“She’s a he.”
“How can you tell?”
“The male birds are prettier. The female is brown, with only the tiniest bit of green on her tail.”
“Like that one over there?”
Percy strained to see where she was pointing. “Yes, just like that.”
“You know a lot of things,” she observed.
“Some,” he agreed.
When it was time to leave, he asked Meg if she wanted to go with him. He could give her a lift back to town, he said. It was gettingdark, and he could smell rain on the way. She hesitated a second before telling him that she wasn’t going back at all: she had run away from home, that’s what she was doing out here.
Percy realized then how little she was; her face was defiant, her arms wrapped tightly across her body, and yet there was a part of her, he could tell, that hoped he’d force her to return with him. Her vulnerability filled him with a sudden sense of deep sadness. Of anger, too. It was common knowledge that her daddy couldn’t keep his fists to himself when he was raging. He’d had a bad war, was all Percy’s mother would say about him. “But show me a man who had a good one.”
Percy understood what she meant: that generation of men had learned that the only way to forget the things they’d seen and done, the mates they’d lost to the mud and the guns, was to drink themselves numb and take their nightmares out on those at home. Percy was luckier than most. His father was strict, but he wasn’t violent. Violence would have required him to be present and he was far too distant for that.
The first big splats of rain began to fall. “All right,” Percy said. “But it’s going to be cold out here tonight.”
“I have a blanket.”
“Clever girl. And I suppose you’re right for dinner?”
“I brought some bread.”
He tucked his book back inside his backpack. “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.” He checked Prince’s saddle, tugging on the stirrups. “Only they said on the wireless that it’s going to storm tonight. And bread isn’t much chop on a cold, wet night.”
A cloud of uncertainty darkened her brow.
“You know,” he continued, “my mum had a stew on the stove when I left this morning. She cooks it all day, just like my nana used to, and she always makes too much.”
“What sort of stew?”
“Lamb scouse.”
The girl shifted from one foot to the other. Her hair was quite wet now, her braids forming two limp ropes over her shoulders.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to come and have a bowl or two? I can bring you back here afterward.”
She hadn’t stopped at two bowls; she’d had three, Percy’s mother watching on with quiet pleasure. Susan Summers took the duties of Christian charity seriously, and to have a waif arrive on her doorstep on a wild, wet winter’s night was a welcome opportunity. She’d insisted on giving the girl a bath and, after the stew had been served and the dishes cleaned, tucked her up on the daybed near the crackling fire where she promptly fell into a deep sleep.
“Poor little pet,” Percy’s mother said, observing the child over her half-glasses. “To think she planned to spend the night out there alone.”
“Are you going to tell her parents where she is?”
“I have to,” she said with a firm but troubled sigh. “But before we let her go, we’ll make sure she knows she’s always welcome here.”
Percy had resolved to keep an eye out for her after that, and he hadn’t had to look too far to find her. She started spending afternoons in the shop, talking to Percy’s mum, and before he knew it, she was working behind the counter on weekends.
“The daughter I never had,” his mum would say, smiling fondly at Meg as she totaled up the accounts and made a list of reorders. “Kind and capable and not at all unfriendly on the eye.” Later, as Meg grew from a child into a woman: “She’s going to make someone a very good wife one day.” More pointedly, but not unkindly, her glance darting to Percy’s stiff leg: “A fellow with limited options would be fortunate to marry a girl like that.”
Hahndorf was behind them now and they’d entered the familiar territory of undulating hills that rolled toward the rise of Mount Lofty. Rows of leafy grapevines basked in the late-afternoon sun and thewarm air carried with it the faint scent of lavender from Kretschmers’ flower farm.
Blaze picked up her pace as they neared the Onkaparinga Valley Road. Apple orchards gave way to olive groves, and when they crossed the Balhannah bridge she began to toss her mane, pulling gently toward the water. Percy tightened his grip on the reins, pressing a palm against the horse’s neck. “I hear you, old girl.”
Meg would have a lot for him to do when he got back. There were always last-minute orders to go out on Christmas Eve and attendance at Reverend Lawson’s 6:30 p.m. church service was not negotiable. But it had been ten hours since they’d left the Station, with only a couple of short breaks. No matter how keen he was to get home, it didn’t seem right not to take Blaze for a swim.
