Season markers

The gang gangs are back. Three red crests pop in and out of the gum canopy above our washing line, where I stand arranging the clothes we’ve worn over the weekend. I hang the socks in a line, alternating green and white pegs. I know the gang gangs are back without looking up. I can tell by the munching noises above my head –they seem amplified in the windless quiet of the morning – and by the occasional low throaty rasp. They are season markers. Like the grey currawongs who arrived before them, heralding autumn. A finish and a beginning. Verdant giving over to spare. Earth getting ready to die.

I choose yellow pegs to contrast with the bright green of Hannah’s netball skirt, trying to iron in the million pleats with my fingers, in an effort to keep it well away from my ironing board. I think about her telling me, as I sat on her bed last night, that she hasn’t played goal attack for weeks now. In my mind’s eye, I see the new girl who has usurped her position. I adjust the zip and smooth out the Velcro.

I am strangely comforted by the arrival of the gang gangs, tuned in – as I am – to season markers. I once spent year after year after year sitting at home (when I wasn’t lying in bed). On good days I was able to venture outside into the garden or down to the park. I noticed the smallest of changes in the outdoor world: the first blossom; the first hint of iris pushing through the earth; the first dragonfly; the first gang gang. Every first marked the passing of another year and produced hope that this time next year I might be well.

I hang the pyjamas with white pegs and the blue towels with green. The blue of the towels is like the ocean on a cloudless day and the green pegs bob on top of them like a fleet of little boats. I look up and study one of the gang gangs. It sidles along a branch and uses its beak to lever itself to another outcrop of choice gum leaves. My neck is too uncomfortable at this extreme angle, so I peg a faded tee shirt with colours that don’t match and think about growing old. I shake out the creases in Hannah’s singlet tops and peg them with yellow to match her shorts that move gently in a hint of breeze.

I close my eyes and conjure up an image of myself at thirteen. I am in my favourite shorts and top. I can see the pattern on the front of the top and the cuff on the sleeves. They're black, yellow and grey. I absentmindedly eye the pegs and choose colours to match. Then I think about the slender, long legs and supple body I had at that age. I have passed them on. They’re my daughter’s now. I look across the lawn and picture her doing cartwheels and finishing with a spectacular demonstration of the splits, then myself doing handstands on the cooch grass of my childhood home, cursing it for being so prickly. I peg my jeans next to Hannah's. I’m down to the bottom of the peg basket, so I use a green and yellow one for hers and two old wooden ones for mine.

There is a clatter of wings above me and the gang gangs suddenly fly off. I wheel the washing trolley half way down the garden, then remember I’ve forgotten the peg bucket. I go back and pick it up, just as the dog appears from behind the shed. I scoop her up with my other hand and deposit her in the trolley. I give her a ride to the back door.

She loves it.