Girl on the Edge

by Kim Hodges

  Almost everyone I knew had brown carpet.

  “Why brown?” I had previously asked my mother.

  “It’s a sensible colour for a family home,” was her response.

  My friends, the twins, lived in a house provided by the Department of Housing, in Martin Street, five hundred metres north of the Bottom Pub. There were various swirls of browns on the carpet throughout the entire house. Their mother had not chosen the carpet. My friend Kathy Waite who also lived in Martin Street, about seven hundred metres from the Bottom Pub, had carpet with an arrangement of swirling browns and green spatters through their whole house. The Waite family rented that house, so they too had been unable to choose the carpet. I thought about my best friend Anthony. In his very small lounge room, the colour of the carpet could not be discerned. His home was always full of bodies—his parents and five boys blocking my view. In 1981, brown carpet was either fashionable, or it had been discounted by a supplier.

  “Look. Your wart is gone,” a voice said. The cold sting of liquid nitrogen being applied as an extra precaution, onto my raw skin, snapped my attention back.

  “Thank you,” I said dutifully. My mother reorganised her handbag, straightened her outfit and we swiftly departed. My mother knew that being seen outside the doctor’s surgery with a teenage daughter was risky; speculations about promiscuity might result.

  Ideally, my mother’s hope was that no family member would ever get sick. Growing up consuming our home-grown veggies, local meat and home-baked goods made us all healthy and strong. Sicknesses, allergies and reactions were not in our family’s repertoire. A sniffle or a cold never warranted pity, empathy or comforting words from our parents. Food poisoning might get you half a day in bed because the evidence was in the bucket. Otherwise, feelings of being unwell were quickly defused with a “Get out of bed,” or “Get moving now,” or “You’re going to school.” One of my brothers broke his collarbone mucking around on the couch. My mother immediately rushed him to the hospital. For all other medical incidents our parents dispensed advice to toughen up, get through it, and get on with it. They never went to the doctors, something my mother boasted about.

  “Only hypochondriacs see the doctor all the time,” my mother proudly told us.

  She would then hold up one hand and name five such local residents, every time. “And there are plenty bloody more,” she always added. “All the time,” meant my mother spotting someone’s car outside the doctor’s surgery more than two times within a month.

  chapter sixteen

  BEAUTY AND PROSTITUTION

  Kathy Waite and I were good friends in year ten. She was her own person, a real individual and nice to talk to. Our friendship moved beyond the realms of the school playground to after school playing in her home at number 54 Martin Street. During the next four months, the real Kathy emerged, confirming that I had not really known her when we were only playground friends. My visits to number fifty-four gave me insights into Kathy’s world. Kathy had instigated our extended friendship because she was seeking a model to experiment on. In the school playground, Kathy was a fringe dweller like me, on the cusp of a group of popular but cliquey girls. Those girls moved in a small pack, huddled together to gossip about boys, clothes, jewellery and their fellow students. Kathy was as unperturbed by the popular girls as she was by everyone else in year ten. Aspiring to be a part of that group was not on the agenda for either of us. She simply did her own thing, comfortable and at ease with herself. I noticed her natural poise as she walked, talked and hung out in the playground. I felt self-conscious and awkward in comparison. The other fringe-dweller girls in our class were not like me at all, so I gave them a hello and nothing else. Kathy was average at schoolwork and disliked sport. She had once brought a note to school certifying her mother’s support for non-participation in cross-country running and the school athletics carnivals. Kathy attended on these days, to sit filing and painting her nails. One day we were chatting in the playground. “Mum told me I have to go onto year eleven if I don’t get a job before the end of January. What about you Kim?” she asked.

  “My parents said exactly the same,” I replied.

  “I want to leave school at the end of year ten,” she said. I nodded, but declined to tell her that I wanted to finish year twelve, travel and have a career.

  “I know what I want to do when I finish school. I want to be a beautician. My mum bought me a beautician’s kit last week in Dubbo, for my birthday. Can I practice on you?” Kathy enquired.

  “That’s great,” I said happy for her.

  “No really Kim, do you want to be my model? I could practice being a beautician on you after school. Two afternoons a week,” Kathy waited for a response.

  “Yes, I’d love to. I’ll check with my mother, but it should be fine,” I replied excitedly. I tried to engage Kathy’s interest for the remainder of the day, as I did not want her asking someone else. Nervously, I rode home while second guessing my mum’s response. I always felt uncomfortable asking her for permission. Picking the right time to ask was tricky. My mother’s responses were often unpredictable, but definitive.

  “Yes you can Kim, so long as you are home by 5.30 P.M.,” said my mother. I relaxed.

  “Thank you,” I replied relieved.

  Being a beautician had something to do with nails, hair and face, Kathy told me. The night before my first visit, my restless mind kept me awake, wondering if Kathy could make me beautiful. I did not feel beautiful. I felt plain, tall and awkward: a tomboy, who did not want to be one anymore. I wanted to be girly and feminine. In my heart, I yearned for beauty, but that was my secret.

  Going to a friend’s house after school on a regular basis was out of the ordinary routine for me. It felt exciting, new and different. I fitted these visits in around sporting commitments: swimming in summer, netball in winter, and basketball all year round in the community hall. Vivienne and Brian Waite, Kathy, and the three younger children lived just a fifteen minute walk away. I quickly got home from school, changed, ate afternoon tea, and rode my bike up to number fifty-four. Vivienne was welcoming, with a smiling face and relaxed manner. Her long, wavy, auburn hair that flowed past her shoulders, as did Kathy’s, framed a sweet face. When I arrived, she was usually sitting on a chair in the backyard, smoking and reading a magazine, or filing and painting her nails.

  “Hi there Kim, come on in,” she would welcome me each time.

  “Hello Mrs Waite,” I would reply.

  Vivienne would sometimes take the washing off the clothesline and talk about getting dinner ready. I noticed how she moved slowly, without urgency, in her own time. Vivienne drove a car that was nicknamed the bat mobile by townie kids. It was a large car with a V6 motor that revved the moment her foot even went close to the accelerator. Vivienne was always running late to school to deliver her four children. She often drove to Coolah Central School in her dressing gown and slippers without a qualm and with a cigarette in her mouth, just on or shortly after the school bell. She drove slowly, flicking her cigarette out the car window. I always waved as she drove the bat mobile past me, but she rarely waved back. Her concentration was on the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling, and flicking the ash. Being unnoticed by her never bothered me. She always drove the bat mobile with a cigarette in her mouth, the driver’s window down, even in the very cold months, so that the ash could be discarded. Maybe the cigarettes were a reward for completing the big task of getting four kids ready for school and into the bat mobile.

  Both the bat mobile and very large home that the Waite family lived in had been bought on insurance money. The Coolah gossip on that one had even reached me. Apparently, Mr Waite had received a compensation payout for a sore back before moving to Coolah. Mr Waite’s back injury prevented him from working, but not from gardening at his home. Every time he gardened in the front yard, a passer-by would yell out good morning, add a wave and sometimes give a smile. Yet their eyebrows stood up high on their foreheads, as Mr Waite had been spotted, ben
ding over, gardening, again, with his apparent “compo sore back.” That information would duly be relayed to family members. Whether Mr Waite’s story was factual or fabricated, no-one will ever know. Noone ever asked Mr Waite.

  When Kathy sat me in the kitchen, to lean over and wet my hair in the sink in preparation for a hair treatment, I noticed the differences between our homes. Dirty coffee mugs just sat there, relaxed, not begging to be washed up like the coffee mugs in our home. The drying rack played host to an assortment of cutlery, crockery and utensils. Mrs Waite did other things rather than attend to the sink or the drying rack.

  Our kitchen sink did not feature any unwashed items. Nor were washed items left to sit on the drying rack to dry on their own. My mother’s domestic tasks never ended: as one finished another would appear, begging to be attended to. The moment we were all home from school, the washing was immediately retrieved from the clothesline and folded, afternoon tea provided then quickly packed up and put away. Peeling potatoes and preparing other vegetables swiftly followed. The only alteration was if a neighbour, a friend of my mother’s, dropped in for an afternoon coffee and conversation at our dining room table. Sometimes I sat down to listen, but the content was always the same—chat about other people. My mother always announced that she could never relax until all the dishes were completed. Every single dish, mug and utensil, rinsed, stacked, washed, and placed in the drying rack; the towel dried and put in its particular spot. We knew the right spot and many wrong spots for every kitchen item. All misplacements received a reprimand. Such small, insignificant, subtle differences between our family and other families contributed to an overall magnitude of difference. The Waite house always felt relaxed and organic, whereas our home felt tense and ordered. I knocked at the back door of the Waite’s house every time to show respect and good manners, as my parents had trained me to. “Come through the front door next time,” Vivienne encouraged me, but I could not. Nor could I call her Vivienne despite repeated invitations to do so.

  As Kathy practiced on me and refined her beautician’s skills, she was gaining the experience required to apply for positions. I loved my role as a model and I never wanted it to end. Every visit to number fifty-four became the highlight of my week. Kathy practised facials, washing hair, massaging scalps, applying make–up and painting nails. She taught me so much about facials: opening and closing the pores of the skin to clean it; the direction of one’s stroking hand; the required strength of the strokes of one’s hand on the face; and the importance of staying deadly still when a mask is drying and beginning to crack on one’s face. As Kathy, in her authoritative voice, shared her newly acquired knowledge with me, I had to concentrate so hard to remain still, especially with a facemask on. I wanted to use facial expression to respond to her, but then cracks might appear on my face. I didn’t want to risk disappointing her.

  Each beauty treatment had a special order. For facials, the order went; cleansing, nourishing, masking, toning, regeneration and moisturising—each stage apparently as crucial as the others. Kathy’s kind, calm voice took me slowly through the rationale and methodology of each beauty treatment. I never imagined beauty treatments being so detailed and complex. I pretended to be interested. Selfishly, I only wanted the pampering to continue for as long as possible. A towel was draped around my shoulders and held together with pegs; a warm damp cloth was stroked across my face. There were fingers gently massaging my scalp and hair or mascara being applied with a steady hand. It all felt beautiful. This was the first time that I had been touched in that way and I wanted it to last forever. I felt too the femininity of my body dominating the tomboyishness. A feeling of beauty infiltrated my heart, as Kathy’s touch made me glow. She would hold up a mirror at different angles at the end of each treatment. I looked for beauty and I saw glimpses of it in my face, hair and nails. She had done it—made me feel beautiful. I smiled inwardly and out. I exuded an air of grace and confidence when I stood up from the chair.

  I would politely thank both Kathy and Mrs Waite for having me and say my goodbyes until next time. I smiled about my newly claimed beauty as I walked to my bike. As I threw my leg over it, I felt the tomboyishness wrestling with this feeling of beauty. From the moment that I began pedalling, the beauty dissipated, floating away into the thin air. I pedalled harder, trying to catch up. The beauty lingered ahead of me, teasing me. I pedalled even harder, but my athletic body never caught it. As I sat at our dinner table, my brothers laughed and teased me about the make-up on my face, my newly painted nails, and my blow-dried buffed up hair. I felt uneasy, as I imagined my blow-dried hair mucked up from the bike ride home. Feelings of ugliness and awkwardness returned. I wanted to cry, but refused to give this pleasure to my brothers. After dinner, I looked for beauty in the bathroom mirror but I could not see it. I searched inside my chest for the feeling of beauty, but could not feel it. As the shower water washed over me, the last dregs of beauty slid down the drain. When I walked out of the shower I was a tomboy again. I wanted feelings of beauty and femininity back. I knew I had to wait until I revisited number fifty-four to feel and see my beauty again.

  *

  Kathy was of middling height, with long, flowing auburn hair, brown eyes, a wide mouth, and a smile that produced two dimples next to slightly buck teeth. I noticed her nicely formed breasts, round buttocks and the curves all over her body as she moved herself around my stationary chair. Using her hips she would sharply jolt the swivel chair on wheels into position. Her black bra strap occasionally exposed itself under her low cut t-shirt, as she reached over me. Firm fitting jeans cuddled her buttocks and clipped high over her hips, hiding her belly button. She held herself confidently, unself-conscious. Her body was not like mine, I realised, as she leaned over me and I saw and felt her womanly shape. Kathy was at ease with herself and everything around her. There was no other way to explain it. I usually dressed in t-shirt, shorts and joggers, practical for riding to number fifty-four. My body lacked womanly curves. Dimples did not make my face prettier, my breasts were tiny, my hair dead straight. I was entitled to dislike myself. Kathy never once judged me. I was my own judge— harsh and without compromise.

  Kathy once told me that she was in love with Shaun, her sixteen-year-old boyfriend. They had been going out for a couple of months. Shaun’s straight black hair framed his brown eyes and handsome face, amplifying the larrikin twinkle in his eyes. His good looks complimented a reputation for being wild; he wore a black leather jacket and black jeans. His hobby on weekends was riding motorbikes. I often saw him, but he never saw me. As Kathy attended to my hair she told me that the relationship was on the brink of shifting from hugs, kisses and fondling to sexual intercourse. Shaun had requested the shift and she was ready.

  “What do you think?” she asked me.

  “It is entirely up to you,” I said. I was being compliant, but only to ensure she continued with my hair treatment.

  “Mum knows I have a boyfriend. We went to the doctors together and I’m on the pill—have been since I turned fifteen. Mum said just in case,” she also told me.

  “That’s good. I won’t tell anyone,” I said, trying to link together Kathy, Shaun, Mrs Waite and being pregnant, or not being pregnant, in this case. I wondered about my mother taking me to the doctors to ask for the pill, if I told her that I wanted to have sex. I wasn’t going to have sex with anyone in Coolah anyway, so it didn’t matter at all.

  “Shaun comes around to visit me when I babysit at Margo’s house,” said Kathy, keen to tell me the whereabouts. I nodded.

  She was required most Saturday nights. Margo had two young children and had separated from her husband. She loved going out socialising. Rumour had it she was having an affair with a married man, Mr Whitefield, and that his wife turned a blind eye for the sake of their kids. I had decided long ago to apply scepticism to all rumours. The bottom and top pubs and the two clubs were the only places to socialise in Coolah, so maybe Margo went to some secret location to meet her lover, if it
was true.

  “I’m allowed to have my boyfriend over once the children are asleep. Shaun and his mates come over with beers and hang out. Margo is always back so late,” Kathy told me. I nodded again.

  “Shaun stays on after his mates go home and we fool around,” Kathy casually told me. Again, with my own agenda, I produced a timely nod.

  A month into the visits to the Waite home, when I had actually forgotten about Shaun, the pill and Margo’s house, she dropped the news.

  “I love Shaun. We’re having sex every weekend in Margo’s bed, once the kids have gone to sleep,” she said.

  “Great,” I said casually, masking my surprise that she was actually having sex.

  As I knew nothing about sex, I could not contribute further. I never saw Shaun and Kathy out in public together or holding hands. At school, they hung out together smiling at each other, but nothing else indicated a sexual relationship or a relationship of any kind. Telling the pack of girls in our class that I was visiting Kathy after school and that I knew for certain that Kathy was sleeping with Shaun and doing the real sex thing was tempting, but I chose not to tell. Being in with the in-group may well have increased my popularity, but instead I chose to hold Kathy’s trust. I had given her my word not to tell anyone. The trust felt more important to me than increasing my popularity did.