Millie and the Night Heron Read Free Page A

ranges on one side and the sea on the other. The mountain ranges had been cleared by loggers and the sea wasn’t visible at all. The B & B also promised a ‘delicious five-star breakfast’ which turned out to be a loaf of Tip Top raisin bread—toaster provided—a tin of fruit salad in light syrup, four rashers of bacon and two eggs.
    â€˜Free range eggs,’ Mum said.
    â€˜I can see that,’ I told her, washing chicken poop off mine. ‘I like them better when they come out of a carton.’
    â€˜Oh, you do not, Millie. If you did, you’d neverhave written that letter to the local paper about how bad it was to keep battery hens. You told me you were an animal rights activist.’
    â€˜I am,’ I said, ‘but I prefer my eggs without farm life evidence. Does that look clean to you?’
    â€˜Good enough to eat,’ Mum said, and swooped down on me, hugging me tight and nearly breaking my egg. ‘I love you, Millie girl, even if you are a cantankerous kid.’
    Mum got high on new places. I’d forgotten that. It had been a long time between real holidays, because we often didn’t have quite enough money around holiday time when everything, even petrol, went up.
    Gradually I caught Mum’s enthusiasm. It took a mixture of food, shopping and walking. In that order, of course. The best food was provided by the hospitality students of Wetlands TAFE at their restaurant, The Pelicano. They had children’s rates, but the waiting staff treated me just as seriously as they treated Mum. They read the Specials board and didn’t mind when I asked whether the duck was free range.
    Rebecca—we knew that was her name because she introduced herself to us—agreed with me that they should be using free range ducks but they didn’t because of the expense. She also said that in her opinion they should widenthe vegetarian choices, but it didn’t worry us because Sheri wasn’t there.
    â€˜If I get this job,’ Mum said, as we drove back to the B & B, bellies full of Rack of Lamb encrusted with Honey Mustard and served on a Bed of Mash, ‘and I do say if, Sweetie, because I really don’t have the qualifications, but if I get this job, we could make that our treat restaurant.’
    The Red Cross Op-Shop was the best. It didn’t have that op shop smell, even, and for once there were young people working there. Not that I’m against old ladies in op shops, but I think it’s pretty cool to walk into an op shop where the radio is tuned to FM and there’s an essential-oil burner on the counter. The clothes were fantastic. It was like shopping at a boutique. We only spent twenty dollars and I walked out with a new summer outfit.
    The walk was over the wetlands themselves. There were hides where you could sit and watch the birds without them seeing you: pelicans, ducks, little blue-feathered moor hens. It was very peaceful. You had to be very quiet and I leant against Mum’s shoulder while we both watched the groups of pelicans sailing grandly past. She put her arm around me and we stayed like that for the longest time, just sitting close, not saying anything, the bird noises like music someone hadforgotten to turn off.
    Eventually Mum kind of shook herself, the way you do when you’ve been daydreaming and suddenly realise that the toast has burnt.
    â€˜Oh, Millie,’ she said, ‘I wish I could paint us the way we are now. I wish I could do that.’
    â€˜You could, Mum. You can paint anything.’
    â€˜No.’ She sighed. ‘Figures in landscape aren’t my vocabulary.’
    â€˜Can’t you add to it? You’re always telling me to broaden my vocabulary.’
    â€˜That’s words, darling. You should always use more and different words.’
    â€˜Why shouldn’t you do the same with painting?’ I hated it when adults told you one thing and then told themselves something