by Pip Harry
‘Are you sure?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. The room is a good size, there’s a window with a rooftop view. Built-in cupboards. My pet rabbit Wolverine thinks he’s a cat and likes snuggles. Or rather he demands them.’
I blink at Siena, speechless. I realise I’m bawling.
‘So does that mean yes? Or are you allergic to cat rabbits?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I’m dazed by the blackness and joy of this week. How could life be so cruel and so kind in the same breath?
‘Oh good. I didn’t want to put an ad on flatties.com. The freaks that float up on that website. Ugh. It’ll be ace having a girl around. I do have a bit of an obsession with watching renovating shows. I’m crap at vacuuming and emptying the dishwasher. But other than that I’m a pretty good flatmate. I don’t write passive-aggressive notes or draw up chore rosters or anything.’
‘But I don’t have a bed. I don’t have anything.’
‘My old flattie had to move to Brisbane for work, and left his futon behind. It didn’t get much action so it’s in good nick. Some weights he never used either and a TV from the nineties. When do you want to move in?’
‘Tonight?’ I say. I could gather up everything I own in a single trip. Sign out of Hope Lane for good. ‘Right now?’
Siena laughs and puts her arm around my shoulder. ‘How about right after we drop off these dinners?’
‘Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I make an appointment to see Mr J about my study program. I’m behind in at least three of my subjects and I need a life jacket. Exams aren’t too far off now and I’m not ready.
He has a new inspirational poster on the wall that says: Nothing Changes Unless You Change It. It’s so unbelievably perfect for today’s meeting, I wonder if he brought it especially for me.
‘Okay, the first thing, Nola, is that you’re very bright and you can certainly turn around your studies. I’ve talked to each of your teachers and they have agreed to offer you extra support if you are willing to make a concerted effort.’
‘I am, thanks.’
‘We have a lot to talk about today. I’d suggest getting out a pen and paper and jotting down some notes. I’m going to go over time management, studying efficiently, planning and getting organised. We might not get through everything, can you make another meeting, say, on Thursday?’
‘Yes, that would be good. Um, Mr J, do you think I could get into social work?’ I ask. ‘If I study really hard?’
‘That’s a challenging line of work. Has this got anything to do with your time at Hope Lane? They have nothing but praise for how you’ve conducted yourself during your community service placement. I must say I’m thrilled. Sending you there was a bit of a gamble, I’ll be honest. I was very proud when you said you wanted to keep working for them even after your hours were logged. That’s the sort of result we teachers dream of.’
‘I want to do something for a job that helps people.’
‘The ATAR is pretty high for social work, but yes, I think you’ve got a shot at it. We can always pursue alternative pathways for entry, based on your outstanding work at the shelter. Research a couple of social work courses online and we can talk further about what they offer.’
‘Thanks – oh, and I wanted to say something at assembly today. Would that be okay?’
Mr J looks surprised.
‘Assembly? What did you want to discuss, Nola?’
‘We’re taking our writers to a literary festival to perform. I wanted to tell the students they can come and see them. Here.’
I show him the flyer Eddie and I did for the festival event. Eddie did the design and I discovered photoshop skills I didn’t know I had. It looks professional.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll let Mrs Lipinski know. You can go on stage during the general announcements.’
‘Thanks.’
‘This is a wonderful thing you’re doing.’
‘I didn’t do anything. They did.’
I’m nervous at the microphone, especially when I have to go on after Ebony’s announcement for the Year Twelves about getting their payments in for the formal by the end of the week, no exceptions, and there being a red-carpet arrivals between 6 and 7pm.
As we pass each other on the stage Ebony makes a gesture with her hand, running her finger lightly down the tip of her nose, as if she’s scratching it. It’s our sign. The small facial gesture we’d make to each other when we first started high school. It had hundreds of meanings. I’m hungry. Bored. Sick of talking to this person. Meet you at our spot. Let me copy off your work.
I wonder if she’s making fun of me. But then I see her eyes. She’s never been able to apologise, but her look says she’s sorry.
I lean too far into the microphone and there’s screeching feedback. Great start.
‘Um, so I’ve been volunteering with the Hope Lane writers,’ I say. ‘They’re homeless. Anyway, we’re going to the Fresh Voices Festival to perform and maybe some of you would like to come along and watch. I’ll leave some flyers in the foyer with the details. Thanks.’
‘Hang on a moment, Nola,’ says Mr J, who’s sitting in a row of head teachers on stage. ‘Maybe you could tell the students what you’ve learnt during your community service placement? How it’s led to some pretty big changes in your own life.’
I widen my eyes at him. He never said I’d have to do more than a quick announcement.
I speak into the microphone again.
‘So, at first the homeless people creeped me out. Like they smelt really bad and they were pretty weird.’
The audience laughs.
‘But after a while I got to know them, and they were just people. The same as us. One of the guys used to be a uni lecturer. Another one is a musician. One girl, she’s eighteen, around the same age as me, and we became friends. She’s amazing, so funny and smart. During my service I got to do creative writing with them and listen to their stories. They were interesting – not what you’d expect. I didn’t think I would, but I enjoyed it and I got to see how life isn’t always fair to everyone. Sometimes people fall over and they don’t know how to get back up, I guess. You guys should remember that if you see a homeless person on the street. Um, and I guess it’s made me want to study to be a social worker when I leave school so I can work with other people going through hard times. Okay, that’s it, thanks.’
‘Thanks, Nola,’ says Mr J. ‘If any of you are thinking about your community service, I’m sure Nola would be more than happy to share her experiences further.’
Leaving the stage, I notice Ebony, Kara and Lolly are clapping.
Lolly is working on a screen print, wearing a smock. Her hands are covered in black paint, a strand of her blonde hair dipped in it. She lifts up the frame to reveal a perfect row of terrace houses. One of them looks like Hope Lane.
‘Hey Lol.’
‘Hi Nol.’ She washes her hands in the trough and hangs her print on two pegs.
‘That’s really cool,’ I say.
‘Thanks. I was thinking, once my folio is done, we could hang out at recess and lunchtimes?’
‘Ebony won’t like that.’
‘She misses you. You guys were best friends forever. You might not ever go back to like it was before, but you should talk about what happened.’
‘Maybe I’ll talk to her. Sometime.’ I look again at Lolly’s screen print of the terrace houses. It’s perfect. ‘Lolly,’ I say, ‘would you let me use that for something?’
‘What?’
‘The front cover of a book.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
I squeeze the metal keys into my palm. The big silver one is for the security door, the small brass one for the front door. Siena gave me a keyring to go with them, a small wooden house painted
white with a red roof. A home. My home. Right in my hand.
I close the door to my tidy bedroom. I can’t help straightening piles of books, washing the floors, folding clothes. Siena says I’m making her look lazy, but I don’t mind. Every inch of this place feels like gold to me.
As I leave the flat I decide to walk for a while.
My steps slow at Zak’s favourite bench in Hyde Park. He used to go there with a couple of thick books from the library and settle in for a day of reading. It’s empty, spattered with dried Ibis droppings. I sit down on the green metal. Remembering him.
Zak had a destitute burial. Destitute. There’s no better word for it. He was buried with three other people, in a weedy plot of land in Rookwood. His grave was unmarked. Hospital staff signed the papers and gave the funeral director his personal information. He had no assets. No estate. His family was contacted, but they didn’t come to say goodbye. I wanted to tell Zak’s sons he talked about them all the time. He hadn’t forgotten them and he loved them. But I understood when they didn’t show up. Not everyone is forgiven. I was lucky.
I went to the service with Eddie, Aimee and Nola. We stood at Zak’s gravesite and listened to a minister who didn’t know Zak give a rote sermon designed to cover off Zak and the three other destitutes in the dirt with him.
He was buried in a plain wooden box. They gave his grave a number. No name. So we stuck a piece of cardboard on the flimsy wooden cross.
Zak James Miller – Not forgotten.
Afterwards we walked through the cemetery together – past graves with glass vases of fresh flowers. Shiny stone headstones, carved with gold ink. I take out my key and scratch Zak’s name into the paint of the bench. ‘Bye Zak,’ I say. I won’t come past here again.
A young mum takes my spot on the bench, watching as her daughter plays with a toy on the grass nearby. She’s Charlie’s age.
I type a quick text on my new phone. It’s a pre-paid. Nothing special. But it means I can be found again. I’m traceable and that’s okay.
How is he?
On the move. Crawling! Mum sends a photo back of Charlie at playgroup, his hands in a bowl of bubbles and water.
He has four teeth now. We skype every few days from Siena’s home laptop. Well, I skype and Charlie tries to eat the keyboard.
They’re coming down to visit in a few weeks’ time. Mum says there’s no rush, everything will work out in its own time. I’ll go up to Dubbo to see them for Christmas. I want Charlie to live with me full time. But for the moment, the best place for me is here. With Dr Robinson, Nola, Eddie, Aimee and Siena. With writing group and Sydney Eats. I’m doing good.
I keep walking, past the shoppers in Pitt Street Mall, past Fitness Now! where I used to get showers. The spot outside Maccas where I set up my pity party and begged for money.
I slow down when I get to the ledge, outside St James Place. The spikes have been covered with a thick mattress, cushions and a small bookshelf.
There’s a note posted to the wall: SPACE NOT SPIKES. The Street Library.
Meredith was here. The space is welcoming and cheerful, like her reading shelter. I imagine her coming here with her bookish friends in the middle of the night, dragging a mattress into place. Scattering throw cushions. I laugh and lie down on the soft covering, putting my feet up for a moment.
I take one of the books from the library. It’s Australian poetry. I flip through a couple of pages, some of it is hard to understand but I like the way the words flow. There’s a note pinned to the shelves. Feel free to read these books and leave them behind for the people after you.
I understand what Meredith is doing. What this is all about. Nobody should be able to decide to keep the right people in and the wrong people out. City spaces are for everyone.
Siena has swung me a job interview for a prep job at the Chinese restaurant near the shelter.
I wait outside on the footpath as the staff go in for service.
‘We’re not open until 6.30,’ says a young guy, dressed in his chef whites, which are not so white anymore, but covered in fingerprints and stains.
‘I have an interview.’ I can hear the nerves in my voice. I need this job badly. With the pay I can cover my rent and food bills easily and save a little for Charlie.
‘Tiny?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That’d be with me. I’m the owner, Jin.’
He walks me past a table piled high with folded napkins and glasses, ready to be laid out for the dinner service. From the kitchen I can smell the holy trinity – garlic, chilli and ginger.
‘We’re about to have our staff meal. Would you like to eat with us and we’ll talk about the job?’
Staff sit on a long communal table in the back of the restaurant, slurping at bowls of steaming noodles and slicing hunks from a whole, blackened fish.
Jin pulls out a seat for me. For a moment I’m too overwhelmed to sit in it. ‘This is Tiny!’ Jin shouts to the crowd. ‘She’s our new prep chef.’
Someone puts a plate of noodles in front of me. I try using the chopsticks to scoop the slippery strands into my mouth, then switch to a flat spoon to scoop up the salty broth. It tastes sour, sweet and spicy all at once. I could eat this one dish for the rest of my life.
‘Good?’ asks Jin. ‘It’s my mother’s recipe.’
‘Better than good.’
‘When can you start?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Ha! Let’s get the paperwork done first before we put a knife in your hand.’
That’s my job interview. I’m hired.
We meet at Eddie’s house to finish the Hope Lane book. His housemates are sitting on the sofa, playing a video game – they don’t look up when I walk into the room.
‘I’d show you around, but you might need a tetanus shot, so let’s go straight to my room. Did you bring supplies?’
I hold up a plastic bag containing pre-ordered snacks. Enough to get us through to the final edit of our book.
‘Sugar, salt and saturated fats.’
Eddie closes the door and straightens the doona on his bed. An exposed Edison light hangs from the ceiling and it’s a complete mess. Around the room are piles of old DVDs and books. On the walls are sketched out storyboards and notes. A poster that says Swearing Will Help.
I find a space on the floor and cross my legs. Eddie joins me.
‘I got Pee Wee’s poem today, so that’s the last of them,’ says Eddie.
Eddie’s been getting all the Hope Lane writing together. Gathering scraps of paper and deciphering handwriting.
‘Drew still wants to publish his “Unlucky Country” piece.’
‘You couldn’t talk him out of it?’
‘Nup. It goes for ten pages. A full political rant.’
‘Did you find Hattie?’
‘At her cousin’s place. She gave me a whole exercise book full of poetry. I can’t read a word of it.’
He throws the ratty book into my lap. ‘Will you help translate?’
‘Where did you track Pee Wee down?’
‘Guess.’
‘The pub.’
‘Yes, but which pub? Given there’s about a hundred in the area, it was no easy task. He wrote a poem onto a coaster, half cut. The writing’s a bit wonky, but it’s pretty good.’
He pulls a laptop onto his knees and opens InDesign.
‘You’ve done so much work.’
‘I pulled an all-nighter last night so if I start drooling, wake me up.’
The basic layout of the book is finished, ready for copy to run in. There are photos of each of the writers. Arty black and white portraits.
‘You take these?’ I ask.
‘Sure did.’
‘They’re good,’ I say. ‘Ever thought about photography?’
‘Nah, it was easy. They loved
having their photos taken. Couldn’t keep their faces out of the lens. They’re going to enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. Do you have the cover? I’ll need to scan it in tonight.’
I spread Lolly’s screen prints out on the floor ‘What do you think?’
‘These are amazing,’ says Eddie. ‘I love the lines – so clean and simple. This one looks exactly like Hope Lane.’
‘My friend Lolly did them.’
‘Lolly is talented.’
‘I know.’ I tear open a bag of salt and vinegar chips and we each grab a handful. I start with Hattie’s notebook. ‘Ready to transcribe?’ I say.
‘Fire away,’ says Eddie, his fingers poised on the keyboard.
It’s lucky we have so much work to do because I don’t trust myself with him at close proximity. He makes my skin tingle with raw, aching lust.
Eddie is standing outside Hope Lane with a cardboard box at his feet.
‘I’ve been up for three days,’ Eddie says.
‘How come you’re so perky then?’
‘Because I know what’s in the box. Want to see?’ he says, opening it like a treasure chest. Inside are fresh, perfect stacks of books that we made together.
I snatch a copy from the top and flip through it, hungry to see every word in print. Anxious I might find a typo. On the cover is Lolly’s screen print of the terrace houses.
‘I can’t believe we pulled this off.’
‘Want the scoop of Nutella on top?’
‘Always.’
‘They’re going to stock them in their pop-up book store.’
We grin at each other. ‘Not bad for a couple of amateur publishers.’
‘What should we call ourselves?’
‘Hope Lane Press,’ says Eddie. ‘We make miracles happen.’
I flick through the contents page. Each of our writers has their own bio.
Pee Wee’s real name is Geoff. He’s a musician and former sound technician. Hattie used to be a sewing teacher and seamstress. Drew was a boilermaker, but he’s been homeless on and off for twenty-two years.