Part One Chapter 2

Molly sits in the windowless box of the English staffroom. She sits with a black coffee and an uneasy feeling that Rodney, the only other staff member in the room at this early hour, is watching her from across the room. It’s the second week of term. She is getting herself ready for Year 10 English, first lesson. Despite the heaters pushing out uncomfortably warm air, Molly feels a shiver travel up to her neck. She is tired and out of sorts.

‘You all right, Miss Molly?’ says Rodney. She hates being called ‘Miss Molly’.

‘Just busy,’ she says without looking up.

‘Bracing weather, is it not? Cosy in here though, just the two of us.’

Once again Rodney has crossed a boundary, as if there were an unspoken but mutually understood intimacy between the two of them. 

‘I’m off to the snow this weekend. How would we survive, Miss Molly, if there wasn’t the weekend to look forward to? Weather reports are good though. You should come, you know. Warm fires, good wines, brief encounters with the elements to get the blood pumping. You’d love it. Put a rosy glow onto those pallid cheeks of yours. The fresh air, the company, it would do you the world of good.’

For the moment at least, Rodney’s little sortie seems to satisfy him, and soon afterwards other staff members begin to arrive. There’s a burble of conversation around her and she hopes she can get back to work. 

‘Molly.’ It’s Rhonda, the head of English. ‘Molly, how’s Zeph going?’ 

‘Waste of space,’ says Rodney. His tone, as always, is both dismissive and provocative.

‘I’m sorry?’ Molly hears herself say angrily. She regrets biting even before the words are out.

‘Like too many of them, a waste of space. There are students like that, Molly dear, though I know you don’t want to acknowledge it. Students who get nothing out of our English classes because they can’t read or write.’

‘And who’s fault is that I wonder?’ she says. ‘Who was his English teacher last semester?’ She knows, and Rodney knows she knows, that Zeph was in Rodney’s class.

‘Unteachable,’ he says. ‘Without talent. Spends more time daydreaming or doodling. A waste of space.’

‘That is such a cop-out Rodney,’ she says. 

Rodney smiles. She’s been goaded and for him it’s a little victory. ‘We all look forward to regular reports of your miraculous successes. Anyone for coffee? I’m off for another long black.’

She wishes Rodney’s goading simply made her furious. But it’s more complicated than that. It also makes her feel vulnerable. She remembers the awkward conversation with Zeph last week. 

‘Molly?’

It’s Rhonda. She’s been waiting for Molly to respond. 

‘Zeph?’ says Molly. ‘I don’t know. He’s very closed off. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t seem at all involved. He’s no trouble, just completely switched off.’

Rhonda tells Molly what she knows of his background. Born in country Victoria to a young rural girl, possibly part indigenous. Mother troubled, a drug user, died of an overdose when Zeph was twelve. He lives with his uncle. Or someone he calls his uncle. Uncle doesn’t return calls from the school. Welfare has been involved, but because Zeph is housed and no trouble, he falls off their radar. His primary years were interrupted and ineffective. He handed in no work in Rodney’s class. One of the teachers in the art department said she thought he had some talent, but even in art he ignored assignments and zoned out in class. 

‘I’m glad he’s with you,’ says Rhonda. ‘He deserves a break. I’m hoping you’ll find a way through.’

‘Is this uncle likely to turn up at the parent evening next week?’

‘Not a hope in hell,’ says Rhonda. 

I feel warmed inside. A bit tingly, as if something that’s been dormant is stirring. Or something that’s been stirring in the dark has sensed the warmth of the sun. I’m trying to describe feelings, but feelings are so hard to write about. 

We had English just before lunch, and after everyone else had left I asked Ms McInness if she had a moment. Sure, she said, and we sat at a desk by the classroom window in the winter sunlight.

I told her about wanting to be a writer, and asked if she would be able to give me some help.

She’d love to help, she said. What did I have in mind?

Suddenly I felt tongue-tied. I think I blushed. I think now, looking back, I had no words because in fact all I had in mind was having an excuse to sit with her one-on-one. (I’m trying to be honest here, though I can feel myself reddening again as I write these words.)

I said something lame like, ‘Well, maybe you could give me some tips on writing?’

‘I’m no writer, Harriet,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure that I’ve got any useful tips. But I’d be very happy to read and respond to anything you’ve written.’

Again I felt awkward. I’ve never shown my writing to anyone. Never.

‘I’m not sure I could.’

‘Because it’s too private?’

‘I’ve always just written for myself.’

‘So, why not write something tonight, something that you’d be prepared to show me? Something non-personal. About your house or what you have for dinner or your room at home. Anything.’

So tonight I’ve been writing for hours, a piece based on what happened at home earlier in the week. I’ve played around with the facts a bit, and invented some of the conversation. I’ve also written it in the third person, I’m not really sure why. To experiment, I guess.

I feel kind of pleased with it, and I’ll show it to Ms McInness when we have English tomorrow. 

Or maybe I’ll wake up in the morning, re-read it, and cringe.

We’ll see.

For Ms McInness, some writing

Curtains drawn against the winter dark, Harriet sat at the dining room table listening to the wind outside and the mournful baying of the neighbour’s dog. It was hard to concentrate, especially given that it was maths homework she was meant to be doing. Harriet hated maths. She wondered how soon she would be able to choose her own subjects, how soon she could be rid of the burden of slaving away at something that she’d always experienced as a pointless exercise. There were some, she knew, who could get excited by the world of numbers, or even talk about their beauty. How odd, she thought. Language could be beautiful. But not numbers.

She watched from the dining room table as her grandfather busied himself in the kitchen. 

‘What are you cooking?’ she asked.

She could see for herself that there was water boiling away in the big pasta pot and that her grandfather was tearing up basil and grating parmesan. There was no need to ask. But she felt like a chat.

Max, her grandfather, looked over to where she was sitting. 

She noticed how much he had aged. Not distressingly, really. He was a fit and active seventy-year-old. But the lines in his face were a little deeper, his skin a tad more puffy, the hair in his ears more noticeable. He had aged, but he didn’t seem old to Harriet.

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ he said. ‘Had a good day?’

‘Pretty good,’ said Harriet.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘We’re doing myths, legends and folktales in English,’ she said. 

Harriet thought he’d be interested. When she was little, Max used to tell her old stories. He used to be an English teacher once. But his smile had vanished.

‘You’re “doing” myths,’ he said. There was a kind of mocking emphasis on the word.

‘You disapprove?’ 

‘You don’t “do” myths, Harriet, like it’s a topic to be ticked off.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t get me started.’

‘No really Grandpa, I want to hear what you think.’

‘You really want to know?’

‘I really want to know.’

 ‘I think it will be a waste of time, this “doing” of myths and legends and folktales.’

‘OK.’

‘I think it will be, at best, an entertaining waste of time. A way to tick off a topic in a syllabus. Of no lasting value whatsoever.’

‘You’re joking. You’re just trying to provoke. You’re just trying to get me to think.’

‘Maybe,’ said Max. ‘Perhaps.’ Steam billowed up from the sink as he drained the pasta, fogging up Max’s glasses.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Harriet, taking over the draining of the pasta while Max wiped his lenses. By the time they were seated side-by-side at the kitchen bench, Harriet sensed that the tension had eased.

‘So, you think doing myths at school is a waste of time,’ she said.

‘It depends.’ His tone was softer now. ‘What are you going to be doing with the myths, legends and folk tales?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Ms McInness, our teacher, seemed excited though. I am too, I think.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But you’re sceptical? You think it’s going to be a waste of time?’

Max had been about to put a forkful of pasta in his mouth, but instead he shut his eyes (as he did whenever he tried to find words for some complicated thought), and tilted his head back. The fork hovered.

Harriet knew what would come next. There would be some meandering train of thought, seemingly getting nowhere, constantly being sidetracked, a collection of apparently unrelated thoughts which often infuriated his listeners but which Harriet herself rather enjoyed. She’d got used to it, she supposed. The point Max was trying to make was never simple, seemed always in danger of slipping away entirely, but usually arrived somewhere in the end, even if his listeners didn’t see it as clearly as Max himself seemed to.

‘Schools do these topics but forget their purpose. It’s become enough to “do” fractions, to “do” poetry, to “do” energy, as if there was some list somewhere of all the topics that needed to be ticked off. The completion of the topic becomes the reason for doing it. So students end up saying ridiculous things, like “Why are we doing poetry this term. We did poetry last year?” It’s actually a reasonable complaint if you haven’t thought, in some deep way, about the purpose of studying poetry, or the purpose of studying fractions, or the purpose of studying energy. And anyway, the justifications for these topics, if ever they’re given, are often trite and unconvincing. “We do poetry because it’s instructive to see how skilfully a poet constructs meaning through the expert use of language, rhyme and rhythm.” What bunkum! We listen to poems because poetry, like music, has the capacity to move us, to express something we feel or alert us to something we haven’t noticed. We’ve forgotten why we do things, or we have these inane justifications that make no sense at all and convince no-one. So when you say to me “We’re doing myths, we’re doing folktales”, it gets me going, it presses my buttons. School should be about asking questions, not doing topics. Why are we spending time on folktales? What is a folktale? How did they come to exist? Are they just for little children? How come versions of the same basic plot crop up in completely unconnected cultures? What happens when we hear a folktale, how are we affected? What is a folktale doing? Is this the same as what a piece of music does? Or a poem? Or a painting? Or some graffiti on a wall in Moreland? And lots of other questions. These are what you should be doing in your English class? Doing questions. Not doing folktales.’

‘I think Ms McInness, our teacher, would probably agree with you. She seems excited about this topic. She seems stirred by it. She wants to stir us up.’

‘Brave woman,’ said Max. ‘Or foolish.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’ll be seen as rocking the boat. People don’t like it when you rock the boat.’

Max waits with Harriet for their turn to talk to the English teacher, Ms McInness. It’s the Year 10 teacher–parent night. The packed school hall is loud and, especially because he gardened all day and missed his afternoon sleep, Max is finding the noise jangling. A parent close by berates her daughter about a science teacher’s comment. Max is looking forward to escaping when this last interview is finished.

But Harriet, he knows, has been looking forward to introducing him to Ms McInness. The excitement of the first week hasn’t worn off, not by any stretch. It’s been good to have a more cheery Harriet back.

He recognises the father now talking with Ms McInness. It is one of the local councillors. Is he the mayor? Max has seen him on the local news. A faction leader in his party, apparently. A powerful man. ‘That’s Tran’s father,’ whispers Harriet. She’s mentioned Tran a few times, disparagingly. The conversation with Ms McInness looks strained. It seems to end badly.

Now it’s their turn.

‘Hello Harriet,’ says Ms McInness. She’s smiling, though perhaps a little wanly, as if the night is taking its toll. 

‘Hi,’ says Harriet. ‘This is my grandpa. Max Henderson.’

‘Nice to meet you Max. Molly McInness.’ Max notices a faint accent. A touch of the Irish. Second generation, he guesses.

‘She likes your classes Molly,’ he says. 

‘It’s early days,’ says Molly. ‘But Harriet seems keen and I’m enjoying working with her. She’s a good writer.’ Max senses Harriet’s pleasure. ‘A quiet girl, for the most part. But I get the impression she’s thinking about what she’s hearing. I wish there were more like her. I really do.’

‘She’s not bad is she,’ says Max. 

‘She’s a beautiful young woman,’ says Molly. ‘She’s brave, I think.’

‘Brave! How so?’ asks Max. 

‘Well you know,’ says Molly, ‘I don’t know this for sure, but I don’t see much in the way of Harriet having lots of friends. Not in this class anyway. She’s not like some of the other girls, more interested in each other and what’s on their phones. She sits on her own for the most part, and she only says something when she feels there’s something to be said. She doesn’t bother too much about whether she’s sounding cool or not, you know what I mean? She’s her own person, or so it seems to me. She comes into the class … tell me if I’m wrong now Harriet, won’t you? … she comes into my English class ready to be involved, even if she never says a single word. She’ll frown when she disagrees, scowl when some of the boys start their malarkey. She doesn’t seem to bother about whether or not she’s winning brownie points with the cool kids. I admire that, you know. And it helps. I feel like your grand-daughter is a kind of silent ally in the class, and it takes some courage, I would think, I’m sure it does, it takes a brave girl, and someone confident in herself you know, to be like that.’

‘Is that how it feels to you Harriet?’ Max says.

‘I like English,’ she says. ‘Ms McInness is a really good teacher. It’s great that she’s reading my writing. But I worry that I might overdo it.’

‘Overdo it?’ says Max. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I worry because I give her so much of my stuff to read. I think it would be annoying.’

‘Oh it’s not annoying, Harriet,’ says Molly, and Max notices how she’s suddenly lost that tired look. ‘Not at all. Not at all. I enjoy our talks, I enjoy reading what you write.’

‘But you’ve got so many other students,’ says Harriet.

‘True. But it’s grand when a student shows they’re interested. And talented.’

Max is enjoying this, but he’s aware that there are impatient parents waiting for them to finish. 

As they drive home, Max wonders why Harriet is so quiet.

‘Are you OK?’ he says.

‘Fine.’

Nothing more is said until they drive into the garage and Max switches off the ignition.

‘Grandpa?’

‘Yes honey?’

‘She’s pretty cool eh.’

‘Ms McInness. Yes, she’s pretty cool.’

‘Do you think she meant it, about not being annoyed?’

‘I’m sure she meant it.’

‘It feels so good having someone show an interest in your writing like that.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s kind of addictive.’

‘Like you crave more and more.’

‘Sort of. Or that’s what worries me. That I’ll end up driving her nuts.’

‘I don’t think you’ll do that.’

‘Do you think it’s because of Mum and Dad?’

This is unexpected. 

‘What do you mean Harriet? Because of Mum and Dad?’

 ‘Do you think I’m sort of … you know … so wanting Ms McInness to approve of me because I don’t get that from them?’

Max suddenly notices her silent tears. He reaches over and takes her hand in both of his. She leans her head against his shoulder.

‘I think these are two things,’ he says, ‘different things Harriet. I think you’re conflating two things.’

‘How?’ she moans. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you feel your parents’ absence as a gap in your life. I know you do. That’s one thing. And then there’s Ms McInness and your shared love of writing, and how wonderful that feels, how exciting, and that’s a separate thing. They’re only connected in your mind. They’re two different things.’

‘I feel so needy sometimes. I feel pathetic.’

It’s late at night and Max notices that Harriet’s light is still on. He knocks on her door.

‘Come in.’

She is sitting up in bed. There’s no book or computer on her lap. She’s just sitting there.

‘Are you OK?’ he says.

‘Just thinking.’

Max sits on her bed and waits. It’s like old times. Harriet looks over at the bedside light, and twists its neck so it’s trained on a wall poster instead of on her lap.

‘I’ve been thinking about lights,’ she says, ‘and the warmth of their beams.’ 

‘Go on.’

‘We were talking in the car about Ms McInness and how excited I feel about sharing my writing with her. I’ve been thinking about what it feels like. When I’m not worried about being needy, I mean. When I just let myself enjoy it. It’s like having this warm light on me, being sort of bathed in it.’

‘Like being under the spotlight.’

‘Not in the sense that I’m the centre of attention, I don’t mean it like that. It’s more … It’s like being like an egg in an incubator, I guess, being warmed, being stirred into life. It’s the opposite of being unseen, which feels cold.’

‘You are an extraordinary young woman Harriet. I do love it when you talk like this.’

‘I’m just telling you what I’ve been thinking. What do you think? What do you think about what I’ve been saying.’

‘I think you’re a writer.’

‘Huh? How’s that connected?’

‘You’re talking about what’s seen and what’s unseen, what’s in the light and what’s in the dark. You look for what’s in the dark. That’s what writers do.’

‘I guess.’

‘You know, darling, I think maybe I was wrong when I said that your parents’ absence and your writing were unconnected. I think the gap in your life makes you more aware of things. You feel more, I think. You’re interested in what’s beneath the surface of things. What’s in the dark.’

‘Other kids think I’m weird,’ Harriet says. But she’s smiling now. She seems quite pleased to be thought weird. 

‘You should write a story for Ms McInness.’ 

‘That would be cool. I really love you Grandpa. I know I’ve been a bit distant this year. But I really love it when we talk like this. You help me see some things.’

‘I really love you too sweetheart.’ He kisses her forehead. ‘You sleep well,’ he says and he turns off her light.

Later, waiting for sleep to come, Max is aware of a heavy heart. It’s as though he’s been taken back for a brief moment into a world that was once theirs but won’t be for much longer. 

He should be pleased. 

He is pleased. 

Mostly.

His uncle is not home when he gets in after school. He checks his paints, plugs his phone into the charger, heats up some baked beans, then slumps onto his bed. It’s cold, but he hasn’t the energy to get up and turn up the heating. He pulls the doona up over his clothes. He dozes for a while, hoping he’ll be less tired later on when it’s time to go out. 

He hears the front door open and then slam. The TV goes on. 

Zeph lies on his bed, allowing the afternoon’s sketches back into his thoughts. A skull with empty eye sockets. A gaping mouth. Writhing snakes. He’s decided to have lots of snakes.

He shivers, anticipating the cold of the warehouse. There’ll be no dead body, he knows that now. He’d imagined the dead body. 

Still, he can feel his heart beating. It’s good in a way, when his body wakes up like this.

Cold night again, but no drizzle this time. There’s a full moon lighting up the path and the railway track. His ungloved fingers are cold, so he keeps switching the shopping bag from side to side, warming each freed hand under his armpit. His beanie is pulled over his ears. His senses are sharp, on the alert. 

He pauses at the warehouse window. Moonlight streams in. Rubbish on the concrete floor, but none of it looks new. There’s no smell. 

And no dead body. 

He makes his way up the stairs to the second floor. The staircase opens out to a large empty room, a window looks out to the balcony. He can see the moon. Melbourne CBD in the distance. The window has no glass. He clambers out onto the balcony.

The wall has graffiti on it already, but there’s plenty of room for what he’s got planned. 

His fingers are numb and the shopping bag slips and clatters onto the concrete floor. So loud! Zeph quickly looks down at the path. Looks in both directions. Looks beyond the railway line to the streets in the next suburb. But it’s 2am and nothing stirs. No residential units nearby. No dogs bark. No reason for anyone to be out and about. He turns back to the wall.

The clatter as he shakes the first can. The soft hiss as he sprays. The first careful strokes. Usually he likes to paint with brushes, and to paint on a small scale. Like in the underpass the other week. He likes to make carefully crafted miniatures. But not tonight, not with this big wall. 

The moonlight is brilliant, more than enough to work with. The skull first, and its two blank eyes. Black paint against the white wall, illuminated by the moonlight.

He feels alive as he paints. Transgressive.

Then the snake. Just one snake, he’s decided, not lots. A brown dreamtime snake, one section red dots, the next with yellow, each section separated by three thin white bands. His mother showed him a painting like this once, said it came from her people. It was the first and only time she’d ever talked about ‘her people’.

The snake is emerging from the skull’s gaping mouth. Its visible eye shines. Like it’s excited. 

He’s been spraying for some time, how long he has no idea. Painting in the brilliant moonlight while the world sleeps. He’s no longer aware of the cold. He stands back and looks at what he’s done. Is it finished? He thinks so. It’s good. 

It needs some words. Along the snake’s back he scrawls:

From the jaws of death.

Then a red Z. Z for Zeph.

Suddenly he’s aware of footsteps. He ducks down. The footsteps approach and then pass on. 

Zeph makes his way down the dark staircase.

On his way out, he notices a blank wall on the ground floor, all white in the moonlight.

A blank canvas, maybe.