Lilian's Story (6 page)

Miss Gash's house behind its jungle was a challenge to anyone with courage. Under the plumbago, the stolen tile was propped up on a rock. When I wet a corner of pinafore with spit and rubbed the tile, it was like a window in church. Even John stared and was silent.
You must not tell
anyone
, I said, because I wanted that triumph for myself.

Long to Reign Over Us

Joan of Arc was hurried over in the history book, being against the English, and Boadicea was just a witch in woad. Elizabeth, though, was the
perfect lady.
Miss Vine told us all about the red hair and the pearls and the men going on one knee before her. Judith, whose orange hair and enormous freckles were a nightmare she had to live with, blushed through her transparent skin and for a moment considered the possibility that she might be acceptable.
A regal head of auburn hair
, Miss Vine said, and her glance at Judith dismissed her red frizz.
Did she ever get married?
asked pale Anne, whose thoughts ran to marriage when they ran at all, and Miss Vine was haughty.
No, she did not.
Safe on her own finger was the diamond cluster chosen by Mr Eckstone.
Why didn't she?
Anne persisted, and Miss Vine ended the whole subject when she said,
She was a queen.

She was on steadier ground with Henry.
A man of
enormous vitality and eccentric tastes
, she read from the books. Someone asked,
What are eccentric tastes?
and Miss Vine thought for a while, turning the diamond cluster before she answered,
What kings enjoy.
Rick's voice was unctuous, imitating Anne's when he asked,
Was he married?
and Miss Vine frowned and then smiled.
Oh yes, he married six times.
There was a silence before someone whistled and everyone laughed in relief.

Miss Vine approved of Ursula's neat drawing of A Roman Invading Britain, and her maps of England with a red freckling of Major Towns and Their Products: a tiny not-quite-square lace handkerchief hovering over Nottingham, scissors about to cut Coventry in half. She was pleased to explain just why
the sun never sets on the British
Empire
and we did not shrink from the second verse of the Anthem. But she did not wish to
hold up the whole class
for questions such as mine.
What are knavish tricks, Miss Vine?
I asked, or,
When did they invent bathrooms?

On the boys' side of the room, Rick made a noise like a fart with a piece of the best-grade rubber his father manufactured, but that did not stop me wanting to know everything.
What is universal suffrage, Miss Vine?
I persisted, having seen it in Father's clippings, and she said,
That means
everyone can vote, Lilian. Who is grown up, of course
, she added, in case my next question concerned my own voting. That was not my next question, but she added again,
And the insane do
not vote, of course.
But I had other questions:
Why is it called
suffrage, Miss Vine? Does it hurt?
Miss Vine was exasperated at last.
Lilian, for heaven's sake!
She was sweating lightly under her ashes of violets, for it was a hot day and there were times when the children filled the classroom with their smell of bananas and ink, and there was not enough air for a person to breathe. Miss Vine had been brought up in Kent, and she hated the way birds in Australia laughed at a person from the tops of chimneys, and the way the sun brought the moisture out of a person. She decided it was time for stammering Gwen to read aloud.
Page fifty-three,
Gwen, under the picture.
Gwen could not be prevailed on to stand and read, nor would she read sitting down, and continued to shake the silky mouse-brown fringe that hid her face, and make tiny anguished gestures with her fingers until the bell rang for recess.

Poetry was Miss Vine's special pleasure. Her voice became creamy, and the poetry book trembled in her hand as she read “The Death of Arthur”.
But what did he die of,
exactly?
I had to ask. She waved her lace-edged hankie at me as if at one of those flies that love eyes.
Poetry, children, is
for people with souls
, she said, and called on Ursula to recite.

I drew my picture of the Lady of the Lake as a portrait of Miss Gash, but Miss Vine was scathing about the white face and red cheeks, the hat like a green blancmange, the parasol I had added with poetic licence.
I said to use your
imagination, Lilian, I did not say to use your sense of humour
, Miss Vine said and jabbed the clasp further into the French roll that clung like a sausage to the back of her head.

Pastoral

A child died of the snake that year.
Absolutely and unequivocally
out of bounds
, Mr. Pinnock repeated while our feet grew hot on the bitumen. The sun beat down so that a tiny shivering column of heat hung above each head. The school buildings were flimsy on such days, brittle with heat, the boards warping away from each other, lines of ants making inroads. The fence that separated the patch of bitumen from the overgrown orchard next door, where the grass was knee-high, could not be expected to keep much out, or in. I had not tried to resist the orchard and had one or two encounters there myself, and screamed once, thinking a stick underfoot would turn and strike. They were silent as they slithered away into the grass like black water. Nothing about them was beautiful except their speed through grass. Stumbling and panting, dripping from the nose as I tended to do when agitated, I myself was far from beautiful.

Mr. Pinnock was sweating and gesturing from the top step and had to shout above a derisive kookaburra. Flies could not resist his wet open mouth or his shining domed forehead, but he did not brush them away.
It is a matter of
will,
he shouted.
No child is to move. See, children, there is no need
to fuss about a few f lies
, and we did not move, fascinated by the flies crawling over that shining forehead and the one that was making its way up a cheek into his eye.

We all knew by heart the “Instructions in the Event of Snake-Bite”, printed in red on calico and tacked to the classroom wall. Two men with moustaches stared into the distance as one lay on his back, foreshortened dramatically, while the other knelt over his ankle with a tourniquet held tight in one hand and a knife in the other. “Step Three: Suck Out Venom” the caption said, but I did not believe it would be so easy.

Father's Fame

The orange peel I dropped on the ground at lunchtime never made an R. Usually it was a C or an S and it meant I would marry Charles or Samuel. Ursula's orange peel, and Anne's, and Judith's, never made an R either. It seemed we would all marry Charles or Samuel.

Although I would never marry him, Rick asked me questions in the dust. The palm tree in the middle of the schoolyard was polished blunt on its bumps from so many children, and was where Rick liked to question me. The palm threw shade, but far from me, where I stood under the blast of sun.
What's yer father do?
he shouted. Gary beside him picked at a scab on his chin and Kevin stared. Andy brought John over so that we stood together with our backs to the palm.
Writer
, I said, and John repeated,
Writer.
Rick had more questions but we had no more answers. He went away but came back.
My father says, what's yer father write?
and John and I each hoped the other might have an answer. John was silent behind his glasses.
Dirty books, I bet
, Rick said and a fleck of spit flew and landed on my pinafore. In my pockets my hands balled into sweating fists and I was breathing quickly, seeing John out of the corner of my eye take his glasses off and put them in their case in his pocket. Father had warned that he
could not be expected
to pay for another pair. Rick's mouth moved vaguely over more words. The tongue that flickered over his lips was the raspberry colour of a birthmark from the rainbow ball he was sucking.
Dirty books
, he repeated, then less certainly,
Smut. He writes smut.

After school there was another hot assembly in the yard, watching the flies crawl on Mr. Pinnock's face.
Until the child
who did this steps forward
, Mr. Pinnock repeated until even he forgot and slapped at a fly, and
the child who did this
had still not
stepped forward
, and finally when the shadows were long and hopeless across the yard, we were allowed to go.

John and I hurried through back lanes towards Rosecroft, pretending boldness. The stick I ran along the fences made a snarling sound and dogs were ferocious behind gates, but we knew it was no good. When Rick and Kevin appeared in front of us, waiting, and Andy and Gary closed in from behind, the air in the lane became thin. High paling fences were unfriendly on each side, the blank wooden gates did not offer any escape, and the dogs continued to bark. There was a smell of garbage and all those dunnies with the wooden flap soiled from the night man's fingers.

What do ya reckon?
Rick shouted, and the gang shouted back,
Yah!
The smell of the dunnies was making John pale and the barking was making my head ring. In this thin smelly sunlight, Rick's eyes were the green of bottle glass, his nose sharp. In his pocket he twanged his father's rubber bands as he spoke, as if accompanying himself on an exhausted lyre.
Yer father's a no-hoper
, he yelled.
And writes
dirty books.

I was a big girl, as rough as the boys and just as angry, and John was a boy of courage, though of little strength, but we were outnumbered and had no faith in victory among such smells of dunnies. Andy tried to swing me by my plait, but I used my bulk and knocked the wind out of him, feeling his ribs bend as I sat on him and yelled into his purple face. Rick grabbed John and twisted his arm behind his back until his face greyed. John's screams were shrill and made Kevin laugh, but we would not agree that Father wrote
smut.
They had me pinned now, three skinny boys smelling like socks, and my bulk heaving under them.
Say
he writes dirty books
, Rick yelled,
or I'll break his arm
. Although John squeezed his eyes closed, he could not stop us seeing the wet stain at his crotch. I did not betray Father, and Rick did not break John's arm, but pulled down his pants and laughed at the way he looked, worm-like in the sun.

I did not give in
, I reminded John as we came in sight of Rosecroft's fences.
We were not traitors to Father.
It was hard to know if John's face was full of admiration or reproach. We thought about Father and the beating I would get later.
Your father will have to deal with you
, Mother would say, and sigh. Where John's nose had bled, the striped school tie was stained, although his pants would be dry by the time we were home.
I do not care
, he said, but would not say what he did not care about, and practised being deaf until bedtime, and did not want to hear about my beating.

A Proud Boast

I have something historical
, I shouted at Rick,
that you do not know
about
, and he was stopped by my flushed triumphant face.
There are lots of them, and they are priceless
, I yelled, but Rick stared and then shrugged.
What ya yelling for, fat-face?
he said.
Think I can't hear ya?
I could not prevent myself laughing at the thought of the surprise he would get.
I will make the
whole picture
, I shrieked,
and then you will see.
Beside me, John tugged at my arm to make me stop before I said too much.
You will be sorry
, I satisfied myself by taunting, and allowed John to lead me away.
Lilian, do not shout like that
, Miss Vine said, passing on her lunchtime rounds.
You are a young lady,
remember, not an animal
, and I saw Rick behind her back mincing in imitation of a lady, but I did not care.

I will take them all
, I boasted to John later,
and make the
whole picture.
But the whole picture eluded me even after I had collected ten tiles and had some narrow escapes. I had several parts of feet and the whole frightening face of a bearded goat. There was a bunch of grapes and a flesh-coloured thing that I did not recognise no matter which way I held it up.

My narrow escapes alarmed me. I froze against the crate, hearing Miss Gash walk overhead, stop, and sing. Miss Gash's songs had words, but were not about
lilies
or
tranquil meadows
, as Mother's wavering songs were when she was in a good mood. Mother's voice quivered with feeling as she sang, sweetly but tunelessly, of the
gypsy
that I loved
or how she
pitched her lonely caravan at night.
Miss Gash's songs were about her own dramas.
I will walk into
the garden now
, she sang, and did so, or,
Will I eat a banana?
and I would wonder too.

Banana trees beside the verandah tinkled shredded leaves, and high up, where the leaves joined the stem, fists of green bananas hung. I watched Miss Gash in her postage stamps struggling to bring down one of these bunches with a rake. She was frail, the green hat a nuisance, the rake heavy. When the bananas finally crashed through the leaves she sat on the steps of her verandah and ate one after another. The skins landed near the lattice where I crouched, saliva rushing into my mouth. I sucked a knuckle and heard my stomach growl.
Now I will paint
bananas
, Miss Gash sang through hiccups and went into the house, and I snatched the first tile I found in the straw, a boring piece of patterned background, and fled across the lawn. I was losing patience with
the whole picture
, and Rick was starting to point and yell,
What's the famous
secret then, fat-face?
and even Ursula was asking,
Lili, what is it
really, is it anything at all?