Clios story (chapter one)

Strange, isn't it, how all schools smell the same. And I've seen
plenty. The same old dead person must furnish all their offices;
there's the Queen up on the wall, rows and rows of glass cabinets of
important books, inlaid desk with three chairs on this side and the
omnipotent view of the quadrangle. Mum keeps on looking at me as if any
of this really matters. What matters is to me is that she took me away
from all of my friends in Sydney, mid term, and brought me to this
godforsaken beach where the kids are all blonde, white Aussies.
So what was I doing in the Deputy Principal's office with my mother?
There was his name, Mr Forsyth, on the desk. It was also on the door
and the badge he wore. I wonder who needs reminding, him or the
kids?

'So, here we are Mrs Maclaine, and Clio. As I told you on the phone
earlier, we are quite full here and not obliged to take on more
enrollments. But, considering your circumstances and the results of
Clio's aptitude test, we could take her on as a temporary student until
the Principal returns next week. Don't waste time with uniforms though,
as he will make the final decision.'
Aptitude test, is that what he called it? I wonder, if I were a sports
champion would they have bothered? Anyway Mum seemed happy. One less
thing for her to worry about at home, I suppose.
Mum almost jumped out of the chair. 'Thank you, that's wonderful.
Isn't it Clio? I know she'll be so happy here, and you won't regret it.
She's a very clever girl. Thank Mr Forsyth dear.'
'Um, yeah.' God, she was pinching me on the back, what was I to do?
Curtsy, shake hands, shit it was only a school. Mum was all right
really, just got excited around famous people and schoolteachers. She's
the one with the authority problem, not me. Anyway, the guru of the
leather desk was sort of leading her out the door.
'That's great, isn't it dear. So she'll be here first thing Monday
morning'
Come on mum, underneath he's just a bloke with a couple of scary women
to deal with, time we were going.

The weekend passed much too quickly of course. Mum went out early
Saturday morning and bought the entire school uniform. And she didn't
stop with the dress; she brought in bags with stockings, hats, blazer,
new shoes and more books than I knew what to do with. I knew she would.
There's something about a middle-aged woman with a purpose that can
still bully even the most determined schoolteacher.
I was glad to have the uniform. We have moved into a falling down
wooden house; 'A Queenslander' said Mum, with her best nostalgic voice.
I couldn't imagine spending time at a new school out of uniform;
especially when my clothes are completely wrong for this climate. How
can things be so different from Sydney to here?

Mum took my little sister Calliope to visit The Aunts and The Cousins
on Sunday. I convinced her that I had a lot of things to prepare for
school. I don't know if I'm really determined not to become part of
mum's Queensland clan, or if I just needed time to myself.
I wish I were three. Calliope loves the cousins, loves all the large
rambling rooms of the house, and loves the verandahs and the mango
trees in the backyard. It does look pretty in the afternoon. It's still
hot although we are late into April. With the French doors wide open
there are wild black and orange shadows coming through the lattice from
the sunset.
Later I found Mum tucking Calliope into the small bed in her large
room. White cotton net hung all around. The sound of Mum's
favourite

record, Pachelbel's Canon, blew softly into the room like the warm
evening breeze.
'Hi Mum, how's she settling in?'
'She could sleep anywhere to this record Clio. I think I have played
it to her since she was born. How are you feeling about tomorrow?
Anything I can help you with?'
I didn't want to tell Mum about the rock sitting in the pit of my
stomach; or the way, every time I closed my eyes I wanted to cry as I
missed our home.
'It's cool Mum, I'm going to catch the bus. By the way, that lady at
the shop you keep talking to told me where and when. Who knows, I might
even meet someone.'
We walked back along the dark verandah. I'd grown a little taller than
her last Christmas, but always felt that I still looked up at her. She
seems so much happier than when we were in Sydney, there is no way I
could tell her how I really feel.
'Is this it now, Mum, for good, I mean? No chance you want to go back
is there?'
'Clio, honey we are so lucky to have family here. I know it's hard,
but you will grow to love it, I promise. I hope as much as I did as a
girl. Come on, let's open all your new things and pack your school
bags.'

Some people can tell their friends and family anything. I knew this
girl in Sydney who was a bit younger than me, she would talk to her mum
about stuff I wouldn't even share with a best friend. I envied her that
trust; I envied the Catholics too. They have their confessionals
whenever their burdens get too great. Me, I keep a diary. I've written
my life down since I knew how too. Sometimes just to see the problem on
the page can resolve it.
Look at last week:
Monday: Met no one today. Don't want to. Can't tell mum that. 'Bring
some girls around this weekend, dear.'
Tuesday: Wrote essay for English. All about drugs and death. So much
for writing what you know. Anyway Miss Smith (SMITH??) liked it
Wednesday: So now I'll never make a friend. Have to stop being clever
in English? Can I act dumb to be popular?
Thursday: NO
Friday: Stinking hot all day. Walked home in tropical storm.
Will autumn ever come?
There's a girl on my bus that seems different from the mob. She's
always either reading a book or doing her homework; doesn't talk to
anyone. I hadn't paid much attention because she's not in my class, but
I found out she's in my year, and lives quite close.
This afternoon we were both caught in a sudden hailstorm walking

from the bus. I actually found myself laughing when I saw how soaked
she
was.
'Hey, do you want to come in, just until it stops?' I guess it was my
way of apologising for laughing at her.
'Well, I'm already drenched, and I'm not really afraid of
lightning.'
'Actually I think that it might be the falling branches and flying
garden furniture that you should really worry about.'
She looked at me for just a moment before she came up the stairs.
Crap, I try to apologise and end up being a smart arse again.
As we spoke, the sky had turned a darker shade of green, and an
ice-cold wind had cut its way sharply through the humid salt air. I was
beginning to love the drama of it.
I checked out her bag as she dried off on our verandah; Miranda
somebody. What, did all of our parents suddenly read the
classics?
'Come in, come in Miranda, don't worry about dripping. The place is a
shit box anyway. The water might clean it. Let's go out to the kitchen,
no-one's home for a while.'
'Don't know why you call your house that. You are so lucky to have a
Queenslander at the beach. Not many of them around here. We live in
that boring brick thing on the next corner.'
'Yeah, whatever.'
OK maybe I was wrong about a couple of things. Mum will just love
her.

'So what do you want to eat? My name's Clio Maclaine, by the way. I've
seen you on the bus. Don't your parents approve of homework or
something?'
'Yes, I mean no, they're OK, I just like to do it there.'
'I know, I would avoid looking at those idiots too, but maybe I'd
rather shut my eyes.'
Wow, somebody who fits in even less than me.
'So have you just started here too? Don't you know any of the spunky
local Aussies.'
'Not exactly, I've always lived here, only I used to go to St.
Margaret's up on the hill.'
Miranda was walking really slowly behind me while I kept up my usual
frantic chatter. Her hands touched, or almost touched, everything she
walked past. Furniture, photos, paintings, like it was all new to
her.
I don't really know what possessed me to invite her in, she was
nothing like me. I am quite tall and have weird curly brown hair that
is never organised. She wasn't exactly short, but very pale. Pale hair,
pale skin, and even a pale voice. But it wasn't about her looks, she
was just so much quieter, more breakable, somehow. Any way, it's just
something to do until the family get home, doesn't need to be a
commitment.
As we walked into the kitchen, there stood the strangest little woman.
She reminded me of cross between a small alien figure and Dame Edna
Everage. She was so small, and yet everything she wore had some kind
of

Australian motif; but all different.
Picture this: Dame Edna shrunk down, wattle flowered skirt, furry
animals on her shirt, and a strange little velvet hat with the Opera
house embossed in something sparkly.
'Hello girls, sit down and have some of these bikkies.'
Miranda was looking at me.
'Your mum, Clio?'
But I couldn't answer, here I was in Woy Woy twilight zone, and I'd
lost the power of speech.
'Um, hi Mrs Maclaine, I'm Miranda' .
That sure woke me up. I dragged Miranda out of the kitchen before she
could sample the poison bikkies.
'Don't be bloody stupid. She must be some sort of escaped lunatic.' I
hissed at her. 'Could be an old folks home around here, maybe she used
to live in this house.'
'What should we do? Is your mum home soon?'
'No she won't dear,' came the little voice from the kitchen.
'She has a new job and asked me to be here with Calliope in case you
were late. The little darling is in her room. I'm your Aunt Summer.
Come back in with your friend and introduce us.'
God, don't tell me I've got one of these for all the seasons? What is
it with my family and names?

So instead of going back in to look for some family resemblance, I
raced down to my sister's bedroom. Sure enough, there she was at a tea
party with her teddies.
'Look Clio, she let me have milk and biscuits in her for my dollies.
You never do. You want some? They're nice.'
In a second sweetie. Tell me, did you meet Aunt Summer last week with
Mum?'
But she kept on pouring for the tea party. 'I said you should come,
Clio, the Aunties are nice. This one's really nice because she has the
prettiest clothes.'
'Ok, Ok, I suppose. Still mum could have told me. I'll be back soon, I
left my friend in the kitchen.'
What was mum thinking? For as long as I can remember we've had no
relatives, no family ties anywhere we lived. No one to talk to except
each other. And now this; she thinks we can just be consumed by strange
old women, just because they are 'family'.
When I made it back to the kitchen, Miranda and Auntie were drinking
tea at the table. How could I introduce them? They were both strangers
to me. For all I knew, in the few minutes I was gone, they knew more
about each other than I did.
'Here she is, looking just like her mother when she was fifteen. I
used to watch her too, you know. She hated to be alone, especially in
a

storm. I think, between you and me, that's why I'm here today. But you
look like you've been out dancing in the rain, rather than hiding from
it.'
I sat down at the table and watched while she poured the tea. I
watched while she put some more of those poison bikkies in front of me.
I watched while she and Miranda laughed out loud at each crack of
thunder. And I watched when Calliope came running in and jumped on her
lap instead of mine. I tried to find myself in all these people, but I
couldn't.
I wanted to scream, but, like every other time, I kept it buried down
inside of me.

Chapter 2

Life at the beach improved slightly with the addition of a friend. What
is it that makes a person your friend? It must be more than just being
neighbours, or running out of the same storm together. There has to be
one tiny thing that takes you from your initial coincidental meeting,
to choosing to meet again. I guess it's sort of like dating. Just
getting a little piece of the other person at a time, until the two
lives make more sense together than apart.

I don't remember how many of these meetings it took for Miranda and
me, but it began to work.
She liked coming to my house after school; even when I wasn't there.
Some days I came home late, to find Miranda back at the table, or
helping an Aunt with my sister. She loved my mother's almost endless
supply of female relatives who spent afternoons with us.
If I spend enough time with her, well, maybe I will start to see why
she loves it here.

At first I thought the intrusion of the Aunties would limit what
little amount of freedom I had earned at fifteen. I was wrong. Mostly
they were happy to concentrate their culinary and fashion skills on
Calliope; just as long as I made an appearance straight after school.
This allowed Miranda and I some free afternoons to explore the
town.
Depending on the weather, and our finances, most days were spent along
the front where the shops almost met the sand. There was just one long
row of single story wooden buildings with brightly coloured faces,
hanging on to their skin against the salt air like old women who've
spent too many years baking themselves. A colourful, flaking testimony
to sunblock.
Squashed between the buildings and the road were mismatched groups of
tables with umbrellas advertising products not necessarily still
available.
It was at these tables, spending an hour or two over a latte long
cold, that Miranda shared with me the history of most of the towns
residents. The last days of summer were spent loitering at shop fronts,
watching the people walkin by, like actors in a play, with Miranda's
soft commentary barely heard over the crashing of the nearby
surf.
We mostly went to Trader Bill's. It had survived the longest
without
any form of makeover; and the coffee was strong and still at
pre-millenium prices. Anyway it was certainly easier to hang out where
there was no actual table service.

We always called the owner Bill, but I'm not so sure. he was a little
man about mum's age with a really strong European accent. I liked the
way he called us 'ladies, ladies', and treated us like we were big
spenders or something. Sometimes he'd ask us to sample some new cake
and wait for our opinion. Mostly he was just frothing the milk and
smiling at the passing
tourists.
There was a young guy doing most of the work at Bill's. I'd seen him
at school and Miranda thought he was Bill's son, Nick. I didn't care, I
just thought he was funny when he tried to imitate the guys from
'Cocktail'; swinging dishcloths around like they were martinis or
something.
Sometimes we just sat quietly and watched him; he seemed to spend most
of the afternoon exchanging useless bits of information with anyone
from fisherman to small kids. They weren't customers, just stopped by
on their way somewhere. Who needs a noticeboard around this guy?
If you watched the cafes as often as we did, you could see that the
clientele profile was clearly defined. Bliss, the groovy vegetarian
attracted a crowd of coastal ferals; those with dreadlocks, drums and
babies. Macchiato, the new Italian coffee house, was full of Melbourne
visitors. All wearing navy and white with gold trim, so they could
blend with the local nautical scene. And Bill sort of had the
leftovers. Maybe at Bill's we were all watching rather than wanting to
be watched.

'Look Clio, here comes Betty Buckley back from her hysterectomy.

She's looking pretty sprightly for someone who's had major surgery
only a few days ago.'
'No, Miranda, I think you are mistaken, that would be her twin brother
Reg, the drag queen 'Salmonella'. And she looks great because she's
finally decided on that little nip and tuck operation that her doctor
recommended. Betty actually died on the operating table. Reg is raising
her two little kids without telling them of the swap. I'm not too sure
if the huband has found out yet, though.'
We were playing a game we had invented to stay longer at our table. We
gave as many of the people we saw a story. One of us would start,
simple things at first like their name and occupation. Of course the
game became more interesting the more times we saw them. Not only did
we need to remember what we had last said, but had to then invent the
next chapter in their lives depending on the way they looked.
'Well Clio, it won't be long now I guarantee. I just overheard 'Betty'
say it was his birthday this week, so hubby will be in for more
surprises than he bargained on.'
By this time the poor woman and two kids were sort of staring at us as
I lost control and laughed, spitting my coffee across the table.
No matter how hard I tried to make Miranda laugh when an unsuspecting
character walked by, she would never let on. Not me. If she kept this
up for too long I'd be running down to the loo at the park or wet my
pants.

That was when we met Nick. I don't know how long he'd been listening,
but he was right behind me with a wet towel to wipe down the mess I'd
made on the table.
'Sorry girls, but you're both wrong. You see Betty's hubby, Buck
Buckley, knows exactly what or who Reg is. You'll find this is a
classic case of the old threesome going wrong. Reg and Buck have found
true love with each other, and finished off the old Bett. But don't
tell a soul, they'll never believe you.'
And that did it for me.