by Liz Byrski
Emma runs her tongue thoughtfully across her teeth. ‘No, no I don’t think it does.’
‘Well anyway, it’s pretty boring here, so now I’ve got my invisible vest can I go and stay with Aunty Phyl and help with the hot dogs?’
‘Would you rather do that?’
‘Yes I would, if I still get to keep the vest.’
Emma laughs. ‘You can keep the vest. But if you want to go we’d best go now before it gets too crowded.’
They cross the street into the park and walk down the path towards the place where Phyllida is organising refreshments.
‘Aunty Phyl,’ Rosie calls, letting go of Emma’s hand and running ahead. ‘Can I stay with you?’
‘Of course you can,’ Phyllida says, looking up at Emma as she arrives alongside her. ‘If Mummy says it’s all right. And if you’re going to help me. I need someone to unpack the paper napkins and fold them up for the hot dogs.’
‘I can do that,’ Rosie says, ‘it’s boring over there.’
‘She’s probably better here anyway,’ Emma says. ‘I’m concerned about losing her if a crowd builds up. I’ll meet you both back here later.’
She watches as Phyllida and Rosie open the carton of napkins and then with a final wave she turns away and starts to walk back, past the other stalls: coffee and soft drinks, the campaign t-shirts and leaflets, and the petitions, and largest of all – the display stand with its backboards covered with coloured photographs. Emma slows down and walks closer to look at the photographs: chorus lines of little girls with teased hair and spray-tans, dressed and made up like miniature sex goddesses for beauty pageants, satin corsets and padded sequinned bras, frilly knickers peeking out below short frilly skirts above fishnet stockings. And more little girls in coloured leotards over obviously padded bras, winding their legs and bodies around poles. Tiny tots in can-can dresses bent double with their backs to the camera, gazing upside down at the viewer through their open legs. And Bunnies – Bunnies everywhere, in body hugging satin costumes, the beauty and innocence of their faces heartbreaking in comparison with the distortion of their appearance. Emma stares now at the pictures, sickened by the memory of Rosie dressed like this, doing pelvic thrusts to the beat of a drum. Rage rises in her belly and she turns quickly away and heads back to her marshalling point.
‘Just checking you’re okay,’ Laurence says, catching up with her as she crosses the street. ‘They’ll be moving off soon. According to Karen and Lucy there’s a big crowd at the starting point.’ He takes his mobile from his pocket and shows it to her. ‘Karen just took this picture and sent it to me.’
Emma takes the phone and peers at the image of a mass of people armed with placards and banners. ‘That’s amazing,’ Emma says. ‘There must be, what, a hundred? Hundred and fifty?’
Laurence smiles and closes his phone. ‘Four, perhaps five hundred,’ he says, ‘and there are people waiting in the side streets. Anyway, my darling, I have to go back and talk Alyssa out of her nerves, but I just wanted to see that you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay,’ Emma says, ‘and I’m so glad I’m here.’ She leans closer and kisses him on the cheek.
Laurence looks at her. He smiles, squeezes her hand and returns the kiss, but for a moment he seems incapable of speech. ‘Better get on then,’ he says, clearing his throat as he turns to walk away.
Emma watches as he stops at the kerb and looks both ways, although the street is closed to traffic. She smiles; he is so familiar and yet she feels she is only just beginning to know him. ‘Take care,’ she calls. And Laurence turns and waves and walks on across the street and up the steps.
‘She’s here, Patrick, over there with Dad and Alyssa,’ Lexie says. ‘Stop worrying. She’ll be fine.’
‘Lexie’s right,’ Margot says. ‘Whatever’s happening for Dot she’s the consummate professional. No one out there will ever know that she has any thought in her head other than what she’s saying.’ She can feel the tension emanating from him; his need to talk to Dot is palpable.
Patrick nods, although his expression indicates that he’s not convinced. ‘If she stuffs it up it’ll be my fault,’ he says. ‘I should’ve waited but I had to ask her about Laurence, I had to know. Imagine what it would have meant for us if he’d been …’
‘But he wasn’t,’ Lexie says, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘He isn’t your father. We’ve been through all this, Patrick. You had a perfect right and good cause to tell her when you did. God knows why she’s being so cagey about your father, but you’re not responsible for her if she stuffs up – not that I think for one minute that she will. Now can you go and fix that thing on the stage she’s supposed to stand on, it’s not high enough. Alyssa’s one is fine but Dot’s so short they won’t be able to see her behind the lectern.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Margot says. She knows Lexie’s really caught up in what’s happening but she thinks Patrick needs more in the way of reassurance. ‘This stuff is in Dot’s blood,’ she tells him as he crouches over Dot’s stand. ‘And once she’s out there in front of the crowd she’ll fly. It’s Alyssa I’m worried about, she’s freaking out about facing so many people. But you don’t need to worry about Dot. She’ll make you proud, I know she will.’
‘I know she’ll make me feel proud,’ Patrick says picking up his tool bag. ‘But will she let me be proud of her, of her being my mother, do you think she’ll ever let me do that?’
Behind the temporary stage Alyssa is vomiting with nerves.
‘I’ll be fine, now. I promise I will,’ she says, straightening up. ‘I won’t let everyone down.’
Up on the stage a local women’s band and people who have skipped the march but come straight to the park are singing along, swaying to the music. And further off, the first of the marchers have already made their way through the gate.
‘I know,’ Margot says, ‘you’ll be brilliant.’ She hands her a bottle of water and Alyssa gulps at it and wipes her face on a paper towel. ‘You need to get close to the stage now, Alyssa, with Dot, so you’re both ready to go when the rest of the crowd is in place.’ And she steers her back towards the stage.
The park seems to be filling at speed now and there is still a long line of marchers stretching back down the street. Margot, standing on the steps at the side of the stage, looks out across the growing crowd. There are people everywhere, hundreds of people, shifting and swaying. Women of all ages, some with homemade banners, some with small children in pushers, men carrying toddlers on their shoulders, a contingent of people in wheelchairs and elderly couples with posters mounted on card and fixed to poles. Near the front of the crowd she spots a former Premier who is signing someone’s banner, and further along a couple of members of Parliament, a senator, and a couple of young women – actors from a soap opera, surrounded by delighted fans. The music, the sight of people surging in, the voices – talking, laughing, singing – bring a lump to her throat. She remembers other times – thirty, forty years ago – other battles that were won and some that were lost and the spirit of the past mingles with this moment and fires her blood. She looks across to the side of the stage where Dot stands, their eyes meet and the past flows like a sine wave between them, and Margot knows she’s right – Dot will be fine – she will light the flame as she has done so many times before. And when that is done she will be ready to face Patrick, his questions and the challenge he represents to everything she believes about herself.
It’s better now that she’s here, Dot thinks, now that the adrenaline is coursing through her blood. When Alyssa had seen the size of the crowd she had vomited with fear and Dot remembered what that was like, the feeling that you might faint with sheer terror, the parched throat, the spinning head.
‘Remember what I told you,’ she’d said, gripping Alyssa’s hand when Margot had brought her back to the stage. ‘Let them see the passion not the terror. Let them see the woman who started all this, let them see you, Alyssa. They’re here because of what you’
ve done, don’t forget it for a minute.’
And Alyssa, white and shaking, had hugged her so hard that Dot thought her ribs were going to crack. The good thing about the need to perform, she thinks now, is that it drives out everything else. It takes over and there is no space for fear or sadness, guilt or shame, or any of the other emotions she has battled with through the night. She is here to do a job and for a while at least there is this and only this. Dot takes a deep breath and as she steps up to the lectern there is a cheer and she waves to the crowd and gazes out across the vast landscape of faces and banners, of waving arms and placards, and close by the television cameras have started to roll.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she says. ‘Thanks for taking the time and making the effort to come here this morning to say something about what’s happening to our daughters and granddaughters; to little girls, and teenagers, to young women, to all women. What we’re talking about here today is the monstrous virus of sexual exploitation that is invading the lives of innocent children, infecting the way they are seen and valued, and infecting the way they see and value themselves. It’s about dressing little girls as sexually enhanced women and encouraging them to compete with each other for approval and attention. It’s about smothering childhood and corrupting innocence, in the service of consumerism. It’s about grooming girls in ways that set them up to become victims of sexual abuse, and to be trivialised, and then dismissed when they pass their use-by date. We need your support, we need you to channel your anger and your energy, and if you stay with us this morning, we’ll tell you just what you can do and how you can do it.’
There are shouts of encouragement from a small group in the middle and it spreads now, building into a roar of support, of cheers, of waves and whistles and pumping fists, and she knows she is on her way. And as she looks around waiting for the cheers to stop so she can continue, she sees him standing by the sound system, arms folded, watching her, intent, straight faced, and as he catches her eye he gives her an almost imperceptible nod, and Dot knows that it has never been more important to get it right and make it work than it is today.
THIRTY-ONE
‘It was amazing,’ Alyssa says. ‘All those people, and the TV cameras, and all those signatures on the petition. I can’t believe it, we’re getting features in three magazines.’
‘Well three we know about,’ Lexie says, ‘but have you looked at the list of media calls that have to be returned. You’ve created a monster, Alyssa. It’s just going to get bigger and bigger from now on.’ The number of people who had turned out today had taken her by surprise, and now that it’s over, the anxiety has lifted and once again she has the bit between her teeth. They can do more with this, she knows they can, and she’s ready to get right back into it all again.
‘We’d never have done it without you, Dot,’ Alyssa says, perched on the arm of Dot’s chair. ‘You and your blog and that manic video with the chains. And, Lexie, we’d still be sitting around the table arguing if you hadn’t taken charge.’
‘The whole thing started with you.’
‘Lexie’s right,’ Dot cuts in, holding on to Alyssa’s hand. ‘Own it, Alyssa, this is down to you and to Karen and Lucy. Because you made it happen. And this is just the beginning.’
They are back at Phyllida’s place, gathered again around the large table cluttered now with empty pizza boxes, crumpled fliers, some leftover hot dogs, paper serviettes, beer and soft drink cans. In the middle of the table is Patrick’s laptop, on which they have watched, over and over again, the downloaded news coverage of the march. And fast asleep on the big wicker chair which is normally Phyllida’s domain is Rosie, exhausted and oblivious, still in her fluorescent vest. The girls are ready to go; they’re off to a party and Lexie watches them, their energy and exuberance. Their ability to party on after an exhausting day is impressive, but one of the joys of middle age, she realises, is to accept that it’s okay to stop.
‘A party now?’ Laurence says. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. Aren’t you exhausted?’
‘Nah! Come with us, Laurence,’ Alyssa says. ‘You can last a bit longer.’
He shakes his head. ‘No way. Cocoa and slippers for me, or perhaps just a bit more champagne.’
‘We’re dinosaurs, Laurence,’ Dot says. ‘Don’t you remember how it felt to know you could keep going all night, staggering down the street to the next party, ending up sleeping on someone’s floor?’
‘I do,’ he says, ‘and I’m very happy it’s over.’
It is quieter once they’ve left, the fizz of youthful energy dissipates and floats away on the mild night air and the pace changes.
‘The best part,’ Emma says to Dot, ‘was when you talked about how the language of feminism had been hijacked by market forces. How stuff about having choices and power and being worth it has been used to make us buy things, specially things to make us look younger and sexy – that, and the stuff about how little girls are growing up thinking that how they look is more important than who they are.’
‘That was great,’ Phyllida says, passing Laurence another bottle of champagne to open. ‘But the bit I liked best was when you said that girls were persuaded to look older than they are until they get into their twenties and see how important it is to look young, and then they start trying to look younger again and they’re still doing it when they’re ready to claim the pension.’
‘Yep,’ Emma pipes up, ‘you said that thing about … what was it now? You said “when is the time” … no that’s not right –’
‘What she said,’ Patrick cuts in, ‘was “from childhood to our dotage is there ever a time in a woman’s life when it’s okay for her to look the age she is?” That’s what you said, isn’t it, Dot?’
She looks at him across the table and nods slowly. ‘I think you have it word for word,’ she says.
Lexie, sitting alongside him, feels his tension – he needs to be alone with Dot, to hold her to her promise. ‘It’s late,’ she says, getting to her feet, ‘we should start clearing up. There’s all that stuff in the kitchen, let’s get going on it now, it won’t take long.’
Slowly they gather up plates, glasses and rubbish and disappear inside the house, and Dot watches them with a sinking heart. She knows what’s happening and why she and Patrick are left sitting there alone, and in silence.
‘Can we talk now, Dot? Over there perhaps,’ he says, indicating the far corner of the garden where a long low seat stands between two frangipani trees. And he gets to his feet.
It is the moment she has been dreading, the moment she had thought might be postponed as the day unfolded into an evening of celebration, but now she takes his proffered arm and together they walk across the grass to the secluded seat that looks back at the house. In the kitchen there is washing and drying and things are being put away or thrown away and tidied, and life is being returned to normal.
‘You were splendid today,’ Patrick says. ‘To use a much overused description, you were awesome. I felt so proud –’
‘Stop,’ she says, putting her other hand on his arm. ‘Not yet. There are things I must tell you. After that you can, and I am sure you will, say whatever you want, whatever you feel.’
‘Okay,’ he says as they reach the seat. ‘But I want you to know that I do understand how difficult, how frightening it must have been to be a single woman and pregnant back then, and how happy I am to have found you.’
Dot nods, settling herself on the seat. ‘You’re a wise and generous man, Patrick. And I must tell you now, while I have the chance, that you’re everything I could ever want my son to be. I can’t begin to tell you what your friendship and Vinka’s has meant to me, which is why what I have to tell you is so hard, because it means that you may both now be lost to me.’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing you …’
She stops him. ‘Just listen first,’ she says, ‘then you’ll know how you really feel. You asked about your father, so I’ll tell you.’ She pauses and then leans a little fur
ther back on the seat. ‘I met him in the early sixties, when I fell in with the Push. He was different from many of them, in fact he wasn’t really a part of it, he was a loner – came and went when it suited him. But he had an imposing presence, he was good looking, a great talker. He would stand in a corner of one of those smoky rooms or bars where we met and hold forth on some issue or another and you had to listen. I threw myself at him shamelessly and we were together for a few months, but I convinced myself that it would last forever. I worked hard at trying to be the sort of woman he wanted. It wasn’t easy because at heart he wasn’t really a libertarian and he was deeply conservative about women. He enjoyed the sexual freedom of the Push but he resented it when women wanted to exercise that freedom. I had to practise the art of not being myself, of toning myself down. You might find it hard to believe that I was willing to do that, I do too now, but at the time I would have done anything.
‘But then one day he just disappeared and I discovered he’d left Sydney and gone to Melbourne. He never even said goodbye. That was that and I heard nothing for months – well, years actually – and then one day I walked into the coffee shop where the Push often met and there he was, sitting at a table in the corner. He told me he was married now and his wife was in Melbourne. I can’t remember now why he was back in Sydney but there was a party that evening and we went together. He began to tell me more about his life but I stopped him. I didn’t want to know anything about his wife, their house, their plans, nothing. I wanted to pretend that I still had a chance, still mattered to him. I was unbelievably naive. It’s amazing how utterly one can convince oneself, so we spent the night together. But for him, of course, it was just a fling; he had never been in love with me, not then, not in the past. He had never even tried to pretend that he was, and the following morning he left just as he had left before.’
They sit for a moment in the silence.
