He also asks about Anthony a lot, and I don’t know what to do. I wish we didn’t have to keep this secret.
How was your weekend? Mine was just fine. On Saturday night I babysat for my favourite client, Maureen Brentwood. Have I mentioned her to you? She’s a new client, but she’s already started giving me historic books, as thoughtful gifts. I read them all the time. Furthermore, when I arrived on Saturday, she pointed out a plate of apple-and-cinnamon muffins, hidden at the top of a cupboard, and said they were for me!
‘Word to the wise,’ she whispered as she grabbed her keys. ‘Keep them out of sight ‘til the kids are safe in bed—turns out they’ve both got wheat allergies, and I’m sure you don’t want them throwing up all night!’
I didn’t know what to do, because, actually, I didn’t feel like a muffin. I’ve been a bit unwell lately—I even stayed home from school last Thursday, and it’s taking me a while to recover. In fact, I feel awful again today—but enough school was missed on Thursday. I will ignore these symptoms.
Anyhow, I crumbled the muffins into pieces and sprinkled them onto the lawn. Hopefully, the birds will spot them.
On Sunday night I was ‘babysitting’ again, and you know, there is such contrast among people! Because this was for another new client, a woman named Eleanora White. And the reason I put ‘babysitting’ in quotes is that she doesn’t go out! She leads me through to the kitchen (where a bird perches in a cage), sits at the table and makes gnocchi!
Apparently, I am there in case the baby wakes up while her hands are sticky. We sit opposite each other, drink tea, eat ginger biscuits, and talk. She asks about my interests and education, but her manner is so cold and distant! It’s as if the questions were a test rather than a conversation.
And here’s something funny. I have been going there on Sundays and Wednesdays for a few weeks now, and the baby has never woken once.
Once, Eleanora looked at me sharply (mashed potato spilling from her hands). ‘Don’t go into the baby’s room,’ she said. ‘She’s in that phase where she’s terrified of strangers.’
Now, do you see a logical flaw?
If I am not to go into the baby’s room, then what, pray tell, is my purpose?
At any rate, I spent the night reciting John Donne’s poems to Eleanora and her budgerigar.
Best,
Bindy
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SENT: Monday, 3.31 pm
SUBJECT: OUT OF OFFICE AUTO-REPLY
Cecily Mackenzie will be unable to read your e-mail until Tuesday next week. If your message is urgent, please contact Cecily’s assistant, Megan, at
[email protected]
10
Here are some Lines from a Book which Caught Bindy’s Eye Today . . .
On Mothers and Daughters
‘[W]ho should hear of the daughter’s aspirations, hopes and secrets if not the mother? She it is that can safely and carefully direct the daughter’s thoughts as they turn to the mysteries of life or the joy of youthful affection. Is not the mother rich in the experience of a tender love?’
From: Twentieth Century Etiquette: An Up-to-Date Book for Polite Society, Containing Rules for Conduct in Public, Social and Private Life, at Home and Abroad, embellished with nearly half a hundred full-page engravings and numerous drawings by Annie Randall White (1900), p 105.
11
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Wednesday, 5.08 am
Think of an aeroplane preparing for departure. It taxis into take-off position and aligns itself with the runway centre line. The throttle advances smoothly; the plane accelerates; the engines roar. Any moment there will be lift-off! And then, quite suddenly, everything stops.
The take-off has been cancelled.
What becomes, pray tell, of that build-up and acceleration? Nay, where does the roar and the energy go if denied its embrace with the sky?
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.15 am
Now think of a girl approaching Wednesday afternoon. (Last Wednesday afternoon, to be precise.) She has spent a lifetime biting her tongue at the moronic behaviour that surrounds her—responding to stupidity with sweetness—but now a decision has been made. She will no longer feign indifference. Speak the truth! she decides. Keep nothing to yourself! She is exhilarated, terrified, on fire! She has advanced to take-off position! She is aligned with the runway centre line! Her engines roar. Let it begin, she says.
And the Venomous Seven arrive.
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.18 am
Oh, they are as stupid as ever. They are amazed that it’s going to rain! They reflect on foolish accidents from a stupid school excursion to Hill End several years before! (I’m not surprised Astrid remembers that excursion.) They dance and climb on furniture!
No, stupidity is not the problem. It’s as rife as ever.
The problem is this: their words loop between them and bind them tight. They form a kind of ring which she cannot penetrate. They are much like a circle of musk-ox protecting their calves from wolves.
She is cutting, biting, withering, acerbic and scornful! Yet, they scarcely hear her, and when they do, they pay not a flicker of heed.
The inanity escalates—the teacher thinks they should meet in Castle Hill! Emily Thompson thinks she should debate! But the girl’s efforts to inject the light of truth lead to nothing but vacant stares . . .
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.22 am
It is a cancelled take-off, a postponed pyrotechnic display . . .
So where did the girl’s rapid heartbeat go? Where are her hopes and expectations?
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.35 am
WELL, ALL I KNOW IS THIS.
I awoke the next morning with stomach cramps and a headache, feeling exhausted and ill. I threw up several times. And it seems pretty clear to me that my hopes and expectations, finding no relief, had turned themselves backwards onto ME.
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.43 am
Of course, Auntie Veronica came down with the same symptoms the next day. She thinks we just caught the same flu.
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
5.45 am
But NO!!
I do not believe that it was simply the flu!
I believe that I suffered an acute attack of:
ANTI-CLIMAX
12
Bindy Mackenzie
24 Clipping Drive, Kellyville, NSW 2155
The Director
Office of the Board of Studies, NSW
Dear Sir (or Madam),
I am a student at Ashbury High, a loathsome school in Sydney’s windswept Hills District, and I am writing to inform you that I will not write again.
I have written two letters to date and I have not received a reply. Although I find this astonishing, outrageous and unforgivable, I will refrain from comment.
Enclosed is a brief Report on the third session of FAD. It is more brief than my previous Reports because I do not believe you are reading them. Nay, I do not imagine you even cast your eyes over the envelopes!
I considered not even preparing this Report but I am the sort of girl who follows things through.
Accordingly, I will continue to write Reports, but I will not send them to you. I will keep them in my drawer at home, and, should you wish to peruse them, you had better get a search warrant. No, that is bitter humour. You need only contact me. But I will not hold my breath.
Disappointed, dismayed and disbelieving, nevertheless, I remain:
Bindy Mackenzie
Brief Report on ‘Friendship and Development’ prepared for the Office of the Board of Studies, NSW
by Bindy Mackenzie
Session 3
Little happened of note in this, the thi
rd session of FAD, except that:
(A) I missed the first fifteen minutes
The session took place at the Blue Danish café. The bus to Castle Hill was surprisingly crowded and most of us had to stand in the aisle, occasionally grabbing at the back of a seat or at someone else’s ponytail for balance.
Prior to the bus trip I had found Try and explained that I did not have permission to leave the school grounds. ‘I’ll just have to work in the library,’ I sighed, apologetically.
‘Good news,’ said Try, with a slow, shrewd grin. ‘Your mum mailed the slips in to me. Bindy, will you give me a chance?’ Her tone slipped to a gentler key, and she added: ‘It must be rough on you, living away from your parents. Your mum mentioned it in her note. If you ever want to talk—’ But we were standing in the senior common room. (I had been surprised to locate Try there—most teachers stay out of that student domain.) A crowd of Year 12s had just arrived, and wanted to get past us to the coffee machine. I used the distraction to flee.
Upon arrival at Castle Hill, I excused myself to go to the bathroom as I felt a little odd. I then became disoriented. I turned past an ice-cream parlour that was certainly not there when I arrived; it must have been installed in the few moments while I was in the bathroom.
Eventually, I asked a woman in a pet supply shop for help.
The woman smiled and said, ‘This place can get confusing!’ which almost made me cry. Her voice was so kind. She gave me directions, and also pointed out a centre directory, in case I got lost again.
I found my FAD group at the back of the Blue Danish, in a section made private by a richly-brocaded curtain brushing the floor. They were seated on low, worn-looking orange armchairs: either perched on the very edge of the chair, or slouching back into the springy cushion, legs stretched out and feet up on the coffee table.
Try had chosen a simple footstool to sit upon, leaving the last orange armchair for me. She is so tiny that the footstool seemed just right for her, like one of Bella’s doll chairs. She had asked the group to describe an important event from the last week. ‘No events of note,’ I responded, when it came to my turn.
(B) We discovered that Astrid is reincarnated.
Try explained that the next few weeks are going to be all about us. We are going to find out who we are.
‘Well, I’m reincarnated,’ declared Astrid, her green eyes gazing around the group. ‘I know that much about me.’
We all looked at Astrid with expressions that said: pray tell.
She gave a modest shrug, so Sergio asked: ‘Who did you used to be?’
‘Not “who”,’ said Astrid, shaking her long dark ponytail. ‘What did I used to be? That’s the question.’
‘Ok, what did you used to be?’ Toby obliged.
‘A carnation,’ said Astrid. ‘I’m a reincarnated carnation. It’s something I’ve kind of like always known.’ She shrugged modestly.
Finnegan examined Astrid’s face. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said, after a moment.
‘Are you sure you weren’t the fertiliser used to grow the carnation?’ I said. ‘A trick of your memory there?’ (Astrid, I should point out, is probably the most vicious girl in my year.) I hoped to make the group laugh with my comment, but it seemed to go unheard.
‘That’s a pretty flower,’ murmured Try. ‘The carnation.’
‘When did you—bloom?’ said Sergio.
‘Where?’ said Elizabeth. ‘In a garden? Or a carnation farm?’
‘Ok,’ said Emily. ‘Good. This is what I want to know: at what exact point did you die? If you just grew and then died, okay, fine, but what I want to know is, did someone pick you and put you in a vase and if they did, did you get to be alive while you were in the vase and see the inside of the person’s house or did you die as soon as you were picked and did that hurt?’
‘Or were you in someone’s lapel?’ suggested Try.
(C) Toby behaved like a rock star.
Try handed out questionnaires to help us find out who we are. She assured us that she did not want to see our answers.
‘So you don’t want to know who we are?’ I asked.
‘It’s not that, it’s just—’ She was flustered.
Astrid rolled her eyes at me and said, ‘Confidentiality is vital, Bindy.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, meaningfully. I was not sure what I meant.
A sample page from my questionnaire is attached. It gives you the idea.
While we were filling in the forms, resting the papers on folders, or on books, or on our laps, Toby Mazzerati spoke in a low hissing voice and said: ‘Is everybody having a good time?!!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and made an urgent breathing noise.
I realised he was imitating a rock star at a concert. The breathing noise was supposed to be the sound of cheering.
We all continued writing.
(D) Briony spoke three times.
At one point, during the session, I observed that the tiles on the wall had a cylindrical pattern which reminded me a little of cucumbers.
‘Sea-cucumbers,’ I reflected, ‘have no brain. They live on decayed material that floats in the water, and they are poisonous.’
Then I turned toward Briony, and fixed my gaze upon her.
Immediately, I noticed a fly buzzing around the light-shade.
‘That fly’s big,’ I said.
The group regarded me, uneasily.
‘It puts me in mind of a Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing,’ I continued. ‘That’s the largest butterfly in the world. It’s poisonous too.’ Now I turned toward Elizabeth, and fixed my gaze upon her.
There was a moment of thoughtful silence in the group.
Then, an extraordinary thing happened. Briony spoke. Her words sounded gravelly at first, but she cleared her throat, tried again and what she said was this: ‘Seacucumbers are related to sea stars and sand-dollars.’
‘Really?’ said Finnegan, his whole body turning towards her.
It is strange enough for Briony to speak once.
But guess what happened next? She spoke again.
‘Also,’ she said, this time focusing on Finnegan’s golden hair. He nodded his encouragement. ‘Also,’ she said again, ‘sea-cucumbers vomit out their own internal organs when something wants to eat them.’
Astrid replaced the friand she had just picked up.
‘Wow,’ said Try, nodding with polite amazement. ‘How about that?’
And just when we thought that wonders would never cease, Briony spoke a third time. ‘My mother’s a marine biologist,’ she explained. ‘I don’t know anything about butterflies though.’ And looking at me, she concluded: ‘Sorry.’
She grabbed her cappuccino, slurped from it, and blushed.
(E) Finnegan went to get sugar for Elizabeth but Elizabeth explained that she didn’t take sugar in her coffee, which led to some confusion as Finnegan had understood her to be asking him for sugar. It turned out that Emily had been the one asking but Finnegan had mistook her voice for Elizabeth’s.
The above is self-explanatory.
(F) Everyone drank coffee.
I suppose it was a café.
(G) Try invited everyone to her home for a ‘get-together’ on Saturday.
Extremely short notice, no?
Certainly, she is the only teacher I’ve known who has invited a class to her home.
I explained that I drew the line at spontaneous, unplanned, impulsive Saturday ‘get-togethers’, and could not possibly attend.
(H) Try asked for my mother’s phone number.
I pretended not to hear.
Attachment to Report on ‘Friendship and Development’: Sample page from ‘Who am I?’ questionnaire (as completed by Bindy Mackenzie)
a) The first thing I see when I wake up in the morning is. . .
aus auβber bei mit von nach zu seit gegenüber (German prepositions which take the dative case.) (They’re on my wardrobe door.)
b) The last thing I think about when I go to sleep each
night is . . .
hydrogen helium lithium beryllium boron carbon nitrogen oxygen . . . (The periodic table.) (I recorded myself reciting it and play the tape each night.)
c) Something I enjoy doing is . . .
eavesdropping on strangers. I do this on the bus, around school, in shopping centres, and in libraries. I type up transcripts of their conversations. I find transcripts intriguing.
d) My favourite person to talk to is . . .
my brother.
e) A person I admire is . . .
my father. He is ruthlessly ambitious and always succeeds.
f) A person I miss sometimes is . . .
Kelly Simonds. She was second speaker on my debating team last year, but has moved to Austria as an International Exchange Student.
13
My Buddy Diary
by Bindy Mackenzie
At the end of today’s FAD session, I held the door of the Blue Danish open because I believed my buddy, Finnegan Blonde, was behind me. However, when I turned back, he was actually at the register, buying an extra takeaway coffee. Realising my error, I let the door swing closed.
Another thing: After school, I joined the Castle Hill Gym to take kickboxing classes. This was in accordance with my buddy’s challenge. The classes are on Tuesday afternoons, at the same time as my piano lessons. I am therefore unable to attend. I might try a hip-hop class instead.
The Dream Diary of Bindy Mackenzie
Wednesday, 11.45 pm
Just got home from ‘babysitting’ for Eleanora, and fell asleep at my desk. I dreamed I was wading, barefoot, knee-deep, through inky black mud. It was one of those dreams without much light—perhaps a lantern hovered at my chin, otherwise grim darkness. I tried not to mind the slow, warm ooze of the mud between my toes, but when it curled around my shins it seemed malevolent. And then I panicked as my foot landed on something coiled and hard. Just a root, I thought, but my ankle brushed against skin. Just a corpse, I thought, and woke with a clamp around my chest.
The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie Page 6