The Secrets We Keep (3 page)

Chapter 4

It feels strange to be running home from a new school to a new flat, but at least I'm escaping all of the weirdness of Ellie and Tam and being the new girl.

As I run, I think about how
I'
d normally be hanging out with Bridge at netball training or Little Athletics. Here it's just school. Home. And Dad. An unequal triangle version of my once perfectly shaped life.

I can't even text Bridge because I don't have a mobile phone anymore. It got burnt in the fire because I wasn't allowed to take my phone to school. There's a battle over the insurance so we're just waiting on money to replace things. Until then, Dad and I have to make do with what we do have: a few bits and pieces we found after the fire brigade got the fire under control, like my diary and some clothes that were on the line. Then there are the things our friends and family donated to us, like Bridge's favourite pink icy-pole-patterned pyjamas that I now wear most nights.

I will never forget walking through the blackened bones of our house and seeing the random things that had survived. Half the couch, like it was preparing itself for only one parent to sit on it each night. A purple candle squatting in a crystal glass holder that was on a table near the front door. Mum had a collection of candles to help her relax. But how can a candle not burn in a fire? Crazy. And my diary. I remember picking it up and feeling how hot the key was in the lock, but the pages were still intact. I never knew fires were so picky about what they took.

The smell struck me, too. It wasn't like the woody smell of a campfire. It was really strong and distinctive and everything we salvaged still has that odour. No amount of washing can get it out.

I run around a corner and stop. I'm breathing fast and my top is all sweaty. Six weeks away from Little Athletics and I'm struggling to run as far as I used to.

I start walking and pass the tattooed couple from this morning again and, this time, I see the other side of the woman's face. There's no ink. It's just skin: plain, ordinary, human. I'm disappointed that she's left a patch uncovered.

I wonder if Dad will be at the flat. I hope he is. Already cooking in his frilly white apron that he always wears now. A stranger gave it to him after the fire. Random people were forever dropping in with bags of things they thought we could use. So much of it was rubbish. I mean, I know I'm small, but I am eleven and size four clothes do not fit me. A couple of things were okay, though. Like the apron. For some reason Dad loves it and has continued to wear it every night when he's cooking dinner. Sometimes he even leaves it on when we eat. I think it reminds him that people can be kind.

When I open the front door, the flat's cold. I turn on all the lights even though I know we're supposed to be saving money. And then I try to start the heater, but it's one of those old gas ones in the wall that's tricky to ignite, and I have no idea what the trick might be.

I find Dad's hand-knitted jumper on the couch and pull it on instead, liking the way the sleeves hang down over my hands, like I'm being hugged.

There's not much food in the cupboard except cereal and rice. But then I see that Dad's already made the pudding. It's sitting on the stovetop ready to be placed in the oven. I stick my finger into the gooey batter and taste the sweet chocolate. If I didn't know just how delicious this pudding would taste after it was baked, I'd be pretty happy to eat it raw.

I'm a bit of a sweet tooth. Mum was too. We could easily disappear into a block of chocolate and not resurface until it was gone. Dad doesn't buy sweets much, so I'm pleased he bought the good chocolate for the pudding. He's normally super healthy. I think that comes from being a horticulturalist and all those years he's spent with his hands in the dirt growing plants. He grew this luscious vegie garden in the backyard of our old house that ran along three sides of our fence. When I was younger, I used to love picking beans and peas for dinner. But I'd always eat them before they made it inside.

Now we have a single pot with some sad-looking herbs on the window ledge in the kitchen. The parsley and basil are the only sign of colour in a very brown and beige room. I do have ideas to brighten this place up but putting them into action would mean admitting that we may be here for a while. And I can't do that yet.

It's the first time I've been properly alone since the fire. Even though we've been here a week, Dad always buzzes around me checking I'm okay. Now he's not here, this tiny flat feels strangely enormous. I am not enough to fill it. If Mum were here then one of her red pots would be simmering with something yummy on the stove, and she would have arranged a bunch of fresh flowers on the bench; the air would smell alive.

Music would help. It always fills an empty space. But unfortunately my dad's not-so-incredible vinyl collection and my incredible playlists on my phone were swallowed up in the fire. Actually, Dad's vinyl melted into one black, solid lump of plastic. All the record covers and plastic sleeves vanished, but the records remained as if there was too much bad seventies rock for even the fire to consume.

See what I mean? Fire changes everything. It takes even the things that you can't imagine ever missing. Like the vinyl. I never thought I'd be mourning Dad's ancient Devo records or The Clash: bands nobody's heard of unless they grew up back when Dad was young. But even though I hated most of the songs Dad played, I liked the noise and the rituals, like pulling the record out from the plastic sleeve making it go all staticky, the sound of the needle dragging after the record had finished playing and turning it over so you could hear the songs on the other side.

I look at the radio that Dad found at the op shop along with everything else. It's as brown as the tiles and the cupboards in the kitchen and the carpet in the lounge. You can't quite tune it into a station so it's crackly all the time. But I guess it's better than nothing.

I twist the dial trying to find something chatty and friendly and stop when I hear talkback. It reminds me of Mum. She always had it playing in the car with the volume low so you couldn't really hear the words but the noise hummed in the background. Dad hated it and used to complain about all that commercial rubbish, but Mum said the callers kept her company, talking to her on bad mornings. Mum had lots of bad mornings. And bad afternoons. But mostly bad nights.

I snuggle further into Dad's jumper because it's too early in the day to think about Mum. I usually reserve that for the middle of the night when I can't get back to sleep.

Sometimes I dream that I'm watching our house burn and I try to break in through the front door, but Dad pulls me back just as the roof collapses. On those nights I wake sweating and shivering at the same time, and I can hear Dad crying on the couch. I get out of bed to check on him, but I never seem to make it all the way. I don't know what to say to him. Even my best friend Bridge I've only told bits and pieces. My aunty tried to talk to me about it, too. But there's just not much to say.

Suddenly I hear Dad in the stairwell and rush over to open the door.

‘Well, that's service, Clem,' he says, and he gives me a hug.

‘Yeah. Gotta do something around here to earn my keep.'

‘It's cold in here.' Dad shivers as he takes off his heavy blue jacket. Luckily it didn't burn in the fire. It was safe in the boot of our car. All the workers at the gardens have them for cold days because the padding is so thick it stops the wind and means they can stay outside for longer. It's his unofficial uniform. At least some things are still the same.

‘I can't light the heater,' I say.

‘Oh, I'll show you the trick.'

I smile. Of course Dad knows the trick.

‘You've got to press the starter button at the same time you put in the temperature,' he says, showing me the buttons.

He moves out of the way and I know he wants me to try it myself. This is Dad's way of teaching me how to do things. So far it's meant that I can change the tyre tube on my bike, pitch a tent and hammer a nail in straight.

I light the heater instantly and Dad pats my back, pleased.

‘How was school?' he asks.

I shrug. ‘You didn't really research it, did you?'

Rather than answer my question straightaway, Dad walks into the kitchen and turns down the radio.

‘Hey, I was listening to that.'

‘Nobody should listen to that,' he says, winking at me.

I watch as he turns on the kettle. That's the other thing Dad always does: has a cup of tea when he gets home even in the middle of summer. He puts it down to having English parents who had a pot going twenty-four hours a day.

‘I sort of researched it,' he finally replies.

I snort. ‘On Google?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Did Google tell you there's a “no-homework policy”? Dad, my teacher has a nose ring. And there are no desks!'

‘Wow. Sounds interesting.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Was anyone nice to you?'

‘One girl. Ellie. That one who showed me around when you were leaving,' I say.

‘Good. Is it going to be okay?'

I nod. ‘Maybe.'

‘It'll be okay, Clem,' says Dad, after a pause.

I know I should comment but I don't really know what to say. Mum was always the person I talked to about problems at school and with friends. Maybe he's trying to fill the gap.

I watch as Dad makes his cup of tea. He dangles the teabag over the cup for a second, drains it off with a teaspoon and then tosses it into the sink. He doesn't add any milk, just two heaped teaspoons of sugar.

‘Work wants me to start back next week,' he says. ‘I told them that should be fine, but it'll mean you'll have to get yourself to and from school without me every day. That okay?'

‘Yeah, Dad. Of course.'

‘The boss said I could have the earlier shift so I'll be home just after four. At least that way you don't have to cook. Can't be eating beans on toast every night!'

‘Ha ha. You're hilarious, Dad.' I'm secretly relieved that he's doing the early shift. I look over at the radio. Being on my own in the flat until six wouldn't be much fun.

‘See you tried the pudding,' he says.

‘Didn't.'

‘Pretty sure that's a Clem-shaped fingermark,' he muses, looking closely at the top of the pudding.

‘Thanks for getting the good chocolate, Dad.'

‘Only the best for my Clem.'

I can't help but roll my eyes.

‘So did you learn anything today?' That's Dad's favourite question. He's been asking me every night since I first started school.

‘That I'm about three years behind in Italian. That I have to collaborate on a story. And that they have a real oval and a proper gym!' I don't bother trying to hide my enthusiasm about that.

‘Sounds like a pretty good day,' says Dad, pulling out his wallet and slapping two twenty-dollar notes on the bench. ‘The boss paid me in advance. Thought you could go shopping after school or wait until Saturday for me.' Dad reaches out and touches my arm. ‘Just in case you want some new leggings. Either way, the money's yours.'

Before the fire (or BTF as I say), I pretty much had everything I ever wanted. Even though we weren't rich, both Dad and Mum worked and, because there was just me, they were pretty generous. Plus we had a great house because Dad inherited it from his parents. But now, until the insurance money comes through –
if
the insurance money comes through – we don't have much. Dad's wage is enough to pay the rent and the bills. But there isn't a whole lot left over.

I slide the money back. ‘I don't need it, Dad. I'm fine. These leggings have got another few months left in them yet.'

He shakes his head and pushes it in my direction again. ‘Then buy a book. Or a journal. Or a huge jar of jellybeans. I don't care. It's yours to spend on whatever you want.' Dad pulls on the frilly white apron and starts getting everything out of the fridge for dinner. ‘Okay?' he says.

When I see the huge bag of potatoes Dad's bought I almost start to cry. Instead I drag them across to the bench, grab a knife someone gave us and our plastic chopping board that bizarrely didn't burn in the fire, and start peeling. Suddenly I'm really, really hungry.

Chapter 5

Day two at school is better in some ways because at least I know where I'm going. But it's worse in other ways because it's starting to feel real. This is where I'll be until I finish primary school, so I have to be okay with it, but walking through the gate in the same tired pair of leggings and another of Bridge's hand-me-down patterned tops, I have a desperate longing to be back at my old school surrounded by my old friends.

‘Clem!' calls a voice, and I know without looking that it's Ellie. Who else would it be?

I see her waving from the portables. I know I sound terribly ungrateful that someone I hardly know is trying to make me feel welcome, but I really don't want to talk about mothers dying today. I wish she'd leave me alone. But no such luck.

‘Hi,' she says, running over super-fast with her crazily long legs.

‘Hi,' I say back.

‘We have PE up first,' she says warmly. ‘Thought I could show you where we have to go.' She smiles and I feel like the nastiest girl alive.

‘Thanks,' I reply, trying to mean it.

She links her arm through mine, like Bridge used to do with me. Normally this would be awkward because we hardly know each other, but when one of us is the height of an adult and one of us is the height of a five-year-old child at only 131 cm, it makes it even worse.

But in a way I don't mind because the thought of PE makes me want to tap dance on the spot. It's my thing. I love sport. All sport. No exceptions. Okay that's not strictly true; I'm not a fan of hurdles. But I'm going to blame my height for that. You try doing hurdles when you're my size. It's not easy.

‘Do you like PE?' I ask.

She grins. ‘You?'

I grin back.

‘I knew we were going to be friends,' she says, pulling me to where the rest of the class are already standing on the oval.

‘Looks like we have a new recruit,' says a man about my dad's age. He has bleached hair and is wearing a skin-tight tracksuit that looks like it's struggling to stay zipped up. Ellie nudges me and I realise he expects me to answer.

‘I'm Clem Timmins,' I say quietly.

‘Hello, Clem Timmins. I'm Tom,' he answers, and then turns to address the whole class. ‘We have athletics practice today, so I hope you've remembered your sneakers.'

There are a few groans but my mouth must have broken into a big grin because Tom looks over at me and asks, ‘Do you like athletics, Clem?'

I nod. ‘Yeah.'

‘Well maybe you can convince some of these slackers that it's great fun to run around the oval for a couple of hours. They just want to play football or netball all day.'

I hear a loud cough and Tam steps forward, her face slightly red. I notice her running shoes and her special black skins.

‘Actually, some of us love athletics. It's not just Clem.'

Tom laughs and he makes me think of Dad. ‘Great, Tamara. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that the new high jump mats have finally arrived.'

Tam shoots me a satisfied look and then stands on the other side of Ellie.

Not even Tam can quash the butterflies that are fluttering around my stomach now that I know I'm going to be spending the next hour doing athletics. I haven't run for a while. Not this sort of running. I've done heaps of the other sort of running, though – you know, the kind that involves running away.

BTF I used to go to Little Athletics on Friday nights and a training session on Tuesdays. Bridge came too, although she wasn't as obsessed with sprinting as I am. But she was pretty good at javelin. Then after the fire I decided to stop going because all my athletics stuff got burnt. I knew Dad would find the money to replace it all, if he had to, but I made it easy for him by pretending I'd outgrown it. Besides, in a way it didn't feel right going back to my old life like nothing had happened. And I hated the way everyone went quiet around me because they didn't know what to say.

‘Okay, can everyone please set up the equipment?' calls Tom, over the chatter. ‘Our athletics carnival is in two weeks, so the sooner we start, the more practice we can all have.'

‘You can't run in those,' says Tam. I realise she's talking about my Converse.

I shrug. They're the only shoes I have. Not that I'm telling Tam that.

Ellie stares at her friend and then whispers, ‘Tam, that's not very nice.'

Tam shrugs. ‘Whatever,' she says, and walks off to the high-jump area.

Ellie looks back at me and I see she's a bit embarrassed. ‘Sorry about her.'

‘That's okay. It's not your fault,' I say.

We spend the first ten minutes setting up equipment. There's a high jump with a mat, a long-jump sandpit and a triple-jump pit next to that.

‘The oval is only 300 metres, so it makes running the 400 a bit tricky,' explains Ellie.

I can't help but laugh. ‘My old school had a mini oval. It was about 120 metres, so this is like paradise!'

‘Those wanting to practise field events you can head over to the equipment,' says Tom. ‘For those running, I want groups of six to race in each event. Put up your hand if you're a short-distance runner.'

Ellie and a bunch of other kids put up their hands, and I do too. Tom numbers us off into groups so we can race against each other. I'm in the first group. So is Ellie. She flashes me a huge smile. We line up and Ellie and I stand next to each other in the middle. We stretch for a second until Tom yells, ‘Okay, girls, ready?'

I lean down, my body tensing, remembering what it's like to shoot out of the blocks. Then, Tom blows a whistle and we're off!

Running has always removed me from my own head. It sucks me out and stops me thinking about anything except my feet hitting the ground. In seconds I'm back there. Shoulders up. Hands loose. Muscles burning. Immediately my body slips back into what it knows.

I fly down the track, my feet skimming the ground. My breathing's perfect: in, out, in, out. I feel alive. Like I haven't felt in weeks.

Ellie and I pass the finish line almost together. She bends over, trying to get her breath back, but I feel like I could run again and again and again. This is what I've needed. This feeling. All energised and strong. Like I could take on anyone.

‘You're fast,' puffs Ellie. ‘I think you beat me.'

‘Nah. We tied.'

‘Do you run the other events?'

‘Yeah. The 200 metres. Not the longer distances, though.'

‘Good. So I can still win those,' she says, smiling.

‘What's your race?'

‘Generally the 400. If I'm in really good shape I'll take on the 800, too. But it's been a bit hard to train lately with everything going on with Mum.'

Before I can think of something to say, Tom's whistle blasts again and the next group start racing. Ellie and I move out of the way.

‘We can practise on the other side of the track if you like. Tom won't care. He'll be happy if we keep running.' Ellie giggles. ‘And now you're here, I finally have some real competition.'

But before we can get started, Tam appears at Ellie's side.

‘Ellie, can you come and spot me on the high jump?' she asks.

‘Oh, sorry,' apologises Ellie, without really looking at her friend. ‘I'm going to practise running with Clem.'

Tam shoots me a dirty look.

‘Do you want to come, too?' I ask, thinking how I'd feel if Bridge suddenly seemed more interested in the new girl than in me.

But Tam shakes her head. ‘I don't run. I jump,' she says.

It sounds like the tagline from a cheesy ad. I almost laugh, but instead I swallow loudly and say, ‘Good for you.'

‘I'll come over later,' Ellie says. She walks past Tam, linking her arm through mine, and we head towards the other side of the track.

I don't turn back, but I can imagine the look on Tam's face. It's probably something like mine was the night I watched red flames engulfing all my favourite things.