Читать книгу With My Body - Nikki Gemmell - Страница 32

Every family is a little kingdom in itself: the members and followers of which are often as hard to manage as any of the turbulent governments whose discords convulse our world

By a shaded cleft of a creek you make a bush hut out of broken branches – widow makers, they’re known as locally – and great brooms of leaves; your home away from home, just for you. You love the cool smell of the water on the rock, the rich rust of the wet stone, the startling green of the ferns sucking from the restless stream. You love the clutter of vibrant life drawn to this secret tranquillity, the frogs, lizards, birds, wallabies if you’re very still. The land beyond it is bleached pale, the colour of the sheep that feed from it, but you’d never know within this.

You stay out later and later in your sanctuary. Are intrigued the first time you come home – after dinner, but before your father has returned from his shift – to see the worry lines creasing your stepmother’s face. It is the first time you have seen concern on her, with anything to do with you.

You learn, in that instant, the authority of removal.

You stay away longer and longer.

Then one day, after a big rain, the mosquitoes come. You need something to keep them away. There is only one thing in your world that is a length of fine netting, and you know exactly what room to find it in.