NINETEEN
It was about nine in the morning and bitterly cold when Vera clambered down the moveable stairs onto the tarmac. She had been plucked from class the day before to render assistance to the relay team. Vera was to be the replacement runner for a stricken Binny who had fainted and been taken to hospital. Tracy’s dad had asked me to come with him to the airport to pick Vera up. I was staying with the relayists in a Canberra motel. I got to accompany the team because they needed a property steward to look after their gear while they were competing.
In the car going back to the motel from the airport, Vera and I sat in the back. She told me how rapt she was to get the call-up to compete in the nationals. It wasn’t representing our state that had her so pleased. No – rather it was to be forgiven her transgressions by the relay girls that meant so much to her. (They had continued to snub her since she pinched Jordan off Tracy.) Vera suggested that if Binny didn’t fully recover, she might gain a permanent spot on the relay team. Did Vera really want to run in the relay? Well, not much, she replied truthfully. What had lured her here was the hope that she might become a member of the captivating gang.
At the motel Mr Breeze headed off to reception to pay the bill. We would be checking out in half an hour. Tonight, win or lose, we would all be back in Melbourne. Vera and I entered through the unsnibbed wire door. The baton-changers were seated like territorial pets in three distinct areas of the large room. They took their before-race routines very seriously. Tracy was hooked up to an oxygen pump, her face muzzled by a plastic mask. She raised a limp wrist in welcome. Pen, who suffered from hamstring tightness, was lying on her back doing leg stretches, aided by a long thick piece of elastic. ‘Morning Vera,’ she said, and kept exercising. Mish was rubbing her calves slowly with Deep Heat. Her face briefly flickered warmth in our direction.
Vera, a big self-satisfied smile on her face, said, ‘Sorry about Bin.’
In spite of her self-centredness Vera had a stolidly goodnatured personality. She wasn’t going to be fobbed off by the relayists’ indifferent welcome. Taking her cue from the others, she began to do some squats and stretches, displaying her commitment to their cause.
Afterwards she relaxed in an armchair and flourished her hand in a royal wave. ‘Do you think I can run first split today? I’ve been practising my starts.’
‘Mr Connor wants us in our normal positions,’ said Pen flatly.
‘Yeah, but what does that mean?’
‘You’ll run last.’
Vera leant back in the armchair and closed her eyes. ‘Fab
– I’ll be running through the tape, then.’ She had a right to be cocky. Vera held the national record for the Under 17 twohundred-metre sprint. Normally she would be competing herself, but this year she’d made the junior Australian netball team and she’d decided to go on a tour of New Zealand with them.
I joined Mish on the settee. ‘Any news on Bin this morning?’ I whispered.
‘Yeah,’ said Vera, speaking too loudly. ‘Is she really bad?’
Penny jumped up from the rug and began some strenuous skipping exercises, using her elastic as a rope. Vera eyed her with a patronising expression, implying Penny was overdoing it.
Mish replied hoarsely, ‘Binny passed out on the track. She didn’t wake up till the paramedics gave her a drip. What did the doctor tell your dad, Tracy? “You can’t go skipping meals when you’re pushing your body to the limit.’
Vera compressed her lips in a frown but said nothing.
Tracy removed her mask and switched off the oxygen machine. ‘Next?’
Penny grabbed her chance. There was the usual worry that the oxygen would run out before they’d all been on the machine.
‘We voted to abandon the race,’ Tracy told Vera, ‘but they’re making us run.’
‘Who’s making you?’
‘Dad. Mr Fellow-Smith. Mr Connor too. Coach rang up last night. He wants us to win for Binny’s sake.’
Vera rubbed her hands together. ‘They’re right. You’re representing the school and the whole of Victoria. It’s a job and you have to be professional about it.’
Which prompted a testy response from Mish. She began throwing things at Vera.
Soft, flimsy clothing fell into Vera’s lap.
‘Try those on for size, Verakins,’ Mish suggested.
Vera fingered the underpant-like grey shorts and maroon singlet with a wry smile. She’d brought her own school gear up to Canberra. She wouldn’t need Binny’s teensy-weensy outfit.
‘Beth, can you fill the water bottles?’ Tracy asked.
‘And turn the heater back on. It’s about five degrees in here,’ complained Mish.
Tracy came into the kitchenette, where I was swirling honey onto a crumpet.
‘I’ll get to the water bottles in a minute,’ I explained, yawning. I was beginning to resent being ordered around.
Half an hour later we piled into Mr Breeze’s station wagon. On the way to the National Athletics Stadium we stopped at an empty cricket oval so the team could practise with Vera. The centre of the oval was covered in frost, but the grass around the edges was merely wet.
‘The substitute’s in fine form,’ I said to Tracy, as we watched a super-fit Vera run a lap with unbelievable ease. ‘You’re going to win.’
‘Yeah, but she’s a two-hundred-metre runner. And she’s hardly ever used a baton before.’ White puffs came out of Tracy’s mouth. Her cheeks were lolly pink.
She, she, she. Tracy never called Vera by her first name.
‘Well, teach her how. You’ve got time,’ I replied.
After she ran a lap herself, Tracy stopped to chat with me again. She was being so nice it warmed me up inside, like a good hot chocolate does on a cold day.
‘Running is hard today,’ Tracy said lethargically.
‘Do some baton transfers,’ Mr Breeze said, coming over to us in his burglar outfit: black beanie, black scarf, black woollen gloves. Oh, those old people, how they feel the cold. ‘And remind Vera to use her left hand,’ he instructed.
‘Tracy,’ I yelled excitedly as she headed off to oblige her dad. ‘You can give Binny your medal afterwards.’
Mr Breeze said grumpily, ‘Today they’ll only get ribbons.’
‘Why is there frost in the centre of the oval but not round the edges?’ I asked him. He was a chemist so he should know the answer to that.
‘It’s the trees we’re standing under,’ he explained without looking at me. He was so tense. He wanted the girls to win more than the girls did. ‘The trees keep the grass warm at night.’
‘Oh,’ I said politely. ‘That’s why.’
Tracy and Vera began their baton transfers. With nothing else to do, Penny and Mish ran to the middle of the oval where there was a sparkling pond of white frost. I slid under the bar and joined them.
It was the best fun. We were squealing like little kids in the snow at Mount Donna Buang. Our footprints left bead patterns across the frosted grass.
‘Get off the ice, you’ll wreck your runners!’ yelled Mr Breeze.
We ignored him. Together we punched holes in the ice until our feet were wet.
‘Those marks will be there to stay,’ Mr Breeze sighed after we’d got back in the car. ‘The cricketers aren’t going to be impressed.’
Arriving at the stadium, Tracy said proudly, ‘Don’t forget our good luck charms, Dad.’
Mr Breeze handed round the Marine Boy chewing gum.
He made the glucose-rich chewie in his pharmacy.
‘Spit it out before the race,’ he reminded them.
No-one offered me any gum.
There was confusion at the registration desk. Mr Breeze didn’t have the right papers for Vera and we wasted a lot of time while they sorted things out. Eventually they waved us through. I went with the relayists to the dressing rooms, carrying their water bottles and a small first-aid kit. I stayed with them while they put their spikes on and prepared for the race. Tracy asked me to mind her school tracksuit for her. It was brand-new and she didn’t want to leave it in the dressing rooms. I hurried back to the grandstand and sat up high under the cantilevered roof next to Mr Breeze. While I was watching the lead-up event, Mr Breeze searched for his daughter’s name in the program.
Our team appeared on the track. They were introduced over the loudspeaker: Penelope Kouris, Michelle McKenzie, Tracy Breeze and Belinda Fowler. Mr Breeze nodded. ‘Ah, they’re still going by the program listing. No Vera.’
The baton-changers jogged around the synthetic track in a tight bunch and then took up their positions for the relay. Pen and Tracy would run the bends, Mish would run the back straight and Vera would run the home straight. I saw Penny graciously receive her baton from the official, and crouch down on her block.
‘Here we go,’ said Mr Breeze, leaning forward.
‘I’m so nervous for them,’ I said, which was true. My legs were shaking. How glad I was to be watching and not participating. I covered my legs with Tracy’s soft velour tracksuit and wished I had one of these beautiful maroon outfits myself.
The starter fired his gun, and in my mind I heard Judy say drolly, ‘Someone just got shot!’
Penny dashed away like a greyhound, but in her second fifty she was overtaken. Hamstring tightness? I wondered. Mr Breeze was recording the girls’ times with his stopwatch. ‘Penny, slow; Mish, slow,’ he noted. Our girls swapped the baton as fluidly as ever, but it seemed to give them no advantage today. At this elite level all the competitors were accomplished batonchangers.
Tracy rallied and moved into third place, and I was confident Vera could catch up in the final fifty. She might even pinch gold for us.
Vera was waiting all pent up for Tracy in the acceleration zone. She was half-turned towards Tracy but she was slow to get moving. Tracy was running flat out and she collided with Vera in the change-over zone. The baton landed on the track. Tracy picked it up and handed it to Vera again. Crucial seconds were lost and when Vera bounded after the other runners she was coming last.
Mr Breeze moaned in despair. But Vera was up for the challenge. It was incredible to watch her run from the back of the field to somewhere near the front. I thought she might snatch third place, but only her arm did; the rest of her was judged to have come fourth. The Victorians had entered the race as the second fastest qualifiers so this was a huge disappointment.
Inside the dressing rooms the baton-changers, minus Vera, sat glumly in a corner, avoiding the curious glances of other competitors. Fortunately, the place-getting teams were outside getting their ribbons and celebrating.
I hesitated in my approach. Had something nasty just happened? Penny was holding Tracy by the wrist and talking to her as a teacher talks to a child who’s been extracted from a fight. ‘Control yourself. Think of Binny. Her recovery is all that matters.’
I handed the girls back their valuables. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say about the race. ‘Where’s Vera?’ I asked vacantly.
‘Hiding in the showers,’ Mish said scornfully. I sat down next to her and gave her a squeeze. ‘I ran like a slug today, Beth,’ Mish admitted woefully.
Floating through my mind was Mr Connor’s advice to Tracy in Fourth Form: ‘If you don’t like the other person you’ll botch the transfer.’
When Vera emerged from the shower cubicles, she was wearing her older-style grey school tracksuit but she hadn’t put her shoes and socks on. She regarded the baton-changers uneasily and then moved over to the washbasins. The hand dryer was positioned low on the wall so Vera had to bend over to dry her hair. The whirring of the electric fan blocked out all the other noises in the room. Every time the machine stopped, Vera bashed the knob of the dryer again, brushing her hair from the nape of her neck down the full sweep of it.
Pen was urging the others to leave the dressing room. Tracy for some reason was resisting. ‘I don’t care for myself,’ I could hear her saying, ‘it’s just that it means so much to him.’
Having witnessed Mr Breeze’s distress after the race I could well understand how Tracy felt.
Vera stood before us, her face blowsy from the heat of the dryer. She was both contrite and annoyed. ‘Look, guys, it was a rush job and I wasn’t prepared. I owe you something, and I’ll make it up to you in the future, okay?’
Tracy now saw the wisdom of leaving the dressing room. The baton-changers got up, and as they passed Vera, Tracy lashed out. ‘Call yourself a professional athlete, do you?’
Vera smiled sourly. She put her schoolbag on the bench beside me and began taking things she needed out of it.
‘You know, Tracy actually thought I did that deliberately,’ she remarked. ‘Why would I want to lose the race for them? I wasn’t expecting Tracy to run that fast. She must’ve done a personal best.’
‘It was an accident,’ I agreed. ‘And you did say sorry.’
I doubted Vera had stuffed up deliberately, though I have since understood that the old rivalry between Vera and Tracy still had some poison in it. It was partly about Jordan and his affair with Vera, but it was also because Vera was the superior athlete and determined to flaunt the fact whenever she got the chance.
The jubilant place-getting teams for the Under 17 relay – Western Australia, New South Wales and the Northern Territory – were coming inside.
‘Ow!’ Vera grimaced and clutched her ankle. With her other hand she unfurled a stretchy tan bandage.
‘Did you hurt yourself running today, Vera?’
When the girls collided on the track they could easily have injured themselves.
‘Nah, it’s an old netball injury. I forgot to put it on before the race.’
She forgot to put her strapping on? How cavalier was that?
She produced a clip to fasten the bandage. Head down, she
spoke in a puzzled tone.
‘Hey, you know that Marine Boy chewing gum Tracy’s dad gave us?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, it kind of revved me up too much. I’ve never been that tense before a race. My heart was going crazy. What do you call it? Palpitations. Yes, I was having palpitations. Is there caffeine in that gum or what?’
‘It’s a stimulant of some kind,’ I said, trying to sound knowledgeable. But according to Tracy the prescription gum was the same as Wrigley’s chewie, only stronger.
Someone in the dressing room had recognised Vera and word had spread. A group of fans closed in on the junior champion as she was rolling on her socks. Sitting self-importantly next to Vera, I basked in their attention too.
‘Mr Breeze’s chewie makes everyone run faster,’ I added.
Glancing up, Vera realised we had an audience. ‘Watch your mouth, why don’t you, Beth?’
I didn’t know what she was worried about. Vera had asked me about it in her usual loud voice. Still, I tried to make it better. ‘It’s no different from the oxygen pump. It’s not really cheating.’
Vera, a savvy pro, tossed back her hair, grabbed her bag and her flashy fluoro spikes. She gave me a filthy look. ‘Ignorant peasant!’ she said.
Her words hit me like a fist and I hung my head and pretended to retie my shoelace. When I looked up a minute later, Vera was gone and her fans were regarding me with enquiring sympathy. I reached into my blazer pocket for the rosella feather I kept there. I fingered the soft blade to make myself feel better. I stole a glimpse of crimson.
The babble of voices in the dressing room drifted into my awareness.
‘Hey, who was that tough nut?’
‘Was that Vera Pavlovska?’
‘I recognised her orange spikes. I used to live in fear of those Nike tailwinders.’
‘Give me a break. Don’t say she’s running against us!’
‘I think she already ran in the relay.’
‘Sounds like her teammates are on the drugs.’
Snorts and giggles. ‘I’d die for a drag on an oxygen pump.’
Reliving that Fifth Form misadventure while sitting on a toilet lid in the Portsea Hotel, I remembered that I had taken something from the baton-changers in Canberra. I hadn’t meant to – I was just trying to sound like an insider and the conversation with Vera could so easily not have happened. The absurd thing was that I knew the relay team weren’t cheaters. Maybe the injustice I was really protesting against was that these girls had had opportunities I would have liked for myself. Tracy had two devoted parents who had invested their time and energy into making her a happy, successful teenager. Tracy’s father went to every race she competed in, even the ones in Bairnsdale and Swan Hill. He only had to see Tracy hasten towards his waiting car after school and his face would break out in a crinkled smile. Tracy was his darling, and he couldn’t have lived without seeing her for more than a day or two. My dad hadn’t even hung around to watch me finish primary school.
I had to admit that after years of playing the admiring supporter, envy had got the better of me. Like Vera, who had botched her baton transfer, I simply didn’t care enough about the interests of the relay team to guard their reputations when it mattered. Things had obviously changed. I wasn’t a batonchanger partisan anymore.
Back in Melbourne, my fears that I would get into trouble for speaking out in the dressing room didn’t materialise. Mr Breeze said nothing to Cherie, and Mr Fellow-Smith didn’t summon me to his office. Some adverse consequences came a month later, but nobody linked me to the disqualification handed down by the Canberra officials. The baton-changers blamed Vera; they must have thought me incapable of doing anything so bitchy. Tracy told me emphatically on the bus one afternoon that Vera was a traitor. I squirmed inside and didn’t ask why.
The school lodged an appeal and Mr Breeze had to answer questions at a low-key inquiry. Fortunately, the stimulants in the chewing gum were found to be glucose and caffeine, not amphetamines. And oxygen had recently been approved for use by athletes of any age. The provisional disqualification was later rescinded, but that took months. In the meantime, the relayists took a long break from training. At the end of the year Tracy decided to give up competitive running. I pleaded with her not to – just about everyone did – but she said she had made up her mind.
For this in particular I suffered immense guilt. It meant I could never walk carefreely past Mr Breeze’s pharmacy on my way home from school, let alone go inside and hand over a prescription for Mum.
Tracy moped around the school corridors, keeping a low profile. On the bus I saw her cramming for tests for the first time in her life. Then she made a surprise appearance in the school library.
‘What’s she doing in here?’ I whispered to Judy.
‘It’s Jordan’s fault,’ Judy explained. ‘Don’t you know he hooked up with Skinny Binny?’
Around this time, we senior girls were summoned to a compulsory lecture by the school counsellor. Binny’s story was offered up as an example of the dangers of crash dieting. Poor Bin. Her periods had stopped and she was at risk of becoming infertile. To prevent any further cases, the school had organised a dietician to give us some seminars on healthy eating.
Judy was still harping on about Jordan and Binny as two hundred girls poured out of the lecture theatre. ‘It’d have to be a charity case,’ she commented dryly. ‘Sinclair wouldn’t dig the stick figure.’