by Nicole Trope
Natalie gave me a tour of the place and listed all the rules and regulations that I would find in the handbook. ‘Obviously no alcohol and no drugs,’ she said. ‘You can’t miss any of the counts during the day. You need to help keep your cottage clean . . .’ There were a lot of rules but I wasn’t really concentrating. I was glad to have the handbook to read over.
‘Breaking any of these rules may lead to removal of privileges,’ said Natalie.
‘Privileges?’ I said, paying attention again.
‘Being able to work outside the prison is a privilege, having visitors is a privilege. There’s a list at the back.’
Like school, I thought.
I received a few sly looks from the inmates who were working in front of the cottages, planting and cleaning, but for the most part no one seemed to care who I was. I felt my shoulders relax a little and I took a deep breath. I can do this, I thought. I can do it.
‘If you’re afraid of something, my dear,’ Simon used to say, ‘hold your head up high and pretend until you’re no longer afraid. People will think you’re in control and confident and they will treat you that way and soon enough you will begin to believe it yourself.’
I tilted my head back a little and lifted my face to the sun. I only knew I was crying when I tasted salt on my lips. Oh, Simon, I thought as I followed Natalie to see the canteen, I am trying, but I’m so terribly afraid.
‘Rose, darling girl,’ I heard him say. ‘Oh, my darling girl.’
Chapter Three
Before I came here I was in the other place. I wasn’t Birdy before I came here. When I lived at home I was Fliss, which is short for Felicity. I hate being Fliss. Fliss is a hiss of air, a sound you make through your teeth. Lila calls me Fliss and Mum calls me Fliss but I hate being Fliss.
In the other place they didn’t call me Fliss or Felicity. They called me ‘retard’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘cunt’. They spat words at me like I was dirty. Everyone there was angry and sad. The sadness was in the grey walls. No one talks about where they were before they came here, and if they do they all call it ‘the other place’, even though there are lots of different ‘other places’.
The other place is real prison. The other place is ugly and creepy. The other place is small cells with no space to breathe. It’s being scared the whole time. It’s hell on earth. That’s what Jess calls it—‘hell on earth’.
The other place wasn’t a good place for me to be. I didn’t look at anyone. My stomach went round and round and my fingers were always bloody because I had to tear off big pieces of nail.
‘She doesn’t belong in a conventional prison,’ said my lawyer to the judge. A lawyer helps you when you’re in trouble. My lawyer was Lucy. Lucy has dark shiny hair and brown eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,’ said Lucy, but the judge didn’t like her. He shook his head when she talked. ‘There is nowhere else,’ said the judge and he patted his white hair that wasn’t real. It was a stupid wig. It made him look like an ugly old dog. ‘Woof, woof,’ I wanted to say to the judge but I kept quiet, just like Lucy told me to do.
‘She is a danger to herself and society and her tests show she understands what she did. Her IQ is within the normal range.’
I tried to be far away from everyone at the other place but everything was so small and close. I didn’t want anyone to hurt me. Lots of people got hurt. It’s the angry sadness that makes people hurt each other. I did get hit once. I got hit and kicked over and over again, but I curled myself into a ball and lay there until it was over, and when the guard asked me who had done it I really didn’t know. I didn’t look at their faces. I shouldn’t have bumped into the big woman with the orange hair. No one liked to be bumped into at the other place.
Almost everyone here has been somewhere else before they came here. I didn’t think I would be allowed to come here, but I only have three months left of a two-year sentence for assault. That’s what they call what I did—assault. A salt. Assault is when you hurt someone. I hurt someone.
The therapist I saw once a week and the governor at the other place said that I was a model prisoner and just right for here. Also Lucy kept calling and calling and saying that I wasn’t coping.
I am not a model anything. I am angry and filled with hate. I told the therapist that I wasn’t angry anymore. She wanted me to forgive everyone. Forgive your mum, forgive your dad, forgive yourself. I don’t forgive anyone, but I didn’t tell her that. I’m smart enough to keep a secret and I have lots of secrets. I even have secrets from Jess, who knows most things about me.
The first night I spent at the other place I lay awake and counted the people I hated. There are only four, but it takes a lot to hate four people. Sometimes I feel tired of all the hating. One, him; two, her; three, Lester; four, Mum. One, two, three, four. In my hard bed at the other place I held up my thumb for him and my first finger for her and the next one for Lester and the next one for Mum.
Then I pushed down the finger that was for Mum. I pushed it down hard.
‘I won’t press charges,’ Mum told the policeman who came when she called on the phone.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. We cannot let this go,’ he said.
‘She’s my daughter,’ said Mum. ‘She’s not normal. She didn’t mean it.’
I hate it when she tells people I’m ‘not normal’.
The policeman took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘Nothing we can do now, I’m afraid. I’m sure you can explain it all in court. Now, let’s get you into an ambulance.’
I had to go in the police car and Lila had to come to take care of Isabel.
‘I’m scared,’ said Isabel while we waited for Lila.
‘Don’t be scared,’ I said. ‘Be Isabel.’
‘Isabel, Isabel didn’t worry,’ she said.
‘Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,’ I said.
‘What happened?’ said Lila, coming through the open front door.
After that it didn’t matter what Mum wanted, I was in the system anyway, and once you’re in the system there’s no way out except the back door at the courthouse. You learn stuff like that once you’ve been through it all. The system doesn’t care if you’re a good person or an evil one. It doesn’t care about why you did what you did. It just pushes you through and gets you out of the way. Next case, please. Everyone here and everyone at the other place hates the system.
I never wanted to hurt other people until I stood in front of a judge in a stupid white wig who talked and talked. I know the only reason I went to court was because I had already hurt someone, but that happened so quickly I couldn’t believe I’d done it. My hand moved by itself. ‘It wasn’t me,’ I wanted to tell the judge with the white wig, ‘it was my hand.’ But Lucy told me to be very quiet, so I didn’t say anything.
Everyone talked but I had to keep quiet. Lucy talked and the judge in the white wig talked and then I was sent to the other place. I had to ride in a bus with five other women. One of them had a spider on her cheek. It looked real but it was only a picture. At the other place the governor talked. Her name was Mrs Wotton. It rhymed with cotton. Mrs Wotton told me to behave and do as I was told. By the time I got to my small grey room called a cell I had nodded my head so much it felt like it was going to fall off.
I was cold in bed in the dark because I only had one blanket. I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t cry because I didn’t want anyone to hear me. I didn’t think you were allowed to cry in prison. That was when I counted all the people I hated. I thought there would just be Mum but there was also Lester and then there was him and her. They had been waiting in my brain and when I was cold and sad in my grey cell they came out of hiding and I remembered. I had hated him for a long, long time but I had stuffed my hate deep down inside. They had been in my brain all along, just waiting for me to remember them. I didn’t know anger and hate could come bubbling up and burn your throat. But up they came on that first night, burning and bubbling. Once Mum took me to see a movie and there was a girl in i
t who could turn herself into flames. I felt like that girl, like I was on fire.
I have spent most of my life pretending that the things that happened didn’t really happen. You can’t do that. Stuff follows you and sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.
‘You need to face your demons,’ said Emily, the therapist at the other place.
I looked behind me because I thought there was a demon standing right there, but Emily didn’t mean it like that. Demons are like bad thoughts and feelings. Better to face your demons. Better to fight your demons. Better to find a way to murder the bastards. That’s what I think anyway. Jess calls everyone she doesn’t like ‘bastard’.
I was tiny and skinny when I spent my first night in the other place, but as I listened to the other women through the walls snoring and farting I knew that I needed to be bigger and stronger. I had been tiny and skinny for my whole life. My boobs were only ever proper boobs when I was pregnant; otherwise they were just little bumps on my chest. In the other place some of the women lifted weights and built up their muscles so they looked like men. I ate. I ate white bread and rice and potatoes and all the sugar I could get. By the time I got here I was big, but no one starts with you here.
There is no angry sadness here. There is just worry and a little bit of hope. Everyone worries that they might muck up and get sent back to the other place, but they also hope that they get to go home soon. We’re all nearly at the end of our sentences. No one wants to mess that up. We can see the mountains and the fields outside the gates and we know that we’re close enough to touch them. There’s lots of space here, and in the morning no one says, ‘Get out of the way, retard.’ They say, ‘Morning, it’s a great day, isn’t it?’ I say ‘Morning’ as well.
I’m doing a good job of fooling everyone here that all I feel is worry and a little bit of hope just like them. I do my work and I listen when I’m spoken to. I turn up to be counted, and if they say ‘jump’ I jump until they tell me to stop.
That’s because I have an agenda.
I learned that word from Jess. She told me an agenda is a plan that you have that you keep secret. Sometimes your agenda can make you do things that no one else understands. Whenever anyone is cranky with her Jess says, ‘Tell me, love, what’s your agenda?’
What’s your a-gen-da?
Jess is my friend, so I don’t get cranky with her, and she knows most things about me except my agenda. My a-gen-da. That’s just for me.
I’d never done anything wrong before I was in the system because Mum called the police on the phone. I worked hard to finish school. I didn’t get my HSC because I couldn’t write exams, but I can read and write and I worked in the fruit shop. I remember all the codes. The code for crimson seedless grapes is 4701 and the code for grapefruit is 2314. I put the codes into the till and Frank said I was his best cashier.
I worked hard and I was happy and Mum was happy and Frank was happy. I was his best cashier, and then late one night, after stocktake, he said I was his best girl. But Frank already has a wife and she was very angry and Mum shouted at me but I didn’t mind. I liked being Frank’s best girl, and I like having Isabel.
Frank and I didn’t talk much but he made me feel nice. I don’t talk to many people. Mum doesn’t ask me what I think. She asks Lila what she thinks. Lila went to university, and even though she’s my little sister she’s like a big sister because she told me to ‘just ignore the crap they tell you and do what you want with your life. You’re as smart as anyone else.’
Emily the therapist wanted to know everything about me. ‘Tell me about your childhood, tell me about your friends, tell me about your mum, tell me about your dad.’ She made me think too much. I wanted to stop seeing her. Sometimes at night I added her to my list of people that I hated. But then she told me about this place. So I stopped hating her, because she was trying to help. ‘You’re a really good candidate for the Farm. I know that you’ve found your time here difficult. If you can just hang in there and work with me I’ll do my best to help you.’
I hung in there. I know how to say the right words. I forgive Mum, I forgive Dad, I forgive myself. I want to do better.
I can say, ‘Yes, I love you,’ even though what I really want is for your body to be underground in the cold and the dark. With the worms. Under the ground with the worms. Just like he is now.
I said the right words and now I’m at the Farm and I will be going home soon.
I thought I would have to wait to go home to see them. To see him, to see her, but now he is gone and she is here and all the bubbling anger is just for her and a little left over for Mum and Lester. I want to get rid of the bubbling anger, so I have to get rid of her. Some nights it makes me feel sick and I have to sneak into the kitchen and stuff some bread down on top of it. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m going to face my demons. That’s my a-gen-da. But I don’t tell Jess that. I don’t tell anyone that.
I am here because I did the wrong thing. Assault is wrong. Hurting people is wrong. People cannot get away with doing the wrong thing. But assault isn’t the only way to hurt someone. Assault breaks bones, but there are other parts that can break. Mum says Dad broke her heart, but you don’t go to jail for that. You should, but you don’t.
I’m going to be smart about it. I’m not going to do something stupid. I’m going to be quiet and I’m going to be smart but I have to get it done.
I saw her being given the tour by Natalie. She is much smaller than me. She used to be bigger but that was when I was a child. She was an adult and I was a child and she was bigger and she could have helped. She even said it to me once. She said, ‘You can come over whenever you want and if you need anything, any help at all, you only have to ask.’ But she didn’t mean that. What she meant was—words, words, words, bullshit smile.
I would like to see her try that on me now.
Chapter Four
The other women in unit four alarm me a little at first. Their faces speak of lives lived on the edge. The lines at the corners of their mouths drag down their smiles and even when they laugh they still look unhappy. When they sit on the couch I’m conscious that their bodies are tense and coiled as though waiting for attack. I don’t want to judge anyone but it’s hard not to think about what kind of a person goes to prison. I’m aware of the irony of that. I’m hardly here to run the cooking school.
Heather, who looks about forty, has large hands and pale freckled skin and I am immediately struck by her height. She gives me a brief smile upon meeting me, but then seems to be looking at something else in the room. Sal—‘short for Salvation, don’t ask me about it, my idiot parents were hippies’—is about my height and is probably younger than me but looks older. She sweeps her dark eyes up and down my body, appraising me inch by inch. Then there is Linda, who is a recovering drug addict. Her cheeks have caved in and her teeth have fallen out and her hands shake so hard she spends a lot of time sitting on them. I have never seen another human being like her except on television. Some situations are so overwhelming that instead of panicking about them you actually find yourself quite calm. I look at the women I am to share a unit with and instead of falling apart I simply accept it. There is nothing else to be done.
‘Here are the rules,’ says Heather after we have introduced ourselves. They have them written on a large white sheet of cardboard and taped to the fridge.
No eating anyone else’s food.
No using anyone else’s shampoo or conditioner or soap.
Clean up after yourself.
The majority decide on what to watch on TV.
Don’t touch other people’s stuff.
Don’t whinge.
Do your job.
‘Are these the rules for everyone here?’ I say.
‘Nah, just us in this unit,’ says Sal. ‘You can add your own if you like, but first we have to have a discussion. This is a . . . what’s that word, Heather?’
‘A democracy?’ I say.
‘Yeah.�
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‘Except it’s not really a democracy,’ says Sal. ‘The screws can come in any time they want and check for drugs and stuff. They also do inspection once a day to make sure everything is clean, so we’ve got to keep it clean. Do you know how to clean?’ Sal speaks fast, getting everything said before I can add anything to the conversation. She is nervous in my presence. I want to laugh but don’t.
‘I certainly do,’ I say. Heather and Sal and Linda were obviously expecting a certain kind of person when they heard I was going to be sharing a unit with them. I can see that I will have to work fairly hard to dispel any ideas they have about me. The unit smells of cooked food and pine-scented spray. I don’t bother thinking about how much I miss my home that smells of jasmine in the summer and wood fire in the winter. I know that would be unproductive.
‘Good,’ says Heather, holding my gaze just long enough so that I look away first, and then she goes outside to smoke a cigarette. Everyone here smokes. I noticed that when Natalie was showing me around. The smell of manure is almost but not quite overpowered by the smell of cigarette smoke. Even in the open air I find myself taking shallow breaths. I’m sure I will hardly notice it in a few days.
‘Don’t worry about Heather,’ says Sal quietly. ‘She’s a bit of a bitch but you’ll get used to her. It’s not so bad being here. I mean it could be worse. You’ll be fine. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. I feel a rush of warmth towards Sal. I lace my fingers together so that I won’t be tempted to hug her. Kindness always makes me more emotional than it should.
A siren screams through the air.
‘What’s that?’
‘Muster,’ says Sal. ‘Come out onto the veranda.’
I go outside and stand next to her. Every veranda is filled with women and we all stand there as Natalie walks past with a clipboard in her hand, nodding and presumably putting a mark next to our names. We obediently wait until we are checked off and then herd ourselves back inside.