Peninsula, page 15
‘Wouldn’t be cool to skip it.’ Larson smiled like a bloody shark. ‘It is a weekly quiz.’
You considered feigning sunstroke. Didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off. Carole was good at biology. You glanced sideways. Some kids liked to shield their papers with their arms to protect against wandering eyes, but you never bothered and nor did Carole. Larsen, who usually stayed at his desk, decided to cruise the classroom. His gaze dusted the rows. Vanessa made eyes at him. You kept glancing sideways, checking answers matched. The rest of the class kept scribbling letters. At the conclusion of the quiz, as was customary, you swapped papers for marking.
‘Anyone hang a ten?’ The class laughed.
Half the front row glanced over their shoulders in your direction. You studied the stainless steel of the lab bench, the way the light hit the cold, slick surface, bulletproof.
‘Nine?’
‘Um yep.’ Rachel Carlton half raised two fingers in a crooked peace sign for a moment, before her hand dropped to her lap.
‘Groovy Rachel. Bring your paper up.’
‘Eight?’
You and Carole raised your hands.
‘Coolio. Sophey, bring your paper up.’ Carole half rose. ‘No worries, Carole, two checks are plenty.’
You walked up the front, wondering if Larson was going to comment on you only getting an eight. He gave your sheet a cursory glance, you an appraising stare.
‘Can see your buddy’s sheet if you care to look.’ Larson spoke quietly so only you could hear.
Panic blew through you. It felt like white petals, gusts of them, shaken off a camellia bush in the wind. The petals turned brown almost right away when they hit the ground. It was strange the way they did that.
‘Something to be aware of, yes?’
You blinked, nodded.
‘Back you go.’
You were late for an exam, driving across flooded roads and detouring around broken bridges. Always, at the point when brown camellia petals started falling like bruised snowflakes, you’d wake up, sweating and hyper alert. You used the opportunity to get in an hour or two of study before breakfast. The more you studied, the more you realised you didn’t know. More needed to be done to create the creamy feeling in your stomach when all the petals stayed on the blooms. After school, you studied until bedtime. At the weekends, if you had to go with everyone else to a sports event, you’d sit in the car, read and highlight key passages. Frequently you were given permission to stay home. Your parents preferred not to explain to their friends why their daughter wouldn’t leave the car.
‘What do you do all day Soph?’
Clive was a clown with his zinc-lined lips, a sunburned face streaked with pale tide marks where sweat had dried. His cricket whites had grass stains at the knees. The side of his right thigh was red where he’d rubbed the ball before bowling an over. He smelt of stale perspiration and leather.
‘Study till I’m tired. Walk the paddocks repeating stuff in my head so I remember.’
‘There’s nobody to talk to. Don’t you get lonely?’
‘No. There would be nobody to talk to if I came to cricket.’ You didn’t say you would rather learn history than watch other people race around in the heat. It was what you admired about your grandmother, she wasn’t a spectator, did lots of her own things by herself.
‘There’s heaps of people. The tennis girls come to the clubrooms after their games.’
‘And chat about tennis and eyeliner. Hold me back!’
Clive wiggled his hips and flung his arms about while he sang a few lines of ‘The Brain That Wouldn’t Die’ by the Tall Dwarfs.
You scowled at him. ‘I’m not a zombie. Thought you wanted to be Neil Finn. What’s wrong with using your brain anyway? I make instant, put hokey pokey ice cream in it. The coffee softens the toffee. I read.’
‘If you came to cricket you’d get money for ice creams from Mum. I do want to be Neil Finn, he’s cool.’
‘If I came to cricket I’d have to study in the car, it’s hot.’ Even though you craved routine, you longed for release. Which one was really you?
‘We go to the beach ya gumboot! Swim in the lagoon. Water’s warm and deep, no rips. Remember? You used to swim with us.’
For a moment you can see yourself in the lagoon, floating on your back, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, face turned to the clouds, mellow and weightless. ‘Go take a shower. You stink like a polecat.’
Clive’s smile faded.
‘Sorry, but you do. Worse than cow shit.’
Partway through the final term a new kid arrived. Like Larson he was into surfing, fluent in a kind of laid-back charm that you didn’t get. Girls captivated by his smile. When he asked about scholarship exams, he surprised everyone. Hereford boys channelled all their energy into sport. You wanted to sit the tests too. Teachers shrugged, whatever.
‘Ya kidding me sis, three more exams?’ Clive said.
‘I like exams.’
‘What about those wicked migraines you get?’
Your headaches started a few months ago, around the time your grandmother had her fall, Saturday mornings like clockwork. Numb fingers, every sound magnified, then blurry vision. Not being able to see properly, lines of text wiggling in and out of focus, frightened you. The fear was worse than the head pain and nightmares.
‘Panadol makes them go away.’ You took Panadol whenever you lost feeling in your fingers. The packets went everywhere with you just in case.
The weeks of study break, the lead-up to the end of high school, were a series of melting moments, a textbook blur. The humidity clung to you like a quieter version of Harriet. You sweated, studied, walked the farm memorising key points, drunk ice-cream coffees. It was too hot to sleep. Sometimes you thought about swimming in cool water but there’d be plenty of time for that after exams. Clive studied for university entrance at the other end of the table.
‘Surfing,’ Clive said. ‘It’s the cool thing to do this year. Stay over for parties at the Surf Club.’
You gave him a death stare. ‘Studying hard at practical biology and chemistry?’
He laughed and started singing ‘Counting the Beat’ by the Swingers. ‘I wouldn’t mind a party, can’t wait till the exams are over.’
Doing well in the exams was your getaway plan.
What happened after the exams was an unlined notebook. More visits with Grandma perhaps, if she was still there.
It was the last day of the school holidays, back when you loathed primary school. Thoughts of Rottweilers and taunts of ‘string bean’ swirled in your head like clouds of dust kicked up by a rotary hoe. You and your cousins were at your grandmother’s. Everyone was outside playing Go Home Stay Home in the sunshine. You’d come in to use the toilet. You knew you wouldn’t be found, since inside was out of bounds. You wandered into the lounge, which was cool, shadowy and silent, like the vat room after the hubbub of milking.
You remembered your arrival in the new classroom, how it was greeted with resentment, curiosity, contempt.
‘Hey string bean!’ The boy’s compass was bloody.
‘Me?’ you asked, heart in ankle.
‘Yeah, string bean, borrow ya pen?’
The boy helped himself, giving one of your pigtails a hard pull so your eyes watered. The teacher, trying to get the class to do a writing exercise, didn’t notice. A girl on your other side snatched your exercise book and passed it round the table.
‘Can I have my pen back, and my book?’
The teacher looked over. ‘No talking.’
‘Finder’s keepers.’
‘Give it back.’
‘Gonna make me? I’ve lost it.’
‘I’ll tell on you.’
‘Telltale tit.’
‘Give it back.’
‘String bean’s a telltale tit.’
The only way you could see to get your pen back was to put your hand up. The pen returned only after the teacher asked you what you wanted, leaving you scarlet, tongue-tied, fighting back tears.
The wire stalks covered in green florist ribbon looked grey in the half light. They reminded you of the bloody compass. You must have looked away for a moment. A few of the flowers had holes in their petals. What had you done? You had a pencil. Wanted to see how much pressure they could withstand. Not much, all it took was a prod. The jagged gaps in the pink brought on an instant hit of creaminess. Working the pencil, making little pricks, a few more petals a little less perfect.
Back in the garden, once your eyes adjusted to the harsh light you studied the fleshy white camellias with their lemon pollen icing and realised there were no holes. Slugs, snails and the skinny green caterpillars preferred the new growth, the buds and leaves. Your tongue tasted like grapefruit.
The damage did not go unnoticed for long. Plastic coating doesn’t rip itself.
‘I don’t know,’ you muttered. You were just the one watching.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Harriet insisted. ‘I was outside with Clive.’
‘Wasn’t the bloody tooth fairy,’ your father said. ‘Someone’s lying. Your grandmother put a lot of work into those flowers, now she’ll have to redo them.’
‘Could’ve been your nieces,’ your mother pointed out. You could see she wanted to believe it. They both did. ‘I would hope you three know to respect other people’s property,’ she said. ‘If it was one of you, the right thing to do is to own up and apologise. Think about it carefully.’
You glanced at Clive. He was looking at Harriet, who was shaking her head. You looked at Harriet as well.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Harriet insisted.
‘We didn’t raise you to be liars,’ your father said.
You realised you should be ashamed but it was dark in your grandmother’s house where the flowers were kept on top of the big china cabinet, among the family photos and silver sports cups. It was hard to see anything. Maybe you weren’t even there. Maybe it was a dream.
After the exams, your mother ejects you from your bedroom and sends you down to visit your grandmother, and you find her sitting in her sunroom surrounded by fur pelts.
‘What are you making?’
‘Not sure yet dear. I think I might stitch these together to make toy bears.’
You study the pelts; they look too small for possums.
‘What skins are they?’
‘Some stoats were coming round the hen house stealing the eggs.’
‘Oh.’
‘If I make bears, I couldn’t give them to grandchildren, the pelts are a bit smelly. I’m experimenting to see how flexible they are. Might just stitch them together for floor coverings. Look at my legs!’
Your grandmother’s legs are covered with faint scratch marks.
‘Cat does it, to get attention.’
She doesn’t have a cat. You wonder whether your grandmother is losing her marbles.
‘Your father found it in one of the barns, brought it down. It isn’t tame. It’s a ginger. Like those biscuits you’re so fond of. Drinks milk, comes and goes as it pleases.’ She notices your confusion. ‘Your father didn’t tell you about the cat, I’m guessing. Heard you passed your exams and you’re off soon?’
‘Yeah.’ You watch her working with the pelts. After a few minutes she looks up again.
‘I can only do this for short stints then I have to rest my arms, they get achy. Can’t do the garden anymore.’
The arthritis medicine in the pill container must work. You think about your migraines, which vanished when the exams were over.
‘You aren’t making flowers anymore?’
‘It was time for a change. After my fall I couldn’t do much of anything. Now, with the cat, it won’t let me muck around with paint. I tried, he chased the ribbon, put a paw through a bloom I had drying, ruined it. Didn’t do it on purpose, not his fault, he’s curious. He’s scared of these pelts. Must be the smell, lets me get on with it.’
You can feel her gravel eyes on you.
‘For someone off to university you don’t look excited.’
You pull a face. ‘It’ll be a big change.’ What you are heading towards remains stubbornly out of focus. You understand your life won’t be the same.
‘I don’t know anything about university. I imagine there’ll be smart people like you with the same interests. New pastures. You’ll be back to visit too.’
‘Where is the cat?’
She gestures towards the side of the house. ‘Probably round the back. He’s still getting used to being here, might not even stay. He likes milk.’ She points to the empty saucer by the door.
When it’s time for you to leave, she leads the way down her footpath. The garden feels diminished. A carpet of ground covers designed to suffocate any weeds. Squads of herbs of the most robust, utilitarian varieties – parsley, mint and thyme – guard the northern corner near the gate. Geraniums sit impounded in terracotta pots, belligerent sentinels. Their lurid red and pink blooms dare anyone to question their legitimacy. You can’t see any monarchs, or the fluffy bumblebees that used to amble around like drunks smooching every second flower, or even any snails.
‘I don’t know if I want to be a lawyer.’
Your grandmother stops and points her walking stick at splotches of vivid pink. A shaft of sunlight is forcing its way between two of the pots, illuminating a thicket of ice plants. Their spiky petals are folded out like deck chairs to reveal luminous yellow hearts. There’s a simple genius in the way they open and shut with the sun.
‘Nobody does till they give it a try, dear.’
When you turn and wave goodbye, your grandmother waves back. You want to think you catch a glimpse of a ginger cat. It could have been something else.
Tramp
‘Jack it’s incredible, verging on sublime!’
Kyle has this idea to show me a certain hut on a hill up north. We figure to stay overnight. I’m intrigued, didn’t think there were many places to tramp up there. A little nervous because, well, Kyle. Greg agrees to come, three seals the deal. Safety in numbers.
I’m hunting for my cap. I hate it when things aren’t where you left them. My cap is where I should’ve looked for it first, the tray of the ute, by the pig bucket, under a stack of clothing that only sees intermittent use. It isn’t in great shape my hat, certainly not clean, but I’m not in great shape for a tramp either, though I’m at least freshly laundered. Sniffing the cap, it smells like pig tucker, rotting food scraps basically.
The kids spot Kyle and Greg first.
‘Your friends are here, Dad,’ Ellen calls from the kitchen.
‘It’s a white mini. Way to go Dad!’ Jed says.
‘Seeya later.’
Kyle is a couple of hours later into the afternoon than promised. Greg will want to get the show on the road.
The passenger door opens. Sounds like it could do with a drink of CRC. A leg that wouldn’t look out of place on a wētā reveals itself, followed by a second. Greg. He looks at my Macpac, a sturdy roomy beast. Overkill for an overnighter, but it’s what I have. A reminder of my younger days, when I got out more. The driver door opens. Kyle. The pair of them extracting themselves from Mozart is like opening stiff blades on a Swiss army knife. Fully extended, both are close to six foot.
‘We could take the ute maybe?’
Greg has a bungee cord in his hand. He hesitates, glances at Kyle.
‘Oh, Mozart’ll be fine. He’s a trooper.’
Mozart’s backside is held shut with an ingenious bungee arrangement. A disembowelled pack is wedged between black vinyl seats, its contents nearby. No attempt made to put it all back together. Would be like trying to return toothpaste to the tube. We wrestle my beast onto Mozart’s head. Greg fixes the bungee to the roof rack, binds it hostage style. We stand back to study our efforts and wipe away perspiration.
‘Humid for winter.’ Greg rubs his hands on the sides of his narrow legs.
The first time I met Greg, I couldn’t take my eyes off his legs. Two cables of muscle with squash-ball-sized calves.
‘I didn’t think you’d get up a sweat, with all your cycling?’ For every hour in the office, Greg probably cycles three or four. Like my twin sister Rachel, except with her it’s running.
‘Don’t get out as much as I used to with the kids and work. Commutes and big weekend stuff only. Always seems warmer up here.’
‘It’s about to rain. You guys want a drink before we go?’ Kyle looks like he might.
‘No. We need to get going.’ Greg glances at Kyle. ‘You okay to keep driving?’
Kyle nods with his teeth. They’re whiter than his face, a real optimistic shine to them. He waves to the kids who are bug-eyed at the kitchen window. I give them a bugger off wave. I know they’re laughing at Mozart, and Greg’s legs. They wave back, drop their hands to their mouths to hide their giggling. I squeeze in beside the leaky pack. Kyle turns Mozart with a degree of effort commensurate with handling an overloaded vehicle in an unfamiliar space.
I have a feeling my knees are sticking into Kyle’s back. ‘You okay Kyle, got enough room?’
‘Golly yes, tonnes of space thanks.’
Kyle pretty much always says the opposite of what he means so I wriggle around to relieve the pressure on his back. If I move my legs sideways rather than straight, I achieve it. The result is a pain in my hip.
Kyle is in good spirits. Greg seems slightly on edge, like he’s recently been in good spirits, can still remember what it’s like, typical Greg. He turns his head to look at me. You could slice bread with his cheekbones, if you had a need.
‘How’s Gemma?’
‘In Auckland with her mates for the Blues game. We’re leaving the kids home alone.’ I don’t mention my wife needs a break as much as me. She’s my worry doll and vice versa. You might have seen them, little bags with tiny dolls inside, tell one a worry, put it under your pillow et cetera. Gemma listens to me venting about Jim’s antics, sweating the weather. I get to hear the crazy committee goings on she’s caught up in. Nets of intricacies pertaining to feuds and fiefdoms born of ego, boredom and everyone knowing each other’s business. People eh, some doozies lurking round Hereford way. Us too I suppose.
