Iris was running, thinking maybe if she ran fast enough, she could outrun her way of life. She’d walked demurely enough across the communal yard, past the meagre vegetable garden and short stand of bushland, but once over the dip in the fence she’d landed with a bound. Now she was off. Away, away she went beneath an apricot-streaked sky. The vast beauty of it soared above her and Iris dragged the cool, bracing air deeply into her lungs.
The rosellas fluttered, sudden in their flight, then graceful as they sailed against the sunlit clouds in silhouette. How Iris longed to do the same, to leave the dusty sheets of corrugated iron and debris behind. The dwellings in Newcastle’s Texas were little more than shacks, haphazardly constructed and piled alongside one another like mismatched broken toys. They housed many of the town’s poor but the state of them made mockeries of the word ‘home’, despite her mother Agnes’s best efforts. The whinny of a horse carried on the breeze, reminding her of that faraway place Texas had been named for, but no. It took more than a few stables and workhorses to make such a namesake true.
Over the ground she flew, running as if it could take her anywhere, should she wish it hard enough. She’d always been fast, as quick as a rabbit, her father used to say when she was younger and such unladylike abandon was allowed. These days she only ran when no-one was watching, usually on an errand such as this for her mother.
The main town was only a mile on foot if you took the road, a mile and a half cross country, yet Iris never had to think twice about taking the longer route. Running it took her the same amount of time as walking the short way, and the sight of more struggling households along the busy main road only obscured the evening sky. Such depressing surroundings left scant room for wondrous imaginings.
Iris leapt, landing one foot after the other, letting her precious secret come out to play. Her beautiful dream. It could be thought of here, her perfect love beneath a perfect sky, and she let his face fill her mind. John Tucker: handsome, kind, funny. Forbidden.
The last word should have halted her musings, or at least slowed down her pace, but it only spurred her on, every freeing stride firing her imagination. Each new memory played against that sky, starting with the moment the boy from her old street went from nondescript to incredible. When, newly returned from boarding school in Sydney, the Protestant youth she’d long overlooked had somehow transformed into her very own romantic hero…
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