The Southern Cross

It’s dark before the Americans leave. They are four young chaps with shiny white teeth and the shortest hair I’ve ever seen. Before they go, they give Mum a list of all the stuff they’ve delivered. Among the stuff that's listed, there are beds, mattresses, sheets, tables, chairs, a lounge suite, knives and forks and plates. You name it, it’s there. And the Yanks tell her there’s no hurry to return it all.

Nicky and I are sitting on a rug, fighting, while Mum and Dad sit on the step, drinking the beers the Americans have kindly left behind. Dad is looking at the stars, while Mum is using a torch to read the list. Inside, the bulbs flicker and, all around us, giant moths leave their dust.

‘I can’t believe they’ve left us a fridge, Nick,’ says Mum. ‘And filled it to boot.’

‘Aye,’ says Dad. ‘But I’m not surprised. From what I’ve seen, they can be very generous. I think they know. Most of us migrants need some help settling in.’

Mum resumes her reading and Dad flicks his bottle top at us to stop us squabbling.

‘Hey, David,’ he says. ‘Have you found the Southern Cross yet?’

‘What’s the Southern Cross?’ I ask.

‘It’s a constellation,’ Dad says, pointing upwards. ‘Up there. You should know it by now. It’s on the flag.’

I look up, but all I see is a froth of stars in a coffee black sky.

‘Can you see it?’ Dad asks.

‘Nuh,’ I say.

His pointing becomes more direct.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Do you see those two stars? The bright ones? There and there?’

‘Aye,’ I say. ‘I think so.’

‘Well, follow my finger,’ he says. ‘Just along a bit. There. Can you see the cross?’

It takes me a minute, but I recognise the five stars. A bright cross, tilting to one side.

‘Aye, I can see it now,’ I say.

‘Good,’ says Dad. ‘That way’s south. Now you’ll never get lost.’

***

Mum says even though it’s Wednesday, I don’t have to go to school. She says she’ll wait till next week before she takes me over. That’s great, I reckon. I finished at Graylands a week ago, so it’s like I’ve had a fortnight’s holiday.

Dad’s on day shift and Mum has plenty to do inside, so she’s told Nicky and me to get on with it. So long as we don’t get under her feet, she says. Nicky and I decide to find out what’s under the house.

The whole place is wrapped in wire. Chicken wire, Dad calls it, but that’s silly, because we don’t have chickens. Anyway, the chicken wire goes all around the bottom of the house, except for a gap maybe two or three feet wide at each end. These gaps, Nicky and I decide, are tailor-made for us to crawl through.

The underneath, sad to say, turns out to be pretty boring. It’s just dark and dingy and, in spite of all our hopes, there are no critters. No critters of any kind. There are no spiders, not even a web, no snakes or lizards, not even any rats or mice. Last night, Dad told us to watch out. He said we might find a scorpion or two. But we don’t see any of those, either. The whole place is as good as empty.

Nicky and I decide on one thing, though. We reckon it’s the best place in the world for hiding out. If we sit in the dark bit, right under the middle of the house, there’s no way Mum and Dad will ever see us.