That Stranger Next Door. Goldie Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ horrid for that poor woman. When I tried to read a bit more, the man gave me a sour look and stowed the paper inside his briefcase.

      I didn't care. I was back in my favourite daydream, the one where I was already at university studying medicine. Whenever this came up at home, Mamma snapped, 'Why can't you be happy as a teacher or a stenographer? They're perfectly good professions until you get married. If you trained as a teacher you would pick up a bursary that will pay for your further education.'

      'Then I'd be sent to the country,' I retorted. 'You wouldn't like that either. You think I wouldn't be any good as a doctor. But don't you remember how I bandaged Papa's finger when he cut it almost to the bone? And what about when old Mr Collins fainted? Everyone panicked, but I knew to hold up his head, make him sip water and ask someone to phone for an ambulance.'

      She sniffed disapprovingly. 'Who will marry a girl that examines naked men's private parts?'

      'Aren't nurses women as well?'

      'Nursing is no career for a well-brought-up Jewish girl,' she tartly responded. 'God knows what those girls get up to in the nursing homes.'

      How was I supposed to answer that?

      'If I don't get into medicine,' I shouted, 'maybe I'll go to Israel and join a kibbutz. They're always looking for volunteers. They might even let me ride a bike-'

      'And another thing,' Mamma continued as if my threat meant nothing, 'why can't you be friendly with Daisy? As you're both going to private schools, you have a great deal in common.'

      'Like what?' The last thing I needed was Mamma choosing my friends. 'Daisy only talks about shopping.'

      'She's polite, which is more than I can say about my own daughter.'

      'Maybe she's polite because her mother doesn't tell her who should be her friends.'

      Mamma's chin lifted indignantly. 'I only advise you for your own good. It's time you started taking other people into consideration.'

      'Being friendly with someone I don't like isn't taking me into consideration.'

      As usual all these arguments between us only stopped with her walking away, muttering, 'You never think of anyone but yourself'.

      I always spent morning and lunch breaks with Kate Howell's crowd. When I first got to St Margaret's Anglican College I was mostly ignored. It seemed that winning this scholarship would keep me lonely and miserable forever. What happened to change things around was one day when our teacher was absent I noticed Kate Howell was having trouble answering a math problem.

      I sidled into the empty seat beside her. 'Need some help?'

      She nodded furiously.

      This wouldn't have been enough for her picky crowd to include me. What made the difference was that after we chatted a while, Kate discovered I loved basketball as much as she did and that I was even prepared to play goalie, which everyone knows is a team's worst position. Given Kate's influence, which is strong enough for her to always play centre, her crowd finally took me under their wing.

      Kate was tall, slim, and fair, with eyes the same shade of blue as the sky at sunset. Her close friends, Anne, Denise, Marcia and Lizzie, were equally tall and skinny, with long straight hair, ranging in colour from mousey-brown to blonde.

      Given I have dark eyes, black curly hair, olive skin and wear size C brassieres, I felt utterly different. They often commented on how lucky I was to have a grown-up body and how much they wanted their breasts to grow like mine, and how they despaired that they ever would. So even though they tried to make me feel like I was one of them, sometimes I wondered if I really was. But if I lingered too long on feeling like an outsider, I would probably become one, so I tried to avoid thinking this way as much as possible.

      Kate's grandparents ran a station in Queensland as big as Great Britain. 'They need this much land,' she said, 'because it's one animal to one acre.' Her family also owned a house at Portsea. When the family were in Melbourne they lived in a double-story Victorian mansion with three separate living areas, a billiard room, six bedrooms, goodness knows how many bathrooms, and a butler's pantry. Whenever Kate invited me home, Mrs Howell was always very polite. But I could tell she wasn't keen on her daughter being friendly with a Jewish scholarship girl whose parents happened to run a milk bar.

      Today, Miss Brown made us wait until after last bell before handing back our science projects. Her writing was so tiny it was hard to read. As I walked towards the tram trying to decipher: Good work, but need to explain Section B more fully- I walked straight into a bike, staggered and fell.

      My right knee hit the pavement with a dull thud. Ouch, that really hurt!

      As I tried to get up, I dropped my bag.

      A boy hopped off his bike, picked up my bag and handed it to me. 'Sorry about that,' he said. 'I didn't see you.'

      I rubbed my knee. 'No, no, my fault,' I muttered. 'I wasn't looking.' My voice trailed away. I knew I was flushing beetroot.

      Why was I always this clumsy? Why didn't I look where I was going?

      The boy peered at me more closely. 'Sure you're okay?'

      I limped to a nearby fence, sat down, and examined my knee. Blood was starting to seep through the torn stocking. I searched through my pockets for a hankie, but he handed me a wrinkled one, covered in ink stains.

      'Thanks,' and because he still looked concerned, I hurriedly added, 'Guess I'll live.'

      'You'd better or I'll be had up for murder.' A smile displayed a chipped front tooth. 'Oh, I'm Patrick. Patrick Sean O'Sullivan. Sorry about that.' He peered at my knee. 'And you are?'

      'Me? Um, Ruth,' I said still trying to staunch the blood.

      Groups of kids clattered past like chattery parrots. Patrick leant his bike against the fence and settled beside me. As I kept dabbing, I had time to take him in. Nice was the word that sprang to mind. Nice suited this boy. He had lovely cheekbones and a fine jawline. He was a head taller than me, with a shock of brown hair trying to escape from under his school cap, and his eyes were the same intense blue as Kate Howell's. His face was long and thin, his thick eyebrows the same colour as his hair, his chin and cheeks were only a bit pimply, and his lower lip slightly pouty. That loose-limbed build told me he played lots of sport.

      'Ruth.' His lips twitched as if about to break into laughter. 'Ruth what?'

      His grin was so infectious, I couldn't help smiling back. 'Ruth Adele Cohen.'

      'Ruth Adele Cohen.' He focussed on my knee. 'Looks really sore. Where do you live? How about I dink you home?'

      Oh. Being dinked would mean confessing to a total stranger that I didn't know how to balance on a bike.

      I was sure my face was scarlet. 'Look, I'll be fine. It's just a scrape.'

      His registered doubt. 'If you say so.'

      I tried to return his hankie. 'Keep it, Ruth,' he said climbing back on his bike. 'Give it back next time we meet.'

      Next time? I watched him ride away. It was only then, I realised I'd forgotten to be shy, only embarrassed at being clumsy. Mostly СКАЧАТЬ