I don’t know if I smiled or not. But I didn’t cry. I never do and I never will. The whole thing only took about ten minutes. The man with the bow tie was some kind of marriage celebrant, so he did it all, and Dad and Lynette said sterile things to each other like, ‘Our love is as strong as the mountains, as wide as the sky, as old as time.’ That’s about the only sentence I really heard and it nearly made me vomit. I didn’t dare look at Chloe but I think she’d stopped crying. I just looked at the floor.
Then we drank champagne, the bloke with the bow tie went, and Dad took us to The Almond Tree for lunch. Then he gave Chloe heaps of money for us to go out to dinner and do anything we wanted afterwards, and he and Lynette went off to the Hotel Winchester for the night, for their honeymoon.
But Chloe and I, the original party animals, didn’t feel like going anywhere. We just came back here and watched TV for a bit. Then, on impulse, I rang Rhys. And to my surprise he came over straight away. It was good to see him. We went up to my room and as soon as I closed the door he said, ‘What’s wrong?’ So I told him. It was funny, I didn’t tell him about Dad and Lynette, like I thought I would. Instead I found myself telling him about the terrible time in my room here, that night over a year ago. It seems strange, thinking about it now, as if the pain has gone and it’s just a story—even though it’s still uncomfortable to remember it. I didn’t go into all the gruesome details, how night after night I’d been there on my own, because Dad was always out and Chloe was staying with the Barbers. It was the first holidays since Mum and Dad had separated and I missed ‘Connewarre’ so badly. Finally, without really thinking about it, I swallowed Dad’s tranquillisers. I’d just had enough. I didn’t want to fight any more. I couldn’t think of anything to live for, and there didn’t seem to be any hope of things improving, so I took them.
I read somewhere how when people jump off the tops of buildings or bridges to kill themselves, the ones who survive say that as soon as they jump they start wishing they hadn’t, thinking that they’ve given up too easily. I think now that I’m glad I survived. But I didn’t think that then.
Anyway—I did tell Rhys this bit—the big joke was that no-one ever knew what I’d done. I slept for about 24 hours, woke up feeling the worst I’ve ever felt, and no-one even noticed. It took me ages to work out what day it was—that was bad, switching the TV from channel to channel, trying to match the shows with the TV guide. I guess Dad must have come home late, gone to bed, gone out early in the morning, came home again the next day, and by then I’d been up for a few hours. I even had dinner ready for him. Can’t remember what I cooked but I’m sure it was nice.
Later on, before I went to stay at Mum’s, I put some vitamin tablets in his tranquilliser bottle. I hope they gave him some good nights’ sleep.
Rhys was pretty shocked I think. I don’t blame him for that—I’ve been in permanent shock for a year about it. But he was good. He said I have to stop being so strong and admit that there are times when I need help. He made me promise to ring him if I ever feel like offing myself again. He said he sees the counsellor at his school sometimes, when things get too much, ’cos of course his family’s pretty stuffed.
Doesn’t he realise I’m Superwoman?
Nice guy though.
We talked for hours. He went about one thirty, then I started writing this. It’s three o’clock now and I don’t seem able to stop. It’s funny, I haven’t read this Journal back since I started, apart from the occasional browse. But I remember how at the start I thought it was such an annoying idea. Especially when I realised Mr L wasn’t going to be reading them—I couldn’t see the point, even though I realised later some people had arranged for him to read theirs. I’ve changed my mind quite a bit since then, I admit. I suppose it’s the way schools make you, that you don’t know whether your work is worth anything until a teacher tells you it’s OK or not. Especially with things you write. So different to life on ‘Conne’ where you noticed something that needed doing and you did it and you knew by the end whether you’d done a poor job, a good job or a great job.
But, overall I’m glad I kept this Journal. I just counted and found that I’ve written in it about 120 times. That’s quite a lot. It’s helped me, I think. I understand myself better now, and I understand Mum and Dad and Chloe and Marina and Cathy and Kate and Sophie better. I’m slowly getting used to the idea that I’ve lost ‘Connewarre’ and that Mum and Dad have split up for good (Dad certainly proved that today). Writing about those things has been good for me.
There are two things I’ve found very hard to think about, let alone write about though. One’s the magazine article about Mrs Aston and Miranda that I showed Mum—seems like years ago now. Boy that was a dumb thing to do. ‘Gee Mum, how come Mrs Aston doesn’t come and stay any more? Doesn’t her daughter look like Chloe? Isn’t that funny?’
Yeah, real funny Lisa.
The other thing’s those tablets. It scares me to think I could have done that.
When I’m older I’d like to have some kind of job with people who feel like they’re stuck on a roundabout, no hope of things working out. Be a counsellor or something. Help them to realise that those sick awful feelings might end—’cos you think they’ll go on forever, even though they don’t.
Well, now, somehow, I’ve got to get used to the idea of Dad being married to Lynette. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I think it’s more than their being married, though. It’s getting used to Dad being so irresponsible and immature. I hate using those words about him, but they’re true. It’s not all that long since he was my biggest hero. He could do no wrong. I’ve learnt a lot the last couple of years. Guess it’s called growing up.
I wish I could believe that Lynette’ll help Dad grow up.
It’s four o’clock. Chloe must have gone to bed hours ago—it’s all quiet down her end. I might ask her to come with me to the movies or something tomorrow. We need to be friends, not just sisters. Today proved that.
What’s become of poor old Lisa
Why’s she sitting up a tree sir?
Won’t she wave to you or me sir?
Can she see what we can’t see sir?
Maybe I should wave a bit more often. ‘No man is an island.’ We did that in English. No woman either.
Oh well, time to catch some Z’s. Goodnight Ms Journal, my good friend.
Learn great new writing skills, with John Marsden
You are invited to spend a few days with John Marsden at one of Australia’s most beautiful properties.
The Tye Estate is just 25 minutes from Melbourne’s Tullamarine Airport, and is perfectly set up for writing camps and other activities.
Every school holidays, John takes writing and drama camps, where you can improve your skills, make new friends, expand your thinking, and have a huge heap of fun.
Accommodation is modern and comfortable; meals are far removed from the shepherd’s pie they gave you at your last school camp, and supervision is by friendly and experienced staff.
Between the workshops with John, you can explore 850 acres of spectacular bush, looking out for rare and highly endangered species like Tiger Quolls and Powerful Owls, as well as koalas, platypuses, wedgetail eagles, kangaroos and wallabies.
Mountain bikes, bushwalking, orienteering, and a picnic at nearby Hanging Rock, are among the highlights of your memorable stay at the Tye Estate.
School groups in term time are also welcome.
For details, write to:
The Tye Estate
RMB 1250
ROMSEY
VICTORIA 3434
Or fax: (61) 03 54 270395
Phone: (61) 03 54 270384
Other books by John Marsden for older readers
John Marsden
Letters from the Inside
Dear Tracey
I don’t know why I’m answering your ad, to be honest. It’s not like I’m into pen pals, but it’s a boring Sunday here, wet, everyone’s out, and I thought it’d be something
different . . .
Dear Mandy
Thanks for writing. You write so well, much better than me. I put the ad in for a joke, like a dare, and yours was the only good answer . . .
Two teenage girls. An innocent beginning to friendship. Two complete strangers who get to know each other a little better each time a letter is written and answered.
Mandy has a dog with no name, an older sister, a creepy brother, and some boy problems. Tracey has a horse, two dogs and a cat, an older sister and brother, and a great boyfriend. They both have hopes and fears . . . and secrets.
‘John Marsden’s Letters from the Inside is, in a word, unforgettable. But this epistolary novel deserves more than one word. It is absolutely shattering as it brings to vivid life two teenage girls and then strangles your heart over what happens to their relationship . . . John Marsden is a major writer who deserves world-wide acclaim’
ROBERT CORMIER
John Marsden
The Great Gatenby
Maybe deep down every kid knows his parents want him to be the Pride of the School, the Captain of the Cricket and Tennis and Rowing and Darts and Knitting and anything else that’s going down.
They don’t want to know that you’ve had more detentions than any other new student in the history of the school, that you’re going out with a girl who doesn’t wear a bra to PE, and that the Head Swimming Coach is some kind of Nazi whose last job was training the shark in Jaws.
Erle Gatenby has been sent to boarding school to straighten out, but there’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of his giving up smoking . . . or drinking . . . or falling through the Art Room roof.
Erle’s a full tank of petrol and wild, sexy Melanie Tozer is about to light the match.
John Marsden
For Weddings and a Funeral
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight and the ripened grain,
I am the gentle Autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning hush,
I am the swift upflinging rush
of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
(‘Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep’ by Anonymous)
John Marsden has collected 100 very special poems. Poems to entertain, inspire and move you to tears.
A book to take with you, wherever you go in your life.
John Marsden
Checkers
She has parents, a brother, friends and a dog.
Sometimes the dog seems like the only one she can trust.
Her life is about to fall apart.
The dog is Checkers.
The book is unforgettable.
Praise for Checkers:
‘ . . . a terribly moving book . . . a subject that hasn’t been written about much in children’s literature . . . for anyone from ages fourteen to eighty-five’
BOOKSHOW
‘ . . . shattering . . .’
WEST AUSTRALIAN
‘ . . . intense . . .’
SUNDAY AGE
‘ . . . a wonderful story teller . . .’
GOLD COAST BULLETIN
‘ . . . heart-wrenching . . .’
HERALD SUN
John Marsden
Dear Miffy
‘You can squeeze my lemon, baby, juice runs down my legs.’
Sex, I can’t stop thinking about it but. It’s like the best sweetest torture ever invented. It tears you apart but you wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s the drug you never try to give up . . .
Tony writes letters.
To Miffy.
And breaks your heart.
Is there something wrong when your main ambition in life is to be dead?
John Marsden
The Tomorrow Series
‘The feeling of reality you bring into your work is extraordinary. It makes you feel as if you are running along the dangerous streets with Ellie, tense and alert, about to blow up a bridge, or a couple of houses, or waiting quietly inside a container in the bottom of a ship, about to do the biggest thing of your life.’
KIM, MOUNT GAMBIER
‘We have bags under our eyes thanks to your books, because we can’t put them down long enough to sleep!’
COURTNEY & DIANNA, YORKETOWN
Readers across Australia are unanimous: this is the greatest series ever published in this country.
Seven books charged with high emotion, drama, action and even a dash of romance.
When you open the first page of Tomorrow, When the War Began you’ll enter a world that’ll change you forever.
A world of danger, risks, challenge and self-discovery.
A world that will stay with you, through all the years of your life.
Tomorrow, When the War Began is the first of the Tomorrow Series, and is followed by The Dead of the Night, The Third Day, the Frost, Darkness, Be My Friend, Burning for Revenge and The Night is for Hunting. The final in the Tomorrow Series will be published in October 1999.
PRAISE FOR THE TOMORROW SERIES:
‘ . . . compulsively readable’
NEW YORK TIMES
‘ . . . without a doubt the best series for younger readers that an Australian writer has ever produced’
DAILY ADVERTISER
‘ . . . makes for reading as exciting, disturbing, provocative, as we have had for many years’
JUNIOR BOOKSHELF (UK)
‘Like ancient myths, the stories confront the purpose of life, death, betrayal, killing, love, hate, revenge, selflessness, sacrifice and, in the most recent book, faith’
THE AGE
John Marsden, Take My Word for It
(Series: # )
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