‘I didn’t think you’d know that,’ I said when we’d finished.
‘I know a lot of hymns,’ she said, then added shyly, ‘Want to hear this one in Spanish?’
‘Sure.’ I knew by the change in her expression that she was letting me into a private side of herself. She ran off quickly to her room and came back with a guitar.
‘This one is about the pain of the world . . .’ she said sombrely. ‘It’s a kind of prayer asking for understanding of the pain of the world.’ I nodded. She giggled as she tuned the instrument. ‘There are a lot of Spanish songs about the pain of the world!’ ‘So get on with it!’
It was a fantastic song. The first Spanish song I’d really listened to. Its sad rhythm complemented the despair and longing of the lyrics in the subtlest way. It put me into a place I’d never been before. It was something like being in a big church at night with candles alight all around me. It made me yearn to be there; yearn for the sense of being born again that I always experienced on Easter Sunday when I got to sing all those songs of rebirth. Jude had only translated a few lines, but they were enough. I could feel the rest.
We went on, taking it in turns. She taught me a few bits and pieces of Spanish songs and I taught her some other songs too.
‘Have you ever had a boyfriend?’ Jude asked suddenly. I was back lying on the floor, gingerly taking a few sips from the glass of wine she’d poured for me, listening to her picking the guitar. I’d hardly ever tasted wine before and I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not. By this stage the night had come down and there were a few messy plates between us, covered with the remains of our meal: fresh bread and cheese, chopped tomatoes and ham. ‘No,’ I said, ‘and I can’t imagine I ever will.’
‘What?’
I turned to look at her and shrugged. She’d been sitting up against the couch on the floor, but she suddenly set the guitar down and sat up straight as though something had bitten her.
‘Why do you say that?’ she demanded reproachfully.
‘I just can’t . . .’ I repeated, annoyed. Did she want me to spell it out?
‘But why?’ she asked. I looked at her and couldn’t help smiling. She was genuinely bewildered. Had she honestly not noticed my size-eighteen figure, my continual blushing, my awkwardness, my absolute inability to do anything much, to get anything right? Even the fact that the first recording I buy in my entire life is of an opera star in her fifties! I mean what kind of eighteen-year-old girl does that? I couldn’t even put a sentence together if I was nervous. Then I remembered that I’d never told her about skipping my classes, or about my furtive addiction to the city. I’d kept quiet about so much.
‘Well . . .’ I began, wondering how I might put it without sounding sorry for myself, ‘I mean, what sort of guy would look at someone as fat as me, for a start?’ She took a sharp breath in and then threw her head back and closed her eyes as though she was thinking hard about something. I got up and changed the CD, wishing that the conversation hadn’t taken this turn. The Flutes of the Andes began to play and I sat back to listen, fascinated by the sound. I hadn’t heard anything like it before and I wondered how they combined that deeply rhythmic, sensual feel with the airiness of the flutes.
‘And don’t tell me I could go on a diet,’ I added, sitting forward, ‘I’ve tried so many diets. From the time I was ten. They never last. I haven’t got the willpower . . . I can’t stick at them.’ ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you to go on a diet!’ Jude retorted sharply over the music, ‘I think you’re . . . really sexy! ’ My mouth fell open in surprise and I began to laugh. ‘And I think there would be a lot of guys around who’d find you really attractive, too,’ she went on.
‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly.’
She obviously had no idea what it was like. Paul’s comments suddenly flew back at me. ‘Sorry, but . . . I find fat people disgusting.’ There was a stab of fresh pain as I remembered that day, the way he’d said it in front of all those people. But really he was only one person, and not a very important one either. Just the latest in a line of people throughout my whole life who thought they could say all kinds of things, take all kinds of liberties with me, because I was fat. All the names I’d been called through primary school – fatso, brick-house, slug and ten-ton Tessie, just to mention a few – that was only the beginning. Through most of high school there were dismissive, cruel and sometimes, even I had to admit, really humorous puns, jokes and comments made about my size. I would get advice about diets from women I hardly knew in shops, at sports meetings, then more advice from well-meaning teachers about tactics and strategies I could use to lose weight. Then there was all the stuff I didn’t quite hear, said under the breath, the sly smiles and sniggers that weren’t exactly meant for me, but that I heard anyway. You pick up a sixth sense for insults when you’re fat. So much of it came from boys too. And people think that only girls are bitchy!
‘I mean it, Carmel . . .’
‘Yeah, Jude,’ I shouted stupidly, suddenly wanting to cry. ‘Sure! And pigs might fly, and . . .’
‘I’m serious!’ she cut in, sitting up and looking at me with those intense brown eyes. ‘I think you’re very beautiful! Your hair, your face . . . Your body is big. But I think all your curves are beautiful. You’re like one of those women in those old paintings. Go and look in the art gallery sometime!’ She sounded almost angry. ‘Look in the art books. At the paintings from centuries ago. They’re just like you!’
The flutes played in the air between us like lovely chimes on a windy, sad day.
‘Well, thanks,’ I managed to mutter after a while, then turned away trying to concentrate on the music, ‘but I can’t really see it myself.’
‘Well, start looking,’ she snapped. I turned to her, surprised by her sharp tone.
‘You gotta start thinking about how beautiful and talented you are, Carmel,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you want a refill?’ I held out my glass.
‘You see,’ she said with a quick grin, ‘I’m planning for us – for both of us – to have a good time this year!’ I smiled and sipped my wine and tapped my foot down in time with the music to indicate I didn’t want to talk any more.
‘And you know about love, too,’ she said, ‘I know you do.’ At first I thought I’d heard wrong. I knew nothing about love. I had never even had a boyfriend. I had never been on a date, or felt that any guy had ever found me attractive.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got . . . a lot of love in you,’ she said slowly, staring into her glass. I couldn’t tell whether she was uncomfortable now or not. ‘I have, too,’ she went on, still frowning and looking down. ‘That’s why I can recognise it in you.’
In the early hours of the next morning, when I was beginning to feel sleepy, but we were still singing and there were still more things to talk about, I dragged them all out – those words she’d said – and went over them again. And the more I thought about what she’d said, the more I was aware of this . . . this little something starting to kick itself alive inside my chest. It felt like a tough little worm, a flower that didn’t need much sunlight, a hard spike with a diamond point, pushing through all those layers of concrete that were packed so neatly and heavily over my heart. That night I became aware that I had a new life springing up under all that stone. The inside of me wanted to get out!
Jude played different tracks from a few CDs, then we’d choose one to learn. She’d pick the tunes out on her guitar and I’d do what I could with them on the piano. All the while she was explaining what the words meant and how they should be phrased. I just loved it.
There were so many firsts for me that night. It was the first time I’d stayed up until morning. The first time I’d had wine. It was the first time I’d heard that South American music; those plaintive love songs and crying guitars; the songs about struggle and pain, about rivers and mountains and heroes; that mad gypsy sound of flutes and pipes and drums. The first time I was not too sel
f-conscious to dance. That night we both had to dance. Round and round the lounge room and up and down the hallway. Laughing and singing and shouting out. And it was the first time someone had told me I was beautiful. And the odd thing about that was that it felt like I’d known it all along.
I woke up around midday that day, gloriously dizzy and trying to work out why I’d had such a good time. If you wanted to get objective then it didn’t amount to that much. Just a couple of tipsy girls, eating, laughing, talking and dancing, and the music of course; the playing and the listening. But it was more than that. Sometimes your life just changes and you don’t know why. A kind of shift happens and it doesn’t seem to have that much to do with whether you want it to happen or not. When I look back I know that night with Jude was somehow the end of one part and the beginning of something new.
I knew it at the time, too. I was standing by the window watching the watery daybreak start edging into my room. We’d said goodnight and joked about how ratshit we’d look when we’d see each other next.
‘I hope the Queen won’t come home! She always looks so bloody perfect. Even if she’s been out all night.’
‘I know,’ I groaned.
‘My eyes will be hanging out like golf balls.’
‘I get these bags under mine,’ I laughed. It was true. If I didn’t get enough sleep I looked like I was about forty-nine the next day.
‘So what.’
‘Yeah, so what.’
‘We’ll both still look bloody fanstastic!’
‘Right,’ I laughed as I pushed my door open, ‘night then, Jude!’
‘Yeah. Good morning, Carmel!’
I went over to the window and pulled the blind down and felt the half-darkness close in around me. A bit of light was still coming in around the edges of the blind and I turned to watch this lovely square of pink colour flickering on the wall near the foot of my bed. I stretched my hand onto it, my five long, white fingers, and I remember thinking, Well, that’s over, eighteen years, three months and fifteen days. From now on it will be different.
I wasn’t even that excited. I just knew.
I slept naked that night for the first time in my life. I threw off every bit of clothing and slipped my big curvy body between those cool cotton sheets. It was the only way I could think of to mark the event. I went to sleep deciding I’d go to the art gallery the very next day and stare at the paintings of women who had bodies like mine. And I felt really good about it and glad to be where I was. Very glad to be alive.
IT WAS ALMOST EASTER. MUM HAD WRITTEN a long letter and sent me the fare home. She said that they were all looking forward to seeing me and would be there to meet the train. I wanted desperately to go. I was longing to see the house, the twins; I wanted to see the paddocks and climb the old stone wall into the overgrown orchard and lie under my quince tree. It was a physical longing for the place as much as for my family. But a big part of me was dreading it too. I was terrified of getting sucked back into that world. Would I continue to lie about my course? Even if I didn’t tell them now, they’d know within a couple of months. My money was running out. Each day I planned to look for work, but I allowed anything that came up to divert me from making the all-important first phone calls. If I came clean with them I knew there would be a showdown and the upshot would be that I’d never get back to the city. So I was pulled between a longing to go home and a terror of doing so.
And then Katerina came up with an invitation that would change my life in a most remarkable way.
It was a Sunday afternoon. Illapu, my favourite of the South American bands Jude had introduced me to, were playing loudly in the lounge room and Jude and I were singing along as we made crumpets with honey and laughed about the old Italian man next door. He’d come in earlier that day with a gift of a bucket of apricots from his tree, but had used the event to regale us with his view on what was wrong with the world. In the end we’d virtually had to push him out the door.
Katerina bounded in excitedly. It was the first time we’d seen her in a couple of days.
‘Hello, you two!’
‘Oh hi,’ I said, ‘you want a crumpet?’ She shook her head.
‘No thanks, I’m actually not stopping . . .’ She began opening kitchen cupboards, pulling things out and rummaging wildly through plates and dusty dishes at the back, searching for something. Jude watched her for a while and then turned around to me with a raised eyebrow.
‘So what are you looking for?’ she finally asked. Katerina mumbled something, but she obviously didn’t want to explain. She let out a loud sigh of relief when she came across a small notepad.
‘Gotcha! Oh great!’
The relief on her face was almost tangible. I was standing up at this stage, over near the sink, putting fresh boiling water in the teapot, so I could see that what she had was a doctor’s prescription pad. The white cover and yellow border at the top of the front page when she opened it were unmistakable.
‘Have you got someone waiting outside?’ I asked, trying again to be friendly.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s a guy I’ve been seeing a bit of,’ then she looked down at us both with a coy smile.
‘You both must meet him sometime,’ she added.
We nodded politely. I saw a twinge around Jude’s mouth as she took a bite of her crumpet and knew she’d make a joke about it as soon as Katerina left.
‘Oh God. The boyfriend, no less! I can hardly wait.’
Katerina was about to run out, but hesitated. I looked up at her by the door and had a momentary feeling that I was actually inside her wavering state of mind. I realised with a short rush of surprise that she didn’t want to go. We probably seemed relaxed and ordinary in a way that she was not. Judging by the flush on her cheeks and her bright manner, the guy she was with was probably anything but ordinary. It might feel strange to come home and see that the people you live with have a life there in the house, quite apart from you. She suddenly put down her bag and fetched a cup from the top shelf.
‘I might have a little cup of tea,’ she said in a small-girl voice. ‘Sure,’ said Jude pushing the teapot towards her, ‘go ahead. Don’t you want to invite him in?’
‘No. It will do him good to wait,’ Katerina giggled, and sat down.
‘So where are you off to?’ Jude asked simply. It startled me. It was a kind of unspoken rule that we never asked Katerina anything about who she mixed with or where she went. She was always heading out, dressed up or down, looking fabulous either way, but always in a hurry to be somewhere else. This day she was wearing some beautifully cut baggy white bermuda pants, with a fitted stretch-cotton navy T-shirt on top. Her dainty feet were encased in white sandals. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine, as usual.
‘Sailing actually,’ she said. ‘My friend has a yacht and he wants to get some time in before the race . . .’
‘What race?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, there’s some big yacht race next month. He’ll be competing in it.’
For some reason neither of us could think of anything to say to that. It had been totally easy before she’d come in. My conversation with Jude had been dipping in and out of serious subjects, bizarre jokes and recipes for pickles. I tried not to let Katerina’s arrival change the mood, but of course it did.
‘So, Katerina,’ I said, feigning a nonchalance I didn’t feel with her, ‘know any recipes for pickles?’ I suppose I was proud of my friendship with Jude and I wanted to show her something of it so she wouldn’t have quite as much reason to dismiss me.
‘Well, no, I don’t,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘But my gran is a great jam-maker. I used to love helping her. She had a mulberry tree. I’d climb up it with a little saucepan and pick them. She’d stand underneath and tell me the ones I was missing!’
Jude and I smiled and waited for her to continue. But the small personal admission must have rattled her because her face suddenly closed over. She looked at her watch, then jumped up, downing th
e rest of her tea in a gulp.
‘I’d better go,’ she said, picking up her bag again. ‘Look, er . . . I ’m giving a party at Easter. It’s next week, you know. Would you both like to come? We’re holding it on the Sunday night.’
‘What? Here?’ said Jude in surprise.
‘Heavens no!’ Katerina smiled. ‘In Manella, at my parents’ house.’ Jude took a hurried sip of tea, and I got up to turn off the dripping tap. I was glad that Katerina was looking at Jude and that Jude was nodding thoughtfully as she considered the invitation, because I had fallen into my usual kind of nervous confusion.
The Armstrongs were known for their expensive and stylish entertaining. The squire is giving another party for his kids would be the wry comment from the butcher or the postman. None of the ordinary people around town were ever invited.
I could see that the full import of the invitation was unsettling Jude, too. She was no fool; I could see her trying to work out what to do. She and her mother were also not part of the set who would normally be invited.
‘What do you reckon, Carmel?’ Jude said, turning to me. ‘Will you be going home at Easter?’ I pretended to consider this, the heat rising up my neck. We both knew that I was going home.
‘Yeah. I think so,’ I ended up saying brightly.
‘So you’ll come?’ Katerina was looking at us from the door, her face devoid of expression, except perhaps mild amusement. I had a flash that she might be laughing at us behind those beautiful eyes. As if either of us would ever refuse, her calm controlled smile might have been saying. Just for a moment I fantasised about doing just that.
So sorry, but I have something else on that night.
But I knew I would never say it. The temptation was too strong. I had grown up in that town, after all. I wanted to get a look inside that house. I wanted to see if all the rumours were true; that the rooms were huge and high and wood-panelled, that there was an enormous patio outside covered in wisteria, that the front formal room opened up into the family lounge, which in turn opened up into a third sitting-room. And that this huge space was about the size of two ordinary houses. In spite of knowing I was a complete disaster socially –I ’d only been to a few parties and hated them unreservedly –I knew I would go. I would probably suffer all night. My face would flush, my clothes would be ridiculous, I’d look fat and out of place among a whole lot of confident, beautiful people. Even so, curiosity was already flaming in me. As was my pride. What will my family think when I tell them I’m going to that house for a party?
Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get a Life Page 10