The Winds of Heaven (17 page)

‘That school case
is
heavy,’ Mum agreed. ‘Some days it bends her right to one side.’

‘There you are, then,’ crowed Dad, and he’d winked at Clementine. ‘We don’t want her waking up one morning with one arm longer than the other, do we?’

Mum looked doubtfully at Dad, and then at Clementine, and then at the bicycle, gleaming against the wall. Mrs Southey had a dimple in her cheek, and suddenly it showed. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said, and Mr Southey put his arm around her waist and gave her a little squeeze.

‘I know you both think I’m an old fusspot,’ said Mrs Southey, with a sudden tearful sound in her voice.

‘No, no! We don’t!’

‘Yes you do. You think I don’t realise she’s growing up,
but I
do.
I know it.’ Mrs Southey dabbed at her eyes. ‘You don’t have to keep reminding me.’

Clementine rushed at her mother and hugged her tight. ‘Thanks, Mum!’

‘But only on the back roads, mind, Clementine. Take the back way, up the hill. I don’t want you getting skittled riding down Villawood Road.’

‘I won’t go anywhere near Villawood Road,’ promised Clementine.

These days Clementine sometimes went to the library after school. She was in third year now, the year of the Intermediate Certificate, and had even more homework to do. ‘Ring me if you’re going to be late,’ her mother said every morning, because now they had a telephone, a shiny cream one which sat beside the thick white telephone book on a new little table in the hall. ‘Otherwise I’ll worry. You know how I am.’

‘Sure do.’

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing. I’ll ring.’

And so she did, and when she said she’d be late, Mrs Southey assumed she’d be at the library, which meant that Clementine didn’t actually have to tell a lie. And this was fortunate, because she wasn’t much good at lying: her eyes darted all over the place and her head would feel suddenly too heavy on her neck, and even a little transparent, as if the person she was lying to could actually see the thoughts inside. She was like the mouse she’d discovered in the kitchen late one night – so startled when the light snapped on that he didn’t have the sense to run away but simply crouched there, staring at her with tiny beady frightened eyes.

For Clementine wasn’t always going to the library after school. On some of those warm hazy evenings of late summer, she sailed along the back roads of the surrounding suburbs on her scarlet bicycle, Raymond Fisk’s razor blade concealed inside her glove. In her prim Chisolm College uniform, the bright blue pinafore and blazer, black gloves and stockings, the creamy panama with the pale blue stripe around its navy brim, Clementine sought out newsagents and stationers and those milk bars which sold magazines. Inside, she browsed and lingered, turning pages carelessly, but when she came on a picture of Johnny Cash, her blade flicked out and sliced the picture clean, and then Clementine whisked it deftly inside her blazer. She was good at this; quick and calm and soundless as Raymond Fisk’s razor. She’d practised at home in her room.

The newsagents paid her no attention. They knew the uniform. She was a Chisolm College girl, and girls from Chisolm could be trusted. ‘Just looking,’ she murmured, and they smiled at her. And then she would ride away under the great arch of sky where the winds of heaven billowed and the city clouds dissolved into the evening haze. Standing on the pedals, she coasted down the small hills and sailed over the long flat stretches towards home. Elation filled her, she felt brave and strong and free; a totally different kind of person to the mousey little goody-goody she’d always been.

And then one evening, pedalling along Railway Parade, later than usual because she’d ridden almost out to Greystanes, Clementine saw her father. It was Wednesday, payday, and he was coming out of their own newsagent’s shop (which Clementine had always avoided) with the two blocks of chocolate in a brown paper bag, Mum’s copy of the
Women’s Weekly
and Clementine’s new comic tucked beneath his arm. A grey film of asbestos dust from the factory clung to the front of his shirt and the ruddy skin of his arms.

He looked up and saw her. A smile lit up his tired face. ‘Clementine!’

She stopped. All at once the scarlet bicycle felt heavy and clumsy beneath her; it would have toppled over if Dad hadn’t reached out a hand. ‘Steady, there,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Clementine.

‘Been to the library? Working late?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered again, turning her head aside.

‘You’re a good girl, Clementine,’ he said.

She looked up and caught his eyes; he was gazing at her with such tenderness, such
trust
, that her own eyes filled suddenly with tears. Imagine if he ever found out what she was doing. Stealing, that’s what it was. She’d been stealing things from shops, and if one of those newsagents had caught her and come to their house – imagine Dad’s face then! She couldn’t bear to think about it. Why had she done such a thing, when she could easily have bought the magazines with her pocket money? It was as if she’d slipped through some strange hidden crack in the real world and fallen into a dangerous waking dream. The elation of the afternoon, and all the afternoons before it, drained out of her in a long, slow sigh.

‘Tired?’ asked Dad.

‘Just a bit.’

That night she wrapped Raymond Fisk’s razor in newspaper with the day’s wet tea-leaves and took it out to the bin. She was a goody-goody after all.

But she kept the stolen pictures of Johnny Cash. She folded them into a big brown envelope she’d bought from Woolworths (she thought it just possible she might never enter a newsagent’s
shop again) and sent it up to Lake Conapaira. Writing out the address: Miss Francesca Lancie, Palm Street, Lake Conapaira, NSW, brought the place to mind with a painful clarity that was almost like grief: she saw the red earth of the unsealed streets, the old houses with their steep roofs and wide verandahs, the grey-gold paddocks, the rough clay track around the lake. And the memory of the grand night sky seen from the window of Fan’s room made her want to keep on writing, to continue the address in the old childish way: Australia, Southern Hemisphere, the World, the Milky Way, the Universe, Infinity … She didn’t, of course, because then the people at the post office might think it was some kind of little kid’s joke, and not a proper letter at all. They might send it to the dead letter office instead of on to Fan at Lake Conapaira.

And then she waited. And eventually, though it was a long time, halfway through the autumn term, a letter from her cousin finally arrived. It was written on a single sheet of lined paper torn from a pad, the sort of paper Aunty Rene had once used for her messages. Fan’s handwriting was big and rounded and careful like a child’s, and the words sloped backward on the page. ‘
Backward
,’ she remembered hearing Aunty Rene tell Mum. ‘
They say she’s backward up the school.
’

Dear Clementine,
wrote Fan.
Thank you for the pictchers of Johnny Cash which you sent. I stuck them up on my wall, in the space next to the window where your bed used to be. Geoff and me had a row and now he’s gone up north – good ridence! I have a new boyfriend his name is Gary. He has a sweat mouth, the same shape as Johhny Cash.

Love and kisses, Fan

p.s. Mum has got herself a fancy man at last. Reckon he must be blind eh?

Clementine turned the letter over and over in her hands. Sweat lips, what were they? Then she realised: Fan meant
sweet
– sweet lips – it was just that she couldn’t spell. Apart from the PS, the letter didn’t sound a bit like her; its short awkward sentences and bald stiff tone seemed more like a little kid who’d been asked a question and was afraid she’d get it wrong. She remembered how Fan had hated reading. Probably she hated writing too; this might even be the reason why she hadn’t answered any letters before.

This letter Clementine held in her hands was
that
Fan: the little kid who’d been scared of reading, hidden way down inside the confident, beautiful girl she’d become when Clementine had last seen her. And Clementine herself had another girl hidden inside her – the one who’d ridden round the suburbs with a razor inside the glove of her Chisolm College uniform.

It was strange how Fan’s awkward words could bring that little room they’d shared so vividly to life: the two beds so close together you could hold hands, the old wardrobe and the chair and the battered chest of drawers, the faded linoleum with the bright piece under Fan’s bed. And Johnny Cash’s face, illumined by moonlight, peering down from the walls; and the big stars, like faces at the window, peering in. The memory squeezed at Clementine’s heart so fiercely that anyone would think she’d lost, not just her cousin, but a world.

That was the only letter. Fan didn’t write again, and neither did Clementine, because third year was a busy, anxious year at Chisolm College, with the Intermediate Certificate looming in November. It wasn’t till after Christmas that they heard again from Lake Conapaira, and the letter was from Aunty Rene to Mum.

‘Your cousin’s gone and got herself married!’ her mother greeted Clementine one evening as she came home, all hot and tired and sweaty from her summer job down at the bakery. The letter fluttered in her mother’s hand; on it she could see her Aunty Rene’s small black spidery scrawl.

‘What?’

‘Fan’s got married. Some boy called Gerry, is it? Rene’s handwriting always was shocking.’

Clementine glanced over her shoulder at her aunty’s inky scrawl. ‘Gary.’

Mrs Southey peered at the name. ‘You’re right. It’s Gary.’

Clementine stood there. The kitchen furniture receded and then came back again. She felt like she’d run into something solid and immovable and had all the breath knocked out of her. Fan was married. Clementine recalled a rainy afternoon from that early visit to Lake Conapaira: she and Fan lying on the old rug on the floor of the lounge room, a big sheet of white butcher’s paper spread on the floor between them, crayons scattered everywhere. They’d been drawing pictures of their wedding dresses. Clementine had drawn a long dress with puffed sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline, Fan’s dress had been a crinoline. ‘I’m going to have a lace veil,’ she’d said. ‘And we’ll be each other’s bridesmaids because we’re like sisters, okay? Because you’re my
gindaymaidhaany
!’

Her
gindaymaidhaany
! And now Fan was married and she hadn’t even bothered to write and tell her. Clementine swallowed. ‘Did she have a lace veil?’

‘A lace veil? I don’t think so, darling. It wasn’t that sort of wedding.’

‘How do you mean?’

Her mother flushed. ‘Just – it wasn’t a church wedding.’

‘Shotgun,’ said Dad.

‘What?’

‘A shotgun wedding,’ explained her father, unembarrassed. ‘You know, a case of have to,’ he jerked his head towards the front door, ‘like Susie Nesbitt up the road.’

‘Oh.’ Clementine had an image of Aunty Rene in her little cowgirl’s dress, a rifle held against her shoulder, its barrel black and glittering as her eyes. She’d have been seething again.

‘Poor little devil,’ her father went on. ‘And she’s hardly older than you are.’ He glanced at Mum. ‘How old
is
Fan, Cissie?’

‘Fifteen,’ replied Clementine’s mother, tight-lipped.

‘Fifteen then,’ said Dad. ‘A kid.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘What a way to start a life!’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mum, suddenly defensive. ‘Sometimes those marriages work out – if there’s love somewhere.’

‘It didn’t work out for your sister, did it?’ said Dad. ‘Poor old Rene!’

Mrs Southey’s cheeks turned from pink to scarlet. She pushed her chair back from the table and stalked out of the room.

‘Put my foot in it again,’ sighed Dad. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

A few months later Aunty Rene wrote to tell Mum that Fan had a baby son.

Cash, she’d called him.