The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (34 page)

I had seen Finnegan emerge from that office before. And at that time I had wondered:
why
? She is not one of his teachers. She is not our Year Co-ordinator. Back then when it happened, the only reason I could think of was that Finnegan was seeing Mrs Lilydale as debating coach. Somewhere on the fringes of my mind I had believed he wanted to debate. That he would be our new second speaker. That Emily would have to step down.

But, although I waited patiently, I heard no such thing.

So, I had slowly forgotten the event—and yet, here he was again! Emerging from Mrs Lilydale's office! But for what purpose?

I decided I would ask him when I had the chance.

And then, behold! A chance.

The FAD group walked as one today, after lunch, down to the bus stop. But we lingered because Astrid wanted to show us how she had given herself a black eye, climbing onto the roof of a house to hide from the police during a raid at a party on the weekend. She performed an elaborate mime on the front lawns of the school.

As a result, we missed the bus.

But nobody minded. It is not a long walk into Castle Hill.

We set forth.

The path begins along a highway, forcing one to walk almost single file, while trucks and cars speed by. As we turned onto a quieter street, I found myself beside Finnegan.

‘Hey,' he said.

I waited a moment, then realised it was his way of saying ‘hi'.

‘Hey,' I tried, in response. I felt oddly pleased by my delay. There was an enigma to it. I kicked at a tuft of grass in a crack, and tripped slightly.

I saw you coming out of Mrs Lilydale's office at lunchtime today,
I rehearsed, in my mind, as we walked. I chanted it so many times that when I finally said it out loud, it had a curious, stilted tone.

‘I saw you coming out of Mrs Lilydale's office at lunchtime today,' I sang.

‘Did you?' Finnegan replied. I glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows. We continued walking.

Good gracious.

‘Is she one of your teachers?' I tried, although I knew the answer.

‘No,' he said, in an easy voice. ‘But she's supervising me in an independent study that I'm doing for Ancient History. It's this thing I started at my old school last year, and Mrs L. knows more about it than Mr Ramekin, so that's how that worked out.'

Huh!

A simple explanation.

The most mysterious circumstances—the mystery now dissolved.

Sometimes I prefer not to know.

We walked along the suburban path, quietly for a while. Junk had been set out for collection at various houses, and we had to step around or over curious objects. At one house, a paint-flaking rattan chair; at another, a stained computer monitor; a third offered planks of rotting wood. Such pristine houses, I thought, with their window boxes and gardens—and yet they disgorge such junk!

I thought about saying this aloud, but was frightened of Finnegan's eyebrows.

We stepped around a box of foolscap folders, pages ruffled by the wind. I thought: this is the discarded work of a Year 12 student! That student could be a genius! I could take this box of folders! I could transcribe the essays; I could borrow these ideas! Save myself from this amazing decline!

But if I stopped and gathered the folders, Finnegan might find me odd, or immoral.

Worse, he might simply keep walking. Join Sergio, Astrid and Emily up ahead.

So, I continued.

An otter smiled up at me. Someone had put an otter out for collection.

But as I came closer, I saw it was only a rolled up piece of foam, tied with string.

Now we were descending, crossing at lights, reaching the Castle Towers carpark. Now, a woman pushed a shopping trolley past us, and we all stood back out of her way.

Two men approached, dressed in suit trousers and shirts. They skirted around Astrid and Emily.

As they neared us, one said to the other: ‘There's two or three in Cincinnati.'

And then they had passed.

I glanced back.
Two or three what in Cincinnati?
I wondered.
Factories? Skyscrapers? What?

‘I guess he means n's,' said Finnegan, beside me.

I looked at him, confused.

‘In Cincinnati?' he explained. ‘There are two or three
n'
s in Cincinnati. Or maybe he means
i'
s?'

I laughed aloud. I could not stop. I erupted.

‘What's so funny?' called some of the others, turning back.

‘Nothing, nothing,' I giggled.

Finnegan smiled. Then, as I continued giggling, he stopped smiling, and raised his eyebrows.

Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Tuesday
Have spent the last few days looking through dictionaries. Also, leaving messages for the lawyer who wants me to testify about the fighting teachers. At last I've got through to the lawyer!

Made an appointment for the Friday after next, at 2.00 pm. His office is on Cleveland Street.

That's funny. Cleveland is a city in Ohio.

So is Cincinnati.

A Portrait of Elizabeth Clarry
Here I sit in a small café in the Strand Arcade. It is Sunday. I am waiting to meet my brother.

Across the room: a burst of flames.

No, it is not flames. It is flowers wrapped in cellophane, lying on a table. The cellophane must have caught the light.

I am thinking about Elizabeth Clarry: how I have seen her as nothing but an athlete. I have seen her running shoes, sports clothes, the way she stretches her legs and reaches to her toes. I have seen reports in the newsletter about her success in competitions.

But I have always known there is more. I have known, for example, that she was once best friends with, and looked after, a girl in our year named Celia, notorious for running away.

I have known that Elizabeth is shy but wry. I have suspected that she is bright. And indeed, the other day, Miss Flynn read out her essay on
Pride and Prejudice
.

As Miss Flynn read, I felt a strange compulsion to quietly open my laptop and secretly type the whole thing. Then hand it in as my own.

Of course, I did no such thing.

(For a start, Miss Flynn would have recognised it.)

On Wednesday, our FAD group went to Castle Hill Heritage Park, rather than the Blue Danish café. The sky was a dark wintry blue.

The others pointed out Try's house to me—it overlooks the park, and is forbidding and foreboding.

Emily became hysterical when we entered the park because she saw a sign: WARNING: PINDONE BAITING UNDER WAY. It showed a cartoon picture of a rabbit, a red cross through its body. They were poisoning rabbits in the park, said the sign. It warned that the poison could be lethal to pets.

We walked, uneasy, along a path through bluegum, grey ironbark, and red mahogany trees. Sticks curled and twisted as if to camouflage themselves as snakes. Bellbirds chimed. A frog hopped over Sergio's foot.

Then we found the picnic grounds and sat.

Try began by telling us the history of the park itself: the Darug Aborigines who first lived there and their violent banishment by whites. The stone barracks built, next, to imprison convicts, who planted crops while secretly planning a rebellion. ‘Death or liberty, and a ship to take us home,' was their slogan.

They failed. The rebels were hanged. The crops that the dead men had planted also failed, decimated by rust and blight. The barracks were shut down. Then reopened as the first lunatic asylum in the country.

All this is true.

I had read the history before, but as Try spoke today, a cloud crossed the sun, and deep shadows plunged into our circle.

We huddled closer together.

We talked of the sufferings of the past, of this very spot
and the dark state of the world today. People banished from their homes, lost in new lands, imprisoned in barbed wire.

There was talk of terrorists and despots.

I decided to lighten the mood.

‘If only,' I said, ‘if only there were more people like Cincinnatus. Like Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus.'

‘If only,' agreed Sergio, a gleam in his eye.

He was a Roman farmer, I explained, but he became a dictator twice (458 and 439 B.C.). His friends persuaded him that his country needed him to take control. But he only stayed a dictator
just
long enough to restore peace and order, and then returned to his farm.

As I told this story, I lingered on the name:
Cincinnatus
.

‘Isn't it a beautiful name?' I said. ‘Cincinnatus.'

‘Hmm,' agreed Try.

‘I found out about him the other day,' I explained, ‘because I was looking up words that sound like Cincinnati. I like that word, Cincinnati.'

‘Hmm,' said Try, again.

‘I wonder what it's like,' I said, dreamily, ‘in Cincinnati today?'

‘I wonder,' agreed Try, and changed the subject.

I glanced over at Finnegan as this conversation proceeded, but he did not appear to be listening.

After this, we talked about broken marriages.

Most people in my FAD group seem to have divorced parents. I felt grateful that my parents are together. Astrid said her father had recently moved out. He forgot to pack the thermos that he takes to work each day, for coffee or soup, so he phoned Astrid's mother and asked her to leave it on the porch for him to collect. Astrid's mother laughed and hung up on him.

Sergio mentioned that his parents had broken up after his mother caused the scar on his face.

There was a stillness in the group as he spoke.

His mother was sterilising bottles for his baby sister, he said, by boiling them on the stove, and she forgot the saucepan had a metal handle, so when she picked it up it scalded her hand. She flung the saucepan away from herself. She didn't realise that Sergio, who was four at the time, and had been watching tv in the other room, had actually crept up behind her to surprise her. The boiling water hit him in the face.

Sergio's father could never forgive his mother for her mistake. And the costs of treatment and skin grafts for Sergio was making them broke. So, the marriage fell apart.

Nobody could speak after this. Sergio tried to grin. There was something about the awkward tilt of his shoulder that suggested he wanted the subject changed.

I tried to think of something to say. But what? Should I share some of my Cincinnati words—cinnamon, cinema, cinescope?

Eventually, Briony spoke three times, each time referring to a cousin of hers who had cerebral palsy.

Finnegan said a cousin of his had been killed in an accident last year. They'd lived just a couple of streets away from each other when they were kids, and practically lived in each other's houses, so they were more like brother and sister. They used to ride their bikes to the beach almost every day, and chase cane toads, and play imaginary games, and his cousin had these imaginary names for both of them which they used even when they were grown up. Then she'd moved to Sydney but they instant messaged almost every night, right until the night before it happened, and now he was in Sydney,
seeing all the things she'd described to him and it was like her voice was in his head, describing it all. He spoke in an offhand voice to tell the story.

Elizabeth, beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder. It seemed to me she did this without thinking. I believe that Finnegan was comforted.

After a time, we were all silent. We had sunk into a shared gloom.

Somebody suggested we never return to this park.

I thought perhaps Elizabeth was a unicorn: elusive and unique. I thought of unicorn horns, which were once collected and cherished. People believed they could protect you from disease, and could also detect poison. Of course, there is no such thing as a unicorn—the horns that people collected were probably just narwhal teeth.

A narwhal I should add is a small arctic whale. I don't think Elizabeth is a narwhal.

Oh, what am I talking about? I liked being in the park with them. Elizabeth smiles like a friend.

Try mentioned a house she owns in the Blue Mountains. She became enthusiastic, trying to lighten the mood. She would arrange a weekend away! She would bring in notes for our parents!

We walked back to the entrance gate and somebody spotted a dead rabbit amongst the trees. Emily was inconsolable.

My meeting with Anthony will not be long. We will only have time for espressos. I have to return to Castle Hill, to sit with Eleanora while she makes pasta. I wonder if there is a baby down the hall in Eleanora's house? I wonder if that door is closed on nothing but an empty crib?

A Memo from Bindy Mackenzie

Dear Elizabeth,
I once suggested that you were a Queen Alexandra's Bird-wing.

That was wrong of me.

(Although, of course, if you would
like
to be a butterfly, flitting about the coastal rainforests of northern Papua New Guinea, by all means, go ahead. Please note that you will have a lifespan of only three months.)

However, I think you are a Camargue horse.

A Camargue horse is a wild, white horse that canters along the plains and marshes of south-east France.

And so do you!

Or, at least, if you were in south-east France, I'm sure you would canter along.

The Camargue horse has expressive, intelligent eyes. It has a sense of humour and fun! It is strong, beautiful and brave.

I hope you will forgive me for mistaking you, a wild, white horse, for a poisonous butterfly.

And here is a complimentary set of personalised memo stationery.

Very Best Wishes,
Bindy Mackenzie