“What are you looking at?” said John, his face pink with heat.
“Have you been crying?” Matilda replied tartly. “Your face is as red as a lobster.”
“Like looking in a mirror, I’ll bet.”
“That’s enough!” As an only child herself, the idiosyncrasies of sibling rancor were inexplicable to Isabel. “I don’t know what’s got into the pair of you today. It’s hot and I can see you’re fractious, but I’ve made iced tea and I’m going to pack all four thermoses. There’ll be plenty for everyone.”
“I hate iced tea.” This was Evie, rolling past the screen door on the squeaking tricycle.
“You won’t hate this batch. I’ve added extra sugar, just for you.”
“And she had,” Mrs. Turner-Bridges was to say to a close acquaintance in the weeks after. “I can picture her now, as clear as the day,stirring and stirring, round and round. It was one of those stainless-steel teapots that you might use to cater a party. Very large. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. The sun was beating down—there was no doubting they’d all be thirsty.”
Mrs. Turner had finished making the sandwiches by now. Having sliced them into triangular quarters, she packed them and the cake into boxes and was about to start pouring the iced tea into thermoses when she noticed Marcus Summers still standing in the shadows by the doorway, looking for all the world like he was trying to make himself invisible.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed. “I completely forgot. Your mother’s present!”
Nora handed the gift to Isabel: she was very pleased with herself, having managed to find in her suitcase a small pot of Yardley Skin Food, bought in Sydney but not yet opened. A little piece of tissue paper, and it looked for all the world as if it had been sitting under the tree all week, awaiting its recipient.
With a grateful smile for Nora, Isabel transferred the gift to Marcus. “Give Mrs. Summers my very best wishes, won’t you?” she said to the lad. “And have a lovely Christmas yourself, you and your family.”
Marcus gave the shortest of nods and slipped out through the door, letting it swing shut behind him. Pent-up energy, having been stalled for so long, had him cycling with the furies back down the hill and into town, so that his mother, who was just taking her cake out of the oven when he arrived, was moved to remark on how quick he’d been with the delivery.
Isabel, meanwhile, turned to Nora. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said. “You really are. But how rude of me, and how forgetful! My mind has been all over the place lately.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Issy,” said Nora. “You’ve a new baby, on top of everything else.”
At mention of the baby, perhaps, Isabel’s attention fell to Nora’spregnant belly. “But what aboutyourlunch?” she exclaimed. “Here I am, preparing all of these sandwiches, and not a thought for you.”
“Don’t worry about me. With this enormous child making herself so comfortable, I don’t know that I’ll ever eat again.”
“But you might get peckish while we’re gone.”
“If I do, there’s ample in the refrigerator to keep me going.”
That was true enough. As anyone who has lived in a small town will attest, a feature of residency, whether desired or not, is the significant amount of neighborly generosity one can expect to receive during life’s times of need. The arrival of a new baby (along with, as Mrs. Turner-Bridges was soon to learn, the death of loved ones) tends to bring out the best in people. Every second day or so for the past six weeks, a knock had come at the door, usually in the afternoon, and Isabel had opened it to find one of the neighbors standing there with a cake or a casserole or a plate of biscuits for the family. The refrigerator and larder were overflowing.
“I’ll be fine,” Nora said again.
“We’re abandoning you,” said Isabel, her resolve suddenly wavering. “And after you’ve come all this way to see us.”
“I’m sure I can manage being alone for a few hours. I heard on the wireless they’re predicting rain for tomorrow, maybe even as soon as tonight. It would be a crime not to go out and enjoy the sun while it’s shining.”
Isabel still looked doubtful.
“I’ll rest,” came Nora’s reassurance. “I’m looking forward to it. I want to be at my best for Christmas.”
“Well... you’ve certainly got more chance of resting with my brood out of the way.”
As if on cue, the children reappeared. The act of gathering supplies had succeeded in brightening their spirits. They had found towels and books, even a flag and some decorations, and loaded all of it now into baskets.
Matilda had brought the baby as her mother asked, the little onestill fast asleep in the crib. It was a lovely piece, that crib. Woven by Mr. Bartel in the village to the same exacting standards his ancestors had applied in their furniture business in Muschten before emigrating to South Australia.
“Well then,” said Isabel, placing her hands on her hips, a gesture of decision, all uncertainty now fled, “I should say that’s everything.” With one final check that Nora was all right, she called for Evie, and then ushered the rest of them out the back door and along the verandah. When they reached the corner of the house, Isabel turned to her sister-in-law, so very pregnant and pink-cheeked, and someone she had met as a girl of about Matilda’s age, and after a moment’s hesitation she embraced her. “I’m glad you came to see us,” Isabel said. “I’m so very glad we’ve had this time.”
***
11
