Summer

By Michelle Zoetemeyer

Peter and Maggie are happily married. For a fortyish couple with two kids, they get on remarkably well. While all their friends are in relationships that make them wonder why they bother, Maggie and Peter have always prided themselves in being different from other couples. They are soul mates and best friends who are more in love now than when they first met.

With school holidays fast approaching, Maggie makes the usual preparations for their annual stay at Bellbird Cottage. However, when one of Peter’s students from the university where he teaches decides to make trouble for him, his relationship with Maggie is put to the ultimate test.

Jenny and Tom are best friends. They share everything, including a birthday. They will both tell you that school holidays are their favourite times of the year. For Jenny and Tom, the summer starts out like every other summer. With no school for weeks, a birthday party to plan and Christmas to look forward to, life couldn’t be better. Not long into the holidays; however, things start to go wrong. An encounter with the neighbourhood bullies gets out of control and the young friends find themselves in over their heads. As Jenny and Tom experience a range of emotions and events unfamiliar to them, it becomes apparent that the summer will not turn out to be the usual carefree one they expected.

Living in Australia, you can’t help but feel some affinity towards summer. It is a time for love, sorrow, joy and pain – but mostly, it is a time for change. Summer is the season from which all memories flow. For Maggie and Peter, the summer of 1968 is one that changed their lives forever. For Jenny and Tom, the summer of 1979 is the one that will be remembered most.

Summer tells the story of two couples - one married, the other childhood friends - separated by years, but inexorably linked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Zoetemeyer
• Release date: Aug 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301446933

Book preview

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Prologue

February 1965

Light pierced the Venetian slats, casting horizontal planes of brilliance against an otherwise drab wall. Maggie stretched indolently. She put her hands behind her head and studied the wall intently. She knew the routine well by now. First she would silence the alarm clock, just as she had done a couple of minutes ago. Then, she would run through the list in her head, one item at a time, invariably giving herself another ten minutes in bed.

She closed her eyes and recalled the list. The Venetian blinds were still at the top of the ever-changing register. They had been condemned for months now. As soon as she found the time to select the fabric for the new drapes, they would be gone for sure. And she wouldn’t be sorry to see them go.

Not like the wardrobe; it was next on the list. It was the first item of furniture Maggie and Peter had purchased together. If that wasn’t reason enough to keep it, what it represented should have been. In Maggie’s mind, the wardrobe marked the first step towards transforming the chic, but impractical designer house of Peter’s first marriage into the relaxed and comfortable home they now shared.

Despite the metamorphosis that had taken place, it took little effort for Maggie to visualise the house that Peter had occupied with his ex-wife. She dismissed the wardrobe from her mind and waited for the familiar image to appear. When it did, she remembered how she had felt when she first walked through the door all those years ago. It was as though she had stepped into the pages of Home Beautiful. Every item in the room was perfectly matched and placed with the flair of an interior designer.

Glazed chintz drapes framed a large picture window and provided the perfect backdrop for the chartreuse walls. In the corner, a tall, olive green lamp stood alongside a blonde wooden lounge suite with matching green cushions. On the opposite wall, another lamp, indistinguishable from the first, stood guard over a large, boxy armchair, also in the same green velvet. The exaggerated line of its curved armrests, inlaid with blonde veneer, gave the chair a relaxed look that defied its formal proportions. A magazine rack tastefully placed near the matching wheat coloured buffet and overflowing with a fashionable selection of Meanjin and Angry Penguins provided the finishing touch. At the time, Maggie recalled being somewhat reassured to learn that Peter was not responsible for stocking the magazine rack. As it happened, the magazines were years old and Peter had simply not bothered to throw them away.

No sooner had her focus returned to the present than Maggie remembered the large mirror with the mosaic border that had hung above the buffet. She wondered how she could have missed the enormous looking glass that effectively created the illusion of a room twice as large as it really was. She smiled as she remembered six year old Michelle running into the backyard where Maggie stood hanging washing on the line, gleefully exclaiming that she had made millions of pretty diamonds. Maggie had been so pleased by the mirror’s demise that she hadn’t roused on Michelle for playing with her Hula-hoop in the house.

With the offending mirror gone, had it not been for the fact that Peter’s first wife had decorated the entire house single-handedly, Maggie would have conceded that she may have eventually grown to like it. But, since Marjorie had so vividly left her mark in every corner of the house, Maggie believed that her only option was to initiate a makeover that would to take the best part of a decade to complete. Now, much to Maggie’s delight, apart from the kitchen and bathroom fixtures, not a skerrick of the original décor remained. Even the original varnished floorboards were buried under the shag pile that was now underfoot.

Determined to stay in bed as long as possible, Maggie cast her mind back to her list. Unlike the blinds that were destined for the tip, the wardrobe was being moved to Michelle’s room. Maggie had still not come to grips with the amount of space a sixteen year old girl needed, but she was certain the wardrobe was a step in the right direction.

Mmm, Peter snuggled in close, good morning, lazy bones.

Maggie gave up on the choice between barely beige and whipped cream for the walls and turned onto her side. She tucked in closer to Peter. Who are you calling lazy bones? I’m not the one who slept through the alarm clock.

Come closer, Peter nuzzled into her neck, you’re way too far away.

Maggie giggled. She felt Peter’s body molding to fit hers and regretted not being able to sleep in. She enjoyed the rare occasions they got to stay in bed past seven and considered how much damage staying in bed for just a few more minutes could do.

Five more minutes, she told herself, as Peter ran his hand down her thigh. The warmth of his hand gave her goose bumps. She loved the way he felt. If truth were told, she loved everything about him. She often amazed herself by not being able to come up with a single thing that she would change if she could. Once she would have changed his past, but she knew it was not possible to change even the smallest thing without changing everything else. Take the kids for example; if Peter hadn’t married Marjorie, Michelle and Stephen would never have been born.

Wishing the kids out of existence was simply inconceivable. Michelle and Stephen had been such a big part of her world for so long now that she could no longer imagine life without them. Still, as much as she loved having them in her life, she knew it was the kids that clinched it with her mother in the end. If it wasn’t disastrous enough that Maggie had fallen in love with a married man, to make matters worse, he had children as well.

In a society that constantly reinforced the importance of the family unit and the traditional roles of mother and father as the homemaker and breadwinner respectively, divorce was viewed as a social evil not to be tolerated. Maggie had known that already. She had expected some initial disagreement from her mother on the matter; but had naïvely assumed that, as with her decision to go to teachers’ college, her mother would eventually see reason.

She had been wrong.

Maggie had been aware that her mother had not been the same since her father had passed away, but the years Maggie spent boarding with her aunt while she attended teachers college had ill prepared her for the changes that had taken place. Her infrequent home visits had hinted at a waning benevolence, but she had dismissed her mother’s behaviour as a reaction to her father’s unexpected death. Had she not been so careless in her judgment, the dogmatic fanaticism with which she was confronted when she told her mother of her intention to marry Peter might not have come as such a surprise.

Maggie’s mother informed her that she could not survive the scandal that would surely come once the whole church found out that her daughter – a daughter whom she believed had been bought up with higher principles than what Maggie was displaying – had taken up house with a married man. The only solution, her mother had said, was to disassociate herself from her immoral daughter and get on with her life as though Maggie had never existed.

And that is exactly what she did.

Maggie was devastated. She pleaded with her mother to see reason. Even her news that Peter was getting divorced and intended to marry Maggie made no difference. According to her mother, the Church did not recognise divorce. Put simply, Maggie had disgraced herself and her family and had bought shame upon the church.

Maggie was astounded by the idea that someone’s faith in a seemingly merciless God was so much stronger than their faith in their daughter. When months went by and all attempts to re-establish contact failed, Maggie gave in and accepted her mother’s decision. What she refused to accept was that God wanted to keep her and Peter apart. Surely God was not about depriving people of the joy of being together when they loved each other as much as Maggie and Peter did? Since when had God become so mean?

The more Maggie considered her mother’s words, the more she believed her to be wrong. God was not mean; people were mean. If her mother could be so blinded by the church that she could not see that, then as far as Maggie was concerned, the church could go to hell; she would find spirituality elsewhere.

Peter reached around and cupped Maggie’s breast. While she certainly had her regrets where her mother was concerned, she had none when it came to Peter. In the husband stakes, Maggie was well aware of her good fortune. She knew enough from listening to her workmates dump on their husbands to know a good deal when she saw one. And, if getting the perfect husband wasn’t good enough; she found a best friend as well.

Rolling Maggie onto her back, Peter kissed her full on the mouth, deliberately making a wet smacking sound as he did so. The finality of his action left Maggie with no doubt that the sleep-in was over. She groaned. Going through the list one more time wasn’t going to save her now. She knew she had to get up and face the day. They had a long drive ahead of them and she still had a hundred things to do before leaving.

Have you got the address written down? Peter asked.

Yeah, it’s on the letter.

Well, have you got the letter?

Maggie pushed him playfully. Are you suggesting I might have misplaced it?

Peter laughed. After twelve years together, Maggie’s carelessness was well known. According to Peter, she never put the effort in on the front end, she always left things to the last minute, and she almost always paid the price. She did it so often that Peter suspected she did it just to get even with him for making fun of her about it.

Maggie lay on the bed and watched Peter walk to the wardrobe and take out a shirt. Unlike Maggie, who preferred to leave wet footprints through the house while she scrounged around for something to wear, Peter always got his clothes ready to take into the bathroom with him. She admired his naked body. Standing at six foot and four inches, his broad shoulders and narrow hips belied his thirty-eight years. Maggie thought he was more handsome now than when she had first met him and she never missed an opportunity to tell him so.

Noticing the time, Maggie jumped off the bed and raced up the hall. Peter laughed. There’s no doubt about that woman, she’ll be late for her own funeral, he mumbled.

Maggie ran past the kids’ rooms and rapped on their doors. Stephen! Michelle! Come on, up and at ‘em.

The kids were going to stay at Peter’s brother’s place for the day. Maggie had told them it was too long a drive for them, and that they would just fidget all the way. It was even true. Driving all the way from Newtown to Martinsville was a long way by anyone’s standards, but deep down Maggie knew that she was just making excuses. She was mindful of her mixed feelings about the excursion and she wanted time to organise her thoughts before arriving. A couple of hours in the car with two teenagers would leave her with zero time to contemplate anything.

While Peter showered, Maggie packed some sandwiches for the drive. Not sure if they would be back in time for dinner, she included some Vegemite SAOs for the return trip. Then, just to be sure they wouldn’t starve, she added a pair of bananas and some fruitcake to the Esky. She left the Vegemite out for Michelle’s toast, popped two slices of bread in the toaster, and took out the Weet-bix for Stephen.

Hurry up, kids! Breakfast’s ready.

Maggie left the kids to their breakfast and exchanged places with Peter in the shower. Peter patted her bottom as she squeezed through the opening in the shower curtain, reminding her as he did so that they were in a hurry.

I’ll be out in a jiffy, she reassured him, I don’t need to wash my hair, I did it yesterday.

Unlike most women Peter knew, Maggie refused to fall victim to Vidal Sassoon’s vigorous marketing strategies. Rather than spend unnecessary shillings and pence on the bouffant styles, long lashes and heavy makeup that most women believed were a necessary adjunct to everyday life, she chose to wear minimal makeup and her long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. As far as Peter was concerned, no amount of make up or false eyelashes could improve her distinctive, ice-blue eyes and thick, dark lashes.

Guilty of dawdling, Peter left Maggie to shower and deftly cleaned up the breakfast stuff. While he busied himself in the kitchen, he instructed the kids to tidy their rooms and put their dirty clothes in the laundry. Michelle grumbled about the unfairness of having to clean up despite not staying home and no one being there to do the washing. Peter knew that to argue with her would mean an all-out battle, so he ignored her complaints and loaded the car.

Maggie came out a short time later looking fresh in a floral skirt and white cotton blouse. Peter smiled at her as he hurried her along with a gentle push. They had no sooner piled into the car when she remembered the Thermos of cordial still sitting on the kitchen bench and raced back in to get it. Peter sat patiently while she locked the house for the second time and took the mugs out of the Esky that was stowed in the back of the station wagon.

Climbing into the car, Maggie put the Thermos and mugs on the floor in front of her. There, she said triumphantly, "who’s got the courage to call me disorganised?"

Not I, Peter admitted.

Uh uh, me either, concurred Stephen.

Michelle recognised Maggie’s question as rhetorical and chose not to respond. So Mum? she asked instead, "when do we get to see it?"

Another time, Maggie answered idly.

"I figured that much out on my own." Clearly, Maggie had not given Michelle’s request sufficient consideration.

Hey, Peter said, watch your tone, young lady.

Maggie intervened. Honestly love, I don’t know. It’s a long way to go and your dad and I have already made two trips by train just to sort everything out.

Maybe we can come at Easter time, Stephen suggested, yous’ll have time then, won’t you?

Stephen Thompson! Please tell me I did not hear you correctly.

What? Stephen sounded confused.

"As a school teacher, I cannot allow my son to say dirty words like yous." Maggie pretended to be horrified.

Peter joined in. Really? What would people think?

I imagine they’d think he was an imbecile, Michelle informed them. She was in no mood for frivolity.

Peter sighed gratefully as he pulled into his brother’s driveway. He silently thanked Maggie for insisting they leave the kids with Roger and Mary for the day. Mary saw them pull up and waved from the kitchen window. By the time Peter stopped the engine, she was standing beside their car drying her hands on a tea towel. Maggie wound down her window and explained that they really didn’t have time to stop.

Mary nodded her understanding before waving them off.

Seeing the sombre look on Maggie’s face, Peter reached across and put his hand on her knee. You alright, babe?

Maggie sighed. I feel a bit bad about leaving the kids, that’s all.

Don’t fret, they’ll be fine. Michelle will be off gasbagging with Susan by now and she’ll have forgotten all about us.

She knew he was right. He usually was when it came to the kids, especially Michelle. Maggie knew that Michelle’s behaviour was typical for a sixteen year old. She accepted nothing and questioned everything. Normally that wouldn’t bother Maggie, quite the opposite in fact. She and Peter had always taught the kids to think for themselves and not let others do it for them, but since her mother’s death a month ago, Maggie could feel her cloak of resilience beginning to unravel.

As much as she had mixed feelings about the trip, she looked forward to the closure that had been denied her the past twelve years. Maggie felt certain that the visit to Martinsville would extinguish the last ember of hope she’d left smoldering all these years and allow her to finally get on with life. Despite this, she still wasn’t sure how she would feel seeing the house in which her mother had spent the last five years of her life. While the news of her mother’s death had come as a shock to Maggie, the news that her mother had sold the family home in Morisset and had relocated to the neighbouring village of Martinsville had caused her greater surprise.

Maggie remembered Martinsville as little more than a one-horse town, miles from anywhere. And by the sounds of it, the place had not prospered since Maggie had left home. It no longer had its own post office. According to Mr Harris, the executor of her mother’s estate, it closed down a couple of weeks ago.

Maggie found that trying to make sense of her thoughts and feelings regarding her mother’s death was dampening her spirits. Rather than spoil both their day by moping about it, she turned on the radio. Something bright and gay was bound to cheer her up.

Sure enough, like an omen, the Beatles’ latest hit, I feel fine, was playing.

Hey, they’re those uni kids I was telling you about, Peter said, turning the radio up and causing Maggie to start as she realised the music was no longer playing.

Maggie and Peter listened while the reporter told of a bus load of students making trouble at Moree. Apparently the students had protested against the municipal baths’ policy that no aborigines be admitted.

Do you teach any of them? Maggie asked.

Nah, I think they all go to Sydney University, but I couldn’t say for sure.

Maggie thought about what she always told the kids whenever they complained about the injustice of not getting what they wanted. Much to their annoyance, she was constantly reminding them that they should consider themselves fortunate, as there was always someone worse off. Well, good for them, she said, passionately. It’s an absolute tragedy the way those people are treated.

Although, one has to ask what good it’ll do them, Peter proposed. When all’s said and done, they don’t even have a vote.

Maggie shook her head in disgust. What on earth has to happen before people wake up to themselves? This is their country for Christ’s sake and they don’t even have the vote. Does that sound fair to you?

Peter smiled. Once Maggie got on her high horse about something, there was no stopping her.

They eventually gave up on enticing an ongoing reception from the radio and spent the next hour or so discussing social injustices facing Aborigines. Being able to discuss a diversity of subjects was one of the things they liked about each other. Despite working in professions that claimed to promote independent thought and intelligent debate on a wide range of issues, Maggie and Peter were often flabbergasted at the number of their friends and colleagues who simply regurgitated everyone else’s tripe and never had an opinion of their own.

For Maggie and Peter, conversation was never as good with others as it was between them. They spent hours at a time discussing everything from the absurdity of the Vietnam War, to more important issues, such as whether the Beatles would outlast the Rolling Stones. Today was no exception. In fact, it was times like this that Peter was thankful that he had spent the extra one hundred and eighty odd pounds on the automatic transmission. It was so much easier not to be changing gears all the time.

Peter's car was his pride and joy. He’d had it for three years, but he still got as much joy out of it as he had when it was new. Despite the luxuries like the carpet and heater, Maggie still hadn’t forgiven him for the bucket seats. She complained that driving had been much more fun when she could sit close enough for him to drive with his arm around her.

Peter pointed to the sign up ahead indicating the turn off they were to take. As he turned the car into Hue Hue Road, Maggie sat quietly watching the landscape evaporate behind them. She knew that they would be at Martinsville within the hour and she was beginning to feel restless. The old insecurities came flooding back and she wondered for the hundredth time how she would cope with the task ahead.

As the moment of reckoning drew near, a realisation dawned. It occurred to Maggie that she was annoyed with her mother. In justifying her anger, Maggie asked herself what kind of person would remove themselves so completely from their only child’s life, with the knowledge that when they died the burden of dealing with their estate would fall to their sole heir?

Until now, Maggie had dismissed her mother’s righteous intolerance as a symptom of her father’s death, but now she saw it for what it was; blatant selfishness. Why couldn’t she have just left her estate to her beloved church? At least then Maggie wouldn’t be left with the unsavoury task of disposing of it.

Keep your eye out for Martinsville Road, Peter instructed, We need to take a left turn there. According to Mr Harris, the place is about five miles down Martinsville Road, past Wilkinson’s Road on the left. He reckons it has a red letterbox that can be seen from the road.

Maggie expected the slow drive over the rough corduroy road to fuel her anger, but instead she found that the picturesque landscape had a calming effect. She hadn’t remembered Martinsville being so beautiful. She was right about it being a one-horse town, but what a spectacular one-horse town it was.

The heavy rain of the last couple of days was evident everywhere. They drove past a property whose creek had overflowed into the paddock, creating a large pond of water. The long grass swaying beneath the surface caused the pool to sparkle and shimmer with an infinite number of tiny stars. A lonely pair of Willow trees waded in the shallow water, inviting the weary traveller to take off their shoes and join them.

They passed a small building that claimed to be the public school. The sign above the veranda boasted an age of seventy years, reaffirming Maggie’s notion that they had stepped back in time. The gatepost at the front of the school stood ajar, daring them to cavort like kids in the school grounds.

The magnificent Watagan Mountains provided the ideal setting for the delicious green landscape. Maggie had a sense that Martinsville was a place of rejuvenation. With its rainforest climate and remarkably little evidence of civilisation, it was difficult to imagine the unspoiled wonderland tolerating even the smallest of life’s trivialities or tensions.

As they crossed a shaky bridge, Maggie could see the clear, dark water wind its way through overgrown reeds and make its way under the bridge. She wondered where it was headed and turned in her seat so she could follow its trail under the bridge and out the other side. Instead of solving the mystery, the tangle of plants wrapped the creek in its protective arms until it was no longer possible to distinguish the water from the shrubbery.

Maggie felt the emotional seesaw she was on hit the ground and bounce back up again. Instead of exploiting twelve years of regret to stimulate her rising temper, she fought desperately to dam the last trickle of anger as it slowly dissipated.

Look at this place, it’s absolutely glorious. Peter wound down his window so he could get a better view. This must be what it looks like in paradise.

Maggie smiled.

Peter pointed to a red letterbox up ahead.

My God! exclaimed Maggie. Mr Harris wasn’t joking when he said it had a red letterbox, have a load of that.

Maggie took the impertinent red structure as further evidence of her mother’s misunderstanding of God’s intent and doubted that anyone could have conceived of a more offensive construction to mar the unspoiled landscape.

Peter slowed the car and contemplated the precarious looking driveway. It was barely more than a couple of logs flung across a ditch. He looked at Maggie questioningly.

Maggie spotted her mother’s Morris Minor parked next to a ramshackle shed and was reminded of her dad’s delight at driving it home for the first time. Dismissing the image from her mind, she put on a brave face. Well, if my mother managed to get that thing in and out using this driveway, I think we’ll manage.

Taking up the challenge, Peter slowly navigated the rickety bridge. He let out a sigh of relief as he felt the back tyres regain traction on solid ground. He followed the dirt driveway around a clump of Eucalypts before coming to rest in front of an old weatherboard cottage. In spite of the flaking paint and the overgrown weeds, Maggie thought the cottage was far more charming than she had anticipated. Her first impulse was to run around the veranda like a wayward toddler, but she doubted the rotten planks would guarantee her safety.

Peter lifted the Esky out of the car and stood beside Maggie. Listen to the bellbirds, don’t they sound beaut?

Maggie stood transfixed by the image before her, …and softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing, the notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

Maggie Thompson?

Maggie shook her head. Nope, Henry Kendall.

Oh. And for a minute there I thought you’d gone all romantic on me.

With all thoughts of selling the place and paying off their mortgage forgotten, Maggie’s face was as lively as Peter had seen it since her mother’s death. Can we keep it? she asked. We’ll come up on weekends and do it up, it’ll be the perfect place for holidays.

Chapter 1

Friday, 14 December 1979

C’mon, I’ll race you home. Tom took off up the hill faster than I could complain. I hate it when he does that. I can never keep up with him and he knows it. Mind you, I’m better at climbing trees than he is, so I guess that makes us even. Besides, he’s my best friend and Mum always says that best friends should like each other no matter what, even if one of them is being a retard, or can run faster than you.

Mum thinks that because Tom and I have the same birthday, we were meant to be best friends. She’s been saying so ever since Tom moved into our street when I was six years old. She believes in all that stuff about destiny and whatever will be will be. I found out last year that Liam Flannery and Kenny Pritchard have the same birthday and they’re not friends. When I told Mum about Liam and Kenny, she said that it was different. What are the chances they were both born at the same hospital within an hour of each other? she asked. And that they would end up living in the same street?

I wondered how anyone could know exactly what time they were born, and since most of the kids in my class were born at the Western Suburbs Hospital, I still thought it was no big deal. I was just about to say as much, but then I remembered Liam has a funny accent. I doubt that two babies could be born in the same hospital and only one of them grow up with a funny accent, and since I know they don’t live in the same street, I gave in and admitted that maybe Mum was right after all.

Before Tom could get too much of a head start, I grabbed my school port and raced up the street after him. Mr Drury let us take a whole heap of Christmas stuff home today and it weighed a tonne. I enjoy school the most at Christmas time. Not that I don’t like it normally, I do. I just wouldn’t admit it to anyone, that’s all. Well, maybe to Tom, but not to anyone else. We hardly do any schoolwork and mostly just spend the days crumpling up bits of crepe paper and sticking them onto Santa cut-outs and stuff.

Just because I like making Christmas stuff, doesn’t mean I believe in Santa or anything like that. I’ve known for ages that Santa’s not real. Johnny Woodford said that everyone knows he’s not real. He said only babies believe in Santa, so I had to pretend that I’d known he wasn’t real all along. Sometimes I still pretend I believe, but that’s only for Mum and Dad’s benefit.

With Tom in the lead, we ran up the hill and around the corner to his place not stopping to catch our breath. I caught up with him just as he jumped over his mother’s Geraniums and cut across the front yard. He’d done it so many times he’d worn a path in the grass. We pulled up just in time to avoid crashing into Tom’s mum. She walked through the front door carrying a plastic bucket and a pair of gardening gloves. G’day Mrs Simmons, can Tom come and play at my place til tea time? I asked.

Of course he can, dear.

The house was dark inside after being in the bright daylight. I could just make out the Undertaker sitting in his usual spot in the corner. I couldn’t really see his face, but I could sense him peering out over his can of KB in that strange way that he has. Hello Mr Simmons, how are you?

No response.

It was hard to believe that this creep was actually Tom’s Dad. Once I heard Tom’s brother talk about a movie he’d watched with someone in it called the Undertaker. Apparently the Undertaker rode a motorbike and worshipped the Devil. He sounded mean and nasty, and I was sure that if he’d been real, everyone would have been scared of him. I thought it was a perfect name for Tom’s dad, because he was mean, and I sure as hell was scared of him.

The Undertaker is pretty old. He’s much older than the other dads in the street. He never works or does anything. Tom told me that his parents had already stopped having kids when he came along and that he shouldn’t have been born. Tom’s sister was already grown up with a family of her own when he was born. That makes Tom an uncle to someone older than him. Weird huh? Tom’s brother, Jim, is in the Army and Tom hardly ever sees him, so he’s practically an only child.

I asked Tom once what was wrong with his dad, but he just shrugged and said he was always like that. Tom doesn’t seem to like the Undertaker very much either, but he never says anything. Just like I never tell him I call his dad the Undertaker.

There isn’t much I don’t tell Tom. Compared to most of my friends he’s really good at keeping secrets, but Mum always says some things are better left unsaid, and I suppose she’s right. Besides, I do like Mrs Simmons, and that’s the main thing. Mrs Simmons is usually nice to me even if the Undertaker isn’t.

From where she stood in the front yard, Mrs Simmons must have thought I was Tom standing behind the screen door. Do you have homework Tommy? she asked. By now, I knew the drill well. Tom’s never allowed out until his room’s clean and his homework’s done. I think it’s odd how Tom will do whatever his mum asks but practically ignores everything his dad says. I would get into deep trouble if I did that. Not that I ever would, my dad is way cool and not a bit like the Undertaker.

Mrs Simmons, you don’t get homework on the last day of school, I explained, before realising that she was smiling at me in a way that told me she was only kidding and that she knew that already. She likes to mess around like that. Mostly her sense of humour is pretty spastic, but I knew she was just trying to be nice.

Tom rolled his eyes at his mum’s attempt at humour and told me to wait where I was. Then, he dashed across the room and into the kitchen, leaving me stranded with the Undertaker. Rather than speak or make eye contact with him, I studied the photographs on the wall as though I were seeing them for the first time. It wasn’t until I heard Tom re-enter the room that I took my eyes from the pictures and faced the room again.

Here, catch, Tom said, tossing me an apple. C’mon, let’s go play.

We slammed the door behind us causing Mrs Simmons to look up with a start. Don’t be late home, she said.

We got as far as the footpath when she called Tom back. She’d noticed his school port on the front veranda where he’d chucked it and sent him back in to put it away. Tom has a real Globite port. Not like mine, I’ve got one of those daggy brown cardboard ones with plastic corners.

And change out of your school uniform too, she shouted after him. My mum never makes me change out of my uniform when I don’t have school the next day, but it was just like Mrs Simmons to do that. Their house is always so tidy and clean. She’s one of those clean freaks. Not like my mum who’s always complaining that the place looks like a bomb hit it.

I often wonder if it has anything to do with God. You know, that whole cleanliness is next to godliness thing? Mrs Simmons and the Undertaker are Catholics and go to church every week, sometimes more if it’s Easter or Christmas. Mum says we’re Atheists, and Atheists don’t go to church or believe in God. I don’t know what else they do, but if it means I don’t have to keep my room as clean as Tom’s then I don’t really mind being an Atheist.

***

I could hear Mum clunking dishes in the kitchen. Hi Mum, I’m home.

Hi Jenny, hi Tom, don’t slam the door! The door slammed behind us.

Tom gave me an astonished look, as if to say, how does your mum know I’m with you? I just shrugged. I’ve learned not to question how Mum knows the things she does.

Tom flopped back onto my bed and put his feet up. I thought the last day of school was never gonna get here. It felt like I’d been counting down the days for ages.

Dreary Drury keeps telling us that we shouldn’t wish our lives away, but seriously, what would he know? I bet he doesn’t have a birthday coming up just before Christmas. I bet he doesn’t even count down to Christmas, for that matter. It must be so boring being a grownup and not have anything to count down to. I’m not even eleven yet, but I will be soon, in just eight more days. I can’t wait. Mum’s letting me have a party and she’s making all sorts of party food like butterfly cakes and fairy bread and she said I could even have some fizzy drink and hand out party bags like all the other kids do at their parties.

What are you wearing to the party? I asked Tom.

How the hell should I know? Only girls worry about that kind of stuff.

Tom always swears a lot when his mum can’t hear. He thinks it makes him sound tough. I suppose he’s right though, boys never seem to worry about stuff like clothes. Mum’s making me a new halter dress, just like the one I saw at Verdun Hiles. I don’t usually like dresses, but Mum says I should dress more like a young lady and less like a hooligan, especially at my own birthday party. I figured if I had to wear a dress, I might as well pick one I like, so I did. Except, Mum said it was too much money and bought some material to make it instead.

Tom’s face lit up when I first told him I was having a party. It gave me the brilliant idea of letting him share it with me. He was coming anyway, but that way he’d get presents too. I knew he wouldn’t get to have a party otherwise, because even though his mum said he could have one, he didn’t want to. I think he is too embarrassed to have all his friends over with the Undertaker around. Tom told me once that the Undertaker thought it wasn’t right that he had a friend who was a girl. He reckons only sissies have girls for friends.

I grabbed some clothes off the pile on my bed and went to get changed in the bathroom. I never used to care if I got changed around Tom, but Mum says I’m getting too old for that now.

What do you wanna do? I asked on my way out.

Let’s go and see if Ed and Shortie want to go for a swim.

I better check if I’m allowed first. I’m not usually allowed to go all the way into Toronto on a school day, but I thought Mum might let me today because it was the last day of school. Mum! Can I go to the baths with Tom? I’ll be back by tea time.

Don’t yell, if you want to talk to me, come here and talk to me, she yelled back.

How dumb is that? I asked Tom. Fancy yelling out to someone just to tell them not to yell out. I rolled my eyes and huffed out of the room.

Less than thirty seconds later I was back. Mum said I can go, but if I come back late this time, I’m not allowed out tomorrow, I told him. I knew that unless I was really late, she’d never make me stay home. If she did, she’d be stuck with me moping around the house all day. I think that’s the reason Tom’s parents let him out so much. They don’t want him around messing up the house. The only time they don’t let him out is on Sundays when he has to go to church.

Poor Tom, fancy having to go to church every week, how boring!

Tops! Tom said, bouncing off the bed. Let’s stop and get my pushie, it’s too hot to walk.

I offered to get Ed and Shortie and meet Tom at his place. That way, I wouldn’t have to see the Undertaker again.

You will stay inside the baths, won’t you Jenny? Mum shouted as I was leaving.

Yes, Mum, I called back. I’m not supposed to swim outside the baths, but I do anyway. It’s not like she’d ever find out, so it’s no big deal.

Ed wasn’t home, but Shortie was, so we walked back to Tom’s place together. Shortie didn’t ride his bike, he pushed it. That way I could keep up with him. I ask Mum for a bike every birthday, but she always says they cost too much. It’s hard to argue money with Mum, so I don’t even try. What I do instead is add it in big letters to my Christmas list each year. After all, what parent would want to shatter a young girl’s faith in Santa by not getting her a bike for Christmas? Especially when she asked him for one to save her parents the expense?

I sometimes feel slack for asking Santa for a bike when I know my parents can’t afford it, but I think it’s a good way to prove I still believe in him, so I figure I’m not so bad for doing it. Besides, ten year olds aren’t meant to be that good, especially when you want a bike as much as I do.

I looked at Shortie’s Malvern Star with envy. Next to him, it looked big. It isn’t though, he’s just heaps short for his age. His real name is Darren, but no one calls him that except his mum. Even his dad calls him Shortie, which is pretty funny really, because his dad’s short too. We’ve been friends almost as long as Tom and me. He moved in about six months after Tom did and he’s hung around with us ever since.

Shortie has five brothers and no sisters. Yuk! Imagine all those smelly feet in the one house. Their place must smell like a cheese factory. They all have red hair and freckles, and they all look the same. I can’t tell them apart half the time. Except for Shortie, that is. Shortie has a big scar on the side of his face where he got hurt at last year’s cracker night. He was picking up crackers that hadn’t gone off when one of them blew up and hit him in the face.

Tom was waiting for us when we arrived. Come on, get up. I want to get there before it gets dark.

It doesn’t get dark until around eight o’clock during daylight savings time, but it’s one of those things Tom always says when he’s in a hurry to do something. He needn’t have bothered though; we were all in a hurry to get there. It had been a scorcher all day. According to the thermometer on the kitchen wall, it was still over thirty degrees at four in the afternoon.

Stepping from one foot to the other on the hot road, Tom steadied the bike so I could climb onto the handlebars. Bloody hell, it’s hot, he complained. Having taken my thongs off so they wouldn’t fall off my dangling feet, I had sympathy for his burning soles. I threaded a thong through each handlebar and climbed up as quickly as possible without making the bike fall over. We rode the fifteen minutes or so it took us to get to the baths with me sitting on the front of Tom’s bike, my skinny, tanned legs sticking out in front of me, and my hair blowing back into his face. Sometimes Tom lets me double him, but I get puffed out more than he does, so he usually does the pedalling.

***

The baths were full by the time we got there. I could see heaps of people I knew. I waved to a couple of girls from school and Tom yelled hello to Craig Wilkinson who was just about to take a dive from the top of the handrails at the back of the baths. He almost fell off waving back.

Last one in’s a rotten egg, Shortie challenged, as he dropped his bike, ran full-pelt up the jetty, curled himself into a ball, and hit the water with an enormous splash.

Typical, said Tom in a haughty voice. That boy has no class.

Uh oh, I nudged Tom, guess who’s here?

Tom followed my gaze and looked around. The Dumbrell boys stood at the end of the jetty throwing a towel to each other. The towel appeared to belong to Jason who is the youngest of the four. Give it back or I’ll tell Dad, he complained.

Dobber! Dean threw the towel over Jason’s head into the water. Dobbers wear nappies!

Just pretend we didn’t see them, I said, under my breath.

Too late.

Duncan, the biggest of the boys, was walking towards us. He’s also the oldest. He used to go to my school, but now he’s in high school. I heard that his dad grew up at Dr Barnardo’s boys’ home and that’s the reason Duncan and his brothers are uncontrollable. If you ask me, I reckon they’re just a pack of brats.

Duncan turned and called to his brothers to hurry up. Dean is younger than Duncan by about two years, but almost as tall. Just leave the little turd behind, see if I care, Duncan said to Dean. He’s going to cop it when he gets home anyway.

Just when I thought they were going to walk straight past us, Duncan looked over at Tom. What are you staring at, retard?

Dunno, I haven’t worked it out yet, I snapped.

Duncan leaned over and gave me a shove. I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to your sissy boyfriend.

Leave her alone you pig, Tom shouted. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?

You are my size, so shut your trap or I’ll punch your face in.

Duncan’s actually a lot bigger than Tom, but that didn’t seem to matter. Next thing I saw, Tom lunged across and pushed Duncan backwards into the water. Quick! he screamed. Let’s get out of here.

I was just about to yell to Shortie when I saw him running up the jetty at a hundred miles an hour. Dean and Andrew had their backs to him and never saw him coming. Jason was still fishing his towel out of the water, so he didn’t see him either. As Shortie ran past Dean, he pushed him as hard as he could. Bombs away! he called, as Dean landed in the water with an almighty crash.

Chapter 2

Thursday, 7 November 1968

In all the years Peter had been teaching, he had never encountered a more reliable way of knowing that the academic year was coming to an end than that of the dwindling number of students in a lecture theatre. This year was no exception. Notwithstanding the meagre class numbers, Peter’s attitude towards the matter had not changed in almost ten years. He refused to penalise the students who endured to the end by slackening off in the same fashion as his student numbers.

Righto! Peter tapped his ruler on the desk and waited for everyone to quieten down. I know you’re all keen to get going, but before you do, I’d like a moment of everyone’s time.

Everybody sat back down and waited for Peter to continue. The year’s not over yet, folks. I’d like to remind everyone that you are running out of time to get your applications in. So, if you’re considering applying for any of the advertised positions, and you haven’t already done so, he raised his voice so that he could be heard over the collective murmur that had broken out, may I respectfully suggest that you get on with it? From memory, most of the applications need to be in by the end of next week, at the latest.

Peter gave the class a moment to consider what he had said before continuing. My offer of assistance still stands. If you need me to help you with your application, please come and see me right away. He noticed a couple of students talking in the back row and turned up the volume. In other words - Mr Davies, Mr Percy - do not come to me after next week, I will be unable to help you.

The offending students looked up.

Is that clear? he asked the class.

Without answering, they all got up and rushed for the door. Don’t forget, he called as they filed out of the lecture theatre, I have Wednesday and Friday afternoons set aside if anyone needs to see me. Oh, and good luck with your exams.

Do you get the distinct impression, Sir, that your assistance is not required?