maggie asked him quietly as he passed Peter in the hall.

"Yep," Stephen said noncommittally. "And you?"

Maggie smiled and nodded. She ruffled his hair as he walked past her. Peter looked at Maggie and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I said I'd ring Roger, didn't I?"

"Who's Dad talking to?" Stephen asked over his shoulder.

"Your grandparents. Michelle's coming to visit this afternoon, so he thought he should invite them around. Only, now it sounds like Roger and Mary are coming as well." Maggie sighed. "So much for a quiet Sunday afternoon with just the two of us."

Stephen stopped walking and turned around. "Michelle's coming? Why, what's up?"

Maggie laughed. "That's what I said. Apparently, nothing is up, her boyfriend's got a job interview tomorrow and she's going to have lunch with Marjorie."

Stephen looked surprised. "I didn't know she had a boyfriend and why would she want to see Marjorie."

"Well, she does have a boyfriend, his name is Paul, and I guess her reasons for seeing Marjorie are a matter for her."

He shrugged. "Yeah, suppose."

Stephen started to walk away then stopped again. "Do you think it would be okay if I asked Jane to come over this afternoon?" he asked casually.

Maggie smiled at her son. "By Jane, I assume you are referring to that very attractive young lady you introduced me to last night."

"Yeah, that's her."

"Oh, and she's the same very attractive young lady I just saw drop you off, I suppose?"

Stephen blushed and looked uncomfortable.

Maggie laughed. "Of course you can invite her. She's very welcome."

"Thanks Mum."

"That's alright. Besides, anyone that can make you smile _and_ blush must be special."

Stephen looked embarrassed for the second time. "She is." He agreed. "Well, at least, I think she is. I suppose only time will tell."

"That it will," said Maggie, "that it will."

Stephen kissed his mum on the cheek before striding off into the kitchen to get something to eat. Maggie laughed to herself as she heard him say, "I better give her some time to get home before I ring her. I don't want to sound too keen."

Chapter 28

Thursday, 20 December 1979

"Darren's gone," Mrs O'Connor said.

"Gone where?" I asked.

"He passed away Tuesday night."

"What?" Was I hearing her right?

"He's gone love," she said again, this time with tears running down her face. "He never regained consciousness after those monsters beat him up."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What did she mean he never regained consciousness? "But, he was just having a check-up," I said doubtfully.

She looked at me as though she felt sorry for me.

"But, he was just having a check-up," I repeated like a moron. This time I could hear my voice faltering and knew straight away that what I said was wrong.

She started to sob loudly. "I wish that were true."

I couldn't stand it a second longer. I turned and fled. I could hear Tom calling me, but I didn't wait for him. My vision blurred and my chest burned like hell, but I kept running. I couldn't believe it. Shortie was dead. My parents lied to me. He wasn't having a check-up at all. How dare they tell me that he was going to be alright, he's not going to be alright; he's dead!

I ran all the way home without stopping to catch my breath. By the time I got home, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I barged into the house and ran into the dining room. Mum looked up from her crossword puzzle to see what was going on. I ran up to her and screamed in her face. "You're a liar and I hate you!"

She dropped her pen and looked at me, horrified.

"You said Shortie was having a check-up and he wasn't. He was in hospital unconscious and now he's dead!"

Kate and Tracy came out to see what all the yelling was about.

"I suppose you knew about this too," I bawled at them. "I suppose everyone knew, did they?"

Mum's face went white. "Oh God."

"Well?" I yelled. "I suppose everyone knew he wasn't coming home but me?" I stood there waiting for an answer. I could hardly see through my tears and I was having trouble breathing. My sobs were getting caught in my throat making it sound like I had the hiccups.

Mum got up from the table and came around to put her arms around me. Kate and Tracy stood there, stunned. "Get away from me," I screamed. "You're a liar; I hate your guts!"

I didn't wait for a response, I just ran from the room. Mum was about to follow, but I heard Tracy tell her to leave me be. When I got to my room, I slammed the door shut behind me. I threw myself on the bed and cried. I looked at Hendrix; he couldn't help me this time. He just sat and stared.

My parents were a pack of liars. They had no right to lie to me like they did. No wonder they wouldn't let me visit Shortie. Now he's dead and I never even got to say goodbye and it's all their fault.

***

I'm not sure how long I cried for, but by the time I heard Mum knocking on my door, my head hurt and my eyes stung. "Jenny, can I come in?" she asked cautiously through the door.

"Go away! I don't ever want to talk to you again." I knew that probably wasn't the case, but I didn't care. I definitely didn't want to speak to her now. I heard her footsteps fading up the hall, but I knew she would eventually come back. At least for the time being she seemed willing to leave me alone.

I lay on my bed trying to stop the flow of tears. I'd never known anyone who'd died before. Shortie was the first. I saw a dead dog once, but that was different. We found a white Labrador behind a log in the bush. Shortie and Tom were poking it with a stick. Ed and I were just about to join in when Shortie poked it too hard and its fur slid off. It was crawling with millions of maggots underneath. I didn't mind seeing the dead dog, but the maggots were disgusting and made my skin crawl. Trevor was standing next to me, too chicken to touch it himself. When I called him a scaredy cat, he pushed me off the log and I almost landed on it. I managed to jump clear of it just in time, but I thought it was a slack thing to do and I didn't speak to him for ages afterwards. I spent the rest of the day brushing imaginary maggots from my skin. Just like when people talk about nits, my head starts to itch straight away.

A knock on the door interrupted my memories of the dead dog. I was just about to scream for whoever it was to go away when I heard Tom's voice. "Jenny, it's me, can I come in?"

He'd been waiting outside for me the whole time. I opened the door and let him in. He came and sat next to me on the bed, making me feel better just for having him close. I was certain Tom understood how I felt, because no doubt he'd been lied to as well. We sat on the bed in silence, neither of us really knowing what to say. "I hate my parents," I said finally. "They're liars."

Tom just smiled at me carefully, but didn't say anything.

I tried once again to start a conversation. "What do you think will happen to Shortie now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what will happen to him now? Will he go straight to Heaven or does he have to wait until after the funeral?"

"I don't know, I suppose he has to wait until after the funeral."

"So what will he do in the meantime, where will he go?" The idea of Shortie just hanging around waiting for his own funeral struck me as odd. I realised I had no clue about what happened to someone when they died.

Tom considered my question carefully. "Come to think of it, maybe he doesn't have to wait. Mr Richards said that when you die only your soul goes to Heaven, not your body, so I don't see why he should have to wait for the funeral."

It seemed logical to me. "So, how long does it take to get there?"

"Get where?"

"Heaven, where do you think?"

"How should I know?"

"Well, you're the Catholic, not me."

Tom looked hurt. Seeing the look on his face made me feel bad. I shouldn't be mean to Tom, he didn't do anything.

I tried to be more cheerful. "Maybe your mum will know?" Anyone who went to Church as often as she did was bound to know for sure.

Tom looked doubtful. "Why don't we ask her?"

"She's not home yet, I'll ask her tonight."

Mum knocked on my door again. This time she was not taking 'get lost' for an answer. She came into my room and stood facing us on the bed. I could tell by the look on her face that she wasn't going to leave. Maybe if I ignored her long enough, she'd eventually go away. "I think it's time for Tom to go home now," she said. "He can come back tomorrow and play."

I wondered how long I'd get away with being angry and not talking to her. Not very long, by the looks of it. She had her no nonsense voice on, which really meant that she wasn't going to let me throw another tantrum or be rude a second longer. It certainly had the desired effect on Tom, he was up and out before I could say anything. I was determined not to crack so easily. I figured if I wasn't going to get away with another tantrum, then, the least I could do was not look at her. That way she'd know I was still angry with her, which I was.

She sat down on the bed beside me. Despite me not looking up, I could feel her watching me. At first she just sat there not saying anything, but after a minute or two, she spoke. "I know you're angry with me at the moment, but in time you'll understand why we didn't tell you the truth."

I doubted she was right, but I was not about to break my silence to say so.

"We had no idea that he wasn't coming home. The doctors said that he'd sustained a heavy blow to the head, but that his signs were good and that he should wake up."

I sat staring at the wall determined to not say a word.

"Jenny, please don't be angry. Your dad and me just want what's best for you," she pleaded.

I felt like correcting her and saying, 'don't you mean, Dad and I', but I didn't, I sat there tight-lipped instead.

It seemed Mum was just as determined to get me to talk as I was not to. "Sometimes parents don't tell the whole truth because they don't want to hurt those they love," she explained.

"That doesn't make sense. If they don't want to hurt those they love, then they should tell the truth, not lie." Damn, I wasn't meaning to say that out loud.

"Would it help if I said sorry?" she asked hopefully.

I couldn't stand it. She was being so nice and I really wanted to be nasty back, but I couldn't. I started to cry again. I didn't know what else to do. She moved closer and put her arm around me while I sat there blubbering like a baby.

"Did I tell you that I lost a friend once, just before you were born?"

I shook my head.

"We'd been best friends since high school and her name was Molly. She was driving home from the hospital where she worked, and was going around the corner near the bridge at Morisset. A car came around the corner too fast and ran into her. It didn't do too much damage, but it pushed her car off the road and into a ditch, and she hit her head."

I looked at her expectantly. "And?"

She held her hands out, palms up and shrugged. "And she died, just like that. The doctors said it was a freak accident and that she was just unlucky."

I'd say she was unlucky.

"The point is," she continued, "I know how you feel. At the moment it hurts a lot, but after a while, it's not so bad. Life goes on and things eventually return to normal."

I couldn't imagine things returning to normal, ever. "How long does it take?"

"It's hard to know. I imagine that you'll feel sad for a while, but then you'll start to feel better. You'll see. I bet you're feeling better by the time your party starts."

What! Was she kidding? There was no way I was going to have a party now, no way in hell. "I'm not having a party," I said, sounding like a spoiled brat and actually feeling good about it.

"Of course you are, don't be silly."

"I am not!"

"Come on Jenny, you're just being childish, of course you're having a party. You've sent out the invitations and everyone's already said they're coming."

She didn't appear to be listening at all, which made me angry all over again. "Firstly," I said, "I'm allowed to be childish, I'm eleven. Secondly, I am not having a party. And thirdly, I'll call everyone and tell them it's cancelled. So there." I moved away so that she could no longer have her arm around me.

"Don't you take that tone with me young lady." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know you're upset, so I'll forgive you this time."

That was big of her.

"But," she said pointing her finger at me, "you will stop behaving like a spoilt brat, and you will have your party on Saturday, and I don't want to hear another word about it." She got up and stormed out.

Boy, parents are annoying sometimes. They think that just because they're the boss they can make you do things you don't want to do. Well, we'll see about that. She might be able to make me have a party, but she can't force me to have a good time. I'll be so miserable and sulky, she'll wish she didn't spend her precious money.

Chapter 29

Sunday, 1 December 1968

Peter gave Maggie a kiss on the check. "See you shortly."

"Michelle said she'd be waiting out the front of the station for you so you won't need to find a park."

"No worries, I'm sure I'll find her." Peter walked towards the front door, almost colliding with Stephen who barged through his bedroom door at the same time.

"Whoa," said Peter, "what's the hurry?"

Stephen was almost level with the kitchen before he answered. "Sorry, no hurry, I'm just looking for something, that's all."

"Well, I'd love to stay and help you look, but I gotta go and get Michelle."

Stephen ignored his dad's comments. "Mum!" he called through the back door to where Maggie was taking washing off the line, "do you know where my good jeans are?"

"Which ones?"

"I've only got one good pair. You know, the Amco ones. I wore them the other night to the concert and I haven't seen them since."

"Maybe Joe took them." Maggie suggested.

At the mention of Joe's name Stephen rolled his eyes and huffed with impatience.

Maggie laughed at his response. Joe Fanatomy was a non-existent character that got blamed for everything that went missing or was mysteriously broken. His origins stemmed back to Maggie's college days when someone from one of the previous years had given Joe's name to Mr Turner when he had asked for those absent. For months, the students continued the ruse by covering for Joe whenever he was called upon to perform a task. Rumour had it that it had been Ted Crago who had initially volunteered the fictitious name, but Maggie never knew for sure. What she did know though, was that the legend of Joe Fanatomy – significantly aided by the scratchings of "Joe was here" on many a desktop – lived on long after Ted and his classmates were gone.

Ever since Maggie had told the story to the young and impressionable Stephen, Joe had been a pseudo member of their family. In fact, it was Stephen who had initially started to suggest that Joe was responsible for messing his room and misplacing his things. Now, all these years later, he no longer found the suggestion amusing.

"I'm only kidding, they're here. I've just taken them off the line." Maggie dug into the washing basket and pulled out the jeans in question. "Here; catch," she tossed them to Stephen who managed to open the door just in time to grab them and prevent them from falling onto the veranda.

"Thanks," he mumbled, before going back inside to get changed.

Maggie laughed. She couldn't remember a time he had been so particular about what he wore. He had already sorted through the ironing basket in Michelle's room to find his new tee-shirt. Now, he was having kittens over his best jeans. And, if that wasn't enough, he had insisted on having a shower in the middle of the day, something Maggie definitely could not recall ever happening before. She had no doubt that Jane was responsible for his new fashion sense and improved personal hygiene. With a bit of luck, she might even be able to get it to last more than a day or so.

Picking up the basket of clothes, Maggie headed inside. She almost took the washing into Michelle's room where it would sit until she found the time to sort it and put it away, but checked herself just in time. She had already spent over an hour cleaning the junk out of the room in preparation for Michelle's visit, so she took the basket into her and Peter's room and put it in the corner between the dressing table and the window. No one was likely to venture into their room, so she was happy to leave it there for the time being. She had too many things to do before everyone arrived to worry about sorting washing.

Speaking of too many things to do, Maggie remembered she had forgotten to take the sausages out of the freezer. She swore to herself for being so forgetful and raced into the kitchen to grab them before she forgot again. She still had a couple of hours before they would be cooking the barbeque, so she figured with the day being as warm as it was, they would probably still defrost in time. Besides, there were steaks and rissoles in the fridge. They'd just have to make do with them if the sausages weren't ready in time.

Maggie mentally checked off the list of things she had to do. The coleslaw was done, as was the potato salad. Faye was bringing lemon meringue pie and fruit salad for desert and Mary was bringing a tossed salad. Damn! Maggie remembered she had forgotten to tell Peter to get the ice. Maggie called to Stephen from the kitchen.

"Yeah, what do you want?" he replied.

Since Maggie was the one who wanted Stephen to do her a favour, she decided that she had best go to him instead of making him come to her. She opened his bedroom door and peered in. "Can I get you to go..." Maggie stopped mid-sentence. The room looked different somehow, but she couldn't work out how. Then it occurred to her, it was tidy. The usual clutter and mess was gone. Even the bed had been made and the clothes that permanently resided on the floor and under the bed were nowhere to be seen. "Wow, looks like the Queen's coming to stay."

Stephen looked sheepish. "I thought it was about time I cleaned up, it looked like a bomb hit it."

Maggie laughed. "Sure, but I've been telling you that for years and it has never made an ounce of difference before. Do you think Jane might like to move in?"

"Mum! Do you mind? It has nothing to do with Jane."

"Sure thing Stevie-boy, nothing to do with Jane, huh?"

Stephen was quick to change the subject. "What did you want me to do?"

Maggie was still in shock from the clean room. "Are you sure aliens haven't abducted my son and left me with you instead?"

"Mum!"

"Sorry, I'm just a bit concerned about your health that's all."

Before Stephen could protest again, Maggie composed herself and put on her serious face. "Okay, I'll stop teasing now."

Stephen looked relieved.

"I was hoping you could do me a favour and go and get some ice. I forgot to ask your dad to get it while he was out."

"But Jane will be here soon."

"That's okay, I won't eat her."

"That's not what I meant. I just thought she might be a bit uncomfortable if she turns up and I'm not here."

"She'll be fine. She didn't strike me as the helpless type. Besides, I'll put her to work until you get back. I have plenty of ironing she can do."

Stephen looked horrified. "You can't get her to do your ironing!"

Maggie laughed, "Oh, you're such a duffer. Of course I'm not going to make her work. I'll be very nice to her until you get back."

Stephen looked at his mother with suspicion. "And when I get back?"

"When you get back, what?"

"Will you still be nice to her then?"

"Of course I will, I promise. Anyway, if you get your arse into gear and get a move on, you'll be back before she arrives."

"Okay, where are your keys?"

Maggie handed Stephen the car keys. "I'll just go and see if I can find the camera," she told him. "If I don't take a photo of your room, no one will ever believe me when I tell them about the time you cleaned it up."

"Mum! Do you mind?"

"Okay, okay, I'll let up. Now go and get me some ice. Come on, quick smart!" Maggie handed Stephen some coins and chased him out the door with the flick of a tea towel.

***

A knock on the door startled Maggie. She had been busy looking out the kitchen window at the neighbour's dog. It was furiously digging a hole to bury the bone that sat beside him. Maggie was convinced the dog was retarded. She had never seen such a ridiculous animal. She knew with the certainty of someone that had witnessed the dog's behaviour many times before that no sooner would Elvis bury the bone than he would furiously dig it up again only to repeat the exercise until he had performed each task four times. And only then would he leave the bone to settle. Maggie had already seen him bury the same bone once, which meant that apart from the burial that was taking place in front of her, Elvis would repeat the task twice more before being satisfied.

According to Jan and Bill, Elvis' owners, he always buried the bone four times. Never three or five, always four. And never in the same hole twice. As a consequence it looked like a family of dissatisfied moles lived next door. The entire yard was covered with little brown piles of dirt.

Maggie left Elvis to his digging and went to answer the door. It was hard to see who it was through the screen door with the light shining in, but Maggie correctly guessed it was Jane. It was too early for the others and the knocking eliminated Peter from the likely list of callers.

"Hi, Mrs Thompson. Is Stephen here?"

Maggie opened the front door and let Jane in. "Please, call me Maggie."

"Oops, sorry. You did tell me that last night but I forgot."

Maggie smiled at the girl that appeared to have captured her son's heart. "That's okay, come in. Stephen's just ducked out to get some ice, he won't be long."

"Oh, okay then, thanks."

Maggie led Jane into the kitchen and offered her a cup of tea. Jane declined, but accepted a glass of cold cordial instead. "You have a very nice house," she told Maggie.

"Thanks. You wouldn't have said so if you had seen it this morning. It was a mess. I've spent most of the day cleaning up."

Jane laughed at Maggie's honesty.

"In fact," added Maggie, "I'm not the only one who's been cleaning."

Jane looked confused.

"It seems that you have managed to win the heart of a certain Mr Thompson."

"Oh," Jane laughed. "That's only fair, a certain Mr Thompson has won my heart also."

Maggie smiled. She was pleased that Jane felt the same way about Stephen as he felt about her. Maggie couldn't help but notice how besotted Stephen had become with her in such a short time and hoped that he was not setting himself up for pain. Now, after seeing Jane's face light up at the mention of Stephen's name, she decided she had been worrying about nothing.

"So, asked Maggie, "what's on the cards now that you've finished your degree?"

"Well, I've applied for a number of graduate engineering jobs, but haven't heard anything yet. Hopefully, I'll be successful with one of those, but I'm not holding my breath."

"Why is that?" Maggie asked.

"Companies don't usually hire female engineers. It seems to be a man's job and it's very difficult to break through."

"I do hope you're mistaken about that. Our daughter is studying to be an engineer. I'd hate to think all her hard work has been for nothing."

"Yeah, Stephen told me all about Michelle. I'm looking forward to meeting her. It's not often you meet other women that you have so much in common with."

What a nice thing to say, thought Maggie. She was convinced that Michelle and Jane would hit it off well. They both appeared to be intelligent, strong-willed young ladies. On top of that, Jane was closer to Michelle's age than Stephen's.

The sound of the front door slamming interrupted Maggie and Jane's conversation. "Sounds like Stephen's home," Maggie said, getting up from the table and relieving him of the bag of ice he carried. The pair of them walked back into the kitchen together where Maggie emptied the ice into the Esky.

Stephen looked at Jane awkwardly. "Hi. Feeling better?"

"Yeah, much better thanks. It's amazing what a cool shower does for one's wellbeing."

"How was the ball, by the way?" Maggie asked Jane.

"It was good. Lots of people, great music, plenty to eat and drink; everything you could hope for, I guess."

"Except for a handsome chaperone." Stephen appeared to have regained his composure in record time.

Jane laughed. "Except for a handsome chaperone," she agreed.

"Not that you need a chaperone, mind you." Stephen added.

"Speaking of chaperones, do you want to come with me on Wednesday night to the pyjama ball?" Jane asked Stephen.

Stephen's face lit up. "Sure." He looked at Maggie hopefully. "Is that okay with you?"

Maggie smiled at him. "Of course it's okay. You might have to borrow your dad's suit though, I'm sure you don't want to embarrass Jane by looking like nobody owns you."

Jane interrupted. "Oh, no, that's alright, he doesn't need a suit. It's a pyjama ball. He only needs a pair of pyjamas."

Maggie laughed. "Seriously, I must be getting old. In my day you got dolled up to the nines to go to a ball."

"Well, he needs a tie too, if that helps satisfy your need for formality."

"Oh, I see," Maggie picked up on Jane's intended humour, "I shan't worry about it not being formal enough then. All he needs to do is add a tie and _shazam_ , it's formal."

"And gloves for the ladies," Jane added.

They all laughed together at the absurdity of a formal pyjama ball.

"Hello, anyone home!"

Maggie jumped up at the sound of Michelle's voice. "Come in love, it's great to see you." Maggie gave Michelle a quick hug.

"Just let me put this bag down." Michelle saw Stephen coming towards her and handed him her bag. "Here you go Steve, give your big sister a hand, why don't you."

Stephen leaned over and gave Michelle a kiss on the cheek, taking her bag from her as he did so. A tall, broad-shouldered man followed Michelle in, carrying a bag of his own. "Hi, I'm Paul," he reached out his hand to Maggie, who ignored it and gave him a kiss on the cheek instead.

"Well, hello there Paul, I'm Maggie. It's nice to meet you."

Maggie gave Michelle a sly nod to let her know that she approved of her choice of men. Paul was at least six foot tall, with sandy blond hair, cut short and worn tidy, tanned skin and green eyes. He looked like a well-presented version of the surfie boys Maggie often saw hanging around town. His short sleeved shirt showed that he had a well-toned and muscled body to complement his pleasant features. Maggie could certainly see why Michelle found him attractive.

Michelle and Paul offloaded their bags. Then, while Paul went to the toilet, Michelle joined the others in the kitchen. Maggie looked around to see where Peter had got to. She hadn't seen him come in. Just as she was about to set off in search of him, Michelle informed her that he was putting water in his radiator.

"I thought he was getting a new car?" Michelle asked Maggie.

"He is. It's not here yet."

"What's he getting?"

Maggie looked at Michelle as though she had said something odd. "I'll give you one guess."

Michelle nodded. She didn't need one guess to know what her father was getting. He hadn't shut up about the damn car since its release. "Paul wants a Thunderbird, don't you hun?"

Paul, coming in on the tail end of the conversation, nodded pleasantly at Michelle's comment. "I can dream," was all he said.

Maggie was just finishing the introductions when Peter came up the hall. "I'll have to get that radiator looked at before I hand her over to you, babe," he said, before turning at the end of the hall and going in the bathroom to wash his hands.

Maggie was giving the old Morris Minor to Stephen and she was getting Peter's EK Holden. Apart from the current problem with the radiator, the car had not missed a beat in the seven years they had owned it.

Still drying his hands on the hand towel, Peter walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. "Looks like we've just got time to..." he stopped dead when he spotted Jane sitting at the dining table.

Maggie quickly jumped into rescue him, "You remember Jane, don't you, babe?"

"Um, of course I do. Hello Miss Lester...um, I mean Jane."

Everyone laughed at Peter's faux pas.

"Jane's one of your dad's students," Maggie explained to Michelle and Paul. "Sorry babe, what were you saying as you came in?"

Peter struggled to remember what he was about to say. Everyone looked at him expectantly, making it even harder to concentrate. "Oh, yeah," he said, recovering nicely, "I was just about to say that we had time for a quick cup of tea before everyone else arrived, but now I'm thinking I'll have a beer instead. You want one Paul?"

Paul looked at Michelle, who shrugged noncommittally, before accepting graciously.

"Steve, what about you, you want one too?" Unlike Paul, he did not bother to seek approval from his newly acquired girlfriend. "Sure, why not?"

Peter left the others in the dining room and excused himself to get the beers. Maggie offered to give him a hand.

They had no sooner got out of earshot when Peter asked her, "What's _she_ doing here?"

Maggie looked surprised. "Who? Jane? She's here with Stephen."

"With _our_ Stephen?"

Maggie laughed. "Of course, you dill, what other Stephen do you know?"

"I mean, what's she doing with him?"

Maggie reached up and felt his forehead. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, why?" Peter swatted her hand away.

"Surely I wasn't the only one that saw the way our son drooled all over that young lady last night."

Peter nodded. "Oh I saw him alright. I was almost embarrassed for him."

Maggie looked at Peter questioningly. "Do you have a problem with Stephen seeing Jane?"

"You mean as in girlfriend and boyfriend?"

"Well, that's generally what it means."

Peter felt the colour draining from his face and hoped like hell it didn't show.

"You okay," Maggie asked. "You don't have a problem with Stephen inviting Jane over, do you?"

Peter considered his response carefully. "No, it's just that..." he stopped and tried again, "she a bit old for him isn't she?"

"What is she, two years older than him, tops?" Maggie asked.

Peter shook his head. "No, she's at least three years older than him. Besides, she's one of my students."

Maggie laughed. "I don't believe it. I would have thought you'd be thrilled to see your son going out with such an attractive and intelligent young lady. Who, I might add, _used_ to be one of your students."

Peter realised that any further protest from him was bound to raise suspicion, so he gave in gracefully. "Yeah, I suppose. I just wasn't expecting to see her here that's all."

Maggie handed Peter three beers from the Esky. "Here you go, sounds like you could do with one of these."

Peter smiled at Maggie. "Yeah, thanks."

"Oh, by the way," Maggie said, just as Peter was about to leave the room, "you do realise Jane was the reason your son wanted to stay over at the Warner's last night don't you?"

"Huh? What do you mean, Jane left earlier on in the night."

"Yeah, but she and Charlene did come back later on."

The penny dropped and Peter slowly nodded his head. Maggie continued. "Who do you think brought him home this morning?"

Peter groaned by way of response.

Maggie laughed. "Face it babe, our little boy is growing up and developing a taste for the big girls now."

Without saying another word, Peter left the kitchen. He could still hear Maggie laughing as the door swung shut behind him.

Chapter 30

Friday, 21 December 1979

" _We gather here today to remember Darren O'Connor, son of Susan and Gerald, brother of David, Justin, Patrick, Jason and Anthony, great grandson, grandson, nephew and friend._

" _Darren is remembered fondly for his enthusiasm for life and his sense of adventure..."_

I sat at the back of the church next to Tom and Mrs Simmons, listening to the service and trying not to cry. I was still angry with Mum even though she finally let me come to the service. At first she said I was too young, but Tracy stuck up for me and she changed her mind. It helped that Mrs Simmons said I could come with her and Tom, which meant that Mum didn't have to bring me. Anyway, it's not a real funeral, it's just a memorial service. The funeral won't be til after Christmas and it's going to be a private one, so I couldn't go even if I wanted to. Shortie's family didn't want to wait that long to have the memorial service. They wanted it over and done with in time for Christmas.

Lots of people turned up for the service. The church was packed so full that people were standing at the back of the church and all the way down the stairs because there weren't enough seats. It was stinking hot and stuffy inside, making my legs sweat and stick to the uncomfortable wooden benches. The ceiling fans whirled away above our heads, but it didn't feel like they were making things any cooler. I saw a lot of people I knew, but there were also loads I'd never seen before. Shortie must have a lot of relatives. It looked like half the school turned up as well. I could even see Dreary Drury and Miss Keller. Mum said there probably wouldn't be too many people here because of the short notice, but she was wrong.

Mrs Preston and Trevor walked past and said hello, but didn't stop to chat. I suppose it's not right to chat at a memorial service. We talked to Mitchell Morgan and Jason Morley out the front, but everyone was standing around talking then, so that was okay.

It was so depressing. Everyone wore dark dingy clothes and no one smiled. I tried not to cry, but it was so hard with everyone else crying. Even Tom looked like he was about to burst into tears. I hoped like mad that he didn't. I knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself if he did.

The Father or the Minister, or whatever he's called, stood at the front of the church talking about Shortie and all the things he liked to do. He even told us that his friends called him Shortie, not Darren. I nearly cried when he said that. He talked about how Shortie was saving for a new bike and how he enjoyed playing with his friends. He even told us how Shortie was born twelve weeks early and that he nearly didn't make it.

I moved closer to Tom. "Did you know that?"

"Nuh." Tom shook his head.

Mrs Simmons gave me a dirty look and shushed us. "Pay attention Tommy."

Ignoring Mrs Simmons, I thought back to what the Minister had said. How come we didn't know that about Shortie? I thought Tom and me were his best friends.

I was just beginning to wonder what else we didn't know about him when I remembered that Shortie didn't know about me nearly being born in a police car either. I know Mum couldn't resist telling everyone and anyone about it, but I was pretty sure she never told Shortie. I could never understand what the big deal was anyway. It's not like I _was_ born in the police car or anything.

My arrival did make the news though, but I reckon that was only because of the crash. Dad said there was a big accident out the front of the hospital where I was born. He said a truck came around the corner on the wrong side of the road and ran smack into a brand new Monaro. Trust Dad to remember what sort of car it was. He reckons it was a waste of a new car as well as peoples' lives. Mum and Dad and me – only I wasn't born yet – were stuck in traffic for ages and couldn't move. Mum was in labour and didn't think she would make it to the hospital in time, so Dad got out of the car and walked up to the front of the traffic jam. He told one of the policemen that Mum was about to have a baby in the car and the policeman came back to the car and helped Dad move it off the road and walk Mum back to where the police car was parked. Then he drove them the short distance to the hospital in the police car. I was born in the emergency room as soon as they got inside. If I'd been a boy, I would've been called Laurie after the helpful policeman.

Just as well I was a girl, I reckon Laurie is the stupidest name I've ever heard.

The Minister's loud voice snapped me out of my daydream. I thought it was strange that I should be thinking about being born at the same time that the Minister spoke about Shortie dying. It was probably even disrespectful or something. I didn't want to be rude to Shortie so I tried to focus my attention on the service. It was pretty hard work though.

Before too long the talk changed from being about Shortie to being about God and Jesus. What did _they_ have to do with Shortie exactly? I thought the service was a load of crap. Nothing the Minister said made any sense. His voice boomed out loudly as he read from the Bible and I could hear him over the noise of the fans all the way up the back. He got all worked up about everything he said. Sometimes it looked like he was talking to us without actually seeing anyone, almost like he was blind.

"... _People were bringing little children to Him in order that He might touch them, and the disciples spoke sternly to them. But when Jesus saw this, He was indignant and said to them, 'Let the little children come to me, do not stop them, for it is to such as these that the Kingdom of God belongs. Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.' And He took them up in his arms, laid His hands on them, and blessed them..."_

I risked another dirty look from Mrs Simmons and leaned over to whisper in Tom's ear. "What's he talking about?"

"Dunno. It's just stuff they say at funerals."

If you ask me, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time. Some people must have understood though, because every now and then the Minister would say something that would make everyone say 'amen' or cry even harder and louder than before.

I sat on the hard bench blinking back my tears. Mum was right about one thing. Coming to the service didn't make me feel better, it made me feel worse. I was still sad that Shortie was dead and I was still angry with my parents, especially Mum for making me have the party tomorrow, but I was feeling much more than that. It was hard to explain, but I reckon it had something to do with all the talk about faith and trust in God. I couldn't work out what all that stuff had to do with dying. Like the other day when Tom asked his mum if Shortie was in Heaven yet, she said he was. She said that he'd be sitting next to Jesus eating rice from gold plates and drinking wine from gold cups.

I reckon he's too young to drink wine. Besides, I don't believe her anyway. I reckon she's just telling lies like everyone else. Who'd want to do that anyway? It sounds like a real drag to me. If that's all you do in Heaven, surely people would want to go somewhere else instead.

The whole service thing was a rip off. It was such a disappointment after fighting so hard to get Mum to let me come. I only wanted to come so that I could find out for sure what happened after you died, but so far, nothing the Minister's said has made any sense. He just keeps going on about stuff like the love of God, the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the comfort of the Holy Spirit blessing everyone who loved Darren.

What the hell does that mean, anyway?

I wonder if I'm allowed to think the word _hell_ in church.

"... _The words of the 23 psalm speak of a God who cares for each of us like a shepherd cares for his sheep. It speaks of a God who, like a shepherd, goes out of his way to save an innocent and helpless one from danger..."_

What was he talking about? God never saved Shortie from anything, he let him get bashed up and die. I'd like to know what kind of shepherd lets that happen that to their sheep. I could feel myself getting angry with the Minister for saying all those things.

At least when I was angry I didn't feel like crying anymore.

The Minister continued, alternating between his trance-like talking and reading passages from the Bible. _"...Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me..."_

Mrs Simmons sat beside me nodding her head in agreement with the Minister. At least she appeared to know what he was talking about.

"... _and John tells us that Jesus said unto his disciples, "So you have pain now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you"..."_

Who's John? And how could Jesus say that no one would take our joy from us? They already have. If I were Shortie's mum and dad I'd be really pissed off by now. I looked around to see if anyone was getting up to leave. Nobody moved.

Some people sat there sniffing into their hankies while others nodded enthusiastically at the Minister, never missing an opportunity to say _amen_. I could hear someone sobbing loudly up the front but I couldn't see past the rows in front of me to see who it was. Others just sat there staring into space. They looked like they weren't really listening to what the Minister was saying. Kind of like when Dreary Drury reads to us in class. I can never concentrate on what he's saying because I'm too busy thinking about other things. Maybe everyone was too busy thinking about Shortie or what they were going to do for Christmas. It had to be better than listening to the Minister go on and on about God.

I wonder what Mrs O'Connor will do with Shortie's slot car set and model Torana now.

The Minister lowered his voice and asked everyone to join him in the Lord's Prayer. We had to get off the bench and kneel on the hard floor for the hundredth time. I was sure I'd have bruises on my knees by the time the service was finished.

Just like the other ninety-nine times, everyone put their heads down, so I did the same. At least that way no one could see that I didn't know the words to the prayer. When the prayer finished, we were allowed to sit back on the bench. The Minister waited for everyone to be seated before starting again. It felt like we'd been at the service forever. I could see from Mrs Simmons' watch that we'd been there for just under an hour.

"... _May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, drive away your despair, may the blessing of God Almighty, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, be with you always. Amen."_

Finally, it was over.

A few people got up and then quickly sat back down again when they realised it wasn't properly over yet. A lady got up at the front of the church and started to sing. She sang _Amazing Grace_ in such a beautiful voice that everyone started to cry again. This time, I couldn't hold back my tears so I just let them flow. Tom reached across and took my hand. I looked sideways at him, but he was staring straight ahead, struggling with his own tears. We held hands until the song finished and everyone stood up again to leave.

Mrs Simmons wiped her tears away with a hanky. "What a lovely service," she said.

If you ask me, I reckon it was a stupid.

Chapter 31

Friday, 21 December 1979

Mum was sitting in her usual spot in the dining room having a cup of tea with Mrs O'Reilly when I got home. "How was it, love?" she asked me.

"Good," I lied. There was no way I was going to admit to Mum that I thought the service was dumb. She would've just said, 'I told you so'.

I didn't feel like talking to Mum, and I especially didn't feel like talking to Mrs O'Reilly, so I went to my room and closed the door. I had no idea what to do next. Tom had to go out with his mum and it was almost too late to go and visit anyone else. I lay on my bed for a few minutes thinking about the service and the things the Minister had said. I was just as confused now as I was during the service, so I gave up trying to make sense of it all. I changed out of my good clothes and put on a pair of shorts and a top. I picked up my book and went out to grab a piece of fruit to take with me to the cubby. I could see my birthday cake in the kitchen and decided against going in there to get the fruit. I didn't want to have to tell Mum what a good job she'd done with my cake. From what I could see, she'd done a top job too, but I was still too angry with her to say anything nice, so I pretended I hadn't seen the cake and walked outside without saying a word.

I climbed through the gap in the fence and walked to the cubby house. The cubby had been up for almost a week and still no one had trashed it. We agreed that if this one got pulled down, we'd take Shortie's advice and build one in a secret place. For now though, the cubby was nice and quiet and I didn't have to listen to Mum and Mrs O'Reilly talk about sick people.

I kicked off my thongs and put my feet up on the car seat. I leaned back against the side of the cubby and opened my book. I found it hard to concentrate with the memories of the service going around in my head, so I put the book down. I wondered what Shortie's soul was doing now. Would he really be in Heaven or had he been too naughty to get in? Mr Richards said that sinners went to Hell, not Heaven. I wondered if Shortie had been bad enough to be considered a sinner or if he'd managed to scrape into Heaven. I knew of a couple of bad things he'd done, so I reckon God must know about more.

The thought of Shortie being a sinner got me thinking about my own level of sin. I wondered if all the bad things I'd done, like swimming outside the baths, calling Brian snot face and dog's breath, and stealing a box of chalk from one of the demountables at school, counted as sins. I still worried about getting busted for the chalk and that happened last Christmas holidays. Speaking of sins, we're not allowed to play in the school grounds when it's not a school day, so I suppose that counts as one too.

I made a mental tally of all the sins I could think of and came up with an uncomfortably high number. Before I could work out what sort of number would stop me from getting into Heaven, I had a brainwave of an idea. Since no one was able to tell me what happened when you died, I would go to the library and borrow some books about it. There must be stacks of them there.

Thinking about my trip to the library, I remembered my birthday party tomorrow and decided it would have to wait til next week. There was no way Mum would let me go all the way into Toronto before my party started. She already told me that I have to stay home and help her set up.

I still can't believe Mum is making me have a party. I think it's wrong to have a party when one of your closest friends has just died. I still haven't forgiven my parents for lying to me about Shortie either, so I don't think it's right to let them do something nice for me. If I do, I'll have to be nice back and pretend that I'm grateful and all that stuff and I'm not ready for that yet. I'm not just angry with Mum either, I'm angry with Dad too, not as much, but still angry. It's hard to be angry with Dad, because he usually just goes along with what Mum says. But this time, he promised me he wasn't hiding anything and he was, so it's only fair I'm mad at him also.

I must have been in the cubby longer than I thought, because my bum had gotten numb. I'm not usually able to sit still for too long without fidgeting, but it didn't seem to be a problem today. Dad always says I have ants in my pants when I fidget, but no matter how hard I try not to, I do it anyway.

I put the book on the milk crate and went outside for a stretch and a walk around. Without realising when the change had taken place, the bright afternoon had turned dark, and the air smelt like it was about to pour. It felt like a southerly storm was on its way, so I decided to stay in the cubby and wait for the rain. I love the sound it makes on a tin roof and I especially like the way it smells. Come to think of it, there isn't anything I don't like about southerlies. They're always such a treat after a hot day.

***

The afternoon was almost over, but I knew that Mrs O'Reilly would still be inside gasbagging with Mum, so I figured I had some time left before being called in for tea. For the time being, I was happy to just lie on my back on the car seat, listening to the rain fall. It started lightly at first, but before too long it was so loud I could talk to myself without hearing what I said.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what Heaven was like. I was pretty sure that it was in the sky somewhere, but I didn't know how far up you had to go to get there. I wondered if it was raining in Heaven also. I hoped it was, because Shortie liked the rain too. I felt a drop of cool water on my face. When I opened my eyes, I could see the water leaking in through a small hole in the tin above where I was lying. The harder it rained, the faster the drops fell. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, letting the rain drip in. It tasted like the water from Uncle Harry's tank. It tasted nice.

I don't know how long I lay there drinking in the drops; ten or fifteen minutes maybe. Not that it mattered either way. I had all the time in the world and nowhere else I needed to be. Not like Shortie, his time had already run out.

Even though I still felt sad for Shortie, part of me felt good. It was probably wrong of me to think so at a time like this, but I felt content lying in the shelter of the cubby, tasting the rain, smelling the delicious fragrance of the storm-drenched bush, and hearing the thunder crash somewhere close to Heaven. I thought it was odd how things could be bad and good at the same time.

The rain stopped as fast as it started. I got up from the seat and walked outside. It looked as I expected. The black clouds were still hanging above the world like a blanket, but everything beneath it was bright and fresh. I could see a rainbow forming where a patch of cloud had separated, letting the light in. The plants sparkled with droplets of water, and the ground was dark and muddy instead of its usual dustiness. I walked away from the back fence and deeper into the bush. Even though the rain had only lasted a short time, I knew the creek would be running fast and deep.

The closer I got to the creek, the louder the sound of running water became. I walked through the scrub, not caring about the water flicking me and drenching my clothes. I sat down on a log next to the creek, my bare feet muddy from the walk. I deliberately left my thongs in the cubby so I could feel the mud squelching between my toes. Besides, it was too much fun knowing that Mum would do her lolly if she found out I was walking through the bush with no shoes on.

In spite of the torrent of water streaming past, it was somehow quiet and peaceful by the creek. The usual noise of the cicadas couldn't be heard, the rain must have scared them off. Across the creek from where I sat, a flash of colour caught my eye. I looked over and saw a bright green snake sliding up the trunk of a tree. I'm not scared of snakes, especially the pretty tree snakes, which are harmless. The snake didn't look scared of me either. It just stopped and looked straight at me. It didn't slither away quickly like snakes usually do when people are around. It took its time and slowly snuck around to the other side of the tree and out of sight.

The clouds started to break up and the sun crept back in. I could see tunnels of light shining down into the bush, making everything look like a scene from a calendar. A shaft of light shone directly onto a Blackboy sticking up from its grassy base. The halo of light around the tip made it look like a wizard's magical staff. Behind the Blackboy, a bright red Flame Lily stood proud and tall, lighting up the landscape with its Chinese lantern glow.

A beautiful green and black butterfly flitted past. It wasn't like the usual orange and black ones that come from the silver chrysalises that hang from the trees in the school grounds. This one was much bigger and had bright peppermint green wings. It landed on a clump of cut grass next to me. Like the tree snake, my presence didn't appear to bother it. It fluttered from blade to blade taking no notice of the sharp edges that thought nothing of cutting a person for daring to touch them.

For the second time in an hour, joy took over from the sadness I felt at losing a friend. Actually, it wasn't so much joy I was feeling; it was more a sense of privilege. I felt privileged to be part of the mysterious world that is the bush. I've always enjoyed being in the bush and discovering its delightful secrets, but today it felt different somehow. It felt special, like I belonged there and wasn't just some kid traipsing through it. For a moment, I actually let myself believe that I was a part of it all, just like the snake and the butterfly. I never wanted to leave.

Until now, I wouldn't have believed it was possible to feel good and sad at the same time. Only this time, the sadness I felt had more to do with knowing that I had to go soon than it did with Shortie. Not that I didn't feel sad about Shortie; I did. More than that though, I felt a sense of loss at having to leave the magic of the bush behind.

Chapter 32

Sunday, 1 December 1968

Peter was in hell. The day was turning out far worse than he could have believed possible. He was still getting over the shock of walking into his kitchen and seeing Jane sitting there, looking picture perfect and smiling demurely at Stephen as though he were the love of her life. Then, to make matters worse, Roger had been in his ear from the time he had arrived with one lewd comment after the other about Jane.

At first Peter was disgusted at his brother for the things he said. Roger was way too old to be showing an interest in Jane. But, then again, who was he to talk? He'd done much more than show a passing interest in the girl, for Christ's sake. What's worse, it was because of his egotistical schoolboy behaviour that she was now standing in _his_ backyard, having a barbeque with _his_ family, and dating _his_ son. Peter was furious. What the hell was she playing at anyway? Watching her with Stephen, Peter knew the answer to his question. She might have managed to convince everyone else that she had a genuine interest in Stephen, but Peter wasn't fooled. He didn't trust her or her motives for a minute. On top of that, her fake sincerity and smug looks were really getting on his nerves. Peter was certain that if he were to look over to where she was sitting, deep in conversation with Rebecca and Mark, she would be looking straight at him. She had deftly positioned herself in such a way that, no matter where he was within the yard, she was able to look at him without causing suspicion.

"Check out the love birds, will ya?" Roger said, pointing his cigarette in the direction of the three couples sitting around the card table in fold-up chairs. "Just as well Susan's not here, she'd definitely be feeling like the odd one out sitting there with that lot."

Peter looked over. Michelle and Paul sat huddled in close with their backs to him. Mark and Rebecca sat opposite Michelle and Paul, and Stephen and Jane were positioned beside them in such a way that while Stephen's back faced Peter, Jane only needed to turn her head slightly to the side to catch Peter's eye, which she did the moment he looked across. She gave him a knowing smile that, for all intent and purpose, could easily have been meant for Stephen. Only, Peter knew differently. He diverted his eyes from the group and silently prayed that Roger would not say another thing about Jane.

"You must be proud of young Steve, scoring himself a looker like that." Roger nodded at Jane with admiration.

Peter resisted the urge to snap at Roger with a remark of his own. Instead, he mumbled a reply and excused himself from the table. He could see Maggie and Mary in the kitchen and went to see if he could be of any help. Hell, he'd have gladly scrubbed the house from top to bottom if it meant that he didn't have to listen to his brother carrying on like a pathetic teenager.

"Here you go," offered Maggie, handing him the tray of meat, "you may as well get started on that."

Thankful for the diversion, he carried the tray outside. He got as far as the back steps when Maggie called him back. "Don't let your father near the barbeque, will you? I don't want everything tasting like charcoal again," she warned.

"Then you'd better keep Roger away from it too," Mary added sourly. "He always manages to ruin everything he touches."

Watching Peter cross the back yard, Maggie smiled when she spotted the kids, huddled in a group, talking. "Has it occurred to you Mary that our kids are all grown up? Just look at them out there; each of them with their respective girlfriend or boyfriend. It really makes me feel old."

Mary sighed. "Yeah, I know what you mean. It won't be long before they're married with families of their own."

Maggie feigned shock. "Oh, for goodness sake, don't say that! I'm not ready to be a grandmother yet." Mary had no idea how much Maggie had meant it. Maggie was absolutely horrified at the idea of having a child of her own as well as grandchildren. She couldn't believe that she hadn't considered the possibility before. After all, it wasn't like it was totally out of the question.

"What's that Jane like?" Mary asked interrupting Maggie's imagined quandary. "She certainly looks like she has Stephen wrapped around her little finger."

Maggie laughed at Mary's uncharacteristic criticism. "She seems like a nice girl actually. But, it's early days yet; Stephen only met her last night."

"Really?" Mary sounded surprised. "I never would have guessed. She seems very possessive and clingy for someone who's just met him."

Maggie hadn't really noticed. "You think?" She looked at Stephen and Jane through the window. As though on cue, Jane leaned in closer to Stephen and kissed him on the neck.

"See," Mary said, somewhat righteously, "she's all over him. If you ask me, I think she's a bit forward."

"Well, she is a fairly confident young lady," Maggie conceded, still not sure of the point Mary was making. "Peter's known her for a while. She's one of his students – or I should say, _was_ one of his students. She finished recently – but Stephen only met her last night at the Warner's party. She was going to a ball with Charlene Warner. Charlene's boyfriend is also one of Peter's students."

Mary nodded her head slowly. "Hmm, it's a small world, isn't it?"

Without responding, Maggie suggested that Mary look out the window. She did so to find Roger holding up a beer can, and turning it upside down to indicate that it was empty. Deliberately misunderstanding him, Mary shrugged her shoulders and looked away.

Within seconds he came bounding in. "Bloody hell woman, you can't be that dumb, surely."

Mary held her ground. "No Roger, I'm not that dumb, but I am busy, and I'm not your servant."

Maggie was shocked at Mary's stern response. Mary was usually far more amenable than that. Come to think of it, Maggie couldn't remember the last time Mary stood up to Roger. Maggie tried to conceal her smile. She didn't want to inflame the situation by letting Roger think they were both in on the act. Besides, Mary seemed to be managing the situation nicely on her own.

To Maggie's surprise, instead of snapping back, Roger sidled up beside Mary and put his arm around her shoulder. "Aw, come on love, don't be like that."

Mary shrugged his arm off her shoulder and took a sideways step away from him. Roger looked at Maggie curiously; as if to say, what's wrong with her, but Maggie just raised her eyebrows and turned her mouth down to let him know that she did not have an answer.

Mary picked up the pot of tea and put it on the tray with the cups and saucers. Then, ignoring Roger's pathetic pleas entirely, she huffed outside with the tray.

"God, what's up her nose?" Roger asked as soon as she was out of earshot.

"Well," offered Maggie, "I'm not really sure Roger, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the way you treat her like a barmaid." Maggie didn't really think Roger's current behaviour had anything to do with Mary's mood. Maggie had already sensed from Mary's comments about Jane that something was up, but she couldn't resist giving Roger a hard time.

Roger looked at Maggie as though she were a simpleton. "Nah," he scoffed, "I'm always like that, she doesn't mind."

Maggie opened her mouth to speak and thought better of it. There wasn't much point saying anything to Roger. She doubted that anything she said would make a difference anyway. Roger had been an inconsiderate husband for as long as Maggie could remember, and it was unlikely that anything had changed in the past week or so.

Thinking that Maggie was about to tell him what the problem was, Roger continued to question her. "Come on, you girls are as thick as thieves with this kind of stuff. You sure you don't know what's up?"

Maggie raised her eyebrows at Roger. "What kind of _stuff_?"

"Well, you know; girls' stuff."

It took all of Maggie's resolve not to laugh in Roger's face at his lack of understanding about the female species. She couldn't recall the last time she was accused of partaking in _girls'_ stuff and came to the same conclusion that she always did whenever she had conversations with Roger. The guy was a moron. Likeable enough as brothers-in law go, but a complete moron nonetheless.

Roger gave up questioning Maggie and grabbed a couple of beers from the Esky. Maggie laughed when she heard him walk outside and offer Mary a beer in the nicest, most condescending voice he could muster. Maggie followed Roger and Mary outside with a stack of plates and cutlery. Paul was beside her in an instant, offering to carry them for her.

Now, thought Maggie, here was a bloke that could teach Roger a thing or two. Maggie declined his offer, but looked at Michelle approvingly. Michelle definitely had better sense when it came to picking men than her Aunt Mary. Come to think of it, Maggie thought that all the kids had picked well, Rebecca included. Mark had been Stephen's best friend for as long as Maggie could recall. He was almost family – but not so family that Rebecca couldn't go steady with him. Maggie was pleased for Rebecca. Mark was a nice boy who would do well by her.

As for Stephen, Maggie was delighted with the way things appeared to be progressing with Jane. Despite Peter's concerns about their age difference, Maggie did not think it was an issue. Besides, Peter was seven years older than she was; he was hardly in a position to be talking about a three-year age gap.

Maggie suspected that Peter didn't really have an issue with Jane's age. Rather, she put his lack of enthusiasm regarding their burgeoning relationship down to nothing more than a father's concern for his son. She didn't think he had anything to worry about though and assumed he would get over it before too long. What's more, she wasn't really sure why he appeared to be so concerned. It seemed to Maggie that Jane was just as taken with Stephen as Stephen was with her.

Mary poured three cups of tea and set the teapot down with a thump. Maggie was pleasantly amused at Roger's attempts to win Mary over and wondered what it was that he had done to get Mary offside. "What's up love?" Roger whispered to Mary, none too quietly.

"Nothing," she snapped, "stop pestering me and drink your beer."

Sensing something was wrong, Peter called to Roger to come and give him a hand. Oh great, thought Maggie, there goes the meat. Reading her mind, Peter gave her a wink and handed Roger the tray. "Here hold this will you mate; the meat's ready."

On hearing Peter tell Roger the meat was cooked, Maggie got up. "I'll go get the salads," she called.

"Why don't you let me give you a hand," suggested Jane who was on her way inside.

Mary shot Jane a filthy look before turning back to her tea.

Maggie was baffled. What had Jane done to cause Mary to look at her that way? It occurred to Maggie that Mary was cranky so infrequently that she couldn't remember what she was like when she was, and as unlikely as it sounded, Maggie was beginning to think that Mary must be the type to take her anger out on everyone around her when she was in a bad mood.

Peter looked across at Jane and Maggie as they started up the back yard. Jane gave him a winning smile then called to Stephen. "I won't be long with your beer Steve, I'm just giving your mum a hand."

Stephen waved to Jane to indicate that he had heard her. As soon as she was out of sight, Peter heard him ask his sister, "So, what do you think?"

Roger answered Stephen's question as though it had been directed at him. "I'd say you've done well for yourself mate. Not only is she a good sort, but she'll get you a beer as well."

Stephen nodded, never said a word, and then turned back to Michelle to await her response. Mary turned and glared at Roger. "Why don't you act your age, for Christ's sake?"

Upon hearing Mary's response and seeing the look on her face, Peter busied himself scraping the barbeque plate. He wasn't game to look at her again in case it made the situation worse. He had never heard Mary sound so angry before and wondered what his brother had done to upset her.

Roger blundered on heedlessly. "What are you blabbering on about woman? I was just paying young Steve a compliment. Ain't no crime in that, last I heard."

Peter cringed at his brother's thick-headedness.

Without saying another word, Mary got up and flounced inside. Head down, arms swinging furiously beside her, she almost bumped straight into Jane who was walking down the back steps, cautiously balancing a bowl of salad in each hand. Jane looked over her shoulder after Mary as she stormed past. She gave Peter a quizzical look and Roger a warm smile, winning him over instantly.

"Ah, what a doll," Roger whispered to his brother. Peter pretended that he hadn't heard him and continued cleaning the plate. Then, just as he ran out of plate to clean, Michelle and the others started making their way over to the table. Grateful for the diversion, Peter instructed Roger to take the meat to the table and went inside to make sure everything was okay.

***

Maggie's long sigh successfully conveyed how tired and worn out she felt. "Well," she said to Peter, who was the only person remaining, "I thought that was never going to end."

Dinner, which was somewhat awkward but mostly uneventful, was mercifully over. As such, it was the first opportunity they'd had to talk in private since the others had left. Mark and Rebecca were the last to go, leaving Michelle and Paul, and Stephen and Jane, inside playing Monopoly.

Maggie smiled when she thought about the four of them strewn over the lounge room floor with their Monopoly money laid out in front of them. She couldn't help but notice that little had changed in the years Michelle had been away. Michelle's row of money was orderly, with every denomination carefully stacked neatly from smallest to largest. Whereas Stephen, in stark contrast to his sister, had chosen to arrange his notes in the manner that was most likely to cause Michelle indignation, in one higgledy-piggledy stack. Things were just as they had always been, for as long as Maggie could remember.

Maggie had no doubt that Jane and Paul were in for a treat. This was especially the case if they thought they were up for an hour or so of casual gamesmanship. Maggie recalled the past matches clearly and laughed. It was always the same. Michelle, fiercely competitive and intensely serious, would seethe with frustration at Stephen's infuriatingly complacent, yet effectively obstructive, playing style. Before too long, Michelle would be blasting Stephen for deliberately preventing her from gaining full ownership of the colour-matched real estate. Unlike Michelle who was determined to own as much property as possible in order to collect maximum rent, Stephen was content at picking out single properties based solely on whatever colour Michelle appeared to be collecting, without ever completing a single set himself.

Maggie wondered if the presence of Jane and Paul was sufficient to dampen their spirits and allow some semblance of congeniality to prevail. Then, recalling the scene she had witnessed prior to coming outside to share some well-earned peace with Peter, she gave up wondering and resigned herself to the knowledge that everything would be fine. The kids – or more aptly, the young adults – appeared to be having a jolly old time.

"There you go, babe." Peter lit two cigarettes and handed one to Maggie.

She took a long hard draw and blew the smoke out slowly. "Ah, that's better. Thanks." Peter reached across and took Maggie's hand. Before too long, the topic of Mary and Roger came up. Peter was grateful for anything that would take his mind of the increasing level of discomfort Jane's continued presence was causing and engaged in the subject with more enthusiasm than he really felt. "What was wrong with Mary?" he asked Maggie, not really caring one way or another.

"Well," Maggie considered the question carefully, "how did Mary put it? Apparently, Roger was making an idiot of himself _carrying on_ with Jane."

Despite it being in connection with someone else, Peter's heart rate increased markedly at the mention of Jane's name. "Carrying on with Jane?"

Maggie nodded. "Uh huh."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Not sure. She wasn't very talkative, other than to say that she had walked in on him carrying on with Jane and that it was the last straw," Maggie paused to think about what else Mary had said. "Oh yeah, she also said something about it being in bad taste after what had just happened, whatever that meant. Then she said that she had put up with him stepping out on her a number of times before, but that enough was enough." Maggie took another drag on her cigarette. "Poor Mary; fancy having to put up with a cheating husband. I don't know how she does it."

Peter stared at Maggie. "What was Roger doing with Jane to make her say such a thing?"

Maggie waved at Peter dismissively. "Oh, I'm sure he wasn't doing anything with Jane. I took her comments to mean that he must have had a number of affairs already, one of which was fairly recent. Then, on top of that, he's no doubt been a bit too enthusiastic with his praise for Jane and Mary's taken offence."

Peter wasn't convinced. "Well, something must have happened between Roger and Jane for Mary to get so upset."

"Don't be silly. What on earth could have taken place? Jane was with Stephen the whole time. I'd say Roger was just being his usual tasteless and insensitive self and Mary thought that enough was enough. Besides, I'm sure Jane's not interested in a man old enough to be her father."

"How would you know?"

Maggie laughed. "Come on; give the girl some credit. She's much too sensible for that kind of thing. Just because Mary talked about her as though she were a skuzzy little trollop from the local pub, doesn't make it so. It's pretty obvious to me that she's not that kind of girl."

Maggie took Peter's silence as agreement. "Anyway," she continued, "why am I telling you this? You, of all people, should know just how far a girl like Jane will take things."

Peter was grateful for the approaching nightfall. He was sure he could feel the colour draining from his face as he resisted the intense urge to choke on his cigarette. "What do you mean? Why would I know anything about her?"

For Peter, the split second Maggie took to respond felt like aeons. "Well, if I'm not mistaken, she was one of your students for a whole year. Surely, in that time you must have got to know her pretty well, which would make you a better judge of her character than a bitter and angry wife that's been cheated on several times by her chauvinistic husband."

"Um...well, I don't know about that," responded Peter, recovering slightly.

Maggie nudged him playfully, "Aw, come on. Don't tell me you never noticed Jane before now. You haven't forgotten that she was one of your students already, have you?"

"Well, of course not," said Peter, wondering if he had just managed to allow himself to be cornered.

***

Dragging a chair each, Michelle and Paul sat down beside Maggie and Peter.

"Who won?" enquired Maggie.

"Let me guess," interrupted Peter, "Michelle did."

"No, smarty pants, I didn't."

Peter laughed. "Well, I suppose there's a first time for everything. Don't tell me you got beat by a boy?"

"Actually," said Michelle smugly, "I was beaten by Jane."

Maggie poked Peter in the leg. "Why do you assume she got beaten by a boy?"

"Oops, I've done it now, haven't I?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dad, what are you trying to say; that boys are smarter than girls?"

Peter held up his hands in surrender. "I give in. I'm sorry; I never meant anything by it."

Everyone laughed. "Besides," said Maggie, not quite ready to let Peter off the hook, "Jane strikes me as someone that's smarter than most."

Michelle agreed. "I reckon. She seems really nice too. And she's pretty, don't you think?"

"Now there's a rare combination," said Paul bravely, leaving no doubt as to whose side he was on.

Michelle and Maggie both pounced on him at once. "What are you trying to say, exactly?" demanded Michelle. "You only have to look around to see that there are two of us here that fit that category. Three if you count Jane."

"And that, my dear boy," added Maggie, "does not, in my books, constitute rare."

Peter reached across and patted Paul on the shoulder. "Thanks, mate, it's good to know who your friends are. But, take it from me, you don't want to get on the wrong side of these girls, they'll eat you alive."

Michelle looked at Paul with smug satisfaction. "There. You listen to Dad; he's giving you good advice."

Peter nodded his head. "Oh, you better believe it, mate, I meant every word of it."

Michelle winked at Paul before turning to Maggie. "Speaking of Jane; what's the deal with her and Stephen?"

"Well, I think she's his new girlfriend." Maggie looked at Peter for confirmation.

"Hardly," said Peter, "she only met him yesterday."

Paul joined the conversation. "I hear she's one of your students."

"Used to be," corrected Maggie, "not that it would be an issue if she was, mind you. I think she's a very nice young lady."

"Stephen certainly appears to think so," added Paul.

"Well, who could blame him," said Michelle. "Who would've thought my goofy little brother could score himself a girlfriend like Jane."

"I think," said Peter, less jovially than he intended, "you are all jumping to conclusions. They only met yesterday, for Christ's sake. I think it's a little early to be marrying them off just yet."

Surprised by his comments, Michelle looked at her dad inquisitively. "What's wrong with you? Don't you like her?"

"I didn't say that. I just think that it's a bit foolish to suggest that they're an item after one day, that's all."

"Peter has an issue with her age," offered Maggie. "He thinks she's too old for Stephen."

Michelle looked back at her dad. "What? Like _you_ can talk."

Holding his hands up in the air, Peter tried to reassure his daughter that he had no such problem. "I don't have an issue with her age. I just don't necessarily agree that she's such a good match for Stephen."

"Why not?" Michelle challenged.

Peter realised he was outnumbered. "I just don't, that's all." Then, to indicate that he didn't want to discuss the matter further, he excused himself and walked inside to go to the toilet.

"Ah, I get it," he heard Michelle say as he walked away; "Papa bear's being protective of baby bear, is he?"

"Something like that," confirmed Maggie.

Despite the bleak mood Peter felt developing, he couldn't help but chuckle as he walked past the lounge room to find that the game of Monopoly had been left sitting in the middle of the floor. Seeing the familiar game, with the box taped up on the corners to prevent the well-used contents from escaping, he was immediately reminded of how, when Michelle and Stephen had been much younger, the game had never once been packed away without Maggie or Peter first making a fuss. Then, seeing that on this occasion the contents had at least been put back in the box, Peter consoled himself with the knowledge that some minor progress had been made.

He left the game on the floor and cursed himself for having drunk so much beer. Apart from making him tipsy, it meant frequent trips to the toilet. Having held off for as long as he could, he now needed to be as quick as possible, thus reducing the likelihood of running into Jane and Stephen, who he imagined were taking advantage of the fact that they had the house to themselves.

He heard music coming from Stephen's bedroom and mouthed a silent thank you. He tried not to think about what they might be doing as he unzipped his fly and hurried through the bathroom door. His jeans were almost down before he heard the tap running.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

Given the urgency with which Peter needed to relieve himself, he was surprised that the sudden shock at hearing Jane's voice didn't cause him to empty his bladder right there. In fact, it took a feat of extreme control to save him from complete humiliation, but given he had no intention of letting Jane in on his private struggle, he clenched his abdominal muscles without allowing his face to distort, and resisted the urge to cross his legs. "Um...sorry, I didn't realise you were in here. I thought it was empty," he managed.

Jane turned off the tap and dried her hands on the towel. "Don't mind me, I'm almost done."

Jane's obvious pleasure at her good fortune caused Peter to instantly sober up and take stock of the situation. "I'll wait outside," he said, edging backwards towards the door.

Jane glanced downwards at his open jeans.

He immediately began to fumble with his fly, not taking his eyes off her for fear that she would take him unawares. She slid towards him, causing him to quickly abandon his zipper and put a hand up in front of him to stop her coming any closer.

"Excuse me," she said, clearly amused by his assumption, "if I can just squeeze past, I'll be able to leave you with some privacy."

Feeling foolish, Peter turned sideways to let her past. She started to open the door then stopped. Her next statement took him by surprise. "I'm glad I met Stephen," she confided.

"And why is that?" Peter asked, barely concealing his skepticism.

"Well, I would have thought that was obvious, Sir. He's smart, he's handsome and I think we hit it off beautifully." She gave him her sweetest smile. "Wouldn't you say?"

Peter recalled Jane's skill at transforming innocent conversation into awkward innuendo and was determined not to fall for it this time. "I think I'll reserve my judgment, if it's all the same to you."

She dismissed his response with a shrug. "Your prerogative."

Instead of leaving the room like he expected, she stood burning him with her stare. "Um, if you don't mind," Peter looked at her questioningly, "I'd like to use the bathroom."

To Peter's surprise, Jane actually had the decency to look uncomfortable. "Oh, of course, sorry." She turned to leave, then stopped for the second time. "I was just thinking, you're very much alike, you know?"

Although it should have been obvious to Peter who Jane was referring to, he was too focused on getting her out of the bathroom and preventing an accident to realise who she was talking about. "Huh?"

"Steve and you, he's just like you."

"Yeah, but he's not me, is he?" Peter's words came out sounding more like a challenge than a statement. He regretted them as soon as they were out. The last thing he needed was to invoke another discussion with Jane, standing in the bathroom with his trousers agape. Not to mention that Maggie was just outside and Stephen was practically next-door. Peter was not too tipsy to know that he was living on borrowed time as it was. The conversation with Jane had already taken way too long and was beginning to look like it was never going to end. Then, much to Peter's relief – both emotionally and physically – instead of taking him up on his challenge, Jane turned on her heels and stomped off without saying another word.

Chapter 33

Saturday, 22 December 1979

It's hard to believe that just over a week ago I said I couldn't wait for my birthday. That was before Shortie died and everything changed. I feel bad that I still look forward to my birthday, but I know Shortie would be proud of how loyal I've been. I've been telling Mum ever since he died that I don't want a party, but she's insisting that I have it, so it's not like it's my fault.

I could hear Mum in the kitchen clunking pans and slamming doors. I don't know why she didn't just knock on my door. I was determined to stay cranky with her, so I deliberately stayed in bed knowing she would be dying to give me my birthday present. It was a struggle for me to stay in bed, because I really wanted my present as much as Mum wanted to give it to me.

In the end, her eagerness must have got the better of her, because she sent Brian in to get me up. He barged into my room and bounced on my bed. "Happy birthday, sleepy head." I kicked him from under my blankets, but he just bounced harder. "C'mon, get up. Come and open your present."

His bouncing almost broke my foot. "Alright, don't chuck a mental, I'm getting up."

Brian raced from my room yelling. "She's coming, she'll be here in a minute," he loudly informed everyone.

Boy was he excited, and it wasn't even his birthday.

It was too early to put on my party dress, so I changed into a pair of shorts and a top. I brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail. I even took the time to make my bed, knowing that everyone would be waiting for me by now. I was actually a bit excited, but I didn't want anyone else to know that, so I deliberately tried to act cool.

"Happy birthday, little sister," Tracy said.

Kate was shoveling down cornflakes. "Happy birthday," she mumbled.

Mum came over and kissed me on the cheek. "Happy birthday, Jenny. Your father's down in the shed, he said to send you down when you got up so that he could wish you a happy birthday." I was excited about the idea of a present, but so far, there was no sign of one. No doubt, Mum would have it waiting for me when I got back from the shed.

I walked down the back steps and into the garage via the side door. "Happy birthday, Blondie, I hope you like it." Dad stepped aside so that I could see into the garage behind him.

Wow! A new bike! I couldn't believe it. It was a shiny red one with a white basket.

"It's not brand new, but I did it up so it looks like new."

Mum walked in behind me, "So, what do you think?"

I looked at the bike in front of me and couldn't hold back my smile. Dad was right; it looked as good as new. There were no stickers on the bike, but I could tell by its shape that it was a Speedwell; just like the ones Tracy and Kate used to own. The seat looked new and the chrome sissy bar sparkled. Apart from the lack of stickers, you couldn't really tell it was second-hand.

"It's a beauty," I said, thinking how retarded I sounded. In fact, I thought I sounded disturbingly like Uncle Dennis, and that's worse. He's always saying retard things like "crikey", and "stone the crows".

I couldn't believe it. I finally got a bike, and this year of all years. I swore I would be cranky with my parents forever, but how could I now, when they got me the very thing I've always wanted? I couldn't wait to tell Tom. I wonder what he got for his birthday.

Remembering my manners, I said thank you to Mum and Dad and gave them both a kiss.

"Why don't you take it for a ride," Dad suggested.

"Don't go too far," said Mum, "you haven't had breakfast yet."

How typical of Mum to say something like that. What difference did it make that I hadn't had breakfast yet?

I rode up to Tom's place to wish him a happy birthday. I parked my bike in their driveway and knocked on the door. Jim answered the door in his pyjamas.

"G'day, Jenny. You're bright and early."

"Am I, what time is it?"

Jim turned to look at the clock behind him. "Eight forty five."

I was in such a hurry to show Tom my bike that I forgot to check what time it was. "Sorry, I just wanted to show Tom what I got for my birthday."

"Oh yeah, it's your birthday today too. I almost forgot. Happy birthday."

He opened the door to let me in. "So, which one of you is the oldest?"

"I am," I answered, "but only by an hour."

"Mnh-mnh," Tom disagreed, "less than an hour."

I often rip off Tom about me being older. I tell him that I should be in charge because I'm the oldest. It's strange that we were born in the same hospital and turned out to be friends even though our parents didn't know each other at the time. Mrs Simmons remembers hearing about a big accident and how a lady was driven to hospital in a police car and delivered her baby in the emergency room, but she didn't know Mum at the time. It wasn't until they moved into our street that she found out who she was.

Tom was sitting on the floor hooking up an Atari machine to his television. "Look what I got," he said excitedly. "It's a _Super Pong Pro-Am Ten_."

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Happy birthday by the way," he added. "What did you get?"

"You'll never guess." Then, before he could even begin to guess, I blurted, "a new pushbike".

"Holy cow, you finally got one!"

He got up and walked outside to have a look. "She's a beauty."

His comment made me think about what I'd said when I saw it for the first time and I laughed.

"What?" he asked self-consciously.

"Nothing," I giggled.

Nobody else thought what he said was funny, but they didn't realise that I'd said the same dumb thing. Things like that always happen to Tom and me.

"You must be thankful, now you don't have to double me anymore."

Tom shrugged. "I don't mind."

I didn't really mind either but, I had to admit it was way cool to have my own bike.

We walked back inside where it was my turn to be impressed. I know nothing about Ataris, but I tried to sound enthusiastic for Tom's benefit. "What does it do?"

"It's got ten games on it and you can set it for hard or easy. That way you can play too," he said, making fun of me. "We can play against each other, but we have to set it to easy _or_ hard; we can't do both at the same time."

"What sort of games does it play?"

"Everything."

As if I knew what _everything_ was. "Like?"

"Like Pong and Super Pong, Basketball, Catch, and Handball."

Like that cleared things up. I still had no idea what he was talking about.

"It's from Jim too, he helped pay for it." Tom beamed at his big brother.

"I better go." I got up from the lounge and tried hard to avoid the Undertaker who chose that moment to walk in the room. Speaking of super pong, I swear he farted as he walked past me. If anyone else noticed his disgusting odour, they never gave any hint as to how bad it was. I thought I was going to puke. I raced to the front door and to the aid of the fresh air. "I told Mum I wouldn't be late."

Luckily Tom didn't notice my speedy exit. "Righto, see ya."

"Don't be late for the party," I instructed.

He didn't even look up from what he was doing. "I won't."

I had a present for Tom but I was saving it for the party. I got him some clacker-clacks and a mini game of Battleships. Mum paid for them, but they're really from me. I used to have some clacker-clacks too, but they broke. Mum said she'd given up looking for them, but then she finally found some at Waltons while she was Christmas shopping.

***

Mum was in a flap cleaning the place up and making food for the party. The party didn't start til one o'clock, so I couldn't work out what all the fuss was about. Dad was out the back mowing the lawn. The yard smelled nice and fresh.

"Hurry up and have breakfast Jenny, so I can clean up the dishes," Mum said from the kitchen. She had an apron on over her blue dress, making her look like Alice the housekeeper.

I poured myself some Rice Bubbles "What time are the others getting here?" By the others I meant my aunties, uncles, cousins and grandparents.

"I'm not sure what time Grandma and Pa are coming, but Aunty Audrey won't be here until one and the others should get here around eleven. Aunty Joanne is bringing her famous gingerbread men and Clare said she would make some chocolate crackles."

I knew that all my relatives would turn up with tonnes of food; that's just how our family works. It's the same after every birthday party and Christmas lunch. There's always so much food. We're usually eating leftovers for days. Speaking of food, I hope Mum's making pigs in blankets; they're my favourite.

I finished my breakfast and went outside to see if Dad needed a hand setting up the tables. He borrowed some tables and chairs from the secretary of the Worker's Club, Mr Ridgeway. He said we could keep them until after Christmas. Dad was tying a blue tarp over the washing line, so we'd have some shade to sit under. He cleaned the front half of the shed out so we could set the tables up in there. The flies would still be a problem with the roller door up, but at least the sun would be off the food.

We have an old fridge in the shed where Dad keeps his beer. Mum filled it up with a big bowl of punch and fizzy drink. She also put the trifle in there because it wouldn't fit in the inside fridge. Dad complained that he had nowhere to put his beer, so Mum made him buy some ice and put it in his Esky to keep it cold.

I helped Dad arrange the tables and chairs and went back inside to see what else needed doing. Tracy and Kate were blowing up balloons with Mum's Electrolux on reverse. It's much better than blowing them up with your mouth and almost passing out from head spins. The lounge room was already full of coloured balloons, some of which said happy birthday. Tracy gave me a ball of string and a pair of scissors and told me to tie them into bunches of five.

Once all the balloons were blown up and tied, we shoved them into the corner of the room. It was too early to tie them to the washing line. The heat of the sun would make them pop.

With all the commotion about Shortie, I still hadn't drawn the donkey for the game. Tracy offered to help, so I went to get the paper Mum got from Mr Jaeger, and to find something to make the tails out of. Mum was getting impatient with me being in the kitchen, so I snatched the almost empty cornflakes box and got out of her way.

Tracy's a much better drawer than me, so I let her draw the donkey. It started out alright, but she almost ran out of paper so she had to squeeze the donkey's bum in. Now the donkey looked deformed. She said it didn't matter because we'd be blindfolded anyway. I cut out thirteen tails and wrote my name and the name of each person that was coming on them. Then, I remembered I needed two more for Bridget and Kerri-Anne, and since I knew Mum would make me let Brian and Janice play, I made it four.

In the end, I had so many names I had to use the Rice Bubbles box as well. The list of names I was using was the same one I made for the invitations and Shortie's name was still on it. Seeing his name made me feel guilty all over again for having a party. It didn't seem right to have so much fun so soon after he died.

I tried not to think about Shortie as I continued to get things ready for the party. If I got too sad, Mum would have a cow. She'd say I was being ungrateful and that money doesn't grow on trees and stuff like that. She always says that money doesn't grow on trees when I ask for something she can't afford or if she thinks I'm being wasteful. I could tell by all the party stuff that she'd spent a fair bit, so I tried extra hard to appear grateful.

Chapter 34

Sunday, 1 December 1968

Peter lay in bed, wide awake. He'd been in bed for over an hour, and couldn't get to sleep. The tension of the day was still with him and he resisted the inclination to wake Maggie. Peter knew that five minutes of having her wrapped in his arms, smelling her hair and skin and having her warmth infuse him with drowsiness was all that it would take; however, the reason for his sleeplessness was such that waking Maggie would have caused him more guilt than he could withstand. It was one thing to be wakeful as a result of the day's proceedings, but it was another to expect that, given his culpability in the whole affair, Maggie should be called upon to help him.

For the first time ever, Peter was at a total loss as to what to do. On top of the anxiety caused by the disaster unfolding before him, he was angry at himself for not knowing how to handle it. He always knew how to respond when something was wrong. If one of the kids got hurt, it was Peter who remained calm and figured out what to do. When the blokes at work were losing their head over Baxter's new reforms, it was Peter who calmed them down and got them to think twice before chucking in their jobs. Maggie, who claimed she loved his level-headedness and resourcefulness, even jokingly called him a boy scout. Her own personal boy scout, she would tease; always prepared for the worst, able to fix anything that broke, and resourceful in ways that would make other boy scouts blush.

Peter wondered what she would call him if she found out about the muddle he'd got himself in. He doubted that she would talk to him at all. Or worse still, he feared that her knowledge of the situation would destroy her trust in him and ruin their bond. Like Maggie, Peter believed in destiny. He shared her view that they were soul mates and that it was their fate to be together. He even believed Maggie's theory that they had shared past lives together. He wasn't sure when or as whom and he didn't claim to possess any knowledge or details to support his belief – nor dreams or theories. He just knew in his heart that it was true. He had known it from the first time he had met her in the Theosophical Society's book shop. Even the unusual meeting place was not required to support his belief, although he did think it was uncanny. It was not as though he had been waiting for her to enter his life or anything quite so romantic, but rather, from the moment she smiled at him, the fact that they were meant to be together was inexplicably apparent, as was the knowledge that they would stay together always, in this life and beyond.

Peter knew that his unorthodox views set him aside from his colleagues. All who met him, even his closest friends, generally considered his unlikely fascination with the occult and reincarnation odd. This was especially the case given that he was an engineer. If you asked anyone, they would tell you that engineers were serious, matter of fact kind of people, and not at all the type to get mixed up in that airy-fairy kind of stuff. However, Maggie and Peter had a different way of looking at it. They preferred the view that, given Peter's unconventional interests, engineering was an unlikely career for him to pursue.

His profession, nevertheless, was easy to explain. He had always had an interest in building things and a career in engineering seemed to fit in well with that. Besides, given the lack of professions related to his other interests, engineering was really his only choice. Fortunately, his career had been an interesting and varied one. Peter had experienced many ups and downs in his time as an engineer, but most of his work he looked back on fondly. His involvement in memorable projects like the Sydney to Newcastle tollway, which the kids referred to for many years as the road that Dad built, and his years spent teaching – first on a casual basis and later full-time, were amongst his best.

Until now, that is. It seemed that the issue with Jane, which Peter had naïvely thought was over and done with, was back to haunt him. He should have known better. Why he thought he could involve himself in an affair with one of his students, and not get into strife, was beyond him. He had been foolish to think so, damned foolish, in fact. And now he was paying the price. He wondered for the hundredth time what Jane had in mind. Did she intend to say anything to anyone about what had transpired between them? What if she had already?

Peter dismissed the idea from his mind. Of course she hadn't said anything yet; Stephen's demeanour would have given him away if she had. But, what if she did? Then what? How would he respond? Denial might work. But, then again, it might not. It had to be better for Maggie to hear the story from him. But, what if Jane had no intention of spilling the beans and he told Maggie everything? The risk of losing Maggie, and of causing her unnecessary pain, was too great. There was no way Peter could tell his soul mate that he'd almost had an affair, or did have an affair, depending on how one defined affair. He certainly did things with Jane that would cause Maggie pain; that much he couldn't deny. He always thought that their relationship was strong enough to withstand any test, but that was before his betrayal had taken place.

Betrayal? Is that what it was that he'd done, he wondered. Was it really betrayal to _almost_ have sex with another woman? He had said no, after all. Surely that must be worth something. Other blokes did far worse and got away with it. Take Roger for example. He'd cheated on his wife several times and they were still together.

Peter knew that he was kidding himself. He was well aware that regardless of what Roger and other blokes did, what he had done was wrong. He _had_ betrayed Maggie. He wished he could undo what had happened, but he couldn't. All that was left for him to do now was to face the music, whatever the tune.

Maggie stirred in her sleep. Once again, Peter resisted the urge to bury his face in her neck and wrap her in his arms. He tensed his body as she rolled over and flung her arm across his chest. She snuggled in close to him before falling back to sleep. He felt terrible. He didn't believe he deserved to have her warm body lying up against his, but he was too frightened to move in case she woke. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. As hard as he tried, he couldn't summon the courage to tell Maggie what he had done. Besides, he reasoned, telling her would simply be a selfish way of easing his own conscience. And if that's all it was, he had no right to cause her pain just so he could get something off his chest, something that she might never find out about otherwise.

There was no easy solution to his problem. As far as Peter was concerned he was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. To tell Maggie what had happened was guaranteed to cause her pain and do irreversible damage to their relationship. How could it not? But, on the other hand, if Jane had no intention of sharing their secret with anyone else, then he would have caused all that hurt and damage for nothing. So, the way he figured it, telling her was certain pain, not telling her meant that there was a chance she would be spared the hurt of knowing.

He knew that deep down he was being a coward, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that he loved Maggie deeply. His little fling with Jane did not detract from that. Rather, it had reinforced his love for her. Peter also knew that without a doubt, Maggie loved him too, so why destroy something so special for something so meaningless?

Peter ran his hand along Maggie's arm. He still felt terrible, but at least now he had resolved the dilemma about confessing his sins. He loved her too much to hurt her. The secret he and Jane shared would remain theirs. He would do everything in his power to make sure that Maggie never found out, which meant that he had to get Jane out of his – and Stephen's – life for good.

How he would manage such a feat remained to be seen. However, the last thought on Peter's mind as he drifted off into a restless night's sleep was that he would find a way if it was the last thing he did.

Chapter 35

Wednesday, 4 December 1968

Stephen found his father in the lounge room watching _Bewitched_. "Where are those pyjamas you said I could borrow?"

Without taking his eyes of the television, Peter answered his son. "They're in my top drawer. Blue and red striped ones, they should be on the top somewhere, your mum's just washed them."

"Thanks."

Before Stephen had got too far, Peter called him back. "Hey Steve, got a sec?"

Stephen stuck his head around the door. "Yeah, what is it?"

Peter patted the lounge beside him. "Have a seat. I want to have a few words with you."

"Can it wait? I'm supposed to be getting ready for tonight. Jane will be here soon to pick me up."

Peter looked at his son. "It won't take a minute, come on."

Stephen let out a resigned breath. He sat on the lounge beside his father but stayed perched on the edge as though he might be required to take flight without warning. "Yeah, what's the matter?" He looked at his dad, barely masking his impatience.

"Well..." having gained his son's attention, Peter was having difficulty knowing where to start, "...I just wanted to have a little word to you about Jane."

"What about Jane?" Stephen eyed his dad curiously.

"Um...well, I just wanted to see how you were getting along. You know; find out how serious things were between you."

"How serious?" Stephen laughed. "We've only just met."

"I know, that's why I'm asking. You don't know anything about her yet. I was just making sure you weren't in over your head."

The smile on Stephen's face slipped a little. "What do you mean; in over my head?"

The conversation was turning out to be more difficult than Peter had anticipated. He was mindful of trying not to sound lame or insincere. "Well...um...I guess I was a bit worried that you might be falling too hard and setting yourself up for disappointment."

Stephen's voice became defensive. "What do you mean, setting myself up for disappointment?"

Peter realised that if he didn't change his tact soon, he would risk messing up the entire conversation. "Maybe that came out the wrong way," he started. "I guess, what I was trying to say is that I don't want to see you get hurt, that's all. You must've worked out by now, Jane is a fair bit older than you and I'm sure you're not her first boyfriend. And I doubt that you'll be her last."

"So? What's that got to do with anything?" Stephen looked at his dad, still defensive but more curious than anything now. "What are you trying to say? Is there something I should know?"

Peter considered how far he should take the conversation. He didn't want to lie to Stephen outright, but he did want to plant a seed of doubt as to Jane's true intentions. He felt he owed it to his son to warn him that Jane was only using him, but was aware that if he weren't careful he would succeed in causing more suspicion than doubt. "Well, it's just that I know Jane a lot better than you," he said carelessly, causing Stephen to question his father with the raise of his eyebrows. "Having taught her all year," Peter added quickly – too quickly perhaps – "I think it's fair to say that she's a little..." Stephen waited with interest while Peter considered what he was about to say. "Um... how do I put it?" Peter asked, not really expecting a response from Stephen but getting one nonetheless.

"Oh, I get it." The tension that had started to show on Stephen's face melted away instantly. "Is this your way of telling me that Jane might be expecting _something_ to happen?" Stephen looked at his father, smirked, and fought the urge to laugh. "Dad, don't you think I'm a bit old to hear about the birds and the bees?"

Peter looked at his son horrified. "No...actually...I was trying to say that..." Stephen cut him off. "Come off it! What do you take me for, a budding teenager who's just had his first wet dream?" Stephen got up from the lounge, indicating the conversation was at an end. Seeing the funny side of things, he looked down at his father, amused. "Don't worry Dad, we always take precautions, I promise." He drew a cross with his finger in the centre of his chest as a gesture of truthfulness, turned and left the room.

Peter's heart sank. He had no idea things had become so serious between Stephen and Jane. Talk about biting off more than he could chew. The realisation that things were far worse than he had imagined stung him like a slap in the face.

"Well," said Maggie, sneaking up behind him and making him jump, "I'm sure that hurt you more than it hurt him."

Peter spun around at the sound of her voice. "Were you listening the whole time?"

Maggie sat down beside him, laughing. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I was coming in to tell you that dinner was ready and I overheard you talking."

Peter looked uncomfortable.

Maggie continued, "I'm sure you've got nothing to worry about, babe. Stephen's a sensible kid. I don't think he'll do anything foolish."

Like Stephen, Maggie had misunderstood Peter's intentions. He had not set out to give his son the _where did I come from_ talk. From the outset of Stephen and Jane's relationship, Peter had set himself the challenge of not thinking about how they occupied themselves when they were alone, which was turning out to be often. For the most part, he had not been successful in his endeavours, but until hearing his son's confession, he had naïvely assumed that Jane and Stephen's time spent alone was somewhat less fruitful.

Peter was angry that the suggestion of intimacy between Stephen and Jane should send his heart racing. "Yeah, I'm sure you're right," he said, determined not to sulk.

Maggie realised that Peter was not seeing the maturity in his son's reaction. "You're still having doubts about them?"

"Well, I know you think Jane's a nice girl, but from what I know of her, she's a bit...how shall I put it...easy."

Maggie looked surprised by Peter's comments. "Really? She doesn't strike me as the sort of girl to fool around."

"Maybe not," said Peter warming to the conversation, "but you heard what she's been up to with our son. Take it from me he's not alone there."

"Hmm," Maggie considered what Peter had just told her. "Well, I'm sure Stephen's old enough to choose his own girlfriends; easy or not so easy. We can't baby-sit him for ever."

"True, but..." Maggie cut him off mid-sentence, "But, nothing," she said decisively, "how about we let Stephen make up his own mind." She stood up and took Peter's hands, dragging him up from the lounge with her. "Come on babe, dinner's ready. The kids will be going out soon and then it'll be our turn to misbehave."

***

"Jane's here!" Maggie called from the dining room.

At the mention of Jane's voice, Stephen came rushing into the room. Judging from his Bryl-creamed hair and the unmistakable smell of Old Spice, he had finished getting ready for the pyjama ball. "Whoa," Maggie waved at the air frantically, "I think you were a bit heavy handed with the aftershave."

Stephen looked at his mum seriously. Then, sounding remarkably like a television advertisement he said, "the whole idea of a man's cologne is to start a kind of fire in a woman."

Recognising his words as just that; an advertisement for Old Spice, Maggie laughed. "Well, I hope Jane has a strong constitution. She'll need it to go out with you smelling like that."

"And looking like that," added Peter.

At the mention of his dress sense, Stephen twirled around. "Well, what do you think?"

Maggie laughed at Stephen's attire. He wore his dad's red and blue striped pyjamas, a green neck tie with brown polka dots, and black shoes and socks. "Well, the Marlborough Man you're not," Maggie commented. "I do hope Jane realises what she's getting herself in for."

At the mention of Jane's name, she called a hello from the front veranda. "Come in," Maggie called back, "we were just admiring Stephen's evening attire."

Jane entered the dining room wearing pink baby doll pyjamas, long white gloves, and her hair tied in pig tails. At the sight of each other, Jane and Stephen giggled like school kids. Peter tried not to let his apprehension show and laughed along with them. Maggie jumped up and ran towards the bedroom. "I'll just get the camera, so I can take a photo of you kids dressed up like that."

She got to the bedroom and called out for Stephen to grab the camera from where it was stored in a box on the top shelf, too high for her to reach. Stephen excused himself from the room and raced in after her.

"I can't say I've ever seen a pair of my pyjamas at a ball before," offered Peter for lack of something else to say.

Jane looked at Peter inquisitively. "They're your pyjamas?"

Peter nodded, "Uh huh."

Jane looked behind her to make sure they were still alone. "Well, Sir, what can I say?" She gave him the cheekiest of smiles, "I've always looked forward to getting into your pyjamas, now it seems I might get the chance."

Peter was dumbfounded. He didn't know how to respond to her comment and he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with her, so he studied the wall hanging beside the kitchen door instead. It was made from wool and resembled thick shag pile carpet. A wooden rod was threaded through the top and bottom of the piece and it was at least two feet long and half a foot wide. Its red and blue geometric design clashed terribly with the green swirls on the wallpaper, but Michelle had made it at school many years ago and had given it to them as a gift, so despite its ugliness, neither he nor Maggie had the courage to take it down. Instead they consoled themselves with the knowledge that when the door swung wide open, the hanging could not be seen.

Peter could feel Jane's gaze burning him and willed Stephen and Maggie to return. He was aware that she was expecting a response, so he ignored her completely and took the dirty plates from the table to the sink. With his back to her, he could at least pretend she wasn't standing in his dining room, taunting him. He noisily rinsed the dishes, the whole time silently praying for Maggie and Stephen to hurry up and rescue him. An awkward silence was beginning to develop between them and he was fast running out of dishes to rinse. Instead of taking the hint and leaving him alone, Jane continued as though nothing had happened. "Stephen said that it might be okay if I stayed the night?"

Before Peter could respond to Jane's enquiry, Maggie was back in the room with the camera in hand. "Of course you can stay. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be driving home alone that late. You can stay in Michelle's room, can't she babe?" Maggie looked at Peter expectantly.

Jane shot Peter one of her brilliant smiles and without waiting for his confirmation thanked him and Maggie for letting her stay. Seeing her smugness at Maggie's invitation, Peter felt like throttling her. Instead he agreed with Maggie and left the room with the excuse that he wanted to watch television.

After a short while, Maggie came into the lounge room and tossed Peter two Polaroid pictures of Jane and Stephen. "Don't they look funny?" she enquired.

Peter studied the pictures intently before handing them back. He couldn't help but notice what a nice looking couple they made. Jane with her vibrant looks and bubbly personality that shone through, even in the developing image that he held in his hand, and Stephen with his dad's dark hair and complexion and big brown eyes.

Jane and Stephen came into say goodbye. Maggie showed them the pictures, causing more laughter, before walking them to the door and seeing them off. "Don't drink too much," she warned. "I'll leave the front veranda light on for when you get back."

***

Peter lay in bed listening to Jane and Stephen come in. They made a fair racket but managed to keep it down just enough to prevent Maggie from waking. Peter even considered going out and telling them to keep the noise down, but thought better of it. Instead, he lay in bed, unable to sleep, waiting for the noise to stop. He listened intently, trying to make out the conversation at the other end of the hall. Stephen's room was located down the hall from his and Maggie's, and Michelle's room was opposite theirs. After a while the noise drifted up the hall until it was just outside his bedroom. He heard giggling and feet scuffing on the carpet, followed by loud whispering and then nothing. Everything went silent. He heard Stephen's door close and waited for a similar response from Michelle's room. When it didn't come, he gave up and tried to sleep. The last thing he needed was to focus on what might be happening in Stephen's room.

Almost forty minutes had passed before Peter got up the courage to go to the toilet. He knew he was never going to get to sleep with a full bladder, so he tiptoed out of the bedroom, gently closing the door behind him so as not to wake Maggie. The front veranda light was still on. It cast its glow through the glass panel in the front door, lighting the hall just enough for Peter to see where he was going without the need to turn the hall light on. He noticed that Michelle's door was slightly ajar but that the room behind the door was black. He assumed that Jane was still in Stephen's room, but didn't bother to check. He tried extra hard not to make any noise as he snuck up the hallway and into the bathroom.

Peter pushed the door without closing it properly. He turned on the light and untied the string in his pyjama pants. He wore a pair of short cotton pyjama bottoms with no top. It was quite a warm night, so he didn't need anything else. Peter noticed his reflection in the mirror and instinctively sucked in his tummy when he saw the slight bulge caused by his poor posture. Standing up straight made it disappear instantly and he looked at his physique with renewed approval.

Peter could see from the mirror that the door was opening behind him and he instantly stopped undoing his shorts. He turned in time to see Jane poke her head around the corner, rubbing her eyes as though she had just woken up.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realise you were in here," she whispered.

The memory of the other day flashed through his mind. The image of him, cornered in the bathroom by Jane, with his jeans undone, came embarrassingly to mind. He hoped like hell that he was not about to have a similar encounter. That was all he needed, with Maggie asleep only doors away and Stephen just down the hall.

Peter turned to close the door. "Well, I am," he said rudely. "I won't be long."

As he pushed the door shut, Jane stuck her foot in the gap, causing it to stop short of closing. "Unless of course, you need a hand?" she offered.

Peter was astounded. He didn't think he'd ever met anyone with as much gall as Jane. Standing in the bathroom, half naked and feeling rather foolish, it occurred to Peter that he didn't really know her at all. Once, he thought he did, but it didn't take Einstein to work out that he got it wrong. Way wrong, in fact.

He realised that Jane was looking at him expectantly. "Um...no, thanks, I can manage."

She looked down towards his pyjama shorts. "Come on Sir, it'll be just like old times," she spoke so softly he only just managed to catch what she said. Something in the way she spoke made him snap. It might have been the sultry way she looked at him, suggesting that all she needed to do was flutter her lashes and he'd be putty in her hands. Or it might have been the fact that his wife and his son were practically next door. Either way, his next words came out sounding far more vicious than intended. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded, all traces of courtesy gone.

Indifferent to his response, Jane shrugged in the carefree manner of someone being offered a cup of tea. "I take it that's a no? Oh well, it was worth a try."

"Stop playing games," Peter lowered his voice so as not to wake anyone and draw attention to the fact that he was in the bathroom with Jane, "you know damn well what I'm talking about. I'm referring to Stephen."

She looked at him with the innocence of a child. "What about Stephen?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with my son?"

Despite the venom in his voice, Jane held her composure well. Peter almost admired her for it, but then remembered that she was a skilled performer. Instead of backing off, she inched closer. "Well, if you must know, despite his lack of experience, he's _very_ enthusiastic," she said.

Peter was disgusted with Jane for what she was saying, and with himself for how it was making him feel. "How dare you. You think you're pretty clever, coming here all innocence and smiles. Don't think I can't see through you."

Her smile never wavered. "Sir, I'm surprised at you. Is that any way to speak to a guest?"

Peter was petrified of waking Maggie. "Will you keep your voice down?"

"Well, is it?" she said more quietly.

"Please don't take me for an idiot, Jane," he warned.

"Or what?" she challenged.

Peter knew that she had him; 'or what', indeed? He was hardly in a position to do anything about her presence. Unless of course he wanted to reveal to Maggie and Stephen every experience he and Jane had shared, which, for the record, he did not. "You tell me," he demanded somewhat more calmly. "What exactly do you hope to achieve by all this?"

Jane smiled at him as though he were finally behaving reasonably. "Well, Sir, I thought that would have been obvious."

He snapped at her through clenched teeth. "Stop calling me Sir."

Peter's callousness was finally paying off. Instead of being flippant, she became serious. "Okay, to answer your question, I don't really know what I hope to achieve. After all, we've only just met. But, I don't mind saying, things seem to be going swimmingly, wouldn't you say?"

"You bitch. Don't think I don't know that you're using my son to get to me."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. I rather like to think that Stephen and I could make a good go of things. He's very nice, you know? Although, I must say, he's drunk a bit too much to be of any real use to me tonight."

Peter stared at her, unable to think of a single thing to say.

"Oh dear, listen to me," Jane giggled uncharacteristically, leading Peter to believe that Stephen was not the only one that had drunk too much; "here I am telling you about your own son."

"It won't work, you know. I'll make sure of it." Peter was aware of how childish he sounded, but it was the best he could come up with.

Jane looked amused. "Oh really?" she whispered. "Pray tell; what exactly are you going to do about it? Let me guess, you're going to tell Stephen that his daddy's been a bad boy? That he has a thing for his son's girlfriend? I think not."

Peter glared at her. "Let's get one thing straight. I do not have a thing for you."

"Mmm," she wiggled her finger at him, "well, you could have fooled me. For someone that was happy to grope around under my skirt – and not so long ago, either, I might add – you sure have a strange way of showing it."

The look on Peter's face caused Jane to flinch, which in turn gave him the encouragement to continue. "What sort of spiteful bitch would use someone the way you're using Stephen? Why can't you just get it through your head that there is nothing between us and leave my son out of it?"

For the first time since their encounter, Jane backed away. Peter noticed a slight change in her demeanour but wasn't sure what it was. Until she spoke, then he realised her mock playfulness was gone. In its place was something more frightening than Peter had experienced thus far; pure malice.

"I'm sure Stephen doesn't see things quite the same way as you do," she said soberly. "In fact, I'm sure that if you ask him what _he_ wants, he'll tell you that he's very happy to have _me_ as his girlfriend. I'll even bet that your pretty wife, Maggie, who's sleeping like a baby as we speak, would agree..."

Afraid his courage would abandon him, Peter pushed the door closed as quietly as he could manage, cutting her off mid-sentence. He stood with his back to the door, breathing heavily. As tempting as it was to slide to the floor and bury his head in his hands, he remained standing. What the hell had he started?

Choking back tears, he tried unsuccessfully to block the exchange from his mind. He couldn't believe how totally and utterly exhausted the encounter had left him; so exhausted in fact, that he was unable to summon the energy required to block Jane's voice from his mind as she whispered to him through the bathroom door. "Just in case you hadn't noticed, _Sir_ , your wife and I also hit it off nicely? Oh, and your daughter, too. My, don't we have a lot in common?"

Her words sent shivers up his spine and left him in no doubt that the nightmare had only just started.

Chapter 36

Saturday, 22 December 1979

Clare was the first to arrive. She pulled up in Herbie, her yellow Volkswagen. She jumped out and ran up to give me hug, almost dropping the container of chocolate crackles on my head. "Whoops," she said, "that's no way to treat the birthday girl." She gave the container to Brian to take inside and put in the fridge. Then she bent down and kissed me on the cheek. "Happy birthday, Jen, don't you look nice today?"

I'd changed into my dress and put my hair in plaits just in time for everyone's arrival. She looked nice too. Her soft, strawberry-blonde curls framed her pretty face. She never ties her hair back and it's always blowing in her face. She tucks it behind her ears, but it still blows in her face. Mum does her lolly if I don't tie my hair back, because it gets all knotty.

She was wearing a pair of flared denim jeans with a fringe sewn to the hem. Flares aren't that fashionable anymore, but Clare doesn't care and neither do I. I've wanted a pair of jeans for ages, but Mum won't buy me any, she says they cost too much. She also wore a pale yellow top made from embroidered cheesecloth with smocking across the front. The kind my aunties would take as proof that she's a hippy. On her feet, she wore a pair of three-inch platforms, making her look even taller than she already is. I thought she looked lovely, but I knew that everybody else would talk about her like they always do.

She sat on the veranda next to me. "What did you get for your birthday?"

When I told her I got a bike, she sounded almost as excited as I did when I found out. "Won't you be little Miss Independent now. You'll be able to ride all over the place without having to rely on anyone."

I told her that I go everywhere I want already, but now Tom wouldn't have to double me.

She handed me a parcel covered in used wrapping paper. "Here you go, I hope you like it." Clare always reuses her wrapping paper and cards. She cuts her old cards up and makes new ones with them. She adds paper ribbons and glitter and stuff like that. I think they're even nicer than bought ones.

"Where's that spunky boyfriend of yours? I have a present for him too."

How nice of her to remember it was Tom's birthday and get him a present as well. "He'll be here in time for the party," I told her, "It's his party too. Mum said we could share. Well, it was my idea; Mum just agreed."

"What a wonderful idea. It's nice to share such a special day with a special friend."

I agreed. I wouldn't want to share my birthday with anyone but Tom.

"Who else is coming?" she asked. "What about that tall lanky kid, Ned or Ed or something. You know, the one that was here last time I came to visit?"

"Ed," I corrected. "And yeah, he's coming."

"And that little short kid with the red hair and freckles who was with him, what's his name again?"

I knew she was just being interested in me, but I couldn't believe she was asking about Shortie. Didn't Mum tell her about what happened?

"Uh oh," she misread the look on my face, "don't tell me you're not friends with him anymore?"

"No, I'm not," I stammered, "I mean, I'm still his friend, or at least, I would be if he was still alive."

Clare looked genuinely shocked. "Oh dear, me and my big mouth. Do you want to talk about it, or shall I just pretend I never said anything?"

"There's nothing to talk about." I sniffed back my tears. "He's dead and that's all there is to it."

She'd read my response to mean that I _did_ want to talk about it. "Oh Jen, I'm so sorry. I didn't know he'd passed on. What happened?"

"The Dumbrells bashed him up and he went to hospital. Mum said he was having a check-up, only he wasn't; he was unconscious. Then he died. I was so angry with Mum and Dad for lying to me. I still am. They had no right to lie to me like they did."

"Sometimes parents do stupid things, Jen. God knows mine did. But you really shouldn't be so hard on them."

I couldn't believe she was sticking up for them. "I wanted to visit him in hospital, but they wouldn't let me. They kept saying he'd be home soon, but he wasn't. And now, because of them, I never got to say goodbye or anything."

"It's never too late to say goodbye."

"How can I? He won't hear me all the way from Heaven."

Clare looked at me like she might look at an injured puppy dog. "Jen, Heaven isn't real; at least not in the sense most people believe."

"How come everyone says you go to Heaven when you die then?"

"Because that's what a lot of people are taught. Many religions believe in Heaven and Hell."

"Don't you?"

"As it happens, no I don't."

"Why not?"

"I believe God is about love. I think God wants us to enjoy ourselves and experience all the wonderful things life has to offer. I don't believe God is mean or vengeful and I don't think God would make people spend eternity in a place like Hell, or Heaven for that matter. In fact, I think God would be very disappointed to hear about all the things people and religious organisations do in God's name."

"Where is he then?" I asked. "If he didn't go to Heaven, where did he go?"

"It's hard to explain," she started.

I hate it when people say that. It usually means that they're not going to bother and try to explain. Not so with Clare. "But, I'll give it a shot anyway," she said. "Have you ever heard of reincarnation?"

"Isn't that what happens to the Egyptians?"

She smiled at me. "Very good Jen, you've been paying attention in class."

"I don't really know what it means though," I confessed, just in case she was going to continue without explaining it to me.

She became serious again. "You're right. The Egyptians did believe in reincarnation. They believed their soul would be reborn and that's why they embalmed their bodies and buried them with gold and other useful things. They thought the soul would need them on the way to the next life."

I remembered Tom saying that only your soul goes to Heaven, not your body, but once again, I didn't really know what that meant, so I asked Clare. "Everyone has a soul," she explained, "they're what make us who we are. Souls are eternal and never die. Our bodies are just the machines our souls ride in. Without a body, souls wouldn't be able to experience life as we do." She paused to allow time for what she had said to sink in. "One problem though Jen, bodies get old and they break. Sometimes they get sick, or bashed up like Shortie's."

"Then what happens?"

"Then, they need to find a new body so that they can continue on their journey," she explained.

"What journey?"

"The journey everyone takes to enlightenment."

She realised she was losing me and started again. "Lots of religions and cultures believe in reincarnation," she started and then stopped. "It's a little bit difficult to explain to an eleven year old, even one as clever as you."

The look on my face must have been such that, once again, she decided to give it a shot. "Many people believe that the soul departs the body at death and enters at birth. Some say that Jesus believed in reincarnation, because he said that unless man was reborn, he couldn't enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Pagans believe that reincarnation is a cycle of birth, death, and rebirth."

"What's a Pagan?"

Clare repeated the question out loud. "Mmm... let me think, what's a Pagan? Different people will tell you different things. Some people say it's anyone who follows a religion other than Christianity." Clare paused and thought about what she'd said. "Except the Jewish and Muslim religions, they're not Pagan either. In my mind though, a Pagan is anyone who follows an Earth-centred spiritual path."

I was just about to ask her what an Earth-centred spiritual path was, but she went on to explain it before I had a chance. "Pagans believe in living in harmony with the Earth and its cycles. The Egyptians, Celts and Druids were Pagans, as are modern day Buddhists and Wiccans, to name just a few. The term _Wicca_ hasn't been around for long, but it has its basis in very old beliefs and traditions."

"I've never heard of Wicca; what is it?"

She smiled and took a deep breath. "I'm just learning about it myself."

It made me feel better knowing that Clare didn't know everything either.

"Wicca, like most Pagan religions, is a loving and peaceful religion that is centred on the worship of nature. It teaches us to live in harmony with the Earth and to celebrate the cycle of birth, death and rebirth through the passing of the seasons.

"Pagans hold festivals to mark the changing of the seasons. Take Christmas for example, it's actually a Pagan festival. Only, the Pagans call it Yule or the winter solstice."

"But, isn't the winter solstice in June?" I asked. "Surely they don't have Christmas in June?"

Clare looked impressed with my level of knowledge. Of course, I didn't bother to tell her that the only reason I knew about the summer and winter solstice was because Mr Drury told me about them. He said that my birthday was the day after the summer solstice, and that the summer solstice is the longest day of the year. Personally, I don't see how that could be since there's twenty-four hours in every day.

"But, at the moment, it's actually winter in the northern hemisphere," Clare explained. "Remember, Australia's in the southern hemisphere, where it's the other way around?"

"Oh yeah, it is too." I knew that what Clare said was right, because whenever I watch Christmas specials on telly, it's nearly always snowing. When I asked Mum how come, she said it was because the shows are made in America.

Clare waited to see if I had any more questions before continuing. "Yule, or the winter solstice, has always been the most sacred and magical of the Pagan festivals. It's the time when the new Sun King is born. The festival of Yule was adopted by the Christians and is now celebrated as Jesus' birthday."

"Deadset?" I wondered why I'd never heard of that before.

"See this?" She pointed to a pendant hanging from a black leather thong she wore around her neck. "It's a pentacle." She held up a silver circle with a five-pointed star in its centre. "It's a Pagan symbol that represents nature's elements."

I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Some people call it the _witches star_."

"You mean like real witches?" The conversation was getting more interesting by the minute.

"No, not really, not like the witches from the _Wizard of Oz_ if that's what you mean; they're just make-believe."

She was about to say something more but hesitated. She looked as though she were having second thoughts about whether or not to finish what she'd started. After a long pause, she let out a deep sigh and took up where she left off. "The name _witch_ is probably one of the most misunderstood terms in the English language. In fact," she whispered in case anyone was within earshot, "I bet you didn't even know that real witches still exist?"

I looked at her in surprise. "For real?"

She nodded. "A witch is just what you call someone who practices magic. And by magic, I mean good magic. True witches believe that no matter what you do; good or bad, it comes back to you threefold. Another way to describe it is Karma. A person's Karma stays with them forever; and that's why you should never harm anyone. If you do, it will come back to you later; and not necessarily in this life either."

I looked at the witches star around her neck. "Are you a witch?" The idea of Clare being a witch was even better than her being a hippy.

"Well, I'm definitely a Pagan, but I'm not sure if I'd go as far as to call myself a witch."

"But aren't they the same thing?"

"Not really; even though all witches are Pagans, not all Pagans are witches."

"Don't you do magic?"

"Just a little," she confessed, "I'm just learning."

That was all the proof I needed. "So, you _are_ a witch then?"

"I suppose I am," she laughed, "but that's our little secret, okay?"

"You bet! Why don't you want anyone to know though?"

"Oh, let's just say that most people aren't as open minded as you, and they wouldn't understand."

"What's to understand; it's none of their business?"

"If only it were that simple. I read in the paper just the other day about the death of woman in Sydney. Her real name was Rosaleen Norton, but everyone called her the Witch of Kings Cross."

"Was she a witch too?"

"I don't really know. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't. The point is that everyone believed she was. They made her life a living hell, just because she dared to be different. She was constantly harassed by the police and the newspapers and labelled a devil worshipper. She even had her artwork taken by the police because they said it contained images of devil worship."

Even though Clare had no artwork that I knew of, I didn't want her to be treated like Rosaleen, so this time I swore I'd keep her secret.

"As sad as it is, Jen, that's what people are like. Not too many people are as accepting as you. That's why I don't mind talking to you about things like this."

Now, I felt really special. I already felt special because it was my birthday, but I felt extra special knowing that Clare had shared her secret with me. "Can I tell Tom," I asked hopefully. "He's my best friend and can keep a secret better than anyone I know."

She considered my request carefully.

"I won't tell him if you don't want me to," I reassured her.

"No, that's okay. If you trust him, then I trust him. But only tell Tom, okay?"

"It's a deal."

Chapter 37

Saturday, 22 December 1979

"Jenny, don't be rude," Mum interrupted the best conversation I'd had in ages, "let Clare come in and say hello to everyone, it's been a long time since we've seen her."

"Hi Mel," Clare said, turning to face Mum, "I'll be there in a moment, I'm just having a little birthday chat with Jen."

Mum left us alone. She must have sensed we didn't want her to join us.

"Now, where were we?" asked Clare.

"You were about to tell me about your star?"

"Pentacle," she corrected. "I better be quick. I don't want to be in your mum's bad books." She winked at me. "If your mother hears me telling you all this stuff, I'll be in them for sure."

I didn't want Clare to stop, but I knew she was right, so I tried not to interrupt her.

"The pentacle is one of our most powerful symbols. It's a sacred symbol that's been around since ancient times. In its simplest representation, the five points signify the elements of nature; earth, air, fire and water." She pointed to the various points in a clockwise direction. "And the fifth one," she pointed to the top point, "represents the spirit, which is just another word for the soul."

I thought it was cool that something that looked so pretty could mean so much.

"We got a bit side-tracked there for a minute," she looked at her watch, "but, the point I was trying to make with all this is that Shortie's not really dead. Well, at least not in the sense you think. When the time is right, he'll be reborn and live life all over again."

The idea of being reborn fascinated me. It certainly sounded better than being stuck in Heaven eating rice from gold plates. I don't even like rice that much. I had so many questions I wanted to ask, but I knew we were almost out of time. Remembering my original question, I asked, "Where's Shortie then, if he's not in Heaven, and how long before he's reborn?"

"Boy, you ask some hard questions for a little girl."

"I'm not little," I said defiantly, "I'm eleven."

"Of course you're not," she laughed, "what was I thinking? To answer your first question, Pagans call the place you go to in between lives, _Summerland_. The Egyptians called it _Amenti_. There are many more names for it, but they mean the same thing."

I liked the idea of a place called Summerland. It conjured up images of a place that looked just like the bush did after yesterday's storm.

"I guess in some ways, Summerland is equivalent to the Christians' Heaven," Clare continued, "but the main difference is that Heaven is seen as the alternative to Hell and the concept of Hell is associated with Satan. Satan and Hell are part of the Christian belief system and we Pagans don't accept their existence.

"Summerland is where our souls go to rest and recover until it's time to be reborn. Nobody really knows how long it takes; I guess it depends on how eager the soul is to return. I think some souls need longer to recover from the pains of their last life, while others are as keen as mustard to get back here. I imagine it could be anywhere from hours or days, to hundreds of years before someone is reborn."

"Wow," I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Does that mean I shouldn't be sad about Shortie dying?"

"Well, of course not. It's always sad when a loved one moves on. But, at least you know now that he's not gone for good. You should celebrate your birthday with joy, Jenny, not sadness. Death is just part of the cycle of life and there's no better way to celebrate life than with a birthday."

I thought what she said made a lot of sense. Finally, here was something I could understand.

"Did you know that Halloween is really a Pagan celebration of the dead?" she asked me.

Of course I didn't. I thought Halloween was just an excuse for trick or treating.

"The Pagans call it Samhain, which is the Celtic New Year. It's the time to celebrate our ancestors and our dead. We believe it's a time when our mortal world and the spirit world are close and we can talk with the dead."

Choice, they even talk to the dead. I still had so many questions to ask. "How do they do that?"

"I think we'll leave that for another day. I can feel your mum's negative energy from here."

I laughed at Clare's comment. I was starting to feel better already.

"So, aren't you going to open your present?" she enquired.

I'd forgotten about my present, which was still sitting in my lap. Remembering to do the polite thing, I opened the card first. It was made from blue cardboard with a circle cut out of the front. Behind the circle was a picture of blue birds. It looked like a picture frame the way she'd done it.

After reading the card as fast as I could without being rude, I tore open the wrapper. I remembered too late that I should've been more careful so I could keep the paper for another time like Clare always does. Inside the paper was an autograph book and a small jewellery box. Tops! Jewellery boxes usually meant something good.

I wasn't disappointed. Inside the box was a silver signet ring with a tiny blue stone in the corner. It even had my initials engraved on it. "Thanks heaps." I wrapped my arms around her neck and kissed her cheek.

"Try it on." she removed the ring from the box and slipped it on to my middle finger. It was a little bit loose, but not so loose it would fall off. "Here," she said, "one more thing." She unfastened her pendant and refastened it around my neck.

Was she for real? I couldn't believe she was giving me her pentacle. "Wow! Thanks," I said in disbelief. Then, for a stupid second, I wondered if instead of accepting Clare's gift, I shouldn't be protesting. I didn't think she was just being polite, but I thought I should check. "I mean, thanks, but I can't take this, it's yours." Even though my conscience said it was the right thing to say, I tried not to sound too convincing, in case she changed her mind.

Luckily for me, she did no such thing. "Not any more, I want you to have it. Just remember what the points mean and you'll always know what a beautiful thing it is to live on this Earth. Here, I'll write it in your autograph book, so you won't forget." She turned to the second last page of the book and drew a five-pointed star. Next to each point she wrote the words; _earth_ , _air_ , _fire_ , _water_ and _spirit_. Then, underneath the star, she scribbled a note, which I couldn't read from where I was sitting.

After filling both pages, she closed the book and stood up. "Hopefully one day you'll understand the magic of the pentacle a bit better. When you do, you'll realise that you're actually a spirit having a human experience, not a human having a spiritual one."

Saying thanks sounded inadequate, but I couldn't think of a better way to describe what I felt, so I said it again anyway.

"You're very welcome, Jenny. It's nice to have such an appreciative audience."

She handed me the autograph book and walked inside. I opened it up and looked at what she'd written. She'd scrawled what looked like a poem in tiny letters.

"Bide the Wiccan laws, we must,

In perfect love and perfect trust.

Heed the flowers, bush and tree

By the Lady blessed you'll be.

Where the rippling waters go,

Cast a stone and truth you'll know.

Merry meet and merry part,

Bright the cheeks and warm the heart.

Mind the threefold law you should,

Three times bad and three times good.

These eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill;

And harm ye none, do what ye will."

I didn't know what the poem meant, but it sounded nice and mysterious. When I had the chance, I would ask Clare to explain it to me, but not today.

I got up and followed Clare inside. "Look what I got from Clare," I showed Mum my signet ring and autograph book.

"Aren't you a lucky girl?"

"And this too," I held up my new pentacle with pride.

"Mmm, that's lovely." She turned back to the lolly faces she was making on Milk Arrowroot biscuits.

I was glad she didn't know what the pentacle was. It was my secret and I didn't really feel like sharing it with anyone else.

Chapter 38

Friday, 13 December 1968

Stephen stumbled out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His hair stuck up in every direction giving him the appearance of a frightened but comical cartoon character. Had his face been smeared with dirt, together with his wild hairstyle, he would have looked not unlike Coyote following one of his mishaps, with the contents of his latest ACME creation exploded in his face with no visible signs of injury. "Bet you'll be glad when today's over," he mumbled, oblivious to the caricature he was portraying.

Maggie looked up distractedly. "Huh?"

"I was just saying that I bet you're happy today's your last day of school."

"Oh. Yeah, I am. I'm looking forward to it, in fact. Have you seen my car keys?"

"Nuh, ask Joe, he might know."

"Smart arse."

Jane entered the kitchen looking remarkably fresh compared to Stephen. "Who's Joe?"

"Joe Fanatomy," volunteered Stephen, incurring a look of caution from Maggie that said she had no time for games.

"Don't ask; it's a long story." Maggie lifted Stephen's jacket off the bench top and exposed the missing key bunch. She threw him the offending jacket and jingled her keys accusingly in front of his face. "Thanks, Stevie boy," she teased, in a better mood for having found her keys and knowing how much he hated being called by that name. "I'm off. I'll see you this afternoon."

"I probably won't be here," he replied.

"Why not?" Maggie stopped walking and turned around. "Where are you going?"

"Me and Jane are going to a dance at the Town Hall with Mark and Rebecca, remember?"

"You mean _Jane and I_ are going to a dance?" Maggie corrected. She recalled having heard something about a dance. Apparently it was an underground dance, whatever that meant. Judging from the venue, it was a term that was definitely not intended to be taken literally, so she assumed that it must have meant that the dance was unauthorised. Where _does_ one get authorisation from to stage a dance, she wondered. She gave up trying to make sense of what it all meant and conceded that she should have paid more attention to what he had told her earlier. He had been raving about it for days but she failed to take notice.

Rather than let on to Stephen that she had not been as attentive as she should have been, she tried hard to recall some of the details. "Oh yes. I remember; it's the one where that band, UFO, is playing."

Stephen looked at Jane and they both laughed. "Have a listen to my groovy mum will you?" he mocked. Then to Maggie, "Um...I think you mean UBU."

"I was close," she said, running too late for school to have the decency to look embarrassed. Then, just to prove she had paid a little attention to what her son had been saying, she added, "that other band that you like is also playing. Taman Shud, right?"

"She makes a quick recovery," Jane said to Stephen and they both laughed again.

"That's right," applauded Stephen. "And The ID will be playing too."

"I knew that," Maggie called from down the hall. "Oh, and make sure you don't wake us when you get home. And remember to lock the door when you get in. Last week when you got home from the ball, you forgot to."

Maggie unlocked the old Morris Minor – or Morrie, as it was affectionately known – and threw her lunch and handbag onto the passenger's side. Only a couple more days and Peter would have his new car. She would get the Premier and Morrie would go to Stephen. Just as well there was room out front to park a second car. Probably three if need be. Peter usually parked in the garage but sometimes, if he needed to wash the car or had to go out again later, he parked out front. Maggie assessed the width of their front yard and decided three might be a tight fit. She wasn't concerned. They could always park in front of the Stefanidis' if they ran out of space. Neither Mr nor Mrs Stefanidis drove, so they wouldn't mind.

At the thought of the Stefanadis, Maggie made a mental note to go over and thank them for the latest basket of vegetables. She didn't get home until late yesterday and they were waiting for her when she got in. She assumed they must have given them to Stephen, because they never ventured over themselves, they always passed the goods over the side fence.

About once a week they donated a basket of home grown vegetables from their garden to the Thompson residence. Maggie was certain that they knew her routine well. They obviously waited for her to appear in the back yard as she often did after work. Never before she had finished her first cup of tea but sometime shortly afterwards, the round, grinning face of Mr Stefanadis would pop up over the fence with his usual greeting. "Beauteful day, yes? You like some vegetables, yes?" Then before Maggie could respond, he would hand her a basket of vegetables. "I haff some more for you next week, yes? Goodbye, you drink some more tea now." It was the same every week. They had been neighbours for as long as Maggie had lived there, and the conversation rarely progressed beyond the giving of vegetables. Sometimes Maggie would spot them out front tending their gardens and stop for a chat, but in all the years since immigrating to Australia, their English had never yet surpassed a few phrases, so the conversations were always short.

She waved to her other neighbour Jan, who was returning home from a walk with Elvis, swung the car into a U-turn and took off up the street, leaving a trail of blue smoke behind her. The smoke was getting worse, she thought. It was barely a waft a month ago. Peter said it was nothing to worry about; Morrie would go for ages yet. She hoped he was right and she wasn't handing Stephen a dog. Technically, the car never missed a beat, but it was certainly starting to look – and smell – the worse for wear.

There were days when Maggie felt as old and worn out as Morrie. Today was not one of them, however. As the blue smoke dissipated, the stress of racing around getting ready for her last day of term went with it. Maggie was not surprised to find herself in a good mood and looking forward to the day. She had always loved the end of school year. It reminded her of when she was a kid, the unmistakable smell of summer fresh in the air, the long, hot days, jumping from a rope into the creek or riding a bike to the lake to spend endless hours dive-bombing from the jetty or roasting in the sun. Even the sweltering nights spent tossing and turning, unable to sleep from the heat and the mosquitos. She loved them too.

As she had done countless times before, Maggie reflected back on her childhood with a sense of nostalgia and sadness. Had anyone told her as a child that summer would always belong to her childhood, she never would have believed it. As an adult, she could see that it was the case. Never again would she walk home from school, smelling the familiar scent of the bush and feel the sun warming her sunburned nose. The growing sense of excitement as the long summer weeks stretched out before her would never return. She wished she had known that then. She would have squeezed every last ounce of summer out of the days before the metamorphosis took place and the summer of her childhood became the season she now recognised.

At least it wasn't gone entirely. The subtlest of things could take her back with no effort at all. The first hot day of spring, the delightful smell of a bush fire, a southerly storm, or – as was currently the case – the last day of school. The day was going to be a hot one, too. At eight thirty in the morning the temperature was already through the roof. It was fitting, thought Maggie. She couldn't explain why she thought so, other than to suggest that the heat was integral to the summer of her childhood; a time when she never would have believed the world could be any different.

There was no doubt that she was enjoying her life as an adult, but with the reminiscent smell of summer in the air and a flutter of excitement building at the prospect of the weeks to come – or as a result of past memories perhaps – she longed to see the world through the eyes of a child again. Today was not the first time she had yearned for such a thing. She often wished she could visit that place again.

Only next time, she wanted Peter by her side.

***

The small bubble of excitement gurgling in Maggie's belly that morning had grown as the day progressed. Despite spending the day cleaning up and taking down the Christmas decorations that the kids had spent painstaking hours creating, her entire class had been in a wonderfully infectious mood all day. By the end of the day, the classroom was looking perversely naked, however the kids, on the other hand, looked delightfully pleased with their Christmas spoils. The green and red decorations made from toilet rolls, crumpled paper and crayons would no doubt occupy a place of pride on the walls and trees of their homes for the next couple of weeks. And they should too, thought Maggie. The kids had put a lot of effort and time into their work. She hoped their mums and dads cherished them as much as they did. For the lucky few whose parents treasured them enough, the decorations would be put in a safe place for next Christmas...and the next one after that...so that in time the first glimpse of the fading and tattered decorations would be enough to take them back to a carefree summer, a long time ago.

Maggie reassured her colleagues that she would see them at the Christmas Party the next evening and bade them farewell. She felt a bit like Scrooge waving goodbye knowing that they were all off to the pub for celebratory drinks, but she had already had a few glasses of champagne too many in the staff room at lunch time and her head was still swimming. Besides, she wanted to get some groceries before the shops shut. Peter had promised her that he would take her out to the new Chinese restaurant in Kensington for dinner that night, so she didn't have much time. She had only eaten Chinese a couple of times before, but she had loved the exotic taste of the oriental dishes so much that she made Peter promise to take her out again. The last time had been about six months ago. Then, only yesterday, Peter suggested that eating out might be a nice way to kick-start their summer holidays.

Lots of time off was one of the few advantages that came with a career in education. Even though Peter had to return to work a week earlier than Maggie so that he could prepare his lectures for the new term, they had until early February before that had to happen.

Maggie could not believe how fast the year had flown. It was almost 1969. Before she knew it, it would be a new decade and the kids would be all grown up. A smile drifted across her face at the thought of the kids. It was true that Michelle and Stephen were nearly adults, but, if Maggie's suspicions were correct, there just might be a new family member to celebrate with them next Christmas. Maggie was almost a month overdue. By now, she was certain that she was pregnant. It was getting increasingly difficult not to tell Peter her news, but she had made a promise to herself that she wouldn't say a word until it had been confirmed by a doctor. She even considered going next week but knew it would be too early to tell. She decided if her period hadn't arrived by the time they returned from Bellbird Cottage, she would definitely see her doctor then.

Maggie remembered that she had a list of things to buy that she needed to take to the cottage. She steered the car with one hand and dug through her handbag with the other. She tipped the contents of her bag out on the seat, but couldn't find the list. She swore. That meant she had to go via the house to get it, so she took the next right hand turn and swung the car around. The turnoff she needed was some hundred metres back the other way. She accelerated, looked at the watch on her wrist, and slowed down a little. Getting off early from work meant that she still had plenty of time to do all the things she needed to do before getting ready for dinner.

She spotted Peter's car parked out the front and smiled. He must have finished work early too. He said he would try. Jane's car, which had been parked out front that morning, was gone. It was too early for the dance, so she figured they must be at Mark's or someplace else, but not Jane's. She got the impression that Jane's parents were not too keen on the idea of her bringing a young man home, because she never seemed to invite Stephen back to her place. They either went somewhere else or she went home alone. No doubt her parents thought she had spent the night at a girlfriend's place instead of with Stephen. She also doubted that they knew their daughter had more than likely spent the day bumming around in an empty house with her boyfriend. Maggie couldn't work out what all the fuss was about. She understood the need for young people to be alone and accepted that it was a normal part of growing up.

The commanding voice of Janice Joplin greeted Maggie as she pulled her car in behind Peter's. The volume increased as soon she turned off the ignition and she immediately began to tap her fingers against the steering wheel in time with the beat. Peter loved to listen to his music loud, however he rarely got the chance. She was glad that today was one of those rare occasions that he was able to.

Besides, the music matched her mood. She felt like dancing.

Maggie reached onto the floor to pick up the remaining contents of her handbag. As she did so, she remembered something and yanked on the glove box door. Inside was a folded piece of paper with her handwriting scrawled in a list down one side. Her shopping list; she hadn't forgotten it after all. She had shoved it in there that morning when she was running late for school and never gave it another thought. Maggie laughed. She really must start paying more attention to the little things.

The disapproving look on a neighbour's face poking out from behind the curtain as Maggie walked up the footpath to the house did nothing to diminish her urge to dance. No doubt they were grateful for her return and the salvation from the ravages of Janis Joplin it represented. In no mood to humour them, however, she raised her arms and swung her hips from side to side, waving at them as she did so. She laughed out loud as the curtains were yanked shut in a very un-neighbourly way. "Bah Humbug," she called to them, safe in the knowledge that they were two doors away and the music drowned out any noise she made.

Chapter 39

Friday, 13 December 1968

Peter said goodbye to the blokes and left them standing around the crowded bar. They'd been there since two o'clock and the smoke-filled room was starting to close in around him. All that aside, he had told Maggie that he would try to get home early. He had a few things he needed to do before going to the cottage and since he wasn't sure exactly what day his new car was turning up, he wanted to get as much done as he could. The weekend was out of the question. He had already agreed to help Roger with his extensions. He couldn't believe he had managed to get sucked into it. Admittedly, it had been months ago that he'd agreed to help. Had he known Roger would pick this weekend to take him up on his offer, he might have kept his mouth shut. Then, to top it off, Maggie had her work's Christmas function on Saturday night, which meant the whole weekend was a write-off.

Peter turned the corner into their street. The absence of Morrie told him that Maggie wasn't home yet. He hadn't really expected her to be. She had mentioned something about going shopping after work, so realistically, she probably wouldn't be home for ages. He was relieved to see Jane's car gone. Stephen told him that morning that he had planned to spend the day helping Mark fix his car, which meant that Peter had the house to himself. What a rare treat indeed! With a few beers already under his belt, it was no wonder that he resolved to put his favourite Janice Joplin album on the moment he got inside – and loud too, just how he liked it.

With that in mind, he got out of the car and with a spring in his step, strode into the empty house. He dropped his briefcase by the front door, hung his keys on the hook, and had his shirt and tie off by the time he got to the lounge room. With one hand he used his shirt to fan his sweaty body, with the other he managed to shake the record from its sleeve and place it on the record player. Then, singing along at the top of his voice, secure in the knowledge that the music would drown out any noise he was capable of making, he continued undressing.

Having stripped down to his boxers by the time he reached the bedroom, he decided against a pair of shorts, but snatched a singlet from the drawer and slung it across his shoulder. He followed the trail of dirty clothes back into the lounge room, making an agreement with himself to pick them up by the time Maggie returned home.

He plonked down onto the lounge and rested his feet on the coffee table. Hmm, something's not right, he thought, and immediately got back up. Still singing loudly, he walked into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, walked back into the lounge room, flopped back onto the lounge, and put his feet back onto the coffee table. "Aah, that's better." He tugged on the ring pull until he got the satisfying click, followed by the hiss of released gas; he lit a cigarette and rested his head back against the lounge. With the last day of work behind him, the long summer holidays before him, a cold beer in his hand and his favourite album on the stereo, Peter considered himself a lucky man indeed – and all that despite it being Friday the thirteenth.

***

Apart from the blaring music that ached her ears as she entered the house, the first thing that caught Maggie's attention was Peter's clothes strewn all over the floor. It was not like Peter to leave a mess. Granted, it was the sort of thing _she_ would do, but not Peter. "Hi babe, where are you?" she called, immediately realising she was wasting her breath. She could hardly hear her own voice; there was no way he would have heard it. She was about to go through to the kitchen to look for him when she saw his head sticking above the back of the lounge bobbing in time with the music. She walked up behind him and gently covered his eyes with her hands. "Hi there gorgeous," she whispered in his ear, planting a big kiss on his head, "guess who?"

Instead of turning around to face her like she expected him to do, he ran his hands slowly up her arms, giving her gooseflesh in the process. He reached up, interlocked his fingers behind her head, and tenderly pulled her towards his face for another, slower and more passionate kiss. Then, with Maggie squealing like a schoolgirl playing catch and kiss, he slid his big, fiercely strong hands under her armpits and dragged her over the back of the lounge and onto his lap. Laughing, he mouthed something at her, which she didn't hear. She shrugged noncommittally and rearranged herself into a comfortable position. Facing him, she leaned in for another kiss. His tongue flickered in her mouth bringing the taste of beer and cigarettes with it. Maggie didn't mind. She liked the way he tasted, and kissed him harder. He wrapped his naked arms around her and pulled her in close. She could smell his sweat and feel it against the bare skin of her arms. Instead of repelling her like it would have had it been anyone but Peter, the smell of beer, cigarettes and sweat – mingled with his usual indefinable scent – turned her on immensely.

Her limbs began to loosen and the familiar fluttering below increased as his kisses became more intense. She could feel his growing hardness through the thin fabric of her skirt and squirmed against him, forcing it between her buttock cheeks. The smile on his face told her that he liked what she was doing. "Mmm," she wriggled in his lap. "You like that." It was more of a statement than a question. She knew damned well that he liked it. By now he was fully hard and pushing himself against her with barely discernible movements.

Without warning, she jumped up and smoothed her skirt down. The look of alarm on his face amused her and she laughed at him. He grabbed her arm before she could fully escape, but relaxed his hold when he saw that she was turning the music down and not leaving him high and dry like he'd first thought. "That's better," she leaned over him with her bottom sticking up behind her and kissed him, "now I can hear myself think."

"And, what may I ask, are you thinking about?" he grinned.

She slid towards him and slowly lowered herself back onto his lap. She straddled his long legs and slid her hands in behind his neck. Arching into him and positioning her body for maximum contact with the bulge in his boxer shorts, she leaned in and whispered in his ear. "Why don't I show you?"

"Mmm, that sounds like a mighty fine idea," he reached around and grabbed her bottom with both hands pushing her harder into his groin, "why don't you do that."

Accepting his challenge, she raised herself up from his lap leaving sufficient space to get his boxer shorts down. She didn't think she'd be able to get them past his knees, nor did she attempt to. Meanwhile, Peter slid his hands under her blouse and massaged her breasts through her bra. "Hang on a sec," she offered, and hopped up again. This time she quickly slid her underpants down under her skirt and let them drop to the floor. Peter's disappointment at not seeing her nakedness beneath the thin fabric was forgotten the moment she straddled him again. She lifted her skirt out of the way so that there was nothing but bare skin between them.

Peter moaned with pleasure at the touch of Maggie's hand guiding him inside her. He kissed her full on the mouth, pulling her harder on to his lap, causing her to sigh appreciatively in return. He yanked her blouse up so that he could see her small, firm breasts. Her bra had been pulled down, forcing them out in what looked to be an uncomfortable manner, so he reached around behind her and unfastened the clasp. He immediately felt her breasts get heavier in his hands. "Oh yeah, that's nice," Maggie said approvingly.

In response to her encouragement, Peter leaned forward and took one of her hard nipples into his mouth. He knew how much it drove her mad to have them gently teased between his teeth; almost as much as he loved doing it. Maggie threw her head back in bliss and ground into his lap harder. Her motions caused Peter to cry out involuntarily and quicken his movements. Her nipple in his mouth stifled the noise a little, but their lovemaking could still be heard above the beat of the music. Neither of them cared; they were both as horny as hell and in no mood to take the long way home.

Maggie gave one last cry and sank into Peter exhausted. Her face was flushed and her blouse was soaked. Similarly, Peter's torso glistened with tiny droplets of sweat and his skin burned. He gently rolled her off his lap and onto the lounge beside him. "Boy; that was nice!" he turned and gave her a kiss. "I love you, babe," he added more solemnly.

Maggie lifted her blouse away from her body and blew down the front of it to cool her damp skin. At his remarks she stopped what she was doing and kissed him back. "Mmm," she kissed him again, "I love you too."

At the sound of the front door, they looked at each other guiltily. Maggie giggled. She felt as though she were twenty years younger and about to be sprung by her parents making out with her boyfriend on their lounge. Only this time the roles were reversed. Stephen's voice warned that they were about to be caught with their pants down – literally. Peter quickly yanked his shorts up while Maggie slid her underpants under the lounge and out of sight.

Stephen was past the entrance to the lounge room in a flash. "Hey there, how's the sunbaking going?"

Maggie and Peter glanced at each other, stunned. Who was he talking to?

Jane's answer confirmed their suspicions. "Not bad, but it's getting too hot, so I came in for a drink."

Maggie giggled again. Peter shot her a look of caution. He was hoping Stephen would stay at the end of the hall without noticing them, but Maggie's laughter gave them away. "Hi Mum; Dad. How was your day?"

"Not bad. Yours?" Peter responded in a tone that belied their previous activities.

Maggie burst out laughing at the seriousness of his reply. Jane stood beside Stephen with a beach towel slung over her shoulder, surveying the room. She wore nothing but a skimpy bikini and a look of distaste on her face. Stephen spotted the clothes strewn along the hallway and gave Jane a sly look. "Did we interrupt something?" he asked his wayward parents.

"No," said Peter, too late. "Yes," said Maggie, and giggled some more.

Stephen laughed and took Jane's hand. "C'mon," he said leading her from the room, "I think we should leave these kids alone."

"No need," protested Maggie. She jumped up from the lounge and smoothed down her skirt. Conscious that her bra was undone beneath her blouse, she kept her arms in front of her. "I just came to get my shopping list and I'm going straight back out." She leaned over and kissed Peter. "I think I'll change into something cooler first" – she gave him an intimate smile – "then I'm outa here."

"I won't be too long, babe," she called back to him, making her exit.

Peter mumbled a distracted farewell. His attention was already on Jane who had been watching him intently the whole time Maggie had been chatting away. Had she been less satisfied with how her afternoon was turning out and more attentive to the goings on around her, Maggie would have seen the venomous way Jane looked back over her shoulder at Peter. As it happened, she didn't, which was just as well, thought Peter. A look like that was bound to raise questions.

Chapter 40

Saturday, 22 December 1979

Most of the kids had arrived by the official start time of one o'clock. Dianne and Raelene were the only ones yet to turn up. Tom and I sat at the dining table, opening presents. I couldn't remember the last time I got so many new things. No wonder most kids have birthday parties every year!

Aunty Audrey, Uncle Mick, Bridget and Pat, gave me a Magna-Doodle and I got a game of Mastermind from Aunty Joanne, Uncle Dennis, and their kids. Cheryl Haines got Tom and me a Frisbee and a Slinky each. I used to have a Slinky but it got tangled up and I had to throw it away. We got other presents alike too. I got a game of Snakes and Ladders from Lisa Small and Tom got a game of Chinese checkers. Damo got us both a View-Master with a set of reels. Tom got The Amazing Spiderman and I got Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Ed and Trevor put their money together and bought us a game of badminton to share. Tom said we should take it in turns to look after it, but I thought it should stay at Tom's place where nerd boy Brian couldn't get at it.

Speaking of nerd boy, Brian flattened his nose against the screen on the back door. "Grandma and Pa are here," he said in his baby voice.

"Where's the birthday girl?" Pa called from out the front.

I went to the front door to greet them. Dianne was coming up the driveway behind them. I hadn't seen her since the day she fell out of the tree. I wasn't even sure she'd turn up. Grandma and Pa wished me a happy birthday and handed me my present. It was about the size of a shoebox and quite heavy. Dianne followed them in timidly, handing me a present also. Hers was soft and squishy and felt like clothes. She had a similar package for Tom also.

We joined the others in the dining room where Tom was opening his present from Clare. He got an autograph book like the one I got and a game of Uno. The parcels from Dianne contained beach towels. Mine was yellow with a black fringe and Tom's was blue with a black fringe.

"Thanks," I said to Dianne. "Now I don't have to share a towel with smelly Brian."

"That's okay," she giggled, "Mum got them from work."

Mrs Cowan works at K-Mart. Dianne's always wearing new clothes her mum gets her from work. I turned my attention to the present from Grandma and Pa. "Well?" Grandma said, hurrying me along. "You better open it so I can go and give your mum a hand." I ripped the paper off, once again forgetting to be careful not to tear it. "Wow, a real jewellery box!" Now I could throw away my fairy one with the ballerina that no longer turned.

"Pa made it," Grandma said proudly.

"It's beautiful. Thanks Pa."

Pa beamed at my compliment. Although Pa's eyesight's pretty bad, he could tell by my voice that I liked it. It's funny how he can't see properly but can still make things as good as the jewellery box. He'd done a top job of it too. It was made from varnished wood and had a velvet padded lid. The lid matched the inside, which was divided into sections and covered in velvet. There were even slots for earrings. Not that I own any. Mum won't let me get my ears pierced until I turn fifteen. I didn't have a lot of other jewellery either, but I couldn't wait to put in it what I had.

I took the jewellery box to my bedroom and out of harm's way. I put it on my bedside table, which was also made by Pa. Before I left, I took the silver ladybird necklace that Nan and Pop gave me for my last birthday out of my fairy box and put it into my new one. I wasn't ready to take off my new pentacle yet, but I'd make sure I put it away before having a bath tonight.

By the time I got back into the dining room, Raelene had arrived. She was hard to miss with her mop of frizzy red hair sticking out wildly. We always rip her off about her hair. We tell her that her hair arrives five minutes before she does. It used to be really long before she got nits and her mum cut it off. Now it only comes to her shoulders, but because it's shorter, it sticks out like mad. Some of the kids at school even call her mop head. Only behind her back mind you. Raelene's the tallest kid in the whole school and when she loses her temper, watch out. She's even taller than Eric Miladew now and he's so tall everyone thinks he's a freak. Well, that's not the only reason everyone thinks he's a freak. I think it's got more to do with the fact that he picks his nose and eats it. And he smells funny too. Plus, he's in the special class for subbies. Whenever we sing "get off the ground while Mildew's around" he runs around like a spastic and it takes the teachers ages to calm him down. It's hilarious to watch.

Tom was busy tearing open his present from Raelene when I joined them. "Holy cow!" he held up a walkie-talkie and some batteries, "look at this."

"It even works and everything," said Raelene.

I wondered what use a walkie-talkie would be if it didn't work, but I never said anything.

The look of excitement slowly changed to one of confusion when Tom realised he only had one handset. "How do you talk in it if there's no one to hear?"

Raelene had trouble containing herself. "You'll see," she said, not wanting to give anything away, yet doing exactly that.

As I tore open my present, it dawned on Tom that Raelene got me a walkie-talkie also. "Ah, I get it; we can talk to each other." He held up his handset to show that it matched mine.

Brian barged through the back door almost bowling Trevor over. "Mum wants everyone outside! She said you all have to come and eat the food before the flies get it."

I organised my presents into a neat pile, so they wouldn't get mixed up with Tom's and quickly screwed up all the paper and shoved it in the bin before Clare could see it. I really wanted to sit and go through my new stuff more slowly, but I knew Mum would come and drag us outside if we didn't get out there soon.

***

I considered walking down the back steps on the stilts Gazza's dad made, but the look I got from Mum made me think better of it. Besides, it would be too hard to balance with the clacker-clacks looped over the middle finger of my right hand. I couldn't believe it when I opened my present from Tom; he'd got me a pair of clacker-clacks exactly like the ones I got him. Weird, huh? Except, mine were green and yellow, and his were red and blue. He also got me a lock up diary, which is unreal. I couldn't wait to write all my secrets in it.

I especially like the stilts I got. Tom got a set too. Mr Pryde made them from two bits of wood, overlapped in the middle and nailed together. He even nailed a square of wood above the bottom piece, next to where it overlaps, so we'd have somewhere to put our feet. The top bits of the stilts were wrapped in black tape; like the kind you put on the handles of cricket bats. Both sets were painted red, but Mr Pryde put our initials on the side so we could tell them apart.

As soon as Uncle Dennis saw the stilts, he jumped up and ran over. "C'mon," he whined, "give us a burl."

I handed him my stilts and watched him try to balance without spilling his beer. He got about three steps down the path and tripped, dropping his beer, landing hard on his bum. "Bloody hell, that's hard." He rubbed his backside and picked himself up off the ground.

"Serves ya right." Aunty Joanne berated him. "That's what ya get for being such a nong."

"Oh no, not the beer," he complained, reaching down to rescue the can he dropped.

"Have a go at that!" Uncle Mick pointed to Uncle Dennis' bum crack, which was on display above the top of his Stubbies. "You could park a bike in there."

Everyone laughed at Uncle Mick's joke. It's always fun to see an adult make a fool of themself and we could always count on Uncle Dennis for that. He never let us down.

"I don't know how you can drink that piss anyway," Uncle Mick said, referring to Uncle Dennis' KB. "That's not a man's drink" – he held up a can of Tooheys – "this is a man's drink." Then, to the obvious annoyance of Aunty Audrey, he started to sing.

" _I feel like a Tooheys, I feel like a Tooheys, I feel like a Tooheys or two."_

"Mick! Will you stop singing that stupid song?" Aunty Audrey snapped at him.

"And mind your language; there are kids around," added Dad.

"Oops, sorry kids." He gave me a wink.

I giggled at him, which earned me a dirty look from Aunty Audrey. I took the clacker-clacks off and handed them to Janice, who'd been pestering me for a turn ever since I got them. My hand was already red from where the balls kept hitting me. If I didn't get good at it soon, I would end up with bruises all over my hand.

Remembering the yummy party food I headed into the garage to get something to eat. The table was packed with plates of food and half covered with one of Mum's throwovers. There was fairy bread and party pies, frankfurts with tomato sauce, and biscuits with faces. Aunty Jo's gingerbread men were almost finished and so were the pigs in blankets.

Jeanette was picking at the food like she wasn't game to eat more than a nibble at a time. Damo, on the other hand, was stuffing his face with chocolate crackles. He shovelled them in so fast he smeared his face with chocolate. With his stocky build and dark hair and skin, the chocolate face paint made him look like a Maori.

I lifted up the rest of the throwover and helped myself to the second last of the pigs in blankets. With the other hand, I got five Cheezels, one for each finger. I shooed a fly out that was trapped under the netting and covered the food again.

Tom came up and stood next to me. "Thanks for letting me share your party, Jenny."

It was nice to see Tom so happy. Not that he's normally unhappy, he's not, it's just that we'd both been a bit sad lately, so it was nice to know that I helped make him happy again. "I have a secret to tell you later," I whispered.

"Tell me now," he said impatiently.

I eyed Jeanette and Damo standing across from us. "Nope; it'll have to wait til no one else is around."

Tom was not about to let me enjoy the power that came with having a secret as good as mine, so he shrugged and walked off.

I turned around to see what was causing the racket behind me. Uncle Dennis was up to his old tricks again. Only, this time, he was pretending to run some of the kids over with my new bike. Chrissy jumped out of the way just as Uncle Dennis swerved to miss her. He wasn't intending to actually get her, but she didn't know he was going to swerve at the last second, and she jumped in front of him.

"Dennis, stop that," Aunty Joanne yelled, "act your age for crying out loud."

"Yeah, Uncle Dennis, get off, you'll break it. I only got it today."

Dad took the bike off Uncle Dennis and wheeled it over to where I stood. "Here ya go Blondie; why don't you put it in the shed for now?"

I took his advice and wheeled it into the shed where it was out of Uncle Dennis' way.

"Who wants a game of cricket?" Uncle Mick yelled.

Nobody answered him.

He tried again, louder this time. "Who wants a game of cricket?"

"Nah, it's too hot," said Tom, "maybe later."

None of the other kids responded, so he gave up and went back to talking to Clare.

I don't think Aunty Audrey liked Uncle Mick talking to Clare. She kept giving him filthy looks. He either had a death wish or he was just plain dumb, because he never took any notice of her.

If I had to bet money on it, I'd say he was just plain dumb.

After glaring at him one more time and still not getting a response, Aunty Audrey got up and flounced inside to help Mum. Boy, was he in for it now. I picked my clacker-clacks up off the ground were Janice had left them and dusted off the dirt. I walked inside to put them away. When I got inside, Brian, the little creep, was sitting at the table using my new twist up crayons to colour-in my new book. "Brian!" I screamed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He dropped the crayon and ran.

"Mum, did you see what the little turd was doing? He was colouring in with my new crayons. Look at this mess," I held up the colouring-in book, "he can't even stay inside the lines."

"Why don't you go and put your stuff away, Jenny? That way, he can't get at it."

I couldn't believe she was letting him get away with it. Now I'd have to find a way to pay him back later.

"And please watch your mouth, you sound like a lout."

I gathered up my stuff and huffed into my bedroom. I dropped it on the bed and closed the door behind me. I went to get Tom's stuff so I could put it away also. "If I catch that little slime bucket in my room, he'll cop it," I said to Mum.

I took Tom's things into my room and put them on the floor next to my bed. I closed the door and went to join the others. I managed to catch the tail end of Mum and Aunty Audrey's conversation before they realised I was back in the room.

"Just because she's been to university, she thinks she's better than everyone else," I heard Aunty Audrey say.

"Oh, she's not so bad. The kids certainly like her," Mum said, sticking up for whoever _she_ was.

Aunty Audrey's next comment confirmed my suspicions. "I wished she'd do something with her hair. Did you see the way she just lets it blow in Mick's face?"

"Mick's a big boy, Audrey. If he doesn't like it, he'll move."

Mum looked relieved to see me standing behind them. "Hi there, birthday girl," she said, not too discreetly. "Are you having a good day?"

"Yep."

"Well, I'm pleased; you deserve it."

What a nice thing to say. I walked over and gave her a hug. "Thanks for letting me have a party."

"That's perfectly alright. I told you you'd feel better by the time your party started, didn't I?"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that it was Clare that'd made me feel better, not the party. "Yep, you sure did." I said instead.

***

I stood on the back veranda and called to the others. "Who wants to play pin the tail on the donkey?"

All the kids came scurrying up the back steps at once. As soon as we were all in the lounge room, Tracy made us sit on the floor next to the front door, which was closed. The deformed donkey was stuck to the back of the door.

"Right," said Tracy, putting on her best school teacher's voice, "I'm going to pull a tail out of the bag, one at a time. Each tail has a different name on it. When I call out your name, get your tail and a piece of sticky tape from my assistant here. Walk up to the door and wait for my assistant to blindfold you. Once you're blindfolded, she'll spin you around three times, after which time, you can stick your tail on the donkey's bum."

Kate, playing the part of the assistant, turned her hand over like someone showing a prize on a game show and pointed elegantly at the cross on the paper.

"Check her out," Ed said, "anyone would think she was on Family Feud or something."

Everyone laughed, even Kate.

"Whoever gets the tail closest to the bum wins," Tracy advised.

"What do we win?" Mack called out.

"Tell 'em Kate," instructed Tracy.

Kate held up a box of Old Maid playing cards and a magnifying glass. I heard someone say they were going to use the magnifying glass to fry ants with but couldn't tell who said it. No doubt it was Damo. That's the sort of thing he's always doing.

"Righto, let's see who goes first." Tracy pulled out a tail and read the name.

"Mack Downie."

Mack jumped up and got a piece of sticky tape from Kate. She blindfolded him and spun him around. Everyone laughed as he stuck his tail on the door; completely missing the paper.

"Raelene Holmes. Where's Raelene?"

"Here I am," Raelene jumped up and took her tail from Tracy. Tracy continued to call out the names one at a time. It was hilarious watching everyone stumble about blindfolded.

After a while, the donkey began to look even more deformed with all the tails stuck to it. So far, Damo was closest, but no one had managed to stick their tail on the cross yet.

There were still six names to go. Chrissy went next. She stuck hers to the donkey's nose.

"OK, let's see, who's next?" Tracy pulled out another tail.

"Shortie O'Connor," she announced.

Huh? How could that be? Everyone looked as though Captain Gregg had just walked through the front door.

"Whoops." Tracy realised her blunder. She recovered in no time, pulling another tail from the bag and quickly putting Shortie's in her pocket. "Garry Pryde?"

Gazza got up and let Kate blindfold him and spin him around. Everyone laughed when he stuck his tail to the donkey's foot. I was still thinking about Shortie's name being drawn out when Tracy called my name. I was sure I never wrote a tail out with his name on it...but I must have. I know I only cut out seventeen tails, so that meant we were going to be one short.

I stood up and let Kate blindfold me.

"Are you ready?"

I nodded. She spun me around three times, leaving me to stumble around like the others before me. I felt for the door and pressed down hard on the sticky tape so my tail wouldn't fall off. We were going to use drawing pins until Mum realised we were sticking the donkey to the lounge room door and made us use sticky tape instead.

"Oh. So close, and yet so far," said Trevor.

My tail was the second closest to the cross.

"Where are you Tom, it's your turn," Kate called.

Tom stuck his tail right on top of mine.

"Only two more names to go," said Tracy. "Let's see, we have Cheryl Haines."

That can't be right. If there were two more names to go, then that meant everyone's name got called out. I was sure we'd be one short. I silently took a head count of all the kids in the room. Janice and Mack had already left, but I could see their tails on the donkey so I knew they'd had a turn. I counted fifteen kids, which meant that all up there were seventeen kids who'd had a turn. That's exactly how many tails I cut out. Yet, if you counted Shortie's, that made eighteen.

That's weird. I must have written his name without realising it.

"Last but not least," Tracy announced, "Mick Austin."

After everybody had finished his or her turn, Kate declared Damo the winner.

I watched Tracy as she took Shortie's tail out of her pocket and tucked it under one of the other tails on the door. She didn't realise I'd seen her. I pretended to go to the toilet and left the room. When I returned, the room was empty. Most of the kids were out watching Uncle Dennis and Uncle Mick play a comical game of badminton. The others had gone into the shed for more food and drink.

I took the tail off the door and studied it closely. It looked like it was written with the same pen as the others but it didn't look like my handwriting. At least, I didn't _think_ it was my writing. When I turned it over, I could see a section of the Rice Bubbles box that I'd used for cardboard.

How weird.

I gave up trying to work it out and joined the others in the backyard.

***

The party finished just after four. Uncle Dennis and Aunty Joanne hadn't left yet but everyone else had already gone home. Everyone except Tom, that is. He'd rung and asked his mum if he could stay a bit longer. He told her he was helping clean up, but he wasn't really, we finished doing that ages ago.

The adults sat under the washing line smoking and drinking. The sun was still hot at five thirty in the afternoon, but there wasn't much danger of anyone getting burnt. Uncle Dennis was pretty drunk and Dad was playing his Linda Ronstadt album for the hundredth time. Kerri-Anne, Janice and Brian were inside playing Mastermind, and Robbie was listening to records in Kate and Tracy's room. It was just Tom and me left outside with the grownups. We decided to go and do something else. Uncle Dennis was acting like a yobbo and we were sick of hearing him sing, "Put another Log on the Fire". He must have sung it a dozen times by now and it was not that good the first time around.

Uncle Dennis started to sing "God Save the Queen". What a drongo. Didn't he know that's not our national anthem anymore?

Tom and I got up to leave. "Chuck us another tinny while yer up will ya love," slurred Uncle Dennis, holding up an empty can.

Since everyone else drank Tooheys, I naturally assumed the Esky with the stickers; KB's great in 78 and KB's fine in 79 was his and grabbed him a beer.

"Thanks love; you're a darl."

I turned to walk away.

"Notso fast," he slurred.

I rolled my eyes at Tom and turned to see what he wanted this time. I didn't think I could stand another one of his stupid songs. "I bet ya London to a brick I can throw this empty tinny and get it in that bin all the way over there."

Since I had no use for a brick and I knew that London was out of the question, I couldn't have cared less whether he got it in or not.

He missed. "What a shithouse shot. Who moved the bloody bin." He laughed as if his joke were hilarious.

"Dennis, do you mind?" Mum said firmly. "Please don't swear in front of the kids."

"Oops, sorry Mel."

Dad waved us off, indicating that we should go and do whatever it was that we were going to do before Uncle Dennis bailed us up. Grateful to be off the hook, we slipped through the gap in the fence and into the quiet of the cubby house.

"He's pissed," said Tom.

"As a fart," I replied.

"Did you have a good time today?" I asked, changing the subject.

"Did I ever!"

I was pleased. I had a good time and I wanted to make sure Tom did also. I couldn't wait to tell him everything Clare told me. Except, I found that once I thought about where to start, I'd already I'd forgotten most of it. "Look what Clare gave me?" I held up my pentacle so Tom could see it.

"That's pretty."

"It's called a pentacle and it's what Pagans wear. Not just Pagans either, but witches."

"There's no such thing as witches."

"There is too, Clare told me. She said they're not like witches that ride broomsticks; those kind are only make-believe. Lots of people are witches; we just don't know it, that's all. Clare said a witch is someone who practices magic."

Tom looked unconvinced.

"But only good magic," I added. "Pagans believe in reincarnation." I said, as if that cleared everything up. "Reincarnation is when your soul gets reborn into another body."

"How can it do that?"

"Dunno, it just does. Clare said that when you die, your soul goes to a place called Summerland until you're ready to be reborn. She said Shortie will be reborn one day."

"Will we see him again?"

"Dunno. I didn't ask her that." I still had many things I wanted to ask Clare. Maybe I should write them in my new diary. That way, no one would see them and I wouldn't forget to ask her. "She said that Halloween is really called Sowain or Sawain, or something like that, and that it's a time when Pagans talk with the dead. When it's Sowain, our world and the spirit world are close."

He looked hopeful. "Does that mean we can talk with Shortie when it's Halloween?"

"I don't think so. As far as I know only Americans have Halloween."

"What a rip off." Tom sounded disappointed, so I thought I should at least offer to ask Clare for him next time a saw her. "Thanks, that'd be great," he said at my suggestion. "Then we might be able to talk to Shortie."

The idea of talking to Shortie hadn't actually occurred to me until Tom's suggested it. But now that he had, I thought it was a great idea. I'd definitely have to ask Clare how to do it. I told Tom I would write it in my new diary so I wouldn't forget to ask.

"So," – he slowly considered his next question – "does that mean we've been alive before now?"

I hadn't thought about that before now either. I suppose it was logical to assume we'd been around before if what Clare said was true. Heck, we could've been around lots of times before. "I suppose so." I said, making a mental note to write that question down as well. "Why? Do you think we knew each other when we were someone else?"

Tom thought about it for a minute before answering. "Yeah," he giggled, "I was your master and you were my slave, so you better go and get me some Fanta."

"Smart arse," I tickled him in the ribs. Tom is so ticklish. It doesn't matter where I touch him, it tickles. He squealed at my touch. _"_ Say uncle," I demanded, straddling him on the car seat and typewriting his chest.

"Get me some Fanta," he said laughing.

"Boy, are you asking for it." I tickled him until he squirmed like a worm. "C'mon, you can say it. Say uncle." I tickled him some more.

"Alright, I give in. Uncle!"

I gave him one last tickle for good measure. He was breathless from the struggle. "If you don't stop, I'll wet myself," he warned. I was breathless too. It was hard work holding him down.

"Hey, you wanna know what my secret is?" I couldn't believe I almost forgot to tell him.

That got his attention. His face lit up and he nodded eagerly.

"Clare's a witch."

"Deadset?"

"Yep, but you've gotta swear you won't tell anyone else, okay? We're the only ones that know and I promised her I wouldn't say anything."

"I won't tell a soul," Tom said seriously.

"Promise?"

He drew a cross on his chest with his finger. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Chapter 41

Saturday, 14 December 1968

Maggie woke with the disgusting taste of fermenting garlic in her mouth. The price for last night's dinner, she supposed. Well, it was certainly delicious last night, she thought, but it was more than she could stand at eight forty-three in the morning. She got out of bed and headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth. She pushed on the door and was startled when it was met with a thump. "Oh sorry," she mumbled, not realising Stephen was in there. She assumed he'd be fast asleep after hearing him come in at some ungodly hour that morning. In fact, she didn't expect to see hide nor hair of him until sometime after midday. That was how things usually worked after a big night out.

Maggie moved aside to let Stephen pass and got her second surprise for the morning when it turned out to be Jane. Maggie apologised for her intrusion, "Sorry, love, I didn't realise you were here."

"I hope you don't mind," Jane asked sweetly, "we both had too much to drink, so Mark drove us home. Stephen said it would be okay."

Maggie dismissed her concerns with a wave of her hand. "Of course it's okay. I just wasn't expecting anyone in the bathroom that's all."

"Oh, good. Well, I better get back to bed. It's way too early for me to be up."

Maggie laughed. As far as she was concerned she was doing well to have slept in so late. The idea of it being way too early to be out of bed was unthinkable. In reality, it was time for Peter to get up also, she thought, as she scrubbed the foul taste from her mouth. He told Roger he'd be there by nine-thirty.

Instead of going back into the bedroom, Maggie wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She'd leave Peter in bed just long enough to make him a coffee. She looked out the window at a gorgeous day. It was already warm and bright outside, and promising to stay that way. She was pleased. She planned to pack for their holiday but had to do a couple of loads of washing first. Judging by the warmth she could feel radiating from the back door, it would be dry by lunchtime, which would leave her plenty of time to pack the clothes she needed for their time away.

The kettle let out a shrill cry, demanding to be taken off the heat. Maggie poured the steaming water into the teapot, careful not to use it all. When she was satisfied she had enough water for a second cup, she poured the remaining water into Peter's mug. She rarely drank coffee. The last time had been a couple of weeks ago at the Piccolo. Peter, on the other hand, rarely drank tea. She considered changing her routine for once, thinking the coffee would help scour the taste of garlic from her mouth, but she decided the fresh minty taste of toothpaste probably went better with tea than with coffee.

She took the coffee into Peter. "Here you go, lazy bones." She sat it down on his bedside table, leaned in and kissed him awake.

Peter slowly opened his eyes and stretched, making appreciative sounds as he did so. "Good morning," he chirped. "Please tell me it's raining and too wet to work on Roger's damn extensions."

Maggie laughed. "No such luck, babe, it's a gorgeous day outside; perfect for working."

"Eek," complained Peter, sitting up and taking a sip of his coffee. "Mmm, I needed that."

Maggie sat beside him, studying his face. She loved the lines that were forming around his eyes and mouth. He complained they made him look old, but she thought they made him even more handsome; in a rugged kind of way.

"What?" he noticed her studying him, "Do I have a boogie or something?" He squeezed the end of his nose and inspected his thumb and forefinger for offending material.

"Of course not, you dill. I was just admiring your face, that's all."

Peter screwed up his face and poked out his tongue.

"Well, aren't you charming?" Maggie asked.

Without answering her, Peter wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. "Have I told you today how much I love you?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, you haven't."

"Well," he said squeezing her tighter, "I do; very much."

She wriggled her arms free and wrapped them around his middle. Then, resting her head against his chest, she said, "that makes me the luckiest person alive."

Peter was flattered. He was certain he didn't deserve somebody as sweet as Maggie; especially after his recent shenanigans, which constantly played on his mind. How could they not, with that little vixen in the house all the time? There wasn't a single day that went by that Peter didn't regret what he had done with Jane and he was scared witless of what was still to come; he just wished he knew what she had in mind. Sometimes he was able to convince himself that she would simply give up and go away, but then there were times, that he thought the ordeal would never end. Like the other day, when she bailed him up in the bathroom, and yesterday when she stabbed him with her gaze after finding him and Maggie in the lounge room together, and correctly assuming the worst. Maybe she didn't have to assume anything, thought Peter; they never heard her come in. In fact, she could have been there the whole time for all they knew. The look she shot him afterwards certainly suggested that she had been.

***

Stephen stumbled out of bed looking the worse for wear, despite the hour no longer being morning. Maggie looked up from the pile of clothes she was folding. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," she joked. "Where's Jane?"

"She's still asleep."

"Wow," said Maggie, "I'm impressed. Finally, I've met someone that can out-sleep the best of the best, which is you, by the way."

Stephen grimaced. Despite the late hour, it was still way too early for his mother's lame jokes.

Maggie, however, was having fun. She was in a great mood, and determined to let nothing change it. "Do you want me to pack these?" she asked, holding up a pair of his shorts.

"Yeah. Is there any tea made?"

"There is, but it's cold. You're only about..." Maggie looked at the etched face of her watch, "...four and a half hours late."

"Great." Stephen shuffled over to the kitchen and filled the kettle with cold water. "Where's Dad?"

"He's over helping Uncle Roger with his extensions."

At the mention of Roger's extensions, Stephen swore. "Shit, I said I would help too."

Maggie laughed. "Well, that was big of you. Was that before or after you decided to go out and get drunk last night."

Stephen scowled. He knew his mother was just having a playful dig at him but the mention of getting drunk was almost too much for his fragile state. "Nah, it was ages ago. Dad didn't tell me he was doing it this weekend, or else I would've laid off the grog a bit."

"Sure you would've," Maggie laughed. Then, as an afterthought she asked, "Where's Jane's car, I didn't see it out the front?"

Stephen swore again. "It's exactly where we parked it last night. Don't suppose you could run me over to get it?"

Maggie flicked him with a tea towel. "Not dressed like that I'm not."

Stephen looked down at his crumpled shorts. "I'll go and get changed," he offered.

"What about your tea?" she called after him.

"I'll have it when I get back."

Maggie folded the last of the washing and left it on the table in neat piles. To her surprise, the keys were on the key hook for a change. Stephen came back out dressed in a less creased pair of shorts, tee-shirt, and thongs. "What about Jane," Maggie enquired as they were closing the door behind them, "does she know where you're going?"

"Yeah, I told her I wouldn't be gone long. She'll be alright."

Maggie heard the phone ring as she walked up the front path, but didn't bother to go back and answer it. Whoever it was, they'd call back. She thought about the prank calls she'd been getting a couple of weeks ago and wondered why they'd stopped. At the time, she assumed that it had been Marjorie, but Michelle swore that it wasn't. She said she had casually raised the subject while she was having lunch with her to gauge her reaction, but had got not so much as a flicker of interest. Besides, while Michelle believed Marjorie to be a selfish and conceited individual, she did not believe her to be the kind of person that would make prank calls – let alone cry over the phone as the prank caller had done.

***

Peter hung up the phone. Maggie hadn't said anything about going out, but he supposed she must have ducked out for something. He explained to Roger that he'd have to go and get his drill himself. He was hoping that Maggie might have been able to drop it over for him, but she wasn't answering the phone, and he couldn't do any more work without it.

Roger handed him a beer as he left. Peter took it gratefully. Maggie hadn't been wrong when she said it was a hot day. It was turning out to be a real stinker. The vinyl seats in his car were so hot he placed a towel over the top of the seat and folded it down on to the bottom half of the seat. The towel was in his car for that very reason; so he wouldn't burn his bare flesh on the seat or stick to the vinyl.

It was only a short drive home but long enough for the car to cool down a little. Sure enough, when he got there, Maggie's car was gone from its usual parking spot. He didn't expect her to have left a note, because she wasn't expecting him home. Maybe Stephen was home and would be able to enlighten him as to her whereabouts.

Peter unlocked the front door and walked into the cool house. He stuck his head into Stephen's room at the same time as he called his name. "Hey Steve, where's your mum?"

The sheets were scrunched up in a pile on his bed and the room was empty. "Not home," mumbled Peter, "Oh well, doesn't matter." He crushed his empty beer can and tossed it into the kitchen tidy. It missed and fell on the floor with a crunch. "Damn," he bent down to pick it up and noticed that the bin was full. "Typical, I'm the only one around here who knows how to empty a bin," he complained, despite no one being there to listen. He took the lid off the garbage bin and twisted the plastic liner closed. He tied it shut with a wire-tie and pulled the full bag out of the bin. Then, bag of rubbish in one hand, he grabbed the empty Weet-bix box off the cupboard and took them both outside to the outside bin, which was much larger than the inside one.

He used his hip to push the back door open. It closed with a thump behind him. He carried the rubbish down the back steps and around the side of the house, to the garbage bin. He thought he heard the back door thump a second time, and looked up expecting to see Maggie home. Instead, his eyes rested on Jane. She was standing on the back veranda in one of Stephen's tee-shirts. Her shapely, tanned legs stuck out underneath the shirt and despite his recent dislike of her, Peter couldn't help but notice how nice she looked.

"Good afternoon, Sir," she said casually.

Peter was not about to fall for her usual bullshit. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Come now, Sir, that's no way to treat a guest."

Peter walked up the back steps and stopped in front of her. She was deliberately leaning against the back door, blocking his entry. "Excuse me; I'd like to get inside if you don't mind."

Jane's face lit up. "Of course I don't mind, I've wanted you inside for ages."

Peter realised his error, but didn't let it unsettle him. "Jane, I am through playing games with you, please move."

"I'll move when I'm good and ready," she snapped. "Unless of course you want to move me yourself," she added with less hostility.

What would it to take to get this girl out of his life, he wondered. Obviously she didn't respond well to threats. Maybe if he tried being nice to her that might work. "Look, I'm flattered that you think I'm worth pursuing. You're a nice girl and all, but I'm simply not interested." Peter was aware of having said the same thing once or twice in the past and realised with dread that it was just as likely to succeed now as it had been then.

"Nice girl?" she spat. "You think I'm a nice girl? How dare you. You lead me on for weeks and then when things get a bit heated you chicken out and run away."

As spiteful as she was being, he thought there was merit in what she said. "I know that's how it seems to you, and I'm sorry. It's not that I chickened out, it's just that I realised what a huge mistake I was making. I love my wife, Jane, and I'm not about to ruin my relationship for a nothing little fling with someone that's young enough to be my daughter for Christ's sake."

As soon as the words were out, Peter realised his mistake. The look on Jane's face told him that his words had made her furious. "Nothing little fling," she yelled, "is that all I am to you?" Then, before Peter could respond, she came at him. Her fists pounded his chest. She opened her fingers and scratched at him with her nails. He felt her tearing at his face. He put his hands up to protect himself, at the same time trying to get her off him, but she kept attacking him, screaming, "I hate you, you bastard. How could you do that to me?"

"Jane!" Peter yelled back, "For Christ's sake calm down." He was at a loss as to what to do. In the end he had to shove her away quite hard in order to get her to stop, causing him to immediately worry that he'd been too forceful. She looked like she was about to fall but steadied herself in time.

Her hands finally went still. He felt a trickle of blood running down his left cheek and felt the heat from where she had raked his chest and face with her long nails. The look of pure hatred in her eyes made him flinch more than any of the scratches she'd managed to inflict. What a fucking hellcat, he thought. The girl's a fucking lunatic. She glared at him mercilessly, waiting for him to say something. Instead, he kept quiet; he had no idea what to say or do next.

She took care of it for him. "You think I'm stupid," she accused. "You think by fucking your wife in front of me I'll get the hint and go away, well it won't work, take my word for it, you're gonna pay for what you've done."

Peter was bewildered. "And what exactly have I done to you, Jane? Please tell me what I'm paying for because I don't have a fucking clue."

"Don't play Mr Innocent with me," she hissed. "You know damn well you've been a bad boy. Don't you?" When he didn't respond, she continued. "I wouldn't say that fucking me with your fingers or kissing me – and I don't just mean on my mouth – was nothing, would you, _Sir_? I don't know about you, but it didn't feel that way to me. Not to mention playing with my tits and all the flirting and perving that went on for weeks before that." She pointed her angry finger in his face. "Don't think I didn't see you, looking up my skirt every chance you got. Well, let me tell you, I might be young – as you put it – but I've been around long enough to know when someone wants to fuck me, and you Sir, were definitely in that category. You were begging for it. And when I finally put the word on you, you got so hard. Oh, I remember all right, I felt you with my own hands; you just about blew your load all over me."

Peter's face went ashen. He tried to speak but nothing came out. Jane continued to look at him, but he was past seeing her now. His eyes focused on something more distant as he tried to speak. A single word formed on his lips and try as he might, he couldn't get it out. Instead, he said it over and over in his head, "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie".

By the time he finally managed to say the word, it was too late, Maggie had already taken off up the hallway.

Chapter 42

Monday, 24 December 1979

Mum has this theory that the wind makes kids loony. If you ask me, I'd say our mood had more to do with it being Christmas Eve than it had to do with the weather. Either way, we were all careful not to pull too many faces. Mum reckons that if you pull faces and the wind changes, your face stays that way. I didn't believe her for sure. I remember sticking my tongue out at Mrs Williams once and it was so windy my tongue got full of dirt, but my face never stayed that way. Still, I wasn't taking any chances. Joanne Nixon looks like she's permanently pulling faces. I bet that's what happened to her.

We spent most of the afternoon playing under the sprinkler, pretending that the heat didn't bother us. It was almost time for Tom to go. His parents were making him go to church, so he had to be home by five. Ed and Mick had already left, but Trevor and Raelene were still around. We were throwing Frisbees to each other through the water. If we threw them hard into the middle, the spinning water flung them off in all directions. Dad had to lift Tom up to get one off the roof before. He found two tennis balls while he was up there, which we used to play brandies with. We gave up on that though, because the balls hurt too much when they got wet. I should know. I'm going to have a big bruise on my bum where Raelene branded me with a wet ball.

Dad finished work early today. Doug said he could go home early because it was Christmas Eve. Everyone must finish early at Christmas time. I rode to the library with Tom this morning, but it was closed too. The sign said that it wouldn't reopen until next year, so now we had to wait for ages to get some books about what happens after you die. Even though Clare cleared things up a bit, I still have stacks more questions to ask her. Besides, Tom wants to see if we can find a book that shows us how to talk to spirits.

Brian stood on the front veranda and pointed up the street. "The ice-cream man's coming."

"Mum, can we have an iceblock?" I yelled.

"Ask your father," she replied, "I'm broke."

Dad must have heard her from out the back, because he walked up the side of the house jingling the change in his pocket. "Who wants an iceblock?" he asked.

"Me!" We all yelled at once.

"Brian, go and see if your sisters want one too." He stuck his head against the screen door. "What about you Mel, you want an iceblock?"

"No thanks, I'm too busy."

Huh? How can you be too busy for an iceblock? I wondered.

Brian came back out with instructions to get Kate a red one and Tracy a green one. "That's keeping with the Christmas spirit," Dad said.

It took me a while to work out what he meant. He has a sick sense of humour sometimes.

"Righto, let me see," Dad sorted through the change in his pocket. "How many do we have?"

I counted the number of iceblocks we needed. "Seven," I said, "unless you want one too."

"Mnh-mnh; none for me, thanks, it'll ruin my beer." He gave me a hand-full of change and a wink. He was only joking. Dad doesn't drink that much beer. He mainly drinks it when there's a special occasion, not every day like Uncle Dennis.

I walked with Tom to where the ice-cream truck was parked three doors down. Brian insisted on following us, the little pest. My thongs were dangerously slippery from all the water dripping off me, but it was too hot to walk on the road and there were too many bindies to walk on the grass, so I had to keep them on. We had to wait in line while everyone else got served. Dianne was there as usual, buying herself a water iceblock and her mum a Golden Gaytime and some Bex powders. It's the same thing she gets every time. I heard Mum tell Mrs O'Reilly once that Bex weren't as good as they used to be. She reckons people are too hooked to realise it. I bet the Gaytimes were still as good as ever, though. Mum never buys us Gaytimes. She says they cost too much.

I bought seven iceblocks in various flavours, giving one to Brian so he would hurry up and leave us alone. I handed one to Trevor and Raelene and stood at the front door yelling for Kate and Tracy to come and get theirs. Mum would have a cow if I went in the house dripping wet. She'd spent the whole day cleaning up and getting things ready for tomorrow. If I came in and messed it up, there'd be hell to pay.

I walked around the back to give Dad his change. Mum and Dad were in the back yard arguing. Mum was leaning forward with her hands on her hips. That's always a bad sign. I didn't want to intrude, so I walked back the way I'd come. I could hear Mum yelling at Dad all the way up the side of the house. Apparently, he forgot to pick up the pork from the butchers and now they were shut.

I couple of minutes later Dad came out of the house with his car keys. Mum yelled from inside the house. "Where are you going?"

"To the Bottle-o," he yelled back, as he got in the car and drove off.

I could hear Mum mumbling to herself behind the screen door. "That'd be bloody right. He can't remember to get the meat to feed everyone, but getting the beer; now that's another story."

"Looks like Dad's in trouble." I said to Raelene who was standing beside me.

"That's nothing," she said, "my dad's always in trouble."

***

Dad got back about twenty minutes later. He carried a carton of beer under one arm and a cask of moselle under the other. Brian came through the front door and left it open for Dad. I knew he was running the risk of being roused on by Mum for letting flies in the house, but I never said anything.

Dad staggered inside with his arms full. "Hey Blondie, grab the other bags out of the car will you, love?"

There were two bags on the front passenger's seat. I peeked in the first one and saw a huge leg of pork. There were two chooks in the other one. I handed Tom a bag to carry. At least Dad would be in Mum's good books again. I followed Tom in and shut the door behind us. "I thought the butchers were closed," I commented to Dad.

"They were, but I went round the back and knocked on the door, Mr Jaeger served me anyway."

"That was nice of him."

"I think he was more worried that he'd be stuck with the pork your mum ordered. It's quite a big piece."

I saw Grandma give Mum some money for the pork at my birthday party. Mum didn't want to take it but Grandma insisted. She said Mum should think of it as an early Christmas present. I thought a leg of pork was the weirdest present I'd ever heard of. Apart from Dad's car, that is. In the end, I think Mum was relieved Grandma made her take the money. I heard her tell Dad the other day that she couldn't put food on a Waltons account, and that she had no idea where she'd get enough to feed everyone.

"He also gave me two chooks, real cheap." Dad said, laughing at his own joke.

"Aw Dad, that's sick!" I protested.

"What?" he feigned surprise, "What did I say?"

Mum was not yet ready to let Dad into her good books after all. "Now look," she swiped at the air with a tea towel, "you've gone and let a dirty big blowie into the house."

"Better fly away and hide, Louie," Dad joked, "here comes the man with the can of Mortein."

Mum was not impressed.

It was too hot in the house and Mum was in a foul mood, so we walked back outside. Tom noticed the clock on the wall on the way out. "Shit," he swore, "I'm late."

Tom hasn't been late for church since the time he hid in the garage so he wouldn't have to go. It was so late by the time his mum found him, church was almost finished and they had to stay home. He copped such a hiding from the Undertaker, he hasn't been game to do it since. He even showed me where the Undertaker hit him with his belt. He had big red lines across the back of his legs and he couldn't sit down properly for days. He reckons his mum tried to stick up for him, but the Undertaker pushed her away and yelled at her to mind her own business.

I felt so sorry for him. I nearly cried when I saw his bruised legs. He wouldn't show anyone else, just me. He wore trousers for days, so no one would see. Tom said his dad was pretty drunk at the time and that's why he did it. I reckon that's a load of crap. He's just a big bully, that's all. Uncle Dennis gets drunk all the time but never hits anyone, especially not his kids.

Tom said that if his dad ever hit him like that again, he was going to run away from home. I said I'd go with him, but I hope it never happens because my parents would be sad if I ran away. And I'd be even sadder if the Undertaker did that to Tom again.

***

The stinking heat of the day had mellowed to a bearable humidity. At least, that was the case from where I sat on the front veranda with Kate and Tracy waiting for the fire truck to arrive. Mum, on the other hand, might not agree. Having spent the afternoon cooking, she'd managed to generate more heat than the dwindling sun, making it hotter inside the house than out. She said she'd have no room in the oven tomorrow to cook the chooks, so she cooked them this afternoon instead. Not that it mattered. She said everyone liked cold chicken. She also made the apple crumble; it just needed to be reheated tomorrow. She told me that all she had left to cook now was the roast pork and vegies; everything else was already done.

Apparently, Aunty Audrey is bringing some drinks for the kids and some mince tarts. Aunty Joanne said she'd bring some coleslaw, and Clare said she'd make some caramel slice and White Christmas. I love Clare's caramel slice, it's my favourite. Grandma said she'd bring paper plates and cups to cut down on the washing up and some bread rolls if there were any left after Eddy's Corner shuts today.

Mum's brother, David, said he might call in if he has time. Uncle Dave just got married and Aunty Sharon is making him have Christmas dinner with her family. I hope he calls in, I haven't seen him in ages. He used to live in Sydney but Aunty Sharon didn't like it there, so they moved back to Speers Point.

He might even bring us presents.

I was getting so excited about Christmas. Every year we leave a pillowcase under the tree and every year it gets filled with presents. Now that I didn't have a bike to wish for anymore, I wondered what I might get instead. Every Christmas Brian and I spent ages pouring over the toy catalogues, making a list of all the things we wanted. We didn't expect to get everything on the list, but we usually got a few of them. The only things I could remember writing on my list this year were a bike, an Etch a Sketch and Creepy Crawlers.

"Here he comes." Brian jumped up from where he squatted in the gutter and ran onto the road.

The fire truck was coming down the hill so slowly it looked as though it hardly moved. All along our street, people could be seen impatiently waiting for the truck to arrive. The kids following it down the hill ran alongside it with more energy than I could muster. Dozens of hands reached up for the white bags that Santa and his helpers tossed over the side. By the time the truck got to the bottom of the hill and turned into our street Brian already had a handful of lollies and was running back to show us.

The rest of us stood on the footpath and waited for the truck to get closer. As it got near us, Santa's helpers showered us with bags of lollies. We must have looked like a pack of seagulls scurrying after hot chips. I managed to get four bags before they were all gone, Tracy got five and Kate got three. Brian had already run off with his, so I had no idea how many he got. No doubt he'd be hiding somewhere, stuffing his gob full of lollies and making a pig of himself.

At least it'd keep him quiet for a minute or two.

***

We sang with such gusto, half the street came out to see what was going on. What began as a handful of kids singing along to Mum's Christmas record, soon became a gathering big enough to rival the crowd at last week's carols by candlelight.

Dianne was the first to join us, followed by Shane Brighton and Tracey Leonard from across the road. Tracey's a friend of Brian's and whenever she comes to play, we tell Brian his girlfriend's here to see him. It's the most reliable way I know to instantly send him ape-shit. It's hilarious, in fact. He does his lolly and gets into trouble for it every time. Serves himself right if he's too dumb to work out he's being set up.

Gregory and Max from next door also came over when they heard the singing and saw the growing number of kids. Nobody actually liked them enough to want to invite them, but there were so many of us there by the time they joined in, nobody thought to ask them to leave.

The singing started seriously, but the number of people involved had an obvious effect on the mood. The more kids that joined in, the sillier we got. "I know one." Max broke into song before anyone could stop him.

" _Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin flew away._

Wonder Woman lost her bosom, flying TAA. Hey!"

"I know a better one," Shane said, eager to outdo Max's version of Jingle Bells.

" _Deck the halls with gasoline,_

Falalalala lalalala

Strike a match and watch it gleam,

Falalalala lalalala

Burn the schoolhouse down to ashes,

Falalalala lalalala,

Aren't you glad you play with matches?

Falalalala lalalala."

We all sang along to the chorus at the top of our lungs.

" _Falalalala lalalala."_

Mum eventually put her hands up in surrender. "Enough! Enough! I think that's more than I can stand for one year." She sent all the kids home and made me and Brian get ready for bed. She always makes us go to bed early on Christmas Eve. I'm sure it's more for her benefit than ours, though. If every other Christmas is anything to go by, she knows we'll be knocking on her door at the crack of dawn asking if we can open our presents.

***

It was almost impossible to get to sleep. It's the same every year. I lie in bed trying not to think about Christmas morning, yet finding myself thinking of nothing but. I was sure I'd be awake all night.

"Jenny?" Brian whispered. "Are you awake?"

Surely it wasn't morning yet; it was still dark. I must have fallen asleep without realising it. "What?" I whispered back.

"Santa's been, come and look."

I got out of bed and crept into the lounge room. Neither of us was game enough to turn the lights on in case we woke someone up, so we knelt down near the tree and started fossicking through the pillowcases in the dark. I found the one that I thought was mine and pulled it over closer to where I knelt. It was too hard to see in the dark, but I picked something up that felt like a bug catcher. Come to think of it, I was sure I put a bug catcher on my list this year. I think I asked for an ant farm also, but I couldn't tell yet if I'd been lucky enough to get both.

"Look Jenny," Brian said, "Luke Skywalker."

He'd obviously found his pillowcase.

"Who's out of bed?" Mum called from her bedroom. We must have been noisier than we thought.

Brian and I froze. Neither of us answered her. "We better go," I whispered to Brian.

He got up and followed me back into the hallway. The clock on the wall said four thirty-five. That meant we had at least two hours to wait until it was time to get up.

Chapter 43

Saturday, 14 December 1968

"You fucking bitch," Peter spat the words in Jane's face and, without a trace of concern, shoved her aside and ran into the house. He sprinted into the bedroom, almost knocking Maggie down in his haste. "Babe, I'm so sorry..."

She put her hand up defensively and took a backward step. "Don't," she warned. "I've heard enough for one day. Please don't say another word."

"Please, Maggie, let me..." she shot him a fleeting look before averting her eyes downwards again, almost as though it hurt to see his face. The magnitude of pain he saw in her eyes in that split second was sufficient to stop him mid-sentence.

She turned her back on him and stared out of the window. Her silence was deafening. He couldn't stand it. Why wasn't she yelling and screaming at him, he wondered; he wished she would. God knows he deserved it. It had to be better than the excruciating quiet she was inflicting. A couple of times he opened his mouth to speak then remembered the way she had looked at him, and kept quiet.

After what felt like an eternity, the silence became so unbearable that he had to give it another try. "Maggie? Please say something."

She slowly turned and looked at him. A single tear slid down her face and landed on the floor. At that moment Peter had never been sorrier for anything he'd done in his entire life. Her face, which was usually so bright and alive, was haggard with grief. The transformation that had taken place in such a short time winded him like a physical blow and he had difficulty breathing. What had he done to his beautiful, sparkling Maggie? She was gone. In her place was a broken soul who wore a tortured mask for a face; deathly pale and full of sorrow.

"Babe, I'm so sorry," Peter took a step towards her.

She cringed away from him. "Please don't," she pleaded. "I can't do this Peter, I just can't."

Peter didn't know what to say. It was obvious that the situation was more than she could endure, but he so badly wanted to tell her that he was sorry, and that he loved her. "Babe? I know you're hurting, and angry, but don't you think we should talk about it?" he suggested.

Maggie ignored him.

"Do you want me to leave? I can go back to Roger's and we can talk about it later if you prefer?" Peter waited patiently for her to say something. When she did, he immediately wished that the unbearable silence had continued.

"You can go to hell as far as I'm concerned," her angry face looked through him as though he were a phantom. "You're the last person I want to be around right now."

"Are you telling me you want me to leave... for good?" The fear he heard in his voice came as no surprise to Peter. He was terrified. He could see everything that he held dear; his precious Maggie, his soul mate, slipping away from him. She was already beyond his reach, in the shadows, obscured from him, and he was petrified. He knew that a life without Maggie meant a life of darkness and he hadn't realised until then that he was scared of the dark.

"No, I'm not saying I want you to leave for good; I haven't figured that out yet for myself. I'm simply saying that I don't want to be around you right now. It hurts just to look at you and I'm scared that what I feel for you will interfere with my ability to think straight. And I want to think straight. I want to think about what I just heard out there," she jabbed her finger angrily towards the back door, "and what it all means."

Peter was about to reassure her that it meant nothing. "Let me finish," she silenced him. He pursed his lips to let her know that he was not going to speak. She continued. "I thought we had something special."

"Babe, we did; we do..."

"Please! Let me finish."

"Sorry." He hung his head.

Maggie sighed deeply. "As I was saying, I thought we had something special. But, what I heard just now tells me that I must have been wrong about that. If what that little trollop was saying is true – and the guilt that I see on your face confirms that it is – then I need to rethink just _how_ special we are."

"What does that mean?" Peter asked cautiously.

"It means that I'm going to the cottage. Alone. Today. I don't want you to come with me, Peter; I want to be by myself."

"For how long?"

Maggie got a small amount of satisfaction from the thought that he sounded like a little boy who was about to lose his mum. "I don't know; a couple of days maybe."

"But, what about our holiday?"

"What about it? Holidays are for happy families, not cheating husbands."

Peter flinched at Maggie's bluntness. "Babe, it's not like that. I didn't fuck her if that's what you think."

Maggie gave Peter a look of disbelief. "Oh, I see, you think that makes it alright, do you? So, you didn't fuck her. Am I supposed to be grateful for that?"

Peter looked suitably chastised. "I just thought you should know that, in case you were thinking the worst, that's all."

"God! You are something else. You mean to tell me it gets worse?" she looked at him, stunned. "Don't answer that, I already know the answer," her voice was almost a yell. "And let me tell you, _babe_ , it doesn't get any worse."

"Maggie..." Peter hoped to calm her, but she wouldn't have it.

"Don't talk to me please. I'm too angry at the moment and I don't want to say things I'll regret later. I just want to be by myself so that I can think things through."

Peter knew better than to try and talk her out of leaving. Instead he asked, "When will you go?"

"Today, now, as soon as I've packed my stuff."

"What will I tell Stephen?"

"Tell him that his father's a lying, cheating bastard. I don't care. Just tell him whatever the fuck you want, Peter, you work it out."

"Okay, okay, there's no need to be like that."

"Oh, and be sure to mention that it was with _his_ girlfriend, while you're at it," she added acerbically, before continuing. "What a bastard. If it isn't bad enough that my husband's having an affair, he's doing it with my son's girlfriend; and in my house."

It occurred to Peter for the first time that Maggie had assumed the relationship with Jane was new. That whatever had taken place between them had happened since Stephen and Jane began dating. "Firstly," he put his thumb up to indicate the count of one, "I am not having an affair; it was just some stupid little fling, and secondly," he poked out his second finger, "it happened before she even knew Stephen, and thirdly," out went his middle finger, "never in this house."

Maggie was not impressed by his comments. "So, is that supposed to make it okay?" she asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "I trust from that little speech I just had the pleasure of hearing that you were the one that called it quits? I suppose you think that makes it okay too, do you?"

"Well, surely it must make _some_ difference?" Peter was certain that it should; a huge difference in fact. What he did was low; he didn't deny that, but what Maggie believed had taken place was much worse.

Maggie stopped shoving clothes into her suitcase and looked up at him. "Not enough of a difference to make up for what you did to me – or Stephen – for that matter."

"I didn't do anything to Stephen," he argued.

"What; you think that skuzzy little harlot would be in this house right now if it weren't for you? Wake up to yourself. How do you think your son's going to feel when he finds out that she's only chasing him to get to you? I don't suppose you thought about that before you let your dick rule your life?"

Peter knew that what she said was right. Jane had made it clear on a number of occasions that it was him she was after, not Stephen. "I had no idea things would work out the way they did," he offered pitifully.

Maggie didn't buy it. "Look, Peter, if you think that your pathetic excuses are going to win me back, think again. I have every right to be angry with you, and I intend to exercise that right," she pushed past him. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll just grab a few things from the bathroom and I'll be out of your hair."

She left him standing in the bedroom feeling completely lost. He didn't want to talk her out of going, he could see that it was something she needed to do, but he couldn't stand leaving things so hostile between them. Rather than follow her into the bathroom and risk enraging her more, he sat on the bed and waited for her to return. She came back a short time later with her hands full of toiletries. She dumped them on the bed and started ferreting through the wardrobe frantically. "Where the bloody hell is it?" she asked no one in particular.

"What are you looking for?" Peter enquired.

"Never mind," she snapped, "I don't need your goddamn help."

Peter was hurt by Maggie's comments. He shouldn't have been; he knew she was angry but it hurt nonetheless. In all the years they'd been together, they had argued rarely. Even then, it never really got nasty or hurtful; more annoying and frustrated, if anything. The situation he was currently experiencing was definitely a first.

But, then again, so was what he'd done.

"So," Maggie asked, picking up from where she'd left off before, "I know that you are the one that called off this affair, or so you say; for all I know it's just another one of your lies."

"It's not babe, I..."

"But," Maggie continued, "what I'd like to know is who started it?"

Peter picked at his fingernails. "Babe, please don't do this?" he pleaded.

" _You_ did, didn't you?" she accused.

"Well, not exactly, but..."

"Oh, I see. Am I supposed to believe that you were so smitten with this girl that you allowed her to come onto you?"

"Well, no, it's just..."

"Well, then, how is it that she managed such a feat? Surely she didn't force you into it?"

"Well of course not." He sighed, "I don't know; who is it that ever starts these things?" Peter ran his fingers through his hair, clearly frustrated with Maggie's line of questioning.

"How the hell should I know, I've never cheated on anyone before."

Peter flinched. "Babe, it's not what you think. It's not like we had this long affair or anything. In fact, we never even had a short affair; it was just a couple of occasions when things got out of hand, that's all."

Maggie looked at him, stunned. "Well, I am impressed. If I consider that long list of offences that little trollop just rattled off, it must have been a busy couple of _occasions_."

Peter considered how to respond. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Anything he said was only going to inflame the situation. What he had done could not be excused. He could trivialise it as much as he wanted, but Maggie was no fool. Besides, it was no trivial matter. He knew that. If the shoe were on the other foot and it had been Maggie that had done what he'd done, then he would surely be as upset as she was now.

"Babe, I'm not going to lie to you. And I haven't lied to you yet. I know it feels like I have, but I haven't." Maggie went to speak but Peter put his hand up to silence her, "please, let me finish." She glared at him, but did not interrupt again. Peter continued, "I know I have done a rotten thing, and for that I am truly sorry. I also know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, yet I hope one day you'll grant it anyway. But mostly, I want you to know that I don't like myself for what I did. As I said, I let things get out of hand, and I shouldn't have. I know that now, and I knew it then, I suppose; I just let my ego get in the way of what we have, and I fucked up.

"While I won't deny that Jane was very persuasive, I take full responsibility for what happened. I'm the one that's married to you, not Jane. But, having said that, it's over with Jane, and that was my doing. All I want now is to get on with my life, with you, if you'll still have me." Before Maggie could say anything, Peter went on, "Please don't answer that, it wasn't a question, I was just telling you how things are from my perspective. I don't want you to go away but understand that you have to. Hopefully, in time, I will have the courage to ask that question. But, right now, I'm not so stupid as to push my luck." Peter gave her a sheepish smile.

Maggie stopped jamming clothes into the suitcase and reached under the bed for the box of books she'd borrowed from the Theosophical Society. She had always intended to take them on holidays with her and Peter was pleased to see that she was still going to. It reduced the likelihood that she would spend all her time brooding over what a bastard he was. Reading always put her in a good mood. Maybe it would this time, he thought.

Peter took her silence as a good sign. "Do you still want Stephen and me to join you like we planned?" he asked tentatively. Before she could protest, he added, "Not straight away. I meant sometime next week. I'll leave you alone for a few days like you want and we can come up next week once the new car arrives." He held his breath while she considered his proposition.

"I'll think about it."

Well, that's not a no, he thought, and relaxed a little. "How will I know what you've decided," he asked, "will you call me?" There was no phone connected at the cottage. Usually, if they needed to make a call they would go to the post office in Morisset, or sometimes, if the post office was shut, Mr Kildey would let them use his phone.

Maggie considered Peter's question. "Just ring Kildey's before you come," she told him, "I'll need to go and get groceries every couple of days, so let him know when you intend to arrive and he can give me the message."

The look of hope Peter felt cross his face must have been obvious to Maggie, "don't expect too much when you get there," she warned, "I'm only agreeing to this for Stephen's sake."

That would have to do for now, Peter thought.

He left Maggie to finalise her packing and reluctantly went into the garage to get his drill to take back to Roger's. He wanted to stay and smooth things over between them, but Maggie had made it abundantly clear that the conversation was over. He felt bad for leaving her, but he didn't want to risk being left alone in the house with Jane once Maggie was gone.

He was grateful for Jane's absence on leaving the bedroom; he fully expected to find her lurking around the house, but she was nowhere in sight. He grabbed the drill case off the shelf in the garage and ventured back into the house.

Still no Jane. Good. He heard Maggie banging things in the bedroom and braved going in there for a final attempt at goodbye. It appeared the packing was done. Maggie slammed the suitcase shut and dragged it off the bed. "Do you want a hand with that?" Peter offered.

"No thanks, I can manage," she responded curtly.

She was about to leave the room, but Peter stopped her. "Please, babe," he held up his hand to silence the protests he knew would come, "I won't keep you a minute; I just need to say a few words before you go."

She set the suitcase down with a heavy thump. Arms folded, she glared at him, "Keep it short, I'm in no mood for chit chat." She was clearly having a dig at him for his self-indulgent speech before.

"Okay, I deserve that," he said. "In fact, I deserve a lot more than that; I know. I just couldn't bear letting you go without first saying that I'm sorry for what I did, I never dreamt of hurting you."

Maggie glared at him. "Yeah, you already said that. You done?"

"Almost," he continued. "I know you're angry with me now; you have every right to be. I just hope that one day you will forgive me."

At the mention of forgiveness, she shot him a look of disbelief and exhaled loudly.

"I know that's asking a lot," he conceded. "But, I love you Maggie. I know I fucked up and I'm sorry." Peter choked back the tears that threatened to flow, "I mean it. I'm _so_ sorry."

He took a step towards her; she looked away. "Goodbye, Peter." She picked up the suitcase and left the room.

Peter stood motionless, watching the door through which she had left. After a minute or so, he dragged himself into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He waited there until he heard Maggie come back in for a second load of stuff. When he was confident she was back in the bedroom, he snatched his drill from where he'd left it in the hall and snuck out the front door. There was no point hanging around a second longer, he wanted to make sure that he was gone before Maggie abandoned him, alone in the house with Jane.

Chapter 44

Tuesday, 25 December 1979

Brian upended his pillowcase in the middle of the floor and snatched up a Tonka Truck. "Holy Dooley!" he said excitedly. "Look Dad, look what I got."

He dumped his truck in Dad's lap and continued rummaging through the rest of his stuff. It must be hard for Mum and Dad to act surprised at all the stuff Brian shows them. I still do it too, and I know they've seen it all before. Kate and Tracy searched through their pillowcases as well, only they were not as noisy as Brian and me. They didn't get as many things as we did, but what they got cost more. I watched as Tracy pulled out a record and held up some new clothes.

Unlike Brian, I liked to take my time to look through everything. I especially like it when I get to the bottom of the pillowcase. That's where all the interesting knick-knacks hide. So far, I'd already taken out the bug catcher and some clothes, as well as a candle making kit. I like the crafty presents the best. They give me something to do in the holidays. I got a packet of pencils and textas, and three scrapbooks. I can never have too many of those. Next, I took out two books; _The October Child_ and _The Naughtiest Girl Again_ , and a pet rock set. It had everything you needed to make a family of pet rocks. I continued to empty my pillowcase, stacking everything neatly beside me as I went. By the time I'd finished, I had an excellent collection of things, including some bath cubes and matching talcum powder, a Holly Hobby writing set, a finger puppet craft kit, and a pile of new shorts, tops and undies. I even got a new wrap around skirt and another set of clacker-clacks. Mum had obviously done her Christmas shopping prior to Tom getting me some for my birthday.

I remembered the presents I put under the tree for Mum and Dad and reached under to get them. Everyone had brought their presents over on my birthday and put them under the tree with Aunty Christine's, so now they were well hidden under a mountain of other presents. After some rearranging – and subtle squeezing of packages – I found the ones that belonged to Mum and Dad.

I got Mum a cake of soap wrapped in a lacy-edged face washer, and a jar of boiled lollies, which are her favourites. I got Dad a set of beer coasters with pictures of the Opera House and Sydney Harbour Bridge, and a calendar to put up in his shed. It's last year's calendar, but it's got lots of pictures of hotted-up cars, so I didn't think Dad would mind. Besides, I knew Dad would like it because it's got a Charger in it, and that's his favourite car. And it has one of those Monaros in it too, just like the one in the accident when I was born. Whenever he tells anyone about it, he always says that it was criminal to see a brand new Monaro get smashed up, so that must mean he likes them too. It was even the same colour yellow as the one in the accident.

"Oh, I almost forgot." I handed Mum a small item that was wrapped separately. Inside the package was a small round disc, about the size of a saucer. It was made from clay, had a hole in the top, which I'd threaded some ribbon through so it could be hung up, and had the word _Roundoit_ scratched in it over and over, forming a word spiral that started at the edge of the disc and ended in the centre. I copied the idea from a sticker I'd seen on the back of Mr Drury's folder.

"What does Round Toit mean?" Mum asked, pronouncing the word like she would _quoit_.

I could tell by the look on her face she hadn't worked it out yet. "It's not a Round Toit," I giggled, "it's a round _to-it_. It's for all those times you say you'll do something when you get around to it. Well, now you have one."

Dad thought it was hilarious. While he was hanging it up it on the inside of the kitchen cupboard, I told him how I made it in craft at school. "There," he said, pleased with himself, "your mum will be reminded of it every time she makes herself a cuppa."

***

"Knock, knock, anyone home?" Janice put her face up to the screen door and peered inside. Uncle Dennis didn't wait for an answer. He walked straight in, almost causing Janice to fall headfirst into the lounge room. Aunty Joanne and the kids followed. Robbie carried Uncle Dennis' Esky down the back steps and put it in the garage in its usual spot. Uncle Dennis looked like Norman Gunston. He had bits of toilet paper stuck to his face.

"What happened mate, cat get carried away?" Dad asked, getting up to greet them.

"Funny ha ha," Uncle Dennis replied sarcastically, "I got a new razor from Santa and let me tell you, its friggin' sharp. I nearly cut me bloody throat with it."

Dad laughed.

"Hey," Uncle Dennis protested, "I'm not shittin' ya mate; I almost did."

Uncle Mick scratched his beard. "Do what I do, mate; don't shave."

The phone rang and Dad went back into the dining room to answer it. He wished the caller a merry Christmas without waiting to see who it was. It was only Clare. She was ringing to say she was just leaving.

Mum put a bowl of punch and a plate of peanuts on the table. "Who was that?" she asked.

"It was Clare. She's running a bit late." Dad scooped a cup of punch out of the bowl and handed it to me. "I hope you don't mind, I said it was okay for her to bring her flatmate with her."

"I didn't know she had a flatmate." Mum sounded surprised.

"Me neither," said Dad. "She said something about her flatmate not having anywhere else to go, so I said she could bring them with her."

"Girl or boy?" Mum asked.

"Dunno. I assume it's a girl."

"Maybe she's got herself a boyfriend at last." Mum suggested.

"It's about time," added Aunty Audrey.

I don't know why everyone is always so interested in Clare's love life. They carry on like there's something wrong with her, just because she doesn't have a boyfriend.

Uncle Mick walked into the dining room. "Who's got a boyfriend?"

"Clare does," confirmed Aunty Audrey.

I couldn't stand it. I rolled my eyes and went out the back to see what the others were up to. Grandma and Pa were sitting under the tarp, smoking cigarettes. Pa was drinking beer from a large bottle. Robbie was walking around on my stilts and Janice and Brian were playing with Brian's totem tennis. The tables and chairs were set up in two rows; one for the grownups and one for the kids. Each setting had a red or green napkin underneath the cutlery and a cracker above where the plate went. Mum had saved some red and green balloons from my party and tied them to the ends of the tables, making everything look very festive.

Lunch was already cooked, but it was too early to eat yet. I wasn't very hungry anyway. I'd already eaten a Wiz Fizz and a Mint Pattie from my plastic Christmas stocking full of lollies, as well as some of the chips Uncle Dennis brought. He works at Newstan Colliery and they have a big Christmas picnic every year, which he helps organise. He always brings heaps of leftover lollies and chips with him on Christmas day. Last year I even got to go to the picnic with them because Robbie was away on camp and couldn't come, so Uncle Dennis said I could use his tickets. I had untold fun. It was at Rathmines Park, which is near the lake, so we got to go for a swim and everything. I came second in my age race and me and Kerrie-Anne almost won the three-legged race, but we tripped just before the finish line and ended up coming fourth instead. I won a competition for guessing how many jellybeans were in a jar and I didn't even have to pay for the ticket. Everyone was allowed one guess for free. It took me a whole week to eat all the jellybeans.

I could hear Greg and Max next door. It sounded like they got a swimming pool for Christmas. I peeked through a gap in the fence and saw Mr Higginbottom standing next to a pool holding a hose. The pool wasn't very big, but it was better than nothing. I wish we had a pool. We used to have one before, but the water kept going green, so Dad took it down.

I went back inside to see what Kerrie-Anne was up to. She was in the lounge room playing with her new Barbie doll. Disco Barbie's clothes and accessories were arranged all over the floor and she was being stripped naked with no regard for decency.

"Want to play?" she asked. "I have another doll in here somewhere." She ferreted through a large box and handed me a Barbie. Unlike Disco Barbie who had nice shiny hair and sparkling clothes, this one was feral looking with hair sticking up in every direction. "It's not new, but you can play with it if you want."

I sat on the floor next to her and undressed Second-hand Barbie. I heard a car rumble and got up to see who it was. A big red car with a white roof did a U-turn and pulled up out the front. Even though it looked old, it shone like new.

No doubt someone was lost.

Uncle Dennis and Dad came out to see who it was. "Man, check out those wheels," Uncle Dennis whistled admiringly. "What is it?"

Trust Dad to know. "It's a 1961 Ford Thunderbird Convertible," he said.

Uncle Mick joined Dad and Uncle Dennis at the front door. "Definitely not from around here," he added.

I thought they looked like a pack of old women gossiping at a bus stop.

Clare stepped out of the car. "What was that you were saying Mick? Car's not from around here, hey?" Dad asked.

Uncle Mick sniggered. "Holy shit, that boyfriend of hers has good taste; and I mean that in more ways than one."

Dad swiped at Uncle Mick. "Hey, watch what you say about my little sister."

They stood and gawked at Clare while she waited for her flatmate to get out. "Wrong again," Dad said, "if that's a bloke, I'll eat my hat."

A tall, dark-haired girl stepped out of the car. Her hair was really short and wispy. Even from a distance, I could see that she had deep blue eyes and a pretty face. She was much heavier than Clare, but not what you'd call fat.

"I didn't know that your sister was a rug muncher," Uncle Dennis muttered under his breath. Dad turned around to see if Kerrie-Anne and I had heard. I pretended to play with Second-hand Barbie. "Do you mind?" he snapped. "I'll have none of that around here, thanks. Why don't you keep your mouth shut for a change?"

Uncle Dennis looked like a scolded child. "I was only joking, mate."

Clare came inside with her flatmate in tow. "Merry Christmas everyone. Sorry I'm late." She handed Mum two Tupperware containers. "I made Coconut Ice instead of White Christmas; hope you don't mind."

If Clare was aware that all eyes were on her, she never showed it. She casually introduced her friend to everyone. "Everyone," she said, "this is my flatmate Shelby. Shelby, I'd like you to meet my family."

Everyone said hello at once. Uncle Dennis leaned across in front of me and whispered in Uncle Mick's ear. "Flatmate my arse," he said.

Uncle Mick smiled and nodded. Luckily Clare didn't hear him. I gave Uncle Dennis a dirty look to let him know that _I_ heard and went to wish Clare a merry Christmas.

I wondered how long before the Inquisition would begin. Trust Aunty Audrey to get things started. "How long have you two shared a flat?" she asked Clare.

Shelby answered. "Clare and I moved in together a couple of months ago," she said. "It's been great actually. It's not far from work and Clare's fantastic company." She smiled at Clare who smiled back.

Aunty Joanne was next in line. "Where do you work?" she asked.

"I work at BHP."

"I see," said Aunty Joanne, not seeing anything at all. "I used to work at the Sulphide once."

I wasn't sure what the connection between BHP and the Sulphide was, but Shelby nodded as though it made perfect sense.

"Do you work in the office there?" asked Aunty Audrey.

"God, no," Shelby said, "I'm a mechanical engineer."

Clare burst out laughing. She obviously thought the idea of Shelby working in an office was hilarious. Dad almost choked on his beer. Mum nudged him with her elbow and made a comment about the peanuts going down the wrong way.

Clare took Shelby out the back before anyone could ask more questions. She introduced her to Grandma and Pa, who were still sitting under the tarp smoking. "You'll have to come closer," said Pa. "I can't see you from here."

Clare walked Shelby over to where Pa was sitting. "Hello love, nice to meet you," he said.

"Likewise," said Shelby, shaking his hand.

Clare got a beer for her and Shelby and sat down next to Grandma and Pa. I walked over and joined them. "Hi, I'm Jenny."

"Hello Jenny," Shelby turned around to face me. "Clare told me all about you." Then, much quieter, "she told me you're her favourite niece."

I looked into her blue eyes to see if she was just messing with me. "Really?"

She nodded, "Really."

"Don't worry about my aunties," I offered, "they're just a bunch of busy bodies."

"Oh that's okay, I don't mind. Besides, Clare already warned me."

I was dying to ask her lots of things myself, but I didn't want to sound like my aunties, so I just made small talk. "Are you having a nice Christmas?"

"I am now," she said. "It's usually a sad time for me, but it's hard to be sad when there are so many happy people about."

I couldn't imagine Christmas being anything but fun. "How come it's sad?" I asked.

A look of hurt flashed across her pretty face making me immediately regret asking the question. "Both my parents were killed in a car accident at Christmas time," she explained. "They were on their way to visit me and my new boyfriend. They never got to meet him."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. Don't worry about it; they've been gone eleven years now.

"Really? Eleven years?" I asked with more curiosity than was polite. "That's as long as I've been alive. I turned eleven three days ago. So did my friend Tom."

Shelby raised her eyebrows; eye's wide with surprise. "Well, how about that," she said quietly, as if to herself, "you and your friend were born on the very same day my parents passed."

I looked at Shelby in disbelief.

She smiled at me and nodded. "Well, then," she said more cheerfully, "in future I will be a little less sad knowing that the 22nd of December, 1968 wasn't all bad."

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" I asked her, remembering what Clare had said about Shorty and wanting to cheer her up further."

To my surprise Shelby shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I'm not really sure."

I must have looked disappointed because she quickly added, "But I know my parents believed in it, so I hope they're right and they get to live their lives all over again."

"So, who do you spend Christmas with now?"

"I usually spend Christmas with my brother Stephen, but he's away this year, so it was really nice of Clare to ask me to spend Christmas with her family."

"My friend Shortie died last week, so I know how you feel." I blurted, not even sure why.

It was Shelby's turn to be sorry. "Oh Jenny, that's terrible, what happened?"

"He got bashed up."

Shelby looked dumbfounded. "He what? Are you serious?"

***

I didn't intend to tell Shelby all the details; it just turned out that way. There was something about her that made me want to confide in her, even though I'd only just met her. Clare would've said that we connected, and I suppose she'd have been right. I can't put my finger on what it was about her that made me feel like talking to her. All I know is that she asked me what happened and before I realised what I was saying, I'd told her everything.

Don't get me wrong, what happened to Shortie isn't exactly a big secret or anything, but I even confessed how guilty I felt about not dobbing on the Dumbrells when I should have and how sad I felt that I never got to say goodbye. Normally I would feel silly for saying things like that to someone I don't know, but it wasn't like that with Shelby. It felt like I'd known her for ages.

I know people say corny things like that all the time, and I always thought they were full of crap. Now I know better. Dad says it's okay to be wrong as long as you are grown up about it. I always thought it was a weird thing to say because I've seen lots of grownups that were wrong and they usually acted like children about it.

By the time I finished telling my story I was close to tears and Shelby was furious. "So you haven't heard anything since?" she asked in disbelief.

I didn't trust myself to speak so I shook my head instead.

Shelby recognised my fragile state and instantly softened. "Hey, I'm sure your friend knows how much you miss him. And I'll tell you another thing," she said with such kindness I nearly cried, "I guarantee he doesn't blame you one bit, so stop beating yourself up over it."

Before I could say anything else, Janice came out and called for us to come and open our presents. "Off you go," Shelby said, "there's nothing like lots of presents to cheer you up."

Mum waited for everyone to arrive before reading the names on the gift tags, one at a time. The room was too crowded, so I took my presents into my room to open them. Just as well Mum didn't see me leave; she would've said I was being rude. I opened the presents and put them with the rest of my stuff on the bed. I slipped the Indian bangles Clare bought me on to my arm and jingled them up and down. I went back out to have a sticky beak at what everyone else got.

The lounge room was like a mad house. There was paper and stuff everywhere. Everyone was talking over the top of everyone else and there were presents changing hands left, right and centre. I couldn't stand all the noise and commotion, so I went outside to finish my drink. It was where I left it, except now there was a fly doing backstroke in it. I tipped it over the back fence and went into the shed to get another one.

Clare and Shelby were standing at the fridge talking. They had their heads together and spoke too softly for me to hear what they said. They looked like they were sharing a secret. They stopped when they saw me approach and turned around to greet me. I still had a lot of questions to ask Clare, but it wasn't the right time with Shelby around. They're written in my diary, which is locked and hidden under my mattress. I made a mental note to look them up after lunch.

Tom walked into the shed and stood beside me. "You're cousin's a retard," he said.

Shelby looked at us both and laughed. "Tom, that's not a very charitable thing to say about your friend's cousin."

"Oh, no, it's true," I nodded my head in agreement with Tom, "he's right." Tom smiled at me for sticking up for him. "Who did you mean?" I asked him.

This time it was Clare who laughed. "Jenny, you're such a crack-up. You agreed with Tom before you even knew who he was talking about."

"Yeah, so? All my cousins are retards. Sometimes I wish they wouldn't even come here." I didn't really mean it. Mostly they were okay, it was only sometimes they acted like retards, and it was mainly only Janice. But, I'd said it now and I couldn't take it back.

"I'll let you both in on a little secret, shall I?" Shelby leaned down so that she was the same height as us and rested her hands on her knees. Tom and I nodded, pleased that she was about to confide in us. "I know sometimes family can be a real pain in the arse," she went on – we both giggled at her comments – "but, you really should be thankful you have a family, even the retarded ones. Some people are all alone you know? Can you imagine how boring Christmas must be for them?"

I hadn't really thought about it like that before. I love Christmas, but I never imagined it had anything to do with my family, especially that poonce Brian.

"Yeah, I suppose," agreed Tom, far more serious now that Shelby was talking to us both like grownups, "I like it when Jim's home."

"Who's Jim?" Shelby asked.

"He's my brother. He's in the Army, but he's home for Christmas."

Shelby smiled at Tom. "See; now that's what I was talking about. It must be lovely to have your big brother home for Christmas. I sure wish I had my little brother here."

"Hmm, it is nice. He's not staying long though; he has to leave before New Year's Eve."

"Well, you better make sure you make the most of it then, you hear? And remember to say something nice to him when he leaves."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it might be the last thing Tom says to him, that's why."

Tom looked confused. "Nah, he'll be back at Easter time."

"Will he?" Shelby asked. "You know what, the last words my brother ever said to my dad were said in anger and he's regretted them ever since."

Tom seemed to know what she meant and nodded. Shelby continued, "You should always be nice to people you like, Tom, and you too Jenny, because you never know when, or if, you will see them again."

"Just like Shortie, you mean?" I asked.

"Yes Jenny, just like Shortie," Shelby must have remembered what I said about not getting to say goodbye to Shortie, because she looked sad.

***

Kerrie-Anne came out carrying a large plate of food. Tops; lunch was ready. I said goodbye to Tom who had to be home in time for lunch and ran inside to get some food. There was enough food spread out on the dining room table to feed an army. Grandma helped Mum serve it from where they stood behind the table. I picked up a plate and joined the end of the line. My mouth started to water the instant I smelled the roast pork.

Mum sure was in a good mood today. When I eventually got to the front of the queue I pointed to the food I wanted without thinking. She frowned at me for pointing, but never said anything. Then she served me exactly what I wanted without making me have vegetables or salad like she usually does. She even called me back to give me some crackling because she knows it's my favourite.

I sat at the table next to Kerrie-Anne and Bridget. Tracy and Kate sat across from us. Clare and Shelby sat behind Kate at the grownups' table. I could hear Uncle Mick from where I sat. "That's some car you got there Shelby, how long have you had it?"

"About a year."

"What made you get a car like that?" Dad asked.

"I got some money from a property settlement and decided to treat myself to some new wheels."

"They're some wheels," Uncle Dennis said appreciatively.

Shelby laughed. "Aren't they?"

"I must say," said Dad, "even though I applaud your taste in cars, I wouldn't have thought a Thunderbird was the sort of car that would appeal to a lady."

"At first it didn't, but my husband always dreamed of owning one, so I couldn't resist getting it."

I knew it wouldn't be long before Aunty Audrey stuck her nose in. "I didn't know you were married," she commented.

"I'm not."

Aunty Audrey looked confused.

At first I thought Shelby wasn't going to say anything else. "We got divorced a year ago," she said, much too late to prevent Aunty Audrey's discomfort.

"Oh, sorry," said Aunty Audrey absentmindedly.

"Don't be," Shelby said, "I'm not."

Aunty Audrey looked even more confused now. "So, how long did you say you'd had the car?" she asked.

Uncle Mick gave her a dirty look. Obviously, he also thought she was being a bit nosy.

"About a year," Shelby confirmed.

"So, why would you buy a car for someone you just divorced?"

Mum jumped in before Shelby could answer. "You'll have to excuse my little sister," she said, frowning at Aunty Audrey, "she can be a bit nosy sometimes."

Shelby laughed. "That's okay, I don't mind."

Uncle Mick glared at Aunty Audrey. "What?" she asked defensively.

He rolled his eyes and looked away in disgust.

"I was just trying to work out if I heard her properly. I thought she said she bought the car for her husband."

Shelby sounded like she was having fun. "Oh no, I never said I bought it _for_ my husband," she corrected, "I said I bought it because my husband always dreamed of owning one."

This time everyone looked confused.

Clare laughed. "Well," she said, looking around at the puzzled faces, "I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to piss off an ex-husband."

Chapter 45

Saturday, 14 December 1968

Maggie heard Peter's car start up and drive away. She collapsed on the bed and burst into to tears. "Fucking bastard," she cried, "how could you?" She thumped her fists on the bed angrily, "How could you?" she repeated.

She stayed like that for a short span, before straightening up and resuming her activities. She cursed Peter for making her cry. She had intended to save her tears for when she got to the cottage. Until then, she needed to stay focused for the long drive ahead. She picked up the box of books and carried them out of the room. As she entered the hallway, she spotted Jane coming in through the back door and stopped. "I'm surprised to see _you_ still here," Maggie barked. "Little trollop," she added more quietly.

Jane actually had the common sense to look embarrassed. "Stephen's not back yet; he's got my car."

Maggie turned her back on Jane, disgusted. "Well, when he does, I think you should leave."

"Um, I..."

"Save it Jane," interrupted Maggie, "I don't want to hear what you have to say." She stomped outside, slamming the door behind her. Next, she all but threw the box of books and newspapers into the boot before banging it shut and stomping back inside. Jane was still standing where Maggie had left her. She was about to turn and leave until the sight of Maggie storming through the front door made her pause. Maggie walked straight up to her and stopped half a metre short of her face. Jane flinched, obvious discomfort showing on her face. "On second thoughts Jane, I think I _would_ like to hear what you have to say," she invited cruelly.

Jane took a step back. "Huh?" she had no intention of explaining anything to anyone, "I was just going to say that I was going to wait out front for Stephen."

"Is that right?"

"Uh huh?"

"And why, may I ask, would you do that; things getting a little awkward in here?"

Jane squirmed. She clearly didn't want to discuss the preceding events, but Maggie was making it difficult for her to escape. "I just thought I should wait outside, that's all." She knew it was a weak retort, but she didn't care; she just wanted to get the hell out of there.

"I'll tell you why," Maggie offered, apparently dissatisfied with Jane's response, "because, you thought that you could just traipse in here and make god damn fools out of everyone, and then breeze back out again when you were done."

"Um, not quite," said Jane, plainly eager to get away.

"Well, let me tell you, young lady, it won't work." Maggie stood in the doorway, blocking Jane's exit. "If you think I'm going to stand by and watch you use my son the way you are, you're sorely mistaken. And..." she pointed her finger in Jane's face, "he _will_ get to know just what a nice girl you are. You mark my words."

Jane challenged Maggie with a stare. "What? So, I trust you'll tell him what a great guy his daddy is too, huh?" she added.

"You little bitch! I want you out of my house, right now!" Then, without waiting for a response, she heaved the box of items from the hall cupboard up onto her arms and blasted through the front door with a crash.

"My pleasure," Jane spat back.

"Hi Mum; is Jane up yet?" The box Maggie was carrying blocked her view and she almost collided with Stephen. "Shit, Stephen, I didn't see you."

"Sorry," he felt obliged to say. Then, with more interest, "What are you doing?"

She shoved the box onto the back seat and slammed the door shut. "Packing."

Now he was really confused. His mother was never this organised. "But we're not going for a couple of days."

"Wrong," corrected Maggie, " _I'm_ going today."

"Huh? Why?" Stephen raised his voice from where he stood, watching his mother storm past. Maggie was about to re-enter the house, but stopped just long enough to explain, "It might be best if you ask your father about that one." She let the door swing open behind her.

"Mum?" Stephen followed her inside, "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"

Maggie opened her bedroom door and stuck her head out, "Better still," she said, as though she hadn't finished speaking, "why don't you ask Jane instead. Oh, and you better be quick; she's just leaving."

Stephen put his foot in the door to stop his mother closing it. "Mum? What's up, tell me?" He studied his mother's face as though it might give him the answers she was unwilling to provide. "Is everything alright between you and Dad?"

Maggie really didn't think she could cope with recounting all the sordid details, but she felt she owed Stephen something, no matter how brief. "Not at the moment," she admitted.

He looked at her, confused. "Why; what happened?"

She was aware that he was just as much affected by the situation as she was and felt selfish for her brevity, but she genuinely believed that he should hear the news from Jane, not her. "I'm sorry love," she explained, "but I really don't want to go into the details right now. Let's just say that your father and I had an argument about something and I want to be alone for a spell so that I can figure out what it all means."

Stephen looked alarmed. "It must have been some argument. It's not like you to run away."

Maggie flinched at the mention of running away. Is that how it appeared to Stephen? She supposed it did. Still, as much as it hurt knowing that her son thought she was weak, she knew she had to go. Besides, she was sure that he would be more forgiving once he had all the facts. "I'm sorry if it appears that I'm running away, but I don't see it that way. Anyway," she lightened her tone a little, "as soon as your dad's new car arrives, you and he will follow me to the cottage, so it's not like I'm really running away, is it?"

Stephen appeared somewhat reassured by her pragmatism, but he never responded. She took his silence to mean that he was not going to delve any further and reached up and gave him a hug. "If you need me for anything, just leave a message with Mr Kildey and I'll call you back. The number's on the fridge."

He looked at his mum as though she were worrying unnecessarily. "Mum," he complained, "I'm a big boy and can look after myself. Besides," he added, less defiantly, "you're the one with the problem, not me."

How she wished that were true. She felt bad for what he was about to learn and found it difficult not to say something reassuring. Maggie had no idea what Jane's true feelings for her son were, but she was almost certain that they did not mirror his feelings for her. She felt a mother's love for her son, knowing he was about to be hurt, but unable to do anything to prevent it.

She grabbed the handful of stuff off the bed and closed her bedroom door behind her. She dropped the items on the floor outside of her bedroom and reached up and gave him another quick hug. As an afterthought, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Just remember; the number's on the fridge if you need it."

Stephen gave her a perplexed look as he watched her pick up the remainder of her things and leave.

When she got outside, Jane was perched against the front fence, with her back to the house. She made no effort to turn around at Maggie's advancing footsteps and Maggie made no attempt to approach her. "You better make sure you tell him," Maggie warned, without looking back, "because if you don't, I will."

Chapter 46

Saturday, 14 December 1968

With her knees forced up under the steering wheel, Maggie used both hands to tie her hair back in a rubber band. She wound the window the remaining way down, and let the breeze dry the sweat on her face. She calculated she only had another fifteen minutes before she'd arrive. She really should have paid more attention to the verdant surroundings, she told herself. She knew that the drive always filled her with a sense of excitement and anticipation equal to that of a child at Christmas, but today, she felt that she was entitled to her misery and she was reluctant to let it go.

Thinking of Christmas, Maggie wondered what it had in store for her this year. A week ago, she could have listed the festive ingredients with certainty; lots of laughter, good food, more good food, wonderful weather, and most importantly, her family, whom she loved dearly; but today, she was not so sure. She still loved her family dearly, that had not changed. She still loved Peter too, despite the anger she felt towards him, but following the day's proceedings, she doubted that Christmas would ever be the same again.

She mulled over the events in question for the hundredth time since leaving Sydney. She tried to make sense of everything and failed. Thinking about it only made her gloomier and did nothing to quell the dull ache she felt growing in her stomach. She needed to stand up and stretch; the emotional strain coupled with sitting in the car for almost three hours was taking its toll.

Ignoring her discomfort, Maggie turned the car into Martinsville Road and automatically slowed down in anticipation of the gravel road ahead. The bumpy surface and clouds of dust were there to greet her as usual, only this time, without ceremony. Under normal circumstances she would have been thrilled to reach this advanced stage of her journey, or the _almost there road_ as it had affectionately been named by the kids, but today she barely noticed the texture of the road, or the beauty that graced its flanks. Sights that had previously delighted her senses; the picturesque countryside, richly coloured in every shade of green, despite the scorching sun, the clear, cool creek that trickled underneath the road and off into the bush, its destination unknown. Such a vast array of wonders, all of them left to drift by, overlooked by Maggie. Even the eventual appearance of their letterbox, styled in the fashion of a birdhouse, and the memory of its ghastly red predecessor could not coax a smile from her. She turned Morrie into the driveway and drove the remaining distance with a grim face.

Maggie brought the car to a stop out the front of Bellbird Cottage. Instead of seeing its usual charm, which was partly generated from the natural beauty and tranquility of the surroundings and partly from the warm memories that the dwelling incited, she only noticed the abundance of weeds that had returned in her absence, and the bird's nest in the rafters of the veranda. It had been a number of months since she and Peter had snuck away for a romantic tryst, and instead of delighting her as it usually did, Maggie growled at the idea that she would be spending the first couple of hours brushing cobwebs from ceilings and wiping dust from bench tops.

Eager to get out of the car and shake off the layer of dirt that had formed as punishment for refusing to wind up her window, Maggie stepped out of the car and gave her clothes a good shake. The back of her skirt and blouse were damp from being trapped between hot skin and vinyl for so long, but the breeze created by flapping her clothes soon left her dry. She walked up the front steps to unlock the house, noticing as she did so that her skirt was still stuck to the back of her legs. She reached around to lift it from her skin, wafting it out and filling it with air to dry away the dampness. She unlocked the front door with one hand, and pushed on it with the other. As the door opened inwards a red smear across the white paint caught her attention and she instinctively reached up to touch it. Expecting the stain to remain, Maggie was surprised when it rubbed off on contact. It took her a second or two to realise that the smear was actually a set of prints made from blood, her blood.

A cursory study of her hand confirmed that her fingertips were indeed sticky with blood, although she was unable to see the source. On closer inspection, her bloodied fingers revealed that she had not cut herself as she had expected, or if she had, the wound was too small to see with the naked eye.

Baffled, she stood for a moment, halfway across the threshold, considering the possibilities. Before she could get her second foot in the door, she doubled up in pain. Clutching at her stomach, she lost her balance and landed on the floor with a thump.

"Christ almighty," she managed through clenched teeth, before the next cramp seized her. By the time it hit, the pain was so intense it took her breath away. She tried to stand but realised it made the pain worse, so she stayed on the floor and watched in horror as the blood trickled down her thigh and onto the linoleum.

After what felt like hours, but was in fact no more than a couple of minutes, Maggie considered what to do next. The pain was still quite sharp, but not so bad that she could not stand. As much as she wanted to sit on the floor and bury her head in her hands and cry, she found the idea of sitting in her own blood nauseating. She dragged herself up, cursing, "Fuck! God damn! Shiiittt..."

Her last curse became a scream of frustration as another spasm hit and she doubled over once more. She sank to the floor in misery, no longer caring where she sat or what she sat in. When the next contraction came, milder than the previous one, but significant enough to cause her body to tense in anticipation, her concern gave way to anger.

Anger was good, she told herself; it dulled the ache in her tummy and gave her strength – strength enough to know that she had to do something. She considered dragging herself upright and getting some help, but swore again when she contemplated where the hell she would go. There was no phone at the cottage and the closest neighbour was at least a mile away.

Besides, what would she do; call for a doctor? Maggie didn't need a doctor to tell her what was happening. She already knew.

She was miscarrying Peter's child.

Chapter 47

Tuesday, 25 December 1979

Dad stood up and tapped his fork on the side of his glass. "Can I have a bit of quiet please?"

Everyone looked at Aunty Sharon who kept talking. She was too busy giving Uncle Dave a hard time to realise that everyone else had stopped. They'd only been here a short time and they were arguing already.

"That's crap and you know it. I told you last week that we were having..." she realised everyone was looking at her and stopped mid-sentence.

"Looks like the honeymoon's over," Uncle Mick said smugly.

If looks could kill, Uncle Mick would be dead. "Why don't you mind your own business," she snapped.

"Ooh, she bites."

Dad was quick to interrupt. "Alright, that's enough; let's not forget it's Christmas."

Dad was always trying to keep the peace between Uncle Mick and Aunty Sharon. They haven't got along since Aunty Sharon accused Uncle Mick of trying to crack onto her at Uncle Dave's twenty-first. Uncle Mick reckons it was the other way around. He said that she'd been giving him the eye and flirting with him all night. Aunty Audrey called Aunty Sharon a slut and they had a catfight, which Dad had to break up. Afterwards, Aunty Sharon threatened to bar them from her wedding, but Uncle Dave invited them anyway.

We all looked expectantly from Aunty Sharon to Uncle Mick. Dad had to compete for our attention by raising his voice. "I just want to wish everyone a merry Christmas and a happy New Year," he said.

Everyone immediately wished him merry Christmas in return. "Hang on," he shouted over the top of everyone, "I'm not done yet."

He waited for the noise to stop before continuing. "I also want to say thank you to all you lovely ladies for the scrumptious food." He patted his belly and put on a posh accent. "I don't know about everyone else, but I'm stuffed."

Everyone clunked their glasses together and drank a toast.

Mum stood up and playfully pushed Dad back down onto his seat.

"Thanks, Dan," scoffed Uncle Dennis, "look what you've started now."

Mum cleared her throat. "Ahem," she said, ignoring Uncle Dennis, "if you don't mind, I'd like to say a few words also."

"Sorree," he said, giving her a bow.

Mum put on the same posh voice as Dad. "I'd like to propose that since we ladies did such a grand job with the cooking, the blokes get the job of clearing up."

"I'll toast to that," Aunty Joanne called.

"Hear, hear!" added Clare.

Despite some good-natured whinging, the men got up and followed Dad inside. Uncle Dave started to get up, but the look on Aunty Sharon's face dropped him back in his chair. "Come on Shaz, you heard Mel; the blokes have to clean up."

She wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. "God David, why do you have to help; we didn't even eat here."

"Well, we would have if you hadn't insisted we stay at your parents' place all day," he shot back.

"Jesus Christ, you don't let up do you? I told you weeks ago that we were having Christmas with Mum and Dad."

"And did I complain? No, I bloody well didn't. I sat there like a good little son-in-law and listened to your dad's stupid jokes all afternoon."

Aunty Sharon started to pout. "You know I'm all they've got."

"Fair go Shaz, they were at least a dozen other people there today."

"So?"

"So, you're obviously not all they have."

"You're a bastard; you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I do? You could've fooled me."

Her bottom lip started to quiver and her eyes filled up with tears. "I'm talking about Scotty."

What a drama queen, her brother died when she was sixteen and she's in her twenties now. However, Uncle Dave understood that to continue the argument would be a disaster. Even I was smart enough to realise that once she got teary-eyed, things got ugly fast.

"Don't be like that Shaz," said Uncle Dave, "I didn't mean it; it's just that we're always at your parent's place and I hardly ever get to see my family."

Uncle Mick stood on the top step staring at Aunty Sharon. "You coming Dave?"

Aunty Sharon shot him a filthy look and crossed her arms. Uncle Mick waited until Uncle Dave wasn't looking and blew her a kiss. Sharon challenged him to defy her. "No he's not," she barked.

Uncle Mick raised his hands in surrender.

***

Uncle Dennis looked like a spastic. He stood at the sink wearing the red and blue Christmas hat he got out of the cracker and Mum's apron. He was washing the saucepans and Uncle Mick was drying them. Neither of them heard me come in.

"...Too right mate," Uncle Dennis agreed, "now they're driving our bloody cars."

Uncle Mick took the cigarette from where it hung in the corner of Uncle Dennis' mouth. He took a drag and put it back. "Exactly," he said, blowing out the smoke, "first our jobs, then our cars; what's next?"

The cigarette smoke made Uncle Dennis squint. "That's an easy one mate; our bloody sheilas."

They both laughed at Uncle Dennis' joke. I didn't understand what was so funny. In fact, I had no idea what they were talking about.

"Well, bras or no bras, I'd be happy to throw my leg over; especially that flatmate of hers."

Uncle Mick scoffed. "Yeah, I bet ya would."

I shut the door loud enough to let them know I was on my way in. "Mum wants to know where Dad is."

"I'm in here," he called, before either of them could answer.

I went into the lounge room to let Dad know that Mum needed him outside. Uncle Dennis didn't even wait until I was out of earshot before continuing with his conversation. "I've got a good one," he said, "how do lessos hold their liquor?"

I stood on the other side of the door and waited to hear the answer.

Uncle Mick was no help. "Dunno."

Uncle Dennis started laughing before he answered his own question, "By the ears of course."

This time they both cracked up. Dad stopped assembling Pat's slot car track and went to see what Mum wanted. "Sounds like you're having a good time there boys," he said, walking through the dining room.

Uncle Mick was quick to reply. "No complaints here, mate."

I followed Dad outside. The tarp on the line had come undone and was hanging on the tables. Mum asked him to help her tie it back up. "Jeez Mel, couldn't you have got Dave to give you a hand?" he complained, noticing her brother close by.

Uncle Dave and Aunty Sharon were still sitting in the same spot. You could tell they were arguing by the way Aunty Sharon leaned all the way into his face when she spoke. Mum shook her head. "There's no way that girl's letting him out of her clutches; she's not done tearing strips off him yet."

"Hey Dave," Dad called, "come and give us a hand, mate."

Uncle Dave got up. Dad asked him to grab one corner of the tarp and he got me to hold the other one. Between the three of us, we lifted it back over the washing line so Mum could tie it in place.

"Thanks mate. Everything alright?" Dad asked.

"Shaz is pissed off at me for making her come, that's all. She wanted to stay at her parents place; she reckons it's not right that they should have to spend Christmas alone."

"They're welcome to join us if they want."

Mum shot Dad a dirty look.

"Yeah, thanks mate. I don't think I'll offer, if it's all the same. She'll get over it."

The sharp lines on Mum's face relaxed.

"Besides," he said, brightening up a bit, "she'd have nothing to nag me for then, would she?"

"Too right mate," Dad agreed. "Why don't you come and give me a hand putting Pat's slot car set together, Sharon will be right chatting with your sisters a while."

Uncle Dave looked doubtful.

"Come on mate, it's Christmas. Grab a couple of beers and come join me."

Uncle Dave went into the shed to get the beers. Aunty Sharon got up and marched in behind him. Dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Looks like I've done it now."

"Dan," Mum barked, "please go and make sure she's not murdering him in there."

Before Dad had so much as taken a step, Aunty Sharon stomped out of the shed with half a carton of beer. "Hurry up David, or I'll leave without you."

Uncle Dave followed her out like a small child. He looked across to where we were standing, "You heard the lady folks; it's time to go." He tried to sound cheerful, but failed miserably.

Dad didn't want to make it any harder on him by arguing the point. "No worries mate, we'll catch up again soon."

Uncle Dave found the courage to take his time. No doubt he'd have hell to pay for it later. He stopped to talk with Mum and Dad, and bravely left Aunty Sharon standing near the side of the house, tapping her foot impatiently. "What are you doing for New Year's?" he asked, not in the least bit interested, but keen for a reason to stop and make Aunty Sharon wait

Dad answered. "We're going to the Unwin's. Most of the street will be there from what I can gather."

I didn't know we were going to the Unwin's for New Year's Eve. "Are we coming too?" I asked.

"If you want," answered Dad, "we'll only be a couple of doors down, so you can come or stay, it doesn't matter either way."

The Unwin's place is the last house in our street. It's only two doors from our place, which means Mum and Dad can check on us easily. "Can Tom come too and sleep over?" I was pretty sure his parents wouldn't have a New Year's Eve party.

"We'll see," Mum said.

"Choice!" _We'll see_ usually means yes.

"David, will you hurry up, I haven't got all day."

Mum looked from Aunty Sharon to Uncle Dave questioningly. "Where are you going now?" she asked him.

He raised his eyebrows and looked as if to say; you'll never guess where. "Home," he admitted.

Dad nodded silently.

"Alright Shaz, don't get your knickers in a knot, I'm coming." He gave Mum a kiss on the cheek and raced to catch up with her. We could hear her nagging him all the way up the side of the house. Aunty Joanne didn't even wait until they were out of sight before talking about them. "Did you see that?" she asked in disbelief, "the hide of that woman; she's taking their bloody beers with her."

Aunty Audrey agreed. "What a scab."

Even Pa had something to say, "Breaks my heart to see a man under the thumb like that."

Poor Uncle Dave; fancy being married to someone like Aunty Sharon, she never gave him a break the whole time they were here. I don't even know why they got married; they don't appear to like each other very much. When me and Tom get married, I'm never going to treat him like that.

With all the ruckus between Uncle David and Aunty Sharon, Uncle Mick had managed to worm his way into the seat beside Shelby without anyone noticing. Aunty Audrey watched Aunty Sharon disappear up the driveway before leaning across to make a snide comment to Uncle Mick. Much to her annoyance, he was more interested in trying to engage Shelby in conversation. She considered bitching to Clare instead, but Clare deliberately avoided making eye contact with her.

She slumped back in her chair, defeated.

I pretended not to notice and continued to eat my second helping of apple crumble and custard. Clare looked over and gave me a smile. She went to get up but Shelby discretely grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. Shelby waited for Uncle Mick to take a breath and asked if she could get him a beer. Uncle Mick looked smugly at Uncle Dennis who was sitting across from him. He waited until he had Uncle Dennis' attention before answering with a smirk. "Ah, you're a girl after my own heart, Shelby."

Aunty Audrey glared at him.

As Shelby got up, she looked pleadingly at Clare. Clare understood the look to mean that Shelby wanted her to come with her, so she got up and followed her into the shed. I was dying to hear what they said, so I waited a minute before casually going into get some more punch. Clare and Shelby were standing with the fridge door open, giggling.

"If you don't rescue me soon, I swear I'll never speak to you again," Shelby warned.

Clare laughed out loud. "Are you kidding? I'm very happy to let Audrey pick on someone else for a change."
Shelby pushed her playfully. "You'd think Dave and Sharon would've satisfied her carnivorous tendencies."

"She'll never be satisfied while her husband's sitting there drooling all over you. Besides, they've gone and you're still here."

Clare saw me coming and reached out and took my cup. "I warned her about our family," she said in mock seriousness, "but she didn't believe me."

Dad called out to let Clare know that Nanna was on the phone. "I better take this, it's an STD call," she said, "I'll be back in a sec." Nanna doesn't like it if you leave her waiting on the line all the way from South Australia.

I was dying to ask Shelby why she moved in with Clare, but I didn't want to intrude. "What did you get for Christmas?" I asked instead.

"Clare bought me some perfume and a record."

"Which one?"

"Which one what; perfume?"

Unless it was Chanel No. 5 or Youth Dew, I didn't know the first thing about perfume. "No, record," I said, before realising I knew only a smidgen more about records than I did about perfume.

"Oh," she nodded, "Cold Chisel."

Phew! At least I'd heard of them. "I like that song, "Last train out of Sydney's almost gone"."

Shelby looked impressed with my level of knowledge. "Me too," she said, ""Khe Sahn's" my favourite."

"I don't like that one as much," I said with more confidence.

Shelby laughed. "Is that right?"

She handed me a beer. "Can you give that to Mick for me while I take this into Clare?" I knew Uncle Mick would be disappointed, so I agreed to take it to him.

Shelby was still chuckling to herself as she walked up the back steps and into the house.

***

Kerrie-Anne and I played scoop ball in the back yard. Aunty Audrey and Uncle Mick had already left. Every year they have lunch with our family and tea with Uncle Mick's. Aunty Joanne must have felt that in Aunty Audrey's absence, the responsibility of gathering information about Shelby rested with her. "So how do you know Clare?" she asked.

Shelby sat at the end of the table next to Clare. Mum was out front saying goodbye to Grandma and Pa, and Dad was playing slot cars with the boys. "We met through work," she answered. "It was when Clare was working for Engineers and Colliery Supplies. I came in to pick up an order." Shelby remembered something funny and started to laugh. "She had no idea what she was doing either. She made a huge balls-up and gave me someone else's order."

Clare pretended to be offended. "And how long did it take you to work out that I'd stuffed up?" She didn't wait for Shelby to answer. "If I recall, you got all the way back to work before you realised that I'd given you the wrong parcel."

Shelby laughed. "She's right; I did."

Clare continued "Besides, I'm a bookkeeper not a salesman. Just think yourself lucky I came out and served you at all; you would have stood there all day otherwise."

"I'm sure it would have taken less time than it did with you serving me," she laughed.

Clare gave Shelby a friendly punch.

I could see Aunty Joanne trying to do the sums in her head. "How long ago was that?"

"I've been at the Dockyard for almost a year," said Clare, by way of an answer.

Uncle Dennis couldn't take his eyes of Shelby. "How did you become friends?" he asked.

She pretended not to notice his attention. "It was Clare's last day at work and she asked me to come to the pub for farewell drinks."

"So you took her up on it?"

"You bet. We've..."

Uncle Dennis finished Shelby's sentence. "And you've been bosom buddies ever since."

Shelby looked slightly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. "Gosh," she said, changing the subject, "look at the time."

"What's up," enquired Uncle Dennis, "got a hot date?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Clare gave Shelby an odd look before putting Uncle Dennis out of his misery. "I told a friend of ours that we'd call in for a drink or two after lunch."

Uncle Dennis gave Aunty Joanne a look that said he didn't believe a word she said. Clare and Shelby walked inside to say goodbye to the others. Uncle Dennis looked after them wistfully.

Aunty Joanne caught him looking and elbowed him. "Will you stop gawking at her? You look like a bloody drongo."

Uncle Dennis looked shocked. "What? I didn't do anything."

Aunty Joanne shook her head in disgust.

Uncle Dennis skillfully changed the subject. "I bet I know where they're going."

"Where?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

He leaned over and whispered in Aunty Joanne's ear. She nodded her head in agreement and they both laughed.

I couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was appeared to get him back in her good books, because she put her hand on his leg and took a sip of his beer. "I wonder if Mel and Dan know," she said.

Uncle Dennis shrugged and got up. "Hey Kerrie, give us a go."

"Here you go," I offered him my scoop. "I'm going to get a drink, take mine."

Uncle Dennis was the last person I wanted to play scoop ball with.

Chapter 48

Saturday, 14 December 1968

It was almost dark by the time Peter arrived back home. He thanked God for the absence of cars out front, which meant that Jane was no longer there, and then thanked Him a second time when he found Stephen's note advising him that he was staying at Mark's place and would return tomorrow. He had spent a good portion of the afternoon mulling over what he was going to say to Stephen, but now the inevitable had been delayed for another day. It wasn't like Peter to procrastinate, but on this occasion he was pleased for the opportunity to do so. He still hadn't got it clear in his mind what he was going to tell his son, or if he would tell him anything at all, for that matter. After all, there was a good chance that Stephen would be none the wiser about the events that had taken place. He hadn't been there at the time, and Peter doubted that Jane would be too eager to fill him in. Anyway, Peter rationalised, what earthy good could it do to involve Stephen in his problems? And that _is_ what it was; his problem, not Jane's, nor Stephen's; his – and he supposed, Maggie's.

Peter felt numb just thinking about that concept. It was easy enough to admit that it was his problem to deal with, but the truth was that he didn't have a clue as to _how_ to deal with it. His initial urge was to get in the car and follow Maggie to Martinsville, but he knew that to do so would be folly. If there was one thing he had learned from living with her as long as he had, it was that his best chance of success came from granting her the breathing space she asked for. While it was true that of the pair of them, Maggie was far more confrontational than Peter, it was also true that once she was done tackling the problem head-on she generally cooled down much quicker; providing she didn't feel too smothered.

Her inability to stay angry for long was one of the things he loved about her, but something told him that the usual rules did not apply in this instance. If that were true, and he was surmising that it was, then it was definitely in his best interests to let her be by herself for a couple of days. In the meantime, he had never felt so lost in all his years. Not even when his first wife had left him.

Things had been different with Marjorie. She and Peter had been high school sweethearts who had outgrown each other shortly after high school. Only they hadn't realised it at the time, or if they had, they had not taken heed. Instead, they did what every self-respecting young couple did. They got engaged, waited an appropriate time, then got married, bought a block of land, built a house, and had kids. They did exactly what was expected of them; nothing more, nothing less. They never considered the things they later came to question, such as; is this as good as it gets? Is there more to life than simply existing? Obviously, Marjorie had thought life had more to offer, because one day, she just up and left, without warning. Or so Peter had thought at the time. He later came to realise that the warning signs had been there all along; he had simply chosen to bury his head in the sand and soldier on. He had even been devastated by her leaving. That too had been expected of him. It was only much later, after having met Maggie, that he realised that things happened for a reason, and that his life was far richer for it.

Things were different with Maggie. They did nothing that was expected of them and everything that wasn't. So much so, that Maggie's mother disowned her for it. And Maggie was her only daughter. Peter's parents had been somewhat less hostile about the affair, but only because they saw an opportunity for salvation for their troubled son, who lived alone with his two children, having failed to satisfy his wife sufficiently for her to stay. It wasn't because they thought Maggie was particularly good for him, quite the contrary. Despite their initial delight at their son's good fortune, it took them years to discard their reservations about her. They believed she was simply after a house and a husband – and in that order.

So it was that, while Peter always looked back on his and Maggie's developing relationship fondly – almost blindingly so – he had not forgotten the challenges that they had overcome in order to be together. Nor had he forgotten that things had been far more difficult for Maggie than they had been for him. Ostracised by her only living parent, in love with a married man, uprooting to Sydney to be with him, disappointed by failing to conceive as planned, and all the while caring for his children who had yet to recover from their mother's betrayal – an act for which they initially held Maggie responsible. Having overcome the many obstacles together, they always believed that they were so much stronger for it.

Peter hoped like hell that this was still the case; that the strength that had seen them through their most difficult years was still there for them now. Still pondering the thought, Peter didn't bother to make himself dinner. He simply stripped off his clothes, showered, collapsed on the bed, naked. Emotionally and physically exhausted, he fell into a troubled sleep shortly after his head hit Maggie's pillow.

Chapter 49

Saturday, 14 December 1968

Maggie dragged herself up with the aid of a nearby buffet and shuffled towards the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of her image as she passed the mirror in the hall and was shocked by what she saw. The face looking back at her was barely recognisable. It was pale white; her usual freckles scarcely visible, now dancing across her features. Her skin, damp with tiny droplets of sweat, had a translucent pallor. Her blue eyes were all that saved her from looking like the walking dead, their lively shade looking as much out of place on her frightened face as red lipstick on a corpse. She looked down at her lower body and felt woozy, her pastel blue skirt now splashed with red. She watched as a thin stream of blood trickled all the way to her feet and onto the floor. If she hadn't been so scared, she might have laughed at her likeness to a character from a cheap horror flick. But she was scared. She was scared witless.

She had no idea what she should be doing under such circumstances, but found the idea of a hot shower appealing. The pain had subsided to a dull ache and she was keen to clean herself up. She cursed when she remembered that she hadn't bought any sanitary napkins with her. She had been so confident that she wouldn't need them that she hadn't even bothered to pack any. She pulled the curtain aside from under the sink, hopeful that she would find some left behind from a previous visit. To her relief, she found three. She doubted it would be enough to last the night, but it would have to do. Tomorrow, she would drive into Morisset to get some more. With a bit of luck something would be open; otherwise she'd have to drive all the way into Toronto.

Maggie turned on the taps and waited for the hot water system to dribble into action. She removed her clothes, carefully stepped over the edge of the bath, and pulled the shower curtain across. So much for instantaneous hot water, she thought, it's barely warm. She didn't mind, it felt nice on her clammy skin. She looked down, the water streamed down her body, flowing off a bright red. After a short time, the water became light pink, before finally running clear. Maggie stood under the shower shivering, not from the cold; her skin was still hot to touch, but from the shock of everything. First Peter and Jane, then this. It was more than she could cope with.

She felt the sobs rack her body. Sitting in the bath hugging her knees, she gave in to her tears. What had she done to deserve this? She asked. She couldn't believe that after more than ten years of trying for a child, it would end this way. It was the ultimate cruelty, especially when she considered what had taken place before it. She tried to block what she'd overheard from her mind, without success. Instead, Jane's words replayed in her head, over and over, until she wanted to scream. She didn't scream though, what was the point? The words would still be there to taunt her once the noise had stopped.

"Peter, you bastard, you fucking bastard, how could you do this to me?" she sobbed instead. "All I ever did was love you, and this is how you repay me?" Maggie buried her head in her hands and cried. She cried for the betrayal Peter had bestowed upon her and she cried for the child she so desperately wanted, now gone. Then she cried for the unfairness of it all.

When she was done crying, her skin had pruned up and her eyes stung. She knew she couldn't stay under the shower all night and willed herself to get up. She had to keep it together; she couldn't go to pieces, what would happen then? She would collapse in a screaming heap and rot there, that's what. God knows it was a tempting thought. She figured that it had to hurt less than what she was going through.

She turned the water off and climbed out of the bath. She took a clean towel off the shelf and gave it a shake to make sure that no creepy crawlies had moved in during her absence. She dried herself vigorously before wrapping the towel around her and going back out to the car to get her things. She dragged the suitcase out of the boot and leaving the rest of the stuff behind, went back inside to get dressed. As she re-entered the house, she noticed that the day was getting late. Her tummy confirmed the late hour with a defiant growl. Maggie dropped her suitcase in the lounge room, careful not to place it in the puddle of blood, took out a cotton shift and slipped it over her slim body. By the time she got around to putting on her underwear, a thin trail of blood had reappeared on the inside of her thigh. With a heavy heart, Maggie cleaned it up with a handkerchief from her handbag and finished dressing.

Now fully clothed, Maggie grabbed a rag from under the sink and mopped up the mess she had left on the floor. She felt lost. She still had a tummy ache, but it was now no worse than a bad bout of period pain. She should make something to eat, she thought, despite not having an appetite; it was bound to make her feel better. She gave the floor a final wipe and threw the rag in the sink. She opened the pantry door and pulled on the light cord. The inside of the cupboard lit up from top shelf to bottom. Unfortunately, so much light was not required; the contents of the cupboard could be counted on both hands. There were two tins of Heinz baked beans, half a canister of split peas, a jar of honey – the top half of which had crystallised, an almost empty jar of Vegemite, two cans of Campbell's condensed soup, and a tin of Spam.

Maggie growled at the sorry collection of unappetising foodstuffs. She usually stocked up on groceries before she arrived, but in her haste to get away she had forgotten to pack food. She looked in the kitchen cupboard in the hope of finding something better on offer. Apart from some bicarb soda and tea bags, the cupboard was bare. "Oh well, I guess its soup for tea," she said out loud.

She busied herself preparing the soup, while she waited for the kettle to boil. The soup started to bubble at the same time as the kettle began to whistle, so she turned the hotplate down and let the soup simmer on the stovetop while she made a cup of tea. She normally had milk in her tea, but today she would have to drink it black. She took the cup of tea out onto the back veranda, put it on the coffee table and came back for the soup. She remembered the bundle of newspapers she had saved for the trip and went back out to the car to get them. This time she brought an armful of stuff back in with her, but instead of unpacking them straight away like she normally would have, she dumped the lot on the floor and took her newspapers and soup outside with her.

She dusted off her favourite chair and sat down with a weighty sigh. "Shit!" she swore, "I forgot my smokes." She got back up and retrieved her cigarettes from her handbag before sitting back down again. This time, Maggie took the time to notice her surroundings.

It was still light, but not for much longer. The back veranda was enclosed with fly screen, which was difficult to see through. It didn't matter. Maggie knew the landscape well enough to make out the familiar scene in the waning daylight. She could just see where the back yard dipped down in the far right hand corner and the Watagan Forest came up to greet it. She could also see the gap in the trees where the walking trailed started, but couldn't make out much beyond that.

The yard was not like any normal yard, well at least not like any found in Newtown. The cottage was situated on about ten acres, most of which was dense with trees. The cottage itself sat on the only cleared patch of land on the whole property. The cleared area was mostly covered in long grass. Peter tried to keep a small section mowed at the front and back of the house; however, given the time that had transpired since he'd last been there, it had grown long also, making it difficult to tell the cleared section from the rest of the property. There were a number of wattle trees down the back yard, which gave off a remarkable scent. Maggie took the time to savour their rich aroma before lighting her cigarette. As she inhaled deeply through her nose, the competing scent of the gardenias, which were planted either side of the front steps, crept in.

The water tank obscured her view to the left. Beside it, Maggie could just make out the roof of the toilet. The small out house was overgrown with choko vines, making it look like more like a green cave than a building. Only the wooden door that hung lopsided on the front showed it for what it was. When Maggie's mum had owned the place, it had housed a pan toilet. The kids had whinged and whined so much about having to use it – not to mention its god-awful smell – that Peter had a septic tank installed and a transpiration area built in the back of the yard, so that the contents of the toilet no longer needed to be pumped out.

It was obvious where the transpiration area was; the grass grew much greener and thicker there than anywhere else on the property. Peter and Maggie had planted some fruit trees when they had first put the septic in; they were doing beautifully now, almost four years on.

A Magpie flew down and perched on the edge of the veranda railing. It stood looking through the fly screen, casually observing Maggie. Her presence didn't frighten it, on the contrary, it made a series of twitters and squawks in a manner that suggested it felt it was communicating with her. "Hello there," said Maggie, obviously feeling the same way. The Magpie cocked its head and stared at her. After a short time, it took flight. Despite her misery, Maggie felt her spirits rise a little, almost as though they were connected via some invisible chord to the black and white bird.

The Magpie was out of view sooner than Maggie had hoped. No doubt it would be back again, she thought. They always came back. Each season they would return with their offspring to feed from the abundance of insects that shared the property with Maggie and her family. Sometimes she would feed them slices of devon, often straight from her hand. She felt that their bad reputation for pecking at peoples' heads was unfounded. In the years she'd been coming to the cottage neither herself nor Peter, or the kids, had been attacked by a Magpie. It seemed that each new generation of birds, seeing that their parents trusted this family of humans, were happy to exchange the pecking of heads for a little bit of company and a couple of slices of meat.

Maggie got up and turned the back veranda light on. As soon as she did so, the view beyond the fly screen disappeared and the wide-open space shrank around her. Resigned to sit and read for a while, she curled her feet up under her bottom and reached over and grabbed the pile of newspapers from the coffee table beside her. The newspapers were out of date, but she couldn't have cared less. She had saved all the ones that she had not had the chance to read over the past couple of weeks and put them in a box knowing that she would have plenty of opportunity to flick through them once she was on holidays.

The first one she picked up had quite a large article about Texas oil trouble-shooter Paul 'Red' Adair. The wireless had already told her all she needed to know about the massive fires on Esso's gas and oil platform off Lakes Entrance, and some. Maggie discarded the paper and selected another one. She flicked through the second paper until a small article about Rosaleen Norton caught her eye. My God, thought Maggie, are they still harassing that poor woman? She recalled the fantastic stories her Aunt Bea told about her friend Roie, or the Witch of King's Cross, as she was more commonly referred to.

That had been before her and Peter had met. At the time, the woman was causing an absolute scandal with her artwork – most of which contained images of devil worship – and her dealings with the occult. Unlike most people, Maggie had been absolutely enthralled with her work, especially the mural that Bea had taken her to see in the coffee shop in King's Cross. Maggie admired a woman who dared to be different. She believed it took a lot of courage to live the life of Rosaleen Norton. Maggie had even made a half-hearted attempt to follow her progress over the years, but it had been ages since she had come across anything in the papers and had assumed that the woman must have finally been left in peace.

The article was small and had nothing noteworthy to say. Already bored with the newspapers, Maggie picked up a couple of _Tharunka_ magazines. Peter often bought the student magazines home from work for Maggie to read. She believed that the work of the students was far more interesting, and of a higher quality, than anything she came across in the newspapers. The caption "Engineers have big balls" caught Maggie's attention and she smiled. The advertisement was referring to the then upcoming recovery and champagne balls held by the Undergraduate Society of Engineers. Okay, she conceded, so not everything they wrote was intelligent and profound, but she had to admire their guts. She could only imagine the stir a caption like that would have caused had it appeared in _Altjiringa_ , the student publication from her college days.

She spent ten minutes or so browsing the pages of the magazine. She skimmed a number of articles about student protests and anti-Vietnam marches, and others about conscription, the pill, and abortion reform. She was not surprised by the controversial subject matter. She had long learned that nothing was sacred in the pages of _Tharunka_. She was pleased to see that she'd even heard of a couple of the bands mentioned. Ellis D Fogg for example, and Mike Furber; apparently the only major solo pop artist in the country, or so the author claimed. Melbourne outfit the Party Machine was another band she'd heard of, albeit all names she'd only ever heard from Stephen. She even saw a number of job advertisements for graduate engineers and wondered if Jane had applied for any of them.

Jane was the last thing Maggie wanted to be thinking about, so she put the magazine down. She preferred not to think about anything, if truth were told. She considered looking to see if there was any weed in the house and rolling a joint, but quickly dismissed the idea from her mind. It would certainly be an effective way to mask the pain in her stomach, but it was guaranteed to make her think about things more intensely than usual and that was the last thing she needed right now. What she needed, she decided, was to curl up in bed with a book. Even though it was way too early for bed, and she didn't really feel like reading, she was bone tired. She knew that a book would knock her out as effectively as any drug. At least with a book, she might just manage to keep her mind off things long enough to drift off to sleep. And hopefully, by morning, she would be in a better frame of mind to consider what the hell she should do about the mess she'd landed in.

Chapter 50

Monday, 31 December 1979

Dad wasn't wrong when he said half the street would be at the Unwin's. I reckon there must've been at least thirty people crammed in, all told. That's not counting the kids that were off playing somewhere. The adults appeared satisfied to sit around nursing their drinks and smoking cigarettes. The radio played loudly in the background making it hard to hear, so there wasn't too much conversation taking place. Whenever a song came on that everyone knew, and even some they didn't, they all sang along. Tom and I came to get some food and drink to take back to the cubby. The others said they'd wait for us there. We told them we'd try and sneak back a whole bottle of Fanta and a packet of chips.

It turned out to be much easier than we thought. Mr Unwin had set up a big drum in the back yard, which he'd packed full of ice. Just about everyone that came bought a carton of beer, a cask of wine and some fizzy drink. All the drinks got piled into the drum together. It didn't really matter that they got mixed up, that's just the way it worked. The Unwins also asked everyone to bring their own chair because they didn't have enough of them to seat everyone. I suppose it's fair to say that they weren't really throwing a party; they were just providing a place for everyone to have a party. Everyone even bought lots of food. It was mostly party stuff like Jatz and cheese or chips and Cheezels. There were still at least eight packets of chips and a couple of boxes of Cheezels unopened on the table. I grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl and poured them into my mouth.

The parents were taking no notice of us. I went over to say hello to Mum and Dad and to let them know that we were going back to the cubby. I figured if they knew where we were, they were less likely to come looking for us. "Here's Blondie," said Dad loudly. "What are you up to this fine evening?"

Mum rolled her eyes at Dad. "Dan, will you keep your voice down please." Obviously, Mum had drunk much less than Dad.

"We're just getting a drink and then going back to the cubby, would you like me to get you one before I go?" I asked.

"That would be lovely, thanks," he whispered.

Mum laughed and handed me her glass. "Here you go, fill me up."

Somebody had arranged the casks of wine in a straight line across the front of the table so that the glasses could fit under the taps without having to lift the casks up. "Which one?" I asked.

"Any of the moselles on offer will do."

Paper Lace came on the radio. Mrs Preston poked her husband. "Here's your song, Bill." I filled Mum's glass with wine and got Dad a beer from the drum. I looked around to see if anyone was watching and snuck another can of beer into the waistband of my shorts. It was cold and wet on my back and despite the muggy weather it gave me goose bumps. Hopefully, no one would see it tucked under my shirt. Tom put a bottle of Fanta and a box of Cheezels in a bag that had been left lying around and walked up the driveway to wait for me.

"What time is it?" I asked Dad. He held up his wrist and put it close to his face. "Here," said Mum, grabbing his arm and pulling it towards her, "It's nine thirty-eight." She dropped his arm, which he let fall limply onto his lap, almost spilling his beer. He was too distracted by the song to take any notice. The chorus came on and everyone sang along. _"Billy, don't be a hero, don't be a fool with your life."_ Mrs Preston leaned across and pretended to hold a microphone in front of Mr Preston's face, while she sang the words to the song. _"Billy, don't be a hero, come back and make me your wife."_

I walked past Brian and Ian Preston, who were hiding under the house. "Who's that walking across my bridge?" growled Brian. He must have thought he sounded menacing, but he didn't. He still managed to make me jump though, and I had to reach around so that the can of beer didn't fall through the leg of my shorts. I pretended to kick them as I walked past. "As if I didn't know you were there." I said, with one hand behind my back. "Get real."

I walked backwards towards Tom. As I got closer, I lifted up my top to reveal the can of beer tucked under the waistband. "Unreal, where did you get that?" He slid the can out, deliberately flicking me with the elastic of my shorts.

I whispered in case Brian could hear us. "Out of the drum, when I was getting Dad's beer. Everyone was too drunk to notice, so I just grabbed it."

"We're not sharing it with the others, are we?" he asked quietly.

"No way. We'll drink it before we get back."

"Shit, now what?" Tom handed me the ring pull that had fallen off in his hand.

"We'll open it with a bottle opener. I'll sneak in and get one from home; no one will know."

Kate and Tracy were listening to music in their room. Kathy Bryson and Cheryl Fiennes were in there with them. I snuck into the kitchen and found the bottle opener. We didn't want to risk bringing the beer into the house so I took the bottle opener outside to where Tom was waiting for me. He punctured two holes in the top of the can. Beer frothed out through the holes and ran down the sides. He quickly put his mouth over it to avoid wasting it. "Yum, that's delicious." He handed me the can. I took a big swig and almost choked. It got up my nose and tickled. I swallowed the beer and squeezed my nose. I didn't really like the taste that much, but I drank it anyway.

We stood at the side of our house where no light escaped and took turns drinking the beer. Tom finished the last mouthful and let out a loud burp. "We'd better go," he said, "they'll be wondering where we are." We chucked the empty can under the house and climbed through the back fence. We both tiptoed towards the cubby. "Yah!" Tom screamed, jumping through the door.

Chrissy squealed. "Don't do that, you scared us half to death." Her pale face was even whiter. Because her skin is so fair and her light blue eyes are forever red and watery, she always looks like she's about to burst into tears, even when she's not. Next to Raelene, she looked even more fragile. She's as short as Raelene is tall, and has the skinniest arms I've ever seen. Even her blonde hair is wispy and thin, just like the rest of her. Not that her size stops her from being the bossiest person I know, mind you. Trevor had seen us coming and never batted an eyelid. He pretended to be Mr Cool for not jumping and scoffed at Chrissy and Raelene for being scaredy cats.

It wasn't totally dark inside the cubby; shadows danced by candlelight and cast their flickering patterns on the sloping walls. Mum would have a fit if she knew we had candles alight in the cubby, but there was no way she was going to find out. Besides, she's the one that bought me the candle making kit, so it's kind of her fault too.

Tom threw Trevor the box of Cheezels and handed Raelene the drink. "Here ya go, don't say we never give you anything."

Raelene drank from the bottle and handed it to Chrissy. It made its way around the cubby and back to Tom. "No thanks, we just had a beer."

"Did not," Trevor said.

I jumped in. "Did so. I knocked one off while we were at the Unwin's."

Trevor looked like we'd stolen his last lolly. "Thanks for getting us one," he huffed.

"Bugger that," said Tom, "get your own."

"Let's play something," I suggested.

Tom looked interested. "What do you want to play?" he asked.

Trevor's face lit up. "Let's play spin the bottle."

Raelene and Chrissy didn't look as keen. I knew Raelene had a crush on Trevor, so I leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Maybe we can rig it so it lands on Trevor."

That sparked her interest. "Righto," she said, "I'm in."

Shit, now what? I had no idea how I could really rig it, but I wasn't counting on her changing her mind that easily when I suggested it. Trevor looked at Tom who was sitting on the floor next to me. "Wanna play?"

"Sure, why not."

"What about you, Jenny?"

I didn't want to look like a chicken, so I said yes.

Trevor got up and headed for the doorway. "I'll go find a bottle."

Chrissy looked offended. "Hang on a minute; no one asked _me_ if I wanted to play."

"You're outvoted," said Trevor, disappearing into the darkness.

Chapter 51

Monday, 31 December 1979

I'd never played spin the bottle before. "What happens if it lands on Chrissy or Raelene?" I asked. I didn't like the idea of having to kiss a girl.

"You just keep spinning until it gets Trevor or me," Tom explained.

"That's not fair. You and Trevor have three girls to pick from and we only have two boys."

"Well, get someone else then, see if I care."

It was Chrissy who solved it in the end. "We'll each have a turn at sitting out," she suggested.

We all agreed that Chrissy would sit out first turn, followed by Raelene and then me. We waited nervously for Trevor to come back. I was starting to get light-headed from the beer. Tom must have read my mind. "I'm pissed," he said.

Trevor walked back in without a bottle. "Cheap shout; you only had one beer."

Raelene sounded like she was actually looking forward to playing and eyed Trevor with disappointment. "Where's the bottle?" she asked.

"I couldn't find one."

"I know," Tom said, "we can use a stick instead."

Trevor carried a candle outside with him to look for a stick. A short time later he came back in with a stick about six inches long. He pointed to a fork in one end. "This can be the pointer end."

"Who goes first?" Tom asked.

Trevor was quick to respond. "I do, I'm the one that got the stick."

With that settled, we arranged ourselves so that the girls sat along one wall opposite the boys. I moved the milk crate with the candles to one side and cleared a patch in the dirt. Trevor put the stick in the centre of the clearing and spun it around like a game spinner. Everyone held their breath while it spun. After about five spins the forked end stopped on Tom. "Yuk, I'm not kissing him." Trevor announced.

We all laughed. Tom told him about the rule we made while he was gone. "You don't have to you nong, you can keep spinning til you get a girl."

Trevor spun again. This time it landed on himself. He tried again. He looked from Raelene to me. "Is that on Jenny or Raelene," he asked. I silently kicked myself for agreeing to play the game in the first place. Tom got down on his hands and knees to study the stick better. From where I was sitting it looked closer to me than Raelene.

"Raelene," confirmed Tom.

Trevor accepted Tom's word and jumped up from where he sat on the ground. He leaned over on his haunches so he could reach Raelene. "Don't just peck her," said Tom, "give her a pash."

Ignoring Tom, he gave Raelene a short kiss on the mouth and sat back down. He looked more relieved than embarrassed. Raelene was neither. She looked very happy with the outcome of the first round. I thought the waiting was worse than the idea of having to kiss someone and was envious of Trevor for having had his turn already.

"Who's next?" Trevor asked with the confidence of knowing it wasn't him. I bent down to grab the stick. "I am," I said. "Since there's only four of us and boys went first, girls go next. Since I didn't get kissed last, that makes it my turn now." Everyone agreed with my logic and I knelt down to spin the stick. I silently prayed for it to land on Tom as it spun endlessly around and around.

"That's definitely on me," Trevor said.

I was glad Trevor didn't take Tom's suggestion to pash last time, which meant he would just give me a short kiss and it would be over with. I stayed kneeling on the floor so Trevor could reach me from where he sat. He kneeled up and leaned across, kissing me full on the mouth. His lips were much thinner than Tom's and not as soft.

Before I could stop him, he put his hand on the back of my head and pushed me closer, making it impossible for me to pull back without losing my balance. He pressed his lips against mine for a couple of seconds longer before pulling away, after which time he sat back down with a smug look on his face. "I'm starting to get the hang of this," he bragged.

I looked at Raelene who smiled back. Tom shot Trevor a look and picked up the stick. According to my rule, it was his turn. "I'll say," Tom said, eager to get started on round three.

Raelene moved off the car seat and let Chrissy sit down. Tom spun the stick so hard it flung away and he had to start again. The first time it landed on him and the second time the fork pointed towards the door missing everyone. "Hey Simmo, three strikes and you're out mate," joked Trevor.

Tom gave the stick another spin. "Crap," he said, "that's not in the rules." Luckily for Tom, it didn't matter, the fork pointed towards Chrissy who looked petrified at the thought of kissing him.

Aw crap! This just wasn't working out at all like I planned. First I had to kiss Trevor, and next, Tom gets to kiss Chrissy. I hoped he didn't take his own advice and pash her. I tried to think of a way to end the stupid game without sounding like I was chickening out. Tom leaned across to kiss Chrissy and almost jumped through the roof when Brian and Ian stuck their heads through the door. "I'm telling Mum on you," Brian said accusingly. "We heard you; you're playing spin the bottle."

"Shut up you little turd," I snapped. The truth of the matter was that I could've hugged him. What perfect timing. Tom hadn't yet kissed Chrissy. "Do you see any bottles in here?" I asked.

Trevor snatched the stick and drew noughts and crosses in the dirt. "Simmo, it's yours and Chrissy's turn."

Ian looked at his big brother with suspicion while Brian looked around the cubby in confusion. The only bottle in the cubby was the Fanta bottle sitting in the corner. It was almost full and was too clean to have been spun in the dirt. Brian continued to scan the cubby. He eyed the Cheezels on the milk crate next to the candles. For a moment I thought he was going to say something about the candles, but he didn't. "Here, take these," I said, throwing him the almost empty box of Cheezels. "Now rack off, or I'll smash your face in."

"Who knows any ghost stories?" Trevor asked as soon as Brian and Ian were gone. Everyone agreed not to continue with spin the bottle without actually saying so. After Brian and Ian left, we just changed the subject and none of us bought it up again.

"I've got a better idea," said Raelene, why don't we have a séance."

Chrissy, who'd hardly spoken a word since she thought Tom might kiss her, spoke up. "We can't have a séance without a Ouija board."

That gave me a great idea. "Why don't we have a séance and talk to Shortie."

"Because," Chrissy said firmly, "we don't have a Ouija board."

"Do we even need a Ouija board?" Tom looked at Chrissy questioningly.

Chrissy's initial comment had been taken as a declaration of her expertise on the subject. "Uh huh, we do. You can't have a séance without one."

Trevor was not as ready to accept her authority on the matter as we were. "How would you know?"

"My mum had one when my grandpa died. She didn't know I was watching, but I was. I saw the whole thing. The Ouija board has the alphabet on it and they moved this pointer thing around the board."

She had everyone's attention now. "Then what?" Tom asked impatiently.

"Then, you ask the spirit questions. If he or she is listening, they'll make the pointer move around the board. If everything is working properly, the pointer will stop at the letters and spell out an answer."

I was already trying to think of something I could make a ouija board out of. "Did it work?"

"Of course it worked. Uncle Pat said Dad was cheating, so Dad let him have a go. Uncle Pat got so freaked out by the whole thing that he wanted to call it off. That's how good it worked."

Raelene was impressed. "Wow, I reckon we should definitely have one."

I remembered what Dad said about using the tent and had an idea. "Dad said I can have a camp-out and invite some friends over. It'll only be in the backyard but we can stay up late and wait for them to go to sleep and then have a séance."

"When are you having it?" Trevor asked.

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm going to my cousin's place until Thursday, so don't have it before then," said Raelene.

"How about we make it Friday night?" Tom suggested.

We all agreed. Now, all I had to do was check with Dad.

"That's all well and good, but what about tonight," asked Trevor, "what can we play now?"

"Let's play truth or dare," Chrissy suggested.

I was first to agree. Truth or dare was a cinch compared to spin the bottle.

"I'm first," announced Tom, "who wants to ask me?"

We discussed how it would work with five people. The person whose turn it was got to choose who they wanted to ask a question to. To get things started, Tom said I could ask him. "Are you ready?" I asked. "You have to promise to tell the truth. And if you choose dare, you're out of the game if you don't do it."

"I know how to play. Just ask me a question."

"Okay, here goes; truth or dare?"

Tom thought about it for a moment before answering. "Truth."

"Let me think, what do I want to know? I know; do you have a crush on anyone?"

Tom thought about my question for what seemed like ages. "You have to tell the truth," reminded Raelene.

"I know," Tom snapped. "My answer's yes."

"Ooh," cooed Trevor, "Tom has a crush on someone."

"Well?" I demanded. "Don't leave us in suspense, tell us who."

"No way," he laughed.

"You promised to tell the truth."

"I did tell the truth. You only asked me if I had a crush on someone, you didn't ask who."

"Ha!" said Trevor, "he's got you there."

I reluctantly agreed that he didn't have to tell us who. Now I would have to wait for the next question to find out.

"Righto," Tom said, "it's my turn and I pick Trevor."

Trevor rubbed his hands together expectantly. "Truth or dare?" Tom asked.

"That's easy. Dare!"

"Make him run down the street naked," I suggested.

Tom shook his head. "Nah, I got a better one that that." He looked at Trevor and asked if he was ready. Trevor said he was.

"Alright, I dare you to go to the Unwin's place and knock off two cans of beer; one for you and one for me. Do you accept?"

"Do bears shit in the woods?"

***

Trevor handed Tom a plastic bag. "Here you go."

Tom looked inside. "Tops!"

"Well?" Trevor asked, "Do I pass?"

Tom emptied the contents of the bag on the ground. There were two cans of KB, one can of Tooheys, and a silver bag that sloshed when it moved. "You bet." Tom picked up two of the cans and opened them. He handed one to Trevor and kept the other for himself.

"Guess what else I got?"

We all looked at Trevor expectantly.

"These." He reached around to his shorts pocket and pulled out a packet of Winfield Reds. Chrissy screwed up her nose. "Yuk. I'm not having any. My mum will smell them on my breath if I do."

"Mine too," said Raelene.

Mum and Dad both smoked so I could probably get away with it if I wanted.

"Where's the lighter?" Trevor asked.

I felt under the seat for the matches I'd hidden earlier. "Here you go." I handed Trevor the book of matches that had come all the way from a pub in Katoomba.

"Who gave you the fags?" Tom asked Trevor.

"Nobody. I nicked them from under Mr Morley's chair. They must've fallen out of his pocket without him knowing."

Trevor got out a smoke and passed it to Tom. He went to hand one to me, but I held up my hand to stop him. "No thanks, I'll share Tom's." I was pretty sure I wouldn't like them, but I didn't want to sound like a total baby. While Trevor and Tom struggled with the tear-off matches, I picked up the boxless cask and gave it a shake. It still had a bit in it but was by no means full. "What is it?" I asked.

"How the hell should I know?" asked Trevor. "It was sitting on the table so I grabbed it."

What did I know about wine anyway? I shrugged and held the bag over my mouth. I squeezed down on the tap and filled my mouth til it overflowed. I held my mouth shut and forced the wine into my cheeks, making me look like a chipmunk. It was sweet and sour at the same time. I couldn't decide if I liked it or not, so I had another swig before passing it to Chrissy. Chrissy shook her head and held up a can. She and Raelene were sharing the last beer.

Raelene looked at Trevor with admiration. "Didn't anyone see you?" she inquired.

"Mr Fiennes did, but he was too pissed to care."

"What were my parents doing," I asked. I didn't want them to come looking for me.

"They're just talking with Mum and Dad and some other people. I told them we were still at the cubby and all they said was to come back before midnight or we'll miss the crackers." I had no idea what time it was. I figured we'd be able to see the fireworks from where we were and know when to return.

Trevor spoke with his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, "Hey man, it's my turn to pick." He tried his best to look like a rebel but ended up looking constipated instead. "Jenny; truth or dare?"

Even though he appeared to give the matter some consideration, I wasn't convinced that he hadn't had his mind made up to pick me all along. I didn't trust him enough to say dare. "Truth."

"Will you go with me?"

What? Did I hear him right? The beer must have gone to his head. What on earth made him think I liked him in that way? I didn't want to appear too chicken to answer him, so I looked around for a distraction. I reached out for Tom's cigarette and slowly put it to my lips without saying another word. I even managed to make my movements look smooth and relaxed, almost like I was teasing him.

Holy crap! My lungs were on fire. I coughed uncontrollably. I grabbed the bag of wine and quickly sucked down a mouthful hoping it would extinguish the fire in my chest. It worked. Raelene reached across and patted me on the back. "Got bones in it?" she asked.

So much for Miss Cool as a Cucumber.

Trevor was still looking at me waiting for an answer. I deliberately took my time recovering, still not sure what to say. "Well?" he asked anxiously.

Tom came to my rescue. "That's not a question. Ask something else."

Trevor disagreed. "It is so a question."

Raelene was on Tom's side. "What he means is, it's not the kind of question you can ask in truth or dare. You have to ask her something she already knows."

I was almost wishing I'd said dare. Trevor looked embarrassed and thought of another question. "Is it true you that kissed Kenny Woodward?"

"Huh, who told you that?"

"He did, he said you kissed him behind the shower block at camp."

"Well, he's a liar, I never kissed him."

"You have to tell the truth remember,"

"I am, you moron."

***

I was feeling all warm inside and my arms felt like jelly. I decided I must be drunk. Not falling over drunk, but drunk enough for my fingers not to work properly. I lay on the car seat with my head in Tom's lap and wiggled my fingers in the air. I felt a bit cheeky and wanted to get Trevor back for asking me if I'd go with him. Raelene waited anxiously while I thought of something to ask her. "Do you have a crush on Trevor?" I asked.

Raelene giggled. "Thanks a lot Jenny."

Tom applied some pressure of his own. "Well, you said truth, so now tell the truth."

She kept giggling. "Yes, I do."

I don't remember the last time I saw Trevor speechless. It was quite funny really. He sat there not knowing where to look or what to say. Chrissy must have been feeling the odd one out because she picked that moment to get up and leave. "I'll go and check what time it is," she gave as her excuse.

We didn't really expect her to come back. "We should get going too," Raelene said, getting up to leave.

I was so comfortable lying on the seat with Tom; I wanted to stay there all night. "Not now, you're the only one who hasn't asked a question yet."

She sat back down and without hesitation asked Trevor, "Truth or dare?"

"Dare." He replied cautiously.

Raelene giggled. She was either drunk or nervous, I couldn't tell which. "I dare you to give me a pash."

This time it was Tom's turn to make fun of Trevor. "Ooh, Trev, do you accept the dare?"

Without answering, he crawled across to where Raelene was sitting and gave her a wet sloppy kiss.

"Yuk," Tom screwed up his face. "You're dribbling mate."

We both laughed at Trevor and Raelene, but they ignored us. Tom tweaked my nose. "Come on Jen; let's go wait for the fire crackers."

Chapter 52

Sunday, 15 December 1968

Peter heard the front door slam and waited for the familiar sound of Stephen's voice. It was late in the afternoon and he hadn't heard from him all day. His note had said that he was staying at Mark's place, but Peter had called earlier on in the day and Mark's father said that he'd left that morning. Peter wasn't even sure why he had bothered to ring. At the time, he had an excuse ready. He planned to tell Stephen that he rang to see if he wanted to come and give him and his uncle Roger a hand, but the truth was, Roger really didn't need Stephen's help. Peter considered his real motives for wanting to speak with his son and concluded that it was to ascertain how much, if any, he knew about the previous day's events.

Peter was sitting at the table when Stephen walked in. "G'day mate," he said.

Stephen mumbled something. The look on his face gave nothing away.

"What have you been doing all day?" Peter asked, as casually as he could manage.

"Nothin' much," Stephen replied.

Peter wondered if he should push the point, but before he could give the matter much thought, Stephen spoke. "What did you and Mum fight about?" he asked.

So, thought Peter, we're up to that already. He knew the questions would come sooner or later, but was kind of hoping for the latter. He had no idea how much Stephen knew, and was therefore unsure of how to answer him. "Oh, I'd prefer not to say, it's rather embarrassing actually," he managed.

Stephen looked at his father in disgust. "Yeah, well if I was rootin' around with someone young enough to be my daughter, I'd be embarrassed too."

"Stephen! Do you mind? I was not rooting around with anyone."

"That's not what I heard," Stephen challenged.

Peter looked at his son, aghast. "And what exactly _have_ you heard?"

Stephen glared back, "You should know, you did it."

"Look," Peter said, "I don't know what you've heard, but it seems to me that you've heard wrong. What exactly did your mother tell you?"

"Mum never told me anything; Jane did."

"Shit," mumbled Peter under his breath, Jane was not the most reliable source. What was that saying about 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'? And, Peter was making no bones about it, Jane had been scorned.

Stephen mistook Peter's curse as confessional. "So it's true then?"

"Is what true?" Peter snapped.

"You and Jane," offered Stephen.

Peter could see the conversation going around in circles. "Look, why don't you sit down and we can talk about it?"

Stephen stood defiantly. "I don't want to sit down, I just want to know if it's true or not."

Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, if you're asking me if I had sex with Jane, no it isn't true. If you're asking me did something happen with Jane, then I'm sorry Steve, but the answer's yes."

"Oh, that's bloody great, just great," Stephen looked close to tears. "So what _did_ happen exactly?"

Peter was still none the wiser as to what Jane had told him, but suspected from his initial comments that it was not an accurate representation of events. "What did Jane tell you happened?"

Stephen looked as though he were considering whether or not to tell his father what she'd said. After a short spell, he started. "Well, she told me how you came on to her. She said that..."

"What?" Peter cut him off. "She told you that _I_ came on to _her_?"

"Yeah, she said that you kept flirting with her and making passes at her, and that she eventually gave in."

Peter sighed loudly. "Look, Stephen, let me be very blunt here; I did not come on to Jane. I admit that I may have flirted with her, but I can assure you that she made all the first moves."

"Oh, fuck off," Stephen spat, "as if I'm supposed to believe that Jane would come on to you. You're nothing but an old man to her."

Peter was taken aback by his son's comments. It wasn't what he said about Peter's age that bothered him; he had been young once and knew all too well how old forty-two seemed, he was hurt that Stephen thought he was lying. "Look," he tried again, "I give you my word that Jane was a very willing participant in everything that took place between us."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised, I'm sure letting some sleaze ball crack onto you is better than failing your final year of uni."

Now it was Peter's turn to be angry. "Are you suggesting that I blackmailed Jane into having an affair with me?" Peter was aware that he had used the word affair, after telling Maggie that it wasn't an affair as such, but he was beyond caring about semantics now.

"I'm not _suggesting_ anything," Stephen yelled, "I _know_ that's what you did; Jane told me."

"And," Peter yelled back, "has it occurred to you that Jane might not be telling you the truth?"

"Why would she lie to me? She has nothing to gain by lying," Stephen jabbed his finger at Peter, "whereas, you, on the other hand, do." Then, as an afterthought, he added spitefully, "Well, maybe not so much now that Mum's found out."

Peter was dumbfounded. He couldn't believe that Jane would say such a thing. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised at all by what she'd told Stephen. Nothing about her behaviour so far had given Peter any reason to believe that she would play fair. In fact, she had made it pretty damn obvious from the beginning of the whole fiasco that she would take whatever steps necessary to get what she wanted. And she had desperately wanted Peter, hadn't she? So why the hell was he surprised by what he was hearing?

From the outset, Peter had wanted to save his son from being hurt by what had happened, but Stephen was making things pretty difficult for him. Listening to his accusations, Peter lost his cool and gave in to his anger. It felt great. "I think it's about time you woke up to yourself, mate. Can't you see that Jane is using you to get to me? She's made that abundantly clear the whole fucking time." Peter could see the hurt on his son's face, but didn't stop the flow of words. "You think she didn't know who you were when she met you at the Warner's place? Well, let me tell you, she knew exactly who you were; she followed me to uni one weekend after I dropped you off at Mark's. And, I might add, that was just before she thought she'd have another go at getting me into bed by flashing her tits in my face one more time. Only it didn't work. And that's the only reason she's even looking sideways at you mate, just so she can have another shot at me!"

"You're full of shit," Stephen yelled. "Jane told me how it happened and I believe her."

"Oh, is that right? And, I suppose she also bothered to tell you that since you and her have been seeing each other that she has tried no less than three times to get me into bed. Yeah, that's right mate, three fucking times. And in this house! Once while you were in there, too," Peter pointed down the hall, "sleeping like a baby."

"You're a fucking liar," Stephen screamed at his dad, "you're just saying that because you got busted."

"Now, you listen to me," Peter demanded, "and you listen good. See this," Peter pointed to the scratch on his face, "your sweet, innocent little girlfriend did this to me because I wouldn't fuck her." Stephen shook his head in denial, Peter continued. "Everything I have told you so far is true, and if you're too naïve to believe me then you deserve the fucking little trollop. But, don't say I didn't warn you mate. Now that her dirty little secret's out, she'll dump you so fast your head will spin. You mark my words."

Peter knew that he was being cruel to Stephen, but he couldn't help it; he was furious. He knew that if he had bothered to take the time to consider why, he would have come to the realisation that he was furious with Jane, and with himself for being so stupid, but not with Stephen, not really. Stephen was just a kid on the brink of manhood who was trying to reconcile the lies of his beloved new girlfriend with the words of his father. Peter sighed. Despite his anger, he could see that from Stephen's perspective, the only acceptable version of events was the one that Jane had given him.

Stephen glared at his father, hatred in his eyes. "I oughta deck you for that," he threatened. "But, I won't. That wouldn't be cricket; what with you being nothing but a pathetic old man and all." With that, Stephen turned and stomped out. "And a dirty old man at that," he called back over his shoulder.

Peter sat, stunned by the exchange, not knowing what to do next. Should he go after Stephen or should he let him go? He knew he owed his son an apology, but he decided to let him go anyway; mainly so that he could compose himself somewhat. The argument had shaken him up more than he cared to admit. Peter couldn't recall ever having argued with Stephen before; the occasional squabble or disagreement here or there; definitely, but a full blown argument. Never.

Peter slammed his fists on the table, "Fuck! Now what?" he asked aloud. He should have known that little trollop was trouble.

Hang on a minute, he chided himself, he _had_ known she was trouble, right from the start. His instincts had been on full alert from the moment she had shown an interest in him, but then again, so had his libido. Peter knew deep down that he had no one to blame for the mess he was in but himself. In spite of that, he felt that the punishment did not fit the crime. First Maggie, now Stephen; he had lost them both because of his stupidity. Had Michelle been around to witness the supreme fuckup, no doubt he would have lost her too.

Looking around the empty kitchen, yesterday's dishes still on the sink, the daisies Maggie had picked from the back garden wilting pitifully in a vase, Peter felt as bad as he remembered having ever felt before. His eyes welled up with tears. Instead of wiping them dry, he let them flow. What a pathetic sight he must have made, he thought; sitting at the table blubbering like a bloody sheila. He didn't care. He was beyond caring now. He had managed to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him, and all for what? For a stupid little fling with a hellcat, that's what.

Peter was angry with himself for what he had allowed to happen, and he was angry with the world for making him pay so dearly for it. He was at a loss as to what to do next, his son was not speaking to him, his wife had left him, his whole world was falling down around him, and all he could do was sit and cradle his head in his hands and watch the steady flow of tears collecting on the table cloth, the circle of dampness growing with each falling droplet.

The sound of the front door closing startled Peter. He jerked his head up and looked down the hall. With the light shining in behind him, he could see only his son's silhouette, but it was sufficient to make out Stephen shuffling through the bowl that was on the hall table. He watched as he grabbed a bunch of keys and twirled them around his finger before sprinting up the hall and out the front door, leaving it open behind him.

"Hey!" Peter shoved his chair back with such a jerk that it landed on the floor with a crash. He ignored it. "Where do you think you're going with my keys?" he yelled. Peter frantically wiped the tears from his face and followed Stephen out of the house. He wasn't fast enough. Stephen was climbing in the car as Peter reached the front door.

"None of your fucking business," Stephen called back over the roof of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Peter raced up the front path after him. "Stephen! Don't you dare take off with my car, get back here!" It was a waste of breath. Stephen had already turned the engine over and was screeching off down the road. By the time Peter got to the footpath, all that remained was the smell of burnt rubber and petrol fumes. "Bloody hell," he kicked the gutter before going back inside, this time slamming the door so hard the painting on the wall shook.

Chapter 53

Sunday, 15 December 1968

Having spent a good portion of the day tidying up and getting groceries, Maggie felt that she was entitled to a cigarette and a cup of tea. She boiled the kettle while she packed the food away; wiping each shelf down before placing the items in such a way that she wouldn't have to dig too deep to find what she was after. Satisfied with her efforts, she folded the empty paper bags and put them under the sink for later use.

Although it was a gorgeous day outside, Maggie hardly noticed. She blocked the sound of the Bellbirds' singing from her mind and tried hard to busy herself instead. She liked being busy. It meant that she had very little time to contemplate her disastrous situation. She knew that she would eventually have to think about it and consider what she was going to do, but she was still too upset by what had happened to think straight. Whenever she tried to reflect on the matter she would either become enraged, or she would simply break down and cry. Neither outcome put her in the right frame of mind to weigh up her situation rationally. Maggie was hopeful that with the tidying up behind her, a cup of tea in front of her – the first one she'd enjoyed with milk since her arrival – and a cigarette between her lips, things would improve.

She carried her cup outside and curled up in her usual chair. Before she had even lit her first cigarette her attempts at keeping her spirits up wavered and her brain slipped into overdrive, overwhelming her with images. First Jane, standing at the back door attacking Peter, yelling accusations so hurtful that Maggie thought she might die just from the pain of hearing them, and then Peter, putting his hands up to block Jane's attack, not realising that Maggie had been standing in the kitchen the whole time. She couldn't remember the exact words Jane had used, but she certainly remembered enough to know that whatever had taken place between them had been far more serious than a bit of harmless flirting.

Determined not to cry, Maggie wiped the moisture from her eyes. The other images she had of Peter and Jane were even more offensive than the ones associated with the confrontation on the back veranda. Jane had been quite explicit in her claims of what had taken place, hurling them at Peter with no regard for the neighbours; or Maggie for that matter. Although Jane was not aware that Maggie had been standing behind her, Maggie doubted that she could have come up with anything more hurtful had she tried. The spiteful words she had spat at Peter had certainly provided Maggie with enough detail to put the sordid puzzle pieces together.

Her resolve now all but gone, Maggie started to cry. Once, she would have claimed to know exactly where she had stood in the relationship stakes, but that had been a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart and she was left wondering if any of it had ever been real to begin with. The tears rolled off her cheeks as she considered how naïve she must look now. She had been so sure in her knowledge that what she and Peter shared was exceptional; and how much that contrasted with what everyone else had.

How smug she must have seemed. It was no wonder many of her colleagues were annoyed by her gloating. Her constant claims that she had the perfect husband and relationship would certainly provide them with more than a few laughs now, she thought. She asked herself the same question she had asked numerous times before; what had changed? What had happened between them that had caused Peter to risk their precious bond in favour of Jane's affections? Was it the fact that she was unable to give him a child? She didn't think so. While Peter was always happy with the idea of more children, it was Maggie that had obsessed over it, not Peter. Was it that she was getting too old? Or maybe that he no longer found her attractive? Once again, she doubted it. Peter had always told her that she was the most beautiful woman he knew, and sexy too, and while she didn't agree with his appraisal, she believed that it was genuine, nonetheless.

Maggie wondered if he still found her so attractive now, after having had his hands on _her_. Then, before she could form an opinion one way or another, she pushed the thought from her mind, or at least shoved it into the far recesses where it was less likely to play havoc with her emotions. She wiped the tears from her face. She needed to be objective about the situation if she was to get through it with her soul intact. It was difficult enough rationalising what she knew for fact without clouding the issue with speculations and assumptions.

"Okay then," Maggie said with a degree of composure she didn't feel, "back to my original question; why did he do it?" She felt foolish for speaking aloud but didn't care. There was no one around to witness her behaviour, so what did it matter if she talked to herself?

Pleased with her newfound strength, Maggie searched for clues amongst the few snippets of fact that she possessed. She knew that Peter had been distracted of late. Thinking about it on the long drive to the cottage, she had assumed that his distraction was the result of his illicit affair with Jane, the timing certainly suggested that to be the case. However, after further consideration, she wondered if there weren't some other problem instead. Maybe the issue that had been distracting Peter was the same issue that had caused him to look elsewhere for a relationship in the first place. And perhaps his affair with Jane was a merely symptom of something else.

Maggie shelved the possibility of a bigger problem and continued to search for a more favourable explanation; one that did not suggest that she was integral to Peter's infidelity. She even wondered where Marjorie belonged in the picture. Hadn't she re-entered his life around the same time that Maggie had sensed the change in Peter? That could be it, she decided; even Maggie had found Marjorie's presence disturbing, especially the damn phone calls.

Hang on a minute, thought Maggie, as she put another piece of the puzzle together. Michelle had said that Marjorie was not the one making the phone calls, and she had been right. It had been Jane all along, not Marjory; of that Maggie was now certain. How else could she explain what Roger had heard on the phone that afternoon? What was it the caller had asked, "Why won't you see me," or something of the sort. Roger had also said that it sounded like the caller was crying on the other end of the line; no doubt, Jane was upset by Peter's refusal to see her. That would certainly explain why, whenever Maggie answered the phone, the line would go dead, yet when Roger answered it, the caller spoke. Jane must have thought he was Peter. Maggie also recalled that Peter's reaction to the call had been a bit odd. At the time she had accepted his explanation and had simply written it off as Marjorie being melodramatic.

Finally, things were starting to make sense. If Peter had known that it was Jane calling, and she suspected that he did, then naturally he would have been uncomfortable with the situation. While Maggie was confident that she was correct in her assessment, she did not like the implication it presented. If Jane's calls were the cause of Peter's discomfort it meant that Maggie could still be the cause of his infidelities.

At least it confirmed that Peter had indeed been the one to call it quits.

Maggie sighed. Who was she kidding? She had already known that Peter had been the one to put an end to the relationship; Jane had said so herself. She had also said something about _her_ coming on to _him_. Or had she? Careful not to analyse the situation too much, Maggie was certain that Jane had made a crude remark about what had taken place when she had come on to Peter.

She didn't know why, but Maggie felt her sprits lift the tiniest amount. For some reason, it made her feel better knowing that it was the second thing that Peter had told the truth about. She knew it shouldn't make an ounce of difference either way; it was not as though it changed what he had done. Still, she supposed it meant that if he was telling the truth about those things, then he might also be telling the truth about everything else. Maybe he had called it off because he had loved Maggie too much to keep the affair going. Maybe it was just an ego-trip he was on and the relationship with Jane never really had any substance. And lastly, maybe Peter's edginess was simply the result of his guilty conscience and not evidence of a problem with their relationship.

Maggie realised with annoyance that she was just shy of making excuses for him. "Damn you, Peter," she said aloud, "how dare you? Here I am, almost feeling sorry for you, for Christ's sake, and you're the one that cheated on me. You fucking bastard!"

It felt good to finally lose her cool. All day she had tried hard to stay in control when what she really needed to do was just lash out and say all the things she felt. Convinced that she would feel better for really letting go, she gave it another try. "Shit head! Filthy stinking cheat!" her voice became louder, "Arsehole! Rotten mongrel!" And louder still, "Bastard!"

By the time the last word was out, Maggie was sitting upright in her chair, fists clenched beside her, neck stretched up for ease of yelling, her face red from exertion. She looked around self-consciously. Apart from the Magpie that had come to greet her yesterday, Maggie couldn't see another living soul. Just as well, she thought, after that little outburst. Still, it had made her feel better, so she made no apologies for her juvenile behaviour. "Why the hell shouldn't I act like a juvenile, anyway," she asked the bird, "wasn't it _his_ juvenile behaviour that got me into this mess in the first place?"

Despite the sudden burst of conversation seemingly directed at it, the Magpie looked around disinterestedly. Maggie lit a cigarette and studied the bird as she blew the smoke out through her nostrils. "So, now what?" she questioned her companion. "Didn't I come to the cottage to think things through? Yet, here I am a day later without a single idea as to what to do next." Afraid that she would keep pressing for answers that it was unable to give, the magpie scurried to the end of the veranda and took flight. "Fine; don't talk to me then," Maggie called after it.

Magpie quickly forgotten, Maggie knew that part of what she had hoped to achieve by coming to Bellbird Cottage was to reconcile her feelings and thoughts in some way, but now that she had arrived, she found that she lacked the know-how to do so. She knew that she still loved Peter – yet, at the same time, she didn't know if she would ever be able to forgive him for what he had done. And, if that were the case, then what kind of marriage would they have? She tried to consider what her life would be like without Peter, but found that she kept coming back to things they had done together and places they had been, and of the promises they had made. She tried not to cry again as she cursed him for her torment. She had believed that they were soul mates, yet she had difficulty accepting that a soul mate would do the things that Peter had done.

Maggie was aware that her mood was spiralling downwards again and chastised herself for letting it slip. She knew in her heart that what she and Peter felt for each other was real, but she couldn't seem to remember that when she contemplated his betrayal. She sighed heavily. She wished she were more like Mary. Simple, pleasant Mary, who seemed to take everything in her stride and never complain about her husband's philandering. But then again, if she had been more like Mary, it was likely that her and Peter's relationship would have been more like Roger and Mary's also, and that was simply unthinkable. Maggie recalled the countless times that she had pitied them their union. She would compare it with what she shared with Peter and feel sorry for them; their marriage a mere shadow of her own.

But, that was before, Maggie thought bitterly. Before Peter had cheated on her, and before he had put her in a position to question everything that existed between them.

Damn him, she thought, damn him to hell!

Chapter 54

Wednesday, 2 January 1980

The librarian watched us enter from behind her glasses. She continued to busy herself rearranging papers on the counter before eventually acknowledging our presence. "What can I do for you?" she asked, without a hint of a smile.

"We're looking for some books about ghosts and stuff," Tom told her.

She considered Tom's answer for a moment before lifting the panel in the counter and walking through the gap. "I think I have exactly what you're looking for. Come this way."

We followed her over to the kid's section and watched as she ran her finger along a row of books. She stopped at the one she was looking for and pulled it out and handed it to Tom. "Here you go, this one's very popular, I'm sure you'll love it."

Tom read the title aloud. _A Handful of Ghosts_.

The librarian was just about to walk off when Tom shook his head. She mistook his gesture to mean he didn't like the book and very efficiently reached down and selected him another one. "Here," she handed him the book, "this might be closer to what you're looking for."

Tom took the copy of _Uncle Gustav's Ghosts_ from her and turned it over to read the back. I pointed to the author's name on the book. "Hey, he wrote _Storm Boy_." The librarian looked at me and nodded her approval. "I love that story. It's one of my favourites."

Tom frowned at me. "But it's not the right kind," he said under his breath.

The librarian overheard him and turned around. " _Still_ not what you're after?" She pursed her lips until they resembled a cat's bum.

She was clearly annoyed at us for rejecting her offer for a second time, so I thought I should say something before she got too angry to be of any help. "I think I'll take this one, thanks." She looked at Tom and gave him a smug smile. I could see that she was going to be hard to win over, so I put on my nicest voice. "But do you have any books on ghosts that aren't kid's stories?"

Her smile disappeared. "Perhaps if you tell me what you need them for, I'll have a better idea of what you're after."

"Well," I carefully considered what to say next, "my sister asked me to find a book about ghosts. She wants to find out about séances and stuff like that."

The look on her face told me that she was not buying my story. "If I'm not mistaken, the first book I recommended has a story in it about séances."

It was hard to imagine that she'd ever been wrong about anything.

"Oh," Tom looked like he'd just been caught stealing his dad's chocolate biscuits. "We'll lend that one too then."

"You mean borrow," she corrected. "The library will _lend_ you the book; you will _borrow_ it."

He looked suitably reprimanded.

"I think my sister wants a serious book, if you know what I mean." I gave her one of my best smiles in the hope it might melt some of the ice she had packed around her heart.

It didn't work. "And why can't your sister come and have a look for herself?" She put her hands on her hips and made a cat's bum again.

"Um...she fell off a horse and broke her leg, so now she's stuck at home with nothing to do. I told her that I would come and find some books for her so that she could work on her project." My words came out way too fast to be believable, but at least Tom looked impressed with my tale.

"She goes to university you know? That's why she has assignments in the school holidays," Tom added.

The librarian walked off towards the back of the library. Tom looked at me and pulled a face. Not sure if we were supposed to follow or not, I shrugged my shoulders and took off after her. Tom did the same.

"There you go," she pointed to a couple of rows of books, "you might find what you're after in that lot, otherwise I can't help you." She turned on her heels and stormed off.

"Jeez, what's up her bum?" Tom asked as soon as she was out of earshot. I'd already started pulling books off the shelf and didn't bother to answer. I handed Tom a book. "Hey, here's one on reincarnation."

Tom looked briefly at the cover and handed it back. "Who's Edgar Cayce?"

"Dunno, probably the author."

"Nah. Look, this guy's the author," he pointed to a name on the book's spine.

"Well I dunno then, it's probably just who the story's about." I flipped through the pages, looking for something worthy to read. "Look," I pointed excitedly to a sentence in the book, "it says that when he gets hypnotised he becomes someone else."

"Show me," Tom snatched the book from me. "Hmm; does too."

I put the book to the side and kept looking. There were lots of books that didn't make much sense, but we eventually got one that claimed to be about real ghost stories. "This one should do." I stacked _In Search of Ghosts_ and the book about reincarnation on top of the two from the children's section and deliberately left the rest on the floor for the librarian to put away. I'm only allowed to borrow four books at a time, so I had to put the book on witchcraft back.

I walked to the counter and handed Miss Uppity the books. I watched while she went through them and took the library cards out, slamming the covers shut after each one was removed. She took a moment to study the cards and then made a show of looking back through the books again. She shook her head and tutted, "You can't borrow these," she said, tapping her long nails on the books about reincarnation and ghosts, "they're not from the children's section."

What? She had to be kidding.

Tom caught up with me at the counter. "What's up?"

I was just about to say something, but the look on her face stopped me in my tracks. "Nothing; I can only borrow from the kid's section, that's all." It was pretty obvious by Miss Uppity's smarmy smile that she had deliberately not told us that I was only allowed to borrow from the children's section, but I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of showing that I cared. Instead, I handed her my library card, "I'll just take these then." I gave her an equally smarmy smile.

She took the relevant details and stamped the due date on the inside of the books. "They're due back in two weeks."

I took the books from her, taking care to avoid any contact with her hand. I slipped the books into my library bag and huffed out without saying thank you.

"I hope your sister's better soon," she taunted.

I pretended not to hear. "Now what?" I asked as soon as we got outside. "How are we going to talk to Shortie if we don't know how to do it?"

"Chrissy reckons she knows what to do. She can show us."

I doubted Chrissy knew as much as she let on, but I agreed she'd have to do.

"Hey Jenny, look what I got for you." Tom reached into the front of his shorts and pulled out a book.

I looked at the front cover and laughed. He'd pinched _The Complete Book of Witchcraft_ that I'd been looking through. It had heaps of stuff in it about how to be a witch. Not that I wanted to be a witch or anything, mind you; I just wanted to learn about them, that's all.

Impressed with my ill-gotten gift, I flipped through the pages to have a better look. "This is unreal. Thanks."

"Serves her right for being such a stuck up bitch."

I'd already forgotten about Miss Uppity. I couldn't wait to get home and start reading my new book.

Chapter 55

Thursday, 4 January 1980

"Quick, Brian's out the back and Mum's in the laundry." I shuffled Chrissy through the house and into my bedroom before anyone saw us. She put the pillowcase she carried on my bed while I shut the door.

"Mum will never notice it's gone," Chrissy said, tipping the pillowcase upside down. "She hasn't used it since the last time with Uncle Pat."

I think what she meant to say was that her mum hasn't used it since _that_ time with Uncle Pat, because it didn't make sense to say that someone hasn't used something since the last time. How else does it get to be the last time? I didn't bother correcting her though. The kids in my class already think I'm square because I always get straight A's on my report card, so I try not to point things out like Chrissy's poor grammar. It only reinforces what they say about me if I do.

I picked up the box and studied the lid. I'd never seen a real Ouija board before. I'd seen one on the television, so I had some idea of what they looked like, but I'd never seen one up close. I always thought it was spelled _Weeja_ not _Ouija_ , but I didn't tell Chrissy that. The picture on the front showed two people with their fingers resting on a triangular plastic thing.

"That's called a planchette," Chrissy informed me, pointing to the triangle. "It says so in the instructions. It moves around all by itself if there's a spirit in the room."

"If it moves by itself, how come they have their hands on it then?"

"I dunno. I'm not an expert you know."

That was news to me. She certainly sounded like one on New Year's Eve. "Can more than two people play?"

"Yes. But they don't all have to touch the planchette. They can if they want to, but only three or four will fit, so the others can just watch. Besides, someone has to write down the answers or you forget what they are."

The whole thing sounded bogus to me, but I couldn't wait to try it anyway. Only one more sleep to go and I'll be able to. Dad doesn't have to start work until late tomorrow, so he agreed to set the tent up early in the morning so we can play in it all day. If it's not too hot, that is. Dad said there's been a fire ban on all week, which means there'll probably be one on tomorrow too, so we won't be able to have a campfire. Even if there isn't a fire ban tomorrow, I doubted Dad would let me have a campfire anyway. He'll say we're too young or it's too dangerous, or some such Boy Scout thing. It doesn't matter that much anyway. Even though I love fires, I'm happy to have a campout without one. I'm just happy to have a campout full stop.

So far, I've got four candles and a box of matches stashed in the cubby house. Two of the candles I made with my candle-making kit and the other two I nicked from the laundry cupboard where Mum keeps them in case of a blackout. The matches came from the bowl on the wall unit. I took them from the bottom, so Mum would never know they were gone. I even got some old plates to stick the candles onto. They're still under my bed with the library books. I planned to take them down to the cubby as soon as Tom arrived.

I told Chrissy to put the Ouija board under my bed also. Mum would have a cow if she saw it. I still hadn't figured out how to get it to the cubby, but I could work that out later.

"What else do we want to take?" Chrissy asked.

It was a shame I couldn't use my walkie-talkie because the batteries were flat; it would've been perfect for a campout. I asked Mum to buy me some new batteries but she said she was broke. Tom and Ed said they would bring torches so we could play spotlight and I already had some games picked out to take. I sorted through the pile of things I had stacked in my corner. So far I had the Magna-Doodle, Mastermind, Uno, and Snakes and Ladders. Sitting on the top of the pile was my favourite pet rock. Tom reckons it looks like Lavern from the _Lavern and Shirley Show_ , so that's what I named it. His is called Malcolm after the Prime Minister. Only, he stuck horns on it so it looks more like a devil than the Prime Minister.

"How about Monopoly, I got it for Christmas. If you want, I can ask Mum if I'm allowed to bring it."

"Mnh-mnh, Monopoly's boring. Besides, I reckon we have enough games, don't you?" I didn't mean to hurt her feelings, but the look on her face told me I had, so I quickly thought of something to say to make up for it. "I wish we had a radio or cassette player though."

Chrissy's face brightened again. "I've got a trannie I could bring. It's not very big, but it's still pretty loud."

"Tops, we can listen to the countdown on 2KO."

Chrissy remembered something and frowned. "I think the batteries are flat though."

So much for that idea. "Hey, I know. Maybe Dad will let me put his record player from the shed in the tent. It has a radio on it we could listen to, that way we won't need batteries; just an extension cord."

I told Chrissy to wait in my room while I went to ask Mum what time Dad would be home from work. Mum was sitting at the table with Mrs O'Reilly having a cup of tea. When I came into the dining room, they stopped what they were saying and looked at me. I must have interrupted something good, because they weren't about to continue while I was standing there. "What time is Dad getting home?" I asked.

"Around five-thirty. Why?"

"Nothing, I just want to ask him something that's all." Pretending to look for my Slinky, I walked into the lounge room where I could listen in on their conversation. Experience told me that they'd be straight back to gossiping as soon as I left the room. I wasn't disappointed.

"Who's the father?" asked Mrs O'Reilly.

"Marion thinks its Shane Morley, but Kellie won't say."

"It wouldn't surprise me. That Shane's a lout of a kid."

Shane is Jason Morley's older brother. He's in Kate and Tracy's form at school. I tried to work out who Kellie was. I assumed it was Kellie Downie, Mack's big sister, but I wasn't sure.

"Is she going to keep it?"

"I think so. Marion made another appointment for her for a month's time."

I don't know if Mack's mum's name was Marion or not, I just call her Mrs Downie. Next time I see Mack, I'd have to remember to ask him. "Silly girl," said Mrs O'Reilly. "She'll have to drop out of school. What form is she in; she can't be in more than fifth form."

"Fourth," Mum corrected, "she's in the same year as Kate and Tracey."

I made some noise so Mum would think I was looking for my Slinky instead of earwigging on them like I really was. I was just about to go back in when Mrs O'Reilly said something that made me wait. "Poor Marion, now she'll have another mouth to feed. As if five isn't enough. The twins aren't even at school yet and now she has another one to bring up."

They were definitely talking about Kellie Downie. I knew that Mack had twin brothers who didn't go to school yet.

"Marion isn't the one having a baby," Mum said, "Kellie is. You never know, she just might make a good go of it. She seems like a sensible girl."

"Sensible girls have abortions, not babies."

Having got the information I was after, I walked back into the dining room and down the hallway. "Find your Slinky?" Mrs O'Reilly asked.

"Nuh." I closed the door to my bedroom. Chrissy was sitting on my bed reading _The October Child_. She put it on my bedside table and looked at me expectantly. I stared back. "What?"

"Well? When's your dad gonna be home?"

"Oh yeah. Mum said he'd be home at five-thirty. Do you know what an abortion is?"

Chrissy looked confused. "Huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I was just wondering what it is that's all. I heard Mrs O'Reilly say it when I was out there."

"I think it's something you have if your periods don't work properly."

I knew what periods were. The school had a sex education night for fifth and sixth classers. The parents were invited also, so Mum made Dad go with me. She said it was I good idea for fathers to get involved in that sort of thing. As it turned out, no one shared her view, because Dad was the only man there. He didn't mind though, he said he had a good time. He kept making fun of the lady who was running the show, especially when she was telling everyone how babies were made. He said she was too ugly to know for sure and that she'd have to rely on books to find out.

He was right; she _was_ pretty ugly. She looked like a bulldog.

"How don't they work properly?" I asked.

"Dunno. I overheard my mum say once that Lisa Henderson had an abortion. When I asked her what it was, she said it was an operation to fix her periods."

"But you don't have periods when you're pregnant."

"So; what's that got to do with it?"

I nearly told Chrissy what I'd overheard, but I knew she'd blab to everyone and I'd get into trouble for listening in. "Nothing." I decided to write it in my diary with everything else I wanted to ask Clare. I reckon she'd know what an abortion was for sure.

"What do ya wanna do now?" I asked. Tom wouldn't be here for another couple of hours or so. He'd gone with his parents to visit his sister. She lives at Wyee, which is half an hour away, and he wasn't coming back until after lunch. We'd already arranged to go to Ed's place for a swim in his pool when Tom got back. Hopefully Mrs Ricci will have some of her homemade punch again.

"Let's go see what Raelene's up to," Chrissy suggested.

***

We rode our bikes to Raelene's place. When we got there, she was playing cricket on the vacant land behind her back yard with her brothers and some of his friends. "It's not fair; I always have to field. When do I get to bat?" she complained.

Raelene's brother, Mark, watched us approach. "Hey Raelene, your friends are here. Still want to play?"

Raelene stood just past the back fence with her back to us. She had her legs spread wide and was hunched forward in anticipation for the six that might come her way. In response to her brother's question, she turned around to face us. She stood up straight and ran towards us, calling over her shoulder as she went. "I'm not playing any more. Find someone else to field."

"Good riddance," said Mark.

"What are you doing?" asked Raelene as she caught up with us.

"We just came to see if you want to come and play," Chrissy answered.

"Sure, gimme a second to get my pushie."

We waited while Raelene got her bike. I could feel Mark watching us from where he stood waiting to bowl. I turned around and looked over at him where he stood. He gave me a wave and called out. "Hi Jenny, wanna play?"

Raelene's brother's a spunk. He's almost thirteen and all the girls think he's cute; me included, although I'd never admit that to anyone. Besides, just because he's cute, doesn't mean I like him or anything. "Nah," I called back, "we're going for a ride."

"No worries, maybe next time."

"Yeah, maybe."

"I reckon he's got a crush on you," Chrissy said.

"He has not."

"Has too."

"Don't be a retard. Just because he asked if I wanted to play cricket, doesn't mean he has a crush on me."

"I can tell by the way he looks at you. Look at him. He's all smoochy." Chrissy put on her best lovesick voice. "Jenny, wanna come and play cricket. Jenny, I have a crush on you. Jenny, I want to..."

"Shut up," I blurted. "You're just jealous, that's all."

Dad always says that people only make fun of you because they're jealous. He reckons that only people that are insecure about themselves make fun of other people. I don't necessarily agree with him. I make fun of Brian all the time, but that's only because he's got dog's breath, not because I'm jealous of him.

Raelene got her bike from where she'd dumped it near her back steps and joined us. 'Where are we going?' she asked.

I looked over to Chrissy and repeated the question, "Where we going?"

She shrugged. "Dunno."

Well, one thing's for certain, we couldn't stand around all day being ogled by Mark and his friends. "Let's go for a ride to Eddy's corner," I suggested, "I've still got most of my Christmas money left." Nanna sent me a card for Christmas with four dollars' worth of twenty-cent pieces stuck on the inside. So far, I'd only spent forty cents to buy some gobstoppers. I was planning on spending the rest on stuff for the campout.

Hopefully Grandma would be on today and she might give me extra.

Chapter 56

Sunday, 15 December 1968

The walking trail wound through a clump of trees at the end of the yard and meandered into the forest. Maggie stepped under the canopy and felt the temperature drop significantly, her clammy skin instantly chilled, her lungs filled with cool, clean air. She stopped to savour the moment, taking a couple of deep breaths and exhaling slowly through her nose. It felt good to be outside and walking, her tummy ache all but gone, the flow of blood no worse than a period.

She hadn't gotten over the disappointment of losing the baby; that would take a lifetime, she knew. Maggie had wanted Peter's child more than anything in the world and had believed that a baby was the perfect way to consolidate their feelings for each other. Given what she knew now, Maggie had to question the appropriateness of her beliefs. If their marriage didn't make it through this mess, then surely a baby would be a constant reminder of their failure.

Maggie tried not to think about the significance of losing the baby. She knew that no matter what the outcome of her and Peter's relationship, she would have loved it dearly. Yet, for whatever reason, it was not to be. The realisation of this fact hurt more than anything Peter had done and she knew that she had to be strong if she was to get through the ordeal with any semblance of her former self intact.

Determined not to mope, she continued on the path, cautious of not walking too fast and missing anything along the way. As she rounded the bend, a wallaby jumped across her path, startling her. She waited for her heart to return to its normal rhythm before setting off again. She held her arms out beside her for balance as she crossed the mossy tree that had fallen across the creek, forming a bridge. The creek was too wide and too deep to cross directly. Unless she wanted to follow its path for a mile or so downstream to where it was narrow enough to cross, the only way to get to the other side was via the fallen tree.

Maggie recalled the first summer they had spent at the cottage. The tree had gone over in the most magnificent electrical storm she had ever seen. The rain and lightning battered the cottage relentlessly for hours, yet the next morning, the place looked so lush and fresh, that it was hard to believe the storm had ever occurred; until they had wandered down to the creek and noticed the old tree that had fallen, that is. At the time, Maggie had been sad to see such a majestic tree uprooted so violently, but the kids had been delighted by its misfortune as they now had a quicker means of crossing the creek and exploring what was on the other side.

Bending down to pick up a stick to lean on while she climbed the steep hill, Maggie noticed the abundance of life that graced the forest floor. A millipede scurried in front of her shoe and under a nearby rock. On top of the lichen-covered boulder, a bright green tree frog croaked, its chin puffing up with every breath. To the right of her foot, a decaying log with orange fungus sprouting from its upended base housed a colony of white ants, it centre softened by rot and hollowed by a thousand tiny feet. She straightened up, and with the help of her stick, trekked up the path, not stopping until she reached the plateau above.

By the time she arrived at the top, she was breathless, a thin layer of sweat forming on her back. Wishing she'd thought to bring some water with her, she took a moment to catch her breath. She smiled at her surroundings. Despite the thick growth of trees and abundance of ferns that bordered the clearing in which she stood, Maggie could see through the gaps as far as the cottage, and further. The cottage looked much smaller standing on top of the stony ledge. But, then again, so did everything from that height. She was a fair way up the mountain, but not nearly all the way to the top. The climbing became too hard from that point onwards. Maggie knew from experience that if she continued through the bush to her right she would be able to walk for as long as she was happy to do so. There was no distinct path as such, but she had always been able to make her way through the foliage without too much trouble.

On this occasion, she didn't bother going any further. Instead, she sat on a smooth rock and, leaning against another, took her shoes and socks off. She wiggled her toes. It felt good to feel the air encircling them and she felt her body cool once more. She stayed that way for what seemed like ages but in actual fact was no more than three quarters of an hour, according to her watch. Listening to the Kookaburras call from unseen heights, and hearing the Bellbirds sing their familiar song, Maggie finally felt some of the tension seep from her body. It felt good to let it go. At first she was anxious that she wouldn't be able to maintain her rage if she became too mellow, but then she gave in to the soothing voices of the forest. Staying angry was not a constructive approach to take; she knew that now. That didn't mean that Peter was off the hook, far from it. It meant that if she weren't so uptight and angry then she would be in a much better frame of mind to assess her options without interference from the negative energy that had hung above her like a storm cloud.

***

Refreshed from her walk, Maggie kicked off her shoes at the back door and went inside to select some music. It was the first time since her arrival that she had felt well enough to listen to music. She took her time flicking through the collection of records she had bought with her. She needed to pick wisely. Although her mood had improved somewhat, there were still a number of records that posed too much of a risk in her fragile state. Hendrix, for example, he was definitely out of the question. She and Peter always played Hendrix when they visited the cottage, especially if they were alone. They would put on his latest record, sit on the back veranda sharing a joint, and mull over the meaning of life.

Then there were the Byrds; another one of their favourite albums, and another big risk. Maggie knew that she would not be able to listen to "Turn! Turn! Turn!" without hearing Peter's voice sing along to the lyrics, or worst still, remembering the lovemaking that invariably took place, sometimes outside, under the stars with nothing except a blanket between their naked bodies and the bare earth.

Maggie narrowed her selection to two; Simon and Garfunkel's _Wednesday Morning 3am_ and Creedence Clearwater Revival. She discarded Creedence when she remembered that she had bought it for Peter a couple of months ago after he had heard them playing on the wireless and wouldn't stop raving about them. She remembered how delighted he had been with her for buying it for him, especially since there was no special occasion. She had told him that he had been special enough to not warrant an occasion, and he had hugged her for it and told her how lucky he was that she was his.

So settled, she put Creedence back and kept Simon and Garfunkel. Besides – a wicked look crossed her face – Peter hated Simon and Garfunkel, he thought they sounded too wholesome and they got on his nerves. She took the record out of its sleeve and carefully placed it on the record player. Then, turning it up just loud enough to hear from the veranda, she selected a book from the same box. She had given up on Ducasse. She had found his critical analysis of life after death too tedious. Instead, she opened another book and firmly folded the spine back so that it would stay open more easily. She scanned a few pages. This will do, she thought, slamming it shut again and taking it outside with her. Then, without further ado, she reclaimed her usual seat and buried her head in its pages.

It was almost dark by the time she looked up again. Maggie checked her watch. She had been reading for hours and was well into the book, the album long finished. It was not the first time she had read about Edgar Cayce; thus far she had read two biographies on the remarkable man, both of which were fascinating. However, unlike his biographies, which gave an overview of his complete works, _Many Mansions_ focused solely on his readings that dealt with reincarnation.

Reading his meticulously recorded accounts, Maggie felt excited. She had long been enthralled with the concept of reincarnation but had never before found the topic so personal. It wasn't because she had an inkling of a previous life either, although she had not dismissed the idea as a possibility; she found it personal because of the limitless promise contained in the notion. Maggie had always held out hope for a future life, but never as strongly as she did at that moment. In fact, the degree to which she longed for it to be true took her by surprise. The idea of having another chance with Peter, only the next time getting it right – the baby, their fidelity, even the possibility of sharing their childhood together as Maggie had always dreamed – it was all there, tied up in the notion of reincarnation.

Oh, how she hoped it was true, that the soul would be reborn and live again. She never claimed to understand the intricacies of reincarnation any better than the next person, and often found it difficult to defend her faith in something that many people saw as nonsense, yet for reasons even she couldn't explain, she did believe. Only, now she realised that she was afraid to show as much faith as she always had, for fear she would somehow jinx it all.

Maggie scoffed at her silliness. What difference did it make if she believed or not; you were either reborn or you weren't. No amount of wishful thinking could make it – or not make it – so. She put the book down and stood up to stretch, the gurgling noises in her stomach told her that it was time for food. Tonight, Maggie did not plan on suffering through another tin of condensed soup and black tea. While she was out she had managed to find a corner store that had sold everything from fresh fruit and vegetables, to cold cuts. The shopkeeper, who was also the owner of the butcher's shop next door, had obviously felt she was in need of a good feed because he offered to sell her some sausages and lamb chops as well, despite the butcher's shop being closed on Sundays.

With the sink full of water, Maggie peeled off some lettuce leaves, tossed in a cucumber and two tomatoes. Next, she opened a tin of beetroot and sliced some cheese on to a plate. Tonight, she would eat well. Lamb chops and mint sauce accompanied with a tossed salad, a glass of cold cordial and a Violet Crumble bar for dessert. She flung a couple of loin chops into the frying pan and was about to throw another couple in when she remembered she was only cooking for one. "Silly me," she said to her reflection in the kitchen window, and smiled.

It was a sure sign she was on the mend. A short time ago, the mere thought of accidentally cooking for Peter would have been sufficient to reduce her to tears.

Chapter 57

Monday, 16 December 1968

The blinding light shone in through the window, informing Peter that he had slept in. The clock concurred; it was almost ten thirty. "Shit," he jumped up and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. "Shit," he said again when he remembered what a mess his life was at that moment. For a split second he had forgotten about the situation he was in and was merely reacting to the late hour. Today, however, the late hour was not a major problem. He didn't have to go to work, and there was no one home but himself. Unless Stephen had returned that is. He had bought Peter's car back last night while Peter was dozing in front of the television, but he must have gone straight back out again because he was not in the house when Peter woke up.

Peter emptied his bladder before peeking in Stephen's room. The room was empty. Peter decided he would make himself breakfast before ringing Mark's place to see if he was there. He put the kettle on and filled the sink with hot, soapy water. If he didn't wash the dishes soon, they'd walk away on their own. He dumped the pile of plates into the water, splashing a mound of bubbles onto the linoleum in the process. He didn't bother to clean up the spill. Instead, he made himself a cup of strong coffee and sat on the back veranda sipping it.

The day was going to be another scorcher, he could tell. Already it was too hot to be outside without a shirt on. It was just bearable sitting in the shade where he was. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. All around him, life went on as usual. Elvis barked loudly next door, the Stefanadis' toiled away in their vegetable garden, and cars sped by on the road out front, yet for Peter, it was almost as though the world had stopped turning. For someone that was always busy, he suddenly had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

He studied a row of ants walking along the footpath carrying crumbs of bread twice their size. He had dropped a stale crust on his way to the bin that morning, preferring to leave it for the ants than to pick it up. He watched as the tiny creatures carted away the evidence of his laziness and considered what to do with the rest of his day. The phone rang. No doubt it would be Stephen, he thought, as he got up to answer it.

He was wrong; it was the car yard ringing to let him know that his car would be ready for pickup tomorrow morning. For someone that had been so excited by the prospect of a new car a week ago, he was remarkably unperturbed by the news. He also had the added complication of having to pick the car up with no one around to assist. The car yard was in Parramatta and he needed someone to either drop him there or ride with him and bring his old car back. Maggie had said that she would do it, but now she couldn't and he doubted Stephen would be around to help, which only left Roger.

In his current state, Peter didn't really feel like speaking to Roger but knew that he had no other options, so he reluctantly dialled his brother's number. Mary answered the phone with her usual degree of cheerfulness. Obviously, whatever sins Roger had committed the last time they had been to visit had already been forgiven. Peter sighed. If only Maggie were as forgiving as Mary. No, he immediately reassured himself, he didn't really mean that, in fact it was unfair of him to think so. Maggie was far more challenging and less accepting than Mary, it was true, but Peter knew that he wouldn't have had it any other way.

Except maybe just this once, he thought.

He put on his most pleasant voice and explained the purpose of his call to his sister-in-law. Mary assured him that Roger didn't have to start until later in the day, as he was working the afternoon shift all week, and yes, he would love to help. By the way, was Maggie home, she asked, she had lost her recipe for plum pudding and was hoping Maggie had one.

Peter considered telling Mary that Maggie had gone shopping but didn't want to lie to her, so he told her the truth. "Maggie's at the cottage already. She left early, so I can't ask her for you, sorry."

Then, much to Peter's surprise, and eternal gratitude, Mary simply said, "Oh, I see. Never mind then, I'll give Dolores a ring, I'm sure she'll have one."

Peter didn't know who Dolores was, and he didn't ask. Instead, he thanked Mary for her time and hung up the phone. His cigarette had burned down while he was on the phone. The long tube of ash that had curled up at the end threatened to fall. Peter cupped one hand under the cigarette and went back outside to finish his coffee. He closed his eyes and thought about what to do next. Now that he knew when his car was arriving, he could make plans to meet Maggie at the cottage. He had spoken to Mr Kildey yesterday afternoon, who confirmed that Maggie had arrived safely, but Peter hadn't bothered to leave a message for her, there was no point. But now there was. He would ring and tell Mr Kildey to let Maggie know that he and Stephen would be arriving tomorrow afternoon. That would give him plenty of time to collect his car, load it up with some stuff for the trip, and arrive at Martinsville while it was still light.

Somewhat buoyed by his new plans, Peter went inside to call Mr Kildey. He had no sooner made his call and sat back down, when he heard a car pull up out front. It was Mark. He appeared to be waiting for Stephen to get something from inside, because he left the engine running while Stephen raced into the house. Not wanting to miss him for the second time, Peter stubbed out his freshly lit cigarette and hurried inside. He could hear Stephen in his bedroom and approached his open door with a degree of trepidation. "Where are you off to," he enquired.

"Out."

"Out where?" Peter tried again.

"Dunno yet, anywhere but here."

Peter was in no mood for insolence. He was hoping to get an opportunity to speak with Stephen, and see if he could patch things up before their trip tomorrow. "Look, no matter what you might think about me right now I'm still your father and I still expect some respect. I don't mind if you go to Mark's place, but I expect you to let me know where you are and what you are doing."

Stephen went to speak, but Peter silenced him by raising his hand. "And, maybe not right way, but sometime soon, we need to talk. It's just not right the way things are."

Stephen glared at his father. "There's nothing to talk about. We're through."

"There's no need to be like that," Peter advised.

"Yes there is, and I'm going out and you can't stop me. I'm eighteen and I'll bloody well do as I please."

"Well, that's a mature approach for an eighteen year old, I must say." As soon as his words were out, Peter regretted them. If he kept reacting to Stephen's moods, nothing would improve between them. He tried a different tact. "Have you seen Jane lately?" he asked.

Stephen answered with a question of his own. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing I suppose, I just wanted to see how things were going, that's all. Believe it or not, I care about you."

Stephen gave his father a look of disbelief. "What would you care if I saw her or not, she's not your girlfriend, she's mine."

Peter returned his son's look with one of compassion. As far as he was concerned, Stephen couldn't have given a worse response. Based on what he had said, Jane was still in the picture, and that could only be bad for Stephen. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said with much less hostility. "I know you don't want to believe the things that I said the other day, and I'm truly sorry for the cruel way that I said them, but, I gotta tell you son, they were all true."

"You believe what you want to believe," the fire in his son's eyes flared up, "and let me worry about what I believe, okay?"

So that was the sum of it then, Peter thought sadly. Stephen had opted to believe only what suited him, and nothing Peter had said had fit that category. In a way, he didn't really blame him, but he did feel sorry for him. He had so desperately wanted to save him from the pain that Jane was bound to inflict, but, as Stephen had pointed out, he was no longer a child. Peter had known the time would come when he would have to let Stephen make his own decisions; he was just devastated that his first attempt at doing so was bound to end in disaster.

"My car arrives tomorrow," Peter continued, "I was hoping to join your mother at the cottage afterwards. Can you please make sure you're home by lunch time, so that we can get away at a reasonable hour?"

"I'm not coming," Stephen advised, "I'm staying here."

"What," said Peter, unable to hide the shock in his voice, "what do you mean, you're not coming?"

Stephen looked uncomfortable. When he spoke, his voice was almost unrecognisable, the anger made him sound older somehow. "I'm staying home. Maybe I'll catch up in a few days or so, maybe I won't. Besides, Mum won't care; it'll give you plenty of time to grovel. Who knows, she might even be dumb enough to let you off the hook without scratching your eyes out for what you did."

While Peter had to agree that a couple of days alone with Maggie was just what he needed, he was too concerned about what his son wasn't telling him to think about the benefits of his proposal. "Don't pretend that you're staying home just so your mother and I can be alone," Peter challenged, "I didn't come down in the last shower you know."

Peter knew what his son's response was going to be before he said it. "I never said that was the only reason," said Stephen, confirming Peter's worst fear.

"It's because of her isn't it?" Peter demanded.

Stephen shrugged. "Yeah, so? She asked me to go to a Christmas party that she and her uni friends are throwing and I said I would. Got a problem with that?"

"And where does that leave our holiday at the cottage?" Peter asked.

"I assumed we wouldn't be going to the cottage after you stuffed things up so badly with Mum."

Peter flinched. When it was all said and done, that's exactly what he had done; he had stuffed things up with Maggie. But, hearing Stephen say it so candidly was like a slap in the face. He tried not to think about his own discomfort. Instead he focused on what Stephen was telling him. After everything that Peter had told him about Jane, he was still planning on pursuing his relationship with her. Peter's initial response was to tell Stephen to wake up to himself and insist that he come to the cottage, but he had to ask what good that would do. His son was angry enough with him already. Stopping him from being with his girlfriend, no matter how much Peter disagreed with him on the matter, was bound to make matters worse. Besides, Peter had already told Stephen everything he could to enable him to make a choice. It was now up to Stephen to make it.

Unfortunately, thought Peter, it appeared as though he already had.

Chapter 58

Friday, 4 January 1980

"Jenny! Hold it still." Dad was trying to get the centre pole to stay in place without the whole tent falling over. Tom and I stood at the front of the tent holding a corner each and Kate and Tracy held the poles at the back. I was too busy talking to Tom to pay much attention to what was happening and without realising it, the corner of the tent that I was supposed to be supporting had sagged towards the middle. I had to brace myself with my feet apart so that I could pull the pole back up and straighten the whole thing out without falling in on top of it.

"That's it, if everyone can hold it still for a sec; I'll come and hammer the pegs in." Dad said it looked like I was about to burst a blood vessel, so he came and did my corner first. It was a relief to have the weight of the tent off my shoulder. Next he hammered Tom's corner in before relieving Tracy and Kate from their posts.

"There you go." Dad stood back with his hands on his hips, admiring his handiwork. Big enough to sleep all of us, the tent filled a large part of the back yard. The front half was made from fly screen and the back half from canvas. I got Dad to set it up with the doorway facing the back fence so that no one would be able to see us sneak out to play spotlight in the middle of the night. Plus, I didn't want anyone being able to look into the tent from the back door. Not that I told Dad that was the reason. I just said I wanted the sunroom at the back where it would be in the shade of the big Gum tree that grew behind our fence. The only problem was the ground was covered in gumnuts and I had to rake them all up before the tent went down so they wouldn't make holes in the floor.

"Dad, can I sleep in it too?" Brian looked across to where I stood and gave me a smug look. I'd already warned him that if he asked one more time if he could sleep in the tent I'd punch his face in. Obviously he knew that he was safe with Dad around.

I butted in before Dad could answer. "No you can't. You're too little. Besides, there's not enough room."

"Daaad," he whined, "Jenny said if I asked to sleep in the tent she'd punch my face in."

What a dobber. The little creep was going to cop it when Dad wasn't around. "I did not." I looked at Dad as innocently as I could manage.

Dad ignored Brian's latest complaint. "I don't think so mate. Maybe when you're older you can have a sleepover and invite your friends."

I gave Brian a satisfied smirk. "That means he'll be sleeping on his own."

"Jenny," Dad warned, "don't push it."

Brian stomped off with the shits.

"Let's go get the stuff," Tom suggested.

We carried our sleeping bags and pillows out and set them up in the middle of the room. Chrissy and Raelene were going to sleep next to me, and Ed and Trevor were planning to sleep on Tom's side. Dad let us borrow his gas lantern, but said he would come and turn it on himself when it got dark. He didn't want us playing with fire. Tom and me talked about the best way to get the Ouija board into the tent and decided that the less fuss we made the better, so we put it on the bottom of the pile with the games and carried it straight past Mum and Dad and into the tent. Neither of them batted an eyelid.

We dumped the games in the back room and zipped up the door. We didn't want Brian sneaking around in there going through our stuff. I got the broom out of the laundry and swept the floor of the sunroom. Dad put the folding chairs around the room and set his card table up in the middle with the lantern on top. He dragged his record player into the tent and put it on the table next to the lantern. "Be careful you don't trip over the cord," he warned. "Oh, and make sure you don't spill anything on it. I don't want any fried kids. If it even looks like rain, I'm taking it back in, okay?"

We waited for Dad to leave us alone before going into the back room and zipping up the door. We plonked ourselves down on our sleeping bags and lay back with our hands behind our heads. "When do you think the best time is to have the séance?" I asked Tom.

"When it's really late and everyone's asleep. We don't want anyone barging in on us; it might ruin the whole thing."

I couldn't wait. If what Clare had said was right, then Shortie would be in Summerland, not Heaven. If you ask me, I reckon Summerland sounds like a much better place, so I'm glad he's there instead. I never got the chance to ask Clare about it on Christmas day because there were too many people around, but I still have all the questions written in my diary for the next time I see her. I had a look through the books I got from the library, but they didn't really tell us how to do a séance. The Ghost story book is not even spooky, but at least it talks about some of the things ghosts do. Some of them are friendly, but lots of them aren't. As for _Uncle Gustav's Ghosts_ , I'm not finished with that yet, but so far, I do know that ghosts can move fast and that they can't get knocked up.

In the end, we decided we'd just do what it says in the Ouija board instructions and see what happens. I hope it works. It's been hard not having Shortie around. We were so used to him being with us all the time and being a part of everything. I really miss him. I try not to think about it too much, but I can't help it. I still think it's my fault he got bashed up and I feel really bad that I never even got to say sorry, or goodbye. I haven't heard anything more about the Dumbrells either. No one knows where they moved to or what happened to Dean and Duncan.

I hope they're in that boys home by now.

I've come close to telling Tom what they did to me a couple of times, but I never go through with it in the end. It's too embarrassing to talk about, even to Tom. Besides, he might not like me anymore if he knows. That would be worse than anything the Dumbrells could do to me.

"I'm dying to have a go at the Ouija board, aren't you?" I asked.

Tom nodded. "What if we get a different ghost than Shortie?"

I hadn't thought of that. "I dunno. If we just ask for Shortie, it should be okay."

Talking about the séance reminded me that I needed to get a pen and some paper so we could write things down. I left Tom in the tent and ran inside to get them. Brian was still nagging Dad to let him sleep in the tent, but luckily Dad wasn't budging.

On the way out of my bedroom I spotted Hendrix looking at me from where he sat on top of my roughly made bed. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to take him before now. I picked him up and tucked him under my arm. I walked past Brian on the way out and resisted the urge to rub his face in the fact that he wasn't allowed to sleep out with us. Mum was just as likely to overrule Dad if I did that.

***

We sat in the screened part of the tent playing Mastermind. I'd already won two games and now Raelene was versing Trevor. They were still officially going together since Trevor asked her on New Year's Eve. Raelene told me that he even gave her a goodnight kiss after the fireworks.

"Tea's ready!" Dad called to us from the corner of the yard. We piled out of the tent and lined up near the barbeque. We were having sausages and onions on hotdog rolls for tea. Mum said there were too many kids to cook anything else, plus it was too hot to cook in the house. Dad put a sausage and some onion on each of our rolls and we helped ourself to the tomato sauce. "Better not take them into the tent," he warned, "if I know you kids, you'll make too much mess."

We sat in a circle on the grass eating our bread rolls. Everyone was really excited about the campout. Well, everyone except Brian, that is. He was still sulking because he had to sleep inside. We all brought lots of yummy food to eat and couldn't wait for it to get dark.

Dad served Kate and Tracy and gave a roll to Brian to take inside for Mum. Once all the food was gone, he scraped down the barbeque and stacked up the cooking utensils ready to take inside. "What are you kids going to do tonight?" he asked.

Everyone looked at me expectantly.

"Lots of things," I offered, "we've got a whole heap of games and we're going to listen to the Top 40 on the radio and play spotlight when it gets dark."

"I don't want you wandering around in the bush after dark."

"We won't," I assured him, "we'll stay in the yard."

Satisfied we had nothing too radical planned, Dad left us alone and took his gear inside. "Do you think he knows," asked Ed.

"Why, what makes you think that?"

"Because he asked us what we were doing tonight."

I shrugged. "Nah, he was just being polite, that's all."

Raelene giggled. "I can't wait. I've never spoken to a ghost before."

"Shush, don't talk too loud. I wouldn't be surprised if fart face is spying on us."

Yelling loudly and tapping his hand against his mouth, Trevor got up and ran around the tent pretending to be an Indian. After finishing a lap, he stopped his war cry and sat back down. "Coast is clear," he reported, "not a fart face within a mile of this fort."

I still thought it was a bad idea to talk about the séance, so I thought about something else to talk about instead. "Let's go to the cubby and get the candles."

Tom and Trevor followed me to the cubby. I moved the branches away from the front door and went inside. I reached under the seat for the candles but couldn't find them. "Don't tell me that little shit's been in here. He's gonna die when I catch him."

Tom lifted the seat up so we could look all the way under. Luckily for Brian, the candles were still there. They'd rolled to the back of the seat and had wedged against the wall of the cubby. I picked them up and dusted the dirt off. The orange one with the red love heart and the blue one with the white circles were the same ones we used on New Year's Eve. Apart from a few scratches and dents, they were still good and had ages left to burn. The other two were much taller and thinner and were going to be harder to keep upright without proper candleholders.

The matches were also where I'd left them. I picked them up and tore off a match. Instead of crackling to life when I struck it, the tip crumbled off leaving me with a soggy stick of cardboard.

"Bloody hell," said Trevor, "they're wet."

"Now what?" Tom asked.

"I'll have to get some more from inside." I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to do that. Mum and Dad usually watched television after tea, so the lounge room would be occupied.

***

Dad turned the gas lantern off and unplugged his record player so no one would trip over the cord in the dark. "Goodnight kids. Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite."

It was almost ten thirty and Mum and Dad were going to bed. We were still sitting in the sunroom pigging out on lollies and chips when Dad turned the light out. "Don't stay up too late," he said, stepping out of the tent and zipping it up behind him. "I'll leave the back veranda light on so you can see what you're doing if you need to use the toilet."

Even though the gaslight was out, the room was not that dark. Between the moonlight shining through on one side and the back veranda light on the other, there was just enough light to make out who everyone was. We didn't mind. It meant we could save the torch batteries for playing spotlight.

Speaking of spotlight, I thought we should play it before the séance just in case we were too frightened to play in the dark afterwards. Of course I never told the others that was the reason. I said I wanted to be certain everyone in the house was asleep for sure before lighting the candles. Besides, I still hadn't got the matches from inside. I was waiting for Mum and Dad to go to sleep and then I was going to sneak in and get them.

As soon as Dad left, Ed asked, "who wants to hear a ghost story?"

Ed's always making up stories, some of them are even pretty good. He's won awards and everything. He reckons he's going to be a writer when he grows up. I'm hopeless at making up stories. I can never think of a good ending. I've won awards from the Sun Herald for my paintings and drawings, though. Mum's got a whole stack of them saved.

"Is it one of yours?" Chrissy asked.

He sounded defensive. "Why, does it matter?"

"No, I just like your stories, that's all."

"Oh." Even though I couldn't make out his face in detail, I swear he was blushing. "Yeah, it's one of mine. I wrote it when I was off school with Chicken Pox. I probably can't remember all of it but think I can remember enough."

"Come on then, let's hear it," said Tom.

"Let's go in the back room where it's darker," Ed suggested. "It'll help set the mood."

We piled into the back room and zipped the door up. Apart from a thin sliver of light that snuck in around the edge of the tie-down window, the room was pitch-black. Being careful not to sit on anyone in the dark, we arranged ourselves in a circle on the sleeping bags, facing Ed.

Trevor put the torch under his chin, pointed it towards the roof, and turned it on. Only his face lit up, making him appear bodiless. "Oooh...oooh..." he said in a shaky voice, "here lies the body of Trevor Preston."

"That can be arranged," Tom joked.

"Come on," Chrissy whined, "let him tell his story."

Everyone sat quietly and waited for Ed to begin.

"What's the story called?"

"Raelene!"

"What?"

"Just let him start will you," Chrissy insisted, "or I won't show you how to do a séance."

Ed waited a short time to make sure the bickering had stopped. Once he was certain he had everyone's attention, he started. "It's called, "The Ghost of Maxwell Parker"."

"Who's Maxwell Parker?"

Chrissy sighed impatiently at Trevor's interruption.

"Maxwell Parker is the grandson of Old Man Parker."

As if that cleared things up.

"Yeah? And who the hell is Old Man Parker when he's at home?"

"Old Man Parker was a hermit that lived in a log cabin out in the middle of the Watagans."

"Deadset?" Tom questioned, "I've never heard of him."

"It's not true you nong," Chrissy said, "it's just a story."

"Oh no," Ed said seriously, "it's true. I just put it into a story, that's all. It happened about a hundred years ago. That's probably why you never heard of it."

"Really?"

Ed nodded. "Uh huh"

Everyone stopped talking and waited for Ed to continue.

"Ever since his dad died, Max had been getting into all sorts of trouble. At first his mum made excuses for his bad behaviour. He's just lost his dad, he's confused, he doesn't mean any harm; that sort of thing. But after a year or so, Max's behaviour got so out of control that his mother sent him to live with Old Man Parker. She thought it would do him good to get away from the city and go someplace where he couldn't get into trouble.

"Some say Old Man Parker was crazy. He spent all day roaming the forest, looking for bears. He never did find any of course, but he kept up his search until the day he died."

"How did he die?" Tom interrupted.

"No one knows for sure, but the story goes that Max got so sick and tired of the old man, having to live with him, day in and day out, doing the same thing all the time, that he killed him."

"So what happened to Max?" Raelene asked. "Did he go back to his mum's place?"

"Well, this is where it gets interesting. Apparently Max didn't just kill the old man because he thought he was boring and crazy; he killed him in a fit of rage. Max was terrified he would be stuck in the forest for years with no one to talk to except a crazy old man and nothing to do except hunt for bears that didn't exist, so he asked the old man to take him home."

"But the old man refused?" Trevor guessed.

"That's right, he did. Max decided that if the old man wouldn't take him home, he'd run away. So, one night when the old man was sleeping, Max crept into the forest to make his way home. Only, he didn't get far before he realised he had been in the bush so long that he could no longer remember the way home. The next day he asked his grandfather again to show him the way home, but the crazy old man laughed at him and told him the bears would get him if he left.

"Max panicked. He was certain he'd be trapped in the Watagans for good. He tried a number of times that day to persuade the old man to take him home, but the old man refused every time. Eventually Max lost his temper and killed him."

Chrissy jumped in. "That was stupid. Why would you kill the only person who knows the way home?"

Trevor nodded. "Exactly! Now Max will be trapped in the forest forever."

"That's right," Ed confirmed, "he was."

"What do you mean _was_ ," I asked, "did he get out or not?"

"Not exactly," Ed replied. "The story goes that he also went crazy. Only, he didn't go harmless crazy like the old man, he went nasty crazy. He spent his whole life waiting for a chance to have his revenge; only he never got it. Well, at least not until afterwards."

"When afterwards?"

"Afterwards, when he died. The freedom of being a ghost meant he was able to travel anywhere he wanted. Only, he chose to stay in the Watagans so he could get his revenge."

"Did he?" Chrissy questioned.

"Uh huh," Ed nodded, "the very next day after he died, Max's ghost killed a pair of hikers."

Raelene interrupted him this time. "How do you know it was Max's ghost who did it?"

"Because," Ed lowered his voice to a whisper, "the bodies looked like they had been clawed to death by a bear."

"So, maybe a bear got them," she reasoned.

"Don't be a bloody dill," Tom sniggered, "everyone knows there are no bears in the Watagans."

"There are no bears in Australia." I corrected.

"There are so," argued Trevor, "what about Koala Bears?"

Chrissy let out an impatient sigh. "God you're stupid, Trevor. Koalas aren't real bears; they're marsupials."

"Can I please finish this story?" Ed asked.

The tent went quiet.

"The police reports said they were hacked to death with an axe, but others said that it looked like they'd been torn apart by a bear. They even had claw marks on them and everything.

"Also, not long after the hikers were killed, a bunch of loggers said they saw a ghost. They said it was the ghost of a man, but that he was wearing a bear's skin and that he had claws like a bear. They said the ghost had a scar above his right eye and there was a gap in the ghost's eyebrow. Apparently Max Parker had a scar just like it. His mum said he fell down the front stairs when he was a baby and nearly lost his eye."

Everyone sat quietly, waiting to hear the rest of Ed's story.

"Since that day, there's been at least six other murders in the Watagans and an untold number of people reckon they've seen Max's ghost. In fact," Ed leaned forward so that his whisper could be heard by all of us, "some say Max's ghost still lives in the Watagans to this day. If you go camping there, you need to leave your campfire burning all night to scare his ghost away. Apparently, everyone that was murdered let their campfires go out during the night."

I was suddenly sorry that the fire ban meant we couldn't have a campfire tonight. We were a fair way from the Watagans, but Ed's story had still managed to give me the creeps.

In an attempt to cover his jumpiness, Trevor pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them around. "Who wants a smoke?" They were the same packet he'd knocked off from Mr Morley on New Year's eve.

Grateful for the distraction, I reached over and took out a cigarette. Tom and Ed did the same. Chrissy and Raelene declined.

Trevor pulled out a lighter from inside the packet and reached over to light my smoke.

"Hey, where did you get that?" I asked.

"From the kitchen drawer. Why?"

"You were going to send me in for a box of matches and you had a lighter the whole time."

Trevor looked at his lighter. "Yeah, did too. Sorry, I forgot."

Tom hit him across the head with his pillow. "You bloody twit."

I was secretly relieved. I didn't feel much like walking through the yard in the dark and venturing into an even darker house to get the matches.

Chapter 59

Tuesday, 17 December 1968

Maggie poured herself a cup of tea and lit her first cigarette for the day. Surveying her tranquil surroundings, she had trouble believing that only three days had passed since her nightmare had begun. It felt much longer than that. Despite the early hour, the sun was burning bright and hot. The _squawk_ , _squawk_ of young Magpies somewhere off to the side of the cottage drowned out the Bellbirds' usual song. Maggie was reminded of the Magpie that had come to visit the past couple of days and wondered if the hungry chicks belonged to her.

She stood up and smoothed the front of her kaftan. A pair of vibrantly coloured Rosellas eyed her boldly as she walked down the back steps and into the shade of the Oleander tree that grew beside the veranda. Maggie knew that if she took the time to look, she would find lots of black and orange caterpillars crawling amongst the pink blooms and waxy green leaves, perhaps a few silver chrysalises in the midst of metamorphosis. Already she had seen a number of the familiar butterflies fluttering about, as well as other lime green and white ones.

More interested in the squawking Magpies than the caterpillars, Maggie rounded the corner to get a better look at the family of birds feeding on her lawn. It was not the same bird that had befriended her on her arrival; this one was much larger and had a whiter face. Content to stand and watch the two younger birds vying for their mother's offerings, there was no denying Maggie felt better than she had in days. So much so that she considered what she would do with the rest of her day and even included Christmas shopping on her list of possibilities. It was not unlike Maggie to leave her gift buying until the last minute. If truth were told, she left it this late every year, only this time she felt justified in her tardiness.

Having made up her mind to spend some money, Maggie decided that she would stand a better chance of completing her shopping if she ventured as far as Toronto. Morisset was closer, but it undoubtedly had less to offer than Toronto, and Martinsville and Dora Creek were out of the question when it came to shopping for anything other than groceries.

Maggie stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it into the ashtray on her way inside. She decided she would change into a pair of shorts and a blouse in anticipation of what looked to be a hot day. She didn't bother clearing up her breakfast dishes; they'd still be there for her when she got home, so what did it matter? Thankful that she had not found the time to bank her and Peter's last week's wages, she flicked through the notes in her purse with a sense of satisfaction. There was more than enough money to fund a Christmas shopping expedition and still have plenty left over for the rest of her stay.

Thinking about the remainder of her time at the cottage, she supposed she had better call Peter and let him know that she was okay. She had been putting it off until now knowing that he would be expecting her decision on whether or not she wanted him to join her. She had spent some time while she was lying in bed that morning thinking about just that. She didn't think it was fair on the kids not to let Peter come and stay. Although Michelle was not planning on visiting until after Christmas, Maggie had already arranged for her and Peter to call in at Bea's sometime before Christmas and see Michelle. To call off their trip now would pose too many difficult questions. Besides, Stephen would still be expecting his annual holiday. To prevent him from coming because of something he had nothing to do with would be selfish.

Maggie decided that she would call Peter after she had finished her shopping. She disliked shopping as it was, and since she had no idea how the conversation with Peter would pan out, she didn't want to risk spoiling her surprisingly good mood by calling him first.

***

All of Peter's enthusiasm returned the moment he laid eyes on his new car. Its metal skin shone and sparkled just like the advertisement, thereby confirming Peter's choice of Warwick Yellow over the Picardy Red. Not that he had anything against the red; he just felt that the yellow more effectively set off the black stripes. Well, at least that's what he'd said to the car salesman at the time of ordering. Only Maggie knew the real reason for his choice of colour, and that was that Bruce McPhee and Barry Mulholland had driven the same car to victory in the Hardie-Ferodo 500 at Bathurst only months before.

Peter listened politely while the salesman with the slick hair and slicker tongue droned on about the car's many features, "You won't be short of power in this, mate," he said with genuine admiration, "she's capable of over one hundred miles an hour in fourth gear, and with that all-synchro, heavy duty gear box, she'll run like a dream..." the salesman went on effortlessly.

The badge pinned to his shirt pocket advised that his name was Bruce. Peter should have been impressed with Bruce's limitless knowledge, but instead he agreed absent-mindedly, all the while wishing that he would shut up and leave him to admire his new car in peace. After all, he'd already purchased the car, hadn't he? The last thing he needed to hear about was the low restriction dual exhaust system with reverse flow resonators and twin tail pipes with chrome plated outlets.

"Um, thanks for that, mate," Peter interrupted the moment Bruce took a breath, "I better be going." The way Bruce possessively held on to the keys irked Peter and he held out his hand to indicate that it was time to hand them over. "I think I can take it from here, thanks Bruce," Peter said in an icy tone. Bruce looked at Peter as though he was about to run off with his best friend, but reluctantly extended his hand and dangled the keys in front of him. Peter gave him a dirty look and snatched the keys from his hand. He had very little time for smooth-talking salesmen at the best of times and this was especially the case _after_ the deal had been closed.

Bruce handed Peter the relevant paper work and instructed him on the best way to get out of the crowded car yard. Peter gave him a final nod and hopped in his new car. The first thing that hit him was the smell. He loved the smell of new cars, but this one more so than any other he had owned. This was his first V8 and he couldn't wait to get it out of Bruce's clutches and onto the open road.

Roger had already left with Peter's Premier and was on his way back to Peter's place, which meant that Peter had to ignore his urge to cruise around for hours and drive straight home instead where both Roger and Mary were waiting for him.

***

Mary had not gotten out at the car yard like Roger had done, so she had not seen Peter's new car yet. "Wow," she exclaimed through his open window as he pulled up, "it's a beauty." Peter knew that she was just being polite. Like most women, Mary had very little interest in cars, but he was grateful for her nice words anyway.

Mary obviously sensed something was not right between him and Maggie, because she never once asked him about Maggie, as she normally would have done. Roger; however, was another kettle of fish. "Where's your better half mate?" he asked tactlessly.

Peter informed Roger that Maggie had gone to the cottage on Saturday without him. "What, you pair have a row or something, mate?" he continued.

"Roger!" Mary chided him. "Why can't you mind your own business?"

"Jeez, can't a man take an interest in his own brother's affairs."

Mary flashed Peter a smile before answering, "Of course you can, but there's no need to carry on like an old washerwoman. Peter already told you that he had to stay in Sydney to pick up his new car."

Peter hadn't told him any such thing, but Roger was too thick to question what Mary had said, so he let the matter drop. Peter gave Mary an appreciative look before offering them both a cold drink and putting an end to the topic for good. Once inside, he waited for what he felt was a respectable time, before getting up from the table. "Well, thanks again, mate," he said, hoping Roger would take the hint and leave. "You too Mary; thanks for giving me a hand today."

Roger didn't move from his seat. Thankfully though, Mary did. "Think nothing of it," she said to Peter, then to Roger, "Come on love, we better be going."

"We just got here," he complained.

Mary looked at Peter apologetically, "Yeah, well I've got more work than I can poke a stick at, so we need to get a move on. Otherwise you'll be helping me hang washing on the line before you go to work this afternoon."

The threat of work was sufficient to get him moving." Bloody hell," he said to Peter. "Look what a man's gotta put up with. Day in, day out, I work hard to put food on the table, and then I cop this from the missus. I tell ya, it's this sort of thing that drives a man to drink."

Peter laughed at his brother good-naturedly. He waved to them from the front door before going into the bedroom to pack his things.

***

With only eight days to go until Christmas, Maggie expected the shops to be more crowded than they were. She wasn't complaining, however; it suited her just fine as it was. She looked at the tattered list in her hand for the hundredth time, and crossed Michelle's name of the list. She was certain that Michelle would love the dressing table set she had bought her. Made from Bohemian crystal, the set contained two vases, a trinket bowl with lid, a ring stand, and a matching tray large enough to accommodate all of the items. Maggie had spent more on Michelle's gift than she had anticipated but justified the expense by telling herself that it would help compensate for not spending Christmas with her daughter.

For Stephen, Maggie bought clothes. At eighteen, he seemed to need more clothes than ever. She had spent ages carefully selecting items, knowing that the slightest error of judgement on her behalf would render the clothes unwearable. Luckily for her, the shop assistant was a young man not much older than Stephen. He had suggested items that he assured her would please any fashion conscious young man. In the end she had settled on a pair of Amco denim jeans, a groovy looking corduroy jacket, one of those paisley shirts that seemed to be all the craze at the moment, and some underwear.

Before continuing her shopping, Maggie decided to treat herself to some lunch. She carted the bags and boxes to the car and placed them in the boot. That way she wouldn't have to lug about Michelle's weighty gift as well as the heavy books she got for Bea and Mary and the Pyrex bowls she purchased for Faye.

Maggie sat in the milk bar and ate her fish and chips straight from the newspaper. She liked her chips best that way, especially if she kept them wrapped up and ate them from a hole in the top. Today; however, she opened the paper all the way, so that she could squirt tomato sauce onto the corner of the paper. While she was in the bookshop, she had come across a pack of Tarot cards, which she absolutely had to have. Their detailed pictures and symbology intrigued her to no end and she couldn't wait to get them out and have a closer look at them. She wondered what Peter would think when he found out that she had bought her own deck of cards and a book. She had paid a lady at the markets once do a reading for her and had wanted to learn more about the Tarot ever since. Unfortunately, like so many things in her life, she was always too busy with one thing or another to fully nurture her interests.

She wiped her hands on the paper napkin and reached into her large shoulder bag for the box of cards. She planned to leave the book until she got home. For now, she was happy to simply flick through the cards and study the images.

"It's Maggie, isn't it?" A man's voice asked hesitantly.

Maggie looked up to see a familiar face standing in front of her, looking down with a fair degree of uncertainty. She knew that she had met this person before but couldn't for the life of her remember where.

"I thought it was you," the man said, looking more sure of himself after having seen her face close up, "it's me, Michael Drury. Remember; we went to teacher's college together."

The look of confused recognition on Maggie's face changed to one of surprise as she remembered Mike from all those years ago. "Of course," she stood up to shake his hand, "I thought you looked familiar, I just couldn't place you at first."

They exchanged small talk before Maggie remembered her manners and invited him to sit down. He accepted her offer and took the seat opposite her in the booth. Maggie studied his face discreetly as he told her about his life. Now that she knew who he was, she could easily picture him as he had been sixteen years ago.

To her embarrassment, Maggie realised that she was comparing him to Peter. There was no doubt that Mike was still handsome. His dimples made him look much younger than his thirty-five years. Yet, even though he was still nice and trim and had a full head of hair, she thought that Peter was the more attractive of the two. For some reason, that fact annoyed her. Since finding out about Peter's affair, she'd had plenty of opportunity – and reason – to contemplate a life without him. Whenever she had attempted to do so, she always got stuck on the bit about meeting someone else and getting on with her life. She doubted that she would ever find another person that she wanted to share her life with. The fact that she found Mike less attractive than Peter, despite him having the kind of looks most people would have favoured, went a long way to confirming her doubts.

"And what about you?" he asked, "what have you been doing all this time?"

Maggie gave him a brief overview of the past sixteen years starting with her graduation and ending with her visit to the cottage. Of course, she left out the sordid details of the past three days and simply explained that she and her family had spent Christmas at Martinsville every year since her mother had left her the cottage.

"So, how old are your children?" Mike asked.

When she gave him Stephen and Michelle's ages, he looked confused. "They're Peter's kids," she explained further. A look of understanding crossed his face; he asked no further questions about the children.

Maggie found Mike's company pleasant. He was clearly an intelligent person with a good sense of humour. After spending three days alone with her misery, his sudden appearance was a refreshing change.

Before too long, the conversation became less formal and more relaxed and she even laughed at his comments from time to time. She tried to sound sincere when she asked him how it was that a man like him was not married. She hoped she wasn't being too forward but thought that someone like Mike would have had a long list of ladies eager to tie him down.

He looked a little awkward as he explained how his fiancé had recently dumped him. Before he could go into too much detail, Maggie quickly changed the subject and asked him what he was doing out and about. He explained that he was also out Christmas shopping, but unlike Maggie who sounded as though she had a hundred people to buy for, he only had his parents and a sister to look after.

"So," Mike sat back against the seat and looked at Maggie intently, "tell me, how is it that your husband is not with you now? If you were mine, I'd be too scared to let you out of my sight."

His question took her by surprise. She felt her face redden and looked around uncomfortably. "Um, he's still in Sydney, he's picking up a new car and will be joining me shortly."

Mike nodded. "So that means you're foot lose and fancy free until then?"

Maggie wasn't sure what was happening. The conversation seemed to be heavy with tension all of a sudden. Was Mike making a pass at her? She was not so stupid that she didn't realise he was paying her an unhealthy amount of attention, but she couldn't believe her next comment as it fell off her lips without a second thought. "That's right," she smiled at him, "foot lose and fancy free."

Chapter 60

Saturday, 5 January 1980

"Watch out for Max's ghost," Trevor warned as he ran off into the bush with one of the two torches in hand.

I stood next to Ed thinking about where I could hide to best avoid the spotlight. "Was your story really true?" I was dying to know if he was telling the truth or not.

"Nuh, I made it up."

"All of it? Even the part about Old Man Parker?"

"Yep, all of it, I've never even heard of anyone being murdered in the Watagans, have you?"

It's one of those things that you're never really sure about. It doesn't take much before you start remembering snippets of things you've heard and put them together to suit the story you're listening to at the time. Before, when Ed was telling his story, I was sure I'd heard something about people getting killed in the Watagans, but now that I knew his story wasn't true, I wasn't so certain.

I admitted to Ed that I'd not heard anything either.

"Don't tell the others though, will you? I reckon I've got them bluffed."

I reckoned he had too. "Nah, I won't tell." Except Tom, that is, I thought to myself.

I was just about to make a dash for the Bottle Brush tree when Tom's torch shone its light on me. Having caught me in his spotlight, he came over and gave me the torch. "Here ya go, you're in."

I felt much better with the torch in my hand. I even considered taking my time finding someone so that I could hold on to it a bit longer, but Chrissy was making such a racket behind a nearby bush, I would've had to have been deaf not to hear her. Just as I was handing her the torch, Trevor came out from behind a tree smacking his torch into the palm of his hand. The light flickered on and off with each hit. "The damn batteries are almost flat," he complained. "It keeps going out on me."

"Never mind," I said, "I think we're making too much noise anyway. If we're not careful Mum and Dad will come out to see what's going on."

"Fair enough," Trevor agreed. "Maybe we should go back into the tent."

I sent Ed out to round up the others and tell them to come back in. It must've been Saturday morning already and I didn't want to get caught before we'd even started the séance.

***

We decided that the best place to set the Ouija board up was on the table in the sunroom. Of course, having it there increased the risk of getting sprung, but it also reduced the chance of us setting fire to the tent with the candles. Tom carefully lifted Dad's record player off the table and put it on the ground. Trevor did the same with the gas bottle and light. I put a candle on each corner of the table and put the Ouija board in the centre. There was just enough room for the six of us to sit at the table, three each side. I sat on one side with Tom to the right of me and Raelene to the left. Chrissy sat opposite me with Trevor and Ed either side.

Since Chrissy was the only one with any experience, we let her take the lead. "Raelene, make sure you write everything down, even if it doesn't make any sense," she instructed. "Everyone else put one finger on the planchette like this." Chrissy gently placed her pointer finger on top of the planchette, "but don't push down on it; just rest it there gently."

Everyone, apart from Raelene, copied Chrissy and put their finger on the planchette. The board was sideways from where I sat. Chrissy said it didn't matter which way up it went, so I took her word for it.

"Now what?" Trevor asked.

"Hold your horses, you can't rush these things." Chrissy appeared to be trying to remember something and Trevor was clearly interrupting her. "Oh yeah, I remember now, everyone ready?"

We said we were.

"Okay, here goes."

As if by some weird transformation, Chrissy's voice appeared to change from that of a bossy eleven year old to that of a soothing parent. "Everybody relax, I'm now going to ask the spirit of Shortie to join us."

We took a collective breath and all let it out at the same time. Chrissy started without further comment. "We would like to communicate with the spirit of Shortie O'Connor," she said in her most soothing voice. "If he's present tonight, can he please let us know?"

Everyone held their breath, not sure what to expect. Nothing happened. "Maybe you need to call him Darren, not Shortie," I suggested, not knowing how proper these things needed to be.

Chrissy tried again. "We would like to communicate with the spirit of Darren O'Connor. We mean him no harm."

I wondered how we could harm a ghost exactly, but kept my thoughts to myself. We waited for the second time, again without success.

"This is crap," said Trevor. "I told you it was a load of cod's wallop."

"Shush," Chrissy insisted. "It doesn't always happen straight away."

"Here, let me try, I knew him better than Chrissy, maybe that'll help." I waited long enough for anyone who wanted to protest to do so. When no one did, I spoke into the empty air. "Shortie, if you're out there, we'd like to talk to you. We miss you heaps and would be grateful if you could give us a sign that you're here."

This time there was an unmistakable movement of the planchette. "Who did that?" Ed took his finger off the planchette and shook it as though it burned.

"I didn't," said Tom.

I shook my head. "Definitely wasn't me."

Chrissy shushed us for a second time. "Let's see what it says."

The planchette moved with surprising speed and stopped on the word _yes_ in the top left hand corner of the board. I looked at Chrissy for confirmation. "Does that mean he's here?"

"I don't know."

Trevor was still trying to figure out who moved the planchette. "Chrissy, you did that," he accused.

"Shut up you moron, I did not." There was no sign off the soothing parent in her voice now.

I jumped in and asked another question. "Who's here with us tonight? Can you please tell us your name?"

The planchette flew across the board and stopped at the letter G. We eyed each other suspiciously, but before any of us could accuse the other of pushing the planchette, it moved to the letter E.

"Are you writing this down?" Chrissy asked Raelene.

Raelene nodded her head but never said a word.

The planchette stopped at the letter S and circled the board once more before stopping for the second time on the letter S. We waited for the next move but it never came. The planchette sat like a harmless piece of plastic. Tom reached over and snatched the paper from Raelene. "What does that mean?"

He spelled out the word, _G-E-S-S_.

"Who's Gess?" asked Ed.

Trevor dismissed us with a wave of his hand. "That's bullshit, someone was moving the pointer."

I ignored Trevor and tried hard to think of someone named Gess or Jess. Just as I was running through the names of the kids in my school, I had an idea. "I know, maybe it's telling us to guess who it is."

"Don't be a twit," Trevor argued, "why would it do that?"

I had to admit that it seemed like a long shot. But, then again, it would be just like Shortie to pull a prank like that. Tom agreed with me. "I reckon Jenny's right. Maybe we should guess who it is and see if we get it right."

We all put our fingers back on the planchette while I asked the spirit if his name was Shortie. Once again, the planchette slid across the board at a speed and steadiness that seemed impossible to fake. It stopped under the word _no_.

Raelene wrote the word _no_ on the sheet of paper.

"It's not even on the word," Trevor said when he saw that she'd written it down. "It stopped underneath it."

Tom ignored Trevor. "Ask it if his name is Darren."

As soon as Chrissy asked the question the planchette took off to the other side of the board. This time, it stopped right on top of the word _yes_.

"Holy crap, he's here." Tom sounded as though he hadn't really expected it to work all along.

Trevor scoffed at us. "You guys are a bunch of idiots, I saw Chrissy moving the pointer."

"I did not."

"I bet if you ask it if its name's Maude it'll say yes too," he argued.

"Go on then smarty-pants, ask it?" Ed dared him.

"Okay." Trevor put his finger back on the planchette and asked the spirit if its name was Maude.

The planchette moved to the word _yes_ and stopped.

Chrissy protested. "You pushed it, I could tell."

Trevor laughed, but didn't deny Chrissy's accusation. "Here," she put her finger on the planchette next to Trevor's, "now ask it again."

Trevor rolled his eyes and looked skyward. "Hello spirit, is your name Maude?"

The planchette flew out from under their fingers and landed on the floor of the tent, almost taking a candle out with it. This time there were no jokes from Trevor. "Bloody hell, did you see that?"

Chrissy gasped out loud. For someone who claimed she believed the planchette was moving unaided the whole time, she looked pretty surprised by what had just happened. "I definitely did not do that," she insisted.

What did she mean, she definitely didn't do _that_? Does that mean she had been moving the planchette before?

"Now what?" Raelene asked calmly. "Should we try again?"

I answered her before anyone could say no. "Absolutely!" I wanted to find out once and for all if Shortie was really with us. "Let's ask him what his middle name is, just to be sure."

Chrissy looked around nervously before switching to her soothing parent voice again and asking the spirit for its middle name. After a short pause, the planchette moved to the letter L where it paused again and slid across to the letter O. It stopped for quite a while before sliding down the board and back up to the letter K. Once again, everyone looked around to see if they could spot who was pushing the planchette. Unfortunately, it was too difficult to tell with five fingers resting on it.

After stopping on the letter K the planchette circled the entire board before coming back to where it started. "Nah, that's not a K," Tom corrected when he saw Raelene write it down, "it's an L. See, it's more on the L than the K."

Everyone leaned forward to see where the planchette had landed. We all agreed it was on the L, not the K.

"You're just saying that because you know his middle name's Lachlan." Trevor accused.

Chrissy became defensive. "I didn't even know that was his middle name, so there."

Everyone looked at me suspiciously. "What? I didn't push it."

"But you knew what his middle name was," Trevor said.

"Yeah, so what, so did you."

Tom came to my rescue. "So did I."

"Me too," Ed agreed.

Trevor looked around the table and shrugged. "Well it wasn't me."

I knew that Shortie's middle name was spelled _L-A-C-H-L-A-N_ , but I deliberately didn't say anything. I figured the incorrect spelling might be a clue as to who was pushing the planchette.

"Here's an idea," said Chrissy sarcastically, "maybe it was Shortie pushing it."

I had my doubts. I don't think Shortie would misspell his own name, but I still thought the planchette's movements were too fast and smooth to not be real.

"What should we ask next," Raelene enquired. "Maybe we can ask a question that not everyone knows the answer to."

"I know," I jumped in, "since me and Tom were his best friends, we probably know the most about him. Maybe we can ask something that only me or Tom know the answer to."

True to his nature, Trevor protested. "But how will we know _you're_ not pushing the pointer?"

"Tom and I won't push this time. Raelene can take my place and we'll just watch."

It was Ed's turn to be doubtful. "How will we know you're not making up the answer?"

I was starting to lose my patience. "God! You lot are unbelievable."

"Hey, who did that?" Ed was the only one still with his finger on the planchette when it started to move. It flew off the table for the second time that night. It narrowly missed Trevor and landed on the ground.

"Watch it," Trevor warned, "that nearly got me."

"I didn't do it," Ed protested, "it did it all by itself."

"Sure, and all pigs are fuelled and ready to fly!"

"Maybe it's trying to tell us something," Raelene proposed. "Quick, put it back on the board and let see what it says." Tom reached down and picked up the planchette. Raelene put her hand out for it. "You and Jenny just watch like you said," she instructed.

"Yeah," said Trevor, "I don't trust Simmo, I reckon he's the one moving it."

"Jesus H Christ, you sound like an old woman," said Tom, "first you think it's Chrissy, and then you accuse me. Make up your mind mate."

I stood next to Tom so that Raelene could move into the middle of the seat. She put the planchette in the centre of the board so that the others could place their fingers on it. The startled looks on everyone's faces suggested they were unprepared for such certain and deliberate movements. With more speed than previously, the planchette slid around the board. It stopped and started without warning until it had spelled the letters _F-I-R-E_. Then, it came to rest as suddenly as it had started above the letter E.

Tom looked stunned. I quickly leant down and whispered in his ear not to say anything about the fire that only he, Shortie and me knew about. Shortie was no longer around to get into trouble for it, but Tom and I still were. Trevor looked at us as though we held the secret of the universe. "Well? What does _that_ mean?"

I shrugged noncommittally. "Dunno." I looked down at Tom, "What about you? Does it mean anything to you?"

"Nah."

"See," Trevor said smugly, "I told you it was a load of bullshit."

Chapter 61

Tuesday, 17 December 1968

The car purred, just like oily Bruce said it would, but given Peter was told he would have to take it easy for the first thousand miles or so, he tried his hardest to do just that. Although he was smitten with his new car, Peter also tried hard to focus on his meeting with Maggie. Like an idiot, he busied himself rehearsing what he was going to say over and over while he drove. He got the occasional odd look from passers-by but ignored them. In the end, he decided against a prepared speech and settled on taking things as they came. That had always been Maggie's motto; to take each day as it came and not waste precious energy worrying about the things she could not change. Except, in this case, Peter knew that he had the power to change what had happened between them, and thought of ways to make it so.

It had been three days since Maggie had driven off and left him to his misery. A wretched three days they had been too. He'd hardly eaten a bite the whole time, and he could have sworn his few grey hairs had been joined by a bunch of new ones. He had rung the Kildey's before leaving Newtown, but there had been no message from Maggie. Peter had no other way of letting her know that he was coming and hoped that she would call into Kildey's sometime that day. He didn't want to turn up unannounced but was too impatient to wait a second longer than necessary to see her. He knew that in all likelihood, she would still be angry with him, but he no longer cared.

The sooner he saw her, the sooner he could get started on making amends.

Peter was nervous. For someone who had been in a very open and comfortable relationship with his wife until now, he realised that he no longer knew what to expect. He hoped she had calmed down a little over the past couple of days. He knew it was too much to expect that she might have forgiven him yet, but if they could just talk without her getting too upset, then their relationship might stand a chance.

With the upcoming reunion playing over and over in his head, the drive took far less time than Peter had anticipated. He called in at the Kildey's to see if Maggie had been in since his last call. She hadn't. Peter bought a packet of cigarettes, a loaf of fresh bread and some milk to take with him; no doubt Maggie would have been in no mood for shopping, and she might even appreciate his thoughtfulness.

He listened with pride as his car roared back into action. He couldn't wait for Maggie to see it. She had known how badly he'd wanted the new car. In fact, it had been Maggie that had talked him into handing over the extra dollars on the more expensive model. He had known that he wouldn't have spent the money without her insistence, and was thankful for it. He didn't doubt that he would have liked the lesser model well enough, but a Monaro GTS 327, now there was something that would take a lot to beat.

As he hit the dirt road, he slowed the car to a leisurely crawl. He didn't want any stone chips spoiling the duco. The dust was unavoidable, but at least it would wash off. He eventually came to a stop at the entrance to the driveway. He slowly turned into the yard and pulled up in front of the cottage. Expecting to see Maggie's old Morrie in the driveway, he approached the house with a fair degree of apprehension.

"Hello!" he called through the front door before anxiously crossing the threshold. The cottage was not very big. The lounge room, dining room and kitchen were all contained in the same space. Everything looked normal enough inside, but there was no sign of Maggie. Peter approached the bedroom more quietly. She might have parked her car out the back and could have been sleeping.

The bedroom was empty too, Peter walked out onto the back veranda, but apart from a Magpie eying him suspiciously through the flyscreen, it was also empty. He surveyed the back yard. Her car was not there. Peter searched the house for her handbag and car keys and when he came up blank, he concluded that she was out.

***

After getting filthy looks from the milk bar owner for loitering so long after eating, the pair agreed to join forces and hit the shops together. At the time, Maggie had not been surprised by Mike's request to join her, not after his earlier forthright comments, but she had been surprised to hear herself agreeing to his suggestion. Now, after having spent an easy hour or so together, she was even more surprised by how comfortable it felt to have him around while she shopped. Peter had always been good company while shopping, a fact for which she had considered herself fortunate. Most of her female colleagues complained that their husbands hated shopping and the men always complained that their wives shopped too much. Of the two of them, Peter actually enjoyed shopping more, which Maggie took as a good thing.

She tried to push all thoughts of Peter from her mind. they seemed inappropriate under the circumstances. Mike was holding up a psychedelic looking shirt, "What do you think?" he asked. "Think my old man would wear this?"

Maggie laughed, "Not if he's like Peter's old man, he won't." She didn't mean to mention Peter's name, it's just that his was the only father she had. Mike didn't seem to notice the use of her husband's name, or if he did, he let it slide. "I should get it for him, you know, as pay back for all the horrible things he made me wear as a kid."

The two of them spent a few minutes laughing about the cruel things parents did to their children. Mike told Maggie about a boy whose mother sent him to school every spring with a biscuit tin on his head, with two big eyes drawn on top to scare away the Magpies. They laughed so loudly that everyone in the store turned to look at them. Feeling like a pair of rebel teenagers, they fled the premises without making a purchase. Once outside, they continued to laugh so much they had to sit down.

Mike took Maggie's hand and led her to a nearby bench. The touch of his hand against hers sent an electric shock up her arm, and she wondered if he felt it too. Expecting him to let go of her hand as soon as they sat down, Maggie was acutely aware that he continued to hold it firmly in his. Mindful that passers-by could have easily mistaken them for lovers, she disentangled her hand from his with the excuse of lighting a cigarette.

"Here, let me," he reached into his top pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He offered Maggie one, which she accepted gratefully. Maggie turned her face towards Mike's lighter, but he let the flame die out before igniting her cigarette. The situation seemed to grow awkward all of a sudden, the casual ease of the afternoon suddenly gone. Then, before Maggie could anticipate his next move, he took the cigarette from her mouth and leaned forward; he kissed her gently on the mouth.

Maggie pulled away instinctively, Mike immediately began to apologise, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry," he almost tripped on his words, "please forgive me, I had no right to do that."

Maggie could feel her face flushing; she was at a loss for words. She mumbled an incoherent response and graciously accepted his light. Nervously puffing on her cigarette, she regained some of her previous composure. She looked at him with open curiosity. He looked as embarrassed as she felt. "That was a dumb thing to do," he said, by way of explanation. "I don't know what came over me. You just looked so goddamn irresistible that I had to kiss you, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Maggie thought that he looked like an anxious teenager on his first date and she started to laugh again. At first Mike just looked at her, shocked by her reaction, but then he joined her in her mirth. "What a klutz," he said, "no wonder my fiancé left me."

In spite of the initial discomfort the moment had generated, Maggie was amazed at how exhilarating Mike's company was. From the moment he had made a pass at her in the milk bar, her senses heightened, her pulse raced and her heart had begun to beat faster. For a short moment he had made her forget about her worries and actually feel good about herself. She felt young again. It had been a long time since an attractive male had paid her so much attention; she had almost forgotten how exquisite it felt. Not to mention the kiss; there was no denying it had left her head spinning.

Despite Maggie's conviction not to think about Peter, she thought about him anyway. Had it been the same for him with Jane, she wondered. Had Jane made him feel as good as Mike was making her feel now? She knew that had to be the case, and for that she felt sad. She felt sad that they were no longer able to give each other butterflies, at least not in the way experiencing someone for the first time did. She felt sad that no matter how much two people loved each other, and she and Peter did love each other, the rush came only once. She knew that now. The butterflies she felt in her tummy as she sat on the bench, Mike so close that she could smell him, wanting him more than she'd wanted anything in a long time, her hand burning from his touch, her face flushed from his kiss – the rush came only once.

She knew that no matter how many great firsts a couple experienced, or how good things were between two people, the feelings – precious, but fleeting – that came with the initial attraction, happened only once. As did the excitement that filled you to bursting point when you realised that he had noticed you at last; the pounding of your heart with his first tentative touch; the heat of his soft lips against yours as he finally got up the courage to kiss you. The daydreaming and the waiting, wondering when and if you might see each other again; certain that you would die if you didn't get to see him one more time. And at long last, an end to the longing as that precious moment finally arrives and the thrill of the chase gives way to the joy of the catch; the moment when two people come together in that perfect place.

The rush had been there with Peter too, Maggie knew that well enough. And despite its inevitable demise, she knew that for most people, their relationship never recaptured those initial moments of bliss. At least, in Maggie and Peter's case, the rush was merely the beginning and while it never returned with the ferocity of the first time, Maggie knew that it had evolved into a love and friendship so remarkable that it would stand the test of time.

Maggie also knew that nothing was capable of destroying the bond they shared or the passion they felt for each other, not even an affair. They had been blessed. What she had experienced that afternoon with Mike reminded her of that. The wonderful sensations he'd stirred in her made her realise that the desire to give into the rush was far greater than she would have imagined, but she knew in her heart that once she had given into it, it would surely wither and die as it always did.

Maggie looked at Mike with sadness in her eyes, the sadness no longer for her and Peter, but for him. It was time to say goodbye.

It was time to phone Peter.

Chapter 62

Saturday, 5 January 1980

I hoped as I watched Chrissy pack up the Ouija board that Shortie was still with us because I still hadn't got the chance to say all the things I wanted to say. I didn't know how to talk to him without everyone thinking I'd gone bonkers, but I was determined to find a way. I looked around for Tom. Maybe he could come up with something.

Trevor was sitting in the corner eating a packet of Samboy chips. Raelene was dragging a chair over to sit next to him. I could see Ed lying on top of his sleeping bag in the backroom, but I couldn't see Tom anywhere. I stuck my head in and looked around the room. "Where's Tom?"

"He's gone to the loo."

I leaned over and picked up the torch. "I think I'll go too."

I zipped the flyscreen up behind me so the mozzies wouldn't get in. Instead of walking up the back yard and into the house, I stepped through the gap in the fence and tiptoed over to the fallen tree. I brushed the tree trunk for creepy crawlies before sitting down and dangling my feet over the edge. I wasn't sure if I had to speak out loud for Shortie to hear me, or if I could just think about the things I wanted to say. In the end I figured it would be best if I at least whispered.

Feeling a bit foolish, I asked for some kind of proof that he was listening. "Shortie? If you can hear me, can you send me a sign or something so I'll know?"

A butterfly darted into the torchlight and fluttered back out before I could get a good look at it. I shone the torch around, trying to capture it again, but it was nowhere to be seen. How weird; I'd never seen a butterfly at night before.

I waited a short time before repeating my original question. This time I spoke a bit louder in case he hadn't heard me. I wasn't even sure what kind of sign he would send me, but I figured whatever it was I would recognise it when it happened.

After waiting for what seemed like ages, I gave up expecting something to happen and decided to just talk to him anyway. Maybe he could hear me but wasn't able to let me know. Maybe he hadn't learned how to do that spooky stuff yet. I wish I knew how all that hocus-pocus worked. Then I wouldn't be sitting outside in the dark talking to myself and feeling like a moron. It was just like the time I had to get up in front of the whole school and recite a poem I wrote. I thought it was a dumb poem, but Miss Jennings said it was the best in the whole class and that it was a privilege to read it out at assembly. I couldn't have disagreed more.

When I finally got over my stage fright, I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Now that the time had come, I didn't know what to say. It felt like I'd been waiting for ages to tell him that I was sorry, but everything I thought of to say just sounded dumb. I remembered how angry I was when I found out he was dead. I was angry with Mum and Dad for lying to me and at the Dumbrells for bashing him up. And, even though I didn't want to admit it at the time, I know that I was especially angry with myself. After all, it was my fault he got bashed up in the first place.

Thinking about it made me want to cry all over again. I missed him so much. I just wished I could turn the clock back and start over again. It's not fair. Shortie never hurt anyone, well at least not anyone who didn't deserve it. He might have been a bit naughty at times, but he certainly didn't deserve to die. Besides, I knew heaps of people that were naughtier than Shortie and they were still alive. Take the Dumbrells for instance.

"I'm sorry Shortie," I whispered. "I know it was my fault you got bashed up. I should've dobbed on the Dumbrells when you told me to, but I didn't."

The butterfly flew into the torchlight again. This time I caught a glimpse of its peppermint green wings before it darted off again. For a split second, the butterfly distracted me and I managed to forget about Shortie. I knew I'd seen one just like it before but couldn't remember where.

A noise near the back fence made me jump.

"Jenny, is that you?"

It was only Tom. I shone my torch at his feet to let him know where I was. He walked over and sat down next to me. "What are you doing out here?"

Not quite ready to confess I'd been talking to a ghost, I told him a white lie. "Nothing. I just came out for some peace and quiet."

"Oh."

"Do you think Shortie was really with us tonight?"

Tom considered his answer carefully. "Not at first I didn't, but then when I felt the pointer thing move when we asked him if his name was Darren, I changed my mind. I know Trevor reckons someone was pushing it, but it didn't feel like it to me."

"It didn't to me either, mostly, but I think someone was faking it with his middle name."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because that's not how you spell it, it's spelled _L-A-C-H-L-A-N_. The Ouija board spelled out the letters _L-O-K-L_."

Tom laughed. "It did too."

I was certain Tom wasn't the one moving it but had my doubts about Chrissy and Ed. I'm pretty sure Trevor wasn't doing it either because he spent too much time trying to convince us it wasn't real. Moving the planchette would have had the opposite effect.

"What about when he spelled _fire_. I was sure he was with us then."

Tom agreed. "Who else knew about that fire; no one."

"By the way, thanks for not letting on to the others you knew what _fire_ meant."

"That's OK. It's none of their business anyway."

I felt the same way. At the time, I no longer cared if they believed Shortie's spirit was with us or not. I had all the proof I needed and I was happy to share it with just Tom.

"I miss him you know," Tom said. "It's not the same without him."

That was the first time I'd ever heard Tom say anything like that. I knew he missed Shortie because he would sometimes get sad about him, but he'd never come right out and said it before.

"Me too, I hope he comes back again. You know, gets reborn like Clare said he would."

"That'd be weird, don't you think?"

I agreed. It was hard to imagine having been alive before, but I suppose I must have been at some stage. I know Tom jokes about us having known each other in past lives, but I reckon he might be right. Of course I don't have any proof or anything; it just feels right. I hope I get reborn again one day. And Tom, too, I hope he comes back also. There's no way I would want to come back without him.

I wonder if I'd remember anything from this life. I didn't think so. People would remember stuff all the time if that was the case and I'd never heard of anyone doing that.

Tom stood up and brushed the bottom of his shorts. "We should go back in."

I got up and followed him in. I was just about to squeeze through the fence into the back yard when the butterfly fluttered past again.

"Did you see that?"

Tom looked around. "See what?"

"The butterfly, there," the butterfly was perfectly framed in the centre of the torchlight, "see, it's really big with green wings?"

Tom shook his head and looked around more slowly. "Nah, I don't see anything."

I couldn't believe it; it was right there in front of us. I moved the torch in closer so Tom could get a better look, but the beautiful green butterfly was gone.

"You must be seeing things," Tom joked. "Too many ghost stories for one night."

"Shit, I forgot to say goodbye." I kicked myself for not saying goodbye to Shortie while I was in the bush.

"Huh, what'd you say?"

"Oh nothing, I was just thinking out loud."

***

I'd just drifted off to sleep when Trevor started with the goodnights.

"Goodnight John Boy."

"Night Jim-Bob," Raelene answered in a gruff voice.

Ed put on his best girly voice. "Goodnight Mary-Ellen."

I answered as Mary-Ellen. "Goodnight Elizabeth."

Everyone laughed.

Just when I thought we'd go through the whole cast of the Waltons, everyone quietened down. We were still a bit edgy from the séance. Even though no one was prepared to stick their neck out and say it was fairdinkum, none of us were ready to dismiss it as bogus either. Except Trevor that is, he was trying to act cool about everything, but I think the séance spooked him out also.

I'd just dozed off for the second time when I heard it. It sounded like something scurrying across the roof of the tent. Chrissy whimpered in the corner. "There's something out there, I can hear it."

Ed and Trevor stirred on the other side of the tent.

I nudged Tom awake beside me.

He sat up with a start. "What?"

"There's something out there," Chrissy repeated, "I heard it move."

"Where's the torch?" Tom patted the floor with his hands.

"It's here somewhere," Trevor said, "I took it to the toilet with me before."

"Here it is." Ed turned on the torch and handed it to Tom.

Tom scanned the room with the circle of light. Chrissy was sitting hunched in the corner with her knees tucked under her nightie. Raelene was still fast asleep, snoring beside her.

Ed nodded toward Raelene. "She's weird. Fancy being able to sleep through all this racket."

"I better go out and see what it is," Tom volunteered bravely.

Chrissy nearly jumped out of her skin at the idea. "Don't go out there. What if it gets you?"

Trevor laughed. "There's no such thing as the boogie man, you know."

"Shut up, why don't you?" she snapped.

"Nothing's going to get me," Tom said, "I'll just go and see what it is."

"I'll come with you." I was pleased with how confident I sounded. I'm not usually spooked out very easily, but after tonight, my nerves were a little on edge.

"Thanks."

I followed Tom outside and left the door open for Trevor and Ed who said they'd join us. We walked around the outside of the tent, slowly swinging the torch up and down the sides of the tent. If I hadn't heard the noise myself, I would have said Chrissy was imagining things because everything appeared normal outside.

Trevor and Ed quietly walked around the backyard while Tom and I did one more lap of the tent.

"Nothing out here," Tom reassured Chrissy through the back window. "The coast is clear."

I whispered for Ed and Trevor to come back in and walked back inside. Tom shone his torch around the sunroom to make sure nothing had got inside.

"There," I pointed, "there's the butterfly again."

"Where?"

"Right there, don't you see it?"

"Nuh."

"Here, give me the torch, I'll show you." I snatched the torch from Tom and swung it around the room. Ed and Trevor came into the sunroom behind us.

"Hey," Trevor pointed, "who got that out?"

Forgetting all about the butterfly, I shone the torch to where Trevor was pointing. The Ouija board was set up on the table just as it had been earlier.

"I could've sworn I saw Chrissy pack that away."

"Me too," confirmed Ed.

"Hey Chrissy," I called out a bit too loudly; "did you pack the Ouija board up?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because it's back out again."

I could hear her moan from where I stood.

"Holy crap," Trevor exclaimed, "this is weird."

I was speechless. I couldn't believe the Ouija board was sitting there as though we'd never even packed it away.

"All right, which one of you got it out again?" I asked.

I could tell by the looks on their faces that none of them were lying.

Trevor was still standing half inside the tent.

"Hurry up with that zip, you're letting the mozzies in," Tom said, sounding remarkably calm under the circumstances.

Trevor bent down to zip up the tent. As he did so, something crashed on top of him from the roof of the tent, and he screamed.

Chapter 63

Tuesday, 17 December 1968

Maggie went into the post office to make the call. She waited impatiently for someone to answer, nervously tapping her nails against the counter. When no one picked up for the second time, she gave up and left. She would have to try again later at the Kildey's place. Her shopping not quite finished, she decided that she was no longer in the mood for traipsing through shops and headed back towards her car.

It was almost impossible not to think about Mike during the drive back to the cottage. By now, her excitement had given way to wonder, and she was asking herself how she could have behaved so brazenly with someone she hardly knew. She already knew the answer to her own question, even before she asked it. He made her feel good, plain and simple. Maggie knew that she had no intention of cheating on her husband, no matter how badly he might have behaved, but she was not going to pretend that it didn't feel good to have someone show an interest in her the way Mike had.

She tried to put things into perspective all the way home, but found that her mind was still racing from the experience. In the end, she gave up and tried to think of something else. She looked forward to browsing through her Tarot cards and book when she got home. It might be a good way to take her mind of things. It might even provide some insight into her situation with Peter. She still didn't know what she was going to say to him when she finally got him on the phone. The moment of clarity she had experienced back at Toronto was beginning to fade and she began to question her feelings once more.

Instead of stopping at the Kildey's on her way home, she decided to keep going. She would come back later and call Peter; first she wanted to see what the Tarot cards had to say.

As she pulled into the driveway, Maggie spotted what she correctly assumed to be Peter's new car parked out the front of the cottage. "Shit!" she swore, she wasn't ready for him yet. She climbed out of her car and walked towards Peter's new Monaro. It sure was a nice car. It suited his personality well. Then, before she could stop the thought from entering her head, she mumbled, "Good for you; you deserve it."

The front door opened and Peter stepped onto the veranda. Maggie turned away from Peter's shiny yellow car and met his gaze. She thought he looked terrible, despite the forced smile on his face. He looked like he had lost weight and she could see the lines of worry etched in his face as she got nearer. Maggie couldn't recall him ever having looked so haggard. She felt sorry for him. Until then, she really hadn't given Peter's feelings much consideration; she had been too busy worrying about her own problems. Now, seeing him for the first time, she realised how much he had suffered. She had naïvely assumed that, because he was the cause of their problems, she was somehow the only one hurting.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said for want of something better to say.

His face relaxed a little with Maggie's reply. "Sure is, it looks great. I'm very happy for you Peter; I know how much you wanted this car."

Peter took a tentative step forward but never left the veranda. The look of pure terror on his face was more than Maggie could stand. She went to him. As she reached the bottom step, Peter searched her face for clues. He must have seen something there, because he opened his arms just as Maggie stepped into his embrace. "Oh baby, I'm so sorry. I missed you so much. I was so scared, I thought I had lost you."

Maggie could tell by his voice that Peter was crying. She held him tighter and told him that everything was going to be okay. And she meant it. All the uncertainty of the past three days was gone. In its place Maggie felt a determination so fierce it took her breath away. She hadn't known what she would feel until she stepped into his arms, but the moment she did, she knew they would make it.

After what felt like an eternity, Peter's breathing returned to normal and he found the courage to take a step back and look at Maggie. A thin line of tears trickled down her face, but he thought she looked happy. He gently wiped away her tears and took her by the hand. Together they walked inside.

No sooner had they got through the door than Peter wrapped his arms around her again. "Oh Babe, I've missed you so much." Maggie reached up on tip-toes and showered his face with kisses. "I missed you too," she whispered.

***

Peter stood up and stretched. They had been talking for hours and it was starting to take its toll. At first, the conversation had been stilted, neither of them wanting to break the precious threads of hope they had woven. But in time, their need to be truthful was greater, and the conversation acquired some of its usual tempo. They both knew that just like any wound, their relationship needed to time mend. More importantly, though, they were happy to take the time, starting from then.

"Can I get you anything?" Peter asked.

Maggie considered his offer for a moment. "Do we still have any weed?"

Peter smiled at her question. It was a good sign when Maggie was asking for grass. Peter knew that Maggie was very particular about when she smoked a joint and she would only have one when she felt at peace with the world. She believed that when you were high, you were able to access thoughts and feelings that were otherwise unattainable, and that unless you were in a positive frame of mind, the effects could be overwhelming.

"I'll go check," he offered, "I'm pretty sure we left some behind last time we were here."

After he'd gone, Maggie got up to stretch. It was a perfect summer's evening. There was no moon as yet, and with no light to detract from their brightness, the stars spattered the sky like a dusting of diamonds. The only light came from a candle that burned on the coffee table. Maggie stepped outside and watched its flame flicker in the soft breeze. She suddenly felt very alive and fancied taking a long walk, or a hike through the bush.

"Look what I found," Peter held up a small tin.

Maggie rejoined him on the veranda and waited patiently while he rolled a joint. When he had finished, he handed it to her. "There you go, you can do the honours."

Maggie accepted the joint graciously. She used Peter's Zippo to light the twisted end before inhaling the pungent smoke, taking it deep into her lungs and holding it, then exhaling slowly. She resisted the urge to cough, holding the second drag even longer than the first. She passed the joint to Peter who took a couple of deep drags before returning it to her.

They passed the joint to and fro until it was nothing more than a screwed up bit of paper. "Oh man, this feels good," Maggie exclaimed, now under the weed's euphoric spell. She loved being high; the world was a much nicer place. It heightened her senses and made even the most mundane appear magical. Like the moth flapping about in the light of the candle, one moment close enough to burn its wings, the next circling around and around, shattering the light and casting fragments of brightness against the dark night.

She watched as the last of the day's tension drained from Peter's face, restoring his image to its former glory. And he was glorious too, thought Maggie; she had loved him for so long now that she sometimes forgot that fact. Peter sensed her scrutiny and turned to face her. He reached out and tenderly stroked her face, "You okay?" he asked gently.

Maggie nodded.

"Me too," he said.

Her desire to wander out into the night even stronger now that she was stoned, Maggie asked Peter to walk with her.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

"Down by the creek," she said, not giving the matter a second thought.

While Peter went inside to get his shoes, Maggie waited for him on the lawn. The evening was still quite warm, despite the late hour and Mike had told her that tomorrow was going to be another hot one. Thinking of Mike, she smiled. Her chance encounter with him earlier that day had proven to be invaluable. She was only sorry she never got to thank him for it.

Maggie took Peter's hand and together they walked slowly in the direction of the creek. The moon had risen, enabling them to see a little bit of their surroundings, but they took it easy nonetheless. In their heightened state, the extra care they took not to trip in the dark made the short journey quite long. Neither of them minded though, they were both content to just be together.

When they got closer to the edge of the creek, Maggie took the lead and guided Peter carefully down its sloping banks. "Watch your step on the log," she warned, "it was dry yesterday, but it might be wet now."

Peter took Maggie's advice and let go of her hand in order to balance himself properly. When Maggie stopped midway across the bridge and sat down, he did the same. They dangled their feet over the edge of the tree. It was too dark to see the creek below, but the gentle babble of water running over rocks let them know it was there.

At first neither of them spoke, and then when one of them did, it was Peter. "You know how you're always saying how nice it would have been to have grown up together?" he asked.

Maggie nodded, "Uh huh."

"Well, I can kind of imagine what it would have been like, sitting here with you, dangling our feet over the edge like this," Peter swung his legs back and forth, "I reckon this is the kind of place where we would have been happy to hang out, don't you?" Peter pointed to a nearby tree, "I mean look around us, take that tree for example; I can imagine you as a tomboy, climbing that tree. You were probably even good at it too."

Maggie laughed, "I was a lousy climber actually. My mother used to have kittens whenever I went near a tree. She had her own ideas on what little girls should be doing for recreation, and I can assure you it didn't involve climbing trees or playing around in the bush with boys."

"I bet it did involve dolls though, right?" Peter joked.

"Yep, it sure did," she laughed.

Peter screwed up his face in sympathy with Maggie and her mum's idea of fun. "Well it's never too late to learn how to climb trees."

***

Later that night, after having shared another joint and exhausted an array of topics, Maggie and Peter lay on a blanket staring up at the stars. "What about that?" Peter asked, trailing his fingers along the inside of Maggie's forearm, light as a feather.

She squirmed and pulled away laughing. "Stop! That tickles."

"And that?" he let his fingers trail all the way up her arm and gently traced around the outline of her breast.

"Mmm, that feels better," she confirmed.

"And that?" he encircled her hard nipple before gently massaging it back and forth between thumb and forefinger.

This time she giggled. "You know I like that."

Peter propped himself up on his elbow and looked down into her face, he planted a kiss on her forehead. "And I know you like this," he added, leaning down to take her nipple into his mouth.

Maggie let Peter nuzzle her breasts for a while, before pushing him back on his back and tucking herself under his arm, snuggling in close. The warmth from his body felt nice after the cool night air.

Maggie swatted a mosquito away. "Ready to go inside?" she asked. She had no idea what time it was. It felt as though they had spent most of the night on the blanket, their naked bodies soaking up the starlight, until the stars no longer shone as brightly.

"In a minute, I just want to stay out here a little longer," Peter ran his hand down Maggie's back.

Maggie snuggled in closer, as the sun's first rays brightened the night sky.

Chapter 64

Thursday, 19 December 1968

"What time do you want to get away?" Peter asked.

Maggie had carried the small wooden card table out onto the veranda so that she could lay out her Tarot spread. She ran her hands over its smooth surface, tracing its patina of use with her fingers. It was the first opportunity she'd had to do a reading since getting the cards on Tuesday, and since they were not in a hurry to go anywhere, she was happy to put Peter off for a while.

"When I'm done here, Babe; we can go then. I shouldn't be too long. I just want to have a go at doing a reading."

At the mention of a reading, Peter stuck his head around the door. "That's okay, take your time," he said. He knew how eager she was to study her cards, "I'll be outside washing my car."

Maggie smiled. He'd only had the car two days and he was washing it already. She didn't bother telling him that he was wasting his time and that as soon as they went for their drive, it would get filthy again, especially if he took it all the way to the lookout as he was suggesting. The road was dirt almost all the way.

She picked up the cards and slowly shuffled them back and forth, taking her time to infuse the cards with her energy, she touched each of them in turn in the hope that they might connect with her spirit. Having never laid out a Tarot spread before, Maggie decided to rely on the book. As a first attempt, she chose to do a simple reading and did as the book instructed.

First she shuffled the deck thoroughly, then she split it into three piles before rearranging the stacks in a different order one on top of the other. Taking the first three cards from the pile, Maggie laid them face down, side by side, from left to right. According to the book, the card on her left represented the past, the middle one represented the present, and the one on her right, the future.

With very little knowledge of what the cards meant, Maggie held the book in her hand, ready to look up the first card she turned over. It was the Two of Cups. The picture on the card depicted a man and woman facing each other, holding hands with a cup in each of their free hands. Above them a winged, lion-headed creature looked down. According to the book, the Two of Cups was a good card to turn up, especially if the reading had to do with a relationship. The card represented commitment, interest in one another, closeness and sharing. It also signified a spiritual connection and a sense of soul-relatedness.

Thinking about the cards' meaning Maggie was comfortable that she had turned up a card that accurately represented her past. She wasn't really sure what to expect when she set out on her journey to learn more about the Tarot, but the fact that she was able to relate to the first card gave her the confidence to continue.

Before she turned over her second card, she flicked through the book, randomly selecting a card here and a card there to read about. She wanted to reassure herself that it wasn't simply the case that all the cards had something meaningful to say, but it was apparent after reading only a handful of them that very few had any relevance to her current situation. Even after she scanned the meanings of many cards, she came across none that described her and Peter's relationship quite as well as the Two of Cups.

Except for maybe the Lovers. The picture on that card showed a man and woman holding their hands out beside them, no hint of shame between them despite their nakedness. When she saw the card, she was immediately reminded of the other night when she and Peter had laid under the stars together, naked. The book described the Lovers as a card for Geminis. Both her and Peter shared the star sign Gemini, and although people often misunderstood the twins as having a split personality, Maggie believed that the duality of the Lovers described them best. It supported her view that without Peter she was incomplete; that she was the sum of them both, male and female.

In the end, she decided that the Lovers card would have been a more appropriate card to turn up as her future card. It talked about new relationships or a new stage in an existing relationship, whereas the Two of Cups described the relationship they had shared until now. She didn't bother trying to analyse the workings of the Tarot, like most things of a spiritual nature, Maggie had learned that there were always more questions than answers. So, instead of challenging the matter further, she turned over her second card. It was the Queen of Pentacles.

In the spread she had selected, the card was supposed to reflect her current situation; the here and now. It showed a queen sitting upon her throne, her head bowed in quiet contemplation, a single pentacle in her hand. The image immediately reminded Maggie of herself, especially these past few days. She had come to the cottage to contemplate her relationship with Peter, and although the Queen that sat before her looked far more calm than Maggie had felt, she felt that her appearance was significant nonetheless. In Maggie's mind, the green foliage with the red roses surrounding her, and the rabbit at her feet, were a reflection of the cottage and all its earthly wonders.

The book confirmed that the Queen of Pentacles was indeed an earthy person. She was described as being at home in the countryside, just as Maggie was at Bellbird Cottage. Supposedly a patient person, something that Maggie was not, the Queen of Pentacles was a reliable, down to earth, practical person, especially when approaching relationships. While Maggie felt that a link existed between her and the woman in the card, it was the last line of the description that caught her attention and confirmed the connection with her current situation.

The book said that the Queen of Pentacles was someone who understood that "passion lasts a night, whereas friendship lasts a lifetime."

While Maggie believed that passion could last longer than a night, she understood the intent of the message clearly. After all, had it not been something that she had only just come to understand fully after her encounter with Mike. It was also that eventual understanding that had led her to comprehend what Peter had been experiencing.

With the third card still face down, Maggie was becoming excited. So far the cards had been uncannily accurate, making the third and final card all the more intriguing. The last card represented her future, and although Maggie had a good feeling about her and Peter's life together, she was eager to see what the cards revealed.

She turned it over slowly; her breath caught in her throat as the image of a skeleton dressed in black knightly armour appeared. It was mounted on horseback, and carried a black flag with a white rose emblazoned on it. In front of the white horse, two small children knelt in prayer and a religious character, perhaps a bishop, stood before it and also prayed. In the distance, a single boat floated on a river. Atop a hill, the sun shone between two towers. Despite the yellow sun in the background, the card had a very bleak and solemn mood to it; Maggie knew it represented death before she even read the words at its base or saw the number thirteen printed on the card.

Thirteen was usually a lucky number for Maggie, her and Peter had met on the thirteenth and later married on the thirteenth of October, but the ominous look of the card before her made Maggie's heart start inexplicably. Almost too afraid to read the card's meaning, a big smile crossed Maggie's face when she learned that the card very rarely represented the death of a person. In contrast, the Death card appeared to be more about life than death. The book explained that when the Death card was turned up in a reading, it usually meant the end of a cycle and the beginning of a new one. It represented a time for change and the natural transformation of life. For every end, the book said, there was a new beginning.

Maggie liked the idea of a new beginning. It was exactly what she and Peter needed.

***

The look of disappointment on Maggie's face was sufficient to indicate to Peter that Stephen was not coming. "Well?" he asked, as soon as she replaced the receiver.

She shook her head, "He said he has a few things on before Christmas, but that he would catch the train up after Boxing Day. He's going to take my car back with him, that way I can come home with you."

"What else did he say?" Peter pressed her. He had told Maggie about his conversations with Stephen and she had assured him that he would come around in his own time. At times, Peter felt that Maggie knew his son better than he did. On this occasion, he hoped that it was the case, and that Maggie was right about Stephen. He figured that if Maggie had managed to forgive him, and he knew that she had, then perhaps his son would find it within himself to forgive as well.

Maggie sensed Peter's disappointment also. "Hey babe," she kissed the back of his hand, "stop worrying about it, he'll come around. He just needs to come to that point on his own."

Peter nodded, he knew she was right but it made him sad nonetheless. He never should have left things so badly between them, but then, looking at Maggie's face, he knew that the decision to come to the cottage had been the right one. "Here," Peter held out his hand for the phone, "I better give Michelle a call. Hopefully, we'll have better luck with her than we did with her brother."

Maggie smiled as she handed him the phone, then waited while he dialled Bea's number. After a short conversation with Bea, Peter handed the phone back to Maggie and relieved her of her shoulder bag. While he dug around in her bag for a pen and something to write on, Maggie chatted with her aunt.

"She's hardly ever home these days," Bea informed her, "but you're bound to catch her on this number." Then, before Maggie could ask her whose number it was Bea was reading out a string of numbers. Maggie took the pen and paper from Peter and wrote down the phone number that Bea assured her would put her in contact with her daughter. They said their goodbyes and promised to catch up on the twenty-second.

Maggie dialled the number that was scrawled before her. "Hello," said a male voice. She assumed it was Paul. "Hi, can I speak with Michelle please?" she asked politely.

"Sure," said the voice, "I'll just get her for you."

Maggie gave Peter the thumbs up while she waited for Michelle to come to the phone.

"Shelby!" Paul called. "Shelby, it's for you!"

A short spell later, Michelle's voice came on the line, "Hello?"

"Shelby?" Maggie asked playfully, "I thought for a minute I had the wrong number.

"No, you have the right number, Paul always calls me Shelby. His sister is also named Michelle, so there's less confusion this way."

"I suppose I could get used to it," admitted Maggie.

"Where are you calling from?" Michelle interrupted. "I tried your place a number of times over the past few days, but no one ever picks up."

Maggie explained that she had come to the cottage earlier than planned. When Michelle asked if Peter was there with her, Maggie told her that he was. It took some of the concern out of Michelle's voice.

After a short conversation, Maggie handed the phone to Peter. "Hey, how's my little girl?" he asked.

Peter spoke for a few minutes more and then joined Maggie outside. "Looks like we're on for the twenty-second," he announced.

"Is _Shelby_ coming to Bea's too?" she asked, taking the opportunity to enunciate Michelle's new name.

"Nope," Peter shook his head, "I told her that we'd go there for lunch first, and catch up with Bea afterwards. Paul's place isn't that far from Bea's, so we should have plenty of time to visit them both. And," he added with a mischievous grin, "that should still get us home, and in bed, by a reasonable hour." Maggie smiled. "Besides," he added, "I got the impression that she wanted to see us without Bea there."

"Why do you think that is?"

Peter shrugged, "Who knows, maybe she has some news for us."

"Yeah," said Maggie, "and maybe she's just sick of having her old great-aunt hanging around."

They both laughed. "So," she reminded him, "that means we still have almost three whole days together – alone – before we have to leave the cottage again."

Peter smiled at Maggie knowingly. He reached out and grabbed her. As he pulled her into his arms, he asked, "And what do you have in mind, dare I ask?"

"You may," she said, holding out her hand for his car keys, "you promised me a drive, remember."

He made a show of thinking about his response, almost as though he didn't trust her with his new car. "Don't worry," she said with a grin, as she sunk into the driver's seat and slipped the car into gear, "I'll be as easy on her as I will be on you later."

She could have sworn she heard him groan as she put her foot down and drove off.

Chapter 65

Saturday, 5 January 1980

Trevor sounded so much like a girl and jumped so high that I couldn't help but laugh. Instead of laughing with me, everyone else froze and watched as he ran around the tent brushing imaginary demons from his shoulders and back.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Tom asked.

Chrissy called from the backroom. "What's going on?"

Nobody answered her. We just stood watching the door of the tent, not game to move. I shone the torch on the front opening to reassure myself that whatever had been there was gone.

Except, it wasn't gone, it was still there.

I walked slowly towards it. "Here puss, puss, puss." The Higginbottom's cat walked over to me and twirled between my ankles. Everyone except Trevor cracked up laughing.

"Who's scared of a widdle puddy tat," Ed taunted.

"Shut up," Trevor snapped back.

No one dared spoil the mood by raising the issue of the Ouija board sitting on the table in front of us. Instead, we all went to bed and pretended it had never been put away in the first place.

Despite all the excitement, it wasn't long before everyone was asleep and breathing regularly. Someone – I couldn't tell who – was making whistling sounds. I thought about throwing my pillow in the direction of the noise but didn't want to have to crawl over the top of everyone to get it back, so I just put up with it.

"Tom?" I nudged him gently to see if he was awake.

He rolled over to face me. "Yeah?" he whispered back.

"I can't get to sleep, can you?"

"Well, I'm still awake aren't I?" he said good-naturedly.

I was pretty sure he was asleep until I nudged him. "Can I share your sleeping bag?"

"Okay." He unzipped the side of his sleeping bag and lifted the top open. I wriggled closer so that I could fit under the cover.

I moved in even closer. "Thanks."

"That's alright."

I could hear the others sleeping soundly and felt bad about waking Tom up. Raelene hadn't stopped snoring all night. She even slept through the whole thing with next door's cat. "Who do you think set the Ouija board back up?" I asked.

"Probably Trevor," he mumbled.

That's what I thought.

I could feel Tom's warm breath on the back of my neck. Rather than give me goose bumps like I thought it would, it felt good to have him so near. I'd never slept so close to someone before. The closest I'd ever been to someone else was when Mum made me top and tail with Kerrie-Anne. I couldn't stand it. I hated sharing my bed with another person. But, it was different with Tom. I liked being snuggled in close to him. I reckon it would be even better in winter when it's cold. At the moment, we only just got away with the sleeping bags. As it was, it was probably too warm in Tom's sleeping bag with the two of us, but I didn't care; I would sweat to death before I moved.

Tom put has hand across my middle so that I could burrow into him. I spotted Hendrix lying on my sleeping bag and reached out to get him. I put him beside the pillow next to my face. I couldn't think of a better way to fall asleep if I tried.

Tom's breath tickled my ear. "Goodnight Jenny."

"Goodnight."

Tom was asleep within seconds. His breathing soothed me and took away the edginess I'd been feeling. I felt myself drift off. I've always liked that moment that comes just before falling asleep properly. I think of it as the in-between time. I'm not properly asleep yet, but I'm no longer awake either. It's almost as though I'm floating.

I reckon I even dream during the in-between time.

***

I felt the familiar floating sensation take over. My eyes closed and I was carried away to another time and place. I was no longer aware of the tent full of people as I drifted off. Without knowing that I'd left the in-between time behind, I dreamt that Tom and Shortie were playing totem-tennis in the backyard, only, on second glance, it wasn't my backyard. It wasn't Tom's or Shortie's either. I think it was Keith Barry Oval, because the playground next to where they played looked the same. Except, the slippery dip was facing the other way and it was painted green instead of the usual metal that burnt your bum on a hot day. Caesar and Bluey were there too. They walked all the way to the end of the seesaw but weren't heavy enough to make it move.

Heaps of people sat in a grandstand that's not usually there and watched Tom and Shortie play totem-tennis. Shortie whacked the ball really hard and yelled, "four!"

"Quick!" yelled Tom, running across the cricket pitch towards the stumps at the other end, "run!"

Trevor bent down from where he was fielding, scooped up the ball and pegged it at the stumps. "That's out," he yelled triumphantly as the bails went tumbling, leaving no doubt as to his claim.

Trevor turned to the empty grandstand. The audience that had been there only moments before was gone. Only Mrs O'Connor and Mrs Cowan were still there. I looked around to see if I could see Dianne anywhere. Instead of finding her, I spotted Tom walking towards a shiny new car. It was just like the yellow Monaro in my dad's calendar.

"Well, come on; get a move on," he said, opening the passenger door and walking around to the driver's side, "It'll be dark soon."

Not the least bit surprised by Tom's new car, or the fact that he knew how to drive it; I got into the car and closed the door.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said with obvious pride. Then, not waiting for an answer, he turned on the radio. My favourite song was playing. I sat back in the seat and listened to the words. It felt good to be in the car with Tom. Almost like we were going on an exciting trip, only I didn't know where we were going. It didn't matter that I didn't know though; I just knew that wherever Tom took me, it would be okay.

"Where are we going?" I asked, without a hint of concern, curiosity simply getting the better of me. Tom looked at me and smiled. Instead of answering my question, he reached over and turned up the volume on the radio ... _"the answer my friend, is blowing in the wind..."_

I smiled back; only it was no longer Tom. Shortie stood beside me now. "It wasn't your fault Jenny; I want you to know that," he said softly.

My accepting state never even questioned where he came from. On the contrary, I felt relaxed and happy. Actually, I think the word that best described how I felt was euphoric. I even know what it means. Mr Drury gave us all a word to look up and my word was euphoria.

It means very happy and contented.

As is often the case when I'm dreaming, I change from place to place without any regard for where I've just been. Without understanding how we got there, Shortie and I were standing by the creek behind my place, and Tom and his new Monaro were nowhere to be seen.

The water ran fast and fresh, just like it does after a storm. We stood on the edge and watched the water stream past. I could no longer tell if I was dreaming or awake.

Shortie turned and faced me. "I have to go now," he said.

I smiled at him. "I know."

"Goodbye Jenny."

"Goodbye Shortie," I waved to him as he walked along the edge of the creek. When he got to the point where I'd once seen a green snake and a green butterfly, he turned and gave me one last wave. I lifted my arm to wave back but he was already gone.

Chapter 66

Sunday, 22 December 1968

Maggie closed her book and placed it on the table next to her Tarot cards. Since Peter's arrival, she hadn't done as much reading as she'd thought she would. Preferring to be with Peter instead, they had spent a phenomenal three days making up, her initial concern regarding their ability to put the past behind them and move on, long forgotten. Maggie couldn't remember the last time they had spent so much time together without filling their days with planned excursions and chores. When did life get so hectic, she wondered? At least the time they had just spent together had not been hectic, at least not in the traditional sense. On this occasion, they had simply drifted through the days without any regard for chores, the cottage their haven, neither of them wanting to move very far beyond its lush boundaries.

Bellbird Cottage had always been a special place for them, despite the circumstances under which they had acquired it. Thinking about how it was that she had come to own her patch of paradise, Maggie remembered her mother, dead almost four years now, and smiled with the thought that she might be watching over them. If she was indeed spying, she'd no doubt be turning in her grave at their decadent lifestyle; the late nights sitting outside sharing a joint while they discussed the wonders of the world, their unabashed lovemaking, and even Maggie's insistence that Peter painfully tell her everything that had transpired between him and Jane. Maggie could picture the look of disapproval on her mother's pinched face as she wagged her finger at Maggie and said, "I told you so."

Maggie no longer cared what her mother thought. Now, the only thing that mattered to Maggie was how she felt, and at that moment she felt good. She felt euphoric, in fact. If she hadn't known better, she would have said that she was still high from last night, and not from the couple of joints they had shared either. It was no wonder really; it had been such a magical evening. What had started with a cool bath, both of them immersed chin deep in clear water, their legs stretched out before them, had ended with the most amazing lovemaking session Maggie could recall.

After drying off from the bath, they poured themselves a beer and handed a joint back and forth until they were both pleasantly afflicted. At first they had been content to sit and talk, but as the effects of the grass became more intense, so did their desire for each other. They had just finished the second joint for the night, when Peter picked her up and carried her inside. Instead of putting her down on the bed as she had expected him to do, he spread a blanket on the lounge room floor and laid her on that instead.

He spent the next couple of hours teasing her mercilessly, his soft mouth caressing every inch of her body until she thought she was going to faint from the sheer pleasure of his touch. Then, just when she thought she could endure it not a second longer, he would back off, leaving her breathless for more before taking her even higher again, until finally, she was begging him to end the exquisite torture. Afterwards, they lay on the blanket exhausted, the night air insufficient to dry their clammy skin.

At the time Maggie had been certain that she had never loved him more. Now, with her face no longer flushed from last night's lovemaking, but from the heat of the day, she knew that she had been right.

"Almost ready to go?" Peter asked from the kitchen.

She told him that she was as she raced past him and into the bedroom. She pushed her pleasant daydreams away, slipped off her kaftan and changed into something more suitable for visiting her daughter. "I'm ready!" she called, before spinning around and racing back into the bedroom to get Michelle's Christmas present.

Maggie came back out and handed the package to Peter, "Here, you take this while I quickly brush my hair." She was off into the bathroom before he could say a word.

Peter weighed the parcel up in his hand, "My god, what have you got in here?" he called to Maggie.

"I'll explain in the car," she promised, joining him on the veranda, "I don't want to be late."

Peter was just about to pull the front door closed, when Maggie interrupted him, "Here," she handed him her handbag, "hold this for me; I think I left the directions to Paul's place on the bench."

The routine familiar, Peter waited patiently while Maggie went inside for the directions, stopping her on her way back out to tell her that he loved her. As they got near the car, he offered to let her drive but she declined. "I'm better at directions than you," she explained, "I'll navigate."

"Sure you are," he laughed. Maggie was lousy at giving directions; she used her hands too much and Peter couldn't follow and keep his eyes on the road at the same time, but she obviously didn't want to rob him of an opportunity to drive his new car, so he didn't argue the point.

"So," asked Peter as soon as they had taken off, "how long do you give Michelle before she's telling us she's engaged?"

It was obvious by her response that Maggie had already given the matter some consideration. "Not for a while yet. If I know Michelle, she'll keep Paul waiting as long as she can. You know how she is; she likes her independence too much to give in to his first proposal."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Peter agreed. "Things sure have changed a lot, wouldn't you say?"

"How so?" Maggie enquired.

"Well, once upon a time a young lady would have jumped at the chance to become the respectable wife of a budding engineer like Paul."

Noting his light-hearted tone, Maggie swiped him playfully across the back of his head. "Oh come on, babe, this is the sixties; strong, determined young ladies like Michelle, or Shelby as she calls herself these days, no longer need men to make them respectable. Or hadn't you heard?"

Peter laughed and pointed to the radio, the Rolling Stones were playing. "Oh, I'd heard alright. I guess with guys like them around, respectability is no longer fashionable."

***

Maggie remembered her role as navigator, "I think you need to turn up there," she pointed.

Peter slowed the car as he approached the turnoff. "You sure it's this one, I thought you said it was near the hospital; this road looks too narrow. What's the street called?"

Maggie examined the piece of paper carefully. "Doesn't say; the note only says to turn left and follow the road up past the maternity hospital. Apparently it's on the same side as K-Mart. Then, it's the next right after K-Mart." Maggie looked out of the window. "Isn't it that street there?" she asked, pointing out the window.

"It's the next one," Peter assured her as he pulled back into the traffic. "See the sign?"

"Where?" Maggie couldn't make out where he was pointing.

"There! The one that says 'Western Suburbs Hospital'?"

"Oh yeah, I see it." Maggie sat back and relaxed. Peter turned the car into the street and followed it up towards the hospital as directed. From the short distance away, the car park looked full. "Looks like they're doing a roaring trade,' he observed. "Just in time for Christmas, too."

At Peter's mention of the babies being born in time for Christmas, Maggie tried not to think of the baby she lost. In time, she would tell Peter about it, but not yet.

Bob Dylan came on and she reached down to turn the radio up. "There," she pointed, "just opposite the entrance to the hospital; see where that big truck is pulling out?" Peter looked to where she indicated. "See it?" she asked again, "According to the directions, there should be a right hand turn just past that truck; that's where we need to go."

Peter waited for her to finish fiddling with the radio before taking her hand in his. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could just keep on driving and never look back?" he asked solemnly, taking his eyes off the road.

Instead of answering his question, Maggie looked at her soul mate's serious face and smiled ... _"the answer my friend, is blowing in the wind..."_

###
