Free Paper Daisies by Kim Kelly Page A

full flower, too, as though dusted with frost. Are these Mama’s elatum beneath its shelter? They are exquisite, whatever they might be, floating on this gentle breeze, as though over the surface of the water, against slow ripples of molten bronze.
    I really have no idea how long I shall be.
    As long as this farewell takes me, I suppose. My chest tightens at it: Farewell, Mama.Where is she now? Wandering pleasantly through some celestial garden, I hope; a small child capering along beside her, asking her the names of the flowers.
    I am that small boy still. I shall always be.
    Just as these are indeed her white everlastings here, so improbably, on this hillside in Bathurst.
    Yes, it is elatum . Joy blunders through me. Here they are. The fineness of the leaves, the tall, elegant hands, each stem topped with their inflorescence of bell-shaped bracts, with their multiple rows of snowy rays, holding deep golden discoid flowerheads swelling at their centres. And they are profuse; thriving. I look into the sky as though I might see the way this piece of my childhood garden floated down six hundred miles to find me here. The dog beside me barks once in concord. Yes, it might well appear I am not mad.

Berylda
    â€˜I wish for that stranger you found to carry us away.’ Gret smiles at last, closing her eyes for the silly game as we snap the bone.
    â€˜Ha!’ She has the greater half too: ‘You win.’
    â€˜I did.’ She regards it, still clenched in the crook of her little finger. ‘What did you wish for, Ryl?’
    â€˜The same.’ I smile with her as I lie beside her on my bed. You don’t want to know what I just wished for. I can’t clear the violence from my mind. I want to take out his eyes with a fork and feed them to the chickens.
    â€˜Really?’ says Gret. ‘Well, that’ll make it a powerful wish then. Hopefully. Both of us wishing for exactly the same thing, that will double our chances of it coming true, don’t you think?’
    â€˜Yes.’ She snaps my heart to pieces. She is so very hurt but she will not scream it. She can’t. And I play along: ‘Why don’t you sit up then now, darling, and you might see him at the window.’ I want to see how physically injured she might be, too; see if she winces with it again. I press her a little: ‘We should get you dressed for dinner anyway. Are you up to it?’
    She nods and sits easily now, perching on the edge of the bed; no flicker of pain now, but … God, I can’t believe what he has done to her; but I believe it more and more.
    â€˜Are you sure you are up to this?’ I press her again. The consequences of disobedience will be harsh and unpredictable, but she is not going to suffer this dinner if she can’t sit without discomfort. I shall forbid it with all that I am. I shall announce it to the guests: Greta sends her apologies and hopes you all understand that our dearly devoted Uncle Alec raped her this afternoon. And I shall do no such thing. I am too sick with this myself; sick with not knowing what I should do. What can I do?
    She stands and assures me: ‘I feel quite a bit better. Really. I’m all right. And Mrs Weston is coming – I couldn’t miss seeing Mrs Weston. She’s always so lovely to me.’ Mrs Augusta Weston, wife of the District Medical Officer, inveterate bush nurse and general force to be reckoned with, and in fact always lovely to Gret.
    â€˜Yes.’ I assure her: ‘And she wouldn’t ever want to miss seeing you either.’ Could I dare to tell Mrs Weston? Would she help us? What could she do? I can’t even get Gret to admit to me what he has done. Are you sure he didn’t hurt you anywhere down here? I gently pressed her tenderness. No, of course not. She made a face. I can’t ask her more; I can’t ask her what I must: what was he doing to you on the bed? I can’t force that shame on her.
    She