Writing Clementine

But something has happened. Something strange. Something even stranger than the last strange thing.

I need to write about the new strange thing, so I am wondering if I can do the topic tomorrow – swap days? Is that in the rules?

Are there any rules, Ms Hiller? I am looking at you quizzically. You don’t seem to have noticed. You are reading a book called Sophie’s World. I think my Sophie has read that one, Ms Hiller. She hardly ever reads books that aren’t for school, so it must be good.

As we came into class today, you gave each of us a packet of Wizz Fizz sherbet. You said eating Wizz Fizz makes your brain switch on; makes you think of things outside the square. Strange things, you said.

Gryff snorted his Wizz Fizz but I ate mine, using the tiny plastic spade that comes in the packet. And now all I can think of is the strange thing that happened to me.

I spent my entire lunch hour with the boy.

Completely

accident.

I was walking back from English, where we’d had to give a speech on our favourite poet. It was difficult choosing between Sylvia and Les Murray and Donne, but in the end I went with Donne. I talked about his preoccupation with the idea that four ‘humours’ controlled the human body: phlegm, yellow bile, blood and black bile. He believed that having too much or too little of any one of these humours threw the body and soul out of whack.

As I walked towards the lunch room, I was thinking about Sophie and how lately it seems as though she has an excess of black bile – of melancholy . . .

Melancholy
is a packet of Tim Tams
opened
on the bench before you,
and you sitting,
staring,
but not touching,
your eyes full of—

That’s as far as I got, Ms Hiller, because at that moment I tripped on a piece of curled-up carpet. My elbows hit the ground first. My chin wasn’t far behind. My books spilled every which way, along with my phone, my wallet and seventeen thousand tampons.

I scrabbled to a crouching position and then overbalanced again.

Nobody bent to help me.

Some Grade 8 girls laughed at me.

Not one person asked if I was all right.

Are you thinking that this is when the boy appeared? A heroic knight on a white horse, sweeping in to rescue me?

That’s not what happened, Ms Hiller.

After I fell over, I didn’t feel like going to the lunch room. I was shaken, and peeved that those girls had laughed at me. I was feeling choleric, Ms Hiller.

I decided to take my lunch (leftover green curry and rice) and my book and sit outside; let book-smell and sunbeams bring my humours back into balance.

I went to the edge of the sports field and up the hill, and I sat beneath the cider gum.

I curled up against the rough bark.

I liked the smell there. I liked the quiet.

I began to read, but after a few paragraphs I started to get that unsettled feeling: the one that comes when you know somebody is close by, but you can’t see them. That odd, breath-catching, goosepimply feeling.

I got to my knees, peered around the side of the tree trunk . . . and found myself face to face with the boy, who was in the exact same position!

I burst out laughing. I knew how ridiculous we must look. The boy started laughing, too. Then there was an awkward moment where it was obvious neither of us knew whether we should go to our own side of the tree or sit together.

Finally the boy said, ‘Join me? This side of the tree is much nicer.’

I sat beside him. I was so close I could have put my arm around him. If I’d wanted to.

‘Hello, Clementine,’ he said.

A shiver went up my spine. How did the boy know my name?

He must have noticed my surprise, because he nodded at my lunch box. Sure enough, there on my very old green Décor lunch box, in faded letters written years ago, was my name.

The boy smiled. He really does have a nice smile.

He was wearing a bowler hat, a leather vest, and funny half-length trousers that puffed at his thighs and cinched in tightly at his knees. Knickerbockers. His black lace-up boots went all the way up to their hems. The boy dipped his hand into the pocket of his leather vest, pulled out his fob watch and flicked it open and shut.

Open and shut.

‘I’m Fred,’ he said, still flicking.

‘Pleased to meet you, Fred,’ I said, and cringed. I sounded so stilted and old-fashioned.

But then I had to laugh. Old-fashioned? I was talking to a boy with a fob watch and puffy pants!

‘What’s funny?’ he asked, smiling that nice smile again. Deep in my belly, something jolted.

‘N-nothing,’ I stammered. A blush began to sneak up my neck. ‘Nothing’s funny, really. Um, you’re new, aren’t you? We don’t get many new kids here. Are you . . . are you liking it?’

Fred nodded. ‘It’s different. Very, actually – we moved down from Sydney.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I do miss my favourite cupcake shop, and it’s hard adjusting to being in a one-bookshop town – although Not Just Books is great. I might have to change classes soon, too; they still haven’t finalised my schedule, which is a bit tiresome. But these are all minor quibbles in the scheme of things. At least compared with . . .’

Fred trailed off, suddenly looking pensive. I imagined cogs and wheels and pulleys and gaskets all popping and whirring inside the engine of his head, producing thoughts I was not privy to.

The silence stretched out between us. Fred didn’t seem to mind it, but I started to feel uneasy. I noticed a notebook on his knee. It had a silver cover with an odd bubble-shaped airship embossed on it.

‘What are you writing?’ I asked.

‘I’m not entirely certain,’ said Fred, smiling. ‘I mean, I know the basic premise and the setting, but apart from that it’s in the hands of the gods. I’m sure once it works itself out, it will tell me.’

We sat in silence for another moment as I pondered the idea that a book might tell its author what it wanted to be, instead of the other way around. That’s how I feel about my poetry, Ms Hiller – as though it takes me over. As though it’s doing its own thing and I’m along for the ride.

‘What do you have for lunch?’ asked Fred, yanking me from my thoughts. He tipped his bowler hat at my lunch box.

‘Green curry,’ I replied. ‘Soph made it. My sister. She’s the second-best cook in our family, after Fergus of course, but he’s not cooking at the moment. So Soph cooks, even though she hardly eats. Otherwise Dad takes charge, because Mum works crazy hours, whereas Dad works from home half the time, and besides, Mum could burn water. If Dad and Soph are busy, we usually get takeaway. Although sometimes I make pasta or jaffles, and I do extra for Fergus because he— Sorry, I’m babbling.’

Fred smiled. ‘I think babble is a splendid word,’ he said.

‘Me, too!’ I agreed. I felt all warm.

‘Words are magic . . . transformative . . . thaumaturgic. Don’t you think?’ asked Fred.

I wasn’t sure what I thought about that.

A breeze struck up, carrying the smell of cinnamon and milk from a small saucepan at Fred’s feet. The saucepan had a silver spoon in it. ‘What do you have? For lunch?’ I asked Fred, pointing.

‘I had porridge,’ he answered.

‘That’s a strange thing to have for lunch,’ I said. ‘And, hold on, how did you even cook porridge at school?’

‘There’s a hob down in the art rooms.’ Fred lifted a shoulder. ‘By the graffiti wall. You know the one? Where the artistic types draw marvellous paintings and write words of wisdom. I like that wall, Clementine. I often think I’d like to write something there myself, one day. I simply haven’t quite decided yet what I’d like to write. And also, I’m not sure I’m allowed. I don’t think I’m arty enough. But I do sneakily use their hob. I think it’s intended for some sort of creative purpose, but it’s also very handy for heating one’s strange lunch items.’

I bit my lip. ‘Sorry for calling it strange,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have called your lunch strange.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said, smiling kindly. ‘It is strange, I suppose. If you’re from this era.’ He fixed me steadily with his hazel eyes.

My stomach jumped again. It was not an unpleasant feeling.

‘Aren’t we all from the same era?’ I asked, spearing a snow pea with my fork.

‘From a biological viewpoint,’ Fred answered. ‘But, as human beings, we have developed a concept of free will, which extends to an ability to make decisions that set us on a particular life course of our choosing. This encompasses the era that we choose to mentally inhabit.’

‘I’m not sure I quite got that,’ I admitted.

Fred looked away, at the sports field and the gum trees and wattles that lined it. I watched his eyes follow a magpie as it flitted from tree to tree. Eventually, he turned back to me. ‘Have you ever heard someone say they were born at the wrong time?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘My dad says it about Sophie. He reckons she should have been alive during the World Wars, because she’s such a fusspot and so practical. He says she’d have made a good nurse for the soldiers. Sophie always says, Thanks, Dad. So you’d have me shipped off to a battlefield and possibly blown up by the Germans. You must love me so very much.’

Fred laughed. ‘Your family sounds great.’

‘I love them to bits.’

It was the truth, Ms Hiller.

Despite everything.

Then I said something more. I don’t know why I said it, exactly; only that there was something in Fred’s hazel eyes that urged me to. ‘I really do love them,’ I said, ‘but I’m worried about my brother, because he won’t come out of his room, and I’m worried about my sister, because she seems really stressed.’

After a pause, Fred said, ‘Well, that’s understandable. We always worry about the people we love, don’t we? But if you’re busy worrying about them, who’s worrying about you?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t think I need anyone to worry about me. I’m boring.’

Fred grinned. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true.’ He inclined his head. ‘Do you ever feel as if you were born at the wrong time, Clementine Darcy?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Sometimes,’ I said, truthfully. ‘I sometimes wonder why I had to be born in a time when there seems to be only one way for a woman to look beautiful, and it’s not the way I look. But it’s not only that. I don’t care about so many of the things my friends care about. I’m not into gadgets. I’m more into the music my dad likes than what’s popular – country and folk. I’m not into fashion. Is that what you mean?’

Fred nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I think we’ve lost some of the magic.’

‘That’s sad,’ I said. ‘I wonder if we can get the magic back.’

‘Oh, there’s still magic here.’ Fred looked at me oddly when he said that. It felt as if he was staring right inside me – seeing all the bits I never show anyone.

Seeing Clementine.

I was overcome by a strong desire to change the subject. ‘So, what are you reading?’ I pointed to a thick, dog-eared novel sitting on the grass beside him.

He picked up the book and passed it to me.

The cover showed two shadowy figures inside an elaborate, Industrial Age-looking engine of some sort. My thoughts flicked back to Fred’s brain – its cogs and wheels. I wondered if this was what it looked like inside.

‘What’s it about?’ I asked.

‘You should read it,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you what it’s about. You have to form that impression yourself. Borrow it. I’ve got another copy, and I’ve read it before. It’s only recent, but I believe it will come to be regarded as a seminal work in the steampunk canon, in years to come.’

‘What’s steampunk?’ I asked.

Fred smiled, slowly – that same, quite lovely smile. ‘It’s the era I choose to live in,’ he said.

The bell rang shrilly, signalling the end of the lunch break.

Fred stood and extended his hand. He pulled me up as if I was made of air.

As we walked towards the classrooms, Fred said to me, ‘Why doesn’t your brother leave his room?’

‘We don’t . . . know,’ I said slowly. ‘One day he went in there and he didn’t come back out.’

‘Maybe he’s building a time machine,’ said Fred – and it’s funny, because if somebody else had said that it would have sounded sarcastic, but when Fred said it, it seemed gentle. He was trying to cheer me up.

‘I think maybe he’d like to do that,’ I said. ‘Some things went wrong for him. I think he would like to go back in time and fix them.’

Fred didn’t say anything else until just before we got to A Block. ‘I’m usually under the gum tree at lunchtime,’ he said quietly. ‘I nearly went into the lunch room on the first day, but it was somewhat overwhelming. I like the silence up there on the hill. If it’s raining, I go to the art rooms. It’s quiet there, too. So that’s where you can find me, if you want to look.’

That was an invitation, right? He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t want me to look? My heart did a little flutter around in my chest. Which is problematic, Ms Hiller, because wonderful as he may be, Fred is obviously a geek. He wears bowler hats and doesn’t believe he lives in this era. He talks about things I’ve never heard of, and he eats porridge for lunch. Meaning . . .

Cleo and Chelsea-Grace definitely wouldn’t approve.

They want me to go out with Brent. If I do that, 3CD will be close again. If I was to go out with Fred instead . . .

But why am I even thinking about going out with Fred? I only just met him! I don’t know anything about him, apart from that he has dimples and deep hazel eyes and he likes porridge and tea and when he looks at me it’s as if he can see everything.

That doesn’t mean anything, does it? That’s not enough for me to go all peculiar about?

I am going to read Fred’s book. It’s in front of me now. My hand keeps drifting to the cover, and I like that Fred has turned down some of the pages’ corners. I wonder if they’re the important bits. I’m looking forward to reading those.

They might help me work things out.