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always loved Scotland Island, even thought of moving there once, when
she was in her twenties, it seemed so remote, but those places would not
accept defeat; except that there was a lot of trash now, old water tanks,
rusted cars and trucks, broken washing basins and TV sets, all along
the wooded lanes. And a number of houses in bad repair or with ugly
makeshift patios, sheds and other unsightly additions. The baby had
been a real angel, she had just whined a little when they had crossed the
lake back from the Eastern Wharf aboard Jonathan Simpson’s little boat
and they were shaken by the wake of a fairly large cruiser that was going
out to sea with plenty of lights and music. Now she was sound asleep
again. But Sunday was a fairly heavy day for nurserymen, Fred would
be tired. He would have to wait until Monday to get some rest, that is,
if the Water Board people did not reduce pressure again for no reason.
It was a quarter to three when they both went to bed, yawning.
“Are you happy?” said Fred. —Oh yes, your sister is a really warm and
understanding person. Like you, Fred. I feel quite at ease with her.
Jonathan is lucky to have met her when they were very young. Think
that: twenty years of marriage and in love like the first day! —But we’ll
still be together in twenty years time, won’t we Carol? —I’ll be an old
lady by then. —And me! Completely senile! Our little La will have to
feed us with teaspoons. —What a sense of humour you have, you brute.
Don’t you think she will have something better to do? Like feeding her
boyfriend, for example? Go to sleep, darling.” Fred loved her mischievous
smile. She knew it and she had almost managed to forget that it had
been invented in another era, for another man, for another life. Carol
would not read any more at this time of night, but she took the last
issue of Poetry Australia with her to leaf through it. Before switching
off the bedside lamp and closing her eyes, she still saw a funny name
among the list of contributors: James Neighbour. Must be a pen name,
she thought, how could a poet be called “Neighbour”. Even worse than
Smith or Jones!
When La woke up crying at seven, the day was bright, so bright,
it would be perfect to paint a sky, although nobody could compete at
the same time with the multitude of free birds singing in the rows upon
rows of hibiscus and roses, and the other birds, the rare and exotic ones,
in the big aviary, right in the middle of the nursery, where Fred had
taught a young white cockatoo to say “Carol, I love you.” A weather
for a flute played by an impish ghost in the transparent woods. Later in
the morning, she realized she had had a dream of doors that night. She
could see the golden plastic number 9 of her old flat, where someone was
knocking, again and again, shyly at first, and then louder and louder,
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