by Liz Byrski
Liz Byrski is the author of a number of non-fiction books and has worked as a freelance journalist, a broadcaster with ABC Radio and an advisor to a minister in the Western Australian Government.
She is the author of five other bestselling novels: Gang of Four; Food, Sex & Money; Belly Dancing for Beginners; Trip of a Lifetime and Bad Behaviour.
Liz has a PhD from Curtin University where she teaches professional and creative writing.
www.lizbyrski.com.au
Also by Liz Byrski
Gang of Four
Food, Sex & Money
Belly Dancing for Beginners
Trip of a Lifetime
Bad Behaviour
LAST
CHANCE
CAFÉ
Liz Byrski
LAST
CHANCE
CAFÉ
First published 2011 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Liz Byrski 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Byrski, Liz
Last chance café / Liz Byrski.
9781405040341 (pbk.)
A823.4
The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Pan Macmillan Australia thanks The Boathouse at Palm Beach for allowing us to photograph their restaurant for the front cover.
Typeset in 11.5/15 pt Palatino by Post Pre-press Group
Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Last Chance Café
Liz Byrski
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For Mark and Neil
ONE
The mall is seething with Saturday morning shoppers, couples joined at the hip, families with screaming toddlers and grumpy adolescents, noisy groups of teenage girls, and elderly people doggedly doing circuits in the centre’s motorised carts. Margot hates it; not just this mall, which is inappropriately named Central Park, but all shopping centres. The harsh lighting, the crowds, the noise and the air devoid of negative ions suck the life out of her. This morning she is searching, with mounting irritation and a touch of desperation, for something to wear to her sister’s golden wedding anniversary. A dress, or perhaps a loose top matched with a well-cut skirt which will need to have an elasticised waistband; either way it must be designed for comfort and concealment. But although there is adequate evidence that many women her own size and larger shop here, the mall has little to offer. Margot longs to abandon the search, get a coffee or just go home, but she has to find something because the party is tomorrow and she can’t get into her only decent dress.
It is as she is making her way out of yet another boutique that caters for stick insects that she notices a small crowd gathered around the escalator that leads exclusively to the beauty salon and day spa on the gallery level. Some of the salon staff, fetchingly dressed in matching shell pink uniforms, are leaning over the balustrade, watching the drama unfolding on the ground floor. Invisible at the centre of the crowd someone, a woman, is shouting something unintelligible, and heading towards the knot of people are two burly security guards, one talking into a radio handset, the other carrying a pair of bolt cutters. An accident perhaps? Margot wonders. Someone trapped on the escalator? Somewhere a camera flashes. Edging her way into the crowd Margot stretches up on tiptoe. A woman, a tiny elderly woman with bright burgundy hair, has chained herself to the stainless steel railings on either side of the escalator, effectively barricading it.
‘Dot?’ Margot gasps. ‘Oh my god!’
Dot it is; striking as ever, entirely in black except for a large square of cream canvas stitched inexpertly to the front of her sweater. On the canvas is a message written in red felt pen: ‘Want to be Beautiful? Be Your Age!’ And Dot is shouting something now about the ugliness of the beauty business, about makeovers and consumerism.
Margot can barely believe her eyes. Dot! It’s ages since she’s seen her – almost three years since she took off ostensibly for a longish holiday, and since then just a few postcards from India – no explanations, nothing. Even Laurence hadn’t had a clue what she was up to. The crowd shifts slightly, making space for the security guards, and Margot pushes through to the front.
One of the guards is speaking to Dot now; his tone is low and apparently conciliatory but Dot is not in the mood for conciliation.
‘Don’t you patronise me,’ she shouts, glaring up at him. ‘I’m not some silly old woman who’s lost her marbles.’
Unfortunately for Dot this is exactly how she appears both to the guards and the crowd. But then, Margot thinks, they don’t know Dot.
‘Come on, love,’ the man says, loud enough now for others to hear. ‘You can’t stay here, you know. People can’t get up and down the escalator. Just give me the key to the padlock or we’ll have to use the bolt cutters.’
‘Don’t you dare cut that chain,’ Dot cries, ‘don’t even think about it. It’s my chain.’
‘Then give me the key to the padlock.’
‘I’ve swallowed it!’ Dot retorts, with a gleeful cackle.
There is a murmur among the crowd, a mix of amusement and amazement. The security man rolls his eyes and nods to his partner to start cutting.
‘That’s damage to my personal property, and in front of witnesses,’ Dot yells. ‘I shall sue!’
‘Now look here, love –’
‘And don’t call me love!’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Very well then, madam,’ he says, unravelling the now-severed chain and taking her by the arm. ‘Now, I’d like you to come quietly to the centre manager’s office, if not …’
Margot knows that the chances of Dot going anywhere quietly are as remote as a snowball’s chance in hell. Next thing she’ll be lying on the ground, forcing them to drag or carry her.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, elbowing aside a teenager with a video phone and tapping the guard on the arm. ‘This lady’s with me.’
‘Margot?’ Dot says, twisting around at the sound of her voice. ‘Good lord, what are you doing here?’
‘Shopping,’ Margot says, turning a fierce gaze on Dot in the hope of silencing her. ‘We’re shopping, remember? And now I’m taking you home.’ She turns to the security guard with a smile that she hopes is kind but firm. ‘I’ll look after her now, so sorry she’s caused all this trouble.’
‘Don’t you apologise for me, Margot,’ Dot says. ‘I won’t have it.’
The man hesitates. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘She won’t do it again,’ Margot says, with an assurance she doesn’t feel. ‘She’ll be fine when she’s had a nice cup of tea.’
‘Well, if you’re sure, we don’t want to come on too strong, not with … well, an elderly lady who’s a bit …’ He falters and exchanges a nod with the other guard.
‘I might do it again, in fact I probably will,’ Dot says. ‘I have plenty more chain.’
‘Come along, Dot!’ Margot insists, smiling at the guards. ‘Thank you so much.’ She grabs Dot’s arm and drags her, protesting, away from the scene of the crime, to the accompaniment of laughter and some mild applause from a few of the rapidly dispersing crowd.
‘Whatever were you doing, Dot?’ Margot demands once they are out of sight of the security men. ‘You could have been arrested.’
‘I probably would’ve been if you hadn’t shown up,’ Dot says, swapping an obviously heavy green shopping bag to her other shoulder. ‘That’s what I was aiming for.’
Margot steers her to the safety of a café and nudges her into a booth with upholstered benches. ‘Don’t you dare move from there,’ she says. ‘If you cause any more trouble they’ll cart you off to the manager’s office and call the police. You didn’t really swallow the key, did you?’
‘Of course not,’ Dot grins, reaching down inside the neck of her sweater. ‘It’s here on this very nice lanyard sent to me by Amnesty International. If you’re getting the coffee I’ll have a long black, please.’
‘I’ve done it before, many times,’ Dot says when Margot returns with the coffee. ‘But then, you know that.’
Margot does indeed know that; she has seen her do it on at least four occasions, from one of which she was dragged off shouting and thrown into the back of a police wagon. ‘I remember,’ she says, ‘particularly the first time I saw you do it – the Save Our Sons campaign. A lot of very respectable-looking women in hats and gloves marching with banners, and the lunatic fringe chained up outside Parliament House.’
‘I remember that,’ Dot says. ‘We were all there. You had Lexie with you, and Emma in a pusher, and Laurence was there too.’
Margot nods. ‘That’s right, Emma was still quite small.’
‘How is Laurence?’ Dot asks. ‘It’s ages since I saw you and even longer since I saw him.’
‘He’s okay,’ Margot says. ‘He’s away, doing that horrendous walk to Santiago de Compostela. It’s madness, of course, I don’t think he’ll last the distance. You know Laurence, exercise is not his thing, but he’s been a bit out of sorts lately. He was seventy-four last month.’
‘Everyone’s younger than me,’ Dot says, grimacing. ‘Just turned seventy-five.’ She sips the hot coffee cautiously. ‘No, it doesn’t sound at all like Laurence. I’d love to catch up with him when he gets back. But it’s great to see you, Margot, and amazing because you hate shopping centres.’
‘Desperation really,’ Margot says, and explains about the party.
‘She’s pretty fearsome as I remember her, not my kind of woman, Philippa.’
‘Phyllida.’
‘Of course, Phyllida – unusual name, I always mix it up. I think I once called her Falada after that talking horse in the fairytale … er, yes, The Goose Girl . Unkind of me, but she was a bit of a bossy mare, wasn’t she?’ And they both dissolve into laughter.
‘Ah! Dot, it’s so good to see you,’ Margot says. ‘I got so used to having you around, I really missed you, and you’re a hopeless correspondent. So, tell me about India. What were you doing? What made you stay so long?’
Dot rolls her eyes. ‘I know, I know. Went off on holiday and didn’t come back, didn’t let anyone know, totally unreliable, don’t deserve to have any friends. Like I said when I left, Margot, I planned to go for several weeks, maybe even two or three months, but India …’ she pauses, ‘well, it hung onto me I suppose. It’s such a culture shock. You’ll laugh but I got that finding myself bug, and ended up at a retreat centre in a decaying old palace in the mountains; amazing place, glorious scenery, lovely people. I did it all: meditation, fasting, being silent, writing down every thought, every memory.’
Try as she might Margot couldn’t imagine Dot meditating on an Indian mountain, or anywhere else for that matter. She can’t see her in a white robe, ohm-ing peacefully, eating chick peas and dhal, and especially not being silent. It sounds too still, too regimented, too passive. Was she allowed to smoke? Did she attempt to reorganise the place? Did she have to let her burgundy hair grow out? Were there any protests to organise? It is so entirely un-Dot. ‘Sounds a bit confronting,’ she says. ‘So did you find yourself?’
‘Unfortunately I did. You know, Margot, I was absolutely sick of myself when I went there. Sick of being that Dot Grainger person; you know – curmudgeonly columnist, broadcaster, chain smoker, activist ratbag. I needed to see who I was underneath all that.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Well, sadly, I discovered that was it. That is who I am. I’d hoped that it was some sort of shell and I might discover a finer, more measured person lurking within, but it seems that’s who I am, right down to my bone marrow. Such a disappointment.’
‘I think it’s a relief,’ Margot says. ‘I never imagined for a moment that all that passion and commitment came from anywhere but the heart and soul.’
‘You’re very kind, but I’m so over myself you wouldn’t believe it and I couldn’t even get away from me at the top of some Indian mountain. I stayed a full year so you can’t say I didn’t try. And then I thought, well, maybe I need to be doing something, rather than, you know, just being there contemplating my navel. After all, I am a doing sort of person. So I went to Mumbai and worked with an aid organisation that helps slum dwellers. Oh the awfulness of it, Margot, the children, the poverty … anyway, I just got stuck in, cooking, washing, dressing wounds, things I never dreamed I’d do.’
‘And?’
‘Well, that sort of thing does change you, but I still didn’t find the finer person. I was still a ratbag even in India, but at least I was a useful one. I got back about three weeks ago and I’ve been finding it hard to settle, and even I haven’t had the cheek yet to start calling people to say “I’m back, take notice of me”.’
‘Well, you should have. I missed you and a couple of postcards didn’t stop me worrying about you,’ Margot says. ‘And this morning? What was all that about?’
‘Protesting again, of course, although I made a very bad job of it. That’s the thing, you see, I would never have gone at it like that in the past. I’d have planned it with other people, had a strategy. Collective action was always my thing. Good thing you turned up when you did.’
‘But what’s it about?’ Margot persists. ‘Even I couldn’t understand what you were on about.’
Dot looks uncharacteristically sheepish. ‘I know. That’s a sign of my own disorientation, I think, because it’s about everything, really, and that’s the problem. Coming back here … it’s a culture shock … the consumerism … and everything seems to be about appearance … I can’t really explain it …’
‘Mmm. Well, you won’t change anything doing what you did this morning,’ Margot says. ‘Work out what your issue is and plan your strategy carefully – that used to be your mantra.’
Dot rolls her eyes. ‘Well, I was right. Pity I didn’t take my own advice this time. And chains are a bit dated, I suppose. I need to find another way or I’ll start to sound like a nutter.’
Margot nods. ‘A nutter is exactly how you looked and sounded this morning. Activists these days do it with
blogs.’
Dot sighs. ‘I suppose so, but you know, Margot, doing stuff alone is hard and no one seems to care about sisterhood anymore.’ She leans forward, grasping Margot’s hand in her own. ‘Remember the women’s movement, working together! Remember marching for childcare centres, and equal pay, and breast cancer testing? It’s not the same now. It’s all about the individual and bugger everyone else. Pole dancing as liberation, what a travesty! Remember how thrilling it was back then?’
Margot does remember; she remembers marching in pouring rain and blazing heat, carrying placards, stuffing envelopes, and worrying if she’d be home in time for the kids. She remembers having to choose between doing the shopping and going to another one of those endless meetings with no agenda because agendas limited the free exchange of ideas. Meetings where everything everyone wanted to say was written on huge sheets of butcher’s paper and more time was spent deciding the order of the topics than on the topics themselves. ‘I do remember,’ she says now, ‘although I suspect with not quite as much affection as you do. I was just an exhausted working mother, but you were famous.’
‘Famous? I thought we agreed on minor media personality aka MMP.’
‘Okay, but you were practically a household name.’
‘Mmm, like toilet paper or drain cleaner. Ah well. That’s all over now. One day a rooster now an old chook with her feathers falling out. Anyway, I’ve been rabbiting on about myself far too long. What about you, Margot? What are you up to now?’
‘Much the same as ever, really. I still help out at the law centre from time to time, filling in when people are away, covering sick leave, that sort of thing. There’s not a lot but I still enjoy it and the money helps; living on the pension is no joke. And I look after Rosie quite often.’
‘Rosie, of course. Emma and her husband split up, didn’t they?’
Margot searches in her handbag and pulls out a photograph. ‘Yes, Rosie’s eight now and she lives with Grant and his sister.’
Dot studies the picture; she’s never had much interest in individual children, although she has campaigned for their welfare, and for safe and affordable childcare. Socially she finds them irritating and demanding but she is interested in custody arrangements. ‘So that’s working out okay?’
