The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley

by Martine Murray

  ‘Me and your mum are going down to the Learning Network. They’re having a party to celebrate the opening of their new back room. Want to come? It’ll only be for an hour, and there’ll be pizza, and you can bring that stuff you want to donate.’

  Not really, I think.

  ‘I guess so,’ I say. After all, if you’re looking for an idea, and someone just makes an offer, there’s a good chance it might lead you somewhere.

  We pile into the car and head down to Fitzroy. Barnaby doesn’t come because he’s too old for community parties. So am I, but I’ve got a potential new friend, so that’s different. I’m hoping she’ll be there and we can stand in some dusty corner and munch on pizza, and I’ll tell her all about my unusual life, though it’s going to sound just a little bit undramatic compared to hers. But still, a life’s a life, drama or not.

  When we get there, Aunt Squeezy goes directly to the bathroom because she has bad morning sickness and every now and then she has to spew. So Mum and I are left hovering in the hallway until Maude, who’s wearing a red paper crown, ushers us into the computer club room, which has been transformed into a spread of large coloured cushions with seated Muslim ladies, who are wearing colourless robes and scarves and fussing over children.

  Maude says, ‘This is the women’s room, but the food will be served in our new hall. Come and see.’

  I scan the room for Inisiya, but she isn’t there.

  Out the back is a courtyard with a big old tree in the corner, an overhanging verandah and an old shed. There’s a barbecue and trestle tables with plates of cake and dips and spring rolls and falafels and spinach cheesy things – but no pizza (never mind). Behind one table stands an old woman with a gumnut bob and a large nametag saying ‘Elspeth’. She’s serving drinks. Mum gets a wine and I get a lemon fizzy thing. The courtyard is full of people. Some are volunteers, others are refugees, and many of them are children. I watch a couple with a baby. The woman wears a lavender-coloured headscarf. She leans close to her husband and lowers her eyes, as if she’s too shy to look at anyone. Clumps of men stand with hands in pockets. A very small Asian woman walks around with a platter of spring rolls, explaining, ‘I make them dis morning.’ She smiles at everyone, even me, as if she really likes me, which makes me instantly like her. I grab some cheesecake, because who can resist, and follow Mum to peek in at the hall. A small girl on a bright yellow plastic tractor pushes her way through the legs. There are children everywhere, wandering, playing, tugging, weaving an invisible thread through the adults.

  I think how adults can’t take off their shoes and play chasey, so they don’t get to loosen their thoughts and their recipes for how to behave. They just stand still in one place, and the air around doesn’t move them or bend them. Not like kids. Kids are kids before they’re anything else; before they’re Muslims, or Eskimos, or future Kings of England. Because their beliefs haven’t set hard yet, and they can still play, still be caught in a whoosh or a bang. If playing was a language, all the kids all over the world would be able to talk to each other, even if they were from the Mongolian desert, or the Bronx, or some toffy boarding school. Then I thought: once I’m Prime Minister there may not be wars, because no one will have to be so serious and dead-set about their beliefs, not if they can play.

  I gallop on with this thinking because, boy, the ideas are flowing, and of course then I have the very best and most useful thought of the whole day. Here it is: since I’m not quite Prime Minister and I haven’t got a country to fix, what if I could use the back room to teach circus skills to all the refugee kids, and Caramella and Oscar could come and help, and slowly we’d build up a new crew of Acrobrats? And, in the meantime, all the kids could learn something that would make them happy, just like it made me happy. And all the adults would come and watch and they’d see how good it is to play together.

  I literally bounce out of the hall, just as if I’ve grown angel legs, to look for Aunt Squeezy and tell her my new great thought, leaving poor Mum in there to serve apple juice and act like an adult. I find Inisiya instead. She’s sitting on a bench in the courtyard under the tree with another girl. They are both wearing the same school uniform: blue daks, sneakers and V-necked jumpers. But since I’m feeling all lion-hearted and brave, I just lumber over and say, ‘Hi.’

  Inisiya jumps up and beams and hugs me, just as if I’m an old friend. Then she turns to her friend and says, ‘Remember I tell you about Cedar, who comes down here to volunteer? This is her!’ She turns back to me. ‘This is my best friend, Nidal.’

  Nidal leaps up with a grin and hugs me too. I’m not sure if it was the roar of my newly forged lion-heart that makes them hug me, or if they just have a hugging custom, but it makes me feel so happy in a startled way that I almost forget who I usually am. Am I really so infected by the rules of cool that it could throw me, even in an upward direction, when someone is instantly warm? I shudder at the thought and quickly let myself soak up the warmth so that it will stay with me, like a suntan. I tell them my idea. Inisiya has her arm around Nidal, and leans into her every now and then.

  When I’ve finished, Nidal says, ‘It is a great idea.’

  ‘I am double jointed,’ Inisiya says, and she holds up her hand and bends her thumb back to touch her wrist.

  ‘You can be the contortionist,’ I say.

  ‘Your aunt, she already ask me if I am interested in learning circus.’

  ‘Did she really?’

  ‘Yes, before she introduce us.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I say I think it would be great. Did she not tell you?’

  ‘Nope, she didn’t.’

  I have to admit I felt a bit flattened. I felt like, all along, Aunt Squeezy was really the one with the idea and somehow she’d been gently nudging me towards it. But still…I shrugged. Who cares about that? I was the one who could pull it all together. That’s something. It’s all very well to have ideas, that’s just like starting the engine, but someone’s got to drive the car, know when to change the gears, turn a corner and how to fix a leak, and that’s the hard part.

  When we get home, I start to fix the leak. I ring Caramella.

  ‘Guess what,’ I say, and then I just go ahead and say it, because we all know Caramella never guesses anyway. ‘The Acrobrats are back on the road.’

  ‘Really?’ she says, and by the sweet, rising sound of her voice, I know I’m forgiven.

  Chapter 22

  Of course, it wasn’t that easy. There was a lot to organise before we could even start, and I’m not a good organiser. Neither is Oscar. Caramella is okay, but she’s shy and slow. Luckily Aunt Squeezy was on board, because if there’s too much boring stuff to do I can get feeble-witted, and drift. I’m a dreamer, not a manager, but as I said it’s no good having ideas unless you can make them into real things, so I tried. I tried to act like a driver.

  First of all, Aunt Squeezy had to arrange a time when we could all come and when the back room was available. Then we had to find mats. In the end, Mum rang Ruben and asked about the ones we used to use in the garage. He said we were welcome to them, and that they were in storage in someone else’s garage. So, eventually, we had mats. I had a meeting in our kitchen with Caramella and Oscar in which we talked about the best way to run a class, and what we could teach. Aunt Squeezy agreed to oversee the classes, since there had to be at least one adult supervisor.

  As well as all this, I was making other plans, so I was busy. Suddenly I was lying awake at night trying to work it out. Here’s what I came up with:

  First of all, I get The Acrobrats up and running. In the meantime, I start working out my own act – for the audition. I’ve got about six weeks. In the other meantime, I return to sleuth mode, find out when Barnaby is leaving for the tour, and then stow away in the back of the car and catch a ride to Albury. Once I’m there I can stay with Kite and Ruben. (Will leave a note for Mum, of course.)

  I do the audition, simply stun them all, they immediately offer m
e a place, Kite wraps me in his glorious arms and we go walk by the river, to celebrate. Mum is so proud of me she agrees to let me stay with Kite and Ruben. But first of all I explain to the circus that I have a commitment back home with The Acrobrats and I will join the Flying Fruit Flies in four months time (which should be long enough to get The Acrobrats functioning without me); and because they want me so much, they let me go, but for four months only…

  What is the meantime? Is it mean? Because it isn’t real time. It’s a kind of secret, other time that goes on behind the scenes while real time is performing its show.

  I know, I know, there were a few weak links in the plan, but I was sticking with it, anyway.

  In the middle of all this, Ada comes for dinner. She hardly ever does. Barnaby says she’s allergic to family life. I say we’re hardly a typical family, so that’s no excuse.

  Ada comes in with Barnaby, wearing a strand of jade beads high on her neck, a black singlet that is just slightly see-through, and the same, distant, haunted expression she always wears at our house. She folds her white arms across her chest and stays close to Barnaby, although she smiles if you smile at her, and when she smiles she doesn’t seem as if she’s about to break out in hives. Barnaby sits her down and gives her a beer. And then, just to make her feel not too allergic, I say, ‘I like your beads.’

  Her hand floats up to her throat.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, and she smiles again, but she doesn’t continue the conversation so I give up. I lean back in my chair and say very loudly so everyone can hear, ‘So, Barn, what’s happening with your tour plan?’

  Mum interrupts and makes everyone sit down.

  ‘Funny you should ask, Cedar,’ says Barnaby. He sits down as Mum plonks a chickpea curry on the table and yells for Aunt Squeezy to come.‘We’ve had a change of plan, actually.’ He glances over at Ada, but her face gives nothing away. My heart drops.

  ‘We’ve been asked to do a festival in Sydney – Homebake, which is a great gig. They’ll fly us up.’

  ‘So you’re not going to drive,’ I say, while serving myself some rice and acting like it doesn’t affect me one bit.

  ‘Well, we’ll fly Atticus up and then Adie and I might drive so that we can do a couple of regional acoustic shows on the way.’

  Regional, I think. Does that mean Albury?

  ‘Drive?’ says Mum.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Barnaby.

  ‘That would be nice,’ says Aunt Squeezy. ‘A little road trip, just the two of you.’

  Ada blushes and sticks her fork in potato.

  I say nothing. I feel as if my whole plan is teetering on a very fine edge.

  ‘What car would you drive?’ says Mum, suspiciously. She has her hawk eyes in and sniffer nose on.

  ‘Well, Mum,’ Barnaby pulls out his chair and smiles a nice slow smile, ‘that’s where you come into it.’ (Barnaby doesn’t have a car.)

  Timing, I think to myself, what excellent timing. Barnaby always has that. Ask the big ask when someone else, someone not family, is around, so that Mum will feel obliged to be nice and agreeable. I’m proud of him. Mum sighs and rolls her eyes.

  ‘How long were you expecting to take it for?’

  ‘A week. It would just be easier than flying with the instruments. Also, we’ve got these gigs booked. But look, if it’s a hassle Mum, we could cancel.’ He leans forward with a concerned look. Another superb tactic. Make Mum feel responsible for them having to cancel a gig. Barnaby is an absolute master. I’m thoroughly impressed.

  ‘No, no. Don’t cancel. We’ll see what we can arrange,’ she mutters. You can tell she’s a bit frustrated, but you can also tell that she’ll let him use the car.

  ‘I’ll have to check the insurance. Make sure you’re covered.’

  Ada glances up but doesn’t move her head. Barnaby looks sidelong at her with a grin.

  ‘Thanks, Mum. You’re a good bloke.’

  He opens his arms, leaning back, as if the world has just entered them. I keep quiet. I’m dying to ask when they’re leaving, but I’m scared I’ll give the game away. So I shove some curry in my mouth to stop me opening it.

  Mum sighs again. ‘So, which week is it?’

  ‘First week in December.’

  Perfect! Absolutely perfect. That gives me a month to prepare. I gulp down my food.

  ‘This curry’s great, Mum.’ I burst onto the scene like a trumpet waiting for its moment. I’m exuberant.

  ‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ says Ada, and then we all look at Aunt Squeezy, who’s holding her belly and looking funny.

  She grimaces and says, ‘I think I’ll have to eat the canned peaches instead.’

  Oh God. It’s not easy being pregnant.

  Must remember never to get pregnant.

  Chapter 23

  ‘I have balloons,’ says Oscar, ‘all blue.’We’re on our way to the first circus class. Aunt Squeezy is driving.

  ‘What for?’ says Caramella.

  ‘A warm-up game.’ Oscar grins and taps his knee wildly, but he doesn’t explain further, not till we get there.

  We arrive half an hour before the class is due to start, so we can set up the mats. Inisiya meets us there. Oscar holds out his unsteady hand to her and says, ‘Hello. I know you’ve had a hazardous journey.’

  She looks perplexed, but shakes his hand and says, ‘Yes.’

  Caramella is shy, as usual, and just manages a small ‘hello’, but as we all start unrolling mats we also unroll our awkwardness a little and I put on my Stevie Wonder CD, which always helps. And then I start talking.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘do you think anyone will show up?’

  ‘Probably not Mohammed, but all the rest,’ says Inisiya.

  ‘Why not Mohammed? Is he a mountain?’ says Oscar.

  Caramella laughs and looks at Inisiya. ‘Don’t worry, he’s always saying stuff like that, you’ll get used to him.’

  ‘Mohammed will not come because he is too serious. He is the only one in his family who speaks English, because he is the youngest. So he looks after them all. He has so much responsibility. He will only work. The family are afraid still.’

  ‘Oh, he’s grown up too early?’ says Oscar.

  I feel sad for Mohammed, though I don’t even know him. He must be the serious boy I saw here when I first came. It makes me suspect that if you don’t learn to play when you’re young, maybe you never learn. Maybe you become dead-set about your beliefs.

  Luckily, Oscar has started to dance. He always beams when he dances, and it’s a very contagious beam. The way he dances is more like a thrash than a boogie, and I notice Inisiya grinning as she watches him. He begins to scatter the blue balloons on the floor as if he’s sowing seeds. Then he suggests we blow them up. This is his game.

  As people enter, we tie a balloon around their ankle. The idea is that we must all try to stamp and explode each other’s balloon while trying not to get ours stamped on.

  ‘But why are they all blue?’ asks Caramella, holding one up to the light.

  ‘Because blue is the sky’s reward; it has the largest promise,’ says Oscar as he performs a rather heavy pirouette, which makes him look like a Hills Hoist.

  Whether it’s the promise contained in blue, or not, it works. They all come in together, about fifteen of them. Inisiya introduces us. The family of Hmong girls clump together; the older one, Mei, holding the hands of the younger ones. They all have round, soft faces and seem as timid as Caramella, only they’re so small and gentle I’m afraid they might snap like a twig if you pull at their arms. There are some African boys (Inisiya says they’re from Somalia and Sudan); also Inisiya’s little sister, Parisa, and Rashmi from Pakistan, wearing glorious pink sneakers; and Jarrah and Hussein and Mali and Layla and others whose names I can’t remember after the first round of introductions.

  As soon as the class is set to begin, I feel like an impostor. I feel as if I’m a beginner acrobat pretending to be a teacher, which I guess is kind of true so it’s no wond
er I’m panicking. At least I still have The Tumblers’ Manual that Ruben gave me. That’s my one piece of legitimacy. What if they ask me to do a round-off into a back somersault? And then what will they think when they see Oscar and Caramella – the two most unlikely looking acrobats ever to say, ‘I’m in a circus’. Will they think they’ve been had?

  Of course it’s the other way round. The worse we are at it, the better they seem to feel. As soon as I try to demonstrate a very simple balance with Oscar, like this:

  Oscar wobbles and makes such funny sounds that they all laugh, and Rashmi jumps up and down and claps. And when we try some rolling, the same thing happens. The first roll we demonstrate is called a sausage roll, at least I call it that, and it isn’t easy but it’s kind of stupid so you laugh when you don’t make it. Caramella can sometimes do it, but only in one direction. Oscar, however, just seems to fall on his side in a lump and then, to add to the lump effect, he cycles his legs in the air so he looks like a tortoise who can’t get up. This again sends them into outbursts of laughter and they all leap up to try. Hussein gets it almost straight away and astonishes himself.

  So the hotchpotch accidental crew of Oscar, Caramella and me provides just the right mix of attitudes, abilities and inabilities. Oscar provides the light relief and keeps everything always potentially silly, Caramella shows how to be gentle but persistent, and I provide the excitement, just because I’m the eager-beaver jump-in-and-give-it-a-go type. So, though not one of us can do a back flip, or precisely because not one of us can do a back flip, we seem to pull it off. The younger ones love Oscar, and seeing him as a leader makes me realise that he’s really a naturally good clown. The shyer girls, like Mali and Mei and her sisters, are drawn to Caramella’s gentle way, and then the more adventurous of them, like Sali, Hussein, Inisiya and Nidal, have me to drive them.