Season of Hate by Michael Costello Page A

quickly what happened to you when you first went there, just because you were different? And how you felt?"
    He was right. He always was. I hated that sometimes, back then. But we were both thankful that if we didn't have to get home with the tea before it got cold, we would have copped another on-the-spot lecture, for sure.
    We breathlessly filled Nan in on the pictures and the restaurant's interior as Dad placed each meal on warmed plates with serving spoons for us to help ourselves. It tasted great and different to anything we'd ever eaten. It wasn't too spicy and not cat as far as Doug and I could tell. Dad suggested we could make it a regular thing, say once a month, or try the Italian restaurant for a change, and Nan agreed. She especially liked the fried rice with its bits of ham and egg and peas. Doug and I loved the dim sims but even more, we liked playing with the glutenous sauces of the other meals that set like jelly on our plates as the food cooled. The fortune cookies finished off our meal. Dad explained the meaning behind my insert's saying, 'A journey of a thousand miles starts with the first step' and Doug's, 'Look not over your shoulder to find happiness'.
    We drove Nan to the pictures then spent the rest of the evening curled up at Dad's feet in front of the fire, eating the prawn chips and listening to serials on the wireless. It was the one thing about winter I liked the most. It felt … good, and cosy. Later in bed we each gave him a big hug before he kissed us both on the forehead and tucked us in securely.
    "I love my boys."
    "We love you too, Dad," we chorused.
    "It was the bestest day, Dad. And I promise I won't be mean to Shen again," added Doug.
    "Me neither."
    "I'm pleased with both of you. I think you've learnt a lot today. Now close your eyes and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

Chapter Eight

    By the time our ninth birthday on the 27th September arrived, buds were beginning to appear on the jacaranda. A football and a set of miniature golf clubs for Doug, a junior encyclopaedia and a toy doctor's kit for me, were our gifts from Dad. Nan gave us clothes and underwear. Mr and Mrs Symonds had us all over for birthday cake and Miss Bridget and Miss Kitty gave us Airfix plastic plane kits to assemble.
    Our watering and the chook poo had done the trick for by late October our jacaranda tree was covered in clusters of purple flowers. Doug and I would lean on our bedroom windowsill on uneventful days and watch as they fell like snowflakes from the branches above. The roof and gutters were thick with fallen petals. Each day the crush of them underfoot was like walking on purple snow. Our tree now also had a rope swing attached to one of its higher branches thanks to Dad.
    Down the street the mulberries were ripening slowly. We must have driven Mr Elliott crazy inspecting it every other day and asking when the fruit would be ready. It was always the same answer. 'A few more days.'
    Our lives at Kilkenny in general settled down to regular routines as we got more familiar with our surrounds and our neighbours, although Miss Kitty remained a mystery.
    Dad was able to get himself a receptionist, who was also a qualified nurse. Single and in her mid thirties, she was Susan McKenzie, a niece of Mrs Symonds. She lived in Sydney, but wanted to move out of the city. She not only booked appointments and assisted with patients but helped Dad with the accounts and ordering of stock. Staying with the Symonds until she got herself established, Dad would drive her to work and unless he had a callout, home as well. She took a lot of the burden of running the practice from Dad, allowing him to get on with just being a doctor.
    He also surprised us with his carpentry and handyman skills, taking over Poppie's shed and tools. We'd sneak a peek through the window on those weekends he'd spend many feverish hours working away. These were usually the times he told us that the 'Black Dog' had come to visit and that