I could lay my hands on so I wouldn’t starve. My copse had a little clearing in the center, a patch of sand that looked up at the startling blue sky. I’d hang my ‘good’ clothes on a branch and lie on my Dad’s t-shirt watching clouds scud across the patch of blue, finding faces and figures amid them before they vanished, and listening out for the gang of boys.
When I couldn’t find the boys, I’d wander around on my own, attaching myself to any strays I came across, whether human or animal. Sometimes I watched our house from afar, hunkered on my haunches until I got pins and needles, like a spy, waiting for Mom and the boys to head off to the shops so I could find a way back inside to steal some food and dance rebelliously across the kitchen linoleum to the latest hit buzzing around in my brain.
Inevitably I’d cop a good yelling from Mom each and every time I tried to sneak back inside each evening, but I copped nothing worse because Dad was there, my secret yet visible shield. Mom tried to enforce a rule that all windows were out of bounds to me, but I ignored the rule all summer—the windows were my access to the world, to freedom. No matter how many times I copped it for ‘running wild’, ‘blatantly disobeying’, or ‘acting like a wild animal’, the lure of escape was impossible to resist.
‘Where the hell is the tin of tuna I bought just the other day? Kate? Kate, did you take the tuna?’
‘No Mommy.’
‘You took the tuna, didn’t you? What kind of animal are you? What ten-year-old steals a tin of bloody tuna? Now what the hell am I supposed to make a tuna salad with?’
I did take the tuna, and I took the can opener too, so there! ‘No, Mommy, I promise, Mommy, I didn’t take the tuna.’
‘I know you did, goddammit. Just because your father’s around, you think you can do what you like, don’t you?’ she hissed, shoving me up against the kitchen door, her fingers around my throat. I knew she wouldn’t hurt me enough to make me cry out with Dad in the house. I badly wanted to meet her fiery gaze with all the defiant belligerence a girl could muster, but I had enough self-preservation to keep my eyes trained over her shoulder.
Nothing mattered on New Year’s Eve, though; not a thing. The night stood alone as a gateway to happiness, a crazy hope-can-run-riot night of freedom and fun. New Year was all about new starts and positive expectations. I assigned the potential for magic to the night, promising the universe that I’d be ever so good in 1976, ‘Cross my fingers and hope to die,’ if only the year would be good to me.
Back then it was a tradition that English-speaking families on holiday in Paradise Beach gathered at our neighbor's place—Uncle Tom’s—with our arms loaded with alcohol and food as fuel to party in the New Year. Our day on the beach had been carefree and fun, with only the slightest niggle at the end when Steven had snapped his board and Dad had lost his temper at the ‘carelessness’. He’d thrown his fishing rod in the car and ordered us to pack up; ‘I’ve had enough of the lot of you.’ That was right after Mom had spent ages talking to a passing man about something or other; I’d noticed Dad glancing over at the two grown-ups, and casting over the rocks instead of into the sea, ending up with a snapped line and a lost hook and sinker.
But tonight I put the tension of the afternoon aside and wore my favorite dress, a fluffy pink toweling number with a bunny pocket in front, which I planned to stuff with sweets at the party later.
‘Don’t you dare embarrass me tonight, you hear? None of your shenanigans; we all want to have a good time for once, without it being ruined by you.’
‘Yes, Mommy.’
Despite her warning and the stern looks she cast my way as we headed over to Uncle Tom’s, I silently hummed a happy tune and imagined myself skipping, my dress bouncing around my legs. Real skipping would have been ‘attention-seeking, low-class behavior’ and would, at the very least, have attracted Mom’s long red nails to dig into my shoulder with a sharp pinch.
We walked sedately, my family and I, Dad a few steps ahead, separated from us as though he didn’t belong to us, a bottle of whisky in one hand and wine in the other. The boys, with neatly parted blond hair and button-up shirts, were ‘starving’, eager to tuck into the plates of food that no doubt awaited. Mom, balancing a plate of mushroom vol-au-vents, tripped along in her high-heeled sandals, glowing, all blond haired and brown skinned in a yellow sundress that filtered the last rays of sun to show off her long skinny legs. I ignored Steven mocking me that I looked like a shrimp, my skin sunburned red under the pink fluffiness of the dress. ‘Or a pig! Ha-ha! Oink, oink, snort, snort!’ It was New Year’s Eve, party-time, disappear-into-the-night time. I twirled under Uncle Tom’s large hand as he patted me on the head, pointing us in the direction of a table groaning with food.
Uncle Tom’s holiday home was unlike ours in every way, a mess of driftwood, shells, fishing rods, beer cans and bottles of brandy. He’d made no effort to tidy up, just arranged chairs around a fire-pit in the front garden, thrown open windows and doors so that folk music bubbled over every corner, and enveloped us in his world of careless abandon. Almost.
Mom hovered by the food table. ‘God alone knows what that’s supposed to be; I’d rather die than offer up a plate of mush like that.’ She passed judgment on the food as though she was an expert—putting others down always seemed to make her more confident. She dished up cocktail sausage rolls and tomato sauce for us kids, keeping herself busy, holding a vantage point from which to criticize the other guests: ‘Look at that tart! With a figure like that, she’d be better off wearing a tent.’ I knew I had to stick close by her until she felt comfortable enough to chat to another adult on her own. I just hoped it would be sooner rather than later.
Tent Lady squished me out of the way, reaching for a vol-a-vent and groaning with delight at she quaffed it and then another. ‘Oh, God! These are dee-licious!’ she exclaimed, inviting Mom to give one a try.
‘Oh, I made those, actually. So glad you like them.’
That was my cue to escape, to investigate and take in all that the night had to offer.
Uncle Tom’s parties weren’t refined or quiet affairs. A few hours in, the adults were crinkly from sitting about all evening, their voices loud, the ladies laughing a lot—even Mom, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I tried to hang in the shadows and keep my voice down so Mom wouldn’t notice me and call me over for a ‘talking-to’. Usually we kids ran around the neighborhood playing hide and seek or Trolls, intermittently filling our bellies from the abundance of treats on offer.
But that night Steven and another boy, who seemed to have grown to double his size since the last party, weren’t in the mood for childish games. They were more interested in getting their hands on some alcohol and disappearing to a secret place to drink it. ‘Hey, Stinky, go find us some beer and bring it here, but don’t let anyone see you, hey!’ Steven was obviously the leader of the two, the other boy hanging back but looking excited.
‘No. I don’t want to.’ I had courage that being in a crowd afforded; I could walk away.
‘Do it, Stinky, I’m warning you! Or I’ll tell Mom you’ve been showing those Afrikaans boys your tits all summer.’
The other boy laughed, a brainless cackle that had me hot with shame and anger. I picked up an empty beer can and hurled it in their direction. It whizzed past them and landed with a clatter near the adults, near Mom. She looked into the shadows, and, as though she could see me, delivered a bone-shivering ‘look’. A ‘look’ usually meant she’d caught me ‘in the act’ of something, maybe being ‘attention-seeking’, or just too happy. A ‘look’
