The Red Cardigan (2 page)

‘This seat free?' he asks.

Seb's always keen for a chat. Usually Poppy is Evie's Seb repellant but she's away.

‘Are they giving you heaps of work?' he asks, sitting down, shoving his double bass between them so she can only see the tip of his nose.

‘Yeah.'

‘Me too.' He attempts to stretch his long neck around the double bass case. Evie can't help giggling.

‘I thought Year 11 was going to be a bludge, hey? But no way, man, they're already treating us like we're in Year 12. Maybe that's 'cause I'm at a private school but you're at a selective school, isn't that meant to be worse?'

‘Maybe.'

‘I've got two assignments and an essay to do by next week. Can you believe that? Slave labour, I reckon. Don't they know we actually have a life?'

‘No.'

‘You going to Taylor's party? It's going to be huge.'

As he craps on, Evie counts the stops till she's in a Seb-free enviroment.

She likes him, he wouldn't hurt her. But when he raves on and on she wishes the seat would swallow her.

Evie leans over the double bass. ‘Bye, Seb.'

‘Oh? Oh bye, Evie. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Walking up the driveway to the house, she spots her mother's face disappear behind the curtain.

‘Spying on me now?' she says slamming the door.

‘Evie!'

‘I'm going up to my room.'

‘How was your day?'

‘You mean, did I do anything weird?'

‘Evie!'

‘I'm going up to my room. I've got stacks of work.'

 

Evie gets out her sketchpad and sharpens her pencils. She has made a decision.

‘I am going to draw the best portraits ever,' she says out loud. ‘I am going to perfect every shadow, every line and curve of Alex's face. I will capture the essence of who she is. It will be undeniable. And then,' her voice trembles, ‘I'll hand my work to Powell and there will be nothing he can say except “Wow!”.'

She studies the face she drew in class. She knows she'll need Alex's help and Alex'll give it. Her support is one thing Evie can be sure of. They need each other.

She takes Alex's school photo out of her folder. It's an enlarged individual one and unlike most school photos, actually does her justice. The scar above Alex's lip is just visible, but Evie understands the residual damage. ‘Bunny' is what they called Alex at primary school; some still do.
Evie remembers feeling her blows, each one like a fist in the guts. She will never call her that name. They cannot help what they are born with.

Evie studies the photo. Taking a deep breath, she runs her finger around the eyes and draws their shape. Her eyes flick from the photo to the paper as she sketches and rubs out the lines that are emerging. Her grip on the pencil is tight; every now and then she stops to shake her hand. She takes off her cardigan and opens the window. She gets an elastic and ties her hair in a ponytail. She walks around the room a few times, sits down at her desk again and rubs out some more detail. She puts the cardigan back on and closes the window. Turning on the desk lamp, she stares at the oblong shapes that are Alex's eyes. ‘Pathetic,' she groans, tearing her sketch up.

Hiding her face in her hands, she wonders – am I ready for this?

‘Dinner in five minutes,' her mother calls.

‘Piss off,' she whispers.

As Evie plays with the torn bits of paper, fitting them together like a puzzle, the face of the little girl at ‘the pin' creeps into her mind. It's her eyes. Their vacant stare, the way they look through Evie as if she were made of air. Her mouth smiles and yet blood trickles out of her ear. Evie remembers how the drops splash onto the little girl's shoulder, a crimson circle bleeding into her yellow T-shirt.

A few days after that first time, Evie sees her again. The whole left side of her shoulder is covered in blood. It's so hot and the T-shirt, now a rusty brown, sticks to the girl's skin.

‘Mummy,' she shrieks and points. ‘Mummy, Mummy, that girl. She's there again.'

Her mother pulls into the kerb and stops the car, her face pale as she screams and shouts at Evie.

‘That's not funny. Do you hear, Evie? That's not funny. There's no one there. Do you understand? Stop it, now!'

‘But she's –'

‘Shut up! Do you hear? Shut up!'

Evie begins to cry. ‘But, Mummy.'

‘I never want to hear such things again.' Now her mother's face is almost purple and she is breathing hard and fast. ‘You can't see anyone because there is no one there to see. I never, ever, ever want to hear this again.'

But they pass that corner every day. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Now Evie knows to turn her head away and say nothing.

 

‘Evie!' Robin calls once more. ‘Come down for dinner, please.'

Evie picks up the bits of paper and throws them in the bin.

 

She waits for Alex and Poppy outside the Glebe markets. This is her favourite place to hang out. She watches people bargain with the stallholders. She knows who's tight and who'll give a good price.

A man calls, his accent thick, ‘Oranges, sweet and juicy.' The deep vibration of a didge echoes through the ground,
and spices from the Indian samosa van waft past. Here, among the colour and racket, Evie can escape.

Today she's wearing a long tweed coat with a fur-trimmed collar. Vintage of course. This coat makes her feel special, gives her confidence. It helps her say the right things, or rather, not say stupid things, especially in front of Ben, the silversmith. When she sees him her mind goes blank and she cannot think of a thing to say. That's when Ben smiles at her. Evie loves his smile – it's crooked and cheeky.

Evie fiddles with the fur collar and plans what she'll say to him. How she'll stand and look at him while they talk. A whistle makes her heart jump, then land with a plop – it's Poppy.

‘Girlfriend, you look gorgeous – as usual. Did you get that coat here?'

‘Sorry, darl, I got it at a second-hand shop in the country.'

‘Typical,' sighs Poppy. ‘I'd kill for one like that.'

Evie wonders what Poppy would do with a fur-trimmed tweed coat. A green jumper, jeans and trainers are all she ever wears in winter.

‘We could find a good coat for you here.'

‘Maybe,' Poppy shrugs. ‘Anyway, what's Alex looking for?'

‘A beaded cardi.'

‘Like yours?'

‘I told her to keep mine. It looks better on her.'

‘Bullshit, Evie. Everything looks better on you. So when are we going to get our hands on silver boy?'

‘You girls had better behave or I'll kill you.'

‘There's Alex.'

Alex is wearing a felt hat, sunglasses, big earrings, a choker, a singlet and a man's coat with mega hipster pants. Poppy groans, Evie ignores.

‘Cool coat, Evie.'

‘Thanks. I love your earrings.'

‘Really?' Alex fingers the beads.

‘Yeah,' answers Evie. ‘They're – exotic.'

‘That's me, baby.' Alex wiggles her hips. ‘Now, where's the Ben?'

‘His stall's around the side.'

‘Let's go.'

‘Not yet,' Evie squeals. ‘I'm too nervous. Oh god, can we have a wander around first?'

‘Well, take us to the lady you get your great stuff from, I've never met her.' Alex links her arm through Evie's. ‘That's if it's not a secret.'

‘What do you reckon?' Evie turns them around. ‘You coming, Poppy? Follow me, girlfriends.'

Evie holds her head high as she smiles and waves to the stallholders. Even with her eyes closed she could find her way to her favourite one just by following the scent of camphor and mothballs. She senses the stories mixed in their fragrance. Sometimes she thinks she hears them muffled and whispering like a badly tuned radio.

‘And here,' she announces. ‘Are the best vintage clothes ever.'

‘Coming from the vintage queen, that's a big call.' Alex puts her hat on Evie's head.

They follow her through a maze of racks that bend in the middle.

‘Wow,' the girls echo.

‘Where do we start?' squeals Alex.

‘Look at this,' Poppy calls. She holds up a fluoro orange jumpsuit with flared legs and a gold buckle.

‘It's you, babe,' says Evie.

‘It's thirty-five dollars!'

‘Too expensive.'

‘As if.'

‘Hello, darlinks,' purrs Alex, emerging from behind a rack, wearing a full-length fur coat.

‘Oh my god!' screams Poppy.

‘You're not buying that, are you?' says Evie.

‘Maybe? Do you like it, darlink?'

‘Think of all the poor animals who died for that.'

‘Keep your hat on, Evie.'

‘Ha ha.'

‘Hi, girls.' The woman's bangles jingle as she waves at Evie. ‘Do you need help? Or is Miss Evie looking after you?'

‘Hi, Petrina. These are my friends I was telling you about. This is Poppy and the politically incorrect one in the fur is Alex.'

‘Hi,' they nod. ‘Great stuff.'

‘Thanks. I've been collecting for years. Have a good fossick around. Evie knows where I keep the good stuff.'

Petrina is one of those women whose age you can never guess. Her clothes are outrageously fantastic, that's a fact, but there are times Evie thinks she could be as old as fifty
and as young as twenty. The one thing Evie does know about Petrina is there's an emptiness in her. When she's near her she feels it. It's like a cold breeze whistling through her chest and blowing out her spine.

‘Check this, Evie.' Poppy holds up a Chinese satin opera coat that has a heavily beaded collar and cuffs.

‘Wow. Try it on, Pop.'

Poppy slips her arms into the coat.

‘Hello, sweetie,' she says in a posh accent. ‘Would you like to come to the opera? I have two tickets for
Madame Butterfly
.'

Evie tries to laugh.

Alex leaps out from behind a rack of army coats, wearing a striped poncho, and a sombrero on her head. ‘Buenas días, amigas!' she sings.

It makes Evie jump. She spins around wishing the girls would stop.

‘My name is Hosé.' Alex continues. ‘And I am from Mehiho.'

‘Bravo.' Petrina claps as she watches their show. ‘And who are you, Evie?' she calls.

But a low hum has started to vibrate in Evie's head. She's heard this noise before and it frightens her. It makes her want to crawl into a hole, be anywhere but here with the girls playing this game.

‘Well, hello, Hosé,' Poppy chimes. ‘My name's Daphne and I'm from London, darling.'

As the girls continue with their game Evie watches her hand, as though it were someone else's, reach out and pick up a shawl embroidered with hot-pink roses. Throwing it
over her shoulders, she quivers as the silk lands gently on her skin. There's a musky perfume mixed with cigars and a deep smoky laugh, music and clapping. Her head tosses back and a voice emerges, ‘I am a showgirl from South Africa. And my name is Jacqueline.'

Her trance is broken with their stare. Evie sees the creases forming on Petrina's forehead. Poppy has her hand over her mouth and Alex is pale. She realises what she has done. The horror encloses around her body.

‘That's amazing,' gasps Petrina.

The shawl slips off Evie's shoulders. She grabs her coat and runs.

‘Evie?' she hears Alex call.

 

Evie runs through the market, her coat dragging behind in the dirt. She keeps her head down as she weaves her way through the crowd, around the stalls and past silver boy. She keeps running until she reaches the main road. Cars toot as she swerves around the traffic. Her senses are raw and she can hear everything: a couple arguing over what brand of washing machine they're buying, a baby screaming in a café, a man singing opera in his bathroom. There is noise everywhere and she cannot turn it off.

She reaches the park on the other side and heads for a tree. It's offering her shelter. There she huddles under the branches and buries her head in her knees, her heart pulsating in her throat. She swallows hard, trying to force it back to its right place, but she knows now it will be hours before her throat
relaxes and allows the saliva to slip gently down. She has felt this before.

The Moreton Bay fig towers above her making her feel so small, so pathetic, so out of control. She rubs her shoe on the twisted roots that have broken through the earth. Maybe she has always been like this? She wishes she knew, wishes someone could tell her.

She sees Alex and Poppy cross the road into the park. When they spot her they wave and start jogging. Evie bites her lip and waits for them. Puffing, they sit on either side of her. Alex puts her arm around Evie's shoulder. Evie tries not to flinch.

‘You okay?'

‘Not sure.'

Silence. She can't look at them. Not yet.

‘God, you guys must think I'm weird.'

‘Of course we don't,' replies Alex. ‘We just don't want you to feel bad about … it.'

‘Petrina must think I'm crazy. I'll never be able to face her again.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Did she say anything?'

Evie thinks she sees the girls exchange a look. She's not sure – perhaps it's her paranoia that creeps.

‘She didn't say anything.'

‘Promise, Alex?'

‘She didn't, Evie,' adds Poppy.

‘Honest?'

‘Honest,' they say together.

The girls sit there for a while, not saying much.

‘Are you still going to stay over?' Alex asks.

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Come on. Pretty please?' Alex sticks her nose in the air. ‘I'll do my best profile poses.'

Evie manages a noise a bit like a laugh. ‘You didn't get to meet silver boy.'