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Aurora Australis

Aurora Australis

     One Evening, I look up into the sky and see something that will change my view of

     my world – of the world – forever. You could say this is when I was born in the spirit.

     It was the early ’60’s, at a time before man walked in space, let alone on the moon.

     Every satellite launch was big news, even in my corner of the globe.




I power my bike along the driveway, through the grainy light of dusk. Evening is a portent of renewal, a time where darkness deepens the familiar face of the world, attuning the lesser senses. The cattle grid thrums and I scribe an arc on the bitumen, rebounding over the grid and down the track again. Tyres bite into earth around the cypress tree as I sprint back up the driveway, my thighs burning, eyes bright as the evening stars that mark the infinite sky.


One of them is moving!

 The realisation is shocking. One of the stars is moving.

Braking hard I straddle my bike. I look up with mouth gaping. It is moving. There’s a star high in the southern sky easing slowly across the void. A gulp of excitement catches in my throat as I try to swallow. This is a rare sight, the progress of an orbiting spacecraft, wavering across our sky, with a trail of vapour spewing in its wake.

But no! That’s not right. My hand clasps my own mouth. A vaporous, wavy line. Satellites in space don’t leave those. Ah, perhaps it’s a jet flying very high in the atmosphere. But no! You don’t see the jet then, do you? Not the craft, only its trail of vapour!

‘Geez!’ Fear parches my throat as the jet stream begins to glow and waver.

‘This isn’t right! Spaceships don’t do this! Do they? I’m sure they don’t.’ Then the realisation dawns. Maybe I’m witnessing aliens instead.

‘Gotta get dad!’

Back on my bike, I hurtle down the driveway to the front of the house, bark and twigs flying as I speed on. Crossing the cattle grid I rip to a stop below the front steps, and leave the bike wheel jack-knifed and spinning. Flinging the fly screen wide open, I pound down the hallway to the sitting room, confronting the startled faces of my parents. Dad is already out of his chair.

‘There’s a thing in the sky,’ I rasp. ‘Like a star but it’s moving, swaying.’

The look on my face shocks him and he hurries passed me.

I follow, grabbing my bike, and race to where he stands, midway up the house paddock.

‘There,’ I point accusingly at the brilliant thing. He’s seen it and stands as awestruck as me. We just gape and watch. I hear mum shuffle to the gateway, briefly. She can’t see anything through trees and doesn’t come further.

‘Is it a spaceship, dad? D’you reckon?’

He doesn’t answer right away and that frightens me.


‘It’s an aurora,’ he declares finally, his face beaming. ‘Lord, I haven’t seen one of these in years!’

‘It’s a what?’

‘An aurora, dear. Aurora Australis. Watch,’ he urges. ‘See how that cloud is spreading? Look, it’s changing colour. Watch! You may never see one like this again!’ The awe and intensity of his voice is compelling.

The cloud begins to smudge, rising like fine dust, and violet, now, with folds of translucent mauve and radiant deep blue. Its star continues a scratchy line through the night sky, fading near the horizon. Above us the cloud grows in indigo brilliance, intense, and emitting some kind of energy I can feel but not explain. We watch entranced, the evening still about us, the air crisp. Crickets are silent, nothing else but the sound of blood pumping in my ears. And yet I can hear something. Or do I feel it? A high-pitched hiss like the static on shortwave radio, coming from the aurora. What stretches above me now is something I’ve never heard of or imagined possible and I am utterly humbled by its beauty and scale.

Now the aurora takes on brilliance beyond that of any stars. Its colour deepens in waves and it moves, ever so slightly, like the bottom of a long velvet curtain caught in a celestial breeze. The spectacle fills a good quarter of the sky, suspended right over the nearby township, bathing everything in an eerie dusting of lavender. I want to capture the moment in some way, but I remain captivated, no longer aware of my legs numbing in the cold, my body swaying, or the pounding of my heart. I’m so utterly spellbound, I can barely breathe. Were I standing in the presence of the most revered entity in the world, or as a witness to the most important event in history, I would still have turned to watch this, so powerful is its effect. This is an act of God, something I can understand. It is irrefutable, beyond spectacular, or astronomical. This beauty assaults all my senses, rendering all imaginings obsolete. Time and space dissolve and my heart aches.

Gradually the colours begin to lose their brilliance and the indigo deepens to violet. It has blazed across the sky for half an hour or so, and its fading brings such disappointment. I’m filled with a sense of longing, an aching for it to stay, holding it with each breath, powerless, helpless, as it slowly fades.

‘Mmm.’ Dad breaks the silence. He sounds weary, sharing my confusion of wonder and disappointment. His face is tired and sad.

‘Oh, dad. It’s going.’ I sigh.

Barely a smudge in the night sky, the aurora has ceased to sing. Time returns like gravity to a landed swimmer and I feel the chill air on my legs. Night has fallen so suddenly. Only moments before the first stars seemed pale and uncertain.

‘Well. I will never forget this moment, that’s for sure, dad.’ The experience leaves me shaken and bewildered. So many questions needing answers and feelings, explanation. I thought I knew so much about my world and now this. No one has ever mentioned that things like this really happen.

‘What makes the colour, dad? And what was that starry thing that started it?’

He tilts his head, unsure. ‘I think it all begins when dust in our atmosphere starts burning. I’ve got an astronomy book inside. We’ll find out more from there. But I’ve never seen one like this before.’

‘You’ve seen others?’

‘Yes, one or two. But pale and brief compared to this.’

We wait a little longer, two figures standing in the dimness, with the manna gum towering over us.

‘Well, I think I’ll go in now,’ says dad, finally. ‘It’s getting cold. There’ll be another frost by morning.’

‘Okay. I’ll be in soon.’

I listen to his slippered footsteps over leaves and bark as he walks stiffly back to the house. My eyes are still glued to the sky, to what I remember, willing it back. I stomp my feet to bring back circulation. With one last hopeful glance I pick up my bicycle and ride a couple of circuits just to get warm, but all the while peering skyward. Perhaps another will start. If one, why not another? I bet I’ll be looking skyward every time I come outside from eve till dawn, for the rest of my life. And every time I see those beautiful colours I’ll think of this aurora Australis. And how such beauty is so fleeting.

Hope of a reprise fades. I now begin to understand that such an event can happen at any time, whether I’m there or not. Even behind storm clouds, just over the horizon or when I lie sleeping. Coasting along the path I set my bike against the fence. There’s an awful lot up there I need to know.I head inside with a dozen questions spawning dozens more. Something new has awakened within me.


One of the greatest gifts I received in life came in the form of my adoptive father. He was a shy man, well read – well educated for that matter – and while he was unable to relate to me as a toddler, once my curiosity appeared, a whole new dimension grew in our relationship. While he passed away many years ago, his legacy: the love of literature, research writing, music and a passion for the world around me remains, unabated.  Unfortunately I do not have a photo of him, but imagine a tall, fifty year old, lean, sun-tanned farmer, wearing bib overalls, a toweling hat and boots and you would have him in mind. And to have a dad with the name Merlin, was pretty cool.



Dad’s library fits snugly into the corner of the sitting room, between the chimney and the wall. It begins on the bench top, above cupboards lined with smooth green leather and covered with neat piles of magazines: Walkabout, UNESCO Courier, a volumes about BHP, the Antarctica, and classical art. But these fail to obscure the piles of yellow-spined National Geographics, now within easy reach. I haven’t been inclined to explore the shelves with any seriousness. In fact they’ve remained untouched but for occasional dusting. The contents seem unremarkable to me. Apart from a few leather bound titles and classics I assume the rest are reference books, and I’ve rarely seen dad delve into them. He just doesn’t have the time or inclination anymore, preferring the radio or recordings, and reading the paper, at least until television arrived.

Tonight, in stockinged feet I climb from dad’s armchair to the bench top. My fingers ruffled across the spines urgently, searching for anything on Astronomy.

‘It has a navy blue dust jacket and the title is in white writing,’ dad recalls, craning his neck and squinting to see. ‘I think it may be on a lower shelf, though.’

‘What’s she looking for,’ mum asks.

‘That book on astronomy. She wants to know more about the aurora we saw.’

I grunt. ‘Astronomy starts with ‘A’, dad, so why isn’t it on the top shelf?’ An impudent question but I’m impatient.

‘Because it’s my library, dear.’

‘Found it!’ I declare, slipping the book from its place and read the subtitle, ‘A Guide to the Southern Hemisphere.’ Its cover offers an illustration of the starry heavens and is stiff to open. The pages are cream-coloured with age and have a musty smell. They are unevenly bound and cut. Most of all, the volume is disappointingly thin. I had imagined the Aurora to be a vast subject.

‘Here,’ dad calls, reaching for the book. I turn, handing it to him as I sit down on the bench, looking over his elbow. I wait. His eyes scan the index and I watch his face closely for any sign of discovery.

‘There!’ He exclaims, turning to the page and reading something about solar storms and magnetic fields, stuff I’ve never heard of before. Then he hands me the book. There’s a black and white photo of an aurora, a paltry attempt to replicate what we’ve witnessed. I read through the text for any additional information he may have missed. There were no diagrams to provide a better understanding of the phenomenon.

‘There’s a good photo of an aurora Australis in that ANARE book,’ mum suggests.

‘What ANARE book?’

‘The book about Antarctica, there on the bench behind you.’

It’s a large, at the bottom of a weighty pile. I move magazines to get to it. The dust jacket has stuck to the bench top and made a ‘schtuck’ noise as I lift it up. Its glossy cover features a dramatic picture of a singular blue-white iceberg. I must have looked at it once before because the pictures seem familiar and, glancing though it now, it seems promising. I remain on the bench, resting the weighty volume on my lap, turning glossy pages one by one as I rediscover the icy wastes south of Australia. I remember the picture of the penguins and the one with a bearded man, his face covered in icicles but, inexplicably, I can’t recall the next photo, a full-page image of an aurora Australis. It’s graininess, a greeny-yellow cloud, is disappointing, nothing like the crisp indigo velvet hanging from our night sky.

Text on the following page offers more. I slide off the bench and curl up in my armchair, legs crossed to support the book as I read patiently.

‘It says they are a common occurrence in the southern wastes, visible as far north as the southern coast of Australia, dad,’ I read aloud. ‘Although they also occur in daytime they are only really visible at night. They also occur over the Arctic Circle where they are known as aurora borealis.’

I sat back and considered this awhile. Across the room mum knitted, quite unmoved by the events of the evening. It’s getting late and my curiosity is sated for now. While I’ve learned that the aurora is uncommon, it’s still hard to accept such a brilliant, dramatic spectacle. Surely someone else must have seen it, too. Perhaps one of my school friends. I want to talk to someone who knows more about them. Perhaps my teacher might have seen it would be able to explain it better. I show the picture to mum. It’s a solemn moment, as if I’m revealing a secret part of myself, or like looking at the face of god, even if it isn’t the same face I’d seen earlier.

‘This isn’t like the one we saw, mum,’ I explain. ‘Is it dad?’

‘No,’ he agrees. ‘Ours was indigo and like the bottom of a curtain. That looks nothing like it, really.’

‘I should’ve come out,’ mum sighs. ‘I couldn’t see anything but stars from the gate.’ She resumed knitting. ‘I’ve never seen an aurora.’

‘There’ll be more,’ dad assures her. ‘They come in cycles. It’s unusual for one to be so high up in our sky, though. Others I’ve seen are low-set, and most occur in the morning around five or six o’clock.’

I return the book to its place and fish out The Overloaded Ark again, flipping through its pages.

‘May I borrow this one, dad?’

‘Of course.’ He looks a little surprised. ‘Where’d you hear of it?

‘Our fourth grade teacher Mr Wellman, used to read it to us each afternoon, just before the last bell. We got through the whole book. I’d like to read it again.’

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ he assures me. ‘He’s a good bloke, Durrell. If you like that there’ll be other books up there you’ll enjoy, too.’ He grins, pleased to have a visitor to his library.

Dad is right. The book gives me an appetite for more. Some are well illustrated or have intriguing covers and I pull them down to investigate further. Several contain collections of papers written by famous scientists, philosophers and historians. They seem quite readable and I take them to my room. I’m not an adventurous reader and need prompting to get started. Often curiosity is enough, or something mentioned on TV or at school. After reading some of Lawson’s stories, I long for more about my own country. There are few of these dad’s collections but none that seem to tantalise me.



I think this is the day I truly found my voice as a writer.



One Sunday afternoon I happen upon dad dozing in his chair after dinner. Climbing onto the bench I search the shelves again. I didn’t intend to waken him but, having done so, it pays off.

‘There are plenty of bush ballads about Australia,’ he says, limbering himself stiffly to search the shelves. ‘There,’ he points. ‘That one with the green cover.’

I handed it to him after a brief look, and climbed down to perch at his side. He flips through the stained, musty pages, looking for something. ‘This was awarded to me as a Sunday school prize when I was a boy,’ he reveals, showing me a certificate pasted on the flyleaf. ‘And there’s some good stuff in here.’ Turning more pages he comes to familiar territory and stops, backtracking over one or two, and smiling as if recognising an old friend.

‘It’s called Mulga Bill’s Bicycle, and it’s written by Banjo Paterson.’ He takes a breath, holding it briefly as he studies the page. Then he begins a most extraordinary reading. As the adventures of Mulga Bill unwind both dad and I roar with laughter. He even has to pause in order to recover his breath and composure before he can continue.

Having enjoyed it so much, he riffles through the pages again, finding another. Upon the first phrase I recognised it.

‘That’s The Man From Snowy River! I exclaim. Dad nods, smiling as he reads. I lean back against the chair, my eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of words galloping with the wild horses, the bragging of the horsemen and the excitement of the chase.

Dad enjoys reading and asks if I’d like to fetch him another volume, this time a collection of poets. From it here he reads some Robbie Burns with such a heavy brogue I’m astonished.

When he’s finished the verse I ask. ‘Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?’

‘Oh, one of my uncles used to recite these after dinner. It’s a lot easier from memory than trying to read from the page. Look!’ He points to the verses and I can see what he means. Some of the words were unrecognisable.

‘And if you like Lawson, see if you like this one.’ Dad begins another, missing the title and straight into the first verse, his voice softer, lilting, the words rolling like the hills and plains it describes. I have never heard it before yet the images and pull of the words are undeniable.

‘What’s it called, dad?’ I ask when he’s finished.

‘My Country,’ he replies, handing me the book.

While I read it through again, he gets up and reaches for another couple of books, one a more recent publication with a colourful jacket, and the other much older, with gilt edged pages. He sits back down again, legs crossed, and props his elbows on the chair arms.

‘You’ll like some of these,’ he promises. Flicking through the pages of the first, there are numerous illustrations. The book is filled with short stories. ‘These are written by Henry Lawson. Some of them are yarns, others quite dramatic.’ Almost reluctantly he hands it over. ‘And this one, I’m not so sure. He’s a fine poet. There are some real gems in here.’ Finding one he began to read. Again the rhythm was catchy, and the words, like My Country, spoke of the love of two lands. Dad obviously knows it well as he reads it faultlessly, only glancing at the page.

‘That’s lovely, dad. The way the words ripple and fall is so beautiful. I’ll never be able to write like that.’

‘Then enjoy reading it,’ he replies, showing me the poem. It’s called A Dedication. I reach for it, turn to the cover. Gordon’s Poems. Opening the book, I search for the title page. But, first I discover the flyleaf. It is inscribed in pen and ink. ‘Wishing Bessie many Happy Birthdays with best wishes from Jack. 14.7.99′

‘Who are Jack and Bessie, then?’

‘My mum and dad.’

‘You mean grandad gave this to your mum?’

‘Yes. In 1899.’

I’m astonished. ‘But grandad’s name is John. John Sanders Clarke. You told me. His initials are monogrammed on his handkerchiefs.’

‘Well, everyone calls him Jack.’

‘And Bessie?’

‘Elizabeth. You were named after her.’

I’m silenced by wonder. Perhaps I have more beginnings than I realise. I turn to the title page, Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon. There’s an engraving of the poet on the facing page. This is such a beautiful book, dad.’

‘And it’s yours to keep and treasure. And that one,’ he adds, placing the other slim volume on my lap.

I gather the books to me and offer dad a hug. Not only has he shared some wonderful books but he’s understood how much these moments and words have meant to me.

After realising the bounty of those shelves I spend many hours perusing their contents. And when they’re finally exhausted, I sit on the floor behind mum’s chair and begin another phase of discovery. First there are more volumes of Courier magazines. They offer a more worldly view of humanity than National Geographics, portraying the sufferings and simplicity of the other half of the world, one I rarely glimpsed on the TV news and in documentaries. One book leaves me totally baffled. I take it to mum, asking her to explain it better. It’s a small volume of reproduced paintings by various artists, each work accompanied by a short biography.

‘These artists are disabled people, dear,’ mum explains. ‘Some of them have suffered from diseases like polio and cannot use their hands and cannot walk. So they have learned to paint holding brushes in their mouths. Others can’t use their hands, and draw and paint with their toes instead. Yet the work is so fine, isn’t it?’

The book fascinates me and I return to it often, realising how much a person can do even after so much difficulty in their lives. Most of the artists are European but their paintings cover a myriad of subjects and styles.

Another of mum’s treasures is an intriguing book with the title Other People’s Children. It contains few words after a brief introduction. There follow dozens of full-page, black and white photographs of children from all around the world. Unhindered by captions I’m forced to gather all I can from the children’s expressions, the way they dress and from the background, often finding evidence of great poverty and hardship, the harshness of snow or desert. I visit this book frequently, the faces always fascinating, their stories mysterious and tantalising.

A book about Mahatma Gandhi called All Men Are Brothers is a recent addition to mum’s shelves. It’s a biography about Gandhi, mostly told in his own words, quotations taken from his speeches and writings. The man and his story bind a spell around him. He speaks of peace in a time of great turmoil in the world and I recognise, for the first time, a true politician advocating a revolutionary concept of non-violent non-co-operation. His charisma leaps from the pages, opening a open door to his people and their struggle leaving me keen to read anything about him and the struggle between Hindus and Muslims after the British colonials depart.

While I continue studying the skies, I become equally enamoured with geology, nourished by my venturing to Keilembete and Mount Noorat and Auntie Aileen’s expeditions to the coast. And the aurora has left me in no doubt that the mysteries I’ve read about are not confined to the pages of books, or to the television. They are present in my own world, in every corner of the farm, simply awaiting my discovery, and dad helps unveil many of these.



Each evening we watch the weather forecast at the end of the news, trying to outdo each other’s explanations as to why the sunrise was red, or how a perfectly cool, clear spring morning lurches into an afternoon of hot, blustery north winds. I learn how to read the barometer, to understand the significance of air pressure and humidity. And, pouring over weather maps in the newspaper, he explains the source of south westerly storms, frosts and fog.

After dinner, one warm summer evening, I climb up the cypress hedge and roll into my hammock. Brushing away leaves and stray cobwebs I gaze heavenward at the vastness of the Milky Way. It’s a clear night, the stars crisp, flashing pink and blue through the incomprehensibility of space. First I mark out familiar constellations and, from the Southern Cross locate magnetic south. I’ve learned recently that the poles are incidental, fickle, and capable of change. I noticed variations in planetary positions, how the waxing moon is higher in the sky as it thins, setting beyond the west, and when it will rise, full and ripe in the northeast, over the shoulder of Mount Noorat.

As I lie there, staring into the night sky, an odd sensation overcomes over me, a wave of giddiness. It passes and I return my attention to the sky. Some of the paler stars were millions of light years away, while other brighter ones seem almost neighbours, planets even, sharing our star. The giddiness returns. This time I don’t look away, but allow the sensation y to wash over me. I know I can’t fall. I checked the hammock quite recently and the tree is sound. While struggling with the unnerving lurch in my stomach I force my eyes to focus on the stars. Soon the vertigo eases and I realise that my brain has accepted what my eyes have seen: that I stand, as if at a huge window or a viewing platform in space. Floating there, the sense of motion is the gentle breeze swaying my hammock, but I am no longer conscious of my own physicality, floating among the stars in three dimensions.

Clambering back down to earth, I am still shaken from the ethereal experience, and find it difficult to walk. But after that lesson I continue to view the sky that way and it remains exhilarating, whether lying adrift on the lawn, or draped in the less comfortable arms of the deckchair. The sky is never just a canopy of stars, again. It is an infinite ocean.



I love mystery, secrets and codes. So I decided to make some…..


TreasureOver the years I’ve collected a steady trickle of bits and pieces that are intriguing or special. Amongst these items is an old fob watch and some coins I’ve uncovered during summer fossicks and winter loft explorations. I’ve also unearthed an old key on a brass ring, the kind used to open big old locks like I’d seen on castle doors. There are brass cogs and springs, the innards of wind up toys. I’ve removed the workings from my old music box. It began out of curiosity. I just wanted to see how it worked. After pulling it apart the novelty of cogs, clicks and metallic whirs was far more interesting than the tiresome melody it picked out with such mechanical precision.

There are quirky items, too, things I just can’t bear to throw away. Not clutter exactly, they evoke sharp memories and feelings, smells and sounds that have made life a richer experience. Among these is a collection of olivine crystals, the most personal of my treasures. To others these stones seem rather ordinary and lackluster but, for me they are magical. I can’t really explain why. The most highly valued pieces are large single crystals extracted from whole lumps that I’ve crushed. While they resemble emeralds, I know they’ve no value, but they are beautiful things to behold. And I’ve spent hours under baking sun, both in our drive way and, more recently at the Mount Noorat quarry, searching for the uniquely shaped volcanic bombs in which such crystals form.

Together with these gems are several small rubies, numerous garnets and agates that I’ve found in coarse beach sands at Moonlight Heads. There, heavy seas pounded the rocks and cliff-faces, and currents churn the sea floor and dumping stones on the narrow shore. Beyond the beach splintered wood and rusted iron lie melded into the reef, skeletons of several sailing ships that foundered along the coast.

Guided by my aunt’s geological enthusiasm, I’ve learned much about the formation of the region: how timbered grasslands evolved, pocked with volcanic cones and sudden lakes, and she’s convinced me that the whole region was once a seabed.

My collection boasts Australites, found after hours of fossicking, with my aunt, along coastal cliffs that tower over the spume and pounding of the great southern ocean. After witnessing the aurora, these finds are very special. Dad says they were shooting stars. Imagine it. Imagine holding real shooting star in your hand. I marvel at the smooth, deceptively heavy brown stones bared by briny gales and sleet and their molten shapes feed my imagination.

I keep my treasure hidden in an old tin, probably of pharmaceutical origin, secreted on an overhanging ledge inside my bedroom chimney. After recent stories about buried treasure, pirates, maps and stranded sailors, the idea of hiding my own treasure with an indecipherable map is intoxicating. As I play the archery game, I search for special features marking a perfect spot to bury my treasure safely, with the added satisfaction of being able to find it again in years to come. I consider the old gum, the big cypress, but no. Too hard to dig near a tree, but the ruins of the pigsty are one possibility but no one feature leaps out at me. Disappointing really. Surely any site lined up with a couple of features and marked with an X, would be really easy to locate. Some sort of land form, a deformed tree. The dwarf pine, perhaps. I go for another long and serious reconnoiter round the farm. After all, burying a treasure isn’t something you just casually plan from your bedroom. Pirates don’t do that sort of thing. Grabbing bow and arrows I set out, after lunch, to find a special spot, picking up the same route as my archery game. From the orchard fence I cross the paddock, passing the mushroom patch. After exploring the rabbit paddock the remaining fields seem featureless for treasure mapping, except for the pigsty and, out of respect I decide not to add more desecration.

Perched on the railing above the horse paddock trough, I shield my eyes against afternoon glare. It’s not a field I’ve considered other than for a tree house. Hopping down I make my way passed the chook house to the old pine tree. It doesn’t welcome climbing and offers only craggy bark and a few bulging roots beneath leaf litter. Nearby, the trunk of a single gum stands has been trimmed of lower branches and its few limbs survive drastic surgery after half the tree snapped in half during a gale. I attempt to climb once, literally finding myself out on a limb, hanging by my sweaty hands until I found the courage and logic to let go. I learned that a fall should be measured from the feet down and smile now, stretching my shoulders in memory of the stiffness that had lingered for weeks. The resulting frozen shoulder excused me from playing basketball for several weeks.

Looking across the paddock towards the driveway I experience the feeling of a truth about to be revealed. My feet lead me to the foot of the Moreton Bay fig tree. Occasionally I’ve played here, once collecting a tin of latex in an aborted attempt to manufacture rubber, ruining one of mum’s saucepans during the process. The branches invite me today, an easy climb on smooth, pale bark. Dad has constructed a guardrail around the trunk to keep the horses from chewing at the bark. I perch on it now, looking around the paddock. While here feels right somehow, no distinguishing spot screams, ‘dig here!’ Disappointed, I climb down again and walk up to the low set cypress near the road. My plans for a tree house have folded into procrastination.

Turning back, it dawns on me. Secret places don’t announce themselves. They have a commonality about them requires ingenious calculation, so many paces south, marked by the shadow of the noonday sun. Something like that. Returning to the fig tree, I climb onto the guardrail and step into the branches. Swinging across, I rest in the cradle of a fork, studying the branches. There’s a deep scar in the bark, encircled by a wrinkled ridge where the bark has regrown, leaving only a slight hollow. Part of the scar forms a deep fissure and I peep through it. There, perfectly framed, is a strip of meadow, the lean gumtree in the background and prominent, buttress roots nearby. Excited, I hop down and walk along the imaginary line to the gum, then, turning back, carefully pace the distance between the two trees: eighty-eight steps. Striding back forty-four paces I mark the ground with the heel of my boot before returning to the fig tree. Another forty-four paces. Halfway, that’s perfect! Breathless with excitement I hop back up into the fig tree and line up the strip again. I can just make out the mark I’ve made. All I have to do now is bury my treasure and make The Map: forty-four paces and an X to mark the spot.

For the remainder of the afternoon I busy myself at my desk, with paper, pen, ink, and my chemistry set. Beside me sits a cold cup of black tea, with cut lemon in the saucer, and a paint brush. With the drawing finished, I lean, cross-legged, into the fire place, burning the map edge, making it look old, worn and stained. I’ve labelled it in my secret code, giving the document an exotic appearance, exactly how a treasure map should appear. The most important instructions are written in invisible ink. After rolling it up, I place it beside my treasure box, up in the chimney. Tomorrow, with my chores done after Sunday dinner, when dad reads the paper and mum snoozes, I’ll bury the treasure.

The dishes are done and I change into slacks and shirt, checking mum and dad are occupied. Hoisting down my treasure box and map, I head for my cubby house, spreading the contents of the box out on the floor. Lining the tin with aluminium foil I’ve filched from the kitchen, I wrap the watch and workings of the music box in old handkerchiefs. I make similar bundles of my gemstones and coins, folding the bundles in brown paper bags before repacking each treasure in the tin. With a foil seal I close the lid. For now the map is pushed down behind loose wall boards. Tuck the tin under my arm, I borrow mum’s garden spade and head for the horse paddock.

Locating the spot is easy and I cut a large square in the turf, gently lifting it aside, then begin digging in the moist black soil. With the hole two feet deep, it occurs to me that my tin will rust if I bury it straight in the ground. Scrounging amongst a pile of discarded rags in the workshop I discover an old sou’ wester made of oil skin. Although shredded down one side it’s ideal and I cut out the back panel with dad’s shears.

Back at the digging with the tin wrapped securely, I place it at the bottom of the hole. Tamping down the turf square with my boot, I wonder how long it will remain there before I have the unbearable urge to dig it up again. The only sign of my secret is a smudge of dirt and a few bruised blades of grass. Lying the spade across the square, I run to the fig tree and climb up into the branches. Through the sight hole I locate the gum tree and the spade in the foreground. I smile broadly with relief and satisfaction. I am the new member of a secret society shared by pirates and smugglers.

Returning to the cubby, I roll the map and wrap it in foil. It will be safer in the chimney if I can find something to secure it in. Back in the workshop I begin my searching. There are glass jars with metals lids, but they might shatter; in tins the map might get too hot and singe. Then I find the solution. Beneath the bench on a lower are sheets of lead. I find one free of holes and return to the cubby. Unwrapping the map, I fold it in half, creasing it carefully, and then in half again. Now it’s the size of a small envelope. Folding it twice more I reduce it to the size of a matchbox. With the creases well pressed I rewrap it in foil and then fold the lead around it, pressing it into shape with my fists. The map is perfectly enclosed, resembling a mysterious package. With my geometry compass I engrave on the side, ‘If You Love Life Do Not Open!’ After placing the package in the chimney, I feel very satisfied. It may get damp but no flames will reach it tucked away back there.

The hardest part about having a treasure is done. There is no use digging it up for a while, as that would defeat the purpose. I decide to leave it for a few years at least, until the details of it have faded from memory and the itch to dig it up is well and truly gone. Just to know I have a treasure suffices for now.


Note: about eight years later the farm was sold, while I was away at boarding school, and my treasure and map, the tree house and my beloved hammock were lost within one strike of a hammer. But the memories of these years remain as fresh today as the breeze of the Pacific Ocean.


Healing Prayer For Writers

Healing Prayer For Writers

Words (c) Indispiritus 2013


Great Mother, I am your child and I call to you: my spirit seeks your face as when I first saw you,
In days of loneliness when you revealed those devas on my path.
And now, at dusk, Great Mother, place your torch beside me: a warm and welcoming beacon for the night.
When I am tired and aching, lead me to the pool of your healing waters, where illness dissolves into ether,
And sickened tissues are regenerated as I drink deeply from your gentle and timeless nature.
When I am distressed by thirst, poverty or hunger, provide bounty and wealth greater than my needs,
And manifest the fruits of my desires.
Help me to achieve the peaceful life I seek within the folds of your sky, your earth and heart
And in the deepest pools of your wisdom.
Great Mother, as I rest in the warmth and peace of your hearth, fill me with your healing breath,
And as I sleep, mend what is broken, purify what is defiled, find what is lost,
And restore what has been taken from me.
Make whole my sight that I may see your beauty, and unstop my ears that I may hear always hear your
Welcome in this hallowed place.
Great Mother, as I rest in your dusky peacefulness, as with the eyes of a child awaiting the moon and stars,
Attune my ears to the sound of life’s song, and to the voices and visions of the future.
Heal my eyes that I may see and write your words, and speak of truth that man will hear.
Guide me, each day, on my path to realisation.
Great Mother, I am your child and I hear you.
Imbue me with courage and kindness, to love myself as you do.
Guide my heart to speak freely, to share my vision with clarity.
Show me the ways of forgiveness and compassion, and teach me of that in nature which is always true:
Of the difference between silence and solitude.
May your light guide me through life’s darkest places, and each step I take be filled with your power and purpose,
So that I may neither fear nor falter.
Help me see there is no fault in the natural world, and guide my efforts to repair the harm I may have done there.
Reveal the timelessness that enfolds you, where the dance of life has neither beginning nor end.
Dear Mother, in my heart there is much longing: help me understand your mysteries upon The Way.

(C) Indispiritus 2013



Not against women, children, the poor, the disadvantaged, the drunk, the vagrant, the refugee, the inmate, the political regime, the ‘different’ kid on the school bus, the woman enjoying her early morning jog, the celebrity, the gay guy at the train station, or the political leader attending a rally.

Violence is not okay.

Violence is not okay in the daily news, or in the shopping centre car-park. It’s not okay in the house next door, in your own home, or in your fantasies.

To present terror as a bed-time story is not okay.

To portray atrocities of war, as news or adult entertainment in games, in TV series or movies: it’s not okay.

To present footage of the aftermath of a car bombing, or mass shooting, is not okay. To call a shooting rampage or an act of murder ‘entertainment’, is not okay, even if we call it a drama series; even if we rate it for mature audiences.

Maybe, as a society, we all have a little shell-shock.

When you witness a violent act, or remember one perpetrated against you, you may not only contemplate, or even enjoy, the experience in your conscious mind. There is something far more sinister happening in your subconscious.

In response to your conscious thoughts about violence, stimulated by witnessing violence on TV, in participating in a violent act in a game, watching scenes of the aftermath of a tsunami, a jet flying into a building, or even reading a story about violence: this very act of witnessing, and imagining, causes your brain to release a cocktail of chemicals that correspond to your conscious thoughts.

These chemicals flood through your body, stimulating your heart, lungs, and adrenal gland. They suppress digestion, cause you to sweat, to feel aroused, to feel frightened, to feel involved. You actually chemically and physically experience the violence you witness in your environment.

Some people find this experience stimulating. Some are even addicted to it. Many find the daily shot of violence provides a quick shot of excitement and escapism they need after their daily work.

We should ask ourselves why we feel we need this. How do we explain this contradiction, this human fascination/ abhorrence with violence?

Perhaps we have gone too far in our desire to experience morbidity. Maybe this desire for excitement, the headiness and sense of empowerment we experience is part of the reason why there are so many acts of violence perpetrated in our world about which we do nothing ….but watch.

My Writing Room

My Writing Room

For interested writers:

I have a two to three week writing block ahead. This being so, I am grateful to have my script at a point where I can begin objective editing. It helps to watch others’ work. If there is a movie or TV series I like, or don’t like, I make notes about what does or doesn’t work. Then I apply these notes to my own work.
Particularly when I feel that a show doesn’t work, I ask myself: have I fallen into the same trap?
These are some of those questions that have come up that I must answer and address in my own script.

Is my scenario plausible? Is the hypothesis likely enough?
What are some key points I can highlight that will impress my audience?
What elements might a more judgmental viewer question?
What is it about my characters that will invite my audience to eagerly invest in them?
Do my characters’ achievements meet or exceed audience expectations?
Are my heroes credibly heroic? My villains plausibly villainous? Or are they mere caricatures of these?
Do my characters have sufficient depth? What are their flaws? Have I identified their unique qualities and idiosyncrasies, and is this sufficiently visual, or through dialogue only?
As speculative fiction, does the time and place of my story’s setting provide key indicators of ‘difference’ to contemporary life and times?
Is the place and time of my setting sufficiently different to provide audience with sense of other-worldliness?
How will my audience identify key elements of my contrivance: its landscape, cultures, structure, communication, technology etc. and will these smoothly integrate to enhance story and not overwhelm it?
What props can I add, if necessary?
And the big one: oh dear…90 pages and still not finished…what has to go?


This final chapter of The Archer’s Game takes us back, full circle to the first chapter and, with it, the end of the work. Although these chapters do not represent the entire work, they are representative enough.




I am special. Mum tells me so, even before I can understand words. As an infant, gazing aloft, eyes still unfocused, I concentrate on that voice, the lilting tones from a red mouth smiling down at me. She dispenses love with every bottle, and her soft hands and strong arms encircle my whimpers. I nestle in the warm blanket of reassurance, enfolded in cuddles, drifting on words, sleeping.

Mum unfurls my story each evening: ‘I always wanted a beautiful baby daughter just like you,’ she says, and tells me, again, how she went to a hospital. There were so many newborns and, from all of them, she chose me. Her words weave tendrils of belonging that hang like gossamer in the silence of nightfall. I am too young to understand where babies and beautiful girls come from, and yet shadowy doubts settle into the pockets of my journeying.

A helpless and trusting infant demands much, and mum no longer benefits from the vigour of youth. Later, she will tell me how much she loves children and that, while teaching, she ached to hold her own child. She will tell me of the cancer that robbed her of motherhood. How she married late, and adopted us: a boy then a girl.

Now, two children and the demands of a family are sometimes too much for her to manage. Fortunately dad is steadfast, an understanding and patient man. Although he is uneasy handling little babies and a fragile wife, he supports us all and keeps the farm thriving.

Like my older brother Nick, I sleep in a bassinette in our parent’s bedroom. The window beside me opens onto the veranda, and there are voices and sounds from the garden: a blackbird’s song; my grandad whistling as he pushes the hand mower; rain falling on the corrugated roof. Breezes pipe through tulle curtains, carrying the fragrance of freshly cut grass and summer storms. Dawn, daylight and dusk mark my time and the seasons.

By the second summer I sleep in a tall bright room with clattering blinds and moonlit shadows. Mum’s footsteps develop a brisk impatience. She sighs, more from fatigue than contentment. And there is an edge to distance conversations, angry words rising in clutches, drowned by phrases from the radio beyond the hallway. Drifts of lavender and classical music nourish my sleep. Where there is music, dad is nearby.

As a restless toddler, my bedtime story is a liturgy of comfort, drowsing sleeplessness and flushing my cheeks with delight. Yet I begin to wonder. I know I am chosen, but what happened to all the other babies waiting at the hospital for someone to choose them?

* * *

The sickness makes me afraid. I remember it clearly, although only four years old. Later, when I have words, I understand these things have names, and that such cruelty is described and bound in books of law. But, as a child, a mother’s summons is obeyed. Not even dad dares defy her.

One morning, soon after breakfast, with the dishes standing tall like soldiers in the rack and the broom resting idly in the corner, my mother’s feet come briskly along the passageway and into the bathroom. There I sit on the potty, waiting, so afraid I cannot think let alone perform bodily functions. Mum says I am constipated, but no matter how I strain or she coaxes, I cannot relieve myself. Her words are impatient, now, and questions press.
‘Have you really tried? You will be sick if you stay this way.’

But this is not enough.
‘Stay here!’ she orders, marching back to the kitchen. I kneel on the bathroom bench in order reach the basin. As I wash my little hands a knot of fear tightens in my stomach. I hear the cupboard door open under the kitchen sink and then slam shut. The wooden chopping board clatters on the table. A knife is drawn from the cutlery draw. The sound of slicing follows. I dry my hands and sit back on the bench, waiting. Such fear should turn my bowels to water yet they remain clenched in one huge spasm of dread, like the rest of me. I clasp my knees and listen as preparations continue. Soon the feet return, back over the linoleum and into the bathroom. The door closes with the finality of a prison gate.

I stand up, alert, afraid. Mum sits down on the bench, placing something beside her. She reaches, pulling me closer, tugs down my pants and lifts me on to her lap. I howl in protest sensing her anger and something else. She lies me face-down, where my little chin rests on frightened hands, inches away from a wedge of yellow soap. I wave my legs helplessly and sob, begging her to stop whatever it is she plans to do. I promise to try harder in the afternoon. I reason as best I can, but my words are no match for her ferocity and bruising grip. I plead between gulps, eyes streaming tears, but no, this must be done.

Cool fingers part my buttocks. There is pressure as the wedge of soap slips into my tender flesh. It stings more than anything I have known, worse than soap in my eyes, lemon juice on a cut finger. Unbearable. It burns and smarts, all the more as mum pushes it deeper, and draws it back out again. My tears and cries fill the room and spill out beneath the door. I beg her to stop.
‘Just a little more,’ she says. The soap continues to probe and sting. I wriggle and squirm to be rid of it, but she holds me firmly on her lap.
Again, through tears I protest: ‘Why can’t I go to the doctor … and get some medicine?’
‘Just a bit more,’ she snaps and continues until the soap is all but dissolved.

Surely the others have heard my tears and screaming. Where is dad? Why doesn’t he stop this? My brother, Nick, knows. He comes to the door and asks what’s wrong.
‘It’s alright,’ mum reassures him. And, after a pause, he wanders away.
Finally, with my bottom burning and throbbing, I am cleaned and released.
‘You’ve been a very good and brave little girl,’ the red mouth says.
It is over for now.
Mum instructs: ‘Now, as soon as you want to use the potty again, you must!’

Yet day after day I cannot; not because of the constipation, now. I am just too frightened. Mum continues the treatment, sometimes twice: again in the afternoon, and I begin to hate her with all the anger and rage my little soul can gather.
Where’s dad? Why is he afraid to speak up for me? Why doesn’t Nick tell someone? It seems that mum does as she wishes, without interference.

At the end of a week my body releases its wastes in a gush of pain and I am more relieved than mum can ever imagine. Still I wonder: How can she do this? What kind of person would recommend such treatment? Each grain of hurt has etched a mark on the wall of my memory: the terror of it, the vivid fear, the clash of pain and reason, an utter helplessness that has set me adrift – sacred trust between mother and child – lost forever.

Later, mum explains why she hurt me. She pulls down a book from the shelves in the sitting room. She opens the volume and shows pictures of the method she used. I loathe and fear that book with its grotesque images. Surely no book could ever sanction such cruelty.

A grey, gaunt loneliness fills the hollows my anger has made. Buds of hatred swell and I vow never to let mum hurt me again. I will be vigilant, never alone with her without a plan of escape.

Distance grows between us. Mum sets me aside, no longer doting upon me. She withholds cuddles and reassurance. I withdraw into a bleak place inside me, and seek safety away from the house, playing in lofts and the forks of trees. Below, fear prowls, hungry like a hungry storybook wolf. I learn to climb swiftly, run and ride tirelessly, stalk fearlessly, exploring darkness, heat, cold, pain and exhaustion. By the age of seven I am ready to bear anything a grown-up might ever try do to me.

I sleep lightly. The sounds of night awakening me. I listen for mum’s slippered footsteps, watch for her torchlight crazing the walls, and when she comes in I feign sleep, while beneath the blankets I am taut and ready to flee.

My strongest allies are the spirits in paddocks. They dwell in trees and hedgerows, beneath rocks and in shadows. I don’t really have a name for them but, much later, I learn about the aboriginal people who lived here, thousands of years before us, and I wonder if it is they who guide and teach me. I have never seen them: they speak inside my ears, offering kind and caring instruction, a bit like grandad.

And there are others who inspire courage when I am afraid: heroes from storybooks, the glowing angels in tall church windows, and plant spirits in the garden and orchard. They teach me to be strong, remain wary, avoiding strangers and grown ups who come too close.

Even on bright summer days the loneliness lingers, tightening into a dry ball in my throat. I begin to suspect I am not like other children, that I see things they do not know. Wisdom and patience teach me, and I wait, a woman-child, watching. Time is on my side. The flow of years will bind my mother in loveless arms. Her power over me will fade.

* * *

Over a decade later, I lie awake in my bungalow, bruised and drowsy, the memory of a new betrayal still fresh.
The stick of incense has smouldered to a puff of ash and a candle-flame nearby wobbles perilously close to wick’s end. Pulling the blanket over me, I close my eyes again, and reach for a place of warmth and reassurance.

* * *

My toes are buried in tender grass and a tide of crimson flowers. I walk below the radiant coral tree. It is a warm summer morning and grandad finishes trimming the edges of a semi-circle of lawn adjacent to the veranda. Then he sets aside his walking stick and takes up the hand-mower, leaning heavily on the worn, wooden handles. His three-note whistle accompanies the rattle and snip of the implement and the fragrance of cut grass reaches my nose, surpassing even the promise of perfumed pickatees and the delicious aromas of daphne and lemon blossom. I move to the driveway, bare feet squirming in the gravel. I feel animated by the flurry of activity.

Behind me dad clips the privet hedge to precise corners and curves. He has already finished the south side and approaches a single archway that leads from a formal garden to the orchard beyond. Beside me, mum rakes the coral tree blossoms. Until yesterday our paddling pool rested beneath the shade of that tree. Now disassembled, it is packed away, leaving a square of flattened grass. Mum straightens this up before bustling over to collect leaves and windfalls from under the lemon tree. I have never seen her work with such energy and purpose.

I am too young to use cutting tools and there is little for me to do, yet I buzz with excitement and want to help. As Nick weeds the driveway with a small gardening fork, I move around the lawn-edge, finger-raking grandad’s grass clippings into little piles. I collect these in my toy bucket and wait patiently at the wheel barrow for grandad to empty his grass catcher. Then I add my contribution. He makes such a fuss that I scuttle back for more.

I am unfamiliar with summer gardening and have failed to recognise preparations over the past few weeks. Dad has painted the old gig, and oiled its leather harness. He has mown, bailed and stacked hay from the house paddock, leaving tidy, yellow stubble. I have helped him gather bark from beneath the towering manna gum for kindling, and we’ve feed orchard windfalls to the cattle and pony. Shrubs are pruned, garden beds weeded, paths swept, gates painted and verandas oiled.

Now the lawn is a carpet of cool green for me to play on and the driveway is raked and crunchy under my feet. Emptying my bucket again, I gather fallen blossoms from the gravel, clutching the last one for closer study. It reminds me of a picture I’ve seen of a circus man shot from a cannon, dressed in a red helmet and cape, and with a blue jump suit. The flower has a helmet, too. I ease it off and poke my finger into the hollow, then peel off the crimson cape from the lean body. It feels firm and waxy on my lips and fingers and has a thick fold down its centre. After reassembling the flower, I drop it in the bucket and head for grandad’s wheelbarrow, peering over its rim as I scatter the blossoms reverently.

Following afternoon tea, I sit at the kitchen table watching grandad read the newspaper. His spectacles are half way down the length of his nose. I like the way he holds the large pages, twitching them so they won’t flop over. As he reads he chomps his teeth together, making a clacking sound. I finish my glass of milk and dab at moist cake crumbs on my plate, using bits of icing to glue them to my finger, before licking them off.

Mum calls from next door in the sewing room. I slide off my chair and pad to the door. She has a brown gingham dress draped on her lap.
‘Come here, dear.’
I hesitate.
‘Come on. I have your new dress ready.’ Her red mouth smiles warmly as she holds a dress by the shoulders for me to admire. It is different to my other clothes, with lace along the hem, neck and sleeves. As she turns it around, I notice three brown buttons at the neck. The bodice is plain brown with a gingham skirt.
‘Let’s try it on,’ she suggests. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes. Sort of. What’s it for?’ Usually new clothes are for an occasion.
‘It’s part of your costume for the garden party.’
I study her face. ‘What’s a garden party?’
‘When lots of people visit a big garden. They set up stalls to sell things they’ve made and serve Devonshire tea.’ Mum unbuttons my blouse. I slip it off and she hangs it over the back of her chair. ‘And they have mini golf, croquet and darts,’ she adds, gathering the frock over my head.
‘When’s it happening?’ I ask as my head disappears beneath the dress.
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’ She turns me around and fastens the buttons.
I pull at the lace. It’s scratchy against my neck. ‘Where is the garden party, then?’ I begin to anticipate something unpleasant.
‘Here, in our garden. There’ll be billy carts rides too, and rides on the trailer and grandad’s gig.’
I feel a tide of fear spill over my toes and creep up my legs, and I am frightened. ‘But who will come here?’

Mum helps me up onto the chair. ‘Blow!’ She tugs at the hem. ‘People from around here. From Terang and Noorat, our neighbours and friends. It’s an open invitation to the public.’
I’m horrified. ‘That means lots of people! How will they all fit in?’
Mum laughs. ‘There’s plenty of room dear. We’ll have tables and chairs on the veranda for afternoon tea, and rows of chairs on the lawn. And there’ll be stalls under the coral tree. You’ll like that: lamingtons and bikkies, toffee, coconut ice, melting moments and cream cakes. Even ice cream.’

I’m silent, digesting this barrage of information.
Mum takes my arm. ‘Turn around dear so I can pin the back.’

I peer out the sewing room window. From where I stand I can see passed the water tanks by the house wall to the vegetable garden, sheds and haystack. Below the window, between the tanks, dense nasturtiums are a wash of brilliant green and orange. Try as I may I cannot imagine crowds of people in our garden, sitting on our veranda, or milling about on the lawn in their grown-up shoes. I have no idea what mini golf is and don’t understand how the old, broken-down gig in the shed can be used again. And as for our pony being ridden by strangers, it all feels terrible.

My throat tightens. ‘Is that what this dress is for, then?’ my voice croaks, betraying suspicion.
‘Yes, dear.’ Mum turns me round again. ‘This is part of your costume. It’s the same as daughters of the first settlers used to wear.’ She reaches into the top cupboard and produces a floppy bonnet made of the same brown gingham, with velvet ribbon laced through eyelets round the crown. ‘Isn’t this bonnet lovely?’
I try to look pleased.
‘I’ve done up your dolly and pram, too,’ she adds.
‘As part of your costume. You’ll see.’ Her red mouth smiles to reassure me.
‘Hop down, dear and I’ll sew up that hem.’ She helps me climb down and undoes the buttons.
‘But why are the people coming, mum?’
‘To enjoy themselves, dear. To spend their Sunday afternoon having fun.’

This isn’t the answer I want. I raise my arms overhead as mum peels off my dress, and I reach for my blouse. ‘Where’s my pram now?’
‘In the workshop. Dad’s just finishing it off.’
She leans over to the chest of drawers and lifts down my doll. Her dress is similar to my own, with a matching bonnet.
‘Can I have her now?’ I ask, reaching out, determined to prevent more meddling with my toys.
‘Oh,’ mum smiles. ‘I think you’d better leave her till tomorrow. It’s only one day and you’ve still got Roast Dinner and Dardines.’ They are my favourite soft toys, a lamb and a teddy bear. I don’t really like dolls – I only pretend for mum’s sake.

My hands collapse at my sides and I feel lost and powerless. My heart is racing and I can’t think clearly. Everything is changing at breakneck speed and I don’t understand any of it. I need to get outside.

Tucking in my blouse, I slip away. Grandad has gone, having cleared away the afternoon tea things. I stand in the kitchen, searching beyond its walls for where tomorrow lies. I don’t like brown, the dress, or my doll’s new clothes, or that my pram’s being altered, especially by dad. The back door slams as I slip through the gate and storm barefoot to the workshop.

With fists clenched angrily, I stand at the doorway glaring in.
‘Hello, dear.’ Dad is at the workbench attaching thick pieces of pine bark to my pram with wire.
‘Why are you changing my pram?’ I demand, emotion snagging my voice.
‘It’s all right, dear, it’s only for tomorrow, for the competition. Then we can take this stuff off and it’ll be the same as always.’
‘What competition?’ My chin quivers and my eyes well with tears. I feel so betrayed.
‘The fancy dress competition. We’ve invited all the children to wear costumes and one of the ladies from the church auxiliary will judge the winner.’
‘But I don’t want to be in a competition!’

As I regard my ruined pram my lip begins to curl. ‘How can it ever be the same after you’ve done that to it?’ I sob accusingly.
Dad puts down his pliers and kneels in front of me. I bury my face in his shirt, sobbing. ‘Mum didn’t tell me there was a competition and you didn’t ask about my pram.’ My fists scrub tears away. ‘I don’t want it like that. And why do I have to wear that silly, scratchy brown dress? And why are there so many people coming to our house?’

Dad pats my back gently with a gnarled, farmer’s hand, and chooses his words thoughtfully.
‘There….there,’ he says and I feel him sigh. ‘There, there.’ His rough shaven cheek scratches my forehead. ‘It’s only for tomorrow, dear,’ he assures me, sitting back on his heels and peering into my face. He hasn’t seen me so upset before. I know live a sheltered life on the farm.
‘It’s just for one afternoon,’ he promises, taking my hands in his. ‘Then it will be over and the people will go again, and everything will be like it was before.’

His words reassure me and the knot in my throat loosens a little. I reach forward and he hugs me again before seating me on his old wooden toolbox. He pulls a handkerchief from his overalls and dabs my cheeks, eyes and nose. Holding me again we rock gently and he rubs my back to soothe the sniffs and gulps.

Now in his fifties, dad has had little to do with children. Even me. Farm work keeps him so busy.
‘I know this is all strange for you, dear. And I know you love your home the way it is. Yet sometimes we have to share our things with other people for a little while.’
I dry my eyes on the back of my hand as he continues.
‘The people coming here tomorrow will pay for the rides, the food and games, and their money will help other children who don’t have a nice home to live in like we do.’

I consider this. It hasn’t occurred to me, really, that other children should live differently.
‘You know, some children don’t have mums and dads to love and care for them. They live in an orphanage where grownups look after them until homes are found with new families.’
As he explains this, I relax. My gulping ceases.
‘By inviting people to our home tomorrow, we can raise money to help those children, to buy them story books and toys for their birthdays, and Easter eggs and special things just as you have.’

I am quiet now and my eyes widen as I imagine the children seeing the gifts and delights that dad describes. Although the thought of crowds of people is still frightening, at least I understand. The changes are temporary and we will help children. For if there are children who don’t have homes like mine, they must be very sad and perhaps even more frightened than me. I’ve seen pictures of frightened children in one of mum’s magazines.

Dad releases my hands and rises stiffly. He invites me to look at what he’s done and, although it seems horrible, I smile approvingly, knowing he means well.
My voice is husky. ‘Okay.’ I look up at him. ‘Mum has made a new dress for dolly, just like mine.’
He beams down at me, knowing I am trying to be brave. ‘You’ll look lovely, dear. And did you know that Nick has a costume, too?’
I shake my head. ‘What’s his like?’
‘He’ll dress up like Ernie Old, a swagman, with a flannel shirt, old trousers and straw hat. And he’ll have that rusty penny-farthing bicycle of Granny Clarkes’s to ride.’
I beam at him. While I’m not sure who Ernie Old is, or Granny Clarke, but I’ve seen pictures of a swagman in books.

Pondering all this, I return to the house. But instead of going indoors, I walk around the side, along the driveway, and gaze at the manicured hedges and lawns. I have deep affection for my home. The archway beckons and I wander through it to the orchard. It has been spruced up, too. The grass has been mown around the raspberry canes and asparagus beds, and all the fallen leaves raked away. Even the unruly clump of cane is tidy. Beside it the old mulberry tree looks inviting. I climb onto my favourite branch and lie back to gaze at clouds through gaps in the leaves. The mulberries are still greenish and small.

Far away, the town of Terang rests like a patched blanket on the hill. People are coming here from there, tomorrow. The lump returns but I swallow it down and close my eyes. Sunlight makes patterns through my eyelids.


Next morning I wake with a start, alarmed but not sure why. Something happened and I listen carefully. Blackbird song rings from the orchard. Must have been a dream, I conclude, trying to recall the echo of my waking. Nothing. I lie back, my head sinking into the feather pillow. A blackbird calls again, its warble like the chatter and tinkle of running water.

Suddenly I remember. It’s Sunday. The garden party. Recollection drives a wave of dread through me. I shudder and curl up, burying my face to shut out the inevitable. The truth of it leaves me trembling. But then I remember the children. All I have to do is remember them, I decide. Whatever happens, it’s only for one day and it’s for the children.

There are stirrings in the house, now. It is time to face this day. I will be brave and chirpy, friendly but separate, so whatever frightens me won’t reach inside.

Everyone follows the same routine until after breakfast. Then several vehicles pull up in the back yard and I run to the door. It’s not often people park their cars here. Most visitors come in down the drive way that curves through the garden beside the house. Only those on farm business park in the yard.

Men climb out and begin unloading wooden boards, trestles and stacks of chairs. Others carry boxes through the driveway gate into the garden. I follow them shyly, watching as they set things up all over the lawn. There is a game with balls and loops, and another with bigger, black balls. Dartboards are hung either side of the archway on the hedge. Tables appear beneath the coral tree, just as mum said. Women arrive, fussing as they spread starched linen cloths on the tables, and unpack boxes and baskets of jars and clothes. Folding chairs appear from somewhere, placed in rows at the side of the garden, as if for an audience. Fold-up tables line the veranda, and chairs exactly like the ones from Sunday school. Ah! That’s why I recognise some of the men carrying a framework for a marquee. While the progress is frightening, none of my family is anywhere to be seen. The garden is taken over by strangers.

I scuttle for the sanctuary of my bedroom but, upon entering, there are two strange women there with mum. They have dragged in the hallstand and placed it against the chimney, and are setting up a rack with coat hangers beside my dressing table: a cloakroom for guests, for strangers. Speechless, I flee to the bathroom. Here I can be safe and alone. Slamming the door, I turn the key, and sit down heavily on the bench, my heart pounding and lungs heaving. I feel dizzy and sick and can’t stop shaking, and this frightens me all the more.

It is then I realise all the family towels are gone, replaced by rows of linen ones. All mum’s things are missing from the shelf and there is a new cake of green soap on the hand-basin.
‘Jo?’ Mum calls from the other side of the door. There is a pause. ‘It’s time to get ready for church, dear. Your clothes are in the spare room on grandad’s bed.’
I swallow the lump in my throat and I try to sound calm and sensible. ‘Thanks mum.’ Her steps fade to the kitchen.

I stand at the hand basin, trying to calm down. I turn on the tap and grimace. The basin is spotless, the surface polished with kerosene, its odour still lingers. And now I have splashed it with water. I grab some toilet paper to dry it, flushing away my guilt and evidence. This cleanliness is disturbing. Mum never cleans like this. I daren’t touch the dainty hand towels so I dry my face on my sleeve. An inspection of the bath and shower reveal further cleaning. Back upon the bench, I bury my face in my hands, squeezing away the muddle of thoughts, breathing through my fingers. Slowly the world comes back into focus. I stand at last, take a deep breath and turn the key.

In the spare room a blue and white Sunday dress, white cardigan, matching bag, shoes and socks await me. Once changed, I stand before one of the tall wardrobe mirrors, peering at my reflection. Returning my inspection is a little girl with grey, inquiring eyes. Her skin is tanned; her mouth and nose doll-like in a round face, framed by a bob of smooth brown hair. The child stares back confidently, ready to spring. The disparity between my reflection and me is uncomfortable. Is this how I look to other people? I wonder, or do I only look like this to myself?

Mum’s heavy steps startle me.
‘Ready dear?’ she calls, popping her head round the door. She pauses, then comes right in. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Hmm. S’pose.’
She takes a comb from the dresser and tidies my hair. ‘There,’ she croons, ‘you look lovely.’ She means it, too. I can tell by her thick voice, and watery eyes. She tugs at my cardigan, straightening it at the shoulder. ‘Come on, dear. We don’t want to be late for church, do we? And don’t forget your bag,’ she calls, already halfway down the hall.

‘Okay.’ I return to the mirror for another look. The same jaunty kid stares back at me, calm, confident and mischievous. Yet I feel tizzy and freakish. I peer down at myself. My shoes are too narrow, already pinching my toes, and my socks are no longer white. My dress looks frumpish, the cardigan is still crooked and I don’t know what to do with my bag. When I hurry out to the car, I notice all the other vehicles have gone.

After church I help mum prepare a light lunch of sliced corned beef and salad. I have removed my white cardigan for fear of staining it. Beetroot seems purpose-driven in marking clean clothes. Grandad sits at his usual place buttering a slice of bread, oblivious to the bustle around him. He has cut the slice into little squares. I wish I could be calm like that, just taking life one square at a time, but unpleasant prospects crowd in and I eat little. He glances up, as if reading my mind.
‘Aren’t you hungry, mischief?’
I splotch mayonnaise over my salad. ‘Not today, grandad.’ I don’t want to say I am frightened. ‘Everyone is so busy. It makes me giddy.’
He gives a little laugh. ‘Today will be a big adventure.’

I barely nod. From a dollop of raspberry jam on his plate he smears one square of bread and pops the morsel into his mouth. He smiles again and I grin back. He prepares a second square and places it on the blade of his knife,, before reaching across the table with it, an offering for me. I accept, and take a bite. No one seems to notice the breach of etiquette. Grandad looks over at me, grinning. He knows.

Lunch is almost finished when a vehicle pulls up outside. While I dread the imminent sea of faces, Nick seems quite excited. Or is he only pretending?
‘Nicky, are you really going to ride around on that old bike?’ I ask, trying to hold time at bay.
He glares at me. ‘Who told you? It’s s’posed to be a surprise.’ He looks appealingly at mum.
‘I told her,’ dad interrupts, pushing his serviette into its ring.
‘It’s supposed to be a secret!’
‘Well it was only a secret from Jo. The rest of us knew, so why can’t she?’

Nick falls silent, recognising the challenge in dad’s voice. But he glares at me again and I stare back, exuding triumph. The imminent squabble vanishes with a loud rap on the back door. Dad rises and I know he won’t be back. Soon Nick excuses himself, too, and mum clears the table.
‘Not yet,’ I beg softly.
‘What dear?’ mum asks.
‘Just wondering what I should do now,’ I lie.
‘Well, let’s get these dishes done and then you can change into your new dress.’ Her tone suggests something delicious but, for me, it is grimly anticipated and manifestly unwelcome. I slip off my chair and carry the jams and condiments to the cupboard, licking raspberry conserve from its spoon.

Another truck arrives, swallowed in a cloud of dust and I hear voices from the other end of the house. Grandad says he’ll attend to it. Grateful, I help mum.

Several women enter the kitchen with plates of scones and baskets. They place them on the table. Attired in their Sunday best, perfumed and powdered, they speak loudly. Others follow leaving me to wipe the sink while mum organises the kitchen. The boisterous women are too much and I flee to grandad’s room where my costume awaits on the bed.

Mum arrives, helping me dress. She ties the laces on an old pair of Nick’s shoes, and fusses with my bonnet, adjusting the ribbon.
‘Now, off you go and help where you can. But don’t get your dress dirty, will you?’ she instructs.
I answer with a blank look.
‘Come on dear. Cheer up. There are children in the garden already, some you know from Sunday school. Pop out and see,’ she urges, steering me into the hallway.
I wander hesitantly to the front door, the shoes already slipping on my heels.

A confusion of noise drifts from the veranda, interrupted by a loud crackling and a screech through the garden. I peer out through the screen door, terrified, as a man’s voice booms from a speaker affixed to the corner of the veranda. It’s so loud it hurts. I scamper down the steps and out the driveway to the cattle grid. Beyond the garden gates stand rows of cars, parked in the front paddock, and with more coming down the drive. I never imagined this many people. Whole families are trooping along the outside of the hedge and spilling in through the side gate, onto the lawn. An announcement barks over the speaker. Though distorted, I know that voice, a neighbour and friend of dad’s. I look about for him but there are so many people, no faces I recognise.

The west side of the house is quieter. No one has discovered this part yet. I linger under the apricot tree and watch groups of people walking from their cars. Beneath the span of our proud manna gum their chatter seems disrespectful. The garden is a place of reverence for me, certainly no place for such a commotion. I creep toward the back yard. Over the fence dad parks our tractor and trailer by the back gate. The trailer is lined with bales of hay forming rows of seats. From beyond the sheds our chestnut farm pony appears, wearing a bulky harness and pulling grandad’s gig, its two ironclad wheels grind over the gravel. It is driven by a man I recognise from church. Poor Mitzi. My heart aches for the pony. She must be every bit as scared as me.

As I march towards the back gate the outside toilet flushes, startling me. I dart behind a squat water tank. The toilet is screened by a passionfruit trellis and I can’t see who is there. He walks away along the path and takes the hand of a little girl the same age as me. I feel so lost. I don’t know where to go or what to do. Beside me, Auntie Aileen’s doll-house offers refuge. From the outside it resembles a low weatherboard garden shed, with a tin roof. I peep in through a gap in the child-sized door. It looks spidery, dark and full of junk. However, the thought of sharing that gloom with spiders is quite tempting right now. Only mum’s admonishment to keep my dress clean bars the way. Yet if I remain here much longer, she or Nick will come looking for me. I’ll make my way via the orchard. There I can climb a tree and spot mum from a safe distance.

Leaving no time for nerves to tingle, I scuttle along the path, ducking low passed the steps and weave through the milling crowd on the driveway. As I pass the sandpit, I spot children playing there. I skirt the rockery and head straight into the orchard. There I choose the trunk of a large, leafy tree and tuck up the hem of my skirt. Clambering into its canopy I am left gasping for breath. My shoes have worn leather soles and don’t grip well, and my knees are grazed by the climb.

No one seems to notice me there. From such a vantage point I can see over the hedge into the main garden. A group of men play darts nearby. Beyond them someone has marked out chalk laneways on the lawn and an egg and spoon race is in progress. This is the reason for a barrage of noise over the loud speaker. A crowd has gathered along the far side, cheering the contestants. Near the finish line, elderly folk sit on the rows of chairs. The golden ash offers generous shade for them. Beyond, along the south lawn, several games of quoits are in progress. I spy grandad in his favourite chair, his coat draped over the back. He leans forward in his shirt and vest, scoring a game.

Straight ahead, a row of cake and farm produce stalls are busy beneath the coral tree, but the most popular table attracts a crowd of children. I strain to see what is there. I spy mum in a black and white dress and matching hat. She is serving something from a dairy bucket.  There is no sign of Nick and I know dad is giving hayrides out the back. On the semi-circle of lawn a marquee provides shade for an overflow of tables and chairs from the Devonshire Tea stall. The waitresses are women from church.

‘Hoy!’ calls a man below me.
I look down, searching through the tangle of branches but see no one.
‘Hello.’ The same voice again, only closer. Over the hedge a dart official looks straight at me.
‘Yes?’ I reply.
‘You can’t stay up there, love. It isn’t safe. One of these darts might hit you.’
‘Oh.’ I tremble at his discovery. ‘Okay, I’ll come down.’
I descend nimbly, untucking my skirt as he walks through the archway.
‘Come on, dear,’ he beckons. Let’s find your mum.’ He offers his hand and I take it shyly. It’s much softer and smaller than dad’s.
‘You shouldn’t be up there, dear. You could have fallen.’
‘Never have before.’
‘Oh, you’ve been up there before, have you?’
‘Lots of times. I live here.’ I am determined to set him straight.
‘Ah. So you must be Joanne?’
‘Joanna,’ I correct him.

By now we approach mum, still obscured by a throng of children. They give way to us, some licking green ice cream from square cones. I feel so swamped by their stares.
‘Lola,’ the man calls over the din. Look who I found up a tree spying on us! You can call off the search party now.’
‘There you are, dear. I sent Nick to look for you. Thanks, Doug,’ she calls after the man but he’s disappeared in a sea of faces.
‘Come on, dear. Have some ice-cream.’ She scoops from the bucket, pressing ice cream into a cone.
‘But I don’t have any money.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay for you.’
Over the buzz of the crowd, announcements rattle from the loudspeaker.
Mum hands me my ice cream. ‘Now don’t go running off again, dear. Stay nearby because the fancy dress competition will start soon.’
‘Thanks, mum. Don’t forget to pay for it,’ I yell above the din. But she doesn’t. She just goes on serving. I continue to hover. Catching my eyes, again, she instructs, ‘Stay over there near the coral tree. Sit down in the shade where it’s clean.’

I wade through the press of children and grownups toward the corky-barked tree, still troubled by eating free ice cream and depriving children. But it’s a warm day and soon the ice cream demands my full attention as it flows green and sticky down my hand. There is nothing else to do but lick it. Squeezing between two trestle tables I sink gratefully to the lawn with my back against the tree. It is an old friend in strange times.

The ice cream is delicious, tangy with mint, but I can’t keep up with the drips. Several find their way onto my new dress. I rub at the spots but my hands are grubby and the stains smudge. Munching the last of the cone I remember the garden tap beside me and turn to squat by it. A drizzle of water is all I need. The dress will just have to stay dirty. I’ve done my best.

Now in a calmer state, I take more interest in my surroundings. Nearby a lady attends a handcraft stall. Customers examine homemade children’s clothes, all knitted, crocheted or sewn, much the same as mum makes. It is poorly attended. The most popular tables offer food. Two younger children stand across from me, on the driveway. The little boy is being cleaned up after his ice cream. His mum licks the corner of her hanky and wipes around his mouth and chin. All the time he stares at me. His sister turns to see what he’s looking at.

Just then an older boy comes running up.
‘Where the blazes have you been!’ At first I didn’t recognise my own brother, his face smeared with dirt, a moustache drawn on his upper lip.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ I realise, giggling.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he demands. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere. Even down at the dairy.’
‘I went round the back of the house then up that tree,’ and indicate where with my finger.
‘Huh. That’d be right. Well, mum wants you,’ he yells over the din of the PA.
‘I know. She gave me an ice cream and told me to come and sit over here.’
‘Well, bloody well stay, then!’ he snarls, ‘And don’t disappear anymore cos I’m not gunna to look for you again.’
I ignore his remarks.
‘Where’d you get the ice cream? And where’s mum?’ he demands.
I nod towards the crowding children and he heads over and wades in.

Again the din washes over me. I follow individual sounds, a cheer from the finish line at the racetrack, a bundle of conversations behind me in the marquee and in the background, the familiar burble of dad’s tractor. Then, quite by accident, I spot the man making announcements over the loud speaker. He stands beneath the grapevine arch almost obscured by its leaves. I barely recognise our neighbour, and watch, fascinated as he stands up to the microphone with a sheet of paper in his hand. I’ve never seen him in a suit before. My ears prick up when he mentions the fancy dress competition.

Slowly the crowd converges beside the running track. Children appear from everywhere, some with the oddest-looking outfits. I recognize a few of them from Sunday school: a boy I know wearing tatty things, a straw hat, checked shirt and overalls, with bits of hay sprouting from pockets and buttonholes. Perhaps he’s the straw man from the Wizard Of Oz. Another boy has silvery stuff all over his skin, and grey clothes, with a red heart pinned to his chest and a real tomahawk over his shoulder.

Nearby there’s a little girl in a frilly skirt and lacy blouse. A toy spider hangs by a thread from the brim of her hat. There are two children dressed to look like Jack and Jill, the bucket handle they share being the big clue. Nick appears, walking alongside the penny-farthing. There is a cardboard sign hung from the back of the bike seat in mum’s writing. It reads ‘Work Wanted’

Just as I wonder what to do, mum arrives with my pram. My tizzied doll lies beneath a paper-bark blanket. Mum kneels beside me and produces a handkerchief to spruce me up.
I pull away. ‘I’ve already washed at the tap.’ But to no avail. My bonnet is refitted with more tiresome adjustments to the bow. I wait for her to be cross but she doesn’t seem to notice the stains on my frock. She hauls me to my feet and guides me towards the centre of the crowd, as I half-drag the pram behind me.

There is a space in the middle where other contestants are lined up. I stand beside Nick and stare dumbly at the pram. The wall of excitement is so intense around me I can barely breathe. I remember the children who will benefit from today, and remember to exhale. Our names and the title of our costume characters are introduced over the PA, and the crowd applauds each one. I hear Nick’s called but can’t understand what is said. Then me: I am appalled to here my name spoken so loudly. My throat is dry and I stare at the doll in my pram. I feel silly, frightened, and unable to look up. After a pause in the announcements a winner is named. It is Nick and he moves forward to receive his prize.

At last the event is over. The crowd disperses and mum appears beside me, very pleased. There are mums and whining children everywhere. Finally I am overwhelmed and erupt in tears. But, instead of the relative safety of mum’s arms, I am soothed by a stranger. I hear mum’s laughter, but cannot spot her. I cling to my pram as I’m guided back into the crowd. Voices and announcements blend into a deafening, dimming cloud.

Mum re-appears, her face glistening and ruddy from the afternoon heat. She takes my hand and leads me to a table where homemade sweets are laid out on plates and trays.
‘Try one, dear,’ she invites. ‘It’s coconut ice. You haven’t that before, have you?’
Obligingly I accept the fuzzy cube of pink and white, and nibble at the stuff. It’s covered in dry shavings and has a strange smell. The piece lingers on my tongue, cool and oily. Exhausted, I return to the foot of the coral tree, with the sweet now a sticky paste in my palm. Noise drowns my thoughts and sickness tightens my stomach. I close my eyes, and doze against the tree, waking briefly when Nick nudges me and runs off.

Suddenly it is late afternoon. The din has ceased. The garden party is being packed away, chair by table by load. I turn to the tap in relief, and wash the sticky confection from my hand. I take a long draught of cool, familiar water. My home is mine again, but for how long? That night, faces peer into my dreams, and I fall into vast empty spaces.

* * *

After the second annual garden party an older girl come to stay with us. Mum says she is a foster child and her name is Denise. To me she is old enough to be a grownup but mum says she’s a teenager. She arrives with all her worldly possessions in one tightly packed suitcase, that and a piano accordion.

Denise helps mum during the day, but is free in the evenings. I look forward to the opportunity of her company. She sits me on her lap and reaches for the piano accordion. The instrument is huge, heavy, black and silver, and decorated with swirls of mother-of-pearl. Rows of black buttons bristle down one side and keys like mum’s piano line the other. Denise slips her hands through short leather straps and draws the accordion open, revealing the ribs of its belly.

She plays a style of music I do not recognise and sings to her own accompaniment. I lie back against her, listening with my eyes closed, awed by such noise and the complex machine resting on my lap. The accordion has a warm, plasticky smell and, with its wheezing, reedy breath, feels almost alive.


Kindergarten is a disaster. I attend intermittently when mum has time but, at the mention of the word, I dart from the room, proving impossible to find. The few sessions are mind-numbing. I listen patiently to stories, paint pictures with children’s brushes, play chasey and dig up the weed infested sandpit. All these things I can do at home, but mum says she’s worried about me growing up without the company of other children my age. I don’t see what she means.

‘The kids are so childish,’ I whine, ‘and we do the same things I do here at home.’ I pitch my argument carefully over lunch. ‘Why bother driving me all the way to Terang when I can do all that here at home?’
‘Because you need to play with other children,’ mum replies. ‘And you need to get used to being at school before you start at Terang Primary next year.’

The last day of Kindy is themed about Christmas. We cut coloured paper strips and then clag their ends together to make long paper chains. These decorate the room and Christmas tree. I make a card for mum and dad with wax crayons and I take my turn stirring ingredients for the Christmas pudding. The mixture is stiffer than mud and taunts my nose with its spicey, fruit smells.

* * *

Early one February morning, Denise helps me dress for my first day of school. My uniform has a crisp white collar and cuffs, and the blue gingham matches the belt with a white, plastic buckle. The starchy material scratches my neck. I am unused to bought clothing. Denise helps me wriggle my tanned feet into new white ankle socks and fastens the buckles of my new brown school sandals.

Nick has attended school for several years, but I’ve given little thought to his comings and goings. Now that it’s my turn, I feel like a wild pony, bridled for the first time. The strictures of routine and mum’s daily scramble to organise us will soon eclipse memories of drifting summer days and the delightful abandonment of childhood.

On that first morning mum leads me into the main hall, and it is there that we part. I am directed to sit with a large group of children, some much older than me. In fact it’s the biggest group of children I’ve ever seen. Their restlessness, smells, glances and giggles are all unpleasant, and boys add to the confusion. Once we have settled, a teacher instructs us.
‘When you hear me call your name, raise your hand so that I can see where you are. Then stand up and walk over to the front, here.’

I wait and wait. The crowd dwindles, those beside me departing for newly assigned classrooms. Soon only two of us remain; me and a little boy who is tearful and wants to go home. Looking up, the teacher sends an assistant to calm him. Later I learn that his name is Martin. Once soothed, attention falls upon me. Uneasiness nibbles and I fear the worst. If grown-ups don’t know where I belong, then I’m in real trouble.
‘Is this the right school?’ I ask the teacher shyly, my voice small in the high-ceilinged hall.
‘What is your name, dear? Perhaps I missed it.’
I tell her my name, all four parts of it.
‘Mmm. It seems you are not on the list.’ She looks puzzled and beckons me to come forward.
It’s really not a good sign when grownups can’t find my name.
‘Never mind, dear,’ she says. ‘That’s easily fixed.’ She adds my name below Martin’s. It’s a long list, sitting to the left side of a huge page that is filled with empty squares.
‘I don’t know how that happened.’ She looks up, smiling. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out later. Now, you and Martin are in Miss Dalrymple’s class, just over there.’ She directs us to a pair of doors with frosted glass. ‘That’s the Prep class.’

I follow her, clutching my new, blue school case. Inside the room the children sit quietly, all eyes expectantly upon the two late arrivals. I am directed to sit on a small chair near the back of the room. The class resumes, and I learn that the list of names is called a class attendance roll, and that the teacher reads and ticks it each morning before we settle for work. While the list is in alphabetical order, Martin’s and my names remain at the end for the rest of term.

Unlike all the other teachers at the school, Miss Dalrymple is an older woman, even older than mum. She has a severe manner and demands absolute co-operation and attention. In fact she frightens some children so much that they wet themselves right here at their desks. They are too afraid to ask if they may go to the toilet.

Each Monday morning there is a school assembly for junior classes in the hall, where we gathered on our first day, and after roll call we have class inspection: a clean handkerchief, clean hands and fingernails and the correct uniform. Children, who fail to meet these exacting requirements without a note from home, are ordered to leave their desks and stand in various corners of the room with their shamed faces to the wall. I forget a hanky on several occasions and my hands and nails are often stained from resin after all my tree climbing, and there are blisters and calluses from playing on the school monkey bars. Sometimes there are not enough corners for us all.

I don’t like Miss Dalrymple. A teacher who frightens young children is not worthy of respect and I tell mum as much. Finally, after a particularly bad day, I bring news that I was sent to the headmaster office, accused of stealing.
‘Did you steal, dear?’ mum asks in disbelief.
‘Well according to Miss Dalrymple I did.’ I settle in my chair, for it is a long story. ‘She left the room to take some other children to see the headmaster and a couple of us sneaked up to the board. I grabbed a stick of chalk and began to draw. The chalk snapped in half. I was pressing too hard. When she came back in the room, I hurried to my seat, slipping the broken chalk into my pocket. She asked who was drawing on the board. I sneaked a look at my classmates but no-one dared own up. We were too scared. Finally she ordered us all to sit with our hands out in front of us on the desk. She walked along my row. There was chalk dust on my fingers.’
‘“Empty your pockets!”’ She was really snarly, mum.’
‘I placed my handkerchief and the chalk in her hand. Then she stormed at me, ‘“Go and stand at the front of the class, Joanna Clarke.”’
She found two other culprits and sent us to the headmaster. He seemed nice to me. I explained what happened, how I had not meant to steal the chalk, only to play because I was curious. I told him I was too afraid to own up or put it back on the ledge.’

Mum is very upset about all this.
‘Did you hear that, Merlin?’ she demands.
‘Mmm,’ he nods, his face strained with concern.
‘This is the last straw!’ she declares.

The next morning mum comes to see the headmaster and that afternoon, when she drives us home, she announces we are to enrol at the Noorat Primary School the very next day.
‘The Head Master is spineless’, she declares. ‘He wasn’t prepared to tick Miss Dalrymple off!’
We drive in stunned silence for a few minutes.
‘She’s not fit to teach,’ mum snaps. ‘She should be struck off.’

The next day we dress in our school uniforms as usual, with bags and lunches ready, and drive to Noorat. We’ve attended church here many times and dad often drives through on his way to the rubbish tip or milk factory. As the routine of school is still new to me, the sea of curious faces is not that hard to bear. The school is much smaller with only three class rooms, and my prep class share ours with grades one and two. Nick doesn’t seem to mind either. In fact he likes the change. Mum says he’s a big fish in a small pond.

At last I am beginning to feel safe.


A sequel to the chapter “Leaving The Circle’.

The following events occurred when I was 18.

I am not ashamed.

I am not alone.



There are so many of us.


Plunging into darkness with only headlights for reference, I warm to talking. The bloke seems interested and offers good advice.

‘Wait till you get to second year before giving up,’ he says, turning down the radio. ‘And by then you’ll have more of an idea where your course is headed, n have some results. That’s what I did. Had doubts, I mean, about what I really wanted. Over the summer holidays I had time to think about it. I could see it from different aspects, you know, having done accounting and business subjects? I began to feel I was on the right track. And having certainty helps you through hard times.’
I nod my agreement.

We drive steadily, the heater thawing my limbs and the coloured lights on the dashboard seem cheerful and festive.
He seems to understand where I’m coming from. ‘Still, I should’ve enrolled in fine arts, not industrial.’
‘What made you choose it in the first place?’
‘I panicked. My first offer was architecture at Melbourne. There was some error. And I didn’t have much of a folio for fine arts, so that wasn’t really an option. Industrial was the only other choice.’
‘Melbourne. That’s a pretty decent offer.’
‘Perhaps. But not for me, not architecture.’

The car slows. We turn off the main road onto a single lane stretch.
I feel I should explain. ‘You see, I’ve been brought up to believe that tertiary study is a step towards a career, and unless you’re a screamingly talented artist, you won’t earn you a living.  Painting and stuff?  Doesn’t pay bills.’
‘There’s truth in that. Do you have artistic talent?’
‘I believe so. But my mum compares me to professionals she knows, and what she’s seen in galleries. She doesn’t think I’m good enough. Pretty crushing to be told that by your mum: dismissing natural ability in something you love, let alone by a professional artist.’
‘Must’ve been.’ He lights his cigarette from a glowing ring.

We drive in silence for a while. There are pockets of fog now and the headlights create eeriness along the road. He slows a little. Good. He’s being careful. Sensible. But then he slows even more, and turns from the bitumen onto a gravel road. I peer at him, puzzled.
‘Just taking the back way so we avoid the traffic lights.’
He takes my silence for doubt. ‘Yeah. Comes out on the highway. So, what are you going to do about school?’ he continues.
‘I’m not sure. My heart isn’t in it, that’s all. I don’t enjoy it anymore.’
‘You could pick up some fine arts subjects in second semester.’
‘Yeah. But my folio’s still pretty small.’
‘At least you should try,’ he urges.

We continue in silence. I have no idea where we are. This region is new territory and I still have no sense of direction. The mist thickens, leaving water droplets on the windscreen and he starts the wipers. Pockets of fog hover at the same level as the hood of the car, rising over us as we pass, slipping over the vehicle. I watch in the rear-vision mirror at wash churned red by the tail lights. It looks cold outside.

Where the road rises, clear of fog, he pulls over, off the road, and switches off the lights. There’s nothing out here, no farmhouses, not even the glow of outer suburbs. We seem miles from anywhere.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, feeling a little uneasy. ‘Don’t tell me you’re nearly out of petrol.’ I’m not really joking.
He turns off the engine and there’s an uneasy silence before he answers.
‘You know how it is.’ He tilts his head and looks across at me.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well. Here we are,’ he explains. ‘Me, giving you a ride home. And it’s not that late. So why not enjoy some time together?’
‘But you said you would take me home,’ I bluster. ‘Like, straight home.’
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, ‘but I thought you might like to talk some more.’

I lean against the door, its glass cold against my head, studying his face in the dimness. He seems a decent bloke, well dressed and certainly from a good family. So why do the open paddocks feel so cold and dark? The first tremor of fear draws across me and I take deliberate, deep breaths. ‘I think we’d better get going.’ And I deepen my voice: ‘Just drop me off at home.’
‘I will,’ he assures me. ‘After a little chat. No harm in that, is there? I mean … what’s the rush?’

Fear creeps up my legs like a chill. ‘Like I said, I’m tired. And, let’s face it: I don’t know you very well. This ride isn’t a date or anything. I’m not trying to pick you up. There were plenty of girls back there, keen to go out with you every night of the week. So just start the engine and drive me home?’
He sits watching me, head resting on his hand, his elbow on the steering wheel.
‘Please,’ I add, belatedly.
‘But, like you said, Jo. You hardly know me, and here’s a perfect opportunity to get to know me better. Let’s just talk a bit.’
‘I’m tired. I would like to go home now.’
‘Okay,’ he surrenders. ‘In a little while. First, let’s talk.’

A trap is closing and he has control. The sickening feeling arrives at my stomach. Okay. I decide. I’ll play his game for a little while; then he will take me home as agreed. I curse my friends for letting me down. Or was this was their suggestion?

‘Very well,’ I sigh. ‘What would you like to talk about?’ I’m trying to sound pleasant and interested.
He warms to this and relaxes. I can see him better now my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and he’s smiling. ‘How about telling me what you do after classes, after school?’ he suggests.
I play it straight. ‘Study, artwork, assignments. The sort of things you’d expect. Reading, playing my guitar, singing songs. House-keeping, walking to the shops, sometimes to the beach.’
‘No social life, eh?’
‘I’m the quiet type.’
He nods slowly. ‘And shy, perhaps?’
‘I’m no extrovert. Depends where I am. Tonight I enjoyed myself in the company of my friends.’
‘No boyfriend, though?’
‘No. Not just now.’
‘So you’ve had a boyfriend before?’
‘Sort of.’

My skin is creeping. I remember a similar line of enquiry years earlier, when I was way too young, and I begin to guess where this is heading – the intimacy of his questions.
‘Well,’ he offers. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend either. Perhaps you should consider me more seriously?’

It’s a bad time for words to fail me, yet I know this must be countered, and fast. Any hint of consideration would be careless. I offer half a smile. ‘I’m not interested in you that way. I don’t just pick up guys and go out with them. I prefer to get to know people: where they live and work, over time. Then decide.’ There’s no apology in my voice and I maintain a steady gaze.
‘Hmm.’ His smiles meets my eyes. He stretches, opens the window beside him, and reaches for a smoke. Obviously we are not going anywhere soon.

I sigh and reach for my own pack and open my window, too. He stretches his legs to get more comfortable and opens the ashtray for me, flicking his own ash over his shoulder, outside. We sit in silence. He must realise the situation is difficult. I feel him studying me, looking for a chink in my defence.  My anger grows beneath his scrutiny.

Dank night air drifts in and I pull my jacket around me. We are parked at the side of a country road at one thirty in the morning, with no houses in sight and little likelihood of traffic. My options are not good. I stub the cigarette out and breathe deeply to steady myself.

‘Please take me straight home now, as you agreed to at the surf club.’
‘Oh, I said nothing about taking you straight home, Jo.’ His voice has a taunting tone. He knows I’m afraid.
‘Well that’s not how I understood it. And I have no intention of continuing this charade with you. It is my wish to go home, not sit in your car out in the middle of nowhere, just … talking.’
‘Oh. There are other things we can do besides talking.’
He’s quick.
‘Not with me. Not tonight,’ I snap. ‘Not any night.’ I’m panicking, now. ‘Not ever!’ I glare at him, sick of his game and angry at his trap.
‘Well, if that’s the way you feel,’ he mocks, ‘perhaps you’d like to consider walking home instead?
‘And perhaps you will be considerate enough to drive me home.’
‘Not likely just now.’
‘How do you expect me to walk home in the dark and cold. I don’t even know where I am?’
‘My point exactly,’ he agrees. ‘Hey. Don’t worry. I’ll take you home like I said, after I get to know you better.’
‘You’re wasting your time. I know what you’re thinking, and you can forget it!’
‘That’s little gratitude for a lift?’
‘Fine. I’ll pay you then!’ I seize the opportunity and reach for my wallet.
‘Wrong currency,’ he counters
‘I don’t want your money, Jo. I want to get to know you better.’
‘Well, that’s not going to happen. It’s obvious you’re a sleaze and very definitely not my type.’
‘Well, like I said, if that’s how you feel, take a walk.’ He scoffs, laughing at my helplessness.
I remain where I am, terrified of being lost out there, alone. Anything could happen at this time of night.

We sit in silence, our iciness palpable until, mercifully, he reaches forward and turns up the radio.
‘Look, Jo,’ he begins. ‘It’s obvious I like you and I don’t think you’re giving me a chance here.’
‘A chance for what?’
‘To be friends. You know?’ His voice becomes warmer. ‘You’ve misunderstood me.’
‘Yes, really.’ He deliberately softens the word. ‘I like you. I really care about you.’ He leans over to reaching for my shoulder, but I recoil.
‘Hey. I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Just give me a chance, that’s all.’
‘You’ve had your chance,’ I hiss at him. ‘That was it! I’m not as stupid as you think. You want to a screw in return for a lift home. Well that’s not going to happen!’

‘No. Not screw, Jo. There’s no respect in that. I’m not that kind of guy. I care about you. I know you’re shy. Hey, ask anyone at school: I’m a nice guy, not a sleaze. I don’t go around just picking up girls. I’ve had my eye on you for a while, see? Every lunchtime at the Caf. I like what I see and I want you to know that…to feel it.’ And he squeezes my shoulder for reassurance. ‘You must know how it to like to like someone who doesn’t even notice you?’

In truth, I do. That guy from my graphics class. And while it would be nice to have someone who thinks I’m special, earlier misfortune has made me wary of intimacy.  This guy is creepy, threatening me on a deserted country road.

It is as if he’s read my thoughts. ‘Hey, I’m not really going to leave you out here to walk home. I’m not like that. I was just kidding.’ My silence encourages him. ‘Understand my position. Come on, let’s be friends, not enemies, okay?’

His arm tightens on my shoulder, and he pulls me across the bench seat. I resist, but he moves closer, and rubs my arm. I say nothing, tolerating the advance while I figure a way out. But, he reads the pause well and changes tack. ‘Listen, I don’t want to take you home while you’re feeling upset like this.’ His arm is round me now and he leans forward and kisses my cheek before settling back to watch.

I’m confused now. I’ve never imagined myself in this situation and all I can think about is the safety of the bungalow. But then, perhaps I’ve misjudged him. Maybe he does like me. And it’s true about the Caf. I’ve seen him there. Maybe he’s as nervous and me, and I’m misreading him. What if he’s genuine? But, before I can counter this thought his lips brush my forehead, a hand caresses my cheek and he pulls me closer. I turn my back and lie against him, resting my head on his shoulder. I feel more control this way.

We remain quiet for some time, watching the car windows misting. He opens his window again and we sit and smoke. Music drifts from the radio, lulling and calming. It’s a local station playing requests for late night listeners. He turns up the next song. It’s one of my favourites, too: Unchained Melody. Humming it makes me feel braver.

He senses me soften, brushes my ear with his lips, then turns my face to study it better. As I pull away he grips my jaw and kisses me again, more forcefully, and draws back to watch my reaction again, with a warm smile.
‘You’re some special girl, Jo.’
My face warms to this. Compliments are a rarity. Maintaining distance from people has its drawbacks, too.
He kisses me again, forcing my lips apart with his tongue, then draws back again, so as not to rush me. I can feel myself being played with, like Pirate, our farm cat, used to play with mice.

I sit up slowly. ‘The steering wheel’s digging into me.’
‘Here,’ he offers. ‘Let’s lie the other way, on your side of the car.’ He’s already reaching into the back seat, and produces a blanket. ‘You can use this as a pillow.’
I remind him. ‘You’re taking me home, remember. Soon.’

I lie back against the blanket and he settles on my shoulder.
‘Mmm.’ I stifle a wide yawn.
‘Now, where was I?’ he asks rhetorically.

He moves a little, resting one elbow on the back of the seat, following the contours of my face with the back of his finger. Then his hand slides down my neck and he kisses me again, biting my lip gently. With his weight I feel my body slip down into the seat. As I try to sit up, he kisses me again, and I respond, only to buy time. His advances are calculated, gentle and unhurried. I remember what happened once before. I am on my guard.

He murmurs throaty reassurances but the touch of his skin unravels my concerns. A warm hand slips into my blouse, two fingers between the buttons. I tense, and grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand away, but he is stronger.  He prises a third button open and eases the fabric aside, the hand rounds my breast and eager fingers caress.

His kisses become more insistent and I am pinned against the door. His face is rough, grazing my skin. Another button slips and he drags my blouse off one shoulder, cupping my breast in his hand.
‘A man could die for one of these,’ he whispers thickly. His lips replace his hand, now resting on the car seat between my thighs.
He leans away and peels off his shirt. ‘It’s getting warm in here,’ he explains. ‘And skin on skin feels so nice, doesn’t it?’ He pulls my shirt away and settles back against me, forcing one resisting knee down,  his free hand moving between my thighs as he kisses my neck.


Five more minutes, I reassure myself, my hand resting on his chest.
‘That feels good,’ he murmurs.
How many girls has he had in this car on back roads before? I wonder.

He grabs the button on my jeans and I tense, trying to pull away, but his bulk prevents me from sitting up. This is too far.
‘We’re not going there,’ I declare, reaching to refasten the button. My hand brushes something firm. I realise his jeans are undone – something warm and firm.
‘I’m just going to do the same inside your jeans as I was on the outside. It’ll feel better for you.’
‘You’ve opened your jeans!’
‘Well, do you blame me? They’re getting pretty tight.’

This has gone way too far. Surely I’ve earned my ride home. Suddenly he lunges forward, pressing me back against the door, the dead weight of his torso on me, both hands rubbing my thighs. I grab his wrist in an attempt to free myself, but he resists.
‘Come on, beautiful. Enjoy this. I’m doing it for you.’ He gags me with his mouth while his body pins me down. Opening my jeans, he drags them down over my hips, one side at a time, with my arms pinned by his weight.
‘Aah,’ he sighs. ‘This is good. You’ll like this, baby’
‘You’ve gone far enough,’ I snarl.
‘You’re not enjoying this?’
‘Please stop. I don’t want this!’
‘But, what about what I want? You’ve teased me. There has to be some satisfaction.’
‘Well, sorry to disappoint you but this wasn’t my idea. I don’t want this.’

He sits back on his heels. ‘Ok,’ both hands raised in mock surrender. ‘Here. I’ve stopped. But, how about you jerk me off, seeing we’ve got this far?’
I watch in horror as he pulls off his jocks and lies back on the seat.
‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ I reply.
‘Well, you can learn, baby. Here.’ He grabs at my hand but I snatch it back.
‘Oh, come on, now. This isn’t fair and you know it.’
‘No, it’s not. You offered me a ride home, remember!’
‘Hey. When the girls told me their friend needed a ride home, imagine how thrilled I was to see it was you. A chance to be with a girl I like…and respect,’ he adds.

I snort at the blatant lie.

With his weight off me I sit up and re-fasten my bra.
‘Jo…’ his voice smooth as liqueur. ‘Baby, listen. At least let me hold you a little more, so I have something to remember… seeing you don’t want me.’
I can’t believe that my own guilt prickles me.
‘Just before we go,’ he begs. ‘Let me hold you one last time?’ He pulls up his jeans and fastens them as a gesture of trustworthiness and I button up my shirt.
‘All right,’ I reply, quietly.

Sidling over, he kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you, baby.’ And he rests against me.

I place my arm around him, relieved to be safe… but, before I finish the thought his mouth engulfs my lips, and he caresses me hard. I shrug him off, careful to keep control, but he lunges again, unrolling the full weight of his body over me. His kisses hurt now, stubble grazing painfully.

Raising his hips, he shrugs down his jeans. I grab mine so he can’t open it. But he prises my hands away, opens and pulls them down. He’s way too strong, violent now, as he flattens me on the seat with the full weight of his body, dragging my jeans off with his feet. I fight, trying to slide out, to turn over, to buck him off, but he holds me there, pinning my shoulders with his elbow while a hand work frantically below. I feel fingers against my thigh as I struggle, turning my head to breathe.

Each attempt to slip from beneath him is countered with brute force. He shifts his weight, pinning me between his body and the back of the seat. Finding what he seeks, he opens me up with his finger.
‘No! This isn’t right. You can’t do this.’ I buck, clamping my thighs together, trying to wriggle free. But he rolls back again, pins me down, and slides his fingers into me. I tilt my pelvis away to be free of them. He adjusts his weight, wedging my legs apart with one of his own, then prizes them open.
‘Stop it,’ I croak, muffled beneath his shoulder. I wriggle my head free. ‘Stop it. I don’t want that!’
‘Yes you do, baby. You really need this. And I’m going to give you what you need.’
‘No!’ I claw at him, trying to push him off, twisting my hips and legs. The slick of sweat makes escape easier, but his strength is greater and I’m bruised and weakening, gasping for a breath.

He rises now, my shoulders pinned by his forearms.  He eases himself into me. It stings, burns like I’m being cut. I cry out struggling again but he has me pinned, and moves on me. I cry softly, totally over-whelmed.
‘Come on, baby, relax a little. You’ll enjoy it if you do.’
I respond with struggles.
‘Fight all you like,’ he taunts, ‘cos I like it rough!’

He lunges again, hard, watching my face as he works. Finally he groans, freezes in me, and I feel throbbing. I kick against the door and he loses balance.
‘Get off me, you bastard!’ I snarl, as my shoulders slip free. I grab at the seat, pushing him off with my feet as I untangle my clothes and get free. He doesn’t fight anymore. He got what he wanted.

I reach for my jeans and haul them back up. My groin is throbbing. My whole body feels bruised and grazed.
I button my blouse and reach for my coat.
He’s slumped against the driver’s door, still panting from his exertions. ‘You’ll thank me for this,’ he manages. ‘Now it’ll be easier for you.’
‘You’re not the first, you filthy, dumb bastard! I was molested as a kid!’

He starts: ‘I’m sorry…’ his demeanour changing instantly. ‘…I didn’t know.’
‘Of course you didn’t fucking know! You didn’t fucking bother to get to know me, remember? You just wanted your fare.’
Dressed now, I fasten my seatbelt. ‘Well, you’ve got what you wanted, so bloody well drive me home!’
I open the window to clear the fug.
‘Yeah,’ he agrees, huskily.

Dressed, he starts the engine. Headlights hit fog, dense, reflecting like a movie screen, the brilliance reassuring. We drive in silence. I’m numb now, past caring about anything other than home. With his eyes fixed on the road, he reaches for the radio and turns it down as if it might bother me. We approach the city, its orange street lights welcoming. Intersections are deserted and fog blankets the sound of the car.


Our car approaches the intersection of my street.
‘I’ll walk from here.’ My voice is tired and flat.
The driver doesn’t comment, pulling up to the curb. ‘See ya,’ he offers.
I slide out of my seat and turn stiffly, silent, and close the door with my knee. As I set out along the path, the sedan burbles in a cloud of exhaust. God! I think, don’t tell me he’s going to see me home! But, the vehicle grunts, turns and speeds away. I can hear it for more than half a dozen blocks.

Dawn chills. I shiver beneath a cotton blouse, my long hair lank and dishevelled. A cigarette lighter taps against keys and wallet in my coat pocket. I’ve longed for this place, for anywhere safe and familiar.  Now I’m here, a wave of anger rises, stilling the chatter of my jaw. I skirt the house, leafy hydrangeas leading to a trellised fence and gate. Beyond lies my home, the squat bungalow on the far side of the yard. My boots crunch over gravel as I cross to the porch.

Once inside I wash, scrub myself till my skin smarts. I reek of cigarette smoke and the pungent sweetness of sweat and unwanted sex. I discard my clothes on the laundry floor and stride into the shower, turning on both taps. My body arches under the icy torrent until warmth floods over me. With a bar of Solvol from the laundry sink, I begin loosening the ache and filth of the night.


I don’t want vengeance, I decide, towelling myself dry. Nor sympathy . And there’s no time for self-pity or rest.  It can’t stop here. This is just the beginning, the hard edge of life, the blade of reality. My youth lies crumpled on the floor of a man’s car.

* * *

Dressed warmly, I make coffee and sit across the only kitchen chair, resting my back against the wall. I prod the empty cigarette pack with the edge of my lighter. Sipping from my mug, I plan preliminaries. There is a calm inner voice declaring the order of tasks.
First, find his phone number.
Then, call and make demands.

I weave the lighter deftly, end over end through my fingers.

And then reclaim myself.

There’s a flake of ash on my jumper sleeve: white smut on black wool. I stand, draining my mug in one final gulp, and peer over its rim, out into the dull yard beyond the window. A gloomy morning replaces yesterday’s autumn, where my washing tossed like cheerful flags. I sigh and reach for my coat. As I slide into its blackness, the sleek lining is cold against my neck and arms. I grab my keys, lighter and wallet in one handful, slipping them into a pocket, but pause again, and sit, folding into the silence of myself: the contemplative warrior before battle. I have never dreamed of confronting an assailant and I need more time to consider the consequences.

* * *

It is after midday when I return home, slipping my coat onto the back of the kitchen chair. I stride into the lounge room and stop, undecided, regarding the single, shabby armchair. Weariness pulls like gravity and I fight the urge to scrub myself again. But I slump into the grimy seat and ease off my boots. The last few hours seem appalling, yet my integrity is here now, restored. This time I’ve made the choice, and my homecoming is triumphant, unlike the earlier skulk of defeat. I exhale a fist of anger from my chest and feel numbness drain away, leaving an aching residue of betrayal.
They said I could trust him.
He guaranteed my safety.
Bastards! All of them!


An involuntary stretch sets bruises smarting where he’s gripped and pinned my flesh. As the aches ease, I return to my thoughts, grateful to be alone with them. I have journeyed far into unchartered waters. In utter disbelief,  I roll my head from side to side. This paradox: the clash of vice and virtue in one single day, spontaneous and brash. Arbitrary? Yes, but executed as if inscribed on my life like a script.
But what if it hadn’t worked?
I brush the rhetoric aside. It had!
Tired eyes close.

My thoughts drift on the ocean of possibilities, each event bobbing like flotsam at low tide. Time becomes soluble and questions linger.
I bet I’m not the first one!
My jaw tightens.
Silence laps again.
I’ll deal with it.
And one day, I promise myself, one day this will be as vague as a dream.
Anyway, now he’s the victim.
I’ve turned a rapist into a victim!
A brief smile tugs the corners of my mouth and I wonder, again, if I really know myself anymore? So what does that make me?

Silence laps again and a deeper peace descends, now, blanketing undercurrents with fatigue.

Later that afternoon my housemate returns from a weekend with friends. She finds me asleep, uncharacteristically still in my dressing gown. A damp towel lies where I’ve dropped it by my bed and there’s half a mug of tea on the bedside table. She closes the door.


When I wake it is early evening. The room is cold, dank like any April, and the door is closed. Outside, crickets drone in the dusk. I reach down and pull a blanket over myself and lie back again to consider brief remnants of a waking dream: a watermark of bleak emptiness, a gutted house.

I lie back in bed with an extra pillow supporting my back, trying to ignore the rush of sensations: the stinging, the aching bruises, the heat of anger and humiliation. Gradually a layer of stillness oozes out of me, thickened with shame, greyed by defilement.
I search through grainy light to the ceiling for something beyond. Questions tug, persistent, circling like crows at a road kill.
I must make some sense of this. There is always a reason; that’s what the ancient ones taught me.
My eyes search further, darting between invisible points.
I wonder if my mum was raped? Perhaps that’s why she put me up for adoption. Was it lust that conceived me?
Or violence?
The questions are disturbing, unanswerable. I break from them, impatient for resolution.

Sitting up on one elbow I flick the bed lamp on and reach for the cold tea. It tastes bitter and there is a brown stain around the edge. A thought tumbles in: stained, like I am. Except this stain will wash off. I wonder if the stains will ever wash out of me?

I lie back again to think about this, balancing the empty mug on my belly. What did my mum feel like? Was she angry? Ashamed? Perhaps she consented. Or did she struggle for hours like me, trying to fight him off.
I’d like to think so. Perhaps she was alone, too, and trusted a man to take her home.
I try to imagine her, telling her family she’d been raped.
No! Such things don’t happen to nice girls. They probably sent her away, maybe threw her out when they learned of her shame. Was I born in shame? Am I forgotten?

I haven’t considered any of this before. How I pity such a girl. I flinch in fear for her: the waste of it, the helplessness.
I return my mug to the bedside table. Could her parents have turned their backs when she needed them so? She must have been so afraid. The questions hang there. I don’t know. I don’t even know how to know. My adoptive mum said she had no details, hadn’t even asked. And that could be true. Adoption was confidential in those days. But it troubles me not knowing where I come from. I have no beginning, only questions and a void, an empty space aching to be filled. A part of me is missing and what hope have I of finding it when I don’t know how to be found?

I turn my head to the wall. And who was my father? Was he a rapist? A one-night-stand? A customer! I wonder where he is now.I lie back and study the ceiling. Does he know I exist? The more I think about it the sadder and more adrift I feel, abandoned, used and spent. Envisaging my own conception and birth, I imagine the girl my mother had once been: a girl with little more power over her life than I have of mine.

A chill seeps into my bed. I hate the cold, it reminds me of death. And gloom, that too. The way it weaves between life and time, robbing the senses, and leaving me to founder like a sailing ships, lost in fog, rolling off southern oceans onto rocks. Nothing like the waves and warm dunes I crossed last night with my friends. I feel them now, forgiving and safe beneath my feet.

My eyes settle on the opposite wall where a poster of Bertrand Russell hangs above my desk. No compassion there, no fatherliness, just his steady gaze. He’d have no sympathy for me at all. To hell with him! What would he know? A clatter of metal from beyond the door announces Jill is home and preparing a meal. Soon enticing aromas waft into my room, fresh toast, frying eggs and bacon; irresistible.

I return to my room after supper and close the door. After lighting a candle, I hold a stick of incense against the steady flame until smoke rises. I place both on an old chest of drawers at the end of my bed and I lie back on my pillows, gazing at the teardrop of light dancing in drafts. A tendrils of smoke laces upward like a vine, dividing into two. The plumes disappear in the duskiness of walls and drapes, and a sweet musk fills the air.


It’s time to move on. Like that incense, my path has divided: the high road that leads to a career, that requires diligence and self-discipline. But I have lost the will, the desire to master anything. The option is to improvise my future, but how? What else is there? There is another way, a narrow path. From there familiar voices beckon, ancient voices. They have guided since childhood, and these are voices I trust. It is they who taught me how to make a whole day out of nothing, how to conquer fear my taking one small step and then another. With their guidance I have already scribed a perfect circle of completeness: my childhood.

The game began that way, too. Small steps: first the bow, then arrows. The circle of the game began my journey, each a lesson, a new way of seeing and understanding, a proving ground, a rehearsal, a chance to focus.

Now I need that focus, a new game. A new circle. I must take this step so that my future unfolds. But I need to find the last game, find where it ended so long ago. This time the field of play is my life, not just the fields of childhood. This time I need reassurance, a reference point; the first step. I close my eyes and follow those voices, back beyond the last few hours, before the wasted semester and years of struggling, to where the wisdom and power of my young life feels so remarkable, vivid and true. Slowly the tapestry of faces unfolds, revealing sounds and smells, a string of memories, each cast before me like beads of dew on spider webs. Am I drifting or sleeping?

* * *

This week, school is disjointed. I have no will to study anymore. I am still numb, and attend classes only sporadically, spending most of my time in the Caf talking to anyone near. Today, at lunch, the blonde guy arrives alone. I catch his eye and smile.
‘Hey, would you like to bring your coffee over here and sit with me a while?’
He returns my smile, reaches for his backpack and weaves his way through the tangle of chairs and tables.
I reach out my hand.’ I’m Jo.’
‘I know,’ he replies. ‘You’re in my art history class, aren’t you?’
He sets down his cup and shakes my hand, with a firm, steady grip. ‘I’m Kurt.’
‘I like your work, Kurt. Your graphics.’
He blushes. His skin is fair, and his eyes translucent and blue. ‘Thanks. I didn’t know you’d seen any.’
‘One day, I was seated behind you in the lecture hall while we waited for the lecturer, and you were flipping through a sketch book looking for something.’
He nods, not sure if he remembers.
‘I could see over your shoulder. There was a logo half done, half an orange. It looked so real.’
‘I haven’t finished that yet,’ he admits sheepishly.

A crowd spills into the Caf at the end of a lecture. Among the faces I spot my nemesis. He sees me too, and selects a table on the far side, with his back to me. I smile.
Kurt is watching. ‘Do you know him?’
I didn’t expect the question. ‘Yeah, kind of.’
‘Stay away from him. He’s trouble.’
It’s suddenly sobering to think I might have to tell someone, perhaps even Kurt, what I know. I look up and Kurt is smiling at me.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘He won’t hurt you. Not while you’re with me…’
Now I’m embarrassed. He takes my hand, ‘… and that’s a promise.’






After viewing the series ‘COSMOS’ in the early 80’s, I was so inspired, I read the book, also, in order to review much of the evocative and appealing language of the series.


As a result, I have attempted to capture the essence of my favourite episodes in the following poem/lyric.


So, this is an attempt to replicate my experience with an adaptation of the message that Mr Sagan left us, with the following song, self-penned in 1982.










Inspired by Ch 13 of ‘Cosmos’ by Carl Sagan

We know who speaks for each and every nation. We know their names and faces and their worth. But who speaks for the human population – And all creation? Who speaks for Earth?

Our planet, infinitesimal and lonely, Of dust and vapor, now an ancient sphere. A crescent blue, our home amidst a universe of stars, An oasis of life so very dear.

We live in a planetary garden, And created from its dust we live and die. A single soul, though many, in a sacred unity: Walking with the same feet, Loving with the same heart. Seeing, hearing, learning, sharing, Working, thinking, always caring – We each have our very special part To make this world of unity complete. A convocation of the mind and heart: A place where gods and man can always meet.

We must educate our governments and leaders. Impress on them the need to talk and learn. As one people, our future lies within our hearts and minds. We must overcome suspicion, and trust and share in turn. There are many different ways of being human. And ways to use the knowledge we’ve refined. But to know we can prevent a holocaust yet fail to try: The agony that fills the final moments as we die…

If we fail, no more questions, no more answers. Never more the memory of love, a child. No more voyages to the moon, no descendants to be proud, No more songs for planet Earth if she has died.

We live in a planetary garden And created from its dust we live and die. A single soul, though many, in a sacred unity: Walking with the same feet, Loving with the same heart. Seeing, hearing, learning, sharing, Working, thinking, always caring – We each have our very special part To make this world of unity complete. A convocation of the mind and heart: A place where gods and man can always meet.

We speak for earth with every prayer and action. We speak for Earth in overcoming greed. We speak for Earth by seeking consultation; Communicating everybody’s needs. Each sapling in the forest re-established; Every child we educate from birth, And with every act of mercy and compassion In every nation – we speak for Earth.

Let every nation Speak for Earth….  and listen

Beth’s brother and I are on a double date in the back of Nick’s car at the drive-in. He has highlights in his hair and resembles my cool surfer idols. While he attempts to get me drunk and screwable, I extract from him the brand-name of the blonding product he has used and some general instructions on how to apply it. He falls asleep against my shoulder, still clenching his can of vodka and orange.

In order to complete my year of sand, surf and high school, I’m up early to blonde my hair. However, mum rises earlier than expected and must have detected a bleach odour in the bathroom. She follows the trail, discovering me in bed, sitting in the dark with a plastic bag and towel wrapped over my head.

‘Whatever that is wash it out, now!’ she orders, and leaves my room ahead of any protest. Forgoing a necessary fixative and blue tint, the brassy result is hardly the crowning accessory to my summer tan. Fortunately, mum’s hairdresser applies a brown rinse before my new nickname, Brasso, sticks. I plan my war of attrition. At least at boarding school there will be respite from her dictatorial regime, and I learn that several of my Terang classmates are enrolled at MLC now.

Mum drives me to Melbourne on a hot February Sunday and settles me in at the boarding house. While I unpack, she chats to hovering parents whose younger children run amok along the corridor. I hang my clothes in a tall-boy beside my bed. There are three others sharing the dorm with me, although one will not arrive for several days.

During an earlier visit to the school, mum had coaxed me on a tour. For her, each new corner inspired exclamations of delight and recollection, spawning stories of her old school days. We were introduced to the boarding house staff and Principal before departing for lunch at a nearby shopping centre in Glenferrie Road. Afterwards, I attended the school supplier to be measured and fitted for my uniform.

The quantity of clothing I unpack now seems obscenely extravagant after mum’s scrimping, sewing and knitting all these years. Now, even my underwear is regulation grey. Summer school dresses, socks, stockings, shoes, hat, blazer, a white Sunday dress and gloves for church: all are required for first term. For winter there is a grey woollen skirt, shirts, tie, jumper, woollen stockings, hat and grey gloves. Once all this is packed away there is little space. I fold most of my civvy clothes back in my suitcase.

Following the farewell afternoon tea, mum departs. Unkindly as it seems, I am relieved to see the end of her hovering and team up with my Terang friends to explore the grounds. The boarding house is the original school, set in a formal garden with well-established, shady trees. The main gate faces an arterial intersection, and the traffic is noisy and constant. My dorm is one of half a dozen situated in an additional wing: a grey, functional building, hidden from the road. The dining and living rooms, offices and Principal’s residence fill the ground floor. Borders enter through a side door and climb a broad staircase to our rooms and other facilities branching off the extensive corridors. Later we discover an attic.

Beyond the laundry and maintenance areas below our dorms, cloistered walkways lead on through the entire school, up a series of steps to a new assembly hall, and more classrooms at the rear of an entire urban block. To one side of the cloisters lies a sports oval and, beyond it, the junior school. Along the busy roadside is the library, staff and senior student rooms, tennis courts and the music school mum has spoken of so incessantly.

I stand behind my designated chair at my assigned table, bowing my head as the Lady Superintendent says grace. Once we are seated for dinner, she offers a speech of welcome, particularly to the new boarders, and introduces other members of staff. As the meal is served I begin to appreciate mum’s efforts teaching me dining etiquette, for such courtesies and graces are expected. My company is of mixed age and background and, being shy, I speak hesitantly. The meal is less grand that the formal room suggests.

Following a cup of tea, we are directed to attend a Sunday evening service at the resident chapel, another modern addition to the campus. It is attractive for a modern structure, with vaulted ceilings, its own pipe organ and choir stalls. I am told many old girls return here to be married. Our school chaplain conducts the service, and offers a warm invitation to any who seek the comfort of God’s house, or his services as counsellor and religious instructor. We return to our rooms and prepare for the first day of the academic year.

Regimentation is oppressive. I am accustomed to absolute freedom, a lifestyle unimaginable to my friends. Although the facilities are ample, they lack privacy and are filled with background chatter, unfamiliar smells and noises. At first I crave only peaceful solitude, but once I have comprehended the enormity of my parents’ expectations for my academic life, I have no alternative but to meet them head on, and with all the courage I can muster.

Hundreds of day students attend the college, from prep grade to form six, and borders hail from all over the country; even from overseas. Religious doctrine is part of each day’s routine, with devotions at morning assembly and chapel after our evening meal. There are two services on Sunday, the first at a nearby church, and at our chapel in the evening. There is a tolerance of self-expression, and an environment of spiritual nurturing that I’ve never experienced in secular schools. I find it comforting.

As mum predicted, music is more than a revelrous luxury. I join both chapel and school choirs, eventually performing Handel’s ‘Messiah’ at the Melbourne Town Hall. Our music director demands dedication. Because I love music and singing, I see only pleasure in such work. The harmony of our voices recreates the haunting, reverential quality of my childhood, weaving spirit and flesh together, leaving me to shiver in the aura of its majesty.

I spend evenings at the music school, foregoing study to join my friends in their music practice. We jam with guitar, piano and voice. In second term I begin classical guitar lessons, but the music theory confirms an aspect of the language that is as indecipherable as hieroglyphics, and more slippery than algebra. When my teacher discovers I am playing by ear, I admit to her that I am quite lost, musically illiterate, yet desperate to play and sing. Lessons are discontinued and I resume solo practice in spare moments, developing arrangements of new songs.

Academic life is a constant struggle. Brief moments of clarity are clouded by doubt and confusion. First term French is humiliating. My class is well advanced and mock my provincial, Terang accent. I struggle to keep up, let alone understand. Against all advice, I drop the subject and spend that hour in the library researching topics that tease my curiosity. I fall asleep in history classes after late nights of music practice, and grapple with rules of dissection in literature. Social sciences provide some resonance and I try out their new ideologies and concepts.

I begin to understand how my resentment and exile from home have sabotaged my academic future. But it is too late, now, and well beyond my skill to remedy. I decide to take what I want, and allow the fullness of my studies to languish.

While there is much to do within the school grounds on weekends, I prefer walking to the shops. From there I learn that train services provide access to the entire city. On Saturdays I join others for trips to the movies or window shopping. But I loathe the noisy, crowded streets, and navigate nervously from a small street directory, identifying landmarks to secure my way home. I visit the Queen Victoria market, and inhale the taunting aromas from coffee shops and Chinese restaurants. I traverse parks and leafy suburbs by tram, memorising names and numbers in order to overcome my irritating lack of directional sense.

Sharing daily life with other girls has nurtured some positively awareness. After a childhood of cringing and self-loathing, I learn to accept compliments, and follow a healthier diet. By mid-year I have learned to inhabit my space, eliminating shyness. I become more expressive about my choice of style and dress sense. I admit to myself that mum was right: Terang is a far outcry from the cultural hub of this new, cosmopolitan life.

There is nowhere to cycle, space limited to the oval. Running laps is unsatisfying: I miss the twilight solitude of home. I swim in the heated pool, and learn to play squash next door but I sorely miss my long bike rides, the open sky, tree climbing and especially my archery game. On my way to study each evening, I peer at the night sky, hoping for a glimpse of the moon or stars. They hover still, almost drowned by city lights, but wide horizons lie far beyond the walls and rooves of a thousand houses and factories.

Restrictions and curfews refine my ingenuity. I discover new times and ways to sneak outside, and discover dark corners beyond the drone of traffic. While rarely following others over the school walls, I am thwarted during a late night dip in the pool. The boarding house mistress reports me, and neither she nor the principal are impressed, saying so on notes on my report. Confined again, I await Springtime, and perch on sheltered window ledges, watching the wind and rain.

The fortnight of spring holidays seem to shrivel away. My archery and tree climbing are curtailed by blizzardous footy weather. I feel the slide toward despair, and the lateness of spring reflects my school results: well below even my standards. With a supreme effort, I manage to catch up by year’s end. Letters from mum list her unfulfilled dreams and vicarious aspirations for me, but I have no desire to be a prima donnas. Deportment and elocution lessons uncover useful tools, enabling me to camouflage my uncultured and rebellious country ways. I can change my accent, adding grace and intonation to words, embellishing actions to create cosmetic evidence of status and breeding. But my contempt of the superficiality of social class deepens.

* * *

We return to Braim House for a few weeks holiday in January. The sudden freedom is intoxicating. I rise early, fish for breakfast, help around the house and garden until after lunch. I cycle to the east beach, and surf the perfect, turquoise curves until the board guy packs up. On some evenings, I hike to the island, perching on rocks to await the mutton birds. Dad accompanies me once more, pointing out the constellations and planets until fresh winds draw us on round the island. More often than not, he remains on the farm now, as much to avoid the unending tasks mum demands, as to draw upon the tranquillity of the farm.

Each week we return to help him water the gardens, mow lawns and check the cattle. But I long for the sea, now, and after Nick begins his apprenticeship, mum and I return to Port Fairy alone. I explore the shorelines while she cards fleece, spinning it ready for winter knitting.

* * *

Upon returning to school, I am informed that I’m a house prefect and, as a senior border, have the privilege of my own room in the coveted and refurbished wing. At last I have privacy, and throw my window open, welcoming the earthy, moist air of dawn, filled with ringing blackbird song. Beneath broad trees the cicadas gather at noon, and their shrill calls abrade my ears. Yet no amount of searching reveals one of these fascinating creatures. The nights are muggy and still, and moonlight filters through the leafy canopy onto the ivy clad walls.

Autumn rains arrive, falling in sheets against the window, and dripping sadly from twigs, stripping the branches and pasting their russet leaves onto the wet asphalt below. No longer able to watch, I turn from the misery to my music. I have a cassette player now, a gift from dad last Christmas. I play tapes of favourite songs I’ve captured from radio. Another privilege for senior students is a kitchenette and lounge room downstairs. Here I share coffee and snacks with friends.

There are some day students with whom I become friends, some inviting me to stay over for weekends. Whether from pity, charity or friendship, those hours of freedom are truly blessed. I also stay with a border at her family home, only a few suburbs away from the school. She lives with her dad in an inner suburban house, and attends as a border for stability during difficult times at home. We are both strong willed and develop a bond: her vibrancy contrasting to the dull fog of my existence. But her unrelenting, witty intelligence provides the catalyst I crave, and her courage and determination to meet challenges is inspirational. She faces what seem to me to be insurmountable problems, but with admirable fearlessness, leaving me to feel inadequate, far from the young woman I envisage for myself.

Unable to afford the luxuries most borders enjoy, we talk, filling rare sunny days with simple pleasures: eating fish and chips in the park, shopping in flea markets and exploring lesser known streets in the city. At her suggestion I take newly penned songs to an underground coffee shop called Frank Trainer’s, and perform with street poets and folk singers. My debut is encouraging, the songs naïvely passionate and political. Later in the year I return there with mum, introducing her to my music. Yet still she withholds her praise.
‘Your voice needs work, dear.’ Her red mouth is as hard as her words.
She’s right, I’m not a solo singer. However, I can write songs.

I turn eighteen in the spring holidays, and plan to drive back to school for the last term as a newly fledged adult, with the right to vote and answer for my own actions. I have already decided I will support the Labour Party in the next elections because Whitlam promises to bring our troops home from Vietnam. I write of these things, and study magazines and newspapers, lamenting how even this school offers so little preparation for the real world. Their focus on academia, the narrow road leading to bigger, longer cloisters, mortarboard hats and gowns like my teachers wear. I want to taste the world, not halls of learning.

By coincidence, on the night before my driver’s licence test, I baby-sit the policeman’s children. The ensuing practical test presents one hurdle. Dad has forgotten to teach me how to parallel park, a new innovation in town since I’ve been away. But the obliging policeman gives me an on-the-spot lesson, right outside the station. It’s a shaky finish, one tyre grazing the curb, but he’s satisfied and heads in to do the paper work while dad offers me a congratulatory hug.
‘Those Sunday drives after church have paid off,’ he chuckles.

I return to school, drive while mum navigates through city traffic. Her nerves are frayed, so my local knowledge proves useful.
News filters from home via letters and occasional evening phone calls. On once such night I am summoned to the boarding school office to accept a call from mum.
‘Dad is unwell, dear. The doctor thinks he has prostate cancer.’
The news shocks me. ‘Is he okay now?’
‘Yes. But he has chosen a less radical treatment. He’s as well as we can expect.’

Over background strains of classical music, mum informs me they’ve decided to sell the farm, that dad can’t manage any longer. There is no invitation for me to discuss this.
‘You must give some thought to what you would like to pack for when we move, dear,’ she suggests.
‘Okay.’ I am stunned by the suddenness of so much news, devastated. I wander back to my room, comforted at least, by thoughts of helping choose a new home and packing the farm essentials. There is so much to consider. But well before I’ve absorbed the consequences, mum writes. They have found a keen buyer for the farm and a suitable house in Terang.

My final weeks of school are like a desperate sprint at the end of a long journey. With two sets of exams, there is no time for the distractions of the city. Over a fortnight’s study break I stay with my aunt, a cousin of dad’s, and swat in her beautiful rambling garden to the strains of Cat Stevens, Cher and the soundtrack to Woodstock.

With academics out of the way, I find time for more self-expression, attending rehearsals of a play the borders perform for an annual a contest between school teams. Being in the cast of the winning performance boosts my self-confidence and notoriety. I use my role to lampoon the principal, earning further disapproving comments on my report.

Concurrently, anti-war protests and radical teachers stimulate and influence my political conscience, and I accompany friends on a moratorium march along the city streets. It is the first rally I’ve ever attended, an act of defiance the school principal has expressly forbidden. But I don’t give a damn what he thinks anymore. I am eighteen and almost free.

Heavy schedules of choir practice, my own singing and writing, and final assignments, leave little time for sleep. While I have grasped political science, and relish Greek history, I steel myself for the disappointing results of my school report. It seems everyone agrees I could have done better, but I am beyond caring. In order to survive the whole experience, I have sacrificed my home life to meet unrealistic goals. Somehow I have managed to maintain my focus through sheer, passionate determination and fear-induced adrenalin. And I have rationalised the outcome: good results are for city kids with twelve years of exclusive education. That I’ve made it through this at all is enough. No certificate will capture my true achievements.

My friends have encouraged me to perform a couple of songs as an interlude between presentations on speech night. After solos in chapel and success at the coffee shops, I include an original piece, a blatant protest song. After a shaky start, I lose my fear in the ballad, and project my passion at the audience. To my utter amazement, I receive a standing ovation.


Mum picks me up from Terang railway station. She seems awkward. ‘Jo, we’ve had to move house early.’
This doesn’t sink in right away. ‘How do you mean, early?’
Although the streets are empty, her eyes are searching for traffic. ‘I didn’t phone to tell you because, with all your exams and worries at school, I thought it might upset you.’
Still speechless, her words hover beyond sense.

She continues. ‘That house I mentioned; we’ve bought it and the renovations are done.’
I glare at her, utterly astonished, and she glances over: ‘We’re settled in.’

Instead of continuing out of town as we used to, she slows the car, turning into a side street and pulls into a short driveway, almost immediately. Ahead, a single garage gapes open onto the street, the house hidden behind an angular privet hedge. Mum reaches for my travel bag and leads me through the side gate, along a path to a back porch. I pass white, conited walls and step into the entrance.

A passageway disappears, to the left, passing the kitchen. Ahead, through a lead-lit door, stretches a modest hallway. The odour of fresh paint accentuates crisp surfaces, new carpets and lino. Already, familiar pictures hang on walls, mum’s favourite vase graces her occasional table, and I catch a glimpse of her spinning wheel.

After a brief inspection of the kitchen, mum leads me along the hallway, passing doorways revealing more familiar furnishings, and directs me toward the front of the house. The warmth of freshly oiled jarrah leads my eye through the front fly-wire door, across the garden to the roofs of houses. Beyond them lie the racecourse and my home.

I feel detached and have few syllables to offer, flaccid admiration, painful gasps. The house feels like someone else’s. Mum invites me into the front room.
‘And this is yours…’ she announces, her words proud and generous, her red mouth wide, eyes bright, anticipating my coos of delight. I enter and she follows. Before me stands a tall window across the corner of the room, floor to ceiling, light pouring in from the garden where a hose kicks arcs of water over abundant lawns. A liquid amber drenches the garden in green and shade. To its right and far away, over many rooftops, Mt Noorat reclines in a smoky haze.

Mum regains my attention. ‘You have the best room in the house, dear.’
No doubt in recompense for your lack of consultation on other matters. A chilling draft of realisation cuts through fog. I set my case down upon the carpet.
‘Thanks mum.’ While I appreciate her goodwill, I am gutted and feel wretched.
‘Now,’ she burbles, delighted to have me home. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. All your things are here, see?’ She indicates a brush, comb and mirror I’ve never used that she has arranged artfully on the dressing table. I nod, managing a smile. I glance at her, wondering what else she can possibly do to derail my life.
‘Sorry mum. It’s been a long week. Bit overwhelming, that’s all.’ I manage a smile.

Mum accepts the compliment, still beaming as she admires her own efforts once more. ‘Isn’t the outlook lovely from this window?’
‘It’s gorgeous, mum. It’s a fine room. Thank you for letting me have it.’ I want to be alone and it’s becoming difficult to contain my distress.
‘And this is real woollen carpet. We didn’t stint on quality here.’
It’s lichen green, textured, and compliments the classic voile curtains and bedspreads.
‘Should wear well.’ I suggest, sitting down on the chez-lounge to unlace my shoes.
‘Yes, it is a long trip on the train.’ She senses my unease. ‘I’ll go and make you some tea…or would you prefer something cool. I have fruit juice and cider?’
‘I’d love a cuppa, thanks.’

As she departs, I prise off my shoes, listening to her heels resounding down the hallway to the kitchen. I peel off sweaty socks and my gaze settles on the carpet. The reality of homelessness resounds inside me, echoing like a huge, empty room, filled with cold breath that creeps over my limbs.

An elegant escritoire stands by the window, mum’s old one. Mine was crammed with favourite books and treasures. I get up and pull open the lid. Inside scant stationery fills one corner, stacks of old notepaper. The numerous box shelves are empty, but for a bottle of clag, and the draw is empty, too. A pair of china ornaments adorn the top shelf, the same pretentious Wedgewood that resided on the sitting room mantelpiece. Between the aristocratic couple a porcelain swan awaits a posy of violets or picatees. Behind the desk, on the pale green plastered wall hangs a picture of a little girl with a watering can, a poor copy of a Renoir. I’ve always disliked her innocence, the silky skin and cherub lips.

Exhaling, I turn to face the room. There are matching beds, their grey and chipped caste-iron ends once occupied the spare room. Mum has painted them gold with enamel. Where were mine, the ones I used to curl my toes around? She has covered the beds in new, matching crocheted bedspreads, no doubt made from her own hand-spun wool. Beneath them, pink and green blankets show through and, rolled up at the foot of each bed, lie half doonas, each resewn in floral covers. I exhale with a snort. She has been to so much trouble but has no idea what I like. These frills belong to a Bronte novel. I sigh again. It’s all I can do not to weep.

From the kitchen, cups and saucers rattle, the fridge door opens and closes. I should feel gratitude for all this preparation, but that is the problem. This isn’t my home, it is someone else’s. It’s just a house. I check the bedside table. It matches the wardrobe, part of a set from the spare room on the farm. Both large drawers are empty, the third lined with wallpaper. Two lacy handkerchiefs lie there. And the spare room bed lamp sits to one corner of the tabletop.

I turn to inspect the dressing table. Mum presented this incongruous piece of modernity to me some years earlier, and it stills reeks of sour glue and plywood. Few of my old clothes remain inside, now. Gone my favourite jeans, motley red jumper and tired corduroys. The underwear collection is scant, a few singlets and pants. Oh, how thoughtful! She has remembered a box of tampons. Just as well I shopped for clothes in Melbourne. Even my old school socks are gone, probably donated to the new charity shop.

I skirt around the bed to the wardrobe and open a door. Empty hangers rattle and lurch as if startled. My duffel coat remains, still with its Star Trek logo, hanging thoughtlessly from a hook on the back wall. A sachet of lavender dangles from the rail, adjacent to an old, rubbery-smelling raincoat, and a few shirts. An array of footwear fills one corner of the base: slippers and a pair of black patent shoes, old, stained thongs and a shabby hot water bottle. The drawer offers a pilled black jumper, riding helmet and some sewing, still unfinished from early high school days: none of this is any use to me now.

Numbed by the decimation, I return to the couch, wondering why it’s in my bedroom; the same one I slept on all those years ago, each Christmas, once covered in cracked leather upholstery. Now it emits a vinyl odour. I stretch my hands across its surface, digging in with my fingertips. The surface yields to my silent scream. I am confounded. What has my mother done? Never, amidst my wildest fears, had I imagine her capable of this. All my posters are gone, my treasured magazines. My books and high school memorabilia are probably rotting in the Noorat tip; school photos, too. There is no sign of the Wizard of Oz or Pinocchio, or the wildlife books and my stamp collection. Even the National Geographics are gone.

As the ramifications sink deeper, I ease back onto the headrest. That means my tools and chemistry set are gone; the treasure map, bows, arrows and quiver discarded; the sash windows with their sighing curtains, the elegant manna gum and taunting moonlight, replaced by one giant window framing all I love, and yet so unsympathetically distant. Gone are the chooks, my hammock in the hedge, my treasure, my tree house, the hayshed and its tunnel of memories, all gone. No more sunrises or crisp vegetables, no sweet, abundant orchard. My childhood: incised with a precision that only my mother could orchestrate.

I sit forward, face in my hands, fighting back the tears of loss and anger. I left home for just a little while, for two years. And somehow, between a few phone calls and letters, my past has been auctioned and its contents purged. My future ha relied on the farm, now all that is hijacked, a childhood thoughtlessly bundled up and discarded.

After unpacking my suitcase, I slide it beneath the spare bed and wander down to the lounge room. There dad peruses the last of his newspaper. He looks up, reading my face.
‘Bit of a surprise, eh?’ he understates, dourly.
I walk over as he eases himself up from the armchair, offering me one of his awkward hugs. I repay him with a glum, hurtful look which he has anticipated. He invites me to sit and, in a low voice, explains how there had been no peace until he relented. Helpless, he had filled the trailer with load after load of household contents, as mum urged his speedy return from the tip for another. He says he feels sad for me, but that there was nothing else he could do. His illness has worsened, and he had no choice but to sell.

I feel selfish now. I haven’t even asked how he is, although seeing his pallid face and dry skin I don’t need to ask. I scan the room. He brightens, demonstrating how he converted the radiogram into a cupboard for the new stereo system, all sleek, black and chrome. At either side of the doorway sits a large speaker on a corner shelf. The room is long, with ample windows, streaming light. A door leads out onto the veranda.
‘Good acoustics,’ he says, with a grin. ‘Mum doesn’t appreciate it.’
‘The room?’
‘No,’ he grins complicitly. ‘The hi-fi.’
I chuckle at this. No, there’s no need to ask why.

‘Some of your books are here.’ He points out a bookshelf along the inner wall, beyond the piano. ‘But only a few, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll leave off looking for another day; few too many disappointments already.’
‘Fair enough. We had the lounge extended a few metres to fit everything in.’
I notice scanty curtains over the casement windows.

Dad stands again, inviting me on a tour. The most commanding feature in the room is the mustard yellow carpet. I can’t imagine what possessed them to choose it. And I notice different carpet in each room. Lino and tiles lead out to the rear of the house.
‘We had this back part extended, too. There was no indoor loo or laundry. And your mother wanted a work area for her craft. His office desk sits to one side of the extension, sharing mum’s cubby space. We head for the kitchen.

There is little left for me to do at the house in Terang. I help dad garden, and watch him play lawn bowls before my swim at the pool and, occasionally I ride my bike out towards the farm, but I can’t bear riding close. Dad has told me the orchard is gone, a new dairy is planned. Soon the paddocks will be filled with dairy herds. Rides leave me heavy with grief. It seems there is no where to belong anymore, no sense of place or home.


Mum hates housework and employs women to do it for her. Denise was one of them. She was only fourteen when she came to stay, with her piano accordion. But she seemed so much older to me and ever since her departure, I have longed to play a musical instrument of my own. Other than the school recorder, and improvisations on a pair of forty-four gallon drums near the wide gate, the only real instrument I’ve attempted is mum’s upright grand piano. She teaches me to play using kindergarten songs, and these make the lessons disappointing. But, to be honest, I have difficulty learning anything with mum as a teacher. She leaves me flustered, unable to concentrate, and fearful that her irritation might induce one of her turns. I haven’t done my piano practice for months. Lessons have stopped.

Mum’s power games leave residual anger: I get cranky, and ponder dark places and questions. Why are my parents the same age as my friends’ grandparents? Why, after such a fuss about adoption, does mum toy with me as if I’m made from rubber bands? As my anger grows, so too does a desire to hurt back. But I am the only one with whom I can be angry. Self-administered beatings and endurance activities soothe the flushes of fury, the impatience of helplessness. Mum rarely asks about the bruises and swellings, blithely accepting my explanations. After all, she reflects, with so much time outdoors I must inevitably take occasional spills.

I live a sheltered existence on the farm, but there is no shortage of music. From the symphonies, operas and concertos that have drifted into my bassinette in infancy, to pop music on my radio and the miracle of television, my life is steeped in melodies and pictures. While my friends are distracted by hours television, I rely on the radio for new songs and old favourites. Songs enable me expression, ways to remember the pain and wonders of my life in a language both ample and transportable. Soggy days sparkle with the addition of lyrics and I can choreograph menial chores to folk songs and rhythm and blues, while rock and roll provides the gears my bike lacks.

When Nick returns home for the school holidays he brings albums by Creedence, The Rolling Stones, Jimmy Hendrix, and The Shadows. And I invest my own savings on records: The Seekers, Neil Diamond, Sonny and Cher, and The Mamas and the Papas. At school I gather with friends to sing our favourites. Truly, music creates the kind of happiness nothing can extinguish.

Catchy songs by Simon and Garfunkel, Normie Rowe and The Monkeys provide a soundtrack to my busyness, while the political lyrics of Guthrie, Dylan, Eric Burdon and Joan Baez address issues of war and global unrest. For me, the potency of their songs is greater than any editorial in a newspaper, or TV bulletin.

Every weekend I ride in to town to buy a copy of a British magazine called Fab 208. Each issue features full-page, coloured pictures of my favourite artists and groups, and has articles about bands, new sounds and tours. I’ve pinned many of them to my walls, engulfing half the room with faces of my idols. Now the National Geographics rest unopened in dusty cupboards and corners.

While music cultivates my world, reading provides the means of exploring it. Teachers feed my eclectic appetite with weedy books by European and American radicals and, at lunchtimes, I peruse Life magazines, learning of Haight-Ashbury’s flower power, of free love communes, LSD and fashion. At last I have found reason to sew and, for the first time ever, make and wear clothes I like.

My curiosity bounds as eagerly as Husso. I’ve just read a novel about a heroin addict, and I want to know what it means to feel high. With my parents in bed, I locate a jar of ingredients from the pantry cupboard, and with a teaspoon, matches and candle, head out to the privacy of the laundry. After preparing the mixture, I clean up all evidence, grab an aspirin, and return to my room. Swallowing the concoction is the hardest part. It is bitter, and with a texture that sets me gagging. I chase the sludge down with a glass of milk, using the last of it to swish ghastly dregs from my mouth. God, I think. That guy must be desperate.

After a quarter of an hour I am convinced nothing will happen. I brush my teeth and get into bed as usual. But just on the brink of sleep, I detect a squirming dizziness. I attribute this to nerves or my imagination, turn over and go to sleep, quite unaware of the hell that awaits me.

I wake in shock, the room spinning violently. I have no balance and convulsions knot my stomach, legs and jaw. It’s hard to breathe and I’m scared. So terribly scared. Upon managing to turn on the bedside light, I slip out of bed, clinging to the sides in order to steady myself. The room reels and I am terrified of what else may happen. I grope my way up the hall, at last reaching my parents’ room where I call to mum, making only airy croaks.

I try again.
‘Mum! …mum!’ I’m determined to make some sound. Finally the reedy whispers wake her. She panics at the sight of me doubled up and shaking, racked as if cold.
‘What’s wrong?’ She reaches for my pyjamas. They’re soaked. ‘Have you wet yourself?’
‘No.’ My teeth chatter. ‘I don’t think so. I just feel really weird, sick. I can’t stop shaking.’

Donning her dressing gown, she leads me back to my room. ‘Hop back into bed and I’ll get more blankets. You’re freezing.’ She returns. ‘Have you been sick?’
‘No. I was fine at bedtime. I just woke like this.’ It’s difficult to talk with cramps racking my stomach.

Mum spreads two extra blankets over me and slips a hot water bottle in at my feet, tucking me in. Once I’m settled, she climbs into the spare bed and leaves the light on. I sleep fitfully, aware my mind is stretching in peculiar ways. More tremors leave me frightened. I can’t get warm and am convinced I am going to die.

In the morning mum wants to take me to the doctor. But because I am afraid to tell her what I’ve done, I insist: ‘A day in bed should fix it. Must have been something I ate.’

It takes two days for the shaking to subside, and provides ample time for me to reflect on how things may have gone, how such a simple mixture could be so insidious. Yet, while the experience has answered some of my questions, it creates more, failing to allay my desire for experimentation. Something has escaped from my cage and prowls, hungry to know more.


Each morning, before walking to the gate to catch the school bus, I pick a flower. Picatees are my favourite: the clove-scented ones mum likes. I pin the bloom to my jumper like a badge and wear it to school. Occasionally teachers remind me that it’s not part of my school uniform, but never instruct me to remove them. Flower power blooms and soon my classmates catch the vibe. We express our adopted culture in hippie artwork: doodles, decorous letters and posters and our speech is sprinkled with new phrases: cool and man and far out.

Few venture further into hippydom with regional conservatism constraining youthful expression. Any boys growing Beatle hairstyles are pigeonholed with hippies, petty criminals or druggies. But I’m far beyond caring what people think. The door is open and I’m eager to experience the possibilities of this new age culture, to seek my own individuality, a narrative, even notoriety.

I wear a broken cross on a chain, my first purchase from the new surf shop in Warrnambool. It represents my protest against war and conservatism, reflecting my hippie status. The symbol also appears on my schoolwork. My choice of pacifism is well informed, with Nick and his friends turning eighteen and eligible for call up as army conscripts and candidates for the carnage in Vietnam.

With the release of Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, I rise to the peak of my wave, cycling into town especially to pick up my copy. I play it loud, over and over on dad’s radiogram. Mum discovers me dancing wildly in the sitting room, oblivious to her protests about noise. I leave the house to ride, replicating the songs in my head.

* * *
There are no surprises about my Christmas present. It has been sitting on a bed in the spare room since September, following a droll visit to see Nick at boarding school. The day had promised to be long and tiresome, made more troubling by the possibility that my shameful congruence with Nick in the haystack, along with his sordid embellishments of it, was common knowledge among his friends.

But the day improves when, unannounced, we head for the city shops, straight to the biggest music store outside of Melbourne.

Mum makes enquiries of a young salesman who leads us to straight to the stringed section. There, with his help, my parents select a classical guitar. I watch the transaction in astonishment. The salesman demonstrates the range of my instrument, playing a Spanish piece I recognise. Rich, mellow phrases rise as his fingers straddle and dance over strings with the same strength. Passion and agility with which I climb trees. I want this artfulness for myself.

On Christmas morning the guitar sits at the foot of the tinselled tree, dwarfing every other gift there. Attached to the box is a large envelope. As is my preference, I take my gifts ‘from Santa’ to my room in order to open them quietly and privately. There I can concentrate, without parental scrutiny: the pressure to utter oh’s of feigned delight for the assembled family. Other gifts remain at the tree until after Christmas dinner.

I open the card first. ‘To dear Joanna,’ it reads, in mum’s round hand. ‘We want to you to have something special because you have done so well at school. Merry Christmas dear, and a Happy New Year too! Much love from Mum and Dad.’
So. A reward. Not from Santa.

Peeling sticky tape off wrapping paper is not something one hurries. It requires patience, much like untangling fishing line or sewing thread. And receiving a gift requires ample time for savouring, like a good meal. First one must look at the gift, appreciate its over-all presentation, its weight and shape. Then the components are identified, their qualities admired: their colour, texture and smell. Finally the gift must be possessed, not just held but embraced, for each part reveals a piece of the true nature of the object and the secrets of the gifted.

With wrapping paper neatly folded, I return to the cardboard box. It is stuck down either side, but the card is torn where someone has lifted the narrow end to peep inside – I am the unashamed culprit. I already know what smells lie inside, the shade and lustre of the wood, its grain and markings.

Freeing the tape, I raise the oblong lid for the first time, and slip the instrument out of its polythene bag. It is awkward to lift, quite heavy in fact, and I’m not quite sure of the right way to hold it. Finally, grasping it by the neck, I permit gravity to settle the matter and, from where the guitar nestles comfortably in my lap, I admire the wood grain beneath its flawless coats of varnish. A strong odour rises; sharp, gluey and resinous, wafting from the hollows.

The six strings hover, drawn tight across the soundbox by mechanisms beyond the neck. Three of the strings are nylon, like fishing line, and the others are wrapped in fine silver wire, much like piano strings. Beneath them the dark fingerboard is marked by frets and several spots of mother-of-pearl. Are they for ornamentation or have they a purpose? I wonder.

I brush my thumb across each string, watching them vibrate and listening to the vibrato ring. I can feel the notes through the soundbox, seeping into my chest and legs, intimately startling and present. My attempts at melody are disappointing: dull sounds from flat notes.

I take up the instrument and hold it properly, as I’ve seen Art Garfunkel do, and place my fingers in patterns on the fingerboard. I know about chords from piano lessons, where they seem much easier. My knowledge fails to transpose to here, and my attempts at strumming end in tangled-sounds.

Mum stands at the door beaming at me. ‘What do you think, dear?’ She speaks in her thick voice, one rarely used now.
‘I’m not sure what to do,’ I tell her, obviously disappointed. ‘I don’t know what to do. I will need lessons.’
‘Of course. We know that. There’s a lady in Terang who teaches guitar. I’ll phone her in the new year. But you can work some of it out, surely?’
‘Probably. But when I try to play notes, the strings buzz. And there seems to be no system to their tuning, either. Piano keys are in a pattern and easy to identify, but this is beyond me.’

For several weeks the instrument lies untouched in the box beneath my bed: a mystery I cannot cipher, taunting and goading me to try. I watch musicians on TV variety shows, but just as I catch a clue of their technique, the picture changes.

When school resumes, mum arranges the lessons. The first is very basic and already I doubt the teacher has ever played a guitar herself. I can tell from the spines of music books, piled high on a filing cabinet, that she presumes to coach an entire orchestra. I am accompanied by her st the piano, using a book containing chord diagrams. I follow slowly, but loathe the hillbilly tunes. I long for Seekers’ and Bee Gees’ songs.

Riding into town can be difficult enough without a cumbersome instrument case that is determined to behave like a sail in the wind. Inevitably, I have enough.
‘I’m not attending lessons anymore, mum,’ I declare after the return ride. ‘She’s teaching me cowboy songs and a country and western style. That’s not what I want to learn.’
Mum doesn’t argue. ‘All right,’ she sighs. ‘You’ll just have to teach yourself, then. There’s no-one else available.’

Of course that is easier said than done. Once again, sleek in its vinyl-zipped cover, my guitar languishes under the bed. But, as Christmas nears, mum stirs me to action.
‘Honestly, Jo! If you don’t want that guitar I’ll give it to Nick.’
‘You can’t,’ I snap. ‘You gave it to me, for Christmas. You can’t take it back!’
‘Well start playing it, then,’ she replies. ‘What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it?’
I smart at this. ‘That’s not fair, mum. I’ve made a decent effort to master the bloody thing. It’s beyond me, that’s all.’

But her threat is an effective catalyst. With a good ear for music and the book to guide me, I sit at the piano, tuning and practicing the few chords I’ve mastered. Then, on Saturday morning, I ride into town. At the local electrical and music store I discover sheet music for the Bee Gees song ‘Words’. It is a lucky investment for I recognise some chords, and assemble other ones a note at a time. Finally, with my scratchy knowledge of music theory, I pick out the introduction. The break through is momentous, and confidence spills through the breach. With basics in place, I now work out chords to songs that I’ve already learned and typed up on an old Remington mum bought from school.


The magic of harmony, the blending of voices, is something I have loved since infancy. I still sit back of an evening with dad, listening to Welsh, Russian, Austrian and American choirs on the radio. Understandably it is a small step from there to the school choir where harmony overrides the drollness of traditional pieces, and contemporary songs join our repertoire.

For me, music is as plenteous as air, a language open to infinite interpretation, universal. How, I wonder, can there be so much music from all over the world, yet so little in my hometown? Other than radio, many folk know little more than the church hymns of Christmas, Easter and funerals, and all that is too solemn for me.

Nick returns early from boarding school and picks up his year at Terang High where he mixes easily. I can see his cosmopolitan style appeals to local girls, and he is the envy of his mates. His girlfriend is Beth, a senior girl at school. One evening she knocks on the door. Nick is fixing his car and she is cold and bored.

She joins us in the sitting room for supper and we learn that she sings and plays guitar. I coax her to my instrument. Her voice is strong and confident, and she has an extensive repertoire of popular folk and traditional songs. Once we get to know each other, she teaches me new chord patterns, strums and fingering, and a technique for threading songs together. Our friendship extends beyond Nick’s V8 production cars.

* * *

This year the summer holidays provide a glorious blend of surfing and family picnics in and around Port Fairy. One morning as we fish for flathead in the Moyne, I smell a flaring match, and watch Nick light a cigarette upwind from me.
‘Hey, Nick. Let me try one of those?’
‘It’ll make you sick.’ But he obliges, and helps shield my flame from the wind. ‘You gotta suck on it,’ he coaches, ‘or it won’t stay lit.’
I try.
‘Draw on it properly, into your lungs, not just yer mouth.’
After a few aborted puffs I inhale, choking on the sensation. He grins, shaking his head, and leaves me to figure it out. I clear my throat and try again, knowing what to expect this time but as I exhale, I’m startled by how much smoke comes out. The thought of that and giddiness creeps up on me, turning into a real head spin. I lie back on the jetty, groaning.
‘Warned ya.’
I stagger ashore, clammy and pale, and head for the dunes in case I spew. I sit with my head down, fighting the nausea, determined not to vomit while the cigarette withers to dangling ash between my fingers. The seediness remains with me all morning.
‘Maybe you should try menthols,’ Nick suggests. ‘They’re easier on the throat.’
I consider this as we walk across the causeway, heading home. ‘Do they cost more?’
‘Nuh. Don’t think so. Anyway, you can get smaller packs if you want.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ I’m still unable to fathom why smoking is such a big deal. Grown ups must be stupid wanting to do something that makes you feel that sick.

There’s an on-shore breeze and the waves beyond the rocks are long and perfect. I’m itching to hire a board and get out into it. After lunch, I ride to East Beach and hand sixty cents to the tanned, body-board guy.
‘Charge me up for three hours?’
He nods. I’m a regular now and, when I go over time, he doesn’t call me in anymore.

That evening Beth and her brother arrive and we decide to attend movies at the local cinema, half a block away. After the show we walk down towards the river. Nick calls in at a milk bar and buys me a small pack of menthol smokes. I sit on a pier with John, his sister and Nick. Undoing the cellophane wrapping, I sniff the minty contents. Johns hands me some matches and I light up first go, then sit back against the pylon in case I get dizzy. There’s a pause in the conversation and I realise they’re watching me. My head remains clear and I become more confident, watching the smoke swirl, silver in the starlight. Beth slides over and teaches me how to blow smoke rings. It leaves an unpleasant bitterness in my mouth, but looks spectacular.

* * *

With more time on her hands, mum becomes determined to have me socialise. Again I resist, and she is aware of how closed I am towards her: sullen round the house, lacking affection or spontaneity. Troubled and hoping to gain some insight, she makes an appointment for me to see her psychiatrist in Melbourne. I sit out in the corridor while the doctor spends much of my consultation chatting to mum. It’s an unsettling feeling. The mumbling voices fill me with disquiet.

Finally the door opens and mum summons me in, before stepping outside to wait. The doctor stands, introducing himself, and invites me to settle back in a chair. He asks questions about arithmetic, general knowledge, what games and sports I play, about my friends, whether I like school. My answers are short and uncomfortable. It’s hard to warm to talking about yourself to a stranger. With that, I’m dismissed. Returning to the corridor I am left to surmise my answers must adequate. Mum goes back in and the mumbling resumes. Apparently he doesn’t share her concerns.

‘He thinks you’re going through a stage,’ she informs me on the way to lunch. But her socialising campaign intensifies, with a rash of invitations arranged with parents of my school mates, resulting in sleepovers. But her taste in friends is not mine, and I remain resentful of her manipulation and interference. This leads to frustration which I take out on my guests, deserting and observing them from perches in a dozen trees, with only pity at their helplessness. Most of the kids are townies, and have no idea what to do on a farm. It’s a cruel trick I play, and causes trouble at school. I’m ashamed of it afterwards, realising we are pawns in mum’s games.

‘Take her for a horse ride,’ mum suggests for my next guest. ‘Or a walk to the lake.’
‘She’s a townie, mum. She doesn’t like mud on her good runners. And don’t suggest horse-riding because I’m not riding that treacherous bloody pony again.’
‘Couldn’t you lead her round the paddock?’
‘I’m not going to lead her anywhere. She’s used to playing basketball, dressing up, swapping cards and stuff. She’s not interested in what I do, and her stuff is boring, too.’

Mum over-scrubs a potato, irritated at my stubbornness. She doesn’t realise how different I am, or how content I feel with my own company.
‘I’m not an entertainer, mum. Everything I do leaves them bewildered, and that’s not fair on them or me. They’re not confident climbing trees, they don’t have the stamina to walk round the lake – it’s three miles you know.’ She doesn’t know because she’s never walked it. ‘And as for archery, sitting in the middle of paddocks to hunt, or stuck up a tree, you can’t blame them for wanting to go home.

Finally she agrees to leave invitations to me. ‘It’s something I should do my own way. And when I’m ready, not with you pushing me.’

Few sleepovers follow, and occasional invitations to stay with friends. Yet I enjoy seeing how they live. Their modern homes are small and pokey, with gardens a stone’s throw long, but at least they have all the amenities of town and it’s an easy walk to school. They talk late, mostly about sex and boys, or clothes, movies stars, bands and school gossip – no wonder they don’t wake up till halfway through the morning. One group of friends agree to a walk across town with me but balk when they realise I mean literally across town: across the lake. Often I find their parents more interesting to talk to.

But quietude and home are what I love most. Nick is out most of the time, and I avoid mum’s demands by rising early, finishing my chores and maintaining neutrality. Her focus is more on Nick and his antics, and there are few arguments with me. I can only suspect she assumes her loneliness is like mine.

A dose of bronchitis has kept me in bed for almost a week. I notice mum is less manipulative when I am sick, more like her old self. I guess my dependence provides an opportunity to nurture and care and the truce is mutual. After lunch I listen to pop-music, writing lyrics to the new songs and then chord them on my guitar. Following temperature checks, afternoon tea arrives on a tray, with more cough mixture. Once the tray is clear, I entertain myself drawing aeroplanes, houses, and trees and, with scissors, homemade clag and old pop magazines, I create a collages. Mum offers a candid critique of my work.
‘That gum tree doesn’t look real,’ she points out.
I’m not in the mood for criticism. ‘Why?’
‘Gum leaves don’t grow like that. They hang down. Look.’ She points out my window. ‘And the trunk doesn’t sit on the ground, it grows out from it.’ And of my next effort: ‘The house has no veranda, and the roof is wrong.’

The comments are deflating, and wither my desire to draw. I assume she does it because she’s a school teacher, instinctively correcting mistakes, but I wonder how many children’s bright and uninhibited creations she’s pulled to pieces, and how much talent she’s quashed with her frank appraisals. She returns moments later with an art book of charcoal sketches and water colours of the Australian bush. I agree my drawings are primitive in comparison.
She admires a model aeroplane I’ve made from plasticine. She likes the detail: how there are passengers inside, and suitcases that open to reveal articles of clothing; and a cockpit with console instruments. I’ve even given the pilot a parachute. Mum says it’s intriguing.
‘Look,’ she chuckles, delighted. ‘There are socks and a handkerchief. You have a real gift with plasticine.’ She places a glass of orange juice beside my creation.
I smile in thanks. ‘It’s good because it’s kid’s stuff,’ I mutter. She doesn’t seem to notice the sarcasm.

Mary McQueen is an old school chum of mum’s, and an artist. She specialises in abstracts and lithographs which I find unappealing. Mary enjoys an enviable lifestyle, moving freely in international art circles, and teaching at RMIT. We’ve stayed with her a couple of times while mum attends her appointments with specialists. Mary’s studio fascinates me, but I am herded out with stern warnings. She has little patience with kids about, although she’s widowed with grown children of her own.

One spring, when Mary comes to stay with us on the farm, we drive out to Tower Hill Cemetery for some sketching. I bring my own materials, determined to improve my technique, learning from Mary. Using charcoal, I make scratchy sketches of statuary while Mary works with pastels and soft, coloured pencils which I gather are very expensive. Watching her work, I sense her irritation. She deflects my questions and withholds even the most casual tuition.

Next morning she asks me to sit on the back veranda while she sketches me in charcoal. She explains that she is taking notes that will become a finished work back at her studio. Later, after Mary has returned home, mum confides that Mary says I can’t draw and will never be an artist. Naturally I am wounded, but also puzzled, as her opinion contradicts my school results in art: my best subject this year. I wonder if they are deliberately putting me down. Fortunately it will take more than one appraisal to discourage my attempts at self-expression, of interpreting my world and my feelings. I know good art from bad; the former rings with truth in a way that cannot be objective. Eventually Mary sends mum a copy of a lithograph entitled ‘A Farmer’s Daughter’. Surrounding my stylised face are farm icons and Mt Noorat. I regard it with disappointment.

Inspired by Mary’s visits, mum executes decorative, brushwork designs on the bellies of glazed pots, vases and plates. Most are clumsy, but there some fine pieces among them. Open books clutter the laundry table, a tableau of her inspiration: Japanese calligraphy, ink-washed paintings, and Chinese prints. After school I watch her throw pots. Sometimes I suggest a shape I like and she produces one or two, but always returns to seemingly ungainly work, disproportionate and heavy-looking. Inevitably she agrees to teach me, but insists I learn from scratch, first preparing the clay and constructing coil pots and slab plates. One day when she is away I try throwing a pot on the wheel and it is easy for me. My hands seem to transpose ideas and I produce some elegant vases.
Mum is encouraging: ‘You’re good with your hands, Jo.’

She has a gas kiln constructed on the back veranda and there are problems fine-tuning it. But she produces some beautiful pieces and offers them as gifts. I learn to stack the kiln, too, and to monitor the firing through peep holes, where rows of ceramic cones indicate temperature for the duration of the process. The thundering noise, the hissing, white heat frighten me, but the thrill of holding my own vases is assurance that I must press on, determined to find the artist inside of me.

Who says the media has no long term effect on children? From fairy stories of children lost in forests to the disappearance of Harold Holt, such stories, whether news or entertainment, had a profound effect on me.

Early into my second year at Terang High, a media-frenzy builds around the pending execution of a jail escapee, guilty of murder. Each evening the future of Ronald Ryan is discussed graphically in homes around the nation. As the day of execution approaches, community protest and opposition swells. Newspaper editorials declare the barbarity of capital punishment, yet their banners count down the days of Ryan’s life. The macabre issue draws lively debate in our classroom and I have even written about it. I bought myself a diary this year. Now there is only one entry: on the second of February, the day Ryan is hanged.
While capital punishment will soon be outlawed, this is no longer my dilemma. I feel I am part of the indecision that stayed Ryan’s execution, that I share responsibility for sending him to the gallows. Repugnance flows through me like venom, and grief creeps into my extremities, threatening to suffocate me.
On the day of execution I begin swimming in earnestness, seeking a way across the chasm of guilt over which I feel suspended. I continue this daily purge until the pool closes for winter: swimming for Ryan, for my indecision, and to reach a certain numbness I am sure lies somewhere beyond my pain. After forty laps I stagger drunkenly to the change room, still in a trance, and only fully conscious after the ride home.


Through winter I must find other ways to overcome my guilt. Initially bike rides are sufficient: completing dozens of laps; sprinting until my thighs ache and my lungs burn.

By spring I have forgotten about Ryan. Now I ride for pleasure: pushing my limits, sensing new boundaries and the lure of pain itself. I hunger to challenge the ultimate opponent: myself against the clock.


Until now I have taken little interest in physical education at school. The whole concept of team competition seems ludicrous to me, totally unrelated to fun – even after a stirring lecture about team spirit from my teacher. Of what use is a ball to me in real life? But, to appease the critics, I attend selection try-outs for the annual inter-school sports day and begin training. I’m not built for sprinting, preferring the marching squad, ball games, javelin, and the long and high jump events.

However, the first cross-country run is a challenge I feel unequal to. This annual event requires all students to complete a five-mile circuit through and around the town. Waiting in my group at the start line, I have already braced myself for defeat. From the first step I’m left well behind, and settle down to jog. I will finish eventually, and that will be sufficient to satisfy my sports teacher. But near the half way mark I catch up with stragglers, tired from their initial sprint. I have found an easy rhythm between my heartbeat and breathing, much like when I’m swimming, and soon pass more kids. No wonder they’re exhausted, I think. A warm day and few water stops. While for me these conditions are easy: the heat and thirst are part of my long bike rides and archery games.

On the far side of the lake, I begin to wonder, to suspect even, that there is something wrong. It’s only half way and yet contestants are falling like winded ducks. Perhaps I’ve taken a short cut by mistake? It’s hard for me to believe what is happening.
On a bike ride, or in the pool, I’d be ready for a sprint now, so I let go, and feel a familiar wave of energy welling up. My feet are lighter and my legs like springs. I overtake other competitors in a blur.
Some of them are calling to my back, jeering: ‘Hey fatso! You must have cheated.’
My face flushes, smiling at the compliment, and I wipe the sweat from my eyelids.

Passing the cemetery and still barely puffing, I approach a plantation adjacent to the school. The finish line is in sight. I lean into my stride, feet pounding along the gravel shoulder. As I turn in at the school driveway, cheering pikers and teachers crowd the finish line. I am puffing now, hands grabbing pockets of air as my legs stretch to cover the remaining yards.
Beyond my roaring ears and pounding heart I hear voices calling my name and, within me, there is the release I have waited so longed for. Crossing the line, they all crowd in, incredulous that one of the fat kids, a girl no less, has finished so well.
‘You’re the second back in your whole group,’ declares a teacher at my shoulder. She writes my name on a clipboard. ‘Well, done. Go and have a drink.’

Still gasping, I’m conscious I’m not a pretty sight. My matted hair is streaming sweat, my arms and legs are blotched and pink under my unflattering red sports tunic. But I walk proudly to the drink fountains and burying my face beneath the cool stream, drinking long draughts. At last, I think. At last, I have done something real, something that’s not pretty, not literary or artsy. This is something gutsy and brave and physical. Illusive pieces of the puzzle have slipped into place and all the pain and grief dissipates.

With the success and confidence of my endurance run, I add jogging to my daily schedule, donning tennis shoes as dusk covers the cycling circuit. Dad says it’s a mile to our neighbour’s gateway, and that makes two miles each time I cross the cattle grid. I sprint up the rise, checking my watch to ensure seconds have been shaved from yesterday. Then, to cool down, ride my bike with mind content and body tired, ready for a shower and sleep.

The pool reopens in late spring. I resume laps, still keeping a balance of cycling, running and swimming.

* * *

‘It’s going to be a hot summer, a stinking Christmas,’ dad announces over the top of his newspaper. True to his word, the hay harvest is ready by my last day of school.

Saturday dawns, a typical scorcher, the kind of day that draws families to the beach, seeking relief. But by afternoon a northerly will cut the surf to ribbons and lift the sand into willie-willies. Dad says there’s a low in the Bight. I picture its waves rolling high up beaches, tearing seaweed from the reefs, dredging it over rocks and up the beaches to the foot of the dunes.

After my summer-morning vigil of watching the sun rise, I unleash Husso and open the wide gate, heading down to turn hay bales. These must be loaded and stacked before the weather breaks. The wind returns, a dry, turgid stream of air that pulses, tugging at my shirt.

After breakfast I prepare iced drinks for the carting, and grab my shabby bandana, wetting it under the laundry tap and wrapping it round my neck.
‘Only two loads left, I reckon,’ says Nick, pummelling his toast. His hands are big now and this habit seems quaint.
Dad agrees. ‘The glass is falling already. Could be a cool change by tonight.’
Mum sighs. ‘Oh, I do hope so. There’s no fun preparing Christmas in this fug.’

We set off with the tractor and trailer, me opening gates while Nick drives. Dad leans on the rail and studies the bleached sky, his towelling hat-brim flicking back and forth in the wind. Brown spots fleck the backs of his coarse, tanned arms as he steadies the drink billy.

While the men fit the loader onto the tractor, I carry the tinkling billy and cups to the shade of the two pine trees. Surging wind sighs through their pine needles, so dry it parches my nostrils.

I drive while the men load: two easy trips and all stacked by lunchtime. Before lunch the mercury has risen to one hundred degrees, and the day is far from over. We head to the house for lunch, the wind buffeting our backs. Radio news blares as mum slices cold lamb onto our plates. We add fresh salad, and spread jam and cream over slices of bread.
‘What are you two doing about the Christmas tree this year,’ dad asks.
Nick answers first. ‘Thought we might set up that old tree, and use those decorations from up in the linen press.’
‘Oh. You’ve been up there, have you?’ Dad’s not really surprised, just amused we’ve taken so long to discover a family secrets.
‘Yeah. There’s a Santa Claus suit and other costumes up there, too.’ I add, confirming my complicity.
‘Be careful with those,’ mum warns. ‘They belonged to Granny Clarke and grandad! And don’t forget the angel chimes.’ They’ve become a favourite part of our Christmas table setting.

Late in the afternoon we ride to Terang for a well-earned swim. Half a mile a way we can hear the pool is packed: the splash of boys doing dive-bombs, the squeals of toddlers and pool-side parents. Doing laps is hopeless in such a crowd so I practise underwater swimming, nosing along the floor of the pool like an eel. I wind around the legs of unsuspecting swimmers, reaching for coins, hairclips and bandaids down near the vent where the babble of voices is muffled and distorted. Spangled bodies pierce the water, and swarms of bubbles stream upward.

Exhaling through my nose, I watch my own breath, encapsulated like balls of mercury, glooping toward the surface. My skin is fizzing with tiny bubbles, caught on the hairs of my arms and legs. Mobility in the water is a sensual joy. I rise from the slimy floor to a space on the surface, floating and relaxed. While the sun stings my skin, water laps, pleasantly cool at my ears. Then someone splashes me deliberately. Nick! It’s not worth going after him. Just being a pig as usual.

I meet a couple of my friends on the grassy slope. They are lying on their towels sunbaking. It is pleasantly cool on the lush lawn. I pick at blades of grass, chewing on them. My friends discuss boys, a topic I am well and truly over.

Down at the changing rooms I locate a ten cent coin hidden in my sandal. I head to the kiosk and buy a bag of mixed lollies: milk bottles, raspberries and cream, bananas and musk sticks. When I return, my friends have left, so I sit on the cement wall and munch contentedly on my sweets, leaving a few for tomorrow. There’s no sense waiting for the crowds to thin. More families wend in through the turn styles than those going home.
I call to Nick. ‘I’m going home. It’s too crowded for swimming.’


It’s a tough ride in the head wind and I’m glad to get home for a cool drink. Draped over grandad’s wicker chair, I listen as ice tinkles in my glass, and take short, refreshing sips to make the drink last. While plain water is best for thirst quenching, iced cordial is made to last. I set my legs swinging, and as my heels brush the flank of the chair, I think of grandad.

Sunday it’s hotter still. We attend the Christmas church service, crowding in with families. I fiddle with my clothes and find new ways to fold the order of service. Back home, I help mum prepare lunch. It is too hot for the traditional roast.
‘What book did you get from Sunday school, dear?’ she asks.
‘Oh. That’s written by Johanna Sprye.’ She smiles, placing a dollop of mayonnaise on the side of each plate. ‘Your name was supposed to be Johanna, you know?’
‘Really? Why isn’t it, then?’
‘We thought it would cause spelling problems.’
‘But people can’t spell Joanna anyway. I prefer Jo.’

Once the table is cleared and dishes done, Nick and I set up the Christmas tree. With dad’s step ladder we empty the top shelves of the linen press, carefully lifting down several boxes. The larger one, the size of a suitcase, contains the collection of fancy dress costumes worn by dad and his sister when they were children.

Suddenly we hear a ‘Good Lord!’ from the sitting room and rush in to discover dad halfway out of his chair, his hand raised to hush us, and listening intently to the radio.
‘Just repeating,’ says the newsreader. ‘The prime minister of Australia, Mr Harold Holt, has been reported missing from a beach near Portsea where it is believed he was swimming. We will bring further details as they come to hand.’
We stare at each other, shocked. Our faces blank, mouths hang open in disbelief, waiting for this not to be true. Mum arrives at the door.
‘Did I hear right, Merlin? Harold Holt’s missing?’

The next bulletin reveals that the PM was swimming at a spot renown for treacherous undercurrents, and officials believe he was caught by a rip and pulled out to sea. Upon hearing this, I can bear no more. I scurry to my room, don socks and runners and slip out the front door. My head buzzes, memories of Ronald Ryan rising from some deep, dark corner of my soul, forming a tight ball in my throat. I have to get away.

At first I trudge up the bark-laden front driveway and pause to survey the road. It’s stinking hot, even under the pines, and my mouth is already dry. But heaviness drives me on. I have to do something, anything to stop the growing ache. I head down the melting bitumen towards Terang, with my back to the wind. But, instead of continuing, I turn east down the lane.

Ahead of me time hangs open. I feel driven but don’t know what to do. Glaring gravel stretches all the way to the horizon. One foot in front of the other, that’s all I can think. Keep moving. And somehow it’ll be all right. The Prime Minister is missing, not dead, and it’s not my fault. It isn’t because I lowered my guard, because I looked away for a moment. These things happen. People disappear. Swimmers drown at beaches.

Reaching the boundary end of the farm my mind registers foreign ground. I stop, dazed, still unsure what to do. I face the farm now, barely sweating, not puffing at all. I don’t want to go back there but there’s nowhere else to go. Again I trudge, one foot in front of the other and oblivious to heat or effort, I register the familiar outline of pines and the intersection ahead. I pause in their thin shade.
There’s a breathing sound: is it me, or wind through the trees? I run again, following the rhythm of someone’s footfall, all the way to the intersection and then prop, turning back to the laneway. The answer must be down there somewhere. I must have missed it.

Back into the blinding sun, the road a furnace. The Prime Minister is missing. The phrase repeats itself, over and over. I can’t stop it. I try to think over it, louder, struggling to drown the radio announcer’s voice. Yes, the Prime Minister is missing, I scream silently, and there is nothing I can do about it. Nothing I do can change it.
‘I cannot bring back someone who is missing!’

Suddenly there is stillness.

I have come to a halt and look about me, fully aware of my surroundings, of what I am doing. ‘And there is nothing I can do about it,’ I sob. ‘I have to look after me, now.’
But the Prime Minister is missing! Again the fear grips my throat. I lean forward, producing convulsive sobs and retching. I wander to the edge of the road and cross a strip of dried grass to the fence. I lean against a weathered post and weep.

After wandering through the paddocks, I arrive at the wide gate, my crying silent now, but eyes and nose still streaming. As I climb the gate my legs give way and I roll over the broad beam into the yard.

At the dairy I bend over the washroom sink and bury my mouth in streaming water, taking thirsty gulps between sobs. I bathe my face, and comb wet fingers through my hair, soothing my throbbing scalp. I am crying for myself, now. Using all those tears I’ve put aside, afraid I’ll lose my grip. I have. I have lost my grip, yet I’m still here. Still strong.

I rest on the cool room steps as a northerly buffets the dairy. Miraculous, cool drafts wash over my soaked clothes, stripping the heat from my body. My legs are smudged with dust, my arms and neck sunburned and smarting. Finally I dare to think: The Prime Minister is missing and I have a life to live, answers to find, and a way through this daily maze of contradictions.

Another rinse drains the redness from my eyes and I feel surprisingly refreshed. I head up to the house. Beyond the roof dark thunderheads gather, nudging each other upward, over horizon.

* * *

Within the last few weeks of autumn, the days have cooled. Equinoxic storms are passed and warm days queue, duplicated and mild. At dawn, dew lies heavy on leaves and drips from the veranda eaves. Soon a frosty crispness curtails my rides, leaving clear evening skies that linger in fiery sunsets, fading to long, still nights.

From the stand of elm trees, a lonely owl probes the velvety darkness: ‘mopoke … mopoke,’ and the call is answered from the void of night; drawing sounds from story book pages, and disturbing my slumber.

Slowly a light creeps into my dream, and sleep comes to a tousled end. I don’t need to open my eyes to discover what has awakened me and to ignore the summons is impossible. My body responds with a heaving sigh. I surrender and open my eyes. Without lifting my head I can already see the top of the tall, sash window. The blind glows golden, illuminated as the intrusive moon passes by, slower than the hour hand of a clock.

While I detest the way time crawls, it is the shadows at the window that fill me with dread. They are always there, whether the moon deepens them or not. I know it is irrational, a trick of grainy darkness making shadows move, animated all the more by stories of children lost in forests and hunted by evil creatures. It is enough to convince me, time and again, that there are two black bears standing tall and threatening, one either side of the window, their thick furry arms clasped across the middle of the sash, and I can see their powerful paws trembling in the dimness.

I am too afraid to climb out of bed and turn on the light. Anyway, to do so is unthinkable. Unspeakable creatures lurk in thick darkness beneath my mattress. I can’t hear them but I know they wait patiently for a sleeping hand or foot to stray out of the covers and down into their den.

My attention returns to the window. The moon casts no other shadow on the blind, only the bears. Eventually shadowy branches of the manna gum will appear as the moon sinks westward over the ridge and the lake beyond. On some nights I am lucky; heavy clouds fill the sky, covering the moon, bringing a welcome darkness and the rush of wind. Then a gentle patter of raindrops builds to a crescendo, rattling so loudly that I shiver beneath the blankets. Such storms unfailingly lull me to sleep.

At other times the moon sets further north, allowing only a slender shaft of light through the blind. It creeps across the wall, never quite reaching my bed, and rarely into my dreams. But this night is crisp and still, the sky a deep blue-black, spattered with familiar constellations and a few wispy clouds. Such early, winter nights are long, frosty and silent. No crickets sing and it’s too late for frogs or the restive twitter of birds. Occasionally a farm dog barks or a cow lows in the distance, but the moon glowers as before, its presence resting like a weight upon my chest. I resent its brightness, its indolent journey, how it pulls me up from the depths of sleep to wallow in wakefulness, just as it draws oceans to the shore.

I raise my head and sit up on my elbows, keeping the blankets tucked around me. Through the gloom I search deeper shadows for bears’ faces, but they have seen me, and close their shiny black eyes, pressing themselves against the curtains. But, still their arms remain clasped across the window. They are cunning bears, indeed.

When I first saw them I cried in fear. Mum came with a torch. I begged her to turn on the light but, when she did, the bears hid and she didn’t believe me. Yet, as soon as she switched the light off and left my room they were back, angry at my betrayal.
I lie back again, pulling the bedding up around my ears to muffle their soft growls. But I cannot slow my heartbeat or still my pulse and it rustles so noisily against my pillow. I’m sure the bears can hear it.
‘Ah!’ I sigh. Why must the moon waken me and make the bears so tall and frightening?

I close my eyes tightly and my throat aches to cry, but I will not to let the bears know I am afraid. Grandad told me animals smell fear. I won’t let the bears do that. I turn on my side. Moonlight glows brightly on the bedside table legs and polished floorboards, shadows falling darkly against the golden grain. I watch them move over joins in the boards. It would be beautiful if it weren’t so menacing. My eyes sting, tired from watching. I lift my gaze to the wardrobe, its two keyhole eyes studying me across the darkness. I stare back.

Late one afternoon there was a thunderstorm while mum sewed in the kitchen. She asked me to fetch my tartan skirt from that wardrobe, and as I approached its gaping door, a bolt of lighting split the air, filling the room with an intense white flash. Instantly the sky ripped apart, shaking the house and rattling the windows. I ran in terror, bursting into the kitchen and burrowing through a maze of chair legs to safety, surprised to find Nick there already. Another crackle followed and we remained there for the whole storm.

Dad came in from the darkness and told us lightning had struck a neighbour’s haystack, setting it ablaze. We ran after him, tumbling excitedly into the back of the ute. As he drove through the trembling evening air, we clung on, bouncing in the back. Dad helped other farmers extinguish the blaze until the fire brigade arrived, dismantling the haystack, dowsing each bale with water and stomping out the cinders. The damp coals’ rancid smell rose on the breeze.

And when we returned home mum gave us a neighbour’s message. One of our own trees had been struck and was still on fire. Back in the ute we thumped about among knapsacks and implements as dad drove down the track to the rabbit paddock. There a group of old pines and a boxthorn would be in danger. But by the time we arrived, all that remained of a whole, forty-foot pine tree was a smouldering stump. Ember tipped, disembodied branches scattered across the ground amongst swathes of splinters and pine needles.

Now, the moonlight has crossed the room, and settles on my bed. The gum tree shadow plays upon the blind. I stretch in anticipation of sleep and press the sheet under with my chin so I can watch the window, while remaining undetected by the bears. They are there of course, tirelessly on guard, but I am certain they are not as tall and dark as before.

I can see the moon clearly through the blind, round and so bright I imagine its warmth on my face. I watch as it settles behind the tall pines along the road, and then fade. With the room dim now, the bears doze. Soon it will be morning. I turn once more and close my eyes. Outside, blackbird song rings through the garden.

* * *

After school I complete my round of chores, taking care not to invoke mum’s impatience. This has proven increasingly difficult because her moods move independently around the house, quite unannounced. I have developed a sixth sense about them: the repeated sigh, the irritated click of her dental plate, an impatient broom or an emphatic ‘Blow!’ from the sewing room, all warn of an imminent fusion.

Snippets of conversation are insightful, too, with both tone and content suggesting clues. From these can I decide whether my day will be spent indoors or outside, playing archery.

My tree house is almost finished. I say almost because I keep thinking of more ways to make it comfortable. Strips of lino have provide a floor covering, making it much easier to clean, and reducing the drafts. And I’ve sewn gingham curtains from remnants of a wretched apron I made at school. Their bright yellow adds privacy at the window and they can be drawn closed if needs be.

Like my bedroom, the walls are lined with pictures of my favourite celebrities, vying with images from old National Geographics. A pile of recent editions serve as reading material and a stand for my table. The tabletop rests against the rear wall – a heavy sheet of corrugated cardboard reclaimed from one of mum’s pottery packages. Noggins provide shelving, displaying treasures, smaller books and several photographs. I sit on a folded mattress made from recycled wheat bags, and there is a folded blanket, too, discarded from the spare room. A once-blue, shabby, brocade cushion serves as a pillow.

I’ve spent several nights sleeping in my tree house. It’s comfortable enough and surprisingly warm with the door closed and a hot water bottle smuggled from my own bed. Even the brawling possums in higher branches don’t bother me any more.

Seems everyone has forgotten about my lair. When mum remarks on my long absences, I remind her of my love for climbing trees and my archery game. This is sufficient to allay further investigation. She is quite unaware of my nocturnal adventures.
Today, more especially this evening, I have anticipated for weeks. My science teacher has informed us there will be a lunar eclipse with the next full moon and our newspaper confirms his prediction.

With dinner dishes done and the breakfast table set, I fill my hot water bottle, grab my duffle coat and set off to my new digs. It’s almost dusk when I rest my bike on its post. I settle on the landing, rugged up and cross-legged, with my hot water bottle nestled in my lap. Before me lies the eastern horizon. The clear sky is tinged with a blush of sunset, and ripe with promise. First stars flicker and I have a spectacular front row seat for the show of the year, scheduled for just after moonrise.

With the calm of evening, an imperceptible breeze sighs through the canopy and there’s a soft, buzzing stillness muffling my ears. In the east a familiar glow becomes more distinct by the minute. I wait expectantly, imagining what qualities make a good astronomer: patience, attentiveness, the will to watch and wait. I have a long relationship with this moon: with its fullness passing my bedroom window; its reed-slender crescent welcoming me to summer fields and frost-clad pastures of winter. Now, like a globular organism, it oozes over the horizon, sitting fat and sluggish, before climbing into the sequinned sky.

Collecting itself, the orb breaks free of its moorings, now, transformed into a copper penny, then a glowing sovereign, as it sets sail. Then, as I watch, the symmetry is broken, and its rim buckles inwards. A shadow eats progressively into the sphere, tinting the bite all russet. After breathless moments the transformation is complete, and the moon pauses, a copper orb, surreal and unworldly. As I watch, spellbound, all round me the night pauses too, witnessing the spectacle. Then the earth’s shadow moves on, and a pale sliver of fullness returns, broadening with each breath. So soon the magic is passed and the world draws a long, reverential breath.

The sovereign resumes its steady climb, dazzling nearby stars, and its soft light downy on my skin. I am lost in worship; my mind journeys far and my heart feels stretched to its limits. For these few moments I feel a whole, pure peacefulness, entirely free of the bigger world. A door opens and I step through. There is no return and I’m sure of it.

Thoughts reach my limbs and there is cool air on my face. I return from my trance to this world of childhood: sitting in a house in a tree, bathed in moonlight.