inheritance

My good woman steps into my vegie garden. The growth of the vegies since last she saw them takes her breath away. The ginger cat with the broken leg rubs his face on the trellis interlaced with climbing beans, the JRT craps on the path and gets a ticking off from his pack leader.

At nine thirty the humans get into the Volkswagen Caddy and set off for Bendigo, first stop Ringwood to buy coffee for my good woman. She hasn’t brought her plunger back to my kitchen since things went awry for us a few months ago.

Second stop is the fabled Malmsbury bakery. I buy my daughter a carrot, walnut and pineapple muffin, her favourite. When I give it to her she is surprised that I remember, says she hasn't had one for years. A pregnant woman deserves all the treats she can be given.

My grand-daughter’s first action is to hand me a small shoe and report that “the other shoes is gone.” It’s her first sentence in my presence. Plenty more follow and plenty of gobbledygook too. At lunch she entertains us with facial expressions and plays up for the camera when we inspect the vegie garden together. What modern two year-old doesn’t know how to be photogenic?

When I lie on the couch for a nap she comes and lies with me, wriggling and squirming and making my cat nap impossible. So I join my daughter, my good woman and Nerri on the stairs outside, sitting quietly, peering into the ticking afternoon bush. The house is surrounded by gravelly dirt, thin gums, sparsely foliaged shrubs. It’s a wasteland.

When I was 31 like my daughter is now I lived in similar circumstances: two young children, no money, macrobiotic rather than her totally organic diet, fifteen kilometres from town, chooks, days without names or numbers given over to quiet time introducing new offspring to the world.

My good woman and I wander off into the bush with Nerri to give my daughter an hour to herself. We explore the edge of a dam, lob sticks into the black water for Indi the heeler to bring back to the shore. Nerri squats sedately, inspects rocks, ants, tiny flowers others would not see.

Back at the house my daughter has packed cartons of fresh eggs for us, offers us a loaf she’s baked. I’ve not had one private moment with her and wonder how she is in herself. I hope she’s as good on the inside as she looks on the outside.

Rock on.