Footprints on the Moon Read online

  Lorraine Marwood has published several children’s novels and collections of poetry, winning the inaugural Prime Minister’s Literary Award for children’s fiction in 2010 for her novel Star Jumps. She has enjoyed three fellowships with the May Gibbs Children’s Literature Trust. Her 2018 verse novel, Leave Taking, was the joint winner of the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, Patricia Wrightson Prize for Children’s Literature and was shortlisted for the 2019 CBCA Book of the Year, Younger Readers and the Queensland Literary Awards, Children’s Book Award. She lives in regional Victoria.

  www.lorrainemarwood.com

  To the memory of my own dear grandmother and her beautiful garden.

  Also dedicated to Vietnam veterans, many who braved conscription in an unpopular war.

  APRIL 1969

  How to take a moon step

  It seems to me

  that I am taking

  my own moon steps

  about the same time

  humans want

  to conquer the moon.

  I heard on my sister’s radio

  about President Kennedy’s promise

  to have a man on the moon

  before the end

  of the 1960s.

  It’s going to come true.

  It really is, and

  we might watch it,

  watch history happening!

  Will our world,

  my world, suddenly change?

  Will the moon I look at

  every night

  suddenly disappear?

  ‘Cas?’ I ask.

  ‘Will the moon change colour

  or grow antennas when

  man lands on the moon?’

  I am teasing Cas but part

  of me is a bit worried.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sharnie.’

  My big sister laughs.

  ‘You think about the strangest

  things; there’s more happening

  around us than in outer space.’

  Hmm. Really? I think

  maybe Cas needs to look up

  more often, try imagining

  moonwalking, like me.

  Lewis, our cousin

  would agree.

  He’d love to practise

  moonwalking.

  At night

  I moon-gaze

  when I put Jules,

  my cat,

  outside.

  The silver

  of a moonbeam reflects

  along the length

  of Jules’s tail,

  like a special wish.

  If that moonbeam

  caught me in its

  glistening light,

  what would I

  wish for?

  I want things

  in my world

  to stay the same,

  but I want to learn

  and make

  new friends also.

  Just like the moon

  on its travels

  around Earth

  its changes

  are shadowed,

  halved and quartered

  till it’s full

  and round again.

  I don’t know enough

  about my little world

  without stretching

  my neck, my mind,

  to look up at that speck,

  in the turquoise night.

  I imagine man

  as a smaller

  conquering speck

  trampling on its

  milky surface.

  School is still an unmapped territory

  I tiptoe

  into my high school,

  alien,

  just like moon

  exploration.

  Even though it’s April

  everything’s still new,

  like the first day

  at the beginning of the year:

  subjects,

  corridors,

  lockers,

  assemblies,

  house colours,

  books,

  teachers,

  rules.

  Rules

  written and unwritten

  are the hardest to learn.

  My sister, Cas,

  already

  aware of the rules,

  keeps her distance.

  Four years age

  difference

  seems like light-

  years apart,

  like an alien

  force field

  keeps us

  orbiting

  each other,

  spinning

  on our own

  separate axis.

  She is surrounded

  by a group of friends;

  they laugh,

  tell jokes,

  admire my sister’s new

  hairstyle

  and her long legs.

  I wave to Cas

  and her friends

  but none of them look

  at little-sister me.

  Not like last year

  at primary school –

  Cas would wait for me

  at the school gate,

  one of her friends

  would carry my schoolbag

  if I had an extra project

  or artwork as well.

  Cas would ask me about

  my day, my teachers,

  my friends, say,

  ‘How was today, Sharnie?

  Learn something new?

  Find a new book to read?’

  But now

  she rarely asks anything,

  and when I hold up

  my latest library book

  her eyes aren’t

  even focused

  on me.

  Friends and foes

  I’m gobbled up in a

  crazy jam of students

  streaming to class,

  all racing to lockers,

  from lockers,

  knocking into each other,

  calling to friends,

  shouting,

  until Mia appears

  at the mouth

  of the long,

  straight corridor.

  Only a few of my old

  primary classmates

  came to the same

  high school as me.

  And I’m so glad

  Mia is one.

  As I watch, she is like

  a flash of light

  in a space telescope

  weaving her way

  against the flow

  of students

  as she comes

  towards me

  growing larger,

  brighter

  and her smile

  growing with her.

  We look up our first class

  for the day

  on the noticeboard

  timetable: Science,

  then Geography.

  We pull faces and laugh.

  Our least favourite subjects …

  but we’re not prepared

  for the wonder ahead –

  space possibilities

  looking up, up,

  not at our earthbound feet.

  ‘So it’s 1969,’

  begins Miss Ca
mpbell

  our Science teacher.

  ‘Duh!’ whispers Ellie,

  loud enough for her friends

  to giggle.

  ‘And NASA is on course

  to win the Space Race

  for the USA,’

  continues Miss Campbell

  not fazed by Ellie.

  ‘Any idea how many people

  have been involved

  in this project

  over the decade?’

  ‘One thousand,’ pipes Ellie again.

  Miss Campbell merely smiles.

  ‘Two thousand,’ says Mia.

  ‘More,’ encourages Miss Campbell.

  Silence.

  ‘Well, think of this number,’ says

  Miss Campbell in a dramatic voice

  as if she’s about to unwrap

  a special birthday present.

  ‘Four hundred thousand

  scientists and engineers,

  worked for the American

  aerospace program

  leading up to now.’

  ‘And astronauts,’ adds Ellie,

  to a chorus of giggles.

  Phew! ‘That’s a lot,’

  I whisper to Mia.

  ‘They worked day and night,’

  went on Miss Campbell.

  ‘It was indeed

  a space race of sorts,

  trying to beat

  the Russian Space Program.’

  ‘Communists,’ mutters Ellie

  and pokes Marg,

  who passes the word along

  until it reaches the front row.

  Miss Campbell nods.

  ‘Yes, Communism

  and the Cold War.’

  ‘Now, Ellie,

  why is this a Cold War?’

  asks Miss Campbell.

  ‘Because it’s not armed warfare

  like the Vietnam War but full

  of sneaky things like beating

  another country in the Space Race

  and spying,’ answers Ellie.

  ‘Yes …’ agrees Miss Campbell slowly.

  Marg gives Ellie a little

  congratulatory hand clap.

  Cold, I wonder,

  like the moon?

  Will the moon be cold?

  Just like night-time,

  blanketed

  from the sun.

  I wonder aloud

  about the distance

  of the moon from Earth,

  wonder about

  world powers

  out to conquer space,

  wonder about romance

  and moon cheese.

  Mia laughs about

  the last part –

  that the moon

  is made of cheese.

  We make up jingles

  about the whey-

  coloured moon,

  about romance

  and moonlight.

  We sing softly

  to each other,

  giggle. Hands

  shielding us

  from prying eyes

  and stopping the noise

  reaching the front

  of the room.

  Ellie turns around

  in her chair

  and stares,

  then pokes

  Marg again

  and whispers,

  ‘Mia and Sharnie

  love nursery rhymes,

  little babies –

  “little babies”

  pass it on.’

  Singing silly jingles

  is not for high school.

  So we whisper about

  a newspaper cutting

  of space food

  the astronauts might eat:

  dried food, baby food,

  just add water,

  and we laugh and think

  of gravity, of lunch

  floating by.

  How close is our neighbour?

  Next lesson is Geography

  and Miss Parkes begins

  by unfurling a huge map

  along the chalkboard.

  ‘What country is this?’

  she asks.

  I nudge Mia but she

  has no idea.

  We just seem to know

  where Australia is,

  and New Zealand

  and England

  and America.

  ‘It’s Vietnam,’ begins Gail,

  a classmate I hardly know.

  ‘Yeah! Communists

  want to take it over,’

  adds Ellie in a shrill voice.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Miss Parkes,

  and she begins to tell

  us about South Vietnam

  and the communist North

  and how Australia, with America,

  is advising and training

  the South Vietnamese army.

  Miss Parkes hands out sheets

  with a map of Vietnam.

  I can see Gail squirming

  in her seat

  wanting to say something,

  but Miss Parkes ignores her

  and starts to write

  on the chalkboard.

  For homework

  Where is Saigon?

  Who is Ho Chi Minh?

  Who are the Vietcong?

  What country formerly ruled Vietnam?

  Why is there a war happening

  between the South and North?

  Ellie makes sure everyone hears

  her repeat the words,

  ‘Communist takeover’.

  The bell rings and

  we stream

  out of class.

  Listening with her heart

  I visit Grandma

  after school.

  Cas used to come

  with me,

  but not now,

  not this year,

  not lately.

  Grandma doesn’t

  live far away;

  I just have to

  walk across

  our street,

  through a little

  park of patchy grass,

  turn the corner and

  it is the second

  house, a big

  block with trees.

  I lift the catch on

  Grandma’s gate –

  already the sweet peas

  and roses

  reach out to me

  with their rich perfume.

  I zigzag across

  the mosaic

  of pavers,

  trying not

  to touch the join

  between each one.

  With each step

  I’m kinda praying:

  Keep Grandma

  safe today,

  today,

  safe today.

  I can tell her everything:

  what high school’s really like,

  how I worry about

  not knowing

  what I really want to do

  with my life.

  I even tell my grandma about

  the shows I watch on telly,

  my favourite songs,

  and how the moon

  is starting to feel closer now.

  I ask her about being brave,

  about how the astronauts

  must be brave

  to go somewhere

  like the moon.

  What if they don’t come back?

  My grandmother

&nbsp
; smiles through all of this,

  sometimes holds my hand,

  nods her head,

  listens to me the way

  no one else does.

  We sip a fresh pot

  of tea, brewed

  in the battered

  silver teapot,

  and drink from her delicate

  rose-entwined teacups.

  I bite into Grandma’s

  rich, homemade

  chocolate slice

  and later her sticky

  peanut brittle.

  Then it’s my turn to sit

  while Grandma talks,

  but it’s like she’s caught

  in the same script.

  She tells me again

  about the making

  of peanut brittle.

  Again and again she says,

  ‘Watch out, it might burn.’

  When I look

  at the back of her hand

  I see a red welt,

  a burn mark.

  ‘Oh! Your hand!’ I say,

  as I jump up to find

  something to put

  on that welt.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I babble,

  looking for the aloe vera plant

  Grandma has growing

  with her herbs.

  She has been

  teaching me about herbs

  when I visit.

  But she doesn’t look

  at the welt.

  Instead, she surprises

  me by placing her

  arms around me

  and saying,

  ‘Will I teach you

  how to make peanut

  brittle this weekend,

  after the Anzac parade?

  You know it was your

  grandfather’s favourite sweet.

  We can remember him then.

  Someone has to continue

  the family recipe

  when I’m gone.’

  Grandma’s peanut brittle

  Do Not Stir

  6 tablespoons of water

  7 tablespoons of sugar

  Boil on fast heat until golden brown.

  In flat tin, put peanuts, pour toffee mixture

  over the top and let it get cold.

  Put in an airtight container (most important)

  to keep it crackly.

  I nod, trying not to look sad

  and know deep inside

  that something is wrong,

  something is happening

  to Grandma.

  Then she smiles

  and hugs me again.

  ‘Maybe we could make

  your own family food book.

  Do a test run of each

  recipe here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I hug her back;

  she is again

  the grandmother

  I’ve always known.

  Good morning America

  Cas has a morning routine:

  radio on, loud, when I’m

  still stitched to my pillow