by Liz Byrski
‘You’ll be the most aware man on the campus,’ Joan had told Oliver when he began his history degree at the University of Western Australia. ‘You’re at the forefront of a new generation of men; men who will understand women and be able to communicate with them.’
Oliver, who was eighteen at the time and obsessively interested in sex and how to get lots of it, was optimistic. He visualised sexual conquests in the university’s sunken garden, or its cool, shadowy cloisters. But his hit rate in those early years was very disappointing.
‘Academic life is good, Ma, but the woman thing doesn’t seem to be working for me,’ he told her a year into his PhD.
‘It will all happen in good time,’ Joan reassured him. ‘The smart young women are concentrating on studying.’
It was a year later that he ended up dancing with Alison at a campus party and she was seriously impressed to find he was Joan Baxter’s son. It was the only time in Oliver’s life that having a mother who was a prominent feminist seemed to have a beneficial effect on his romantic status.
Oliver had never felt that being raised by one parent was any sort of disadvantage; he was highly sceptical when bad adolescent behaviour and dysfunctional adult lives were blamed on the fact that the person was the child of a one-parent family. On several occasions he had written letters to newspapers when he read newly published studies of the disadvantage to children of sole parenting. Many people, he would point out, thrived with single parents; they became writers, plumbers, film stars, dentists and hairdressers – and functional parents – just like the children of two-parent families, but the one-parent status was only ever cited in association with failure and dysfunction. Various versions of this letter had been published in state and national newspapers over the years, and once, to his surprise, in the Australian Women’s Weekly.
When Oliver was nine, Joan had moved them into a house shared with two other single mothers. There were three young girls in the house; the only male competition was William who, at seven months, was too small to count. Oliver spent his adolescence in this lively and harmonious environment, surrounded by women doing the things that women do so well: listening to him, validating his views and experiences and sharing their own, and generally being there for him.
Janet, Pam and Linda, the daughters of the shared house, were like sisters to him, and along with various friends had continued to fill his life with pleasant and supportive female company. But Pam had recently retired early and moved to the southwest, and Janet and Linda were on long service leave to walk the pilgrims’ route to Santiago de Compostela. And now Sonya and Gayle were gone too. Oliver felt strangely sad and ill at ease. He missed Gayle’s reassuring presence and sympathetic ear, and Sonya’s lively conversation and robust good sense. Feeling abandoned, he hovered frequently near the phone on the brink of calling someone, only to remember there was no one to call.
‘You’re looking peaky, Oliver,’ Rhonda remarked when he turned up to collect the transcripts of the interviews he had taped in Berlin. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on leave.’ Rhonda had been private secretary to a vice-chancellor before she took early retirement to work part-time and help out with her grandchildren.
‘It’s over, unfortunately,’ Oliver said, ‘and I’m feeling a bit sort of blue, you know, Rhonda.’
‘You need to get out more,’ Rhonda said. ‘Take more exercise and eat more vegetables. You single men, I know what you’re like. What is this problem you all seem to have with vegetables? There’s no mystery to making a salad, or cooking the odd bit of broccoli.’
‘I’m actually quite good with vegetables,’ Oliver protested.
‘Well, maybe it’s not the veggies,’ Rhonda continued. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Oliver, and you’re always off colour when you haven’t got a few women around keeping an eye on you.’
Oliver drove home with the transcripts wondering whether Rhonda was right and, if so, whether it indicated a character defect. Like many people who have lived alone for a long time, he was prone to introspection, sometimes even to a morbid level of self-analysis. Was he reliant on the feeling that women were keeping an eye on him? Had he fallen into the habit of needing women to reflect him back to himself, just as Virginia Woolf had said, at twice his natural size?
The business with Gayle had already made him question the imbalance in the sharing of information. Had she been deliberately secretive or was it his own narcissism? Maybe he was a really poor listener. Their last encounter in his office had been excruciating and he recalled her comment, accusation almost, about him seeing things in black and white. Was he really that narrow?
He was still agonising about it when he got home, and to distract himself he decided to listen again to the tapes and then mark up the significant passages in the transcript. The ponderous and awkward conversations with the two elderly sisters recorded in Germany demanded special attention. Parking himself in his favourite chair, feet on the coffee table, Oliver switched on the tape and the women’s voices filled the room.
‘It is hard to explaining it,’ Helga said. ‘Hitler is rescuing Germany, my Manfred, he believes it and I believe him. It is not for me to question the men – my father, my husband. I am woman, Hausfrau, I have to care for childrens, to look after my home.’
Oliver closed his eyes. The accent and awkward English didn’t make for easy listening and from time to time Erika cut in with a translation. Outside his window the next door neighbour’s cat was stalking a bird, making its way cautiously along the top of the limestone wall towards its prey. The tape droned on and Oliver watched as the cat’s body tensed. He could almost see the muscles tightening as it poised for the leap that would capture the prize, when a huge blackbird swooped from a nearby branch and the cat swayed to retain its balance as the small bird took off to safety. Oliver reached out to stop the tape, as he had lost concentration and had a vague feeling he had missed something important. He rewound it, setting it to play again.
‘I must make the truth,’ Helga was saying. ‘I hear bad things are happening but Manfred, he tells me, “Helga, it is necessary”. He is a good man, I love him. I do not make the trouble for my family, for the man I marry.’ She lapsed into German then and Erika translated.
‘She is saying that sometimes it is best to hope that things will pass. You know a side of a man that no one else knows. The good things, the person he is capable to be. His . . . I think it is vulnerability, yes? This makes it more complicated.’
Oliver stopped the tape once more and rewound it a second time. Listening again, carefully this time, he highlighted specific sections of the interview in yellow, and read it over.
Gayle stood on the flat rocks above the inlet where the waves crashed against the steep cliffs. She had always loved Albany; the ragged coastline with its islands scattered through the bays, and the stunningly pure air from the Southern Ocean. As a child she had spent time here with her grandparents – a welcome relief from life at home – watching the whales make their way south, collecting shells on Middleton Beach, and here at The Gap, clutching her grandfather’s hand in order to lean over the rail and look down into the swirling water. The mix of beauty and danger was intoxicating. High winds had been known to sweep people from these rocks, hurling them mercilessly to their death.
Gayle remembered her grandfather’s firm grip, her hand small and cold in his large, warm one, and the longing to be held safely combined with the almost overwhelming temptation to let go and risk what might happen. She had dreamed of being swept away from this spot, but rather than crashing downwards, in her dreams she was carried off on the high winds to the kingdoms of her imagination. She smiled, thinking how notions of adventure changed with the decades. The islands and castles, the cities and cloud havens she had envisaged in her youth had shrunk to longings within the realm of the possible. She dreamed now of a small, cosy house located on high ground on the outskirts of the town and in those dreams she was sitting at a desk by a window that looked out acro
ss the water. She would be working on her PhD or just relaxing, listening to music, reading a book or writing a letter, buying food in the Farmers’ Market on Saturday mornings, collecting, once again, those shells at Middleton beach, waiting for the sun to set.
Gayle’s childhood memories were of long periods of time spent in her own company. Never lonely with her books and her imagination, and always thankful to escape her father’s overbearing presence, she had cherished solitude. She sighed now, turning up the collar of her jacket against the wind. If things were different this would have been the perfect place to live, to build a reflective, creative life, but there was another life to contend with, another person to accommodate, and Brian did not figure anywhere in her fantasies.
The Albany performances and classes had nourished her spirit as had the conversations with the women in the audience. Letting them see her dance, and later talking with them about how it was changing her, all worked to strengthen her own resolve.
‘You look so wonderful in that costume,’ a woman had said to her that morning at one of the classes in the arts centre, ‘and the dancing is amazing. But I don’t think I could ever do it.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Gayle told her. ‘I went to one class to satisfy my friends, and it just sort of grabbed me. I’ve only been doing it about six months but it’s changed my life, really it has.’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, her eyes bright with tears. ‘I can see that it would, but that’s why, you see, why I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take that risk.’
The wind whipped Gayle’s hair around her face and she turned into it, thankful that, in spite of the problems that lay ahead, she had taken that risk. She had survived the first week of the tour despite Brian’s outrage and Angie’s pleading.
‘I’m not coming back until the end of the tour,’ she had told her daughter on the phone, surprising herself with the decisiveness of her tone. ‘He’ll have to get used to the idea.’
‘But he’s really wild about you being away,’ Angie protested.
‘And he’s being such a pain, calling all the time, yelling at everyone. Mum, why are you doing this? Can’t you just come back?’
‘Aren’t you the person who thought the belly dancing was a fabulous thing for me to do?’ she asked in frustration. ‘Didn’t you tell Sonya that you were really proud of me deciding to do the tour?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I did, but it’s different. I mean, it’s not really fair to Dad to leave him on his own like this and –’
‘Angie!’ Gayle cut in, anger and injustice erupting like fire in her chest. ‘For years you’ve urged me to take a holiday, spend time doing something I wanted to do. You attacked me in front of Trish and Sonya for never holding out for anything against your father. Well, now I’m doing it, and you don’t like it because it’s creating a few problems for you. I’m afraid you just have to quit moaning and get used to it.’ She had hung up close to tears. She had known that going away would indicate a tectonic shift between her and Brian. Now Angie was caught in it and, like the delayed wash from a passing liner, the swell of tension between her parents was rocking her own comfortable boat.
Back at the guest house there was a text message from Trisha asking Gayle to call her.
‘Of course you know all hell’s broken loose here since you left?’
‘So I gather,’ Gayle said. ‘But it must be calming down now.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. Brian was here last night, turned up unexpectedly just as Graham and I were heading out for dinner.’
‘And?’
‘He seems to think I’m a bad influence on you. Bit late, really. I mean, I’ve been trying to be a bad influence on you for donkey’s years. Now when you do go off the rails, I’m staying home knitting a shawl for my first grandchild.’
Gayle paused, staring at herself in the bedroom mirror. ‘Am I really going off the rails?’
Trisha laughed. ‘A figure of speech, darl. But he’s in a nasty mood, and he’s upsetting Angie too.’
Gayle sighed. ‘I’ve been umpiring between the two of them for years, Trish, explaining them to each other. Maybe this is good, maybe it’s time they faced each other. Angie’s married, she’s got Tony and a life of her own. She has to negotiate her own way with Brian now.’
‘Of course, but I guess it’s all happened rather quickly –’
‘Look,’ Gayle cut in, ‘I know I didn’t give Brian enough notice, but I gave him more notice than he’s often given me when he’s going off somewhere or bringing home a houseful of visitors that need catering for. And I told Angie well in advance. There’s more going on here than the surface stuff, Trish, you know that. For the first time ever I’m doing something for myself, and everyone else is going to have to hang on and make the best of it.’
There was a long pause at the end of the line, and Gayle glanced at the phone wondering if they’d been cut off.
‘I know,’ Trisha said eventually. ‘And you mustn’t back down, Gayle. I guess I’m just a bit pissed off with myself that after all this time I’m not there to watch what’s happening to you.’
‘So how do you think we’re doing?’ Sonya asked on their last night in Albany. They had celebrated with dinner at a local restaurant where a blazing open fire and an excellent Mount Barker Shiraz had them light-headed and relaxed.
‘Brilliant,’ Marissa said. ‘Honestly, you’ve both improved dramatically this week. We’re working together better now. I’m very happy and I’ve got some news – a bit of a change to our schedule. It’s on to Bunbury tomorrow for a week as planned and then instead of having that break back home we’re heading straight up to Broome.’
There was a pause, and Sonya and Gayle exchanged glances.
‘I was looking forward to –’ Sonya began.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Gayle cut in. ‘Best to keep going.’
Marissa nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s because I’ve had to rearrange the Broome plans. As well as the performances and classes we’ve been asked to do a special gig at the Cable Beach Resort.’
‘What sort of gig?’ Sonya asked.
‘There’s a women’s health conference on up there and the organisers heard we were going to be in town so they’ve asked us to dance at the conference dinner on the opening night, and again at the close.’
‘Sounds scary,’ Gayle said.
‘I don’t think so. I spoke to the organiser last night. She’s thrilled that we can do it, and reckons it’ll set just the right tone for their conference.’
‘Women’s conferences are great,’ Sonya said. ‘They’re really relaxed and informal. I was looking forward to a few days at home but I think this’ll be fun.’
Marissa topped up the wine glasses. ‘Tomorrow I’ll reorganise the flights and the morning after the last performance in Bunbury we’ll drive straight back to the airport and get the early afternoon flight to Broome. We’ll need more videos, they’ve sold so well, so I’ll ask Frank to pick some up from my place and bring them to the airport.’
Sonya grinned. ‘Sounds good. Should we have some sinful dessert to celebrate?’
‘Yes,’ Gayle said with unusual force. ‘Fortify us for Bunbury tomorrow. I’m having the steamed chocolate pudding with hot chocolate sauce, and ice cream.’
‘But you don’t eat desserts,’ Marissa said. ‘You’re the virgin queen when it comes to sugar.’
Gayle shrugged, her cheeks pink from the warmth and the wine. ‘So now I’m going to lose my virginity.’
Three chocolate puddings and several glasses of Baileys later, they made their way back up the hill to the guest house, three abreast across the silent street, their laughter ringing clear in the cold night air.
‘I feel different,’ Gayle said, stopping under a streetlamp. ‘My body feels different.’
The tension had dropped from her face, and in the pool of light the fine lines around her eyes and across her forehead had disappeared. Her face looked fuller, more peaceful. She circled
her head as though sensing its weight on her neck.
‘It’s called relaxation, and having fun,’ Sonya said. ‘You should try it more often.’
‘This is what I want to feel always, like this. Lighter, sort of hopeful.’
‘It’s the dancing,’ Sonya said. ‘I feel it too. That and good food, good wine, the company of good women and a large helping of chocolate pudding.’
‘I’m glad we’re going straight on,’ Gayle said. ‘I didn’t want to go home yet.’
‘I thought so,’ Marissa said. ‘That’s why I agreed to the conference without asking you first. I thought if you had time to consider it, the angel in the house might win the day.’
‘Yes,’ Gayle murmured, moving away from the streetlamp to stare straight up at the night sky. ‘She might have. But what if the angel doesn’t ever want to go back to the house again?’
‘That,’ said Marissa, ‘could be a little more difficult.’
‘But not impossible,’ Sonya added. ‘By no means impossible.’
Brian was essentially an optimistic person, a man who could push through the occasional emotional trough and thrust upward to the next peak. He had an ability to get people to see things his way, usually by overbearing argument and by withholding approval or favours. In business all was fair to Brian: you did what you had to do to achieve a result. He was smart and hardworking but insecure, and the latter quality gave him an aggressive and controlling edge. His team, particularly the women, thought him a bully and his rough edges and belligerence seemed at odds with their expectations of a senior executive; but each one knew he would not hesitate to give praise or be slow to share any rewards resulting from their joint success.
