The canvas captures three shadowy figures on the back seat of a car. Big, middle sized and small, they are seen as though the front seat passenger has just turned her head to – what? Issue a reprimand? Check if they are asleep yet? In the distance, through the back window, two sets of taillights recede while the hint of headlights beyond the straight illuminates a stand of pines and the corrugations of a farm shed.
One girl offers a direct gaze, the smallest of the three. She’s off centre, edging away from the child on the left who leans in, her hand stretching forward to the unseen front seat passenger. To the right, the oldest is in half profile, her forehead resting against the glass as she stares out into the darkness.
Shona steps back to view the canvas. It’s almost there but not quite. Not quite right. It’s still just a memory of the familiar nighttime ride home from their grandparents’ town, hemmed between Fiona’s wriggling and squishing, and broody Bron, whose stabbing right elbow would catch her in the ribs accompanied by a low, hissed “Move over!”
Shona drops the brush into water and walks to the kitchen. She drains the teapot into her cup and steps outside. The hens dust bath in the vegetable patch in late afternoon sun which has turned the bay to sequins. A tui calls to its mate in the swamp gums.
When Fraser left her, the noise in town was unbearable. Without the masking barrier of his music playing in the next room, the neighbour’s steady stereo bassline was relentless. She missed the doors opening and closing downstairs, the rattle of kitchen preparations and the waft of spices, humming in the shower along the hall and the discarded running shoes. Overnight, there was only other people’s dogs, children, lawnmowers, music.
The cottage felt like a homecoming from the first viewing and she consented to sell the family home without hesitation.
Fiona was horrified. “What will you do all the way out there? What if something happens? All by yourself… it’s just a knee jerk reaction. You’re upset – why not wait a few more months…”
“He always was a prick. I never liked him,” Bron jabbed. “Move on. Make a fresh start.”
A cool breeze rattles the flax leaves. Shona wraps her paint stained shirt more tightly around her body, and returns to the warmth of the house. She throws another log on the wood burner and takes the brush from the jar, wiping it on her shirt.
She knows what it needs now – a puzzle, a premonition. She loads the brush to gift her younger self the hint of a smile.
Rosemary McBryde
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