As the room begins to get light and hot, I close my eyes, trying to find my way back into sleep. But there is now a car being revved and a football match being discussed, and then someone is whipper-snippering along the pathways. I hear a child’s laugh and someone throwing up. I hear sirens and the tinkling of a bike bell.
***
Zin calls me a little after nine. ‘Brace yourself,’ she says. ‘I have two pieces of life-changing gossip.’
‘It’s too hot for gossip,’ I say.
‘Year Twelve results got released.’
‘And?’
‘Ascott beat Sutherbend with results.’
‘What?’
‘By quite a lot, actually.’
‘Oh my God.’ I close my eyes. ‘We go to a school that’s worse than Ascott?’
‘I know.’ Zin sighs. ‘I think Lara’s parents are having a meltdown. They want to move her to another school.’
‘There’s no other school within an hour’s drive.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘That is devastating. Why would you call up and tell me something so devastating?’
‘I needed to drag you down with me. You know the Sutherbend teachers are going to be on us like fleas trying to improve our results, right?’
‘Ah, well. I’d prefer that to being beaten by Ascott.’ I shudder. ‘Anyway, what’s your next piece of gossip?’
‘Lara’s uncle – The young one? With the curly red hair? Lives in Sydney? – he’s been arrested.’
‘No! How? Why?’
‘Drug dealing!’ Zin says. ‘I know. I know. It’s unbelievable, right? Lara’s a mess.’
‘Should we do something to cheer her up?’
‘Nah. Her parents are taking her down to their caravan park for a few days. Think that’ll calm them all down.’
My stomach tightens, but I don’t say anything. I picture Lara in her parents’ neat, clean little caravan by the ocean. It’s hard not to be jealous, but I manage.
It’s almost Clem’s eighteenth birthday. It’s always seemed unfair, being born so close to Christmas. Normally, I look forward to the little celebrations that Lara, Zin and I throw him, but this year his parents are doing a proper dinner for us all. Although, honestly, all I can think about are the things my friends said about Fairyland and how – really – all I want is to stay away from them for a while.
When I hear Mum come into the cabin, I go into the living area, where she’s easing off her shoes and rubbing her swollen ankles. I hold out the few notes I’d earned at the pub. ‘Here.’
She looks up. We’re waiting for some pasties to cook in the little electric oven. Taylor’s painting her nails with a permanent marker and stares at me.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Board. Whatever.’ I shrug.
Mum shakes her head. ‘No – keep it, Stell.’
‘It’s okay.’ I step away so she can’t press it back to me.
She hesitates, her fingers tight around the money.
‘Take it,’ I say and my voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. But it’s okay – the sharpness is good, really. It’s emphatic. I go out and walk around Fairyland because part of me hadn’t wanted to give the money to Mum. Part of me was mad at her for accepting it, even though I wanted her to. I walk until I’m calm again. I weed some of the garden beds growing along the path. When I get back to the cabin, Mum has her sewing machine out. Her mum taught her to sew when she was little, and for a moment I’m mad that she’s brought her sewing machine along to Fairyland when I wasn’t allowed to bring my books. But then I look at her calm, smiling face and the anger disappears.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen her sitting behind it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her smile like that. One of the missing pieces of her, sliding quietly back into place. At least for a little while.
‘Where’s Dad?’ I ask.
‘At Ron’s. Or Reg’s. One of them – trying to fix their air-con. Taylor went with him. Think she’s following him around. Do you know anything about that?’
‘No. And Dad doesn’t know anything about air-cons.’
‘He’s trying his best to help people, Stell. That’s what matters.’
‘I guess so. Whatcha doing?’ I ask.
‘Oh, just mucking around.’ She clears her throat and I realise the cabin’s empty and she probably wanted to tuck the sewing machine away before anyone came home. She’s got some light-blue fabric piled on her lap.
I take a step towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Mum props her chin in her hand. ‘Stell?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Would you say you know how to sew?’
‘Um . . . not really. Just, like, by hand. You know? In and out. If I’ve ripped something.’
‘I could show you how to use the machine. It’s easy. Would you like that? You would, wouldn’t you? Sit down.’
‘Nah, it’s okay,’ I say, worried I’ve ruined whatever moment she was giving herself before I came in. Whether I’ve just destroyed a rare opportunity for Mum to engage in some much-needed self-care. ‘You just do what you were doing. I didn’t mean to . . . interrupt you.’
She sits up straight in her chair. ‘No, you should know. You should know how to sew. It’s in your blood.’
She looks at me very keenly, and I’m caught between anger and sadness and a little bit of warmth. Is she lying to me? Or has she forgotten that I’m actually the kid of some stranger?
I can feel the letter against my skin. It smells of lilac. I clear my throat, about to step outside into the sunshine again – to find Zin or Clem or Lara or head to Trisha’s or knock at Richard’s door or run into Matthew Clarke – but I can’t. Mum’s expression has lightened, and she looks almost happy. She looks like a person who does more than fret and budget and work. I pull one of the wicker chairs up to the table.
‘Alright,’ I say, pushing away thoughts of Dad and Taylor and my birth parents and everything else. Maybe Mum said the thing about sewing being in my blood because she doesn’t see me as belonging to anyone other than her. ‘Show me.’
***
Later in the night, I wake up with a start to the sound of more yelling. I hold my breath. I think about going outside, trailing around the dark park. But I know I won’t find anything, see anything. That I’m working out what everyone else at Fairyland already knows; that it’s better to pretend I don’t hear it.
Maybe that’s the secret to living in a place like Fairyland, which has so much beauty and so much sorrow. Maybe the key is to turn away from the darker parts of the place, to stop them soaking into you and somehow changing the fabric of who you are. Maybe that’s the secret that everybody else already knows.
Except it doesn’t make the sorrow disappear. It doesn’t help the person who’s suffering. I kick my legs out of bed and rush out into the night. I don’t see anything and I can’t work out where the yelling is coming from, but as I walk I chant in my head a message to whoever’s being yelled at. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here.