The Stars at Oktober Bend Read online

  ‘Why don’t you ask him about Joey Nightingale, then?’

  ‘I don’t want him to know. That’s why I asked you. You’re different to Lucas and his friends.’

  ‘What makes you think I am different?’

  ‘Well, for starters, none of Lucas’s friends would have told me to go home from here.’

  I could have told her that the Nightingale’s house was hidden in the bush only a few minutes away from where we stood. But then she might ask me how I knew. I could not tell her that I had followed them home. What would she think of me if she knew I had hidden and watched them?

  And even if I had not done these things, all I knew about that small neat girl was that her father was a policeman and the coach of our football team, her step-brother was the captain and her step-mother was a ballet teacher. There were many other things that I did not know about her. For all I knew she might be like Bull James who gave me a name and a family and told me that someday I could have a house like his.

  ‘There’s nothing you can’t have. It’s simply a matter of choice and hard work.’ That is what Bull said.

  I could not tell him that no amount of hard work could give me the things I would have chosen: my family, my country, peace. These were the things I dreamed of. I wondered what Alice and Joey dreamed of. They seemed different to all the other people that I had met since I came to Bridgewater. I could not tell what it was that made them seem that way. Their house was old and falling down but they had each other and their wild garden. Perhaps that was what they wanted, all they dreamed of. Perhaps, like me, they did not want a house of windows. That was something I could understand, but would Tilda?

  Hamish and Lucas were almost at the water’s edge and the others were running after them.

  ‘Why do you want to know where they live?’ I asked Tilda.

  ‘I just – please Manny, say you’ll do it for me.’

  The air was hot and still. I needed more time to think. Tilda’s step-brother swung backwards and forwards on the rope while the others sat around the Tarpit and watched him. Lucas liked to be admired. That was the thing that drove him. He went higher on the rope than anyone else. When it was almost at right angles to the tree trunk, he tucked his knees into his body and somersaulted through the sky. The water closed over him. I waited with his stepsister. The stillness and her unanswered question pressed down on me. At last Lucas surfaced and slammed his fist against the water. He looked up towards Tilda and me.

  Then I heard Hamish shout, ‘C’mon Captain Congo, shift your arse and show us what you can do!’

  I did not want to show anyone anything, but these were only boys. If they knew the things that I had done, they would be afraid of me. That is what I told myself. I turned to speak to Tilda but she had moved away. She was standing by the small grave that we had passed on our way to the waterhole. There was a stone angel at one end and someone had placed flowers on its head. Tilda’s face was not smiling. It was as serious as the angel’s. That girl is angry with you because you have not agreed to do what she wants. That is what I was thinking when I saw Tilda’s stern face. I was surprised by what she said next and I wondered if I had been wrong about other things too. Perhaps the falling-down house would not matter to her.

  ‘Whatever you decide, Manny,’ she said, ‘be careful of Lucas and his mates. I have to go now. My step-mother would kill me if she knew I was here.’

  Tilda had gone by the time I got to the bottom of the hill and I was glad. I grabbed the rope and threw myself into the Tarpit. The water was cold and deep and dark like a never-ending well. Heads and shoulders blocked the light as I came closer to the surface. That is when I remembered Tilda’s warning and that is when my lungs felt ready to explode. Pale hands reach down towards me. I knew who they belonged to. Lucas and O’Leary. They hauled me out, slapped my back and smiled at me.

  23 MANNY

  Twelve Thoughts

  ‘Twelve Thoughts’ was the name of the poem written inside the subway. I was like a detective following clues. I studied the handwriting on the wall. I compared it to the writing on the papers in my pocket and I was certain the same person had written them. Who is this person who wrote all three poems? That is the big question I asked myself when I was standing underneath the Bridgewater railway station. There was no doubt, I had discovered the identity of anon. I knew her name. It was Alice. That is who it was. The girl with long red hair. I saw her on the roof at night and again at the railway station, and although I was not close, I could see she had long hair. Hair right down to her waist. After she ran away from the waiting rooms, I found another poem. It was the one about a poet on a roof. When I saw her next, she was outside the scout hall. Her long hair was spread like a curtain on the green grass. Her poems were in my pocket. I had memorised the lines. Such hair, such poems, such things you do not forget. I would not forget that girl.

  The subway walls closed me in. I forgot the smells and Tilda’s warning and I read Alice’s ‘Twelve Thoughts’.

  there are twelve months

  twelve signs of the zodiac

  twelve images of

  twelve beautiful women buried

  beneath cleopatra’s needle and

  twelve men have walked on earth’s moon.

  i wonder if any of them noticed

  the stars

  at oktober bend

  and did i mention

  that hercules was given twelve labours

  for killing his family

  or that a jury of twelve gave an old man

  twelve years

  for trying to avenge his?

  but still i would rather be

  twelve than not to be

  at all.

  anon

  At first I tried to define twelve thoughts in Alice’s poem. Then I stumbled on another truth. I smiled when I realised that the poem was simply a collection of facts about the number twelve.

  If I had been braver I would have written a response to ‘Twelve Thoughts’. I might have asked Alice Nightingale if the old man was real or imagined. I could have suggested another line about the men who walked on earth’s moon, begging them to notice a small ruined country called Sierra Leone. I should have asked Alice if she was the girl in the poem and told her that if she was that I, too, would rather she was twelve than not to be at all.

  But thoughts of Hercules weighed heavy on me. I had held the weapons that killed my family, but I had not stopped the men who did. Would I pay with twelve labours, and what would they be? How should I pay, and was running a labour?

  Tilda Cassidy said everyone knew who I was, but how much did they know? And did Alice also know these things? Bull and kind Louisa James had offered me a new beginning in Bridgewater. I would be safe, they said, and so would my secrets. Was it safe to believe them? That is what I asked myself.

  The house on stilts seemed empty when I arrived. I heard no sounds, saw no old lady on the verandah, no dog on the wooden steps, no Alice and no Joey. I found my way to the fishing hole in the river, where I had seen them last time. Footprints were stamped in the mud by the river. It was easy to follow them. Ten minutes later I found Alice and Joey swimming in a pool surrounded by large, grey boulders. Further on was the bridge that carried cars and trucks and bicycles in and out of Bridgewater. A crooked heart and childish letters had been carved into one of the beams that stretched its length, but I was too far away to read what they said.

  24 ALICE

  letting go

  if i had known manny was there, i might not have felt so all alone when i tried to let joey go. set us free.

  i sank low

  on the pebbled riverbed and watched

  my words metamorphose into

  pure and perfect bubbles

  saw them rise and ride

  the current

  down-streaming,

  imagined them floating

  to the ocean

  to canada and april,

  didn’t know

  or care i
f i was

  un-fifteen-like

  i was

  alice-like.

  i stayed in my underwater world too long for anxious joey. he hauled me back into his world of air and light, shouting his little-boy name for me.

  ‘birdie! birdie!’

  i sat on the rocks, runny with river. tributaries trickled from my hair and bear’s tongue warmed my face. joey picked our clothes off the reeds and tossed mine for me to catch.

  ‘put them on,’ he said, sharp-tongued, zippered his cardboardy shorts, yanked his crumpled shirt over his damp body.

  i dragged my dress on, dry cloth awkward over wet skin. watched the sun bleed pink and orange into the river. our skins were dry when joey said, ‘so . . . did you know crickets’ ears are on their knees?’

  playful as a lamb he was now and i laughed out loud. looked at his face to see if what he said was truth or lie.

  ‘truth,’ he said, magic at hearing words unspoken. ‘and they build burrows shaped like trumpets so’s their mating calls can be heard two football fields away.’

  most days joey told me

  at least one interesting fact

  to make up for school cut short

  because of what happened

  one starry, starry night,

  and the fear

  that sometimes still

  squeezed my lungs

  froze my limbs and tongue and talk,

  as though he thought

  interesting facts would

  somehow subtract all that

  and the disgrace that followed

  our family.

  i thought about ears and knees and other parts of footballers while I waited for joey to speak again. but he said no more about the love life of crickets. he said other things instead.

  ‘do you, i mean, i reckon . . . that girl called tilda’s a good dancer, isn’t she?’ his words were as awkward as putting dry clothes on wet skin. as awkward as me. and i guessed that even my brother sometimes wondered how damaged i was. which parts were broken. which were not. and if i understood about different kinds of love. till then joey loved only me. loved me the way april should have.

  but now there was tilda

  and joey needing

  clothes to cover

  sex

  that burned in him.

  now we saw each other in new ways

  were two not one

  maybe more than kith and kin

  maybe less kindred

  and i knew

  if ever i was going to grow

  out of my twelveness

  i had to get used to joey

  loving someone else.

  i turned my head away from him on my pillow of dandelions and dock. closed my eyes to stop the trickles on my cheeks.

  ‘sexy tilda,’

  i said so he’d know

  that i knew what it was like

  to feel hot white fire

  in all the places

  that made me

  girl.

  the laughter i laughed for my brother sounded ugly. false. but sometimes even brothers do not hear emptiness and pain. they are listening to their own joy. joey’s arms went around me. grateful. glad he had to say no more. i stayed there with my heavied heart until the sun was gone, not knowing what would happen now. how to be. wondering if brother love was big enough, or if this was the beginning of forsaking. then we walked home slow as winter treacle along the river track, under the bridge of never-forsaking. together and apart. our new separateness mysterious and strange.

  25 MANNY

  Keeping Tilda Safe

  Only two days had gone by since Tilda Cassidy came with me to the Tarpit. It was Friday. I did not think I would see her again until the following Wednesday. I was not ready to see her. But there she was, under the trees outside St Simeon’s. I tried to make myself invisible in the middle of a group of boys passing through the gate and did not look at Tilda. But I am tall and black and she darted to my side, small and neat in her navy blue dress and white socks.

  ‘Hi, Manny,’ she said. She looked up at me, waiting. All she wanted was to know where Joey Nightingale lived. But I could not speak, not even those few words. Especially those few words. Not now and maybe not ever.

  I had seen Alice and her brother in the river. Their bodies were not the bodies of children. But they played like children in the water. I was once like Alice and Joey. Before the soldiers came I did not know what it was to feel dirty or ashamed. I wished I could feel that way again. I did not want anyone else to find the house where Alice and her brother lived. I did not want anyone else to see what I had seen, to spoil what was unspoiled. I would not betray the Nightingales.

  There are people who can make you say things you do not want to. I have known men like these. ‘Tell us where your mother is, boy, and your sister will be safe.’ That is what they said. But they were liars. For all I knew Tilda might betray me, or if not Tilda, Hamish O’Leary or Lucas Stewart.

  I remembered Tilda’s small hand in mine. I remembered how she said she hated her step-brother’s friends, and I remembered her stony face when she warned me about them. I saw them now, leaning on the school fence not far ahead. They were watching us. Perhaps they were waiting for Tilda. Perhaps they were not. But I would not tell the coach’s daughter what she wanted to know. It would be best, I decided, if I had no more to do with Tilda Cassidy. I did what I did to keep her safe and to keep the Nightingales safe. I kept walking and I lied.

  ‘I have not had time yet,’ I said.

  ‘See you after dancing, next week then?’ she said. But I did not answer. I stepped off the footpath and crossed the street. I knew without turning that she had not left, that she was standing with her small, neat feet together on the curb watching me go. They all were. It was hard not to run.

  26 ALICE

  between the cracks

  like kites cut loose

  in the gunmetal sky,

  we danced

  higher, faster

  more daring than safe

  more brave than afraid

  the ballerina, my brother, the stranger

  and me.

  sometimes i didn’t know this new joey. yesterday as familiar as my own skin. today a riddle to be solved.

  one night i heard him arguing with gram. when it was quiet, i slipped into her room. crawled in beside her. she stroked my hair. tried to work her buggered breathing apparatus. i tried not to listen. thought about how easy air slipped in and out of me. i looked at the moon while i quietly filled up and emptied out. thought about the men who once walked there.

  ‘maybe joey could get you one of those oxygen tanks,’ i said.

  ‘where’d he get one of them?’

  ‘he’ll know.’

  ‘i aint goin’ near no damn hospital.’

  ‘joey won’t let that happen.’

  ‘you never know what he might do, that boy,’ she said. ‘one minute he’s sweet-talkin’ me, callin’ me his glory girl. next thing he’s pinching me pension money.’

  ‘he only does it when the fly money runs out. we have to eat, gram. he’s trying to look after us.’

  i didn’t want her getting mad with joey. getting mad was one step nearer to not loving. i wished i could explain about joey trying to get free. peeling off from me. pushing off from her. getting himself separate. tell her it might take a while for him to get used to being properly fourteen.

  ‘i’m done wastin’ my breath on that boy,’ she said. ‘he’s got his grandpa in him.’

  she said it like there was something wrong with that. wrong with old charlie, who’d maybe done more for me than the rest of my family put together. done time.

  the morning after the argument, joey said, ‘want to come to ballet with me tomorrow?’

  he didn’t tell me what mrs cassidy said. that it might be best if he didn’t bring me anymore. that my last seizure had disrupted the class. i said yes. i didn’t want to dance but i was still hopeful a feather would fal
l, my wish would be granted, the tall dark boy would be there.

  ‘we’ll bring bear,’ joey said, boyish and cheeky and charming. ‘she can wait under the steps. old ma cassidy won’t even know she’s there.’ old ma. that’s what he called her. i knew then he didn’t like her. didn’t know why. didn’t know she’d warned her perfect step-daughter to keep away from boys like him. didn’t know that tilda had told joey.

  i met his cool green gaze

  saw the straight line of his jaw

  the shadow on his lip

  the spread of his shoulders

  and wondered

  for how long

  he’d been

  this way –

  hard and beautiful.

  joey lifted the rice canister down from the mantelpiece and took a banknote from gram’s pension money. we’d used all faulkner’s fly money. i felt sick in the stomach because of what gram said the night before about joey stealing.

  ‘i think gram’s getting funny,’ i said. ‘funny in the head.’

  ‘why? what’s she been saying?’ he answered, quick and sharp, and i decided not to say anything about the money.

  ‘nothing.’

  ‘i s’pose she’s been whingeing about me.’

  ‘her breathing’s getting worse.’

  ‘and what am i s’posed to do about that?’

  ‘there’s oxygen tanks . . . ’

  ‘hell, alice, grow up! you can’t just walk into the chemist and ask for a tank of oxygen.’

  i felt as twelve as i ever had.

  ‘what are we going to do?’ i said and joey answered, ‘shit, i haven’t got answers for everything.’

  my brother had always known the answers before. had always been sure and strong. but now he needed to be fourteen and gram needed more than we could give her and it was hard being just me when i’d been part of us for so long. i closed my eyes and saw our separation scars, felt the pain of them zig-zagging like sharks’ teeth between our hearts.

  joey wagged school. caught a bus to kalinda and spent the money on black tights and a singlet with narrow straps. for him, not me. i wondered how mrs cassidy would feel when he peeled off his baggy shorts and her perfect stepdaughter first saw joey in his dancing skin.