Free The Beloved by Annah Faulkner Page A

. . .’
    A boy across the aisle smirked. I felt my eyes mist and numbers swam across the page.
    â€˜You don’t understand?’ said Mrs Potts. ‘Never mind, we’ll sort it out later.’
    When the bell went for play lunch she called me to her desk and wrote some shorter sums on the blackboard. She handed me the chalk. ‘Can you do these?’ Through the louvres, I could see Tim waiting. I stared at the board, feeling the chalk grow sweaty in my hand. How could little shapes like 8 and 5 cause so much trouble?
    Mrs Potts sighed. ‘Never mind, Roberta, I’ll speak to your parents. You might be better off in grade two.’
    No! Mama would be spitting mad. The bell went. Tim disappeared. Spelling and reading were next but I couldn’t concentrate. My book was wet with sweat and my pencil wouldn’t write through it.
    At lunchtime Tim and I found a patch of shade on the verandah and sat down to eat. I reached into my satchel. Something crawled across my hand. I yanked it back and at the same moment Tim leaped to his feet.
    â€˜Crikey bloody hell!’
    Ants surged from my satchel into my lap. Tim hopped, swatted and slapped.
    Nearby, kids laughed. ‘You should’ve put your lunches in a fridge.’ They pointed to a row of fridges at the end of the verandah. Too late now. I shook my lunch out of its wrapping. Ants crawled across the bread and struggled through peanut butter. In the Vita-Weats you couldn’t tell ants from Vegemite. I remembered Dad saying he’d eaten an ant once, covered in chocolate . . . I picked up a Vita-Weat.
    â€˜Don’t you dare,’ said Tim.
    â€˜I’m hungry.’
    â€˜So am I but we’ll have to wait till we get home.’
    The bell clanged. Lunch was over.
    Mrs Potts came to my desk. ‘Don’t worry if you can’t keep up this afternoon, dear. Just get through as best you can.’
    I stared at the dips and curves on the blackboard . . . New Guinea . . . no, New Zealand . . . and my eyelids drooped. While the rest of the class drew maps I fell asleep over my desk.
    At three o’clock the bell went and Tim and I waited on the front steps for Dad. By half-past three everyone had gone, except for the teachers, and by four o’clock they’d gone too. At four fifteen we were still waiting.
    â€˜He’s forgotten,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll have to walk home and get Mama and come back for you.’
    â€˜You can’t walk, Timmy. It’s miles!’
    â€˜Only two and a half. I’ll be quick.’
    â€˜No! You can’t leave me on my own.’
    He began to move away. ‘I’ll run, Bertie. All the way, I promise.’ And before I could stop him, he was gone.
    I stared at the bend in the road where it disappeared between high bushes, then turned and looked behind me. The school yard was empty and the light was beginning to change, the sky turning the purple-yellow of an old bruise. Overhead thunder rumbled and the air went damp and still. Birds stopped singing. My breath came loudly in my ears.
    How fast could Tim run?
    How long before Mama came back?
    . . . No! Dad had the jeep, Mama couldn’t come back . . . breathe .
    I took a step. Suddenly, the sun burst out. Two and a half miles. Eighty-eight steps to the end of the driveway. Everything will be fine . Four hundred and sixty-four . . . four hundred – no, six hundred and . . . Timmy would be running flat out, arms pumping, feet flying, up the hill, down the other side, along the straight road to home . . . eight hundred . . . This is Roberta . . . wears a brace to keep her leg straight . . . one thousand four hundred and . . . goblins were gnawing at my leg . . .
    A small truck went past, slowed . . .
    Stopped; sat with its motor running.
    It had a canopy on the back.
    No-one could see you in there if . . . I