In My Skin , livre ebook

Canongate Books - Kate Holden

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141 pages

English

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Kate Holden is accustomed to being summed up at a glance: arts graduate, history buff, middle-class daughter, dreamer, innocent. But she is a young woman who understands better than most the secrets that people keep hidden. In My Skin follows her journey from her reputation as a 'good girl' in the safe and leafy suburbs of Melbourne to the all-consuming attractions of heroin and the sex industry. This is a story of survival and resourcefulness; an unflinching look at the consequences of addiction. Holden's journey leads her from a sheltered life in her loving family home to a world of sex for money - a seedy netherworld of back lanes, backseats and brothels. More than just a fearless and compelling narrative, In My Skin is a triumphant announcement of a major new literary talent.

Informations

Publié par	Canongate Books
Date de parution	05 avril 2006
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781847676856
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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This memoir is dedicated to my brave and beautiful family.
For everything.

Facilis descensus Averno…sed revocare…hoc opus, hic labor est.

To descend into hell is easy. But to return what work, what a labour it is!

VIRGIL
Contents
Title Page Dedication Epigraph Prologue I Was a Sensitive Little Girl It Was The Night of Our James Said a Friend of So I Went On I Tried. I Tried Swimming A Week After John It Was Winter When I Started I Still Called Myself The Street, Jake's Flat The Next Time I Went To See Daisy We Arrived At An Elegant We Lasted A Week In That Place Working Every Night It Was A New And Enthralling It Was A Small My Fears Were Emotional I Had Been At Mood Home Wasn't So Happy My House Was Furnished Later That Night I Got We Had A Calendar In The Kitchen One Night After The Next Day I Slept Late; Again By September I'd Have The Last Days Came Rushing Up Fast Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright
P ROLOGUE
W HAT DO I REMEMBER of being a prostitute?
I remember tenderness, boredom, the ice-creams we would eat at 3 a.m. in front of the television; the smell of cocks, shy men with silky skin, laughter; dark streets gleaming; boys in baseball caps slouching in the introduction lounge, heavy bellies pressing on me; conversations, sneaking cigarettes while fixing my make-up.
I remember the other girls being like sisters, and knowing that to tell them my real name was dangerous. I remember opening my heart to strange men and stroking their faces, smiling. I remember being pounded so hard my face was white with pain. I remember being a prostitute, and being proud of it, liking it.
But what I did is not normal. No? I was naked, I touched people’s bodies, they touched mine, we were alone in a room. Like a masseur, like a dentist, like a beauty therapist. Yes, but I opened my body, they touched me there. Like a doctor. Yes, but inside.
Yes.
I sometimes wondered, with my legs spread over the face of some eager man, if I felt regret for the invasion of my most secret places. A man whom I’ve never met before is staring at my vagina. But what does this mean? It is just skin. Am I ashamed to have the crook of my knee examined? My ear? The inside of my mouth? Eyes leave no scar, I am not reduced by someone’s gaze. My body is beautiful, and desired; I feel beautiful and desirable. Someone is looking at me. At the outside, at the membrane of flesh that veils me. I am still mine.
I do not like to judge others. I know now that everyone has their secrets. I write mine down. I carry them lightly inside me. They are almost invisible.
I walked dark and dirty footpaths in the middle of the night. I got into strangers’ cars and got out swearing or smiling. I drove with men to grotty alleys and put stained tissues in my bag afterwards. I took their money and wiped my mouth and went to a small flat and pumped chemical relief into my vein, and returned to the rainy street. I slept on a dirty mattress in an empty room and shivered and woke every grey twilight wishing I could sleep forever. I lived on chocolate bars and bought a single cup of coffee for an afternoon, sheltering in warm cafés for comfort. I watched people in supermarkets and couldn’t remember what it felt like to take ordinary things from the shelves. I stood in the dark on the footpath and gazed in on bright living rooms. I held down so much sorrow I couldn’t feel anything anymore. The sadness and anger corroded all my feelings. The only thing I knew I wanted was heroin, and rest.
I made money I’d never imagined and I wore velvet dresses and shone in lamplight. I walked tall in crowds, knowing myself to be desired. I received luxurious gifts. I was a princess in my realm and men couldn’t get enough of me. They waited hours for my company and I couldn’t even remember their names. I had a house with a spa and hardwood floors; I lost track of fifty dollar notes, and found them adrift in pockets, inside books. I was everyone’s favourite. I told people I was a prostitute, and smiled as I said it, and dared them to turn their gaze.
The smile that I give when I talk about it now is, I can feel, nostalgic, provocative. A brightness comes into my eyes. And, I’m told, a hard look too.
I WAS A SENSITIVE LITTLE girl, but perhaps not more than most. Sometimes the world was too big; other times, far too small. It took a long time to nudge out the right space in it.
My family was simple and close: two parents and a younger sister. We grew up in a nice suburb of Melbourne, in a large and comfortable old house, though the front lawn was a disgrace and the weatherboards flaked a little. We had two old lemon trees in the backyard. My sister and I used to ‘paint’ the boards with the hose, darkening the colour for just a moment. My parents were too busy with their books and work, and with raising us, to bother much about the dandelions in the lawn. Inside the big house we had all the warmth we needed. The place was cluttered, full of cracked treasures, odd objects in boxes, the smell of casserole.
My father was a scientist, bearded and genial, who gathered my sister and me into his arms and told us magical stories. Busy with a career in the community and education, my mother often seemed to me sterner, but at parties I sheltered behind her slim hip to watch the other children. Quick to hug and kiss me, she made sure I knew that I was always cherished.
It was the seventies. My mother taught me that men are not to be feared, that women are strong, that a person could become anything she wished, as long as she did it with passion and a good heart. My father showed me this also. I knew only kind men.
My parents bought me books: on cavemen, on gods, on unicorns, on deserts and beasts and adventures. Stories of forest paths and brave princesses. I grew up in a house insulated with books. They covered every wall; and as I was timid, they were my gentlest friends. From their pages I took dreams of a magical island, safely moated and quiet under a humming sun.
With some friends, my mother established a small alternative primary school. The fathers had beards, the women short hair and clean faces. There the dozen or so students were encouraged to develop their own interests without too many boundaries. Free to read all day if I chose, or to play with my friends, I grew up loving alternately the haven of solitude and the solace of a group. My soft little voice was often lost in the furore of the yard. When my friends played ‘horses’, I was a lone mare tossing my mane on the other side of the playground until they fetched me back. Sometimes it was easier to sit in a warm place and read.
When I was about nine, there was a day on which we were all to make cubby houses. Someone had donated cardboard boxes used for delivering fridges: sturdy, roomy boxes. There were parents of the children there, but my mother was in a meeting with the owners of the church building the school leased. I was feeling miserable. The clatter of the room was too loud.
‘Pair up, and you can decorate your cubby house,’ we were encouraged. Everyone else coupled up and started getting thick paintbrushes and polystyrene off-cuts from the craft table, cutting doorways and windows, painting flowerboxes under the ‘sills’ and fluorescent trees against the ‘walls’. The room was filled with the sound of happy children talking and planning. I looked at them, and didn’t want to join. There seemed something foolish about the bother.
I found a box for myself. With a Stanley knife, I cut a low entrance. I jostled open the flap I’d made, and got in.
Inside, it was ochre-shadowed and warm. The cardboard muffled the noise of the other children; I curled up, chin to knees, crossed arms holding myself. My breath came back warm at my face. I grew drowsy with the silence and the peace.
I thought of gods in their grottoes, as I’d read in my mythology books. Safe caves, secret glades. Centaurs and nymphs, curled up in the roots of ancient trees. My face was damp with breath. It was so quiet in there. I thought I would never get out of this box where I could be me, alone, hardly anyone at all.
‘Where’s Kate? She Kate? Are you in there?’ Concerned voices outside, hollow thumps on the fragile wall. ‘Are you coming out? Do you want some crayons? You haven’t decorated!’
I sat there in my cocoon, besieged, becoming more and more resentful and furious. Don’t make me come out . The voices went away; returned.
‘Well, if you’re just going to sulk ’
I clambered out, embarrassed and murderous, already realising that sometimes escape is not popular, that it needs to be more furtive.

*
My mother and I had arguments, shrieking at each other down the hall, slamming doors. What did she, what did everyone, want from me? My dark brows under the blonde fringe drew down in rage. In dumb fury I poured libations of bitter dregs from my father’s wine bottle, murmuring something confused to ancient gods I almost believed in. On those days Athena, my goddess, loved not only wisdom but war.
Then it was time to leave the little alternative school. At a state high school I faltered. I withdrew behind my long hair, lowered my face. I could never quite understand what my new friends saw in me, gauche, try-hard, blushing with my gummy smile. But they took me in, and taught me to be welcomed, and though I looked in horror on their early experiments with drinking and smoking, I remained, hovering, on the rowdy fringe of teenage conspiracy. I was the one to bring glasses of water to tired, drunken friends, to call the taxi home. Being out was exciting but I loved going home.
There were my piano, my books, the sweet frail light that slipped down the hall in the afternoons, the familiar scorn of my little sister. My bedroom, where I could curl up and dream, and sometimes cry, and vanish. Inside me, that was where I fo