way life turns out? We got the best looking boy in Sydney and he's about fourpence in the quid, then we go and get Dawnie. There's him, can only sign his name and count to ten, and Dawnie so clever she can win university gold medals without even studying."
Esme picked up her knitting, looking at Ron sadly. He felt it, poor old Ron, but in his own way he'd been real good to Tim, watched out for him without treading on him or treating him like a baby. Didn't he let the boy drink with him, hadn't he insisted Tim should earn his own bread like any normal boy? It was just as well, because they weren't as young as they used to be. Ron was almost seventy and she was only six months behind him. That was why Tim had been born simple, the doctors told her. He was twenty-five now, and he was the first-born. Well over forty, she and Ron were when he was born; the doctors said it was something to do with her ovaries being tired and out of practice. Then a year later Dawnie was born, perfectly normal, which was how it went, the doctors said. The first one was usually the hardest hit when a woman began having children at over forty years of age.
She let her eyes dwell on Tim as he sat in his own special chair by the far wall, closer to the TV than any of the other chairs: like a small child, he liked to be in the middle of the picture. There he sat, the loveliest, sweetest boy, eyes shining as he applauded a cricketing run; she sighed, wondering for the millionth time what would become of him after she and Ron were dead. Dawnie would have to see to him, of course. She was devotedly fond of her brother, but in the normal way of things she would get tired of studying one day and decide to marry instead, and then would her husband want someone like Tim around? Esme doubted it very much. Who wanted a grown-up five-year-old kid if he wasn't their own flesh and blood?
Six
Saturday was just as fine and hot as Friday had been, so Tim set off for Artarmon at six in the morning wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and tailored shorts with knee socks. His mother always looked out what clothes he was to wear, cooked his breakfast and packed his daytime food, made sure his bag contained a clean pair of work shorts and that he had enough money to see him through any possible difficulty.
When Tim knocked on Mary Horton's door it was just seven, and she was sound asleep. She stumbled, barefooted, through the house, wrapping a dark gray robe around her sensible white cotton pajamas, pushing the few stray wisps of hair away from her face impatiently.
"My goodness, do you always arrive at seven in the morning?" she muttered, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.
"That's when I'm supposed to start work," he replied, smiling.
"Well, since you're here I'd better show you what to do," Mary decided, leading him down the patio steps and across the lawn to a little fern-house.
The ferns disguised the fact that it was actually a repository for gardening equipment, tools, and fertilizers. A small, urban-looking tractor was parked neatly inside the door, covered with a waterproof cloth in case the roof leaked, which of course it didn't since it belonged to Mary Horton.
"Here's the tractor, and it's got the mower already attached. Can you operate it?"
Tim took the cover off and stroked the tractor's shiny surface lovingly. "Oh, it's a beaut!"
Mary suppressed her impatience. "Beaut or not, can you work it, Mr. Melville?"
The blue eyes regarded her with puzzled wonder. "Why do you keep calling me Mr. Melville?" he asked. "Mr. Melville is my father! I'm just Tim."
"Heavens!" she thought, "he's a child!," but she said, "Well, I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, just knock on the back door."
"Righto, Missus!" he said cheerfully, smiling.
"I'm not a Missus!" she snapped. "My name is Horton, Miss Horton!"
"Righto, Miss Horton," he amended happily, not at all disconcerted.
By the time she returned inside she was wide awake, and had abandoned any
Esme picked up her knitting, looking at Ron sadly. He felt it, poor old Ron, but in his own way he'd been real good to Tim, watched out for him without treading on him or treating him like a baby. Didn't he let the boy drink with him, hadn't he insisted Tim should earn his own bread like any normal boy? It was just as well, because they weren't as young as they used to be. Ron was almost seventy and she was only six months behind him. That was why Tim had been born simple, the doctors told her. He was twenty-five now, and he was the first-born. Well over forty, she and Ron were when he was born; the doctors said it was something to do with her ovaries being tired and out of practice. Then a year later Dawnie was born, perfectly normal, which was how it went, the doctors said. The first one was usually the hardest hit when a woman began having children at over forty years of age.
She let her eyes dwell on Tim as he sat in his own special chair by the far wall, closer to the TV than any of the other chairs: like a small child, he liked to be in the middle of the picture. There he sat, the loveliest, sweetest boy, eyes shining as he applauded a cricketing run; she sighed, wondering for the millionth time what would become of him after she and Ron were dead. Dawnie would have to see to him, of course. She was devotedly fond of her brother, but in the normal way of things she would get tired of studying one day and decide to marry instead, and then would her husband want someone like Tim around? Esme doubted it very much. Who wanted a grown-up five-year-old kid if he wasn't their own flesh and blood?
Six
Saturday was just as fine and hot as Friday had been, so Tim set off for Artarmon at six in the morning wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and tailored shorts with knee socks. His mother always looked out what clothes he was to wear, cooked his breakfast and packed his daytime food, made sure his bag contained a clean pair of work shorts and that he had enough money to see him through any possible difficulty.
When Tim knocked on Mary Horton's door it was just seven, and she was sound asleep. She stumbled, barefooted, through the house, wrapping a dark gray robe around her sensible white cotton pajamas, pushing the few stray wisps of hair away from her face impatiently.
"My goodness, do you always arrive at seven in the morning?" she muttered, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.
"That's when I'm supposed to start work," he replied, smiling.
"Well, since you're here I'd better show you what to do," Mary decided, leading him down the patio steps and across the lawn to a little fern-house.
The ferns disguised the fact that it was actually a repository for gardening equipment, tools, and fertilizers. A small, urban-looking tractor was parked neatly inside the door, covered with a waterproof cloth in case the roof leaked, which of course it didn't since it belonged to Mary Horton.
"Here's the tractor, and it's got the mower already attached. Can you operate it?"
Tim took the cover off and stroked the tractor's shiny surface lovingly. "Oh, it's a beaut!"
Mary suppressed her impatience. "Beaut or not, can you work it, Mr. Melville?"
The blue eyes regarded her with puzzled wonder. "Why do you keep calling me Mr. Melville?" he asked. "Mr. Melville is my father! I'm just Tim."
"Heavens!" she thought, "he's a child!," but she said, "Well, I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, just knock on the back door."
"Righto, Missus!" he said cheerfully, smiling.
"I'm not a Missus!" she snapped. "My name is Horton, Miss Horton!"
"Righto, Miss Horton," he amended happily, not at all disconcerted.
By the time she returned inside she was wide awake, and had abandoned any
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