Hope Farm Page 4

  It was loose bush, easy to move through — a combination of tall gums, ti-tree with their ragged, papery branches, and the occasional explosion of bright-baubled wattle. There were places where the creek’s bank opened out into miniature meadows of patchy pale grass that steamed under the winter sun.

  That creek! The lightness of the flow of water; the warm, brown look of it — even though, when I put my hand in, it was so cold my fingers turned white and numb — the wet fissures in the big rocks that sat half submerged; the refractions of amber light deep down, and the mossy-looking spotted fish that lazed there. Birds seemed to burst with pleasure out of the canopy of bush, hurtling their calls around, landing with an extra flourish to dip their heads and then lift and shake them, brash drops flying from their beaks.

  I went there often. I took a book and read, hunkered at the base of a tree, folded in on myself against the cold. My feet would go to sleep and I’d have to ease my legs out slowly in order to stand up, the electric tingle of pins and needles jagging in pure, enlivening streaks.

  It was down by the creek I met Ian.

  I’d had the feeling that there was someone else around. Once, huddled in the lee of my enormous, silvered hillside log, something had made me turn and stare up at where the wind-raked grass met the sky, and I thought I saw a flicker of movement. In the bush there were always noises — stirrings, rustlings — but sometimes I thought I heard the swish of a branch, as if someone had pushed through it, or the weight of footfalls. I put it down to wallabies, which I saw occasionally, if I stayed out late enough, nosing down to the water, stopping to pull at grass clumps or put their heads up to twitch their ears. Sometimes one would stop very close and fix me with a trembling gaze, and I would stare right back, and the moment seemed to go on forever.

  Then one time I was down there in the afternoon. All day it had been raining, but the sky had cleared and there were splashes of sun on the wet ground and little ribbons of light moving in the brownish water. I was squatting, keeping as still as I could, watching out for one of the fish that moved almost invisibly in and out of the shadowy depths. The creek was rushing faster than I’d seen it, with bits of bark and twigs and leaves being carried along, and swirls of water frothing at the places where the bank made a curve, or where rocks stuck up above the surface. I had seen a fish, and was watching it dart in and out as if excited by the creek’s new energy, when something appeared at the edge of my vision, and came floating along near to my side of the bank.

  At first I thought it was a big, funny-coloured bubble. But then it got closer, and didn’t burst but swung with the current in a quick, clean arc, coming neatly to rest like a docking boat in the shelter of a big tuft of reedy grass that hung out from the bank right next to me.

  It was a ball of some sort, greyish white. I was about to reach for it when another one appeared, the same size and colour, and whisked itself in to halt beside the first. Side by side they jiggled there, surrounded by floating leaves and yellow wattle blooms.

  I stood up. I took hold of one of the branches of a nearby ti-tree — a low, strong one — and leaned out to see upstream.

  Down they came, twirling and bobbing, one by one. Two more small, greyish balls — and then a tennis one, waterlogged green. A short break and then another grey and another tennis ball, and at last, like the main attraction in a parade, lower in the water and right out in the middle, a cricket ball, bright cherry red, turning slowly in the current.

  The grey balls came shooting in to bob with the others in a little cluster, hemmed by the mat of floating leaves, and the two tennis balls stopped slightly further out. The cricket ball, though, was too far away and too heavy to be sucked in close like the others. It was on a different course, and unless I did something it would just keep going past. I reached for a long stick, gripped the ti-tree branch harder, and leaned further out. The ball was almost level with me now, and I swung with the stick, missed, then swung again and just connected — and in it cruised, still turning its lazy shining somersaults, to join the bobbling jostle of grey and green.

  No more balls came, and after a while I pulled myself close to the ti-tree and let go of its branch, and dropped the stick. It made a dull thunk on the grass. At the same time, I heard another noise and turned, and there he was, pushing his way through low wattle branches.

  He was gangly and pale, with colourless eyelashes and brows, which gave his eyes an unprotected, dazzled look. There were bright blobs of wattle on his shoulders and in his hair, which was almost more green than blond, like the tennis balls. He was wearing a blue jumper and brown pants, and desert boots that made his feet appear big and clumping below the skinny legs — and he had a stick, too, held upright like a staff. He was breathing fast, as if he’d been hurrying, and he stepped forward and peered past me.

  ‘Did they stop here?’ he said, his voice breathy and impatient.

  I moved aside to show the balls floating in their little pocket of calm.

  He went over and knelt, letting his stick drop. ‘Even the cricket ball?’ He reached down and grabbed it.

  ‘Well …’ I indicated my own stick. Shyness made my voice come out strangely. ‘I sort of … tapped it in.’

  ‘Yeah, you have to. It’s heavier — it doesn’t go with the current as much.’

  There was a long pause. He sat back on his haunches, the ball clasped between his knees. He tilted his head, half shut one eye, and aimed the other at me. ‘So …’ he said. ‘New digs?’

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t understand what he meant; it was not a term I’d come across before, even with all my reading. He waited a moment and then, with the air of someone accustomed to having to rephrase his sentences, said, ‘You’ve moved house, have you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I wasn’t going to offer any more information.

  ‘Oh, I know where you’re from.’ He gestured downstream. ‘Hope Farm. With all the hippies.’

  Before I could help it, my voice leapt out, quick and defensive: ‘Well, we don’t live there. We’re just … staying for a while.’

  ‘Ah.’ The boy opened both eyes properly. I became acutely aware of my ill-fitting, unlaundered clothes, the tangle of my hair. ‘But you are a hippie, aren’t you?’

  The blood rose to my face. ‘I’m …’

  ‘I don’t actually care.’ He waved a hand. ‘I really don’t. I am not,’ he got to his feet, ‘in a position to judge.’

  I smiled — I couldn’t help it. There was an old-man quality to him I found comical: the frail body, the stalk-like legs, the desert boots planted in the grass. My suspicion ebbed. There was just something so — harmless — about him. I looked at the dripping ball in his hand. ‘Doesn’t the water ruin it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The cricket ball. Doesn’t the water get inside it?’

  He held it up as if he’d forgotten he had it. He gave it a little toss but then failed to catch it, and it fell and rolled towards the creek. He threw himself after it, grabbed it, and sat up. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. Then he put it down carefully on the grass and began to take the others from the water, one by one.

  ‘But if it gets wet it’s probably no good.’

  ‘No good for what?’ He had his back to me.

  ‘Well, for cricket.’

  He turned and stared. ‘Why should I care,’ he said, ‘if it’s any good for cricket?’ He spat the word out like it was poison. Then after a few moments he grinned. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You think these balls are mine.’

  I waited, confused.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you would,’ he said, as if to himself, clambering to his feet. ‘But I am afraid you are labouring under a false assumption.’ He bent and picked up the cricket ball again, and passed it to me. ‘See that?’

  I turned the glistening red surface to follow the trail of black letters. The writ
ing was tall and reached almost all the way around. DEAN PRICE, it read, in aggressive capitals, HANDS OFF! I raised my eyes to meet the boy’s. He lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Dean Price?’ I said, hesitantly.

  ‘Is not me.’

  There was a pause while I waited for whatever it was that he was so clearly looking forward to revealing.

  ‘My name.’ He spread his wet hands. ‘Is Ian Munro. And I stole that ball from Dean Price. All these balls.’ He indicated the pile at his feet. ‘And that is because Dean Price is my nemesis.’

  It wasnt our usual doctor it was a different one in a different part of town. He didnt look at me he pointed at the high bed and said Take off your underwear and hop up there. I took them off and then I didnt know what to do with them. I looked at my mother but she had her head down like she was praying so I just bunched them up and kept them in my hand. He put a sheet over me and said Knees up, then he went round to the end of the bed. I looked at the ceiling. Knees apart he said and put his hand in under the sheet and his fingers were cold. He felt the out side too, pressed around my belly. Yes he said to my mother. About four months. In the car my mother said Who was it? What do you mean I said. I mean who is responsible she said. I only knew his last name so I said it. She stared at me. Who lives at number fourteen? she said. Yes. She hit me on the ear. That man is married she said. I didnt answer, I put my hand over my ear. I had seen a woman of course, going in and out of the house but she never seemed to have any thing to do with him. My mother was quiet for a long time then she said Theres a place youll have to go in Brisbane, theyll look after you until its over and then you can come home, it will be like it never happened. It was hot and she took out a hanky and wiped under her nose. She put her hands on the big white steering wheel. Nobody needs to know she said but I couldnt tell if she was talking to me or to herself. I thought about Evie Dyers mother and her sorry smile her teacup shaking in her hands. Back at home my mother made dinner and I set the table. Linda was there in her room studying like always, she didnt have to do as many jobs round the house as me. When my father came home we had dinner like there was nothing different but afterwards when I was in my room I heard him shouting. Who did it? Who did it? Whats his name? he shouted. Wait wait my mother said, She doesnt know his name and any way hes gone now, hes left town. Its all right she said, It can all be dealt with nobody needs to know. He stopped shouting then. Quietly he said Of course theyll know, everyone always knows, her life is ruined now dont think it will be the same again because it wont. Shh said my mother, She will hear you.

  Ian lived on the next farm over, on the far side of the stretch of bush. Despite being so skinny and brittle-looking he was in fact a year older than me and in Year Eight at Tarrina High, where I would soon also be going. Tarrina was a much bigger town than Kooralang; it had the train station where Ishtar and I had arrived that first morning. It was there at Tarrina High that Dean Price made Ian’s life a misery. Or misery, as Ian said; he seemed to enjoy straining at certain words with his rusty voice, wringing out extra meaning.

  ‘It’s brutal,’ he said, as we sat on the damp grass, the pile of balls between us. ‘Just brutal. But it always has been. I’m pretty tough, you know. I might not look strong, but I’ve got resilience.’ He took an apple from his pocket, bit into it, and spoke wetly. ‘They’re just brutes, Dean Price and his … cronies. When they can’t understand something, they just stomp on it. I’ve been getting stomped on for eight years now, but they’ll never truly crush me. Because I —’ he made a sudden, rattling noise and began to cough.

  Timidly, I reached out and banged with the heel of my hand between his shoulder blades. The knobs of his spine were sharp through his jumper. He nodded, still coughing, and I banged harder.

  ‘Okay, okay. Enough.’ He held up a hand. ‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘They’ll never truly crush you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’ll never truly crush me because I —’ he looked intently at me with his still-watery eyes. ‘You’re going to need to know all this,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I have strategies.’ He leaned back on one elbow and gestured with the other hand. ‘Three main ones. The first is avoidance. Simple. Keep out of their way. Know the safe places. Know their movements and plan yours accordingly.’

  ‘Where are the safe places?’

  He held up a finger. ‘I’ll get to those. But first, the other strategies. The next is resilience. You can’t always hide. There will be situations in which you are unable to.’ He paused for a moment and his face darkened. ‘Phys Ed,’ he said, in a terse voice. ‘Changing rooms. Toilets.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  He heaved a sigh. ‘It’s unavoidable. And when they find you, you just have to endure. Don’t provoke them. Don’t fight back. Just put your head down and wait for them to tire of you.’

  I swallowed. This school sounded rough.

  Ian was looking at me earnestly. ‘You think that’s cowardly? You think I’m weak, not fighting back?’

  ‘Oh no. I —’

  He spoke over me. ‘I’m a realist,’ he said. ‘I plan to survive, and move on. I have no desire to enter their primitive battles, to engage with them on their level.’

  ‘I didn’t —’

  He went on, finger upheld. ‘And now for the third tactic. This one is equally as important as the first two, in fact it’s crucial, because it preserves morale.’

  I waited.

  ‘Revenge.’ He smiled. ‘Revenge is very important. Without revenge, you go under.’

  We both looked at the heap of balls.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ian. ‘That’s what the balls are for. I have taken something from Dean Price, and I can revel in the knowledge that I have caused him some suffering.’

  I smiled.

  ‘But,’ he went on. ‘You must be as vigilant in carrying out your revenge as you are in practising your avoidance. You must plan, and use stealth. You must never take risks. It is absolutely not worth it.’ He reached out and picked up the soggy cricket ball. ‘Dean Price will never know why his precious balls keep disappearing. And that’s important for two reasons: one, my relative safety is assured, because if he was ever to find out it was me that was taking them he would quite possibly actually kill me; and two, the thought of his ongoing anguish makes my revenge so much more delicious.’ For the second time he tried to toss the ball and catch it again, and for the second time he missed. It rolled to nestle with the others. ‘I like to picture his face,’ he said, ‘as he tries to figure it out. The cogs in his head slowly crunching round.’

  I tried to smile politely. But I had a vision of Dean Price, bullish and mean-eyed, with angry pimples — and stealing something from a person like that, for any reason, just sounded way too dangerous.

  Ian went to the edge of the water. ‘Shall we toss this lot in again and see what happens?’ he called. ‘They can go quite a way, almost to the bridge. There’s a bend just before there that always stops them.’

  I joined him, and one by one we threw the balls into the rushing stream. We started with the small grey-white ones, which barely made a sound as they hit the water. Then we did a tennis ball each — they plopped in satisfyingly before surging off. We watched them go, and then Ian raised the cricket ball. He stood for a moment with his skinny arm tensed, but then lowered it again.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said, and for a moment all the old-man oddness dropped out of his voice, and he just sounded like a kid.

  ‘Silver.’

  ‘Here, Silver.’ He held the ball out. ‘You do the honours.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Go on.’

  ‘Okay.’ I took the ball. It was heavy. I lifted my arm and threw, and up it went in a long streak, then over and down and in
, right at the middle. A little clear frill of splash rose and marked its entry and sank away again, and then the ball broke the surface gently and seemed to settle for a moment before commencing its slow, grand twirling, and its journey downstream.

  My mother drove me all the way to Brisbane for a special mass. She didnt take Linda just me. It was there in the church pew that I felt some thing move right down low, the lightest tap. I sat still but it didnt happen again. When my mother prayed she laced her fingers and her knuckles went white. Afterwards we went to a park near the Valley. She took me to a bench. I have to go to the shops wait here she said and walked away. I watched her leave, her spiky steps. In one week I was to go to the place, the Home she called it. I didnt think about what it might be like, I kept my mind shut against any thinking but some times like now out in the light open park I couldnt help seeing what would come after, that I would be like Evie Dyer. I felt panic and the tap came in side again like a message and I wanted to get up and walk away in the opposite direction from my mother. I stood up and then I saw them. They were getting ready for a picnic putting out patterned cloths on the grass and unpacking metal pots of food from big baskets. Some had dark skin and wore robes that glowed orange in the sun but the clothes of the others were beautiful too. Most had long hair centre parted and worn loose. A man sat cross legged with a guitar and played and some women sang they all had smiling calm faces. I could smell the food and it was like nothing Id smelled before. I felt so hungry all of a sudden. I knew what hippies were Id seen pictures in the paper and some times the real thing in the city, once some had been busking when Id gone to a film with friends from school. My friends pointed and laughed and pulled me away but Id wanted to stay to see more. At home I often looked at the pages on India in my Geography book, the photos. Foreheads stained with red dye and wreaths of yellow flowers, the jewel saris of women working in a field, there beautiful slim brown arms. Patterns even in a sack of dried beans. Every tiniest thing decorated everything beautiful so far away from the plain white house of my parents its square lawn and concrete paths and the empty ugly streets I rode my bike down. I had moved from the bench to get closer and then I saw a woman, she had long brown hair down her back and tied onto her with a length of fabric a curled shape close against her chest like it was part of her. She stood near the guitar man, her eyes closed moving gently from side to side. Then I saw what it was bound to her chest because a little arm came up, a tiny hand touched her chin and she opened her eyes and smiled and held the hand and kissed it not stopping her dance. Over the grass two women came to me. One maybe in her twenties wearing robes, dark skinned her smile clear and white the other older almost my mothers age with hair in plaits over her shoulders the breeze puffing her silk blouse and long skirt making ripples in the tiny diamond shapes that covered them. They didnt speak. The younger one gave me a pamphlet but when I tried to look at it my eyes were full of tears. The panic happened again, the tears ran down. Can you help me? I said. I covered my face my ears burned. Then I felt hands touch me arms close round me. I smelled incense and perfumed skin the spices from there cooking, I dropped my hands and sobbed against them. Little girl, whispered the dark woman. Little girl. Even though I was taller than her. She wiped my cheeks with her fingers. Then she let go and over my shoulder my mother was calling my name. I turned and there she was half running in her low heels her stiff skirt waggling her hat crooked. She was shooing with her arms her shopping bags flapped. I felt the older woman take my hand. We can help you she said, If you ever need. Her warm dry hand squeezed mine and then let go and then my mother was there grabbing me pulling me away.