FABRICATIONS: A D ISSERTATION

FABRICATIONS: A DISSERTATION
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Contents
Introduction
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Prologue; Affect and Non-Fiction
8
Chapter 1. The Genre
13
Chapter 2. What Does it Matter Who is Speaking
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Chapter 3. Affect Empathy Ethics
38
Chapter 4. Being Contemporary
49
Chapter 5. The Legal Argument; beyond true and false
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INTRODUCTION
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My novel, Fabrications, is a hybrid form combining non-fiction and fiction. This
blended genre could appear on the surface to be a contradiction in terms. For some
critics, it is an oxymoron. Obvious questions arise such as; how can a factual or
historical narrative maintain its integrity when it is written in the literary form of
the novel? Does the novelisation of an actual event blur the line between fact and
fiction? Is there always a definite line between fact and fiction, between the
journalist and the novelist, between factuality and imagination? All hybrid
literary/non-literary forms blur the lines between what is factual and what is
fictional, what is historically accurate and what is fictionalised narrative. When
these lines between fact and fiction are blurred, questions are asked and
disagreements inevitably follow regarding this mixing of the genres. In academic,
historical and strictly journalistic writing the rules are clear: no ambiguity, no
assumption of knowledge, no personal or subjective intrusions. The traditional
historian adheres strictly to what can be proved to be factual in any rendering of an
actual historical event. The traditional journalist keeps within the parameters of the
facts in any reportage of an event.
My aim in this thesis is not to so much to analyse the various debates
surrounding the writing of non-fiction novels but to present them as they have
existed historically as a means of placing my novel, Fabrications, in the context of
these debates. I also aim to further this debate. These debates have mainly existed
in the public forums of writers’ festivals and the like—events I have frequently
attended and participated in—and in the popular press. This thesis demonstrates the
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way in which this debate has been somewhat circular and frustrating and so it is
also the aim of this thesis to extend the debate into a new and more constructive
path. The debate to date has taken place between historians and writers of nonfiction novels; not all historians agree with one another and the writers of nonfiction frequently have different things to say on the debate. The debate is seen in
this thesis to be generated by certain historians who view non-fiction fiction as
concerning for reasons of historical accuracy. This thesis takes the argument out of
the dichotomy accuracy/inaccuracy, or true and false, and considers the ways in
which the non-fiction novel is doing something different from the historical text—
while at the same time still investing in history as an aspect of our society’s
construction. The thesis discusses non-fiction fiction as a discourse invested in
affect. It aims to demonstrate that the novelisation of history brings to events affect
which in turn produces an empathetic response to the events and, in turn,
introduces a political economy to the text.
I have chosen to write about a real historical, social and cultural event by
using fictional techniques of plot, narrative and invented characters in order to
allow the reader to enter, imaginatively, into the event of the Hindmarsh Island
Bridge Affair. In performing the event, fiction is able to embed the reader (as
narratee) in the narrative. I argue that as a result a more affective and less objective
engagement with the event is achieved. As well, because the novel canvasses a
complexity of related and seemingly unrelated issues, that span both public and
private spheres (in a way that a historical document cannot), the reader is able to
experience affect in relation to the event. This is my way of making room for the
reader within the story of the Hindmarsh Island Bridge Affair and opening the story
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to questions of ethics and politics, which strictly historical and legal discourses, in
their apparent objectivity and universality, do not.
Once the historical event is ascribed to fiction the purpose of recollection is
changed (from that of historical discourse, for example); while there may be a
mapping of the event, its sequence, etc., the event’s importance shifts from that of
fact to that of the example; as is often noted, the novel makes the particular
universal. So in recollecting the Hindmarsh Island Affair I am considering its
resonance with other non-indigenous Australian/Indigenous Australian “affairs”.
Fabrications is told largely through the perspective of a raft of White Australians,
this perspective is important in asserting the presence of white Australia—its
cultures, society and people—in the context of Indigenous affairs, a presence that
ultimately comes to bear on the outcome of affairs such as that of the Hindmarsh
Island Bridge Affair.
With the novel I am attempting to describe the Hindmarsh Island Bridge
Affair from the self-interested, political and subjective perspectives of all the
stakeholders. It is a fictional representation of a recent dispute that occurred which
resulted in an unresolved relationship between indigenous and non-indigenous
Australians. In Fabrications I question the justice of the legal resolution of the
dispute and the means and practices whereby that decision was reached. This is my
fictional account of a story based on fact. However, it is not objective or neutral in
tone, but, as is the work of the novel in general, wrought by moral inflection.
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Prologue
AFFECT AND NON-FICTION FICTION
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Affect is important to discuss in relation to non-fiction fiction as it is important to
the distinction between this genre and the historians’ narrative. It also gives a
reason why these genres are incomparable and in discussing the two the former
should not be reduced to the terms of the latter. Language becomes affective the
more it veers away from objectivity and correspondence (between an image (event)
and language (the telling of the event)1. As I state above, the genre of non-fiction
fiction was chosen so as to avoid being objective or neutral. In his discussion of
affect Massumi (in his now most famous article) notes that where there is a
correspondence or doubling between an image and narration, whereby the narration
expresses “in as objective a manner as possible the common sense function and
consensual meaning of the movements perceived on screen” there is a dampening
of affect (emotion)2 (As all events are mediated I take the liberty here of collapsing
the image and the event.) Massumi adds: language that is “matter-of-fact”3dampens
affect4. It follows, then, that fiction, as it creates a distance between the event and
the telling (as fiction by definition does), is a less objective discourse than that of
the “matter-of fact” discourse, such as History. Fiction is also, therefore, more
affective.
Affect is the effect of intensity and intensity occurs when there is an
interruption of a linear narrative as it progresses from past, present to future. Linear
narratives are narratives of qualification, they are “semantically and semiotically
1
B. Massumi, ‘The Autonomy of Affect’, Cultural Critique, Vol. 30, Autumn 1995, 88.
Ibid., p. 86.
3
Ibid., p. 86.
4
Ibid., p. 86.
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ordered”5 modes of representation. Where the linear narrative is disrupted (by
nonlinear processes) the relationship between the levels is one of “resonation or
interference, amplification or dampening”6.Intensity is the result of these
interruptions in linear narrative.
Intensity is qualifiable as an emotional state, and that state is static—temporal
and narrative noise. It is a state of suspense, potentially of disruption. It is like a
temporal sink, a hole in time… It is not exactly passivity, because it is filled with
motion, vibratory motion, resonation. And it is not yet activity, because the motion is
not of the kind that can be directed (if only symbolically) toward practical ends in a
world of constituted objects and aims (86).
The fictionalised rendering of the Hindmarsh Island Affair operates as nonlinear narrative; the plot (of the Hindmarsh Island Affair) is interfered with when
the narratives of the three main women characters interrupt its flow. Their lives are
made to resonate with the Hindmarsh Affair but in such a way that cannot “be
directed toward practical ends”; there is nothing they can do (as fictional
characters) to change the historical course of events. Their presence is “a temporal
sink” or “a hole in time”7 if time is marked by the qualifiable history of the
Hindmarsh Affair. As it is discussed further on in this dissertation, these temporal
hiatuses (in some respects, parallel narratives) are used to thicken certain nodes of
the linear narrative of the Hindmarsh Affair. For instance, through the story of the
character Sarah we experience the question of the meaning of home which
resonates with the issues of the Hindmarsh Island Affair. This hiatus in the “true”
story of the Hindmarsh Affair, then, operates to bring intensity to that story. It is
through these static but intensive moments that the loss of what could have been,
5
Ibid., p. 85.
Ibid., p. 86.
7
Ibid., p. 86.
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may be felt. Thus, fiction may act as a portal to what has been lost to history and
therefore, to history’s potential. Spinoza’s definition of affect is, “the ‘power to
act’”8. It is in its irregular view of history that fiction opens up a space for action,
for a response. It is no wonder, then, that intensity/affect produces emotion. This
discussion of affect, then, in relation to the non-fiction fiction genre, makes an
argument for accuracy inappropriate. Its function is more of potential than of
History.
There are other ways the non-fiction fiction of Fabrications intensifies the
historical event. For Fabrications I chose an, in part, Lukacsian type of Historical
Realism; the writing attempts a dialectical spanning (rather than “view” since this
is language too based in Modernist thinking) of the relationship between the
subjective and objective worlds, of the characters and the historical events, of the
public and the private. Adding to the tone of Historical Realism, Fabrications
avoids a personal tone (typical of a Modernist trope9) and or a highly dramatic
tone, typical of recent fiction influenced by postmodern aesthetics and the move
toward genre.
There is a deliberate flatness to the prose style of Fabrications; the
characters are typical, at times, stereotyped, the prose style inflected by journalism.
But this is in order to build a self-aware style that is a departure from a naturalistic
style of narration. It is where Fabrications is influenced by the tone of new
journalism and in particular, that of Tom Wolfe and his The Bon-fire of the
8
A. Negri, ‘Value and Affect’, Boundary 2, 26:2, 1999, 7.
Georg Lukács criticised literature that presented a wealth of individual facts in the place of a whole of
reality. While the belief of a representation of a “mediated”, or whole reality, is pre the linguistic turn and
thereby untenable, such aesthetics have a place in establishing affect in the non-fiction fiction novel. This
movement between the private and public, subjective and objective, suspends the linear narrative of
History and opens the narrative to affect.
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Vanities,10 more of which is discussed below. With this style my aim was to avoid
presenting a narrative of seeming representation, a seemingly non-fabricated
narrative. The style adds to what is a polemical tone in the writing in general and it
is a self-conscious departure from neutrality and so-called objectivity.
This issue of style is also important to the question of affect as it is
responsible for a departure from the historian’s discourse in telling of The
Hindmarsh Island Affair. In the style itself in Fabrications there is a meeting and
departing of fact and fiction; non-fiction fiction is a resounding example of the
production of intensity since the two levels, of linear narrative (the so-called
historical event) and non-linear (the fictional narrative) operate within such
immediate proximity. It is this tension between fact and fiction that I have striven
for in Fabrications, for the reasons I have outlined in this prologue, and as they are
a genuine intervention in the existing debates surrounding the non-fiction fiction or
historical novel.
10
T.Wolfe, The Bonfire of The Vanities, New York: Jonathon Cape, 1987.
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THE GENRE
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The genesis of the term ‘non-fiction novel’ is usually credited to Truman Capote
who insisted that he invented it with In Cold Blood, published in 1966. While
choosing to write a true account of an actual murder, the motivating factor in his
choice of genre was “purely literary.”11 He claimed that his decision was based on
a theory that he had harboured for twenty years, since the beginning of his
professional writing career. “It seemed to me that journalism, reportage, could be
forced to yield a serious new art form: ‘the nonfiction novel’, as I thought of it.”12
He admits that many people with whom he discussed his theory were
unsympathetic. “They felt that what I proposed, a narrative form that employed all
the techniques of fictional art but was nevertheless immaculately factual, was little
more than a literary solution for fatigued novelists suffering from ‘failure of
imagination’. Personally I felt that this attitude represented ‘a failure of
imagination’ on their part.”13 Capote insisted that “the non-fiction novel should not
be confused with the documentary novel–a popular and interesting but impure
genre, which allows all the latitude of the fiction writer, but usually contains
neither the persuasiveness of fact nor the poetic attitude fiction is capable of
reaching…”14
When asked what subjects are most suitable for the genre of the non-fiction
novel, Capote defined the first essential of a subject as having “a timeless quality
about the cause and events…If it’s going to date, it can’t be a work of art. The
11
G. Plimpton, ‘The Story Behind a Non Fiction Novel’.
[http://partners.nytimes.com/books/97/12/28/home/capote-interview.html] 16 January 1966 (accessed
31/10/2008).
12
Ibid., p. 2.
13
Ibid., p. 3
14
Ibid., p. 3.
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requisite would also be that you would have had to live through the event, as a
witness, so that a depth of perception could be required.”15
“Fabrications”, fulfils both of Capote’s criteria. It uses as its basis a
contemporary social, political and cultural conflict that was named by the media
“The Hindmarsh Island Affair”—an event whose repercussions rippled far beyond
the building of a bridge and penetrated the heart of the relationship between
indigenous and Western culture. I also lived through these events and was a
witness to all aspects of the conflicts and their cultural ramifications. Secondly,
“Fabrications “motivating factor” is “purely literary”.
The facts are that in the early 1990s two well-known Adelaide business
people and developers submitted a plan to the various government agencies to
build a bridge linking mainland South Australia to nearby Hindmarsh Island in
order to facilitate the development of a marina on the island. In order to ensure that
this development went ahead the government agreed to help fund the bridge. There
were the predictable protests against both the bridge and the development from
local inhabitants (it would spoil their view) and environmentalists (it would change
the natural habitat). However, it wasn’t until 1994 when a group of Aboriginal
women claimed that the island was special to them for cultural and spiritual
reasons, that could not be revealed, and they applied to the Federal government for
an order prohibiting the bridge, that the media became really interested and the
local issue hit the national headlines.
This group of aboriginal women, named by the media as “The Proponents”
claimed that the island had special cultural and spiritual significance which
involved special secret knowledge known only to women, that the building of a
15
Ibid., p. 2.
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bridge would destroy.
Backed by anthropologists, feminists, union leaders,
environmentalists and lawyers they submitted two sealed envelopes to the Federal
Minister of Aboriginal Affairs as proof of their claims.
These two sealed
envelopes contained some of these women’s cultural secrets and were marked
“Confidential: to be read by women only.”
Their claims were successful and much to the disgust not only of the
developers but many of the other interested groups who protested that it was all a
hoax, in July 1994 the Federal government banned the building of the bridge for 25
years.
A year later another group of aboriginal women came forward, named by
the media as “The Dissidents” and told the media that the claim of what had
become known as “secret women’s business” was in fact a lie and a hoax. Their
backers demanded and were granted a state Royal Commission in order to discover
the truth of their claims. In 1995 the Hindmarsh Island Royal Commission found
that the so-called secret women’s business was a fabrication. “Lies, Lies, Lies” was
the newspaper headline in the morning Adelaide “Advertiser”.
This finding of a fabrication on behalf of the Dissident women changed the
way in which many Australians viewed aboriginal culture and spiritual knowledge
and in particular the aboriginal land claims on which they were based. When the
Royal Commission found the first group of aboriginal women to be liars, a set of
stories about their relationship to the land was dismissed by so-called mainstream
Australians16.
The phrase “secret women’s business” entered the public lexicon but it is
usually used with overtones of derision and mockery17.
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17
M. Simons,. The Meeting of the Waters. Sydney: Hodder 2003, p. xv1.
Ibid., p. xv1.
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In 2001, the Federal Court overturned the findings of the Royal
Commission and found that there had been no fabrication. The judgment was
generally ridiculed in the popular press. The finding came too late. The damage
had, seemingly, been done.
This issue, The Hindmarsh Island Affair, was for many white Australians a
turning point in their relationship with aborigines and their demands for
reconciliation. It signalled the end to believing without question what aboriginal
people said about their cultural and tribal beliefs18.
Scepticism and cynicism had replaced trust in relation to white attitudes to
aboriginal affairs. This approach developed into a major attack on what is known
as politically correct thinking, soft headedness and sentimentality regarding
aboriginal beliefs about their own culture. What followed, historically, was what
became known as the “black armband” view of our history and ultimately
developed into what became known as the “history wars” and the “culture wars”
among historians and intellectuals. This is the factual background which underpins
the trajectory of events in the novel and fulfils Capote’s requirement that there be a
timeless quality that wouldn’t date about the causes and effects.
Each of the three main characters in the novel represents one of the major
stake-holders in the Hindmarsh Island conflict. All of these characters are female,
white and fictional.
As a journalist, Sarah Wood represents the power of the media. As the wife
of the developer of the marina project Penny Reynolds is firmly on the side of
development and the government. As a former academic and a feminist
anthropologist Georgie Staunton is called on by the “secret women’s business”
18
Ibid., p. 378.
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women to help them prevent the building of the bridge. The plot of the novel
follows the factual trajectory of the Island events as they occurred; however, the
interweaving of the events with the lives of the three women is fictional.
All three fictional characters appeared in my novel, “Hot Shots” set in the
1960s and 1970’s. They were close friends from University in the 1960s and
during the 1970s all three were involved in the women’s liberation movement. In
the novel, I left the three of them naked, in a jeep, careering around corners in the
Adelaide hills. The year was 1979.
‘Fabrications’ brings them all together again in 1990 when the Hindmarsh
Island conflict finds each of them with different views of the issues. This brings the
reader close to the historical event and in so doing fulfils Capote’s definition of the
lived historical event; the non-fiction fiction. They are forced to confront what has
happened to them in the 1980s. Their clashes over the social, cultural and political
issues that arise from the building of the bridge are the catalyst for turning points
and truths in their personal lives.
Tom Wolfe’s so-called ‘New Journalism’, which was a fiction hybrid, is
another version of this genre. Traditional newspaper reportage is blended with
fictional techniques such as stream-of-consciousness, shifting point of view,
extended dialogue, character description and detailed scene-setting. Wolfe stated
that the intention of New Journalism is “to achieve a non-fiction form that
combines the emotional impact usually found only in novels and short stories, the
analytical insights of the best essays and scholarly writing, and the deep factual
foundation of hard reporting.”19 He believed that this blending of non-fiction with
fiction or vice-versa was the literary technique best suited to reflecting
19
Ibid., p. 4.
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contemporary culture.
Wolfe’s non-fiction novels produced a wide range of
critical opinions and sparked a great surge of literary debate, however, he is noted
for being “the most astute and popular social observer and cultural chronicler of his
generation.”20
Wolfe described his version of The New Journalism as
an appropriation of the techniques of realistic fiction writers, building a
nonfiction account of a person or a group after an intense period of observation and
interviews, mixing exposition with reconstructured dramatic “scenes” that rely upon
dialogue and access to the interior experience of the subjects.21
Wolfe freely admits to the impact of Hunter S. Thompson as a literary
influence.
He was the great comic writer of the 20th Century. I really do consider
Hunter as being in the tradition of Mark Twain. Gonzo journalism, as he called it, is
exactly what Twain did in things like ‘The Innocents Abroad’. You do some
reporting, of what’s actually there, but you also let your imagination run free.
You’re not deceiving anybody because they know that’s what you do.22
Wolfe’s aim was, through narrative fiction techniques, to embed the reader
(narratee) in the story (true event). He used fictionalised characters/lives in
whatever true social milieu he was “reporting”. Wolfe did this with “The good old
boys of the South” found in his first non-fiction collection, The Last American
Hero is Junior Johnson. Yes! And in the portrayal of the movers and shakers on
Wall St, Park Ave and in Harlem in the city of New York in his first novel, The
Bon-fire of the Vanities. There is also a similarity in style and method in both his
20
Wikipedia, ‘Biography: Thomas Kennerly Wolfe Jr’, 2008, [http://www.answers.com/topic/tom/wolfe]
(accessed 31/9/2008).
21
Time Magazine, September 2008.
22
Ibid.
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non-fiction and his fiction which is reflexive of the conventional borders of
genres—pointing to the rhetorical nature of all writing.
After Wolfe’s first and very successful publication ‘New Journalism’—a
blend of reportage and subjective comment —he continued to write non-fiction
blended with his subjective comment for the next twenty years. It was not until
1987, when in his first novel The Bon-fire of the Vanities, originally written in
serial-form in 1984 and in 1985 in bi-weekly instalments in the magazine Rolling
Stone, he demonstrated his blending of reportage and fiction. Wolfe declared that
the extraordinary success of his first novel represented the future of the American
novel. Writers like William Thackeray, Evelyn Waugh and the journalistic/fictional
style of John Des Passos, make his claim to innovation less justifiable.
Norman Mailer began to blend journalism, autobiography and fiction in the
late 1950s and his collection Advertisements for Myself is often quoted as the forerunner for Wolfe’s New Journalism. He was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1968 for
his non-fiction novel The Armies of the Night which mixed reportage of a massive
anti-war demonstration held in Washington during which he was arrested, with
subjective and autobiographical accounts of the period.
He followed this
successful example of the non-fiction novel with Miami and the Siege of Chicago
in 1969. During the 1970s he produced ten more books in the same genre,
including The Executioner’s Song about death-row prisoner Gary Gilmore which
won him a second Pulitzer Prize. This genre is sometimes called ‘Creative nonfiction’ where literary styles and techniques are used to create factually accurate
narratives. The ‘documentary novel’ is another version where the emphasis is
focused on the creation of a work that is essentially true, the plot is developed
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through fictional narrative styles but it is usually employed in the context of an
investigation into ethics or some other aspect of reality.
The fictionalised non-fiction, then, is a flexible genre, used in film drama as
well as literature. It is particularly suitable for my novel Fabrications whose very
title emphasises the slipperiness of the territory it maps, between fiction and fact,
truth and lies, myth and knowledge. The genre of fictionalised non-fiction, then, is
self-reflexive of the subject matter of Fabrications. The choices I had to make
between what I made up and what I revealed from the historical record of events
are inextricably linked to the nature of the genre.
The question I needed to ask myself was the question that the characters are
forced to ask and finally that which the novel asks: what is the nature of truth? In
placing The Hindmarsh Island Affair in the ‘middle’ of a novel about three woman
friends and a woman and her dying father, the telling of the Hindmarsh Island
Affair is made conditional—as all recounting of historical events in fact are, even
though in some genres (including judicial genres) this conditionality is not
disclosed.
Implicitly, Fabrications plays with the idea that what you believe about
your own life based on past experience, cultural beliefs and memory, cannot be
viewed in terms of true or fabricated. For those who have lived through a set of
historical events and observed them all first-hand, each person’s own linguistic,
cultural, historical and discursive reality dictates that they will view the events
differently from those around them.
The nature of the blended genre reflects the above issues but it also reflects
the conflict of a judgement of truth based on Western cultural beliefs when it is
judging totally different cultural and spiritual premises. The women who refused to
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give evidence in the Royal Commission were refusing to be judged by the narrow
confinements of Western law and culture. For this reason they felt that this was a
witch hunt; that their secret spiritual beliefs could not be assessed as true or false
by the standards of rational thinking and Western legal argument.23
No culture can be divorced from the political power that sustains it and in
this case the aboriginal culture has always been in conflict with Western culture
and its
proponents. For these issues to be presented it was essential to go beyond
the facts of the event and to explore the various cultures and their representatives
from the point of view of their political motivation. In the name of the truth,
Western culture and justice can mask its own vested interests.
The notion of truth and fabrication is itself problematic in relation to
aboriginal culture. Oral indigenous culture is totally different from a recorded
Western culture. In indigenous culture secrets play an important role and are
handed down from one generation to another to some members of that generation
and not others. Unlike Western culture where truth resides in the written word
which becomes the law, in indigenous culture the “truth” is that which is accorded
to the last owner of that oral history. This makes a true or false distinction a poor
analogy. Another aspect of the Hindmarsh Island affair that confuses the “truth”
about the secret women’s business is the role of the aboriginal woman who told the
white women the secrets. At no time did she ever tell them all of the secrets, some
of which should never be told except to a woman of the same tribe. This nondisclosure of the (whole) truth is of course an anathema to Western cultural and
legal systems and is a clear reason why the disparity between aboriginal and
23
M. Simons, The Meeting of the Waters, Sydney: Hodder, 2003.
21
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Western systems of justice and truth needs to be the focus of a work such as
Fabrications.
The undisclosed evidence (of the aboriginal Secret Women’s Business)
makes a mockery of a verdict reached as a result of witness’s testimonies that were
not chosen recipients of this secret knowledge. But this is what happened. It is the
work of Fabrications to reveal these nuances of aboriginal law/lore in light of their
differences to Western systems of law. In traditional societies the disclosure of
secrets is a much greater transgression than the telling of lies, in western societies
the telling of lies is a greater transgression than disclosing a secret. This highlights
the crucial difference between the two cultures.
Anthropologists themselves are divided about the indigenous construction
of reality and the invention of traditions. Many believe that although fictionalised
pasts may be false, “their symbolic power and political force are undeniable. It
matters only whether such political ideologies are used for just causes, whether
they are instruments of liberation or oppression.”24
For some anthropologists, rational justification for whether something is
true is not necessary. Others state that “what is called ‘tribal knowledge’ usually
reflects the needs of group solidarity more than anything else: as such it often
represents culturally justified false belief.”25 In other words, what Western culture
judges to be fabrication, other cultures consider to be totally relevant. For this
reason the genre of non-fiction fiction in Fabrications seeks to find another
pathway through this debate. It points toward the pragmatic, political and cultural
relevance of the secret women’s business as well as that of the political and cultural
24
25
R. Sandall, Culture Cult Melbourne: Hardie Grant, 2001, p. 3.
Ibid., p. 3.
22
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relevance of the non-indigenous parties involved and underlines the arrogance and
self interest of the Australian culture that demands another culture proves itself on
the basis of Western law.
23
WHAT DOES IT MATTER WHO IS SPEAKING?
25
Kate Grenville’s much acclaimed novel The Secret River has been the centre of
considerable conflict and discussion between Grenville and some Australian
historians.26 In an essay titled ‘The History Question–who owns the past’27 Inga
Clendinnen accuses novelists of doing their best “to bump historians off the
track.” She claims that novelists have decided “it is for them to write the history
of this country, and to admonish and nurture its soul.” She accuses Grenville’s The
Secret River of “making a serious attempt to do history, but value-added history:
history given life and flesh by a novelist’s imagination”.
In Grenville’s response she claims the historians Clendinnen and Mark
McKenna used questionable quotations to support their argument, quotations that
have been “narrowly selected, taken out of context and truncated.”28 She is very
clear about the fact that she does not believe The Secret River is history and
emphasises that it is a work of fiction. “Like much of fiction it had its beginnings
in the world, but those beginnings have been adapted and altered to various
degrees for the sake of fiction.”29 On her website she described her method:
“This book isn’t history, but it’s solidly based on history. Most of the
events in this book ‘really happened’ and much of the dialogue is what people
really said or wrote. Whenever possible I based events in the book on recorded
historical events, adapting them and changing them as necessary. Some characters
are also loosely based on historical figures and some of their dialogue is taken
26 K. Grenville,
The Secret River. Melbourne: Text, 2005.
27 I. Clendinnen, ‘The History Question: who owns the past’, Quarterly Essay 23 2006, p. 16.
28 Ibid., p. 17.
29 Ibid., p. 17.
25
26
from their own mouths. It was important to me that the incidents and characters
were solidly based on history, but as a novelist I drew on these historical sources
loosely, as a starting-point for the work of the imagination. The final events and
characters meld many historical references together– they’re fiction, but they’re
based on fact.”30
Grenville could not have been more clear and definitive about the method
she was employing in this non-fiction novel. Historians like Clendinnen and
McKenna, however, consider novelists who employ this approach to be polluters
of history. To blend historical fact with fiction in their view is to pervert the true
course of history. However, Grenville is not trying to “bump” them off the track
of history. Her track is fiction and she is very content to stay there. As Grenville
says, fiction writers adapt historical sources. “It’s what fiction writers do; take the
world and modify it.”31 Grenville has always made it clear that this has been her
method and admitted that she has modified historical fact.
Peter Carey, on the other hand, when questioned by those critical about the
factual inventions in his novel The True History of the Kelly Gang simply
answered, “I made it up.”32 This response seemed to draw an end to the
discussion. It would seem that Clendinnen would far prefer Carey’s approach.33
In fact she admits that Peter Carey “won her heart” when a string of people were
interrogating him at a Brisbane Writers’ Festival. The interrogation became
increasingly hostile when those asking questions insisted he had written history.
30
K. Grenville, “Searching for The Secret River. Homepage
www.users.bigpond.com/KGrenville(accessed Accessed, 13/6/08.
31
Ibid., p. 17.
32
I. Clendinnen, ‘The History Question: who owns the past’, Quarterly Essay 23 2006, p. 32.
33
Ibid.
26
27
Carey insisted he had written fiction. He said, “It doesn’t matter what is out in the
real world: this is art and you are making it to suit your needs.”34
Clendinnen has let Carey off where she pursues Grenville. For Clendinnen,
unlike Grenville, Carey aims at “transformation, not replication of the past or
reformation of the present.”35 These terms and her failure to explain their
differences appear to be historical nitpicking. Surely to fictionalise an historical
event is in some way to transform it? If you place historical events in a fictional
context you are not either simply replicating or reforming them. At times you
could be said to be transcending them. In Fabrications I was exploring the private
world of the fictional characters and its conflict with the public world in which
they were engaged. I took the events that had happened and I placed them in a
story that tells of the forces in society and culture that come to bear on historical
events and people alike. A work of the so-called imagination has the advantage of
exploring the moral and ethical implications of significant historical events where
this is not the domain of other genres. Literature has used this method since
Homer. Jean-Luc Godard in his 1963 film, Contempt, “updates” Homer’s Odyssey
by questioning whether Ulysses deliberately took a long time to return to Ithica
because he and his wife, Penelope, had marital problems. So, in Fabrications I
have used the facts of an historical event as a basis for the story but at no time did
I imagine that I was writing history. Fabrications is a novel.
But it is to Grenville’s credit that she did not simply hide, like Carey,
behind the fiction label but as she explained, “I was interested in trying to do
something more nuanced than that: to acknowledge the complex relationship,
backwards and forwards across an invisible line, between the world of fiction and
34
35
Ibid., p. 33.
Ibid., p. 33.
27
28
the world inhabited by living people.”36 It is this invisible line between fact and
fiction, where the non-fictional novel dwells. That is to say, the non-fiction novel
has an investment in history as that is the story of a state, a story that belongs to
our collective self. In Fabrications I have sought to combine the non-fiction
elements of the collective history with the fictional elements of the characters’
personal histories.
In interviews Grenville explained that she had taken events from the
historical record, shifted their time and place, ascribed to one man things which
were actually done by another man. In other words, like Carey, she used the
historical record and shaped and adapted it to suit her fictional needs. This is the
artistic process and it is the method I used in Fabrications.
In many interviews Grenville went to great lengths to make the distinction
between the historical record and how she had departed from it. Before she
published The Secret River Grenville took part in a seminar with historians in
Canberra and said publicly:
History for a greedy novelist like me is just one more place to
pillage…What we’re after, of course, is stories…Having found them, we then
proceed to fiddle with them to make them the way we wanted them to be, rather
than the way they really were. We get it wrong, wilfully and knowingly.37
In other words there is no sly thieving of others work or any attempt to
change the historical facts. The novelist is interested in the story and the
characters, not staying true to the historical record. They do not have to stick
rigidly to the historical facts, they are writing fiction, they are telling a story, and
they are employing their imagination.
36
K. Grenville, “Searching for The Secret River. Homepage
www.users.bigpond.com/KGrenville(accessed Accessed, 13/6/08
37
I. Clendinnen, ‘The History Question: who owns the past’, Quarterly Essay 23 2006, p. 17.
28
29
I chose to write a fictionalised history in order to tell the story of an
important aspect of a nation’s history. Fiction allows us to gain a different
perspective of the history/narrative. It isolates one particular event for reasons of
its significance. And it places the event on a more human scale, thereby making it
more relevant and more searing.
Clendinnen quotes some phrases from Grenville which she claims “must
have annoyed every historian who read it.”38 Clendinnen said that during an
interview with Ramona Koval on Radio National’s Book Show, when asked about
the history wars and where she stood, Grenville answered “she was up on a
stepladder, looking down on the historians battling away.”39 In fact, on a point of
historical record Grenville actually said, “a novelist can stand on a stepladder and
look down at this, outside the fray, and say there is another way to understand
it.”40 The preposition ‘on’ as opposed to ‘at’ may seem insignificant but it led
Clendinnen and some of her fellow historians to believe that Grenville was taking
a superior view. She was placing the novelist above the historian.
In hindsight, Grenville admits that the stepladder image “might be seen to
contain an ambiguity.”41
Had she been sitting at her desk writing and then
revising she said she would have used a different image. When questioned on live
radio, there is of course no opportunity to do this. Grenville is critical of the fact
that this “quickly-grabbed image is the one that’s being used again and again by
historians. It indicates that this is the only support they can muster for their claim
that she thinks fiction is superior to history.”42 So excited did the historians
38
Ibid., p. 19.
Ibid., p. 19.
40
Ibid., p. 19.
41
K. Grenville The Book Show. Radio National,
39
42
Ibid. Podcast.
29
30
become over this belief which was extended and exaggerated in stories written for
daily newspapers, that Grenville was forced to spell out her real position in clear,
unambiguous words.
Let me go on the record now as saying that I don’t think – and never have
thought – that fiction is superior to history, much less that my own novel is superior
to the work of historians.43
Grenville’s image of standing on the stepladder was an attempt to explain
that as a fiction writer, not an historian, she was outside (or above) the history
wars because her aims as a novelist are different from that of the historian. It is not
the novelist’s role or aim to question historical evidence or indeed historians’
interpretation of the facts. Grenville explained that “once you can actually get
inside the experience, it’s no longer a matter of which side in the conflict is going
to win, it’s simply a matter of yes, now I understand both sides.”44
Grenville explains the novelist’s method as attempting to empathise and
achieve an imaginative understanding of the historical events. David Malouf
agrees with her.
Our only way of grasping our history–and by history I mean what has
happened to us, and what determines what we are now and where we are now – the
only way of really coming to terms with that is by people entering into it in their
imagination, not by the world of facts, but by being there. And the only thing really
which puts you there in that kind of way is fiction…It’s when you have actually
been there and become a character again in that world…45
43
Ibid. Podcast.
I. Clendinnen, The History Question: who owns the past’, Quarterly Essay 23 2006, p. 21.
45
Ibid.
30
31
Clendinnen is very suspicious of empathy. She is scornful of Malouf when
he states
“Societies can only become whole, can only know fully what they are,
when they have relived history in that kind of way.”46 Clendinnen’s response to
this statement is mocking. She writes, “some engaged reading, some preliminary
flexing of the imagination, a run, a vault, and presto you are there.”47
This dismissal of the power of the imagination through empathy is the crux
of the historian’s disdain for the non-fiction novel. Their objections spread much
wider than Clendinnen and her peers. This debate concerning the blending of
facts and fiction is ongoing and continues to simmer beneath the surface of our
public discourse. There is a great deal of hidden and expressed hostility between
the different academic stake-holders over where to draw the line between the two
genres. In 2007 a session at the Sydney Writers’ Festival titled ‘Making a Fiction
of History’ provides a dramatic example of these hostilities. The journalist
Deborah Hope mapped the different viewpoints between the panel members who
were Miles Franklin award winning author Roger Mc Donald, the historian Tom
Griffiths and Inga Clendinnen.48
Roger McDonald’s book on the shearing industry, Shearer’s Motel, based
on his own experiences as a shearer’s cook, is a good example of the blurring of
the “lines” of history and fiction. McDonald changed the names of many of the
people and places that he used for his source material but argued that it was a
work of non-fiction. The following year Shearer’s Motel was short-listed for
Australia’s principal prize for fiction. When he was made aware of this fact,
46
Ibid.
Ibid.
48
Australian, Hope, D. ‘Weekend Australian’ 16-17 June, 2007.
47
31
32
McDonald removed the book from this genre placed it in non-fiction and two
weeks later Shearer’s Motel won the Banjo Award for non-fiction.
Even before the opening of the 2007 Writer’s Festival, Grenville had
objected to program notes which stated that she had “upset historians by
suggesting The Secret River was a new form of history writing.”49 She pulled out
of the panel in order to attend her daughter’s induction as a school prefect but her
refusal to participate was seen by some as a protest at the offending program
notes. When questioned by Deborah Hope, Grenville was adamant that she knew
the difference between fiction and history and that she was not attempting to write
a new form of history.50
Hope reported that things really warmed up in the packed Sydney Theatre
where author Roger McDonald and historians Clendinnen and Tom Griffiths
“replayed the argument over familiar, fraught terrain.”51 Griffiths described the
factual inventions in Carey’s The True History of the Kelly Gang as “relatively
trivial” and concluded “we cannot now write the history of the Kelly outbreak
without learning from the extraordinary ventriloquism of the novel.” In other
words, Carey’s non-fiction novel had succeeded in giving a valuable new
dimension to the historical facts and to future historians. Clendinnen rejected this
“blurring of the genre lines and declared “Tom’s rules for history are too elastic.”
She insisted that “There is no middle ground between fiction and history. They
are mutually enriching; they are also conflicting.”
Not content with fighting the history wars among themselves, historians
like Clendinnen have now opened up a war on another front, against fiction
49
Ibid.
Ibid.
51
Ibid.
50
32
33
writers who are seen to be encroaching on their territory. Such wars, however, are
ultimately self-defeating as readers and critics seek this ‘middle ground’ that
enables an empathetic approach to the nation’s history.
Roger McDonald argued that fictional, not historical, motives drive his
work and that it is “fictional truth” that emerges. When challenged to define
“fictional truth” he said
A sense of conviction in a writer and reader that the world described inside
the pages of the novel actually exists. All that is relevant to the plot decides
fictional truth. This is not history. A novel is a living experience of potential
shapes. Those shapes demand names, faces, voices, wills. They must be dressed,
fed, loved, nurtured or resisted. Diaries, letters and documents uncovered by
historians in a life-time’s work can be the afternoon playthings of a novelist diving
into the dress-up trunk. History, no matter how imaginative it is, is a forensic art
having its day in court. A novel must appear more real than life itself even while
aiming for redemption and reconciliation of opposites. When the novel is there, it is
up to the reader to decide how it will expand the truth they know. 52
Needless to say Clendinnen was not impressed.
Deborah Hope, who was chairing this session at Sydney Writers’ Festival
gathered up the speakers’ papers at the end of the session. She noticed that
Clendinnen had scribbled two words assessing Griffith’s address on the front of
her program: “relatively trivial.” Hope’s final words in her article were “stay
tuned.” In other words, this war is not over.
What are the boundaries that separate history from fiction and what role
does the writer play in this delineation of boundaries? Historian Mark McKenna
52
Ibid.
33
34
believes that when writing history, the writer should always be visible.
“Otherwise” he says, “the history almost appears on the page as if it has just
dropped down from the sky, as if it comes from nowhere, and that’s a lie. It is
therefore necessary to analyse the writer’s relationship between history and power
and ask the question “Who does this representation of so-called ‘truth’ serve?"53
In a paper titled ‘Faking it: History and Creative Writing’54 Camilla
Nelson discusses how writers such as Salman Rushdie, Michael Ondaatje, John
Fowles and Julian Barnes have probed this relationship between history and
power.
Their historical novels are not designed to represent the past as such so
much as to inquire into the nature of historical knowledge and the process of
history. For example, in Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter (1976), a fictional
biography of New Orleans jazz musician Charles ‘Buddy’ Bolden, which
incorporates fictional prose, poetry and archival material, the whole thrust of the
narrative operates as if to save Bolden from history. Collectively, works such as
Ondaatje’s are commonly known as ‘historiographical metafictions’ a phrase
invented by the literary critic Linda Hutcheon, who no doubt understands the term.
Historians themselves have even turned to experimenting with fictional techniques.
Simon Shama used the tools of fiction such as interview monologue and
imaginative dialogue and “his history has been criticised for transforming fragments
53
M. McKenna, ‘Writing the Past: History, Literature and the Public Sphere in Australia’, Public
Lecture. Brisbane: Queensland College of Art. 1 December. http://
humanitieswritingproject.net.au/mckenna.htm
54
C. Nelson, ‘Faking it: History and Creative Writing’, TEXT Vol 11 No 2 October 2007,
http://www.textjournal.com.au, Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb
Text@griffith.edu.au
.
34
35
of historical evidence into sweeping dramatic scenes in the manner of a detective
novel.”55
Clendinnen of course does not approve of Schama’s version of narrative
history and claims that Schama’s work suffers from a “confusion of categories”
and is, quite simply a “mistake.56
But as Nelson points out, Schama is “acutely aware of the distance
between lived reality and the attempt to narrate it–between the literary narratives
of history and the actualities of the past.”57
Indeed novelist Don DeLillo argued in relation to his twentieth-century
epic, Underworld
It is almost inevitable that the fiction writer dealing with reality will violate
any number of codes and contracts. He will engineer a swerve from the usual
arrangements that bind a figure in history to what has been reported, rumoured,
confirmed or solemnly chanted. It is fiction’s role to imagine deeply, to follow
obscure urges into unreliable regions of experience. The novel is the dream release,
the suspension of reality that history needs to escape its own confinements…At its
root level, fiction is a kind of religious fanaticism, with elements of obsession,
superstition and awe. Such qualities will sooner or later state their adversarial
relationship with history.58
55
Ibid.
See Plimpton, G. ‘The Story Behind a Non Fiction Novel’,
http://partners.nytimes.com/books/97/12/28/home/capote-interview.html. (accessed 31 October, 2008.)
56
57
C. Nelson, ‘Faking it: History and Creative Writing’, TEXT Vol 11 No 2 October 2007,
http://www.textjournal.com.au, Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb
Text@griffith.edu.au
58
New York Times, D. DeLillo, ‘The power of history’, 1997.
35
36
Nelson herself admits to writing a novel set in the 1960s which she is
happy to confess is “bogus” but hopes that by being “bogus” it questions the
discourses (like history) through which reality constructs itself. (3 same as 2)59
As for Grenville’s novel The Secret River, Nelson concludes that it
“stepped into a politically loaded area of history and poses a question that has
been taken as an affront.”60
Clendinnen and McKenna have certainly been affronted, regardless of the
fact that Grenville had no intention or desire to step or encroach onto their
territory. Much less, affronting them. As a fiction writer she was simply finding
narrative solutions to the problems that writing a non-fiction novel inevitably
throws up. As an antidote to Clendinnen’s troupe of conservative historians,
historian Peter Cochrane, the inaugural winner of 2008 Prime Minister’s Prize for
Australian History, has openly claimed that “historians should be able to cross
freely into the territory of novelists and poets to use their techniques of plot,
character and imagination.”61 In a speech for the annual conference of the
Australian History Teachers Association he said,
We spend a great deal of our time on the intricacies of analysis, evidence,
evaluation and argument while we tend to neglect the literary side of history
writing. This, I think, is an old ingrained prejudice. Historians tend to see
themselves as social scientists, as scholars whose job it is to “write up” or report on
their findings, rather than as writers, whose job it is to create or imagine the past, to
captivate an audience.62
59
Nelson, C. ‘Faking it: History and Creative Writing’, TEXT Vol 11 No 2 October 2007,
http://www.textjournal.com.au, Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb
Text@griffith.edu.au
60
Ibid.
The Australian, ‘The Nation’, 29 September, 2008.
62
Ibid.
61
36
37
As if that wasn’t enough to inflame Clendinnen and others, he continued,
“We should be crossing boundaries and borrowing what we can from fiction, to at
least from fiction writers...in terms of structuring and vivifying a story.”63
Cochrane saw a clear distinction between fiction writers and historians a
distinction which focused on the employment of empathy. He said that,
While historians could not empathise like fiction writers, they could infer or
extrapolate from records in an imaginative approach that brought the characters and
the story to life. Without a historical imagination, history was not much more than a
transcribing of records.64
He admits that the history profession has been generally wary of
biographical or character driven narrative because it is the first step on a slippery
path to commercialisation and dumbing down. However Cochrane takes the
opposite view and asserts that “narrative movement, along with character and
human drama is essential to the historian’s duty to ensure that the story is not a
bore.”65 Obviously, Cochrane does not believe that the use of these fictional
techniques is in any sense a falsification of history.
Fabrications is a character driven narrative because it is a novel and, like
Kate Grenville, I make no claims to be writing history. I have simply borrowed
from it. I have employed empathy and imagination in order that the reader can
identify with both the private and the public conflicts in the lives of the characters.
I have no objections to historians crossing into the territory of novelists and using
literary techniques of plot, character and imagination. These choices are for the
historian to make.
63
Ibid.
Ibid.
65
Ibid.
64
37
AFFECT, EMPATHY, ETHICS
39
The non-fiction novel can attach itself to any of the established genres, for
example the crime novel, the social novel, the fantasy novel, the historical novel
and form its own hybrid. It recognises no territorial boundaries either in genre,
history or fiction and its authors enjoy the freedom to transgress in whatever
manner or form their imagination inspires in them. In other words, no rules apply
when you are writing fiction. The fact that you have based a novel on a real
historical event or a living contemporary person or on the experiences of real
people or even on your own life experiences, does not in any way change it into
anything but a work of fiction. This does not mean that fiction like all discourses
is not located in ideology. It cannot escape the politics involved with its
representations. Readers, however, seem less concerned with textual questions
and more concerned with the link between the author’s life and events in the
novel. Even though authors continually show their exasperation with such
questions, in public and private places, readers continue to ask, “Did what happen
in the novel actually happen in the author’s real life? Are the characters based on
real people? Are the opinions expressed by the main characters those of the
author?” In other words, what is fact and what is fiction? Did Kate Jennings
really hasten the death of her husband who was suffering from the advanced
stages of Alzheimer’s, like the character in her novel Moral Hazard? This is the
teasing question the reader wants to uncover, especially if the novel is clearly
based on your own life. Exactly what is true and what is made-up, is the question
that never goes away.
Some writers do attempt to give readers the exact details of the process.
Kate Grenville wrote a companion piece to her novel The Secret River titled
39
40
Searching for the Secret River, which is the history of the creation of the novel, a
map of her creative journey into fiction as she attempted to discover her convict
ancestor and to understand his life. The reason she wrote Searching for the
Secret River, Grenville explains, is that “the subject matter of The Secret River is
so important, and so politically charged, I didn’t want readers to be able to say,
“Oh, it’s only a novel–she just made it all up.”
The events and characters in the novel are adapted from the historical
record. These things really did happen on our frontier, even if at a slightly
different time and in a different place. I wanted readers to be able to retrace the
journey I took in coming to terms with what I found about our history, and to see
how I chose to adapt it for a novel.”66
Grenville traces the path of her research and takes the reader through the
process of transforming that research into fiction, including “the false starts, dead
ends and failures as well as the strokes of luck, flashes of inspiration and
surprises”.67
Another Australian writer who has been under attack for blurring the
boundaries between fact and fiction is Helen Garner. In her most recent nonfiction books such as The First Stone and Joe Cinque’s Consolation she freely
admits she uses fictional techniques. This mixing of the genres does not concern
her but she understands that “these days people are always thinking about
categories and wanting to put things in them. So people do want to know what
will be expected of them if they open a book or what they can expect of the
writer.”68
66
K. Grenville, Grenville, K. ‘Searching for the Secret River’,
[http://www.users.bigpond.com/Kgrenville]. 13 June 2008.
67
Ibid.
68
The Age, Interview with Jason Steger. 29 March 2008, http://www.theage.com.au (accessed 21/8/08)
40
41
In her latest novel The Spare Room she has named the narrator Helen and
admitted that many of the elements in the book come from her own house, her
own family and her own experiences. She resists any invitation to define fiction
on the grounds that “the notion that it should be entirely made up, is absurd.”69 In
the case of her non-fiction books, she views her contract with the reader as one in
which the writer attempts to tell the truth about the events. “You get as close to
the truth as you can and not pass off as true, things that you only guess or
speculate. When you can’t find the truth, can’t find out what really happened, you
say so. Someone like Norma Kouri violated that contract and people were
justifiably distressed and felt cheated.”70 She views the fiction contract with the
reader, however, as entirely different from the non-fiction work.
By saying that something’s a novel you are saying this is not supposed to
be literally true. Even though it may be very close to real experience, I have taken
the liberties I am allowed to take if I am writing fiction. And they may be big
liberties or small liberties, but they are liberties and only a fool reads a novel
thinking it’s going to be the ‘unvarnished truth’. 71
By openly admitting that she is using her own experience as the basis for
her latest novel, The Spare Room, she believes that she is “opening out a territory
where other people can meet you, other people can come into the text with their
own feelings and be met there.”72
Garner believes that the reader of fiction wants “a space opened up by the
author where they can linger and compare their experiences, thoughts and
69
Ibid.
Ibid.
71
Ibid.
72
Ibid.
70
41
42
emotions with those of the character.”73 Her method is to “take a chunk of
experience and mush it up together with other things that are inventible or
remembered from some other time or stolen from other people’s stories and see if
she can make it into something that works.”74
Hilary McPhee, who published Garner’s first novel, Monkey Grip,
believes that “fiction and non-fiction are inadequate labels for writing that draws
on life and transforms it through the lens of a narrator who is always ‘Helen’
(whatever name she is given). Like Garner, McPhee cannot understand the
objections to using real-life stories.
What they miss is the transforming power of her imagination. She takes
things that ‘happen’ and transforms, reshapes, positions them so the light falls at
an angle which pares them to the bone. And ‘Helen’ is stripped bare…She doesn’t
let herself off the hook. The moral conundrums she’s trying to comprehend are
hers and ours. Self-doubt is perhaps the key.75
In The Spare Room Garner is courageous enough to expose some of the
ugly feelings that can emerge when you are caring for someone you love who is
close to death. She wants to make it clear to the reader that she is not inventing
these feelings. “The feeling we label ‘love’ is not a simple feeling, it’s a very
complex one.
Under the heading ‘love’ can come all sorts of rage and
desperation.”76
When she began to write ‘The Spare Room’, she said “it felt like fiction.
I felt free. I didn’t have those shackles of responsibility to discernible fact that
I’ve had all these years writing non-fiction.” To writers like Garner and
73
The Australia, Interview by Kate Legge of Helen Garner, ‘Weekend Australian Magazine’, 29-30
March, 2008.
74
Ibid.
75
76
Ibid.
Ibid.
42
43
Grenville, there are no lines in the sand, no strict rules to which the writer must
adhere, other than the truth of the novel. When pressed on the fictionalising that
has gone into this novel Garner says it is impossible to say because it permeates
the whole texture of the book. “Every page contains about four million tiny
decisions–some of them made consciously and some of them not consciously.”77
The real art of fiction, as Garner sees it, is to “stitch the stuff that is
invented with the stuff that comes from real-life experiences” without anyone
seeing the stitches.78 As Kate Legge, a journalist and a novelist, who confesses
that these questions have also exercised her conscience as a writer, states,
[i]n this post-modern world of imagined biography and fictional memoir,
it’s harder than ever to tell what is made up from what is real. Every author steals,
begs or borrows from life, nutting out terms and conditions to accommodate the
autobiographical swatches woven through their work.79
British novelist Julian Barnes takes the position that “If you’ve been told
a story by a friend or something happens in your family; it’s all fair game.”80 This
approach dictates that it is up to the writer to decide how far they change the
likeness of their characters to real people and such decisions are usually based on
preserving friendships, maintaining loyalty to family or avoiding libel or
defamation suits.
Garner does not believe that anything is totally invented. ”If you’re
completely inventing a story there wouldn’t be an urge to tell it.”81 She clearly
believes that even science fiction is somehow related to something or some need
77
Ibid.
Ibid.
79
Ibid.
80
Ibid.
81
Ibid.
78
43
44
in your own life. For Garner, the freedom of fiction allows her to “leap, skim,
compress and conflate things.”82 Legge, however, still believes that “the thin-line
separating this light-headedness from the brick-laying of facts is a murky,
contested frontier.”83 This is undoubtedly true but novelists need to be fearless
and courageous in their pursuit of the fictional truth (and I refer to Roger
McDonald’s definition of this term outlined above). By saying “this is a novel”
you are claiming the right to tell the story, to be free to tell the story, however
you feel it needs to be told. Unwilling, however, to trample on the feelings of the
family on which she based the dying of the main character in her novel, Garner
showed them the manuscript before publication with an offer to change anything
they disliked. Their response was “It’s a brilliant book. We all had such a
difficult time and Helen has described it for us.”84 When asked whether they
read the book as fact or fiction, the response was “It’s hard to see anything but
the truth in it.” No writer, of any genre, could surely wish for higher praise. At
the end of the day, whether writing a story about history or people one knows,
ethical pressures come to bear, just as they do on story telling of any kind, fiction
and non-fiction. Writers (including fiction—non-fiction writers) write within a
context of discursive, ideological and social fields that guide their writing,
including in ethical ways.
When critic Susan Wyndham interviewed Garner about her novel she
admits to finding it odd to hear her talking about ‘Helen’ as a character in the
novel. Garner explained her reasons for not changing the name of the narrator,
even though it was a novel and not a memoir.
82
Ibid.
Ibid.
84
Ibid.
83
44
45
There are aspects of the Helen in this book that are straight me, and there
are other aspects I wish I had been or was horrified I might be, and I pushed
things…At first I called her by another name, Carol. But at a certain point as I was
writing the book and it was first-person, I wanted to make it quite clear I wasn’t
inventing those ugly feelings; they are things that I’ve experienced. I wanted to
give a stamp of authenticity at least to that. If she was called Carol or Gertrude and
it’s got ‘novel’ written on it, it’s a bit slithery and I didn’t want to slither out of
it.85
Writing this story as fiction gave Garner the freedom to tell it how she
wanted to tell it and not how it all factually happened.
I didn’t want to write a drab, memoir-like account of ‘this happened and
then this happened’. I wanted to violently compress it. I hacked and hacked and I
threw out an enormous amount of material. I changed certain things, I moved
things around in time, and I invented whole scenes. I enclosed it with great force
into a very limited time span and that was technically quite hard to do.86
In “Fabrications” I too telescoped time, changed dates, missed out huge
numbers of events, invented scenes and enclosed the novel in a much tighter time
frame in order to intensify the emotional impact of the novel. Fiction allows you
to use a totally different range of literary techniques, not always available to the
historian or the strictly non-fictional account of events. Garner’s metaphor of the
violent compression of events expresses the ability of fiction to express affect
where genres whose objective is fact, may not. In relation to the telling of our
national history, affect has the ability to take the debates out of the factual realm,
and into the realm of ethics; the question becomes not what happened but what
85
Sydney Morning Herald ‘Books’ Interview, Helen Garner talks to Susan Wyndham, March 29-30
2008.
86
Ibid.
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have we (as a nation) done to our fellow human beings. Surely, this is the point
of Carey’s The True History of Kelly Gang. In performing the searing reality of
lived experiences fiction is able to map more than the historical terrain but also
the psychic terrain of a nation, a people. Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho
illustrates my point here; it is fiction but as the title implies, it is a mapping of the
contemporary American psyche, albeit hyperbolically.87
Garner chose fiction, rather than memoir or another non-fiction form
because fiction gave her the freedom to play with the facts in order to tell the
truth as she sees it. At no stage did she claim that what happened in the novel was
exactly what had happened in the real-life experience on which she had based the
novel. The reader was able to enter into the world of the woman who was dying
and the woman who was caring for her, not through the facts but through the
feelings felt by Helen, and through the frustrations and other emotions that lead
to those feelings. Compared to history this kind of detail is trivial. It is left out of
history. The death of Sarah’s Father in Fabrications is seemingly tangential to
the story of the Hindmarsh Affair but it is the love for another that forms a base
to Sarah’s ethics in relation to the Hindmarsh Affair. The father-daughter love is
a metaphor here but one that enables affect in relation to the story of the
Hindmarsh Affair. Through fiction, the novelist can put the reader in touch with
the feelings involved in an event. In so doing the reader may be opened up to a
new understanding of an event or of his or her own experience.
Historians have not objected to Garner’s blurring of fact and fiction, no
doubt because the events were personal not historical. It is only when novelists
use their imagination to take themselves inside the minds and lives of historical
87
B. Easton Ellis, American Psycho, New York: Vintage 1991.
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47
figures and the events in which they find themselves embroiled, that some
historians object. What Clendinnen and the other historians who have railed
against Grenville and other novelists who have used their imaginations to take us
inside historical characters and conflicts do not understand is that novelists do not
think they are writing history.
Unlike an historian, fiction writers are free to change the facts and they do
so, willingly and knowingly. At no stage do novelists even seek to pretend that
they are telling the story how it really happened. Fiction as a discourse is selfaware of the textual nature of all story telling. Its transgressive nature (telling the
world of private and socially shameful feelings and things) is part of its selfaware discourse. It is not so much that one discourse tells the truth and the other
does not, but that one discourse (the literary) is aware of the subjective nature of
history. In fiction the subjective goes hand in hand with the personal and this
aspect of fiction is not doubt the reason why fiction is a viable genre; in fiction
the reader can recall their un-public involvement in life. How then, can fiction
writers be accused of trying to “bump historians off the track of writing history”?
How can novelists be accused of not sticking to the historical facts, when they are
not and have never pretended to be writing factual history, or factual biography
or factual autobiography? This confusion is in the mind of the accuser, not the
novelist. It also involves a different approach to text; the historian is unable to
engage with what literary discourse is doing with history and literature. Literary
discourse is interested in ethics and affect—not in mapping a past terrain.
Novelists do not enter the world of the novel or their characters through
facts but through imagination and empathy. As an historian, Clendinnen admits
that she does not believe that we can put ourselves back in time, no matter how
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brilliant our imagination or empathy. Why not? Because for the historian this is
“untestable speculation.” The novelist, however, does not need to test the results
of their imagination or empathy.
Fiction does not require testing. Accuracy to
history for the literary discourse means something entirely different from
accuracy to historical fact from an historian’s perspective. Literary discourse by
definition is an acknowledgment of the vested interests of all discourses.
Historians like Clendinnen give no credibility in the power of empathy to
help us relive our past or even our present. Novelists like Malouf, Grenville and
Garner want us to understand who we are now, by entering into a fictional world
through our imagination and our empathy, not by entering into a world of facts.
The 2008 The Australian/Vogel Literary Award for an unpublished
manuscript was won by 28 year old Andrew Croome for a novel titled Document
Z which is a fictionalised account of the Petrovs, Russian intelligence officers
who defected to Australia in the 1950s. When asked how he had tackled writing a
novel based on a recent historical incident of such moment he said, “There are
two ways you can do it: one is to take a controlling view of the archive and pinch
what you want in the service of your own narrative; the other is to take a more
subservient approach and be the voice of the archive.”88 He decided to adopt the
second method. Fortunately for him, ASIO had done some of the work for him
by writing its own narrative of the movements of the key players. Croome said
he simply “imagined” himself into their emotions, discussions and rationales.89
Clendinnen would definitely not approve.
The factual story of the Hindmarsh Island Bridge Affair is very complex
and has many people involved. In order to write it as fiction, as a novel, it was
88
89
The Australian, September 19, 2008.
Ibid.
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necessary for me to reduce and combine the characters, to drastically reduce the
timeframe, to change place names, to change people’s names, to compress
descriptions and to reduce the number of main issues. Even Margaret Simons
who wrote the excellent non-fiction account in her book The Meeting of the
Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair named too many characters as a problem
for a future fictional account.
If this were fiction, one would surely amalgamate a few, to reduce the
complexity and make the dramatic points clearer. As it is they walk in and walk
out, make gestures and decisions that change the course of events and in each case
the background must be sketched in if what they do and why they do it is to be
understood.90
Fabrications has indeed made these kinds of adjustments; it has adapted
and changed the facts and people, according to the literary imperatives of a novel.
90
M. Simons, The meeting of the Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair, Sydney: Hodder, 2003, p.99.
49
BEING CONTEMPORARY
51
In tackling the Hindmarsh Island Bridge Affair I felt it was important to deal with
contemporary political, social and cultural conflicts and issues. Arguably the past
is less threatening, less confronting than the present; it also allows for the wisdom
of hindsight. I am aware that you have to be either brave or foolhardy to write a
novel based on contemporary conflicts when most of the real-life players are still
alive.
Having lived in Adelaide during the period of the Hindmarsh Island Affair
I witnessed first-hand the various stake-holders in the Hindmarsh Island dispute. I
wanted readers to understand it from the inside. The term ‘secret women’s
business’ has entered the Australian lexicon and is now used as a derogatory term.
I wanted to revisit that event and the mergence of that term in fiction in order for
us to understand the political and media effects determining our attitudes towards
indigenous culture. As David Malouf says, “societies can only become whole, can
only know fully what they are, when they have relived history through fiction.”
We know of the event in historical terms, via the media and nonfiction accounts,
but it is through the imaginative work, that opens the event to an affective
response, that the reader not only knows about history but also has a subjective
(political/ethical) bearing in relation to it.
In choosing to write Fabrications I am fulfilling a commitment that it is
very important that Australian fiction deals with major social issues in the present
not just those in our past. My novel, Hot Shots, was set in the Australia of the
1960s. It ended in the 1970s, with Sarah, Georgie and Penny, as the three main
characters. I wanted to extend their stories into the beginning of the 1990s. As a
fictional device, in Fabrications, I made each of the women a stake-holder in the
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local dispute over the building of the bridge—the stake-holders represented were
developers and the government and environmentalists and indigenous activists.
Sarah Wood is a journalist. When the novel begins she has returned to her
hometown in South Australia from New York where she has been living and
working as a successful journalist during the 1980s. Her elderly father has had a
minor stroke and she has returned in order to help him in his rehabilitation and
find a suitable retirement home in which to place him. She becomes embroiled in
the Hindmarsh Island controversy when she starts to research it for the national
newspaper. Her aim is to try and remain objective in her analysis of the issues and
she refuses to take sides.
Penny Reynolds, a former social worker, is married to the developer of the
marina project on Hindmarsh Island. She is bored with her marriage and her life
and has an affair with the Minister who has backed the building of the bridge. She
takes the side of the dissident women. Georgie Staunton is a former academic, a
feminist and a consultant anthropologist who is called upon to provide support for
the “secret women’s business” group. All three women were close friends from
University days and during the 1970s were heavily involved in the Women’s
Movement when feminism was a powerful force in all their lives. The Hindmarsh
Island conflict brings them all together again. They are forced to face up to what
has happened to them and to feminism in the 1980s. Their clashes over the social,
cultural and political conflicts that arise from the Island affair are the catalyst for
turning points and truths in their personal lives.
The general themes in this novel are shown to be as pertinent today as at
any time. In relation to the Hindmarsh Island Affair I explore greed, self-interest,
race, gender, history, culture, business/politics, the environment, anthropology, the
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clash between traditional and radical aboriginals and left and right political power
lobbies. It is a story about the collision of Western white culture and indigenous
black culture at a particular time and place. It is a story about people of my own
country and generation. All of these themes are explored in relation to issues of
truth and lies, facts and fabrication–both public and private. There is also the
underlying theme of women’s friendship between the three main characters and
the way this is tested by the island conflict and the bonds of family, history,
culture and ideology.
The characters in Fabrications represent the major social groupings in
current Australian society and its themes go to the heart of what we believe about
ourselves. This is a contemporary novel not least because it deals with the newly
“revised” issue of “secret women’s business”. In addition to this historical update,
I imaginatively imbue this event by implicitly extending the term “secret women’s
business” to the lives and friendship of the three contemporary Australian women
in the novel. Through this infusing of one culture with another, Fabrications
becomes a contemporary novel with archetypal dimensions. By bringing together
these two cultures that are usually portrayed as disparate, Fabrications forges a
meeting point and an awareness of (something of) who we are as a people and a
nation, now. Such a move is of course the domain of fiction, (history cannot do
such alchemic things). It is where fiction enacts a kind of ethics; a forging of new
practices of self.
The story traces the path of a regional dispute that escalates to a national
conflict—because of its relationship to our nation’s unresolved, arguably deepest,
conflict; reconciliation and land rights. It maps the role of the media and a range
of vested interests and conflicting lobby groups in relation to these issues.
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54
Through this mapping it is seen that this ‘story’ is the fault line along which our
nation is still deeply divided, or perhaps, better put; un-unified. Many nations have
internal conflicts that cause grievous bodily harm; our conflict may not cause
direct bodily harm but it does cause harm and pain. In Fabrications I wanted to
tell of this nation’s continuous struggles and the ‘casualties’ we self-inflict each
time the ‘skirmishes’ reappear.
In writing such contemporary history (into fiction) it has been essential the
writing exhibits the complexity of the event. To do this I have undertaken to
understand the viewpoint of all the major players in this saga. For this reason I
have interviewed and talked to, in both a formal and an informal manner, most of
the people who influenced the way in which this conflict was presented and
played itself out. In those instances where I could not gain access to first hand
knowledge I spoke to those who were active participants at the time of the events.
The conceptual and empirical aspects of my research have been based on
discussions with the main media commentators, the politicians, both state and
federal who were involved, the lawyers who represented the conflicting groups of
Aboriginal women, the anthropologists upon whose research and reports decisions
were made, the judges who conducted the hearings and the enquiries, the
environmentalists who supported the secret women’s business group, the local
business people on Hindmarsh Island, the weekend shack owners, the union
organisers, the historians on both sides of the conflict and the feminists who made
public statements. Most of the Aboriginal women involved no longer wish to
speak about the events due to the pain and conflict it caused in their communities.
There is also the problem of reading or speaking the names of the recently dead
which causes great offence to some indigenous Australians, including many of the
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Ngarrindjeri people. I have also read and researched many media articles, court
transcripts and exhibits and anthropological articles, together with non-fiction
books on the topic that have been previously published. I have also researched the
history of South Australia including that of R. M. Gibbs A History of South
Australia from colonial days to the present. I have researched reports on the
salinity problem in the Murray-Darling basin, together with accounts of Sturt’s
original journey into the interiors of South Australia. Historical information about
Goolwa and the Murray Mouth has been taken from reports from the State
Heritage Branch reports. In order to familiarise myself with accounts of the
various indigenous tribes involved I have based much of my research on the basic
text of M. Ronald and Catherine Berndt’s, The World that Was and Diane Bell’s
Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin: A World That Is, Was and Will Be.
Each of the three main women players in my telling of the Hindmarsh
Affair, that represent the different interest groups, represent a different body of
knowledge. It is this clash of what they believe to be true that determines what
parts I have selected from all the information I have compiled. There are many
discourses involved and the novel must reflect this. It is a story told many times by
many different people. My task in the novel has been to capture the structure of
the event. My aim was not to let the details of the Hindmarsh Island Affair swamp
the telling of the dynamic of forces involved in the event and this is why I chose to
abstract the players to the three main characters of the novel. In other words, in
order to achieve a level of abstraction I chose for the drama to unfold from the
fictional lives of the characters, not the actual event. As well, the human themes of
love, sex, greed, ambition and loneliness, which in many ways appear as asides to
the main event, interweave with stories of race, gender, politics and culture—
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central foci of the Hindmarsh Island Affair. My intention in combining these
themes has been so that one series, love and sex, etc., produce a resonance with
the annexed series, or sets of conditions, for example, race, gender and politics,
etc. By creating a resonance between the disparate parts of the story I aimed to
show the connectedness between everything within a nation and the importance
thereby of understanding and knowing our history.
But above all, however,
through the combining of the first series, the personal, with the second series, that
of a nations body politic, I have aimed to tell a story in such a way as to ‘reveal’
the affective aspect of the event. The academic disciplines of history, indigenous
cultures, anthropology, politics, philosophy and journalism underpin the narrative
but it is the lives and conflicts of the main characters that drive the plot.
One of the main questions with which I have had to deal is the extent to
which I have grounded the action in local place names. I have chosen to change
the local place names and the names of the actual people in the actual conflict.
Not only am I hoping to avoid charges of defamation but I want to remind the
reader that this is fiction. I also wish to be free to invent certain events while
remaining true to the major themes. I have avoided extensively detailing the
Ngarrindjeri cultural traditions and people so as not to appropriate and not to
cause offence to deceased Aboriginal people. I have also altered the time frame in
order to avoid the Mabo decision as it is so complicated that I feared it would
swamp the novel and open up an even larger set of themes. This novel is set in a
pre-Mabo world, at the beginning of the 1990s.
The last time the novel’s three main women character were together they
were close friends; it was at the end of the 1970s, which I view to be the end of
idealism, particularly in relation to social change and feminism. Sarah has spent
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the last decade in New York, which she considers to be the centre of the universe.
She has created a successful career as a journalist in New York and has a loose
relationship with her long-time friend and lover Tim, an Australian expat who also
lives and works in New York. Sarah has returned home, or at least to her home
town, reluctantly and is dismayed when she realises that her Father is more frail
than she had thought. Reluctant to leave him without finding him suitable hostel
and nursing accommodation she begins to write some articles on the Hindmarsh
Island dispute as a means of allaying her boredom and her loneliness. Her
background is working class, her Mother died when she was 18 and she has
always felt herself an outsider to notions of family and community. As an only
child of doting parents she is basically a loner. Her story, apart from belonging to
the story of post- feminism, which she shares with Penny and Georgie, is one of a
journey of love and above all, self love. This story resonates with the need of selflove of a nation, in regard to the issues of division spoken about above.
Penny has taken on the life of the wife of a successful vet turned 1980s
developer, almost without realising it. She is leading the smug, satisfied, overorganised life of an upper middle class suburban wife and mother (to her
husband’s children from an earlier marriage). She has turned her back on the
person she was in the 1970s.
Georgie has always been certain of her certainties and her ideas have not
changed at all since the 1970s. She is now a respected anthropological consultant,
particularly in relation to indigenous affairs. She is still defiantly left wing in her
politics and her work and proud of it. She believes “it takes a village” to educate a
child and she loves her own village and its local conflicts. When the indigenous
women from the Secret Women’s’ Business group seek her help, she is more than
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willing to give it and becomes intellectually and emotionally involved in their
protests against the bridge and their reasons for stopping it. Instinctively tribal she
lives in a self-selected commune and has one son from her previous marriage to
her academic husband who eventually takes up the side of those who oppose her.
All three women renew their friendship when Sarah returns to their
hometown. They become inextricably involved in each other’s lives and in the
Hindmarsh Island Affair and challenge each other over what is true and what is
fabricated both in their private and their public lives.
Even though I was an eye-witness to the dispute, I have based a great deal
of my knowledge on two recently published non-fiction books which provided
both the history and the research. Chris Kenny’s book, It would be nice if there
was some Women’s Business, is his version of the story that lay behind the
Hindmarsh Island Affair. Kenny was at the time a leading South Australian
political reporter and the political writer for The Adelaide Review. He was very
much involved in all aspects of the dispute and came to the conclusion that ‘secret
women’s business’ was a fabrication. He was the reporter who broke the evidence
given by the ‘dissident women’ on the Channel 10 News. In 1995 the ABC’s
‘Media Watch’ program implied that Kenny had created some of the controversy
surrounding the Secret Women’s Business. The subsequent Royal Commission
found that this was not the case.
In his author’s note, Kenny states
This book is based on the evidence and findings of the Hindmarsh Island
Royal Commission, 1995, supplemented by personal interviews…This story has
heroes, the so-called dissident women. Their courage has done their people and
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their country a great service. They have won my unending admiration for doing
what is right, and my gratitude for trusting me.91
History and the 2001 civil case in the Federal Court of Australia which
found the claims of fabrication to be incorrect has since shed doubt on Kenny’s
sure resolve. Kenny’s is a first-hand, personal and partisan account and analysis of
the conflict, published in 1996, fresh from his experience. On the other hand, the
writer and journalist Margaret Simons did not publish her book The Meeting of the
Waters–The Hindmarsh Island Affair until 2003. She is an outsider to the events
and played no part in them. Her attempts to unravel the complexities of the affair
and probe beneath the surface of the events is a scholarly, analytical approach
based on forensic detail pursued by a non-partisan writer over five years of
research and interviews. In her prelude she concludes,
In the years since I began work on this book I have come to believe that
there are many reasons why the story of the Hindmarsh Island bridge is one of the
most important that can be told about Australia at the end of the last century and the
beginning of this.92
I have relied on both books for accurate research, reported dialogue and the
factual account of the events and the power players.
The events and indigenous characters are seen through the eyes of white
characters and I make no apology for this. I do believe that you have to draw on
what you know to write well. I think there has been enough appropriation of
indigenous culture and its people. It is time for more contemporary indigenous
91
92
C. Kenny, It Would Be Nice If There Were Some Women’s Business, Duffy and Snellgrove, 1996.
Simons, M. The Meeting of the Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair, Sydney: Hodder, 2003, p. 305.
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women, like Alexis Wright, to publish their own stories and create fictional
characters through their own eyes.
60
THE LEGAL ARGUMENT/ BEYOND TRUE OR
FALSE
62
In order to understand the implied authorial voice of Fabrications it is necessary
to briefly map White Australia’s changing relationship to indigenous culture and
the attitudes of the dominant culture at the time of the Hindmarsh Affair. From
the beginning of white settlement in Australia, whites have assumed that
indigenous culture is not only very different and very foreign to white Western
culture, but also inferior to it. Our culture was competitive, theirs was communal,
ours was based on historical facts, theirs on ancient myths and legends, our
history was written, and theirs was oral. Most mainstream Australians had little
personal contact with indigenous people and even less contact with knowledge of
Aboriginal culture. It was not taught as part of the school curriculum and most of
us therefore made little effort to learn it. Most white Australians would admit to
their ignorance of Aboriginal culture and accept the claim that what they knew
came from media treatment of aboriginal problems. Many Aboriginal beliefs
were spiritual, mysterious and secret and as such could never be tested in a court
of Western law. Political attitudes towards aboriginal culture changed from those
of assimilation in the 1950s and 1960s to the self-management and land rights
claims in the 1970s and 1980s. The 1990s began the movement towards
reconciliation and the Labor and Liberal parties were by then diametrically
opposed to each other in the way they viewed aboriginal history, culture and
tradition. The far right despised the Keating government’s policy of
reconciliation and viewed it as politically correct, romantic, sentimental nonsense
as was demonstrated by Minister, Ian Mc Lachlan’s, involvement in the issue of
Secret Women’s Business in The Hindmarsh Island Affair. It was McLachlan
who first approached Chris Kenny, then a senior journalist at Channel 10 in
Adelaide, about talking to a group of women who disputed secret women’s
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business.93 It was Chris Kenny who broke the story on 19 May 1995 on channel
10. Ian Mc Lachlan had planned to use the controversy over the dissident women
to call for a Royal Commission.94 As part of the New Right of the Liberal Party,
Ian Mc Lachlan saw the Keating Labor Minister for Aboriginal Affairs, Robert
Tickner, and those who openly respected Aboriginal culture, as “romantic,
sentimental and in their political correctness, unwilling to face nasty realities,
such as Aboriginal drunkenness, violence and poverty.”95 To McLachlan, secret
women’s business was nonsense because it was based on secrecy; “the
mysterious and the secret could never be challenged in a court of law, and that
made them dangerous.”96 Mc Lachlan’s great friend, supporter and behind-thescenes backer was Hugh Morgan, the Managing Director of Western Mining.97
Cultures, Morgan said, were simply not equal. Some would ‘wither away’ and
others would develop.98 Both Mc Lachlan and Morgan believed that Western
European culture was simply superior and the future for Aboriginal people lay
not in their traditions but in becoming more like white people.99 In 1994 when
Labor Minister Tickner banned the Hindmarsh Island Bridge, the leader of the
Liberal Party was John Howard. He was the instigator of an attack on “the
(aboriginal) guilt industry” and the “black, armband view” of Australian history,
a term he took from the historian Geoffrey Blainey. “Guilt Industry people have
great difficulty in accepting, or recognising, that Aboriginal culture was so much
93
Ibid. 308.
Ibid. 318.
95
Ibid. 245.
96
Ibid. 241.
97
Ibid. 242.
98
Ibid. 243.
99
Ibid. 245.
94
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less powerful than the culture of Europeans, that there was never any possibility
of its survival.”100
Ian McLachlan was a pastoralist turned politician. Allied with one of the
largest land-owning families in Australia he came to prominence as the head of
the National Farmers Federation and was determined to smash union power.
When Margaret Simons interviewed him for her book, he was still entirely
convinced that the secret women’s business claim was entirely fabricated. When
she asked him “What if it wasn’t fabricated? What if tomorrow another claim is
made on the basis of secret women’s business and it is a true belief?”101 His firm
response was that even if the claim was true, the claim would have to give way.
He said that a country could only have one legal system “and in our country you
can’t have something that cannot be examined, that is so secret that it can never
be cross-examined, and never divulged.”102 In McLachlan’s view, and it was a
view shared by his party and a large percentage of Australians, is that claims to
property have to be dealt with rationally and spiritual beliefs cannot be dealt with
by this method. Western European culture is based on the judicial process and the
ability to discover the truth. Aboriginal culture draws no line between the
spiritual and the empirical. Many aboriginal languages have no separate words
for ‘knowledge’ and ‘belief’.103
A question that Fabrications endeavours to ask is whether our culture
failed to deliver impartial justice by the weighing of evidence, and recognising
the equality of the two cultures? Did our culture believe that written knowledge is
100
Morgan, H. M, 1992, Mabo Reconsidered, The Joe & Enid Lyons Memorial Lecture, delivered at the
Australian National University, October 12, 1992.
101
Simons, M. The Meeting of the Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair, Sydney: Hodder, 2003, p. 246.
Ibid., 246.
103
Ibid., 455
102
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the same as oral knowledge? Did we assume cultural superiority over indigenous
culture? There remains to this day an ongoing battle between oral history–what
Aboriginal people say about themselves—and what white people have recorded
about their culture. History wars and culture wars continue to rage over how
Australia should record and understand its past.
In 2001, Justice Von Doussa of the Federal Court finally delivered his
judgement on the fabrication findings of The Royal Commission which he
arrived at by the traditional methods of Western law. His finding was that he was
not convinced that women’s business was a fabrication. In this instance both the
proponents and the dissident women had given evidence in the Federal Court and
been cross-examined by Justice Von Doussa. He was critical of the Royal
Commission’s findings because it had expressed its findings and conclusions in
very certain terms, with no degree of doubt. And yet it had never heard the socalled ‘fabricators’ or many of the relevant witnesses. Von Doussa made it clear
that he and his colleagues on the Federal Court were used to dealing with native
title claims and that it was now well-recognised that Aboriginal knowledge was
often graded in secrecy, with inner and outer layers.
He found that the late emergence of the envelopes containing secret
women’s business “would not be indicative of fabrication: on the contrary, it is to
be expected in the case of genuine sacred information of importance.”104 He
understood that the more secret the knowledge, the more reluctant the women
would have been to reveal it. As for the dissident women, he wrote
I accept that they were not aware of restricted women’s
knowledge, however, such restricted knowledge may not be known to
104
Von Doussa, (judgment), Federal Court of Australia, web-site,
http://www.fedcourt.gov.au/judgments/video_jdg.html. (accessed, April 2007)
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everybody…One reason which could render it culturally inappropriate to pass on
the information would be that the member of the next generation was no longer
interested in the traditional practices and beliefs. It is clear from the evidence of
the number of dissident women who gave evidence before this Court that they
consider Ngarrindjeri culture and practices as historical curiosities that are no
longer a part of, or appropriate to, their current lifestyles as Christian members
of a wider urban community.105
As for the Royal Commission’s rejection of a spiritual belief about
creation and procreation, Von Doussa was clear that such spiritual beliefs “do not
lend themselves to proof in strictly formal terms.”106 Moreover, “to use lack of
logic as a test to discredit those asserting a particular spiritual belief is to pose a
test that is both unhelpful and inappropriate.”107 Von Doussa understood that
cultures change and the Federal Court had previously considered several cases of
recent innovations to traditions that had their roots in the distant past. If there was
an ancient tradition underlying innovations like man-made barrages, then that did
not prevent the law from protecting that original ancient belief which existed
before the barrages were built and it did not automatically follow that the linking
of the mainland to the island was not harmful to the contemporary women and
their beliefs.
As for the disagreement between the two warring camps of
anthropologists, he heard the evidence from both sides and was more convinced
by those who argued that there was “a measure of support” in the historical and
ethnographic material for the existence of secret women’s business.
Unfortunately, by the time the findings of Von Doussa were released, the bridge
105
Ibid.
Ibid.
107
Ibid.
106
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was already built and the general public had grown weary and cynical about both
the issues and what the original inhabitants claimed about indigenous culture.108
As I see it, the nation missed a real opportunity to absorb and understand
how Western law, applied through the eyes of a white judge but one with a deep
and respectful understanding of the culture, was able to make a rational and fair
judgement. We missed an opportunity to build another type of bridge between
our two cultures. In Fabrication it has been my intention, and I hope that I have
achieved it, to place myself outside the fray and get inside the experience. I have
written Fabrications in order to show all points of view but above all, I have
wished to add to the popular understanding of this important event in our history
the new cultural bridge made by Van Doussa. The applied empathy of the
novelist so dismissed by historians like Clendinnen is after all what Prime
Minister Keating’s famous Redfern Speech asked of us as a nation in December
1992. Keating asked Australians “to try to imagine the aboriginal view.”109 He
said,
There is one thing today we cannot imagine. We cannot imagine that the
descendants of people whose genius and resilience maintained a culture here
through 50,000 years or more, through cataclysmic changes to the climate and the
environment, and who then survived two centuries of dispossession and abuse,
will be denied their place in the modern Australian nation.110
Marcia Langton, now the Foundation Professor of Australian Indigenous
Studies at the University of Melbourne and a former anthropologist in indigenous
affairs working with governments and universities, noticed a slight catch in the
108
Simons, M. The Meeting of the Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair, Sydney: Hodder, 2003.
P. Keating, Prime Minister’s Address. Redfern Park Sydney, December 10, 1992, (transcription)
http://www.apology.west.net.au/redfern.html. National Library of Australia web archive, (accessed,
January 2007).
110
Ibid.
109
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Prime Minister’s throat as he came to the words that created total silence in the
crowd.
It is these words of Keating—of imagining and the need of imagining—
that resonate with my intention in writing Fabrications. It is obvious since the
Von Doussa ruling that this nation’s long habit of prioritising one culture and set
of laws over the other needs to stop, especially at a legal level, if we are to go
forward as one nation. Keating’s words that day at Redfern Park pointed out that
we have failed to imagine; what if all the dispossession and abuse had happened
to “us”, how would we feel, Keating asked. His list of abuse read like this: We
took the traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the
disasters. The alcohol. We committed the murders. We took the children from
their mothers. We practised discrimination and exclusion. It was our ignorance
and our prejudice. And our failure to imagine these things being done to us. With
some noble exceptions we failed, as a nation, to make the most basic human
response and enter into their hearts and minds. We failed to ask – how would I
feel if this were done to me?
What Keating defines as the basis of our failure—the inability to place
ourselves inside the experience of indigenous Australia (and this does not mean
to imagine being an indigenous Australian) is the method of empathy that
Clendinnen dismisses.
In Fabrications I do not so much imagine the Aboriginal experience as
the legal and cultural infrastructure of the white players in the Hindmarsh Island
Affair. It is through following the power of the White Australians-developers,
politicians, the media, judges—that we feel the “punch” delivered to Aboriginal
Australia. I would not attempt to write from the point of view of indigenous
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Australians. I know I would not do it well and it would be an insult to them.
Grenville explained her method of understanding the indigenous experience in
our past as; “I come to it as a novelist, which is the way of empathising and
having an imaginative understanding of those difficult events.”111 She attempts to
answer the question “What would I have done in that situation?”112 Clendinnen’s
claim as a historian is “we cannot post ourselves back in time.”113 But surely, this
is exactly what we must do if we are to go forward as a nation.
Keating’s solution is not to drown ourselves in guilt but “to open our
hearts a bit. All of us.” And finally he asked us to,
Imagine if ours was the oldest culture in the world and we were told that it
was worthless. Imagine if we had resisted this settlement, suffered and died in the
defence of our land, and then were told in history books that we had given up
without a fight…Imagine if our spiritual life was denied and ridiculed. Imagine if
we had suffered the injustice and then were blamed for it. It seems to me that if we
can imagine the injustice then we can imagine its opposite. And we can have
justice.114
In the case of the secret women’s business, it can be added, imagine how
you would feel if spiritual knowledge that has been passed down from one
selected woman to another and was considered to be a valued and treasured
cultural and spiritual secret was judged by white male anthropologists and white
male politicians and a white female judge to be nothing but lies and fabrication.
In other words, nothing but a worthless hoax.
111
Quarterly Essay 23, 2006 p. 20.
Quarterly Essay 23, 2006 p. 20.
113
Quarterly Essay 23, 2006, p. 20.
114
Keating, P. Prime Minister’s Address. Redfern Park Sydney, December 10, 1992, (transcription)
http://www.apology.west.net.au/redfern.html. National Library of Australia web archive, (accessed,
January 2007).
112
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Diane Bell, in her anthropological book Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin,
published in 1998, addresses the concerns of the findings of the Royal
Commission. In her prologue to the book she emphasises that the Ngarrindjeri
about whom she is writing are literate and care a great deal about how they are
presented to a literate world. She has purposely chosen to write a historically
grounded ethnography, “one that is in dialogue with the sources, oral and
written.”115 Her research did in fact reveal a number of references supportive of
the oral accounts of Ngarrindjeri people. Without any written documentation the
Royal Commission somehow concluded that fabrication occurred in the oral
accounts of the proponent women. Bell states that many of the sources on which
she is relying were either ignored by, or not available to, earlier hearings
regarding the bridge. She does not think this was a conspiracy but rather that
research of the kind she conducts takes time and a willingness to follow various
kinds of leads “without the attendant pressures of political expediency in the
parliament, media sensationalism, partisan reporting, disgruntled developers,
hurried and harried anthropology, legalism masquerading as fairness.”116
If this amount of time had been allowed, Bell is convinced that the
material that Minister Tickner was presented with would have provided a very
different documented application for protection of the bridge site in 1994. “I’m
rapidly coming to the conclusion that there would not have been a Royal
Commission in 1995 and the proponent women would not have been placed in a
position of having to carry the case.”117
115
D. Bell, Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin: A World That Is, Was and Will Be, Melbourne: Spinifex Press,
1998.
116
Ibid. p. 20.
117
Ibid. p. 36.
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In the first section of her book Bell introduces to the reader a number of
Ngarrindjeri who offer accounts of their experiences and recount stories which
have been passed down through the generations. She explores the different
contexts and histories within which the stories are told and find meaning. In their
own voices women and men explain the importance of telling stories and reading
the signs; of weaving, making feather flowers and singing, of ngatji (one’s
totem), miwi (the locus of feeling and wisdom) and genealogies. She writes,
They speak of a world of intimate relationships to place; where beliefs
about healing, sorcery, the living and the dead, structure their daily lives. They tell
of a land alive with meaning, gendered meanings, of land as body, of restricted and
sacred places. Individual women and men recount stories of the beings who live
in the waters, on the land, and they speak of the cautions with which they were
reared and those they teach their children. Theirs is a rich, vital world within
which the living and the dead constantly interact; where there are birds who bring
messages and whales with whom one can talk; and it is a gendered world.118
All of these voices spelt out for Bell an “epistemology in which ‘feelings’
are central and they detail ‘the respect system’ which underwrites the authority of
the elders.”119
In Part Two of the book Bell addresses what she calls, “the politics of
knowledge”.120 She addresses the rules of access and transmission in an oral
culture and explains how it is possible for transmission of knowledge to be
restricted to certain individuals based on age, gender and family. A print-oriented
society finds such rules mystifying–and even ‘fabricated.’ She asserts that there
is ample evidence to support the claim that Ngarrindjeri women had rituals from
118
Ibid. p. 37.
Ibid. p. 37.
120
Ibid. ‘Prologue’.
119
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which men were excluded, and that these concerned women’s beliefs about their
bodies and the ways in which body/land and spirit were interwoven. Moreover, it
is certainly possible to know of the existence of these rituals without knowing the
details or content of them. She explains in the book also, how she negotiated
access to these stories (unlike male anthropologists who claimed they didn’t
exist) and why the record will always be incomplete. Sometimes she says, it is
the women’s silences and omissions that only reinforce why certain knowledge is
restricted and the women are reluctant to broadcast the intimate details of their
lives and beliefs. She concludes her book with these questions. Should
Aboriginal rights in land, and respect for Aboriginal religion, be a matter of
balancing interests? What is the role of the courts, the parliament, the media, and
anthropology? To who can Indigenous peoples turn when the courts, parliament
and the general public weary of their stories?121
For all her hard work, detailed research and good intentions, Diane Bell is
nevertheless a white woman. An article by Aileen Moreton-Robinson, reminds us
of the power of ‘whiteness’, even in feminist spaces. She writes,
Whiteness is both the measure and marker of normality in Australian
society, yet it remains invisible for most white women and men, and they do not
associate it with conferring dominance and privilege…Whiteness is highly visible
and imbued with power.122
Even though Moreton-Robinson concedes that Australian feminist
literature has exposed the oppressive conditions of Indigenous women’s
existence, relations between Indigenous women and white women are analysed
through the white women’s “filtered lens, a lens which is blind to the way in
121
Ibid. ‘Prologue’ p. 39.
A. Moreton-Robinson, A. Blacklines: Contemporary Critical Writing by Indigenous Australians, Ed.
Michelle Grossman, Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing, 2003, p. 66.
122
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which white race privilege manifests itself in and through these relations.”123
Until Indigenous women write literature which reveals how they ‘see’ the
whiteness before their eyes, we will not know how much we have ignored their
analysis and knowledge of ‘whiteness.’
In 1989, Indigenous women challenged Diane Bell in public and
denounced her claim that she and everyone else had the right to speak about rape
in Indigenous communities. In 1990 in a discussion at the Women and Australian
Anthropology Conference in Adelaide, Moreton-Robinson raised problems with
Bell’s methodology and was accused by white members of the audience of not
believing in the “spirit of equal treatment for all rape victims, irrespective of race
and culture.”124 Moreton-Robinson states that the white women in the audience
did not see that the way they exercised their white race privilege was to represent
Bell’s work as morally correct and her position as less morally sound. She felt
that her objections to the use, ownership and control of knowledge were reduced
to a “purely moral issue.”125
What Moreton-Robinson continues to argue is that Bell denies the power
that she is able to exercise as a professional, white, middle-class woman. That
power is not available to indigenous women. Her argument goes to the heart of
the distinction between public and private knowledge.
What constitutes public and private knowledge within Indigenous
communities is contextualised by elders and the kinship relations of the
123
Ibid., p. 66.
Ibid., p. 71.
125
Ibid., p. 72.
124
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participants involved in the event or circumstances which govern these
deliberations.126
By stating that rape is everybody’s business, Moreton-Robinson believes
that Bell has contravened this law, because she cannot make public certain
knowledge without the appropriate deliberations of the Indigenous communities
concerned. The crux of the question here is consent. No knowledge in indigenous
society is “everybody’s business” because knowledge in indigenous society is
owned and highly valued and those who appropriate knowledge without consent
are seen to commit theft.
The barristers who interrogated the indigenous men and women during
the Royal Commission could not accept that the knowledge they were seeking,
that is, the content in the secret envelopes was not theirs to know or to own. This
knowledge was sacred and private to the women who had received it from their
elders and only they had the right or permission to make it public. This refusal to
answer the questions only made the barristers and the Royal Commissioner even
more convinced that a fabrication had occurred. They reasoned that if they
refused to answer the questions in a court of law, then their arguments must be
fabricated.
This was the reason that in the novel I ensured that Georgie, a white,
middle-class, professional woman, was asked by Isobel to help them in their
struggle. At no stage did Georgie assume that what she had been privileged to be
told by the indigenous women was ‘everybody’s business.’ Georgie is well aware
that such knowledge is never to be appropriated or used without the consent of
the indigenous women.
126
Ibid., p. 72.
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75
‘Secret Women’s Knowledge’ is very different from traditional cultural
and spiritual knowledge which indigenous women feel free to share with white
women. As I write this, there is a newspaper article concerning the actress and
celebrity Nicole Kidman and her belief that by swimming in ‘spiritual’ waters
which were deemed to promote fertility she and six other women involved in the
making of the epic film ‘Australia’ subsequently became pregnant.
In The
Australian forty-one year old Kidman said,
I never thought I would get pregnant and give birth to a child but seven
babies were conceived out of this film and only one was a boy.
There is
something up there in the Kununurra water because we all went swimming in the
waterfalls, so we can call it the fertility waters now.127
Perhaps now that Indigenous culture is recognised by celebrity actors,
more Australians will begin to recognise it. Although celebrities will have to be
very mindful of how they appropriate it. For example, Kidman’s playing of an
aboriginal musical instrument, upset some of the tribal elders as some
instruments are only traditionally to be played by men.
Alexis Wright is a Waanji woman from the southern Gulf of Carpentaria
and her latest book, Carpentaria, won the 2007 Miles Franklin Award. The book
is praised as a vast, ambitious and thoroughly original work; an epic tale of the
strained relationship between the white folk of the fictional town of Desperance
and the internal struggles of the indigenous community who are fighting for
survival against an all-powerful mining company. In a speech she delivered to
Sydney PEN titled ‘A Question of Fear’ she states boldly that Australia is known
127
The Australian, 25 September, 2008.
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throughout the world as “being engulfed in a spiritual free void”.128 She believes
that this is because we have never come to terms with “the original values for
understanding this land, voiced time and again by Indigenous people.” Australia,
she believes, needs to develop a literature that understands how aboriginal people
think and a literature that shows respect for their spirituality and their culture. She
asks why there is a continuing fear of Indigenous people and more specifically of
aboriginal law. “Is it the fear of the unknown, of what is not understood, of what
is not in memory and therefore must lie beyond possibility and cannot exist?”129
Indigenous culture has embraced other religions, like Christianity, and Wright
does not understand why the two sources of spiritual belief cannot exist together
and mutually reinforce each other.
Indigenous people know that different belief systems can flow together.
The Garma Festival is an event based on the promotion of the Yolngu people’s
knowledge of North East Arnhem Land flowing side by side with the knowledge
of non-indigenous people. It is not based on an assertion that one system of belief
or knowledge is better than another but on the firm belief that they are equal.
Garma is a Yolngu idea that considers the confluence of two streams of
knowledge represented by salt water and fresh water. This idea is made manifest
in the Goolwa—the mouth of the River Murray—it is the meeting of the waters
where the fresh river water meets the salt water of the ocean. That is sacred for
the Ngarrindjeri. As I write this what is foremost in my mind is the sad trickle of
the biggest river in our nation as it dribbles into the ocean; the result of Western
culture interfering with and destroying the natural environment.
128
A. Wright, ‘A Question of Fear’, http://www.pen.org.au/docs/FEAR.pdf, Sydney PEN Speech, July
4, 2007.
129
Ibid.
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The Ngarrindjeri know that the reasons for the death of the Murray and
the salt scars on the current landscape are the locks and weirs and barrages that
blocked the passage of the waters. They can date the environmental damage from
the beginning of European settlement and its grand development schemes. They
also believe that the water has ceased to flow from the mouth from the Murray
into the sea because of the building of the bridge that spans the mainland to
Hindmarsh Island.130
We would label this knowledge as empirical–they would call it spiritual;
either way, their system of lore, their stewardship for the country, kept the
country healthy. In contrast, our rational, democratic system has resulted in the
land’s degradation. This is surely reason enough for a need of a genuine coming
together of cultures including legal systems. The Ngarrindjeri draw no line
between the two words ‘spiritual’ and ‘rational’ or their concepts.131 As I say,
many aboriginal languages have no separate words for ‘knowledge’ and
‘belief’.132
In Carpentaria, Alexis Wright speaks to the reader in the same rhythm,
tones and intimacy of the oral history of her people. She melds the oral and the
written in the voice of the narrator, a native Gulf elder, who tells us big and small
stories about the people who live in a town called Desperance and their struggles
with old conflicts over land and finding a sense of belonging. The power of the
novel lies in its story-telling. Wright admits that she took a risk writing the novel
in that voice ‘it’s the type of voice which has always been rejected in this
country.’ This is how her novel begins,
130
M. Simons, The Meeting of the Waters: The Hindmarsh Island Affair, Sydney: Hodder, 2003, p. 454.
Ibid.
132
Ibid.
131
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One evening in the driest grasses in the world, a child who was no stranger
to her people, asked if anyone could find hope. The people of parable and
prophecy pondered what was hopeless and finally declared they no longer knew
what hope was. The clocks, tick-a-ty tock, looked as though they might run out of
time. Luckily, the ghosts in the memories of the old folk were listening, and said
anyone can find hope in the stories. The big stories and the little ones in between.
In this operatic novel, it is the power of the ancient spiritual forces, who
work through the sky, the sea and the land, in order to restore the country to its
ancient rhythms.
In Fabrications the cultural life of the indigenous women is viewed
through the lens of the three main fictional white female characters, all in their
early forties. Georgina Staunton, as an anthropologist, has studied indigenous
culture as a professional academic and a private consultant. Her background is
that of ‘old money’ and establishment values. After a private school religious
education, she attended the University in her hometown in the late 1960s when
campuses all over the world were engaged in organising demonstrations against
the Vietnam War and the oppression of blacks and women. Rebelling against the
established values of her parents, the church, and the school, she threw herself
into student politics and was an early leader in the Women’s Liberation
Movement in her small city.
Fired up by the sexual revolution she only agreed to marry one of her
lovers in order to travel to Oxford to complete her doctoral studies. Germaine
Greer was her heroine and role-model and she lived many of her teachings, in
particular that the sexual repression of women cuts them off from the dynamic,
creative energy they need in order to summon the will to achieve independence,
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excellent and full selfhood. She believed that those women with privilege and
education have a responsibility to help those who were among the most
disadvantaged and oppressed in their society. She rejected traditional notions of
marriage and the family by divorcing her husband and sharing the upbringing of
her only son. She attacked all forms of patriarchal power and oppression and was
in constant conflict with such attitudes in the academic world, in politics and in
particular in the world of anthropology. She was proud to be known as a feminist
anthropologist and attacked any imposition of western male values on indigenous
female cultures. She chose to live in a self-selected commune and rebelled
against all notions of femininity in behaviour and dress. She was opinionated,
confident, courageous, ideological, impulsive and at times gullible and naïve.
Georgie’s long-time friend from her school days, Penny Reynolds, is a
much more reserved and less confident woman. She too had been swept up by
the excitement of the Women’s Movement and its notions of freedom and selfhood. Her marriage to a liberated free-thinking actor who mostly stayed home,
smoked dope and played his guitar caused her to become disillusioned with
‘isms’. Her second marriage to Hugh Reynolds, a widowed vet with two young
children, gave her the sense of security and purpose that her previous marriage
had lacked. She gave up her career as a social worker for a more traditional life
of housekeeper, mother to her step-children and supporter of her husband’s
career. When Hugh gave up the profession of vet in the 1980s for that of
developer, Penny backed him all the way, excelling in the skills of entertaining
business and political contacts. Newly rich, they launched into a huge marina
development with the government but Penny never gave up her various charities
or her ‘good works’ for those less fortunate.
Nevertheless, as the 1980s
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progressed her values became more conservative and she turned her back on the
ideals of the 1970s, rarely saw her old friend Georgie or became involved in any
of her causes. She was not particularly interested in indigenous cultural issues
when she and Hugh bought the land on Heritage Island for the marina
development. Her main aim was to help him fulfil the necessary requirements for
the government in order for the development to proceed. Her role as she sees it is
to facilitate the lives of everyone in the family, run a good house, provide for all
their needs but she is beginning to feel ‘used’ and unrecognised for her
contributions. Resentment, bursts of anger, boredom-none of which she
understands or even consciously admits- result in her becoming seduced by the
power and sexuality of the Minister for Development. Her feelings are a
reflection of what Betty Friedan described as “the problem that has no name” in
‘The Feminine Mystique’.
Somehow Penny has lost her life, her sense of
identity. Even when the conflict occurs with the indigenous protesters, she just
takes the side of her husband and the government, without examining the issues.
She has no real sense of her own identity.
Sarah Wood is a working class, scholarship girl who met Georgie and
Penny at the local university. She was attracted to their sense of fun and
adventure, their certainty about their futures. Gloria Steinem said, “The ruling
class plans for decades, the working class for Saturday night.”133 Before she met
them she was living her life week by week, waiting for fate to intervene. By
becoming involved in the anti-Vietnam marches and the burgeoning Women’s
Liberation Movement her world expanded and so did her understanding of taking
133
S. Mitchell, Icons, Saints and Divas. Sydney: Harper Collins, p. 144.
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an active part in changing it to make it a fairer and more equal place in which to
live.
The death of her Mother was so devastating that she never really dealt
with the loss. Instead she threw herself into the sexual revolution and dreamed of
escape from small-town suburban life. From teaching she moved on to journalism
where she spent ten years climbing the ladder in New York in the 1980s. New
York was the antithesis of her previous life in a small city. She felt she was
finally at the centre of the Universe, writing and mixing with those concerned
with big causes, and real power. Her one link with the past was Tim, her longtime friend and part-time lover. Both of them had affairs with both sexes and
neither wanted to make a full-time commitment to one person. In her eyes she
was free, independent and life was an exciting adventure. The prism through
which she viewed the world was sceptical, worldly, and analytical. Forced to
return home to ‘deal’ with the problem of her father’s stroke and ailing health she
was determined to waste no time in organising him into a retirement home and
returning to New York. Reluctant to see her old friends and unwilling to be
sucked back into small-town politics and personalities, she spent time with her
father and the memories of her Mother. Never having been involved in
indigenous affairs she made a half-hearted effort to write about the bridge issue
in order to relieve the boredom of suburban life.
After renewing her friendships with Penny and Georgie she maintains a
position of detached observer, refusing to take sides on the bridge issue and
keeping Becky’s attempts to form a relationship at arm’s length. Although she
considers Charlie a kind and caring man she is always detached from any real
engagement, her eyes fixed on solving the problem of her father and returning to
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New York and what she considers her ‘real’ life. Whenever Tim rings she is
embarrassed that she has even allowed herself to become involved in a local
issue. She is irritated, angry and dismissive. It is not until her father has another
serious stroke that she realises what is truly important in her life. She allows
herself to become totally committed to his recovery, to her relationship with him–
she allows herself to love and be vulnerable to loss. And in that act of giving
oneself over to loving and being totally committed to another human being she
becomes fully alive. She notices the blossoms on the trees, the honey-bees, the
colour of the sky, she allows herself to be open to the memories of her childhood
and her Mother.
It is because Sarah has this rich experience of the love in her life that she
begins to understand the indigenous women’s links to the land, the water, the
sky; that part of the world where one is born. For the first time in her life she
does not catch a plane and is not running away from loss and grief. Finally, she
understands that being connected to your own land and your own people gives
you a sense of belonging and is a source of strength. I have used this affective
trope as a portal through which the reader moves from one culture to another,
from one race to another and most importantly, from one law to another. The
logical and emotionally cut off subjectivity of Sarah and her eventual transition to
her emotional life is a leitmotif of the so called rational law of Western culture
when opposed to the grounded (literally) lore of Aboriginal culture.
Through placing the reunion of a group of women, who were feminist in
the 1970s, in the Hindmarsh Island Affair the novel deals with the reality of
feminism in the 1990s. It confronts the question that the Pulitzer Prize-winning
columnist for the New York Times, Maureen Dowd, who asked—was the
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feminist movement a cruel joke played on women leaving them desperate and
dateless? Dowd argues that the feminist revolution lasted a nanosecond and the
backlash is still going on. Sarah, Georgie and Penny are caught up in this
backlash. Their lives are in flux. They are women in transition. There are no
guidelines for them as they were the activists in the 1970s who, as feminists,
helped change the world but there were no guidelines for the future. Each woman
has since been isolated in her struggle to cope in an undefined and unchartered
world. Georgie has remained rigidly true to the ideals and ideology of the 1970s,
including wearing no bras and not shaving her legs. Penny has reverted back to a
life of middle-class suburban security, helping her husband expand their wealth,
enjoying the trappings of an upward mobility but with no real sense of ownership
or direction in her own life. Sarah has escaped from what she views ‘the little
life’ of her past and is living ‘big life’ in a big city with ‘big’ personalities and a
‘big job’. But she is an outsider to notions of family and community.
Each of the women has to confront what is true and what is fabricated in
their own culture and their own lives. This, as well, functions to reflect critically
on the world and the status quo that the law courts of Australia and politicians
fight to defend, in the novel. The women are all part of an advanced capitalist
Western culture, but there is an ultimate lack of confidence in its direction and its
values. As feminist women they are forced to confront their notions of friendship,
ideology, race and cultural ties. They are forced to confront whether there is such
a thing as “the truth”. They consider whether perhaps there are many truths or
perhaps all truths are dependent upon who tells it, when they tell it, where they
tell it and why they tell it.
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Fabrications explores questions of truths and lies in relation to ties of
race, blood, power, money, culture, ideology, family or friendship. This is a story
of female friendship. The boundaries of those ties are tested. Each female
character is pushed to her limits of trust and loyalty. Each woman is forced to
discover the truth of what she believes and what she holds dear. It is a story about
the culture of feminism and women’s lives in the 1990s and asks the question,
‘What is an authentic life?”
There are no role-models or road maps for these three women. They have
had the opportunity to create a new kind of life for themselves and will continue
to do so. As the first generation in the 20th Century nurtured on a sense of their
own power and independence they will become the role-models for younger
women in the 21st Century. They spent the 1970s challenging traditional female
roles and subverting their narrow expectations. They re-invented what it meant
to be a woman in the 20th Century.
By setting “Fabrications” in the 1990s, at this stage in their lives they are
confronted with both power and powerlessness. Georgie has always believed in
the power of knowledge, academic study, and politically correct ideology and is
forced to confront a Royal Commission, which discredits everything she has
believed in. Penny has become a woman concerned with the power of money
status and security. She loses it all and is forced to reassess who she really is and
what she really values. Sarah has always believed in the power of the media to
reveal the truth, the power of hard work to produce recognition of your talents,
the power of being at the centre of things, the power of trying not to lead ‘a little
life.’ She is forced into asking questions about the power of family, of home, of
love, of commitment.
84
85
They are all women in transition, striving for control. They are all faced
with a sense of powerlessness; a realisation that life is messy. Their culture has
provided no answers to their questions.
Just as Western culture, as practised by white Australians, destroyed and
devalued Aboriginal culture, so too has it failed to provide justice and equality
for both Australian and indigenous women. “Fabrications” exposes the lies of
Western culture as well as the hypocrisy of its perpetrators.
85
FABRICATIONS
SUSAN MITCHELL
C 2009
1
“Fiction isn’t there to solve problems
But to make us aware of intricacies.”
BERNHARD SCHLINK.
“The place you come from is always the most exotic
place you’ll ever encounter because it is the only place
where you recognise how many secrets and mysteries
there are in people’s lives.”
DAVID MALOUF.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
WILLIAM FAULKNER
2
1.
In the bright rim of the morning her huge, black sunglasses a shield against the
scouring light and the odd tear that might escape, Sarah Wood clambered down the
rickety steel stairway attached to the plane and strode across the asphalt towards the
terminal. Nothing had changed in this provincial airport in the ten years since she had
fled to New York. She was not looking forward to being back in her home-town, even
for a few months, while she organised a good retirement home for her eighty six year
old father. Her aunts had rung her behind his back. “He’s not well, Sarah. He takes no
notice of us. You must come home and deal with him.”
There they were now, blocking the entrance to the arrival lounge, all lined up
together waving and shouting, “Yoo hoo Sarah. Yoo Hoo. Here we are.” And
squashed between their buxom figures and flailing arms was her dad, his dear old face
creased into a crooked smile.
“Gidday Polly,” he said, stepping out first towards her. “Welcome home my
girl.”
She felt the firm grip of his thin arms as they encircled her. He hugged her.
Long and hard.
After endless cups of tea and home-made scones and jam and cream at her
Auntie Phil’s, followed by flutes of icy cold champagne to celebrate her return
accompanied by a full and detailed history of everything that had happened in the
family and the city in the last ten years, the aunts finally left.
She and her father stood, side by side, at the door of her old bedroom.
3
“Haven’t touched a thing. Kept it just the way you left it,” her Dad announced
proudly, placing her suitcase in front of the wardrobe. “Make yourself comfortable,
there’s fresh towels in the bathroom if you want a shower. I’ll just have a little rest in
my chair. Usually do every afternoon. I really need it today after all that gobblegabble. Still, they mean well. Call me if you need anything. So good to see your
smiling face my darling.” Cupping her cheek in his hand, he kissed her gently on the
lips and limped out of the bedroom.
Sarah stared at her watch. It was three o’clock, local time, and it terrified her.
Always had. Three o’clock on any ordinary summer afternoon just like this one.
Scorching light, the shades drawn against the heat. Brown blinds on a white wall.
The silence inside the small suburban house pressed itself against her mouth, sealing
it like plastic wrap. Many people seem to die in the early hours of the morning. She
knew, when it was her turn, three o'clock in the afternoon would be her death knell.
She was fighting the urge to take to her bed. The narrow single bed with its pink
chenille coverlet that fitted so demurely and snugly into the corner of her little single
bedroom in the house where she had once been a virgin. And then not a virgin. Even
her old clothes from the nineteen-sixties were still hanging in the wardrobe. She
stared at them like exhibits in a museum. A black woollen duffle coat snuggled up
against her first ball gown; Thai silk, hand stitched by one of her aunts. Motherless,
and in their judgment, wild and uncontrolled, the aunts had been only too delighted to
make her a ball gown. Any frock was a huge step in the right direction. Little did they
know that it would no sooner be on her back than gathered and crushed around her
neck in the back seat of a car. Her long hair, precariously pinioned with a thousand
French clips and a large can of industrial strength spray by her frustrated hairdresser,
would have sprung free with the first animated movement of her head.
4
She rubbed the shiny silk of the gown between her fingers as if, genie-like,
some of the young woman who had worn it might return. Hot pink had been chosen
by her to match the colour of the Sobranies she had smoked at the time. She’d thought
it was all so very sophisticated. All that effort to appear like someone resembling a
magazine image in order that an overexcited young man could fumble and forage,
plunge and pump and then get out, just-in-time. She pushed her nose into the folds of
the gown. Nothing but a faint residue of mothballs, her mother’s domestic obsession.
She closed the wardrobe and turned the key.
Teenage years seemed a complete waste of time. Now she was forty. Well, in
her early 40s. Not that she would ever have admitted that in New York. Turn the big
Four O there and you were past it. Whatever “it” meant. Standing in a queue at Saks
Fifth Avenue meant being totally ignored by the young woman standing behind the
counter. It was not intentional. They just looked through you, not even past you.
“Excuse me,” you wanted to shout, “am I here? Is this my hand, extended? Is this
real money that my fingers are gripping? Waving in front of you”?
Oh no, never, ever, admit to being among the walking ghosts. Pretty hard to
pretend here though. Here in your hometown where people not only remember your
first day at school but what you were wearing. Even she remembered. Blue cotton,
fitted top, gathered skirt, short puff sleeves, with little elephants all over it. Blue
sandals to match. Sturdy little legs, toasted brown from a summer spent playing on
the beach with your boy cousins. Sparkling, endless blue sea; soft bosomy white sand
hills. Your aunts and your Mother sitting under the striped beach umbrella. Fresh,
white bread, corned beef and pickle, sandwiches and cold, homemade lemonade.
You had a mother then. A loving mother with pretty dark brown curls and
dimples in her cheeks. When she coaxed you to lie down for a rest with her on the bed
5
in the afternoons, the endless sunny afternoons, you used to practise poking your
fingers into your cheeks for long periods so you too could have matching dimples
when you smiled. She’d laugh at your vain attempts and then turn on her side to sleep.
You’d play shadow puppets with your fingers on the white wall. When the silence
was too deafening you’d fly up to the ceiling and look down. You saw a small blondehaired girl curled up against her Mother’s back. Dreaming, waiting. Wondering if the
afternoon would ever end.
You were very excited about starting school. Skipping, shouting, running up
and down the passage, squealing excited. Your mother laughed at you but it was not
the laugh with the sparkling eyes and the dimples. A far more restrained laugh, sad
somehow, as she packed your play lunch and clicked it safely inside your little brown
Globite case. Even though the school was only across the road, you had pleaded with
her to eat a packed lunch in the playground with all the other children. Through the
school gates, you had watched them all sitting together on those rough wooden
benches. You couldn't wait to join them. You hoped you wouldn't wet your pants
with excitement. You had explained to Chips, your faithful terrier, he couldn’t
actually come into the classroom with you but he could sit outside the school gates.
He’d smiled and licked your hands.
You would miss him.
Your ever-faithful
companion; your best friend; your brother, your sister. After all, you had taught him
to sing. He would throw his head back and howl in tune with your voice. “Silent
Night” was his best act. Every morning the kids on their way to school would stop at
the front fence where at three years of age you were always standing on the gas box,
waiting to perform. A captive audience.
"Want to hear Chips the Singing Dog?" You’d shout, like a circus spruiker.
6
The school children would form a little cluster at the front gate and jumping
up onto the front veranda, dog at your heels, you would croon Silent Night while
rubbing Chips’ tummy as encouragement. He would throw back his head like an
opera singer and wail. The kids at the gate clapped their hands. You were never sure
whether it was appreciation or mockery but you loved the attention. And then, finally,
when it was your turn to be the one off to school, what a disaster it turned out to be.
All those other children crying and wailing; tears and snot staining their hot, flushed
little cheeks. Were they mad? You stared at them in utter disbelief as they clung on
desperately to their mother's arms, handbags, feet. Anything they could get a grip on.
"Bye Mummy,” you said, kissed her on the cheek, turned and skipped straight
into the classroom as if to show the others how it should be done. You never looked
back to wave. Not once.
Over dinner that night you’d heard your mother telling your father that after
you had disappeared out of sight she had come home, burst into tears and taken to her
bed. Your father had leant across the dining room table and placed his sturdy brown
hand on your Mother’s pale white fingers and squeezed them, never taking his eyes
off hers.
Years later, the loss of her would cause you to take to your bed. For days.
Just burrow under the bed covers and wait for the ache to go away. This, too, will
pass, you’d say to yourself. It must be true—it was in the bible. In recurring
nightmares, you always saw yourself skipping off, never looking back and then
returning from school you’d call out, Mummy, Mummy where are you? Running
from room to room. Mummy, Mummy, you shout. You’d look under all the beds,
behind all the doors. In desperation you’d even run down to your father’s chook
house at the bottom of the backyard even though you know she never went there
7
because of the smell. Mummy, Mummy you scream. Again and again. And when
you woke up, sweating and screaming her name, she was not there. She was not
anywhere. She was gone.
After her death, you would sit on the edge of her bed and listen to the dust
settling onto the polished dressing table. Eventually it coated the hairbrushes and the
hand mirror with the embroidered back and handle that had remained exactly where
they had been left. The silence of the house terrified you. In those days hardly a car
was heard in the leafy suburban streets of the small provincial city of your birth where
your father had carried you, cradling you in his freckled arms, from the hospital where
you were born. You were his princess, his jewel. And finally all he had that was his
own.
Sarah shivered. Forget the silence of the lambs, what about the silence of the
suburbs. She crept into the living room where her father was dozing. Having “forty
winks,” he called it. The television was blaring … The Bold and The Beautiful was
on the large screen. Surely he wasn't reduced to watching that every afternoon. Those
tiny strokes really had damaged his brain.
He looked so small; asleep in the big recliner chair that she had given him for
his 70th birthday. Shrunken, somehow. Her aunts had been right to ring her. He was
wasting away. A bit of her home cooking would put some flesh on his old bones. He
was still a handsome man. A face amazingly unlined despite the despair of his
unemployment in the 1930’s Depression, and five years fighting in the Second World
War. Field Ambulance Unit. Hurtling to the front line, fired up with cheap rum and
terror, jumping out to carry or drag bodies or what remained of them into the back of
the ambulance. He didn't talk about the horror. Just told the funny stories. To hear him
tell it, the war was a boy's own adventure story. Biggles with brothels. The brothels of
8
Benghazi were among his favourite tales. As part of the Medical Corps he had often
accompanied the doctors to check out ‘the pros’ as he called them. Her mother would
laugh at all his yarns even though she had heard them a hundred times, the same tales
told in the same words over and over again. Under any other circumstances she would
have considered them rather vulgar but she begrudged him nothing regarding this
period of his life. After all she had been one of the lucky ones. Her man had come
back home to her. Safe and uninjured, if not entirely sound. His mind was troubled,
his nightmares terrifying but he had finally recovered. Theirs had been a story of war
and passion. And love. He was her larrikin and she was his lady. And finally she,
Sarah, had made three.
He still had a good head of hair for an eighty-year old. Grey now but no bald
spots. His face once tanned by days spent in his vegetable garden was now pale.
Only his hands, large and strong, mottled by the sun, remained the same.
As if aware that he was being scrutinized, Jack Wood suddenly opened his
eyes. Still blue but not clouded she was relieved to notice.
“You really are home. I thought for a moment that I had dreamt it. What ya
looking at?”
“Just you.”
“Handsome old devil aren’t I?”
He laughed and sat up in his chair,
withdrawing with a loud thud, the extended footrest.
“Having my afternoon-nap. What have you been up to?”
“Just having a bit of a mosey around in my old bedroom.”
“You'll need to get rid of all those clothes in your wardrobe or you'll have no
room for the ones in your case.”
“Why didn't you throw all that stuff out?”
9
“Didn't know what you might still want. Some of those clothes are probably
back in fashion again. You might need them when you go out on dates.”
Sarah snorted.
“Fat chance.”
“What? The clothes? Or the date?”
“Both. What do you fancy for dinner?”
“Don't eat much these days.”
“With your cooking I don't wonder. I'm going to make you some fabulous
dishes.”
“You should go light on the tucker yourself my girl.”
“Don't start on about my bum size. It's inherited from my mother's side. Look
at my aunts.”
“All that you've inherited is their taste for cakes and sticky buns and
chocolate. I saw you hopping into that morning tea. It's your sweet tooth that's been
your downfall.”
“All that is, alas, true. “
“You'll always be perfect to me, my girl. But not every man will see it that
way.”
“Unfortunately.”
Sarah put out both her hands towards him. He grasped her fingers and she
pulled him up to his feet. “Just let me get my legs going. They get a bit stiff when
I've been sitting down for a while.”
He stamped his feet onto the green carpet worn as smooth as a mini golf range.
“It’s these shoes. Not enough bounce in them.”
“I could buy you some proper walking shoes.”
10
“With soles like tractor tyres?”
“Why not? They'll give you bounce.”
“Seems to work for the tennis players.”
“Okay, we’ll get some next time we're in the main street.”
“You reckon they'll make my legs work?”
“They might help.”
“Never thought I'd go in the legs.”
He shook his head and said it again to emphasise his disbelief. Sarah didn't
reply. She knew there was nothing wrong with his legs. It was the narrowing vascular
system that was carrying the blood to them that was slowing him down. He made no
connection between his little “lapses” as he called them and his increased difficulty in
walking. Still, she would buy him some smart new Reeboks. It would cheer him up.
Her Father had always been a supreme optimist. Claiming he had survived the war
because he’d never believed a bullet was going to get him, he’d been convinced that
he'd be one of the lucky ones. And he was. She wished she'd inherited that blind
optimism gene.
“Come and have a look at the garden sweetheart. I'll plant some sweet corn
now you're home.”
“I love it with lashings of butter.”
“You always did. “
He smacked her playfully on her generous behind. Some would say fat. She
preferred Rubinesque. But then she would, wouldn’t she.
11
2.
At fifteen minutes to three, Kelly, the Minister's twenty-something media adviser, was
sponging on his make up. She had carefully tucked white tissues inside the white
collar of his sparkling white, 100 percent island-cotton, shirt.
“Don't overdo it Kelly. I don't want to look like I'm auditioning for the gay
Mardi Gras.”
He chuckled at his little joke and inspected his black shoes. Bally. Lace ups.
Very shiny. But not new. Conservative values dictated that shoes must always look
worn in and well cared for. Black socks, pulled up high. He hated that gap that
showed when men crossed their legs; strip of white flesh and scraggy hair. Kelly had
suggested he wear his navy, double breasted today. Navy and white, she’d said, with
just a touch of red in the tie. Glad he'd sent her off to that power-dressing course.
He’d never really conquered mixing and matching but the PR people swore by it.
This press conference was very important. Vital, in fact.
As Minister for Industry and Development he'd had difficulties getting
projects up and running. Marinas, hotels, leisure-centres, resorts; none of them
seemed to get past the planning stages. Either the developers couldn't get enough
funding or those damned environmental or heritage groups queered the pitch. His
friends at the top end of town were starting to treat him like a limp dick. This latest
12
project was perhaps his last chance. Desperation was starting to appear in his too fast,
too tight smile. When Kelly played back the videotapes of his media interviews to
him she was always saying, try to look more relaxed Minister, more at ease. Learn to
flow with it.
Flow with it. Fucking flow with it. All very well for her. She didn't have to
face up to that pack of parrots every week. Picking, pecking, pooping—incapable of a
balanced view, repeating whatever they had heard from the professional knockers.
After today those snide, sneering fifth-rate hacks would be laughing on the
other side of their faces. Easy enough to convince the young ones like Kelly, fresh
out of journalism school. They wanted to believe what you said. It was those cynical
bastards that dragged everyone's enthusiasm down. Doom and gloom. That's all they
knew. No wonder this State was going down the toilet. Most of them couldn't find
their ass with both hands. He'd stick this one right up them so hard they'd never forget
it. No respect these days. You'd think they were the ones who had been elected.
Thrusting their bloody microphones in your face, sneering eyes, jeering mouths.
“That's it Minister,” said Kelly, standing back to view her handiwork and then
moving forward to remove the tissues. Her breath was soft and musky, like an old
fashioned lolly.
“Right, that’s it,” said Patrick Ryan, the youngest son of Daniel Ryan, public
servant deceased and Molly Ryan housewife, mother of five and domestic saint.
He, Patrick, much to the resentment of his brothers and sisters was the only
one to have gone to university. Spoiled baby they'd always said. Mummy’s little
darling, with his black curls and blue eyes. He knew they were all waiting for him to
fall flat on his face. Well, he’d show them. Bunch of whiners and losers.
13
“How do I look team?” he pitched to the staff that had gathered in his office.
At least they knew how important this was to him and to the government. And to their
young, narcissistic selves.
“Great,” “film star,” “knock them dead,” “go get them,” “we're behind you.”
Greek chorus. They’d all be off to other jobs if he stuffed this one up. They
were ambitious. They'd wanted to fly on his coat tails because they’d watched him
climb the greasy pole during the 80’s and thought that now at the beginning of this
new decade he'd be the next Premier of the State. That was the talk in business
circles. Or used to be. Those old bastards at the Arcadia Club were not as keen as
they used to be to grab his hand and shake it hard. Old bigots. Never have let him
join if he hadn't married well and converted from being a Catholic to a Protestant. Not
that Catholics were banned from the Club, like Jews used to be. And blacks were still.
His father-in-law had proposed him as a member and he never missed an opportunity
to remind him of it. Old bastards like him still held most of the old wealth that was
left in the city. New wealth was hard to find. He'd show them. Men like Hugh
Reynolds who are prepared to take a few risks, men of action, that’s what this city
needed. He and Hugh would be the catalyst for the creation of an entirely new
business climate. His announcement today would be the springboard to his leadership
of the party.
Standing there, high on the top steps of Parliament House, framed by the
mottled grey marble carted all the way from Carrara in Italy nearly two hundred years
ago to build this edifice to democracy, he felt his testosterone surge. He was hard; he
was ready to seize the moment.
Quite a good media crowd. Must be a slow news day. Bound to make the
five o'clock news, the evening news and the front page of the morning paper. Lazy
14
bums would actually have to write something positive for a change. Deep breath.
And another one. Clear the throat.
“Good to see you all here today. As Minister for State Development, I am
delighted to announce that the government has decided to support the Heritage Island
Marina Development. The government will provide five million of the ten million
dollars needed to build the bridge which will link the mainland to Heritage Island.
Three years of planning, environmental impact assessments and community
consultations have finally paid off for local developer, Hugh Reynolds. This will not
only be the State’s but the nation’s largest, freshwater marina. It will have 1000 births
and 600 housing blocks. It’s a $30 million expansion. And the bridge is the key to it.”
He paused. No one was smiling or nodding.
Typical.
Fucking typical.
Stunned fucking mullets.
Tom Watson was the first to ask a question. Always was. Political editor for
The Nation fancied himself as an intellectual. Didn’t every bloody leftie.
“Minister, what is or has been the response of the Indigenous Heritage
Council? What kind of research has been conducted regarding the indigenous
mythology of the island and its traditional significance?”
Smug bastard. Always goes for the politically correct angle. I am ready for
you smart arse.
The Minister rocked back on his heels, smiled, and enunciated clearly into the
thrusting microphones.
“Glad you asked that question Tom. The indigenous issue was of course my
first concern and that of the government. Following the draft of the Environmental
Impact Statement, Dr Mathew Wiggins, a highly respected anthropologist, was
employed by the indigenous heritage branch to research just these issues. He has
15
consulted extensively with the local indigenous communities and his report found that
there was no surviving mythology that made any reference to linking Heritage Island
to the mainland. Nor is there any problem with the development regarding the
indigenous heritage and sites.”
That fixed you—lard face.
He looked from one camera to another, one
reporter to another. Come on you lazy louts, ask me another question.
“Minister, how is this project different from the last marina proposal at Sandy
Beach which drowned in a sea of objections?”
Becky Swift. Late 20s, red hair, long legs, smart. No one’s fool.
Feminist.
Some said a lesbian. Pity.
“It will not fail, Becky, precisely because this time, the developers have gone
to great lengths to ensure that all the stakeholders have been consulted and, more
importantly Becky, they have given it their seal of approval.
“Minister, if the taxpayers are picking up half the tab in this joint venture,
what do they get out of it? All the profits will go to the developers won't they?”
Shane Trott. Channel 8. A third-rate degree in economics and thinks he's
Maynard bloody Keynes.
The Minister was ready for him. He assumed his most earnest “I too am an
economics graduate,” face.
“I would never, and I underline, never, have agreed to this joint venture,
Shane, without due regard for the economic as well as the social benefits for the
taxpayer. The agreement states that any other developments that proceed on the island
would also have to contribute to the cost of the bridge. The government's entire
financial contribution will amount to less than 10 years of the costs of currently
operating the ferry from the mainland to the island.”
16
“Minister, don't you think the loss of the ferry will detract from the charm of
the crossing?”
Maria Scouros. Five feet tall. Five inch heels. Five inch cleavage. Greek
migrant family. Pushy. Pouty. Pulsing red lips.
Charm. I'll give you charm Maria. Any time. Anywhere. Name the day, the
hour, the minute.
The minister dropped his voice. A tom-cat purr.
“For every bit of charm, Maria, I can show you hundreds of letters on my desk
full of horror stories about people waiting hours to get on and off the island using the
existing ferries, especially on long weekends. This new bridge will not detract from
the charm of the crossing, I can assure you Maria. It will in fact add to the charm of
the new marina.”
Flashing her his white teeth, his white shirt, his Armani tie, his Zegna suit, his
Bally shoes, his sapphire blue eyes.
Maria, Maria, Maria … say it softly it's almost like praying. I’d like to see you
on your knees, Maria. I’d like to see your red lips around…
“Time for your next appointment Minister.”
Kelly stepped forward, touched his shoulder lightly and announced, “Thank
you everyone. The minister has another appointment. You all have the press releases.
Feel free to contact me if you need any more information.”
Flashing Maria one last, special smile, Patrick Ryan turned neatly in his
polished shoes and almost skipped up the marble stairs.
“Brilliant work Minister,” murmured Kelly in his ear, her high heels clicking
in time with his bold steps.
17
3.
Penny Reynolds was shopping. She had always despised women who loved to shop.
What a waste of a life she had thought; spending your days dressing up in order to
parade up and down the vine covered, brick-paved walkways of the local village
shopping centre, just as she was doing now. Here they all were, smiling at her, as if
she was one of them.
The ladies who graze. The ladies who laze. The ladies who haze.
The difference of course between her and them was that her shopping was not
aimless. Or a substitute for sex or power. There was always a direction and a purpose
in her purchases. She had a husband and two teenage children to look after; she had a
bridge club, a yoga class, a tennis group and a reading group. She had her charities
and her fund-raising meetings. It was a full life. If you want something done, ask a
busy person, was her mantra. And she was a very, very, very busy person.
Penny looked at her watch. Cartier. Classy but not ostentatious. Hugh had
bought it for their last wedding anniversary. Not that she placed too much importance
on labels but no one could help noticing that it was a very beautiful watch. Three
o'clock. Just enough time to go to the supermarket, the dry cleaners, the bookshop and
pick up the dog from The Poodle Parlour. She hated that name, so pretentious and
18
effete. Rusty was a golden Labrador and about as far from a pampered noodle as you
could get but they were the best place in town.
By the time Rusty was sitting by her side freshly shampooed, pink tongue
lolling, a blue ribbon tied around his neck, (those gay boys who ran it were such fun)
grinning at her, she grinned back with the satisfaction of having ticked off all the tasks
on her list. There was an almost sensual pleasure for her in being well organised and
efficient. When she had been a young social worker, twenty years ago, she had always
tried to impress on her clients, particularly the young ones, how much their lives
would improve if only they would make a daily list of what needed to be achieved.
Lists, by their very presence, impose order.
She knew it sounded boring and
simplistic, even patronising, but she was a great believer in practical solutions to
problems. She couldn't do much about her clients’ lack of a husband or their failed
schooling or their parental neglect but she could encourage them to take some control
of their lives.
“Make a list of what you want to achieve today,” she would repeat to them.
“What, like win the lotto?” was their usual sarcastic reply. That's all they ever
wanted. Just win the lotto and every problem would be solved. She never used to
respond. She should have said, ‘what about washing your hair, ironing your clothes,
getting a job’, that’s what she’d say now, but she was less assertive twenty years ago.
Oh dear, that sounded a bit right wing, a bit Margaret Thatcher. She probably had
moved to the right over the years, it was that old saying about the more you've got to
conserve, the more conservative you become. But she and Hugh had worked damned
hard for what they owned. It hadn’t been easy when she’d first married him. A
widower with two young children to bring up, he was struggling to establish himself
as a vet in his own practice. She had taken it all on. Worked in his office, put some
19
systems in place, made sure she was always there when the children came home from
school. Healthy, home cooked meals. Football practice for James, ballet lessons for
Jessica. And then when Hugh moved into subdividing and selling land and gave up
curing sick animals for being a full-time developer she had supported him all the way.
At least he had a bit of get up and go in him.
Not like her first husband.
Establishment rich. Spoiled by women all his life. All he’d wanted to do was sit
around all day, smoking dope, playing the guitar, pretending he was an actor. She
was his wife, his mother, his housekeeper, his occasional lover. He was her layabout
husband. A hopeless marriage. She simply had to leave.
Overloaded with bags of groceries and shopping, she lurched into the house.
The phone was ringing. “Can't somebody pick up?” she called out.
Ring, ring, ring. She wasn't going to just drop everything and make a mess.
Let the answering machine take it.
Ring, ring, ring. Damn. Someone had turned the machine off. She knew she
had remembered to turn it on before she left. Probably Jeremy. So forgetful and
grumpy these days. Hugh says it’s all due to his hormones; at seventeen all boys do is
masturbate and grunt at you.
“Jeremy! Are you home?”
His door was always locked even when he was in there. Hugh’s probably
right. Better not disturb him; never know what you might find.
Ring, ring, ring. She dumped the groceries onto the kitchen bench and
snatched the ringing phone.
“Penny speaking!”
“Where were you? I thought you said you’d be home by five.”
20
“I've literally just come through the door. Poodle Parlour took longer than I
expected, those boys who run it always want to chat and”
“Did you see the five o’clock news?”
“No.”
“Oh Pen.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“We’ve happened! Cabinet finally approved the submission for the bridge.
The Minister made a big announcement at a special Press Conference. First item on
every radio and television station. Minister even mentioned me by name. It’s finally
happened Pen. The Government’s picking up half the money, the bank’s backed it,
we’re there at last. It’s happening. It’s all finally happening.”
“Oh Hugh, how wonderful. Congratulations, darling.”
“I’ve asked the Minister home for drinks. To celebrate.”
“When?”
“Tonight at seven.”
“But it’s five fifteen already.”
“You can do it in time, Pen. Nothing fancy. Put the best French bubbly from
the cellar on the ice. Bit of smoked salmon on a biscuit. Got to rush. See you in about
an hour.”
Daylight saving made it too hot to sit by the pool but the gazebo was perfect.
Years of practice and studying the best glossy magazines had ensured that Penny was
always prepared for any form of entertaining. The Minister and his adviser were
clearly impressed not just with the vintage Dom Perignon but with the silver tray
21
covered with canapés of smoked salmon, prawns and caviar.
It was all in the
presentation. Penny held the tray for the Minister while he took another canapé.
‘This is top-class. I have to say Hugh, you've certainly got it all, fabulous
home, beautiful wife, adoring dog.”
Rusty thrust his head between the Minister's muscular legs and looked
pleadingly up at what he held in his hand.
“Rusty. Sit,” ordered Hugh.
Casting a pair of soulful eyes at the Minister, Rusty slumped onto the tiled
floor of the gazebo.
Popping the caviar canapé, like a communion wafer, immaculately into his
mouth, the Minister leant down and patted the dog on the head. Slowly. It was more
of a caress really. Penny was transfixed by his hands, for an ex-footballer they were
surprisingly smooth and sensual. Just for a moment, a tiny moment, she imagined
them caressing her body instead of the dog. Slowly they moved over her back, down
her arms, circled her breasts … she must have had too much to drink.
“More champas Pen?” said Hugh. She hesitated.
“Go for it,” said the Minister, “you don't have many nights like this one.”
He stood up and held out his own glass for a top up.
“Let me propose a toast. To Heritage Developments and the biggest freshwater
marina in the nation.”
“To Heritage Developments,” they chorused.
Penny clinked Hugh’s glass, then the Minister's. Were his eyes really that blue
or did he wear coloured contacts? He seemed in no hurry to leave, even though his
young attractive adviser kept looking at her watch. Probably had a boyfriend waiting.
Or perhaps she really was having an affair with the Minister as the tennis club gossip
22
had it. Perhaps she just wanted to get him alone. He was still a good-looking man.
She'd met him before at functions but never had time to really study him close-up or
sense that peculiar coiled energy that made him appear to be always leaning slightly
forward on the balls of his feet.
Fancy funny old Stephanie marrying someone like him. None of their crowd
had ever doubted that he had married her for her money. Well, her father's money.
He’d even changed his religion. He certainly looked the part now. Very upmarket.
Wonder who bought him that tie? Italian by the look of it. Wish Hugh would wear
some of the ties she'd given him over the years. Always said he liked them but never
took them out of his wardrobe. He still looked like the country vet she had married.
Tousled hair, what was left of it, crushed trousers. How could they get so many
creases in them when she took them to the dry cleaners every week? Striped shirt.
Old scholars tie. She wished he wouldn't cross his legs like that when he’d had too
much to drink. Those short socks and skinny white turkey’s legs. The Minister’s legs
showed nothing but sleek, black socks. Not that she'd mind seeing all of his legs; he
used to be a great footballer. Imagine feeling those legs around your thighs. Or vice
versa.
“Time to go folks.” The Minister was standing up, adjusting his trousers,
doing up his suit coat.
His hands were holding Penny's; long tanned fingers,
surprisingly soft. Perfectly clipped, scrubbed nails.
“Thank you for such lovely drinks at short notice Penny. It’s been a delightful
celebration.” He kissed her on each cheek.
“Lucky we had a cancellation. Hugh old man. Onward and upward. Talk to
you tomorrow about the details. Good work.”
The men faced each other, shook hands. Firmly.
23
The women flashed their teeth at each other, uncertain whether to shake hands
or air-kiss.
They did neither.
24
4.
Georgina Staunton had gone back to her maiden name. It was her father's name and
his father’s before him, but at least she considered them to have been honourable men.
Certainly more honourable than those on her mother's side of the family. Insufferable
snobs. Dregs of the self –appointed colonial ruling classes. How her mother had ever
gone against her snooty family to marry a son of the migrant Irish working-class she
never knew. It had never occurred to her that her mother might actually have loved
him. She had never once witnessed between them any lingering books, any tender
caresses. Their fingers never touched. It appeared to be a married life totally devoid of
romance. A respectable, solid, middle-class life.
They were both pillars of the community, their souls as cold as the aged
sandstone columns that supported their ten-roomed house. “The Family Home” as
they always called it. As if bricks and mortar, a family made. She knew she was not
the daughter her mother had hoped to create, although her mother's string-tight lips
had relaxed a little on the day when she had married Andrew Coleman. Well,
submitted to marriage, after her parents’ refusal to fund her postgraduate degree in
Oxford. She and Andrew had been caught “at it” in her bedroom. Rampant sex in the
family home, sacrilege in the citadel. Shock. Horror. Scandal. At least that’s how her
25
parents had reacted. She’d liked Andrew and really loved fucking him but mostly she
just loved fucking. It was clear that she’d have to marry someone, some time, so she
figured it might as well be Andy. She'd met him on her first day in kindergarten when
she’d poked him in the back and told him he was standing in the wrong queue. He
said she'd been telling him the same thing ever since. Probably true.
Their eventual parting was amicable. She had simply tired of him bringing
home simpering young research assistants whom he was obviously screwing and
expecting her to be nice to them. And feed them. It was demeaning to be serving the
evening meal, pouring out the wine while they just sat there, doe-eyed, mesmerised by
his every sentence. The young ones especially adored his “why I prefer a liberated
woman” spiel. The sexual revolution never took sexual jealousy into account. She was
brighter than him. At least she thought so. But they used to have such great fun
together, in and out of bed. His fascination with younger women was never an issue
for her until boredom set in. Boredom is like concrete cancer, you can't see it until it
has spread right throughout the building. She left before the edifice of their marriage
slowly crumbled around them. Tile by tile, brick by brick. Wood, splinters, dust.
Their one son, David, whom they both adored, had moved happily between them and
their two houses which were only a few streets from each other. Children are much
more resilient than anyone ever credits them.
Her ex-husband, now Professor Andrew Coleman, was currently living with
one of his former young Nancy Reagan look-alikes while no doubt up to his old tricks
with a new one. She never asked. She didn't want to know. She prided herself on her
ability to rule a line under certain chapters of her life and turn the page. Never look
back, never waste time in regrets, it’s far too self indulgent, was her firm belief.
Besides there was a certain excitement, a frisson, about facing a blank page every day.
26
Intimacy was an entrapment. Freedom to be yourself and follow your own passions
was, for her, the only path.
Dr Georgina Staunton had moved on from being an academic, becoming an
adjunct professor and a freelance consultant in anthropology. She had been and
continued to be involved with most of the radical movements of her time, particularly
democratic socialism and radical feminism. But unlike many others who merely wore
those badges on their lapels for decoration, she’d really lived them; to the hilt. And
still did. Just because a cause was considered by the media to be out of fashion was,
for her, no reason to abandon it. Her house, which had once been an old boarding
house with its one long passage spawning many bedrooms on either side, a 1950s
kitchen and bathroom, was always full of the lost, the abandoned, the rejected. She
didn't cook, wash or iron for them—in fact she barely did these things for herself, but
she did give them shelter. And comfort. In their beds and hers, whenever the mood
took her. It did, often. Her ample bosoms were more than comfort cushions; they
were practically icons of salvation. Many men would testify on a bible to their healing
powers. You could, however, if you weren’t careful, probably catch something nasty
off the toilet seats.
Housework was not her strong suit nor ever her inclination. Even now, at the
beginning of the 1990’s she still refused to shave her legs. If anyone ever bothered to
inspect those long athletic limbs, they would discover wild, blonde, thickets of hair.
Kinky for some, repulsive to most. She had no time to waste on shaving her legs. Or
on shopping. Her clothes, picked up from op-shops, were all too big, too colourful,
and looked like someone had made them out of tablecloths. Underneath these flowing
robes was a healthy, strong, sensual body. She ate only fish, vegetables and fruit and
rode her bike whenever public transport wasn't suitable. She was, her mother's friends
27
believed, the reason her mother had taken to the gin bottle at ten in the morning. Mind
you, they said to each other, in their daily phone calls, there was always an element of
madness in that family.
Georgina, or George, as she liked to be known, worked mostly from home in
the large front room, which loosely, very loosely, she defined as an office. An old
draughtsman 's trestle covered with piles of books, yellowed clippings and assorted
folders stretched along an entire wall. Half consumed bottles of spring water
separated one pile from another. Two moth-eaten moquette lounges and two matching
armchairs squatted either side of the marble fireplace. The once polished floors were
strewn with very expensive, very stained, Persian rugs. George loved chaos; it was the
only way she knew how to work. A bare desk was to her the sign of a blank mind.
Her imagination was nothing if not fertile. Fertile too was the room, judging from a
strange but unidentifiable smell coming from its darkest corners. When she was
working she always closed the door. A notice was pinned to it that read “you may
only see me when I'm not here.” It was her Catch-22 joke.
When she was writing, as she was now, she lost all connection with the world;
the process of writing was for her, a form of hypnosis; a wonderful swoon into
another consciousness. The sudden knock on startled her. She blinked twice as if to
regain focus. Someone was mumbling outside her door.
“Who’s there? Speak up,” she shouted. More mumbling.
She scratched back her chair on the bare boards and strode to the door.
“Can't you read for God's sake?” Her five foot ten inch frame towered over
two much smaller women whose faces were hard to see in the shadowy gloom of the
hallway.
28
“We had an appointment — 3 o'clock. Come home you said. Sorry if we got
it wrong.” George looked down on the two little figures and tried to recognise them
without her glasses.
“Of course. I’m so sorry. I was engrossed in the report I was writing. Forgive
me. Come in Justine. And Marenka. Would you like a cup of tea?” Before they
could answer she bawled out, hockey captain style, “Could somebody make me a pot
of tea.” Her boarders as she liked to call them, even though rent money was hardly
ever known to have changed hands, didn’t respond. They rarely did. Those who were
at home were either stoned, asleep or reading.
After the two pots of tea that she had made and drunk herself, having
farewelled her guests, she sat on the loo where she knew no one would disturb her.
She needed to concentrate on what Justine and Marenka had just told her; she knew
she had to help them but these issues needed to be very carefully handled. Looking
down, she stared in disbelief at the billowing streamers of toilet paper that had silently
unravelled around her feet and hoped it wasn’t a sign of what lay ahead.
29
5.
Jack Wood liked to watch the five o'clock news when he had his tea. Or dinner as
Sarah called it. She made jokes about nursing home hours but was happy to go along
with him. So strange for her to be eating a hot cooked meal, on a tray, on her lap, in
the lounge room, with the sun still beating its relentless drum against the window.
She hated daylight saving, it was like being trapped inside a never- ending three
o'clock afternoon.
“How are your lamb chops, Dad?”
“Tender enough.”
“Please don't go on about your false teeth again. I said I would ring the dentist
for you.”
“They don't hurt. They’re just loose. Listen.” He clacked them together like a
pair of maracas.
“Dad stop it.’”
He laughed like a naughty schoolboy and clacked them again, in rhythm.
“Dad, that’s really not funny.”
He suddenly looked at his watch, reached for the remote control and the
theme for the five o'clock news drowned her out. On the television screen a forty-five
30
year-old male newsreader with a black moustache sat next to a pretty twenty year-old
blonde.
“Oh God,” she groaned. “Nothing has changed. Look at that. Middle-aged
man, nubile young woman.”
“SHHH,” said Jack. “Listen to this turkey.”
Patrick Ryan's grinning face filled the screen. ‘ For every bit of charm, Maria,
I can show you hundreds of letters on my desk.’
“That's not all he'd like to show her.” Lecherous laugh.
“Eat your chops.
You sound like a dirty old man.” Her tone was warm,
playful.
“Me dirty? What about him? A real slime ball if ever I’ve seen one.”
“Nice tie though. Armani.”
“It’s a wog tie, alright.”
“What's this wog business?”
“Should buy our local stuff. That's why this state is going down the tube. Too
many imports. Bet that suit wasn't made here either.”
“Maria Scouros. Channel 12 news.”
“Bye Maria. You lovely thing you. If I was only 20 years younger.”
“Forget Maria. What's this Marina development they’re talking about?”
“Who knows? They’re always talking about some new development or other.
It'll never happen. All bull shit. Either that or the greenies will stop it.’
‘Why have you become so right wing since I’ve been in New York?’
“Right wing. Left wing. Who cares?
Might as well be talking about the
wings on those chickens in the backyard. They’re all the same, politicians. Bull shit
31
artists. Feathering their own bloody nests. But, unlike my hens, they don't produce
any eggs, just chicken shit. All the while this place goes further down hill.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Worst unemployment in the country.”
“But it used to be so prosperous.”
“Lost its manufacturing base. Cheap imports killed it.”
“So why isn't this new Marina a good thing? Means jobs surely.”
“It'll never happen. Heard it all before with this mob. All talk and no action.
Not that the other side is any different. What are these green things?”
“Zucchinis”
“What? Thought they were spa baths.”
“That's Jacuzzis”
“Could I grow these in the garden?”
“Don't see why not.”
“They’re quite tasty.”
“Good. Eat up. There’s pudding to follow.”
“I don't eat sweets.”
“Its bread-and-butter pudding. Made it from Mum’s old recipe book.”
“Ah. That's different,” he said, clacking his teeth in approval.
Sarah frowned at him but he just snorted with laughter. She smiled, pleased
that her homecoming had cheered him up.
While they were washing up the dishes, quietly, companionably side by side,
the phone made them both jump.
“Get that Polly.”
“It will be for you. Nobody knows I'm home yet.”
32
“It will be one of your mother’s sisters. They mean well but they’re so bossy.
Always telling me what to do. Be a good girl, get them off my back.”
Sarah strode along the faded green carpet to the small entrance hall where the
only phone was sitting on a half moon cedar table that had belonged to the
grandmother whose name she had inherited. Not that she ever known her, she had
died when Jack was only fifteen.
“Hello.” Tentative. Wary.
“Sarah? Is that you? A man's voice. She hesitated. She didn't really want to
start dealing with all her old friends just yet. She wanted time to get her father settled
— time to get herself settled.
“Sarah. It’s Tom Watson. From The Nation. Gotcha number from your New
York office, hope you don't mind.”
“Hello Tom. It’s been a long time. Is there a problem?”
“Nothing to do with you. We need your help. One of the local pollies has
gotten into bed with a dodgy developer. They both hate me on sight but they don't
know you. Could be a big story if we can lift the lid on it. We need your special
forensic skills.”
“Ah Tom, flattery will get you everywhere but I really want to spend some
time with my dad.”
Sarah lowered her voice and leaned in close to the phone. “He's had a few
small strokes and is a bit shaky.”
“Sorry to hear that. But you can work from home.”
“I don't know, I …”
“You'll be bored to death in a week’s time and driving the old boy mad.”
“That's probably true.”
33
“Just pop into the office tomorrow and at least have a talk.”
“Well I do have to go into the city to see the bank manager.”
“Good. How about eleven?”
“Tom — I'm not”
“The best cappuccino at the Italian cafe across the road. Not that American
muck.”
Sarah didn’t want him to think she considered herself to be above the local
journalists.
“Okay. But just for a talk. No promises.”
He hung up before she could change her mind.
Her father was still washing dishes at the sink when she returned to the
kitchen. She couldn’t believe how slow he was now, with everything he did. She
remembered his policy of ‘the faster the better’ that used to drive her Mother, the
perfectionist, to distraction.
“I gather that wasn't one of your aunts or you’d still be on the phone. Jeeze,
can those women talk.”
“It was one of the guys I used to work with when I was at home.”
“See. Told you the men would start flocking once the word that you were
back got around.”
A dinner plate smashed on to the floor.
“Bugger. Bloody thing slipped. Happens too much more we’ll be dining off
paper plates.”
He bent down to pick up the largest piece and seemed to sway from side to
side. Sarah helped him straighten his back.
34
“Let me do that. You sit down. And that wasn't an old boyfriend. It was
work.”
“Good,” he said, handing her the apron and levering himself onto the nearest
chair.
“In a week’s time you'll be bored to death and driving us both mad. You know
what you’re like.”
“That's what he said.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes dad. With two kids.”
“Pity.”
Jack pulled himself up closer to the table and watched his daughter scrubbing
hard at the dark stains on the roasting pan.
“You won't get that thing clean. Caught fire a couple of weeks ago.”
“What?”
“That pan. In fact, the whole stove caught fire. Put it out with a bucket of
water.”
“Dad, you have to be more careful. What if the curtains had caught fire?”
“Would’ve put them out with another bucket of water.”
“I'm going to throw this old pan out. It's probably toxic.”
“Toxic my bum. The fire would have cleaned it up. Probably did it good.”
Sarah opened the door of the cupboard beneath the sink and pitched the pan
into the rubbish bin.
Three hours later when she was writing letters at the tiny desk in her bedroom,
Jack crept out of the living room into the kitchen, retrieved the pan from the bin,
35
slotted it back among the grimy saucepans in the cupboard and slipped quietly back to
his favourite chair. Grinning all the while.
6.
George hoped the car would make it to Heritage Island. It seemed to be pausing and
missing a few beats every now and then, like a person who stuttered. She didn't
believe in spending money on cars but perhaps this one was ready for the scrap heap
as her father was always telling her. Her mother wouldn’t even let her park it in their
driveway. Silly old snob. Any way, she couldn’t possibly see as far as the driveway
through that mist of gin that swirled around in her head. The mere grunt of the car’s
engine evidently sent her Mother into an eye-popping rage. Her father complained
36
that it took her mother at least two days to recover from one of her visits but as far as
she was concerned the car was her Mother’s problem, not hers. Why on earth did she
care what she was doing or driving. She was over forty, for God’s sake.
It was certainly a long time since she’d driven along this road. Every
childhood summer holiday had meant lurching around its bends and curves in order to
reach the family beach house. Half the neighbours in their street had owned beach
houses in the same secluded spot and every summer they’d all packed up half their
worldly goods and moved to the beach where they proceeded to entertain each other
at cocktail parties and dinners as if they were all still in the city. They never met any
new people, their suburban routines and rituals never changed. They still played
contract bridge every Wednesday night and went to the local cinema on Friday nights.
The only change was their clothes, which because it was the beach, were more
colourful and casual than their usual muted tones. Beige was the perfect tone for the
WASP woman; neither one thing or the other, neither black nor white, not even a real
colour. Bland and beige was the badge of all their tribe.
At least during the holidays their children were allowed a certain freedom. She
and Penny would often hide outside in the dark under the pine trees just to see how
long it would be before one of their parents even noticed that they were missing.
Dear old Hen- Pen. She’d so hated leaving her horses every summer and always
pleaded with her mother to bring them down to the beach. To no avail. Not even the
dog, her faithful Caesar, was allowed to join them. “Animals are animals, they do not
need to have holidays” was all Pen’s notoriously sensible mother ever said.
When they stayed overnight at each other's holiday houses, Penny always
crawled into her bed for comfort and she’d put a protective arm around her to stop her
37
sobbing over her horses. Such a sentimental old thing, especially where animals were
concerned.
Swerving suddenly to miss a rabbit that had dashed in front of the car, she
could hear her father muttering, “Vermin” as he’d squelched one of them under the
wheels of their Rover. “It's brains are squashed all over the road” her brother would
scream excitedly, kneeling up to look out of the back window at the bloodied mix of
fur and guts on the road. She’d scream her best ear-spitting cry. Over and over and
over again. Her father would not even turn his head to look at her, his back resolute
in its rigidity, his shoulders squared against her outburst. Her mother simply put her
fingers in her ears, ground her back molars and stared straight ahead, her eyes never
veering from the white line that ran down the middle of the road. And so the holidays
would begin and end, with road kill. At fifteen, she was old enough and rebellious
enough to refuse to join them. Her mother, no doubt relieved, gave in to her refusal
without a whimper despite her Father’s ranting on about families who holidayed
together stayed together. Finally, he seemed to run out of breath and belief, even in
his own words. She swerved again to miss another rabbit, muttering, “God the
farmers must hate them,” and nearly lost control of the car. Steady on old girl; don't
want to end up a road accident statistic. They’d all say you’d been on the booze or
the pot or both and shake their heads a lot. Just keep your mind on the present and the
job at hand. Don’t swim around in the sewerage of the past; Freud always said the
unconscious was the anus of the mind. Or was that Andrew? Keep your eyes on the
stars and not in the gutter. All those dreadful school mottos. Secretly or perhaps
perversely she still found them strangely comforting. ‘Never underestimate the power
of the platitude’ she announced to herself and laughed aloud.
38
After miles and miles of twisting roads and squished feral animals she finally
arrived at the seaside village where she hoped stood the old ferry which was to carry
her car across to Heritage Island. Still fighting off the strange ache that always nagged
at her whenever she allowed herself to think about her childhood, she stopped the car
at the sign that said “Vehicles for Ferry stop here. Await ferryman’s signal.”
As children they had always thought ”Await ferryman’s signal” was
hysterically funny. They would wave, salute, whistle, put up two fingers in order to
get the ferry man to signal. He never took any notice of their antics. Like a crusty old
garden gnome he would remain totally still and unblinking at his post, seemingly
oblivious.
And then, without any change of expression, he would slowly raise one
arm and beckon the cars onto the ferry, one by one. She was sure the ferryman who
stood in front of her now was the same old man who had been there when she was a
child. Perhaps there was a family of them and he was the son or grandson of the old
ferryman of her youth. Perhaps there was a secret potting shed where they bred these
ferrymen disguised as garden gnomes.
She edged her car into a corner position on the ferry just in case anyone else
followed her on at the last-minute. There was no need—hers was the sole vehicle. The
ferryman waited the required ten minutes before signalling to his brother gnome in the
engine box and with much grinding of gears and clanging of iron cogs, the ferry
chugged slowly away from the shore. Georgie stood on the deck next to her car while
slowly, very slowly, the ferry ploughed its way across the small stretch of grey water
to Heritage Island where she could see another tiny stone ferryman waiting. Next to
him on the foreshore, a clutch of women were waving their arms. Georgie waved
back. The air was thick with the stench of diesel.
39
How long had they been waiting for her? She’d told them to meet her in the
small tavern owned by the developers. Perhaps they had not felt welcome there.
“Hop in,” she shouted against the wind, as they crowded around her car.
Somehow four of them squeezed into the back seat and Justine, the most robust, rolled
into the front seat beside her.
“Thought we’d take you to the sand hills first,” said Marenka, patting
Georgie’s right shoulder as if touching base.
“Just point me in the right direction, I haven't been here since I was a kid,” she
replied, taking her hand off the wheel to place it reassuringly on top of Marenka’s.
The women in the car silent were except for Marenka’s directions and her
references to nearby burial grounds. They stopped only once for Justine to point out a
small drilling rig where the developers had clearly been taking soil samples along the
causeway. The Bridgework had already begun. These people were wasting no time.
Georgie had forgotten the sparse and barren landscape of Heritage Island
whose main claim to fame was that the country's largest river, the Mulray, finally met
the ocean, here, at the mouth of the river. Even that was a letdown. The poor river
was now so depleted and exhausted by the time it arrived at the end of its long
journey that its only visible mouth was a small gap where the sandbars gave way to
the ocean breakers. Georgie shivered as she surveyed this windswept, forlorn place.
Even now in summer when the sand hills were gleaming white, the grey sky overhead
seemed to rob them of their radiance. She noted the flocks of pelicans and other
waterbirds among the muddy water in the dull green reeds.
Andrew's recent
newspaper article on the diminishing bird life on the island had been accurate. Not
that she doubted him but she had known him to embroider facts to win an argument,
particularly with her.
40
“Our ancestors paddled bark canoes in these waters for thousands of years,”
said Justine in a voice as flat as the landscape.
Stopping when she was told, Georgie leapt out of the car and walked a short
distance with the others to the top of a small sand hill. When they had all gathered
there, the women took each other’s hands while Justine, recited a traditional poem.
Palm pressed close to palm, they stood together, silently, and looked down towards
the river’s mouth. Georgie glimpsed a small tear in Marenka’s eyes. She felt very
privileged as a white woman to be sharing this moment with them.
Small tussocks covered the mounds that broke up a broad, flat stretch of sand.
Trudging, arm in arm, down the slope of the sand hill to the beach, the women talked
in reverent tones to Georgie about why this landscape must not be changed by the
building of a bridge and a tourist marina. She listened without asking any questions
and when they reached the long stretch of sand she sat down, crossed her legs and
asked them to join her. They sat in a semicircle, turning their faces towards her. Such
open faces, thought Georgie, despite their years of rejection and heartache. They
seemed to trust her completely; she must not let them down.
“Join hands,” she ordered, and looking from one to the other she said in her
most authoritative voice ”I promise you, here, today, on this beach where your
ancestors sat undisturbed for many thousands of years, that I will do whatever is in
my power to prevent this development … I give you my pledge.”
If you had been standing on the sand hills looking down you would have seen
a tall woman in a multicoloured cloak, her long blonde hair flying in the wind,
embracing a group of small dark women dressed in sombre colours. Above them the
slate sky was brooding; small waves whipped up by the wind were washing in and out
while the gulls frolicked overhead.
41
7.
At nine am only the lonely, the abandoned, and the disturbed can be seen at The
Village Shopping Centre. These are no ordinary bag ladies; these are the Gucci and
the Louis Vuitton variety. The more makeup they pasted on their faces, the more
desperate they appeared. Observing them strolling past the glass window of the store
as she waited to be served, Penny was relieved that she fitted into none of those
categories.
The assistant facing her behind the counter was trying to look alert. There was
no real sense of service anymore. Young shop assistants today just didn't seem to
understand that they were there solely for one thing, to make the customers happy, to
42
keep them satisfied, so they would come back to the shop again. You had to shout and
clap your hands together to get their attention. Half of them were probably on drugs
anyway.
I'm getting more and more like my mother, thought Penny, as she dashed
from one shop and one purchase and one bored adolescent assistant to another. At
least the butcher was cheerful. Butchers were relentlessly cheerful. You could always
rely on them for a smile and a friendly word. Why was that, she wondered, what was
it about spending your days among dead animal flesh that made you so jolly. Perhaps
it made you more aware of life. Blood and bone. Dust and stone. She shuddered.
Morbid thoughts so early in the morning couldn’t be healthy. Think of fruit and
flowers, her Mother used to say whenever the conversation took a murky turn …
Think of fruit and flowers … Fruit and flowers … Fruit and flowers … Deep breath.
She must go to the nursery for some fertiliser for the geraniums. All very well
her prize-winning landscaper designing a Tuscan courtyard, both the hedges of
rosemary and the clusters of geraniums kept dying. The gardener said it was the fault
of the automatic watering system but then he had to blame someone else. That was
the way it was these days, no one ever took responsibility for his or her failures.
Anyway, who had time to water by hand anymore, to stand in the garden
holding the hose, watching the arcs of water in the late afternoon sun, the sparkling
loops rising and falling, who had time to smell the cloying mustiness of the damp
earth, to just stand there in a haze of abandonment … Not her, that’s for sure.
Nevertheless she must get the landscaper to come and check the watering system.
God knows she’d paid enough for it. Now that the marina development was going
ahead, they would be doing a lot more entertaining at home. Probably international
investors. Fancy paying someone to choose geraniums. They had always been poor
43
people's flowers. The landscaper had said the peasant look was “in.” Peasant food,
peasant clothes, peasant flowers; they had worked hard all these years just to become
peasants. You had to laugh. Oh well, better to be dead than out of the fashion. Now
she really did sound like her mother.
“Penny, how nice to see you.”
She stared hard at the large, beige figure that was blocking out the sun.
“I gather my husband had a very nice little drinks celebration at your home the
other night.”
Good god. It was Stephanie Ryan, the Minister's wife. She looked at least one
hundred and ten years old. That pleated skirt and the blouse with the Peter Pan collar.
And no lipstick.
“Stephanie. I'm so sorry. I was a world away. Yes, Hugh is delighted that
everything is finally going ahead.”
They both nodded and smiled politely at each other. Penny noticed that
Stephanie's teeth were a little stained and very uneven. So British. Only the
Americans had perfect teeth. It was the aged skin on their hands that always gave
them away no matter how sparkling the teeth or the face lifts. An awkward pause
followed.
“Bridge?” Asked Stephanie finally.
“Yes, the bridge is the key to at all.”
“No, my dear,” said Stephanie in a very patronising tone. “I mean do you play
bridge?”
“I did, when I was younger, but I don't seem to have the time these days.”
“My dear, you must make time for the important things in life … like bridge.”
“Yes. I suppose so,” Penny replied rather lamely.
44
“If you don't use it, you lose it. Isn't that what they say?”
Stephanie pointed to her cerebral cortex, stretched her small mouth into a
smug curve and turned on her sensible heels, one hand flung out behind her in a
gesture of farewell.
Penny stared at the departing, ramrod, back feeling as if the head prefect had
just given her five out of 10 and told her to try harder. Why did women like
Stephanie still have the ability to make her feel diminished?
Lesser, somehow.
Standing in front of those cold eyes and crooked teeth, her self-confidence had just
drained away like used dishwater. Who did these people think they were? Just
because they came from the establishment. Old money meant nothing today. She’d
bet she and Hugh had a much better home, better cars, better television, better …
everything. And what's more it didn’t come from inherited money, they had worked
hard for it. Bloody hard. Why oh why did the likes of Stephanie have the gall to lord
it over her? Most of her parents’ money must have gone by now and her husband was
only one election away from being unemployed.
Then where would they be?
Stephanie had never had to work a day in her life and Patrick was a career politician,
jumped up from the working classes. How dare that ugly bitch treat her like that?
How dare she be so condescending, so arrogant, so … Words failed her. If she ever
even glimpsed a chance to take that woman down a peg or two, she’d seize it. Who
was she after all but a middle-aged woman with crooked teeth and a bad perm?
Sucking in two long deep breaths like her yoga teacher had taught her, she closed her
eyes and refocused. Hugh thought yoga was a total waste of time but he didn’t have
these flooding surges of anger that she had been feeling in the last few months.
Probably hormonal. Bloody hormones. Women, it seemed, were always hostage to
their hormones, one way or another.
45
Yoga helped, it really did. Pilates was next on her list. Had to keep the body
supple.
Now, what did she need to buy for dinner tonight?
Penny Reynolds scrabbled about in the pocket of her tartan blazer for her
shopping list. She never, ever, left home with out it.
46
8.
Sarah recognised him as soon as she walked into the cafe. It must have been over
twelve years since she had last seen him and apart from an obvious loss of hair he was
no different. Still looked like a pickled schoolboy. Wire- framed glasses, baggy grey
trousers, off-white shirt, striped tie not quite done up to the collar, tweed jacket
without the leather elbow patches, black lace up shoes; unpolished.
“Hi Sarah. Pull up a pew. Long-time no see. I keep up with you though. Used
to read your stuff in The New York Times.”
Sarah smiled in what she hoped was a suitable combination of humility and
graciousness. It was lost on him. He clearly didn’t want to dwell on how well she had
done overseas while he had remained here in their hometown. He ordered the coffee
and dived straight into the local details.
“Patrick Ryan, Minister for Industry and Development, thinks he’s going to be
the next State leader. He’ll do anything to get there.”
Right, so if this was how he wanted to play it, no more small talk, she’d put
him through his paces.
“How do you know this developer that the government’s hooked up with is
dodgy?”
47
“Hugh Reynolds? Perhaps he’s not so much dodgy as gone mad with greed.
Typical 80’s story. Bitten off more than he can chew this time. In way over his head
and the government will be left holding the bag. You know we had that huge debacle
over the State Bank. It’s crippled the State in debts to the tune of 3.6 billion. Billions
are big losses in small cities like ours. We can’t let some megalomaniac pull the wool
over our eyes again. The last thing Hugh Reynolds tried to develop was a Marineland
Park. But we stitched him up him over the aging dolphins.”
He couldn’t help himself from laughing, well, more of a chuckling, to himself.
“What’s so amusing?” How was she ever going to cope with this hokey, selfcongratulation?
“The stupid prick tried to get rid of them. They were well past their use by
date and he tried to pack them off, in the dead of night.” More smug chuckles. “We
were there and caught him at it. Cameras at midnight. End of his Marineland Park”
A schoolboy snort.
When Tom Watson actually opened his mouth Sarah thought his little spiky
teeth made him appear almost malevolent but all she said was,
“I'm going to need another coffee before I can face dead dolphins.”
“Two of the same Bianca,” he called out to the young pre-Raphaelite behind
the counter. “The dolphins didn't die in the end. But they wouldn’t have survived the
journey he had planned for them. They were packed off to semi-retirement in another
tourist facility, not where he was sending them to be slaughtered. Bloody disgraceful.
He was a vet before he became a developer you know.”
Sarah stopped playing with the cubes of sugar and looked straight past his
wire-framed glasses into his small grey eyes.
“Are you talking about Hugh Reynolds, the vet who married Penny Wilson?”
48
“Don't know the wife but it’s got to be the same guy. You know him?”
“Not really. I used to know Penny years ago…before she married him.”
“Was she a blonde?”
“No she was dark haired, big brown eyes. Mad about horses.”
“Only seen photos of them together in the society pages but this wife is
definitely a blonde. They’re all streaky blondes, that type.”
“Maybe it's not her.”
“Yeah maybe he’s traded her in for a younger model. Par for the course these
days. Don't know where these blokes get the time.”
His tone was wistful rather than critical as Bianca leant over him to place the
fresh cappuccinos on the small round wooden table.
Her olive-skinned breasts
bursting out of her skinny top were so smooth and firm they would have fitted
perfectly into the generous coffee cups. Sarah watched Tom eying off Bianca and her
breasts. Bianca of course was blissfully unaware of either of them, both being over
forty and therefore invisible. This was clearly an international phenomenon, she noted
to herself.
“You never answered my question Tom. Apart from trying to kill some aging
dolphins, what proof do you have that he was corrupt?”
“No actual proof, as such. But everyone knows it.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Media of course.”
“Most of the hacks in this town couldn't track a snail across this sugar bowl,”
she snapped.
“Thanks a lot Miss New York journalist of the year. I don't remember seeing
your name on too many corruption scoops.”
49
Sarah regretted what she had said almost as soon as the words had left her
mouth. She had promised herself on the drive into the city that she would refrain
from making any cynical cracks, especially about local colleagues. Nothing worse
than someone coming back from London or New York and lording it over those who
had stayed behind.
“Sorry Tom. Didn't mean it like that.”
“Yes you bloody well did.”
He was angry with her. Puce-faced angry. Little specks of spit were forming
in the corners of his mouth. “And I can tell you now if that’s your attitude we might
as well forget it.”
… “I'm sorry. I really am. I told you I'm worried about my father, I haven't
settled in yet and I'm edgy. Scratchy. Okay?”
She leaned over and squeezed his arm, which she noted was soft and flabby
under the rough tweed of the sports jacket. He flinched.
Shit. Now she would have to take this on just to prove she wasn't snubbing
him.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She smiled and without taking her hand away said,
“Let me do a bit of research and I’ll get back to you. It does sound
interesting.”
He stared into the froth slowly subsiding in his cup then picked up his spoon
and scooped up what remained into his mouth, all the time refusing to meet her eyes.
Sarah squeezed the pudgy flesh of his arm harder.
“Give me a break.”
50
He stood up, adjusted his frill of stomach spilling over the frayed leather belt
on his trousers and turned to Bianca.
“Put these on my tab. I've got to go. Ring me, Sarah, if you find out anything.
Of course, that’s if you can be bothered.”
Staring hard at his balding pate disappearing out the door Sarah sighed
heavily, threw caution to the wind and said rather too loudly
“Could I have another coffee and two of those Danish pastries please,
Bianca?”
Stuff the diet.
Bloated with carbohydrates and wired with too much caffeine, Sarah couldn't
quite face the thought of going home. She hated window-shopping and decided
instead to walk up the main boulevard. As it was summer the plane trees either side
of the expansive street were in their full glory, a green canopy shading the wide
footpaths now lined with street cafes. Even though this was the centre of the city she
couldn’t help asking herself, where were all the people? Why were the streets so
empty? Surely it hadn’t been like this before she’d left. There were more people in
the local shopping centre than in the main city street. And most of the people in the
city were dressed in such ugly casual clothes. She remembered her mother putting on
her white gloves and stylish hat and taking her hand as they walked to the tram that
would take them into the city. She had been along this same street hundreds of times
with her mother, hand-in-hand, trotting along beside her, chatting away, her Mother
nodding back at her as if every word was precious. Did she suspect even then that she
might not live to see her daughter a grown woman? Did her Mother always know her
time was limited? Was that why she was so kind and endlessly patient with her
childish prattle?
51
Sarah had a weird sensation of power suddenly draining from her legs. Her
knees began to buckle. She grabbed at a nearby chair underneath an umbrella outside
a footpath café and sat down. Placing her head between her legs she wondered if she
was going to pass out. The waiter, suddenly at her side, was clearly of the same
opinion.
“Are you okay?’
“Fine. I’m fine, fine,” she mumbled, her head level with her knees which in a
bizarre moment she couldn’t help noticing had become much chubbier than she
remembered them.
“Would you like me to call an ambulance?’ he asked.
“No. God. No.” she insisted, realizing she would have to raise her head to
emphasise her point. Slowly, very slowly she returned to an upright position.
She looked up into the waiter’s concerned face.
“See, I’m fine. Just not used to the heat. Come from winter in New York.
Perhaps you could get me a glass of water.” What on earth was wrong with her? She
had never fainted in her life—she just wasn’t the type. Allowing her back to slide
into the chair she stared fixedly at what loomed at her from across the road.
An avenging angel with a sword towered above the enormous grey stone war
memorial where their little family had huddled together every year at the dawn
service on Anzac Day. A vivid flash of the three of them, joined together, heads
down, listening to the mournful notes of the trumpeter playing “The Last Post”
transfixed her.
“Why do we have to get up so early?” she’d always pleaded with her Mother
as she was being dragged out of bed.
52
“So Daddy can honour his friends. Those who never came home. Daddy was
one of the lucky ones.” Always a quiet reverence in her Mother’s manner on these
occasions. Anzac Day was the only time her father never joked about the war.
Through the haze of heat she saw them clearly now…just the three of them,
all in a huddle, looking up at that same angel. She rubbed her eyes. She had to get out
of this city her father called home. Her legs had buckled under her for no reason and
now she was having visions. It was just too bizarre. She no longer belonged here and
besides … these vivid memories made her too sad. She could feel the tears welling
up. It was years, decades since she had cried. Nearly fainting, to be followed by
public blubbering. What was happening to her? She was definitely losing it. She
scrabbled in her bag for a tissue. Damn that avenging angel. Damn this bloody town.
Damn the past. Damn home. Damn bloody everything. She was desperate to be back
in New York where the city filled her with joy. It reflected back to her a life lived
fully in the present. It bore no memories of her past. She had no emotional ties to it
other than the constant urge to enjoy its many pleasures. Just to walk along its streets
even after ten years still made her heart leap. Never once had she felt sad in that city.
She would just have to talk her Father into selling up the house and get him into a
good retirement village, somewhere he’d be well looked after, and then get the hell
out of here. Fast.
The waiter returned with her water. “You’ve got some colour back into your
cheeks,” he said. “I was worried you were going to faint on me.” He smiled and there
was genuine concern in his eyes. You certainly wouldn’t get that in New York, she
had to admit.
53
Jack Ward was dozing in his favourite chair, his hand wrapped loosely around
the remote control in anticipation of the five o'clock news. Sarah had returned home
exhausted and escaped to her room for a nap. He hoped she’d accepted the job offer
from the newspaper — he knew she would be cranky without something productive to
do. She was a good daughter to have flown all the way from New York to look after
him but there was no need to panic. Besides it wasn’t really in her nature to be
nurturing. She’d hated her dolls as a child and often left them in her pram out in the
rain. “They’re only dolls Mummy,” she’d always say. Her Mother used to worry
about it. She’d always hoped she’d become a nurse but he knew she would never be
suited to that profession. Forget to feed her dog if she had her nose in a book. Always
guilty and sorry of course, afterwards, promising fervently never to do it again. But
she did. Often. Too bad if she had been a nurse and a patient were in desperate need
of medication. It was no good her even pretending to keep house for him. She’d
promised to do some shopping for tea but he noticed she had no parcels when she
came through the back door. That’s why he’d made himself a cheese sandwich an
hour ago. She would have intended to buy something to cook for his dinner but she
would have drifted off somewhere, probably a bookshop. He knew her too well.
When she was a kid she’d ride her bike to the Saturday afternoon matinee then come
out, her head full of what she’d just seen, and walk home. “Where’s your bike?’ he’d
ask her. She’d put her hands up to her mouth in shock. He’d have to drive her back to
the picture theatre in a frantic dash. Lost a couple of good bikes that way. Her mother
used to be so angry with him for immediately buying her another one but he knew she
couldn’t help it. She just lived inside her head. Always had.
Rousing himself from these reminiscences, he flicked the remote control.
54
“Dead on time,” he said aloud to himself and turned up the sound to hear the
lead story.
“Trouble is already brewing only one day after the announcement of the
government's joint venture to build a bridge linking the mainland to Heritage Island,”
boomed the newsreader with the moustache, in his best dramatic voice.
“The
Heritage Island Protection Group has gathered at the mouth of the Mulray River to
protest against the building of the bridge.”
“Told you so,” he shouted, as Minister Ryan’s face appeared on the screen
dismissing the group as professional protesters.
“Told you nothing would happen Mr Clever Dick,” he shouted more loudly at
the screen.
Politics had always amused him and politicians like Ryan reminded him of
those wrestlers on television who pretended to be aggressive and then fell down hurt,
but it was all a sham. He loved to point out their ham acting to prove that he was no
one’s fool.
Sarah appeared at the door of the living room in her silk dressing gown.
“What on earth are you shouting about Dad?’
“Told you this cowboy wouldn’t get away with it. Bloody government already
cost this state billions of dollars with the State Bank and now they want to build a
bloody bridge to nowhere. Who’d trust the bludgers? What’s for dinner Polly?’
She looked utterly at a loss.
“Dinner? Um. I err well I’ll. It’s very hot in here. Aren’t you stifling?”
He laughed to himself and turned the sound back up.
Suddenly feeling very clammy and claustrophobic Sarah walked across the
room to open a window. She tugged and tugged but to no avail. Small outbreaks of
55
sweat prickled her scalp. She exerted all her available strength but the damn thing
wouldn’t budge.
“Dad,” she shouted. “Dad, for God’s sake”
“What?’ he shouted back.
“Turn that thing down.”
He pressed the remote button controlling the sound.
“You only have to ask. No need to get so het up my girl”
“I can’t get this window open. It just won’t move. Even an inch.”
“No. It was rattling a few months ago. So I fixed it.”
Knowing her father’s handyman skills of old she asked,
“What did you do to it, exactly?”
“I stuck it down.”
“You stuck it down with what?’
“Just something I had handy in the shed. Did the trick.”
“Exactly what did you use Dad?’
“A bit of stuff I had lying around.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Just stuff”
“Don’t play games with me. What exactly was this stuff, as you call it?”
“A bit of cement.”
“So you’ve actually cemented the window. Now it will never open.”
“Yep. Keep out the burglars.”
“Just this window?”
“No. I did the lot of them while I was at it.”
56
9.
No one would have been surprised to see Dr Georgina Staunton having coffee in the
University refectory with her ex-husband, Professor Andrew Coleman. They still
shared a lot in common apart from David, their son. Andrew was a respected
environmentalist and took more than a passing interest in the affairs of his home state.
As a leading member of the State Conservation Council he was actively involved with
Greenpeace and was the environmental consultant for the Friends of Heritage Island.
The anti- bridge forum he had helped organize for them had called on the state
government and Minister Jack Ryan to drop the project on the grounds that increased
numbers of visitors would damage the Mulray Lakes environment.
“Damned developers,” said Andrew, “they always pretend they are concerned
with protecting the environment and love to label us as spoilers and knockers, but
someone has to stop them increasing the pressure on the Lower Mulray. By the time
the river reaches its mouth now, it is barely a trickle. What do they think more boats,
more campers, more anglers, will do? Just more damage. Then of course there is the
whole issue of the native bird life. Last time I was on the island I noted about three
57
hundred Cape Baron Geese and they are a protected species. Not that you’d expect
developers to know that.”
Georgie studied Andrew's face. It was puffy, blotchy even, from too many
late nights and too much red wine. There were bulbous pouches beneath his eyes but
the eyes themselves were still alive. When he talked like this, with genuine passion,
she could still see the young man she had lusted after. His thighs, encased tightly in
faded denim were lean and firm. A bit of a paunch lapped his leather belt but his
body was not bad considering his lifestyle. She bet he worked out. Secretly. Always
did push-ups in the early morning when he thought she was asleep. She leaned in
closer to catch a whiff of him. She had loved his particular scent. Clean, scrubbed,
with just a hint of that liniment that footballers use for their tired muscles. She’d
always jumped on him after football. Forget French aftershave. Deep Heat drove her
wild. She leaned closer and sniffed again.
No. Clearly not into the Deep Heat
treatment these days.
All Andrew saw when he looked at Georgie was the mother of his son. Lust
was the furthest thing from his mind, in fact he couldn't remember much about their
love making except that she’d always wanted to get on top and screw him into
exhaustion. “Stop,” he’d scream. “Enough, that’s enough.” It was never enough for
her. She’d roll off him, smoke a cigarette and wait for him to recover. He would like
to tell her but of course she wouldn’t approve, that younger women these days were
much less sexually demanding. He’d loved the 1970s and the whole merry-go-round
of the sexual revolution but unlike the rampaging feminists, these young women
demanded nothing. They just assumed they were there to please men. So cool, this
generation. One passionate lecture about the extinction of the ring tailed possum and
they were all waiting outside his office, wanting to help. And leap on him. He was
58
careful. He didn't try to seduce them and didn't lead them on; they offered themselves
so willingly. He never told them he loved them or even liked them; he just stroked
their hair and caressed their lithe, firm bodies all the while lecturing them on his
favourite topic, “Paradise Imperilled.” Some even had tears in their eyes when he
lowered his voice and implored, “who among our children will pass on the secrets of
our natural wonderlands.” It was sweet, that’s what it was. So sweet. So different
from the endless ranting and raving from women like his ex-wife, always wanting to
analyse every aspect of their sexuality. It became so tiresome.
“Andrew, you're not listening to me,” shouted Georgie
“Sorry. Drifted off there for a minute.”
“I asked who else you had gathered as allies?”
“Billy Stevenson from the CFMEU (Construction, Forestry, Mining and
Energy Union).”
“Wasn’t he involved with the B. L. F. (Builders and Labourers Federation) in
the green bans in the Seventies?”
“That’s him. Helped defeat the other marina proposal. And the marineland
fiasco. Wants to protect the ferry workers’ jobs. And then there is the Federal
senator.”
“Not that patrician snob Adrian Houghton? Have you forgotten that he’s a
union buster, a pastoral empire builder and a member of the bluest blood, most
conservative political establishment? He's even a member of the same exclusive, allmale club as my father.”
“I know, I know. But… and it’s a big but, I’ll allow you that, but — he’s also
a great preserver of wetlands and an accomplished nature photographer.”
59
“Bully for him. What is he actually going to do? Just talk nicely in that ruling
class accent, take some pretty photos and look concerned on television?”
“He is going to lobby the government for a second ferry.”
“Oh …well, I suppose that's better than nothing,” she was forced to concede.
“Exactly. Better to have him inside the tent than outside, pissing on us. Any
way, what are you and your lot doing about the indigenous issues?”
“I'm still researching the burial sites. But the lynchpin is to consult with the
indigenous communities and make some links between the traditional mythology of
the island and contemporary indigenous life.”
“Don’t take too long with your research George. This is a real chance for the
indigenous people to exert their identity and authority. And I mean a real chance.
These opportunities don't come along often. Seize the day and all that.”
“That’s true but we've got to get it right. Can’t be half-baked. Too many
powerful people want to destroy any claims they may have to the land and its culture
and”
“Sorry George,” he interrupted, looking at his watch, “Got a faculty meeting.
Keep in touch.”
Annoyed at being so rudely cut off, Georgie watched him striding across the
refectory hall pausing only to say hello to a gaggle of young female students. They all
waved and smiled. He was clearly a God to them. They didn't see the wrinkles; they
drank in only what they thought was the wisdom. He still wore his hair longer than
was fashionable; his jeans were too tight, the heels on his riding boots too high. In his
own mind this was not a university, it was a country town, his country town. The
movie of his life that he played inside his own head was a Western. And he was Clint
bloody Eastwood. Always the hero, riding his horse into town, ready for the action.
60
And she, who was she, the tired, old, ex-wife? Certainly not Mrs Eastwood. More
like Ma Kettle. Damn! The bastard had left without paying for the coffee. As usual.
It’s the little mean gestures that rankle
61
10.
Hugh Reynolds was sitting up with a straight back, at his polished mahogany desk.
Either side of him, positioned strategically, were photos of his children, his wife, his
dog and her favourite horse. Antique silver frames. Penny's idea. If you were asking
people to invest in your project, she said, you needed to show them that you were a
solid, respectable trustworthy person. There's no point in telling them these things,
‘pictures speak louder than words’, that's what Penny always said. When she was a
social worker she said she would always judge her clients by the photos they had in
their houses. “No photos, no history,” that's what she said. “No family, no stability.”
She was bright like that. The Minister was right; he was indeed a lucky man. Lucky
and rich. And about to be richer. Much richer.
The phone on his desk buzzed. His secretary, Mrs Bennett, who had been
with him since his vet days, said it was a Sarah Wood who claimed she used to know
him a long time ago. Sarah Wood? Wasn’t she that rather strange journalist friend of
Penny’s who went to live in New York? Wonder what she wanted? Perhaps she
wanted to write him up in the Wall Street Journal?
“Put her through Mrs B.”
62
11.
Patrick Ryan leant back in his chair and stared at his hostess through the whorls of
cigar smoke he and Hugh were blowing in circles above their heads. Best Cuban
cigars. Must have cost him a packet. He had to give it to the old Hugh, he lived the
good life. She really wasn't bad looking either. Sexy even, in that quiet repressed
manner of the schoolteacher or librarian. He’d always found that quiet repression in a
woman very enticing. Not that Hugh seemed to notice. The only one he really smiled
at was his daughter. Mind you she was classic jailbait, beautiful lips, big tits, long
shining black hair.
Not like the son. Hardly spoke, never made eye contact,
stubbornly refused to laugh at everyone's jokes. Pain in the arse. He was glad they had
both made a brief appearance and left, it meant he didn’t have to feign interest in their
lives. Just as well he and Stephanie had never had any children. More trouble than
they’re worth. They do look good in election photos though … family man crap …
the rest of the time they were nothing but trouble judging by the offspring of his
colleagues. Always into drugs, smashing up their cars, demanding credit cards of
their own, having sex with anyone and everyone, getting pregnant, having abortions.
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Penny bent over Patrick Ryan to place the cup of coffee next to his cognac.
She knew her cream silk blouse was gaping and exposing more of her breasts than it
should. She knew, too, that he was looking at them. And she liked it.
“Shouldn't be doing coffee so late at night but I'm addicted to the stuff,’ he
said, trying to focus on the coffee.
“Prefer a good cup of tea myself “said Hugh, holding his cigar up for
inspection.
“Wonderful dinner Penny. How can you just create all this on such short
notice?’ asked Patrick.
“It's really not hard if you’re organized,” said Penny, outwardly humble but
inwardly smug at the compliment.
“But all this shining silver and fresh flowers as well as the superb food.’ he
persisted.
The dining room did look sumptuous. She had decided to show off when
Hugh had said the Minister was coming to dinner, especially when he’d suggested
something simple.
Simple! That’s all she needed with that snooty wife of his looking down her
patrician nose at her in the shopping centre the other morning.
“I must say, you really outdid yourself tonight old girl. Well done.” Hugh was
beginning to slur his words. He had drunk too much red wine; his nose was ruby, his
teeth purple. He was lying back in his chair puffing on his cigar like he was Winston
Churchill.
“We need a strategy Minister,” he announced, as if to a public meeting.
“Hugh, is this really the right time to be discussing this with the minister?’
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“Patrick, call me Patrick, please,” he said leaning over to place his long fingers
over hers.
“Thank you Patrick,” she purred.
“We need a plan,” said Hugh, oblivious to the flirting that was being carried
out under his cigar smoke, “a plan to cut those annoying protesters off at the pass.”
“What did you have in mind?” The Minister was looking straight into Penny’s
eyes, which he noted were the exact colour of the chocolate mousse she had served
for dessert.
“I had a call from one of your old girlfriends today,” interjected Hugh.
“Really, which one?” said Penny without breaking her studied gaze into the
Minister’s eyes.
“Sarah Wood.”
Penny turned to look at her husband, her voice sharp and impatient. “Don’t
be silly dear. She lives in New York.”
“That’s just it. She’s home. Her father had a stroke. At least I think that’s
what she said.”
“Are you sure it’s her?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“Why was she ringing you?”
“Seems she’s researching something she’s writing on the bridge.”
Now the Minister interjected. “What’s her name?”
“Wood. Sarah Wood. Usually writes for The New York Times,” said Hugh,
sounding as though he read it religiously every day.
“I wonder why she’s interested in the affairs of our little parish pump?”
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“She and Pen used to be very close at one stage. Together with that mad
woman Georgie Coleman.”
Penny snapped back, “It’s Staunton. She’s gone back to her maiden name.”
“Well, whatever she calls herself—she’s still a bloody lunatic. Into every
damned cause and “ism” you can name.
Socialism, Marxism, feminism,
environmentalism, lesbianism.”
“Stop it Hugh. She’s never been a lesbian.”
“She looks like one. I’ve seen her on television with those hairy legs. She’s
certainly a professional protester. A knocker with big knockers.”
He roared with delight at his own joke and looked to the Minister who simply
smiled and said “Is she the one who is always wrapped in those bright coloured
cloaks? Tall. Blonde. Strident?”
“You’ve got her in one.”
Patrick Ryan turned again to look at Penny. “She doesn’t seem like your sort
of person.”
Hugh jumped in, “Old Pen was a bit of a radical in her youth — until she
hitched up with me.”
“Surely not. I can’t believe it.”
Penny felt his gaze like a heat-seeking missile.
“She was full of all that free love and the revolution is just around the corner
rubbish.” Hugh was enjoying himself.
Penny mumbled, “My first husband was …well.”
Hugh slapped his thigh and shouted, “That’s it. Blame it all on the first
husband.”
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He poured himself another large cognac and moved somewhat unsteadily
towards Patrick Ryan. Halfway towards him, he stopped and swayed, the cognac
decanter tipping somewhat precariously in his right hand. He leant on the edge of the
dining room table to get his balance.
Placing the starched, white, napkin carefully on his Royal Doulton side plate,
the Minister stood up and moved towards Penny, who, keen to stop both Hugh and the
direction of his conversation, stood up to greet him, face to face. The Minister kissed
her, his soft warm lips lingering, almost imperceptibly, on each cheek.
“Thank you Penny for such a delightful evening. It’s a long time since I’ve sat
down to such an elegant table.” Penny couldn’t stop herself. She let forth a girly
giggle. And then blushed.
“Hugh, you’re a lucky man.” Unable to shake Hugh’s hand that was still
gripping the decanter, he grasped his upper arm and gave it a quick squeeze.
“But we haven’t come up with a strata, a strateg,” he seemed to be having
trouble with the word.
“That will keep. Carry on the good work Hugh,” said the Minister, striding out
of the dining room, down the long passage of polished wood and Persian runners
towards the front door. Penny almost ran to follow him. He opened the heavy
wooden front door, stepped through it, then turned and said in a low voice “Perhaps
I’ll give you a ring about strategy.”
“Yes, do,” mumbled Penny.
“Soon,” he said and disappeared into the gleaming white car where Mike, his
driver, had been patiently waiting, his radio tuned to the ranting rhythms of late night
talk-back.
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12.
Sarah was lying on her bed reading a book titled “A World That Was,” the major
anthropological work on the local indigenous tribe, the Ngarrindjeri, when she heard
the phone. Let her father get it for once. Slow to come to consciousness in the
mornings, she knew she had to concentrate hard to get her head around all this tribal
mythology. If she was really going to write anything serious about this bridge issue
there was a lot of research to be done. She’d probably have to go into the bowels of
the State Museum that housed the Anthropology Department. She had visited it as a
student only once in her life and she remembered it clearly as a place Frankenstein
might have inhabited. Dark, tomb-like, enclosed by heavy metallic doors and stinking
of the kind of preservatives employed for embalming dead bodies. A place where you
felt compelled to whisper.
“Sarah — it’s for you. Penny someone,” shouted her father.
“OK Dad. No need to shout. I’m not deaf.”
She dragged herself off the bed. “Yes, hello.”
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The voice on the other end was breathy, light.
“Sarah, it’s Penny. Penny Reynolds married to Hugh who used to be a vet.
It’s a long time since I spoke to you. Must be ten years.”
“Penny. How are you?”
“Fine thankyou. I heard that you were back in your old hometown.”
There was a pause as if each of them didn’t know what to say next. Sarah
jumped in, “Faster than the speed of light, the old gossip chain.”
A nervous laugh. Penny had always had that laugh, as if she wasn’t quite sure
of her response. Another awkward pause.
“How is your father Sarah? Hugh said he’d had a stroke. Not that I mean to
pry.”
Not much you don’t, thought Sarah.
Unwilling to sound aloof, she replied,
“He’s doing very well. I’m trying to give him lots of encouragement and
positive energy. Being an old social worker, you’d know how important all that stuff
is.”
Another pause. What was this woman up to? Where was the easy going
Penny that she had known? What had the 80’s done to her?
“Good, I’m glad he’s improving. Um, well, I was wondering if you’d like a
home-cooked meal.”
“You in the food delivery business these days?” Her tone was warm and
playful and Penny responded with a snort rather than a giggle, that snort always made
her sound like one of her horses.
“No, silly. Of course not. Hugh and I are developers now. Well Hugh is the
managing director and I help out as well as running the house and the kids.”
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“Of course, Hugh had two children from his first marriage. Any more of
yours?”
Silence. Shit. Tactless question. Old interviewer’s instinct. Aim for the
wound. Unerringly right.
“No, actually. But James is eighteen now and Jessica’s nearly twenty, and a
drama student.”
Quick get over it—just keep burbling on. “How amazing. Have I been away
so long? If you’re asking me over for a home cooked meal I’d love it and I’d love to
meet the kids.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I have been keeping a pretty low profile since I’ve been home but
as dad is progressing slowly, I think it would be good to start seeing a few of my old
friends and.”
Before she could finish the sentence Penny jumped in. “Let’s set a date now.”
God, the things I trap myself into all in the name of “being nice.” Might find
out something new about the bridge though. And it was good of her to think of me,
she always was a generous woman.
Sarah hung up the phone and stood for a moment in the hallway. She could
hear her father slamming the breakfast dishes in the sink; no doubt in the hope that the
more he broke, the less he’d have to wash. She knew that she had been riding him
pretty hard about keeping the kitchen clean and not using every dish in the house
before he did the washing up. It was important to train him into good habits so that
when she returned to New York she wouldn’t have to worry about him catching
salmonella from his own kitchen. The fat cockroaches she had discovered living like
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princes among the badly cleaned pots and pans in the cupboards under the sink had
made her wonder how he had stayed out of hospital this long.
She walked slowly down the short passage and stood at the kitchen door.
He knew she was standing there but refused to turn around. Stubbornness ran
in the genes.
“Come on Dad, let’s put on your new walking shoes and take in some sea air.
Blow the cobwebs away.”
Now he turned towards her. “Sure beats bloody housework. We might even
have time for a beer in the local.”
Sarah smiled, “We’ll make time.”
It couldn’t have been much fun for him, she realised, since she had been
home. Apart from scouring and spraying every inch of the house, dry-cleaning the
curtains, shampooing the carpets and forcing him to eat the food she cooked, all she
had done was moon around in her dressing gown re-reading all her old childhood
books in bed, most afternoons. No wonder he escaped to his garden and the chooks.
Sarah paused on the edge of the long wooden jetty that stretched in front of
them, its boards as rough and uneven as they were when as a child she had run
barefoot along them. On a perfect day, such as this, the sheer seamlessness of sun,
sky, sea and sand was mesmerising. She breathed in deeply and let it flow into her.
Even at eleven o’clock in the morning, the day was fresh, untouched. As far into the
distance as she could see the water was still clear, the sky cloudless and the sand
white, rinsed clean. Hardly any one was on the beach. It was as perfect and pristine as
she had imagined it on those bitterly cold days in Manhattan when the wind stung her
face as hard as if it had been slapped.
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With his thin arm tucked into her elbow, Sarah and Jack Wood strolled along
the wooden pier, together. Their pace was slow but they swayed in perfect rhythm
with each other. Those that passed by them and bothered to stare, saw a woman with
short, well-cut, dark brown hair, a straight back and hazel eyes, arm in arm with an
elderly man, slightly stopped, with a cap of white hair and pale blue eyes. Both of
them were smiling, their eyes misted over with a far away look.
“Can we stop a minute and sit on this bench. My old legs are a bit shaky. I’m
not used to all this promenading Polly.”
Sarah eased him down slowly onto the slatted seat. “Million dollar view this
one. Bet you don’t get days like this in New York.”
“Not in the city, no.”
“We’re only twenty minutes from town you know. That’s why it’s called the
twenty-minute city, it’s only twenty minutes to the hills as well.”
“I know Dad, I know.” Sarah patted his arm.
“You wouldn’t be dead for quids would ya?”
“On days like this, no Dad, you wouldn’t be dead for quids.”
He grinned at her as if he had created the day himself. Just for her. They sat
in silence, side-by-side, content to let the sunshine and the sky and the sea work its
magic.
“Your mother would have loved this. Sitting here on the jetty. Just the three
of us.”
“I don’t remember her being all that fond of the beach.”
“She didn’t like to swim but she loved to look at the water and walk along the
beach. Don’t you remember those camping holidays we had, when you were young,
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she always got up early to walk on the beach and collect shells. I’ve still got them
somewhere at home.”
Sarah inspected her own immaculately pedicured, sandalled feet resting on the
uneven slats. Her mother had always removed jetty splinters from her bare soles with
tweezers. She’d never hurt her but Sarah always screamed loudly just to get a lolly
for braving the pain.
“Do you still miss her?”
She didn’t look at him when she asked this question. Both of them continued
their steady gaze towards the open sea.
“Think about her every day. She was a good woman, your mother. A bit
stubborn at times but a good- looker.”
“Have you ever wanted to re-marry?”
She broke the spell by turning to look at him. He spread his arms wide across
the back of the bench.
“Nah.” And then after a pause, added, “Had the odd fling though.”
“Dad!”
“You think I’m too old,” he challenged her.
“No … but.”
“This place is crawling with widows. Lonely women just dying to have some
male company.”
“I hope you didn’t just, well, just use them.”
“Now don’t go getting all Women’s Lib on me —— let’s get that beer. By the
time we walk back to the pub I’ll be parched.”
The old, two-storey hotel that overlooked the jetty, the sea, the sand, the
endless blue sky, had been there for over a hundred years, undergoing several bouts of
73
renovation and interior design. The current re-modelling had aimed to take it back to
its original grandeur. Sarah noted the thick, carpeted foyer, the grand polished oak
circular staircase, the comfy couches, cream walls and huge bowls of tall colourful
native flowers. It resembled one of those grand old hotels in English seaside towns
like Brighton. The front bar, however, had clearly never undergone a remake. No one
had ever dared to change it. Those whose lives were spent there, propping up the bar
or playing pool, were dependent on it never changing. This above all else, in a man’s
life of employment and unemployment, marriage and divorce, youth and old age, trust
and betrayal, this place above all else, was destined to remain constant and
unchanging. There are humans for whom sameness, not ripeness, is all. This small
space, for many of its regulars, mostly still men, was their rock, their church, the only
thing to which they could cling in the turbulent surf of social change.
Normally Sarah would never have set foot in such a place, only when it was an
act of feminist rebellion in the 1970s, but her father’s bladder was not as strong as it
used to be and he needed to make a quick dash for the men’s toilet. Limping as fast
as he could with his stick and his stiff little legs that looked even frailer with the huge
boat-like sneakers that she had bought him, Sarah stopped staring at his slow progress
and retired to a corner table, determined to move on as soon as possible.
Screwing up her nose at the unmistakable whiff of stale beer, she sat there
staring into the middle distance, drumming her fingers on the table.
She kept
checking her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. What could he be doing? Perhaps
she could ask one of the young men playing pool to check on him. No, they’d never
stop their game. The old stalwarts at the bar didn’t look any more capable than her
father. She could probably just stride into the male toilet and call out his name but
that would be so embarrassing for him. The last thing she wanted to do was make
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him feel like a child. Perhaps he was just taking his time or having trouble getting his
zip done up. She’d wait another five minutes. The click, click, click of the pool cues
on the balls jangled her nerves. What was she going to do?
Just as she stood up, having decided to ask the young bartender to go in there,
her father emerged on the arm of a blonde man with a rugged, well-worn face, long
legs in shorts, overhung by a short-sleeve blue shirt exposing tanned, muscular arms,
one of which she noticed bore the small tattoo of a rose.
She stood up and ran towards them, knocking a chair over. “Dad what’s
wrong?”
“Nothing sweetheart. Had a bit of an accident, that’s all. This chap cleaned
me up. This is Charlie. Charlie, this is my daughter, Sarah.”
Before she could respond the man called Charlie said, “ Pleased to meet you
Sarah. He tripped on his way to the urinal. By the time I got him up, well you know,
he didn’t quite make it. I’ve sponged his pants best I could. He was more worried
about you. I told him you’d understand.” The voice was deep, the tone matter-offact.
“Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” She tried not to look stern, which was
always her expression when she was fearful.
“Nah. Knees a bit sore. Let’s sit down and have a beer. I owe you one
Charlie.”
“Don’t worry about it Jack.”
“No. I insist. Let me buy us all a beer.” He thrust a twenty-dollar note at
Sarah, a pleading look in his eyes.
Jack, Sarah and Charlie had a beer on Jack, and another on Sarah, and a third
on Charlie. Her father seemed to be enjoying himself in a way Sarah hadn’t seen since
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she’d been home. She contemplated asking Charlie to join them for lunch. Looking
closely at her father as if to test his reaction she noticed his eyes were swimming, like
small goldfish in a bowl.
“Enough excitement for you in one day old boy,” she said. “Come on, I’m
going to take you home for lunch and a siesta.”
“No hurry. Charlie and I are having a good time, aren’t we?”
Sarah stared hard at Charlie. He got the message. “We certainly are but I
have to go mate. Plenty more good times ahead. I’m here most mornings, playing
pool.”
“Good, we’ll see you tomorrow then, won’t we Sarah?”
“We’ll see how you’re feeling Dad.”
“I’ll be as good as gold,” he said, trying to stand up and immediately falling
back onto his seat.
“You go and get the car and I’ll take him slowly out to the footpath,”
suggested Charlie.
“Would you? Thank you so much.” She shook his big hairy hand, warmly.
“Thankyou, Charlie, for everything.”
“Think nothing of it. Might see you and Jack here again then?”
His eyes, she now realised, were the colour of his shirt, which was the colour
of the sea, the colour of the sky. They were clear eyes. And kind.
“If I have anything to say about it we will. Although these days my life
doesn’t seem to be my own. She won’t even let me drive my own car,” barked Jack.
“I won’t be long Dad,” said Sarah, snatching her handbag and disappearing
out the door of the bar.
“She worries too much,” said Jack to Charlie.
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“She loves you, that’s all. Come on mate, I’ll put my arms under yours and
we’ll get you on your legs. That fall has probably made you a bit unsteady.”
As soon as the car pulled away from the kerb and they had all waved goodbye,
Jack said “Good fellow that one. Sort of man you should get to know. Down-toearth.”
“Please, don’t start your match-making again.”
“Somebody has to. You and Tim have both been in New York for years and
you don’t even live together. Are you ever going to get married and settle down?”
“Probably not.”
“I worry about you sweetheart. All alone. Far away.”
“It’s not far by plane.”
“It’s not the same. I’d just like you to be settled before I die.”
“You’re not going to die for a long time. I simply won’t allow it.”
They had stopped at a traffic light and she saw her hands, gripping the wheel
of the car. The knuckles were white. She took them off the wheel and patted his hands
that were curled in his lap. Unaccustomed tears were pricking at her eyes.
“There are some things that even you can’t control Polly.”
“Well I can do my best.”
“You always do your best for me. Always have.” His spotted, wrinkled old
hand now patted hers.
The man in the car behind them beeped his horn. The lights had changed to
green, she leaned out of the window and shouted, “ok, keep your bloody hair on” and
accelerated so fast her father’s head jerked back in his seat.
“Didn’t you like Charlie?”
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God the old man was persistent, even when he was half stung.
“Yes Dad. He was very kind.”
“A decent sort of chap.’
“Well I couldn’t really testify to his decency. But he was very kind to you.”
“Looks a bit like Robert Redford don’t ya think?”
Sarah suddenly heard herself laugh out loud. A full-throated, letting-go, youwin, laugh. She had to give it to him.
“If you say so dad.”
“That’s my girl.”
When she finally stopped laughing he said, slyly,
“Let’s have a beer with him tomorrow. Just to say thanks again. I don’t know
how I would have managed to get up from the floor, without his help.”
“O.K dad. We’ll see how you shape up in the morning. Now what do you
want for lunch.”
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13.
At three o’clock that endlessly sunny afternoon, while her father was snoozing in his
favourite chair in the living room, Sarah turned on the bedside fan, stretched herself
out on top of the pink chenille bedcover on her narrow bed and tried not to let the
hour and the brown blind, cast her into a predictable gloom. The occasional swish of
a car in the street was the only sign that she and her father were not entirely alone on
the planet.
She missed New York with the kind of dull ache usually reserved for
homesickness. She had to keep reminding herself that this was home. This was why
everyone kept saying that she had come “home.” This house was where her father
had first carried her, swaddled in blankets, from the hospital where she had been
born—the same hospital where her mother had died seventeen years later.
This was where her father lived.
This was where her relatives, the only people she could accurately call family,
lived. This was the place where she had spent her first twenty-three years.
And then after three years in London, she had returned. And then finally fled
to New York where she had discovered she had never felt more at home. It wasn’t
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just a question of a small city versus a metropolis. London had been familiar and she
had loved living there but it had never made her heart soar like the streets of
Manhattan. It was the electric energy that buzzed through her body right down to her
fingertips whenever she stepped out onto the New York streets, that made her feel
fully alive.
It was the sense that in this city, all things were possible. She could be or
become whatever she wished.
It was the smell of the food, the honking cars, the cluttered streets, the surging
crowds.
It was the sound of a city fully alive, pulsing like a heartbeat, twenty-four
hours a day, every day of the year. Even if you weren’t part of the thrusting throngs,
you knew you could be. That could be you sitting at that sidewalk café having a
coffee or you in a hotel lounge sipping a cocktail, or you in that queue for theatre
tickets, or you trotting up the steps of the Met, or you browsing in that bookshop at
midnight. If you chose to stay at home on the couch that was your choice but the
entire world was out there, at your fingertips, waiting for you to touch it, grasp it and
make it your own. She was aware that all of this could well be romantic, idealised
rubbish but living in this city was for her; the most alive, the most fully present, she
had ever felt.
But now, how could she possibly leave her father here, alone in this house, to
slowly wither away? Of course there were her aunts, her mother’s sisters. They
would check on him from time to time but he would lie to them. He always had. They
had been very kind to them both, especially when her Mother was sick, which had
been often, but he had never been close to them. His little family of three was enough
for him. We had been a world unto him, his world in which he delighted.
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She knew that no other human being, apart from her mother, had ever loved
her more than he did and she wanted to give him back all that love. And more. She
never wanted him to feel lonely or bereft. Who knew how long he had to live? The
doctors had said it was impossible to tell. It could be days or months. Or years.
Years here, years living in this house, in this city. Years of three o’clocks. Acres of
afternoon. Her life, just ebbing away, drowning in this suburban silence.
Of course she could get a job with a newspaper. Or she could free-lance from
home. She could look after him until the end. But was that a life or a life-sentence?
And did he want her to sacrifice herself to it? Did he even like her living here with
him? Sometimes she could hear the irritation in his voice that she had assumed such
control over his life. What right did she have to simply stride into his house and take
over? Perhaps he still had one of those lonely widows he wanted to spend time with?
That possibility had never even occurred to her. Or perhaps he genuinely liked his
independence and resented her lack of respect for the life he had led before she had
presumed that he needed her to be with him.
The phone’s jagged shrilling pierced the afternoon silence. She leapt from the
bed. Please let it not be bad news. “Hello”
“Hello stranger. It’s Tim. I’ve been out; I’m a bit pissed and thought I’d give
you a call just to see how everything’s going. New York is missing you.”
“Not as much as I’m missing it.”
“So come home.”
“Oh Tim.”
Just the sound of his voice threw up a picture of his boyish smile, his curly
hair, his pretence of diffidence. Good old Tim, same old Tim, familiar old Tim. Don’t
get too sentimental, she warned herself. There was also, in and out of different beds
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Tim, addicted to quick sex Tim and the memorising and repeating the best lines from
literary magazines Tim. Her dear old Tim, well he was never entirely hers, he was
never entirely anyone’s. But they were always part of each other’s lives; joined at
times by a fragile gossamer thread, at others by an anchor rope, thick and reliable.
Lovers and then not lovers, she had even flown to Rome to marry him once. And
then they had both contracted cold feet.
“Sarah, you still there?”
“Yes, I’m still here. And there.”
“Come home.”
“Where’s home?”
“New York of course.”
“Is it?”
“Oh God, Sarah, that small town nostalgia hasn’t got to you has it?”
“My Dad has got to me. I’m all he’s got. Literally.”
“But you can’t live your life there, waiting for him to die.”
“I’m not and he’s not going to die. Not yet, anyway.”
“He’s better then?”
“He’s frail but he’s strong in spirit.”
“What on earth are you doing all day?”
“Cleaning the house.”
“What! You loathe housework. Hire a cleaner.”
“It fills in the time and it makes me feel useful and I have to ask my aunts over
for afternoon tea soon and it has to be presentable at least and I…”
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“Aunts for afternoon tea, housework, scrubbing floors. I can’t believe what
I’m hearing. This is not the woman I know. Come home, Sarah, come home. Get
your Dad fixed up and stop all this nonsense.”
“It’s not as easy as that.” Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Dad’s not
really as well as I’d hoped. Can’t really talk. He’s in the next room. Small house.”
“Right. Got the message. So just answer yes or no. Will you be home in a
month?” Sarah took a deep breath.
“Probably not.”
“That’s bad luck. I’ve taken out a mortgage to get opening night tickets for
Pavarotti at the Met. Thought it’d be a great welcome home present.”
“Oh Tim, how wonderful. That’s very generous and you know I’d adore it…
But you’d better take someone else.”
“I’ll hang on until the last minute just in case.”
“That’s sweet but I sincerely doubt I’ll be there.”
“He hasn’t had another stroke?”
“No.”
“Are you really coping alright being back there?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t sound too sure.”
“It’s difficult. Strange. Bizarre.”
“No weird murders?”
“No.” She laughed. Her hometown was notorious for weird and bizarre
murders. Even Salman Rushdie, when he had once visited for a Writer’s Festival, had
said it was a place where “things go bump in the night.” It wasn’t true but mud-like,
it had stuck. Visiting writers can be so ungracious with their instant celebrity quips.
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“Any gossip?”
“Not really.”
“What about your old friends?”
“Haven’t seen any.”
“You need to get out and about by the sound of you.”
“We went out today.” It sounded so feeble.
“Really. Where?” Attempting to sound interested.
“Front bar at the local seaside pub.”
“Sounds salubrious.”
“Don’t be a smart-arse.”
“Oh buck up. You sound so low. Go and see some of your old girlfriends and
get into some gossip. That’ll cheer you up. God you’re such a downer, I’ll need
another drink before I go to bed.”
“Sounds as though you’ve had a few already.”
“But when is enough, enough? Why don’t you join me?”
“It’s three thirty in the afternoon. I’ll end up in the Betty Ford Clinic.”
“Meet all the best people there. Have to go my love. ‘Bye.”
“’Bye. Thanks for the call. Sorry I’m so dreary but I shouldn’t have to lie to
you of all people. I’ll ring you soon. Bye. Bye. Give my love to everyone …”
He had hung up. She stood there with the receiver clamped to her ear as if
New York might just burst through the phone and fill her with hope. Hope and joy.
Oh yes, let’s not forget joy. She paused and listened hard. Nothing. And when she
pressed her ear even closer, just the dull throbbing of the blood pulsing through her
eardrum remained.
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14.
Upon opening the first door on the left as you entered the house of Dr G Staunton,
you often spied a pile of coloured cloaks on top of a mattress on the floor. Underneath
them was George reading the morning papers, just as she was this morning. She was
forced to stir herself when the phone went; it was far too early to expect anyone else
in the house to answer it. It was her ex-husband, in full commander mode.
“No time to waste George. Battle plans. Need to get organised. Meet me at
the uni, on the library lawns in an hour.” And he hung up. Just like that. Bloody rude.
“Sure Andrew. Lovely to talk to you too.”
Returning to the rug to scoop up the newspapers, her eye suddenly seized on
the by-line. Sarah Wood. In the national paper. Surely it had to be her old friend.
Well, well, well ... Wonder why she was back from The Big Apple. Poor old Sarah.
Always so lost, so lacking in any roots. Always longing to be part of the smart set.
Searching the world, desperate to be a member of some kind of long lost Bloomsbury
set in London or a guest at the round table at the Algonquin Hotel in New York.
Those ex-working class girls were always so romantic, so frivolous in their
expectations. They could spend their entire lives trying to live out some stupid
fantasy that they had read in a book or seen in a film when they were young.
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Sentimental, fabricated rubbish, all of it. Perhaps Sarah had finally come to her senses
and returned home to do some real work in a community of real people, not wannabes
and has-beens. Have to get her involved in the protests. Good to have a trustworthy
journo on side. Hope she’s still as much fun as she used to be. They’d certainly had
some wild times together in the ‘70s but she’d probably given up drinking, like all
those puritanical New Yorkers. The last time she’d been there for a conference, her
host had asked her if she wanted some wine for lunch. “Definitely,” she’d said and
they’d ordered her a glass ... a single glass of red wine. And she was the only one at
the table, drinking.
When she’d asked for a second glass the New Yorkers looked
aghast at her as though she was a hopeless alcoholic. She was convinced that they’d
all get gallstones from the amount of sparkling mineral water they consume in a day.
Surely Sarah couldn’t have given up red wine or long lunches. She’d ring the paper
and track her down. She yawned, a yawn so long and so deep that she nearly dozed
off to sleep again.
“Damn Andrew. Always so chirpy early in the morning.
Hopeless by
midnight. Fowls and owls should never try and cohabit.”
Dredging herself up from the mattress, she pulled on a pink caftan and a
floppy black hat, hauled up her bulging briefcase and staggered out into the hall
shouting, “If anyone’s listening, I’ll be back around lunch-time.” Nothing but the
slamming of the door could be heard, her so- called tenants, all still snoring in their
beds. This was a late night house, as dictated by George. No one, unless sick, was
ever allowed to go to sleep before midnight. She liked to talk and drink and argue
into the early hours. It was compulsory for anyone who relied on her largesse, to join
her.
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Her house was only a ten-minute bike-ride to the University. George loved
the flapping of wind in her hair and her long legs pushing against the pedals made her
feel young and alive. As she sailed through the entrance gates towards the rectangle
of green lawn that squatted in front of the old stone library beside the tall gothic
cloisters, she spied Andrew surrounded by his usual bevy of young admirers. Surely
she had never idolised him like that. Hard to remember now what she had truly felt.
She’d admired him, liked him, respected him but she doubted that she had ever loved
him. She had loved their life together as young academics wanting to change the
world, but once their son had been born, their need for each other lessened somehow.
It was as if they had each fulfilled their family duty and were free to go their own
way. Not that they hadn’t always been on the same side politically but he seemed to
need this constant adulation from the young. She, on the other hand, found the young
en masse, quite boring. She much preferred the old, those whom life had scarred and
matured, those who had wonderful stories to tell. The young just wanted to suck you
dry and move on. The old always had time to sit, to savour, to recollect, to analyse,
and most of all, to amuse her.
Apart from his little circle of groupies whom he dismissed as soon as George
joined them, Andrew had invited Gwen and Bill Vincent, who were from the River
Mulray district and long time allies and campaigners on indigenous issues. Bill had a
well-known drinking problem and Gwen a tendency to lose the thread of an argument
but they were loyal, hard working and well meaning. They arrived with Marty
Robinson, from the CFMEU, who had asked Andrew if he could become involved,
each of them embracing George in turn and sitting cross-legged on the grass in a
circle.
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“What we need is a picnic—a big picnic in the park on Heritage Island to
bring everyone together,” announced George, immediately taking control.
Andrew, annoyed at her for speaking first, said “Now hang on a minute,
before we get onto picnics, I think we need a picket line.”
“Good idea,” enthused Marty,” but first we need to train everyone how to
organise a picket line and how to behave during a protest.”
“Surely we can combine all three,” said George. “No time to waste on endless
meetings. You two are always ranting on about how there’s no time to waste, about
how we have to seize the initiative. So let’s do it all at the picnic. People love a good
picnic.”
The obvious common sense of her remark stunned Andrew and Marty into
silence. Bill and Gwen didn’t speak. Not because they were intimidated by the
company but because they just didn’t feel the need to use words unless they were
necessary. They simply nodded their approval.
“Right. Let’s organise a ‘bring your own’ picnic on the Island and Marty and
his men can teach everyone what to do,” George continued, clapping her hands
together.
“Good idea,” said Marty, “I’ll alert the troops.”
“When will we have it?” said Andrew, determined now to take control.
“Soon as possible. Next Sunday?”
“Too soon George. Can’t get the flyers printed by then.”
“Nonsense. We can do them from the printer in my office.”
“I’ll help,” said Bill.
“So will I, “said Gwen.
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“Good. It’s settled. Can you both come home with me now and I’ll get it
organised.”
Bill looked to Gwen who nodded.
“Wonderful. Well Andrew. If that’s all you had on the agenda, we can
leave.”
Andrew looked as if he was trying to think up another issue to be discussed
but a mere pause was enough for George to have leapt to her feet.
“Bye Marty. Good to see you. Do you two have your car?”
Gwen and Bill, still sitting side by side on the grass, nodded.
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll meet you at home.”
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15.
Penny thought a barbecue by the pool was best. Quintessentially hometown. No
point in trying to out-do New York cuisine. Keep it basic. Gourmet of course. She’d
get those delicious homemade sausages — lamb and mint, chicken and walnut.
French lamb cutlets, homemade patties from the finest beef, fresh crusty bread, three
different salads. Fresh berries with Greek yoghurt for dessert. Hugh could match it
all with the best wines from the cellar.
Sarah was shocked when she first saw the woman who had opened the door
immediately after her knock, almost as if she had been lurking in the passage. She
was shocked, not for the usual reason that the woman before her had changed so much
over the years but because she hadn’t changed at all. Apart from the newly streaked
blonde hair which didn’t seem to make her look any different, it was the same smooth
olive skin, same tanned legs, same evenly spaced white teeth, same impenetrable
brown eyes. In front of her stood an almost exact replica of the woman she had known
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ten years ago. Madame Tussaud’s could not have done a better job. Right down to the
single strand of pearls which clearly never left her neck.
“Sarah! How absolutely super to see you. Come on in, I thought we’d eat by
the pool, such a divine night isn’t it? Hugh’s making a barbecue, about the only thing
he can cook is chops and sausages. I’ve just thrown together a few salads, simple
basic food, not exactly a home-cooked meal but I thought you might live your life in
fancy restaurants and smart New York dining rooms. I see them in Architectural
Digest—a little over the top I sometimes think but there’s no accounting for taste, as
my mother would say. Jeremy—he’s eighteen and a computer nerd; never comes out
of his room but I think he will tonight. I told him you were from New York and that
seemed to impress him. Jessica will be late, has a rehearsal for a play she’s in, I think
it’s “Hedda Gabla,” she’s not the lead but has quite a good part, she’s studying drama
at Uni, god knows she could have done anything with her marks, could have gotten
into Law or Medicine but no, she had her heart set on becoming an actress I tried to
talk her out of it but Hugh, she’s always been able to wrap him round her little finger,
Hugh said you can’t force her to do something she doesn’t want to simply because she
got such high marks I said but what do you know when you are nineteen, so we gave
her time off to think about it, go to Europe, do odd jobs, I secretly hoped that would
put her off but she came home more determined if that’s possible, Hugh and I will try
and see her in this play but we are both so busy, as you know Hugh’s a full-time
developer now.”
During this breathless, ever- accelerating monologue, Penny had steered Sarah
down the long passage that ran the length of the house, out the back door and down
some stone steps to a terraced garden bordering a crystal clear Olympic-length pool.
“Talking about me behind my back already.”
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Hugh, wrapped in a huge apron on which was printed CHEF OF THE YEAR,
left the barbecue where he appeared to be part of a stage-set under a huge umbrella, to
kiss Sarah on both cheeks.
“That’s how they do it over there isn’t it?”
“Sarah’s living in America, not Italy, silly. What will you have to drink? I
think we’ve got anything you’d like. We’ve just opened a bottle of French fizz.”
“That would be fine,” said Sarah, slipping into the nearest chair she could find.
Something solid was needed. The ground seemed to be moving beneath her.
“Hugh darling, two glasses of Moet.”
“Coming up,” he wandered off towards a silver ice bucket perched
precariously on a stone table.
“Now Sarah, a little smoked salmon.
This is local but, and I’m not
exaggerating, it’s actually better than the best imported. You remember a place in the
hills called Springwood — well they have started this amazing business, chap from
Norway I think, anyhow have a taste, I’m sure you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Sarah took the smoked salmon perched on a tiny pancake from the white
platter.
“A little squeeze of fresh lemon?” urged Penny. “Some freshly ground pepper
perhaps”
“Yes, thank you. And please Penny, sit down. Relax.”
The last word came out more like an order than the coaxing she intended but it
worked. After she had relinquished the oversize pepper grinder, Penny slipped into a
nearby chair. Hugh strolled over with the champagne. And for a moment or two they
all sipped and chewed. They were still and silent. At last. Sarah felt as if she had
been machine-gunned with words. Surely Penny couldn’t keep this up all night. She
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was so frenetic. Frazzled. Frothing at the mouth. She had always talked very fast,
moved very fast and been a bit restless but this was manic. Sarah had seen this
behaviour before in hometown friends who whipped themselves into a lather trying
too hard to impress you because you were living and working overseas. They all
assumed that you were hitting the high life, mixing with the rich and famous, just
because they saw your photo, once, in Vanity Fair.
“So, Sarah, how is your father?” It was Hugh’s voice that drew her away from
her focus on the sky blue tiles at the bottom of the pool.
“A bit shaky on his feet but he seems cheerful enough.”
“How long are you planning on staying home?”
There was that word again. Home. Why did everyone assume that home was
where you were born rather than where you were living? Home. The mere word
pulled her down to the bottom of that pool. She had more in common with those ice
blue plaster tiles than these people.
“Depends on Dad’s health really.”
“Could be a while then.”
“Yes, could be.”
Pause.
How could she respond to any of these questions when she didn’t know the
answers herself? Penny was just sitting there staring at her as if she was going to
have to answer a quiz question on the subject.
Hugh ploughed on, oblivious to the expression on Sarah’s face.
“What are you going to do with yourself now you are home?”
“Like I told you on the phone, a bit of free-lance journalism.”
“This city is hardly the centre of the universe.”
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“No, that’s certainly true, but conflict is much the same the world over.”
“Conflict? No inter-racial strife here that we know of, is there Pen?”
Penny was refilling her own champagne glass. After all that frenzied tongueflapping Sarah didn’t doubt she was thirsty. She waited for that over-heated,
overworked tongue to hiss as it made contact with the ice-cold champagne.
“Anyone else need a top up?” Penny said, brandishing the bottle.
“No I’m fine,” mumbled Sarah. Hugh seemed totally engrossed with turning
over his sausages. Sarah wondered if perhaps all these years in the suburbs had turned
Penny into a lush. Perhaps that’s why apart from the hair colour, she hadn’t changed.
She was pickled. Just like those light brown onions in glass jars her aunts used to line
up, side by side, in their pantry cupboards. She’d always loved those pickled onions…
Penny was just sitting there, staring at her.
She would have to make an effort at conversation.
“I’m doing a bit of research and writing on the indigenous aspects of this
bridge business. Are you up with all that Hugh?”
“Certainly am. It’s my special baby, that marina development. I never really
wanted the bridge, that was the government’s decision. I would have been happy with
another ferry. But once they offered and the bank came to the party I was happy to
accept. As for the original inhabitants, we’ve done all the necessary surveys and got
the go-ahead.”
“Good lord. Look who’s had a shower, washed his hair and come out of his
cave,” announced Penny.
A tall, sandy-haired young man stood shyly at the top of the stone steps.
“Come and have a glass of champagne and meet Sarah,” said Penny, a little
too eagerly. Sarah figured James must take after his biological mother as he didn’t
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appear to be anything like Hugh in either looks or behaviour. There was fineness in
his features, gentleness in his manner that even his shyness couldn’t conceal. As he
sipped his champagne and asked her questions about New York and job opportunities
there, Sarah sensed there was something else behind his interest.
An intensity
bordering on passion. He had clearly read every novel ever set in the city, could
quote lines from Tom Wolfe and Jay McInerny and claimed he read The New Yorker
cover to cover at the library every week.
When he stood up to help his father with the barbecue Penny whispered,
“That’s the most I’ve ever seen him talk to anyone in years. He used to be such a
friendly little chap but once he turned twelve, everything closed up. Hugh says it’s
testosterone. Makes boys very grumpy. He never offers an opinion on anything to
me. Just grunts. Jessica, on the other hand, never stops talking and giving her
opinions.”
“Has it been hard bringing up another woman’s children?”
“Not really. All those years being a social worker equipped me for anything.
We all rub along pretty well.
Hugh’s been very busy so most of the family
responsibilities have fallen on my shoulders but I don’t really mind.”
“Good old capable Pen.”
“That’s what Hugh says. Makes me sound pretty boring.”
“Do you still have your horses?”
“No time for all that messing about. Horses are hard work. I’ve got other
priorities now.”
“Penny! No riding! You used to live for it. You always said you liked horses
better than people.”
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When she threw her head back and chortled like she did now, Sarah could
have sworn they were both still students at University. Through the blonde streaks she
saw brown, bouncing curls.
“You never forget anything do you Sarah?”
“Part of my job.”
“What’s it like, really, living for so long in such a huge metropolis?”
“Like putting your finger in an electric socket and turning on the power. It’s
an unbelievable buzz. Why don’t you come over and try it sometime?”
“Hugh and I promised ourselves we’d travel but somehow work always got in
the way. Seemed easier to just go to the beach house so if anything went wrong you
could drive back to town. Remember when we were in Venice together?”
“How could I ever forget it?”
Sarah assumed an exaggerated German accent and shouted, “Go fuck yourself
Mrs Kangaroo.”
The others all looked at her in disbelief. Then Penny repeated it, even more
dramatically. “You go fuck yourself Mrs Kangaroo.”
The two women clutched at each other, screaming with laughter until tears
literally ran down their faces. In between the screams, Penny tried to tell Hugh and
James that one night, more than a decade ago, she and Sarah had been dining together
in a restaurant in Venice when a man with black, shoulder –length hair, about five feet
two high and eighteen stone, wearing a black and white striped suit with a huge
wooden crucifix hanging off his stomach suddenly made a big entrance into their
restaurant. He sat down with his wife and two daughters, one of whom proceeded to
take out her pet mouse and let it run all over the table. Sarah, who hated mice and was
secretly scared of them, had immediately complained to the waiter who told the girl to
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put the mouse away, because the two senoras at the next table had complained. The
man became very irate and complained loudly to the other Italians in the restaurant,
calling them Americans pigs. Penny, unable to control her anger, shouted back at him
that they were definitely not Americans.
“Zen you are Eeenglish,” he snapped back.
“Wrong again,” Sarah had shouted. And triumphantly announced that they
were Australians.
“Ha, ha,” he’d declared in a thick German accent, “Oorstralians. That is
verser. Much much verser. Australia has no kultcha. No Kultcha.” When Sarah
shouted back that he didn’t know what he was talking about and that at least
Australians didn’t bring dirty little mice into restaurants, he stood up and called out,
“Go fuck yourself Mrs Kangaroo.”
After she repeated the punchline, again, as if they had never heard it before
Penny and Sarah shrieked so loudly that Sarah thought she might, literally, wet her
knickers. The laughter seemed to convulse her entire body; it was such a relief not to
be in a permanent state of anxiety. Hugh and James pretended to be amused but when
it looked as if the two women might repeat the entire episode yet again, Hugh said,
moving quickly towards the barbecue, “Come on you two. Sober up. Snags are
cooked.”
And there in the candlelight, on a warm jasmine-scented night, the two women
ate and drank and reminisced. It was as if someone had just turned back the pages of
an old calendar. Hugh and James tried to listen attentively and share in their stories
but it was clear that the world they were conjuring up preceded and precluded them.
“Do you ever see Georgie?” asked Sarah.
“That madwoman,” snarled Hugh, eager to interrupt their nostalgic ravings.
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Penny ignored him. “Not really. Our paths never cross. You’d think in a
small city like this that we’d be bound to fall over each other.”
“But you two were always so close. You even started kindergarten together.”
“I know. But she always was a bit on the mad side you know. Runs in the
family. Mother’s a total alcoholic now. If they weren’t rich and didn’t employ a
fulltime housekeeper, she’d have to be in some kind of care. Last year she nearly set
fire to the house, it was all in the paper. Smoking in bed. Old boy spends most of his
time at the club or on the golf course. They never go out together.”
“Both terrible snobs,” said Sarah.
“George is ashamed of them. She always was. That’s why she’s on the side
of every victim in the world. She says she hates the power of establishment but it’s
really her parents she can’t stand.”
“She’s a professional protester,” added Hugh.
“Perhaps she just has a passion for justice,” blurted out James.
Hugh and Penny looked at each other unable to speak at this amazing outburst
of opinion. Hugh recovered first.
“Well you can take justice too far, young man. Everyone always wants justice
for the blacks for example but what about justice for the whites? And I don’t mean
just the poor whites.” He poured himself and Sarah and Penny another glass of the
excellent cabernet sauvignon and appeared to rev himself up like a motorbike.
“The problem with people like Pen’s old friend Georgie is that she doesn’t
think people like us deserve any justice at all. Oh no. People like us who work hard
in order to accumulate capital; we are the enemy to her. Why? Simply because we
are not victims. Simply because we want to make opportunities happen in order to
create a better life for ourselves. And in creating a better living, we give other people
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jobs. What jobs has madam Georgina ever created? Tell me that. She despises people
like us. It’s reverse snobbery, that’s what it is. It’s also discrimination. Look at how
she gets around, like a bloody bag lady and she’s set to inherit a fortune when her
parents kick the bucket.”
“Hugh, you’re raising your voice,” said Penny.
“I want to raise my voice. She gets around in those coloured flowing rags
with those mad hats on her head. She rides a bike everywhere. A bike for god’s sake.
And she must be loaded. All those mining shares she inherited from her grandparents
would probably make her a millionaire several times over.
She’s a phoney, a
professional phoney. And a hypocrite. And a show-off. What about saving the trees
in the bloody parklands when she arrived at the Town Hall carrying an axe,
challenging someone to cut down the first tree. All for the television cameras, she had
by her side”
“I think she really believes in what she says Dad. She’s a genuine greenie.
Why should the parklands be used for parking cars.” said James.
“And how would you know? You never leave your room to see what’s
happening in the world. I can’t even get you to work in the office in your bloody
holidays.”
James stood up, shook Sarah’s hand, and walked silently into the house
without banging the backdoor.
“We’re breeding a traitor. Did you hear him?”
Penny leaned forward and patted Hugh’s arm. Sarah laughed and said, “I
wouldn’t take it too seriously. All teenagers believe the opposite from their parents.
It’s compulsory. And it shows an independence of mind. Now give me another glass
of wine and tell me everything about this marina.”
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Having patiently listened to a rerun of what she had already read in the papers
or been told by Tom, she stood up to leave. There was clearly nothing she had missed,
not from their perspective. Penny was giving her what she thought was a hug that
went on far too long and Hugh had finally stopped talking, having drunk himself into
near insensibility.
A young woman, tall, with a swarm of black curls that seemed to be taking
flight around her head, suddenly appeared as if from the sky. It must have been her
bare feet that had made her entry so silent.
“Jess, this is very late for you to be arriving for dinner,” said Penny.
Ignoring her, the young woman said, “Hi, you must be Sarah. Do you have to
go yet? I want to talk to you about Broadway and off Broadway and off, off
Broadway.”
Sarah laughed. “Some other time I’m afraid. It’s far too late and I’ve had far
too much to drink.”
“And you’re far too pushy and unapologetic,” added Penny, her mouth having
trouble with the syllables.
“Let’s take a raincheck Jessica. I’ll give you a call and we can talk about the
theatre forever,” said Sarah, disappearing up the tree-lined path to the stone house, its
wide verandahs frowning like dark eyebrows in the moonlight.
“Can you believe the cheek of the young these days?” mumbled Penny,
rushing to catch up with her.
“I work with plenty worse in New York.”
“She just breezes in and breezes out like this house is a service station. Fill up
the tank, wash and polish, change the clothes, zoom out.
And I’m the garage
attendant.”
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“Not if you don’t want to be. It’s your choice, remember.”
Sarah gave Penny a quick peck on the cheek, promised to have coffee soon,
and took off through the gate leaving her hostess swaying on her elevated espadrilles.
Beige, of course, to match the linen dress.
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16.
Sarah stole a glimpse at the man, tightly seat- belted next to her in the car. In his red
cap and matching red scarf that she had bought him, he looked cheerful enough. Why
do older people always dress in browns and greys as they age? Is it because they feel
they should mirror the leaf as it loses its colour, shrivels and eventually disintegrates?
Or is it because they feel brown or grey inside? Why don’t people cheer themselves
up with bright colours the older they get? Let the young wear black; the old, crimson.
She would buy him some more brightly coloured clothes, even though he insisted they
were a waste of money. Besides, it could be chilly on the coast and she didn’t want
him to get sick. God forbid. She could be here forever. He was humming to himself,
in that familiar tuneless drone of his that she remembered from childhood Sunday
afternoon drives. His lack of a tune always drove her mother crazy, but Sarah found it
comforting in its monotonous familiarity.
He felt no need to make small talk,
commenting only on the difference in petrol prices at the various service stations as
they flashed past them. She should take him out for drives more often, he seemed
very contented sitting next to her in the car, his eyes hypnotised by the white line
dividing the bitumen.
She found it hard to tell when they had finally left the city. Suburbia with its
red roofs had encroached like some kind of rampant dermatitis on the once
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immaculate pale fields. The only big stretches of green now were the vineyards which
provided welcome relief from these faux Georgian monstrosities with their blonde
bricks, small windows and no verandahs as protection from the summer heat. Horrid
lace curtains adorned every window. Lace curtains, the ultimate symbol of domestic
respectability, had hidden thousands of atrocities. The occasional barrels of rolled hay
were now the only evidence that this was once a rural area. Rows of dusty pines
overlooked misshapen native trunks where knots of sheep huddled against the wind.
The clumps of purple agapanthus flashed their colours like pantomime performers in
an otherwise dull and monotone drama. Did it really look as dismal as this or was she
just jaded. Was everything she viewed going to be in sepia because it matched her
prevailing mood?
“Good to get out in the country,” said her father suddenly, almost as a
conscious antidote to her dour lens.
“See those trees called black boys—not supposed to call them that now—can’t
see what’s wrong with it myself—anyway, they take a hundred years to grow an
inch.”
“Surely they grow faster than that.”
“Nope. Those blackfellas must have been there thousands of years.”
“Well the original inhabitants were here for thirty, perhaps even fifty thousand
years before the whites landed.”
“Was it that long?”
“According to my recent research, at least that long. Amazing isn’t it.”
“Will some of them be at this picnic?”
“No doubt. But there are lots of other groups also opposed to the building of
the bridge.”
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“Thought about buying a shack on that island once to go fishing there myself.”
“Did you? I didn’t know you were into fishing?”
“Wasn’t really. Had a woman friend who was.”
“Really! Who was this woman friend?”
“None of your business missy. I don’t ask you what you get up to over there
in New York.”
“That’s true, but this is different. Come on, tell your only child, what was her
name?”
“Can’t remember now. Too long ago.”
“That’s a cop-out Dad. This woman could have become my stepmother, the
least you can do is tell me her name.”
“She certainly wanted to get married. Too possessive. A take-over merchant.
Your mother was never like that.”
“You really and truly loved Mum didn’t you?”
He shifted uneasily in his seat and stretched his legs out.
“Got to keep the old legs moving or I won’t be able to walk when we finally
get there. How much longer to go now?”
Sarah knew that his evasion of her question was not an aggressive avoidance
but rather a reluctance to revisit a place and a time that clearly still hurt like an old
injury when you pressed too hard on it. Grief can lie undisturbed, like a tumour, until
something prods it into spreading its poison through every vulnerable cell in your
body. She wished she hadn’t tried to disturb his grief. Or hers. Why did she always
do that?
Blunder in with a question that cut through the tender, protective
membranes? As a journalist, you had to be quick and ruthless, using questions,
precisely, like a scalpel to cut through the layers of flesh and fat and gristle to get to
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the truth. As a human being, you normally tried to avoid such brutal assaults on other
people’s feelings. Sometimes she forgot that she needed to be wary, on guard, for
moments when the two roles merged and she plunged the knife in, regardless.
Sometimes it was an almost mechanical reaction. Once she sensed a moment of
hesitation, a flicker of an expression on a face, or a whiff of vulnerability, she struck.
It was a vicious profession.
And yet, ironically it was her empathy, her ability to submerge herself beneath
the skin and the pulse of another person that made her such a successful, lethal
interviewer.
“Forty cents more there, day-light robbery.”
Her father’s petrol price
announcement restored the stability of their conversation.
Back to safe ground.
Solid, predictable petrol prices.
“Winner of the Tidy Town Award,” her father announced, reading from the
sign on their left as they slowed down to drive through the main street of Galbraith.
Sarah scanned the usual mish-mash of heritage buildings, small churches turned into
craft museums, a motel, an auto-parts shop, a Doll Museum, a Fish and Chips and
hamburger shop.
“The park is meant to be near the bandstand.”
“There’s the bandstand,” pointed her father.
“And that must be the picnic,” said Sarah, turning the car towards a large
group of people already standing around a huge barbecue surrounded by picnic rugs
and chairs and striped umbrellas.
Tom saw them arrive and came over to help her father from the car. Jack
stamped his feet on the grass like an old draft-horse, desperate to eradicate their
numbness. .
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“Snappy shoes you’ve got there, Mr Wood,” said Tom, trying to be both
cheerful and chatty.
“Sarah bought them for me. Supposed to give me extra bounce. Never thought
I’d go in the legs you know. Call me Jack, everyone does.”
“Okay, Jack. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Prefer a beer.”
“Dad, why don’t you wait until lunchtime? You didn’t eat much breakfast.”
“Beer is good for you Sarah. It stimulates the appetite. Isn’t that right son?”
“So they say,” said Tom, unwilling to get involved in a family spat.
“Get him a beer. I’ll just have a soda thanks. I’m driving.”
Tom stood, legs wide apart, with a can of beer implanted in his right hand.
Sarah levered her father slowly into the folding chair she had brought for him. Tom
pointed out to them the greenies, the Union people, the retirees, the weekenders, the
professional protesters and the indigenous groups. The banner that flew between two
large gum trees announced “The Friends of Ferries.” Sarah looked around at the
range of classes, dress codes, and picnic accessories that had been assembled in order
to protest against the building of the bridge.
“It’s what they call a Rainbow Coalition, isn’t it Tom? Every colour is
represented,” she commented.
“I don’t know a soul here,” said her father, with a tone of disappointment. He
was the kind of man who, wherever he went, expected to know someone. He liked to
shake a hand, have a chat, even if he knew he’d never see that person again.
“How about getting an old soldier another beer Tom?”
Tom looked at Sarah, who shrugged her shoulders in resignation.
“You must eat some lunch Dad.”
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“Okay. Okay. Don’t nag me”
The dramatic arrival of television vans and cameras stirred the crowd who
became visibly very excited Tom pointed out major media personalities to them and
Jack named all the 5 o’clock news presenters. A microphone crackled into life. A tall
woman with long grey-blonde hair, wearing a multi-coloured cloak, holding a
microphone, was standing on a box in full view of the cameras.
“Hello everyone. I’m Georgina Staunton and on behalf of the Friends of
Heritage Island I’d like to welcome you all here to this picnic, and say how pleased
we are that so many of you have given up your Sunday to join us in this protest. No
doubt all of you have your own reasons for opposing the bridge. Some of you have
spent your hard-earned money on retiring here to a quiet, peaceful life and don’t want
that tranquillity destroyed.” A group of grey-haired people in matching tracksuits
cheered.
Some of you only come here on weekends to get away from the noise and
pollution of the city and don’t want greedy developers to destroy your precious
retreats.” Another group better dressed in tailored slacks and felt hats clapped their
approval.
“Some of you are ferry workers and their families or their supporters who are
not prepared to just stand by and let your jobs be destroyed.” Loud cheers and
whistles from a group in anoraks and faded jeans.
“Some of you are the ancestors of the original tribes who lived here
undisturbed for at least thirty thousand years before the white invasion destroyed your
way of life, your culture, your heritage.” A small group of men and women in dark
coloured clothes and knitted woollen caps waved and cheered.
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“Whatever your background, your race, your personal investment in stopping
a bridge being built joining the mainland to Heritage Island, I want to urge you to
stand firm on this and not to falter. The government is on very shaky ground and they
know it. Many of us have successfully defeated other projects backed by developers
who have no thought for anything but their own bank balances. There are more
important things than the bottom-line. Things we all hold dear to our hearts.” More
cheers and whistles. This time from the combined groups. She pumped her right hand
into the air in a victory salute.
“And we will do it again — with your help. Now I want to introduce Marty
Robinson, who is representing the ferry workers. He wants to talk to you all about
organising a picket line.”
Cheers and whistles.
Georgie handed Marty the
microphone and stood on the side smiling, clapping and cheering all through his
speech.
“Where does she get the energy?” Sarah mumbled to Tom.
“She’s a zealot. They thrive on fresh causes.”
“But she looks like a multi-coloured bag lady.”
“Always has,” said Tom.
“No — she was very beautiful in her youth.”
Tom sneered. “Always looked on the grubby side to me.”
“Yes. Well there was that. Where’s her husband, Andrew?”
“Ex-husband. He’s over there with the academics. Grey ponytail, tight jeans.”
Sarah stared at several of the men who fitted that description, hard to tell one
from another when they all had those little, clipped beards. She figured Andrew was
the tallest one as he had been a well-known football player.
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“So we need as many of you as possible to be here tomorrow to stop the
tractors. Can I have your commitment comrades? Let me hear it,” shouted Marty.
Cheers from the Unionists, shuffling from the well dressed, conservative
retirees for whom the word “comrade” grated like a fingernail across a school
blackboard.
“On with the struggle comrades,” he shouted, his voice distorted by being too
close to the microphone. He gave the workers’ salute. As if afraid they might be
pushing their class enemies too hard, Georgie grabbed the microphone and in
soothing tones reassured everyone how important it was that they unite as one group,
to stop the bridge and how there were chops and sausages ready to eat on the big
barbecue. Everyone clapped at that and surged forwards.
Children ran around among the assembled throng distributing leaflets that
Gwen and Bill had helped Georgie print. Sarah took one and ran her eyes down the
list of official supporters of The Friends of Heritage Island.
The Conservative
Council, the CFMEU, Greenpeace, the Lower Mulray and Indigenous Heritage
Committee (LMIHC).
They meant business alright; this was a very powerful
coalition. Sarah observed Georgie working the crowd, making her way from one
support group to another, shaking hands, kissing babies, cracking jokes. Why hadn’t
she just gone into politics? She was clearly a natural. Probably no party would ever
be radical enough for her. Still, she acted like a professional politician. Sarah waited
for her to reach their little group.
“Fabulous scarf. Can I borrow it? Match my cloak,” she said to Jack, her
back to Sarah.
“My daughter might complain, she gave it to me — hey Sarah, this lass wants
me to give her my scarf.”
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With that George turned around and screamed “Sarah! I’ve been wondering
when we’d bang into each other. Saw your by-line. Heard you were back.”
Sarah couldn’t answer because she was enveloped in a huge hug, which
involved all of George’s clothes. All she could smell was mothballs. When George
finally released her, she bombarded her with questions. Are you writing about this for
the New York Times? Are you still with them or did they sack you? When can we
get together? How’s Tim? Do you still see him?”
“Steady on. There’s plenty of time.” Sarah stepped a full pace away from her
looming face. George appeared not to notice the change in body language.
“No there’s not time. I have work to do. I’m still at the same address. Call
in. Any time of the day or night. Soon. Promise.” And then she beamed that old
familiar two hundred watt smile. “It’s lovely to see your face again.”
“O.K. I promise to call,” said Sarah, smiling back at her. It was impossible to
say no to her, it always was.
“Good. That’s fixed then. Goodbye you handsome old devil. Don’t give that
scarf to another woman, now. It’s mine. .”
She kissed Jack on the cheek, he laughed and smacked her lightly on her
bottom or at least where her bottom was buried underneath the layers of clothing. She
strode off in her boots towards the next group.
“Dad, you can’t go around doing that,” chided Sarah.
“Doing what?”
“Slapping women you don’t know on the bottom.”
“Rubbish. She’s a friend of yours. I’m old enough to be her father. It’s just a
bit of fun.”
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“I know that but times have changed. You just can’t do it to any woman you
don’t know.”
“She kissed him first,” said Tom, a little too aggressively. “That’s also sexual
harassment.”
“That’s right. And I’m stuck here in this chair. I can hardly run away from
her. Not that I wanted to, mind you. She looks like a gypsy but she’s got a great
smile.”
“Why didn’t she speak to you?” Sarah asked Tom.
“I’m on the black list. I once wrote an article about a woman who fabricated a
story about rape, just to get back at a man. She and the sisters brigade blackballed
me.”
“Quite right too,” snapped Sarah.
“Why? Women do make up stories to take revenge against men.”
“Perhaps they do but it’s far more common that they are telling the truth and
no-one believes them. Stories like yours are a gift to rapists and violent men.”
“Tom’s right. I knew a bloke in the pub that was set up like that by one of his
ex-girlfriends.”
“That’s not the point Dad. It’s the general principle of the issue that’s
important, not individual examples. There will always be women who abuse the
system but that doesn’t mean the principle is wrong.”
“Here she goes. On her pedestal again. Talk some sense into her Tom, I’m
going to find the men’s toilet.”
He pulled himself upright with the aid of his stick and lurched off across the
oval.
“Sorry Sarah, didn’t mean to upset your Dad.”
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“Oh he’s not upset, he loves a good stoush. That’s where I get it from.
You’re not right about rape and fabrication though.”
“Yes I am. You want us to believe every woman who cries rape.”
“No we don’t. But if you knew the statistics on how many rapists are never
charged you wouldn’t be so keen to point out the odd occasion when a woman has
made it up. If men were raped as often as women you might begin to have some
understanding of the issue.”
Hidden behind some tall trees on the far right-hand side of the oval was a
beige vintage Jaguar. Penny had her binoculars jammed up against her eyes. Through
the tinted glass of the car’s window she could see Sarah and that horrible journalist
Tom Watson. They looked as if they were having an argument. Sarah was swinging
her hands about like she always did when she was excited. He, on the contrary, was
digging his hands further and further into the pockets of his baggy corduroy pants,
choosing not to look her in the eye. They were definitely arguing. Good. That’s a
dangerous alliance, Sarah’s talent and Tom’s national paper.
She was always
perverse and he’s essentially a loner. Must report all this back to Patrick.
She watched as the argument persisted for at least twenty minutes until the
man who must be Sarah’s father returned, rather unsteady on his stick and she and
Tom helped him into the front seat of the car. George, of course was still there,
moving quickly from group to group, glad-handling anyone she could capture. She
should have been an evangelical preacher with all those flying robes. She just hadn’t
moved on. She was like an old record with the needle stuck in the groove, repeating
the same tune over and over again. Penny didn’t need to hear the words; she knew
she could hum the tune by heart.
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17.
Jack Wood slept most of the way home, his red cap tilted sideways against the safety
belt. Sarah regretted letting Tom give him so much beer. He’d hardly eaten anything
as usual, blaming his teeth but the dentist had told her there was nothing wrong with
them. She noticed the wet stain on his trousers and hoped it was just water from
washing his hands. Incontinence was more than she could cope with. Why did
everything have to be so messy when you got old? She remembered the account of
Jean Paul Sartre’s incontinence in De Beauvoir’s book All Said and Done. Twenty
years before when she’d first read it, she’d thought it distasteful of her even to
mention it. Now that she was confronting the problems of looking after an old man
herself, she realised it wasn’t distasteful, it was just a fact of aging. Not to have
mentioned it in an honest account of their final years together would have been
deceitful to a writer as committed to honesty as De Beauvoir.
Safely negotiating her father’s passage from the car to his favourite chair in
front of the television, she disappeared into the kitchen to heat some soup for a light
dinner.
“Sarah, here’s your gypsy girlfriend on the news. Come and look.” Her father
sounded quite excited. And sure enough, there was Georgie, in full bloom, waving the
pamphlet above her head. The camera panned over the crowd, going into close-ups
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on the indigenous people. Maria Scouros, in high-heeled boots and very tight jeans,
was revelling in reciting her piece to the camera, in that breathy melodramatic style
that was fashionable with young female reporters.
“Clouds of protest are brewing over the building of the Heritage Island
Bridge.”
“Oh please — clouds of protest — what a cliché,” snorted Sarah.
“Ssh. Listen to what she’s saying. Ssh.”
“Well-known union agitator Martin Robinson instructed the protest meeting
on how to organise themselves in front of the tractors.”
“Oh sure — training in guerrilla warfare.”
“Shut up Sarah. Let a man listen can’t you.”
Sarah was shocked at her father’s tone. Either he was turning into a really
grumpy old bastard or his legs were hurting him.
“This is Maria Scouros. Channel Twelve News.”
“Couldn’t see myself there at all. Did you see yourself Sarah? I looked for
my red hat and scarf but they didn’t film me. Pity … I don’t want soup for tea.”
“What do you want?”
“Eggs and bacon.”
“You had them for breakfast.”
“So! I want them for tea.”
“But they’re so high in fat and cholesterol.”
“For God’s sake. At my age why should I care? It’s eggs and bacon or
nothing.”
He grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume. Sarah stood there
staring at him but he refused to take his eyes off the television screen. His face was
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very flushed. She hoped he wasn’t on the brink of a stroke. Perhaps she shouldn’t
have taken him to the picnic? Perhaps it was all too much for him?
After his bacon and eggs Jack slept on and off, alone, in front of the television.
Sarah sat at the tiny desk in her bedroom and made notes from the pile of books
dealing with indigenous culture that she had taken out of the library. It was all so
complicated and she hadn’t even begun to scratch the surface. She was stunned at
how little she really knew and understood about their culture. Even though she had
lived most of her life in this country and considered her self to be well educated, this
knowledge had passed her by. Eventually she heard her father’s uneven footsteps in
the passage.
“Think I’ll go to bed, darling. Thanks for a lovely day.”
“Hope it wasn’t all a bit much for you.”
“No way. Was good to get out and meet people. Bring that Georgie home for
a drink sometime. I liked her.”
He kissed her on the cheek and shuffled out of the room.
It was midnight when the phone rang. Sarah was still working at her desk and
ran to pick it up in case it disturbed her father.
“Hello,” she said in hushed tones.
“Sarah—is that you?”
“Yes Tim.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t want to wake up Dad.”
“God I’m sorry, what time is it?”
“Midnight.”
“Sorry my love. Can’t ever seem to get it right can I.”
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“No, you can’t. It’s not rocket science.”
“Wanted to tell you about my night at the Met. It was incredible. Tosca with
Montserrat Caballé and Luciano Pavarotti—both in top form. But Caballé was truly
amazing. Even Pavarotti stood back and applauded her. How does she manage to
float those top notes?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never heard her live.”
“Oh that’s right. Sorry. Don’t mean to rub it in—but you had your chance—I
kept hoping you’d be there with me.”
“Who did you take?”
“Annie—new woman I met at Claude’s party. You’d like her. An artist. Lots
of fun. What have you been up to?”
“I took Dad to a protest picnic.”
“Protest about what?”
“That bridge I told you about.”
“Haven’t they resolved that yet? God, local politicians are hopeless.”
“It’s developing into a big conflict.”
“Oh sure — really big — in the great metropolis of Arcadia. Give me a break
Sarah.”
“Don’t be patronising.”
“I’m not but your world is shrinking, just by living there. If you could only
hear yourself.”
“Conflict is still conflict, the forces of greed and self-interest are the same
wherever they rear their ugly heads.”
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He cut her off. “Sure, but are we to spend our lives being interested in some
crumby little developer in our crumby little hometown?
That’s why we left it,
remember?”
Sarah didn’t answer. He was right, that was why they had left. They used to
sit, every afternoon, in his bedroom when they were University students, and pledge
that whatever it took, unlike most of their friends who seemed content to get married
and settle down, they would help each other get out of this small town. They would
become citizens of the world, they would live like de Beauvoir and Sartre, lovers to
many, special friends to each other. And they had gotten out, they had each lived
with and without each other in London, Paris, Rome and now New York, they had
trawled over many different bodies, slept in many different beds, occasionally made
love and lust to each other and were still special friends. They were living their
dream. The silence lengthened like a dark shadow between them.
“Sarah. Are you still there?”
“Yes Tim, as you so tactfully reminded me, I am, indeed…still here.”
“Tact was never one of my strengths was it? … Gotta go. Chin up and all that.
Bye my love.”
“Bye, ‘bye.”
Her voice had assumed a thin, highly- pitched whine, not at all like the
confident mellow tones that were her signature. She felt exactly how her voice
sounded; somehow watered down, like soup stretched too far.
Next morning the local paper reported that “The Friends of Heritage Island”
picnic had passed without conflict or incident. It had, they noted, marked the start of
a well-organised protest movement, a rainbow coalition of green, union, New Age,
grey power and indigenous elements.
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Three days later photos of twenty anti-bridge people, including Martin
Robinson, watching a grader begin work on a road along the edge of the park, next to
the railway line, appeared on page seven. The developers planned to use this road to
divert ferry traffic while the bridge was being built.
The day after this, Shane Trott, on Channel Eight’s television news, reported
on the harsh words that were exchanged between fifty protesters who had blocked the
path of the contractors when they had arrived for work on the island. The fifty protest
picketers included conservative retirees, greenies, small business people, unionists
and indigenous people.
“Faded jeans stood alongside tailored slacks, gaudy tracksuits against pleated
tartan skirts. This is a very well-organised and broadly based protest.” This is Shane
Trott, Channel Eight News.”
Maria S, on the competing commercial channel, balancing in her stilettos on
the edge of the railway line, talked about certain “sacred sites” not being disturbed.
Her seductive lisp made “sacred sites” sound like something vaguely pornographic.
The following day, the front page of the local paper “The Clarion” showed
police standing quietly by, as the anti-bridge protesters waving placards that read
“SAVE THE SACRED SITES” milled around the stationary machines and their
frustrated operators. Anthropologist, Dr Georgina Staunton, had spoken to the
contractors and the police telling them that the road being graded crossed a registered
indigenous site.
Underneath the photo, Jason Judd, the local reporter emphasised that the
police had warned the protesters that they would have to prove such a site existed if
their protest was to be respected.
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Two days later Minister Ryan’s office released a formal statement declaring
that the site had been identified as a registered indigenous site. Minister Ryan was
arranging an alternative route to the access road.
The next day the Clarion’s front page showed the protesters gathered for
celebratory photos, holding aloft their placards and their indigenous flags. “Here’s to
Victory.”
Gwen and Bill Vincent had moved into a house on the island belonging to an
anti-bridge campaigner so they could be on hand for meetings. A picket line was
faithfully maintained every day, with reinforcements ready to join them, if needed.
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18.
Patrick Ryan knew he had to get things moving again, the protesters had stalled their
progress and taken away their public relations drive. Armed with a report that the
bridge could proceed, Patrick Ryan rose to his feet in state Parliament to announce “I
have today, issued an authorisation to the Department of Road Transport, to construct
a bridge to Heritage Island with minimal damage to indigenous sites. The government
is determined that the building of this bridge will proceed, forth with.”
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19.
Jack was in his garden, knee-deep in blood and bone. Sarah carried on about the smell
but he didn’t mind it. At least it was better than the damp chook poo he had shovelled
up last week.
“Still growing flagons I see Mr Wood.”
He tried to stand up and face the fence but his back wouldn’t let him.
“I said; you’re still growing flagons Mr Wood.” The voice was louder and
more insistent. Damn woman. He forced himself to straighten up even though the
pain was shooting down the full length of his legs.
“I’m not deaf Mrs Fitch. Just a bit stiff. And yes, you’re right I am still
planting flagons.” The face that peered at him over the fence resembled that of an old
crocodile, its skin parched and wrinkled, the eyes dark slits against the sun, the mouth
poised ready to strike.
“Why doesn’t Sarah get out here in the garden and help you?”
“She’s got other work to do.”
“She never did help with the hard work.
I remember her poor mother
struggling with the washing on the line. “Where’s Sarah,” I’d ask, “she’s playing
tennis,” she’d say, “Tennis,” I’d say, “why isn’t she home here helping you? Poor
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thing, she suffered so, your wife, and then after she passed away it was you I’d see
hanging up the washing … still not married is she?”
“I think I hear the phone,” said Jack, turning his back on her and hobbling
towards the back door.
“I can’t hear a phone. Anyway let her get it. She’s inside.”
“Don’t you worry about it?” Jack disappeared into the kitchen to make himself
a cup of tea. Old snapper. He’d fix her later. Teach her to stick her nose over the
fence. “Sarah! Want some morning tea?”
“No thanks Dad,” came the voice from the front room.
“Please yourself. I’m making a fresh pot.”
No answer. Must be reading. The only time she was ever quiet as a child.
Stick her nose in a comic or a book and she was no trouble. Otherwise she never let
up. Question after question. Story after story. Her mother said she loved her
company but sometimes her endless chatter got him down. He liked silence. Having
a good yarn at a bar, now that was different. But out there, in his garden in the sun
and the wind, the chooks chortling, the birds tweeting, his fingers in the fresh damp
earth. Nothing better.
Sarah could hear him pottering around in the kitchen, chatting to himself. He
used to be such a silent man. Perhaps that’s what happens to you if you live alone
long enough. She was sure he had no idea that he constantly talked to himself.
She was feeling as flat as the plains on which the city was founded and didn’t
want to inflict it on him. He never failed to notice what she was really feeling, no
matter how cheerful her behaviour. She was becoming very anxious now about how
long she could continue to stay here with him. It was over three months since she had
arrived. She missed New York with a physical ache. It had taken her so long to get
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there and now here she was, in her prime like Miss Brodie, wasting time in her old
hometown. Drowning, hour by hour, in its stillness; its stubborn silence. Her father
did seem to have improved a little since she’d been looking after him. Even her aunts
had said so. But where did she go from here? His little ischemic strokes continued to
slow him down. In all conscience she couldn’t just leave him here to trip over and
break a leg or leave the stove on and burn the house down but every time she even
mentioned a retirement village where he would be well cared for, he clammed up.
“Absolutely and totally out of the question!” was all he ever said. Discussion closed.
He made such statements so rarely, that when he did it was like the steel clanging of a
bank vault locking.
How long would they keep her job open for her? Nothing in the media ever
remained constant, especially in New York. And here she was wasting her precious
time reading and worrying about a petty government, a small-time developer and a
tiny bridge. A storm literally in a teacup. She stood up and paced from one end of the
small bedroom to another. And back again. This is what she used to do when she
was eighteen and felt that she was destined to be trapped forever in this place, while
the world, the real world of politics and power and art and literature, continued on its
adventurous and dramatic way, without her.
She recognised this coiled panic inside her, recognised its latent power to sap
all her energy, like poison from a snakebite. Fighting the urge to take to her bed and
bury herself under the cool white sheets and soft furry blankets, she strode down the
hall calling out “Dad, Dad, where are you?” When she reached the kitchen he was
sitting calmly at the blue and white Formica table with its matching steel chairs,
reading the paper.
“Oh there you are.”
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He didn’t look up.
“What are you doing?
“What every person of my age does, I’m reading the daily death notices.”
“How gruesome.”
“Not at all. It’s the only way you know how to cull your Christmas card list.”
“You’ve never sent a Christmas card in your life.”
Now he looked up, pale blue eyes twinkling. “That’s true my dear. But if, at
any time, the inclination overcame me, I wouldn’t make any embarrassing slips.”
“It’s not as if you even go to the funerals of your old friends.”
“Too depressing. Only have cups of tea and biscuits afterwards. Now if they
turned on the booze and a decent wake I might consider it.”
Sarah stood in the middle of the kitchen linoleum, blue of course to match the
table, her hands on her hips. “You’re incorrigible.”
“No doubt I am. Whatever that means.”
“Let’s go to the pub, for lunch.”
“I’ll get my hat and change into my fancy new shoes.”
Whenever he whistled, tuneless and monotonous, Sarah knew he was happy.
“Hope Charlie’s there today,” Jack said, holding onto Sarah’s arm as if to
guide her across the busy road, but actually hanging on for support.
“Now we’re not going to get into a big drinking session.”
“Did I say that?”
“No, but.” Sarah hauled him up the steep step of the cement footpath, while a
tram clanged its bell and the inner rim of its wheels squealed to a stop on the rails
worn smooth and shiny with age. Sarah paused in the doorway of the bar, took one
whiff of the stale beer and said, “Let’s go into the main restaurant.”
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“Don’t be silly. Far too expensive. Same tucker here.”
Jack leant through the doorway, his eyes swivelling in his head.
“Come on Dad. He’s not here. It’s very smoky and it stinks of beer.”
“You used to smoke, you sound like one of your mother’s sisters.”
He knew that would always stop her in her tracks.
“Okay. You win. We’ll eat here!”
“Good,” he said and shuffled towards the nearest table, sitting down heavily.
Sarah walked straight to the bar to get him a beer. Jack’s bright smile slowly
faded when after Sarah had sat down and he was licking the first taste of froth from
his top lip, having scoured the bar with his eyes, he realised that Charlie was nowhere
to be seen.
“What are you going to have to eat?” Sarah was trying to be cheerful.
“Not really very hungry.”
“Dad, if you’re going to drink, you have to have something substantial to eat.
What about a steak?”
“Too tough. Too hard to chew.”
“Spaghetti Bolognese then?”
“Too messy. Had to take all my clothes to be dry-cleaned after the last time,
remember.”
“Roast lamb?”
“Too fatty.”
“Crumbed goat?”
“What?”
“Well are you going to say no to everything? What are we doing here, if
you’re not going to eat lunch?”
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“It’s just good to have an outing. You won’t let me drive the car any more.”
“We can go out any time you like. You only have to ask.”
“I hate asking you to go out, like a school child. I’ve always come and gone
as I’ve pleased. Always been my own man.”
As the fug in the bar began to swirl inside her head, she became fixated on the
elaborate pattern in the carpet. Pubs always had these busy patterns, probably because
the stains wouldn’t show. But they were so ugly. Looked as if someone had vomited
out the colours. Probably had. That would be the next new thing in contemporary art,
rather than spray painting a canvas; someone would just go for the big technicolour
yawn on it. Pizza revisited. This is the artist’s bulimic period.
“Charlie! Charlie!”
Her father was attempting to stand up.
“Charlie my boy.
Over here!
Charlie!”
“Dad, stop shouting.”
“Well he mightn’t be able to hear me over that damned jukebox.”
Charlie had seen him, however, and was weaving his way through the tables
and the tattooed arms of the pool players. Sarah wished Charlie didn’t have that ugly
rose tattoo on his arm. Made him look so…go on, say it, you sound like your
mother…so tough…that’s not really the word you were going to say was it…you
were going to say “so common.” But you’re too politically correct to think it, let
alone hear yourself say it.
“Hello you two. Great to see you.”
He was standing at their table now, at least six foot three inches of him. Fresh
white tee-shirt, blue jeans, sneakers, tanned face and arms and yes, the tattoo of a
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rose, nestling there amongst the hairs on his arm, shining golden in the sunlight
bursting through the stained glass window behind him.
“Sit down, my boy. Have a beer. Sarah, get Charlie a beer.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your lunch.”
“You’re not interrupting. We haven’t even ordered yet. Join us. Sarah’s
paying.” He winked at Charlie, his good spirits having returned.
“You’re very welcome to join us,” said Sarah, with more graciousness than
she felt. Now there would be a struggle to get her father to leave, he’d want to stay
and chat and drink and tell war stories. Oh please dear God, not the brothels of
Benghazi again. How did her mother ever put up with it? The same old stories, day
after day, year after year.
“Well, if you really don’t mind.”
“Of course, she doesn’t!” said Jack, pulling out a chair. “Now what have you
been up to, mate?”
As Sarah stood waiting to buy a round of drinks she thought she might burst
into tears. The urge to just lie her cheek down on the damp bar towel, where the
overflowing beer had told its soggy tale, was almost overwhelming. Just add her salty
tears to the bitter beer. What was wrong with her today? Was she pre-menstrual?
How could she keep track with all the hormones that were leap-frogging over each
other since she came home? She wasn’t pregnant, she knew that much.
She had been fighting this feeling all morning and she certainly couldn’t give
into it here in the sleazy front bar of the Grand Hotel.
“Make that a double gin and tonic,” she called out to the barman. Better to
drown it, than let it drown her.
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Jack hardly touched his steak, which wasn’t as tough as he claimed; it was just
that he’d rather talk than eat. Charlie tucked into his schnitzel while Sarah played
with her spaghetti. On and on and on, went the war stories. Jack was really enjoying
himself, he was never this animated at home. Sarah laughed on cue and tried to look
as if she was having a great time. Charlie was warm and attentive to Jack, asking
questions, roaring with laughter at his punch lines and carefully guiding him to the
toilet when he needed to go, which at the rate he was downing the beer, was often.
He was so gentle with him.
“Look, no splashes,” announced Jack, pointing to the front of his trousers.
“I can see that Dad, sit down carefully.”
“Charlie has shown me a new technique so you don’t get it on your pants.
When a man gets old it’s sometimes hard to.”
“I really don’t want to know the details.” Sarah was whispering fiercely under
her breath.
“Nothing crude about it. Fact of life. Isn’t that right Charlie?”
His eyes were bloodshot and he was starting to sway in his chair.
“Listen Jack, I have to go to an appointment.”
“Oh no, don’t go. We were just getting to know you better. Weren’t we
Polly?”
Sarah stood up, quick to grasp the opportunity to leave.
“Charlie if you could help me get Dad to the car again, I’d be very grateful.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“Come on, old boy,” said Charlie, putting his arm under Jack’s elbow and
lifting him effortlessly to his feet. “I have to go that way anyhow.”
“Which way?” bantered Jack.
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“Your way,” said Charlie, winking at Sarah.
“I saw that Charlie. You were winking at my daughter. She’s not bad looking
is she? A bit heavy around the behind area but.”
Sarah said sternly, “Dad. Enough. Now let’s get your legs moving.”
With that, Jack’s legs seemed to fold underneath him and he flopped
backwards into the chair.
“Oopsie, daisy.”
Observing Sarah’s distress, Charlie half-carried Jack to the door and propped
him up while she retrieved the car.
“Do you want me to come home with you to help at the other end?” he asked
when she wound down the window to give Jack a bit of fresh air.
“Yeah … come home … plenty of beer in the fridge … Sarah will cook us
some eggs won’t ya darling.”
“We’ll be fine. Thanks Charlie,” said Sarah, smiling her thanks and clicking
shut the seatbelt on her father.
“Belt-up! That’s what she says to me all the time. Belt-up, Dad.”
Jack laughed at his joke.
“See you soon mate,” said Charlie, patting Jack affectionately on the shoulder.
“See you too Sarah. And thank you for lunch.”
“Thank you Charlie. Dad’s had a great time.”
As she was pulling out of the curb, she checked in her rear-vision mirror to see
if the way was clear, she suspected she could almost be over the limit and didn’t want
an accident, when she saw a familiar figure waiting to cross the road. She leaned
towards the mirror and stared hard. Was that … surely not …what was she doing
down here?
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Once free of the curb, she pulled a quick U-turn in order to get a better look at
the woman in beige coming out of the old hotel. She had her head down and was
walking as fast as she could. When Sarah cruised past, she realised her first glimpse
had been right. It was definitely Penny. And she had clearly come out of the Grand
Hotel. Hardly her patch, this bit of seedy seaside. Hardly her style of hotel. She was
definitely a five star woman. Filing the information away for a later date she
pretended to listen to her father who was prattling away to himself.
“That Charlie’s a good bloke. Now you couldn’t do better than him. He’s
clean, he’s polite, he’s got a good sense of humour. Never mentions a wife.”
“Bound to have one, tucked away in a little house in the suburbs.”
“He lives in a small flat. Told me in the toilet.”
“That doesn’t mean he lives alone.”
“He likes you. Told me that too.”
Sarah pulled over to the left to avoid the tram that was swaying as if in a
dramatic imitation of her father’s journey to the hotel door. People passed by them
framed like portraits inside the varnished honeyed panels that surrounded the tram’s
glass windows. The driver rang the bell.
“Gotta watch out for those trams. Your grandfather and I nearly got skittled
by one once.”
“Had you by any chance been to the pub?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I think we had.” And then he yawned, widely and
loudly.
Sarah wanted to get him home, out of the car and safely into his favourite
chair before he fell asleep. She had an article to finish and did not want to miss her
deadline. God forbid that the locals should think she was slack. Or worse still,
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uninterested. How had she entangled herself in this petty bridge affair? The hardest
part was writing about it as if she cared. The last thing she wanted was to become
embroiled in local politics, petty hatreds and ancient grudges. She knew from her
years growing up here, the smaller the pond, the more vicious the frogs.
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20.
Penny pressed the button that automatically locked all the doors in the car. She was
shaking. She wished she still smoked. She wished she had a hip flask of brandy in the
glove box. She stared at her manicured, laminated nails gripping the upholstered
wheel of the Jaguar. They were definitely her nails. Unscratched. They were her
hands. Unmarked. She moved the rear-vision mirror and looked at herself. Blonde
hair neatly combed, mascara unsmudged, lipstick fresh. Eyebrows plucked. Brown
eyes expressionless. It was her alright. Good old Pen. Sound as a bell. Solid as a
brick. Pillar of the community. Ex-social worker, wife of former vet and successful
developer Hugh Reynolds, step-mother to James, 18 and Jessica 20, chairperson of
the Children’s Hospital Association, Vice-President of the Burnside Bridge Club,
deputy chair of the fundraising committee for the disabled, secretary of the breast
cancer association, committee member of the old scholars association of Welford
Girls School.
What had she just done? Could she blame it on an early menopause? What if
someone found out? Leaked it to the press. It would ruin everything. Was she mad?
Perhaps she was having her mid-life crisis and didn’t know it.
She peered through the tinted windscreen as if looking for someone who might
be looking for her. A couple of old drunks were curled up asleep on the bench
clutching their brown paper bags. Could be private detectives in disguise. Have
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video recorders instead of bottles in the bag. One of them looked like he was wearing
a false beard. Those journalists would do anything to get the dirt on someone.
Perhaps Stephanie was trying to trap him. Her hands began to sweat and slip on the
wheel. What had she done? Twenty years of faithful married life thrown away in one
sordid afternoon in a tatty room in a run-down seaside hotel. Gone, all gone. .
How could she have been so stupid? It wasn’t as if the sex was all that
wonderful. Pathetic, really. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Even Hugh was better
than that when he’d had nothing to drink. Poor Hugh. He’ll be so crushed. So
devastated. First a dead wife and now a slut wife. A slut. That’s what she was. Easy
pickings—another notch on the belt. And for what? What on earth did she think she
was doing, agreeing to meet him in a hotel room? Well it was a suite. A very tired
suite but it had a couch, two chairs and a coffee table. Nevertheless, she didn’t have
to end up on the bed with her skirt around her waist. She shuddered, despite the
warmth in the car.
Oh God. It’s all so cheap and tawdry. If she was going to be unfaithful, why
not in the Presidential suite in the Hyatt? At least then if she was found out, people
would think she had some taste, some style. But the old seaside Grand. She shuddered
with embarrassment. And guilt. She hadn’t even protested when he put his hand
inside her thigh. She didn’t even try to stop it moving up to her crotch. Why didn’t
she? What was she thinking? She wasn’t thinking. She just let him slide her satin
panties down to her ankles. Who was she kidding, she purposely chose the flesh
coloured satin to wear this morning. Secretly, she was hoping. For what? An
afternoon of abandoned passion? It was hardly ever going to be that. He’d made it
quite clear that she was to arrive at three and that he had to leave at three thirty. And
he did. On the dot. She, of course, tidied herself up and left ten minutes later.
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She’d watched him from the bed, in the mirror. He’d washed his hands.
Scrubbed them meticulously, like a surgeon. He’d carefully combed and patted his
hair. Checked his face and teeth closely in the mirror. Cupped his breath in his hand.
Put on his jacket, straightened his tie, adjusted his belt, checked his fly, turned,
walked towards her, kissed her hand and said “Be in touch.”
The soft click of the door closing behind him. Silence. And her lying there,
on the bed; dazed, dizzy. Vacant.
She smelt her hands. No trace of anything but the cheap scented soap in the
bathroom. Hurry home, quick shower, change of clothes and shop for dinner. Yes
that’s it. Then everything will be back to normal. Normal. Why did even the word
sound threatening?
The beige vintage Jaguar slipped slowly into the desultory stream of afternoon
traffic. The woman in the dark glasses behind the wheel patted her hair in an
involuntary motion, moistened her lips and tried to force them into the shape of a
smile.
The next morning she was almost scared to answer the phone in case it was
him. She felt humiliated even talking to him and didn’t know why. He had seemed
very pleased with himself and with her and what harm had it done after all? She had
to answer the phone as she was the only one home. It was too late to let the
answering machine take it. What if it was urgent? She really did have to pull herself
together.
“Hello. Penny speaking,” she said. Mock confidence.
“Pen, thank God you’re home. It’s Sarah.”
“Hello Sarah. Read your article today.”
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She hadn’t but she had noticed the by-line.
“Good, that’s why I’m ringing. I tried to get Hugh but his secretary says he’s
not to be disturbed, she sounded rather strange actually, is everything all right?”
Penny forced out a false laugh.
“Oh Mrs Barker has been with Hugh for twenty years. She does tend to be
over-protective and somewhat brusque.”
“She’s certainly that, but look perhaps you can tell me. Did Hugh consult with
the indigenous leaders before he went ahead with the bridge, and if so, who were
they? Do you know their names?”
“I’m sure he followed all the correct procedures. Why? Is there a problem?”
“There could be, that’s why I need to know before midday. Ryan’s not been
entirely truthful.”
The mere mention of his name made Penny catch her breath.
“Pen. You still there?”
“Yes. Something in my throat.”
She pretended to cough then paused and said, “I’ll try and contact Hugh and
get you an answer.” More coughing gave her time to think.
“Better let you get a glass of water. Thanks Pen. Can you let me know as soon
as possible? It’s important.”
As soon as she put down the phone, Penny took ten deep breaths. In and out.
In and out. She counted them, slowly, placing her hands on her heaving breasts. She
picked up the phone.
“Mrs B. Hello. How are you feeling today? Hugh said your bunions have
been aching? Oh good. Yes I’ve heard that’s very good. Yes…Is Hugh in? He’s
not…Most unlike him I agree…Oh well, perhaps he just needs a walk in the sunshine
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to clear his head. Yes, he has been under a lot of pressure…would you…thank you so
much Mrs B. ‘Bye now.”
Where would Hugh have gone without telling Mrs B? He tells her everything.
What if he’s found out about her little afternoon jaunt? She put her head in her hands.
Don’t be so stupid. How could he—Patrick would never tell? Perhaps they’d been
seen? So what? They’d agreed that they’d say they were discussing tactics for
dealing with the bridge protests. How could she have been so foolish? Even when
she was knocking gingerly on that door in that murky corridor she knew she was
going to regret it. Oh God. She was so stupid. So damned stupid. Why did she do
it? Was she so desperate for sex? No, she wasn’t really all that mad about it if she
was truthful. It certainly wasn’t love. Was she just flattered by the attention of an
attractive man? Surely she wasn’t so silly. She’d never been easily flattered. She was
so sensible, that’s what everyone had always said about her.
“Penny is soooo
sensible.” How could she have done this to Hugh? And why now, when everything
they had worked for was falling into place? He wasn’t an exciting man but he was
kind. Yes he was always so kind to her. And kindness is a greatly underrated quality.
Penny walked slowly to the ensuite, ripped off her gown and refusing to look
at her naked body in the mirror, stood directly under the shower and turned both taps
on full.
As the warm water pounded against her body, for the first time in many years,
she wept. Aloud. She threw back her head and howled, the tears merging with the
hot water sluicing off her cheeks. So absorbed was she with her own outburst and its
dramatic effect that she didn’t hear the phone ringing.
Hugh slammed down the receiver. Why didn’t she answer, she told Mrs B, she
would be at home and had said it was urgent.
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21.
After he had been for his forty minute run in the nearby parklands, Patrick Ryan liked
to shower, shave, put on his silk dressing gown and sit in the kitchen eating his muesli
and fruit and read the papers. Alone. Stephanie played Bridge or read late into the
night and liked to sleep in. They had separate bedrooms, ostensibly for this reason.
All early morning calls were diverted to Kelly who only interrupted his morning ritual
if the matter was urgent.
He was not pleased when having only just begun his breakfast the phone rang.
“Yes Kelly,” he snapped.
“Sorry to interrupt Minister, but have you read this morning’s paper?”
“I was just about to.”
”Sorry about that, but the page three article in The Nation titled “Rainbow
Coalition,” by Sarah Wood, is the one that’s stirring up the press.”
“What’s she got to say?”
“I think you had better read it for yourself. She’s clever this one. She’s from
New York.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. What else?”
“I’ve kept the radio people on hold but you will probably have to make some
response before the morning is over.”
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“Right. No interruptions for the next thirty minutes.”
He poured himself another strong black coffee, found the offending
article, and settled down to munch his way through the muesli and Ms Wood’s
national article, headed,
“RAINBOW COALITION” He read it aloud to himself in order not to miss a
word.
If the Minister for Economic Development, Patrick Ryan, thinks that his
troubles regarding the building of a bridge from the mainland to Heritage Island are
over, he is mistaken. Despite the swaggering confidence of his recent television
performances he must be aware of the coalition of protesters that is swelling its ranks
daily in order to stop the bridge. Eight hundred people crushed into the local
Centenary Hall two nights ago to hear an impressive array of speakers assure their
audience that it was not too late to save the bridge. Of course the expected members
of the Opposition parties were there, together with the Vice-President of the
Conservation Council, Dr Andrew Coleman. Their unified and constant rallying call
was “Never say die, it’s never too late.” The Friends of Heritage Island emphasised
the destruction that the bridge will cause to the natural and historic character of the
Ducks Harbour waterfront.
“Humph,” grunted the Minister, “destroy their views more likely.”
He skipped through the traditional listing of anti-bridge supporters, dismissing
them one by one. “Retirees—nothing better to do. Grey Power—last gasp of the
discontented. Greenpeace—media ass lickers. Environmentalists—more worried
about bloody native birds than the unemployed. Unionists—left over commies.
Academics—a joke.”
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But the paragraph that caused him to pause and take a deep breath was the one
that recounted what two leaders of the Indigenous People had said.
Redland and Tonkin, both highly respected leaders in their indigenous tribes,
claimed that there had been no consultation with their people over the bridge. Tonkin
spoke passionately of his love of the land and told the audience how he had spent the
past ten years of his life teaching people how to care for it and understand its tribal
significance.
“It blows your mind to think that people could actually want to do this.
Developers just don’t care what they destroy.
We have heard that already the
developers were carting away truckloads of Aboriginal bones. These are our burial
grounds going back twenty thousand years.”
Redland recounted a rumour he had heard that this bridge was merely the first
stage of a scheme that would eventually result in cars driving across the island and the
entire lakes region on a series of bridges going through the wetlands to link up with
the main highway. The P.R. representative of the Friends, John Burrows was the real
catalyst for change, however, when he asked a pivotal question of Redland.
“Did they know whether the areas that would be used to build the bridge had
any particular significance to their people?”
Redland answered that as far as knew it did have and that they would be
meeting with their people very soon to discuss this. This is the first mention of
indigenous claims to special areas of cultural and historic significance and potentially
the biggest threat to the bridge. The Minister would be foolish not to address these
issues now.
He slapped the paper down and reached for the phone.
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“Kelly! Get me on the top rating radio program now. And then call a press
conference for midday.”
“Shouldn’t we discuss this first? You sound very emotional Minister.”
“Emotional! Yes Kelly, I am fucking emotional. Now get me on the fucking
radio.”
“Yes Minister.”
He pulled the cord of his white towelling bathrobe tighter around his waist,
pulled in his stomach and paced the room until the phone rang.
“Patrick Ryan! Yes I’m ready to speak now. Right. Yes good morning
Kevin…Yes I am very perturbed at the article in the Nation by Sarah Wood that states
that neither I, nor the developer Hugh Reynolds, had the consent of the Indigenous
People before we decided to build the bridge to Heritage Island.
I have
documentation that proves that Reynolds and his people met with Indigenous leaders
twice and that they had agreed to the bridge going ahead. Moreover, Ms Wood should
check her facts before regurgitating dangerous lies. As for truckloads of bones being
carted away from the island — another lie.
Four years ago, some remains of
indigenous people had become exposed due to the natural erosion of riverfront cliffface.
The site was stabilised, the bones reburied and the cliff revegetated in
accordance with directions from the government’s Indigenous People’s Heritage
Branch. The cliff area was purposely left as a reserve in the marina plans in order that
there be no more disturbance. These are the facts, not the rumours spread by Ms
Wood. I’m sorry Kevin. I have no more time now but I will be holding a press
conference at Parliament House at midday to answer any more questions. Thank
you.”
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He dialled Kelly. “I’ll be in my office in thirty minutes. Do not, I repeat do
not, speak to anyone until I get there.”
By midday, the autumn sun was beaming down on Parliament House. Not in
that milky, uncertain manner normally associated with out-of-season warmth, but with
a robust, eye-creasing burst.
The Minister removed his sunglasses and tried not to scowl. His shoes were
shiny, his white, French cuffs extended exactly one inch from the sleeves of his suit,
mint-fresh from the Cleaners. His smile, however, was stale and forced, thought
Sarah, who stood at the back of the pack of journalists and sound camera operators.
They were all there. On time. Waiting.
The Minister cleared his throat. “Good to see you all here. And on time. Slow
news day is it?”
What was intended as a joke, however lame, sounded like a snarl. No tittering,
even from the most obsequious. Kelly, standing behind and a little to the right of him,
stared at her own shoes which could have done with some of the Minister’s polish.
The Minister cleared his throat again. For dramatic effect.
“As I said in my interview on morning radio, the facts are that Hugh Reynolds
did consult with indigenous leaders before commencing his bridge project. Anyone
who doubts that can take a copy of the report from Kelly at the end of the Press
Conference. You will also find the facts, not the lies, concerning the disturbance of
burial sites and I can assure you that the Government has absolutely no plans, no
plants whatsoever, to build any bridge other than this one linking the mainland to
Heritage Island. Any questions?”
Silence. He should have left it there but he couldn’t resist putting Sarah
Wood in her rightful place.
141
“And I would suggest Ms Wood”
Sarah could feel the heat and the lights of the cameras suddenly swing
directly onto her face. She tried not to blink.
“… that before you write your next column you check your facts first. I
understand that you live in New York and I suggest that before you “swagger” back
here and start your big city New York tactics on affairs in this city you do some
detailed research.
If you had bothered to do this and matched it with some local knowledge you
would have realised that the people who have been feeding you these distortions of
the truth are the same people who were responsible for destroying the last Marina
project.
These people are anti-development, they are professional knockers and
poisonous protesters who care nothing for those who are trying to create jobs in this
city for the unemployed.”
Sarah noticed that when he became emotional, little flecks of spit flew out
from the corners of his mouth. She was glad she was not in the front row.
The cameras were still rolling. The lights were still on her. She couldn’t just
stand there like a schoolgirl who had just been dressed down by the Headmaster.
“Thank you Minister for your helpful advice. I’ll be sure to pass it on to my
colleagues in New York.”
Now there was tittering. Suppressed. But definitely tittering.
The Minister swung on his heels, pounded up the stone steps and disappeared
through the door. Kelly was not far behind.
“Good one Sarah,” said Tom who was suddenly at her elbow. “Smug asshole.”
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The other journalists, while amused at the Minister’s discomfort, were in no
mood to congratulate Sarah. They didn’t like being referred to as the locals. Their
editors would not be pleased that the national paper would get top billing in all the
news services. And who was this middle-aged woman anyhow, muscling in on their
territory? If she was so good, why wasn’t she still working in New York?
Shane Trott left without saying a word. Maria, however, her long black hair
piled as high on her head as the heels she somehow managed to negotiate, flashed her
most charming, red-lipped smile and said “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” said Sarah, not without reserve.
“We must talk sometime about New York. I’d love to work there.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll ring you. We’ll do lunch.” And she tottered off across the street.
Becky Swift, who had been observing this exchange, roared with laughter.
Imitating the tone and mock American accent of Maria she grasped Sarah’s hand. “Hi
there Sarah. I’m Becky. Let’s forget lunch and just do cocktails.”
Sarah felt the warmth and strength of her hand and looked into wicked green
eyes. Why were green eyes always wicked? These had little brown speckles in them,
framed by long black lashes. It was a strong rather than a pretty face that was grinning
at her. Releasing her hand Sarah replied in her own imitation of an upper East-side
New York accent “I’ll be far too busy researching local knowledge. I’ll pass on the
cocktails.”
Becky aimed those green sparklers at her again and said in her own husky
voice. “I know a very dark sleazy bar where no-one will recognise you.”
“Sounds great,” said Sarah, somewhat bemused “Can I take a raincheck?”
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“Any time,” said Becky, striding off in her black boots, her black coat, her
black slacks, her purple scarf flying behind her like a banner.
“She’s the only decent journo out of the lot,” said Tom. “She’s wasted on
television news. Tried to get her to join our paper but these young things, they love
the glamour of the cameras.”
“She’ll tire of it.”
“Or they’ll tire of her. She’s known to be a bit of a fire-ball that one.”
“Yes I can imagine. Hasn’t got those green eyes for nothing. Well I’d better
get back home and dig up some more facts to really drive Minister Ryan mad.”
“Ring me if you need any ‘local’ knowledge.” Schoolboy snort.
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22.
Tennis, every other Wednesday morning, continued throughout autumn as long as the
day was fine. In winter the grass court became too sodden to mow and Penny used
the extra time to fund-raise for the dinners and charity balls on whose committees she
dutifully sat. All of the women with whom she worked had been to her exclusive
girls’ school or one almost identical.
They had all married local men in the
professional classes and sent their children to the same schools they had attended.
Some of the women had returned to part-time work in the caring professions they had
worked in before they had married, some helped out in their husbands’ offices or
surgeries and others were content to just keep the home fires burning as their mothers
had done.
Penny had known most of them since she was five, she knew their
strengths and weaknesses, their petty vanities and their parochial dreams and she
accepted them all. After all, that’s what you did, with schoolmates.
Hugh’s recent elevation to big-scale developments, however, did place them a
notch or two above the rest in terms of wealth or at least potential wealth. Penny did
not think that this made them in any way superior to their friends, simply more
enterprising. She knew that many of them thought she had made a poor choice of
husband the first time round and was lucky to catch Hugh on the rebound. They
talked about Jessica and James as if they were hers but always called them her
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stepchildren, thereby underlining the fact that she hadn’t given birth to any of her
own.
Well-versed in their rivalries, Penny never let herself retaliate,
believing that this would reduce her to their level. Her mother had always taught her
to “rise above” such pettiness and she prided herself on her ability to do so.
It was only during the second set that Judith Wilson, wife of Mark Wilson,
chartered accountant, who was serving badly, said “I’m having as much trouble
getting these balls over the net as your husband is getting that bridge built.”
She would claim, if challenged, that it was a throwaway line, but Penny knew,
even though she smiled back at her, that it was not an innocent remark. Normally
they never discussed their husbands’ business problems, preferring instead to swap
recipes or complain about the various tradesmen who constantly let them down.
Those who were sitting on the sidelines under the umbrellas laughed aloud after
Judith’s remark, which meant that they had all been discussing it.
When Penny and her partner had won the set, six games to two, and had
retired to the canvas chairs to drink home-made lemonade, Penny decided against her
better judgement to challenge Judith.
“What do you know about the bridge that I don’t?” she said, she hoped
casually.
“Oh nothing, I’m sure.
But I was playing bridge with Stephanie Ryan
yesterday and she said that the Minister was getting sick of the hold-ups.”
“Surely she wasn’t implying they were Hugh’s fault.”
“Well no, not exactly, but she did say that all the consultation with the
indigenous people had clearly not been thorough enough or you still wouldn’t be
having these problems.”
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“I can assure you, Judith, that Hugh spent months and months consulting with
them. It’s those other protest groups who are now stirring them up.”
Her tone was becoming shrill, which clearly made the rest of the
women uncomfortable.
“No more politics girls. It’s far too boring. Have some more lemonade,” said
Rosemary Thumble, wife of Dr Peter Thumble, orthopaedic surgeon, bearing down on
Penny with a crystal jug. Judith immediately changed the topic of conversation to a
new recipe for barbecued lamb, with rosemary and garlic.
Penny sipped her
lemonade and quietly fumed. Had Patrick been complaining about Hugh to Stephanie
or was Stephanie engaging in her usual deflection of blame away from her husband?
How dare she discuss this over a bridge table with the biggest gossip in town? This
was deliberate, knowing Stephanie, who was not one of the city’s best bridge players
for nothing. Every move she ever made was calmly worked out and calculated.
Penny wondered if Patrick even knew what his wife was saying about the Bridge.
From the odd remark he had made, she had assumed that they rarely engaged in
casual conversation, let alone a discussion of political tactics. Patrick had told her
how fortunate Hugh was to have a wife who understood such matters and with whom
he could discuss his strategies. Had he been lying to her? Or worse, still engaging in
cheap flattery? She was on shaky ground with men like Patrick Ryan who had come
from a totally different social background. She knew nothing about the Catholic
working class. Perhaps Stephanie was jealous that he had been spending time alone
with Hugh and herself? Perhaps he had remarked upon the elegance of her dinners to
Stephanie? Surely she didn’t suspect that there might be something more between
them than a business relationship? She had always been a very jealous girl at school.
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Penny remembered when Stephanie had talked her best friend, Jenny, into
letting her cut off her plaits. Stephanie’s hair was woefully thin and her plaits had
hung like dead rats down her back. Jenny’s on the other hand, were fat and shiny and
much admired.
All the girls were shocked when one Monday, both Jenny and
Stephanie arrived at school with short, badly cropped hair. Jenny had explained that
Stephanie had convinced her that plaits were far too old-fashioned and so they had cut
each other’s hair. Stephanie was so plain that the short hair made no difference.
Jenny’s pretty face was no longer framed by thick golden braids but resembled a
badly stacked bale of wheat.
Funny how these things stuck in your mind, thought Penny, but she suspected
that Stephanie’s jealousy had only increased over the years, especially in relation to
her good-looking husband. She’d kill Penny socially if she knew what she and her
husband had been doing in a hotel room with the sound of the waves in their ears.
Even the ice cubes in the lemonade weren’t enough to stop the flush that suddenly
burst through Penny’s body, leaving its telltale map on her neck.
“Looking a bit hot there, old girl,” said Helen Crossman, wife of Geoffrey
Crossman, solicitor and barrister at law.
“It’s amazing how much strength this
autumn sun still has in it.”
“Glorious days we are having. Simply glorious. We are so lucky to be living
in this city with its temperate climate aren’t we? I mean we never experience snow
and even in the middle of winter we still get the occasional burst of sunshine. But
autumn is my absolutely favourite season’ chimed in Jennifer Hayes-Sullivan, one of
the white goods Hayes-Sullivans.
“Do you know that Peter and I were still able to have lunch on the deck of the
boat for most of last winter,” said Rosemary, inserting herself into the conversation.
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One by one, they gloried in their good fortune at living in a part of the world
where even the weather was never extreme. Moderate was their favourite word.
Penny decided she was tired of their endless conversations about the
weather and their enviable lives and even though she knew they would undoubtedly
talk about her if she left early, she declined to play another set and excused herself,
mumbling about an appointment with the dentist.
“Touched a sore point there, my dear,” said Helen to Judith, when they heard
Penny’s car drive off down the street. “And I’m not referring to her teeth.”
“Well Stephanie was very firm about the fact that they never should have let
the government get involved until they had sorted out all this indigenous business,”
said Judith, eager to share her knowledge.
“Exactly,” said Rosemary, “I mean, after all, it’s our money, taxpayer’s
money, that is being used to prop up their marina development.”
Linda Sutton, wife of George Sutton of Sutton and Associates, Architects and
Planners, usually quiet and unassuming, suddenly burst forth “George says it’s a
scandal. He knows the planners who were engaged to do the development and they
told him that Hugh Reynolds has bitten off more than he can chew this time and that
if Minister Ryan hadn’t come to the party, Hugh would have been in big trouble with
the bank. And I mean Big Trouble.”
The group of women were silenced not just by Linda’s unaccustomed outburst
but also by the thought of financial ruin for the Reynolds. Wherever a tightly knit
group of people have gathered together for social purposes for more than twenty
years, schadenfreude is never far away.
Penny dialled the private number that Patrick had given her after their last
encounter.
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“Yes,” barked the voice.
“Oh Patrick, it’s Penny.”
“Yes,” not so much a bark as a purr.
“I wonder if we could meet, I have some important information to give you.”
She was careful with her choice of words, as Patrick had said you never knew
who was listening in.
“Certainly. This afternoon?”
“Er, yes. I think I can rearrange something.”
She had a meeting with the Children’s Hospital Fundraising group but as she
was the Chair she could always cancel on the grounds that something had come up. A
picture of the Minister’s erect penis flashed into her mind.
“Same time, same place.”
“Yes.” She almost choked on the words, struggling to think of something else,
anything else, but the image persisted.
“Right. See you there.”
And he hung up in her ear.
“Yes. See you there, indeed. Four no trumps to you Deirdre Ryan.”
Patrick was on time. At five minutes past three, Penny knocked on the same
door in the same hotel, wearing the same Jackie O sunglasses. He opened it quietly
and led her towards the bed where he had already poured two glasses of champagne
from the bottle of Moet that stood in the ice bucket on the wooden side table.
“Lovely to see you again,” clinking her glass with his and staring hard into her
eyes.
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Everything about him was neat, clean and efficient, including his love-making,
Penny decided, as she watched him from the bed tuck the tails of his long white shirt
into his neatly pressed suit trousers. Not a crease in sight.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?” he asked, his eyes still blue but no
longer shining.
“Oh, er, there was gossip at the tennis group that your wife was blaming Hugh
for the problems with the bridge.
He stopped what he was doing. And stared at her, his eyes fish-dead. “I never
discuss my wife. With anyone.” And then he turned towards the dressing table
mirror where he checked his teeth, combed his hair and smoothed his eyebrows.
“Anything else?”
She felt small and foolish. Totally foolish. And humiliated. What was she
doing here in these sordid surroundings, being put down by this man she hardly
knew?
“It’s just that if those women at tennis are gossiping openly it must be fairly
widespread and that kind of loose talk can be very detrimental to the government,”
she babbled.
“I can hardly be worried by what a few society dames are saying. Surely!”
He snorted, put on his suit coat, did up the front buttons, looked at his watch
and said “However, I would like to find out what that mad Georgina Staunton is up
to? Can you have a gossip with her perhaps? She’s no doubt feeding Sarah Wood all
that misinformation.”
His tone was mocking, his intention serious.
“I can try. We did all go to Uni together.”
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“Of course you did. All you girls did something together… Sorry, I have an
appointment. Ring me when you have some information.”
Kissing her lightly on the cheek, he was gone, the door clicking quietly behind
him. Penny buried her head in the pillow and wept. This time they were tears of rage.
She thumped the pillow next to her head where his head had rested. She thumped it
hard, again and again, until she had no more strength left in her clenched fists. Lying
there, exhausted and limp she felt better and suddenly realised that these days, she
was angry most of the time. The anger was always there, simmering, like a pot of
water ready to boil over. And the worst part was that she didn’t even know why.
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23.
Sarah was standing next to Georgie, grateful to be outside the rattletrap car that she
had insisted on driving to the Island. Risking death at every turn of the winding road,
they had finally made it safely onto the ferry that was crawling across the small
expanse of water dividing the mainland from the clump of land in front of them.
Sarah breathed in and out. Slowly. Deeply. She felt as if she couldn’t inhale enough
air to return her to the state of calm neutrality that she had so carefully created. Her
heart was beating with the kind of expectation that used to accompany her discovery
of a big story and she did not want to become lost to that feeling. She clung like the
shipwrecked to the forlorn belief that soon she would be rescued and allowed to return
to her former life. Ferries like this ancient model forced you to slow down. They
were part of the rhythm of seaside towns like Galbraith where progress of any kind is
meant to be slow and stately. Sarah had even scribbled down in her notebook the
notice on the window of the Galbraith fish and chip shop urging the islanders to ring
their order through while they were waiting for the ferry. “We’ll have it piping hot
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and waiting for you by the time you get here.” A little scrap of local colour like that
would lighten up the rather dense and heavy anthropological article she was hoping to
write about the Ngarrindjeri tribe that had lived on the island before the arrival of
white Europeans.
Georgie had offered to introduce her to Gwen and Bill Vincent who were now
living full-time on the island, their shack becoming the focal meeting point for the
protests against the bridge. Sarah’s head was swirling with the myriad facts and
stories that had streamed out of Georgie’s mouth, tap-like, on the journey down.
Thank God she had brought her tape recorder—it would be impossible to remember,
let alone summarise what Georgie had told her. She just hoped that she could
remember to pronounce the word ‘Ngarrindjeri’ correctly as Georgie said they didn’t
like people to get it wrong. The Ng was pronounced like the word ‘sing’. The ‘dj’
was somewhere between a ‘d’ and a ‘y’.
Most white people pronounced it
‘Narrinyeri’ which is not quite right but was how the early missionaries spelled it.
Sarah repeated it quietly to herself as she sucked in the tang of salt. Even though she
knew the grinding of the ferry’s engines would probably drown out Georgie’s voice
she took out her tape recorder and turned it on. Georgie’s words sang with the passion
she felt for these people and their traditions and it seemed she couldn’t tell Sarah
enough about them. She really should have stayed a teacher, thought Sarah; she had
such a love of passing on knowledge.
“The word is actually the name of the language the people of the lower Mulray
spoke,” she shouted, “it was the collective name for a group of clans. Within the
Ngarrindjeri there were at least eighteen groups, each with a defined territory and its
own name. There were the Ramindjeri, whose stories are of the coast, the offshore
islands and the back scrub country. The Tangari tell of the Coorong, the great arm of
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water that stretches nearly 100 kilometres along the coast between sand dunes and
beach. The Mulray Mouth was a meeting of people, language and clans.”
“Who wrote down their stories?” asked Sarah.
“No-one. Their culture is oral. Writing down stories is our western tradition.
The missionaries transcribed what they heard, so the written stories are filtered
through European eyes. Some of them didn’t even know about the stories until the
1980s when Julian Turner and I began work on an exhibition about Ngarrindjeri
culture.”
“Is there one single correct version of their story?”
Georgie shook her head. “No — everyone has a local twist with an emphasis
on fresh water or salt or lakes or sea. Depends on which clan the story comes from.
But thanks to our work, their story now has the status of an official indigenous legend
or Dreaming; their various sites are recognised as sacred. The Mulray Mouth is
connected with conception. The Ngarrindjeri believed that menstruation was the
draining of semen and blood from the womb and like the tides the moon controls it.
At high tide the salt water rushes in through the mouth of the Mulray, the salt and the
fresh water meet and mingle.
Where the waters meet, they believe, fertility is
greatest.”
With a loud grinding of gears and a clunk the ferry docked. Sarah and
Georgie clambered into the car and waited for the ferryman to open the gates.
Georgie continued her informal lecture.
“In the 1930s, they built huge barrages to keep the salt water back when the
river was low to protect irrigation.”
“So when do the waters meet now?”
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“Not often. Sometimes they open the barrages and the salt and fresh waters
come together but the water’s not as fresh as it used to be. And if the Reynolds get
their way, it will all be buggered up. A thousand berths for boats, a hundred-bed motel
and god knows how many townhouses. It will need a huge sewage plant.”
“Tell me about Gwen and Bill Vincent.”
Georgie pulled the car off the road and turned off the ignition. Sarah looked
past her to the flat, sparse paddocks that stretched for miles around them. It was Godforsaken country.
“Turn off your tape recorder. What I am telling you now is off the record. I
mean it Sarah, I don’t want to read even a reference to it in your article.” Her voice
was stern and bordering on reproach.
“Steady on George. Don’t talk to me like I’m a novice. Or a hometown
hick.”
“I don’t mean to patronise you but so many people will dismiss anything that
indigenous people say when they learn that they are or have been alcoholics.”
“Fair enough. Just give me an outline or we’ll be late.”
Sarah was determined to wrestle some authority away from George. She
remembered her as always being bossy but that was different from “controlling.” She
clearly hadn’t been challenged for a long time. George proceeded to tell Sarah about
Bill’s life-long battle against alcoholism and how the scars on his arms were from his
time in jail where he had self-mutilated.
“He has no front teeth, so he whistles when he talks. He’s mostly sober now
— he’s in his late forties but looks ten years older. He’s intelligent and a great battler.
But he’s always angry. Just full of rage.”
“And what about his wife?”
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“Entirely different. She tends to talk in riddles or go off on tangents. She has
what she calls, visions.”
Sarah snorted and Georgie snapped at her. “In any other culture she would be
recognised for what she is. A soothsayer and a mystic. I love working with her.”
“Alright. Don’t chop my head off.”
“Well don’t immediately resort to Western cynicism. You have to keep an
open mind Sarah. This is an entirely different culture from anything you have ever
known.”
“Okay. Okay.”
“I will not have these good people mocked.”
“Message received George, now let’s go and meet them.”
The shack where the Vincents were staying, was known as “The Mouse
House” and was the last in a line of similar shacks along Sandy Beach. Sarah
scrambled out of the car and stretched out her arms towards the water, turning her
palms towards the sun. It was an unconscious gesture, almost primitive in its
spontaneity. This was the kind of landscape that made you instantly aware of the
surge of the tide and the play of the light on the water. The forlorn cries of the circling
seagulls gave the shack a somewhat melancholy air. Outside it was little more than a
crude fisherman’s retreat but inside it was warm and cosy with old couches covered
with checked rugs and coloured cushions. Bill and Gwen Vincent seemed to Sarah to
be strangely mismatched. He was short and skinny and dark; she was tall, plump and
light-skinned. They had the slightly worn and wary look of couples who had endured
a lot of problems, most of them unsolved. Bill certainly seethed with the kind of anger
that lurks just below the surface of the damaged. At first he didn’t talk and chose to sit
apart from the others, hunched over his newspaper. Gwen talked, or at least, seemed
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to improvise her thoughts as she went along. Georgie listened intently and laughed at
what she clearly understood to be jokes. Sarah took notes as a means of trying to
make sense of what she was saying. .
In a quiet, intense voice she told Sarah “I was directed to Galbraith through
my dreams and powerful visions.” She said she believed that the birds were talking to
her, that the stars were guiding her and that the tide of the universe had been pulling
her to this point.
“I know it here. It’s the closest to God you’re ever going to get. You can’t
change your relationship to a special place, it’s where your learning comes from.”
Georgie stared hard at Sarah while Gwen was talking but Sarah refused to lift
her eyes from her notepad. Bill moved over to the couch to sit next to Gwen and when
she eventually lapsed into silence he took over. He told Sarah how even though he
had been born on a Mission his mother had wanted a better life for her children and
she had worked hard at trying to assimilate them into a small white country town.
Both his life and his family had fallen apart, however, when his mother died.
He was twelve when he took to the drink. Admitting that he knew little about
Ngarrindjeri traditional culture, he told her he was a Christian but a bad one, because
he was still angry with God for taking his mother. He was also angry with some of
his fellow indigenous groups for being more concerned with power and money than
with helping their people.
“Apart from my white enemies, sometimes my worst enemies are among my
own people,” he suddenly shouted, banging his fist on the old wooden coffee table in
front of the couch. Gwen just patted his leg and looked at him in a calm and loving
way while she said, “We protesters value each other’s culture and we learn from each
other.”
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A silver Jaguar glided off the ferry and began its journey towards
Sandy
Beach. The well-dressed woman behind the wheel was wearing huge
sunglasses and had a set of binoculars hanging around her neck. Next to her on the
grey leather seat was a camera with a zoom lens attached. Underneath the camera was
an article from the Clarion about how Bill and Gwen Vincent had gone to live on the
island in a cottage loaned to them by a well-known conservationist. They were
quoted as calling themselves the custodians of the island and said they were
determined to prevent the bridge destroying their culture. They had even admitted that
they were the main organisers of the picket line that was maintained every day.
Pulling up outside the last shack on the strip she picked up the camera and
photographed a battered green Holden parked out the front. Typical of what these
people did to cars, she thought to herself, they took no care of them, allowed anyone
of their so-called tribe to drive them. They simply had no respect for possessions.
At that moment the door to Mouse House opened and before she could turn
the key in the ignition and escape she became transfixed by the two people who
emerged, followed by a couple who were clearly the Vincents, judging from their
photos in the paper.
Sarah recognised the vintage Jaguar and its occupant immediately and called
out “Hello Penny. Fancy seeing you here.” She practically galloped up to the car,
forcing Penny to lower the driver’s window.
“Just checking up on my enemies,” mumbled Penny, unsmiling and refusing
to remove her large sunglasses.
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Georgie was quickly at Sarah’s side, shouting, “Good God old girl—who are
you pretending to be—Mrs Onassis?”
Sarah and the Vincents all roared with laughter.
“Very amusing—I see you’re still wearing designer clothes.”
Georgie looked down at her layers of colourful caftans and hooted. She
placed her hand through the window onto Penny’s, which was gripping the steering
wheel.
“How are you Pen? Long time no see.”
She gestured to the Vincents, who were standing arm-in-arm at a small
distance from the car. “Gwen and Bill — come and meet an old friend of mine.”
“Not so much of the old if you don’t mind.”
“Actually you look good—I like all the blonde streaks, don’t you Sarah?”
Bill turned his back on them and retreated inside the cottage, Gwen came and
stood shyly by the car.
“Gwen Vincent, meet Penny Reynolds. It’s her husband that wants to build the
bridge. We will have to convince her that it’s wrong.”
“Nice to meet you Penny. I am the custodian of this island and I have a
responsibility to get it right for blacks and for whites.”
Penny stared at her through her tinted frames. “How do you do Gwen,” was
all she could manage to splutter as she shook her extended hand. Georgie filled the
silence that followed by explaining that Sarah was doing research for an article and
before Penny could reply, Sarah added “It’s so long since the three of us were
together — can’t we all have lunch or dinner this week?”
Georgie clapped her hands together and shouted “An excellent idea.”
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Gwen held up her arms and intoned, “Listen to the birds. They are singing
reunion and reconciliation.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Georgie. “Come on Pen, you name the day, the time and the
place.”
Hugh was in his study at his desk surrounded by bank statements when Penny
burst through the door.
“You’ll never guess who I met.”
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“What?”
“The door was closed. I am working.”
“I can see that but I had to tell you what happened.”
“Tell me later. I am up to my neck in accounting — the bills don’t just pay
themselves you know.” His tone was gruff and agitated. Penny spied a nearly empty
bottle of scotch on his desk.
“Well you could stop drinking our best scotch for a start.”
“Jesus woman — don’t start your nagging.”
“Fine — I can see you are in a foul mood – why, I have no idea but I’ll leave
you to it. Put the empty bottle in the bin marked recycling and the glass in the
dishwasher.”
She swung on her heels, slamming the door after her. Hugh poured the rest of
the scotch into his glass and rattled through the drawers of his desk for a cigar.
On their journey back to the city, Sarah decided to challenge Georgie’s view
of herself as a saviour of the local indigenous people. It was time someone did. A lot
of her arrogance was based on being with people who never contradicted her.
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“Do you really think you can fully understand these people’s spiritual
relationship with the land?”
Georgie dismissed her question with a toss of the head.
“Of course I can. I am a professional anthropologist who has studied their
culture for the past ten years.” Sarah couldn’t abide educated people who used their
academic qualifications as a shield against any sort of critical questioning.
“All that denotes is an intellectual and academic understanding which is very
different from something spiritual. You were an atheist the last time I checked and
very sceptical about anything concerned with the spiritual.”
“I am still an atheist in terms of Christianity. But indigenous culture is
different. Their spirituality is actually a part of the land and the sky and the sea.”
“I understand that intellectually but how can someone with a white, western
outlook ever truly empathise emotionally?”
“Just because you are a wishy –washy agnostic on everything doesn’t mean”
“Fair suck of the sauce bottle George, no need to get nasty.”
“It’s not nasty, it’s true. You’ve always liked to have an each way bet on
everything. You can’t even decide which sex to choose, let alone which culture is
right.”
“At least that’s honest. I don’t pretend to feel things or fake empathy with an
ancient culture that has no links with the way we live now”
“I have never faked anything in my life.”
“Oh no! What about all those orgasms you have faked over the years with
hopeless lovers?”
Georgie guffawed. Sex had always been the one activity she had never taken
seriously.
162
“Fabricating an orgasm is entirely different from fabricating a cultural belief.
There’s not a woman alive who hasn’t had to fake an orgasm just to get it over.”
“Precisely. And that is why women are very attuned to any kind of fakery.
Most whites have no genuine understanding or empathy for any culture other than
their own. You may have more knowledge than most of us but that doesn’t mean that
we believe everything you and the indigenous people say.”
‘New York scepticism has left its scars on you Sarah. You have no sense of
what it means to belong to a place, a tribe, a people. You are a typically alienated late
20th century human being. You have no sense of commitment to anyone or anything. “
Sarah laughed. She could see that Georgie was enjoying their jousting. “And
you are full of home-town, hocus pocus and intellectual wankery Dr Staunton. I just
wish you would commit yourself to keeping your eyes on the road and your hands on
the wheel or we will never get to continue this argument.”
“I haven’t had an accident in this car for ten years.”
“Good. Let’s just focus on not having one in the next ten minutes,” replied
Sarah in a voice strangled with fear as Georgie pulled out and accelerated in order to
pass a huge truck carrying sheep on their way to the slaughterhouse.
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24.
The morning headline on the front page of The Clarion declared “The Anti-Bridge
Lobby Winning the Battle.” Jason Judd, now their star reporter, outlined how, with
the help of Marty Robinson, the union movement and the indigenous leaders Vincent,
Tanner and Olsen, over two thousand signatures protesting against the building of the
bridge had been collected. Bill Vincent and the other men were taking the petition to
the Federal government, the bureaucrats and all the relevant organisations. They were
determined that if the State government wouldn’t act then they would lobby for
Federal intervention. The Federal Minister for Indigenous Affairs, Kim Sullivan, was
known to be fully committed to the cause of reconciliation and was a vociferous
champion of indigenous rights. He also, Judd emphasised in his article, possessed
very wide powers available under the Federal Indigenous Heritage Protection Act. He
belonged to the Left-wing faction of the Federal government, was a graduate in law
and economics and had, prior to entering politics, managed a state Environment
Centre and been involved in anti-nuclear groups, the Council for Civil Liberties and
the Indigenous Legal Service. Judd concluded by saying that Minister Sullivan would
be more than sympathetic to lobbying by the coalition of environmentalists,
indigenous groups and the anti-bridge protesters.
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Minister Ryan had just finished scowling over Judd’s front-page splurge when
the phone in his kitchen sprang into life. Snatching it up after only one ring he barked
“Yes Kelly. I’ve read the bloody thing.”
“Peter,” said the deep voice on the other end, “how could you speak to the
lovely Kelly in such a manner?”
“Who’s this?” snapped Ryan.
“Wrong side of the bed this AM old boy — or was it wrong side of the
argument? Simon here. I would like to have a chat with you about how we can get
out of building this bloody bridge.”
“I’m in meetings until noon. How about the club — we could have a spot of
lunch.”
“Excellent. See you there at 12.30. And, er, be nice to Kelly.”
Peter Ryan forced a hollow laugh and hung up.
“Jesus Christ, that’s all I need — Simple bloody Simon Sangster.”
He dialled Kelly’s number. “Yes I’ve read the article and I don’t want to
comment to the media about it — I do want you to book a table for two at the club for
12.30 — no it’s not for me and Hugh Reynolds, it’s that bloody lily-livered idiot in
charge of Indigenous Affairs.”
Sarah staggered out of bed to answer the ringing phone. Her father was
reading the paper outside in the car, which he euphemistically called “The Sunroom.”
Every morning he carried out his tea and toast to the car, turned on the radio to his
favourite talk-back station, and read the paper in the front seat; moving the car up and
down the drive according to the position of the sun. He thought it was an ingenious
way of not having to answer the phone or Sarah’s questions.
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Sarah hoped it was one of her aunts ringing to cancel the afternoon tea party
that she had organised for later in the day. She knew she had to do it, but please God,
please not today. It was far more important that she transcribe all the material on the
tape and write that article on Ngarrindjeri culture.
The voice at the other end of the phone, however, was male. “Sarah, have you
read Judd’s front page article?”
“No Tom I haven’t.”
“He’s really onto the latest — don’t know who his sources are — probably
someone in Sullivan’s office.”
“Who’s Sullivan?”
“The Federal Minister who’s being lobbied. Get with it Sarah — we can’t
afford to be trailing the bloody Clarion. I’ll talk to you this afternoon — when you’re
awake.”
“Fine — er no, not this afternoon, I’ll be…” but he had already hung up.
Penny was in the local gym running on the walking machine with the
Walkman plugged into her ears. Kevin Cornell on station 5PU was about to interview
the Federal Minister for Indigenous Affairs. “Coming up next Kim Sullivan —
perhaps he can shed some light on what is likely to happen to the bridge on Heritage
Island. It seems our own Minsters have gone to ground. Our attempts to contact
Simon Sangster, the State Minister for Indigenous Affairs and Patrick Ryan, Minister
for State Development have proved fruitless this morning. Both are declining to
comment. The time is 7.45 and you’re on Station 5PU. If you want to give us your
opinion on the latest development of the anti-bridge protesters this morning, we’d be
delighted to take your call. The number is 131 9999 — give us a ring. I’m Kevin
Cornell.”
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Penny literally jumped off the treadmill. “Latest development — what latest
development?” Grabbing her towel she noticed the headlines on the front page of the
local paper that someone had left on the bench. She slumped down to read it.
“Excuse me, have you finished with the machine?” asked a plump man in a
tight Lycra exercise suit. Averting her eyes from the unsightly bulges in all the wrong
places, Penny motioned him to go ahead and took the paper off to the locker room to
read it carefully.
“George — it’s for you — your ex-husband on the phone — now — he
says it’s urgent.”
“Alright, alright — I’m coming.”
Draping a small towel around her wet and naked body, Georgie strolled into
the hall to pick up the receiver, which was dangling against the wall. She had been
meaning to get another outlet installed in her bedroom but somehow there always
seemed to be more important things to do than get another damn phone.
“Can you make it snappy. I’m standing nearly naked in the hall and I’m wet
and the towel is old and thin.”
“You always were mean about basic domestic necessities like large, soft, thick
towels.”
“I’m not mean. I just have better ways of spending my money.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s always your line.”
“I don’t wish to stand here discussing my financial priorities — what do you
want — not money I hope.”
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“Of course not — I want to know whether you have been involved in getting
people like Bill Vincent to lobby the Federal Minister.”
“And what if I have — what’s wrong with that?”
“Well he’s not really up to it for one thing.”
“Of course he is … he’s been sober for some time now.”
“Yeah – so far — but he doesn’t need that pressure on him.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s just what he needs. It will help assuage some of
his rage. It will give him self-esteem — it will empower him to be part of a lobby
group demanding respect for indigenous culture.”
“Spare me the rhetoric George.
Vincent doesn’t know anything about
traditional culture. He’s in favour of assimilation with the whites.”
“Nevertheless, he has proved himself to be a tough-minded negotiator. And
he understands power.”
“Oh sure — like the time he went with that group to Libya to lobby Gaddafi
for support — guns even — for aboriginal terrorism. Oh yes. He really understands
power. “
“Andrew, you know all that was a long time ago. He has always been very
powerful on heritage issues.”
“When he’s not on a bender.”
“Well who do you think should have gone to see the Minister — you
perhaps?”
“Well I have met the minister at various Environmental Conferences and he is
aware of my work. You should at the very least, have consulted me.”
Georgie stretched the grey, once white, threadbare towel around her body,
snorted, said goodbye and hung up.
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25.
Sarah was in a mess. And so was the kitchen. She had been determined to bake a
sponge cake for her aunts ever since she had found her mother’s old recipe book
stuffed in the back of a cupboard in one of her clean-ups. For some reason she
couldn’t get the whites of the eggs to whip into stiff peaks. The old Mixmaster was
thrashing away like a lawnmower, but nothing was happening; the whites had formed
a small watery froth but simply refused to stand up.
She had already been through eight eggs and was down to her last four.
Perhaps she should just abandon the whole thing and buy a sponge cake. No, they’d
know, and they’d laugh at her behind her back. Her mother would have expected her
to make a real cake for afternoon tea. She always seemed to be able to whip them up
in no time when her sisters were visiting. What was she doing wrong? She checked
the recipe one more time — she read it aloud as she put all the fresh ingredients into
the mixing bowl. Again. Two university degrees didn’t necessarily mean she was an
expert cake-maker but it proved she could read and it wasn’t exactly rocket science.
“Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky.
Maybe this time,” she sang, loud and
tunelessly.
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“Stop that wailing. You’ll put the hens off their laying,” her father shouted as
he came into the kitchen. “What on earth are you doing Polly? You’ve got egg-shells
on the floor, flour in your hair — white goo on your shirt.”
Sarah stared into the bowl as it slowly turned to a stop.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you about the state of this kitchen. Your
fussy old aunts will be here in less than an hour.”
“Oh my God. Is that the time? They’ll be here at three, on the dot, and these
bloody whites aren’t going stiff either. Shit, shit, shit.”
She sat on the plastic kitchen chair and put her head in her floury hands.
“Why do I do these things — why oh why? “
Her father moonwalked over to her in his big white sneakers and patted her
hair.
“Look, you’ve gone grey overnight. You’ll be on the pension soon, you poor
old girl.”
She looked up at him, picked up the flour packet and threw what was left of it
all over him. He rubbed it into his hair and over his face and started doing a tribal war
dance on the kitchen linoleum. In spite of herself Sarah burst into laughter.
“Remember when Mum was in hospital and I threw a loaf of bread at you?”
He stopped dancing. “And it landed in the bath. Yeah I remember.”
“You put it in the oven to dry out and made me have it for toast.”
They both doubled up with laughter.
“Don’t remember that,” he teased.
“It scarred me for life.”
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“This mess will scar your aunts for life if you don’t clean it up. What are you
going to do about a cake?”
“Oh God,” said Sarah, wiping her hands on her black slacks, “I’d forgotten
about the stupid cake.”
“Tell you what, give me the car keys and I’ll pop down to the shop and buy
one. Lots of cream and a few strawberries and they won’t know the difference.”
Sarah had confiscated the keys to the car because she knew that it was
no longer safe for him to drive. What if he had one of his tiny strokes and caused an
accident.
“I’ll go and get the cake Dad. You won’t know what to get.”
“I know how to buy a sponge. I’m old, not stupid.”
“No — you clean up here and I’ll take the car.”
Her father’s eyes were no longer laughing.
“You don’t think I’m safe to drive do you?”
“Of course I do. It’s just quicker if I go.”
“Admit it — you’ve hidden those keys to stop me driving.
I’ve looked
everywhere for them. Where are they?” His voice was loud and demanding.
“Calm down Dad. Of course I haven’t hidden them.”
“Well get them. They’re mine. Give them to me. NOW,” he demanded.
“This is no time to be arguing.”
“I’m not arguing. I’m ordering you. This is my house and it’s my car and
they’re my keys. So give them to me.” His face was flushed and he was holding onto
the side of the kitchen table.
“No Dad. I won’t. And now is not the time to discuss it.” Sarah’s voice was
low and firm.
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“How dare you try and take control of my life. What right do you have to take
my freedom away from me?”
He was angry now. More angry than she ever remembered seeing him in her
entire life.
“Answer me,” he shouted. His face was bright red and his eyes were bulging
out of their sockets.
“I haven’t got time now Dad. I have to buy the cake.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, rubbed the flour out of her hair, mopped
her clothes, grabbed her handbag out of her bedroom and ran past her father to the car
parked halfway down the driveway. Her father stood at the kitchen door, his face and
hair still white from the flour, looking like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.
“Well bugger you Sarah. And bugger your bloody afternoon tea.”
“I’m so sorry it’s a bought sponge but I just couldn’t get the egg whites
right,” moaned Sarah.
“Probably something in the bowl. Never mind dear. It’s delicious. Isn’t it
Jo?” said Aunty Phyll, already on her second slice. Either she meant it or she was just
trying to encourage Sarah in the culinary arts. Ever since she was a little girl, Aunty
Phyll had been trying to train her in domestic skills. Sarah, having inherited a sick
mother and a larrikin father according to Aunty Phyll, had to be taken in hand. She
had done her best to tame her wilful, high-spirited niece. Whenever she had been
playing cricket, the only girl among her boy cousins, particularly it seemed to Sarah
when she was batting, Aunty Phyll would appear at the back door, frilly apron
flapping in the breeze and call out in stentorian tones, “Sarah. I need you in the
kitchen.”
“But I’m batting.”
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“I need you now. Put the bat down and come inside.”
“Why me? Why not one of the boys?”
“Because you are a girl. And girls help their mothers and their aunts in the
kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the way it is.”
“Well I’m not going to do it.”
“You’ll do as you are told.”
“I won’t.”
And with that, her Aunt Phyllis would leave the back step, march across the
back lawn, grab Sarah by the arm or the ear and drag her screaming into the kitchen.
One of her boy cousins was only too pleased to seize possession of the cricket bat and
the game continued.
Sarah would sit on a chair in the kitchen, clutching the tea towel that had been
thrust into her hands and in between bouts of sulking, shout “It’s not fair. I was
batting. I don’t want to be a bloody girl. It’s not fair.”
Her three aunts, each engaged in their various tasks of chopping or peeling or
washing up would click their tongues and look sympathetically towards her mother
who would shake her head and say, “When she’s like this I can’t do a thing with her.
It’s her father’s fault. In his eyes she can’t do a thing wrong.”
“Now you’ve upset your mother, Sarah. How does that make you feel? You
know she hasn’t been well.” Aunty Cath always went in for emotional blackmail.
Aunty Jo, on the other hand, never had time for all this talk.
“Dry the dishes Sarah. Or I’ll give you a clip behind the ears.”
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Sarah’s greatest fear was always that her mother would die and her aunts
would convince her father that she would be better off with one of them. She’d had a
secret case hidden at the back of the wardrobe, packed ready for her getaway.
Now here they all were, thirty years later, sitting companionably in a circle in
her parents’ small living room, sipping tea out of her mother’s best china cups. She
looked at their lined faces and their curly grey hair — handsome women all of them
— but somehow they too all appeared to have shrunk in size.
“Why is your father working in the garden and not here with us?” questioned
Aunty Cath.
“Did you have a fight?” Aunty Jo, always on the ball.
“We did, actually.”
“I knew it,” she said, looking smugly at her sisters.
“What did you argue about dear?” Aunty Cath, predictably solicitous.
“Was it his drinking or his women friends?” said Aunty Phyll, a dedicated
critic of her father’s extra-curricular activities.
He called her “a stand-over
merchant.” There was no love lost between them.
“Nothing like that.”
Aunty Phyll looked unconvinced. She stared hard at Sarah until she spoke.
“It was about his driving the car. I’ve taken control of the keys. I don’t think
it’s safe for him to drive any more.”
“Not if he continues to go to the pub.” Aunty Phyll was relentless.
“Well you don’t drink and you’ve had more dents in your car than a rally
driver,” snorted Jo.
“Minor bingles, that’s all.”
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“You spend more time with the crash repairer than your hairdresser,” said
Aunty Jo, chortling at her own joke
“That’s absolute rubbish.”
“Now, now.” Cath, ever the appeaser, “enough you two. I can understand why
your father is upset Sarah.
I’d hate anyone to take away my car.
It’s my
independence. Poor old boy.”
“Surely he realises he’s a danger on the roads,” persisted Phyll.
“Well you don’t,” snorted Jo.
“He doesn’t realise it because I haven’t told him that what he is suffering are
small strokes. He thinks he’s got something wrong with his legs.”
“Well you’d better tell him Sarah. Honesty is the best policy.”
“I was waiting for the right time.”
“Once you take away his car, he’ll give up wanting to live,” said Cath
forlornly as if contemplating her own future.
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” snapped Jo, “give him some cab vouchers.”
“I’ve tried that but he says he won’t use them. There’s some symbiotic
connection to the car that he’s not willing to give up.”
“I’ll speak to him,” said Phyll.
“No, don’t do that, you’ll just make it worse,” said Jo, pouring herself another
cup of tea and taking another slice of cake.
“Why would I?” challenged Phyll.
“Because it’s between Sarah and her father. It’s none of your business,” Jo
insisted.
“I have to agree with her,” nodded Cath.
“When don’t you?” mumbled Phyll.
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“How long are you expecting to be here?” Jo asked Sarah, straight-to-thepoint.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know now. I had hoped to stay a month and get
Dad into a nice retirement village before returning to New York. Now I’ve been here
over two months, I don’t think it’s going to be so easy.”
“You’ll just have to take control — you’re his only living relative.”
“I don’t want to upset him. He’s so touchy these days.”
“He’s scared, that’s why,” said Cath.
“What’s he got to be scared of?” demanded Phyll.
“Being old and sick and alone,” mumbled Cath.
“Really Cath, do you always have to be so depressing,” said Jo.
“Aunty Cath’s right. I know he’s afraid of all those things. Not that he’d ever
admit it. El Alemain. Tobruk Rat, and all that. But I can’t just stay here forever,
waiting for him. I have my career and my life in New York.”
“And what about that Tim chap? Ever going to marry him and settle down?”
“Oh give it a rest Phyll. Sarah’s a career girl.”
“Well, she’ll be lonely when she’s old. A career won’t keep her warm at
night.”
“Neither will a marriage. How come all of us are widows? Who keeps us
warm at night?”
“We have our children and our grandchildren. Sarah has no-one.”
At that moment her father decided to make an entrance in his gardening
clothes.
“Look at the mud on those boots Jack.
Take them off immediately,”
demanded Phyll.
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“Hello Phyll. Hello Jo and Cath. Nice to see you all.”
Jack slowly tracked a trail of mud across the carpet, sat down in his favourite
chair and turned on the television. Sarah raised her eyebrows at her aunts and none of
them spoke. One by one they picked up their cups and saucers and plates and carried
them out to the kitchen sink where Phyll proceeded to wash them. Sarah picked up
the tea towel, staring hard at the limp rag she held in her hands.
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26.
Patrick Ryan was in his office for a meeting with his personal advisors when the five
o’clock news promo flashed onto the screen of the giant television set.
“Upset tonight for Minister Ryan over the Heritage Island Bridge. The latest
report from Channel 12’s political reporter Maria Scouros.”
“What in the fuck is that about?” screamed Ryan. “Kelly, get onto that little
tart and find out.”
“Yes Minister,” said Kelly, already dialling.
He paced around the room, talking aloud to his small circle of staff, who sat
silently, pretending to hang on his every word.
“It’s that sneaky Sangster trying to scuttle my bridge. He’s always wanted me
out of the way — thinks he’ll be the next in line. Ha, ha, there he is — what did I tell
you. Shut up Kelly — listen to this.”
The screen was filled with the voluptuous form of Maria Scouri, her illustrious
breasts peeping over her low-cut, tight, pink blouse, like two golden half moons.
“Conflict in Cabinet ranks emerged today when the Minister for Aboriginal
Affairs, Simon Sangster, warned the government that if it proceeded with the bridge it
will face hostility and “loss of face” from the Aboriginal community which may seek
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to invoke either the State Heritage Act or Commonwealth legislation to forestall
construction of the Heritage Island Bridge.”
The suet-faced Simon Sangster loomed onto the screen.
“Building this bridge was the cheapest and most convenient solution but it will
face formidable opposition from the local Aboriginal communities, not to mention the
wider community backed by strong trade union support.”
“What do you suggest as a solution Minister?” crooned Maria, flapping her
eyelashes and lisping like Marilyn Monroe. Never taking his eyes away from hers,
Minister Sangster replied “The government must explore other options, Maria, like
building a bridge across the existing barrage.”
And then looking straight into the camera, he squared his shoulders and tilted
his sagging jaw line. In what he no doubt thought to be Churchillian tones he said,
“No compromise is ever seen to be wholly satisfactory to the parties involved
— but if the broad public interest is to be met, all such parties, including the Minister
for Development, may have to retreat to some extent from the entrenched positions
they have hitherto adopted.”
“Thank you Minister.”
“Pleasure, Maria.”
“That was an exclusive interview with the Minister for Indigenous Affairs,
Simon Sangster. This is Maria Scouros for Channel Twelve News.”
The male newsreader with the black moustache urged the viewers to phone in
their opinion of the Minister’s suggestion after the news. Phone numbers to ring for
and against were flashed onto the screen. Patrick Ryan was white-lipped with anger.
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“Kelly, get me the Treasurer — immediately. I don’t care where he is or what
he is doing — just get him.”
“Minister,” interrupted one of his twenty- something advisors, “Penny
Reynolds is on the phone. She says it’s urgent.”
“Tell her I’ll ring her back.”
Side by side in their comfortable chairs, Sarah and her father waited in silence
for the 6 o’clock news to begin. Shane Trott led the bulletin on Channel 8 with an
exclusive interview with Dr Georgina Staunton. He began by asking her what effect
these new developments would have on the anti-bridge protests.
“We warned the government not to waste the taxpayers’ money on a bridge
that no-one wanted. This is what happens when developers ride roughshod over the
wishes of local people and the indigenous culture it has vowed to protect. Minister
Ryan only has himself to blame.”
“Will Minister Sangster’s suggestions be more acceptable?” asked Trott.
Dr Staunton replied, “I doubt that the bridge-over-the-barrage option will be
feasible but the government is of course free to waste more public money exploring
such possibilities.”
“This is Shane Trott, for Channel Eight.”
Jack clapped his hands. “Good on ya, Georgie girl—you’ve won. She’s right
isn’t she Sarah — there’ll be no bridge now.”
“It’s too soon to tell. This is politics, anything can happen.”
“Nonsense. You’re too pessimistic — I’m going to celebrate. Get me a cold
beer from the fridge, be a good girl. And have one yourself or open a bottle of wine.
You deserve it after entertaining your mother’s sisters.”
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He smiled his most winsome smile and Sarah thought a little drink might ease
them into the discussion her aunts had convinced her she had to have with him.
While she was out of the room, her father grabbed the handbag from the side of her
chair. It wasn’t hard for him to find the car keys. He grinned to himself and placed
them carefully back in her bag which he returned to its original place. Once back in
his own chair he called out, “I’m waiting for you Polly. It’s a very dry argument.”
While he drank two bottles of beer and promptly nodded off, Sarah
sipped her wine and chuckled over the fact that Channel Three’s Becky Swift had
recorded an interview with Professor Andrew Coleman who had concluded his
statement with an academic flourish, no doubt to upstage his ex-wife on the opposing
channel.
“As I see it, Becky, the government would appear to be between Scylla and
Charybdis, with no safe haven.”
“Oh clever one, Andrew. They’ll all understand that analogy.” chuckled Sarah,
realising that she too was now shouting at the television like her father.
“I’ve got to get out of here before I totally lose it,” she mumbled to herself.
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27.
For two days there were no items dealing with the bridge on any of the news services.
Jack Wood spent the remaining days of autumn sunshine working in his garden and
tending to his chooks, while Sarah busied herself in books on Ngarrindjeri culture.
Georgie continued her meetings with various indigenous groups, Andrew addressed
the Conservation Council and Penny cancelled all her tennis commitments in order to
spend her days sitting in her car with a camera watching the comings and goings
outside the Mouse House. Further down the street a photographer from The Clarion
was sitting in his car taking photos of Penny.
Minister Ryan was locked in his office with various members of the Treasury
Department. On the third day of talks at 10am, he called out to Kelly “Call a press
conference for noon — tell the bastards they can’t afford to miss it.”
Armed with a bulging folder of documents Kelly stood behind her Minister
while he addressed a large media contingent. The prime focus of his argument was
that the government had firm contractual obligations to build the bridge. If it decided
against it, the legal claims would expose taxpayers to losses much higher than the cost
of the bridge and of course to the costs of consequent lawsuits.
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Jason Judd leapt in with the first question.
“Minister, could you detail the main stakeholders in these so-called
‘contractual obligations’ and state exactly the nature of the law-suit that might
eventuate.”
Beaming, Ryan rocked back on his heels and reeled off what the Treasury
officials had told him.
“The developers could sue the government if they went bankrupt, the bridge
contractors could sue over lost profits, Westpac could sue to recover extra money it
has lent the developers having been assured by the government the bridge would go
ahead. Westpac could also claim decreased profitability for the marina without a
bridge and the mains water supply that was to accompany it.”
Maria was next to speak, looking edible in peach.
“Why not just put on an additional ferry Minister?”
“That sounds like a reasonable suggestion Maria but according to the Treasury
costings that would cost an extra million dollars, which would need to be added to the
$1.5 million already spent on the bridge — Yes Shane, you’re next.”
Ryan was clearly enjoying himself and delighted to be lording it over such a
tame pack, recording his every word.
“Minister, what, in your estimation, is a total ball-park figure for not building
the bridge?”
Ryan said, in clear, ringing tones,
Good question Shane. It would be approximately 12.5 million dollars —
which is double the cost of building the bridge — and that is a conservative estimate
from Treasury. It could end up being more. Much more.”
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There were no more questions. Ryan looked earnestly from one journalist to
another and eventually spied Sarah standing right at the back.
“Ms Wood, formerly of Manhattan — no questions?”
The lights and the cameras swung around in expectation of her answer.
“Not until I check your ‘ball-park’ figures minister. Then I might have a
curved ball for you.”
“I look forward to it,” smirked the Minister as if he had already hit a home
run.
The next day, Simon Graves, the Minister for Indigenous Affairs, rose to his
feet in State Parliament to make a statement. Clearing his throat for dramatic effect,
he announced “I have today reluctantly issued an authorisation to the Department of
Road Transport to allow damage to aboriginal sites, to the minimal extent necessary,
to allow the construction of a bridge to Heritage Island.”
Maria Scouri’s opening lines on the 5 o’clock news were utterly predictable
but she pronounced them with flashing eyes as if she was Dorothy Parker.
“A community that doesn’t want a bridge is about to get one, paid for by a
government that doesn’t want to build it.”
The front-page headline of The Clarion the next morning was “Government in
an absolute shambles.” Jason Judd had quoted Marty Robinson saying “We won’t
give up—if there’s no ferry, our members have no jobs.” A spokesperson for the
Friends said they would continue to fight to “protect their idyllic paradise from a
bridge that nobody wants.”
It was clear to Sarah that the Heritage Island protests were no longer focused
just on the building of a bridge. Her article outlined in detail the island’s links with
traditional Ngarrindjeri culture and why the struggle had become so important to their
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leaders. Letters to the editor of the national paper were sympathetic to what they now
understood to be the indigenous cause.
Jason Judd’s article in The Clarion included a lawyers’ letter on behalf of
Hugh Reynolds that was sent to some of the anti-bridge protesters. The letter accused
them of being responsible for the Reynolds’ financial problems and indicated that
they might be sued for up to $47 million. The threat backfired. It infuriated not just
the recipients of the letter but many letters to the editor followed, attacking the greedy
developers and blaming the Reynolds for their own financial problems.
Penny had argued with Hugh over sending out such a letter, believing it would
only create more enemies. He had mocked her opinion, and locked himself in the
study, refusing to come out, even when Penny banged on the door.
Georgie had already had several meetings with the lawyers representing the
Indigenous People’s Legal Rights Movement. It was now clear to her that their only
real hope of finally stopping the bridge was to organise an intervention from the
Federal government. The lawyers had told her that the Federal Minister, Kim
Sullivan, would not intervene unless he was presented with evidence of cultural
significance. She arranged a meeting at her house with Sybill Cartwright who had
worked alongside Georgie when she was doing a consultancy for the State Museum.
Sybill was employed by the museum’s family history unit to compile family histories
of the Ngarrindjeris with the assistance of experts at the museum. By tracing the
genealogies of the main Ngarrindjeri families she enabled members of that
community to learn about their traditions and their history. Georgie and Sybill had
often joked with each other about the predominance of white male interpreters of
indigenous culture. Georgie believed that much of their research was narrow and
conservative and that too much of the scholarship at the museum happened amid the
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pervasive odour of intellectual mothballs.
She had often clashed with the male
anthropologists at the Museum whom she ridiculed openly as “old scholars.”
Georgie admired Sybill for her outspoken personality, for her unfailing energy
but mostly because without any education or training she had taken on the painstaking
work of genealogies in order to re-establish the Ngarrindjeris’ sense of self and
belonging. Since European settlement, their families had been split up, missionaries
had changed their names, and their descendants had been denied access to all records.
Sybill had worked tirelessly to recreate their ancestral and tribal links.
“I need to get some of our women together to talk about the island and its
traditions” Sybill told Georgie when they had settled down with cups of tea in the
lumpy armchairs of her study.
“If you stay overnight in Galbraith you can use the ‘Bunk House’ at the
Pines,” suggested Georgie, who made a note to contact the University who owned it.
“Right, I’ll get onto the women at the Lower Mulray Nunga’s Club and they’ll
pass the word.”
“Keep it quiet. We don’t want the media hearing about it or they’ll send
spies.”
“I wish you hadn’t given up smoking—bloody nuisance having to go outside
for a fag.”
“Sorry Sybill. House rules.”
Early the following week, fifteen indigenous women gathered inside the
“Bunk House” at Galbraith many of them arriving in a bus organised by Justine
through the club. Arriving alone by car was another Ngarrindjerean matriarch, Isobel
Hughes, who was a program manager for the Indigenous Commission. She was
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curious to know more about the issue and thought that whatever they resolved to do,
that it would be a nice day’s outing.
The first person Gwen Vincent saw on arrival was Sybill. They kissed and
greeted each other warmly as they hadn’t seen each other for at least six years.
Nevertheless Gwen was curious as to Sybill’s sudden appearance.
“What are you doing down here?” asked Gwen with her usual candour, as she
had not previously heard Sybill’s name linked with the bridge issue or Heritage
Island.
“I’m here to tell you women why the island is sacred to us.”
“Are you really?’ said Carmel who was standing next to Gwen. Her worst
suspicions about Sybill were confirmed. In her opinion Sybill always made herself the
expert on everything to do with traditional women’s culture. No one else ever
managed to get a word in when Sybill was around.
An open fire was burning inside the “Bunk House” to take the chill out of the
air. The room was spartan, with one old lounge suite and a scattering of oddly
assorted tables and chairs covering the bare floorboards. The women sipped hot soup
and warmed themselves by the fire. Sybill pulled herself up a chair closest to the fire
and announced “Gather around, I’m going to tell you about the island.” They all did
as they were told. She explained to the women listening carefully to her that the island
was sacred to women because of all the little foetuses buried there. Ngarrindjeri
women had gone to this island in order to abort babies that had been fathered by white
men, having often been raped by them. The women had placed hot rocks on their
stomachs to trigger miscarriages and buried the foetuses there. She explained, “That
is why we call it Mother Earth.”
“Who told you all this?” asked Carmel.
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Sybill named her source as Grandma Betty, who was well known to be a
reliable elder. The women all nodded and sat in silence for at least five minutes,
thinking about what Sybill had told them. They spoke in hushed voices, one to
another.
Visibly moved by Sybill’s story of the Ngarrindjeri women and their
babies, they finally all agreed with her suggestion to help draft a letter to the Minister,
Kim Sullivan, to protest against the bridge. The letter began,
“Dear Mr Sullivan, the Ngarrindjeri women are quite adamant about the
building of the bridge at Galbraith. They do not want the bridge to be built as the site
is incredibly sacred to the women, their culture and their spiritual well being.
In white society you have your churches and cemeteries (sic) and places that
are special and sacred to you. How would you feel if we bulldozed a path through the
graveyard just so it would be quicker for us to get to the other side? How would you
non-Aboriginal mothers feel if we desecrated the graves of your children? We need
the support of all the women in Australia to support our cause. Say No to the building
of the bridge.”
After Sybill had read the letter aloud, twice, all of the women signed it. Gwen
Vincent took it so she could fax it to the Minister from the Mouse House. Isobel
Hughes drove her there, while the other women followed in a separate vehicle. When
they arrived Shirley and George Tindale were already there talking with Victor
Williams and Bill Vincent. They told them that the lawyer for the ILRM, Robert
Miller, was due to arrive as he had driven down from the city that morning to meet the
police officers that would be dealing with the big protest planned for later in the week
when the construction of the bridge was scheduled to begin.
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It was mid-afternoon by the time Miller banged on the door to find Sybill and
the other women waiting for him inside the Mouth House. When Robert Miller was
shown the letter he told Sybill that the Minister would definitely need more detail than
they had provided before he could act. He said he knew from the previous reports
that the area had special significance for fertility and reproduction but that Sybill may
have to tell some more of the secret women’s business to the Minister.
Sybill erupted. Slamming her fist on the table she shouted, “There’s no
way I’m going to tell a man these things. I’d tell a woman but not a man.” She was
adamant. Miller said that if Minister Sullivan were to make an interim declaration
preventing the construction of the bridge, the next step would be to appoint someone
to do a report and that person would certainly be a woman. After more discussions
with Miller, Sybill reluctantly agreed to add another sentence to the letter, which said,
“Kumarangk is the indigenous word for fertile (pregnancy). That is also the name of
Heritage Island. It is all connected with indigenous women’s business.”
An aerial photograph of the island had been stuck on the wall of the shack.
Victor Williams suddenly looked up, pointed to it and said, “Look at that map. What
does it remind you of?”
Isobel Hughes clearly remembers Bill Vincent saying that the map looked like
a “woman’s privates” and that the waters around it were spiritual. Even at the time
Isobel claimed this disturbed her, as she didn’t think it was right that men were telling
the women about the map. Instead of expressing these feelings openly she walked
through the sliding door of the Mouse House which led directly onto the beach. She
knew that she needed time alone to think about the implications of what was being
said.
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While Isobel walked alone along the windswept empty beach, the other
women stayed inside the house and worked on what to say to the Minister.
The letter that was finally faxed to Sullivan’s office later that day included an
extra paragraph referring to the Ngarrindjeri cultural beliefs about the creation and
constant renewal of life in this area. It emphasised that the cultural traditions were
highly confidential and that only their general nature had been alluded to in the letter.
Isobel, having walked a long way along the sand was still disturbed about
what she had witnessed and decided not to return to the Mouse House. On the long
drive home she convinced herself that this “ women’s business” they were talking
about, must surely be rubbish. She had certainly never heard of it. None of her
ancestors had ever talked about it. And why had none of them ever heard of it before
today. Except Sybill. That in itself made her suspicious.
Other people in the room that day, however, remembered what was said, very
differently. Robert Miller and Victor Williams deny that anyone referred to “women’s
privates.” Sybill was definitely sure that no one had mentioned “women’s privates”
in her hearing. She said she would have smacked a man in the mouth if anyone had
said that in front of her. Men certainly never talked to her like that, they knew her
fiery nature.
When Isobel finally arrived at her little red brick home in the country two
hours later, she asked her neighbours, some of them older women, whether they had
ever heard of anything linking women’s business with Heritage Island. They all said
that they knew nothing about it. Nothing at all. She was now convinced that it was all
a pack of lies.
190
28.
Sarah was restless, pacing the room. And she had to admit she was bored. Another
quiet night at home watching television with her father snoring in his chair was
definitely not what she needed. It was her own fault, she had made no effort to
contact many of her old friends. She had virtually allowed herself to become a
prisoner in her father’s house, counting the days until she could catch a plane back to
New York.
His body looked even more shrunken and defenceless curled into the huge
embrace of the chair. His open mouth made him look strange, like a gargoyle. There
was a half-full cup of tea on a side table next to his chair and the newspaper was
scattered all over the carpet. The racing pages were still clutched in his right hand.
Through the slats of the wooden Venetian blinds Sarah could see the trees
lining the small driveway. Not a leaf was stirring. The gum tree was carved in stone.
She pictured the same scene in all the living rooms in all the small brick
houses that sat side-by-side in the street and all the other streets in all the other nearby
suburbs. They had been war-service homes and their occupants were now mostly
retirees. She was entombed in God’s vast waiting room. Her father’s snoring reached
191
a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. She jumped up from her chair and tiptoed
towards him, fear sticking like a fur-ball in the back of her throat.
Attempting to put her ear as close as possible to his mouth to hear if he was
breathing, a loud snort caused her father’s eyes to snap open. She screamed and
jumped back.
“What are you up to Polly?” queried her father, releasing his footrest and
sitting up to stare at her.
“Nothing, really. You just seemed to stop snoring … for a moment.”
“Scared I’d cashed in my chips?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Don’t worry about that my girl. I’ve got a lot of mileage left in me yet.”
“Of course you have.”
“What are you doing anyway, sitting around listening to an old man snore —
why don’t you go out and have a good time? Give Charlie a ring, I’m sure he’d shout
you a drink.”
At that moment, as if on cue, the phone rang.
“There he is now.”
“Dad, you haven’t been up to tricks with Charlie, have you?”
“Course not.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Now answer the phone.”
“I’ll kill you if it’s him.”
“That’s a nice thing to say to your old Dad. A minute ago you were scared I’d
breathed my last.”
Sarah ran down the short hallway and grabbed the phone.
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“Hello.”
“Sarah, is that you?”
“Yes it is.”
“Sarah, it’s Penny Reynolds — I’ve just been on the phone to Georgie and
she’s free for lunch tomorrow — I’d love you to come too. Can you make it? I do
hope so. Georgie says she only has an hour to spare so it has to be that Pizza place in
the East End near the University. Not very charming I’m afraid. Can you bear it?”
She was gabbling again in that same nervous shrill that Sarah had heard the
first time she had rung her. Something must be up.
“Of course, it’s fine with me. What time?”
“12.30.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Marvellous. See you then. Bye.”
No sooner had she put down the receiver than the phone rang again.
“Did you forget something?”
A voice, female, rather low and sexy, replied “I don’t think so — what did you
have in mind?”
“Who is this?”
“You mean you don’t recognise my voice?”
“Is this a prank call?”
“Now don’t get all New York aggro on me—it’s Becky Swift, from Channel
3. Remember?”
“Becky—what are you up to?”
“Not a lot, but some people are. I’m in a bar in the city as you can probably
hear and I’ve just come across some info that I thought might interest you.”
193
“Really—so tell me.”
“Ah no, not on the phone. The thing is I’m a bit bored here and I’ll tell you if
you come in and have that cocktail you promised me.”
“I don’t think so, it’s late and —.”
“It’s 10pm — come on, it will only take you fifteen minutes — you don’t have
to dress up — give yourself a break — I know it’s not Manhattan but it’s the best bar
in this tiny metropolis.”
Suddenly her father was standing by her side shouting,
“Is it Charlie — say yes Sarah — whatever he’s asking, say yes.”
Sarah put her hand over the receiver and whispered, “No—it’s not—it’s a
journalist—a female journalist with some information for me.”
He turned away and disappeared into his bedroom.
“Sorry Becky.”
“Was that a male voice I heard — am I interrupting something?”
“Hardly — it’s my eighty five year old father. Now exactly where is this
bar?”
It was so dark inside the club called The Basement that Sarah began to doubt
she would ever recognise Becky, even if she tripped over her. There did seem to be a
lot of bodies rolling around on very long, low couches. She’d heard of mood lighting
but this was ridiculous. She needed a miner’s lamp on her head.
A strong hand reached out and pulled her towards a barstool and there in the
flickering candlelight was the cheeky redhead.
“Thought you’d never get here.”
194
“I’ve been staggering around in the dark, poking at strange bodies, for twenty
minutes.”
“What’s your preference?”
“For what exactly?”
“Drinks silly — it’s far too early in the night for other intimacies.”
God these young women were bold. Oh well, this is what we had all marched
and screamed and lobbied for — strong, independent, feisty women who knew they
had the world at their feet. Why did she suddenly feel so old?
“I’ll have a marguerita.”
“Salt?”
“Of course.”
Get a grip Sarah; just be pleased you’re out of the living room and breathing in
the smoke of a fuggy bar.
“Cigarette?”
“No — gave them up five years ago.”
“How terribly politically correct of you.”
“Hardly. Just old- fashioned fear. Now what’s this info?”
“All in good time — here’s your cocktail, what shall we drink to?”
“Well you seem to be setting the agenda so it’s your toast.”
“How about…close friends.”
With that she clinked Sarah’s glass and sparkled those green eyes at her.
Who was this little minx? What was she up to? What was all this flirting
about? She was old enough to be her mother…well not quite, but she must be at
most, only twenty-five.
“So how are your close friends Sarah?”
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The Marguerita was delicious and as she licked the salt slowly from her lips
Sarah was beginning to focus on faces in the dark and couples swaying on the dance
floor. At least the music was low and sexy.
“Which friends do you mean?
“Penny Reynolds and Dr Georgina Staunton.”
Sarah’s lips lingered in the tequila froth. Had this woman been tapping her
phone?
“Been checking up on my past have you?”
“Not hard in this pond. Let’s see — you all went to University together —
you were a scholarship girl, they were from rich establishment families. Georgie
married Andrew Coleman and they both went to Oxford for post-graduate work.
Penny married someone called Ben who spent his days playing the guitar and
smoking dope. Didn’t last. She packed up and left. And then she married good old
solid Hugh Reynolds — a widowed vet with two small children. You, meanwhile,
taught English at a local High School then went to London where you also taught for
three years — how am I doing so far?”
“You really have been doing your homework.”
“Not really. Just the gossip network. No-one can believe you’ve actually
given up a job in New York to come home.”
“Well I haven’t actually given up my job—I’m on extended leave—very
extended—my Dad’s had a few small strokes and … I really don’t want to talk about
it — all too depressing.”
“Fine by me. So — enough about you, what do you think about me?”
“I think I’ll buy you another drink.”
“Brilliant idea. No questions?”
196
“Just one. Is this a gay bar?”
“Not up to New York standards but I guess it’s as close as it gets here in the
village.”
“If you’re as bored with this place as you sound—why don’t you go to New
York or Europe?”
“Been there. Done that. Are you and Penny and Georgie still close?”
“Well I haven’t seen them for nearly ten years and I don’t think they exactly
mix in the same social circles now—but yes, there’s still a bond there between the
three of us, based on the past. Now come on, no more interrogation, what’s this info?
It better be good. I actually put on makeup to come here.”
Becky lowered her voice and her head until it was almost touching Sarah’s. “It
seems there’s been a secret meeting of Ngarrindjeri women, organised and
orchestrated by Sybill Cartwright.”
“Who is she?”
“Fiery, outspoken matriarch — works at the Museum in the oral history unit,
tracing indigenous families — all the male anthropologists hate her. Your friend
Georgie loves her.”
“Sounds right.”
“Anyway they all got together with a lawyer, composed a letter and sent it off
to the Federal Minister.”
“So?”
“They claim in the letter that there is ‘secret women’s business’ associated
with the island which is why he must ban the bridge.”
“What secret women’s business?”
“That I don’t know — but I’m working on it.”
197
“Are your sources reliable? Have you checked them?”
“Absolutely. From their mouth to my ear.”
“Do you think it’s enough for Sullivan to stop the bridge?”
“I’d put money on it.”
“Why?”
“He’s very earnest, very serious about indigenous issues, very politically
correct and he wants to be the hero of the indigenous people.”
“Perhaps he’s just sincere and believes in the validity of their culture.”
“Probably does.”
“Why are you so cynical?”
“Not cynical — just a healthy sceptic.”
“Ah so little idealism in one so young.”
“Not as young as you suppose. Another cocktail?”
“Definitely not. I’m driving my father’s car — he’d kill me if anything
happened to it. Thank you for the information and the company.”
“My pleasure.” Becky leaned forward and kissed Sarah, very gently and
slowly on both cheeks.
In the darkness Sarah could feel her own cheeks flush hot. She was blushing.
Either that or she was having an early menopause.
Just as she was climbing the steps, slowly, to street level a young man coming
the other way bumped into her, causing her to stop.
“Sorry,” he muttered, keeping his head down.
She stared back at him in the gloom before he disappeared and felt a faint wisp
of recognition.
198
Later that night when she was lying in bed, the events of the evening reeling
through her mind like a tape, she remembered the young man on the steps—he had
reminded her of James, Penny’s shy step-son.
199
29.
Her father was sitting in his usual seat by the kitchen window. From this vantage
point he could see his chooks, which he had let out of their little house for a run and a
peck. Beyond the fence, was Mrs Fitch’s washing line, which for some reason he
appeared to be monitoring.
“The old bag next door hasn’t put her sheets out yet — they’re normally on
the line by now.”
“Perhaps she’s changed her washing routine.”
“Never. Not in the past thirty years anyhow. Did you have a good time last
night?”
“Just a couple of drinks with a fellow journo.”
“Not that lovely Maria?”
“Hardly.”
“Why are you all dressed up?”
“I’m going to the Museum to talk to some people and then I’m having lunch
with Penny and Georgie.”
200
“All these women. When are you going out with a bloke?”
“Don’t start Dad.”
“You should get out of those black trousers for a start.”
“These are Armani.”
“I don’t care if they’re Afghanistani—you should wear a skirt. Men like
women in skirts.”
“Is that right Mr Casanova?”
“It is right. And you should grow your hair long. Men like women with long
hair — they like to see it all splayed out on a white pillow. You think I’m just a silly
old man but I know some things and I know what men like.”
Sarah picked up her handbag. “I’m off Dad.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I’ll be back by mid-afternoon — why?”
“No reason – ah- the sheets are up next door. Are you taking the car?”
“No I’ll catch the bus, then I don’t have to worry about getting a park in the
city.”
Don Giovanni’s pizza café was already crowded by the time Sarah arrived, ten
minutes late. Penny and Georgie were at a corner table, a bottle of red wine already
open. Sarah noted that although Georgie was encased in her usual layers of coloured
cottons she had washed and brushed her hair and tied it back. Penny was, of course,
immaculate in a beige silk slacksuit with matching shoes and handbag. It was noisy,
crowded and as Sarah sat down she sensed that the other two women were a little
uncomfortable. Georgie seemed to know half the people in the restaurant, most of
who stopped by to have a chat and a laugh. She was restless, constantly diving off to
talk to people at other tables. Sarah loathed people who table-hopped in restaurants.
201
Penny was fidgeting, distracted. Suspecting that she no longer had anything in
common with either of them, she sipped her wine and made small talk until the pizzas
arrived. Sarah was regretting that she had made the effort to get here. What had she
been expecting? A sentimental reunion of three old friends? Hardly. Some new
information for her article? Not likely. What then? Was she perhaps just starved for
the company of someone under eighty years of age? At this rate her father was
winning hands down.
“Sorry Sarah. I ordered for us all, it can take forever here if you don’t get in
early,” said Georgie, attacking the pizza with her hands. Penny asked the waiter for a
knife and fork.
“Jesus Penny, you can’t be serious. Pizza is meant to be eaten hot, fresh, in
your fingers. Sitting there with a knife and fork makes you look as if you’ve got a
pineapple up your ass.”
“Do you have to be so crude all the time?” snapped Penny.
“Come to think of it you look as if you’ve already got two pineapples up your
ass — what’s worrying you? I hope it’s not the bridge because I’ll tell you now,
you’re not going to get it built.”
Sarah plunged her teeth into the pizza. Penny continued to struggle with her
knife and fork. “Rubbish. Of course we’ll get it through. Westpac have guaranteed
the loan and the Minister has assured us it will happen.”
Georgie snorted. “That sleazy trouser-snake Ryan. Every word that comes out
of that lascivious mouth of his is a lie and that’s including ‘and’ and ‘the’. What do
you think of him Sarah?”
Both sets of eyes bored into her.
“He does seem a bit duplicitous.”
202
“Duplicitous! He’s fucked every woman on his staff with a pulse and screwed
money out of half the businessmen in town for his failed, so-called developments. I
hope Hugh is sane and sensible enough not to have ploughed all his money into this
latest fiasco.”
“Of course he hasn’t but I think you’re wrong about Patrick, he’s really trying
to get this state going.”
“The only person he’s interested in getting going is himself — fancies he’ll be
the next Premier. Hah. Fat chance. And what’s this ‘Patrick’ business — don’t tell
me you’ve fallen for his bullshit charm?”
“He’s just been home for a dinner a couple of times and you can’t call him
Minister in those circumstances.” Penny was having a great deal of trouble trying to
swing the long strands of melted cheese into her pursed mouth.
“Did he slip his hand up under your skirt? That’s his favourite routine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, how do you know all this — don’t tell me he
tried it on you.”
Sarah noticed a rather smug tone to Penny’s mocking laugh.
George took no notice of such subtleties and continued to shovel huge slices
of pizza into her mouth while talking.
“I’ve got a technique for dealing with men like Ryan. You just take your fork,
slip it under the table, smile into his eyes and then press the fork into his hand as hard
as you can. Works every time.”
“You never used to be so puritanical regarding sexual advances,” said Sarah,
thinking she had better try and make a contribution to the conversation.
Georgie opened her mouth and roared with laughter. Fortunately she had
finished eating.
203
“Puritanical! Me? I love a good sexy fondle, even a fuck under the table — in
fact I often don’t wear knickers in the hope I might get lucky — don’t look so aghast
Penny — you’re no Nun or didn’t used to be — but I can’t stand slime-bags like Ryan
who expect you to be grateful for any attention they pay you. Anyway one of his
PA’s told me, and I quote “He’s a dud root.”
Penny said sternly “I didn’t ask you both to lunch to discuss Patrick Ryan’s
sexual prowess.”
“Why did you ask us?” said Sarah. Penny stopped eating and looked hard into
both sets of eyes that were focused on her.
“I need your help. I need you to both be honest, as long time friends should
be.”
“If you are expecting me to betray my indigenous sisters, Penny, it’s out of the
question. And you know that.” Now Georgie was deadly serious.
“No, I wouldn’t expect that. It’s information I need.”
“What kind of information?” asked Sarah, “you know as a journalist I can’t
reveal any sources.”
“Of course I know that. I’m not entirely stupid Sarah.”
“Well, come on then. Spit it out.”
Penny put down her knife and fork carefully, on the side of her plate
and leant forward towards them in a conspiratorial manner.
“Well ... I heard a rumour that the indigenous women have concocted a letter
which they’ve sent to the Federal Minister claiming that there’s ‘secret women’s
business’ associated with the island.”
Georgie took a long slurp of her wine and said, looking directly into her eyes,
“So what if they have?”
204
Penny snapped back,
“Well it’s not true. It’s a lie.”
“How do you know?” asked Sarah.
“Because we consulted with their leaders, extensively, many times, before we
even made the proposal to the government and no-one mentioned it. Ever. I’m telling
you the truth, really I am. You both know me well enough to know that I pay great
attention to detail and nothing, absolutely nothing about women’s business, secret or
otherwise was ever mentioned. I’m telling you the truth, you must believe me.”
Her voice was now high-pitched and emotional. George patted her hand and
in a calm tone responded.
“I know you are Pen, but you clearly didn’t speak to the Ngarrindjeri women.
You only spoke to the men who of course wouldn’t know a thing about it all. And
even if you had spoken to the women, it would depend on exactly who you spoke to,
where they came from and who their families were. Not every Narrindjeri woman
would have been told this secret knowledge. You should have spoken to Sybill
Cartwright at the Museum, she’s the expert on all the women’s culture.”
Penny’s eyes blazed. “That’s the name of the woman who’s stirring up all this
women’s stuff. I’m told she’s a loud-mouthed, interfering trouble-maker.”
“She’s certainly loud-mouthed but she’s a good friend of mine and I can
assure you, she’s no liar. If she says there’s ‘secret women’s business’ then that’s the
truth. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You just believe anything indigenous women tell you. Reconciliation is your
latest “cause celebre.”
205
“Steady on Pen, there’s no need to get nasty—I’m telling you the truth. You
must listen to me, as a friend and a professional. I am after all a consultant
anthropologist.”
Penny’s top lip was a straight line.” Don’t give me that superior academic
line. You always looked down on me because I was a social worker.”
Sarah could see that Penny was close to tears and in order to prevent that
occurring, said breezily,
“I saw a young man who looked just like your James last night.”
“Last night? Whereabouts?”
“In a very smart bar in the city. Of course it wasn’t him, I’m sure James was
at home tucked up in bed.”
“What time was this?”
“Must have been nearly midnight.”
George stopped pouring herself another glass of wine and asked,
“So — who were you with in a sexy bar at midnight Miss Sarah?”
“I’m not telling you — it would be on the next news bulletin.”
Penny seemed not to be listening while Georgie persisted in her interrogation.
“Come clean Sarah. Was it a man or a woman?”
“Not telling. Anyway, why should it matter?”
“Well I do remember you being very enamoured of a certain female politician
about ten years ago.”
“The past is another country.”
“What we want to know is whether you’re still interested in country matters?”
“You are crude George. Very crude.”
“And vulgar” snapped Penny.
206
“Let’s drink to vulgarity — long may she reign,” shouted Georgie, her nose
fast resembling the colour of the wine.
“Seriously, both of you- I really need you to tell me what you know about this
“secret women’s business.” Penny was almost pleading.
“I don’t know anything about it. I was only told last night. I know none of the
details,” said Sarah.
“Who told you?” It was Georgie’s turn to snap.
“Journalists never reveal their sources.”
“And you are not going to tell me anything more are you?” Penny glared at
Georgie.
“Hey old friend, you and I have known each other since we were little girls at
school- I value our friendship and our shared history — I really do — don’t scoff- but
we are fighting on different sides of this war.”
“Fine friend you are if you won’t even help me to understand what it all
means.”
“Don’t use that emotional blackmail on me. It might work with those creepy
clones at your tennis parties or charity teas but it won’t work with me. Don’t get our
friendship mixed up with our ideologies — they are separate loyalties.”
Penny looked at Sarah who was staring intently into her wine glass.
“And where are you? Whose side are you on? Or are you sitting on the fence
as usual?”
Sarah said, “I’m not getting into a fight with either of you. We’ll debate these
questions another time. I have an elderly father to look after and a bus to catch.”
207
Standing up, smoothing down her skirt, Penny picked up her expensive leather
bag and pushed past Sarah in order to leave first. Sarah turned and waved to Georgie
who shouted above the noise, ‘Let’s do it again soon.”
Sarah slipped her key in the front door and raced into the living room to turn
on the television. On the bus she had remembered that it was the day that had been
designated for the major demonstration and hoped to catch it on the hourly news. The
screen burst into life with the word LIVE running underneath the action.
Into the middle of the screen blazed Marty Robinson, complete with a
construction hat covered with protest stickers and a jacket with the indigenous flag
sewn over the left side. In the front of the picket line, standing next to him, were Bill
Vincent and Vic Wilson. The union men were attempting to prevent trucks from
dumping workers’ huts onto the site. Robinson was tackled and arrested by the
police. Sybill loomed into the picture screaming at them for scraping the ground as
they delivered the huts. “This is sacred ground you idiots” she yelled.
Gwen and Bill Vincent and other members of their group had roped off the top
of the hill, identifying it as a sacred site. Bill Vincent stood on a mound of rubble and
shouted through a megaphone,
“This is not the end, this is the start for the Ngarrindjeri people.”
In the last shot of the news flash, Sarah saw Jason Judd and Shane Trott take
Gwen Vincent aside.
Damn it, she should have been there taking notes and
interviewing people instead of eating pizzas and drinking red wine for old time’s sake.
Now she was even failing as a hometown journalist.
Where was her father? Probably asleep on what he called his ‘chaise lounge’
in the garden with an empty bottle of beer by his side.
208
“Dad,” she called out through the kitchen window “I’m home.”
When there was no response, she opened the door and walked down the lawn
into the vegetable garden. It was all neatly sectioned off. She laughed at the tomato
patch, which looked as if it was growing wine flagons. Her father had devised a
home-grown method of encasing every tiny tomato plant in its own glass house by
knocking the bottom off the discarded flagons given to him by a neighbour who was
partial to a glass or two of port. He had placed the glass domes over the plants to
prevent the birds and the insects from eating them. Quite ingenious.
“Dad, I’m home. Where are you?” She picked her path to the chook house
where she never ventured because of the stench of manure and then strode to the other
side of the house where he had stretched a hammock between two sturdy pines. The
hammock was empty.
“Dad. Where the hell are you?”
Her shouting gave Mrs Fitch next door an excuse to pop her head over the
fence.
“Hello Sarah. Looking for your father are you?”
No Mrs Snoop-face, of course I’m not looking for my father, I’m looking for a
large, black, pet python named Dad.
“Have you seen him by any chance?” she asked politely, as if she didn’t know
this woman spent her life spying on her neighbours. Mrs Fitch was only too pleased to
be the street know-all and telltale tit.
“He went out at noon.
I heard the car go down the driveway and just
happened to check my watch.”
Sarah sprinted inside, grabbed her handbag and emptied its contents onto the
kitchen table. No car keys. He’d clearly snuck them out of her bag when she wasn’t
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looking. She stood in the kitchen unsure of what to do next. The phone interrupted the
anger and frustration that was percolating inside her, ready to explode.
“Hello. Dad? Is that you and where in the hell are you?”
“Sarah, is that you? It’s Charlie.”
“Oh Charlie I’m sorry I’m in no mood to be civil, Dad’s stolen the car keys
and I don’t know where he is.”
“I do. He’s in hospital.”
Something inside her turned to ice at the word “hospital.” All those
clichés about “blood running cold” were true. She took a deep breath.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie hastened to assure her. “He’s not badly injured, just a
sore leg, few broken ribs and a bit of concussion. Give me your address and I’ll come
and get you.”
“Are you telling me everything? Tell me the worst Charlie, I’d prefer it.”
“I’m telling you the truth. Get yourself a cup of tea, calm down and I’ll be
there in about thirty minutes. I’ll just see that he’s settled in a ward.”
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30
Penny Reynolds was furious with both of her old friends. In fact she didn’t know
which one she despised more. Georgie for her crude remarks about Patrick, her lies
about his past and her refusal to tell her what was happening with those damned
indigenous women and their made-up secrets. Or Sarah for her refusal to commit
herself one way or another. She always did try and have a bet each way — like her
love life — could never even decide which sex she liked best. There was definitely
something smug about her expression. She knew something that she wasn’t telling
her. Bugger both of them. She looked at her watch. Perhaps she just had time to drive
down to the Island to see whether they’d managed to deliver the huts despite the
protests. Probably more sensible to turn on the television and try and catch the news.
When she saw the debacle caused by those hypocritical Friends of the Island,
who only wanted to protect their precious sea views and their new found alliance with
those lying Ngarrindjeri people who were being spurred on by that mad unionist
Marty Robinson — she felt the vomit rising into her mouth and raced to the bathroom.
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Having cleaned her teeth and rinsed out her mouth she slumped on the edge of the
bath, her head in her hands. What was happening to her comfortable, ordered life?
Here she was at three o’clock in the afternoon vomiting up undigested pizza and
cheap red wine, having been lied to by her oldest friends.
How dare they treat her like that after all these years? She’d let Georgie live
with her when she’d split up from Andrew; she’d taken Sarah on a trip to Venice to
recover from a broken heart over that politician woman. And what response did she
get when she needed them for once? They weren’t even honest enough to admit that
they both felt superior to her. Georgie with all her learned degrees and her noble
causes, Sarah with her fancy New York job and smart friends. Why did she feel so
pathetic, so powerless? Enough was enough. She was sick to death of them all.
She picked up the phone.
“Kelly, is the Minister available, it’s Penny Reynolds calling. When do you
expect him back in the office? Right. I wonder if you could ask him to ring me as
soon as he returns. I’m at home. It is a matter of some urgency. Thank you Kelly. I
do appreciate it.”
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31.
While Maria Scouros was pouting and prancing in front of the live coverage of the
demonstration still continuing on Heritage Island, Sarah and Charlie were sitting
either side of Jack Wood who was watching Maria on the television suspended above
his bed. Sarah held the gnarled hand of her father tightly, in order to stop herself
chastising him now she could see that apart from a couple of black eyes, a bump on
the head, a bruised kneecap and a couple of broken ribs, he was basically unharmed.
“No serious damage,” the young intern from Emergency had reassured her.
She leant over and kissed her father on his forehead, his cheeks and his mouth.
He laughed and said,
“Steady on Polly. I’m not dead yet.”
“I know Dad. I know. But I love you so much and I can’t bear for you to be
hurt.”
“I’m not in pain. Lovely nurse, did you see her, a bit of a dish, if only I were
ten years younger.”
“Ten years? How about 30 years.”
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“Fair go. See how she sends me up Charlie.”
Sitting there smiling like he was a part of the family, Sarah looked at Charlie’s
relaxed body and thought that’s what the self-help books mean when they tell you to
be comfortable in your own skin. He exuded the same kind of contentment that her
father used to have before he became old and frail. And scared.
“She’s crazy about you Jack,” laughed Charlie.
“She’s certainly crazy. And she’s angry with me too. Aren’t you darling? Go
on — admit it, you’d like to tell me what a silly old bugger I am, wouldn’t you?”
Sarah squeezed his hand in hers.
“I would…and I will…but now is not the time.”
“Jeeze Charlie, I’ve got that to look forward to when I get home. I think I’ll
come and bunk in with you for awhile.”
“There’s always a spare bed for you mate.”
“What about your chooks Dad?”
“That reminds me. Don’t forget to feed them every morning at seven o’clock,
creatures of habit. They’ll go off laying if their routine is disturbed. Check they have
plenty of shell grit — don’t want to come home and find the eggs have soft shells.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do it properly. Just have to find a peg that fits on my
nose.”
“Rubbish. It’s a lovely smell. Natural. You like chooks Charlie?”
“On the table, stuffed with herbs and seasoning and roasted to a golden
brown.”
“Nothing like a good roast chook — mine are organic you know.”
Sarah laughed. “Organic? What about the time you fed them some of Mum’s
leftover pills. God knows what ends up in the eggs of your poor old chooks.”
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“Didn’t do them any harm. None of them died…well one or two of the old
ones keeled over.”
The nurse came to take his blood pressure and shine a torch into his pupils.
He introduced her to his visitors.
“This is my beautiful daughter Sarah — she’s visiting me from New York —
she’s a top class journalist over there — best they’ve got in the New York Times.”
Sarah raised her eyes to heaven and shook the nurse’s hand. “He’s my oneman P.R. Company.”
“And this is Charlie, my good mate. I don’t even know what you do for a
crust Charlie?”
Charlie grinned and said, “I’m a painter.”
“Good, my roof needs a new coat, you can come and do it when I get home.
We’ll have some fun together.”
He laughed and then suddenly his face had the appearance of a balloon that
was slowly losing its air. The nurse looked at Sarah and said “Time for him to have a
little sleep I think.”
Sarah nodded, kissed his hand and placed it carefully on the top of the sheet.
“Bye my darling. Nurse says we have to go. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye Sarah. Bye Charlie. Have a good time you two.” He was so tired he
could barely open his eyes.
As they were walking together down the ward corridor Sarah buckled
at the knees. She would have fallen if Charlie hadn’t propped her up against the wall.
This was the second time this had happened since she had arrived home. Perhaps
there was something in the water.
“Take deep breaths. That’s it. Again.”
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Sarah felt her chest heaving. She was gulping in the hospital air that smelt of
polish and antiseptic and over-heated food … and death. Charlie looked at her pale
face and the beads of sweat on her upper lip.
“Come on. Up you get. Let’s get you out into the fresh air,” and he halfcarried her to the lifts.
Sitting on the wall outside Emergency, trying to gain some composure, Sarah
said,
“Times like this I wish I still smoked. Be so comforting.”
“I’ll get some for you at the shop here if you like.”
“No — really — they’d only make me sick now.”
She grabbed Charlie’s hand with the urgency of a lost child.
“Oh Charlie — he looked so little and worn-out in that big, white bed. Tell
me he’s not dying.”
Charlie squeezed her fingers. Hard. His hands were warm and strong.
“Of course he’s not. He’s just had a terrible shock. Just takes longer to get
over when you’re old.”
Tears gushed out of her eyes and she just let them roll down her cheeks.
“He’s all I’ve got in the entire world. Perhaps I’ll go back to the hospital and
sleep in the chair next to his bed, so he’ll see me there whenever he wakes up.”
Charlie shook his head. “Don’t do that. That would only panic him. Then he
really would think he was dying. And he’s not Sarah. You saw all the tests—his
heart’s good, there was no damage to the brain and his blood pressure is normal. He’s
had a terrible shock. He just needs to sleep.”
She stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “I’m going back to the
ward. He needs me.”
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Charlie stood up and grabbed her firmly by the shoulders.
“You are doing no such thing. You’re upset and you’re panicking. That’s
understandable. But going back there won’t help Jack. Or you.”
He turned her around, put his arm through hers and steered her towards the car
park.
Sarah let the wind from the open car window blow hard into her face. Neither
of them spoke. The seven o’clock news headlines blasted out of the radio.
“The Heritage Island Bridge protesters are conducting an all-night vigil.”
Sarah moaned, “Please turn that off. I can’t cope with all that stuff now.”
Charlie did as he was told and they drove in silence.
“Where are we going? She finally asked.
Charlie said, in a voice that would brook no refusal, “I’m taking you back to
my place where I’m going to give you a glass of wine and cook you dinner. And then
you are going to bed.”
Sarah smiled and almost whispered, “I’m too tired to argue.”
When she woke up the next morning it took her several minutes to work out
where she was. The previous night was a bit of a blur. After two glasses of wine she
remembered that she had been so sleepy that Charlie had half-carried her to the
bedroom. Everything after that was a blank. Lifting up the blankets and looking down
at her undies he had clearly undressed her, tucked her in and turned out the light.
Surely if they’d had sex she would remember. Well not necessarily, she’d had some
forgettable fucks in her time. Even with the curtains closed there was enough light for
her to see that every bit of wall space in his bedroom was filled with paintings.
Landscapes mostly, aerial views of deserts and rivers. There was a pale pink one that
looked strangely like a vagina. Then just like in the movies, a man in a bathrobe
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appeared in the doorway. He was carrying a breakfast tray, which he placed on the
large trunk next to the bed. Then he threw open the curtains exposing a glorious blue
sky and a sparkling sea to match. She was still dreaming, she had to be.
Then the man spoke.” I don’t know whether you eat breakfast but as you
passed out before dinner last night I’ve cooked you bacon, eggs, tomatoes and toast
with freshly squeezed orange juice and a good strong pot of coffee.”
“Tell me this isn’t a dream—tell me I haven’t died and gone...”
As soon as the word “died” came out of her mouth she clapped her hand to it
and said, “My God. Dad. I have to ring the hospital.”
The man in the dressing gown who was pouring the coffee said, “I’ve already
rung the hospital. He spent a peaceful night, is much refreshed and is probably sitting
up in bed eating a breakfast much like this one. So come on sleepy head. I haven’t
cooked all this for nothing.”
After she had devoured everything on her plate she lay back on the pillows
and looked, with intense curiosity, at the man who was lying beside her reading the
paper.
“I don’t know anything about you,” she murmured, tracing her fingers down
the muscles in his arms.
He put the paper down, took off his glasses, turned towards her and said
“right—let’s do the getting-to-know-all-about-you talk.”
She pulled teasingly at a few of the blonde hairs on his chest.
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“Yes you do—you are a journalist, a professional prier—now what do you
want to know?”
“Well firstly I want to know who did all these wonderful paintings?”
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“I did.”
“Really?”
“Why are you so shocked?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You had me tagged as a blue-collar worker — a house painter
— just like your father assumed. I saw you staring at my tattoo the first day we met
— I know they’re trendy now but in our day they weren’t. I bet this is the first time
you’ve woken up in bed next to a bloke with a tattoo. Come on — true or false?”
“True,” admitted Sarah.
“Before you work out a sneaky way to find out why, I’ll tell you. I left school
at sixteen and ran away to join the navy. Don’t ask my why — it’s too complicated to
go into now. One night on leave, drunk and disorderly, I had it done.”
“Right — well that’s cleared that up. Do I get to ask a second question?”
“Only one.”
“What is that pink painting called?”
“The Mouth…of the River.”
“And now for my last question. I promise. Speaking of mouths and such
things — last night did we…?”
“No we didn’t — necrophilia isn’t in my repertoire.”
“Did you want to make wild and amazing love with me?”
“The thought has crossed my mind on several occasions.”
“So what’s stopping you now?”
“The cup of hot coffee in your lap”
“Well we can soon fix that.”
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32.
Three days later Kym Sullivan, the Federal Minister for Indigenous Affairs,
announced a thirty-day ban on the construction of the bridge, starting immediately.
The television news showed the protesters whooping with glee. They hugged and
kissed each other, squeezing each other’s shoulders. They even hugged the little ferry
driver and took a celebratory ride across the river waving wildly at the television
cameras.
Two weeks later Sullivan appointed Professor Sharon Denton to prepare a
report on whether permanent protection of the indigenous sites on the island was
warranted. The Ngarrindjeri Action Group held a celebration rally in Amelia Park in
conjunction with the Friends of Galbraith and Kumerangk. Indigenous people and
environmentalists from all over the state piled out of buses, didgeridoo players and
traditional dancers entertained the crowd to much applause and enthusiastic cheering.
Dr Georgie Staunton was photographed selling badges bearing the slogans,
“Sacred Waters” and “Spiritual Waters.”
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Jason, Shane, Maria, Becky and Kevin conducted live interviews with the
leading protesters. Sybill, Justine, Marenka, Gwen and Bill Vincent all testified to the
vital importance of the island to their culture and in particular to indigenous women
but refused to go into details.
Professor Andrew Coleman stood on an empty milk crate and gave a
speech about the necessity to protect the native environment and maintain the
ecological balance on the island. A large gaggle of what were clearly his female
students cheered him as if he was a rock star instead of a rock climber.
In her usual dark glasses, Penny was hiding in her car, viewing it all
through her binoculars. The next afternoon she was waiting for Patrick Ryan to tap
quietly on the door of a hotel room. Even though she had checked her lipstick three
times and put more and more mascara on her eyelashes, sex was not on her mind.
The reassurances she sought were of a financial nature. This afternoon she wanted
him to be faithful to his political promises. He was already twenty minutes late.
Surely he wasn’t going to stand her up. Should she tell him that every day the
building of the bridge was delayed, their company, Hugh had insisted she was also a
director, was forced into thousands of dollars of debt due to interest payments? Did
he already know that their lawyers had spent the past week in court fighting off moves
by Westpac to liquidate their company? The judge had finally allowed them a delay
from proceedings until Professor Denton’s report was released, but had made it clear
that the company would be in real trouble if the bridge wasn’t built. If it went ahead,
there was a chance they could refinance and all would be well. Hugh was totally
distraught. It was all clearly up to her. Penny had to save the day. Penny the rock.
Penny the good wife. Penny the fixer.
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She paced the room, glaring at her watch every two minutes as if the mere act
would will him to arrive. Perhaps everything that Georgie had said about him was
true — perhaps he was just a lying, cheating sleaze-bag. Perhaps she was just one of
a conga-line of women he had used and discarded, like old tissues. Just when she
thought she might as well throw herself on the bed and sob for her sorry life, there
were three soft knocks on the door. She ran to open it and when it was firmly shut
behind them and locked she threw herself into his arms, smothering him with kisses.
“Careful of the shirt,” he said, smiling at her but disentangling himself from
her grasp. He sat himself down in the only armchair in the room, forcing her to perch
on the edge of the bed. “I do apologise for being so late, my dear, but I was delayed at
a fund-raising function. Bloody people — they think because they give you a few
dollars for your campaign funds, they own you. Now what was so urgent about the
information you said you had to tell me?”
“Don’t you want a glass of Moet first?” said Penny, gesturing towards the
bottle snuggled in an ice bucket next to the bed. She had brought her best champagne
flutes from home. “Well I don’t suppose one glass would hurt,” he purred, loosening
his tie.
With polished expertise he detached the wire from around the cork and turning
the bottle one-way and the cork another, produced a genteel pop.
“Here’s to the bridge,” he toasted.
“To the bridge,” said Penny with more conviction than she felt. “It will
happen, won’t it Patrick?” She tried not to sound desperate.
“Of course it will — how can that Professor woman possibly prove this
mumbo-jumbo, so-called “secret women’s business?”
If it’s so secret and only
women can be told it, how can the Federal Minister, who last time I looked was a
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man, ever know what it is? They can’t have it both ways. Either it’s truly secret,
truly only women’s business or if they tell it to a man — it’s immediately discredited.
How do they think they can win?”
Penny drained her champagne flute. “Thank God.
I needed your
reassurance. Hugh is so worried and —.”
“He’s a worrier.
I’m a doer. That’s the difference between us. In the
meantime there’s a P.R. war to win. I’ve organised a few friends to organise a probridge rally. They reckon they can get at least five hundred townspeople to march
down the main street of Galbraith. That should show up the other rabble for what it is.
Now what did you want to tell me?”
Penny felt a little foolish now but knew she had to produce something of
significance to impress him. “Well I did as you suggested and had lunch with Georgie
Staunton and Sarah Wood and it was very interesting.”
“How exactly?”
“Well they wouldn’t tell me what they knew about the so-called secret
women’s business.” Ryan snorted and poured himself another glass of champagne.
“Penny my dear. I didn’t think you were so naïve.”
“I’m not naïve.” The way he said the word made her sound as if she was
stupid.
“Why on earth would they tell you anything?”
“We’re very old friends. I let George live with me when her marriage split up
and I even took Sarah to Venice after she had that affair with that woman politician.”
“What woman politician? Now this is interesting. Do tell.” His eyes were
glinting. Penny hadn’t really intended to blurt it out but now she was trapped.
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“Kate Voss — she used to be state Minister for Health at the end of the 70s. It
was all very hush, hush.”
“Kate Voss who was married to the Head of the Chamber of Commerce and
Industry? They split up and she resigned to work overseas?’
“That’s the one.”
“Well, well, well. Now that is secret women’s business worth knowing — Ms
Wood better not step over the line in future. Now what about your other mad friend,
the professional protester? What can we catch her out on?”
Penny tasted the metallic tang of betrayal. She would never have cast herself
as Judas. Why should she feel so guilty? What had they ever done for her?
“Come on Penny — I have to leave shortly. Another function to attend.”
Penny poured them another flute of champagne, took a long swig and said,
“George admitted that she and the indigenous women had made up all that
secret women’s business stuff.”
He clapped his hands. “Well done—of course you have it on tape?”
“What?”
“Did you have a tape recorder in your bag when she admitted it?”
“No.” The thought would never have entered her mind
“How, then, you silly woman, can you prove it? It’s her word against yours.
And she’d probably have more credibility — even though she’s barking mad — she
does have a PhD and you’re just a housewife. Who would the media believe? Is that
all you had to tell me?”
Penny’s voice, now barely a whisper, “Yes, that’s all.”
He stood up, adjusted his sports trousers, gave her a patronising kiss on the
cheek, strode to the door and said,
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“Get it on tape, could you?”
And he disappeared.
A cleaner wheeling her trolley along the corridor heard hysterical laughter
from inside Penny’s room — it went on and on. She paused in case there was
something she should report to the housekeeper, but when the laughter stopped and
there was coughing and then silence, she continued down the corridor with her trolley
of fresh sheets, towels and toiletries. What happened behind the closed doors in this
hotel was a mystery to her; she preferred The Bold and The Beautiful, nothing sordid
or hysterical in their lives. Unlike the ones who checked in here, those people had real
class.
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33.
Seven days after the anti-bridge celebrations, a pro-bridge rally of six hundred
townspeople marched down the main street of Galbraith into Century Hall where they
sat down in hard wooden chairs to hear a range of speakers. Their antagonism was
mostly directed at the non-indigenous picketers whom many of the locals believed
had always been against the bridge and were just using the indigenous people and
their culture purely for their own ends.
Penny sat quietly among them in her sunglasses She was comforted by their
middle-class sense of certainty and entitlement. Surely once the government saw the
large number of decent, middleclass, professional people who were in this hall they
would be more disinclined to believe in that so-called “secret women’s business.”
Questions swirled in her head. How come no one had ever mentioned it to them or
any of their researchers when the plans for a bridge were first discussed? How come
when all of their other objections had failed, this new cultural link had miraculously
been discovered? It had to be a lie. It was all about power and revenge. This was a
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chance for the indigenous people to pay back the whites for how they had been
treated. Georgie was so blinded by her passion for her latest cause that she believed
anything they told her. She scanned the crowd for Patrick but he clearly had other
business. Hugh had not left the house for over a week and seemed intent on drinking
his way through the wine cellar. She hardly ever saw the children, or even the dog.
What had happened to their safe, civilised life? They just had to build that bridge.
Once it was up everything would be back to normal and she wouldn’t feel like a tiny,
bobbing cork in a vast ocean of troubles.
The final speaker, an academic, Godfrey Pelman, who owned a weekender on
the island, urged the local people to oppose the pressure from the vocal minority.
“While having a proper respect for indigenous people we should think very
carefully about the guilt trip which is opening up a gulf between the legal rights of the
indigenous and the non-indigenous. Those who seek to play on the guilt of our
ancestors will not blackmail us. We are not responsible for what happened in the past.
We have rights. Legal rights. And no-one, no matter what their background, must be
allowed to trample on them.” Penny was the first to leap to her feet and clap loudly.
Others followed and finally most of those in the hall were on their feet, clapping and
cheering. The television cameramen loved it. All the lights were blinking red.
Down the long grey linoleum of the hospital corridor inched Sarah and
Charlie. They were each side of Jack, holding an arm. He was taking tiny little steps
like an ancient Chinese woman. He tapped his stick ahead of him as if detecting
metals in the sand.
“Dad, you’re not blind. You’re meant to put your weight on the stick.”
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“Thought it would put people off from getting too near me. Don’t want to
trip.”
“You won’t trip mate. We’ve got hold of you.”
Slowly, snail-like, they guided him towards Charlie’s car, stopping every few
steps for Jack to have what he called “a breather.”
“My old legs were bad before — now they feel like jelly.”
“You’ve been in bed Dad. We’ll get a physio to come home and massage
them.”
“Get a good looker then — what d’ya reckon Charlie?”
“Absolutely Jack. Come on mate — it’s only a little further to my car.”
“Your car. What’s happened to mine? You said you were getting it fixed.”
Sarah patted his arm, “I am Dad, it’s just taking longer than they thought. You
did quite a bit of damage.”
“Not much more than a few scratches if I remember.”
“Yeah, well you don’t remember too much.”
“I remember Charlie getting me out of the car into the ambulance. The things
I had to do to get you two together.”
Charlie grinned at Sarah over the bobbing grey head of her father.
“I’m not stopping driving Sarah. Soon as my legs are right I’ll be back behind
the wheel.”
“We’ll talk about it when your legs are better. Now come on — can you take
slightly bigger steps?”
“I’m trying lass, I’m trying.”
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Once they had practically carried him around his garden and he had inspected
his chooks he was more than happy to be left alone to doze in the warm spring day in
his favourite outdoor chair.
“A bit of sun will do him good,” said Charlie; sitting at the kitchen table while
Sarah made them a pot of coffee.
“He looks so fragile. He used to be such a sturdy bloke,” she said peering out
at him from the kitchen window.
“He’s as tough as old boots, don’t worry about him.”
Sarah turned to face Charlie. “He’s my rock…even though I haven’t been
here, I’ve always known that he is and that if everything else fell apart, he’d be here
waiting for me.” As soon as Charlie saw her eyes start to brim with tears he jumped
up from the table to put his arms around her. He stroked her hair and held her close.
She calmed down and buried her face in his chest.
“That first night when we left Dad in the hospital and I nearly collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared Charlie. Terrified. But not just because he was in there.”
Somehow it seemed easier to tell him these truths because he wasn’t looking
at her. Her nose was running and her eyes were overflowing and he just pushed her
head gently into his shirt and continued to stroke her hair.
“My mother died in that same hospital. I’d taken her in some chocolates and I
just kissed her, turned to wave good-bye and then dropped Dad off at home…It was
the last time I ever saw her.” She felt his body stiffen and begin to pull away from her.
The jug boiled and she stood up to make the coffee. After she’d blown her
nose and splashed some cold water on her face she joined him at the table.
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Charlie was good at not speaking when it wasn’t necessary but now
when Sarah really wanted to open up and tell him what she was feeling, he seemed
reluctant to enter that unknown territory. The moment had passed. He leaned away
from the table.
“When do you plan to go back to New York?”
“I don’t know. I had a letter from my boss the other day saying that they
could only hold my position open for another month. I can’t leave Dad here, like he
is now; he won’t even discuss a Retirement Village with me, let alone go and look at
one. What did you do with your parents?”
He looked away. Seemed an innocent enough question until she realised she
had been so engrossed with her own problems in the last two weeks that she had never
asked him any questions about his family. From the look on his face it was probably
just as well.
“I don’t talk about my family. Ever.”
“Oh right. Sorry.
He stood up, “Anyhow I’d better get going. There’s a beer and a pool table
waiting for me at the pub. If you need me you only have to ring.”
He kissed her gently on the lips. “Don’t wake your Dad up to say goodbye.
Let him sleep, he needs to rest.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, waving at his back disappearing down the drive.
The phone rang. It was Tim. “Hello my love. How’s your father?”
“Well he’s home. Walking very slowly on a stick.”
“But he’s on the mend.”
“I hope so. He looks so vulnerable. Do you know I’ve never even seen him in
hospital before in my life.”
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“No, he was always as fit as a mallee bull, as he used to say. You’re not going
to let this affect your return to New York though, are you?”
“I can’t leave him in this condition.”
“Get him a nurse.”
“He wouldn’t allow it and anyway they cost a fortune. I’m not working,
remember.”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you. Saw your boss at a party last week and he is
getting a tad impatient about your prolonged absence.”
“I know, he wrote to me.”
“You have to bite the bullet over this.”
“Since when did you employ such military terms?”
“Don’t quibble about my language. If you don’t leave soon you never will.
You’ll be stuck there like a character in a Beckett play.”
“Go on — say it — waiting for my father to die. Don’t you think I live with
that knowledge on a daily basis?”
“Don’t argue with him. Just find a good retirement home and put him in it.”
“I can’t do that against his will. He’s still got all his marbles. And he’s as
stubborn as I am once he makes up his mind.”
“Well you’ll just have to leave him there in his own house. Ring the Council
and get him some helpers Get meals –on –wheels. Your aunts will pop in to check up
on him.”
“He’d hate that.”
“What other choice do you have? The longer it goes on the harder it will be
for you to leave. Otherwise you’ll just drift and drift … into a suburban haze. For
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God’s sake Sarah. You’ve got one of the best jobs in the world in the most exciting
city in the world, are you seriously going to throw it away?”
His voice was loud in her ear and urgent, as if he was shaking her by the
shoulders.
“I know.” Her voice was small and feeble. “But you don’t understand.
There’s only Dad and me and I’ve left him alone for so long.”
“He’s survived Sarah. Without you. And he’ll survive again. You’re not
indispensable.” Now he was becoming impatient and annoyed with her.
“But he wasn’t old and ill like he is now.”
“We’re going round in circles. And you don’t really listen to me.”
“I do, Tim, really I do — I’m just…conflicted.”
“Obviously. Well you’ll do what you bloody well want to do — you always
do. I’d better go. Take care my love — give my best to your Dad.”
Sarah felt wretched. She was so happy this morning that she was bringing her
father home from hospital and now all she wanted to do was get into her little bed and
pull up the covers.
The phone rang again. Thank God, she hated arguing with Tim.
“I’m sorry I’m so hopeless.”
“Sarah, it’s Tom, not Tim. Tom Watson.”
“Tom. I’ve been meaning to ring you, my father was involved in an accident.”
“Yeah I heard.”
She paused. Of course. The media drums would have been beating overtime.
“He’s just come home today.”
“How is he?”
“A bit shaky on his pins.”
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“You don’t sound too good either?”
“No. I’m fine. It’s all been a bit exhausting emotionally but things are back to
normal now.”
“Did he have another stroke?” Another bit of information for the drumbeaters
in the village.
“No — not as far as the tests show. He just didn’t see the tram coming up
behind him before he turned.”
“Jeeze — he was lucky. Those trams are built like army tanks. Now, am I
going to be lucky enough to get an article out of you, soon?”
“I doubt it Tom. Anyway, there’s a ban on the bridge.”
“Yes but someone called Professor Sharon Denton has been appointed by the
Federal Minister to make a report.”
“Never heard of her.”
“No, perhaps not — but I have heard a whisper that your old friend Dr
Staunton has been asked to “facilitate,” I think that is the word, for the indigenous
women.”
“I’ll see what I can find out but don’t hold your breath.”
“This is turning into a national story Sarah — it’s gone way past the village
pump now.” A voice, scared and frail came from within the house
“Sarah. Sarah. Where are you?”
“That’s my Dad. Calling out for me. Gotta go Tom. Bye.”
Jack was shuffling up the passage towards her, head down, still calling out.
“Sarah.”
“I’m here Dad.”
He stopped and looked up. His eyes were confused and milky.
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“Where’s Charlie? He didn’t say goodbye.”
“He didn’t want to wake you.”
“Can we go to the pub for lunch?” She gradually managed to turn him around
and together they tottered down the passage.
“Not today.”
“Why not?”
“We haven’t got a car.”
“We’ll catch a cab.”
“Not today, old boy. You only left your hospital bed this morning.”
Jack stopped and hung his head.
“Wish I was back there. One of the nurses used to sneak me in a beer.”
“You can have a beer now. But we’re not going to the pub.”
“Suppose you’ve pissed off Charlie like all the other men you’ve had.”
“Charlie and I are friends. That’s all.”
She took his arm and led him slowly into the living room, settling him in his
favourite chair, placing his legs carefully on the extended footrest. He closed his eyes.
“Now I’ll go and get you a beer.”
Grabbing her hand he looked up at her, almost imploringly.
“I just want to see you settled before I die sweetheart.”
She patted his hand, trying to keep the choke out of her voice.
“I know you do, Dad. I know you do.”
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34.
The sun was about to dive below the horizon when Georgie and Sybill arrived at the
Pines and walked into the room where thirty five indigenous women were sitting,
waiting. No one was smiling. All eyes were fixed on the white woman who had been
brought into their midst.
Sybill introduced Georgie as a consultant anthropologist. They were not
impressed. The stares were sullen and in their eyes Georgie saw their unease. Even
though she already knew many of the faces in the room, this issue was about their
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culture, not hers. Knowing the question that hung in the air, Sybill answered it
immediately.
“Many of you already know Georgie and her good work for us. She is here
today because we need her to help us get a report together for Professor Denton.”
“What do we need with a white anthropologist – all they do is rip indigenous
people off,” was the response from a woman in the front row that Georgie had not
seen before.
Sybill put her hands up to stop the mumbling of agreement. “I can vouch for
her. We worked at the Museum together; she’s not like all the others. I promise you.
And besides, if we have to go to court to stop the bridge, we’ll need someone with
letters after her name. We have to fight them with their own weapons. You all have
to trust me on this.”
Sullen silence. Sybill looked across to Georgie, who stood up, brushed her
long hair away from her eyes and did her best to assure them that she was there to
help them in whatever way she could. She repeated that she was there to follow their
instructions.
No one spoke after her small speech, their eyes drilling into her back as she
walked to the end of the room and sat down in the corner. For the next two hours
Georgie was unnaturally silent as she observed the women move quietly from group
to group to listen and discuss how much of their secret women’s knowledge they
should reveal to Professor Denton.
Georgie noted that among them, unmoving and stubbornly apart from the
others, sat Isobel Hughes. She thought she observed a slight but discernable sneer
hovering around Isobel’s mouth when Sybill finally stood up to share with them what
she herself had been told by the elders. No sooner had she begun than Carmel Todd,
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a big woman, with a halo of thick white hair, a woman that many of the others often
looked to for leadership, interrupted Sybill. “We shouldn’t be talking about these
things in public. Women’s secrets are for private conversations.” Sybill assured her
that they could not save the island if they refused to give this information to Sharon
Denton. Other women, emboldened by Carmel’s objections, shouted out their own
concerns. Questions like. “How do we know she won’t tell anyone else? How can we
be sure that our secrets won’t find their way to Minister Sullivan, who is a man?”
were repeated around the room. The voices were loud and insistent.
For once, Sybill did not shout back, but in a low, calm voice, she explained
again, slowly, why their ancestors would want them to stop the bridge. Carmel
Todd’s daughter still insisted that she was wrong. “We should never tell our secrets to
white people. If the price of secrecy is the Bridge, then so be it.” Sybill and she
continued to gnaw at the argument, each one refusing to concede until 10.30pm when
it was clear that no resolution would be reached. The meeting broke up. Someone
pulled out a guitar and Carmel began to sing Christian hymns. The rest of the group
joined in, their bodies swaying in time to the familiar tunes, their minds at peace with
the certainty and assurances of the Christian message.
Georgie slipped away and returned to her motel room, very worried about the
fact that even though it was less than twelve hours until Sharon Denton was due to
meet the women, nothing had been decided about what she should be told. The
meeting had nevertheless reinforced her own belief in the importance and authenticity
of the women’s cultural traditions on the island.
These, above all else, must be acknowledged and respected. She was
determined that Professor Denton would understand that as their first principle.
As Denton’s car pulled up outside the meeting place the next morning,
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Sybill and Carmel’s daughter had resumed their argument, only now it was
becoming very heated. It was clear to Georgie that they were both close to tears.
When Sharon Denton suddenly appeared at the door, they pulled themselves together
in order to present a united front. White people were present. This was no time to be
arguing amongst themselves.
Sharon Denton was short, brown-haired, neatly dressed and bespectacled. A
perfect caricature of a private school headmistress. With no chance for anyone to
introduce her, she simply took control, stood in the front of the group, introduced
herself and in a matter-of-fact manner explained her purpose in being there. Then she
asked ‘the custodians of knowledge’ to talk to her. Silence followed. Denton stood
still and waited. Most of the indigenous women were openly glaring at Denton, with
the intention of summing her up. Could she be trusted, was the only question on their
minds. The silence lasted at least ten minutes. Denton waited. And waited.
Finally Sybill broke the stand-off by assuring the others that she thought that
it was safe to break some of the rules in order to safeguard their sacred site. Most of
them nodded and appeared convinced that she was right. By morning tea, however, no
one but Sybill had spoken directly to Denton. Over cups of tea and sweet biscuits,
one of the younger women finally sidled up to Denton and whispered that the women
would probably talk to her if she just sat quietly and didn’t take notes.
When the meeting resumed, Denton did as she had been advised and
gradually, one by one, the women came up to her. When Denton said she needed
more detail, they allowed her to gain more knowledge but it was slow to trickle out.
By lunchtime Denton made it clear to Georgie that she did not think that she was
going to be told enough to make a proper report to Sullivan.
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After lunch, all the women accompanied Denton on a tour of Heritage Island
in a bus, which finally stopped at Sugars Beach near the Mouse House. Denton
followed them down to the beach where she was invited to join hands with them and
form a circle. Georgie stood outside the circle and, with their permission, took
photographs to record this historic occasion. Carmel Todd, her white hair ruffling like
surf in the wind, said a Christian prayer asking Jesus to help them protect the
Ngarrindjeri country that he had given to them as custodians. Sybill repeated some
words that were recited by the old people whenever there was to be a change in the
landscape.
“To all the mothers that was,
To all the mothers that is,
To all the mothers that will be.”
Led by the melodic voice of Carmel, the women sang hymns together, there
on the beach, hand in hand with Denton who was smiling. Sybill murmured quietly to
Georgie, “Everything will be alright now. The beach made it. The sky and the sea
made it happen.” The women piled back into the bus which bumped its way back to
their conference room on the mainland where they were to continue the discussion.
Isobel did not join them. Her car disappeared through the gates.
The discussion inside the room now centred on how the confidential
information would be treated in Denton’s report. Denton assured them, promised
them, that as far as she was able, she would respect their confidentiality. They stared
back at her. Watchful. Wary. They had been duped into trusting the words of white
women too often in the past. Denton sat quietly and waited, her impatience not
showing on her face. After another long period of silence the women decided to vote
on whether Sybill should be appointed as their spokesperson with the authority to tell
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Sharon Denton whatever she thought appropriate about the sacred women’s traditions
on Heritage Island. One by one, the women raised their hands, slowly and almost
reluctantly, but by the time Carmel Todd had raised hers and others had followed, the
vote in favour of the proposition, was unanimous.
Sybill spent the next few days accompanying Denton to other indigenous
settlements where she met dozens of new people. It had been a frantic schedule.
Denton explained that she only had three weeks to write her report for the Minister in
order for him to consider it and then make his final decision. Georgie was pleased and
honoured that she had been chosen as a witness to such an important event but knew
she was sworn to secrecy. It had all been so emotionally intense that she was looking
forward to a weekend of reading, eating and drinking with her housemates. She
thought a bit of wild dancing at midnight wouldn’t go astray.
The next morning at exactly 9am the phone in her house rang and rang and
rang. It finally stopped, only to resume its insistent ringing. Someone, certainly not
Georgie, finally answered it and proceeded to bang on her bedroom door.
“It’s for you. Wake up George.”
Apart from being disturbed so early she was not pleased by what the lawyer
from the ILRM had rung to tell her. Evidently Professor Denton had informed him
that a more detailed report was needed for her to pass on to the Minister. The lawyer
wanted Georgie to fill in all the necessary details for Denton within a week.
“A week,” she shrieked. “That’s impossible.”
“There’s no one else who can do this. George. It’s you or we fail.”
Despite her protests she knew he was right. How could she refuse? It was her
duty to help the women. She knew that nobody else was in a position to complete the
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brief, as the lawyer continued to reinforce. Eventually when she realised he was not
going to give up, she gave in.
That afternoon she spent many hours with Gwen Vincent, Carmel Todd,
Justine and Marenka, all of who had been at the meeting with Professor Denton.
They, in turn, put her in touch with other indigenous women who could help her.
Finally, on the following Wednesday she rang Sybill and over the phone they
discussed what should go into the sealed envelope for Denton. When she had finally
finished writing the report she read her final draft out to Sybil over the phone late at
night, making any necessary amendments and printed it out. She knew she was really
pushing her deadline. She had refused to speak to anyone; she had eaten her meals
alone in her room and worked all through the night, snatching only a few hours sleep.
It had been a very long, debilitating and exhausting week.
When she woke up slumped over her desk on the Saturday morning she read
through the printed document. She was horrified. Apart from all the ‘typos’, she
realised she had not fully analysed the material and placed it in a sufficiently detailed
cultural context. Panicking, she rang Denton. After ten minutes of desperate
explanation and pleading she gained an extension of a few extra days in order to write
an appendix containing an anthropological analysis of the contents. Three days later
she sealed this appendix in an envelope, placed it in another envelope and marked it
‘CONFIDENTIAL – TO BE READ BY WOMEN ONLY’.
Despite the haste and the time limitations, Georgie’s report made it very clear
that the building of the bridge would not simply injure and desecrate the women’s
traditions but had the capacity to destroy their particular and ancient culture. By the
time Denton’s report, containing Georgie’s report with the appendix inside sealed
envelopes together with the hundreds of other submissions also addressed to the
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Minister, had been collected and deposited on the Minister’s desk, there was only one
weekend left before the temporary ban on the bridge expired.
Sullivan read the Denton report on Friday and Saturday, ensuring that copies
were Express couriered to the Reynolds and Minister Ryan. He asked a female
member of his staff to read what was enclosed inside the secret envelopes and to reseal them. She contacted the Ngarrindjeri women, gained permission to read the
material then reported what she had read back to the Minister. She also read the four
hundred other submissions, one of which was from the Reynolds and included the
details of the financial losses that would be incurred by them if the bridge was
banned.
Early on Saturday morning, Penny and Hugh were locked inside his study,
poring over the documents that had been couriered to them by Minister Sullivan.
“Where’s Georgie’s report?” asked Hugh.
“I’ll ring the Minister’s adviser,” said Penny.
“Just ring Georgie. It will save time.”
“She won’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because she will consider that it’s unprofessional and…”
“Unprofessional – what would she know about professional behaviour? She’s
a traitor and a bloody anarchist.” Hugh was shouting.
“If you’ll just calm down and stop shouting at me you might remember that
Georgie and I are actually on different sides of this fight.”
“Friendship should come before politics. And you two are very old friends.
Surely she doesn’t want to see you forced into bankruptcy?”
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“Bankruptcy?
For god’s sake, stop exaggerating. You’ve never once told
me that if this project didn’t succeed it was going to make us bankrupt?”
“Yeah, well I haven’t told you a lot of things.”
“Tell me you’re not serious”
Hugh was silent.
“Hugh! Stop all these theatrics. Tell me the truth.”
“Well it’s not good – but let’s not go into all that now – let’s concentrate on
getting this bloody report so we know what we’re up against.”
“We have to go into it now. When you say “not good” – it’s not going to be
disastrous is it?”
“It will be if you don’t get onto Sullivan’s office.”
“Why me?”
“Because, my dear, you are a woman. They won’t send the secret envelopes
to a man will they? Now do it, we don’t have any time to waste”
Penny rang the number the Minister’s office had given them and demanded
that they send the Staunton report and the secret envelopes. The Minister’s assistant
agreed to fax Georgie’s report but refused to send the envelopes.
On Saturday morning Patrick Ryan had been tipped off by a party spy that the
situation was not looking good. He decided to ring the Federal Minister at his home.
Sullivan was not impressed by Ryan’s obvious lack of appreciation of the cultural
importance of the sites to the Ngarrindjeri people. Ryan expressed his outrage at
Sullivan’s Federal interference in State affairs.
Sullivan reminded him that the
Federal legislation protected spiritual beliefs as well as archaeological sites. Their
conversation became very stilted. Ryan did not tell him that he was very worried
about the financial ramifications for his State of a legal ban on the bridge. Or that his
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own career was on the line over this. He had assured everyone, boasted even, that he
would win this one; that the bridge would be built. Sullivan simply told him he
needed time to consider it all and hung up.
It was late on Saturday afternoon by the time Sullivan received the Reynolds’
response to the Staunton report, together with their claim that by being refused access
to the secret envelopes they were being denied natural justice. On Sunday night the
lead item on the television and radio news was the announcement that the Federal
Minister for Indigenous Affairs, Kim Sullivan, had made a final decision to place a
twenty-five year ban on the construction of the bridge from Galbraith to Heritage
Island .
It was now definitely a national story. And a hot one. Federal intervention in
State politics is always controversial and this story had the added lure of secret sealed
envelopes that even the Minister had not read because they were for women’s eyes
only. Sarah, who had been watching the evening news with her father, ran to the
phone.
“Georgie – it’s Sarah.”
“Isn’t it fabulous. We’ve won Sarah, we’ve bloody well beaten the bastards.”
“But what about Penny and Hugh. I hope this won’t bankrupt them.”
“Nonsense, they’re loaded. He’s made stashes of loot on other developments.
Maybe this will teach them to have more respect for indigenous beliefs before they
get into bed with the likes of Patrick Ryan.”
“I know you won’t tell me what is in those sealed envelopes.”
“You’re right about that.”
“But explain to me why the secrecy is so important.”
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“I can’t talk too long on the phone because I’m due at a celebration party with
the Ngarrindjeri women – are you writing about this?”
“Yes. I’m focusing on the secret envelopes.”
“Right, what you must first make clear is that in many indigenous cultures,
secrecy is the measure by which they judge whether or not something is important.
The more secret it is, the more sacred the knowledge. Think of it like one of those
Russian dolls. When you remove one, there’s another one underneath and so on.
There are stories and secret rituals behind other stories and other rituals. Sometimes
they only tell the outer layers to children and then as they get older, other layers of
knowledge are revealed to them.”
“Is the story, however, just a deepening of the original – like the Russian doll
is replicated?”
“Not necessarily, even though their myths and stories are in layers, they can
shift and change. It depends on both the teller and the listener.”
“So there’s no one, pure truth.”
“Not as we in our culture understand it. Because it isn’t written down, nothing
is fixed. It’s an oral history. If everyone knows about a story, then it’s probably not
very important. What is most secret, is held to be of greatest significance.”
“How do I know that Sybill and her friends aren’t just making up stories as
they go along?”
“Because they wouldn’t do that. You can’t think of their secrets like ours. For them,
secrets are outer layers and inner layers of knowledge handed down from one
generation of women to another. It’s sacred spiritual knowledge. Sybill has certainly
not told me, and perhaps not any of the Ngarrindjeri women, all of what she knows.
She may only pass these secrets on just before she dies and only then to a few selected
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tribal sisters that she trusts.
The most important and powerful secrets must be
protected or they lose their power. That is what you must emphasise– now I must go –
give me a ring tomorrow afternoon if you want to know more.”
Sarah was determined to be objective and fair about ‘secret women’s business’
as the media had named it. A good journalist is never meant to be on anyone’s side,
regardless of whether the main proponents are your old friends. Surely Georgie
would understand that a good reporter is meant to be objective and not just rely on her
sources, just like a good anthropologist. Penny, on the other hand, would never
understand her need to be objective. She would probably end up hating her because
she had so much to lose. In the end, everyone could end up hating her. That was often
the price of objectivity. That was the tough part of being a good journalist.
“How about a beer before dinner Polly?” shouted her father. As she poured the
frothy amber liquid into the glass, she wondered if it was too soon to begin to talk to
him about his future. She knew she had to tread carefully or he would just close up,
look hurt and the door to any future discussion would be not only locked but bolted.
Without getting him settled somewhere, how could she just pack her bags and catch a
plane back to New York, her old job, her old apartment, her old life? What could she
say to him? ‘Bye Dad. “I’ll ring you. Have a nice death!
“Sarah. Hand me that beer. Stop dreaming. A man could die of thirst!
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35.
Georgie pushed through the heavy fire doors into the Anthropology Division of the
State Museum. Down in the dusty bowels of the building toiled the state
anthropologists, the head of whom was Dr Julian Turner, an old school friend of her
ex-husband. Julian was tall, good-looking and intelligent. He exuded the kind of quiet
confidence assumed by those whose lives had been laid out for them in an everadvancing sequence and who saw nothing wrong with such patrician promotion.
Andrew admired Julian because he was always the first to expose the
intellectual flabbiness of so-called “political correctness.” Julian had never really
liked Georgie. She knew he considered her tedious and tiresome in her loud and
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aggressive pursuit of feminist and indigenous causes. He was bored by her constant
condemnation of what she called patriarchal anthropologists and could never
understand why Andrew had married her. She was secretly hoping she wouldn’t be
forced into having a conversation with Julian as she had no energy to counter his cold
arrogance. She could never seem to resist having a chop at the edifice he had erected
for himself.
“What are you doing here?”
Damn – it was him.
“Hello Julian. Nice to see you too. I wanted to check something.”
“Check!”
“Yes, check some facts.”
“What a joke – you don’t need to check facts – you just invent whatever you
need.” His tone was sneering.
“I don’t want to have an argument with you.”
“You realise that you are no longer a respected anthropologist – you are an
activist and therefore, not to be trusted.”
His voice curdled with hostility. She tried to push past him but he stood his
ground, all 6’ 3” of him towering over her in the gloom of the office. He was not
physically threatening, that was not his style. His lips curled with distaste as he
challenged her, defying her to take him on in an intellectual argument.
“Just answer this. How could it be, do you think, that no one has ever
mentioned this secret women’s business before? How could I, who has after all,
written a thesis on the Ngarrindjeri and read literally everything that has ever been
written about them – how could I have possibly missed even a reference to it?”
“The answer to that should be obvious.”
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“Really! Why?”
“Very few women have researched the Ngarrindjeri. Work like yours based on
male missionaries and male researchers and male anthropologists is bound to have a
male bias. No woman would ever have spoken to you about it.”
“How very convenient for you to hitch your feminist agenda to a well-known
inventor of tradition like Sybill Cartwright. What she doesn’t know, she just makes
up, like this so called ‘secret women’s business’. He spat out the ‘s’. How come no
one but Sybill has ever heard of it? Knowing Sybill, she’s made all this up to get her
fifteen minutes of fame but you…you pretend to be a serious scholar and a
professional anthropologist. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Georgie fixed him with a cold stare. “The island should not be linked to the
mainland by a permanent connection above the water. It’s as simple as that. And
there’s no need to sink to personal vilification of women like Sybill, just because she
has left you and your mates out of the loop.”
“Loop! She’s the loopy one. This will ruin your academic and professional
reputation – you will rue the day you ever aligned yourself with these women.
Mark my words.”
“Rue the day – how very Old Testament and threatening you sound Julian. But
then again, talking down to the masses, especially women, was always your style.”
She laughed scornfully but it was hollow even to her ears. His finger pointing
and flashing eyes had disturbed her. He was not going to let her off lightly.
“Well try this. The whole issue stinks. It stinks of deceit and fabrication. And
you will stink with it. And that stink will hang around you for the rest of your career.
Can you understand that. Is that clear enough for you?”
He turned his back on her and walked off, slamming the back door behind
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him.
“I’m shaking in my boots,” Georgie called out after him.
“Well, well, we really have upset the boys” Georgie muttered to herself. She
went
straight to a phone on a nearby desk and rang Sybill to warn her that the
mothball-patriarchs were turning nasty. Very nasty. She realised she could hardly
see the numbers on the phone to dial. The bastard had turned out the lights at the
main switch. She wasn’t going to stumble around in the dark in this damp basement.
Once outside the colonial sandstone building, Georgie took a deep breath and
looked upwards. The sky was bruised and brooding. No stars were out tonight to
celebrate the Ngarrindjeri’s victory. What a pity, she thought, when there was so
much joy to be shared and celebrated.
After they had viewed the six o’clock news item together, Penny retreated
into the kitchen to cook the dinner. Hugh called her into the dining room where he
was seated at the end of the long cedar dining table, a bottle of Grange Hermitage,
the most expensive wine in their cellar, already open.
“That’s it, Pen. We’re finished. It’s all over.”
“What do you mean finished?’
“Just that—finished … gutted, shafted, decimated. Take your pick. They all
mean the
same thing. Do you want a drink? Might as well have the best bottle in the
cellar before the creditors move in.”
“No – I don’t want a drink but I do want an explanation.”
“Nothing to explain my dear. It’s simple. We have no more money left.”
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“Borrow some more.”
“The bank has foreclosed. The till is locked.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“This is not melodrama – this is the real thing. In fact, this is Shakespearean.
The
hero has fallen from a great height. Perhaps I should fall on my sword.”
“Stop talking nonsense. You are drunk.”
“I wish I was. Doesn’t seem to matter what I drink or how much. These days
it just doesn’t touch the sides.”
Penny had been standing at the other end of the table. Moving down to sit
next to him, she studied his face. His skin was pallid and sweaty, his cheeks hung in
loose folds beneath the flesh bagging beneath his eyes. This man, her husband, at
whom she hadn’t looked closely it seemed for months, had aged at least ten years. She
put out a hand to pat him on the shoulder and he lurched towards her burying his head
in her lap. She stared at the balding pate for several minutes and when she leant down
and lightly kissed it, his sobs filled the room. Never in nearly twelve years of
marriage had she ever known Hugh to cry. He didn’t weep at the funeral of his first
wife. He didn’t even weep when a car ran over their aged and beloved cat squashing
its brains out onto the road. Who was this sobbing, sodden wreck clinging so
desperately to her hips?
“Come on old boy. It can’t be that bad. You are tired and overwrought.”
She forced him to sit up, blow his nose and poured him another glass of red
wine.
When she noticed how much his hands were shaking she poured herself a
glass.
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“We’ve still got the appeal. You’ll see. Everything will be all right in the
end. Justice will be done.”
“We’ve got no money left to pay the lawyers.” The tears were still flowing
down his pallid cheeks.
“Nonsense. I’ve got money.”
“No, you haven’t. I withdrew it to pay the overdraft.”
“You what?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“But that was my inheritance – left to me by my parents. You had no right to
take it without my approval, even if it was invested in both our names for tax
purposes.”
“I was going to put it back once the bridge was built and we started selling off
the marina berths and the townhouses.”
“It’s all gone?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You can’t be serious?’
“I’m deadly serious.”
There had been nearly 500,000 dollars of her money in that account. He took
her hand and she shook it off.
“How dare you do that to me Hugh?”
“What do you mean – to you? What about all my hard-earned money that I
put into the development?”
“But that was my personal money.”
“Since when did you stop living off my money? You haven’t worked a day
since we married.”
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“I haven’t worked – oh that’s rich, that’s very rich.”
She drained her wine and poured herself another glass.
“Steady on – leave some for me. That’s our best bottle. I bought that over
twenty years ago.”
“I’m well aware of that. If it’s so precious to you then you’d better have it.”
With a flick of her narrow wrist on which sat the eighteen carat gold bracelet
he had given her for their first wedding anniversary, she threw the wine in his face.
He reeled back, spluttering and coughing as the red wine soaked into his crisp white
shirt, spreading its colour like the old British Empire.
“What the bloody hell”
Penny wasn’t listening, she was smashing her fine crystal glass into the
fireplace with the white marble surround and the matching mantelpiece. Hugh just sat
there, staring at her in total disbelief. She seized his glass, which was nearly empty
and smashed it on top of hers. Splinters of crystal skidded across the polished boards.
“I bought these glasses – remember? With my money. So they’re mine to
smash.”
“Steady on.”
“Steady on – you dare say, steady on, to me when you have not only
squandered all your money but all of mine too. Steady on – when you sit there,
sobbing like some pathetic victim and tell your wife that you are bankrupt. Steady on
when you also declare that she has not worked in the last ten years. Who cooked the
meals? Who organised the house? Who cared for your children? Who helped you
out in your vet
practice? Who entertained the businessmen and the politicians?”
“That’s what wives are supposed to do.”
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“Is that right – well fuck you Mr Reynolds. Fuck the house, fuck the garden,
fuck the children – let’s see how you get on without me.”
He stood up and tried to grab her by the arm.
“Take your hands off me.” She was screaming at him in a high-pitched,
hysterical tone that he had never heard come out of her mouth.
“I’m sick of it – do you understand. Sick of it all.”
“Calm down Pen.”
“Calm down. Why should I? You’ve blown everything we’ve worked so hard
for–poof–up in smoke–and all my inheritance. Without even discussing it with me.
And you tell me to calm down. You fucking calm down.
I’m ready to
explode–like Vesuvius–I’m full of boiling lava.”
Jeremy appeared in the doorway of the dining room.
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”
“Ask your father. I’m out of here.”
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36.
The banning of the bridge decision boomed from all the morning bulletins on radio
and television and was headlined in every morning paper throughout the nation. The
phrase ‘secret women’s business’ was now on the lips of every talkback host. The
right-wing shock jocks spat the words into their microphones, mocking anyone who
rang in and tried to defend the concept. Hundreds of callers all over the nation were
only too willing to join in the condemnation of the aboriginal women who had
convinced the Minister to take their beliefs seriously.
“It’s all mumbo jumbo. Might as well believe in witchcraft.”
“They just make it up to show off their power.”
“How can you ban something on the basis of a secret? The Minister hasn’t
even read what’s inside the envelopes. They are just being used by all those softheaded left-wing loonies who treat anything aboriginal as if it’s sacred.”
On and on they raved and ranted.
Sarah flicked from one radio station to another. Her feature article published
that morning in The Nation, which clearly none of these people had read, was focused
on what lay beneath these predictable, knee-jerk responses. She had argued, in what
she had thought was a balanced approach, that the core of the dispute resided in the
255
competing notions of the Western and indigenous cultures of what actually
constituted history and culture. She had asked crucial questions like, “How can you
compare the veracity of a written culture with an oral culture? How could white
culture, which deemed itself to be superior, ever begin to understand how different
Aboriginal tribes sincerely believed in different versions of one dreaming story? For
them, the fact that a myth was secret was not about hiding anything but only
accentuated its sacred power. Secrecy gave it that power. How could a western
framework accommodate that belief?”
Judging from the virulent public and media reaction, the opinion of a large
majority of the population was that the white and indigenous cultures were certainly
not equal. Politicians like Minister Sullivan and anthropologists like Georgie were
considered to be stupidly romantic and even sentimental about Aboriginal culture.
To many commentators ‘Reconciliation’ was simply a ‘feel-good’ notion and
part of the politically correct brigade’s denial of the realities of Aboriginal
drunkenness and violence, which were the relics of their so-called culture. By banning
the bridge the Federal Minister was signalling that he was a captive to the aboriginal
claims on the land and that he was prepared to treat whatever indigenous people said
about their own culture as the truth. His political enemies saw this acquiescence as
the first major step towards allowing the indigenous people to make real claims on
what was now white land. Where would it all stop, was their common cry.
Anthropologists like Julian Turner gave radio interviews blaming so-called
‘feminist anthropology’ as promulgated by Dr Georgina Staunton for acknowledging
concepts like ‘secret women’s business’.
Sarah’s article had also questioned whether the developers, the Reynolds,
should have consulted more extensively with the indigenous elders, including leading
256
Narrindjeri women, before borrowing money from the banks. She asked whether
Minister Ryan in his haste to back a private development project should have been so
eager to invest taxpayers’ money before the proper consultation and planning
processes had been followed. Finally, she questioned whether Sullivan, the Federal
Minister, had been in too much of a rush to present himself as the protector of
indigenous culture and in so doing had unleashed a huge national backlash against the
protection of indigenous sacred sites.
Finally, she questioned whether Professor
Denton and Dr Georgina Staunton had been too hasty and subjective in their support
of those who sought to prevent the building of the bridge. In so doing, they had
caused ‘secret women’s business’ to become a subject for white mockery and the
whole notion of ‘sealed envelopes’ never to be read by men, another source of
hostility towards women and indigenous culture. Sarah’s article concluded that no one
— not the developers, not the governments, State and Federal, not the individual
Ministers, not the traditional or the feminist anthropologists, not the environmental
movement and certainly not the indigenous people would win as a result of this
dispute. In the end, they would all be losers, one way or another. To brand them all
losers was not going to make her popular but honest writing was not about courting
popular opinion.
Sarah’s phone did not ring once on the day her article was published on the
front page of The Nation. She knew that what she had argued would please none of
the stakeholders and probably alienate all of them. It was what she truly believed,
however, and she certainly was not in journalism to please or appease anyone. She
spent the day sitting quietly in the garden with her father, hoping he would break the
silence that had sprung up between them. He snoozed in his chair apparently oblivious
to her
257
presence. It was a waiting game and she was determined to outlast him.
The next morning The Clarion’s headline announced almost gleefully,
‘BANKS FORCLOSE ON HERITAGE ISLAND DEVELOPERS’.
The front-page article by Jason Judd not only detailed the disastrous
economic plight of the Reynolds but suggested that Penny and Hugh were splitting up
because of their impending bankruptcy. Sarah immediately rang Penny’s home
number. It rang and rang and rang until eventually Jeremy answered, his voice still
foggy with sleep.
“Have you just woken up?”
“I was out late last night.”
Sarah’s mind flashed to the figure on the stairs in the nightclub.
“Is Penny at home?”
“She and Dad had a huge row. She packed up and left. Haven’t seen her
since. Dad’s gone to his club and Jessica’s staying with her boyfriend. I’m the only
one home. And Rusty.”
As if on cue Rusty put his head against Jeremy’s bare leg and licked it
enthusiastically. Sarah persisted with the conversation. In a firm voice she said,
“Jeremy, I want you to look out the front window of the house and see if there are any
television vans there.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m deadly serious. Take the phone with you.”
She could hear him padding up the hall to the front room and pause as he
parted the curtains.
“Shit, there’s three big vans parked out the front,” he shouted.
“Right. Now do as I tell you.”
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“What are they doing there?”
“Hoping to entrap Penny and Hugh. But, don’t worry about that. Just do as I
say.”
“But why?”
“Jeremy. Listen to me. Focus on what I am telling you. Pull yourself out of
that dope-ridden fog. Now. Right – are you listening?”
“Yep.” He didn’t sound too certain.
“Wait until 10.30pm tonight – 10.30pm – they’ll have given up by then
because it’s too late for the late news bulletin. Sneak out the back gate, with Rusty,
and get yourself to Georgie’s house. It’s No. 10 College Road – you know where that
is – right next to where you went to school – OK?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll ring Georgie and tell her to expect you. Stay there until you hear from
me. Now will you do all that?”
“Yep.”
“Promise me.”
“Yep.”
“Right. I’ll ring you at Georgie’s. My Dad’s not too good at the moment so I
have to stay here at nights. OK?”
“OK.”
“Don’t go to The Basement tonight.”
“What?”
“Go straight to Georgie’s and stay there. Promise.”
“Promise.”
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Penny was hoping that her disguise as a dishevelled bag lady together with her
dark glasses would prevent anyone from recognising her. You could never trust any
of those journalists not to spring out from behind a tree with a camera. She slammed
the front door of the ramshackle cottage that had been on the land when they had first
acquired it and strode across the stubbly fields. She was sure there was a phone box
somewhere along the distant road. Even wearing these strangely assorted second-hand
clothes that she had purchased on her way down to the island, made her feel strangely
exhilarated. She hadn’t felt this stomach- churning excitement since she was at
University. She was amazed at how quickly she had adapted to her new persona –
second hand clothes, no make-up, she’d not even bothered to brush her hair. As there
was no working shower in the cottage she’d had to make do with a quick wash from a
cracked porcelain bowl, having heated the water on top of the ancient wood stove.
She had felt like one of the witches in Macbeth, gathering the wood and the sticks and
boiling up her stews on top of the stove.
“Double double, toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble, she mumbled to herself. Thank God she’d
bought these men’s solid lace-up shoes, this road was full of nasty little stones and
pot-holes. Where was that bloody phone box? She couldn’t help little guerrilla
attacks of grief from penetrating her thoughts about Hugh and the children. And
whether anyone was feeding the dog. Oh bugger Hugh – he’d just have to cope.
Perhaps they’d all start to realise just how hard she had worked to make their
comfortable lives possible. At least her garden had automatic watering. Important to
keep up the garden if the worst came to the worst and they were forced to sell the
house. Stupid, bloody, dick-headed Hugh – why hadn’t he told her about his money
problems sooner? She could have helped him sort it all out. Gone, all gone. He
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wasn’t exaggerating either – she could tell from the ghostly pallor of his cheeks,
despite all the red wine he had been consuming. Men can never ask for help – they
can’t even ask for directions when they are lost – it’s an ego thing – or a dick thing –
now she was sounding like George.
Stumbling and mumbling her way along the rutted dirt road, she was oblivious
to a car travelling very slowly, some distance behind her. Inside that car was a
photographer with a long-distance lens on his camera. She almost ran towards the tall
red box that had appeared once she had turned the bend to the right. She could fix all
this, she knew she could. The right words in the right ear. Hadn’t she always been
able to make things right? That was her special gift. Her social work supervisor had
told her when she graduated, “You have the gift Penny. Don’t waste it.”
Even though she hadn’t exactly been helping those less fortunate than her for
some time now, she’d been helping her husband, her family – isn’t that a woman’s
first priority?
Lodged safely inside the phone box, she plunged her hands into the pockets of
the baggy, brown, corduroy trousers that she was wearing. They were a bit too big for
her but she’d tied a scarf around the middle to keep them up and rolled up the trouser
legs. She had some difficulty finding the scrap of paper with the phone number, and
her glasses and money in one of the many pockets of the old blue jacket – why did
men’s clothes have so many pockets – no handbags to stuff everything into; that was
it. She punched her coins in the slot and dialled the number.
“Kelly Curtis speaking.”
“Oh Kelly – it’s Penny, Penny Reynolds, you remember you came to my
house for drinks with Patrick. I mean Minister Ryan.
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“Yes Penny. How can I help you?” her voice was breathy but her tone was
brisk.
“Could you put me through to the Minister please. I have an urgent matter to
discuss with him.”
“No. I’m afraid not. He’s doing a television interview.”
“I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“I’m sorry. He’s left strict orders not to be disturbed.”
“I’ll only take up one minute of his time. I promise.”
“I’m afraid it’s not possible.”
“Thirty seconds.” Her voice was shaky, she knew she sounded desperate but
she couldn’t help it. Tears were pricking her eyes. She fought them back.
“Perhaps you could leave your number and the Minister could call you when
he has time.”
“I’m in a public phone box.
And I don’t have a phone on where I’m
living…err
staying at the moment.”
“That does make it difficult.”
“Indeed it does, so put me through. It is urgent I can assure you.”
“I simply can’t. I’m sorry but I have another call waiting. All I can suggest is
that you try at another time, although I can’t promise anything as he’s extremely
busy.”
“Can you tell him I called?” her voice, now reduced to a teary and pathetic
whine.
“Yes. I’ll do that. I must go. Goodbye Mrs Reynolds.”
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Penny slumped against the grubby glass pane of the phone box, the receiver still
gripped tightly in her hand. She sobbed, she wailed, she kicked the wooden door until
she was utterly spent. Wiping her eyes and her nose on the rough woollen sleeve of
her coat, she staggered out onto the road. The harsh sunlight blinded her and she
scrabbled for her Armani sunglasses to block out the glare. They were the only
vestige of her former life. Snivelling and gulping at the air she staggered across the
scrubby field without thinking about which direction she was headed.
“Damn you – stay on the road woman,” mumbled the photographer looking
into the lens at the figure zigzagging her way across the yellow grass. He had parked
his car behind a forlorn gumtree on the top of the hill and he couldn’t move it or she
would see him. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she walk straight? Was
she drunk?
“Come on, turn around, let’s see your face, just turn around.” He pushed his
camera out of the open window and leant forward. At this moment, as if on cue,
Penny turned around to stare at the phone box and then slumped down onto her knees.
“Gotcha! Great shot. Thank you ma’am. You have just got me the front page
of every major paper in the country.”
Maria Scouros turned to her camera operator and said, “How was that? Did
you get the wide shot of the desk and the office?”
“No worries Maria – got it all.”
“Great. I’ll do the intro and the links back at the station. You pack up and I’ll
meet you there.”
“Sure thing Maria.”
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She swivelled on her three-inch heels and put out her hand to Patrick Ryan,
flashing her best toothy smile. The Minister, with two quick steps grasped her soft
hand in his.
“Are you sure it will go to air on the five o’clock news tonight?”
“It will indeed Minister. Top item if I have my way.”
“Who could possibly resist you Maria?”
He tightened his fingers around hers.
“It’s a tougher job than you think,” she replied, still smiling but slowly
removing her little white hand from his grasp.
“If you’ll excuse me, Minister, I have to get back to the station.”
“Of course. Not too much editing I hope.”
“Only enough to make you sound even better Minister.”
“I know I can trust you.”
As she bent down to pick up her large black handbag he imagined how
wonderful it would be to bury his mouth deep into that valley of flesh and lick its soft
contours. Slowly. Very slowly.
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37.
Sarah knocked loudly on the sturdy wooden door of Number 10 College Street, Saint
Andrews. She had been pressing the bell for what seemed like hours to no avail. In
desperation she lifted the brass lid of the letter slit in the front door and shouted –
“Georgie – Jeremy – is there anyone there? Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo.”
She could see nothing in what she knew was a long dark corridor with endless rooms
leading from it, like an old boarding house. She started thumping on the door again,
this time with her open hand. They must be home, someone must be there. Where
were all George’s freeloaders?
The door finally opened, very slowly, and a bedraggled figure in a woman’s
pink chenille dressing gown stood before her.
“Jeremy.”
“Oh. Hi Sarah. Sorry. I was asleep – didn’t get to bed ‘til five.”
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“Great dressing gown – is it one of Georgie’s?”
He looked down. “I just grabbed it from the back of the door.”
“It suits you.”
“You reckon,” and his face opened up into a broad smile and he suppressed
giggle.
“Are you going to let me in?”
“Oh – sorry.” Clutching at the front of the open gown to hide his nakedness
he stood aside while Sarah plunged into the darkness.
“I need a torch to see where I am going.”
“Everyone’s still asleep. Late night.”
“And you’re very hung-over by the look of you.”
“George said a few drinks would loosen me up.”
“Did she now? Where is the old fart – which room is hers?”
“It’s the last one on the left.”
Sarah paused and looked at him, straight into his blood-shot eyes.
“And which room did you sleep in?”
“Well I haven’t had much sleep – as I said, we only went to bed at five —what
time is it now?”
“I can’t see my watch in this gloom but it must be at least 9 am.”
“No wonder I feel dead.”
“So which room is yours?”
“Oh…well George didn’t have a spare room at the moment.”
“So?”
“So it was easier just to sleep in her room.”
“Was it.”
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By this time they had reached the end of the passage and had stopped at the
last room on the left.
“Did you sleep with Georgie?” She emphasised the word ‘with’.
“Yeah. We both just crashed.”
With that, Sarah opened the door, strode across the darkened room and
dragged open the heavy brown velvet curtains that covered the window.
“Time to wake up, old girl.”
The dust from the movement of the curtains seemed momentarily suspended
in the sunlight that bounced through the open windows. The figure beneath the
bedclothes did not move. Sarah stood at the side of the bed and bellowed.
“Georgina Staunton. You are needed.”
Jeremy hovered like a character in a drawing room comedy at the bedroom
door, unsure of where to put himself.
Sarah shook the lump under the bedclothes. Two naked arms emerged from
beneath the covers and then a head attached to a thatch of long, blonde-grey hair. The
eyes in the face were closed. The mouth spoke in a slurred monotone.
“Whoever you are. Piss off and let me sleep.”
“Georgie. It’s Sarah. Pull yourself together.”
The eyes snapped open.
“Sarah? What on earth…?” and then she clearly spied Jeremy lurking by the
door in her dressing gown.
“What’s the time?”
“Nearly ten. AM.”
“What are you carrying on about then. It’s early.”
“I’m here to talk about Hugh and Penny.”
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“Why what’s happened?”
Sarah told Jeremy to go into the kitchen and make them tea and toast. As soon
as she could hear him clattering about she sat on the bed and poked Georgie’s arm,
hard, with her forefinger.
“I asked you to look after him, not take him into your bed.”
Georgie, who had re-buried herself under the covers, mumbled,
“He had to sleep somewhere.”
“Yes – well, not with you. He’s only eighteen.”
“So?”
“I remember your voracious appetite for young flesh.”
Georgie groaned. “Nothing happened.”
“You can’t help yourself.”
“It’s not me. It’s him.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were up until 5am discussing his sexuality. He’s gay. Didn’t you know
that?”
“I had suspected it. Thought I saw him at the Basement one night.”
“The Basement? What were you doing there?”
“Mind your own business.
Anyway I’m pleased he’s safe from your
ministrations.
Just don’t go giving him a taste of what you think he’s missing out on.”
Georgie turned over to face Sarah. “He’s tried everything, believe me. Kids
these days start early.”
“No-one started earlier than you. Is he distressed about being gay?”
“No – he’s just worried about his father and Penny.”
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Sarah said she thought they had other things on their mind than Jeremy’s
sexuality but she was concerned about what to do with him.
“He can’t go on sleeping with you.”
“Don’t make it sound like something abhorrent.”
”Has he any money of his own?”
Georgie said he had told her he did some bar work at the club and had some
scholarship money. “I’m dying for some tea,” she croaked–“Jeremy–where’s
that tea you promised?”
As if on cue there was a sound of smashing crockery followed by a spate of
professional swearing.
“Tea might be some time – let’s help him George, we’ll both give him money
if necessary but he needs to live with someone in his own age group.”
“He’s a bit of a loner.”
“What about your son – David?”
“Lives with his girlfriend…. but there is a spare room full of junk – I’ll give
him a call. What about the girl – Jessica?”
Sarah promised to call her and make sure she was looking after herself.
“Sorry about the teapot Georgie – slipped off the tray,” said Jeremy, appearing
sheepishly at the door of the bedroom, his gown astray. Sarah glared at Georgie.
“Don’t worry about it. Put the tray down next to me. We need to talk,” she said,
dragging herself upright.
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As the familiar theme tune of the five o’clock news on Channel 11 boomed
into the lounge room, Sarah was slumped in the chair next to her father. She had been
determined to wait for the right moment to speak to him but her patience was wearing
as thin as the carpet.
“Do we have to have the volume so high Dad?”
“Don’t start. That’s how I like it.”
The lead story was announced as “an exclusive interview with Minister Ryan.”
“Ha ha. The lovely Maria strikes again,” shouted Sarah.
“Ssh. Listen – just listen for a change,” scolded her father. She looked at his
cheeks
which seemed unnaturally flushed.
“Dad, are you feeling alright?”
“For God’s sake, can’t a man listen undisturbed to the 5 o’clock news in his
own home?”
Sarah stared at him, uncertain how to respond. He appeared to be irritated
most of the time, particularly whenever she spoke to him.
She sat quietly and
watched Patrick Ryan shift the entire blame for the banning of the bridge onto the
Reynolds, who, as developers had assured him that they had conducted extensive
consultations with the
indigenous people when clearly they had not done so. He and the government
had been misled and deceived.
“I did my best as Minister for Development to facilitate what I considered to
be a wonderful new marina and housing development on Heritage Island – but the
Reynolds had not done their consultation properly. They have let me down. They
have let the government down. They have let the people of this state down.”
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When Maria asked why he hadn’t investigated the Reynolds’ finances more
closely, he said,
“If the bank was prepared to lend them the money then I assumed all the
checks and investigations had been made. All I wanted was to help the state create
more jobs with this development. But the Reynolds misled me.”
Sarah could not help herself from intoning “I am a man more sinned against
than sinning. Now he’s playing King Lear – oh please.”
Her father pulled himself up from his chair and left the room, slamming the
back door on his retreat to the garden. Sarah was stunned. With her head in her hands
she sat in the living room for ten minutes, desperately trying to think of a solution to a
situation that was clearly becoming impossible. For both of them.
She didn’t recognise this red-faced, grumpy old man as her easy-going,
cheerful father. She couldn’t talk to him, she couldn’t get him to go to the local
doctor, he wouldn’t even visit any of the nearby retirement villages and he refused to
talk to her about the future. Perhaps it was the beginning of dementure? Or perhaps he
was just sick of having her around?
One thing was certain in her mind – she couldn’t go back to New York
and leave him alone in this house. Twice this week he had left the stove on and she
had even caught him pouring kerosene onto a pile of rubbish in the backyard,
explaining he needed a good bonfire. She had been forced to hide the matches. Every
day he appeared to have more difficulty walking and yet aggressively shook her off
whenever she attempted to take his arm. Forcing herself out of the armchair she stood
silently at the kitchen window that overlooked the back lawn and the vegetable
garden.
The spinach was knee-high, the tomatoes, ripe and plentiful, swung
drunkenly from their bushes and the sweet corn were bursting from their silken pods,
271
ready for picking. And there, in an old arm chair on the edge of the lawn, with his
back to the garden, sat her father, his hat on his head, as if he was waiting for
someone to collect him.
Sarah put her hand up against the glass of the window as if to reach out to him.
The lone figure in the chair on the edge of the lawn, looked towards the house
momentarily and then turned away. All Sarah could see was the slump of his
shoulders and the tilt of his hat above the dilapidated chair.
38.
It was 6am.
Patrick Ryan, wrapped in a freshly laundered, fluffy white
bathrobe, was at his usual place at the kitchen table. He was staring in shock
at the photo of Penny on the front page of the Clarion. Surely this couldn’t be
her? Jason Judd had asserted that she was living alone in a derelict cottage on
Heritage Island and had experienced a breakdown following her separation
from her husband and the collapse of his development company.
He peered more closely at the picture. He couldn’t believe that this was
Penny Reynolds the perfectly coiffed woman, always so stylishly dressed in
designer clothes. Good God. She looked like a bag lady. That was the
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trouble with those highly-strung women, when things went wrong they totally
lost it. Poor old Hugh. How embarrassing for him. Deirdre would never
allow herself to drop her standards like that under any circumstances.
Better the devil you know, his Mother was right about that.
In the middle of his musings the phone rang, startling him. He’d
ordered
Kelly to block all calls. Not that he was concerned about his position,
after that excellent interview with Maria.
“Ryan,” he snapped.
“Houghton here.”
“Adrian “said Patrick, in his deepest, most ingratiating voice.
Adrian
Houghton was his hero in the world of politics. Descended from one of the largest
land-holding families in the country, he was viewed among conservative circles as
intelligent and courageous; a man prepared to overturn old political conventions for
the national good. Most of all he was tough-minded. The Federal party needed more
real leaders like Houghton. In Ryan’s judgement, he was definitely Prime Ministerial
material. It was only a matter of time.
“What are you going to do about all this secret women’s business rubbish?” he
snapped at Ryan, who paused, unsure of how to answer such a loaded question.
Undeterred by Ryan’s silence Houghton barked “You know it’s all bullshit.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course,” stuttered Ryan, unsure of where all this was leading.
Houghton continued as if Ryan hadn’t spoken.
“That lame-brain Sullivan and his soft-headed, political correctness crap.
Gullible idiot. Who does he think he’s impressing? You can only have one
legal system in this country – right?”
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“Right.”
“And in our legal system – everything has to be open to examination.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“You can’t base decisions on bloody secrets for God’s sake.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“You can’t ban a bridge because of a secret that can’t be examined or
assessed.”
“I agree – but that bastard Sullivan has the power to do it. I remonstrated with
him about it..”
“Yes, well, I just wanted you to know I’ve got my people onto it – digging
about – I’ll let you know when I’ve got something.”
“Very good of you Adrian.”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it – who said that? Was it Mae West?”
Ryan was at a loss. “I’m not sure, I –“
“Never mind – we’ll get the bastards. I’ll be in touch Ryan.”
And with that he slammed the phone down. His ears ringing, Ryan stared at
the phone in his hand, hardly believing the conversation and the fact that Houghton
had taken the time to ring him personally. He jumped when the phone rang again.
“Yes,” he said, tentatively.
“Minister I’m so sorry to call you so early.”
“It better be important Kelly.”
“It is.”
“Well?”
“The Premier wants you in his office at 8.30 sharp this morning.”
“Did his office say why?”
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“No Minister. Just that you cancel all other appointments and be there on
time.”
“Right. Thank you Kelly. Ring them back and confirm it. I’ll come straight
back to the office after I’ve seen the Premier.”
Normally an early morning command to see the Premier would have triggered
alarm bells but Ryan was so buoyed up by Houghton’s personal call that he whistled
while he was shaving.
Sarah’s father had barely spoken to her, again, during breakfast. She had set
the alarm, dragged herself out of bed to cook him bacon and eggs in the hope that it
might cheer him up enough for her to have a talk with him. He read the paper in total
silence and when he had finished his cup of tea, he said, without looking at her,
“Thanks for the eggs and bacon. Very nice,” and took himself out into the garden to
sit in his chair. Still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, he had his old hat on his head.
Sarah peered through the window at his slumped shoulders. She was in despair. She
knew there was no point in ringing any of her aunts as they would immediately
descend on the house with cakes and scones and insist on lecturing her father about
his behaviour. They meant well but he would never forgive her for calling on them
for help. There was no point in ringing Penny or George. After her recent article
criticising both of them neither of them would be speaking to her.
Tim was
somewhere in the Greek islands on holiday with his latest ‘friend’. She was alone.
Totally alone. There was no one in the entire world she could go to for help and
advice.
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Here she was, Sarah Wood, award-winning New York journalist, free spirit,
independent woman, world traveller, bon vivant. Totally alone.
Here she was, forty years of age, sitting at the old laminex table in the kitchen
of her childhood, not just alone but lonely. It was true, she was lonely. She hadn’t felt
this sinking emptiness since the day her mother died when she had sat at this same
table and sobbed. Not for her mother or her father but for herself, her lonely, only
child self. It had taken her a long time to bury this feeling. She had sworn that this
aching black hole would never take control of her, ever again. And it never had. She
had caught many planes and trains, visited many places, thrown herself headlong into
travel, work, love, lust – moving, always moving onto the next country, the next
assignment, the next passion, the next diversion.
Now, once again, she was lost. And lonely.
Forcing herself to stand up and move to the window to check on her father,
she knew she could not allow herself to descend into a pit of self-pity. She knew she
had to act, she had to help that dear old man sitting in his chair in the garden with his
hat on his head. Charlie…the name came to her – of course, Charlie, he would
understand, he was so kind and good with her father. He would know what to say to
him, how to help him. He was her only hope. She ran up the passage and rang the
pub. “Could I be put through to the front bar please…”
Charlie was at his usual pool table, grinning at her between shots, as she sat
patiently at a table nearby while he finished his game.
“You look as if you need a stiff drink,” he said, finally ambling over to her
side.
“I do but I’d better not. I’m scared I’ll just fall apart, bit-by-bit, and you’d
have to gather up all the parts.”
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He placed his hand over hers, which was gripping the side of the table. His
hand was warm and his fingers gently squeezed hers until she looked up and into his
eyes.
“I need you to help me.”
As soon as she had said the words, she realised she had never asked that of
anyone in her entire life. She was proud of her toughness. Secretly, she would often
quote those tired old lines from Nietzsche, “That which doesn’t destroy me only
makes me stronger.”. She had made herself stronger. She had prided herself on her
strength and the fact that other people relied on it, depended on her to give it to them.
She hated feeling so vulnerable now and to a man she hardly knew. But she
poured it all out to him, there in the front bar among the stench of stale beer, cigarette
butts and the click, clack of the balls, colliding with each other on their paths to the
final pocket. He sat there, calm and patiently listening, never moving his hand or his
eyes from hers until the torrent of words finally stopped as quickly as it had begun.
Leaning back into his chair, he put his hands behind his head and stared at the
nicotine-stained ceiling. Finally, after what Sarah thought was an almost interminable
silence, he said “What do you want me to do?”
And she said, without hesitation, “I want you to talk him into going into a
retirement home. I can’t cope any more.”
He pursed his lips into a tight line. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she pleaded.
“Because I don’t think it’s right. For Jack or for you.”
“But it’s impossible, the two of us living in that house together. He’s barely
speaking to me.”
“Doesn’t matter if he never speaks to you.”
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“But he needs to be properly looked after, to spend time with other people his
age. I just get on his nerves and make him grumpy and depressed.”
“You can’t leave him Sarah. You have to see this through to the end.”
“But it could be years – oh God – that sounds so callous – I do love him, very
deeply – but I have to get on with my life.”
“He is your life for the moment. What is more important in your life than
helping him through his final stage?”
“I need to work – not so much for the money, I’ve got enough in the bank and
I’m hardly leading the high life here – but I’m going crazy, I need to get back to New
York, to my friends, to my life.”
“This is your life. Here and now. With your father. Anyway, you have
friends, long-time friends here that you told me about.”
Sarah couldn’t prevent herself from snorting.
“Don’t dismiss these people just because they live here, in a small city, and
not in the exciting metropolis of New York. You told me that they were always good
friends to you.”
“They were. But that’s over ten years ago. They’ve changed. I’ve changed.
Anyway, they’re not speaking to me either because I won’t take sides in their bloody
bridge war.”
“That reminds me. I was going to ring you. I spent the weekend at Mulray
Bridge with some of the indigenous women – it’s a long story but they helped bring
me up, my mother was…sick. These are good women. Truthful women. Take my
word for it. Anyway, they are very distressed because they think that the ‘secret
women’s business’ that has been used to ban the bridge, is a lie. These women are
Ngarrindjeri and have been around a long time and they swear they have never heard
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of it before all this blew up. They think their culture is being betrayed and that
women like Sybill and Gwen are being used by whites for their own purpose.”
“Really,” was her only response. She was here to talk about her father and
how she was going to get back to her life in New York, not these unknown women
and their endless secrets.
Charlie smiled at her. “This is real life. This is a real story, an important story.
I don’t know what is the exact truth but whatever it is, it must be told. Too many
people are involved now – it could destroy the Narrandjeri women’s culture, and
damage the whole of indigenous culture by destroying white people’s faith in them.
Just because it isn’t happening in New York, Sarah, doesn’t mean it’s not important.
These are real issues, real people, real cultures. You need to tell this story, to get to
the truth of it, use your reputation to make white people realise why it’s important.”
Sarah smiled at him for the first time since she had arrived in the bar. She
liked this man and his passionate conviction. He was a good man.
“How about I buy you a beer.”
“Not until you promise me you won’t leave Jack. Or attempt to make him live
somewhere else. No matter how cranky he gets.”
She couldn’t help laughing aloud. Somehow all the tension had drained away,
the
ache and the fear had ceased. Something had shifted inside her. Strength had
returned.
“Where did you gain all this wisdom?”
“Some other time. Now how about that beer?’
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280
39
Penny’s hair was thrashing about her head in the wild wind that had swept in from the
north. She wrapped herself in an old black shawl that she had found in one of the
cupboards and beaten the dust out of it with the broom. It was weird how wearing
other people’s clothes had cheered her up. She was pleased that she wasn’t Penny –
wife of Hugh any more. She loved not having to fit into a timetable, in fact she didn’t
even have a watch. In a moment of sheer recklessness, she had thrown it into the
channel. She wasn’t wearing any shoes today. The sand was warm and sticky
between her toes and she paddled in the shallows of the spent waves to wash it away.
She heard herself humming. Not a tune exactly. More of a rhythmic pulse. It
occurred to her that perhaps she was going a little crazy. The idea amused her. This
beach was her heath. Kneeling on the hard sand with her face upturned towards the
sun she unbuttoned her shirt, almost baring her breasts and shouted into the wind
“I am a woman more sinned against than sinning.
Unsex me here…”
When she realised she had mixed up her Shakespearian plays she rolled
around on the sand, laughing aloud.
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It was Gwen taking a stroll along the beach who saw someone writhing on the
sand in the distance. “Quick Bill. We have to run. There’s someone in trouble up
there. See.”
They moved as quickly as they could but the tide was coming in and they were
forced into the soft sand in order not to get their shoes wet. Gwen was first to reach
the figure in black who had stopped moving and was lying on her back, her eyes
closed, totally still. Bill, still panting, stood beside her, staring at the woman in the
black shawl.
“Do you think she’s dead?” Gwen whispered.
“Touch her and see.”
Gwen leant over and stretched out a rather tentative hand but before she could
touch the figure, its eyes opened and the woman screamed in fright.
Gwen squealed in shock and jumped back onto Bill’s foot.
“Jesus – me toe”
Suddenly the figure jumped up and stepped towards them, her black cloak
flapping hard around her head. Gwen and Bill both stepped backwards away from the
woman who was standing far too close and peering at them, her dark eyes flashing.
“Haven’t we met before?” said Penny.
“Don’t think so,” stuttered Gwen.
“Yes we have.
I remember you two.
Georgie introduced us – Georgie
Staunton.”
Gwen and Bill looked unconvinced. Penny extended her hand.
“I’m Penny Reynolds. I used to be your enemy. My husband wanted to build
the
bridge and develop the marina.”
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Neither of them took the hand she offered them. Her shawl suddenly took off
from her shoulders and parachuted up the beach. Bill started to go after it.
“Don’t worry. Easy come, easy go.”
She kept her hand out and took a step closer to Gwen.
“I won’t hurt you. I am who I say I am. George is – was – a
friend of mine. Known her since kindergarten. What’s your name? I’m sorry
I’ve forgotten. So much has happened since we met.”
Although she still didn’t shake her hand, Gwen said,
“I’m Gwen Vincent and this is Bill, my husband. From the Mouse House.”
“That’s right. You were organising the protests. Well, thanks to you and the
government we’ve lost all our money. In fact I’ve lost my husband too – I’m
living in that derelict old stone cottage about a mile away, overlooking the beach.”
She laughed. The sound was harsh, mocking; like a crow’s caw.
Gwen turned to Bill, “Was that old Tom’s place?”
“Don’t remember,” mumbled Bill.
“Are you hurt?” asked Gwen, “we saw you rolling around on the sand –
thought you might need help.”
Penny laughed. “No. I wasn’t hurt. At least not physically. How kind of you
to care.”
“No trouble,” said Gwen.
“I tell you what – how about we all go back to my cottage. It’s not much but
there are some old chairs and we can have a cup of tea – or a slug of scotch – I’ve still
got a few bottles I brought from home – or what used to be my home.”
Bill said, “I’m a bit thirsty after all that running up the beach. Could do with a
drink. “Good. Come on then. Let’s go.”
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It was clear to Penny after Bill had put away a couple of quick scotches that he
had a drinking problem. Even though Gwen pleaded with him to stop, he kept putting
out his cup for more.
“Sorry I don’t have any glasses, but these old cups were all I could find.”
“Tastes just as good,” said Bill, his speech starting to blur around the edges.
Gwen didn’t need alcohol to loosen her tongue, once she started talking she
couldn’t stop. Penny couldn’t always follow what she was saying, she jumped so
quickly from one subject to another, but she understood the emotion behind her
words. She certainly recognised her suppressed anger. She had gathered that the
source was Sybill, who she accused of taking over the meetings and dominating all
the talk.
“We’ve just been pushed aside,” she kept repeating. “And I am the keeper of
the secrets, everyone knows that. But Sybill – she just takes over. Everyone has to do
what she says.”
Bill couldn’t wait to tell Penny that they had to leave the Mouse House soon
because they weren’t needed – no-one was paying their rent and they were pensioners
– they had to move to where it was cheaper – “pushed aside – just pushed aside,” he
kept repeating. Gwen tried to get him to stop drinking but Penny didn’t really want
him to stop. She wanted to hear more. His anger was increasing with every swallow
and when he blurted out “She’s a liar too,” Gwen said “Bill. You’ve had enough,”
and dragged him to his feet.
“We have to go now,” she told Penny.
“Come and see me again. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home now.”
As Gwen half-carried Bill out the door, he turned around and winked at
Penny.
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“Might see ya later for a drink.”
The first item on every midday news service was the demotion of former
Minister for Development, Patrick Ryan. Minister Simon Sangster would now have
two portfolios Development and Indigenous Affairs. Patrick Ryan was not available
for comment but the Premier’s office had released a statement explaining that
Minister Ryan had offered to step down from his ministerial post as the banning of the
bridge by the Federal Government had made it difficult for him to proceed with any
future development projects.
In the weeks that followed, Patrick Ryan, still livid that the Premier had
sacked him, stewed on the backbench, desperately hoping that Adrian Houghton had
not forgotten his promise to contact him. He had assured Stephanie that it was only a
matter of time before he took his revenge on all those who had betrayed and destroyed
him and he would be restored to his former position.
Her only reply was, “Well dear, my father always said that ‘revenge was a
dish best eaten cold. However,” she added, before disappearing out the front door to
play bridge, “by the time you get around to it, the dish could be inedible.”
She was certainly an expert in the art of trumping the wounded, mused her
husband,
before he sauntered into his home- made gym in the garage to haul his weights
and pump his press-ups. He knew how important it was never to let your enemies
think you were falling apart. He would remain strong and fit and resolute like his
hero. One day he was sure Houghton would be Prime Minister and would ask him to
switch to Federal politics and serve under him as a Minister. That would show these
285
local hicks. He knew they were sneering gleefully at him behind their hands but he
would show them, he’d give them bloody schadenfreude.
40.
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Two weeks after his fall from grace, Ryan was exhilarated by the phone call from one
of Houghton’s staffers giving him a blow by blow account of how Houghton had just
destroyed Minister Kim Sullivan in parliament by questioning him about the
confidentiality of the sealed envelopes containing the so-called ‘secret women’s
business’. When Sullivan had assured Houghton and the House that the information
had been kept confidential, Houghton had strode to the dispatch box and in a highly
effective theatrical gesture thrown the sealed envelops on the table. Sullivan’s
bleached white face was proof that his staff had clearly not informed him that the box
containing the sealed envelopes had arrived marked ‘opened in error’. Sullivan had
refused to pick up the envelopes, left the chamber and returned immediately to his
office. The staffer told Ryan that the Press Gallery was now in a state of high
excitement known in the trade as ‘a feeding frenzy’. Ryan couldn’t stop himself from
screaming, almost hysterically, with laughter.
Three days later in Parliament, it was Minister Sullivan who was smiling in
triumph while the blood drained from Houghton’s face. In his hand Sullivan was
brandishing the original envelope in which the secret documents had been sent. He
held it up for Houghton to see – the words ‘confidential’ and ‘for women’s eyes only’
were clearly printed on the outside.
“How,” he asked Houghton, “could you have known what was inside this
envelope,
which had supposedly been, according to you, unsealed and unmarked.”
Totally thrown by this revelation, Houghton asked that the envelope be
tabled. Now it was his turn to leave the House in utter panic. Meeting his research
assistant, who had originally opened the envelope and photocopied the secret
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documents, in the office where tabled documents are kept, the assistant confirmed that
this was in fact the envelope he had opened. Houghton slumped onto a chair and said,
“I think you’ve just ruined me.”
After regaining his composure, Houghton walked purposefully down the long,
parliamentary corridors to the office of the party leader and offered his resignation
from the front bench on the grounds that he had misled the Parliament, even though it
was unintentional. The Leader asked him to sleep on the decision but for Houghton,
who saw himself as a man of honour, resignation was a point of principle.
He called a Press Conference, announced his resignation from his shadow
ministry, explaining that his assistant had made only one copy of the secret documents
and that he had not read it. He did admit that he had sent a copy of the rest of the
material to Hugh Reynolds.
Although Ryan was shattered at Houghton’s fall from grace, he felt a kind of
kinship with him.
A brotherhood.
Now that they were both relegated to the
backbench, he was free to ring him and offer his support. Two days later he thrilled
to the sound of Houghton’s voice on the other end of the phone.
Despite his
resignation, he was still in his own eyes an honourable man who had been cut down
by the mistake of his research assistant. He told Ryan that on the advice of a ‘QC
mate’ he had returned the documents but he was adamant that Sullivan’s handling of
the issue was a disgrace.
“You simply cannot have secret evidence whose validity the lawyers cannot
test,” he boomed over the phone.
“Of course you can’t – it’s utterly absurd,” echoed Ryan in tone and syntax.
“I could have ridden out the storm you know. The leader did not want to lose
me.”
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Houghton confided in Ryan. “Neither did mine – I resigned for the good of the
state. Like you, I don’t have to be in politics to make a living. I’m in it because I
believe I can make a real difference. But when it comes to honour and upholding it, I
stand with you. Side by side.”
“Good to hear it Ryan. Perhaps, in a way this has all turned out for the best.
Now I have time to attack the bigger picture. There are a couple of indigenous
women I want to check out. If I’m right, it will be big news. So hold yourself in
readiness.”
“I will. Believe me I will.”
“Good man,” and he immediately hung up. Ryan stood there for a moment
cradling the receiver up to his ear. He was right. It had all turned out for the best.
Now he was finally and firmly on Houghton’s team.
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41.
Sarah was driving too fast on the freeway to Mulray Bridge. She knew she was well
over the speed limit but she couldn’t make herself slow down. It was enough that her
life was slowing down and she had so easily slipped into the sleepy rhythm of this
small city. She had noticed that she even walked at a slower pace these days like an
old watch that was losing time. Charlie had convinced her that it was important to
talk to these indigenous women, Isobel Hughes and Carmel Todd, who were so sure
that the secret women’s business had been made up by Sybill. Surely he couldn’t be
hiding a secret agenda. He had sworn to her that he had known these women as a
child, and that they were good honest Ngarrindjeri women. She wondered about the
circumstances that had caused him to know these indigenous women so well. He was
so secretive and closed off about his own past. Whenever she asked him a question,
no matter how innocuous, about his parents, he always found a way not to answer her.
He was still a stranger to her, except when he was in the company of her father. Not
that she was complaining. Kindness was a greatly underrated virtue and her father
looked forward to his occasional visits. She found it strange that he had made no
effort to be alone with her again. Perhaps their one night together had been just
another act of kindness. Great. Now she was a charity case.
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When she finally swung the car into the exit from the freeway, she took her
foot off the accelerator and slowly pulled into the curb of the country road to check
Charlie’s directions to Isobel’s home.
It was a small red brick house like all the others in a nondescript street
but as she stood with both feet on the mat and rang the bell on the front door she
noticed that the jade that grew so healthily from the pots either side of her, had been
freshly watered. The leaves glistened with chubby beads of water that clung to the
evergreen buds. “Jade by the door, and you’ll never be poor,” was a favourite saying
of her mother’s, even though she didn’t remember any pots of jade on her front
verandah.
The door swung open and a well-built, middle-aged woman in a dark skirt and
a pink blouse stood before her, unsmiling and unspeaking.
“Hello I’m Sarah Wood. Charlie’s friend,” she said with more confidence
than she felt.
“Come in,” said the woman without introducing herself.
Sarah opened the security door and followed the well-built woman down the
dark passage to the bright kitchen where a much smaller, grey-haired woman sat
drinking tea at the table in the middle of the room.
“Hello. I’m Sarah Wood. Charlie’s friend,” she said to the little woman, this
time extending her hand.
“I’m Carmel – Carmel Todd,” said the little woman, not making eye contact
but grasping her hand with warm, firm fingers.
Sarah stood, awkwardly, until Isobel invited her to join them at the table for a
cup of tea and a scone. Carmel said, still staring at the check tablecloth, “Isobel makes
the best scones.” Sarah was only too happy to take one of the plump, golden mounds
291
that were nestling inside a red and white checked napkin that matched the tablecloth.
Isobel offered her homemade jam and whipped cream. With her first plunge into the
light fluffy dough, she knew she could well make a pig of herself over these scones.
If neither of the women felt obliged to talk, she’d just have to keep filling her mouth
until they were ready. Georgie had previously explained to her that she couldn’t
interview indigenous women in the same manner as she was accustomed to
interviewing others. Constant questioning from a stranger was invasive to them and
so they usually clammed up. You had to wait for them to talk and endure long
silences if necessary.
Two and a half scones and three cups of tea later, Isobel stopped staring at her
and clearly decided the time was right to break her silence.
“If you’re a friend of Charlie’s, you can be trusted – right?”
“Right.” It was all she could manage with a full mouth.
“You must never repeat what we tell you.”
Sarah met her eyes and held their direct gaze.
“I promise I won’t repeat it without your permission.”
“I wouldn’t be talking to you if it wasn’t for Charlie.”
“I know that. And I respect your trust.”
“He’s a good boy,” offered Carmel, making eye contact when offering another
scone.
“He’s been very kind to my old Dad.”
“Charlie didn’t have it easy – not easy at all. What with his mother and all.”
Isobel said, “She hasn’t come here to talk about Charlie” – cutting Carmel off
– “she’s here to talk about the truth.”
“I am Isobel. I really want to hear the truth from you. And Carmel.”
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Isobel rolled back into her chair, crossed her arms in front of her ample bosom
and said, “What Sybill is saying about the women and the island is all lies.”
Sarah forced herself to refrain from immediately reacting with a question. She
waited.
“It’s just not right what she’s telling everyone. Isobel’s the only one who’s not
afraid to say it,” added Carmel.
“I’m a Christian woman. Jesus expects me to stand up for the truth. It’s a sin
to tell lies.”
Sarah knew she should wait patiently for her to continue but she couldn’t stop
herself.
“Why should Sybill make up these lies?”
The two women sitting at the table looked first at each other and then at the
cotton tablecloth. Sarah bit her bottom lip. And waited.
The clock on the sideboard clicked its way from one mark to another. Sarah
forced herself not to listen to it by staring at her own shoes as if she had never seen
them before. Eventually Isobel repeated Sarah’s question.
“Why should Sybill lie?”
Sarah looked up from her black, leather loafers, her eyes wide with
expectation.
“It’s a good question, isn’t it Carmel.”
“Yes. A good question.”
Sarah put her hand firmly down on her right knee, which had a tendency to
move up and down in a jigging motion when she was impatient. The answer to her
question hovered above them.
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“For God’s sake,” she thought, “one of you answer it.”
While Carmel boiled the kettle and refilled the white china teapot with fresh
boiling water, Isobel hummed to herself. Sarah thought she recognised the hymn as
one her aunt used to sing, it was something about people gathering at a river.
When Carmel had poured them all a fresh cup of tea, Isobel finally said,
“The answer to your question is that Sybill likes to place herself in the centre
of things. Ever since she got that job at the University, she has given herself the role
of leader – she thinks she speaks for indigenous women, but she often speaks for
herself. What she doesn’t know, she sometimes makes up.”
Then Carmel spoke in a voice, firm with conviction that Sarah hadn’t heard up
to this point. “It’s wrong, what she’s done this time. She’s gone too far. She calls
herself a radical – she thinks it gives her the right to say whatever she likes. But she is
wrong.”
“We’re cousins,” Isobel said in firm, ringing tones, now determined to express
her beliefs, “We were both brought up on the mission. Both strong women. But I am
a Christian. And it is my Christian duty to speak the truth about all these disgusting
lies that Sybill is spreading. I was at the Mouth house meeting, I heard her talking
about the shape of the island and women’s private parts. We were both disgusted.
Weren’t we?” Carmel nodded vigorously.
“It’s not true.
And it shows no respect for Ngarrindjeri women.” Isobel
looked Sarah in the eye.
Speaking softly and slowly, in the neutral tone of repetition rather than
questioning, Sarah replied, “So secret women’s business is a lie.”
“It’s a lie alright. But Sybill and her radical friends will never admit it, will
they Carmel?”
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“Never. Not even when they die.”
“Is there any proof for what she says about secret women’s business.” Sarah
kept her voice low.
“None. It’s a lie I tell you. A disgusting lie – which disrespects our elders. I
have to stand up for the dignity of my people. All these myths from the past that
radicals like Sybill keep bringing up – makes us sound primitive. We are not
primitive, we are good Christian women. The past is all very well. But Jesus is our
saviour now”
Sarah drove home very slowly and carefully on the freeway. She
needed time to think through what Isobel and Carmel had told her. Isobel was
certainly an impressive woman. There was a strength and a certainty about her, no
doubt gained from her mission school education and training. And even more
importantly, her Christian faith. She had talked about how the missionaries had
protected her and other young girls from white men who wanted ‘special favours’.
She disagreed with the radicals like Isobel who had allowed themselves to be taken
over by ‘radical whites’ and their ideas of ‘self-determination’. Isobel did not believe
in maintaining a separate culture; she believed in assimilation with the whites, it had
worked for her. She had described how she and her husband had started their married
life in a tent in the backyard of her grandmother’s house. Now she had a house of her
own. She was proud of that. She’d said she didn’t want to give up her refrigerator or
her washing machine. As for the traditional myths and legends – they had their place,
but she didn’t think you could base your everyday lives on such stories. Sarah knew
she would never get one sentence out of her mind. Isobel had said, her fist clenched
on the table,
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“These ancient myths they go on about … they’re only stories. Just like the
Loch Ness Monster is to the Scottish people and the leprechaun to the Irish.”
When she had asked her about the tribal people, Isobel had described them as
‘unspoilt’, emphasising their difference from Sybill and her followers who had learnt
all their cunning and skills from their white stirrer friends like Georgie Staunton.
Sarah was shocked to hear Georgie’s name mentioned with such derision and
suspicion. Whatever Georgie was, she knew she wasn’t a deceiver. She truly believed
she was helping indigenous women to be treated as equals. Was this just the old guard
against the new? The conservative Christians against the younger radicals? If Isobel
did not really respect or revere the cultural myths and traditions, how could she
understand why they were so important to women like Sybill who did not want her
culture to die or be unrecognised? Isobel’s beliefs were Christian – the Virgin Mary
and the ascension of Jesus into heaven. She based her day to day living on the stories
written in the gospels. Sybill’s beliefs were based on an indigenous oral tradition,
handed down from one generation to another over thirty thousand years. Neither set
of beliefs, Christian or indigenous, could be proved by scientific investigation. She
had promised Isobel and Carmel that she would tell no one about their conversation
and she would keep that promise. Somehow, though, she knew she had to discuss it
with Georgie without alerting her to its source, if she was ever to write about it.
The front page of the next morning’s Clarion, was dominated by the ongoing
saga of the Reynolds. There was a photo of Hugh getting into his car outside his club.
Jason Judd had managed to speak to him long enough to justify the headline
‘Reynolds split confirmed. Banks foreclose. Wife has breakdown’.
No sooner had Sarah read the article than the phone rang. It was Georgie.
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“We have to go to the island to see how bad Penny is. Do you know anything
from your sources?” Sarah snorted. “I’m a stranger in this town. I have no sources.”
“Oh–I thought Tom might have told you something.”
“Tom isn’t speaking to me. I owe him an article. I’ve been too worried about
Dad.”
“Is he sick?”
“Not really sick – just withdrawn and grumpy. And strange somehow.”
“And that makes him different from most men?” It was her turn to snort.
“He’s never been like this before. I don’t know what to do.”
“Perhaps it’s the beginning of Alzheimer’s,” said Georgie, blurting out Sarah’s
worst fear.
“I can’t get him to the doctor, I don’t seem to be able..”
“One problem at a time Sarah. Penny is alone on the island, has no phone, and
according to Hugh is having a total breakdown. Both Jessica and Jeremy have asked
me to try and see her and well…I thought you might come with me.”
“I don’t know George. I’m not sure I can leave Dad.”
“Get your aunts to look in on him. It’s not as if you’re going to be away
overnight. Penny trusts you Sarah, she admires you too.”
“I don’t know…”
“She came to your rescue once when you really needed someone.”
Sarah was stung. She had a flash of Penny in London holding her tightly in
her arms, while she sobbed.
“You’re right. When do you want to leave?”
“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
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42.
At exactly the same time as Sarah and Georgie were standing on the deck of the ferry
as it chugged across the small stretch of water towards Heritage Island, Adrian
Houghton was knocking on the front door of Isobel’s house.
“Are they fresh scones I can smell?” he said, with all the charm he could
muster, following her down the dark passage.
Penny was not pleased to see Georgie and Sarah standing outside the door of
her cottage. “Have you both come to gloat?”
“Of course not,” said Georgie, her tone warmer and more caring than Sarah
had ever heard, “We’ve come because we are your old friends and we are concerned
about you.”
“Too bad you weren’t more concerned about helping us get the bridge built.”
“This is no time to fight over all that – we’re here to help you. Honestly..”
“And just how do you think you can possibly help me?” She stood at the door
of the cottage, blocking their path.
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Sarah’s arms were aching from holding the carton of wine they had bought
from one of the Southern Vale wineries on their journey down to the coast.
“You could ask us inside before my arms fall off – there’s a dozen good reds
in here – and I don’t want to drop them.”
When they had all settled themselves in front of the open fire and Penny was
pouring cups of wine, the other two women scrutinised her, eager to judge for
themselves her mental health. Sarah could not believe she was wearing ill-fitting, opshop clothes and clearly had not brushed her hair for days. But she noted that her
hands were steady as she poured the wine, her eyes were clear and her cheeks shone
with what looked like a healthy glow. This did not appear to be a woman having a
breakdown.
“Cheers,” they all said, touching each other’s cups, with more conviction than
they felt. When they had all drunk deeply, declared it a good vintage and Penny had
put a few more logs on the fire, Georgie was the first to speak. Tactlessly as usual,
Sarah thought to herself.
“Well you’ve certainly let yourself go, old friend.”
Penny scoffed “Let myself go – you can talk. Have you looked in the mirror
lately?”
Georgie laughed, somewhat patronisingly., Sarah thought to herself.
“I’ve looked like this for years. But you – you were the perfectly coiffed,
middle-class housewife.”
“Housewife,” screamed Penny, her eyes suddenly blazing brighter than the
logs on the fire. “Is that all you ever thought I did?”
“I’m not criticising you – it was your choice to make but.”
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“Like hell you’re not criticising – for your information Ms Politically Correct
supporter and agitator of every worthy political cause.”
Sarah stood up, her back to the fire. It was chilly inside, despite the sun that
shone through the grimy window. “Enough Penny. We haven’t driven all this way
and humped around every bloody road on this god-forsaken island to find you – in
order to fight.”
She heard herself speaking in what used to be her schoolteacher voice. She
hadn’t heard that voice for more than ten years. It surprised all of them.
Picking up the poker to stir the coals and create some more warmth in the
cottage with its bare brick floor, she made the most of the silence that had descended
to think of the best manner in which to approach this prickly, assertive, strangely
confident Penny they had encountered. Pouring them all another large cup of wine,
Sarah thumped down on the lumpy couch next to Penny and took her hands in both of
hers. “I know you’ve had a tough time recently – but you must remember that
whenever Georgie and I had tough times in the past, you were always there to comfort
us, to feed us, to pour us wine, to put your arms around us when we wept and talked
and wept some more.” Penny’s hands remained in Sarah’s, but her body was stiff, her
back upright. She was resisting the urge to yield to memories of their shared past.
Sarah refused to acknowledge her restraint and lowered her voice, almost to an
intimate whisper. “When I was at my lowest emotionally, lower than a snake’s belly,
all alone in London, totally unable to pull myself out of my heartbreak – you rescued
me. You insisted on taking me out to plays and concerts and nightclubs despite my
failure to respond. And then when all else failed you took me to Venice.”
Penny refused to respond to her with anything but a somewhat sullen stare.
Sarah held up her hand to prevent Georgie from jumping in and ruining the moment.
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“You saved me, like a true friend should, from drowning in my own despair.”
“You don’t owe me for that Sarah,” Penny spat back.
Refusing to let go of her hands, Sarah said softly, but firmly.
“I’m not here because I owe you anything. I’m here because we are old
friends, with a shared history. I’m here because I believe in friendship, I believe in its
power to sustain people in tough times. At least let me honour our friendship in the
only way I know which is to take time to be here with you – to show you that I
genuinely care for you and what is happening to you.”
She beckoned to Georgie to come and sit on the other side of Penny and put
her arm around her narrow shoulders. Georgie did as she was instructed and softening
her own voice as much as was possible, Georgie said, “We’ve been friends since
kindergarten Pen.
Nothing erases that.
Even though we might be on different
political sides, our friendship comes first. Sarah’s right. If we don’t honour our longtime bonds, what are we left with?”
Tears began to trickle down Penny’s cheeks and held by her two friends, her
body seemed to sag between them, while she wept.
When she finally stopped sobbing, they finished that bottle and another two,
lost in fond recollection of their shared experiences in the seventies. They reminded
each other of their younger selves, of their genuine affection before the 80’s had
distanced them, one from another.
Although unwilling to break the heady spell and the healing balm of shared
laughter, Sarah’s head had begun to spin a little. She confessed to needing something
to eat before she drank any more as they had a long drive home.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting company – I don’t have anything to eat except
some stale bread and a few tomatoes.” Georgie said she simply adored tomatoes on
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toast and Sarah stoked the fire while George went outside to find some sticks for
spearing and toasting the bread over the coals. A strange calm had settled on them like
a warm blanket around their shoulders.
Alone in his parliamentary office, his calendar of appointments lying empty
before him, Patrick Ryan was overjoyed to hear Houghton’s voice on the other end of
the phone. “Can you drop everything and drive to Mulray Bridge – it’s only about 30
minutes. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Well, I did have an important meeting with the Premier.”
“Forget that. The person I’m going to introduce you to will change your
future. Believe me.”
“Right,” said Ryan, unwilling to doubt the veracity of Houghton’s words,
“what’s the address?”
The first item on the five o’clock news that night was the announcement that
Jason Judd of The Clarion had won a Wakerie Award, the top national award for
journalism, for his coverage of the Heritage Island Bridge dispute. Shane Trott from
Channel Ten and Maria Scouros of Channel Twelve were both very thin-lipped when
forced to congratulate him before starting their own broadcasts. Becky Swift on
Channel Three, the public broadcaster, was the only one who seemed genuine in her
praise.
The toast and tomatoes seemed to have soaked up the wine the three women
had consumed and Sarah announced it was time they started the long drive home.
Georgie remonstrated with her. “Don’t be in such a hurry. It’s so long since the three
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of us were together, let’s enjoy it. Your father will be fine. You worry too much.
Open another bottle of wine.” Sarah did as she was told, even though George’s failure
to comprehend the depth of her concern annoyed her. It was amazing how concerned
George could be for victims of injustice and how lacking in empathy she was for the
personal situation in which Sarah felt so trapped. She sat quietly and continued to
stew over this failing in her friend while Penny and Georgie chuckled over past school
escapades and the various eccentricities of some of their old teachers.
“What about Miss Gerton, the science mistress, who was so fat she had to
keep her stockings up by tying them with string,” shrieked Georgie.
“And you were always dropping things so you could look up her skirt” hooted
Penny.
Sarah continued to drain her glass, hoping that they could leave when the
bottle was finished but the anecdotes went on and on. Georgie glared at her and
opened another bottle when she suggested, once again, that it was time to leave. Both
of them seemed to have forgotten that Sarah had not attended the same private school
they had attended, nor had she enjoyed the privileges afforded by their wealthy
parents. There had been no riding lessons for her, no piano, no elocution, no ballet.
These two just assumed that everyone could share in these experiences. Would they
never shut up about Muffy and Bunty and Philly and Dottie – all their snorting and
neighing was getting her down. Sarah stood up and noisily gathered her things.
“For God’s sake. Sit down. Stop being such a worry-wort,” shouted Georgie.
“Yeah. Don’t be a party-pooper,” echoed Penny.
“I’m really glad you two are having such a great time re-living your old
school-days but unlike both of you – I have the responsibility of a sick father and –“
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“Oh stop being such a martyr – your father has looked after himself perfectly
well without your interference for the past ten years,” said Georgie, not noticing that
she was pouring most of what was left in the bottle, outside her cup.
“If you cared so much about him, why didn’t you stay here and look after him
instead of running off to New York to pursue your career?” said Penny, draining what
was left in her cup.
“I’m not staying here for you two drunks to gang up on me,” said Sarah,
fumbling for her car keys in her huge black leather handbag.
“That’s you all over Sarah. You’ve never changed. As soon as anyone gets too
close to the bone, you take off. When are you going to stop running off to London or
New York or Paris or anywhere else you decide is the centre of the universe?”
Ignoring Penny’s remarks, she said, “I’m going George. You can come with
me now or stay here.” Georgie was too preoccupied with uncorking another bottle of
wine to answer her. She picked up her bag and was almost at the front door when
Penny said, “You’re going no-where. The last ferry to the mainland left an hour ago.”
Sarah swirled around to see if she was serious. Neither of them was laughing.
“Why didn’t you have the decency to tell me before it was too late?” Now it
was Sarah’s turn to shout.
“I only just looked at the kitchen clock.”
“Well that’s just great isn’t it? How am I going to reach my father to tell him?
I know you don’t have a phone – is there such a thing as a phone box nearby?”
“There is. But it’s been vandalised.”
“Calm down,” insisted Georgie, “have another drink, and we’ll catch the first
ferry in the morning – you’ll be home before your father even wakes up – what time’s
the first ferry Pen?”
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“Six a.m.”
“There you are – you can drop me at the nearest bus stop and be home in time
for breakfast.”
Sarah slumped back on the couch, utterly defeated.
“I don’t suppose I have a bloody choice do I? Fuck the both of you. What am I
doing in this hovel anyway? Why am I having anything to do with your petty
problems and your stupid bloody bridge. Why should I care whether it gets built or
not? Why should I have to get embroiled in Penny’s plunging wealth or your keeping
faith with your indigenous flock. I’ve been away from both of you for ten years. I’m
back here because of my father. Fat lot you care, you’re both so caught up in looking
after your own reputations.”
Georgie ignored this outburst in the best tradition of a middle class matron.
“Don’t forget we came here to solve Pen’s problems, not yours. And we
haven’t done that yet, have we old girl?”
“What’s this old girl business – we’re the same age remember?” giggled
Penny.
“I always think of you as older than me – you’ve always been more into being
sensible and responsible and oh so respectable,” Georgie laughed.
Penny was suddenly not amused. “And what’s wrong with that? There’s
nothing wrong with seeking some security in life.”
“Security?” scoffed Georgie.
“Come off it.
You and Hugh were both
professionals – you always had security – you wanted to be rich – not just secure.
Yours is a classic 80’s moral tale of ‘greed is good’.”
It was Sarah’s turn to snort. “Oh please! Give me a break. Building a tiny
marina on Heritage Island is hardly Wall Street.”
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George sat up straight.
“Here we go. If it doesn’t happen in New York, it doesn’t count – well that’s
bullshit – greed is greed, no matter where it happens. It was all part of the worldwide 80’s power trip and Penny and Hugh are its perpetrators and its victims, just as
much as those bond traders in Wall St.”
Penny stood up rather shakily and said, “OK … Let’s all tell each other the
truth about our lives – no lies, no spin, no bullshit. You both game?”
“My life has been dedicated to telling the truth—of course I’m game,” said
Georgie, lifting up her cup and nearly missing her mouth.
Now Sarah knew that they were both definitely drunk. She drained her mug
and poured herself another, thinking that at least getting blotto would make the time
pass more quickly until she could catch the early morning ferry. “I’m in,” she said,
opening another bottle, hoping that the red wine would put them all to sleep within the
hour. She had always hated these drunken truth games but knew that if she didn’t join
in they would accuse her, once again, of New York superiority.
“Right – as it’s my idea, I’ll go first. I’ll start with you George as I’ve known
you the longest.”
Penny paused and cleared her throat. “Your problem is you haven’t moved on
since the 60’s. You’ve just gone from socialism, to feminism, to whatever ism you
call your unquestioning support of indigenous women. You are always on the side of
the oppressed, the underdog, the vulnerable and that gives you the belief that you are
always right. You think you are morally superior to everyone who doesn’t share your
beliefs. But the truth is you’re too scared to get out of your secure, safe little
ideologies.” She had a little trouble with the last word.
“Absolute rubbish,” was Georgie’s only response.
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“And that’s typical – if it goes against your beliefs, it’s automatically rubbish.
You’re not even open to considering another viewpoint.”
“What do you think Sarah?” asked George, automatically assuming the role of
adjudicator.
“Penny’s got a point.
groove.
You are stuck in a very deep ‘politically correct’
So certain of your certainties. Everything you say and do is utterly
predictable.”
“Hah! Predictable. What about the fact that you just run away whenever the
going gets tough. Got a problem – catch a plane, that’s your motto. That’s utterly
predictable.”
“Just because I haven’t chosen to stay in this claustrophobic little village and
rot for the rest of my life, doesn’t mean I’m always running away. At least I’ve
stretched myself and tested my talents in the big wide world. You’ve just been
content to be a big frog in a tiny pond. And you go on croaking the same old song,
year after year.”
From the expression on Georgie’s face, Sarah knew she had gone too far but
she meant it, every word of it. The wine had kicked in.
Georgie and Penny were now both sitting up straight in their chairs, glaring at
her.
George retaliated, “It’s called making a commitment. Not that I’d expect you
to understand what that word means. I have committed myself to this city and this
community – I have put down deep roots here, I belong here. I work hard to make it a
fairer, more tolerant place to live. You, on the other hand, have not only ever
committed yourself to a city – small or big, you have never truly belonged anywhere.
You can’t even commit yourself to one person – or to one sex for that matter. You
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just keep all your so-called options open – why? Because your fabulous, glamorous,
fascinating life is a lie. You are not a New Yorker, you’re just pretending to be one.
Like when you lived in London, you fabricated an English identity and took on an
English accent. Now you are a New Yorker. Your whole life is just another
fabrication. The real reason you are worried about your father is that he refuses to be
dumped in an old people’s home so you can fly back to New York and continue to
swan around with people whose names or photos appear in Vanity Fair.”
Now Sarah was angry. And hurt. Particularly about the references to her
father. They all slurped their wine in the silence that followed Georgie’s outburst. In
an effort to placate Sarah, Penny said,
“It’s not so much that your life is a lie – you’re just lost. And when a person is
lost they keep moving on to try and find somewhere they feel is home. And you are a
lost, lonely person Sarah. Not needy – just lonely. Always have been. You never
really let anyone get close to you. You never make yourself vulnerable. In a huge
city like New York, no-one would ever notice that because they are all so busy
moving up the ladder and getting on.”
“What would you know about New Yorkers? How dare you patronise me with
your simplistic social worker platitudes. Why shouldn’t I try to succeed in New York
where all the best journalists and writers live and work? What’s wrong with trying to
get to the top of your career? It sure beats going broke and half-mad over trying to
develop a pathetic little marina on an island where you don’t belong.”
Sarah was revved up now – too much alcohol always had that effect on her.
With every swallow, she became more articulate and more cruel.
“You both want the truth, I’ll give it to you straight. You are both jealous of
me and the life I have led. It’s the jealousy of the hometown hick who hasn’t had
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enough guts to see if she can make it in the big world. Big frogs in small ponds.
That’s all you’ve managed to become, in spite of your privileged families, your
private schools, your Oxford degrees. You are both gutless and jealous and failures.
All this other stuff you are spouting is justification for never really testing yourselves.
It’s your lives that are based on lies. Nothing but lies.”
Penny was determined to continue the argument, even though she was
not entirely coherent.
“How dare you say I don’t belong here on this island. We bought this land. It
is legally ours. Don’t you start on all that bloody secret women’s business. Talk
about lies ... I’m not the only one who thinks it’s all lies—all totally made up—you
wait and see.”
Georgie jumped in. “Don’t go there Pen. It’s all been settled. No one was
making anything up—you just never bothered to find out the entire truth about their
culture. Why? Because deep down you think that our culture is superior to theirs. So
what does it matter if you trample on a few of their deeply held beliefs. You just
convince yourself they made them up. You’re no better than our ancestors who stole
their traditional lands for their own profit. The fact that you have bought this land for
your own profit is irrelevant.”
Penny was scornful. “I can’t be held responsible for what others have done in
the past.”
“You can’t separate yourself from your history. It’s part of you and you are
part of it. That’s like the Germans wanting to own Beethoven and not Hitler.”
Penny started to beat her chest in an overly dramatic fashion. “Mea culpa, mea
culpa ... are you happy now? Is that enough outpouring of guilt for you or do I have
to get down on my knees?”
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Sarah interrupted an argument that she knew could go on for hours.
“But what if they had made it up?”
Now it was George’s turn to be shocked. “Don’t talk rubbish.”
Sarah persisted “What if, even for the best possible motives, they just made it
up?’
“But they haven’t. You know that.”
“What if other indigenous women declared publicly that Sybill and the others
were lying to suit the occasion. That the means justified the end.”
“Don’t talk nonsense – which indigenous women have said that?”
“Don’t be so certain of your certainties George,” Penny chimed in. “It’s not
over yet.” She waved an accusatory finger in front of her face.
“Both of you are pissed off and just trying to have me on.”
“Don’t you bet on it.” said Sarah, enjoying the power of her secret knowledge.
Sensing George was momentarily unnerved, Penny opened war on another
front.
“And how dare you call me a housewife?”
“Shut up Penny – don’t go on about it – what would you prefer – CEO of
home management?”
She was mocking her. It had all taken a vicious turn. The air was humming
with hostility.
“I made a conscious choice to give up my career to help Hugh bring up his
children. And then I supported him in becoming a developer – that’s what wives are
supposed to do – not that either of you would know anything about that.”
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“Bullshit – you were just bored out of your mind – with Hugh and the kids –
and thought being rich would at least be more exciting than all that establishment
rubbish. You were greedy. 1980’s greedy.” insisted George.
“Silver spoons tarnish quickest,” quipped Sarah, amused at her own wit but
unable to remember who she was quoting.
She stopped laughing when Penny
snapped back.
“At least I didn’t put my career and my ambition before my family.”
“My father wanted me to go to New York for my career.”
“What else was he going to say?” sneered Penny. “Stay home and keep me
company. I’m old. I’m scared. I’m all alone.”
Sarah looked to George for support but her eyes were cold, glinting back at
her like stainless steel.
“I’m with Penny on this one. All your concern for your father now is just guilt
over your neglect of him for the past ten years. You lusted after the bright lights, the
big city, the glitz, the power of the media, the pursuit of celebrity – just another 80’s
dead-end.”
“So I should have stayed here and been content with the mediocrity, the petty
power struggles, the shallow little lives.”
“You should have been here for your father, you know that … deep in your
heart … you’re in denial,” said Penny whose voice was losing power. She had slid so
low down in her chair she was almost on the floor.
George took up the argument, dogged to the end.
“And what makes you think all those same so- called petty hatreds aren’t
repeated in New York – just in a bigger context – you’re fooling yourself Sarah – the
ongoing fight between good and evil doesn’t change, wherever you live. People lead
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shallow lives because they are shallow. Most people don’t really believe in anything
any more … other than money and power.”
“Praise the Lord and pass the bottle. Here endeth the lesson,” intoned Sarah.
Georgie staggered over to her. “Don’t drink it all – it’s the last one.”
Sarah poured herself a full cup and looked towards Penny, who was now
asleep or passed out on the rug in front of her chair. She pulled herself to her feet and
staggered towards the bedroom, which consisted of a narrow fold-up bed and one
battered wooden chair. “And she reckons I’m lost,” she thought to herself as she
pulled the blanket off the bed. As she placed it around Penny on the floor, George said
“She’s a wreck.”
“You can talk,” mocked Sarah’
“What do you know that you’re not telling me?” commanded George in a
voice thick with alcohol and accusation.
“Nothing.”
“You’re a bitch. And a liar..”
“Perhaps. But so are you.”
“I won’t forgive you if you’re lying to me.”
“And I won’t forgive you for what you’ve said tonight.”
“In vino veritas.”
Within five minutes they were both snoring, cups rolling on the cement floor,
their contents pooling into large red stains.
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43.
Patrick Ryan was very excited. Wanting to whoop and leap over high buildings
excited. After his meeting with Houghton and Isobel where the three of them had
drafted a letter for a tribal elder, Nanna Val, which Isobel had taken around to her to
sign, he knew his fortunes were about to change. He was certain of it but knew he
must maintain a serious and concerned mask.
The next morning he rose, soberly, in the State Parliament to speak to Nanna
Val’s letter, which he had tabled. He began by explaining to the chamber in calm and
measured tones, that Nanna Val was highly regarded by the Ngarrindjeri women. She
was eighty-nine and the oldest woman in the Ngarrindjeri nation. The signed letter
that he read out stated, twice, that she had no knowledge of any women’s business on
Heritage Island and that neither her mother nor her grandmother, both senior
Ngarrindjeri women, had ever passed down any such information to her. As Nanna
Val was old and unwell, Isobel Hughes’ name and phone number was given as a
contact for further information.
Ryan was pleased with the sudden stir that erupted after his reading of the
letter. He was even more delighted when the Premier stood up and called for an
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urgent inquiry to be launched into these astounding new claims that he, Patrick Ryan,
had brought to the attention of the entire Parliament.
It was noon before the three women in the isolated cottage on Heritage Island
began to stir themselves among the debris of empty wine bottles and the cold ashes
from the fireplace. Stiff in the legs and very hung-over they sipped cups of black
instant coffee and said nothing to each other. Sarah and Georgie left without speaking
to Penny and barely spoke a word on the journey home. Georgie slammed the car
door at the bus stop. Neither of them said goodbye.
All the way home Sarah’s head had throbbed, not just with a foul headache but
with the soundtrack of Georgie and Penny accusing her of abandoning her father in
favour of her career. Her tongue tasted like it had been licking the dusty couch and no
matter how much water she swigged from a large bottle bought on the way, nothing
could stop it from attaching itself to the roof of her mouth.
Why had she ever let herself be talked into going to that blasted hovel on the
heath? She felt very old, very tired and very foolish. Turning into her father’s street,
she saw the flashing lights of a police car parked at the far end.
“Oh no, please God. Not Dad. Please God, don’t let anything have happened
to him while I was away.”
A migraine was lurking just above her right eyebrow. She pulled into the
driveway and dashed into the back garden where someone appeared to be shouting.
Two chunky uniformed policemen were standing on the back lawn either side
of her father, holding him by the arm, while Mrs Fitch from next door continued to
shout. Her father was chuckling to himself. The policemen turned to stare at her. Her
father’s face opened into a broad grin.
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“Gidday Polly. Where have you been all night? Out on the tiles with my mate
Charlie, I hope. You look terrible – you been on the hops?”
Even Mrs Fitch had stopped her tirade to stare at her dishevelled appearance.
“Good afternoon officers.
Is my father in some kind of trouble?” she
stammered.
“This is Sarah, my daughter. She’s visiting from New York where she’s a
famous journalist.” Her father acted as if he were introducing her at a cocktail party.
“Too bad she hasn’t taken you in hand,” Mrs Fitch began.
“Just a moment ma’am,” said the tallest cop, “before you continue, let me
explain to Mr Woods’ daughter.”
“Call me Jack,” interrupted Sarah’s father. “Everyone does.”
The policeman ignored him and focused on Sarah.
“Your father has been accused by Mrs Fitch of throwing mud on her clean
sheets and threatening her with violence. She called us for help.”
“Look, look at these – he should be taken away. He’s got senile dementia.
What sane person does this?” screeched the next-door neighbour, thrusting the dirtsmeared sheets towards Sarah.
“If you could just let me finish,” said the policeman who, by his facial
expression, was clearly ready to gag her.
Turning to Sarah he said, “Your father has admitted to this act of vandalism.”
“She deserved it, the old cow,” growled Jack
“He claims that one of his fowls is missing and that Mrs Fitch has stolen it and
eaten the evidence.”
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“I could smell it cooking last night – go on admit it. You had roast chook for
dinner.” Jack wasn’t giving up. All eyes were on Mrs Fitch standing there in her clean
apron clutching the soiled sheets.
“Is this true?” asked the shorter cop.
Mrs Fitch cleared her throat and looked from one policeman to another as if
deciding whether she should tell the truth or not. Both policemen let go of Jack and
took a step towards her, better to fix her with their stares. Mrs Fitch tossed her head
high, “It is true that I had roast chicken and vegetables for dinner last night but I
bought the chicken from the butcher.”
“See–I told you so,” Jack crowed, sticking his head forward like one of his
roosters.
“It was not one of your chooks. I wouldn’t touch them with a barge-pole,”
shouted Mrs Fitch.
“It bloody well was. She’s been missing for two days,” he shouted back.
“Mrs Fitch,” said the tall cop, “do you have a receipt for the purchase of the
chicken?”
“No. I paid cash. I have to watch my pennies, I’m a war widow, officer.”
“See, she’s got no proof – she’s lying- arrest her – now,” ordered Jack, his
cheeks rosy with excitement.
“Mr Wood, do you have any proof that Mrs Bridely stole the fowl?”
“She’s eaten the bloody proof.”
“Dad, calm down. Don’t get yourself over-excited.”
“Calm down – bloody cow’s a thief I tell you. She’s lucky I didn’t get out my
rifle.”
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“See, he’s mad officer – he’s threatening me with his old army rifle. It’s not
the first time either. I tell you, I’m in constant danger.”
“Do you have a licensed weapon on these premises Mr Wood?”
Jack stood stock-still and said nothing.
“Of course he doesn’t officer. He’s eighty-five, he’s over-excited. He’s just
making it up,” said Sarah.
“He does, I’ve seen it,” said Mrs Fitch. “He’s shot at the feral cats that come
into his garden.”
“The woman’s mad,” scoffed Jack.
“Officer,” said Sarah, the tom-toms in her head now rising to a crescendo, “I
think this has gone far enough. I’ll pay for the laundering and ironing of Mrs Fitch’s
sheets and we can all call it a day.”
“Sounds fair enough,” said the taller cop, eager to get away, “give Mr Woods’
daughter the sheets and we’ll be on our way. Mr Wood we must caution you not to
damage any more property belonging to Mrs Fitch.”
With great reluctance Mrs Fitch handed over the muddy sheets to Sarah.
“I like a lot of starch.”
“It’s your brain that’s starched you stupid old bat,” said Jack.
“Dad, that’s enough. Officer I’ll take him inside if you’ll escort Mrs Bridely
off the premises.”
Once inside the kitchen Jack looked at Sarah and said “Well that was fun.
How about a beer. You look like you need a hair of the dog, my girl.”
She collapsed onto the kitchen chair and put her head in her hands.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
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“That’s why you need a beer. Or perhaps a brandy. That’ll settle your
stomach.” He was still shouting at top pitch.
“Dad, I need for you to calm down and to talk very quietly.”
“It was Charlie you spent the night with – I was right wasn’t I?”
“No Dad, you weren’t.”
“Where were you then?”
“I told you. I went with Georgie down to Heritage Island to see Penny.”
“That was yesterday lunch time.”
“I know, we missed the last ferry and had to stay the night. I’m sorry I didn’t
ring you but Penny’s got no phone and the public one has been vandalised. Speaking
of which – what on earth are you playing at, throwing mud on other people’s sheets?”
All this was said in a low monotone with her head resting on the kitchen table.
“Don’t start picking on me because you’re hung over – I’m having a beer, if
you don’t want one, I suggest you go to bed.”
For once Sarah did not have the energy to argue with him. She crawled
between the clean white sheets on her bed, fully clothed.
It was totally dark in her bedroom when the piercing shrieks of the phone
woke her. She couldn’t focus and wasn’t sure where she was. She had been dreaming
about New York where she had been washing dirty sheets in the fountain in front of
the Metropolitan Opera House.
The phone continued to shriek. She staggered out of bed, groping her way in
the dark, surprised that she was fully clothed.
“Hello.”
“You sound ghastly – are you sick?”
“Oh Tim, it’s you – yes well I am in a manner of speaking.”
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“What do you mean?”
“Been drinking with George and Penny.”
“Really Sarah, how can you stand them? They’re so stuck in the past … from
what you’ve said.”
“Penny’s gone a bit feral after going bankrupt because of the bridge. The
government refused to build it because the Ngarrindjeri women claim the island is
sacred to them and…”
“Stop. Stop. I can’t bear to listen to all this local village stuff. You shouldn’t
be involving yourself. It’s beneath you. Not worthy of your attention. Have you
forgotten that you are a senior journalist with The New York Times?”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, it is. Now listen to me, for once in your life. Get on a plane tomorrow
back here if you want to save your job.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard the boss has had enough. Time’s up.”
“He promised he’d keep the job open.”
“Not forever Sarah. It’s been over six months. Put your father in a lovely
retirement home, give him a kiss and get out of there. It’s rotting your brain.”
“Tim – why don’t you just piss off.”
And she hung up.
Still unsteady on her feet, she moved slowly up the passage to get some
headache tablets from the kitchen cabinet. When she returned she heard a strange
noise coming from her father’s bedroom.
“Dad – is that you?” she called out.
The noise became louder, like a strangled gurgle.
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“Dad.”
She switched on the light and moved towards the figure in the bed. Her
father’s eyes were open and he was trying to talk to her.
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44.
“Excuse me, are you Mr Wood’s daughter?” Sarah opened her eyes. A young man in
a white coat was standing in front of her. She looked around, blinking furiously,
realising she had fallen asleep in the emergency waiting room.
“Yes, I’m Sarah Wood – what’s happened?”
“Your father has had a severe stroke. He can’t speak and is paralysed down
his right side. Sorry to be so blunt but I have to see the next patient. Emergency is
overflowing.”
“Oh my God. Can I see him?”
“We just need to do a few more tests and we’ll admit him. If you go up to
Ward 4B and wait, he’ll be there soon.”
As soon as she saw him being wheeled out of the lift, she ran to his side. His
eyes were open, cloudy and confused. His body moved in restless agitation under the
sheet.
“Hello my darling.” She kissed his lips, now cold and very pale. He looked at
her and opened and shut his mouth. His tongue lolled about as if unsure of what to do
with itself. She placed her hand against his cheek and held it there.
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“Don’t try and speak – you’re going to be fine.”
The nurse met them at the entrance to the ward and said, “Just let us make him
comfortable and I’ll call you.”
“Can’t I come in with him?” she pleaded. “I’m his daughter. The only family
he has.”
“Very well. But don’t try and make him talk.”
“I promise. I’ll just sit quietly.”
She continued to cradle his speckled hand, which she thought resembled a
small damaged bird, while they hooked him up to a drip which they said would make
him very sleepy.
“He’s not in any pain is he?” she whispered to the nurse.
“No – just a bit disoriented. Needs a lot of rest. The next twenty four hours
are crucial – we have to keep him sedated and calm.”
Sarah sat quietly by his bed, holding his cold, unresponsive hand for the rest of
the day while the nurses made their regular checks on him. Every so often she would
whisper in his ear, “I’m sorry I left you Daddy. But I’m here now.”
She was exhausted but did not want to leave his side. Eventually the ward
sister appeared and said, “Sarah – we think he’s stable now and we’re going to close
the curtains and darken the room. Leave me your number. I’ll ring you if he needs
you.”
When Sarah began to protest, she simply held up her hand and said, “It’s
better for him. Believe me.”
Slumped in her father’s chair in the living room she turned on the
television to catch the five o’clock news. The promo boomed into the room, Sarah
reached for the remote to turn down the volume.
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“Breaking news tonight – Shocking revelations. Indigenous women reject
secret women’s business. Coming up – an exclusive interview with Maria Scouros
and two leading indigenous women.”
Sarah released the footstool and the chair thumped into its upright position.
She couldn’t believe what she had just heard – surely that pushy little tart wasn’t
interviewing Isobel and Carmel – and if she was, who had told her about them – the
only one who knew was Charlie. Surely not Charlie? He promised he’d tell no one
else. Why would he betray her?
Channel Twelve television news, led with the story, around the nation. Sarah
was stunned when on the screen appeared the pouty little sex doll in her five-inch
heels, five-inch cleavage, her collagen lips introducing the story with studied
earnestness.
“We begin tonight with claims that have dramatic implications for the
indigenous people and the Federal Government. Ngarrindjeri women from Heritage
Island area have rejected the so-called secret women’s business that prompted the
banning of the bridge to the island by the Federal Minister for Indigenous Affairs.
One woman attests that she was there when the secret business was first raised. It was
raised, she says, not by a woman, but by a man.”
The interview featured Isobel and Carmel and showed a signed letter
confirming the support of three other indigenous women who supported their claims.
Imagining the instant media frenzy that would follow this report, Sarah
was not surprised when her phone rang almost immediately. It was Tom.
“Sarah why weren’t you on to this?”
“I was but …“
“What? You knew about this?”
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“Well I did talk with those women a few days ago but I was unsure about
whether they were speaking the truth and who was backing them.”
“You talked to them, you bloody talked to them– and you didn’t ring me,” he
shouted.
“I needed time to think about it – and then my father had a stroke and I spent
today in the hospital and …” Her voice was feeble and fading. She felt like a highrise building whose foundations were about to crack. Tom paused, sighed heavily and
lowered his voice.
“Can you get something to me now?”
“No Tom, sorry, I have to be ready to go to the hospital if he needs me.”
“Sarah – I’m very sorry about your father but I’ll have to take you off the
story. You understand, it’s a huge national story now. Huge. I can’t afford to waste
any more time.”
“I understand.”
As soon as she put down the phone, it rang again.
“Please don’t let it be bad news about Dad. Please God.” She counted to five
and looked at the ceiling.
It was not the hospital. It was her New York editor ringing to say that he had
been forced to terminate her leave and give her job to someone else. Of course there
could be no promises but if and when she returned to New York she should give him
a call.
“Sacked by two bosses on two continents in one day. Now that must be a
record,” she said aloud to herself, hysteria hovering above her like a helicopter
preparing to land.
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Lying full length in her father’s chair with the television off, she stewed over
the revelations. It had to be Charlie who had told Maria or he’d told someone who
had told Maria – and he’d promised her faithfully he would tell no one else about
Isobel and Carmen. Why would he have broken his promise? Had she been a fool to
trust him? Had she lost all her journalist’s instincts since she had been back here?
Should she have rung Tom immediately? Why had she been so slow to use the
information? One question leapfrogged over the other. Storming to the phone, she
rang Charlie.
“Hello Judas.”
“Sarah – what’s up with you?”
“Your betrayal of me.”
“What?”
“You told that little hussy Maria on channel twelve, about Isobel.”
“I did not.”
“Well who did? How come she was just on television telling the world what
she had told me”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really – you haven’t seen or heard the news?”
“No – I’ve been away in the bush – painting.”
“How very convenient.”
“Sarah – I swear to you I don’t have a clue what you’re on about.”
“Maria Scouros from Channel Twelve just led the news with an interview with
Isobel and Carmel denouncing the secret women’s business.”
“I had nothing to do with that. I’ve never heard of Maria what’s-her-name – I
swear you were the only person I told.”
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“Yeah well, funny how that little tart knew exactly where to go and who to
speak to.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I’m not sure who to believe any more.”
“I think we’d better stop this conversation now.”
“Fine with me.”
And she hung up. The phone rang immediately. Bugger you Charlie, she
thought, picked up the phone and barked, “Yes.”
A female voice said “No need to snap.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Becky. Channel Three. Remember?”
“Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Clearly.”
“What can I do for you? I’m not working on the story any more. Tom just
sacked me. In fact I’ve been sacked twice tonight.”
And then she laughed uproariously. Even as she said it, she still didn’t believe
it.
“That’s clearly a joke, I was just ringing to tell you to watch the National
Report tonight – I’ve got your mate Georgie and Sybill Cartright on, in response to
Isobel’s claims.”
“Oh right – good. That’s good.”
She didn’t seem to be able to find anything more to say. Filling the silence,
Becky asked, “How’s your Dad?”
“Not good.”
“I’ll ring you after the program.”
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“O.K,” said Sarah, distracted.
Penny had just left Bill and Gwen Vincent at The Mouse House and was
pulling up in her car next to the phone box ,which was now functional.
“Hello Shane – it’s Penny Reynolds. Yes it is stunning – not that it surprises
me. I always knew they were lying – but I have a sensational follow-up for you. Yes,
sensational. Can you meet me at the Oberon Motel in Goolwa? Tomorrow at 11a.m.
Bring a cameraman. Don’t be late.”
The opening shot of The National Report showed Becky sitting opposite
Georgie and Sybill. The garish television makeup gave Georgie the appearance of a
pantomime dame. Her facial distortion, however, did not impede her ability to argue
her case. Sybill, who had refused the makeup, did not hold back in her denouncement
of Isobel and Carmel who had been already branded ‘the dissident women’ by the
media. When Becky asked her what should happen to these women who claimed she
had lied about tribal secrets, Sybill, her face twisted with anger, said “they should be
tarred and feathered. When they talk like that it shows they’ve got no respect for their
ancestors.” Georgie explained, calmly but firmly, that as an anthropologist, it was
totally understandable to her that these women had not been told the stories. “In this
indigenous culture not everyone is told the stories. It is handed down only to certain
women to know what secrets are for women and what secrets are for men. Some
women would have been chosen to hear them and others not. The more secret the
knowledge, the more important and the fewer women would be told.”
Becky made a veiled attack on Maria’s lack of understanding of the culture
and her motives being commercial rather than intellectual. Georgie refused to attack
Maria, describing her as merely the messenger for right wing political forces. She
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insisted that the dissident women were the pawns in a game of racial discrimination
and a politically motivated conspiracy. Sybill interrupted her by vowing to get to the
truth of why these women had been encouraged to make such public statements and
betray their own culture. Becky concluded by telling the viewers she would not let
this story disappear, she would continue her investigation in order to discover the
truth.
***
Back in the hospital, Sarah sat by her father holding his hand, watching Becky’s
interview on the small television suspended above his head. He continued to sleep
quietly, the medication had calmed him down. Even though she was pleased he was
resting, she longed for him to open his eyes and recognise her.
The conflict over the secret women’s business had failed to move her. The
world of journalism, politics and racial differences seemed to exist on another planet
from the one she was presently inhabiting. Never before had she experienced this
strange sense of distance and detachment from what was happening in the world. All
that was real to her was this hospital room and the figure that lay beneath the blankets.
How could she have ever contemplated leaving him? A desperate need to protect her
father seemed to swamp every other feeling. Tears filled her eyes as she lifted his
cold fingers to her mouth and kissed them.
A nurse appeared around the corner of the curtain that enclosed them. “Do you
think you could turn the telly down a bit, sometimes it’s a bit disturbing for
recovering stroke patients. Too many voices.”
“Of course. I’m sorry…how is he? Really?”
“As well as can be expected.”
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“He will be able to talk again won’t he?”
“It’s too soon to tell – depends on how much damage has been done.”
Sarah put her head down to hide her panic.
“Don’t give up on him yet – he’s a fighter.”
Sarah smiled up at her, grateful for any hope.
“Yes, he is – you’re right. He’s a fighter. And he’ll beat this. And I’ll help
him.”
The nurse approached the bed but it was Sarah not her father on whom she
was focusing her rather steely gaze.
“You look absolutely exhausted. Why don’t you go home, have a good sleep
and see him again in the morning.”
“I’m scared to leave him. He might wake up.”
“I can assure you – if he does, I’ll sedate him again. Please do as I advise
you.”
“You will ring me if he needs me. You have my home number.”
“Yes, we do.”
She patted her on the shoulder and said, “Get some rest.”
Penny was so elated at the turn in events that she even contemplated ringing
Hugh at his club. She had watched Becky’s interview on the National Report at the
house of a neighbour who was one of the few on the island who had supported the
bridge. They agreed with her that the revelations by these dissident women had
blown the issue wide open. She wanted to tell Hugh to get onto the bank and force
them to give them their property back so he could get on with the development. She
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resisted the urge. It was late and probably too soon to get excited. She would wait
until she had met with Shane tomorrow.
Becky was delighted with the public response of support that had flowed in
after the interview with Georgie and Sybil. She had assured them that she would not
let the issue die and would keep in close contact. Georgie thanked her profusely and
confirmed that they would begin immediately to organise their supporters who would
provide her with plenty of good footage and material.
“Don’t worry, there are politicians, bureaucrats, unionists and conservationists
on our side – I’ll even get my ex-husband to ring you – he’ll make good copy. Come
on Sybill, let’s flood the airwaves. We have a war to fight.”
When Becky finally returned to her desk there were already hundreds of
messages from all over the nation from supporters, other media and her usual band of
detractors. This issue was on fire. She hit the phone and rang as many contacts as she
could muster. This conflict was not just going to disappear. It was Sarah that she rang
last.
“Hello.” The voice at the other end was tremulous. Guarded.
“It’s Becky.”
“Oh thank God. I was afraid it was the hospital.”
“How is he?”
“Sleeping. The hospital sent me home.”
Silence. Each was waiting for the other one to speak.
“Sorry Becky. I’m not much of a conversationalist at the moment.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No. Thank you.”
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“Are you sure? I know it’s late but I’ll come over and bring a bottle of good
red if you like.”
“No really. I need to lie down.”
“I’ll bring a soft pillow too.”
“It’s very kind of you but I’m not much company tonight.”
“Did you see the show?”
“What? Oh I’m sorry. I’m so preoccupied with my Dad. Yes, I did, you
handled it very well. Certainly better than that little headline grabber Scouros.”
“I’d give the game up if I wasn’t.”
“I don’t suppose you could discover how she found those dissident women
could you?”
“I could try. Why?”
“Tell you another time.
But it’s very important that I find out. Very
important.”
Becky was surprised at the tone of urgency in her request.
“I’ll do my best.”
Sarah noticed her voice was husky and intimate but couldn’t help stifling a
yawn.
“I’m sorry. I need to sleep.”
“Let me know how your father is – promise.”
“I promise…good night Becky.”
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45.
The shocking revelations were front-page news in all the major papers in the country.
The words ‘hoax’ and ‘conspiracy’ appeared often. The tabloids revelled in their
repetition of the word LIES. The right-wing radio shock jocks were vindicated and
crowing with self-congratulation. The lines were jammed as radio talkback focused on
nothing else.
Jason Judd, however, argued in the morning Clarion that “the concept of
secret women’s business may be difficult for white people to understand, but that did
not necessarily make it untrue.” Tom, having decided to take over from Sarah,
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interviewed the leading members of the Conservation Council who claimed that
wealthy, powerful, right wing forces were behind the dissident women. “It is a
frightening moment in our history,” he wrote in The Nation, concluding that “the
resolution of these revelations will determine the future relationship between white
European culture and black indigenous beliefs.”
Ann Beaver, a self-declared feminist activist, jumped onto the bandwagon by
asserting on Kevin Cornell’s radio program, “The real liars are those who deny our
Aboriginal Heritage, who have no respect for the words of women, who deny the
sacredness of the land, who have no faith in anything but money. The feminists
support Sybill Cartwright and her sisters.”
All the powerful Christian leaders and their church organisations announced
their support for Sybill and her supporters and made public statements in the media.
The battle lines were being drawn. This story was not going to drown in the usual
flurry of media bluster, even though many people were confused about the arguments
and unsure of who really was telling the truth. In the eyes of the media, this story had
all the elements of a thrilling cliff —hanger.
Sarah had, once again, spent the day beside her father’s hospital bed. Even
though he had continued to sleep, the nursing staff kept assuring her that this was a
good sign and that he would open his eyes when he was ready. She had collapsed into
a black hole of unconsciousness during the night but awoke in the morning with a
determination to see him through this ‘episode’ as the nurses called it, attempting to
diminish her panic. Sometimes, she was forced to admit, euphemisms like “episode”
were essential just in order to survive. She would not be so ready to mock other
people’s use of them in future.
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Having spent the day reading all the papers, her interest in ‘the secret women’s
business’ versus “the dissident women” as they were calling it, had been reignited.
Unable to resist checking up on what little Miss Scouros was going to dish up
as a follow-up to her ‘scoop’ at five o’clock, she flicked on the television, keeping the
sound very low. In a red jacket whose top buttons looked as if they were about to
explode, her long black curls framing her baby-doll face, Maria introduced her expert
on indigenous culture, “to help us all understand the depth and complexity of these
cultural issues.”
Sarah snorted loudly and then looked at her father. Was that a faint flicker she
detected behind his closed eyes?
Dr Julian Turner filled the television screen, looking like a forty year old
version of Gregory Peck and assured the eye-lash batting Maria that Sybill Cartwright
was ill-informed regarding “secret women’s business” and that the Ngarrindjeri
people were in fact remarkable for their integration between the sexes. Even though
he carefully avoided words like ‘hoax’ or ‘fabrication’, he made it perfectly clear that
the claims of secret women’s business on Heritage Island were recently invented.
“So where did these ideas come from?” asked the wide-eyed Maria.
“They were probably borrowed from Western Desert cultures.”
Maria nodded sagely, not knowing what to say next. Julian leaned towards
her and with his best patrician smile, added “I suspect they were also massaged by
some local anthropologists preaching their own agendas.”
Sarah couldn’t help herself from smiling at what she knew would be Georgie’s
reaction to such a public slash at her. There would be no ‘taming of the shrew’ in the
hallowed corridors of the Museum. She clapped her hands at the thought of it. George
was magnificent when she was really riled.
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At six o’clock she flicked over to see what Shane Trott had lined up in order to
gazump Maria.
“Good evening,” said the Channel 12 newsreader, “More stunning admissions
today on the Heritage Island bridge scandal. A senior indigenous man has confessed
to helping make up the so-called secret women’s business. Shane Trott reports this
breaking news.”
Sarah jerked upright in the beige, vinyl chair. “My God, it’s Bill Vincent,”
she shouted. A new nurse put her head around the curtain, “Sshh,” she said. “Can you
keep it down.”
“Sorry,” whispered Sarah, unable to take her eyes off the small screen where
Bill with his missing front teeth, his slurred speech and his fidgeting hands, told
Shane “the whole issue of the women’s business was fabricated. I helped make it up.
Isobel is right in what she says. I don’t want her harmed, I’ve heard that some people
are threatening to put curses on her and the other women. She’s a lifelong friend of
mine. It’s all got out of hand and that’s why I’ve decided to tell the truth.”
“He’s been drinking,” Sarah muttered to herself.
At seven-thirty on her national current affairs program, Becky had somehow
contacted Gwen Vincent and even though she wasn’t live in the studio, Sarah
recognised her voice and her manner of speaking. To Becky’s question about Bill’s
so-called revelations, she said, “Bill’s a drunk person talking like that – he’s wrong –
secret women’s business is not a lie. It’s true. I know it is and my knowledge is
spiritual. You can’t trust what Bill says when he’s been drinking.”
After watching Becky’s program, Patrick Ryan sensed that while the
situation was in a state of confusion and there were now clearly opposing accounts of
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what had happened, this was the perfect time for him to take the initiative. He rang
Houghton for advice on what to do next. Houghton’s message was loud and clear.
“Don’t mess around with a bloody State Inquiry, what you need now is a Royal
Commission – tell the Premier to give that left-wing lunatic, Sullivan, an ultimatum.
Tell the Premier to say he’ll give him forty eight hours to call a national enquiry or
else he will appoint a State Royal Commission.”
Emboldened by his hero’s urgings, Ryan contacted the Premier’s chief advisor
immediately to make sure that he understood the urgency of the situation. “Don’t fuck
with me or you’ll be looking for a job tomorrow” was Ryan’s parting shot.
The next morning Tom’s article in ‘The Nation’ reported that the
Federal government and Minister Sullivan were considering a second inquiry into the
Heritage Island dispute. Ryan took the plunge and rang the Premier himself just
before State Cabinet gathered for its weekly Executive Council meeting. Houghton’s
words, when repeated out of his own mouth, gave him courage, made him strong and
exhilarated. “There’ll be no prizes for coming second. We need to act now. You have
to announce a Royal Commission and cut the ground out from under those Federal
bastards in the government.”
Just before noon, the State Premier announced on all media outlets that he was
instigating a State Royal Commission into the Heritage Island claims of the existence
of secret women’s business. That same afternoon Minister Sullivan announced his
own Federal Inquiry, which was to begin after the appeal to the Federal Court
overturning his ban on the bridge, had been resolved.
Ryan and Houghton were jubilant in their mutual admiration. They had
gazumped the Federal Minister. Sullivan was livid. Shaking with barely suppressed
rage, he stood in Federal Parliament and denounced the State Premier for “throwing
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money around like a drunken sailor and instituting a Royal Commission which could
compel indigenous people to give evidence concerning their religious and cultural
beliefs.”
“This was,” he thundered, glaring at Houghton grinning back at him from the
Opposition backbench, “an absolutely unprecedented abuse of government power.”
The Indigenous Legal Rights Movement declared it was ‘a day of shame’ and
promised to cooperate with Sullivan’s Federal Inquiry but boycott the State’s Royal
Commission. All the conservation groups, the Catholic Church’s Justice and Peace
Commission and the Uniting Church were behind Sullivan and his federal inquiry and
critical of the State Premier’s Royal Commission. The war had well and truly begun.
Sybill and Georgie and all their supporters hit the airwaves and howled their
protests against The Royal Commission until every possible media outlet had been
canvassed. “How dare the dominant Western culture sit in judgement on the culture
and beliefs of the Ngarrindjeri,” they demanded.
Sullivan repeatedly asked how Catholics would feel if a Royal Commission
inquired into their right to believe in the Virgin birth.
The State Premier stood apart from the fray and asked Ryan to make the
running. Basking in the kiss of the cameras once again, Ryan rocked back and forth
on the heels of his shoes, their black leather shining like glass in the sunlight, and
shouted, “Minister Sullivan is talking nonsense – as usual. Our Royal Commission
will investigate whether or not the claims of secret women’s business have been
fabricated. The Virgin birth is a long-standing Christian belief – the real question to
be answered is whether the so-called secret women’s business is also a long-standing
belief or whether it has just been concocted to suit the anti-bridge brigade.”
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“Good work Ryan – just saw you on all the television news channels,” said
Houghton when he rang for the third time that day.
“It was a team effort,” said Ryan, “couldn’t have done it without your
support.”
“We’ll have to get Isobel and her friends a top-class barrister. I’ll leave the
choice to you.”
“Right,” said Ryan, hoping Houghton didn’t expect him to kick in any money.
It was all very well for him with his family money. Stephanie kept a tight fist around
hers.
Becky, true to her word, kept up the pressure against the State government,
asking difficult questions in her nightly reports.
“Who will be the main beneficiaries if the Royal Commission concludes that
the claims of secret women’s business are based on fabrication?” she challenged her
viewers to ask themselves. She grilled her studio guest, Patrick Ryan, on his links
with the dissident women, querying when had he met them and under what
circumstances. His answers were as bland and smooth as his silk tie. She described
the Royal Commission as a ‘cash versus culture conflict” despite the state
government’s repeated denial of any self-interest. She interviewed Sybill, who
questioned the motives of Dr Julian Turner and announced that she would be leading
a delegation to the Director of the Museum, demanding that Dr Turner be sacked for
his attacks on her and her work.
And late, after her program, when she knew Sarah would be home from the
hospital, Becky rang her.
“Hi, it’s me.”
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“Becky,” shouted Sarah, “I have wonderful news. Tonight, just before your
program went to air, Dad opened his eyes, looked at me and mumbled “Hello Polly.””
“Oh that’s marvellous.”
“He still can’t form sentences but the sister in charge said that if I spend every
day with him – talking and reading to him – he will improve.”
“This deserves a bottle of the best champagne.”
“It certainly does,” said Sarah, still jubilant.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“No Becky, not tonight. It’s too soon to celebrate. Let’s wait until he has
properly recovered.”
Becky did not push. Sarah liked that about her. She also liked that fact that
apart from being sexy and intelligent, there was an energy about her. In New York she
would definitely have drunk champagne with her and much else besides. But here,
she wanted to hold herself apart from the sweet, sticky tentacles of sex. Here she felt
aloof, detached, neutered. This was not her real life. This was a detour, a necessary
detour but soon, very soon she would be back on the main highway again. She would
be free to take up her life again, sex again, even love again. This is what she told
herself as she lay in her little single bed in the room of her childhood, the room where
she had once waited for her real life, her chosen life to begin.
There was a celebration, however, amid the velvet darkness that shrouded the
island every night. Penny’s cottage was flickering with candlelight. A huge bunch of
brightly coloured flowers bloomed in an old jam jar. A bottle of cheap local
champagne, already opened, sat in an old flowerpot. Fresh crusty bread and a hunk of
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cheddar cheese filled a wooden board placed on the rug, either edge of which sat
Penny and Hugh, holding up their glasses in gestures of a toast.
“It’s good to see you again Pen … I’ve missed you.”
“Missed my cooking I bet.”
“That too – but mostly I’ve missed having you around. Sorry this food and
wine isn’t up to our usual standard but it’s the best I could afford.”
“It’s very thoughtful – but I have to be honest. I haven’t missed you. Or our
past life. And all its trappings. In fact I’ve rather enjoyed living here alone.”
“What! Like a bag lady? I don’t believe it.”
“You’d better believe it – this is the new me.”
“You’ve had a bit of a break-down old girl.”
“More like a break-out, old boy.”
She giggled and put her glass out for more champagne. Hugh poured it for her
and got up to put some more logs on the fire. Standing in front of the flames to warm
his legs he looked purposefully around the cottage.
“I’d forgotten this old ruin existed – no wonder the bank let you live in it.”
“I love it.”
“You can’t be serious. After the beautiful house we were forced to sell?”
“I don’t miss that house at all.”
Hugh shook his head in bewilderment and sat down next to her on the rug,
taking her hand in his.
“I don’t think I know this new Penny.”
Withdrawing her hand, she leant back, smiled as if to herself, and said very
quietly,
“You don’t. I’m not sure I do yet…but I like her a lot better than the old one.”
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46.
A week passed before a huge rally against the Royal Commission overflowed the
steps of Parliament House and stopped the city traffic. As the police took control in
order to redirect the cars, an icy wind whipped its passage through the ranks of the
many thousands of people who had gathered together; black and white, old and
young, Catholic and Protestant, unionist and employer, male and female. Many of
them were wearing black gags across their mouths demonstrating their refusal to
speak at the Royal Commission.
Sally Joseph, self-appointed activist, was screeching into the microphone.
“This is a Ngarrindjeri witch-hunt. They have put gags around our black
mouths. They do not want to hear the truth. They only believe the lies of the
betrayers of our culture.” After each pause, the crowd cheered. Sally continued;
“Sybill Cartright is a hero, she is a walking encyclopaedia of indigenous knowledge.”
The crowd went wild with applause, wolf whistles and frantic waving of banners.
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Her sister, Nan, took over the microphone and shouted “the women who have
called us liars are traitors. Traitors to our culture, traitors to our race. And traitors to
our belief in the knowledge that has been handed down over the centuries from one
specially chosen woman to another.” More enthusiastic cheering.
The next speaker was a former left wing Premier of the State who had been
the national pioneer for indigenous land rights in the 1970s. His words were powerful
and uplifting, his sonorous voice rang above the rousing cheers of the protestors.
“I condemn the current Premier for establishing an inquisition into the
Ngarrindjeri’s right to hold their beliefs.
Do not believe that this is a Royal
Commission, this is an inquisition. An inquisition.”
When he repeated the word “inquisition,” the crowd cheered even more
wildly, not only for the sentiments he expressed but for the memory of his rousing
voice and the familiarity of his passion. They cheered for times past and times
present; they cheered for memories of their own passionate beliefs and their genuine
protests for causes in the decade when he had led the state. When the crowd’s
exultation finally subsided, Sybill, who was keeping watch from the sidelines,
suddenly spied a camera with Channel 8 emblazoned on its side. She pulled down her
black gag, pointed her finger in the direction of the camera and shouted “Don’t put
Shane Trott on this story or I’ll punch you up.” The camera-man next to him from
Channel 12 laughed and she wheeled on him – “don’t think you’re safe either – tell
that Maria never to cross my path again.” Those women standing nearby with banners
started chorusing ‘Boycott the Boys’ Bullshit’ and ‘Where’s the inquisition into the
white fellas’ marina dreaming’. The crowd cheered and lifted their banners towards
the cameras and their red lights. All their hopes were riding on the power of their
public protests and the media’s enthusiasm to record it.
342
Inside his parliamentary office, high above the protesters, the Premier
was signing the document appointing Rose Elliott, a retired District Court Judge, to
be the Royal Commissioner with two counsel assisting, both of whom had
distinguished legal careers.
Ex-Minister Ryan had secured the services of Matthew Highsmith Q.C, one of
the State’s leading barristers who had agreed to represent the dissident women at no
cost, together with Judith Cathcart QC, a well known and feisty defence lawyer.
Houghton had assured Ryan that he would organise any extra money if it was needed.
In a fleeting moment of doubt Ryan asked Houghton, “We are going to win,
aren’t we?” Without hesitation Houghton replied, “Of course we are. You can’t have
all these lies and secrets holding up major developments all over the country.”
“But what if it’s found that the women’s claims are true, where will that leave
us?” asked Ryan, almost child-like in his manner.
“Well they’re not – you know it and so do I.”
“But,” Ryan insisted.
“But … if by some miracle they were true, we simply can’t allow it. There’s
only one legal system and that’s ours – and secrets that can’t be revealed have no
place in it.”
“You’re right. Of course you’re right.”
Just before he hung up the phone Houghton added,
“You’ve got yourself a lawyer I hope.”
“Me?” stammered Ryan.
“You can’t be too careful. The other mob think we’re part of a right-wing
conspiracy to kill indigenous culture. Hire yourself a legal hit man, preferably from
interstate. That’s what I’ve done.”
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47.
The opening of the Royal Commission displayed a bevy of twenty lawyers,
resplendent in wigs and gowns. The most prominent silks chosen from around the
nation had been selected to represent Sullivan, Houghton, Ryan and the dissident
women. The media, however, seemed much more focused on the public gallery where
over a dozen women, including Sybill, Carmel and Georgie sat every day, all dressed
in brightly coloured garments, providing a running commentary on the proceedings,
totally uninhibited by the court proceedings. It was clear that they had nothing but
contempt for what was happening in that room and did not intend giving any
recognition to the authority of either the Commission or the Commissioner.
The media were also very interested in the man and woman who sat together
every day in the public gallery, talking to each other but to no one else. Hugh
Reynolds was easy to recognise but they found it hard to reconcile the bizarre
appearance of Penny Reynolds with the woman she had once appeared to be.
“Had a breakdown. Never recovered. Living like a hermit on the island,” was
the accepted wisdom. Even though they both refused to be interviewed, they could
344
not stop their photos from appearing on the front page of “The Clarion’. Rumours
were rife that Hugh had moved in to look after his wife in her little broken-down
cottage. What confused the gossips was that, having lost most of their capital and
their possessions, they appeared to be happy. Sometimes it was observed, they even
held hands while sitting apart from everyone else in the gallery.
Journalists in dark suits and bright ties crushed into the hearing room every
day like rows of stuffed olives, breaking ranks only to chase witnesses down the street
after they had given evidence.
A few days after the Commission had begun, the hearings were moved to
another building. Rumours that a curse had been placed on the main meeting room
competed with reports of death threats. Some of the dissident women who had joined
Isobel were genuinely frightened. Isobel insisted that she wasn’t at all concerned with
such rumours. She knew with the same certainty that she knew she was telling the
truth, that God was on their side. They all appeared comforted by her strong faith.
Many of Isobel’s fellow protestors were often heard humming hymns and
praying to the same Christian God as hers during the early days of the proceedings.
Sybill’s barrister, representing her and at least twenty other women, confirmed
that they would not be seeking leave to appear and be cross-examined. Instead she
read aloud to the Commission a very long statement on their behalf, which began
“We, as Ngarrindjeri women believe the women’s business, the subject of the
Royal Commission into Heritage Island is true.
We are deeply offended that a government in this day and age has the audacity
to order an inquiry into our secret, sacred, spiritual beliefs. Never before has any
group of people had their spiritual beliefs scrutinised in this way…….
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Our law, for aboriginal women, prohibits us from talking about this business,
not only to any men, but also to those not privileged to be given that information.”
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48
Jack Wood was slowly regaining his ability to speak, although the urge to have
conversations seemed to have disappeared. Sarah became used to the companionable
silences that often filled the afternoons when her father wasn’t dozing, his cheeks now
rosy against the white sheets. In the mornings she read the paper aloud to him,
especially the goings-on in the Royal Commission, which he described as ‘the circus’.
“Who’s performing in the circus today?” he’d ask, his blue eyes registering
mischief.
If he didn’t like the lunch or dinner that was served, she would walk or drive
to a restaurant and bring back the food he had requested she share with him. Day by
day as the Commission rolled on, its various participants displaying their knowledge
or ignorance while giving evidence, her father appeared to be growing stronger.
Sarah was willing him to regain his strength. Nothing else mattered.
347
One month into the inquiry, the doctor pronounced that her father no longer
needed hospital care and could be transferred to a nursing home near where he lived.
“But I can look after him at home doctor,” exhorted Sarah.
“Do you have any nursing training?”
“Not really.” Her father laughed out loud.
“Then a nursing home is the next step. He needs trained staff to wash him,
dress him and get him in and out of his wheelchair.”
“I can walk,” her father assured him.
“Yes Jack – but not far. And you’re still a bit unsteady. If you fell over it
would be very hard for Sarah to pick you up. You need twenty-four hour professional
care. A nursing home is the best place.”
“If he continues to improve, then can he come home?” Sarah pleaded.
“Depends. It will be up to your local doctor to assess that.”
He shook hands with them both, wished them well and with a swish of white
coat was gone.
“Good bloke,” said Jack.
“Sorry Dad. I really wanted to take you home with me,” said Sarah, resting
her head on his chest.
“You look after the chooks,” he said, patting her hair.
The retirement village was modern, well-furnished and did not smell of boiled
vegetables or camouflaged incontinence. Sarah’s worst fears about such places, not
that she had ever been inside one in her life, were misplaced. Her father appeared to
have settled in and certainly enjoyed the attention lavished on him by all the female
staff and the nurses. Unlike many of the other residents he was not suffering from
348
some form of advanced dementia and he could feed himself. His sense of humour,
said the nurses, brightened everyone’s day.
Most mornings, Sarah pushed him in his wheelchair to a sunny, protected spot
in the gardens, and read the detailed reports of the Royal Commission in the morning
paper to him. He said that he couldn’t be bothered to read it himself and Sarah’s
morning ritual gave them something to share. Even though Sarah did most of the
explanation and analysis of the events, her father responded by frowning or chuckling.
She had bought him new clothes as he had lost weight and she had purposely chosen
bright colours. The sight of his bright red cap and matching scarf in a room full of
men and women in pastels, beiges and browns lifted her spirits; his smile and
welcoming wave caused them to soar.
Sarah told her father that the most important section of Sybill’s and her
barrister’s opening statement emphasised the fact that indigenous people in this
continent speak different languages, have different ceremonies, hunt and gather food
in different ways. However, she explained to him, they all have in common a direct
association with their physical environment and have a strong spiritual link to the
land, the water and the sky. The common thread is the method with which they all
recorded their history and culture. It is passed on orally. Nothing is in written form.”
“But the law is the law,” mumbled her father.
“That is why they are willing to contribute and participate in the Federal
enquiry because they think it will respect their spiritual beliefs and investigate the
issues sensitively … unlike this Royal Commission which they don’t believe has
anything to do with the law. They see it as a witch hunt,” added Sarah.
“Do you believe all this secret women’s stuff?” he asked her.
349
“I believe that they believe it. How can we judge their culture by referring to
ours? How do we know what was orally passed down from one woman and not to
another?”
“Too hard for an old fella. What’s for lunch?”
“How about I zip you down the street for a pizza?”
“And a beer?”
“As long as you don’t tell your favourite nurse.”
“Jenny’s a good girl. Warm and cuddly.”
Now Sarah knew he really was on the mend.
And so they passed their days together, cocooned in their own small
world. At first Sarah was exhausted by the end of each day and collapsed into bed as
soon as she arrived home. Apart from wanting her father to recover from his stroke,
she now felt a strange and almost desperate need to make up for all the years she had
been away from him. She knew she was trying too hard to entertain him, to amuse
him and most importantly to her, to engage him in close and personal conversation.
But she persisted.
Lying on top of her bed at the end of each day, pictures flashing through her
mind like an old newsreel, she forced herself to face the possibility that perhaps
something had been closed off in her. Some fear or wound had sealed itself over but
perhaps never healed. Death was a thief who had come in the night and stolen her
mother away from her. Nothing and no one was safe. After her Mother’s death she
had resolved that as soon as she could save the money, she would catch a plane to the
other side of the world. Perhaps Georgie was right. Perhaps she had spent her life
escaping from any kind of total personal commitment. Perhaps she had made feeling
like an outsider a permanent way of living her life? Were independence and freedom
350
words she had used to avoid the fact that she never felt she belonged anywhere or to
anyone?
These were the same questions she asked herself when she awoke, fearful and
sweating, in the early hours of the morning. She had no answers. Just the knowledge
and certainty that now, everything had changed. She knew that she truly belonged to
this eighty five year old man in the red cap. She cosseted him, fussed over him,
planned treats for him, drove to the betting shop to put money on horses for him. She
even drank beer and watched the football with him. Nothing else in her life mattered.
At first she had thought she was simply assuaging her guilt over having
left him. But the truth is rarely so simple. Spending time with him didn’t make her
feel like a good person or a worthy, devoted daughter. She realised that she just loved
being with him, belonging to him, loving him. This was not disguised guilt. It wasn’t
just the ties of blood or race or family or duty. She felt totally connected to him. She
had always loved him just as much as she had loved her mother but after her death she
had never allowed herself to drown in the old ache of loneliness. She had sought to
make her days and nights full of work and fun. It was true that she had made the
effort to fly home briefly, for Christmas, a few times in the ten years she had been
away and always found her father cheerful and happily independent. New York was
so overflowing with energy and new friends and endless entertainments that she never
thought about the fact that she had no brothers or sisters, no sense of ‘home’, no real
sense of ‘family’, no permanent partner, no children. Besides in New York, that didn’t
make her different from millions of others. Apart from her father, nothing in her life
had tied her to one place, one person, one country. In a perverse way she had felt
superior to those who were bound by such ties. She had taken literally the adage ‘try
not to lead a little life’ and had filled hers until it was bursting at the brim.
351
In the seventies she and Georgie and Penny had all yearned for big lives; lives
full of grand jobs, passionate lovers and exciting risks. Not that they were alone.
Linked to millions of other women in the world who had decided they didn’t want to
settle for lives of domesticity and dependence, they too thrilled to their own sense of
freedom and destiny. History was on their side. They were certain the world was
waiting for their contributions. In the past few months she had felt sorry for the way
the lives of Georgie and Penny had turned out – not just sorry but smug that she
hadn’t allowed herself to be trapped here in this tiny city, enmeshed in its web of
isolated disputes.
Now here she was living in her hometown, looking forward to spending every
day with her father, reading to him the ongoing and unfurling saga of a small bridge
that the Federal government had banned because of claims by indigenous women that
there was ‘secret women’s business’ on the island that building a bridge would
destroy. These women were arguing in a white, western legal inquiry that they
belonged to this land, that they were linked to this piece of land by their history, their
families, their oral tradition, their secrets, their cultural connections. And not just with
the land, but the sea and the sky that mapped it. She, on the other hand, had always
felt she belonged nowhere.
When her father had asked about her friend Georgie, she was delighted to read
aloud to him Tom’s account in ‘The Nation’ of her cross-examination by Matthew
Highsmith Q.C. who had been determined to trap her into disclosing the contents of
the secret envelopes. He had begun by asking Dr Georgina Staunton whether she had
ever checked the claim that Heritage Island was a place where women went to abort
babies fathered by white men. She had replied that tradition and belief are not subject
to empirical testing.
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For her father’s entertainment, Sarah dramatised the cross examination as it
was reported in the paper, by adopting the accents and voices of the main characters.
Highsmith (haughty, superior.) But here is a claim made by Sybill Cartright
that at least for the last 100 years or so, Heritage Island had been used as a place
where Narrandjerie women went to abort foetuses conceived after unions with white
people.
Staunton:( cold, determined.) And Genesis says the world was created in six
or seven days.
Highsmith:
Pass over Genesis, we are dealing more with Revelations.
Staunton:
And Revelations are absolutely unable to be tested.
Jack Wood clapped his hands. Sarah laughed but as she read further on she
realised that Georgie was clearly having a tough time of it. Highsmith was ripping her
academic reputation to shreds and other anthropologists were accusing her of having a
hidden agenda, of ‘pushing her own barrow’. As if the opposing anthropologists
weren’t pushing their own agendas, she thought to herself. She had not spoken to
either Georgie or Penny since the night they had all spent together on the island.
They hadn’t rung her to ask about her father, so why should she be concerned about
their lives? Even though she knew she should ring Georgie now, she simply did not
have the energy to get herself involved in this cauldron of conflicting loyalties that
had become the Royal Commission. The only person she talked to, apart from her
father and her aunts, was Becky who rang from time to time and demanded nothing
from her in return.
“How is Georgie standing up to all this?” her father asked, as if he was
channelling her thoughts.
“I haven’t seen her for awhile.”
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“Don’t neglect your friends.”
“I’m not, Dad.”
“She’s an old friend.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Remember what I wrote in your book?”
“What book?”
The silence that followed seemed interminable but Sarah forced herself to sit
patiently as she could see that her father was concentrating hard on dredging up a
word.
“Autograph,” he finally said, looking very pleased with himself.
A picture flashed into her mind of a small blue album that as a child she had
carried everywhere with her. Full of pastel coloured blank sheets, each page was
meant for an individual autograph by famous people but as not too many of those
actually came through her small city and even if they did she had no access to them,
she had filled the pages with messages from her friends and relatives.
What had her father written specially for her? She dredged her own memory.
Something to do with friends. Noticing the worried expression on her face, her father
said the word “faithful.” She replied “next word.” He grinned like a quizmaster who
already knew the answer.
“Friends.”
“Faithful friends…”
“hard,” he continued.
“Faithful friends are hard.” She was certainly concentrating hard, she must
have been ten years old when the autograph book was all the rage.
“Come on Polly, you always had a good memory.”
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She repeated the phrase. And then it hit her.
“Faithful friends are hard to find
And when you find one good and true
Change not the old, for the new.”
Her father clapped his hands.
“That’s a long time ago,” she said.
“Still true.” He stared intently into her eyes for emphasis.
His speech was a little slurred and sometimes the pauses either before
he answered her or in between the words, were long. She forced herself to be patient
and not leap in to fill the blanks. The doctor explained that with every stroke, even
the small ones, not all of the speech or movement returned. She was lucky that she
still had some means of verbal communication with him. He had always been a talker.
A great talker and teller of stories. Now there were long periods of silence when they
were together but the doctor assured her that it did not mean he was depressed or
blank. The words just did not come as easily to him as before.
If necessary Sarah
filled in the gaps and if he didn’t feel like answering he would shake his head or smile
or clap his hands in response. He had always been generous in his praise of her,
whatever she achieved. If she had arrived home with a tennis trophy or nothing but
balls in her bike basket after a tournament, his question was always the same,
“Did you do your best?”
She always replied “Yes” even if it wasn’t true, and he would say
“That’s all that counts” and then clap his hands and pronounce “Good on ya
Polly.”
Tennis had filled those gaps in the weekend when the absence of her mother at
home had made her want to run away. On Saturdays her father always took himself
355
off to the racecourse and Sundays were taken up with his gardening and planting of
vegetables. She had loved belting the tennis ball as hard as she could and watching it
skid over the surface of the hot bitumen court. The tang of tar and new balls, the firm
grip of the leather handle on the racquet concentrated her mind and her body on
something other than her sense of loss. Not that she had ever told her father about the
emptiness that would sink its teeth into her and shake her hard, refusing to let go. Her
black dog with the sharp teeth was not depression but loneliness. She often found
herself overwhelmed with a sense of being adrift, bobbing, like a tiny boat on a vast
and indifferent ocean. At times she glimpsed other boats and waved frantically but
they always sailed on. Other people’s families often took her inside their circle but
she sensed it was only from a sense of charity or obligation. She’d overhear them
whispering “she’s an only child and her mother died so suddenly.”
She’d fought this feeling of being adrift with a ferocity born of denial. Total
denial. When she wasn’t busy playing tennis or visiting friends she escaped into
books. Books, glorious books, enabled her to inhabit other worlds far more exciting
than her own. They still did.
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49
Winter had passed and The Royal Commission was running out of time. They had
been ordered by the government not to let the findings take too long. Huge numbers
of statements and exhibits had been tendered and the hearings were even held on
Saturdays to speed up the taking of evidence. Sybill and her followers steadfastly
refused to give evidence. When it was the turn of the Ngarrindjeri men, George
Renwick and Doug Turner spoke in a somewhat truculent manner, barely able to hide
their contempt for the forum. Even though they admitted that they had no real
knowledge of women’s business they tried to explain to the court that the reason for
that was simply because they were men. When the lawyer moved on to questioning
them about their environmental objection to the bridge, they explained that it had a
spiritual basis.
“The place of the waters relates to what we call the Ngarrindjeri ngatji – which
is each clan’s symbolic totem – those places are where things breed, where they live,
where they feed. You upset the totem area, you upset everybody,” said George,
adding
“I don’t expect you would understand the Ngarrindjeri ngatji.”
The lawyer said “Let me put a suggestion to you: what you are talking about is
a disturbance to the environment. Is that right?”
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“No” insisted George. “Ngatji are not just animals and fish and snakes to us.
They are real. They are more like people. Spiritual.”
The lawyer pushed his point hard,” It is really nothing to do with women’s
business is it? Your objection to the bridge really comes down to an environmental
objection doesn’t it?”
George insisted, equally forcefully. “No. It’s a spiritual objection.”
The lawyer replied,
“Pardon?”
George repeated:
“A spiritual objection.”
The lawyer continued, this time asking Doug, “So it’s a question of protecting
the environment from a lot of people coming to the island and ruining it.”
Doug attempted, once more to explain. “You interpret it as environment, I
don’t. We cannot, as indigenous people, separate environment and culture. They go
hand-in-hand. “
The lawyer smiled and continued, “In this sense, you are at one with the
conservation movement who wanted to stop the bridge in order to protect the birds,
the wetlands, the natural habitat that’s provided for bird life on the island.”
Doug said, “I doubt very much whether they would know much about the
Ngarrindjeri ngatjis. They wouldn’t know nothing.”
The lawyer insisted that it was still the same sort of argument.
Doug was adamant that it was “nowhere near it.”
The lawyer continued, “The ngatjis, that is the bird symbols and totems for the
clans
and people, they are in fact the wildlife aren’t they?”
Doug said “As you view them.”
The lawyer asked “Why are they different?”
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Doug was becoming very impatient with this line of questioning but he
attempted to explain it as clearly as he could.
“I can’t talk to you about that. It is plain to see you would never
understand anyway. It’s not environmental, it’s spiritual … They are
not just animals and fish and snakes to us – they are real. More like
people. It’s spiritual. Our objection to the bridge is spiritual, that’s what
you don’t understand.”
By early spring the Commission was rushing at full speed to finish its
work and meet its deadline. In the last few days a witness came forward who was to
be the last. Her name was Vera Barker and despite the fact that she was in pain with
liver disease she was determined to speak in support of secret women’s business.
Even though she had attended the meeting when Sybill Cartright had first told the
other women the stories of Heritage Island she had never been part of Sybill’s group
of friends or supporters. Having lived on a church mission until she was a teenager
she had attended High School and was considered an impressive presence in the
witness box. Her reason for finally coming forward, she informed the Commission,
was because she was “sick and tired of all the rubbish that has gone on here.”
Even though the dissident women’s lawyers confronted her with not being a
Ngarrindjeri she explained that she had been brought up among them because her
father had been Ngarrindjeri. She told them that her mother had passed on stories
about Heritage Island to her older sister who hadn’t passed them on to her until she
was on her deathbed. Her sister, Celia, had told her of the women’s business but
stressed that it was for women only and could be passed on to Vera’s daughters at the
right time but otherwise only to women who were ‘the right person to tell…to women
who were wise, who could keep a secret’.
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When Highsmith QC rose to cross-examine her she made it clear that she
would not divulge what her sister had told her. All she was prepared to confirm was
that the secret women’s business concerned rituals and practices in preparation for
womanhood.
“The waters,” she said forcefully, “are a life-force to the Ngarrindjeri women,
whether past or present, and should anything cover those waters the strength will be
taken from the Ngarrindjeri women and they can become very ill.”
Highsmith continued to probe her statements in order to provoke her to reveal
the real reasons the waters were sacred but Vera flatly refused, constantly challenging
his questions with the question “Don’t you respect indigenous culture?”
Their battle of wills lasted an entire day. It was all too much for one of the
Ngarrindjeri women in the gallery who jumped up and rushed outside to vomit in the
street. She heard a passer-by mutter the phrase, “drunken gin.”
Finally Highsmith openly accused Vera of concocting her entire story. This
accusation provoked an explosion of outrage from the gallery. Once the
Commissioner could be heard above the shouting, she ordered the women in the
gallery to desist from making their loud protests or she would have to eject them.
Vera announced that if Mr Highsmith continued to insult her in that manner she
would refuse to go on. The Commissioner warned Mr Highsmith not to provoke Mrs
Barker and he pursued a more subtle and less accusatory line of questioning.
Vera shouted. “There is a difference between what is private and what is
secret. You want the secret women’s business and you are not going to get it.”
Highsmith shouted back at her.
“I assure you I’m not after it…my submission will be that it doesn’t exist.”
Vera exploded.
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“I beg your pardon? I beg your pardon? It came from the old Ngarrindjeri
women that were there before white man ever put foot on Heritage Island. Do you
have any understanding of aboriginal culture?”
A week later, lawyers for each side made their final oral submissions.
It was November, the streets of the city were awash with the purple blooms of
jacaranda trees, when the Royal Commission finally closed. A month later, the Royal
Commissioner Rose Elliot, released her report. More than thirty print and television
journalists from all over the nation were waiting to be ushered into a media lock-up
where they could read the report before being released to tell the findings to the
public, interview the key players and meet their deadlines. Becky noted that many of
the leading male journalists were laughing and chatting among themselves as if they
were attending a Christmas picnic.
Commissioner Rose Elliot’s main finding was very clear. There was no
complexity or confusion. It stated very clearly that “The secret women’s business of
Heritage Island was a fabrication.”
The report found that the means and method of revealing women’s business
was highly suspicious. This was reinforced by the lack of any mention of it in the
major anthropological research. The evidence given by Isobel Hughes was taken
seriously as proof of fabrication, together with Bill Vincent’s ‘confession’.
The Royal Commission did not state who exactly was responsible for the
fabrication of ‘secret women’s business’.
The conclusions, however, implicated
everyone who believed in it.
The so-called ‘dissident’ women had gathered together to hear the result in
Carmel’s little cottage in the city. None of them wanted to be alone when the findings
were released. Around the kitchen table, in between numerous cups of tea, Isobel had
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led them in prayers and scripture readings. Within thirty minutes of the findings being
released, Maria Scouros was interviewing her outside Carmel’s front door.
“How do you feel?” asked Maria, her red-lipped smile even more predictable
than the question. Isobel stared straight into the camera, her face almost beatific,
“Each day of the Royal Commission my prayer has been that God’s will be done.”
“Do you feel vindicated now?” Maria thrust her hand-held microphone even
further towards Isobel’s face. Taking a step backwards, but totally in control, her
weight spread evenly on her sturdy legs, Isobel paused and said
“I spoke out, not for my own sake but for the Ngarrindjeri as a people, so that
dignity and pride would be restored to our race.”
An hour later, on another channel, Becky was interviewing a visibly shattered
Sybill, surrounded by a very vocal and angry group of her friends, together with a
sombre and shell-shocked Georgie. Sybill growled at the camera, her body shaking
with barely suppressed rage.
“We boycotted this Royal Commission because it was a witch-hunt. The
findings are invalid and wrong. In our culture, knowledge is always secret, always
handed down to select individuals and not to others. The fact that the so-called
dissident women did not know about secret women’s business is not proof that it does
not exist. Their lack of knowledge proves nothing….Nothing….”
When she appeared to choke on the last word, Georgie took over.
“Just because male anthropologists have claimed to have no knowledge of
gender-exclusive domains of spiritual knowledge is not proof that it does not exist.
As for Bill Vincent’s so-called ‘confession’ – he has retracted everything he said to
Shane Trott. It was obvious to anyone that he had been drinking. Of course he
wouldn’t know anything about it – he had no knowledge of what was in the secret
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envelopes. No-one who gave evidence against ‘secret women’s business’ ever knew
what it was – how can you claim something is a fabrication simply because you have
never heard of it?”
Meanwhile, Shane Trott, in an exclusive for Channel Eight was
interviewing Dr Julian Turner, outside the State Museum.
He began by asking
whether the findings had vindicated Dr Turner’s attacks on Professor Georgina
Staunton. Turner was unfazed and unrepentant. He held his head high when
answering the question.
“Professor
Staunton
has
been
exposed
for
indulging
in
‘creative
anthropology’, which is, to the uninitiated, a distorted and discredited version of”
Trott jumped in, knowing Turner’s propensity for academic verbosity,
“Will these findings damage the public’s respect for anthropology?”
“On the contrary, anthropology is the winner and by that I mean, anthropology
that is untainted by ideology. Anthropology that is not based on empirical research,
or scientific evidence, is the real culprit. Women like Dr Georgina Staunton who
employ “creative anthropology” only damage their own professional reputations and
their ideological causes.”
Hugh and Penny Reynolds had installed an old television bought in a second
hand shop especially for the occasion. Unavailable for comment, they were toasting
each other, their tears of relief splashing into the cheap champagne.
Sarah was at home, sitting in her father’s favourite chair, her hand clutching
the remote control. As she flicked from one channel to another, the phone rang.
“Sarah, it’s Jenny Wilson, from the nursing home..”
“Yes Jenny – what’s wrong? Is it Dad?”
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“I’m afraid it is. I think you’d better come in immediately. Drive carefully.
I’ll be waiting for you in his room.”
Patrick Ryan and Adrian Houghton were already into their third scotch when
Kelly knocked at the door of Ryan’s office.
“Come in – especially if you’re good looking,” shouted Houghton – hooting in
Ryan’s direction. Kelly opened the door.
“Come in, my dear, come in and close the door.”
Kelly took several tentative steps inside the office, unsure of what to do in the
presence of two middle-aged men whose cheeks and noses were already approaching
the colour of stoplights.
“Shut the door Kelly. You heard Mr Houghton,” ordered Ryan, lying back in
his green leather chesterfield couch, smoking a cigar.
“Sorry to interrupt … but the media have been driving me mad and I was
wondering if”
“Good, let the bastards beg.”
“That’s the only way to treat them Ryan – what’s your name dear?”
“Err Kelly, sir.”
“What are you doing for dinner tonight Kelly?
Patrick and I will be
celebrating in my hotel suite. Would you care to join us?”
Kelly hesitated and looked to Ryan for guidance.
“Of course she would. You deserve a good dinner for good work. Just ask for
Mr Houghton’s suite at the Hilton – shall we say 7.30 Adrian?”
“Splendid. See you at 7.30 Kelly my dear.”
Kelly nodded and turned to leave when Ryan said,
“Ah Kelly…was Maria Scouros one of the people wanting an interview?”
364
“Yes Mr Ryan. She has rung five times.”
“Tell her to come to Mr Houghton’s suite at 7.30 with you and I’ll give her an
exclusive.”
365
50.
“LIES. LIES. LIES.” screamed the headlines being prepared for The Clarion the
next morning. Even though other daily papers all around the nation were more
restrained in their choice of words, not one had questioned the conclusion of the
Royal Commissioner. “It was all fabrication,” as far as the media was concerned.
366
51
The curtains were drawn in Jack Wood’s room, the dim glow from the bedside lamp
casting a soft shadow onto her father’s face. His eyes were closed. His red cap kept
his head warm.
“Is he conscious?” Sarah whispered to Jenny, the trained sister in charge of the
nursing home. She trusted Jenny.
“Yes, but we’ve given him some strong drugs to keep him calm and pain-free.
He’s had another stroke.”
“Can he understand me?”
“Squeeze his hand and ask him to squeeze yours.”
Sarah took her father’s limp hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Can you hear me Dad? – squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
She waited. A tiny but definite squeeze made her heart beat faster. Her eyes
filled with tears.
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“He squeezed it Jenny – he squeezed it.”
Jenny nodded and then proceeded to take his blood pressure. Sarah was
willing him to open his eyes, her hand still firmly in his. Jenny leant over Jack and
said into his ear, “Jack, have a little sleep, we’ll be back very soon.”
Sarah shook her head, her eyes pleading not to make her leave. Jenny took her
hand gently out of her father’s and touched her on the arm. Sarah dutifully followed
her into the nearby visitors’ waiting room.
“Jenny I don’t want to talk – I want to be with Dad.”
“I know. But I need to tell you something.”
“Can’t it wait?” pleased Sarah.
“No, believe me, it can’t.”
Taking Sarah’s hand in her own she said in a quiet but firm voice, “You want
your father to be peaceful don’t you?”
“Yes, but I want to stay with him until the end.”
“But you don’t want him to be in pain?”
“No, of course not.”
“He’s fighting what is happening to him…”
“He’s always been a fighter, the old darling.”
“No, listen to me…I’ve had a lot of experience at this as you know. You must
understand that he’s fighting the medication because of you.” She stared hard into
Sarah’s eyes.
“Me?”
“You have to tell him that you will be fine, that he doesn’t need to look after
you any more. As hard as I know it is, you have to tell him that he can let go.”
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The words stung Sarah with the rough slap of truth. As much as she wanted to
argue with Jenny, she knew that she was right. She wanted him to hang on and keep
fighting for her sake, not his. She wanted him to stay alive as long as possible. She
wanted this for herself.
“Is he in any pain?”
“He’s very restless and distressed without the medication. But it’s difficult to
assess the pain when he is struggling so hard against it.”
“Can you keep giving it to him?”
“I have to increase it every time to keep him peaceful, which is a toll on his
heart.”
Sarah stared at her own hands, unwilling to grasp the meaning of her words.
“Can I stay with him…until…?”
“I don’t know when that will be…no-one can predict that.. But I would like
you to remember him as he looks now. I would like you to tell him that he can stop
fighting, tell him that it is time to let go, tell him how much you love him, kiss him
and go. While you are sitting there, he will keep fighting to maintain consciousness
for your sake and that will cause him distress.”
She paused and then in a very soft voice said, “I want to take his teeth out
which have been hurting him. I want to take his cap off, make him comfortable and
give him something to help him slip into a peaceful oblivion…do you understand
what I am saying?”
Sarah nodded.
“I want you to do as I say and keep the picture of him in his red cap always in
your mind, with his rosy cheeks and his eyes closed – asleep. At peace. This is how I
know you want to remember him and how I know he would prefer it.”
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Sarah nodded again, finding she was unable to speak
“If you don’t want to leave, then it’s your prerogative, but I’ve had a lot of
experience in these matters and I want the best for my patients and their families”
“I know,” mumbled Sarah.
“Think of his needs, not yours.” She patted Sarah’s hand and left the room.
Sarah sat alone in the room with its blank, grey walls and sea-blue furniture
and stared with fixed attention into the middle distance. After several minutes and an
almost overwhelming sense of dread she forced herself to stand up. Walking slowly
towards her father’s room, she understood the concept of small distances seeming to
stretch forever. The beige floor tiles became a parched desert with no horizon.
Sitting carefully on the edge of his bed, taking his hands in hers, she leaned
towards him.
“Dad…it’s Sarah, squeeze my hand if you can hear me Dad.”
There was a slight increase in pressure on her fingers. She leaned even closer
and whispered into his ear.
“You have been the best father any daughter could have wished for… the very
best. All that I’ve achieved I owe to your belief in me. I don’t want you to worry
about me. I’m not alone, I have good friends here and all over the world that care
about me. I’ll always be fine…no bullets will ever get me. And you’ll always be
there with me as long as I live. I won’t be lonely. I promise you … I love you so
much Daddy. And I’ve loved our recent time together. But it’s time now for you to let
go. Do as the nurse says, just let yourself go and have a lovely peaceful sleep.”
Unable to whisper any more words, she leant over and kissed him on his dry
lips, tucked the sheet up under his chin, rested her hand lightly on his red cap…and
turned and walked quickly out of the room.
370
Slumped in the front seat of the car, her hands covering her face so no-one
could see her tears, she felt so strange, so weird, she wondered if she was about to
have some kind of a seizure. Through her fingers she noticed several people pass by
the car, look in and pause as if weighing up whether to tap on the window. Forcing
herself to start the engine and drive off, she circled the same block of streets, five
times.
It was dusk. But it was not the evening that was hovering ‘like a patient
etherised upon a table’, it was her. Numb. She was totally numb. Where could she
possibly go in this state? Certainly not home to sit alone and stare zombie-like at the
television. Not to her aunts who would fuss and hug and make her eat something.
Not to Georgie’s or Penny’s, not after the things she had said to them…and they had
said to her. Not to Charlie – he wasn’t to be trusted. There was no one. Better to be in
the nearest pub, undisturbed, surrounded by strangers.
A bottle of the best red wine they had in the front bar was placed in front of
her. Her father would approve. “Here’s to you my darling,” she said softly to herself
as she gulped at the contents of the glass but found herself unable to swallow.
Crouched over the table, making no eye contact with anyone, she let her mind flick
over scenes of her favourite moments with her father as if she was viewing a series of
holiday snaps. Unable to face the wine, content to just sit there alone in her reverie,
she heard a voice call out “Sarah – is that you?”
Looking up, she saw Becky at the bar, staring at her and flapped a limp hand
in her direction.
“What are you doing here alone? Are you waiting for someone?”
“No,” mumbled Sarah, hunching her shoulders against Becky’s presence.
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“This is my local,” she burbled on, “often drop in to get a bottle after the
program.”
Sarah nodded and stared into her glass.
“Are you OK?”
“Fine. Fine,” said Sarah, refusing to look up into the green eyes she could feel
burning, laser-like.
“If you’d rather be alone.”
“Yes. I would. Thank you.”
Sarah did not even look up to see her disappear through the front door,
clutching her wine in a brown paper bag. She knew she had been rude and dismissive
but tonight was not the time for Becky’s youth and energy and optimism, she thought,
topping up her glass of red wine and leaving it untouched. Perhaps when this bottle
was finished she might just go back to the nursing home and sit in the foyer. And
wait. Better to be nearby in case she was needed. Who was she kidding? Needed for
what? The nursing sister was right – she was only thinking of her own needs. Her
father didn’t need her now, it was she who needed him. Oh God, how she needed him.
“Sarah – how thoughtless of me.”
She was back.
“How is your father?”
Sarah raised her head, this time looking straight into her eyes she said, “He’s
dying,” and continued to hold her gaze. If her intention had been to scare or embarrass
her into flight, it did not succeed.
“Right – come on – get your bag. I live just around the corner. You’re
coming home with me.”
“No. I just want to be left alone.”
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“Nonsense. That’s exactly what you don’t need. Come on. Stand up.”
She hauled Sarah to her feet and with a firm grip on her arm, steered her
towards the door.
“You’re in no state to drive. Your car will be quite safe in the hotel car park.
I’ve left mine there many a night.”
Sarah didn’t have the strength to argue. The muscles in her legs had yet again
turned into some kind of sloppy blancmange. Becky pushed her into the car, slapped
on her seatbelt and turned on the ignition. When they arrived at the door of her
cottage, she steered Sarah into the first room on the right and almost threw her onto
the queen-size bed.
“No,” muttered Sarah, “I don’t want to go to sleep. Have to stay awake. Have
to go back to the nursing home.”
“Is it called St Andrews – just off the main road?”
Sarah nodded.
“I’ll ring them and leave this number. You’re in no state to go anywhere.
You’re very pale – are you going to throw up?”
Sarah shook her head and tried to get up off the bed but Becky was far too
strong for her.
“Come on – get out of those clothes – just in case,” and she started to unbutton
Sarah’s shirt and unzip her trousers.
“I can do it,” said Sarah, fumbling at her clothes, glaring at Becky.
“Good – get into bed and I’ll get you a nice hot cup of tea and some toast.”
By the time she returned Sarah’s eyes were open but staring blankly into the
far wall. Placing the mug of tea and toast smeared with vegemite on the table next to
the bed, she also held up a plastic bucket and a white towel.
373
“Just in case you need them – they’ll be next to the bed.”
“Charming,” was all Sarah could manage.
“Come on, let me put these pillows behind your head so you can sit up and
have your tea and toast, then I’ll go and get mine.”
The warmth of the tea and the salty tang of the vegemite seemed to revive
Sarah. Lying next to her on the bed, fully clothed, Becky said, “That’s put a bit of
colour back in your cheeks.”
“Good old vegemite…where would we be without it? When I was first living
in London, we used to have it sent out in a giant size jar from home and have
vegemite sandwich parties for all our friends. The English thought we were all totally
mad.”
“And the Americans think it’s a truly disgusting brown paste – do you mind if
I turn on the T.V. to get the late news?”
“Course not. It’s your place. Thank you for rescuing me.”
“Ssh,” said Becky “Maria’s on – looking like the cat that stole the cream.”
“Saw her on the 5 o’clock news – so smug.”
“Well, she got the jump on everyone when she found the dissident women.”
Sarah snorted. “Found! Someone told her – she couldn’t find anything but her
lipstick.”
“Shane said.”
“No it wasn’t him. I know who it was.” Becky put her fingers up to Sarah’s
lips to stop her talking.
“Listen to me. Shane told me tonight that Maria had boasted to him about
following you in her car up to Mulray Bridge. She saw you going into Isobel Hughes’
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house and rang Ryan immediately from a public phone. Ryan must have rung Adrian
Houghton. That’s how Maria got “The Big Scoop.”
Sarah was silent.
Desperate to keep her mind off her father, Becky said,
“So who did you think had told her?”
“The person who told me.”
“You knew! Thanks very much for passing on the information.”
“Are you absolutely sure that’s what Maria told Shane?”
“I wouldn’t lie. You know that. So who told you?”
Sarah focused on Becky for at least a minute, decided she was telling her the
truth and turned away, pulling a pillow over her own face to cover it.
“Sarah. Answer me.” Becky pulled the pillow away from her and threw it onto
the floor. “Come clean – who told you?”
“No-one you know. Just someone I’ve badly misjudged and probably hurt. A
good man.
A kind man.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ve fucked everything up!
Everything. And everyone. I am a total fuck-up.”
“Now, now.
Don’t get yourself upset again.
I’m going to turn off the
television and the light and you’re going to try and get some sleep.”
“I couldn’t possibly go to sleep,” sobbed Sarah, turning her back ever further
from Becky.
Many hours later when the phone split the darkness, Sarah woke suddenly and
had no knowledge of where she was. Panic coiled in her stomach. A woman’s voice
next to her in the bed, said softly – “Sarah, it’s for you. It’s the nursing home.”
No sooner had Sarah dropped the phone and uttered the words ’He’s gone,”
than strong, smooth arms wrapped themselves around her. Silky breasts pressed up
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against her own and when the gush of hot tears sprang from her eyes in the darkness,
soft lips sucked them up and only when her cheeks were dry did those same lips kiss
hers. Sarah found herself making love with a desperation and a passion she had
forgotten she had ever possessed.
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52
If there was ever a lovely day for a funeral then this was it. Sunshine from a clear
rickett’s—blue sky, warmed the cheeks of the small crowd gathered outside the
chapel. Sarah hugged her aunts, and her cousins, kissed all of her father’s mates from
his army days that she hadn’t seen since she was a teenager and asked them not to be
sad. “He wouldn’t want it. He was the happiest person I ever knew and I’d like the
service to be a celebration of his life.”
The chapel was bursting with huge vases of daffodils that Tim had organised
from New York. The sun beamed through the stain-glassed windows onto her father’s
coffin, which was totally covered in the bright yellow blooms. The light was golden.
Sarah sat in the front row, an aunt each side of her, holding her hands, as the
organ music swelled. Staring straight ahead, she was determined not to weep. She
knew that grief would stalk her, catching her unawares on future days and nights but
this bright, shining morning was for her father. And he would not want her tears.
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After the service she stood alone at the door, calm and smiling, handing
everyone a daffodil, kissing them and thanking them. Thinking that the church must
surely by now be empty, she hardly recognised the tall man who suddenly appeared
beside her.
“Charlie. You’re wearing a suit and tie.”
“It’s for Jack.”
Standing on her toes in order to throw her arms around his neck she said softly
into his ear “I’m so sorry for not trusting you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive. You were going through a tough time.”
“I don’t deserve you for a friend Charlie.”
“Perhaps not. But you’ve got me anyhow.”
His bear hug was interrupted by a loud voice saying “Trust you to hook a
good-looking hunk at your father’s funeral.”
Standing there, ramrod straight, in all her multi-coloured glory was Georgie.
Right behind her was Penny, still wearing her eccentric, second-hand clothes. They
looked like an old music hall act.
“Come here you two,” said Sarah, hooking an arm around each of them and
kissing them both full on the lips, her eyes filling with tears. They all grinned,
speechless, one to another, until Sarah said,
“I didn’t see you come in.”
“We slipped in at the back. No fuss,” said Penny
“I promised myself I wouldn’t cry today .”
“He was a great old bloke, your dad”
“I know but that’s not why I’m crying, I”
“It’s a funeral, you’re meant to cry,” interrupted Georgie.
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“Will you let me get it out,” pleaded Sarah, tears still coursing down her
cheeks, “I’m crying because I said such hurtful things to both of you … I thought
you’d never forgive me.”
“We’re not here for you, we’re here for your Dad- he was a much kinder
person than you,” said Georgie, smiling.
Penny added, “You are truly horrible when you’re angry and drunk,” and then
looking at Georgie she added, “but so are we.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Georgie, “I’m not just horrible, I’m vile. Absolutely
vile.”
“But you came anyway.”
“Of course we did,” said Georgie, “you don’t end old friendships because you
all got filthy drunk and said unspeakable things.”
“You two have made me so happy. I’m so sorry I’ve been such a bitch … I do
love you both …”
Georgie was blowing her nose into a red scarf she had pulled out of her bag
and Penny was wiping her eyes with the back of her coat sleeve despite the fact that
Sarah was still clinging to them. Together they formed a circle, heads together, arms
around each other. Charlie mumbled, ‘I’ll leave you all to it,” and disappeared out the
chapel door.
Becky strode up the aisle dividing the empty pews, collecting the last of the
daffodils in her arms. “What’s this – a scene from Little Women or The Group? “
When the sniffing and the laughter subsided Penny broke into a chorus of
“Three Little Maids from school are we
Come from a ladies’ seminary.”
And the other two trilled along.
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Now it was Becky’s turn to laugh.
“Don’t you mock us,” taunted Georgie.
“After all, we marched for your generation,” said Penny, putting her hands
firmly in her jacket pockets. “Didn’t we Sarah?”
“We certainly did. But let’s go. There’s a small wake at my house. I want to
propose many toasts to my Dad – and to my old friends.”
“Hear, hear,” chorused Georgie and Penny.
“What about your new friends?” asked Becky.
“No-one will be forgotten. I promise.”
A week after the funeral Sarah found herself, at midnight, sitting in her
father’s favourite chair in the garden, looking up into the yawning night sky. As if
hypnotised by the thousands of stars that the original inhabitants of this land believed
were the spirits of those who had passed on, she now understood why so many of the
Ngarrindjeri stories that she had read described this movement between sky and earth.
The sky was drawn down to the earth and the living being was drawn up into the sky.
That knowledge needed no explanation. Perhaps, she thought to herself, her father and
her mother were up there among those stars, blinking and winking down at her.
She rubbed her hands backwards and forwards along the moth-eaten arms of
the old chair; her senses aware of the rough and the smooth of its velvet pelt. Her
eyes fixed on the two brightest stars, she was engulfed by the infinite darkness above
her and yet alive to the soft breeze that ruffled the husky ears of the sweet corn that
grew along side the lawn. Perhaps, just perhaps, she finally belonged somewhere.
380
EPILOGUE
Two months after the findings of the Royal Commission were handed down, the
construction of the bridge between the mainland and Heritage Island commenced.
Penny and Hugh continued to live on the island and in between meetings with
their lawyer regarding their many lawsuits against the bank and the government, were
busy renovating the old cottage. Hugh returned to his work as a vet and Penny gave
riding lessons to children from the mainland.
Jeremy continued his studies at University and when Jason Judd, now a
celebrity interviewer on television, came to interview him about his parents’ role in
The Heritage Island Affair, they fell into bed. Jason covered their ‘coming out’ party.
Cosmo put them on its front page.
Jessica gave up drama and took up politics. She became pregnant to Professor
Andrew Coleman at a “Politics and the Environment” conference. He left his current
partner and married her.
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In the absence of any new consultancy work, Georgie spent most of her time
as a go-between, trying to heal the wounds inflicted by the two warring camps of
indigenous women who were all hurt by the events and not speaking to each other.
Julian Turner was promoted to Head of the Anthropology Division of the
Museum.
Sybill Cartright resigned her position at the Museum due to ill health.
Bill Vincent died.
Gwen Vincent became more and more involved in her own spiritual world and
that of her culture.
Isobel Hughes was ostracised by her neighbours and many of her indigenous
friends. She began to write her memoirs.
Adrian Houghton resigned from politics and returned to his former life as a
pastoralist.
Kim Sullivan lost his seat at the next federal election.
Patrick Ryan began an affair with Maria Scouros and his wife Stephanie
kicked him out of the house and the marriage. He resigned his state seat, married
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Maria and became a partner in her father’s building and construction company. They
began to plan the development of a new marina on the Northern Peninsula.
Tom Watson was awarded a Wakeley, the top national Award, for his series of
articles analysing power and its abuses in the saga of Heritage Island.
Shane Trott left television to become a media advisor for the next Premier of
the State.
Kevin Cornell left radio and took over Shane’s television job.
Charlie spent the next two years painting in the outback. His work won a
major art prize.
Becky Swift was appointed on special assignment to the New York bureau of
the national television station. She was living – temporarily – in Sarah’s New York
apartment.
Sarah continued to live in her father’s house and work on the novel she had
begun ten years before.
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POSTCRIPT
Two years after the State Royal Commission into the Secret Women’s Business on
Heritage Island, Federal Court Judge Von Doussa overturned its findings. There was,
he said, no proof of fabrication.
He found that the so-called “secret women’s
business” was clearly a valid spiritual belief about creation and procreation.
“Spiritual beliefs,” he wrote, “do not lend themselves to proof in strictly
formal terms. Their acceptance by true believers necessarily involves a leap of faith.
The white community had changed the landscape. There were structures – like
bridges – that had no counterpart centuries before. Culture adapted. That didn’t mean
that the beliefs were not genuine. The law recognised the ancient tradition and belief
as deserving of protection.”
His findings made it very clear that there was no reason to believe that
Ngarrindjeri women had fabricated their culture.
By the time Judge Von Doussa had delivered his judgement, the bridge had,
however, been completed and officially opened.
The Bridge cost the state government $9 million.
Steel and concrete now spanned sky and water, linking Heritage Island to the
mainland.
A small plaque recognised the indigenous history of the area.
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In the years that followed, the mouth of the river gradually narrowed. Less
and less water found its way back to the ocean and the largest river in the driest state
in the driest continent, slowly began to die.
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