The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘But all they were talking about,’ I murmured, ‘was a Polish exchange student.’

  He seemed, then, to pounce.

  ‘That’s all you heard?’ he pounced.

  I nodded, miserably.

  ‘Tell me precisely what they said about this Polish exchange student.’

  Helplessly, I shrugged. I had no recollection of particular words.

  We regarded one another for a moment. And then I whispered, ‘A copyright dispute?’

  He lifted one of the papers on his desk, to reveal a disk in a paper envelope.

  He held it up.

  ‘Over this,’ he said. ‘Software. Enlightenment it’s called. A rather new age name. Some educational software that the Board plans on rolling out. It’s a consolidation tool for teachers, basically—brings together information about education in this state. You’ve got your student records, your teacher qualifications, your exams, your assessment tasks, your model answers, you name it . . .’

  He droned on but my head had caught these words, and was chanting them: your exams, your assessment tasks, your model answers.

  On that disk?

  If I could just distract his attention!

  If I could slip that disk into my pocket!

  Exams, assessment tasks, model answers . . .

  All there! The solution all there!

  But the lawyer was raising his voice.

  ‘See, your school’s agreed to do the test run,’ he explained, waving the disk gently back and forth before my eyes. ‘It’s loaded onto the teachers’ computers there—there’s an Ashbury password. The teachers have the password.’

  Ah.

  The password.

  The disk, on its own, was useless.

  What had I been thinking anyway?

  Of cheating?

  Never!

  ‘But you’re telling me you heard nothing about software?’ He leaned forward, examining my face.

  ‘No,’ I whispered.

  An inscrutable expression seemed to flit across his face— something almost like triumph. Was he pleased that I was failing as a witness? As if he’d always known that a schoolgirl would be no help?

  He continued to prod at my story for a while, trying to find a way into copyright and software when all I had to offer was a student and a slap.

  At one point, he paused.

  ‘Well, now—this Polish student—could that have been the password do you think? I can’t tell you the password, but I can say that it sounds like a name—it might even sound a bit like a Polish name, I guess. Was it the password, do you think?’

  And so the meeting went on.

  My memory of the fight had been a neat wooden structure—and here was a lawyer, dismantling it, one plank of timber at a time.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as the meeting closed. ‘You’ve got my number. I want you to spend this next week really thinking over the event, and, let’s say you remember anything at all? Give me a call.’

  As I caught the train home, the burst of light exploded.

  I saw why I had been wrong.

  I had believed the women were substitute teachers because I had never seen them before, and furthermore, I disapprove of substitute teachers. So I am always looking out for them, ready to disapprove.

  I had believed they were discussing an exchange student because I was caught up in the issue of exchange—at that time, my friend, Kelly Simonds, was about to exchange me for Vienna.

  And these last years I’d seen only the flaws of my classmates because I was caught up with flaws of my own. The events of Year 8 had caused me to obsess about those flaws.

  My brother had warned me I might lose myself. The opposite was true.

  I had been lost within myself. When you’re lost within yourself you make mistakes.

  How fortunate that I had begun to change! That I was using my talents of observation, now, to help my FAD group see the good within themselves!

  12

  A Portrait of Astrid Bexonville

  Ah, Astrid.

  It has come to you at last.

  The most important portrait.

  The portrait I have feared.

  The portrait that makes my heart flutter, nay that—

  Enough!

  Here I sit, on the terrace at Castle Hill Public Library. It is late afternoon, and chilly. My eyelashes keep fluttering. Auntie Veronica took me to the optometrist yesterday afternoon. Nothing wrong with my vision so he gave me trial contact lenses. They seem to make me blink. Strange though, to see the world without frames! As if I were a regular person with vision of my own!

  I believe it is Tuesday. Three days until my birthday.

  Tuesday?

  I am missing piano!!

  Ah well.

  Obediently, I think of Astrid Bexonville.

  I will not think of our conversation, near the end of Year 7, when I called her a lamb chop.

  I will not think of the trip to Hill End—nor feel that tightening, those frantic gasps for air . . .

  I will clear my mind of evil Astrid and see what makes her shine.

  Astrid is like the speck of light at the tip of a sparkler. She is lively, agile, seems always to be climbing, hiding in gardens, running from police.

  She is unafraid of spiders. In the FAD session at my place, an enormous huntsman appeared on the wall above the curtain rod. While Emily screamed, and the boys took large steps backwards, Astrid moved in, fascinated. She asked for a dustpan and broom, stood on the couch, captured the spider, and carefully carried it outside.

  I remember in Year 9 when a teacher left the room for a moment, Astrid suggested that we all move into the empty room next door and sit down at the same desks. Everybody obeyed. The teacher was nonplussed. It was, in fact, amusing.

  Oh, but there are so many ways I could help Astrid!

  I could send her a checklist for alcoholics—how much does she drink? Does she understand the risks? I could recommend restraint and legal conduct. Why is she always running from the police? Perhaps if she stopped breaking the law? She has referred, obscurely, to shoplifting, drug use and minor acts of vandalism.

  She talks about fashion and make-up a lot. Encourage her to be less superficial?

  Perhaps I will send her this quote that I found only this morning in my etiquette book: ‘But a love of dress has its perils for weak minds.’ (Our Deportment, p 313.)

  But see how I stray into her flaws! Just because I don’t break the law!

  (Well, but I do! I stole a key from Maureen’s shop, and I’d better find a way to put it back soon, or else . . .)

  I must focus on Astrid’s qualities.

  She is very pretty, that stud in her eyebrow glinting in the sun.

  There, in the distance now, walking down the hill from Castle Towers, I see a girl and her boyfriend. Like Astrid, the girl has long black hair, and has tied it with a lime green ribbon.

  That green-and-black that Astrid favours—now, that is picturesque. Like pine needles scattered on inky mud. Like traffic lights in the rain. A black cow standing in a meadow.

  The girl and her boyfriend have stopped at lights now, waiting to cross the street. The girl turns towards her boyfriend. They embrace. They hold each other tight.

  They glance back towards the terrace where I sit.

  There is something—

  That is not a girl and her boyfriend!

  That is Astrid.

  And that is Sergio.

  13

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  Since Tuesday, I have been lost and distressed, but the time has come to emerge from the gloom—it’s my birthday!

  Spin like a revolving door; pivot on your heel like a goal shooter! Face the sunshine again, Bindy—it’s your birthday!

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  It is time to see the bright side of life, and the bright side of life
is this: I might have been wrong!

  Maybe that was not Astrid and Sergio standing together at the lights? Maybe I imagined their embrace? (Look at the dismal state of my witnessing skills! That lawyer was amazed by my stupidity. And I was trying out new contact lenses!)

  Another bright side: I have not seen any tenderness between the two these last few days. (I stopped school work altogether to spy—but found nothing.)

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  So! I will embrace my birthday and enjoy it. I will see nothing but the bright side. And tomorrow my FAD group goes to the Blue Mountains! (I wish I had something to wear.) Maybe I will finish my portrait of Astrid—I stopped it abruptly when I thought she was a traitor and so have not sent her a memo. I suppose I will give her some personalised memo stationery tomorrow.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  Tonight, Auntie Veronica and Uncle Jake will make a birthday dinner, with Mum, Anthony, Sam and Ernst von Schmerz. Dad would be here too, of course, but he’s still working in Tasmania.

  There’s my phone ringing now. Probably Dad. He likes to be the first with birthday greetings.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  Huh. It was not my dad. It was my piano teacher. She just got a cancellation and suggested I come by later today, to make up for the lesson I missed on Tuesday.

  Generous woman!

  I see the postman through the window! I might just run downstairs . . .

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday morning. My Birthday!

  THERE WAS A POSTCARD FROM DAD IN TASMANIA!!!! HOW DID HE TIME IT SO PERFECTLY!!! TO ARRIVE ON THISVERYDAY!!

  I will not read it now.

  I will save it for later today.

  For now, school! Let’s see who remembers it’s my birthday.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon. My Birthday.

  Just home from piano and must do some visualisation exercises to restore my birthday mood. Piano was disconcerting. I was somewhat shaken when I arrived anyway, as no-one had remembered my birthday. (Except Ernst.) And teachers pleaded for overdue assignments, as if it were an ordinary day. I am weary of their pleading. ‘Can’t you just write it yourself?’ I snapped at Ms Walcynski today. The look that she gave me!

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon. My Birthday.

  But, piano. I arrived to find Mrs Woolley on her front porch, chatting with another student’s mother. We stood together for a moment, and watched a woman push a baby carriage by.

  Guess who the woman was?

  Eleanora. My pasta lady.

  She didn’t look up as she passed: she was pushing the carriage quite briskly. And inside the carriage? A plump, happy baby, gurgling away at the world.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  And that’s not all. Just after Eleanora passed, Mrs Woolley murmured, ‘Oh, there goes that poor woman, Eleanora. Her husband left her just a month before that baby was born. She’s a nervous wreck about the baby, I hear, and terribly timid to boot—doesn’t know a soul in this city. A woman in the corner store told me.’

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  There I sat at Mrs Woolley’s piano, scales and arpeggios trilling, while realisation weighed heavy, heavy! in my stomach. There was no mystery about Eleanora! She was just lonely! She needed somebody to talk to. All those nights while she made pasta and threw questions at me—she had seemed so stilted and peculiar. I could see nothing but secrets and intrigue. But she was simply timid! I never really knew that a grown-up could be ‘timid’.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  As you can imagine, I did not play the piano well. (It’s been a while since I practised, for a start.) Mrs Woolley worked herself up into a fever. ‘Are you playing with your fingers or your heart, Bindy? Are you merely playing in theory?. Or are you one with the music? Are you, Bindy Mackenzie, one with this piece and this piano?’ She went on like this quite a bit.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  But Mrs Woolley, I kept wanting to say, it’s my birthday.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon. My Birthday!

  And so it is! I can hear Auntie Veronica and Bella in the kitchen downstairs, clattering around, tins clashing, excited chat.

  Must go down and offer to help.

  But first, I will cheer myself up and read Dad’s postcard!!!

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  Oh. How funny.

  The postcard was not to me.

  It was to Bella from her Uncle Dave. (That’s Jake’s brother, I think.) It seems he’s on holidays in Tasmania. What a coincidence. In the postcard, he promises to bring back a Tasmanian tiger for Bella.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  Good luck, Uncle Dave. Last I heard they were extinct.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  For heaven’s sake, who sends a postcard to a four-year-old?

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  I’m over-reacting here.

  Something to do with the disappointment, I guess, combined with feeling stupid about my mistake. I mean, who mistakes Bella for ‘Bindy’? Who reads Uncle Dave and sees ‘Dad’? Why did I think this postcard was for me?!

  I guess I just glanced at the card and saw what I wanted to see.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday afternoon

  Can’t stop feeling embarrassed for having this card in my room all day. Can’t stop thinking stupid thoughts like: it’s my birthday! Why should Bella get a card? Keep trying to get up from my bed, to go downstairs, but can’t stop crying.

  Night Time Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday, 11.00 pm

  Well, it is over.

  My birthday dinner is done . . .

  I have waved goodbye to all the guests, and helped Uncle Jake pack the dishwasher. Auntie Veronica went straight to bed—exhausted. I think you get tired more quickly when you’re pregnant.

  It was fun. Mum arrived with a huge bunch of helium balloons. Anthony and Sam brought their movie camera along and got Ernst and me to act out impromptu scenes with Bella’s toys. Bella felt proud that her toys were in a movie.

  Also, I got some great stuff—including jeans which appear to be pre-faded and pre-ripped and which you wear low down around your waist! And high black boots! And a jacket and some other tops which will be good for the mountains.

  I pretended to be shocked by all these ‘fashionable’ clothes, but I tried them on and did a parade around the kitchen, and everyone made so much noise about how great I looked, and secretly I thought maybe I looked kind of, I don’t know, ‘cool’????

  But then the telephone rang and I kind of jumped excitedly, and ran to get it, but it wasn’t my dad. It was Maureen from the bookshop, saying she’s very sorry but she can’t keep employing me at the moment, and she should really have looked at her turnover before she took me on. Indeed, I thought to myself, acerbically. She promised to call me the moment she could afford to take me on again. Then right at the end of the conversation she mentioned, in an offhand way, that the spare key was still missing, the one from behind the counter?

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said. ‘Terrible!’

  And hung up.

  I believe she suspected me of dishonesty! I bet it’s nothing to do with her profit margin! I bet she’s
planning to employ that name I saw on her notepad—she had looked so embarrassed when I saw it on the floor of the shop. Markus Pulie. I remember the name well. But imagine suspecting me of stealing a key!

  Anyway, all this rushed through my head as I returned to the table. The others waited patiently and I explained I had lost my job.

  ‘On your birthday!’ they cried, outraged yet sympathetic.

  I did not mention the missing key. I still keep it on my starfish keyring.

  I rather enjoyed their outrage on my behalf, and became quite gleeful about how I had lost all my jobs—and the night turned pleasant again.

  Halfway through the chocolate mousse-cake dessert, however, Uncle Jake said the word ‘coincidence’.

  He said it in that way he does: co-inky-dence.

  And suddenly, I was convinced he was about to say ‘Cincinnati’, and say it like this: Cinky-natty.

  I was TERRIFIED, because I knew that would ruin my word, Finnegan’s word, for evermore.

  (I had no reason to believe he was about to say Cincinnati. I just suddenly believed that he would.)

  I guess I must have looked pale or horror-struck because next thing everyone was saying, ‘What’s wrong, Bindy?’

  And they were suddenly urgent, saying, what’s wrong generally with you? All looking at each other and agreeing that I’ve been acting strange lately, and Ernst von Schmerz, traitor, told them he never sees me at school any more, and Mum said the school phoned her to say I’ve been missing classes, and Anthony said he thought I was kind of weird when we met in the city the other day, etc, etc.

  Even Bella chimed in to say I’d been playing with her food a lot lately. That stopped the conversation for a moment. Bella explained that she meant her plastic picnic food. I thought we were playing together.

  They were also asking me about my health, and saying they don’t understand why I keep avoiding the doctor, and Mum was practically crying.

  It was like an ambush!

  It was like one of those interventions when they try to get people to stop taking drugs!!!