One Whole and Perfect Day Page 8

‘I know.’ Jessaline pointed to the door again. ‘So what does it say?’

  ‘It’s Cathleen Cuthbert. Cathleen Cuthbert School of Hospitality.’

  ‘Cathleen Cuthbert?’

  ‘Someone’s wife, I guess.’ The girl shook her head sadly. ‘Fancy dying and having a cookery school called after you.’

  ‘Better than a school of Linguistics,’ said Jessaline.

  They grinned at each other. ‘Bye,’ said Jessaline.

  ‘Seeya,’ said the girl.

  As she walked down the steps Jessaline noticed that the sky above her was also a spectacular shade of blue. Like that nail polish, she thought. And the air in the strip of bushland smelled of eucalyptus and some other fine sharp scent she couldn’t identify – it was, quite simply, a truly perfect day. And at two o’clock Jessaline had a lecture on the Phonology of Old English. She tossed her head and gave a little skip. Catch her going there! Instead she went to Mrs Murphy’s flat in the basement of Mercer Hall.

  ‘It’s only me,’ she said, when Mrs Murphy opened the door. A delicious smell of baking wafted out into the hall.

  ‘Only you!’ cried Mrs Murphy, beaming. ‘Only the person I most love to see!’

  Jessaline stepped inside.

  16

  BENEATH THE

  PEPPER TREES

  Beneath the pepper trees, the Year 10 girls were discussing the problem of asking boys out: walking up to a boy you fancied and inviting him to a film with you, or a concert, or a party, or even a simple coffee down the mall. Men and women were equals, weren’t they? So why not? Those days were gone when a girl had to hang about waiting to be asked – it said so in Bestie, it said so in all the magazines.

  But were those days gone? Really? Because asking a boy out at Flinders Secondary could actually be quite difficult. It was hard to get a boy alone, for a start. Boys were mostly with other boys, and who’d want to invite someone you fancied with a whole bunch of his friends looking on? Hooting and whistling perhaps, so the boy you fancied might say no! even if he really wanted to say yes.

  ‘You could go to their house if you wanted to get them alone,’ suggested Molly Random, who, while she wasn’t exactly slow, was sort of – lagging, everyone agreed. Nice, but definitely lagging.

  ‘Their house?’ snapped Lara Reid. ‘And then their mum opens the door and she grills you about who you are and what’s your business, and then when the boy comes out, if she lets him, he’s all red and useless and he can’t wait for you to get right out of there.’

  There was a passionate edge to Lara’s voice, so that all the other girls guessed she’d had an experience of that kind herself, which was why she knew all about it, and they wondered who the boy had been, and what exactly his mum had said to Lara.

  ‘It’s best if you know them,’ said Maisie Blair. ‘Like, if you’re in his media class, and you’re doing a joint assignment, then it would be sort of natural to ask him if he wanted to go to a film.’

  ‘But then he’d be in your Year!’ cried Lara, and at this there were sounds of disgust from almost all the girls. Who wanted to go out with a boy in your Year? A boy you’d known since primary school, and possibly even kindergarten? Who’d had disgusting habits when he was a little kid, even if he’d curbed them now.

  ‘Remember how Cameron Webb used to eat snails in Grade 2?’ asked Molly Random. ‘Those big snails from Mrs Archer’s fish tank?’

  ‘Moll!’

  ‘Well, he did!’

  Boys in Year 10 simply weren’t desirable; how could they ever be? The girls beneath the pepper trees all favoured older boys, the ones in Year 12 and Year 11, or boys who’d left school and were working, or studying at university.

  ‘You’ve simply got to get to know them first,’ blurted Lizzie Banks. ‘Or get them to notice you at least.’

  No one replied to this. Lizzie was notorious for her crush on Simon Leslie, the vice-captain of the school. For the past three months, Lizzie had jogged past his front fence every evening, and sometimes mornings too. She was hoping Simon would see her and come out; so far he never had. Or, as Tracy Gilman had unkindly suggested, he’d spotted her and stayed inside. ‘Honest, Liz,’ said Tracy now. ‘You should –’

  ‘What?’ Poor Lizzie flushed.

  ‘Give up on him.’

  ‘Who’s him?’

  ‘Oh, come off it. Simon Leslie, who else?’

  ‘You should try jogging in the park instead,’ suggested Maisie kindly. ‘You might meet a really tasty jogger there, and you’d have something in common with him, to start off.’

  ‘I don’t like joggers,’ said Lizzie. ‘They smell sweaty, even when they’ve had a shower and changed into proper clothes.’

  There was a silence underneath the pepper trees.

  ‘Male joggers, I mean,’ said Lizzie hastily. ‘It’s the male joggers who smell sweaty.’

  This was awful, thought Lily. So awful it made you almost wish you weren’t a girl. And it sapped your willpower too, because already she’d started wondering how she could get Daniel Steadman to notice her.

  ‘I asked a boy out once,’ said Carol Dewey suddenly.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Who was he?’

  Lily tensed. What if Carol replied, ‘Daniel Steadman?’ Lily could tell from Carol’s expression and something slightly halting in her voice that this was going to be a story of male treachery, and she didn’t want Daniel Steadman to be that kind of boy. Quickly she crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘Please let it not be him,’ she prayed.

  ‘What year was he in?’ Lara asked.

  ‘Year 12.’

  Lily relaxed. Daniel was in Year 11.

  ‘Leo Harmon?’ guessed Lara.

  ‘’Course not! As if I’d want to ask him out!’

  ‘Simon Leslie?’ said Tracy slyly.

  ‘No!’ Carol stole a quick apologetic glance at Lizzie. ‘Honest, it wasn’t!’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Gareth Castle,’ whispered Carol.

  There was an indrawn gasp beneath the pepper trees. Gareth Castle was the glorious captain of the cricket team.

  ‘You asked Gareth Castle out?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Just to a film.’

  ‘Gareth Castle’s lovely,’ said Molly, and then added, scanning Carol’s face and sensing something not quite right, ‘I mean, he looks lovely.’

  ‘What did he say?’ demanded Tracy.

  Carol’s voice was flat. ‘He said, “I don’t want to.” ’

  There was another gasp, and Carol burst out, ‘Stuck up pig! “I don’t want to.” Can you imagine? Like a stupid little four-year-old. No, a two-year-old!’ She swept her lunch box from her lap, scattering crusts and apple cores onto the grass. She sprang to her feet and stood very straight, her fists clenched by her side. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  She shouldn’t have said that, thought Lily.

  Carol Dewey was the most beautiful girl in Year 10: tall and slender, with a creamy complexion, sweetly moulded features and long wavy cornsilk hair. There was nothing the least bit wrong with her, except, now that she’d asked this question, the eyes of almost all the Year 10 girls swept up and down her, searching eagerly for some flaw.

  ‘Your ears,’ said Tracy Gilman.

  Carol’s hands flew up. ‘You mean they’re too big?’

  ‘No, not big, exactly.’

  Molly shook her head. ‘Not big, exactly,’ she echoed.

  ‘They stick out, you mean?’ Carol’s lovely face contorted with a kind of fright.

  ‘No, not that,’ said Tracy slowly, and Molly echoed her again, ‘Not that.’

  ‘Then what? What?’

  ‘It’s just that one of them is – only a little bit, mind you, hardly noticeable, but –’

  ‘What? Which one?’

  ‘The left one,’ said Tracy helpfully. ‘It’s bigger than the other.’

  ‘Oh!’ Carol turned from them and fled across the oval, her hands clasped over her
ears. Headed for the mirrors in the washroom, Lily guessed. ‘Her ears are the same size,’ she said to Tracy, and Molly Random said, ‘They are, too. Exactly the same size.’

  ‘That wasn’t fair, Trace,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘It was mean,’ said Molly.

  ‘She asked, didn’t she? She asked if there was anything wrong with her.’

  ‘Only so we’d say there wasn’t.’

  Tracy shrugged. ‘It was only a joke,’ she said. ‘She’ll get over it.’

  Yes, sometimes Lily really did wish she wasn’t a girl. Or at least, not one like Tracy Gilman.

  17

  CLARA’S ROOM

  Finished! Clara pressed the save button on her computer and leaned back in her chair, and at once images of Lonnie filled her mind. She saw his tall gangly figure loping across the campus towards the Union where they’d shared breakfast this morning, saw him stand still for a moment, transfixed, when he caught sight of her waiting for him, tossing his head back (she loved the way he did this) to free his forehead of that stray lock of floppy, unruly hair. Even objects that belonged to Lonnie had become dear to her: that funny old briefcase, for instance, so crumpled and ancient she’d thought it might once have belonged to his dad.

  ‘My dad?’ he’d stared at her, quite genuinely surprised. ‘Why would it be his? I bought it at an Op Shop.’ He’d stroked the smooth, worn leather. ‘Only two bucks! Great bargain, eh?’

  He didn’t really seem to mind being abandoned by his father, thought Clara. She minded for him. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and lie there thinking about a very small Lonnie following his mother round the house, trailing after her, wailing, ‘Mum! Mum, when’s Dad coming back?’ over and over again.

  ‘Poor Lonnie,’ Clara would whisper, staring into the dark, and she’d wish (childishly, she knew) that she had some kind of time machine which would transport her back there, so that she could take the little boy who’d been Lonnie into her arms and comfort him.

  If only her dad had run away! If only she could say, like Lonnie, ‘I can hardly remember him.’

  A knock sounded at her door.

  ‘Come in,’ called Clara, and Jessaline appeared, carrying a tray on which rested a beautiful golden cake, with a frosting of snowy powdered sugar. She laid the tray gently on the coffee table, then she stood back, skipped a little, and flung her arms out wide. ‘I’ve done it!’ she exclaimed.

  Clara looked down at the cake. ‘It’s wonderful.’

  ‘Oh, not that!’ said Jessaline dismissively. ‘I didn’t mean the cake. It’s just an apple cake Mrs Murphy and I whipped up this afternoon. What I meant was –’ Jessaline clasped her hands together, and behind the gross glasses her eyes were shining like stars. ‘Clara, guess what? I’ve made a start!’

  ‘A start? How do you mean?’

  ‘In changing courses!’

  ‘You mean, dropping Linguistics for Hospitality?’

  ‘Yes! I went there today, at lunchtime, to the School of Hospitality. Clara, I felt really at home there, the minute I went through the door. Isn’t that strange? How I’d feel at home in a place I’d never been?’

  ‘No,’ said Clara. ‘You felt like that because you were meant to be there.’

  ‘That’s what I thought! And then, when I came out, it was such a beautiful afternoon, so I skipped my lecture and went straight round to Mrs Murphy’s flat, and we made this cake – Biba’s apple cake, it’s called, and, and –’ Quite out of breath, Jessaline sank down onto Clara’s bed. ‘Oh, I’ve never felt so happy!’

  ‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Clara.

  ‘Oh no, let me!’ Jessaline sat up and glanced at the computer. ‘You’ve been doing brainwork, I can see.’

  Brainwork. How Jessaline loved that word, and others like it: vegies, and uni, and cossie, words her parents would have hated and been appalled to hear their daughter use.

  Clara smiled. ‘Not much brainwork. You stay there.’ She jumped up from her chair, took the electric kettle from its shelf and turned on the tap above the tiny sink.

  ‘I saw you with that boy again,’ said Jessaline.

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘You know! The one I saw you with last Monday, that dreamy looking fair-haired boy. And the Friday before that, and the Wednesday before that, and – you know,’ she finished teasingly.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ said Clara carelessly. ‘He’s just a friend.’ She felt the colour rising warmly to her face and turned her head a little, hoping Jessaline wouldn’t see.

  Jessaline did. ‘You’re blushing!’

  ‘No, I’m not. It’s just this room; it’s so hot!’ Clara switched the kettle on and crossed to the window, sliding the glass aside. Behind her, she heard Jessaline say softly, ‘You looked really good together. You know how people look when they’re somehow right for each other or – or something.’

  ‘He’s just a friend from my English tute, that’s all.’

  ‘Sorry. You don’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ Clara swung round. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. Honest.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll shut up. Shouldn’t be sticking my nose in, anyway. Promise me one thing, but.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you get married –’

  ‘Jessaline!’ Clara should have felt cross. Instead, she giggled like a Year 7 and Jessaline giggled too. ‘When you get married, bags I make the wedding cake.’

  After Jessaline had gone, Clara stayed at the window, looking down on the ocean of city lights. Lonnie’s light was far out in the smoky golden haze where the edge of the city rolled on to the darkness of the hills.

  Was he thinking of her?

  Yes, he was, she sensed it. At this very moment he would be gazing from his window on the first floor of Mrs Rasmussen’s Boarding House for Gentlemen (which Clara was determined to see one day) winging his thoughts in the direction of Mercer Hall.

  Quite suddenly an image of her mother’s face intruded on Clara’s thoughts. She heard Mum saying, ‘You won’t believe this, Clara, but on clear days I can actually see your hall of residence from our front porch; I suppose it’s because our house is on top of a hill. Now I look for it every morning when I go out to fetch the paper. And I say to your dad, ‘You can see Clara’s place today.’

  Mum wanted to see this room. Clara knew it, even though her mother hadn’t actually asked. She could read it in her face, on those occasions when they had coffee together in town. Mum wanted to see her daughter’s private perfect place; she wanted to sit in Clara’s chair and drink from Clara’s mug, like Goldilocks in The Three Bears. And though she loved her mother dearly, Clara wasn’t letting her, not – not yet. It was too soon, too short a time since she’d left home. She had to get over all that family stuff before Mum could come here. And Dad was never coming.

  Her gaze swivelled westwards towards the suburb where her parents lived. She glanced at her watch: 10.35. She knew what they’d be doing. The same thing they did every night at this time: sitting on the sofa watching Lateline, poor Mum struggling to make conversation, Dad sitting stonily silent, listening to her try. ‘Oh Mum,’ whispered Clara, pressing her forehead against the cold glass of the window. ‘Mum!’ With a sudden savage tug she pulled the curtains across and shut the city from view.

  18

  ROSE MAKES A STAND

  Clara was mistaken: her mother wasn’t watching Lateline on the sofa in company with Clara’s dad. She had been for the first ten minutes, but when she’d ventured a comment on the programme and Charlie hadn’t answered . . . Rose had coolly said, ‘Goodnight,’ and left him sitting there. She hadn’t even asked if he wanted a cup of tea. She’d marched upstairs to the bathroom, filled the tub to brimming and poured in half a bottle of the Juniper bath oil Clara had given her for Christmas. She’d been saving it. For what? For tonight, it seemed.

  Rose had never walked away from Charlie before, when he’d been sulking. She was one of those mild quiet people who drea
ded arguments, who liked to keep the peace, and she wasn’t sure why, this evening, she’d finally made a stand. Unless it had something to do with that young woman who’d read the 10.30 news tonight. She’d reminded Rose of Clara, of a certain expression Clara had sometimes, her eyes looking out at you sternly from beneath her glossy fringe.

  Clara had hated the way her father sometimes wouldn’t answer when her mother spoke to him. ‘Mum!’ she would say quite bossily to Rose. ‘Mum, how can you put up with that?’

  ‘It’s nothing, darling,’ Rose would always reply. ‘Your father’s simply tired.’

  ‘Tired? Rude, more like.’

  ‘Darling, you know he gets tired from work.’

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘I only work four days a week.’

  ‘And on the fifth you’re running around shopping and washing, and doing housework – and what about the food? What about the way he complains about everything you make? You’re such a good cook, Mum, and yet everything you make, it’s –’ here Clara had twisted her features into her father’s sulky scowl, ‘What’s this?’ she growled. ‘What’s this stuff, Rose? Are you trying to poison me?’

  Rose had giggled.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Mum.’

  ‘Your dad had a very sad childhood, Clara. His parents never really understood him. They were old.’

  Clara had wrinkled her nose and Rose had no trouble guessing what she was thinking. Old? Weren’t all parents old? Wasn’t that the defining feature of a parent? ‘He was a late child,’ Rose had told her daughter. ‘His mother was forty-five when he was born, and his dad was well into his fifties. They were more like grandparents, really. It was sad. Do you know, they actually had him wearing a suit when he was only three?’

  ‘Mum, having ancient parents is simply no excuse.’

  ‘It makes you into a certain kind of person, darling.’

  ‘A person who acts like a pig, who takes his miseries out on other people –’ Clara had paused for breath, and then said, ‘Mum, what about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You’re the one who had bad things happen in your childhood. Your parents died when you were seventeen, you were left all alone, you –’