Portraits of Celina (7 page)

That was until we were about nine years old and we were playing schools in the barn and for some reason we decided to practise every swear word we could think of
.

I don’t know how it started, but once it did, we couldn’t stop and soon we were cracking up and yelling profanities with all the fullness of
our voices and it didn’t take long before Mum was standing at the barn doorway, hands on her hips
.

Robbie skittered off home and I got a lashing of mustard on my tongue, which was pretty harsh punishment from my liberal-minded parents. For some reason the whole escapade drove a wedge between us and we barely spoke to each other for about six years. Silly, I know, but that was how it was
.

Until the school Christmas picnic at the council swimming pool at the end of Year Ten
.

Robbie came and sat beside me on the edge of the batik cloth I was using as a towel. I had on my white knitted bikini and an orange Indian shirt. My hair was tied back by the purple headscarf Deb gave me for my birthday
.

“Hi,” he said, and I noted that his voice had become deep and raspy
.

I said hi back and there was something in his eyes that changed everything …

I stop writing. I feel like I’ve had my breath knocked clear out of me. Damp with sweat, I’ve been clutching the pencil with such ferocity that my fingers are aching.

Where did this come from? Why am I writing in first person? As though I am Celina. As though I know what happened nearly four decades ago. Is this my imagination taking flight again?

Yes, yes, that has to be it
, I tell myself. That MUST be it.

Must be.

Has to be.

Please let it be. Please
.

But I know it’s not.

I cast my eyes over the frantic scrawl filling the double page of my notebook. It’s not even my handwriting.

I am standing on top of the rock, twitching, rocking from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do, a terrifying white noise ringing in my ears. I can’t think straight. I must be going mad. Crazy. I have to be.

“It’s that way,” comes a voice from behind me. I jolt to a stop, my limbs prickling, too afraid to turn around.

“Take the track to your left.” The voice again. Male. Vaguely familiar. I slowly swivel on the spot.

Bobbing in his kayak on the choppy water below me is Oliver, his oar resting across his lap. “Hi!” he says, grinning, and his unexpected presence angers me.

“Stalker,” I snap.

“Whoa,” says Oliver and holds up both hands in defeat.

“You’ve got no right to sneak up on me like that.”

“Sor-ry. Thought you must be looking for The Circle, that’s all.”

I close my eyes and clutch the notebook against my stomach. I am making an idiot of myself.

I attempt a smile. “Circle?” I say, but my voice is wonky.

Oliver seems bewildered, and I can’t blame him – my moods are as choppy as the lake.

“It’s over there.” He points towards the rocky cliffs a little further along, then dips his oar in the water and starts to paddle off.

“Wait.”

He stops, his boat pointing away from me. He doesn’t bother to turn around.

I bite my lip. “Where is it exactly? This circle?”

“There should be a track to your left; it will lead you straight there. You can’t miss it.” He peers over his shoulder and his eyes are sharp like blades. “I’ll meet you there, if you like. Unless that’s too stalker-ish for you.”

Too flustered to think straight, I find myself nodding. “Thanks.”

I climb down from my perch on shaky legs. The track is narrow. Spiky branches reach out from either side, touching each other, and I can’t be sure that I haven’t strayed off into the bush somewhere. I feel so raw, so confused. I strike out at the branches that block my way, that flick me in the face as I stomp through. What am I doing?

The air becomes thick with the smell of damp earth, when finally, the vegetation thins and the track leads into a narrow chasm, a rocky passageway of sorts. Shadowy and dank, the rock walls are mildewy and stained with lichen. They soar up to the grey sky above. It is just wide enough to walk through, and at one point I need to turn sideways to fit. I dip under a rocky overhang, shrug off some hanging vines, then step onto a stone platform – and out into another world.

Before me lies a tranquil lagoon, cut off almost completely from the rest of the lake by towering cliffs, streaked orange and yellow. I stop for a moment, too stunned by the unexpected beauty of it to move.

“Wow,” I manage as Oliver negotiates the narrow opening to the lagoon from the lake.

“Told you it was awesome.” Oliver’s voice echoes off the cliffs and whirls around me. He paddles across to where I stand, and jumps out of the kayak. He splashes through knee-deep water, then clambers up the rocks. I can’t help but notice the confident, fluid way he moves.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“Some kind of ancient geological fault – a sink hole, or something like that.”

“Wow,” I say again.

“Don’t have a clue, to be honest. But it’s pretty cool, hey.”

“I didn’t know it was even here.”

“Not many people do.”

Oliver sits on the ledge. I join him, sitting awkwardly with legs crossed, still holding the notebook tight against me.

“Sorry about before,” I say. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“You were pretty scary yourself.”

I hang my head, embarrassed.

“Forget it.” He slides off the rock into the water, and gazes up at the cliffs around him. “You do a mean crazy eyes though.” He opens his eyes wide and pulls a freaky sort of face at me that makes me laugh.

He cups his hands over his mouth and yells: “Watch out for crazy eyes.” The words bounce around the cliff walls and come echoing back to us:
Watch out for crazy eyes … crazy eyes … crazy eyes
.

Now I am giggling.

“Try it,” says Oliver.

I shake my head.

“Come on. It’s a rule.”

“A rule?”

“Yep. You have to make a noise. Anything. Burp the National Anthem, if you have to. Fart. I don’t care. Just make a goddamn noise.” Oliver whistles, claps his hands, shouts “coo-ee”.

I slide the notebook under my backside and cup my hands. “Canoeing stalker,” I call.

“It’s a kayak. Get it right, crazy eyes.”

“Kayaking stalker,” I try to shout it, but I am so full of nerves, it comes out crackly.

“Is that the best you can do? Maybe it’s that blanket thing you’re wearing. Sapping all your energy or something. Take it off, I reckon, and try again.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s a poncho, for your information, and I’m not falling for that one.” And before he can reply, I let fly with an enormous, “KAYAKING STALKER.” It is so loud that even the echo shouts back at us and we both bust up laughing.

“STALKER.”

“CRAZY EYES.”

Our words ricochet from cliff to cliff and ping around us until we are enclosed in a pinball game of rebounding crazy eyes and kayaks and stalkers and our belly-wobbling laughter.

Oliver stops abruptly. “That is very uncool.”

“What?”

“Laughing at my laugh.”

“I’m not,” I say, a small chuckle escaping from the side of my mouth, because his laugh is pretty funny – high-pitched and jerky and almost girlie. “Really.”

Oliver raises his eyebrows at me. “Lying is also very uncool, crazy eyes.” And we both melt with laughter again. “And so is wearing a blanket.”

“Poncho,” I counter.

A silence settles over us, but inside I am buzzing. I am hanging out with Oliver – mucking around, having fun.

“What were you doing up there on that rock before?” Oliver asks after a while.

“Ah. Nothing.” Tension creeps back into my chest. “What are you training for?” I say to avoid a proper answer. “The King of the Kayak cup, or something?”

Oliver gets a steely look in his eyes. His jaw juts out with determination. “The Sydney Uni row team next year. The Olympics, eventually.” He says it as if he is already in the team, that there is no doubt he will make it. And I am reminded of my own similar ambitions – ambitions that were left behind at the starting line the day Dad smashed his head and died. And I am surprised at the bitterness I feel. Or is it envy of Oliver who still has everything?

“You’re sure of yourself,” I say.

“Hey, if I don’t believe I can do it, who will? And then why bother? It’s those other doubters who need convincing – and you can’t listen to them, otherwise when you’re racing, all you can hear is them squawking in your ear. You know, telling you you’re a freaking loser. Then you’re stuffed and you
are
a loser. Literally. Hey, don’t you reckon?”

“Yep. S’pose. Good to aim high, I guess.”

“Shoot for the moon and if you miss, you’ll end up in the stars.” Oliver springs to his feet. “That’s what Mum always says anyway.”

“Deep. I like it.”

Another silence envelops us and I try to summon the courage to broach the subject of my brush with that man the other night. “You get out on the lake a lot,” I say lightly. “Anyone else use it much?”

“Nah. There’s no public access.”

This shocks me. “Really? No one?”

“Yeah. That’s why hardly anyone knows about The Circle. Why?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to sound like an idiot again. “I saw a man the other night – late. He rowed right over to our property.”

Oliver shrugs his shoulders. “I guess it could have been Pop. Or Dad. How late was it?”

“Very. About one in the morning.”

“One? Definitely wouldn’t be Dad. Pop’s a bit eccentric, but I doubt even he would be out at that hour. You sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“Sure. What do you mean ‘eccentric’?”

“He’s an artist. They’re all a little wacky, aren’t they?”

“Guess.”

“Suppose it must have been Pop,” Oliver says. “He’s a harmless old bugger though. Don’t let it worry you. It’s pretty safe round here.”

I resist the urge to bring up Celina. Why is it that everyone feels so safe in a place where something so terrible happened? I can’t work it out, but at least there is some reassurance in my sinister stranger probably being Oliver’s wacky pop. But oddly, I don’t feel reassured at all. I feel tense.

“I better head back home.” I push myself to my feet, and as I do so, my foot kicks the notebook and sends it flying across the rocks towards the water. I yelp and give chase.

Oliver lunges for it and grabs it just before it plops into the lagoon. He raises it in the air with both hands. “How’s that?” he shouts and his words come echoing back.

“Give it to me!” I yell, frantic.

Give it to me … give it to me … to me
, the echo bobbles around me, mocking me. Tears fill my eyes.

Oliver mumbles something under his breath.

“Give it to me. Please. Now.”

Now … now … now
.

“Keep your knickers on.”

Knickers on … knickers on … knickers on …

I snatch the book off him, aware how strange my actions must seem. “Thanks,” I hiss. “I’ve got to go.”

To go … to go … to go …
The words chase after me as I make my escape.

I truly am an idiot.

The last things to go back into the chest are the silver hoop earrings. I am bereft taking them off, but they have to go. Things are getting way out of hand; I can’t go on like this. Up on that rock, writing as though I was channelling the ghost of Celina O’Malley is unnerving me and I am acting like a loony.

I give the chest a long hard look. “You!” I hiss at it. “It all started with you. Damn you.”
Incredible
. I am talking to a wooden box. It is time to end all this nonsense, once and for all. Sever ties with the long dead.

I close the lid and secure the clasp, and I am overcome with sheer and absolute relief. Phew. Now I can forget about Celina O’Malley, can regain my sanity.

But what to do with the silver notebook? I slip it under my mattress. I’ll deal with it later. Perhaps a ceremonial burning might be in order. The thought brings a grin.

In one of the still unpacked plastic bags full of clothes, I find my swimming costume. The wind and grey skies have vanished and the afternoon has become steamy. A swim is in order after all, and I see it as the perfect way to cleanse myself of Celina.

Celina …

My eyes lock on the chest; my mind conjures up the photo of Celina on the jetty. Was the knitted bikini in the photo the same as the one in the chest? I wonder. The thought intrigues me – I should check it out. Perhaps try it on …

I take a step towards the chest, reach for the bronze clasp.

No!
I tell myself. Stop this. But like an addict, I am drawn and I am consumed with a deep, almost tortuous longing that is overriding any kind of rational thought.

It’s as if the wooden chest is luring me, urging me to open it – daring me almost.
Open me up. Look inside. Come on, just for a second; it won’t hurt
.

I press my fingers into my scalp to stop the turmoil inside – to stop these stupid, stupid thoughts. I really am going mad.

The chest has to go. That’s all there is to it. I grab one end before I can change my mind, and drag it out into the hall.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Mum is hopping down the hallway, buttoning up her blouse and pulling on a black shoe at the same time. Seth is following, right on her heels.

“Putting this in the barn or somewhere.”

“Oh no you don’t. The barn is full of rubbish and the builders will be here tomorrow and they don’t need to be tripping over something else. Back to your room with it, thank you very much.” The words come out at a hundred kilometres per hour. Mum jams her blouse into her trousers with frantic fingers and then twirls on the spot. “What do you think? The Wok and Roll called. They want me to do a shift tonight.”

The trousers are way too big. Scarcely gripping her hips, they sag around her backside and I am reminded once again of how much weight Mum has lost.

“You look great,” I lie, and continue dragging the chest down the hall. I am determined to get it as far away from my bedroom as possible. Now. This minute.