Afternoon tea party for three under the kowhai tree

Sophie Palmer
Sophie Palmer
By Sophie Palmer - Year 12, Queen’s High School

I sift through the dusty curtains of dresses in the closet, pushing past organza and muslin memories, when my eyes land on a rosy cotton piece.

The pink shoulders puff, lace gathers at the wrists, and tatty beading cinches the waist.

I reach out to touch it and the moment my fingers graze the fabric I’m taken back to under the Kowhai tree.

Hazy daisies gathered at the edges of the gingham blanket we stole from the couch, gauzy ballerinas swaying and bowing with the wind’s soupy tides.

Tattered teddies and wide-eyed baby dolls sat shoulder to shoulder among floral print tea cups and saucers, the soft blue sky reflecting in their glossy eyes.

Small white flowers peeked over the lips of the crockery, floating delicately on water that I stole from the lazy cows’ trough.

Joshabelle’s tiny pink toes nudged his cup of tea and I gasped.

This made Jakebelle giggle and scrunch his button nose in glee. Joshabelle furrowed his sparse brows and flashed a wicked grin.

They tugged at the lacey fringe of their borrowed frocks, at four and six they hadn't quite grasped the idea of a lovely afternoon tea party, and I was growing impatient.

I grabbed their hands and pushed their pinky fingers away from the handle, fixed their unkempt wigs, and reapplied their dollar store lipstick.

If my parents wouldn’t get me a sister, I would make my own.

As I leaned across the blanket to readjust the posture of Big Dolly Day, I caught Joshabelle reaching into his pocket.

I whipped my head around just in time to see the blur of a small yellow digger mercilessly careening towards a tall jug of tea, steered by the chubby hands of Joshabelle.

I cried out as the collision sent the tea splashing over the picnic set-up.

Joshabelle and Jakebelle fell backwards in fits of laughter as I sat in shock watching rivulets of my hard work trickle across the gingham.

I felt my eyes glaze over and my nose sting before a fat tear rolled down my cheek.

They peeled off their spoiled dresses and waved them around, kicking over any remnants of my attempt at a civilised party.

When dad caught wind of the devastation, he tried to salvage the remains and re-dress the boys.

He whispered them promises of ice cream and a bubble bath if they behaved, but it was no use, the party was ruined.

I lay down among the dandelions in defeat, letting my hair fall across my face and my tears pool in my ears.

It didn’t matter how extravagantly I dressed my brothers, or how hard I trained them to hold out their pinkies when drinking, I would never have a sister.

My sister would have long golden hair for me to braid and weave flowers through.

We would skip to school together in pretty dresses, and play fairies under the plum tree in the backyard.

We would share a room and decorate it so extravagantly that the walls would glow pink in the afternoon sun.

But for the time being, I would have to settle for sticky hands and dinosaurs, snapped crayons in the cutlery draw, muddy Saturday mornings, and dribble.

So much dribble.

My thoughts were broken by kicking and screaming, and I bolted upright.

The backyard was descending into chaos.

Josh had snapped off a branch of the Kowhai tree and was charging at Jake, who squealed and crushed the daisies under him as he rolled on the ground.

I wearily stood and scooped Jake up in my arms, he wriggled and bit my wrist as his legs flailed around, catching my jaw.

I heard a tiny war cry from behind me and felt Josh’s stick snap against my knee.

Instead of sisters, I got scars.

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