Esther goes to school in Wagga. She is a student in a special class. Interestingly, Esther enjoys reading. Her favourite books are about birds, Australian birds. Basic maths is a problem. And understanding left from right is also challenging. Mind you, Aunt Nell has the same difficulty. Aunt never knows which arm is left or which is right. Given they both live in the same house, I can’t help but think this is why Esther finds it so hard trying to understand directions. If Aunt was teaching me I reckon my sense of direction would be buggered too.
And let me tell you, Esther may come across doughy, a little half baked in the head, but she’s not. I agree, watching her from the outside, some things don’t appear to compute. On the inside, her mind is working ten to the dozen, sifting, comparing and analysing. It could take a couple of hours, sometimes even a day, and then all of a sudden out it will come. Her response or observation, regardless of being days late, is always decisive and inspirational. She has a gift, but not many get to see it.
Before you go mouthing off, saying how cruel we are to call Esther special, I will have you know that Esther thought of the name herself. She insisted we call her that when she was only four. She said it made her chest feel warm.
‘Fuzzy?’
‘Yeah, cus.’
‘I will always be Special Girl Esther.’
‘Are you OK with that?’ I say looking up.
‘I know I’m special, Fuzzy.’
‘I know you are too, cus.’
‘My name … is a ripe mango from a tree, juicy and sweet … and … it’s a perfect feather I find when walkin’ with Nan … and … it smells of rain and good dirt and Aunt Tilly’s pumpkin scones just out of the oven. Can’t dog on my name, Fuzzy … it’s too strong, got big muscles.’
‘Good for you, Esther. But if ever I hear someone tryin’ to dog on you, I’ll have to bust the buggers.’
‘Na, Fuzzy, they’s just needs growin’ up, still young in the head they are. Just needs growin’ up, that’s all.’
Sweet Words Hurt
Dad rang last night. He said he hoped to be back down in Laurie for a couple of months. Not only will he be here to celebrate Christmas, Dad will also stay on for my birthday in early February. It’s good news because last weekend my hockey team was thrown out of the finals. We played really well too. I didn’t get any goals but I set up a couple. Sadly it wasn’t enough, bloody Batlow Rebels came through in the last five minutes with the winning goal. Totally pissed off we all are, we could have taken them on and walked away with the premiership. But, as you know, no use moaning. It will be great having Dad around.
Today, Nan and Pop drove across to Uranquinty for catch up with old Cousin Nessie, Aunt Nell and Special Girl Esther. They left early so they could have a good full day visiting. I have an assignment to write on global warming. I left it to the last minute so I’m here on my own. It’s due in the morning. Actually, I don’t really think you could say I am on my own, because Yar keeps popping in every few hours just to make sure everything is OK. Today he has his brother’s old army pants on, a bright purple t-shirt with ‘bite me’ on the front in bright pink writing, a string of bottle tops around his neck, hair parted to the side and a pair of Blundstones painted lime green. He had a look over my work earlier and was happy with the structure and language I used. Bruce was happy also.
I look outside the kitchen window and see vibrant reds, oranges and yellows, a lovely sunset. When the sky delivers a show like this I can’t help but feel loved and part of a bigger picture.
No need to organise dinner because Nan and Pop are bringing home takeaway. An extravagance they don’t normally support, but given I am here working they thought it would be a nice treat. By my calculations they won’t be home for another couple of hours.
I hear a car slowing and then the motor shut down. It’s not Pop’s car, this one is more like a V8. My dad taught me the difference in sounds when I was about eleven. Probably someone to see the neighbours. It’s no one for us as Nan and Pop have had this trip organised for over a month. I continue writing about Antarctica.
There are footsteps coming up our front steps, then a confident knock. If I was to keep still and not make any noise, would the person go away? Probably not the proper thing to do, so I push my books back and go to the door. Through the screen I see it’s Mr Ridgeway holding a couple of books. I stop. Do I let him in? Stop being stupid, girl, everything is fine, it’s just your head playing silly buggers.
‘Hello, Mr Ridgeway,’ I say unlocking the door.
‘Hi Fuzzy, how are you?’ He is wearing a crisp blue pin-striped shirt, moleskins and polished riding boots.
‘I’m fine, just doing some studying.’ I’m standing in the doorway and thinking how RM Williams would have made a small fortune off Mr Ridgeway over the years.
‘Study, I believe, is a necessary evil. We don’t like it but it is needed.’ He smiles.
‘Yeah I know.’ Puss shoots out past us, obviously in a hurry.
‘I spoke to your Nan and Pop only yesterday while you were at school. They were going across to Uranquinty to see relatives. You had work to do apparently? Anyway, I have a couple of books here for Pop.’ He hands the books to me and I have a quick look at the covers, not really interested but trying to be polite. ‘They’re all about the First Fleet, a good read for Pop.’
He takes his Akubra off and holds it to his side, a gesture I have seen him make many times before.
‘Oh Pop will love these. Thanks, Mr Ridgeway.’
He nods in agreement while backing down one step. I watch as he puts his hat on, ready to leave.
‘Tell Pop I’ll visit in a few days,’ he says, turning and walking down the steps to the path.
I balance the books in my hand. One almost falls to the floor. A bookmark has broken free and landed on my bare foot. It’s a colourful card from the Anglican Church and written on both sides is the message: ‘Acts of kindness conquer.’ I feel a faint cramp in my right calf, and wiggle my toes.
I see Mr Ridgeway pause to open the gate before I stumble over the words.
‘I … I am just … um. I’m about ready for a break. Would you … like to come through for a cuppa, Mr Ridgeway?’
He stops and turns, smiling, happy with my invitation. ‘Yes, Fuzzy, I would love to have a cuppa with you. What a lovely thought.’
The cramp has gone. We walk towards the kitchen. I begin to feel stupid for thinking there may have been any uncomfortable vibe from Mr Ridgeway in the past. A break will be good.
‘What a gem you are, Fuzzy, it’s just what the doctor ordered.’
While catching up with a bit of town gossip I make a pot of tea. I organise cups and saucers, cake, plates, spoons, milk and sugar. Nan would be proud; everything is laid out as it should be. I sit down at the table directly across from Mr Ridgeway and turn the pot, two turns to the right and one to the left. I pour us both a cup of tea, hot and strong.
‘So, young lady, how are things going here for you?’
I look up from pouring the tea, the question feels a little out of the ordinary. I smile then say, ‘What do you mean, Mr Ridgeway?’
‘I was just wondering how you were faring living here with your Nan and Pop, that’s all?’ He crosses his legs and takes a sip of tea.
‘We get on really well, never a dull moment … I’ve been living here all of my life, Mr Ridgeway, I don’t know anything different.’ I smile again.
‘Yes it seems to be a lovely environment for you, Fuzzy.’ He places his cup back on its saucer. He looks over at me, this time with more concentration.
‘You are a young woman now. You have grown to be a lot like your mother, Fuzzy … I often think of her, you know.’
‘Mum, my mum, you knew her?’ I lean into the conversation by shifting in my seat.
‘Oh yes, I knew her, no doubt about it, your facial features are much the same.’ He looks down to his cup, licks his lips and swallows slowly.
‘True … that’s great, Mr Rid
geway,’ I say, not certain if I should be feeling proud. ‘You know, people say my mum was a really lovely person both inside and out.’
Mr Ridgeway nods in agreement before he has another sip of tea then rubs his chin with his right hand.
‘You know, Fuzzy, I knew your mother a lot better than what you think. On many occasions I was able to offer a little support.’
‘What do you mean?’ I have never heard this story. Nan or Pop never put Mr Ridgeway or Mum in the same sentence together before, not ever.
The hairs on my arm stand to attention. I rub but they continue to stand. The kitchen is cooler. I am not feeling very confident.
‘She needed help, Fuzzy.’ Mr Ridgeway is looking at his hands. ‘Your lovely mother needed a little extra money to see her through and thankfully I was in a position to provide.’ He looks up at me, I am unsure if he is smiling. Could it be a smirk? ‘You know, Fuzzy, if ever you need help I am always here.’
I gulp my tea. It is hot. I don’t know why everything feels so uncomfortable.
‘Thanks, Mr Ridgeway … but I don’t think that will be a problem. Nan, Pop and Dad, they look after me.’
Mr Ridgeway takes a long sip from his cup then brushes his clothes down. His breathing is calm and easy. Slowly he looks around the room. I can’t be certain but it seems he stared a second longer at the doorway. Making certain we are alone? He stands up tall, brushing back his hair. He looks into my eyes, through my eyes.
‘Fuzzy, let me tell you something,’ his voice is composed but calculated, ‘you probably don’t want to hear it but your so-called mother was nothing … but a little … black … slut.’
From my left shoulder a burst of pain shoots straight across to my right side. I sit at the table stunned to silence, my breathing is fast, my neck and chest cold. My ears burn. I am not shaking but my hands are ice.
‘Your mother, her mother, all of you nigger bitches are a drain on society. Good for only one thing. You will open your legs to anyone eager to give you a little financial backing.’ Hateful, deliberate, forceful, his voice goes on and on. I try to shut him out of my head but I can’t.
‘A good granddaughter would find a job and help her Nan and Pop with the running of the house. But, let’s face it, princess, who’d employ a girl nigger from a drugged-up prostitute mother? Many men know the joy of brown sugar, it’s been a commodity shared throughout the world for hundreds of years. It doesn’t only relate to the sugar cane. It’s in your blood, love, brown flesh … warm and sweet.’
I don’t say a thing. I hear his words and his aftershave floats around me.
‘You’re still untouched, aren’t you? You haven’t been broken … I can tell.’ He swallows and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. His voice softens. ‘Listen, Fuzzy, you’re an intelligent girl. I’m willing to pay good money. Both of us can be winners here.’
I can see him talking but it feels like I am watching this whole pitiful scene through a long congested tunnel.
‘And depending on your needs our arrangement can earn enough to even send Nan and Pop off on a holiday over to the Islands.
‘Your mother was everything I knew she would be, a little angry to start with but oh … so … sweet once she learnt how to play the game. Your mother agreed to the arrangement; I found myself a very loyal playmate and she made enough to support her family.’
I’m still in the tunnel, looking out with eyes that don’t seem to be mine, and ears that act like I don’t even own them. All I can feel and hear is my breath … It’s getting faster and shallow, hardly reaching my lungs. I can’t control it. I am cold.
Mr Ridgeway steps towards me. He looks at my chest then back up to my face. I hate the way he looks over me, like I am wearing nothing, like he can see all of me. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple … down under his jaw.
‘What will it be, Fuzzy? You invite me in yet you forget the cardinal rule, a little “brown sugar” with my tea?’
He swallows and licks his thin lips. ‘I like to keep business in the family, if you know what I mean.’ He extends his right hand out to touch my cheek and I feel the heat of skin so close to my face. Strength shoots up from the ground, through my body it surges. My skin feels hot. Repulsed, I pull away to the side, I will do anything to avoid him touching me.
‘Your mum won’t mind, Fuzzy, and nobody else needs to know.’
I stand up and grab the teapot in front of me, hitting him hard across his right shoulder. Hot tea, the pot and its lid go flying in all directions. I stand back, I am livid with rage. Like a freight train in mid journey. You can’t stop me. I want to tear him apart, rip the skin from his bones. Ridgeway staggers to the stove. He stumbles and to regain balance reaches out with his hand, trying to grab a hold of me. I sidestep his touch.
He is spitting out words I don’t understand; my hearing is stifled, I’m still in the tunnel. With one giant burst of fury I lunge towards him, bringing my right foot up, hard. It connects. He is swearing and he looks pasty, his muscles fixed in anger. Clutching his groin, Ridgeway collapses, groaning. I can’t speak. It seems to go on forever. He struggles to get back to vertical. Hunched over, he slowly shuffles out of the kitchen, down the hallway. I wish him dead.
Somehow I am able to stand. I feel strength in my feet, calves, thighs and back, and in my thoughts. With a burst of energy he turns and lunges and grabs my right leg. His fingernails dig in deep and I yell out in pain. He struggles to keep hold while I fight and kick. I hear my voice loud and angry. ‘No, no, no!’ Again I make contact. Ridgeway screams out, hurt. I kick him from me once, twice. I stamp on his hand. He leans over holding onto it, still swearing and spitting. Close by I see my old hockey stick in the umbrella bin and grab it, waving it ready to strike.
It’s at that moment I know I have won this battle. I follow Ridgeway as he retreats down the hallway. I hold the stick firm, bringing it back and forcing it down hard upon his hunched back. I cry out, tears stinging my eyes. There are muffled cries and anger like I have never seen or heard in anyone before. He crawls out the doorway, down the steps and out of the house. I continue to watch him stumble, still spitting, still swearing. I don’t care. If I had a rifle I would shoot him. I don’t care.
I hear a familiar voice. Running along the path is Yar. His face is flushed but hard.
‘What’s going on here?’ Yar looks at me then down at Ridgeway. ‘You bastard,’ Yar shouts. ‘I always knew you were sleazy.’ The pity in Yar’s eyes tells me he understands what has happened. Ridgeway spits while trying to stand and move away from Yar. But Yar is too quick. He grabs Ridgeway by the neck of his shirt and pushes him towards his car.
It’s happening too quickly. I cover my ears with cold, unfamiliar hands and then feel tears rolling down my cheeks. I hear a car door open and more yelling from Yar. I turn around and walk back into the hallway and up to the sleep-out at the back of the house, a familiar and comfortable room that I love. A car starts and bunny hops down the road. I curl up on the bed with my legs near my chest. I feel myself shaking and I can’t stop. I pull one of Nan’s crocheted blankets up around me. It smells of her. I now know I am safe. I close my eyes, quietly I sob.
I don’t hear or remember Yar on the phone to his wife, Jilly. I don’t even notice it’s Jilly who comforts me. I have no idea how long I am there for. I hear voices but I don’t care what they are saying. I glimpse two men in uniform. Police.
The familiar smell of roses wafts into the tunnel that consumes me. I feel skin, warm and callused, holding onto one hand, my other hand is held by another, small, warm and soft, Nan and Pop. I stop crying, but say nothing, I don’t need to. I hear the sweetness of Pop singing, a hymn, the words and melody are comforting and familiar. Again I have tears in my eyes, so does Pop.
Words, lots of words and big conversations shoot around the room. I’m polite. Every now and then I nod or shake my head to questions. Deep within I am screaming, scratching, kicking, hitting whatever it takes to wipe away th
e hurt and discomfort. I am offered a plate of food. My fork chases it around the plate. I am not hungry. I go for a shower but just stand there like a simpleton under the spray. By seven I have had enough, I can’t be bothered listening to voices any more. I find my iPod and lay on the lounge, my eyes shut, listening to the pure, sweet sound of Nat King Cole.
Do you smile to tempt a lover, Mona Lisa?
Or is this your way to hide a broken heart?
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep
They just lie there and they die there
Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa?
Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art?
Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa
It is now the next day. I have had another shower and this time I am actually more productive. My leg is bruised and sore. I can see his finger marks. I manage a couple of Weet-Bix and a piece of toast with marmalade. I don’t feel sad or scared but I do feel drained and a bit scrambled. Nan says the anger will kick in again soon enough. At the moment I try and evade the many questions left unanswered. Did Mr Ridgeway cause my mum to go on drugs? Did my mum enjoy having sex with Mr Ridgeway? Why did my mum fall to this level? Does Dad know? Do Nan and Pop know? Why didn’t Nan and Pop tell me? Did Mr Ridgeway tell the truth?
It has been a week and I have moped around the house long enough. It is time to ask Pop and Nan to drive me out to Lola’s Forest, a reserve just out of town. The forest is healing, a great place to visit when you need a quiet moment.
Pop sits beside me out on the back verandah, he holds my hand and says, ‘From my experience, Missy, the actual size of a problem is not important, it’s how we deal with the problem, that to me is the key. For some reason us humans we tend to try and make friends with that scrawny emotion, worry, and his quivering mate, stress.’ Pop sighs. ‘These two feelings are happy to keep company and feed off all problems found on life’s journey. But ultimately it’s the irrational thinking of our imagination that gives strength and growth to worry and stress. Missy, agonising over something that is out of your control is very time-consuming and a great waste of energy.
Grace Beside Me Page 12