Queenie in seven moves, p.1
Queenie in Seven Moves, page 1
Table of Contents
1
2
3
The First Move:
DIAMONDS
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
The Second Move:
CHESS WIZARD
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
The Third Move:
CARAVAN
24
25
26
The Fourth Move:
RUTHIE’S HOUSE
27
28
The Fifth Move:
DIMITRI’S PLACE
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
The Sixth Move:
THE TENT
42
43
44
45
The Seventh Move:
HERITAGE GARDENS
46
Acknowledgements
My chest is tight. I clutch Mr Grey’s guitar like it’s going to fly away.
This is it. My final chance to get on the Brown & Jolly Stage and knock ’em dead.
I can do this. I can really do this.
I peek out from the wings. My entire primary school faces me. I see Mrs Doherty, the principal, sitting in the front row, her expression terse. Dread feels like Antarctica on a winter’s day.
I can do this. I have to do this.
This is the furthest I have ever made it. Usually, I chicken out before signing up for the concert. But this year, Mr Grey gave me guilt treatment in epic proportions.
“Queenie, I have been teaching you now for nearly seven years. You’re the best guitarist I’ve ever taught. Yet you’re the only kid I’ve ever taught who refuses to perform. Do you want to make my entire teaching experience pointless? This is it, kiddo. After this, there is no end-of-year primary school concert. Just high school. And you know what high school is like.”
I don’t know what high school is like. But I do know what it’s like to carry Mr Grey’s guilt. It’s a weighty object, and he’s been putting it on my shoulders every year since I made him cry by finger picking “Moonlight Sonata”.
So I did it. I told Mr Grey I’d play a song at the end-of-year concert. Mr Grey had already printed the posters. So he had to go out and do a reprint especially for me.
Quadruple guilt.
Max Rawling is currently belting out the final bit of “Bohemian Rhapsody” on melodion. It’s awful. But the kid’s so confident. You’ve got to give him that.
“Good luck, Queenie,” says Sparrow Hawkins, poking me in the ribs.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Thank goodness Sparrow is on after me.
If you looked at Sparrow, you wouldn’t straightaway think she had the potential to be an arch-rival. She’s so friendly looking, with her oversized mouth and shiny dark skin. Anyone who wears that many colourful beads in her hair should not be an arch-rival.
But ever since Sparrow and I stopped being best friends in kindy when she told me she could sing better than me, I’ve done my best to keep out of her spotlight.
Sparrow the Fabulous. The Voice of Destiny.
Sparrow the Spotlight Stealer.
Sparrow will sing after me, and she’ll be better than me. But for a moment, I’ll own the spotlight, and I’ll sing my favourite song, and Mr Grey’s guilt will slip off my shoulders and I can proceed onto high school weightless and victorious. I, Queenie Jean Anderson, performed at Curlew Point Primary’s end-of-year concert.
Mrs Fig, head of the P&C, canteen and school book club, is emceeing the annual concert. When Max finally departs the stage, Mrs Fig strides on in cowboy boots.
“Thank you, Max. Marvellous. Simply marvellous. Aren’t all our kids talented?” There’s a polite clap and murmur from the students and supportive parents.
Mum’s not out there today. Not because she’s not supportive. But because she’s at Diamonds, the aged care village where she works. She probably could have gotten out of her shift if she knew about the concert. But I decided to save her the hassle. Having Mum in the audience might have been more than my nerves could handle.
“And now for our next performance.” Mrs Fig reads from the little square of paper in her hand. She has to squint. My tummy rolls over. This is it. No escaping things now. “Sparrow Hawkins.”
What? My throat tightens. I should call out. I should let Mrs Fig know that she’s wrong. It’s meant to be me, then Sparrow.
But Mrs Fig is marching off stage and Sparrow is skipping on, her brand-new black guitar strapped to her back.
She positions herself centre stage, feet hip width apart. She flicks her braids from her face with an almighty whip.
“Go Sparrow!” someone calls out.
Sparrow’s everyone’s favourite Year Sixer. She’s been shining on this stage since kindergarten.
Following Sparrow Hawkins is like being the overcooked peas served after ice-cream.
Disgusting and inferior. I’m not even a palate cleanser.
Sparrow strikes a few chords. People cheer.
The notes sink into me. I want to disappear. Evaporate.
She’s singing “Ocean Eyes”. She’s singing my song. My favourite song. The song I was about to play straight after her in a less impressive way.
The first verse wraps around me, holding me hostage. By the chorus, I’m out of there. I slip out the side door and carry Mr Grey’s guitar back to the music room.
Leaving is so ridiculously easy.
I spend the rest of the end-of-year concert by myself in the library, reading Asterix and Obelix, trying to distract myself from the hopeless case of pathetic I know I am right now.
Betsy, our neighbour-slash-babysitter-slash-landlady, is sitting on her deck when I get home. Her wild hair is like a red mushroom. She’s taken to dying her hair with henna, which is kind of cool and kind of weird, given how ordinary the rest of her clothes are.
“Rough day, Queenie?” she says, blowing on her green tea.
I shrug. “Nah,” I say. Even though it was.
Betsy used to change my nappy. She’s fed me cereal most of my life. She’s packed my lunch boxes. She knows when I’m lying.
“How ’bout you give Garfield a kiss, hey?” she says. “He always makes the world a better place.”
I scowl at Garfield, the ugly garden gnome at the bottom of her step. He grins back at me smugly.
“No thanks,” I say, and trudge past Betsy’s to our place.
And there she is. Peachy.
My beloved peach-walled beauty. Home. Solace. Love of my life.
She welcomes me like the peach mama she is, all art deco and flaky paint. I love her with my whole heart. If I could hug a house, I would hug Peachy.
Mum’s back from work. She’s at the kitchen table. Two takeaway hot chocolates are on the table – one with a marshmallow on the lid.
“Queenie Pants!” says Mum. She doesn’t get up, but hugs me with her eyes. “Take a seat for a sec. I have to chat with you about something.”
“Maybe later,” I say.
I eyeball my hot chocolate. The one with the marshmallow. If I accept the gift, I am entering into a transaction where I sit down with Mum and discuss my day. But all I want is to be alone in my room.
The walls shake when I slam my door.
I chuck my school bag on the floor and collapse on my bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dad’s guitar in its stand. I squeeze my eyes shut to make it go away.
Not now, Dad’s guitar. Not now.
I plug Billie Eilish into my ears, and let her sound wash over me. Not “Ocean Eyes”, of course. I won’t be able to listen to my favourite song for months, probably years, because of Sparrow Hawkins.
The jacaranda is in bloom. It’s late this year – usually it blooms in October. Its mauve flowers wave at my window, like little purple paws. Light filters through. If I squint, I could be snorkelling through coral reefs.
My breath slows.
Mum must have been watching the clock, because she gives me a good three songs before she eases open my door and lowers herself onto my bed. She hands me a hot chocolate – the one with the marshmallow. I nod thanks, swallow the marshmallow whole, and take a sip from the plastic lid. The chocolate is stone cold but deliciously sweet.
It almost definitely makes my day a bit better.
Mum watches me, waiting. The lines around her eyes crinkle. It’s like she has something to say but she’s thinking of the best words to use.
Uh oh. Mum has a boyfriend.
No. Please no. Not today.
Not any day.
Mum’s best friend, Sarah, who lives in London, has been trying to get Mum into online dating for the last few years. Thankfully, Mum says she’s not ready.
Anyway, Mum doesn’t need a boyfriend. She has me. Isn’t that enough?
Mum’s still not saying anything.
I could tell her about the concert, or the lack thereof. But she’ll be mad at me for not inviting her.
“How was work?” I ask, finally.
“Mum?” I say. She’s deferring. Dread uncoils in my stomach.
In another world, Mum should date. She’s beautiful, for sure. And still young, for a mum. Also seven years is a very reasonable amount of grieving time.
But there’s no other world. This is it.
“Betsy’s sold the place,” says Mum.
“What?” I yank out my earphones. I knock over the takeaway cup. Liquid chocolate pools on the bedside table.
“Betsy’s sold Peachy. We have to move.”
Dread stretches – a cold wintery beast, reaching into every internal organ.
“She can’t,” I croak.
“She can. And she has.”
Through the quiet, I hear Billie whispering away in my earbuds.
“Why can’t we stay? Betsy doesn’t have to stay. We can keep renting.”
Mum shakes her head. “The new owners are moving in next week. Places are flying off the market, according to Betsy. Everyone wants to move out of the city because of the pandemic. Betsy got an offer she couldn’t refuse.”
I think of that couple Betsy and some guy walked around the property a few weeks ago. Mum had this urgent need to take me shopping, which at the time I thought was weird. But now I realise it was a way of extracting me from my beloved home.
I feel cheated.
“Next week! That’s too fast! Shouldn’t these things take months?”
Mum’s gazing out the window again, avoiding eye contact.
I flip back through the last few weeks, looking for more clues.
Mum staying late at work. Mum spending more time on her phone. Mum leaving me with Betsy so she could get to a late afternoon or weekend meeting.
I’d been trying to ignore the slim possibility that Mum could be dating.
She wasn’t dating.
“You’ve known for a while,” I say.
She nods and turns to me. Her dark eyes swim. “I’ve been looking for a place, Queenie. I didn’t want to tell you until I found something perfect. Something you’d love, so you could get excited about the change. But I haven’t been lucky. Now Betsy’s pushed the moving date forwards a week. I’ve run out of time.”
“You should have told me,” I say. “I could have helped you look!”
Mum purses her lips. “I know how you can be,” she says softly.
Her words rock around for a bit. I won’t lie. They hurt.
I prove Mum right by scowling and plugging Billie back in my ears. I turn towards the wall. Mum sits for a while. Eventually, I feel her sigh and leave the room.
“You better start thinking about packing,” I hear her say somewhere in the distance.
My blip lasts all the way until dinner time. It’s amazing how much Billie you can listen to without ever getting sick of her.
My rumbling tummy gets the better of me. So does the smell of spag bol. Mum makes the best spag bol.
I pull my chair into the table and eat wordlessly. Mum puts her hand on mine. I feel her eyes boring into me.
“Look. Don’t say anything. Just listen. I need to tell you this. I just spoke to Sue. She’s confirmed that we can move into Diamonds for a couple of weeks until we find our feet. There’s a new resident moving in soon, but until then, we can use her flat. How good is that?” Mum finishes with a grin.
I look up sharply.
“Diamonds? Really? Don’t you have to be over eighty to live at Diamonds?”
“Well, over sixty, technically. But thirty-two is the new sixty!”
“What about me? I’m twelve.”
“Oh, you’re going to feel right at home,” says Mum, her eyes dancing. “Grumpiness is all the rage in Diamond Sands Seniors Village.”
A smile twinges the corner of my mouth. I can’t help it. “As long as no one ever finds out,” I say. “And you’ve got to promise no one will die while we are there.”
Mum cocks an eyebrow. “I’ll do my best to keep everyone alive. Especially for you, Queenie Jean.”
Mum only lets me take one tiny roller bag and Dad’s guitar to Diamonds. The rest is packed in a truck in cardboard boxes to be shipped to a storage unit. I watch after the truck, as it teeters down Whittlesea Avenue.
“Goodbye, life,” I say, waving.
Mum hangs her arm over my shoulder. “It’ll be good for us. Being gypsies. Didn’t you ever want to live like Ruby Red Shoes? In a caravan?”
“No,” I say. “Never.”
The only place I want to live is home. Peachy Home. Nowhere else.
“No, neither did I,” says Mum. “Can’t think of anything worse.”
Betsy hobbles over. She comes up to my shoulder. She puts her arm around Mum’s waist. I’m so mad at her I could vomit on her scuffed loafers. Instead I stand stiffly.
“End of an era,” says Betsy. Her stuff is getting picked up tomorrow morning. She’s moving in with her daughter, who lives somewhere down south.
Mum kisses Betsy’s mushroom hair. “I’ll miss us,” she says. “You’ve been good to us, Betsy.”
Even though I don’t like Betsy right now, it’s true. She has been good to us. Without Betsy, Mum couldn’t have started work at 6 am every day. Without Betsy, Mum would have had to quit work altogether to look after me during the COVID lockdown.
Without Betsy, we wouldn’t have Peachy.
And we wouldn’t have lost Peachy.
I glare at the ugly gnome, who is yet to find a box, and know exactly what I need to do.
It’s the first Saturday in December. Our first official day without a home. We pull into the Diamonds car park. A resident hobbles up to us and slams his fist against my window. I jump. Mum winds down the window and leans across me.
“Hello, Duncan. How was your walk?” she says.
Duncan grins. Three teeth are missing. His sour breath fills our car. I try not to gag.
“S’good,” says Duncan. “Heard you are moving in, Clare! That’s lucky for us!”
“Lucky for Queenie and me, you mean!” says Mum. “Sue’s my guardian angel.” Duncan reaches across me, making a fist. Mum fists bumps him, which makes Duncan giggle.
“Not lucky for us,” I grumble.
Mum widens her eyes in mock surprise.
“Oh, she speaks! How charming. Here I was thinking we left your voice behind on Whittlesea Avenue.”
“My voice. My heart. My everything.” I glare across the dashboard.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t too dramatic,” says Mum. “Otherwise I’d have to start calling you Drama Queenie.”
My response is a gurgle from deep inside. Mum’s still smiling at me, which is the worst.
Diamonds is a village of small units, each with their own porch and minuscule garden. It’s toy town, blown up, each unit identical, neat and tidy. Each with a wheelchair ramp and lots of handrails for safety. There’s one main building, for reception, the nurses’s residence and a communal dining room for residents who like to eat together.
Your forever home, it reads under the Diamonds entrance sign.
OMG, I hope not.
Mum parks out the front of reception. I trudge after her, pulling my little wheelie bag with the busted zip. Mum greets everyone we pass along the way. Carer, resident, family member. A tall woman called Meg, with shoes that look two sizes too big, hugs Mum.
“Welcome home, darling. I told you you’d never leave,” she says. I grimace. “Oh, you must be the famous Queen!”
“Queenie,” I say.
“I know. I’m just joking with you, Queenie. I know everything about you! Your mum can’t stop singing your praises. You’re a wonderful guitar player, your mum says!”
I death stare Mum. She has no right to tell people my personal information!
A woman thumps towards us. She has a thin layer of beard, which is surprising to see on a woman. She wears the Diamonds’ navy blue uniform. Her badge reads Sue Townsend. Sue, the director at Diamond Sands, doesn’t look much like a guardian angel, I think. Then I realise I am being mean.
“Greetings,” says Sue, making a salute.
“Sue!” says Mum. “Thanks again for letting us stay until Mrs Lim arrives.”
“Wouldn’t let you end up on the street,” says Sue. “Or let you pay a million dollars for an Airbnb. Not in this climate. I told you that Dave can’t find a place either, didn’t I? He’s moved in with me for the time being. God help me.”
“Dave is Sue’s son,” Mum explains to me.
“You guys are in Unit 17. The cleaner’s been through. Treat it as your own.”
