Self-Portraits - 8. Trepassing

On Monday, I realise that everyone has found out Stu’s secret.

Only, it doesn’t seem to be a secret at all. Between my morning classes, I overhear Lisa telling Carrie that Stu was openly mentioning his ex-boyfriend at Lambchop Hill on the weekend.

“He told me they were together for seven months,” Lisa says. “He said they were probably going to break up anyway, but obviously they had to when Stu’s family moved away.”

“Did you see a photo of the guy?” Carrie asks.

“No, but I bet he was super cute,” Lisa says. “Gay guys always are. It’s so annoying.”

There’s no maliciousness in their tones. It makes me wonder whether Nicholas and I have been making a big deal out of nothing.

Maybe coming out at this school wouldn’t be the end of the world.

*

At lunchtime, Harriet and I share a table in the library but, when we get our books out, she doesn’t open hers. She snaps off a square of dark chocolate and looks at me while she chews. I try to concentrate on David Copperfield, where Uriah Heep is practically slithering across the page, but it’s hard to focus with Harriet staring at me like that.

“Are you posing for a portrait?” I ask her eventually, because that’s what she asked me on Friday night.

“I’m thinking,” she says.

“About David Copperfield?” I ask.

“No.” Harriet drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m thinking about this mysterious Maggie da Silva.”

“She’s not exactly mysterious,” I say. “She’s just a ... mystery.”

Harriet’s got a look in her eye that worries me. “You said she lives just around the corner from me, right? Chrysanthea Place?”

My stomach sinks. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“Some light reconnaissance,” she says. “Nothing major. Meet me by the gate after school.”

Then, finally, she opens her books.

*

After school, Harriet makes me take her to the front of Maggie da Silva’s house. It’s my third time spying on 14 Chrysanthea Place. Does this make me an official stalker? At least it looks like nobody’s home.

“Alright, you’ve seen it,” I say. “Now let’s go.”

“Maggie da Silva sure likes wind chimes, doesn’t she?” Harriet says. “I count five. Wait, no, there’s one by the front door. Six. That one’s got old teaspoons instead of chimes.”

“Alright, you’ve counted her wind chimes. Let’s go.”

But to my horror, Harriet swings her leg over the fence. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”

“Harriet, no!” I hiss. “We can’t trespass!”

“It’s not trespassing if it’s your father’s residence,” Harriet says.

“I’m not sure that’s legally accurate,” I say, but she’s already halfway across the front lawn.

I only follow her over the fence to drag her back onto the street, but she’s too fast for me. She ducks between wind chimes and shimmies down the narrow path along the side of the house. I have no choice – I have to go after her.

The back garden is every bit as wild as the front. There’s a large square of dirt that might’ve once been a vegetable garden but it’s impossible to tell now. There are large white sacks of fertiliser lumped in a corner. One of them has split open and pellets are spilling out. There’s a picnic table covered in bird poo.

Harriet’s peering through back window, on her tiptoes. “This must be their bedroom. I can see a man’s shirt on an ironing board.”

“Harriet, let’s go!” I never would’ve guessed Miss Goody-Two-Shoes was such a rule-breaker. “We’ll get in trouble. What are we even doing here?”

“We’re gathering intel.”

“Intel? Why do we need intel?”

“Because you don’t even know for sure the baby is your father’s,” Harriet says. “You don’t even know if he’s living here.”

Right then, the back door opens.

There stands the woman herself: Maggie da Silva. She’s wearing a yellow dress, with a cardigan framing her baby bump.

For a second, Harriet’s like a rabbit in the headlights. I wonder if she’s ever been in trouble before. How will Little Miss Perfect explain herself to the police?

The short answer is: she won’t.

“Run!” Harriet shouts. She turns and makes for the back fence. She vaults over it, then vanishes.

I’m left alone with Maggie da Silva. My face burns as I try to think of an explanation.

Why would a sixteen-year-old boy be in a random woman’s garden?

I’m starting to come up with something about hitting a ball over the fence (our neighbours’ sons sometimes knock on our door to retrieve their soccer ball) but before I can put the sentence together, Maggie says, “Hello, Richard.”

*

Maggie da Silva and I sit at the bird-poo picnic table with a pot of tea.

“Your dad showed me a picture of you from last Christmas,” she says. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

Still, nothing comes out of my mouth.

“I knew you were a smart cookie,” she says. “I’m not surprised you found me. I imagine your dad dropped a million clues.”

Again, I try to say something, but I can’t.

“Well, it doesn’t matter how you found me, really. I’m glad you’re here.”

She’s acting like she’s been expecting me. Like this is a normal way to meet someone. And I’ve barely said two words yet.

“I’m terrible with this garden, as you can see,” she says, dispensing tea into chipped purple mugs.

“It’s fine,” I say. There! That was two words.

“Well, I had the best of intentions. See that hole over there? That was going to be a fishpond but then it just became an unofficial landfill for green waste and now it’s become a sort of garden unto itself.”

“I like it,” I say, for something to say.

“Well, thank you.” Maggie smiles. “Now, that girl who went flying over the fence – that wasn’t Vicky, was it?”

“No, that was a girl from my school,” I say.

“Ah, I see,” Maggie says, as if that explained anything. “From what I hear, Vicky is the sort of person who would go flying over a fence if she wanted.”

“Yeah, she gets in trouble,” I say. “She’s actually at a detention right now, because she called the headmaster a fascist last week.”

Maggie raises her eyebrows. “I see. So you’re the more peaceful one.”

“Well, I don’t throw tantrums like she does.”

“You should throw a tantrum, once in a while. They feel great.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I go back to saying nothing.

“So, you go to Crampton Collegiate?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Such beautiful grounds. What’s it like inside?”

“Really cold.”

She laughs. We talk about my subjects, because that’s what adults always ask about when there’s nothing else to say. I tell her what we’re reading in English. She’s never read David Copperfield, but she says she saw the movie once. But then I realise she’s confusing it for Nicholas Nickleby.

Then she catches me glancing at her stomach.

“You probably have some questions?” Maggie says.

“Not really,” I lie. I have one question: Is that foetus my half-sibling? But at the same time, I don’t need to ask that question now. By asking if I have any questions, Maggie’s already answered it.

“You already knew, didn’t you?” she asks. “Before today.”

I come half-clean with her. I tell her I saw her and Dad together at the hospital. I don’t tell her that I followed her back to the house, or that I came back a second time and went through her mail, or that I looked her up online.

“I can’t begin to imagine how difficult the last few weeks have been for you,” Maggie says. “I’ve been so worried about you – you and your sister – but there was nothing I could do, except sit around feeling terrible.” She pats her bump. “Fat and terrible and worried.”

A voice in my head that sounds just like Vicky screams: What about my mum? Have you been worried about my mum, you selfish cow?!

I’m yoyoing between liking her and hating her.

Then the back door swings open again.

This time Dad stands there, in his suit and tie. He looks totally out of place in such a messy garden.

“Mags, what are you doing out—oh.”

He stares at me in shock.

Nobody says anything for a moment.

Then Maggie asks him, “Would you like to join us for a cup of tea?”

*

Dad doesn’t take Maggie’s offer of tea. Instead, he drives me straight home.

Neither of us know exactly what to say.

Eventually Dad tries to break the silence. “How did you ... find ... um ...”

“Someone at school lives close by,” I say, which is not a lie.

Dad nods. “I see.”

There’s another long silence. This time, I try to break it. “Mum knows, right?”

“Yes, she knows.”

I pause. “Even about the ... foetus?”

“Of course. That’s what, er, sped things up.”

“So ... why didn’t you tell us?”

“Tell you ...?”

“About the fact you’re living with a woman … um …” I don’t want to say a woman you got pregnant to my father, so I say, “and a foetus.”

Dad sighs. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought it might’ve felt like too much changing all at once. Your mother disagreed. She wanted us to tell you both everything straight away. I suppose she was right. I was going to tell you both this weekend,” he adds, unconvincingly. “I’ll tell Vicky this weekend. I will.”

“I’ll act surprised,” I say.

“Okay. Thanks, Rich.”

“You’re welcome.” I’m not really covering for Dad, though. I’m covering for myself; I don’t want anyone to find out I’ve been stalking Maggie da Silva.

“There’ll be no more secrets,” Dad says.

I say nothing. Right now, secrets are all I have.

*

When I get home, Dad’s the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. Mum and Vicky are having another fight in the kitchen. By which I mean, Vicky is shouting, and Mum’s responding calmly while rolling out the dough for her homemade pizzas.

“I just picked you up from your second detention,” Mum’s saying. “I don’t want you getting into even more trouble and I’m sure you don’t want to spend any more time cleaning rude words off school walls.”

“I’m not breaking any rules this time!” Vicky shouts. “I’m organising a meeting, that’s it! You are being so painful about nothing.”

“I wouldn’t get in anyone’s way,” Mum says. “I would sit there quietly and make sure you’re not getting yourself or anyone else expelled. Now, can you help me dice these onions?”

I don’t think handing Vicky a knife right now is a great idea, so I jump in and do it.

“Oh my god, Richard!” Vicky howls. “Sizzler Stu and I are organising a meeting after school tomorrow to discuss Mr Jane’s homophobic Year 11 Ball ticket policy, and I’ve just mentioned it casually to Mum and now she says she’s coming to it!”

It’s a horrifying image: Mum sitting in a classroom with kids I go to school with.

“Mum,” I groan, “you definitely can’t do that!”

“I don’t see any other option.” Then Mum looks at me. “Unless …”

“Yes? Anything!” I beg.

“Unless you go,” Mum says.

“Me?” I splutter. “I’m not part of it!”

“Exactly. You’re objective. You’ll keep an eye on things. Your sister’s already had three detentions this year. Someone needs to make sure nothing gets out of hand.”

“But … I can’t … but …”

Both Mum and Vicky are looking at me, pleading.

“I’ll be much happier if I know you’re there,” Mum says. “Mr Jane will be, too. He knows you’re dependable. When he called last week, he made a point of saying how diplomatic you were and how you’ve never caused him any trouble.”

“Yes, please, Richard,” Vicky begs. “You need to be there. Anyone but Mum.”

We’re at a stalemate.

Fine. This time, Mum wins.

*

While the house fills with the smell of pizza dough baking, Harriet calls the house phone.

“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have abandoned you like that. And in hindsight, trespassing onto your dad’s pregnant girlfriend’s property was not a good idea.”

I recall the image of Harriet leaping over the fence and I can’t help myself – a giggle erupts from me. I tell her everything that happened.

“Have I made everything worse?” Harriet asks.

“Not really,” I admit. “Maybe it was good, meeting Maggie suddenly like that. I didn’t spend days stressing about what it’d be like. And Dad said he’s going to come clean to us about everything.”

“Well, in the future,” Harriet says, “don’t listen to me. I know I seem like I know what I’m talking about, because I wear glasses, but I honestly don’t have a clue.”

Downstairs, Mum calls, “Pizza’s ready!”

I tell Harriet I have to go.

“Give me your mobile number,” she says. “I still don’t have it.”

I give Harriet my mobile number and head down to dinner. My phone dings as I go.

Again, I apologise, Harriet says. P.s. It’s Harriet.

Don’t worry about it, I reply as I sit down at the table. I’m still LOLing at you jumping that fence!

Okay but I will give you a coke at lunch tomorrow as a formal apology.

You’re not allowed fizzy drinks in the library. LOL!

“No phones at the dinner table,” Mum reminds me as she hands me a plate.

Vicky smirks. “Take that, Mr Perfect.”