Patty had announced lunch was being served, and the family had converged on the table like goannas on a roast chicken. Kirsty had tucked herself into the furthest end from Joe, who had tried to speak to her in between overs, but she’d ignored his overtures. She tuned out the conversation around her as Amy’s busy little fingers came to the yellow gift. She’d thought long and hard about what a nine-year-old girl might like to receive, but in the end decided it wasn’t so much what a nine-year-old would like, or what a girl would like, but what Amy would like.
And then she’d known straight away what to get.
The paper and ribbon were obliterated within seconds, and Amy looked down at the leather-bound journal. ‘It’s just like your one,’ she said.
‘My one?’ Kirsty began, before realising Amy meant her great-grandfather’s journal. The girl must have seen her reading it endlessly and assumed it was hers. ‘Um … yes,’ she said. ‘Flip it over so you can see the front. I had it engraved by a guy at the Nimbin markets.’
‘Amy’s Poetry,’ Amy read out. ‘What a fantabulous idea! Now I can keep them all together!’
‘And you see these ribbons? Like little bookmarks? I thought you could use them for sections. Like, poems about dogs could be one section, poems about chooks could be another.’
Amy looked up. ‘Thanks, Kirsty, I love it.’
Kirsty smiled. ‘I’m glad.’
‘You know, if you gave up eating meat, you’d be a pretty cool auntie.’
‘Umm … thank you?’
Daisy’s eyes had narrowed. ‘What are you getting at, Amy Miles?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Amy. ‘It’s just, when we were swimming before, Uncle Lachy asked Uncle Red Ant if it was true that Kirsty was the top candidate for the Mrs Farmer Joe thing everyone’s been talking about, and I thought cool! If Uncle Joey married Kirsty, she’d be my auntie! Two of my favourite people, even if they do both condone murdering animals.’
A glass broke at the far end of the table in the direction where she’d been avoiding looking because that’s where Joe had been sitting. Will had turned into a statue, Red Ant cleared his throat. Lachy muttered something inarticulate that sounded likecheesecake … rescue … think I’m needed in the kitchen.
She’d not heard that right. Had she?
But Daisy and Felicity were both stricken and Joe—now she actually looked—was scowling and Patty was—shoot, was shecrying? Robbo had pulled out his hearing aid and was twiddling with it as though a recalibration might turn that whole announcement into totally different words.
‘Amy,’ said Daisy, in the most ferocious tone Kirsty had ever heard her use. ‘Please go and take your presents inside.’
‘But Mum,’ said Amy, ‘I haven’t finished unwrapping them yet.’
‘Then go find me twenty-six seedpods off the poinciana tree. I need them for … an art project.’
Amy crossed her arms. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me? You do know this ismyparty.’
‘Yes. Now go. Out of hearing but not out of sight.’
The table was silent as Amy marched off, all stiff-backed and wounded, to the far side of the tree.
‘What,’ Kirsty said slowly, ‘was that all about?’
‘Shit,’ said Joe. ‘Maybe it’s time you and I had a talk.’
‘No need. Maybe my coming here today was a mistake.’
Getting up from the table felt great. Walking away felt great, too, and so did storming off through the walking track back to the road and yelling at Joey—who’d jumped up to follow her—to leave her alone.
Leaping into her ute and slamming the door shut felt epic, and her thoughts had run ahead of her, and she was imagining spinning the key in her ignition and thumping her boot (well, actually it was a dumb, strappy, man-attracting sandal that only a moron would have worn) on the accelerator and watching the needle in the fuel gauge rip up to the almost-full mark … and she knew that was going to feelsuperepic.
She was getting good at this. Running away from bad shitworked.
Unfortunately, when she spun her key in the ignition, her starter motor made a noise like a crocodile dying then fell silent.
Her getaway vehicle wouldn’t start.
Ten minutes later, a low voice murmured from just behind her, ‘You’re going to break that engine if you stare at it any longer.’