The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (16 page)

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.13
pm
Somehow I'd misread my timetable! And those names he just mentioned—those were
my
kind of names, those were
my
class,
my
level of people! I had slipped into the wrong universe! Somehow I had made a terrible mistake and now I was mortified. I sat in Mr Botherit's office feeling as if I had come to school in my pyjamas.

‘That?' I whispered, after staring a moment. ‘
That's
my FAD group? Because I thought . . .'

Mr Botherit turned back to his computer, nodding—and then he frowned.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.15
pm
As he frowned, his eyebrows seemed to jump.

‘Oh, sorry, Bindy. No. Look at that!' He bit his lower lip, concentrating. He ran his mouse to the edge of his desk, looked down at the mouse with surprise, and returned it to the mousepad. ‘My mistake. You're not with that FAD group at all! Here we go. Bindy Mackenzie. You're with Emily, Astrid, Sergio, Toby—that lot. Does that sound right?'

‘That sounds right,' I breathed. I felt a strange wave of relief. I was properly dressed, in full uniform, and not in my sleepwear after all.

‘Sorry about that,' he repeated, still gazing at the screen. ‘See, I was looking at an older version of the FAD groups—it appears that you
were
with that first group, originally, but someone . . .' He tapped at a key or two and then shrugged to himself.

‘But someone,' he repeated, ‘moved you.'

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.17pm
And now here I am, in the Year 11 wing, reflecting on Year Co-ordinators and FAD groups. The meeting concluded
when the bell rang. Mr Botherit was still talking, but I stood up and shouted, ‘I'd better get to Economics!'

‘Promise me you'll give your FAD class another go?' He raised his voice a little himself, as if trying to keep up with my shout.

‘Economics!' I sang again.

And now here I am, in the Year 11 wing—not in Economics at all.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.19
pm
I am new to this. This ‘skipping a class'. I see why they call it skipping. My heart skips a beat every now and then, when it remembers that it should be in class. Actually, I think I might contact Mr Patel later, apologise, and ask for a copy of his class plan for today, along with suggested additional reading so that I can catch up.

Is that common practice for those who ‘skip' a class?

Of course, they might not call it ‘skipping'. What is the current slang for educational absenteeism? (I do not mingle with the sort of student that practises this art.) Do they call it ‘skiving off', ‘playing hooky', ‘wagging'? I have heard the word ‘jigging', but perhaps I have mistook. Isn't that a sort of Irish dance?

The technical term is ‘truanc', of course. The original meaning of ‘truant' is a person who begs by choice. That is, a person who doesn't need to beg, but chooses to do so anyway. An ‘idle rogue', says my dictionary.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.24
pm
I am an idle rogue.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.25
pm
I was an idle rogue on Wednesday, of course: I missed my FAD class.

But isn't that something different? Not idleness at all? If you know that a group despises you, are you not
compelled
to stay away? Even if someone once
moved
me into that group (assuming Mr Botherit is right about that, and wasn't just confused by his new software)—even if someone wanted me once, they certainly don't want me now.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
2.27 pm
Strange.

I know I have been lost in

 

but this wing has been whisper-quiet. I could have sworn I was alone. Yet, just now, I turned toward my locker and there I see a bulky, yellow envelope! It is taped to the outside of my
locker. How did it get there? Are others, like me, shadow people? I will stop my

and get it.

A Note from the desk of Try Montaine
Dear Bindy,
Well, I've given some thought to your creative suggestion that you do your FAD course by correspondence. And I'm afraid I can't get my head around it . . . I don't think a life raft
works
that way.

You've got to at least be in the same room!!

But you've given me an idea—how about some homework for over the break, to catch up on the FAD class you missed?

The homework is simple. It's this:
tell me what makes you who you are.

Take a blank sheet of paper and write down your favourite colours and foods, the moments that changed your life, some things you've seen and heard that have affected or surprised or concerned you. Be as honest as you can, Bindy. Don't think about the impression you're making. This can only help you if you're honest.

Let's have the story of
you.
The story of Bindy's life! (The group had fun doing this task while you were absent the other day. I think they found it invaluable.)

To be honest, Bindy, I missed you at FAD—you and your multi-coloured nail polish. Which brings me to your gift! I'm enclosing some wonderful, sparkling nail polish in this
envelope. It's especially for you, from a member of your FAD group. (I've promised not to give away
which
member. You'll just have to guess.)

Look at it as a bribe if you like. Look at it as secret code for:
your FAD group want you back!

Best wishes,
Try

Bindy Mackenzie: A Life

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The following Life has been prepared by me (Belinda ‘Bindy Mackenzie) for the purposes of a course entitled ‘Friendship and Development'.

Now, I had planned to present this Life as a ‘collage'. I wanted to answer the question ‘what makes me who I am?' by scanning in various documents: my birth certificate; health records; parents' tax returns; Kmart superannuation documentation; photos of my father with a chisel in his hand . . . and so on.

However, most of these documents are now in a padlocked storage area, at our old house in Kellyville. The house has tenants living in it.

(I contacted the real estate agent to request her assistance in procuring consent to access landlord chattels, but she said she didn't 'get what I was on about'.)

Accordingly, sections (1) and (2) of this Life are written in straightforward narrative. They describe my early years, to the best of my recollection.

However, good news!

I
do
have my special box with me. This is a box which contains my old diaries, and a few other select items which are precious to me such as merit awards, prizes, and copies of correspondence with the Ashbury school principal.

Hence,
sections (3) to (12) of this Life will be made up of the contents of my special box (along with occasional ‘explanatory notes').

As you will note, the diary entries are rather scarce. I have had little time for diary writing in the past (this year, I seem
to write too much—not in my diary, but so many musings and memos . . .).

At any rate, I now invite you to read on.

I invite you to enter the Life of Bindy Mackenzie . . .

Please enjoy.

1. Bindy Mackenzie: the Early Years (Age 0–3)

I was born on a cold, blue Wednesday in the middle of the month of July.

I was two weeks early, and my mother likes to say that I've been in a hurry ever since.

My father, Paul Mackenzie, was working in construction at the time. The day that I was born, he suffered a concussion, when a hammer fell onto his head. Indeed, he was
en route
to the hospital, in the front seat of an ambulance (he refused to cower in the back), blood dripping into his eyes, when my mother felt her first contraction.

My mother, Cecily Mackenzie, had started an MBA while pregnant with me. According to family legend, she distracted herself from the labour pains by writing an assignment on the Application of Financial Ratio Analysis to Assessment of Profitability in Small and Medium-Sized Businesses.

A single photograph was taken that day. It shows me in my mother's arms, my father leaning over both of us. My father is wearing a hospital gown which falls open at the neck, showing the hairs on his chest. There is a white gauze bandage protruding from the side of his head. I have studied his face for indications of concussion, but his pupils seem normal to me. He must have made a speedy recovery.

I appear to be a sweet baby: a round face and squinty little eyes. My parents brought me home from the hospital, to live in their rented apartment.

My father sued his employer for the falling hammer, accepted their settlement cheque, and bought a dilapidated house in Winston Hills.

My mother received a High Distinction for her Financial Ratio Analysis assignment.

One year later, my brother, Anthony, was born.

To be honest, I have no memory of any of this.

2. Bindy Mackenzie: the Shadowy Years (Age 3–6)

My father fixed up the house in Winston Hills, sold it, and bought a house in Seven Hills.

This became the pattern of his life—indeed, it
remains
the pattern of his life. He buys a house, we move in, he renovates, he sells it (or he rents it out while he waits for zoning laws to change, so he can demolish the house, subdivide and make a tidy fortune). He is a property developer. He runs a business called Mackenzie Enterprises which currently has a portfolio of twenty-five properties, mostly in the Hills District. The longest we have stayed in any one house is seven months. The shortest is seventy-two hours.

Most recently, we lived in Kellyville. At present, however, I am staying with my aunt and uncle. (My parents wanted to live in/renovate a one-bed apartment in the city and there was no room for Anthony and me.)

But back to my childhood!

By the time I turned six, my family had moved eleven times.

I have a few, shadowy memories of my life between the ages of three and six.

I remember, when I was four, looking at a rundown building with my dad and saying, ‘That house looks so crestfallen.'

Dad laughed and told me that the land was more valuable than the house. The very existence of the house, he said,
reduced
the value of the land.

‘So it's an impediment?' I said. ‘To your profit margin?'

Dad laughed again.

I remember the preschool teacher saying to my mother, in some awe, ‘Is she like this at home?'

I remember reading
Around the World in Eighty Days,
in a sandpit, and the glorious way it made me feel.

I remember my first asthma attack. I was five.

Dad was reading a newspaper, elbow on the kitchen table, chin resting on his fist. Each time he turned a page, he half stood up from his chair, so he wouldn't have to move his chin from his fist.

I began to explain that it would make more sense if he simply
changed
his position, returning the elbow to—but I realised he was not listening.

Mum was at the sink, washing spinach. She turned the tap full-blast. Water rebounded and splashed her in the eyes. She jumped back in surprise and tripped over my father, who was standing up to turn a page.

Together they fell to the floor in a foolish tumble.

My brother, four at the time, saw this from the hallway, and took a flying leap. He landed on my father's stomach. All three shouted with laughter.

I took large, careful steps over my family.

I stood on my toes, and turned off the tap. I tipped Dad's chair upright. I stared at my family, wondering how to get them off the floor.

I started to wheeze. I began to cough.

I was pointing to my parents, to the sink, to the newspaper, and chair—but the more I tried to speak the more I coughed.

I grew out of asthma after several months, but some years later, it returned.

DIARY ENTRY
Tuesday, 16 April

Dear Diary,
Have you met Anthony? He is my younger brother and he has dark brown hair. Anyway, Anthony has a headache today. Daddy said, ‘No, you don't.' Anthony said, ‘Yes, I do.' Daddy said he has no respect for headaches. They don't exist. Six-year-olds do NOT get headaches, he said. He said Anthony has to talk himself out of his head.

Later, I saw Mummy give Anthony a disprin. I don't know if Daddy knows.

DIARY ENTRY
Friday, 14 June

Dearest Diary,
I am learning to play the piano!!! My teacher is Penny and she's fat but she's really nice. My favourite part is the treble clef. And there are really, really interesting sentences for remembering the notes. They are:

I keep saying the sentences to Anthony, and sometimes I get out apples, oranges, bananas, etcetera—(FRUIT, I mean), and say, ‘
Every
good boy deserves fruit, Anthony,' in a serious voice and I give him the fruit. We both keep laughing. It's funny.

DIARYENTRY
Wednesday, 7 August

Hi Diary,
I stayed home from school today. ‘Felt a bit under the weather.' I started reading a book called
Wuthering Heights
by Emily Bronte. I need to use the dictionary quite a lot and sometimes it's confusing BUT it has a great atmosphere. I think it's called gothic. Mummy gave me a book of crosswords. But they were too easy. I told her maybe I need cryptic crosswords instead because I wasn't being challenged.

DIARYENTRY
Sunday, 1 September

Dear Diary,
Today Daddy let me help with the wallpaper!! He's pulling it off my bedroom wall. But I said, ‘Daddy, it's
beautiful,'
because it's got roses on it. But Daddy just laughed. My job was to go along in front of him with a bucket of water, and maybe some other product is in the water, and wipe a sponge over the paper to make it wet. I could not reach some bits so Dad did them. I got sopping wet. And then Daddy gave me a fountain pen to say ‘thank you'. It says Delta Hotel in 9-carat gold on the side.

DIARYENTRY
Tuesday, 15 October

Oh My Darling Diary,
I just had the WORST day of my life. I lost the fountain pen that Daddy gave me for being his special girl!!!! I was not ever
going to lose it. I KNOW I left it at school, on the windowsill outside the music room, but Mum drove me back and it WASN'T THERE any more. SOMEONE MUST HAVE STOLEN IT.

I don't know how I'm going to tell Dad. He will be so disappointed in me. I know it.

But he could not be as disappointed in me as I am in myself.

DIARY ENTRY
Friday, 25 October

Hi Diary,
Well, I finally got brave enough to tell Dad about the fountain pen. He wasn't mad at all!

He just said be careful with your stuff because I'm not made of money, ok. And then he said, You use fountain pens at school? Don't you use pencils? And then I started explaining about how Miss Carmine only lets us use pencils but I'm allowed to use the fountain pen for special sometimes, because it's special, only after big lunch and how I am the best at printing and we are all working on our posture, and we already did our pencil grip, and some kids need to work on their rounded letters, and I need to work on my pointed letters, and we get to do cursive now, sometimes, and all that.