Oleanders are Poisonous Read online

  AJ Collins

  First published in 2020

  Copyright © AJ Collins 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  AJC Publishing

  PO Box 77

  Chadstone Centre Vic 3148

  [email protected]

  www.ajcpublishing.com.au

  ISBN 978-0-9954140-0-6

  Cover Design by AJC Publishing

  Image licensing: Shutterstock, Depositphotos

  Typeset 12/16pt Georgia by AJC Publishing

  Printed and bound by IngramSpark

  CONTENTS

  PRAISE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  1. Catalyst

  2. Ineluctable

  3. Escapism

  4. Predisposition

  5. Chagrin

  6. Dissimulation

  7. Unrequited

  8. Stupefaction

  9. Abnegation

  10. Rigor Mortis

  11. Abjuration

  12. Lassitude

  13. Acquiescence

  14. Coercion

  15. Collusion

  16. Exculpation

  17. Clandestine

  18. Absconder

  19. Interminable

  20. Transmogrification

  BOOK TWO OUT NOW

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  HELPLINES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  Oleanders are Poisonous

  AJ Collins expertly guides us through Lauren's brutal, complicated coming of age in a poignant tale about growing up too fast, forgiving too slowly, and the healing power of love, friendship, and family - however it comes.

  - Nicole Hayes, author of The Whole of My World, One True thing and A Shadow’s Breath.

  From the first pages, Collins breathes life into her characters, fuels your need to know more. With empathy and insight, she sheds light on the dark experiences of life, shows the power of connection and the courage it takes to move on. A big-hearted coming of age novel about love and trust and everything that comes between.

  - Melissa Manning, author of Smokehouse Collection.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Please be aware this book contains themes of sexual abuse, mental health, suicide, self-harm, homophobia.

  While I have experienced many of the issues explored in this work, the character of Lauren is not me. All the characters depicted in this book are fictional. The story is, however, based on a kernel of murky truth, which has lain simmering within me for years, and like the stone within Lauren, it needed to see daylight.

  The process of herding thoughts and memories into a coherent and authentic – hopefully engaging – story has been cathartic, joyful, painful and enlightening. And it took a bloody long time (six years).

  Oleanders always remind me of the trees that lined our dusty driveway in Woomera, South Australia, when I was a child. Hot pink, pale pink and deathly white, vivid and beguiling. And the deceptive ability of deciduous magnolias to pause in winter, seemingly lifeless, then spring alive with luscious blooms, is almost otherworldly.

  So, what’s next? One of my university tutors, Olga Lorenzo, once commented that authors tend to write the same book over and over. Given the other books I’m working on all have survival themes, I tend to think she’s right. And while I’m not an activist – I’d be a hermit if I could – I’m passionate about the empowerment of women, children and those marginalised by society.

  I hope that each of my books will entertain and move you, that each is an act of escapism, a moment to step away from your everyday life, pause and introspect.

  For Mr Bunny

  It was always going to be.

  Vulnerability is a journey to destiny

  One stole her innocence

  One stole her heart

  One gave her hope

  And the secret awoke

  1. Catalyst

  The cogs are turning in Harry’s head. I can tell by the way he looks up and to the left, as if he’s searching the ceiling of the bus for something his memory has stored there.

  ‘A-E-S-T-H-E-T-I-C-I-S-M.’

  ‘Damn!’

  I hand over his prize – the second for this bus ride – but he pushes it back at me. ‘Nah, you keep it. It was too easy.’

  ‘Was not! Take it.’

  Usually, I’d be ahead by at least three Chupa Chups, but lately my head hasn’t been in the game. I sigh and look out as we pass canola crops holding their own in the stinking afternoon heat, their blooms bright as the daffodils Mum used to grow. Before.

  As if he’s read my mind, Harry leans in and whispers, ‘How’s things at home?’

  I squeeze my hands together, unsure if it’s my memory or his closeness that’s made me tense. I focus on the red vinyl of the seat in front of me; the stitching is coming loose, unravelling, like my family. ‘It is what it is.’

  He’s silent for a while, then says, ‘Mum and Dad are always asking. They’d like to help.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Thanks.’

  Harry’s parents, the Carters, are into voluntourism – volunteering holidays. Always helping. It’s what they do. But they can’t help us.

  ‘Sorry, kiddo.’ He bumps my shoulder, then grins when I give him a dirty look; he knows I hate it when he calls me that. Just because he’s a year above me, doesn’t make him an adult. He’s done it since I was eleven, when he took me under his wing as part of the headmaster’s first-year mentorship program. I was the youngest in my class, since I skipped a grade, thanks to Mum’s home schooling. ‘Bright for my age’ they called me – not so great when all the just-turned-teens think of you as a kid. I was supposed to be allocated a girl mentor, but that year they were short. I’m glad. So, so glad. But I’d never tell Harry that.

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  ‘Fork you.’

  I have to work really, really hard not to smile; we’ve both been watching The Good Place on Netflix. The swearing references are killer funny.

  The bus slows, close to Harry’s farm, and he leans down, shaggy hair falling across his face as he sticks his Chupa Chups into his backpack. He stands, towering above me, then shoves his pack over his shoulder.

  ‘Hey, mopey face. You coming over Sunday for a jam? Got a surprise for you.’

  I pretend to think about it – as if I’d actually consider saying no to spending time with him, even if my scratching around on vocals doesn’t measure up to his guitar or piano finesse – he’s one of those multi-talented virtuosos you love to hate.

  ‘What sort of surprise?’

  He pulls a you’ll-have-to-wait face.

  I try for nonchalance. ‘Yeah, okay. Probably late afternoon. Got some chores first.’

  ‘Fair enough. Whenever you’re ready. See ya ... kiddo.’

  I flip him off, but he’s already turned away. When he’s outside, I slide the window open and call out. ‘Hang on to those Chupa Chups for Sunday. I’m winning them back.’

  He turns and waves while the bus carries me forwards. Now that there’s distance between us, I relax, daydream. I imagine him waving like a soldier going off to fight in a war, and me, a nurse, heading off to help the wounded ... only the wounded is Mum.

  I sag. Once, soft rounded edges and tight hugs, now she’s all angles and confusion. No. I’m not going there. I shake it off and reach f
or my backpack. Twenty minutes of travel is twenty minutes I can study and keep my mind busy. Or find new words to challenge Harry.

  A hint of red lolly wrapper is sticking out of the front pocket of my backpack. ‘Harry! I said I didn’t want it.’

  What will I do next year after he graduates and goes into the mythical ‘real world’ our teachers are always on about? What will I do if he meets someone serious before I’m brave enough to tell him how I feel? Samuel has this old record on vinyl by this band, Smokers or Smoky or something. There’s a song on it, ‘Living next door to Alice’, about a guy who never gets the chance to tell the girl next door he loves her. I have nightmares about being that loser.

  I should tell him. Maybe I will. This Sunday. But how will he react? What if I stuff everything up? Or worse, what if he laughs?

  ~

  The bus pulls up near the post office, and I drag myself out of my seat. Bill, the driver, slides a pack of roll-your-owns from his pocket and climbs down in front of me. He’ll be heading across the road to put in his regular Friday fish and chips order. I turn in the opposite direction, and passing the pub, I notice a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. It’d be good to have a job over the Christmas break, earn a bit of money. Even better, it would get me out of the house more. Pity I’m not legal yet.

  Our whole street seems to be sagging from the heat. Mary Worthington, one of our neighbours, is pulling her granny trolley along the lumpy footpath. Her huffing carries from three houses away as she approaches, her bloated ankles pouring over the top of her shoes like warm, droopy candle wax. She must be so uncomfortable. How does she cope in this weather?

  She catches sight of me and waves. ‘Lauren!’

  Damn. I’ll have to wait. Either that or pretend I haven’t seen her. No, I can’t do that. Mary’s a kind sort, and besides, she’s Harry’s gran, so that’s a good reason not to be rude. It’s just so freakin’ hot.

  I slump against our fence under the shade of the oleander with its almost-deadly blossoms. I always think of them that way because, when I was little, Mum caught me stuffing the poisonous frilly flowers in my mouth. She nearly had a heart attack. I expect my child brain thought the hot pink blooms looked like lollies. I vomited a lot and wasn’t too good for a couple of days, but hey, I’m still here. I doubt she’d notice them these days. Whatever – they smell nice, and the tree is keeping the cruel sun off me.

  ‘Here you go, love.’ Mary holds out a sheet of paper – the latest Ladies Auxiliary newsletter. It’s covered in photos of who won the latest bowls competition and other boring small-town pap. ‘Give it to your mum for me, will you? I’d come in, but I’ve got to get the ice cream in the freezer before we have to suck it up through a straw.’

  ‘Okay.’ If I keep my answers short, hopefully she’ll move on, and both of us can get some relief. That and Samuel is adamant we shouldn’t be sharing anything with people. ‘NTK’ he calls it in cop-speak: need to know basis. I guess he doesn’t think of the council nurses who look after Mum on weekdays as ‘people’.

  Mary has sweat rivulets running down her forehead and into her eyes. She squints and blinks a few times. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Well, yell out if you or Samuel need any help, alright? She’s welcome over at my place anytime if you want a break. You know that, yes?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good girl.’ She shuffles off across the road to her house, two doors down.

  I creak open our front gate and trudge up the gravel, pulling at the damp collar of my school dress. A dizzy haze is coming off our corrugated roof. The tree leaning over our veranda looks pretty with its pink peppercorns drooping in grape-like bunches, but it’s doing nothing to ward off the heat. Days like this, even the shade is unbearable. Geez, it’s only early September. Summer is going to be hell. Yay for the Mallee. Once the weather clicks over, it’s freakin’ hot one day, dust and spit the next.

  I dump my school bag inside my bedroom doorway and head to the kitchen. Mary’s mention of ice cream has me craving an icy pole.

  Good. Mum and Samuel are out. Bliss to have the place to myself for a while. They must have kept the blinds down all day, and the air conditioner is quietly buzzing overhead – instant heaven. I open the freezer. Inside are four stacks of meticulously folded socks.

  2. Ineluctable

  Samuel is up before five o’clock, knocking about the house like a blowfly. He’ll be trying to find stuff to keep himself busy: cleaning up last night’s teacups, turning on the washing machine, cutting the kettle whistle short before it reaches its shrill peak. The back door slams, and I picture him outside, watering the tomatoes, letting the chooks out for a while – things he would normally do in the evening, after work, after dinner when it’s cooler.

  He wouldn’t have slept much last night; it’s Saturday, the day we get Mum’s final test results. I don’t see the point. The answer is obvious.

  I pull on my dressing gown and head down the hallway to the bathroom. The door is open and Mum’s in there, standing at the sink in her nightgown, staring into the vanity mirror. She’s so focused on her reflection, her hand paused mid-air with a brush, she doesn’t notice me. I watch as her blank expression becomes lucid. She frowns.

  ‘I told you, no,’ she says to her reflection. ‘You can’t take it.’ She threatens the mirror with her brush, raises her voice. ‘Rob needs it. How the heck do you expect us to manage without it? Stop coming around here.’ She’s yelling now. ‘Leave us alone. Go on!’ She throws the brush at the mirror. I flinch, expecting a shatter, but the brush clatters harmlessly into the sink.

  Oh god. I want to skulk away, pretend I haven’t seen, avoid her like a cat skirts a dog on a chain. Not that Mum’s a dog; she’s great ... was.

  She leans on the basin, closes her eyes. ‘It’s Rob’s. I’ve told that man a million times. He should get his own.’

  ‘Mum?’

  She opens her eyes. Blinks. ‘What?’ She sounds vague, as if she’s just woken.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’

  She turns to me, long dark hair falling over her face. ‘Christopher.’

  ‘Christopher? Your old boss at the bakery?’

  ‘No, no. From the Hill’s property. He wants to buy your father’s tractor. He keeps asking.’

  I bite back the sharp stab in my heart. Dad. ‘The farm’s gone, Mum. We sold it.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ It’s Samuel. I turn to look down the hall. He’s peering through the back door flyscreen.

  I raise a hand. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he says. ‘Put the kettle on?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Mum’s looking at me, hard, brain trying to process. She turns back to the mirror, eyes widening as if she’s surprised to see her own reflection. She looks down, picks up the brush, then smiles at me.

  ‘Come, my cherub.’

  She sits on the edge of the bath and beckons. I step towards her, then turn around and kneel on the bathmat in front of her, letting her stroke the brush through my hair – so much like hers, maybe a touch wavier – letting her take me back with her, to another bathroom, another house, before we lived with Samuel, before Dad died, before she lost her mind.

  I picture myself, a five-year-old, arguing over her wanting to get the knots out of my unruly hair, then plait it into stupid pigtails, when all I want is to hurry outside to ride the new bike Dad has bought for my birthday. I don’t care if the yard is still muddy from recent rain; I’m eager to plonk Madam Puff, our red bantam chicken, into my bike’s wicker basket and ride us around as if we’re in a best-in-show parade.

  ‘Will you stop wriggling?’ she says to my young self.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Five minutes. Then you can dab a little of my perfume. Okay?’

  I sulkily nod, and though my heart sings at the thought of rose-scented wrists, I grimace while she pulls as gently as she can.

  Now, ten years on, I’d let her brush my hair f
orever if I could have her back. She strokes and smooths, strokes and smooths, humming as she works. I close my eyes, drift, can almost smell the sweet roses. She doesn’t think to wear the fragrance anymore. So many things are lost to her. And me.

  She stops and taps my shoulder. ‘Up, up.’

  I stand, and she puts her hands on my waist, turning me to face her, then cups my chin, smiling sadly. ‘You better get dressed, darling. We’ve got the doctor’s soon.’

  My throat catches. Mum. How does she do that? Move seamlessly from fairyland to reality in a breath? I wish she’d just go or stay. It’s a callous, terrible thought, but this back and forth makes me want to scream. Why can’t she just be Mum?

  She stands and shuffles past, heading to her and Samuel’s bedroom. I leave her to puzzle over the monumental choice of what colour scarf to bring today.

  A few minutes on, I’m sitting sticky-fingered at the kitchen table, trying to fill the hole where my heart should be with toast and honey. Samuel comes in from the garden and sits, slips his big hands around the mug of tea I’ve made him. His hair is so short it might as well be shaven – a hangover from his early years in the police force. Spell fastidious. In our town, people probably wouldn’t care if he turned up for his shift in jeans and a flannel shirt, but he never would. It’s uniforms all the way.

  Rules are rules.

  It took me forever to learn this, to keep my mouth shut around Samuel, to accept that he likes to lay down the law at home as well as at work.

  ‘It’s only a bloody window,’ I yelled, ten years old and full of rage because living with him the past two years didn’t make him my father, and he shouldn’t have been bossing me around, even if he was going to marry my mum.

  ‘You watch your mouth, young lady.’

  ‘No! You watch yours.’

  ‘I know you’ve been through a tough time, but that’s no excuse to be churlish to your elders.’

  I laughed then, more out of fear than churlishness, whatever that meant. ‘Elders? What are you, a church minister?’