A Girl in Three Parts Page 14

  There’s a small noise behind me, and Sister looks over and says, “Now, here’s someone you’ll remember.” I turn to see Mary-Anne Wilson and her cereal-spattered tunic standing awkwardly at the lounge-room door. How weird…has Mary-Anne become a nun? At twelve!

  “Hi, Mary-Anne.”

  “Hi, Allegra,” she says, walking past to sit down. I get a whiff that tells me she’s still eating Perkins paste.

  “Telephone for you, Eileen,” says Sister Claire, popping her head into the room. Sister Josepha—who must have an alias—gets up from between her two former students on the couch and disappears to take the call.

  There is now a nun-sized hole of silence between Mary-Anne and me. Not sure how else to fill it, I say: “Did you come to bring Sister Josepha a present too?”

  “No,” she says, pushing her glasses back up her nose and looking slightly puzzled. “My family is staying here for a while. Well, my mum and my sister and me. Dad’s still at home—he doesn’t know we’re here. He’s gone a bit cracked.”

  “Really? You’re staying? What’s it like sleeping here…in a convent?” I ask.

  “It’s all right. The nuns are pretty nice…they let mothers sleep over with their kids sometimes. I’ve learned how to play Chinese checkers.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, that’s fun.”

  Even though I did end up letting Mary-Anne be my partner in art last year, I still feel kind of bad about telling her earlier that she was pathetic at gluing matchsticks straight. I want to escape her sad face, but I hear my good self saying instead, “Do you want a quick game?”

  Mary-Anne has the board set up in a jiffy, and she chats almost happily about her new high school, where she’s definitely made one, and possibly even two, friends. Sister Josepha comes to the door, smiles a little and slips out again.

  Mary-Anne’s eyes focus hard through her smudged glasses as she moves each of her marbles. Whenever it’s my turn, her tone changes slightly as she tells me about her mum with a migraine who hasn’t got out of bed since they came to the convent, and her older sister, Jennifer, who refuses to eat anything but grapefruit and celery. Apparently Jennifer’s hair is falling out. Mary-Anne would like to go home but she’s not sure that she can look after her mum and her sister all by herself again—even if the nuns kept up with dropping off meals.

  I can see a winning path across the board but decide to ignore it and let Mary-Anne win.

  “Do you want to play best of three?” she asks.

  “Nah, better not. My grandmother told me not to impose.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I get home to find Matilde winding up the hose after her sunset watering. Everything is thriving in the vegetable garden and she looks slightly calmer than usual. I think of her work at the Singer and all the things she told me it pays for: the mortgage for our home, the electricity we use, the food we eat, my piano lessons and swim-squad training and the university education she wants me to have. Does working and paying those bills mean that Matilde has achieved financial freedom? Maybe Matilde is also a spirited woman, just in a different way from Joy.

  So I decide to give it a shot before bed. After hovering for a while at the door of the front room, I slide in and ask Matilde outright if she’s a women’s libber.

  “Such a question, Allegra! What business would I have with being a women’s libber?” she snaps, looking up from a pile of paperwork. “I am too busy making ends meet, looking after this house and caring for you to have the time to even think about anything else. That ‘libber’ nonsense is for the women who do nothing but take up time and space with their empty round-and-round talk. Don’t be bringing those ideas into this house. You need to get through life simply by getting on and doing!”

  I hope Annabel Renshaw and her classifying eyebrow don’t ask me again.

  I really don’t know what I am, exactly.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  Ever since I arrived at high school more than six months ago I’ve made myself invisible to Lucinda Lister. Passing her on the gym stairs I’ve looked away, lining up at the canteen I’ve looked overhead and queuing to take a book out from the library I’ve quickly looked down, flipping through the pages. I’ve made no eye contact with her at all, and she’s managed to look straight through me every time we’ve come close to one another. Each afternoon—when she’s sitting on the bumpy back row of the bus, arms and legs entangled around her boyfriend, who goes to the school opposite—every other first former has sneaked a gawk, but I’ve acted as though Lucinda and her antics are completely invisible to me. Only now she really is invisible. She hasn’t been on the bus, entangled or otherwise, or walked home from the stop closest to our street for almost three weeks. And there’s been no hint of Deep Purple being played in, or smoke rings coming out from, the Lucky Listers’ garage.

  “Hey, Legs, have you heard about Lucinda Lister?” Annabel Renshaw says in a low voice while packing away her history workbook before we walk to phys ed.

  “No…what about her?”

  “She’s preggers! Katrina Jenkins told me. The whole of ninth grade knows.”

  Preggers…Lucinda preggers…I wonder if the Lucky Listers’ Fruit Tingles mother knows about that. I only know preggers means having a baby because Patricia told me in one of our letters that lots of the girls at her school up in Armidale drop out because they get preggers and have to stay at home and look after their babies. I can’t imagine Lucinda Lister looking after a baby in that smoky garage.

  Perhaps Matilde knows about Lucinda being preggers and thinks it’s contagious, because after school, while serving up warm doughnuts for my afternoon tea, she says with a disapproving look, “I do not want you to go anywhere near that Lister girl’s house, and you are to keep well away from their garage.”

  “Why, Matilde?” I ask, checking her knowledge and testing her reaction.

  “It is for your own good that I tell you to keep away from that girl, and that is all you need to know. Now, eat your doughnut, Allegra, so you can go and make a start on your piano practice.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I finished To Kill a Mockingbird, our English novel, in just over two nights and three days. I wish I could start it all over again, not knowing the ending, and be carried along with Scout, Jem and Dill and the happenings in Maycomb, Alabama.

  The only other person who’s finished it too is Annabel Renshaw, and she’s fallen completely for Scout and Jem’s father, Atticus Finch. She tells me proudly that Atticus reminds her of her own father, especially when he talks about equality and justice. I can’t tell her that Atticus reminds me of my father too, because Annabel’s seen Rick driving his van and knows he’s a carpenter, not a lawyer wearing a suit and fighting for a black man to get a fair hearing. But somehow when I read the last line of the book, “He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning,” it’s Rick’s face that I picture in the lamplight next to Jem’s bed.

  Mr. Dewhurst, the cool teacher who wears long sideburns and purple velvet trousers, tells us to pair up so we can prepare a class presentation. We have to choose our favorite Atticus quote and tie it to a theme in the novel. “Do you want to work on it at my place tomorrow?” asks Annabel, presuming that we will be partners. “You can come home with me after school….I’ll ask Mum if you can stay for dinner if you like.” I’m happy with her presumption, and luckily when I check with Matilde, she’s fine with me going to the Renshaws’ place—and even staying for dinner. I think it’s mostly because of Annabel’s viola and flute, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that Matilde knows Annabel is with me in advanced English.

  Annabel’s house is pretty much a mansion; two stories of solid sandstone and wrought iron overlooking the harbor, with a paved path winding through formal gardens before it arrives at a double front do
or. “Mum won’t be home from uni yet; it’s her late day,” Annabel explains, taking a key from under a brass umbrella stand. “She’s gone back to study sociology. Dad jokes with his friends that he’s ‘bedding an undergraduate.’ ” Whatever that means.

  I follow Annabel into a large timber kitchen where she grabs a packet of Tim Tams from a walk-in pantry and a bottle of Orchy orange juice from a side-by-side fridge. We set ourselves up at a long dining table in a very posh room at the end of the hall.

  There’s no mucking about with Annabel; she gets down to work straightaway. “So…I think my favorite quote is right here—see, this one, Legs. I’ve underlined it in pencil,” she says, taking small nibbles around the edges of a Tim Tam while I read it out loud: “Our courts have their faults, as does any human institution, but in this country our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts all men are created equal.”

  “I read it to Dad when he got home last night, and he likes it too, very much. It’s why I want to be a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, that is a good quote,” I say. “But I actually underlined another one. It’s here, close to the end, after Scout tells Atticus about Boo Radley. She says, ‘Atticus, he was real nice…,’ and Atticus replies, ‘Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.’ ” Annabel is nibbling and nodding pretty politely, but I don’t think she’s really that taken with my choice of quote.

  “Well, good afternoon, girls! It’s looking all very industrious in here.” It’s Annabel’s mother in embroidered denim flares with matching vest, holding a three-ring binder and a takeaway chook. “And this must be Legs, or do you prefer to be called Allegra?” she says with a pretty-mum smile. I tell her that Annabel is really the only one who calls me Legs but that’s okay, I don’t mind if she does too.

  “Well, I’m going to call you Allegra…it’s such a strong and lively name,” she says, leaning over for a Tim Tam. “And don’t worry about this stuffy old Mrs. Renshaw business; you can call me Jen. How’s the assignment going?”

  “Good, thanks, Mum,” says Annabel. “We just have to agree on an Atticus quote.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then; I’ve got to finish my philosophy essay that’s due tomorrow. Now, don’t fill up on biscuits and spoil your dinner. We’re having chicken.”

  Jen disappears and doesn’t surface again until Mr. Renshaw’s Jaguar pulls up in the garage with a deep thrum.

  Annabel’s mother is quite altered now, and stationed in the kitchen…more Mrs. Warwick Renshaw than jeans-wearing Jen. The embroidered denim flares and vest have been replaced by a Liberty-print floral dress nipped in at the waist. She has coral-colored lippy on, and her long hair is now tied back in a clip. She looks like a completely different person.

  “Something smells good,” announces Mr. Renshaw, walking into the kitchen with a briefcase under his arm and a kiss on the forehead for his wife. The empty oven is turned on high, and heating up, it sends out the smell of what must have been other nights’ dinners. Jen looks over from the pop-up tidy and gives me a half grin. While Mr. Renshaw is changing upstairs, Annabel and I set the table in the eating nook and Mrs. Renshaw plates up the takeaway chook, which has been nowhere near the oven. She tips shop-bought coleslaw and potato salad onto large heirloom platters. They seem way too special for the meal. She zaps some frozen peas in a microwave oven; I’ve never seen one before. “Such a time-saver,” she tells me. “Warwick bought it for my birthday a few weeks ago. It was the first one available at David Jones, and I did a whole beef silverside dinner in it the first night we got it, white sauce and all.”

  We sit down and discuss the two quotes over dinner with Annabel’s father and both of her mothers in a strange double act that seems lost on everyone but me. Mr. Renshaw unreservedly agrees with Annabel and favors the quote about the courts and all men being created equal.

  “Interesting that it’s all men created equal,” says Jen, picking up her husband’s napkin that he dropped without noticing. “I think I like Allegra’s preferred quote about seeing people for what they are.” Mr. Renshaw doesn’t seem to see or hear Jen, but asks his wife, “Is there any mayonnaise to go with this chicken? It’s a tad dry.” Mrs. Renshaw hops up from her meal and gets a jar of mayonnaise out of the fridge. She puts a few blobs into a little crystal dish and places it in front of her husband with a smile…or was it a smirk?

  Mr. Renshaw continues talking about the quote and tells Annabel to get a pen and paper so she can take down some notes.

  “It might be better, Warwick, if the girls think it through for themselves,” says Jen.

  “Oh, yes, of course, don’t fuss, dear,” he replies. “I’m just steering them in the right direction. Now, what’s for pudding?”

  Mrs. Renshaw opens a tin of peaches and serves them up at the kitchen island bench with heavy-handed scoops of Blue Ribbon ice cream while Mr. Renshaw, pouring himself another red wine, takes us through some further thoughts about law, courts and justice. A bit further along he shares that he hasn’t actually read To Kill a Mockingbird: “Too many judgments to get through to bother with fiction.”

  “I’ve read it,” says Jen, putting a bowl of peaches and ice cream in front of her husband, who looks like he could do with a few laps around the park in his sandshoes instead of a large serving of pudding. “I thought Calpurnia was a fabulous character.”

  “These peaches would do nicely with a splash of my brandy,” says Mr. Renshaw, with which Mrs. Renshaw, who has only just sat down, gets up again and fetches the brandy from the next room.

  The kitchen door opens and there’s Annabel’s brother, Barnaby, carrying his muddy rugby boots and looking red-faced and quite spotty.

  “Here he is,” says Mr. Renshaw, projecting as though he’s announcing the arrival of someone important. “You must be ravenous, Barnes. Your mother has made chicken. How was rugby training?”

  “Good, thanks, Dad—actually pretty exhausting.” I’ve never seen Barnaby before. He’s a boy version of Annabel, only a couple of years older with a slightly off-center nose. He kisses his mother—twice—first on the forehead and then again on her cheek when she stands up and gives him her place in the nook. He looks over at me sitting next to his sister, waiting for an introduction.

  “Oh and Barnes, this is Annabel’s friend from school…Leggo,” says Mr. Renshaw, polishing off the last of his pudding, a smear of ice cream on his chin.

  “Dad, it’s Legs,” corrects Annabel, slightly embarrassed.

  “Actually, her real name is Allegra,” says Jen, lighting up a cigarette by the sink.

  I feel myself blushing and tell them that either Allegra or Legs is fine.

  “Good then,” says Mr. Renshaw, refreshing his glass. “What say, Barnes, while the girls hop in and do the kitchen, you grab your plate and join me in the cedar room? Four Corners is starting in just over five minutes.”

  “Sure, Dad, see you in there,” says Barnaby, his mother passing him a plate covered in foil.

  “Are we going to watch Four Corners with your dad?” I ask Annabel while carefully wiping up a silver-edged platter.

  “No. I usually just help Mum clean up after dinner—she’s got a heavy load with Gender Studies this semester.”

  Soon after the washup Rick arrives to take me home. He looks out of place in his flip-flops at the double front door.

  “So how was that?” he asks as I climb into the van.

  “Yeah, good,” I tell him. “But I’m still kind of hungry. I don’t think their mum knows how to cook, and she seems a bit all over the show, like she hasn’t worked out what sort of woman she is. Actually, Rick, it was like Annabel has two mothers.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Stepping off the bus and walking down our street, I’m looking forward to the school holiday break when suddenly my focus is tugged between two big surprises waiting for me outside Number 23.

>   The first, and by far the best surprise, is Patricia Faith O’Brien sitting on our fence, holding a small bunch of gardenias and a big bag of Twisties. She looks planet-sized pleased as I skip over and give her a noogie, rubbing my knuckles across the top of her head. But Patricia is every bit as confused as I am about the second, not-so-good surprise: three angry women are standing on the footpath, calling out Matilde’s name as though she’s done something wrong.

  “What’s going on?” asks Patricia, swinging her arm around my waist.

  “I don’t know. They weren’t there this morning,” I say, taking a Twistie from the opened packet and leading her to the front porch.

  Matilde is waiting on the other side of the door. She opens it quickly, ushers us in and deadlocks it closed behind us. She looks switched-on bátor but is actually so distracted that she doesn’t realize there are two of us walking down the corridor behind her.

  “Who are those women outside, Matilde?” I ask. “And why are they calling out your name like that?”

  “Never mind about them—they are not important,” she says dismissively, walking to the kitchen where she lifts the tea towel uncovering a rack of ladyfinger biscuits, still warm. She only acknowledges Patricia after she accepts the bunch of gardenias and starts arranging them in a vase, when she says: “So you are visiting us again, Patricia. You are in luck; my cabbages are flourishing.”

  A loud bang on the front door makes the three of us jump.

  “Wait here,” says Matilde. “I’m expecting a Bolton’s delivery.”

  The man with the gray Plasticine face bursts in and drags four massive bags of fabric into the front room. He looks hurried and hot and way angrier than usual. When he makes his way back toward the front door, I can see that he has egg yolk dripping down the sleeve of his brown shirt.

  “Now get cracking,” he barks at Matilde. “And don’t cave in to that lot out there if you know what’s good for you.” I really hate the way this man speaks to my grandmother.