“It’s just spring having a tantrum,” she said. “It’ll be over in ten minutes.”
Lila looked out at the jacaranda tree, now a soft, ghostly purple in the twilight. A single fruit bat flew overhead, a dark kite against the last smear of pink. spring time in australia
“That’s the smell of new things,” Maggie said. “In Australia, we don’t get a gentle spring. We get a sprint. Everything has to happen fast—the flowers, the storms, the baby animals. Because summer is just around the corner, and it’s a beast. So we enjoy this while we can.” “It’s just spring having a tantrum,” she said
“That’s a good thing, love,” Maggie laughed. “Without them, no apples. No plums. No honey on your toast.” “That’s the smell of new things,” Maggie said
But spring in Australia also has a temper. One afternoon, the air went still. The cockatoos fell silent, then screamed and flew in a panicked white cloud towards the mountains. The sky turned the colour of a bad bruise. A southerly buster roared up from the Snowy Mountains, bringing a hailstorm that sounded like someone was throwing handfuls of gravel at the corrugated iron roof. Lila hid under the kitchen table, but Maggie just poured herself another tea.
Maggie’s granddaughter, Lila, arrived from Melbourne for the school holidays. To Lila, spring in the country was a chaotic, glorious explosion. The first afternoon, she ran inside with a shoe full of mud and a handful of “frogs”—actually pink and white patrols of clover flowers.
Later, as dusk settled—a long, golden dusk that didn’t belong to any other season—Maggie and Lila sat on the veranda. The last of the kangaroos were hopping back into the bush, their joeys’ heads poking out of pouches. The air was cool again, but not cold. It was the cool of a perfect, forgiving evening.