Dreaming of Amelia (38 page)

and

Lydia's the real one.

Amelia's the fake, the reflection, the —

I've known it all along.

She's the shadow.

 

Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No: 8233521

Plunge with me into the teachers' gardens in the middle of the final week of school!

It is lantern lit and highly enchanting, and . . . listen to what befell —

Amelia and Lydia were talking on a bench.

Just behind me, Riley was chatting with Mr Garcia. Their conversation leapt back and forth like an antelope across a laughing brook.

Amelia and Lydia stood up from their bench, and walked towards us. Amelia looked pale. Lydia had an odd gleam, her eyes like silver coins.

Some other students began to prattle at Mr Garcia, and he moved slightly to join their circle.

Lydia switched directions. She crossed the gardens, away from us. Amelia continued towards us, and joined Riley.

‘I have to go see my friend,' she said.

Riley was silent a moment. ‘Now?'

‘She seemed kind of crazy when I saw her yesterday.'

‘That'll happen,' said Riley, ‘with a crazy person.'

Amelia smiled. Riley smiled back.

At that moment, they both sensed that I was watching them. They glanced towards me, smiled quickly, then turned away and their serious faces resumed.

Amelia touched Riley's cheek.

I had never seen Amelia touch Riley's face before. They were not that kind of couple. But this? This brief, trembling, tender touch — I can honestly say that it felt like the most loving touch I'd ever seen. (And I am a student of love.) My heart swooned.

And then Amelia walked away.

Riley watched the gate close behind her.

At which moment the strangest thing happened. It happened to Riley's face. Imagine hitting a cymbal so hard that it vibrates violently, clashes and flashes with light. That was Riley's face.

Within a fraction of a second, however, it was Riley again.

I was understandably bewildered.

I saw Lydia and Cassie chatting across the garden. I joined them.

Lydia was telling Cassie something: ‘She pretends she's going to see a crazy friend,' she was saying. ‘But I don't think she is. She's cheating on him.'

Amelia was cheating on Riley?
The crazy friend she just mentioned was not real?!

But that loving, gentle stroke . . . ?

I made a decision.

I turned and walked through the garden gate.

I was not too late. There was Amelia, a shadow in the distance, and I followed her into the night.

 

Tobias George Mazzerati
Student No: 8233555

4 March 1804

It's a darkening Sunday eve, the moon slipping upwards of the trees — and it begins.

Fire is set to a hut. I smell the smoke before I see the flames, and the bell rings out sure and true.

Phillip steps from the shadows, watches the smoke rise in a column. ‘Well, Tom Kincaid,' he says, solemn-like. ‘You'll be coming home to Ireland with me on the morrow?'

‘Aye,' says I, ‘that I will.' And we both smile sudden, frightened smiles.

The bell and the smoke bring a constable running, but there's some, as planned, who surround him, and he's under control without fuss. Others come, likewise, and it's all so easy it takes the breath from me. They're our prisoners at once. Now our men run from every direction, eyes alight, all afire themselves.

Phillip speaks to the constables under our guard.

‘Join us and we'll play you fair,' he says, and there's a moment of stillness. The crackle of the hut burning. Its heat on my cheek. Constables white with fear. The shadow of the barracks that Phillip built, casting its darkness over all.

‘Whatever you choose,' says Phillip, voice ringing out into the night, ‘by first light tomorrow we'll be sailing toward home.'

Now a great roar of cheering, native dogs howling, another hut catches the flame, and we're running, stumbling along — over a hundred of us convicts, and most of the constables too — to the nearest farm. We're fast and strong, we're
men, and we are free. For the first time in four years, I taste the truth of that.

The farmer stands to fight then sees our numbers, curses, and stands back. There's convicts who work his farm, and I hear their shouts outside as they join us.

It's weapons we're after — the shout flies about — and I run from room to room. Catch sight of myself in a mirror, face determined, eyes a-gleam, like a child in a game. The mirror's above a fireplace, and if it isn't a poker beside it! A weapon, sure! I grab for it. But it's flimsy in my hands and, ashamed, I put it back. A moment later, another man pounces on the poker. I feel cast down, as if I've lost points in the game.

Then I'm in the kitchen, and there's men up on the table, and standing on chairs, singing, eating and drinking. It seems wrong, and then it swells inside me. The joy of it. There's meat and gravy, cinnamon cakes, apples, grapes, and someone has a keg.

There's the sound of Phillip calling us outside.

I'm ashamed of the crumbs on my chin, but if it isn't an axe leaning up against that wall! A weapon, sure, and I'm back in the game, and my vision blurs with tears of home and rum.

We head to a hill behind the farmhouse, and Phillip's eyes, they gleam like stars on a frosty night, and his voice catches us all in its glow.

Aye, and it's proud I am of my friend, to be sure.

‘No violence,' Phillip is saying. ‘It's weapons and men that we're after, not a bloodbath.'

We've friends all over the colony, he says, and as we stand here now, they're out collecting friends and weapons too. (Shouting and laughter.)

The rum fans out in my chest as he speaks, and I feel the
force of his words — how we're fanning out across this colony, how the hills about us will be ours.

‘Once they've secured Parramatta,' Phillip says, ‘they'll set a thatched cottage alight' — he throws his arm and we follow its line with our eyes — ‘and the flame will be our signal. Then we know it's time to meet at Constitution Hill.'

We'll fan out and snap together as one.

‘From there, we march on Sydney. Plant a tree of liberty at Government House. Head to the harbour, and home.'

More cheers — and the sweat of men around me — and, ‘Now my boys,' says Phillip, ‘it's death or liberty, and a ship to take us home!' — and the hair stands up on the back of my neck and my forearms.

They're splitting us into groups, but my eyes, they're fixed on the distance, the darkness where Phillip just pointed. The signal flame will rise up red, and red-gold is the colour of my Maggie's hair, and it's the colour of soil in this land. It's the colour of magic too, for sure and don't fairies choose red for their caps as often as not? That's what Maggie used to say with the dream in her eye.

So I look to that darkness, and in my mind's eye it lights up with a red-gold flame. Shouting and singing and laughter, and we head to the night.

The Committee for the Administration of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund
The KL Mason Patterson Scholarship File

 

Dear Committee Members,

I hope you will not find it odd, me — a non-committee member — writing to you. I'm just home from the Year 12 reception in the teachers' gardens. A fine night was had by all, me included, and I would now like to get some sleep — but I find myself moved to write this note.

To begin, some background. A couple of months back, Year 12 English wrote an assignment, ‘The true story of Term 2 as a ghost story'. (Mr Botherit will fill you in.) Riley Smith is in my English class. His ghost story disturbed me.

I hasten to point out that a
lot
of the students' ghost stories disturbed me. Let's just say that some had trouble with the concept of a ‘true' ghost story: hence, severed limbs and massacres a-plenty (and I must assume that these were false).

Thus, I put Riley's story out of my head.

But it kept coming back. You see, Riley is bright. Not the type to be confused by the fiction/nonfiction divide. And much of his story
did
ring of ‘truth'. He talked of Amelia. People in his year. His criminal record.

Two things in particular disturbed me about his story. The first was
the tone with which he referred to his ‘friends' at Ashbury — it was one of dismissive contempt. They were ‘stupid kids' and ‘half-people'.

More disturbing, however, was the second thing — a hint that he and Amelia had concealed the true nature of their criminal record from the Scholarship Committee. The truth, he suggested, was ‘sealed up' — and ugly.

Of course, this could be ‘creative nonfiction', Riley making his memoir more ‘ghostly', giving it an edge. And that is what I assumed. And yet, tonight, at the reception, I saw something in Riley's face that brought his story back to me. I do not mean to be melodramatic. He laughed and talked as charmingly as ever. But now and then, when he thought no one was watching, an expression crossed Riley's face that chilled me to the bone. Something primitive, something howling and ferocious. A pure rage and violence seemed to lurk beneath the surface of his smile.

And so, I came home, had a glass of red — and wrote this.

Of course, the school year is almost over — final assembly is tomorrow. But they'll be back for the HSC exams. More to the point, it appears that they are still ‘friends' with the people mentioned in the story, including, I might say, Lydia, Cassie and Emily.

Now, if this friendship should continue outside school — if it should be as false as Riley's story suggests — if Riley looks upon Lyd, Cass and Em with such contempt — if, as he hints, his criminal record is uglier than we know — and if, finally, I truly did see rage in his face tonight — well, perhaps some action should be taken? Even if only to look into the question of the record, or to warn Lyd, Cass and Em?

I apologise if this is all the product of a feverish imagination (and the second glass of red I just drank).

Please know, however, that I have not taken up my pen lightly.

Kind regards,

Stephen Latimer

PS I have a nagging feeling that Cass's mother might be one of the parent reps on this committee — if so, I apologise if I've caused any hurt to you by passing all this on.

Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No. 8233521

The final day of school, Thursday, and how did I feel?
Totally
agitated.

I do not want this secret! Get away from me, secret! Jump overboard!

Those were my harried thoughts. Could I concentrate? No. Will I ever forgive the universe for making me decide to follow Amelia into the night so that I saw something that made my head spin like a mixmaster on high speed
for the duration of my final day of school
?

No.

I will not.

What was it that I saw?

Wait a moment. I will draw out the suspense.

For now, let's just say I was so agitated
I forgot to take any photographs of the Final Assembly
!!

My heart still aches about this.

Instead, my eyes darted around like goldfish, looking for Riley and Amelia. They arrived together, late, and slipped into seats up the back. Riley looked as if he had just walked into the side of a refrigerator (I mean, he looked shocked, not flat). Amelia was so pale that I thought she needed replacement toner. Or that someone should take her toner out and shake it around.

My brain leapt around in its head (that is, my head) like a goldfish (sorry for repetition). How could I keep being friends with Riley and Amelia now that I knew this secret?!

The secret of what I had seen!!

What had I seen?

I saw Amelia in the arms of another man!!!

(A man who was not Riley.) (Just to be clear.)

Thinking of this at the assembly, I was so overcome that I swooned. Or thought about it anyway.

Then I paid heed for a moment. My name was being called. I'd won the Legal Studies prize.

So that filled me with joy beyond belief.

But next thing I was back in my seat and agitated again! And the assembly was all just
Prize to Bindy Mackenzie, Prize to Bindy Mackenzie
— so no suspense. Nothing to distract me from the vision of Amelia under dark, wind-swept trees, running across open grass, running toward the open arms of —

Prize to Tobias Mazzerati for Design and Technology.

Much applause and cheering, partly because everyone likes Toby and we're proud of his woodwork, and partly because it was good to have a break from Bindy.

But was it any help to me? NO. IT WAS NOT.

It was the opposite of help.

Because guess whose arms Amelia ran towards?

Toby's.

I rest my case.

The day staggered onwards.
Oh, stop saying goodbye and that you love me! I'll see you in a couple of weeks at the exams! And
you were always kind of annoying!
Those were my harried and dastardly thoughts as people ran up to give me hugs. And thus were the beautiful, final moments of school swept from my grasp . . . I did not even cry!

After the Final Assembly, we had to run over to the Art Rooms to set up for the drama that night. I was fascinated to see how it would turn out, but was there any room in my head for fascination? NO! Not really. I was too fretful.

I was so disappointed in Toby!!! I thought he was upstanding!! And my friend!