Pip

by Kim Kane

  ‘Kate Smith, I assume. Unless the girls are under their mum’s name. She’s a solicitor as well.’

  ‘Oh, must be.’ Olive had no idea who Mog was talking about.

  Olive picked the album off the ground and headed back to her bedroom. Pip grabbed it from her and pored over the photos. ‘I know there’ll be more clues in here. Hey, check this one out. Mog’s a classic.’ Mog was lying back in a beanbag, wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt that said ‘I kissed a fairy at Port Fairy Folk Festival’. ‘Fairy festival? What’s that?’ Pip laughed. ‘You think she wore fairy wings?’

  ‘Shush, Mog’ll kill us if she finds us,’ Olive whispered. There really were two types of people, she thought. Olive was quiet. She liked to make herself thin; to creep through life. Pip, however, was loud. Everything she did was noisy, even the way she chewed apples (like a horse) and walked (slapping her feet like a seal). Mog was a combo. She was noisy but she hated talk at certain times, like when she had a hangover. She always said that the worst things in the morning were eggs and noise. After 10 a.m., however, Mog was a foghorn.

  Once Pip had gone through all the photos, they added the following to the list:

  • Tie-dye

  • Port Fairy Folk Festival

  • Yoga

  • Vegetable patch

  ‘Study the backgrounds. There must be something else.’ Pip bent back down over the album.

  Olive, who had now well and truly abandoned any idea of painting, turned the page to a photo of Mog and a baby in a vegetable patch. There were a number of photos of Mog in shorts and a bikini top pulling weeds in this vegetable patch, her face and back speckled by the sun. ‘Hey, check this out!’ said Olive, her voice high. ‘You’re there, too.’

  ‘What?’ Pip looked up from her list. ‘No way, shut up, get out of here.’ But Olive was right. There was Mog in the vegetable patch holding not one but two pale babies wrapped in saffron robes.

  ‘How did that happen?’ Olive’s voice was not only high, it was also squeaky. ‘I’ve seen that photo a thousand times before.’

  ‘I don’t know, but we’ve got our clue.’

  ‘How can you think of clues at a time like this?’ Olive looked down at the photo again.

  ‘Look!’

  Suddenly, Olive knew exactly what Pip was talking about and wondered how she had ever missed it. The lighthouse, the lighthouse. Mog was standing in a long vegetable patch. Just behind the garden was a lighthouse. It was not a tall lighthouse, as far as Olive could see, but it was a pretty one. It was quite squat, with a thick base of limestone that resembled lumps of sugar. The top was off-white and peeling. Both the garden and lighthouse were encircled by a picket fence with missing posts, like forgotten items on a shopping list.

  ‘What’s that thing?’ Pip pointed at a dot where the lighthouse’s peak met the sky. Olive grabbed the magnifying glass she had used to burn ants in J-school. Under the magnifying glass, Olive could see that at the top of the lighthouse was a tiny window, like an eye – only the glass was broken. A purple sheath of fabric – cloth or a towel, perhaps – flapped from it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Olive. ‘But if this lighthouse is flying flags and the window is broken, I don’t think it works.’

  ‘You’re a genius, Holmes.’ Pip added the final and best clue to the list.

  • Abandoned lighthouse

  (limestone base)

  ‘I’m still freaked out about you being in that photo.’ Olive pushed her finger down on the two babies in their saffron robes. The cellophane crackled.

  Pip shrugged. ‘Forget the photo. It makes sense that history shuffled a bit to make room for me. It would be kind of hurtful if it didn’t.’

  Olive rolled her eyes.

  ‘The important thing is that WilliamPetersMustardSeed is one step closer.’ Pip beat the biro down on the page. ‘Now, we just need to do some careful research.’

  Mog coughed in the next room. Her cough was deep and rattly.

  ‘We can’t use the computer tonight.’ Olive gestured towards Mog’s study. ‘Anyway, I hope you’re better at research than you are at origami, or we won’t find him until we’re grown-up with our own kids.’

  Pip snapped the album shut. ‘Plenty of world leaders were hopeless at cranes, Olive. Do you think Margaret Thatcher knew how to fold a crane?’

  Olive tried to remember who Margaret Thatcher was exactly.

  ‘Well I doubt it, Olive Garnaut. Margaret Thatcher was Prime Minister of England, and she was much too busy learning important stuff like law and politics, and how to sip tea without getting lipstick on the cup.’ And with that, Pip stood and marched out of the room.

  15

  Yellow Peril

  The following morning, Pip was grumpy. As expected, Mog had hogged the internet the night before, and Olive did not need in-tu-ition to tell that the wait to begin research was killing her sister. Pip had done every celebrity crossword in Mog’s magazines and repeatedly checked whether the study light was still on, but Mog was on an all-nighter for the Big Case and couldn’t be stopped.

  ‘Doesn’t she ever sleep?’

  ‘She’ll do three or four nights straight and then crash for twenty hours at the end,’ said Olive.

  ‘Well, I’m not waiting for the weekend before I start.’

  ‘Pip, don’t worry about it. Mog might be at it again tonight, but the computer should be free sometime over the weekend. And we can always try the library.’

  Pip’s mood deteriorated further at school, as the library server had crashed. Luckily house meetings had been convened to replace the daily hymn-singing, prayer-spouting assembly.

  The school was divided into four ‘houses’, represented by four colours: red (Turner), blue (Wilkinson), green (Grieves) and yellow (Burnett). The houses were named to honour previous headmistresses and teachers who would otherwise have sunk into grim obscurity.

  Mr Hollywood – who taught Maths and was every bit as theatrical as his name suggested – said that nowadays teachers got nothing but Task Assessments and After-Hours Marking. He was lobbying for a fifth house named ‘Hollywood’ (which would clearly have to be pink). Olive didn’t like his chances, though. A local school supplies company wanted naming rights in exchange for an annual donation.

  Mathilda was in Wilkinson (soon to be Foley’s Quality School Supplies Wilkinson). Olive was in Burnett, and so was Amelia.

  Olive and Pip walked into the old ballroom that doubled as Burnett’s homeroom. Around them, colossal girls buzzed in blazers with yellow braid. Olive kept her eyes focused on the balling carpet, partly because she was self-conscious about her wonky hair, partly because she didn’t want to see Amelia, and partly because she didn’t want the big girls to remember that she hadn’t returned her money for the chocolate drive.

  She couldn’t help but notice Amelia walking in front of her, though – a valley between the blazered giants. She guided Pip to the left to give Amelia a very wide berth.

  Olive had been at the school since kindergarten, but she didn’t really have any friends in Burnett, and the tall girls made her feel nervous. In the first few weeks of the year, way before the whole Till–Mill saga, Olive and Amelia had sat near each other for these meetings: not quite next to, but near. While they didn’t talk, it was a kind of Year 7 solidarity thing, when there was nobody better around.

  Amelia knew lots of Burnett girls now, and she also seemed to be related to a good portion of them. Whenever they had Sports Day or the Swimming Carnival, Mrs Forster let Amelia bring in the hand-stitched Burnett banner that Amelia’s grandmother had sewn as a girl. The banner was made with gold embroidery thread on merino wool, and Amelia draped it over her shoulders like a royal cloak.

  The banner bestowed heritage – Amelia was practically a Burnett Aborigine (who hadn’t been stripped of her rights). It didn’t need to be said that her name would be embossed on the mahogany board for house captains, come Year 12. It would just be there, along with her mother’s and her grand
mother’s; this was as much a fact as the collective straightness of the Forster women’s teeth.

  ‘So how did you end up in Burnett?’ asked Pip as they claimed a couple of carpet squares in a poky corner of the room. It must have been clear to her that Olive had no friends and no Family Connection.

  ‘I liked the colour.’ Olive paused. What was not to like about yellow? ‘I actually had no choice; it was allocated in Prep. But it’s a good colour – the colour of everything happy and summery: sun, sand, mangoes, chicks—’ ‘Wee.’

  It was true. Indian yellow paint was made with distilled cows’ urine. Olive had read it once. They boiled it down into sticky goo before packaging it for painting. ‘Thanks, Pip.’ Olive looked at her sister. ‘You always put such a gross spin on things.’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly the colour of everything happy.’ Pip paused and gestured at Amelia, who was chatting to her Year 9 cousin, Poppy Atkinson, a bit further along the room. Poppy was leaning in towards Amelia with her hand near her mouth as a shield. They kept glancing in Olive’s direction.

  Pip directed a spaz-face at Poppy. ‘That whole family looks yellow.’

  ‘Pip, if you’re going to say these things, can you at least say them quietly?’

  ‘They do. All that fake-tan skin and peroxide: they’re the modern yellow peril.’

  ‘Okay girls, okay.’ The House Captain, Marie-Claire Coombs, was waving her arms at the front of the room, trying to get some quiet. Olive shook her head at Pip and leant forwards to listen.

  Although they made her nervous, Olive found the big girls glorious. There was an elegance to them, despite their height. No bands, no spots, no puffy faces. They wore beautiful dresses to the school dance and had their make-up done at Mecca. Olive would pore over their dance photos in the school magazine each Christmas: it was just like Joanne d’Arc’s very own Oscars. Last year, they had even entered on a red carpet.

  Marie-Claire Coombs may have been looking splendid, but she was also looking most disapproving. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I have a list of girls who have not returned their money for the chocolate drive. As you know, this money was due in last week, and as a consequence of these few girls, Burnett is sitting third, not second, on the league tables. I personally feel really angry that the selfish acts of a thoughtless few have penalised us all in this way.’

  There was a murmur around the room, a stirring, as if it were the speech given by William Wilberforce to abolish slavery. Hundreds of girls shook their heads in agreement with Marie-Claire Coombs and looked as if they would have said ‘Hear Hear’ had they been fat men in parliament.

  Olive felt herself blush deep, deep crimson. She stared at a patch of carpet. How had Mog managed to forget for the second term in a row?

  Nicole Reid, the vice-captain, handed Marie-Claire Coombs a list.

  ‘Now, I have spoken to Nicole and we have decided to ask these girls, these Traitors of Burnett, to stand up at the end of this session when I call their names.’

  ‘Oh man,’ said Olive. This was unbearable. What was Marie-Claire Coombs thinking? Olive didn’t want to be lynched. The betrayal felt personal.

  ‘Blashnarshoknnggfasdejdcdmeddmdsoedcjndecm.’

  A gentle rolling of syllables tumbled over Olive. The syllables formed words that had no meaning; it sounded as if somebody was just speaking what they’d typed by sitting on a computer keyboard.

  ‘Bihsogedjflofslkanfebhfqbecqejhifchokcvboqvhejkqbvejquc hebihjcbebhmodi.’

  ‘It’s May,’ whispered Pip.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look – under there.’

  Olive turned. Right against the wall, under a pile of pushed-back desks and chair-stacks, was a girl hunched over crossed legs, holding her hands to her ears and muttering.

  ‘That’s May?’

  May heard her name and waved them over.

  ‘Hang on. I’ll wait here for you to be called,’ said Pip.

  ‘I’ll be quick.’ Olive crawled through the metal desk legs. ‘Um, hi,’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying to block them out,’ May whispered back.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m desperate. I can’t believe it. I’ve done it again.’ May shook her head.

  ‘Done what?’ Olive asked. May was pretty strange.

  ‘Eaten the entire packet. Every single bar. I just can’t believe it – it happens every year. I always mean to sell the chocolates, and I always eat them, even if they taste soapy and I can buy them for two dollars less at the milk bar.’

  Olive nodded. ‘Me too.’

  ‘One of the Year 12s says it’s like a chocolate credit card. Eat first and worry about remembering the cash later.’ May shook her head. ‘Though all is not lost. I’ve had an idea.’

  Olive could hear the drone of Nicole Reid’s housekeeping above them. ‘Hey, we should probably get back out there. They’re getting us to stand up if we haven’t handed in our money.’

  ‘They’re what?’ May sat up so quickly she knocked her head on the roof of a desk.

  ‘Marie-Claire Coombs wants us to stand if we haven’t handed in our money.’

  ‘This place is ruthless.’ May rubbed her forehead. ‘Marie-Claire Coombs spent too long on Duke of Ed hikes in her formative years.’ She gave a very deep sigh and started crawling out behind Olive.

  As the girls emerged, the floor echoed with the press of footsteps as Burnett stood to sing the cheer.

  I don’t know but I’ve been told

  Burnett Girls are Out for Gold

  Sound Off Sound Off

  Burrr-neeettt Burrr-neeettt

  Can we do it? Can we do it?

  Yes we clap sure can.

  Burnett finished with a few high whoops and a sprinkle of applause. Olive whooped and applauded just behind the pack. May didn’t bother.

  ‘It’s lucky we’re selling chocolate bars and not heading off to war. That was terrible.’ May frowned, sitting back down.

  Olive nodded. ‘If Joan of Arc had received that on her send-off she’d never have mounted the horse. She’d have got right back into her nightie and hopped into bed.’

  The girls laughed.

  At the front of the room, Marie-Claire Coombs shook a piece of paper. ‘Right, that’s enough. Could the following girls stand when I call their names. Starting in Year 7 . . .’

  Olive wriggled. She leant in towards Pip and May, her head down.

  ‘. . . Vanessa Johnston, Alice Martin, Isabella Whitlam, Olive Garnaut and Lim May Yee.’

  Olive stood. She stared at a piece of squashed chewing gum, smooth and grey on the ballroom floor.

  Marie-Claire Coombs glared down along her bosom and the top of the list.

  ‘I didn’t forget mine,’ said May.

  Olive looked up. May looked pink. Marie-Claire Coombs looked surprised. ‘This isn’t really a forum for excuses.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not an excuse. I put my box on eBay and the auction doesn’t close until the end of the weekend. It was already at forty-two dollars this morning, though. With any luck, I’ll be able to trade them for another boarding house – like that American man who traded a paperclip for a house on the internet.’

  There was a twittering around the room. One of the boarders was laughing so hard, she started hiccuping.

  ‘I see,’ said Marie-Claire Coombs. ‘Well, make sure you get a cheque to me on Monday. And in Year 8, Eliza . . .’

  Olive and May sat back down with a thump. Olive breathed out loudly. A boarder behind May poked her shoulder. ‘Classic.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said May and turned to speak to her. ‘Luckily you can buy those chocolates at any milk bar. I ate the lot.’

  Pip smiled. ‘She really is nuts.’

  Ten minutes later, the bell rang for first period. Pip and Olive trailed along with the other Burnett girls until they were sucked out through the ballroom door. Year groups blended in the press.

  Outside in the grey morning, Olive found herself behind
Amelia. Amelia was still talking to Poppy Atkinson.

  ‘So when will you know what’s happening with Mary?’ asked Poppy.

  Pip raised an eyebrow. Everybody knew Amelia was meant to be Mary in the Christmas concert, despite the fact she was only in Year 7. Everybody also knew that she might be demoted because of the scissor incident.

  ‘I have to go and see Mrs Dalling about it today. I’ll be so furious if I lose it – it was not my fault.’ Amelia looked around and caught Olive’s eye. She threw Olive a very dirty look.

  Poppy paused to pull up her sock. ‘I wouldn’t worry. You’re still the best actor in the school and besides, you weren’t actually holding the scissors.’

  Pip took Olive’s arm. ‘If I were the headmistress, I’d never let her act again.’ She laughed. ‘Well, not unless I needed somebody to play a tandoori chicken.’

  Olive smiled, but only a bit, and watched Amelia walk off towards the middle-school piazza. She looked at the fresh new-white of Amelia’s socks against her brown calves. She looked at Amelia’s uniform, which she wore longer than most girls, with the belt looped twice around her hips. Pip was wrong; Amelia had been selected to play Mary for a reason. The sort of glamour the big girls possessed was hinted at in someone like Amelia. That was her appeal. Regardless of how nasty she was or what she did, it was impossible to refute that Amelia Forster possessed style beyond her years.

  16

  A Cut and a Clue

  That afternoon after school, Pip and Olive walked down the street towards the hairdresser. Olive and Mog had been going to Chez Clarissa for as long as Olive could remember. Although Mog was sick and tired of the way that Clarissa cut her hair, she couldn’t bear the thought of going to a hairdresser she did actually like in case Clarissa found out. Life’s tricky enough already, Mog would say.

  Olive liked going to Chez Clarissa because she loved studying the curls of wet hair swept into the corners of the salon and trying to work out which lady belonged to which hair clippings.

  When they were almost there, Pip stopped outside a shop not two doors down and pressed her nose to the glass. Mannequins with engorged heads but no faces posed in a glittering conga line. Their skirts looked like squirts of fake cream.