Letters from the Inside (11 page)

Item 2: Adam Tisdall continues to be item no. 1 with me. I saw him every day when I was working at the hospital, and I’m seeing him again tomorrow, and we’re going to some nightclub next weekend (my parents don’t know yet, but).

Item 3: The dog just broke one of Mum’s favourite plates — he jumped against the table, trying to catch a fly, so his life expectancy’s now been cut by fifty per cent.

Item 4: Steve was actually nice to me today — he bought me Aphrodite’s first album,
Anodyne Necklace,
because he saw it on special at Tozers’, and he knew I wanted it. I just about passed out.

So that’s the state of my life right now. What you read is what you get. Kindly write back.

Yours faithfully (you better believe it),

Mandy

Oct 3

Mandy, something fantastic’s happened. It’s so good I’m pinching myself. I can’t even write it down in case it goes away. I’ll write to you tomorrow.

Love,

Tracey

PS: Thanks for the letter.

Oct 5

Dear Mandy,

Well, you better keep all our letters kiddo, and get ready to sell them for a fortune in a few years ’cos I’m gonna be famous! (And not like I was before, either.) You remember that essay? ‘Keep on Goin’ till it all stops Flowin’?’ Well, our English tutor, Mrs McKinnon, put it in a competition, like she said she would. And it won! She told me Wednesday, but I wouldn’t believe it till the letter came today. You get $500 (not that that’s much good to me in here), and a set of books (not much good either) and the best of all, the story gets published in a book that’s coming out next year. Can you believe it? I can’t. And what I like is they don’t know I’m in Garrett — Mrs McKinnon used the post-office box — so it’s no charity deal. They would have thought I was just anyone.

So, guess I’d better let you read it now, after all that. Here goes:

KEEP ON GOIN’TILL IT ALL STOPS FLOWIN’

‘Where are we today, Nanna?’ I asked.

She looked at me with her tired, confused eyes. ‘Don’t be silly Jan,’ she said, ‘And don’t you go running off. I’ve got a lot of shopping to do, and I want to catch the four o’clock bus. You can help carry the bags.’

The only trouble was, we weren’t at the shops and my name isn’t Jan. Jan was my aunt, and she died years ago.

I visited Nanna every day and sat by her bed for hours, talking to her. I don’t think she understood much of it. One minute, according to her, we were watching TV at home; the next minute she’d be getting me ready for school (only she thought I was my mother); then a bit later we’d be at next door’s having coffee.

Nanna wasn’t really in any of these places. She was in hospital. She’d been knocked over by a kid on a bike and had broken her hip. She’d had an operation, but when she woke up it was like her mind had gone away. Every day was the same: she never seemed to improve.

One afternoon I was sitting there when the doctor came to look at her. He talked to me while he was doing it.

‘She could go on like this for a long time,’ he said. ‘It’s like everything’s gone from her, but her body’s still alive. Her heart’s beating on. The machine’s running but the factory’s closed.’

I thought it was cruel of him to talk about Nanna like that in front of her, but I guess she didn’t understand.

When Nanna stopped eating, I started making deals with God. ‘If you get her to eat again, I’ll give up smoking,’ I said. The next day I checked with the nurse when I got there.

‘Yes, she’s been a good girl today’ she said. ‘She just had a sandwich and a cup of soup.’

So I quit smoking.

A few nights later I was riding home on the bus, after seeing Nanna. She’d been hopeless — talking to her own reflection in the mirror, raving about men trying to pick her up. I don’t think she even knew I was in the room. It was depressing. So I made another deal. ‘If you let her recognize me then I’ll stop jigging school.’

That was Friday. On Sunday I’d been in there about half an hour when suddenly she opened her eyes and said, in her normal clear voice: ‘Hello Tracey honey, how long have you been here?’

‘Only a few minutes,’ I said. ‘You were asleep.’

We talked for about ten minutes before she dozed off. She knew where she was, she knew what had happened to her, she was asking about everyone and how they were going. The only time she got confused was when she thought Poppa was still alive.

Round about this time of my life I’d been getting involved with a guy called Blue, and his mates. They didn’t have a very good reputation, and that’s putting it mildly. They were a lot older than me and they all had bikes, big ones. They were a gang I guess. So there was a lot of pressure on me to keep away from them — I had counsellors, teachers, even friends, telling me not to get involved.

So I made my final deal with God.

‘Make Nanna get better and I’ll drop Blue.’

Nanna died five days later, while I was holding her hand. The same doctor was there when it happened. ‘Everything stops eventually’ he said. ‘There’s no need to cry.’

I wasn’t crying. Blue and his mates were heading north next day. I went with them, riding on the back of Blue’s BM. We had a lot of laughs.

Well, that’s it. Pretty crappy hey?

See you

    Love,

Trace

PS: This is the only thing I’ve ever won. Funny I had to come in here to win something.

October 8

Trace, what’s happened? Don’t do this to me! Write back IMMEDIATELY, OK? God, I hope it’s something really good. Your note drove me crazy! There’d better be something in the mail tomorrow! Gotta rush. Love,    
M.

October 10

Dear Trace,

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Could you hear me screaming, even from inside A Block? You must have! I was more excited than if I’d won it myself! But seriously, you must have known you’d win. The story was so fantastic, it couldn’t have lost. It made me cry — you sure can write.

When does this book come out exactly? I can’t wait. I’ll buy heaps of copies and give them to everyone and say: ‘I know this person! I know her! Someone famous!’ Hope it’s a paperback, so I can afford it.

How come the money’s no good to you in Garrett? Aren’t you allowed any money? God, they must be strict.

I’m not game to ask how much of the story’s true. Well, I am game. How much of the story’s true? But you don’t have to answer if you don’t want. Actually you’re pretty good at not answering things you don’t want to — I’ve asked about your family before and so far you’ve managed to tell me exactly zero.

Wish I had anything exciting to tell you, but life’s dull here. I sure haven’t won anything. This is the third day back. Do you realize well be in Year 11 after this term? I feel like I’ve only just started high school. They say the jump from Year 10 to Year 11 is bigger than the jump from 11 to 12. Well, we’ll soon find out.

I’m still with Adam but Cheryl’s having a rocky time with Justin. Rebecca’s got glandular, not badly, but she’s not back yet. I’m going to Mai Huynh’s tonight to help with her English. Pity you aren’t here — you could take over the teaching. This’ll be the first time I’ve met her parents — it’ll be interesting.

Well, Trace, I gotta tell you, I’m fair dinkum rapt about your story. You could be bigger than Virginia Andrews. Actually you write a lot better than Virginia Andrews. So, keep on goin ‘till it all stops flowin’, OK? Love you heaps,

Mandy

Oct 12

Dear Mandy

Thanks a lot for your letter. You are good to tell things to. But winning this thing hasn’t been that great. I didn’t tell anyone here, but Mrs McKinnon did. And somehow it gave some of the hacks and even some of the slags — that’s us — the idea that I was going soft. OK, yeah, it’s like you said in your letter. So they started brown-nosing round. And I had to put on an act to let them know I was as big a bitch as ever. So now I’m on PS — Punishment Sheets — and I nearly got worse.

PS (Pure Shit) means you scrub floors and clean toilets and stuff. It can be slack or bad, depending on who’s on. Today was Mrs Neumann, and she’s bad news. She hates my guts. So every job I did, it was like, ‘Do it again.’ No reasons, no explanation, just ‘Do it again.’ I’m stuffed tonight. And at the end she said, ‘Now try writing a story about PS.’ Really sarcastic.

A few months ago she came into the common room. It was Saturday afternoon and we were having our big thrill, our hour of TV. She said she had a phone message for me. We’re not allowed to take calls, but people can leave messages if there’s a special reason. I put out my hand for it without looking at her, and she cracked. Started screaming about how the trouble with me was that I didn’t know my place, and how she was going to teach it to me. She was saying I thought I was King Dick and everything. She said if I wanted the message I had to kneel down. I sat there for about three minutes, then I did it. No-one’ll ever know what it cost me to do that. But Mandy, I’d been in here six months, and no contact from anyone, except your letters. So I did it. Even though it was in front of the others, I still did it.

But that wasn’t enough. She was loving it. No-one was watching TV any more — they were watching me. She said, ‘Hands and knees Tracey.’ Then she ripped off a few more comments about teaching me my place. I was still kneeling, and she said again, ‘Get on your hands and knees if you want it.’