thighs, their mouths lip to lip. He was anticipating a good night after all and something to announce to his mother when he called her tomorrow.
Loveâthere he had called it at last. He would tell her he was in love .
The Edge of the Known World
DEBI HAMILTON
They drew Xs up and down the side of my breast. Someone asked later whether it was biro but I couldnât say. Then they sent in a specialist who was as professional and reassuring as a fresh sheet. No, wash some of them off, she said. Donât want the surgeon being confused. She marked the top of my breast with another X and left. The radiographer, a woman after my own heart, wrote HERE just below my collarbone and drew a long arrow to the specialistâs X. They walked me back to another room.
When I woke up the first thing I checked was the territory under the gown. HERE was still there, the arrow pointing, the treasure of my breast still at the end of it. Pain swept in.
I used to imagine, at ten, a hollow space behind my bedroom wall. A cool, dark, rubble-speckled hideout I could dig into, if only the doorway I made could be hidden. Perhaps I read too many gothic novels; perhaps it helped to make a buffer. He was always angry, my father. Thatâs when he was home, which he wasnât much. I filled my bottom drawer with stories and treasure maps. I wasnât sure what youâd do with a pot of gold, or a jar of diamonds and jewellery. I wouldâve been happy with a whole packet of biscuits that no-one counted, someone stroking my hair.
I met Carmelita in the doctorâs waiting room two weeks after my nineteenth birthday. I have a photo of her in a red chair in my head, which is silly because no one takes photos in waitingrooms. She is sitting very still, her brown hair framing her quiet face, her hands folded in her lap, her 1980s heels pressed together. She is radiating what I think of as a Spanish beauty, the power of which derives in part from her complete oblivion to it.
It must have been the lunch breakâwe were the only people there. She made a noise and I looked at her. She was rolling her eyes.
âI hate this song,â she said. I hadnât noticed itâthe radio. It was that Cindi Lauper song, âTrue Coloursâ, full of whiney sugariness.
âDonât you wish women would sing more ballsy love songs?â she said.
I agreed, although I hadnât known it until this minute.
She was there to have a blister on her foot treated. I was there to ask the doctor about the Pill, although I didnât tell her that.
Carmelita, Carmelita. There. I like to think her name. If you want to hear a love story I can write you one. If you want a story in which someone breaks someone elseâs heart, this is the story for you.
Our first flat together had purple shag pile carpet. Carmelita stood in the middle of the lounge room in her velvet brocade jacket. It must have been winter. Her jacket was rusts and golds and it was an assault to see her on the purple shag pile. She had created a tropical garden I was to be invited into. The real estate agent went to check something in the kitchen and Carmelita raised her eyebrow at me.
âShall we take it?â
Of course we did.
Our first year settled around our shoulders; our first year beyond our family homes. A year of learning five lazy ways to prepare vegetables. A year of negotiating over the scrubbing brush, the vacuum cleaner. A year by the end of which the purple shag pile had come to seem so normal we were alarmed when guests did a double take at the door. Did the tuna mornay smell bad? Had one of us left a bra on the back of a chair?
I worked in the ambulance service, but only doing clerical work. I made a great cup of tea, knew where everything was in the filing cabinets, and was the first to tackle the computer system when it came along.
She was a social worker for a youth service. For a while there we had to laugh at ourselves. She dated men
Loveâthere he had called it at last. He would tell her he was in love .
The Edge of the Known World
DEBI HAMILTON
They drew Xs up and down the side of my breast. Someone asked later whether it was biro but I couldnât say. Then they sent in a specialist who was as professional and reassuring as a fresh sheet. No, wash some of them off, she said. Donât want the surgeon being confused. She marked the top of my breast with another X and left. The radiographer, a woman after my own heart, wrote HERE just below my collarbone and drew a long arrow to the specialistâs X. They walked me back to another room.
When I woke up the first thing I checked was the territory under the gown. HERE was still there, the arrow pointing, the treasure of my breast still at the end of it. Pain swept in.
I used to imagine, at ten, a hollow space behind my bedroom wall. A cool, dark, rubble-speckled hideout I could dig into, if only the doorway I made could be hidden. Perhaps I read too many gothic novels; perhaps it helped to make a buffer. He was always angry, my father. Thatâs when he was home, which he wasnât much. I filled my bottom drawer with stories and treasure maps. I wasnât sure what youâd do with a pot of gold, or a jar of diamonds and jewellery. I wouldâve been happy with a whole packet of biscuits that no-one counted, someone stroking my hair.
I met Carmelita in the doctorâs waiting room two weeks after my nineteenth birthday. I have a photo of her in a red chair in my head, which is silly because no one takes photos in waitingrooms. She is sitting very still, her brown hair framing her quiet face, her hands folded in her lap, her 1980s heels pressed together. She is radiating what I think of as a Spanish beauty, the power of which derives in part from her complete oblivion to it.
It must have been the lunch breakâwe were the only people there. She made a noise and I looked at her. She was rolling her eyes.
âI hate this song,â she said. I hadnât noticed itâthe radio. It was that Cindi Lauper song, âTrue Coloursâ, full of whiney sugariness.
âDonât you wish women would sing more ballsy love songs?â she said.
I agreed, although I hadnât known it until this minute.
She was there to have a blister on her foot treated. I was there to ask the doctor about the Pill, although I didnât tell her that.
Carmelita, Carmelita. There. I like to think her name. If you want to hear a love story I can write you one. If you want a story in which someone breaks someone elseâs heart, this is the story for you.
Our first flat together had purple shag pile carpet. Carmelita stood in the middle of the lounge room in her velvet brocade jacket. It must have been winter. Her jacket was rusts and golds and it was an assault to see her on the purple shag pile. She had created a tropical garden I was to be invited into. The real estate agent went to check something in the kitchen and Carmelita raised her eyebrow at me.
âShall we take it?â
Of course we did.
Our first year settled around our shoulders; our first year beyond our family homes. A year of learning five lazy ways to prepare vegetables. A year of negotiating over the scrubbing brush, the vacuum cleaner. A year by the end of which the purple shag pile had come to seem so normal we were alarmed when guests did a double take at the door. Did the tuna mornay smell bad? Had one of us left a bra on the back of a chair?
I worked in the ambulance service, but only doing clerical work. I made a great cup of tea, knew where everything was in the filing cabinets, and was the first to tackle the computer system when it came along.
She was a social worker for a youth service. For a while there we had to laugh at ourselves. She dated men
Similar Books
