The Beloved (18 page)

Mama thumbed the strap of her camera onto her shoulder. ‘I'll be back late this evening, seven or so, but Josie will get your supper.'

I looked at her. Long white shorts, long brown legs. Black hair framing her flawless face. Beautiful, remote, untouchable Mother. Not even an aura to hint at what she was feeling or thinking. Everything that made her
Mama
had disappeared so completely I wondered if I'd ever see that side of her again.

It felt like I was living alone. Dad was hardly ever home, Mama was somewhere else. I walked the short distance to school. Everything was cardboard: assembly, kids chattering, lessons, food. After playlunch, we had art. Mandy was using her paints like I used Vegemite. Not a clue. Her beautiful paints were wasted on her. I was drawing a dream I'd had the night before where I'd fallen over the side of a ship. Water filled my boot and pulled me down. It was scary and soothing all at once.

Mr Pepper wandered down the aisle. He looked at my picture. ‘Dark, Lindsay. But good.'

How good you are
. . .

I glanced over at Mandy's drawing. A house, a footpath, trees that were circles on stalks. The painting of a six year old. The best paints in the world couldn't make you an artist. At lunchtime, when Mandy scrambled for the door with everyone else, she bumped her desk, scattering tubes everywhere. I stared at the rainbow on the floor, then slowly picked them up, one by one, and put them into my satchel. They would be safe with me.

The afternoon was half gone before Mandy realised her paints were missing, then she screeched like a parrot. ‘My paints! My paints have gone.'

Mr Pepper put down his chalk. ‘All right, Mandy. Can anyone enlighten us?'

No-one answered. My heart thrashed around in my chest.

‘Someone knows where they are,' he said.

Silence.

‘I'm sorry but you'll all have to lift your desk lids.'

Our bags would be next. I'd be found out. I was a thief. I'd be expelled. What then? What would my mother do? Take away my art things, that's what she'd do. It was what she always did. But it wasn't only my art things. It was the thought of losing Mama; whatever small part of her I had left. I was so scared I couldn't swallow.

Mr Pepper didn't search our bags. There wasn't a reason in the world why he shouldn't have but he simply said he expected the paints would resurface very soon and Mandy shouldn't worry. And they would have, but I couldn't get them back to her without her knowing I'd taken them. I would have to wait until Monday.

When I got home I sat on the back steps and tipped the paints into my lap. I frightened myself. Who was I?

‘Where did the paints come from?'

Mama!

‘I asked you a question.'

‘What?'

‘The paints – where did they come from?'

‘What are you doing home?'

‘I live here,' she said. ‘For now, anyway.'

‘You weren't supposed to be home until late.'

‘Well I'm here now and I'm waiting for an answer.'

‘I . . . a girl at school lent them to me.'

‘
Lent
them to you?'

I nodded.

Mama was silent for a while. I could feel her thoughts swirling. ‘Please, don't . . . don't, for God's sake, tell me you stole them.'

I shook my head.

She grabbed my arm and hauled me up. ‘You did, didn't you? You
stole
them.'

‘Mama . . .'

‘You're a thief.' She flung off my arm and held out her hand. ‘Give them here.'

I wanted to hit her hand, to smack it so hard she'd howl with pain. I wanted to grab it, press it against my face. I wanted Mama. I filled her hand with paints.

‘You fill me with shame,
Lindsay
.'

When Dad came in she pointed to the kitchen counter where the paints lay in a heap. ‘This little cache,' she said, ‘is what art has done for Lindsay. It's made her a thief. Are all artists thieves, do you think, Edric? Or just your daughter and your mistress?'

Dad shoved his hands in his pockets and went out. Again.

The room was stifling. Rust-coloured curtains blotted the sun and in another room a wireless pipped ten o'clock. A picture of Jesus was skewered to the wall and beneath it:
For God so loved the world
. . .

Mandy's mother looked confused. The bag in my hand had wilted with sweat. The paints felt like lead. Everything felt like lead.

‘Well?' said my mother.

I lifted my arm. ‘Yours,' I said to Mandy.

She peered inside the bag. ‘My paints!
You
took them?'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Why?'

I shook my head. ‘They're better than mine.'

She tossed them on the couch. ‘Why didn't you ask me, Lindsay? I'd have lent them to you.'

Lent them to me?

‘You can use them whenever you want. Just ask next time, okay?'

‘That's very generous of you, Mandy,' said Mama, ‘but there won't be a next time. Lindsay doesn't need paints any more; she has to concentrate on schoolwork. She's already a year behind and slipping further. There'll be no more art.'

And there wasn't. Not even at school. My mother told Mr Pepper to set me exercises in maths while the others had art.

Headlines in the
South Pacific Post
a few days later announced the death of Sam Guyton, aged forty-six. He was killed when he drove off a cliff on his way down from the highlands after a ‘social event'. It didn't say he was probably drunk to the eyeballs. It didn't say how many drunk white people had done the same thing. Sam Guyton had been a business associate of Dad's and a friend of both my parents.

‘I'm going to the funeral whether you like it or not,' my mother told Dad.

‘Of course you are,' he said. ‘We'll go together.'

Her shoulders, hunched for a row, dropped.

‘Poor chap,' Dad said.

‘At least he didn't have family.'

Dad paled, but my mother simply looked sad. They went to the funeral, fights on hold. Seeing them together made my heart ache, even if their anger with each other had turned to anger with me.

At least Mandy wasn't angry. I'd gone to school on Monday expecting that she would tell the whole school about me stealing her paints but she didn't. I hovered by her desk before lunch, wanting to say thanks. She waggled a finger at me.

‘Now Lindsay, you're not going to pinch something else while my back's turned are you, or will I have to hide everything?' She giggled. ‘Don't look like that. I'm joking. You won't do it again.'

‘How do you know I won't?'

She smiled slyly. ‘I stole something once, a pair of thongs from a boy in grade four because Mum wouldn't buy me any.'

‘What happened?'

‘He found out and said if I didn't give them back, plus my whole collection of cereal cards, he'd report me. So I gave him back the thongs and all my beautiful cards. But,
I
said if he told anyone about the thongs, I'd tell everyone he stole my cards.'

I felt a smile tugging at my mouth; I'd almost forgotten what it was like. ‘Clever,' I said. ‘I wish you'd caught me instead of my mother.'

‘So do I,' said Mandy. ‘I'd have made you give me your fountain pen. Next time I will.'

Chapter Fifteen

I felt her before I saw her.

The room was full of radiant, swaying light. Shards of quartz, unearthed from the bottom of my marble bag, danced rainbows on the walls of my room. I was sitting on the floor, twirling the crystal chips in the light from the window, when I felt something that stilled my heart. I turned. She stood in the doorway, a glass of whisky in one hand, a card in the other. The air twanged with strange electricity.

‘No end to your talent, is there,
Lindsay
? You know, changing your name was probably a good thing because frankly you don't deserve the name Roberta.' She dropped the card on the floor and twisted it with her heel. ‘First-class artist, you reckon. Certainly top in the art of deception. Now, let's find your stash.' She yanked a drawer from my dressing table and upended it, spilling knickers, socks and hair ribbons over the floor.

‘Mama, what's wrong?'

She whipped around so fast whisky sloshed over her hand. She raised a damp finger. ‘How
dare
you?'

‘What . . . ?'

‘
Be quiet
.'

I tried to imagine what I'd done, what might be on that card. She wrenched out another drawer and dumped it upside down on the bed, scattering tee-shirts and blouses. Another drawer – nighties and bathers, and another drawer and another. She paused to swallow a mouthful of whisky and ripped open the last drawer containing my paints, brushes and pencils.

‘Bingo!'

She went to the wardrobe and began chucking things out like Snifter digging a hole. Games, books, boots, photos, every smock on every hanger. When it was empty, she took another swig of her drink and looked around. ‘I think that about covers everything.' She stepped over the mess and picked up the drawer with my art things. As she went to the door she skidded on a marble, put out her hand and dropped the glass. It smashed among the crystal shards and the sharp smell of whisky filled the room. ‘Clean up this mess,' she said. ‘Playtime's over.'

I sat among the chaos, staring at the empty doorway. After a while I leaned over and picked up the card. A piece of glass speared my hand. I pulled it out and blood dripped onto the card. I turned it over.

Sogeri Show 1960, School Art

First Place

Lindsay Lightfoot

Ela Beach School

Last weekend, the Sogeri Show. I'd forgotten about it. First prize. Most mothers would be proud. Not mine. Inside I was crumbling; I'd have to learn to accept that I'd never make her happy.

But, deception? No way. I'd done nothing wrong.

In the kitchen Mama was pouring another whisky.

‘Mr Pepper put our entries in three weeks ago,' I said. ‘You only banned art last week.'

‘You entered without my permission and behind my back.'

‘But it was for school.'

‘No, it was for you. This whole wretched art business is for you and it's turned you into a thief who can't be trusted and it is over with, do you understand?' Mama's eyes glittered. ‘If I find so much as a pencil among your things, God help you.'

‘But Mama . . .' I stared at her. There it was again, that strange electricity coming off her, like colour, but not colour. It was more like a feeling; a feeling of . . . doubt. Yes, doubt. She wasn't sure she was right. She rinsed a dishcloth and wrung it out so tight her knuckles went white.

‘You know I didn't go behind your back, Mama. You know I'm telling the truth.'

She turned to me, her mouth wide with disbelief. ‘How dare you lecture me about truth?' She threw the dishcloth in the sink, took a mouthful of whisky and went to the cane table that held her typewriter. She sat down and began to type, stabbing the keys so fiercely the table shook. I watched her, feeling the gulf between us becoming so wide I wondered where it would end.

When Dad came home, I handed him the card from the Sogeri Show. ‘I didn't go behind her back. I entered the show before I stole the paints. She's punishing me for something I didn't do.'

‘What's the difference, CP? Your mother banned art as punishment for stealing. If you're not allowed to paint, what does it matter that she's taken your gear?'

‘She said I couldn't be trusted but I can. I haven't done any art since she told me not to.'

He waved his hand like he was batting a fly. ‘Small beer, CP. Drop it.'

‘It's not small beer and I won't drop it. It's not fair.'

‘Nothing's fair.'

I stormed to my room and slammed the door so hard the house rattled. I waited, willing my mother to come in and have another go at me. If she wanted a fight, I'd give her a fight – I'd tell her she was a bloody liar.

I set my alarm for three o'clock in the morning and stuffed the clock under my pillow. When it burbled in the darkness I crawled out of bed, took the torch from the kitchen and went to the bottom of the garden. The bin was battered and dented, its metal lid jammed on tight to stop dogs getting in. The sound of scraping metal as I began to ease it up was unbearably loud in the quiet night. When I finally got it off, the stink of rotten meat hit me like a cloud of flies. I turned the torch on the contents and went to work, plunging my hands into sodden paper bags and rummaging their contents. The pad of my thumb hit the jagged edge of a tin can and I gasped. Blood ran down my arm. I swapped hands and groped among three days' rubbish for anything my mother had taken, going deeper and deeper with mounting desperation. I was half inside the bin, when I felt a hand on my back.

I nearly fainted.

‘Shhh.'

Josie. I sagged onto the ground.

‘What you look for?'

‘Art things. Mama took everything – brushes, pencils, paints. I'm sure she's thrown them out.'

Josie picked up the torch and shone it down the front of my pyjamas. ‘You dirty, piccanin'. Make plenty trouble. Go wash up, kwiktaim, now go to bed.'

‘I have to clean up this mess.'

‘I fix.' Josie shooed me to the tap beside her boi-haus. I cleaned myself up and crept back to bed. My thumb throbbed.

Morning revealed no evidence of my raid. The bin looked normal. When I came home from school that afternoon my mother was at her typewriter. Josie was in the kitchen, cleaning the fridge. She dipped her head towards the boi-haus. I wandered outside and a few moments later she came out and handed me a roll of newspaper. Inside was a pathetic mound of broken pencils. Nothing else except an inch-long shaft of my best brush, sable hair still intact. I put the stump in my pocket and rested my head on Josie's shoulder.

Someone was looking out for me.

I did my homework, kept my room tidy and at school I drew pictures with ordinary HB pencils on pages torn from exercise books. I drew caricatures – of my mother, Dad and
her
. When my exercise books looked thin, I asked Mandy for pages from hers. When hers got thin I nicked pages from other kids.

One Saturday morning I was sprawled on the sofa with Tim's Superman comics, idly stroking the brush-stump in my pocket while Josie swished a mop over the floor. My mother came from her bedroom in a swimsuit with shorts over and sandshoes that made tracks on the wet timber.

‘I'm going diving with Doug,' she told Josie. ‘I'll be back by four. Can you keep an eye on Roberta? Sorry, not Roberta, Lindsay. Quite different.'

Keep an eye on Roberta, or Lindsay, whoever. What vile thing might she do next
?

‘Okay, Sinabada.'

My mother left and the house settled into silence except for the rhythmic sweep of Josie's mop. It had been quiet more often lately. Since the funeral, my parents seemed to have run out of fight, or perhaps their disgust with me gave them something in common. Not that Dad was around much, he was too busy trying to fend off Konrad Breuer's latest offer. One of Dad's largest debtors had gone bankrupt and the pressure to accept Breuer's money was mounting.

I returned to the comic. Lois Lane was trying to give a piece of kryptonite to Clark Kent. He'd gone sweaty and weak and was trying to back away. How could Lois Lane be so dumb that she didn't know Clark was really Superman? Didn't she recognise a hero? Or maybe Lois was smarter than I thought. Maybe there weren't any heroes.

‘Piccanin”. Josie leaned on the mop. She'd stopped calling me Bertie when I asked her to, but wouldn't call me Lindsay. ‘You want to come Koki with me? Dave take us.'

I scrambled off the couch.

Sandwiched between Josie and Dave in his old blue truck with the sun streaming in and the south-easterly gusting through the window, I felt better than I had since we came back from Canada. The market was buzzing. A breeze rattled the palm fronds and swept the smell of fish and mud out to sea. The ground was dotted with grass mats piled with taro, yam, sago, coconuts, breadfruit, fish and shellfish. Josie haggled over prices and gradually her bilum filled. Dave found friends and sat with them under a mango tree, chewing betel nut dipped in lime and spitting streams of blood-red juice into the dirt. When Josie finished her shopping, she took my hand and led me over a trail of rocks sticking above the water. I took off my boot and we sat with our feet dangling in the sea. From the folds of her dress she produced a pin and from her bilum, a flat-bladed knife. With lightning speed she slid the knife under a small cone-shaped limpet clinging to a rock and tipped it upside down. She skewered it with the pin and popped it in her mouth, chewing with such noisy enjoyment I figured it must taste better than it looked.

‘You turn.'

The idea of eating the glistening flesh made me feel queasy but I couldn't refuse. Josie slid the knife under another limpet, flipped it and held it out, belly up. I jabbed it with the pin, screwed up my eyes and shoved it in my mouth. Not bad. Kind of springy and sea-tasting. Josie continued flipping limpets before they could stick, one for me, one for her. Then she handed me the knife.

‘You now. Be quick. Slide under, turn 'im fast.'

I took the knife and jabbed it beneath a cone but it stuck like cement. Josie took the knife and showed me once more, a lightning-quick flick and over it went. I tried again and again but every limpet clamped fast to the rock before I could flip it.

‘You too slow,' she said.

‘I know.'

She put the knife down and we sat looking out over the water. Lakatois twirled slowly as their heavy sails caught the breeze. Babies played in the mud. Some wore little singlets but most were naked. Their mothers watched them, swatting flies and picking up the kids when they fell over. The tide was coming in and a wave splashed against our rock.
If the seventh wave doesn't knock you over, nothing will
.

‘Do you know Dad's girlfriend, Josie?'

She nodded.

‘Do you like her?'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘It does matter. Dad might be leaving us.' I felt my stomach tighten. ‘If he does, Mama will take Tim and me back to Canada.'

‘You daddy don't leave you.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I know. Em tasol.' She waved her hand as if it didn't matter and handed me the knife. A limpet clung to the side of the rock. I reached down, gently slid the knife under, and flipped it.

Josie smiled. ‘See?'