The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley

by Martine Murray

  Boy, he’d really thought it out. Oh, it all made sense, suddenly. The yellow thing in the hole. Harold ratting on Barnaby.

  ‘Yes!’ I almost shouted. And then you know what I did? I was so relieved, I threw my arms around Kite’s neck—not for long, just for an instant—and then I laughed, half to cover the fact of having almost bumped foreheads in that awkward sudden hug, half because I always laugh when some tension is let out, like a balloon going crazy when air whooshes out of it. Don’t worry—I instantly composed myself and moved quickly along by explaining how I knew Harold Barton was jealous as hell of Barnaby, because Barnaby’s a natural. Barnaby’s good at footy—even Harold’s dad said so. And he’s even better at skateboarding than Harold, though Barnaby never even had his own board—he just had a go on other people’s. But by far the most aggravating thing about Barnaby is that he doesn’t even care about all that; he doesn’t care about being good at footy; he doesn’t brag, he doesn’t even want to be in the Zebras, even though the Zebras want him. What he really likes is, music, and thinking up ideas, and some girls, but not many of them . . . So, anyway, Mr Barton must have come huffing over here and accused Barnaby of stealing his son’s skateboard, so Mum sent Barnaby away to boarding school.

  ‘Goddamn!’ said Kite.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, and we both shook our heads and thought bad thoughts about Harold, together. After a few nice moments of sharing our distaste for Harold Barton, Kite said he better go, and reminded me that we only had four rehearsals left before the show.

  ‘I’ll be there. Sorry about missing it yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘No worries.’ He stretched his arms up and hung for a minute from the doorway. I could see his belly button. And the muscles in his belly. My hand wanted to tickle him, but I didn’t let it. Then he went.

  That night, Mum got home later than usual, but she had pizza. She brings home pizza when she feels bad for coming home so late. She knows pizza will always turn me from a grump into an angel.

  ‘Did you get half without anchovies?’ I said, because she loves anchovies and I hate them. My mum is mostly vegetarian, except when it comes to anchovies on pizza and calamari rings fried in batter. Those things she can’t resist.

  ‘Of course,’ she said triumphantly. And she threw off the lid and slid the pizza under my nose for inspection.

  ‘You’re late,’ I said with just exactly the right amount of grumpiness, enough to show that she hadn’t got away with it completely but not so much that I might appear unbribable by the very glorious pizza bribe.

  ‘Sorry,’ she grimaced. ‘It was work. But, Cedy, I’m negotiating. I’m trying to get my hours changed, so if I work a long Saturday I can get off earlier some week nights and come home earlier.’

  It wasn’t as if I’d been angling for Mum to do that, but since I’d tried running away, she’d decided it would be a good thing. So I decided it would be, too, especially if it meant that she wouldn’t be so tired when she got home, so then I could ask her questions without giving her a headache.

  We sat down at the table and we didn’t even bother with plates. I love that. I ate two whole pieces pretty quickly without hardly speaking, then halfway through the next slice I started the conversation.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was Dad a drug addict?’

  She put down her slice of pizza. Her mouth dropped open.

  ‘No, of course he wasn’t. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Mr Barton said he was. He told Harold, and Harold told the other kids.’

  ‘Mr Barton was wrong to say that. Listen, sweetheart, Mr Barton and your dad were very different kinds of people. Your dad was a leftie and Mr Barton—’

  ‘What’s a leftie?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘A leftie is someone who believes that—well they believe in sharing. They’re not always good at sharing in their personal life—’ she gave a little odd smile— ‘but in politics they believe that the government should make sure there is enough for everyone, so that all people can afford basic things like housing and education and healthcare. Often, you see, a very few people end up with much much more than they need, while many many people don’t have nearly enough.’

  ‘What do righties believe then? Don’t they think sharing is good?’

  She laughed. ‘They’re not called righties, they’re called conservatives or capitalists. Or today they’re part of a way of thinking that is called economic rationalism. Look, I’m not very political myself so I can’t explain this very well, but basically, the Mr Bartons in this world believe that things work best if people are encouraged to make as much money as they can in whatever way they want. They think this money will create jobs and trickle down to the people who don’t have enough. The problem is that the money may be made in ways that are harmful to both the environment and the spirit of society. And often it doesn’t trickle down at all.’

  ‘What do you mean—the spirit of society?’

  ‘I guess I’m talking about happiness, real happiness, not the kind that comes from money and new cars or swimming pools. Real happiness comes from loving your family and friends, from caring for other people, or from communicating something to another person, or just from singing a song you like . . . It sounds a bit sappy, but you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Like making a circus show?’

  ‘Yes, like that.’

  ‘Doesn’t Mr Barton care for other people?’

  ‘Of course he does. It’s just that many big businesses are doing very uncaring things because it makes them a lot of money. Not all business is bad though. There are people who earn a good living through good businesses. Like that bakery in Brunswick where they make that organic sourdough bread we like. And Mr Barton isn’t bad. He just might feel threatened by anyone who wants to make changes. Now, your father was involved with the Green Movement. Anyone who fights to save trees and forests is often seen as a hippy or a drop-out—someone who smokes pot and sings protest songs. That’s why Mr Barton says your dad was a drug addict—only because he felt threatened by what your father was doing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Does that make sense to you, Cedar?’ She leaned her head towards me, looking worried.

  ‘Yep. I think so.’ I started on the rest of the pizza. She smiled. I wasn’t sure I really understood it all. It seemed very complicated. I don’t like economics or politics. It just seems to cause a lot of arguments. But as far as I could see, my dad was on the good side, the sharing side. And I was satisfied. I planned to ask more some day, but that was enough for one night.

  I had other things to think about for the next four days.

  Ironically, the self-stolen skateboard of Harold Barton, which we innocently fished out of the hole, became a crucial prop in our show. We attached a rope to either end and got Oscar standing on top of it. Caramella lengthened the cone costume, so it came right down over the board and you couldn’t see that he was standing on anything. But we could move him along by pulling the rope. At one stage, Kite and I had a tug of war over Oscar. It looked tricky and great.

  I told Kite about my dad being a leftie and a greenie and not at all a drug addict. He said he thought Ruben was a leftie, too, and we decided that if we ever had to be anything, other than an acrobat, we might be lefties, too. But I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Ricci read the newspaper article. She came over and wrapped her arms around me saying, ‘I love you, you an angel.’ She hugged me for ages, and I was stuck with my face squashed up against her drooping breasts.

  The night before the show, it started to rain like mad. It howled down all over the roof and roads and trees. The world seemed to be trembling under the blanket of rain. I lay in bed thinking and thinking and ordering myself to go to sleep, and worrying because of the animals that might be stuck outside, and because the rain might break through the blotchy yellow ceiling above me and because I’d be tired tomorrow so I’d surely stuff-up and fall or forget what to do. I ordered
myself to go to sleep, and I tried thinking of something else, like my dad the leftie, and how I must remember to hold my tummy inwards for balance.

  A loud banging woke me right up. My heart was thumping in my chest. I could feel it. Did I imagine that noise? The rain clattered and wooshed on the roof. Maybe I was asleep after all and it was just my dream. But then I heard it again! Bang Bang Bang! An urgent, purposeful sound. I sat very still, too frightened to move. Stinky growled from his basket. I called his name quietly and he jumped up onto the bed. We sat there and listened. The room was dark, full of dim colourless shapes; a cupboard, clothes huddled over a chair, Stinky’s basket, bookshelf, door. Was the door moving? Rain clattered on the window but I glued my eyes to the door. I could feel my skin going prickly. The door handle turned. Suddenly all I could hear was myself breathing. I ducked down under the covers and squeezed my eyes shut. I was probably about to be murdered and I didn’t want to see it.

  I could hear the someone creeping towards my bed. A hand landed on my body. I went stiff. Was it a big hairy hand? Take anything, I thought, take my piggy bank, take my instamatic camera, take my . . .

  ‘Cedar, are you awake?’ It was Mum.

  ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to, but was that you whacking the wall again? I heard a banging.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t me. I heard it, too.’ Even she looked scared then. She sat on my bed and thought a while. I’d never seen my mother look frightened before. I could tell she was trying not to let me know because she kept holding my arm and squeezing out a smile, but mostly she concentrated on listening. Her mouth was half open, as if it was about to receive a sharp gulp of air. I wished we had a dad here. We were both listening hard to see if it would come again. I prayed that it whatever it was, had gone. Then Mum said she thought she’d better go and look.

  ‘You’re not leaving me here alone. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Well put something warm on.’

  I turned the light on and grabbed a jumper and some socks. ‘Shouldn’t we just call the police? Get them to go and look?’

  ‘Well, maybe. In any case we have to get to the phone.’

  Just then a big clod of earth smashed against my window. There was a whistle. A little tune. Stinky wagged his tail and trotted over to the window. Mum and I stared at each other. We were both suddenly thinking and knowing the same thing. We raced over to the window and yanked it up, leaning out into the dark backyard.

  ‘Barnaby? Is that you?’ yelled Mum. We could just make out a person standing in the middle of the long grass of our backyard.

  ‘Yeah, Mum. I’m back. Sorry to arrive at such a damn dark hour. Couldn’t help it.’ He opened his arms wide. ‘Hi, Cedy Blue. Look at this! I’m back in time for the show.’

  I practically squealed. I ran to the back door and flung it open. Barnaby stood there grinning. His guitar was leaning against him and he hadn’t shaved. He looked rough and messed up and wet as a drowned dog but devilishly handsome. My mum always said Barnaby had a Robert Redford jaw, but I never thought about it before. Mum came up and hugged him.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re home,’ she said, like a big sap. I could tell by her voice that she was going to cry a bit. ‘My god, you’re soaked, you’d better get those wet clothes off.’

  I wasn’t going to cry. I was feeling madly happy.

  ‘How’d you know about the show?’ I demanded, determined to switch his attention to me. Barnaby turned and gave me a big squeeze and I gave him a big squeeze back. We never used to hug. We usually just had tickle fights. But Barnaby seemed old enough to be like a grown-up, not just a brother.

  ‘Yuk, you’re wet and cold.’

  Barnaby shook and stamped like Stinky does after you bath him.

  ‘Stinky boy!’ said Barnaby, and picked up Stinky who was wagging like mad and letting off indignant little yelps.

  ‘Well, how’d you know?’ I insisted.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum, ‘tell us.’

  Barnaby flopped onto a kitchen chair with Stinky on his lap.

  ‘Well, bit of a long story. I was actually on my way to Darwin. I’d caught a bus to Adelaide and from there I’d hitched a ride with a truck driver who’d come from Melbourne. His name was Edgar T. Mozart (no relation), and he was taking a load of fridges up through the Centre. Anyway, we get talking, and turns out he lives in Brunswick, just up on Macfarland Street, and he’d just come from home and then—whaddya know?—it so happens he’s got the local paper on the dash. He points it out to me and for a while I don’t even think of looking at it, but later on, after the talk has died down, I pick it up just for something to read, and lo and behold, who should I see on the front cover but our own Cedy Blue, looking quite spectacular, I must say. So I get the surprise of my life. I read the article and I notice that the show is on the next night. I explain things to Edgar T. Mozart who is a completely great bloke. When I tell him I have to jump out and find a ride back to Adelaide, the guy just turns around and drives me back. We’d gone about an hour out. Not only that, he gives me a ten bucks to contribute to your cause. Said he wished he could come to the show, but he’s gonna ring the wife and kids and tell them to come. What a guy, huh? So anyway, from Adelaide I hitched back here. That’s why I arrived so late. Trams have stopped. I got dropped in Flemington. Had to walk. I’m stuffed.’ He let out a big yawn.

  ‘Thanks, Barn, thanks for coming all the way back.’ I looked down and said it quietly because I felt shy and gooey and I wasn’t sure how it would come out. I didn’t think anything would really come out the way it should, like the huge way I felt about Barnaby coming back for me.

  ‘Oh, you’re a worry to me!’ said Mum, and gave him another hug. Then she said he had to get into a hot bath, quick as possible, and I had to get to sleep quick as possible, and we could finish our conversation in the morning. I protested, but she pointed out that it was two o’clock in the morning and the big night tomorrow and so the rest could wait.

  ‘What rest?’ I whispered to Barnaby as we went off to bed. ‘Does she mean the black swan?’

  He grinned and ruffled my hair but I didn’t care since I was only going to bed anyway. ‘Not just the black swan, Cedy Blue, there’s also the rest.’

  There’s always more, I thought, and I sighed in my superior know-all way.

  I must have slept deeply, because when I woke up Mum and Barnaby were already awake. The rain had calmed down and I could hear them talking in the kitchen. I could smell cigarettes and coffee. By the deep rumbly continuous sound of the voices I knew they’d been going at it for yonks and I’d been missing out. I rubbed my eyes to make it look like I’d been awake too, and then I got out of bed and went to the kitchen. I stopped at the door and listened. There was a hushed insistent sound to the voices.

  ‘You have to tell her, Mum,’ Barnaby was saying. ‘She should know the truth. She’s old enough to know.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right. She’s been asking questions. I’ve been putting it off, I know. But not today? Not with the show. She’s nervous enough about that. It’s enough for her to think about. And you being here, too.’

  ‘Okay, not today. Look, do you want me to tell her?’

  ‘No, no, it’s bad enough that you had to find out elsewhere. I’ll tell her myself.’

  ‘She’ll be okay, Mum. She’s not a kid any more.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a quiet pause. I heard a chair groan as someone got up.

  ‘You want another coffee?’ I could tell by the light tone in Mum’s voice that she had no intention of resuming talk on that same deadly serious topic. But then just when I thought all seriousness was over, out came a little speech.

  ‘Barn, honey, I feel like I’ve made some mistakes with you and Cedy. I want to explain. See, when your father died, I panicked about security. So I’ve been working long hours because I want to get us our own house one day. It was what I thought would be the best thing I could give to you kids. You
r own house. That was what we wanted, your father and I. But lately, I’ve been seeing how maybe it wasn’t what you needed as much as just time, my time.’

  There was a moment of quiet. Then Barnaby said, ‘Yeah, maybe.’ I think he was embarrassed. And then there was quiet again. There was a sigh and Mum said mmmm and started scratching around for something, probably a lighter. Then again it went quiet. All those quiet pauses were making me uncomfortable and I wasn’t even there.

  ‘Well do you think I should wake Cedy? She’s doing a walk-through at twelve-thirty,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’ll wake her,’ said Barnaby and I heard him stand up and give the table leg a good kick back into place. I stepped into the kitchen and rubbed my eyes in a fake sleepy way, this time to make it look like I was just waking up.

  ‘Well, look who’s awake,’ said Mum. ‘Just in time for some brekkie before your rehearsal. Do you want toast?’

  ‘Yes please. When did you two get up?’ I acted a bit grumpy and snoozy. I flopped over to the bread bin and dropped two slices in the toaster. Mum put a plate on the table, to make sure I used one.

  ‘A while ago. Feeling like a champion, Cedy?’ said Barnaby.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bummer.’

  ‘What have you two been talking about? Did I miss much?’ I said, trying not to sound suspicious.

  ‘Oh, only the complete, unabridged, undiminished, unrevised, uncut version of my spontaneous, self-initiated, extended vacation.’ Barnaby rocked back on the chair with his arms behind his head and chuckled. His arms were bigger than they used to be.

  ‘You forgot unrepeatable,’ I said, buttering my toast vigorously.