Cicada Summer by Kate Constable Read Free Book Online Page A

away, her father was running it all by himself and that was why he was especially busy – too busy to spend much time with Anna. It was what was called an ‘artists’ retreat’, where writers and painters and sculptors and musicians could come to work in peace.
    Eloise thought she understood how they felt. Being in Anna’s time, at the summerhouse, gave her a feeling of peace too. Perhaps it was because she knew she was in the past: nothing bad could happen there, because it would have happened already, and it hadn’t, so it couldn’t. She was safe there. At the summerhouse, she and Anna were inside their own private world, where nothing could touch them.
    Sometimes a tilt of Anna’s head or a half-smile would pierce Eloise’s memory like the swift jab of a needle and she would be positive that Anna was her mother. At these moments, Eloise would long to grab Anna and squeeze her, to hold on to her and keep her safe forever. But then Anna would stamp and grumble about something, or she’d say a word differently from how Eloise’s mum used to say it, and Eloise was not so sure.
    Anna gave Eloise back her sketchbook. Eloise took it with a quick skip of the heart, because she never showed her pictures to anyone. But all Anna said was, ‘You’re a pretty good drawer. You’re not as good as my mumma, but you’re pretty good.’
    Eloise felt her face grow hot as she shoved the book into her backpack. But after that she didn’t mind if Anna saw her sketching. They’d often sit together outside the summerhouse, Eloise busy drawing, and Anna chatting or reading or sorting pebbles or eating apples. Anna never seemed to notice or mind that Eloise didn’t talk; Anna chattered enough for both of them.
    Nearly always, the first thing Eloise did when she arrived was to dive into the silvery water of the pool. She’d swim while Anna watched, but Anna never swam. Eloise couldn’t understand why; if she owned a glorious pool like this, she’d swim every day. She held out her hand to Anna, but Anna shook her head.
    ‘I can’t. It’s too deep, I can’t touch the bottom.’
    So Eloise would haul herself out, dripping, and wrap herself in her sun-warmed towel.
    Once or twice the girls had to hide in the summerhouse because ‘the guests’ wanted to use the swimming pool. They ducked out of sight, listening to the splashes and shrieks of the adults, while Anna stifled her giggles, and Eloise pulled silly faces to make it worse, until Anna slid sideways and cried with silent laughter. But the guests mostly used the pool in the evenings and at night, Anna said, because in the daytime they were working.
    ‘You can’t let anyone see you,’ Anna insisted, and Eloise let herself be hidden; she didn’t want to be seen, anyway.
    One afternoon as Eloise rode down Mo’s street, she saw someone in the next-door garden: not Tommy, but a bearded man in shabby clothes, kneeling by a flowerbed. He looked up as she swung round into the driveway, and raised his hand.
    ‘Ah, you must be Mrs Mo’s granddaughter.’
    Eloise stopped the bike and looked at the ground. The bearded man advanced to the low dividing fence; he held out his hand to shake hers, then dusted it on his trousers.
    ‘Excuse me – gardening. Weeding, to be exact. It is strange, even with no rain, the weeds still flourish. Is it the same for you?’
    Eloise stared at the ground.
    ‘Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Eloise,’ said Tommy’s dad, just as if they’d had a proper conversation. ‘I am Dr Durrani. I was Professor Durrani, once upon a time. But not any more. That was my job – talking, talking all day, lectures and speeches and meetings.’ He glanced around conspiratorially. ‘May I tell you a secret? I am quite glad to have a rest from all that talk, talk, talk. Sometimes there is nothing to say, you know?’ He grinned suddenly, splitting his neat beard in two, and Eloise found herself smiling back. He nodded. ‘I thought you would agree with