When Daryl gets home Sharon is in the kitchen. She's wearing a white apron, edged in lace. The table is dusted in flour and there is a fat ball of pastry in the middle.
‘Did you get them?’ she says.
Daryl puts the jar on the table.
‘Perfect,’ says Sharon. ‘What did you tell Darcy?’
‘That you were making humble pie, what do you think? I told him we were going fishing for whiting tonight.’
‘Perfect.’
‘You're not really going to cook them in the pie are you?’ says Daryl.
He was having second thoughts about his sister's humble pie.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I'm not going to do that.’
Thank God for that, thinks Daryl. She's changed her mind.
‘They'll die if I cook them. I'm going to add them later. I want them still squirming.’
Sharon takes the rolling pin and starts to roll out the pastry.
‘You keep guard for me. Make sure she doesn't come in.’
‘She's out there listening to what's-his-name. She won't budge. You know that. Besides I've got some stuff to do.’
When Daryl returns the pie is sitting in the middle of the table. The crust is golden and buttery. The smell, rich and delicious, fills the kitchen and wafts through the open window.
He watches as Sharon carefully slices the pie's top off with a large knife.
She scoops some of the apple out with a spoon. Then she takes the jar, unscrews the lid, and shakes the contents into the hollow she's created. She gently smooths the writhing maggots over with a knife and carefully puts the top back on.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ she says. ‘Humble pie.’
Just then the door opens. It's Aunt Bette. Still in her blue dressing gown and fluffy slippers.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ she says, moving closer, until her nose almost touches the pie. ‘I could smell it from outside.’
‘It is,’ says Sharon. ‘It's an apple pie. I just made it.’
‘Deary me, I hope it's not for some stupid CWA stall or another,’ says Aunt Bette.
‘No, Auntie,’ says Sharon. ‘It's for dinner tonight and I made it especially for you.’
‘Aren't you a darling,’ says Aunt Bette, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I can't wait.’
Dinner time. The four of them are sitting around the table. The smell of apple pie still lingers in the kitchen.
‘Another roast potato, Bette?’ says Gwen.
‘Not for me, Gwen. I'm leaving plenty of room for that apple pie.’
She smiles at Sharon.
‘I might as well serve it now,’ says Sharon, getting up from the table.
‘John was talking about it again today,’ says Aunt Bette.
‘What's that, Bette?’ says Gwen.
‘Land rights.’
Sharon cuts a hefty portion of pie and slides it onto a plate.
‘Cream, Auntie?’ she says.
‘Just a little, dear.’
Sharon spoons a huge dollop on top of the pie and puts the plate in front of her aunt.
‘Thank you, Sharon,’ says Aunt Bette. ‘That looks just lovely. Aren't you going to have some, Gwen?’
‘No, not me, Bette. Doctor won't allow me.’
‘Anyway as I was saying, Gwen,’ she says. ‘You better be careful.’
She sticks her spoon into the pie.
Daryl watches. Surely she'll notice, he thinks.
But Aunt Bette is really getting worked up about land rights.
‘Because it wouldn't surprise me if they put a claim on this very house,’ she says, the loaded spoon hovering in midair.
Then it disappears into her mouth. When it comes out, it's empty.
‘Lovely,’ says Aunt Bette.
‘Excuse me, I don't feel too good,’ says Daryl, the bile rising in his throat.
He goes to the bathroom and rinses his mouth out with water. When he returns, his aunt's plate is empty, scraped clean, and Aunt Bette and Sharon are beaming at each other.
‘Lovely pie, Sharon,’ says Aunt Bette. ‘I don't often have seconds. You must give me the recipe.’
‘I will,’ says Sharon.
Next day is Sunday. And again it's hot. Aunt Bette is late for breakfast.
‘D'ya reckon she's okay?’ Daryl asks Sharon. Sharon smirks.
‘It's not funny. Maybe we killed her or something.’
But as he says this Aunt Bette enters the kitchen. She's dressed for church – a lacy hat, her best dress, high heels and white gloves.
‘This heat,’ she says, ‘really is intolerable.’
They walk to church. It's an old bluestone building, on the other side of town. Outside, farmers squat on the ground, chewing blades of grass, discussing the drought.
The collection plate is passed around. Sharon puts in a coin, then Daryl. He passes the plate to Aunt Bette. She drops in a coin and then gives the plate a decent rattle. But Daryl knows it's only five cents; he saw her take it from her purse earlier.
‘Please turn your hymn books to number sixty-seven,’ says the minister.
Aunt Bette is an enthusiastic singer, she always sings loudly. But number 67 is one of her favourite hymns, and she always turns the volume up to ten, giving it the full operatic treatment.
The congregation stands.
The organist, Mrs Ashburner, starts playing – ‘Plink, plonk, plink.’
‘The Loooord,’ sings Aunt Bette, her voice filling the church.
Then there comes another noise. A weird noise. A choking sound, but not harsh, a soft fluttering choking sound. Everybody stops singing. Mrs Ashburner stops playing, twisting around in her seat.
Everybody is looking at Aunt Bette.
Her hands are out in front of her, palms up. Her chin is tilted forward and her mouth is open wide, the pink lipstick forming a perfect ‘O’.
The choking noise stops.
And then, out of Aunt Bette's mouth, they come – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven of them. Big ones, blowies, they come buzzing out of Aunt Bette's mouth and into the vestibule.
Mrs Ashburner faints, toppling off her stool.
The priest crosses himself.
And the blowies keep buzzing.
The next bus to Adelaide leaves at 5:25 that afternoon. The twins watch as Aunt Bette, wearing dark sunglasses, lugs her suitcase aboard.
‘Oh, Auntie,’ says Sharon.
‘What?’ says Aunt Bette.
She turns around, annoyed at being stopped.
‘You wanted that recipe.’
‘What recipe?’ she snaps.
‘For the humb … I mean apple pie,’ says Sharon.
‘Look, I'll get it next time I visit,’ she says.
But deary me, she never did.
Inert Earth
David Metzenthen
Illustrated by David Miller
skeletal trees play a waiting game
with a silent partner
scores well-kept in tightening rings
and in the rattle of bones
one set of rules above ground
another set down below
clouds are dealt
and thunder rolls like dice
armoured crows play overseer
then slowly flap away
evaporate day by day
The Country School
Steven Herrick
Illustrated by Mitch Vane
On the other side of the school back fence
there is a paddock full of overgrown lush green grass
and there are cows, big brown cows with white
markings
who wander around and bellow
and sleep sometimes in the thick grass
with just their ears poking up.
On the far side is a creek
surrounded by willow trees
with their branches weeping low,
brushing gently along the surface
of the bubbling stream.
And sometimes when the sun is high
and you look really close you can see
little silver fish darting around.
On the banks of the creek
someone has tied a rope to one of the trees
and if you had the courage
you could grab this rope and swing yourself
far out above the water
and if you wanted
on a hot sunny day
if you were wearing your swimmers
you could drop into the bracing flow of the clear water
and swim, laughing and giggling, all the way to the
bank
watched only by the cows
and the glorious sunshine.
And when you were dry and dressed,
back in your school uniform
and sneaking across the paddock
hiding in the long lush grass,
just before climbing the fence back to school
before the lunch bell went
you could see on this side of the fence
on the creek side of the fence
someone has written the word ‘paradise’
where no one can see it but you.
In the last few seconds before you return to school.
Smarty
Doug MacLeod
Illustrated by Louise Prout
I'd lost my bag, my favourite bag,
The one that wouldn't close
With all my cards and comic books
(I hated losing those).
And so I went to Lost and Found –
The teacher there was new.
He had a friendly face from which
Enormous whiskers grew.
‘You've lost some property?’ he said.
‘Come rummage through my drawers,
But cross your heart you'll only take
The items that are yours.’
The place was full of odds and ends
Too numerous to mention
But something in the bottom drawer
Attracted my attention.
A tiny book of brightest green
With purple on the spine.
I stuffed it in my pocket
Though I knew it wasn't mine.
‘You're certain that belongs to you?’
The bearded teacher said.
‘Of course it does,’ I lied to him,
And guiltily I fled.
The book was but a memory
That evening after sport
When Dad and Mum read out to me
My awful school report.
‘He's very bad at English
And he's even worse at art
He slipped up in the science lab
And blew the place apart.
‘He doesn't know where China is
Or Scotland or Brazil
He can't recall a single fact,
We doubt he ever will.
‘We've tried to teach him everything
And now, we tell you true –
Your darling boy's an idiot,
There's nothing we can do.’
My parents weren't at all impressed,
They eyed me with disdain.
‘Go straight up to your bedroom, son
And try to grow a brain.’
Well, I was lying on my bed,
My spirits extra low,
When, deep inside my denim jeans
That book began to glow.
I held it out before me
It was luminescent green,
With pages full of diagrams
Where writing once had been.
And then I swear I heard a voice
Mysterious and small,
‘I'll grant you any wish,’ it said,
‘Most any wish at all.’
Though startled by the talking book
I answered, ‘Since you ask
There's something you could do for me,
A rather special task.
‘If I believed in magic
(And I don't, for what it's worth)
I'd wish to be the smartest kid
That ever walked the Earth.’
‘The deed is done,’ the book replied.
‘Now get yourself some rest.’
(I figured I was dreaming –
It's the thing I do the best.)
At six o'clock next morning
I awoke to hear my dad
Performing in the shower
In that booming voice he had.
And there he stood – not naked
As the water pummelled down –
For he was in his business suit
And shoes of chocolate brown.
It didn't seem to bother him,
His face was free of troubles.
He sang like Elvis Presley
As his briefcase filled with bubbles.
My mother in the living room
Had other things to do.
She sat there sticking pickles
To her petticoat with glue.
I asked them what was going on.
They simply ‘ummed’ and ‘erred’.
I tuned my pocket radio
And this is what I heard:
‘We now present the headlines
For the forty-tenth of May.
A hundred million citizens
Forgot their names today.
‘New Zealanders have gone on strike
Demanding lower wages.
The keepers of the Melbourne zoo
Have opened all the cages.
‘The whole Australian cricket team
Is hiding in a tree
The House of Representatives
Has jumped into the sea.
‘And that concludes our bulletin
The weather should be fine
And if you find some marbles
I'm prepared to bet they're mine.’
I realised, as my mother filled
Her shoes with lemonade,
The book had made it all come true –
That stupid wish I'd made.
The evidence was everywhere.
It seemed that I'd become
The smartest kid in all the world,
For all the world was dumb.
At school, the students everywhere
Were brainless and subdued,
Our teacher turned up late for class
Completely in the nude.
She cartwheeled all around the room
As naked as could be,
‘Now make a note of this,’ she said,
‘That one plus one is three.
‘A triangle has seven sides
An octopus has four
A wombat is a type of fish
That sells from door to door.
‘And cheese is made from parrot beaks
And bread is made from dirt
And if you need to blow your nose
Then do so on your shirt.’
The students smiled moronically
And wrote down every word.
I told them to snap out of it,
But sadly, no one heard.
With book in hand I hurried off
To find the bearded man,
I thought, ‘If he can't help me then
There's nobody who can.’
And there he sat in Lost and Found –
As far as I could tell
Completely unaffected
By the dreaded stupid spell.
He looked at me. ‘What's wrong my child?’
I said, ‘I'm worried sick.
I took this book, and now I've made
The world completely thick.
‘This book does not belong to me.’
The man said, ‘Yes, I know.
It's mine, you thieving little brat,
I bought it years ago.
‘But since you're such a simple boy
I must forgive your crime.
The book wi
ll give you one more wish
But get it right this time.’
Those words so kind and gentle
Were the final ones he spoke.
He vanished right before me
In a puff of purple smoke.
And what would be my final wish?
I took the book and swore
With all my heart I wanted things
The way they'd been before.
The spell was spun, the book was gone,
The world was smart as ever.
The leaders and the teachers
And the parents all were clever.
While I went back to being me,
Not wonderful or wise.
The sort of kid that isn't smart
No matter how he tries.
And when my teacher scolded,
‘You're an idiot, my son.’
Her insults didn't bother me
The way they once had done.
I simply shrugged my shoulders
And ignored her comments crude
And thought of how I'd seen her
Doing cartwheels in the nude.
Tom in the Storm
James Roy
he's standing at the door
wrinkle-fingered wet
his t-shirt transparent
hair like shadows of icicles
dark on his forehead
he smiles hopefully damply.
Can I come in?
not waiting to be asked
just wanting to be asked
to drink our chocolate
use our phone
hunch at our fire
smile around at the circle
of family
my family
curious
amused
irritatingly speechless
like he's an alien
just landed
just crashed his spaceship
in our back yard
Who was that? our father asks
when he's gone
picked up by a faceless parent
driving a faint horn between pearly headlights
That? That was Tom, I say
proudly.
Two Tribes
Sherryl Clark
Which two? Can you
name them, tell me
who they are?
Do they live together,
or are they at
each other's throats?
This world, so bent on
assimilation, so vocal
about fitting in,
wants one tribe,
one way of living.
Drums beat, words spin,
you climb into an aeroplane
and flash across
a web of countries,