Authors: Anita Heiss
'Happy Easter!' We all clinked glasses. It was hard to believe
that three months had passed since we'd seen each other. It
was like a lifetime, so it was great to be back in Sydney
with the girls at Sauce, sitting in our favourite spot in the
corner.
'Hello ladies, you make this little love corner look lovely,'
Andy said in his usual cheeky form, handing us our menus
and walking off.
'So what's new?' I asked.
Alice and Dannie looked at Liza, who had dropped all
the weight she'd put on at the end of last year.
'Tony and I broke up,' she said, and a dignified tear ran
down her cheek. Dannie put her arm around her and Alice
topped her glass up with wine as she began to sob.
'What? When? We spoke only three days ago! Why?'
I was in shock.
'It happened last week but I couldn't tell you over the
phone and I made the girls vow not to say anything.'
'Well, that's the only bloody secret
you've
ever kept,'
I said accusingly to Dannie and Alice. I felt annoyed that
I'd been kept out of the loop, but I knew the moment
wasn't about me, so I tried to hide it.
'But Tony was Mr I-Can-Do-Everything. Wasn't he?'
'He was really Mr I-Can-Do-Everything-But-Won't,'
she sobbed. 'When we met he promised me he could cook
and clean.'
'Yes, you told us he said he'd do it in the nude too.' We'd
laughed when Liza told us that, but no-one laughed now.
'That's right, he did, but he never lifted a bloody finger
to clean, naked or otherwise. In fact he never actually got
completely naked, even for sex! And as for cooking, well spag
bol was all he could manage. Spaghetti bloody bolognese.
I'm Italian, for God's sake.' She sobbed some more while
we three sat in silence, wondering what to say.
Andy appeared from nowhere and started rubbing her
shoulders, and she seemed to appreciate the attention.
'There, there, you know I'm always good for a spoon, don't
you, babe?' he said, and we all broke into laughter.
'What's so funny? I was serious,' Andy said, his hands
still firmly on Liza's shoulders.
'Yes, we know, that's what's funny,' Alice said.
Liza gave us a weak smile. 'Every time we walked past
a nice restaurant I'd say I'd like to go there, and he'd say
"Done". But it never happened. When it was my birthday
he just took me to Chinatown for yum cha.' And she cried
harder.
'Ah yes, but did he moonwalk across the restaurant and
then break into a hula?' Alice said. We all cringed. Alice
had been out with some shockers before she met Gary. 'No?
Then be thankful for a meal without a freak show is all I can
say.' Dannie nodded in agreement.
Liza started to calm down, and Andy left to get us more
wine. As soon as he'd gone, Alice dropped a bombshell.
'Gary and I are getting married.'
'What?' we all howled.
'When, how, WHY?' I asked. 'I mean why didn't you say
something earlier?'
Alice gave Liza a quick glance.
'Oh God, don't let my misery get in the way of your
happiness,' said Liza. 'You and Gary
should
get married;
you're made for each other. What a story you'll be able
to tell the grandkids about meeting over a garbage bin.'
Liza was an amazing soul who always saw the best in every
situation. But I was a little surprised she hadn't suggested
doing a SWOT to confirm it was the right thing for Alice
to do.
'Well, I guess that means a hens' night, doesn't it?' I
said.
'Wait a minute while I refresh your memory, Alice.
Let's see . . . ' Liza took a sip of her wine, blew her nose
and took a deep breath. 'If I recall correctly, at the last hens'
night we went to your exact words were along the lines
of:
I'll probably have a girls' night in with pizza and good
friends but if someone happened to order a stripper I wouldn't
be offended
. Is that how you remember it?' Alice hung her
head, giggling.
'Oh God, I did say that, didn't I? Shame!'
'What about a kitchen tea?' Dannie said.
'Again, not the kind of cultural activity Alice has been
too keen to engage in in the past, is it my friend?' Liza was
bouncing back well, but Alice looked almost disappointed
at the thought of not having a hens' night or kitchen
tea, although she had previously been appalled by both
traditions. We all knew that women change as soon as they
get engaged, wanting parties and gifts and girly things.
Everyone says they won't, but they do.
'Oh, I know I gave those brides-to-be a hard time, but
it's different when it's your own.' I couldn't help but roll my
eyes. Thankfully, no-one saw me.
'But I don't need a kitchen tea, Gary and I have filled
my place completely with his crap and mine combined, and
we have everything we need. Trouble is I like nice clean
white everything, and he keeps collecting bits and pieces
from antique shops. He likes the eclectic look.'
'Or perhaps he just can't let go of his work, Alice,'
I laughed.
'Yeah, I know. He comes home with rubbish all the time.
Don't laugh about it. It's the one thing we argue about. He's
a waste-not-want-not kind of guy.'
Dannie looked a bit disappointed too. 'So no hens' night?
Then what? You realise I only get to go out when you guys
have some romantic or career event for me to celebrate.'
'I thought I'd like to go away for my hens' whatever.
Maybe the Gold Coast, cos it's cheap and we can do it in a
weekend.'
'A hens' weekend, I like it.' I lifted my glass in a toast.
'And so do I. I like it a lot!' You could see Dannie's eyes
bulge at the thought of being without George and the kids
for the weekend. I couldn't blame her.
'Sounds good to me. When were you thinking of going?
Would be a good escape out of the winter weather, wouldn't
it?' Liza added, touching her glass to ours.
'The Melbourne winter, eh Peta?' Alice couldn't help but
have a dig.
'Well yes, but Sydney has winter too, you know.' I always
took the bait.
'I was thinking warmth, a pool, some cocktails, some
laughs. I certainly miss our sessions, Peta, and a whole
weekend should carry us over for a few months, don't you
reckon?' Alice had obviously put some thought into her
'hens' whatever'.
We all got our BlackBerries out, and started to check our
available dates.
'Why do you need a BlackBerry, Dannie?' I sounded like
a bitch but I was curious.
'I've got the dates of school carnivals, canteen roster, ballet
classes, swimming lessons, when George is away, dentist
appointments, parent–teacher night, school assemblies and
things like that. I do have a busy schedule, planning the
lives of four people, you know. Three of them are children,
and yes, I include George in that. Of course, I also put in
when I'm ovulating so George and I can have sex.' They
were still 'kind of' trying to have a baby.
'Can't you have sex on other nights?' Not having much
sex myself I was obsessed with other people's sex lives.
'Of course, but we
have
to have sex on those dates if we
want to fall pregnant.'
'Oh what a drag,
having
to have sex,' I said.
'Speaking of which, how's that going? Have you been
completely faithful in Melbourne?' Dannie asked.
'Yeah, how's the drought?' Alice added.
'Hey, a drought sounds involuntary, something that's
been inflicted on me and causing concern and worry and
cashflow problems. None of which is true of my situation.'
'Yeah, yeah, just answer the question,' Liza pressed.
I sipped from my glass and smiled cheekily.
Liza's eyes lit up. 'Do tell.' She was chirpy at the thought
of some juicy gossip.
'No, don't tell,' said Alice. 'I'm not going to be an
accessory to your infidelity, not when I've got James calling
me about you. If you've cheated then keep it to yourself.'
'Sorry, but I'm having the best sex I've ever had. And I
don't have to say thank you, and I never get lockjaw.'
Alice rolled her eyes. 'In your dreams, Peta!'
♥
The restaurant had all but emptied out so Andy sat and
joined us. We were having too much fun to kick out or
leave alone.
'Did you buy that gorgeous dress you're wearing down in
Melbourne?' Andy asked, checking out my cleavage.
'Ah, well, this I actually bought in Paddington.' Liza
and Dannie high fived each other and Alice fell off her seat
laughing. Andy picked her up.
'Can't you tell?' I said, trying to remember what Sylvia
had told me. 'Sydney fashion's so . . . coastal.'
'We're at dinner, not the beach.' Dannie was laughing
through her words.
'I'm just saying that Sydney's fashion has a more coastal
influence
, while Melbourne's is more . . . diverse.'
'There's nothing coastal about that dress, it's by the
House of Wong, and I don't think I've ever heard her work
defined as "coastal". They're feeding you crap down there,
Peta,' Liza said. The girls were just having fun with me and
I was taking it way too seriously.
'Okay spoon-man, I think it's time for us to go. Pass the
bill this way, please?' I reached to grab it before the other
girls did.
'Don't be ridiculous, Peta, you can't afford it.' I couldn't
really, but I wanted to do it. I missed the girls and there was
a little room left on the credit card.
'I might just pay with the hairy chequebook!' I said, then
burst into laughter. It wasn't how I'd intended to deliver the
line, but I couldn't do it with a straight face.
'Woo-hoo!' Andy punched the air. 'I knew that cocktail
would do the trick.' He winked at me.
'You're going to pay with
what
?' Liza asked.
'The hairy chequebook,' said Alice. 'It means, you
know . . .' and she looked towards her lap.
'That's hilarious, I love it. I am so going to use that.' Liza
was impressed with the new phrase.
'Not at the ALS, I hope,' I said.
'Oh they'd love it there, I'm sure.' Alice rolled her eyes.
'Yeah, well I got it from your cousin Josie, but I know
you won't tell your mum right, cos apparently that's where
it originated!'
Just then James came into Sauce to get me and didn't
look too pleased that I was tipsy and that Andy was sitting
with us. He was quiet all the way back to his place, while
I just rambled about Liza and Tony splitting up and Alice
and Gary getting married and all the new places I'd been to
in Melbourne.
'What's wrong?' I asked as we got to the door of his
apartment.
'Nothing.'
'Come on, my big burly man, tell your princess what's up.'
'You told me it was just the girls going, and I'm happy
for you to catch up with your friends. I like Dannie and Liza
and you know I adore Alice. But it seems like it's always you
and then that fella as well. I could've come earlier and sat
and talked too. But you didn't ask me to.'
'Are you being jelly-bean James again?' I cuddled into
him as we climbed into bed. I wasn't even really thinking
about what he was saying. I was tired, but horny too.
'Don't make light of it, Peta. You're living in another
state. When you're in town I don't mind you catching up
with other people, but not other gorgeous guys.'
I crawled on top of him. 'Oh, come on, now you're
exaggerating,' I said, peppering butterfly kisses on his
forehead and cheeks. 'I wasn't catching up with Andy. He
owns the restaurant. We spent quite a bit of money there
tonight, and have always done. It's called
hospitality
. He's a
good restaurateur, that's all.' And I kissed his mouth softly.
'If you say so,' he said, not sounding completely
convinced.
The 'Andy issue' was resolved as all petty issues between
lovers should be – with a night of sex.
I walked out of my office into the main area of our section.
Even though there were strong fluorescent lights, the space
remained gloomy as rain fell hard on the windows of the
Rialto building. When I reached Sylvia's work station I
stopped. 'Sylvia, what's this poetry reading you've put in my
schedule?'
'You need to be up on all the art forms and Indigenous
artists, right? Well, there's a reading every night in
Melbourne. You at least need to be going to the ones with
Blackfellas. Samuel Wagan Watson is in town from Bris-Vegas, so I put it in your diary. There'll be some poetry
slammers there too, and some spoken worders. It'll be
cool.'
'It will be much cooler if I know what a poetry slammer
actually is.' I felt like I was truly out of my depth at times. It
seemed I needed a whole new vocab for this job.
'A poetry slammer is just someone who participates in
a poetry slam.' Sylvia thought she was making sense until I
frowned at her. 'And a poetry slam is a competition where
poets read or recite their work and are judged by members
of the audience and given a score. It's a lot of fun, you'll
love it.'
'I'm sure I will, but to help me love it as much as I can,
could you please email me some dot points on the poet and
any other Blackfellas on the program before we leave? I
assume you're coming?'
'Of course, I'm reading too. It's about sense of place.'
I walked off, pleased that Sylvia was so on the ball. But
who was this poet Samuel with the double-barrel name? At
least I was up to date with music, listening to Koori Radio,
and I'd been heading to events at the Koorie Heritage
Trust Cultural Centre for visual arts, but there really wasn't
anything too coordinated for literature, or new media for
that matter. I'd have to get Sylvia to do me a program for
every art form, and be sure that I attended all the openings
and launches we were invited to. I had a meeting with the
Australia Council in August and I wanted to be prepared.
I was surprised by the number of people in the pub for
the reading. I wasn't sure if they were Melbourne poets or
poets from elsewhere or just Melbourne locals, because they
were all in black. They could easily have been musicians too,
I supposed.
'This is Samuel.' Sylvia introduced me. They seemed to
know each other quite well.
'Oh hi, you're Big Sam's son?'
'Yeah, Dad wanted to be here but he's doing community
stuff back in Brissy.'
I was pleased that Sylvia had written me enough
background information to know that there was a Samuel
and a Sam Senior, otherwise referred to as 'Big Sam'.
The reading started and I sat at a small table with Sylvia
and some of her mates, near a group of men who didn't
appear to be remotely interested in poetry. They looked like
it might be their local hotel.
When Sylvia read she spoke about the polluted winds of
change. She seemed to have a big following. As one of the
featured poets, Samuel read last. His material was about
the urban environment around Brisbane's West End, and
he ended with an insightful poem, a 'recipe' for Brisbane.
I loved it. Whitefellas often expect Aboriginal writers to
pen stories about place in a more traditional sense, even
though many of us live in urban environments and have
connections to country in those places as well. As the
applause died away, I went to the bar to get drinks.
'Hi,' one of the local-looking guys said as he stood at
the bar.
'Hi,' I said, and went back to listening to another all-dressed-in-black poet taking part in the open-mike section.
I felt the guy staring at me, though, so I turned in his
direction.
'I'm hot, you're hot, let's make fire . . .' he said with a
wink.
'I'm hot, you're not, and you make me tired.'
'You're good. Are you a poet too?' He turned to face me
front on.
'That's not poetry – that was a short response to a really
bad pick-up line.'
'Oooh, you're fiery, I like that.' His blue eyes twinkled at
me. I had to admit, he was cute.
'Are you enjoying the readings?' I asked.
'Oh, I'm not a big reader.'
'No, you're meant to be
listening
here, not
reading
– the
writers do that.'
He laughed and touched my arm.
'Funny girl, can I buy you a drink?' He was seriously
flirting with me, and I had to put an end to it.
'Thanks, but I don't take drinks from strangers – you
know with all that spiking stuff going on.'
'Oh sweetie, no trouble there, I'm a cop,' he said, with
his chest puffed out, proud as punch.
'Hah! Then you may as well give up right now. This,'
and I pointed back from him to me, 'would never work
at all.' I walked away. Even if I weren't with James, there
was no point in pursuing anything of any kind with a
copper. I sat back down at the table as a slammer took the
microphone.
The cop came over to my table and planted himself next
to me. I wondered if he had a gun strapped to his ankle, like
in the old TV shows.
'What are you doing?' I asked, a little amused by his
thick skin and determination.
'You must be an adverb, because you sure do modify
me.'
'You're an idiot!' I laughed. 'Any more cheesy lines up
your sleeve?'
'Oh, plenty . . .' and he looked up his sleeve. 'Is there a
name behind that smile?'
Sure enough, he made me smile. I couldn't help myself.
'Mike,' he said extending his hand.
'Peta,' I said shaking it.
'Peta, I do believe you are beautiful.'
'Mike, I do believe you are right.'
'Okay, did someone turn on a fan, or is that you blowing
me away?'
'That's enough now. Stop it, I want to listen to the
poets.'
'Of course. You listen to the very exciting, engaging, not
very good-looking poets, all in black.'
'Look, I mightn't be a huge fan of poetry either, but I'm
less of a fan of the boys in blue,' I said.
'Well, I don't know why you feel that way, but I think
we should have lunch or something to at least discuss your
feelings.'
'I don't eat lunch.'
'Really?'
'Let me rephrase that. I don't eat lunch with cops.
Blackfellas don't eat lunch with cops.'
'So, do you like stuffed animals then?'
'Well, yes.'
'Great, cos I just ate.'
'Okay, so I don't like stuffed animals then.'
'What about dinner, if you don't eat lunch?'
'Don't you get it? A Blackfella dating a cop is like a Jew
dating a Nazi. It just can't happen.'
'I don't understand the problem.'
'And that's the problem. Excuse me, I need to speak to
my friend.' And I walked towards Sylvia, who was bringing
one of the poets over to me.
While we were chatting, I noticed Mike leave and
momentarily wondered which venue he was going to next,
but we'd decided to eat at the pub, purely for convenience
sake. To my disappointment there was an unusual number
of English-inspired dishes – like bangers and mash,
ploughman's lunch and shepherd's pie. I ordered the
shepherd's pie and wondered if Joe could do it as a fusion
dish sometime using roo mince instead of beef.
♥
When I got home Shelley was asleep on the lounge. I left
her there and went to get some water from the fridge. There
was a postcard from her parents, who were opal mining in
Lightning Ridge. I smiled when I read it because they asked
about me too – Shelley must have told them about me. It
seemed she had a much better relationship with her folks
than I had ever had with mine.
I went back into the lounge room, shook Shelley awake
and waited to make sure she got off the sofa, because I knew
she'd sleep there all night if left be. I dragged my weary feet
into my room, tore my clothes off and collapsed on the bed.
I closed my eyes and I immediately find myself on a
British Airways flight landing at Heathrow and I'm amazed
at the size of the airport. As an astral traveller I don't have
to wait at customs or at the baggage carousel and in no time
I'm queuing outside Madame Tussauds.
'I hate queuing,' I say to no-one in particular, and an
Australian tourist with a harsh Aussie twang says, 'Me too,
love, but you know us, we're so easygoing and laid-back,
no worries, eh?' I look at her 'I've climbed Ayers Rock'
T-shirt and attempt to fly away, but I don't know how to.
I haven't been in control of it before. Sometimes I'm on a
plane, for long-haul flights, and sometimes I'm on a magic
carpet, except it's the magic Aboriginal flag.
I'm being hurried into the museum as if they know I
don't have much time and I'm drawn to a waxed figure of
Leonardo DiCaprio and I ask a stranger, 'Can you please
take my photo with him? I'm a huge fan.'
The Australians I have been desperately trying to avoid
are posing next to Kylie and for some reason Charles and
Camilla, but I can't understand why – after all, we should be
a republic already, don't they know that?
Next thing I know I'm kneeling in St Paul's. I've never
been in a Church of England church before, only Catholic
churches with Alice and Aunt Ivy, and I'm imagining
Prince Charles and Princess Diana's wedding and that
meringue dress she wore. I could never understand why
she married him. She was so gorgeous, he was so not
gorgeous. Kneeling now I feel compelled to pray for her
spirit and memory. And I say a prayer for James because
I think I should, and I pray to St Christopher the patron
saint of travellers, just like Aunt Ivy said she'd pray for me
when I moved to Melbourne, to make sure I got home
safely.
I'm tired of flying, but I'm not sure why – I'm not
actually doing anything physical to make it happen. I hail a
black cab anyway and it's quite roomy, but expensive, and I
wonder how I'm going to pay for it.
I don't really know where it is I want to go, but the driver
takes me to Earl's Court, saying, 'You're Australian, aren't
you? So this is where you probably want to be.' He goes on,
as much to himself as to me, 'I can't understand why they'd
travel across the world to hang out with other Aussies.'
'I agree totally – please keep driving,' and I'm not even
concerned about the meter because I'm figuring whatever
budget paid for my airfare will pay for ground transport
also. But then he's gone, and so is the cab. I'm just floating,
saying,
Don't stop, don't stop
, to whatever is keeping me in
the air, in the atmosphere, in the universe, because I'm still
not sure how all this works.
'STOP!' I shout as I see the Victoria Palace Theatre and
the
Buddy Holly Spectacular Show
. I have to go. I'm wearing
black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and I look hot! In the
foyer I see James and I wave, surprised, because we've never
had the same taste in music, and then I see Mike the copper
and wonder if he's stalking me, and Lee from the fundraiser,
too, and they're all wearing the same glasses and they walk
in with me and we celebrate the 1500th performance
together and then I have sex with one of them to the tune
of 'That'll Be the Day'. I'm not sure which one it is because
I don't open my eyes, but I hope it's James so there's no
jealous rage to deal with. Neither of us takes our glasses off
the whole time and the frames keep knocking against each
other. Then I have a little baby boy and he comes out of
the birth canal wearing the same glasses and it's all just too
ridiculous and I desperately need to escape the absurdity
and as Don McLean's 'American Pie' serenades me, I find
myself entering a pub called Ye Olde Something-Or-Other
and an arm reaches out to stop me as I work my way through
the crowd. The arm belongs to a tall guy with sandy hair.
He's cute, but the music is so loud it's too noisy to talk, and
his cockney colonisers' accent is already grating on my ears,
so I think it's a good idea if we just dance and while we're
moving to music I've never heard before I'm thinking why
do people even try making small talk with virtual strangers
when trying to dance at the same time. So we don't talk,
we just dance, and I sing along to the music, making up the
words to the songs. Back at the bar, he tells me his name is
Jason and he's clearly interested as he pushes the hair from
my face and puts his arm around my waist, claiming me, as
some young rugby players enter the bar.
'Last drinks,' a burly barman shouts to signal the end of
the night. The music stops but my ears continue to ring.
'How long are you here for?' Jason asks.
'Not sure, playing it by ear.' I'm lying, I have no idea how
many days or weeks my night's sleep could translate into.
'Wanna catch up again before you leave?'
'Sure.'
'Can I have your number?' He's never going to be able
to call me, of course, because it's a dream, but I reach into
my bag anyway and grab a business card. He holds it up
and reads it aloud: 'Peta Tully, National Aboriginal Policy
Manager, DOMSARIA' and he looks at me, then looks at
the card, then looks at me again, obviously confused, and
says out loud, 'Are you an Aborigine?' As if I'm a leper or
some other highly contagious patient with a debilitating
disease. I'm shocked and pissed off. One minute I'm
gorgeous and worthy of dining with, and let's face it, he's
a bloke, so I'm assuming I was shaggable as well. The next
minute, I'm a thing, an 'Aborigine', like I'm illegal or even
an alien being. I snatch the card from his hand.
'You won't need that now, will you?'
Wake up, wake up
, I tell myself, but no, I'm not in my
cosy bed in sheltered St Kilda, I'm still in Ye Olde Racist
Arsehole Pub somewhere in London. I try to get away from
him but the bar is cramped with 'last drinks' customers
ordering three pints and four tequila sunrises, like I'm back
in the eighties at a local RSL at home.
'You do realise that if it weren't for
my
people,
your
people would still be in shackles.'