Cracked Page 8

  Yamouni pauses on her way past. ‘Oh, this wonderful moment, this little happening here! I love this.’ She reaches around me, her hand hovering over a place where the colour washes have combined and bled into a shape that’s morphed, with my help, into a character. ‘I see what you’re trying to do here – keep going. Don’t be afraid to scrub that back and rework the colours, if you need to, and follow this impulse.’ She pats me. ‘It’s all right to make a mess, Clover. It’s part of it.’

  Once when I was down at the creek, a small brown bird landed so close to me I could’ve touched it, if it would’ve let me. It opened its beak and a warbling of joy came flooding from its feathery throat – and that’s how my heart feels now, like that little singing bird.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

  ‘And I like this willow. Who’s the onion man?’

  It’s not possible to lie to her. ‘My father.’

  ‘He turns up a lot.’

  ‘I like onions.’

  ‘And the lion? Lovely use of the yellow, by the way.’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘I’d like to meet this father of yours.’

  I shrug. So would I.

  Winter’s over, but it’s still too cold and wet to go outside. I’m at my desk in my bedroom and Keek’s sprawled on the bed reading from The Phantom Tollbooth; another old treasure from Mum’s bookshelf. ‘Genius!’ according to Keek. I was sure it was a kids’ book, but he is convincing me otherwise.

  Mum pushes the door open, flourishing the local newspaper. ‘Look!’ she demands.

  We look. The headline reads: FREEWAY LINK GETS GREEN LIGHT.

  ‘And?’ Keek asks.

  Mum nearly wriggles out of her skin with outrage at our apathy. ‘That’s your creek. That’s Fernwood. If this goes through, they’ll put the creek underground.’

  My heart twitches with tears. ‘But they can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s a wildlife corridor.’

  Keek sits up. ‘What’s a wildlife corridor?’

  ‘Bushland connecting wildlife habitats,’ I say.

  Mum’s voice is shaky. ‘My gardening group has a plant co-op so people can put the right kind of native plants in their gardens, to add to the corridors. We’re mentioned in this article, for what it’s worth.’ She slaps the newspaper. ‘For years the council has been fighting the proposal and now they’ve lost and say there’s no budget to fight any more. I bet it’s because they’ve given the go-ahead for that bloody new housing estate. The bulldozers are moving in.’

  ‘My dad reckons that freeway will be great,’ says Keek. ‘He works in the city and – don’t look at me like that Clover. I dunno.’

  Mum bristles. ‘Well, nobody’s denying roads are convenient. But at the expense of old trees? Of biodiversity? Of wildlife that’s already reduced to using corridors because most of the natural habitat has been destroyed? Your father knows better than that – or maybe he’s changed more than I thought.’

  ‘I dunno,’ says Keek.

  She stares at us. We stare back.

  ‘The trees will be chopped down,’ she says.

  On Monday morning, the Friends of Fernwood picket the council offices. I take the day off and wave my homemade picket sign: Save the Creek! People in cars ignore us, not even the occasional beep. Passers-by sign our petition, but it’s clear most of them feel that a road linking to the freeway will be great for Fernwood and make it quick to drive to the city.

  ‘I haven’t been down to the creek for years,’ is the general response.

  The library is part of the council buildings and the librarian stops to read the signs on his way to work. ‘Last time I was down there, those kids had filled it full of shopping trolleys,’ he says.

  ‘Surely not full, Tom?’ Mum has her best smile on, though I know she’s seething inside.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’ He waves dismissively in the direction of the reserve. ‘It’s full of rubbish.’

  ‘I think that’s been deliberate.’ Mum gestures to the council building. ‘The developers have been submitting for approval to do this for ten years. Purposeful degradation of the creek is all part of it. Are you really happy to let them destroy the oldest sliver of forest left in this area for the sake of a bit of rubbish in the creek?’

  ‘I’m not one for conspiracy theories.’ Tom nods and strides away. ‘Good luck to you.’ He flinches away from me as if I might bite before unlocking the library door and disappearing inside; I think the skaters have made him allergic to teenagers. I imagine him sitting in there with a cup of tea, reading something intensely tedious and educational.

  Heading off to protest with Mum was exciting. Actually being here with our petition is boring. And disappointing because there are a total of nine Friends of Fernwood and only six of them could take the day off work. There are a few people from some orchid society and a small handful of locals who live near the proposed development site. Looking around, I reckon the average age is sixty-five.

  Things get a little more exciting after lunch when Diane Martin, our local member, comes out to speak to us, and a journalist from the local paper turns up.

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Jeff,’ Mum says to him – they must be friends; she sometimes works for the Fernwood Mail.

  D Martin MP stands on the step. ‘It’s really wonderful that, like the Fernwood council, you are also passionate about the environment,’ she says brightly. ‘We commend you. The council has thoroughly examined this issue and weighed up the advantages for the local economy and our responsibilities to the wider community who will benefit from the completion of this freeway link and bypass. There were several public meetings that were well-attended and the feedback from those meetings has been duly considered. We are all very proud of this beautiful Shire and there are still wonderful parkland areas.’

  ‘What about the function of the creek as a wildlife corridor?’ Mum calls out.

  ‘An environmental impact study has been completed and after assessing its findings, we are happy for the project to proceed.’

  But Mum is ready, backed up by shouts and murmurs from the rest of the Friends and from the orchid society. She waves papers in the air. ‘Environmental studies have been done in previous years and dire consequences reported, including the destruction of marsupial rats, birds and native orchids, now endangered in Victoria because of developments like this freeway. For ten years the plans have been knocked back. With dwindling land for wildlife and an increase in threats to our native flora and fauna thanks to the granting of land for the new housing estate, how can the feasibility of the area have suddenly changed for the better?’

  D Martin MP is uncomfortable. ‘I am not an expert on the environment, but the impact study was undertaken by an independent body.’

  Mum practically jumps on the spot. ‘Independent? It was commissioned by the State government, paid for by the developers and refused to take into account data from previous environmental reports including that of the Australasian Native Orchid Society, an organisation dedicated to the conservation and preservation of native orchids in their natural habitat, who have registered a threatened species in the Fernwood creek area.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ shout the orchid people.

  ‘Fernwood council has registered your concerns and once again we congratulate you on your community spirit, but this development is part of the Victorian government’s vision for the future. Our hands are tied. But, really, it is fantastic to see the community motivated by concern for our environment. Thank you.’ And that’s it. She turns and disappears inside.

  ‘Can you all bunch together?’ Jeff says, ready to take our photo. ‘Let’s put Clover out the front, environmentally aware young people and all that. Yeah, that’s good – and hold up those signs.’

  The article in the local paper is disappointing. It makes me sound like an earnest Rotary exchange candidate and it’s supportive of our protest and the picture came out well, if highly embarrassing, but it’s clear nothing’s going to change: peo
ple want the freeway link and don’t see much value in the forest and none in the creek, which ‘isn’t going away’ because it will ‘still be underground’.

  No one is listening. The corridor is doomed.

  Keek takes a break from riding and comes to inspect my latest aerosol masterpiece. ‘What’s that bit meant to be?’

  ‘The nose.’

  ‘It looks like a bum.’

  ‘Go ride your bike.’

  ‘Face it, CB, you’re a vandal.’

  I appraise the piece he’s bagging. My suit guy is more like a failed Manga-Simpson hybrid and I can’t spray a decent ‘s’ to save myself, let alone save the creek.

  Keek waves across the reserve. ‘Bit late now.’

  ‘It’s not too late – the trees are still standing and your dad’s helping Mum and the Friends submit their appeal.’

  ‘He’s a property solicitor,’ Keek says scathingly. ‘Not an environmental rights lawyer.’ He shrugs. ‘He doesn’t even reckon it’s going to work.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘He told your mum it was just postponing the inevitable. He doesn’t think it’ll make any difference.’

  I bristle. ‘At least they’re trying. It’s not fair. I used to play there. Mum walks Lucille down there.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve never seen that dog get out of her chair.’

  ‘Don’t be a dick, Philip.’

  ‘Don’t call me Philip, dick. How old is Lucille, anyway?’

  ‘She’s old.’

  Cho walks around to have a look. ‘Laro the Geek? Is that what that thing’s name is?’

  ‘It’s meant to say Save the Creek.’

  Cho pats my shoulder and says, ‘Practice makes perfect,’ then zips off into the bowl to prove it.

  I’m meant to be painting a colour wheel – Yamouni’s getting strict about everything we have to hand in – but I’m well on my way to painting the whole page black instead.

  Yamouni says, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They’re going to turn Fernwood creek into a road,’ I say. ‘They’re going to chop down the trees and turn it into a road.’

  ‘Who gives a crap?’ says Rosemary and gets a laugh.

  And then it begins. Climate change. Melting polar caps and homeless polar bears. Rainforests chopped down. Indigenous people being screwed over – still. Oil spills. Fracking. The Middle East. Palestine. China. North Korea going nuts with nuclear testing. Americans going nuts with guns in schools. Drones. Police going crazy. Tsunamis. Oceans dying, rivers dying, everything dying.

  And the fracture yawns and opens like a chasm. I feel old. Like I’m being buried under a mountain but expected to stand up and keep moving with the whole mountain weight pushing down. Pushing me into the darkness.

  Yamouni’s hand on my arm is cool and dry. I love the oily, acrylic smell of her. ‘Paint it out, Clover,’ she says. She rolls back the paper to reveal the painting board underneath. ‘Make beauty from pain – there’s a kind of joy in that; and maybe that’s what art is for?’

  We’re working on a study of da Vinci’s boots that we have to hand in for assessment and it’s nearly impossible. Rosemary comes and stands by my easel. ‘You’re good at this stuff, aren’t you?’

  God, I think my face has done a Larder.

  She points. ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘A hint of light, along there. Makes all the difference.’

  ‘Show me on mine.’

  Rosemary’s canvas makes me feel like maybe I am talented after all. ‘Try not looking at the line itself,’ I suggest, echoing Yamouni. ‘It’s not like working with a pencil – you don’t draw the line. Put dark where it’s dark and light where it’s light. Then the line appears.’ I fiddle. ‘See?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s better.’ Rosemary’s eyebrows do a jig. ‘Want to do the rest of it?’

  I smile, but I’m not sure she isn’t serious.

  ‘You going to Jason’s party?’ she says.

  Jason Eldrich, football star. As if I’d be invited. I shrug as if I don’t care.

  Rosemary shrugs back. ‘Come with us.’

  ‘Rosie – ?’ says Thyme.

  ‘Shut up. Jason told me I could bring people. I’m bringing Clover. Anyone got a problem with that?’

  The Herbs have been the standard against which I have rebelled: wearing my uniform in perfect opposition. I’ve hemmed my skirt so it was half a centimetre above my knee and longer at the back than the front. I’ve worn large jumpers and long socks and as their fashion changed, I was forced to adapt to a tiny shrunk jumper with a big shirt and tights instead of socks. Not that I think they ever noticed. But still, despite despising them for the past three years, I can’t control the thrill that rolls over me to be invited to a party by Rosemary Daniels.

  Mum made me help her with the shopping this morning before she’d drop me off at the bowl. It’s busy today, a rhythmic flurry of bikes and skaters, and Keek is being difficult.

  ‘I’ve already cancelled our 500 game and dinner at Mrs T’s,’ I tell him. ‘Come to Jason’s party with me.’

  ‘With roast lamb Rosemary?’ The front wheel of his bike rears up and then bounces on the concrete. ‘Suppose your mate Robbo will be going.’

  ‘Yes, with roast lamb Rosemary.’ I step back. I’m probably in no real danger of having the bike hit me, but it feels like it’s right in my face. ‘I don’t know about Rob. I suppose so.’

  ‘Go and get roasty-toasty with the Herbs.’ He laughs derisively. ‘Clover and the Herbs.’

  ‘Why are you being such a knob? I hang around with your friends.’

  ‘Oh yeah, your friends now are they?’ Keek swings his bike around. ‘Whatever.’ He pulls his hood up over his helmet and pedals off like a maniac.

  I walk off, up to the oval, feeling a whole lot better about not really wanting him to come.

  My mother wears suspicion like a coat. ‘You sure there won’t be alcohol?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mum. Jason’s like, fit and everything, and strict about training and all that. He wants to play AFL and his parents are totally into it so I don’t reckon they’d let him have alcohol.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you’d never imagine a footy player drinking, would you. I’d better speak to his mum.’

  ‘Could you not embarrass me? Please? No one else’s parents are ringing up Jason’s parents. Mum, I haven’t had girlfriends since Alison. Please let me go. Please?’

  Mum searches my face for clues. ‘What’s the address?’ she says at last.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can pick you up.’

  Mum pulls up at Rosemary’s and susses out the Herbs huddled on the front step. From the outside, Rosemary’s house isn’t very different from my house – an older brick suburban box – but it’s naked: there are no buddhas in the garden. No native bushes and bells. No funny little mosaic paths snaking off to long-abandoned cubbies. Rosemary waves. Mum fake smiles with a return wave and the girls disappear inside.

  ‘All right, then,’ she says, as if she’s about to dive off a cliff. ‘Have fun tonight, but be sensible, for God’s sake. I’ll pick you up at, what? Ten-thirty?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Midnight.’

  ‘But—’

  She stops me with a hand. ‘Unless you don’t want to go at all?’

  That shuts me up.

  She kisses me goodbye through the window. ‘Be careful, Clover. Midnight, and don’t drink!’

  I walk up a neatly paved path dissecting two even squares of closely mown grass, edged by pristine rose beds. I have dressed conservatively: hoodie, jeans, connies – entirely in black. Rob Marcello opens Rosemary’s door and says, ‘It’s emo-girl.’

  I don’t know what I’d expected, but despite the thrill of being this close to Rob out of school, I feel let down by Rosemary’s house: brown, beige and boring, a plastic basket-load of unfolded washing in the corn
er. I was expecting a huge flat-screen TV and glass-topped tables, something sharper, less . . . tawdry.

  ‘So, Jones is coming to the party.’ Rob gives me a friendly bump with his hip.

  ‘Shut up, Robbo.’ Rosemary shoves him onto the couch, where Sage climbs on his knee.

  The Herbs and their boys give me their casual hellos. Both sexes are wearing stripes and pastel. It amuses me that footy boys like Pete are such complete homophobes, but wear hoodies that wouldn’t be out of place in the girls’ section of Kmart – except for the price tags. For a strange moment, I imagine them all rocking up to Aunty Jean’s for a barbeque. She wouldn’t like them.

  I’m not sure that I like them, either. I certainly don’t like Pete. But I’m hypnotised by how entirely happy they seem to be in their shallow selves – not freaky or strange or lonely or worried about existential questions of art and the death of the planet. Keek loves me like a sister, but Cho can only barely stand me, and the others are indifferent. I’m not a rider. I’m not one of them. But with footy, anybody can belong. Really belong. Is it wrong to want to belong?

  ‘Your mum’s a milf.’ Rob jiggles his eyebrows at me suggestively.

  Sage punches him. ‘That’s rank.’

  Rob stands up with Sage in his arms and spins her around. She squeals, laughing, until he dumps her on a chair and virtually skips away. ‘Come on.’

  The boys detach themselves and stand, adjusting their hair.

  ‘Seeyas all in ten,’ says Rob.

  Rosemary’s eyes narrow. ‘Where are you going?’

  He winks at her. ‘Got to pick something up.’

  Rob Marcello takes up a lot of space. It’s easier to breathe when he and his mates have gone.

  Thyme says, ‘I’m definitely hooking up with Robbo tonight.’ She lays back and crosses her ankles, using Sage’s thighs as a footrest.

  Sage flings the feet off. ‘I’m getting a drink of water.’