A Way Home, page 3
I should turn and run. Leave my soggy cardboard mattress and damp bedding and the last mouthful of orange juice in the big plastic bottle by my bed and bolt. But the bully at the station floods back to me. The way he’d tugged my hair as if it was his God-given right to, as if I was nothing. Nothing. Suddenly, I don’t care anymore. If I’m nothing, what have I got to lose apart from the ledge. And it’s mine. It’s all I’ve got and I won’t let it go without a fight.
Somewhere between dropping the plastic bag and digging my fingernails into the slimy muck between the rocks, I find my voice. An eruption I project at the shape on the ledge. The intruder shifts and the zip on my sleeping bag is torn open.
‘This is my spot’, I roar, the muscles in my arms and legs twitching with rage. The intruder stands, takes a step forward, but I’m not afraid. All the months of sleepless nights and dirty looks and loneliness fuels me.
Then something hits my shoulder. It’s not heavy, but the sensation stuns me. I freeze, bravery wavering. There’s another whack. Harder this time. Hitting my upper arm. A small rock perhaps. My mind clears and drains of sizzling anger. I glance around, weigh up the risks and possible losses before sliding back again. Then a voice rolls down the slope.
‘Get lost.’
I stop, frown and squint up.
Chapter Five
Now I don’t hesitate. I climb the rocky slope towards my ledge as if my legs are metal springs. A tram brakes hard on the road overhead and rings its bell. Ding. Ding. Ding.
‘Piss off,’ the voice bawls, losing some of its conviction. ‘You’ll be sorry.’
I doubt it. My resolve hardens and my heart pounds in my ears. I’m not scared anymore. I pull myself onto the ledge and leap to my feet.
‘This is MY place.’
The intruder pushes his shoulders back then steps so close I notice in the weak light that his eyes are different shades. It feels as if I’m seeing two people. He must sense my hesitation because he grabs my arms and shoves me towards the edge. If I take another step, I’ll fall. I can almost feel the jagged rocks of the slope piercing my skin and cracking my skull.
I push him with a grunt – surprised at my own strength. It surges through my veins until my body throbs with it. It powers my brain too. The world is suddenly sharper than before. The tinny exhaust fumes from the traffic above and the clammy warmth of the boy’s body on my palms. The river whooshes loudly as a late-night jogger navigates the path below. Every one of my nerves is on high alert, reminding me I’m alive.
The boy pants, sharp and dirty, but I can’t tear my eyes from his face. It’s as if we’re magnets, repelling and attracting. I know this kid. I understand the hollows in his cheeks, his need for warmth and a place to call home. Maybe he senses the same in me because we both let go.
I drop to the ground and lie my head on my arms, suddenly overwhelmed by all the violence. Mum’s grip when she wants me to play piano, the man’s shoe against my leg and this.
The boy remains in front of me, exhaling, taking stock, possibly catching his breath for another assault. But the huff has left me. I close my eyes. There’s shuffling and I guess he sits down too. We stay this way for minutes, hours even, until the cold creeps back in, replacing the heat of our battle. I wait for him to leave. He doesn’t.
Finally, I look up. The boy’s curled against the wall like I am, dark head resting on his forearms. He could be asleep, but then he coughs and wriggles deeper into the rocks.
‘You can stay here tonight.’
I wait for a response but he’s silent. I pick a pebble up and aim it at the ground near his foot. It hits his ankle.
‘Ow.’ He unfolds, rubs his ankle, and scowls at me. ‘What’s with you hurting people all the time?’ His voice is raspy and I can’t help grinning. The tension in my body scatters and suddenly I’m relieved.
‘I said, you can stay.’
‘I heard,’ he answers sharply.
‘I mean, it’s my place but you can stay tonight … if you want to.’
He hangs his head again and I wonder if he’s crying. His shirt collar gapes, revealing a scrawny neck, and there’s a tear in the pocket of the silly tartan jacket he’s wearing. I’d laugh again if it didn’t seem so sad.
‘Fine,’ he replies sulkily.
‘Here.’ I take the sleeping bag and shake it out so one end reaches him. ‘What’s your name?’
He hesitates, then accepts it, pulling it over his knees and stretching out his legs. ‘Louie.’
I do the same with the other end. ‘Louie,’ I repeat quietly as we rest our heads back.
‘And yours?’ he asks.
‘Grace.’ I shift a little.
It’s nice to talk but I remind myself to keep my wits about me. To remember the golden rule, not to trust anyone, especially a sneaky kid with funny-coloured eyes.
It’s morning before I know it. I wake late, sore and tired before the previous night’s excitement rushes back. Then I peer sideways along the wall. Louie’s vanished. In his place sits my missing backpack.
Chapter Six
I try not to care that Louie’s gone. Try hard to ignore the fact I slept more soundly, despite myself, than I have in ages, because two against the world is safer than one.
Instead, I spend the morning clearing the ledge and eating leftover roast from the Mission. It’s tough and gristly, but hits the spot, making it easier to convince myself I’m glad Louie didn’t stay. He’s definitely a weirdo. I rinse my fork in water from my drink bottle and deposit it at the ‘kitchen’ end of the ledge, alongside a knife, spoon, and two plastic plates I pilfered from a café.
I slide down the slope to pee in the thicket next to the path. There’s less foliage in winter and I take a good look around before squatting. The closest toilet is five hundred metres away, which is too far to go when you’re busting or when it’s dark.
As I zip up, I thank god my period has stopped. It was a nightmare to deal with. Stuffing my undies with wads of toilet paper or napkins from McDonalds, checking continuously for blood spots. Sometimes I nick pads from the discount chemist on Bourke Street or ask random women for tampons in the public toilet. I collect what I can but it’s never long before I’m lining my undies with napkins again.
When it failed to appear one month, Sue fiddled with one of her many earrings and said I should be grateful, before adding, ‘I wish mine’d bugger off.’
Her boyfriend, Dave, rolled his eyes as he lit a cigarette and muttered something about girl’s talk.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll come back when you fatten up a bit.’ She grinned, but we both knew that was unlikely to happen any time soon. And, although I didn’t miss the extra stress, my period was at least a sign things were normal. It came every thirty days, regular as clockwork, and a part of me felt sad at losing it too.
With a full stomach and a good night’s sleep under my belt, I decide to try my luck at a shower. I grab my backpack and the pair of undies I cleaned in the library bathroom a few days before and wander up to the City Baths. Inside, the lifeguard turns away so I can sneak under the metal barrier and into the pool. The water’s glassy and clear, and black and yellow lines run the length of its base. I imagine diving deep down to touch one, the weight of the water pressing on my back as I follow it to the far end. But I don’t have bathers and I never learnt to swim properly.
I round the corner and duck into the change rooms. Early morning swimmers rinse off under the showers, their dripping bathers hanging from wooden pegs above the benches. I keep my eyes down, aware of the shift in the room as I cross it. The chatter that slows and the sidelong glances. There’s the rustle and zip of bags too as precious items are packed safely out of view, because a girl like me probably can’t be trusted.
I choose a shower cubicle and walk into it fully clothed, hanging my pack on the back of the door. I know I’m smelly, but I’m still surprised by the tangy ripeness of my body as I peel my clothes off. They come away like onionskin, pungent and slightly sticky – my scarf, hoodie, jumper, long-sleeved top with its tatty cuffs, greying white singlet and bra. I start tough, steely-eyed and thick-skinned, but soften as each layer is removed. I strip my jeans off too, my runners and socks so that I’m finally naked.
My body’s alien to me. I see exposed pieces of it every now and then, a bare foot or an exposed thigh as I squat to go to the toilet. The sight of it, pink fleshed and vulnerable, makes my chest constrict. I examine the ribs poking out beneath my small breasts and measure the thinness of my upper arms by wrapping my fingers around them.
Outside, the swimming women resume their chatter. They talk about their work and children, about lazy husbands who don’t pack the dishwasher properly at night. They laugh and undo their bags now I’m safely locked inside a cubicle. I eavesdrop, slipping into their worlds for a while, where the worst that can happen is a lasagne encrusted dinner plate. I listen, then I turn on the hot tap until it drowns them out.
I take my time, cursing the water-saving device that turns the hot stream off every three minutes. Finally, damp-haired and scrubbed clean, I dry myself with a hand towel and get dressed. My dirty clothes are greasy against my freshly washed skin, but there’s not much I can do about it. Washing, let alone drying them, is almost impossible in this weather.
I fasten the towel to my backpack and heave the lot onto my back. It’s comforting having it rest snug against my spine again. Before leaving the ledge that morning, I‘d ploughed through my backpack, checking Louie hadn’t stolen anything from it.
Finding Mum’s black address book safe at the bottom of it had made me giddy with relief. It was like holding a piece of the people I love in my hand – Mum and … Dad. Nan. My hackles raised at Pop’s name though. At the way he ignored me and bullied Mum about her playing. Criticised her fingers slipping on the keys, the opportunities she missed, or the international career she gave up after everything he and Nan had sacrificed.
Mum was bound for big things – fame, travel, fortune… until I came along. Mum can move mountains with the piano, but when Pop tells her she’s weak for taking medication that dulls her playing but helps her cope, she goes into a tailspin.
Outside the Baths, the sky’s blue and the air’s warmer than usual. A breeze blows the damp hair from my face and the world is brighter than before. Things must be looking up because I find five dollars on the ground beside the bike rack at the side of the road. I clutch it tightly, feel a feathery lightness and decide once and for all to forget Louie. I’ve been alone long enough that I can look after myself. Plus, I’ve got Mum.
When I have to remind myself of this, I’m afraid I’m beginning to forget her.
At first, I could picture her clearly when I closed my eyes. The tangle of red hair that framed her face and the slight bump in her nose. The dark freckles up and down her arms and the brown specks in her otherwise dark blue eyes. Her voice was clear too. Not words exactly, but murmurings in time with the piano Another language of sorts. Half English, half music.
But as the days pass, Mum grows smudgy, until the bad parts of her eclipse the good. And it’s hard to recall the afternoons we spent reading together in the hammock or rugged-up in the Datsun at Coburg Drive-In. Soon, all I can see is the piano. And when I hum ‘The Snow Is Dancing’, Mum flares briefly before burning out again.
I shove the five bucks in my pocket and stride down Swanston Street, determined not to be beaten. I don’t hang my head or avert my eyes. I’m showered, and almost as squeaky clean as the rest of the population. It buoys me. I smile at the busker on Bourke Street who’s playing the trumpet. He raises an eyebrow then blasts a silly tune that makes me grin. So, this is how normal feels. I’d almost forgotten.
I cross Swanston to buy hot chips from a pizza joint. Then I sit in a green plastic chair on the footpath and devour them slowly, scanning the street for Louie, despite myself. I wonder where he is and what he’s up to, who he knows and how long he’s been sleeping rough. My full stomach lets me relax enough to care. Maybe I should rein the feeling in. But with change in my pocket and the white winter sun warming my face, it’s hard to do.
After eating, I stroll to the library. This time I’m not escaping the weather or my growling stomach, and I’m not driven to the piano by despair. I haven’t touched it yet. Instead, I’ve sat close enough to churn my spirits up. Secretly, I hope Louie will be there, hanging around the bookshelves. Although the thought of him near the piano still makes me tense.
Kate and another librarian are chatting behind the counter when I arrive. Kate raises an eyebrow as I pass but then waves. My cheeks flush hot with the memory of slamming Louie’s fingers in the piano. I nod back then take the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor.
Once there, I circle the shelves, stop in the non-fiction C to D aisle in the far corner of the room. The piano sits silently and for the first time, I’m content just to know it’s nearby. I search for Davidson, pausing every now and then to glance over at the piano or to cast an eye at the stairs, looking for Louie, pushing aside a dull thud of disappointment when he fails to appear.
Kate approaches instead, carrying an armful of books. I extract a novel with a lighthouse on its cover. I stare hard at it, hoping Kate will keep walking. She does. But then stops at the piano, places the books on the ground, takes a seat and lifts the fall board. I glance up, not daring to blink. Kate’s hands hang forever in the air before dropping, like Louie’s had. Then they run like spiders across the keys so it’s impossible for me not to inch forward.
The library fades away. Kate’s music is jaunty, playful, teasing. Unlike Mum’s classical stuff. It sucks me in. When it finally ceases, I find my palms splayed flat on top of the piano and leap back as if bitten.
Kate grins, removing her glasses to reveal shining eyes. ‘I don’t get the chance to play much these days.’ She blinks before putting her glasses back on. ‘Too busy working.’ She bends to retrieve the pile of books from the floor. ‘Louie tells me your name’s Grace.’
I shrug and wait for her to mention the injury I inflicted on him. Instead, she walks off, reappearing a moment later to hand me Tracks. ‘I saw you looking at this. It’s a great read. Borrow it if you like.’
I take the book tentatively. It’s a nice gesture but how am I supposed to apply for a library card when I don’t have an address. I doubt The Ledge will cut it. Kate must read my mind. ‘Don’t worry, I know you’ll bring it back.’ She smiles. ‘Plus, I never forget a face!’
‘Thanks,’ I murmur.
Kate arranges her armful of books, before looking me straight in the eye. ‘So, Grace, can you play?’
I shake then nod my head. ‘No. Yeah. Sort of.’ And it’s true. But how do I explain I can play, but I can’t? That hearing the piano makes me sick with pleasure and heartache. That knowing it’s here helps but also haunts me.
‘What can you play?’ she tilts her head so her glasses catch the overhead light.
I stare down at Tracks and recall a line in the first chapter that stuck with me – about moments in life that are like pivots. ‘Debussy.’
‘Excuse me?’ Kate blinks.
‘Claude Debussy.’ I repeat. ‘A French composer… he died a hundred years ago.’
‘Yes, I know him.’ Kate’s brow crinkles. ‘But where did you learn to play his—’
‘I’ve gotta go.’ I shove Tracks into my pack and head for the stairs before she can ask anymore questions. ‘Bye.’
I don’t know how to explain to Kate that I play Debussy almost perfectly, but not well enough. That if I could, I wouldn’t be living under a bridge or hanging around her library.
Chapter Seven
I leave the library to jog up Flinders Lane and onto Swanston Street. Then I break into a run when I reach Princes Bridge, head down, faster and faster, all the way back to the welcome seclusion of my ledge.
I pause to catch my breath at the bottom of it before looking up, ready to climb. Two legs dangle over the side, a scuffed brown leather shoe at the end of each one. Daylight’s fading and I have to narrow my eyes to make out Louie’s face.
There’s a pang of indignation at the sight of him. He’d disappeared so suddenly. I bite my tongue to stop from asking what he reckons he’s doing here. Then I climb the slope, inhaling the earthy scent of the wet dirt between the rocks. The river behind me runs fast and sleek towards the city. ‘Ouch.’ My arm clenches as an object hits it and tumbles to the footpath below.
‘Hey!’ I’m furious again. I trusted Louie, even wanted him around. This time I will throw him off the ledge. I scramble the rest of the way so quickly I don’t hear him laugh or see him retreating to safety. After pulling myself onto the ledge, I lunge at him.
‘Stop!’ he yelps, sidestepping me. ‘It was a joke. J-O-K-E. Do you know what that means?’
I hold him tight by his shirt collar before giving him a shove so he remembers who’s boss of this place.
‘You’ve got an anger management problem.’ He straightens his stupid jacket.
My heart slows and I back off enough to notice he’s wearing new pants. They’re slim fit and tomato sauce red. A perfect match to his jacket. The whole outfit’s tatty and I snort even though I’m still mad. ‘Well, we won’t lose you in a snow storm.’
Louie frowns. ‘Very funny.’ He puffs up. ‘Someone left them out the front of Vinnies.’
I shake my head. ‘Really? Wonder why?’ I place my pack next to my sleeping bag and look around. Everything’s in order. My toothbrush sits in the jar on the jutting-out rock and my sleeping bag’s rolled where I left it. Even my poor excuse for a pillow – a flimsy flat thing I smuggled out of a shelter – is in its rightful spot.
Louie squats, forearms resting on his thighs. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t nick anything. I wouldn’t do that.’
I put my hands on my hips. ‘Yeah, what about my backpack?’
He takes a moment. ‘I gave it back, didn’t I?’
When I glare in response he turns his palms up. ‘Okay. Okay.’ He lifts a plastic bag from the ground behind him. ‘Look. Food. Good.’ He hands it to me. ‘A house-warming present...’
