Aisha folded the drape. The bundle looked clumsy, misshapen.
‘Trace always makes up the surgical kits so beautifully. And I have no bloody idea how she does it.’
Connie laughed. ‘Yeah, she always says you vets are bloody hopeless. Don’t worry, I know how to make them up.’
Aisha winked. ‘Sweetheart, you’ve been wonderful today. I really appreciate it.’ She gently flicked a blonde lock away from Connie’s eye. ‘It’s not embarrassing to feel things strongly. It’s nothing to be ashamed of that you get so indignant and mad about what adults can do. That’s one of the great things about being young. It just becomes a problem if you let that indignation become self-righteousness.’
Was that her problem? Was she self-righteous? What exactly did it mean? She was unsure of its definition but it sounded like it fitted her. She didn’t like it. It sounded a heavy word, too big a weight to carry.
‘But I don’t think you need to worry about that at all.’
Aisha dropped her off at Rosie’s. It was just after five in the afternoon. The front door to the house was open and Connie walked through the hall, past the kitchen, through the lean-to sunroom that always seemed to smell damp—even in the height of a dry summer—and into the backyard. Richie was stretched out on the grass, and he grinned, then winked, when he saw her. Hugo was crouching in the untidy vegetable patch, half-hidden amongst the tall shoots of the broad beans. He ignored her.
‘What are you guys doing?’ She sat next to Richie on the grass. His black Eminem sweatshirt was pulled tight across his torso and she could see a glimpse of his chalk-white flat stomach. There was a thatch of sparse copper-coloured curls disappearing underneath his trousers. She was tired and felt like snapping at him, I don’t want to look at your pubes, mate. Confused, a little sickened, she turned her attention to the boy.
‘Come on, Huges, what you doing?’
‘He’s looking for money.’
‘Is there buried treasure?’ Hugo did not even bother answering her stupid question. He made his disdain obvious by a click of the tongue.
‘I threw some coins in the vegie patch. Hugo’s looking for them.’ Richie rolled over onto his stomach and looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the subdued winter sun. ‘Was it awful?’
‘Nah. It was okay.’ Connie closed her eyes, leaned back and felt the last warmth of the dying sun on her face and arms. She could still smell the clinic on her: the sharp chemical bite of the cleaning fluids, the musty carnal smell of cats and dogs. In a few hours she would have to be ready for the party. She wanted a long, long extravagant hot shower.
‘You coming to the party?’
Richie nodded, bored. He turned over again onto his back. There was an excited squeal and Hugo emerged from the vegie patch with a gold dollar coin in his hand.
‘Found it,’ he exclaimed.
‘Thanks, buddy. I’ll have it.’
Hugo ignored Richie. He pocketed the coin and ran to his yellow and green soccer ball. ‘Kick to kick,’ he announced.
The teenagers glanced quickly at one another.
‘Kick to kick,’ Hugo insisted, a little louder.
Richie yawned and shook his head. ‘I’m tired, Huges, you can play with Connie.’
She nearly hit him. She was the one who had been working. But she began to rise.
Hugo pouted. ‘No. She’s a girl. I want to play with you.’
Connie, grinning, fell back on the grass and stuck her tongue out at Richie. ‘You heard him, you’re the boy. You have to play with him.’
She lay in the setting sun, her eyes shut, listening to the thud-thud of the ball being kicked between the boy and the teenager. She had fallen in love with Melbourne when she experienced her first late autumn in the city, when the bitter cold was kept at bay by the determined effort of the hardy antipodean sun. The English sun was weak. She didn’t have to open her eyes, she knew Richie and Hugo were there, that they were safe in the garden. This was like they were married, she thought, like Hugo was their child, this backyard was theirs and they were a family. Maybe this would be what the future would be like. Of course, Richie couldn’t be her husband. She couldn’t imagine a husband. Not if Hector couldn’t be it. She heard Hugo laugh and then there was a sharp pain in her side as the ball slammed into her. It stung.
‘You bastards.’
The boys cracked up, laughing hysterically at her outrage. She ran to Hugo, grabbed him, all writhing arms and legs, and carried him over to the pond. A large goldfish was lazily gulping at the surface of the water. At their shadow, it flicked into the murky deep and vanished from sight.
‘I’m going to drop you in.’
‘No,’ screamed the boy, his legs thrashing furiously.
‘Say sorry.’
‘No!’
‘Say it.’
‘No!’
‘In you go.’
She then held him tight and kissed him, and he placed his arms around her neck. He put his lips to her ear and whispered, I’m sorry. His skin was warm and sweaty, the sweetness of breast-milk coupled with a faint trace of earth. She rubbed her face in his hair.
‘It looks like someone’s had a great afternoon.’
Hugo released his grip, she lowered him to the ground and he rushed over to his mother, who scooped him into her arms. Rosie sat on one of the abandoned kitchen chairs that were scattered across the backyard, their once bright red vinyl now faded to a light pink. Hugo dived for her chest, and Rosie gave him her breast.
Richie was still playing with the soccer ball, kicking it from his foot to his head, from his head to his knee and back onto his foot. Hugo dropped his mother’s nipple and watched the older boy.
‘Teach me,’ he called out to Richie, who beckoned him over. The boy dropped out of his mother’s arms and ran to the older boy.
‘I think I’ve been usurped.’ Rosie fixed her bra. ‘Probably a good thing. You want some tea, sweetheart?’
‘It’s alright, I’ll go make it.’ She called out to Richie. ‘Do you want a drink?’ The older boy shook his head. He was trying to get Hugo to kick straight. The younger boy, frustrated, couldn’t coordinate his movements. Richie was patiently allowing him to fail and try again. Fail, and try again. Connie’s friend was good with kids. They both were.
The blind was drawn in the kitchen and the room was dark and cool. That morning’s dishes were still piled up on the sink. Connie switched on the kitchen light and then turned on the kettle. She could hear the boys playing, heard Rosie laugh, encouraging her son. Connie slipped into the lounge room and walked over to the bookshelf. Guiltily she glanced behind her, trying to ignore the ugly clown on the wall, and she pulled out the photo album. She flicked through the photographs, the young adults at the beach. She just wanted one more look. A blank rectangle stared out at her. The photograph of Hector was gone.
She felt light-headed and suddenly cold. It was exactly like a dream. She found herself pouring the boiling water into the teapot. When had the kettle whistled? When had she walked back into the kitchen? She heard Richie’s laughter and felt rage run through her. She was silent as she handed the teacup to Rosie.
‘Are you alright, Con?’
‘Just tired. It was a long day at work.’
‘Aish loves you, you do know that? She trusts you. She’s told me she thinks you’d make a brilliant vet.’
Connie could not make sense of her emotions. The fury at her friend, the guilt. It felt toxic, like she had to try hard to get clean air into her lungs. The day that only minutes before had seemed so perfect, was spoilt, soiled. She hated herself and she hated Richie.
She gulped her tea too quickly, scalding her tongue. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Richie handballed the soccer ball to Hugo. ‘Home time for me, buddy.’
Hugo started to wail. She wanted to be out of the house, away from boys and their stupid babyish ball games. Richie had dropped to his knees and was trying to calm the crying boy.
‘We’ll
play again, little man. In a few days.’ Richie smiled over to her. ‘Won’t we Connie?’
She wanted to say, Nah, I’ve got to study. I’ve got no time. If you want to play with Hugo then you fucking arrange it on your own. She remained silent.
Hugo wiped his eyes. ‘You promise.’
‘I promise.’ Hugo clasped his arms tight around the older boy, then he ran over to Connie.
‘Promise.’
She hesitated. His blue eyes were looking straight at her. She grabbed him, kissed him. ‘Promise.’
He was sweating. He smelt of boy, he smelt like Richie.
They walked across the park. She was deliberately silent, her face hard, but Richie did not seem to notice. He was humming beside her. It was really shitting her.
‘Stop that.’
‘What?’
‘You’re so off-tune.’
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Fuck you too.’
She stopped in the middle of the path. A young man with prickly short, grey hair, a half-dozen or so rings looped around his right ear, rock star looks and poise, was wheeling a pram, a little girl skipping at his side holding his hand. She was chatting away to him, something about school, and Connie stepped aside as they passed. Richie had turned around, was watching the man casually stroll away.
That would be right. He was such a fag.
Richie turned to her. His smile was gone. ‘What’s wrong, Con?’
She couldn’t speak. He came up to her and placed an arm around her shoulder. She punched it away.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘You took the photo, didn’t you?’
His face went pale, then a deep rose shade, a blush that seeped down to his neck. He let out a silly weak whistle, like a frightened bird. She wanted to slap him.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He was a fucking liar.
‘You took the photo.’ She had no doubt about it. He was guilty and he was gutless. He’d lied to her. She resumed walking up the path, her strides long and furious. He tried to keep pace with her.
‘Connie, what have I done?’
She refused to answer. Her eyes moistened and she pinched her palms, determined not to cry. But she couldn’t stop it, the dumb tears fell. Richie grabbed her arm and she struggled against him. He tightened his grip.
‘If you don’t let go of me I’m going to scream.’
They were at the edge of the park, the station across the road from them was lit by the strong glare of the streetlights on Hoddle Street. A train was coming through. Richie, his grip still tight on her arm, glanced right and then rushed them across the road, onto the traffic island. She thought of kicking him, then rushing off. But she was crying now and her body seemed listless, lacking all energy. Richie waited for a break in the traffic and they hurried across to the other side. He dragged her under the railway bridge, pushed her through the gap in the fence and across the railway lines. She could hear the train coming and thought for a moment, I’m going to trip and I’m going to get killed by the train. He’ll have to watch all of it. It will be his fault and he’ll have to live with it all his life. She had a flash of the funeral, his distraught, panicked face. It would serve him right if he killed her. He pulled her up on the embankment and sat her on an old bluestone and sat down next to her. Her arm hurt from where he had tugged at her. The train thundered past, and they watched it slow down as it approached the station.
She turned to him, ready to yell at him, that she hated him, and noticed that he too was crying. She was suddenly terrified. She wanted to make it better, to stop the confusion of shame and fear and sadness that overwhelmed her. She wanted to take back the last half-hour. She wanted to be back in the garden with him again, outstretched to the sun, listening to the laughter and the bounce of the ball. She gulped and then started to really cry, her body heaved and rocked on the bluestone. Scared, Richie placed an arm around her. She wanted to make it better, she wanted it all to make sense.
‘Hector raped me.’
The words were muffled by her sobs and she had to repeat them. Shocked, Richie dropped his arm from around her, then brought his hand awkwardly back up again, to comfort her. Her sobbing calmed. It was like being in a movie. Like she was floating above both of them, looking down, directing the action.
‘When?’ Richie looked stricken; he had turned pale. ‘How, I mean . . .’ He hesitated, swallowed and tried again. ‘Tell me what happened, Con.’
She was suddenly confused. She didn’t want to say any more. She didn’t want questions, hadn’t anticipated them.
She drew a shuddering breath. ‘About a year ago. He gave me a lift home from work. It was in his car.’ As she started to speak, she could suddenly fantasise the whole memory. She just let the words rush out. It was last winter, it was pouring outside. He’d come to pick up Aish and then offered me a lift home as well. He dropped her off first and then said he’d take me home. Except he drove to the boat-house, parked there and started to kiss me. I wanted to scream but he had his hand over my mouth. His hands were on her legs, then up her cunt. He was suddenly inside her. It had hurt but she couldn’t scream. She should have bitten his hand. She wished she had bitten his hand. She didn’t know why she hadn’t. He had fucked her and it had hurt. He was kissing her neck and breasts. He had come and he had lit a cigarette afterwards. His zip was still undone. Her panties were still around her knees. She was bleeding. But she had asked for a cigarette. He had told her that he loved her. He had said that if she told anyone that would be the end of him and Aish. He kept telling her he loved her. She had told him that if it ever happened again she would go straight to the police. She told him he was a bastard. She told him that she hated him.
‘He kept saying, I love you. Over and over. It was sick.’ Richie’s hand—hot, sweaty—was covering hers. The girl above them, the girl watching it all, the girl directing the movie, it had happened to that girl. It was real.
Connie wanted to pull her hand from under Richie’s, but didn’t know how to. The boy was the first to take his hand away and she sighed in relief.
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No. I can’t. I don’t want Aish to know.’
‘She should know.’
He couldn’t say anything. He mustn’t say anything.
‘I can’t say a word to anyone. Just you.’ She was almost wailing, terrified now. ‘You can’t say a word to anyone, Rich, not a word, not fucking ever.’
The boy was silent.
She was panicking.
‘Rich, you have to promise. You have to. You have to.’ She was shouting. Hugo was like this when he wanted something he couldn’t get. Almost desperate. ‘You have to promise!’
‘I promise.’ It sounded like he was sulking.
‘Promise?’
His face was fearful, sad and confused. ‘I promise.’
They walked home hand in hand.
‘You look great.’
Connie grimaced at her aunt’s words. Their bathroom was tiny, an old alcove shoddily added to the main house, and the ruthless light from the overhead bulb above her seemed to accentuate every blemish on her skin. She pursed her lips and softly touched the freshly applied lipstick with the tip of her tongue. Tasha was standing in the doorway. Connie, her hair still wet from the shower, was in her underpants. She had slugged on an old gym sweater to keep warm.
‘No, I don’t. I look awful.’
Tasha laughed and came into the room, standing behind Connie. ‘I said you look beautiful and you do. What are you going to wear?’
‘My jeans. A T-shirt, I guess.’
‘I think you should dress up.’
‘Tash,’ Connie moaned. ‘It’s just a party.’
‘Exactly, it’s a party, probably the last party before exams and before you finish school. You’ve been working so hard, you deserve a big night. Save your jeans and T-shirt for when you get trashed at the e
nd of the year. I think you should dress up tonight.’
Connie examined her aunt’s reflection in the mirror. Tasha was wearing a floppy moth-eaten lime-green jumper and faded grey track-pants. She had no make-up on and her hair was loose, uncombed.
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘I’m staying in. Getting take-away and watching The Bill.’
Connie bit her bottom lip. The lipstick smeared and she gently rubbed at it. ‘That doesn’t sound like much fun.’
Tasha laughed. ‘Darling, believe me. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to all week.’
Connie didn’t believe her. She was sure Tasha would much prefer to be going out to a bar with friends, or maybe on a date. It had been a long time since her aunt had been on a date. Years. Connie turned and wrapped her arms around Tasha. The older woman, surprised, squeezed her niece tightly.
‘Thank you, Tasha.’ Connie’s words were muffled. Her face was covered in the light fleece of her aunt’s woollen jumper. It felt soft and warm, the bristles tickling her cheeks. It smelt of Tasha, her faintly apple-ciderish perfume, her tobacco. It smelled good.
‘Thank you for what?’
Connie couldn’t answer. Her father had said, from his hospital bed, just days before he slipped into his coma, in the weeks where he was slipping in and out of lucidity, You’ll love Tash. You’ll hate all the other cunts in my family, but you’ll love Tash.
It had not been exactly true. Neither of her grandparents, and no, not even her uncle could be described as ‘cunts’. There are other ‘C’ words, Dad. Conservative, contrary, maybe even a little cowardly; even now, they couldn’t speak words like AIDS or bisexual. Even now they couldn’t bring themselves to say who he had really been, how he had really died. But they certainly weren’t ‘cunts’.
‘I didn’t hear you, angel.’
‘Thank you for looking after me. Thank you for putting your life on hold.’ Even as she said the words she knew her aunt would be furious. She knew she was being self-pitying, that she was seeking assurance that she was loved. She knew all this but still said the words. She wanted to be held, to be assured.