Tiddas (20 page)

Mum, we're going to the Honey Haven and some other cool places. Dad said you have to go to book thing alone. Love Cam.

That stung. Nadine had never had to fend for herself if Richard was around. He always went with her to events if the girls didn't or he at least chauffeured her there. Nadine knew he was cranky with her, but she couldn't piece together everything that had happened the previous day. She remembered his mother angry and shouting at her, and that was about it.

Around 2 p.m. Nadine walked to the Mudgee Bookcase to do a signing as part of a promotional lead-up to the Readers' Festival. She had two quick wines at the Waratah Hotel on the way, wondering if the girls would all go back there for trivia that night. When she walked into the bookstore she saw the signing table surrounded by guitars on one side and brightly coloured ukuleles on another; burnt orange, lolly pink, midnight and sky blue.

‘Have I missed something?' she asked the owner, Jill.

‘Would you believe we have four professional ukulele players here in town,' Jill said proudly.

‘Well, had you not told me, then no, I wouldn't have believed it,' Nadine said, picking up a brochure about the upcoming Huntington Music Festival, one of the biggest in the world. She wondered if the ukulele was featured on the program.

By the time Nadine sat down, the store was packed with not only crime fiction fans but many locals wanting to get a glimpse of one of the most famous people to have been born in their town. She was surprised when so many turned up to buy her book, get her autograph, have their photo taken with her and play ‘do you remember when?' Everyone shared positive stories, friendly, generous stories; many she had to think hard to recall in any real detail. It was a response she could not and would not allow herself to imagine before and yet she didn't know why. It reminded her of what she used to like about being an author: meeting her readers, sharing stories, hearing about others wanting to write books. She left the store late afternoon feeling good about being back in Mudgee. She expected Richard to have come looking for her, but he hadn't. When she turned on her phone there was no message either. She was buzzing from an unusually pleasant day, and she wanted to share the experience with Richard, but when she tried calling him his phone was off. She thought about calling Izzy and hesitated before deciding against it. Her relatively good mood had quickly changed.

Nadine was desperate for a drink and momentarily considered going back to the Waratah Hotel, diagonally opposite the bookstore, but she wanted to hide, be somewhere less central to the activity of the town. She walked quickly along Church Street then turned right into Market Street and was at Roth's
Wine Bar within minutes. The bar had just opened and the staff were already stoking the fire as Nadine considered the wine list on the blackboard. It wasn't premeditated but by the time she'd leave she'd have worked her way through the entire list of reds by the glass, starting with the Lowe Tinja Merlot, noting that it was an organic wine that Xanthe would appreciate.
I'll order a couple of cases when I get home
, she made a mental note to herself.

As she considered the depth of the merlot grapes she was glad that, perched on a bar stool at the high chrome table, she was alone, save for two other women enjoying their own large glasses of wine.
Are they escaping and hiding too
, she wondered, hoping they were, so she wouldn't be the only woman doing it. She stared into the red-glass candle holder in the centre of the table and as the third glass of wine started to kick in lost her balance, nearly falling off the stool. Aware of the catastrophe that would present, not to mention the unwanted attention from the other women and staff, she removed herself to the couch, a shorter distance to the brick floor. As she got comfortable with a cushion and imagined sitting cosily there for a few hours more her phone beeped with a text message from Richard and her heart lifted slightly. On opening it she found a photo of Cam and Brittany at the Honey Haven, Brit with a plush bumblebee toy, Cam holding a bucket of honey in each hand. The text simply read:

Mum, there's 30 different types of honey here. I'm getting strawberry honey and Cam's getting banana honey. It's awesome. Luv, Brit XX

Nadine felt like a bad mother. She knew she should've been there too, not about to order her fourth glass of wine.

Izzy had a restless night's sleep, more anxious than she'd been since finding out she was pregnant.

She was grateful for reuniting with her cousin Aleshia at the funeral, because she had offered to take Izzy to revisit some local sites. She was showered and dressed when Aleshia arrived at 9 a.m. Izzy knew that being back on country and allowing herself the time to think, to speak privately to her ancestors, would help her find the strength she so desperately needed to move forward.

Heading out along Ulan Road, the effects of the three coal mines raping the countryside could be seen from the street. Izzy was distraught seeing the guts of her land being ripped open, dug out, sold to foreign investors like something you get from the $2 shop. The enormity of the pits was mind blowing.

When Aleshia pulled into the place called Hands On Rock, Izzy knew they had reached the traditional boundary of the Wiradjuri and Wonaruah nations. Theirs was the only car there that day. Izzy thought it felt eerie; it had been many years since she had visited and the last time she was too young to appreciate the meaning of the place, where only women and males up to the age of initiation could go.

Izzy's head was spinning; she had pinned all her hopes on getting some answers from this trip back to country. Some guidance, wisdom, enlightenment.

‘Everyone round here thinks that a women's place means a birthing place,' Aleshia said as she gathered some kindling and gum leaves. Izzy broke off new leaves as well, grateful that her cousin was active in the land council and kept culture alive for the locals and visitors.

As Aleshia lit the gum leaves packed into a metal fire pit Izzy could smell the eucalyptus oil. She listened to the light breeze rustling through the trees, age old gums that held the spirits of her ancestors.

‘This was a women's place and over that way is the meeting place where ceremonies and trading happened,' Aleshia said, rubbing white ochre onto her hands, arms and face. ‘The Kamilaroi and coastal nations like the Worimi used to trade with our mob.'

Izzy also prepared herself, silently acknowledging and paying respect to the spirits of her old people, just as she did when she visited other people's country. She waved the cleansing smoke over herself, knowing the purifying effects of a cultural practice that had been passed on from generation to generation to generation.

A path had been defined and stabilised from the entrance to the now famous rock art about 600 metres away, so the trek was easier than Izzy remembered it. But it was still an effort, requiring concentration. The two cousins spoke little, Aleshia naming a few plants from time to time and Izzy asking questions about how school groups behaved when visiting. With each step Izzy imagined the songs, ceremonies and dances that would have been performed and exchanged at the site, and how the social, cultural and economic aspects of
Aboriginal life were once integrated, unlike today's Western cultures.

‘What was that?' Izzy jumped.

‘Just a branch snapping,' Aleshia laughed.

Izzy realised how much of a city slicker she'd become, not recognising the nuances of nature any more. She concentrated harder on what she knew about history, about her mob, about everything her mother had told her in her lifetime about the corroborees that may have involved hundreds of people, depending on the occasion, and how they might have included people from hundreds of kilometres around. Aunty Molly's funeral was like the ceremonies of the past, with the same sense of responsibility and involvement from people from around the nation.

When they reached the now heritage-listed sandstone overhang, Izzy was pleased that National Parks had protected the area with a wooden deck and railing. You could look but not touch.

She started scanning the sandstone for images and the first that caught her eye was that of a child's hand. It seemed to be reaching out to her. She had been there only seconds when she got the message she needed. She stumbled slightly and leaned back against the metal railing as she deciphered more outlines: adult hands and emu feet.

‘Are you all right?' Aleshia asked.

‘I will be,' Izzy said confidently. ‘I will be.'

Two hours later, tea was being poured again in Cox Street. Izzy sat with her mother as the knitting workshop continued. Richard was there, but Nadine and the kids were shopping on Church Street. There were booties everywhere; Trish was the fastest knitter this side of the Great Dividing Range.

‘I'm making some for you, Isobel.' Her mother didn't look up, just kept knitting; purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one.

Richard looked at Izzy. She smiled at him, and then winked; she hadn't yet told him her news.

‘I know Mum, I know.' Izzy loved seeing her mother relishing the grandmother experience. ‘Why don't you make me a couple of pairs?'

Richard looked surprised but had so much on his plate with his own domestic dramas that he said nothing. He didn't need to because Trish, even at seventy-five, was capable of reacting enthusiastically for both of them, jumping out of her recliner and hugging her daughter tightly. Richard gently put his hand on her shoulder during the embrace.

‘Being a mother will turn out to be your greatest reward, Izzy, better than all the pay cheques, all the fancy clothes and cars, all those holidays and stuff you seem to like. When you hold that baby, I'm telling you, you will see why you were put on earth, Isobel, mark my words if I am not one hundred per cent right about that.'

B
ack in Brisbane the next day, Izzy was completely focused on the long list of interviews she had to do. Thanks to her hectic schedule she had no time to think about what she had to do later that night: tell Asher he was going to be a father. It was a conversation she had over-analysed, scripted and re-scripted on a loop in her head, but still she knew she'd struggle when the time came to release the words and say, ‘I'm pregnant.'

She was grateful they'd agreed to meet tonight, Mabo Day, 3 June, as it was shaping up to be one of the busiest days she'd experienced since starting her job. Izzy knew she'd have no time to walk in emotional circles, ride the Lazy Eye and, unfortunately for her sense of peace, she'd have no time to sit in the Nepalese Pagoda and meditate either. Her entire day had been dictated to her, and her thoughts would only begin
to be hers again when events in the cultural precinct had officially concluded.

A gigantic Torres Strait Islander flag hung on the outside of the Queensland Performing Arts Centre and could be seen by the traffic that cruised over the William Jolly Bridge. The whole area around the State Library, GOMA, the Queensland Art Gallery and the Museum was crawling with people from early morning, and the outdoor areas had been transformed into a place that was filled with vibrant colour. The faint smells of curry lingered as food stalls and others selling arts and crafts were setting up. In the background the entrancing sounds of Islander music and drums wafted through the air, piped from speakers on every building. On the lawns between the library and the gallery, a Sea of Hands installation had been erected by Australians for Native Title and Reconciliation volunteers, and technicians were setting up microphones for the performances that would run throughout the day.

It was 9 a.m. and Brisbane was preparing to commemorate the life of Eddie Koiki Mabo. With so many Torres Strait Islanders living in Queensland, it was a public holiday in the State, but the date was yet to be made a national day of celebration. After the telemovie
Mabo
hit Australian screens in 2012, there'd been an increase in awareness of the man from Murray Island who fought for the native title rights to his land by overturning the legal fiction of terra nullius. More and more Australians were seeing him as a hero to be honoured, revered and, most importantly, remembered.