A Girl in Three Parts Read online

  “Do not be ridiculous, and keep your banana. My granddaughter is studying to become a doctor.” Matilde looks pea-sized proud of me and pumpkin-sized disgusted with Joe: livid, in fact. We go straight home at a clip with our fruit and veg, Matilde clutching her bag and me swinging mine. Once we get there, Matilde sets me up with a pen and paper in front of the human anatomy chapter of her encyclopedia at her desk in the hall.

  “I will be testing you on the circulatory system, Allegra, as soon as I’ve finished preparing the meatball sauce for the spaetzle noodles…the whole of the circulatory system.”

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  The weather is cooling and first term is flying: days at school move along with a happier beat now that I have a friend in Patricia O’Brien.

  We’ve finished our math sheets and are ready for softball, but Sister Josepha can’t find her key to the sports-equipment room. She’s looked everywhere, so instead of picking our teams we’re still in the classroom helping her find the key. The whole class is praying out loud:

  Dear St. Zita, I’ve lost my key.

  Please look around and find it for me.

  “Zita is the patron saint for lost keys and a most inspiring figure, girls and boys, a great reminder for us never to lose the chance to do some good today by waiting to do something better tomorrow.” Sister is looking between a pile of geometry sets while we’re all searching around and under our desks.

  “She was a simple servant girl working for a rich family in Italy. She worked hard, rising early to bake the bread every day for the large household she served, but whenever she had the chance, she slipped away to distribute bread to the poor and the less fortunate.” Sister is running her fingers along the bottom of the supply cupboard.

  “One day, during a famine, she was so busy that she didn’t get back in time to do her usual baking, and the other servants, jealous of her goodness, reported her to their master for neglecting her duties. But, what do you know, when they led the master to the kitchen to investigate, what did they find? Angels—yes, angels—there, getting a start on the baking for Zita.” Sister is frisking her habit for a third time. “Her feast day was just last week, on the twenty-seventh of April.”

  “Hey, that’s my birthday, and look…here’s the key.” Patricia is holding up Sister’s silver key like a prize. It had slipped between the boxes of SRA cards.

  “Well done, Patricia.” Sister is thrilled, but I’m surprised and sort of offended. Not that Patricia found the key but because she hadn’t told me it was her birthday. I wonder whether she had a party.

  And now it’s started to rain—heavily—so the class lets out a moan of collective disappointment that softball is called off and we have to stay cooped up inside the classroom.

  “That’s enough now. Settle down, girls and boys. I do have a surprise activity for you to do instead.” Sister Josepha goes back to her desk, leans in underneath and produces an old wooden box. “All eyes this way…Anthony, this way!

  “This here belonged to my father, and it’s very special indeed. He was a telegrapher with the post office for over forty-two years,” she says, pulling out a small bronze machine from the box and walking around the room with it so we can all have a look.

  “Now, have any of you ever received a telegram?”

  Kimberly’s hand shoots straight up, which is hardly a surprise to anyone, even Sister Josepha.

  “Yes, I have!” she says smugly. “I got two on my tenth birthday, one from my granny in Melbourne and another one from my father. He was traveling overseas for important business, and he sent me a telegram all the way from Hong Kong to wish me the world on my first double-figures birthday.”

  “Lovely, dear…,” says Sister, not quite looking at Kimberly as she moves around the room with the machine. “Now, these days if we want to get a message to someone, we can just call them up on the telephone, even—at great expense—if they are living overseas. But a hundred years ago there were no telephones, and to get a message to someone in, say, London, you had to write a letter, which took three months to arrive by ship. So when the telegraph connected Australia to the rest of the world, it changed everything. Suddenly a message could be got from London to Sydney in seven hours. Just imagine!”

  Sister passes the small machine for me to hold while she removes two pencils hanging from Anthony’s nose.

  “Samuel Morse, an American, invented the telegraph. He was the one who worked out that messages could be transmitted across large distances over a wire using electrical pulses. And he also came up with a code. What a clever man. Each letter was signaled as a series of dashes and dots, and that’s what we call today Morse code.”

  I pass the machine back to Sister, and she continues on so that everyone has a chance to see it close up. Scott Perkins, sitting next to me, flicks my arm, leans across the aisle, touches Anthony and sniggers, “Allegra germs, no returns.”

  “I’m watching you, Scott,” says Sister, almost like it’s just part of her story.

  “Now, my father was also very clever, girls and boys, and he was selected to learn Morse code when he was only sixteen, and that’s what he did, all his working life. I remember when I was growing up in the small country town of Narrandera, if a customer came into the post office to send a telegram, my dear father had to take down the message and then go into the telegraphy room and use Morse code to send the message to a telegrapher in Sydney, or wherever the nearest post office was to the person who the message was going to. The telegrapher at the other end had to decipher the message, write it down and pass it on to the bicycle boy to ride off and deliver.

  “Now it’s your chance to be clever too, girls and boys. You can each have a turn using these sheets of the Morse code I’ve roneoed off to send a message. Anthony, please, do not tilt your chair! If you can be sensible, would you like to go first?”

  We spend the rest of the afternoon sending messages to each other using Sister Josepha’s father’s machine. The boys’ favorite message is SOS:

  Save Our Ship

  dot dot dot

  dash dash dash

  dot dot dot

  But Sister Josepha tells us that she much prefers the other meaning:

  Save Our Souls

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  That night, I hate to admit, I’m dreaming of Scott Perkins. I’m beating him in an arm wrestle. I hear Whisky Wendy cheering me on at the end of my bed. I’m hot. My throat feels dusty, so I get up for a glass of water and realize that Wendy is not in my room, she’s not in the hallway, she’s nowhere in the house. Maybe I was dreaming her too.

  But standing in the kitchen, I hear Wendy again. I creep out to the side fence, and the wind chimes funnel me toward the brown gate. There in Joy’s garden is Wendy—backlit by starlight—with a pipe bobbing in the corner of her mouth. She’s holding hands way up high with another Liberty Club lady, and they’re dancing in slow motion at the edges of the water-lily pond.

  “Is that a little fairy sister I see? Look, Comrade Camille! There at the gate in the fence!”

  Wendy takes me by the ribbon at the waist of my nightie and leads me to the mossy patch next to the pond. Holding me by the wrists, she slowly whirls me around and around. Within her smoky cloud I catch glimpses of the stars through the magnolia leaves overhead, and that part of my heart that seeks sense tries to understand the meaning of Wendy’s whispered words of being awoken by profound echoes within.

  “Always remember, your destiny is outside of you.” Wendy is spinning me, spinning me, spinning me.

  “Does your heart not echo with the words of Simone de Beauvoir, Ally?” Wendy is asking me, but somehow, it seems, she’s not really seeing me.

  I’ve never heard Simone de Beauvoir speak any words at all, but Wendy doesn’t wait for my answer. We just keep spinning.

 
“Do you feel that time is beginning to flow again?”

  “Maybe,” I say giddily as Wendy winds me down to a slow-motion stop.

  And just at that point Simone pops up on the log that crosses her pond. With perfect balance she stands slightly higher on her front legs, stretching her neck long so that her head is tilted in my direction. I know that she is still, but the earth beneath me is turning, and my vision of her is moving. “I wish that every human life might be pure transparent freedom,” says Wendy, ignoring the appearance of the observant penny tortoise.

  “I wish Simone could have adventures away from her safe pond and taste pure freedom too,” I say, and Simone nods in agreement.

  Wendy and her Liberty Club lady friend suddenly seem totally delighted with me. With one dancing in front and the other dancing behind, they lead me to Joy’s back porch and, striking the wind chimes, Wendy announces: “A special delivery. Our latest recruit for the Sisterhood!”

  Joy is in deep discussion with the Liberty Ladies inside and looks up, surprised to see her granddaughter there at the back door. It’s middle-of-the-night late, so it is surprising—even for me—that I’m out of bed at this hour. It may be that Joy is also surprised that Wendy is describing me as a sister. Taking Wendy’s pipe and putting it in the sink, Joy scoops me in toward her chest and says, “Did our noise wake you, darling?”

  “No. I just had a dream that I beat Scott Perkins in an arm wrestle.”

  A roar of laughter goes up from the Liberty Club ladies. Glasses start clinking, smoke rings are rising, and the sweeties jar is passed from one to the other. Joy is looking proud of me as I sit on her lap and tells me: “Take two sweeties, darling.”

  A lady in a handkerchief skirt grabs a guitar, and they all follow her, singing…

  I am woman, hear me roar

  In numbers too big to ignore

  And I know too much to go back and pretend

  ’Cause I’ve heard it all before

  And I’ve been down there on the floor

  No one’s ever gonna keep me down again

  Glasses are filled from a large flagon, and they all erupt…

  Oh yes, I am wise

  But it’s wisdom born of pain

  Yes, I’ve paid the price

  But look how much I’ve gained

  If I had to, I can do anything

  I am strong (strong)

  I am invincible

  (invincible)

  I am woman

  With bright eyes and locked arms the Liberty Club ladies are swaying around the sides of Joy’s kitchen table….

  I am woman, watch me grow

  See me standing toe to toe

  As I spread my lovin’ arms across the land

  But I’m still an embryo

  With a long, long way to go

  Until I make my brother understand

  The loving arms are now looping around waists, across shoulders and behind backs, and they seem fortified by the music, the words but mostly each other….

  You can bend but never break me

  ’Cause it only serves to make me

  More determined to achieve that final goal

  And I come back even stronger

  Not a novice any longer

  ’Cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul

  Joy stands me on a chair near the middle of the table as they sing the song over and over. Before long, my mouth knows the words, my soul knows the tune, and that part of my heart that comes directly from Joy feels set to carry the conviction.

  Whatever that is.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Father Brennan is with us again for another session about the sacrament of Confirmation. He is the sort of man who looks different from every angle. When we all stand and say “Good morning, Father Brennan” and I see him head-on, he looks like he could serve you at Dave’s Mixed Business and Milk Bar flipping eggs and working the hot-chips fryer. But once we’re seated and I’m looking straight up at him, he is clearly a man of wisdom and answers, who knows all the God-given rules.

  This morning I’m sitting off to the side, and from here he seems almost capable of kindness, like you could confess to him your very worst sin and he would pretend he’d completely forgotten it the next time he saw you. From this angle I can see Sister Josepha looking at him too, perhaps thinking she could stand on his shoulders and get a leg-up to heaven. I’m wondering what angle God has on Father Brennan, looking down on him through the clouds.

  Father tells us that when we make our Confirmation, the Holy Ghost will descend upon us and we will become Soldiers of Christ.

  Soldiers! Oh Lord! What sort of soldier will Kimberly become?

  The thought of Kimberly with any more ammunition is terrifying. I’m picturing her slipping a hand grenade into my lunch box. Then Father tells us something even more alarming.

  “You are to choose a Confirmation sponsor. Remember, God wants you to choose wisely. Someone you feel close to, who cares deeply about your soul. A person you admire—a good role model—someone who will help you grow to be like them in character, faith and fortitude.” His brow, chin and voice then drop down and he adds, “I urge you to choose a person who is full of God’s grace.

  “Your sponsor will accompany you on the day of your Confirmation. At the ceremony they will walk with you down the aisle and place their hand on your right shoulder as you kneel before the bishop.”

  “Can I choose my mum?” asks Mary-Anne Wilson.

  “No,” says Father. “It can’t be one of your parents.”

  “Can it be my sister’s boyfriend?” boasts Roslyn from the Popular Group.

  “No,” says Father. “Girls are to choose a lady, and boys are to choose a man, a substantial man.”

  “Can I have two sponsors?” I slip in, hoping to get an answer without too much attention.

  “Definitely not. That would be excessive.” Father is firm.

  Sister Josepha hands out the sheets we have to fill in with questions about the place and date of our baptism, our sponsor’s name and the saint’s name we are choosing as our Confirmation name.

  “You can get your sponsor to help you choose your Confirmation name. No doubt they will know of saints whose stories they think will guide you throughout your life,” continues Father.

  At lunchtime under the mulberry tree, the sixth-grade girls are full of talk of all the Confirmation names they like and whether the addition of another letter will turn their initials into a word.

  “I’m Kimberly Oleander Linton, so if I choose Opal my initials will spell KOOL.” The Popular Group is impressed and quickly work through the alphabet, coming up with names and trying out different initials.

  “There is no such person as St. Opal,” announces Patricia loudly from her seat next to me on the bench behind Kimberly. “Saints have to be real. You can’t just make one up so your initials spell a word.” Her voice has a Hula-Hoop rhythm as she takes on Kimberly. There’s no doubt Matilde would really like Patricia O’Brien even though she’s not the best speller. She’d think Patricia is what she wants me to be—what she calls in Hungarian bátor—which apparently means brave. But right now I’m not feeling brave; instead that part of my heart that sends blood to my ears is pumping hard, and I can feel them heating right up at the thought of what’s on its way.

  And here it comes: Kimberly is Hula-Hooping right back.

  “Really, Patricia O’Brien! Well, I might leave Opal for you. Patricia Opal O’Brien…then you can be what you are already: P-O-O! Yeah, a big poo, the perfect match for Allegra.” This hoop of insult catches me around my neck, spirals down to my waist and cuts me off at the knees, but Patricia is steady and just offers me a Twistie from her moist orange fingers.

  The bell rings and we
go in for social studies. Sister Josepha is teaching us about Captain Cook “discovering” Australia. She really knows how to shift from boring to enthralling when the boys start to fidget, so she quickly finishes with the botanist Joseph Banks sketching ferns and moves on to describing scurvy in detail.

  “When sailors during Captain Cook’s day were at sea for months on end, they had to survive on bits of dried-out bread and scraps of old salted meat. There was no fresh fruit or vegetables on board the ships, not so much as a bite, so the crew often got a terrible disease called scurvy. You get it from not eating enough vitamin C.

  “Now, if any of you got scurvy, at first it would just make you a bit tired. But as it goes on, festering wounds would form all over your body, then your eyeballs would protrude, your teeth would loosen, wobble in your mouth and finally fall out, and you’d get ghastly corkscrew hair. Eventually you’d just drop dead.”

  The boys sit forward in their seats.

  “But our Captain Cook was so clever, girls and boys. He worked out early in his adventures that while he couldn’t keep fresh fruit on board his ship for his voyages, he could take jars of sauerkraut, in other words pickled cabbage, and that had enough vitamin C in it to stop his men from getting scurvy.

  “Has anyone ever actually tried sauerkraut?” Sister has the same look on her face she had when she found the rotten banana in Mary-Anne Wilson’s desk after the holidays.

  Kimberly glares at me accusingly. I’m too embarrassed to put up my hand and luckily I don’t, because after a quick check around the room Sister goes on to say, “Well, sauerkraut is really quite vile, pungent in fact, and when the sailors turned up their noses, Captain Cook took it away from them and only put it out on the tables. Suddenly everyone thought it was a treat.