The kitchen is small, the chequered lino on the floor is worn and the chairs don't match. An old fridge chugs away in the corner. The window is open but there is no breeze.

Daryl and Sharon are sitting at the kitchen table, eating cornflakes.

‘Did you check out the size of her suitcase?’ says Daryl to his twin sister.

‘I sure did. How long do you reckon she's staying this time?’ says Sharon.

‘Too long,’ says Daryl.

‘That's for sure,’ says Sharon, just as the subject of their conversation, Aunt Bette, enters the room.

She's wearing a light-blue dressing gown and fluffy slippers. In her right hand she carries a red plastic fly swatter.

‘Deary me, this heat really is intolerable,’ she says, fanning her face with the fly swatter. ‘It really is.’

Daryl looks up from his cornflakes and over at Sharon. She raises her eyebrows slightly. As Aunt Bette fills the kettle with water and puts it on the stove the twins’ mother enters the room.

‘Morning, all,’ she says.

‘Morning, Gwen,’ says Aunt Bette. ‘This heat!’ She fans herself more vigorously with the fly swatter. ‘I really don't know how you tolerate it here.’

‘We're all used to it, I suppose,’ says Gwen, smiling at the twins.

‘Now that Graham is with the Lord,’ starts Aunt Bette.

The children immediately look up. It's been more than two years since their father disappeared, his fishing boat overturned in a storm. The body was never found but everybody assumes he was drowned. Everybody that is, except the twins.

Aunt Bette continues.

‘I don't know why you stay on here. You'd be better off moving back to the city, Gwen. Better for the children, too. Heaven knows what sort of education they're getting in this place.’

‘I don't think the city life's for us,’ says Gwen. ‘Besides we couldn't afford to live there. This place may not be much but at least it's ours.’

By this time Daryl is standing at the sink, squirting detergent onto his plate. He swirls it around with a sponge and rinses it under the tap.

‘I don't think that's adequate, do you, Daryl?’ says Aunt Bette.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you really think that dish is clean?’ she says, shaking her head, double-clicking her tongue.

‘It's what I always do,’ says Daryl, looking over at his mother for support.

It is the kettle, though, that saves him. Its whistling distracts Aunt Bette and Daryl is able to escape.

‘Gotta go, meeting Ben down the jetty, going snorkelling,’ he says as he pushes the screen door open. As he does a fly enters the room, its soft buzz barely audible.

Aunt Bette spins around.

‘Is that a fly?’ she demands.

She slowly surveys the room, her eyes travelling up and down the walls.

‘There it is,’ she says softly, as if the fly might be alarmed by anything louder than a whisper.

She takes a step forward and brings the fly swatter back over her shoulder. Aunt Bette was a formidable tennis player in her day and it shows.

Thwack!

‘Gotcha!’ she says, as the fly drops to the floor.

Taking the broom she sweeps its corpse along the floor, opening the door and flicking it outside.

‘Filthy blighter,’ she says.

She looks at her watch.

‘Deary me, almost that time of the day,’ she says. ‘I'd better get a wriggle on.’

She fills the teapot with the hot water from the kettle.

‘Come out and join me today,’ she says to Gwen. ‘John's talking about land rights today. And I reckon that's something you should concern yourself with. The Abos around here seem to be getting full of themselves, lately.’

When she says this she looks straight at Sharon. Sharon knows why, too. It's because Lizzy, her best friend, is one of those ‘Abos’.

‘They're Aborigines, not Abos,’ Sharon wants to say, but she remembers what her mum said before Aunt Bette had arrived.

‘Please kids, no arguments. I know she's not very easy but she is your father's sister.’

‘I'd love to,’ says Gwen. ‘I really would but I've got a pile of washing to do.’

Sharon smiles – her mother is such a bad fibber. There's hardly any washing to be done.

On a tray she takes from the cupboard, Aunt Bette puts her portable radio, the pot of tea, an empty cup and saucer, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, a teaspoon, a packet of Ginger Snap biscuits and the fly swatter. Taking the tray outside she positions a cane chair in the shade of the rainwater tank, amongst the pink and white geraniums potted in old Milo tins. Then she turns the radio on.

The theme music starts.

‘On fifty-eight stations right around Australia,’ says the announcer. ‘This is the show that everybody's talking about.’

Aunt Bette pours her first cup of tea, stirs in two sugars, takes a Ginger Snap in one hand and the fly swatter in the other.

More music and then comes John's voice, smooth and deep.

‘Morning, listeners,’ he says.

Aunt Bette relaxes, smiling to herself.

‘Morning, John,’ she says, automatically.

‘Today,’ he says, ‘I want your opinions on the land rights debate. Is the Aboriginal industry taking this country for a ride or do these people have a legitimate claim on these lands?’

For the rest of the morning Aunt Bette sits there sipping tea, nibbling biscuits, dispatching any flies that dare invade her territory, listening to the John Jones show, not missing a word.

Late afternoon, and the sun has begun to cool itself in the sea. The clouds swirling above the horizon are shot through with red and purple and the cicadas have just started chirping.

As Daryl walks up the drive, whistling, carrying his snorkelling gear, he can hear the sound of a tennis ball thumping against the side of the house followed by the words, ‘I hate her guts’.

‘What are you doing, trying to knock the air out off the thing?’ he says when he sees his sister, determined look on her face, tennis racquet in her hand.

Sharon turns around, but doesn't reply to her brother.

‘What did Aunt Bette do?’ asks Daryl.

‘How did you know it was her?’ Sharon asks.

Daryl smiles – it has to be her.

‘She said something to Lizzy today.’

‘What?’

‘I'm not sure what it was. I was in my bedroom getting some stuff and Lizzy was waiting in the kitchen. And when I came out both of them were in there and Lizzy was almost crying. She was really upset. I could tell. But when I asked her, she said it was nothing. But then she said she just remembered she had to go home. And we were going to spend the whole day together. I hate her guts. I really do.’

Daryl has never seen his sister so worked up. She is always so calm. Like their mum says – she's got her father's temperament.

Sharon tosses the ball up and hits it with all her might. The ball pings against the wall, flies back over her head, over the wooden fence, and into the neighbour's yard.

‘What are youse kids trying to do?’ comes a joking voice from the other side. ‘Knock some sense into this old head of mine?’

‘Sorry, Darcy,’ says Sharon.

The ball comes looping back over the fence.

Sharon catches it easily, in one hand.

‘What ya up to, Darcy?’ yells Daryl.

‘Just bottlin’ up some gents,’ comes the reply. ‘You wanna come over? Have a yack?’

‘Sure,’ says Daryl.

‘You coming?’ he says to his sister.

‘Yeah, why not,’ she says.

Darcy is a little bloke, jockey size. He's sitting on an upturned fishing crate, a newspaper spread across his lap, a pile of squirming maggots in the middle. Darcy has a feather in one hand and is using it to flick the maggots, one at a time, into an empty Vegemite jar.

‘Forty-nine, fifty,’ he says.

He fills the jar with bran, and screws on the lid.

Darcy breeds maggots, except he never calls them that. He uses the polite term – gents. Gents are Darcy's passion. According to him there's no better fishing bait. He sells them to the campers – fifty for a dollar. They're famous, Darcy's gents – guaranteed to catch a feed of fish, or money back.

‘Gidday,’ says Darcy. ‘Pull up a pew.’

Sharon and Daryl each take a fishing crate and sit down as Darcy picks up an empty jar.

‘Seen you got a visitor over there. I heard the radio blaring all morning. That's your dad's sister, ain't it? I did meet her last time she was over but I forget her name. Bloody memory's shot.’

‘Bette,’ says Daryl.

‘That's right,’ says Darcy. ‘Bette.’

Darcy looks over at Sharon who is picking at her fingernails.

‘What's wrong with you tonight, Princess?’ says Darcy. ‘Not your usual cheery self.’

‘It's nothing,’ says Sharon.

‘It's Aunt Bette,’ says Daryl.

Daryl tells Darcy the whole story. At the end Darcy shakes his head.

‘Is that right?’ he says. ‘Is that right?’

He takes his feather and starts sweeping the gents into the jar.

‘Don't worry, Princess,’ says Darcy. ‘She'll eat humble pie one day. Mark me words. She'll eat humble pie one day.’

‘What's humble pie?’ Daryl is about to ask when a voice comes from the other side of the fence.

‘Daryl, Sharon, are you over there?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘It's dinner time. Come on.’

‘We're coming.’

‘See ya ‘round, Darcy.’

‘Like a rissole,’ says Darcy, which is what he always says.

‘Mum,’ says Daryl during dinner. ‘What sort of pie is humble pie.’

‘It's not a real pie. It's a figure of speech,’ says Aunt Bette.

‘What does it mean?’

‘Well, when somebody eats humble pie it means they get their comeuppance.’

‘You mean they get what they truly deserve?’ asks Sharon, the first time she's spoken during dinner.

‘Yes, I suppose you could say that,’ says Aunt Bette.

‘Thanks, Auntie,’ says Sharon sweetly.

Daryl looks over at his sister. There's a strange look on her face. Little sparks are jumping about in her eyes.

‘You've got to help me,’ she says to Daryl the next day.

‘Help you with what?’

‘Help me make a humble pie.’

‘You heard Aunt Bette, it's not a real pie.’

‘Yes, it is.’

Then she explains it to him, her recipe for humble pie.

‘But what about Mum?’ asks Daryl.

‘She's not allowed to eat sweets. You know that.’

‘What about us?’

‘Just pretend, you don't have to actually swallow it.’

‘I dunno,’ says Daryl.

‘Come on. Please,’ says Sharon. ‘You hate her as much as I do.’

‘I dunno.’

‘Think of what she did to Lizzy. It could be Clem or Wayne, one of your Nunga friends.’

Daryl thinks about this for a while.

‘All right. But it was your idea, okay?’

When Daryl gets home Sharon is in the kitchen. She's wearing a white apron, edged in lace. The table is dusted in flour and there is a fat ball of pastry in the middle.

‘Did you get them?’ she says.

Daryl puts the jar on the table.

‘Perfect,’ says Sharon. ‘What did you tell Darcy?’

‘That you were making humble pie, what do you think? I told him we were going fishing for whiting tonight.’

‘Perfect.’

‘You're not really going to cook them in the pie are you?’ says Daryl.

He was having second thoughts about his sister's humble pie.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I'm not going to do that.’

Thank God for that, thinks Daryl. She's changed her mind.

‘They'll die if I cook them. I'm going to add them later. I want them still squirming.’

Sharon takes the rolling pin and starts to roll out the pastry.

‘You keep guard for me. Make sure she doesn't come in.’

‘She's out there listening to what's-his-name. She won't budge. You know that. Besides I've got some stuff to do.’

When Daryl returns the pie is sitting in the middle of the table. The crust is golden and buttery. The smell, rich and delicious, fills the kitchen and wafts through the open window.

He watches as Sharon carefully slices the pie's top off with a large knife.

She scoops some of the apple out with a spoon. Then she takes the jar, unscrews the lid, and shakes the contents into the hollow she's created. She gently smooths the writhing maggots over with a knife and carefully puts the top back on.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ she says. ‘Humble pie.’

Just then the door opens. It's Aunt Bette. Still in her blue dressing gown and fluffy slippers.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ she says, moving closer, until her nose almost touches the pie. ‘I could smell it from outside.’

‘It is,’ says Sharon. ‘It's an apple pie. I just made it.’

‘Deary me, I hope it's not for some stupid CWA stall or another,’ says Aunt Bette.

‘No, Auntie,’ says Sharon. ‘It's for dinner tonight and I made it especially for you.’

‘Aren't you a darling,’ says Aunt Bette, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I can't wait.’

Dinner time. The four of them are sitting around the table. The smell of apple pie still lingers in the kitchen.

‘Another roast potato, Bette?’ says Gwen.

‘Not for me, Gwen. I'm leaving plenty of room for that apple pie.’

She smiles at Sharon.

‘I might as well serve it now,’ says Sharon, getting up from the table.

‘John was talking about it again today,’ says Aunt Bette.

‘What's that, Bette?’ says Gwen.

‘Land rights.’

Sharon cuts a hefty portion of pie and slides it onto a plate.

‘Cream, Auntie?’ she says.

‘Just a little, dear.’

Sharon spoons a huge dollop on top of the pie and puts the plate in front of her aunt.

‘Thank you, Sharon,’ says Aunt Bette. ‘That looks just lovely. Aren't you going to have some, Gwen?’

‘No, not me, Bette. Doctor won't allow me.’

‘Anyway as I was saying, Gwen,’ she says. ‘You better be careful.’

She sticks her spoon into the pie.

Daryl watches. Surely she'll notice, he thinks.

But Aunt Bette is really getting worked up about land rights.

‘Because it wouldn't surprise me if they put a claim on this very house,’ she says, the loaded spoon hovering in midair.

Then it disappears into her mouth. When it comes out, it's empty.

‘Lovely,’ says Aunt Bette.

‘Excuse me, I don't feel too good,’ says Daryl, the bile rising in his throat.

He goes to the bathroom and rinses his mouth out with water. When he returns, his aunt's plate is empty, scraped clean, and Aunt Bette and Sharon are beaming at each other.

‘Lovely pie, Sharon,’ says Aunt Bette. ‘I don't often have seconds. You must give me the recipe.’

‘I will,’ says Sharon.

Next day is Sunday. And again it's hot. Aunt Bette is late for breakfast.

‘D'ya reckon she's okay?’ Daryl asks Sharon. Sharon smirks.

‘It's not funny. Maybe we killed her or something.’

But as he says this Aunt Bette enters the kitchen. She's dressed for church – a lacy hat, her best dress, high heels and white gloves.

‘This heat,’ she says, ‘really is intolerable.’

They walk to church. It's an old bluestone building, on the other side of town. Outside, farmers squat on the ground, chewing blades of grass, discussing the drought.

The collection plate is passed around. Sharon puts in a coin, then Daryl. He passes the plate to Aunt Bette. She drops in a coin and then gives the plate a decent rattle. But Daryl knows it's only five cents; he saw her take it from her purse earlier.

‘Please turn your hymn books to number sixty-seven,’ says the minister.

Aunt Bette is an enthusiastic singer, she always sings loudly. But number 67 is one of her favourite hymns, and she always turns the volume up to ten, giving it the full operatic treatment.

The congregation stands.

The organist, Mrs Ashburner, starts playing – ‘Plink, plonk, plink.’

‘The Loooord,’ sings Aunt Bette, her voice filling the church.

Then there comes another noise. A weird noise. A choking sound, but not harsh, a soft fluttering choking sound. Everybody stops singing. Mrs Ashburner stops playing, twisting around in her seat.

Everybody is looking at Aunt Bette.

Her hands are out in front of her, palms up. Her chin is tilted forward and her mouth is open wide, the pink lipstick forming a perfect ‘O’.

The choking noise stops.

And then, out of Aunt Bette's mouth, they come – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven of them. Big ones, blowies, they come buzzing out of Aunt Bette's mouth and into the vestibule.

Mrs Ashburner faints, toppling off her stool.

The priest crosses himself.

And the blowies keep buzzing.

The next bus to Adelaide leaves at 5:25 that afternoon. The twins watch as Aunt Bette, wearing dark sunglasses, lugs her suitcase aboard.

‘Oh, Auntie,’ says Sharon.

‘What?’ says Aunt Bette.

She turns around, annoyed at being stopped.

‘You wanted that recipe.’

‘What recipe?’ she snaps.

‘For the humb … I mean apple pie,’ says Sharon.

‘Look, I'll get it next time I visit,’ she says.

But deary me, she never did.