Hope Farm by Peggy Frew Read Free Book Online Page B

bullish and mean-eyed, with angry pimples — and stealing something from a person like that, for any reason, just sounded way too dangerous.
    Ian went to the edge of the water. ‘Shall we toss this lot in again and see what happens?’ he called. ‘They can go quite a way, almost to the bridge. There’s a bend just before there that always stops them.’
    I joined him, and one by one we threw the balls into the rushing stream. We started with the small grey-white ones, which barely made a sound as they hit the water. Then we did a tennis ball each — they plopped in satisfyingly before surging off. We watched them go, and then Ian raised the cricket ball. He stood for a moment with his skinny arm tensed, but then lowered it again.
    â€˜What’s your name?’ he said, and for a moment all the old-man oddness dropped out of his voice, and he just sounded like a kid.
    â€˜Silver.’
    â€˜Here, Silver.’ He held the ball out. ‘You do the honours.’
    â€˜Oh, no.’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Go on.’
    â€˜Okay.’ I took the ball. It was heavy. I lifted my arm and threw, and up it went in a long streak, then over and down and in, right at the middle. A little clear frill of splash rose and marked its entry and sank away again, and then the ball broke the surface gently and seemed to settle for a moment before commencing its slow, grand twirling, and its journey downstream.

My mother drove me all the way to Brisbane for a special mass. She didnt take Linda just me. It was there in the church pew that I felt some thing move right down low, the lightest tap. I sat still but it didnt happen again. When my mother prayed she laced her fingers and her knuckles went white. Afterwards we went to a park near the Valley. She took me to a bench. I have to go to the shops wait here she said and walked away. I watched her leave, her spiky steps. In one week I was to go to the place, the Home she called it. I didnt think about what it might be like, I kept my mind shut against any thinking but some times like now out in the light open park I couldnt help seeing what would come after, that I would be like Evie Dyer. I felt panic and the tap came in side again like a message and I wanted to get up and walk away in the opposite direction from my mother. I stood up and then I saw them. They were getting ready for a picnic putting out patterned cloths on the grass and unpacking metal pots of food from big baskets. Some had dark skin and wore robes that glowed orange in the sun but the clothes of the others were beautiful too. Most had long hair centre parted and worn loose. A man sat cross legged with a guitar and played and some women sang they all had smiling calm faces. I could smell the food and it was like nothing Id smelled before. I felt so hungry all of a sudden. I knew what hippies were Id seen pictures in the paper and some times the real thing in the city, once some had been busking when Id gone to a film with friends from school. My friends pointed and laughed and pulled me away but Id wanted to stay to see more. At home I often looked at the pages on India in my Geography book, the photos. Foreheads stained with red dye and wreaths of yellow flowers, the jewel saris of women working in a field, there beautiful slim brown arms. Patterns even in a sack of dried beans. Every tiniest thing decorated everything beautiful so far away from the plain white house of my parents its square lawn and concrete paths and the empty ugly streets I rode my bike down. I had moved from the bench to get closer and then I saw a woman, she had long brown hair down her back and tied onto her with a length of fabric a curled shape close against her chest like it was part of her. She stood near the guitar man, her eyes closed moving gently from side to side. Then I saw what it was bound to her chest because a little arm came up, a tiny hand touched her chin and she opened her eyes and smiled and held the