Simone and I laughed.
‘Well, she’s not very stylish,’ I observed, and Simone smiled at me.
‘So,’ she said, ‘now you know my secret, I’m a big fat old lesbian.’
‘You’re not fat, Simone,’ I said, and that was it, really.
Simone was gay, I wasn’t, and we decided to wait a few years before we told Stella.
Now Stella was avoiding me, not answering her phone, or making Billy answer it – Billy, who said uncertainly, ‘I’m very sorry, Lulu, but for some reason Stella doesn’t want to talk to you. Is everything all right with you girls?’ Billy McNamara, the only person in Australia who apparently had not seen the now infamous episode of Today, Tonight and Tomorrow.
‘Everything’s fine, Billy,’ I said, ‘just ask Stella to call me when she’s ready.’
A few days later, she rang.
‘I’m sorry, Lulu,’ said Stella stiffly, ‘I’m very sorry I haven’t returned your calls.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said, ‘how have you been?’
‘Good, really good.’
‘And now tell me how you’ve really been, Stella,’ I said, falling into an old rhythm.
‘Oh Lulu, it’s been awful. Patrick and Thomas were sent home from school with gastro, Grace has started that whole horse thing again – Sister Margaret wants us to send her to a counsellor – and I’ve got to make Claire a costume for her ballet concert by Friday, which of course I haven’t done.’
‘I’ll make it,’ I said automatically. ‘What is it this year? Bee, dog, frolicking wood nymph?’
Stella burst into tears.
‘See, Lulu,’ she said, ‘this is why I am a bad person . . . I spend all this time judging you and not returning your calls, and you just carry on as if nothing at all’s happened.’
‘It’s fine, Stella,’ I said, but she interrupted me.
‘No, Lulu, it isn’t fine. I’m a dreadful prude, I know I am, I can’t help it. I think it’s because my parents were so religious, you know – PATRICK, GET YOUR HANDS OFF YOUR BROTHER’S NECK – I mean they were always sending me off to bible camp and going on at me about mortal sin, and how you had to sleep with your hands outside your doona.’
I was smiling now, smiling at Stella, who had apparently spent much of her youth lying rigid in her bed, feverishly praying that her own hands wouldn’t wander.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, ‘it really is okay.’ I sat down on the stool beside the telephone table. ‘I’m just glad you’re still talking to me.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘So, did you pray for me?’ I teased, already knowing the answer.
‘Yes.’
‘Which saint?’
‘Jude.’
‘Which one’s that?’
‘Lost causes.’
‘Right.’
‘Lulu?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think you should go to confession.’
‘I don’t think so, Stella.’
*
‘Bless me father, for I have sinned,’ I said quietly in the dark. ‘It has been—’ How long had it been since I had done this? Sat opposite a stranger and whispered my secrets to him? Not since I was a child, trying to catch a glimpse of the priest’s bowed head, even though I knew it was Father Duffy trying to pretend he didn’t know me.
Now, all those years later, the priest opposite me shifted in his seat, probably used to people blowing in off the street outside his church on a whim and a prayer, desperate for redemption.
But I hadn’t chosen this church randomly, I knew St Joseph’s well, and was familiar with how it could wrap its cool sandstone arms around a little girl feverishly lighting candles for her vanishing mother. Sometimes, when Rose had too many Doris days, I would walk the seven blocks from my house to this church and its quiet embrace.
Kneeling on its wooden pews, I’d close my eyes and pray: ‘Dear God, please make Rose better’, ‘Dear God, please make Rose better’, ‘Dear God, please make Rose better’. I would say the words over and over, rocking back and forth on my knees and hoping that if I said them often enough, someone would have to hear them.
‘God,’ I’d put in as an addendum, ‘I know you’re probably really busy so if there’s anyone else there – one of the saints who hasn’t got as much to do as you – I don’t mind if they help either.’ An eight-year-old girl bargaining with her idea of heaven.
Now I was back and not really sure why; maybe just because Stella had wanted it.
And maybe because nothing else, not the tears that fell until I thought there could not possibly be any left to cry, or the letters of apology I wrote and discarded, or the marks I left on my skin by digging my nails into it, had made me feel one iota better.
I had done something I had no idea I was capable of, and the guilt of it gnawed at me night and day, and I didn’t think I would ever, ever get over the shame of it.
It was ironic, I thought, that it had been years since I had stepped inside a church, years spent shedding much of the guilt it clothed its daughters in, and now it was guilt, and great big dollops of it, that had driven me right back inside again.
The priest made a quiet noise in his throat.
Right.
Better get on with it.
‘It has been quite a few years since my last confession,’ I said, remembering every word of the ritual. ‘These are my sins.’
The cool air hung between us. Outside someone was moving around in the church, probably a volunteer doing the flowers.
I closed my eyes, rubbed them.
‘Yes,’ the priest said, and I had no idea how to get the next part out.
‘I recently had, well, what occurred was I, had fornification’ – was that even a word? – ‘ that is to say, I spent some time with a married man, Father,’ I said.
He nodded again.
‘On his wedding night.’
Even in the shadowy cubicle, I could see his eyebrows shoot up.
‘I’m terribly upset about it, Father,’ I said, the words rushing out, the cool air suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot.
The priest slid his hand across to cover mine.
Gently, he said, ‘And why did you do that, my daughter?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered him, bringing my hands to my face. ‘I don’t know why.’
But of course, I did.
In the last few weeks of school, Annabelle had grown a different skin, shedding who she used to be when I wasn’t looking. A new, brittle layer masked her softness. I saw less and less of her as the year wound down; we didn’t always walk home together, and when we did she would walk slightly ahead of me, and I could never quite catch up.
She didn’t want to talk about Frank, still licking his wounds under his mother’s roof, and she certainly didn’t want to discuss Annie, ensconced again at the River House, her affair with Fergus, for the time being at least, over.
Annabelle had asked me to be there for Annie’s homecoming, probably the last conversation we’d had that had scratched the surface, the two of us waiting on the front steps for the taxi to arrive.
‘Are you all right?’ I’d asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘just a bit nervous.’
‘Are you glad she’s coming home?’
‘I don’t know, sort of, I guess, in between being really pissed off with her.’
We laughed, sipped our Cokes.
‘Do you want to go inside and wait?’
‘No, I want to see her get out of the car.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see her face, Tallulah.’
‘Okay,’ I’d said uncertainly. But the instant Annie got out of the cab, and Annabelle drew back beside me, I knew that whatever expression the prodigal mother wore to greet her daughter was apparently the wrong
one.
Annie arrived as she’d left, in a hurry, slamming the cab’s door and striding up the path carrying her paints and bags filled with sarongs, shell necklaces and two grass skirts, one for Annabelle and one for me.
She had quickened her steps to get to her daughter, fallen into her.
‘You look beautiful, darling,’ she said. ‘I missed you every day,’ and I looked at Annie’s face and knew that it was true.
Not that it helped any.
We had gone inside and Annie had unpacked her treasures, telling us stories about where she had been, but not who she had been with, and then giving us the grass skirts.
‘Thanks, Annie,’ I said, studying the row of perfect white cowry shells sewn into the skirt’s waistband. ‘Let’s go and try them on, Annabelle.’
Annabelle glared at me, and I realised I had made a mistake. ‘No thanks, Tallulah,’ she said, tossing her skirt on the floor.
‘Oh come on, Annabelle,’ Annie said, ‘try it on. What else are you going to do with it?’
Annabelle stood up, looked into her mother’s face. ‘I thought I’d burn it,’ she said coolly. ‘I wouldn’t want to catch anything off it.’
Annie had put her head in her hands. ‘So this is how it’s to be?’ she said.
‘You started it,’ said Annabelle, and walked out.
After that, the two of them cohabited under the one roof, Annabelle affording her mother only the merest hint of herself, silently complying with domestic instructions and answering when she had to.
Annie tried.
I saw it the few times I visited, but the absence of Frank throbbed through the house as Annie tried to repair the damage under its roof.
‘How long,’ she asked one day, appearing at Annabelle’s bedroom door while we were studying, ‘is this marathon sulk going to go on for, Annabelle? Because I have better things to do than spend my life dealing with an obdurate teenager.’
‘Then don’t,’ Annabelle answered, flipping over on her bed to her stomach. ‘Do what you like, you always have.’
‘Do something with her, Lulu,’ Annie said, ‘before I go back to the bloody Solomons.’
But there was nothing I could do; Annabelle was slipping through my fingers too.
I missed her.
But in between studying for my exams, helping Rose look after Mattie and Sam, and being consumed by Josh Keaton and his determination to get under every inch of my skin, much of the drama being played out at the River House coursed by me, and I didn’t miss her enough.
*
‘What’s the problem with Annabelle?’ Josh said one night on the way to the drive-in after the three of us had spent a hot and disagreeable afternoon together at Snow’s. ‘She’s being even more of a nightmare than usual.’
‘She’s all right,’ I told him. ‘You have to remember things aren’t that great for her at the moment – we’ve got our final exams coming up, Frank’s gone, Annie and her are at each other’s throats. I hate going to that house now, all they do is fight.’
‘Not like us,’ he grinned, slowing down through the entry gates, ‘we’re lovers, not fighters.’
Later, somewhere between the first movie and the second, he whispered, ‘See, I told you so.’
*
We were going to travel.
We were going to Indonesia first, so Josh could surf Uluwatu, then Japan so I could see the cherry blossoms, then Europe, where we were both going to see everything.
While I studied for my exams, Josh studied Lonely Planet guides, working out our route, when was the best time to go where, what we would need to take with us, what jobs we could do to pay our way.
‘I’m going to learn how to say “I love you” in seventeen languages,’ he told me, ‘and then I’m going to show you.’
Josh had it all worked out. All I had to do was tell Rose and Harry. Because while Pearl Keaton would one day look through her haze of smoke and realise her son was gone, my parents were another matter.
Harry was growing wary of Josh, worrying that we were too serious, too young, never mind that when he himself was nineteen, he had fallen head over heels for a girl in a buttercup-yellow dress that swished when she walked.
And Rose . . . well, I hated to think of Rose without me. She had been good for so long – Doris had not put in an appearance for months – but Rose was, I knew, unpredictable. She needed me beside her as she moved around the house making her cakes and casseroles, knitting her jumpers for Harry and the boys, in case she dropped a stitch.
So I put off telling them and Josh grew more and more impatient.
The last week of school came, and I still hadn’t told them.
Josh and I, by the river.
‘Have you told your parents yet?’
‘No, but I will, Josh, I told you, after exams.’
‘I told my mum this morning.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said it was fine, that she’d always wanted to travel herself, you know, how she never got the chance, the usual guilt trip.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘well, at least you’ve told her.’
‘What do you reckon your folks will say?’
‘I think they’ll say we need to slow down, I think they’ll say I should go to uni first before travelling, I think they’ll say that I need something to fall back on.’ I snuggled in a little closer, and looked up at his face. ‘And I’ll say I’ve already got something to fall back on.’
‘Lulu?’
‘Mmm.’ My mouth on his earlobe.
‘We really need to do this thing.’
‘I know.’
‘You need to tell them we’re going. And I need to start booking tickets.’
‘I told you Josh, I will, after exams.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Lulu?’
‘Yes, Josh,’ I smiled.
He sat up.
‘I’ve got to get the hell out of Juniper Bay,’ he said.
*
On the last day of school, Annabelle didn’t show up, so when we all threw our hats in the air, hers was missing, and in all the photos taken that day – me and Stella and Simone grinning from ear to ear, poking our tongues out, squashing our faces together, Simone making stupid rabbit ears behind Stella’s head in every single one – there was nothing of her.
There was not one image from that day to record that Annabelle Andrews ever sashayed through St Rita’s stained-glass doors, and left her reflection there wherever I looked.
When the last bell rang, I tore myself away from all the other girls going crazy on the oval, Stacey Ryan taking off her shirt to do cartwheels in her bra, and ran all the way to the River House.
‘Annabelle,’ I yelled, letting myself in through its never-locked door and running up the stairs. ‘Annabelle, I can’t believe you didn’t come today, where were you? Where ARE you? Annabelle, ANNABELLE!’
My uniform was covered in Nikko-penned scrawls from overexcited schoolgirls who’d drawn flowers and love-hearts beside their names. My hat was pulled low over my ears, completely destroyed by Bata-Scout-clad feet stomping all over it, and in my bag, bumping all the way against my legs as I ran, was the book I had planned to give Annabelle.
It was a journal of every single word we had made up together, and its meaning – starting with Absoletely: absolutely/completely – To agree wholeheartedly with, and ending with Zigot: zealot/bigot – Person with very extreme views they insist on shouting at people.
‘She’s not here,’ Annie said, materialising at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I thought she’d be with you, Lulu, celebrating the last day of St Rita’s serfdom.’
‘No,’ I said uncertainly, not wanting to get Annabelle into trouble, ‘we didn’t go home together – do you mind if I wait here for a few minutes
, Annie?’
She shook her head, and floated away.
I waited on the stairs, perspiration trickling down the back of my neck, between my legs and biting into the back of my knees, making me thankful for the cool silence of the house. It was so quiet there these days; no dinner parties with guests who filled the house with smoke and laughter, no glasses tinkling or music playing.
I thought about Frank, sitting on that step, about how much I missed him, and how much Annabelle pretended not to, remembering what she had said at the beach the previous weekend, when the two of us were under the shower.
Josh was running up from the water, holding his board under his arm, his boardshorts low and long on his hips, and Annabelle and I were arguing – again – about Frank.
‘I just don’t understand why you won’t see him,’ I’d said, letting the water run down my back, ‘it’s not like he’s the one who did anything wrong, Annabelle. I mean, seriously, what is your problem?’
She switched off her shower and shook her body from head to toe, covering me in salty droplets. ‘Will you let it rest, Tallulah?’ she said. ‘Honestly, you’re like a dog with a bone over this thing.’
‘I’ll let it rest when you tell me what exactly Frank did to deserve the silent treatment and when you tell me what your problem is.’
‘My problem,’ she said slowly, watching Josh run towards us, ‘is that I have a father who was too stupid to see what was going on right in front of his own eyes, and with his own brother.’ She reached down and picked up her towel, eyes still on Josh. ‘And if people are too stupid, or don’t care enough, to see what’s going on right in front of them, Tallulah, then they get what they deserve.’
Before the thought was even completely finished, it seemed like my legs stood up all by themselves from the River House’s stairs, to run down them, out the front door and past Annie’s ‘See you, Tallulah.’
I ran down the side of the house, past Frank’s workshop, the tree house, the tiny moon-shaped beach, along the scrappy paths with the branches that snatched at my skin all the way to the greying jetty sighing with the lovers who lay beneath it.
As I ran, images clicked through my head, like I was looking through a viewfinder; Josh tucking a curl back behind Annabelle’s ear; looking down at Snow’s to see their feet swinging together under the table; the two red dots on Annabelle’s cheeks when I’d walked into Frank’s shed last Saturday morning and Josh was there, with no shirt on – ‘It’s so hot,’ he’d said, ‘it’s so hot’; Josh’s urgent ‘I’ve got to get the hell out of Juniper Bay’.
Walking on Trampolines Page 9