Jim took the pail from his mother. She gave him a push in the direction of the back door, as if he wouldn’t have known which direction to take unless she guided him. ‘Feed the chickens, there’s a good boy,’ she said. She never called the chickens chooks; that was common. His dad never did either, except when she was out of hearing.

‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ Jim clucked, once he was inside the chicken coop, ducking his head because he could no longer stand up in the run. After distributing the food, he refilled the water trough. ‘Chook, chook-chook-chook-chook!’ he said, and grinned as the fowls clucked back.

His favourite hiding place was under the fig tree behind the back of the run. Well fertilised by chicken manure, the tree formed a dense canopy over an amphitheatre-like depression. He sat down and leant against the trunk of the tree with his legs stretched out in front of him. The ground fell away so steeply that he could see, over the top of the paling fence, the dense bush on the other side of the lane, and beyond that the glimmering of the lagoon. Time to himself was what he wanted. Something was troubling him and he hadn’t yet been able to work out what it was.

It had been a lucky thing that he’d come across Zidra and Lorna that afternoon. He’d been scared when he’d broken up the fight. Not on his own behalf but because of what he’d seen on Roger’s face. That look of hatred. He returned to it as if he were picking at a scab. Two girls against four boys. A wog and an Abo against four proper Australians.

The ground under him was littered with leaves, through which ants and a small spider were making their way. He placed a twig in front of the spider and watched it change its route. Why he wanted to compensate for what he’d seen on Roger’s face that afternoon he couldn’t understand. It wasn’t his fault. He’d rescued the girls after all, but he felt a need to do something more. Then he remembered seeing Zidra creep under the hedge when he was racing his billycart down the hill. Tomorrow he’d ask her if she’d like a ride on it. Lorna too, if he could find her.

‘Jim! Jim!’ His mother crashed out of the back door and the screen door slammed shut after her. ‘Where is that dratted boy? Time for him to set the table.’

‘He’ll turn up.’ Dad’s calm tones could be maddening to Mum when her anger was up. Jim didn’t wait for the reaction. So far Mum hadn’t noticed his cubbyhole under the fig tree and he wanted to keep it that way. Out of the hiding place he crept, and up the side of the yard. Then he pounded down the side passage as if he’d been round the front all the time.

‘Where’s your pail?’

‘I left it in the chook run.’ Jim clattered down the back verandah steps to retrieve it.

‘Chicken run,’ Mum bellowed after him.

‘Jim run,’ Jim muttered to himself as he sprinted back up the steps. ‘What’s for tea?’

‘Steak and kidney pie.’

‘My favourite,’ said Dad, and Mum looked pleased.

The next afternoon Jim took the back route around to Zidra’s house. No one should see him inviting her out to play; the last thing he wanted was unnecessary teasing. They’d see her later, if she came out, and that would be soon enough. And they wouldn’t need to know he’d invited her; they’d just think she invited herself.

He looked for Zidra under the front hedge. No one there. Then he knocked on the front door and The Talivaldis opened it. Quickly she replaced a surprised expression with a broad smile. ‘Master Cadwallader,’ she said, ‘whom I must only call Jim.’

Jim knew she was laughing at him. Embarrassed, he looked at his scuffed leather sandals through which calloused toes peeped. Brother Andy could bite his toenails; that piece of information would shock The Talivaldis. Now he couldn’t think of anything to say. If she were his age and not one of those unpredictable adults who alternated between familiarity and distance, he might make a joke about her name. That wouldn’t go down well though; she’d been most particular about his pronunciation when he’d last called, and anyway he wanted to get away as soon as decently possible.

‘Perhaps you would like to come inside?’

‘Just wanted to invite Zidra out to play.’

‘But how kind! She has so few friends and I’m sure that she would love to play.’

Zidra appeared in the hallway behind her mother. ‘I’ve got lots of friends,’ she muttered, glaring at her mother. Jim saw the red flush rise up her neck. Once it reached her chin he could no longer bear to look. He glanced again at the mother, who was smiling encouragingly at him. ‘Jim would like you to play, Zidra,’ she said, eyes now firmly fixed on him as if she thought he might make a run for it.

‘Yeah. I could let you have a go on my billycart.’ Jim absent-mindedly picked at a piece of loose skin around a fingernail and wished he’d never come. Playing with Andy in the bush or mucking around on the beach seemed like much more appealing activities now.

The Talivaldis clapped her hands. ‘On one of those cart things, how wonderful! My darling Zidra, of course you must go!’

Catching Zidra’s eye, Jim grinned. She was just about to reply when her mother added, ‘But you must not ride down this steep hill, on no account ride on this steep hill. I beg of you that you will take care of her.’

Zidra stayed silent. Probably the best thing to do when her mother was in full flight. Jim surreptitiously licked the bleeding skin around his fingernail. Only when he had promised to take the billycarts somewhere flat did The Talivaldis quieten down. Zidra was forced to wear a floppy blue sunhat below which her hair stuck out like steel wool, and somehow Jim’s torn fingernail managed to acquire a plaster. Then they were set adrift into the hot afternoon.

Before they’d even reached the front gate the piano could be heard, as The Talivaldis thumped out some processional march to accompany their flight up the hill.