Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life

by Maureen McCarthy

  ‘Yeah. And his father and his father, too. All the men in my family are farmers.’

  ‘What about that hunky brother of yours?’ she smiled. ‘What’s he do?’

  I was proud that she knew about Vince.

  ‘He works in the bush, too. Just not around home. But one day he might come back. Everyone’s hoping for that . . .’

  ‘You mean your mum and dad are hoping?’

  I nodded. ‘And me too. Is there just you and your mum?’ I asked tentatively. She gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Yeah. There’s just me and Mum.’

  ‘You must get on,’ I ventured. ‘You must be close.’

  ‘Yeah. We are. Pretty close . . .’

  We were home again by this stage. She didn’t seem to want to talk any more about her mother so I let it drop. When we walked in, Katerina was there. She smiled at us as we passed her in the hall and went on with her phone conversation. I hoped that we weren’t going to have to share our pizza with her, then immediately felt ashamed. Typical, I admonished myself. I was such a greedy pig. I was hardly even conscious of it any more, I just thought like a guts. I pulled out three plates, and knives and forks, thinking that it was no wonder I was so fat.

  THE DAYS WENT BY IN A HAZE. I ATTENDED lectures, sitting by myself most of the time, on the edge of the crowd. I took the notes, the assignment sheets, and told myself I would read them carefully when I got back to the house. But I hardly ever did. Each day I got up and told myself that this would be the day when I would ask questions and find out what I needed to know. This would be the day when doing the course would suddenly make sense to me. But I couldn’t somehow. I went every day for three weeks before it finally hit me that no one was actually going to notice if I stayed away.

  My fellow students bored me senseless and, at the same time, scared the hell out of me. I would sit with a group of them sometimes in the university cafe, and I would try to listen and participate in their conversations, but my mind would wander. Everything they said sounded inane. I would find myself staring at someone’s hands or watching the way their hair curled. I would wonder about them. What kind of families did they come from? What did they look like when they were asleep? I was nervous all the time when I was sitting with the others, drinking coffee and trying to be part of their breezy conversations. I developed the rather startling condition of nervous diarrhoea. Nearly every day it happened at least once. I’d be tagging along with a group, perhaps to have a coffee between lectures, and it would hit me, my breath would shorten and I’d feel an urgent, terrifying need to go to the toilet.

  There was a young man in my group named Paul. He was tall, well-muscled and brown, and had a smart, sassy way about him and a quick tongue. He seemed to be everyone’s favourite. Sometimes I would watch him and a kind of longing would build up inside me. If only he would notice me, I used to think, even just a little bit. If only he would say hello or have a joke with me the way he seemed to with everyone else. He almost always had something friendly or funny to say to everyone, but he never spoke to me. He would look past me when we met in the corridor or lecture theatre, as though I didn’t exist.

  I suppose, thinking back, it was around the time that he made it plain that he had noticed me that I started to pull out of the course. There were twenty in my tutorial group and about ten of us were sitting in the cafe after a two-hour morning class. I was feeling better than usual. The psychology lecturer had asked my opinion on something and I’d managed a halfway decent reply. There were two very pretty girls in the group, Kerri and Elizabeth, who’d been to the same school and were always together. They were both nice girls, in an ordinary kind of way. The both lived at home with their parents and had all the feminine trappings: stylish clothes, make-up, and high-pitched giggles, especially for the boys’ jokes. But they went out of their way to be friendly to everyone. This day they brought their coffees over to the table where I was sitting and sat down on either side of me. I was trying, without success, to enjoy my coffee without sugar, and was aware of a happy little buzz inside me because I’d been able to answer the lecturer in front of all those people.

  ‘You did well today,’ Kerri said to me cheerfully, ‘I wouldn’t have known what to say if he’d asked me.’ She was exaggerating and we both knew it. Even so, I appreciated her friendliness. Just at that moment there was a lull in the general conversation and the rest of the group at the table turned to look at us.

  ‘Yeah. Well done, Carmel,’ called Leon from the other end. ‘How come you knew what to say?’ He was a skinny, friendly boy, one of Paul’s closest buddies. I blushed.

  ‘I guess I’m just brainy,’ I joked, trying to imitate the droll, bored tones of some of the ones in the group who got the laughs. No one exactly laughed at my reply, but there were a few smiles that made me think my answer hadn’t been a complete disaster.

  ‘Well, you’d have to have something going for you.’ It was Paul’s voice cutting in, low and deadly from the other end of the table. Everyone heard. I was so stunned I could hardly believe I’d heard right. I looked up at him, but he was staring impatiently at the group of girls who’d just come through the doors and were lining up waiting to be served. The others sitting around the table were stunned too. I saw Kerri and Elizabeth shoot anxious looks across me to each other. No one seemed to know what to say. My cheeks burned as I lifted the coffee cup again to my mouth. If only someone would say something! I didn’t want their sympathy, I just wanted to be ignored. In spite of myself, tears of humiliation were beginning to form in my eyes. Why do you have to be so nasty? I wanted to yell. Why? What have I ever done to you?

  Leon tried to relieve the situation by making light of it. ‘Did you get out of bed on the wrong side today or something?’ he asked Paul, giving him a playful poke in the ribs. But Paul simply sat there, his eyes now downcast, glowering. A bolt of anxiety shot straight through my misery as I watched his face twitch a couple of times and then set into a tight frown. He was either going to apologise or say something worse.

  ‘Those exercise videos are everywhere,’ he said finally, flinging the words into the air, not looking at me or anyone else as he got up. I stared down at myself, my blue rumpled T-shirt and thick legs encased in the new dark jeans I’d bought to disguise my size. The big sweaty feet in the ugly brown sandals.

  ‘There’s no need for anyone to be fat these days,’ he went on. ‘Sorry, but I can’t help it. I find fat people disgusting.’ He slung the last line at us loudly before disappearing through the glass doors. I don’t think I breathed, in or out, for about a minute. I was in shock rather than pain, although I knew that would come later. It was as though I’d been hit with a hard fist between the ribs.

  In their own way every one of the people who remained at the table with me tried to be kind. Kerri and Elizabeth moved closer.

  ‘Don’t take any notice,’ Kerri whispered, ‘he can be a pig.’

  ‘He’s a complete dickhead!’ Elizabeth said, quite loudly. There was a general murmur of agreement. I felt a few tears spill over and down my burning cheeks.

  A blonde girl named Sharon, usually cool and offhand with me, squeezed my fingers as she passed over a few tissues.

  ‘He’s a moron,’ she said confidently. ‘I should know, I went through school with him. He was a moron in Year 7 too!’ We all laughed at that, even me, through my tears. A couple of the boys who’d been sitting with Paul down the other end got up and collected their bags.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a lecture now,’ said one.

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  But on their way out each of them touched my shoulder in either a quick pat or a squeeze of support.

  ‘He’s a dickhead,’ Leon murmured, leaning down for a couple of seconds, ‘don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Yeah. You’re all right, Carmel,’ said another, ‘don’t let him get to you.’ Their kindness reminded me so much of my brothers that I was overcome with an incredibly strong pang of homesickness. My brothers’ names w
ere on the tip of my tougue. I wanted to shout them out and sob. I wanted all these people to know about Vince; that I had a handsome brother who loved me. But I nodded to them all and tried to smile as I got up slowly and collected my bag.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the toilet before History,’ I said, with as much dignity as I could summon up, ‘see you all then.’

  ‘Yeah, see you, Carmel!’

  ‘Good on ya, Carmel,’ one of the boys called after me encouragingly. ‘We’ll see you there, hey?’

  But I didn’t make it to History that afternoon, or the next day. In fact I didn’t come back to uni until the following week. And by then it was too late. I’d discovered the hypnotic pleasures of public transport; trams in particular were my downfall. I would get on to my morning tram for uni, telling myself severely that this day I must get out at the right stop. But at the last moment somehow I couldn’t move. I would find myself still sitting there. The conductor would pull the cord, and the cumbersome thing would be rolling forward again. Then a rush of pure unadulterated elation would bolt through me. I am free for one more day. Once that stop was passed I never thought about going back, until the end of the day when I’d arrive home exhausted from my travels and alarmed that I’d missed another day of my course. But that moment on the tram was euphoric. Once the indecision was over I would find myself smiling and looking forward like an eager child to my day in the city.

  It was exhilarating just to hop down and become one among the bustling crowd. So many different people! Old shambling people with walking-sticks, stern, spry policemen, weary shoppers, harried office-workers, and gangs of bored skinheads that I hardly dared look at. I loved it all. I would get off at the Swanston and Bourke streets intersection, aware of the varied, odd-shaped bodies moving off in separate directions around me. I’d wander off in any direction, maybe following someone for a little way if I liked their shoes, then switching to someone else who had a pretty baby in a pram. For the first hour or two it was blissful. Like being a little kid let out of a dull, dark old schoolroom with a crabby teacher for an unexpected half-day holiday in the sun. Off I’d go, prowling through the ground floors of the big stores, David Jones and Myer, Daimaru and Georges, my eyes feasting on all the lovely things: the pretty packages of hosiery and stationery, the fancy French make-up and perfumes, the fabulous bargain tables filled with shiny shoes and jewellery. A lot of people hate the music in those places. But I loved its bland breezy nothingness, which demanded nothing of me. I’d find myself whistling and humming the tunes under my breath, gradually lulling myself into a relaxed state of weightlessness. Like floating in water. I never thought of anything while I was checking out those stores, except how nice something looked or felt. After wandering through the ground floor I would either head up the escalator to the ladies’ fashions or lingerie, or come out into one of the back streets.

  By around midday my craving for food would be intense. Eating was the best part of the day. After I’d eaten, my mood would steadily decline until it was time for me to catch the tram home again. But the half hour during which I would wander around, smelling all the lovely, greasy, spicy smells from the cafes and restaurants, trying to decide what food I would buy that day, was wonderful. Chinese spring rolls one day and maybe a hot Lebanese felafel the next. Things I’d hardly heard of at home. I would eat as I walked along, my fingers tearing off a piece of hot salty fish, seasoned bread or spicy meat, loving the fact that I was indulging myself in the anonymous crowd. No one here knew me and I didn’t have to feel self-conscious or guilty about eating. I was just one more fat person in the street. There were a lot of us about.

  Gradually I dared to start trying things on and I suppose that’s when everything took a turn for the worse. Most of the really expensive clothing didn’t come in my size, but the cheaper labels did, and when I finally decided to brave the lady waiting with her little plastic numbers at the door leading into the fitting rooms, a rather strange addiction began. Strange because I couldn’t work out why I was doing it. It hardly ever brought me any pleasure to see myself in the clothes. Most of them I certainly couldn’t afford, but more importantly the small bright rooms were merciless in the way they showed me to myself. All the imperfections seemed to magnify under the harsh fluorescent light. I would take perhaps five or six garments into the cubicle and begin the painful business of taking off my own clothes and trying them all on. During the process I would catch glimpses of the unsightly rolls of fat around my midriff, my plump arms and heavy thighs, and a sense of desperation would overcome me. Perhaps this next shirt or dress or skirt might make me look different? Occasionally it would. And if it wasn’t too expensive I would walk away with the item wrapped in a bag under my arm feeling excited, but alarmed too, at the money I’d spent. Vince had put a lump sum in the bank for me. It was six months’ rent plus an extra few hundred. Nearly two thousand of his hard-earned dollars. There really wasn’t the money there to spend on clothes.

  Very occasionally I would venture into one of the smaller boutiques, always making sure there was at least one other person browsing. I was terrified of the women in charge of those places. Even when I could see that they were clearly old and plain, they somehow always seemed perfect. And they had eyes like hawks.

  ‘May I help you, dear?’ with a faint sneer, the eyes flicking up over my size and cheap, unfashionable clothes. They seemed to be able to tell that I was an impostor; somehow they knew how I was frittering away my days and wasting my brother’s money.

  Every now and again I thought I saw one of the people in my group from college and a flash of panic would jolt through me.

  I didn’t tell Jude about skipping my lectures. Whenever she asked how things were going I just made out everything was fine. Most nights we’d have a couple of hours together making dinner and eating our meal before she’d excuse herself and go into her room to study. She must have assumed that I had heaps of work to do too, and I never bothered to enlighten her. Sometimes she wouldn’t come home until very late, and on those nights I’d find myself wandering around the house feeling desperate and lonely. I never said anything about these times to her, though. I was determinded not to come across as a complete loser. And it was easy to evade her questions about the people and activities I was part of. I was able to make up a few things that seemed to ring true. I thought that if she knew about the real me, the person who had no friends, or interests, or future to speak of, then she wouldn’t want to be friends with me any more. I was too shy to question her about her life at university. But I found myself praying that it wouldn’t become so enticing that she’d forget to come home.

  It was the skirt in David Jones that launched me into my shoplifting phase, although I didn’t end up stealing that particular skirt. It was made of pure woven cotton, a tiny black and red flower print that was cut on the cross. It fitted me perfectly and flattered my figure. It also cost over three hundred dollars. I knew from the start that there was no way I could afford to pay for it, and because all the expensive items in this part of the store were fitted with electronic devices, I knew that there was no easy way to steal it either. Had there been a way, I would have. It shocked me at first to realise that. Knowing I could steal separated me from my life back in Manella, the life I’d had with my simple, old-fashioned, boring family. This new idea of myself rattled and unnerved me, but excited me too. Part of me wanted to see how far I could go. The longing to make myself into something different from them made it possible to suspend the simple moral code I’d been brought up to follow.

  So I began to steal small items like lipsticks and cheap blouses, packets of stockings and perfume. The odd thing was that I was always too nervous and guilty to pick the right item. If it was lipstick I’d get the wrong colour; with socks and stockings I’d get the wrong size. I was not a casual or brazen thief. My heart would pound like mad as I headed for the doorway, and I never quite had the courage to check properly, and make sure I got the size, colour and style that I really wa
nted. It was more than greed. The tingling sense of dread that would fill me when I walked into a store, knowing I was there to steal something. The rush of relief when I managed to control my fear – sometimes I was unable to do this and would leave ‘empty-handed’. Then my heart’s crazy thumping panic as I walked back out the door. The stolen item always seemed to be burning a hole in my bag or pocket. With every step I half-expected to feel a firm pull on my arm.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss. We have reason to believe . . .’

  I’d walk on up the street, one block and then two, far enough to know I was safe, then a wave of elation would pulsate through me. I had pushed fate and won again. It was the danger, I suppose, that hooked me in.

  The phase went on for about three weeks and it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I’d gone into the ground floor of Myer, planning to steal a silk scarf to tie around my hair in the way I’d noticed was fashionable. I was already sweating slightly, fingering the colourful scarves, trying this time to pick the right one, when suddenly there was a commotion behind me. People stepped back, staring. Two policemen were escorting a tearful girl around my age through the store towards the manager’s office.

  ‘Shoplifting,’ murmured one of the shop assistants behind the counter, by way of explanation to the people waiting to be served. A woman standing next to me nodded and pursed her lips disapprovingly. I watched the young policemen’s expressions, so bored and contemptuous, and I was horribly fascinated. That could be me! The trio disappeared behind a door and I walked out of the store knowing I’d never risk it again.

  Although I wasn’t tempted to steal again, the shops started to lose their appeal. I found myself going further out on the tram; sometimes to South Yarra or South Melbourne. One day I went right down to Port Melbourne, where the ships from all around the world docked. There were big, ugly, rusty-red ships from China and the Middle East. There were bales of wool being loaded into the huge hold of a Russian ship. I was excited to think that some of that wool may have come from home. I walked up and down the docks watching the sailors, intimidated by their blatant stares and the occasional wolf-whistle and crude invitation to ‘come aboard’, but unable to curb my deep curiosity. The ships had caught my imagination. All was surely not lost, I would think. There would be a niche for someone like me somewhere in the world. I fantasised about stowing myself aboard and waking up the next morning in another country.