The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Late, Wednesday night

  Went to Eleanora’s tonight. Still no sign of the baby. I asked to see a photo and Eleanora looked at me in panic, I’m sure. ‘But my hands!’ she said, ‘I can’t get the albums out!’

  FAD was also intriguing.

  It turned out that Emily and Astrid had secretly offered to run a session of their own. They had followed my lead! I suppose that is flattering.

  The nature of the session was not, however, clear to me.

  It seemed to consist of a series of questions, which we were supposed to discuss. Here is an example:

  Okay, let’s say there’s a piece of machinery in a factory. If you get your sleeve caught in this machinery, your fingers will be mangled. But, okay, let’s say it’s not switched on, but it could be switched on at any moment, would you put your hand in it? Why? Oh, okay, why not? No, seriously, why not?

  This set of questions was asked, with intensity, by Astrid, who looked at us in turn, and we looked at one another, perplexed, then tried, half-heartedly, to answer.

  ‘No,’ we said, ‘because we like our fingers.’

  At which, Astrid turned hopefully to Sergio and said, ‘But you would, right? Because of your adrenaline thing?’ And Sergio said, gently and kindly, ‘But Astrid, I’m not a COCKLEBUR.’

  ‘I don’t really like that sort of language,’ said Try, absentmindedly.

  But Astrid was nodding, slowly. She tilted her head towards Emily and stage-whispered, ’Em, what was our point?’ Emily shrugged and they both collapsed in giggles.

  Other questions included:

  Do you think staircases go as high as they could? No, seriously, don’t you think they should go higher?

  Also:

  Do you think we could fly if we truly believed in ourselves?

  ‘Elizabeth already flies,’ Sergio said, ‘when she runs.’ He gazed at her as he said this, and Elizabeth laughed, embarrassed.

  I was trying to focus on Briony and yet she is so easy to forget.

  Such a silence!

  When one remembers, one finds the silence exasperating. A black hole in the armchair constellation.

  I tried to dispel this notion, to focus on the positive. But I could not explain this: Finnegan and Elizabeth both tend to be quiet, yet neither of them has the same effect. Their eyes, faces, gestures participate. They are one with the group. Now and then they speak, and no-one is surprised.

  Briony is not one with us at all. She is separate. She sits awkward, her shoulders tense.

  And I have noticed over and over: she only ever speaks three times.

  Except when Toby is tossing the ball to her, forcing her to speak, Briony speaks three times.

  Once her quota of three is used, she reacts even to questions with nothing but the murmur of a smile. Her eyes dart away. She hangs her head, unwinds the bandaid on her thumb and presses it back down.

  Thursday, 2.00 am

  Shall I say that Briony is a sweet white rabbit or a mouse? But she might not like that. I feel such curious tingling in my arms and legs these days, as if a mouse were chewing gently on my flesh.

  Thursday, 8.00 pm

  Curious.

  Today we had Biology and I became conscious of some kind of fanfare across the room. It turned out that the teacher was lavishing praise on Briony. Something about her assignment.

  (I must do that assignment myself some time. It’s some kind of environmental case study, I think.)

  Briony has done something brilliant about contaminated water in Bangladesh. Something superb. (Briony’s name looks a bit like Biology. I wonder if that gave her an advantage?)

  Later, I saw Toby in Economics and I mentioned Briony’s success. Just to see his face.

  It lit up like a Christmas tree.

  And then I could not help myself.

  ‘Toby,’ I said. ‘Have you noticed that she always speaks three times?’ The Christmas lights dimmed. Disappointment etched itself in lines around his mouth.

  ‘I’m not criticising her,’ I hurried to explain. ‘It’s just something I’ve noticed in FAD. It’s never more or less than three times. If she can help it.’

  Now Toby breathed in slowly: the sigh you breathe when a child asks for a foolish favour.

  And then he said, ‘You know how we had to give challenges to our buddy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And Briony is my buddy?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Well. I challenged her to speak three times at FAD each week.’

  I clasped a hand to my mouth.

  ‘If I hadn’t,’ he said, ‘she’d never say a single word.’

  Later today, while quietly shelving books in Maureen’s bookstore, I realised this: Briony always speaks three times.

  But this time I realised in a whole different way.

  That is: as far as I know, she has never once failed to meet the challenge.

  And Toby was right: without that challenge, she would not say a word.

  What must it mean to her to force herself to speak three times? Someone as shy as Briony? To do that every week.

  She was so much more than a rabbit or a mouse!

  Then, too, there was that day when Toby threw the ball to Briony. She began to relax. She turned into somebody playful and almost fun. She was no longer a black hole. She was simply herself.

  Which means, of course, that normally she is not herself.

  Imagine the loneliness of that: never to be yourself.

  I flicked through the pages of a paperback, pretending to read, while meanwhile, I felt my face burning.

  For Briony had met her challenge but I had not. Finnegan had asked me to take a kickboxing class. Such a simple challenge yet the moment I saw that I would not excel—that I might look foolish in that class—I dropped out!

  Well!

  And look, too, at this simple challenge I set myself! That I would come into Maureen’s shop late one night, and give it a thorough clean. A surprise gift for a friend! And yet I had not even had the courage to take the key!

  I decided I would do it. Maureen was chatting with a customer, so I walked (brazenly) behind the counter and took down the key.

  And now, home again, I feel a little better when I touch the cold metal in my pocket. I have put it on my starfish keyring, to keep it safe.

  For now, though, I must think of Briony again. I turn to my etiquette book, and flip through the pages. I’m not sure what I seek . . . but there it is.

  ‘The person who is shy . . .’ begins the book:

  ‘. . . needs the most delicate sympathy. He should be encouraged to talk, but it must be done in so careful a manner that he will not be conscious of your intent, else will his pride take alarm, and he will retreat from the field.’

  I turn a page and the book recommends that boys and girls who are shy should be taught dancing, gymnastics and boxing.

  I will see what I can do.

  A Memo from Bindy Mackenzie

  To: Briony Atkins

  From: Bindy Mackenzie

  Subject: YOU

  Time: Friday, 11.00 am

  Dear Briony,

  Once, I may have suggested that you were a sea-cucumber. I may have whispered this in your presence.

  (Indeed, I may have written the words SEA-CUCUMBER across a large photographic poster of your face.)

  That was wrong of me.

  You are in no way a sea-cucumber.

  (Even though your mother is a marine biologist!)

  No, Briony, I was mistaken.

  You are a Fly River Turtle.

  Like a Fly River Turtle, you appear to be timid—you dive under a rock at the hint of a stranger—but, in the right company, you are playful and at ease. You may seem gentle and vulnerable, but you carry a shell that is resolute and hard as rock.

  I hope you will forgive me for mistaking you for a sea-cucumber

  And please accept this complimentary set of personalised memo stationery.

  Very Best Wishes,
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  Bindy Mackenzie

  PS Also, you may like to know that I am a member of the Castle Hill Gym. Lately, I’ve been going regularly, and sitting at the rowing machine. If you’d ever like to join me, I have some visitor passes. They have classes inaerodance, aqua-gymnastics and kickboxing. I wonder if these might interest you?

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Monday morning, early

  Yesterday, at the gym, I sat as usual in my rowing machine, and I rowed.

  As I rowed, I saw this: a personal trainer with three plump people. He was showing them around, pointing out changing rooms, equipment, and weights—and the three plump people, dressed in jackets and jeans, looked nervous, awkward and self-conscious. They glanced at us—they glanced at me—and what they saw were members of the gym, people in sports attire, pushing and pulling at various pieces of steel. Occasional grunting and groaning. (I even grunted once, a little, myself.) They glanced at us with respect, and I realised, as I watched: they are tourists. They are tourists, but I belong.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  And then I realised this: I have never felt like this before.

  I have never, to the best of my recollection, thought to myself: I belong.

  So that was a shock.

  7

  Telephone Messages for Bindy Mackenzie . . .

  While you were. . . in the shower just now.

  You received a call from . . . a guy who says he works for a law firm (Elroy, Lexus & Thai (Tie?)). His name is Blake Elroy, so he claims. (He called on your mobile phone, and I answered it for you. Is that okay? Sorry.)

  In relation to . . . something about an incident you witnessed at Ashbury last year! He wants you to call him and arrange to come in to give a statement! WHAT DID YOU WITNESS?

  Further notes. . . Hey Bindy, look, I found your Phone Messages stationery. Hope I used it right. Come downstairs and tell me what this is about. Love, Auntie Veronica.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Wednesday, not sure of the time. After recess? In the Year 11 wing, at a desk, by the window, amongst lockers.

  My telephone message must be about that minor assault I saw from my shadow seat outside the library last year. (The substitute teachers arguing—one slapped the other across the face.) I remember it vividly! I will make an exquisite witness! I phoned back and left a message, assuring the lawyer that I would make an exquisite witness.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  How strange, what a marvel, what a twist! Last year, when I witnessed the assault, I felt such a foolish outsider—so unwanted, even by the victim, who swore at me when I offered support. But now she wants me, after all! She has seen the error of her ways! All this time she must have kept my contact details! And now I am going to play a key role in the dance of the legal system.

  I belong! Once again, I belong.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  A shrill, strange sound tears through my head! High-pitched!

  A dazzle of noise!

  What is that?! What is that sound?!

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Oh. It is the school bell.

  I know it well.

  And here the doors are thrown open, and students pour into my space, as if staging a surprise attack! An attack on the lockers! A lesson ends, a lesson begins. Or perhaps it is the start of recess? Or is it lunch?

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  A few minutes later . . .

  Oh. Funny. It turns out it was neither recess nor lunch. It was just the short pause between two classes.

  Just now, a hand landed on my shoulder. I gasped and jumped out of the chair. It was Miss Flynn, my English teacher. She waited, patient, while I calmed myself.

  (Miss Flynn is, coincidentally, a substitute teacher, just like the fighting women I witnessed last year. And yet she does not seem to be going anywhere. Can a substitute remain for so long? Why you are still here? I almost asked.)

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  But I did not want to hurt her feelings.

  She herself did not spare mine.

  ‘Bindy, I just finished teaching an English class, and I’m sure you belong in that class. Just as you belonged in my class on Monday. What’s going on? This isn’t like you. And another thing, Bindy, see this briefcase of mine? Right now, it’s full of Pride and Prejudice essays, and that means your essay belongs here, too, and, as far as I know, it’s not.’

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I explained that I have been distracted by FAD.

  ‘I’ve been writing portraits of my FAD group,’ I said, ‘which has sometimes required me to follow the FAD member around, thereby forcing me to miss classes of my own.’

  It was a shame, I said, but could not be avoided.

  I promised I would get to her essay as soon as I could.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  As I spoke, I noticed that Miss Flynn was drumming the fingers of her right hand onto the palm of her left. There was something distracting about that. And then I looked at her face, at the sharp little curl of her mouth, and I remembered. She drums her fingers like that whenever somebody speaks nonsense. It’s her technique. She meant I was speaking nonsense!!!

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I have never been treated with such disrespect.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Anyway, she is gone now. I didn’t really mean to miss English. But how could I tell her that I had simply been confused? That time has been rather curious of late? That I no longer know who I am? A person who does not write essays! A person obsessed with her FAD group! (Help! What of my future! Oh well. Never mind.)

  How could I say that my arms and legs are heavy with exhaustion, that my head pounds like a beating fist, that my stomach is sick with something like the cousin of fear? (But what do I fear?) I saw a billboard ad for soft tissues today, which showed a puppy resting its neck on the edge of the package. The idea of pressure against my neck—a wave of nausea struck me like a cannonball. I had to run to the gutter and throw up.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Speaking of palms, mine are marvellously calloused at the moment. From the rowing machine. I can’t stop feeling the roughness of the skin there.

  Which makes me think of those ‘trust exercises’. It was months ago that Try mentioned them, at an early FAD session. It was when we were first given our ‘buddies’. Try said she’d planned to give us ‘trust exercises’, but it was raining. We’ll do trust another time, she said. And she explained. You know, she said, you tie your hand to your buddy’s hand and lead each other around blindfolded?

  Imagine if we did that now! Finnegan would hold my hand, and he would feel the callouses on my palms.

  He might not like that. He might prefer a soft and tender hand.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I have been using handcream and moisturisers each day lately, just in case these trust exercises come up.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  And yet, I picture this: Finnegan’s hand closes around my hand. A buzzing sound, that no-one else can hear, as of a swarm of distant bees. This is our hands, communicating. Finnegan’s hand buzzes, ‘What’s this?’ and my hand replies, ever so softly, ‘This? This is callouses from the gym.’ And Finnegan’s hand says, ‘Ah, the gym that you joined because of my challenge?’ and my hand whispers, ‘Yes.’ And then, although we both face resolutely forward, so that the gold of his hair is nothing but a light in the corner of my eye, so that his profile is nothing but a shadowy outline—although we look straight ahead, and not at one another—even so, our hands squeeze tight.

  I have seen Finnegan’s hands so I know how they would feel; they are much larger than mine. Cool and dry
, I think, yet with something that softens as it presses.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I wonder what we will do in FAD today? I think we ought to do those trust exercises some time. Really, a teacher should not promise future exercises and then not carry them through. That just confuses the students.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I suppose I have missed a couple of FAD sessions. I suppose she might have done the trust exercises while I was absent. But what would poor Finnegan have done? Wandering lonely as a cloud, blindfolded, no buddy to guide him, bumping into trees.

  I hope they didn’t do something like take turns sharing buddies, so that Astrid tied her hand to Finnegan, or Elizabeth, or Emily, or Briony. That would have been wrong.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  There was another trust exercise, too. I remember Try mentioned something else. Falling into your buddy’s arms and trusting your buddy to catch you. Imagine Astrid falling into Finnegan’s arms. She is too quick and bony. I don’t think he’d have liked that. Or Elizabeth. (He might have liked that—I think he is fond of Elizabeth—sometimes I feel sorry for him, as he must have noticed that Sergio and Liz are together.) Or Emily. But she is too hysterical—she wouldn’t have trusted him, she would have collapsed into giggles.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  No. It is right that I, his buddy, do the trust exercises with Finnegan. I would fall freely and neatly. I would not grow hysterical. He would be pleased. And I would catch him, too, when he fell into my arms. He may be taller and larger than me, but I would focus, oh! I would concentrate, and I would catch him. I am sure of it. I suppose we might somehow tumble to the grass.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  I suppose I should be at the Year Assembly just now. And yet why? I might just rest my head here on this desk and have a sleep.