ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

Hidden in the Pines
Anna Bilbrough
Pine washes over me, scent and sensation. I pick a few stray needles
off my shirt as I lay in the grass, the soil underneath damp from
overnight rain. I feel my clothes sticking to my back. The pine
needles tug lightly at my skin as I roll them between thumb and
forefinger. I can feel the skin of my stomach stretch as I inhale. I am
settling into the ground. I can feel the divots my elbows and heels
are making in the soft soil.
The sky is almost clear. I watch the clouds move, seeing nothing in
their shapes. Threads of thought drift through my mind, but I can’t
hold on to any of these threads, can’t stitch them into a sentence.
My eyelids are seconds from closing over, the warmth of the sun
and the silence of the park lulling me into an almost slumber.
In my half-awake state I think that the earth is a mirror on itself;
the sea and the sky look at each other as twins might. The breaking
waves are like the clouds. Our land, us – we are interruptions,
smudges on the mirror. I feel infinitesimal.
I am alone. It is Tuesday lunchtime and there are few people
around. I lay on a slight uphill slant, at the bottom of which is the
local lake and walking track. There is a playground and benches
a short walk from where I lay. The shrieks of the children flying
around the playground filter through the pine trees to me and it is a
foreign sound. It has been a while since I have been in the company
of exuberant children.
I think of where I am supposed to be. The city, a campus, a lecture
room. I think, This is where I want to be. Two hours into my threehour
drive, I stopped at a roadhouse. I was eating full English
breakfasts alongside the truck drivers, wiping greasy fingers down
my jeans.
Pine needles are collecting in my hair and falling down the back
of my shirt. I stand, brush myself off and swing my backpack over
my shoulder. I survey the flattened grass. My phone sits facedown
on the ground. I pick it up and place it back in my pocket. I start
walking.
‘Nancy, come on. Lunch is ready.’
A shadow fell over my face and I recognised the silhouette of
Jasmine. Her hand was extended.
I was lying in the grass, enjoying the sun, thinking nothing. I had
separated from the group.
I hoisted my upper half off the ground, accepted my friend’s hand
and laughed as, unprepared for the dampness of my palm from
the dewy grass, her hand slipped out of mine and I found myself
facing the sky again. She extended both hands, dugs her heels into
the ground, affected the stance of some kind of Sumo wrestler and
helped me off the ground, on to my own two feet. I brushed myself
down, pine needles getting lost among the grass. She smiled at me
and I smiled back – a mirror.
My breakfast sits in my stomach like a paperweight. I can feel my
shoulders hunching, unable to stretch my torso straight.
I continue up the hill, away from the lake, backpack bumping my
thigh in time with my steps.
The trees and shrubs thicken. My shoes slip on the grass from
time to time, causing my body to spark with awareness. The sun
is behind me and the back of my neck grows hot. The soft, short
grass from lower down the hill has turned mostly to thick clumps
of thistle bushes and wide, long blades of grass that irritate the skin
around my ankles. I am aware that my gait resembles a flamingo
as I dodge the thistles and step high to avoid the itch of the
vegetation, but there is no track up this way – I can step anywhere.
This ground is familiar to me. Summer school days were spent
here, fish and chips wrapped in butcher’s paper tucked under arm,
tomato sauce bottle nicked from the staff room. The four of us
would skip maths, science and classes with a substitute teacher –
any excuse to leave school was taken advantage of. The lady at the
corner store, sweating over the fryers, would eye us suspiciously,
debating whether to report us. We would charm her—or rather,
Jasmine would charm her. Rose gold hair flipped over her shoulder,
she’d laugh and joke with the woman, assuaging any doubts.
At the hill, we’d plant ourselves deep in the thick of the trees
surrounding the lake, hiding from view and from the high school
down the road. Those days formed us as a group.
I think of them as I continue up the hill, sweat starting to form on
the small of my back. My steps became slower and wider as the hill
steepens.
The others—Jasmine, Hugh and Franny— have been in my
periphery ever since school finished and I see them from time to
time. Each time I do though, I sense that they have outgrown the
people I am familiar with. Things, people, have always moved
around me and I am an unmovable bollard cemented to one spot.
Jasmine, like me, is studying in the city. Film. When I catch her
in the city, her boarding a tram, me stepping off, she’s under the
impression that we’ll bump into each other again. I act like I believe
that, too.
Hugh is still in town. The thought occurs to me that I should pop
in, send him a message to catch up for lunch. He works at the local
theatre, sometimes on the stage, but mostly on the door.
Franny is elusive, always has been. She moved out at seventeen, left
school, worked as an apprentice baker. She is quieter than the rest
of us. Always listening and watching – I watch her watching. She
weighs her words before she speaks them, it’s written on her face.
I know them, but I don’t. I’ve met them, but I haven’t.
Jasmine and I made our way back to where we’d set up, arms
swinging lightly in unison. The thistles underfoot made me step
light and quick.
Franny was walking up the hill, heading towards the rug, too. Her
arms were laden with silver trays of meat. The slight breeze sent the
smell of barbecued meat my way. I was hungry.
We each occupied a corner of the rug, sat on foldout camping chairs
that were unbalanced on the slope of the earth, food spread out
in the middle. As we piled up our plates, we muttered offerings
of thanks to Franny for preparing the food. She smiled lightly,
nodding.
We ate and talked in the way that people do when they’ve known
each other for years, but need to find the common ground.
Manners, niceties, small, vague questions like: ‘What have you been
up to?’. Time ties friendships up in formalities after stretches of no
contact.
As the afternoon stretched, we loosened up, like we always do. We
found our old rhythm and tried our best to march in time together.
I walk until I find the tree with the knotted branches. They twist
around each other like fingers interlaced. There is an old, brick
barbecue standing upright a few metres away, a relic of a once-used
area. This was our hideout.
I sit and fossick in my bag for a tissue. There are a few crumpled
at the base of my backpack. I pat my face and the back of my neck,
soaking up the light layer of sweat.
The playground, the benches and tables and the lake are all out
of view now. I can’t hear the people walking or children playing
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ReadFin Literary Journal