Free Cicada Summer by Kate Constable Page B

slope and back again, invisible inside the gathering dusk, listening to the murmur of music and conversation and the clink of plates and glasses from the open windows of the big house, until at last, at last, the welcome silence rushed over her and towed her away.
    Dusk was falling in her own time, too, but it was still hot. The setting sun splashed vivid orange light on the bare planks of the summerhouse walls. There were no paintings, no trace of paint. Someone must have painted over them, between Anna’s time and now. Dead leaves littered the floor.
    Eloise’s shoulders drooped as she picked up her bike where it had fallen. Swimming through . Her clothes were still damp and sticky, clinging to her skin. The cicadas were so loud it was hard to even think. She pushed the bike along the dark tunnel of the driveway and wobbled out onto the road. If only swimming through didn’t make you so very tired . . .
    One foot down, and then the other, she pushed the bike toward home.
    Eloise was inside the back door before she realised that Mo had visitors. She caught the door before it banged shut and eased it silently closed, then she stood still, on tiptoe, listening.
    No one had heard her come in; they were all talking at once. Mo was saying, ‘When she’s ready—’
    Tommy’s excited voice cut in. ‘But my father can help her!’
    Then the gentle tones of Tommy’s dad. ‘It is not appropriate, Osman.’
    ‘But then everyone can see how clever you are!’ cried Tommy. ‘We have to show them. Everyone will come to you!’
    ‘You can’t help someone who isn’t ready to be helped,’ said Mo dryly. ‘No matter how clever you are. No offence, Professor.’
    ‘None taken, I assure you. I apologise for my son, who seems to believe I should demonstrate my skills to the town by practising on the neighbours.’
    ‘Only some of the neighbours,’ muttered Tommy.
    Mo said sharply, ‘I hope you’re not suggesting your father should brush up his skills on me .’
    There was an awkward silence, then Tommy said, subdued, ‘Of course not, Mrs Mo. I’m sorry, Mrs Mo.’
    Mo snorted.
    ‘Forgive us, Mrs Mo,’ said Tommy’s dad. ‘We have trespassed on your time for long enough.’ He said something to Tommy in their own language, and Eloise heard them get up to go. She waited, holding her breath, as they all moved out into the hallway.
    ‘Thank you for the curry,’ said Mo gruffly. ‘Again.’
    ‘Not at all. Leisure in which to cook has proved to be an unexpected benefit of unemployment.’
    ‘And you cheer up, Tommy. You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.’
    ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Mo?’
    ‘Never mind. I know you meant well. But when Eloise and I are ready for help, we’ll ask for it, all right? Till that day comes you can mind your own beeswax.’
    ‘I don’t understand, Mrs Mo.’
    ‘Oh, forget it. Buzz off. See you later. Goodbye, Professor.’
    Eloise heard the door slam shut, then open again. Mo called out through the screen, ‘Thank you!’
    Eloise quickly changed her clothes, threw the wet ones into the laundry basket, and crept silently into the kitchen where a covered casserole dish sat on the table. Mo came marching in, and jumped at the sight of her.
    ‘Scared the living daylights out of me! What are you, a ghost? Where the devil have you been? It’s nearly dark.’
    Eloise shrugged and spread her hands in apology.
    ‘You just missed Tommy and his father. They brought round another curry. Lamb this time, I think they said.’
    Eloise nodded, non-committal, though she saw Mo glance swiftly at her as if trying to guess whether she’d heard any of their conversation.
    As she and Mo ate dinner, Eloise thought about what she had overheard. It had startled her when Mo had lumped the two of them together as needing help – or rather, not needing it, thanks very much.
    Eloise was glad. All she wanted was to be left alone, that was all she had ever wanted.
    But then she remembered