Dear Mum, this morning before school, Clara announced that she wants to stake out Jubilee Simpson’s secret hide-out. I think she’s got visions of a raid, or maybe a shootout. She’s obsessed with Jubilee, so I don’t think she’s going to be much help with the stock thefts. But it’s kind of nice having her around.
Anyway, I explained (again) that it can’t be Jubilee, and that we need to do some research to find out what people already know about the thefts. And since Dad’s the local policeman, he’s the obvious person to ask, right?
Ha ha. (That wasn’t a proper laugh either.)
You know how you used to say that Dad and I are really alike? Well, I think that’s part of the problem. Neither of us were very good at talking about stuff even before you got sick. But now we’re even worse. Talking just feels like a big waste of time when I could be doing something much better. Like lying in bed with the doona over my head.
Don’t worry, I don’t do that all the time, especially not now Clara’s here. Would you believe she wakes me up at half past five??? This morning she started teaching me semaphore – you’ve never seen anything like it, Mum. It was the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, but it was kind of fun, with her waving her wings around and me trying to copy her (with my arms, not my wings).
And that’s weird, too. Me saying something was fun, I mean. I’d kind of forgotten about fun.
Sorry about the smudges. I think I’d better stop apologising for them, or I’ll spend my whole time saying sorry.
After semaphore training Clara headed out to the garden, and a bit later I heard that excited clucking sound that chooks make when they’ve just laid an egg. So I went looking for it, but I couldn’t find it. I’ll try again tomorrow. I’d love an egg for breakfast – anything would be better than baked beans.
I know Dad’s really busy. But he used to like cooking. I guess that’s just one of the things that’s changed.
Anyway, our usual breakfast conversation goes something like this:
Dad: grunt (meaning, ‘How are you this morning, Olive?’)
Me: grunt grunt (meaning, ‘Pretty horrible, thanks for asking. How are you?’)
Dad: grunt grunt (meaning, ‘Equally horrible. Have a nice day at school.’)
Me: grunt grunt (meaning, ‘School’s horrible. Have a nice day at work.’)
Dad: grunt (meaning, ‘Work’s horrible too’.)
But this morning I was determined to get some information out of him. So I sat down beside him and said, ‘Dad, what’s happening with the stock thefts?’
He was working on his laptop while he ate. ‘Have you told Gina about that chook of yours yet?’ he asked.
‘Not yet. So, have you got any idea who’s behind the thefts?’
‘Tell her,’ said Dad. ‘Right now.’
He wouldn’t budge, so I phoned Auntie Gina, and she said Clara could stay for a while and it’d do her good to get away from the other chooks. But unlike Dad and me, Auntie Gina doesn’t have any trouble talking, and she wanted me to visit her after school. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and by the time I hung up, Dad had finished his breakfast and gone to work.
So that was a waste of time.
You know how in books they have a little row of stars or something to show time passing?
These are for you in your glass-bottomed boat.
After school I rode out to Auntie Gina’s farm. I thought Clara would want to go with me, but when I asked her she went all small and scared. I hadn’t seen her like that before, and it was horrible. I think it was because of the other chooks.
I almost said, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ But then I remembered how much I hate people saying that to me. So instead, we pretended she was too busy to come.
Auntie Gina had made scones, and I ate six of them. She gave me another six wrapped up in a tea towel to take home for Dad, but he probably won’t eat them. He’s gone all stubborn, Mum. He won’t accept help from anyone, including family. If you were here, you could talk him out of it, but I don’t even know where to start.
Sorry, smudge.
While I was at Auntie Gina’s, I asked her about the stock thefts. She told me who’d lost sheep, and said the whole thing started back in November, as far as anyone can tell. That’s part of the problem – because the farms are so spread out, people often don’t realise some of their sheep are missing for a week or more.
‘By then the thieves are long gone,’ she said. ‘And so are any tyre tracks or any other sort of evidence, which makes it really hard for your dad.’
‘Do you think he’ll catch the thieves?’ I asked her.
I wanted her to say, ‘Yes, of course he will.’ He needs people to believe in him, Mum.
But Auntie Gina just looked worried. ‘I hope so, Olive. Farmers are doing it hard enough without this on top of everything else. Maybe something good will come out of the meeting tomorrow.’
And that’s when I learned that there’s a meeting after the footy match tomorrow, to talk about the thefts! Auntie Gina said no one’s quite sure who called it, but I don’t think it was Dad. It’s not the sort of thing he’d do. I’m not sure he even knows about it. I certainly didn’t.
Love, Olive