Dreaming of Amelia (40 page)

Meanwhile, a battalion of soldiers led by a guy named Major Johnston is chasing them down. Half of the battalion splits away to cut them off.

The convicts gather at the top of a hill, surrounded.

The major and another soldier ride up flying white flags.

Picture this.

Two or three hundred convicts with ratty clothes, sleepy eyes and pitchforks at the top of a hill.

Soldiers in red coats and breeches, guns at the ready at the foot of the hill.

In the middle — halfway up the slope — the major and a soldier facing up to Phillip Cunningham.

‘Tell your men to surrender, and we'll treat you nice,' the major says.

Phillip looks around at the faces of his boys. He sees they're not buying this.

He shakes his head. ‘Death or liberty,' he says, that old phrase.

He's ready to fight. Looks into the eyes of the major. It has come to this. The major and soldier will head back to their ranks and the battle will begin.

Then —
wham
!— the major's got his pistol out, pressing it hard against Phillip's head, saying, ‘I'll blow your soul to hell!'

Shoves Phil down the hill, gun pressed to his back, down to the soldiers who are lined up, ready, and he shouts, ‘ATTACK!'

I kid you not.

Convicts think it's real. Rules of war. White flags. But the major's only playing.

So now the convicts in their ratty clothes are going: What the f— just happened?

While the soldiers in formation go: READY, AIM, FIRE.

Rebels try fighting back, but leader's gone and gunshot raining down so they run.

The soldiers chase them, cut them down, shoot them at close range. Dead and injured bodies on the road, and in the woods.

Phillip C is still a captive. A soldier slices him with a sword and he falls to the ground.

He gets up. Tries to run. Streams of blood behind him. Stumbles, falls to the side of the road. He's half-dead but still breathing.

The soldiers pick him up. Carry him with them while they chase the convicts all the way to the Hawkesbury.

When they get there, they hang Phillip from the staircase of the public store.

www.myglasshouse.com/emthompson

TUESDAY 14 OCTOBER

My Journey Home

Hello.

This is the last you shall ever hear from me.

I hope you will miss me.

I think you will.

It is late and I have an exam tomorrow morning, so I should not be blogging. But I can't study any more because my head is already full and I can't sleep because there's no room on the pillow for my head.

And I have something important to tell you.

But first I'll just get some of the maple-chocolate cake that William made yesterday.

Okay. I'm back.

I wonder if some of you have been crying softly, knowing that this is my last blog? If so, cut it out. It wasn't that good a blog. How could it be with the repeated title of ‘My Journey Home'?

Actually, at our last English class, I demanded to know what was up with that, and Mr B said, ‘If you keep coming at the same topic, over and over, from as many different angles as you can, you will find yourself close to the truth.'

Then he smiled and said, ‘You, of all people, should know that.'

I think he meant that I talk a lot, but so does he, so that's just an example of the pot calling the kettle up and asking it out on a date. I don't want to date Mr B.

‘You seriously meant us to get to the
truth
about our journey home?' I said.

Mr B looked at me with teacherly silence.

‘You might have mentioned that in the first place,' I said.

‘But part of the journey, Em,' he said, ‘is finding things out for yourself.'

I hate it when people talk about journeys, other than in the context of return flights to New York, Paris, Vancouver or any other destination of choice.

THIS CAKE IS FANTASTIC! MY BROTHER SURE CAN COOK. WAIT WHILE I GET ANOTHER PIECE.

Anyway, I suppose you are wondering about my HSC exams? Yes. They have begun. I am in their midst. After the drama production (which was actually fantastic, huh, surprising), there was a two-week study break, during which I discovered that it is biologically and chemically impossible to study for two weeks (again, surprising). Oh well. Never mind.

I've had three exams so far, and here is my wisdom for the younger folk:
It's all about getting through the first exam
. It's like when you go into the ocean. At first it seems impossible — the water is freezing! But then you just dive right in, and waves start dumping you face-first on the sand, seaweed tangles your legs, bluebottles sting, and here comes a shark's fin to get you . . .

 

 

Ha ha.

No, look, don't even worry about it. People have been doing the HSC since Queen Victoria was raining and, as far as I know, they're still alive. Not Queen Victoria though. She's dead. But I don't think you can blame the HSC.

However, you will be waiting to hear my important news. Well, I arrived at school for the first exam, and there on my locker? A mysterious envelope.

I turned the envelope over and this was scribbled on the back:

I'm like: WHAT?!! You will be too
.

Love, Astrid
.

This made no sense. And to be honest, I was suddenly afraid of what the envelope might hold. I considered throwing it away and disinfecting my hands.

But I didn't. I opened it.

And what was in the envelope?

A document
about my ghost!!
(Sorry for doubting you, Astrid, if you read this blog.)

It was a Highly Confidential Letter relating to Sandra Wilkinson's Accident.

Where had Astrid got it from? And why? These are questions only Astrid can answer, and if she doesn't, they'll haunt your sleep forevermore since this is my last blog, and —

‘Yes, yes!' you cry. ‘But what did the document say?'

Let me type out the important bits for you. Why not? It's only 11.30 pm. Ha ha. Wait, I'll get it. It's a letter from a housemaster to the principal of the school at that time.

Dear Mr Spender
,

At your request, I have been up until dawn interviewing the boarders about last night's distressing incident. I have spoken extensively with Kendall Patterson, of course, and also to his family
.

As far as I can piece together, it seems that Sandra had been having intimate relations with Kendall for some time. (It goes without saying that I had no knowledge of this.) Last night she had slipped into his room, as was their custom. It was a hot night and so the window was open. It seems they had
both
been imbibing Scotch whisky, and Sandra was sitting on the window ledge, and had fallen asleep when she fell
.

In other words, the fall was an accident brought on by the highjinks of an infatuated young couple in a highly intoxicated state
.

Kendall is very upset by having seen Sandra— the love of his life (his words) — fall to her death. Meanwhile, Kendall's family is, understandably, anxious to keep the sordid details from official reports
.

They have intimated that their family will remember Ashbury, very generously, in perpetuity, if we agree to keep this quiet
. . .

I see no reason why Ashbury (and indeed, Sandra's own family) would want the ‘sordid details' reaching the public domain, and rather think we ought to be amenable to Kendall's family's wishes
.

Yours sincerely
,

Mr Clarkeson

So, my dear readers!

It turns out that Sandra Wilkinson
was
involved with Kendall Patterson! And they were getting it on in ways
that I didn't think were possible in the olden days. (The document does not exactly say this, but it tries to.) And she fell because she was ripped on whisky and passed out!

Now we know why Kendall Mason Patterson left so much money to our school!

Well, I feel both tragic and annoyed.

Readers of this blog, remember this: it is perfectly possible to be young, wild, free, drunk, stupid, happy and in love
without plunging from a window to a hideous and blood-splattered death
!!

I myself am living proof of that.

Sandra and Kendall could have grown old together! Got married, had twins, travelled the world, swum in oceans, danced the hokey-pokey (not because it's a good dance or anything, just because this was the olden days). But no. They did not.

YOUNG LOVE GETS THWARTED OFTEN ENOUGH (eg when people move to Singapore, or through certain people not recognising that they are in love until it is too late), WITHOUT THROWING IT OUT OF A WINDOW!!!

I suppose they might be together right now, if they are both haunting the Ashbury Art Rooms, but, seriously, is that fun?

Anyway, the mystery of the ghost (or ghosts) has been revealed. I leave you to ponder and learn from it.

Now, I must wish you farewell, but first I am just getting some more cake.

Okay. Back again.

My mother's phone is ringing. She has the theme song from
Boston Legal
as her ringtone. (She's totally in
love with James Spader, which intrigues my dad.) Who's calling Mum so late? James Spader? Ha ha. No. Oh, she's answered it. I thought she was asleep.

Anyway, tomorrow's exam will be English Extension 3, so after that, the subject will no longer exist. It will be nevermore. And therefore so will this blog.

I hope you understand. All things must end. Even school! Which makes me so emotional, because we are such a close-knit year, it's amazing!

This cake is so moist! It's amazing. It's making me a little crazy, I think. All the chocolate. I feel like waking my brother up and hugging him. Maybe I should get some more. You are thinking,
What? Hasn't she already had three pieces
? Well, you are wrong. I had two before I started writing this so that means I've now had five. Ha ha. But seriously, you could go into a café and order cake and they might give you a really HUGE slice, which would equal—

Huh.

Now my mother's calling me. Strange.

I'd better go! BYE EVERYONE. THANKS FOR READING! HAVE GREAT LIVES!

Love,

Emily

4 Comments

Yowta772 said
. . . Em, you will always rain over my heart, or reign even, and I promise not to put up an umbrella.

FloralNightie said
. . . You certainly
are
a ‘close-knit' year. As an example, on the night of the dramatic production,
I saw Riley kissing Lydia in a conference room!! And isn't he supposed to be ‘with' Amelia??

Shadowgirl said
. . . I think you probably imagined that kiss.

FloralNightie said
. . . No, Shadowgirl, I did not.

 

www.myglasshouse.com/shadowgirl

TUESDAY 14 OCTOBER

My Journey Home

sometimes
people say the strangest things.
That looks like something a
snake left behind
.