‘You see, Nevil is a gifted writer. That’s right, Nevil has a massive artistic talent. He’s been writing for some time now. Missus Dooley, Nevil is an artist.’
‘Writing! Writing! Okay, come on, no more jokes. I’m sick to death a all this shit!’
‘No, Missus Dooley, I’m absolutely serious.’
‘Mum, what you gotta understand is this, I couldn’t tell you ... because...’
‘Because he was ashamed. That’s right, Missus Dooley, ashamed of his own talent! I first heard of Nevil’s incredible ability through another friend of mine, Glenda Winterson, a creative writing instructor from Bullya. Nevil is still working on his novel. It’s called The Sun West of the Mountains. Glenda convinced Nevil to send me the manuscript, which he did. It was brilliant, I loved it! When I met him in Bullya he told me where he was from and what sort of life he had. The thing is, he guessed no one would ever believe he could write such a book; and of course he was right. But how could he go on living here and discover his true potential? Explore his feminine side? That’s right, Missus Dooley—his novel is being written through the eyes of a female protagonist.’
I gawk at them, me gob falls onto me chest. It’s like some crazycracked maginin. Me Nevil a writer!
‘So, in order to really go there, I decided I had to be Jean Rhys. Don’t worry, Ma, there’s nothing suss in it. She’s my favourite author; she wrote Wide Sargasso Sea. She was ahead of her time; she wrote about society’s underdogs; about rejection and the madness of isolation. I know it sounds all crazy to you, Ma, but this is about who I am. Being Nevil Dooley in this town is a challenge.’ Nevil stops, runs a hand cross his brow then continues, ‘That’s right, Ma, I was never the person everyone thought I was. Cos what choices did I have? Disappoint you, Uncle Booty, me mates? I knew the risk in doing what I did.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘Ma, a lot of people would never understand me and they wouldn’t want to. What choices does a black fella have in this town except football? None unless...’ he goes quiet.
Trevor smiles back fondly, ‘Unless you took that one slim chance, which you did!’
‘Why couldn’t you tell me? Why go to all this shitty trouble pretendin to be a sheila! Ya coulda told us! It’s mad! The trouble we all went through, Nevil!’ I force out the words, me eyes achin, me teeth chatterin. The boy felt he couldn’t tell his own mumma. What, I’m a monster? All this fuckery for nuthin.
‘Not meaning to hurt your feelings, Ma, but I knew you’d never understand my being passionate about something you never experienced yourself. About writing and getting into someone’s head. You couldn’t help me, Ma. I was on my own and it was exciting! I needed to be a woman here in this town! I needed to be so obviously different. Yeah, I wanted all those reactions ... I didn’t mean for you to feel—’
‘Let down,’ Trevor throws in.
‘But, Nevil, ya coulda guessed the way people would be! Ya knowed they would jus think ya gone in the head. Everybody know ya ain’t no woman! Ya already knowed what it’s like to be different! Why couldn’t ya just magine ya Jean?’
‘No, I actually wanted to look and feel the way a woman does. Ma, I know what it’s like to be treated different but that difference is based on skin colour, not my gender. I couldn’t go away someplace else and do this—that would be defying the whole purpose of what I set out to do. I wanted those reactions! Yeah, of course everyone knows I’m a man. I wanted to gauge their emotions to all this.’
‘To have people look at him in another perspective. It’s, um, like a huge experiment.’ Trevor smiles. ‘No, I didn’t have anything to do with it, Missus Dooley, it was all Nevil’s idea.’
‘To get ya guts kicked in by the town? To be called faggot n whatever else? It don’t make right sense to me. This book? What? Is it worth all the trouble, Nevil?’
‘Sorry I put you through all of this Mum. But, yes, it is worth all the trouble. The reactions from everyone—including you and Uncle Booty—were priceless.’
‘But all the grief for us!’
‘I figured you’d handle it, Mum. Ya made of sterner stuff. But it all started to go wrong with this drug business. I hadn’t planned on being dragged off by the gungies...’ His voice get all excited now. ‘Anyway, this book is about a woman called Lucinda Lawrey. She’s my hero. Um, she’s a thirty-something female, living in the bush, and struggling to make ends meet after her husband ups and leaves her. Naturally, she’s shattered and tries to rebuild her life in a town that’s hell-bent on destroying her with gossip and treachery—sort of Mandamooka. And, yes, she’s different, she has a high IQ, loves Tolstoy and surrealist art. Lucinda bucks against the stereotypes. Writing about her is my heart and soul!’
The boy is so soft. Yep, was always the first one to cry at sad movies n stuff. He deep as the ocean. But I don’t really sussin what he on bout. Not alla it.
‘Gee, son, I never knew.’ I can’t say anythin. I stop and stare back at this stranger, this stranger I gave birth to. What can a woman say?
‘Why? Why write as a woman?’ I ask reachin in the cupboard for some Tim Tams. A woman sure need calmin.
‘Because I can, because of the perspective thing, because I think it’s easier to be a man in this sort of place than to be a woman. A woman’s got to be as tough as a man, but not show it. And if she does, she’s an outcast.
Lucinda’s different—not just by being bright and independent—but she’s black and she’s seeking a better life for herself and her kids. That’s what the book’s really about—Lucinda searching for a way to escape the constrictions of her town.’ Nev’s voice is close-to-teary.
‘Nevie? Don’t cry, son.’ I go round and cuddle him. Was always a good boy me Nevil. Always looked after his mumma.
‘You’ve done a fine job, Missus Dooley. But I think that’s the problem with some small towns, they crush people like Nevil. Bend, twist and pulp those who are different. Dissecting each other and criticising the world, all behind that facade of sincerity, yes, and all the while knowing what they are doing, but not caring. It’s as though the world they inhabit stops and begins right here in Mandamooka. I suppose it’s that visible difference they can’t handle—the physical difference of someone is a threat to them, like Nevil. I think that’s the sum of it, don’t you.’ Trevor sits back in the chair, tired like.
‘Like a chain. Always said this town is like a chain round your neck. Nevil, ya know, Lucinda’s life sounds like yours. Could it be that ya writin bout yerself, son?’ I look across at a them. ‘And what’s gonna happen now? I mean bout the book?’
‘Yeah, it’s sort of autobiographical. But mostly it’s fiction. And Trevor’s here to help me with the rest of it.’
‘Yep, to help Nevil knock it into shape. It’s called editing. All those times you never saw us we were actually in Nevil’s bedroom reworking the manuscript. I’m what you call an editor. Oh, and I also paint things in my spare time. So it wasn’t all lies.’
‘When the book’s tidied up, Trevor’s going to publish it,’ Nevil says, scratchin his stubbled chin.
‘So, you’ll be famous? Fancy that, me boy a famous writer! Deadly!’
‘Oh yes, he will be famous! See, the thing is this. Nevil being Aboriginal to start with and from the bush, where sport is the measure of manly talent—then his writing a first novel, and so brilliant, so achieved. He’s created a unique character with Lucinda.’
‘He has?’ Gracie asks, walkin into the room with a scowl.
‘Hello, Gracie. How are you, girl?’ Nevil asks, standin up, openin his arms wide.
‘Well, I’ve come here to tell you all some news. I’m leavin this dump. That’s right, I’m burnin rubber outta here! Nevil, I can’t live the way everybody else does round here. I come to say goodbye to you all.’ Tears gather in her eyes.
‘What about Nevil?’ I ask.
‘Well, I think Nev’ll be goin his own way from now. I, um, wish youse well, Nevil. Hope everythin turns out for you. I’m off to Bullya. Got mesself
some marches to go to.’ She walks to the door. ‘Oh yeah, one more thing! Hope Jean makes you happy! Cos from now I’m being like you, Nevil, tryin to make some sorta difference in this screwed up world.’
‘Follow ya dreams, Gracie, cos when it come down to it that’s all ya got in the end. And promise ol Mum you’ll come back n visit.’ I stand to me tired legs n put me arms round her. ‘Live ya dreams Gracie,’ I say, real close.
‘I know, Mum. I’ll do that just for you.’ And she walks out the door, passin Booty on her way.
‘He back,’ she tells him, throwin a thumb over her shoulder towards Nevil.
‘Well, I’ll be dammed! Gracie, before ya go, do somethin for this ol man here, eh. Keep ya nose clean.’ Booty smiles at her.
‘Count on it, man,’ she giggles as she leaves.
Booty comes into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on here? What the fuck are youse up to now?’ He looks at Nevil then Trevor.
‘Don’t ask, Brother, you’d never understand!’ I laugh, pullin the fridge open and takin out a stubbie. ‘Here, Bro, have a drink whit ya ol sister. Here’s to Lucinda Lawrey! To Gracie Marley n to me boy!’ I hold the stubbie in the air.
‘Who the fuck is Lucinda? Ooohhh nooooo, don’t tell me—it’s him, right?’ Booty glares at Nevil.
‘That’s where ya wrong Brother!’ Yep, a woman feelin pretty solid. Lookandsee! ‘Here boys, have a celebration drink whit me.’ I push the stubbies cross the table.
Booty throws me a look a surprise, then quick as he is, says, ‘Well, I’ll say one thing and that’s I’ll be fucked if a man can ever handle another Jean Rhys.’ Then he roars whit laughter.
‘Here’s to Lucinda Lawrey!’ We chorus, laughin up big.
I sit back n eyeball Nevil’s face. All these years he been shyin hisself away. Like a little kid whit a lollipop, leavin the best part for last. I wonder how I’ll get on whitout him here. Cos sure as shit he’ll be outta this town soon nough. That much a woman knows. Oh well, lookandsee. Tamarra’s another day. Good things happen all a time to people anywhere. Why not to me?
EIGHTEEN
The Game
The announcer shouts into the microphone. ‘Nevil Dooley, has the ball! The kid from Mandamooka! He’s going to make it! Oh no, Mad Dog takes him down!’
I turn to Gwen and Terry. ‘Solid, eh?’
‘Speaking of solid. Look over there, Mave,’ Gwen says, pointin cross the field.
I glance cross the dusty expanse. Me gut drops. I throw a quick glance toward Terry.
He don’t see her, good.
Dotty Reedman stands at the sidelines, holdin a box a oranges. The woman look like sheep fancied up as mutton.
She’s got a pink n blue mini dress on—it rides up the woman’s thighs like a sly hand crawlin up a leg. Her tee-shirt is white, clingin to her hooters like glue to a piece a paper, showin her nipples. She got the hide to wear em bobby socks whit a pair a white sandshoes. She looks for all the world like the oldest woman cheerleader ever lived whit a face made up like ten picnics at a Sunday barbie. She all reds, blues, pinks, coloured up like to press somebody, to haul Terry’s arse her way! Yeah, she just don’t give up. Like a dog whit a bone.
‘Go, Jerry! Go, son!’ she yells, jumpin up n down on the spot.
I curl me mouth back, snarlin across at her. She big-notin herself as usual. Yeah, who she think she is.
‘Go, Nev! Get the ball, son!’ I yell, walkin closer to the sidelines.
‘The ball, Jerry!’ she yells louder when she look across and see me.
‘Go, Nevil!’ I bust a gut. Yeah, me boy the best player for sure.
White-hot, the announcer calls the game. ‘Young Dooley has the ball. Look at him. Fast? He’s like bloody lightning! He sidesteps Dougald Malley from the Rammers! Big Boy Hinch tears up the sideline and look at that boy run! Dooley passes the ball to Hinch. Hinch passes to Grunta. Grunta passes to Dooley!’
‘Score! A score, Nev!’ I look straight across at Dotty.
‘The ball, Jerry! Get the frigging ball!’ Dotty screams, her face blood-bright red.
‘Young Dooley’s pelting through them! Look at that! He’s going to score! Nevil Dooley’s going to score! Looks like the Blackouts might have the first point here today, folks!’
‘After him! Up the side! Jerry, get your fat useless arse moving!’
‘Keep goin, Nev!’
‘He’s scored! Mandamooka scores the first point! Young Dooley does it again this year!’
‘Pull up your act, Jerry! Faster, son, faster!’ Dotty yells with fury.
‘She nutty,’ Gwen says, comin to stand beside me.
‘The woman’s a maniac.’ Terry shakes his head, screwin up his eyes to peer across at her.
‘Thought you liked her?’ Gwen sneers.
‘Yeah, as if! She not my type a woman, Gwenny. I like em like my tea, strong n black,’ he laughs, throwin a particular look my way.
‘Huh, coulda fooled me.’ I give him a sour grin.
‘Hey, Mave, is that who I think it is?’ Gwen nudges me in the ribs and nods toward the other end of the field.
Missus Warby, eye spotters hangin from her neck, Akubra jammed on her head and wavin a Blackouts banner, sits on an esky, watchin Nevil’s form like an eagle bout to swoop a rabbit.
‘The Blackouts!’ she screams for all it’s worth, wavin her banner like a weapon at the Rammers. ‘Go, Nev!’
I smile. Wonder if she armed? If she gonna do the Rammers over. Ha, ha, har. Lookandsee! I turn from her and watch as the Blackouts pelt down the field. Me eyes start to water when I spot Mad Dog chasin after Nevil like a bat outta hell. His face look like a bad plum. All purplish n squashed in whit juice slidin down the side a it. Mad Dog got a score to settle whit Nevil. Nevil sure jammed him there that day at the shed. Boxed his arse! Seem like he ain’t forgot either, he closin in on Nevil like one of Booty’s pig dogs on a pig. I groan in me guts. Bad move, son.
Nevil tears up the sideline, movin like a little bantam rooster. Sweat pours down his face, his legs pumpin as he flies past Jerry Reedman.
‘Move in! Move in, Sonny Jim!’ I turn to the loud voice comin from behind. Booty stands there, gut hangin out his singlet, a stubbie in one hand. Beside him, barkin, howlin and growlin are the pig dogs. The man smell worser n a beer keg. He drunker n I ever seed him. Shamejob turnin up on Nevie’s big day like that! I could hit the man in the head. Knock some sense into him! I let the thought go and concentrate on the game.
Mad Dog motors down the field right behind Nevil. Mad Dog’s fast, nearly fast as Nevil. I see it like slow motion as Mad Dog leaps through the air, a dirty smile on his dial as he lands full force on Nevil. Wwwhhhuuummmpppttthh!
Nevil hits the dirt like a sack a potatoes. Red dust billows up to cloud round them. Mad Dog got him.
‘Off! Get off, you fucka!’ Booty roars, as the dust dances off to show the scufflin, grapplin forms of Nevil n Mad Dog in the dirt. Mad Dog got Nevil’s face jammed right into the ground, holdin the back of his head and thumpin it up n down.
Before me legs can move, Booty gallops cross the field, the dogs barkin at his heels. He look for all the world like a big fat lizard scurryin cross the hot clay. Me mouth opens but nothin comes out. Me ears roar. Me heart trips over.
Booty grabs the back a Mad Dog’s jersey and lifts him to his feet. Nevil jumps up, yellin n screamin at Booty.
Missus Warby scurries onto the field. ‘Cheats! the Rammers are cheats!’ she screams. Suddenly Dotty Reedman charges toward Nevil. ‘Bloody idiot! Can’t play to save yourself!’ She shoves Nevil in the chest.
That’s it. I stand froze to the spot as the mob, like drought stricken cattle pushin at water, crowd the field n start knucklin on.
I eyeball the field. Always the way, yep, every year there’s a blue. Maybe ol Bro shoulda set up his boxin ring here. Har, har, that’d be a fuckery riot, eh.
The announcer kicks into life. ‘No! No! Not again! Someone get those people off the bloody field!�
�
I watch as Max Brown tries to calm the wild crowd. It’s too much. A woman just ain’t got the nerves to take it any more. Then, as I head towards Dotty I spot Terry Thompson yellin at her.
He look angered up. His face all twisted n outta shape. Dotty just looks at him like he a loony tunes or somethin. ‘Yes, well, I don’t like you either!’ she screams back at him.
Yep, saves me doin it! I hold in a deep, satisfied laugh. Gotcha, Dotty! Yep, what ya put out ya get back.
‘The Blackouts take out this year’s game!’ the announcer belts out. ‘And by the look of it I’d say there’ll be some hard celebrating tonight. Maybe next year, Rammers. No doubt young Dooley’s feeling proud of himself at this moment. Congratulations to the Blackouts!’
I look round at everyone. Me eyes can’t see nuthin worth lookin at. Then Trevor comes into view. ‘Coming home?’ He asks, with a cheeky smile.
Nevil walks away from the squabblin mass and comes over to us. ‘Last game ever.’
‘Yep, well, ya gotta do whatcha gotta do,’ a smile splittin me face.
Terry sidles over. ‘You all comin over to my place for a barbie, Jean?’ He throws the question at Nevil whit a wicked smile.
‘Yep, reckon we need a bit a quiet. A woman feelin mighty runned down,’ I answer.
Terry takes me hand as we walk outta the football grounds. Giddiup! Dreams do come true.
‘By the way, Terry. It’s not Jean any more. It’s Lucinda!’ Nevil pokes a finger in his chest and laughs cheekily.
So Jean Rhys departs and in her place is another woman. A woman I like.
A woman I know.
First published 2001 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
Reprinted 2005, 2010, 2012
www.uqp.com.au
© Vivienne Cleven
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
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