The Origin of Me

by Bernard Gallate

Venn was naturally devastated by her friend’s eviction. As the HSC approached she broke up with her boyfriend of three years, Elliot Grobecker, and hardly left the house. She refused Mum’s refreshment visits, and reheated meals when it suited her. Venn had always been a top student, but I observed her confidence subsiding with each exam until she seemed like a wreck.

  On the eve of her final one, her anger suddenly turned towards Dad. And when he left the family home, she began restoring her relationship with Mum. Organising the retreat was her latest effort and, judging by my phone conversation with Mum, it seemed to have worked wonders. She reeled off a list of all the therapies she’d had, culminating in a volcanic clay body mask.

  ‘As Revati applied the cool clay I felt truly cherished for the first time in God knows how long, even though I’d paid for it. We all need to be touched, Lincoln. It’s built into our DNA.’

  I thought about that night at the party with Nicole Parker. The last time I was touched, it didn’t end well.

  ‘At the end of the treatment, Revati asked me what I wanted most from the universe. I said a single word: “release”. And she whispered one word back: “granted”.’

  I wanted to ask who’d appointed Revati as Master of the Universe. Instead I also uttered a single word, ‘Wow!’

  ‘It is “wow”, isn’t it? But enough about me. How was your first week?’

  ‘Great. I feel like I really belong at Crestfield. I’m cherishing the experience.’

  ‘Darling, that’s wonderful. Revati said my renewed energy would radiate in ripples of influence. How are you coping with your father?’

  ‘He bought me a bike today.’

  ‘You see? The circles of influence are expanding and multiplying.’

  My lies were the only thing expanding and multiplying. But I didn’t want to burst Mum’s bubble with the truth. Her post-retreat euphoria would probably deflate of its own accord in three days max.

  Hovering near the phone, trying to catch snippets of conversation, Dad had forgotten about the fish frying in the pan until the acrid smoke drew him back. Mum never wants to speak to him unless it’s logistics. Whatever really went down between them, I feel sorry for him at times.

  I wound up the call with Mum, promising we’d talk soon. Dad and I ate dinner watching a film about a deranged clown who goes on a killing rampage, which made swallowing the blackened kingfish even more difficult. Possibly triggered by the actor’s believable performance, Dad said, ‘Lincoln, I don’t want you going within a mile of that old crank’s junkyard again. Do you understand me?’

  ‘We already live within a mile.’

  ‘Don’t go there.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to.’

  Early Monday morning I spent an hour divesting my bike of its embellishments, and rode the stripped-back beast to school. As I was chaining it to the rack, a pink bubble appeared in my periphery, then expanded and popped, releasing the odour of cherry-flavoured smoker’s breath. ‘Nice wheels,’ the blower said, peeling gum from his sparsely haired top lip. ‘Got a light?’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Commendable. Where’d you score the treadly? Looks familiar.’

  ‘Found it in a junkyard.’

  ‘Sweet.’ The kid’s overbite and weak chin gave him a rodent-like appearance, something I would never say to anybody because it’s cruel, but his twitching made the comparison impossible to ignore. I slung my satchel over my shoulder and started up the embankment.

  ‘Wait up, rookie. My name’s Starkey. It’s Evan Starkey, but everyone calls me Starkey.’

  ‘I’m Lincoln.’

  ‘I know. You’re Tibor Mintz’s girlfriend. Do people call you Stinkin’ Lincoln?’

  ‘I get Abraham more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Never mind. I’m peeling off. I have to see Simmons before first period.’

  ‘Catch ya later, Stinkin’.’ He headed back to the racks, probably to check for unlocked bikes. Funny – I thought this school was selective.

  EXCEL TODAY is etched into the glass entrance of the Coralee Coombs Sports Centre, nicknamed The Hive for the hexagonal photochromic glass cells of its vaulted ceiling. Ground level features a fifty-metre pool with tiered seating on one side and a gymnasium, hydrotherapy facility and showers on the other. Above the gym are two classrooms and the PDHPE faculty offices. These overlook the pool, which this morning was a perfect blue mirror against the pale amber of the glass ceiling. The only thing moving, aside from the hand of the Speedo lap timer, was me on my way to see the sportsmaster.

  Simmons was reclining in an orange armchair, surrounded by dusty trophies and gleaming shields. His white polo shirt was tucked into white shorts tight enough to strangle his best friend. His white trainers looked as if they’d never touched grass. My impression that he might have once come close to rugby glory was in no way diminished by the substantial girth of his stomach, which he was doing his best to increase with an egg-and-bacon roll.

  ‘What do you want, germ?’

  ‘I haven’t enrolled in a sport yet, sir. I had to see Dr Limberg last Friday instead.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Lincoln Locke.’

  He shook my hand with a super-firm grip, eyebrows challenging me to submit before he powdered my metacarpals. ‘Which sport?’ he said, then released.

  I nominated chess, ping-pong and bowling, the three least likely to expose or aggravate the nub through physical exertion, but each option came up as blocked on his laptop.

  ‘Unusual,’ he said. ‘Let me check The Owl.’ He scanned my student profile, nodding and frowning. Then the electronic glockenspiel chimed, signalling the commencement of first period, which made me need to pee. ‘Congratulations, Locke. You’re in the pool with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, guts now liquefying.

  ‘Says here that you represented your previous school at zone level and your PBs for the fly aren’t too shabby at all. You’ve already been drafted into swim squad by Assistant Coach Gelber.’

  ‘I’m not that great at butterfly.’

  ‘No need for false modesty.’

  ‘But that note in my file is wrong, sir. I was struggling to finish.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, son. Endurance training is my speciality. Your physical dimensions were fed into an algorithm that calculated swimming to be your ideal sport – specifically butterfly. Great wingspan and size-eleven feet.’

  The talk of physical dimensions provoked an extremely awkward sensation in my lower regions, as though the nub was turning in on itself – inverting. Terrified that wearing only Speedos in a lane crowded with other swimmers would inevitably result in its exposure, I pleaded to be allowed to join another sport.

  ‘In a couple of months, if things don’t work out, you can switch. But you look like a swimmer to me. And trust me, son, I can pick ’em. Ever heard of Coralee Coombs? Of course you have – this sports centre’s named after her. She’s on the national team and a shoo-in for the Games. I was her first coach and now I’m yours.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Training starts this Wednesday morning, clinic on Friday, training again on Mondays. Off you go now – scoot, you’re late for class.’

  EXCEED TOMORROW was etched on The Hive’s exit doors. ‘Exceed what?’ Homunculus said as I walked through. ‘Your current low level of bladder and bowel control?’ I relieved myself and then ran to catch up with my art class, who’d already set out on an architectural tour of the school.

  ‘How kind of you to grace us with your presence,’ the Crestfield old boy Nigel Lethbridge said when I arrived panting at Old Block. His sculpted platinum hair, strangely taut skin and withering blue eyes gave him the appearance of someone who’d only recently been cryogenically defrosted – but his leather-elbowed jacket had obviously only been preserved in mothballs. The unmistakable smell of camphor discouraged me from getting any closer.

  ‘Rightio, let’s get cracking,’ Lethbridge said, and led us to
the original house on the property. ‘Our most worthy founder, the pastoralist and cattle breeder Joseph Millington Drake, built his magnificent residence, Crestfield House, in eighteen seventy-nine. Judging Australian schools inferior to those of the motherland, he began teaching local boys in his own home.’ As we crossed the threshold, he said, ‘Those of you with classes here will appreciate the high ceilings and natural ventilation.’

  We climbed three levels to the attic. ‘Best view in the house,’ Lethbridge said, waving us in. ‘And it belonged to the servants. Ha!’

  From my position I could only see a blue patch of harbour, but on my turn at the small dormer window I looked straight down and saw the caretaker, Mr Jespersen, grooming one of many hedges that made a pattern of lines inside a huge square. In the centre was a hexagonal pergola covered in vines. ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘There’s a maze.’

  ‘The correct term is labyrinth, as there’s only one possible route,’ Lethbridge said.

  Next stop was Redmayne Hall, which was completed in 1888 on the centenary of invasion, though being an old fart, Lethbridge used the term ‘settlement’.

  ‘Redmayne was designed by Justus Cobham, a proponent of the neo-Gothic style, which explains its somewhat ecclesiastical appearance. But even with its expanded capacity, Crestfield was soon overcrowded again. So Millington Drake devised a notoriously difficult entrance test based on mathematical, scientific and physical aptitude, with a vision to cultivate only the finest young men in the colony.’

  ‘Sounds like a crank,’ Phoenix Lee said.

  Lethbridge showed us where the coach house and dairy once stood, then led us back to the tech workshops at New Block.

  ‘The Ormerod Wing was constructed in nineteen seventy-four to accommodate the first female students. The exposed concrete and brown bricks, while at odds with the elegance of earlier buildings, are typical of the brutalism school of architecture. One might consider it downright ugly. It was named after Crestfield’s first female librarian, Judith Ormerod – rather fitting, considering personal appearance was never her most pressing concern.’

  ‘I have a question,’ Phoenix said. ‘Were you born before or after the word “misogyny” was invented?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Please excuse the interruption!’ Ms Tarasek said.

  Lethbridge licked his lips and took us right back to where I’d begun my day, The Hive. ‘Completed four years ago at a cost of fifteen million dollars, this glass temple of sporting excellence exemplifies our founder’s vision – the development of physical perfection. Some of Australia’s most notable figures and successful businessmen are Crestfield alumni. Their exceeding generosity made the construction of this superior facility possible.’

  ‘Of course no women contributed,’ Phoenix said to Isa as we entered the building.

  ‘When I was a Crestfield lad we had no pool here, but I consider myself a small link in the chain of our proud swimming history. Please don’t think me immodest by directing your gaze to the Roll of Champions behind you.’

  I calculated Lethbridge must be in his nineties, and here he was, still crowing about being the junior backstroke champion. The pompous geezer fully deserved Phoenix Lee’s salty comments. His tour of Crestfield was kind of fascinating, but it made me feel I belonged there less than a three-legged Shetland pony in the Melbourne Cup.

  Tuesday afternoon in Biology there was only one vacant seat at the back of the lab, next to Starkey from the bike racks. As I took my place, he turned his yellowed palm for a low five. Without thinking, I slapped it.

  ‘Sean “Mullows” Mulligan,’ he said, pointing to the guy on his left with his thumb. ‘And Nads.’ Hair removal cream or gonads? I wasn’t about to ask. He was sitting on the end opposite me. Handsome in a ‘rip your balls from the sack if you cross me’ sort of way. Mullows had a ranga mullony – a mullet in a ponytail. His long neck, face and lashes gave him the appearance of a docile giraffe.

  ‘On Thursday you will perform your first rat dissection in pairs,’ Miss Keenan said. ‘Anybody not wishing to participate for ethical or religious reasons may articulate their concern.’

  Isa Mountwinter raised her hand at the front of the room. ‘A rat is a sentient being, not an object to be cut up, pulled apart and thrown in the bin. Biology is the science of life, not killing.’ She turned to face the class. ‘Please stand up if chopping up animals could hold any importance for your future.’ Three people stood, including Tibor Mintz, who wants to be a doctor like his father. ‘Everybody else is a cold-blooded animal killer.’

  ‘Animal killers!’ Phoenix Lee repeated for emphasis.

  ‘You self-righteous hypocrites,’ Nads said, raising one scarred eyebrow. ‘Somebody has to slaughter the animals you eat.’

  ‘We’re vegetarians,’ Isa said. ‘And only buy cruelty-free cosmetics.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Enough, thank you, Darvin!’ Miss Keenan said. No wonder he doesn’t use his real name. ‘Respecting one another’s opinions is part of the Crestfield Code of Conduct. Isa and Phoenix will be performing their dissection on the Cyber Rat simulator in the tech lab on Thursday. Does anybody wish to join them?’ Two other students raised their hands.

  ‘Pussies,’ muttered Starkey.

  When the final glockenspiel sounded, the dread of swimming at squad the next day hit me and I went to Bondi Junction and bought a pair of black Speedos. Though the fabric was smooth and thin, I prayed they’d be dark enough to fully conceal the nub and save me from humiliation. On the train home, I puzzled over how Simmons had known my measurements. Then I remembered Dad had insisted on taking them last year. He’d told me it was for my uniform.

  Five forty-five Wednesday morning, new Speedos already on to avoid changing on arrival, I pedalled furiously to get to squad on time. The synthetic chafing caused the nub to swell, and I walked into The Hive like a saddle-sore cowboy.

  Squad comprised the best eight swimmers from each grade, with Year 10 represented by Nads, Mullows, Starkey, a guy called Pericles Pappas, three girls and, inexplicably, me. Simmons opened with a long pep talk, ending with, ‘My dream is to make Crestfield the top swimming school in the state and this pool the birthplace of tomorrow’s champions!’ An image of Mrs Coombs having a natural water birth popped into my head. Tiny baby Coralee, future Olympian, slithered out and wiggled like a tadpole towards the surface for her first gasp of air, umbilical cord trailing behind, clouding the pool with blood and other bodily matter.

  Simmons flipped a whiteboard to reveal the lap breakdown and tally – fifty laps total, 2.5 kilometres. ‘Nobody will leave until they’ve completed the program,’ he said, then introduced the assistant coach, Deb Gelber. Her name sounded like a brand of baby food but she was all muscle, tracksuit and topknot.

  ‘Sort yourselves out!’ she barked like a drill sergeant. ‘Slowest in lane one, fastest in eight. If you’re tapped three times, move down.’ Everybody peeled off their last piece of clothing but I kept my towel wrapped tightly around my waist.

  Mullows slapped his broad shoulders then tucked his ginger pony into a blue-and-yellow racing cap. ‘Best for you to start in five,’ he said to me, snapping on reflective goggles.

  Three things came to mind:

  1) Mullows was the snarling backstroker in the Hallway of Champions photo.

  2) He and Nads were both preternaturally stacked for teenagers – possibly on the juice?

  3) I forgot to bring goggles.

  Fifty laps without them would fry my eyeballs, but there was no time to worry about minor inconveniences like blindness. I threw my towel onto a nearby seat and stood behind Pericles Pappas in lane five, hands behind my back and head down, hoping nobody would notice the nub.

  >BOY IN LANE FIVE WITHOUT GOGGLES, FIND SOME IMMEDIATELY!< Gelber bellowed through a megaphone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Pericles said. ‘I’ve got a spare pair.’ He fetched them from his bag and gave them to me. They were super tight, and the connec
tor carved into the bridge of my nose, but beggars don’t have the luxury of a wide product range.

  I dived into the pool and the coolness of the water seemed to reduce the inflammation of the nub. But after ten warm-up laps of freestyle we moved on to breaststroke and the frog kick made me feel exposed, so without being tapped, I demoted myself to lane three and swam as fast as possible to increase the distance between myself and the next swimmer. The next ten laps with a kickboard provided the relief of knowing the nub would be impossible to see through all the splashing. But then we switched to pull buoys, holding the foam peanut between our legs and using only our arms to crawl through the water.

  With legs now making no splash, I used every ounce of strength in my arms to ensure the trailing swimmer made no sighting of my little abnormality. On completion I climbed out of the pool, arms aching, lungs burning, and switched to lane two with one other sorry swimmer for the warm-down laps, every stroke a battle of will through water that felt like Clag®.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Gelber said when I finally heaved myself out of the pool and made a dash for my protective towel. ‘I thought you’d never finish.’

  The single consolation of being the last male swimmer to finish training was having the change room to myself. Still, you can never be too careful so I slipped into a cubicle and after drying my back, reached around to check the nub. It felt tiny – hardly even there. I walked to first period feeling tentatively euphoric on the basis of having made it through squad without anybody noticing anything, and wondered if I was just being paranoid. Maybe the thing was in fact shrinking away.

  ‘Don’t get cocky,’ Homunculus said. ‘It was just your first session.’

  True – and the prospect of swimming endless laps, constrained by lane lines in chlorinated water, was legitimately soul-crushing to someone who was born for the ocean.

  Walking to the science lab for the rat dissection this morning, I remembered Venn describing her experience of it in Year 10 as if it was something for me to look forward to. She’d cut up both a rat and a sheep’s eye, and had thoroughly enjoyed the process. Years earlier, the first time Pop Locke had taken us out fishing on his tinnie, he was gutting a kingfish and I couldn’t watch – but Venn was transfixed by the ritual. By the time she turned eight she was gutting and filleting her own fish. She would first thank the fish for giving up its life, then perform the operation swiftly, with a light but respectfully firm touch.