Pool Read Online Free PDF Page B

difficult, he made the return journey through the open farmland that bordered the creek. It was an easy walk over the brown stubbly grass and, despite having to cross three fences and a concrete irrigation channel, it took him less than thirty minutes to get back to his bicycle. The water bottle had been in the sun for most of the afternoon but its contents still tasted delicious. A small green and yellow bird, a honeyeater of some kind, alighted on an acacia branch less than three metres away.
    ‘Merry Christmas,’ Wolfgang toasted it.
    As he clipped on his helmet, Wolfgang wondered how his friends were spending Christmas day. Mark Cowan was camping with his family down at Ocean Grove. Steve Taylor would be playing backyard cricket with his father, his uncle and his four cousins who came across each year from Shepparton. And me? Wolfgang thought. I’m out in the bush talking to honeyeaters. Still, it was better than sitting in front of the television all afternoon with his geriatric parents watching Miracle on 34th Street. Better than being blind.
    ‘How could I have said that?’ he groaned, scaring away the honeyeater.
    Audrey had pretended not to hear. But he had seen the involuntary tightening of the muscles around her mouth. And the way her sightless blue eyes – the same aqua blue as the pool on a sunny day – had narrowed slightly, as though angered or hurt. Probably both.
    ‘Thanks for coming round,’ she’d said, closing the door on him almost before he was all the way out.
    The butterfly flew across the road only metres in front of him. Wolfgang braked so hard he nearly went over the handlebars. His new bicycle had good brakes. He swerved across the road’s gravel shoulder and went bumping down through a weed-choked gutter in pursuit. He pulled up at the fence. The butterfly had gone straight through the wires and into the paddock beyond. Already it was fifteen metres away, zigzagging low across the yellowed grass. It was one of the smaller browns, impossible to say which. Wolfgang laid his bike on the ground and swung himself across the creaking fence. There were several horses in the paddock and a farmhouse through some trees, but these were details Wolfgang barely registered as he ran after the butterfly. He shrugged off his backpack as he ran, pulled out his net and let the backpack fall to the ground. Still running, he unwrapped the nylon mesh from its circular wire frame and let out the telescopic aluminium shaft. Ahead of him, the butterfly slowed and circled a tall scotch thistle. Wolfgang slowed, too. Holding the net two-handed, he made a detour around the butterfly and approached it from downwind. It shot straight up as he came close, but Wolfgang had anticipated the move and swung the net in a quick arc.
    ‘Got you!’ he said, triumphant.
    Breathing heavily from the chase, Wolfgang retraced his steps to his discarded backpack and crouched to examine his prize. It was a female shouldered brown, a rare visitor this far north of the Divide. Perhaps the wind had brought it to him, a Christmas gift. Thank you, baby Jesus! The afternoon hadn’t been wasted, after all.
    Wolfgang heard the approach of hooves as he carefully transferred the butterfly to his killing jar. Only when the lid was closed did he look up. Four horses, three chestnuts and one grey, stood in a semicircle watching him. They were only ten metres away; they looked huge. Wolfgang picked some grass for them as he waited for the butterfly to die, but the horses were shy of him and backed away when he approached. He tossed the grass in their direction and returned to his collecting equipment. He realised he was still wearing his helmet.
    When the butterfly was dead, Wolfgang transferred it to his field box with a pair of forceps, gently flattened its wings, then used a pin to secure it to the box’s cork lining. Beautiful.
    He already had two female shouldered browns at home, but both were from his father’s collection. This was his