Letters From the Inside

by John Marsden

  5. One of the slags (that’s us) told me the reason they use a post-office box is so people won’t get embarrassed. Like, if your grey-haired grannie goes into her country post office with a letter addressed to her dear granddaughter in Garrett, or if she gets a letter with Garrett written on the back of the envelope, then everyone’ll know. So it all goes through a box number.

  6. We can watch TV for an hour in the afternoon, after school lessons; an hour after tea; and an hour during the day at weekends. But it’s only black and white. No video, although they keep promising. (It doesn’t take long in here to get jacked-off with promises.) And there are the worst fights over what to watch. Some shows everyone agrees on, but not many. Half the time the hack tells you what it’s going to be, just to stop the fights.

  Well, this is about my longest letter ever. Oh yeah, one last thing: tell your brother to stay out of Ruxton if he knows what’s good for him. That’s Vaseline City in there, believe me. KY Country. On the other hand, maybe you’d think he deserved it.

  OK, gotta go. See you.

  Tracey

  September 17

  Dear Trace,

  Thanks for the letter. It was good. You know, last night I was down the park with Anonymous Dog, chasing him around and throwing sticks and being stupid, and in the middle of it all I tried to imagine what you’d be doing at that exact time (it was 5.25) and what that place would look like and everything. I don’t know why — I suppose it was the contrast between the park and Garrett. It was hard to imagine but.

  It’s funny, before, I used to envy you so much. You sounded like you had it all — money, pets, a horse, great holidays, wonderful boyfriends, a family who cared. Guess it was too good to be true. Maybe no-one has it all. None of it was true, was it? Reading back, it’s like those parts of your letters seem dead. Is the reason you wrote all that because that’s the way you’d like it to be? What’s the truth about your family? The exact opposite? When you said you never got any letters, I wondered. Are you allowed to have visitors? Do you get any? Apart from basketballers that is.

  Now when I write about the problems of my life, they seem trivial. Although Steve’s the only big one, and I guess he’s not trivial.

  I was talking to Mum in the kitchen last night. She was having a coffee and doing the crossword — those cryptic ones, that make no sense to me. I was asking her about friends and all that. I asked her whether her friends had ever given her the palm at school, whether there’d been much back-stabbing. See, Rebecca’s really dark with me lately. And Mum was saying how it wasn’t that complicated when she was at school. She said everyone was friendly and because it was a small school and in the country, everyone had to get on or there’d be no-one to talk to. She said life was simple — they’d go for a swim or sit round in the milk bar after school. Going to the movies was a real rage. And she was saying how it didn’t seem like a simple life to them then, but when she compares it to the way things are now, she realizes it was.

  Maybe when we’re 45 we’ll look back on these times and think it was all simple. Doubt it but. Drugs, violence, porn, AIDS, ozone layers — I can’t handle it. You know what Paul Bazzani asked in Science today: ‘Sir, can you get AIDS from killing a mozzie and eating it?’ Fair dinkum, he’s such a drop-kick. But you gotta laugh.

  Hey, speaking of porn, there’s a movie tonight called Reform School Girls, at about midnight. Have you ever seen it? It sounds like a bit of a porn effort. Can’t imagine it’s much like real life in Garrett. Which reminds me: when do you get out of there? And my last question for this letter — when’s your birthday? Hope I haven’t missed it.

  Time I went to bed. Bye for now. Take care, Trace — heaps of it.

  Love,

  Mandy

  PS: Do you follow the same terms as us? We finish Friday. But we’re not going anywhere.

  Sep 18

  Dear Mandy,

  Two days of school to go — yes, we do have the same holidays as you guys. I’m spending these holidays in Bali with my kind, rich parents and my nice brother and sister. Oh yeah, and my lover Casey — the one who looks like Jim Morrison. But don’t worry, I’ll bring you back some pressies — a colour TV, a CD player, French perfume, clothes — just a few bits and pieces paid for out of my pocket money. . .

  You know what I’d like right now? A Supreme Pizza, family size, with chewy cheese, and heaps of salami and tomato and anchovies and mushrooms. And covered with olives. Have you seen that ad on TV where the guys are marooned in a lifeboat, and they take it in turns to describe the meal they’d like if they could choose? We go crazy when that comes on. Everyone yells and chucks stuff at the TV.

  You get obsessed with food here. It becomes the most important thing in your life. Oh, I dunno, I guess sex rates high too. But food! I’d give a year of my life for a pizza or a quarter-pounder or a box of Darrell Leas. The thing is, you get plenty of food here, but it’s muck. Tonight was typical: sausages and three vegetables. But the sausages were those big greasy ones and the vegetables were mushy and watery. There’s always bread, and jam if you’re fast enough, and milk, so you pig out on those. And then you get fat and your skin gets worse and worse. There are people in here with faces where you could play join the dots.

  Suppose I’d better keep answering your questions. You ask more bloody questions than a shrink. My birthday was 6 July. I was 16. You missed it but don’t worry, I got heaps of presents — a new horse, pair of skis, my own keycard, no limit. My father’s giving me a BMW when I turn 18. . .

  Now do you see how I keep from going mad in here?

  Ah, I hate it, I hate it, I fucking hate it. I can’t write anymore.

  September 24

  Dear Trace,

  Your letter came today — third day of the holidays. You sounded pretty desperate. I hope you’re OK. Keep writing, whatever you do. God, I wish I could help in some way — I feel so helpless. Acacia Park seems a long way from Garrett. And I don’t mean in kilometres, although it’s that too.

  I don’t know what you did to get put in there but I can’t believe it was anything that bad. I think you just must have got a few bad breaks. I can’t believe you’re a bad person — I feel I know you too well by now.

  Well, what next? You said you wanted me to write about my ‘normal’ life, so guess I better do that. But if you want it, you’ve got to take it all. I’m not going to leave out the dark side or the bad times just because you want to believe real life’s happy and peaceful. It ain’t. Here in the suburbs . . . there’s plenty of ugly moments. Anyway, you must know that. Where did you live before you got sent to Garrett?

  Still, things are good at the moment. Dad got me a couple of days’ work at the hospital, starting tomorrow, to replace someone who’s hurt her ankle. I was meant to be doing work experience these holidays anyway, and I hadn’t organized anything, so this is a good way out. And money! Beautiful money! Hope the lady breaks her other ankle and takes a few weeks off. No, not really. But I’m looking forward to it.

  Cheryl’s coming round in a minute, so this’ll be a short letter, by my standards. We’re going to a friend’s place. I’m doing a bit of a number with this guy called Adam Tisdall, in Year 12. And I’ve got the love bites to prove it. Someone told me to put toothpaste on them, but I don’t know which is worse — walking round with love bites on your neck, or walking round with big gobs of toothpaste. Anyway, Cheryl’s with a mate of Adam’s, called Justin Smith, who did Year 12 last year — now he’s doing a sheet metal apprenticeship. They’re both good guys — they’re so funny — you’re wetting yourself when you’re with them. Only because they’re funny, mind you.

  Just realized what the time was. I have to go. It seems unfair that I’m off to have a good time when you can’t — and like I said, I wish I could say or do something that’d pick you up while you’re feeling bad. Hope by the time you get this things have improved. But I know time doesn’t fix everything — and neither do words.

  See you —

/>   Love,

  Mandy

  Sep 26

  Dear Mandy,

  I don’t think there’s any point in keeping this going. It’s so fake. You think I’m a nice person who’s had a few bad breaks, huh? Well, OK, keep thinking that if you want, it’s no skin off my nose. You talk about the dark side of your life — you don’t know what dark is. This is a hole and I’m the biggest bitch in it. If you only knew. You’re the one person I’m — I don’t know what the word is — soft with. That’s because you’re not in here. If you were in here, you’d see me like I am, and if you didn’t see me you’d hear about me.

  I’m not whingeing. I deserved what I got, maybe more. But I’m sick of pretending to you. And I’m scared I’m getting softer, the more I write to you. I can’t afford that. I’m buried in here and the only thing that matters to me is being King Dick. Which I am. And loving it. So, screw you.

  T.

  October 1

  Tracey, don’t write that kind of crap to me. I’m not taking it from you. The truth is, you haven’t been faking at all. You’ve just been letting your good side come out. And you’re scared that people will think you’re weak, because of it. Well I’ve got news for you. You can’t get rid of it, because it’s there, it’s part of you, and it’s going to keep coming out, no matter how much you try to stop it. Just like a zit. So stop fighting it. And I’ve got another piece of news for you. I’m going to keep writing to you, no matter what. Even if you don’t answer. I’ll just keep writing, like I did before. Because you invited me into your life, and you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not. So screw you.

  Now I’m going to write about my life and my ‘normal’ boring old family and friends, and you can sit there and read it. And don’t you dare put this letter down. OK. Where do I start? Item 1: I worked three days at the hospital, made $261, $208 after deductions, but I’ll get a lot of that back. I had a great time but I sure was tired. I did all kinds of jobs, from mopping up blood and vomit, to feeding little old men with no teeth. But it was cool fun. One old guy, must have been about ninety, kept trying to crack onto me, wanting my phone number and everything. And I met Paul Strazzera, who was in there for a knee reconstruction and I got his autograph. He was so nice! And I learnt how to operate a switchboard (I made friends with a girl working there). I had a rad time!

  Item 2: Adam Tisdall continues to be item no. 1 with me. I saw him every day when I was working at the hospital, and I’m seeing him again tomorrow, and we’re going to some nightclub next weekend (my parents don’t know yet, but).

  Item 3: The dog just broke one of Mum’s favourite plates — he jumped against the table, trying to catch a fly, so his life expectancy’s now been cut by fifty per cent.

  Item 4: Steve was actually nice to me today — he bought me Aphrodite’s first album, Anodyne Necklace, because he saw it on special at Tozers’, and he knew I wanted it. I just about passed out.

  So that’s the state of my life right now. What you read is what you get. Kindly write back.

  Yours faithfully (you better believe it),

  Mandy

  Oct 3

  Mandy, something fantastic’s happened. It’s so good I’m pinching myself. I can’t even write it down in case it goes away. I’ll write to you tomorrow.

  Love,

  Tracey

  PS: Thanks for the letter.

  Oct 5

  Dear Mandy,

  Well, you better keep all our letters kiddo, and get ready to sell them for a fortune in a few years ’cos I’m gonna be famous! (And not like I was before, either.) You remember that essay? ‘Keep on Goin’ till it all stops Flowin’?’ Well, our English tutor, Mrs McKinnon, put it in a competition, like she said she would. And it won! She told me Wednesday, but I wouldn’t believe it till the letter came today. You get $500 (not that that’s much good to me in here), and a set of books (not much good either) and the best of all, the story gets published in a book that’s coming out next year. Can you believe it? I can’t. And what I like is they don’t know I’m in Garrett — Mrs McKinnon used the post-office box — so it’s no charity deal. They would have thought I was just anyone.

  So, guess I’d better let you read it now, after all that. Here goes:

  KEEP ON GOIN’TILL IT ALL STOPS FLOWIN’

  ‘Where are we today, Nanna?’ I asked.

  She looked at me with her tired, confused eyes. ‘Don’t be silly Jan,’ she said, ‘And don’t you go running off. I’ve got a lot of shopping to do, and I want to catch the four o’clock bus. You can help carry the bags.’

  The only trouble was, we weren’t at the shops and my name isn’t Jan. Jan was my aunt, and she died years ago.

  I visited Nanna every day and sat by her bed for hours, talking to her. I don’t think she understood much of it. One minute, according to her, we were watching TV at home; the next minute she’d be getting me ready for school (only she thought I was my mother); then a bit later we’d be at next door’s having coffee.

  Nanna wasn’t really in any of these places. She was in hospital. She’d been knocked over by a kid on a bike and had broken her hip. She’d had an operation, but when she woke up it was like her mind had gone away. Every day was the same: she never seemed to improve.

  One afternoon I was sitting there when the doctor came to look at her. He talked to me while he was doing it.

  ‘She could go on like this for a long time,’ he said. ‘It’s like everything’s gone from her, but her body’s still alive. Her heart’s beating on. The machine’s running but the factory’s closed.’

  I thought it was cruel of him to talk about Nanna like that in front of her, but I guess she didn’t understand.

  When Nanna stopped eating, I started making deals with God. ‘If you get her to eat again, I’ll give up smoking,’ I said. The next day I checked with the nurse when I got there.

  ‘Yes, she’s been a good girl today’ she said. ‘She just had a sandwich and a cup of soup.’

  So I quit smoking.

  A few nights later I was riding home on the bus, after seeing Nanna. She’d been hopeless — talking to her own reflection in the mirror, raving about men trying to pick her up. I don’t think she even knew I was in the room. It was depressing. So I made another deal. ‘If you let her recognize me then I’ll stop jigging school.’

  That was Friday. On Sunday I’d been in there about half an hour when suddenly she opened her eyes and said, in her normal clear voice: ‘Hello Tracey honey, how long have you been here?’

  ‘Only a few minutes,’ I said. ‘You were asleep.’

  We talked for about ten minutes before she dozed off. She knew where she was, she knew what had happened to her, she was asking about everyone and how they were going. The only time she got confused was when she thought Poppa was still alive.

  Round about this time of my life I’d been getting involved with a guy called Blue, and his mates. They didn’t have a very good reputation, and that’s putting it mildly. They were a lot older than me and they all had bikes, big ones. They were a gang I guess. So there was a lot of pressure on me to keep away from them — I had counsellors, teachers, even friends, telling me not to get involved.

  So I made my final deal with God.

  ‘Make Nanna get better and I’ll drop Blue.’

  Nanna died five days later, while I was holding her hand. The same doctor was there when it happened. ‘Everything stops eventually’ he said. ‘There’s no need to cry.’

  I wasn’t crying. Blue and his mates were heading north next day. I went with them, riding on the back of Blue’s BM. We had a lot of laughs.

  Well, that’s it. Pretty crappy hey?

  See you

  Love,

  Trace

  PS: This is the only thing I’ve ever won. Funny I had to come in here to win something.

  October 8

  Trace, what’s happened? Don’t do this to me! Write back IMMEDIATELY, OK? God, I hope it’s something really good. Your not
e drove me crazy! There’d better be something in the mail tomorrow! Gotta rush. Love, M.

  October 10

  Dear Trace,

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Could you hear me screaming, even from inside A Block? You must have! I was more excited than if I’d won it myself! But seriously, you must have known you’d win. The story was so fantastic, it couldn’t have lost. It made me cry — you sure can write.

  When does this book come out exactly? I can’t wait. I’ll buy heaps of copies and give them to everyone and say: ‘I know this person! I know her! Someone famous!’ Hope it’s a paperback, so I can afford it.

  How come the money’s no good to you in Garrett? Aren’t you allowed any money? God, they must be strict.

  I’m not game to ask how much of the story’s true. Well, I am game. How much of the story’s true? But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want. Actually you’re pretty good at not answering things you don’t want to — I’ve asked about your family before and so far you’ve managed to tell me exactly zero.

  Wish I had anything exciting to tell you, but life’s dull here. I sure haven’t won anything. This is the third day back. Do you realize well be in Year 11 after this term? I feel like I’ve only just started high school. They say the jump from Year 10 to Year 11 is bigger than the jump from 11 to 12. Well, we’ll soon find out.

  I’m still with Adam but Cheryl’s having a rocky time with Justin. Rebecca’s got glandular, not badly, but she’s not back yet. I’m going to Mai Huynh’s tonight to help with her English. Pity you aren’t here — you could take over the teaching. This’ll be the first time I’ve met her parents — it’ll be interesting.