Free Paper Daisies by Kim Kelly

in my hand. I must find Buckley before I think or do another thing, have him chain Prince at the stables. I don’t particularly like the Gebhardts or Reverend Liversidge or, for that matter, the majority of those invited to the festivities this evening, but neither would I see any of them torn to pieces. I open the front door.
    Prince looks up at me from the gate at the bottom of the garden path. Tail wagging. Tongue lolling. The late sun dancing across his brindle coat, he is as beautiful as he is savage.
    And there’s a man patting his head. How very odd. It’s no man I’ve ever seen before, here or anywhere, though there is something curiously familiar about him. Long flaxen hair like a travelling minstrel, tweed breeches and haversack, he’s travelled off the pages of some great strapping Walter Scott adventure and up to our yard. And he appears to remain in possession of both hands, unmolested by Prince.
    The man straightens and smiles, a heartbeat of déjà vu. ‘I beg your pardon, young miss.’ He points towards the orchard. ‘My apologies for the intrusion, but I was hoping I might take a look at a shrub, ah. The daisies, over by the …’

Ben
    I lose my way in the words as I look back at the girl again and see that she is not a child at all but a young woman, compactly made. She is wearing a blue dress, a gown of pale blue; she is a piece of sky drifted down onto this chocolate-box verandah. A displeased one. Not surprising, I suppose: I just addressed her as young miss.
    â€˜You would like to look at what, where?’ Her frown is severe, her hand raised against the sun.
    â€˜The daisies …’ I look again down the lee, into the heavy boughs of the cherries, searching for something appropriate to say in such a circumstance as this – incidental conversation with the fairer sex, of which I am generally – no, absolutely – lacking. ‘I am a botanist …’ I offer and then, unable to think of anything else to say, I determine to make my departure swift and immediate. ‘I beg your pardon. Miss. Ah … I do apologise. I am sorry to have disturbed you.’
    â€˜Ha!’ The girl waves me away for a nuisance. ‘Disturb me? Prince finds you a good enough fellow. Go and look at your daisies.’
    She turns and walks quickly away, around the western side of the verandah, stopping briefly to speak to a workman who is approaching the rear of the house with a barrow of wood. Then she disappears into the shade of the awning; a door creaks open and then closed again.
    I look back down at the dog. Prince. Good name for him – a proud beast. And a distrustful one: I thought he might actually jump the fence for me. Teeth bared and snarling. Intimidating, and I am not easily intimidated, not by animals at least. And then he just as suddenly stopped. Sniffed the air, propped his paws up on the fence, as though in welcome, then bounded up towards the gate here, as though asking me to follow, and I did.
    The dog licks the back of my hand now as I reach down to raise the latch. Funny creature. I must have confused him somehow; some smell about me. There might be a fair smell about me, too, or a foul one – I realise that I haven’t had these strides properly laundered since I left Melbourne. Perhaps the girl caught a whiff of me as well. That’s almost a month’s worth of whiff, and more. Strike me, but it suddenly seems I’ve been on the road a long while. Wandering. Years, not weeks.
    I look behind me as I open the gate and see Cos there where I left him, down by the verge of the road, still drawing on his pipe, book open on his chest. I assure him mentally that I shan’t be long, but as I do a sense of uncertainty slips through my mind. Shan’t be long.
    Ahead, I look to the white blooms, under the good care of the old melaleuca by the dam there – linariifolia ,just like Mama’s, its broad canopy in