by Anita Heiss
Her grandmother shook her head. ‘Of course I know. I’m old, not stupid!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Xanthe said, feeling aptly scolded and wishing Spencer was there with her and not in court with one of his clients. But it was his dedication to social justice that she loved about him most.
‘It means Indigenous Victorian Football.’ The old lady laughed at her own joke, a Swannies supporter since the days when they were South Melbourne.
Xanthe smiled grimly.
‘Look my girl,’ her grandmother took a tone of authority to the nearly forty-year-old looking distressed in front of her. ‘Babies in test-tubes and using other people’s sperm and not your own man’s . . . well, that is not what we are supposed to do.’
‘But . . .’ Xanthe wanted to say it was her last hope.
‘Listen to me,’ Noonie held her granddaughter’s hand tightly. ‘You must have faith in Biami to make you a mother, and you need to relax. Those lines on your forehead, they don’t come from the Wiradjuri side of the family.’ The old woman ran her hand across her own forehead. ‘None of that blotox for me,’ she laughed again, thinking she was funny, but Xanthe wasn’t in the mood for humour. ‘I’ve only ever used Oil of Olay, and look, no lines, no lines.’ It was true that Wiradjuri women had exceptional skin, good genes as it were. High cheekbones, straight teeth and very few wrinkles. ‘Sunlight soap growing up and no stress about making babies with other people’s stuff!’ The old lady screwed up her face and shook her head.
Xanthe smiled at the Wiradjuri wisdom. Only her grandmother could and would say out loud what she needed to hear. It was her wisdom but she offered it with such a sense of confidence it was as if it were truth from the Bible itself.
Across the room Izzy spotted her mother. She had decided to tell her about the baby at the wake, knowing she would be too concerned with what other people thought to get angry in public. Trish would never cause a scene at the bowlo, let alone after a funeral and by the time they got home, she would’ve calmed down at least slightly.
Izzy’s brother Rory sidled up.
‘You look chubby, Iz,’ he said, poking her in the side.
‘The big smoke might be good for your career, but it ain’t good for your belly,’ her younger brother Dave added, having arrived just as the conversation started. He laughed at his own joke. ‘Whitefellas don’t like seeing chubsters on their screens, don’t you know that? You better not eat that dim sim or you might never become that big flash TV star.’
Izzy looked at the plate of fried food in front of her, desperately wishing someone would bring her one of the huge pepper steak pies they sold at the bar. It would be just as bad for her health, but she was starving and it was all that was on offer. Dave heard his name called and headed off across the room. Rory sat down, pinched one of the dim sims off his sister’s plate.
‘I need to tell you something,’ Izzy said, and before being able to stop herself blurted out, ‘I’m pregnant.’ The minute she said it she wished she could suck the words straight back into her mouth, back into the baby brain she’d developed in recent months.
‘Who the fuck is he?’ Her brother stood up, immediately angry and protective of his older sister. ‘Is he here?’ He looked around the room.
‘Sit down, you idiot!’ Izzy grabbed her brother by his checked shirt and tugged hard enough to get him back on his chair. ‘He’s not here, and he’s an amazing man.’
She shocked herself at the declaration she made out loud about Asher. She’d never had to define or describe him to anyone before. The sudden realisation that she thought he was amazing was an epiphany. It felt good.
‘Is he a Blackfella at least? Might be good to know before I beat the crap out of him.’
It was hard to tell whether Rory was joking or not, but Izzy didn’t want to risk it and maintained a level of seriousness.
‘He’s a Murri, from Toowoomba way, Gaibul Jarrowair mob,’ she said proudly.
‘At least he won’t be a shit-skin kid then,’ Rory said aggressively, taking a sip from his schooner.
‘What the fuck?’ Izzy said, loud enough for someone at a nearby table to look around. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed and turned to her brother, feeling confused and angry. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know, Black mixed with white.’ Rory was matter of fact. ‘At least the kid’ll be dark, that’s what I’m trying to say.’
Izzy was disgusted by her brother at that moment. She didn’t want to cause a scene, but she hated how her own blood talked stupid about skin colour. She swallowed her anger as Rory skolled his schooner.
‘I’ll love the kid, you know that. Blood is blood, sis, but don’t let him get all lost in the big city, eh? Ya better bring ’im ’ome to country to hang out with my kids too.’
They looked at Rory’s kids rolling around on the dance floor with their cousins – first, second and third – completely lacking any discipline at that moment and having a whale of a time. Izzy just nodded, smiled and unknowingly put her hand on her belly, imagining for the first time a future where her own child would be one of the cousins, one of the kids cleaning a dance floor with their clothes. A child would connect her even more to her nieces and nephews, and to her brothers, and it would give her mum her eighth grandchild.
‘Have you told Mum yet?’ Rory asked, a smirk of knowing on his face.
‘No,’ Izzy said cautiously, hoping her brother didn’t do it before she had a chance to.
‘Good luck with that. You know she’s going to freak cos you ain’t married. Me, I don’t care, I only got married cos Caz said she’d marry that Jones loser if I didn’t put a ring on her finger.’
‘But you love Caz,’ Izzy said, as much to convince herself as her brother.
‘Yeah, she grew on me. No goin’ back now anyway.’
Rory looked across the room to the mother of his children and smiled. Such is the love in my family, Izzy thought to herself as her brother walked off.
Her mother was sitting nearby with a crowd around her, telling yarns to eager listeners. Izzy waited impatiently for the moment when there was no-one else around. But before she had a chance there was a shouting match, drawing everyone’s attention to a woman near the vending machine.
As the conversation in the auditorium lulled, people moved towards the main bar. The fear of a fight entered everyone’s minds. Two distinctive voices were coming from the vending machine behind the pool table, and the racket carried across the crowded space. Nadine and Richard. Izzy moved as fast as she could to get them out of the club and away from everyone’s eyes.
‘I just want some fucking Cheezels, what’s the big deal?’ Nadine slurred loudly.
Richard responded in a hushed tone, embarrassed, aware everyone was listening. ‘It’s time to go, darling, come on.’ He gently took his wife’s arm and looked for his children.
Izzy had already gathered them and was motioning towards the door.
‘Cheezels, that’s all I ask for, nothing more. I came back to this fucking pit with you and you can’t even buy me some fucking Cheezels. Do you need some money? I’ve got plenty of money.’
Richard let go of his wife’s arm and walked towards the entrance, not far behind his sister and kids. Yelled at for no reason in front of his family and mob and with no recourse, he had no other alternative. He felt shamed, angry, emasculated.
Izzy turned around and saw her mother heading towards her sister-in-law. This is not going to end well.
By the time they got to the car both Brittany and Cameron were crying.
‘We can’t leave Mum there,’ Brittany said, sobbing heavily.
‘Why did she want Cheezels?’ Cameron asked. ‘And why didn’t you just give them to her, Dad?’
Richard was now the bad guy in front of his children. ‘Izzy, can you take the kids to the motel? I’ll go back and get her if she’ll come,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘We’ll grab a cab.’
This was the angriest Izzy could recall seeing Ric
hard in a long time.
‘Of course I can take them. We can watch a movie, eh kids?’
There was no response as the children quietly got in the car.
Richard was sweating as he re-entered the club. He was nervous; his wife was out of control and he didn’t know what she might do next. The first thing he saw was his seventy-five-year-old mother with fire in her eyes talking sternly to Nadine, who by now was swaying. As he got closer he could hear the words that would ring in his ears for months.
‘Don’t come back here again. You make me shame. You give our family name shame.’ Nadine just stood glassy-eyed, not saying anything. She was afraid of Trish and that was enough to keep her quiet.
Without being noticed, Veronica had left the wake early. She may have been surrounded by hundreds of people, including her closest friends, but she was lonely. She walked down Market Street to her boutique hotel across from Robertson Park. She needed time to think, some space to mourn her own losses: her parents, her husband, her once happy life. As she eased herself into the deep bath her tears spilled immediately. By the time she opened her eyes again, the water had cooled and she was pruney. Still, she didn’t get out immediately. Instead she reminded herself it was the first time she’d been alone in a hotel room; no husband, no kids. Would it be like this forever, she wondered, fresh tears trickling down her cheek.
‘Wake up to yourself,’ she said out loud, dressing quickly. She put a fresh face of make-up on and took herself off to the hotel restaurant. As she picked through a Caesar salad, she noticed a table of men sitting nearby and assumed they were talking farming. Two wore pink shirts. Was there a large gay community in Mudgee, or had men in town become more fashionable over the years? What else has changed in town, she wondered, and, after finishing her meal she strolled to the local tourism centre only metres away.
Across town, Richard arrived back at the motel with Nadine gloomily in tow. He rushed out of the cab and back to the room, passing other Blackfellas who were standing around talking. Nadine went straight into the bathroom and ran the shower. Richard said little, just thanked his sister, and suggested she take their car overnight. He curled up with the kids on the queen-sized bed as they watched Glee on TV.
Izzy felt relieved to go. Nadine had stressed them all out. The sun had set by now and the temperature had dropped dramatically; she was cold and tired and the last thing she wanted was a houseful of people to deal with when she got to her mother’s. As she turned right at the West End General Store, she still couldn’t believe the family had always lived on tree-lined Cox Street. All the local Blackfellas knew about the road builder William Cox and what he thought about the local Wiradjuri. Most could recite his famous quote off the cuff and Izzy played it in her head as she pulled into the street:
The best thing that can be done is to shoot all blacks and manure the ground with their carcasses. That is all they are fit for! It is also recommended that all the women and children be shot. That is the most certain way of getting rid of this pestilent race.
She wondered if her mother thought about the Cox family much; it was their history that was taught in the schools and talked about locally, even though most residents knew of the area’s brutal past. The thought saddened her. But at least she’d moved from one West End to another.
She pulled into the driveway of the family home glad that there wasn’t already a car under the carport. Across the road were three silver utes and Izzy hoped their owners weren’t inside. She checked the letterbox that sat loose on the cream-coloured picket fence – not the clichéd white picket fence many aspired to – and smiled. The garden was tidy, not a weed in sight, the lattice archway over the front gate covered in green vine.
The screen and front door were both locked so she went around back. Her mother was alone on the glassed-in veranda, sitting in the dark, rosary beads in hand.
Izzy was hungry, desperate for peanut butter and jam on toast and a cup of peppermint tea. ‘Helloooo,’ she sang softly from the door. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Ah, come sit, daught. Give your old mum some good news.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on first, shall I? And make some toast. Have you eaten?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ her mother said. ‘But I should eat something. Vegemite for me.’
As Izzy watched the steam come out of the kettle spout her mobile rang. Asher’s named flashed big and bright.
‘Hey,’ she said, attempting enthusiasm but filled with fear.
‘How are you? I’ve been thinking about you all day,’ Asher said warmly down the line. ‘I wish I could just give you a cuddle.’
Izzy felt uncomfortable, they’d never talked about cuddles before. They never really had calls when they were apart either, that wasn’t normal. But she had told him about the funeral because he was pressing her about why they weren’t catching up. At least she didn’t have to lie.
‘Izzy, are you okay?’ Asher asked after a few moments of silence.
‘It’s fine, I’m fine. You know what these things are like. One big reunion, a few family blues and a lot of hangovers next day.’ She tried to keep it light, upbeat.
‘How’s Ellen going?’ Asher asked, genuinely interested, having heard Izzy talk about her friends and their book club a number of times.
‘She’s coping, it’s been hard on all of us in different ways.’ Izzy bit her lip and wished she hadn’t set it up for more questions. Luckily, Asher was like most blokes and only needed the bare minimum of information.
‘Okay, well I better get back into the kitchen. Call me when you get back and I’ll cook for you.’
The phone went dead. Izzy stood still, forgetting what she was doing in the kitchen till she heard her mother sing out, ‘Everything okay out there?’
‘Sorry,’ Izzy said as she carried out a metal tray with hot toast and a pot of tea. She laid it out on a laminate table alongside her mother’s olive-green velvet Jason recliner.
‘Your sister-in-law, she needs help,’ her mother said quietly.
‘I know. I’ll talk to Richard about it, we’ll sort her out when we get home.’
‘Good,’ is all her mother said, sipping her weak tea.
‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ Izzy said, having already devoured one piece of toast and feeling immediately better for it.
‘I already know.’
How could she know? She must be talking about something else. Maybe Rory said something.
‘When are you due?’ Trish asked.
‘But, how did you know?’ Izzy was shocked, confused.
‘A mother knows these things, daught.’ She took another sip of her tea. ‘You can’t hide being pregnant from your own mother.’
Izzy started to cry. Not because her mother was angry, she wasn’t, but because she was closer to her mum than she realised.
‘I can see that glow only pregnant women get. You’re actually a bit shiny.’
Izzy had noticed the change in her skin in recent weeks also and bought some oil-free cleanser just a few days before.
‘I’m due . . .’ Izzy couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother she was struggling with the prospect of motherhood.
‘What’s wrong, daught? What’s wrong with you?’
Izzy shook her head and blew her nose into a ratty tissue she dragged from the bottom of her handbag.
‘Izzy, you’re nearly forty. I’m not going to tell you what to think, but you can do anything you choose to set your mind to. Trust me, though, when I say that you will never regret having children. You can do without a husband, men are nothing but trouble anyway, except for Richard who is perfect and too good for her, but that’s another story.’
‘What about my career?’ Izzy sniffled.
‘You’ve already had a career, you can still have a career in the future. But we are the women, daught, we are the matriarchs, we need to keep the family growing.’
‘I can’t do it by myself,’ Izzy blew hard again.
‘What’s t
he father say?’
Izzy thought it odd her mother didn’t ask who the father was.
‘I haven’t told him yet.’
‘You must tell him, Isobel, and soon. This is part of his story too, his life, his future.’
This was a directive, not a suggestion, and Izzy knew it.
Izzy hadn’t thought about it that way before. It had only ever been about her, her life, her future and the impact the baby would have on her own career plans. It was already impacting on her body, as her clothes were tighter and her breasts fuller.
‘Is this fella going to run away?’
Izzy could tell her mother was being restrained. A Christian she may be, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of bitching with the best of them, especially where her children were concerned.
‘I don’t know.’
And it was the truth. Izzy had no idea how Asher would react, but if his reaction was anything like hers, then he’d be confused and think immediately about himself and his future career.
Trish put her hand on top of her daughter’s. ‘I love you, you are my blood. We are strong Wiradjuri women and no matter what happens, I will support you all the way.’ She reached down beside her chair and lifted up her knitting basket. ‘Your cousin Tarsha is pregnant too. She asked me to make some booties for her. It’s a girl,’ she said, without taking her eyes off the needles. ‘He’s a nice fella, brickie, honest as the day is long. Kind of like that Jack you should’ve married.’
‘Mum! Please don’t.’
Izzy didn’t want to go into the history of not marrying the ‘perfect man’ in her twenties. But she remembered how happy her mum was when they got engaged. Izzy had been happy too, or so she thought. It was the longest engagement in Mudgee’s history and everyone joked about it, but Izzy just couldn’t go through with marrying someone who had no ambition. Jack was a good man, hardworking, caring and gentle. He loved his job at the abattoir and she was glad her man was cheery of a night. But he never wanted to leave Mudgee; he didn’t want to travel, not even to Sydney. All he talked about was settling down, having children and growing old in rocking chairs together. The abattoir had closed, but Jack still stayed put. If he made her feel old when she was only twenty-two, how would she feel at thirty with three kids? She just couldn’t do it.
