Free Out of Alice by Kerry McGinnis Page B

twigged, and injected heartiness into his voice. ‘A good sleep-in and an easy day, that’s all he needs to be as fresh as a daisy.’
    â€˜Is that like a fresh horse?’ Becky wrinkled her brow. ‘How can a daisy be fresh?’
    Sara turned her palms up in bemusement, and it was left to Jack to sort out the difference for his niece between a frisky mount and a newly opened flower.
    In the morning it was Jack who came in with the milk bucket while Sara was turning chops in the pan. She raised pale brows at him, her fiery curls neatly confined by two combs.
    â€˜I didn’t know you could milk. Is Becky with you?’
    â€˜Morning, Sara. She’s finding something for her hair.’ His own head was bare. The muscles swelled in his forearm as he lifted the bucket and strained its contents carefully into the milk pan ready for scalding. ‘Milking’s easy enough. I learned as a kid; we always had goats. Milk and meat in one parcel.’
    â€˜Sara, can you help me, please?’ Becky proffered a scrunchie in one hand, the other holding her gathered hair. Sara turned off the stove, combed the girl’s ponytail with her fingers and secured it.
    â€˜Phew, you smell awfully like goat. Go and have a really good wash.’
    Becky giggled and ran off making bleating sounds. Jack, rinsing the bucket at the sink, said abruptly, ‘You’re good with her. The last girl was hopeless.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ Sara heard the approach of Len’s boots and the light patter of Becky’s returning feet. She said quickly, ‘Later I’d like a word, about yesterday. If you have the time?’
    The grey eyes rested on her face, then he nodded. ‘I’ll make some.’
    Sara cut lunches for both men, fed Jess and the hens, started the garden sprays and bustled Becky into the schoolroom with the reminder that her lessons had to be finished in time for the mail.
    â€˜But it’s only Wednesday!’
    â€˜I know, but there’s lots of work still to get through today and tomorrow. Besides, if you work hard this morning, you’ll have time to do another page in your scrapbook. And I’ve made you some special sheets, see?’ She showed her the paper printed over with the various leaves collected from Kileys. ‘Maybe you could write a little story on them about yesterday – having tea in the bush at the bore, with Uncle Jack, and picking these very leaves.’ She touched their outlines.
    Becky’s eyes lit up as she gave Sara a swift hug. ‘You have the
bestest
ideas!’
    â€˜Don’t I just? Let’s get started, then.’

10
    The men were home late that evening. They had been pulling Canteen bore, Len told her, and would be starting back at first light to complete the job. ‘Would’ve camped if we’d had the gear,’ he said. ‘Could you manage a five o’clock breakfast, Sara?’
    â€˜Of course.’ It seemed awfully early. ‘What’s the rush?’
    â€˜Water,’ Jack grunted. Neither of them had showered yet and their clothes were smeared with rusty-looking mud – or muddy-looking rust, Sara couldn’t decide. ‘The tank’s empty so the cattle don’t drink till we’ve fixed the mill.’
    â€˜I see. What shall I do about the goats?’
    â€˜Let them out,’ Len said. ‘Their kids’ll take care of the milk.’
    â€˜Right.’ It was at moments like these that Sara was most deeply aware of her ignorance. Even Becky would’ve known the answer to that, she thought, and felt foolish for asking. Both men appeared tired so she got the meal on the table quickly, and later shook her head when Jack moved to pick up the tea towel. ‘Becky and I will do it. Is that the phone?’
    Len answered it, sticking his head into the kitchen some five minutes later to say, ‘They’ll be home tomorrow, Sara.’
    â€˜How’s