Dear Mum, Clara is the cleverest chook in the world, but like I told you, she’s got this obsession about Jubilee Simpson. So yesterday, while Digby and I were watching the football, she went spying.
I’m not sure what happened, but now she’s got it into her head that Jubilee’s American accent is fake.
I didn’t want to bother Dad about it, because Clara gets so many things wrong, and I was sure she’d got this one wrong too. But she kept writing ‘IT’S A CLUE. TELL HIM’ on my phone, and then semaphoring the same words. So I thought I could at least check in a roundabout sort of way, just to show her it wasn’t true.
Dad was working at the kitchen table this morning, with his laptop, maps and notebooks spread out in front of him. I sat down, and Clara perched on the back of my chair.
‘Why don’t you have a friend over?’ he said, without looking up from his notebooks. ‘What about Tracy? You two used to be good mates.’
‘You arrested her uncle for selling drugs, Dad! It’s kind of hard to be good mates after that.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, what about Digby?’
‘I don’t want to have a friend over. I want you to tell me about the stock thefts.’
He shook his head.
‘Why not?’ I asked him.
‘Because I don’t want you worrying about it.’
‘Pleeeeease, Dad,’ I said.
Mum, remember how he used to come home from work and tell you about his day? And then you’d tell him about your day? And you’d both kind of relax as you did it, as if you were putting down a heavy load?
He didn’t do that exactly, but he gave in pretty easily.
‘There’s a pattern,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in touch with a couple of coppers in New South Wales where the same thing happened. The thefts went on for six months or so, then stopped, and the culprits were never caught. One of the blokes I spoke to had a description of a truck that was spotted driving at night without any lights. But he couldn’t give me anything more definite.’
He flipped through the pages of his notebook, then glanced up at me. ‘You know you can’t tell anyone about this?’
‘Cross my heart,’ I said.
‘I’ve been trying to trace ear tags,’ he said, ‘to see where the stolen sheep went. But I’ve also been checking backgrounds. People who might’ve been up in New South Wales last year. People who’ve moved here recently.’
‘The Simpsons,’ I breathed. And for one amazing moment, I thought that maybe Clara was right after all. And I was really pleased, because I hate Jubilee so much, and also because Dad and I were having a proper conversation for the first time in ages.
But then he said, ‘The Simpsons were certainly on my list, along with the Wyatts and the Aboods. But I’ve checked them all out, and they’re who they say they are. Not a hint of suspicion about any of them.’
See, Mum, he was way ahead of Clara. She’d got it wrong, just as I thought.
Except she didn't want to believe it. She flew from the back of my chair onto the table and started scratching at Dad's precious notebooks. She tore one of them almost in half before I could grab her, and Dad was furious. He yelled at me to keep my chook out of the house, and I yelled back, because we were just trying to help.
And that’s how Dad and I ended up not talking to each other at all.
We miss you, Mum. We miss you so much.
Love, Olive