I explored a bit further into the park by car. There was a huge,well-maintained picnic ground on the river called Cottonwood Glen that I had entirely to myself. If only I’d had meat I could have monopolised both of the barbecues, and created some proper picnic rubbish. Although I’d always thought that picnics and barbecues were separate things. At barbecues you cook meat, at picnics you eat cold chicken. So would one be allowed to dispose of barbecue rubbish into a bin that was exclusively for picnic rubbish? It must be tough being a ranger and having to answer complicated questions like that every day.
While my entry point into the park was abrupt, I took a different route out and the meld back into civilisation was more gradual. First there was a camping ground, which was pretty much wall-to-wall jammed with tents. It was like the canvas equivalent of Newtown. It seemed strange to see them all packed so closely together, after having just experienced so much solitary space. Hey, let’s get away from it all . . . to exactly the same place as everyone else.
Past the camping ground, the road still surrounded by bush, I passed a very out-of-place urban bus stop and then a phone box. A truck passed heading into the national park, and that was my last chance to acclimatise. A right turn, a left turn and then I was on the freeway speeding back toward the city, and the idea that just minutes ago I could have been bushwalking was plainly ridiculous.
sixteen
goths in the sun
After the renderers finished at number eighteen the painting started, which thankfully was quieter. There was only one painter so he had no one to talk to or shout at. His loss, our gain. The colour Ivan chose for his house was a sort of a concrety rendery colour that was very trendy for the kind of large blocky house he was building. It was also, coincidentally, almost exactly the same colour as the render already on the house. In fact, as work progressed the only way I could tell the painted bits of the house from the unpainted bits, was that the bits that had been painted looked slightly more like concrete than the bits that hadn’t been.
The builders were still going out of their way to be nice to us. A new bloke was in charge, Mark. He was a huge, muscly man who looked like he could have crushed me with one hand. His voice was big, booming and deep. He made the renderers sound hoarse. It was no longer the drills or the cement mixers that woke us up each morning, it was Mark saying good morning to the other builders and asking if they had slept well. One morning I saw him outside.
‘My friend,’ he said. ‘You have any problems, you come and tell me.’ He continued, ‘You just talk to me. I’m a reasonable man. Any problem you just say “Mark” and we’ll fix it. Okay? No need to tell it to the boss. Tell it to me. The boss has got his own problems.’
I gathered the boss was the council.
‘Well, there is one thing,’ I said ‘The um, gas outlet thingy you’ve put in on the side of the house? It’s actually right outside our daughter’s window, about a metre and a half from it, and when it’s on you can actually smell gas in her room.’
‘My friend, we will move it for you.’
‘Thanks a lot, that’s great,’ I said and paused. Decided to go on. Decided not to. Decided to. ‘There is one other thing . . .’
‘Of course my friend. What?’
‘Well, it’s just that . . . your voice is quite, um, well, loud,’ I replied, ‘and you know how when you get here each morning before seven you talk to everyone out the front of the house and um . . . ?’
His eyes had gone cold, and I wondered why my neck was hurting. Then I realised it was because I had to lean back and look up at an angle of about 45 degrees to see his face. He really was very big.
‘Well it’s just that you’re quite close to our bedroom window and it wakes us up every morning so could . . . sorry, could you speak a bit quieter?’
There was a second after I stopped talking before he replied, when everything went still and I had no idea if what I had said was reasonable or not. I looked up at him. He looked down at me. I’ve gone too far, I thought. He’s got the shits and he’s about to reach out with one of those huge hands and crush me like an ant on a windowsill. Then he’ll take my job because, let’s face it he’s got a much better voice for radio than me.
‘Of course my friend,’ he said. ‘I will be quieter for you. I am a reasonable man.’
We went to Nielsen Park. It’s in Sydney’s poshest suburb, Vaucluse and just driving through makes you feel both rich, because you’re there, and poor, because you know you’ll never be able to afford to live there.
Nielsen Park is a north-facing harbour beach tucked away at the bottom of Vaucluse. It’s easy to find on a weekend. You just follow the cars and look for the place where there’s nowhere to park. (You can usually get a park in Maroubra and it’s only a short 12-kilometre walk from there.) On a weekday parking’s no problem. We strolled through a big green tree-filled park, between a big toilet and shower block and a restaurant, and a huge water-filled vista opened up. You can see across to Manly and Mosman and back toward the city. There is grass that runs down to within metres of the beach, then a few ledges that run the length of the beach step down onto the sand. A huge semicircle of water is roped off, and the netting is just far enough away from the shore to present a challenge getting out to it but not so far as to make swimming there a health hazard.
It feels different from other Sydney beaches—more isolated, more peaceful, more mellow—mainly because of the fact that from the beach you can’t see a road or hear a car. And the shoreline you see over the water gives the normally excellent water view you get from all beaches an added dimension that makes it even better. Plus the fact that it’s a harbour beach means that the surfing crowd go elsewhere, so it’s mainly favoured by people with kids, and the retired.
We picked a spot at the back of the sand on the bottom concrete step. Bibi immediately wandered over and insinuated herself into a family with two kids about her age who had brought more buckety and spadey type things than we had. This happens most times we go to the beach, and it’s usually nice to see the kids mingling and coveting each other’s possessions. The parents always hover around anxiously, praying their child doesn’t create an incident by pushing one of the others over or stealing their favourite toy, and leaping in if things look like they’re about to get ugly.
It’s also the parents who end up doing most of the talking, even if almost all of it is on behalf of their kids. A typical beach conversation between me and another parent when our kids are mingling goes something like this.
Me: ‘Bibi. No. Come on. Give it back. That’s the boy’s spade.’
Other mum: ‘Oh, that’s fine. Andy, it’s fine isn’t it? (to me) It’s fine. (to Bibi) It’s fine. Andy, let her have the spade. Andy? Say “here you are. ” (to Bibi) Here you are.’
Me: ‘(to mum) Thank you. Bibi, say “thank you”. (to Andy) Thank you. (to mum) Thank you.’
Other mum: ‘You’re welcome. Andy? You’re welcome. Andy, don’t grab it. Andy! No! Let it go. Good boy. Now say “sorry”. (to Bibi) Sorry. (to me) Sorry.’
Me: ‘It’s okay. It’s okay, isn’t it, Bibi? (to Bibi) It’s okay. (to Andy) It’s okay. (to Andy’s mum) It’s okay.’
Usually it’s all very friendly and it’s nice spending some time talking to people you otherwise wouldn’t. On this occasion, however, as Bibi triumphantly marched in, like Julius Caesar into Gaul, there was a definite ‘not welcome’ sign up in the other Mum’s eyes, so I hastily retrieved her and went sandcastle-making at the edge of the water. When I say making, we each had our specialist and defined roles. I made them and she, continuing the conqueror of the world theme, immediately smashed them back into beach, then threw her head back and let out a jubilant laugh. Like most conquerors do.
Then we had a go in the waves. At Nielsen Park they’re not waves at all really, not unless a speedboat has just jetted past, but that’s perfect for kids. And for swimming. At any one time there are always at least three or four people swimming their way around the
inside of the semi-circle. I settled for freestyling out to the net and, when I arrived saw a sign on it that read ‘Do Not Rest on Net’. I was buggered, though, and damned if I was going to drown because I was too scared to take on the law. I grabbed it hard. On the way back my arms were sore and I was out of breath so I turned to backstroke to get back in, in fact mainly just the floating and kicking parts of it. Floating on your back in general is big at Nielsen. Everyone floats on their back, especially the oldies, to show off how good they are at relaxing.
A lot of the oldies look as if they come here every day. They’re like the locals at Bronte, only less ocker. There are more women, more couples, more eastern European accents, and more of a sense that they all have money.
I saw one man walking along the beach in nothing but socks and Speedos. Interesting choice. A Japanese man was doing yoga on the grass while an old lady strolled along the beach in a black, body-tight, long-sleeved,neck-to-knee water-suit thingy Modern swimsuits are going back to the 1930s, covering up more not less. Why black though? Surely that’s the worst colour there is for beach wear. Maybe she’s got matching tiles.
There were lots of schoolkids, too. On a Friday. Surely they were schoolkids, they couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen. What’s happening to society? I knew it was hot— it was bloody hot—but surely schools have air-conditioning and tiles that are a sensible colour.
Under a tree, five twenty-something Goths seemed to be having a picnic. A picnic? Goths don’t have picnics. Goths believe the sun is their enemy, and for good reason. Of all the ‘looks’ there have ever been, Goths—with their long, dyed-black hair, pierced lips, noses and other things, big black boots, and black clothes covered by bits of netting over pale-as-you-can-get-it skin—have developed the least practical one ever for the Australian summer. And yet there they were cowering under the leafiest branch of the biggest tree to try and avoid the sun and passing their sun-dried tomatoes and hummus around. If Goths are going to have picnics, they shouldn’t have them in a park, they should have them in an underground train station. One of them was a wearing a t-shirt that said ‘Jesus Loves You’. Was she spouting bitter anti-establishment irony, or was she a founding member of ‘Goths for God’? I’ll never know.
Eventually the schoolkids mystery was solved. A banner up the back off the grass proclaimed that there was an official local high school picnic on. Thank goodness. The girls gathered and talked in groups while the boys spread out and threw things at each other. The only time they made contact was when a Frisbee or football ‘accidentally’ landed in the middle of a group of girls and one of the boys ‘had’ to go over to get it back.
After however long it was we decided to get Bibi out of the sun. As we left we passed the kiosk. The heat is an ice-cream seller’s best friend and there was a steady stream of people coming out, tilting their heads at all sort of angles to try to lap up at least most of it before it dribbled down the stick and out of reach forever.
When we made our way back to the car I felt special. Not just because we’d had a lovely couple of hours in a lovely place, but because another driver was waiting like a vulture for our car to back out so she could nab the spot. I deliberately took an extra ten seconds, maybe even fifteen, putting my seat belt on and starting the car, just to savour the power. It felt good.
On the way home we decided to check out Sydney’s richest suburb. Vaucluse is the poshest, it’s the one that makes eyebrows rise the highest if someone says that’s where they live, but Point Piper is per capita richer. It’s in the Eastern Suburbs on a point that separates Rose Bay from Double Bay. I expected walking around it to be all about views, gardens and mansions, but it was actually all about walls. There are wonderful views and beautiful houses but pedestrians don’t get to see them. They are all locked away behind big walls. Most blocks slope down from the street towards the water so that’s all you get to see, the wall with a garage door cut into it.
No one in Point Piper would find it easy to meet their neighbours. The streets have an empty feel, and the only people I saw were builders. There are no shops, no parks, no swings, no schools, no community spaces at all, just big isolated mansions full of rich people. Probably not even full of them, in fact, the houses are far too big to ever be full.
There were a couple of places we could see, and the highlight was what once had been a spectacular, fence-free, old sandstone church. But this is Sydney, and ultra-rich Sydney to boot, so it wasn’t a church any more. It had been turned into apartments. It was an eloquent summation of the old religion being supplanted by the new one: real estate.
seventeen
the more you have . . .
At the start of 2002 I should have been happy. A month earlier I had started a radio job which I had coveted for years, and we’d just discovered Lucy was pregnant. We weren’t rich but we had enough money not to worry and we were getting on great. Everything seemed to have fallen into place the way I had hoped it would. If ten years ago someone had told me this was how my life would be I would have been ecstatic. I was a lucky guy. And yet. And yet. I couldn’t seem to relax and enjoy it. I was so used to planning and hoping that when the things that I planned and hoped for did occur, I didn’t seem able to chill out and enjoy them properly.
I had all the outside things in my life that should have prompted me to be happy but for some reason it wasn’t happening on the inside. I kept finding little things to get irritated by, small inconveniences to stress out over and tiny mistakes by others that I could treat as enemy action. I wondered if something was missing, if perhaps I had a dark, buried secret that held me back from enjoying myself because I secretly wanted to be doing something else, but came up empty. No, I wasn’t gay, yes, I really did want to have a child and no, I hadn’t stopped loving Lucy. Maybe, I thought, I just wasn’t all that good at being happy. That was it. And that was okay. I was good at other things. You can’t be good at everything.
Then I had a relapse. One warm Sunday afternoon in March I was lying on our bed reading a book. My mind drifted and I remembered how, just a couple of years ago, moments of peace such as this had seemed unattainable, unimaginable, because I was constantly consumed by fear. I remembered how bad it had been, that constant gnawing anxiety that had dominated everything. There was such a difference between how I felt then and now. Why was that? What if I was living in a fool’s paradise? Could I really be as safe as I had been assuming I was? What if one of the cases I had been involved with when I was a lawyer somehow rose up and bit me? Old cases were always getting brought up. The passing of time should have made me feel safer. But it seemed, at that time, that every day in the papers a story appeared about someone getting into trouble over events that had occurred years earlier. Perhaps in our newly sophisticated, accountable world none of us were ever really safe.
But I hadn’t done anything wrong.
But did that mean it was impossible for something to happen?
How could I be sure it was impossible?
Within minutes I had thought myself back into it all. Within a day I somehow created a complete relapse back into the depths of my anxiety. It was as bad as it had ever been. I was once again completely preoccupied by possibilities, things happening that I couldn’t control, that I might not even know about. Once again I felt I was losing control of my life, and spent every spare moment obsessing over what-ifs. I tried to remember how I got out of it last time, but couldn’t. It was like trying to remember how to fall down stairs: it had just happened.
And it was completely ridiculous. There was no way anything could happen. It really was impossible. I hadn’t been a lawyer for three years. And yet I couldn’t quite believe it and, once again, if I couldn’t quite satisfy myself that trouble was impossible there seemed to be some logical imperative requiring me to obsess about it endlessly, uselessly.
This time, at least, I was willing to seek help more quickly. I went to the doctor and asked for a referral to someone to help me work out how an
d why I was sabotaging myself. She referred me to a psychiatrist whose rates made me understand why his rooms were so nicely decorated. Luckily I could get most of it back on Medicare.
The first few sessions were spent telling him what had happened. He took copious notes and asked lots of questions. At the end of the fifth session he said, ‘I think I can help you. I think you should keep coming. Perhaps you should come twice a week.’
I agreed. Anxiety was still preoccupying me and the psychiatrist now knew it all. I couldn’t wait. Next session I eagerly took a seat and waited for him to tell me what was wrong with me and how I could fix it. There was a long silence.
‘Have you made a diagnosis?’ I asked.
He smiled. I waited. He said nothing.
‘Because I was wondering whether it might be post-traumatic stress disorder, because I was under a lot of stress when it first happened and now it’s sort of coming back, so I just thought . . .’ I trailed off.
He smiled. Said nothing.
Eventually I said something else.
Waited.
Said something else.
And so on.
It seemed we had entered a new phase in the therapy. One way of describing it is that our two 50-minute sessions each week together in his room were meant to act as a microcosm of my relationship with the world. His job was to provide an environment for me to explore my relationship with myself and everything else, and if that meant that on occasions the time we spent together was tense and uncomfortable, then so much the better because the more tense and uncomfortable I got, the closer we were getting to something of real significance, to uncovering some deep problem that my anxiety complex was a surface manifestation of.
Another way of describing it was that he sat there and said not much, which got me more and more pissed off because I knew how much I was paying him and he didn’t seem to be doing anything.
A Month of Sundays Page 17
