It was Liddy and I, who saw her last. On that final Wednesday of the Easter holidays. Walking down the shady garden path surrounded by shrubs and littered with purple petals from the jacaranda trees that scented the garden with a strong yet sweet odour. Walking down that path we had no thought in our head of anything other than the sweet old lady inside sitting with her legs crossed in an armchair, embroidering handkerchiefs or making tea-cozies, with her black cat brushing affectionately against her slippered feet. We were with her for one day, after Liddy and I were forced to hand out flyers with Dad for the election.

'It's nice to see young people in the neighbourhood so interested in politics' she had said, to our slightly forced smiles and nods. We went along with polite conversation. She seemed quite chirpy, the loneliness of no longer having a husband had certainly downgraded her social life; eager to converse with any stranger that came by her door, including us. We were wanting to leave, not wanting to be stuck with a boring old lady, with nothing to talk about but the radishes growing in the back garden.
'Say, you two, what are your names?'
'Elspeth' I answered, 'And this is Liddy.' My little sister, ten years of age, waved energetically, her arm bearing an orange and black striped sleeve, clashing quite tragically with bright blue shorts. She had blonde hair not quite reaching her shoulders. She was fair skinned and blue- eyed, like me - but I had dark brown hair.

We lived only a few house from Mrs Kintyre, in our typically Australian Queenslander, a light, pearly blue in colour. It was a nice house, but it wasn't particularly different from the rest of those owned by inhabitants who had also chosen to live in the world of endless, boring repetition of Australian suburbia. There were few children seen outside, and if so only going as far as the end of the street where the stop sign stood, ironically and ominously commanding us to go no further. It needn't have bothered, it's not like anybody ever went that far anyway. The sight of human life was a rare one; the middle class mums, dads and children preferring to stay inside watching their home improvement television shows, seeing other people live their lives when they could be out there doing it themselves.

'Well then, Elspeth and Liddy,' Mrs Kintyre said, 'I have a Pavlova in the fridge that I've been saving for a special occasion. You wouldn't like to come in and have a bite would you?' Liddy looked at me. She had done 'stranger danger' at school, but Mrs Kintyre wasn't a creepy old man leaning across the front seat of his car with a bag of lollies in his hand. The old woman wasn't about to draw an axe from the pantry either, so we went inside.

It was a small house, with one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room, which, by the way, was missing a TV, smelt like cat litter and was full of old things. There were quilts and knitted blankets spread over sofas and armchairs, a table in the corner nearest to the door, an innumerable amount of ornaments and lots of paisley.

Liddy went and sat on the moss green carpet in front of a mustard coloured armchair covered with a white knitted blanket. Mrs Kintyre bustled in with a rather large Pavlova on a tray.
'That looks yummy!' I exclaimed, truthfully, as she handed me a very generous slice. I sank my teeth into one the best Pavlova I had ever tasted. I noticed that she had not taken a slice.
'Won't you have some, Mrs Kintyre?' Liddy asked,
'Oh, well,' she smiled grimly, 'It's not very much to my taste, darling. Though it looks as though you are both quite enjoying it.' She paused for a moment. 'You can take the rest home, I won't be needing it.'

And it was true. She didn't need it.

The Pavlova, like her, had been waiting for somebody's attention. She wasn't going anywhere, none of us were. Suburbia was almost stifling. The lack of interest people had in the world outside their houses was very much alike to the lack of interest they had for her. In our neighbourhood, so much as a smile would take away a massive chunk of unhappiness in someone's heart.

That night Mrs Kintyre died. They said it was heart failure. Nobody ever smiled at her.