I sigh, searching for the right words.
‘It was nice to see Nathan with you every day,’ says Jenny, as if reading my mind. ‘He was really great with the baby. I know how scared you were. I know that’s why you were reluctant to tell him.’
‘You told me at the hospital that day that I had the scan, that I might, you know, want Nathan’s love.’ It’s so hard to admit this. I start to choke up. ‘I was so afraid of wanting it and not getting it.’
‘You didn’t think you deserved it, but you do. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you . . .’
I end the call with Jenny so I can have a cry, but it’s a happy one. How lucky am I to have a friend like Jenny! A challenging friend. She’s not sweet and unendingly devoted like Lou-Anne. Nor does she worship me like Olivia does. But she does have my back. She has had my back during this whole strange, wonderful, embarrassing and ugly process. She stood up to me when she thought I was wrong, and that’s no easy task.
Where would I be without my friends?
I’m not only talking about my Oakholme friends either. I’m talking about my old Barraba friend, Ashley, who’s full of advice about breastfeeding and getting an unsettled baby off to sleep. She’s almost as excited as if Olivia Jamie were her own baby. And my over-the-back-fence friend Taylor is smug – the only one of our mob who’s not a mum, and therefore free to do as she pleases. Lucky her. She’s more the leader than I ever was.
Where would I be without these girls, common like me, posh like me?
I don’t have much time to consider my question, because the peace is rent by the lusty little cry of my hungry newborn. My boobs sting at the mere sound of it. I know that these are just the first stirrings of all the pain and love Olivia Jamie O’Brien is going to bring during our time together – the rest of my life.
31
I’VE ALWAYS HATED speech night. It’s such a long, stuffy, boring affair. Never-ending speeches, dull prize-giving ceremonies and lacklustre musical numbers are the norm. Usually the best thing you can say about it is that when it’s over, you know you’re on holidays. It’s a thrill this year, though, because I know it’s the last speech night I’ll ever have the honour and burden of sitting through.
Things are a bit different this year with Reverend Ferguson at the helm.
For starters, she invites Lou-Anne to sing the national anthem. Lou-Anne performs it pitch-perfect and without accompaniment to rapturous cheers and a standing ovation.
Then, instead of paying some D-grade celebrity to give a motivational speech about how they got to be a D-grade celebrity, Reverend Ferguson asks me to do a speech. I am, after all, Oakholme College’s first Indigenous scholarship graduate. Though at times I’ve been unwilling, I’ve blazed a wide enough trail for others to follow. I have done something good.
Self-Raising Flour gave me a lot of freedom in writing my speech. The only parameters were that I keep it under fifteen minutes and that I not mention my pregnancy, my baby or my short-lived expulsion.
‘Trust me, Shauna, there won’t be a person in the Town Hall who doesn’t know you’ve had a baby. I just don’t think we need to rub the noses of our more conservative parents in your outstanding fertility.’
In fact, my baby’s in the audience tonight, gurgling in Olivia Pike’s arms somewhere near the back, so they can make a quick exit if need be. My parents are out there somewhere, too. So are my other friends.
The subject of my speech, which I have rote-learned over many hours of breastfeeding, is about giving girls, particularly girls from difficult backgrounds, lots of chances. I talk about the kind of girl I was when I was twelve, the things that had already happened to me, and the things that probably would have happened to me if I’d stayed in my community in Barraba.
My point is that merely introducing a poor, poorly educated girl into a wealthy, academically strong school is almost certainly not enough to ensure she makes it. I talk about some of the bad things I used to do, like lying, stealing, fighting, flaking out and hiding. I say that if anyone had taken a snapshot of my character for my first two and half years at Oakholme College, I would certainly have been declared unfit to attend the school. It takes time to build character and virtue, I argue, especially when you start with a handicap. If you begin judging someone too early, you’ll probably find enough fault to justify giving up on them. Sticking with difficult people in the long term is hard, but it’s important.
‘At the beginning of the year, I attended a Change the Date rally in Hyde Park. People were calling not only to move Australia Day, but to tear down statues of our early white explorers. The amount and intensity of press coverage for this event was astonishing. It made me wonder what would be possible if we focused as much on education as we do on the dates, words and symbols that have become popular political footballs.
‘I’m not saying that history and hurt feelings aren’t important, but it’s too easy to spend one day a year complaining, and much harder to support someone’s journey through the school system. There are no rallies or medals for outcomes in education. For students like me, though, they’re much more important. Because if you have your health, a good education and a few people who are willing to give you a chance, then there are no excuses. It doesn’t matter where you’re from or who your family is.
‘So, thank you, parents, students, staff and friends of Oakholme College, for giving me a million and one fresh chances. I desperately needed every single one of them. And I am thoroughly grateful for all of them.’
There’s a tense, dangling moment of silence before thunderous applause. I walk back to my seat, a young mother in school uniform, feeling as grateful as I sound. If I could see Mr Street-Hughes, I’d probably thank him myself.
I scoop two academic prizes, Maths and French, and Jenny hogs most of the rest. Jenny is dux of the school, and she deserves to be. She’s worked a lot harder than I have for years. When she walks onto stage to accept her prize, it strikes me how incredible it is that I’m friends with la crème de la crème of a posh Sydney private school. That must make me some kind of insider. In spite of everything that’s happened, or maybe even because of it, I’ve cracked the code.
For the month before speech night, I’d been in Barraba. Living with my parents and the baby has been okay. I’m at the stage where I can only think as far as the next feed, the next sleep. I’m still too zonked to yearn for the excitement and sophistication of the city and I can barely get excited about my eighteenth birthday. My parents are planning to throw a big party at our house. Everyone’s coming – Jenny, Lou-Anne, Big Olivia, Bindi, Indu, my family from Bathurst, Ashley and Taylor from Barraba, and, of course, Nathan.
It’s going well between Nathan and me. As I keep telling Lou-Anne, I got lucky twice with the man in my life. I’m very fortunate, considering how random our get-together was, to have such a kind, sweet guy as the father of my child.
Do you know what he said to me recently?
He said, ‘I think I was lonely before I met you and you had Olivia. Now that I have you both, I’ll never feel alone.’
My heart tripped when he said that, like it does every time I lay eyes on him after a bit of a break.
I’ve been to the farm at Kootingal almost every weekend since the birth to hang out with him and his family. His parents, Alan and Glenda, have been scrupulously nice and welcoming, and they adore Olivia. They’re still freaked out that their son has a baby, though, and I can tell they’re disappointed that Nathan’s decided to defer his agriculture studies in the city for at least another year. He says he’s too busy, and he doesn’t want to leave Olivia and me.
I haven’t deferred my studies. There was no way that was ever going to happen, no matter how tired I was. Even if my ATAR isn’t as high as I think it’ll be, I’ll probably still get into a Bachelor of Communications degree at the university in Armidale, about two hours’ drive away. I’ll start out online, but I might be able to attend lectures later on, when Olivia’s old enough for d
ay care. Nathan’s even talked about us moving to Armidale together, but it’s still very early days.
At the moment, to be honest, all I care about is sleep. I’m so wiped out that I can barely string a sentence together. I love the relentlessly growing Olivia, but she’s sucked all the life out of me with that toothless, burpy mouth.
Looking after a baby is hard, but I can tell you that there are worse things in life than a teenager having a baby. I think Aboriginal girls know this better than other Australians, because we often come up so hard. We may be less worldly than other Aussie girls, but we’ve seen more of life, usually the disappointing side, and in that sense we’re older than our years. We know that in the scheme of things, a baby is okay. For so many of us, it’ll be the best thing that ever happens to us.
Before my baby existed, I’d never thought about it, but now I know that, despite popular sentiment and the ethos of abortion clinics, embarrassment is not a cause of death. Yes, I’m a bit embarrassed that I had a baby when I was seventeen, but I think I was even more embarrassed before I got pregnant.
I realise now that being poor embarrassed me. Sadly, being Aboriginal embarrassed me. My brother’s death embarrassed me. Even my family embarrassed me. Not anymore. Motherhood and the love of those closest to me have helped to free me from that. I accept my past and even honour it for making me the person I am today. A good mum. An attentive girlfriend (yes, Nathan introduces me as his girlfriend!). A supportive friend. A top student.
For the rest of my life, I will love who I please, be who I am, and say what I feel.
The applause lasts long after I’ve descended the stairs of the Town Hall stage. I grin and blush furiously as I stride down the aisle towards the two Olivias. I’m still not great at accepting praise or gifts, but I think I’ve worked out the key to this. As Olivia Pike passes the sleeping Olivia O’Brien into my long, brown arms, I tell myself, you deserve it.
About the Author
Kathleen is an Australian lawyer and writer. She was born in rural Victoria and now lives between Australia and Europe with her husband and their four children.
Shauna's Great Expectations Page 24