Winter (11 page)

S
omehow bloody Matthew Kennedy got me brushing his horses for him. I don't know how it happened. But there we were in the stables, doing alternate stalls, giving each horse a thorough grooming, and talking through the walls, even though we couldn't see each other.

I was brushing a big black colt named Derek, giving his flanks long firm strokes, watching the muscles twitch under the steady stroking. I was beginning to like horses a lot more. I liked the feel of their coats: not soft or fluffy, not smooth, coarse but flowing, alive with power.

It was hard work though. I could feel a patch of sweat in each armpit, and I had to keep stopping and wiping the hair out of my eyes.

‘So what did she talk about?' Matthew asked.

‘Family history. I think she wants to tell me all the stories before she dies. I think she sees me as the keeper of the stories.'

We were talking about my first afternoon tea with Great-aunt Rita, the day before.

‘She's got quite a reputation,' Matthew said.

‘I can believe it.'

‘Dad says she looks like you.'

‘What?' I was so startled I dropped the brush. ‘Thanks a lot. We're only about seventy years apart.'

I went to pick up the brush, then saw his laughing face appear around the side of the stall.

‘You're pathetic, Matthew Kennedy. You expect me to do your stable work for free, then you insult me.'

I couldn't think of anything cleverer to say. He had me right off balance. I don't know why, nothing to do with comparing me to Great-aunt Rita, just the way I was steamed up from doing the horses, and hot, and still not knowing what kind of relationship I had with Matthew.

I was down on my hands and knees, looking for the brush. Matthew came around the other side of the horse and picked up the brush, which had gone further than I thought. He stayed down at ground level and passed the brush to me under the big colt's legs. But when I went to take it he didn't let go of my hand.

We held hands for a couple of minutes, looking at each other, right in the eyes. We were both very serious. Somehow it wasn't the moment for jokes.

After a while I said softly: ‘Lots of horses here to be brushed.'

‘That's right.'

But he didn't let go of my hand. Derek, the colt, tossed his head and moved his feet uneasily. It was a kind of weird situation, the two of us under the bridge of the big horse. Maybe I should have been nervous, but I wasn't. We shuffled a little closer together, in the straw. I closed my eyes as our lips met. It was my first kiss, and I hadn't imagined it being like this, but what the hell, I'd never read the script of my life.

Matthew's lips felt dry at first, but then they got more moist, and somehow the more moist they became, the nicer they felt.

I know the kiss lasted a long time. In the end Derek got too restless and we had to move. Maybe he was jealous. We sat outside, on the sand, our backs against the stall door, holding hands and kissing and hardly saying a word. The horses got the sloppiest grooming of all time.

T
he first night of my return to Warriewood I helped Ralph set up my bed in the blue bedroom I'd slept in as a child. I'd never thought that I could move into the bedroom my parents occupied all those years ago. But gradually, as the painters and floor-polishers and electricians and furniture removalists and tilers and all the others came and worked and went, I changed my mind. In the middle of telling them the colour for the verandah and how I wanted the curtains and where the vents for the heating system should be and where to put the bookcase, I realised that it was time to move into the main bedroom. I couldn't stay in the small bedroom any more. It wasn't right. I was the owner of Warriewood now, not a four-year-old.

Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was in charge.

And so into the main bedroom went a four-poster bed with painted panels at the top and the end, a big jarrah chest of drawers, a cedar wardrobe, a round cedar table, and a wallpaper with bluish-green flowers on the lightest yellow background. Because it was looking so adult, and because I'm still a teenager, I put up some posters of Winsome Lloyd, who's my idea of a beautiful chick, and of a Chinese actor called Jordan Chan, and of a band called Zaiko Langa Langa, who no-one's ever heard of, but I saw them at Womad. It's not exactly a decorator's idea of what should go with cedar and jarrah furniture, but it works for me.

I moved in on September the first. Next week, just for a laugh, Jess and I are having a formal dinner party, with ten guests. We're making the guys wear dinner jackets and the girls long dresses. It's a bit of a joke, but it'll be fun. I'm asking Matthew Kennedy, and Jess has got her man coming all the way from Orange Ag., and there're four friends of Jess's from Christie and four of our friends from school.

I can't wait. Jess is calling it a house-warming, but that's not what I call it. Privately, to myself, I call it a resurrection.

John Marsden

Marsden on Marsden

I found Ellie's voice quite unexpectedly, as I drove back from the tip one Saturday afternoon. I was in an old Land Rover, just 500 metres from home, and suddenly I could hear Ellie talking: ‘It's only half an hour since someone, Robyn I think, suggested we write this down. And it's only five minutes since I got chosen. But I can't do it while they're all crowded around me, yelling ideas and advice. Rack off guys! Leave me alone!

‘That's better. Now I'm down at the creek. I don't know why they chose me to do this. I guess I'm meant to be good at English or something.'

Realising that if I didn't get her voice on paper, I might lose it again forever, I pulled off to the side of the road, grabbed an old envelope that was blowing around in the back of the Land Rover, and quickly wrote down the words.

I drove on to my place, parked the Landie, and raced into the house knowing that I had a new book underway, and feeling very excited about it.

In his fiction John Marsden explores the lives of the guilty, the inarticulate, the crazy, the brave and the resourceful. Read about his ideas and his experiences in
Marsden on Marsden
—a frank, behind-the-scenes look at what John was really thinking about when he wrote books like
So Much to Tell You, Letters from the Inside
and the internationally acclaimed
Tomorrow
Series.

You are invited to spend a few days with John Marsden at one of Australia's most beautiful properties.

The Tye Estate is just 25 minutes from Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport, and is perfectly set up for writing camps and other activities.

Every school holidays, John takes writing and drama camps, where you can improve your skills, make new friends, expand your thinking, and have a huge heap of fun.

Accommodation is modern and comfortable; meals are far removed from the shepherd's pie they gave you at your last school camp, and supervision is by friendly and experienced staff.

Between the workshops with John, you can explore 850 acres of spectacular bush, looking out for rare and highly endangered species like Tiger Quolls and Powerful Owls, as well as koalas, platypuses, wedgetail eagles, kangaroos and wallabies.

Mountain bikes, bushwalking, orienteering, and a picnic at nearby Hanging Rock, are among the highlights of your memorable stay at the Tye Estate.

School groups in term time are also welcome.

For details, write to:

The Tye Estate

RMB 1250

ROMSEY

VICTORIA 3434

Or fax: (61) 03 54 270395

Phone: (61) 03 54 270384