Free Kelsey and the Quest of the Porcelain Doll by Rosanne Hawke

K elsey Trengove sat in the black and yellow taxi. Bollywood music blared from the radio. Kelsey thought it was too loud but her dad clapped along. She wound down the window and screwed up her nose.
    Nothing looked familiar outside. There were so many people on the street, either walking or on bicycles, or driving in three-wheeled blue vehicles. Everyone wore the same style of clothes with baggy trousers and long shirts. Even buffaloes and a camel ambled along where the cars were supposed to go. The taxi driver tooted the horn to warn people and dogs off the road. All the other vehicles did the same. The noise was deafening.
    Her mum tried to hold her hand but Kelsey folded her arms across her chest. ‘Why did Dad have to come to Pakistan to build houses? Couldn’t he keep doing that in Australia?’ She was going to be nine in October and she wanted to turn nine in Australia with a pool party at Chantelle’s. Not here. She’d miss the spring swimming carnival too and she was one of the best swimmers in her class.
    Mum said, ‘I’ve told you, so many people lost their houses in the flood. This is one way we can help. Dad’s good at building houses.’
    Kelsey wished he wasn’t, and then they could have stayed home. ‘Why couldn’t I stay with Nanna Rose?’ Kelsey asked. Nanna Rose lived in a granny flat behind their house. Almost every day after school Kelsey visited her and they had afternoon tea in pretty bone china cups. And they ate different coloured macarons. Nanna Rose was the best cook.
    â€˜You’re old enough to see where I grew up,’ Dad said. ‘And it’s only for a few months.’
    But that would be too long. A year ago Nanna Rose had promised Kelsey a porcelain doll for her ninth birthday. Now that wouldn’t happen because Nanna Rose was thousands of kilometres away and Kelsey was stuck in Pakistan.
    That afternoon, Kelsey and her parents arrived at a village. There was water lapping the sides of the houses and everything was muddy. Some houses in the distance looked like little islands. Dad was quiet when he saw the damage the flood had done.
    After a while, Dad blew out a breath and looked at Kelsey. ‘I never saw anything like this when I lived here with Nanna and Grandad. Come on, Kels,’ he said then. ‘Here’s our house.’
    Kelsey looked at the mudbrick house and frowned. It didn’t even look like a house and she could see where the water had been inside. ‘It’s not our house.’ She pouted.
    Dad gave her a hug. ‘You’ll find something to like soon.’
    Kelsey was sure she wouldn’t. She didn’t like her room at all. It was hot. There was no air conditioner, just a fan that clunked from the ceiling. It sounded as if it would fall onto her bed while she slept. Her bed was made of thick string woven on a wooden frame. Dad called it a charpai . She shifted it closer to the wall and put her Barbie on it to make the room look familiar.
    The toilet was even worse. It was sunk into the cement floor of the bathroom. She had to squat over it to wee just as if they were on a long drive at home and had to crouch behind a bush. And she had to put the toilet paper in a wastepaper basket after she’d used it.
    How would she get through the next few months?
    A man in white baggy trousers and a long shirt arrived. ‘Welcome to Nazabad, Mr Trengove. My name is Waheed. I am managing the house building project.’
    â€˜Please call me Len,’ Kelsey’s dad said.
    Mr Waheed brought food that his wife had made.
    â€˜Wow, real curry and chapattis .’ Dad was so excited he said, ‘ Shukriya ’.
    â€˜What’s that mean?’ Kelsey asked.
    â€˜It means thank you,’ Mr Waheed answered. ‘You’ll learn many new words while you are here.’ Mr Waheed smiled while he talked. Kelsey tried not to like him but he looked at her as if she were a