Cindy Jones (5 page)

 

“You will have to stop being so unpleasant and rude, Cindy.” Her father was still cross when he arrived home that evening. “Mrs. Barry and her daughters are going to be living with us soon.”

“They're stupid and spiteful, and I hate them.”

“You might be happier in boarding school,” her father said thoughtfully.

“Send them, not me,” Cindy yelled back at him. “Why do I have to be kicked out of my own home?”

“Goodnight, Cindy,” her father answered coldly.

The next morning, he and Cindy ate their tomato sandwiches in silence. He only spoke once and that was to ask Cindy to pass the raspberry cordial. A car horn tooted.

“Guinevere wants me to talk to someone who is interested in buying the fish.” The professor pushed back his chair and stood up.

“You're going to sell your fish?”

“Some of them.” Her father looked uncomfortable. “Do you want to come with us?”

“No.”

The horn tooted again, and her father left. Cindy rubbed at her eyes. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn't go away. Her father had never left before without saying goodbye.

She thought about running away, but who would feed and look after the animals if she wasn't around? This reminded her about Mayberry. She mixed up a bowl of milk and went outside. Prunella was in the pen patting Mayberry.

Her pale blue slacks had stains on them, and her frilly blouse was all crumpled. She almost didn't look like Prunella, with that soft, happy look on her face and her grubby clothes. Cindy felt the hard lump in her throat go away.

“I didn't want to go with Mother and Constance. Can I feed Mayberry?”

There was a humble note in her voice. Cindy handed over the bowl. Mayberry slurped all the milk and bleated for more.

“She's still hungry,” Prunella exclaimed.

“If she has too much, it will make her sick. We can give her more in a few hours.”

“No need to,” said Gretta from behind them. “I've found a foster mother. Like to come down to Seaview for the drive?”

“Me too?” Prunella asked.

Cindy tried to say she didn't want her, but the words stuck. She couldn't be nasty to Prunella with that eager expectant look on her face. It would be like being unkind to fat old Hooper.

Seaview was a small fishing town down the coast about an hour's drive away. Gretta explained that a friend with a herd of milking goats was taking Mayberry.

When they arrived they admired the herd of goats, introduced Mayberry to her new mother, and met a new foal. They were given hot scones with jam and cream for morning tea, and then Gretta had to examine a sick cow.

“I'm going to be at least another hour,” Gretta said, looking at her watch. “Can you both amuse yourselves until I've finished?”

“Prunella and I will take a walk down to the jetty,” Cindy replied.

“This is the nicest day I've ever spent,” Prunella said. “Weren't those hot scones delicious? Isn't this a lovely place? Wish we lived somewhere like this.”

Cindy let Prunella's chatter wash over her. They reached the jetty. A short, stout, old lady wearing a loose stained shirt over rolled up trousers was fishing with her bare feet dangling over the edge. A man's battered old felt hat was perched on the back of her head.

“Isn't that Miss Hopkins?”

“It's an old lady tramp,” Prunella scoffed. “What would Miss Hopkins be doing here wearing such peculiar clothes?”

It was Miss Hopkins, however, and she glanced around as they approached. The sun shone across her blank, round glasses.

“Hello, Miss Hopkins,” the two girls chorused.

“Hello, Cindy and Prunella. What brings you both to Seaview?”

“We came with Gretta Carson. She had to bring a baby goat down,” Cindy explained.

“Gretta! I didn't think of her. She will do,” Miss Hopkins said.

Cindy couldn't think of any reason why Miss Hopkins should think Gretta would do and do for what? Miss Hopkins caught two fish while they watched.

“I enjoy fishing,” she told them. “I have a weekend place down here.” She darted a look at Cindy. “How's your cooking going?”

“Improving,” Cindy replied. “I made an Irish stew the other night.”

“Good,” Miss Hopkins replied.

She stared at the water as though she had forgotten the girls were there, so they strolled off. After awhile they got bored and headed back from the beach.

The street running from the jetty was lined with small cottages with upturned dinghies and drying nets across their front yards. Prunella stopped to look at the large cage of canaries hanging from the front porch of one of the cottages.

“I just love canaries. Look at that red one.”

“It's orange,” Cindy said.

“I know, but it's called red, and they're very expensive.”

“You like birds, missy?” called an old fellow mending nets in the front yard.

“I think they're so nice,” Prunella said eagerly. “My father used to breed them.”

Cindy nudged at her. The old man's dirty feet were stuck in holey old slippers, and a ragged flannel shirt hung over paint-stained baggy trousers. He was bald with untidy gray whiskers covering most of his wrinkled brown face. Three broken stained bottom teeth showed when he spoke.

“Your father, hey?” the old man repeated.

“He died years ago,” Prunella said eagerly. “He was the cleverest and nicest person in the world.”

“Was he now,” said the old man, and then he took another puff of his pipe, and the smoke streamed upwards, veiling his face.

“He was a bank manager, you know,” Prunella gabbled. “He wore beautiful gray suits. He was very good looking and terribly important, and he bred red canaries and let me have one for my very own.”

“Fancy now,” said the old man. “And you still got it?”

“Oh no! Mother sold it, but I'm sure it was as red as one of yours.”

“She shouldn't have done that!” the old man muttered.

He bent over his nets and went on mending, ignoring the girls.

“We met Miss Hopkins,” Cindy told Gretta when they reached the car. “And Prunella got talking to an old fisherman who breeds red canaries.”

“Seaview is full of retired people who do a bit of fishing,” Gretta said. “Was he a professional fisherman?”

“He had nets all over the place,” Cindy explained. “But he didn't look very successful. He wore the most dreadful old rags, and he needed new bottom teeth.”

The conversation returned to the red canaries. Gretta spent the rest of their drive back explaining about the difficulties of breeding canaries to hold their red color.

“It's been raining up here,” Prunella exclaimed, as the car turned into Turkscap Drive. “Look at all the water running down the gutter.”

“Don't be silly,” Cindy said. “The sky is as clear as anything.”

Gretta stopped the car in front of Number Six. A large flexible pipe snaked around the side of the house and disgorged muddy water into the gutter.

“All that water is coming from our place.” Cindy was suddenly uneasy.

“Interesting,” Gretta commented. “I'll see you both later.”

She drove off. Cindy and Prunella hurried around the back. A motor chugged by the side of the swimming pool. The shallow end of the pool was dry, and the pipe slurped in the puddle of muddy water remaining at the deep end.

“We put the turtles and the carp into the fishpond, miss,” a man called when he saw them.

“My tadpoles,” Cindy groaned.

She rushed over to the fishpond. In the crystal clear water the turtles drifted around lazily. There was no sign of the carp or the tadpoles, but Horace and Pearl sat by the fishpond with smug contented expressions on their faces.

Cindy breathed hard. It was no use getting upset! It wasn't the fault of the workmen. Her tadpoles and carp were just more casualties of Mrs. Barry's campaign to marry her father.

 

Cindy watched her father over breakfast. He was eating rice bubbles and correcting essays.

The puzzling question nagged at her again. What had caused her sensible normal father to want to marry Mrs. Barry? Jennifer was much more likable, attractive, and intelligent.

“Dad?”

“Fourteen minus, I suppose,” he muttered, placing another essay aside.

“Do you really like Mrs. Barry?”

“What?”

“Do you really like Mrs. Barry?”

“A very nice human being.”

“Do you kiss her?”

The professor gave all his attention to Cindy. His face went dull red. “You're being impertinent.” He gathered up his papers and shuffled them into the briefcase. “Remember, we're having dinner at Guinevere's tonight. I don't want any ill-mannered or embarrassing performances from you.”

He grabbed his car keys and rushed off before she could answer.

****

“Do you think he really likes her?” Cindy asked Gretta when she dropped into the surgery on her way to school.

Gretta gave the tiniest of sighs. She was sprawled at her desk checking her appointment book.

“He's marrying her, isn't he?”

“That doesn't prove anything.”

“Your father knows what he's doing.”

“How do people act when they're in love?”

“You ask the stupidest questions, Cindy.” Gretta flushed up to the roots of her untidy hair. She put away her appointment book and checked the instruments, bottles, and tubes in her bag.

“Well, I wish he wasn't marrying her,” Cindy grumbled, as she followed Gretta out to her car.

“Yes,” Gretta muttered back in a low voice as she yanked open the door of her old station wagon.

Cindy picked up her bike. She blinked. Miss Hopkins suddenly stood beside them, holding the limp form of Horace. Cindy hadn't seen her arrive. She was just there!

“Good morning, Cindy and Gretta.”

“Good morning Miss Hopkins.” Gretta looked uncomfortable.

“What's Horace been up to?” Cindy asked.

“He keeps visiting me,” Miss Hopkins explained. “When I pick him up, he goes completely limp as if there's something wrong with him.”

“He won't stay home,” Cindy explained, as she took his limp body. “There's so much upheaval at our place now, he keeps leaving.”

“Sensible of him,” Miss Hopkins agreed. “But he can't stay with me. He will swim in my laundry trough, and he's flooding me out.”

Gretta looked at her watch. “I have to go. Put him in one of the runs, Cindy. I'll check him over this afternoon.”

She drove away. Miss Hopkins walked off. Cindy ran around the back of the surgery and gently locked Horace into an empty pen.

“Yeeow,” Horace spat as he realized where he was, but Cindy was leaving.

That afternoon, Gretta looked harassed as she confessed she couldn't find anything wrong with Horace. “I'll do a few more tests overnight and bring him around tomorrow night if he's all right.”

Cindy rode her bike home. It didn't look like her home anymore. The outside had been painted white and reared stark and clean among the nakedness of the front yard. After she fed the animals and cleaned out cages and pens, it was time to leave for the Barrys' flat.

Mrs. Barry had cooked roast beef and dumplings with baby carrots and beans, followed by cheesecake. Even Cindy in her most sullen and critical mood had to admit that Mrs. Barry was a marvelous cook, and her father was enjoying every mouthful.

The professor had a second helping of cheesecake with his coffee. He and Mrs. Barry then retired to the lounge room to listen to Elizabethan ballads.

Cindy washed dishes in an efficient, bored silence. Constance was in an almost friendly mood. Prunella burst out with the reason for the friendly atmosphere.

“Your pool is getting refilled, and Mother said we could have a pool party if the professor doesn't mind.”

“He doesn't like noise or racket.”

“He wouldn't mind if you invited your friends as well,” Constance suggested.

“I don't have any friends interested in pool parties.”

“You do so.” Prunella itemized them on her fingers. “There's Jennifer Morgan, Gretta Carson, Thumb, Jim Plumstead, and Thumb's little sister, Carrots.”

“Her name is Bettina,” Cindy corrected.

It was true that Thumb's little sister had flaming red hair and freckles, but only her friends were allowed to call her Carrots.

Cindy thought about the idea of a pool party as she wiped down the sink. It was another way to throw her father and Jennifer together. Her father liked swimming.

“We could have it on Sunday. Do we invite people to eat as well as swim?”

“Ask the professor,” Constance urged. “Perhaps we could have a barbecue with fresh bread and salads and make plenty of lemon cordial.”

Her father looked pleased when Cindy asked about having the guests for a barbecue. “A very good idea. I'll get out the barbecue,” he promised.

Prunella and Constance invited Cindy upstairs to their untidy bedroom to plan everything.

“Who are you inviting?” Cindy cleared a space on the floor to sit and waited with pen poised over paper.

“There's Frazzle,” Constance said. “I know you don't like her, but she is my particular friend.”

“I don't mind her.”

After the incident in the park, Frazzle had approached Cindy at school the next day and apologized.

“I didn't realize your cat was upset until he bit me, and Jim Plumstead said it was childish to tease cats.”

“And there's Jim Plumstead's two mates, Jeremy and Rork,” Prunella said eagerly. “Absolute spunks.”

It was a very short guest list. Cindy chewed her pen. It was hardly worth the trouble of the Barry girls to be nice to her. Then again, Constance and Prunella weren't into girlfriends, so perhaps it was just a complicated way of spending the day with Jim and his two friends.

They worked out the quantities of bread and salad and decided to use plastic cups and paper plates. Cindy assured the others it wasn't going to be any trouble to order the meat.

The conversation petered out. Constance hunted through a well-thumbed pile of recipes, and Prunella picked up a paperback to read from the pile in their shoe cupboard.

“What are you reading?”

“Deathless Love,” Prunella sighed.

“Trash.”

“It is not,” Prunella said earnestly. “Every bit of it is absolutely true. It's about this guy secretly in love who sends one red rose every anniversary of their meeting. It's terribly romantic.”

Cindy leaned over her shoulder to read the open page. “It's terribly mushy.”

“But people behave like that when they are secretly in love.”

“They do?”

“You're just too young to understand,” Constance interrupted in a pitying manner.

Cindy was not convinced. She couldn't see anyone wasting good money to send Mrs. Barry red roses. It was just too ridiculous.

Suddenly, a dazzlingly brilliant idea flashed into her mind. For a few seconds, she was open-mouthed at the magnificent simplicity of it.

“You ready to leave, Cindy?” the professor called.

“Coming, Dad.”

“Thanks for everything. See you both Sunday morning.” Cindy gave Prunella and Constance a flashing happy smile.

Constance looked suspicious, and Prunella pleased. Cindy almost felt grateful. Without knowing it, the Barry girls had shown her the way to help along the romance between her father and Jennifer.