Being Here Read online

  BARRY JONSBERG’s young adult novels, The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull and It’s Not All About YOU, Calma! were shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year, Older Readers. It’s Not All About YOU, Calma! also won the Adelaide Festival Award for Children’s Literature, Dreamrider was shortlisted in the NSW Premier’s Awards for the Ethel Turner prize, and Cassie (Girlfriend Fiction) was shortlisted for both the Children’s Peace Literature Award and the Territory Read Award.

  Barry lives in Darwin with his wife, children and two dogs. His books have been published in the US, the UK, France, Poland, Germany, Turkey and China.

  You can find out more about Barry and his books at www.barryjonsberg.com

  PRAISE FOR

  THE WHOLE BUSINESS WITH

  KIFFO AND THE PITBULL

  ‘This is the best teen fiction I have read in years.’

  — The Age

  IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU, CALMA!

  ‘Entertaining and thoroughly rewarding…

  Highly recommended.’

  — Australian Bookseller & Publisher

  DREAMRIDER

  ‘Barry Jonsberg just keeps getting better and better.’

  — Sydney Morning Herald

  IRONBARK

  ‘Ironbark has sharp, clever and entertaining dialogue,

  with impressive main characters and a good build up

  to an excellent climax.’

  — Good Reading

  CASSIE

  ‘I LOVED it. And the humour was great!!’

  — Alex, 16

  BARRY JONSBERG

  First published in 2011

  Copyright © Barry Jonsberg 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CA L ) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street | Crows Nest N S W 2065 | Australia

  Phone (61 2) 8425 0100 | Fax (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email [email protected] | Web www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia www.trove.nla.gov.au

  I S B N 978 1 74237 385 0

  Notes for teachers available from www.allenandunwin.com

  Design by Bruno Herfst | Set in 11.5 PT Caslon Classico

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Doreen and Anita Jonsberg

  The author and publisher would like to thank

  Faber & Faber Ltd for permission to reproduce extracts

  from the poem ‘The Old Fools’ published in

  Collected Poems by Philip Larkin.

  CONTENTS

  THE END

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  THE MIDDLE

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  THE BEGINNING

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  THE END

  At death you break up: the bits that were you

  Start speeding away from each other for ever

  With no one to see

  I face a window.

  Beyond, there is grass and a sky dusted with clouds. It is a picture I almost remember. I see my face suspended in the pane, a ghost in the landscape. Sometimes, when nurses weave across the grass, pushing wheelchairs, they trace lines across my face. One nurse skims my upper lip.

  Nurses don’t wear white anymore. I’m told it is too cold. They are wrapped in blue, the colour of pinched veins.

  It is difficult to keep my eyes open.

  Some days are better than others.

  Darkness congeals, thickens slowly into night.

  I know who I am.

  I know where I am.

  It is not always like this.

  No one visits. I have no family. At least when memories have fled entirely I will be spared the pain of not recognising a daughter, a son. That must be the worst.

  On my good days, I know what the future holds.

  Sometimes I gaze at my friend across the table and cannot pin her down, though I have known her for years. My mind chases a name, but it slips away, squirms and twists, a greased thing that cannot be held. What will happen when everything is like that? When the mind chases ghosts through half-remembered doors into half-remembered rooms and I turn and turn and realise the place I live is deserted? Of the living. And the dead.

  When no one, truly, is at home?

  They say you can achieve anything, provided you have the will to chase your dreams, face your fears and never give up.

  They lie.

  Lucy. My friend. Her name is Lucy.

  ‘Hi! How you doin’ Mrs Cartwright?’

  It’s one of my good days, but I don’t know who she is. I am in the residents’ lounge and she stands before me, moving her weight from one leg to the other as though the floor is scorching her feet. She is impossibly young. Dressed in jeans that defy gravity, exposing flesh to the point where imagination borders on redundant. A short red top with laces instead of straps. There is a blue streak in her hair, above her right ear. Something metallic glints in her left eyebrow. Just looking at her makes me feel twenty years older. This is something I can ill afford.

  ‘Still breathing,’ is the best reply I can muster. She smiles, exposing a curious contraption that hugs her teeth. It contains a good percentage of the primary colours. Is there a sound orthodontic reason for that?

  ‘Excellent,’ she says.

  I wonder, briefly, how one can excel at breathing. Do I know this child? I suppose it doesn’t matter.

  ‘You remember me, right?’ she asks, as if reading my mind. She frowns slightly and her eyebrow winks with light.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘I came to see you last week. My name’s Carly.’

  She waits for a light bulb to appear over my head. It doesn’t.

  ‘A week is a long time in geriatrics,’ I point out. ‘Some days I can’t remember who I am.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she says. ‘Well. Right. Yeah.’ I wonder if she is attempting a world record for consecutive monosyllables, but then she disillusions me. ‘It’s just that last week you said I could interview you. For my Social Education project. Remember? I’m a Year 11 student at the Senior College and I have to write a report on local history. Research stuff.’

  ‘I’m local history?’

  ‘Sure. Well, I don’t mean you’re a fossil or anything.’ I catch another glimpse of multi-coloured braces. ‘But you’re like …’ She screws up her forehead.

  ‘Old?’ I suggest.

  ‘Yeah. Really old. And I reckon you’ll have lots of memories of how things were in the past. My teacher, she thought it was a great idea. Said it would be a welcome change from all that internet browsing. See, you’re a primary resource, Mrs Cartwright.’

  Her tone suggests I should be thrilled. At least she calls me Mrs Cartwright, tho
ugh I’ve never been married. Most people just call me Leah and never consider the implications. Is it really acceptable for total strangers to use my first name? Does my being old give them licence? I understand it’s meant to be friendly. It is not. It’s familiarity that is close kin to contempt. At some point I became someone not to be taken seriously. Age strips you of everything. It tears you down, layer by layer. It’s like erosion. Relentless. All it takes is the ticking of a clock.

  The use of a title and my last name hints at respect. The child has bought herself some time.

  ‘And you’re, like, one of the oldest people in the state.’ She’s warming to her theme. ‘I mean, how awesome is that?’

  One of the disadvantages of living almost entirely in your head is the inability to let something go. Thoughts weave, spun from the most unpromising threads. A chance remark. And that image breeds associated images. Unlikely words spark pathways. ‘Awesome.’ It is not a word I would use to describe this sweet accident of living. It’s an ancient pattern over which I have no control. Each breath comes of its own volition. And each breath is a step towards the darkest destination of all. That’s true of every living thing. I cannot believe accumulating more years than most is an occasion for awe. The machine is winding down. I feel pain. Indignation. Sometimes resignation.

  It’s far removed from awesome.

  ‘Awful’ is a more appropriate word. But I nod.

  ‘So what I thought we could do is just chat, you know. About the way things were. And if you don’t mind, I could record what you say.’ She takes a small machine from her bag and places it on the table in front of us. It is a challenge thrown down. ‘Then, later, I can write up a report for my project. So all you have to do is talk. I mean, last week you said it would be okay. You haven’t changed your mind or anything?’

  Sometimes I can’t find my mind, let alone change it. I keep the thought to myself.

  ‘My life has been unremarkable,’ I reply. ‘In fact I have never set foot outside the state. I can’t believe I would have anything of interest to say.’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t matter. Seriously. My teacher said you’d be a great resource for me to find out how everyday lives were lived, like ages ago. So it doesn’t have to be dramatic or anything. I just want the ordinary stuff, you know?’

  ‘You want my memories?’

  She nods.

  ‘Before they wither and die?’ I add.

  Most adults think it is tactless to invite death into the room. They become embarrassed and can’t meet your eyes. They don’t realise that, for the old, death is a familiar companion, a presence that leans over your shoulder, its breath constantly on your neck. For this girl mortality is abstract, an entry in the dictionary. She grins.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  I smile. Her openness is attractive. And there are stories buried within me. One in particular. I don’t know if this child will be interested in it. I don’t even know if I can tell it. It is not about the ordinary. It’s about the extraordinary. It’s about the sweetness of life, the destruction we work, in the name of love, on those closest to us. It’s about a boy, a girl, the power of imagination. And the muscles that stories flex. It’s about a miracle.

  Most of all, it’s about the joy and pain of love.

  ‘You want to start now?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘Hey, why not?’

  ‘Sit,’ I say. ‘Switch on your machine.’ She does both. A small red light glows.

  They say time travel is an impossibility. They lie. I do it all the time. I think back to the girl I was. I do not become her. I cannot fill her skin or see through her eyes. The girl from the past is outside of me. And I am beside her. I observe and the story unfolds.

  ‘They say good things come to those who wait,’ I start. ‘But they lie …’

  CHAPTER 1

  SHE WAS FIVE YEARS old when her father walked into the barn, put a shotgun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  The girl stood framed in early morning light. Something was different about the inside of the barn, but she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was the texture of the silence. She took two steps forward. Her eyes squinted against the dark. The shadows were familiar. Rusted machinery parts, fence posts, bundles of wire and odd shapes covered with tarpaulin. Motes of dust danced in the sun’s rays.

  She took another step.

  Her father was slumped against the back wall. A pattern of blood and brains was a bouquet against seasoned wood.

  She took another step.

  The farm was her world. The girl knew death. But this was different. She crouched by her father’s splayed legs and tugged at his trousers. When nothing happened she stood and put one grimy thumb in her mouth. She remained for a couple of minutes, watching the flower spray that bloomed from the ruins of her father’s head. She heard the buzz of blowflies.

  Finally, she backed out of the barn and went in search of her mother. She didn’t run. She didn’t take the thumb from her mouth. The sun sweated. Dust puffed beneath her bare feet.

  The girl was only five, but she understood that the world had shifted. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  The men left. They took with them the strange bundle that used to be her father.

  Her mother didn’t cry. But she held her daughter for what seemed forever. The arms enfolding her were not gentle. The girl had difficulty breathing, so fierce was the grip. After a while, she squirmed from her mother’s embrace and sat outside in the early afternoon sun. She hummed a small song.

  The day grew old and noises from the house slipped under the door. She sat outside until the darkness came. For a time she was joined by Pagan, her border collie. He sat at her side and panted, lips drawn back as if laughing. The dog licked her legs with a tongue like a rasp. She giggled. When the day finally died, the girl went back into the house. She was hungry. She wanted her father to come home. She wanted the door to open, for him to kick off his work boots, pick her up and tickle her under her arms until laughter turned to sweet pain.

  She didn’t know it, but this was the beginning of a lifelong habit. The wish to wind back time and fix it. The sense of loss when time stubbornly spooled forward.

  The house remained shadowy and empty. From her mother’s room, a thin wail rose, like a pale flower growing in the dark.

  ‘Books are alive,’ said her mother. ‘But only when you open them. They need you to bring them to life. Like Sleeping Beauty.’

  The girl knew Sleeping Beauty. It was one of her favourites.

  ‘She only had life when the Prince kissed her. You kiss a book by reading it. And the story stirs, shakes itself, becomes full of people and places and animals. A world grows around you. And that world is yours to explore each time you turn the page.’

  The girl understood little of this. She was five years old. But she liked the idea of giving life to stories.

  ‘I will write a story one day,’ said her mother. ‘And it will be perfect. The world I make will be so wonderful that we will never want to be anywhere else. I will write it for you.’

  The girl wanted to ask her mother to make her father into a story. Then she could open his pages and bring him to life. But she was scared to ask. So she turned the pages of her book of fairytales, let her eyes kiss them and felt worlds shiver and stir.

  The day of the funeral was stunned by heat. The girl stood on the verandah and watched the rows of apple trees. They were lined up as if for inspection. Their leaves didn’t shiver or stir.

  She wore her best dress, but it felt sticky, heavy against skin. She wasn’t allowed to sit for fear of staining her dress. Pagan wasn’t allowed to lick her legs. He didn’t understand why and she couldn’t tell him. She didn’t know either.

  There was a car and many people. She recognised some. Farmers from adjoining properties. Familiar faces from church. They were all dressed in fine clothes. Most looked the way she felt. She saw some tug at collars or mop faces. The girl had never seen so many people together at o
ne time. It was like a scene from a book, a procession, a gathering. It should have been joyous, so many people. But instead it was dark. Men murmured, women wrapped arms around her mother’s shoulders. Most people rested a hand on the girl’s black curls, gave her a tired smile, tried to say something, but thought better of it. She didn’t like the attention. Before long she wanted them to go away. They didn’t.

  It was her first car ride. The interior smelled of leather and polish. Each pothole in the dirt road sent jolts along her spine. When she looked back, the farm, framed in the rear window, was shrouded in dust.

  The church was cool and familiar. So too the rows of hard seats. She sat at the front, next to her mother. People talked, but the stories they told didn’t make sense. A beam of light, angled in from a high window, picked her out in rainbow colours, made her drowsy. She wanted to sleep, but knew that wouldn’t be right. The girl sat straighter in her seat. Her bottom was aching and the light made her eyes narrow. She glanced over to the row of seats on the other side of the aisle.

  He sat on the end furthest away from her. As she craned her neck to get a better look, he did the same. Their eyes met over ranks of pressed trouser legs and starched dresses.

  His hair stuck out at strange angles. He wore long pants with holes in them and a stained work-shirt. She had never seen him before. He smiled at her. She smiled back.

  When the people stopped talking, the girl took her mother’s hand and stepped into sunshine. They drove home in silence, but her mother never once let go of her hand. It felt cold and clammy. Her mother’s face glistened and she blinked many times. The girl wanted to let go, but knew she shouldn’t. She wanted to be home, to find the cool darkness of her room and open a book. A special book. She had read it many times before, but never tired of it. It had a crisp world and almost everyone in it was happy.

  So it was unpleasant to find that nearly everyone who had been in church had followed them back. Some came in rattly cars. Others in carts drawn by dust-coated horses. Her mother took the people into the house and brought out trays and trays of food. Everyone ate and talked in low voices. The girl had never heard so much talking in one day. She was tired of it.