Free Daughter of the Regiment by Jackie French

‘Hey, have you decided about next year yet?’
    ‘No,’ said Harry shortly.
    ‘I’d go like a shot,’ said Spike. ‘Anything to get away from Bradley’s Bluff. I mean at least things happen down in Sydney. You know Angie’s applied for a scholarship at St Helen’s?’
    ‘No,’ said Harry startled. ‘She didn’t say anything about it.’
    ‘I reckon she’ll get it,’ said Spike. ‘She’s pretty bright. But then she’s interested … hey, that means if you decide to go down to Sydney she’ll be able to tell you all the news. I won’t have to write two letters. The schools are pretty close, aren’t they?’
    ‘Dunno,’ said Harry.
    ‘I reckon it’d be great to go,’ said Spike.
    The bus lumbered round a bend. Below, the river bed gleamed like it had soaked up all the sun. The last of summer’s water trickled through deep ruts carved in the sand.
    Harry was silent.

chapter fifteen
Daniel
    ‘Harry! Is that you?’
    ‘Yeah, it’s me.’ Harry dumped his school bag on the verandah.
    ‘Take your boots off before you come inside,’ said Mum automatically.
    ‘Mum, they’re school shoes. Not boots. They haven’t been anywhere dirty.’
    ‘They’re dirty enough,’ said Mum. ‘No shoes inside. There’s frozen fruit salad in the freezer if you want some.’
    ‘Great. I’ll take some down with me.’
    ‘Down to the chookshed again?’
    Harry nodded.
    ‘You’re down there every afternoon and the new run is hardly started.’ Mum grinned at him. ‘I bet I know what you’re really doing down there.’
    Harry froze. ‘What?’
    ‘Just watching your chooks. My dad was the same. When he was appointed someplace new the first thing he’d unpack would be his hens. It used to drive my mother demented sometimes. She’d be unpacking all the kid’s things and he’d be down checking out the back shed or whatever was there to put his chooks in … And every Sunday when he came back from the service they’d be waiting for him, all lined up. He always gave them a special lot of wheat at Sunday lunchtime. He swore they could count to seven and knew just when Sunday was.’
    ‘Probably just heard the music in Church and thought “wheat”,’ said Harry.
    ‘Probably,’ said Mum. ‘You know, it’s funny. We moved six times when I was a kid. And here I am married to a man whose family has lived in the one spot for six generations.’
    And I’m the seventh, thought Harry. But he didn’t say it aloud. Mum and Dad never pressured him about taking over the farm. Never even said ‘When you do ag science at high school …’ If he wanted to be an accountant or a computer scientist they wouldn’t argue. But he knew they hoped he’d find some way to keep the farm no matter what else he decided to do.
    The chookshed shimmered in the heat, even under its blanket of passionfruit. He’d scraped out all the muck and put down fresh hay on Tuesday (he’d seen Angie wrinkle her nose on Monday). The chooks kept scratching it over, looking for seeds, and so kept covering their droppings with the hay, too. The shed still smelt more like dried grass than chook.
    Harry stepped inside. All the eggs were in the left-hand box today, as though the chooks had had a conference that morning and decided, It’s the left one today, girls.
    The hole was a bright white light in the darkness. It must be summer there too, thought Harry. When it was winter on the other side the hole was softer, dimmer. He crouched down and pressed his eyes to it.
    Someone was there! Someone new! Not Cissie, not Sergeant Wilkes, not any of the people he’d seen before.
    This was a boy, about his age or a few years older. He wore a shirt and trousers, sort of baggy, but not so different from what you’d wear today, and heavy boots.
    The boy knelt by the creek scooping its water into his mouth. A stained sack drooped behind him. A horse whinnied softly in the background, but it was too far to the side to see.
    ‘Who are you?’
    Harry