Free Salt Creek by Lucy Treloar Page B

slate. He valued reading above anything. He was so neat with his hands that it was no wonder that his writing was clean once he had the way of holding first chalk, later a pen. I could not tell if he derived pleasure from it, if curiosity drove him in the way that it drove Fred. It was as well that Papa had decided that Stanton need no longer trouble himself with school, else Tull would have had a harder time of it with him. He and Hugh had left earlier with a great jostling through the doorway and a nervous laughing energy that I could not fathom.
    â€˜Have a good day, Hester,’ Stanton said at the door. ‘Among your pots and pans.’ He appeared so brown and free, his hair grown with no barber around, and he was filling out. He would be a big man one day, with broad shoulders. His jacket would not fit him much longer. He had the swagger of a person who lived in the expectation of admiration. There was none of that hereabouts; we must wait in the hope that neighbours would one day arrive. Until the district became more closely settled he would be thwarted. Love and other such matters were mysteries to me, but I do not think they were to Stanton. All I knew then was the teeming energy and frustration in him. Hugh had it too but contained it better. He contrived to be neat, to maintain some of the habits of town life. He hung his clothes at day’s end while Stanton, from his dishevelled appearance, must have left them where they fell.
    His mocking tone made me hot inside, but I would not show him that. As coolly as I could, I said, ‘And you, Stant. Let us hope the cattle are able to elevate your mind.’
    â€˜Oh, I will have a good day. You need not worry on that score. And it won’t be because of the cows.’ He laughed.
    â€˜Stanton,’ Hugh said, sharp now when he had been joking before, and Stanton turned to go.
    I would not say that I hated my brother, but I did dislike him and could not stop myself saying, ‘Yes, yes. Off you go. And if you later need assistance with matters that might require intelligence, I’m always happy to oblige.’
    He turned back. ‘You be careful, Hett. With your sharp tongue no one will have you even if they can bear your ridiculous height.’ And he swung out of the door.
    â€˜You can’t help it, Hester,’ Hugh said. ‘Stanton doesn’t mean it. There will be someone.’
    His pity and his kind, pompous face were worse than any jeering of Stanton’s.
    â€˜Stanton does mean it and so do I. He is stupid. I would not trade my mind for anything.’ But it was not true, as the tears that rushed into my eyes told Hugh most eloquently. ‘Go. Go. I don’t want to see either of you.’
    There was the banging and stamping of them pulling on their boots and of them thundering down the steps and the clatter of the gate and soon after the diminishing crunch of hooves.

    We became used to Tull’s presence through that summer and into autumn – more than that: we were impatient for his arrival each day. He was the most alert, conscious person I had ever met, poised for anything: flight, danger, contests of strength or will, and to learn more – always that. We liked him for the games he knew and taught us, short as we were of entertainments. There was one in which we made two lines and kicked a ball from one line to the other and the people opposite jumped and wrestled for it; and another in which he set a disc of bark rolling and we tried to hit it with the fine blunt spears that Tull made for us. At first he laughed at our clumsiness and the way we stood and threw our weapons. Stanton improved and hit often enough, each time yelling a triumphant ‘Hah!’ Try as he might he could not leap as Tull did for a third game in which the boys took turns to throw things at him from a distance, and he evaded them. He was never struck. His litheness and agility were an amazement to us. From standing he