Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life

by Maureen McCarthy

  A whole row of A pluses! And then the overall score. Close enough to perfect. Was it possible? She looked away to the window – two people were outside staring in at the display – and then back again. Was this real? An A beside each of her subjects! A plus beside the five of them. And the total score! Jude’s stomach gave an almighty lurch. She thought she’d done well, but this was almost too wonderful to believe! She turned to Ernie Ridge, her eyes shining with sudden tears.

  ‘How did you go, love?’ His voice teetered warmly on the edge of concern. He was waiting for a sign from her. Suddenly Jude was so glad he was there with her; so glad that she wasn’t alone.

  ‘Good, Ernie,’ she said coming out from behind the counter towards him, holding out the piece of paper for him to read. ‘Really good!’

  Ernie’s eyes widened as he took in the score, then he held out both arms and she fell into them, laughing and crying at the same time. After giving her a quick, tight squeeze, Ernie held her by the shoulders at arm’s length.

  ‘Of course you did!’ he boomed. ‘Our little Jude! The cleverest girl at the secondary college, hey? Everyone knew you’d do well!’

  ‘But I didn’t know . . . I.. . .’

  ‘Well we all did!’ He let her go, picked up his mailbag and grinned. ‘Good effort, girl! Can I tell everyone?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Ernie.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be off now. You go and tell your mother. She’ll be tickled pink!’

  Jude watched him go. The bell tinkled at the door and the lumbering noisy figure disappeared. She stood still, her heart pounding, and listened to the last high notes of his monotonous whistle. Then she was alone again. She folded the piece of paper carefully, put it in a safe place at the back of the cash register, and resumed counting the money for the bank. There really wasn’t that much else to do, except wait until her mother got home, and she had no idea when that would be.

  There was no one else in Jude’s life. No one close anyway. They’d been a unit, Jude and Cynthia, since Jude was two. That was the year when the generals had ordered the killing of her father in Chile. He’d disappeared, along with a lot of others, when the Allende government had been crushed by the military dictatorship in 1973, but had surfaced again for a little while – long enough to set up house with the tall, good-looking, red-haired Australian he’d fallen in love with one night at a political meeting. And to father Jude. They’d had two years together, the three of them, before Carlos was captured again one night. Months later they’d found his body, riddled with bullet wounds, lying with half a dozen others on a bridge over the Mapocho River just out of Santiago. Cynthia had been tipped off anonymously. The next day she had gathered up her tiny, dark-skinned, Spanish-speaking daughter, taken all their meagre savings out of the bank, bribed twenty people for a plot of dirt in the Santiago cemetery, organised the burial, and then, with only one case of possessions, had flown back to Australia.

  The shots that had killed her husband had also just as surely shot to pieces Cynthia’s sense that there were bigger things than herself and her immediate family worth fighting for. She would go back to her parents for a while, then get some kind of work. Carlos had died. She would make sure his daughter survived.

  Of course Jude couldn’t remember any of that. All she knew was that she and her mother were as close as could be. They were like the two hands of a clock. One was the hour, the other the minute. Off in different directions a lot of the time, but joined together at the centre, where it mattered.

  Hardly anyone ever trespassed into their lives. Cynthia had her business to run, her daughter to bring up, and of course her memories to contend with. And as the years passed it was as though Cynthia’s memories had merged to become Jude’s as well. Jude felt sure she could remember her father, during the last chaotic year before the coup, standing up on a box outside the factory gates and addressing a small group of workers who had refused to strike. He’d spoken loudly and bravely, even when the long, narrow barrels of the surrounding tanks had pointed straight at him. She could hear the deep resonance of the Spanish words as they flew out defiantly to the worn, anxious crowd of workers.

  ‘Courage, friends! Remember this day belongs to you . . . !’

  The march he’d led through the streets of Santiago was another event she could ‘remember’, even though, logically, she couldn’t even have been born. But it was so real to her that she secretly felt her mother was wrong, that she must have been there. How could someone else’s simple words conjure up such vivid colours and noise? In bed at night she could slot herself back there at will, feel herself on her father’s shoulders, being carried along the streets of that big sprawling dirty city, dipping and soaring above the bursting crowd. Rows of people, their arms joined, followed him in a public protest in support of the democratically elected government under threat, and against the right-wing forces that were creating the strikes and chaos – right up to the Palacio de la Moneda in the centre of the city. She could smell the excitement all around her and feel the quickening fear as swarms of armed and battle-dressed soldiers suddenly appeared at every corner, their faces blocked with perspex shields. The people had raised their fists and voices. The shouting was so loud that after a time it was almost like no noise at all. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the uniformed men edging closer, their guns being lowered, cocked, readied . . .

  She could conjure up the smell of her father too. See his blood running into the gutter of the concrete courtyard of the old prison where he’d been shot in the bright, hot sunlight. And hear his last words to his wife before he was taken away for the last time. ‘I love you. Look after our baby . . . Fight for justice . . .’

  And she could recall the way he had laughed and sung and bent forward over the table to enjoy his food. Her mother spoke often about that laugh. But Jude knew she’d remember it even if her mother hadn’t said a word. She truly believed that she could remember him.

  By the time Cynthia got home, Jude was already in bed trying to concentrate on her book. She quickly turned out her light and waited, her heart pounding as she listened to Cynthia moving quietly around the kitchen. More than anything she wanted her mother to come in and check that she was all right. I’m not all right, I’m not all right! was the cry in her heart. A cry she didn’t understand herself. If she wanted her mother to come in, why had she turned out the light? The aching need for comfort bubbled over and became a throbbing, painful anger. She imagined herself bursting into her English teacher’s house.

  ‘I can’t go to university. My recently demented mother doesn’t approve.’ Worse than not being able to go, and having to hang out in Manella forever, would be to feel everyone’s pity. ‘Jude, are you awake?’ came Cynthia’s low whisper. Jude hesitated. The roar of her imagining rushed to a stop at the sound of her mother’s gentle voice. It still held such power. For years they’d slept together in the same bed. That voice had lulled her off to sleep with all kinds of stories and songs and little poems in Spanish and English. Part of her desperately wanted not to answer, but she couldn’t resist.

  ‘Yes . . .I ’m awake.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To see how you are?’

  ‘Okay . . . I ’m all right.’

  The older woman slipped silently into the room without turning on the light and sat on the bed. Jude watched her profile warily. The face, with its long straight nose, mouth and pointed chin, was silhouetted against the light from the moon outside. She knew the shape of her mother’s face better than her own. The anger sank away, replaced by a terrible ache. Her mother was sitting right next to her, yet it was as though a deep, dangerous chasm was running right there between them. She longed to jump over to the other side, but was suddenly aware of some kind of risk.

  ‘My results came,’ she said, wanting to hurt Cynthia for her lack of interest. Her mother drew her breath in sharply.

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘I did well . . . v
ery well. A’s for everything.’

  ‘Oh, Jude! Really? That’s . . . wonderful!’ Her mother sounded genuinely delighted. She leaned forward and put her bony hands on Jude’s shoulders, then she kissed her daughter warmly on both cheeks. In spite of her inner hostility, Jude felt some of the ache subside.

  ‘You’re just like your father, you know,’ Cynthia whispered down into her face. ‘Clever in the way he was . . .’ Jude turned towards the window and summoned up her courage. She would know soon. Why not now? She took a deep breath.

  ‘So, can I go? I mean, can I go to university?’ Her voice was thin with panic.

  ‘Of course you’ll go to university!’ Cynthia replied quickly, surprised. Jude’s head jerked back around to face her.

  ‘But you said . . . you wanted me to . . . stay here and . . .’

  ‘But you don’t want to do that, do you?’

  ‘No . . . but what about . . . ?’

  Her mother was sounding normal for once. She wasn’t off with the fairies or looking away as though she had more important things to think about. Jude felt the sobs of relief rising within her, but she managed to contain them. She wanted to be absolutely sure about it all.

  ‘The money. . . and everything?’ she whispered. Cynthia gripped her daughter’s shoulders more tightly.

  ‘Don’t worry about the money, Tot,’ she answered, using the old, half-forgotten pet name. ‘You must go to university. We’ll find the money.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it! Your father would have wanted it.’ When Cynthia bent down again to reassure her daughter the cheek she kissed was wet with tears.

  ‘Jude,’ she said anxiously, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t be able to find the money for you to go?’

  ‘I didn’t think you wanted me to go.’

  Cynthia buried her face in her daughter’s neck where it met the shoulder. Jude breathed in the soapy smell of her mother’s skin and wished the moment would go on and on. When she felt her mother might be going to pull away she pushed back the sheets, lifted up her arms and wrapped them around Cynthia’s back.

  ‘Well, of course I don’t want you to go, Jude!’ Her mother was tearful now. ‘You know that! I’m going to miss you terribly.’

  That night Jude had the best sleep she’d had in weeks. She woke wondering if she’d imagined the last six months. Perhaps nothing had changed at all. Maybe that gradually widening, shifting space between her mother and herself was all in her head. But when she went out to the kitchen there was a pile of leaflets on the table along with a big notepad filled with her mother’s large, scrawling, green-inked handwriting. Jude picked up the notepad and flipped through it. The pages were filled with half-sentences and small quotes: Where would any of us be without forgiveness? What does it mean to be alive? Oh God! Jude groaned. There were asterisks, exclamation marks and circles around some of the words. And short comments that had been added with a thicker texta in another colour.

  Why can’t I understand this! This is too hard! . . . But how do I put this into practice? Cynthia’s comments to herself. Dates for further sessions were noted too. Some of the headings were underlined.

  My gifts. How can I use them to best advantage?

  Working through to spiritual enlightenment.

  Coming out the other side of sorrow and guilt.

  Jude read on and the familiar chill of incomprehension began. What is happening to my mother? Only six months ago Cynthia would have joined her in a few derisive sniggers about this kind of stuff. She remembered her mother’s scorn only last Christmas when they’d watched some actress on television pontificating about how important her inner wellbeing was. How they’d groaned together, and laughed.

  ‘The Hollywood answer to the world’s problems: concentrate on yourself,’ her mother had scoffed.

  Betrayed. That’s how Jude felt. She sighed as she felt the anger simmering away in the pit of her gut. If Cynthia insisted on getting into all this New Age crap, she could at least keep it away from Jude.

  ‘The shared areas of this house will remain crap free,’ Jude hissed under her breath before picking up all the papers from the table, pushing them roughly into a plastic bag, and making her way through the lounge and into the hallway. She hesitated for a moment outside her mother’s open bedroom door before hurling the bag inside. She didn’t wait to watch half of the papers spill out onto the hand-woven Mexican rug, but slammed the door, ran back out to the kitchen, grabbed her bag and stormed out of the house. I am Jude Torres . . . Carlos’s daughter. The daughter of a revolutionary doctor who died fighting for justice. Sixteen years on, and there are still fresh flowers on his grave. I owe it to him to keep faith. I won’t give in . . .

  ‘Jude, where are you going?’

  Jude heard her mother’s anxious voice as she unlocked the front gate, but she didn’t stop.

  ‘I’m just going out,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘See if I can find somewhere to live. Be back soon.’

  CARMEL

  WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT THAT FIRST day was the crushing sense of doom that filled me when the car pulled into the kerb. It was not a new feeling. Since my exam results it had been with me constantly. It was just that on this day, at this hour, the feeling was stronger than ever. We’d driven around for about forty minutes, lost in the unfamiliar city streets, and we were both hot and sweaty. The vinyl seats were roasting me alive – the backs of my thighs were wet and I could see that Dad’s shirt, carefully ironed that morning, was damp. A sour smell was exuding from him. From both of us.

  Now that it was imminent, a part of me hoped we’d never find the street or the house. Then we could just give up and go home.

  Then, suddenly, the street sign came to life. Quickly after that the small row of six white terraces, small and pretty with ironwork along the front, very close to the street. It wasn’t just apprehension that rose inside me. It was fear.

  ‘It’ll be one of these,’ Dad muttered, slowing the car right down. ‘Now what was that number?’

  ‘Forty-five,’ I said, looking out the window.

  ‘Well, this is it.’ My father sighed. He’d done his duty. That morning I’d heard them arguing. He hadn’t wanted to come. He had too much work to do. Couldn’t they put me on the train or something?

  ‘Well, how else is the poor wretch going to get her things down there?’ my mother had shouted. A poor wretch. They didn’t believe I should be doing this course and neither did I. Vince had gone up north again. With him had gone my absolute belief that I should leave Manella. In fact I was beginning to think that my parents were right. I should be living at home and doing a computer course. I watched Dad slowly get out of the car and open the boot. He wasn’t going to muck around, that much was obvious. He was going to pull out my things and leave as soon as he was able. I tried to quell the sickening rush of fear inside my stomach as I opened my door and got out.

  ‘So, you’ve arrived?’

  We were bending over the suitcases and hadn’t seen the door open in the house nearest to us. There she was, this magnificent blonde creature, whom I’d only ever seen in the distance in Manella, standing outside the front door smiling at us coldly. I was so aware of how we looked, my father and myself, red-faced with the heat, wilted and sweating. I felt her eyes sweep over me, just once. I flushed with shame, knowing now that the new light-blue denim skirt I’d been so happy with in Manella was ridiculous. And the white blouse with the embroidery around the collar was just as stupid and old-fashioned. She had on tight jeans cut off at the knee, and a low-cut sloppy turquoise T-shirt that matched her eyes. The short sleeves were rolled up to her shoulders and her sandals were of a bronze-coloured leather. There was the sweetest little gold chain around one of her ankles. I would have killed for ankles like that, and for that little gold chain.

  ‘Yes, we’re here,’ I stammered. A wave of annoyance flitted across the girl’s fa
ce. She was put out. She must have been on her way to somewhere important. She gave off that impatient, bored air that said she had far more important things to do than to stand around talking to us. She turned around and pushed the door open for us. Instead of walking in, to my horror, Dad put both cases down and held out his hand.

  ‘Well, you must be Dr Armstrong’s daughter,’ he said shyly. She hesitated long enough to make him feel he’d done the wrong thing, then took his hand limply in her own for a few seconds, looking past him out onto the street.

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Katerina. Pleased to meet you,’ was her clipped reply. Poor old Dad, I found myself thinking as I saw the rush of confusion sweep across his face. He was way out of his depth.

  ‘Look, I’m due somewhere . . . but do come in. I’ll show you your room,’ she went on lightly. ‘The other girl arrived last night, but she’s out somewhere.’ The other girl? I hadn’t known there would be anyone else. Now there were two of them and one of me. Dad and I followed her into the dark, cool hallway. By the time our eyes had adjusted, Katerina was already striding down the narrow corridor.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the last room,’ she called. ‘It’s smaller than the others and it’s near the kitchen.’ Then she turned back to me and fluttered her lashes mockingly. ‘I hope you’re a good sleeper.’

  I nodded, and she flung the door open, stepping aside for me to enter. The room was lovely. Well, plain and small, I suppose, but lovely to me. Light streamed in through one long, wood-framed window. It was painted in pristine white and had an old fireplace surrounded by dark wood and a heavy mantelpiece. There was another long window on the opposite wall that looked out onto a red brick fence, a single bed in the corner, unmade with a couple of blankets folded on the end, and a cupboard and small wooden dressing-table. Everything about the room was much nicer than what I had at home.