Have You Seen Ally Queen? Read Free

choice. I tried to convince Dad to commute. He runs his own business, designing timber-framed homes, so he could do it, since he works from home and only occasionally has to go on-site. We could all stay in Perth and Mum could come and live down here since she’s so keen on peace and quiet, and Dad could just drive down to Melros to check on her as well as his projects—you know, like commuting—and be home in time to cook us dinner. Actually, I did offer to cook dinner, but by then he was angry (I could tell by the way he was stirring his tea) and I shut up. He looked up at me a bit strangely and said that nothing in the world would make him live away from Mum. Jerry looked down at his pre-bed peanut butter sandwich, and I found a crumb to pick up off the counter.
     
    I’m walking home from the bus stop a different way today. I hate walking along the road, with cars hurling past, and that rank feeling of being checked out by each driver. I cross the road and head into the bush. From our upstairs verandah, you can see how the firebreaks run through the scrub, so hopefully my mind has storedthat info somewhere. Magpies curdle way above me and banksias fling their cones into the undergrowth. My bag’s a lead weight on my shoulder. I still haven’t figured out which teachers want you to bring which books to class, so I just take them all. I swap shoulders.
     
    The roof of a house pokes through the bush. It’s a tin roof, one of those ones that sound really cool when it’s pouring with rain. I peer through the bush, no one seems to be about, so I proceed with caution. This place is amazing. It’s made of rammed earth and has its own water tank. There’s a beautiful wood door and the garden’s all messy and rambling, except for one big tree, which looks like it’s got fruit on it. I go over there to see: yep, fruit. As purple as the Doc Martens Mum won’t let me buy. (She says they’re too expensive and that I shouldn’t feel that I have to adorn myself with a marketed identity —it’s my personality that counts. All the more reason for the boots, I think. My personality stinks.)
     
    Mulberries. There was a mulberry tree in our street at home. Every summer, squashed fruit stained the footpath, and every winter, the rain washed it clean again. There’s no one around now, and I drop my bag and reach up to taste them. They’ll probably be hard and sour, so I put just one in my mouth. I crush itslowly against my tongue and feel the juice soak into the fleshy part of my cheeks. It’s the best mulberry I’ve ever tasted. I look up. There are thousands of them. I grab a couple more, pop them in. I don’t want to hang around; I start collecting some to take home. The last thing I need is to be busted in this town for picking some old granny’s mulberries. The kids at school’d know about it before I did. I put about thirty in the side pocket of my bag, being careful not to squash them. I’m reminded by the look of my hands—stained, like I dipped them in shoplifter ink—that mulberry juice is not something to be taken lightly. I’ll have to use Dad’s special mechanics’ soap to remove the evidence when I get home. Right now, though, I reckon this tree is just about the best thing in Melros. I pull off three or four more berries and cram them into my mouth for one last hit. They are soft and sweet and probably make me look like Dracula.
     
    As I get closer to home, seagulls whirl above me. If I hurry, I’ll be able to clean up before anyone gets back.
     

SUNSET
    I’m lying on my bed. I’ve got the covers up around me. It’s seven in the evening, and Mum’s been in here, hassling me. She’s drained me of all my energy. I feel as floppy and tired as the leaves on the peppermint tree outside. And because of her, I missed the sunset. I haven’t missed one yet and it’s almost like I’ve let someone down. I mean, obviously the sun wouldn’t give a rat’s whether I’m there or not, but I know I