The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley

by Martine Murray

  After they’ve all left, Inisiya comes up and sits with us. She’s warm and beaming.

  ‘Hey, it is a great success, do you think?’

  Oscar blows out a big breath and says, ‘Magic, I say. It was magic.’

  Caramella nods.‘We all deserve an ice-cream.’

  So the four of us walk up to Charmaines and treat ourselves to ice-creams, and it seems that The Acrobrats are really back on the road. It’s a different road but it’s still going, and that’s the main thing.

  Chapter 24

  I decide to walk with Inisiya back to the flats where she lives. I’m feeling all brave and big and bold, because giving a circus class is so much better than giving some old things that now I don’t need to so feel useless in the face of all that she’s been through. Maybe Inisiya feels it too, because suddenly, without me even trying, we’re talking about her life in Afghanistan. It started because I asked her about her parents.

  ‘You know, in Afghanistan my father work in the post office and my mother is a teacher before the Taliban. When the Taliban come to rule, they lose their jobs and my dad has to go out on the streets and sell sugar. Mum could not work at all.’ She leans forward and kicks an ice-cream stick on the ground, then she twists round to face me, her eyes dark and large.

  ‘They take my cousin and they torture him. After many weeks they leave him on our doorstep. He is almost dead. That is when my uncle tells us we must leave Afghanistan or we also will be killed.’

  I close my eyes and I’m shaking my head as if a very sharp rock had just entered it. Something inside me shrinks in the face of it – of torture and danger and death – as if it’s too distant, too disturbing for me to understand, but I am looking back at Inisiya in a huge and wild way because I’m shrinking and stretching all at once. I want to be big. I want to say the right thing. I want to make a difference even though I know I can’t.

  ‘I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been. Were you scared?’

  ‘Of course.’ She jerks her chin up, and to me she looks proud and brave. ‘I am really scared. We sell everything to pay a smuggler to get us out, and then we have to travel for a very long time, always moving at night and then locked in hotels in the day. Sometimes we do not even know what country we are in. It is exhausting, you know, always always moving. Never going outside in the day. My mum, she is crying a lot.’ She paused and then shuddered. ‘The worst is when we are on an island somewhere, and we could not sleep at all because of these bugs that bite us all the night. I cannot tell you how bad it is to be sore and itchy all over.’

  I take a big breath in. ‘How long did you travel like that?’

  ‘Four months. Then we are in Indonesia and there is a small boat to take many families like ours to Australia. The boat has two engines. Half way there, the main engine stops and the captain of the boat says we will have to turn back because the boat cannot make it to Australia with only one small engine. But all the families on board say that since we will be sent back to Afghanistan if we return to Indonesia, we will all die or be killed anyway, so we take our chances to make it to Australia. The captain has to go on with one engine, moving for two hours then stopping to give the small engine a rest. That is when we have to throw all our belongings in the sea. But still the small engine also dies and then we are left in the middle of the ocean, thinking that now for sure we die. You know, people start to pray. It is awful.’

  ‘Did you think you would die?’

  ‘Yes, we all did. But maybe the prayers are answered because then there is a helicopter and you should see how happy we are. We wave and stand up and shout and the helicopter has sent an Australian naval ship, which takes us aboard. It is so great. They have a big crate of green apples. We are so hungry, we are all so excited, we crowd round the apples, eating, crying…And then I have my first shower for many months. There was even shampoo and soap.’

  When she described this, she was so alive and intense that it seemed the relief was still inside her. It made me feel it too and I suddenly wanted to cry.

  ‘What happened then? Where did the ship take you?’ I said, trying to steady myself.

  ‘Oh, after that, they put us in Baxter detention centre. We are there for a year and then we are released into Adelaide. No one helps us there, and we do not know anybody. So we move here. Mr Abutula picks us up from the bus station and we stay with him until we are allowed to move into the Housing Commission flats in Collingwood. You know he is a good man, Mr Abutula. He is always helping new refugees from Afghanistan who arrive in Melbourne.’

  ‘But where was your dad?’ I say. ‘When you arrived I only saw you and your brother and mother. Did he stay longer in Perth?’

  She looks down and shakes her head.‘No.’ Then she looks at me and all the excitement has vanished from her face. It’s as if a window that was once open and bright has suddenly slammed shut. ‘He is killed by the Taliban before we left.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ I feel it hit me in the chest. It makes me close my eyes. ‘My father died too,’ I say, ‘in a car accident.’

  She looks at me and her eyes are sad and wide, and for a minute we both stop walking.

  ‘I am sorry for you too,’ she says.

  My heart starts to wobble and then there are tears in my eyes, which I blink away. I can’t tell if I’m sad for her or for me, but I feel as if the sore part inside me has opened up because I can join Inisiya there and she can join me, and even if it’s only in a small way I feel we have leant our hearts together; made a sheltering place in which we can both be together for a minute.

  In fact, looking back, I guess that moment was like the first firm stone laid in a house that friends build to shelter their friendship, because somehow it seemed there was a reason that we had met, and we could, after all, share something that was huge and hard and real.

  Chapter 25

  The classes just get better as we go along. Watching everyone practise, I work out why circus is the best thing to learn. For a start, it’s not serious. Let’s face it, you can hardly be too serious about rolling and bouncing, so you can get out of your seriousness and into your floppiness. You absolutely have to discover the part of yourself that’s willing to try and fumble and learn a little at a time without any of it really mattering. Because it’s not as if you’re disarming a nuclear bomb. Secretly, I wonder if it matters to do things that don’t matter. Especially for kids who’ve had to worry a lot, who’ve never felt safe; kids who’ve lost family and home and all their belongings, including best friends, dogs and the right to play; kids with thoughts that are heavier than a small person can carry. It’s better to carry another kid on your shoulders than that kind of weight.

  There’s Sali from Sudan. He’s got no parents. He lived in a refugee camp for two years. He’s only ten, but he’s fearless physically. From the start, he was hurling himself around. Sometimes I was afraid he would hurt himself, but by the third class he could already do a dive roll. Aunt Squeezy says she’s never seen him come to life like that. He laughs all the time. He’s even showing off, asking me to hold the hoop higher.

  Mohammed sometimes appears for a moment, stands in the doorway, but leaves as soon as anyone notices him. I’ve never even seen him smile.

  After the class, I stay behind. I’m kind of exhausted but also determined. I have to make up a good act for the audition. And I have to practise my handstands, my round-offs. I have this idea that what I want to be able to do is a handstand on a skateboard, like this:

  The problem is, the only person I can think of with a skateboard is Harold Barton, and as if he’s going to lend it to me. As if.

  I get on my bike and head home. I take the back streets, ride on the road and keep thinking. See, I haven’t told anyone, not one single person, not even Caramella, about my plans and, let me tell you, it’s killing me to keep such a big secret. It’s unnatural for a girl like me. I’m getting pressure-cooked inside and I can’t open the lid one little bit, even though I’m a
bout to steam up and burst. I can’t tell Caramella or Oscar because they’d think I was deserting. I can’t tell Aunt Squeezy because then she’d be torn between Mum and me, and I obviously can’t tell Barnaby because he’s not on my side. Besides, Mum would kill him if he took me up to Albury without telling her, so I have no choice but to stow away.

  Anyway, I quite like the idea of stowing away. It adds a certain thrilling edge to the whole plan. Unfortunately, just as I am basking in the glory of me as a stowaway, I notice that I’m swerving, as I only have one hand to steer since the other is caught in my jumper, which I am trying to take off without stopping, and now I’m heading straight for a pole.

  I have a suggestion to make to you.

  Never try to take off a jumper while riding a bike and dreaming up glorious situations all at the same time. Because it’s absolutely humiliating when you crash into a No Standing pole with a jumper over your face and one elbow thrust in the air.

  Not only that, it hurts.

  Not only that, other people could see it happen, especially if it happens right opposite the tram stop on Nicholson Street.

  ‘Hey, Klutz, I thought you were s’posed to be coordinated.’

  It’s Harold Barton. He’s sauntered over from the tram stop and he’s laughing, though it actually seems he’s trying not to. I don’t give him a second look. Instead, I’m picking myself up and inspecting the damage. Blood and bruise on the ankle, handlebars kind of twisted.

  ‘Yeah, well I am coordinated. I can’t help it if the pole isn’t. Didn’t you see it swerve towards me?’

  Harold actually bends down and picks up my backpack. He ignores my excellent comeback and focuses on the bike. ‘Boy, those handlebars are rooted.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I know nothing about handlebars but I forlornly agree, only because I want to get Harold in an agreeable mood. (I believe in signs, and this can be the only good reason to have crashed so inelegantly.) It seems I am meant to ask him. First I wind up my jeans so as to reveal my bloodied ankle injury, then I limp forward in a pitiable manner.

  ‘Hey, Harold, maybe I could borrow your skateboard?’

  ‘Why? So you can steer it into a pole?’ His voice has gone sneery again. Already I’m beginning to regret asking. There’s nothing he’d like more than to be able to withhold something from me.

  ‘No. I’ve got a job in Fitzroy. Every Wednesday. Now my bike is stuffed, I thought I could use a skateboard for transport. But, hey, there’s plenty of other people I can ask.’ I turn around and decide to limp away, dragging whatever shred of dignity I have left with me.

  I’ve gone at least five fragile steps before he yells out to me, ‘Hey, Klutzo, if you tell me the truth, it’s yours.’

  I stop. Could I even contemplate really telling Harold Barton the truth? Of all people, he’s the least trustworthy, the least deserving, least sympathetic, yet the most likely to be able to lend me a skateboard. Before I know it, I’ve spun around.

  ‘Harold, can you keep a secret?’

  He raises his eyebrows and gives an ever so slight nod.

  That’s all I need. After all, I just crashed, and maybe my lid fell off in the moment of impact. In fact, maybe I just need to tell someone, anyone. While I’m telling him his expression doesn’t change, not even when I mention the stowaway bit. There’s no sign he’s impressed, nor even interested, though he doesn’t seem uninterested, either. Of course, I leave out the most important truth, which is the fact that I’m in love with Kite and if I don’t get up there I might lose him to Lola, the hot, hip-whirling hoop girl. Let’s face it, Harold Barton wouldn’t understand romantic plot points.

  After I’ve finished, Harold frowns and starts to ask me questions about the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, which I answer impatiently since I don’t actually know much; and also I want to get on with the deal, which was that if I told him the truth he’d let me use his skateboard for my act.

  ‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he says, pulling the peak of his cap down over his face.

  ‘You’ll think about it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But you said if I told you the truth you’d hand it over.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m considering whether the truth is worth it, aren’t I?’

  I look at him contemptuously, and if he can’t see me because his cap is pulled down so low he can surely feel the heat. I don’t even answer. I’m too mad. I just turn my back on him with a loud sigh and start pushing my rooted old bike home, and slowly I begin to worry. Why oh why did I trust a big faker creep like Harold Barton? What if Harold Barton blows my plan? He only has to mention it to Mum and all will be ruined. The more I think about it, the bigger the worry becomes. And by the time I get home I’m an anxious, limping wreck.

  Chapter 26

  That evening, Aunt Squeezy comes home with an ultrasound picture of her baby. I’m sorry to say, but it looks like a large beetle. Mum sticks the photo on the fridge, but Aunt Squeezy seems sad. I tell her not to worry, probably even I looked like a beetle when I was a growing thing inside my mother and now look, I’m almost normal – well nothing like a beetle, anyway.

  Aunt Squeezy says that isn’t what’s making her sad, she’s just sad that she’s alone. I tell her she isn’t alone because we’re her family and I’ll help her change nappies and so will Mum. Barnaby probably won’t, but he’ll do other stuff like put the baby on his shoulders just the way Dad is doing to me in the photo I have of him.

  I know that Aunt Squeezy might prefer a real dad to carry her baby on his shoulders, so I say, ‘You know what? I never really had a dad and look at me, I’m okay. A little unusual and a bit demanding and occasionally unruly, but still, if you get a good mum you can survive. Look at Inisiya, she doesn’t have a dad either and she’s not even unruly. Also, there’s other possible dads you can find, like Ruben.’

  Aunt Squeezy grins and glances briefly at Mum, who blushes and sinks into a chair, probably because I just said she was a good mum. But I can tell Aunt Squeezy has given up her sadness because she seems interested in my dadless theories.

  ‘So, you like Ruben?’ she says. Before I have a chance to answer, Barnaby himself walks in. He’s holding a skateboard, which he puts on the floor, points in my direction and pushes towards me with his foot.

  ‘Courtesy of Harold Barton,’ he says, eyebrows raised. ‘I thought you guys were enemies.’ He gives Mum a look and she in turn gives me one.

  ‘We are.’ (I feel the panic rising again.)

  ‘Well, he was just leaving this on the doorstep when I arrived, and he asked me to give you this as well.’ Barnaby reaches into his back pocket and with another suggestive grin he flicks an envelope across the table. It’s sealed and it has my name written on it.

  Just to prove there’s nothing schmaltzy going on between Harold Barton and me, I grab the letter and rip it open in front of everybody. Inside there’s another sealed envelope addressed to the Flying Fruit Fly Circus, plus a note that says, ‘Good luck with your trip to Albury. Please pass this letter on from me to the head of the Flying Fruit Fly Circus. Thanks, Harold.’

  Boy, am I in a pickle. I can’t read that aloud. I feel the blood creeping up towards my face and I desperately dive into my mind to find a way out. It delivers me with a brilliant half-truth.

  ‘Oh, it’s just, he wants me to forward a letter to Kite. That’s all. The skateboard’s a bribe, I guess.’

  ‘A bribe,’ says Mum. ‘You don’t even use skateboards.’

  Luckily, Barnaby steps in before I have to deal with that one.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you give it to me, then? I can deliver it next week when I pass through Albury.’

  I’m not sure if he believes me. I can’t tell if he’s testing me, laying a trap, or if he’s just trying to be helpful. (Unusual.)

  ‘Nuh,’ I say, standing up. ‘It’s okay. I’ll send it, ’cause I’ve got to send one of my own anyway.’ I look away from Barnaby because he knows me well enough to see through any faking, and the
n, just because I’m feeling a bit hot under the collar, I pick up the board, tuck it under my arm and slink out saying, ‘Anyway, I’m going to see if it’s any good.’

  ‘Don’t be long, dinner will be ready soon,’ calls Mum, as I bang the door behind me.

  It’s unusually quiet in the street. Our street is a dead end, a small dead end, so there’s no through traffic, which makes it seem like it’s just ours, as if all of us who live here own the street. Which is why people like Ricci and me and Caramella and the Abutulas treat the street like it’s our front garden – for hanging out in. But this afternoon I’m the only one here. I sit on the board.

  For one thing, I’m burning, burning, burning to open Harold Barton’s letter to the Flying Fruit Flies. Even though he’s given me the skateboard, it all seems a bit suspicious, a bit Secret Operation. It isn’t ticking or anything obvious, but I stare at the envelope. Why did he just leave it at the door? I still don’t trust him. I still figure he must be up to something. But does that entitle me to open a letter that’s not addressed to me? I have a feeling it doesn’t. This is an annoying feeling to have. It’s getting in my way, creating a little battle in my head between what I want to do and what I know I shouldn’t do. I stuff the letter in my back pocket and try a handstand on the skateboard, which is much harder than I thought it would be. Luckily, the challenge it presents takes over and for the next half hour I doggedly try and try to hit a balance, and I forget about the letter (at least until a week later when I am packing my bag for my stowaway trip to Albury).

  After about fifty tries, I heave a big huff and march over to Caramella’s. She’s on the couch, cross-legged, doing a drawing.