drum-skin tight. Fig leaves glittered in the bright sunlight, frangipanis sparkled pink and yellow, and birds called to one another in the thick rainforest behind the house. It was going to be a stinker, Vivien realised with satisfaction, and later there’d be a storm. She loved storms: the angry clouds and the first fat drops, the rusty smell of thirsty red dirt and the lashing rain against the walls as Dad paced back and forth on the veranda with his pipe in his mouth, and a shimmer in his eyes, trying to keep his thrill in check as the palm trees wailed and flexed.
Vivien turned on her heel. She’d done enough exploring; there was no way she was wasting another precious second Indoors. She stopped in the kitchen long enough only to pack the lunch Mum had left her and forage for an extra couple of Anzac biscuits. A line of ants was marching round the sink and up the wall. They knew the rain was coming too. Without another glance at the unwritten letter of apology, Vivien danced out onto the back veranda. She never walked if she could help it.
It was hot outside, and still, and the air was muggy. Her feet burned instantly on the wooden boards. It was a perfect day for the sea. She wondered where the others were now, whether they’d arrived yet at Southport, whether the mums and dads and kids were swimming and laughing and setting up the lunches, or whether her family had boarded one of the pleasure boats instead. There was a new jetty, according to Robert, who’d been eavesdropping on Dad’s RSL mates, and Vivien had imagined herself dive-bombing off its end, sinking like a macada- mia nut, so fast that her skin tingled and cold seawater filled her nose.
She could always go down to Witches Falls for a swim, but on a day like this the rock pool wasn’t a patch on the salty ocean; besides, she wasn’t supposed to leave the house and one of the tattletales in town was sure to notice. Worse, if Paulie Barker was there, sunning his fat white belly like a big old whale, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop herself. He ought to try calling Pippin ‘simple’ again and see what happened. Vivien dared him to do it. She double-dared him.
unballing her fists, she eyed the shed. Old Mac the swagger was down there working on repairs and was usually worth a visit, but Dad had forbidden Vivien from bothering him with her questions. He’d enough work to do, and Dad wasn’t paying him money he didn’t have to drink billy tea and gasbag with a little girl who had her own chores waiting for her. Old Mac knew she was at home today, he’d keep an ear out for trouble, but unless she was sick or bleeding, the shed was out of bounds.
Which left only one place to go.
Vivien scampered down the wide stairs, crossed the grass, rounded the garden beds, where Mum tried desperately to grow roses and Dad reminded her fondly that this wasn’t England, and then, turning three perfect cartwheels in a row, she headed for the creek.
Vivien had been going there since she learned to walk, weaving between the silver gums, collecting wattle flowers and bottlebrush, careful not to step on jumping ants or spiders as she slipped further and further away from people and buildings and teachers and rules. It was her favourite place in the whole world; it was her own; it belonged to her, and she to it.
Today she was more eager than usual to get to the bottom. Beyond the first rock sheer, where the ground got steep and the ant mounds towered, she clutched her lunch pack and broke into a run, relishing the thump of her heart against her ribcage, the scary thrill of her legs, turning, turning, beneath her, almost tripping, sliding sometimes as she dodged branches, leapt over rocks, skidded down drifts of dried leaves.
Whip birds cheered overhead, insects burred, the waterfall in Dead Man’s Gully chipped and chattered. Fragments of light and colour jittered as she ran, kaleidoscopic. The bush was alive; the trees spoke to one another in parched old voices, thousands of unseen eyes blinked from branches and fallen logs, and Vivien knew if she were to stop and press her ear to the hard ground she’d hear the earth calling to her, singing sounds from ancient times. She didn’t stop, though; she