‘I see . . .’ I said slowly, ‘a band . . .’
‘It’s all on the sheet that you got in the mail,’ she said, just the tiniest bit reproachfully, ‘and at four o’clock there’ll be wine and cheese for the first years . . .’
‘Oh, I see. Yes,’ I stammered, glancing down at the bundle of sheets in my hands, ‘thank you.’ I wanted to smash her face with both fists, break her jaw with one almighty blow the way I’d seen it done in cartoons. I turned quickly and began to walk out.
‘Just turn left out those big doors,’ she said, ‘you’ll find the cafe.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome!’ she called after me. ‘Enjoy it all, won’t you!’
I rushed out through the glass doors, down a stairwell, and out into the fresh air. The sound of loud, grating guitars hit me. I’d ended up outside the back of the building, so I headed blindly up the nearest small lane towards the noise. I hurried around the corner of the building and stopped. There was a large square courtyard in front of me, crowded with young people, some sitting, others lying on the grass, listening to the band that was playing on the makeshift wooden stage in front of them. My first instinct was to flee. The music was so loud and tuneless and the members of the band looked so bored – four of them standing in a dull line, eyes closed and playing with a kind of remote, passionless fever, as though they were asleep. In some kind of trance anyway. Two of them, the guitarist and the drummer, were so pale they looked sick. But no one else seemed to notice.
I made myself stay. I bought a bottle of soft drink from a nearby stall and walked towards the crowd. There was no room to sit at the edges so, very self-consciously, I made my way tentatively into the middle. It was hard to find a spot, but eventually I managed to locate a patch of grass. There were two groups near me. One was a very excited bunch of heavily made-up girls who took no notice of me. The other was a mixed group. One of the boys smiled briefly as he made room for me to sit down. But he turned straight back to his friends again. Over the next two hours I tried to smile and look friendly, as a prelude to making some kind of conversation. But it was as though I wasn’t there. There was no response. No one spoke to me at all. After about half an hour I wanted to leave, but I’d used up all my courage walking into the middle of that crowd. I had none left to edge my way back out again. So I sat there, uncomfortable, hating the music and myself, but not daring to move.
Finally the band finished. There was some desultory applause and the four thin, pale men jumped down from the stage and began packing up. Suddenly they were animated and looked like they couldn’t wait to get away. A message over the loudspeaker asked all the first years to head up to the first floor of the red-brick building for wine and cheese. I rose with the people around me, allowing myself to be carried along. But at the doorway something in me baulked. My feet had decided, rather than me. The last few hours had made my mind go numb. I turned around at the big glass door and pushed back through the crowd the way I’d come, vaguely aware of a couple of annoyed faces looking back at me. Relief spread through me as I came out into a very busy street shaded with some lovely big peppercorn trees. I had no idea where I was, so I walked up to the nearest intersection and approached an older lady who was waiting for the lights to change so she could cross.
‘Excuse me, could you tell me where Swanston Street is?’ I asked. She smiled in a tired way.
‘It’s this street here, love,’ she said, pointing to the intersecting road. ‘Which part of it do you want?’ I hesitated for a moment, forgetting everything.
‘I want to catch the tram,’ I said.
‘Ah! Into the city or out?’
‘Out,’ I said quickly, ‘I want to go back to North Carlton.’
She walked with me to the edge of the road and pointed up the block to a tramstop.
‘Up there. That tram will take you up Lygon Street.’
‘Thanks,’ I smiled weakly. ‘Sorry to trouble you.’
‘Not to worry, love.’
I walked up to the tramstop and waited. It was a perfect day: warm, sunny and blue. I felt numb, hardly even alive. I just wanted to get back to my own room in that little house and dive under the blankets.
But I didn’t get a chance. To be alone, I mean. I let myself into the house thinking that the others wouldn’t be there. It was only five o’clock and I’d heard Katerina say that she had a seven o’clock tutorial and wouldn’t be back until late. Jude, I figured, would be out too. I walked down the passage through the lounge room on my way to the bathroom.
‘Hello,’ said a low voice.
I turned in surprise. Jude was sitting at the little table in almost the same position as that morning. I must have jumped a little at the sound of her voice because she smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. I gave you a fright.’
‘Er . . . no. I wasn’t expecting . . .’ I said. ‘Hello.’
‘You had a good day?’ I gave what I thought was a noncommittal half-smile and shrugged.
‘It was . . . okay.’
‘You don’t look as though it was okay,’ she countered cheerfully. I gulped, more embarrassed than ever, and without thinking covered my mouth with one hand. Why do I have to be that obvious?
‘I had a complete bummer too,’ she went on. I stared, thinking I’d heard wrong. She looked so absolutely right sitting there in her tight blue jeans – the very picture of an attractive first-year student, talented, smart and spunky. Nothing in a million years would ever go wrong with her, I was sure of it.
‘Did you?’ I asked, not knowing what else to say. She smiled ruefully and pulled out a chair.
‘Wanna sit down?’
I moved across to the chair and hesitated. If I sat down I might be stuck there, and I was afraid I’d have nothing to talk to her about. And the humiliation of breaking the chair that morning was still with me. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle her referring to it.
‘First off, I got lost,’ she said, scowling. ‘I’ve been there a couple of days already and I still messed up where the lecture room was. So I missed my first anatomy lecture. Then when I got to the next one I couldn’t understand anything the lecturer was saying . . .’
‘What course are you doing?’ I broke in.
‘Medicine,’ she replied, ‘but I dunno . . .’
‘What? I mean what don’t you know?’
‘I think I might be doing the wrong course,’ she said, then started to laugh. ‘Oh, hell, Carmel. I’m sure I’m doing the right course! But it seems as though it’s going to be pretty boring. Learning stuff off by heart . . .’
‘Well, you’ve only had a few days,’ I ventured, feeling myself relax a little. ‘Maybe you’ll get to like it. Is there a lot of maths and . . . adding up and figures?’
‘No!’ She gave a short hoot of laughter. ‘And I love maths!’ She picked up her canvas bag and slammed it theatrically on the table. ‘There’s just a whole lot of rote learning. No ideas or differences. No interpretations. I mean, I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not as though there could be any question about what a particular bone is called or what drug might treat some disease. I mean, I’ll be able to do it with my eyes closed, but, you know, it’s weighing on me. Six years of swotting up information!’ She slumped down into her chair and groaned, her face hidden by her hands. ‘Why? Why did my father have to be a doctor?’ She dropped her hands and grinned. ‘Why do I have to be the dork who wants to follow in his footsteps?’
I sat down on the chair. I was enjoying her theatrics and the way she looked, too, her flashing dark eyes, olive skin, and deep, funny voice. There wasn’t an inch of self-consciousness about her. And for once I wasn’t aware of myself at all either. I was enjoying just being there after the terrible uptight day I’d spent not talking to anyone.
‘Is that why you’re doing it? Because your father was a doctor?’
‘Yeah,’ she sighed, and rubbed her eyes. ‘But not here. He was trained in London,’ she said proudly. ‘He wa
s a specialist in obstetrics. But he went back to Chile. And worked in the poorest hospitals . . .’
‘Why?’ I asked. She gave me an odd look and smiled.
‘Why what?’
‘Why did he go back to Chile and work in the poorest hospitals?’
She shrugged and stretched, and I thought with a sinking heart that I’d probably put her off by asking a dumb question.
‘A bit mad, I suppose,’ she said after a while, as though she didn’t want to pursue the topic, ‘like me.’
‘You’re not mad,’ I protested, wanting to cheer her. ‘You just didn’t know what it’d be like . . . and you’ll get used to it.’
She looked up at me with a small smile, groaned and nodded. ‘Yep, I guess you’re right, Carmel.’
‘Besides,’ I butted in recklessly, ‘you’re not the only one. I know I’m going to absolutely hate my course too!’
Jude looked up in surprise.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. She flopped back into her chair and slapped both hands down on her knees. Her eyes were dancing. I started to laugh too. It was such a relief just to tell someone.
‘Oh great!’ she chortled. ‘Two of us, hey?’
‘Yep.’
‘What happened to you?’
I shrugged, feeling myself clam up. I was not ready to expose myself further.
‘Hard to explain . . .’
‘Try,’ she said, ‘go on.’
There was nothing for it but to plunge in.
‘I haven’t spoken to a single person all day, except to say sorry and thank you!’
Jude broke out into a fresh snort of laughter. ‘Me too! Me too!’ she spluttered. ‘Isn’t it revolting? My course is full of all these private-school kids and they all know each other!’ I looked at her in wonder.
‘But why wouldn’t they . . . ?’ I gasped without thinking, my eyes flicking over her decidedly normal and attractive figure.
‘Why what?’ she asked.
‘Well, I mean . . . why wouldn’t they talk to you?’
‘Same reason they ignored you, I suppose,’ she shrugged. ‘They don’t know you so . . .’
‘But you’re so . . . so attractive . . .’ I said.
All trace of her laugh disappeared. She cupped her chin in her hand and rested both elbows on the table, taking her time. I shifted in my seat, hot with embarrassment. I hadn’t wanted the conversation to get onto this level at all.
‘So are you,’ she said quietly.
I shrugged miserably.
‘Besides,’ she went on, the teasing tone returning to her voice, ‘I was asking them for money and they hate that!’
‘For money?’ I said, bewildered.
‘Yeah. I was trying to sell badges. I only got rid of three! In a whole afternoon. Two of them I had to give away!’
‘Badges?’
‘I’m in Amnesty.’
‘When did you join?’
‘Oh, I’ve been in it for years. But on my first day there last week I joined SAF as well.’
‘On your first day?’ I repeated in awe. ‘What does SAF mean?’ ‘Students against Fascism,’ she said. ‘It’s a group that supports democracy in countries all over the world. I’m especially interested in South America, but there are political systems all over the world that deny people their basic human rights . . .’
‘I see . . .’
‘I was born in Chile . . .’ she went on, ‘so I have a special interest.’
I nodded, pretending I understood the connection. But I only had a very vague idea where Chile was. I knew nothing of its current political situation, or of its history for that matter.
‘This year they’re going to have a special emphasis on South American countries,’ she said. ‘We’re trying to raise money for someone to go over there.’
‘What for? I mean . . . what to do?’ I asked.
‘Bring back more information about all the gaoled students and dissidents, and about the situation of the disappeared . . .’
I nodded, pretending I understood what she meant. The words she was using had only the faintest meaning for me. Democracy, dissidents, politics; they were words I’d heard every now and again at school. It hadn’t occurred to me until then that someone my own age would actually know how to use them.
‘Anyway,’ she went on with a grin, ‘in the morning I didn’t understand the lecturer, I got lost, I had no one to eat lunch with, and then in the afternoon I only managed to sell one badge. A complete disaster! I was meant to go to this social function for all the first-year Med students. But I cleared out before it was over. I couldn’t stand another minute in the place!’
‘That’s exactly what I did,’ I said smiling.
We chatted on a bit about different things.
‘You know, Carmel,’ she said, leaning forward and touching my arm warmly at one stage, ‘I liked you as soon as I saw you up close this morning . . .’ That caught me completely unawares. I looked away, quite tongue-tied. ‘I think we’ll be fine here, don’t you?’
‘Here?’ I repeated, not trusting myself to acknowledge what she was really saying.
‘Yeah,’ she went on blithely, ‘I think we’ll get on. Don’t you?’ I nodded and felt the heat rising in my face, but didn’t care. I was suddenly so happy I couldn’t have spoken even if I had thought of anything to say.
‘I think it will be good,’ I said, amazed to realise that I was speaking the truth. I did right at that moment think it would be good. Within the space of approximately fifteen minutes I’d changed my mind completely about everything. Suddenly the whole future seemed possible. I looked up and she was smiling at me.
‘If we can manage to deal with Queen Katerina,’ she added impishly, ‘we’ll be able to manage anything! How come we’ve never really met before?’ she asked. ‘In Manella, I mean. I’d never met you.’
I shrugged. ‘Do you think we will manage her?’ I said shyly, more for something to say than anything else.
‘Of course!’ she replied with gusto. ‘She’s all front. You wait! I know how to deal with her type.’
At around six o’clock Jude suggested we walk down to a nearby pizza restaurant and bring ourselves back something for tea. I shrugged and pretended to consider the idea. But inside I could hardly believe it was happening to me. I felt as though I was in a movie as I walked along the warm concrete street holding the square white box with my dinner inside. So this is what it feels like, I kept thinking, to have a friend! All through secondary school I’d got on all right with people. I mean I wasn’t shunned or ostracised. But I only ever had one person to be with on a constant, one-to-one basis. Jenny Owens was a small, thin girl with long plaits and bad skin. But ours wasn’t a talking relationship. We were the two gifted music students and we simply hung around together in between our lessons and practice. We talked music, what we’d heard, what we liked and, sometimes, vaguely what our plans were. We both expected to be studying music in one way or another, but even that we didn’t talk about much. She was from a poor town family – her father was an invalid and her mother worked as a cleaner in the local hospital – but she never wanted to talk about her family, so we didn’t. I heard that she did well in her exams and won her place to study music at the conservatorium. I tried to be glad for her, because I knew she deserved it. But deep down I was jealous. When I heard of her results I burst into tears. Somehow they made my own seem so much worse. But I made myself write her a note to wish her luck. We hadn’t seen each other since school ended.
‘Do you think you’ll get homesick?’ Jude asked me.
I nodded, shamefaced, hoping she wouldn’t despise me for it, but unable to lie. After only an hour I’d at least had the brains to realise that there was something there in Jude that demanded the truth.
‘Last night . . .I wished I was home,’ I said flatly, ‘that I’d never come . . .’
‘But did you . . . you know?’ Her hands flew all over the place while she talked. ‘Did y
ou cry and really wish you were back there in old Manella?’
‘Yes, I cried . . . and really wished . . . it.’
She frowned thoughtfully, as though she was thinking about what I’d said and found it very interesting.
‘I didn’t,’ she said after a while. ‘I was glad to get away.’ Her tone caught me. Although there were a million things I could have said, wanted to ask, I kept quiet. I sensed a sadness in her, and it held me back.
‘I missed my younger brothers actually,’ I burst out, suddenly needing to talk, ‘and Mum and Dad and . . . the tree outside the back room.’ I couldn’t stop, in spite of feeling foolish. ‘I just love trees . . . and grass . . . especially in autumn when the green underneath is just coming up through . . . I walk sometimes for hours through the grass by myself . . . singing, down to our creek. There’s a little bridge that my grandfather made. Dad was only four and he remembers helping him . . . he held the nails while my grandfather hammered them in . . .’
I stopped suddenly and looked at her. She was smiling, making me feel it was perfectly all right to go on in this dumb way. ‘I would have given anything for even one brother,’ she said wistfully before I had a chance to apologise for blabbing on.
‘What about now?’
‘Well, I’d still like one . . .’
‘They’re not at all what they’re cracked up to be,’ I said, ‘I get really sick of mine. They’re so bloody dirty and lazy . . . I think of my brothers and I think of piles of dirty socks and washing up . . .’ Jude gave one of her snorts of laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘The way you come out with stuff like that!’
‘Stuff like what?’
‘Country talk. You talk like a country person . . . not what they’re cracked up to be . . . I love that!’
‘Well, I’m a country girl,’ I said somewhat defensively.
‘So am I,’ she said quickly, ‘but it must be different actually living out on the farm. Has your dad always been a farmer?’
Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life Page 7