Martine Murray was born in Melbourne and still lives there. She spent most of her time studying impractical things, like art, acrobatics and dance, and she started writing because she had a very nice dog that she wanted to write about. She is the author of two picture books, three novels and one picture storybook.
The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley (who planned to live an unusual life) was shortlisted for the 2003 Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Book of the Year awards for younger readers, commended in the 2002 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards, shortlisted in the 2002 NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, and included in The White Ravens 2003 annual selection of outstanding international children’s books by the International Youth Library (Associated Project of UNESCO).
Also by Martine Murray
The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley
(who planned to live an unusual life)
How to make a bird
– shortlisted in the 2004 CBC of Australia awards for older readers
– winner of the 2004 Queensland Premier’s Literary Award for the Young Adult Book Award
Picture Books
A Dog Called Bear
A Moose Called Mouse
Picture Storybooks
Henrietta there’s no one better
The slightly bruised glory of
Cedar B.
Hartley
(who can’t help flying high
and falling in deep).
Martine Murray
First published in 2005
Copyright © Text and illustrations, Martine Murray, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
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National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Murray, Martine,1965– .
The slightly bruised glory of Cedar B. Hartley
(who can’t help flying high and falling in deep).
ISBN 1 74114 711 5.
I. Title.
A823.4
Cover and text illustrations by Martine Murray
Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes
Set in 11½ pt Bembo by Tou-Can Design
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Mum and Dad,
with love
At the station
I’m at Spencer Street train station. It’s the big one, where trains come in from all over the country. What’s more, you wouldn’t believe it if you could see me. You wouldn’t believe it was me. You’d say, ‘Now is that really Cedar B. Hartley? My, hasn’t she grown up.’ That’s the way you’d say it if you were over fifty. But otherwise you might just think to yourself,‘Hmmm, that girl, she’s not a kid anymore.’
I’ll tell you one thing: I’m wearing an apple-green sundress, and it’s hot and it’s nearly Christmas. Well, that’s three things, and I won’t say one thing more about why I’m here in my green dress at the train station. First I have to tell you about the terrible, terrible thing that happened, and everything else that led me here.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
At the station
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
There’s me and there’s Kite, and then there’s all the others. That’s not in order of importance because the others are just as important as Kite and almost as important as me, though not quite, because I’m me after all, and to myself I’m extremely important; not because I’m in love with myself or anything, just because I made a plan to live an unusual life, and in order to live an unusual life you need to do a lot of discovering and uncovering and maybe recovering too. Who knows? So, I’m always asking myself: just what kind of shape is my life in? Is it getting flabby? Or is it getting close to the particular shape that I plan it to take?
See, I have always favoured the shape of a tree, but not a pine tree; a pine-tree-shaped life is not for me. I am Cedar B. Hartley and let it be known that I would prefer to live my life in the shape of a golden elm tree, more specifically the one on Punt Road that spreads out so much you can’t even see the trunk. There are certain people who might have a pine-tree-shaped life, but I don’t like to name names (like Marnie and Harold Barton) because a pine-tree-shaped life doesn’t spread out but just goes up in a narrow point. If you thought about my best friend, Caramella, you might see her life in the shape of a fruit tree; not big, but full of beautiful, quiet fruits. And Oscar is a willow tree because he stands out in a particular way, and you can’t help loving the particular way he stands out, even if it doesn’t always make sense, even if it leans over a little too much.
As for Kite, I’d say he’s in the shape of a river red gum, tall and towering and true. And if that leads you to suppose that I might have a small crush on Kite, you’re absolutely wrong. I haven’t got a small crush on Kite, I’ve got quite a big one; a crush the size of a huge wave that only Layne Beachley could surf. Have you heard of Layne Beachley? She’s a famous lady surfer. We girls have to stick together and celebrate heroes like Layne Beachley and Mother Teresa, who also did great things like helping the needy. Also, don’t forget Marge Manoli, the Op Shop Lady in Smith Street who from here on in shall represent the countless thousands of kindhearted ladies who won’t ever be famous, since kindness isn’t as exciting as surfing or winning the one-day match with a hat trick, and what’s more you can’t really watch it on telly.
But I’m sorry, God, it’s not kindness that I’m going to be famous for. What I plan to become is infamous. An infamous acrobat. Like Kite.
Infamous is more famous than famous, don’t forget that. You may want to use it one day yourself. Though don’t say it in front of your big brother or he may l
augh in a slightly scoffing way, like my brother Barnaby does. Barnaby is mostly just jealous because he’s really crappy at cartwheels and has to count on being a famous rock star instead of an acrobat. He’s always in his bedroom writing love songs on his guitar because he’s either in love again or he’s out of love again, and both states of being seem to require him to sing about it. Maybe all songs are about love, and even if they’re called dust-bowl ballads and they seem to be about people without land they’re still really about love. Anyway, Barnaby is pretty good at getting love because he’s clever and he’s good at footy and he’s also a little bit handsome, but don’t tell him I said that. Lucky for Barnaby, he inherited dark hair from our father, who died when we were kids. But as for me, I’m not so lucky. I’m a redhead like our Aunt Squeezy. Her real name is Tirese but I call her Squeezy. I’ll tell you more about Aunt Squeezy later because I know what you really want to hear about now is Kite.
So here goes.
First of all, Kite has a voice like a river running by. Second of all, he can move like an animal. Thirdly, he’s very cool, and when I say cool what I really mean is warm. Isn’t that funny? He’s cool in a warm way. I mean he’s cool because he isn’t afraid to be warm. He doesn’t wear new clothes; he just wears camel corduroys or King Gees. And he knows what he’s interested in and it doesn’t matter to him what anyone else is interested in. Whereas Harold Barton is always getting the latest thing, like the fattest best skateboard, even though he isn’t the best skateboarder. Ricci says Harold Barton has a little dog complex. If you’re a little dog, best thing is to bark all the time, especially if you see a big dog. That way you’ll have a large effect, which will compensate for your small presence. You don’t often hear Harold Barton barking, which is a shame because at least that would be amusing, but what you do hear from Harold is a lot of bragging and bad-mouthing. Unfortunately, that can have a large effect because it makes you mad when he calls your best friend Zit-face, or he calls Oscar The Spaz, or me No-hoper Hartley. Sometimes I feel like giving him a big thump, but lucky for Harold I’m in training to become a Buddhist and that means I can’t thump him. Instead I must feel compassion for him.
Compassion is not like passion, because it’s not so thumping hot, so you have to take your temperature down to warm, and then you have to summon feelings of kindness and understanding. I can tell you, it’s very challenging to feel kindness and understanding for someone you want to thump. It’s harder than maths, butterfly swimming, map reading and horse riding.
Here’s something I’m bad at: feeling compassion for Harold Barton.
Not to worry, I still have my whole life to master this compassion game. There’s no shortage of little-dog-bad-mouthers and prissy-poodle-know-alls (Marnie) so I’ll have to practise transforming my thumping urge over and over again. And, just for the record, I’m not calling Marnie anything, since I don’t want to become a bad-mouther myself, but really, is there anything more annoying than a know-all?
As for me, I’m a know-nothing.
Except for one or two things I do know. If you want to be good at guitar, you have to fall in love a lot and sing songs in your bedroom. Another thing I know is that it’s hard to work out who you are, and it doesn’t matter if you make a mistake. Also I know how to do a cartwheel.
You know what I just thought? (This isn’t something I know, this is just a little stumbling philosophy according to Cedar B. Hartley, which happens every now and then, but don’t worry, I’m not planning on becoming a philosopher because a philosopher can’t be an acrobat, and a philosopher has to become serious and ponderous and wonder about things that other people can’t be bothered wondering about, and who would want to hang out with you if you were that serious? Anyway, this is my first guess in the realm of philosophy.)
It’s all about love.
Everything somehow depends on love, or is sad without it, or wants more than anything to find it.
Some people do strange things because of love. They become brave, or they go on diets, or they give away their favourite CD.
And love comes in different colours. Some of those colours just strike you with their brightness, while others are soft, or unremarkable, like the muddy, worn colour of your sneakers. But still you need that colour. You need its familiarity. You depend on it without even knowing, until one day something terrible happens, and then you see just how much you do need those familiar colours around you.
Which brings me back to Kite.
Chapter 2
The terrible, terrible thing happened because of me, in an indirect way, which makes sense because most things I do are in a round-about, indirect kind of curly way. That’s because I’m a wanderer and I can’t bear to stay on the main road.
Here’s how it went.
First of all, I was a skinny twelve-year-old redhead with a dog called Stinky and a lot of things to find out. Then I met Kite. That’s how I became Cedar B. Hartley, not-yet-famous acrobat in a small circus called The Acrobrats.
It was Kite who showed me how to become an acrobat. But it was me who showed Kite that we could make a circus. Life’s great like that. It’s like a big game where you have to join forces because, let’s face it, you can’t be good at everything. And there’s a load of things I, for one, am very bad at. Here’ s a list:
Feeling compassion for Harold Barton.
Anything that requires patience, like sewing.
Keeping my big mouth shut.
Maths, science, map reading, sticking to timetables, remembering homework and swimming butterfly, though my backstroke isn’t bad.
Horse riding, because I never had a horse, though if someone has a spare one they don’t want anymore I’ll look after it with great tenderness. Also, if you have a dog that needs looking after I can do that too, but don’t tell Mum I said so.
Chess, cards, Monopoly and most other sitting-down games, apart from Snap, which I love because it gets me excited.
Not losing things. For instance, every summer I lose my sunnies about fifty times.
Keeping my bedroom tidy. You should see Caramella’s bedroom. It’s lovely. But how does anyone manage to put their clothes away once they take them off? I always think I’ll do it later, and then I forget.
I won’t go on because if you go on and on about what you’re bad at you can start to believe it matters, and if anything is going to matter it’s not what you’re bad at but what you’re good at.
Kite is good at tree climbing and all sorts of acrobatics. Also, he’s good at being calm.
Oscar is good at being berserk and original.
Caramella is good at art and at being a best friend.
Barnaby is good at making up songs and being charming and therefore at getting away with stuff other people wouldn’t get away with.
Ricci is good at knowing old-fashioned knowings and at cooking stews.
Mum is good at caring for others and putting up with me.
I’m good at thinking up ideas.
And jumping.
So it was my idea that Kite should teach me acrobatics, and it was my idea to do a circus show with all the others. Then, because the circus went so well, I had the big idea that we could perform it at the community centre, and because a lot of people saw it there, including a certain somebody, the terrible, terrible thing happened.
It happened about six months and two days ago.
Caramella and I were on our way to training. We trained at Kite’s house, out the back in his garage, where there are mats and a trapeze. We had my dog Stinky with us, since he always comes whenever I walk anywhere.
The house on the corner of our street belongs to the Abutula family, who come from Afghanistan. That’s in the Middle East, which is a very angry place right now and a lot of people have to leave it and come and live here instead, because there are all these arguments going on about who owns the land. And since it’s the adults who are arguing, there’s no mum or dad who can say, ‘That’s enough, go to your room, share your belong
ings, or say sorry and give it back to the rightful owner.’
The Abutula family came out here a long time ago. Hailey and Jean Pierre were born here and they’re younger than us so they’re not in the circus, but maybe they will be when they get a bit bigger. Their dad drives a taxi, but Mum says he’s really a doctor and it’s a shame he can’t practise as a doctor here because we need more doctors, especially in the country, in places like the dreaded Albury. Jean Pierre is just a regular little boy who likes showing off and yelling out, and Hailey has a rabbit called Madge, so they’re pretty nice kids. But, lately, Caramella and I had been noticing some strange goings on in the Abutula house. Lots of cars pulling up and lots of people we didn’t know going inside and coming out again. And we hadn’t seen Hailey or Jean Pierre out on the street. So we were doing just a wee bit of sticky-beaking on our way past. I was peeking through the fence. Caramella was keeping watch.
‘Can you see anything?’ she said.
‘Nope, just some toys in the garden, a swing hanging from the lemon tree and JP’s bike.’
‘Hmm, weird,’ said Caramella, who was second chief sleuth. Weird because it wasn’t weird at all and we were wanting and expecting to find something really weird, like circular burn tracks from a space ship or a toothless person hiding in the lemon tree.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Can you hear something?’
We both pressed our ears to a gap in the fence.
‘It’s music,’ said Caramella. ‘Strange music.’
‘Very strange,’ said I, and we both nodded. We were relieved to have discovered more evidence, and as we walked on we pondered this extra clue.
‘I think there might have been people dancing inside the house,’ said Caramella.
I shook my head. ‘No one dances in the afternoon. People only dance in the morning if they are especially happy, or in the night if they’re in love, or if they’re wanting to be in love.’
‘Who said?’
‘I did.’
‘When did you become an expert on when people dance? Was that when you fell in love?’ Caramella giggled, because she’s a great tease and she particularly liked to tease me about this very particular issue, ever since the infamous kiss. ‘I didn’t see you dancing.’
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