by John Marsden
It was so annoying that Mrs Fisher was off sick, with jaundice. I could twist her around my pinkie with one easy twirl of the fingers. As it was I had to spend most of my cash, the money I was saving for chicken, and oyster sauce and tomatoes and snakes. Looked like dinner would be out of the freezer tonight. But now I had some ammunition. Unfortunately I had no confidence about using it, and no confidence about it working.
At lunchtime I had to go down to the supermarket. I couldn’t afford much, except the essentials: milk and bread and spuds. The way it worked was that I shopped at lunchtime and they kept the stuff in the coolroom till I picked it up after school. In the afternoons I got the bus from school like normal, and Barry dropped me at the supermarket while he went to Our Lady of Good Counsel, the Catholic primary school, then he picked me up again as he went past to get Gavin and the others from the state school. It was a good system.
The walk downtown was right past Mr Sayle’s big dark red door. I scowled at it as I went past, but on the way back I did more than scowl. I stopped in my tracks.
Parked right outside was Mr Rodd’s Audi. I knew it almost as well as I knew our vehicles. He’d had it a long time and after the war he’d found it dumped in Stratton with a couple of bullet holes in the driver’s door and a lot of dried blood on the floor. No-one knew what the car had been through, but it had no other damage, so unlike a lot of people Mr Rodd got his car back.
I stood there looking at it and the longer I looked the madder I got. I thought about the long letter from Bronte’s father and the long conversations with Fi’s mother and the court hearings about my guardianship and I realised that, yes, I really was sick of it and, yes, it was time to take action.
It would have been nice to sit down with a counsellor and work out a win-win solution that would leave all of us feeling good about ourselves. To share our feelings so we could work together better. To understand how to turn our weaknesses into strengths and our obstacles into opportunities. But at this stage I was more into the idea of invading Sayle’s office with an AK-47 and detonating him to kingdom come.
I thought about the little typed note from Major Gisborne.
Unconsciously maybe I was planning to do something this very lunchtime, because I did have my ‘J’Accuse’s with me, in my backpack. I grabbed my pen and wrote another note, the one I needed Sayle to sign.
Mrs Samuels was blowing her nose. I saw her eyes go big and wide over the top of her handkerchief. I knew how awkward it was for her, and I could guess how frightened she was at the thought of being busted by Mr Sayle for what she’d done. I wasn’t in the mood to hesitate but I realised I’d have to tread a bit more carefully than I’d planned.
‘Ellie,’ she said, sniffling a little. ‘How are you, dear? I’m afraid Mr Sayle’s busy at the moment . . . Ellie? Oh Ellie, you can’t –’
That was the last I heard of her voice as I opened his door and marched in. I probably wasn’t feeling quite as confident as I hoped I looked. But at the same time I was mad enough to take this all the way, and to hell with the consequences.
Mr Sayle was sitting at his desk. He was leaning back with his hands behind his head, elbows out like wings, telling a joke I think, because the words I heard were: ‘So then Napoleon hits his shot, and it goes straight in the hole.’
He didn’t move when he saw me, just stopped speaking and gazed at me, still with his arms behind his head. I think he knew straight away that this was going to be ugly.
After a long pause he said, ‘Hello, Ellie.’
Only then did Mr Rodd turn around. He wasn’t as cool as Mr Sayle. He heated up real fast. I could see the red rising in his face. His eyes went narrow and he glanced back at Mr Sayle. A lip-reader couldn’t have read his words, ’cos his lips didn’t move. All you needed was a bit of telepathy. ‘Get this girl out of here’ wouldn’t have been far off the mark. I was trembling but I tried to stop my body ratting on me. I had to keep it fixed in my head that these guys were the ones who’d called me a tough little bitch. Might as well prove them right.
I pulled out the note I’d just written outside.
Before I could do anything more, Mr Sayle spoke again. No-one else had said anything yet. He was still off-balance; he didn’t know what I wanted, what I had on him. That was good. I had to keep him like that. I sensed that Mr Rodd was out of his depth; it all depended on my being able to fake out Mr Sayle.
‘What can I do for you, Ellie?’
‘I’m here with your resignation as my trustee,’ I said as evenly as I could. I looked at the note. My father had told me that courts like plain language, even though they never use it themselves. He’d said that if you don’t have a lawyer you just use the simplest words possible.
I read it to both of them. ‘I, Murray Sayle, resign as executor of the Linton estate and as guardian to Ellie Linton.’
I could see Mr Sayle lean back a little more, relax just a little. I could see the smile start to break out. I had to go in fast. I ripped the pile of photocopied sheets out of my bag. These were my ammunition and I needed to blow this office up, with both these men in it. I had to make every shot count. I kept one and threw the others onto the desk. My single reason for spending all that money to copy so many was so they would make a big thump when they landed. They did. It had been worth the sacrifice of the chicken and the oyster sauce.
After a moment Mr Sayle leaned forward and picked one up. After another moment Mr Rodd took one too. Fifteen-love to me. As they started reading I said: ‘I’ve done four thousand of these. My friends are going to distribute them tonight. They’ll go into every letterbox in Wirrawee, and then some. Tomorrow afternoon kids who live out on properties will take them home and spread them round their districts. They’ll go like a wildfire.’
‘I’ll get an injunction,’ Mr Sayle said, but it was kind of automatic, like he wasn’t even listening to himself. He was too busy reading.
He was reading these words:
My name is Ellie Linton and I live on a cattle and sheep property twelve kilometres from Wirrawee.
My parents were murdered earlier this year.
Before they died they appointed Mr Murray Sayle, a solicitor in Wirrawee, as executor of their estate.
When I was orphaned Mr Sayle got permission from the court to be my guardian as well.
Since that time Mr Sayle has set out to steal my property from me.
I knew when Mr Sayle reached this part. He suddenly stood up. He went quite white and said, ‘You can’t say this.’
But he didn’t even look at me. I didn’t reply, and he kept reading.
He and Mr Kelvin Rodd, also from Wirrawee, have a plan to set up a resort on my place, offering luxury mountain holidays. They have a company called Kelsey Developments Pty Ltd. They made a secret agreement for Kelsey to buy my place at a dirt-cheap price. Because Mr Sayle is my guardian I can’t stop him. Then the two of them will set up their resort, and make a huge profit.
These men are criminals. What they are doing is illegal. If you deal with them, expect to be ripped off. If you’ve had any dealings with Mr Sayle, you should get another lawyer to check what he has done, in case he’s stolen from you too.
At the bottom was my signature and the date.
Well, there was no shit to hit the fan, and no fan. But it seemed for a few moments that everything else hit everything else. Mr Sayle threw the sheet back at me. Mr Rodd tore his up. Mr Sayle started around the corner of his desk but then stopped again. It was like he suddenly realised it mightn’t be a good idea to stomp me to death on the floor of his office. Instead he grabbed the pile of papers I’d put in front of him and threw them at me too. He followed up with a newspaper and a couple of finance magazines. Then he started shouting at me. It was hard to understand some of it but in general he was saying that he would sue me for defamation, that he’d ruin me, that I could even go to prison.
I didn’t think prison was too likely, given how old I was, and that I was an orphan, and assuming t
hat Mr Sayle’s behaviour wouldn’t look too good under close examination. Zola yes, Ellie no.
I had thought this through quite a bit, even in the short time since I’d had the idea of doing it. So I took a step forward, trying to stay calm. I’ve noticed a few times now how powerful it is if you stay calm when someone else has lost his temper.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘go ahead and sue me. If you can sue a minor for defamation.’
That rocked him right to his Reeboks.
I followed up fast. ‘I don’t know if you can or not. But suppose you can. What happens then? Either you win, and you get some money from me, but I won’t have much left anyway by the time the case is finished. And your reputation will be shot and you’ll have a stain the size of California on your name. Or you’ll lose, and your reputation’ll be even more shot. And face it, you’re a good chance of losing. There’s nothing in my letter that isn’t true.’
Mr Rodd sneered at him: ‘I told you what she’s like.’
‘I’ll get an injunction,’ he said again.
‘We’ll ignore it,’ I said. ‘We’re teenagers. We don’t do injunctions. We’ll scatter these notices like confetti. By tomorrow morning you won’t be able to walk down the street. You’ll need an umbrella to keep the spit off your head.’
I’ve got to hand it to myself, he was definitely whitefaced. I decided Zola was a pretty good role model. He’d known what he was doing.
I couldn’t give Sayle any more time to think. I pulled out my pen. ‘Sign it,’ I snarled. ‘And then I’ll try to get to my friends and stop these papers going out. But I’ll have no hope of doing anything after three thirty. It’s now or never.’
Mr Rodd was still sitting there sneering. Then he suddenly saw the look in Mr Sayle’s eyes. ‘Don’t sign,’ he said, jumping up.
‘I have to, Kelvin,’ he said. ‘Her family’s been here forever. Everyone knows them. Especially after that stuff she did in the war. These local yokels are going to read her bit of paper, the ones who can read that is, and it’ll be the end of the story. No-one’s going to listen to us.’
With the signed statement in my hand I turned and headed for the door. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to run but I expected at every step to get a letter-opener buried in my back or a wastepaper bin shoved down on my head. I couldn’t believe it when I got to the door without a word being said, and I couldn’t believe it even more when I opened the door and left, and nothing and no-one followed me down the street. It had been as bad as any encounter with enemy soldiers in wartime. All the way back to school I shook like a tissue in a typhoon.
EPILOGUE
BLOODY HOMER. How often have I put those two words together? It’s like the official adjective for Homer is bloody. Or, to put it another way, there are two words for Homer, and the second is Homer. And the first one needn’t necessarily be bloody, either.
He really wasn’t interested in my great victory over Mr Sayle and Mr Rodd. Oh, he listened of course, because he knew he was expected to, but because it wasn’t about him he only half listened, and the moment I was finished he went back to talking about Liberation, which was all he seems to care about these days.
I suppose if you weren’t there you wouldn’t realise how difficult it was, and how it felt so dangerous, and how much it meant to me to have succeeded. Not only for the obvious reason that it looked like I’d saved the farm, for a short time anyway, but also because it proved that I could win my battles in the adult world of post-war Wirrawee, against the movers and shakers and lawyers and developers and sharks.
It gave me more hope that I could make a go of things by myself.
I shouldn’t say by myself, because Gavin was doing it too, and it was Gavin who seemed to understand how much it meant to get that letter of resignation from Mr Sayle. When I showed it to him he ran around the kitchen three times waving it in the air and making noises like a train that’s trapped in a tunnel.
He then kissed me, which shocked both of us I think.
So now I’m in the kitchen looking around, one minute thinking, ‘This is mine, I’m in charge, I own it all, it’s my kitchen, my house, my farm,’ and the next minute I’m, ‘Oh my God I’m too young, this is the scariest thing that’s ever happened, I can’t do this.’
Can I do it? ‘I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.’
Well, I’m not a train, and anyway, even a train can be derailed by a landslide. Or blown up. I’m just me, just Ellie, sitting at the kitchen table, trying to make my life work, barely holding it together some days, some days feeling too big a flood of grief for the house to hold, but some days feeling pride and strength.
I know my life’s different to other people’s but everyone’s life is different to everyone else’s. All I can do is keep living it, keep moving it forward every day I can. Lots of days it’s three steps forward, four steps back. If at the end of every month I’m a step or two ahead – well, I’ll settle for that.