by Pip Harry
‘How’d you get them to tell you this stuff?’ I ask.
‘I asked them,’ says Eddie.
I read one more closely.
MIA MARSH
Mia has experienced homelessness for a year, but is now living in a shared apartment. She works for Sydney Eats food delivery service and is about to start a job working at Noodleman restaurant. Mia is mum to 11-month-old Charlie.
‘Writing has been a release for me during a really tough year. Through Hope Lane I’ve found my voice again.’
‘Tiny’s name is Mia?’ I say.
‘Pretty, isn’t it? She wanted to use her real name, seeing as it’s the first time she’s been published.’
Mia. I picture Tiny in my mind. Her name fits her perfectly. It’s feminine, but strong.
In the writing room, we’re having afternoon tea, then a rehearsal. Everyone has their author copies. I walk around with mine and ask for autographs. Tiny is listening to Pee Wee play the guitar; he’s taking requests.
I sit down beside her. ‘Hi Mia.’
‘Ah. My secret identity is revealed.’
‘How was your first week at Noodleman? Can I come and eat there?’
‘My boss said my friends are welcome anytime. I’ll make sure you get a good table and some free prawn crackers.’
‘Hey, will you sign my book?’ I say, turning to her pages.
‘Sure.’
She writes for a long time and then puts it in my school backpack, doing up the zip.
‘Don’t read it now.’
‘Okay. I’ve got something for you.’
I give her a plastic envelope. Inside are the poems she gave me. The originals and versions that I typed up and printed on thick white paper and tied with a ribbon.
‘Thank you. Do you mind if I keep your writing? It reminds me of you.’
‘Of course, keep it.’
I say hello to Hattie, who’s wearing a garland of pink plastic flowers in her hair. She has colour back in her cheeks and, finally, her cough has gone.
‘Didn’t think you’d last a week,’ she says to me. ‘Now you’re running the show.’
I look around at the group. I didn’t think I’d still be here either. Now I couldn’t imagine my life without them in it. ‘I’m sorry, Hattie,’ I say. ‘For not wanting to sit next to you that first day. I was scared.’
Hattie pats my arm with her soft, wrinkled hands. ‘You okay, girl. You turn out pretty good.’
‘Quick chat, Nola?’ Eddie asks me.
We step inside the kitchen and escape the noise and excitement. Everyone is rattling with loose nerves, especially Eddie. He can’t sit still.
‘You know what you have to do tomorrow?’
‘I’m bringing sandwiches and fruit,’ I say. ‘Tiny is on noodles and cake, so the food is sorted.’
‘I’ll take our books down to Carriageworks tonight,’ says Eddie. ‘We’ll arrive down there by bus tomorrow at 10am. We go on at 2pm, plenty of time to eat and settle in. I’ve got the run sheet, all the authors’ stories printed out. We’re in Bay 20, next to the information booth. There might be a few cases of stage fright.’
‘No way, they love an audience,’ I say. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Okay, let’s do the final dress rehearsal.’
We gather the group with a microphone for a last run-through. Pee Wee sings his poem with guitar backing, so loud it’s hard to hear his words. ‘Pee Wee, turn down the guitar!’ shouts Eddie. Pee Wee shakes his head and keeps strumming and shouting.
‘Big, biiiiiig guitar. So big it was bizarre!’ sings Pee Wee, who’s performing a kind of children’s fable.
Eddie puts a hand on Pee Wee’s arm. ‘Maybe no axe for this one?’ he suggests.
Pee Wee reluctantly takes the guitar off his shoulder, then storms out of the room in a huff. ‘You’re stifling my artistry!’ he shouts over his shoulder.
‘Will we see you tomorrow?’ shouts Eddie after him.
‘Maybe!’
Drew’s next. He pulls out his political manifesto. Eddie makes a face. ‘How about one of your other poems?’ Eddie asks.
‘I want to read this one,’ Drew says firmly.
‘Mate – it’s about pleasing the audience,’ says Eddie. ‘You’re an author now. You’ve got to perform the greatest hits.’
‘Stuff the audience, these are my bloody words,’ he says. ‘I’ll read what I want.’
Eddie throws up his hands, flustered. For the first time I wonder if the show will go on. Or if we’ll be a complete fizzer.
‘We’re on stage in less than twenty-four hours, guys! Sort it out!’ I shout, trying to help Eddie gain control. It doesn’t make much difference and we wrap up the rehearsal early.
As I wait for my bus back home, I read Tiny’s inscription.
Thanks to you, Nola and everyone at Hope Lane, I can now live a normal day. A day that starts with coffee, toast and a shower. A day that has a job and a pay cheque. A day that has a bed and food to eat. A day that doesn’t start with hunger or end in fear. Love always, your friend Mia x
As I open the front door I hear voices in the kitchen. Usually Mum would still be at work. But the lights and the heating are on. Music is playing from the speakers in the lounge. Cuban music. Party music. Louder than Mum would ever have it.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
‘In here, darling!’ calls out a voice. Dad. I drop my bag, kick my shoes off and run into the kitchen. I haven’t seen him for ages. He’s had back-to-back work trips.
He reaches out his arms and I hug him.
He holds onto me, tightly, like I’m a kid again. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says.
‘Me too.’ I slide up onto the kitchen bench and pick at a pile of grated parmesan cheese on a breadboard.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Mum told me you have a special day tomorrow. You’re going to need someone to sort out that mop of yours. Help you pick an outfit.’
‘I’m not going to the formal, it’s on Sunday, anyway,’ I say. This weekend all my classmates will be getting their legs waxed, hair blow-dried and make-up done. They’ll be getting into their stretch hummers as I ride a community bus.
‘Not the formal. Those things are a dime a dozen. I was talking about the writing festival. You’ll be mixing with the arty-farty elite, darling. The literati.’
‘I’ll probably wear jeans. I’m with a group of homeless people so we’re keeping it low-key.’
‘Oh,’ says Dad, disappointed.
‘But my hair does need some attention.’
‘It’s a bird’s nest. When did you last get a colour?’
‘Um, not in a while.’
‘I could braid it in the morning? Do your make-up? I’m staying over tonight.’
‘Thanks Dad.’
‘Now, what are you doing the weekend after next?’
‘Um, nothing. Studying probably.’
‘How would you like to go to the Whitsunday Islands with your old papa?’
‘Really?’
‘I’ve booked flights and got us rooms at a fabulous boutique hotel on the cliffs. We’ll have our own plunge pool. A mate of mine is the general manager, he gave me a very reasonable rate.’
‘Yes please.’
‘Wonderful. You and I need some quality father–daughter time. How do you feel about yachting?’
‘I could yacht.’
‘Good. It’s settled then.’
Mum comes out of her study and stirs a pot on the stove. I can’t recall the last time we ate at home as a family.
‘Sometimes-fail mushroom risotto?’ I ask.
‘How’d you guess?’
‘It’s the only thing you know how to cook.’
‘Hungry?’ she asks.
‘
Starving.’
‘Set the table and talk to your dad. It’ll be ready soon.’
After dinner Dad helps me make sandwiches for the festival. We stand at the kitchen bench, on a production line.
I’m buttering bread, he’s adding chicken slices. ‘How many do we need?’
‘They eat a lot. Maybe twenty?’
Dad arranges the sandwiches in a plastic container. ‘I think we’re done.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘I’ve never been more proud of you,’ he says.
‘What if it doesn’t go well? There are so many things that could go wrong.’
‘Sweetie. I have every faith in you. It’s going to be an absolute smash. The show always comes together on the day, you have nothing to worry about. There is something else I wanted to talk to you about.’ He pauses, then turns to face me. ‘I’ve decided to move out of my terrace.’
‘Why? I thought you loved it there.’
‘You can’t swing a cat and there’s no room for you or Mum. I’ve decided to rent a bigger apartment, not far from here. I’ll set up a proper bedroom so you guys can stay over whenever you like. A desk, too. I want to be around more for the rest of your HSC. I’ve told my boss to put me on desk duties and give my frequent flyer points a rest. Mum says you’re getting into your new study program. I could help out with that. Take you to the library, prepare nourishing brain food … whatever you need to get through it, I’m here. I can’t believe it’s your final year of school. How did that happen so fast? I blinked and my little buddy was all grown up.’
‘I’m not all grown up, Dad. I still need you.’
‘Good. Because I need you. Now go to bed and get some sleep.’
I kiss his cheek. ‘Night, Dad. Thanks for the help.’
Carriageworks is full of people waiting to see up-and-coming writers and performers. Lines go around corners.
‘These all our fans?’ says Pee Wee. He’s wearing a vintage tuxedo.
‘Course they are. Don’t you look spiffy today,’ I say.
‘Why thank you, m’lady. As do you.’
I’ve ditched my jeans for a simple floral dress and red cowboy boots I borrowed from Siena. I feel pretty. It’s been a while.
Big screens show the sessions live outside the venues. We stand together and listen to panels of smart people talking about all kinds of things: letter writing, love, refugees, the environment, war, poetry, children’s books and the power of words. Zak would’ve loved this. I put my hand to the piece of paper in my pocket. It’s the poem I’ll be reading aloud. I’m scared it’s not good enough.
‘Are you sure we should be here?’ I ask Nola as we move through the crowds. We’re wearing VIP passes with our names on them that get us into talks for free and something called the authors’ green room. Hattie is put out that the room isn’t actually painted green.
Nola smiles, but I can tell by her eyes that she’s as freaked out as I am.
‘You’re going to be amazing. Trust me.’
I take a few deep breaths, right down into my stomach and feel myself relax.
‘Is it lunchtime?’ asks Hattie.
‘Sure is,’ says Eddie. He’s not in his usual skinny jeans, T-shirt and biker jacket. Instead he’s wearing a buttoned-up shirt, matching pants and a tie. His hair is cut and slicked back. I see Nola check him out.
‘Get a room,’ I whisper.
Nola shushes me.
‘Time to make your move Nola, before some book girl cuts your lunch.’
‘I know, I know. I’m working on it.’
We head into the food area. There’s not a table big enough to seat us, so we find a spot on the ground outside, our backs against the crumbly red bricks and steel beams. Blinking into the spring sun. Aimee joins us, walking a pram over and picking up Daisy. She’s wearing an adorable mini beanie with kitten ears.
‘Mind if we join you?’
‘Isn’t she a darling little girl,’ says Hattie.
Daisy makes a gurgling sound and Aimee puts her on one shoulder, patting her back with a flat palm. Daisy burps loudly and everyone laughs.
I open a container of rich chocolate cake I baked and a noodle dish from work. I cut the cake, toss the noodles and put the food in the centre of our circle to share. I’m learning things at the restaurant. My head is full of new flavours I want to try. Techniques I’m getting the hang of.
‘Coor. You made this, Tiny?’ asks Drew, licking icing from a slice of cake. ‘Delicious.’
A volunteer approaches us. ‘Need a program?’ she asks.
‘We don’t need that. We’re the stars,’ says Pee Wee. He grabs the program, finds our session and points it out to the girl. ‘See there. 2pm. The Hope Lane Writers. We’re famous.’
The girl takes a pen from her bag. ‘Will you sign it for me?’ Pee Wee nods seriously and scribbles his name on the page. ‘Have a great session you guys!’ she says, heading back into the crowds.
Nola sits next to me, scoffing my food. ‘You really made this?’
‘Yeah. You like it?’ It’s nice being able to cook up a feed for the group. It makes me feel useful.
She licks her plastic plate and grins. ‘More please.’
I sit back and listen to a Sudanese rapper from Brisbane performing a spoken word poem on a nearby stage. He tells his story and I feel like I’m floating down a river of new ideas.
We go in early, set up and test the microphones. Our writers sit in the front row in the order they’re performing. I hand out their speaking copies and make sure Hattie and Drew have their reading glasses. Give them all a little pep talk about speaking slowly and clearly. Not too fast. We have a whole hour.
Eddie jiggles his foot as he takes his seat on stage.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
He wipes his palm on his shirt and laces his hot fingers through mine. He leaves our hands where Aimee and the writers can see.
‘Public hand holding?’ I ask.
‘I’m nervous. You calm me down. Is it okay?’
I squeeze his hand. ‘Yes. But don’t be nervous. Have fun.’
‘I couldn’t have done this without you.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘You’re okay to get each person on stage? You know the running order?’
‘By heart. It’ll be fine. Good luck.’
There’s camera and radio crews at the back of the room. A few photographers. An organiser approaches our table. ‘I’m opening the doors now. We’re completely full. In fact, you should see this.’
Eddie and I follow the woman to the doors. She opens them and we peer out. Outside is the longest line I’ve ever seen.
‘All these people want to see us?’ says Eddie.
‘We won’t even be able to fit a third of them inside the room. The rest can watch on the big screens. You guys are the biggest crowd of the day. That includes our big-name authors. You’re a hit.’
Eddie puts his arms around me and we jump up and down.
My parents take their seats and wave at me enthusiastically. Mr J is here too, sitting next to Lolly and Ebony.
I’m shocked to see Ebony here. She didn’t tell me she was coming and we haven’t talked at school. I wave at them and Lolly holds up the book and points at her cover.
‘Are we on yet?’ asks Pee Wee.
‘We’re on,’ I whisper.
Aimee explains the Hope Lane program. How long it’s been running. What we do. Then Eddie takes the microphone and puts a photo up on the screen. It’s a handsome Asian guy, about thirty, with a baby on his shoulders.
‘This is my father,’ says Eddie. ‘His name was Bayani Go. Eleven years ago he died of an overdose on the streets of Sydney. He was a published poet but as a young man he was sexually abused by a family friend and he never re
ally recovered.’
He changes the slide to a photo of Zak, presenting a lecture to a room of university students. His face bright, eyes clear and focused.
‘This is Zak Miller. He died four weeks ago in Hyde Park of hypothermia and substance abuse. He was forty-seven. Zak was a philosophy lecturer and one of our writers. He would’ve been here today if he’d been able to hang on.
‘We’d like to dedicate today’s session to Bayani and Zak and the thousands more like them. Today, over 100,000 Australians are homeless. And these numbers are rising. Our homeless are a largely hidden part of our population. But today we’d like to put them in the spotlight. If you take one thing away from this session we hope it’s that everyone has a story to tell. No matter who they are. Or what their circumstances. Thank you for coming. Now I’d like to introduce some of our talented writers, starting with Pee Wee, a musician and poet.’
Pee Wee takes to the stage and reads his poem, ‘The Big, Big Guitar’. About a man who buys a huge guitar, but can’t get it out of the shop.
Pee Wee is a natural and he has the audience laughing with every twisted, quirky rhyme. Next, Hattie recites a bush poem about a long, hard drought that ends with a downpour of rain that brings the landscape back to life.
Drew is next and I glance over at Eddie, with my fingers crossed.
‘Yeah, hi. I want to read this story about getting a water jet turned on me like an animal. I hope youse like it.’
He reads his poem about the deterrent water hoses in the city. The audience listen, shocked. It’s powerful and he takes it slow. Letting the audience hear and absorb every word. He has them wrapped around his gnarled pinky.
I give Drew a high five as he leaves the stage, the audience is clapping now. Banging the floor with their feet. Wolf whistling.
My stomach turns as Nola takes me on stage and I don’t hear anything as Eddie introduces me. The audience clap, even though I haven’t done anything yet. The faces in front of me are a blur. My hands shake violently and I’m not sure if I can open my mouth to speak.
