The Beloved (4 page)

I was put to work on parallel bars at the hospital and, at last, measured for a pair of shoes. Shiny black patent leather with thin straps; I could just imagine them. Below my knee my leg was as thin as a broomstick and my foot was like a chook's claw. The shoes would somehow fix it all. But what came were boots. Horrible boots. The right one was smaller; it had a platform on the bottom and laced halfway up my leg.

‘I know, Bertie,' Mama said, when I wailed. ‘Not glass slippers but it's only an inch high. Some people's boots are more than twice that. You're lucky.'

Lucky. That word again. A die thrown that could land your way, or not. The physiotherapist strapped a brace called a calliper around my leg. It was made of metal and leather and weighed a ton. Then she tucked a pair of crutches under my arms and pulled me to my feet. ‘Okay, Roberta, see if you can take a step.'

I grasped the crutches with sweaty hands and moved my foot forward. Pins and needles flooded up my leg.

‘Go on,' said Mama.

I did it again, and again. Each shaky step felt like I was treading on forks. When I reached the door I turned. Mama was leaning against the wall, crying. I could hardly believe my eyes. In all my life I'd never seen her cry and my heart squeezed with so much love I nearly fell over.

‘You walked,' she said. ‘You did it, Bertie – you
walked
.'

With all those things on my leg and under my arms, it didn't feel much like walking but at least I was on my feet, and Mama was happy. She said the more I practised the sooner I'd be rid of it all. That night I took six wobbly steps around the table and after cheers, toasts and a speech from Dad, Mama tucked me into bed.

‘I promised you this, Bertie.' She took my hand and dropped the locket into my palm. ‘Take care of it, sugar. My dreams are still in there.'

The calliper and platform boot were the ugliest things I'd ever seen but I was walking. I could get to the kitchen and to the toilet on my own, wash and dress. Still Mama fussed. Had I washed behind my ears? Dried between my toes? Put on a singlet?

‘I can look after myself now.'

‘Let me lace up that boot.'

‘I can do it.'

‘No, it's too difficult; you're only six.'

‘I'm nearly
seven
.'

Christmas was coming and Mama took me to the city. I loved the clanging trams, men in hats, ladies in high heels, smart dresses and gloves. I loved the big shop windows and Santa in his red suit. But I hated how people gawked at me or turned away.

There was a woman in a lift.

‘That child should be in a home.'

I sucked in my breath. A ‘home' was a place for kids whose parents didn't want them. I looked up at Mama; her face was full of pain and there was purple stuff leaking from her chest.

‘I want to bash her,' I whispered. Mama gazed at me for a moment, then turned to the woman. ‘My daughter wants to thump you for that remark and I'm inclined to let her. The crutch should do nicely, I think.' When the lift stopped Mama grabbed my hand. ‘Come on, let's get out of here.'

We went to a posh café with red linen serviettes and shiny silver cutlery. I ordered my favourite: a toasted cheese sandwich, crunchy on the outside and squishy on the inside, and a chocolate malted milk. But I didn't feel hungry. People didn't want to look at me. The calliper and boot made me a freak.

I took a bite of toasted sandwich. ‘When can I get rid of the brace, Mama?'

‘Depends. A few months, maybe.'

A few
months
! ‘The boot?'

‘The boot is forever, I'm afraid, sugar. I'm sorry.'

I felt cheese oozing down my chin. Mama went at it with a napkin. I pushed her away. ‘You can . . . you can fix it, can't you?'

‘No, Bertie. There are some things I can't fix.'

Trapped, inside a boot. Forever.

‘It won't be as bad as you think. When you're used to it you'll hardly notice. You're making progress every day and soon you'll be able to walk as fast as anyone else.'

I stared at my half-eaten sandwich. All I wanted was to go home. But there was shopping to do – more Meccano and farm animals for Tim, two new shirts for Dad and Mama wanted to visit a hairdresser. In the salon a little girl was having her hair cut. As it fell to the floor, curls sprang around her face.

‘Would you like your hair cut, Bertie? Properly, this time, not like Matron did it. You'd look real cute and it would be easier to manage.'

‘No!' My hair was past my shoulders now and nobody was going to take it from me again. When I opened my eyes in the morning and saw its black puddle on the pillow I knew I was still me, still Roberta. Cutting off my hair? ‘Even if you give me cod-liver oil I won't get it cut.'

‘Okay. I get the picture.'

Did she? Did she know cod-liver oil hadn't really cured me of seeing colours?

On Christmas Eve I pulled apart pieces of bread for the turkey stuffing and stirred custard, happy to be doing normal things like normal people. Mama had made a Christmas cake but had forgotten to make a pudding. Dad said it didn't matter, her apple pie was better than any pudding. He came into the kitchen as I was pushing threepences and sixpences between layers of apple and put his arms around Mama.

‘Beautiful Bean,' he said. ‘How about an early night?'

‘No.' But her voice was soft and she didn't push him away like she sometimes did. ‘Sorry, Eddie. It's just that I'm . . .'

‘I know.' He dropped his arms. ‘Wrung out.'

‘Well I am, damn it.'

Aunt Tempe sent me a tin of paints for Christmas and when Dad brought home smooth sheets of paper from his office and I brushed paint on them for the first time, I felt like I could do anything. At the sight of an empty blackboard or a clean sheet of paper, something inside me rushed out. Jelly-bean people. Rainbow horses. Flying bananas. Mama shook her head.

‘No accounting for taste, Roberta. Roll on school.'

In the New Year, Dad took us to Ocean Grove. When my bare feet sank into the warm sand my whole body sang. I poured fistfuls over my legs and arms and Dad and Tim scooped out a shallow bed and covered me up. Dad swung me into his arms and carried me to the edge of the sea where small shells winked; grey-striped, pink and bronze. There were orange pebbles and chunks of crumbly black stuff Dad said came from long-ago volcanoes and an old blue medicine bottle the colour of his eyes. We lay in the clear waves together and I waggled my legs, pretending to be a mermaid.

‘Count the waves, CP. They say every seventh wave is bigger. You have to be careful it doesn't knock you over.'

‘It can't knock me over, I'm lying down.'

‘Stand, then. And if the seventh wave doesn't knock you over, nothing will.'

So I stood holding his hand, feeling sand being sucked from under my feet, and counted the waves. And it seemed that every seventh wave – or maybe every eighth – was bigger. I didn't fall, but then I did have hold of Dad's hand.

‘Had enough?'

I shook my head.

He smiled. ‘How about an ice cream?'

At the top of the dunes Mama found a shell. She lifted back my hair and put it against my ear, and for the second time in my life, I heard the whole world. This time, it was breathing.

Chapter Four

In the week before I started grade three, Mama took me for an interview with the headmaster.

‘Roberta is right up to date,' she told him.

‘Good,' said Mr Purvis. ‘It'll make things easier for her, but Roberta won't be able to start grade three this year. She's only done three months of grade two.'

‘It won't matter,' Mama said. ‘She's grade three standard in everything – reading, writing and math.'

I looked from one to the other. Neither of them looked at me. Mr Purvis threaded his fingers together. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Lightfoot, it's not simply a matter of academic performance. Socially, Roberta is behind by seven months, a long time at her age, especially as she started school so young. Repeating a year won't disadvantage her and it will give her time to find her feet again within the school community.'

Mama's jaw dropped.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .'

‘I know what you meant. Roberta can cope. She needs to know she can do as well as anyone. Better. The sooner the better.'

‘I'm sure she will but I don't believe it's wise to push her at this stage. If she's so bright she can skip a year later.'

‘She's bright, not a genius; she needs to do this now.'

Mr Purvis stood up. ‘I'm sorry.'

Mama stood too. ‘Give her a chance.'

He opened the door. ‘Roberta will be well looked after in grade two.'

Mama marched to the car and stood beside it with the door open, waiting for me to catch up. ‘God almighty. A year's work down the drain.'

God, again. Why was he so mean?

On the first day of school Mama led me through a crowd of kids and mothers. My dress was last year's. It was too short and people stared.

‘New beginnings,' said Mama. ‘You mightn't be able to play like you used to but you can shine in other ways. Work hard at your lessons and maybe you'll get into grade three.' She smoothed my hair. ‘Have a good day, sugar. I'll see you at three.' And she was gone.

Miss Morris was the same teacher from last year with stringy hair pulled into a bun and a voice like wire. She made us copy down some words and then asked us what they meant. I sighed. I'd done it all before; shining would be easy. When the bell went for lunch, I went into the playground. Someone poked me in the back. I turned and saw a bunch of kids glaring at me.

A boy pointed to my calliper. ‘What's that thing?'

I tried to move past him but he snatched one of my crutches. ‘I had polio,' I said. ‘I'm better now.'

‘Polio,' said Monica, a girl from grade four with a face like an angel and colours like dog poo. ‘Cripple,' she said. ‘Ugly leg.' She nudged her friends. ‘Ugly leg, ugly leg, ugly-ugly-ugly.'

‘Ugly leg,' they chanted. ‘Ugly-ugly
-uglyleg
.' Monica lifted her arms and swayed like a gorilla. The others copied her, limping and cat-calling. ‘Run!' Monica shrieked in my face.

I couldn't, and there was nowhere to go. A circle closed in. Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Cry-baby, cry-baby, freak, freak, freak!' The chant rose and the kids pressed closer and closer until I could feel their breath on my face and . . . someone pushed. I sprawled on my back in the dirt, pain making sick rise up my throat. Above me, a halo of faces leaned in and beyond them a circle of sky, a beautiful milky, mocking blue.

‘Upside-down cockroach,' said Monica, and threw down my crutch.

‘Shoo!' The faces melted away and a teacher knelt beside me. ‘It's all right, Roberta.'

I stared through her. It wasn't all right. It was all wrong.

Later, when I told Mama what had happened, she took my hand and gazed steadily into my eyes. ‘Listen to me, Bertie, you've beaten polio. Don't let those kids beat you.'

‘I'm ugly, Mama. Horrible, ugly.'

‘You're not ugly and your leg isn't the enemy. It's your passport to the future. You could be in a wheelchair now or in an iron lung. You're one of the lucky ones. You can beat anybody, especially those silly kids. Make them notice this,' she tapped her head, ‘and they'll soon forget about your foot.'

No, they wouldn't. Mama didn't understand. Kids weren't interested in your brains, only in what you looked like. You could be the dumbest kid in the world as long as you were pretty. I asked Mama to let down the hems of my dresses.

‘Okay, they are a bit short. I'll do it at the weekend.'

‘Now. Do one now.'

‘At the weekend, I said.'

‘No. Now, or I won't go to school.'

‘You'll go.'

‘I won't. You can give me cod-liver oil until I die but I won't go.'

‘What's the rush?'

‘I have to hide my foot.'

Mama sighed. ‘You can't hide it. Your dresses would have to drag on the ground. You'd look like a little old lady.'

‘Better than looking like a cripple.'

‘Roberta Lightfoot, listen to me. Cripple is just a word, not who you are. A damaged foot doesn't make you a cripple unless you let it. When the calliper and crutches are gone your boot will be less noticeable.'

‘
Please
let down the hems, Mama.'

‘Did you hear me?'

‘Yes.'

She tapped her fingers against her chin. ‘All right. Just this once, I will. But sooner or later you'll have to come to terms with that foot. It's yours for life.'

At lunchtime two boys took my crutches and tore up and down the hall like a three-legged monster. ‘
Spastic, spastic!
' When they got tired of it, they dumped my crutches at the far end of the hall. Another boy saw them and brought them back. For a moment he stood there, looking me over, as if he was trying to work something out. Then he said, ‘My name's Oliver. You're Roberta, aren't you?'

I nodded and began to move away, but as I went down the hall I could feel him watching me.

The teachers warned Monica to stay away from me but still she threatened. ‘Lightfoot! Dumb name for a dumb foot. Roberta Dumbfoot. I'll get you alone,' she hissed, ‘and bash you up. And all your friends . . . that you haven't got!'

I tried to be invisible. At lunchtime when everyone jammed into the shelter shed, I hung back in the classroom or out behind the toilet block. When they finished eating and ran into the playground I went to the shelter shed with my lunch and my pencils. Even though I couldn't play, I liked drawing kids messing about: tossing balls, skipping and climbing the monkey bars. Three girls played hop-scotch every day. One had trouble balancing; she kept losing her turn and having to stand on the sidelines. I drew her skinny body, her thin dangling arms and drooping hair ribbon. I drew her dress – faded and too high at the waist – and I drew her sadness; blue turning to grey, grey to charcoal.

One morning when we had painting in class, Miss Morris stopped by my desk. ‘Why are your people such strange colours, Roberta?'

‘Because that's what colours they are.'

Thirty kids looked up. I could feel my face burning. Why had I said that?

‘People aren't blue,' said Miss Morris.

I touched my brush to the paper and filled in the man. ‘Mine are.'

At lunchtime Oliver came into the shelter shed, where I sat drawing. He watched for a while and then said quietly, ‘Miss Morris is greeny-brown, like soldiers' uniforms.'

I gasped. ‘You can see colours too?'

He nodded and smiled. ‘You were bright red when you were talking to Miss Morris. Mostly though, you're purple, with yellow in the middle of your hands and bright blue around your fingers. Blue, like . . . forget-me-nots.'

The forget-me-nots in Mama's garden had wilted by the time Dad told us we were leaving Melbourne. Late-February mist hung like a blanket over the tall gum trees in the backyard and draped over washing Mama had been trying to dry for two days. She stared out the window while I fiddled with the Vegemite jar. Tim rifled through the Weetbix box for the collector's card of animals. He stared at it gloomily. ‘Cheetah. I've already got it.'

Mama turned from the window and began to ladle porridge. I stirred in brown sugar, fretting about Monica's latest threat to get me alone and chop off my foot. Mama dumped the pot in the sink and began to mix batter.

‘I can't go to school today, Mama. I'm sick.'

She didn't look up. ‘You're not sick and you are going to school.'

‘I
am
sick.' I nudged porridge into the shape of a gargoyle with Monica's face and poked it with my finger to make eyes.
Cripple, Ugly-leg
.

‘Stop messing with that porridge, Bertie. Just eat it.' She dropped bacon into the pan and glared at the kitchen door. ‘Where's your father? He's been on that damn phone for ages. Breakfast is spoiling.'

When she turned back to the stove I rearranged Monica's porridge-face. ‘Don't make me go to school, Mama. They're horrible. It isn't fair.'

‘I know it isn't fair and I'm sorry they're horrible but that's life, sugar. You must learn to be strong. I had to, I got teased when I was little too.'

Mama
got teased? What for? She was beautiful. ‘Why did they tease you?' I asked.

‘The oldest reason in the world. My skin. It was darker than everyone else's. You can't hide from the world, Bertie; you have to look it in the eye and stare it down. That means school. Anyway,' she said, all matter-of-fact again, ‘if I don't get some time alone I'll go mad.'

Time alone? My mother
wanted
time without me? I fingered my pony tail – cockroach
-
black Monica called it – and studied Mama's face. Colours or no colours, it was as unreadable as the Braille book Miss Morris had showed us at school.

The kitchen door whumped back. Dad stood there with a smile that covered his face. ‘Guess what, Lily May! I've got it. I've got the job! We're going to New Guinea.'

Mama shut her eyes and heaved a long, slow sigh. ‘Thank God. When do we go?'

‘Pronto. The market for tinned food is anybody's at the moment. I'll have to leave straight away, find an office and a place for us to live. Sorry, darl, but you'll have to pack up. Crikey. We're going. We're actually going!'