The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley

by Martine Murray

  And then I begin to try to think about what Ruben had said on the phone, about how it was between me and one other girl and we were both as good as each other, only since she’d been training with the circus group she’d learned a specialist skill. That was the only difference. So I was very, very close, and there’d be more auditions next year.

  Next year, I thought to myself, would I still want it? And just as I wondered this I walked onto the bridge and saw a wobbly, trickling line of rocks wrapped in blue, spreading down the bank.

  Oscar’s rocks.

  It quite stopped me, hushed my thoughts, because it kind of asked you to look at it. To smile at it. This quiet tumble of blue looked like a moment caught and offered, like a spectacular sentence basking on a sunny ledge, unaware of its own significance. There was a whole bank of rocks, but simply by being wrapped in bits of blue – old shabby blue T-shirt, used tea towels, a blue curtain – a procession of them had been transformed into royalty, into something that was majestic in a home-made way. Just by standing out from the rest, they looked special, even though they were dressed in rags. Maybe also because they were a team; all of them together, holding their heads high and laughing down the hill.

  The Acrobrats.

  I thought of them, our new team of refugees. Their acrobatic skills were as shabby as those old blue rags, but they were a special team. They stood out like those blue rocks because they were different from the rocks they’d found themselves amidst. They had different cultures and histories and languages and experiences. It was as if they’d been plucked out of their land of blue rocks and plonked in a land of mud-coloured rocks. The Acrobrats might never be able to do back flips, but they were always going to have a story to tell.

  I felt like rushing over to Oscar’s house and telling him, because there’s this thing about Oscar: I never know if he knows how much he knows, or if he just senses things but doesn’t need to explain them, not even to himself. He just makes pictures or poems of things that reveal his own unique Oscar way. I felt like saying, ‘Hey Oscar, I get it now, I get the rocks.’ But I’m not sure he’d like it explained in words. I think he wouldn’t like it worked out as if it was a riddle rather than the mysterious, beautiful thing that it is.

  What’s more, when I think of Oscar I feel ashamed of my misery. He’s someone whose life was once partly rubbed out in a huge and forever way, and yet he’s never given up. He goes on with his brain injury; goes on with more courage than I have. What would he think of me if he knew how I thought my life was over just because I didn’t get selected? Oscar wouldn’t think anything. He’d probably just laugh and clap his knee.

  Chapter 39

  As far as I knew, Caramella and Oscar didn’t know about my three-day tragic adventure to Albury, and since I was back in time for Acrobrat training there was no reason to tell them – except that I felt I had to. Otherwise, I’d be hiding something from them (not a little thing but a rather huge thing), and it would be like trying to build a house together while not telling them that some of the floorboards had holes. Let’s face it, if there are holes, everyone who’s in the room should know where they are.

  So, before training I meet up with Caramella. We sit in the gutter outside her house. She has a new top on. It’s a pale blue sleeveless T-shirt with a purple swirly drawing of Janis Joplin on it. I’ve never seen Caramella wear anything kind of rock’n’roll before, let alone without sleeves, so I can’t help commenting.

  ‘Hey, nice top.’

  She smiles shyly. ‘Thanks. It was a present. But I chose it.’

  ‘A present, who from?’

  ‘Just Mum and Dad. For my birthday.’

  ‘It was your birthday? On the weekend?’

  ‘Yeah. I rang you to see if you wanted to come to the city with us. We went to the gallery. But you were away.’ She drops her face and sticks her hands under the T-shirt.

  Oh boy, I think. What kind of friend am I?

  ‘Caramella, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I wanted to tell you I was going, but I was scared you’d think I was deserting you because I went up to Albury to audition for the Flying Fruit Flies. It was something I felt I had to do – ’ Caramella interrupts me. ‘Don’t worry about it. I understand. Your Aunt Squeezy explained to me when I rang up. You know, if some great drawing school asked me to apply, I would too, no matter what was going on. So don’t feel bad.’

  I feel a great rush of relief, which makes me look up at the heavens and breathe out, then I turn to Caramella.

  ‘You know Caramella, you’re the best.’

  She laughs and draws her knees in close under her chin.

  ‘And you look great in that T-shirt.’ I really mean that, because all of a sudden she looks more comfortable; more as if she’s sitting in her own skin, as if it’s a good place to be.

  And in the end that’s what makes something good, the way you can like it or love it or accept it and wear it. She rocks back and forth, mouth on her knee, large eyes peeping over the little fleshy mountains of leg as if they’re half hiding and half venturing out.

  ‘You don’t think I look fat?’ she says, taking her mouth off her knee.

  ‘Nope. You look sexy.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘For sure.’

  She smiles her famously sweet, beaming smile and I feel myself beaming back because that’s what happens when Caramella beams; you can’t help getting all warmed up by it. I think to myself, This is great, this is really great. Who would have thought I could feel so great just one day after my glorious failure?

  As we make our way to training I tell her about how I didn’t get selected; how I almost did, but I didn’t.

  She doesn’t seem concerned. ‘But you’ll get in. You’ll get in next time.’ And she just grins like it’s no big deal.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and I kind of go along with her and act just as if it is no big deal, and the funny thing is I almost believe it myself. Because when I look around, the neighbourhood looks okay: houses are sitting as they should, all higgledy-piggledy and solid and old, the sun is out and everything is beaming beneath it, and I’m walking along with Caramella, who’s my best friend. So I puff myself up with the gleaming goodness of the day and I say, ‘I kissed Kite.’

  She opens her eyes wide and grins. ‘I knew it! I knew you would.’

  ‘It was a real kiss. Went for ages. On the steps.’

  ‘So, you in love?’

  ‘I guess so. I’m not sure if he is, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, there’s this other girl called Lola and they seem pretty close. I don’t even know if something’s going on or not. Also, I haven’t heard from him since I found out I didn’t get in.’

  ‘That was only yesterday.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ask him? I mean about Lola. Ring him up and ask.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe.’ I sigh. That would really be giving the game away. But then again, isn’t that what I decided I wanted – to just talk straight?

  When we get to the Network, Caramella goes and talks to Mohammed, who is sitting at a computer. I see her give him something. He doesn’t smile, he just nods approvingly and looks at her with a serious, shy look, then pins it on the wall next to his picture of some Bollywood movie star. It’s the drawing of him that she did.

  In the hall, Inisiya and Nidal are already practising a bluebird. I can hear their shrieks and giggles before I even enter the room, and it makes me feel happy. Despite myself I feel happy to see them falling out of balance and laughing their heads off.

  Chapter 40

  After training, I tell Oscar that I saw his rocks and that they made me feel better about life.

  ‘Did they inspire you with their blueness?’ he asks, pitching his shaggy eyebrows at a startling angle. He’s sitting on a chair, peeling an orange, and looking quite deeply concerned.

  ‘I’m not sure if it was the blueness or the togetherness or just the way something as o
rdinary as a blue tea towel transformed them, but whatever it is I think you’re really great, Oscar. You’re a transformer.’

  ‘Why, thank you. I like to be a transformer.’ He relaxes his brow and holds out a piece of orange for me, then frowns again. ‘Can’t seem to transform my handstands yet.’

  It’s true. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever be able to do a handstand, and yet he never gives up. I had always marvelled at how he kept trying and trying, even though it was useless. But right then it made sense because Oscar just didn’t see it as impossible or even unlikely. For him, everything is always possible, even a handstand from someone who has trouble balancing on his two feet. That was what really made Oscar different. More than his brain injury, it was his belief in something other than what we know. He believed in something else; something beyond, some wild, invisible, shimmering possibility that sung out to him in the tones of magic.

  ‘You will one day. I bet you’ll transform the whole idea of what a handstand is,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Of course, let’s see. A handstand is a way of seeing the world tip upside-down. It’s to clean the soles of your feet with air. It’s a body’s willing flip into unfamiliarity…’ He begins to gesture broadly as if delivering a speech, and I laugh.

  Seeing all the action, Caramella comes over. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Oh, just Oscar holding forth on handstands. But actually,’ I say, ‘there is something strange I need to tell you both.’ With that I launch into the story of Harold Barton, including his hard life and his juggling ambitions.

  Oscar says, ‘I think it’s magnificent. Harold Barton. A juggler.’

  Caramella doesn’t say anything for a while. She frowns and seems perplexed. Of course Harold Barton had always teased her a lot and called her Zit-face. She more than any of us would never want to trust him. After a while she says, ‘Is he good? Can he really juggle?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I guess he must be okay because he knows all the names.’

  She nods and says nothing more, at least not until we get home. The whole way there she’s been quiet and thoughtful and I’m worried that I really disturbed her by bringing up the monstrous Harold Barton, so I try to reassure her by saying that if he did get into the Flying Fruit Fly Circus at least we wouldn’t have to see him round here anymore.

  ‘But I’m thinking about Mohammed,’ she says, frowning and shaking her head.

  ‘Mohammed?’

  ‘Yes. This might be a crazy idea, but I was thinking that maybe Mohammed is scared of all the physical stuff in the circus. Maybe he’s just not good at that stuff, like me. But juggling is something that boys can learn, isn’t it?’

  She looks at me with worry in her eyes, but I’m not sure what she’s getting at. She finally says it. ‘Couldn’t we get Harold Barton to come to training to teach juggling?’

  I stop dead still. So she’s not scared of Harold Barton. She’s even prepared to invite him in.

  ‘God! It’s a great idea, but wouldn’t you hate that?’

  ‘I’d put up with it.’ She sighs and seems to relax, as if just saying it has given her the courage.

  ‘You never know, it might transform Harold too,’ I say, and I think to myself that transformation is obviously my new thing. That, and compassion. I give Caramella a hug.

  ‘You know, Caramella, you’re so forgiving, you’re already a Buddhist, I think.’ And then I go home to ring Harold and also to wait for Kite to call. Surely he’ll call tonight.

  Chapter 41

  I ring Harold Barton, leave a message on his answering machine and then lounge around waiting for Kite to call. The first time the phone rings it’s an Indian man trying to sell us a holiday to Noumea. Mum yells out, ‘Tell him we can’t afford the flights.’

  Next it’s Barnaby calling from a phone booth in Sydney. He doesn’t get time to say much.

  ‘Hello little lady, it’s your big brother.’

  ‘Hi, Barn, where are you?’

  ‘Still in Sydney. How was the circus?’

  ‘I didn’t get in.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a bummer. Don’t worry, I didn’t get into the first band I auditioned for, either.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Nah. You get over it. It’s all part of the game. Now, can you tell Mum I’m okay. Safe and sound and all that. Leaving tomorrow.’

  ‘So, how’s Ada? You know I like her more now.’

  ‘Yeah, so do I.’

  ‘And guess what: Aunt Squeezy’s leaving.’

  ‘Why?’

  The phone cuts off. I listen for a minute, wondering if that’s how I would sound if you listened to my heart right now, then Mum calls out, ‘Did he blow the head gasket?’

  ‘No, he said he’s coming home tomorrow.’

  Mum sighs. She’s lying on the couch with a green facemask on. I sit around drawing animals all over the phone pad and thinking how Kite can’t really be thinking about me if he doesn’t ring, and sometimes I wish I was a giraffe instead of a girl, because giraffes don’t have boyfriends. Then I write Cedar B. Freeman to see how it looks, and then I write Lola Freeman, just to be mean to myself. And then finally I go to bed and dream that Aunt Squeezy gives birth to a giant poo.

  Chapter 42

  That week passes by without a call from Kite or even from Harold Barton, and I struggle through it as if the days are solid and thick and hard to push through. By the time Acrobrats’ training arrives I feel weary in the head from all that wondering and worrying and pushing through. If you have a line of worry going on and then you weave your wonder through it, like this:

  then your worry gets lured in by the wonder and starts to wind and wiggle and expand all over your thinking space, like this:

  So this is what I looked like by the time I turned up for training:

  And guess who was the first person I saw? Harold Barton slouching on the steps of the building with a bag at his feet.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘you showed up.’

  ‘Guess so. Wasn’t sure I’d come, but looks like I did.’ He looks up, half-squinting and half-grinning at me.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ I say nicely, because I remember how he’s had a hard time at home, and I’m practising my compassion. While I’m standing there smiling at Harold Barton compassionately and he’s looking at me like I’ve just turned into a baboon, Inisiya arrives and gives me a hug, and suddenly I feel a bit lighter, as if my expanding whirling worry lines just got rubbed out by all the warmth coming out and going in.

  I introduce her to Harold Barton and she’s sweet to him, just as if he’s a regular lad, and the thing is he acts just as if he is a regular lad, and smiles at her and laughs in a friendly way as we make our way inside.

  Caramella is already there, sitting on the floor with the Hmong girls, and I notice how there’s something similar between them: a round softness, which makes them look like a circle of quiet little mushrooms. Especially compared to Sali from Sudan, who’s already dive-rolling on the mat and yelling at Inisiya to come and hold a hoop. He’s become known as ‘Hopper’, which is short for grasshopper. Oscar, who started that one, is lying on his back hugging his knees to his chest and seems to have a small crew copying him, including Parisa, who is Inisiya’s little sister. Oscar looks like a clunky Pied Piper, because he’s making trumpet sounds with his mouth to indicate position changes.

  I leave Harold Barton talking to Inisiya and go over to warn Caramella that he’s turned up. I know she’ll want to try to persuade Mohammed to at least come and watch. Then I make an announcement, introduce Harold and say that anyone who’s interested in doing juggling should cluster around him after the warm-up.

  It surprises me to see how many of them are interested. All the boys, and also Inisiya, Nidal and, most unlikely of all, Caramella. But Mohammed can’t be coaxed out.

  Harold Barton has brought along tennis balls as well as juggling balls, so I figure we may as well all learn. But Harold appears to be quite nervous at the pr
ospect of taking charge, and starts off in a stiff, awkward way, talking about the principles of juggling.

  I try to break the ice a bit by calling out, ‘Give us a demo!’ so he does, and he’s really very good. Even I’m impressed. And you can tell by everyone’s faces that their eagerness levels just shoot upwards once they see what’s possible. That seems to energise Harold, who grabs a broom and starts showing some stick-twirling. By the time he gets us all standing against the wall, practising our throws, he’s relaxed, and everyone is calling to him to come and check out their throws. They all want to move on to three balls. But Hopper, of course, is jumping about and chucking balls at people’s bums.

  What happens next happens so quietly that if I wasn’t such a keen observer I might have missed it. First, Caramella approaches Harold Barton. I’ve never before seen those two even talk to each other, so of course I watch closely. She’s talking quite intently, hands moving in the air. He has cocked his head to listen. After a while he nods and they part. She goes over to work with the Hmong girls and he attends to Sali. Then he grabs three balls, and walks over towards the door.

  It’s only then that I notice Mohammed standing there, wearing his little frown. Harold approaches him, talks, does a quick demonstration, then gives the balls to Mohammed and points towards a spot on the wall. Mohammed stands with the balls in his hands, staring down at them as if he’s not sure how they got there, but since they are there, it seems, they lead him in. It makes me think of this story where there’s a girl who puts on some red shoes and they make her dance. It’s like that with Mohammed and those balls; they pull him in and then he’s there. He gazes around wildly, as if he’s afraid, but when he sees that no one has even noticed he seems to settle a bit, to let his weight sink into his feet, and then he begins throwing, carefully, quietly, also determinedly.