Textual Bodies in Young Adult Literature

By Tanya Kiermaier

An exegesis submitted in conjunction with a creative component, a young adult novel, Demolition, for fulfilment of the requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Communication at the University of Canberra

February 2015

Acknowledgements

The world has changed much since I began this exploration, but what has not changed, and indeed what has enabled the transformation of ideas, words and sentences into a meaningful whole, is the steadfast support of my family, friends and colleagues.

My special thanks to Associate Professor Jordan Williams for believing in me and for your wisdom and advice on so many levels.

Thanks to Distinguished Professor Jen Webb for your many philosophical and intellectual insights, to Associate Professor Tony Eaton for your guidance and encouragement and to

Emeritus Professor Belle Alderman for your support in starting me on this path.

Thanks to my children, Tim, Sarah and Ben, for rekindling the fire for my reading of children’s and young adult literature and inspiring me with your sense of fun and the twists and turns of growing up. To Lynn, your friendship, kindness and support for me and my family has never wavered and is my source of strength. To my mother Meg, and to all my many other friends and family, and my book club friends, you have all contributed to this journey in many ways. Thank you for always being there, for your enthusiasm for my endeavour, and for keeping my views on life fresh and invigorating. Dad, Max (sr) and Jean,

I wish you could have been here for this.

To Max, you make my life whole, and you made this thesis possible. Thank you for letting me be myself.

Contents

Certificate of Authorship of Thesis ...... iii Acknowledgements ...... v Contents ...... vii Abstract ...... xi Introduction – The Art of growing up ...... xiii Research question and aims of research ...... xiv

Significance of study ...... xv

Children’s literature and other key concepts ...... xvii

The Shape of the dissertation ...... xxv

Exegesis ...... xxvi

Novel ...... xxx

Creative practice method ...... xxx

Textual analysis ...... xxxiii

Chapter 1 – Texts, writers, readers ...... 1 Introduction ...... 1

Childhood, innocence and inviolability ...... 2

A Question of space ...... 12

Conclusion ...... 25

Chapter 2 - The Body in young adult literature ...... 29 Introduction ...... 29

Sex/uality ...... 30

The Body and gender ...... 48

Conclusion ...... 55

Chapter 3 – Finding bodies in the Australian landscape ...... 59 Introduction ...... 59

Being-in-the-world ...... 59

Place and Australian young adult fiction ...... 64

The Body, nature and emotion ...... 68

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The Body, place and power ...... 70

The Body and the beach ...... 78

The Beach...... 79

Conclusion ...... 84

Chapter 4 – Embodied connections ...... 85 Introduction ...... 85

Perception ...... 86

Camouflage ...... 94

Conclusion ...... 104 Conclusion – Textual bodies: the creative practice of writing the adolescent body ...... 105 Representing adolescence ...... 105

Embodied writing...... 112

Conclusion ...... 116

Works cited ...... 121 Demolition: a novel ...... 129 CHAPTER 1 ...... 135 CHAPTER 2 ...... 141 CHAPTER 3 ...... 149 CHAPTER 4 ...... 157 CHAPTER 5 ...... 161 CHAPTER 6 ...... 179 CHAPTER 7 ...... 193 CHAPTER 8 ...... 197 CHAPTER 9 ...... 205 CHAPTER 10 ...... 209 CHAPTER 11 ...... 225 CHAPTER 12 ...... 233 CHAPTER 13 ...... 241 CHAPTER 14 ...... 253 CHAPTER 15 ...... 257

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CHAPTER 16 ...... 265 CHAPTER 17 ...... 279 CHAPTER 18 ...... 289 CHAPTER 19 ...... 297 CHAPTER 20 ...... 323 CHAPTER 21 ...... 333

Abstract

Young adult literature occupies a liminal space – not quite children’s literature, not quite adult literature. It has been seen as a mid-way point on the way to reading adult literature.

Adolescence can be seen as a liminal space itself, neither child nor adult, inhabiting a borderland that adults don’t really understand. The evolution of young adult literature has seen it develop into a literature that has less in common with children’s literature than with adult literature. I argue that it is a separate, unique form which is innovative, varied and able to give voice and vision to an unlimited range of subjects and defined by the space between writer and reader. This is a shared space, where the author takes the reader into their confidence seeking access to the truth and possibilities of adolescent experience. I suggest that this is a liberating experience for author and reader, whose relationship produces a space where young adults increasingly exercise their own moral and ethical judgements.

I propose that writer, text and reader connect in the shared space of young adult literature through a bodily process characterised by immersion into and emergence from the text. This interaction of writer, text and reader sees the writer, and then the reader in their turn, submit to the text and lose the self temporarily. They become one with the other, assimilating to the imaginary space of the narrative. In this space they make a bodily connection through emotions, feeling and senses. They emerge from the narrative, reaffirming the self and bring their responses back to the real world. This establishes potential for change in the reader through the shared power relationship unique to young adult literature.

This research comprises an exegesis and the creative component of a young adult novel,

Demolition. In the novel I write the adolescent body into being through the use of a phenomenological approach, focussing on the inextricable intertwining of place and body as a ‘being-in-the-world’.

Introduction – The Art of growing up

Perhaps I never grew up.

Perhaps, while my outside skin is wrinkling, dimpling, and threatening me with its lumps and sagginess, and my bones move more slowly and achingly with every step of winter, inwardly

I am smooth-skinned, lithe and young. Perhaps this is why I am drawn to writing and reading children’s literature.

I have a copy of Heidi by Johanna Spyri, inscribed with love by my grandmother for my ninth birthday in 1969. While clearly this is more than a book in its significance as an object to me, it is one of the stories of my childhood that left a lasting impression and influenced the course of at least some of my life. In my own experience, I believe fiction—especially children’s literature—can be a powerful and influential force.

As a child, I lived next to a main road with the ceaseless noise of traffic and dire warnings of doom should I try to wander off. Across the road, a second-hand car yard filled our view.

Beyond the car yard, lay an unseen presence, constant as a beating heart; the coastline with its sandy beaches, ragged cliffs and moody waters. This was suburban Sydney in the 1960s. So between the covers of Heidi was a world I had never encountered, a world of whispering pines, white-capped mountains glowing in sunsets, the oddity of snow, and a carefree outdoor life that I envied. Enid Blyton’s Famous Five series immersed me in the English countryside countryside and its opportunities for innocent adventure; with its steam trains, picnics with cake and ginger pop, camping on the moors, copses and dells, and cycling along country

xiii lanes. I joined Blyton’s character George in her outrage at being treated condescendingly for being a girl, and understood why her cousin Anne was always scared of adventure. Lilith

Norman, the author of Climb a Lonely Hill, introduced me to my own country, a vast, dry, ruthless place of wild beauty that caught my soul; feelings reinforced by other outstanding

Australian authors including Ivan Southall, Eleanor Spence, Mavis Thorpe Clarke, Hesba

Brinsmead, Patricia Wrightson and Colin Thiele.

Despite my best efforts, I eventually grew up. I became one of those grown ups who so frustrate Julian, Dick, George, Anne, and Timmy the Dog in the Famous Five books. But these stories, these places, still excite me in both nostalgic and bodily ways. My connection with the stories of my childhood is the foundation of my interest in reading and writing for young people. This leads me to think about its characteristics. What is children’s literature?

What makes it different to adult literature or literature in general? How might authors write this connection between the reader and place?

Research question and aims of research

In this dissertation, I am searching for the embodied adolescent as portrayed in the landscape of Australian young adult fiction, and considering how this representation is written into being. The research question has three interconnected aims:

1. To creatively investigate, through practice-led research, how the embodied adolescent subject is written into being by giving the adolescent a body; 2. To explore representations of the embodied adolescent subject in the landscape of fiction for young people; 3. To consider the bodily connections which link writer, text and reader.

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Significance of study

The significance of this study lies in its focus on the body in children’s and young adult literature. To do this, I use the phenomenological lens of Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty to capture insights into writing for young adults in a way which unites the author, text and reader through the body. My quest is to give the adolescent a body because while the body is always assumed in children’s literature, the focus is more often on the mind. Representations then perpetuate the idea of mind as separate to the body, perpetuating Descartes’ argument, referred to as Cartesian dualism, that “the mind or soul of man is entirely different from the body”.1

Phenomenologists such as Merleau-Ponty bring the body to the centre of philosophical debate challenging this Cartesian dualism. Merleau-Ponty argues that the body is our unmediated access to the world,2 rather than a tool of the mind, while Heidegger believes that a mind, and thoughts and feelings, can only exist for an entity who is actively engaged with the world.3

So when I suggest that I have never really grown up, if I feel young on the inside but appear old on the outside, I am still me. I am in my body, or rather, as Merleau-Ponty says, “I am it”4. I cannot separate my mind from my body because “[b]odily experience forces us to acknowledge an imposition of meaning which is not the work of a universal constituting

1 Descartes (1901) para 19. 2 Merleau-Ponty (2002). 3 Heidegger (2008). 4 Merleau-Ponty (2002). p.173.

xv consciousness”.5 In my body, I “learn to know that union of essence and existence”6 because my body is “in the world as the heart is in the organism”.7

Even though the body is central to ideas of children and adolescence, little attention has been paid to it in critical studies of children’s and young adult literature. Beth Younger8 considers female body image in Learning Curves. Roberta Seelinger Trites9 considers sexuality and its relationship to power in her text Disturbing the Universe. Kathryn James10 also looks at sexuality in combination with death and gender in Death, Gender and Sexuality in

Contemporary Adolescent Literature. Heather Scutter11 considers the child’s body in her book Displaced Fictions. Trites also considers Heidegger’s ideas of being-towards-death and the authentic being as a marker of young adulthood. There is a gap in analyses from the perspective of the body and its interactions with the world. As Trites explains, the nature of young adult literature is often described as ‘coming of age’ novels, reflecting the adolescent experience as a journey on the road to the destination of adulthood. Experience is then seen as transitional, moving from child to adult through the aberration of adolescence. It promotes an apparent desire by young adult literature to help adolescents find their ‘true’ self using a template of self-discovery such as the Entwicklungsroman, which are those novels where an adolescent character experiences personal growth, and the Bildungsroman or ‘coming-of-age’ novel where the character matures into adulthood.12 This has two implications for me. Firstly, it represents adolescence as a series of experiences that happen because of youth, which

5 Merleau-Ponty (2002) p.170. 6 Ibid p.170 7 Ibid p.235. 8 Younger (2009). 9 Trites (2000). 10 James (2010). 11 Scutter (1999). 12 Trites (2000).

xvi requires adults to use the novel to teach a life lesson. Secondly, it assumes that adulthood is the desirable end to the torment of adolescence (even though there are many depictions of dysfunctional adults within young adult novels). In both of these cases, even though it is the body which gives rise to adolescence in the first place, the focus of many novels seems to be that the mind must grow in order to control the body.

This is not to say that I view young adult novels as didactic, repressive or less worthy than other literature. On the contrary, I believe that young adult novels provide some of the best literature in terms of writing, characters, and innovative and entertaining storylines, often questioning fundamental philosophies and pressing global issues. However, I believe that young adult literature suffers at times under the weight of assumptions about children and childhood, adolescents and adolescence. This can be seen in the binary oppositions that often drive critical debate such as the child vs the book, entertainment vs education, simple vs complex, morals vs moral decay, innocence vs experience, as Katharine Jones13 has discussed. By focusing on the body, experience is about presence rather than focusing on a journey, and what I see as a validation of adolescent experience first and foremost as an embodied person in a certain time and place.

Children’s literature and other key concepts

What is children’s literature? At face value, it seems obvious that we are talking about literature written for children. But compared to other categories of literature such as Victorian literature, this category is ‘unusual’ in Nodelman’s view, because it is “not so much about the text itself as about its intended audience”.14 Reynolds agrees that the term “has a largely

13 Jones (2006). 14 Nodelman (2008) p.3.

xvii unproblematic, everyday meaning” outside academia but suggests that it is “fraught with complications” for those within the field of children’s literature.15 Generally, she says the term is used to refer to texts

…written to be read by children and young people, published by children’s

publishers, and stocked and shelved in the children’s and/or young adult (YA)

sections of libraries and bookshops.16

This is a good definition for those interested in reading children’s literature because it tells you how and where to find it, but of course it gives no clue as to the aesthetics of children’s literature, or in other words, what the characteristics of children’s literature might be.

Nikolajeva discusses the characteristics of the children’s literature genre and points out that some view children’s literature as a homogeneous genre which is “simple, action oriented, optimistic, repetitive and didactic”, but follows on to identify examples which contradict these terms.17 Reynolds argues that children’s literature has always “been implicated in social, intellectual and artistic change”,18 and that the field is “simultaneously highly regulated and overlooked, orthodox and radical, didactic and subversive”.19

Peter Hunt suggests a definition of children’s literature (which he acknowledges as not being particularly practical) as being for “members of the group currently defined as children”20 in recognition of the shifting meaning of the child and childhood through time and across cultures. This idea of the ‘shifting meaning’ of the child and childhood is reflective of these

15 Reynolds (2011) p.1. 16 Ibid p.1. 17 Nikolajeva (2005) p.50. 18 Reynolds (2007) p.1. 19 Ibid p.3. 20 Hunt (1991) p.61.

xviii concepts as cultural constructions, which would make it difficult to ascribe enduring characteristics to children’s literature. For some scholars, the whole concept of children’s literature is untenable because children are very different from each other .Children’s literature stands accused by psychoanalytic scholars such as Rose, Lesnik-Oberstein and

Zornado, of inventing the concept of one, homogenised, knowable child. As Rose says,

“[t]here is no child behind the category ‘children’s fiction’, other than the one which the category itself sets in place, the one which it needs to believe is there for its own purposes”.21

The assumption of the child reader as knowable can be located in reader response theory as outlined by Wolfgang Iser.22 This posits that all texts have an implied reader, and because we cannot know what anyone might extrapolate from a text, authors make assumptions about their characteristics. One of these assumptions relates to the state of innocence of the child, a concept I will discuss later in this dissertation with regard to Rose’s argument. Another assumed characteristic is that the child is generally considered incapable of making complex meanings based on their reading. This belief can colour interpretations and perspectives of children’s literature, which is often regarded as sub-literary.23

There is a range of other implied readers who initially take precedence over the child reader: the adults involved in publishing and making books accessible to children. These include the publisher who is interested in content for saleability according to certain criteria such as word length, narrative style and format. Publishers may demand changes to the storyline to suit their audience. Then there are the gatekeepers —librarians, parents, teachers, booksellers, critics and reviewers. As Page points out, any adults involved in this process are motivated

21 Rose (1984) p.10. 22 Iser (1978). 23 Jones (2006).

xix not only by commercial reasons, but also by what they believe is best for the imagined child readers.24

Much literary criticism is based on this notion of what is best for the real child, with a general quest to find “a good book for the child, through knowing both the child and the book”.25

According to Lesnik-Oberstein, following Rose, it is impossible to achieve such a goal because there is not “one child”.26 She suggests that new approaches are needed for writing and thinking about children’s literature without relying on the real child. Aidan Chambers offers an opportunity of writing about child response to literature while still focusing on the text by using terms such as the implied author and implied reader.27 But this adds no further insight nor assistance into defining children’s literature.

Children’s literature criticism has generally fallen either into a child-centred approach or a book-centred approach. The child-centred approach focuses on the child reader and the nature of their experience. In this approach, children’s literature should be judged by child standards not adult standards. In the book-centred approach, children’s books should be judged by adult standards, as part of literature in general.28 There is another approach as suggested by Val

Van Putten29 of the Children’s Book Council of Australia, which argues that literary criticism, in the footsteps of Leavis, has had a negative effect on children’s literature because of its position against canonisation. This is in direct conflict with the idea of conferring awards for a ‘good’ book and the subsequent creation of a literary canon. Van Putten believes

24 Page (2005). 25 Lesnik-Oberstein (2004). 26 Ibid p.19. 27 Chambers (1985). 28 Jones (2006). 29 Van Putten (2007).

xx that the legacy of Leavis is that literary criticism makes it impossible to answer the question of what is a ‘good’ book, and that instead, the only question is about power. This perspective highlights tensions within the field about the academic study of children’s literature, given the fundamental value of literacy within our society and the drive for children to read, versus the focus of literary analysis which may have completely different aims.

Content can play a role in delineating the boundaries between types of literature. For example, editor Jennifer Dougherty finds young adult literature has something more invigorating and stimulating than ‘adult’ literature which she claims

…is heaped with serious, densely over-written novels about middle-class marriages

that aren't quite the fairy tales they seem on the surface…Grownups are baffled by the

fact that their lives aren't an endless parade of beauty, sex, luxury and success, and

can't stop writing novels about how their boobs are sagging and their kids are

ungrateful and their husbands are mooning over twenty-three-year-old waitresses. It's

hopelessly broken, they say, there's no point believing your life will be any better.

On the other hand, she claims young adult novels

…break open their characters at a time when they're truly vulnerable, when they need

to learn to act according to their own lights, usually by making terrible mistakes. They

are sometimes excruciatingly painful to read, but they're uplifting as well. These

characters are forced to look at themselves and their choices, and work through the

grief, guilt and anger they feel to piece themselves back together stronger and more

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humble than before. There's a kernel of hope in these books, and a sense of purpose

and potential. It might be broken, they say, but we can make it better.30

Children’s and young adult literature are key terms in my thesis and as I have demonstrated, these terms have been debated widely. Any attempt to come up with a stable set of characteristics is bound to end in failure, first of all because of the incredibly wide range of content and texts which defy categorisation, and secondly, because if the term ‘children’s literature’ includes young adults, the age range covered makes it impossible other than the very broad brush of ‘writing for people aged under 18’. When Kimberley Reynolds says that there is no single, identifiable body of work that makes up children’s literature31 she is reflecting upon the complexity of the field of children’s literature which is made so by its history and its future; its multiple audiences; the assumptions of adults around their expertise over all things related to children; and the ever-slippery notions of children, childhood and adolescence and the associated power relationships.

In a general sense, I refer to children’s literature as literature (focusing on fiction) published for those aged 18 and under. I must acknowledge that this is a definition of convenience, and is not a definitive boundary. As part of my investigations in Chapter 1, I will seek to clarify the meaning of this term and juxtapose it with the term young adult literature, which I argue is a body of literature which should be considered separately to children’s literature.

Martin Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty are two phenomenologists whose ideas I use as a framework for discussion throughout my thesis.

30 Dougherty (2014). 31 Reynolds (2011).

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Heidegger’s Being and Time32 is an attempt to understand the meaning of what it is ‘to be’.

Heidegger believes that human existence is grounded in our always already finding ourselves in a world. A ‘mind’ can only exist—can only be possible—for an entity who is actively engaged in the world, not just mentally through our mind, but by our body existing in a particular place and time with certain established ways of doing things. To distinguish us from all other entities, Heidegger refers to humans as Dasein, a combination of German words which have not been translated because there is no adequate direct translation. As

Dasein we are unique because we understand our existence and the possibilities the world presents to us and the fact that we are mortal. And as Dasein, we bring meaning to every other entity.

Heidegger sees the human as a ‘being-in-the-world’, and by that term, he means that the body is not just the physical body, but the body as it relates to the world. We are constantly interacting with the world in everything we do and we act with intentionality. Merleau-Ponty takes this idea further, saying that it is through our body that we perceive and understand the world, with the body and mind being one embodied consciousness.33 The concept of being- in-the-world is important in considering the relation between bodies and place and how they are represented in young adult literature.

Throughout my thesis, the themes of liminality, boundaries and thresholds recur across many levels. The concept of liminality was central to anthropologist Victor Turner’s study of behavioural ritualisations which he took from earlier work by Arnold van Gennep in 1909.34

Van Gennep had shown that rites of passage comprise three phases: separation, limen (a

32 Heidegger (2008). 33 Merleau-Ponty (2002). 34 Turner (1969).

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Latin word meaning boundary or threshold) and aggregation. The first phase sees symbolic behaviour signifying the separation or detachment of the subject (subject as individual passenger of the transition) or group, from either a fixed point in the social structure or from a set of cultural conditions or perhaps both. In the liminal phase, the characteristics of the subject are ambiguous as they pass through a realm which has none of the attributes of the previous or future state. In the third phase, the individual becomes relatively stable again with rights and obligations, norms and ethical standards that are part of the new social position conferred as having consummated the passage.

Those in the liminal state – the threshold people – are in an ambiguous, indeterminate state,

neither here nor there; they are betwixt and between the positions assigned and

arrayed by law, custom, convention and ceremonial…liminality is frequently likened

to death, to being in the womb, to invisibility, to darkness, to bisexuality, to the

wilderness, and to an eclipse of the sun or moon…Liminal entities such as neophytes

in initiation of puberty rites, may be represented as possessing nothing. They may be

disguised as monsters, wear only a strip of clothing, or even go naked, to demonstrate

that as liminal beings they have no status, property, insignia…in short, nothing that

may distinguish them from their fellow neophytes or initiands…as though they are

being reduced or ground down to a uniform condition to be fashioned anew and

endowed with additional powers to enable them to cope with their new station in

life.35

35 Turner (1969) p.95.

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Aspects of this liminal state have a strong connection with the psychosocial nature of adolescence, that in-between state where the ‘threshold people’ have left the fixed position of childhood (security of dependence, innocence, powerlessness, responsibility-free) but have not gained the status of adult and the rights and responsibilities that brings. Applying this concept in considerations of young adult literature has considerable relevance then as characters in young adult novels are often operating in this space, and indeed young adult literature as a genre may also be seen to operate in this space. Author Anthony Eaton points out that “this particular ‘field’ of literature exists both because of and despite its position as the midpoint on the continuum between ‘children’s’ and ‘adult’ literature”36 He suggests that young adult literature is a liminal product because of its ability to expose and break down oppositional polarities37, as in liminal space, boundaries are blurred, binary opposites undo themselves, and meaning becomes fluid and dynamic.38 I continue Eaton’s discussion of the boundaries and thresholds that arise in young adult fiction as a feature of the genre, with some consideration as to the limitations.

The Shape of the dissertation

My investigation takes the form of two separate but interconnected components. One is this exegesis, which focuses on the relationships between author and reader through representations of the adolescent body. The second component is a young adult fiction novel exploring, complementing and extending the concepts raised in this exegesis. Together, they form a unified whole, canvassing the relationships between writer, reader and text and the nature of young adult fiction.

36 Eaton (2010). 37 Eaton (2012) p.13. 38 Brooks (1998) p.91.

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Exegesis

In Chapter 1, I consider the space between author and reader and how it might be seen to define categories of literature. The spaces of literature can be separate, where the author exercises all power, or shared, where the author is creating an egalitarian space in which power is shared by author and reader. In children’s literature, the space between the author and the reader is, according to Rose, inviolable.39 She argues that this space must remain separate to satisfy the adult’s need to believe in the innocence of children, and thus protect them.40 This space clearly separates the reader from the author, and the reader has no power or potential to seek the truth of experience. They are dependent on the author to provide the content and prescribe how they may interact.

In contrast, I argue that other literature, including young adult literature, is a shared space, with young adult literature constituting a separate, unique form which is innovative, varied and able to give voice and vision to an unlimited range of subjects. Thus, in terms of literary space, I suggest that young adult literature is a shared space, where the author takes the reader into their confidence, jointly seeking access to the truth of experience. This is a liberating experience for author and reader and the relationship produces a space where young adults increasingly exercise their own moral and ethical judgements and take risks.

In Chapter 2, I continue interrogating the relationship between author and reader by analysing representations of the body in young adult literature. I am seeking to give the adolescent a body in my creative piece, and sexuality, sex and gender are central to this endeavour, as well

39 Rose (1984). 40 Note: Rose’s 1984 study is one of the most significant theoretical contributions to the field of children’s literature. While I do not specifically engage with the body of critical writings on Rose’s work in this thesis, one of the major works I refer to is that of Perry Nodelman, whose book The Hidden Adult is a critical response to Rose’s arguments.

xxvi as to understanding the characteristics of this space between author and reader. Puberty and adolescence are intrinsically tied up with notions of sexuality and gender. This is the time where the body is allowed to be recognised at societal level as a sexual entity to a certain extent, but there are many concerns about how to best control adolescent behaviour for their own physical and mental protection in the full knowledge that adolescence means a loss of adult control. In young adult literature, sex and sexuality have made an increasingly overt appearance over the years. Under analysis, such representations suggest that there have been changes to the way society thinks about or is prepared to acknowledge adolescent sexuality, but that it is difficult to break away from stereotypical representations. For example, the idea that females who are sexually promiscuous are deviant is a consistent representation. Authors who are trying to depict adolescent sexuality and gender may have their own issues in understanding these concepts, with the result that they are unable to recognise that their own culturally constructed ideas are being played out by their characters, thus further clouding the very issues they are trying to enunciate.

So if, in this shared space of literature, sexuality, sex and gender are central concepts in understanding this space, and I am seeking to give the adolescent a body in representations, then it is essential to establish what an embodied adolescent is. Critical to this is an understanding of the relationship between body and place. In Chapter 3, I explore the way place, represented through setting, and the body are inextricably linked, how place and body together are productive in playing out power relations and can be both enabling and oppressive. I consider how the embodied adolescent interacts with place to manifest behaviour, power and sexuality.

xxvii

The final aspect of my thesis is then to consider how this shared power relationship might operate. There have been many theories on the interaction between the reader and the text such as reader response theories, which commonly focus on the mental processing of the text by the reader to gain meaning. The author has been left out of these transactional theories, further crystallised in Roland Barthes’ essay, The Death of the Author, where the text is proclaimed to stand on its own.41 Similarly, work in the area of cognitive psychology and fiction primarily considers the relationship between the text and the reader, albeit there is more of a bodily process considered.

These debates have emerged from within the literary theorists’ domain. As a creative practitioner, I suggest that separating the author from the text and reader is to overlook the relationship between writer, reader and text. In these approaches, the text appears to separate author and reader. However, I see the text as the connecting factor between author and reader.

I argue that for both author and reader, this is a bodily connection, established from the writing and the reading of the text through a process characterised by immersion into and emergence from the text. This process operates in a similar way to Leach’s aesthetic theory which he refers to as camouflage.42 Unlike the more common usage of camouflage as blending with the surroundings, Leach sees camouflage as a productive process of relating of the self to the world through the medium of representation, or forming a connection and engaging with the world through creative processes and products. The writer, and then the reader in their turn, submit to the text and temporarily lose the self. They become one with the other, assimilating into the imaginary space of the narrative. In this space they make a bodily connection through emotions, feeling and senses. They emerge from the narrative, reaffirming the self and bringing their responses back to the real world. In young adult

41 Barthes (1977). 42 Leach (2006).

xxviii literature, this process creates the potential for change for the reader. This potential for change can be understood in terms of Heidegger’s concept of ‘authentic being’, where one accepts one’s mortality43 —something suggested by Trites44 as being a primary function of young adult literature. In many ways, the very nature of the relationship between adult and child and the fact that the majority of children’s literature is written by adults for a young audience ultimately reinscribes the power relationship. For as Nikolajeva points out, there is nowhere that power structures are more obvious than in the relationship between adults and children, as everything created for children is "deliberately created by those in power for the powerless".45 However, I suggest that the author of young adult literature is responsible for creating potential for change through the establishment of a space enabling a shared power relationship with the reader, which does not exist in the inviolable space between author and reader in children’s literature. This arises from the acknowledgement by the author of the capability of the reader in presenting situations where they are better able to exercise their own judgement.

My young adult novel is a product of my research into the space between author and reader and at the same time is research into how to write the embodied adolescent. I seek to write a novel that gives adolescents a body, and through that body, gives them agency. In writing the embodied adolescent into being, I focus on the intertwining of place and body as a being-in- the-world, and acknowledgment of sexuality and sex as part of that embodied consciousness.

Through the bodily process of camouflage, with the immersion into and emergence from the text, I establish a shared power space to engage the reader whose own bodily response, through the process of camouflage, gives rise to the potential for change. This process of

43 Heidegger (2008). 44 Trites (2000). 45 Nikolajeva (2010) p.8.

xxix camouflage is a way of understanding how writers and readers can connect in this shared space.

Novel

My fiction novel for young adults simultaneously researches and represents these ideas, with creative choices being influenced by understandings of writing the embodied adolescent, which in turn inform the exegesis.The novel’s setting in an Australian coastal town, is central to the characters’ actions, motivations and behaviours as they interact with (and because of) their environment. I was also conscious of establishing a relationship with readers which gives the potential for them to exercise their own ethical and moral judgements, while at the same time producing an entertaining story. The novel itself is research into writing the adolescent body, as well as enquiring into the meaning of writing for young people, and exploring the boundaries and thresholds operating in the liminal space of adolescence.

Creative practice method

Smith and Dean46 identify the creation of a work of art as a form of research, generating research insights to be documented, theorised and transferred to other contexts. They articulate a model which highlights that ‘practice-led research’ and ‘research-led practice’ are complementary terms, and that these activities are interconnected in an iterative cyclic web, alternating between practice and research, with sub-cycles within each activity and

“numerous points of entry, exit, cross-referencing and cross-transit”.47

46 Smith & Dean (2010). 47 Ibid p.8.

xxx

For this thesis, the creative practice of writing the novel, combined with the exegesis, interrogates both the concept of young adult literature as a cultural and social entity, and its representations of young adults. These notions are interwoven: the novel is an artistic contribution to the field, yet within the context of this thesis is in some respects a creative experiment, testing and exploring the understandings of writer, reader and text. For example, what is the difference between an author and an author of young adult literature? And how are young adults represented within the literature which seeks to engage them? More specifically, how is the young adult body represented and how might these representations help us understand the young adult in society and culture? These questions are not answered by the creative work alone, but they are answered by the thesis as a whole.

Drawing the links between research and practice into some form of sensibility is necessarily for me a closed and personal process, emphasising that an understanding of the self in the research process is crucial to practice-led research, as Griffiths acknowledges.48 She suggests the self is best understood as being embodied and embedded in a particular time and place.

More than seeing the production of research output only in terms of new knowledge or understanding, she sees practice-led research as upholding “the personal, the creative, the imaginative and the passionate, the human”.49

Haseman and Mafe suggest it is the combination of emergence and complexity which characterises practice-led research, where the artist immerses in their practice to do, emerging to make the connections between their research and work.50 This idea of immersion and

48 Griffiths (2011). 49 Ibid p.185. 50 Haseman and Mafe (2009).

xxxi emergence, which I see as bodily performance, is a recurring theme in my research findings, both as a practising author and taking readers into account, as this thesis will make clear.

Webb acknowledges that “there is still a lack of precision about the methodology, design and methods”51 of practice-led research. She suggests that

…artist-academics apply a reflexive dimension to their creative and practical

knowledge, in order to contribute knowledge that is recognised as such within the art

disciplines: refining the methodology, design and methods found in the research

literature so that they are better suited to creative thinking and seeing; reminding the

academy more broadly about the extent to which imagination, chance and tacit

knowledges actually drive research practice; being explicit about the difference

between professional, aesthetic and research practice.52

But this task, this thesis, is not a matter of writing a novel, reflecting on process and critiquing that process. McNamara outlines six rules for practice-led research, the first of which is to eliminate or limit “the use of the first person pronoun, ‘I’, as a centrepiece of research formulation”.53 This is difficult to avoid, as McNamara points out, given that it is the writer’s creative practice that is the subject of the exegesis and where the research is occurring. However, it makes some sense because the PhD must be more than a “quasi- confessional mode of the artist’s statement”54 reflecting on the artwork’s process and intent.

The research topic, he warns, should not become the researcher. Similarly, making sense of one’s own experience is not the aim of a PhD. On the other hand, the creative work cannot be

51 Webb (2012) p.3. 52 Ibid p.14. 53 McNamara (2012) p.5. 54 Ibid p.5.

xxxii completely divorced from the research inquiry. While both components of this thesis stand alone in their own right, the whole product works together both experimentally in terms of writing, and as research.

The overall goal of this research is to produce the aesthetic of the body through writing an embodied young adult novel. The novel flows out of a textual analysis of representations of the body in Australian young adult literature in the exegesis seeking to find the embodied adolescent subject within that landscape. Exegesis and novel work together to show that embodiment is about a body at a time and in a place in the sense of being-in-the-world that

Heidegger sees as the essential quality of what it means to be human. Who we are is about where we are at a particular time. Our interactions with place create meaning.

Textual analysis

Karen Coates believes that adolescent fiction “suffers from a bit of an identity crisis itself” because one of the key features is its currency, “its absolute synchronicity with the concerns of the audience to whom it is marketed”. Thus she believes there is no consistent canon, and that young adult literature has a relatively short shelf life.55

While this may be true, especially in novels that aim to reflect contemporary cultural practices including speech, dress and music, it is neither fair nor productive to dismiss the body of literature for young people which has developed over the years. Many titles are enduring, and if not necessarily popular, offer readers interesting and entertaining experiences across time. It is interesting to note that the Australian novel which has been in constant publication for over 100 years, outlasting any other book, is a work of children’s

55 Coates (2004) p.138.

xxxiii literature—Seven Little Australians (SLA) by Ethel Turner.56 It captures childhood and adolescence at a time when Australia itself was an adolescent, emerging from the puberty of nationalism in the 1890s to take on more responsibility for its own decisions.

SLA is a text I return to as a benchmark in terms of writing for young people, and I use it to compare issues such as sexuality and place. In general, though, I use Australian texts published from 2000 onwards to extend an earlier thesis done by Heuschele57 who analyses

Australian texts over a 20 year period from 1980 to 2000. The texts I chose are by well- known, award-winning children’s novelists or texts which have been recognised by the

Children’s Book Council of Australia for their literary contribution to children’s and young adult literature, generally in the category of Older Readers. Some novels I have selected because of their relevance to my topic, and all are realist texts rather than fantasy or science fiction, because my creative work is in the same vein.

The primary books I have selected to focus on are as follows:

Alex as Well, Alyssa Brugman 2013 Friday Brown, Vikkie Wakefield, 2012 Losing It, Julia Lawrinson, 2012 The Dead I Know, Scot Gardner, 2011 Jasper Jones, Craig Silvey, 2010 Pink, Lily Wilkinson, 2009. F2M, Hazel Edwards and Ryan Kennedy, 2010. A Small Free Kiss in the Dark, Glenda Millard, 2009 Town, James Roy, 2007 The Lace Maker’s Daughter, Gary Crew, 2005 The Simple Gift, Steven Herrick, 2000

56 Turner (2005). 57 Heuschele (2007).

xxxiv

Deadly, Unna?, Phillip Gwynne, 1998 Seven Little Australians, Ethel Turner, 1894

These books are but a small sample of Australian young adult fiction and I must acknowledge the many quality novels not included here. These authors represent a good cross-section of well known Australian writers in the field of young adult fiction. This provides a broad framework for my research and analysis, as well as a context in which to place my own young adult novel.

xxxv

Chapter 1 – Texts, writers, readers

His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys, and he was

drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon

James Joyce

Introduction

Even as I set out to write my young adult novel, I start with establishing a relationship as an author with potential readers. Scutter alludes to this space when she highlights

J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye1 and Sue Townsend’s The Secret Diary of Adrian

Mole2 as examples of young adult novels where “the adult narrator looks over the teenage protagonist’s shoulder and laughs knowingly to an aware adult reader in an ironic collusion”.3

In these examples, the narrative position serves to subordinate the adolescent to a knowing, powerful adult, and for me, raises questions about the intended audience for these books. But what is relevant to my discussion here is the idea of the space between writer and reader established through the text. In this chapter, I argue that understanding the characteristics of this space can help understand and form the definition of different categories of literature. I begin with Rose’s assertion that in children’s literature, there is and should be an inviolable space between the writer and reader. I suggest that, following on from Postman’s views,4 adult fiction is defined by the shameless space between reader and writer. Finally, I argue that young adult fiction is defined by a shared space where the reader has the power to

1 Salinger (1958). 2 Townsend (1982). 3 Scutter (1999) p.3. 4 Postman (1982).

increasingly exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. These ways of understanding the relationship between author and reader are founded on the treatment of the body, which I discuss in subsequent chapters, and are the bases upon which further discussion on writing the embodied adolescent can occur.

Childhood, innocence and inviolability

In my introductory chapter, I briefly discussed perspectives around the definition of children’s literature, and made the point through the psychoanalytic perspective of Jacqueline

Rose5 that the construct of the child is what makes any definition complicated. This perspective is quite different to discussions of the child and childhood in other theoretical frameworks. However, it is useful for understanding the complexity of the terms and of the field.

As a cultural construction, views of the child and childhood are subject to change. Neil

Postman’s cultural study of childhood6 credits the Renaissance in the 16th century for the invention of childhood as a social structure and a psychological condition. He argues that childhood (as we know it) emerged as a result of the printing press, where reading competence became a way to define adults and separate them from children, and the need for education emerged. He sees the continued existence of childhood as threatened, fast disappearing as a result of the blurring of the distinction between adults and children due to electronic media. This can be seen in the sexualisation of children and a lack of censorship around what they view and read. His idea of the way we should maintain childhood is to ensure a clear distinction between adults and children in terms of what they are exposed to:

5 Rose (1984). 6 Postman (1982).

[T]he adult knows about certain facets of life—its mysteries, its contradictions, its

violence, its tragedies—that are not considered suitable for children to know; that

are, indeed, shameful to reveal to them indiscriminately.7

He argues that childhood cannot exist without a well-developed idea of shame because if children are exposed to shameless adult behaviour they will copy it, and in mimicking this behaviour the barriers between the adult and the child are dissolved because the child has the knowledge of, and acts like, an adult.8 Postman’s views are based on his own moral position which does not reflect the social history of the child and childhood as put forward by the historian Philippe Aries.9 Aries shows that in the Middle Ages, children mixed with adults from a very early age and were not separated from adults or shielded from adult concepts.

Similarly, Foucault10 shows that the separation of children from sexual practices only emerged in the Victorian era. Prior to that, there was little concealment at a

…time of direct gestures, shameless discourse, and open transgressions, when

anatomies were shown and intermingled at will, and knowing children hung about

amid the laughter of adults: it was a period when bodies ‘made a display of

themselves’.11

From the influences of the church, law, the emergence of medicine, and the rise of education, sex and sexual behaviours became viewed as something shameful. Postman’s didacticism

7 Postman (1982) p.15. 8 Ibid. 9 Aries (1962). 10 Foucault (1985). 11 Ibid p.1.

3 continues this idea of shame, and this moralistic view can often be seen in children’s literature where children’s books do not, for example, contain content of a sexual nature, and debates about the appropriateness of certain topics are often questioned. Postman’s desire to maintain childhood as a separate, innocent state in need of protection illustrates one of the difficulties encountered when speaking of the child and childhood—that it implies a universal concept. This masks differences such as gender, race and class. For children’s authors, the intended audience is a collective of children, imagined as having more in common than not.

Hence the claim by Jacqueline Rose12 that writing for children is an impossibility because it hangs on “the impossible relation between adult and child”.13 There is no child in the term children’s fiction, she says, “other than the one which the category itself sets in place, the one which it needs to believe is there for its own purposes”.14

Her claim seems nonsensical at face value, if for no other reason than there exists in real life an industry and academic fields around books written for children. In our privileged position in Western society, where the majority of children attend school and nearly all have access to some books regardless of where they are from or their background, it is easy to be a children’s author and expect to grasp some of such a wide audience, whether you actively set out to target certain readers, or whether you think of children as one amorphous blob.

However, Rose’s claims have prompted a long and lively debate which has extended understandings of the entity of children’s literature and its role in culture.

Where Postman is worried that the very human ideal of childhood is under threat because children are losing their innocence too soon through premature exposure to shameless adult

12 Rose (1984). 13Ibid p.1. 14 Ibid p.10.

4 behaviour and knowledge, Rose is quite certain that childhood will remain because adults need it to be there. They need to perpetuate the myth of innocence in order to maintain a distinction between children and adults. This distinction is vital to ensure the child is protected from adults. She suggests that the myth of ‘primordial innocence’ and its reappearance on the cultural agenda is a repressive response to the societal trauma of child abuse in the 1980s in Britain. Innocence “returns with all the renewed authority of a value literally and brutally under assault”, the child victim is necessarily desexualised and language is made innocent.15 Like Postman, Rose is concerned with the boundaries between adult and child.

If there is widespread sexual abuse of children, then it is not so much the innocence of

childhood as the boundary between adult and child, their status as stable and

knowable entities, which starts to shake... a defining space is invaded—the space

which conceptually as well as physically is meant to keep children and adults apart.16

For Rose, this space transfers to children’s literature. On the one hand, writers for children must understand children and know what they want to read, she says, (in contradiction to her view that there is no one, knowable child) but more importantly, writers must know themselves as adults, know their limits as writers and not disturb the ‘psychic barriers’ between adult and child. Children’s literature is not a question of form but “a question of limits, of irrationality and lost control, of how far the narrator can go before he or she loses his or her identity, and hence the right to speak, or write, for a child”. For the writer who disturbs these barriers, “it becomes not experiment... but molestation” (original emphasis).17

15 For a comprehensive discussion on innocence and children’s literature see Gubar (2011). 16 Rose (1984) p.xi. 17 Ibid p.70. 5

Rose is not referring to content when she talks of keeping this space between the adult and child in literature, where content is a major concern for Postman. She is talking about the boundaries forming the integrity of the author/narrator. A child must always know who is speaking and it is up to the adult writer to ensure such narrative control remains. Loss of narrative control, crossing the boundary of adult/child where the adult invades the child’s space, makes the child vulnerable because adults no longer see them as innocent. Rose’s theory would position children’s literature as an adult device to reinforce the innocence of the child to convince adults to leave them alone. It is analogous to the argument that women who dress inappropriately cannot expect men to control themselves: in this case, children cannot be children—or can only be children as defined by adults—because otherwise adults will lose control. It is the fear of the loss of innocence that is used to suppress sexuality and freedom, and operates as a protection against the perverse.

Despite these arguments being quite old, the concept of childhood innocence and the consequent need for protection still permeates much of our actions and attitudes towards children and undoubtedly it affects what children’s authors write. Yet this protection is often limited in its political application. Bernstein argues that the performance of childhood innocence in the nineteenth century “was to manifest a state of holy ignorance”, thus

“performing obliviousness” and transcending race, gender and class.18 Childhood innocence, she argues, allowed “the ability to remember while appearing to forget” and “the production of racial memory through the performance of forgetting”.19 She uses the example of Harriet

Beecher Stowe’s novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin to show how her main character, Little Eva, represents a white and innocent childhood, an innocence which is transferable to surrounding

18 Bernstein (2011) loc.254. 19 Ibid loc.240.

6 people and things. For example, Little Eva is illustrated with her hand on Uncle Tom’s hand and thigh, represented “in the act of not-thinking about race, gender, age, or sexual desire”.20

Her aura of innocence is extended to Tom, and by extension to abolition, or equally possible, to slavery. The point Bernstein is making is that childhood innocence, through the performance of childhood, is primary material in the historical construction of whiteness as the dominant organising principle in social and cultural relations.

The politics of innocence is evident in recent Australian history. In 2004, then Federal

Minister for Immigration, Senator Amanda Vanstone, attacked Morris Gleitzman’s Boy

Overboard,21 because it deals with the issue of children of asylum seekers in detention in

Australia. Senator Vanstone said:

I think that one of the greatest things we can give kids is a childhood. Let them have a

childhood as long as they can without burdening them with some of the difficult

decisions which have to be made later in life. There's no political gain to be had here.

Kids don't vote. Why ruin their childhood?22

In this case, Vanstone is using childhood innocence as an alibi for “performing obliviousness”. Innocence is white, middle class and Australian. While Vanstone is remembering the non-middle class non-white, non-Australian childhoods in her government’s detention centres, she is also choosing to forget them. On the other hand, Gleitzman is using the idea of childhood innocence to highlight breaches of human rights in a country which will not admit that these practices constitute such violations. The protagonists of Gleitzman’s

20 Bernstein (2011) loc. 224. 21 Gleitzman (2002). 22 Bantick (2004).

7 book, in their childhood innocence that gives them clear access to the truth of things, can see the problem and work out a solution which is beyond the capability of the adults around them.

For a variety of reasons, then, the idea of the innocence of the child remains a strong feature of childhood, and is the primary reason both Postman and Rose are concerned to maintain the barrier between the child and the adult. Children’s authors may not be aware of these arguments but, in the very manner of what they write and how they write, this view of the child can be seen as a shared understanding. However, ultimately there is no agreement from either party on when a child becomes adult, when the psychic barriers between adulthood and childhood are able to be transgressed, when it is acceptable to breach the space between them. Children’s literature remains controlled, with publishers having a major influence on content. For example, Penguin Australia recently called for teen romances, but they are not allowed to feature sex.

As long as there’s something romantic about your manuscript, we want to read it. But

keep in mind – our books are for people who aren’t yet Adults (ie 18 and under, if you

get our drift…)

First kiss, worst kiss, unrequited longing or total pash-a-thon—we don’t mind, as long

as your story pulses with a beating heart of love. From sneaky crushes to awkward

blushes, intra-robot metal mashing to sparks-are-flying-braces-smashing—any genre,

any age group, we’re up for it.23

23Penguin Books website (2013).

While Rose and Postman may differ in the ways in which they believe the question of innocence plays out in respect of children’s literature, nevertheless they see innocence as a central issue of children’s literature, something which is perpetuated by writers in the way they maintain this space between author and reader. When it comes to young adult novels, still mostly written by adults, rather than a perpetuation of innocence, there is a transition from innocence to experience, for example as Falconer points out, in the Harry Potter books, and Pullman’s His Dark Materials.24

Young adult literature for Falconer is very different to children’s literature as it has

…always addressed the existential questions: ‘Who am I?’, ‘Am I by nature good or

evil?’ and ‘Who could I become?’ And now it is reformulating these questions in

distinctly contemporary terms by asking, for example, ‘What gender am I?’ (Meg

Rosoff, What I Was, 2007), ‘When am I grown up?’ (Jenny Downham, Before I Die,

2007), ‘When is a machine human?’ (David Thorpe, Hybrids, 2006), ‘Is death the

end?’ (Stephenie Meyer, Twilight, 2006) and ‘If there is no God, is there good and

evil?’ (David Almond, Clay, 2005).25

However, Trites suggests that adolescent novels are about power.26 The protagonists must learn about the social forces that have created them, and how to negotiate the levels of institutional power including the family, school, church and government. She also argues that facing up to death is “the defining factor that distinguishes it both from children’s and adult

24 Falconer (2010). 25 Ibid pp. 88-89. 26 Trites (2000).

9 literature”.27 She believes it is treated as a final reality in young adult literature and that the purpose is to help adolescents face up to their mortality. Whereas in children’s literature, death is treated symbolically as separation from the parents, in adult literature death is confronted in a myriad of ways. In terms of her overall argument that young adult literature is about power, treatment of death results in feelings of powerlessness by adolescents when facing death, and power when facing up to it in the power/knowledge dynamic.

Adolescence is “part of life’s continuum” says Maurice Saxby,28 but is young adult literature part of children’s literature’s continuum, a mid-way point on the way to adult literature?

Anthony Eaton thinks not. He suggests that young adult literature is a literature in its own right, and is about “the boundaries and thresholds” crossed during the story and “the impact of those crossings upon both character and society”.29 This places young adult fiction “into a liminal space,” he argues, “very different to the space occupied by children’s fiction”. It is not a bridge between children’s and adult literature, but a literature in its own right, “an equal and significant ‘new literary space’ ”.30

There is much to commend this approach because there are significant differences between children’s and young adult literature as discussed above. Young adult literature (like children’s literature) is generally defined by its audience rather than by any identifiable, unique characteristics. Kathryn James, for example, defines young adult literature as

27 Trites (2000) p.118. 28 Saxby (2003) p.352. 29 Eaton (2013) p.11. 30 Ibid p.12.

those fictive texts which have an implied teenage audience; that is, books which either

feature protagonists of secondary school age (twelve to eighteen years), or, it is

reasonable to suppose, would be read by those in this age group.31

But this definition, while offering a starting point so that we can do something productive, does not move far from the definition of children’s literature being literature written for children.

This problem is not one that might concern readers or reviewers, nor even some critics. For example, Marah Gubar argues that continued debate over such definitions has resulted in “the adoption of rigid and reductive accounts” that have led to the neglect of other areas within children’s literature and “obscuring rather than advancing our knowledge of this richly heterogeneous group of texts”.32 I agree with Gubar’s sentiment, but as I am involved in practice-led research, it is of interest to me as a writer of young adult fiction. What am I writing and who am I writing for are questions that concern me from a publishing perspective, but from a creative perspective I am interested to understand the process: How is it that I am writing in this way, How do I contextualise my work and What are the aesthetics of young adult literature? The overall question about the difference between children’s and young adult literature therefore needs to be resolved for me in some way as a framework for both my creative work and my exegesis, and I intend to resolve it ultimately through the body.

31 James (2010) p.5. 32 Gubar (2011) pp210, 215.

A Question of space

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it

was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it...

Holden Caulfield in The Catcher in the Rye.

I alluded earlier to the idea of space in the relationship between author and reader. I propose that an interrogation of Rose’s idea of the inviolable space between author and child reader in children’s literature can help to broadly define not only children’s literature, but also young adult literature and general adult literature.

The inviolable space which defines children’s literature as proposed by Rose has the purpose of maintaining a clear separation between adult and child by constructing the child as innocent. The inviolable space can be transgressed by the type of content the author writes about (shameful adult behaviour as Postman argues), and from the narrative perspective where the author as adult crosses what Rose calls a ‘psychic’ barrier and slips into the voice of the narrator.

Rose gives an example of this kind of slippage from Enid Blyton’s Five Run Away Together33 where Julian is trying to chastise Edgar who is teasing them. Julian tells him to shut up because he is not funny, “only jolly silly!” “Georgie-porgie” began Edgar again, a silly smile on his wide red face”. Here, Rose claims that “the ‘silly’ has spread across from Julian’s response onto the narrator’s ‘external’ description of Edgar—hence Enid Blyton has let some narrative control slip. This is a ‘subtle’ rule, according to Rose, (although she does not

33 Blyton (1968).

12 demonstrate any knowledge about the art of narrative) which “demands that the narrator be adult or child”. 34

Rose’s examples of Enid Blyton transgressing the inviolable space seem to be where the narrator, either by directly addressing the reader or through the child character, espouses thoughts, ideology and beliefs that persuade children to think in particular ways. Children’s literature shapes how we think about and understand the world and as stories are “key sources of images, vocabularies, attitudes structures, and explanations we need to contemplate experience”,35 children’s literature is often about education, with books providing what

Saxby sees as “the best possible model for a child’s growing mastery of the world”.36

Children’s literature usually aims to “foster in the child reader a positive apperception of some socio-cultural values”37 with ideological assumptions which may be obtrusive or invisible. A narrative without ideology is unthinkable, Stephens explains, because “ideology is formulated in and by language, meanings within language are socially determined, and narratives are constructed out of language”.38 Therefore, while ideologies are unconscious and not explicitly recognised by an author, Rose suggests that authors must recognise where their own beliefs and attitudes cross a line which becomes, in Rose’s terms, molestation, for the space between author/narrator and reader in children’s literature must remain inviolable to ensure the innocence of the child is maintained.39

34 Rose (1984) p.69. 35 Reynolds (2011) p.4. 36 Saxby (1997) p.5. 37 Stephens (1992) p.3. 38 Ibid p.8. 39 Rose (1984).

But what of the space between the author and reader of young adult literature? Earlier, I introduced Anthony Eaton’s idea that young adult literature occupies a liminal space and is a literature in its own right, concerned with boundaries and thresholds. I also briefly discussed the origins of the concept of liminality by Van Gennup and Turner, which identified liminality as a transformational state. Karen Brooks40 uses the idea of liminal space based on

Kristeva’s concept of the abject which “disturbs identity, system, order” and “does not respect borders, positions, rules: the in-between, the ambiguous, the composite”. Liminal space is similar in that it “blurs borders, it is a threshold at which binary opposites undo themselves and where meaning becomes fluid and dynamic”.41 Falconer, in searching for explanations as to why adult readers have taken to reading young adult novels in significant numbers since about 2000 onwards, considers Bakhtin’s concept of thresholds as “being associated with ‘crisis and break in life’ and refers to young adult fiction which appeals to this dual audience as

…fiction that focuses on the edges of identity, the points of transition and rupture, and

the places where we might, like microcosms of the greater world, break down and

potentially assume new and hybrid (original emphasis) identities.42

Eaton applies these concepts to young adult literature to argue that liminal texts bring dichotomies together “re-forming their existence in a space where the dichotomy ceases to have relevance”.43

40 Brooks (1998). 41 Ibid p.91. 42 Falconer (2010) p.89. 43 Eaton (2013) p.11.

The blurring of borders between adolescent and adult, and the need to maintain a distinctive space between them, is also discussed by Nodelman in his comprehensive investigation of the meaning of children’s literature. He describes young adult literature as fiction written for

“people in the process of changing from children to adults” and that young adult texts “begin with the standard polarities of children’s fiction but have the potential, at least, to deconstruct them”.44 Like Rose, he relates the purpose of children’s literature to adult desire “to reassure children about themselves and their position in relation to adults—to offer children comfort and/or to make adults comfortable about their power over children”.45 Nodelman returns to his claim that children’s literature is based on the idea of childhood as a separate state with distinguishing qualities. If adults do not consider children, and by implication, young adults, to be different to adults, there is no need for children’s/young adult literature. However, even though Nodelman sees young adult literature as emerging from children’s literature, he sees its audience as “no-longer-completely-childlike, but neither is it “purely childlike” nor

“purely adult”.46 The borders of what some see as the binary opposites of child and adult are blurred and young adult literature finds itself in the liminal space Eaton describes.

This is a space then of transformation, and going back to Van Gennup and Turner, the threshold group can be seen as ‘betwixt and between’, no longer afforded the state of being a child, but not recognised as an adult. This does not mean that those inhabiting this space are beyond the influence of those who desire to inhabit this space, particularly by adults who wish to belong or who wish to use their experience, knowledge and power to influence.

As previously noted, Rose believes that the space between narrator/writer and reader must be inviolable to preserve childhood innocence, and that this is an essential feature of children’s

44 Nodelman (2008) p.58. 45 Ibid p.59. 46 Ibid.

15 literature, although her basic premise is that children’s literature is an impossibility.

Nodelman is also claiming that children’s literature is an impossibility. He does not insist on an inviolable space, but his conclusion complements Rose’s theory by giving another reason as to why the space between author/narrator and reader must remain inviolable in children’s literature:

Can there be such a thing as a children’s literature that is not permeated by the

unchildlike that it claims to be eliminating and opposing? As I have been suggesting

throughout, I believe that such a literature is impossible. Children’s literature is

literature that claims to be devoid of adult content that nevertheless lurks within it.47

If the space does not remain inviolable, the adult/child distinction blurs. For Rose this becomes molestation; for Postman, the essence of childhood is threatened; and for Nodelman, children’s literature is rendered as without foundation. Children’s literature, then, can be defined by the space, and the associated relationship, between author/narrator and reader.

Melrose sees this space ‘in between’ as one of experience. The gap, he says, is between the child and the author or parents’ experience, between the experience of authority and the child’s inexperience. It is the writer’s job to try and recognise the gap by providing a text allowing it to be bridged.48 In accepting this space between author/narrator and reader as defining children’s literature, I now consider whether young adult literature too can be defined by this relationship, by examining the Australian novel Jasper Jones by Craig

Silvey.49 I chose this particular novel because it occupies a space of liminality in fiction

47 Nodelman (2008) p.341. 48 Melrose (2012) p.34. 49 Silvey (2010). 16 which aligns with the liminal space of adolescence. This is important in terms of my argument because it is distinct from both a children’s novel, and a novel written specifically for adults, because the author establishes a more egalitarian relationship through language, providing the space where the reader has the potential to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. This is in contrast to the inviolable space between author and reader in children’s novels, and the shameless space between author and reader in adult novels. In exercising their own moral and ethical judgements, borders around right and wrong, around accepted knowledge and cultural mores dissolve and re-form, as the reader crosses thresholds and boundaries with the characters.

Melrose suggests that the role of writing is to make connections,50 and the invitation for the reader to collude with the author is established in the opening paragraphs. This collusion is not merely represented by the author whispering in the ear of the reader through the character, but also through a sharing of thoughts and secrets, establishing an intimacy and equality with the reader that is not possible in an inviolable space where the narrator must keep their distance such as Rose argues for in children’s literature. The opening is focalised through the main character Charlie.

Jasper Jones has come to my window.

I don’t know why, but he has. Maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe he doesn’t have

anywhere else to go.

50 Melrose (2012).

Either way, he’s just frightened the living shit out of me.51

The invitation, delivered through the arousal of curiosity, works with the phrase “frightened the living shit out of me” to establish a tone of equality and intimacy which continues through the novel.

Stephens makes the point that the use of first person narration in children’s literature is a strategy for influencing the reader to see things from the author’s viewpoint, making the reader “highly susceptible to the ideologies of the text, especially the unarticulated or implicit ideologies”.52 For example, in Jasper Jones, Charlie confides in the reader:

This is the first time I’ve ever dared to sneak away from home. The thrill of this,

coupled with the fact that Jasper Jones needs my help, already fills the moment with

something portentous.53

The author clearly positions the reader to side with Charlie—he must go with Jasper.

Although the reader suspects that the consequences of this decision are going to be bad, or if they think Charlie is doing the wrong thing—after all, he is betraying his parents’ trust in him by sneaking away—there is no doubt for the reader that he must go. Writers, as artisans, can be skilfully persuasive (or blissfully ignorant) in conveying meaning and ultimately, as

Stephens demonstrates, it is impossible to separate ideology from discourse and to write without ideologies at all.54 But in young adult literature, I argue that the space between author

51 Silvey (2010) p.1. 52 Stephens (1992) p.68. 53 Silvey (2010) p.1. 54 Stephens (1992).

18 and reader is more egalitarian and gives the reader more power to exercise their own moral judgements. Going back to Rose’s example from Enid Blyton’s Five Run Away Together,

Edgar is perceived as ‘silly’ by Julian and Dick and by the reader. In children’s literature, the reader is always positioned to assume a particular point of view. In young adult literature, often major questions are left unresolved, sometimes because there is no resolution. Jerry

Renault in Robert Comier’s The Chocolate War55 dared to disturb the universe by refusing to sell chocolates—was it worth it? In Friday Brown, why did Silence, horrifically abused by his own father, then have to die at the hands of Arden?56 These endings are quite different to those in children’s literature, where resolution is important to maintain the separation between adult and child, to ensure the space between author and reader is not violated by hopelessness, inappropriate knowledge or questionable ethical positions. What is right and wrong is always evident.

Falconer argues that adolescence is often represented as “a threshold state, which is by definition imperfect, unfinished and radically open to the formation of new and hybrid identities”,57 and as I have discussed, the space of liminality which young adult literature occupies is about dissolving boundaries and crossing thresholds. This dissolving of boundaries and crossing of thresholds occurs because the reader is able to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements directly as a result of the nature of the space established between author and reader. From the beginning of Jasper Jones, Charlie is crossing the threshold of childhood, leaving innocence behind with the gaining of insight which he compares to magic, to the moment you realise that

55 Cormier (1986). 56 Wakefield (2013). 57 Falconer (2010) p.94.

…nothing actually answers your prayers, or really even listens. That cold moment of

dismay, where your feet are kicked from under you, where you’re disarmed by a shard

of knowing.58

Here the body is central to crossing thresholds—cold dismay, your feet kicked out from under you and the knowledge that is suddenly visceral. The boundaries are dissolving for the nerdy Charlie, when he sneaks away for the first time and follows Jasper Jones through the dark town into the bush. Before they have passed through the town, Charlie confronts his childhood fears in the ghostly moonlight in front of Mad Jack Lionel’s cottage before moving on into the liminal space of darkness, out of town, along the worn river banks, past the ‘eerie and ethereal’ trees and along narrow kangaroo tracks as he follows the ‘sureness’ and

‘presence’ of the half-Indigenous Jasper, labelled by society already as “a Thief, a Liar, a

Thug, a Truant” who is lazy and unreliable, a feral and an orphan.59 Charlie’s discovery of the body of the Shire President’s daughter, Laura Wishart, signals the end of innocence for

Charlie. He can never return to that state for he has become a participant in something brutal and sinister, with implications extending well beyond the singular act of finding a body.

Suddenly there is a depth to the world that was not visible and none of this is told directly to the reader.

Jasper and Charlie dispose of the body, thus implicating themselves in issues of right and wrong, guilt and innocence (of wrongdoing), truth and justice. In the liminal space of adolescence they are observers in the unfolding of events and the reader is privy to the whole story. His parents are clearly detached from the reality of Charlie’s life and we never learn any details of Jasper’s family, since Jasper lives in a liminal space himself, somewhere on the

58 Silvey (2010) p.14. 59 Ibid p.5.

20 borderlands of town and society. Throughout the novel, there are opportunities for the reader to exercise significant moral and ethical judgements which arise because of the dissolving of borders around binary opposites of right and wrong, truth and lies, child and adult: Was

Jasper right to ask for Charlie’s help? Did they do the right thing in disposing of the body?

Should Charlie have told someone what they did? Was it right for Charlie to have a relationship with Laura’s sister Eliza when he had knowledge of Laura’s fate? In exercising their own moral and ethical judgements, there is potential for the reader to cross thresholds as boundaries dissolve and re-form.

For example, on discovery of Laura’s body, Charlie’s immediate response in terms of what to do about this situation is to tell an adult. However, Jasper knows that if he is associated with

Laura’s death in this racist town, he will be blamed. Charlie knows that Jasper is innocent, and agrees to help him dispose of Laura’s body to protect him. For the rest of the novel,

Charlie carries this secret with him, and then becomes close to Laura’s sister Eliza. Charlie’s guilt surfaces throughout the novel as he questions his actions. In this way, readers see both sides and are able to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. What might have seemed right in the first instance—telling an adult about discovery of the body—becomes less clear as the boundaries around right and wrong are dissolved and re-formed. This also highlights a limitation of the concept of liminality, in that the author positions the reader to think in a certain way, so that while readers have the ability to reason and make a choice, the author is also present to some degree in this liminal space and can manipulate those boundaries.

A further example of shifting boundaries is the insight the reader gains by the end of the novel in terms of adult behaviour. The residents of Corrigan are generally not portrayed

21 favourably. “Corrigan remains a town of barnacles. A cluster of hard shells that suck themselves stuck and clench themselves shut”, Charlie says.60 Most are stereotyped as small town, unintelligent bullies, with the reader positioned to have little sympathy for, or understanding about, the reality of their situation. Most of their bullying is towards Jeffrey whose family is from Vietnam, and the novel is set in 1965 when Australian troops were fighting in Vietnam. Jeffrey is, ironically, exceptional at cricket, but despite his ability is never asked to join the local game. His passion overcomes his pride and he constantly joins in the team’s practice, where he is just as constantly tormented. Charlie is always a mute observer.

Everyone laughs, watching Jeffrey jog out to fetch his ball in his pressed whites. He is

jostled and bumped around the pack. He’s so small. Someone kicks his ankle and

says, Fuck off, Cong. Jeffrey stumbles, but keeps going, head high. I am so

ashamed.61

Parents are also represented poorly, particularly women. Charlie’s mother is deeply unhappy and angry, never having recovered from the loss of her baby in the last month of pregnancy, and unsatisfied with her life as a housewife. She continually vents her frustration on Charlie and his ineffectual father. “He’s just like you! He won’t bloody listen!” she screams at

Charlie’s father. As a punishment for arguing, she makes Charlie dig a hole in the backyard in the searing heat. After he has dug a hole up to his ribs and it is twilight, she tells him to fill it in. His father’s advice to manage his mother is “you just have to be a bit more canny, okay?

More diplomatic... Concession doesn’t necessarily mean defeat”.62 Eliza’s mother, grief-

60 Silvey (2010) p.125. 61 Ibid p.62. 62 Ibid p.106. 22 stricken at her daughter’s disappearance, screams and slaps Eliza in front of Charlie when he is walking her home. And ultimately, Charlie’s mother finally leaves, and is blamed for breaking up the family, despite his father’s complete ineffectiveness as a partner and father.

Feminism has no good end, and on this matter, the reader is led to take this point of view, exposing Silvey’s ideological position and undermining the collusive relationship between author and reader.

However, Charlie comes to recognise that these adults who are in control are not only inadequate, but are responsible for perpetuating attitudes of racism and hatred, are judgemental and make their own truths, re-forming the boundaries of what it means to be innocent/knowing, child/adult and right/wrong. While this may not be new knowledge for the reader, who is capable of seeing such failings in real life for themselves, the realisation is an opportunity for exercising their own moral and ethical judgements. These can only come about as a result of the relationship established by the writer with the reader, that sharing of space in an emancipatory way, as opposed to the inviolable space in children’s literature.

If the relationship between author/narrator and reader in children’s literature is inviolable, and in young adult literature is a shared, liminal and more egalitarian space, a third space of literature could be seen as the shameless space between author and reader in adult literature, where there are almost no boundaries and the power relationships are equal. The idea of shamelessness follows from Postman’s argument that childhood is disappearing because children are being prematurely exposed to the shameless behaviour and knowledge of adults.

However, there is also the idea of shame in terms of the reader being free to read adult literature. Nodelman suggests that when adults read children’s literature voluntarily, as they did with the Harry Potter series for example, they still read it as children’s literature, rather

23 than reading it as they would adult literature. In the case of Harry Potter, he claims that adults read these books in a completely different way compared with how they read adult literature, and that they read the Harry Potter books because it is socially acceptable for adults to read, and admit to reading, these books, which are “perhaps the only children’s literature adults can read without shame”.63 Nodelman’s argument here is neither sound nor convincing. Firstly, it places the Harry Potter books as being different to other texts, and ignores adult readings of many other so-called children’s novels such as Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, or

Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights series. Secondly, it is quite transparent in that Nodelman needs to find a way to explain why adults are reading children’s literature in order to support his thesis that these books are indeed children’s literature with different characteristics.

Thirdly, it is founded upon his own personal survey of selected readers and is merely opinion, and not the ‘significant factor’ he claims it to be.

This idea of shame in reading children’s literature reflects the cultural attitudes of adult superiority which continue to surface in discussions of children’s and young adult literature.

Jasper Jones belongs to a class of novels Beckett has referred to as ‘crossover’ novels, appealing to a dual audience of adults and children.64 Beckett points out that children’s literature has undergone rapid change towards the end of the 20th century, and Eaton links this continuing trend to a “shift in the conception of ‘young adulthood’... implying increasingly sophisticated and emancipated readerships”.65 However, others have argued that the trend for adults to read children’s literature is part of a general infantilisation of culture, clever marketing, and a reflection of the clash between child and adult cultures.66 In this

63 Nodelman (2008) p.339. 64 Beckett (1999). 65 Eaton (2013) p.5. 66 Falconer (2010).

24 thesis I am not able to explore the idea of shame in reading children’s literature or the shamelessness of adult literature, but further research in this area may help understandings of children’s and adult literature.

Nodelman has argued that “children’s literature is literature that claims to be devoid of adult content that nevertheless lurks within”.67 The idea of adults lurking is certainly sinister, and shares commonalities with Rose’s approach. This adult presence cannot be denied across the wide range of cultural products offered to children. However, Melrose suggests that this

‘shadow’ also applies to the child reader who may be reading something that adults may not, and thus there is both a hidden child and a hidden adult in the text that is negotiated through the text. 68

Conclusion

I have argued above that the space between author and reader in young adult fiction is an egalitarian space which offers intimacy, and the opportunity for readers to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. It is also a space which has potential to take the reader into the author’s confidence in a liberating way to represent the truth of their experience.

Young adult literature occupies a liminal space, not quite children’s literature, not quite adult literature. It has been seen as a mid-way point on the way to reading adult literature. Perhaps this relates more to the concept of adolescence as a liminal space itself, neither child nor adult, a borderland that adults don’t really understand, a time generally regarded as fraught with issues around growing up, finding and establishing one’s identity and the subsequent

67 Nodelman (2008) p.341. 68 Ibid. p.32.

25 power struggles with carer adults and institutions. However, the evolution of young adult literature has seen it develop into a literature which has less in common with children’s literature than it does with adult literature. It is a separate, unique form which is innovative, varied and able to give voice and vision to an unlimited range of subjects. Thus, in terms of literary space, I suggest that young adult literature is a shared space, where the author takes the reader into their confidence seeking access to the truth of experience through acknowledgement of feelings, perspectives of adolescence and visibility of the day to day power struggles with adults and institutions. I see this as a liberating experience for author and reader, whose relationship produces a space where young adults are increasingly able to exert control over their own moral and ethical positions. Not all work produced under the young adult literature banner might fall into this space: for example, books which are primarily didactic and minimise the power of readers by controlling content and thinking such as f2m by Hazel Edwards and Ryan Kennedy.69 And it cannot be said that this is a shameless space, because there are content boundaries and moral and ethical boundaries which cannot be written about freely in the manner of adult literature. Finally, it should be acknowledged that in all cultural products available to children and young adults, there is unavoidably the presence of both the idea of the child and the adult – Melrose’s ‘hidden child’, and Nodelman’s ‘hidden adult’.

Having established that the relationship between writer and reader in young adult literature is a shared, egalitarian space, I turn now to consider how that space works in terms of representations of the body in young adult literature with regard to sexuality and gender. I look at how far the young adult author may dare go when dealing with sexual themes, how

69 Edwards & Kennedy (2010).

26 the author’s own ethics and morals might be reflected and how the author gives the adolescent a body

Chapter 2 - The Body in young adult literature

there is no limit to the extent to which

we can think ourselves into the being of another

J.M. Coetzee

Introduction

In the previous chapter, I discussed the space between the author and the reader in young adult literature and concluded it was a shared space where the adolescent can increasingly exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. Within this space, the relationship between author and reader is a collusion, sharing access to the possibilities of adolescent experience.

Continuing with Eaton’s argument, I considered young adult literature as occupying a liminal space which “blurs borders” and brings dichotomies together in a space where the dichotomies no longer matter, thus dissolving and re-forming boundaries.

My thesis aims to give the adolescent a body through embodied writing. As Jones has demonstrated sex, gender and sexuality are central to embodiment and the study of the body.1

She explains that bodies can be sexualised in a biological sense, in terms of gendered behaviour and in terms of their sexual practices. This chapter considers the adolescent body in terms of sex, sexuality and gender as the basis of how the adolescent body is written into

1 Jones (2009). Note: Jones’ study focuses on the links between death, gender and sexuality following Trites’ (2000) contention that rites of passage in young adult fiction depict adolescents learning their place in the power structure through trying to understand death and at the same time experiencing sexuality.

29 being in young adult literature. I consider how representations of the adolescent body function in this liminal space, and the blurring and re-forming of boundaries around sex, sexuality and gender. In children’s literature, the inviolable space between author and reader does not provide access to such perspectives. However, in the shared space of young adult literature established between the author and reader, the experiences of sex, sexuality and gender can be represented. In the views of some scholars such as Trites, young adult literature is “replete with sex”.2

Sex/uality

The words ‘sex’ and ‘sexuality’ are often used interchangeably but there is a distinction between them. While sex can be regarded as a physical act or biological state, its meaning in discourse is much more complex. Foucault regards sex as a physical act but also as a ‘family matter’ because we are individuals produced through sex, and we belong to networks of relations and alliances hence emerging as particular subjects. On the other hand, he sees sexuality as an ‘individual matter’ involving our own desires, fantasies and pleasures, but also a matter of discourse and governmentality. Together, sex and sexuality

…comprise a set of practices, behaviours, rules and knowledges by which we produce

ourselves, and are produced, as ‘knowing’ – ethical, social and juridical – subjects. It

is a human experience that affects and involves the body.3

Bearing in mind this distinction, I refer to sexuality as the combined (sex + sexuality) set of productive practices, behaviours, rules and knowledges that Foucault discusses. In moving

2 Trites (2000) p.84. 3 Danaher et al (2000) p.136.

30 from the inviolable space of children’s literature where children are asexual beings and sex is a taboo subject, to the shared space of young adult literature, where characters’ experiences of sexuality, mark “a rite of passage” that signals the end of childhood,4 I consider how authors represent and write about these bodily experiences and the hidden and explicit meanings.

Foucault refers to our attitudes to sex and sexuality as “restrained, mute, and hypocritical”.5

We have moved from a culture of sexual practices which were not considered to be secret, coarse or obscene—“a time of shameless discourse”—to a sexuality which is “carefully confined” to the home within the conjugal family. In the Victorian era, he argues, sex was reduced to silence for the ordinary person, except in strictly defined situations. The trade-off was its containment within appropriate types of discourse. The result of this repression and secrecy was in fact a proliferation of discourses about sex within and by those exercising power for example, in medical, scientific and educational institutions.

Sexuality in young adult literature forms part of this discourse of sexuality—a discourse that

“pretends to cloak but actually exposes sexuality”.6 Trites points out that Foucault theorises that ideas of sexuality depend on notions of deviance to define what is normal or mainstream, and this can be seen in many young adult novels. These novels, she says, even when they are trying to convey the message that sex and desires are ‘normal’, define teenage sexuality in terms of deviancy, in order to control adolescents.

4 Trites (2000). 5 Foucault (1985) p.3. 6 Trites (2000) p.87.

It is interesting to consider the evolution of the treatment of sexuality in young adult novels, for, as Reynolds points out, while Trites’ premise is insightful, things have changed since her analysis. Attitudes to and writing about sex, sexuality and relationships is “one of the most radically changed areas in contemporary children’s literature”. She argues that literature participates in shaping the changing attitudes towards young people in culture, generating

“new social dynamics and expectations around the young”.7

I will discuss these changing attitudes towards sex, sexuality and the body through the early

Australian novel Seven Little Australians (SLA), by Ethel Turner,8 before looking at recent

Australian young adult novels, considering how this liminal space of young adult literature functions to blur borders and re-form them.

In the novel SLA, Meg is being initiated into adult society by Aldith, and talking of a ‘lover’ seems to mean only kissing, as Meg highlights in her note to Andrew Courtney, following the arrangement of an afternoon walk for the two couples. Meg, showing her complete sexual naiveté, suggests they meet when it is dark as "no one will be able to see us" and down by the thick bush where "it will be more private" and finishes off with asking him not to kiss her (he had mentioned he would ask on their last parting). Her note is delivered to the wrong brother, the older Alan. He treats her with contempt, reducing her to tears, and Meg's humiliation ends with her resolve to "never flirt again as long as I live'". Alan realises she is really a ‘nice’ girl who "only wanted to be set straight" as to her wrongs.9

7 Reynolds (2007) p.115. 8 Turner (2005). 9 Ibid p.81.

Turner, in one of her many addresses to the reader, notes that this kind of behaviour and thoughts are "highly reprehensible" for a 16 year old, but she has no mother to check her and, after all, she is Australian.

Australian girls nearly always begin to think of ‘lovers and nonsense’, as middle-aged

folks call it, long before their English sisters do. While still in the short-frock period

of existence, and while their hair is still free-flowing, they take the keenest interest in

boys—boys of neighbouring schools, other girls' brothers, young bank clerks and the

like.10

For this is the "land of youthfulness" in that liminal space, Australia. Here, the borders between English and Australian girls—and by implication, England and Australia—are dissolved and re-formed, so that young Australian girls are akin to "a beautiful, smooth, rich peach, that has come to ripeness almost in a day, and that hastens to rub off the soft, delicate bloom that is its chief charm".11

Turner expresses a mixed sense of pride and yet displeasure at these shifting boundaries of sexuality. She is proud that Australian girls are more mature and more forward than English girls and that all boys—any boys—are fair game, yet she is reproachful that they might lose their innocence too soon as a result. She is caught between reaching for her adolescent reader in that shared relationship between author and reader, and using her novel as an ideological tool to curb teenage behaviour and appease those who want to exert moral control. Ultimately

I believe that Turner does not establish that egalitarian space between author and reader, but she does interrogate the boundaries of writing about sexuality at the time. Reynolds discusses

10 Turner (2005) p.62. 11 Ibid p.63.

33 the history of sexuality in children’s literature and notes that “children in postwar children’s literature are essentially asexual, though they are vigorously gendered”.12 Viewed in this light, Turner is radical in 1894, though ultimately, along Foucault’s lines, she presents

Australian girls’ desires as deviant, with Meg’s experience showing what the consequences are for displaying sexuality, even if at the same time Turner is acknowledging their desires as

‘normal’.

Trites’ discussion of sexuality in young adult novels published up to the late 1990s reveals a literature that “shares the same ideological message that sex is more to be feared than celebrated”.13 Judy Blume’s 1975 novel Forever was one of the most sexually explicit novels to emerge up to that time, presenting in Trites’s view, an adolescents’ guide to sex.14

Typically, Trites says, sexuality is a rite of passage linked with the romance tradition. In young adult novels, teenage characters

…agonize about almost every aspect of human sexuality: decisions about whether to

have sex, issues of sexual orientation, issues of birth control and responsibility,

unwanted pregnancies, masturbation, orgasms, nocturnal emissions, sexually

transmitted diseases, pornography, and prostitution. The occasional teenage

protagonist even quits agonizing about sexuality long enough to enjoy sex, but such

characters seem more the exception than the rule. But for many characters in YA

novels, experiencing sexuality marks a rite of passage that helps them define

themselves as having left childhood behind.15

12 Reynolds (2007) p.115. 13 Trites (2000) p.85. 14 Ibid p.85. 15 Ibid p.84.

Younger suggests that while Trites asserts that Forever is merely didactic, she misses the point that the primary function of the novel is to authorise female sexual pleasure and also show that love is not necessarily ‘forever’.16 However, Trites discusses several American novels published up to the late 1990s which demonstrate the mixed messages around sexuality—primarily directed at females to warn them of the dangers of sex, the consequences of promiscuity and the need for loving, committed relationships if you do choose to have sex. Adults have dominated the power relations in the discourse of sexuality which is strongly reflected in the young adult literature of this time, Nodelman’s ‘hidden adult’ and Melrose’s ‘shadow’.

While the young adult books that Trites analyses reflect a focus on the use of young adult literature to control and approve behaviour, I agree with Reynolds’s assessment that this situation has now changed, and that writers are taking into account the types of information available to and influences of contemporary culture on readers as well as the more recent sexual mores and practices of teenagers.17

From an Australian young adult perspective, Heuschele18 has analysed novels from 1980-

2000. She finds that 1989 was a significant year for Australian young adult novels for a number of attributes, one of which was the emergence of new subject matter including homosexuality, sex and sex roles. This was also the first year that a character was depicted as sexually active19 though there were a few novels which had already included teenage sex

16 Younger (2009) p.90. 17 Reynolds (2007). 18 Heuschele (2007). 19 Ibid.

35 before this: for example, Puberty Blues was published in 1979 and almost all of its young characters had sex.20

As part of my research I have analysed Australian young adult fiction written between 2000 and 2012. Sex and sexuality receives a wide range of treatment in these novels with many depicting sexually active characters. These novels demonstrate a more open acknowledgement that young adults have bodies and are sexual beings. However, stereotypical and ideological representations are also present.

In 2000, Steven Herrick wrote the verse novel A Simple Gift21 in which the protagonists had sex in their first relationship after a respectful time of getting to know each other. It was a natural and happy event, expressed poetically and sensually, and if there was a lesson to learn, it was about the enjoyment of sex in the appropriate circumstances. Rich girl Caitlin meets Billy, who has run away from an abusive father and is living a hobo’s life in the liminal space on the edge of town. The contrast between their lifestyles confirms her insight that she has too much. She and Billy’s relationship develops and they have sex. Caitlin has been, up to this point, apprehensive about it after her friend Kate said it was “Messy, quick,/ and a condom flung in the bushes”22 after which she was too scared to do it again. But it is via Billy that we learn they had sex in a poem called Making Love:

It was like falling headlong

into the clear waters

of the Bendarat River

20 Carey & Lette (2012). 21 Herrick (2000). 22 Ibid p.91.

and opening my eyes

to the beautiful

phosphorescent bubbles of light

and trying to reach those bubbles

in the new world of quiet and calm

that carried me along, breathless,

and too late, or too early,

I surfaced

and broke the gentle tide,

and I gasped and rolled

and wished Caitlin and I

could return to the hush

of that special world

and we could float

safe for a lifetime

lost

and hoping never

to be found.23

We don’t have Caitlin’s perspective and bodies are not mentioned. If the poem hadn’t been called “Making Love” we may not have realised what had happened until later. Even though bodies are not mentioned, the poem is a sensory exploration of the liminal space intimacy grants, a shared bodily experience—an embodied experience with the world established by

23 Herrick (2000) p.127.

37 the relationship between author and reader. The dichotomy of child/adult ceases to be meaningful as the borders are blurred and re-formed.

Significantly, Caitlyn has crossed a threshold. Her bodily experience in losing her virginity and the discovery of such pleasures has changed her forever. The contrast between her former innocent state and her new sense of self is exemplified when she looks around her bedroom

at the posters on the walls

and my dresser full of make-up

and moisturiser and clutter

and my school uniform

hanging neatly behind the door

ready for my other life,

the life I’d forgotten about

for a few hours last night

and this morning. 24

The image of the school uniform operates as a symbol of innocence, a reminder that she is still a child under adult control, and contrasts with the fact that through her body, she has now crossed a threshold, not simply in the act of having sex as a rite of passage, or the loss of her virginity as a symbol of the loss of her innocence. Instead, it is the collective sum of the blurring of child/adult borders, the pushing of bodily boundaries and the way she is in control of her body, and delights in gaining pleasure from it.

24 Herrick (2000) p.128.

In complete contrast, Gary Crew’s The Lacemaker’s Daughter25 features a main character relating the story of her grandmother’s early years. At age 17, Elizabeth Bartlett was a stunningly beautiful woman who had an insatiable sexual appetite, using men for her own pleasure and dying an early death. In this novel, females are represented as the predators, targeting males who are powerless to resist in the face of such beauty. While the three farmhands are all in love/lust with her, none seem to think that the fact they are all sleeping with her is any kind of problem. The narrator is so unlikeable that the reader always feels positioned to side with the young men who are but victims. The novel could be seen as an attempt to re-form the boundaries around female/male sexuality in empowering the female, but this fails because any empowerment is not really due to her gender, but her position, and also because the entire book is narrated by unreliable narrators, and never from Elizabeth’s perspective, so she can be represented at will. Overall, this representation seems to be a ‘one- off’ depiction in the literature since 2000 and is not one of Crew’s better known novels.

James Roy’s novel Town,26 contains thirteen linked stories dealing with a range of adolescent experiences during one year of school. In one story, the science teacher Mr Singh uses sexual metaphors to explain the characteristics of chemicals. “When Magnesium and Oxygen get together, it is like an affair... [t]hey flirt a little and they resist...”, and “If you look over here , you will see that Sodium is in a frantic three-way with Oxygen and Hydrogen” and “That

Carbon—she is a slut, I tell you”.27

As a result, one of the girls, Ronnie, is nicknamed ‘Carbo’ because she has an (unfounded) reputation for sleeping around. Because she had developed early, wearing a bra in primary

25 Crew (2005). 26 Roy (2007). 27 Ibid pp 60-61.

39 school, her other nickname was ‘Pammy’, after “some washed-up American bimbo with a pneumatic chest”.28 When the older, hot Josh Waldren rings her out of the blue and asks for a date, she is initially suspicious but agrees to go out with him. He takes her to an isolated spot where all his mates are waiting. It transpires that he has organised for her to have sex with his brother in the back of a van, as his birthday present. If she doesn’t oblige, he will tell everyone that she slept with the whole group. Eventually, she agrees to do it and when she walks across to the van in front of the group “she felt as trashy as she’d ever thought she could feel”. There is considerable tension: a girl alone with a large all-male group in an isolated spot, supposedly supplying sex on demand. Her vulnerability is palpable.

Josh’s brother ‘Waldo’ is a virgin and nervous at the arrangement, thinking that Ronnie has agreed to the proposal. When he realises she has been coerced to have sex with him, he does not want to go through with it. Ronnie tells him she isn’t going to have sex with him and he has a choice: either he can be a ‘stud or a dud’. They can pretend to have sex and she will tell everyone he is the best lover in the world, or “a sexual failure, with a tiny, limp, failure of a dick”.29

Kathryn James discusses the Judaeo-Christian narrative tradition where “the figure of the female prostitute has always been a pervasive signifier of potential danger”.30 There is much cultural anxiety, she explains, around the excessive sexuality of the female, who must be punished through death to contain the threat posed to heterosexuality and patriarchy. This attitude surfaces in Roy’s work, so that women who sleep around (or who are suspected of sleeping around) are sluts and have a ‘reputation’. Therefore, they deserve what they get, as

28 Ibid p.85. 29 Roy (2007) p.117. 30 James (2009) p.16.

40 well as being ‘fair game’ for anyone else. The only weapon females seem to have is to attack men’s fear of sexual failure and a small penis. These stereotypical representations reflect a common attitude—a slut is one of the worst things a woman can be; a real man is someone who can perform sexually. Ronnie’s reputation arose in the first place because of her bodily development. Big/early breasts equal sexuality which equals promiscuity. At least Ronnie was able to demonstrate her resourcefulness in escaping from a difficult situation, but it is interesting that when she was walking to the van in front of all the boys, she was more concerned with feeling trashy than she was scared that she might be raped. Perhaps this reflects the perceptions of a male author, who may never have lived with the fear of sexual violence, something most females experience whenever walking alone at night.

The boys’ expectation that Ronnie would have sex on demand is a disturbing one, as if women who are suspected of being promiscuous forfeit any rights over their body. The ideological message here is women should guard their sexuality carefully, and not put themselves in a situation where they can be perceived as being promiscuous. This only leads to misinformation and therefore trouble. While Roy may be putting forward issues for discussion, there seems less room in this relationship for the young adult to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements, because the reader is positioned to view Ronnie as clever in getting out of a difficult situation. There is no re-forming of boundaries here, though

Ronnie is portrayed as a sensible young woman who is in control of her destiny.

Markus Zusak in When Dogs Cry 31 follows a similar line that big breasted girls are promiscuous, and in this case, trashy. Julia, who is Rube’s latest girlfriend, is “an absolute scrubber”, which means

31 Zusak (2003). The US version is titled “Getting the girl”.

…kind of slutty or festy, yet still without being a complete prostitute or anything like

that. She chews gum a lot. She might drink excessively and smoke for show. She’ll

call you a faggot, poofter or wanker with a lovely smirk on her face. She’ll wear

painted-on jeans and good cleavage and she won’t care too much if her headlights are

on. Jewellery: moderate to heavy, maybe with a nose ring or eyebrow ring for

rebellious originality. Then there’s the make-up. At times it’s bucketed on, especially

if there’s a bit of acne involved on her face, although more often than not, a scrubber

isn’t too bad looking at all. She just has a tendency to make herself ugly, by what she

says and what she does.32

The description of women’s bodies positions the reader to see women as sexual objects for men’s gratification, and the parallel is made again with the corrupt and dangerous body of the prostitute manifested in the female’s desire for sex which threatens the power of the male. A

‘scrubber’ has sex a lot—presumably that means with men—and those same men denounce her for not only her actions, which they have enjoyed, but also her appearance and mannerisms. It is a cultural double standard which continues to be perpetuated in representation. In this novel it is especially hypocritical as Rube regularly changes girlfriends when he gets tired of them.

Cam Wolfe is Rube’s younger brother and is the protagonist, beginning his story with a coy admission to masturbation and a deep desire not only for sex, but “to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her”.33

32Zusak (2003) p.61. 33 Ibid p.3.

In Zusak’s novel, the ‘scrubber’, Julia, who is blonde and beautiful but makes herself ugly, is contrasted with Octavia, whose hair “kept falling over her face, so beautiful and true” and who had “the most human eyes I’d ever seen” and whose breath flows, whose shoulders are slight, and whose pulse beats gently on Cam’s skin.34 Yet it is Octavia who makes the first moves, who leads Cam into his room, undresses first herself and then Cam, and leads the way through his first sexual experience where he “had never felt a room spin and curl and turn to waves like the room did that day”.35 Octavia is someone to cosset and treasure, and for whom a sexual relationship is acceptable. Here, the boundaries around sex and sexuality dissolve in terms of male and female behaviour, with Cam being represented as the passive, shy partner and Octavia the beautiful predator, which is a much more acceptable state—a state to be admired perhaps—than the ugly and demeaning state of promiscuity represented by Julia.

Similarly, Julia Lawrinson’s novel Losing It36 sees the boundaries of sexuality dissolving and re-forming, with her female characters sexually empowered. Four Year 12 scholarship girls make a pact to lose their virginity before the end of the year, and are not to reveal who they slept with until Schoolies Week (the end of the year). The four—one from a single parent family, one from a devout Christian family with a wayward son, one from an overprotective middle-eastern family and one from an ‘ordinary’ family, consider the challenge analytically and, for different reasons, unknowingly focus on the same boy. Two of them have sex with him, one of them almost has sex with him but is discovered by her family, and the fourth realises as she is about to have sex with him that she is a lesbian. There is no judgement here—ideologically speaking, the girls want to have sex with a ‘nice’ boy, and there is some discussion about that. There is no repercussion for Matty, the nice but nerdy choice of

34 Zusak (2003) pp68-69. 35 Ibid p.185. 36 Lawrinson (2012).

43 everyone. Male promiscuity is not seen as a problem, and it all ends happily, no pregnancy, no disease, no heartbreak and no fighting.

This story is underpinned by a sense of humour which lightens what could have been a less engaging treatment of teenage sex. And in this instance, it is the females who are making decisions. And while Matty is not really a vulnerable male, he is in a sense vulnerable in being set up, with a lack of awareness of what the girls are trying to do. On the other hand, the girls have control over their sexuality and there is celebration to be had there. In all cases, the girls asked for and arranged the encounters, and made sure there was protection.

Matty plays the role of sex god, unable to believe his luck, and while he was at pains to make sure the girls wanted sex, he had no qualms in bedding all four of them, knowing they were friends. In that sense, boys are depicted in the usual mould, able to have sex with multiple partners without being in a relationship and without any emotional consequences, and a feeling of physical and emotional satisfaction. His first sexual encounter was with Zoe, and he held no particular regard over losing his own virginity. Sex is reduced to an unemotional bodily encounter where intimacy is momentary, and not special. Given that the girls were having sex for the first time, the experience was not necessarily pleasant, though certainly for

Zoe it was even more difficult given they were in a very small car which made it physically demanding, but was always completely functional with no pleasure for her.

Even though this book is about having sex for the first time, bodies are simultaneously central and assumed. Mala is the only one whose physical feelings about sex are known to us. She has had initial experiences of sexuality with her cousin Mo, touching and kissing; she masturbates and has sexual desire for Mo from a young age.

There is no obvious adult voice trying to guide or impose definitions of sex and sexuality, but ideologically, the age of the girls, their intelligence, the way they cope with life in general presents characters who are ‘normal’. They are all nearly 18, in their last year of school and are virgins, but many teenagers have sex well before they are 18. And, like any good novel, it raises questions: is it ok to have sex with someone to fulfil a bet/challenge/dare? Is sex just a bodily function? How much do you need to ‘like’ someone to have sex with them? Did Matty realise something was going on? Was it ok for him to sleep with all of them knowing their relationship with each other? This is an example of the shared space of young adult literature where there is potential for the reader to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements.

Lawrinson’s novel is probably a first in Australian young adult literature, in that its ‘plot’ only about sex. It dissolves the boundaries around sex and sexuality for young women, as

Lawrinson takes the reader into her confidence. Overall, this novel undermines the traditional patriarchal status quo, and helps lift sexuality from under its veil of repression in the openness and matter-of-fact way with which the characters approach it. Trites shows that authors who depict teenagers experiencing extreme sexual pleasure tend to minimise any repressive ideologies.37 It is impossible to avoid ideology in writing, as I pointed out in the introductory chapter. While there are examples of repressive ideologies, Australian young adult novels since 2000 generally demonstrate an increasing equality in relationships which is empowering and respectful. Adolescents are depicted as sexualised beings who are comfortable in their bodies and the pleasures it brings. However, there is less emphasis on the emotional aspects of these encounters in some novels, particularly Lawrinson’s, reducing the act of sex to a rite of passage, a bodily function that must happen within a certain timeframe.

37 Trites (2000).

Positively, it promotes an open attitude, female self-control and sexual agency that moves away from the denial of pleasure and indeed, the denial of teenage sexuality that some sectors of Western society continue to engage in. However, it also continues the representation of males’ ability to have sex without repercussions, and without considering a moral point of view as long as the girl is happy, in a superficial and casual encounter.

These examples show that the liminality of young adult literature, through the shared egalitarian space established between the author and reader, has enabled the dissolving of boundaries and dichotomies coalescing in the spaces between child and adult, innocence and experience, and sex and sexuality through the treatment of the body in recent Australian young adult literature. In the examples discussed, it concerns the sexual body.

Similarly, there is blurring of the boundaries of gender in two novels: the first is f2m: the boy within38 by Hazel Edwards and Ryan Kennedy and the second is Alex as Well39 by Alyssa

Brugman.

The reinforcement of traditional gender assumptions is something that children’s and young adult literature as a whole continue to perpetuate, as Nodelman points out. He identifies the intention to teach “what it means for girls to be girls and boys to be boys” as a defining characteristic of the genre.40 Reynolds argues that the concept of young adult literature is strongly associated with masculinity. Literature for adolescents has, she says, been “shaped and masculinised by its rejection of childhood and femininity” with a focus on teenage boys

38 Edwards & Kennedy (2010). 39 Brugman (2013). 40 Nodelman (2008) p.173.

46 and their struggles to achieve identity, demonstrated in literature from the 1950s to the

1980s.41

Rhodes42 argues that the presumption of heterosexuality is “encoded into the fabric of western society” and while the first young adult novel featuring homosexuality was written in the United States in 1969, it was not until 1979 that Eleanor Spence’s novel A Candle for St

Anthony was published by Oxford University Press in Britain, featuring a non-explicit, suggested homosexual relationship.

There has been a steady stream of novels from the United States featuring homosexuality, one of the more recent being Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green and David

Levithan.43 However, in the Australian young adult scene, Justine Larbalastier compiled a list in 2007 which showed 23 lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender young adult titles have been published since 1977.44 There have been a few more since 2007, including Lily Wilkinson’s

Pink, where Ava wavers between sexualities, Joanne Horniman’s About a Girl dealing with a lesbian relationship, and Lawrinson, as I mentioned earlier, in Losing It, but overall, representation is still low.

Wilkinson45 points out that most young adult gay fiction exploring sexuality focuses on coming out narratives which conclude the choice is to be either gay or straight. In her own novel, Pink, Wilkinson tries to subvert this binary and offer an alternate view of fluidity in sexuality. She uses specific spaces within her novel – the train station, the school theatre, the

41 Reynolds (2007) p.73. 42 Rhodes (2009). 43 Green & Levithan (2010). 44 Larbalestier (2007). 45 Wilkinson (2011).

47 cinema and the school workshop asheterotopic spaces where her main character Ava can progress with her transformation and liberation. These spaces function as liminal spaces where boundaries dissolve and re-form. Ava doesn’t know if she is gay or straight. With parents who explained that “pink was an empty signifier of femininity”46 and a girlfriend,

Chloe who hated Jane Austen more than Disney, McDonalds and Harry Potter, because all the women wanted to do was get married and obey men, Ava doesn’t feel comfortable in her identity. She decides to go to another school “where I could start again, and be the person I really was. Or at least the person I thought I might be.”47 For a while, Ava tries to live in both states: continuing her lesbian relationship with Chloe, and retaining a straight identity at the new school, lying to Chloe about her ‘new’ identity and hiding her ‘old’ identity from her new friends. Still Ava is not comfortable, until she discovers fluidity and the possibility of transformation and development in the heterotopic space of the stage crew. Pink is a deliberate attempt to subvert the binaries around sex and sexuality and her character depends on access to liminal spaces in order to undergo transformation.

The Body and gender

Two recent Australian novels deal with issues of transgender, addressing boundaries of adult/child in terms of power, as well as the female/male dichotomies.

In the novel f2m: the boy within,48 Skye wants to be Finn. She wants to transition from the body she hates to the one she should have had. The body she hates—curvy, average size feet and breasts and clear, smooth skin sounds like the body most adolescent girls would wish for.

46 Wilkinson (2009) p.6. 47 Ibid p.29. 48 Edwards and Ryan (2010).

I see a girl with long straggly dark-blonde hair, shaved at the back up to ear level and

up one side, like half a Mohawk. My breasts aren’t that big at B-cup but they look

massive to me. My skin is very smooth and people are always congratulating me on

how perfect it is. My hips are too wide for men’s jeans and I have size seven feet... I

have to lose weight, too, even though it probably won’t do any good—the weight

drops from my stomach and legs when it should go from my hips, chest, anywhere

that sticks out and looks female. My breasts are making me depressed. I can’t possibly

think of anything cooler than having a boy’s chest again like I did when I was a kid.49

Initially, gender is determined by our bodies, but as Coates says, “[w]e are interpellated into gendered roles even before our birth; parental and societal expectations vary according to the pinks or blues of our layettes”. But whether we end up being a boy or a girl “depends on the subject recognizing him—or herself—as that thing called a boy or a girl... by taking on or rejecting the characteristics that identify boys and girls in our culture... such a gesture is performative”.50

Judith Butler speaks of gender as performance.51 If gender is not something corresponding to our sex, if it is something we choose (wilfully or not), then it becomes very difficult to identify what gender norms actually are. And yet, there are many gender characteristics which are quite obviously socially formed, such as girls being represented by pink, and boys by blue.

49 Edwards & Kennedy (2010) pp. 2-3. 50 Coates (2004) p.97. 51 Butler (1996).

In writing a transgender character in the novel f2m, Edwards draws on gender as performance in many respects, and often this performance arises from a rejection of cultural constructions of gender such as behaviour and aesthetic preferences. However, the issue of gender for the main character Skye/Finn is rooted in a hatred of her female body. She has always known she is really a male, trapped in a female body. The desire for the ‘right’ gender permeates every aspect of her life and now Skye/Finn is ready to change her body to match her real inner self.

This separation of mind/inner self and body is quite opposite to phenomenological approaches by Merleau-Ponty who sees mind and body as one. However, in the writing of the transgender body, this is precisely what Skye/Finn is trying to achieve, and much of it is about appearance. Skye/Finn hates her breasts and spends a lot of time trying to bind them up so that other people can’t see them. Yet she does not speak about periods, she does not think of girls (or guys) in a sexual way, she does not desire strength or power—although at one point she comments that “being so tired made me feel female”—and has no particular sporting interests that might hint at masculine culture: if Skye/Finn didn’t tell us she was male in a female body, we would not have known. Skye/Finn confirms that appearance is the most important aspect for her when she tells the doctor she is not interested in having her reproductive organs removed because “[I]t’s not like anyone can see them”.52 When

Skye/Finn fills a condom with rice to make herself an artificial penis—not even physically attached, she finds great satisfaction because it looks and feels right for her body. When

Skye/Finn tells her parents she is really male, she says she is not female because “I have always hated girls’ clothes because they make me feel so uncomfortable. I never felt like I was one of the girls at school, but I wasn’t one of the boys either because physically I was

52 Edwards & Kennedy (2010) p.155.

50 born a girl”.53 When her mother doesn’t seem to understand, her father reminds her mother that she always hated dolls and dresses. He explains to Skye/Finn that her mother would find her transition hard because she had always wanted a pretty girl to dress up in frilly clothes.

These views of what it is to be female, and what it is to have a daughter, are trite and quite obviously socially constructed and stereotypical, and show that gender isn’t only about the body, that there are many social and cultural behaviours, expectations and practices that are perceived as being gender-based. It also shows the complexity of writing gender and the body, and the divide between the body and cultural influences.

In f2m, there is no acknowledgement of sexual attraction or feelings involved in Skye/Finn’s transgender state. Skye/Finn has friends who are female and male, although through the novel there are references to ‘mates’ as if males have some kind of special connection that doesn’t exist between females, or is in some way different. Skye/Finn specifically denies any sexual feelings at all. S/he is not interested in having sex because “I need to be comfortable in my body first”.54

The greatest insight we gain into Skye/Finn’s dilemma is when she is recovering following chest reconstruction surgery, and explains to her brother “[t]he whole reason I’m doing this is to be ordinary. All my life I’ve felt like I stick out like a sore thumb, like everyone’s watching what I do... because what I do doesn’t match my gender. I just want to be, you know, normal. A normal guy.”55 While Skye/Finn’s desire for ‘normality’ is understandable, this brings into question what it means to be ‘normal’, and if there is such a definition, how

53 Ibid p.133. 54 Edwards & Kennedy (2010) p.198. 55 Ibid p.320.

51 might someone who has not felt ‘normal’ in their original body feel ‘normal’ in a reconstructed body.

f2m follows a tradition of stories designed to make visible the invisible in young adult literature. Edwards has collaborated with Kennedy (whose personal story is the basis of f2m) to represent what they consider to be a truthful an account of transgender issues. In terms of writing the body, gender proves to be difficult to represent in an embodied way. Perhaps those with Gender Identity Disorder really do feel disembodied and this has been captured by

Edwards and Kennedy. And perhaps this also reflects the complexities of gender and the way bodily understanding can be limited by language.

Alyssa Brugman has written a novel on the same subject called Alex As Well,56 the story of a girl trapped in a boy’s body. “When I was born they went ‘it’s got a noodle, it must be a boy’ but I’m not a boy on the inside”.57 Alex was born sexually ambiguous, with a penis but no testes, and with ovaries. Hormonal treatment ensures Alex develops as male, but at the age of almost 16, he goes off his medication and announces to his parents that he is a girl.

The story is narrated through the female Alex with the male Alex in the background as another character. “Is it ok with you if I keep us separate?” asks Alex of the reader. “It makes more sense. We sound like two ordinary kids.” This narrative device enables the reader to see the gender issues from the male and the female perspectives, and gives insight into how Alex is struggling with her feelings and her body and the dissolving boundaries of female/male.

Where f2m explained Skye/Finn’s feelings, Brugman’s writing allows Alex’s words and actions to add meaning in an embodied way.

56 Brugman (2013). 57 Ibid p.17.

For example, the two Alexes are often at odds with each other. When Alex (female) wears make up for the first time and tries on some clothes wishing she had breasts, the other Alex

(male), masturbates to spite her in a show of power where the masculine dominates. “I hate it when he does this. It’s a real boy thing to do... He looks at me and sees a hot chick... I look at him and see a chimpanzee tugging on his little noodle”.58

This bodily self-loathing is similar to Skye/Finn’s loathing of her breasts, but as it is attributed to the other Alex, it seems more like an observation of the act rather than a hatred of her own body. Instead of the more simplistic ‘I just want to be an ordinary guy’ that

Skye/Finn proclaims, Alex is in a conflicted knot of emotions so overwhelming she needs to separate them into two personalities.

But with regard to gender, Alex As Well cannot really answer the question of what it means to be female. She comments that when she was a child, she felt her father played too roughly sometimes; she remembers dressing up in a pink fairy costume in pre-school, and loving the feel of the fabric; she always wanted to put on make up and girls clothes, and when the shop assistant puts makeup on her, Alex feels “all goosepimply and jittery”.59 After her makeup is on, she goes into the girls’ toilet and braids her hair.

I push my hoodie back and now I am a girlie girl. I stand there looking at my new

face. I like this face. It’s my face. I spend so much time looking at Alex’s face—his

face.

58 Ibid p.6. 59 Brugman (2013) loc.75.

I haven’t done this before. I’ve wanted to since as long as I can remember.60

These novels highlight the difficulty surrounding gender: what makes a person male or female, if it isn’t their biological sex? Seemingly, wanting to wear makeup and dresses, especially pink dresses, and not play too roughly, makes you female. To be male is indicated by your desire to wear boy clothes and hate pink. Brugman shows that sexuality is part of gender identification when Alex masturbates while seeing himself as ‘a hot chick’, implying that he is turned on by girls, although there is also the taunting of the female lack of a penis which Alex will be forgoing as a female.

Appearance is important for Alex, as it is for Skye/Finn. What s/he looks like in the mirror is a powerful reflection of their hated body. The fact that Skye/Finn hates her breasts, while

Alex wants breasts, and Skye/Finn wants a penis while Alex is disgusted by his, shows that it is the subject’s feelings towards their own bodies which is influencing their gender. In terms of writing, the body is central to both novels, but ultimately, I have shown that in many ways f2m fails to write in an embodied way as it focuses on explaining a series of events in a well- meaning but didactic approach, whereas Alex As Well presents the complexities of the body/mind through emotions and actions to provide a more embodied account of transgender issues.

Both these novels dissolve and re-form boundaries around gender using the liminal space of adolescence to do so, and the shared space between author and reader to give insight into the possibilities of adolescent experience. The reader is positioned to side with the protagonist, particularly in Alex as Well, where the mother verges on the edge of mental collapse and is

60 Ibid loc.108.

54 incapable of understanding or reason. However, this in itself shows the threshold that Alex must cross to assert her gender, and be true to herself.

While the novels I have spoken about are more explicit in issues of sexuality, sex and gender, the majority of Australian young adult novels are not explicit in the same ways. Sexuality in

Australian young adult novels is an undercurrent, with a gradual awakening of feelings as a transition from child body to adult body, usually represented by first love, as in:

• Looking for Alibrandi – Josie has her first date at age 18, with Jacob;

• Jasper Jones – Charlie has a crush on Eliza and they share a first kiss;

• A Small Free Kiss in the Dark – Billy has a crush on Tia and they share a first kiss;

• Deadly, Unna? – Blacky has a crush on Clarence and they share a first kiss;

• A Straight Line to My Heart by Bill Condon – Boy meets girl and finally at the end of

the novel, there is the suggestion of more to come.

Conclusion

Trites concludes that young adult literature is a genre “replete with sex”,61 and the Australian young adult novels I have discussed above reflect this in ways which can be confronting and amusing to the reader, as well as putting forward questions of ethical and moral behaviour.

Writing about sex itself in relation to body parts and feelings can be sensual, but is generally not explicit. Perhaps authors do not feel it is necessary to describe sex in detail for contemporary readers, whereas in 1975, Judy Blume felt the need to be instructive. Or perhaps it reflects a reluctance by authors—or more realistically, publishers—to push the

61 Trites (2000) p.84.

55 boundaries of young adult fiction. As Postman points out, all kinds of knowledge can be learned by watching television, so it is interesting that young adult fiction is so shy when it comes to sex. Reynolds notes that it is very difficult to write about sex well, and most writers for both young people and adults often choose to avoid it.62

The treatment of sex and sexuality has changed considerably since Ethel Turner wrote Seven

Little Australians. It continues to change, and has relaxed somewhat since Trites’ analysis in

2000, being presented positively and with more agency by females. There is often a lack of body description but there is an implication that males and females are attractive, not overweight and with no physical or other disabilities. Sex is about empowerment for females, although there continue to be stereotypical ideologies around sexual behaviour. Most of the females depicted in novels are not focused on body image. However, hatred of the body is a feature in the two novels about transgendered adolescents. Gender remains, under scrutiny, difficult to explain in purely physical terms, with cultural behaviours and attitudes dominating understandings.

In terms of embodied writing, authors achieve this in different ways, such as through the use of sensual language to acknowledge the body as a living, feeling thing, or through narrative perspectives which give insight into the body and mind of the protagonist. Writing which focuses on action such as in Lawrinson’s novel, or takes a more didactic approach such as in f2m, is less effective in terms of embodied writing.

There is still evidence of didacticism, sometimes quite explicit, but overall there is an increase in novels which are non-judgemental. This reflects a relationship between the author

62 Reynolds (2007).

56 and reader that is more of a collusion, and an opportunity for the reader to exercise their own ethical and moral judgements. In the inviolable space of children’s literature, this is not possible. The sexual and gender boundaries that are dissolved and re-formed in the liminal space of young adult literature extend the possibilities of adolescent experience for the reader in ways that further separate it from children’s literature. There are still limits around content and expression, in particular an absence of highly erotic descriptions of bodily parts and reactions in sex, which separate this literature from other literatures, reflecting that this is not a shameless space as in adult literature.

The adolescent body is represented through writing about sex, sexuality and gender. These are the foundations for understanding how to write the embodied adolescent. But the body is not the only aspect to embodied writing. Equally important in understanding how to write the embodied adolescent into being is the relationship between body and place, for bodies are always in a place. In the next chapter, I explore the way place and body are inextricably linked in the embodied adolescent, and how this embodiment is itself a liminal space where the boundaries of relationships are blurred and re-formed, where some dichotomies cease to matter and where others are reaffirmed.

Chapter 3 – Finding bodies in the Australian landscape

Introduction

In the previous chapter, I discussed how representations of the body in young adult literature helps to define the space between author and reader as a shared space of collusion. It also is a prerequisite for understanding how to write the embodied adolescent. Having taken into consideration how authors write about the adolescent body in terms of sexuality and body image, this chapter considers the intertwining of body and place as a means of understanding how to write the embodied adolescent into being. I explore the way place, represented through setting and the body are inextricably linked; how place and body together are productive in playing out power relations and can be both enabling and oppressive. I consider how the embodied adolescent interacts with place creating a liminality in the adolescent body, which blurs the boundaries between child and adult and the associated power relations, and sets the body up as a site of struggle as these boundaries are re-formed.

Being-in-the-world

To revisit my earlier discussion, in his work Being and Time1, Heidegger uses the term

‘being-in-the-world’ to describe a fundamental structure of what it means to be human.

Science might call us ‘humans’, but this term is inadequate for Heidegger. He uses the term

Dasein because humans have ‘special distinctions’ from other entities: ‘being’ matters to it.2.

1 Heidegger (2008). 2 Ibid p32.

Central to Dasein is the state of being called ‘being-in-the-world’. Heidegger sees human existence as grounded in the idea that we are always already in a world, and it is only through our active engagement with the world that we are able to have thoughts and feelings. Being- in-the-world is, for Heidegger, a ‘unitary’ phenomenon, and he spends a considerable amount of discussion on each of the three components of this phrase: being, being-in, and world.

The world is not only the environment. For Heidegger it is also a characteristic of Dasein. He uses the term ‘worldhood of the world’ because he is not referring to the common meaning of world as the things in the world and how they look. It is “the fundamental understanding within which individual things, people, history, texts, buildings, projects cohere together within a shared horizon of significances, purposes and connotations”.3

The understanding of the world that we have is not seen by Heidegger in terms of facts or knowledge that we possess. Rather he sees it in terms of what we do. He says “[a]ny understanding has its Being in an act of understanding”,4 that is, understanding of how to act in the world, how to use the equipment we have and the way that we act with intentionality and purpose. So when we want to write, we use a writing implement (pen, pencil, paint, computer); we use it with other objects—paper, a book, a screen, depending on what we want to do—write a note, a sign, a letter, a novel. The world is the ‘wherein’ to use Heidegger’s term; we understand the structure, the possibilities and we are responsive to this structure in all that we do. This ‘worldhood’ is the ‘in-the-world’ aspect of ‘being-in-the-world, which is a fundamental characterstic of Dasein.

3 Clark (2002) p.15. 4 Heidegger (2008) p.118.

Our sense of the world therefore is something we know in a non-reflective, non-theoretical way from our ordinary, everyday experiences. We already know about reading and writing, about authors, about books even if we are not academics. We understand that publishers select books they know will sell, that not all authors have their books published and some authors are so popular that they are rich and famous, but most aren’t in that category. We understand the types of books available, how to find them, and how they are catalogued. We understand the part books play in education especially with regard to literacy in the young, and that these books are written, purchased, reviewed and made available to the young by adults.

Merleau-Ponty also refers to ‘being-in-the-world’ although his focus is more on the body. He sees being-in-the-world as constituted by perception and the body together, where the bodily nature of perception is crucial to this understanding. Merleau-Ponty also sees being-in-the- world as a unitary phenomenon, with the mind and body as one: “The union of soul and body is not an amalgamation between two mutually external terms, subject and object, brought about by arbitrary decree. It is enacted at every instant in the movement of existence.”5

The very nature of humans as beings-in-the-world, then, sees their being inseparable from the world they are in. In terms of representations of the body in young adult literature, I suggest that this inextricable weaving of body and place is essential to writing embodied characters as beings-in-the-world. For example, in the Australian children’s classic 1972 novel Pastures of the Blue Crane by Hesba Brinsmead,6 Ryl has just arrived at her new home in northern New

South Wales. She is propelled into a liminal space where she has left her old self, and is yet

5 Merleau-Ponty (2002) p.102. 6 Brinsmead (2004).

61 to find her new self. But already, this new place is changing her bodily, with feelings of peace, release, relief.

If the sheep country had, two days ago, touched Ryl with a sense of freedom and

adventure, this warm, rich land of rivers and lush growth touched in her some other

chord. Perhaps it was only because she was travel-weary, but it seemed to the girl that

slowly a feeling of peace never before known was welling within her—release from

all tensions and fears, relief from all past cares of living. It was as though she were

quite separated from her past. Just as truly as the Melbourne schoolgirl had stood

apart from the infant orphan from New Guinea, so now the schoolgirl stepped away

from her, leaving her disengaged, free—empty of the old life, unfilled by the new...7

Not only is Rhyl’s new home a contrast from city to country, but also from schoolgirl to almost-adult. In order to make this transformation, she must merge with her environment, become bodily entwined with this new place.

The term ‘place’ in relation to fiction invokes the idea of setting, which Nikolajeva8 defines as the time and place of a novel. This is of course integral to the story—characters and events happen somewhere at some time. Setting can function as an unobtrusive backdrop for a story, or can be crucial for the narration and character action. Hogwarts School (Harry Potter),

Prince Edward Island (Anne of Green Gables), Kirrin Island (The Famous Five) and the

Swiss Alps (Heidi) are some of the more memorable settings, both imaginary and real, which have been created in children’s literature. Setting has long been recognised as more than a description, location and the weather—it reflects and determines character, can be metaphoric

7 Brinsmead (2004) p.47. 8 Nikolajeva (2005).

62 and can also be a character itself. It can depict a way of life, be a catalyst for character change, and function as mythology and tradition.9

Setting, then, encompasses place, and is part of the writer’s technical tool set, as are scales to the musician. But to play the musical piece of place, it is necessary to move past the technical proficiency and to explore interactions and connections. For in the real world, what is it, asks human geographer Tim Creswell,10 that links a child’s room, an urban garden, a market town,

New York City, Kosovo and the Earth, and what makes them places? They are all spaces which people have made meaningful, he says, following on from Yi-Fu Tuan,11 who finds that the terms “space” and “place” help to define each other, but that space is more abstract so that what begins as undifferentiated space becomes place as we get to know it “and endow it with value”.12 Place is therefore something more than a physical location, another thing in the world. It is a way of seeing, knowing and understanding the world through attachments and connections between people and place.13

Nast Hence scholars such as Heidi Nast see that “corporeality and place partly produce the meaning and physicality of one another, making it difficult to ascertain where a body ends and a place begins”.14

In my quest to write the embodied adolescent, I consider that not only is a sense of place in terms of authenticity, atmosphere and familiarity necessary, but there needs to be an

9 Alderman (1984). 10 Cresswell (2004). 11 Tuan (1977). 12 Ibid loc. 129. 13 Cresswell (2004) p.11. 14 Nast (1998) p.81.

63 inseparability between the body and place, an interdependency that creates relationships and meanings for each other. In the following section I analyse two Australian novels for evidence of body/place meanings. I have selected two novels which were written over 100 years apart. Seven Little Australians (SLA) by Ethel Turner,15 which I referred to in the previous chapter, is in itself a statement of place, emerging at a time when Australia was in a liminal space, not part of England, but not an independent nation. It deals with a large family on the outskirts of the suburbs, another liminal space where boundaries are dissolved and re- formed around adult and child, but where the dichotomies of nature and culture are perpetuated. The second novel is Deadly, Unna? by Philip Gwynne.16 I chose this novel because it too deals with a large family living in the liminal space of a small Australian country town, where similar boundaries are dissolved and re-formed, and where dichotomies of black and white are sustained.

Place and Australian young adult fiction

Australia’s longest continuously published novel opens with a declaration, loudly warning the reader not to expect these children to be good (like children in certain English novels)

…for the very excellent reason that Australian children never are...miasmas of

naughtiness develop best in the sunny brilliancy of our atmosphere...[T]here is a

lurking sparkle of joyousness and rebellion and mischief in nature here, and

therefore in children.17

15 Turner (2005). 16 Gwynne (1998). 17 Turner (2005) p.1.

Thus Ethel Turner embarks on an account of an Australian family defined by place. Youth in terms of place and youth in terms of people equate with romance and sexuality, a simmering excitement that comes from being on the threshold of something new and daring and unpredictable, as the main character, Judy, epitomises.

It is the story of seven children aged from 16 down to two, living on the outskirts of Sydney, in the liminality of the Parramatta River. Their austere father, Captain Woolcot, has remarried following the death of his first wife (mother to six of the children). He and his young second wife struggle to deal with the seven children, especially Judy, whose energy and creativity manifest into mischief time after time.

While the first Australian children’s book is credited to Charlotte Barton who wrote A

Mother’s Offering to her Children in 1841,18 and many subsequent novels were set in

Australia (largely adventure novels),19 SLA was the first children's novel that was written by someone who had grown up in Australia (although Turner was born in England) and wrote about ordinary everyday life and ordinary, imperfect people.20 Thus, Turner’s opening lines celebrate a freedom, irreverence and independence amounting to an Australian-ness that many may continue to identify with. Ideas of the child’s close association with nature had emerged with Rousseau21 and reflect an innocence and simplicity in their relationship with the world which also underpins SLA.

18 Foster, Finnis & Nimon (2005) p.3. 19 See Saxby (2003) for a comprehensive discussion on the development of Australian children’s literature. 20 McVitty (1994) p.198. 21 Rousseau (1763).

While SLA is set in Sydney, the Woolcot family has been sentenced to the isolation of the outer suburbs, driven away from The Barracks by the other officers because of “the pranks of those graceless children”. Misrule, their homestead, is located “some distance up the

Parramatta River”22 on the fringes of Sydney. The children love it because of the “big wilderness of a garden, two or three paddocks, numberless sheds for hide-and-seek, and, best of all, the water”.23 Misrule is hard to tame—much like Australia—half-wild half-civilised, the land almost refusing to succumb, as Australia is refusing to succumb to English order.

The contrast between the neat, orderly, regimented Barracks and the untidy, disorderly, semi- rural area reflects the contrast and tension between the adults, particularly the father, and the children, between adulthood and childhood, authority and rebellion, colony and coloniser.

Here the children can be wild and free from adult scrutiny in the sunny brilliance of

Australia, re-forming the boundaries around what it means to be a child.

Within Misrule, there are child places and adult places. The opening scene is with the seven children having dinner upstairs in the nursery while the parents are entertaining downstairs over a fine meal. In the nursery, the table cloth is ‘flung on’, the china ‘chipped and battered’, the tea very weak and “nothing to eat but great thick slices of bread and butter”.24 The way the children dress is also in keeping with their surrounds, dressed in “shabby, out-at-elbow clothes, and much-worn boots”.25 Up here in the borderland which is the nursery, the children are in their own space. The china can be chipped and the children can be rowdy, messy and argumentative, and it doesn’t matter.

22 Turner (2005) p.6. 23 Ibid p.6. 24 Ibid p.8. 25 Ibid p.7.

Of all the children, Judy is the one who causes her father the most concern, with "[t]hat restless fire of hers that shone out of her dancing eyes, and glowed scarlet on her cheeks in excitement, and lent amazing energy and activity to her young, lithe body”.26 She is the centre of the family, the instigator of much trouble, the ringleader of mischief. She has

'quicksilver' running through her veins, she is active, comfortable in her body, non-conformist as she thrives on her outdoor freedom. She is cheeky, unfeminine and undisciplined, everything society disproves of in a woman. Judy is at one with her place, the open spaces, the intense sunshine and the freedom of youth, always being reined in by the adults and society. But she is intensely honest and loyal and ready to accept responsibility for her actions. Her father, who was warned by his dying first wife to ‘watch out for Judy’, is exasperated with his complete failure to control her behaviour. His solution is to remove her from Misrule, and send her to boarding school, providing him with the upper hand, for the moment.

For Judy, this is a punishment worse than any physical punishment. To be removed from her place is the ultimate cruelty. And with her removal to a new place, she undergoes a transformation from the ‘harum-scarum’ Judy who “used to come to breakfast looking as if her clothes had been pitchforked upon her”,27 to a neat, orderly person with a new dress, shiny boots and stockings without holes.

Judy runs away from school, loses her money and ends up walking home. When she finally makes it to Misrule, she is starving, delirious and sick with a cough. The children hide her in the loft until the inevitable discovery by the Captain, who is determined to send her back to school, but Judy's bloody cough makes him change his mind, and for the moment, the power

26 Turner (2005) p.49. 27 Ibid p.24.

67 struggle between father and child is won by the child. To aid her recovery, the whole family

(except for the Captain) is sent to Esther's parents’ farm, Yarrahapinni.

The vastness of Australia is reflected in their journey 300 miles on the train and a 25 mile buggy ride to the gate, with the house another 15 minutes away. Again, Turner’s description starts with the sun—Yarrahappini in the sunshine—she describes a harsh beauty, where people have attempted to tame the land as far as possible, but the wildness still dominates, and the space is so vast, it is beyond taming. The people are as tough as the land. There are a number of cottages on the hill for servants and the bookkeeper; and further out, two bark humpies standing back to back for the Aboriginal who does “little else than smoke and give his opinion on the weather every morning”28 though in the past he had helped build the cottage and been a hero when he killed a bushranger with his tomahawk, rescued Mrs Hassal and baby Esther, and gone back to hit the other bushranger on the head, thus earning his right to remain on the property. This demonstrates that Australia is a white place, that the whites have no understanding or link with Indigenous culture, and have effectively severed them from their place. Australia is also a gendered place. Men and women have their specific roles, which is exciting and dangerous for Pip, but for Judy, is dull and oppressive given she is not permitted to participate in activities such as the cattle drafting.

The Body, nature and emotion

Edward Casey in The Fate of Place, says that the more we reflect on place, the more we recognise it to be something not merely characterisable but actually experienced in qualitative

28 Turner (2005) p.144.

68 terms—colour, depth, texture—that are only known to us in and by the body that enters and occupies that space .29

Turner often invokes nature in emotional situations, entwining bodily response with place, showing that place is a felt thing where the boundaries between body and place can dissolve.

When Judy, Pip and the General go into town, a wind from the river

...sent the young red blood leaping through their veins; it played havoc with Judy's

curls and dyed her brown cheeks a warm red; it made the General kick and laugh and

grow restive, and caused Pip to stick his hat on the back of his head and whistle

joyously.30

Turner uses this technique often, in this case highlighting the playfulness and freedom of both the weather and the children. At the novel’s climax, the seven children are picnicking in the heat of the Australian bush, under the care of Mr Gillett. An old ringbarked tree is falling, and

‘the General’ is in its path. Judy throws herself over him, saving his life, but is fatally injured.

As Judy lay dying, "there was a flame coloured sky with purple, soft clouds massed in banks high up where the dying glory met the paling blue", and the sunset was forever imprinted on their minds. Australia is the land of the sun, in life and in death. Meg was glad Judy's grave faced east towards "the orange and yellow and purple suns she could not bear to watch ever again while she lived" and when the family left Yarrahappini and Judy’s grave, "there was a moon making it white and beautiful... the white stillness of the far moon, the pale, hanging stars, the faint wind stirring the wattles".31

29 Casey (1997) p.204. 30 Turner (2005) p.34. 31 Ibid p.192. 69

Seven Little Australians shows the intertwining of body and place, making a very strong claim on the idea of Australian-ness at a time when Australia did not have a clear sense of independence from England. The children are seemingly part of the landscape, embraced by it and embracing it. Their interactions and attitudes subvert the idea of Englishness and

Victorian family life and re-form the boundaries of what it means to be a family. Turner was writing during a period of economic and political turbulence for the Eastern colonies of

Australia, with banks and investments collapsing, soaring unemployment and poverty, widespread industrial strikes and an extended drought. There was continuing debate on the future of colonial Australia and a growing sense of nationalism leading up to Federation in

1990.32 Saxby comments that, “it took an Australian to help clear the air and establish stories of family life where children learned by doing, and benefited from their mistakes”.33 While this may be somewhat partisan, I would add that it also took the place, Australia, to exist in order for this novel to be produced at all. And ultimately, it is this representation of place which has the upper hand when it claims one of its own.

The Body, place and power

Deadly Unna? by Phillip Gwynne was first published in 1998 and short listed for the

Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year awards. Set in a small Australian country town, it presents a picture of Australians in a racist, oppressive environment where whites and blacks live apart and only mix on the football field or at the pub. Gwynne captures the ugly Australian in many of the adult depictions, and primarily in the men who dominate

32 Martin (1998). 33 Saxby (1997) p.251.

Gary Black's (Blacky) life. Blacky is one of eight children. Their alcoholic father is a bully and their mother does her best to shield them from his presence.

Blacky describes himself as a ‘gutless wonder’ from the beginning of the novel, in relation to the impending football grand final, as he is scared of facing up to the Thumper, the first ruck in the opposing team which the Port is playing against in the junior grand final. But we learn that Blacky’s father had given him the label of gutless wonder after a fishing trip. It's a perfect day and Blacky's father takes him and his younger brother Tim out on the boat.

Blacky does not like being with his father—a bully with no patience for Blacky's incompetencies. A storm blows up when they are five hours from land.

I'd been in storms before but nothing like this - the boat was being tossed around

like it was one of the old man's stubbies. I looked around. No lights. Nothing but

waves. Huge waves with foaming crests. It was terrifying.34

Blacky panics and screams at his father "you're trying to kill us", crying. After, when they finally make it back safely, his father tells him he never wants him on the boat again. "My own son a gutless wonder. A gutless fucking wonder." "I'd never felt so ashamed in all my life" says Blacky.35

The use of the ocean in this instance is an example of finding a setting in which the power relations between father and son can be played out, showing how place and power are intertwined. The ocean features positively in many young adult novels—Kirsty Eager’s Raw

Blue for example, or Tim Winton’s Lockie Leonard. But as Foster, Finnis & Nimon note,

34Gwynne (1998) p.74. 35Ibid p.76.

71 seascapes are the site of battles with the forces of nature, with an awareness of the sense of

“…Australia as a place where the natural elements impinge on everyday life”.36 And in

Deadly, Unna? there is that sense of the power of the ocean and the vulnerability of bodies.

Blacky’s father’s small fishing boat miles out to sea becomes a stage for Blacky’s character test, a performance which he fails. This is his father’s place, the fisherman who knows the boat, the weather, the feel of the sea. He seems at one with the ocean, and has the experience and the strength to take on its vastness and unpredictability. It is an example of how place has meanings created by those with more power than others to define what is and is not appropriate, and shows the political relations which can be played out, here where the adolescent body is a site of struggle for power—the father’s struggle for domination and

Blacky’s struggle for independence which in this place, Blacky was not going to win. The dichotomies of parent/child in this instance are sustained.

As Grosz points out in relation to the city, it is the place is where the body is

“representationally reexplored, transformed, contested and reinscribed” and in turn the body transforms and reinscribes the landscape.37 The football field is an example of this relationship, part of the structure of every Australian town and city, with rules and expectations about what happens there, and a public stage for contest. With the grand final looming, and against his own will, Blacky is going for the glory, and parallels his experience to that of the Anzacs, "Our glorious men going over the top at Gallipoli" which of course means going to their doom.

This football event is a liminal space which can dissolve dichotomies and in this case, has united the whole town, black and white, farmers and townies, parents and children, in a

36 Foster, Finnis & Nimon (2005) p.58. 37 Grosz (1998) p.34.

72 common cause – to win. This is another testing ground for Blacky to prove his bravery to himself and his father, but for his mate Dumby Red, it is a place of empowerment and opportunity for subversion of white culture. Dumby always knew that being black meant his good performance would never be recognised by the whites. He is 'on fire' in the game, and takes a spectacular mark and the crowd realises

...that no matter how many footy games they went to after that, how many replays

they watched on the telly, how many books they read, they'd never see a better mark,

a bigger speccy, than that one.38

But having taken the speccy, with the scores level and time running out, Dumby, the best kick on the team, right in front of goal, kicks the ball to Clemboy instead of kicking for goal.

Clemboy kicks a point. When Blacky asks Dumby why, he says Clemboy hasn’t touched the ball and he doesn’t want him to lose face. For Dumby, it is about playing the game inclusively, and thus subverting the white culture of winning. This place for him is not a test of his bodily performance as much as it is a test of his respect for his teammate and race. His actions reinscribe the social rules and expectations around the contest. Dumby is empowered by this place and his physicality to make a statement—he holds the game in his hands and makes this place into something meaningful for him.

For Blacky, it is about whether he really is a gutless wonder. His moment comes. Scores are level, Thumper gets the ball, there are seconds to go and the only thing between Thumper and the goals is Blacky—the wheat silo vs the stick insect. The crowd is roaring, the coach is begging, but Blacky is reasoning "it's only a game" and sidesteps to get out of his way. At the

38 Gwynne (1998) p.107.

73 same time Thumper swerves and they collide, Blacky waking up in hospital to find they've won the grand final even though Thumper did kick the goal, but it was after the siren, so

Blacky had slowed him down by a couple of seconds, enough to win them the game.

“That was a gutsy effort Blacky. Tackling him like that” says Arks.

“It was a very brave thing to do," says Mum. "We're all proud of you." 39

Later at the presentation his father acknowledges his "gutsy" effort, and invites him back fishing. Blacky's apparently willing act of bodily sacrifice is redemption in his father's eyes, on the public arena of the football field, and Blacky is reinscribed as hero.

In this novel, racism is embedded in place and social practices, with the Aboriginals living marginalised some distance from The Port on the mission, referred to as The Point. Since the great football match, Blacky hasn’t seen much of Dumby and summer holidays present a different lifestyle, with both keeping to their own spaces. Then the town is shocked by a shooting at the local pub. The proprietor has shot dead two people and injured another during an armed break in. Blacky, initially excited by all the drama in their small town, finds out that

Dumby Red has been killed. No charges are laid against the proprietor. While there is some community concern about the shooting, there is no condemnation of the act, and the two towns are divided even more.

Small Australian towns don’t fare well in young adult literature, with their inhabitants often represented as bigoted, small minded and dysfunctional (for example, Sonya Hartnett’s

39 Gwynne (1998) p.110.

Sleeping Dogs,40 Steven Herrick’s By The River,41 Lonesome Howl42, Black Painted

Fingernails43). Elizabeth Grosz suggests that the city’s form and structure provide the most immediately concrete locus for the production and circulation of power, and is an active force in constituting bodies.44 She points out that the city is the context in which social rules and expectations are internalised or habituated in order to ensure social conformity or position social marginality at a safe or insulated and bounded distance (ghettoisation). This can be seen in Deadly Unna? both in the representation of the small town—The Port—as a ghetto in relation to the city, and also replicating the structure of the city in the town itself—The Point as ghetto to The Port. The town, like the city, orients and organises family and social relations, and is the active force in constituting the bodies of its inhabitants. The injustice of

Dumby’s death reflects the power of the white bodies constituted and reinforced by the structure of the town and how internalisation of attitudes such as racism and subsequent marginalisation of bodies can be perpetuated by place. But there are also liminal spaces, places entwined with bodies, where bodies can challenge, subvert and make change. In

Deadly, Unna? the jetty is one such space.

The jetty was Blacky’s favourite place.

I loved that jetty. I really did. I couldn't imagine the Port without it. I couldn't imagine

living in the Port without it. If, for some reason, the jetty went, then so would I.45

40 Hartnett (1995). 41 Herrick (2004). 42 Herrick (2006). 43 Herrick (2011). 44 Grosz (1998) p.35. 45 Gwynne (1998) p.56.

The local white kids and the summer visitors swim off the jetty, fish off the jetty and generally hang around the jetty. Blacky’s source of adult wisdom is gleaned at the jetty from old Darcy the fisherman. Blacky’s first real experience of a crush—on Cathy—is played out on the jetty, where she asks him to rub sunscreen on her back, and where Blacky impresses by teaching her to catch squid. And ultimately, the jetty is the place Blacky feels empowered to make a statement.

The jetty has a sign over which is scrawled ‘boongs piss off’, which has been bothering

Blacky for some time. He steals paint from his father’s prized shed and with all his siblings, heads to the jetty where in a joint effort, they black out the sign. Too scared to go home, they spend the night together on the beach.

Tomorrow there’d be hell to pay, but at that moment, down here at Bum Rock, my

brothers and sisters around me, I was happy.

Happier than a pig in mud.

Happier than Larry.46

Just as Dumby Red has reinscribed the social rules of the football match through the body using the cultural arena of the football field, so Blacky and his siblings reclaim their favourite place to make a stand against racism. The liminal space of the jetty enables the dissolution of boundaries of agency for Blacky, for the young, and gives them the ability to re-form them, however temporary that may be.

46 Gwynne (1998) p.273.

In both these novels, the interaction of bodies and place can also be seen through the authors’ connection to and relationship with their own place: their bodily experience has been woven into their fiction whether intentionally or not. From Ethel Turner’s diaries47 there is no evidence at all that she set out to produce a nationalistic piece of writing. In fact her diaries are disappointing in the respect that she sheds little light on her writing process or influences.

She is, in the 1890s, a young woman committed to family and self improvement, enjoying the fruits of her fortunate position in society, attending dances, balls, playing tennis, singing lessons and much writing. The references she makes to what is happening in New South

Wales and the rest of Australia are minimal and non-judgemental. But in her novel, the intertwining of bodies and place creates a statement of what it means to be Australian, acknowledging difference and imperfection, and capturing the essence of a country emerging from its liminal space in the world to assert its independence. In a parallel act, the liminal space Turner occupied as a woman on the edges of a patriarchal society enabled her to dissolve the boundaries around Australian identity, children’s literature and the family, and re-form them in a permanent way.

Phillip Gwynne48 admits to some aspects of his own life appearing in Deadly, Unna? He lived in South Australia, in the country, was one of a large family, and played footy. He says that “Blacky’s world is (or was) pretty much my world. But he’s not me.” Gwynne says he did not intend to write a political book, as he doesn’t ‘believe in causes’. While his novel is about racism, violence and injustice embedded in place, Blacky represents an Australia where individuals can make a difference and be empowered to make change through the intertwining of place and body.

47 Poole, P. (2011). 48 Rydge (2000).

The Body and the beach

Much of the literature written for children and young adults features outdoor living, reflecting a “land of sunshine and open space”.49 Many of these novels have been set in bush or outback settings. Lilith Norman’s 1971 Climb a Lonely Hill50 is a survival novel pitting the extreme vastness of Australia’s outback against Jack and Sue, who are on a trip with their uncle when they are involved in a car accident and he is killed. The children must first of all cross the desert in search of water, and then survive on their own resourcefulness. Patricia Wrightson used the Australian bush for a number of novels such as The Rocks of Honey51 which was set against the wilderness of the Blue Mountains. Nan Chauncy used the Tasmanian bush as the setting for Tangara,52 a ‘time slip’ story of an Aboriginal massacre. Eleanor Spence’s

Lillipilly Hill53 tells the story of a family newly arrived from England whose main character

Harriet thrives in her new environment while the rest of the family struggle to cope with living in a basic settlement in the Australian bush. Hesba Brinsmead’s work depicts many settings in Australia including northern New South Wales in Pastures of the Blue Crane.54

There were many other major contributors to this vein of writing including Joan Phipson,

Ivan Southall, Colin Thiele and Mavis Thorpe Clark.

Natural Australian settings have tended to fall into two opposing categories, according to

Foster, Finnis & Nimon: those that express wariness.55 In some novels, the natural

49 Foster, Finnis & Nimon (2005) p.51. 50 Norman, L. (1978). 51 Wrightson, P. (1966). 52 Chauncy, N. (2007). 53 Spence, E. (1974). 54 Brinsmead, H. (2004). 55 Foster, Finnis & Nimon (2005) p.53.

78 environment is represented as “a nurturing ‘significant other’ that is celebrated along with the moral and/or principled development of the protagonists involved”.56 On the other hand, the outdoors can be a fearsome, antagonistic presence,57 as evidenced in survival and disaster stories. They conclude that the beach has generally been represented as a positive place, an egalitarian space where people enjoy surfing, swimming and family fun.

And then, there was Puberty Blues.

The Beach

When the waves come rolling in and the beautiful people of eternal Summer Bay grace the screen in the long running television series Home and Away, Australia seems like one of the happiest, sunniest places on the planet. Young people on the beach are gorgeous, tanned and smoothly shaped, with no shortage of six-packs and belly button rings. No pimples, no hunched shoulders, no freckles in sight. No Aboriginals, Lebanese, Asians, or Indians.

Summer Bay is far from Cronulla, the site of racist violence in 2005 where mobs attacked each other over the rights to be on suburban Cronulla Beach, with one side identifying themselves as Australians (‘We grew here, you flew here’) and the other as Lebanese

(however, others were also attacked on the basis of their colour or clothing).58

Coincidently, though perhaps unsurprisingly, Cronulla Beach was the centre of Deb and

Sue’s world in the 1979 novel Puberty Blues.

56 Foster, Finnis & Nimon (2005) p.53. 57 Ibid. p.54. 58 In 2005 Cronulla Beach was the scene of violent racist riots. See Crabb (2005). 79

There were three main sections of Cronulla Beach—South Cronulla, North Cronulla

and Greenhills. Everyone was trying to make it to Greenhills. That’s where the top

surfie gang hung out—the prettiest girls from school and the best surfies on the beach.

The bad surfboard riders on their ‘L’ plates, the Italian family groups and the ‘uncool’

kids from Bankstown (Bankies), swarmed to South Cronulla—Dickheadland.59

Far from the egalitarian, classless space that Foster, Finnis & Nimon refer to, the beach is an active social space with a set of rules about who can be there, with whom and what they can do. Males have the power—they rule both the ocean and the females. The boys surf all day while the girls watch, or fetch them food. The girls don’t eat. “It was unladylike to open your mouth and shove something in it” and going to the toilet was “too rude for girls”.60 They tease the Bankies “from the greasy western suburbs” with their “yellow T-shirts, Amco jeans, terry-towelling hats, one-piece swimming costumes, worn-out Coolie surfboards and white zinc plastered from ear to ear”.61

The beach is a gender-dominated space, where surfies are the most desirable group. To be a

‘surfie chick’, by way of having a boyfriend who is a surfie, is an honour, coming with an expectation of sex on demand. This reflects the hierarchy Fiske, Hodge & Turner 62 refer to, resulting from what they see as the clash of regulated urban existence and the uncompromising nature of nature. Those who can conquer the challenges of the surf are to be admired, and they are male.

59 Lette & Carey (2012) loc.36. 60 Ibid loc.46. 61 Ibid loc.59. 62 Fiske, Hodge and Turner (1987).

Brinsmead was the first to challenge the gender domination of the surf in Pastures of the Blue

Crane when Rhyl takes up surfing. This is a sign of her belonging, the way she is able to take her place next to those who have lived here for all of their lives without feeling like an outsider. It also reflects how she is part of her place and how it is part of her. Not only a social space, it is part of Rhyl’s relationships with everyone around her. On the other hand,

Tim Winton does not have females surfing on his ocean turf in his Lockie Leonard63 (or any other) books. Surfing for Winton, as in his adult novels, is about growing into manhood, learning from those more experienced guys around you, finding out how to progress in the surfing hierarchy to get the best waves. There is no place for women here, for they belong in the home.

Kirsty Eagar takes the surfing culture and inserts her female characters into it. In Raw Blue,64 the first of her novels, Carly is one of the only females joining surfers on the Northern

Beaches of Sydney. Carly is attuned to the rules and regulations of surfing and does her best to abide by them out of fear. She surfs in order to cope with her ordeal of having been raped.

Surfing is the only time she is in complete control of her body, allowing it to feel. The surfing culture subverts the beach culture of happy families and bronzed lifeguards offering safety.

There is the coldness of winter surfing, the tedious waiting for the right wave, the aggression of establishing ownership of a wave, and the incredible thrill of riding it in, to turn around and do it again. There is respect for the old timers and the experts. There is tension and conflict over space. The young and inexperienced know to wait their turn on the fringes. Out here it is, as the title suggests, raw. Body against nature and the unknown.

63 Winton (2007). 64 Eagar (2009).

The ocean becomes sinister in Eagar’s second novel, Night Beach.65 Eagar subverts the image of the beach as an eternal Australian summer and gives us a cold and dismal setting.

I run up the dunes with the wind howling at my back, by ears burning from its

bite...[t]he sand is crusted over from the rain yesterday...I keep telling myself it’ll be

warmer in the water.66

As in her previous novel Raw Blue, surfing is male dominated. The ocean and surfing is about the body. Abbie is addicted to surfing. It is the place where “I’m put back into my body again” she says. 67 It overwhelms the senses. “The ocean is a vivid emerald colour and the wind ruffles the wave faces so that they shatter the sunlight like glass.” And riding the waves gives Abbie a complete bodily experience. “I see the shoulder of the wave on my left walling up, and in that moment I’m nothing more than the sum of sensations: power, push and speed”.68

The beach is the edge of Australia, an open doorway to somewhere—everywhere; a frontier which requires vigorous defending while at the same time it contains us. It is a liminal space where we play and imagine, a place where we are neither at work nor at home nor at school.

It is a place from where we could look outwards, but often only look inwards.

With a coastline of over 30,000km, it is somewhat surprising that small towns, the outback and the bush have featured so persistently in young adult literature of Australia but the beach

65 Eagar (2012). 66 Ibid p.1. 67 Eagar (2009) p.4. 68 Ibid p.8.

82 has not. Fiske et al identify the move away from the Australian myth of the bushman as it became less relevant, with the values of the natural environment and the tough physicality transferred to the beach with the icon of the bronzed lifesaver. “As the free, natural, and tough bush existence became more obviously an anachronistic version of national identity, the figure of the bronzed lifesaver filled the gap”.69 While this may be the case in art, it is not reflected in young adult novels.

There has long been an association between the land, Australia, and national identity. My earlier discussion of Seven Little Australians establishes Australian-ness as the opposite of

(and superior to) being British. James points out that one of the perceptions of Australian national identity is founded on establishing a difference between Australia and the conservative cultural values of England.70 She examines Australian children’s literature which uses seascapes to identify how they have helped shape perceptions of Australian identity. Beachscapes, she says are associated with closeness to nature, and therefore evoke associations with the “ideal of childhood: uncomplicated, natural, free, informal and physical”.71 She finds that Australian children’s literature—as distinct from young adult novels—favour a relaxing and pleasurable, safe beach.

For older readers, James analyses young adult novels which engage with the past and specifically, she considers the way shipwrecks are used to construct histories, showing how texts reflect how “our world or 'reality' is often constructed in terms of mythologised place”.72

69 Fiske et al (1987) p.54. 70 James (2000), 71 Ibid p.12. 72 Ibid p.20.

Conclusion

In this chapter I have discussed how the body and place are intertwined, in the manner of

Heidegger’s being-in-the-world and Merleau-Ponty’s embodied consciousness. Attitudes such as racism and sexism can be embedded in place, while place can also be a stage for performance of power and of subversion. I also identified that liminal spaces have the potential to enable the dissolving and re-forming of borders that give characters agency.

When writing the embodied adolescent into being, this intertwining of body and place needs to be created, on the foundation of sexuality and body image as discussed in the previous chapter. This treatment of the body in the shared power relationship between author and writer is fundamental to writing the embodied adolescent. The next chapter adds to these foundations, by considering how this shared power relationship might operate through a bodily connection for both author and reader, through the emotions.

Chapter 4 – Embodied connections

For the body is a source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food; and is liable also

to diseases which overtake and impede us in the search after true being: it fills us full of loves, and lusts, and

fears, and fancies of all kinds, and endless foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away from us the power of

thinking at all.

Plato Introduction

In seeking to give the adolescent a body in representations in young adult literature, I have considered representations of the body in terms of sex, sexuality and gender, and the body as a being-in-the-world, where the body and place are inextricably entwined. This framework is the basis of embodied writing, and informs my quest to give the adolescent a body in young adult literature. Another fundamental aspect to writing the embodied adolescent in young adult literature is the relationship between author and reader. I have argued that in young adult literature:

• The writer establishes a shared space with the reader, which is one of collusion and

intimacy, where the writer takes the reader into their confidence to access the

possibilities of adolescent experience;

• This shared space is different to the inviolable space of children’s literature because it

is more egalitarian, and provides opportunities for the reader to increasingly exercise

their own moral and ethical judgements; and

• This is also a space of liminality where boundaries are often blurred and dichotomies

cease to matter, with the re-forming of those boundaries and the crossing of thresholds

being a feature of young adult literature.

Since this thesis rests on the idea of the relationship between author and reader, I seek now to show how the shared space of young adult literature operates between writer, reader and text.

I look at examples of embodied writing to investigate how there is a bodily connection for both writer and reader established in the writing and the reading of the text. This occurs through a process characterized by immersion and emergence, where the writer and the reader immerse themselves in the text and emerge from the text in an interactive and productive process. This bodily process is based on Merleau-Ponty’s idea that the body is the means through which we know the world. Therefore, I will first discuss the way the body perceives the world, and then consider the potential for both author and reader to participate in embodied imagining through the process of camouflage.

Perception

In the course of our everyday living, we may not generally think about the relationship between the body and the mind, but this is a question that has been considered as far back as

Plato, who saw the body as the cause of all problems only solved by death and believed the mind (and soul) was separate from the body.1 More recently, it was Descartes who cemented the dualism (hence the term Cartesian dualism), with his view of the body as an extension of the mind. He saw the body as “an extended, non-thinking thing” with the mind separate, so that “I am really distinct from my body, and can exist without it”.2

As Welton points out, philosophers Hegel, Marx, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche challenged this dualism during the nineteenth century but it was the rise of phenomenological approaches by

1 Plato (2013) unpaginated. 2 Descartes (1901) para 19.

86 philosophers including Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty that provided significant impetus to this alternative thinking3 Heidegger believed that a mind, and having thoughts and feelings, can only exist for an entity who is actively engaged with the world.4 Dasein, his term for human existence, incorporates the body, the mind, the world and time. We do not have a body, he says, but “we ‘are’ bodily”.5

Johnson suggests that if the mind/body dualism is accepted, the meaning of things is primarily to be found in words and sentences which form propositional units. Instead, he argues that “[M]eaning traffics in patterns, images, qualities, feelings, and eventually concepts and propositions”.6 Attempts to distinguish between descriptive (cognitive) meaning and emotive meaning rely on the possibility of being able to separate emotion from cognition.

However, Johnson contends that meaning and knowledge are shaped by many things, fundamentally by the nature of our bodies: through the senses, perception, feelings and emotion. Given that it deals in words and sentences, writing, then, needs to also traffic in patterns, images, qualities, and feelings to represent both the mind and the body, the embodied consciousness, the being-in-the-world.

Hall argues that it is the symbolic practice of language (including signs, music and other symbolic practices) that underpins representation, and gives us access to the practices and shared meanings which form our culture, and access to meanings about “feelings, attachments and emotions as well as concepts and ideas”.7 But whatever is contained within a representation, the meanings and truths are “always only true insofar as it is perceived and

3 Welton (1999). 4 Wrathall (2005) p.10. 5 Welton (1999) p.4. 6 Johnson (2007) p.9. 7 Hall (1997) p.2.

87 coded as such by people”.8 Webb describes perception as a mental representation, or how the brain represents and organises knowledge. It is easy to see how representation might be considered to be a mind process giving weight to Descartes’ mind/body dualism, based as it is on language and all the thinking that language allows us, whether it be reading a novel, looking at a visual representation, or simply by having the thoughts we think every second of the day. However, we can only perceive because we are embodied, and some of that perception is mobilised by physical senses such as pain or excitement, some by linguistic processes bound up with cognition, and some by emotional states. Representation then is an embodied process based on perception, described by Merleau-Ponty, as our “most basic bodily mode of access to the world”9 and “the background from which all acts stand out”.10

He claims “the perceived world is the always presupposed foundation of all rationality, all value and all existence”.11 For example, if we cannot see the back of an object because of where we are standing, Merleau-Ponty argues that we grasp the unseen side as present through an act of perception which is a practical synthesis, not an intellectual one, not a representation and not a judgement on the basis of what is true. In perception, no mediation is necessary because there is nothing between the sign and the signified. The body is both perceiver and perceived, and the world of perception—the world that “is revealed to us by our senses and in everyday life”12 or “the world as directly experienced”—is already available to us.

This world which is revealed to us by our senses, highlights the way we depend on language to identify and describe many of the qualitative aspects of our experience. However, while all

8 Webb (2009) p.7. 9 Carman (2005). p.51. 10 Ibid p.67. 11 Merleau-Ponty (2002) p.13 12 Ibid p.34.

88 perception is embodied, not all perception is articulated, or is capable of being articulated, in words. For example, Merleau-Ponty refers to a ‘red patch’, pointing out that in order to know it is the colour red, we need to have learned what that means, as well as knowing the word

‘patch’. So he argues that nowhere in our perceptual awareness do we find “discrete qualitative bits of experience fully abstracted from the external, perceptually coherent environment”. Perceptual experience is therefore intentional because it is experience of something, such as ‘sensation of pain’, which is very different to ‘sensation of red’.13 The perceiver is not “a consciousness which ‘interprets’, ‘deciphers’ or ‘orders’ a sensible matter according to an ideal law which it possesses”.14

So, for Merleau-Ponty, sensation is an intentional, meaningful experience because it is interwoven with the world we perceive and each feature is interwoven with others.15 It is this interconnectedness between experience and the world, which is grounded in the body because

“through that body I am at grips with the world”.16 The body orients itself in an intentional, but not necessarily conscious way, within the environment.

A measure of embodied writing, therefore, might be seen in the way characters respond through their body, showing an interconnectedness between experience and the world, with perception by the characters being an act of the body, not consciousness.

13 Carman (2005) p.52. 14 Merleau-Ponty (1964) p.12. 15 Carman (2005) p.53. 16 Merleau-Ponty (2002) p.353.

Hartnett demonstrates this well in Butterfly.17 Throughout the novel, Plum Coyle’s perspective on the world is through her body.

• “Her breasts hurt when she presses them. Her tan halts at her elbows and knees. She

has the arms of a juvenile shot-putter, the calves of a bicycle rider.”;

• “Her hands and face feel swollen, even her eyes seem to bulge: she is such a beast”;

• Plum sometimes “feels edgy and dangerous”;

• She responds to her mother’s call for dinner “like a dog hears walk”;

• Her brothers’ recent silence “rolls up Plum’s spine like a hearse”;

• She senses “an obscuring fog of softness” around her father that she does not want to

disturb by letting him know any true, negative feelings such as her hating school;

• When Plum dwells on her fatness, it “turns the whole evening monochrome” and

when Mrs Wilks convinces her she could be in magazines, “colour is streaming back

into the world enough, and then too much, so the grass is emerald, the sky is mercury,

the rug a circus of scarlet and sapphire”;

• When eventually even Mrs Wilks wounds her, Plum feels “as if all her bones had

been disengaged from one another”.

Hartnett represents the body as central to and a part of Plum’s world. Plum perceives the world through her senses and often can’t explain her feelings. Her body responds first to situations and even her environment changes with her emotions.

The Giver by US author Lois Lowry,18 is an example of embodied writing, and how the body is the means by which we perceive the world so that body and world are one. Everyone in

17 Hartnett (2009). 18 Lowry (1993).

90 this society has a purpose, and a role for every person is selected for them. Jonas has a special gift and is allocated the role of the Receiver of all the community’s memories so they are not lost. The memories are passed to Jonas from The Giver’s body as real experiences and real sensations and emotions. By retaining memories of pain and suffering as well as happiness, excitement and so on, The Receiver’s role is to contain these memories and sensations on behalf of the community so they do not need to experience them and can remain subjugated. As The Giver says to Jonas, “if they lost you, with all the training you’ve had now, they’d have all those memories again themselves.”19

Jonas, through The Giver, is therefore now able to experience sensations he has never been able to feel. But Jonas needs to connect these sensations with experience, as James says, to move from the simple to the complex, from sensational to intellectual. On his first day of training with The Giver, Jonas experiences the cold of snow for the first time:

Now he became aware of an entirely new sensation: pinpricks? No, because they were soft and without pain. Tiny, cold, featherlike feelings peppered his body and face. He put out his tongue again, and caught one of the dots of cold upon it…[H]e could see a bright, whirling torrent of crystals in the air around him, and he could see them gather on the backs of his hands, like cold fur. His breath was visible.20

These sensations awaken a ‘new consciousness’ in Jonas. He sits on a thing he suddenly knows is a sled

… poised at the very top of a long, extended mound that rose from the very land where he was… his new consciousness told him hill… he understood instantly that now he was going downhill… the experience explained itself to him.21

Gradually, the world of sensation and meaning is opened up to Jonas through his body. The true world is now accessible to him through his body in a way it never was before, and with it comes awareness and understanding with the ability to think.

19 Lowry (1993) p.144. 20 Ibid p. 81. 21 Ibid p.81.

At dawn, the orderly, disciplined life he had always known would continue again, without him. The life where nothing was ever unexpected. Or inconvenient. Or unusual. The life without color, pain, or past.22

This novel uses its dystopian setting to represent the body and its interaction with the world as one, as inseparable. It shows that consciousness is embodied, and that it is derived from the body. There is no separation of mind and body, so that to influence and control behaviour, it is necessary to control the body’s interaction with its world.

This fictional example serves to show that perception through the body is the way we understand the world and make meanings. Now I will discuss the connection between readers and writers through the bodily experience of perception.

Throughout this thesis I have been building towards the idea of writing the embodied adolescent, and giving the adolescent a body. I have shown that in order to consider how the embodied adolescent might be written into being, the phenomenological theories of

Heidegger and Merleau-Ponty provide a framework to understand representations of the body and place, including sexuality, sex and gender, in young adult literature. I have also argued that there is a shared space of intimacy and collusion between writer and reader which is specific to young adult literature, offering a shared power relationship where the reader can increasingly exercise their own moral and ethical judgements.

The final aspect of my thesis then is to draw these concepts together and consider how this shared relationship might operate. There have been many theories around the interaction of

22 Lowry (1993) p.165.

92 the reader and the text which commonly see the mental processing of the text by the reader to gain meaning. These ‘reader-response’ theories (see for example Iser,23 Rosenblatt,24and

Fish25) focus on the role of the reader as determining the meaning of a text.26 Readers are seen as active participants in the reading process, with reading seen as a transactional event where the reader exchanges meaning with the text. What emerged from these theorists was the idea of the implied reader, that the text has been written for a reader with certain, defined characteristics. When writers were asked about whether they worked with an audience in mind, Paton found that about a third of the writers surveyed said they did, especially those writing for children or young adults. Here, they focus on “their work’s appeal to these audiences as well as age-appropriate themes and language”.27

The reader-response theories and the idea of the implied reader therefore relies on assumptions of the child which, as I discussed in Chapter 1, arrives at the position of Rose28 that it is impossible to ‘know’ the child. Additionally, with the emphasis on the reader,

Barthes’ claim that “the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author”29 is then borne out. The text stands on its own, with meanings to be created by the reader. Until the reader brings it into existence in their mind, in what Rosenblatt describes as a “lived- through” process, the text is only something with potential to exist and the reader must have some way of responding to it to make it meaningful.30 As well as reading strategies then, individuals bring their own history, their own lived experience as a being-in-the-world. But

23 Iser (1978). 24 Rosenblatt (1968 & 1978). 25 Fish (1980) 26 Nodelman (1997). 27 Paton (2009) p.129. 28 Rose (1984). 29 Barthes (1977) p.148. 30 Nodelman (1997) p.17.

93 as Abbot identifies, what is likely to be shared between author and reader through the text, is the same quality of discovery and feelings.31 Based on my discussion of perception above, I suggest that this trinity of author, reader and text happens through a process characterised by immersion and emergence such as in the operation of camouflage, a concept put forward by

Neil Leach32 to better understand the social role of the aesthetic domain.

Camouflage

Leach uses the concept of camouflage in the sense of assimilating to the environment, where

“the capacity to assimilate quickly can be seen as a vital mode of survival in an ever- changing world”.33 This assimilation is an embodied process. Leach extends our everyday understanding of camouflage as part of his quest to develop a theory to understand the social role of the aesthetic domain as a means of reinserting the individual within society, by allowing us to feel 'connected' with the lifeworld in general.

Camouflage is about the relating of the self to the world through the medium of representation. Leach sees it as a strategic response to the contemporary conditions of an image-driven society. It is not about disguising, or making something invisible. It is about forming a connection and engaging with the world through creative processes and products.

Thinking, writing, designing, listening, reading and representation are described as being within a ‘domain of self-empowerment’, a mode of self-expression.34 But camouflage is also a productive exchange and not every image, or every story, will be effective in establishing some form of connectivity. The productive exchange is dependent on the efficacy of the

31 Abbott (2011) p.479. 32 Leach (2006). 33 Ibid p.3. 34 Ibid p.242.

94 aesthetic expression. So the role of camouflage is not to disguise, or make invisible, but to offer a medium, a form of connectivity.

Camouflage can be enacted through the senses, especially those of smell and hearing. For example, if you walk into a space with particular music playing or candles burning there is potential for you to feel connected to that place. To use one of Heidegger’s examples, Van

Gogh’s painting of the peasant’s shoes, through the operation of camouflage, the viewer (in this instance) engages with the world of the peasant through the artwork in a way they may not have been able to before, the worn boots suggestive of the hard life of a peasant farmer, creating emotions which perhaps words alone cannot convey. And in the case of fiction, the reader engages with the world through the characters, setting and plot.

Leach describes camouflage as always involving a process of becoming other and seeing the self in the other. Camouflage operates through a process of assimilation based on representation, where representation is the model and camouflage is the modelling of the self on the other or assimilating to the other through the medium of the model. We may never fully become the other but through modelling we may approximate ourselves to the other, thus allowing readers to vicariously experience people, activities and events they have never actually experienced.

This idea of assimilation, copying, mimicry and so on in understanding the reading process is not a new one. Craik35 points out that human mental life depends strongly on constructive abilities, or making models that parallel the workings of the world. Aristotle used the term

35 Craik (1943) in Oatley (1999).

‘mimesis’ meaning imitation or representation, as a central concept of poetics; Djikic et al36 say that literature can be conceptualised as a cognitive and emotional simulation similar to running a movie in our heads; Gerrig speaks of fiction as an illusion and proposes that reading fiction is like being transported by the book to another time and place.37.

Fiction is not a ‘faithful correspondence’ of life, but it does need some ‘imitative correspondence with the real world’ in order to succeed,38 for it is the schematic constructions used in everyday life which are also used when understanding a piece of fiction.39

Caillois40 describes a number of organisms which mimic others and cannot be distinguished from those organisms. During the process of mimicry, the animal mimics the plant and ceases to perform its functions in relation to others—‘life takes a step backwards’. The animal assimilates to space at the expense of the individual. It loses its distinction. In a similar way,

Bogdan et al 41 speak about detachment from the text, being aware of the role of reader and

‘stasis’ as that ultimate surrender to the imaginary world being unaware of reading, and

Csíkszentmihályi identifies the state of flow, where people become so involved with and absorbed in an activity, that nothing else matters .42

Caillois’s notion of depersonalisation and assimilation of space in context of the mimicry of organisms, Bogdan’s idea of stasis as detachment and being unaware of reading and

36 Djikic et al (2009). 37 Gerrig (1998). 38 Oatley (1990) p.107. 39 Gerrig (1998), 40 Caillois (1984). 41 Bogdan et al (2000). 42 Csíkszentmihályi (1991).

Csikszenetmihalyi’s state of flow in terms of instrinsic motivation have a commonality with

Leach’s ideas of camouflage which he sees as involving surrender—becoming one with the other—and a subsequent overcoming: a differentiation of the self from the other. The logic of camouflage is to lose the self temporarily in order eventually to preserve a sense of individuality.

Leach speaks of this process of becoming in two ways. First, in the Deleuzian sense, that becoming is not to attain a form, but is to find a “zone of proximity, indiscernability, or indifferentiation where one can no longer be distinguished... neither imprecise nor general, but unforeseen and nonpreexistent”.43 The second is in the sense of Benjamin and Adorno’s concept of mimesis as “operating between two producing subjects and not through two produced things”.44 So the idea of ‘becoming’ is an active process.

The reader body surrenders to the text, becoming one with the other, a being-in-the-world of the text and the narrative, as a simulation plays out in our imagination. The reader body assimilates to the imaginary space of the narrative. There is no distinction between the real and the imaginary, the reader and their surroundings. In the act of surrendering to the text the reader is opening themselves to another world of experience and also of emotions in two ways.

Firstly, work in the area of embodied cognition points to the primacy of emotional response, as opposed to cognitive response.45 For the reader, the bodily response happens very quickly, within the first few hundred milliseconds. So in a similar way to James’ proposition that

43 Leach (2006) p.87. 44 Ibid p.87. 45 Miall (2009).

97 perception immediately causes bodily changes,46 and to Merleau-Ponty’s idea that the body is our unmediated access to the world, the reader body becomes personally implicated in the reading47 in an act of embodied imagining (my term).

Secondly, as Nussbaum48 has shown, for example, when the reader feels pity for a character, they also feel the significance of pity that exists in the world generally. This makes the emotion real, rather than simply an observation or sympathy and offers the potential to further implicate the reader personally.

This surrendering to the text relates to my earlier analysis of Rose’s concept of the inviolable space between author and reader in children’s literature, where Rose calls for the author to

“keep their narrative hands clean” by ensuring the child is always aware of who is speaking to avoid ‘molestation’. This can now be better understood because if the reader is to become personally implicated in the reading, the boundaries of children’s literature need to be firm or the child is at risk.

Emerging from the narrative, the reader body who has surrendered to the process of becoming and seeing the self in the other, unmasks, overcomes—distinguishes themselves from the imaginary—and returns to reassert the self as individual. The young adult reader of young adult literature reasserts the self as young adult in a particular time and place as other to the embodied imaginary experience of the novel. They also reaffirm the self as young adult in relation to adult and the culture they are immersed in. The adult reader of a young adult novel reaffirms the self as adult, wiser, more experienced, teacher and upholder of cultural

46 James (2007). 47 Miall (2009). 48 Nussbaum (2001).

98 practices and morals. The animal might return to its original form, reassert itself as organism

—perhaps as a chameleon changes colour from brilliant to boring, or the octopus changes back to its original shape when the threat has gone. But does the reader return to their original self?

It is now recognised that personality traits change well into middle adulthood.49 The transformative potential of art by those who appreciate it has been investigated by Sabine and

Sabine50 who found that for avid and committed readers, books are powerful instigators of self-change. Averill suggests that great literature allows the reader “to participate in an act of emotional creativity”,51 and that emotions are both mediators and products of creative work.

Djikic et al52 extend this idea, identifying emotions as being the mediators of personality change. They showed that changes in emotions may lead to permanent changes in personality structure and that fiction can lead to gradual change of oneself towards a better understanding of others.

So the reaffirming of self on emergence from the text is the space of potential for change as the reader takes with them their physical and cognitive response back into the real world. In the act of reaffirming the self, or distinguishing the self from the narrative world, the reader has new knowledge or insights as a result of their embodied imagining which can lead to personality change. Such change is mediated through the body’s emotional response.

49 Djikic et al (2009) p.24. 50 Sabine & Sabine (1983) in Djikic et al (2009). 51 Averill (2005) p.8. 52 Djikic et al (2009).

The novel A Small Free Kiss in the Dark (A Small Free Kiss) by Glenda Millard53 can show how camouflage might operate. A Small Free Kiss deals with two of our greatest fears: the fear of war and destruction of culture. At an everyday level, it also deals with issues such as homelessness, abuse, and the family.

Skip is a child whose family, and the system, have failed him. His mother has walked out and his father committed suicide. Placed in foster care for his own safety, he is let down by the abusive foster family. Skip runs away in order to seek safety. Living homeless on the streets of a city is safer, and preferable, to the daily family/school struggle. Skip befriends the ageing, homeless Billy, who is himself struggling to survive. When war breaks out and the city is attacked, Billy and Skip seek refuge in the library. They find six year old Max, waiting in vain for his mother. Suddenly, Skip has the family he has so yearned for, as the fear and violence of war keeps them together.

In war, safety and survival go hand in hand. The trio seek refuge in a former theme park.

They are then joined by 15 year old Tia and her baby, whom they name Sixpence. For a while they survive and life is probably the happiest for Skip that it has ever been. In one scene, Skip is walking down a now deserted street with Max and Billy, the unlikely father figure.

I didn’t like this place. It was too quiet…I wanted to ask Billy where everyone had

gone. Where were the people who owned the nice houses? Were they watching us,

wondering which side we were on or if we had come to steal from them, or worse?

53 Millard (2009).

100

Max walked in front of me with his hand in Billy’s… I almost wished for the sounds

of war machines and bullets and bombs and shouting and marching black boots on the

footbath. At least I could have breathed properly without worrying that someone

would hear me. Instead, I walked slowly and breathed quietly and said nothing.54

The reader has access to Skip’s mind, as the focalisation is through him. The body is implied through his visual senses and his hearing, his sense of being watched, his breathing and his walking. As a reader, my stomach may be churning; I too look over my shoulder. I am ready for the unexpected, in a state of heightened awareness and my heart may be beating faster while my muscles may be tense. The author could describe this fear, but there is no need to.

Through immersion into the text, the reader body has the opportunity to become the other, to be Skip as he walks down a deserted street in one of the biggest cities in Australia. The reader body has surrendered to the process of becoming and is seeing the self in the other. This is a connection to the world—the known world of a big, frantic city, and the possible world of devastation from war which exists in many parts of the world but in a distant way. This connection is here, now imagined and felt through embodied imagining becoming a lived experience.

Emerging from the narrative, the reader body overcomes—distinguishes themselves from the imaginary—and returns to reassert the self as individual. For engaged readers of A Small

Free Kiss, issues of fear and safety offer the potential for the reader to increase understandings of war from the perspective of ordinary people. The operation of camouflage allows them to connect with the world, realising these are real experiences for some. This may influence their attitude towards war, to being on the ‘third side’ as Millard says, those

54 Millard (2009) p.91.

101 who don’t believe in war. It may give them greater understanding of the differences in families—that families don’t always equal safety. And it may raise the question of whether the sacrifice of human life is worth the gain, offering the reader the opportunity to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. In terms of the liminality of young adult literature, the boundaries between adult and child, around the notion of family, and right and wrong are dissolved and re-formed. The writer is also implicated in the camouflage process, and it is in this liminal space that the bodily connection is shared with the reader, through feelings and emotions.

Fleckenstein55 has argued that an embodied discourse is needed to take bodies into account in writing. She suggests that the variety of philosophical perspectives on writing all disregard physical bodies, so that “bodies and texts remain unreal and unpossessed, eternally separated”.56 Her concept of the ‘somatic mind’ is a way of uniting bodies and texts. Somatic mind is where the mind and body form “a permeable, intertextual territory that is continually made and remade”.57 The somatic mind is a “being-in-a-material-place” whose boundaries are constituted and reconstituted “through the mutual play of discursive and corporeal coding”.58

This concept emerges from the position that we can only know things through our physical make up and our culture. Fleckenstein cites Hayles’ example, that frogs see small objects in erratic motion, so that even if they were cognitively capable, they could never have evolved

55 Fleckenstein (1999). 56 Ibid p.284. 57 Ibid p.281. 58 Ibid p.282.

102

Newton’s law of motion, that an object at rest remains so until a force is exerted.59 So our body capability in being able to see an object at rest together with our cognitive ability and the intentionality of scientific investigation led to new knowledge. This reflects Merleau-

Ponty’s idea that body and world are only intelligible in light of the other, that the environment is accessible only through the perceptual medium of the body.60

Fleckenstein also suggests the process of embodying writing cannot be reduced to a list of discursive features, but “grows out of, feeds into, and reflects embodiment”.61 She cites

Haraway, suggesting that the crucial qualities of writing somatically require a commitment to

“partiality, irony, intimacy, and perversity”, and goes on to say that to embody writing, writers must make “a contradictory but complementary commitment to immersion and emergence”.62

Immersion, in the same way as occurs in camouflage, refers to those moments in writing when boundaries between self and reality dissolve, “a falling into focus or passion where reader, writer and text come into being… there is no reader, no writer, no text apart from the relationships among them”.63 In this space, as with the reader who loses themselves in the reading process, both writer and reader perceive feelings and emotions through the body in a shared (though not an identical) experience. Emergence is the crucial difference between an individualist approach and a “collective movement to empower[ment]” where the writer emerges into the responsibility of and for boundaries, emerging from the experience in words

59 Fleckenstein (1999). 60 Carmen and Hansen (2005) P.68. 61 Fleckenstein (1999) p.295. 62 Ibid. 63 Ibid p.296.

103 and stories.64 The reader of young adult novels emerges with potential for change, through the experience of the blurring and re-forming of boundaries and the ability to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements through the shared space of collusion and intimacy established by the writer.

Conclusion

I have argued that, for both author and reader, there is a bodily connection established through the text which occurs in the space between writer and reader through the process of camouflage. This can occur because embodied writing gives the potential for embodied imagining, where the reader can become personally implicated in the story. As part of the immersion process, both writer and reader submit to the text and lose the self temporarily.

They become one with the other, assimilating to the imaginary space of the narrative. In this space they make a bodily connection through emotions, feelings and senses. They emerge from the narrative reaffirming the self and bring their responses back to the real world. In young adult literature, this is potential for intentional change for the reader in a shared power relationship, which does not exist in the inviolable space between author and reader in children’s literature.

My young adult novel is a product of my exploration of the space between author and reader.

In the final chapter, I discuss how I have written the embodied adolescent into being through sexuality, sex, gender and the intertwining of body and place, and how I may have established a shared power space to engage the reader.

64 Fleckenstein (1999) p.298.

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Conclusion – Textual bodies: the creative practice of writing the adolescent body

The human frame being what it is, heart, body and brain all mixed together, and not contained in separate

compartments as they will be no doubt in another million years.

Virginia Woolf

In this final chapter, I conclude by discussing how, through creative practice in producing my young adult novel Demolition, I have given the adolescent a body. I have done this through:

1. A conscious representation of adolescence as embodied and adolescent experience as

valid; and

2. Embodied writing through sex/uality and gender and the inseparability of body and

place.

I will conclude this chapter by discussing the significance of my study in terms of what I have learned about young adult literature, and my original contribution to knowledge.

Representing adolescence

A major consideration and a starting point for writing decisions was that of how the adolescent body is represented in young adult literature. Heather Scutter’s 1999 work

Displaced Fictions, is based on the title of an Australian young adult novel called Displaced

Person by Lee Harding, which Scutter says “sets up a spectacular metaphor for adolescence,

105 that fraught state of being caught between worlds”.65 The main character in this novel is

“drifting into a liminal ‘greyworld’, our own world from which colour and substance have been leached”.66

This representation of adolescents in young adult fiction is not uncommon. Here, for example, is Plum Coyle, aged 14 and already hideous.

...this thick black hair hugging her face like a sheenless scarf; these greasy cheeks with their evolving crop of scarlet lumps; this scurfy, hotly sunburned skin; these twin fleshy nubbins on her chest that are the worst things of all, worse than the downy hair that’s feathered between her legs, worse than the specks of blackness blocking her pores, worse even than the womanly hurdle that still awaits her, the prospect of which occurrence makes her seize into silence—and nobody has informed her of the fact that she is hideous.67

Not for Plum is there any sense of the eager anticipation of the maturing body suggested by de Beauvoir.68 Half-adult, half-child, Plum is not only suffering under the weight of puberty and adolescence, but also the liability that is being female.

And this is Carl Matt.

He pictured himself, a bloated pincushion on sturdy legs. A slow-moving target. For

Carl had grown to be a great lump of a kid, nearly six feet tall on his fourteenth

birthday and square, like a box on stumpy legs, according to Sarah. From the

65 Scutter (1999) p.10. 66 Ibid p.10. 67 Hartnett (2009) p.1 68 De Beauvoir (2011) p.323.

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shoulders down, the sides of his torso fell straight, so that there was no separate chest

or stomach, no waist or buttocks. Just flesh... He became so used to the image in the

mirror, of a stomach bulging through the line of buttons, that he habitually held his

hands over his middle as camouflage.69

Carl Matt, big and beefy. This adolescence is the “awkward, alienating, an undesired biological imposition” that Grosz describes.70 In their history of adolescent novels, Nimon &

Foster71 point to the emergence of ‘the problem novel’ identified by Kloet in 1979 as giving the impression that “the adolescent years are necessarily plagued by the four Ts – tension, trauma, turmoil and trouble”,72 started by the universal experience of puberty.

Young adult novels published since 2000 feature less of a search for identity and the angst of being an adolescent, and more about the effects of life events. For example, the main character Aaron in Gardner’s The Dead I Know is big, socially alienated and unkempt when he arrives for a work trial at JKB Funerals. After a haircut and a shave, he is transformed into

“tall, dark and handsome”.73 His self-consciousness about his size is less from his adolescent condition and more from the unspeakable trauma he suffered as a five year old witnessing his father murdering his mother and then killing himself. Aaron lives in a caravan park with his ageing grandmother who has deteriorating dementia. Aaron suffers from continuing nightmares and is a sleepwalker, often waking up far from his bed. When he gains an apprenticeship with the local funeral directors, Aaron realises it is something he can do well.

His body, his background and his adolescence, all contribute to the way he successfully

69 Moloney (1996) pp. 4-5. 70 Grosz (1994) p.75. 71 Nimon & Foster (1997). 72 Ibid p.6. 73 Gardner (2011) Loc.100.

107 approaches his job. While he is transformed visually from awkward schoolboy to a man in a suit, emotionally he is still weighed down by his problems. As he develops relationships with

John Bartlett the undertaker, and his family, Aaron gradually finds his place and gains some measure of confidence. But he lives in the liminality of the caravan park, his home life quite separate to work and a place where he is not safe from either himself or the other residents.

The boundaries of home and family are blurred, he is caught between the past and the future in that grey liminality of which Scutter speaks.

Similarly, in Friday Brown,74 Friday is caught in the liminality of grief after a life on the road with her recently deceased mother, and haunted by the family curse of early female death by drowning. Friday is drawn to the charismatic, yet angry and dangerous 16 year old Arden, head of a family of homeless adolescents who live on the edge of society, squatting in a dilapidated, unoccupied house in the city of Melbourne. The tragedy of these homeless young people outweighs any issue around their state of adolescence. This novel is about fear, safety and survival, power and control and the ruthlessness that emerges when power is undermined.

In terms of body image, characters in contemporary novels, apart from Plum Coyle, generally have no issues with their bodies. For example, very few protagonists are fat. In the novel

Friday Brown, one of the main characters, Carrie “moved quickly and lightly for a big girl”.75

Margaret Clark wrote at least two novels featuring overweight protagonists where weight was a central theme of the story: Fat Chance76 and No Fat Chicks.77 However, in general there are few references to overweight characters.

74 Wakefield (2012). 75 Ibid Loc.401. 76 Clark (1993). 108

Representations of characters with a disability or illness are rare too. Some stories are about the character coming to terms with their disability. For example, Wendy Orr’s Peeling the

Onion,78 is about an athlete who is seriously injured in a car accident and her story through rehabilitation and finding herself. Representations of disabled or ill people as part of everyday life are also scant. Don’t Call Me Ishmael by Michael Gerard Bauer79 features a character who has recovered from cancer. Alyzon Whitestarr by Isobelle Carmody80 features a young man in a wheelchair as part of a group of friends in the novel. Jinx by Margaret

Wild81 and About a Girl by Joanne Horniman82 feature an intellectually disabled child sibling.

Similarly in Lawrinson’s novel,83 adolescence plays a part in the context of the story, but for none of the characters is it an issue of body image. Initially we do not know anything about the appearance of the four protagonists, other than that one has a ‘middle eastern’ background and one looks like a goddess. But we know Zoe is forthright and speaks too soon, can be hurtful, and has a good sense of humour. Mala is happy and boy crazy, Abby is the socially conscious one and shy with boys; and Bree’s nickname of ‘Glamazon’ suggests she is tall and gorgeous. At one point Zoe, angry at having been laughed at by a group of guys, says “My body felt all wrong, awkward and ugly, and people walked by me without so much as

77 Clark (1998). 78 Orr (1996). 79 Bauer (2006). 80 Carmody (2005). 81 Wild (2001). 82 Horniman (2010). 83 Lawrinson (2012).

109 glancing in my direction.”84 However, this does not seem to have caused her too much concern for the rest of the story.

Abbie in Kirsty Eagar’s Night Beach85 doesn’t think she is much to look at, though she is fit with “no jelly bits” from surfing and riding to and from the beach.

My face isn’t heart-shaped like Lauren’s, it’s oval. My nose is straight, but it’s not

particularly delicate, and I’ve got round cheeks not high cheekbones. I’ve got full lips,

which bird girls like Lauren don’t have, and people say I have a nice smile, so there’s

that at least.

But my body could never be considered fine or delicate. I’m short and curvy with

generous breasts... [W]hen I’m around girls like Lauren I feel like a clump.86

Younger says that body image, weight and sexuality are inextricably linked in young adult literature.87 Her analysis of American novels up to 2005 shows that characters who do not fit the ideal of being very thin are marginalised. Characters who are heavy or overweight are usually depicted as sexually promiscuous, passive and powerless, while thin characters act responsibly and appear to be powerful.88 But often, as I have mentioned above, there is no physical description. In this case, Younger says females are assumed to be thin because someone who is fat is always described as such; because they are rendered the other.

84 Lawrinson (2012) loc.269. 85 Eagar (2012). 86 Ibid p.17. 87 Younger (2009) p.2. 88 Ibid p.4.

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Representations of young adults in fiction reveal much about adult preoccupations89 and is widely seen as a “reflection of the status of childhood in the society that produced it”.90

In addition, as Nikolajeva91 also points out, children’s literature has been seen as adult authors’ memories of their own childhood and as therapeutic treatment of childhood traumas.

As a writer, it seems my depiction of adolescence will therefore reflect my understandings of and attitude towards the adolescent and reflect the status of adolescence as it is in society today. My awareness of this as a writer influenced my characters’ development and actions. I determined early that any ‘fraught state’ would not be due to the stage of adolescence, but to the circumstances in which they found themselves in and the events which happened to them.

I endeavour to represent adolescence experience as valid without relying on the ‘excuse’ of adolescence as the basis for characters’ decisions and feelings. One way I do this is by giving them agency. This then gives readers the opportunity to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements on, for example:

 Kate’s decision to have an abortion and not to tell Steve;

 Rhyll’s decision to squat in the house;

 Kate and Mollie’s sense of control of their lives;

 Kate’s (and Rhyll’s) sexual desire and agency;

 Rhyll’s semi-independence and growing apart from her family.

89 Scutter (1997). 90 Nikolajeva (2010) p.6. 91 Ibid.

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I believe this is the type of approach that is central to the emancipatory approach Galbraith suggests, which focuses on childhood experience “first and foremost for itself” (original emphasis),92 assuming that childhood desires are legitimate and admissible.

Embodied writing

My creative piece is both the product of research and the research itself, combining with this exegesis to form a whole. Creativity forms a part of my quest for knowledge. David Bohm considers the operation and meaning of creativity to be a state of mind. If one is wholeheartedly interested in what is being done, one is “always open to learning what is new, to perceiving new differences and new similarities, leading to new orders and structures”.93

This accords with Heidegger’s idea of attunement as Dasein comports itself towards existence. Dasein is attuned, or disposed to the world through moods which make it “possible to direct oneself towards something” and make certain things matter to us. “We submit to the world so that we can “encounter something that matters to us”.94

So I submit myself to the world—as a PhD student, as a writer, and as a children’s writer. All my experiences matter to me as a writer, and all my observations. Dependent on my current project, some things will be more important and relevant at a particular time. For this exegesis and creative product, I have focused on representations of the body and how to write the embodied adolescent. I have noted how others write about the body in young adult literature and explored what it is to be a writer of young adult fiction through practice.

92 Galbraith (2001) p.194. 93 Bohm (1996) p.20. 94 Heidegger (2008) pp. 175-177,

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In writing a novel for young adults as the creative part to this thesis, I have intended to give the adolescent a body through embodied writing which pushes the boundaries of the genre. I have also aimed to produce an engaging story with good writing, humour and sadness, depicting the ordinariness of everyday life as well as the anticipation of the future.

I have explored ideas of embodied writing based on the intertwining of the body (including sex/uality and gender) and place, with an emphasis on the body as our means of understanding the world. In exploring these ideas through creative practice, I have taken the approach of:

 Focusing on the body as the prime means of perception, for example:

 Rhyll notes in her diary “I could swim before I could walk or talk, snorkel

before I could cut my own food and stand up on my boogie board in the waves

before I could read...I could hold my breath for over a minute, had cut my feet

on oyster shells, been stung by bluebottles, and broken my arm falling off

slippery rocks”.

 Cameron, who’d already fainted in the waiting room, “… felt woozy the

whole time, glad he was lying down, hating the fact his body was betraying

him in such a feeble way. In his mind, he was not worried about injections,

blood, scraped skin. But the prickling hot and cold needles which danced on

his arms, legs, face, even on his skull, the way the world swooned, and the

dampness of his palms as the doctor stitched and washed were impossible to

deny”.

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 The intertwining of body and place, for example:

 Rhyll and Cameron’s first kiss on the beach;

 Rhyll and Mollie playing in the waves as a nostalgic event;

 The beach as a meeting place;

 Rhyll’s affinity with and ability in the water.

My novel is set on the Australian beach in a ‘coastal’ setting as opposed to an urban beach.

Rhyll, is entwined with place. Her interactions with the beach and the ocean are inseparable.

She feels its moods and the ocean reflects hers. The beach is a liminal space for many, not at home, not at school, a place where boundaries are constantly reformed. The sea serves to border us as much as it might represent freedom. It defines who we are and gives us hope as to who we might become. Swimming at the water’s edge is also a space of liminality, not on the sand, not in the ocean, the shoreline constantly reforming; and the beach is symbolic of adolescence, the world ahead fraught with vastness and the unknown, the sand shifting underfoot, but the excitement and thrill of taking on what seems impossible, aiming for the horizon.

For Rhyll, place is also about memory. Her home is more than a house, it keeps her memory of her mother alive, and links her to her past. And the past is also the present. The destruction of her home means losing a part of herself and represents reliving the death of her mother.

Her use of the house to have sex for the first time is a way of representing the body and place as one. Her decision is a symbol of the conscious making of significance through place and a statement of her own agency.

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For Cameron, the beach is freedom and fun. It’s about bodies. As I wrote about Cameron’s body, I felt distanced in the sense of being female and not knowing what it was like to be male. But writing through my own body, thinking about Heidegger’s being-in-the-world, immersing into the work and emerging to return to the work guided my writing decisions.

A major exploration of the body is undertaken through the character of Kate, ambitious, beautiful, intelligent and pregnant. In young adult novels, pregnancy is often a punishment for having sex. Kate was always going to have an abortion but the psychological effects remain with her forever. Her moral dilemma was not one of the head, but of the body. Both female characters who have sex in the novel are empowered in a deliberate ideological statement. I acknowledge that, as Stephens95 points out, it is impossible to write without ideologies. While I know there are unintended ideologies, I am conscious of some, such as:

 The representation of Kate and her family, and Cameron’s mother, as well-educated

professionals and snobbish;

 The deaths of the two males as being almost deserved;

 The representations of desirable bodies being slim, active and attractive, and those

who are overweight are undesirable and lazy;

 The lack of representation of poverty, disability, indigeneity or race; and

 The espousing of middle-class Western values such as education, travel, access to

technology.

As Nodelman argues with his discussion of the hidden adult, and Melrose with his discussion of the hidden child, the presence of ‘the other’ is unavoidable. As author, my knowledge and

95 Stephens (1997).

115 my experiences are my reference points. I make an offering in good faith with good intentions, but how it might be received by a reader who I cannot know, remains hidden.

Novels for young adults are about young adults, and therefore as Trites has shown, are often about emerging sexuality and desire and I am presenting a point of view on this. In the establishment of the space between author and reader, as with real time lived space, the presence of the adult sets up the potential for exploitation. But as Melrose acknowledges, the child is not a passive recipient, adults do not have all the answers, and it is not a simplistic picture of imposed power.96

Conclusion

I set out with the task of writing the embodied adolescent subject into being through a young adult fiction novel. With this intention, I establish a relationship with the reader—the known readers as part of this academic process, but beyond them, the indefinable, imagined reader linked to me by this text. I conclude that the space between us is what defines young adult literature. I have argued that this relationship is about creating a more egalitarian space between writer and reader than that which exists in children’s literature, which, as Nikolajeva discusses, is deliberately created by the powerful for the powerless.97 In the liminal space of young adult literature, the boundaries of the idea of adolescence are re-formed, the borders blurred. The author—me as writer—establishes a shared space, with my offering of the text based on a collusion, a non-threatening invitation, perhaps a dare, to participate in a reading experience which is also a bodily experience.

96 Melrose (2012). 97 Nikolajeva (2010).

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This author/reader dynamic is a shared relationship where the reader is given space to exercise their own moral and ethical judgements. In my novel, there are numerous examples of this potential. The most obvious one concerns Kate’s relationship with her boyfriend and her pregnancy. Kate has desire and enjoys sex, a perspective which is rarely explored. That adolescent males want sex is not questioned in literature. But females who want sex and enjoy it are often presented as deviant, as I demonstrated in Chapter 2. Kate’s decision to have an abortion is about control of her own body, and how her emotions are tied up with her body. Perhaps it shows a ruthless side to Kate which implies that she will succeed in the political environment she is heading towards. This is a stereotypical assumption that I recognised but did not make overt. I made a conscious decision not to be judgmental about her actions but at the same time I wanted to show both sides of the argument. Her decision not to tell Steve is the most contentious aspect for me.

In Rhyll’s case, power over her body is also central to the story. In writing about Rhyll and

Cameron having sex for the first time, and from her perspective, is pushing the boundaries of young adult literature. It is about enjoyment and empowerment, and simply the fact that we have bodies. But it is not, as an act between two people, the cause of great angst, though it raises questions that allow the reader to make their own moral and ethical judgements.

My original contribution to knowledge rests in my establishing a relationship with the reader through my creative work, which sees a space of collusion and intimacy. Having immersed in writing through the process of camouflage to elicit a bodily response to embodied writing, I set up the potential for the operation of camouflage and the shared bodily response of the reader through feelings and emotions.

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I began this dissertation by searching for the embodied adolescent in the landscape of

Australian young adult fiction, and considering how they are written into being. The aims of my study were to:

1. Explore representations of the embodied adolescent subject in the landscape of fiction

for young people;

2. Consider the bodily connections which link writer, text and reader; and

3. Creatively investigate, through practice-led research, how the embodied adolescent

subject is written into being by giving the adolescent a body.

I have argued that young adult literature is a separate literature to that of children’s literature by virtue of the different relationship established between the writer and the reader, and through the blurring and re-forming of boundaries that the liminal space of young adult literature allows. This sees potential for transformation of the individual, with the crossing of thresholds and blurring of boundaries being central to the characteristics of young adult literature. The concept of liminality can give insights into the culture and cultural products of adolescence, though its limitations are exposed by the desires of others who seek to inhabit it.

My novel takes on the adolescent body as a living feeling thing, entwined inextricably with place and exploring the relationship between writer and reader through the process of camouflage, immersing into and emerging from the work in a shared bodily experience through the text.

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Categories can imprison us, and they can free us when we cross those borders. Young adult literature, a separate literature in its own right, is the ocean that laps on the sand of children’s literature. The horizon is the mirage of adulthood. And the body is that which traverses all, central to writing, to reading, to being.

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Demolition: a novel

Tanya Kiermaier

To Tim, Sarah, Ben, Libby, Stewart, and Mark and all our fun times at the beach.

The sea is a mad dog. The workmen roar to be heard above it, and dodge the Norfolk Island pines trying to flog anyone or anything within reach of their fronds. Later, they would agree that the Earth itself seemed to be against them. Men who didn’t believe in anything they couldn’t touch with their calloused hands said that the girl had the weather gods on her side.

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CHAPTER 1

Rhyll has closed the flimsy curtains as best she could, and barricaded the doors with the old metal-framed chairs Dad had decreed unwanted. Let them drag her out. Maybe she should tie herself to something to make it as difficult as possible. But the house is empty.

The wind rattles the windows and the whole house trembles. Rhyll feels the waves pounding in her chest. She peers through the curtain gaps. A crowd is gathered on the corner. They have come to see the spectacle of the demolition, and now they find another level of entertainment: reality tv right before their eyes, and they love it. Local teenager in a standoff against the faceless, nameless corporation represented by the presence of the bulldozer blocking the road and the small army of blokes in luminous vests.

Rhyll sees her dad talking to Myles Harrison, Chief of Destruction and Profiteer

Extraordinaire. Her brother Daniel stands behind the barricade with Andrea, Dad’s girlfriend.

But the very people who should be there are missing and their absence sticks in her throat.

Where are Mollie and Kate? No Cameron Bloody Ferris to be seen of course. What a total suck he turned out to be. But where are the girls? Her best friends? She is not so surprised by

Kate, who has for these last few weeks been secretive and unreliable. But no Mollie— something must be wrong. Something had better be wrong, she thinks in a moment of bitterness, for such abandonment.

Rhyll makes herself as comfortable as she can on a patch of the worn carpet in the front room, leaning up against the wall where a bed had always been. She’s brought some food and

135 drink, her journal and pen. She has to write everything down before the memories crumble with the house.

My Life So Far

By Rhyll Barry

I was born with the sway of the pine trees, salted and peppered by the sea breezes. Our house was right on the beach, the ocean spreadeagled before us in all its rawness, meeting the galaxy in a swish and murmur of blue. Blue skies, blue seas, blue eyes. The ocean was in my mother’s eyes and now that’s mostly what I remember of her features. Pine trees, tall and arabesque, still line the beach. And the ocean still throbs in me, sighs, thunders, rolls; it’s angry and prehistoric, then murmurs and bitches, yeah, bitches, snappy clapping waves, slapping bodies and cranky as wasps. Or sometimes still as ice. The universe holding its breath.

Dad and Mum, Daniel and I, lived in that house, with the ocean labouring, panting, huff huff blowing through the summer solstice. There was the splash of dolphins too, snorting and cavorting, surfing the tide bleeding up onto the shore in swells of froth and bubble. Seals hung about in the whirlpools offshore. And out to sea were whales, waving and breaching and spouting. That’s what Mum told me. She told me how happy everything was, the day I was born…

Rhyll pauses, sucks on her pen, and reads over what she’s written. Happy? She is sure they’d been happy, a little happy family pod in the house her grandparents’ parents had built—the first house in Dolphin Point and the best spot on the peninsula. Yes, happy. Who wouldn’t have been?

…and how happy the days were, sunny and blue and glassy with life. The thing I remember most is the water.

“You were a water baby,” said Dad, “just like your Mum. Mermaids the pair of you.”

I could swim before I could walk or talk, snorkel before I could cut my own food and stand up on my boogie board in the waves before I could read. Before I had started school I knew 50 different fish species, could eyeball octopuses hiding in the rocks, and shadow sand rays along the river bottom. I could hold my breath for over a

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minute, had cut my feet on oyster shells, been stung by bluebottles, and broken my arm falling off slippery rocks.

There is a thump on the verandah and Rhyll jumps to her feet. She races to the front door half expecting axe blows. It shudders but remains closed and intact.

“Rhyll, it’s Dad,” her father’s voice is straining above the wind and sea.

“I’m not leaving,” she shouts back.

“Please, Rhyll, we’re not going to win this.”

We? Rhyll snorted in disgust. When did this become ‘we’? “I don’t care. Let them break the door down and drag me out. I’d like to see that in the papers.”

“They’re not going to do that.” Rhyll sees her father’s face through the transparent curtain.

He looks old, she thinks, old and tired. But not remorseful; not sorry. Now that he had

Andrea, this place was just a cardboard folder in his mind’s filing cabinet: a run-down, unfashionable fibro (yes fibro!) beach house that stood out from the new concrete apartments like a rotting tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. “They are going to wait a bit longer, and if you don’t come out, they’re going to get a warrant and get the police to move you.”

“Fine. Tell them to bring their capsicum spray. And bolt cutters.”

She sees her father sigh, wipe his brow and shake his head. He turns back to the crowd, where Myles throws his hands up in disbelief and irritation.

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Rhyll goes back to the front room, once her parents’ bedroom and the room she was born in.

She takes up her journal and pen. But no thoughts come. She hates that. Writing is like swimming with the current: once you start, the words simply flow and you can keep floating along with them. But if you stop—if you are interrupted—the thoughts dam up into a stagnant pool.

The sun shines crookedly through gaps in the blinds, giving enough light to emphasise the old cracks and knocks of years of family living. Suddenly, Rhyll feels its bareness like a toothache. This room, this space, where so much life has happened, so much loving, laughing, crying.

Dying.

For a long time it had been all white, the carpet a fawny, florally design—what you could make out. Then Andrea decided the walls had to be blue because it was a beach house. Of course it had to be blue. Go into any of the new apartments and there’d be blue: Mystic Veil, or Pacific Harmony. Sometimes yellow: Cascading Sands, or Beach Tapestry. Often white:

Sleek Solstice or Summer Bride. Blue, yellow, white: the holy trinity of modern-ness. But

Andrea hadn’t painted the ceiling and it was flaking. Same with the window sills. Andrea is like that, doesn’t see the detail of things. Sweeps the floor but doesn’t see the cobwebs round the lights and in the corners. Cleans the shelves but you can write messages in the dust layer on the tv. Happy to move right on in, eat, watch tv and sleep but doesn’t notice the bills.

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And it was in this room where Rhyll had first met Myles. It was the beginning of summer and a gloriously warm day. Rhyll had been out snorkelling and returned to find her father home, an unusual thing. Jeff was a mechanic in the Bay, and usually didn’t get home till later.

There they’d stood, two men as different as seagulls and emus, looking at the view. Myles wore a fresh, lightly textured suit and a tie with a floral design which would make a real bloke gag, as Dad said later. He wore a lemony, light cologne, just enough that the scent hung in the air behind him. And her father, in blue, greasy overalls, tousled hair falling across his eyes, so like a seventies rock band lead singer, fingernails crusted with black grime and smelling of an unpleasant combination of sump oil and sweat. Dad introduced the other man as ‘a developer’.

“Call me Myles,” he said shaking Rhyll’s hand warmly and firmly. Rhyll squeezed back.

She’d heard that men measured people by their handshake, sorting out the weak from the strong. His hand was smooth, much like his smile, his hair, his chin. She could tell he was meticulous about everything, his fingernails neatly clipped and shaped, the plain gold wedding band, the gold cufflinks.

“Myles built the Pacific View Apartments,” Dad said, “and the Eagle’s Loft.”

“Yes, and they all sold off the plan,” said Myles, turning back to the view. “This area has really taken off. It is close enough to Sydney that people are seriously looking down here for weekenders or retirement.”

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“And who knows, with a better train service, Dolphin Point could be the new South Sydney,”

Rhyll said. He ignored her.

“So, Jeff, this is a great time to think about your options.”

“What do you mean? What options?”

“We can talk later, Rhyll,” Dad said quickly. “Thanks, Myles, I appreciate your advice. I’ll think on it.” That was the second, Rhyll knew, the very moment in time that things turned in a different direction, one that led on a downhill road to right here and now. Such a small, fleeting moment that she may never have noticed if she hadn’t come home when she did, or had she been a bit younger—when she thought things would always stay the same. It fascinates her that lives can be altered so drastically in a few seconds. These moments, all put together, make up your fate. And changing fate is impossible.

She had found that out with Cameron. Hated him from the moment she saw him. Vain, superficial, flippant. All the qualities she disliked. But fate had it all planned, thrusting them together, invading her spaces, making her laugh. Not that she regrets anything. There has to be a first time and she will always remember it as special. Every moment.

The sea had gone feral that day too. Rhyll doesn’t need to look now to know that beyond the crowd waiting patiently in the morning sun, the waves are hurling themselves against the rocks, water exploding spectacularly into a display of foamy fireworks. And Rhyll leans back into the emptiness of the old house, as still as the eye of a storm.

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CHAPTER 2

The summer had started with Cameron Ferris thinking that there was no better feeling: school finished for the year and only one more to go; Dad and Lou’s new apartment in Dolphin

Point, right on the beach; weeks ahead of him, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with whoever he wanted. Which meant sleeping in, swimming, fish and chips and milkshakes, and night parties on the beach meeting girls with hardly any clothes on. One long, partying summer. Bliss was Cameron’s word for it. He said it over and over. Sheer

Bliss. Utter Bliss. Absolute Bliss. Unfortunately, Cameron learned that bliss doesn’t last very long. In fact, it had ended before he got up on that first morning.

“Hey, you lazy lump,” Rachel’s voice knifed through the last moments of Cameron’s bliss.

“It’s past morning you know.”

No movement.

“Just saw a great photo of you and Megan,” Rachel went on. “Some party that was. Didn’t know you were so into each other.” Even in his drowsy state, Cameron was thinking what a shame it was about Rachel’s voice. She was pretty and clever, athletic and funny, destined to be a lawyer just like their mother; but her voice was high and strained, sharp as a scalpel.

He rolled over. “Photo? What photo?”

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“You and Megan,” Rachel said. “She’s put up some photos on Facebook. I thought you should know.”

“So what?” But the door had shut.

He was glad to get away from Canberra. Stupid place to put a capital city, so far from the beach. He’d had a great couple of weeks after school had ended… party after party, swimming down the river, even got into a couple of nightclubs with some fake ID. But he was keen to get down to the coast; new set of people, the beach at their doorstep, and a place where there just seemed to be less rules, and you could practically live outside.

He groped for his phone on the bedside table where it had been vibrating silently all morning.

Cameron’s eyes adjusted to the screen.

TJ: way2go spunkrat

Bestmate: how lo did she go

Bec: ur strange but it wood have been funny as hell!!

Manda: OMG, CAM!!

Mark: mmm...yes...bahahaha

Cameron supposed he should get up and check out exactly what it was all about. It was hot in his room anyway, even with the curtains drawn. He emerged from the dimness like a bear after winter, wondering why he was finding it so hard to feel awake when he hadn’t done anything the night before except watch a bit of tv. Rachel’s laptop was on the table with the screensaver on. He clicked the mouse, and there he was grinning stupidly back at himself—

142 bare-chested, the photo cut off at his waist so it seemed like he had no clothes on at all—and

Megan Chalmers’ face pressed against his chest. The photo tag said ‘Sucking Nipple’, in case anyone didn’t get it.

“No way,” Cameron brushed the hair out of his eyes and shook his head.

“Did you have any clothes on?” Rachel asked.

“What? Of course I did, I had my jeans on. Get real!”

“Well it doesn’t look like it.” Rachel had a point.

“We’re in the kitchen, not the bedroom. It was just for a laugh. She got carried away.”

“So did you—you look totally off your face.”

“Well I wasn’t. Not much anyway. It was a party—we were enjoying ourselves. That’s what happens at parties. You should get out more.”

There were more messages on the site, a lot like his phone messages. Cameron began to see the funny side. It was good to cause a bit of a stir. Gave people something to talk about and he liked being in the thick of things. And when he stopped to think about it, having his nipple sucked had been an enjoyable experience. He wouldn’t have minded reciprocating. He might suggest it the next time he saw Megan. She wasn’t as prissy and formal as some of them. In

143 fact, she was a lot like him—his motto was ‘we’re here for a good time, and then a better time’.

Cameron decided that his Bliss had been interrupted long enough. “Let’s eat, then go to the beach. Time to introduce ourselves to the locals.” He put the photo at the back of his mind, and the beach at the front.

It was great walking straight out of the apartment block and across the road to the main beach. There was a good surf rolling in, and with it the salty, ocean-blown air. It wasn’t too crowded. A few colourful umbrellas and beach tents were spread out along the sand.

Cameron flexed himself, thinking tall and strong. Though he wasn’t tall, he was strong, and he was proud of the outline of his muscles. He wore his slim-line, black sunglasses, had his boogie board tucked under one arm and a towel and his footy under the other. Rachel had a big bag of everything: sunscreen, iPod, book, magazine, rice cakes, spare sunglasses, brush, beach mat, water, her towel draped over her shoulder.

Rachel settled herself on the sand, covered her fair skin with liberal doses of sunscreen and started reading. Cameron tossed his stuff near her and headed off into the surf. He thought he’d start with a swim, lie on the hot sand for a while, and then get into some boarding. There was that Bliss again. It was a glorious day. Not much wind, steady waves, a yawning blue sky and sea joining in a hazy horizon. The water was cold but refreshing. Cameron revelled in the way the water carried his body, how the cold was like intimate fingers all over him, the current prickling and needling his skin.

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From the camouflage of the water, Cameron eyed the beach. Towards the rocks and apart from the main beachgoers, three girls stretched out on towels caught his attention. He caught a few more waves and shimmied a bit closer each time. The next wave ushered him to the shore and delightfully close. Smooth skin, bikinis (what a fantastic invention), flesh, flesh, flesh that made him so aware of his own skin, the way the water droplets ran down his chest, his arms, his legs as he stood up, the warmth of the sun against the cold of his body, the sand giving way beneath his toes. He could tell they were looking, even though they all wore sunglasses like Paris Hilton. Well, he’d give them something to look at.

He waded strongly towards the rocks, sucking in his stomach, standing tall. Flexing. Glad of his board shorts. His dad still wore ‘budgie smugglers’. Thank the fashion gods for board shorts. He climbed up onto the rocks. The tide was on the way out, leaving clear rock pools.

Cameron bent over, ostensibly to peer into a rock pool, but not seeing the anemones or the limpets stark against the slatey rock, nor the tiny translucent fish skittering about. Only conscious of those long-legged, sun-soaked, bare-skinned girls and his own glassy youth.

He didn’t notice the wind gust rippling the sea like the rising hackles on a dog. Nor did he notice the surge of incoming waves challenging the outgoing tide. So when the wave hit the rock like a hungry mouth, it swallowed Cameron whole. Water drove up his nose and down his throat in a suffocating rush, a grinding of skin and rock, shockingly sharp against his leg and foot, and a half-twist in slow motion as he lost sense of what was up or down or sideways. It seemed a lot longer, but it was only a few moments later that he was spat out ingloriously into the shallows, where he coughed and bled and hurt in front of the entire beach audience.

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Rhyll noticed Cameron and Rachel as soon as they walked onto the beach. She sighed. It was almost summer. Weekends were getting more crowded with the beginning of the tourist season. Summer was fantastic, with the bright, long days, the rising heat and sea breezes, but sharing it with hundreds—thousands even—of strangers took its toll. Acting like they owned the place. At least she had her quiet spots, her favourite places etched into her skin, that the tourists didn’t know about.

“He’s not a bad looker,” Kate observed from under her sunnies, big as planets.

“Yeah, a good start. Tourists have to be good for something,” said Mollie.

“Good for spending money,” said Rhyll. “He’s up himself though, you can tell.”

“So?” said Kate. “I’m not talking marriage, just some summer fun.”

“You’ve already got someone,” said Mollie.

“Yes, well, it won’t last forever. Mightn’t even last till tomorrow.”

“Keep your options open then,” Mollie grinned. “And I reckon this guy might be a step up compared to the usual. You might have some competition.”

“You?” laughed Rhyll. “You’ve told everyone you’re a lesbian. That might take some undoing.”

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“I didn’t tell everyone,” Mollie argued. “Anyway, he won’t know that. He’s a blow-in.”

“He looks kind of familiar,” said Kate. “He might have been here before. I never forget a face.”

“Who cares about his face?” said Mollie. “Look at that chest. And his butt—he’d look good in jeans.”

“For God’s sake,” said Rhyll impatiently. “Can’t we talk about something else? I went snorkelling with the blue groper yesterday.”

Kate and Mollie looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

“Hope it felt good,” said Kate.

“Hey that would be a good pickup line,” said Mollie. “Have you ever been snorkelling with a groper? Well whip your snorkel out and come with me!”

They laughed again. Rhyll was annoyed. The whole morning to themselves and they spent it talking about some up-himself-summer-blowie. She watched him climbing the rocks. She could tell he was eyeing them off. Was this what it was going to be like all summer? She felt a surge of anger at the whole thing. When the wave curled itself around him, Rhyll felt a moment of smugness, but then panic, as he disappeared into the broil.

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Mollie and Kate laughed.

“That will bring him down a bit,” said Mollie.

“Look, he must have cut himself, there’s blood everywhere,” said Kate. “Do you think we should see if he needs a hand?” Kate was keen for a closer look and Mollie had already made a move. So after Cameron had shaken the wet hair out of his eyes and spat sand out of his mouth, he was eye-level with the bellies of two girls in bikinis. He sank back into the sand, wondering if he had actually drowned and there really was a heaven.

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CHAPTER 3

Rhyll remembers this first encounter with Cameron and a fingernail of fear runs down her spine, making her skin quiver. Cameron wasn’t seriously hurt, she reminds herself. He enjoyed the fuss everyone made over the gash in his foot and his oozing, de-skinned leg. He seemed embarrassed about fainting at the sight of blood, but obviously happy to be escorted up to Kate’s car and taken to the doctor’s surgery in his feeble state by two gorgeous young women. He wouldn’t blame Rhyll in the least. But why would he? He had no idea of her past.

How she’d killed someone.

Rhyll shakes herself loose of the memory and turns to her journal.

Our house today looks like it is about to fall over, leaning slightly on its brick stumps and smelling of cardboard and wild grass. But it wasn’t always like that.

There is a photo of it looking fresh and straight, you could say ‘proud’, with my great- grandparents standing on the front steps. Tom was a fisherman and he’d built this house himself, right on the cliff so Alice could see the boats leaving and returning. There are no trees, and no neighbours. I wish I lived here then, in that black-and- white world.

When my grandparents lived here, Grandpa built a sunroom overlooking the garden especially for Grandma to do her art. And that’s where she also showed me how to model out of clay. I still have some of our masterpieces, and I still do sculpture. It was Grandma who sent me the poster of Michelangelo’s David. Dad says Grandma never got over Mum, and no wonder she is a bit loopy. I think that is a bit unfair. Claire, as she likes us to call her, is an artist and all artists are a bit different. Still, Dad nearly had a heart attack when David arrived, in all his naked marble glory.

Rhyll laughs when she thinks about David and the commotion he caused. He is the most beautiful sculpture Rhyll has ever seen. The poster shows every sinew and crease of his

149 ghostly skin, and she’s studied him and Michelangelo so much that she feels she knows them intimately. She is working at the cafe to earn enough money to go to Florence sometime next year and see him for herself. But no one else shares her interest.

“Your grandmother’s mad,” Dad had said, shaking his head. “Why would she send you something like this?”

“Look at the size of his dick,” Daniel had said. “Some warrior he would have been. Why is he naked? You wouldn’t go fighting a giant if you were naked! That Michelangelo must have been on something.”

Rhyll had tried to educate him. “Michelangelo made David in the 1500s, you know. It’s all about the perfect human form. He had to dissect bodies in secret just so he could see how they worked from the inside. I mean, this was just a lump of rock. And look—you can see the veins in his hands, his ribs, the muscles in his arm…”

“And his dick!” Daniel wasn’t the only one who couldn’t get past the sculpted genitals.

Neither Kate nor Mollie saw any more than Daniel. The poster of David was strategically placed as the centre of attention in her room, just so Rhyll could ‘get an eyeful’ as Mollie put it, from any angle.

“But that isn’t as good as the real thing,” Kate had grinned.

Michelangelo believed that the artist revealed what was already concealed within the stone. Sculpture, he said, is made by taking away, while painting is made by adding. I guess though I’m not an artist because I can’t find anything in the blocks

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I’ve chiselled. Maybe there has been nothing to find. Or maybe I haven’t practiced enough. I don’t expect to do anything magnificent. I just wanted to sculpt a likeness of my mother. Photos are flat. One-dimensional. Sculpture lets you see things from all sides. And sculptures can last forever. Look at David—he’s over 500 years old already. But while some of my figures haven’t been too bad, I haven’t captured that realness.

Maybe that’s because in my own head, when I’m not looking at a photo, I can’t really remember her.

Rhyll reads over her words with a sense of dissatisfaction. She didn’t mean to write these thoughts. This journal is so that she doesn’t forget things when the house is gone. Still, there is no point in crossing it all out. Rhyll thinks it is strange that when you are writing, thoughts happen unexpectedly. Writing and sculpting are both like that, your body and your mind work together, and what you create isn’t always what you intended.

The road ends at our house, the last house on The Esplanade. We had one neighbour, old Mrs Hanley, who died two years ago and her children sold the house. Now we have 10 neighbours living in the ugliest four storey block of units, whose shadow stalks us during the day, and at night blocks out the stars.

Our house is a simple house. There are a couple of concrete steps leading up to the small veranda and the front door opens onto the lounge room. The windows are full length and the view across the cliff edge is of the pine trees and the ocean. The front bedroom is the main bedroom where my great-grandparents, my grandparents, and my parents lived. And now Dad and Andrea.

Ok, it’s ugly if you judge it by today’s fashion. A rectangular fibro beach shack with a careless garden. But there is more to a house than just what it looks like. A house is like a body. It has warm spots and cool spots. It has memories. It has its own character. Our house has been here so long it’s part of the landscape, chiselled out of the cliff like a sculpture revealed by the artist.

Ok, maybe that is a little melodramatic, Rhyll thinks. But her grandfather was born in this room. So was Rhyll. And her mother had died in this room. She doesn’t remember seeing her

151 mother’s dead body, but she does remember kissing her goodbye. She was startled then by the coldness of her mother’s cheek against her own feathery lips, and the heavy rattling of her mother’s slow breathing. Coldness and rattling. The yellow of daffodils. The smell of soap.

And outside, the sea shuffling sadly against the shore.

She does remember seeing the body of the man she killed. When they pulled him from the water his skin was a cheesy blue, and across his head an enormous gash was leaking all the blood from him, it seemed to Rhyll. Part of her wanted him to open his eyes and get up. Part of her wanted him to stay dead. He stayed dead and it was her fault.

The tree alongside the house is gnawing the roofline and the rub of it is like a saw through

Rhyll’s thoughts. The wind still hums. Rhyll likes that, although the house is so eerily empty that she is hearing every sound. And now, footsteps along the cracked concrete. She scrambles to the window, pen and journal flung aside. It’s Myles. He sees her and smiles his salesman smile, charming and friendly, but Rhyll feels the falseness in her skin.

“Rhyll, I’m really sorry, but there isn’t anything you can do to change this you know.” Rhyll isn’t sure if it is a question or a comment, so she says nothing. Takes in his blue shirt and pin- striped suit. His shoes bright with polish. His perfect teeth.

“This house isn’t yours any more. It’s legally not yours.” He pronounces every word separately for emphasis. She wonders if he thinks she is totally stupid. She was there for the signing of every bit of paper—read every single word to her father who could barely write his own name. She wants to shout and scream at him, tell him she thinks he is a slimy, greedy, money-making con-artist, and all her muscles are tensed up with the words ready to come,

152 but her voice fails her. Then she sees Leigh Carter from the Tidal Times, camera in hand, coming up behind Myles.

“Can I get a shot, Myles?” As Myles turns, Leigh Carter clicks. The photo of Myles on the veranda and Rhyll’s face at the window will appear on the paper’s front page the next morning and be spread across the internet. Myles will take up most of the foreground, and, taken from a lower angle, he will appear strong and powerful, totally overshadowing Rhyll’s face, transparent as a ghost in the background. Leigh likes these community stories. He thinks

Rhyll has guts trying to make a point, even though it’s all too late. He knows the headline and byline already:

“Demolition of Dolphin Point History.

Rhyll Barry’s Last Stand.”

“I hope you’re not going to do a soft story on this, Leigh,” says Myles.

“I’m just telling things the way they are,” says Leigh. “This is Rhyll’s home, her feelings are real, and lots of people will empathise with that.”

“This is her father’s decision,” Myles reminds him. “And lots of people around here have done the same thing already.”

“Lots of investors,” Leigh says. “Not the same thing. The locals see it differently.”

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“For God’s sake, I’m a local,” says Myles impatiently. “I'm doing what people around here want. And not only am I running a local business, I’m creating work for locals. Make sure you report that.” And he strides away.

Leigh nods at Rhyll through the window. “How long do you intend staying here?” Rhyll shrugs.

“As long as it takes,” she says.

“What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Achieve?” Rhyll feels suddenly small. She had wanted to stop them, of course, but how childlike that seems now. She doesn’t want to be seen as a naive kid, trying to take on the establishment with no chance of winning. Nor does she want to be seen as someone having a tantrum because they didn’t get their own way, like a story on A Current Affair. Yet when she thinks outside of herself, that is what she sees.

“I just want to raise awareness of… of the impact of modernisation on small communities,” she says. “Of how people want bigger and better things and don’t appreciate what they’ve got. Of how new things are always thought to be better than old things.” Leigh scribbles in his notepad. “And how history can be wiped out by people with money.”

“So whose fault do you think this is?”

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Fault? Her father’s. Prepared to sell his soul? Absolutely, but Rhyll can’t publicly denounce her own family.

“Developers are the ones making all the money here,” she says stoutly. “They don’t think of the implications of what they do. We’re just the little people who can be bought out without any other consideration. But the council has a lot to answer for too. They should care about local history.”

“How much money did he offer you for this place?”

“I don’t know, but that isn’t the point,” Rhyll lies. She knows exactly, and that the first offer was significantly less than the final offer. It was more money than Jeff Barry would ever have expected, and enough for them to buy a much better home with money left over. Money that he’d give to Rhyll for her future studies. An amount he could never have turned down. “The point is that we had no choice.”

“Ok, thanks Rhyll,” Leigh snaps his notebook shut like a fish’s mouth on bait. “Good luck with your protest. Catch you at the Boatshed.”

“Flat white, no sugar,” she smiles. He nods and turns to go.

“Leigh,” she calls. He turns back, the morning light making him squint and highlighting the worry wrinkles in his forehead. “Do you think I’m stupid?” He smiles. Thinks about his answer.

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“Sometimes it is good to make a point,” he says, and walks off into the morning.

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CHAPTER 4

After Leigh Carter leaves, Rhyll sees Myles talking to the huddle of workmen, and they all leave. When the spectators realise nothing is happening, they too disperse. Rhyll hopes she will be left alone for the day and expects that they will turn up early in the morning and try again. But she also thinks they might be watching, waiting for her to give up and leave so there is no scene. So she isn’t about to let her guard down. She might lose in the end, but it is good to cause as much pain as she can: time is money and losing money is pain.

She has her phone but isn’t sure how long the battery will last. She will have to get Mollie or

Kate to bring her a fresh one—if they are still in town, she thinks bitterly. What can they be doing? Did she miss something? Maybe she had been focussing too much on herself as usual, instead of thinking about her friends. Rhyll calls Mollie and then Kate, but both calls go straight to message bank. There isn’t anything she can do right now, short of leaving and losing her vantage point. If she hears nothing from them by lunch time, she resolves she will go and find them. But for the moment, she has set herself a task and needs to get on with it, however shallow she might show herself to be.

I love to read novels and I especially love realistic stories where bad things are happening to other people. Not just things like the normal teenage angst over boyfriends and hating school or trying to figure out if they are gay or getting away from controlling parents. I am into real misery. Though I’ve noticed that even though these stories are about people who have been raped, or had terrible accidents, or are so depressed they can’t function, or are dying of cancer, and even though there might be aching sadness in the story, (I don’t often cry but it happens), at the end you generally feel ok. It’s like the author doesn’t want to leave you in a real state of gloom. Books are meant to be entertaining—you are meant to want to read them, not end up in your own book-induced depression. It’s not like I don’t know some

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people anyway who have had their own personal crises. Me, for example. My mother goes and dies on me before I can really get to know her, and then I kill someone with my extraordinary powers before I turn eight, and now my home is about to be bulldozed and it’s all Dad’s fault. So why do I read books of misery? I think it helps me put things into perspective, helps my brain rationalise things to itself. After all, things can always be worse.

I remember not being able to read—black lines all over a double page spread—and it was like the next minute I could. No one can really explain it, but lucky for Dad I was a good reader, because he can’t read. I mean, he can read but he finds it so hard, so laborious, that he just gives up. I have read everything to him since Grandma left.

On the good side, I get to know everything that is going on about our family. On the bad side, I have to be there whenever he needs to sign something or fill out a form or gets a letter. It’s weird about reading as Dad is not stupid. It is like there is something not connecting in his brain motherboard, and those black lines don’t make any more sense to him than if they were Chinese to me. He can fix cars though and anything mechanical. I thought it was a boy thing, but Daniel wouldn’t even know where to put the petrol in. Well, he might if he ever got up off the lounge and away from the games.

Since Andrea moved in, I have to be more nosy in case she takes over. Luckily Dad is in such a habit of getting me to read things that he still asks me first. Which is how I got to read all the documents about the house contracts—thrilling stuff. And luckily, Andrea doesn’t seem interested in any of that. Not on the surface anyway, though she is all set now that we’ve sold, isn’t she?

She sure is, Rhyll thinks wryly. She was probably right this minute riding Fluffy—yes, Fluffy the Clydesdale—around his new home. And no doubt Andrea’s mother is set to move into the guest room we just had to have. And the new car arrived last week which she drove around to show all her friends. Yep, Andrea is doing all right.

I guess I shouldn’t blame Dad for selling out. That is the rational part of my brain speaking. He is tired of everything, of not having enough time to himself as he is always working, tired of working for someone else who is really demanding, tired of having two teenage children who are probably not the sort of people he thought he would be related to—a computer nerd and a book-loving artist. Poor dad, he probably would have loved two kids who took things to bits and were always covered

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in grease. But he did sell out, and he sold us out too. It’s prostitution, giving in to the big wigs. It’s Un-Australian. In Australia, the little people are supposed to win, not cave in.

The phone jingles and Rhyll jumps, hoping it is Cameron. She has called and texted and been ignored.

“Mollie, where are you? Is everything all right?”

“Big morning, Rhyll, sorry. I will tell you all about it when I see you. What about you?”

“I’m still here and I think everyone’s given up for today. I had my photo taken for the Times.

I don’t know what is going to happen though. Have you heard from Kate? None of you were here!”

“I am coming down now. See you soon.”

Rhyll looks through the windows. The pine trees sway and the sea is choppy. Spray from the incoming waves is blown backwards before the wave gets in. Some people are down on the beach but are walking bent over, shielding their faces from the stinging sand flung by the wind. The bulldozer is parked down on the flat verge and Rhyll fleetingly thinks of emptying the fuel. Then she sees a figure on the promenade and recognises Cameron instantly. For one second she is overjoyed and her heart drums erratically, but only for one second until the familiar tide of anger rolls in. She wishes she’d never been on the beach that day way back in

November, or told him everything that first time they spoke, and never helped him that night at the party, which was all Kate’s fault anyway.

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CHAPTER 5

It was Kate who’d asked Cameron to come to the party in the first place. It turned out she was the doctor’s daughter, and got him a squeezed-in appointment, where he’d had the ten stitches in his foot and his shin flushed almost from ankle to knee “to make sure there are no bits of sea life embedded in your skin”, as the doctor put it cheerfully. “That can be nasty.”

Cameron, who’d already fainted in the waiting room, felt woozy the whole time, glad he was lying down, hating the fact that his body was betraying him in such a feeble way. In his mind, he was not worried about injections, blood, scraped skin. But the prickling hot and cold needles which danced on his arms, legs, face, even on his skull, the way the world swooned, and the dampness of his palms as the doctor stitched and washed were impossible to deny.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said. “I’m not normally a wuss, you know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the doctor said. “Happens to the best of you. Mostly football players I have to say.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Cameron groaned as the ceiling swayed, but felt too sick to continue the conversation. At last it was over, he was stitched, cleaned and bandaged, and when he sat up the colour started to come back into his face.

“Here, have some water,” the doctor offered. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

“Why footballers?” Cameron asked.

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“Why not?” laughed the doctor.

“We’re tough, we’re not… not…” he wanted to say ‘girls’ but his own sister had never fainted even when she’d had fractured her fingers and the bone had broken through the skin.

“We’re not wimps,” he finished. The doctor laughed again.

“Come back in ten days and I’ll take the stitches out,” he said. “Meantime, you can leave that miracle dressing on for a couple of days. It’s waterproof, but don’t go swimming till the stitches are out.”

Cameron’s glum mood was lifted when Kate and Mollie met him in the waiting room. And

Rachel.

“Sure you’re not going to faint again?” Rachel was the first to speak. He gallantly ignored her.

“Thanks for waiting,” he grinned at Kate and Mollie. “I’m all fixed. You can escort me home now.”

“Yeah, one on each arm,” said Mollie. “Help you hobble home in style.” They headed out to

Kate’s car. He tried to get in the front, but Kate pointed him to the back seat.

“Rhyll was right about you,” said Kate. “You can see your ego a beach away.”

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“Did she really say that? Doesn’t she like me?”

“She didn’t say that exactly,” said Mollie carefully.

“Why would she like you?” Rachel asked bluntly. “She doesn’t even know you.”

“Oh well, she’s the one missing out on my company,” he grinned again, an infectious smile which often got him out of, and sometimes into, trouble.

Kate rolled her eyes. “Lucky us then.”

“I was about to say that,” he said. “What’s on tonight? Friday night in Dolphin Point? Any parties? Clubbing?”

“There’s the bowls club,” said Mollie. “You won’t get in there easily.”

“And the Bluebottle Tavern, if you like steak and sport,” said Kate. “But tomorrow night we’re having a sort of schoolies’ party down the beach if you guys want to come.”

“Not far for you to limp,” said Mollie.

“That sounds good,” Rachel said. “What time?”

“Probably around eight,” said Kate. She drew up outside their apartment.

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“You sure there’s nothing on tonight?” Cameron said, thinking that a whole night at home with his father, Lou, Rachel, and the little ones, one a three year old tornado and the other just six months old, might be just too much like a boring family evening. He leaned forward so his head was between theirs.

“I’m seeing my boyfriend,” said Kate.

“And I’m seeing my girlfriend,” said Mollie.

“Ha, I’ve heard that line before,” Cameron said. “That means you’re desperate for a date.

Want to go for a cliff-top stroll in the moonlight?”

“Just get out of the car, Cameron,” said Rachel. “Sorry about him,” she said to the girls.

“What? Can’t I be friendly?” he said indignantly. “Careful! Watch the foot, the leg!” Rachel pulled him unceremoniously out of the car. He decided he had to get rid of her or he’d be a prisoner all summer. Cramping his style. And, he thought to himself, he did have style. They liked him. He could tell. As soon as the car had driven off, he bailed Rachel up.

“We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us, Rachel, and I’m big enough to look after myself without you babysitting me.”

“You are such an idiot,” Rachel said. “Can’t you see how stupid you are acting?”

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“Are you the freakin’ parents? Or teacher? Go find the nerd corner and you can all sit and read together then solve the world’s problems.”

“So mature, Cameron. I don’t know how we are related.”

“I’m sure we’re not. I must have been adopted.”

“Fine, fine, I will just ignore you and I won’t bother coming to rescue you or save you from yourself.”

“Great. That would be perfect.”

It hadn’t been a good day for Rhyll. She was rostered on for the afternoon shift at the cafe and left the beach straight after the Cameron incident. It had been busy. If she got paid by the coffee she would soon be a millionaire, she thought. There were three wrong orders, though mostly the customers were not too irritated, and then that dickhead Mitchell White came in with his mates, making their usual pathetic comments.

“Love the way you put head on that coffee.”

“Great life skill.”

“Unless you’re frigid, of course.”

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“She just doesn’t know a stud when she sees one.”

Finishing at 5pm, she arrived home to find her father, Andrea and Myles filling up the lounge room. Myles stood up and smiled his business smile, extending his hand but Rhyll ignored it, at once realising what was happening and feeling her body start to tense itself, ready for a fight.

“So this is Friday afternoon tea then? Where are the scones?”

“Sit down, Rhyll,” her dad said. “You might as well join in.”

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” Rhyll felt the heat rise through her body and knew her face was red and taut.

“We have talked this over and you know how we feel,” said Jeff.

“We don’t all feel the same way.”

“Rhyll, I don’t want to have this argument in front of Myles,” Jeff said. “He doesn’t need to see this.”

“How much money are you making out of us, Myles?” Rhyll asked, fixing her dark eyes on him. She could see the slight waver in his own eyes as he scrabbled mentally for an answer.

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“We make a standard percentage, Rhyll,” he said, obviously not going to enter into dollar amounts. “But in the end, real estate is a bit like art. It is worth what someone wants to pay and this is the best block of land in Dolphin Point. I think the price we’ve agreed on reflects that.”

“Which is what exactly?” Rhyll demanded. Jeff handed her some papers. She took them with a wry smile.

“But Dad, did you tell Myles you can’t actually read this? That you are an illiterate mechanic who needs everything in writing to be explained?” Rhyll saw herself firing the most effective bullet that she could and hated herself for it. The look on her father’s face and the way

Andrea touched him in reassurance wedged like a thorn in her own skin. She was a traitor of the worst kind. Who knew how powerful words could be? But only to a point: they weren’t going to change things.

“Come and see the new place, Rhyll,” Myles said quickly. “Yes, you are losing something, but things change. You are also getting something.”

Rhyll tossed the papers onto the table. “You’ve sold your soul, Dad. You’ve sold ours. I hope you live happily ever after now.” Without waiting for anyone’s response, and unable to hide her tears, Rhyll went into her room and slammed the door. After Myles had gone, her dad had words.

“You have a real mouth on you,” he said. “You need to think about what you say.”

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“All words and no power, Dad,” she raged at him. “Whatever you say goes.”

“It’s my house, not yours,” he spat back. “Remember that. You’ve got your own life to lead and maybe you had better go start living it somewhere else.”

“It’s my mother’s house,” she screamed back at him. “It’s more my house than yours!”

Eventually Andrea calmed them both down, but neither talked to each other and dinner was loud with only the television’s voice. Rhyll, who couldn’t eat anything anyway, was stifled by the heat and the mood and excused herself half way through.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Outside, the air was no less oppressive. Rhyll felt like it was trying to pin her down with its weight, and it took all her energy to push through it. Even so, she felt like she could keep walking, the ocean lapping at her side, until she got to the very end of Australia where she just might start her life all over again.

By half past six, Cameron was bored and toey. They’d eaten a ‘family’ dinner, though just how much Zac, the three year old tornado, actually got in his mouth was fairly minimal compared to what got in his hair, on the floor, on the table and everywhere else. He observed a new side of his father, as he gently supervised and cajoled Zac through the meal, while Lou held the baby and ate with one hand. Cameron knew then and there that he didn’t have a

168 parental bone in his body, and if it was this hard just to get through one meal, he couldn’t see himself getting through a whole parenthood.

At a quarter to seven his mother called, and while he usually didn’t mind talking to her, she was in a Mood. Something to do with a photo on the internet someone had called her attention to. She wasn’t particularly computer-savvy but she’d managed to find it and

Cameron wasn’t sure whether she was more upset about the act, or the fact that the photo was in “the public domain” as she put it and therefore liable to impact upon her reputation. Once she started, Cameron knew there was no chance of reprieve, and he sat through it with appropriate grunting responses. At least it got him out of clearing the table and washing up, so he just had to put the dishes away after he’d handed the phone over to his father, who seemed to be getting as much of an earful as he had. And it was still only seven o’clock; the beach was glazed in syrupy evening light as the sun dipped lower, people were swimming and walking and gloriously free. Inside the apartment, family hour was as stifling and repressive as a sweaty schoolroom on a hot summer day. His leg was aching, the baby was crying, Zac was in the bath screaming because his hair was being washed and he didn’t like the water on his face. Cameron limped out onto the balcony, shutting the sliding door and family hour behind him.

It was warm, the breeze swollen and fishy and Cameron revelled in the saltiness of it. Straight in front was the main beach, spread long and lean with rocks on the one side and cliffs on the other, which led to more beaches and around to the river mouth. The second floor apartment was just high enough to see the ocean beyond the cliffs to the right, and to the left you could follow the line of the shore against the rocks until it curved out of sight behind Norfolk Island

169 pines. It was close enough though to hear snippets of conversation from beachgoers if the breeze was low, and to see faces.

Striding along the path towards the beach, Cameron recognized Rhyll instantly. He never forgot a face, or a name, and even though he got the impression Rhyll didn’t think much of him, he wasn’t one to take that too personally or too seriously. In fact, though he wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, he liked the challenge of trying to win someone over. He thought he was rather good at it. But all he could think of right now was having someone else to talk to, and the feeling of boredom lifted like a kite.

He pulled open the sliding door.

“Pshoo, pshoo, Cam’s dead.” A naked Zac aimed a plastic bottle at him. His father followed close behind with clothes. The television was loud, and the baby was making happy sounds for a change but it all mingled like a piece of symphonic music gone horribly wrong.

“Ah, you got me,” Cameron clutched his heart.

“Pshoo, pshoo.”

“I’m going out for a while, Dad.”

“Fine, don’t wake us if you get in late.” His father made a lunge for Zac who squealed and wriggled like a small animal. “We get little enough sleep as it is.”

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“Pshoo, pshoo, Daddy’s dead.”

Cameron shut the door behind him. The quiet of the foyer was as sudden as going underwater. Gloriously free, Cameron hobbled at Olympic pace down the stairs and burst out into the evening. The sunlight flushed through him, the breeze played in his hair and ruffled his skin; the waves sang in his ears.

His timing was perfect. Rhyll was striding away, her head down, and oblivious to the joys of the summer evening and to Cameron or anyone else.

“Rhyll, hey Rhyll. Wait up.”

Obviously deep in thought, Rhyll looked initially confused, then clearly recognising

Cameron, tried to ignore him.

“It’s me, Cameron. Slow down, I’m injured. Fell off a rock.”

Rhyll slowed, considering what to say. In the end she said nothing.

“Where are you going?” Cameron asked.

“Nowhere.”

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“That is the good thing about being here, you can’t ever be going nowhere. Everywhere is somewhere.” Even Cameron thought that was a bit lame. “I mean, it is all so beautiful here you can walk and walk and not have to be going somewhere.”

Rhyll seemed to think about that but didn’t respond.

“Where are your friends?”

“You’d know better than me. Last I saw you were all going to the doctor’s.”

“Yeah, I sure haven’t had a good start.” For a moment Cameron felt uncharacteristically glum, and Rhyll glanced at him guiltily.

“Sorry about your… your accident.”

“Thanks,” Cameron said. “It would have to happen right now, at the beginning of the summer. But at least it isn’t footy season. Do you like footy?”

Rhyll stopped, sighed dramatically, rolled her eyes. “I’d rather eat newspaper.”

“Are you going to the beach party tomorrow night?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Kate asked me. I think she likes me.”

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“Well make sure Steve doesn’t find that out!” Rhyll warned. “He’s a lot bigger than you are.

Now, if you’re done, I’ve got places to go.”

“Are your friends there?”

“Where?” Rhyll said impatiently. He was like a buzzing fly determined to irritate until its death by swatting.

“Where you’re going.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You just said you had places to go!”

Rhyll shook her head. “Football players,” she muttered. “Figuratively speaking I was trying to give you a hint without actually telling you to Leave. Me. Alone.”

She stopped and glared at him. It was the first time she had really looked at him. She noticed his eyes were a dark blue, and she liked the way his fringe swept across his forehead, so that he looked like he had been out in the wind. He had already flicked his hair back with a toss of his head several times, and he certainly had a ready smile with even, white teeth. He was a bit shorter than her, dark skinned and dark haired. Had she been in a better frame of mind she would have admitted that he was worth a second look. But he was annoying beyond belief, and Rhyll wasn’t in the mood to be friendly.

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“Are you ok? Has anyone told you how your eyes light up when you’re angry?”

“No, I’m not ok.” Rhyll ignored the last question. “If you must know, I’ve just had my home taken out from under me because my Dad sold out to developers who have an insatiable appetite for money even though they’ve already got millions, and couldn’t give a shit about the average person. And now we’ll have to move house where we won’t have a view of the sea, and it will be a brand new modern piece of concrete without any character whatsoever and everyone is happy about it except me.”

Cameron wasn’t expecting to be told so much, and worried that she was more upset than he’d bargained for. He wasn’t good with being consoling or supportive, and looking at her now with her head down and her brown hair hiding her face, he thought she might cry. He was definitely not good with crying girls. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make it all worse (worse for him) and not know what to do. That would be awkward.

“Where do you live?”

“At the end of the Esplanade. The last house before the cliff walk.”

“Nice spot. I can see your problem.”

“It isn’t really a problem anymore,” Rhyll said, suddenly deflated. “I lose. End of story.”

“You’re giving up?”

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“What can I do? Dad’s made up his mind and trust me, we’ve had a few rows over this. He’s signing on Monday.” Rhyll stopped suddenly, struck by the realisation that she’d just spilled her guts to an almost stranger.

“You’ll think of something,” Cameron said confidently, relieved that she seemed to have recovered herself and they were back on safe ground. “Let me know if I can help.”

“Where do you live?” Rhyll realised she still knew nothing about Cameron other than his name.

“In Canberra mostly, with my Mum, but my Dad lives here with my stepmother.”

“Oh, I have one of those, sort of,” said Rhyll. “Stepmother, I mean.” Cameron didn’t seem to hear.

“And they’ve got two little kids. Really little,” he said.

Rhyll looked horrified. She hadn’t thought of that scenario. Maybe that is why Dad wanted a bigger house. Sometimes, she was caught out by the fact her father was more than simply

‘Dad’.

“We live in the apartments across from the main beach,” Cameron was saying. “I wish I could live here all the time. It feels so free.” They both looked out over the ocean, now cast in the hues of the setting sun.

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“It is beautiful,” Rhyll agreed. “But you can’t spend all your life swimming and snorkelling.”

“Snorkelling? I haven’t done that before. Where do you go?”

Rhyll was cagey. Her favourite spot was away from the usual tourist haunts and she liked it that way. It was the domain of a magnificent blue groper, and she lived in fear that one day some stupid tourist armed with a spear gun would get it.

“Oh, there are a few places around here. The river entrance near the caravan park is good, especially if you haven’t done it before.”

“Can’t be much to it, is there?” Cameron never lost an opportunity. “Maybe you can take me down there one day? How about tomorrow?” He conveniently forgot about his leg and the ban on swimming.

“I’m busy,” Rhyll said. Was he asking her out? Or was he just a talker? He was damn pushy, that was for sure. She wished she had some of his confidence. And he had a knack for talking, she’d give him that. Five minutes ago she was wanting to punch something and now he’d completely turned her mood.

“OK, what about Sunday?”

“I don’t know,” Rhyll said vaguely. “I might have to work.”

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“What, all day?”

“What about your leg?”

Cameron grinned broadly. “It’s nothing, it will be fine. Sunday it is. Now, why don’t you show me around Dolphin Point on a Friday night?”

“Sure,” said Rhyll, pointing around haphazardly. “The shopping centre is over there and the

Bluebottle Tavern is in the far left corner. The bowling club is way back over there, and the

Boatshed is over there.”

They had reached the end of the beachfront walk and the choices ahead were to go down to the beach, turn up to the town, or go back the way they had come. Rhyll took her opportunity to get rid of him and headed up towards the town at a fast pace.

“So now you know where everything is, don’t get lost. If you can’t read the stars, keep the ocean on your right and you’ll get home safely.”

“Gee, thanks for the tip.” Cameron didn’t try to follow. He had made an impression, he thought and knew he just needed to be patient. And he had bucketloads of patience. Where girls were concerned, he was Charmed.

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CHAPTER 6

“You’re the one who didn’t want me hanging around, Cameron, so I’ve made my own arrangements.” Rachel was looking gorgeous in a figure-hugging dress probably more suited to a nightclub than the beach, but Cameron knew her well enough to keep that thought to himself. “You can look after yourself, you’re a big boy now.”

“Fine, I was just making sure you were ok.”

“Hmmm, Cameron being considerate… that’s actually an oxymoron,” Rachel said. “Oh, and speaking of moron, see if you can keep your clothes on tonight. I don’t think the world could cope with another nipple sucking incident, or worse.”

“Since you’ve mentioned it, I would be happy to be seen doing anything which might cause embarrassment to you,” said Cameron, because in the end you could never argue with Rachel the Tongue.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Rachel said. “I will be ready with my camera. With your amazing abilities, we might even make a YouTube hit this time.” She smiled over-sweetly at him, and walked on unsteady shoes out the door, a bag slung over her shoulder containing a bottle of vodka, some lemonade and some plastic glasses. Cameron was left to make faces as the door closed behind her, much like he had done when he was five.

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Trust Rachel to be so organised. Cameron sighed. His leg ached even though he’d taken something for it. His whole Saturday had been spent nowhere near the beach, visiting Lou’s parents in a nearby town. He had seen no one other than family and had no time to himself to plan anything—neither did Rachel but she was always an extra step ahead. He wasn’t old enough to buy any beers and was dependent on Rachel for that, but in the current circumstances, she would have delighted in saying no in the longest way possible.

Dad, Lou and the kids had gone to the bowling club for dinner, a weekly event, so Cameron helped himself to the two light beers in the fridge. He took the leftover chicken from last night which he stacked between some bread and ate it, chewing loudly and with his mouth open to spite the absent Rachel. Then he went to Dad’s alcohol cupboard. There were some bottles of port, a bottle of scotch which Cameron suspected was a bit too expensive for a beach party, and four and a half litres of gin in beautiful blue bottles. He took one of those, figuring Dad probably wouldn’t even miss it. He wasn’t sure what you drank gin with, apart from tonic water, and there was none of that. He went back to the fridge and took half a bottle of lemonade, which was all that was left. By the time he rummaged about for a bag and cups, found his phone and changed into something he thought would be met with female approval, it was around delightfully dusk, and he felt primed and ready to be absolutely charming.

On a perfect summer evening the beach was never empty and Cameron found it hard to know where the party actually was, given he didn’t know anyone. He wandered past a few groups, trying to look friendly, but not too obvious as he checked out the girls. It was a bit of an art form. You didn’t want some guy thinking you were moving in on his girl or anything, but you needed to be a bit out there if anything was going to happen.

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Finally he saw Kate, Rachel and a few others he didn’t know over by some rocks and made his way over, wondering which opening line he might use to best effect. He needn’t have bothered.

“You’re the blowie who fell off the rocks then,” one girl said brightly. “Nice job.”

“Kate and Mollie came to his rescue,” said another. “Bet you wish someone got that on video.”

“Is it true that you fainted in the surgery before you even got the stitches?”

“Boys can’t handle blood,” said the first girl. “Thank God they don’t have periods. Can you imagine if they did? They’d take the whole time off!” More laughter.

Cameron forgot about being charming.

“Hey, isn’t there any privacy around here? I did get sixteen stitches you know!”

“This is Cameron, everyone,” said Kate. “Cameron, this is everyone.”

“And I didn’t need to get rescued, but who’d say no?” He glanced at Kate.

“Not you, that’s for sure,” she said bluntly.

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“Well, you saved all the kiddies and the mums from seeing me bleed to death on the beach.”

Cameron was starting to warm to his audience. Rachel had moved away, not wanting to be associated with him if she could help it. Emboldened, he put his arm around Kate’s shoulders, his hand brushing softly against her skin. “And I never did thank you properly.”

“Who are you, dickhead?” Cameron turned and looked up into the annoyed face of a tall, fit looking guy and remembered Rhyll warning him about Steve.

“Oh that’s Cameron, don’t worry about him,” Kate said quickly. Steve pushed up close to

Kate.

“Why would I be worried about him?” Steve turned his attention to Kate. Pressed his body against hers and kissed her.

“Get a room,” someone said, when it seemed they wouldn’t stop.

Cameron took the opportunity to search for friendlier faces. Yes, there was Rhyll sitting with

Mollie. Both looked glum and obviously needed some cheering up—and some charming. He was just the person to do it.

“How long do you want to stay?” Steve’s lips were at her neck, his hands sliding down her hips. “I can think of much better things to do.” Her breasts were against his chest. He was all muscle and hardness and heat. She loved the way her curves moulded into his body. They

182 looked good together, both tall, beautiful people. The doctor’s daughter and the builder-son of a builder.

She should tell him. She shouldn’t put it off. Things only get harder the longer you leave them, so her grandmother was fond of saying. Kate thought she was probably right, but Kate didn’t do things just because other people said so. And right now she wanted Steve’s body.

Didn’t care what was right or wrong, what was fair. She liked Steve, and had enjoyed the time they’d spent together, especially in bed. But she had never felt love, and wasn’t sure if she was meant to or not. When she tried to find her feelings, there was nothing. Inside she felt as flat as cardboard. Kate hated herself sometimes for this lack. It was a human bit she didn’t seem to have. “You only ever think about your own happiness.” Another wise offering from her grandmother.

Steve groaned in her ear. “Come on babe, I need you. My olds are out, let’s go back to my place.”

One last time, Kate thought.

Rhyll had to admit that she couldn’t help liking Cameron, despite his fat sense of himself and his amazing ability to irritate her. He had an air of good fun about him which appealed to her.

She sensed they were opposites. He seemed ready for fun every minute, whereas she always seemed ready to criticise and argue with everyone. Daniel said she was too serious, and mostly Dad and Andrea seemed to switch off when she was ‘on a rant’ as Daniel put it. So when Cameron came up to them, she offered a smile.

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“I saw you were having all this fun without me,” said Cameron. “So I figured I should join in.

Want a drink?”

“What have you got?” asked Mollie, peering in the white plastic bag Cameron offered. He was drinking one beer, and was hoping the girls would want the gin.

“It’s gin,” said Cameron. “And I have heard that a gin and tonic is the best drink in the world.”

“And gin with flat lemonade is second,” said Rhyll, as she poured out some for them both while Mollie added the gin.

“Cheers,” they both said rather unenthusiastically, touching cups before drinking.

“Where’s Rachel?” Mollie asked.

“Rachel who?” said Cameron. “I don’t know any Rachel and if I did, I wouldn’t talk about her when I am enjoying myself at a party. What did you guys do today?”

“Work,” said Rhyll.

“Looked after Grandma,” said Mollie. “She is getting pretty bad now. She thinks I’m Nella, her sister who died, like 100 years ago.” Cameron added that to his list of what not to talk about.

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“Hey, Rhyll, you said you would take me snorkelling tomorrow.”

“You said that, not me.”

“Oh come on! It’s meant to be beautiful.”

“What about your leg?” asked Mollie.

“I have to work at 11 so I’ll come by your place at, say 8am?” Rhyll figured that would be way too early for Cameron.

“That’s wa-a-ay too early for me,” he said. “What about in the afternoon?”

“Watch out, here comes Mitch White,” said Mollie warningly, as a group of three, beers in hand, approached them. Mitch, the obvious leader, was tall and lean, with sun-blond hair and a smattering of freckles.

“So, Rhyll, got yourself a blowie.”

“He’s just a friend,” said Rhyll.

“Locals not good enough for you?”

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“Leave her alone, Mitch,” said Mollie. “Just because you weren’t good enough doesn’t mean anything.”

Mitch finished his can, crushed it in front of Cameron’s face and dropped it at his feet.

“Rhyll’s a big girl now,” Cameron said. “She can make her own choices. And she obviously makes good ones.”

“What would you know, shortass?”

“Forget it, Cameron, he isn’t worth it,” said Rhyll anxiously.

There was a moment where they eyeballed each other like circling dogs, before Mitch moved on.

“He’s obviously one of the high achievers around here,” said Cameron, relieved it had come to nothing.

“He’s like the surfie gang guys in Puberty Blues,” Rhyll said.

“I haven’t seen that movie,” said Cameron.

“All the surfie guys are automatically heroes,” Rhyll said. “They choose who they want as a girlfriend and the girl is meant to think it’s an honour. That’s what Mitch thinks. All he wanted was a good Saturday night screw. Only I said no.”

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“I love that book,” said Mollie. “It makes me feel so much better about my life.”

They were joined by some others and the rest of the night Cameron spent talking to as many girls as he could. His ease in talking to anyone annoyed Rhyll. It was like he went from one person to the next, completely forgetting about the last person he spoke to, and especially forgetting about Mollie and herself. One minute he was nagging her about going snorkelling, and now that was the last thing on his mind. What annoyed her more was that she cared.

After all, she hardly knew him.

Someone had brought some speakers so there was music, and a bonfire was crackling on the other side of the rocks away from the main beach access. Couples drifted into the darkness and people came and went through the night.

Rhyll and Mollie had walked across to the toilet block and were on their way back when they came across Mitch and his mates with a few girls. Mitch had his arm around one and both were unsteady.

“Mollie, is that Rachel?” Rhyll said.

“She can hardly stand,” said Mollie. “Didn’t think she was that sort of girl.”

“What sort? I’ve seen you drunk.”

“We’d better get her away from Mitch.”

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“I’ll get Cameron,” said Rhyll.

Cameron was actually talking to some guys, sharing football stories. He’d long since finished his beers and lost the bottle of gin among the girls, but had managed to scavenge a beer from someone else.

“Cameron, I think Rachel needs you,” Rhyll said trying to pull him aside.

“Rachel? Rachel who? I don’t know anyone called Rachel,” he said loudly. Then turned to the others. “This is Rhyll, and she’s taking me snorkelling tomorrow.”

“Seriously, Cameron, she’s not good.”

“Don’t know who you mean,” he shook his head.

“She’s with Mitch White and can hardly stand!”

Cameron was stunned. He’d never seen Rachel drunk, let alone this drunk. She could hardly stand and was leaning against Mitch her head against his shoulder, his arm around her.

“Rachel, we need to go,” Cameron ignored Mitch and tried to take Rachel’s hand.

“Look, it’s the shortass blowie!” Mitch drawled. “Piss off mate, she’s my girl.” He shoved

Cameron away with his free hand.

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“Come on, Rachel,” he tried again.

“I said piss off!” Mitch straightened himself up and let Rachel go. Cameron moved to grab her.

“She’s my sis...”

He never finished. Mitch hit him, a low swinging punch in the guts he didn’t expect, which forced the air out of him and caused a wave of nausea. He fought to regain his breath and at the same time, tried to anticipate Mitch’s next move, thinking about how to protect his leg.

Shouts and heckles brought more people and everything became a blur of noise, sand and pain. Mitch was drunk and slow, and couldn’t stand any more, and Cameron was able to get clumsily to his feet and put some space between them. He braced himself for the next move, but Rhyll grabbed his arm.

“Come on, Cameron, let’s go, he’s past it.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Cameron, tasting blood and feeling his head pound. “Where is

Rachel?”

“Mollie’s got her,” said Rhyll. They were on the edge of the beach about to go back up the path, but Rachel had stopped to throw up in the bushes.

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They finally reached the road, and stopped again to sit on a bench overlooking the ocean.

Rachel was barely conscious and every bit of Cameron’s body seemed to be pulsing with pain. He looked up at their apartment. The lights were out but there was no way of telling from here whether Lou or Dad would be up with one of the kids. He didn’t think he could get

Rachel up there in the state she was in anyway. Mollie was thinking the same.

“So how are we going to get her home?” Mollie asked. “She’s too heavy to carry and you don’t look like you can do it anyway.”

“Maybe if we walk about a bit,” he said. “Find a tap or something.”

“There is the beach shower,” Rhyll suggested.

They shuffled back towards the beach, Mollie and Rhyll with Rachel between them, Cameron limping behind. Twice Rachel had to stop and throw up.

“You owe us big time for this,” muttered Mollie. Cameron said nothing, feeling sick himself just watching Rachel and feeling very glad he wasn’t left to sort this out by himself. He didn’t think he would have hung around if it hadn’t been Rachel. He was glad they didn’t have to know how pathetic he really was.

They splashed some water over Rachel, tried to clean her up and wake her up. Cameron washed the blood off his face and arm, thankful his teeth and his nose were ok. They made their way back up towards the apartment. By the time they got there Rachel was walking more ably, and mumbling incoherently.

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“Well, you can take her up,” Mollie said.

“Ok, thanks.”

“Don’t leave me with him,” Rachel mumbled.

“You’re home now,” said Rhyll. “Good luck, Cameron.”

Cameron and Rachel got in the lift, and Cameron prayed she wouldn’t throw up. She was wet and smelled of vomit, and it took all of his self-control not to be sick himself. There was no sound inside the apartment. He managed to get her into her room, and pushed her on her bed where she sprawled out, unmoving.

“Rachel,” he whispered, “you need to get changed.”

“Can’t. Dizzy.”

“You need to get out of your wet clothes,” he whispered loudly in her ear. Even as he spoke he realised that she couldn’t do it. It would have been hard enough to get that dress on sober, let alone get it off now. God, there was no way he was taking it off! But he couldn’t leave her in it, wet, smelling. But she’d kill him the next day. He’d never be able to look at her again.

No way, he couldn’t do it. Too bad. She would have to deal with it. He went out to the laundry and grabbed a bucket, and left it beside her bed, covered her with the blankets and shut the door.

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As he got in his own bed, shuffling about gingerly to find a comfortable position, he couldn’t help smiling. Rachel the Perfect.

Not.

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CHAPTER 7

“You can’t be serious?” Steve couldn’t have been more surprised than if he’d just lost a million dollars.

“Sorry, Steve. It’s just how I feel.”

“Are you seeing someone else? That guy down the beach tonight?”

“No,” Kate said shortly. “It would be easier to say I was, but I am not seeing anyone. I just want to be... well, free.”

It occurred to Kate as she was listening to herself try and explain things to Steve that she may never be ready to have a permanent partner. Her own parents had been married for 25 years and seemed like they would probably spend eternity together. She had been going out with

Steve for just over a year which was a long time, except that for much of the time she was away at boarding school and only saw him on the odd weekend and school holidays. Her school life and this coast life were totally separate. She had a great bunch of friends in

Sydney, and she missed them at times, but holidays always went quickly and she did enjoy the relaxing ways that living by the beach seemed to allow.

Kate, Mollie and Rhyll had been friends since primary school and Kate felt comfortable in their presence, almost like sisters, or cousins. But Kate was aware that the gap between them had widened considerably over the last couple of years. She was heading off to university

193 next year—that was the plan, had been the plan for her whole life as far back as she could remember. Whenever Kate came back to Dolphin Point, her resolve to study something interesting and stimulating was strengthened. She did not want to be the local doctor or teacher, run a coffee shop or a restaurant, or provide any kind of service to people whatsoever. And, whatever she did, it wouldn’t be here. Smalltown anywhere was too small for Kate. That was part of the reason she liked being with Steve. He was a welcome diversion from the local culture which focussed heavily on fishing all year round, and swimming and the beach during summer. But every time she came home Kate still had the feeling that she was moving, while everything around her was standing still.

“I don’t get it.” Steve’s voice was breaking. Kate was horrified he might cry. She hadn’t expected that. “I love you, Kate. I thought you loved me.”

“Steve, you’re a great person,” said Kate, taking his hand. “And I’ve loved every minute we’ve been together. It’s just time to move on. We can still be friends.”

“Can you think about this, please?” He was almost begging, which made Kate glad she hadn’t let it go on any longer.

“I have thought about it. It’s what I want.” Kate went to put her arms around him but he pushed her away.

“You led me on,” he said angrily. “You sleep with me one minute, and now you’re walking away.”

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“Don’t spoil what we had, Steve,” she said. “I will miss you.”

There was a silence. Kate took that as final, picked up her things and slipped out into the breezy night.

The streets were lit by moonlight and as she walked up the hill towards home, she refused to feel guilty. Sometimes, hard decisions had to be made. That was life. Kate gritted her teeth in determination. She had made two big decisions today. That was one of them. Now she had one more decision to follow through. If only this one could be as easy.

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CHAPTER 8

Rhyll was staying over at Mollie’s, and after they left Cameron and Rachel they continued walking along the beachfront. It was so different at night, with the ocean and sky joined in shadow, like an enormous stage with the moon as spotlight. The pine trees still shimmied in the breeze, small bats darted around the tops of the street lights snatching insects, and the strangely electronic chirping of cicadas went on and on.

“He didn’t even say thanks,” Rhyll was indignant. “Typical.”

“Well, he did have other things on his mind,” said Mollie. “But I don’t imagine he’s used to being helped out of a tricky situation. He’s an Avoider.”

“Anyway, it was Rachel we were helping. I hope someone would do that for me.”

They had reached the bottom of Mollie’s street and it was an uphill walk to her place. Rhyll loved being at Mollie’s. There were six kids, though the two eldest had moved out but were often home because Mollie’s mum Kath was an amazing cook, always ready and generous with home-made fare. It was a riotous household, with people coming and going: cousins, neighbours, boy/girl friends and visitors, so utterly different to Rhyll’s quiet existence.

Someone was weaving down the street towards them, just a shadow but with distinctly unruly hair. At first they thought it was another drunk partygoer. But Mollie realised with a shock who it was.

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“Oh my God, it’s Grandma!”

Mollie rushed ahead.

“Grandma, it’s me, Mollie.”

“Who are you?” The woman looked at her with wide eyes, confused. “Nella, it’s Nella!” She threw her arms around Mollie.

“Yes, Sofia, it’s me,” Mollie agreed, taking her hand. “It’s dark, we need to go home.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Nella!” She sounded quite cross. “And who is this?”

“This is my friend, Rhyll.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late at night,” her grandmother went on. “Anything could happen.”

“We’re coming home now,” said Mollie.

It was almost midnight. Half the household was probably still out, and there was no sound or lights from her parents’ end.

“No point in waking your Mum and Dad up now,” said Rhyll.

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“Yes, come on, Grandma, it’s time for bed. It’s late you know.”

Sofia had other ideas. She was talking at the top of her voice, wide awake and still scolding the absent Nella, in between talking about other things neither Rhyll nor Mollie could understand. Soon Kath was up, and between them they settled her down.

“We might need to lock the doors,” Kath said worriedly after Sofia was finally, safely in bed.

“Well, she’s getting worse, Mum,” said Mollie, yawning. “Lucky for her that Rhyll and I were still out, or no one would have known she was gone!”

“So we rescued two people tonight,” Rhyll said as they went to bed themselves. “We are awesome.”

“Yes we are,” Mollie agreed. But silently she wondered how much longer she could go on being awesome, when someone she loved was losing their whole self, a bit more every day.

Sender: [email protected]

Gorgeous Rhyll

So glad the poster arrived safely—though it can’t possibly do justice to the actual

artwork of course. You must come over and see David for yourself. You will be

inspired by him, as you will be by Florence and all of Italy—so much detail in

everything and yet the locals take it all for granted. The most brilliant statues are

199 often covered in pigeons and of course their poo, unlike London which brought in the hawks to solve that problem. And the buildings—once so grand, many are now dismal and flakey. Though the essence of their character still remains when you look hard, the passion has gone.

I have a small apartment which looks out over a typical square, lined with the most delightful shops—wonderful delicatessens, cafes, clothes (very expensive though), everything you need close by and I am not so far from the station either with its markets. Would you believe I have even got myself a bike? There is nothing you can’t do when you put your mind to it, even at my age. Though I must admit that the cobblestones are challenging!

The weather is cooling now and Vincent and I are planning on heading to Greece for a short visit and then we may spend Christmas with friends in Austria. At least the number of visitors here has dropped—you wouldn’t believe how many tourists tramp through here. Everyone wants to soak up the culture and the country is wearing out!

But you can’t see much if you are only here for a few days, you need to take time: lie down on those cobblestones and feel the history in the layers; breathe, breathe the motes of old souls and press your hand on the hearts of granite bodies. You will be surprised how much a person can grow artistically, with closed eyes and fleshy senses.

Here are some photos—and there I am with David himself. And how about my new hair! I’m turning Italian! You must, must, must come and now that you have finished school, there is nothing in your way. Book that ticket!

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Love you

Claire

Rhyll could picture Claire lying down on the cobblestones and hugging statues. She thought that not too many grandmothers would have the colour sense that Claire had. Bold purples and oranges featured in nearly every photo, with scarves, belts, bags all stylish and probably cheap. She could snag a bargain in any language. She shone out of the photos, though not for the colours but for the dazzling silver she wore—all her own jewellery. Dad said she was mad and she probably was. He said she changed completely after Mum died. After all, as

Hazel Grace said in one of the saddest books Rhyll had read, the only thing worse than having cancer, was having a kid with cancer.

Her grandmother’s letters always cheered Rhyll up. She was forever travelling, and at this point had no return date. Rhyll often wondered how her grandmother had survived life in

Dolphin Point. She was definitely not the ordinary type. Rhyll wished she had inherited at least a thread of that gene, and even though sometimes she could view her own art as having something special, most of the time it was ordinary, reflecting her ordinary life.

Maybe her grandmother was right. She needed to get away, buy a ticket and get on a plane and fly away from ordinary. Fly away from moving house, from arguing with everyone and from serving graceless customers. She was working lots of hours now with the summer ahead and no school, so she could probably save enough. But the thought of travelling all that distance when she’d hardly been away from Dolphin Point made her nervous. She didn’t think she could do it on her own. Maybe Mollie would come.

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Kate’s grandparents had come for lunch almost every other Sunday since she could remember. They arrived at 11, and left at 3, having to drive an hour each way. Mum would cook a roast, no matter how hot the day was. It was a formal lunch with the table set probably much like the Queen’s, Kate thought. In fact, her grandmother reminded her of the Queen.

Her name was Elizabeth; she spoke with more of an English accent than an Australian one; and she had standards.

“Standards are a must,” she often said. “Look where society is heading, as our standards are lowered.”

Today, she had a gift for Kate.

“This is a little reward for achieving such excellent school results,” she smiled proudly as she handed it to Kate. “Congratulations, darling.”

It was a pearl. A small but exquisite, creamy pearl.

“Thanks, Grandma, it is beautiful,” Kate said with reverence. She knew her grandmother was an expert in all things to do with jewels.

“A girl can never have too many pearls,” said Elizabeth.

“I don’t think I agree with that,” her grandfather said. He was ignored.

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“But make sure you always get quality,” Elizabeth continued. “There are five virtues of pearls you need to know about to judge the quality: size—big of course; shape—round is best or at least, perfect symmetry; colour—there are a few different colours but I prefer the cream with pink highlights; lustre—it needs to shine, but not a bright polished shine. It is a deep, eternal glow; and complexion—the smoother the better.”

Elizabeth smiled as Kate studied it.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “And to think it all starts as a foreign body in the womb of an oyster.”

Abruptly, Kate ran from the table, and went to the bathroom to throw up.

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CHAPTER 9

It starts as the size of a pinhead. That is how much Kate remembers from science. She is not sure how big it would be after seven weeks. Perhaps the size of her little fingernail? Maybe the size of a small pearl, like the one she has just unwrapped. It is still called an embryo and that is important, for the term ‘foetus’ makes it all seem more alive. She knows it is alive, that its heart is beating twice as fast as her own, that it is moving about like a jumping bean.

She had gone into the Bay to get the test kit because everyone in the local shops knew her, or more to the point, knew her father. Later, in the privacy of her room, she had watched, tense with hopelessness, as a big, blue plus sign revealed itself, confirming what she already knew.

“Sorry, we had a party last night,” she mumbled to her mother who had come to see how she was.

“Well, I hope you learned something,” her mother said curtly.

She was glad her mother never knew about their school parties. There was never a shortage of alcohol and other drugs.

“Don’t let yourself be dragged down, Kate,” her grandmother said, when she had rejoined them. “It’s a hard climb back.”

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“I hardly think Kate was rolling drunk,” her father said. “Was Steve there?”

“Steve and I have broken up.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” her mother said. “Though I think it was only a matter of time.”

“I know you didn’t like him.”

“I did like him. I could see there was no future for you two, unless you wanted to spend your life working in a coffee shop.”

That was the worst thing that could happen to Kate in her mother’s eyes. Working in a coffee shop. Being a Nobody. A lower class, poor Nobody. That her daughter might end up a lower class, poor Nobody single mother working in a coffee shop could never have featured in her mother’s imagination.

“Mum, it was never a long term thing.”

“Kate’s got her head screwed on right,” said her grandfather. “Don’t worry about her, Marg.”

They didn’t need to worry. Kate had plans. At the end of January, she was heading off with

Tabitha and Scarlett for a week in Thailand and on her return would move in with Tabitha’s family in Sydney and go to university. She knew she would get into her field of choice,

International Politics and Law, and aimed to get an exchange placement overseas for a year starting second semester. When she finished her degrees, she wanted to work in politics.

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Scarlett’s father was a Member of Parliament and had already offered her work in his local office during semester breaks.

Yes, Kate had it all worked out. And nowhere in this plan was there room for a baby.

“Here’s to Kate then,” said Elizabeth warmly, raising her glass of wine. “Congratulations, darling Granddaughter, on finishing school with such amazing results, and best of luck for the future.”

“To Kate.” They all raised their glasses towards her, the smiling, caring, people who loved her and who were so proud of her, expected so much of her. They thought her tears were happy ones.

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CHAPTER 10

Rhyll looked at the favourite photograph of her mother and her taken at Rhyll’s fourth birthday. She couldn’t see any resemblance. Her mother’s hair was long and fair, bleached from the sun. Her skin was tanned but in that light, bronzed shimmer which showed how much time she spent outdoors. Her eyes were a bluey-green, changeable like the ocean, depending on the light and the colours she was wearing. Rhyll was dark-haired, dark-eyed and speckly-skinned. She had her dad’s nose, a recognisable feature on his side of the family.

Apart from her nose then, she felt shapeless, still with a girl’s body, almost flat-chested with sort-of-boobs that needed a push up bra to be vaguely noticeable. She didn’t look grown-up and she didn’t feel it. Here she was, the end of her school life, and she still didn’t know what she wanted to do. She envied Kate and Mollie for being able to make such big decisions with seemingly little effort. Kate was going off to study politics—Rhyll had no idea what Kate talked about half the time. Mollie was going to do a course in child care in Sandy Bay so she wouldn’t be far from her family. She already had work lined up babysitting her cousin’s children, and she coached kids at tennis—had done for a while. Mollie was probably the smartest one of them all. She could have any career. But she had chosen something she wanted to do, loved doing and was good at. Rhyll loved art, reading and snorkelling. Hardly stuff that she could make a career out of, unless she became a teacher. That was definitely not on her list.

Rhyll loved her room. She could see the ocean from her bed when she propped herself up.

Her room wasn’t that big, but it was the nicest in the shambly house. She kept it neat, and had

209 found clever ways of making it stylish; draping across the curtain rod an aqua and violet silk scarf that Claire had brought back from one of her travels, adding bright cushions to rest against the plain white bedcovers, and hanging her own textured artwork that she’d put together from beachcombing.

Her room in the new house was huge. Myles took them over specifically for Rhyll’s benefit as she was the only one who hadn’t seen it.

“This would be your room, and over here is a small room here for your art,” Myles showed her. Rhyll was impressed (though she was determined not to show it), no packing up stuff when she was half way through, no trying to find a small corner of floor to leave something to dry, and best of all some privacy so she didn’t have to explain what she was doing or listen to anyone’s disparaging comments.

“Look at that view,” Dad said. “You can see the lake and the mountains.”

“And no one will be able to block that out,” Myles said. “You have five acres and it is the last property in this subdivision.”

It was spacious. It was grand by their current standards. But it was a concrete shell. And there was no sea breeze, no salty tang to the air, and no ocean voice.

“When will it be finished?” Dad asked.

“If you sign the papers this week, you could move in by Christmas if you wanted to.”

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“No,” Rhyll said sharply. “I want Christmas at home.”

“That’s fine,” Myles said amiably. “If you sign this week, you can move any time you like from the week before Christmas. Let me know what you decide.”

After he’d gone, Rhyll walked around their block. A strand of gum trees divided this property from the next one. On the other side, the land went to the mountains. There was a peacefulness about the place, away from the town and its tourists. But it was a quietness that formed a yawning cavern of emptiness, without the ocean. It was like losing your heart— there was nothing to keep the blood pumping. No pulse.

Cameron woke with a thumping headache. He felt like he’d been thrown off a building and dislodged all his bones. He struggled to the bathroom and inspected himself. His eyes were puffy, there was a purplish bruise on his jaw and his hair was scary, but apart from that he didn’t think he looked any worse than having played a game of footy. His ribs ached every time he breathed in and he had a wonderful bruise there, but once he started moving he was sure it would ease. His mouth tasted like he’d eaten something dead, so he did his teeth and had a long drink.

He’d forgotten to charge his phone, so had no contact with the outside world. He couldn’t find the charger.

“What happened to you?” his father demanded as he emerged.

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“Long story, Dad,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I didn’t do anything. One of the guys took a dislike to me. Maybe we played footy against each other or something. I don’t know.”

“And what happened to my beers?”

“Sorry, you weren’t here to ask and there were only two.” He wouldn’t mention the gin unless his Dad asked. “I can pay you back, but I can’t buy them myself, can I?”

“You are underage. You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“I know you’re the dad and that’s what dads have to say, but what is a party without some beer? I’m nearly 18. I’ll be on the loose soon anyway.”

“Well, stay out of trouble,” his father said gruffly. “I have a business in this town and don’t need you to bring ill-repute upon it.”

“Me?” Cameron said indignantly, thinking about Rachel. But he said nothing. He knew he could earn far more favours through his silence.

“Anyway, I’m off to the beach,” said Dad. “Lou is there with the kids.”

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The door shut and Cameron sank onto the lounge, grateful for the silence. He felt ordinary.

“Have they gone?” came a frail voice.

Cameron smiled broadly.

“Rachel! How are you feeling?”

“There are no words,” Rachel said, shuffling into a chair. “I might be dead.” Her voice was raspy and thin, she was a grey shade of pale and her hair was a knot. “What happened?”

Cameron was delighted. Rachel the Tongue had no words. That had never happened before.

“What do you remember last?”

“Umm, I saw you and I decided to leave you to do your thing,” she said. “I went over to a group of girls I met earlier. We went down to the rocks and hung there. Some guys came... I don’t know who they were. We were just talking... I need water.” She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass and sat down at the bench. Cameron joined her.

“And then, Rachel, you became very close friends—entwined and slobbery I would say— with one of the big time losers of Dolphin Point,” Cameron smirked. “So close in fact that I had to risk my life to get you apart. See my bruises?”

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“Bullshit,” Rachel said, used to Cameron’s ways.

“I have witnesses,” he said. “Rhyll and Mollie were right there. And they were there when you threw up—several times. And they were there when we had to carry you all the way up to the shower and clean you up. And they were there when I brought you upstairs and put you to bed.”

Rachel groaned and put her head on her arms.

“I swear I didn’t drink that much,” she said.

“I swear that you did,” said Cameron. “And lucky for you that I didn’t.”

In the following silence, Rachel pieced it all together with dismay.

“Oh my God,” she groaned again. “You rescued me?”

“If I hadn’t, you would probably be Mrs Bogan by now. So cheer up, you’re a winner!”

Rachel sat up. Surveyed Cameron’s bruises. Rolled her eyes with the knowledge of owing a debt.

“I stink,” she sighed. “I’m having a shower. Then I might go back to bed.”

She headed for the bathroom, and stopped at the door.

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“Cameron?”

“Rachel?”

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“For saving your life?”

“Yes, for saving my life,” she agreed. “And for leaving me in these clothes. Now I won’t have to kill you.”

For a while, Cameron was happy enough to sit on the terrace doing nothing other than looking at the ocean, and thinking of the girls he had met last night. Elle with the huge breasts falling out of her too-tight blouse, who had left school last year to work in the newsagency full time and whose mum owned the local hairdressers; Belinda with the outrageous red hair and vicious acne who now lived in Sydney where the clubbing, music events and the surfing were awesome; Kellie who smoked and drank beer constantly, who worked in a bank in the

Bay; Abby, the giant goddess with long blonde hair and a super-athletic figure who was hoping to get paid to play basketball; Mollie, who was so practical and said it how it was.

They were all a hoot, and he’d had a great night. But his thoughts kept coming back to Rhyll, the quietest one of all. The one who didn’t smile much. The one with the frowning worry lines. Long straight brown hair and dark, dark eyes. He normally wouldn’t have noticed her among them all. He noticed the louder, fun-seeking, here-I-am girls.

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“You’re so superficial,” he could hear Rachel telling him more than once.

So what? He liked superficial. It was more fun and less work. But why, then, did Rhyll keep coming into his head? She wasn’t bad looking—he would have said she was merely ordinary.

She wasn’t very outgoing and he liked to banter with people. And she had problems—not that other people didn’t, but they didn’t seem to worry about them so much. Ok, so her house— her dad’s house—would be sold and demolished, and she was going to have to live in a mansion instead. First World Problem, that one. He shook his head, as if to shake out these unwanted thoughts.

“Cameron!” came a voice from below. It was Mollie. Cameron got up slowly, feeling like he was 100. Was this what he had to look forward to in old age? A broken, rusted body? He leaned over the balcony.

“Hey, Mollie, I’ll come down.”

“It’s ok, I just wondered how Rachel was?”

“She’s alive,” he grinned. “But only just. Why don’t you come up? I’ll let you in.”

“Mollie’s here,” he told Rachel, who was sitting on the lounge, pale and quiet.

He pushed the foyer door release and then met her at the front door.

“Rachel’s dying to see you, Mollie.”

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“I am dying,” Rachel said.

“Mollie has seen you looking worse, haven’t you?”

“Shut up, Cameron,” Rachel said irritably. “Let’s go into my room, Mollie, where it is

PRIVATE.”

“Hey, Mollie is my visitor!” Cameron was put out. “Where’s Rhyll?” he asked.

“She’s working. Mollie said. “Down at the Boatshed.”

“Fine then,” he said, heading to the door. “You two talk the afternoon away. I will go for a walk.”

He grabbed his wallet and left, miffed by rejection, but glad to have a mission outside the apartment, now that he was starting to feel normal.

The Boatshed was further than he thought, and uphill if you went the short way, or you had to follow the beach right around to the river and then keep walking. Cameron went the short way. It was hot and he’d forgotten a hat and sunglasses. By the time he got there, he was sweaty and aching all over again.

The Boatshed Cafe was on the river, looking out towards the hills and to the west. It was a beautiful spot. Pelicans waited hopefully near the jetty where the fishermen came in, and fish

217 could be seen flickering in the clear water. People sat outside in the afternoon sun under huge umbrellas, enjoying being there. Time itself seemed to be floating.

Cameron surveyed the deck to see if he recognised anyone, and when he didn’t, he went down to the shop. Rhyll was there, her long hair swept back away from her face into a careless bun, concentrating as she read and prepared orders. She looked different: her cheekbones seemed more defined, her neck long and graceful like a dancer. When she smiled at customers, it was a dimpled, contagious smile.

Rhyll caught him staring at her and blushed, looking annoyed. She turned her attention to the next order.

“Hi Rhyll,” Cameron said. “Do I get a staff discount?”

“I’m busy,” she said sharply, making coffees.

“Can’t I order something?”

“Order over there,” Rhyll nodded towards the cash register where a big sign said ‘Order

Here’.

Cameron ordered a chocolate milkshake and a bucket of hot chips, and went back to stand near Rhyll.

“So ask me how I am,” he said.

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“You look fine to me.”

He pulled his shirt up to show off his bruises.

“I’m suffering!” he said. “Look at my wounds.”

Rhyll was mortified.

“You idiot,” she said. “There are customers everywhere.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t distract you with my six-pack in front of the customers.”

“Here’s your milkshake,” Rhyll dumped it on the counter. “And your chips.”

“What time do you finish?”

“At four, thank God,” Rhyll said, without thinking.

“That’s not long,” Cameron said. “I’ll wait and we can walk back together.”

“No need,” said Rhyll. “I might be held up.” But Cameron found a spot under an umbrella and sat by the water as people came and went, fish jumped and gulls flew hopefully onto empty tables. Rhyll prolonged the end of her shift by pretending to be busy until Rose, the

219 owner, finally shooed her away. She took off her apron and grabbed her things, walking straight past Cameron, who followed her up the stairs.

“Nice place down here,” he said conversationally. “Busy?”

“Constantly, from now until February,” said Rhyll. “Which is good because it makes the day go faster and I get all the shifts I want.”

“So are you always going to work here? I mean, you’ve finished school, haven’t you?”

Rhyll sighed. The perennial question her father kept asking her, the one she couldn’t answer because she didn’t know, because she couldn’t make a decision, because she wasn’t interested in anything.

“I will work here until something better comes along,” she said.

“Hope that isn’t too long!” Cameron said. “It isn’t much of a career.”

“I might move away,” she said.

“Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Rhyll said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Italy!”

“I have one year left,” Cameron said.

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“And then?” Rhyll was glad to have the attention taken off her.

“University to study a Bachelor of Something,” he pronounced, “or a Bachelor of Anything.

It doesn’t really matter as long as it is at a university, according to Mum.”

“Oh. What are you good at?”

Cameron laughed.

“Football. Talking to girls. Having fun.”

“A Bachelor of Entertainment,” Rhyll suggested and they both laughed.

“A Bachelor of Awesome,” he joined in.

A black ute with P plates lurched around the corner, tyres screeching. The engine roared as the driver accelerated heavily and the car weaved as the back wheels skidded. The car swerved across the road. Cameron’s eyes locked with the driver’s as he veered towards him.

Cameron waited in slow motion horror, wondering whether Mitch White was really going to run him over. At the last minute, Cameron leapt off the road and down the embankment, his heart bursting out of his chest so forcefully that for a second he thought he might have been hit. The ute disappeared round the next bend, horn blasting like a raucous laugh.

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Then Cameron remembered Rhyll. She was further down the embankment, angry as a wasp.

She climbed up to him.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she screamed at him. “I thought he was going to kill us!”

“So did I!” Cameron said. “But we’re ok.”

She was feeling dizzy and stumbled, thinking she might throw up. He took her arm to steady her. Rhyll felt the touch of his hand against her skin and it caught her breath. “You’re ok, aren’t you?”

“Yes, thanks,” she muttered, shaking him off and taking a deep breath. “We should report him.”

“Someone tried to run us off the road once when Mum cut them off. They followed us home, and that night came round and egged our house,” Cameron said. “We reported it and the police said the best thing was to do nothing, so they didn’t get angry all over again. And they never came back.”

“But what if he does it to someone else?”

They walked for a while in silence until they reached Cameron’s apartment.

“I get my stitches out on Wednesday,” Cameron said. “How about you take me snorkelling?”

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“You never give up, do you?” Rhyll laughed and Cameron was elated.

“Does that mean yes?”

“Ok, ok! I’ve got Thursday off. We should go early.”

“Where?”

“Come up to my place first,” she said. “I know the good spots but it depends on the tide and the weather.”

“Great. See you then.”

Cameron watched Rhyll stride up the Esplanade and disappear over the crest. He felt strangely good. Like he’d kicked a goal.

Later, Rhyll did report Mitch White. She couldn’t stand the thought of him getting away with driving like a maniac, even though she never knew whether he was given the warning the police said they would deliver.

In the end, it never mattered.

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CHAPTER 11

Lustre.

A deep, eternal glow, her grandmother had said. Kate held the pearl in the palm of her hand.

Solid. Light. Smooth. And it shone with a pleasing warmth. She put it back in its blue silk nest and into her handbag.

Kate was not glowing.

“You are so lacklustre,” her mother had said only a few hours ago. “You need to have something to focus on.” But she had no suggestions.

Kate was lacklustre for a number of reasons. To start with, she was bored. There wasn’t much point in getting work around here. She didn’t need to, and anyway, it was Christmas in a couple of weeks and then she would be going away. She might help her father in the surgery if one of the receptionists was sick or they were really busy, but this week there didn’t seem to be any need for her.

Mollie had been busy with teaching kids swimming and tennis as well as looking after her grandmother. Rhyll had been working most of the week, though they had gone to the beach between her shifts.

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She missed Tabitha and Scarlett and the routine of having something scheduled at all times of the day and night, even if it was free time or study block.

She missed Steve.

And she felt like crap, so much so that even her mother was noticing.

But she had made this initial appointment, and was grateful that she recognised no one in the surgery. She had completed all the forms, answered all the questions, and waited nervously to be called in to talk things through. Was she completely sure she wanted a termination? Had she thought about other options, such as adoption, or having the baby? Did she understand there was a lot of help with bringing up a child? Did she understand what a termination meant? How did she feel about that? What did the father think? Was she still completely sure she wanted a termination?

Then they went through everything, the practical, the probable, the possible.

Made the date.

Mollie hadn’t heard her parents argue over and over again like this, and was sick of it. It was the same script:

Dad: It is time for Sofia to go into a home. It is too dangerous for her to stay here. We

can’t look after her 24 hours a day.

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Mum: Over my dead body. She’s my mother and I won’t have her in one of those

places.

Dad: She isn’t even going to know where she is.

Mum: But I will know where she is.

Dad: Sofia wouldn’t want to be a burden.

Mum: She isn’t a burden.

Dad: We’ve done our best up until now.

Mum: She’s not going.

Dad: She can’t stay here. It’s not safe anymore.

“Can you stop and listen to yourselves?” asked Mollie, after several days of circular argument.

“We need to sort this out ourselves, thank you, Mollie,” Mum said.

“But you aren’t,” said Mollie. “You are both too stubborn.”

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“I’m not the one being stubborn,” Dad said. “I am being practical.”

“Some things you need to be stubborn about, Mollie,” Mum said. “And this is one of them. If

I am being stubborn, then so be it.”

“So are you two going to argue like this every day for the rest of Grandma’s life?” Mollie asked. “Because if you are, she might as well be in a nursing home. It would be much more peaceful.”

“Mollie’s right, Kath,” said Dad gently.

“Of course you would say that!” said Mum.

“Here you go again,” said Mollie. “What about a compromise? Have you thought about that?” They looked at her blankly.

“She could come home for a few days every week. Wouldn’t that help?” To Mollie’s dismay, her mother crumpled into a chair in tears.

“I can’t fight all of you,” she sobbed. “I thought you would support me.”

“It’s not a fight, love,” Dad sat down and put his arms around her. “We need to balance what is right and what works.”

Mollie left them, and went to find her grandmother.

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“So are we ready to go then?” Grandma asked brightly. “I love the theatre. What are we seeing?”

Mollie sat next to her and hugged her close, feeling her grandmother’s fast heartbeat against her own chest. She smelled of lavender. Mollie held onto her for a long time. Sofia felt small and thin and breakable.

“It’s all right, Nella,” Grandma said, patting Mollie’s shoulder. “He wasn’t right for you anyway.”

“You don’t have to come, Rhyll,” Dad said.

“I’m coming,” she said through gritted teeth, following him out to the car. Rhyll was worried

Andrea might go if she didn’t.

“Well, can we be civil?”

“We, being me?”

Her father sighed. He had taken the morning off work and was in casual clothes. He was looking forward to all this being done. He hated the paperwork—nothing made sense, and reading was hard at the best of times, let alone when it was in very small print squashed into every available space and written in Legalese which had to be interpreted anyway. But once

229 they’d settled on this, his life would be open with possibilities, and he was as excited as a kid about that. Why shouldn’t he be, he reasoned with himself. He would set up his own business, be his own boss. He’d have enough money to put the kids through whatever training they wanted. He and Andrea would have a new start, away from his old life. Maybe they would even get married.

Rhyll was the only shadow of gloom on Jeff’s sunny outlook.

“What would you have done if you were me, Rhyll?” he asked, in one last hopeful attempt to get her to see things from his perspective.

“Easy. I wouldn’t have sold.”

“Have you thought about the fact that it is not only you who has a stake in this?” Dad said.

“There are four of us—we all want things and need things and have lives to live.”

“Yes, and one of us did not want any of it. Did you listen, Dad? Did you care what I thought?

What I wanted?”

“Yes, I listened, and of course I care. But in the end it is just a house.”

“But that is the thing, Dad! It isn’t ‘just’ a house, it is a place with history and memories.”

Rhyll tried to keep her voice calm, tried to express her feelings without revealing her churning emotions.

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“Memories are exactly that, things you remember,” Dad said. “You don’t need the house to remember things.”

“But this place means something to me,” Rhyll said. “It isn’t just walls and floors.”

“Things change, Rhyll, and I think this is for the better.”

“If you don’t have memories you have no dreams, and no history. All you have left is that moment you are living in—the now.” Rhyll had taken that from the book she was reading, where the main character’s grandmother had dementia.

“But that is exactly what you’re doing, Rhyll, living in the now, trying to hold on to what you know and scared you will forget things.” Dad said. “I’m living for the future. I have to because I have responsibilities.”

“But what about this building’s heritage?” Rhyll asked. “It has value to more people than us.

Even if we don’t live here, it shouldn’t be knocked down.”

“It’s an ordinary fibro house, and a run down one at that,” her father said tiredly. “I hardly think it is going to qualify for heritage listing.”

Rhyll sank into silence. Maybe he was right, she was scared of forgetting. Hanging on to yesterday. What could she possibly do anyway? Here they were on their way down Fate’s path. And as Fate told Justin Case in the book of the same name, “I don’t make deals, Justin,

I deal”.

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CHAPTER 12

Rhyll was up early and out to check the weather, the swell, the wind. It was perfect for snorkelling. The morning light made the sea even bluer, the trees greener, and the sky deeper, giving the whole world a quiet intensity that always moved Rhyll. It felt like the best was yet to come. As she stood looking out across the water, she saw a pod of dolphins playing in the waves, surfing in, disappearing and surfing in again. A pair of sea eagles droned back and forth, craning their necks for prey, and fishing boats squatted on the horizon. To think that soon she wouldn’t live close enough to hear or see the ocean was almost unbearable. Instead of sea birds, there’d be crows. Instead of dolphins, there’d be kangaroos. Instead of ocean swells, there’d be dry, weedy paddocks.

She remembered Cameron saying she wasn’t the type of person to give in easily, and that she would think of something. Well, he was wrong. She hadn’t thought of anything, and now Dad had signed the papers. That was it, the final siren, she thought bitterly. She had read through all the documents with Dad. For Dad. And he had signed every page. It was all done.

Not only had she thought of nothing and given in without a fight, but she was complicit in her own ending. Could a person be more pathetic? Mollie and Kate would never simply let things happen. They planned their lives.

“You have to drive your own bus,” Mollie would often say. “Otherwise you drift along with the breeze like a leaf.”

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A leaf, that was Rhyll. Fallen off the tree and blown about. Who knows where she’d end up when the wind stopped blowing? Probably not far from where she was now.

Cameron appeared, jogging along the Esplanade. When he saw Rhyll standing on the front veranda, he waved and did a little jump, clicking his heels together. She couldn’t help laughing.

“Look, I’m whole again!” he pointed to his leg, scarred but stitch-free. “I’m ready for adventure.”

“You still look like shark bait,” Rhyll teased, pointing at scratches on his arms.

“Sharks?” Cameron looked alarmed. “Seriously?”

“Well, it is the ocean. Where did you think we were going?”

“I didn’t really think about sharks.”

“I am fairly sure they’re out to sea eating seals and other more tasty meats,” said Rhyll.

“Come on, let’s go, before the wind gets up.”

They walked along the cliff boardwalk which took them gradually down to a long beach where a few people were in the water. They kept walking to the end, where they followed a sandy path through the bush emerging onto another beach. This time, Rhyll headed upwards through the trees, across a rocky shelf and around to a small bay fringed with rocks.

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“This is Kianniny Cove,” Rhyll said. “There’s tons of stuff to see here and not many people.”

They left their towels at the base of a smooth sandstone cliff, waded out and put their gear on.

Cameron had a practice before they headed into deeper water.

“Keep your arms by your side and don’t kick so hard,” Rhyll instructed. “You’ll scare everything away otherwise! And I don’t want your arm in my face.”

Cameron followed Rhyll around the rocky ledges leading out of the bay, fringed with kelp and other seaweed. Fish swam with them. Cameron tried to touch them but they were always just out of reach. Occasionally Rhyll would dive down and point to something of interest. She found a tiny seahorse clinging to a strand of seaweed, sea urchins, a skate fish skimming along the sand. At one point, a huge school of thin, silver fish approached. Rhyll dived towards them and they split apart, as dazzling as fireworks.

Suddenly, Rhyll felt a tug on her arm. It was Cameron, and she shook him away but he grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her. He was pointing one way and then the other way.

They surfaced. He was panic-stricken.

“SHARK!” he shouted in her face. “We have to get out!” He turned and scrambled for the shore in a frenzy of kicking and splashing.

Rhyll started swimming in—it is hard to stay in the water when someone yells “SHARK” in your face—looking around as she followed Cameron. She saw a large flash of blue coming

235 towards her. She laughed, choked, coughed the water out, and laughed again. She looked around for Cameron. He was coming back towards her. He stuck his head up.

“Rhyll, come on!” and grabbed her arm again.

“It’s not a shark!” Rhyll yelled at him. “It is OK.”

“You don’t know that,” he shouted back.

“Yes I do. It is Bluey! It’s a blue groper, have a look!”

Rhyll submerged again. The big fish came right up to her face and looked. Rhyll stared back.

She put her hand out and touched it. His eyes darted, curious as a pup. Cameron’s heart was firing like a submachine gun, and the breath going through his snorkel could have powered an engine. When the fish came over to eyeball him, it was all he could do to stay in the water.

Finally, the groper swam off to burrow among the kelp.

Back on the beach, they flopped down, exhausted, onto the sand beneath the cliffs. Rhyll laughed and laughed.

“Look at my bruises,” she showed her arm to Cameron. “At least you were trying to be a hero this time.”

Cameron wasn’t used to being laughed at. “I seriously thought I was going to be munched for lunch,” he said. “How was I supposed to know what it was?”

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“Maybe have a look first?” Rhyll suggested. “You can’t really mistake a blue groper for a shark with those puppy dog eyes—plus the fact that it’s a screaming electric blue!”

“All I saw was a shadow,” he argued. “Run first, ask questions later is a good rule. What if it had been a shark?” But Rhyll laughed again and lay back on the sand.

“Those fish are amazing,” she said, keen to share her knowledge. “Did you know they all start out female and turn male depending on the numbers? Only the males are that beautiful blue.”

“Males are always the best,” said Cameron smugly. “You should be a marine biologist.”

There was silence between them, with just the lapping of the water against the rocks, the twittering of finches and honeyeaters in the bush, and the harsher cry of seabirds every now and again. Cameron lay on his side, looking at Rhyll. He loved the way the water droplets shone on her skin, how her wet hair was tousled and wild, and how she lay there right next to him, carelessly graceful. Did he still really think she was ordinary? From this angle, she was perfect. He put his hand out and brushed her arm, smoothing off the water. When she didn’t pull away, he moved the hair back from her face, and kissed her. Not a pashy, party kind of kiss (where his personal record was three girls in one night, not counting New Year’s Eve).

But a gentle, careful kind of kiss where he could feel the softness of their lips together, taste the saltiness of her, and sense a warmth that simmered through his veins long after. He didn’t know it could feel like this.

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Rhyll was drowning in the cool of the sand which shifted beneath her. Breathless from his touch, and dizzy from their kiss, she realised what a difference fleshy senses could make—to everything.

They walked back the way they had come. Rhyll felt shy when Cameron took her hand but didn’t pull away. She kept glancing at him, taking in his hair, his skin, his muscles.

Wondering whether all this was fake attention. After all, what could he see in her? He didn’t really know her and she didn’t know him. How would you know, especially with someone like Cameron, when they were being serious? Maybe all he wanted was a good time with whoever happened to be there. That is what it seemed like at the party. She resolved to be careful. Mitch White only wanted a girl to show off and screw on demand. Was Cameron any different? Maybe he was more subtle. He was certainly more likeable. Maybe it was Rhyll who needed to relax and not take things so seriously.

She had read a book about a group of girls who made a bet to lose their virginity by schoolies week. It was almost like there was list of things that you had to do as a rite of passage, sometime during the last year of school:

 Get your license—she was almost there;

 Gain voting rights—tick;

 Be legally able to drink alcohol—tick;

 Lose your virginity—had better start thinking about it.

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She wondered whether Cameron had slept with any girls? They all seemed to like him. Of course he would have, she answered her own question. No wonder he was so smooth, so confident.

Back at her place, she made a hurried goodbye.

“I have to get ready for work,” she said apologetically. “Thanks for a great morning.”

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“I’m working till 6.”

“Maybe I’ll come down for fish and chips?”

“Sure,” she didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic, but she was pleased he made the offer.

Rhyll thought he might want to kiss her again, and somehow, without the romance and solitude of the beach, it didn’t feel the same. So she ducked inside, calling goodbye through the door. Cameron was left to wander down the Esplanade with the hot sun needling his skin, feeling like he had lost some part of himself irretrievably, and was glad.

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CHAPTER 13

When he reached home, the first thing Cameron saw was a black ute with a P plate pulling out of the car park. He felt all the hairs on his body electrify as if a fingernail had traced the course of his spine. The second thing he saw was Mitch White grinning broadly and giving him the finger as he accelerated away. The third thing he saw was Rachel waving from the front passenger seat. All the good things about the day were swallowed up in a cloud of disbelief. Their mother had often referred to Rachel as the “Child Genius”. Yet she had no idea about people. No idea.

He thought about whether it was worth pointing out her less than average IQ in that regard when she got back. But in his head he saw a video of the courtroom drama that would become reality over dinner if he went down that track. It wasn’t pretty and he lost the case.

She was older than him; she could look after herself, he reasoned. But then he saw a replay of the night of the party. He started to see that there was another side to his sister: maybe he was the one who had no idea. He had always thought she was perfect. After all, everyone said so, over and over again—the “Golden Child”, he heard his mother say once with more pride than she’d ever said about Cameron winning ‘Best and Fairest’ on the footy team three years in a row.

Cameron wished that he had told Rachel about Mitch running Rhyll and he off the road. But it was too late for that. They would be half way to the Bay by now. He climbed the stairs and opened the door to the apartment. The Wiggles were singing—on steroids! Zac was kind of dancing, which involved a lot of throwing himself onto the ground and jumping back up

241 before lapping the lounge room. Baby Freya was in her chair in the centre of it all, laughing and shrieking as Zac zoomed past. Lou was sitting on the lounge looking like she hadn’t slept for a month. The dining table still had breakfast remains and there was a warm smell of over- ripe bananas and garbage. Cameron tried to remember this morning. Snorkelling. The beach.

The kiss. But the past had gone. It felt like days since he’d seen Rhyll. Touched her. Was he in a TARDIS or something? Being transported into a world far, far away. Doctor Who goes to the beach and finds a family. A very loud family.

“Cameron!” Zac shouted, though it came out as ‘Camwon’, and threw himself at his brother’s legs. Cameron grabbed him and tossed him in the air. “Zac!” he shouted back. More squealing. He made faces at Freya while Zac climbed over the top of him. Lou got up, wearily.

“It would be great if you can keep them occupied for a while,” she said, “and I can get some cleaning up done.”

“I’ll take them to the park if you like,” he said without thinking. She leapt at the offer.

“Oh thanks, Cameron, that would be fantastic,” she said. “Just for an hour or so. I can’t do a thing when they are up. ”

Which was how Cameron came to be making his way down the path, pushing Freya with Zac holding on to the pram and wondering how he had gotten himself into this. It was a slow walk. Zac talked non-stop. He pointed out trees, birds, boats, waves, cars. He stopped to pick up pine cones, stones and leaves and gave them to Cameron to look after. He asked what this

242 was and what that was without really wanting an answer. By the time they reached the park,

Freya was asleep so Cameron parked the pram in the shade. He pushed Zac on the swing, helped him down the slide several times and watched him on the roundabout.

“You so look like a dad,” Mollie’s voice came from behind him.

“Well don’t get used to it,” said Cameron. “I’m learning a lot about me. I am especially learning what I don’t like.”

“Aw, they are cute,” Mollie gushed.

“Freya is cute because she’s asleep,” said Cameron. “Zac, on the other hand, is like a mad puppy.”

“So how come you are on duty?”

“Because there is no God, or else she hates me.”

“What could be better than being outside making sure the kids are happy?” asked Mollie.

“Easiest thing in the world. See?” She pushed Zac, who was back on the swing.

“More, more!” he shouted.

“It’s much easier now that you’re here,” Cameron said, hopeful she would stay.

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“I’m on my way to tennis,” she said.

“Catch me,” Zac shouted, jumping off the swing and disappearing into a plastic tunnel.

“It’s the last day of coaching and there’s a Christmas party so I have to go. See you.” She turned and waved to Zac. “Bye, Zac.”

“Did you know that Rachel is out with that Mitch White?” Cameron said in an attempt to keep her there longer. She turned back to him.

“What do you mean, out?”

“I mean he picked her up and they drove off.”

Mollie shrugged. “At least this time she’s sober. See you.”

Cameron relapsed into glumness, Zac pawing at him to come and play. Freya’s pram started moving under its shady tree and an accompanying wail floated like a siren. He went to pick

Freya up, and his senses reeled as the stink of her met him like a punch. He almost gagged and put her back in her pram where she wailed louder. He had to get home. Fast.

“Come on, Zac, time to go.” Zac had other ideas. His pleading turned into whingeing and the pitch of his voice climbed. He sagged behind as Cameron pushed the pram across the grass.

Finally, Cameron heaved Zac up on his shoulders.

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“You’re the highest, you have to look out for pirates,” Cameron said.

He didn’t realise how heavy a three year old could be when you were walking uphill pushing a pram with a wriggling, whining occupant, but at least Zac was happy. By the time he got through the door, he was hot and exhausted, Freya was in a screaming frenzy, and Zac had his energy back. The apartment was clean and empty, with no Lou in sight. He hurriedly put the television on and sat Zac in front of it. He grabbed Freya, trying not to breathe, talking to her and soothing her as he went through the rooms looking for Lou. When he couldn’t find her, he looked in the fridge for a bottle of milk, grabbed one and put it in the microwave, trying to hold Freya as far away as possible. She felt hot and damp and smelled like a dead fish. His stomach heaved and his flesh felt like he was covered in ants as his mind came to terms with the inevitable. He was alone. He was in charge. He would have to change her nappy. For the first time in his life he felt inadequate. Horrified and inadequate. Where was everything? How was he meant to do this? Guys his age didn’t do this kind of thing.

When he gave Freya the bottle she quieted at once and instantly Cameron’s stress level came down. Lou had left a nappy station change organised so he put Freya on the floor, conscious of Zac laughing in the lounge room, and considered his next move.

“I apologise now, Freya,” he said firmly, “and I promise I will never, ever use this to embarrass you in the future, like my mother does to me.” She studied him intensely with her big eyed stare, and smiled, milk dribbling from her mouth. Cameron felt a surge of—of something—this was cuteness! This was what Rachel always went on about, babies being cute! But then he remembered the task at hand, took a deep breath. All signs of cuteness were gone. He dry-retched three times and felt dizzy, but he did it. When it was all over, he

245 couldn’t believe how pleased he felt. He picked Freya up and she gurgled, upchucked milk over him, dropped her bottle on his foot and grabbed his ear. He still felt good. He hugged her quickly, feeling her softness, and she spoke gurglish at him. He knew what she was saying.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

He took her back to the lounge room, where Zac had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the television.

“Perfect.” Cameron put Freya on the floor with some toys and lay down on the lounge.

“Nothing to it,” he said to himself, flicking the channel to something more interesting. He channel-surfed for a bit, and checked his phone for messages, wondering where Lou could be. But there was nothing from her. He tried to call her but her phone was either off or out of range. He updated his Facebook status.

“Played in the park, looked for pirates and nearly lost consciousness over a slimy

nappy.”

While he was there, he scrolled through his friends’ status and notifications.

Sam Random: I was attacked by mosquitos last night and now I look like my face has

been bashed up :(

Tim Black: Shotting from an ice cube tray... not ideal

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Stewart Douglas: Wish the ignorant "don't like it leave" bogans would do the country

a favour and leave it themselves. Stop dragging our country down.

Megan Chalmers is “in a relationship”.

A relationship. Cameron wondered who she was with. He felt a bit of an outsider now, not having seen anyone from back home or even thought about them, but he didn’t miss them. He was a person of the moment, he decided. Life was about here and now, not yesterday.

He was feeling hungry and got up to make himself a Vegemite sandwich. Where could Lou possibly be? Maybe her parents were sick. Or her sister who lived somewhere up the coast.

He had a horrible thought that she might have left altogether, and in that momentary insight saw that his father couldn’t do this without her, saw just how hard this would be on your own.

Freya started grizzling.

“You hungry? Try this.” He wasn’t sure this was exactly what she should have for lunch, but

Vegemite sandwiches were an Australian staple and he couldn’t be bothered looking in the fridge for anything else. She chewed, and Cameron laughed at the expression on her face as it twisted in surprise at the saltiness. She laughed at him laughing and opened her mouth for more.

Between them his sandwich disappeared quickly and he went to make another, deciding to make two so there was one ready for Zac when he woke up. He’d just finished when the door opened and Lou came in. He had never been so glad to see her.

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“Lou, thank God you’re back,” he said. “Where have you been?”

“I left you a note!” she said.

“A note? A paper note?”

“Yes, here!” she pointed to the side table near the door.

“I didn’t see it,” he said. “I was worried about where you were. I even had to change Freya and it was disgusting!”

Lou walked over to the kids and behind her was Rachel, looking dark. She headed straight to her room.

“Rachel!” Cameron called. “What’s happened?” He turned back to Lou as Rachel had ignored him and disappeared.

“You’ll have to ask her,” was all Lou would say, and gave her attention to Freya and the now awake Zac. “Thanks, Cameron,” Lou called over her shoulder. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Cameron muttered, full of curiosity and feeling ripped off that he’d spent all morning babysitting and didn’t know why. He went to Rachel’s room and banged on the door.

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“Rachel, what happened with Mitch?” he called.

“None of your business.”

“Hey, I have been through a lot just for you,” he said indignantly. “I have a right to know.”

The door opened slightly.

“The bastard left me in the Bay because I wouldn’t screw him in the back of his van. There.

Now you know. I’m an idiot.”

“I knew he was a dick,” Cameron said. “But you wouldn’t listen to me.” Rachel wasn’t talking any more and the door was shut firmly in his face.

Back in the lounge room, Zac came running up to Cameron and threw his arms around his knees.

“Thank you for my lunch,” he said, and ran back to Lou, leaving a dark smear of Vegemite and something else sticky across Cameron’s clean shorts.

It was a beautiful day but there were very few visitors at the Boatshed. Rhyll was the only casual working; Rose had sent the other one home. Ordinarily, Rhyll would have been bored.

But her mind was completely taken up with Cameron. She replayed the events of the morning, questioned his character, questioned her own feelings, and went over everything

249 since she had first seen him on the beach until today. She was hoping he would come down and as the afternoon wore on, she looked at her watch restlessly and kept glancing at the steps leading down onto the deck.

But it wasn’t Cameron who appeared. It was Mitch White. Rhyll tried not to meet his eyes and stared at the keys on the register as she typed his order. He gave her the money and as she gave him his change, he grinned at her.

“Spent the morning with your friend Rachel,” he said. “Found out she’s as frigid as you are.”

“You mean she’s as smart as I am,” Rhyll said sharply. “We both know a loser when we see one.”

He stared hard at her.

“Be careful on the road,” he said. “Accidents happen really easily.”

“Is that a threat?” she asked loudly. He smiled at her.

“It’s good advice.”

Cameron had gone for a swim to fill in time before heading down to the Boatshed. After his incredibly long morning, he enjoyed time to himself even though the waves were too gentle

250 to be exciting. He was impatient to see Rhyll again and finally decided to walk down and wait on the deck.

When he came to the carpark, he saw Mitch’s black ute. Anger stirred in him. He would love to put a dent in that thing. Run a stone along the shiny black body, carve his initials on the hood. But he wasn’t that sort of guy. He stopped for a moment, wondering if it was wise to come face to face with Mitch. While he really did want to confront him, in a ‘macho man way’ as Rachel would say, he was very aware it could end badly for himself. Mitch was bigger and stronger and most likely sober this time. He turned back to the car. Maybe he was that sort of guy. He picked up a sharp edged stone, sidled up to the car and walked along the passenger side, pressing the stone into the paintwork from one end to the other. It was like running fingernails down a wall. He thought it wise to wait for Mitch to leave and walked across the road, where he waited in the bushes until Mitch took off in a cloud of dust and rubber, oblivious to his imperfect car.

Rhyll’s face lit up with pleasure when she saw Cameron. She noticed things about him she had either forgotten or not noticed before—the shape of his eyebrows, the outline of his muscles, the way his head tilted when he grinned.

“What took you so long?” she asked shyly.

“Long day,” he said. “It seem ages since this morning. I missed you.” Rhyll didn’t know what to say. He took her hand and probably would have kissed her but he saw Rose looking at them from the kitchen. “How long before you finish?”

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“Half an hour. Rose might not mind if I go early though, as it is pretty dead. I’ll check.”

Rhyll hurried back, without her apron and smiling widely. “She’s cool. Let’s go.”

“You should smile more,” Cameron said. “It suits you.”

“Are you trying to smooth talk me?”

“I mean it!” Cameron sounded hurt that she mightn’t believe him. At the top of the stairs he stopped, and pulled her closer. They kissed again, first just lips touching, but gradually their bodies entwining, all nerves and senses and wanting. “You smell of... hot chips,” Cameron whispered in her ear. She laughed and pushed him away.

They walked, taking the long way, following the river back around to the beach. The water was bright amber with the sun’s reflections and the river current showed the tide was on its way out. The pelicans were at the boat ramp waiting as the fishermen came in. Spoonbills stood on a sand bank a few metres out, and all around, the terns were swooping for fish.

Rhyll was happy. She felt as bright as the sun, as wide as the river and as light as the terns.

This was all new, this feeling happy. It was like a drug; a heady, unknown cocktail in her blood, something she never wanted to lose. Her doubts about Cameron had subsided. She didn’t care now; she was going to enjoy being with him as long as this feeling lasted.

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CHAPTER 14

Cameron and Rhyll held hands as they walked along Cliff Drive with its ocean view and rows of Norfolk Island Pines. They heard Mitch White’s car before they saw it. He roared up over the hill and drove past them in an instant. Instinctively they moved off the road. They heard his brakes screech and watched as he turned the car around. Cameron pulled Rhyll closer.

There was nowhere for them to go. They had to trust Mitch’s ability and stood in horror as he drove past them at speed, coming as close as he could and veering away only at the last second.

“Just die, you idiot,” Rhyll screamed after him.

As he went into a turn at the next street, Mitch lost control. The car rolled, skidded and smacked into a tree. The silence that followed seemed a long time but was only a few seconds. Then the street burst into life, people coming out to help, to watch, to gossip. A man shouted out that he had called the fire brigade and for an ambulance.

Rhyll and Cameron had not moved. The car was lodged sideways, the driver’s cabin crushed against the tree. Cameron saw the long, silver line he had left across the car’s body. He wondered if Mitch had known.

Rhyll couldn’t breathe. Her chest was gripped by the cold of horror, her lungs frozen.

She was a murderer after all.

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It wasn’t far from here where Michael Adam Weatherall, aged 32, father of one, fell off the rocks. Fell, not pushed. How many years had she spent telling herself that? He fell. Drunk, arrogant, showing off. He fell just at the moment when Rhyll wished he would. Never had she hated someone so much and it was as if the force of her thoughts pushed him right off the rock into a churning sea as surely as if she had shoved him with her own hands. She would never forget his face as he had struggled to the surface and caught her eyes. They stared at each other and for Rhyll it seemed all in slow motion, shared horror, neither being able to look away. She was looking his death in the face, saw his raw fear, his lack of control. And then he disappeared, while around her shrieks of alarm rose like smoke.

It had been rough that day, and even someone who had been a good swimmer would have had difficulty. But he was not a good swimmer, had been drinking beers on the beach, and he did not have luck on his side. You definitely need luck to stay alive in this world, and timing.

You could get up in the morning and have no idea that this could be the last day of your life, the last hour, the last five minutes, the last second. You could be a minute late or early, and that could save your life, or it could be the end. That’s what fate is all about, the hidden mapping out of your life.

Surfers helped bring the body in and people tried to revive him. The ambulance turned up after a while and they tried too, shoving a tube down his throat and attaching leads to him trying to shock him back to life. But he lay heavy and solid, his eyes half-open, dark slits of nothing.

It took Rhyll a long time to accept that Michael Weatherall’s death was not her fault, that she really didn’t have supernatural powers and she wasn’t a murderer, though she still felt that

254 wishing someone dead was almost the same thing. Then Cameron fell off the rock. And now

Mitch? Maybe she did have a kind of magic ability to make things happen from her mind, though she’d tested it out a hundred times on people and objects with no result. She had often wondered how a person could kill another person. Hate had to be a strong factor. In war, you had an enemy and you made them monstrous to justify killing them. Or you killed them before they killed you. But every day, people were murdered by other people, or even killed in car ‘accidents’ that were not really accidents, but the result of people not caring what they did. What was the difference between someone driving a car like a maniac, or standing in a shopping centre with a gun and firing randomly?

A crowd had gathered around the car by now. Cameron, who had held Rhyll so close he could feel her heartbeat, now let her go and moved to cross the road. Rhyll didn’t move. She heard the river chopping on the rocks below, voices edged with tension, and sirens wailing.

She sat down on the grass, shaking, her skin prickly and hot, deflated by the utter sadness of it all, for she knew instinctively he was dead. The crowd was growing, the fire brigade had arrived and the police, then the ambulance. His parents. Friends. She saw Cameron talking to the police, before coming back.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t need to see this.”

“Is he dead?” Rhyll asked in a dull voice. Cameron nodded.

Slowly they walked away, the noise and chaos following them. Neither could speak. They reached Cameron’s place first. They hugged each other.

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“I’ll come round tomorrow,” Cameron said, and disappeared inside.

Rhyll walked home oblivious to the beauty of the evening. In her head she saw the black car; the terrible, wild slam of the car into the tree; the face of a drowning man; shivered at the cold of her mother’s skin. And the feeling of guilt wound itself inside her like an ever- tightening band.

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CHAPTER 15

In the days that followed, the only topic of conversation seemed to be The Accident. Stories that Mitch had been drunk; that he had run into the tree on purpose; that he and Rachel Ferris had an argument and Mitch had driven off angry and upset. When Rhyll and Cameron had spoken to the police, they did not mention Mitch’s bullying, but given that Rhyll had complained about him that first time, they were able to piece it together from the tyre skid marks on the road.

Almost everyone in Dolphin Point attended the funeral, sharing the complicated web of sadness that the death of someone generates, rethinking the Big Questions on the why’s of life and endless philosophising about fate and what to do about young men and fast cars. His

Facebook page was inundated with messages, many from strangers.

Rhyll and Cameron had grown even closer, and in clear-headed moments Rhyll knew she couldn’t blame herself for what had happened. But visions of the accident replayed in slow motion when she least expected it, and Mitch’s face became confused with that of Michael

Weatherall. The whole episode made her think more seriously about her own life and question her emotions. Maybe the thing about the house was something she’d made into more than what it was. She should be glad they got so much for it, Cameron said.

“You’ll get used to the new place,” he said. “It’s just change.”

“I guess I was being selfish,” she admitted. “It’s just that Dad didn’t seem to care at all.”

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“I reckon I would have done the same thing,” said Cameron. “Sometimes you need a business head because you can’t make good decisions if you are being all soppy about it.”

“I’m not being soppy,” Rhyll said, offended. “It’s about feelings, about history and about the fact that money isn’t everything. And that developers and salesmen will tell you anything.”

“They have to earn a living too,” Cameron said reasonably.

“Not at other people’s expense.”

“What do you mean? It isn’t like they set out to rip people off.”

“They would sell anybody anything,” Rhyll said firmly. “They couldn’t care less about the people side of things.”

Cameron snorted. “That is so crap. People want the most money for what they sell and to pay the least for what they buy.”

“Yes, but it’s the developers who make money out of the small people like us. They know we can’t afford to say no, and they don’t give up until you say yes. How do you think your fancy apartments got there?”

Cameron put his face close to Rhyll’s. “You look gorgeous when you get fired up,” he said.

“Here, have a chocolate.” He put a stick of chocolate between his teeth and veered towards

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Rhyll’s mouth. She felt a bit let down, surprised their views weren’t closer, but laughed and took the chocolate in her mouth.

“Pleeeese,” Rachel said, looking at them in the rear view mirror. She was driving them into the Bay to go to the movies. “After this, we’re even. I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me.”

“Only till the next stupid thing you do,” grinned Cameron. “I can wait.”

They parked the car and went to get their tickets.

“I’m not going,” said Rachel. “I’ll come back later.”

“You can come,” Cameron said, “we don’t mind.” Rhyll was miffed again. She was looking forward to some time with Cameron alone, and this felt like a real date.

“I don’t want to be a third wheel,” said Rachel. “I’ll meet you back here. Enjoy.”

After the movies, Rhyll and Cameron waited for Rachel. They bought an ice cream each and sat out the front. No Rachel. Cameron texted her, waited, and then rang. She didn’t answer.

They went to the car to see if she had gone there. She hadn’t.

“Well at least she hasn’t gone home without us,” Cameron said.

Eventually Rachel showed up.

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“Hey Cam, hey Rhyll,” she called from some distance away, and waved. It was obvious she had been drinking.

“You smell like a bar,” Cameron said when she reached them and threw her arms around him.

“I love this town,” she rambled. “Lots of nice people.”

“Great, how are you going to drive home?” Cameron asked.

“I can do it,” she said, fishing out the keys from her bag.

“I’m not ready to die yet,” said Cameron, taking the keys.

“Well, how are we going to get home?” Rhyll asked. “I don’t have a license.”

“But you can drive?” asked Cameron.

“Yes, I can drive but I. Have. No. License.”

“What are our options? Call your Dad? Call mine? Call Lou?”

“I am perfectly fine,” said Rachel, tripping over her shoe and falling against Cameron.

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“You really want me to drive?” Rhyll asked.

“I know I’m a guy, and therefore should be able to drive, but I haven’t had a lesson yet,” retorted Cameron. “I think you are the best bet to get us home in one piece.”

“Cameron I don’t do illegal things,” said Rhyll. “What if I get caught?”

“Would you rather I drive? I’d be picked up before we get to the highway, if I didn’t kill someone.”

“We could see if Mollie and Kate could come and get us,” said Rhyll. “Kate has a car.” She called them but there was no answer from either.

“Dad will take us home,” said Rhyll. “He works here. Rachel will have to come and pick the car up later.” But that wasn’t an option either.

“Jeff isn’t here on Monday afternoons,” the voice told Rhyll. “He’ll be in tomorrow. Can I help you?”

“No, it’s fine thanks,” Rhyll said confused. Not in on Monday afternoons? Since when?

“Ok, I guess I will have to do it,” said Rhyll nervously. “I hope I can get out of the car park.”

She knew she had been slack about getting her license. She’d had all the lessons and practice.

Only needed to sit the test.

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She was glad it was a Monday and fairly quiet traffic-wise, as she navigated through the

Bay’s back streets onto the highway.

“You are a fantastic driver, Rhyll,” said Rachel from the back. “I bet you didn’t know that?”

“Let her concentrate,” said Cameron, feeling guilty at pressuring Rhyll.

“I am definitely going to sit this stupid driving test,” Rhyll muttered, annoyed with herself and with Rachel.

“At least there’s not much traffic and therefore no cops,” said Cameron.

Rhyll was feeling more confident the closer they came to Dolphin Point. As they drove out of the last town before the turnoff, Rhyll looked in her mirror.

“Shit!” she exclaimed. “It’s Dad!”

“Just act normal,” said Cameron helpfully. “Don’t panic.”

Rhyll wasn’t doing the full speed limit, so Jeff was right behind her until the lane became two. Then he passed her, accelerating. Rhyll held her breath and drove steadily. Once in front he slowed down for a bit, and then sped up. Rhyll wasn’t sure if he’d seen her or not.

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The rest of the journey was uneventful. Rhyll was pleased when she reached the apartments.

There was a sense of satisfaction, not only at getting them out of a tricky situation and home safely, but also that they had gotten away with it.

“Didn’t have to wait long for you to do something stupid again,” Cameron said to Rachel.

“You still owe me.”

“Love you, Cameron,” Rachel said, clapping him on the back. “And your girlfriend.

“Love you guys to bits.”

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CHAPTER 16

Rhyll, Kate and Mollie were sitting on the grass under the shade of a pine tree overlooking the beach, eating fish and chips. The beach below was a riot of colour, with umbrellas, shade tents and toys, and swarms of people. The surf was rough and the waves thudded on the beach, dumping bodies and flinging boards. The lifeguards were vigilant in red and yellow, because despite the sea’s rudeness, people went back for more. Seagulls, red-beaked and sharp-eyed, waited patiently next to the girls, hoping for a chip, or a scrap of fish batter. Only tourists fed seagulls but still the gulls waited in anticipation.

It was the first time they had all been together for a while. Rhyll had been busy working and seeing Cameron in her time off. Kate had been organising her trip, and had gone to Sydney for a few days. Mollie had been working between her three jobs. It was nearly Christmas, but none of them felt any kind of festive spirit.

“Almost everything is packed in a box,” Rhyll said. “No decorations for us. We’ll be in the

McMansion before New Year’s Eve.”

“Our place has no decorations either,” said Mollie. “Grandma took care of that. She kept saying it wasn’t Christmas, or Christmas was over, and packed them up. Mum put them out, and she put them away again, but not in any kind of order. They were shoved everywhere. I even found some in the washing machine.”

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“Come to our place,” said Kate. “We’ve got every hanging, swinging, flashing thing you can think of.” Kate wasn’t eating.

“Not hungry?” Mollie asked Kate. “What’s wrong? That’s not like you.”

For a moment, Kate wanted to tell them everything. She’d gotten used to the whole idea, and couldn’t wait for it to be over with so she could have her life, and her body, back. This thing had taken her over, like an alien invasion and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She didn’t care whether they would agree with her decision or not. She thought Mollie wouldn’t but

Rhyll probably would. But she didn’t want anyone to know. Not her friends, not her parents.

Not Steve. Knowledge meant complications. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about everything. What if she found out she could never have children afterwards? How would she feel then, knowing she had been responsible for ending this life? What would this pearl, this embryo, this human, turn out like if she changed her mind? Would it be a boy or a girl?

Would it be fair and blue-eyed like Steve? Or dark and hazel-eyed like her? Kate could imagine he or she laughing, crying, loving. She saw other people with their babies, their children. Real flesh and blood, warm, soft things bouncing with life and noise and feelings.

Their very being twisted her guts whenever she saw one. What if that feeling never went away?

What if Steve wanted it?

“I had a big breakfast,” she answered Mollie, trying to sound ordinary. She changed the subject. “So Rhyll, tell us about Cameron?”

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Rhyll smiled shyly. “I think I’m in love.”

“That didn’t take long,” said Mollie.

“It’s been long enough,” said Rhyll defensively. “And a lot has happened in that time.”

“Well, you don’t want to rush it,” said Mollie.

“Just go with it,” said Kate. “It doesn’t matter about how long, it’s how you feel.”

“Rhyll is more emotional than you, Kate,” Mollie said practically. “If she is in love, it probably won’t end well for her. Not easily, anyway.”

“You need to get hurt to grow and move on,” Kate stated.

“I don’t think Rhyll needs that kind of hurt.”

“Hey, I’m right here,” said Rhyll. “And thanks for your advice. but I think it’s too late. If we break up I’ll be devastated.”

“Have you slept with him?” asked Kate.

“No!” said Rhyll. “I’m not in a rush.”

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Kate shrugged. “It’s only sex. I did it first when I was 14. Though I have to admit it wasn’t much fun then. ”

“It doesn’t seem that simple to me,” said Rhyll. “And anyway, we might not.”

“He’s a boy, Rhyll,” Mollie pointed out. “It’s inevitable.”

“It’s inevitable for girls too, you know,” said Kate impatiently. “It’s great! Don’t put it off.

That’s my advice.”

Cameron had hinted at it a few times and Rhyll hadn’t yet agreed or disagreed. She felt too shy to talk about it properly. But they hadn’t had much opportunity to do anything. For starters, they didn’t get much privacy. She wasn’t about to do it in a car or anywhere in the outside world. And the first time was special. It had to be romantic and meaningful. Not just the mechanical sort of sex that Kate seemed to enjoy.

“It has to be the right time and the right place,” she said firmly. “And I don’t know when that might be.”

“A true romantic!” said Mollie.

“That just means it’s going to be a bigger fall,” Kate said without emotion.

“Maybe, but we will be here to catch her,” said Mollie.

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In the end, their Christmas celebrations were all disappointing. Cameron and Rachel had gone back to Canberra for Christmas with their mother, leaving Rhyll caught in a state of restlessness she hadn’t experienced before. Cameron was on her mind, but at the same time, the disorganisation of the house in the lead up to moving was a constant reminder of the battle she had lost without a fight. She spent much of her time working on a series of sculptures she had started when she was still at school, and started another one of her mother, only to throw it out and start another.

Christmas Day started out hot and still. Rhyll was up before everyone, and sat out on the veranda as the sunlight cut through the pine trees. Lorikeets scrabbled noisily in the banksias near the house. She checked her phone. It would be too early for Cameron to be awake, but she texted him anyway.

“Hey happy xmas, miss u, lv R xx”

The sun was strong already. She felt the warmth seep into her. It would be good swimming today. She thought back to other Christmases, when she and Daniel were up early and outside, so excited that it was finally the day, not just another day. Being old takes the fun out of things, Rhyll thought. It wasn’t about how old you were, but being able to see things beyond what they were.

Rhyll studied the detail of everything in her line of sight: the flakey walls, the splintery, uneven veranda floor, the narrow, rutted driveway. This place was like a time warp. For ten more days. Next week she and her family would be gone. And then, first thing in the new

269 year, the bulldozers would move in, flatten this house to rubble, to empty space. To nothing.

And no one else cared. That hurt.

Why would Andrea care? Rhyll tried not to compare Andrea with her mother—they were so utterly different—but it was hard not to wonder what her own mother would have done in certain situations. Andrea was younger than her mother would have been. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her shape was opposite to the bony-limbed slightness that Rhyll had inherited from her mother. Andrea was curvy and comfortable, always smiling and incredibly hard to dislike. Which annoyed Rhyll intensely. She wanted to hate her, as she hated the space that Andrea filled. But Andrea was even-tempered, always positive and seemed to understand that people just needed to be left alone to work through their problems. She never interfered, gave advice or even expressed an opinion unless asked. And when she was asked, unfortunately, she usually made a lot of sense.

Andrea didn’t read novels, but she did read magazines, especially the ones where you did puzzles and sent them off to win prizes. She wasn’t the least bit interested in the sea, swimming or even lying on the beach. Her real love was horses. She hadn’t owned one for years, having moved several times until she moved in with them. But of course, that was all about to change. Everyone seemed to have gotten what they wanted, except for Rhyll. Dad had his pool room and garage space, complete with automated doors. Daniel had a computer room. Andrea would have her horse. Rhyll had a space of her own, for her art, as Dad said.

But what he didn’t understand was that to be an artist, to create something, you had to be in the right space, not just any space. And certainly not a smooth, new box of a room with a view of a few trees, in a space that had no echoes, no memories and no feeling.

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“Merry Christmas,” she thought bitterly, hearing movement from inside the house.

Rhyll thought she would never get through this day. Andrea and Dad were being particularly lovey-dovey which Rhyll found both embarrassing and irritating. She and Daniel exchanged raised eyebrows and rolling of eyes before Daniel finally pointed his fingers down his throat and gagged.

“You’re too old for this,” he said.

“We’re not dead yet,” said Dad, putting his arm around Andrea and kissing her again.

“Can’t you do that somewhere else?” Rhyll asked.

“You and Cameron don’t mind slobbering over each other publicly,” Daniel said.

Rhyll went red. “That is completely different, as most idiots would be able to see.”

“Come on, it’s Christmas,” said Dad. “Relax.”

They had lunch—ham, prawns and salads and a pudding that Daniel made. He was great at making desserts, and eating them. After lunch they opened their presents. Rhyll’s was in an envelope and she thought it would be money. She was almost right. It was an air ticket to

Rome. Well, a promised air ticket to Rome. Dad and Andrea were smiling broadly. Dad was so pleased with himself; so happy that he was able to do something like this. Rhyll was completely overcome. She was touched by her father’s eagerness to make her happy. He

271 seemed more excited than anyone else. In his expression, Rhyll could see him as a little boy.

She was flooded by a rush of love for him, and wanted him to scoop her up in his arms and squeeze her tight like he used to do when she was small. And she was excited too—her chance to make real what she’d been working towards for so long. She really could go to

Italy, fly out of here, away from ordinariness. She now had a definite plan. Yet Rhyll felt a nagging anger, the feeling that she was being paid off out of the proceeds of the house, with dirt money. She put her arms around him and thanked him. And Andrea.

But there was more.

“We’ve got something to say.” Dad cuddled Andrea, looked dreamily into her eyes. Rhyll froze. Daniel groaned.

“Andrea and I are getting married.” More kissing.

“Married?” said Daniel in disbelief. “What do you want to go and do a thing like that for?”

Rhyll was stung. Was he so completely stupid? Now she did feel paid off.

“How about ‘congratulations’?” Dad asked.

“Congratulations then,” said Daniel ungraciously. “Whatever.”

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Rhyll couldn’t bring herself to say anything, trying to work out how she felt. She knew it was perfectly reasonable for her father to want to find his own happiness, and Andrea too, but she couldn’t accept it in light of everything else. It was all too contrived, too perfect for Andrea.

And what did this do to her own mother’s memory?

“Congratulations,” she finally managed, when she could get her voice to work. But the words were as hollow as her bones.

Mollie’s Christmas Day gatherings were always full of noise and people and this one was no exception. Cousins whose names she couldn’t even remember turned up with children she had never met, and her mother and aunts spent hours cooking and preparing, while the men drank and did ordinary things they never usually did, like play cricket with the kids. There were loads of presents, mountains of wrapping, followed by way too much food, great as it tasted. In the middle of it all, her grandmother sat serenely, seemingly undisturbed by it all, the dog at her knee most of the time, and Mollie couldn’t help thinking this could be their last

Christmas together.

Amid the chaos of chatter and Christmas music, the dog went to the door to go outside.

Mollie let him out.

“Now look what you’ve done,” came a shriek. Mollie did not have time to see what was going to happen before her grandmother was upon her, screaming, scratching her, waving her arms frantically.

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“You stupid girl,” she shouted. “You chased my dog away.”

Mollie tried to push her off, not wanting to be too rough, but Sofia was strong and persistent.

Eventually, her parents led her grandmother away, soothing her anger and calming her down.

Mollie felt none of the scratches and welts on her arms and face.

But she did feel like someone had kicked her in the throat.

Married. Married? Rhyll stalked along the Esplanade. How ridiculous, she thought. It all fell into place now. Andrea manipulating Dad the whole time, gently steering, so he was right where she wanted him to be. Clever, she was. Rhyll had never trusted her. A gut feeling was all she had to go on, but look how right that was.

She wished Cameron was here, the first time she felt she really needed someone else. She texted Mollie on the off chance she could get away. But when she got to the beach, Mollie was there already, sitting in the shade of one of the big rocks edging the beach. She rushed over.

“Mollie, I’m so glad to see you!” Then she saw Mollie’s arms and face covered in scratches, her eyes red. “Mollie, what happened?”

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“Grandma,” she said. “I put the dog outside, and Grandma went berserk. She said I chased him outside and was trying to let him loose. It isn’t her fault though, it’s the dementia.”

“Oh, Mollie, I’m so sorry,” Rhyll sat down beside her and put her arm around her. “What’s going to happen now?”

“This is the end, Rhyll,” Mollie said choking back tears. “She’s gone already.”

Rhyll didn’t know what to say. What can you say to these things? What could anyone say to

Mitch White’s parents? What could anyone have said to Rhyll’s grandmother? Saying you were sorry didn’t seem enough, but there were no other words that were right. So she said nothing and they sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind, the wash of the water and the bright voices that surrounded them.

The tide was coming in and they sat just out of the reach of the incoming waves, until a rogue one splashed over them and seethed out again. Suddenly they were kids again playing in the shallows, jumping over the waves and being chased back into shore, squealing and laughing.

Eventually, exhausted, their clothes dripping and full of wet sand, they headed for home.

Sender: [email protected]

Darling Rhyll

Merry Christmas! No doubt it is hot, hot and hot! I miss the summer but I have to say

that Austria is a marvel in winter. The whole landscape becomes a work of art,

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constantly reshaped. Icicles appear like mini-sculptures and the snow changes

everything from an angular, ordered world into a curvaceous, unpredictable form.

The trees are so still and bare but for their winter jewellery, which transforms them

into statuesque monuments glistening as if diamond-studded.

We are with friends and very much looking forward to a traditional European

Christmas, starting with the frosty night markets. But enough of us—I am so excited

for you—now you have no excuse not to visit! In your next email I expect you to tell

me when you will be here!

I hope the move to the new house goes well. I know you are not happy with leaving

the cottage—it will always have a special place in my heart too of course—but I think

the new arrangements sound wonderful. And I wish Andrea and your father all the

best for the future.

Must go, love you crazily, and can’t wait to see you.

Claire. xx

Kate’s family’s very formal Christmas Day lunch, complete with a gigantic turkey which took hours of cooking, was spent with her grandparents from both sides. When she was little, she had loved the attention of being the only child lost in the amazement of gifts, but now it seemed a burden to make conversation, and while the quietness was dull, the focus that seemed to always fall on her and her achievements was now highly irritating.

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Added to that, it was one of the hottest days of the summer. Although they had the air conditioning on, it was still oppressive. They exchanged presents in an orderly way before a huge lunch where she ate little. There was a subtle competition between the grandparents about the best gift. Pearl earrings to match the pearl necklace from her mother’s side. A voucher for a designer outfit from her father’s side. She was pleased by both offerings.

But for some reason, she felt like an outsider. They talked endlessly about so many subjects, drank more wine, and tried to engage Kate, but she felt stifled, obliged to be polite and felt trapped.

“Kate is not herself,” she heard Elizabeth remark as they took plates out to the kitchen.

“Kate has a lot on her mind,” her mother said apologetically. “She has the move to Sydney to sort out and the trip as well.”

Finally, it was over. The grandparents left and the house relaxed into itself. Her parents went for a lie down.

Kate went for a walk to try and shake off her mood. The afternoon breeze was picking up and storm clouds were banking. A flock of black cockatoos passed overhead shrieking supernaturally. The ocean was studded with white capped waves. But however interesting the world was around her, Kate could only think of the embryo, embedded, growing and doomed.

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CHAPTER 17

Their lounge room had always been small, but after Andrea moved in it seemed impossibly tiny. That last night in the house, packing all done, and just the tv and the lounge suite and a few essentials left, the four of them squatted like full-feathered birds in a weatherboard nest.

The breeze that rattled the blinds and the screen doors was still full of the day’s heat, and the sea pushed urgently against the shore in short, sharp claps in much the same way Rhyll had banged about in the kitchen earlier, knocking cupboard doors shut and setting plates down in pointless anger that no one acknowledged.

Now, still speechless, they spread out on the ratty grey lounge suite that had not that long ago seemed so new, and the television droned. Rhyll, draped across her chair, couldn’t believe their indifference on this, the last night of their lives in this place. Did they care so little?

Andrea rested her head against Jeff’s shoulder, and both were engrossed by the show.

That day when she came home to find Myles and her dad making a deal seemed so long ago.

And here they were now, their lives sorted into cardboard boxes, this house on Death Row awaiting execution by bulldozer in two days.

Rhyll couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“So, is this it then?”

No one looked up.

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“I can’t believe you people. You are so... so... bogan.”

“Take a chill pill, Rhyll,” said Daniel, chuckling at his own poetic wit.

Her father sighed, pushed himself up from the lounge and turned the television off.

“Hey, Dad, it isn’t finished yet.”

“Rhyll has something on her mind,” her Dad said wearily. “And I don’t think we are going to avoid hearing it. What is it, Rhyll? What do you want us to do?”

Rhyll felt her throat tighten. She squeezed the words out. “Don’t you have any feelings at all for this place? About everything that has happened here?”

“You know I do, Rhyll. I’ve lived so much of my own life here. Of course I do,” Dad said.

“But things change, people move on. We’ve been through all this. What is the point of going over it all again?”

“It’s our last night. In a few days this house will be gone.”

“It’s just a house, Rhyll! And an old, fibro one beyond repair.”

“Yeah, look at where we are going!” Daniel was obviously excited. “New, modern, not falling down—that’s got to be a plus.”

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“Don’t any of you feel that it is more than just a house?” Rhyll was exasperated. “Isn’t that what makes us human? It’s our own, special space. It’s not an old fibro knock-down to me.”

“Well, you’re the only one in the known universe who would keep it,” said Daniel impatiently. “Especially when it is worth a million bucks.”

“Because you have no idea of the real value of this place,” Rhyll hissed. “So it is quick money for you. You will all regret selling it anyway. It will be worth 10 million in a few years.”

“Rhyll, this is going nowhere,” her father said wearily. “I’m sorry you’re not happy, but life doesn’t revolve around you.”

“I know my opinion doesn’t count for anything but you could show a bit of respect for

Mum.”

Before Jeff could say anything, Andrea got up quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Here, Rhyll. This is for you.” Andrea handed Rhyll what was obviously an album. Rhyll took it awkwardly. It was heavy. She sat at the dining table and slowly turned back the red vinyl cover. Inside were photos, sorted from the boxes of jumbled, dog-eared photographs that had sat at the bottom of some dark cupboard for years. One of those jobs Dad had never gotten around to.

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Andrea had sorted them in date order. Photos of the house as far back as they had them, some of which had belonged to her grandmother. Photos of her parents before they had children.

Photos of her mother with Rhyll. A story with no words. Andrea had even taken photos of the house recently, the view through the windows, the pine trees and the ocean. The knotty garden. The broken bits of furniture in the yard.

Rhyll tried to say something to Andrea but she couldn’t find her voice. She knew she should thank her, and part of her was so, so glad that she now had some record of the house’s life and its connections. But at the same time, she resented the finality of it. Her life had been put together by someone who had become a part of her own life without consent. Her mind was swimming, a great whirl of blur and motion. Her hands shook. Was this all that she was to have left? The floor had literally just been taken out from under her. The house and its heart was crushed lifeless before her eyes. Was she being stupid? Why didn’t anyone else feel the same way? Even Mollie and Kate had thought that her new house was worth giving up for the old.

Rhyll stood up. They all looked at her and she looked back. The blinds hung lifelessly as the wind dissipated completely. Even the ocean was quiet. Crickets chirped tunelessly. Rhyll opened the door and stepped out on to the porch, the screen door smacking shut behind her.

The television was switched back on and the sound was as violent as an explosion.

She followed the esplanade down towards the main beach, texting Mollie and Kate as she walked. The Norfolk Island pines stood still and straight as soldiers. The night was a clammy mist of moonlight filtered behind the clouds, and a fairy-like phosphorous glimmer from the waves gently washing in made it all seem ghostly and surreal. The path crossed above the

282 main beach, weirdly lit by the lights of Cameron’s apartment block, and continued past another small beach. There were a few people out walking, as usual. Couples leaning against each other, some people she knew who said hi as she passed. She missed Cameron. The space where he should have been was ever-present, a reminder of absence lodged in her skin like a bruise. She couldn’t wait for him to get back.

At the end of the Esplanade where the cliff looked over the far beach, Rhyll took the path down to the shore. The air was thick and damp against her skin. Rhyll felt almost suffocated by the humidity, with no breeze to relieve it. A fingernail of moon edged out of the clouds and the sea flickered under its light. It was low tide. Rhyll climbed a black rock and sat with her legs hanging. Loud voices floated across the beach, and the lights of Blacks Beach winked across the bar. She knew this place well, well enough to know its moods, and well enough not to trust its often calm demeanour.

This was the spot where Michael Weatherall fell. The shadowy cliff staking the river to her right was where Mitch had crashed. And the ocean at her feet was where her mother’s ashes were scattered. Rhyll fought hard to keep herself in the present as images floated wildly through her head, trying to take her over. The idea of death could really scare you away from life, she thought. You got one chance at it. So many people stuffed it up. Or ran out of luck.

Or just threw it away. It all depended on where you were born, who your parents were, and what kind of body you ended up with. Then, in the end, you die and all your memories, your feelings, your senses are gone. A pile of bones. Rhyll felt their house was like a body. And with its demolition would go all the memories, the feelings and its history and senses. A pile of wooden bones.

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“Hey, Rhyll, what’s up?” Mollie appeared out of the darkness.

“I’m having a party with all my friends,” Rhyll joked. “You smell of your mum’s Italian pork meatballs. Yum.”

“Thanks for that. Yes, it was yum. And so was the home made gelati.”

“We had leftover leftovers. Cleaned out the fridge.”

“So all packed?”

“Yep. It will all be gone in the morning. Happy New Year. And then next week the bulldozers move in for the kill.”

“I’ll miss that place. We had lots of fun.” They both stared out to sea. A tanker was inching its way along the darkness, shaped by its lights.

“I’m not giving in yet.”

“What do you mean?” Mollie looked at her curiously.

“I’ve had an idea. I’m not giving in without a fight.” Even in the dark, Mollie could see the determination in her face. “But I need your help. You and Kate.”

“What about Cameron?”

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“And Cameron. He is back tomorrow.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Let’s wait till Kate gets here.”

“I just left Kate’s. I don’t think she’s coming.”

Rhyll sighed. Kate was so aloof sometimes.

“Let’s walk then,” she said.

They took off their shoes, and walked along the beach towards the river mouth.

“How’s your grandma?” Rhyll asked.

“She isn’t good,” said Mollie. “Poor Mum is a wreck trying to keep everything under control.

We couldn’t find the cutlery—she had rolled them up into tea towels and hid them in drawers all over the place yesterday. And if Mum takes her eye off her for a minute, she’s out the door. Anyway, what is your plan?”

“I’m going to squat in my house. Dare them to bulldoze it with me in it.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

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“I’m sick of everything being dictated to us. To ME. I’m going to stand up for what I believe in.”

“This is kind of different, Rhyll. It is your Dad’s house and he sold it fair and square.”

“It is just as much my house,” Rhyll said fiercely. “Maybe even more my house because it was Mum’s family who built it, not Dad’s.”

“Ok, I get it,” said Mollie. “But what is the point now? It won’t stop the inevitable.”

“The point is that at least I will have made my views public. That’s where you come in. I want you to round some people up, film it and put it on the internet.”

“Film what exactly? You being dragged out? Arrested?”

“If that is what happens.”

“What if nothing happens?”

“Stop being so negative. I’ll call the newspaper as well.”

“I’m troubleshooting, not being negative. When is this going to happen?”

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“Bulldozers are due Wednesday morning so I’m going to have to be there early. Probably from 6am.”

“I’m not going to get there that early! 8am should be early enough.”

“As long as you get there.”

“I’ll be there,” Mollie promised. “Rhyll vs the Corporation. I love it already.”

They had reached the river mouth. The tide was on the turn and the water hissed through the channel like a fat black snake. The parting clouds revealed a bright moon, and everything glimmered. It was a satisfying summer night, as if everything was in its proper place. Rhyll felt calm and clear-headed. At least she was doing something. Finally. It might not be much, but it was something and she’d thought of it herself.

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CHAPTER 18

By the time Cameron got back, the house had been emptied and all their possessions moved to what Rhyll had referred to as Paddock Flats Manor, though Andrea had come up with the much more romantic name of Candlebark, after the huge trees edging the property that had survived destruction. They—Andrea and Dad—were talking about getting married here next spring, when the garden had grown. With a bit of luck, Rhyll hoped she would be far away by then. She would send a postcard written in Italian. Congratulazioni per il vostro matrimonio.

Ciao!

In her large room, surrounded by boxes, the only thing Rhyll had managed to unpack was the poster of David. She couldn’t decide on the right place to put it. Maybe when she had unpacked properly it would be more obvious. The place smelt of paint, of sawdust; the cotton crisp of curtain fabric and the ropey smell of new carpet. There was no drift of salt or tang of pines. It was bright and clean and surreal.

Unpacking. Rhyll felt bleakly unmotivated. She looked through the window at the distant, shadowy mountains. There were no obvious signs of civilisation in the line of sight other than the glint of light reflecting from cars on the far-off highway, and it made the world seem vast; a tumbling, emptiness that needed something to give it life.

She opened a few more boxes to see what was in them, stacking books on shelves and finding a spot for photographs, ornaments, and setting aside things she would need for the next few days. Rhyll felt far away from everyone. She wished again that she had made more effort to

289 get her license, because now she couldn’t just walk down the road to Mollie’s, or to the beach, or even to work. Dad had fixed up his old bike, and that would have to do for now, but she resolved to book in for the driving test next week, then she could have Dad’s old car to go where she pleased, once his new one arrived.

Her phone went again. Cameron was keeping her informed of where he was. Fifteen minutes away now. She felt a surge of anticipation, a thrill. It seemed ages since he’d left. They had spoken every day and texted each other many more times. But the silences in between were deflating and wide, like a picture stretched out of shape. She remembered the saying ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, and realised its truth.

She had arranged to stay a few nights at Mollie’s, partly to go over her plan for squatting in the house, and partly so she could see Cameron more easily. Rhyll looked around her room. It was a mess but she could fix it later. There was no rush. Tomorrow night was New Year’s

Eve and there was a party on the beach so Tuesday was recovery day. And then it was

Bulldozer Day.

“I’m staying at Mollie’s for a few nights,” she told her father, who was setting up his new garage and man shed. He looked up at her, sweaty and flushed from exertion.

“Can’t you help out?”

“You’ve got Andrea,” she said. “You don’t need me.”

“There’s a lot to do.”

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“Well if this place was closer to somewhere, it wouldn’t be a problem, would it? Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

She left without waiting for a response, heaved her backpack on, mounted the bike and cycled unsteadily across the gravelly driveway to the road. Behind her, the candlebark trees swayed gently and the sunlight fell on the hills in warm and vibrant patterns that she would have found mesmerising, had she stopped to look.

Cameron and Rhyll hugged each other as though reunited after a long war. Rhyll melted into his body, feeling soft and fluid against his firmness, feeling wanted and loved and maybe even sexy. She breathed him in, felt his hands moving across her skin, her back, her hair. She felt him beneath her fingers, the clamminess of his shirt, the way his muscles moved under her touch, the roughness of his chin. She knew then she wanted more than this, wanted all of him, and was caught by how urgent that feeling was.

Cameron was surprised by her welcome. The texts and conversations they’d had while he was away had created doubts in his mind about her, about them. He was glad he had not been here when she was feeling angry and upset about everything. Could he cope with her not coping? He was someone who looked on the bright side, who didn’t want to dwell on the bad things. Yes, he’d been attracted to her and he had never fully understood why—maybe that was the chemistry people talked about, that indefinable something that made people click.

But all his doubts were gone now. He didn’t have to think about it, just let their bodies sort it out. And that was easy.

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Here she was, pressed against him in a perfect fit. Here he was, as hard as a rock.

For Rhyll it was a perfect afternoon. They walked on the beach, bodysurfed on generous waves, lazed against the hot sand, talked about everything. She told him about her plan to squat in the house. He didn’t seem very enthusiastic.

“It’s kind of late to do anything, don’t you think?”

“It’s never too late,” said Rhyll firmly. “You were the one who made me think of it, you know.”

“Me?”

“Yes, remember that day when we were walking? You said you knew I would think of something, and now I have.”

Cameron couldn’t remember. Well, he remembered their first conversation, but he didn’t remember the details.

“So, you will be there, won’t you?” she looked at him anxiously. “I need you.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked reluctantly. He didn’t like being needed.

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“I need you to support me.”

Cameron brightened. That meant being there. He could do that.

“Of course I will,” he said reassuringly. “But I don’t think you are going to change anything.”

“Even if I cost them one day’s delay, it will be worth it,” she said fiercely. “And a bit of publicity would be even better.”

“You look scary when you’re angry,” he said, lying back on the sand. “I wouldn’t mess with you.”

“How did your Christmas go?” Rhyll asked, conscious she had possibly monopolised the conversation, from her Dad and Andrea’s engagement, her Christmas present air ticket,

Mollie’s problems with her grandmother and her idea about squatting in the house.

“Good,” Cameron said.

“Is that it?”

Cameron sighed. He really didn’t want to talk about it; a house full of relatives with small children who got into all his stuff; having to constantly help his mother with shopping and meals and taking kids to parks; and Rachel, who spent most of her time out somewhere, and when she got home, could have killed a cat if she’d breathed on it. He focused on the cloud formations. It reminded him of when he was really small and used to lie down in the back

293 yard, watching the sky for ages. He used to call himself a cloud watcher. You could see so many things in the clouds.

“Good because there was heaps of food, I saw some friends, I got some money,” he said.

“Boring because I had to hang around and talk to relatives I hadn’t seen since last Christmas, and then good because I got to come back down here. And see you,” he added.

Rhyll was a bit disappointed. She had hoped he would say he had a bad time because he missed her. And she felt he wasn’t telling her everything.

“What’s happening tomorrow night?” he asked, changing the subject and rolling over close to

Rhyll. “Last night of the year so we should do something special.”

“Well, there is a beach party,” Rhyll said slowly. He was looking into her eyes, seriously, searchingly. She met them boldly. “But I thought we could go somewhere else first.”

Cameron didn’t ask where. In the small silence that followed, he had no doubt what she was saying. He took her in his arms, just to make sure.

The carpet is rough against my skin. Old carpet; peeling walls and the toffee of sunset, rich and sweet, shining on us almost like a spotlight. I can hear the lorikeets chippering madly, and the house creaking its old bones. This shell of a house, now stripped bare and abandoned, cradling us like molluscs.

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Rhyll wasn’t aware of planning anything beforehand. Her body simply took over. Finally they had a private place, bare and barren as it was, and Rhyll couldn’t have been more pleased that she had thought of it. While she couldn’t bear to think that soon these walls would be gone, that time would see it vanish as though it had never existed, the chance of adding to the store of meaning in this space excited her. It seemed right, and it gave impetus to her decision to squat in the house and face the destructors.

I like the roughness beneath me. It keeps me in the present so I can feel him inside me, and I am pushing against him right where the pleasure is, now the centre of me. He is groaning in my ear, and I’m not sure it sounds pleasurable, but the urgency is increasing, the waves are pounding rocks out there, and he’s pounding me in the same rhythm.

Cameron felt like he was surfing an endless wave on a welcoming ocean. It was that sweet dizziness of cloud watching, where your mind and body are one mass of sensation taken over by time and place. Was it the ocean in his ears or his own pulse? Was it the height of summer making him sweat or the surge of unfamiliar emotion? Was it the breeze ruffling his skin or her touch?

I never thought about sex as a rhythm but it is, two bodies finding the same moments in time. When I come, I can feel the whole world around me as I hold my breath and my body takes over, shimmering, shuddering, I don’t know how to describe it really, but just urgent, sensational pleasure. I don’t have to wait long for Cameron, and as I’m lying there so pleased with myself for knowing how to do this amazing thing no one ever talks about, he shrinks back to normal, leaving me enormous; utterly, unfathomably enormous.

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CHAPTER 19

There is always afterwards: the smugness of achievement; a shyness; a sense of ending and newness; a unity and a separation. It was a swarm of emotions that Cameron and Rhyll shared but weren’t conscious of as they left the darkness of the cottage and headed for the beach. New Year’s Eve seemed to be the same everywhere—a time to get outside and party, on the beach, on the footpath, on the street, in front gardens, in the pubs and clubs. It was hot and humid, and lightning in the east lit up the sky and ocean in spasms of ghoulish inky blue.

They found Mollie, Kate and Rachel with a few others. Rhyll wondered if she looked different now. She felt somehow older, that she’d crossed a boundary into the one-way land of adulthood that came not from the knowledge of it, but from the doing of life. Rhyll felt so close to Cameron that she didn’t ever want to let him go. She tried not to keep looking at him, but she couldn’t help it. She loved the fall of his hair, his crooked smile.

In the midst of their conversation, a voice floated above them.

“Cameron! I told you I’d make it!”

A girl flung herself at him, pushing Rhyll aside almost roughly. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him.

“Hi peeps,” she addressed the others. “I’m Megan.”

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Rhyll didn’t know what to say. Cameron never talked about his other friends. Was Megan his town girlfriend and Rhyll his fill-in girlfriend?

Cameron knew what she was thinking.

“Megan is a friend from Canberra,” he said. “This is my girlfriend, Rhyll.” He put his arm around Rhyll to reinforce that. Megan didn’t take much notice.

“I love the coast,” she gushed. “We used to come here a lot when we were kids. Do you all live here?”

Megan was not shy and easily engaged with everyone. Her hair was a mixture of blonde and red. She had a jewel on her tongue and several other piercings. Her lashes were thick and primed, her face smoothed and soft. She was curvy and glamorous. Next to her, Rhyll felt awkward and simple, tall and angular. And under-dressed. And quiet. For Megan talked a lot.

In her own words she was a ‘party animal’; she and Cameron had that in common apparently, and “we met at a friend’s party a few years ago, and have been partying ever since because we both like, you know, to live for the moment, because you just never know how long you are going to be here for, and because, well being young means you should have fun and not waste a minute of it as you’ll be 25 before you know it and having to work instead of having fun. Check these photos out, these were at the huge party we had in Schoolies Week,—this one is hilarious! We caused such a stir, Cameron and me, and you should have seen the comments on Facebook.”

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She flicked through the photos on her phone. Cameron tried to divert Rhyll’s attention, but there was that photo of him and Megan, a goofy, happy look on his face. He looked guiltily at

Rhyll.

“We were only having fun. We didn’t do anything.”

She said nothing. How could she, in front of everyone? But she was burning, not just with embarrassment, but with a need to know exactly where Megan did fit. Suddenly, the doubts she had initially had over Cameron rushed back. Did she really know him after all? Had she made a mistake? Was he so shallow? Was it all about sex?

The wind started to pick up and thunder rolled in the background. The beach was filling up with people, most of whom Rhyll did not recognise.

“I’m just going home to get some drinks,” Cameron said. “Back in a few minutes.”

“Wait up,” Rhyll said quickly, eager to get him on his own.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Cameron began.

“I am not going to say anything,” Rhyll interrupted. “I just want to know if she is your girlfriend.”

“Do you really think I’m that sort of person?”

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“I don’t know, Cameron!” Rhyll said, exasperated “You know all of my life. I know none of yours.”

“I like Megan,” Cameron said. “But I don’t feel anything else. Trust me.” He kissed her.

Rhyll relaxed. You had to trust people or your life would be one sackful of worry.

They reached the apartment. Cameron opened the door and the brightness and the noise was overwhelming. Rhyll followed Cameron inside. His parents were in the lounge room.

“You’d better meet the olds,” Cameron said to Rhyll. It was a beautiful apartment, and Rhyll could see the view would be quite spectacular in the day time. She was jealous, and then annoyed. Something like this building would soon be where her house is.

“This is my stepmother, Lou,” Cameron said, “and my Dad, Myles. This is Rhyll.”

“Rhyll and I have met before,” said his father.

Rhyll was speechless. She turned accusingly to Cameron.

“Myles Harrison is your father? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cameron was confused. “I didn’t know I should have.”

“You don’t even have the same name! He’s the one who made us sell. I trusted you.”

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“We have our mother’s name,” said Cameron.

Rhyll looked at Cameron feeling utterly betrayed, and walked out. She ran down the stairs and out into the night.

The sky began to spit raindrops, fat and cold. She ran up the street as the wind picked up and the rain came down heavily. Lightning and thunder and crashing waves made it seem like the world was ending. By the time she reached the old house she was saturated. She fumbled for her key and let herself in, locked the door behind her, and melted into the darkness as if she was part of the walls.

When it looked like rain, the group followed Rachel up to the apartments where they sheltered in an empty carport space, hoping the storm wouldn’t last long. They saw Rhyll leave and Mollie called out to her but she didn’t hear, and the rain started to get heavier.

Rachel had cans of vodka mix which she shared around. She was smiling broadly at everyone, oblivious to any discomfort. Megan talked and talked and everyone was getting sick of hearing her. Then she grew bored and decided to go up and get Cameron, reappearing a few minutes later dragging him by the hand, both of them wet through. The rain shattered on the tin roof, drowning out all other sounds and forcing Megan to talk in a higher, louder voice.

Finally, it began to ease off. The sound of the waves returned. Megan lowered her voice a little. They weren’t completely wet but they weren’t dry either, and the breeze was cool against damp skin.

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“I’ve got an idea,” Megan said enthusiastically, “let’s go swimming.”

“I think it will be a bit rough out there,” said Mollie practically.

“We’ll just go in the shallows,” she said. “Come on Cameron, I dare you.”

Cameron didn’t want to party, didn’t care about New Year’s Eve and didn’t care about

Megan. Rhyll was on his mind and he was trying to work out how he could explain how stupid he was. It wasn’t that he hadn’t sometimes thought his father might be involved with selling Rhyll’s property. That was his business after all. But he hadn’t wanted to know about it, and hadn’t pursued that line of thought. Now she was thinking he knew all along and he could see why. And then there was Rachel. Another thing to worry about.

“I’ll go swimming,” said Rachel. “Come on Megan, we’re wet anyway.” She was slurring her words and walking slightly unsteadily, holding her bag in one hand, no doubt holding more of whatever she was drinking. Megan grabbed her other hand and they crossed the road laughing and talking at the top of their voices.

He remembered the last beach party, the day at the movies, and the nights at home when she turned up late, reeking of alcohol and hardly able to stand. And here she was, half-cut on

New Year’s Eve with Megan the self-confessed party animal with energy to burn, and midnight was still an hour away.

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He turned to Kate and Mollie. “I might hang around with Rachel for a bit,” he said. “Can you tell Rhyll I will be there as soon as I can? I texted her earlier but she isn’t answering.”

“Where is she?” asked Kate.

“Her old house, I think,” Cameron said.

“Why is she there?” asked Kate.

“She’s mad at me.”

“Lovers’ fight?” smiled Kate.

“Did she tell you?” asked Cameron indignantly.

Kate laughed. “So you guys finally did it.”

Cameron was non-committal. “Anything’s possible,” he said.

“Rhyll has a plan,” Mollie said. “Has she told you?”

“What plan?” asked Kate.

“A plan that has no good outcome for her or me,” Cameron said darkly, suddenly realising he might be the ball in the scrum, the burger in the bun, the metal between magnetic poles with

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Rhyll and his father having a face-off. He sighed and shook his head, following Megan and

Rachel down to the beach. “I will see you early Wednesday morning then.”

Kate and Mollie walked slowly along the Esplanade towards the cottage. The smell of rain and the freshness of the pines mixed with the humid air, and they could feel the heat rising from the wet footpath as it dried out. More people were coming out and the crickets were back chirruping. The night was starting to come to life as the New Year approached.

“So what is Rhyll’s plan?” Kate asked again. Mollie filled her in. Kate looked uncomfortable.

“She’s going to hate me but I can’t be there,” said Kate. “And I need you to do me a favour.”

“Sure,” said Mollie.

“I need someone to come with me on Wednesday,” she said hesitantly.

“Where?”

“To the Bay, earlyish.”

“Am I allowed to know what for?”

Kate took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant, and on Wednesday I’m having a termination.” Mollie had said nothing. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” Kate continued. “It’s my own mess and I wanted to sort it out myself, but the clinic says I need someone to take me home.”

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“What time?” was all Mollie said. Kate was relieved. No questions, no judgement, no demanding explanations, no blame. Mollie knew Kate would have thought through everything hundreds of times and had obviously made her own decision, right or wrong. If she was going to change her mind, it wouldn’t be from anything Mollie could say.

“Need to be there by 7.30 and should be ready to go by about 10.” Mollie did some quick calculations. Rhyll would be in the house holding the bulldozers at bay and that would probably be from 7am. Rhyll wouldn’t be happy. But Mollie couldn’t leave Kate by herself.

And in any case, what was Rhyll thinking would happen? Would they really drag her out? It hardly seemed worth their while to take on a fight. Mollie was getting a bit impatient with

Rhyll. Here was Kate, with a huge decision she’d made probably after countless hours of self-debate, and there was Rhyll, trying to make a point based on principles which seemed not only a losing battle, but one that was difficult to justify and one that hadn’t really been thought through.

They were close to the house now.

“Don’t tell Rhyll,” said Kate. Mollie sighed.

“Kate, we’re your friends.”

“You are the only one I’ve told, Mollie,” said Kate obstinately. “I would have done it by myself if I could have.”

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“Steve?”

Kate didn’t answer.

Rhyll sat in the darkness against the wall, wet and cold. Her head was spinning with thoughts, and her body tense with the effort of it. In the stuffiness of the closed-up house, which had baked in the summer heat all day, Rhyll felt like she was in the belly of a whale, the ribs at her back and the rough sponginess of its guts beneath her. Swallowed whole. Her skin was damp and wrinkly. Breathing was hard in the humidity, and the wet carpet she’d dripped on was beginning to sour.

It was only a few hours ago since she and Cameron were here, where she’d chosen to have him in this place. She’d trusted him implicitly and with the touch of flesh against flesh, she had felt wanted and loved and powerful. Now here she was feeling betrayed and alone. Time was hard to perceive. Sometimes it was a grinding slow motion event, and at other times it went so fast it was impossible to keep up. If she was going to write a novel, instead of Death or Fate being the narrator, she would choose Time. One quick moment of happiness, one never ending moment of sadness; one generous moment you’re loved, then suddenly you’re alone; one long moment you’re alive...

Rhyll moved onto a dry patch. The rain was easing and sounds of the sea took over from the machinegun fire of heavy rain on the tin roof. It was time to go back to Plan A, book herself a flight to Rome and leave this ordinary life behind. Dad and Andrea could live happily ever after in Paddock Flats Manor; Mollie could be Mollie, super confident and practical and

306 content; Kate could be Prime Minister; and Cameron could go back to Canberra and play football.

But first, she was going to show her father, Myles, this town, that she had a voice.

Megan tried to drag Cameron into the water but he shook her off.

“You’ve changed,” she said. “You were never boring before.” She joined Rachel while

Cameron sat on the wet sand watching them play like kids. More people were coming down and some were trying to light a bonfire, but everything was too wet and the air filled with smoke.

Cameron had changed, though he didn’t know when or how. He didn’t like this air of despondency that had settled on him, and he did not like the fact that the only two things that kept coming into his head were Rachel and Rhyll. He really wanted to see Rhyll and sort it out. It wasn’t a big deal but she seemed good at being melodramatic. He realised that he wanted her. Missed her. And here he was, babysitting his older sister because he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t drown, or go off with some idiot and be left stranded in another town, or just disappear altogether in a drunken oblivion.

Megan and Rachel staggered up the beach towards him, laughing and breathless. The water had sobered Rachel up a bit. She looked round for her bag but the bottle inside was empty.

“I didn’t drink it,” she looked accusingly at Cameron.

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“I had a bit,” he said, which he had, and then tipped the rest out. “There is more at home.” He thought once she got home she would stay there. Rachel got up to go right now.

“It’s nearly midnight,” said Megan. “Let’s wait till next year!”

“I’m cold,” complained Rachel. “I need a drink to warm up.” Someone had brought speakers and music was blaring. A few people were dancing.

“Not long now,” Megan said. “We can’t miss the new year.” She grabbed her arm. “Come on, let’s go and dance.” They joined in with the dancers to shouts and whistles. Cameron had a dreaded feeling of déjà vu. He had no intention of getting involved. He was just keeping watch and if help was needed, he would go and get it.

But the crowd was a happy one when midnight came. They chanted down from ten, and then it was another year. There were cheers and trumpets and car horns, hugs and kisses and toasts. Some people jumped into the surf. Megan came running back to Cameron and threw her arms around him.

“Happy New Year,” she breathed into his neck and kissed him full on the lips, her tongue in his mouth, her hand on his crotch. He kissed her back, his hands on her bare shoulders, her damp hair in his face. It was hard not to want her.

“Happy New Year to you too.”

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Mollie knocked on the door.

“Rhyll, it’s me, and Kate.” For a moment there was silence and Mollie thought maybe she wasn’t there after all. But then the door opened and Rhyll appeared as formless as a ghost.

“Can you see in there?” asked Kate, trying to adjust to the darkness.

“I don’t need to see, I’m thinking.” They came in tentatively, until Rhyll turned on a torch and held it up to light their way.

“I thought you’d moved out?” said Mollie.

“I did. I moved back in.” They sat down against the wall. Rhyll took out some chips.

“See, I’ve even got dinner.” She tossed them the packet. “And drinks.” She produced a bottle of soft drink and a bottle of Baileys. “A bit boring for New Year’s Eve, but better than nothing.” There were no cups so they drank straight out of the bottle.

“Where did you get this?” Mollie asked, taking a swig from the Baileys.

“In the cupboard. Not sure how long we’ve had it. I figured alcohol kills germs.”

“Eew,” Mollie handed the bottle back. “It’s got lumps in it you know. You’ll need to strain it through your teeth.” Rhyll took a mouthful.

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“Tastes ok,” she said.

“So, Rhyll and Cameron had a fight?” said Kate.

“Sort of,” said Rhyll. “Well, there was the photo of him and Megan. I didn’t expect to see that. But, did you know, Myles Harrison is his father and he never told me!”

By the sound of her voice, Kate and Mollie realised there was something they should have known about Myles Harrison, but they’d never heard of him.

“Myles Harrison?” said Mollie mildly.

“The developer,” said Rhyll in frustration. “The one who conned Dad into selling this place.”

“Oh,” Mollie and Kate said together, nodding in shared understanding.

“Cameron never told me. He led me on, trying to convince me the house didn’t matter and that progress was progress and that developers were doing a favour to both sides. And all the while he was working for his dad and I never knew.”

“Maybe he didn’t know you knew his dad?” suggested Kate.

“How could he not know?”

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“He’s not very, umm, aware of things sometimes, don’t you think?” said Mollie.

“Anyway, he can’t help who his father is,” Kate said. “I don’t think it is that big a deal.”

“Well it wouldn’t have mattered so much, except...” said Rhyll.

“Except what?” said Mollie.

“...except we had sex.”

“You finally did it!” said Kate. “Good on you.”

“But now look what’s happened,” said Rhyll impatiently. “I obviously made a mistake.”

“Did you enjoy it?” asked Kate.

“Yes, but...”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Rhyll was in love. And now she feels like he’s not the person she thought he was,” said Mollie. “It’s a hard fall.”

“She needs to take the experience for what it was and move on,” said Kate.

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“Hey, I’m right here you know! Didn’t we already have this conversation?

“Anyway, I am sorting Myles Harrison out myself.”

“Mollie told me.”

“You will be there won’t you, Kate?” Rhyll said anxiously. “I need support. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot.”

“Ha, you just want us there so we can all look stupid then?” said Mollie.

“I need moral support at least,” said Rhyll, worried now that she would be there alone. “It won’t work if it’s just me. And I need a crowd.”

“I will be there as soon as I can,” said Kate. “And I can get a few people to come down.”

“Me too,” said Mollie. “It will be fine, Rhyll. Maybe even Cameron will come. That will show his dad.”

They fell quiet. The countdown to the New Year drifted up from the beach.

“Happy New Year,” they said in unison, though none of them felt particularly happy.

“Happy is an interesting word,” said Mollie. “I mean, what is happiness?” The bottle of

Baileys was disappearing, despite its lumps.

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“When everything goes the way you think it should,” said Rhyll.

“That doesn’t work,” said Kate. “That would mean only one person is happy and then everyone around them isn’t, if they don’t agree.”

“Well, what then?”

“Happiness is when you know what you want and know you can achieve it,” said Kate.

“So if you know what you want and can’t achieve it, you’re not happy?” asked Rhyll.

“Happiness is about people, the ones who love you and who you love, the ones you care about,” said Mollie. “It’s not about things, or places!” She looked at Rhyll.

“Everyone has this goal of happiness, but no one really knows what it is,” said Kate. “It isn’t a permanent state, that’s for sure.”

“You need to be unhappy in order to be happy,” said Rhyll firmly. “Otherwise you would be happy and wouldn’t know it.” They laughed.

“But seriously,” said Kate, “you can have two people in exactly the same situation, and one can be happy and the other not.”

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“I don’t think you can explain it,” said Mollie, “but the one thing you need in order to be happy, is to be alive.” Kate looked up at her sharply, but in the darkness couldn’t make out whether Mollie was directing that at her. As if she hadn’t thought about it. This foetus, this being pregnant, was about life. And happiness. And choice. She might wish later that she’d had the baby, she was prepared for that. But right now, she couldn’t imagine what she’d do.

Live with her parents? She had no money, so what was the alternative? Kate didn’t want to live with them in that situation, much as she loved them. She wanted to be out living life.

And she didn’t feel the least bit maternal. Nor did she want her body to be a nesting box.

And then there was Steve.

They all slept there; a messy huddle of bodies, chip packets, empty bottles and shoes. Rhyll was awake first. Kookaburra calls just before sunrise were always a delight and an annoyance. They could sleep in a bit longer, she thought, but smiled at their laughing echo.

She savoured the gentle rush of the surf and the crescendo of other birds, the currawongs, magpies and the madness of lorikeets as they gradually emerged.

A new year. She was going to start this year a new person. Use her voice. Change things from ordinary to interesting. Drive her own bus. She stood up and stretched, the hardness of the floor making her stiff. The sunlight streamed through the window, lighting the dust motes in its path. Rhyll thought the house looked sad in the morning light, old and fading and slumping, as if aware of its temporary hold on the earth.

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She went outside onto the veranda. No one was about. No doubt there were people still on the sand where they had passed out, but she couldn’t see the beach from here. Maybe Cameron was one of them. And Rachel. And maybe that Megan. Rhyll had been trying to keep

Cameron out of her mind but, as in real life, he was impossible to keep down. She wondered what he’d done last night and regretted running off, though in the end, she had enjoyed the night with her friends. It had been like the old days. She made a mental note to do more catch ups with them.

Why had she been so angry with Cameron? She could have talked to him about it and told him how she felt. Was that so hard? Instead, they’d spent the night apart, and she’d ruined what had been up until then a special day. One that she had wanted to remember for the rest of her life.

She heard a siren in the distance. It sent chills through her skin. Sirens were never good news.

The noise grew louder, piercingly loud in the still morning, then abruptly ceased, obviously down at the beach. Probably a drug overdose from last night.

The others came out to join her.

“God, it’s bright,” Kate shielded her eyes. “And I didn’t even drink.”

“What’s happening?” asked Mollie.

“Sounds like the paramedics are cleaning up after last night,” said Rhyll.

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“Hope it’s no one we know,” said Mollie.

“Don’t even think about it,” shuddered Rhyll, having visions of Mitch White and Michael

Weatherall.

“I feel disgusting,” said Kate. “I don’t think my clothes had dried from the rain and now I just stink.”

“Sleeping on that old carpet doesn’t help,” said Mollie.

“Yes, you wouldn’t want to know what’s been living in that all these years!” said Rhyll.

“Come up to my place and we can get cleaned up,” offered Mollie.

“I’ll just go home, thanks,” said Kate. “I need new clothes.”

“So you’ll be here tomorrow morning?” Rhyll asked. Kate looked at her levelly.

“As soon as I can, Rhyll,” she said. “But you be strong. Once you’ve started, you have to finish it.” They hugged and Kate walked off into the morning, the sunlight forming a golden halo around her.

Rhyll grabbed her backpack, and her now flat phone, and they walked up the hill to Mollie’s place. There was now a front fence and a gate, with a complicated lock Mollie had to manoeuvre open and then close behind her.

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“Morning, Mum, Happy New Year,” said Mollie, kissing her mother on the cheek.

“Morning love, morning Rhyll, yes Happy New Year to you too,” said Kath.

“Where is everyone?” Mollie asked.

“Dad’s taken the boat out with the boys and Sal,” she said. “They will be back by lunch.

Mum’s not up yet. We had a late night.”

They showered and changed and enjoyed a huge breakfast. Kath was an amazing cook. Rhyll was starving. She hadn’t eaten dinner last night. She wondered if Kath would let her live here. She put her phone on to charge, and helped clear up the dishes.

They talked about what they might do today. Rhyll wanted to go snorkelling. She had brought her stuff. She wanted to check on the blue groper. With so many tourists who couldn’t tell a bluey from a shark and would fire their spear guns at any moving target anyway, she needed to know he was ok.

“Better check on Mum,” Kath said, looking at her watch.

They heard her calling Sofia. “Mum? Where are you, Mum?” Then she rushed into the kitchen, her face ashen.

“She’s gone! I can’t find her anywhere! How could she be gone? Everything is locked.”

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“Have you looked outside?” Mollie asked.

“Outside?” Kath disappeared, the back door slamming shut. Mollie and Rhyll had a better look around the house, checking all the rooms, but Sofia was nowhere to be found.

Kath rushed back inside. She was panicking.

“I can’t find her, she’s gone! I don’t know how she got out! What if she’s fallen over? Or drowned?”

“Calm down, Mum,” said Mollie. “Let’s think for a bit. When did you last see her?” She pushed her mother down into a chair. Kath took deep breaths and tried to calm down but she was shaking. Rhyll got her some water.

“Last night, about 2am, we all went to bed,” she said. “Mum had sat there all night, quiet and happy. We did the usual routine and that’s that. I don’t understand how she could get out?

We have locked up everything from the inside to the gates.”

“Mum, you let a few people know she’s missing, starting with the police,” said Mollie, “and we’ll start looking for her.”

“I’ve got my bike at the house,” said Rhyll.

“Good idea, I’ll get mine and we can go together.”

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They started at the beach, following the Esplanade, asking people if they’d seen her. Then they started working the streets back from the beach, and around to the river. It was hot. They were sweating and sunburnt. The last place before turning for home was the Boatshed, which was closed since it was a public holiday. They left the bikes at the top and went down the steps. Sofia was sitting on a wooden seat looking at the lake. It was quiet, with no people, only the water slapping up against the hire boats and the croaking of gulls. Mollie thrust her phone at Rhyll so she could call Kath.

“Grandma? Sofia?”

Her grandmother turned and looked at her blankly, then a moment of recognition lit her face.

She gave a half smile, and a single tear ran down her cheek, that tracked its way through

Mollie’s flesh and scored deep into her heart.

Rhyll rang the buzzer to Cameron’s apartment. There was no answer. She had tried texting him, and then ringing, but there was no response. That wasn’t unusual. He often forgot to charge his phone, or left it somewhere, or just didn’t notice it buzz. She looked up at the apartment. There was no sign of life.

The beach was packed. The spread of umbrellas and sunshades was dazzling in the afternoon sun, happy voices drifting upwards. He could be there, she supposed, but didn’t feel inclined to search for him among the crowd. She decided to follow her original plan—snorkelling, dinner with Mollie, and then she would camp in the house to be ready for the morning. She

319 felt a nervous excitement at what might happen tomorrow. Would they drag her out? Should she chain herself to something? Should she have made placards or signs? She had doodled some slogans a while back. “Big Money Buys Little People”; “Don’t Sell your Soul to the

Devil-opers”.

Back at Mollie’s, things went on as normal. Sofia was in her comfy chair, reading the front page of a magazine. She appeared to be scrutinising it word for word, but never turned the page. The fisherpeople had returned with dinner and Kath was cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Mollie’s dad went around the entire property to find out how Sofia got out. In the end they decided she must have gone through the gate.

Mollie and Rhyll went down late in the afternoon to snorkel. There were a few people out already. The water was clear and cold. Rhyll relaxed into the water, enjoying the colours of the sunlight on the seaweed, the fish and the rocks. There were plenty of fish about, silver darting bream, sandy-coloured flathead, and small brown wrasse, probably the female gropers. But there was no big blue groper. Rhyll swam in all his favourite spots, but he was nowhere to be seen. On the plus side, there were no spear fishers either.

Disappointed, she and Mollie returned to the beach when the cold finally took over. They sat on the sand shivering.

“Some great fish out there,” said Mollie. “Perfect visibility. But no Bluey.”

“Let’s hope he’s keeping away from all these people,” said Rhyll. They took the bush path back to Mollie’s. After dinner, Rhyll headed reluctantly down to the house. She wasn’t

320 looking forward to the whole night alone. She had been hoping Cameron would join her, but he hadn’t responded to her texts or calls. She figured she wouldn’t see him again, and that hurt.

Mollie came with her for a while, until it was almost dark.

“You’ll be here in the morning?” Rhyll asked again.

“Yes, as soon as I can,” she said. “Good luck!” Mollie planned to drop Kate off at 7.30 and head straight back by 8ish, and had plenty of time to go back for Kate.

Mollie left and the house was weirdly quiet. Rhyll locked the door and opened the window to let in some air. It smelt stale, and the remnants from last night were still strewn on the floor.

Rhyll tidied it up a bit, made herself comfortable. She’d packed her journal—brand new and a Christmas present from Andrea. Everything she could remember about this house was going to go in it. It was strange how she remembered things just by being here. Small things came to her every now and again. The imperfect wall where Dad had tried to hide a hole

Rhyll had made practising karate kicks; the stain on the carpet where Dad had flung a bottle of red cordial in frustration because he couldn’t read a note from school and Rhyll was refusing to help because she was angry (for some reason she couldn’t now recall).

But there was that one memory that pressed against her heavy and cold as marble, that was always there weighing her down, not because she couldn’t forget, but because she couldn’t remember: her mother. Memories that must be trapped in these old walls. Rhyll only needed

321 to relax into this space, give herself over to the house as if it were the spirit and she the medium, and capture those memories in words, the most powerful thing of all.

Rhyll checked her phone. Still no messages. She checked Facebook. There was nothing from

Cameron but there was something from Megan. A photo: of her and Cameron kissing. A full on tongue-down-your-throat kiss. And the caption said “Happy new yr Cam xx”

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CHAPTER 20

Rhyll sees Cameron coming along the Esplanade and feels like she is drowning under a tsunami of feelings. She wants him to scoop her into his arms and hold her close. She wants to push him away and turn her back. She wants to shout and demand and accuse. She wants to touch him lightly under the feathertips of her fingers, to burrow into the hollow of his neck and breathe the scent of him until she swoons.

But when she opens the door and he fills the frame of daylight, she does none of this. Her throat is noosed and she cannot talk, let alone shout. Her anger is a weight which sinks to her toes. Her limbs are awkwardly stiff and she can’t reach for him.

Cameron looks different. Tired. Old. But when he smiles his crooked smile, his eyes light up and his usual self is there.

“Hey, the house is still standing! And no bodies in sight!”

“You might be the first!”

“I missed you,” Cameron says and goes to put his arms around her. Rhyll pushes him away.

“If you really missed me, you could have answered my texts or phone calls,” Rhyll says reproachfully.

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Cameron comes inside and sits down against the wall.

“Sorry, Rhyll,” he looks at her sincerely. “I didn’t get a chance to fill you in. And I don’t know where my phone is.”

“You lost it?”

“It’s probably at home somewhere.”

“I didn’t really expect you to be here, with your dad and all, but...”

“Of course I would have been here,” he says tiredly. “Dad is Dad and I am me. I have a brain of my own.”

Rhyll says nothing.

“It was Rachel. Short story, she passed out on the beach on New Year’s Eve, soaking wet, and Megan left her there, and she ended up getting carted off in the morning with hypothermia.”

He looks up at Rhyll and she can see the hurt in his eyes.

“She nearly died, Rhyll,” he says in a flat voice. “And it would have been all my fault because I left her there.”

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Guilt, blame, shame. Rhyll sees a familiar current of emotions.

“But she’s ok?”

“Yes, she’s ok,” he says. “Not sure about Mum and Dad though. Rachel was always the perfect child. I was the one who never lived up to expectations.”

“So you saved her life?”

Cameron smiles. “I guess I did. I went looking for her when I realised she wasn’t home.”

Rhyll sits down beside him. She wants to ask about the photo with Megan, but there’s a greater desire. She wants to trust him.

She does trust him. Otherwise, she thinks, what is the point of going on?

Instead, she leans against him and he puts his arm around her, brushes her face with his lips.

Cameron thinks there are things in life as good as kicking a goal, like this moment.

And maybe one thing that is better.

There’s a knock on the door and Rhyll jumps to her feet to peer through the window.

“It’s Andrea!” she says in astonishment, and opens the door.

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Andrea smiles. She has a kind face, Rhyll thinks, fair and smooth. Chunky legs and arms with no muscle definition but she is strong. Rhyll has seen her carry hefty boxes and move stubborn furniture. Rhyll smiles back without meaning to.

“Thought I’d let you know,” she says, “I overheard them say they are coming back at three o’clock to get you out.”

“Oh, thanks,” says Rhyll. They look at each other for a moment. “Do you want to come in?” asks Rhyll awkwardly.

Andrea comes in. Smiles at Cameron. Rhyll introduces him.

“What are they going to do?” asks Rhyll.

“If you don’t go voluntarily then the police will remove you.”

“You mean if I don’t let them in they will bust the door down?”

“Pretty much,” said Andrea. “Knock on the front door and while you are there, come in the back.”

Rhyll is nervous. The ending of things is sometimes never clear, even when you are nearly there. She knows she has to make a decision. Be strong and fight. Or give up. She’s here now, with Cameron.

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“Well, I’m ready,” she says with determination. “How about you?”

“Me?” Cameron doesn’t think he has the energy to do anything. It’s been a long couple of days. “I’m with you, Rhyll. I’m ready.”

“Good luck,” says Andrea. “We’ve got some cameras ready, and some signs.”

Rhyll looks out the window. There is a small group with a range of colourful signs.

“Save Dolphin Point from Extinction”

“Put Locals First”

And Rhyll’s own invention that Andrea must have read on a scrap of paper:

“Don’t sell your soul to the DEVILopers!”

Rhyll grins. “Thanks, Andrea.” She hugs her. Andrea smiles and heads back outside. She texts Mollie and Kate. They text back straight away.

“Be there soon” from Mollie.

“Have sent a shout out” from Kate.

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Rhyll picks up her journal from the floor and puts it in her backpack. It’s a start, she thinks.

Some of her heart is in between these pages. She tries to imagine who might be reading this in 100 years, and what the world will be like. Will Dolphin Point still be here or will global warming have rendered the ocean a lifeless sludge fringed with shambly shanty towns? Will people know what dolphins were? Or any other sea life? Blue gropers—like so many other species—are in trouble already, not from global warming, but simply from being hunted or from destruction of the environment. Why must her visions of the future be so catastrophic?

Maybe she’s read too many dystopian novels lately.

By ten to three there is a large crowd, much larger than this morning. Rhyll is excited. Half of

Dolphin Point has turned up. She can see Kate and Mollie, and their parents, plus Rachel and

Megan, and there are more signs.

An entourage led by Myles Harrison pulls up and the crowd becomes vocal.

“Dad’s going to be happy when he sees me,” says Cameron, “not.”

“Save Our History!” chants the crowd as Myles and another man in a suit climb out of their car. The men confer worriedly. The crowd has taken them by surprise. Myles’ companion turns to address them, trying to be friendly. The crowd becomes louder. The man gives up trying to talk to them. He follows Myles up to the front door. Myles knocks impatiently.

“Rhyll, can you open the door please?”

“What do you want?” Rhyll asks through the window.

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“You know what I want,” he says irritably. “This is ridiculous. It’s costing time and money and is totally unnecessary.”

“Hi Dad,” Cameron says through the window, thinking he should announce himself. Myles’ jaw opens like a fish.

“What are you doing here? Can you talk sense into her?”

“I’m with Rhyll,” Cameron says. “We’re staying put.” He puts his arm around her. Myles is speechless. He turns to the other man briefly, and then back to Cameron and Rhyll.

“This isn’t funny, Cameron,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’ve got Richard Lang with me—he’s the owner of the site. We don’t have time for kids’ games.”

“It’s not meant to be funny, Dad,” Cameron says. “Rhyll is trying to make a point and she isn’t the only one.” The crowd has changed their chant.

“Put Locals First! Put Locals First!”

A group has turned up dressed as a superheroes team; the Avengers. The crowd cheers and

Rhyll laughs.

Myles and Richard have another hurried conversation, and return to the street to talk to others in their group, as more people arrive and join the crowd.

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Rhyll’s phone buzzes.

“Mollie has put up a clip on YouTube,” she says and plays it back for them both. The men look officious, and one of the Avengers offers to shake hands but the men wave them away angrily.

Through the window Rhyll sees Myles talking to Mollie and then to Richard, before Myles approaches them again.

“Rhyll, Richard is prepared to negotiate,” Myles says. Rhyll is surprised. She isn’t sure what that means.

“He wants this resolved without any fuss,” Myles says. “He is prepared to offer you a donation of $10,000 to the charity of your choice.”

Rhyll is indignant. She is about to tell Myles what she thinks of his offer when Cameron nudges her.

“Tell him you’ll think about it,” he whispers.

“I’ll think about it,” Rhyll says to Myles, then turns to Cameron. “What do you mean? If I take that money, I am as bad as Dad.”

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“It’s better than being dragged out by the cops with nothing to show for it,” says Cameron.

“Besides which, this is money for a charity—it could be for blue groper research or whatever.”

“But that is just like advertising alcohol at a football match,” Rhyll argues, “or McDonalds at a weight loss group.”

“Maybe,” says Cameron, “but they’re making an offer and either you get something, or nothing.”

Rhyll goes back to the window.

“I want $25,000,” she says to Myles.

Myles and Richard confer and Myles returns.

“He says $20,000.” Rhyll’s eyes widen. That seemed easy.

“What’s the catch?” she asks.

“You leave now and don’t talk to the media,” says Myles.

“How do I know he’ll deliver?”

“You will have to trust him.”

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“I don’t trust either of you,” says Rhyll. “I want him to say on camera that he agrees.”

“It will be good publicity for him,” says Cameron.

“They never lose,” Rhyll says. “That is my whole point. Well, some of my whole point.”

Cameron smiles at her. Wants to squeeze her tight. So he does.

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CHAPTER 21

Kate

It was the right thing for me, but I don’t feel good about it. Then, lots of decisions in life are like that. It’s all behind me now, rightly or wrongly, and I have to move on.

Which I am, literally and metaphorically. My car is packed to the brim and I’m off to Sydney in the morning. It’s sad and it’s exciting at the same time.

I’m wearing my pearl. I like to feel it between my fingertips, it’s smoothness, its complexion: this small, perfect thing that grew from a speck inside an oyster.

I like that it sits near my heart. Always.

Mollie

I am so pleased it all worked out for Rhyll. I wasn’t sure if she would take the money, but I thought it was worth a try.

I would have donated it to a group for Alzheimer’s research, of course.

Grandma is in a nursing home now. We always thought that would be terrible. And in some ways it is. Alf, who is a tiny speck of a man, also has dementia. He spends his whole day

333 pushing himself in a wheelchair with his feet, round and round the home. If he gets to the front door, or another exit, he kicks and kicks it, trying to get out. No one visits him.

Noel has his wits about him but has had a stroke and is hard to understand. He goes outside for a smoke. “God’s waiting room,” he calls this place, which ironically is called Eden. His son comes once a fortnight or so.

Peg sits there looking at nothing all day. Her husband comes in every day. He sits beside her and gives her a big hug and a kiss. She doesn’t even notice he’s there. He sits there for a few minutes and then leaves.

Some residents stay in their beds or their rooms almost the entire day. There is even one really young person, which is the worst thing. You always think nursing homes are for oldies.

I knew Mum would change the place and she has. She cooks up cakes and biscuits and slices and brings them in almost every day. She reads the papers to everyone who wants to listen.

She shops for some of them. She knits: socks and beanies galore. Everyone looks forward to her visits. She brings Grandma home for lunch on a Sunday but it is too hard for her to stay overnight.

Growing old is not easy and it’s not pleasant. But I guess it’s better than the alternative.

I’m thinking I just might tag along with Rhyll to Italy. That’s where Sofia’s parents are from.

I might like to re-establish some Italian connections.

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Cameron

So Dad’s not too happy with me, Mum’s not too happy with me, situation normal. Lucky for me they are more unhappy with Rachel. Not that I’m gloating about it, but it is nice to have the attention off me for a change.

Poor Rachel though. I didn’t realise what a battle it was going to be for her until I found her that morning, so pale and cold. She looked like a marble sculpture, tiny blue veins etched on her skin. Scary.

At the beginning of summer I thought I couldn’t be happier. Bliss, I thought. Then I met

Rhyll. And I reckon I’m glad about that.

Rhyll

The clips on YouTube are so funny. The Avengers at Dolphin Point. Go have a look! Even

Myles had to laugh.

I was stoked to get $20,000. I wasn’t sure that they’d pay up but as Cameron said, it ended up just advertising money for them. I donated it to the Adult Literacy program—that’s where

Dad has been going on Monday afternoons all this time, and never told us. I didn’t realise he felt so badly about it all.

The holidays are coming to an end. I’m excited because I can organise my trip. But Cameron will be going back to school. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with that. I’m taking Kate’s advice—enjoy the moment.

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And there have been some great moments!

Later, when Rhyll reads back through her journal on the plane to Rome, she suddenly realises that so much of life is about inane things. You have to eat, sleep, wash, shop. People fall in and out of relationships, move about, work their lives away in a kind of animalistic relationship with the place they are living in. Journals are a time capsule. No one who is alive now wants to read that you had baked beans for breakfast, or that you cried at the airport saying goodbye to your boyfriend. But maybe in 100 years’ time, someone will be vitally interested in such everydayness.

If, in the end, when she’s old and doddery, there may be someone interested enough to read it back to her so she can remember her own life. And maybe that person will take her journal, when all that’s left are her words, and carry those memories with them, searching for the place that this house was, breathing in the swell of the sea and the pines, looking for dolphins and snorkelling with gropers.

The future can learn so much from the humble journal.

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Works referred to in novel

Page 186

Carey, G., & Lette, K. (2012). Puberty Blues (Kindle edition). Australia: The Text Publishing

Company

Page 201

Green, J. (2012). The Fault in our Stars. Camberwell, Victoria: Penguin.

Page 231

Gardner, S. (2011). The Dead I know. (Kindle edition), Australia: Allen & Unwin.

Page 231

Rosoff, M. (2006). Just in Case. London: Penguin.

Page 238

Lawrinson, J. (2012). Losing it. (Kindle edition), USA: e-penguin.

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