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Sunday

A Short Story by Yvonne Du Presne

Now that the Summer holidays were here, they often had afternoon tea on Sundays out on the lawn. They sat under the very new maple tree which sent a few spidery thin shadows fingering over the cups and the lace tea-cloth and watched the pine trees moving stiffly along the division between the tender little garden and the paddocks, rolling away to the foothills. As the light faded, they would watch the hollows in the hills grow fuzzy; then it would go and the pine trees would be just a line of trees marking no boundary at all.

Nancy was going to high school next year; her Standard VI books lay yellowing and curling up on the shelf under her window. She wanted to go to Wellington these holidays (the harbour and little wooden houses perched like birds on the hills), but the cannas bloomed richly in the creek and Mother's voice went on and on about her rockery. Father flicked and flicked nervously at a crumb on his jacket and answered too quickly—'All right—but I haven't got time, I tell you—there's no time.' Nancy fingered her spoon and didn't look up. She knew her Mother's mouth was trembling. 'But Dad, only a few rocks, you could get them in a few minutes . . .'

'Nancy!' he shouted so quickly that she jumped. 'Go and get some more sugar—hurry!' She trailed over the lawn, looking for daisies. 'Put your shoulders back!'; she was inside before he could think of anything else.

As the glass sideboard doors swung out she saw three Nancies gazing at her—she looked at one of them, smoothing the basin in her hands, and the small dark girls gazed back, lifting their heads nobly, their hands all arched beautifully around three basins. She crossed her feet as the dancers had and drooped her head over her hands. She swayed on her toes and the dark reflections moved. A distant shout shook the silence to pieces, broke up the still faces and jerked the room and lawn back to her, before she ran noisily down the passage and over the grey slippery verandah, back to Mother with her wet handkerchief tucked under her cushion.

'Get these things inside quickly—we don't want them spoiled. All right Em, it's all right; I'll bring in the dishes.' The sudden rain was cold on their skins, the cloth was starred.

'Come on Mum,' Nancy said. 'Look, I'll carry your chair. Come on.'

'You can't stay out here, Em . . .' But her mother suddenly pushed them both away and ran through the rain to the house, dropping her crochet hook on the lawn. Father said gently to pack up the things and run inside. She said, too eagerly, 'Can I go to Wellington, just on the service car? Go on, could I?'

'Now don't start again, do you hear? Clear away this gear.' The rain fell faster and slipped down the sides of the silver tea-pot. She couldn't find the crochet hook. page 9 Father shouted 'Leave it—leave the damn thing,' and she rushed up to the verandah and dropped her load on the step and went on to her own room.

'Nance—Nance' came faintly from Mother's bedroom. Nancy slammed the door. Her mother called again. She stood quite still. 'Go to hell,' she said softly.

The rain went on until the afternoon was dark and wet. The linoleum was cold. She heard Dad go into the room up the passage, voices murmered, Mother cried and Dad's voice came more loudly; then she heard them go into the sitting-room and close the door. They would be sitting in front of a fire, she could hear it snapping, and the rumble as Mother drew the sofa up. Was it safe to go in? She tiptoed out into the passage and leant forward to listen. Her parents were talking quietly, the rain drummed on the roof. She walked heavily into the sitting-room. Mother's eyes were puffy, Father was reading; his foot twitched as if someone was sitting with his chin in his hand on the fender jerking a string monotonously. The fire rustled quietly, burning in the brown polished piano and the dark window pane and the china cabinet. Nancy wished they would say something. She wandered up and down from the bookcase to the window and back to the fire, leaning on the mantelpiece until Mother jerked her legs back and shivered and Father's face reddened.

The geese screamed in the next paddock, the cars swished along the road. The rain thrummed and whispered in the pipes, filling the upturned flowers and bowing the grass. The light suddenly shone on to the tallest trees in the bush and filtered into their garden. It looked like a damp shell burning with wet colours. Would her voice echo thinly back from its sides if she ran into the centre of the garden and shouted? Mother looked at her, her needles still flashing and clicking, and smiled as Dad turned the wireless on. There were some boys singing in a large church. How dark Sunday afternoons were. In her bedroom it was darker still with the cold top of her dressing table shining in the half-light and a stale smell of scent coming out when she opened her handkerchief drawer.

Now one voice broke away and hung by itself, a bird poised on one wing, that will not, will not turn and rush down the wind, wheeling and planing; but hands trembling, waiting, and the impatient air burns about it.

She couldn't wait—she broke in clumsily. 'Mum—could I go to Wellington?' and Mother smiled and nodded her head, looking warningly at Father and mouthing Shsh.

'On Wednesday—can I?' Dad gestured sharply, Mother screwed up her face excitedly at Nancy.

The voice shook, it was going to turn, to glide down the wind, through the flashing air—out of the dark Sunday, out of the turbulent rain. Dad wanted to listen, she nodded and glowed at Mother. What would come in Wellington, curled up, waiting for her to lift the tissue paper? She pressed her hot face to the damp pane. How quiet it was. Ah—she thought—every blade of grass, every dry little tree growing among the rocks in the mountains is covered with soft rain and darkness, and wind shaking the leaves, gently, gently, from pole to pole. She wrote Wellington on the glass. The fire flapped like a flag, and a little voice cried out in the wood, on and on, and snapped off as an ember crumbled.