Pip: The Story of Olive (25 page)
Olive had noticed that May did seem to be categorically into anything weird. Olive’s bottom shifted on the dumpy stool and she swept a few stray oats off the bench.
‘Well, what would you say if I said that once upon a time I had a sister, a twin sister, which I guess would make it
twice
upon a time.’ Olive smiled. ‘I don’t really know where to start.’
May snorted crumbs. ‘Tell me this weekend. Twice upon a time, that’s quite funny.’ She stopped drawing and offered Olive her notebook. ‘What do you think of this one?’ May held up a picture of a metal detector with an ATM sign on it.
‘Now that’s wicked.’
May chewed her pencil and grinned until her eyes almost disappeared.
‘Okay girls. Find your seats and open your books to mercury,’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘Page ninety-four. Anybody know its atomic number?’
A flock of books fanned open and twenty-one out of twenty-three faces looked up. Only May’s and Olive’s bobs swung shiny over a cartoon hidden in the pages of ‘Hg for Mercury’.
May whispered something and Olive laughed. She flung her head back and laughed so loudly that it made the girls around her want to join in. Mrs Dixon smiled. ‘Olive? You are extremely jolly today. Do you know what mercury’s atomic number is?’
But Olive Garnaut was laughing so heartily, she didn’t even hear.
Late, late one evening, when distance had whittled the moon to a star, the wind whipped up. Sand blew in clouds along the shore. By morning the bluster had settled, but when the first of the fishermen wobbled down in gumboots, he stopped and looked befuddled. ‘Well, squid my jig,’ he chewed through a powdery mint.
The beach was smooth and unblemished but for a trail of footprints, small tracks, an older child’s perhaps, heading to and then from old Kelso Pier. The scene wasn’t unusual because there were footprints, however; it was unusual because the footprints stood high above the sand: size 5½ ladies’ footprints, tall and proud.
At the risk of sounding last-drinks sentimental, to the following people with love and thanks . . .
My publishers Elise, Erica, Eva and Hilary at Allen & Unwin; David, Bella, Alison, Linda, Hannah and Tiffany at David Fickling Books; and Doubleday Canada, together with my agents, Pippa Masson and Marie Campbell – all of whom have worked so very hard to support somebody so very new.
My mother, who has so much to offer and offered it first to her family (and for saying
restaurong
like the French).
My father, who has a delicious sense of humour, a clear mind, an enviable work ethic – and a scalpel named after him to prove it.
My witty and talented siblings, T and Jamie-Kane (who have threatened to write their memoirs).
My grandmother, Nen, the healthiest, fittest, most elegant little-old-lady in the country, and her greatgrandson, Angus King, just because.
To J and Eva (because every family needs a brain surgeon and a German).
For Christine, Andrew, Viv, Jane, Elise, Ann, Jude, Sue and all the people in my classes at RMIT who suggested there was no place for the original final chapter in this novel. For Clare Renner – the Ms Chips of children’s lit – who insisted on it.
For Lisa, Ports, Lizzie and my-May, who read late drafts and provided counselling / coffee / very thoughtful comments.
For Sof, Kristen, Grot, Kate, Priya-my-writing-partner, Meg, Lee, Stacey, Jess and Rayment, all of whom read (various) early drafts. To Tone, who didn’t, but still had an opinion.
To Elise Hurst, for her perfect cover illustration.
To Steve Merson, Archivist at Lighthouses of Victoria Inc, who so graciously answered my questions and who is not in any way responsible for my creative interpretations of his facts.
To Laini and Crawf, for helping with the law (where I’d obviously skipped class).
To the Hathaway-haters and Guinnerang, for their enthusiasm, combined sense of direction and very fine company.
And finally, to my colleagues at UGL, who have been so supportive of the part-time position and who laugh at (most of ) my jokes.
That does not really leave a lot of mystique, but luckily I’m not that kind of person.
*Mog Garnaut would like to acknowledge José Saramago’s novel,
The Double
, which she very much enjoyed.
photo by Sonia Payes
Kim Kane was born in London in a bed bequeathed by Wordsworth to ‘. . . a writer, a painter or a poet’. Despite this auspicious beginning, she went on to practise law.
In 2004, Kim threw her unbridled materialism to the wind and started to write. Kim now works exactly part-time as a lawyer and exactly part-time as a writer and the combination is perfect.
Kim has noticed that most proper children’s writers like chickens. Kim hates chickens. She does, however, like being backstage, her nephew, Angus, and, if she is strictly honest, most fatty snacks. Above all of these things (except perhaps Angus), Kim likes telling stories, and on a good writing day she wouldn’t trade her life for anything.
Pip: the story of Olive
is Kim’s first novel. Writing it very nearly killed her.