Pecking Disorder

One - Something Hobart. Tasmania.1971 Keep moving. Don’t stop. Do you hear that Ross Mayne? I remind myself again and again to the pointof exhaustion. I need a distraction. Last night. The hostel. No. Imust forget it happened. The classroom empties. I stuff my briefcasewith text books and dog-eared photocopies of class notes. As usualI am last to leave. Another escape has begun. It’s a rerun of the same thing. I have to avoid recapture. There is no otherway than to keep on kidding myself. A bag of books. Hours of study.The right image. And perfect weekend incarceration. For some time I fumble trying to engage thebrass locks. I finally succumb to letting the top flap reveal allto be reborn later. Here is the tangible evidence. Incompleteassignments and class work I have yet to finish. Is it because Ican’t concentrate today? The clutter of text books and foolscappads are the loose thoughts I so desperately want to avoid. And how much I always have to do to catchup. It’s more than that. It’s him. Admit it. Pitiful me. I’m in ‘kidding myself’ mode. I’m good atthat. I start off with the best of intentions to excel, yetsomewhere along the way a nagging, restless voice undermines thosegood intentions. That same voice keeps me in my place. Of knowing my place. Apparently some refer to this as a ‘patternof behavior’ while others call it the ‘order of things’. It’s animprisonment ritual I’ve agreed to. But there’s nothing worse thanknowing you’re both prisoner and gaoler. I am not allowed tosucceed. I can’t be seen to be better than anyone else. That’s thecrux of one of my cruxes. I see the annoying and frustratingrepetition of my habits fulfilling this belief as I leave theclassroom. It’s that desperate delusional pattern again. But I livein hope. This time the books will be more than a distraction. Iwill finally master runaway thoughts and complete all myassignments. At least I will be able to acknowledge the symptoms ofsuccess. My thoughts are briefly positive, as Inegotiate the door tumbleweed fashion. I stride towards the BrookerHighway which is next to the college I keep telling myself that this weekend Ineed to bury myself in schoolwork. But as I step out, gone is thisFriday afternoon’s number one recommitment. I blame the shift ontraffic noise. Other nagging thoughts surface. I am naked. Both myfright and flight are coming through. I have some thinking to doand I can’t speak to anyone about it. There is absolutely no one I can talk toabout it. I won’t dare talk about it. I will have to pretend thateverything in my world is okay. The same as usual. But it’s not. It’s all because of something I’ve beendoing for quite a long time. Hiding the truth about myself frommyself. Maybe I just want to get away for theweekend on the family farm. To be alone but not lonely. To thinkabout things. To exchange Yurnadinah, the Education Departmenthostel for a country home after another long month. Home. Bliss. Cars read me as they pass. Should I step outin front of them? I am already c*****e, struggling to surviveon this disabled friendly footpath. My briefcase which looks as though it is‘due at any moment’ is a metaphysical signpost for life. Thenearest thing to my involvement in procreation is in my hands.Without fully comprehending the symbolism of my expectant carryall,I have elected to live a progeny free future. So much has happened at the hostel thisweek. I’ll start again. I need to start again.With the truth this time. The full truth. The truth escapes me. Ordo I let it escape? There is a difference. So much happened at the hostel lastnight. No those are the words I have practiced. Ihave told myself to say them to a public me. Over and over again.Not the private me. The truth is only one thing happened. Admitit I wanted it to happen and yet I didn’t. The‘yet I didn’t’ is still talking its fear. It stalks me. The fingerpointing of a majority who will deem me and my actionsrepugnant. All power to the mighty index digit. You canforget where it’s been. The fact is it can point. And in terms ofsuccess that’s pivotal. He wanted it to happen. And he seemed coolabout it. Far less fear in him. How lucky he is. But not me. Right now I am still the baitand the fish. The pain of scrutiny hooked on my own guilt. Andthose eyes staring at me with disgust and disapproval. Okay. Maybea silent majority. But I know what they’ll think. And when they talk in whispers and sniggersI’ll know what they’ll say. And after it happened? I wanted it to happen again and again. Heknew I was drawn to his suggestions. The touch and the torment wastoo much. I was propelled towards it, ached for it, but in themiddle of it, recoiled. ‘No,’ I whispered quickly.‘We shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t do this anymore. Never again.Never. Do you understand?’ I watched him get out of my bed. Themoonlight lit his naked body as he tiptoed back to his own bed. Iached for him to return but I had already shunned him. I draggedthe sheets and blankets around me and tossed and turned the rest ofthe night. Never again. Never. Do you understand? I let my confused words echo into mythoughts, desperate for membership of the silent majority. I pulledthe index finger on both hands until the joints cracked. How can something be so nice yet sowrong? I told myself a hundred times that it didn’thappen. Straight after, my heart murmured two voices. It didn’tbeat that night. It raced and reprimanded. One heart talked loud.It argued my voice. The other pumped sporadic chatter, the utterand total condemnation of those dumb finger pointers. They’ll see and they’ll learn how totalk. I could still smell him on my hands. I was terrified the others in the dormitorywould wake. But six versions of snoring reassured me. The‘something’ was shared between Michael and me alone. We saw ‘thesomething’ in each other the first day at Yurnadinah. Yes that’shis name. Michael. Michael Nichols. Dare I say it? Oh Michael. No. The heart I chose to listen to kept sayingit didn’t happen. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. I must have got to sleep somehow and hopedall this would be forgotten. Who’s kidding who? Myra my Mum is waiting for me in the Austin1800. There’s someone else in the car with her. Grace. Can’t be. Grace Badcock is meant to be in Adelaide.Nursing. She’s my brother’s fiancée. There is something oddhappening. Something going on that I am not supposed to know about.But I can see it. And feel it. I’m kind of glad in a weird way.It’s a distraction from last night. I wish every day and night hada ‘Thursday night something’. And then a Friday to forget itall. No I didn’t or no I shouldn’t? Oh yes you did. I open the car door. But why is Grace backhome? Mum and Grace have been struck by somethingunspeakable. I sense unease straight away. They share the same bodylanguage. They look shell shocked. Good. It is a distraction from my own stuff. They half smile and look at me kindly,warily. Look at each other as if to halt their symbiosis and thebroadest of beans spilling. They are both smoking heavily. Twochimney chums. ‘Hello dear,’ Mum sayscoughing and smiling. She wants to be free of her own pent upfeelings so she can connect with me as she always does. You knowit’s that mother and favorite son stuff. It’s been a whole monthsince I’ve seen her. Smoke drifts over her. It adds to the nicotinewisp staining the front of her permanent wave. ‘Hi Ross,’ Grace says in ahalf whisper. She partly echoes Mum and forces a smile to crowd outher anguish. The car is full of smoke. Talk and thoughts.Talk and cigarettes. Smoke and double contemplation for an hour ormore? Mum and Grace are trying to cocoonthemselves. I sprawl with my water breaking briefcase on the backseat. The mess falls onto the floor as a grateful reminder I willhave another distraction. Great. I am being saved by the secrets in the frontof the car, the secrets in the back and the elimination from mybriefcase namely the birth of Ancient History notes. ‘Xerxes theGreat killed by Artabanus’, catches my stinging eyes. I am not yetpart of this shell on wheels. Somehow I know not to say ‘why are youhome’? I can feel pain now. A lot of it. Especially Mum’s. I don’tworry all that much about Grace but surrounding her chrysalis is anenergy field of hurt and confusion. It’s the pain of fear too. Thepain of not talking but having too eventually. The pain of knowing.Of maybe pretending not to know or not wanting to know. And thepain of pretending everything is normal. This really is a carbon copy. It’s all for my sake. And for the finger pointers too? Somebody has to say something. I do afterthe interior cloud partly drifts out the side windows of theAustin. The car floats on its well-advertised fluid up theBrooker. A prison on wheels with three inmates. Allcocooned. Is it fear of the known or unknown that automaticallydrives this car? ‘Didn’t think you werecoming back until you finished your course.’ I finally talk, using a cough and a spit todislodge the human ice, smoke and cigarettes have only halfsucceeded in thawing. Grace and Mum swap furtive glances and lightmore cigarettes. Their symbiosis resumes. They are conjoined twinsperforming identical actions. Their ashen faces have a remarkableresemblance. It’s all part of an hour long agreement. ‘Something’s happened.Grace had to come back for a while,’ Mum coughs so she has time tosearch for the right intonation for an appropriate response. Butthen she always does this with my father. It’s like an apology shefeels she must make before words are formed. I hate how she has tojustify her existence all the time. Don’t I know about justification? ‘When did you get back,’ Iask Grace. Mum coughs an interruption again. ‘I picked Grace up fromthe airport. She rang me this morning. Your brother doesn’t knowyet, or your father.’ ‘It’s a surprise then,’ Isay knowing already that it is not to be a pleasant one. ‘I guess so,’ Mum answersthrough clenched teeth. I expect she will take the steering wheelin her mouth at any moment. The next five minutes are like preventing aresealed road from setting. The car has dragged bitumen inside andmolded three statues as we head north. There is no use talking eventhough equal amounts of intrigue and suspense demand morequestions. The rear windows remain half open. Crisp autumn airblows across the narrowing Derwent, funneling the smoke back insidelike shifting halos. I sit awkwardly in the center of the back seatimagining that Mum, Grace and I are points on an isoscelestriangle. Equal sides. Equal angles. Perfectbalance? Hardly. Given that a hideous weight rests on Mum andGrace’s shoulders I try to construct possible scenarios as to whyGrace should suddenly return, why my mother who is trying to giveup smoking is a chimney again and why the two women share someknowledge that neither of them can handle. It obviously means one thing. Grace is backbecause of my brother and not just to see my brother. My brother’sfiancée is not back to discuss wedding preparations. Grace has arranged for Mum to pick her upfrom the airport. Some days ago? She has told Mum it’s a secret andthat she wants to speak to her alone. I think about last night. My Thursday nightwith Michael the Great. Thursday night with so many seconds andminutes. It seems like a whole leap year jammed into that one halfhour now. In that half hour I wronged what was right. In thosethirty minutes I unleashed 1800 seconds of dueling chatter. Twovoices of continual conflict that walk a tightrope towards eachother. I hate these thoughts. Can they pass? Will they pass? Thirty minutes later the 1800 slows beforeturning off Loveday Road. What a coincidence. I spin out connecting the family car with aspecific passage of ‘my time’. The planks on the farm bridge rattle. Mumtries to avoid potholes, but scrapes the sump guard more than once.She accelerates up the hill past the hop kiln. The car requiresmore power than normal. The load is still bituminized. Under the rear of a Holden ute, a man’s legsprotrude. An assortment of spanners and other car tools scatteredon either side of the legs suggest a major job is underway. A framefor carting a rowing shell is being dismantled. Slowly Mum guides the Austin into theramshackle garage alongside the Holden. A body slides out fromunderneath the ute to reveal Phillip, my brother who has justglimpsed the occupants in the Austin 1800.