The London School of Journalism
By Nwamaka Osakwe - 1st Place
He came bearing gifts: yams, bunches of plantain and freshly smoked catfish.
“I learnt you were leaving today” he said
“Yes,” I replied
“I wanted to thank you for keeping my secret”
I wished to tell him that he didn’t need to thank me but since we were speaking in vernacular and my grasp of the language was poor, having only started learning it the previous year, I merely said “it’s okay.”
The secret was nothing big or numinous. It was the consequence of his action that had been huge.
My one year service in the village was over and I was glad to be leaving. I had been posted there the previous year under the one year mandatory national youth service scheme.
I entered the village last year in the little red car that had been my graduation present with my tools of trade eager to commence my practice. The village was about 200km from the closest town, if you could call that a town, by road. There was another town much closer but that’s by water and as I could not swim I had no intention of ever getting into the rickety row boats they used for transportation. Most of the villagers lived in mud houses although there were a few concrete buildings. Narrow pathways lined by palm trees served as routes for moving from one place to the other and I soon found out that my car had access to only a few places. Finding the village was easy with the directions I’d been given but finding the hospital was a little difficult as most of the women in the village could barely speak English. I made my way to the hospital I was posted to dreading what I would find but to my delightful surprise it was a cute little brick hospital with laboratory facilities and a theatre out of place for such a remote place. I later found out that it was built by the last governor of the state whose wife had hailed from there. They were currently without a doctor as the previous one resigned and the new one who was sent refused to stay after seeing the place. I was shown the doctor’s lodge and a satisfied sigh left my lips at my quaint one bedroom apartment with its little kitchenette. It was more than I could have hoped for and so I settled into my new life.
I was still sleeping that Saturday morning when I was jolted awake by a banging and rattling noise. I woke up confused and it took a few seconds before I realized the racket was coming from my door. I hurried to it and found the orderly behind it.
“Is there a problem?” I asked unnecessarily as though it wasn’t obvious that something was wrong.
“The nurse asked me to get you”, she replied a little out of breath.
“Do you have any idea what it’s about?”
“There is a woman in labour,” she replied still panting
“Is she bleeding?” I queried. I’d asked the nurses to always try to give me a hint of the situation when they sent for me.
She shook her head as she told me she didn’t know.
“Tell her to give me a minute.” I told the orderly as I sent her off and quickly changed to my day clothes.
I was in the labour room in less than five minutes and there met a young, heavily pregnant lady in her early twenties in obvious pain on the bed.
“What do we have?”
“a multip about 5cm dilated but the foetal heart rate just went up to 180 and liquor is meconium stained.”
“Foetal distress” we both said at the same time
I picked up a pair of gloves and went to the patient’s bedside.
“Caput is also beginning to form” the nurse added as I began the examination. We were obviously dealing with foetal distress secondary to caphalopelvic disproportion. My findings were in keeping with what the nurse had told me and the patient’s vital signs were stable.
“We’ll have to take her in. Can we get the laboratory scientist to run the necessary investigations and group and crossmatch two units of blood? I’ll talk with the husband. In the meantime put her on her side and commence 5%dextrose water. When was her last meal?”
“About six hours ago”
“Prepare her for surgery while I discuss with her husband”
As I walked out of the labour room I was mentally going through all I had to do. I thanked God for the existence of a theatre and the surgical skills my father had passed on.
Her husband, Mr. Bass, was sitting in the waiting room with his sister. I took him to my office and explained the situation to him in simple clear terms and I tried to get feedback from him to be sure he understood the situation. Finally I was sure he understood so I then proceeded to tell him we needed him to sign the consent form for us to begin the operation.
“Before you go in I have to tell her people” he said to me slowly picking his words carefully. He was not very fluent in English but he was better than most.
“Why”? I asked confused
“I tell them so they know” he said
“Time is of the essence….” I began but then realized I had to use simpler terms. “We have to hurry,” I said. “The baby could die if we waste any more time”
“My sister go quick to tell them.” he said as he stood up, “we be fast”
“Come” I told him taking him with me to the labour room. I told the nurse to explain the situation to him in his local language.
After a few minutes of talking and gesticulations they both turned to me
“He says he would like to inform his in-laws
“That was what he told me before. Didn’t you explain to him how important time is to us right now?”
“I did, but he won’t sign until he has told them. That is the usual practice here.”
“My place not far. My sister run” he said.
“The earlier she leaves the better for us “the nurse said
“Alright” I said in exasperation “but please tell her to hurry.”
“She go quick,” he said as he left the room
“I can’t believe this,” I muttered under my breath. “Have we been able to reach the lab scientist?” I asked. I wanted everything ready by the time the consent was obtained.
Yes. He has taken the samples
“Hope we have blood.”
“He is crossmatching what we have but mentioned that we may need donors.”
“Great.” I sat there for about two minutes when I realized I had no food and was famished. With guilt I decided to hurry to my favourite food seller in the next village. With my car I should be back before the consent was signed
“What was the last foetal rate you got?”
“160”
“The one before that?”
“164”
“Ok let’s monitor closely.”
I drove hurriedly and packed with a screech in front of her stall. I need semovita with okra soup quickly.” I said the moment I entered into the shop. It took a moment before I realized she was not behind her counter as usual but was standing next to a middle aged man and both of them seemed to be fumbling with their clothes.
“You want semovita?” She asked breaking the abrupt silence that had fallen
“Yes yes,” I stammered having deduced that I had interrupted them. “Okra soup please.”
In less than three minutes I was back in my car. When I got into the hospital premises I met Mr Bass, his sister and a woman I’d not seen before
“Are we ready to go in now?” I asked guiltily.
“No,” he said “my father in-law go to farm. Somebody go bring him.”
“We have to wait for your father in law? What of your mother in- law”
“See her,” he said pointing to the new addition.
“Madam,” I said addressing her “can’t you give us permission?”
She shook her head. “No understand.” She told me.
I turned to Mr Bass. “Since you’ve informed your mother in law can’t we go in?”
“We tell my father in-law”
“What if you don’t find him?”
“He go to farm. Someone go call him.”
I almost screamed. I left them and went to the labour room “how are we doing?”
“Foetal rate is 192”
“You won’t believe what is going on out there.” I said to her
“They told me.”
“What if they don’t find the man?”
“They’ll locate him. My problem is that the farm he went to is a bit far, it may be too late by the time they reach him.”
“Oh God,” I groaned. “I didn’t know that. Let the patient sign the form please.”
“If anything happens to her they’ll mob us. Lets wait for the man.”
“But we may lose the baby.”
“I’m telling you that we may lose our lives.”
“We can get this baby out in fifteen minutes. Lets save this baby.”
She shook her head vigorously obviously in disagreement
“Have you explained the situation to her?” I queried
“Yes”
“Come and assist me so that I can obtain a consent.”
The nurse followed me reluctantly. The woman was not literate so I needed the nurse.
“How are you feeling?” I asked gently
The nurse interpreted and I waited patiently until I could get my feedback.
She says she’s ok. Its just the pain.
At that moment another wave of contraction hit her and we had to wait until it subsided before we could continue.
Please explain the situation to her again and tell her we are yet to see her father.
They talked with gesticulations then frowned and talked some more before the nurse finally turned to me and said, “she says her husband will sign.”
“Did you tell her the baby is at risk of dying?”
“I did.”
“And that her father has not been found?”
“I did.”
I frowned, “you gave her the entire picture?”
“I did,” the nurse answered irritably now. I had to drop the issue seeing that I was in danger of annoying her.
I’ll be in my house when everything is ready I told her. I went to my car picked up my food flask and went in to eat. I could barely get the lumps of semovita down my throat because of the emotions coursing through me at that moment. It was unbelievable that this woman who had labored for nine months was at risk of losing her baby because she refused to take a decision. This was almost the year 2000.
I put my food aside and picked up a magazine and flicked through as I waited to be summoned. Time moved ever so slowly and I found myself looking at the clock every few minutes. I, of course, could not read in that state so I decided to clean up my room expecting to be called at any moment.
Thirty minutes passed and I still wasn’t summoned. Curious I made my way to the hospital building and this time found about three more women in front. I recognized Mr Bass’ mother in law.
“Is he here now?” None of the women understood English so I went into the building where I saw Mr Bass and his sister.
“Is he here now?” I asked without preambles
“No doctor, we waiting. They be here quickly”
“There hasn’t been anything quick about this whole thing.”
“My wife okay?”
“For now, yes.”
“We wait small, doctor”
I left weary at heart now. I wondered briefly if telling him his wife was in danger would help him take a decision quickly but I soon dropped the notion. It was their decision to make and if they were going to take a risk with the life of their baby I would leave them to their decision.
I went into the labour room where the patient was panting through another wave of contraction and took the chair on the other side of the nurse at her table
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand the line of reasoning that is delaying this decision. Why does the man have to inform his father in law?”
“He is covering his end. This way he wouldn’t be blamed if the woman dies.”
“What if the father in law was late?”
“Then her uncles or brothers would be informed.”
I stood up, “so why can’t her brothers help us with the decision now?”
“They are too young, ten and eight.” I already asked the nurse said dryly
“What of her uncles?”
“They can’t take a decision when her father is alive.”
“Even when there is a life at risk?”
“Perhaps if she was dying, but for now they are hoping that the baby will come safely.”
I slumped back to my chair. “This cannot happen where I’m from.”
“You were born and bred in the city. You don’t understand rural life”
“This is an extreme rural life situation,” I said
I went to the patient and listened to the baby. “Foetal rate is 136. Looks like we’ve lucked out.”
“Or the calm before a storm,” the nurse said in a crisp voice.
“Don’t be pessimistic. What was your last recorded foetal heart rate?”
“152.”
“Hmmm,” I said contemplatively as my patient started to groan. I listened again. The rate went up to 146 and after the contractions it dropped to 126
“Seems FH is dropping fast.”
The nurse joined me. I listened again we were down to 120. I heaved and dropped the pinnard stethoscope in disgust. “Keep listening,” I said as I stormed off to the waiting room.
“You have to take a decision now. The baby is dying. Where is the person you sent? Where is this mystical farm and person that is impossible to find?”
Everyone turned to stare at me at my outburst. Three quarter of the people there didn’t understand me.
“Mr Bass” I barked.
“He catch animal, he in market.” He said with an apologetic voice.
“What?” I asked confused. I heard the words but I didn’t understand what he was saying.
“He catch animal, he go to market to sell. They find him.”
“What?” I asked again more confused
Somebody else I didn’t know joined the conversation and after about three minutes explanation I got the drift. The man’s trap had caught an animal and the man had gone to the market to try and sell his game
“Are we still going to wait for him?” I asked incredulously.
“Market close he come soon,” was Mr Bass’ reply
“YOUR BABY IS DYING.”
“Doctor….sorry….wait small,” he said bringing his forefinger and thumb together to show me how much time I needed to give him.
“Doctor” someone called behind me
It was the orderly. I was wanted by the nurse. I rushed to the labour room fearing the worst. She was bent over the patients abdomen listening.
“What’s happening?”
“I can no longer pick the foetal heart.”
“What?”
“Do come and check.”
I took the pinnard stethoscope from her hand and put it over my patient’s abdomen and listened. I shifted it and listened again. I moved all over and finally I got something. Excited I put my finger to feel my patient’s pulse and to my disappointment they were in synchrony. I tried to listen again but my patient was groaning in pain now
“Can I have a pair of gloves?” I told the nurse and no sooner were the words off my lips than she placed them in my hand.
I did a vaginal examination and found out she was fully dilated but there was so much caput now and it didn’t look like the head could come out of that pelvis. I listened again but I still could not pick up the foetal heart beat
I asked the nurse to listen again just to be sure but she didn’t hear it either.
I didn’t know how to use the forceps or ventouse for assisted deliveries but even if I did we didn’t have any.
The patient clutched my hand as I tried to leave her side “baby….baby” she said repeatedly as the pain washed over her again and again.
“We have to take her in. she is in pain”
“I know,” the nurse replied wearily “but we still need to have the consent form signed.”
I went to the waiting room but no one was there. I found them all in front of the hospital complex looking anticipatedly at the gate. The screams of my patient made them turn before I could speak
Her husband grabbed my hand before I could speak.
“Why is she shouting? How is she?”
Such news is typically begun with the words ‘I’m sorry’ but I didn’t want to say those words. I shouldn’t be apologizing. They should be!
“Doctor,” he said shaking me
“The baby, the baby is dead,” I said finally.
The man went still trying to take it in.
“We still have to operate. We think the baby is too big to pass through so we need to go in and we need you to sign the consent form.” I explained patiently.
By now we had about six women surrounding us. I recognized only his sister and mother in law. They were asking him something in their language but he didn’t reply
“I sign,” he said.
At that moment we heard the tinkling of a bicycle bell and we all turned in time to see a middle aged man cycling in. he jumped off his bicycle and started to run towards us.
It was the man I saw in the food seller’s stall that morning.
“Who is that?”
“My father in law,” was the tired response
The Bass had lost their baby because of a secret tryst.
© Nwamaka Osakwe. June 2011
Back to topBy Charlotte Austen-Hardy - Joint 2nd Place
From where she stood outside of number twelve Stanley Road, Gemma could see that the front garden was empty except for a pedal car and skipping rope. The sound of laughter, occasionally punctuated by mock screaming, alerted her to the fact that the children were in the back garden of the house. Whilst the roads were empty, the warm summers evening had lured people into their back gardens. She could hear sprinklers and the chilled voice of Bob Marley was floating over the neighbouring hedge, mingling with the scent of frying onions. BBQ season was beginning. Gemma was pleased. It meant there were no curtains twitching in the front windows of the nearby houses, no nosey neighbours to see her standing outside on the pavement.
Steeling herself, Gemma took a deep breath and began to walk up the short path to the door. This secret had been kept for so long. Even after she had found the address scratched in biro on the very last page of her mothers notepad, she had managed to put the visit off for months. But, for some reason, today, even though she had only intended to walk to the shops round the corner, she had seen the number fourteen bus pull up at the bus stop just up the road. On impulse, she had run for it, just managing to leap on before the doors shut. The address was imprinted on her memory and after panting it out to the driver, she paid for her ticket and settled herself in a seat near the front of the bus. A fifty minute bus ride later and Gemma didn’t know where she was, but after asking the bus driver, realised that she had gone one stop too far. She got off at the next one and after a short walk, reached Stanley Road.
When she reached the doorstep, she hesitated, trembling slightly. After months of putting it off, she was finally here. Gathering her confidence, Gemma pressed the doorbell. There was no reply. She tried again. She could hear her heart beating loudly, almost as if it was trying to keep up with the reggae beat drifting over the hedge.
Realising after a few minutes that no one was going to answer the door, Gemma was tempted to give up, but knowing how long it had taken her to get this far, she was reluctant to give up at this first hurdle. Nervous, but determined to at least catch a glimpse of the man she had come to see, Gemma ducked down and crept past the kitchen window. Once clear of the glass, she straightened up, looking around for some way to view the back garden. Noticing there was a board missing from the slats of wood in the fence, she peered through.
The swing set was empty, but Gemma could see a little girl about five years old sitting in a sandpit, running the grains through a funnel repeatedly, until she had built up a sizable pile in front of her. Once satisfied with the size, she began to pat it with the spade, clumsy but obviously intent on shaping it into something resembling a castle. Her blond hair glinted in the sunshine. Reaching up to touch her own hair, Gemma noted the resemblance between them, realising that she was staring at the image of herself as a child. The only difference was their eye colour: Gemma’s were striking green like her mother’s, a complete contrast to the child’s chocolate brown.
As Gemma watched, a young boy, with dark hair, slightly older than his sister, but with the same determined expression, took a running jump into the pit, sending the spade, funnel flying and causing the little girl to knock over her carefully prepared sandcastle. Tears threatening, the girl scrambled to her feet and ran around the corner, yelling for “Daddy.”
She ran back into view after a few minutes, tugging on the hand of a tall man carrying a blanket and a crate of beer. Spreading the cloth on the floor, he half heartedly pushed the sand around with the spade until his daughter quietened, becoming absorbed in her funnelling and patting once again. He settled himself opposite the sandpit on the blanket, beer in hand and relaxed.
Paul hadn’t heard the doorbell. He had been dozing on the patio until his daughter demanded he join her in the sandpit but now she was quiet again, he was content to just watch. Happily, he surveyed the garden, suitable for a family in every way with its play equipment but also pleasing to the eye- Angela worked hard every weekend to maintain the flower beds and lawn, somehow managing to keep the children from wrecking them. It was, he decided, perfect in every way, except for the gap in the fence. He frowned as he stared at the gap now, certain he had glimpsed a flash of blond between the slats.
Uneasy now, he took a slug of beer. The image of a little girl with hair the same shade of blond as his, but with her mother’s eyes, flitted into his head.
A twinge of guilt swept over him at the memory but just as quickly passed, as a baby was pushed into his arms, crying. He rolled his eyes. Just six weeks old and she had already learnt the best way to get her dads attention: to destroy his peace and quiet. Hushing the baby, he reached out and nudged his wife, motioning for her to cuddle up on the blanket with him. Putting his arm around her he buried his face in her long dark hair, all thoughts of the little blond girl forgotten.
After running from the house, Gemma stood at the bus stop down the road, catching her breath. She was surprised to feel not sadness but relief. Relief that she now knew where he was... next time she would be prepared for what awaited her behind the door of number twelve. It might take her some time to go back and she knew that she might not be welcomed in with open arms, but at least she wouldn’t be smacked in the face by the reality of his new family at the same time.
Gemma stepped on the bus as it pulled up, her head clearer and heart lighter and as it pulled away from the kerb, she was filled with optimism and hope for the future.
© Charlotte Austen-Hardy. June 2011
Back to topBy Elisha Phillip - Joint 2nd Place
‘Hey, are you alright there?’
It took me a while to realise someone was talking to me, someone who wasn’t a teacher. I looked up to see a girl, a little older than me smiling.
I was just about to go into the “I’m not looking for trouble,” speech I’d prepared in case someone wanted to start on me when she spoke.
‘You new?’ she asked. ‘I thought so,’ she said before I even answered. ‘You have this “I don’t want any trouble I’m just trying to find my way” look on your face.’
Foolishly I touched my face as if I’d actually feel the look I was wearing. She laughed, nodded to the campus map lying beside me and then sat opposite me on the bench. I had no choice but to look at her. She was pretty and had a pink streak in her hair that fascinated me. She was exactly what I thought college students would look like: cool.
‘Are you on your lunch or have you got your first lesson soon?’
‘I’m on lunch,’ I mumbled.
‘Lucky for you I know a great chippy,’ she stood and it seemed like she was waiting for me to gather my stuff. I did, clumsily. We left the college grounds and walked to a clump of shops just up the road and to the left. We spoke a bit and I finally learnt her name. Once we got some chips we sat on a brick wall and ate in silence. I had to make some kind of effort if I didn’t want to spend every lunch time after this one on my own.
‘Have you seen this guy?’ I suddenly said. ‘He’s tall and he has these amazing blue eyes.’ I thought back to the guy I’d seen in the hallway before my first ever psychology class.
‘There are a lot of guys at our college,’ Rachel laughed. ‘Got a name?’
‘No.’ I said. I don’t even know why I brought it up. I could have said anything, asked about her course or the teachers but instead I chose to speak about a guy I’d seen for twenty seconds. ‘He looked a bit rugged, you know like those dogs on the RSPCA adverts that have been abandoned.’ I didn’t think she’d ever be able to pin point him after a description like that but she did.
‘You’re on about Jason,’ she looked at me. ‘Brown hair, eyebrow piercing?’
I nodded.
‘Don’t go there girl,’ she warned.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘You heard me,’ she said, her voice went hard. ‘Jason is not the guy you want to get to involved with.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
She sighed heavily. ‘Jason is one complicated dude. Everyone thinks he’s shifty.’
‘That’s not a reason to avoid him.’
‘He has this, this secret.’
I felt like laughing. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘His is huge, so big it affects his life.’
‘Jason started last year, enrolled the same time as me. He started out studying sport and met Danny Greenbeck . So they were all buddy buddy until they were changing in the locker room and Danny asked him about how he got the scars on his back.’
She reached for a chip, put in her mouth and carried on. ‘Apparently after that all hell broke loose. Jason was all “mind your own business” and Danny was all “I’m not the one with freakish scars all over my back ” and they went at each other. A teacher eventually ran in and tore them apart, the guys who had been there didn’t try to stop them.’
‘Why on earth not?’ I asked with eagerness. The story was pretty engrossing.
‘I heard they were too scared to intervene. They both got kicked off the course. I’m surprised they didn’t get expelled, fighting on the first day like that.’
‘What happened after?’
‘They were forced to specialise in something else or go to a different college. They’ve never spoken since and no one knows how he got his scars.’
‘No one else has seen them?’
She shook her head.
‘How do you know he even has them, then?’
Rachel gave me an exasperated look. ‘That’s the secret but everyone believes he does so really it’s all about how he got them.’
‘In a whole year no one else has asked him how?’
‘Not unless they were looking to get beat up.’
‘That’s terrible.’ I said.
‘For Danny, yeah. He thought he’d made a friend, asked him a question just out of curiosity and got a broken rib for it.’
‘A broken rib?’ I echoed.
‘I’m not sure what it was but something got broken.’
‘That’s quite a story.’
‘Yup,’ she said smugly as if knowing the college’s biggest piece of gossip was something to be proud of.
After half an hour we headed back to college, dumping our cold chips in the bin and swapping numbers so we could meet tomorrow before parting ways. After a quick one on one with the head of A’ levels I was free to go but instead I went to the library and sat at one of the free cubbies by a book case and pulled out my forms from the morning. I tapped my pen on the sheets forcing myself to write something when I realised there was someone standing in front of me. I glanced up and I couldn’t believe it, it was Jason.
‘Hey, do you mind if I sit here? ’ he asked. I just looked at him and he repeated himself, taking my silence for mis-hearing.
‘Yes,’ I blurted.
‘Okay,’ he said slowly and drew back his chair. It was hard to concentrate with him beside me. He had IT text book open before him and was highlighting sentences as he read.
‘What you go there?’ he asked. ‘I remember those forms, first years can’t escape them. You have to fill out even more in the second year.’
I was about to reply when I realised we were being watched. A group of girls working at a table nearby were looking our way. I looked behind me, yup people were definitely looking.
‘I do apologize,’ I said. ‘You’re stuck with the new girl. Everyone’s looking.’
Jason didn’t seem too bothered, he didn’t even check to see who was staring. ‘I don’t think it’s because you’re new.’
Then I realised it wasn’t me they were staring at. ‘It’s you.’
‘What?’ he asked. I noticed he tensed up a bit. ‘I never said it was because of me.’
‘I know. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ I mumbled, focusing once again on my forms. My eyes darted over the questions but I knew I’d never start writing.
‘Let me guess,’ he sighed. He sat back, put his hands together. ‘You’ve heard.’
‘H...heard what?’ I stammered.
‘You’re a terrible liar,’ he said with a gentle voice. ‘News travels fast but old news travels even faster.’
I put my pen down and faced him.
‘So what’ve you heard?’
I figured I might as well go ahead and tell him. ‘Just that there was a fight.’
‘And...’ he prodded.
‘And you and Danny haven’t spoken since.’
‘Is that all?’
I sighed. ‘And that he saw something, something on your body.’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said, his voice not so gentle anymore. ‘I don’t go around blabbing about my life at the top of my voice and everyone thinks I’m hiding something.’
I couldn’t help myself from saying, ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ he sighed again. ‘There’s no scars. Not one.’
I looked at him properly, his face seemed calm and genuine but in his eyes I could tell he was angry. ‘You don’t know what it’s like having all these rumours about you. Having people who don’t even know you judge you,’ he looked at me as if to say “you’re the perfect example.”
‘I’m not judging you,’ I told him.
‘Every day I hold my head high ignoring the whispers and the stares.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said after a few moments had passed. ‘I’m sorry that I’m another person who’s had to hear this lie.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’
‘He doesn’t have any scars,’ I said to Rachel the next day. We’d managed to catch each other for a few minutes between our classes.
‘He told you that?’ she asked while popping a Hubba Bubba into her mouth.
I nodded.
‘When did he say this then?’ she quizzed. ‘When did you even get a chance to ask him about it?’
I filled her in on our time in the library.
‘He said it was all rumours?’ she asked. ‘The fight certainly wasn’t. I saw their faces.’
‘Just the bit about the scars was a rumour.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘I don’t know. I think I do,’ I said wearily. ‘Maybe Danny exaggerated. Maybe there was nothing on his back at all but he said it was to cover something else. Something about him.’
‘You’re starting to sound a little crazy,’ Rachel laughed.
‘I hate lies and rumours. Who ever made it up is an idiot.’
‘So you do believe him. I think he’s cast a spell on you with those blue eyes.’
I rolled my eyes, realised my break was almost over and said goodbye.
‘Hey Lucy, wait up.’ I turned to see Jason calling after me. I couldn’t help it, my face burst into a grin. ‘Hey,’ I said when he was beside me.
‘Long day?’ he asked nodding to the pile of books in my arm.
‘It wasn’t too bad. I just thought they’d hold off on homework until the third day at least. ‘
He grinned. ‘Want a lift home?’
‘Oh,’ I said, taken aback. ‘I don’t mind getting the bus.’
He just looked at me until I stopped talking.
‘Okay,’ I said.
We walked to his car, a small black Vauxhall Corsa that was rather clean on the inside given the grimy exterior. ‘I’ve got some CD’s on the back seat, take your pick.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Most people I know usually state only the driver can choose the music.’
He laughed and swivelled round in his chair to gather up the CD’s. It seemed like he had to reach a little further since they’d fallen behind my chair. I couldn’t help but notice his t-shirt rode up at the back, further and further as he stretched. ‘One of them is lodged between the back of your chair and the door.’ He fell back into his seat with five albums in his hands. ‘If you’re an Eminem fan you’ll have to wait until I pry it free,’ he stopped talking. ‘What’s wrong?’
I unclipped my seat belt. ‘You’re a liar is what’s wrong.’
He was out the car in a flash. ‘What are you on about?’ he raced to catch up with me.
‘While you were frolicking about for music I saw your scars. You should really wear jumpers or something with a thicker material that doesn’t slide up so easily.’ I said harshly. His face fell, he ran a hand through his hair.
‘You saw them?’
‘Yes,’ I snapped. I didn’t even know why I was so mad, I didn’t know him, he didn’t owe me anything and we weren’t friends.
‘I shouldn’t have lied,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want to deal with it.’
‘With what?’ I shouted. We were still heading up the road at speed walking pace.
‘Explaining.’
I stopped and he almost collided into me.
‘How did you get your scars?’ I asked, then I folded my arms. ‘Are you going to beat me up now too?’
‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘It wasn’t like that. No-one knows what he said to me. Everyone thinks he was trying to be a friend, it wasn’t that way at all. Does a friend call you a freak when you don’t want to tell them something?’
I opened my mouth but said nothing.
‘No one knows that, do they?’ He sneered. ‘No one knows that he called them disgusting, that he said they made him feel sick just looking at them.’
‘Jason I...’
‘Did you think I was going to tell him how I got them after that? After he referred to me as Quasimodo like I was some disfigured never to be touched freak. ’
I was shocked to hear all that, when I looked at him the last thing I thought was ugly; in fact it was the opposite.
‘He’s an idiot.’
‘Yeah he is. After I refused to tell him he said he was going to tell everyone anyway and when he did all this Jason has a secret crap begun.’
‘And that’s why there’s all these different versions of how you got them going around?’
He nodded and wiped at his eyes.
I briefly considered pulling a tissue out my bag and handing it to him but I had this feeling he didn’t want me to make a fuss over him crying.
We were silent for what seemed like an eternity. He was gathering his thoughts and I was gathering mine.
‘They’re knife wounds,’ he said at last. I looked at him with shock. ‘I was in prison for a little while. I stole a car last year.’
I didn’t say anything but he continued none the less.
‘I was 17 and I stole a car, it was the most stupid thing out all the delinquent things I’ve done. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ He folded his arms. ‘I got caught and sent to juvie for eight weeks. I also got 40 hours community service. Basically I got beat up almost every day. I could take it at first until one day they cornered me in the showers, one of them had a knife and the next thing I knew I was in hospital.’
I could feel my eyes tearing up as he spoke.
‘Apparently an officer found me fairly soon after I was attacked. I was face down, cuts all over my back laying in a pool of blood. I was critical. I would have died if I wasn’t found when I was.’
I took a step closer to him but he stepped back.
‘I was in hospital for weeks. I had a three hour operation as so much cartilage was damaged. Then I had stitches and staples, gallons of morphine and finally I was released and the first place I had to go? Court.’
I felt as if I should say something, anything but what was the point? Any words I’d have said he would have heard before.
‘They didn’t make me go back and finish my time. I was on my 5th week when it happened and I’d been good, kept my head down. They cut my community service in half because of what happened but I did the full forty and then I was free.’
‘Really, you don’t have to say anymore.’
He carried on as if he couldn’t stop. He’d started and he needed to finish. ‘I did the full forty because I wanted it all behind me and after some time I enrolled here. I figured it was time to get my life on track, get some kind of future going for me. But I couldn’t even do that.’ He spat. ‘On my very first day of my fresh start I ruined it. Danny asked me and I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want anyone knowing what happened.’
‘That’s understandable...’
‘Maybe it was naive of me to think he’d just ignore them. I should have just said I didn’t want to talk about it. Instead I hit the guy.’
‘He aggravated you,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I got what I deserved. I did the crime and got time and a near death experience in return. I put it behind me yet it keeps creeping back up, even to this day.’ He looked at me. ‘Now you know.’
‘I didn’t mean to force it out of you.’
‘I’ve been hiding it for so long. It starts with “how did you get your scars?” which leads to “why were you in juvie?” and it just brings up everything.’
‘Why did you tell me?’ I asked meekly.
Jason shrugged and sat down on the kerb. I sat down too. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said. ‘For one you didn’t scream when you saw my scars and yesterday you never judged me.’ He looked me in the eyes. ‘If only I’d met someone genuine, someone who didn’t want to know my business on that day.’
‘What happened to you was terrible. If anything that bad happened to me I’d want to keep it a secret to.’
‘Are you going to tell anyone? He asked.
‘No.’ I said adamantly. ‘Not at all.’ Then I nudged him because the atmosphere was way too heavy and I needed to lighten the load. ‘I have a pretty mean scar myself, you know.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh do you?’
I pushed up my sleeve and pointed to the scar by my elbow. ‘Chicken pox scar that is.’
He looked at it closely. ‘That is mean,’ he smiled. ‘But it’s beautiful as well.’
‘I bet yours are to.’
He looked at me again and I couldn’t tell what it meant but it made my stomach waver. ‘So hey I was supposed to be driving you home.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said getting back onto my feet. He looped an arm around my shoulders and I rested my hand on his back. I felt the outline of one of his scars through his t-shirt just to the left of his spine. It was hard and smooth at the same time. I ran my fingers over it as we spoke.
‘You’ll always have your scars.’ I told him even though he knew that.
‘And you’ll always have my secret,’ he said. Then we walked back to the college car park laughing together.
© Elisa Phillip. June 2011
Back to topBy Paul Vincent- Joint 3rd Place
“It doesn’t matter what the hell you do. You will never make anything of your life.”
It was bad enough to hear him say these words myself but that was nothing compared to their impact on Gemma. I watched as the crestfallen expression spread across her face and then contorted into hurt, angry defiance. She went bright red and just screamed at him. “Fuck you dad!”
The school hall went silent. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at us. They all watched as Gemma ran for the door before the inevitable tears started to fall.
I wanted to run after her but my first instinct was to remonstrate with the man standing in front of me. I could not believe what I had just witnessed. I had spent the past six months mentoring his daughter. I had seen her tentatively but very definitely start to change from being a directionless, unmotivated teenager into a more confident young woman who wanted to try, just try, to make something better out of her life.
“Why the hell did you say that?” I almost spat the words into his face. “You have just seen and heard your daughter explain how our mentoring scheme has given her a bit more self-belief and ambition. Instead of leaving school with sod all in two months’ time, she has made a momentous decision to give sixth form a proper chance. But you go and pull the rug from under her feet. Just what is wrong with you?”
“Listen business boy,” he shouted. “I don’t give a shit what you think. I know my daughter and trust me, she won’t make anything of her life. She is just like her mother. You’re wasting your time.”
“How on earth do you think she will aspire to anything unless you encourage her?” I shot back at him with venom. “You should be bloody well ashamed of yourself.”
The head of the school sixth form rushed over and stepped between us. He carefully manoeuvred this idiot off the school premises and I went to find Gemma.
I found her sitting hunched over a desk at the back of one of the classrooms. She looked straight up at me when I came in and her tear streaked look told me everything. “I hate him. I really hate him. I told you what he was like, didn’t I? I wish you’d never told me to invite him along.”
“I can’t believe what your dad said, but you do have a choice about how you deal with it.”
“Do I?” she replied. “It doesn’t feel like it. I’m right back where I was when you first came into the school.”
“Please listen to me carefully”. I sat down and looked directly at her. “You do have a choice. You have the choice of whether you let all this craziness hold you back or whether you use it to spur you on.”
“Really?” she said.
“Yes,really. Look let’s try something. I would like you to shut your eyes and imagine a large hot air balloon in the middle of a field. The balloon is inflated and there is a big basket underneath. Don’t look at me like that. Just try it.”
She closed her eyes and I continued.
“What colour is that balloon Gemma?” She paused for a moment before answering.
“Bright red”.
“Good, now I want you to imagine your name printed in large letters on that balloon. Can you see your name?”
“Yes I can” she said “…in big white letters.”
“Ok. Now I want you to imagine that the balloon represents what you are going to do in the future. The balloon is kept inflated by your determination to have whatever life you want. The basket represents your hopes and dreams. Does that make sense?”
“Yes” she answered.
“Good. Now around the basket are several ropes that are keeping the balloon on the ground. These ropes represent your current anger, doubts and frustration. You need to find a way to cut these ropes and then your balloon can start to float into the air. If you don’t cut these ropes your balloon will never get off the ground and your hopes and dreams will never move anywhere. Does that make sense to you too?”
“Yes it does” she replied.
“Tonight, with his words, your father fixed another rope onto your basket. But you don’t have to leave it there. You can cut that rope off, just like you can cut off all the others. You are in charge of your balloon, Gemma, and you can fly as high and as far as you want to go. But you have to get it into the air first.”
She opened her eyes slowly and looked intently at me. “You really do believe in me, don’t you? You’re not just saying it, are you?”
“Definitely I do.” I answered firmly. “But that doesn’t matter. The most important thing is that you believe in yourself. “
******************
I awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing loudly by the bed. I grabbed the handset quickly.
“Hi Dad, are we still doing lunch today?” said the perky voice of my daughter.
“Yes,” I said, rubbing my eyes furiously, and realising I was still half asleep. “Of course, if that’s still ok for you?”
“It is but I was wondering if we could meet half an hour earlier instead. There’s an event at the student union I want to go to but it starts at 2.30. It’s a talk about The Secret. Have you heard of it?”
“It’s a book, right?” I answered. I vaguely recalled reading something about it in one of the Sunday papers a few weeks back.
“Yes that’s right,” she said. “Some people are doing a tour around Universities at the moment talking about how The Secret has changed their lives. I think it’ll be good.”
I smiled to myself. It was a common occurrence for something else to put in a last minute bid for whatever time we had set aside to see each other, but as usual, that was fine. I was glad that she had so much going on in her life and saw her whenever I could. Luckily for me, she had chosen to study reasonably close to home and we stayed easily in touch.
"No problem," I said. "I’ll see you later then.”
I put down the phone and thought back to my earlier dream. I had no idea why that memory had suddenly leapt back at me. Even after the phone call’s interruption, the dream was still so vivid in my mind.
It had all happened when I was in my mid-twenties. I had responded to an advert about a mentoring scheme for 15-16 year old teenagers who were struggling at school for various reasons, and whose prospects were not looking great. The scheme was quite simple – each person would mentor a group of four teenagers over a six month period. You would meet them face to face, once a month during school time, and also be at the end of a telephone if they needed any further support. I thought it was a fantastic idea, and could potentially be hugely rewarding. I signed myself up straight away.
During my first meeting, I’d met Gemma. She was a pretty girl, but her aspirations did not stretch much beyond a career in babysitting. She had been highly suspicious of my motives for wanting to help her, and didn’t think I could offer her anything at all. Her attention span was minimal. She no longer saw any point in trying and was simply counting down the days until she could leave school. She was an only child and her parents had split up very acrimoniously two years previously. At the time of the break up, neither had wanted her to live with them. Her father was a pretty serious gambler, and during her primary school years, he had been regularly in and out of prison.
While he was ‘away,’ her mother had survived with the help of a succession of unsteady boyfriends. When her father came back, it was one battle after another. By the end of their relationship it was simply a fight about who would be left with the most debt. Gemma was merely an afterthought.
When her parents did eventually call it a day, she went to live with her grandmother, Lily. For a few months, the school had noticed a definite improvement in her attitude and behaviour, but tragically, this was short-lived. A long history of heart problems eventually took their toll on Lily, and she died soon afterwards. Gemma then had to deal with losing the only person who genuinely seemed to care. It had been heart-breaking for her.
The case workers stepped in and forced her parents to face up to their parental responsibilities. Her father reluctantly gave her a room during the week and her mother took her in at the weekends, provided of course, that it caused no interruption to her social life.
But neither really cared about Gemma. She had missed so much school between the age of 13 and 15 that she was lucky to be taking any exams at all, let alone be in a position to pass them.
The mentoring programme had finished that evening and soon afterwards I took a job in another part of the country. It was really up to Gemma to keep in touch with me, but I never heard from her again, although someone at the school did tell me that she had started sixth form, which had been fantastic to hear. I wished her all the best.
******************
My daughter and I had a nice relaxed chat over a pizza and a lunchtime glass of wine. I was very proud of the person she had become. She was strong-minded, determined and very capable of success in life.
"So what is this book, The Secret about?" I asked her.
"Well the basic idea is that your primary thoughts will attract related things into your life. If you think negative thoughts, you will attract negative things. If you think positive thoughts, you will attract positive things.” She explained.
"Have you tried it yet?"
"Yes I have. I’ve been trying to attract success in my studies and also…” She paused, smiling into her wine glass. “…to get a guy I like to notice me! And yes dad, both have come true!"
I laughed. "It sounds interesting. You’ll have to tell me how the talk goes."
"It’s an open union event actually, so you could come along if you want? The law of attraction has no upper age limit!"
"Bloody cheek!". I laughed again. "Ok, I’ll come along, I’ve no other plans for this afternoon."
By the time we arrived, the student union bar was heaving. This was clearly a popular topic, and it was nearly time to start. We quickly took a programme from an old guy who looked vaguely familiar at the entrance and sat down on two of the few remaining seats towards the back. As my daughter said hello to some of the people around us, I took the opportunity to thumb through her copy of The Secret.
******************
Three hours later, the talk finished. It had been fascinating. I gave my daughter a hug goodbye and left her in the bar with her friends. I headed back to the car park.
I was lost in thought as I got into the car and started the engine. I was just about to reverse, when someone tapped sharply on the window. I looked up in surprise and saw a face looking intently back at me. It was the old guy who’d been handing out programmes on the door. The face that looked vaguely familiar. The face that belonged, unmistakably, to Gemma’s father.
Time froze. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. 30 seconds. I don’t know. He was older, much older. But his face had been etched in my subconscious and it was him. Without a doubt.
I wound down the window.
“I couldn’t help noticing that you seem to have a great relationship with your daughter.” He said.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. I was dumbstruck.
“It must feel very strange to meet me again like this.”
“You could say that…” I replied. “It feels like I have stepped into a twilight zone actually.”
He spoke again. “There is something I want to tell you, before you leave here today. Something important”.
“Ok I’m listening. Is it something about Gemma? How is she?”
He paused. As I waited for him to speak, I felt completely confused. What was going on? Why was he here? Why now? What could he possibly want to tell me?
“Gemma is dead. She died over a year ago. She had a brain tumour.” He said, clearly pained by the words.
“What?” I exclaimed, stunned at the news. “That’s terrible. I’m very sad to hear that.” I slumped back in my seat and took a deep breath.
“We got closer you know, at the end”. He said.
“Really? And? ” I said pointedly.
“She told me about her hopes and dreams, the ones that she kept in her hot air balloon. She told me that she felt she could trace everything she went on to achieve in her adult life back to you. To what you said to her on the night of that presentation.”
“Look.” I said. I could feel myself starting to become agitated. “I am very sad to hear about Gemma, and of course, I am pleased that she thinks I helped her…but why the bloody hell are you here. Now. Telling me this? And how did you find me?”
“She started sixth form, but I gave her such a hard time, that she dropped out after three months and ran away. I lost touch with her for over sixteen years. Then eighteen months ago, she contacted me, out of the blue, and told me she was dying of cancer and only had about six months left to live. She thought it would be the best news I would ever receive, and she wanted to see my face in person when she told me. She thought I’d be pleased.”
This was all becoming a bit surreal. I said nothing. He continued.
“Over those sixteen years, I had changed enormously. I realised that I’d been a terrible father. I tried to put it right. I really did. I tracked her down. Tried to contact her. Tried to say sorry. She never returned my calls, and she never answered my letters.
When she came to see me and told me about her illness, I broke down and cried in front of her. She wasn’t expecting that. I somehow managed to make her see how much I regretted everything I had done, and that I wanted to do whatever I could to help her now. So in that period, before she died, I finally managed to be a proper father.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“We talked about that presentation night many times. How all she wanted me to say was well done. Give her some encouragement. I was too wrapped up in my own world to realise that then. I understand it totally now, but it’s too late.”
“She made me promise to find you. Made me promise to say my own thank you for the belief you showed in her all those years ago. This is why I am here.”
“But why here? Now? What is the connection with the talk on The Secret?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Gemma had read the book, and through her, I read it too. It made a big impact on me and I began to use the ideas to try and heal our relationship. After she died I wanted to find a way to help other young people in the way that I never helped her. By chance, I came across this group of people who were thinking of doing University talks about The Secret and I thought that I could help them with the organisation of the events and therefore in some way be associated with their attempt to inspire young people.”
“I was determined to keep my promise to Gemma, and so I hired a private investigator to find you. When I found out where you were, and that you had a daughter at a University we were speaking at, I used the law of attraction to try and get you along to the event as well. It worked didn’t it?”
I sat motionless as this all sank in. Gemma, her father and that dream, that bloody dream.
© Paul Vincent. June 2011
By Georgina Caithness - Joint 3rd Place
She stepped out of the black darkness of the shop into the bright yellow sunlight, closed the door behind her, and locked it with a turn of the key. That was what the owner had told her to do. At 5.30, he had said, you can go. Pull down the shutters, turn off the computer in the office, make sure everything is ready for when the cleaning lady arrives at 7, and when you leave lock the door with the main key – the one with the red tag marked ‘spare’.
She had worked hard that day and she was glad to be going. There had been a lot of customers and as it was her first day she had found it very difficult and tiring. People had been asking her for many things, and she hadn’t really known what they had all meant, and she had done her best, but most of the time her best had not been good enough. And now she was going and she was off to study in her evening class, as she was going to do every week, four days a week, from 7 to 8.30, for the next 3 months. The shop from Monday to Saturday, 8 to 5.30, and class from Monday to Thursday, 7 to 8.30.
She had been lucky to get the job at the shop. It was close to where she lived and the owner hadn’t really wanted to employ her, but it seemed he did not have much of a choice, as all his other assistants had left, glancing angrily at his wife, who pretended not to notice. Young girls could get so hysterical sometimes about men who were just trying to be nice, treating them like daughters, and anyway, what did they expect? When they wandered around dressed like that. And so the wife went back to looking after the plants and arranging the flowers – it was a flower-shop, you see – and the owner was left to find another assistant.
She was staying in a nice area in the suburbs of Sydney, quite far from the city centre. It was a pleasant family area, almost at the end of the subway line. The school had found accommodation for her, and it was true that she hadn’t really realised, and the school hadn’t really told her, that the accommodation would be so far out of town, or in that kind of area, where people looked at her slightly askance, as though they were not expecting to see somebody from somewhere else around there. Perhaps she would have preferred to have lived in a different place, closer to the city centre, somewhere more cosmopolitan and multi-cultural, but a nice area like that would have been more expensive, and she was paying for all of this herself.
It was late in the afternoon but the light still reflected a blinding white against the polished concrete sidewalks. The air was warm. In the distance you could see the ocean. The tall pine trees lined the beach like sentinels and the sunshine glittered on the edges of the waves. She made her way towards the subway station. In her hand she held a blue plastic bag with something inside wrapped in pale pink tissue. She carried the bag carefully. In fact, the contents of the bag were obviously valuable to her, because every so often she stopped to check them, or to re-position them slightly, smoothing down the tissue, and minutely adjusting the way she was carrying the bag. She had it pulled close to her chest and it was as though she did not want anyone to see what was in the bag, or even to come close. She walked with her eyes down and she looked very serious; you might even have thought that she did not look very friendly.
When she reached the subway she could not see for a moment as she walked down the steps into the brown shadows. Outside the entrance there was a group of young boys on bikes, towels over their shoulders, trunks still wet from a day spent surfing and getting stoned on the beach. ‘Fucking Nips,’ said one of them under his breath, a tanned blond Aussie boy, grinning at his friends. And she smiled slightly, though with her eyes downcast, because she was a bit afraid of them and she wanted to be polite. She hadn’t really heard him and, in any case, she didn’t understand English that well. She half-inclined her head as if to say, ‘Excuse me’. They moved out of the way with sullen expressions on their faces, and, when she was at the bottom of the steps, one of them spat, and they all laughed.
She was Japanese, and, as we would have known if we spoke Japanese, all her thoughts were in Japanese. The class she was going to was her English class. If we spoke Japanese really well, we would have been able to recognise that she came from Osaka, from a nice middle-class district just out in the suburbs, a bit like the area in which she is staying in Sydney. If we had seen her, we would probably have guessed her to be about 27.
Of course, we wouldn’t have known, just from looking at her, what job she did in Japan, although we would certainly have thought that she looked respectable, possibly even a bit conservative. I reckon we would probably have thought that maybe she worked in a bank, or something like that.
Obviously, it would have been completely impossible for us to have known just from looking at her face if she was married and had children or not, although we might have thought that, as she had come all the way to Australia on her own for 3 months, with the intention of learning English, she probably did not have children, and possibly did not have a husband either – if she had a boyfriend or not, who could have said? But it was likely he was not in Sydney, or else why hadn’t he come to pick her up from work?
The subway was full of people, mainly coming out of the city – coming home after a long day at work. She travelled the seventeen stops to her destination and got out. When she next emerged into the sunlight – fading a little now – it was 6.38. She walked the one block to her school on George Street and went through the revolving doors. They were glass revolving doors and they reflected the light. The walls of the reception were painted a light blue, the carpet was cream, the sofas were dark blue, and there was a painting on the wall: a seascape, a picture of a stormy green sea with a grey sky. It was 11 minutes to 7 o’clock.
‘Hello Mutsuyo!’ The woman behind the reception dress greeted her, in Japanese. She pronounced her name Mut-su-yo, every syllable stressed equally, as is the way with Japanese. ‘Are you here for your English class?’
‘Yes, I am!’ She said, and she sounded a little nervous.
‘These are your books. Please sign here. And don’t be nervous! Your teacher is very nice. He is from England. His name is Adam.’
She signed for the books, and went into her English class. She put the bag carefully down on the chair next to her. The class was fun. There were 6 students all in all: 4 women and 2 men. They were all Japanese. Adam, as promised, was very nice. They all had to introduce themselves first, in English. She felt shy and she did not like that part. Then they read something from their books, and listened to a cassette, a song in English, and they had to fill in the gaps in the words in their books, and then they had to check their answers with each other, and she checked her answers with Keiko, who was the girl sitting next to her with the orange t-shirt, on her left. They listened to the song again and had to clap in time with the music. Then they played a game where Adam drew a picture and then showed it to half the class and they had to describe it to their classmates, who had to draw it. The winning pair was the one who ended up with the picture that most closely resembled what Adam had drawn. Then they had a ‘conversation’ about their favourite films. They had to describe their film to the class and say why they liked it. In fact, in Japan she is studying for her Master’s.
The class ended at 8.30. She picked up her bag, which she had been keeping an eye on the whole time, once again checked and smoothed down the contents, this time taking a few moments to wrap the tissue more closely round whatever it was that it was protecting, and left the school. It was dark now but as this was Sydney and it was November it was not cold. She put her sweater on anyway. It was her red sweater, with a black and yellow picture on the front, and it was one of her favourites. She was travelling back to the same subway station as before. She lived just three blocks from the shop. She had a room with a family. The family were Australian and they had been very welcoming and friendly, even if communication had been a bit tricky sometimes. Breakfast was included, and she had a nice clean room with her own shower and a small stove for cooking. It was at the back of the house.
The subway was much emptier than before. At her stop, she was the only person to get off. As the train pulled out, it made a hideous, screeching noise, like a thousand ghosts screaming. She did not like travelling alone at night. In Japan she knew she was quite safe, but here in Australia it was different. The grey corridors seemed deserted and her footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floors. It felt horribly quiet after the noise and the laughter of her English class. She was looking forward to going back to the school tomorrow. Without even meaning to, she looked behind her, and she saw only the empty platform in the sickly fluorescent light. At the entrance there was only the guard, standing alone, lounging against the exit machines, his face half-hidden in the dark. He was reading a magazine and barely looked up at her. She clutched her blue bag in her hands, passed her ticket through the machine, and hurried out. She got to the top of the steps and she hardly noticed the group of boys that were milling around on their bikes outside, chatting and laughing. She was in a rush to get home. She held her bag tight to her chest.
It was 9.42.
The boys were young, barely even in their late teens. They were quite good-looking teenage boys and they had the air of teenage boys who were very aware of how good-looking they might be. They were making a lot of noise and pushing each other around in a way that was a mixture between playful and violent. In fact, had Mutsuyo been paying attention, she would have noticed that they were the same group of boys who had been hanging around the entrance to the subway station earlier. They were no longer in their towels and swimming trunks, though. Obviously they had been home and had their dinner and got changed, and this time they were in baggy pants and track tops, looking pretty much like any group of teenage boys, anywhere in the world.
‘Oi!’ One of them shouted. ‘Isn’t that the fucking Nip?’
And they all turned round and stared.
‘Oi, it’s the fucking Nip!’ The one who had spoken directly to Mutsuyo earlier looked up, and saw her. ‘Why don’t you fuck off back to China?’ he said loudly. And all the boys burst out laughing.
One of them put his hands up to his eyes and drew them into narrow slits. ‘Nip nip! Nip nip!’ he sang, swaggering about in front of his friends. They were giggling.
‘Hey!’ He was miming scratching his scalp in a slow, stupid way, looking confused. ‘Help! I got special flied lice!’ And his friends laughed hysterically.
Mutsuyo was walking away, down the road, towards her house, and she could not understand any of this, but with a terrible feeling of fear in her stomach, she realised they were talking about her. They were talking about her and they were all laughing and then the tall one, the one who had spoken to her earlier, leant down, picked up something from the gravel, got on his bike, and rode up behind her.
‘Why don’t you fuck off back to China?’ he hissed. His face was twisted into a mean sneer. He opened his hand. In his hand he held a small stone. His friends were watching him, and they had gone quiet. Mutsuyo was walking very, very fast. She was almost running, in fact. She did not look back. She was holding her blue plastic bag with both arms tight across her chest, her eyes were wide and they were brimming with tears. She did not look at the boy, she was looking down at the ground in front of her, and she felt very badly afraid. There was no one around. The boy waited for her to get a little further ahead of him, and suddenly curled his hand tight into a fist, raised his arm in the air, and threw the stone at Mutsuyo.
Mutsuyo gasped. The stone hit her on the side of her head. She dropped the blue plastic bag onto the ground. The stone hit her so hard, it drew blood. A little red spot of blood, a red spot of blood that started seeping and staining and making a bigger red spot of blood on her white skin. She nearly fell over, she put her hand to the side of her head. She was terrified.
The blue plastic bag had fallen into the gutter. The pale pink tissue had fallen out, and out of the pale pink tissue, if we had been there, we would have seen a corner of what it was that she had been carrying so carefully in the bag. It was just a tiny corner, and it looked like silk, and it had flowers on it. It was a wedding Uchikake kimono. It was made of thick, padded white silk, and it had beautiful flowers of all different colours embroidered onto it. The flowers were blue and purple and orange and yellow and pink. The bag was in the gutter, and the gutter was filthy, and the black damp dirt was leaking into beautiful white silk, making a big black spot, a big, black stain that could never be washed off, and Mutsuyo saw this, and the tears trickled down her cheeks as she leant over to scoop it up, and she ran as fast as she could back to the house with the nice Australian family, and she was trembling.
The boy rode off whooping back to his friends. He did a wheelie, and they all cheered.
When she got home, she went straight to the bathroom to wash the blood off the side of her head and to cry.
She could not wash the stain off the silk, and she cut up the kimono, and sealed it tight inside the blue plastic bag, and put it in the bin.
In the days and weeks afterwards, word of what the boy had done got round more of his friends, and it became exaggerated, accompanied by increasingly colourful embellishments. The story was told many times. Sometimes the boy told the story himself. Mainly he let others tell the story for him (although he always quietly made sure they did). Sometimes, when his friends were not around, and he told the story, he changed quite a few things about it. He thought it would be better if it sounded more dramatic. If there were more people involved, say – a whole group of older boys from a different country, against only himself. Of course he never let anyone know that sometimes, when his friends were not around, he changed quite a few things about the story.
Mutsuyo, of course, did not tell anyone what had happened. When the family asked about her head, she made out she’d had an accident at work; I think they decided she’d banged her head a cupboard door that had flown open unexpectedly or something like that.
In fact, she never told anyone at all about what had happened. That was Mutsuyo’s secret.
© Georgina Caithness. June 2011