All the King’s Horses

by Karen Goldrick

Once upon a time there lived a girl who as going places. Everyone in the town where she lived used to agree.Old Bill at the milkbar, ‘Marly’ in hand and beer underfoot.

“You’d better watch that Cindy,’ he’d say. “she’s goin’ places.”

Shereen dumping a handful of chicks on the sorting table. “That Lucy’ll go far.” she’d say.

“Lucinda,” said Mrs Tilbrook, the Head of St Martha’s. “ you could do anything you wish — be anyone you want — if you’d just pull your socks up.”

That’s what they all used to say, about me — Lucinda Grainger. But not anymore. not since Joe.

Joe was a star. School captain. Cricket captain. Crown prince in waiting. Supercool tan and dreamy blue eyes. Now he’s the king, but back then, back when I was going places, he was still a prince. Everybody wanted to be with Joe. He fuelled more daydreams then a tinderbox does bushfires. We’d sit at lunch under the big oak tree — watching out for nuns and relighting cigarettes. Dreaming about Joe. Wishing we all had big brothers who could introduce us. Wondering who he’d take to the ball. Wondering how it could be us.

Mum thought he was pretty good, which used to piss me off . Used to make me laugh. Me mum thinks she looks hot in a tight red skirt and short black T. She thinks she looks great. She smokes too much, and her stomach sticks out. She says she smokes so much since all her husbands left her. And her stomach sticks out from havin’ us three kids. She’s lyin’ though, ‘cause we all know I’m not really hers.

On the night of the ball there was this big storm coming across from the west — as they do. Heavy clouds boilin’ up thunder and lightning, hurlin’ down rain which raced off with the dust and stirred all the chooks in the sheds. Chicken shit gets this real bad smell in the rain — like ammonia. So we was smoking to cover the smell — Shawna and Lacey and me. They’re the ugly sisters.

They were going to the ball. Lucky bitches. Shawna was five months pregnant and already fat. She was going with Wayne — I suppose he’s the dad. Lacey was going with Shep, a skinny zitface who can’t even play cricket. They’d both rather be going with Joe.

I wasn’t goin’ so me mum made me help cook tea while Shawna and Lacey hogged the bathroom and tried to make themselves beautiful. But you can’t make yourself beautiful if you’re fat — or if your nickname is “Jaws”. Even if your Ma’s gone out and bought you each a new dress. Lucky Bitches.

Later on, Aunt Flo came over and we smoked and cleaned the rissoles off the frypan. The rain went away and we sweated, our hair plastered on our faces. Mum was sleeping in front of the TV when Aunty Flo dragged me upstairs to show me something.

It was a dress. An old one of hers. Black and tight and velvet and short. I looked pretty OK in it. Just the dress. No earrings. No tattoos. Just me. Just Cindy. Flo said she’d lend me the car — but I had to be back by midnight. Cinderella off to the ball.

I didn’t have a ticket but so what! It was at the Star Hotel — and I know it to bits. Round the back you can climb up on a red brick retainer and scrabble through a window to the gent’s rooms. It’s just a matter of timing.

Joe was on his own. Like me. I found Gemma at the bar and she knew for sure. He hadn’t asked anyone. It seemed like every girl in the place had zoned in on him. Willing him to have a dance. The crown prince. Heir to the kingdom .

I walked towards him. I was a year younger, but I didn’t care. I felt invincible. I was going places. It was like a spotlight had fallen across the room. All those couples dancing stupidly to the mobydisc gave way. Everyone was watching. Everyone held their breath. And then he saw me. I knew I had him.

“Wanna dance?”

Just like that. Proper and upper class. I said nothing. I didn’t want to talk. Didn’t wanna to spoil the moment with my chicken farm drawl.

I can’t remember much about it now. I can’t remember what we danced to, or if the lights were down. I can’t remember what he was wearing. Did he wear any aftershave? Were his hands cold? It was enough that it was Joe. Dancing with me. We had two dances. Maybe three. He bought me a drink. He showed me his car. It was silver and gleaming in the after rain dark. A silver convertible. One of those long ones that Mum always says is phallic. Joe’s phallic silver convertible. A carriage for the crown prince and his princess Cinderella.

I was supposed to live happily ever after, but then the dream changed. I was tired and my eyes were blurry. But he wanted it and he was stronger than me. I didn’t cry out. This was Joe. He was going places. So I gave him what he wanted. Gave it to him with the desperate hope that my dream was still alive. Then I climbed out of the back seat and stumbled back to Aunty Flo’s car. I remember being glad that I didn’t have mascara on. I remember being glad no-one would see me cry. It was nearly half past twelve.

For a while, the next day, I let myself think everything was OK. Everyone at school knew I’d been with Joe. They all wanted to talk to me. Be my friend. Offer me Marlies under the tree so I could tell them yet again how great he was and how we were going in his new car to the Weir on the weekend. For a while ...

By lunchtime they’d heard. I could tell as I walked slow and sore down the backblock stairs. They were looking and pointing and it wasn’t with incredulous admiration any more. It was despite.

“Slut.”

“Bushpig”

I looked to the ground and kept going. I didn’t run away. I was going places. Near the tuckshop three girls were laughing. Frankie and Ollie and Sooze. Fat Frankie with a pale blue bra stretched across the top of her uniform. Fat Frankie wearing my bra.

“It doesn’t fit. Me boobs are too big!”

Then, extra loud in case in case I hadn’t heard: “Whoever owns this bra must have really small tits.” And more whoops of laughter as she unhooked it and passed it to Sooze.

I think everyone in our form tried it on before it was pinned over the front of my locker — the word “slut” in red texta all over it.

I left school that day. I never went back. There was no point. Mum was pissed off. She’d wanted me to finish year twelve. Wanted me to do my TERS. Wanted to brag about sending her girl to uni. Even though I wasn’t ever her girl. I thought I could leave town. Go someplace where nobody knew I was a slut. Then my period didn’t come. I got a job at the all nighter to save enough to get rid of it. By the time I’d saved up — it was too late.

So now mum’s really pissed off now. Two of us is havin’ babies and none of us married. She goes on about how can we afford it. She goes on about how she’s not gonna raise two grandchildren. She goes on and on and on, and the chicken shit stinks and I have to have another cigarette.

Once upon a time there was a girl who was going places. Once upon a time — that’s ’what they’d have all told you. But now — Joe is the king, and his father owns all the chickens. And even though they all know he’s the one — it’s me who’s the slut and he remains the king. I hope I have a boy. Boy’s don’t get called Slut. Boys don’t get pregnant. Boys can go places.