The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley

by Martine Murray

  ‘Cedar?’

  ‘Yes.’ I keep staring at the telly.

  ‘I know this might not be a good time, but there’s something I want to talk about with you.’

  ‘What?’ I’m grumpy now. Why doesn’t she choose her moments better, like I do? I always create the right time by giving foot massages. But she’s not reaching for my stiff old neglected foot.

  ‘It’s about all the secret stuff that’s been going on around here.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I’m a bit more interested now, so I turn away from the telly.

  ‘It’s about Tirese.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well, she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. And then I say,‘Wow!’ and then I say, ‘But I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend.’

  ‘She doesn’t.’ Mum looks at me as if she’s working out whether I’m really old enough to understand this. I strike a serious pose, tilt my head to the side, just like Aunt Squeezy does when she’s considering. It seems to work. Mum explains.‘Well, she had one, obviously, while she was in India. She was studying yoga at some yoga centre, and she met a man there from Italy who became her boyfriend. He had to go back to Italy, and then she came here and discovered she was pregnant. So she wrote to him. He wrote back and told her that he had a wife and children already.’

  ‘And hadn’t he told her that before, while he was her boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’ Mum shakes her head disapprovingly.

  ‘So he’s a cad?’ I say, and she laughs.

  ‘Maybe – we don’t really know. We all make mistakes, especially with affairs of the heart. It’s easy to fall in love when you’re on holiday, even if you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Is Aunt Squeezy sad?’

  ‘Well, she’s been confused, but she’s decided to have the baby anyway, and that’s why I thought she could stay here with us, because it’s very hard to look after a baby on your own.’

  ‘Like you had to with us?’ I say. She nods and lowers her eyes.

  ‘Kind of like that.’ It always makes her sad when she thinks of our dad. But after a moment she looks up again and grabs my hand. ‘Anyway, Cedy, how do you feel about it? How do feel about Tirese living here while she has her baby? I mean, it’s okay with me as long as it’s okay with you and Barnaby.’

  ‘It’s fine by me. It’s great. You know me. I always want there to be a big family. I’d love there to be a baby here too. Does Barnaby know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Really?’

  I felt great. I grinned a big smug grin just because I knew something that Barnaby didn’t know. I was in on the secret and he wasn’t. For a moment I was so puffed up I almost forgot the life disaster that Mum had just inflicted upon me. But then I remembered it again and I decided to huff off over to Caramella’s, just so Mum knew it meant a lot to me. Maybe she’d even reconsider.

  Chapter 16

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Caramella. ‘She won’t reconsider. There’s no way your mum could move to Albury. How would she work there?’

  Caramella can be so practical. I stared at my chocolate macaroon gloomily. I knew she was right, but sometimes I just want her to play along with my dreams, or at least accompany me into the drama and tragedy of it all.

  ‘Anyway, guess what?’ I decided to change the topic.

  Caramella never guesses, so I carried on. ‘I did some superb sleuthing today. Kind of incidental sleuthing, but still.’

  ‘What?’ she said. She wasn’t really looking at me, she was fiddling with the packet of biscuits. I wasn’t sure, but suddenly I suspected she was upset about something.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, still not looking. ‘Tell me what you discovered.’

  ‘I met that girl who got out of the Abutula’s van. She’s from Afghanistan.’

  ‘Oh. How did you meet her?’

  ‘At the place where Aunt Squeezy volunteers.’

  There was definitely something wrong. Where was the excitement? ‘Caramella, tell me what’s wrong. I know something’s wrong.’ I pulled the biscuits away from her.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s something. Tell me. Have I done something?’

  ‘No, you haven’t done anything. That’s the problem.’ She looked up at me for the first time since the conversation began, her short bunched pigtails dangling above her shoulders as she hunched over the table and squeezed her plump little hands into a knot.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said it quietly and gently. I could tell she was struggling to explain. She looked down again and bit at her lip.

  ‘It’s just, remember how when Kite left the circus you went on and on about him not caring about us and our circus? Well, now it seems you want to do exactly the same thing. You just want to leave and be a star and you don’t seem to care about what happens to us.’ She shrugged and pushed her lip out and looked at me like I was a traitor. I blushed and took a deep breath.

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘It’s not like that. I do care, of course I care…it’s just…It’s just, God, I just don’t know how or what to do with us, with our circus.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  Before I could answer, Mrs Zito waddled into the kitchen, pinched my cheeks and asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner. I was blushing because somewhere deep inside I felt guilty and I didn’t feel I could stay for dinner, so I stood up and said thank you but Mum was expecting me home for dinner. I smiled at Caramella and said I’d see her tomorrow. She nodded feebly and I felt like a skunk as I left. I felt like I was scurrying off and leaving a bad smell in the air between us, because I couldn’t face it, I couldn’t work out how to clean up the smell. Maybe Caramella was right. But I couldn’t figure it out on the spot. I knew there was a bit of thinking to do but I had to go do it before I could know what was what.

  Chapter 17

  I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, because ceiling-gazing always brings on my loftiest thoughts. Stinky hops up on the bed with me, as he can tell I’m in for a stint.

  This is how it seems to me: all of a sudden there are a few too many circuses and a few too many people pulling me in different directions. I feel as if I’m swimming down a river and on one side of the bank is the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, with Kite and Ruben and lights and proper equipment and my potential waiting, and on the other side there’s Oscar, sitting alone with his pieces of blue; and there’s Caramella, eating chocolate macaroons with her hands in a knot; and then there’s Mum, who is trying to tie me to the shore; and then Aunt Squeezy on the banks with her pregnant belly, cutting the rope and calling out, ‘Follow your dream’; and Barnaby in a boat, strumming his guitar singing, ‘Oh I’m following mine.’

  What do I really, really want? Seems like such a simple question. And if you answer it with your heart, you want whatever it is that makes your heart leap and brim and bound forward. If I listen to my heart I would be running away to audition for the Flying Fruit Flies. But then if my mind steps in (and it usually does), thinking happens, and once you start thinking everything gets complex and confusing and bigger than you. For instance, I start wondering, is my longing to join the circus for Kite or for me? And then I get to wondering about The Acrobrats. Aren’t they my friends, my true friends, and isn’t that more important than anything? Isn’t that the right thing to do, to stay and hold the fort? And shouldn’t I want to do the right thing? Because then I’ll be a better person, a compassionate person like Eliza and the Buddhists.

  But will I be boring? Even resentful?

  Here, something else joins the battle, and this is a part of me that must come from my past life as an ancient Greek philosopher, because it takes an impossibly broad view. It asks, even if I do know that I should do the right thing, how do I know that what I think is right is in fact right? For instance, who’s to say that to follow your heart or to live your dream is not the right thing, while trying to be a good person might just be like trying to wear somethi
ng fashionable, even if it isn’t you, even if it’s high heels and you’ve got a back ache, or if it’s a pink parka and you’re allergic to synthetics? I mean, maybe I’m just not meant to be good. Maybe I’d come out in hives if I was good! Maybe the whole point is to find out not what you should do, but what you’re meant for.

  Of course, what I’m meant for is cartwheels and thoughts, but what I want is for everything, every person and reason and beat of my heart, to hop over to the same side – to the Flying Fruit Flies’ side, because then it would be easy. But, as all good former Greek philosophers know, life doesn’t come in easy packages. It’s meant to be difficult. Otherwise you wouldn’t have to think and wonder and make mistakes and learn, and then you’d really be boring.

  Here’s what I think:

  All interesting people make mistakes.

  All interesting people get themselves into a pickle at some stage, and then they have to figure out how to get out of it.

  And it’s the getting in and out of pickles that gives you character.

  But was I getting anywhere with my pickle or was I just stewing in it?

  I decide to write back to Kite. Until I can make a decision, I need to keep my options open.

  Hi Kite,

  Use the same greeting as he used – keep it equal.

  Thanks for writing.

  Resist temptation to get mad that it took him a while.

  I was beginning to think you might have injured your hand.

  Still, must let him know that it took a while.

  All those trapeze blisters, I guess?

  Dig it in a little.

  My hands are softer than ever,

  Dig it in even more, but in a surreptitious way.

  but I have a new aunty who has come to stay and she is pregnant.

  Just so he doesn’t think my whole world stopped when he left.

  Haven’t been doing any hedge walking or bat pole positions.

  Still must gather some sympathy.

  But maybe I should start if I am going to audition?

  If you show me that you care, then I will practise.

  What would I have to do?

  Don’t let on yet that Mum has said no – must keep the option alive somehow…

  Do you think I would have a chance?

  Come on, Kite, tell me how good I am and how quickly I learn.

  Aren’t the others you train with really, really good?

  Opportunity for him to let slip information about the other girls, the ones who are better than me.

  I’m sure Stinky would like the trees. Oscar is making pieces of blue to wrap rocks in. Caramella is sad that there is no more circus here.

  This is the ruin you have left in your wake.

  I am trying to find a way to get The Acrobrats going again.

  But see what a good person I am, see how I am a hero. (Hide the fact that I have tried nothing and collapsed entirely.)

  Anyway, fly hard, Kite, and stay warm. Love Cedar.

  What I really want to say is don’t forget me, but you simply can’t ask that, so instead I must act nonchalant.

  X

  Add a kiss. Recklessly.

  PS Say hi to Ruben.

  Quickly deflect attention from kiss.

  Then I write a letter to Caramella:

  Dear Caramella,

  I understand how you feel and I want you to know that I am sorry for making you feel that way. (True.) I definitely don’t plan to desert you. Both circuses are really important to me and I want to find a way to have both in my life. (Obviously impossible, but it’s what I want.) I really want to learn more acrobatics with the Flying Fruit Fly Circus but I am also completely committed to our circus, because it ’s ours, and because we made it ours. (Well said, I think.) Anyway, I plan to do some thinking about our circus and see what we can come up with to keep it going, because now you’ve made me think about it I realise that I do miss it.

  See you soon?

  Your friend, Cedar

  Then I write a short note to Aunt Squeezy:

  Dear Aunt Squeezy,

  Mum told me you’re pregnant. I think that’s great. Just wanted to tell you that. I hope you have a redhead baby!

  Chapter 18

  The next day is Saturday, and I have to say I don’t feel great. I feel diluted, like once I’d been a strong colour and now I’d gone pale and insipid. Because I haven’t been concentrating, I’ve been spreading out and trickling and not pouring my full undiluted glory into anything. One moment I’m thinking about The Acrobrats and Caramella and Oscar, and the next I’m wondering how can I go do that audition, and then I’m thinking that I’m not getting anywhere with either of them because they both seem to cancel each other out.

  So I decide to take action. First, Stinky and I go to Caramella’s and slip the letter under her door. Unfortunately, Ricci is on the prowl.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you just go in? They’re home,’ she shrieks. She’s squinting at me suspiciously, nosing the air like she might catch a whiff of something.

  ‘Because I just want to leave a letter,’ I say.

  ‘You like my new shoes?’ she cries, obviously more interested in her shoes than in my letter. They’re orange slip-on sneakers. She points her foot at me.

  ‘They’re great. Where’d you get ’em?’ I’m relieved she isn’t quizzing me, but just to make sure I keep her on the shoe topic.

  ‘Savers, of course. You should see. They’ve anything you want there.’

  ‘How about a new circus trainer for The Acrobrats? Do they sell them?’ I try to make a joke, but actually that’s what I think I need most of all, more than sneakers.

  ‘Circus trainers!’ she shrieks again. ‘But you’re a circus trainer. You can do that, Cedar. Why don’t you?’

  ‘No I can’t, I don’t know enough.’ I shake my head but she has bent down to coo over Stinky and she’s already distracted.

  ‘We’re off to the post-box,’ I say.

  She snorts and lets Stinky go, but as I walk off she yells out, ‘But Cedar, you can do anything if you want to. So no excuses.’

  I laugh and I wave at Pablo, who is sweeping the leaves off his driveway. I wonder why people bother sweeping up the leaves. Leaves always make the pavements much more colourful and much less official when they’re lying around where they feel like lying. I don’t say that to Pablo; instead I say, ‘Hey, your garden’s looking good.’

  He frowns and scratches his head. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It needs a good weed, really.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. All gardens need a few weeds in them just to remind you of all the weeds you’ve got growing out of your own head. That way you know it’s natural to be a bit out of control.’

  Pablo laughs and I notice that I’m feeling better already. Sometimes you just need to get some air into your head, and then mix that with some nice neighbourly banter, and you lighten up. Easy!

  Stinky and I head up towards the shops so we can post Kite’s letter, and I’m even beginning to feel a bit sprightly, as if I might just have to do a cartwheel. But I hold back, since I’m wearing a skirt and I don’t want to flash my undies, which is lucky because as I round the corner I practically bump into Harold Barton. Imagine if he’d seen that. To tell you the truth, he isn’t looking happy. He isn’t even really looking. He’s obviously thinking hard about something because he nearly bumps into me.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘watch where you’re going.’ He looks up and stops dead still, staring at me as though I’m an officer of the law and he’s just murdered someone.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, eyes still boggling.

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘Hey, Cedar, did you ever know your dad?’

  ‘No, not really. You know he died when I was a baby.

  Why?’

  He blushes and looks away and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Nothing,�
� he says. ‘Just wondering.’

  We both stand there. It’s awkward and heavy but there’s something different. It’s not a fight. It’s not him against me. It’s weird. I’m not used to it. I’m not even sure I can handle it.

  ‘Oh well, see ya.’ I start squirming off.

  ‘Bye,’ he says, and he drags himself off without even saying one smart-arse thing.

  I shake my head in wonder. You never know, I say to myself, and I feel that it’s the profoundest thought I’ve had all day. Because just when you think you do know someone, or you’ve got something all figured out, life makes sure you have to un-know it a little bit. Otherwise we’d all be big know-alls, and no one would ask questions anymore or leave gaps in their mind for new stuff. I certainly had a few gaping gaps in my mind that day, because after the entirely weird Harold Barton experience, who should come walking up the street but Inisiya, the mysterious refugee.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  Inisiya stops and looks at me with a questioning frown. Obviously I’m not as memorable as she is, or maybe she just isn’t such a sleuth. She has a cool old canvas bag hanging from one shoulder and her eyes are shaped like almonds.

  ‘I’m Cedar. I met you last week at the Fitzroy Learning Network. And I saw you once before in the street at night. You went into the Abutulas.’

  She nods and her expression becomes friendlier. But she doesn’t speak, so I go on. ‘I live in the same street as the Abutulas. How do you know them?’

  ‘The Abutulas?’ She shrugs. ‘They help us. My family, when we first come to Melbourne. We have today been having lunch, but now I am going to buy chocolate because everybody wants chocolate.’

  Her accent is odd, every word sounds Australian but the order and the rhythm of them is different. She has some kind of other sound in her voice, a more round and deliberate sound.