Because of You

by Pip Harry

  I’m so hungry I’d follow that platter anywhere.

  ‘Yeah alright. But I don’t have any stories.’

  ‘Everyone’s got something to say.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Especially you.’

  Aimee is walking ahead of me, talking breathlessly. She’s giving me a tour of the shelter.

  There’s a main living area downstairs with wipeable plastic coverings, a communal TV and pool table. Living quarters upstairs. I peek inside an empty bedroom. A single bed lies to one side of a dark, narrow room, with a built-in desk. There’s a small painting of Jesus and a bible on the side table. It’s grim.

  My own bedroom is a palace in comparison. I have a white four-poster bed and a flat screen TV mounted to the wall. A stuffed shoe rack and a desk with an iPad and a new MacBook. My magazines sorted into piles. A bookcase filled with all my favourite reads. A nail polish station set up on a small table. Every bit of it welcoming and warm. Every bit of it mine.

  ‘Hope Lane provides emergency accommodation for thirteen homeless women and sixty-three men for up to three months … sometimes longer if we can’t place them elsewhere. I’m here full-time, but it’s volunteers like you, like Eddie, that keep the place going. The writing group is Eddie’s creation. He came to me with the idea and didn’t let it go until we set it up. Our residents love participating in creative activities. We also have a theatre group, art and craft, and a choir. We can go to the writing space now. On your right are the bathrooms if you need them.’

  ‘Where are the homeless people?’ I ask. The place is deserted.

  ‘We have a 9 to 5 lock-out,’ Aimee says. ‘The only exception is workshops, meetings with their case worker, counselling, a visiting doctor or Centrelink. That’s one of the reasons our little writing group is so popular. Particularly when it’s too hot or too cold. Gets them off the streets and inside for a couple of hours. Oh, and the afternoon tea can be quite scrummy sometimes. I hope you brought an appetite.’

  I haven’t eaten anything since a spaghetti toastie at lunchtime, but my stomach turns at the thought of eating in this place.

  Aimee hands me a volunteer booklet with a checklist to go through. I flip through it, overwhelmed.

  ‘Okay, first up: your role here. We will expect you here every Wednesday at 1.45pm, and the group usually runs until 4pm. Your tasks will be to set up and serve the afternoon tea, including hot and cold drinks, and clean up afterwards. Everyone pitches in with that though. I’ll show you around the kitchen shortly. You’ll sit in with the group and participate in the writing exercise, and offer encouragement if the residents ask for it. But mostly listen, participate and be enthusiastic.’

  Enthusiastic. I’d have to fake it. I feel tired and distracted. I force myself to focus on Aimee, and not let her voice become a distant drone.

  ‘I’m a trained support worker and my job is to make sure everyone feels secure and settled during the writing. Eddie runs the exercises. We have some house rules. Don’t give out your personal details – no emails, addresses or phone numbers. Use first names only. We ask our volunteers to keep their work and interactions with the residents here confidential. We don’t know why they’re homeless. We generally don’t ask. My advice is keep it light. Have fun with the writing. They usually do. Later we can go over the health and safety regs, then we can set up the writing table.’

  She goes to a supply cupboard and hands me a box of notepads and pens.

  ‘You can come to me any time if you have any concerns or questions. What are you hoping to gain from your volunteering with us?’

  ‘To do my hours, I guess. I can’t get my HSC without them.’

  She looks at me, disappointed. My answer was honest, but I wish I’d taken a moment to spin a line about helping others less fortunate than me.

  ‘Okay, I hope you’ll get more out of the experience than ticking a box.’

  Aimee scatters bunches of flowers and herbs on the writing table. They give off a faint aroma of oregano and mint. She lines up a few small bottles of perfume.

  ‘What are these for?’

  ‘Sensory stuff to help start a story. Props are good for this group. Bring in anything you think will inspire creativity – photos, newspaper clippings, music.’

  I carefully arrange the books and pens in front of the chairs, like I’m setting the table for dinner.

  My heart drums. I’m terrified. Mr J said he’d try to get another student to volunteer with me, but he couldn’t find anyone who was keen. I’m kicking myself for not doing the aged care choir with Ebony this year.

  ‘You good? Any questions?’ I shake my head, straighten one of the notepads and go quiet. Aimee stops what she’s doing and sits down on a chair. She motions for me to do the same. ‘Are you okay, Nola?’

  ‘I’m a bit scared,’ I admit, thinking of the homeless man at the station. His rags and wild eyes.

  ‘You’ll be fine. I promised Mr Jeffreys we’d take care of you, so I’ll make sure you leave in one piece.’ She smiles, but I don’t.

  ‘I know we did the training, but I don’t know what to expect …’

  ‘Some weeks it’s sane and we get the most beautiful writing and profound words. Other weeks – bedlam.’

  Bedlam. How are we supposed to contend with bedlam? Arm ourselves with poems and ballpoints? What was the saying, the pen is mightier than the sword? Not when someone’s having a meth meltdown.

  ‘Let’s have a break.’

  Aimee draws the curtains and opens the balcony doors. We both step outside gratefully, breathing deeply.

  ‘I’ll never get sick of this view,’ Aimee says.

  We’re high enough to see across the suburbs to the hard lines of the city and the needle of Centrepoint Tower. Below us is a spread of bars and cafes, new build apartments and a round white chapel with a florist shop out front. Aimee leans on the balcony, closing her eyes against the warm sun, which has finally come out after a day of gloomy drizzle and cold wind.

  ‘I love it up here. So peaceful.’

  A small crowd gathers around the entrance below, waiting to be let in.

  ‘Ah, we have some takers,’ says Aimee. She rubs her belly and stretches out her back. ‘I better go to the loo … for the twenty-fifth time today. I’m pregnant, Nola, so my body isn’t my own anymore. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes. Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  I’m filling up water jugs in the upstairs kitchenette when Eddie arrives.

  ‘When are they going to fix that elevator?’ he shouts, leaning on his knees and panting heavily. He staggers into the writing room, then doubles back, sticking his head and shoulders into the kitchen. He considers me, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Nola, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  He reaches out a hand. Mine is sopping wet, but he shakes it firmly, smiling and holding eye contact in a way boys my age rarely do. He makes my stomach do a small hop. Until I remember my heart is a mixed-up Rubik’s Cube and I’ll never let anyone piece it back together.

  ‘I’m Eddie Go. Aimee says you’re the star of your English class, so I’m sure you’ll have fun with our writers.’

  The writing group arrive, staring at me curiously.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks one guy, pointing at me. He peers at me through broken glasses, a Sydney Swans beanie on his head. His body twitches and jerks. He clasps a book that looks like it’s been dragged around the city for years on a rope. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. One of my favourites. I’ve read it twice and wrote an essay on it.

  ‘That’s a good book,’ I say.

  ‘What would you know? You’re a foetus.’

  ‘I liked it. That’s what I know.’

  He stares at me aggressively, pulling the book under his arm like I might try to steal it.

  ‘Nola’s from a
local school. She’s here to do her community service placement. This is Drew. Be nice, mate,’ says Aimee.

  ‘I’m always nice,’ Drew says with a sly wink. He tries to shake my hand, but I keep my arms pinned to my sides. He’s a wolf and I’m Red Riding Hood.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ says Drew, shoving his hand back in his pocket. ‘Princess.’

  One guy comes in and collapses on a chair. His head rolls back and he passes out, the whites of his eyes still showing. He starts snoring loudly.

  Eddie leans into my ear. ‘Don’t worry. He’s on the nod. Sleeping. Happens sometimes if they’re on the methadone program. He’s harmless.’

  Aimee gives the guy a shake. ‘Zak, wake up, it’s time for writing group.’

  Zak struggles back to a sitting position, scratching his armpit.

  ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’

  We get the group together and sit down at the table. I do a count: four homeless people.

  And Aimee, Eddie and me. It hardly seems worth the effort.

  ‘Alright everyone. As you can see we have a new person today,’ says Eddie. ‘Nola is going to help serve afternoon tea and participate in our exercises. I’m told she’s a terrific writer, please make her feel welcome. Let’s start with free writing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asks the girl from the kitchen. Tiny. She’s a homeless resident, not a student like I first thought.

  Up close, her skin is scattered with ginger freckles and her disappointed eyes are a mossy green. She dresses like she doesn’t want anyone to look at her, but her body is graceful. She holds her back straight, shoulders down. A dancer? I try not to stare. She’s too young to be here. She should be tucked into bed each night with a school uniform hanging out for the morning. What happened to her? Where are her parents?

  ‘Free writing. Does it mean we don’t have to pay for it?’ laughs Pee Wee.

  Pee Wee has the haggard, half-dead vibe of an ageing rock star. He’s almost fashionable in snakeskin leather pants, mismatched socks, a bright green waistcoat and a fedora on top of a bone-white ponytail. He doesn’t seem to hear very well. He only gets half of the conversation and the rest of the time he’s on his own planet.

  Tiny taps a pen on her thigh and glances at the exit like she wants to run. The old guy Zak pats her arm, and I wonder what the deal is with them. They seem like father and daughter.

  ‘Free writing is a warm-up,’ explains Eddie. ‘It’s a brain dump. Ten minutes as usual, guys. We won’t share.’

  Eddie sets his antique watch on the table, something my grandfather might wear. He bends into a brown leather-bound journal and becomes completely absorbed, the tip of his tongue resting on his top lip, his nose almost touching the pages.

  We sit in a circle with our heads down. The only sounds are the gentle snuffle of breathing, and pens scratching on paper. Everyone seems to be spilling over with words. Except me. I write the date on the top and my name, and chew on my pen.

  ‘Okay?’ Aimee mouths to me from across the circle. I give her a thumbs-up and return to the blank page.

  I remember a writing trick that sometimes works for me, when I’m stuck. You repeat ‘I don’t know what to write’ until something else comes out.

  I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what to write.

  My phone blinks at me from the top of my bag. During group, phones are supposed to be put away on silent mode, but it might be a text from Tom.

  I quietly take out my phone and hold it under the table. It’s a message from Ebony. Disappointed, I swipe it open with the corner of my thumb.

  OMG. Did you hear? Tom is going out with Holly Spencer.

  Holly is in Year Eleven. She’s tiny, blonde and good at gymnastics. How could Tom have replaced me so quickly?

  Eddie glances sideways at me. ‘Phones away,’ he whispers.

  I shove my phone back into my bag, embarrassed, and turn back to my mostly blank page. I usually love creative writing, but today my brain is a dried-up husk. I can’t squeeze anything out. Now, all I can think about is Holly Spencer sitting at the Maloneys’ dinner table. Holly Spencer in Tom’s room with the door closed.

  ‘Right. Time’s up!’ says Eddie.

  Eddie’s written pages and pages in a slanting, shaky handwriting. What could he possibly write so many words about? He closes the book, seals it with an elastic band. Not for sharing.

  ‘Can we eat?’ Tiny asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ says Eddie.

  When I think my first volunteering session couldn’t get any worse, Hattie, the lady with pneumonia, arrives, giving me the evil eye and choosing not to take the spare seat next to me.

  Free writing is pointless – why wouldn’t Eddie tell us what to write? Isn’t that what teachers do? On my page I sketch a black ink heart around a prayer that Mari once texted to me when she was in her Buddhist phase. Writing it down, I think about him.

  May you be safe. May you be happy. May you be loved.

  I’ll leave as soon as I get a feed and never come back. I think the schoolgirl Nola feels the same way. She got busted checking her phone. Fair enough. I wouldn’t want to help a bunch of losers spill their guts on the page either. If I still had a phone I’d have my head in it.

  ‘We’re going to do sense memory as our main writing exercise today,’ says Eddie.

  ‘Can’t do that, pretty boy, I got no sense,’ says Drew.

  Eddie ignores him.

  ‘Sometimes you need something extra to get to a story. Our senses – taste, smell, touch, hearing and sight – can trigger memories that make really great writing. Who can think of a smell that brings back a memory?’

  ‘Cut grass makes me think of my sons,’ says Zak. ‘Every weekend I’d mow the lawn then the boys and I would go fishing for bream off the jetty in front of our house … well, if I’m being completely truthful, I would read or mark assignments and the boys would fish. Still, we were together and it was peaceful.’

  ‘That’s a good place to start a story, Zak,’ says Eddie.

  Everyone gets excited as they choose a flower, herb or perfume to spark their writing. Even bored Nola sniffs at a small glass bottle, smiling like she’s thinking of good times.

  I take a rose that’s past its use-by-date. Brown, wilting petals. Softer than someone’s breath on the back of your neck. The smell reminds me of the handmade rose soap Mum brought to the hospital for me after my labour. She’d gotten it from the local Sunday markets. It had dried petals on the top that came off on my skin when I used it.

  I don’t mean to tell a story about him. Holding the rose, I can’t help it.

  Frangipani scent fills my nose and I remember that day like I’m there again. I forget where I am. Forget the horrible smell. Forget Hattie giving me death stares. Forget my phone and Holly Spencer. Forget everything, except writing myself back into those few minutes last summer, when everything changed. I’m so deep into it I don’t even look up once, and when Eddie speaks, it’s like I’m underwater and he’s dragging me back to the surface.

  ‘Time’s up!’ says Eddie. Twenty minutes has passed, but I have more to say.

  I put my pen down, reluctantly, feeling spaced out.

  I’ve written three haikus. At least I think that’s what they are. I flip back a page to the first exercise, when I had nothing to say. That’s what I love about writing. You never know when a story will arrive, knock down your door and demand you write it down.

  ‘Let’s share,’ says Aimee. I look past her so she won’t choose me. I hate reading aloud. I trip on the words and read too fast.

  ‘Tiny? Do you want to kick us off?’ asks Eddie.

  Tiny pulls her paper into her chest and shakes her head. I catch her eye and we share an understanding smile.

  ‘I’ll share!’ says
Pee Wee, and he stands up. He has a daisy behind his ear.

  Doc, I got daisies in my ears, it’s a real pain!

  Any more and I could make a daisy chain.

  Here’s a script for weedkiller, two drops a day.

  That should send them on their way!

  Pee Wee takes off his fedora, makes a theatrical bow and is obviously pleased with himself.

  ‘That’s a song for my forthcoming album,’ he says to me. ‘I’m really more of a songwriter.’

  He tucks the poem into an old briefcase and I roll my eyes, without even thinking. Eddie coughs and gives me a stony stare that makes me want to remove my stupid eyeballs.

  ‘Me next,’ says Drew. ‘I didn’t want to write about pretty flowers,’ he says with a sneer. ‘Not when the world is falling apart. When the government is taking away our rights and treating us like dogs. It’s titled: “The world is going to shit”.’

  ‘Oh good,’ says Aimee. ‘Something light.’

  When people with all the money

  put a sprinkler on us to keep us away.

  The world is going to shit.

  Freezing water, soaking us through,

  Like turning a hose on a barking dog.

  The world is going to shit.

  We can’t get dry, ’cos we’ve no dry place.

  No home.

  The world is going to shit.

  They say this is our choice,

  Take the shelters away.

  The world is going to shit.

  Drew puts his notepad down and takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. For someone who has so much spit and fire, he now resembles a scared kid.

  ‘What was that piece about, Drew?’ asks Eddie.

  ‘Went to lie down outside one of ’em big banks in the city. Water poured down from a sprinkler. Soaked me things. Soaked me right through. Had to spend the night in wet clothes, didn’t I?’

  Aimee lets out an angry sigh. ‘We could write a letter …’

  ‘I’m afraid your correspondence won’t do any good, Aimee,’ says Zak.