Magenta McPhee

by Catherine Bateson

  ‘Not the sort I’m looking for, thank you all the same.’ I hated the way she sometimes took the Chronicles seriously and sometimes, especially when Trib was around, treated them as if they were a big joke. She must have caught my expression.

  ‘Lots of writers do that kind of time travel these days. Honestly, it can be interesting, Magenta.’

  ‘I’m writing a purer kind of fantasy,’ I said in my best posh voice, ‘more traditional.’

  ‘Horse chase,’ Trib said. ‘You know, knights on horseback chasing each other all over the countryside. Or a joust and the bad guy wins and there’s revolution in the air.’

  ‘I think I should ask people more familiar with the genre,’ I said and left the table as haughtily as I possibly could, given that I’d spilled a splotch of gravy on my white t-shirt.

  ‘I need some action,’ I said to Polly. ‘It’s not going well when you’re bored writing it. How could a reader be interested?’

  ‘A rival for Rosa’s affections,’ Polly said, ‘that’s what you need. Or crank up the unresolved sexual tension.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Unresolved sexual tension. It’s what Marcus says fuels contemporary television drama.’

  ‘Yeah, but what is it?’

  ‘I think it’s where two people want to kiss – and more – but never quite end up doing it. It’s everywhere.’

  ‘I’m trying to do that,’ I told her, ‘but it’s hard when they have to talk in such big sentences. They never really get around to saying anything. It’s frustrating.’

  ‘Well, can’t you just have them cut to the chase? I mean they must have at some stage in the Middle Ages or the human race would have died out.’

  ‘There’s reality, Polly, and then there’s fictional reality,’ I said, copying what our English teacher had told us. ‘I’m dealing with fiction and it’s frustrating.’

  ‘Hey! Oh Magenta, turn on your computer. Check it out! Your dad’s got mail!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone’s emailed him!’

  ‘Who? Who?’ I was busy turning on the computer as I spoke.

  ‘She’s forty-two, one son, interested in outdoor things and the environment blah blah – they all say that – is home-centred. What does that mean? But likes to eat out, listen to live music and see movies. Though she’s equally at peace – at peace, that’s a bit lame – eating takeaway and watching a DVD.’

  I’d got up the site by this stage and found Dad’s profile and sure enough, there was the email.

  ‘Her name’s Spookyliana,’ I said. ‘That’s just weird, Polly. Why would anyone call themselves that?’

  ‘Search me. She looks pretty ordinary in the photo.’

  It was true. She looked like an ordinary, middle-aged kind of woman. She was smiling so hard that her eyes were all crinkly at the corners. But at least she was smiling.

  ‘What should we do now?’

  ‘We’ll have to email her back,’ Polly said, ‘and chat. That’s what people do. Look – she’s even given him her email address. I don’t think you’re supposed to do that. That’s great, Magenta. It means she must be keen.’

  ‘What will we talk about?’

  ‘Well, what do people talk about?’ Polly said.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I was suddenly frozen. What did people talk about? Lady Rosa and Ricardo paid each other compliments. Mum and Trib talked about the wedding. Dad and I talked about school and he talked about current events. None of that seemed appropriate.

  ‘Jane and Marcus talk about finances, the weather, the garden and how clever Jeremy is. They don’t talk about me at all. Or not when I can hear them.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s helpful,’ I told her.

  ‘Yes it is,’ Polly said. ‘Your dad could talk about you, the weather and the vegie garden. I think I’ve been extremely helpful. I don’t think you’re being very positive, Magenta.’

  ‘Sorry. Okay – I’ll try. So ... Dear Spookyliana, it was lovely to hear from you. You sound like a very interesting person and I think we may have some common interests. How old is your son? What is he interested in? My daughter’s interested in fantasy, writing and shopping. She’s bad at Maths but gets top marks at English. She’s started high school. Every other week she spends at her mum’s place.’

  ‘I don’t think it should be quite so much about you,’ Polly said.

  ‘But you said to. Talk about me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean take up the whole email with you!’

  ‘Okay – what say I add something about the vegies?’

  In the end we got something that sounded as though an adult had written it, pretty boring if you asked me, but Polly reckoned it was the kind of email Spooky would expect. Before we could change anything again, I pushed the Send button.

  ‘Hey, Magenta!’ Mum called. ‘Richard’s here – don’t you want to say hello?’

  ‘Oh my God, Polly,’ I whispered, ‘Ricardo’s – I mean, Richard’s here. I’ve got to go. I have to change. I’ve got gravy on my t-shirt.’

  ‘Break a leg,’ Polly said ambiguously and hung up straightaway.

  ‘I’ll be out in a sec,’ I called out, noticing how my voice went all high and quavery. How girly. I was appalled. I quickly pulled on a clean black t-shirt to counteract the voice effect. I pulled my hair out of its pigtail and swiped some gloss over my mouth. ‘Hi Richard,’ I said into the mirror, lowering my voice and trying to look mysteriously at my own reflection through my eyelashes. It cricked my neck slightly and made me look oddly cross-eyed, but the voice was okay.

  ‘Magenta!’ Mum came to the doorway, ‘hurry up. What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing, just hanging up the phone.’

  ‘Well come on, he’s just dropping some stuff off.’

  I followed Mum into the lounge room. Richard was slouched down on one of the chairs, drinking a beer with Trib.

  ‘Hey, it’s Magwheels. How are you, gorgeous?’

  ‘Hi, Richard.’ My voice didn’t sound husky and deep, but it didn’t quite squeak. Gorgeous, he called me gorgeous. Thank God for the little black t-shirt!

  ‘Yeah, pretty good. And you?’

  ‘Same old. Still writing?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s slow, you know. My latest theory is that fantasy is about a hundred times slower than other writing because people have to walk everywhere.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ he said, ‘so why don’t you introduce an air machine or something. Like an airship – you know, anime-style. That’d be groovy.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m a traditionalist. I don’t want to muck with form.’

  ‘I said she should do a car chase,’ Trib offered and the two boys guffawed for a while.

  ‘Sorry,’ Richard said, finally noticing my exaggerated sighs and finger-tapping, ‘shouldn’t tease the workers. Hey, I didn’t forget you, Magenta, close your eyes, hold out your hand.’

  I did as I was told. He dropped something smooth, cold and egg-shaped into my hand. It was heavy.

  ‘Open them.’

  He’d given me a rock: an egg-shaped, egg-sized, smooth, orangey rock. It was like a dragon’s egg. It grew warmer as I held it.

  ‘From the desert,’ he said. ‘I saw it when the bus stopped and everyone thought I was crazy, but I knew you had to have it, Magenta.’

  ‘Thanks, Richard.’

  ‘I got you something else, too, just in case you thought a rock was a kind of cheap present. Here, hold out your wrist.’ He fastened a little bracelet made of shells round my wrist.

  ‘Wow! Richard!’ I gave him a clumsy one-arm hug. He smelt great. I closed my eyes for a millisecond, just breathing the smell of him in. Some kind of cologne, a bit of honest sweat and the smell of new sheets that have dried in the sun. Oh, Ricardo!

  ‘Hey, little cuz
, it’s okay. Glad you like them.’

  ‘I love them,’ I said and my voice squeaked again. Damn! Should practise husky more often.

  Then some current affairs program came on TV and he and Trib turned to it while Mum went into the kitchen to make herbal tea.

  I sat on the couch as close to Richard as I could get without being obvious. I pretended to watch TV but I was really admiring my new bracelet while I held my rock egg. The egg he’d brought for me, back from the desert. The one he’d seen and thought of me, all those kilometres – nearly two states – away. He’d risked ridicule picking it up and keeping it. For me.

  ‘Well,’ he said, when the program finished, ‘better go. Good to see you all again, bye Tammy, bye Trib, bye Magwheels.’

  ‘Come for dinner next time,’ Mum said. ‘Come for a gourmet pizza takeaway or even a home-cooked roast lamb.’

  We waved him off.

  ‘He’s so thoughtful,’ Mum said to Trib, ‘honestly he needn’t have bought me anything.’ Richard had given her some shell-shaped soaps in a little bag dyed sea-colours. I had my eye on the bag. I could use it for my mobile phone.

  ‘He’s a big kid who likes to shop,’ Trib said. ‘Plus he likes you. He’s a good kid. My sis did one thing right.’

  I slept that night with the egg-rock under my pillow. It was a bit lumpy, but I moved it until it was under the bit of the pillow I squash up. I wanted to keep it warm all night.

  The next morning, before I’d even had breakfast, I emailed Polly about the egg and the bracelet and then I thought I’d better check Dad’s Hotmail account in case Spooky had emailed him. I didn’t think she would have. After all, you’re supposed to move slowly into these things, but she was obviously the storming type. There wasn’t just one email from her, there were two.

  Dear Greenman (that was Polly’s idea, not mine!)

  Wow! I hadn’t expected a reply so soon. Or such a long email. I mean most guys think that three lines is a lot of effort. I’ll try to answer your questions and then I’ll throw some of mine into the ring, shall I?

  My son is fourteen. It’s a difficult age. He’s a great kid who’s had to deal with a lot of stuff and I’m very proud of him. He’s not a standard-issue kind of boy. He’s pretty quiet, maybe even a bit nerdy, but he’s been a fabulous support for me over the years. He’s got a lot of interests including computer games and he reads a lot. He could do with a male mentor, though. I’m afraid my ex isn’t very helpful in that regard as he doesn’t see Cal very often.

  I do a few things. I’m involved in some community groups and help out a friend who has a café from time to time. I’ve been basically in recovery from some unpleasant relationship issues for a while. But I can feel myself becoming whole again. Didn’t someone once say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?

  I’m thinking of studying to become a masseuse. I like the idea of earning money doing something that heals others.

  I do envy your vegie garden. Unfortunately, the house we’re renting has this really vertical kind of garden. I think you could terrace it or something, but not when you’re renting.

  And how wonderful to go camping with your daughter. See, I think that’s the kind of thing Cal needs – just to give him some other outlets. He needs to really witness nature, not just the inside of his bedroom. But camping’s not the kind of thing I’d feel confident doing by myself. Being a single woman cuts off a lot of things that I’d normally love doing.

  How about you? Do you love travelling? What kind of music do you listen to? Are you into meditation?

  Let’s keep talking,

  Lianna

  Then the second email said:

  Dear Greenman,

  Sorry, just realised how much I’d written. I hope you don’t find it boring. It’s so easy to run on in an email, isn’t it? You just sit down in front of the keyboard and finding yourself saying things you probably wouldn’t say in person. I’d be intimidated. Or think they sounded weird. Hope you don’t mind these long emails. I’ll try to keep them shorter in future.

  Lianna

  I printed them out and took them to school. We were in way over our heads, I thought.

  Polly disagreed. ‘She sounds okay,’ she said, ‘a bit whacky, but not totally off the planet.’

  ‘She talks about healing too much, and issues,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s opening up. We’d better make your dad open up, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, show his vulnerable side.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s too early to say he’s unemployed, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dad always says self-employed when he applies for a job.’ Polly was the only person I could tell this kind of stuff to.

  ‘Yeah, good thinking. Do you want me to, you know, try casting a get-a-job spell for him?’

  I practically swivelled my head so I could stare Polly right in the face. She stared back, unflinchingly. ‘You reckon you can do that?’

  ‘I just need a bit of his hair.’

  ‘A bit of his hair?’

  ‘To do the spell.’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll see what I can do. I guess.’

  ‘They’re working. I tell you, Mags, they’re working. Last night I cast a finding spell and Jane found this locket she hasn’t been able to find for the past year. She was overjoyed.’

  ‘So did you tell her?’

  ‘That I’m a witch? Are you crazy? Of course not. She’d go bonkers. Jane’s not into the occult. Her deepest mystery is puff pastry.’

  ‘Surely Marcus would understand?’

  ‘Marcus is so self-obsessed that he only understands his own ego,’ Polly said. ‘I tell you, he’d better be the genius Jane thinks he is or she’s in for a disappointed old age.’

  ‘Are things okay?’ I asked hesitantly. Polly could be sharp with her family, but this sounded bitter.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Witches shouldn’t be thanked for their work, not unless someone approaches them directly. I’m still in the apprentice stage, of course, so no one’s likely to approach me. Except you. And I know you’ll thank me, Magenta.’

  ‘Yeah, well of course. If Dad gets a job, I’ll credit you. Absolutely.’

  ‘Thanks, Magenta. Best friends for life?’

  ‘Best friends for life,’ I said, and we pinky-hugged.

  ‘We’d better get that email written then,’ Polly said, pulling away and settling her notebook on her knee in a business-like manner.

  That took the rest of the lunch. I’d thought writing fantasy was hard, but that was just making stuff up. Writing Dad’s emails was much more difficult. It had to really sound like him. But a different kind of him. The him that this Lianna might really like.

  ‘Sort of gentle but manly, supportive but not demanding, interesting but interested,’ Polly said, ‘the perfect listener, but someone who’s not afraid to speak up as well.’

  ‘How do you know this kind of stuff?’

  ‘Jane reads magazines and romances. She says they help stop her from cooking in her dreams. But I reckon it’s because Marcus is so removed. From us anyway. He’s there for Jeremy. Jeremy only needs to fart and he’s got Marcus’s complete attention. Jane and I could be on fire and he’d put the finishing touches to whatever he was working on before he’d pick up the bucket of water.’

  ‘Did you guys have a fight?’

  ‘Not a fight, exactly. The other person has to be around to have a fight. I’m just not talking to him. Can we get on with the email?’

  ‘Okay, let’s work on one aspect at a time. Let’s start with answering her questions.’

  I was proud of the return email. We kept it reasonably short – to fit in with Spooky’s expectations. We cut out an awesome that crept in and said grand instead. Grand sounded more grown up.
And Polly made me cut most of my questions about Cal. I must admit I was quite intrigued by him. Although my passion for Richard is undying, I could do with some practice in boy/girl stuff.

  ‘I’ll type it up and send it tonight,’ I said. ‘I hope she takes her time in replying to this one. Doesn’t she know you shouldn’t be too eager? I just don’t want to spend all my lunchtimes writing emails from my dad. It’s hard work, Polly.’

  ‘I know. Eventually, of course, they’ll have to meet. But wait until they get to know each other better.’

  ‘You mean wait until she gets to know what we think he’s like with other adults and we get to know her better.’

  ‘That sounds like Maths,’ Polly said, ‘but I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘All my creative energy is going into this,’ I said. ‘I’ll probably be too exhausted to write the Chronicles tonight and have to do homework instead.’

  ‘What about my spells?’

  ‘They’re just little poems, Polly, not like a whole big book.’

  ‘Just as hard to write. You have to rhyme.’

  I took a look at her and decided not to argue. When Polly gets upset she gets little white bits near her mouth, as though she’s holding it too tightly or maybe biting from the inside. When I see that look, I try to stop. Polly can be upset for days and I really needed her to help with the emails.

  I sent Dad’s latest off that evening and didn’t dare look at his email before I finally got to sleep after completing the week’s Maths work. I had a horrible feeling that Spooky might already have written him back. Well, I was going to save her from herself. I was going to pretend she wasn’t as eager as she seemed to be.

  I held off looking until Saturday morning when Trib and Mum went out wedding shopping. They don’t really call it wedding shopping. That’s what I call it. What they do is get in the car and drive to some café where Mum orders a latte and Trib has a macchiato. Mum reads the café magazines while Trib looks over the paper. Then, eventually, Mum comes up with a different wedding idea – based on something she’s seen. And they discuss it through another coffee. I went with them once and it was so boring. Honestly, the ideas my mum can get from a piece of orange and almond cake.