Three Summers by Judith Clarke

out of the study. ‘Margaret May!’ he called, and then more softly, ‘Maidie.’
    The old name got to her. She turned. He was standing there rubbing his hands together, and the rasp of his dry skin was the only sound in the hall. ‘The good Sisters,’ he said placatingly, ‘the ones you mentioned back in there, from the old place—’
    â€˜What of them?’
    â€˜Do you know where the poor souls are buried, Maidie?’
    She shook her neat head.
    â€˜Way out the back of Ivanhoe, that’s where. Ah, it’s a terrible spot, Maidie! Not a tree in sight, the wind blowing, and the dust and sand, and those big old tumbleweeds careening across the graveyard like imps loosed out from Hell. You wouldn’t wish a resting place like that on any poor soul.’
    There was something strangely beseeching in his voice, as if he wanted her pity, not for those long-dead Sisters, but for himself.
    â€˜I’m sorry for them,’ said Margaret May. Glancing down at her basket, she noticed the bunch of basil still there, and held it out to Mrs Ryan. ‘It’s some fresh basil for Father Joseph’s tomatoes,’ she said.
    Sensing forgiveness, the priest’s face lit up with a smile. ‘Your basil and my tomatoes, Maidie!’ he exclaimed, rubbing his hands again. ‘A feast fit for a king!’
    Over the distance of the hallway, Margaret May looked her old friend straight in the eye. ‘My Ruthie’s going to Sydney University,’ she told him, ‘and there’s nothing you can say will change our minds!’ Her voice rang strong and confident, but as she went down the path and out through the front gate a sense of loss gathered in her heart and seemed to fill the very air she breathed, so that sudden tears came welling in her eyes.

eight
    When Ruth arrived at Fee’s house a little after twelve there was no one at home; Fee hadn’t got back from Dubbo, and her mother was out as well. The rain was gone and the sun was blazing; her damp hair and clothes had dried but she could feel the sticky tear tracks on her cheeks. She hurried round to the garden tap to wash her face, then kicked off her sandals and sat on the edge of the verandah to wait, swinging her feet in the ferns below and humming the melody of Tam Finn’s hymn which had crept inside her head.
    Tam Finn. A small sudden sob jumped up from her throat. ‘Oh, shut up,’ she told herself angrily. He’d been teasing her, that was all. Playing with her; spreading his blue shirt on the ground to keep her from the damp, reaching his hand out, seizing her ankle and then letting her go, jumping up so she’d think he was coming after her. He hadn’t really wanted to come after her. It was – another small sob burst from her – it was humiliating. Ruth looked out along the empty street. All the way here she’d been longing to tell Fee what had happened down in Starlight Lane, but now she was glad there’d been no one at home. When you were upset and started talking to people you sometimes told them things you later wished you hadn’t: like how, when he’d taken that blue shirt off and beckoned her to lie down with him, secretly she’d wanted to, and when she was running through the rain she’d wanted him to be there right behind her, wanted him to catch her; when she’d turned and found the lane empty her heart had dropped like a stone.
    What if Mrs Lachlan had been home and heard them talking? What if Mrs Lachlan had passed on the story to Nan? She had a sudden image of Tam Finn from long ago, a small boy in a white shirt standing between his father and old Mrs Finn in the front pew at Saint Columba’s. People had loved him then, the little boy from Fortuna ; they had smiled when he walked into the church, holding his grandmother’s hand. Now they hated him, even those girls who’d gone with him for a little while.
    â€˜I