Lessons from the Heart

by John Clanchy

  ‘The worry’s gone,’ Sarah bursts in.

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s lucky. Now put out your lights, please, and I’ll zip up the tent. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, Laura,’ they say together, and I think of them all the way back to my tent, the paleness of Sarah, her timidity and how she’ll exist in the world, and their friendship and how they share everything, now, and I think about Luisa and how she could be Guatemalan, and how dumb I am sometimes, and the worry dolls under her pillow magicking away her worries during the night.

  ‘Do you want one?’ was the last thing she said to me. ‘I’ve got four. You could put it under your pillow.’

  ‘I’ve already got my journal there,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Puzzling.

  Jason doesn’t say: I wondered if you were coming – even though I’m fifteen minutes late getting there. He just says: ‘You look great, hop on. There’s your helmet.’

  First I was going to come, then I wasn’t, and then I wondered what Mum would do, and I know she’d say: ‘Well, you made an arrangement, and it’s not fair not to show up, even if it’s only to tell him you’ve changed your mind and you’re not going after all.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Toni had said, and I could see she was shocked when I got my jacket because she was expecting me to go to bed.

  ‘Just out,’ I said, because I suspected she’d go out as soon as I was asleep, and she never told me anything any more, and why should I.

  ‘Oh, Miss Independent,’ she sneered. But I could tell she was worried as well as angry, and serve her right. ‘Are you meeting someone?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, and then I really got at her. ‘See you in the morning.’

  ‘Laura?’ she called after me, but I didn’t answer, and I know how that feels. ‘Laura!’

  But I’m still not sure, even when I get to the entrance to the campground and see Jason sitting patiently on his trailbike under the round, orange street lamp. But the night is still just like summer in Sydney, it must be fifteen degrees where normally it’s about six or seven out here because of the desert, and with the air as soft as it is and the stars out and Jason smiling and holding out the helmet for me, and everything being so peaceful and quiet and imagining myself just riding along in the dark with the wind in my face and all that above me – and Nala and the women at the Rock, and I do want to know about them and the ceremony and that – I stop thinking and just say, ‘Thank you.’

  Jason shows me how to put the helmet on, then once more he says, ‘Hop on.’

  So I do. And that’s that.

  ‘Move closer,’ he says, as he starts the bike. ‘That’s right, wrap your legs round mine. Put your hands here.’ And he takes my hands then and puts them on his hips. And his hands are strong and hard on top of mine.

  ‘Okay?’ he says. Louder now, over the engine.

  I nod, then realize that’s no good and bend closer so he can hear and of course – because it’s the first time I’ve worn a helmet – the helmets clang together, and I see his teeth through the orange plastic of his visor and he’s laughing and I laugh back, and he must take that as yes, and we take off. And it is great, with the wind rushing against you, and I wish we didn’t have to wear these stupid helmets and you could just ride with the wind through your hair, and at one point I’m enjoying it so much, I move my hands further round until they’re meeting in front of Jason’s body and I press myself against his back, just for a moment, just to show how much I’m enjoying it. ‘Whoo-oo,’ he shouts and speeds up, and I have to lean back then and put my hands on his hips again because it’s too fast all of a sudden, and he must sense this, and he slows, and it’s weird – it’s almost as if I’m the one who’s in charge of the accelerator. And when we come to the actual entrance to the Park with the beam down across the road and the Park Closed sign illuminated in the bike’s light, Jason just accelerates around it, down the path where the coaches usually go, and we’re in and running free in the Park. A few minutes later, swooping over a tiny rise, I look to the left, following the line of Jason’s arm, and it’s there – the Rock, black and looming and looking so much bigger than in the day, and the moon is hanging above it, and Miss Temple’s right, it’s all pushed in on one side and looks fat and ready to fall like a giant teardrop.

  And then we’re off the road. ‘Hey –!’ is all I’ve got time to shout, and we’re bouncing now and entering a narrow track between the mulga, and dust and pebbles are spitting up from underneath us. ‘Where,’ I shout into the wind, ‘are we going?’ We slide close to the edge of the track, and something sharp rips at my jeans.

  ‘It’s a short-cut,’ he shouts back. And we’re going parallel to the Rock now, and not towards it.

  ‘Slow down, Jason,’ I shout again, ‘it’s too fast.’ But he doesn’t and I have to bang on his back with my open hand because I can feel the bike sliding and fishtailing underneath us now. And this finally gets the message through, and he does. Then turns right at a corner that you’d have to know was there, you’d never see it in the dark, and the road heads straight for the Rock. But it’s still too fast and bumpy and I have to wrap myself totally round him, because there are no handles or back-brace to hang onto.

  ‘Slow down,’ I yell again. ‘Or I’ll jump off.’

  And this time he must have heard, and I think he did before, but I don’t know if he believes me – that I would jump off, I mean – or has just worked out I’m really scared, because he slows right down and we can almost talk.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I keep forgetting. I just love going fast.’

  Which makes me feel like a sook and a spoilsport.

  ‘I don’t mind on the road,’ I say. But it’s not only the speed that I’m worried about, because we’ve turned again and it’s all mulga and thick black bushes now, and I can’t see the Rock at all and I’ve lost all sense of where we are.

  ‘It’s a short-cut,’ Jason says. ‘It cuts a few kilometres off. But we’ll go slow for a bit now anyway, cos we’re near the camp.’

  And he throttles back till the bike’s just chugging and I see the lights of the camp, and even with the helmet and the noise of the bike I’m suddenly able to hear the camp dogs barking and I wonder how the people ever sleep with all that racket, and then I realize they’re only making a racket because of us and wouldn’t be barking normally. But I know where we are now, and tell myself not to be such a wuss.

  ‘Is that where you live?’ I yell. And he’s the second person I’ve asked today.

  ‘No, that’s the local people. The Mutitjulu.’

  And that shocks me, because if he’s not the local people, who is he? If he’s a ranger?

  ‘I live in the Resort. In a van out the back with a mate.’

  I think about being out here, with your own bike, and being able to go anywhere, riding at night, and what boys can do and girls mostly can’t. And then suddenly we’re out of it, out of the mulga and the scrub without any warning – it just ends – and the Rock’s right there, Uluru, in front of us. And there’s a fire.

  It’s not huge, and it’s not blazing and rising up the face of the Rock or anything like I’d expected, but just flickering softly over the tops of the saltbush, and we’re still a long way away and too far now to see any lights from the camp behind us either, and only one dog is still barking and then there’s a distant shout and even it stops. And after all the noise and bouncing and shuddering of the bike, the silence is almost painful. Though Jason says, ‘Shh!’ and looks around. ‘I s’pose we better be quiet,’ he says, when he’s just driven a trailbike through the middle of the Park right past the camp! ‘It’d be better,’ he almost whispers, ‘if no one knew we were here.’ And he seems a lot less certain than he was this afternoon, or even just a few minutes back. And I wonder if he’s allowed in here after all, and if we’d both get into a lot of trouble if we were found.

  ‘We can sit over here.’ He’s whispering now, and when we do
find a spot and sit, he moves quite a bit away so I can hardly see him in the dark. And the moon’s out and the stars but the darkness is dense too once you get close to the red earth, and it doesn’t give back any light at all like sand or gravel does, and it’s so quiet. In Sydney, even in the quietest suburbs like the one we live in, you at least hear a car occasionally, or even, very late, an owl, or something. The noise from the ceremony, which I thought’d be loud and you’d hear singing even if it was only a drone and you couldn’t make out any words, and you’d at least hear music sticks clicking though no digeridoo because that’s male, you can barely hear it at all, and the loudest thing I hear once is a woman laughing. And I think of Nala and wonder if it’s her, and think how close she is, right now, and how far away, and wonder really why we’ve bothered to come. And it’s not as if Jason’s a problem or anything, I decide, he’s sitting so far away, or more squatting now, when I stare closely, or as if he’s brought me here just to try and pash on. But I’m still puzzled, and there’s nothing else to say, so I ask him:

  ‘If you don’t come from here, where do you?’

  ‘Originally, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not far from here …’ And just like with Mr Prescott before, I catch sight of his head silhouetted against the sky, except Jason’s hair’s so long and thick, it’s almost part of the bushes around him, but I still see him pointing with his chin. ‘Out that way,’ he says, ‘out towards Ebenezer.’

  ‘That’s a mountain, isn’t it? I saw it on the map.’

  ‘Shh! Voices carry. It’s also a station. I was born out there.’

  And I nearly ask if there was a hospital because it’s just a tiny dot on the map. But don’t, because something tells me it’d be stupid.

  ‘But after that?’ I say. ‘Before you came here?’ Because he’s already told me he’s only been here eight months.

  ‘Down in Adelaide.’ This surprises me. I’d never thought of him in a city. And he must feel like talking after all because next second he’s moved over and is sitting up against me, and I never even heard him move. ‘But things didn’t go right for me there.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. And I don’t feel I want to ask any more about this. But I’ve started him off now.

  ‘And once you do one little thing wrong, people get on your back, you know. You mess up once, and they expect you to mess up again, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They pigeonhole you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He’s digging at the ground now with a piece of stick he’s picked up. I can see the little spurts of earth leap up, hear them land on the stiff cloth of his jeans.

  ‘I’ve done some wrong things, Laura, I’m not saying I haven’t.’ His voice is as flat as any time I’ve heard it. ‘Some bad bad things.’ The thing with Jason, I’m finding, is you never know where he is. Not just physically, but his mood. It’s like his voice, it kind of comes and goes.

  ‘Some really stupid, really bad things,’ he says. ‘You know what I mean, eh?’ And I catch myself wondering then what Nala and the other women would say if I just arrived, if I just burst into their ceremony, if I’d be had up or something. ‘Things I’d never want to tell you about.’

  ‘No,’ I say. And I can’t move, it’d be like saying I was scared or something, and I can’t hear anything now, from the camp or the women at the Rock, and I wonder if they’re even still there or if they’ve gone, and God, I think, why didn’t I tell Toni.

  ‘Cos you hate yourself then, when you do.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Toni would have said The Park? With Jason? At night? Oh, no, you’re not, Miss. ‘But you don’t now,’ I say to him. Hoping.

  ‘Don’t what?’ he says, so close to my cheek I feel his breath on it. But I don’t look at him. And I wonder if he’s angry, or has just lost the thread. Because he does this. But I don’t look, because I don’t want to know.

  ‘Don’t hate yourself now.’

  ‘Oh no.’ He laughs and rocks back on his heels and sounds so normal I find I can edge away a little bit, just moving one buttock, and he doesn’t seem to notice, and it’s like there’s metres between us now, where there’s still only centimetres. ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head and looking down between his feet. ‘That was before.’

  ‘Before?’ I say. Because it seems better when we talk.

  ‘How do you mean, before?’ he says.

  ‘Well, you said it was before something. You used to hate yourself.’

  ‘Yes, I did. I was in this place –’

  ‘Place?’ I have to ask.

  ‘It was a Centre, and they were going to throw away the key. They said they were going to, but then I told them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d found Jesus.’ He laughs, and I don’t know whether he’s mocking me. Or himself. Or is even serious. ‘Have you, Laura?’

  ‘What?’ I say, and I would move, but his hand is on my arm and it’s as hard and intense as steel.

  ‘Found Jesus.’

  ‘No,’ I whisper. And it’s the only sound in the Park. ‘I’m not –’

  ‘Have you been washed,’ his breath is right in my face, ‘in the Blood of the Lamb?’

  ‘Please. You’re hurting.’

  ‘I have,’ he says. Laughing. ‘I’ve been washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and Jesus has lifted my sins from my shoulders. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Please, Jason.’

  ‘Jesus loves me, Laura. You know I never knew that. Till I was in that place.’

  ‘I’d like to go back now.’

  ‘And He came to me, and I was a sinner. I was one of the worst. But He just said: “He that believes in Me will come with Me before My Father who is in heaven. And live forever.” And He didn’t care what I’d done or what I’d been.’

  ‘Jason.’

  ‘He didn’t care at all. Because He loves every one of us, and He gave His life to prove it. He just said, “Follow me, and I will lead you to the Kingdom of God”.’

  ‘Jason, let go,’ I shout, ‘let go. You’re –’

  ‘Shh!’ he hisses back at me, and reaches out to put a hand over my mouth. ‘Shh!’

  ‘I’ll scream,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’re you shouting for?’ He’s kneeling up above me now, and his face is screwed up with fear and anger. ‘I haven’t even hurt you yet.’

  ‘I just …’ I force myself to speak quietly because I know it’s my voice that’s doing whatever it is to him. ‘I just want to go home. Back to the Resort. That’s all. I won’t tell anyone, or get anyone into trouble.’

  ‘I haven’t hurt you. You can’t say –’

  ‘I wouldn’t. You haven’t.’

  ‘Well, then. What did you come for?’

  ‘I’m just asking, that’s all. To take me back. Or let me –’

  ‘Why should I?’ And he looks at me then, cunning, as though it’s a trick, or a clever question, and everything depends on my answer.

  ‘Because,’ I say, ‘Jesus wants you to.’

  And it’s the longest minute in my life while his eyes search every inch of my face.

  ‘Yes,’ he says then, ‘Yess,’ and throws himself up to his feet, and his hands into the air above his head. ‘Let’s go,’ he cries, and doesn’t seem to mind who hears. Just grins and hurries over to his bike, and pulls it upright. He hands me my helmet, and starts the engine, revving it furiously. ‘Riding,’ he shouts, ‘for Jesus!’

  It’s way after midnight when we get back to the camp entrance. Jason has hummed and sung all the way back, and pointed out vistas of the Rock and special trees and pathways. He seems deliriously happy.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Laura,’ he says, as shy and polite as ever.

  ‘Thank you for taking me, Jason.’ I move quickly under the lamp and towards the section where our tents are pitched.

  ‘Would you like to go again?’ he calls from behind me. ‘Tomorrow?’

  I nearly stop at the phone box to ring Mum, ju
st to hear her voice and tell her I’m all right, but I imagine her voice saying, ‘Why wouldn’t you be?’ and ‘Where are you?’ and ‘Why are you up, and why are you ringing at this hour?’ and ‘Laura? Are you all right?’ And I know she’d insist on waking Miss Temple and talking to her there and then. So, I don’t. But I’m so glad to see a torch on in our tent, and Toni must be back when I half expected her to be out all night.

  But she must hear me coming, and the light goes off even before I start unzipping the tent.

  ‘Toni? I know you’re awake.’

  But she won’t answer, and I think this is so mean I won’t talk to her even if she is awake. I just climb into my sleeping bag with all my clothes on and shiver till I get warm and stop, even though it’s not cold at all but freaky weather, the forecast and the ranger’s office said, and I lie there thinking of Mum and the picture that comes is her feeding Thomas and normally I’d just go, ‘Yuk,’ and put it out of my mind, but this time the experience’s so strong I can almost hear him sucking and snuffling. And I smell his hot fuggy breath. Or someone’s.

  And it’s Toni’s, I realize. And she’s been crying.

  ‘Are you going to sleep all day?’ Toni says, and shakes me. It’s hot and close in the tent, and it smells like a storm.

  ‘What time is it?’ I feel spacey and out of it. In the night I kept waking and wondering where I was, and I’d have to reach out and touch the cotton of the tent. Now the flap of the tent is half-folded back on itself, and I can see it’s not dawn yet, but there’s the same strange light in the sky still, and low grey cloud. ‘What time is it?’ I say again.

  ‘These are for you,’ Toni says instead.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘What do you think they are? Bananas?’

  She’s holding out a spray of wildflowers. There are sprigs of wattle and young gum shoots in amongst the flowers, and they’re all wrapped at the bottom with aluminium foil.

  ‘Who are they from?’

  ‘Who do you think? He dropped them off a few minutes ago. I was out near the gate, and he was on his bike, on his way to work.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’