Kate O’Donnell is a writer, editor and bookseller specialising in children’s and young adult literature. She has a BA in History and French from the University of Melbourne and studied Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT. Her first novel, Untidy Towns, was shortlisted for the Indie Book Award and the Readings Young Adult Book Prize in 2018. This One is Ours is her second novel.
Also by Kate O’Donnell
Untidy Towns
Pour Emmanuelle, Katline, Tony et Kevin.
This is the story of me (Sofie) and the time I went to France in search of art and romance and a dream.
Before I went to Paris, I’d searched for the same things at home. There is a creek not far from my house (my parents’ house in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia), and when you walk along it, the light that filters through the leaves is sparkly and green. There are usually some muddy-pawed dogs bounding along, and all kinds of people wandering. We’re not supposed to go down after dark, because of Stabby Joe and his screwdriver, though sometimes I go after dark anyway, and here are three reasons why:
I love the night-time.
It’s almost frighteningly quiet (which is adrenaline-rushing).
There isn’t anyone around (apart from potentially Stabby Joe, and I think he’s just a rumour). I stick to the shadows, flitter like leaves falling from trees.
Our house isn’t so noisy anymore because there’s just me and Mum and Dad living there since Hana moved out, but it’s a small house and everyone knows where everyone else is most of the time. And so I love walking because when I walk, I walk alone, and I am free to go where I want, literally as well as in my mind.
It’s probably about fifteen minutes from our house to the creek, but I don’t really care about time this afternoon. I’m on the search for tiny beautifuls. For lines in the world I can mimic on paper, with pencil, with paint. The shape of a leaf, with lovely veins that are perfect for capturing with the just-sharpened tip of a pencil. A hard, grey, knobbly gumnut, whose surface is textured in a way I hope I can one day re-create on paper. A meandering crack in the concrete footpath that will be the start of something abstract. Abstraction is not my strong point, but I feel its pull. Something tiny. Something beautiful.
There’s a soft hedge at the end of my street, and this is where I run my fingers along the foliage, and where I turn left towards the creek. I’m hardly conscious of it as a route marker, not really; only conscious of the familiar feeling of my fingertips on cool, thin leaves. Is this what habit is? Hardly noticing things?
Usually when I am walking, I am dreaming. Most of my daydreams revolve around romance and art and how badly I want both of those things. And soon, once I’m in France, I will be able to walk in places I’ve only been to in my mind.
Sometimes I settle into an old dream just to relive it and it’s fascinating when it comes out different – maybe I’ve walked a slightly different route that day.
I move to New York City for a fancy job and I live in a rich person’s opulent apartment and throw parties that only the most intriguing people attend.
I go to university to study Fine Arts, and everyone finds my final project so impressive that my work is chosen to hang in the National Gallery.
Or maybe I step along the wonky stone steps down one side of the creek, my shoes tapping out a pattern, and I accidentally lose my footing and slip right into the creek! The water is chilly and I sit there, half submerged. A dog barks. A boy’s face peers down at me and he asks, ‘Are you all right?’ He reaches out a hand and I take it …
Sometimes the boy and I don’t even kiss, but just lie in the long grass together while my dress dries off. Sometimes the dog pulls me out of the creek like a canine hero and lies with us in a sunny patch – good doggo.
I’ve filled most of a sketchbook drawing two pairs of feet in long grass covered with wildflowers. Feet are hard, but I’ve had a lot of practice. It’s funny to think about feet, and I don’t think I’d want to touch feet with just anyone – it feels too intimate. Too intimate for me, little miss sweet sixteen never been kissed.
Picnics are a romantic thing.
You see? I can’t stop dreaming.
Have you ever heard a song so beautiful and meaningful that for three minutes everything is right with the world?
That is how I want to feel all the time.
In art class, time slows, and I create moods and worlds with my pen and my brush.
In Paris, everyone loves art, I’m sure of it. It’s a city full of artists, through history and even now. Probably because of the light. It’s the city of that, too. And, as you learn as you become an artist, light is essential when creating art.
I’ve read the English translation of Arthur Rimbaud’s poem Roman many, many times. (On n’est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans – You aren’t serious, when you’re seventeen). It is a very romantic poem. I picture myself beneath the lime trees and imagine my mad, even less serious, sixteen-year-old heart going Crusoeing through all the romances. Oh! I cannot wait for the romances!
I have dreamed of art and love and beauty since forever and now … now, I am no longer dreaming. Now, I am going to Paris, France.
Back at my house, Crow’s waiting for me, leaning against the fence, her tights ripped above her boots.
‘You know you can go in even if I’m not here,’ I say as we walk together to the front door. ‘My parents don’t mind.’
She just shrugs, tossing her long, dark tangles over her bony shoulder. We’ve been friends since prep – ten whole years – and she still acts like a newcomer when she comes around to mine.
‘I was just reading this thing,’ she says. ‘There’s just no way the government is going to reduce emissions and meet the targets for 2030. We’re screwed.’
‘No, we’re not,’ I say reassuringly. ‘They won’t let it happen.’
Crow has this scowl she does. ‘I hope you’re right,’ she says, but the scowl is really saying you’re wrong. Crow’s told me what could happen if the earth warms two degrees. But I try not to believe her. I’m an optimist.
I can hear voices as we go inside – Mum, Dad, and Hana. ‘It’s bad enough I have to wear these,’ Hana is saying in a grumpy tone. ‘I don’t want to then buy new boring grey outfits every month or two.’
‘You could buy a washing machine,’ Dad suggests, as though Hana’s being dim. ‘Then you wouldn’t be taking over ours all the time.’
My sister comes over to do her washing most weeks. Hana’s ten years older than me and she lives in a scungy share house with a group of fascinating friends who all seem to love each other deeply and irritate each other frequently. She’s happy there, but is annoyed by the way their old half-broken-down washing machine leaves brown flecks all over her work clothes. I know Dad loves that she visits so much though.
‘Sof!’ Hana squeezes me in a tight hug. ‘Hey, Crow. How’s your gran?’
‘Yeah, she’s good,’ replies Crow, while I scrub my hands at the kitchen sink and try to wash away that layer of worry … emissions, coral, sea levels, food security. I dry my hands on the tea towel, roll it and flick it at Hana, who grabs it and flicks it back.
‘How are you, Caroline?’ says Mum. Crow just nods. Mum’s always trying to get Crow to like her. It’s not that Crow doesn’t like her (my mum’s good people), but maybe if she called her by her proper name …
‘Hey, carry this,’ says Hana, handing me the salad bowl and hustling us all to the table. Tonight, it’s all my favourite foods: complicated salad with lentils and grains and herbs and yoghurt dressing, accompanied by fish and chips from the place around the corner. They always put in an extra pota
to cake. Bon appétit!
‘So Claudine and her husband are meeting you at the airport?’ asks Dad, rolling the pepper grinder across to Mum and scattering pepper everywhere (Dad likes to try things a different way whenever he can).
‘It’s Claudette,’ I correct him for the seventeenth time. ‘And Léon.’
‘And the daughter, Delphine,’ adds Crow.
‘Yup. I don’t know if she’s coming to the airport though.’
Honestly, Crow has the most astonishing memory. She’ll say, ‘Remember Ella’s birthday party in year three?’ and I’ll say, ‘Yes!’ but my memories are cake/Ella’s mermaid t-shirt/lolly bag, while Crow’s are, ‘You didn’t want to go because you’d started colouring in a picture of a dolphin you’d traced from the National Geographic, and your mum walked us there and when I fell and cut my knee you sat with me while everyone had a dance party in the garage and, when Gran came to get us, Ella’s mum – I think her name was Natalie – gave us extra lamingtons for later.’
We have grown up to be pretty different, but with a past like that how can you grow apart?
‘Do you think you’ll recognise them?’ Mum sounds worried. She’s hardly touched her fancy salad. ‘Your host family? Make sure you have their phone numbers.’
‘I’ve got them. Everything’s with my travel documents.’ I feel suffocated, but also a bit comforted by my family’s concerns. It’s nice to be cared about.
‘Moment of truth, Sof,’ says Hana, placing her hands flat on the table. ‘How will you be for money?’
Here is how much money I have saved: $2733. From babysitting and birthday money, and selling hand-drawn cards, bookmarks and prints at farmers markets and out of my schoolbag (I had the birthday card black market cornered at my school).
I knew right from the get-go that if I went on exchange, I had to be able to pay my way. We’re not one of those families who can holiday every year. The times Dad doesn’t have tutoring work at the uni, things are even tighter. He has a part-time job in a bookshop because he’s a writer and a book critic who sometimes doesn’t get enough freelance work. He’ll teach a semester or two every now and then, but hates marking essays so he avoids it like salad in a burger. Anyway, all that means money isn’t something we have lots of. While we’ve never gone hungry, we’re not strangers to weeks of what’s-in-the-pantry surprises and lots of mend-and-make-do clothes.
The past year has been a whirlwind of applications and passport forms – let’s not even discuss how the passport photo turned out! Mum tried to reassure me that looking awful and suspicious is the whole point of passport photos. To pay for the passport I had to sell 61.5 cards – it actually hurt to hand over that money.
The plan is I can spend a maximum of twenty euros each day, but that’s based on the idea that some days I won’t spend any money at all. The host family is meant to feed you, so I figure it will be easy to live cheaply. I mean, what will my expenses be?
Museums. Metro. Maybe pencils. Definitely croissants.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I say. ‘I’m all set.’
I can count the times I’ve been to the airport on one hand, and it’s always been for other people. But now – now it’s my turn. Excitement floods through me.
We park in the short-term parking and no-one grumbles about how much it’s going to cost. I know they will on the way out, but at least I won’t have to hear it. Because I am getting on a plane! Me!
‘Remember we’re parked in blue four,’ says Mum. ‘Who’s going to remember where we are?’
‘I will,’ say Hana and Dad at the same time.
‘I’ll probably remember it wrong though,’ adds Dad.
If I couldn’t have a real backpacker’s backpack, then I wish I at least had a suitcase I could carry in one hand: a hard, rectangular suitcase with a clunky handle, like from the olden days. I could swing it as I walked and place it down neatly next to me while I consulted a map. It would make for a much more romantic look. Like I’m in one of those Russian novels I’ve never read.
But instead I have this sensible suitcase on wheels that I’m borrowing from my grandfather. While I was packing, I discovered $100 in one of the pockets, and when I tried to give it back to Pop, he just tapped the side of his nose and grinned. He has dementia so I’m not sure if he actually meant to give it to me, but Mum said just to keep it and remember to ‘bloody send your grandfather a postcard once in a while!’
The airport is busy and I feel a bit lost, so I’m glad Dad comes with me to check in. ‘Maybe they’ll give you an upgrade.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I say. But while we wait for the queue to move, I imagine a first-class seat, probably next to someone famous, and a glass of champagne.
A woman at the check-in counter takes my passport.
‘Any chance of an upgrade?’ Dad asks, encouragingly.
The woman hardly looks up. ‘Afraid not,’ she says in a bored voice.
Dad and I shrug at each other, but I can’t help feeling disappointed. Maybe a minor celebrity will sit next to me in economy.
The ticket lady gives me my boarding pass and my passport, and I pop them in my backpack pocket. My suitcase is weighed and tagged, and I watch over my shoulder as it disappears onto the conveyor belt. No going back now.
We find Mum and Hana near the gift shop, and I panic silently for a moment that I’ve dropped my passport, but it’s still just in my backpack pocket where I put it.
At the point-of-no-return doors, my family insists on taking photos of me. I try not to make a face in every one of them, but it’s hard. We are a family of face-makers in front of a camera.
‘Keep your wits about you,’ says Mum. ‘Be careful over there.’
Everyone takes a turn to hug me, and I am surprised how tight I hold on.
Hana’s smiling but she’s crying too, her eyes all shimmery. ‘Have a brilliant time,’ she whispers into my ear. ‘Throw yourself into all situations. Headfirst.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I’m not sure how to thank her properly.
Then I am through the checkpoint and I am on my own. The combination of terror and absolute joy is unnerving.
I sit at one end of a bench of seats and tuck my backpack between my feet. I practise drawing aeroplanes in my sketchbook. It turns out I’m not so good at drawing aeroplanes. I can’t seem to get the dimensions right.
I message Crow – to test whether she’ll respond or not. She promised she would check messages and she even created an Instagram account. Crow is worried about internet privacy, but she reluctantly agreed to be online for me.
Crow replies half an hour later: Haven’t you left the country yet?
There is a lot of time-killing when you’re waiting for an international flight.
I decide to call Mum quickly.
‘Hi, baby!’ she says. ‘We just got home. Are you through to the gate? How’s it going?’
‘Good,’ I say. I’m unsure if I’m lying. The butterflies could be excitement.
‘Have you looked up what movies you’ll be able to watch? Dad and I are just looking them up. Maybe we’ll watch the same one as you!’
I feel both a sense of happy solace and a terrifying clutch of being left out. ‘Don’t watch anything new without me!’ I’m about ready to burst into tears.
‘Oh, Sof! Don’t be a duffer.’ Mum laugh-comforting me is only half comforting.
I just sit there, sneaking glances left and right to check if anyone can tell I’m being a big baby.
‘I promise we won’t watch anything new,’ Mum says, her voice softer now. ‘We’ll just watch movies we’ve seen a dozen times before and, even then, only the ones you hate.’
I want to laugh, but I don’t because I still feel sad.
‘It seems unfair though,’ she says. ‘You’re going to see so many new things. And Dad and I can’t even go to the movi
es once while you’re away?’
My flight is finally ready to board, and I can’t believe the other passengers don’t hear my heart beating as I show my boarding pass and passport, or feel the vibrations from my heart-thumps as I walk down the corridor to the plane.
Are all these people going to Paris? Where else might they be travelling? What are they going to do there? I wonder if I’ll see any of them again.
There is the safety presentation and even though I’ve flown before (okay, yes, just once) I can’t pull my eyes away from it. On this flight, the demonstration is presented as a funny little cartoon on our screens; no flight attendants in the aisles pointing this way and that while wearing inflatable vests. But cartoon comedy aside, I think: I’ve got this – I’ll be the first down the bouncy slide in my life vest with the light and whistle to attract attention.
The plane pulls away from the gate. I can’t believe it’s going to be leaving the ground with me inside it. Can physics really be that tricksy?
As we take off, I can’t stop thinking about air disasters. Debris floating on the ocean. What the heck is with all this doom and gloom? Who am I? Crow?
I try to think light thoughts. Cotton wool. Bubbles. Feathers. Soufflé.
If we fly safely all the way to Paris, I am going to go to a café with cane chairs and a green striped awning and I am going to eat a soufflé.
I sketch croissants on my knee with my fingertip. I sketch a baker’s dozen. I cross the fingers of my left hand for luck.
I decide that I love the plane when it is dark; it makes me laugh to think of the flight attendants just being all okay, bedtime, night-night everyone. I love all the whispering, and it’s fun to glance down the rows as I walk back from the bathroom to see which films everyone has chosen.
I keep my little overhead light on and doodle my dreams and plans. I copy the flight path into my notepad – dotted lines and freehand arcs. Tiny aeroplane sketches, approximations of countries and continents, oceans and seas that I always get wrong when we do the quiz in the newspaper. I am going so far away. 16,760 kilometres, or thereabouts.
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