by Nette Hilton
Main Street was best. There was always something to look at in the shops and if you had seen it all already you could duck down the lane and run like fury behind the shops and see them from their backsides.
The long way home was down the back road that led up to the mountains.
Her mum’d have a fit if she knew that she’d crossed the creek and staggered through the long grass. There were probably snakes as well, and then, because she wasn’t sure where the hole in the fence was, she’d clambered through the two strands of barbed wire. Her jumper got caught and now a long strand of green cotton dangled down past her fingers.
And she still had the long, long circuit around the base of the hill to get herself back to Main Street.
‘Do you want to come to my place this arvo?’ She’d whispered to Zilla when she saw the others scowling at her and making plans behind their hands.
It would have been a whole lot easier to just explain that she was going to be beaten to a pulp as soon as school was over but somehow the words didn’t want to come out. Zilla wouldn’t be scared if they were going to beat her up. It wouldn’t help if she looked like a crybaby, a big sook, because she was too frightened to walk out the front gate by herself. ‘We can go down the river for a bit.’
‘Can’t.’
Already the back way plan was starting to take shape. The others would all go down by the showground.
‘Why not?’
‘Taking Dee to Suzie’s. Mum said I have to.’ Zilla turned around then and looked at her. ‘You can come if you like.’
‘Nah...’ Suzie’s brother was creepy. ‘It doesn’t matter...’ She still shuddered when she thought about him.
He’d wanted to play hide-and-seek and he’d found her real fast. Her flesh still crawled when she saw his arm reaching in to grab her and pull her out from behind the old cupboard. He’d tried to kiss her. She could feel his wet, fat mouth slurping up her cheek. Then, when she’d wrestled herself away and run off, she saw Suzie. She was standing behind the door. It was like she hadn’t been properly hiding at all. More like she was playing the game with her brother and Missie was the bait.
So she didn’t go to Suzie’s.
She’d gone home the long way.
It was a mystery, really, how the others knew. They must have been watching her. Laughing about her when she was climbing through the fence. That was when they let her have it. They waited, probably cacking themselves, until she’d started climbing up the sharp rise to the road and then let fly. A cow pat.
An outside dry one that broke and caught in her hair leaving wet, green trails when she grabbed at it.
Another followed. And then heavier, sharper missiles landed between her shoulders. Rocks.
They were hooting now. Yelling and yodelling and breaking free of the grass where they’d been hiding.
It was a mistake, coming this way. At least over there on the other side of the school there’d be a few stragglers wandering along. Here, no-one.
Her shoes were skidding her around like she was on marbles. It was the best way to go though. Back down the rise. Her bag jogged hard and was so heavy that it slipped and was trying to hobble her top half. And then the barbed wire grabbed her and ripped her jumper further. Her mother’d have her for that.
And her arm was bleeding. It was too much. Tears started and that was adding to it all because now she had to stop and try to wipe the snot from her nose.
And they were on her yelling and crying and thumping as they hauled her back up the way she’d come.
And then they stopped. One by one their fists stopped and they started flinching about as pebbles as hard and fast as bullets shot by.
‘Who’s doing it?’ Joannie cried.
Someone was pelting them. It was someone further up the road and Missie wasn’t lifting her head too high to see exactly who it was. Joannie Melon was rubbing at her arm and Mary was springing around like a cat on hot coals.
There was no way to see clearly what was going on. Her hands had to stay over her head unless she fancied being clonked by a rock as well.
Her books were all over the place. Five Go to Smuggler’s Cove was ripped and the town librarian wasn’t going to be too thrilled about that but, for now, she was free.
‘Go on! Get out of it!’ Jimmy Johnson stood up. He had a slingshot aimed at Joannie Melon. ‘Clear off out of it, you ugly fat sow!’
Joannie wailed. She hated being called fat and her mother had written a letter to the school when she’d been teased last year and called Dumpling. Jimmy let the shot go. It whizzed through the air and clipped neatly on her chubby leg.
‘You too, Mary Sanderson. Piss off.’
They took off. Wailing and cursing and yelling back over their shoulders all the things they were going to do once they’d got home and dobbed on him.
‘You’re dead!’ they bellowed. ‘D.E.A.D!’
When Jimmy didn’t respond they took to calling him snotface and bumhole until they were far enough away to simply turn their backs and take off.
‘You okay?’
It was Jimmy Johnson. Who sang rude songs. And swore. And never, ever got things right at school and whose dad was a drunk.
‘Yes.’ Her blouse was bubbled out and her skirt all crooked and her shoes felt bloody terrible because they were full of pebbles. But she was okay. Now.
‘You got blood all on your sleeve.’
It was the final straw. The tears that had been scrubbed away sprang up again and her nose filled up. It hurt, that arm. And her mum was going to kill her for wrecking her clothes. And she had cow shit all over her hair.
And her knees were caked with cack and her back hurt.
‘Don’t cry.’ Jimmy Johnson stood closer. ‘Look. I’ve got your bag and we can pick up them books and bits. Come on. You hold this one.’ He handed her Five Go to Smuggler’s Cove with its bunged-up cover. ‘It’s a good one, that one. Got a good picture on it.’
It was a fair bet that Jimmy hadn’t read it. Not if he read in his head like he read out loud from the classroom reader.
‘It’s okay.’ She held the book against her chest. She was glad her nose wasn’t too snotty because he was standing right in front of her and she’d never noticed how nice and green his eyes were. They had flecks of brown in them.
‘Get your bag then and we’ll bung your books in and you can get on home.’ He grinned at her. ‘You live down near the river, don’t you? In that big, old house...’
‘It doesn’t belong to me,’ Missie said. It didn’t seem important to tell anyone else that, and she’d never bothered to do so before. But Jimmy Johnson lived out near the mill, in a council house even worse than Zilla’s. ‘We just live there.’
‘Be nice, but.’
Missie said it was and before long they were wandering along checking out houses and naming kids they liked or didn’t like as they went.
They’d reached Main Street before she knew it. ‘You’ll be all right now then.’ Jimmy said ‘orright’ and Missie loved the way it sounded. He’d already turned to go back the way he’d come.
‘You want to come and have a drink at my house?’ It didn’t seem fair that he’d walked all this way and now he was heading all the way back.
‘Reckon.’ Jimmy sauntered back over. ‘Be good to have a geek inside that old place. Been past it heaps of times on me way home.’
‘I’ve never seen you.’
Jimmy grinned. ‘I’ve seen you, but.’
Her face went all warm and she knew it’d be bright pink. It reached up into the roots of her cow-patted hair and she had to run the last half-block to her front gate to get rid of the collywobbles that filled her stomach.
She’d already flung herself in the back door before she remembered what she looked like.
‘God in heaven, Miss! Look at you.’ The kettle slapped sharply onto the stove top as her mother let it go. ‘And what’s that in your hair?’
‘Yeah, Missie, what is that?’ Max rested h
is sandwich back on its plate. He cruised around the table to come closer and then stopped when he saw Jimmy Johnson standing on the porch step. ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘She got beaten up,’ Jimmy said when they all turned to look. ‘I just brung her home.’
Missie’s mum beckoned him in and then closed the door against the evening chill. ‘Sit down there, Missie, and let me have a look at that arm.’ Missie was steered to the chair closest to the kitchen sink. A Vegemite sandwich was made ready for when she got home and now it was plonked down in front of Jimmy. ‘You’re Ned Johnson’s boy, aren’t you?’
Missie did a double take. Her mother never said she knew Jimmy Johnson’s dad.
‘That’s me, orright.’
‘Well, I’m glad you were there to pick her up,’ her mother went on. ‘Look at the state of you, Missie. What on earth happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? For goodness sake, Missie. Somebody did this. Who was it?’
Her mother sat them down and put some extra biscuits out for them and then poked at the rip in Missie’s jumper. ‘How on earth am I going to fix this? She held it up. ‘It’d be easier to make you another one. You poor old thing. Just look at you.’ Her mother stopped tugging at the torn sleeve and took Missie’s arm. She turned it to get a better look at the scratch that ran the length of her forearm. ‘Lordy, what a mess. Who did you say did it?’
‘I didn’t.’
Jimmy had eaten his sandwich and taken some biscuits that were offered across the table to him. He looked at Missie and she wondered what he’d think if she dobbed.
‘Come on, Missie. They’ve really hurt you. Who was it?’
‘Just some girls.’
‘Girls?’ Her mother turned around from collecting the dish. ‘What next? Girls did this. Little vixens, if you ask me.’
‘They wouldn’t let us play netball with them,’ Missie said.
It was probably all right just to talk about why they did it so long as she didn’t say who. And now it’d be nice to be able to feel sorry for herself. She heard a weepy edge creeping into her voice.
‘I’m surprised you’d want to play with them at all if this is the way they behave! Don’t start crying now, Missie. It’s all over and done with and we can fix your arm.’ She looked at the jumper. ‘And somehow get that sorted. Weather’s warmed up enough so you probably won’t be needing it for a while anyway. And you, young man, had better skedaddle off home before it gets too dark.’ She handed Jimmy another few biscuits. ‘Thanks for bringing her home.’
Jimmy saluted them with the biscuits as he left. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said to Missie. ‘Thanks Mrs Missinger.’
Her mother closed the door and set about getting a dish and some warm water. ‘And that’ll do him for dinner if I didn’t know better,’ she muttered as she lifted Missie’s elbow. ‘His father needs horsewhipping, letting that boy run around all over the place like he does.’
Missie was surprised her mother knew so much about them.
‘His dad came in and yelled at Miss Martin and said Jimmy wasn’t going to Saleby anyway.’
‘That’d be right.’ Her mother pushed Missie’s elbow into the warm water. ‘Leave that in there while I go and get a clean towel. You nearly finished up there, Max? You’ve got piano practise...’ She paused as she stood and lifted strands of hair back from Missie’s face. ‘Lordy, you get yourself into some scrapes. It was nice of Jimmy to bring you home though, wasn’t it?’
The thought of Jimmy Johnson rescuing her warmed her face all over again. God she’d be glowing like a bloody hot coal, but it didn’t stop. Fancy Jimmy Johnson knowing where she lived...
Her mother closed the door behind her as she went and Missie heard Max’s chair scrape away from the table. She was busy watching her elbow soak itself in the water, hoping some blood might drift out and stain it so she’d get some more sympathy and maybe a bandage, so she didn’t notice him leaning around her until it was too late.
‘Serves you right,’ he said quietly and pinched her. Then he was gone.
Missie shivered.
It’d be nice to think it was from the draught of the cooler night air but she was pretty sure it wasn’t.
She took her elbow out of the warm water and switched the kitchen lights on. She turned the radio on as well. And she moved her dish so she was sitting with her back to the fire. Nothing could creep up from the fireplace. Not like they could through that door that had closed so silently.
9
SPRING
OCTOBER
The passing of winter was a relief for Oleksander also. Winter and its dark mornings were lonely as he rode out to Willet’s farm and afternoons already closing in when he returned. Now, though, the days were opening out and the ride home allowed him to occasionally catch sight of the girl from the laundry. She was most often with her friend, a girl who fancied many men but would be happy with none. Always wanting the next one.
Possibly he could have crossed the street to say hello but the boy was with them. The boy who wore that wild girl’s attention like medals flashing on his chest: did he not know it was the other way around and that it was he who was being worn? She’d smiled at him, and swung her hips just a little to let him know she’d noticed him on the road. But that boy reclaimed his property, a thumb stroked down her cheek and his arm flung loosely around her neck.
And a threat in his eyes if Oleksander dared to come closer.
The threat, Oleksander was sure, would not have been so hostile if he had not been a New Australian. He was never going to be anything else.
An ‘Eyetie’. A name usually saved for the Italian family, who had recently moved into a house on the edge of town.
He was not Eyetie. He was from Ukraine. They would never understand this. They would hear Russian and look at him with greater suspicion. If that were possible.
So he hadn’t crossed the road.
He’d seen that girl though and the boy again, down by the river and in the back of the theatre in town. And that boy, he’d bet, had a place in a barn that he could call private.
It was best he avoid them, and Oleksander took care to stay in the company of his work mates if he was drinking in the pub. This he did on Friday because it was a custom, according to Sticky Walsh. ‘See, we all get down there and then we all have a shout.’
‘A shout? For what?’
Sticky shook his head. ‘Jesus, mate, yer wanna watch what you’re saying. You’ll be making a proper bloody fool of yerself if you’re not careful.’
So he learned about a shout. And he’d learned that beer made him very sick and uncomfortable and that he was no good at shouting. He went on Fridays though and Spider Mackay let him shout first so he could go home early.
Sticky had flung his hands in the air and taken him aside for smoko to explain the custom of shouting all over again and how, if you didn’t watch out, smart bastards like Mackay’d be quick to have a go.
He sat quietly now, on the day lounge in the upstairs vestibule. He was smoking and the shadows on the wall were gentle. The day’s gusty breeze had mellowed on its journey from the west and now lifted branches with a lazy panache.
He had seen Kitty downstairs. She was working this weekend in the laundry. This he knew because he had stayed long enough in the hall to hear Marcie tell her what chores had to be done.
She was very pretty, this Kitty. And smiled at him. It would be nice to perhaps meet her down there on the river bank, or out walking. Or a picnic. He intended to have picnics and take his paints with him.
It would be nice to be able to ask her to come with him.
Perhaps, though, she is not old enough.
She might think that twenty years were too many. It was easy here to feel younger. It was possible to stand still and let the sun warm you and feel the years between boy and man slip away. His schooldays seemed not so long ago; games and songs that he’d learned flooded back and he found himself longing to kick a ball
and laugh.
There were girls then. Young. Fresh. Open-mouthed laughter.
Back then, before...
He could have had one. He could have had many.
It was better to think about Kitty. She was here. Alive.
She was beautiful and he would like to sketch her again. There was strength in her shoulders and a lovely curve to her waist. He saw the fall of her hair and imagined the drift of his pencil as he captured it on paper. Draw as a caress an old man had told him. He’d laughed about it. I will teach my students this thing. You be my first student, eh? Feel the neck of a horse, the line of the leg of that bull, the handle of that jug. It is a way of touching. Using a pencil. Making a long, sweeping line.
It had been a long time.
The breeze cooled his face and he turned his thoughts to the winter past and the sounds from beneath the stairs. She had gone now, the Kitty of his dreaming and meal sounds and smells wafted up.
He heard Missie climb the stairs. She had been hurt today. A fight with some of the girls at her school. He heard her sniff as she opened the door to her room.
She’d not be here then. Not tonight with her bandaged arm.
One more cigarette and he would go to his room. Perhaps this would be a good time to give her the cards he had made. They had sat for a while. Finished. Ready to deliver since such a long time ago. It was easy to say that a thing would be done but a little harder to make good the promise. How could he give her these cards that he’d made without someone asking questions? It was the result of stolen bridge cards. Not such a good thing to remember.