Girls Dont Cry
GIRLS DON’T CRY - A SHORT STORY
Sunday, 04 March 2007
By Dr Flutter By
The sun’s beating down on the baked red earth. It’s hard to see, but follow the horizon line till you come upon the farmhouse in the distance. Can you see it? It’s the ramshackle building held together by the memories contained within it. That was my home once. I’ve come back to visit. I still get a sense of homecoming you know. I’ve not laid claim to that place as my own for at least 25 years, but some places will always be home to you.
Sara and I took an oath – blood sisters we were then. You know, you nick your finger with a piece of glass, rub the blood together and promise to be true to each other forever. Such a simple way to view life when you’re 6. You are protectress and protected all in one. A funny feeling you know – vulnerable and powerful all at once. I was to know that feeling again, but in very, very different circumstances. I’ll tell you about that, I think you should know. But not yet. I need to start somewhere else.So turn the car in the drive. See the jacaranda? I always associate purple with home-coming. That’s why I always have that scarf with me. The one you all laugh at. The kitchen is my favourite place in here. Let’s go in the back door. The island with the copper pots gleaming. Mum sitting at the table scrubbing them – I always wondered why she would spend so much time keeping clean things that were always dirty. Of course there are no copper pots now, just the bare island. Still, the walls hold all the ghosts. They haven’t gone with the copper pots.
I remember once when I had hurt my leg. Climbing up a tree probably. Sara ran to get my mum. She came out, took one look at me and told me to stop snivelling. Girls have to put up with a lot of pain in their lives, she said. We can’t be crying all day everyday can we? Sometimes I think she was really telling herself that, and not me. I don’t remember crying after that. Not even when it happened.
We’re getting there, don’t worry. So the summers were long and lazy and full of adventures – Sara and me. Winter time was spent at school you know. Down the road. Sara and I were taken by Sara’s dad. He was an accountant in the town centre. Always looked like he’d rather be somewhere else. But funnily enough, he was the only one of the old lot who actually stayed. He said he wouldn’t have known where to go. He had all the people’s tax numbers in his head. What if they get audited he’d say. Why didn’t he ever just write it all down?
Then Sara and I had to leave primary school and go into the high school in the town. It was an interesting process. Sara – blonde, precociously buxom, absolutely loved it. All those boys with their hormones. Me – I was thin as a rake, lanky, brown hair hanging in a curtain around my face. I soon learnt that I was cramping her style, so I kept out of her way. But she would steal up to my room sometimes, in the middle of the night you know – and tell me all about Andy or Steven or Phil. So full of joy, beauty and excitement that I had to forgive her and giggle along with her.
That all happened in the room just above here you know. If you listen hard enough you can feel the weight of all the secrets pressing down on you. That weight has pinned me here for the last 25 years. Doesn’t matter where I am physically you know.
So Sara finally picked Phil, and I hardly ever saw her again. So she wasn’t to know about the new excitement in our lives. Uncle Fletch – mum’s brother coming back from Vietnam. Everyone had something to say about that war, but in our house Fletch was a hero. He had saved our family from the commies, and that’s all that mattered. Dad had gone in to get him from the airport. Mum was frantically getting the tea ready. She wanted it all to be perfect for her dearest younger brother. There was a roast, and best of all a pav to have later.
Uncle Fletch swept her up into a tight hug when he came in. Everyone could see that he had been drinking, but we would have excused him anything. I remember how Mum would make us sit down in the evening while she read out his letters to her “Oh there never was a one like you Fletch” she’d say, tears welling in her eyes.
Those months with him at home were great. I’d run for the bus, and run home from the stop down the road. He and I would sit with a glass of coke chatting about all sorts of things – music, food, my ambition to be a vet. “Aren’t you all grown up now Evie” he’d say. He’d take me for walks down the road, pointing out shapes in the clouds, drumming up ridiculous stories to go with them. They were great days.
You see out that window? Where the line of trees leads next door? Well that was our special place, Uncle Fletch and I. We’d go there, and hold hands and he’d tell me how special I was to him. I remember one day he said that we had the best relationship of all – so special that we couldn’t tell anyone because they’d get jealous. Who needed Sara and Phil with that? I could bear school then, knowing that I’d be coming home to him.
Mum used to tell me to go up and do my homework and not bother Uncle Fletch. If only she knew I would think. She would be so jealous wouldn’t she! Fletch would flash me his special private smile, and say “go on, do as you’re told”. So I’d go. Not because she said, but because he did. And I knew I’d be in for a treat – coke bottles or sherbet usually. One more day that I’d kept the secret.
But everything in my life always screws up. Uncle Fletch found a job in the city. He told me – it was a Thursday I remember – I was home late because of soccer practice. He said that he had a really special treat because he was leaving and he wouldn’t see me for a while. It didn’t seem like a treat at all, you know. But like I said, I’d already learned not to cry.
I never saw Uncle Fletch after that. It was probably best. Mum put a photo of him up on the mantelpiece. When it was dusting day she’d give it an extra little polish. “There never was a one like you Fletch” she’d say. She never understood why I wouldn’t write to him when she did. Stuck up little puss she called me. Putting on airs and graces. Vulnerable and powerful all at once. The holder of the secret. If only mum knew what I knew. Where would she be then?
She died two weeks ago, Mum. But of course you know that. That’s why we’re here. To dust off old memories, put the spit and polish of “never say ill of the dead” on them, and hang them up for all to see. So I’ll take Mum’s room, and you can do the kitchen. It’ll be nice to look at her dresses again. I used to dress up in them once, when I wanted people to think me pretty. But what’s this on the dresser? A letter. For me. From Mum. “Sorry Evie”. Oh God she told me girls shouldn’t cry……..