Hope Farm Page 7

  I liked schoolwork. I was good at it and always had been, but in the past I’d feared drawing attention to myself. Now, in the safety of Mr Dickerson’s reliable silence, I was free to do well, and to take secret pride in my test results — the rows of tidy ticks, the circled grade at the bottom, lovely in its unadorned completeness.

  So I was lucky, really. But Ian was not.

  I saw Dean Price on the first day, after school. At the edge of the oval a huge boy stood with a much smaller boy tucked under one of his arms. I could tell it was Ian just by the legs. They stuck out, skinny and unmoving. The bigger boy swung round and I saw Ian’s face. His arms pointed to the ground and his head hung down, too, eyes half closed; his whole body seemed both passive and wary. The bigger boy — who had to be Dean Price — didn’t have the pimples I’d imagined, and at first his eyes looked quite normal, but then they narrowed and his face twisted, and I saw the cruelty in it. His mouth opened and his tongue showed, red and fat. Bellowing something unintelligible, he lifted Ian higher and began to shake him.

  I got on the bus and stared out the window in the opposite direction. My heart thumped and my hands shook, and I thought of what Ian had said: As far as school goes, we don’t know each other.

  As kids got on and went up the aisle, I flicked my eyes to check — and eventually saw Ian, dishevelled and pale. He passed without meeting my gaze, and later when we met at the creek he said nothing about it.

  Every day after school we met — and on the weekends, too, if he didn’t have too many chores to do at home. He brought sandwiches his mother made: white bread with a rubbery slice of something he called straz, which I suspected was a kind of meat, greyish-pink and salty. Sometimes it was sweets: caramel slice or yellowy cake that squeaked against my teeth, the cream in the middle oily on my tongue.

  One day he brought a camera on a strap around his neck, its clunky body impressively big and black against his bony chest, the scuffed case undone and swinging below. It was from school — Year Eights did photography and were allowed to borrow cameras over the weekends, although there was a waiting list. ‘Too many dumb girls,’ said Ian, ‘taking photos of their horses.’

  The camera did have a worn, institutional look to it, and there was a number engraved on the bottom, but he handled it with such practised, proud skill that I soon forgot it wasn’t his.

  ‘This is my ticket out of here,’ he said, lying on his back under a tree, the viewfinder to his eye, his fingers delicately rotating the focus back and forth. ‘Get a portfolio together, send it off to National Geographic, wait for the call: “Is that Ian Munro, oh gosh, we just love your work,” then off I go, international man of mystery, out on assignment.’ He peered out at me. ‘Jet-setting around the place, helicopter into the Amazon, undercover job in Beirut.’ With the camera still to his face, he got up on one knee, pointing, adjusting the focus, and clicking so quickly I didn’t get a chance to change my expression.

  ‘Hey.’ I raised a hand.

  He lowered the contraption. ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘What? Yeah, of course I do.’

  He grinned his narrow grin and said nothing, but the next time we met he brought the print and I saw for myself the doubt in my own face, the assessing eyes, the mouth ready to curl in disbelief. I also saw the skill in the shot, the angle of it, the way the light seemed to radiate from my skin, the perfect clarity of the lines, my eyebrows and lashes, the faint dabs of freckles across the bridge of my nose. I stared, entranced. This was me; this was how I looked from the outside: a clever, tough girl.

  Ian leaned in. ‘Pretty good, wouldn’t you say? It’s just a bit overexposed, but I like that. Gives it a kind of magic glow.’

  I was still gazing down at my own face. With a further jolt of surprise I realised that I found it beautiful — not just the shot but the face itself, the double peak of the upper lip; the wide, clear eyes; the neat, pointed chin; the wild hair snaking against the tender-looking earlobes and neck. A skirl of something — pleasure and embarrassment — went through me, and I passed the print back to Ian and began swiping leaves into the creek with the end of a long stick.

  ‘See?’ said Ian. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. You do.’

  I sent the leaves into the water, keeping my head down, holding in a smile. I had a feeling of incredulous pleasure, like the time years before when a kid at school was giving away a pet rabbit and it was my name that the teacher picked out of a hat, the room seeming to stretch, the faces of the other kids tiny and far away as they turned to look. It was like a dream, but it wasn’t one — the next day the kid brought the rabbit in a box and gave it to me. The feeling lasted for ages — a thrumming, disbelieving joy — and it was not just because of this wonderful thing that had happened to me, but also because it was still happening, had not ended. It lasted until we had to move out of the place we were living and into one of the ashrams where, Ishtar said, pets weren’t allowed, and we had to leave the rabbit behind.

  Now I glanced at Ian standing with the photo held out in front of him, and then back at the water rushing like cold black tea at my feet. I felt the sun on my back. I bent and picked a blade of reedy grass and pulled it, squeaking, between my fingernails, put it to my tongue. I had a friend. I had this place. Impossible to believe, but things had turned out kind of okay.

  Ian’s voice was musing. ‘I’m very happy with it actually.’ He tilted his head. ‘The hippie child. The gypsy girl.’

  ‘I’m not …’ I began, but then stopped. I was what I was, the photo showed that. I stole another look at the picture and the thrumming feeling went on, undeterred.

  Ian squatted to slip the photo carefully back into its envelope, and then the envelope into his bag. He glanced up at me. ‘Shall we repair to the bridge, my gypsy friend?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Following his back — lean, purposeful, oblivious — through the wattle, I let the smile out at last, and my cheeks hurt with it. The watery sun turned the round blooms into golden explosions that smelled of honey.

  One night I waited till it was realy late then I got up and went along three doors to Pats room. I knocked quietly. Yeah? she said and I opened the door. I could just see her lying in the bed. Can I ask you some thing? I said. Yeah. We were both whispering. If you did have some where to go, if you did have someone to look after you, would you do it? What, keep it? Yes keep it, if someone could help you take care of it. Yeah she said, I reckon. Especially after giving up the first one. He was a boy. I never saw him but they told me he was a boy. So you going to keep yours then? I think so I said. Have you got some where to go? After? Yeah I said, I think I do. Well she said, When my boy was born I suddenly thought Oh no I cant give him up I have to keep him, but I had nowhere to go you see. I did put up a bit of a fight but it was pretty weak, I knew I couldnt keep him realy. You might be all right if youve got some where. Youll have to be strong though, they have that many tricks you wouldnt believe it. They want those babies. Someones making money in all this you know and its not us. Someones making money? I said. Course they are she said. There are these agencies where people go who cant have kids and they pay good money to get a nice little baby. Yoursll be beautiful I bet if its any thing like you. Whos the father? I didnt answer. I felt my face go red, I was glad it was dark. She laughed. You dont have to say she said, But I bet he was good looking. Yeah I said, He was. Well listen she said, Youll need to be that strong theyll stop at nothing to get there mitts on your baby. But just remember if you dont sign the papers they cant take it, doesnt matter what they say. Theyll tell you if you wont sign theyll take the baby any way and make it a ward of the state but if youve got some where to go where youll be safe and looked after Im sure they cant do that so dont believe them.

  I sent a letter to The Path, I had the brochure with the address hidden in the lining of my suitcase. I didnt know who to
put so I just wrote To the lady I met in the park, then I wrote that I needed there help please I didnt have anywhere else to go. I wrote down what Pat had said about the agencies and someone making money, that although it sounded crazy in some cases they were making girls give up babies who didnt want to. It was embarassing because I knew I probably made a lot of spelling mistakes and my writing always looked like a stupid persons but I had to swallow my pride, this was important I had to contact them they were my only hope.

  Ishtar got a job, at the milk factory. On the powder line, whatever that meant. Most weekday mornings she went off in one of the cars, and came back after I’d returned from school, fine grains of yellowy stuff sometimes caught in the hairs at her temples.

  ‘Decided to join the rat race, have yer?’ said Val, banging the wooden spoon on the edge of the porridge pot.

  Ishtar didn’t answer, just took her bowl and began to eat, standing up. The chairs around the table were all full. The morning meals were quieter than the evening ones, and more people ate in the kitchen. Miller was rarely there. I hardly ever saw him on school mornings, and on weekends he usually didn’t emerge from the mud-brick building until breakfast was long over.

  ‘Pity.’ Val leaned against the fridge and took out a tobacco pouch and some papers. ‘It was nice seeing the two of you out there, slaving away, side by side.’ She dug in the pouch. ‘Cute.’

  The word sliced above the spoon-scraping and chomping. A couple of heads lifted, and I also watched for Ishtar’s reaction. It was always hard to tell whether Val was teasing or not. She was a large woman with coarse hair dyed a brassy henna-red, growing out grey at the roots. Her gravelly voice could be heard ordering Jindi out of the kitchen from the other end of the house.

  Ishtar kept eating, taking her time.

  Val rolled her cigarette, lit it, and began to smoke, one arm folded across her wide middle. There was a half-smile on her lips, but she didn’t say anything more.

  Ishtar finished her bowl and put it in the sink just as one of the men — Gav, they called him — weedy, glasses, bald on top and with a thin ponytail behind, rose from his chair with a gust of patchouli and stretched his arms above his head.

  ‘Better get going,’ he said. Two women also got up and they all left the room, Ishtar in tow. There were the sounds of banging doors from the front of the house, and then a car starting and driving away. The three or four adults who remained went on eating.

  From another room came Jindi’s voice: ‘Va-al! Val!’

  ‘Just a minute, love,’ called Val. She went to the window above the sink and let out a blurt of smoke. Through the glass, the mess of Miller’s handiwork was visible: the vegetable patch dark and bare, stripped of weeds but also of its fence. Miller had obliterated it in an afternoon, but rebuilding had apparently stalled. A couple of posts stuck up out of the ground, snarls of wire at their ankles, but nothing more had been done, and I realised now that things had been like this for some time — perhaps even weeks. At one end of the patch sprawled an out-of-season pumpkin plant, which had seeded itself.

  ‘See?’ Miller had said, ‘we don’t even need to lift a finger. Nature is eager to provide,’ and as if in response the vine had spread quickly, its hollow creepers licking across the raggedy grass towards the shed. Jindi had waded into it, searching for fruit, but found nothing — it seemed to be putting all of its energy into growing more leaves.

  Val tapped ash into the sink and sniffed. ‘Good thing he’s got her,’ she said, casting a look at the shuttered entrance to the mud-brick building.

  I got a letter back from the woman although it didnt say The Path on it anywhere and it was in a plain envelope. I could tell she had written it very clearly so she must have known from my letter to her how bad I was at writing and reading, that made me feel ashamed like always but still at least I could read it. Thank you for your letter it said, Yes of course you would be welcome to stay with us for as long as you need to. You are doing a brave thing and it wont be easy but we will help. Let us know when the time comes. With love from Mira.

  It was night when it started. I stayed lying in the bed. I knew I was probably supposed to tell the nuns but I lay there for ages. With the pain I came even more alive like at last I had realy woken up from my daze. Its a baby I whispered out loud, youre having a baby. I thought about the hippie woman with her baby tied on, her smile her kiss the freedom of her body. I tried to imagine my mother holding me when I was little but all I could see was the gloves she wore when we started going to church. When it began getting realy bad I got up and put my things in my case and checked in the lining for the pamphlet. I went down to Pats room and tapped on her door and opened it. Your time is it? she said. Yeah. A pain came and I had to hold onto the door. When it was finished I said Which hospital? What? she said. Which hospital do they take you to? She told me and then she said, Well good luck then, stick to your guns and dont sign any thing. I went downstairs. It was nearly morning, the windows showed light grey. I thought the door to the office would be locked but it wasnt, maybe they forgot to lock it. I went in. I took the pamphlet from my case and rang the number. Mira answered. I didnt cry this time, I could hear someone coming and I had to be quick. Im having the baby I said and told her the hospital. Please help me I said and hung up.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  Ian and I were up at the fallen tree, leaning across it to look down on Miller, who moved slowly along the fresh brown rectangle of the old veggie patch. The remains of the fence still lay in a rusty tangle at one end; shaggy circlets of weeds had drawn themselves up round the lower reaches of the abandoned new posts, obscuring the coils of wire. Miller had a spade and a sack. He would dig, then take something from the sack and squat with it a moment, then step forward and dig again.

  I shrugged. ‘Planting potatoes, I think.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s almost dinnertime.’

  ‘I mean in the year.’ Ian slid his camera in front of his face, pointed it down at Miller and fiddled with the focus. ‘We don’t do ours till spring.’

  I watched Miller probe with the spade.

  ‘And there’s no fence. The chooks’ll scratch everything up.’ Ian clicked the shutter. ‘Not sure he knows what he’s doing, your dad.’

  ‘He’s not my dad.’ The words shot out, louder than I’d meant. I felt the blood rush to my face and there was a gaping, shocked feeling in my belly at the idea of somebody seeing us as a unit — me, Ishtar, and Miller, with equal connections between the three — that it was not obvious that the only thing that brought me and Miller anywhere near each other was Ishtar, in the middle.

  Ian was looking down at the camera. His ears had turned red, and I felt the silence between us throb with all the things we’d never talked about, never even ventured near. School, Mr Dickerson, Dean Price, photography — all these had been gone through, taken apart, talked over from every angle. But us, ourselves, our families — what it was that made us different, that had us sitting up the front of the bus with all the other freaks — that, through some unspoken rule, had been off limits.

  I swallowed. ‘He’s just my mum’s boyfriend,’ I said. Then, seized by a sudden recklessness, shoving the words out quickly: ‘I don’t know anything about my dad.’ My heart pounded. I had never told anyone this before. At school whenever we’d had to do projects about our families, I’d always made mine up. My fictitious father — and grandparents, aunts, uncles, and even, sometimes, siblings — looked just as feasible as anyone else’s when drawn and labelled in coloured pencil.

  ‘Really?’ Ian was still fiddling with the camera, and his voice was soft, respectful.

  ‘Ishtar says she didn’t know him. They weren’t … together.’

  Below us, Miller put down the spade, squared his legs, and began moving his arms in a se
ries of ponderous circles.

  ‘Miller is her new boyfriend,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about him either.’

  I did know some things. I looked in his room one time, when they had gone off somewhere in the car.

  The room was like a burrow, right down the end of the low, dim hallway of the mud-brick building. There was one window and it was small and high, allowing just a trickle of light. The air felt thicker in there, and was full of his musk. Only a small patch of floor was clear for walking on; everywhere else stood piles of boxes, bags, and suitcases, some opened and with the contents spilling out. There was no furniture other than the mattress, the chair, and two bookshelves, side by side, both crammed full. Books formed wonky towers in every possible space between and on top of the boxes. I picked up a couple. One was on Ancient Egypt, with big colour photos of tombs and mummies, and illustrations of gods with heads of animals; another had a murky cover showing a woman with very long hair and billowy white clothes sitting by a pond, and was full of poetry.