Blowies set to flight off the walls of the foyer in my wake. Dark patches formed in my cotton dress where it met my armpits, my neck and the hollow of my back. Sweat lined my brow more as a blanket than as individual beads and a constant stream flowed down my temples. Dust and hair clung to my skin and turned to mud along the shores of the sweat.
I flung the fly-screen open and stepped out onto the porch. Sunlight slanted in through the gap between the veranda and the peak of the shed across the dun and dusty lawn. Sheets hung heavy and limp from the lines of the washing line, converted to cardboard by the stillness and heat. I held my hand up to shield my eyes towards the horizon, searching for the first hint of the storms that the radio was threatening. Wooly clumps of altocumulus had peeled overhead early in the morning, a portent of the change to come.
My sandals flicked dust up from their heels as I stepped out onto the barely living grass. Summer was supposed to be nearing its end. It had been particularly long and arduous. The wind howled across the deserts, picking up the red dust as it went and delivering it westward where it settled into a fine pinkish layer on top of everything. Only rarely, on days like today, did it relent, and sent everyone into a torpor wishing for it to start up again so that the wind, no mater how hot it was, could give at least some semblance of respite from the cloying and penetrating heat. Rain was but a memory lost to the ages.
The dust seared my skin where it landed, a familiar tingling sensation dampened by months of the same, as though my feet had developed some shell around them to protect against the earth. Even so, I glided quickly across the surface, minimising the amount of dust flung up by the backs of my sandals. I made it to the red-roofed shed and spent a moment cooling myself in the shade. I closed my eyes and sighed contentedly. I leaned forward and spread the mouth of a hessian sack open and peered into the darkness, to be greeted by the welcoming smells of cool dirt. I plunged my hand into its belly and felt around for the firmest specimens. I pulled five large potatoes from the cool darkness. Small knobs protruded from the dust on their wrinkled surfaces; signs of life within the tortures of summer. They were a bit soft, but still short of rotting. I made a pouch out of the front of my dress and placed the roots inside before scurrying back across the yard, up the porch and into the ‘cool’ of the house. Despite the heat of the day outside, a fire still raged in the kitchen, heating beyond what was bearable for any extended period of time. A tray of chops sat melting on the bench beside the stove, and the kettle screeched as it boiled its contents down off to one side of the hotplates. A lone length of wood sat fearfully on the mat in front of the stove.
My mother stood with her hands in the sink, staring vacantly out the window. I placed the spuds on the steel beside her, disrupting her train of thought and bringing her back to the present. She looked at me and softly smiled what may have been a grimace. A long curl of black had escaped from its bun and stuck to her temple, framing her face and hinting at the beauty that must have once shone through.
