Footprints on the Moon Page 2
to cloud dreams.
I take time
to wake from the night’s
hibernation,
but Cas is up, out
of her bed on the other
side of our room
as soon as the sun’s watery
light washes through
the louvre slats
of our window.
‘Turn it down,’ I bear-growl,
but Cas is singing
as she brushes
her thick brown hair
deliberately blocking me out.
She stops singing
as the music switches
to the news.
‘Protests have taken place
in America over the cost of the
space moon program.
“End poverty
on Earth first”
is the banner message.’
Cas turns the volume down,
not because I asked,
but because
she wants to say,
‘Of course they should
grow more food,
find more jobs,
stop the wars here
before they go
to the moon frontier.’
The hairbrush snags
on a knot,
‘Ouch,’ she hisses.
‘And America should stop
the war in Vietnam,’ she mutters
and flings the hairbrush
back on the dressing table.
It makes a loud thud.
I’m awake now and ask,
‘Vietnam? Since when did you
become interested in the war?
We are learning
about Vietnam in Geography.
But what’s it got to do with us
in this little town so far
away from the city?’
Cas opens her mouth
and looks at me.
I’m looking right back
wondering how Cas
knows more than I do
about the war
that’s part
of our lessons,
complete with
a school project.
Then Peter Sarstedt
sings the song
‘Where Do You Go To
My Lovely?’
and I don’t wait
for Cas’s reply.
I can’t help singing it
and mouth all the lyrics
to myself as I push back
my quilt and open the louvres
to let in the fresh breeze.
Cas turns away,
finishes getting
ready for the day.
She squeezes lemon juice
on those
tanned smooth legs,
and I know
as she makes
her way to school
later that eyes
will flick,
heads
follow and even
a wolf-whistle
will be the reward
of her citrus
mornings.
When the song finishes
Cas looks at me.
‘You’ll be late,
won’t have time
to do your hair
or clean your shoes.’
‘You didn’t care that much
about me yesterday at school,
you wouldn’t even know
if my shoes were clean then,
so why worry about it now?’
And I wish I could throw
something down so it made
a great thwacking noise, too.
Missing Dad
‘Moody,’ Cas calls me.
‘Sulky,’ Dad often says.
‘There’s a little
man on your shoulder,’
he jokes
and goes to swipe it off.
Then stops, laughs
and begins to tell me
the story of how his mother
called him moody when
he was my age.
I like Dad’s
stories and know ‘the little
man’ is his way
to shake me out
of my dreaming.
Or he might finish the story with:
‘You’ll never plough a field
by turning it over in your mind.’
That usually does the trick,
I can’t see a plough in sight
and my mind,
is it really like a field?
I’m not moody, just trying
to work Cas out these days.
I think she’s the one with
mood swings.
I feel like
I don’t know
this
new
Cas.
Sulky? Nah!
Dad is away so much lately
that I’m unsure what to say
when he is here.
His work keeps him gone
a month at a time.
That’s ages, it really is.
It’s like I’m meeting
him again, like a long-
lost relative,
each time he comes
home.
He used to work on our little
block of land, all the time,
feeding the pens of chooks,
keeping two cows,
three pigs,
a few sheep,
lots of fruit trees
and a big veggie patch.
But selling eggs doesn’t pay.
We would rather
store-bought milk
than straight from
our cows,
and keeping two
growing girls
costs a lot.
So, Dad took a job
selling farm goods
to places a long way
from here.
Maybe I see the man
in the moon
more than I do
my own dad.
Last year, Dad would read
me a serial; one time it was
The Princess and the Goblin,
another time Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
He’d put on different voices
especially for the scary parts,
but now I’m a big
high-schooler
Cas says I’m too old
for a bedtime story.
But I still want stories,
lots of them
and time with my dad.
But there’s Jules
I have a cat, a very
fluffy moccasin-slipper-
like cat.
‘Shoo,’ says Cas
if Jules tries to sneak
into our bedroom.
If we leave
the louvres
of our window
open just cat-width,
Jules will
curl like a seashell
on one of our
patchwork quilts.
This morning
I wish I could run
my feet over
Jules’s soft back.
Instead, I switch off
Cas’s radio and feel better.
I go to the bathroom,
wash my face
with cold water;
Jules follows.
I smell toast cooking,
hear the kettle
singing on
the wood stove
and hurry for hot Milo,
warm buttery
crunchy toast
and Mum’s
good-morning smile.
But Mum’s talking
on the phone,
the long black cord
jiggling as she
pulls it taut,
trying to cook toast
as well as listen.
Her hand stills,
her face creases,
and I know it’s
my grandmother.
When she puts
down the receiver
I ask, ‘What’s wrong?
It’s Grandma, isn’t it?’
My voice catches
on the last word.
‘Not now, Sharnie,
you’ll be late for the bus.’
Mum is distracted,
Mum is keeping
Grandma from me.
‘But—’ I say.
‘Ten minutes
and I’m walking,’ calls Cas.
I know it takes us
longer than that
to walk to the bus stop.
Cas is in the bathroom,
again.
I wonder if the mirror
ever gets a chance to show
someone else’s reflection.
I gobble the last
of my toast,
rinse my plate and mug,
look one last time
at Mum who is
buttering bread,
finding apples,
packing our lunches
as if everything is fine.
But it’s not, it’s not.
She’s been talking
to Grandma,
listening, but not sharing
with me, with Cas.
I hate not knowing.
I’m not a child anymore.
I’m trying hard to be
a high-schooler,
more grown up.
I’m trying,
really trying.
History for real
Mia sits with me again,
a Vietnam continent
still splashed on the wall.
Miss Parkes is
pointing with a stick
to areas on the map
like Biên Hòa:
‘Where the first
Australian battalion
served with American troops
under their command.
This was June 1965.’
‘Biên Hòa,’ Mia whispers,
and somehow
we find it funny
and our giggles
seep through
hands held
to our mouths
and come squeaking
and muffled
into the big
classroom.
We duck our
heads lower
but giggling
is like the measles:
contagious and makes
us red-cheeked.
We are laughing
for no reason,
but stop suddenly
when Miss Parkes
looks straight
at Mia and me
and says:
‘So this is your Geography
report – very topical –
on the start and causes
of the Vietnam War.
Why is Australia
involved in this war?’
There are shuffling feet,
loud whispers
and hands shoot up
to ask questions.
‘Hands down,’
says Miss Parkes.
‘These questions are part
of your assignment.
You will need
to seek
answers yourselves,
read the newspapers,
look up the library’s
encyclopedias.
I have written
a basic timeline here
on these sheets
and it will be your task
to fill in the gaps.
As the sheets are passed
from desk to desk,
Gail, sitting behind us,
taps me on the shoulder.
‘What are you laughing at?
Are you laughing at me?’
she asks.
That only makes
me giggle more.
Ellie and her friend, Marg,
at the desk across from us
laugh too, but somehow
their expressions stop
my giggles. They are
smirking at Gail.
Did I look like that?
That horrible sneer
on Ellie’s face?
Goading Gail, almost
as if she wants
Gail to fight back,
taunt back, hit back,
anything,
but Gail ignores her
and asks me
a question
that should have been
fired on Ellie.
‘No, Gail,’ I protest.
‘I wouldn’t laugh at you.
I’m sorry if you thought that.’
And my face flames red
as if I’ve been caught out
in a lie.
But it’s true; I’m
not like Ellie,
not at all.
Even though we had
a fit of giggles,
I just don’t laugh
at people.
I don’t want to say
Gail is weird.
Different,
yes,
lonely,
yes.
How lonely,
I don’t know
until we are
in the next class.
Moon craters of our own
Miss Anders, of Social Studies fame
puts Simon & Garfunkel’s
‘I Am a Rock’
on the portable record player
she brought to the lesson.
‘Are we individual rocks
or part of a group?
Are there times when
we feel like lone rocks?’
The music and words
are familiar to us all,
but Miss Anders makes
me think.
Mia giggles; I don’t.
Ellie sort of snorts,
half-laugh,
half-growl.
It seems to be
a signal for the rest
of the class.
No one answers,
several girls cough,
some shuffle feet,
deliberately
knock a ruler
to the floor.
Gail speaks in a rush,
‘It’s good to be
an island sometimes.’
Ellie sniggers,
then Marg and some
of their other friends
sing softly, about Gail
being a rock,
on her own island
far, far away.
Miss Anders pushes
her glasses
up onto the bridge
of her nose
and tries to quieten Ellie
and her friends,
her arms waving
like seaweed,
to and fro.
But Ellie
guffaws and sings
even louder.
Gail drops her head
into her arms
on the desk,
and Miss Anders wails,
‘Girls, please!’
I’m stunned, and think
about turning to Gail,
about thumbing my nose
at Ellie, but all I really do
is sit there and watch.
A little tsunami has just
washed over Gail’s beach
and wet us through,
making me gritty
and uneasy.
I know I should do
something,
say something,
but I am just
like everyone
else in the class:
I leave Gail
to sink or swim.
Our own archeology of artefacts
The ringing of the bell
saves everyone.
The girls
are like trumpeting
elephants
storming for the door,
storming down
the corridor
to lockers and lunch,
until the principal,
Mr Grear,
calls them to stop
and serves
them a little homily.
Miss Anders, shuffling
through her notes,
packing up the portable
record player, looks up
and smiles weakly
at Mia and me. But
doesn’t even offer
Gail a gentle word.
I think maybe we
are like rocks,
and Ellie and her friends
are like the sea smashing
at us, but mainly at Gail.
Mia and I go
to the small hill
near the hockey oval
at lunchtime.
It’s quiet
and we’re still
thinking of rocks.
The hill has lots
of rocks;
we pull and dig
and turn them over.
I find a little rock
with curvy lines through it
like chocolate melting.
‘This would be good
for the treasures
Grandma puts in her pots,’
I say. Mia finds another
stone and hands it to me,
then she gets tired
of looking.
‘Rocks, rocks, rocks,’
mutters Mia.
I ask,
‘What’s wrong with Gail?’
Mia doesn’t know.
I say, ‘Maybe Gail
is drowning.’
I’m suddenly serious,
and straightaway
I’m sorry
for those words.
Somehow, when I see Gail
I think of Grandma;
they are both flickering
on their own moonbeams
and I’m trying
to reach Grandma
but her light is
quickly going dim.