by Sofie Laguna
‘And you go faster than any other car.’
‘So fast you can’t see the wheels.’
‘And there’s a hole in the roof to store the crutches.’
‘And a straw that comes out of the dashboard.’
‘And when you go to a petrol station you fill a bucket with strawberry milk that’s hidden in the dashboard.’
‘That’s what the straw is for.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘And there are robot arms on the steering wheel that feed you.’
‘Chips.’
‘Yeah, chips,’ said Michael.
‘And it dips them in sauce on the way to your mouth.’
‘Yeah,’ said Michael. ‘And then it wipes your mouth.’
‘Yeah.’
We went into the kitchen and Mrs Hooper said, ‘How was school today, Justine?’ I looked at her yellow shoes with no Yolamundi mud caked into the heels. ‘Everything okay?’
Mrs Hooper was waiting for an answer. I took a breath. ‘It was good,’ I said. My voice sounded scratched.
‘She’s shy, Mum, I told you,’ said Michael.
‘Well, that’s okay,’ said Mrs Hooper. ‘I’m just asking.’
‘I like school when Michael is there,’ I said.
Michael and Mrs Hooper looked at me, their eyebrows raised.
Mrs Hooper smiled. ‘He likes it when you’re there too,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Michael. ‘Glad you can speak for me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Hooper. She looked at her watch. ‘We better get you home, Justine,’ she said.
I followed Michael through the house and out to the car. ‘Bye, Betty,’ I said as the cat wound around my legs. The air was soft. There was pale and changing light in the branches and the window boxes, and in the grass and the sky.
Mrs Hooper drove the car and Nicky sang. Every colour of the rainbow, pink and green and blue, shining just for me. The same piece of the song, over and over until I did see every colour in the rainbow and they shone just for me.
When we came to the top of the Henley Trail, I said, ‘You can stop here.’
‘Which is your place?’ said Mrs Hooper. ‘We’ll take you there.’
Nicky pointed at the houses. He said, ‘That one? That one?’
‘Here is okay,’ I said.
‘But, Justine…’
‘Just drop her here, Mum. She wants to walk the rest of the way,’ said Michael.
‘But, Michael…Are you sure, Justine? It’s not far, is it?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Please, Mum,’ said Michael. ‘Can we stop here?’
‘Alright, then. You don’t have to walk for long, do you?’ She looked around at the houses. The trail kept going into the bush. Pop’s was too far to see from here.
‘No,’ I said as I opened the door.
‘Take care, Justine,’ said Michael’s mother.
Every Friday after school I went to the Hoopers’. And every Friday, before dinner, Mrs Hooper dropped me at the top of the Henley Trail and I walked the rest of the way back to Pop’s Three. Pop never asked me where I’d been; he didn’t notice I was late. Every day of the week led to Fridays at Michael’s. When I couldn’t talk, Michael put Betty or Keith on my lap and he always gave me food—sultanas and cheese squares, apples and oranges and bananas and Monte Carlo biscuits. He put more food into my backpack and Mrs Hooper saw and didn’t take it out. On Fridays I came home with my stomach full. We built trucks from his construction set, looked at pictures in the map books and talked to the fish. We had names. We had Matt Dunny Man. We had Brian the Toilet. We had Mrs Burning. We had Miss Lost. I was Lee, and he was Hooper. We had Queen Dawn and Princess Noreena and the cod was Headmaster Prentice.
I stopped waiting as much for Dad to come home, stopped looking out of my window at night, stopped listening for his truck, stopped watching the back-house door thinking he would step out, that he was on the way, that it was him on the telephone telling Pop he’d be there by the end of the week and then waiting for the end of the week to find he wasn’t there.
I wasn’t waiting anymore but Pop was. Pop was waiting for the trial, for the sentence. Until he knew, he wasn’t his bloody self, he told the Isa Browns. Not me-bloody-self…bloody gut…Jesus, Lizzy, where did we go wrong? Bloody Stacey Worlley. What the hell will they give him for it?
33.
On Monday Mrs Hooper was at the gate waiting for Michael. She smiled at me. I lifted my head, and tried to smile back, then looked down at my feet. Mrs Hooper said, ‘Justine, would you like to stay with Michael this weekend?’
Michael said, ‘You want to, Justine?’
I kept my eyes on the ground. I didn’t know.
‘We were thinking you could come over on Friday and I could take you home on Sunday morning. Of course, I would want to ask your grandfather’s permission. It has to be okay by him,’ Mrs Hooper said.
When I was with Michael and his family it was as if I didn’t have a Pop. I couldn’t fit them into the same world. One Justine ended when Mrs Hooper dropped me at the top of the Henley Trail, and another Justine began on the way back to Pop’s Three.
Michael and Mrs Hooper were both looking at me, waiting for me to speak. I didn’t know what to say. How would Mrs Hooper ask for Pop’s permission? Nobody had ever asked for it before. A whole weekend with Michael? More than Friday afternoon? What would happen?
Michael said, ‘Don’t worry, Justine. Today you can think about it and then you can tell Mum if you want to come.’
My eyes pricked as if there was sand inside and Mrs Hooper touched my arm. ‘Good idea, Michael,’ she said. ‘Justine, you think about it. Michael wants you to camp with him in the back garden and Mr Hooper and I certainly don’t want to camp with him. I need a bed!’
At the end of the day Michael said to me, ‘Do you want to come on the weekend, Justine?’
My chest felt tight.
‘I’ll look after you,’ said Michael. ‘Mum will only give you food you like to eat. Do you want to come?’
‘Yes,’ I said. I felt the growing ridge of my tooth with my tongue.
‘Good,’ said Michael. ‘That’s good!’
I was at home with Pop when the telephone rang. Pop was painting a chicken box with creosote to keep out the rot. I was close enough to pick it up. I didn’t think it would be Aunty Rita, but I didn’t know. It kept ringing. But if I picked it up Pop would say, Justine, get your hands off it. Leave my telephone alone.
Pop came puffing through the back door with his paintbrush in his hand. He picked up the telephone. ‘Who? Oh…oh yes…oh. Friday night?’ He looked surprised. ‘Yes, she…no, she never said nothing.’ He frowned at me, wiping his face with the back of his hand; creosote dripped to the floor. ‘Yeah, okay…alright then.’ His face was damp when he put down the receiver. He said, ‘Who the bloody hell was that?’
‘Was it Mrs Hooper, Pop?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My friend’s mum.’
Pop grunted something then turned to go outside.
‘What did she want, Pop?’
He waved his brush in the air as I followed him out to the chicken box.
‘Something on the bloody weekend,’ he said. ‘Here, chook chook chook,’ he sang to the Isa Browns. ‘Look what old Poppy’s fixing up for you.’
‘What did you say?’ I stood at the gate to the run.
‘About what?’ he said.
‘About the weekend.’
‘Uh.’ He grunted. ‘Here, chook chook; here, chook; here, ladies—look at your new bed old Poppy’s painting up for you.’
‘Pop?’
He looked up at me. ‘What?’
‘Can I go?’
‘Go where?’
‘My friend’s, Pop. The Hoopers.’
Pop painted a stroke across the box. ‘Back on Sunday,’ he said. ‘Before dark.’
‘Thanks, Pop.’
I was going to Michael’s for the
weekend. What was going to happen? What would we do? Was it something to look forward to?
‘Are you still coming?’ Michael asked me on Friday morning.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Where are your things?’
I felt hot in my face. What things?
‘Didn’t you bring anything?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Didn’t you bring anything for the weekend?’
I didn’t know what he wanted me to bring. I shrugged.
‘But you’re still coming, aren’t you? You’re still going to stay at my house?’
‘I’m still coming.’
‘Great. That’s great.’
As we were walking out of the classroom for playlunch, Miss Frost said, ‘Justine, can I speak with you for a moment, please?’
Michael and me looked at each other. I wanted to go outside with him.
Miss Frost said, ‘She won’t be long, Michael.’
Michael sighed and left.
Miss Frost said, ‘Justine, have you had your eyes tested?’
‘Yeah.’ I looked at Miss Frost’s shoes. They were flat with a bow, like ballet shoes. There was new dirt on the toes from the Nullabri puddles.
Miss Frost said, ‘Your school records show that you had your eyes tested by the visiting nurse along with all the other students, but I am going to contact your parents and suggest that you have your eyes tested again by the specialist in town.’
I didn’t tell Miss Frost that I didn’t live with parents, I lived with Pop, who thought that town was behind enemy lines.
Miss Frost had my worksheets on the desk in front of her. She was turning them over, looking at my marks and ticks and circles. She said, ‘Sometimes you do really well, and other times…I think maybe another eye test just to make sure everything is fine.’ Miss Frost gathered up all the papers and books, her glasses slipping down her nose. ‘Thank you, Justine. The school will contact your parents this week.’
Michael was waiting for me just outside the door. ‘What was that about?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘What do you mean? What did she want?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Justine, what was it?’
I didn’t want to tell him; I didn’t want him to know about the breech, that I got it wrong from the start, that everything was in the wrong order. ‘She said I could do better.’
Michael snorted. ‘Miss Frost, get lost,’ he said.
34.
Michael, me and Nicky sat in the back of Mrs Hooper’s car as she drove us home that afternoon. The wind from the open windows made our hair whip our faces, and dry the spit in our mouths.
‘Are you hungry?’ Michael asked.
I said, ‘Yes.’
‘What do you feel like?’
‘Biscuits.’
‘Biscuits with ice-cream?’
‘Ice-cream and chocolate.’
‘And chocolate!’ Nicky said.
Michael said, ‘Let’s eat until we can’t move.’
‘Until we have to lie down.’
‘Like whales.’
‘Like Headmaster Prentice.’
‘Like two of him.’
We sang ‘Joy to the World’ through all the open windows. Nicky joined in. Joy to the world! The Lord is come…And heaven and nature sing, and heaven and nature sing. Mrs Hooper sang too. And heaven, and heaven, and nature sing!
Michael asked, ‘What would you do if you could fly? Where would you go?’
‘I would fly…at night. I would follow the river.’
‘How far would you follow it?’
‘All the way to the sea.’
‘How high would you fly?’
‘As high as the sun.’
‘As high as the sun?’
When Michael asked me questions, he waited for my answers. He wanted to find out. He wouldn’t go on until I answered. It was the opposite of invisible.
When Mr Hooper came home from work we helped him set up the tent in the back yard. The grass had been cut and the air was full with its wet, green smell.
Mr Hooper said, ‘Michael, can you hold down the pole?’
Michael stood and held the pole with his arm shaking.
Mr Hooper said, ‘Good job, kid.’
Mr Hooper pressed a peg into the grass and said, ‘Can you knock that with the hammer, Justine?’
I took the hammer and hit the grass instead of the peg. I couldn’t look at Mr Hooper.
He said, ‘Try again.’
I tried again and hit the grass.
Mr Hooper said, ‘Third time lucky. Go on, give it another go.’
I looked at the peg, lifted the hammer and took a deep breath. Down went the peg.
Mr Hooper said, ‘Nice work.’
When I stretched the orange tent canvas to make a roof Mr Hooper said, ‘That’s the girl.’
Nicky tried to crawl into the tent before the walls were straight.
Michael said, ‘Dad, get him out!’
Mr Hooper said, ‘Relax, Michael, you have Justine for the whole weekend.’
Mr and Mrs Hooper helped make the beds in the tent. They put Michael’s bed on crates to make it higher for his legs and lined it with pads of foam. They unrolled sleeping bags for us, and put pillows on the ends.
Mr Hooper made a barbecue and we had dinner on the veranda, looking at the tent in the middle of the green yard. Mrs Hooper said, ‘David mowed it for you guys. He did a good job, didn’t he?’ She put her arm around Mr Hooper’s shoulders.
I could hardly look; it felt dangerous, as if good might crack me apart like one of Pop’s eggs.
There were chops and carrots and chips for dinner but the food wouldn’t go down. It was hard to swallow. Michael said, ‘What’s wrong?’ He stabbed at a carrot with his fork, and pushed chips and carrot from his plate onto the table. Some fell to the floor.
Nicky got off his chair and picked up Michael’s spilled food.
‘Gross!’ said Michael. He had sauce on his chin.
After that I could eat; I could taste the chop, oily and salty, filling me.
Everybody was talking about the tent. Mr Hooper said it was like when he was in Cubs and Mrs Hooper said, What about our honeymoon? and Nicky said, Tent tent tent. Mr Hooper said, ‘How about you kids sleep in the house and we sleep in the tent?’
Michael said, ‘No, Dad!’
Mr Hooper said, ‘I’m kidding, Michael—there is no way I intend to sleep in a tent tonight.’
‘Mum, can you take Nicky inside now?’ Michael said after dinner.
Mrs Hooper smiled. ‘Sure, Michael. You guys want your dessert in the tent?’
‘Yes!’
Mrs Hooper put blackberries and cream and vanilla cake in bowls, and put the bowls in a basket along with a torch. She came down to the tent with us and checked Michael’s bed, pressing the foam and changing its position. ‘Justine,’ she said, ‘if Michael is in pain in the night, or needs me, you are to take the torch and come up to the house and wake me, okay? I will leave my light on. Can you manage that?’
‘Mum!’ Michael frowned.
‘What, Michael? This is important.’
‘I won’t need you.’
‘Justine, can you promise me that if you think Michael is…uncomfortable…if he is in pain, you will wake me?’
‘Mum!’
‘Yes, Mrs Hooper,’ I said. ‘I will come and wake you.’
‘Oh, good girl,’ said Mrs Hooper. ‘Good girl. Thank you.’
We sat on the ground between our beds and looked through the tent flaps. The light was softening, turning blue and purple and grey. Night was coming. The Moruna mountains beyond the trees stood in shadow. Crickets chirped. I breathed in the scent of fresh-cut grass. We ate the blackberries and the vanilla cake and drank the milk, our spoons scraping the bowls, our lips and tongues and teeth turning the cream and berries and milk in our mouths. Each taste changed the taste that had gone before, making it better.<
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Then we lay in our sleeping bags and shone the torch into the trees, looking for bats. The night was black now, the stars like white dust. Michael said, ‘Do you know why the stars shine?’
‘Why?’
‘Fusion. Gases on fire. You can see them best from Antarctica.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too cold for wind so your telescope won’t blow over. In Antarctica the stars leave trails like patterns on a shell.’
‘How far is Antarctica?’
‘From here?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a long way. Five thousand miles. More than fifty days by boat. I will go to Antarctica one day.’
I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want him to go.
Then he said, ‘We can go together. We’ll plant our own flag.’
Yes!
‘We can start at the river. It will take us to the sea.’
‘We can watch the way the water changes.’
‘How will it change?’
‘The temperature will change, the depth, the animals that live in it.’
‘The way it moves will change,’ I said. ‘The way it flows. Or doesn’t.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah!’
‘Yeah!’
‘Yeah!’ we shouted. ‘Yeah!’ Then our laughter became our breath, growing slow and calm, and the sky of stars came down over us like a blanket.
‘Justine, you are my best friend.’
‘You are mine.’
Michael’s body moved even in sleep. He groaned and cried out. His arms and legs pulled and jerked. He couldn’t stop the movement. Was Michael his body? Was Michael somebody different to his arms and legs and neck and head? Was I my body? I pulled my sleeping bag to my nose and listened, in case I needed to take the torch and go up to the house.