The Blooming Of Alison Brennan

by Kath Engebretson

  The Blooming Of Alison Brennan

  Kath Engebretson

  Contents

  1. Stella Goodall

  2. Alison Brennan

  3. Leo Brennan

  4. Rod Wilding

  5. Alison Brennan

  6. Colin Brennan

  7. Alison Brennan

  8. Bernadette Brennan

  9. Trent Grierson

  10. Colin Brennan

  11. Alison Brennan

  12. Alison Brennan

  13. Leo Brennan

  14. Trent Grierson

  15. Colin Brennan

  16. Jossie Wallachia

  17. Trent Grierson

  18. Bett Asher

  19. Trent Grierson

  20. Jossie Wallachia

  21. Trent Grierson

  22. Alison Brennan

  23. Alison Brennan

  24. Harry (Henryk Stanley)

  25. Trent Grierson

  26. Jossie Wallachia

  27. Leo Brennan

  28. Alison Brennan

  29. Colin Brennan

  30. Alison Brennan

  31. Colin Brennan

  32. Alison Brennan

  33. Jossie Wallachia

  34. Bett

  35. Colin Brennan

  36. Alison Brennan

  37. Stella Goodall

  38. Leo Brennan

  39. Alison Brennan

  40. Colin Brennan

  41. The Age

  42. Harry (Henryk Stanley)

  43. Leo Brennan

  44. Alison Brennan

  45. Leo Brennan

  46. Bernadette Brennan

  47. Colin Brennan

  48. Leo Brennan

  49. Alison Brennan

  50. Colin Brennan

  51. Colin Brennan

  52. Alison Brennan

  53. Colin Brennan

  54. Leo Brennan

  55. Bernadette Brennan

  56. Colin Brennan

  57. Alison Brennan

  58. Colin Brennan

  59. Alison Brennan

  60. Leo Brennan

  61. Jossie Wallachia

  62. Trent Grierson

  63. Alison Brennan

  64. Alison Brennan

  65. Alison Brennan

  References

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Copyright (C) 2021 Kath Engebretson

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

  Published 2021 by Next Chapter

  Edited by Manuscript Appraisal Agency

  Cover art by CoverMint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  For Samuel, Reilly, Samara, Rishi, Jesse, Eyla and Lana

  Chapter 1

  Stella Goodall

  Tuesday, 2 February

  She stepped into my office and looked around.

  Later I would learn that this was a habit of hers. She took in the details of spaces.

  Today was the first day back at school after the summer holidays, and already the sun beat with a headachy glare against the window. I’d drawn the blind, and warmed some drops of sandalwood oil in a burner. The irises I’d bought on the way to work stood stiffly in a vase on my desk. Their pointy sapphire buds would open by the afternoon.

  The office was in the original sandstone building at the front of the school, and its north-facing window framed hectares of green playing fields.

  In my first week here, I had consigned the dingy school-issue brown chairs and stained yellow rug to a remote storeroom. At the Salvos in Glenferrie Road I found two heavy, seventies style armchairs. They were wide and solid, big enough to curl your legs up, and to support your back and neck. Joe, the caretaker, collected them in his van and wrestled them inside, dabbing at his sweaty face with a big handkerchief. They were now covered in a soft, sky-blue fabric.

  From home I brought the faded circular mat from my study. It was thinning in places but it had a lovely traditional design of interlinked flower-like splotches of rich cobalt and mauve. At the same Salvos store I found a kitschy, fake-marble, art-deco coffee table in a wavy rectangular shape. Its blue-grey undertones picked up the blue of the chairs. Against the back wall was my desk, again standard issue, and it held my computer, diary, a telephone and current files. It wasn’t the main character in the room.

  Under the window there was a low fridge where I kept cold water, and on top was a jug and some mugs for tea and coffee. There was one framed print — a 1950s watercolour of the curve of the Yarra, east of Princes Bridge, looking towards the city. Just the one print. The boys and girls I saw in this room didn’t need to endure happy snaps of my family.

  Alison Brennan.

  I knew from her file that she was sixteen. She was of medium height, slim and athletic. Her long, glossy, brown hair was tied back with the regulation red and white ribbons. She was very pale, obviously nervous. The paleness emphasised the unusual blue, almost navy, of her eyes. Her school dress was freshly pressed, and she wore her white socks and school shoes with the easy grace of someone who didn’t know she was beautiful.

  ‘Good morning, Alison. Please sit down.’

  I brought two glasses of water to the table and pushed one towards her. I noticed her looking at details — the straight, neat irises, the print, the colourful rug. She took the water in both hands but didn’t drink. I wondered if she regretted making the appointment.

  ‘So, Alison, Year Eleven?’

  She nodded.

  I knew from her file that she was a good student, a good all-rounder really. Her main strengths were in the humanities, but she kept up in Maths and Science. She was in the middle school girls’ swimming team. There were no prefect or SRC positions listed on her file, but she had never been in trouble — no suspensions, disciplinary meetings or concerned letters to her parents.

  Her school fees were paid by her grandfather, Judge Colin Brennan. I knew him by sight from his attendance at the annual Parent Information evenings, at which I was obliged to speak, and I recalled that he was rather formidable.

  That was all. In her four years at the school, Alison had never drawn attention to herself.

  It was difficult to get past her nervousness. She held the glass of water close, like a shield.

  ‘How can I help you, Alison?’ I sipped my water and waited until the silence became too heavy. ‘You have two big years ahead. Are you worried about the workload?’ It was a common concern at this time of the year.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, very softly.

  ‘What worries you about it? You’ve always done well at school, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s more important now. I have to get a good ATAR score. I have to get into uni.’

  Her vehemence was surprising. At the beginning of Year Eleven, most students didn’t talk about getting into university as if their entire life depended on it. The options were still fluid.

  ‘But that’s possible; your marks have always been good.’

  More silence, then again, ever so softly, she practically whispered, ‘I can’t study at home.’

  She looked ashamed, as if she had blurted out something sacrilegious. Her face was red. She stood up suddenly and walked towards the print on the wall, standing with her back to me, examining it.


  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes, it’s restful. It looks as if it was a hot day, something like today.’

  ‘Melbourne before Southbank and the Casino.’ I sounded inane, even to myself. I waited for her to sit down again.

  ‘Why can’t you study at home? Is it too noisy? Too crowded?’

  ‘It’s crowded all right,’ she muttered. She stared at the floor.

  Again I waited. I knew that she had no brothers or sisters.

  Finally she looked up, looked at me directly. She seemed to have decided that she would let me help, but I could see that she had to dredge it out of herself. She’d take my help for now, but if I wasn’t careful she’d close down.

  ‘You see, Mrs Goodall … um, well … it’s my parents.’

  Again she blushed. Was it shame, embarrassment, or something else?

  ‘They’re not like other people.’

  ‘Oh?’ I queried, puzzled and eager to learn in what way.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Our house is very dirty. More than dirty, it’s filthy. There are fleas, cockroaches and rats. My parents never throw anything away and they never clean. There’s rubbish piled up everywhere, in some places to the ceiling. There’s nowhere to sit, no table to eat at. Everything is covered high with junk. Even my room. They even use my room to store their junk. I have to climb over it to get to my bed.’

  She began to cry then, big sobs, as if her resentment, confusion and anger had burst a dam.

  I put a box of tissues on the table close to her. ‘They’re hoarders?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ve read about it. It’s a mental illness. Not that Mum and Dad understand that. They’re embarrassed about it, but they don’t seem to be able to help themselves. It’s disgusting, and … dangerous.’

  ‘How long has it been like this?’

  ‘All of my life, but I hide it. I never have friends at home. I’m too embarrassed. The neighbours talk about us. You can’t see the house for the weeds and junk in the front yard.’

  She’d stopped crying now, but her eyes were red and swollen.

  I could imagine how hard this was for her. At sixteen, girls were constantly in and out of each other’s homes, sleeping overnight, making snacks in the kitchen, studying, calling friends, watching TV and movies, giggling in front of social media.

  ‘We can’t cook in the kitchen because there are cockroaches in the oven, and the stovetop is used as another shelf for junk. I know there’s rotting food in the fridge because I can smell it, but I can’t bear to open it. The hot water service broke down two years ago and my parents are too embarrassed to get someone into fix it, so we don’t have hot water. The bath is full of rubbish like everywhere else, and the shower is blocked. When you flush the toilet it floods on to the junk on the floor. Everything smells. The washing machine is full of mould.’

  I had to conceal my horror. I didn’t want to scare her off. ‘How do you eat and keep clean?’

  ‘I work out at the gym most mornings, and I have a shower there. I get a coffee and toast at the gym, and then I come to school. I buy lunch at school, and for dinner we get takeaway. The litter just gets added to the pile. We haven’t put the bins out for over a year. So yeah, there’s so many rats?’ She was crying again. ‘I’ve even been bitten by rats, and every day I have new fleabites. They’re in the beds and in all the rubbish.’

  ‘How do you keep your clothes clean?’ I asked. She was immaculate.

  ‘Once a week I take all my washing to the laundromat. I dry it and press it there. There’s one cupboard up high in my room where I can keep my clothes. It’s the only one in the house that’s not full of rubbish.’

  ‘Sheets? Towels?’

  ‘I wash my own once a week.’

  ‘Sorry for all the questions. It helps if I have some details. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘How did you manage when you were younger? When you couldn’t go to the laundromat or the gym by yourself?’

  ‘I didn’t manage. But I thought it was normal. I never went to other houses. It wasn’t until Grade Six that I began to realise how different our house was from other peoples’. I must have smelled. I had fleas in my hair.’ She touched her shiny hair, remembering. ‘I had a friend that year, a Vietnamese girl. I went to her house a lot, and I picked up things from her — how to wash my hair, to have a shower every day, how to keep my clothes clean. She never judged me, and never asked questions. Her name was Lo-an. Then she went to a different high school and we lost touch.’

  I didn’t know what to say. Now I was the one to stand, to walk about, and look through a chink in the blind to brilliant red and white geraniums in beds along the path that led to the playing fields.

  What an effort she has to make, I thought, to come to school clean and fresh, her hair brushed, her clothes pressed, her socks white and her shoes shiny. She has to keep up the charade of a normal life with her classmates and teachers, and now she has the VCE workload to contend with.

  With my back to her, I indulged for a second a wild fury with her parents. But my feelings were not the point. I had to help her to find ways to cope in that horrible environment.

  ‘See what I mean about getting a good ATAR? If I can get into a uni in the country, maybe Gippsland, Bendigo, even Wollongong or Armidale in New South Wales, I can move away and live in student accommodation.’

  I sat down again, and faced her. I resisted taking her hands. It was not my job to be motherly.

  ‘Don’t get the wrong impression, Mrs Goodall. You know, they’re great parents in lots of other ways. They’re kind, and they’re very proud of me. I know they love me. They just don’t cope with life. I don’t know why.’ She hesitated, and then challenged me, clear-eyed. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll work on this together, Alison.’

  Chapter 2

  Alison Brennan

  Tuesday, 2 February

  I didn’t tell her even half of it.

  I didn’t tell her about Grandpa, about how I hadn’t seen him for four years because of the fight he had with Mum last time he came to our house. It was at the end of Grade Six. It was a Saturday, and he turned up without telling them. When he saw the house, he went crazy.

  He yelled at Mum. ‘What’s wrong with you, Bernadette? How can you live like this? What about Alison’s safety?’

  That was the first time I realised that our house was dangerous, as well as dirty and smelly.

  ‘One dropped match and it could all go up,’ Grandpa bellowed.

  I thought about running away to hide in the high weeds in the backyard, but it was like I was nailed to the floor. Grandpa was very tall and scary.

  Mum just stood there, twisting her hands, fiddling with her hair. You could tell she was terrified.

  Grandpa seemed really puzzled. ‘I don’t understand it, Bernadette,’ he said more softly. It was like he was talking to a naughty child caught playing in the mud. ‘I can see how it might happen with that useless blighter you live with, but you weren’t brought up like this.’

  I didn’t understand it then. All I knew was that Mum and Dad would never let anyone into the house.

  But I now knew that they needed help, not yelling. They didn’t know how to be any other way.

  I didn’t know how, but Grandpa had found out that Mum and Dad hadn’t enrolled me in a secondary school. That was why he came over. It wouldn’t have occurred to them that they had to make calls, visit the schools in the area, and make a choice. All the other kids had been talking for months about where they’d go. The parents talked about it all the time too, standing at the school gate, competing with each other.

  ‘Oh, Melanie’s going to Mc Robb, you know. Yes, she’s so bright; they offered her a place right away.’

  Or ‘Christopher is going to Scotch of course; all the boys in the family go there.’

  But Mum and Dad never s
aw any other parents. It was just the three of us, a little human triangle, hidden away in our dirty house.

  Grandpa went ballistic when he found out that I wasn’t enrolled anywhere. ‘I’ll have to find her a school, I suppose. It’s far too late for any of the decent Catholic girls schools. We’ll have to take what we can get now.’

  That’s how I ended up at this big co-ed college on St Kilda Road. Grandpa knew the Principal. Apparently he was the son of one of the judges Grandpa worked with before he retired.

  Anyway, that particular day he took Mum and me to a motel. I didn’t know where Dad was; he disappeared when Grandpa started yelling. Grandpa got cleaners into the house to shovel out the rubbish. He sent a plumber to fix the blocked shower and kitchen sink, and a handyman to put the cupboard doors back on. He got a gardening company to throw out the rubbish in the front and back yards and to cut down the weeds.

  On the Monday he enrolled me in school and took me to get my uniform, books and stationery. He hardly said anything during all of this. His face looked really angry, but when he dropped me at home he kissed me and told me to ring him about anything, any time that I wanted. Then he went away without saying goodbye to Mum and Dad, and we hadn’t seen him since.