by Chris Wheat
He watched nervously as girls began flooding up the drive towards the gates like an advancing pale-blue riot. They all had similar hair and skin, and they rushed past him as if a guy at the gate was of no significance. He stood in their midst and felt scorned. There suddenly seemed little hope of finding Penny. He was immersed in girl noise as he searched their faces. No one asked him if he was waiting for someone. Maybe they thought he was ugly.
‘Hi.’
He spun around. It was her.
All sound, all movement, the whole world vanished – everything except her eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I’m kind of looking for you.’
‘Oh.’ Her face broke into a beautiful beam. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’
‘Come with me; we’re not supposed to meet boys outside the gates. I’m going to the library.’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks for trying to save me the other week,’ she said. ‘You were very gallant.’
‘Any time.’ His heart was beating hard. So they were going to some library. If the library was on the edge of Andromeda, he wouldn’t mind.
He tried to look at her face without her noticing. Her skin was so beautiful, and he realised she had perfect ears – they were small, shiny and pink and she tucked her hair behind them like that Year 10 girl from etiquette class. He’d never been an ears guy before. Now he was. She was wearing a grey straw hat.
‘I like your hat.’ That sounded like the right thing to say to a girl like Penny.
‘My hat? It’s awful! Do you want to wear it?’
Yes, yes. Any day. Maybe this was a Mary Magdalene thing?
If you liked the guy, you let him wear your hat.
‘I’ve got Physics homework. Can you do physics?’
‘Sure,’ he said. If he couldn’t, he’d fake it.
Walking with her, he realised that he was taller. In the river they’d been the same height.
‘Do you know Matilda Grey?’ she asked.
‘Sure, she’s my best mate’s girlfriend.’
‘The guy with the big tongue?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t know how big his tongue is. Never looked.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s crazy. Sleeps in class and does whatever she likes. She hates Chelsea Dean.’
‘I’ve heard it’s mutual. Do you think she really lived with dingoes?’ Penny asked.
He shrugged. ‘I read the book about her. It could be true.
I’ve seen her scratch herself like a dog, and lick her boyfriend.’
She giggled. ‘How gorgeous,’ she said.
Huge trees lined the street, and large dried leaves were scattered across the path. They crunched through them, and the sound made him happy. He wanted to carry her bag and stamp on every leaf.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked.
He had to tell the truth. Chelsea or Georgia might have already told her.
‘Public housing flats, Richmond.’
She nodded. ‘How do you like that?’
‘Not much. Where do you live?’
‘Doncaster.’
He nodded. He didn’t know where that was.
‘Can I come to your place some time?’ she asked.
No way. Not there. Not you. He thought of the DVDs under his bed. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘We have to write about being out of our comfort zone for English. That would be out of my comfort zone. It would be interesting.’
He wanted to say that he’d be out of his comfort zone with her in the flat.
‘You wouldn’t like it. It’s crazy round my way.’
‘What do you mean?’ Penny looked at him with the loveliest eyes. ‘I can handle it.’
‘I know, I know.’ He didn’t want to take her up in the dirty lift. ‘But you don’t know me yet.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’ve made enquiries. Georgia Delahunty gave you the tick of approval. She said you were reliable and decent.’
‘You girls have networks.’
‘You guys do, too.’
He did. He hated his network.
‘Do you think I’m going to judge you by your home?’ she asked. ‘Would you judge me by mine?’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘So why worry?’
‘Okay, I guess you can.’
‘Oooh!’ She jumped up in the air. ‘Fun!’ She smiled. ‘Tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything about you now – especially the criminal parts.’
THE FORTYFIVE
CENTIMETRE RULE
WAS
BREACHED!
ONLY ONE WEEK ago, Georgia Delahunty and Gary Deare had been re-roofing the tennis pavilion, but Gary and Phoebe Choudbury-Foote had flown the coop. The story was that they had eloped to Albury-Wodonga. This left Georgia without a teacher, although she was supposedly being supervised by a semi-retired replacement maintenance man called Mario.
Georgia climbed the ladder to the partially roofed pavilion and surveyed the school. It looked like a European village, with the old stone hall and the elaborate chapel and tower rising over the surrounding buildings in a forest of shady elms and oaks. In the distance, she could see the school’s one sheep grazing quietly. It was a gorgeous August afternoon. The sounds of laughter and the tranquil slow plop of extended volleys floated up to her from the tennis courts as she straddled the roof, thinking about Tamsin. She too might elope one day.
‘Georgia!’
She looked down at the path. Ms Defarge was approaching, her academic gown flapping in the breeze like a vampire’s cloak.
‘Georgia, Mary Magdalene girls don’t sit like that. It looks so much smarter to sit side-saddle when you’re working on a roof. Please descend. I wish to see you in my office, now.’
Spinning about in a billow of gown, Ms Defarge tripped off rapidly along the rose path.
Georgia gingerly climbed down and followed her along the path and into the dark administration building.
‘Please close the door and sit down, Georgia.’ Pronouncing Georgia’s name seemed to cause the headmistress to choke, and she took a sip of water from a trembling glass.
Georgia sat down uneasily, placing her nail-bag and hammer beside the chair.
‘Georgia, what we discuss this afternoon must, and I emphasise must, be in strictest confidence. You will understand what I mean when you hear the whole story, but only you, Georgia, will hear this story, and no one, not even your parents, must know about this. Do you understand?’
Was Ms Defarge going to confess that she was a lesbian, just as Chelsea Dean had once implied?
‘Georgia, I have something to tell you which will shock you deeply…’
Georgia leant forward.
‘It is something quite sordid.’
Georgia held her breath.
‘Mr Deare and Phoebe Choudbury-Foote have run away to Albury-Wodonga!’
What a let-down! Georgia pretended to be surprised. Ms Defarge seemed to be going to pieces; she looked terribly distressed.
The headmistress leant across her desk conspiratorially.
‘I am going to ask you some very personal questions.’
‘Yes, Ms Defarge.’
Ms Defarge swayed in her chair, cleared her throat and whispered, ‘Did Mr Deare ever touch you inappropriately?’
Georgia thought for a moment. ‘He’s touched me, but I’m not sure whether it was inappropriate.’
‘He touched you?’ Ms Defarge groaned and slumped forward on her desk. ‘Where, when?’
‘When he was teaching me how to use a saw he put his arm around me and guided my hand.’
‘The forty-five centimetre rule was breached! And you didn’t report him?’
Georgia hesitated. ‘I suppose he did break it, but I didn’t mind.’
Ms Defarge swallowed loudly. ‘Do you think he was taking pleasure in this instruction?’
‘I have no idea.’
The
headmistress rested her elbows on her desk and gripped her head. Her face was stricken. ‘Georgia, do you know Phoebe Choudbury-Foote very well?’
‘Not very well.’
‘In your opinion, is she the sort of girl who would encourage the maintenance staff to … notice her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever see them together?’
Georgia had seen them, quite a few times – behind the tennis pavilion and going in and out of Gary’s toolshed – but she wasn’t a whistleblower.
‘No, Ms Defarge.’
The headmistress suddenly stood up, her face contorted in horror. ‘I’m going to set fire to my hair!’
Georgia stood up, too. ‘It’s all right, Ms Defarge…’
‘It’s against the rules! Why didn’t you report it?’ Ms Defarge had her hands in her frizzy hair.
Georgia moved towards Ms Defarge. ‘It’s all right…’
‘No, it’s hideous! This is the worst event of my headmistressship. If the gossiping parents ever find out about this… !’ She began to groan and sway from side to side, then took a noisy gulp of water. ‘I’m under a lot of pressure. A lot!’
Georgia wondered if she should get someone. ‘Ms Defarge, Phoebe is old enough to…’
‘TELL THAT TO THE MARINES!’ Ms Defarge screamed.
‘I have been charged with her safety, and I have failed. If students throw biscuits in trams, if the sewers block, if Phoebe Choudbury-Foote and Mr Gary Deare run off together – I am to blame!’ She walked across to the white marble mantelpiece and hammered it with a trembling fist. Then she turned to Georgia. ‘I’m asking you again. Did you ever see anything inappropriate going on between them? Think carefully.’
‘Like inappropriate touching?’
‘Yes, particularly that!’
‘Never.’
‘I want you to say nothing of this. This is the greatest scandal to have befallen Mary Magdalene since the 1963 pregnancies.
I’m going to engage a hypnotist!’ Her anxious eyes flashed. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘To hypnotise the school during an assembly and obliterate from their minds all memory of Mr Deare and Phoebe Choudbury-Foote. Ping! So far as this school is concerned, those two people never existed.’ She waved her hands wildly.
‘What do you think?’
‘It sounds pretty stupid, Ms Defarge?’
The headmistress glared, shook herself, and appeared to be in such agony that Georgia wished she hadn’t been quite so blunt.
‘Of course it is. I’m simply losing my mind, Georgia!’ She flung herself back into her seat. ‘What is to be done?’ she shouted and grabbed her hair again.
‘It’s all right, Ms Defarge.’
‘It’s not!’ Ms Defarge was by now shaking violently. ‘Those St Ethelred’s boys and ghastly Vistaview river hoons will be on our doorstep any moment, and what do we have to offer them? A sex scandal!’
‘Ms Defarge, are you all right?’
But the headmistress kept tugging at her hair and was now gurgling.
‘I’m going to drink this ink!’ She grabbed a bottle of ink from her desk and began to unscrew the top.
‘No!’ Georgia panicked.
The headmistress was putting the bottle to her lips. There was only one thing to do when people went to pieces: Georgia leapt across the desk and slapped Ms Defarge hard across the face.
SHE
CAR - SURFED
KHIEM DAO HAD been given his instructions by Chelsea. He was to slowly proceed along the drive to the Mary Magdalene administration building, stop outside the entrance, jump out and walk quickly around the car to open Chelsea’s door, nod to her as she alighted, close the door, and then wait with Craig for her to return. Craig was to film her arrival.
Khiem was wearing one of Chelsea’s father’s old reefer jackets, which was really too big. It was dark blue with gold buttons. Chelsea was going to meet the headmistress to discuss the combined-schools formal and, very importantly, to explain that the boat crash and subsequent mutual assistance was something both schools could be proud of: a fine example of inter-school cooperation.
At this moment, Chelsea was sitting in the back seat in her Vistaview uniform with Craig beside her. Khiem glanced at them in the rear-vision mirror. Lunchtime was a perfect arrival time: all the girls would see Chelsea with boys. Craig had strict instructions to keep his mouth closed.
The possibility that the cops might pull them up did worry Khiem, but Chelsea had it all worked out: she would handle the police if they pulled them over. The cops would be told that she was delivering an emergency supply of insulin for Tamsin Court-Cookson, the Deputy Prime Minister’s daughter. Chelsea would do all the talking because her chauffeur, a refugee from Laos, could barely speak English.
‘When you have to tell a falsehood, Khiem, it is best to tell several at once, as they never know which one to deal with first. Often they get diverted by the more tragic one and forget to go back to the real issue. In this case, the Deputy Prime Minister’s daughter is having a major hypo – that’s tragic – and so they forget that the chauffeur looks twelve. Easy.’
Driving without a licence and driving someone else’s car without their permission were pretty major offences, but the smoothness, the power and the size of Mrs Dean’s Merc were irresistible, and anyway, Chelsea had made it clear that he was doing this for a good cause – helping her to organise the social event of the year. So Khiem kept his eyes on the road and remained silent. He was rapt to be driving this car and even more rapt to be driving it to Penny’s school.
When Penny had asked him about his criminal activities, he’d told her a bit of stuff because he thought she probably knew anyway. But not everything. He’d explained he was trying to go straight. She’d said she’d help him and believed strongly in rehabilitation not punishment.
‘Can I drive home?’ Craig begged.
Chelsea was firm. ‘Not today. I say when, Craig. It’s my car.’
Craig leant forward. ‘Thrash it, Khiem.’
Khiem glanced at his mate in the rear-vision mirror and grinned.
‘Don’t thrash it!’ Chelsea ordered.
‘These Mercs are crap anyway,’ Craig said and flopped back into the leather seat.
‘And your father’s car is a… ?’ Chelsea enquired.
‘HiAce van – and he thrashes it.’
‘So cutting edge. And don’t film me now, thank you.’
They had arrived at the huge gates of Mary Magdalene.
Khiem pulled over and waited for instructions.
‘Okay, I want you to drive slowly along here, Khiem. So they all see. Craig, you jump out as soon as we stop and video Khiem opening the door for me. This is going to be so excellent!’
They turned in. The driveway was long; it curved gently between manicured flowerbeds. He kept below fifteen Ks as the signs requested.
‘Look at them all. This place is so yesterday. Look over there – see those girls near the fence? They’re desperately waiting for a passing male. But they have to stay five metres away from the fence in case they get abducted. Khiem, watch the drive and not the girls. I know you’re looking for Penny Wong-O’Neill.
How tragic is that? Penny Wong-O’Neill – the queen of quadratic equations.’
‘So you can’t do them?’
‘Excuse me. Drive, please.’
Khiem pulled up gently outside the administration building, put the car in neutral and got out. Craig was out, too, ready to film. Khiem opened Chelsea’s door and nodded to her. Chelsea stepped out. Some girls were watching. He returned to the driver’s seat, just as he’d been instructed.
‘Bunsy!’ someone called. ‘Who taught you to navigate?’
Unfortunately it wasn’t Penny. Chelsea waved to the girl, then began climbing the steps towards the admin building’s double doors. She turned around several times to wave. Craig had the camcorder on her.
The woman, who reminded him for a moment of Professor McGonagall, was heading towards the Merc like a crazed bat, black gown flying. Without any warning, she suddenly flung herself across the bonnet and landed with a terrific thump, screamed, ‘Phoebe Choudbury-Foote!’, then rolled off the car onto the gravel. Khiem jumped out of the car and raced around to help her. Shrieking girls were running towards the car from every direction.
‘Ms Defarge has been run over!’ someone cried.
The woman was rolling on the gravel drive now, repeating in a high-pitched scream: ‘Phoebe Choudbury-Foote, Phoebe Choudbury-Foote! Viper at my breast!’ Khiem was paralysed.
It would look like he’d hit her with the car.
‘Quick. Get an ambulance,’ Georgia Delahunty yelled. ‘She’s gone mad.’
‘It’s Ms Defarge. Chelsea Dean’s chauffeur just ran over her!’ another girl cried. ‘Help, she’s injured!’
More and more girls were crowding around the woman. He stood there in a panic. If the cops came he’d be stuffed.
‘She’s was cracking up,’ Georgia Delahunty said, ‘so I hit her.’
‘He hit her,’ one of the girls yelled, pointing at him. ‘The chauffeur in the baggy jacket.’
He shook his head.
‘No he didn’t!’ Chelsea called from the steps. ‘She threw herself onto the car. And the chauffeur’s Laotian. Doesn’t understand English.’
‘She just charged the car,’ Khiem said feebly. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘He spoke!’ a little girl yelled.
‘He didn’t hit her,’ Georgia said. ‘She dived onto the car.
She’s lost her marbles.’
‘She car-surfed it,’ a girl claimed.
‘Her lips are blue, CPR!’ screamed another one.
Then he saw Penny. Her face was pale. She pushed forward and, kneeling down, looked carefully at Ms Defarge, grabbed her wrist and began to take her pulse.