Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories by Joy Dettman Read Free Book Online

Indian’s here, Mummy!’ The girl ran diagonally across the front paddock, wriggled between the tightly stretched wires of the home yard and scrambled up to the high veranda. ‘He’s going down behind the hayshed, Mummy.’
    The tea drinker drained her cup. ‘Nothing wrong with my ears or eyes, girl. You stay well away from his van now, do you hear me? He’s an old heathen.’
    Her words were sharp. She had no reason for anger. It came from within, from some deep-seated irritation born of poverty, disappointment, futility.
    Shapeless in her seventh month of pregnancy, a soiled apron worn over a faded dress. Eighteen years on this land had dried her; last year’s fine lines deepened daily into next year’s furrows.
    Her teacup washed and carefully dried, she placed it on a high shelf before turning to the girl, her fifth born, lost amid the boys. She was stepping from foot to foot on that veranda, eager for the showing to begin, her eyes darting from the kitchen window to the van, then back again.
    â€˜So let her learn patience,’ the woman sighed, slipping her feet into canvas shoes, tossing her soiled apron aside for a cleaner model of the same flour sack variety. This one had been embroidered with hopeful pinks and greens. The handiwork of a novice, it bore the signature of a dreamer.
    With her sixth born at her knee and her seventh heavy within, she picked up her purse, wiped at the toddler’s face with the dishrag, took two string bags from behind the door then used them to shoo a fly and the tiny boy out of the room.
    From a distance, the farmhouse still maintained a pretence of pride. Money had been plentiful here in some forgotten era, but cream paintwork had weathered to grey, and the galvanised iron roof, once a cheery red, was now more rust than red. It leaned into the sparse shade of a row of sugar gums. In the years since she’d come to this house, she’d either been with child, or nursing one at the breast. Three of her boys were old enough to be a help to their father. Her seven year old she found skulking in the hayshed, mischief written all over his face.
    â€˜What have you been into, boy?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    He elbowed his sister. She ignored him, too busy watching in wide-eyed awe as the hawker let down the rear of his van, and named it table. He had set up in the shade of the hayshed, his mare at ease between the shafts, her tail and ears flicking sporadically, her patient brown eyes closed against the flies as she snuffled oats from a hand-woven nosebag.
    Bolder with his mother close by, the boy sidled up to the van, then scurried back to the girl, elbowed her again. ‘I seen right inside that van,’ he said, desperate to prove his maturity to someone. ‘He’s a got a king cobra snake in a jar of metho, and he pours snake juice all over his dinner, and if anyone eats any of his food, he dies dead.’ His voice assumed an evil quaver as his eyes, narrowing against the glare, watched his sister move closer to the table and her mother.
    â€˜Fine china tea-set, missus. Very cheap.’
    The Indian’s voice was a low melodic whisper. A black devil, he had the power to see into her heart. She snatched her shameless fingers away from a delicate cup.
    â€˜I’ve got no use for gewgaws and falderals,’ she snapped, denying her need, denying her hand even its freedom to touch. Quickly she picked up a knife, punishing shameless fingers for their need, pressing her thumb to the knife blade. ‘What use is it bringing your falderals up here?’ she scoffed. ‘I could use a new knife, and I’ll have some of that Indian curry I bought last time. And mugs, those enamel mugs you’ve got up there. Oh, and a reel of black thread and some machine needles.’
    The tall wooden wheel was the step up to the van’s floor. The boy drew closer, his eyes daring his sister to follow. She hung back, close to the