Pim nods. ‘Yeah, she’s a cool dog.’ He smiles at Marsh. Maybe he likes her. It’s his turn to go through the checkout. ‘See ya,’ he says.
‘Bye,’ I say. It occurs to me then that being seen with Marsh actually isn’t a bad thing. So maybe I’m not caring as much about what other people might think. Maybe the individual in me is finally surfacing.
When it’s our turn at the checkout, Marsh dips into her pocket and holds out some coins. It isn’t enough. The woman at the register, says, ‘You’re short fifty cents.’
Marsh shrugs. She says, ‘Okay, I’ll leave it and come back later.’ She moves through. I follow her outside.
The supermarket must be a stop on the way to somewhere else, because so far Marsh hasn’t shown me anything. But I keep quiet. Best to let the mystery unfold. Marsh is headed somewhere, and she is walking really fast for someone who isn’t very tall.
‘Hey, how old are you Marsh?’ I figure I might as well find out something about her.
‘Same age as you,’ she says.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I just do. Anyway, who cares? I don’t want to be any age.’
Marsh has a way of acting as if she’s different from everyone else. Everyone has a name and an age, but she acts as if she is above all that. Even though I might have a crush on Marsh, sometimes I’m not sure I like her. What I mean is I’m drawn to her, but then she annoys me. My feelings move in zigzag.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve shot back a reply. ‘Yeah, and I never want to be so constantly superior.’
She whips her face towards me as if stung, and then turns away just as quickly. She says nothing. And neither do I.
I wonder what she is thinking and whether I went too far. Maybe she doesn’t even realise she has such an attitude. Maybe not going to school means she doesn’t have anyone to tell her when she is being annoying. If you keep biting, someone will eventually bite you back. If you keep acting as if you’re better than everyone else, no one will want to be your friend.
We cross the road to the park. Marsh stops and lets out a sigh. She heads to the shade of one of the large elm trees. I’m not sure whether I should still be following her.
‘Are you sulking, Marsh?’
‘No. Just looking for somewhere to sit.’
‘Sorry I upset you.’
‘There is a saying in Serbia. You are not being honest if you burn your tongue on the soup and don’t tell everyone else that the soup is hot. So, don’t say sorry for saying what you think, and I won’t either.’
I want to hear more Serbian sayings, but Marsh has already sat down at the base of the tree. She hands me a block of salted chocolate, triumphant.
‘Look, I’ve got something for you.’
She is like a kid who has just drawn all over the walls and is excited about the drawing and doesn’t realise the walls have been damaged.
‘Marsh, you stole that!’
She shrugs. ‘It’s just a supermarket.’
I sit down and open the chocolate. I’m thinking hard. Stealing is stealing. ‘Have you done that before?’ I ask.
‘Most days,’ she says. She leans over and breaks off some chocolate.
‘You must have a chocolate addiction.’
She shakes her head. Her voice is quieter than usual. ‘No. The chocolate was for you. I get other stuff.’
‘Like what?’
She looks up at me. She’s checking me out, as if she’s working out if she can confide in me.
Eye to eye, we watch each other. I see she is afraid.
‘Food,’ she says. ‘I steal food.’
‘And tools to build the platform with, right? You stole them too didn’t you?’
‘I have to,’ she says. Her eyes darken, as if to ward off any challenge.
I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure what to think. I stare up at the sky as a crow bursts out of the tree and swoops across the oval.
When I look back at Marsh, she shoves the chocolate into my hands and says, ‘I have to do it.’
Maybe I looked too shocked. Probably she regretted telling me, but she says it like she means no further questions permitted. So I shrug as if it doesn’t matter anyway.
It is sort of nice of her to steal chocolate for me. But it’s still stealing, and it makes me wonder if Marsh is a street kid. I’ve asked her where she lives, but she just doesn’t answer.
I have to follow her. It seems the only way to work all this out.
When we get to the bottom of the hill, I tell Marsh I will bring her more food tomorrow. I walk off towards my place for a bit and then I duck back and follow her. She is walking slowly now. She has a long twig in her hand, which she taps on walls or the ground. I have a feeling she is singing to herself, because of the way she beats the stick. She stops often and looks at things, too. Sometimes it seems she is looking in the windows of houses.
Finally, near the end of town, she turns down a side street. The street is wide and the houses stand on moonscapes of bare gardens. If she turns around she will see me for sure. But she doesn’t, and I see the house she goes into. It’s a small weatherboard with overgrown grass out the front and a wonky letterbox. I creep closer to make sure I’ll remember it. Then I go home. I might know where Marsh lives, but I’m still not sure what to do next.
The next day, I show up at the treehouse with not only some cheese rolls, but also my guitar. It’s my next move. I figure the more I can show of myself, the more Marsh might reveal some of her secrets too. At first, I assume Marsh isn’t there as she doesn’t look out when Black Betty and I approach.
I climb up and find Marsh lying on her back with her eyes closed. She puts a finger instantly to her lips.
‘Lie down,’ she says. ‘I’m listening to the birds.’
One thing I really like about Marsh is that she does strange stuff, but one thing I don’t like about her is that she assumes I like her strange stuff. Even if I do, there is no need for her to be bossy.
But I lie down, anyway. When I close my eyes, the world comes to me through my ears, like when I’m playing my guitar. Everything except the sound falls away. A train rumbles past. The tree creaks. And the air is a racket of birds—it’s half conversation, half singing, some harsh calls, ticking, clicking, and a lovely melodic sort of trill every now and then. It makes me feel quite dreamy.
‘Do you know which kind of bird makes which sound?’ I ask.
‘I know some. I think that one with the pretty song is a blue wren, maybe. It sounds like a musical alarm clock. Can you hear it?’ Marsh doesn’t wait for me to respond before she adds, ‘Mostly I just listen to bird conversations and feel part of the world.’
‘Did you know that trees communicate with each other, too?’ I say. My mum told me that. She says they talk to each other through roots and fungi.
I sit up. I’m about to tell her about the roots and fungi, but she changes the subject. ‘I see you brought a guitar. Can you play it?’
‘Not very well. I just fool around on it.’
‘Play me something,’ she says. I’m about to object, but I remember the objective was to coax her out of herself, not to resist commands.
I’m a bit hesitant at first. Usually there is a bedroom door or the wide space on the hill between me and another person. I’m a bit jumpy at first but it’s not long before I relax with it. I play her ‘Come as You Are’ by Nirvana. I make a couple of mistakes, but Marsh likes it. I teach her the words. She sings and I play. Then she eats a cheese roll and tells me the latest from the Plains of Khazar. The queen had been fed some bitter bread before she ran away to the Mountain of Tara. Probably Charles fed it to her. Badjaneck brings her bread now and they both go to Eugenia for advice. Charles, who lives in a tall stone house, is the ruler of the plains since the king is still grieving the queen’s disappearance and is always sleeping.
I notice that the more Marsh tells me, the more images come to my mind. For instance, I can see a woman sitting on the g
rassy top of a mountain, in the sun, surrounded by lions that are half dozing in the warmth. I can see Charles pacing up and down in a dark robe brandishing some sort of implement—a stick, or a tool for measuring, maybe. In my vision of him, his face is thin and his nose crooked, whereas Badjaneck is wide eyed, young and plump as a chicken. She’s always walking up little pathways, carrying a basket. I don’t admit this to Marsh. I’m afraid she will tell me I have got it all wrong. I feel like someone learning a new language and is shy of speaking it badly, but busy storing away words to practise in private.
If I can see what she can see, if I can sing without fear of ridicule, if I can play guitar out loud in front of her, then we are in the treehouse as equals. But there’s still a big difference between us. Marsh steals food.
I tell Mum I have joined the chess club and am staying back late at school. It’s another lie, and all these lies are piling up on top of each other and becoming quite a burden. It seems even more important that I keep Marsh out of view now that I know she steals, but carrying the problem of Marsh inside me and worrying about what to do is hard. What if she ends up in jail? Maybe I should tell my parents that I know a girl who steals food and doesn’t go to school. But I bet Marsh would never forgive me if I did.
By the time the weekend comes I have decided to go to Marsh’s house and find out the whole truth of what’s going on. I’ll have to get there early, before she goes to the treehouse.
Mum catches me leaving. I try to sneak past her while she is meditating in the living room, but she opens one eye. ‘So, honey, where are you sneaking off to so early on a Saturday?’
‘Nowhere,’ I say instinctively. It’s a stupid thing to say. She nods as if she heard that thought.
‘Hmm. I’m beginning to suspect you’ve fallen in love?’
‘Mum!’ I groan. I’m not the sort of kid who falls in love. A crush is one thing, but falling in love is another. Though maybe one step leads to another. The thought of this makes me squirm.
‘Well?’ She uncrosses her legs as if signalling that she is ready to wait, that an explanation is required.
‘Well…I have a new friend, and I was going over for a visit.’ Yikes! Now I’ve let a little paw of the cat out of the bag.
Mum considers this. She smiles. She twirls her foot. ‘I’m glad. Are we going to meet this new friend soon?
‘Sure. But not today.’ I avoid confirming whether it is a he or a she—if I say he, it will be another lie, and if I say she, Mum will assume she was right about some sort of girlfriend business. Even if she is onto something I’m not ready for her to know it. I’m not even ready for me to know it. Mum nods and folds her legs back up beneath her.
‘Okay. Be home by lunchtime.’
I run before she asks any more questions.
Outside it’s hot already. The cicadas’ dull metallic song rises from the trees. There is no wind. I stick to the shady sides of the streets. I practise what I’ll say. Oh wow, Marsh? So this is where you live? How amazing. I was just door-knocking for the Salvos…
Another lie. I can’t lie to Marsh as well as Mum and Digby. Actually, I don’t like lying to anyone. It makes me feel all inside out.
Hi Marsh. Sorry. I followed you. Because I was worried you didn’t have a home and…well…I’m still worried.
I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m going. Except that I don’t want Marsh to get into big trouble. But maybe Marsh is already in trouble. Something isn’t right. And I have to work it out. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m knocking on the door.
For a while there is no response. I begin to think no one is home. I press my ear to the door. I can hear a vague shuffling or creaking, but no one answers. I knock again, louder this time. Finally, the door handle is jiggled and the door is flung open.
It’s not Marsh standing in the doorway. It’s a man wearing a white singlet and tracksuit pants. His hair is dark and messy. His eyes are large. He seems startled to see both me and daylight. He rubs one eye and tugs at his beard.
‘Yes?’ he says, with a heavy accent. He leans his arm against the doorway and releases a stinky waft of underarm. I take a step back.
‘I’m here to see Marsh.’
He frowns. ‘Marsh? Wrong house, I think.’ He goes to shut the door. I had forgotten that Marsh isn’t her real name, but I don’t know her real name.
‘I mean your daughter. I call her Marsh. We’re friends.’
His eyes focus on me.
‘Ruzica? You are friends with Ruzica?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am glad. Welcome to our home.’ His face breaks into a smile. He ushers me down the hall into the kitchen.
‘Sit down. You like some milk?’
He is already rummaging in the fridge. I notice it’s empty apart from a couple of bottles of beer, a half pad of Western Star butter and an almost-empty bottle of tomato sauce. The kitchen is old style, with a small table and two chairs beneath a window that looks onto a bedraggled back garden. There’s a postcard of an ancient fortress overlooking the sea on the fridge, a framed needlework picture on the wall, a clock, yellow plastic salt and pepper shakers—the sort you might see in a takeaway joint—and not much else, apart from a stale smell.
‘No thanks.’
He roars with laughter. ‘Even better you don’t want milk because we have none. Bah, milk is for babies and you are not a baby.’ He throws his palms up at the fridge and closes the door. But he doesn’t seem in any hurry to get Marsh. Instead, he pulls up a chair next to me. He grins, rubs his hands through his hair.
‘So, tell me. You met Ruzica at school?’
Ruzica? I can’t seem to make that name fit her. ‘Yes.’ I lie to protect Marsh. When a lie is not for yourself it’s easier to say it.
‘Good. Tell me, she is clever at school?’
‘Well…We’re not in the same class.’ I’m trying to avoid telling another lie.
‘She doesn’t tell you her name, because the others teased her for having a foreign name. She is embarrassed to be Serbian at school, but she is proud to be Serbian, too. It’s hard being caught between one thing and another.’ His face opens like a sky with lingering clouds.
He suddenly leans closer to me, and, as if something happy has occurred to him, he smiles. ‘But you have heard her sing, yes?’
‘Oh, yes. She sings really well.’ I’m so pleased to say something truthful at last.
He nods. ‘And you? You make music?’
‘Not really. Well, yes, but I’m not any good.’ I look down, not wanting to see disappointment in his face.
But he snaps his fingers and says, ‘Who says so? If you enjoy it, that’s good enough, yes?’
His fingers tap the table. When I look up, he is gazing out the window, as if he is trying to see something. I shuffle on my chair. He turns back to me, seeming almost surprised to see me there.
‘So,’ he says, ‘where is Ruzica, now? At school?’
I am confused. Or is he confused? ‘It’s Saturday,’ I say.
‘Saturday,’ he repeats. He stands up and goes to the fridge, scratching his head. ‘Saturday, and nothing to eat.’
‘There’s no school on Saturday,’ I say.
‘Of course. Forgive me. I am forgetful.’
He rubs his face with his hands as if he is wiping away complications: food, school, Saturday. Then he slaps his hands on the table, triumphantly.
‘Ruzica has gone to get food. You stay, and Ruzica will make us some burek.’
I have a feeling Marsh’s dad is on his own kind of cloud platform. I have a feeling Marsh doesn’t make burek, just like she doesn’t go to school, just like she isn’t really Marsh. Who is looking after who in this house? Her dad seems kind but distracted, or forgetful, as he says. And Marsh’s mum? Where is she?
The front door opens. Marsh comes down the hall. I can tell it’s her because she is singing. She bursts into the kitchen with a bag of pasta spirals and a half-eaten apple.
Sh
e stops and stares as if she has never seen me before. Then she looks at me like she did when I first went to the treehouse—with dagger eyes.
Before I can say anything, her dad stands up and opens his arms to her.
‘So. What did I say? Here is Ruzica to make us some burek? Okay, my maco?’
Marsh looks at him with a sort of tired but forgiving love, and he kisses her heartily on each cheek. Then he opens his hand gesturing towards me. ‘Look, my little tiger, your friend is here. Hey, you never told me your name?’
‘It’s Joey,’ I say.
He shakes my hand warmly. ‘Joey, welcome, welcome. Let’s have a drink.’ He is standing at the fridge door again.
‘Hey, Papa.’ Marsh shakes herself out of her shock at seeing me and pushes the fridge door shut. ‘I’ve got pasta.’
‘No cevapi?’ he says.
‘Just pasta.’
He sinks down on his chair again, deflated. He leans towards me and says, ‘You know, Ruzica’s mother, Maja, cooked the best cevapi, and wedding cabbage, too. She would have made some for you.’
He nods in agreement with himself and closes his eyes for a moment. Marsh watches him. She seems sad. It’s the sadness I glimpsed the first time I saw her. Her dad stands up and puts his hand on her shoulder as if to comfort her. Something moves between them. It seems to pass through the weight of his hand on her shoulder. Then he turns and wanders out of the room.
Marsh is frowning. ‘How do you know where I live?’ She throws the packet of pasta on the table and squats down to open a cupboard.
‘I followed you.’
‘Why? You’re a snoop. Why do I always find you in my house?’ She yanks out a saucepan, fills it with water and puts it on the stove.
I’m not even going to bother defending myself. ‘I followed you here because I was worried about you. You steal things, Marsh. I mean, that’s serious. Did you steal that pasta? Does your dad know you’re stealing things?’
She turns back to the saucepan and lights the stove. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Why is everything about you a secret? I don’t even know who you are. Are you Marsh or are you Ruzica? Are you here or are you on the Plains of Khazar?’
Marsh and Me Page 6
