Life is a Parallel Universe (5 page)

I can’t tell
you what Beatrice was doing on this particular night, as I was not
looking in her direction. I, like most of you, was caught up with
the razzle-dazzle on Madison Drive. But what I can tell you is
that, Beatrice did attend a party a few weeks after this, where she
stood around in the shadows and became tongue tied when spoken to.
Later, some creep, who had often called her names like ‘you horse’
and ‘you stupid scrag’ tried to grope her while his friends were
looking on and so she made her escape and jumped the bus home. A
journey, which was both horrifying and disturbing; as the only
other passenger on board that swaying, dark eyed, petrol fumed bus,
was a Vietnam veteran, who told Beatrice with eyes staring at some
personal nightmare, how he slept every night with a gun under his
pillow. Next time, keep your eye out for that girl, as she runs
like a fawn home from that bus stop in the dark of night.

That year, her
cat simply disappeared, but Beatrice did discover something
important, a comrade between the pages: Holden Caulfield. It was
when she read Holden’s response to Mr Spencer that she began to
view this book as perhaps containing the answers to some of life’s
arcana.

When Spencer
said ‘Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according
to the rules.’ Holden, in his stream of consciousness, had
responded ‘Game, my ass. Some game. If you get on the side where
all the hotshots are, then it’s a game, all right—I’ll admit that.
But if you get on the other side, where there aren’t any hotshots,
then what’s a game about it? Nothing. No game.’

This to
Beatrice was a revelation of truth.

Beatrice could
also relate to Holden’s gulf of grief, which nobody appears to
acknowledge. To her, it is no surprise that Holden is tortured by
the fact that Allie, a brother better than himself in so many ways,
has died of leukaemia and life just goes on. Who can blame Holden
for breaking the ‘goddamn windows’?

At her new
school, Beatrice had managed to blend in to a certain extent. There
were a few incidents, but I don’t feel like going into those right
now. She had, however, attached herself to a clan of friends by
gentle osmosis and so had people to hang about with. On the fringes
at least. And she had made a friend in maths class who had somehow
managed to coax the dark humour from deep within her often
paralysed lips.

One particular
day, though, it looked like this cherished titbit of friendship may
also be garrotted. It was a Wednesday and a group of students from
Beatrice’s old school had come to play competition netball in the
school courts. Later, Beatrice’s maths friend had returned from
this game with an odd glitter in her eye and had said ‘a girl
called Melanie Ross says that you had to leave their school because
everybody hated you’. Beatrice felt like she had been struck by
lightning and was about to burst into flames. But, the Maths
Friend, seeing the fear in her friend’s eye, changed the subject
and never mentioned it again. And, as far as Beatrice knew, she had
never spoken about this incident to anyone else either. The
outrageous and extraordinary thing, to Beatrice, which caused her
head to hum with agitation, was that she had never spoken to
Melanie Ross in her life. Ever.

Then, in 1989,
they tore through the Berlin Wall separating East and West
Germany.

“I think that
hate is a feeling that can only exist where there is no
understanding.”

― Tennessee
Williams, Sweet Bird of Youth

Neither Lisa
White nor Sue Brown returned to school in the following year. Their
schooling was done. Lisa’s mother managed to secure her a job at a
travel agent located inside the air conditioned mouth of Garden
City, through a friend. Sue Brown was offered a job with thirty
other new starters as a clerk at the council building in the town.
Dreams really do come true! Every day she would catch a dusty,
swaying bus to her job, in a building which looked like a giant
curling rod. Not that such comparisons entered Sue Brown’s
mind.

Our girls…. I
mean young ladies, were now at a crossroads. However, you may have
the impression as you gaze upon these young Mademoiselles, that
their lives will have a predictable pattern and that you can see
how it will pan out for each of them. Do not be too hasty. Do not
be too precipitate. People are not like mathematical equations. For
example: Sonja Antonov, who also started school with our heroines,
may have left school at fifteen to work in at Dick Herbert’s fruit
Shop, but when her father developed early Alzheimer’s disease, she
was motivated and inspired to take on university study and she
recast herself as a social worker. By the time she was forty five,
Sonja was an academic and teacher who had really made a difference
to how people-yes, people -with this dreaded disease are now
understood and treated.

Things can go
the other way, of course. What about Brad Murray, who seemed to be
good at every damn thing he did. And he was bloody good looking
into the bargain –in that alpha-male style –if you fancy the type.
He left the Little Smoke of Newcastle for the Big Smoke of Sydney
and became a high payed corporate lawyer and lived in an apartment
at ‘the toaster’ on Sydney Harbour. Then, when his marriage fell
apart at the age of thirty five, he blew most of his money up his
nose with cocaine. No one knows what became of him, I am sad to
say. But I wonder: what would you do if he sent you a friend
request on Facebook today?

People can
change. Whilst we may have no choice about the genes we are given,
the families we are born into or the way we are treated; it is
still the case, that certain events or happenings can change the
trajectory of our lives. A certain book, the study of philosophy or
the kindness of strangers, may lift a demonised folk devil from the
path of destruction …..Or retribution.

So, when school
went back in 1991, Beatrice drifted along too and started year 11.
She didn’t know quite what else to do and her father hadn’t said
anything, so, she thought she would just see what happened.

Not long
before, Beatrice had started working on Saturday mornings and
Thursday nights at Shipmates at Garden City, but the local high
school students refused to buy their chips and gravy anytime that
Beatrice was working and so, she was given the sack.

Overseas war
raged in the Gulf.

Beatrice, also,
had to be careful anytime she visited the shopping centre: that
great house of twentieth century worship, because hordes of girls
were likely to catch sight of her and Beatrice’s social immolation
would continue. It was sad really, because Beatrice loved to wander
past Loven Oven and gaze at the cream buns, chocolate layer cakes
and creamy coconut slice. And she adored looking at all the album
covers in Sound World and putting on those giant headphones to
escape into some mad musical dimension. But what could she do?
Saying something rational like ‘this is my world too’ was likely to
earn her even greater derision.

Feeling
worthless and not being able to look others in the eyes weighed
Beatrice down like lead. People would become annoyed by her fearful
diffidence. And whilst she yearned to be close to others, she was
afflicted by the hedgehog's dilemma; feeling a visceral pain in her
isolation, but fearful of getting too close to the spines which
protect. And spines which damage.

With plenty of
help from her parents, Lisa White bought a sporty Suzuki Sierra
soft top that year and she was learning to drive in that moat
surrounding our retail citadel: the car park at Garden City.

While Beatrice
was learning about the World Wars and Cold Wars and studying Pride
and Prejudice, Lisa was organising cruises to Bali and booking
accommodation for white shoe wearers on the Gold Coast. On Friday
and Saturday nights though, Lisa and her crew would sashay into the
night clubs in town: like the Palais Royale, The Jolly Roger and
Fanny's, even though they were all still underage. The gang would
then dance and drink gin and tonic until two in the morning.

Lisa was famous
at Fanny’s for ‘going nuts’ when her favourite song by Melissa
Tkautz – ‘Read My Lips’ would fill the room. But when ‘Treaty’ by
Yothu Yindi came on, she would march briskly outside and smoke a
cigarette. Or, if she could get it: some weed.

Look! You can
see her now. See the radiant gleam of her hair as it shimmers in
the glow of the street light in that darkened street.

Often, lots of
discarded food could be found around the back of the shopping
centre: a generally deserted place hidden from the views of
shoppers. Just as the shopping centre would close for the evening;
when the lights would begin to flicker and then be extinguished one
by one, Beatrice could be seen wading through the cabbagy and
sulphury smells, sorting through slimy broken containers and day
old bread. Not only did these expeditions provide Beatrice with
much needed food, but often, she also found it fun and exciting
too; as long as she did not leave her mission too late; when the
guards and the dogs had arrived for the night. Then she would run
like the wind, the sound of her feet like a drum beat: pounding,
pounding, pounding.

Our friend Sue
Brown was now ‘going steady’ with Scott Smith. Both sets of parents
had eyed their respective child’s romantic partner and there had
been nods of approval all around. Finding a member of your own
tribe was very important.

Scott, could
often be found at teatime, eating a chop and three veg with the
Brown family at their three bedroom perfectly painted timber house.
He always wiped his feet before entering and he never looked behind
him as he went inside. He always looked straight in front: certain
of his purpose and content with his place in the world.

Chapter
6
.

In September of
that same year, Beatrice was sitting on a flaking wooden bench, at
an almost empty Nobbys Beach, on a chilly but bright Saturday
afternoon. Gulls were wheeling overhead, like lost papers caught in
an updraft; a toy ship could be seen far away at sea. Waiting.

Beatrice was
wrapped in a red and black wool coat that she had found in the
second hand shop and ostensibly, reading a book for school called
‘1984’.

However, a
young man of about twenty years of age had been relentlessly
traversing the beach for some time; from side to side calling out
the name ‘Friedrich’ over and over at the top of his lungs and his
voice had been transported and buffeted by the breeze toward
Beatrice. She had found herself absorbed with watching his
progress, instead of reading about the surveillance by Big
Brother.

Soon, the rosy-
brown haired young man, with an open agreeable face, had made his
way toward Beatrice and he had asked her in his softly Scottish
flavoured voice ‘have you seen a black and white medium sized dog
run past?’ But before she could respond, the happy-go-lucky
Friedrich himself was upon them wagging his tail like a crazy
metronome and laughing his Dalmatian smile. The young man also
broke into a smile. And, as if smiles were contagious, Beatrice
smiled too.

The young man,
David, sat down on the bench next to Beatrice, as he fondled his
dog’s velvet head. ‘He is named after Friedrich Nietzsche, the
great German philosopher’ said David earnestly, as Friedrich
pranced and leapt about.