by Kim Kane
Mog flinched.
‘Not hopeless.’
There was a silence long enough to count twelve of Mog’s breaths.
‘I just don’t think there’s room for me. He lives in the town now, with a wife and the . . . the children.’
‘Oh,’ said Mog, with an ‘Oh’ that could never be light. She breathed in Olive like she breathed in smoke. Then she whispered into Olive’s scalp, so quietly that later Olive would wonder whether she had heard it at all, ‘Nothing can ever replace a child, Ol. What great bloody fool would miss out on you . . .’
Olive didn’t respond, couldn’t. It was too early for the right words.
‘Ah-hem.’
A police officer was standing in the bay window, his hat hooked under his arm. He looked awkward and fiddled with a loose strip of braid on the rim. ‘Your mother has been very worried about you, young lady,’ he said in a voice that was higher than Olive had expected for a man so tall. ‘She’s a good woman. You shouldn’t have put her through this.’
‘Thanks Derek, I’ll take it from here.’
‘My pleasure.’ The police officer scratched his head, wafting puffs of aftershave. ‘Glad she’s all right. Bring her down to the station tomorrow once she’s had a sleep – if you’re worried.’
He gave Mog a knowing look. Olive didn’t need in-tu-ition to know that it was a knowing look.
‘I’m okay, just tired.’ Olive tried to smile – for Mog, strictly not for Officer Derek.
Mog looked all crumpled. ‘We’ll come if necessary, thanks Derek.’
‘Might see you on the other side of the bench then, Judge Garnaut.’ Officer Derek popped his hat on, touched it lightly on the brim and winked. ‘Glad it’s all turned out.’
Once Officer Derek had shut the door, Olive looked up at Mog. ‘Did you get it?’
‘Yep, Olive, we did it. The Attorney-General called this morning, but in all of this hullabaloo it seems very insignificant. I have been worried sick about you – I just kept seeing your face on a milk carton.’
‘They only put the faces of lost kids on milk cartons in America, Mog – in the olden days. We saw it on telly.’
Mog laughed, blew her nose on a Chux and tucked it back up her sleeve. Then she swivelled her head to look at the room. Olive looked, too. On top of the usual mess, there were three ashtrays on the coffee table. Butts and ash were sprinkled across everything.
‘This place is a pigsty. The press are coming around on the weekend to do some “at home” shots,’ said Mog.
Olive coughed. Smoke prickled her lungs. ‘You’ll need to air it.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. I’m not sure I want this dirt aired.’ Mog threw her head back and laughed heartily. Mog always laughed at her own jokes. There was something about her spirit that was so much bigger than her frame; it made people want to join in. Olive watched Mog’s ribs jiggle under her top, and as Mog laughed, Olive laughed too.
Mog drew her finger through the grit that lay thick on a bookcase. ‘My ideals have got in the way, Ol. They’ve made us dusty.’
Olive shrugged. ‘Pip said you can’t be a mum who makes sponge cakes and justice.’
Mog smiled, but it was feeble. ‘Sponge cakes and justice.’ She sniffed and flicked a forthright spider from her daughter’s sleeve. ‘Who is this wise Pip, anyway? Maybe we can all have dinner together now that I might actually have a bit of time.’
Olive fluttered. ‘How much time?’
Mog grinned. ‘Frankly, I’d be happy with enough to put on a wash, but it should be even more than that. Time enough to go to the theatre this Friday night, for example. I’ve landed tickets to My Fair Lady, if you’re keen.’
‘Does the Rain in Spain Fall Mainly on the Plain?’ Olive quoted a song from her favourite musical.
Mog drew one eyebrow into a bow, and looked down along the curve of her cheekbone. ‘If you’re going to use stanzas in the company of a musical-theatre tragic like your mother, darling, try to quote better songs. But yes, I expect that Every Duke and Earl and Peer will be there, and should they fail, Hugh Jackman’s playing the Professor.’
Olive stuck out her tongue.
‘Let’s get those shoes and socks off, Ol, they’re sopping. And your skirt. What have—’
‘Hang on, there’s a present for you.’ Olive withdrew the wrapped frame from the top of her backpack.
While Olive peeled back the tissue paper, Mog picked up one of the photos. ‘It’s the last one William took of us. That’s why I look so uptight – I was doing everything I could to keep us a family.’
Olive looked at Mog and then placed the frame on Mog’s lap. ‘Here you go.’
‘It’s gorgeous!’ Mog ran her finger across the loops of pips and olives, and the two fingerprints for authenticity. ‘You look so happy. I’ll pop it in on my desk, and you can smile at me while I write my judgements.’
‘That sounds pretty flash.’
Mog raised her arms and stuck out her bum in a middle-aged lawyer’s take on the yoga pose ‘salute the sun’.
Olive yawned, and Mog caught it. ‘I may not do sponge cakes,’ said Mog, ‘but I can probably stretch to cocoa. Want one?’
‘Yes, please.’
Mog walked slowly to the door then paused. Her sinewy hand bound the knob. ‘The catch with parenting, Ol, is that it doesn’t matter what a person does, how noble their intentions, they always get it wrong . . .’ Her voice dribbled away and she turned into the kitchen; she was all angles, sharp and pointy.
Late into the night, Mog undressed Olive, placed a warm flannel on her face, and tucked the doona right up tight around Olive’s chin. She had made the bed with clean sheets, which were cool on Olive’s legs.
Even in all of that caring, though – even in clean sheets – Olive couldn’t sleep. The bedroom felt strange, sparse. Olive turned to the left and then the right. Beside her, Ariel spiralled up and down the fishbowl. Somehow, her little flippy splishes only made the room emptier.
Olive sat up and hung her legs over the side of the bed. She rolled the Brass Eye between her fingers, until the cylinder was sticky and her skin smelt metallic, then she slipped it into the drawer in her bedside table and stared into the fleshy black. It was curious – while there was no doubt that the room felt emptier, Olive realised that she did not.
Olive crept up the dark hall and into Mog’s bed, just as she had as a child. Mog enfolded her in nighty warmth, and Olive snuggled back. Pressed against Mog’s breast, the crap-knack dust smelled as thick and sweet as cooking cakes.
Mog squeezed Olive tight. With sleepy breath, she half-croaked, half-whispered, ‘Don’t worry Ol, we’ll get through it. We always do.’
And the funny thing was that, this time, Olive really believed her.
32
The Pip in Olive
Olive walked into Science. It was chaotic. The whole class was aware that nothing but a few paltry elements on the periodic table lay between them and a sunny afternoon. At the front of the lab, Mrs Dixon was so immersed in setting up an experiment that she was oblivious to the noise.
Olive slid in next to May in a row not too close to the front and not too close to the back (where Mathilda and Amelia were lounging). Mrs Dixon had paired Olive and May up for the last project of the year. As Olive sat down, May moved her books back onto her own bit of the bench and smiled. Olive smiled back and rubbed at a blister on her heel.
Olive had new shoes, which were destroying her feet, but they were size 5½ ladies’, and even though there was some ‘growing room’ for summer, she was more than a little bit proud. ‘It’s funny the way feet grow before the rest of the body,’ Mog had said when they bought them. ‘Mine did that before I shot up.’ Olive stretched out her legs. It was a strange thing, growing. People grew up, but they didn’t dilute. The body stayed whole, solid.
Skyep walked into the lab with posture so erect she reminded Olive of those elegant African women who carry water-pots on their heads.
‘Like a slug,’ said Skyep. ‘It felt like someone shoving a slug in my mouth.’ Unfortunately, Skyep was not always as elegant as her posture suggested.
‘A slug! That’s hilarious. At least you’re not a kiss virgin! Come and sit here. Shove over, Till.’
Olive peered over her shoulder. There wasn’t a spare seat in the back row. Mathilda looked around and moved her books into the row in front. Skyep slid in next to Amelia.
‘We’re all going to the wall after school if you want to come,’ said Amelia. ‘We’re meeting James Hurley and the other Grammar boys.’ As Amelia spoke, she pricked the bench with the needle point of her compass.
‘Cool.’ Skyep stroked a loopy gold S that dangled around her neck. Amelia looked at Skyep. Her face gleamed.
In front of them, Mathilda sat alone and glum. Olive felt a bit sorry for her, stranded in a row like that, but it was odd to think that they had once been so close. It was like the Mathilda with whom Olive had dressed up, eaten slabs of caramel slice, had baths and laughed until they were whoozy was a different Mathilda Graham altogether.
May was staring at the trio as well. ‘Cycle complete.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They scoop girls up and then dump them. This school can be more dangerous than Bells Beach.’
‘We should cross lifesaver flags at the gates.’
May laughed.
The door banged as Nut Allergy walked into the lab, trailing papers and shoelaces. She scanned the room, but the only free seat was next to Mathilda. As Nut Allergy approached the bench, Amelia whooped. Nut Allergy concentrated on arranging her books; Mathilda went pink with shame.
Amelia leant over her desk and poked Nut Allergy’s shoulder. ‘Have you got a partner for this project, Nutters?’ She gestured at Mathilda and winked.
May clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘Nutters? What is it with people and names in this place?’
Nut Allergy kept her eyes on her chemistry book and spoke. ‘My name is Kate.’ Her words were mushroom soft.
A murmur rolled about the classroom like a Mexican wave.
Amelia snorted, sounding more horse than girl. ‘Whatever, Nutters,’ she said. Mathilda shifted her books further along the bench towards the wall.
‘Kate strikes back,’ said Olive in her new louder voice. May giggled.
Mathilda stood and the metal legs of her stool hammered the lino. ‘You may be Kate at home, but you’ll always be Nutters to me,’ she said and winked at Amelia. ‘And I’ll put money on you always being a kiss virgin, too.’ Mathilda fished behind her for a grin.
‘Calm down, Mathilda,’ said Amelia. ‘It’s like picking on a kid with Down’s syndrome.’
Mathilda blenched.
Amelia turned away and started chatting to Skyep: conversation closed.
May raised one eyebrow at Olive in an I-told-you arch. ‘What’s with kiss virgins? Man.’ She scribbled a cartoon and held it out. It was a girl with a north–south part and a nose that was so pronounced her lips couldn’t get past it. A spotty boy in school uniform looked put out. Olive laughed.
‘Apparently Mathilda’s mum thinks Mathilda’s got a problem; that she’s boy-crazy,’ continued May. ‘She called Stable-East about it.’
Olive rolled her eyes. ‘She’s certainly got problems.’
May looked up from her drawing. ‘What about you? Are you boy-crazy?’
‘Hardly. Boys stink like salami sandwiches left in a schoolbag for six weeks. You simply can’t have my hygiene standards and any sort of interest in boys. With any luck, I’ll be a lesbian. What about you?’
‘My family . . . well, they wouldn’t like that. They’re not from here – they’re different.’
Olive shrugged. ‘Mine’s weird, too.’
May looked at her.
‘It’s just me and Mog, my mum. We’re a sort of micro-family.’ May nodded. ‘I’ve seen your mum on the telly. What happened to your dad?’
‘Dead.’
‘Crap. Really?’
‘Well, sort of.’
‘Sort of dead?’ May scrunched her nose. Olive was tempted to look her straight in the eye and tell her that Mustard Seed was actually quite dead from the knees down, but May seemed genuinely concerned. Olive twisted the cardboard casing on her rubber. ‘He’s not really dead. We just never had anything to do with him.’
‘Oh.’
Olive shrugged. ‘I guess that sometimes you can feel closer to people who aren’t related than to those who are.’
‘Absolutely.’ May turned a page in her exercise book and nodded. ‘Like me and the boarders.’
Olive peeled the cardboard back from her rubber. Under its sheath, the rubber was soft and new-white. She looked up at May. ‘Would you like to come over to finish the Science project this weekend? We could go metal-detecting as well, if you like.’
‘Metal-detecting?’ May screeched like a kettle whistle.
Olive nodded. ‘I haven’t used it much yet, but it is brilliant.’
‘I’ve always wanted to have a go at that. Apart from scratchies, it’s the only way I’m ever going to accumulate personal wealth. They should teach it in the Business Centre instead of philanthropy – it would be so much more useful.’
Olive laughed. ‘Mog can sign your pass-out if you need her to.’
‘I’ll get the boarding-house mistress onto it – it won’t be difficult. She knows how desperate I am for home-cooking.’
Although Olive hadn’t really known May long, she did seem to spend a lot of time talking about her next meal. ‘Home-cooking for Mog extends to toast, but she’ll probably take us out for lasagne, and we can always get ice-cream.’
May took a muesli bar from her pencil case and broke off two hunks. ‘Anything would be better than the boarding house. Friday is roast with yellow fat. I’m sure it’s a breach of human rights.’ She offered Olive a piece.
Olive glanced at Mrs Dixon (whose hair would have gone grey had she seen students consuming food in her lab) then shoved it in her mouth. ‘Let’s play the menu by ear,’ she said.
May popped another clandestine chunk of muesli bar into her mouth. ‘No need. I know that I will always feel like ice-cream.’
‘So will I – and Pip did too. Weird.’ Olive blinked. It felt funny saying Pip’s name like that.
May looked up. ‘Who’s Pip? And what’s so weird?’
Olive had noticed that May did seem to be categorically into anything weird. Olive’s bottom shifted on the dumpy stool and she swept a few stray oats off the bench.
‘Well, what would you say if I said that once upon a time I had a sister, a twin sister, which I guess would make it twice upon a time.’ Olive smiled. ‘I don’t really know where to start.’
May snorted crumbs. ‘Tell me this weekend. Twice upon a time, that’s quite funny.’ She stopped drawing and offered Olive her notebook. ‘What do you think of this one?’ May held up a picture of a metal detector with an ATM sign on it.
‘Now that’s wicked.’
May chewed her pencil and grinned until her eyes almost disappeared.
‘Okay girls. Find your seats and open your books to mercury,’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘Page ninety-four. Anybody know its atomic number?’
A flock of books fanned open and twenty-one out of twenty-three faces looked up. Only May’s and Olive’s bobs swung shiny over a cartoon hidden in the pages of ‘Hg for Mercury’.
May whispered something and Olive laughed. She flung her head back and laughed so loudly that it made the girls around her want to join in. Mrs Dixon smiled. ‘Olive? You are extremely jolly today. Do you know what mercury’s atomic number is?’
But Olive Garnaut was laughing so heartily, she didn’t even hear.
33
Footprints Tall
Late, late one evening, when distance had whittled the moon to a star, the wind whipped up. Sand b
lew in clouds along the shore. By morning the bluster had settled, but when the first of the fishermen wobbled down in gumboots, he stopped and looked befuddled. ‘Well, squid my jig,’ he chewed through a powdery mint.
The beach was smooth and unblemished but for a trail of footprints, small tracks, an older child’s perhaps, heading to and then from old Kelso Pier. The scene wasn’t unusual because there were footprints, however; it was unusual because the footprints stood high above the sand: size 5½ ladies’ footprints, tall and proud.
Acknowledgements
At the risk of sounding last-drinks sentimental, to the following people with love and thanks . . .
My publishers Elise, Erica, Eva and Hilary at Allen & Unwin; David, Bella, Alison, Linda, Hannah and Tiffany at David Fickling Books; and Doubleday Canada, together with my agents, Pippa Masson and Marie Campbell – all of whom have worked so very hard to support somebody so very new.
My mother, who has so much to offer and offered it first to her family (and for saying restaurong like the French).
My father, who has a delicious sense of humour, a clear mind, an enviable work ethic – and a scalpel named after him to prove it.
My witty and talented siblings, T and Jamie-Kane (who have threatened to write their memoirs).
My grandmother, Nen, the healthiest, fittest, most elegant little-old-lady in the country, and her greatgrandson, Angus King, just because.
To J and Eva (because every family needs a brain surgeon and a German).
For Christine, Andrew, Viv, Jane, Elise, Ann, Jude, Sue and all the people in my classes at RMIT who suggested there was no place for the original final chapter in this novel. For Clare Renner – the Ms Chips of children’s lit – who insisted on it.
For Lisa, Ports, Lizzie and my-May, who read late drafts and provided counselling / coffee / very thoughtful comments.
For Sof, Kristen, Grot, Kate, Priya-my-writing-partner, Meg, Lee, Stacey, Jess and Rayment, all of whom read (various) early drafts. To Tone, who didn’t, but still had an opinion.
To Elise Hurst, for her perfect cover illustration.