It was early spring, the end of the August school holidays. The sky was blue. No clouds anywhere. I was staring out the window wondering what I would do for the day. I knew I would clean my room, do dishes and peel the potatoes for tea. These things I did every day. But what else, I was beginning to be bored and couldn’t wait for school to start again.
My thoughts were interrupted by my mother calling out, “I want you to go to the butcher and get the meat I ordered yesterday and then to the bakery to get bread and a Sally Lunn. And you can take Stuart with you. We’re having visitors tomorrow and I have a lot of things to do.”
My little brother about three years old
I swelled with pride. I’d been to the shops by myself before but my mother had never asked me to take Stuart with me. He was a handful and my mother thought he would be too much for me to manage. I was almost eight and Stuart was turning six in September.
We set off with our shopping bags, one for the meat and one for the bread. Stuart walked beside me like the perfect little brother. I walked tall with my shoulders back, chest out and head held high.
The trip to the shops for Mum was going well. “She will be pleased”, I thought.
We got the meat – a leg of lamb – and a lolly from the butcher.
Stuart always got lollies and treats from grownups. I was never so lucky when I was alone. I heard people say I was too serious, too grown up for my own good. I guessed people didn’t like children who acted like grownups. Or maybe they didn’t like girls. Or maybe they didn’t like children with straight blonde hair, or maybe they just didn’t like me. They sure liked Stuart though – he kissed old ladies and smiled and chatted with everyone. I was much more selective as to whom I would kiss or even smile at.
“Go straight home,” said the butcher.
“We’re going to get bread and a Sally Lunn first,” I said with great importance.
We headed off toward the bakery. The order was ready: a double loaf and a Sally Lunn, a large sweet, raisin-strewn bun covered with thick buttery icing, sprinkled with coconut. The smell of fresh bread filled the store.
I couldn`t wait to get home, I hoped my mother would let me break open the loaf and eat the fluffy pieces from the middle. I took a look at the Sally Lunn to make sure it was one with lots of icing and coconut.
We started back home along the main street toward the school but Stuart wanted to take the back road so we could walk home past the paddocks. I didn’t want to but I agreed. I knew I shouldn`t.
He wanted to open the bread bag and break open the loaf of bread and take just a little bit of fluffy. I didn’t want to. But I let him even though I knew the big handful of bread he took would be impossible to hide from my mother.
He wanted to carry the bag with the meat, I let him but I knew I shouldn’t. It wasn`t long before the meat was out of the bag and he was carrying it in the brown paper the butcher had wrapped it in.
I began to think things weren’t going as well as I had imagined.
“Where’s the bag,” I growled at Stuart in a voice I hoped sounded like our mother’s.
I let him stop to look at some cows in the paddock that backed onto Stortford Street, the street we lived on. He wanted to take a short cut across the paddock. Mum always said we must never ever cut through the paddocks so this time I stood my ground.
“No Stuart, we`re not allowed,” I said
But Stuart laughed and said, “I going this way,” and he climbed over the old wooden style into the paddock. Some of the cows were chewing their cuds. Others were drinking from the trough. They were all flicking their tails to get rid of the flies that buzzed around them.
They ambled over to the fence to take a closer look at Stuart. He stood about as high as their bellies. He patted one on the rump just like we’d seen our father do a hundred times.
“Come on,” he called out.
“No,” I repeated, “Mum says no.”
Stuart ignored me. He slung the leg of lamb over his shoulder, holding onto the leg part with the fleshy meat hanging down his back. By now, even the butcher’s wrapping paper had fallen off.
He started to amble across the paddock. He jumped onto a dried patch of cow dung. He laughed when the patch broke and wet poo splashed all over his gumboots.
“Oh, we’re in trouble now,” I said, “Mum will see the poo and know we’ve gone through the paddock.”
Then I saw the bull in the opposite corner, the corner where Stuart would climb back over the fence onto the road on the other side of the paddock.
“Run Stu, run, there’s a bull, he’s coming to get you,” I screamed as loud as I could.
“Na,” Stuart called back. “He’s a girl bull, he won’t hurt.”
“No, he’s a boy bull, girl bulls are cows.”
I was fairly confident I was right.
And then the bull lifted his head, looked at Stuart and snorted. Stuart dropped the meat, turned and ran back toward me as fast as his six-year old legs would take him.
Puffing and panting, he climbed back over the fence.
“I not scared,” he claimed once he got his breath back.
“You’re in big trouble,” I said. You dropped the meat and we’re having visitors tomorrow. Mum will be mad. And Dad, he is going to be even madder when he gets home.”
Except from the bottom of my heart, I know it would be me in trouble. After all, I was the oldest.
