Lisdalia

by Brian Caswell

  Brian Caswell was born in Wales. When he was twelve his family emigrated to Australia. He became a rock musician in the 1970s and later a high school teacher specialising in history, English and creative writing. He is also a dedicated basketball player and coach.

  Merryll of the Stones, Brian Caswell’s first novel, was named Honour Book in the 1990 CBCA Book of the Year Award. He followed this with A Dream of Stars, a collection of unpredictable and thought-provoking short stories. His second novel, A Cage of Butterflies, was shortlisted for the 1993 CBCA Book of the Year Award.

  In 1995 Deucalion won the Children’s Peace Literature Award, the Aurealis Speculative Fiction Award and was shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year Award.

  Since then he has written Asturias, a novel set around the rock music industry, Only the Heart, a novel he co-wrote with David Phu An Chiem looking at the lives of Vietnam refugees, and a wacky novel for younger readers, Relax Max!. In 1998 he launched his Alien Zones sci-fi series, following the adventures of seven friends in all the known universes, with its own web site: www.alienzones.com

  Lisdalia is the second book in his Boundary Park series which began with Mike and was completed by Maddie.

  Brian has always had a strong interest in film, and he is now moving into the area of screenwriting as well.

  The Childrens Book Council of Australia has listed all Brian’s published novels as Notable Australian Books. He is one of Australia’s most popular writers for young people.

  Also by Brian Caswell

  Young Adult Fiction series

  MERRYLL OF THE STONES

  A DREAM OF STARS

  A CAGE OF BUTTERFLIES

  DREAMSLIP

  DEUCALION

  ASTURIAS

  ONLY THE HEART

  Storybridge series:

  MIKE

  MADDIE

  RELAX MAX!

  Alien Zones

  TEEDEE AND THE COLLECTORS

  MESSENGERS OF THE GREAT ORFF

  GLADIATORS IN THE HOLO-COLOSSEUM

  GARGANTUA

  WHAT WERE THE GREMHOLZ’S DIMENSIONS AGA1

  WHISPERS FROM THE SHIBBOLETH

  For Marlene — who knows

  This novel was written during my period as Writer in Residence at the University of Western Sydney, Nepean. I would also like to thank —

  The Literature Board of the Australia Council, for their generous support of the project;

  the Faculty and Staff of the University, especially the Education Department, which made me welcome and provided an ideal environment in which to work;

  my own children, and all the kids who live in all the “Boundary Parks” of Australia — the great suburban “salad bowls”, which give this country its unique flavour and diversity, and will provide it with its future —

  and especially

  Trevor Cairney, whose tireless work on behalf of these young people — and their literature — is well known and appreciated, and whose personal support and friendship I value highly.

  CONTENTS

  THINGS ITALIAN …

  SPITTING INTO THE WIND

  POEM

  PRIDE AND PRINCIPLES

  STRIKE

  TANJA’S STORY

  COMPETITION

  JUST FATE

  TANJA’S STORY

  BITTER MEDICINE

  SOME KIND OF DISEASE

  WONDERLAND

  SIMPLE …

  THE BUDDY SYSTEM

  UNDERSTANDING

  TANJA’S STORY

  SHARING

  APPEARANCES

  THE WORDS BEHIND THE WORDS

  WHISPERS

  INTO THE LIGHT

  TANJA’S STORY

  There is no such thing as a little garlic.

  — Anonymous

  1

  THINGS ITALIAN …

  Dad was playing his music again.

  Opera.

  Who else’s dad would be caught dead playing that kind of stuff? Okay, so Terry Dickson’s dad loved Country and Western and always had it thumping full-blast when he picked poor Terry up in the ute every afternoon, embarrassing the hell out of the poor kid. And Maddie’s family played this weird Chinese music that sounded like someone strangling a cat — and failing. But opera?

  Dad bought a whole series of The World’s Greatest Operas, one a week from the newsagent. It took him six months to get them all. Each cassette came with a glossy magazine which fitted into an impressive black-and-gold vinyl binder and explained all about the opera and its composer and a whole pile of other deep and meaningful stuff — none of which he ever read. But they still had pride of place in the little bookcase next to the stereo cabinet.

  My father has always believed in culture.

  And besides, most operas are sung in Italian.

  Even though he lined up in the early seventies with Mum and all the other New Australians to get “the Citizenship”, which hangs on the wall of the family room, he’s still fiercely patriotic when it comes to all things Italian. Cars, soccer. And old fifties vintage movies, without sub-titles, that he brings home from the video shop and makes us all sit through.

  Even the pictures on the walls in our house are all prints of Italian masters; we have the Last Supper in the dining-room and a big gold-framed Mona Lisa over the leather lounge in the formal room, the one no one’s allowed to sit on. We even have an imitation marble copy of Michelangelo’s David in the bathroom — with a fig-leaf covering the rude bit.

  Well, they might have written the operas in Italian, but I’ll let you into a little secret. Even though I understand Italian, I can’t make out half of what they’re screeching about. But what was the point in making a scene that afternoon? It was Saturday, and for once Dad didn’t have a job on. He deserved a chance to relax.

  There were plenty of things I couldn’t stand about my father, but he did work incredibly hard. If he had a big job on, he would be up before dawn and often not get back before dark. He made great money; there’s always work for a good concreter. But I watched him sometimes — when he thought no one could see — and he looked almost old.

  He would massage the palms of his hands and you could sense the pain he was feeling. It seemed impossible for those hands to feel pain; they were so … hard. Concrete isn’t kind to your skin, and his was like rough leather.

  He was sitting there, eyes closed, in his favourite chair, with a glass of wine on the floor next to his foot. At first I thought he was sleeping, but then I saw the movement of his finger on the arm of the chair. He was tapping in time to the music.

  I couldn’t help it. I walked over to him and kissed him on the top of his head. He opened his eyes and smiled, but he didn’t say a word.

  “Anything I can get you?”

  He just shook his head. He had his music, he was relaxing: he didn’t need anything else.

  “Well, I’m just going over to Michael’s for a while. We have some schoolwork to do.” He nodded and closed his eyes again.

  As I opened the front door, there was a quiet point in the music. His voice drifted out to me.

  “Lisdalia! Non essere tardi.”

  Don't be late.

  “I won’t be.” As usual. I replied in English. My language.

  I shut the door gently behind me.

  2

  SPITTING INTO THE WIND

  “What’s got two legs and bleeds a lot?”

  I knew I’d regret it, but it really didn’t make any difference. When Tanja decides to tell you one of her sick jokes, it doesn’t matter if you answer or not, she’ll tell you anyway. I played along.

  “I don’t know. What’s got two legs and bleeds a lot?”

  “Half a dog!”

  What did I tell you? S.I.C.K. Sometimes, I think she’s totally beyo
nd help. But I couldn’t help laughing; she looked so funny trying not to crack up at her own joke.

  Tanja’s really great to have around. You can’t stay unhappy when she’s in one of her jokey moods — which is just about all the time.

  I’d got to school feeling pretty down. Again. And she must have noticed, because she slipped into her routine almost as soon as she saw me walk in through the gate.

  Boundary Park High School. Government-issue dark-red brick, with the trim painted a sort of unripe apple-green — some kind of effort by the Education Department to add a little life to the place. I guess. They’d planted trees, too. Mostly mimosa, wattle and bottlebrush and a few other natives. We learned the names in one of our first science lessons in the place. At least, I did.

  That’s one of my big problems. I learn things. I’ve never had any trouble remembering facts. Gets you great marks at school, but it makes it pretty hard to keep friends. It worked like that all through Primary and after the first two weeks of High School, it didn’t look like anything much was going to change.

  That’s why Tanja was so important. She knew how hard it could be to fit in, and she didn’t give a damn. She certainly wasn’t the most incredible looking girl in Year Eight. In fact, if you showed a school photo to a total stranger, she probably wouldn’t even rate a mention. She wasn’t ugly either, mind you, but with Tanja it didn’t matter. She could have looked like the princess or the frog — it wasn’t her looks that grabbed your attention, it was her personality. You couldn’t ignore her. She simply wouldn’t allow it. And she absolutely wouldn’t allow you to feel down.

  “Okay, what’s got four legs and flies?” This time, she didn’t even wait for a reply. “A dead cat!” She paused for effect, then punched me gently on the shoulder. “Flies! Get it? A dead cat.”

  I smiled slightly.

  “Come on. Out with it. What’s up?” Suddenly, the clown’s mask was gone and she was serious. That’s what I really liked about Tanja. She wasn’t half as stupid as she liked to have people think she was. She understood.

  Not many people did.

  I could talk to Michael, of course, and to Miss Vegas, my English teacher, who just happened to be Year Seven coordinator — but apart from them, Tanja was it.

  “What do you mean, ‘What’s up’?”

  I really didn’t feel like talking, so I tried the standard bluff. As usual, it didn’t work.

  “Come on, Lisdalia. You could chop firewood on your face. What is it this time?”

  “Oh, nothing. And everything. Just the usual. I get so damn mad sometimes. Tony and John can go wherever they want and do whatever they want, and no one says boo. They never do a damn thing around the house, either, but me …” I trailed off. It was an old complaint and I didn’t see any point in boring her — or myself — by repeating it for the million-and-seventh time, when there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it.

  “What happened?” She wasn’t going to let go so easily.

  “I got grounded again. For a week.” She just nodded. Nothing new in that; she was waiting for the full story. I went on: “You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you. I’ve been living in the same house as the guy for almost twelve years, and he’s always been the same, but I keep pushing, as if one day it might make a difference.”

  I slumped down on one of the benches in the quad and watched a group of boys cheating at handball. “ ‘Wash the dishes,’ he said. No ‘please’, just ‘Wash the dishes’. I had my History assignment half-done, I hadn’t even started on my Maths, and he sat there staring at the TV, with a cup of coffee in his hand, just expecting me to drop everything and jump … Oh, I should have just done them.”

  “And what did you do?” She could have guessed. The same thing I always do before I’m grounded.

  “What do you reckon? I said I had all this work to do, that I wouldn’t get finished before ten-thirty as it was … and d’you know what he said?” Tanja shook her head obediently. “He looked at me and said, ‘Your mother cooked the meal, you could at least wash the dishes. Do you expect her to do them?’ I asked what about Tony or John, they could be a few minutes late for the damn gym and no one was likely to die, but I might as well have been speaking in Russian … or Japanese. He just got that stubborn look on his face and said, ‘Wash the dishes’, like he was the Pope or something. So I asked him why he couldn’t do them himself for once. And I got grounded.”

  Tanja smiled and put her arm around my shoulder like the big sister I always wished I’d had. “You know, kid, for a little genius, you can be incredibly thick.”

  I turned to look at her. “Do you think I was wrong?”

  She smiled again. “Not wrong … just stupid.” I could feel a lecture coming on, but with Tanja you couldn’t avoid the lectures any more than the sick jokes. “How many times have you had the same argument?” She didn’t even expect a reply, so I didn’t offer one. “And did you ever win? Of course not!” She loved to answer her own qustions. “So, stupid. In fifteen minutes you could have finished the dishes and got on with your homework. No hassles, no arguments … and you wouldn’t have to miss Michael’s big race on Saturday.”

  Saturday!

  I’d forgotten the swimming comp. It was Michael’s first important race since he’d joined the club, and I’d promised to be there. I’d have to tell him as soon as he arrived. Another downer.

  I stood up. “You mean give in? But he was wrong. I shouldn’t have to do them if I’ve got work to do. The boys never do a thing.”

  “So, you shouldn’t have to do them. I shouldn’t have to turn up to school five days a week dressed like a dork. I keep telling them blue isn’t my colour, but you don’t see me turning up in a Metallica T-shirt and my 501s, do you? There’s no point. And there’s no point in standing up to your father when it comes to ‘women’s work’. Who ended up with her hands in the soapsuds?”

  I could see where it was leading, but I couldn’t avoid it.

  “Me. Who else?”

  “So, you got grounded and you did the dishes. Real intelligent.” I hated it when she was right.

  “I suppose you want me to end up like my mother.” I sat down again. Tanja got me so frustrated.

  “I don’t want you to ‘end up’ like anything. But if you’re going to spend your life spitting into the wind, you’d better learn to duck.”

  For a moment, she looked across at Shane Thomas; one of the handball player’s tennis balls had rolled a little too close to him, and he was measuring the distance, seeing if he could manage to throw it right over the roof of the admin block. High school hadn’t changed Shane “the Pain” a bit.

  Tanja turned back to me, a grin on her face. “You could try accidentally smashing a few plates. It did wonders for me. They only ever ask me to do them in an emergency now.”

  She made me smile in spite of myself. “I tried that.”

  “Yeah? And what happened?”

  “I got grounded.”

  She pulled a face, a real Tanja-special. “Tough break.”

  Shane Thomas launched the ball. It arced high into the air, but failed to clear the roof and bounced back, hitting Chris Walker in the back of the head. I almost smiled again. “Yeah, real tough. It’s okay for you. Your dad’s not Italian.”

  “No, he’s Croatian. They’re just as bad.”

  “No one’s just as bad.” I don’t know if I really believed that, but I was angry and I didn’t want to give up the feeling just yet.

  She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again the teasing was gone. Her voice was … softer.

  “And what’s wrong with being like your mother? I happen to love your mum.” I could almost hear the unspoken thought: at least you have one.

  All at once, the anger died. “So do I. But she’s so … I don’t know. Under the thumb. And I don’t want to be.”

  “It could be worse, you know.” The bell rang, and we both picked up our bags.

  “It could be better, too.”
/>   For once, I got the last word in.

  3

  POEM

  Outside, the sun was shining and the kids were screaming at each other across the playground. Julie Vegas scanned another sheet of stumbling, half-rhyming poetry.

  “Creature Poetry”. It had seemed a good idea at the time. They were looking at mythology and monsters, so why not? But these kids watched too many videos. Their “creatures” owed far more to Stephen King and Freddy Kreuger than the ancient myths and legends she had spent the last eight weeks discussing. The imagination was there all right, but … She dropped the poem back onto the desk and scribbled a mark and a comment on the bottom of the page.

  Only one more sheet. She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes to go. Another wasted lunchtime … Reaching for the final piece of work, she allowed herself a smile.

  Save the best for last.

  Two months into the year, and already it was more than obvious. Of all the Year Sevens that had been through the school in its twelve-year history, it was hard to imagine that there had ever been one with more flair, more natural ability. More intelligence.

  SHE CALLS HIS NAME IN WHISPERS

  BY

  LISDALIA PETRANTONIO

  There, high upon the Wall of Rock, she stands And shades her eyes,

  Then runs her tired hands through tired hair And stares;

  Stares out beyond the margin of the land And calls his name in whispers …

  While far below (but not so far away)

  He sleeps.

  And dreams …

  Between the soaring tower-trunks, it moves And flicks its tail,

  And strikes its golden hooves on rock and stone, So powerful, so pale:

  It snorts the silver air,

  Shifts carelessly beneath his weight,

  Then turns again for home …

  And as he dreams (from not so far away)

  He hears his name

  Called out in whispers …

  The sand, like grains of memory.

  And there, beneath the Wall of Rock, she sits,