Where the Queens all Strayed by Barbara Hanrahan

Author:Barbara Hanrahan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ligature Pty Limited
Published: 2021-11-09T00:57:37+00:00

15

A missionary came to church and told how thousands of high-caste Hindu children were secret Christians. They daren’t tell the world, but in their homes they refrained from idol worship and were true followers of Christ.

Meg sang with the choir now. Her hat was one of the flashest, but it was a pity she sat up in front. She didn’t seem as pretty as the girls on either side. Even Mother looked at her straight, and suggested a dose of tonic. Or the bones of white fish were supposed to be good, crushed and dissolved to jelly. But Meg said No thank you, and went to her room. She was always in there, now. Mother’s mouth trembled. It was tea-time when she suggested the fish bones. She stared at Father across the cruet-stand. “Oh, George,” she said (and I felt embarrassed, as if I was an eavesdropper—usually she only called him “Father” or the “Pup” that was short for “Papa”). Her voice was clear and childish, as if she’d woken from dreaming: “I can’t understand. She never used to get the sulks. We used to make plans. The veil was to be dotted net. But now she never confides. And Teddy doesn’t come to church. When was the last time she saw him?”

Meg mightn’t smile, but things went on just the same.

The Governor unveiled new pictures at the Art Gallery—“Sunrise on the Cambrona Glacier”, “The Foam Sprite”. The Hog Bay Bachelors’ Club met at Booleroo Centre. Mrs Honeywell gave a girls’ tea-party in her beautiful house on Brougham Place.

At Fern Gully there was a week of intensely cold weather. The record frosts did injury to all plant life. Even the natural grasses were nipped. But soon it was spring, and the Hills were gay with blossom. Pink almond, then snowy pear and plum; and quince, cherry, apricot; finally apple.

You noticed things: the leaf of wild garlic was flat; wild onion had a hollow stem. African daisy was a noxious weed that once a year the prisoners were let out of gaol to pick—its petals were large; Jap daisy, though, was tame and small—you grew it in the garden.

The sun turned spiteful. It pretended to be mild, sickly. You sat too long outside, and didn’t know you were sunburnt.

Rose-breasted galahs flew in the sky. I walked to the cemetery where Granma and Lizzie lay. Sheep droppings were everywhere.

At home, thunbergia, that Mother called golden glory, opened its hairy pods.

But best of all was the wattle. The pale silver sort didn’t have much of a smell; the tiny gold one, with the pointed leaves, was sweetest of all. I sniffed and sniffed, but could never label the scent … it reminded me of something—perhaps marzipan, but I couldn’t exactly remember. It was pleasant, unpleasant … I wanted to sneeze.

By the creek the kurrajong shimmered. The tree looked quite still; but when you came close you saw a constant quiver—the little leaves waggling. The shivery grass heads were like beads; the gorse came out, and the tea-tree.

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