Buttered Scones

When she had only been nine for two days, four hours, seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds, Lu found herself without a mother.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Now, it is still Lu’s ninth birthday. Her mother is snuggled under the covers beside her, whispering a sweet “happy birthday” softly in her ear.

What do you want to do today?

I have to go to school, says Lu.

Mmmm. That you do. But what would you want to do if you didn’t have to go to school?

Go to the creek and have a picnic with lots of berries and scones and swim and lay in the sun and listen to you tell me stories, exclaims Lu, inhaling sharply after every third or fourth word.

Well. I think we should do that.

Lu’s mother calls her office to tell her boss she has a migraine and won’t be coming in.

What’s your excuse? She asks.

Tell them I got bit by a ginooooormous bee and my whole arm swelled up and -

Hmm, that’s a good one. But we don’t want your friends worrying about you too much. How about a cold?

Yes, a cold. Tell them I have a cold, Lu nods, sure that this is the absolute best decision.

And so they make scones. Not the kind you eat with jam and cream. They make scones with pumpkin and feta and handfuls of herbs from the veggie patch. Then, they walk down the narrow, snaking path to the creek, flick their towels out on the bank and wade in the cool water.

Only when their fingers are soaked and shrivelled do they emerge from the milky blue to bake under the floating sun. They slather scones with butter, munch on strawberries, pluck sour grapes and sip lime cordial.

It is Lu’s favourite ever day. After that, she has only one mundane day, and then her mother is gone. Just like that.

And then, just like that, Lu grows up. She has been sixteen for two hours, twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

She is barefoot, walking the narrow, snaking path to the creek.

The creek is as it has been for centuries. Civilisation ceases to exist here and that’s precisely why Lu (and her mother) love it. It’s the only place the world does not lay down on them.

Lu does not ever refer to her mother in the past tense.

The day is still. Even the birds politely refrain from their chirping.

Don’t you miss me? Lu whimpers.

***

How was your day? asks Sage.

Lu shrugs.

I’m making your favourite. Peach and feta salad with grilled chicken. Why don’t you invite some friends over?

But Lu doesn’t have any friends.

Why would I do that when I can just hang out with you?

Sage, sister of Lu’s mother, moved into the cottage three days after Lu’s ninth birthday. She never had the time to grieve the loss of her sister, she had to look after Lu. Sometimes, when she brings herself to comprehend the fact that she has replaced her sister, simply given up one life for another, she feels sick. Then, when she remembers that she will never be able to replace her sister, that Lu will never come to see her as a mother, she feels like a ghost. And that is how the disappearance of one woman so often evokes the disappearance of two.

I think we should have some wine to celebrate, says Sage, pouring two glasses and setting them on the table.

Mum used to love this wine.

We both did. It’s from Portugal, says Sage.

Is it fancy? asks Lu.

No, not particularly. It’s actually very cheap. It’s all we drank when we were travelling around Portugal together.

But I’ve never seen you drink it before.

No, I guess not.

Why? asks Lu, stabbing a slice of chicken.

I’ve known too many treacherous men who drink only to become even more treacherous.

So why are you drinking now?

They’ve taken enough already I think. I’m taking back wine.

Who, exactly, are these treacherous men?... The ones that you knew?

Sage stacks their empty plates, takes them to the sink and, with her back turned, starts washing up.

***

The cottage was built early in the century, far from any town, next to a trickling creek. Because the creek wove through it, the soil was moist and robust, abundant with nutrients.

The first thing she did, before she plastered the cracks in the walls or reglazed the broken windows, was plant seeds. Before long those seeds unfurled into seedlings which unfurled into vibrant vegetables of all dispositions. And mingled amongst the vegetables, she planted marigold flowers, not because she shared a name with them, but because they attract bees, and every devoted green thumb knows without bees, pollination, the conception of the zucchini or pumpkin or strawberry (the list goes on) is impossible.

Oh yes, did I forget to mention? Lu’s mother’s name is Marigold. Named so because her mother, Olive, was also an avid gardener. See, Lu is from a long line of gardeners. Before Olive there was Myrtle, then Rosemary, then Willow, then Fleur, and so on. But that was all put to an abrupt end when Marigold named her daughter Lu.

Every morning, since she moved to the property until the day she went missing, Marigold would spend hours tending to her veggie patch, singing sweet melodies as she worked plucking greedy weeds and sprinkling sugar cane mulch.

Marigold loves the veggie patch almost as much as she loves Lu. After all, she nurtured both from nothingness to life.

Since Marigold went missing the veggie patch has been left to fend for itself. For the first few days, her absence was noticed by the vegetables but they continued to grow, to drink in the moisture that still dampened the soil. Until the obtrusive summer sun eventually wilted their leaves and baked them in the parched earth. The vegetables disappeared with Marigold.

***

I want to grow something in the veggie patch, says Lu.

Why? Sage says, horrified by Lu’s sudden interest in the garden she hoped would remain eradicated forever.

Mum would have wanted it.

Sage silently goes about threading a button to a faded linen shirt.

What about tomatoes?

What about them?

Planting them. In the veggie patch, says Lu.

Why would we plant tomatoes when Kenny down the road has too many to eat on his own?

Okay...spinach then. And maybe some kale.

It’s not the right season for leafy greens.

Well I don’t care what I plant. Why are you so opposed to the idea? Why won’t you help me? Surely Grandma Olive taught you like she did Mum.

She did. But it’s not a good idea.

Well I’m doing it, whether you help me or not.

A few minutes later, after charging from the kitchen to hoist up her paint splattered denim overalls, she is thrusting a shovel into the arid dirt. She has no idea what she’s doing of course, but she figures loosening the soil is a good place to start. Gardening is Lu’s birthright. Her blood is not red but green. Chlorophyll flows through her veins.

After no less than fifteen minutes, the shovel hits something. Now she is on her knees, from the hole she pries a lumpy ovoid root caked in dirt.

Lu abandons the veggie patch to wash it under the rusty tap, rubbing the root with her palm to hurry things along. As a priest raises an infant after baptism, she is holding the root up to the sun, examining it with utmost care.

It is a deep purpley red colour. A shade that can only be described as somewhere between blood and beetroot. Not the crimson blood that gushes from open wounds but a maroon clotted blood. The root is unlike any Lu has seen before, unique in both shape and colour.

She has brought it into the kitchen and is calling for Sage to come look.

Upon seeing the root perched on the kitchen bench, Sage drops her glass and it has smashed into exactly forty-eight pieces against the tiles floor.

Where did you get that? asks Sage.

I found it. It was in the veggie patch.

I want it gone. Get rid of it.

No. You’re being crazy. It’s just a vegetable.

Get. It. Out.

Lu took the root from the kitchen bench but she did not get rid of it. Instead, she dug a shallow hole by the creek and buried it.

***

It is the next day and she is at the library, her nose buried in a book about native Australian flora. This is the fourth book she’s trawled through in an attempt to identify the ominous root. Despite Lu’s exhaustive research, she cannot find anything that resembles the root, not even close.

Sage hasn’t spoken a word to Lu since yesterday.

Frustrated and angry, Lu bursts through the front door and demands Sage tell her what the root is.

I don’t want to hear another word about that god-forsaken root, do you hear me? warns Sage.

If you don’t tell me right now, I swear I’ll eat it, Lu says, glaring at her Aunt unblinkingly.

No, Sage squeaks, you can’t.

Why?

You’ll… it will kill you.

Kill me? It’s a root?

It...I killed her.

No. You didn’t. Why would you say such a thing?

I didn’t mean to. It was a mistake, I left them out on the kitchen bench to cool and she came over unannounced and ate one while I was out in the garden.

Ate what?

A scone, whispers Sage.

A scone?

They were meant for him. I’d grown a poisonous root and baked it into a scone so he would eat it. But she ate one first.

She loved scones.

We both did.

He was one of the treacherous men you were talking about?

A tiny nod.

Lu doesn’t know what to say. All this time her aunt knew what happened to her mother and let her go on suffering without knowing if she was alive or dead.

Will you come to the creek with me? asks Lu.

***

They’re laying in the shade, looking up at the fluttering leaves. They come here every day, Lu and Sage. Lu has been at peace for four months, eleven days, one hour and thirty seconds.