Tiddas

by Anita Heiss

  The promise of personal freedom was driving Veronica’s enthusiasm to get packed up and settled as soon as possible. She had worried less about her sons when each of them moved out because she never knew what they got up to. Not waiting for John to come in the door at all hours meant her anxiety about him would also decrease.

  Apart from studying, Vee also wanted to travel now that she had time, the cash thanks to the settlement, and no-one relying on her 24/7. She wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum for real, not just on café posters. She wanted to stroll alongside the Seine and the Champs-Élysées and eat out in nice restaurants. She dreamed of going to Rome and visiting the Vatican. She’d read so many novels, memoirs and travel articles set in exotic places and now she was finally allowing the travel bug to infect her.

  She looked into Butch’s chocolate brown eyes and felt a tinge of guilt. ‘Come on, then!’

  She got up and walked towards the laundry where the dog lead hung by the back door. ‘I will miss our walks, old fella. Truly I will. But it’s my time, okay?’

  Butch dragged Veronica along Arkana Street towards Chaprowe Road. She laughed like a young girl, enjoying her new free spirit, augmented by the endless energy of her German shepherd. As they approached St Peter Chanel Primary School a scrub turkey rushed back into the schoolyard. Veronica heard laughter across the road and turned to see the two Murri sisters smiling widely. They waved to her as they crossed the road.

  ‘Hi,’ one of the sisters said, ‘gorgeous day for a walk.’

  ‘Stunning,’ Veronica answered, pulling Butch back on the leash.

  ‘Been meaning to yarn with you for a long time,’ the other sister said, adjusting her sun visor. ‘If you ever want company on a walk, you should let us know. We’re walking the same way anyways.’

  Veronica couldn’t believe that the opportunity to meet had finally presented itself just as she was about to move. In the meantime though, she would enjoy the company of her two new friends.

  ‘It sure is a gorgeous day,’ Veronica replied.

  ‘You’re leaving The Gap, it’s definite then?’ Xanthe asked as she picked up one of Veronica’s signature white and dark chocolate muffins. ‘But you love it here.’

  ‘I do love it here.’ Veronica looked at the light coming through the northern window. ‘But this place is my past now.’ She took a sip from the bone china cup she would soon donate to the local Vinnies. ‘And this place,’ she handed over a real estate agent’s catalogue opened at page five, ‘is my future.’

  ‘Wow, you found somewhere? That’s amazing,’ Ellen said, ‘and you’ll be able to get the ferry to Kangaroo Point to see me. We can do the Jazz Club on Sundays,’ she added, excited about having her dear friend living so close.

  ‘But this house is full of memories.’ Xanthe, always the romantic, believed every tangible item held a memory, a story to be passed on, treasured or privately remembered.

  ‘Those memories are in my heart and my head.’ Veronica was becoming far less dependent on ‘things’. ‘I will carry them with me always, but I don’t need to literally carry them with me.’

  Some already-packed boxes of books were waiting to be collected by a women’s housing network. She was pleased some of the family’s favourite picture books, and many of the novels she’d read over the years, would be appreciated by other women and kids somewhere not too far away.

  ‘It’s too big here now anyway. Five bedrooms and two floors for two people and a dog is just embarrassing.’ Veronica had often felt guilty about the privileged life she led in comparison to so many others. ‘I want to simplify. I need to simplify.’ She looked at the cluttered wall units in the lounge room and the marks on the walls where paintings had come down. ‘I want stark white walls with artwork I love. New artwork.’

  ‘Maybe some of your own artwork?’ Xanthe suggested, reaching for her second muffin.

  ‘Maybe.’ Veronica smiled, quietly hoping that one day she would be confident enough to hang some of her own pieces in her new home. ‘But is that something you do? I mean, as an artist? Wouldn’t it be like a singer-songwriter listening to their own music every day?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the same. Anyway, do what you want, Vee. Paint your pictures, paint your walls, whatever you want.’ Ellen picked up a black glass Art Deco vase. She looked at the barely-there sticker on the base: ‘Made in Bohemia circa: 1930’. It was so old it was made in a part of the world once known as the Austro-Hungarian Empire, now part of the Czech Republic.

  ‘You can have it,’ Veronica said, as if she were talking about a $10 vase from IKEA.

  ‘What? No, I can’t, it’s too much,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Isn’t that the piece you bought at the silent auction for Kids MS a few years ago?’ Izzy said, recalling the fundraiser they’d all gone to. ‘It’s a Karl Palda, isn’t it? Worth a bomb.’

  Veronica had no attachment to the piece at all. ‘It’s yours, Ellen. The money went to charity, it was a donation. Really, it’s not something I want to take with me.’

  ‘It would look good in Kangaroo Point, wouldn’t it?’ Ellen looked to Xanthe and Izzy for approval, feeling guilty now she had a sense of the vase’s value.

  Veronica walked over to Ellen and hugged her. ‘I’m becoming a new me because of you. I want you to have it. Consider it a symbol of the turning point in my life, thanks to you.’

  Ellen became so choked up she couldn’t speak and was reminded that Nadine wasn’t there; she would’ve commented about her lack of words for sure.

  Veronica picked up a milky white glass table lamp. ‘This would look fabulous in your lounge room, Xanthe. I know you like things to match. Do you think it will?’

  Xanthe gasped. ‘Are you kidding? I can make Murano match with anything, even with all those nickel-plated details.’ Xanthe knew the Italian piece was circa 1960 and would cost a fortune to buy, but she also knew that no-one would appreciate the lamp more than she.

  ‘And Izzy, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this would fit perfectly in your place, in the corner near your dining table. No?’ Veronica ran her hands down the length of a colossal standard lamp made out of wrought iron and with a red shade. ‘It was designed by E. Brandt and made in France around 1925, I believe.’

  Veronica was surprised by her ability to recall the details of all the various pieces she and Alex had bought over the years. And she was also surprised that she was finding it so easy to let go of them without any sadness.

  ‘That is so . . .’ Now Izzy was at a loss for words, just like Ellen had been.

  ‘I’m sure the papers that came with it said that it was once owned by the Lesieur family, the biggest vegetable oil supplier in France.’

  ‘Fuck me dead,’ Izzy said. ‘Sorry for swearing, but Vee I never knew you had all this amazing stuff. I mean, I’ve seen it, but never really taken any notice. You’re a bloody art collector!’

  ‘That may be, but the truth is I’d rather be an artist!’ Veronica was determined that her past was going to remain in her past. She walked across the room to three huge boxes filled with bubble wrap. ‘Take what you want,’ she said, ‘I’m going to sell or donate most things. And I’m selling the Lexus to pay for whatever new things I need. I don’t need a bloody car that size or that expensive. I’m getting one of those environmental cars.’

  ‘God, I would’ve traded the convertible with you,’ Izzy joked. Asher had already swapped both their cars for a station wagon and ordered a baby capsule. ‘But it’s okay. I’ve promised myself a Lexus for my sixtieth. The bub will be going on twenty by then, so like you I’ll be getting my life back!’

  Nadine was still missing, and being missed, but the tiddas were always going to celebrate Riverfire at Ellen’s, which boasted the best view over the river. Kicking off the city’s Riverfestival, the choreographed display of fireworks was a pyrotechnician’s dream. With three of the bridges close to South Bank being used as platforms for the displays, it was one night many locals we
re keen to enjoy. The September heat had already kicked in by week three and tens of thousands of Brisbanites would make their way to the old Expo site.

  ‘This is so much better than having to deal with the crowds,’ Veronica said, already looking forward to living closer to the city.

  ‘Crowds everywhere,’ Izzy said. ‘I just don’t have the patience to be around people and be this bloody uncomfortable.’ She thought back to the blood tests she’d had the day before to check for diabetes and pregnancy anaemia. ‘And in my condition, I really want to use private toilets.’ Izzy wriggled in her seat. ‘Apart from anything else, I just feel fat. I’ve gained eleven kilos, can you believe that? This kid is going to be huge; my vag is never going to be the same.’

  ‘Have you thought about the birth much?’ Xanthe asked.

  ‘Absolutely, I can’t stop thinking about it. I have no pain threshold at all. I want all the drugs they can give me.’ Izzy was dead serious.

  ‘Really?’ Xanthe asked. ‘You don’t want to do it naturally?’

  ‘Absolutely not, I want the epidural.’ Izzy was adamant.

  ‘But isn’t that just for a C-section?’ Ellen was pretending to know more than she did.

  ‘No,’ Izzy and Xanthe said in unison.

  ‘If I’m in pain and the baby is still some way off and I haven’t started dilating, then I want an epidural. Obviously, they’re not going to give it to me if it’s too close to delivering the baby.’ Izzy had done enough reading to know that, and she didn’t want Xanthe to think she hadn’t given it some serious thought and research.

  ‘You do realise there’s risks, don’t you, Izzy?’ Veronica asked, recalling all the talks she’d had with Alex about their own children’s births.

  ‘I know an epidural can delay the birth because if I’m numb I won’t be aware of my own urge to push,’ Izzy said.

  Ellen looked confused.

  ‘And that means they may need to use forceps,’ Izzy added.

  Ellen screwed her face up; there was no chance of forceps ever making their way anywhere near her vagina.

  A massive blast hit their ears as the Super Hornet aerial display took flight. It was 6.30 p.m. and the fireworks were scheduled for 7 p.m. They were what everyone was waiting for. The tiddas were no different except that none of them were prepared to sit for hours along the riverfront in the heat just for a glimpse. As they got older, the creature comforts of cushioned seats, private toilets and drinks in glass rather than plastic had become far more appealing.

  ‘I can’t believe people start staking out a spot at lunch time,’ Izzy said.

  ‘That’s nothing, you should see them at New Year’s,’ Ellen added.

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know why they bother. Once you’ve seen the fireworks in Sydney, even on the television, everything else just pales into insignificance,’ Xanthe said, thinking back to the romantic New Year’s Eve she and Spencer had only nine months ago.

  On that night they’d watched the world’s most stunning harbour come alive from the luxury of their deluxe suite at the Four Seasons in Circular Quay. Spencer had secretly booked the trip a year in advance and had everything planned, down to the last drop of Veuve at midnight. By 12.15 a.m. they were making love to ring in the New Year. Now they weren’t even having sex unless it was ‘scheduled’ into their electronic diaries according to Xanthe’s cycle. Every time she got her period she sobbed alone, feeling a distance growing between her and her husband. She wondered what had happened in the past few months. They had been happy, they’d been planning; they’d been making love when aroused, not just when an alarm reminded them to.

  Xanthe hadn’t confided in the girls about her baby dramas for the past few months. Ever since Izzy had found her feet with the pregnancy their friendship had almost got back to normal, although at times it was still hard for Xanthe to feel overjoyed for her friend. Izzy herself didn’t always act overjoyed, and Xanthe had almost made her mouth bleed from biting her lip when Izzy complained about being pregnant. By the same token, Izzy had become more aware of the fragile state of her tidda who continued pounding the hills of Paddington at the same time as praying to Biami for help.

  Ever since Xanthe’s grandmother back in Mudgee had told her to be patient and not use IVF or any other ‘Western technique’, Xanthe had hoped she’d become less anxious, but it wasn’t easy. She was more stressed than ever about getting pregnant, and about the distance forming between her and Spencer, especially as he was happily going away more often for work.

  Nadine was grumpy and anxious as she and Richard turned into Oxford Street for her literary breakfast event at Riverbend Books. She liked the owner, was grateful for the support of the independent bookseller over the years, and was thrilled they provided a book club for young readers that her children were keen to be part of. More than that, she liked that there was a licensed restaurant which made for a relaxed evening event for an author like her. But today she was doing the breakfast that Claire had organised, and there’d be no bevy to relax her and no publicist to appease her. Instead, Claire had chosen to send the local sales rep along to make sure everything went smoothly.

  Nadine was surprised there was a full house so early in the morning. She wasn’t sure everyone would leave happy. How would they cope without a bevy? Would they think she was interesting? Intelligent? Could she appear funny without a glass in her hand? She hoped so but lacked confidence, and her demons were taking over her brain.

  ‘What a wonderful way to start the day,’ she heard one woman say to her friend over coffee and toast.

  ‘Can’t think of anything better than sitting here devouring corn fritters and stuffed mushrooms, while listening to a local author,’ her friend responded.

  This kind of banter was new to Nadine.

  ‘Nads, they have French toast with pears and buffalo ricotta,’ Richard whispered to his wife. ‘I’m pretty sure they’ll make it better than I ever could. I’m going to order you some.’ He kissed her on the cheek, but she took his wrist firmly.

  ‘Richard please, no food, not yet.’

  He nodded, but after years of marriage he was still trying to understand the complexity of the woman he loved.

  As the paying guests took their seats, Nadine looked around in the hope that her tiddas might have turned up, perhaps even forgiven her. But all she saw were mothers yarning over coffee, businessmen with iPads open, and book lovers flicking through her latest title. She imagined the event would be far less confronting professionally than the previous one, but on a personal level it was much more challenging.

  Inside the store, Richard stood aside as his wife was greeted by cheerful, friendly staff. He stared as they welcomed her and ran through the timing of the morning’s program. Nadine wished he would turn his attention to the groovy t-shirts on sale, or the vast collection of children’s books up the back of the store, but she knew he stood close by because he was so proud of her.

  The frangipani and jacarandas were in full bloom in Paddington. Their scent and colour lifted Xanthe’s spirits as she faced the beginning of another menstrual cyce, a further reminder that her dream had been delayed yet again. She was glad book club was at her place; she was grateful for the company, as Spencer had been working late most nights on the new Racial Discrimination Act legislation currently before the government. His late nights meant he was coming home tired and not wanting to make love at all.

  Ellen, Izzy and Veronica were sitting on the couch talking about Veronica’s move to Spring Hill, now only weeks away.

  ‘I think you’ll really love it, Vee. It’s completely different to The Gap,’ said Ellen.

  ‘I agree, but you know where else I wouldn’t mind living?’

  ‘Where?’ Xanthe, Izzy and Ellen chorused.

  ‘Mullumbimby,’ Veronica said, smiling.

  ‘Well you could afford to buy a flash house there. Not sure about the rest of us, but nice segue into tonight’s book, tidda,’ Ellen said, turning her phone to silent but not off
altogether because she wanted to know if Craig tried to call.

  They reached into their bags for their novels, the fifth for the local Goori author. She’d previously nailed the young adult market with novels about growing up in Brisbane and Byron Bay.

  ‘This made me wonder about what constitutes the great Australian novel,’ Veronica said, reminding them all that Nadine wasn’t there. None of them wanted to be the one to initiate discussion about her absence, each having received a simple text message earlier in the day making her apologies.

  ‘Well, it depends on how you define the great Australian novel, don’t you think?’ Xanthe asked.

  ‘Of course, it’s all subjective. Everyone will define it in a different way, especially anyone in academia,’ Izzy said.

  ‘What do you think makes the great Australian novel?’ Ellen looked at each of her tiddas. Her phone vibrated in her lap. It hadn’t left her sight in weeks.

  ‘I think it should be something that’s political and philosophical,’ Xanthe said. ‘And it should challenge the reader’s values as Aussies.’

  ‘Just from working at the library and meeting a whole range of writers at the festival last week, I’d say that it certainly needs to be something that can entertain while providing a message,’ Izzy said, thinking of all the interviews she’d done over the four days when the library was buzzing with students, retirees, international authors and performers.

  ‘And it most definitely should include Indigenous themes and characters,’ Veronica added. Now the coordinator for the Brisbane arm of Reading for Reconciliation, she was more than aware of the need for Australian literature to be inclusive of the First Peoples of the country.