Feeling Sorry for Celia (24 page)

To whom did he speak?

Which one is Johnno?

And even if you knew which one was Johnno, does that mean that none of the others have names beginning with a ‘J’?

You are beginning to frustrate us.

Give it some more thought and then get back to us, hmm?

Yours, a little irritably,

Society of Amateur Detectives

Dear Christina,

Look. Just because my dad can borrow a yacht from a rich friend doesn’t mean I’m a Nice Private School Girl. Can we get that cleared up for good? Besides, this yacht looked more like a row boat with a sail to me. It was tiny. Completely overcrowded once it had my dad, me and a picnic basket on board.

Still, it was kind of fun. I was impressed that my dad could sail a boat, and sailing kept him busy so he didn’t try so hard to impress me. Interesting. It’s a bit scary, sailing – I had to help sometimes and had no idea what was going on. Like winding ropes around things and then unwinding them and ducking your head out of the way and climbing from one side to the other. All at superfast speed. It was such a beautiful day though, and we went right in to the harbour, and the sun practically melted into the ripples of water, while the breeze washed against our faces. The picnic basket included ham sandwiches, a packet of Mint Slices, and a bottle of lemonade, which was a shock. I was expecting smoked salmon and chardonnay.

I wanted to ask Dad about my Canadian stepbrother, without actually admitting that I’d written a letter to him. So I said, ‘Is your Canadian family ever coming over to visit you?’

Dad said, ‘Nope. Too far. See if you can untie that knot there, would you?’

So much for that. I’ll just have to give up on my longlost, never-met stepbrother, I suppose.

After we got back to Dad’s car I suddenly remembered that we were at Double Bay. And Double Bay is where Dad’s living now.

So I asked if we could see his place.

He gave me that panicked look of his again, and concentrated on doing up his seatbelt.

Then I said, ‘Couldn’t we at least DRIVE past it?’

He concentrated on the gear stick and the dashboard for a while, frowned at his keys for a while longer, and finally turned the key in the ignition.

Then I said again, ‘Dad? Couldn’t we just drive past your place?’

I hardly ever call him ‘Dad’. Usually, I don’t call him anything. It seems to have a powerful effect when I do, so I keep it in reserve.

He started driving without talking and I wondered if I had to say it again. But out of nowhere he’s saying in a mumble, ‘This is my street’.

And next thing we’ve started accelerating up a hill and he’s waving one arm fast and saying, ‘That’s my place’.

We were past it in a quarter of a second. What’s WITH him anyway? All that I got to see was a flash of white behind fantastic red bougainvillea, and what I think was a verandah with a windsurfer and a surfboard on it.

I’m not sure. But I think so.

This is my mum when I got home: ‘Your father is ALWAYS getting you sunburnt like this. Your father is an
IRRESPONSIBLE parent. Your father will have you in hospital with skin cancer before you’ve finished high school.’

Anyway, I told her about driving past Dad’s place and the windsurfer and surfboard, and she said: ‘Well doesn’t that just figure. Boys and their toys. Second childhood, only he never grew out of his first one.’

Things like that.

The next day Mum took me to her aqua-aerobics class and we did very strange things in a small swimming pool while a woman shouted at us. I think the woman was making up the instructions as she went along. This kind of thing:

‘Okay now, jump up and down! Now jump from side to side! Now hold the side of the pool, kick one leg out to the side, blow raspberries and wave your hand in the air!’

It’s true that I usually have a better time with my mum, but on this weekend I’ve got to say that Dad really won hands down.

Although, both my parents are weird. After aerobics when we were all showered and shampooed and I thought we’d just have a relaxing night watching telly, Mum suddenly says, ‘Let’s go for a drive.’

The entire way to Double Bay she was doing this, ‘I’ll just take this road here and see where it leads us’, and ‘Oh well, look, we may as well drive over the Harbour Bridge now we’re here’, and ‘Ever seen Vaucluse, Liz? Let’s take a look.’

Honestly, some people can be so transparent.

Surprise, surprise, there we were in Double Bay and Mum was saying, ‘Hey, isn’t this – isn’t tins where your dad’s living now?!’

She wanted me to try and remember where the house was, which of course I couldn’t remember, so we drove around
Double Bay for over an hour looking. After a while, Mum had to drop her ‘oh, here’s a pretty street, let’s have a look down here’ act, and just focus on hunting down my father.

I finally recognised the street and we slowed right down outside the white house with the bougainvillea. And there were the windsurfer and the surfboard. And then GUESS WHAT HAPPENED?

Oh wait a second, Mum’s calling me.

---

Hi again. Sorry to abandon you like that. It’s the next day. Mum wanted me to help her make dinner and then she just wanted to talk all night. I started writing this yesterday afternoon right after I got your letter, and what I hadn’t got a chance to say yet was that your anonymous friend promised to identify himself. He left me a note yesterday saying that he’d wear a black cap on the bus. So this MORNING I’m all excited and nervous when I get on the bus. I look down the back at the Brookfield boys, as casual as I could.

And guess what?

Every single one of them was wearing a black cap.

You tell your friend that’s not funny. It’s a mean trick. I was so angry I actually looked straight into the eyes of every one of them on the backseat to try and catch him out. But they all just looked at me with mild interest, like ‘yeah? can I help?’ Infuriating is an understatement.

There was another Event on the bus this morning too. Cigarette boy jumps on (wearing his stupid black cap backwards) and starts to walk up the back, and suddenly the bus driver says, ‘Pass?’

Cigarette boy just ignores him and keeps on sauntering down the aisle.

The driver turns right around in his seat and says, ‘Bus pass?’

Cigarette boy keeps walking.

The bus is just sitting on the curb rumbling, the door’s still open, and everyone’s looking from the driver to the aisle.

Finally, when Cigarette boy’s reached the back and sat down in the middle with his legs strung out down the aisle, bus driver half stands and bellows, ‘Boy! Did you show me your bus pass?’

Cigarette boy finally answers.

‘Yep.’

Bus driver turns around and holds the steering wheel again and the bus rumbles.

Bus driver turns back.

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Yep. I did.’

‘Well get back down here and show me again.’

Cigarette boy sits still.

Bus driver stares straight ahead with one eye on the rear vision mirror, watching the back of the bus.

Cigarette boy finally stands up, moves slowly back up the aisle, flips a pass in the driver’s face, and turns to walk back again.

Bus driver says, ‘That’s not your pass.’

Cigarette boy keeps walking to the back and sits down again.

Bus driver says, ‘That pass belongs to the dark-haired lad beside you. I saw him give it to you.’

Everyone’s looking back now. The dark-haired lad beside him is Grunge boy.

If Grunge boy really gave his pass to Cigarette boy, the driver has sharp eyes. I never saw it and I was watching the whole time.

Bus driver says to Grunge boy, ‘Now you show me your pass’.

Feral boy calls out, ‘Come on. Give us a break.’

Blond boy calls out, ‘We’ve gotta get to school, sir. We’re running late.’

Bus driver sits still for a moment, staring into the rear vision mirror.

Finally, he flaps the door closed, puts the bus in gear and drives down the road.

Anyway, the bus driver got his revenge this afternoon on the way back home from school. This old woman was waiting at a bus stop and the driver stopped and everyone heard the conversation:

‘Do you go to Church Street?’

‘No, love.’

‘I don’t mean Church Street, I mean Factory Street.’

‘I don’t stop till I get to Baulkham Hills, love. Sorry.’

Cigarette boy shouts out from the back of the bus, ‘Let her on. Take her where she wants to go.’

Next thing the bus driver’s out of his seat and heading down the back.

He says, ‘Get off the bus.’

Cigarette stares at him.

‘You didn’t have a pass this morning and you didn’t have one this afternoon either. You can walk home.’

The other guys start going, ‘oh, come on, fair go’ and stuff like that. But the bus driver just says, ‘Off my bus. I’m not moving till you get off my bus.’

So Cigarette says, ‘fine’ and gets off. He hits the side of the bus as he walks away, and the driver’s face gets so fluorescent it looks like he’s going to get out and belt him.

But he doesn’t.

We just drive on.

So anyway, at least your friends make the bus trips entertaining. But seriously I was so mad about that black cap thing.

Hey, I never finished telling you the story about driving to Double Bay with my mum. You know how we slowed down outside Dad’s house, and saw the surfboard and windsurfer out the front? Well NEXT thing we see a woman walk out of the front door in a swimming costume, shift a deck chair out of the shade, sit back in it, and start to read.

Mum was just, ‘oh my GOD’ and driving away fast.

I said, ‘It could be just a visitor.’

And Mum said, ‘That’s no visitor.’

It was true – she looked like she lived there, the way she was so casual with the deck chair and the book.

After a while, Mum said, ‘I suppose she came over to see him then.’

And I said, ‘Well, no. That can’t be his wife. She’s still in Canada.’

Then Mum’s screeching the car around corners in this frenzy of talking: ‘Well. I should have known. If he cheated on me then he’d cheat on HER too. She should have known what she was in for. Once a snake, always a snake. It just figures.’ Blah, blah, blah.

So I guess my dad’s having an affair.

That explains why he’s so determined that I not see his place here I suppose, or meet any of his business associates.

I don’t really care since I don’t know the person he’s cheating on. But my mum seems to REALLY care. She wants to keep talking and talking about it, and her voice is kind of brittle and bright, and she’s got this new kind of glittery look in her eye. It’s like she’s happy, but in a sharp edged way – like a shiny cheese grater.

This is a long letter, huh? And once again, I’ve ignored your letter. Wait a minute and I’ll look at it again.

Yes, I agree that Monday mornings are awful and I HATE getting up in the mornings. I should really train in the mornings, especially now that it’s getting hot in the afternoons, but sleep is way too important to me. So I understand perfectly.

Katrina Ecclehurst sounds like a first class loser and I really don’t think Derek’s going to fall for her. At least not until she figures out what his actual name is, anyway. It seems like you could get him back if you wanted to, but maybe it’s best to just leave it for a while now? I mean, until you’re really sure. It must be awful to be so unsure – I wish I could meet Derek and help you decide.

Then again, I guess I’d have to meet you too.

Oh yeah, and Celia’s still missing and I haven’t heard a word. I’m actually trying not to think about her at all – if she wants to disappear from my life, maybe I should just let her?

I’ve got to do my English homework now – I’ve decided to write the letter about
My Brilliant Career
because I realised that that’s my area of expertise and I might actually do well.

See ya,

Elizabeth

Elizabeth,

You must despise me.

I honestly meant to carry through with the black cap idea. Honestly. And then I went into a kind of panic.

I called all the other guys and asked them to wear black caps.

They don’t know why, but they think I’m weird anyway, so it’s good to occasionally do something inexplicable and sustain the image.

I could have just not worn a cap at all, but that seemed like too much of a cop out.

I have now created a web for myself which I see no way to untangle. I am only sorry to have got you tangled too. I’m going to have to pack up and move interstate.

Tonight, I will call ASIO and ask if they have any spare identities for me to assume.

It is now a matter of national security that you forget my existence.

Forgive me.

A Stranger