Free Dunger by Joy Cowley Page B

“You’ll be paid,” and Mother-of-the-hundred-eyes, no, I mean lies , she knew about it too. No language has been invented to describe how I feel about their betrayal.
    Melissa has come around to thinking the trust is a good idea, probably because she was going to spend her money on rags, anyway, and because she wants to go to a fashion design school which costs money. She wouldn’t be Melissa if she wasn’t thinking about herself.
    My plans for the future are uncertain, but I may become a biologist or a meteorologist and go and work in Antarctica. Penguins and the weather are more predictable than my family.
    â€œYou can still get an iPad,” Melissa says for the third time. “You just have to save for it.”
    â€œStand back,” I tell her. “I don’t want to chop your toes off.”
    â€œStop being a horrible little fart,” she says, and goes back inside.
    By mid-morning, that big branch has lost all its small branches, and its lower end is bare with sap bleeding out of a thousand axe cuts. There are still a few bigger branches at the thick end, but those will have to be cut by a saw and I fear the bush saw has outlived its usefulness.
    I plan to take a walk by myself up the stream, so I can check on the water intake, but Grandpa comes out jiggling the car keys. “Want to come for a ride?”
    My inclination is to choose a walk to the stream, but I look back at the car and become a swinging voter. Well, not for long. It’s the car that wins, because there is a chance, a real chance – but that doesn’t mean I am happy about bending my principles.
    â€œWe’re going to Hoffmeyer’s farm,” says Grandpa. “He’s killed some meat. Has a leg of lamb for us. Not only but also, he’s got a fifteen-foot runabout on a trailer and says we can borrow it for a day. Like to do some fishing?”
    He gets in the driver’s seat and gives me a couple of plastic bags to hold, but as soon as we turn out of the gateway and onto the road, he stops and gets out. “Move over,” he says.
    I move over in one quick bounce and grab the wheel.
    â€œIt’s a private road,” he says.
    â€œI know.”
    He laughs. “No pedestrian crossings, no traffic lights, no cop cars. Just watch out for wild goats and pigs and an occasional landslide.”
    â€œShall I put it in gear?”
    â€œYou’ve done first and second. Now you can try third. That’s about top for this winding road. But you’ll have to shove her back to second on some of the uphill bends. I’ll show you when we come to that. Off you go, Stirling Moss.”
    â€œMoss? What does moss have to do with driving?”
    â€œHe was a racing driver before your time,” says Grandpa.
    I put my foot on the clutch that now feels very familiar, and find first gear without looking. Clutch slowly out. The car rolls forward without a single jerk. I feed it more gas, then it’s foot off the accelerator, clutch in, second gear, clutch out, accelerator, pick up a bit of speed …
    â€œNow third,” says Grandpa.
    Easy-peasy, into third gear and we are cruising along the dirt road, which doesn’t mean I am driving carelessly, far from it: there are ruts and potholes to be avoided and the occasional big stone that has dropped off a clay bank. I need to watch out for things like that. The road is narrow but there are curved clearings at the edge where I can pull over, in the unlikely event of another car appearing.
    Driving is such a good feeling. I say to Grandpa, “Would you call this living smart?”
    â€œI would, laddie, but don’t tell your father.”
    I have no intention of saying anything to Dad. I have learned the sobering lesson that my parents can’t be trusted.
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    Of course I’m disappointed, but it’s not like the money has been taken away from us, it’s been invested for the future, which is