Published by Black Inc.,
an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd
Level 1, 221 Drummond Street
Carlton VIC 3053, Australia
[email protected]
www.blackincbooks.com
Introduction and selection © Maxine Beneba Clarke and Black Inc. 2017
Maxine Beneba Clarke asserts her moral rights in the collection.
Individual stories © retained by the authors, who assert their rights to be known as the author of their work.
9781863959612 (paperback)
9781925435900 (ebook)
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.
Cover design by Peter Long
Typesetting by Tristan Main
Contents
Introduction
* * *
Tony Birch
Sissy
Verity Borthwick
Barren Ground
Jennifer Mills
Miracles
Joe Rubbo
Trampoline
Melissa Lucashenko
Dreamers
Allee Richards
Perry Feral
Julie Koh
The Wall
Beejay Silcox
Slut Trouble
Dominic Amerena
Help Me Harden My Heart
Madeline Bailey
The Encyclopaedia of Wild Things
Joshua Mostafa
The Boat
Josephine Rowe
Glisk
David Oberg
Nose Bleed
John Kinsella
The Telephone
Mirandi Riwoe
Growth
Myfanwy McDonald
Numb
Ryan O’Neill
Polly Stepford (1932–1997)
Raelee Chapman
A United Front
Elizabeth Flux
One’s Company
Cassie Hamer
By Proxy
Ellen van Neerven
Sis Better
* * *
Publication Details
Notes on Contributors
Introduction
Maxine Beneba Clarke
Writing the perfect short story is like skimming a stone. There’s the testing and selection of material: the running of thumb over smoothness of surface; the weighing of rock in palm. There’s the framing of the story: the selection of angle and entry point, just so. The side-tilt of the body; the squint against the sun; the raising of the hand; the assessment of the water; the pace of the throw. The let-go. Then, after all these things have aligned into perfect overall technique, there’s just that little bit of luck. How far will the stone travel? How many jumps will it make across the surface? How wide will the ripples be when it connects with water, and how deep will they run? And, at the end of it all, did it seem like just a casual throw?
Junot Díaz. J. California Cooper. Nam Le. Alice Munro. James Baldwin. Cate Kennedy. William Faulkner. David Malouf. The best short fiction writers place their pens down and leave you with a haunting: a deep shifting of self, precipitated by impossibly few words. The challenge, then, as an editor was to carefully locate those stories which so sung, among the hundreds upon hundreds of excellent stories encountered.
In Dominic Amerena’s ‘Help Me Harden My Heart’, there is the sharp intake of breath as a handful of decades-old baby teeth are scattered across a kitchen; there is the gut-punch shock of vile words, spat from the mouth of a teenager who grew up alongside yours. Cassie Hamer’s ‘By Proxy’ captures the overwhelming uncertainty of leaving home for unknown shores. This story is at once unique and universal. The mass movement of people around the world and the precarious position of women in such transits are both age-old issues and contemporary concerns. In Melissa Lucashenko’s ‘Dreamers’, the author paints an unforgettable portrait of strangers, bound by love and loss to become family. Lucashenko’s story is a masterful exercise in restraint, letting unspoken histories echo through. In Verity Borthwick’s ‘Barren Ground’, we become uncomfortably complicit in the protagonist’s uncertainty about saving the life of a person she has deeply loved.
These stories push and pull at our hearts, demanding entry into their chambers. These stories vary from the surreal to the naturalistic, from the satirical to the poignant, from loud declaration to murmured whisper. They are delivered by achingly familiar voices, and attached to author names I had never before encountered. They were published in leading Australian literary journals, anthologies and newer publications, or have not yet been published. Taken together, these stories also sing of the country that we are. Of our history, and our hopes; our battles and our dreams.
An Aboriginal woman storms into a hardware store, and demands an axe. A rickety boat quietly leaves the coast of Australia, carrying hopeful future-seekers of an entirely different demographic. A young boy leaves home on an ordinary day, and returns deeply and disturbingly altered. A trampoline is unexpectedly delivered one summer afternoon on the suburban lawn of a fractured family. The government builds a wall to separate the population, splitting one Australian home right down the centre. Bored country-kid neighbours string a makeshift walkie-talkie telephone between their bedroom windows. A bemused family unconditionally rallies around an unexpected but adored arrival. A schoolchild, unable to verbally articulate his trauma, encyclopaedically documents schoolyard happenings. A child of two worlds devastatingly splits himself in two, in order to negotiate hybrid identities.
This is how we wrote Australia. These are the best Australian stories from 2017.
Sissy
Tony Birch
Sissy had never been on a holiday and didn’t know anyone at Sacred Heart School who’d travelled much further than the local swimming pool. At best they’d enjoyed a tram ride to the picture theatre in the city, maybe once or twice a year. A girl in the same year at school, Ruby Allison, who lived behind the dry-cleaners with her mother and two older brothers, came back to school after the holidays and told a story about how she’d been to the ocean that summer. Ruby sat in the schoolyard at lunchtime, a circle of girls around her, and talked animatedly about the giant waves and the seals basking on the rocks above the beach. No one else in the group had seen the beach and they had no reason to question Ruby’s story. Except that she’d been seen most days helping her mother behind the counter in the oppressive heat of the dry-cleaning shop. If the story was untrue, and Ruby hadn’t been near the sea, she’d displayed a vivid imagination, which was hardly surprising. If the girls from the school excelled at anything, it was storytelling. As Sister Josephine often remarked, Those who have little or nothing have the greatest capacity for invention.
Each afternoon, following the final bell, Sissy would walk to the House of Welcome on the main street, operated by the Daughters of Charity. She’d join a line at the front gate, queuing to collect a tin loaf of white bread, or fruit bread if she was early enough, and an occasional treat of biscuits, before heading home. She also attended Girls Club at the House on Saturday mornings. The sole reason Sissy’s mother allowed her to join the club was that the morning ended with a mug of chocolate milk and a buttered roll, followed by a hot bath for every girl. Sissy didn’t look forward to bath time. The girls were required to line up in alphabetical order and the bath water was changed only after the Ks – Sheila Kane and Doreen Kelly – had bathed, usually together for the sake of economy. Sissy was sure that more than one girl in the line ahead of her too
k a pee in the water, out of either spite or necessity. She’d spend all of thirty seconds in the bath, and never put her head under the water let alone wash her hair, which she preferred to do under the cold water tap over the gulley trap in the backyard at home, no matter how bitter the weather.
*
One Saturday morning, she was about to leave the House with Betty Reynolds, her closest friend. Sister Mary, who ran the club, took Sissy aside and asked to speak with her. Although she couldn’t think of anything she’d done wrong, Sissy worried that she was in trouble. She asked Betty to wait for her out front of the House and went and stood outside Sister Mary’s office door. The nun occasionally looked at Sissy over the top of her steel-rimmed glasses as she wrote in an exercise book. When she had finished, Sister Mary closed the book, picked up an envelope, opened it and read over the details of a typed letter.
‘Come in, Sissy,’ she said.
Sissy stood in front of Sister Mary and looked down at the navy-coloured habit covering the nun’s head. She wondered, as she often did, whether it was true that Sister Mary, along with the other nuns, had a shaved head. She quickly looked away in an attempt to purge herself of the thought. Sister Mary stood up.
‘Let me ask you a question, Sissy. How would you like to go on a holiday?’
The thought of a holiday was so foreign to Sissy she couldn’t make sense of what the Sister had asked her. ‘A holiday?’
‘Yes. Exactly. Each year the Diocese is contacted by our more fortunate Catholic families. Very generous families offering summer accommodation for those less fortunate living in the inner city. This year, for the first time, our parish has been chosen to nominate several children who we consider suitable. I have nominated you, Sissy.’
The Sister caressed the piece of paper she had been reading from.
‘This letter is from a family who write that they are interested in taking a girl for the coming holidays. They have a daughter of their own who is about to turn twelve, your own age, as well as a younger son. I have spoken to your class teacher, Sister Anne, and she tells me that you have been a diligent and well-behaved student this year, with excellent examination results. I see this as your reward, Sissy.’ Sister smiled. ‘What do you think of the idea?’
Sissy wasn’t sure what to think. She was reminded of Ruby Allison’s story from earlier in the year. Perhaps she could return to the school in the new year with her own story of the ocean? A true story.
‘Are you interested?’ Sister Mary asked, when Sissy didn’t reply.
‘Yes …’ Sissy hesitated. ‘I’ll have to talk to my mother about this, Sister. She’s never had me away.’
‘Of course you would. And I will speak with her also. Your mother has always been a grateful woman. I’m sure she’ll be happy for you.’
The Sister carefully folded the sheet of paper and returned it to the envelope.
‘I want you to take this letter home to your mother. Is she able to read?’ Sister frowned.
‘Yes. She reads well.’
‘Very well then. The details are contained in the letter. You must inform your mother that she will need to make her decision by the end of the week, as there are many girls in the school who would welcome such an opportunity.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
Sister Mary took hold of Sissy’s hand, a rare display of affection.
‘This could be of great benefit to you, Sissy. Many of your people have never enjoyed such generosity.’
Your people? Sissy had no idea which people Sister Mary was referring to.
Sissy walked out into the street and found Betty doing handstands against the front wall of the House of Welcome, exposing her underwear.
‘Betty, don’t be doing that!’ Sissy shouted. ‘You’ll be in trouble.’
‘I don’t care,’ Betty said. ‘I get in trouble anyway, for doing nothing at all.’
On the walk home Sissy showed Betty the letter and repeated what Sister Mary had said to her. If she expected Betty to be excited for her, Sissy was mistaken.
‘I know why Sister Mary picked you,’ Betty said, picking a stone up from the gutter and wrapping her fist around it.
‘Why’s that?’ Sissy asked, so pleased with herself she began skipping along the street.
‘It’s because you have whiter skin than me. And your hair is nicer. Mine’s like steel wool and yours is straw. You’re exactly what them rich white people want, Sissy.’
Sissy stopped skipping, her cheeks flushed with anger. She stopped Betty from walking on.
‘That’s not true, and you know it. The reason I’ve been picked is because I did the best in class this year. Sister Mary said so. You remember the statue of Jesus Christ I won for getting the top mark for Catechism. The holiday has got nothing to do with my skin.’
‘Makes no difference.’ Betty smirked. ‘It’s why you get the best marks, too. White skin equals teacher’s pet. That’s the way it is. Always has been, and you know it.’
Sissy stamped the heel of her shoe against the bitumen.
‘You can’t believe that, Betty. I’ve never heard you talk like this before. You must be jealous.’
‘I’m not jealous. I’m …’
Betty aimed her stone at the street pole on the next corner. She pitched it. The stone skimmed through the air and slammed into the pole. She looked pleased with herself.
‘Gee, I’d make a good hunter.’
‘Not around here, unless you were after a stray cat, or a rat.’
Betty stopped at the corner and sat on the horse trough that hadn’t been drunk from for decades. She had a deep frown on her face.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sissy asked.
‘I’m scared for you.’
Sissy sat next to her. ‘Scared of what?’
‘That maybe you won’t come back.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll be coming back. It’s only a holiday. For two weeks.’
‘It doesn’t matter what it is. One of my cousins, Valda, the Welfare told her mum, my auntie, the same story, that she was going on a holiday. Valda was excited, just like you are now. You know what happened to Valda? She disappeared.’
‘I don’t believe it. You’re making this up, Betty, because you don’t want me to go.’
‘So what if I don’t?’ Betty shrugged. ‘Even more than that I don’t want you to disappear.’
Sissy stood up and tried skipping away, but couldn’t recover her rhythm. She stopped, spread her legs apart, leaned forward and touched her forehead on the footpath, an exercise she’d learned in gymnastics class at school. No other girl had conquered the flexibility exercise. She looked through her legs at her upside-down friend.
‘The story is not true and I won’t be disappearing.’
‘Please yourself,’ Betty said. ‘Don’t blame me when they powder your face even whiter than it is and force you to church every day of the week.’
*
Three weeks later Sissy was seated on a wooden chair on her front verandah wearing her best dress, a daffodil print, and a matching yellow ribbon in her ponytail. A small suitcase sat at her feet. It contained another three dresses, a blue cardigan, a toilet bag and new pairs of socks and underwear. Sissy usually wore her mother’s hand-me-down underpants several sizes too big. She was forever hitching them up as she ran around the schoolyard at lunchtime playing netball. As most other girls battled with the same predicament, the situation caused little embarrassment, except on the odd occasion when a pair of underpants fell around a girl’s ankles. Sissy had made a visit to the Book Depot on Christmas Eve, where she swapped two paperback novels for four more plus the cost of a shilling. The books were also in the suitcase. She was a voracious reader and never left home without a novel in her schoolbag.
Sissy was admiring her dress when she heard the rusting hinges of a gate shriek further along the street. She looked up and saw Betty crossing the street towards her house. Betty stopped at the front gate, rested her chin on the edge of a splin
tered picket and looked down at the case.
‘So, you’re leaving for your holiday?’
‘Yeah. The lady I’m staying with is coming soon to collect me. In her own car.’
Betty leaned a little too heavily on the gate. She hung on as it swung open.
‘Your dress is so pretty, Sissy. I bet you must be happy that you’re going away?’
In the weeks since Sissy had been offered the holiday by Sister Mary her enthusiasm for the holiday had gradually faded. She was no longer sure how she felt.
‘I am happy. I was so excited last night,’ she fibbed. ‘I couldn’t sleep properly with the nervous stomach ache I had.’
‘So, you’re really going then?’
‘Of course I am.’
Betty hung her head over the fence and tucked her chin into her chest. Sissy heard her friend sob.
‘You okay, Bet? What is it?’
Betty wouldn’t answer. Sissy stood up and lifted Betty’s chin. ‘What’s wrong with you, bub?’
Betty burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry what I said about your skin and being teacher’s pet. That was mean of me.’
Although what Betty had said had hurt Sissy’s feelings, she’d been quick to let go of the pain. Her friendship with Betty meant the world to her.
‘I don’t care about any of that stuff. It doesn’t matter to me. Honest.’
Betty jumped from the gate, lunged at Sissy and threw her arms around her.
‘I’m going to be lonely without you for the rest of the holidays. Promise me that you’ll come back.’
‘Of course I’ll be back. I cross my heart. Two weeks is fourteen days. I’ll be home in no time.’
Betty wiped her face, stepped off the verandah, said goodbye in a rush and ran off down the street. Sissy was about to take her seat again when Betty popped up again at the open gate. She smiled, all goofy-like, Sissy thought. Betty walked over to her, leaned forward and shocked Sissy by kissing her on the lips.
‘I love you, bub,’ she said, before turning and running off a second time.
A few minutes later Sissy’s mother, Miriam, came out of the house.
‘Who was that just here talking to you?’
The Best Australian Stories 2017 Page 1
