Free The Storyteller's Daughter by Maria Goodin Page A

clinging onto my dream of our shared future.
    Behind Johnny, Podge Parkinson and Jamie Brunt sniggered into their cupped hands.
    â€˜Make sure she doesn’t bring any beans,’ Jamie whispered, ‘they might run away!’
    Podge burst into wheezy, asthmatic laughter.
    Johnny fiddled awkwardly with the knot of his school tie.
    â€˜The party’s been cancelled,’ he said quickly, and without even looking at me he turned and ran away.
    I stood forlornly, staring at the reply slip in my hand. I had planned to wear my new blue dress and slip-on shoes with the tiny heels. I was going to use all the money in my piggy bank to buy him a Power-Splash water pistol.
    I didn’t need to hear Johnny’s mother shout ‘See you Saturday!’ to Jamie’s mother in order to know that the party was still going ahead.
    I had been rejected because Johnny thought I was a liar and a fool.
    â€œYou don’t have to be shy, you know.”
    I freeze mid-step. How on earth did he hear me? I was being as quiet as a mouse. Or so I thought. I curse my mother for insisting that I bring a cup of coffee and a slice of pecan pie outside for the gardener. After all, she’s paying him, I can’t believe she’s expected to feed him as well. Having crept down the brick path, I left the refreshments on the ground in between his discarded jumper and a row of cauliflowers, I really thought I could just creep back to the house without him noticing me. But just as I am tiptoeing away, his voice reaches me from somewhere amongst the apple orchard. The branches of the tightly-packed trees are a tangle of leaves and fruit, too dense to see through, but he is obviously in there somewhere, watching me sneaking around.
    â€œWhat’s up? Are you afraid?”
    I spin around, my eyes searching for him amongst the leafy branches, irritated at his suggestion. He’s clearly patronising me, mocking me for my reaction the other day when I defended myself against him with a dishcloth. Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to feel a little frightened when a scruffy-looking man bursts into your kitchen unannounced. I’m about to tell him so when he speaks again.
    â€œCome on, don’t be shy now, Sweetheart. Have a bit more confidence. You know, I think you could be a right little stunner if you wanted.”
    My jaw drops. Sweetheart! Stunner! The cheek of him! He’s obviously one of these young men who likes to think of himself as a bit of a charmer, a ‘cheeky chappie’ or a ‘loveable rogue’, chatting up the ladies with a naughty smile and a glint in his eye. Unfortunately for him I find these kind of men misogynistic, irritating and common, and see nothing in the slightest bit charming about them.
    â€œYou’re quite a beauty, you know that?”
    His voice is soft and deep as it carries on the gentle Summer breeze and in spite of myself, just for a second, I feel a smile playing at the side of my mouth. A beauty? Really? Mark has never called me a beauty. He once said I am rather pretty when my hair is neatly tucked behind my ears, but he has never used the word beautiful. But what am I doing allowing myself to be flattered? He shouldn’t be talking to me in this way. If my mother will insist on having him here, he’s going to have to learn that he’s here to cut grass and trim hedges and that’s all. I’m more or less his employer, for goodness sake.
    I push my way into the little orchard, shoving branches out of my path, trampling over a ball of string, some shears and a wooden box, all of which he has discarded recklessly on the ground with no regard for anyone’s safety. Forcefully parting the leaves of an apple tree, I find myself staring him straight in the face.
    â€œI have a boyfriend you know,” I tell him, matter-of-factly, stumbling on a piece of green netting which has become caught around my feet.