Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Violet

Blanket Flowers

Argentina, 1893

She is six years old.

Her father is on the hill waving, his old brown hat making circles in the sky. She starts to run towards him, scattering the small group of sheep in front of her. One animal stumbles and as it falls forward onto its knees she is worried she may have hurt it. Each year there are fewer and fewer in the flock, and she knows her father cannot afford to lose even one animal. She pauses, hovering on the ball of her foot, fear pinning her balance. The sheep scrambles to its feet and is off running with the others– and so is she, her heart pounding with relief. As she gets closer to her father, she anxiously searches his face in case he has seen the animal stumble and is ready to scold her.

But he smiles at her and sweeps his hat in an enormous arc, gesturing for her to look down over the brow of the hill.

‘The blanket flowers are back. Have you ever seen the like?'

The land opens up in front of her, a collage of green grass and grey dust with a splash of blue far off in the distance, like a sweep of bright paint. To her right, down the slope, it looks as if someone has spilt a jar of yellow buttons: tiny dots mark the scattering of flower heads. Even though the nuns have taught her her numbers and have told her parents she is a quick learner, she cannot begin to imagine counting all those flowers.

She reaches up for her father's hand. It is large and calloused and engulfs hers easily. He squeezes her small fingers momentarily and then he is off, striding down the slope, sweeping a path through the yellow buttons, his mind back on his flock. She knows he has forgotten her and he is searching the horizon for stragglers.

Sometimes, she wishes she too was a sheep.