Bad Behaviour

by Rebecca Starford

  I told Mary all of this, and cried some more. When I stopped I played with the tissue, rolling it up like a cigarette.

  ‘And I’m just so sick of myself,’ I moaned. ‘I mean, a friend suggested I volunteer for something—like a soup kitchen—so I could help other people and stop being so sad and thinking about being sad. But,’ I wailed, ‘I couldn’t even do that!’

  Mary listened to all this impassively. She scribbled a few notes in a notebook. I liked that—her aloofness. Mary dressed well, wearing a pinafore, black stockings, expensive shoes. I wondered how old she was—fifty-five, maybe. Her eyes were sharp and very blue, and she spoke in a distracted, faltering sort of way.

  ‘And what about Alexis—are you still in contact with her?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Sort of. Well, yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We talk on the phone. Send text messages now and then. Sometimes I miss her. But I don’t want to. I’d like to be free of her.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘I don’t like her,’ I said. ‘I don’t like who I am when I’m around her. I feel alien in my own body.’

  ‘But you still keep in contact with her.’

  ‘I know—it’s ridiculous. I can’t help it. And each time we communicate I feel worse.’

  Mary seemed to think about that for a while. Then said: ‘You’re still in love with her.’

  I hung my head. She was right. But that was how it was back then. How I thought love went: the measure of it. Every kind: friends and family, especially lovers. The good with the bad, like honey laced with poison.

  Mary scribbled in her notebook.

  These holidays are different. I don’t go out much and I don’t see anyone—no friends, and no other family. I only leave the house to trudge down to the video shop, where I borrow Aladdin and The Lion King. I must look deranged with my unbrushed hair and dark circles under my eyes; I catch the lady behind the counter eyeing me suspiciously.

  Nan isn’t staying with us anymore. She lives in a nursing home now. She still isn’t herself, Mum explains as she prepares dinner my first night home. Mum also looks tired—it’s been a long term for her too, with teaching and reports, and visits to Nan after work. I chew on a ragged fingernail, drawing away a chip on the tip of my tongue. I feel guilty about it, but I’m glad to have my bedroom back.

  The next day we visit Nan. It takes her a few minutes to recognise us. Her clothes and hair are scruffy, and her eyes roam about the ceiling like she is following something moving up there. A tiny Italian lady sitting nearby starts babbling at Archie before leaning over to give him a slobbery kiss on the cheek.

  ‘What is actually wrong with Nan?’ I ask on our way home.

  Mum glances out the window, her brow creased. Traffic streams by. ‘She hasn’t had an easy life,’ she finally says. ‘Always looking after everyone but herself.’

  When we visit a few days later Nan is dressed more neatly in a blouse and skirt. She’s chatty, too, asking me all sorts of questions about Silver Creek and crossies and schoolwork. She smiles her cheeky smile, her gold filling winking, and for some reason I want to cry.

  ‘That was nice, wasn’t it?’ says Mum on the drive back through the city. She taps the steering wheel, humming a tune under her breath. She asks us what we’d like for dinner, and when I say fish and chips she agrees, just like that, putting her hand over the seat for Archie to squeeze. I lean my head against the cool glass, watching houses flit by.

  ~

  I sit up in bed, my heart thudding. The phone has been ringing through the dark for ages now—why isn’t anyone answering it? Eventually I make out Dad calling to Mum. I don’t hear anything after that until a sob echoes along the narrow hallway.

  It’s Nan—I know it—and I clench the edges of my doona, tears already pooling in my eyes. I picture Mum cradling the phone, alone in the cold kitchen, and I begin howling into my pillow.

  Dad pads across the hallway and knocks on my door. He’s wearing an old grey T-shirt with a rip at the neck. His face is pinched, a deep furrow in his brow, just as it gets when he’s furious about something. He sits on the edge of my bed in silence for a few moments, then reaches for my hand. ‘Poor Mum,’ he murmurs. ‘Poor Nan.’ Then he leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I hear him move across the hall to check on Archie in the next room.

  I fall asleep again around dawn. When I first open my eyes to the rose-patterned wallpaper I have a few moments of calm forgetfulness before it all comes flooding back.

  I stagger into the hallway. My eyes feel swollen and my lips are dry. There’s a comforting smell of coffee and toast coming from the kitchen. Mum is sitting at the bench in her pink dressing gown, and I give her a half-hug. Her face is sticky. She flips through some household bills before big tears begin falling from her eyes.

  A bunch of roses arrives from Mum’s best friend. When she finds the card among the stems she begins sobbing. Dad comes to her side and rubs her back.

  ‘I just . . .’ she says. ‘I just . . .’

  ‘Shh,’ says Dad.

  I stare into my bowl, my own miserable tears welling in my eyes. I long to go to her, to comfort her and make her happy again. But I don’t know what to say, or how to make this better.

  ~

  A week later, I’m sitting with Simone on the bus back to Silver Creek, listening to her stories about her holiday, where she stayed with her dad and went to the football a few times.

  I don’t tell her about Nan.

  By the end of the first week, I still haven’t told anyone. I don’t know why I keep it a secret. I could talk to Simone or Emma about it; I would get upset, but that would be okay, they would be kind. And that’s what you do, don’t you, when someone you love dies? You talk about it.

  I feel like I’ve betrayed Nan by my silence. That I am taking her apart, piece by piece. That I am unremembering her. I can’t stop thinking about the funeral, how my cousin cried in the row behind me but I didn’t: not one tear. I had wanted to be strong for Mum, who sat at my side, wiping her nose from time to time, stuffing pilly tissues back up her sleeve. I wish I’d cried like my cousin. I wish my family had witnessed my grief and not my stony self-control.

  After the service we stood on the verge outside the church. I didn’t know what would happen next: I’d never been to a funeral before. I expected we’d all go somewhere to talk, and the kids would be fed. It was a nice day, sun and blue sky. Only as the black hearse pulled away did Archie start to cry, throwing himself against Mum, tearing at her dark blouse, stabbing a finger towards the vehicle rolling down the road. No one knew where to look.

  Lying in bed in the dorm, I scrunch my eyes at the moonlight. I wonder where Nan has gone. Where is she buried? We didn’t follow her to the cemetery. This is all I can think about.

  The next morning I sit at my desk with my diary open and mark the date when Nan died with a green cross. And in the weeks that follow, I’ll turn to this page, remembering not that she’s died but all the wonderful memories I have of her, and I reflect on the comfort of this cross, its endurance, its intractability, however private, however silent.

  ~

  The days are getting longer and warmer. In the morning I find light at my window, even some blue in the wide sky. Birds start to gather in branches outside the house, singing long, shrill tunes into the afternoon. Around campus, flowers are starting to push through callused buds. That smell is everywhere—rich, sweet and slightly sickly. It is the smell of change. And the Final Hike is only a few weeks away.

  I have teamed up with Simone and Lou in a hike group, along with Ruby, a girl from Yellow House. She is tall and willowy, with a deep, husky voice.

  I feel safe with these girls. It is an odd feeling, this safety. If I am quiet and thoughtful, they leave me alone. I can make bad jokes and they still laugh. While the hikes get longer and harder, and my body adapts to the recurring pain in my hips and the niggles in my knees, other warm feelings start to bloom in the dark c
racks inside me. For the first time I imagine life after Silver Creek, down at the Big School next year. I won’t have to start all over again like I did here—I will have friends. There is so much to look forward to.

  Since coming back from the holidays I’ve stayed out of Portia’s way. In fact I’ve hardly spoken to her since Sarah left. Hours can go by without me thinking about her, and seeing her sprawled naked across the bed I wonder how I could have ever sought her good opinion.

  Then something wonderful happens. Portia, Ronnie and Briohny sign up for the school athletics carnival, which means they’re going away for a whole week. Each year students from Silver Creek can travel down to the senior school for training and the interschool competition at Olympic Park, in Melbourne. I would have signed up too, for the triple jump and the hurdles, but not this time. The last place on earth I want to be is stuck with those three in a poky dormitory.

  The next morning I watch them march down the road on their way to the buses. Seven days, I say over and over in my head, like a mantra. I’m still standing there, squinting out the window, long after they’ve disappeared. I expect them to come charging back, shouting, ‘Surprise!’ But the minutes stretch to hours and my chest expands like I’m breathing properly for the first time.

  ~

  The rest of the week goes quickly. Nothing is different, of course—there are still crossies to run, prep to finish, jobs to do. But their absence is exhilarating.

  Midweek there is another long run in the chilly afternoon. The sky turns grey and puffy, with a few bursts of rain. The course is fifteen kilometres, climbing and descending about half-a-dozen jagged knolls. But as I stretch out my hamstrings at the starting line I feel a surge of confidence. You have to keep running the whole race, I tell myself. You can slow to snail pace, but you’re not to stop.

  The gun fires, scattering the pack. I take off fast, moving towards the front. In among the low-lying trees the air is moist, tickling the back of my throat. My lungs soon start to burn.

  On a steeper incline the wind picks up, buffeting the back of my legs. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, my feet weighed down like dumbbells, my arms leaden and aching. I can hardly breathe; my throat burns.

  The wind is howling now, throwing up leaves and sharp bits of bark. Grit stings in my eye.

  Finally I reach the top of another knoll. A blast of icy wind makes my T-shirt billow. My knees buckle as the gradient changes, and I almost fall. But I keep tottering down the hill, sliding in mud. I’m nearly home.

  When I cross the finish line someone thrusts a time card in my hand, and a place. Fourth. I stare at the tag, hardly believing it. I stagger around the car park, sucking in great gasps of air. Fourth!

  Miss Lacey jogs over and gives me a hug. ‘Well done, Bec!’ She is beaming.

  More staff and students congratulate me. It is a great effort, I keep telling myself. I’ve made it into the top ten—and I didn’t stop, not once. I can’t wait to tell Dad, and later, at dinner, when the results are announced, Red House all cheer when my name is announced. ‘Rebecca Starford,’ Mr Bishop says. ‘Dark horse there in fourth place.’

  ~

  After dinner, I flop on my bed and stare at a spidery crack running from the cornice. I’m exhausted, but it is a tranquil exhaustion. My mind is clear.

  Rolling onto my side, I glance about the dorm at the girls preparing for bed. Around the table tonight there had been no great rush for the cordial, or snatching of the condiments before they were shared around. Now, after showers and supper, we’re all reading quietly in bed before lights-out.

  Out in the tuck room, I find Simone and Emma sitting up on the bench. Each has her hands cupped around a mug of tea.

  ‘Hey, jock.’ Simone grins.

  I grab a Roll-Up from my locker and lean against the bench. ‘Tonight’s been nice, hasn’t it?’ I say. ‘Shows that we actually can get on as a house. Maybe we should . . . I don’t know . . . all stand up to Portia a bit more? You know, stick together.’

  Simone nods. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘We could try.’

  Emma stares at the tip of her moccasin. After a long sip of tea, she says, ‘No offence, hon, because you know I love you, right, but you’ve been up Portia’s arse most of this year.’

  I fidget with the sticky wrapper, feeling my cheeks burn. ‘I know. But I don’t really want to be like that anymore.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ says Emma. ‘Because I know if we make pacts, the moment those girls walk through the door it will go back to how it was before. She has too much power—had it from the very first day. It’s too hard to change that now.’

  I don’t know how to answer that, but when I feel a hand on my shoulder I look up into Emma’s freckled face.

  ‘It’s okay, you know,’ she says. ‘Everything that’s happened: it’s okay. You don’t need to take it all on your own shoulders.’

  ~

  The next afternoon they’re back, lounging around the dorm, and disappointment weighs on my chest. But then I remind myself about how great everything had been while they were away—how for the first time it felt like there was real harmony in Red House—and I feel a little brighter. When Portia traipses in after her shower and begins to tap talcum powder to her pubic hair, I think: Why should we all be afraid of her? It’s ludicrous. So as she starts loudly recounting a story about Rollo Walker that we’ve all heard a dozen times, I sit up and shout, ‘Can you please shut up? Some of us are trying to read.’

  The dorm goes quiet. I lay back, my heart squirming. No one has ever told Portia to shut up.

  She smiles thinly as she surveys the dorm. ‘What have you been plotting while I’ve been away?’ she says. ‘A revolt?’

  She laughs, a long, horrible cackle that makes my skin crawl. She keeps talking, louder now. I don’t say anything, and neither does anyone else. Maybe Emma was right.

  ~

  Simone and I huddle together on the deck. Her hair is wet from the shower and she leans against the banister, shivering.

  ‘I don’t have a good feeling about this,’ she says, peering into the dark. ‘It’s like in Greek myths, where the hero challenges the gods and is struck down for it.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?’

  Simone’s eyes shine under the lamplight. ‘I’m just saying. You can never plan how things turn out.’

  The following weekend we have the Sawmill/Pict hike, four days covering nearly one hundred and twenty kilometres. It’s notoriously difficult. We’ll need to get up at dawn in order to scale each mountain in daylight. But I’ve heard the views from the summits are extraordinary, stretching all the way to the ocean.

  I can feel these longer hikes all through my body. In my joints, grinding as I sit down at the table for formal dinner; in my feet, tender inside my school shoes; in the back of my legs, tight like the skin on a drum.

  The first day of the hike is sweltering, but I hardly notice: Simone has us all laughing so hard at a story about her brothers that we have to ditch our packs to catch our breath. We hike on, the sun burning our necks and forearms. By Queen River we stop for lunch and I wash my feet in the shallows. Afterwards Lou and I wander further downstream and find smooth pebbles that we skim along the surface.

  We arrive late into Mag’s Hut, the sun already dipping behind the distant hills. I hardly have strength to put up the tent.

  We’ve only brought two tents, to save on weight, and Simone and Lou squeeze in with me. I haven’t brushed my teeth or washed my face. I haven’t even changed out of my clothes, and the tent soon stinks of our musty gear. I sleep breathing through my mouth, my nose pressed against the cool canvas. The rocks beneath the floor dig into my back.

  It feels like I’ve only just closed my eyes when I hear Ruby’s plaintive wake-up call. Simone grunts, rolls over, her face almost touching mine. There’s black gunk in her eyes. On the other side Lou is still fast asleep.

  ‘Guys?’

  Simone’
s eyes flutter. ‘If she doesn’t shut the fuck up . . .’ Her breath is sour.

  ‘Guys?’

  I’m so tired I feel queasy. I check my watch: it’s 6 am.

  Outside the tent, Ruby is boiling tea in the billy, humming a sweet tune. ‘Here,’ she says, handing me a mug as I stumble out from beneath the fly. ‘This will make you feel better.’

  It’s another long day. The path to Oatland Spur is steep and mostly narrow. The ground is also loose in places and midway up a clump of earth comes away from the track and I fall over. The full weight of my pack brings me down face-first and I graze my knees and the fleshy part of my palms, which sting for the rest of the hike.

  The ground is sturdier further up the spur. While the others stop for a drink, I kick my way through the shrubs to a lookout. From this height you can see as far as Mount Kellet, its silken shadows running down the spiky ridge. It’s like something out of a dark fairy tale, and I stand out on the bare rock until the girls’ calls summon me back to the track.

  At the campsite, Simone and I struggle with the tent lining. A few yards away, Ruby is setting up with calm efficiency. When she’s done she brings out her patchwork toilet bag and wanders off towards the stream. ‘I’ll get the fire going before it gets dark,’ she calls.

  ‘I swear she’s never been to the toilet on a hike,’ Simone mutters. We both watch after her until she disappears into some bushes.

  ‘Do you reckon?’

  ‘It’s not natural.’

  I laugh. Simone looks at me, then laughs too.

  ‘Neither is what comes out of you,’ I say.

  ~

  By noon the next day we have reached the saddle of the Pict. It’s quiet here, the only sound the faint trill of insects living in the undergrowth. Hanging from a gum’s gangly branch is a logbook. We’re the first girls’ group in.

  After a quick lunch we leave our packs beneath the trees. Part way up, the track disappears and a new path cuts through a dark, narrow tunnel.