May Free Chapter - Divine Clementine by Hayley S. Kirk

7/31/2019 May Free Chapter - Divine Clementine by Hayley S. Kirk

1/20

pyr g ay ey . r . r g s reserve . o par o s pu ca on may e repro uce , s or

in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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2/20

DIVINECLEMENTINE

Hayley S. Kirk

opyright Hayley S. Kirk 1 . All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

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3/20

A Random House bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacifc Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Random House Australia in 2012

Copyright Hayley S. Kirk 2012

Te author grateully acknowledges permission to quote rom Of HumanBondage by W. Somerset Maugham 1915 Te Royal Literary Fund

Te moral right o the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part o this book may be reproduced or transmittedby any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in anyorm or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying

(except under the statutory exceptions provisions o the Australian CopyrightAct 1968), recording, scanning or by any inormation storage and retrievalsystem without the prior written permission o Random House Australia.

Addresses or companies within the Random House Group can be ound atwww.randomhouse.com.au/o ces.

National Library o AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Author: Kirk, Hayley S.itle: Divine ClementineISBN: 978 1 86471 899 7 (pbk)Dewey Number: A823.4

Cover design by Christabella DesignsCover photograph by iStockphotoInternal design by Midland ypesettersypeset in 11/15pt Minion Pro by Midland ypesetters, AustraliaPrinted in Australia by Gri n Press, an accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004

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Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable andrecyclable products and made rom wood grown in sustainable orests.Te logging and manuacturing processes are expected to conorm to theenvironmental regulations o the country o origin.


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4/20

For anyone who has ever sufered rom depression.

For my parents, who have shed their amily secret may you

walk lighter.

For my husband, Brett, who told me I could y even when

I thought my wings were broken.

H.S.K.


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5/20

PART ONE:

THE RED DOOR

Stop the world . . . I want to get off . . .


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6/20

3

The smell o the incense flls my lungs; the spicy oralaroma dris rom hymn books and throughout the pews. I

close my eyes because they are stinging. I dont want them

to sting anymore. I close my eyes because I am araid i I

open them, they will cry me a river and stain this holy place

orever. My heart is stained. My ears are open. Sounds oodin sounds o pages turning, o silver clasps clicking on

special-occasion purses, o sni es and sobs, osadness . . .

My aunt Penny is speaking. Her voice is gentle and clear.

Do they know me or I am not just esh and blood. On this

earth where I was born I wandered, but only or a short time.

I am a soul. I will y orever. I am eternal. I am indestruct-ible. I hurt no more. Neither space nor time matter to me,

and though my time here was brie I have moved on to other

things. I am discovering new places in the house o heaven.

Travelling other realms, I will live orever. Please do not cry

or me, or or yoursel. Let me be. Set me ree. We will see each

other again, but our hearts and minds will always be oreverentwined; we will laugh together again, one day soon, sooner

than you think. We will fnd ourselves together in God. Rest

easy, Stella-Bella. Penny walks back to her husband, Dave.


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4

She starts to cry even though the words she had just read

aloud instructed everyone not to.

Te minister says something about aith being a journeynot a destination, and then calls my name. It is my turn,

my opportunity to tell everyone how wonderul and special

Stella was . . . how special Stella is. Will I tell them how angry

I am at her, too?

Mum is staring hard with her jaw clenched, and beside me,

Aunt Gretchen is choking back her tears. Nan and Pappas sitstill and silent. Tey have been here beore. Dad squeezes my

leg, reminding me he is there. I think o my brothers, Oscar

and Max, and where they are in the big world, across the

seas. I wish I could run away to some place else. Te minister

gently calls my name again, and I stand up and walk to the

lectern. I stop.I suddenly eel hot. Te smell o the incense teases the

back o my throat. I might throw up. Or pass out. Stella

would think that was a hoot. I wonder i she is here in the

church, watching us all being so sad. Watching as I stand

here in ront o everyone with my eyes tightly shut or ear

o tears bursting rom beneath my lids. A breeze brushes myhand. Is that her, or is she still caught on the ront o the

470 bus along Broadway? I eel so angry, but my words come

out with clarity and a calmness reminiscent o the me rom

just ten days ago, beore the blood, beore Stella le.

Well, actually . . . this is shit. What God? Where is He?

Where was He that day? What greater kingdom calledheaven? Stella never said anything to me about going there.

She wanted to go to Alaska to meet the grizzlies, dive with

great whites o Port Lincoln, and hang out with pods o


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8/20

5

killer whales in Canada beore they disappear. But Stella has

disappeared.

I look up at the stained-glass window and its coloursbegin to blur with a rainbow brilliance. I am numb. Stella

was my brilliant colour and I want her back.

I turn blankly to the minister. Stellas death tragic? Her

body was smashed up by a big blue bus, thats a little more

than tragic, dont you think? I turn to address the parade

o sombre aces beore me. Who here can tell me what kindo God gives someone so beautiul a send-o like that? A

sick, miserable, heartless God, thats who! I love Stella. Its

wrong that shes gone, and its wrong how she went. My heart

is broken, there are pieces missing. Its hard to breathe. I hear

murmurs, and rom the corner o my eye I see the minister

moving towards me.Im never going to be the same again.

And thats that. I calmly step down rom the lectern. I

dont take my seat next to Mum and Dad. I kiss Stellas co n

goodbye and walk out o there, thinking how it will be a long

time beore I come back.

I start to run.Its an overcast day; its grey and miserable. Its exactly

how I eel inside and out.

One, two, one, two.

One heavy oot in ront o the other.

I dont know where I am running to. I just want to get

away rom the church, away rom everyone and as ar awayrom the sadness as I can. Maybe i I run ast enough all o

this hurt will ade out, disappearing into the stratosphere.

Abracadabra, hey presto! Gone.


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9/20

6

Clem . . . Clem, comes Dads voice. CLEMENINE.

I can hear Dad, but I wont stop. His words are distant,

like he is down a hole. Im lost. I want to get lost. I dont wantto turn back.

Clementine, come back, he yells again.

I turn into the next street. Im not sure i Dad is ollowing

me, I just keep on going.

I am running away. Anywhere my eet will take me.

Morning rain clouds pass above. My shoes are hurting theballs o my eet. Dumb navy blue shoes with a small, square

heel a spectacularly dull combination o plain and boring.

Mum bought them or me to wear to the uneral (I wasnt

exactly in the mood or shopping).

I hate them and I want to cut them up into a trillion little

pieces.Stella would have made un o me or wearing them. I

wouldnt even have the shoes i she hadnt gone and died. So

its Stellas ault Ive got them. And that I have blisters. Tese

stupid shoes look like they belong in a courtroom nowhere

else! Tey dont belong at unerals.

My eet are bruised. I stop and kick the shoes o dramati-cally. I nearly break my ankle doing it. I leave them in the

ront yard o a cream terrace house with a bright red door

red like blood; like Stellas blood. It is in a street not that ar

rom my own home. Its a amiliar street, but I dont remem-

ber ever seeing this door beore. I stand and stare, numbed

by the door.Can I help you? asks a gentle voice rom behind me. I

look around and see a lady with short, spiky grey hair. She is

old but not too old. She wears thick-rimmed purple glasses.




10/20

7

Not nerdy ones; theyre unky and cool. Stella would have

liked them. Te lady is wearing a striped long-sleeve Bonds

t-shirt and brown baggy pants that wrap around like a nappy.Teyre fsherman pants like the ones Stella used to wear on

the weekends and that her riend Grace sold at the markets.

On her eet are slide-on shoes even though it isnt a hot day.

Shes carrying some books and a loa o bread, and shes

looking right at me.

Do you need anything? Tere is concern in her voice.No, I dont need anything. I wipe my tear-stained cheeks

awkwardly with the back o my hand.

Are you sure I cant help? she asks again.

No, I dont think you can. She is looking down at the

stupid court shoes Ive le under her Grevillea bush.

Dont you want those? She slides her oot out rom hershoe and points with her toe towards the temporary shoe-

graveyard in her ront yard.

No, theyre crap. Tey hurt my eet. I dont want them.

Oh . . . okay . . . thats fne. You just never know when

someone else might come along and need a pair. She smiles

at me; she has a nice smile, big ull red lips and abnormallywhite teeth. I shrug and nod back to her. I wonder i she uses

that whitening stu Ive seen advertised on V.

Youve got nice teeth, I say. Because she does. Tey are

even whiter than Rebecca Gatess rom school. She gets hers

done proessionally; her dads a dentist.

Tank you. She laughs a little.And, no, Im not okay, I add. I dont know this woman.

I dont want to talk to her about Stella. I dont want to talk

to anyone about Stella. I dont want to tell her my heart is




11/20

8

broken, how I struggle to breathe oen and how, at times,

I think should I step in ront o the 470 bus too.

Did you want to tell me about it? My riends say Im agood listener. You can come in or a cup o tea? She seems

so riendly. Her eyes sparkle and there are lines around them.

Lie-experience lines, Nan would say. Tis woman knows

stu, has been places.

I think I will go in. Te red door intrigues me and her

white teeth impress me. I look up at the terrace and seeprayer ags hanging o her balcony. Surely that means this

is a sae house?

Mum will kill me or accepting an invitation to go inside a

strangers house or a cup o tea. But what Mum doesnt know

wont hurt her. She will be consumed with everything going

on back at our house, ussing over whether or not the wake isrunning as smoothly as she wants it to. Tere will be insigni-

icant dramas, like will the colour-coding o the rereshments

and the serving trays match? Or are there enough crackers

or the dip? Te sad people rom the uneral will be arriving

at my home or fnger ood, wine and idle chit-chat about

the tragedy o Stella Fitzgerald the tragedy o our amily.Something I can do without.

I like your red door and Id like a cup o tea. I stare ahead

at a small bird hopping up and down o the gutter. I shi my

weight rom side to side, aware o the concrete pulling at my

stockings, nervous that maybe this woman could actually get

me to talk about how Im eeling.Great. Come inside. Youll have to excuse the mess . . .

Oh yeah, by the way, my name is Hillary.

What a nice name. I wouldnt have picked her as




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9

Hillary. I was expecting something along the lines o a

monosyllable name like Kate. It suits her, this name. Just

like it suited my riend Mischas third Cabbage Patchdoll.

Beyond the red door a amiliar scent oats through the

hallway. A sensory comort o lavender and lime laven-

der or calming, lime or zest and li, Stella would have said.

I relax instantly. Te smell is simple and contrived. It eels

right. It eels sae . . . or now.Little pieces rom 1001 countries welcome me; a patch-

work o colourul tribal arteacts lines the walls. Tere are

carvings o aces and shapes, ancient and mysterious, all with

their own story to tell. Is their story tragic like Stellas? One

ace draws me in, its expression sorrowul, calling silently to

someone, to me. Its haunting and I quietly understand. I tooam like that; I am just wearing my mask on the inside over

my heart, bones and every little part o me so no one else

can see. I touch the carvings and trace my fnger over their

grooves and creases. Teyre raw and real, and Stella would

have allen in love with them. She would have loved this

hallway, and would have wanted to know the story behindeach ace, indentation and shape.

Where did you get all these? I enquire.

Lots o dierent places. Here, there and everywhere.

Some are rom riends.

Wheres lots o places? Stella would want to know.

Hillary moves to stand in ront o the sad ace. Well,this one is rom Venice; they use masks like this in the

theatre. And those over there, Hillary says, pointing to a

club and shield on the opposite wall, are rom Fiji, used by


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13/20

10

by the warriors in tribal warfare. Extremely violent, really.

She looks at me as I gaze at the cultural wares . . .

Stella spins the hula hoop around her hips like a proessional.

She makes it look so easy. Even Mum swivels her hips with

ease. I try my hardest to keep up, but my hips just didnt have

the same wiggle as Stellas, or Mums or that matter.

I cant do this. Im not a retro-slash-hippie-queen like youwomen. My bottom lip drops, much like the hula hoop as it

alls to the ground.

Oh, come on, baby girl, no giving up. Tis burns more

calories than running . . . Not that you need to worry about

that! Mum laughs and keeps her smooth movement going.

Diva. It just takes practice, my lovely. Stella stops her hulahoop and hangs it around her neck like an oversized necklace.

Tis will revive us, Clem. We need to be revived!

We do?

Uh-huh. Stellas head nods in time with her swivelling hips.

Stella, Im eleven! I exclaim.

Well get increased blood fow to the brain. Well get smarterand then youll nish high school in record time. She grabs me

and whispers in my ear, Well run away and travel the planet

together. She kisses me on both cheeks. I smile at the thought o

the plan, even though realistically its light years away.

Where will you run me away to? I ask, encouraging the

antasy.o everywhere! Well go to Spain and throw tomatoes

until we are covered in red. Well ride camels through the

desert, dance at the Gateway o India, and collect sparkly


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14/20

11

treasures that well hang in our abulous house overlooking

the beach!

You promise? I ask. I just want to have un and spend timewith her. See the world with her. I cant think o any better way

to experience my lie as a grown-up.

I promise the whole world. Her ace lights up. She winks at

me, posing as i shes just nished a circus act.

What are you two whispering about? Mum calls through

an impromptu spin routine.Just some hula secrets . . . hey, Clem? Stella ashes me a

huge grin and efortlessly begins her hula-hoop routine rom

neck to arms to chest to hips and back again . . .

Lets go through to the kitchen and Ill get that cup o tea.Hillary turns and walks to the end o the hall and disappears.

I look at the tortured ace one more time and then make my

way to the kitchen.

Te room is bright red just like her door. Its un and arty

with broken tiles scattered and glued on the walls in a way

that makes sense. Its mosaic. We studied it in year-nine art;you use smashed tiles, plates and cups. In Hillarys kitchen

there are big pieces and medium pieces, small pieces and even

smaller pieces. Tey are all strategically placed around the

back o the sink and behind the stovetop, and put together in

a way that looks like a scene stolen out o some exotic story

rom thirteenth-century Europe.Dont hold it against me.

Hold what against you?

My kitchen . . .




15/20

12

I love it. Its great. Heaps better than my boring kitchen at

home, where everything is white. Actually I lie, we do have

a yellow juice machine, but it isnt le on the bench longenough to make an impact. Its put away so it doesnt intimi-

date the whiteness.

Hillary laughs. I giggle a little.

My mother despises this kitchen. Deep down it was

probably my motivation or going ahead with it, just to make

a point that this is my kitchen, and I could have it pink withblue polka dots i I wanted to. Hillary shakes her head at her

own words. Enough about my kitchen. I told you I was a

good listener and here I am doing all the talking. She fdgets

with some envelopes and a small oral vase on the bench.

Ive said a ew things, I oer. I dont want her to eel bad.

I dont want the spotlight to turn to me. Im up or talkingabout anything really, as long as it takes my mind ar away

rom Stella and how she is gone . . . orever.

So, frst things frst, who are you? Hillary asks.

Im Clementine, but mostly people call me Clem. Just

Clem.

All right then Just Clem, what tea would you like?Do you have green tea? Tats all Mum and Dad drink at

home and I have come to like it.

Yes I do. Green it is. Hillary turns and flls the bright blue

kettle at the sink and plugs it into the electric socket on the

wall. I dont mean to pry, but why were you so upset beore?

Hillary regards me worriedly.Ive had a bad day. More sad than bad. My week has been

both bad and sad, but I am not sure what I eel most sad,

bad or just plain pissed o. I saw my aunty get killed by a bus


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16/20

13

along Broadway last week. I didnt even think to look away.

Her uneral was today. And now my lie is crap.

Hillary walks over and hugs me . . .

Where are we going? I ask hal-skipping, hal-trotting to keep

up with Stella.

Were going to Central Station to give out ree hugs. She

stops in her tracks and ashes the green cardboard thatshes been carrying.

Free hugs? What do you mean?

Clementine, this world is in disarray. Im miserable, youre

miserable, the whole world is miserable. What we need are

more hugs. Today were giving them out or ree!

To strangers?Yes, to strangers! She starts to skip-trot again.

But Im not miserable. And youre not either. I thought we

were going to get picknmix and see the latest RPattz movie?

She stops again and spins around to me. My darling Clem-

entine, the world needs to become more connected, not eat

more chocolate bullets or watch RPattz movies. Wheres yourheart? Are you with me or not?

What a dumb question. O course I am with her. I always

will be. A rmative . . . Im with you, and as or my heart, its

right beside yours

Our hearts are holding hands! she cuts in. I like her

add-on.As the days goes on I hug a ew hundred strangers while

Stella dances in ront o Bartholomew and his one-man band.

Later, I see him take her mobile number . . .




17/20

14

She holds me close.

Its unexpected. I have known her or no more than

45 minutes tops and she is holding me. I hug her back, thisstranger. I dont want to move. Hillary is awkwardly comort-

ing. Te thought o ending up in a million pieces evaporates.

I begin to cry. How can I have tears le? I have cried so much

over the last ten days, more than I can ever remember doing

in my lie, not counting toddler years.

I heard about the accident on the news. I am so, sosorry. Hillary gently squeezes my shoulders and regards me

at arms length. I know theres nothing I can say that will

make you eel better right now. But it will get easier with each

new day.

I step back.

Oh, Im sorry, you seemed as though you needed a hug.Hillary must have sensed my sudden unease. She smiles

and makes hersel busy wiping over the broken pieces o

thirteenth-century Europe.

Why didnt your mum want you to design the kitchen

like this? I ask, changing the subject. Hillary stops and stares

out the window. All is silent but or the hum o the ridge.Unsure i Hillary is going to answer my question, I sit on the

couch and start to ick through a photographic book on the

coee table. Hillary is still looking out her kitchen window.

Shes in a trance. Shes been hypnotised by an ancient spell

rom one o her smashed plates.

Te book is about a guy who likes to pack his dogs up inhis ute and go on expeditions to the outback. Te red earth

seeps through the books pages, and its as though you could

run your hands through them. Te man photographs his




18/20

15

dogs at the dierent places they visit. One o the images is

o a tan dog sitting and staring at the decaying corpse o a

dingo. Te caption reads that the dingo has most likely diedrom starvation due to the drought.

I wonder what it would eel like to starve?

I look up and Hillary is still in her meditative state. I dont

want to interrupt her numbing moment. Maybe all daughters

have troubled times with their mothers? I continue to ick

through the photos they really are quite beautiul. Stellawould have loved them. She loved every little bit o wildlie

photography. Even mongrel dogs. I glance at the clock on the

wall and it is aer our. Everyone would still be doing small-

talk back at our house. I dont want to go home just yet.

Hillary disappears or a bit down the hall and through

a doorway. I glance around. Her home is really arty andmodern, but archival too. An archeological dig could happen

here and it wouldnt be out o place. Tere are things to be

ound . . . interesting things. Tere are loads o photos o

Hillary with another woman looking happy and serious and

being silly. Hillarys lucky to have a sister whom she eels so

comortable with. Tats what Stella and I had. Our relation-ship ft perectly, like a jigsaw puzzle.

I take a closer look at the photos and see that Hillary and

her sister are nothing alike. No similarities, no same nose;

they have very dierent eyes, totally dierent shaped aces,

mouths and lips. She must be Hillarys BFF. Its ashionable

to have a Best Friend Forever, its almost mandatory in theworld o the A-class celebrity. Come to think o it the B, C

and D classes have them, too. She could be a cousin, a distant

relative, a step-sister, a hal-sister, a sister-sister?




19/20

16

I sit back on the lounge and tuck my eet up under my

butt, hoping to minimise the space Im taking up in the room.

Hillary comes back in. She ashes her immaculate teeth intoa manicured smile.

So, tell me about your aunty? she says as she sits on the

lounge opposite me.

Stella was my everything, I reply. She was my most

dearest person, who I loved more than anyone.

Tis must be so hard or you, this eeling o emptiness.Hillary plays with the hem o her baggy pants.

I suppose I am empty and aching. Im not sure when its

going to stop being this way. I smooth my skirt and pull at

the eet o my laddered stockings.

How old was Stella?

She was twenty-six. But when we were together, I eltlike there was no age gap. We loved the same stu, ound the

same things unny. When we were hanging out, everything

elt right, and when I wasnt with her like sometimes when

she le or a job somewhere when she needed a change

then lie didnt seem so right.

Gosh, its just so awul, what you saw, your loss . . .I have this horrible curiosity about where she is. I wonder

i I will ever see her again?

What do you believe in?

Im not sure I believe in anything right now. I have so many

doubts . . . about everything really part o me is missing. And

Im not sure how I will ever relate to anyone again.Doubt doesnt diminish with age. Im orty-two and still

trying to work it all out. Dont put too much pressure on

yoursel to fnd the answers overnight. ake your time.




20/20

17

Do you know that part in Alice in Wonderland where

Alice meets the caterpillar? I ask.

Um, yeah vaguely. Hillary tries to remember.Te caterpillar asks Alice who she is and she replies that

shes not sure. She knew who she was when she got up in the

morning, but shes changed several times since then. Tats

how I eel. Im never going to be the same again. Stella loved

Alice. She was her avourite character.

You are going through a very di cult time and changeis part o that. Were all changing every day, every minute.

Sometimes you dont even notice, other times its tough-

going. Like or you . . . now.

We continue to talk well into the early evening, this

stranger and me. I dont want to but I do, reely and honestly.

I look outside and see that its dark. It is probably time I gohome to ace Mum and all her questions. Te walk in the

cool night air will help to bring me back, draw me out o this

alse sense o calm I have experienced behind Hillarys red

door. She says I can drop in anytime . . . Im welcome.


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May Free Chapter - Divine Clementine by Hayley S. Kirk