by Tim Pegler
Mick didn’t like her. As he escorted her out of the office, he stuck his head back inside and whispered to me: ‘Now if I wanted a guard dog, not a cook …’
In the corridor I heard him say, ‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Redpath. I’ll call you and let you know.’ Then he was greeting the next applicant: Erin.
PART 2
ERIN
CHAPTER 9
People reckon I talk too much — schoolteachers, friends, even my boss at the bakery. They’re forever asking me to stop, to give someone else a chance to speak or just to pause and let some peace and quiet leak into the room. ‘Take a breath, Erin,’ my mate Bron says. ‘We’re not going anywhere. And you’re gonna need air if you’re ever going to finish the world’s longest sentence.’
OK, so I’m a bit of a chatterbox, a motormouth. I try not to be so loud but I can’t seem to help it. I get excited. I like having an audience, whether it’s my mates or just Mr Wood’s old collie as I dawdle back from school. Or the wattlebirds looping and gargling in the tangle of grevilleas beside the washing line. Sometimes, daggy as it is, I’ll even yammer on to my shadow. Why I talk so much, I’m not exactly sure. I certainly don’t get it from my folks.
When Mum and Dad are speaking to each other — and that’s not often lately — they don’t say much. Poor Mum needs her energy just to get through each day. And Dad, he’s a man of few words and many grunts. ‘Mmphf’ or ‘nup’ is usually as good as it gets. ‘Yup, righto’ is practically a speech.
I never knew my grandparents. I wonder if they were talkers. I’ve heard that family characteristics can skip a generation and then come back — boom! Like baldness. Apparently a bloke with no hair might have kids with great mops of the stuff, but their sons will struggle to wear out a comb, all because of some intergenerational joke. Great, eh? Maybe that’s why I’m a chatterbox. What my parents missed out on filtered down to me … truckloads of words they never got around to using but I’m doin’ my best to get through. ‘Full of talk with nothing to say’ is how my Aunty Rhona once described me. I reckon that’s a bit harsh.
Actually, I’ve a fair idea why I’m such a talker. I put it down to a couple of things. For starters, I’m an only child. Secondly, my family never settled in one spot until eighteen months ago. Growing up on the road, without brothers and sisters, I didn’t get much chance to make friends. So I made up imaginary mates and chattered away to them. I’d yak until Mum would interrupt with, ‘Honestly, Erin, you could talk under wet cement. I really don’t know where you get that from but it sure as hell isn’t your father.’ Then Dad would utter one of his caveman growls and they’d start arguing again.
They used to be good mates, Mum and Dad. Not any more. Their relationship’s a bit like Dad’s ute: rusty, dented and too many miles on the clock.
Anyway, I was telling you about me; introducing myself properly. My name is Erin Murphy. No middle name, just Erin Murphy. Mum and Dad struggled to agree on one name, apparently, let alone a whole string of them.
What else can I tell you? Well, for starters, I’m sixteen. I’m in fourth form at Murnong High. I have two best friends, Bron and Shelley. No boyfriend but I did have my eye on someone until things went sour. More on that later.
My old man’s a shearer when he’s working … umm, or not locked up. Dad’s done some time, mainly for burgs and handling stolen stuff. He’s obviously no master criminal because he keeps getting caught, even for crimes he didn’t do. That’s Dad for you. ‘Thick as thieves’ applies to him in more ways than one. If you reckon that’s cruel, think about it from my perspective. We do it hard when he’s not working but he’d rather Mum and I go without than give up a mate and avoid gaol. It’s a matter of principle, he says. ‘Murphys aren’t dobbers,’ he says. ‘Sometimes ya gotta carry the can for yer mates. It stinks but ya just have to cop it on the chin.’
Back when Dad was shearing, he worked with a team, travelling from shed to shed. Mum was team cook and helped sweep the shed floors. She’d have made a great wool classer but it was frowned upon for women to have such an important position. OK, she didn’t have the certificate but I reckon she had the hang of it better than some classers I’ve seen. Mum tried a bit of rousing too, but hurt her back. Rousing was pretty much off limits too. ‘Men’s work, love’, the bosses would say when she tried to earn some extra bucks. So much for the sixties, eh? What revolution? For all the kerfuffle about women’s liberation, there we were in the seventies and Mum never really got a chance to do more than sweep rattling piles of dags across the greasy floorboards — that, and cook for the locusts who did the shearing.
The shearing life ended for Mum and me when she got crook. She’s got arthritis. Riddled with it, she is. It’s in her knees, hips and spreading to her hands, quick as blackberries through a paddock. Once it got its hooks into her, she was too sore to travel around so much, so Dad took a lease on a place in Murnong, in the heart of the Western District. The idea was there were plenty of sheep around so he’d never be short of work. If only it was that simple. The truth of the matter is we don’t see much of him these days. Ever since he stopped travelling with the team, he’s been at loose ends, finding more trouble than work.
So, even with her arthritis, Mum has to battle on. She works as a cleaner and does a bit of sewing when she’s up to it. It’s real tough. By the end of each day she’s too knackered for chatting so I cook and, more often than not, we eat in silence. Then it’s dishes, homework and bed. Excitement city, I know.
Partly that’s life in a small country town. Murnong is the sort of joint you don’t get around to slowing down for on the highway. By the time you realise you’re in Murnong, you’re well on the way to Dunkeld. That’s what the Dunkeld locals say, anyway. There’s no love lost between the two towns, believe me. Especially when it comes to footy. To add fuel to the fire, the Murnong copper books as many Dunkeld folks for speeding as he can. The ‘Murnong Mauler’ is what folks call him. I dunno whether he gets the nickname from the way he plays centre halfback or his ability to collect Dunkeld scalps out on the highway.
OK, OK, I’m rambling again. I was going to tell you the other reason why Mum and I live a quiet life and keep pretty much to ourselves. In a nutshell, things have taken a turn for the worse here in Murnong. I told you I was keen on a boy — that I had a crush on someone. Well, that’s one of the reasons we might have to leave town.
CHAPTER 10
Is there any worse feeling than stepping onto a school bus and having twenty-four sets of eyes crawl over you — and then turn away, disinterested? Or stepping into a classroom and having to scan the room for an empty desk, praying for just one face that won’t ignore you — and getting the ‘don’t pick me’ vibe from every single kid with a spare seat beside them?
Come to think of it, there is a worse feeling. I’ve experienced it too many times to count. You’re the new kid at school again, just about to summon enough dignity to stride over to an empty seat. As you take your first step, the teacher arrives. The principal has worded her up on the nomadic shearer’s kid joining her class for the next three weeks and she’s determined to do her bit, the whole Good Samaritan thing. So, nudging you front and centre, she introduces you and nominates your new guide dog: ‘Heather, can you show Erin around today please?’ And ever so briefly, before Heather replies ‘Of course, Miss’, there’s a hint of the venom to come, a quicksilver scowl for me and me alone.
Sure enough, at the first available moment, ‘Heather’ fixes you with a frosty glare and mutters, ‘If you think I’m going to baby-sit you or be your new best buddy you can think again. Look after yourself. And stay out of my way.’
It isn’t always that brutal. In fact, for all the downsides to growing up on the road and always being the new kid, there was one real positive — starting over. Every time we changed towns, it was another chance to try stuff, to be whoever I wanted. I was the teenage chameleon, girl of one thousand faces. Because the kids and teachers didn’t know me, I could re
invent myself, roll the dice, be brash, bold, confident, bookish, sporty, sassy, shy — whatever took my fancy. At one of my many schools, the geography teacher passed around a test marked ‘Hand in at end of period. 25 marks’. So that’s what I did. While the other kids scribbled away frantically, I sat there, waiting. Watched a blowie smack into the window glass and loop back for another go and then another. Slow learners, those blowies. Anyway, when the bell eventually rang, I handed the teacher my test paper, unmarked.
‘Miss Murphy, would you care to explain why you have not answered any questions?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t ask me to,’ I replied, smugly. ‘All it says is to hand in the paper at the end of the class for 25 marks. Easiest test I’ve ever done.’
I didn’t get full marks, I got a detention. But, more importantly, I got some laughs from the other kids. It broke the ice. Better to be the class clown than the class leper, I say. I’d rather be visible than invisible, believe me.
So when we got to Murnong, I was determined to make a go of it. You can’t know how excited I was. It was the first chance I’d ever had to settle into a school, to be part of something, to understand the way things fitted together — who’d kissed who, who used to be best friends but didn’t speak any more, who got in strife for letting the principal’s tyres down — all the stuff I never had time to absorb before. I also had a chance to make friends, get a job and become a local, someone who belonged. And, for the first twelve months or so, everything went to plan. Then came the cricket club disco.
In Murnong, the kids start talking about the disco a couple of months before it happens. The girls sunbaking on the concrete paths near the oval (where they can watch the boys showing off) giggle about who they’d like to go with, what they’re going to wear and what boy, if any, might invite them. I didn’t figure on any of the boys asking me but I didn’t ’specially care. After a great deal of nagging and pleading with Mum, I was just happy to be allowed to go.
That’s not to say I wouldn’t have liked a boy to invite me. Not just any boy, either — one in particular: Lachlan McMaster.
Like me, Lachlan is an only child. Unlike me, Lachlan is from a wealthy family — the first in Murnong to get a colour TV, according to Shelley. Lachlan attends boarding school in Geelong but comes back home most weekends. During the cricket season, he opens the bowling for the Murnong Cricket Club.
I first laid eyes on Lachlan when he swaggered into the bakery where I’d scored a Saturday morning job. Talk about gorgeous! Dark, shoulder-length curly hair, a Cheshire Cat smile and oozing the confidence that goes with being tall, not to mention a prince in a small town. Tongue-tied for the first time in my life, I scooped a meat pie into a paper bag for him and squirted some sauce on top. Then I smiled and asked, ‘Will that be all?’ His answer made me blush. ‘Why, what else are you offering?’ Then he winked and left the bakery.
‘Lachlan McMaster winked at me,’ I told my mates at school the following Monday. ‘No way,’ they chorused. ‘Tell us. Tell us everything. Every gory detail.’ After I told them, playing up the flirting as much as I could, Bron was bouncing about, chanting, ‘Luscious Lachie, luscious Lachie, Erin loves Lachie,’ but Shelley was silent and serious. Surprised, I asked, ‘What’s up?’ ‘Sorry, Erin. I just reckon you should know Lachlan’s sort of seeing a fifth form girl, Amanda Price. It’s pretty well known round town that Mrs McMaster thinks Amanda is the only girl good enough for Lachlan. I just … I just don’t reckon you should get your hopes up.’
I laughed. ‘Not likely! I’ve got as much chance of getting cosy with Lachlan as I do of taking over from Mr Whitlam as Prime Minister. But it can’t hurt to dream, can it? And maybe flirt a little?’
‘Just be careful,’ Shelley replied. ‘Mrs Price thinks she runs this town. And Mrs McMaster, well, she practically bloody well owns it.’
I didn’t see Lachlan at the bakery again. Didn’t see him anywhere until the disco, other than in my dreams, that is. Lachlan was making so many appearances of an evening that I was beginning to believe we’d danced together already. If only I’d sussed out in my sleep what he was really like.
So there I was at the disco, grooving to Skyhooks and Abba with the girls, when Bron leaned over and yelled, ‘Guess who’s here.’ I twirled around to look towards the door — and spun smack bang into Lachlan.
I giggled and said, ‘Hi.’ Brilliant, eh? Lachlan said nothing. Just kept walking. The dance-floor crowd parted like he was Moses as he made his way over to the Anglican youth group crowd, where Amanda Price looked more smug than usual. Me, I just grinned at Bron and went back to dancing. The music was ace.
Mum had made me promise two things before I left. I wasn’t to drink alcohol and I had to be home by 11.30. So, when it came 11.20, I said goodbye to the girls and headed for the door. I was going to go down the lane at the back of the hall and take a short cut to my place.
I was on the bottom step when I heard a voice call from behind me. ‘Hey, Erin.’ Lachlan. He slid down the railing beside the stairs and jumped right in front of me. He was only inches from my face, looking down at me, even though I was still on the step.
‘Leaving so early,’ he said. ‘And without even saying goodbye.’
‘My goodbye was as good as your hello,’ was what I was thinking but I didn’t have time to say anything cute. Lachlan suddenly had an arm around me, pulling me close. Now that was the last thing I’d expected. Perhaps he was into me!
‘Lachlan …’ I mumbled, thinking he could walk me home. As much as I’d daydreamed about kissing him, the prospect of the real thing seemed daunting. I’d never kissed anyone before — unless you count Paul Jones in kiss-chasey at primary school.
‘I, err, have to be …’ I started, but Lachlan wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He bent towards me and, with one hand behind my head, pulled my face to his and started to kiss me. I admit I didn’t mind it at first. His lips were soft. I could smell his aftershave. His arm around me felt strong and warm. Safe.
Then his hand moved from my head to my shoulder. Then lower. Suddenly he was squeezing my breast. I pulled my head back, trying to get away. He had me pinned against the railing, one arm blocking me, the other tugging at my dress, trying to pull it from my shoulders.
‘No … stop,’ I managed to utter, wriggling to get under his arm.
‘What’s the matter,’ he leered. ‘Not so saucy now? Come on, no one needs to know.’
Then he swooped forward and bit me, hard, on the neck.
At that I brought one foot down on his, stamping as hard as I could. Lachlan leapt backwards, yelping. Off balance, I fell to the ground, tearing my knee and grazing my outstretched hand. Terrified he was coming after me, I scrambled on all fours, away from the steps.
As I reached the dark opening of the laneway, I picked myself up and turned to see if he was following. Amanda Price was at the top of the stairs, glaring down at Lachlan. Catching my eye, she snarled ‘Filthy slut’ at me and then turned and strode back inside, slamming the door behind her.
Tears seared my cheeks as I ran home.
CHAPTER 11
I woke to the sound of someone belting on the front door. There was no way known I was going to answer it. I ached all over. Besides, it had to be someone looking for Dad, judging by the racket they were making. Sure enough, when Mum eventually opened the door it was the local cop, Sergeant Fitzpatrick. But he wasn’t after Dad. He wanted me.
‘What in God’s name do you want with Erin?’ Mum appealed. ‘She’s a good girl.’
‘There was an incident at the disco last night. An assault. Certain allegations have been made. I need to speak with her.’
I scrambled out of bed, wincing as I put on my dressing gown. I wondered who had reported Lachlan. Surely not Amanda! But who? I didn’t have long to think about it. Fitzpatrick was in a hurry. He didn’t mince his words.
‘Erin, I understand there was trouble at the dance last night. I plan to get to the bottom of it.’
‘I
… yes, I guess so,’ I said quietly. ‘I was just leaving when …’ It had sounded like an invitation to tell my story but the sergeant wasn’t done.
‘I had a call from Mr Jameson McMaster this morning. He was most unhappy that young Lachlan was attacked at the cricket club dance.’
Attacked? Who attacked Lachlan? Did it happen after I ran home? The only attack I knew about happened to me!
‘Erin, I have a complaint, corroborated by a witness, that you assaulted Lachlan. What have you got to say?’
I was stunned. I shook my head to make sure I was actually awake. Mum reacted first, her swollen hands knotting the sash on her dressing gown as she spoke. ‘You better come in, sergeant. There’s gotta be … I’m sure there’s been some sort of mistake.’
In the kitchen, Mum filled the electric jug and set it chortling as I lowered myself, gingerly, onto a chair.
‘The only attack I know anything about happened to me,’ I began.
‘This is going to go a lot smoother if you tell the truth,’ the sergeant barked.
‘Just let her speak.’ There was a grim tone to Mum’s voice I hadn’t heard before. A warning. I had visions of her snatching a frying pan and giving the sergeant a belt around the ear. He must have felt it too. He sat straighter and said nothing.
‘Mum wanted me to be home by half eleven so I left at twenty past. I was going to go down the back lane to get home the quick way.
‘I was going down the stairs when someone called my name. I turned around and it was Lachlan. He … he grabbed me without warning … started kissing me. The next thing I knew he was … sorry, Mum … he was touching me, hurting me, he wouldn’t let go.
‘I told him to stop but he wouldn’t. So I tramped on his foot as hard as I could, pushed him away and I ran … except I fell from the stairs and scratched my knee pretty badly. There’s probably blood all over my dress …’