I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The red crept up to my eyebrows and I felt as hot as a desert wind in Afghanistan. I couldn’t find even one word to explain, excuse or justify. Or lie. Was this going to happen every time a crisis hit me? I looked at them horsing around and tried to smile, shrugging my shoulders as if at the PERPLEXITIES of life. But all the time I was thinking: imagine if they’d seen me just half-an-hour before, when I’d been as mute and helpless as a prop in a play.
Singo stopped chopping the air, and poured himself and Hassan a glass of water. ‘So, where do you live?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to your parents?’
Cordelia snorted. For the first time, she looked uncomfortable, which was pretty amazing considering everything that had happened. She picked at a hole in her jeans. I was looking for the right words to help her. A word.
But Hassan was studying Cordelia. ‘Sometimes even your parents can’t help you,’ he said gently, as if he knew all about it. He came and sat next to Cordelia. ‘I am Hassan and this is Singo. You are homeless?’ he asked softly.
When he put it that way, I remembered a documentary on TV about the Salvation Army, and how they were trying to help young people who were living on the streets because home wasn’t safe. I looked at our kitchen table laden with exquisite, half-finished food, the kitchen cupboards with all their clean cups and plates neatly stacked, the fridge humming away, fat and full. I felt sick with sadness. And a kind of guilt.
Cordelia looked up from her jeans. ‘Hassan – you’re from where, originally?’
‘Afghanistan.’
‘It’s a landlocked country,’ I said, ‘with deserts and mountains. And some goats,’ I finished lamely.
‘Well, I suppose there are bad guys there too, hey?’ She gave that lopsided smile again. Or crooked, perhaps.
Hassan nodded. ‘And many good, also. Like my uncle. He came to find me when there were the bombs, and helped many of us to escape.’
Cordelia shook her head. ‘Jimmy – this guy I was escaping from – he was living with us. My mother’s boyfriend.’ She snorted again, as if in disbelief. ‘It’s amazing how mothers can live for so many years and still not learn anything about people.’
The mention of mothers must have reminded Singo about his because he said, ‘If you’re living on the streets, how do you wash?’
We all stared at him.
‘I mean, there’s a lot of, like, germs out there . . .’
Cordelia nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s only been a few days for me, and I’ve been using the toilets and wash basins at the library. I’ve still got a card there, luckily, so I can take books out as well. Helps pass the time – boredom is a problem too, you wouldn’t think so, but . . .’ She trailed off, gazing at the table. ‘Boredom and hunger. Did you know that silverback gorillas in West Africa have to spend twenty out of twenty-four hours a day finding food just to survive? I read that yesterday in Into the Wild – glad I’m not a gorilla . . . Is anyone gunna finish those samosas?’
I jumped up. ‘Oh yes, I mean no, of course, you must be so hungry, eat anything you want, the chicken and rice is especially— ’
‘And if you want to . . . to, like, wash your hands before eating, the bathroom is just up the hallway,’ added Singo.
Cordelia grinned. ‘Okay, thanks.’ She hopped up, but staggered a moment, wrapping her bad foot around her other leg.
‘What happened to your foot?’ asked Singo.
Cordelia glanced at me, then shrugged. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, and she limped away up the hall.
Quickly, I went to find her a plate and a glass of juice and some cutlery. I kept my back to my friends, hoping they wouldn’t ask for more explanations. I just couldn’t face it.
She returned with lightning speed. I watched Singo trying to calculate just how thorough her hand-washing had been. In Grade 5 his mother told us that you should be able to sing the whole of ‘Happy Birthday’ during the soaping process.
I piled Cordelia’s plate with rice and chicken and spinach in caramelised onion and baked tomatoes in their skins, and we sat around the table watching her eat. It was very satisfying.
‘Delicious, mmm,’ she murmured, her mouth full. ‘Incredible.’
‘And exquisite, too, don’t you think?’ I suggested.
She nodded. ‘Boy, did I come to the right house.’ She put down her fork a moment, looking sheepish. ‘Look, I never would have normally barged in like this. I mean, I’m not a thief or anything.’ She took another forkful. ‘It’s just that I was incredibly hungry. This is SO yummy. Do you eat like this every night?’
Hassan smiled. ‘Often – my uncle is a chef. We are very lucky.’
‘You sure are.’ She ate until her plate was clean, then sat back, sighing. ‘I wish my mother would take up with a chef – now that would be good. But see, she never seems to choose the good ones. You know, reliable, trustworthy, caring kind of men. Who can cook. Nah, just the useless ones – or worse. Crooks instead of cooks.’
‘So this guy you were running from, he was a . . . a crook?’ Singo cracked his knuckles nervously.
‘Jimmy? Yeah, I think so. See, he’s only been living with us for a month, so I don’t really know much about him. He was never out of bed in the mornings when Mum left for work and I left for school— ’ ‘You’re still at school?’
‘I was – I didn’t finish this last term of Year 11. Oh well, I’m certainly not going on to Year 12 now, am I? Anyway, Jimmy didn’t seem to do anything during the day, and then went out at night. He was nice to me, sort of, when Mum was around, but otherwise he didn’t bother. And then this thing happened . . .’
‘What thing?’ we all asked.
‘Well, I came home early from school last week – I had free periods all afternoon, and I wanted to catch up on an essay about this Roman emperor, Caligula, who made his horse a senator.’
‘How would you spell that?’ I asked, thinking aloud. It was such an unusual name. ‘With a K or a C?’
‘Oh shut up, Lou,’ said Singo.
But Cordelia said, ‘It’s Latin, so there’s no K. Not many people know that.’
‘Well, it probably wasn’t the most important thing about the guy,’ said Singo, looking at me SARDONICALLY.
‘Anyway, I came home and Jimmy was there in Mum’s room, going through her drawers. He had everything out on the bed: scarves, stockings, underwear – and a rolled-up wad of cash she keeps for emergencies. He looked startled when he saw me and quick as a flash, he pocketed the cash. I was so angry. He yelled that it was none of my business what he was doing, that Mum and he shared everything, and I was a nosy little . . . whatever. So I said, Well then, you won’t mind my telling Mum that you’ve taken her secret stash. He came up really close to me, so I could smell his rank wino breath, and he grabbed my shoulder, yanking it back. See, I’ve still got the bruise. He said, you keep your mouth shut or you won’t know what hit you, then he flung out of the house and took off in his blue van.’
‘But you told your mum?’ asked Singo. ‘And she threw him out?’
Cordelia looked away. She picked at her jeans again. ‘No.’ Her voice was so soft, you could barely hear her. ‘I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. She said there were things I didn’t understand, that Jimmy was all right, he just needed a woman to understand him, help him get back on his feet, that he’d never had anyone who’d been there for him, I didn’t know him like she did, blah blah . . . I guess I just couldn’t find the right words to . . .’
There was silence. Hassan and Singo and I exchanged a quick glance.
‘That’s awful,’ murmured Singo. ‘Did she see your bruise?’
Cordelia shrugged. ‘No. I just sort of, I don’t know, there didn’t seem to be a point to anything after that.’
We all looked at our laps.
‘And so you couldn’t stay there, at home, in that situation,’ Hassan finished for her.
‘But that was last week!’ I b
lurted. ‘What have you been doing since then?’
‘Oh, well, you know, hanging out in the library, sleeping at a friend’s, a bus shelter, the bush once but . . . but then tonight, I saw Jimmy again. See, I went to that café on Nimbin Street, you know the one? Near the theatre, next to the pub where Jimmy drinks. I knew it might be dangerous but every Friday night there’s a soup kitchen out front – you know, free meals for the homeless. They cook up food not used during the week, and . . . it’s really good.’
‘Oh, I’ve seen it,’ Hassan said. ‘They’ve got those long benches set up on the lawn, and people serving from big pots. My uncle wanted to begin something like this at his restaurant— ’
‘Yeah, once I was walking past and it smelled so good I was gunna line up too!’ Singo gave a crack of laughter then went quiet when Hassan frowned at him.
‘So anyway, I rocked up there,’ Cordelia went on, ‘and was waiting my turn – there was quite a crowd – when I spied Jimmy dashing out of the pub, clutching a big square sort of briefcase. He must have stolen it – it sure didn’t belong to him – and he made straight for the soup kitchen, trying to lose himself among all the people I guess. He pushed past a little old woman carrying a tureen and made her drop it! Steaming soup went all down her apron, dripping all over the bench – what a mess!’ Cordelia suddenly grinned.
‘What’s funny about that?’ I said.
‘It’s just that – this woman, she was so plucky, and you could tell she had bad knees, but she hobbled after Jimmy, screaming at him, ‘You think you can treat your elders like that? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’ll have the Guard onto you, why, I’ll tell the Emperor! Look at my toga, it’s all splattered with sauce!’
Hassan and Singo fell about laughing at Cordelia’s transformation. The reedy voice – tremulous, outraged, familiar.
I blinked. ‘Did you say toga?’
‘Yeah, from the ancient Romans, you know? She must be away with the fairies, but she’s got guts! Anyway, with all that yelling Jimmy turned and spotted me, so I ran. He called after me, chased me. I guess he didn’t want any witnesses with those stolen goods of his. So I just ran . . . and hid here.’
I fiddled with a jagged end of my nail. I tried to tear it off, but it hurt. My mind was so scrambled – thoughts bashing about like bats in a cave. I wondered if Dad had driven past the soup kitchen . . . Wouldn’t he be home soon, and what would he say about a burglar sitting in our kitchen?
‘You must be very tired after all your . . . dangers,’ Hassan said quietly. ‘You need somewhere to stay tonight. You could stay here.’ He looked at me enquiringly, his forehead wiggling up and down.
I glanced at Singo. Very, very slightly he was shaking his head. He looked concerned, anxious, frightened, and guilty. Cordelia was eyeing the last piece of chicken.
My heart rate CATAPULTED to new heights. Like Singo, I felt concerned, anxious, frightened, and guilty. On the one hand, I was thinking: Dad just wouldn’t understand the situation the way Hassan did. Even Singo, who’d heard the whole story and knew Cordelia’s name, which was so old-fashioned and un-burglar-like, was wary as hell. And all Dad’s over-protective, Jericho-dropkick-five-star-frog-splash-look-after-your-children-first feelings would overcome him.
We had to help Cordelia, but how? As soon as the question formed, the awful blankness descended . . .
‘Er . . .’ I said. ‘But . . .’ My voice cracked.
Everyone looked up, waiting for me. Nothing came.
Then Hassan marched into the silence like a rescuing army. ‘I know!’ He spread his hands on the table and went still with seriousness. ‘I know you want Cordelia to stay here,’ he said to me, ‘but you’re worried about Monty— ’
I nodded madly, full of gratitude to wise old Hassan, who had become my interpreter now that I was struck down with muteness.
‘Who’s Monty?’ asked Cordelia, taking another bite.
‘Lou’s dad,’ said Singo.
‘Oh no, I don’t want any more dads interfering in this, telling me what to do,’ Cordelia said in a rush. ‘No offence, Lou. It’s just that, you know, a parent would take me straight back there and I can’t, I just can’t— ’ ‘No, that’s right,’ said Hassan, tapping out a tune on the table with his fingers, as he often does when he’s excited. ‘So this is my idea. Cordelia could stay here – but in secret.’
‘What?’ cried Singo. ‘How do you figure that? She’s not a pet mouse!’
‘No, she could be a guest – and stay in our tent!’ Hassan sprang up to look through the window at it. ‘See? It’s all set up, it’s big enough, there is plenty of room and we could bring out cushions and sleeping bags, make it very comfortable . . .’
There was silence for a moment while we all looked at him as if he was Solomon himself, ancient king of the Jews, brilliant at solving everyone’s problems.
Finally, Singo said, ‘Cool.’ In a different, grown-up tone he added, ‘And really, it’s better if you’re not staying inside, Cordelia, because of all those parental problems you mentioned.’ He shifted around in his chair. ‘So, like, I could run home and get my air mattress.’ He leapt up.
‘And we’ll bring food and drink, of course,’ said Hassan, gesturing at the table still laden with leftovers.
‘And you can wash your hands and shower and stuff when Monty’s at work.’ Singo swung round to me. ‘Your dad doesn’t have to know – no one else has to know, just us three, right, Lou?’
I looked out at the garden, trying to imagine it all, trying to find the right words.
‘You could have my books so you don’t get bored,’ I ventured, finding a shadow of my voice. ‘I mean, I’ve got plenty of books I’m not using right now,’ I added stupidly.
Cordelia looked around the table at us. Her face reddened with the effort of stopping the quiver of her bottom lip.
‘Maybe just for tonight then,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you.’
Hassan squeezed her shoulder. But she was looking at me. I don’t know why, when everything inside me had gone so small, as small as her hurt-voice, as dark and disappointing as my cowardice in the kitchen when the bad man was outside.
8
THE LIE
When I came back into the kitchen with pillows for the tent, Singo was practically falling off his chair with laughter, and Hassan was slapping his knee like an old-timer in a hillbilly movie. Cordelia was performing a stand-up comedy act.
‘You, boy.’ She pointed imperiously. ‘Find another toga for me! Look at this one, all splattered with gladiator blood. How can I cook for the Emperor in this state?’
In a nanosecond she could change her identity, her body language, the shape of her mouth, everything. She made you believe an Ancient Roman cook had somehow managed to get stranded between centuries, a natural accident of the universe that had occurred, amazingly, in your very own kitchen . . .
‘Agnes!’ I remembered, leaping up. ‘I’ve got to ring Dad!’
As I ran to the phone, I was BESIEGED by an image of Doreen speeding along in her old Ford, her hair frizzing out in fright. Dad would be driving beside her singing ‘The Long and Winding Road’, which he did whenever he wanted you to think everything would turn out all right but was secretly convinced it wouldn’t.
‘Hullo, Dad?’ I yelled into the phone, trying to make myself heard above a sea of music and voices.
‘Lou, is that you?’ He laughed. ‘Ha, that rhymes, I should write a song! What’s up?’
‘What do you mean, what’s up? Listen, I’m ringing to tell you where Agnes is. She’ll be at the soup kitchen, you know, the one set up outside that restaurant—’
‘Yes, that’s right. We found her there, didn’t want to come away until she’d washed and dried the last pot, which was hot! Hey, that rhymes. Now she’s tucked up in bed all safe and sound.’
‘Why aren’t you home then? Dad, are you okay? It’s pretty late. What’s that music in the background, why are you rhyming, where are you?’ I shook
myself – I sounded like a worried dad, and he was the teenager.
But Dad didn’t notice. ‘Hear that song? The Beatles – Doreen has a brilliant record collection, you know, the real deal, vinyl! All my favourites.’
‘Has she got ‘The Long and Winding Road?’ ’
‘And we’re having a glass of champagne to celebrate finding Agnes. Doreen says that would make a good title for a song, ‘Finding Agnes’. Pity it’s not a more modern name, like . . . Doreen makes up songs, plays the guitar, so tal— ’
‘So when are you coming home?’ Without warning, in the middle of my sentence, my voice squealed and dropped, a harsh ugly sound like a French horn playing a wrong note.
‘Hey, look at the time, hadn’t realised it was so late. You’re all right, are you? Your friends staying the night in the tent?’
‘Yes, yes, well maybe not in the . . . anyway, yes.’ I cleared my throat, hoping there was only a frog in it rather than something more SINISTER.
‘Okay, I’ll be home soon. Stay well, or give me a bell, ha!’ And he put down the phone.
I turned around, probably still looking a little stunned. Hassan called out, ‘Okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I croaked. ‘They’ve found Agnes. Dad will be back soon.’ Or whoever it was that Dad had transformed into . . .
Cordelia went silent in the middle of a sentence. She looked at the pillows I’d left on the kitchen chair. ‘They look comfy,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, Lou. I guess I’d better make my retreat.’
We got busy then, fetching Singo’s mattress and my sleeping bag and a bottle of water for the night and Aeroguard – tropical strength – and sheets just in case the sleeping bag was too hot, which it probably would be, and Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, which astoundingly Cordelia had never read. After we’d all trooped out with her, carrying my extra-heavy-duty torch, and we’d watched her laying out the mattress and given her tips on where to wee so as to avoid stepping into the gossamer clutches of the St Andrew’s Cross spider that always spun its web between the lemon tree and the hibiscus no matter how many times we destroyed it, we said goodnight and scarpered back into the house.
Louis Beside Himself Page 6