Free Somewhere around the Corner by Jackie French Page A

Barbara said finally. ‘I’m not scared. I know it’s just a shack, but it’s like you’ve everything here you need.’
    Dad began to laugh, the bitterness creeping back into his voice. ‘A dirt floor and dole rations once aweek, with weevils in the flour and bush rats at the soap.’ The laugh broke off.
    ‘We do all right,’ said Ma quietly. ‘We manage.’
    Dad looked at her queerly. ‘It’s you who manage,’ he said softly. ‘Me, I’m good for nothing now.’
    ‘And I won’t hear you talk like that,’ Ma went on, with a touch of desperation. ‘You’ve done your best for us, you break your back for us. This place isn’t so bad. When I think of the poor souls in those other camps, places like Happy Valley, with everyone bickering and sniping and cockroaches big as mice and rats as big as footballs and all the kids with the runs, I know that at least we’ve got neighbours we can depend on here in the gully. We’ll see it through.’
    Ma bent down, picked up her crocheting from the leaves and bark where it had fallen and piled it on the table. ‘Come on,’ she said softly. ‘It’s time you lot were all in bed. Bubba too. You’ll feel better in the morning, love. You’ll have forgotten all about it after a good night’s sleep.’ It was as though she was trying to convince herself. It was dark inside the shack. The lantern gave too little light to penetrate the cracks. Barbara could hear the steady breathing of the little ones, Elaine sort of muttering in her sleep, Young Jim’s quiet snore.
    Ma and Dad were speaking in low voices outside.
    ‘What do you reckon?’ It was Dad’s voice.
    There was a pause. Barbara could almost see Ma’s fingers leaping with the crochet hook, as though it helped her think.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘It sounded so real. I’d say it’s the truth. Or what she thinks is the truth anyway.’
    ‘You don’t think it was a bump on the head, like Young Jim said?’
    ‘She couldn’t have made all that up,’ said Ma. ‘Not in so much detail. It seemed so real.’
    ‘A world around the corner,’ said Dad slowly. ‘Imagine it! What a world I’d take you to then. What sort of world would you have love, if you could choose?’
    There was a silence.
    Then Barbara heard Ma’s quiet voice. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy left to dream,’ she was saying. ‘I just try to be thankful for what we’ve got and make the best of it. I think maybe I’m frightened to dream, in case I can’t keep smiling when I wake up.’
    There was another silence.
    ‘I’m sorry love. For bringing you here. For failing you all.’ There was a stifled sob. Someone moved quickly.
    ‘Ah, I’m sorry, love,’ said Dad’s voice again. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’
    ‘Can’t you see?’ Ma’s voice was different. Not the calm strong voice Barbara had heard before. ‘I can stand anything, but not you like this. You haven’t failed us. It’s not your fault. It’s not! Can’t you see?’
    There was a longer silence. The first rays of moonlight sifted through the cracks in the wall, bright as torchlight, golden as Gully Jack’s dreams. Then Dad’s voice, very quiet. ‘Somewhere around the corner,’ he said. ‘I wonder.’

chapter ten
Dulcie of the Dairy Farm
    On Wednesdays, the single men came down the valley to get their dole rations. On Thursdays, the family men came; by themselves if they had to come a long way or with their wives and children, the kids with bare feet and the women with tired eyes. It was a long walk from Poverty Gully down to the main arm of the valley where Sergeant Ryan presided at the police station, handing out the tickets that allowed you to get your dole rations at Nicholson’s store—so much tea, flour and sugar, golden syrup, soap and matches and a bit of cheese.
    It was usually the same faces, week after week. The farms were too small to lure others to the valley with dreams of a bit of work. No-one thought there