The Red Cardigan

by J. C. Burke

  ‘Yes,’ laughs Alex. ‘I was so itchy. Remember, I had one in my –’

  ‘Yes, I remember!’

  ‘That was awful.’

  ‘Go and have a rage, love. Just promise one thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give us all the goss. Okay?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  On Saturday morning, Evie gets up early. She washes her hair, shaves her legs and after trying on seven different outfits, settles for the faded jeans, a dusty pink petticoat she found at an antique store, Blundstones and a double-breasted pea-coat from an army disposal shop. She wants to look good but she’s not prepared to freeze. She twists her hair in a low bun, ties a fine piece of leather string around her neck and puts on some lip gloss. She smiles at her reflection saying, ‘Hi, Ben. I’m sorry I had to rush off last time. I, um …’

  She decides not to mention it.

  Nick looks up from his newspaper. ‘Where are you off to looking so gorgeous?’

  ‘You’ll freeze,’ butts in Robin.

  ‘I have a coat, Mum.’

  ‘You’re not taking that shabby old coat, are you?’

  ‘Clay figures, clay figures,’ Evie whispers.

  ‘What happened to that lovely navy woollen jacket I bought you?’

  ‘Ummm?’

  ‘You never wear anything I buy you. It was so expensive and I –’

  ‘Well, I’m off to the markets.’ Evie cuts her mother’s impending lecture.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ Nick asks.

  ‘Only if you’re going up the street, Dad.’

  ‘Rob, let’s go and have a coffee.’

  ‘Nick, I have to catch a plane in two hours and I have twenty-seven essays to mark.’

  ‘Come on, hon. We’ve got time.’

  ‘Nick, if you want to take Evie to the markets, take her. But I don’t have to go too.’

  ‘I thought it’d be nice to have a coffee together before you go away.’

  ‘Dad, I’ll get the bus.’

  ‘There we are, Nick. She says she’ll get the bus.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to take her.’

  ‘Nick, you can’t protect her forever.’

  He stands there staring at her. ‘I just offered her a bloody lift, Robin.’

  Evie waves and closes the door. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Hang on,’ her dad calls.

  He stops the car at the footpath. ‘Get in.’

  Evie climbs into the front seat. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she says. ‘Are you guys okay? I feel so bad that it’s –’

  ‘It’s not your fault. She can’t help it.’

  ‘Can’t help what? Hating me?’

  ‘Evie, she’s your mother, for godsake. She loves you.’

  ‘Dad, that’s such a typical parent thing to say.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. Of course she loves you. You’re her daughter.’

  ‘Just not the daughter she wanted,’ Evie says, staring out the window.

  ‘That’s not true. It means so much to her being a mother, having a daughter. I think it’s something she craved all her life.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She was so little when her mother died, Evie. She was brought up by a string of housekeepers. Sometimes five or six different ones in a year.’

  ‘What about her father?’

  ‘Well, he was hardly the warmest man in the world.’

  ‘See, she can be like that too.’

  ‘She tries.’

  ‘Look, Dad, you know what I’m saying.’ Evie turns to face him. ‘Ever since that stuff happened at school and mum’s been seeing a counsellor, she’s been so – so cut off. At least she used to try and pretend I wasn’t a freak. Now she can’t even do that.’

  ‘She was the same with my mother,’ he says.

  ‘Well, what’s it going to take? Me predicting an earthquake or something?’

  ‘Evie, it hasn’t been easy for her. At least I know about this. I mean, I grew up with it around me. People were always coming to the house to see my mum. “Is Anna here? I need Anna to read for me.” At all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘Did it bother you?’

  ‘No. That’s what I’m trying to say. To me, it was completely normal. That’s the way my mother was.’

  ‘What about Grandpa? What did he think?’

  ‘He thought she was special.’ He pauses. ‘She was special.’

  ‘I wish Mum could think like that.’

  ‘Look, she’s trying. That’s why she’s seeing a counsellor. There are lots of things she has to work through. Her father wasn’t at all tolerant of, let’s say, supernatural things. He was a minister and more than that he was a very harsh man.’

  ‘Did he like you?’

  ‘Not much but then he didn’t like anyone much and he especially didn’t like my mother.’

  ‘Sounds familiar.’

  They drive the rest of the way in silence.

  As Evie gets out of the car her dad calls, ‘Evie? Here,’ and hands her fifty dollars.

  ‘Dad, it’s okay.’

  ‘Take it. Please? You’re a good girl, Evie.’

  She smiles. ‘Thanks.’

  A busker smiles at her as she walks through the market gates. Evie takes a deep breath and feels her heart flutter. She is nervous about seeing Ben, but then she always is. It’s a ‘good nervous’, full of butterflies and secret smiles. It’s facing Petrina she dreads. Not physically, it’s just that she’s never had to face it here. Here she has always been free, nameless. Simply a girl from somewhere who loves second-hand clothes. No reputation or rumour follows. The market has been like her refuge, her escape.

  She goes to see Ben first but he’s not at his stall. She looks around for him. Sometimes she pretends he’ll walk up to her and say, ‘Hey, babe, let’s go and have a curry.’ He’ll buy her a mixed plate and they’ll sit on the grass discussing Post-modernism and the French Impressionists. She’s sure he’s into all that. He looks arty and sophisticated.

  ‘G’day.’

  Evie looks up to see Ben’s crooked smile. He holds a meat pie smeared with way too much tomato sauce.

  ‘Ben? Hi.’

  He takes a huge bite. ‘So, are you all better?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Are you better?’ he says with his mouth full. ‘You were crook last time.’

  ‘Huh?’

  He spits out a bit of gristle. ‘I saw you running for your life.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I spoke to your friends. One of them said your guts were a bit off.’

  ‘Oh?’ She can’t stop staring at the tomato sauce smeared over his chin.

  ‘She said you were making a run for it.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Had you eaten one of those curries?’ Now flakes of pastry sit on the corners of his mouth.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just as well.’ He swallows the last bit.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I’d better get back.’ He wipes his hands on his jeans. ‘See you.’

  ‘Yeah. See you.’

  Evie buys herself a mixed plate at the Indian samosa van and sits on the grass. Scrambled thoughts swim in her head. She can’t get his words or the image of him eating that pie out of her brain. ‘Silver boy’s a yobbo? Oh my god!’ She lets a laugh escape. A kid stops and stares.

  ‘Hello,’ giggles Evie.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ the kid asks.

  ‘Nothing. Everything.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The kid is called away before Evie can answer. From the grass she can see Petrina folding brightly coloured mohair jumpers. She wears the poncho Alex wore that day. Evie gets up, throws her rubbish in the bin, clears her throat and walks over.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Evie!’ Petrina gives her a hug. ‘I wondered when you’d come back to see me. Hey,’ she says, searching Evie’s face, ‘you’re not embarrassed, are you?’

  Evie shrugs. ‘A bit.
’

  ‘Evie, you are so special.’ Petrina holds her hand. ‘I’ve always thought that and now I know why.’

  Evie’s hand feels limp in Petrina’s. Petrina squeezes it and holds it firmly.

  ‘If I could’ve had children,’ for a moment she pauses. ‘Well, no chance of that happening.’

  Evie frowns.

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was in an accident. No one’s fault really,’ is all Petrina says.

  The same breeze whistles through Evie’s chest and out her spine – Petrina’s emptiness.

  ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I would’ve been proud to have had a daughter like you.’ She lets Evie’s hand go. ‘So, I don’t want you to think any more about it. Deal?’

  Evie nods. ‘Deal.’

  Petrina pulls something out from under the table. ‘This is for you.’ She hands Evie a parcel wrapped in purple tissue paper.

  ‘Oh my god.’ Evie holds up the fringed shawl. The pink roses spill out of the fabric. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It was my mother’s Great-Aunt Jacqueline’s,’ Petrina’s voice trembles. ‘She was born in Johannesburg and she was a cabaret dancer.’

  Evie feels her throat tighten. It always feels like this when she’s forced to swallow who she is.

  ‘Evie, I don’t know anyone like you. I have no idea what it’d be like.’

  ‘It can be scary,’ Evie whispers.

  Again, Petrina hugs her. Evie nestles her face in the soft wool of the poncho and breathes in the camphor and mothballs.

  At home, Evie wraps the shawl in its purple tissue paper and carefully places it in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. This is where she keeps her most treasured pieces. An original 1970s Fendi silk scarf, thigh-high green suede boots, a brown snakeskin handbag. Evie had hesitated before buying this, but decided there was nothing she could do about the inhumane things they did to animals back then. She has silk stockings still in their original packet and a pair of white Staggers denim flares. She knows high-waisted jeans will make a comeback some day.

  Her favourite thing is a square-shaped bangle made of silver. It’s from Russia and it was her grandmother’s. Evie opens the lid of its box and runs her fingers along its smooth inner curve. She has never worn the bangle, her excuse being it’s too valuable. This is true, but somewhere she knows the real reason. She senses its power – something left over from her grandmother. She knows there’ll be a time when she’s meant to wear it and sometimes she feels that time will be soon. Evie shuts the box, packs everything back in the drawer and closes the wardrobe.

  It is six thirty. She thinks of Alex and Poppy getting ready for Taylor’s party. She wonders what Alex will wear with the blue beaded cardigan. Alex’s tendency to hit and miss – badly – in the dressing department makes Evie worry for her. She understands what people can be like. Protecting Alex is something she’s good at.

  Evie wonders who’ll be there. Who’ll get off with whom? Who’ll get pissed and be a dickhead and who’ll notice she isn’t there? Her self-imposed exile seems to affect no one. But, Evie wonders, is it completely self-imposed? She has had help. Someone has let her know she isn’t welcome in society. That people like her are not suited to general integration.

  She closes her eyes and pictures the words that tell her this. The words that make sure she understands the rules. The ugly black letters are scrubbed and scrubbed off the school’s toilet door but the message remains clear in Evie’s head. As the day goes on, it is added to. The third toilet cubicle on the left becomes a kind of free-for-all – come and add your comment, a come and pass your judgement type of list.

  Watch the Witch she’s watching you.

  I don’t see dead people – I draw dead people.

  BURN THE WITCH!

  Evie Simmons is an evil bitch.

  Evie Simmons is an EVIL WITCH.

  Evie remembers walking towards the locker room. Her locker door is hanging open, lopsided on one hinge. Her bag is on the ground and all her things are spread across the floor. Her pencil case, tampons, hairbrush, a drink bottle. Her sketchbook is ripped down the middle and muddy shoe marks are smeared across her carefully drawn lines. She tries to place one foot in front of the other as she walks towards her locker door. She reaches out her hand and pushes the door closed. Painted on the door are a cross and the words ‘SIC BITCH’. She hears her breath, a shallow gasping sound, as she tries to swallow the scene. She picks up her torn sketchbook; the paper rustles. She cannot stop her hand from shaking. There are tears – she recalls wiping them away with her sleeve. Someone is holding her hand. It’s Alex. She is leading her somewhere. She takes her into a room. Her parents are there. She cannot remember any more.

  ‘Evie?’ Nick calls. ‘I’m going to get a video. Do you want to come too?’

  Her dad’s voice brings her back to her room. She lies on her bed, here in the present entrenched in the past.

  ‘Hang on,’ she calls. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  They cruise around the shelves of the video store. She likes her dad’s taste in movies. He has opened her up to the world of foreign films, especially the French comedies.

  They meet up in the new releases section. Evie swallows hard as her eyes flick over the titles of videos she knows she will never watch, those her father will never suggest. She can trust him in that way, always. They agree on a British film about a woman who grows hydroponic dope to pay off her dead husband’s debts.

  ‘So you’re spending another Saturday night with your old man?’ he says on the way home.

  ‘You’re not that old,’ Evie replies. ‘Besides, what else am I going to do?’

  ‘What are Alex and Poppy doing tonight?’

  ‘Going to a party.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go?’

  ‘It’s just some guy from Year 11 at Wolsley College. No one interesting.’

  ‘Is Seb going?’

  ‘Seb? Probably. How should I know?’

  ‘Just asking. How is your old kindy husband? Has his voice broken yet?’

  ‘Dad, get over it!’ Evie winds down the window and breathes in the evening smog. ‘Anyway, I still haven’t graduated from the leper colony.’

  ‘Evie!’

  ‘Well, I haven’t. It’s true and you know it. I’ve been back at school – what, nine weeks?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘I still feel everyone’s eyes on me.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not imagining it?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Maybe we should talk again about you changing schools. That was what your mum wanted you to do.’

  ‘For all the wrong reasons,’ mutters Evie.

  ‘There are other schools with good art departments. Schools that offer the same type of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Dad,’ Evie sighs. ‘It’s not like I’ve been demoted from most popular girl or anything. I’ve always been a bit on the outer and I liked it that way. Now, I’m still on the outer but I’m wearing a big fluoro sign that flashes “weirdo”.’

  They stop at a red light and watch a man with a long, scruffy beard stumble across the road. Every couple of steps he takes a gulp from a brown paper bag.

  ‘You know what’s worse than being on the outer and no one noticing you?’

  ‘No?’ Nick replies.

  ‘Being on the outer and everyone noticing you. It’s so – so demeaning.’

  ‘Evie, you’re clever, talented, beautiful –’

  ‘Stop it, Dad. I’m a freak. Maybe not to you but to everyone else I am.’

  She feels the pang of her father’s sigh. She turns to him and tries to smile.

  Theo, her dad’s best friend, also known as ‘the aftershave king’, comes over to watch the video with them. He’s like an uncle to Evie. As boys, Nick and Theo delivered the local paper. As teenagers, they wrote for the school paper and dreamt of starting their own publication, The Scoop. Now they work together on Radio News.


  They love to tell their stories, always the same ones. The doberman chasing them, interviewing the prime minister of Italy, and the time they ran a story on exam cheating techniques and were suspended from school for two weeks.

  They crack Evie up, not so much the stories – she knows them off by heart – but the way they butt in and contradict one another like an old married couple. It’s always the same, Theo convinced his version’s right, Nick shaking his head saying, ‘You know, Theo, I don’t remember it like that.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ Theo’s reply never changes. ‘You were too busy trying to please everyone.’

  ‘Good night, Evie,’ Theo says as he’s leaving. ‘Don’t go getting any smart ideas from that movie, hey?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Theo, as you know I don’t need illegal substances to get my imagination going.’

  He squeezes her shoulder. She gives him a quick peck, trying to suppress the giggles. His cologne really is overpowering tonight.

  ‘See you, big girl.’

  Evie and Nick sit in the kitchen drinking hot chocolate. Evie blows on her milk, watching the skin layer swirl around the top of the mug.

  ‘Do you think Theo realises how much he stinks?’

  ‘I think he thinks he smells beyouuudifool.’

  ‘Yeah, he makes me laugh. Does his sister still read tea cups?’

  ‘Coffee cups,’ Nick corrects. ‘That’s another Greek thing. Ask Theo about it, they’re all into it.’

  ‘When’s Mum back from Canberra?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Is she staying at Paula’s?’

  ‘Where else! You could’ve gone with her, Evie. She would’ve liked that.’

  ‘Nah. All they do is talk about the old days at art college. It gets boring.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Lucky ducks. I bet they’ll go and see the Matisse exhibition.’

  ‘How are your drawings coming along? I still haven’t had the pleasure.’

  ‘Okay,’ she lies.

  She loves talking to her dad when it’s just the two of them. She feels like she can tell him anything – just not everything. If she tells him she is having trouble with the portraits, that the eyes follow her around the room, she knows his forehead will crease and he’ll get that look on his face. It’s like an injection at the doctor’s – no matter how prepared you think you are it still hurts, a lot.