Puberty Blues (4 page)

ON Saturday evening, we girls got ready. Little bit of blusher, black mascara, blue eye-shadow and perfume. Only a few of us could afford make-up
and
cigarettes out of our pocket money so the rest of us stole it from our local chemist. We wore straight-legged Levis, casual suede shoes, little white shirts, jumpers and zipped coats. It was a comfortable uniform.

We usually met at Sue's place, even when her parents were home, because there was a little TV room downstairs. The whole gang crammed in. There was some stupid show on that none of us were really watching. It was just an excuse to sit or lie next to the person you were vaguely interested in. If you didn't have too many pimples he'd probably be vaguely interested back. Within an hour, all the couples would be snuggled up and smooching anywhere they could fit.
Over the night-and-day, under the night-and-day, in between the goldfish tank and the piano, draped across the television aerial, under and across the ping-pong table or compressed together like two bits of corned beef in a vinyl armchair sandwich.

You'd always just get comfortable and Mrs Knight would come down to bring us a packet of chips. The sound of her scuffs clapping on the stairs went through us like an electric shock. By the time she got down to the bottom of the stairs, we were brushed, buttoned, zippered, upright, legs crossed and sitting at attention.

‘What's on the telly?' she asked. Our blank faces turned up to her.

‘Um …'

‘Oh … well … It's been good, really good … hasn't it … Danny?'

‘Mmmmmmm … bin a lot of ads but …'

‘Well I'm off now dears.' Sue's was the best place to hang, 'cause Mr and Mrs Knight were always going to the club. ‘There's plenty of soft drink in the fridge and I've left out some lamingtons and Cheezels so look after your guests, Susan. I've left the number of the club by the phone. Behave yourselves now.'

As soon as the Ford turned out of the driveway, the boys leapt into violent games of ping-pong, shouting at each other, smoking cigarettes and frisbeeing the ping-pong bats. Us girls sat in terror of the little room. This was an adjoining spare
bedroom, supposed to be used as a study.

At any time of the night, you could look up and notice one couple missing: Johnno and Tracey, Sue and Danny, Dave and Kim, Garry and Vicki, Gull and Kerrie or Cheryl and her current—either Wayne, Glen Jackson or Darren Peters. It was like musical screws. Somehow or other, at some time of the night, you found yourself conveniently positioned near the door of the little room. When the coast was clear, he led you in by the hand. Your boyfriend wedged the Coolite surfboard under the door handle and against the wall like a foam burglar alarm.

Bruce was still trying to screw me. We both took off our clothes. I could see this great, hulking, looming thing in the darkness, with blonde hair and glasses. Then there was a hand on my breast. Knead. Knead. Knead. Not that I had much breast. I had developed certain positions to make my boobs seem bigger. There was the lying-on-my-side-crunching-them-together-with-my-arms position. There was the bending-over-letting-them-hang position … because when I lay down on my back, they seemed to disappear.

I didn't know how he got an erection. I didn't even know what an erection was. There was just this hard, mysterious thing zooming towards me as Bruce mounted and shoved it in. Well, he tried to shove it in. He tried and tried and tried to shove it in. For half an hour he tried.

‘We need some Vaseline.' He broke the painful silence.

I had to put all my clothes back on; orange hip-nipper underpants, little white shirt, zippered coat, shoes and socks. I smoothed down my hair, climbed over the Coolite and left the little room … alone.

Vaseline was an essential in surfie-life. It was used to soften eyebrows before plucking, rub into surfboard rashes, pull off your randy horse and various other things.

Everybody watched me as I crossed the room and went up the spiral staircase. I searched everywhere; in bathroom cupboards and dressing tables. Down I went again.

‘Where's the vaseline?' I whispered to Sue.

‘In the bathroom drawer.'

Now the whole gang knew why I was going backwards and forwards across the room like a ping-pong ball.

When I returned Bruce was waiting naked and patiently. I pulled the Vaseline out from my underpants, handed it to the Maestro and undressed in the darkness.

Things got gooey. He drowned me in petroleum jelly and coated himself. He mounted me and tried again. He tried and tried and tried to shove it in. It just wouldn't work. What a marvellous sensation! Being split up the middle!

‘Stop 'angin' onoo me 'ips.'

I let go and clutched the bedspread, digging in my fingernails. I waited in agony to pass out.

He gave up.

We dressed in silence, dismantled the surfboard security system and it was Tracey and Johnno's turn.

I've still got that rusty little jar of Vaseline, all these years later, full of eyebrow and pubic hair. A little something to remember my first love.

 

And that was our Saturday night. It never much varied. It was either a night in the back of the panel van at the drive-in, hanging someone's place when their parents were out or gate-crashing a party.

BRRING … BRRRINGG …

‘Susan! Telephone.'

‘Who is it?' she called up the stairs.

‘It's Danny.'

‘Okay.' She raced up the stairs to the lounge.

‘Hi Danny.'

‘Hi.'

‘How are ya?'

‘Not too bad.'

‘Oh … how was school?'

‘Ah, not too bad.'

‘Oh … It was really funny in history today. Debbie and I were just sittin' there and Mr Nashville walked in, oh God, and he—'

‘Hang on.'
Clunk
. Sue could hear the television in the background. It was Thursday night, the
Benny
Hill Show
. Danny wouldn't miss it for the world. Five minutes later he returned to the receiver.

‘Danny, wadaya doin'?'

Chuckle, chuckle. ‘Oh God, he's just so funny. Should've seen what he just did …'

‘Who?'

‘
Benny Hill!
This chick was just walkin' across, and her pants fell down ha ha ha, and she fell over, and Benny Hill went up to her and ha ha ha … hang on, the ads are over.'
Clunk
.

Sue clutched the receiver and stared at the ceiling. And it was a five-minute wait till the next break. She heard the music for the Lemon Fab ad, and braced herself. Danny related the last ten minutes of the show. He told her about Benny standing up and Benny sitting down. Benny running. Benny falling over. Susan laughed in all the right places.

‘Danny,' she interrupted, ‘what are we doin' tomorrow night?'

‘… and then he took this chick and …'

‘Danny!'

‘Huh?'

‘What are we doin' on Fridee night?'

‘I dunno. What do you wanna do?'

‘Well I dunno. Tracey's parents are goin' out.'

‘Who told ya?'

‘Vicki.'

‘Who's goin?'

‘I dunno. Boardie, Johnno, Cheryl and everyone …'

‘Oh … righto, I'll ring Boardie. He can pick us up. Hang on, the ads are over …'
Clunk
.

 

Everybody was there. Tracey had invited her five best friends and it had ended up with the Greenhills Gang, the Woolooware boys and every surfie between the Bowling Alley and Cronulla Point. The backyard was thick with kids. All in straight-legged Levis and thongs. All swaggering around with bottles of beer and Brandivino. Steven Strachan was there …
the
Sylvania heavy. He raped chicks regularly under the bowling alley, and bragged about it.

‘What about Frieda Cummins? … ha ha ha …'

I pricked up my ears for gossip.

‘Small gang-bang 'eh,' he said sarcastically. Chuckle, chuckle. ‘Nelly come out 'er mowf.'

‘What a slack-arsed moll,' I whispered to Sue.

‘But do ya reckon she liked it?' Sue ventured.

‘I dunno!' Gull laughed, gulping down some more beer. ‘Neva asked 'er.'

‘
She loves it
,' cried Steve Strachan sucking on his bottle, swaying in Sue's direction. Sue stepped back. Steve Strachan was the heavy of the Greenhills gang. He was six feet tall, wore ugg boots, a lumber jacket, a big, black moustache, and his teeth, when he sniggered, were like fangs. He fingered girls in the pub pool. When he jumped in, everyone jumped out.

‘Yeah, twenty of us went frew 'er,' Steve boasted. ‘She loved it.'

‘She kept fallin' asleep but,' Gull complained.

‘Oh, ya jest gotta slap 'er round a bit. Roll 'er over. Stick it in. Twist it roun'. Haul it out … (snigger, snigger) she loved it.'

Molls made me feel sick. How could anyone love it? ‘Yeah, she sucks a mean cock,' Strack slobbered. ‘Don't hog the bottle Gull!'

‘Hey Susie,' I whispered, ‘there's Cheryl.'

Cheryl was staggering around the yard, falling all over the boys.

‘Oooh'ar, she's drunk.'

‘Hope Wayne doesn't find out ….'

‘She's gonna get a bad name.'

‘And she got a ring from him last week … What a moll … Oh, gidday Cheryl.'

Her big mouth dropped open, ‘Hi.'

Gull turned around. ‘Oh, it's Noaln. Watcha bin drinkin' Nolan?' He looked at the bottle she was grasping. ‘Tequila … rugged stuff for a little girl.'

‘Oh shuddup,' she drooled.

We gasped. Nobody ever told Gull to shut up.

‘What? You drunk little girl? You'd better drink some milk. Wait here.'

Gull returned with a glass of milk from the kitchen.

‘Drink this,' he ordered, handing it to Cheryl. She looked at it in disgust. She looked at him in disgust. She looked back at the glass.
Splat!

Oh my God. Milk all over Seagull.

Sue and I drew back into the shrubs and considered leaving.

Gull sobered, drew himself up and growled.

Suddenly from the balcony came a shout: ‘Tracey's olds are home!'

A mass of drunken teenagers swarmed over the back fence and down the side, throwing their cans over with them. Gull hauled Cheryl over and in three seconds the yard was clear and the lights in the house were turned off.

‘Susie, is that you?' I whispered from behind the barbecue.

‘Yeah.'

‘Let's get out of here.' We sneaked down the side passage and met the boys at Boardie's panel van.

‘Sprung!' cried Jeff Basin, the local dubbo.
^*

‘Oh der,' moaned Boardie sarcastically. ‘Come on, let's split.'

‘Reckon.' I sat next to Bruce in the front seat, my hand on his thigh. Danny pulled Sue over the back. He stank of stale beer and cigarettes.

‘Come on …' he slobbered, mauling her breast. He hadn't got a screw since last weekend.

She lay down in silence and started peeling off her Levis, zippered coat and little white shirt as we bounced along the road.

Halfway up the Princes Highway, Bruce hit the brakes.

‘Hey. There's Jacko! Get in Jacko! Jump in the back!'

So Glen Jackson jumped in the back, just in time to see Susie madly pulling on her leopard-skin underpants.

She was terrified. Jacko had a big mouth. Now she'd be known as a moll. The whole of Sylvania would know. It'd be scratched into school desks … whispered about behind her back in the canteen …

‘Small swell today, eh Danny?'

‘Yes, nor' east badly, Jack.'

‘Reckon. Gidday, Susan.'

Maybe he hadn't noticed after all …

Girls never talked to each other about screwing. If you did you were slack. We thought it was a secret between us and our boyfriends. Yet that's all the boys
did
talk about, way out on the flat sea, sitting on their boards, in between sets. They told every detail. The Greenhills guys knew the ins and outs of every girl in the gang.

Monday mornings weren't so bad if I'd done something exciting on the weekend to brag about. The other girls clamoured around me in the morning to hear the latest stories and to see the freshest love bites.

‘What time didja get home?'

‘Whadja Mum say?'

‘Then what did he do?'

And it never stopped. Even when the bell rang, the surfie saga continued.

‘NOW, who can tell me the adverb in this understated clause? Larkham? Basin?'

‘Oh, Mr Fairburn, you haven't told us about your fishing trip yet …'

‘Yeah!' chorused the second form English class.

‘Oh … ho … you don't want to hear about that.'

‘Pleeease, sir,' cried Larkham.

‘Ah go on, sir,' whined Basin.

‘All right, all right …'

Phew. The class sat back for a bludge. Once we got him going he'd talk away at least half the period.

I scratched out a note to Sue, wrapped it around my rubber and dropped it in the aisle between us.

‘Psst.'

Sue, nodding attentively at Mr Fairburn's story, reached down to pull up her sock, scooping up the rubber at the same time. She put it in her lap and read it.

‘Sue—Bruce wants me to meet him down the creek this arvo. Don't think I'm slack, but do you reckon I should let him again? I don't want to get a bad name. I don't reckon he really likes me.'

Sue looked at Mr Fairburn, her eyes wide with attention and waited till the teacher cast his imaginary rod out of the window to scribble back a note to me. She put it into her pencil case and passed it across.

‘Look Debbie—Kim told me that Bruce's wrapped in ya,' it said. ‘Meet him but don't let him use you. Lend us your ruler?'

I smiled at Mr Fairburn encouragingly, and passed another note, under the table and across the aisle. Sue propped it up behind her English book and read it.

‘I don't want him to go round with me just for what he can get. I don't want him to think that I'm just a rooting machine. Debbie and Bruce forever.'

There was no more room to write anything. The slip of paper was crammed with scribbled messages and hearts and old maths equations.

The bell went just as Mr Fairburn was hauling in his ‘whopper'.

Susan chucked the screwed up note into the bin as we went to meet the gang for lunch.

I did meet Bruce after school. We shared a cigarette and blew smoke rings behind the lantana.

 

Next afternoon I was daydreaming out of the window, when a messenger from the office came in.

‘Deborah,' said Mr Fairburn, ‘Deborah Vickers, you're wanted in the headmaster's office immediately.'

I nearly choked. A wave of fear rushed through me. ‘What have I done?' I thought. The whole class looked around at me. Was it smoking or nicking off? I couldn't think of anything. The school was deadly quiet as I walked across the quadrangle. The sun glared down on the grey, bare asphalt. Used meat-pie wrappers and lunch bags blew about the bins, and I wished Sue was with me.

I knocked timidly on Mr Bishop's door. His bald head looked up. ‘Come in, lassie.'

I entered.

‘Take a seat.'

I sat.

He ‘ummed' and ‘ahhed' and sighed. He rubbed his wrinkled temples and drummed his hairy fingers on the desk.

‘I'm disappointed in you, lassie … Frankly, I'm disgusted!' A little bit of spit shot across the table. ‘Tch, tch, tch …' For a moment he was overcome.

I clutched the sides of my seat. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a ragged piece of paper. He waved it in my face. I still didn't know what he was talking about.

‘Maybe this will refresh your memory … I-don't-want-him-to-go-round-with-me-just-for-what-he-can-get … I-don't-want-him-to-think-I'm-just-a-
rooting
-machine.' I sat on in agony. ‘Don't try to deny
it. It was found in the garbage bin by the cleaning woman yesterday. After
your
English class. She did the correct thing and brought it to me and I acted upon it immediately. I know the boy involved. I never expected this of you Deborah.
Rooting machine!
Would you mind elaborating on that?' He leant forward.

I thought quickly. ‘Everybody says it, sir. It doesn't mean anything.'

‘Am I to assume you've had
sexual intercourse
with that long-haired lout—Bruce Board?' I nearly spewed.

He went on and on. He threatened to keep the note in his safe. He promised to send it to the Director of Education if I stepped out of line between now and when I left school and I wouldn't get my HSC. I wouldn't get a job. My parents would be informed. ‘So, Deborah Vickers, you'd better pull your socks up …'

Sue rang me that night.

‘Hi, Deb. What happened?'

‘He cracked a mental.'

‘What for?'

‘He found the note.'

‘Deadset? Are ya on detention? Is he gonna tell ya olds?'

‘Yeah, so he reckons.'

‘No bull? What a weak act.'

‘Oh the old perv. Bishop can stick it.'

‘Anyway, has Bruce rung ya yet?'

‘Nah. He rings me at eight.'

‘Deadset? Every Wednesday? Jeez, he's roolly stoked in ya Deb. Treats ya roolly good and stuff.'

‘Yeah reckon. How 'bout Danny? Does he … tch! Oh hang on, it's me old lady … Wot Mum? … Sue! … Yeah! I gotta ask her a science question don't I? … Righto …'

Being a girl, I never rang Bruce. I just spent all Wednesday night by the phone. That gave me time to write out the junk I was going to say to him.

1. Didja hear about Frieda Cummins?
   
2. How was the surf?
   
3. Did you watch Number 96?
   
4. Got called down to the headmaster's today.
   
5. What are we doin' Friday night?
   

His contribution to the conversation consisted of a grunt, ‘yeah', ‘deadset', ‘unroole', ‘perf', ‘na', ‘dunno', and ‘seeya'.

‘Bruce, what are we doin' Friday night?'

‘Danny wantsta go to the drive-in.'

‘Who's goin'?'

‘I dunno. Deakin. Kim. Me.'

‘What's on?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Okay, pick us up Friday.'

‘Righto seeya.'

I hung up the phone. ‘Mum …?' She was packing Thursday's lunches in the kitchen.

‘Yes dear.'

‘Can I go to the pictures with Sue on Friday night?'

‘Who else is going?'

‘Oh, all the other girls. Kim and Tracey and them.'

‘Not “them”. The others. Kim and Tracey and the others.'

‘Kim and Tracey and the others.'

‘What's on?'

‘James Bond. It's only rated “M”. We're catching the bus and then Mr Knight'll pick us up. Oh, go on.'

‘Go ask your father.'

‘
Dad
…'

On Friday evening I got ready. I wore straight-legged Levis and see-through underpants.

‘Now behave yourself.'

‘Yes, Mum.'

‘And thank Mr Knight.'

‘Yes, Mum.'

‘And don't sit near the aisle.'

‘Huh?'

‘Some pusher may jab you in the arm with Heaven-knows-what. I read about it in the
Mirror
.'

‘Yes, Mum.'

 

Bruce wasn't allowed at my place anymore. I wasn't even supposed to be going out with him. Sue's parents were cool, so I usually met him up there. My mum and dad thought he was ‘undesirable'.

‘He's got nothing going for him,' my mother said.

‘He's below your standard, Deborah.'

‘How can you possibly find anything to talk to him about? What do you
do
with the boy all weekend?'

Then my father would pipe up. ‘What does his father do for a living?'

‘Yes,' my mother would add, ‘what kind of house does he live in?'

Bruce's father was a brickie's labourer and they lived in a small fibro house. It was very embarrassing when I first brought him home. We had a three-storeyed red brick house with three bathrooms and a pool.

He had made a bad first impression on my parents.

My father glared at him as he bounced across the new shag-pile carpet, in his sandy, damp thongs.

‘Dad. This is Bruce. Bruce, my father.'

‘Gidday, Mr Vickers. Gettin' heaps?'

‘How do you do?' My father left the room.

‘Jeez! This is a fuckin' mansion!' Bruce said, flopping into the newly upholstered Keith Lord lounge suite that no one ever sat on.

‘Sssshh … Not so loud.' Swearing was unheard of in my house. My pocket money was fined every time I swore or ‘took the Lord's name in vain'.

He ate all the biscuits, swore at my little brother and smoked my father's cigarettes. My mother was weeding the azaleas as I walked him down to the car. She came over to say goodbye, glancing in the back of his hotted-up panel van. She took note of the double
mattress and the sex posters on the wall.

Bruce was revved up. ‘Seeya later old cheese!' he cried and roared down the driveway.

From then on Bruce always had to pick me up on the corner.