Free Lyrebird Hill by Anna Romer Page A

huddled at the kitchen table, working on a school project – knitting a woollen beanie with pompoms – but my fingers were turning blue, and I kept fumbling the needles, dropping the wool on the floor, picking it up, and then dropping it again.
    Mum came into the kitchen, a pair of scissors in her hand. She stared at me for a long time, then finally said, ‘Come over here.’
    Abandoning my wool scraps and half-finished pompoms, I got up and plodded over to her on frozen feet.
    She grabbed my shoulders and dragged me around to face the doorway with my back to her. I stared across the verandah into the yard. The walnut tree had shed its leaves, and witheredblack pods clung to the naked branches. I felt a cold sensation drag across the back of my neck, and flinched. Mum yanked me back into place. Snip. Something slithered past my shoulder and landed feather-soft on my foot. I couldn’t look down; Mum was gripping the top of my head, holding me steady. Snip. Another flutter on my arm. Snip-snip.
    Finally she pulled me around to face her. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy and her lips looked as if she’d nibbled away half the skin.
    ‘What happened on the rocks that day, Ruby?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Why were your arms covered in bruises? They looked like finger marks. Were they, Ruby? Were they marks made by someone’s fingers?’
    I looked down. My toes were curling over the ends of my sandals. They were last year’s sandals, white with buckles across the ankle. My foot had grown an inch or so in that time, but I hadn’t thought to remind Mum it was time for new shoes.
    Mum shook me. ‘How can you not remember those bruises? You were black and blue for weeks. Did Jamie put them there? Did you have a fight? What did you do to her?’
    My eyes stung. Please , I prayed silently, please don’t let me cry. Not now. I tried to pull away, but Mum’s grip held firm.
    ‘Ruby, I told you girls to stay at home that day. Why didn’t you listen? You knew the rocks would be slippery after the rain. Why couldn’t you have done what you were told for once?’
    When I didn’t reply, and she let me go. Crossing the kitchen, she returned the scissors to the utility drawer and went outside.
    My head felt so light I thought it might topple off and roll away. Bruises. Finger marks. I couldn’t remember. My skin itched. My limbs shook. I stood there a long time, staring at nothing, my heart turning small, as hard and dry as a walnut.
    Hours passed before I dared to look in the mirror. My hair was cropped like a boy’s. Short, prickly. Horrible. It showed offmy freckly skin and round face to its worst advantage. Somehow my resemblance to Jamie had disappeared; in its place was a girl I didn’t recognise. An ugly girl I found myself hating.
    Outside, the trees were shedding their leaves. The sky was the colour of washed-out denim. The air had turned icy. Rosehips were out, and the bean pods hanging on the dry vines rattled in the wind like castanets.
    It was the last Sunday in June.
    I was thirteen.

    The flowers dropped from my fingers and scattered on the floor. Pressing my knuckles against my lips, I stared at myself in the mirror. I was hunched over, with possum eyes and cheeks darkened by the shadow of my hair.
    The memory had been so vivid that I could still smell the woodsmoke from our old farmhouse kitchen, still feel the icy floorboards under my feet. The scissors rasped, and my thick dark locks slithered over my shoulders as I tried not to cry.
    What happened on the rocks that day, Ruby?
    I searched my reflection, but there was no hint of the bright, beautiful sister I had idolised as a child. Just my own familiar face – brown eyes, sweeping brows, unruly dark hair. Jamie’s hair had been waist length, her eyes golden and her skin paler than mine; if there had ever been a likeness, there was no sign of that resemblance now, at least none that I could see.
    Mum, on the other hand, must still be aware of it.