Becoming Kirrali Lewis Page 2

  Finally we found the housing office, behind a drab brown door in what had to be the most run-down building on the campus. A frazzled looking woman had the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear while she tapped away at a word processor. Six other students were lined up on a wooden bench, wearing looks of ‘boredom’, ‘worry’, ‘boredom’, ‘boredom’, ‘couldn’t care less’ and ‘boredom’. It wasn’t looking good. Maybe I’d have to crawl into the locker at the train station with all my gear.

  When the woman got off the phone, she smiled sweetly which made me feel more pessimistic. She was going to let me down softly.

  ‘Now then, which one of you needs a place to stay?’ she asked, looking from Martina’s face to mine.

  ‘I do,’ I replied, to which she smiled even more broadly.

  ‘Well, sit here and fill out this form. Ignore the blue section, that’s for me to complete.’

  Martina joined the bench with ‘bored’, ‘worried’, ‘bored’, while I spilled out my life history in capital letters. Miss Kennedy, as her name tag stated, checked the form giving little grunts of approval as she read each section. Then she frowned, ‘You’ve put your nationality as Australian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be personal but …’

  I knew where this was going.

  ‘… aren’t you Aboriginal?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am.’

  ‘It’s just that you haven’t ticked the box.’

  She pointed to a box on the form. It asked, ‘Are you of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent?’

  ‘It’s just for our records.’

  I sighed and ticked the box. She smiled at me in relief.

  ‘Congratulations dear, you’ve filled the last vacancy in Emerson College. Just outside the main drive of the university, single room dorm, bathroom to every four bedrooms. All meals, except for weekends, included. Linen supplied. The rent is $55 a week.’ She looked at me triumphantly and then glanced over at Martina. ‘And no sleepovers.’

  With that, she handed me a key and an information kit with all the rules and regulations. I didn’t even have to write out a cheque because they would send me an invoice — an invoice! It had taken me less time to find a place to stay than it took to find the office. I stood up to leave.

  She had one last question for me, ‘Excuse me for asking, but why do you call yourself Australian and not Aboriginal?’

  ‘I didn’t think they were mutually exclusive.’

  Her smile faded. A blush swept over her face like a grassfire. I squeezed the key ring in my hand, afraid my rudeness would lose me the right to the accommodation she had just offered. But she nodded, dismissing me.

  I waved the key in front of Martina. She jumped up from the bench where one of the ‘boreds’ had succumbed to sleep, his head resting on his neighbour’s shoulder. No-one else had moved in the queue.

  Outside, the bright sunlight made me squint. I threw my key, on its A-shaped key ring, high up into the blue yonder and almost caught it.

  ‘Yippee. My own room in a residential college. Right next door to uni. And not too expensive. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I. What about those other people on the bench? Why were they still waiting?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe they had special requirements? Maybe they didn’t fill in the form properly. Maybe they had pets.’

  Why did I care — I’d got a place. Martina wasn’t convinced though.

  ‘Come on, I’ll shout you a cup of tea.’ I tugged on her long plait.

  She groaned. ‘Kirrali, students drink coffee. Cappuccinos, not wussy cups of tea. This is the eighties. Get radical.’

  She let me buy her a cuppa anyway but when she tried again to theorise about the ease in which I’d found a place to stay, I stopped her short. Martina spent too much time seeing conspiracies where none existed. I, on the other hand, believed that if you wanted something really badly you had a good chance of getting it. My theory had just been put to the test and passed with flying colours.

  Afterwards, we walked back to Spencer Street so I could pick up my backpack and Martina could catch her train. She was living with one of her aunties. It meant an hour’s travelling each way but at least it was free board.

  I grabbed my gear from the locker and caught a tram back up to the residential college. When I got off at my stop, I stood for a moment and took a deep breath. Wow, my new home. It was a late 1880s gothic sandstone building and it looked like something out of a movie.

  It was still light outside but the marble-tiled foyer of Emerson College was cool and dark. Wood panelling lined the walls and the ceiling was domed and patterned with elaborate plasterwork. I slowly walked up the wide winding staircase with its massive balustrade, drinking it all in. The stained-glass windows cast jewel-like rays of light on the stone steps, worn down from countless feet as if they were the floor of a canyon where water had flowed for centuries. I loved old buildings.

  I paused at the first floor landing and wondered who else had stayed here and what they had gone on to achieve. I wondered what friendships had begun from chance encounters on these very stairs.

  From the landing, halls ran to the right and the left. Each room had an emerald green door with a brass number on it. My room, 119, was at the very end of the left-hand corridor. My hand shook slightly as I slid the key in and opened the door.

  The first thing I noticed was the enormous old elm tree outside the window. It was so close I could almost have reached out and climbed along its sturdy branches in a daring escape. Except I didn’t want to escape because this was where I had always wanted to be. The room was basic but I loved it. The carpet was a frayed grey floral, the paint a rich clotted cream. A chunky dark-stained wardrobe occupied one corner and under the window, a timber desk cried out for a spread of law books.

  I unpacked carefully. First came Shonky, the teddy bear given to me when I had first gone to live with the Lewis’s. Nowadays he was more like a teddy ‘bare’ — most of his fur was missing — the result of a run-in with Finn.

  Next, I unpacked my textbooks and some notepads and pens. Tray had promised to get me a word processor but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. He was so busy making his mark in this new age of computing that I wondered if he remembered the rest of us existed.

  Clothes. Just as well I didn’t have many because there wasn’t much room in the wardrobe to hang them.

  Last of all, I put a framed photo of my family on the narrow ledge above the bed. Sure I’m sentimental but I loved my family. They were my rocks. They were always there — even when I made silly mistakes. Like the time a boy down the road pushed me over and called me names. I punched him in the guts and that night his father banged on our front door wanting to punch Dad. I could hear Dad’s soothing tones, talking the guy down from his anger.

  When the man had left, Dad and Mum sat me down for a ‘talk’. I was quaking, thinking I’d get in real trouble. Mum’s dead against violence but she quietly told me to try and talk my way out of trouble and not to ever, ever punch anyone again — unless it was really necessary. And while they didn’t fight my battles for me, they were always ready to give me moral support and to urge me on to bigger and better things. So I had to have a photo of them all: Mum, Dad, Rochelle, Tray, Tarquin, Michael and Beatrice — my family. And Finn, my dog — I kind of missed him the most. Silly old thing.

  I looked around at my new home. The room was the size of a shoebox but it was my shoebox. I was eighteen years old and I was independent for the first time in my life.

  Three

  The first thing I noticed when I woke up was that everything was where I’d left it. When you share a bedroom with two sisters you’re constantly elbowing their ‘junk’ out of the way to make room for your ‘treasures’. In our house, wardrobe space was at a premium and Beatrice’s floral dresses, ribbons, frilly socks and white cardigans spilled over the back of every chair.

  Tarquin, my older sister, was e
ven worse. She was something of a local swimming hero and, most days, her wet bathers made a kaleidoscope of black, lime green and hot pink on the floor. Our bedroom was chaos. But now here I was, in my room, with everything neat and tidy. Pure bliss.

  I lay staring up at the cracks in the ceiling paintwork, luxuriating in my good fortune. I was in the heart of the city at university. A law student.

  The other kids at my school wanted to be hairdressers, clothes designers or work with horses. Some wanted to be vets or firefighters. No one wanted to be a lawyer. I don’t know where I got the idea from — no one in my family is a lawyer or even knows one — but since the age of twelve I have not swayed in my ambition.

  The only time I was questioned about my choice was during my mandatory visit to the careers teacher at the end of year eleven.

  Mr Nicholoides peered at me through his thick glasses. ‘So, Kirrali, you’ve got excellent grades. Were you thinking of going on to university?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m going to become a lawyer.’

  ‘Ah, I detect a zealot in my midst. Social reform, eh? And then you’ll work for the Aboriginal Land Council, eh? Or human rights, yeah?’

  Mr Nicholoides looked quite pleased at his summing up of my career path. Except he’d got it totally wrong.

  ‘Actually sir, I’m hoping to get into corporate law, or even international law, to get as far away from small communities and people’s narrow expectations as possible.’

  Mr Nicholoides shuffled the papers in front of him nervously. ‘Yes, er, well, I can see you don’t need my help,’ he said.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said and left. Wanker. I remembered how furious I had been at his presumption.

  The chiming of a dining bell disturbed my memories. ‘Hell, what’s the time?’

  I read through the information kit and saw that breakfast at Emerson Hall was only served until 8am. I had forgotten to set my alarm clock because I was so used to Tarquin waking me up when she went to do her morning laps.

  It was 7.52am — eight minutes to get downstairs. I leapt out of bed and into jeans and a T-shirt before you could say ‘scrambled eggs’.

  When I burst into the dining room, the only people left were two girls who had piled up their plates with bacon, eggs, sausages and tomato. I wondered if there was any food left — I was starving. I hadn’t eaten the night before because I was too late for the dining room and had been too chicken to go out and find a cheap takeaway. The city was cool — in daylight hours.

  At the servery, the menu was scrawled on a blackboard. I was considering my options when a head popped out from behind the counter. ‘Kitchen’s closed. Oh, it’s you.’

  It was the girl from the Aboriginal Student Association, the one with the long crinkly hair. Except now her hair was tied up in a fluoro bandana. What was her name again? Erin?

  ‘The kitchen’s closed,’ she repeated.

  ‘Right,’ I turned to leave.

  ‘And I am pretty sure you wouldn’t want special treatment?’ she said in a deadpan voice. When I turned back, I caught the faint ghost of a smile. I could play by the rules or I could let go of my stupid pride.

  ‘Could you make an exception, just this once?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, as if she was thinking about my request, while at the same time shovelling scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, tomato, mushrooms and toast onto a plate.

  ‘And porridge?’ I said, pushing my luck.

  She just laughed and scooped up a bowl full to the brim.

  ‘Thanks, Erin.’ What a nice person. Bit of a pushover though.

  ‘No worries,’ she said, flashing me that beautiful smile. ‘I know what it’s like.’

  Just then, this blonde girl rushed up to the servery.

  ‘Uh-uh, Janelle. Rules are rules and it’s after eight.’

  ‘Erin, pleease ...’

  Erin shook her head.

  ‘Worth a try!’ Janelle didn’t seem too fazed, giving Erin a ‘ta-ta’ wave as she left the dining room.

  ‘She’ll live,’ said Erin. ‘In fact she will live very well.’

  I looked at her in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t such a soft touch after all.

  The first week at uni was a blur. I thought I’d bump into Martina most days but our timetables clashed so I didn’t get to see her until Friday. It was good to hang out on the lawn sharing a bucket of chips with vinegar, just like we used to at school. ‘I’ve missed you. How was your week?’

  ‘Amazing. I have met so many people. Though public transport is a real pain. I practically fell asleep on someone’s shoulder on the train home last night. What about you? How’s law, Ms Fancy-pants? Tell me all about it.’

  ‘There’s not that much to tell.’ I wracked my brains for something interesting. Martina wouldn’t want to know I was already spending three hours a night in the library. She’d want to know what fascinating people I had met or what outrageous gossip I’d overheard. ‘Oh, guess who’s in some of my lectures? Adam Rogers.’

  ‘Oh my God, that boy with the luscious curls from the school bus? Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Of course not. He sits up the front. I sit up the back. Anyway, it’s not like we’re friends.’

  ‘He asked you out that time.’

  ‘Yeah, then he chickened out.’

  ‘Oh, we can do something about that.’

  Martina began to rave on about the animal liberation meeting she’d been to and how some of the more radical students had looked at her suspiciously. ‘I swear they could smell that I’d eaten a roast the night before! I’m trying to go vego for the sake of the planet but my aunty makes a mean leg of lamb.’

  I laughed. This was typical Martina. But I was so glad to see her. We hugged and then she raced off. Martina was always in a rush.

  Every other day though, I had to make do with my own company. I’m not a person who makes friends easily. I never know what to say to people and it’s only after a long time that I open up. I had started chatting to Amber, another law student, but it wasn’t like I suddenly had a set of new best friends. My biggest opportunity to meet people was during meal times at Emerson College but at dinner time I ate in a real hurry while simultaneously devouring law books. And at breakfast, I somehow always managed to be a minute or two late when nearly everyone else had left. It became such a habit that each morning Erin just put a plate aside for me.

  One day, after saving me from starvation once again, she came around the other side of the counter with her own plate of bacon and eggs piled high. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked shyly.

  I had a mouth full of toast and marmalade so just nodded. She watched as I shovelled sugar — four teaspoons — into my cup of tea.

  ‘Sis, how do you manage to do that and still stay skinny?’

  I pointed to her plate. ‘How do you?’

  She leant forward conspiratorially. ‘I don’t eat for the rest of the day,’ she whispered.

  I whispered back. ‘I don’t either — well, not until dinner time.’ We had a big laugh about that.

  ‘I get brekkie for free ’cos I work here but I don’t work here at night. I’m an usher at a cinema so I usually just have a bag of popcorn for dinner,’ she admitted.

  ‘That’s not enough — you’ll starve,’ I said, sounding like my mum. I wondered how Erin found time to study.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m used to getting by on not much.’

  I waited for her to continue but it seemed like that was the end of the conversation. She finished her breakfast and got up to go back to work. ‘See you tomorrow, Kirrali Lewis.’

  How did she know my name? Never mind, it was the longest conversation I’d had with anyone for days.

  I didn’t get around to ringing my parents very often as a lot of the phone booths on the campus had been vandalised and I never seemed to have the right change. I had promised that I would write to them at least once a week.

  Dear Mum and Dad

  I’m loving university. I only have
eighteen contact hours a week — that’s when I go to lectures and tutorials — but it seems like I’ve got double that again in homework. In my spare time (what spare time?) I’m looking for a part-time job, like 2,000 other students. My room is great. I gave you the phone number, didn’t I? But only ring if there’s an emergency — they don’t like boarders getting personal calls. You’ll be happy to know that the food’s quite good. If I eat a big breakfast, I don’t have to spend much on lunch. I’m trying to make my allowance cover my expenses but there are temptations — coffee scrolls, Vietnamese food and every movie ever released showing. You can even eat sushi — just like in the movie Valley Girl. How’s Finn? Gotta go. Don’t let Tarquin borrow my clothes.

  Love Kirrali

  That’ll keep them happy, I thought as I posted the letter. No need to tell them that I was as lonely as hell.

  Life settled into a routine of lectures and tutorials, study and essays. If I thought lectures were daunting — two hundred students in an auditorium with some dude preaching the finer aspects of law — then tutorials were even more so.

  Take my contract law tutorial. The tutor, Guy Hancock, was barely older than me and he was such a geek that I wondered how he ever got the job. Most weeks he would forget to photocopy the handouts but yet he never forgot the date or detail of a case or precedent. Whenever students asked questions, he would cross-examine them until they had run out of answers and were a quivering mess. He expected us to have photographic memories too. Needless to say I didn’t say a word in class for fear of looking like a fool. It was always a relief to have his tutorial over and done with for the week, I can tell you.

  On this particular day, Guy started going on about the intersection between rights and law and then an image popped up on the overhead projector. It was a close-up photograph of former Prime Minister, Gough Whitlam, and an old Aboriginal man.

  ‘So does anyone know who the other man in the photo is?’ asked Guy. ‘He was part of a famous moment in Australian history and yet it was only ten years ago. Kirrali?’