Alone In The Afternoon

• Grace Morcom, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2009

I lie blissfully still in my disgustingly dirty sandshoes, trying to ignore my painfully throbbing feet. The cool concrete of the porch is a slab of cold against my back, in stark contrast with the intense heat of midday. Above, the veranda roof is laced with spider webs which mockingly imitate the ornate brackets. Below, the still amazingly green hydrangeas are a slash of colour in an otherwise yellow and brown picture. Breathing scorches my throat. The same thing seems to have happened to the dam, fifty meters down the drive. I can see it when I sit up. A brown dust bowl, riddled with cracks and hoof prints just waiting for the rains to come. But there are no rains now, not in the middle of summer. I can see the sheep still hoping as they mill aimlessly on the slope of the bank. I silently will them towards the trough in the bottom of Jack’s Paddock, but old habits die hard.
The front porch is my refuge to wait out afternoon heat. The rest of the family sleeps, tired after a hot morning of chasing sheep. I would sleep but the ancient stone of the house only keeps out so much heat before it starts trapping it in. So I sit out the front with paddocks stretching endlessly all around me, swatting the flies and playing God with the ants.
When I get restless, I clamber down the steps and out into the blinding sunlight. The fence beckons. I climb up the furthest pillar and then balance along the pole until I reach the next platform. Pillar, pole, pillar, pole until I reach the end. Tiring of my game I jump down and trudge the short distance back to the porch, my short-lived burst of energy finished by the beating sun.

Lying down on my stomach I press my face into the concrete and try to soak up the cold. The paint on the veranda post right in front of my face is peeling so I pick at it and it flakes away like dead skin after sunburn. A fair breeze teases my hair, the windmill by the dam dimly groans. I can’t hear the Murray Greys that are clustered under the small patch of scrub in the front paddock but they would be lowing softly. The calm is peaceful. At this time of day it’s as if the whole world is sleeping, except for me.
Thinking forward I remember that there’s stew for dinner and I smile fondly at the thought of how good it’ll taste. I can almost imagine the solid lump of it sitting satisfyingly full in my stomach. As if roused by this thought I hear the stirring of my parents in the room behind me. Suddenly I remember other people exist, that I’m not alone. I turn my back on the afternoon sun and walk through the door into the big, old farm house, the fly screen banging softly behind me.