The Beloved (19 page)

After school on Monday I caught the bus to Boroko. I had a sketch with me that I'd done on lined paper with ordinary HB pencils, of Josie sitting on the rock flicking limpets. Everything was round. Josie's hair, her stomach, the rocks, limpets, the sun.

Helen Valier was sitting behind the counter, writing something. When she saw me she slid a book over the writing, screwed the cap on her fountain pen and twiddled it.

‘I need paper,' I said, pushing my drawing across the counter. ‘Anything's okay; scraps, as long as they aren't lined. I haven't got any money but I'll bring you some as soon as I can.'

She drew my picture cautiously towards her and looked at it, tugging on a curl beside her ear.

I fumbled with the brush stump in my pocket, my good-luck charm.

‘Hmm,' she said, letting go the curl. It shot back and sat like an orange spring beside her cheek. She stood up and turned to a wide bank of drawers behind her. I'd assumed Mrs Valier would give me scraps from her personal stash but now I saw that the drawers were full of paper, pencils, paints and brushes.
Art supplies
. I hadn't known she sold them!

She pulled out a thin sketchpad and slid it across the counter. ‘Any bigger than this won't fit in your bag.'

My bag . . . did she know?

‘Pencils?' she asked.

She must know, Dad must have told her. Or was I that easy to read? She chose three pencils and held them out for my approval. I nodded. ‘I'll pay you. I promise.'

‘No rush.'

I moved towards the door.

‘Lindsay . . .'

I paused.

‘Nice drawing.'

My face burned. ‘Thanks.'

‘And, Lindsay . . .'

I stood in the doorway, squinting into the sun.

‘Don't get caught.'

Midnight. My parents were at it again. I crawled out of bed and went down the passageway. My mother was saying: ‘
She
this' and ‘
She
that', but sounding exasperated rather than angry and after a minute I realised she was talking about me.

‘No,' said Dad. ‘Not boarding school. I've already missed nearly a year of her life. Anyway, I only meant for a couple of weeks.'

‘Oh,' my mother said. ‘Well, Magda would take her for a while.'

‘And leave her with that prick Konrad?'

‘His argument's with you, not our daughter.'

‘I suppose so.' I heard Dad drumming his fingers. ‘All right.' His chair scraped and I hurried back to bed.

The next day I was packed off to the Breuers with a bagful of clothes and the happy news that I would be going to Coronation School with Stefi for the next few weeks.

‘What's going on?' I said.

‘Nothing that concerns you,' said Mama.

‘Nothing ever concerns me,' I said, ‘but I'm the one who gets pushed around.'

‘Poor you. I thought you'd be pleased to stay with Stefi and go back to Coronation.'

‘I am pleased, but I want—'

‘I'm not interested in what you want, Lindsay. The world doesn't revolve around you.'

Mrs Breuer stubbed out her cigarette and gave me a hug. ‘It's lovely to have you with us,
drágám
.'

‘Thanks, it's nice to be here, but I'm not sure why I am.'

‘Your parents need time alone to work out their problems.'

‘Me being one of them.'

She patted my cheek. ‘No. Not you. You just got caught in the middle.'

Stefi pranced around like a puppy. ‘I'm so glad you're here, you've got no idea.' She dogged my footsteps and chattered non-stop. Only when her father ran his cool gaze over me did she become quiet. I did too. There was something in Mr Breuer's pale eyes that reminded me of Charlie; he made me feel undressed, like a rabbit caught in a spotlight. I did my best to avoid him.

My mother had phoned Coronation School to arrange for maths lessons instead of art but she needn't have bothered. There were no art classes during the Scholarship years of grades seven and eight. The school was like an old skin, with everything the same apart from a few kids who'd left and some new ones who'd arrived. One of these was Christopher Bright.

Chris was tall with golden hair and eyes like the sea and he made my insides as slippery as oil. I felt horribly and brilliantly visible, not helped by the new bumps under my smock.

‘You've got an awful crush,' said Stefi.

‘No . . .'

‘You have. But watch out, Diane Rudge has her eye on him too.'

Blow Diane Rudge. What was so special about her? Yes, she had two perfect feet and was good at schoolwork, but nothing wonderful to look at and, I reckoned, boring. If I tried not to limp . . .

Time and again I tried to draw Chris but I wanted him to look exactly as he did in real life and my drawing skills let me down. I had to have his photo. I asked Stefi if I could borrow her camera.

‘What's wrong with yours?'

‘My mother will develop the pictures. I don't want her seeing Chris.'

‘Crikey, you've got it bad.'

‘Shut up, Stefi. Just lend me the camera.' As soon as I got his photo back from the developers I put it between the pages of an exercise book. When I wasn't staring at it, I followed Chris with my eyes and my pencil, sketching him buried in a book or stroking the leather skin of a softball. I wondered what his hands would feel like on mine. A few times he caught me looking at him and smiled. I felt my blood run hot. One day he asked me why I didn't play softball. ‘Anyone could run your bases for you, Lindsay. It's hitting the ball that counts.'

I stared at him. No-one had ever suggested such a thing. Chris offered to coach me at lunchtime provided I could practise at home. I didn't care about playing softball but the chance to have his undivided attention was too good to pass up. At first when he pitched the ball I couldn't concentrate but when I finally stopped staring at him I found batting came easily, like marbles and guns. I got permission to take a bat and softball home and roped in Stefi to toss balls. One afternoon I lobbed a whopper into the bush next door to the Breuers' house.

‘Lindsay,' Stefi wailed. ‘How are we going to find that?'

‘We have to. It's not mine.' We went into the scrub and thrashed around making a racket to scare away snakes. The undergrowth was thick and the ball could be anywhere. After a while I realised Stefi was not with me. I called out but there was no answer.

I picked my way back to where we'd started and saw her, standing absolutely still, like a hunting dog frozen mid-step.

‘Stefi,' I said, going towards her.

Then I saw him.

Naked. Tugging on his penis. White and stodgy as a maggot, he sweated and panted as he pumped. I'd seen him before, hanging around the school; an uncle of one of the kids. I tumbled forward and grabbed Stefi.

‘
Move
.' But she was stuck to the spot.

The maggot edged towards us, hissing and moaning and thrusting. I picked up a branch and poked it at him. He snatched it and chucked it away. I fumbled around for another one, swung wildly and this time I got him. Blood spurted from his ear and he fell to the ground, groaning.

‘Stefi!' I slapped her. She blinked. I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her along, feeling shudders run through her tiny body.

As we came into the yard her parents hurried down the stairs.

‘What's going on?' said Mr Breuer.

Mrs Breuer held out her arms. ‘
Drágám
, what's wrong?'

‘A man in the bush,' I said. ‘Naked.'

‘
Naked
? My God, are you all right?'

‘I'm okay,' I said. ‘It's just Stefi.'

‘Did he hurt you?' Mr Breuer asked, squinting at Stefi.

She didn't answer.

‘No,' I said. ‘He didn't . . . he was just revolting.'

‘Ah, well,' said Mr Breuer. ‘No harm done, then, is there?'

A few days later, Chris got me on to his team. I batted and Stefi – who couldn't bat to save herself – ran my bases. Between us we were one good player.

‘Great strike rate,' said Chris.

‘Thanks.' I ticked off my fingers. ‘Marbles, shooting and hitting balls; things I'm good at.'

‘Drawing, too.'

So, he'd noticed. ‘Do you like drawing?' I asked.

He tossed the bat in the air and twirled it, smiled and passed it to me. ‘It depends what I have to draw.'

What did he mean by that? I wondered.

That afternoon Stefi and I came out of class to find Mrs Breuer waiting for us beside her car.

‘Hop in,' she said. ‘Good news, Lindsay. We're taking you home. Your mother and father are back together.'

My legs went weak. Together? Really? No more Canada, no more divorce?

‘Wonderful, yes?' said Mrs Breuer.

Wonderful. Yes.

Over.

Em tasol.

Bye-bye, Mrs Valier.

I fingered Stumpy in my pocket. I'd given the brush stump a name. I figured it deserved one after what it had been through.

Mama made me a cold drink while Dad carried my bags to my room. He came back and stood behind my mother with his hands on her shoulders as if posing for a photograph. His eyes were unreadable. Perhaps there was nothing to read. Mama looked brisk. Done and dusted, as she might say, when something was finished. I stared at them: my parents looked about as ‘back together' as a jigsaw done by a blind man.

Mama stepped forward and touched her lips to my cheek. ‘I'm sorry for everything that's happened, Lindsay. It's been a difficult time but it's over now. We're looking to the future. You'll be pleased to know we've bought a house in Boroko and you can continue at Coronation School.' She nudged Dad.

‘You and Tim,' he said, as if she'd pressed his ‘go' button. ‘This family . . . it's more important to me than anything else. I'm sorry I risked it, CP.'

He put out his arms and I went to him. His chin rested on my head. I must have grown; he didn't seem so tall any more.

The day we moved, a truck came for the furniture. My mother and I were loading clothes and smaller bits and pieces into the jeep. I dumped a pile of Dad's shirts into the back and an envelope fell out. It was soft and creased as if it had been handled over and over. I picked it up and saw that the envelope was slit at the top. I looked around; Mama was in the house. I pulled out the letter.