This is one of those moments in life that really warrants some perspective. For example, rationally I know there’s a trillion things going on in the world – babies being conceived and born, wars being won and lost, the globe orbiting the sun – yet she gets that little squeak in her voice and somehow the whole planet seems reduced to this one ridiculous corner. ‘Why don’t you fuck off,’ I say, about up to here with her self-righteousness, feeling a bench press of weights tumble to the floor as the words roll loosely off my tongue. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were in love with him. Not that a sex change operation could make him want anything to do with you.’
‘Oh please. Save it for someone who cares,’ says Meredith, and she takes off in the direction of the bathroom, jauntily, as if people speak to her like this every day of the week.
Back in the lounge, Ann asks if everything’s all right.
‘Fine, everything’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s just difficult, you know. I think Meredith’s got some feelings.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Yeah, well, these things happen. Anyway, have you heard back yet from your parents?’
‘I think they must be away,’ says Ann. ‘I left a message when I got here. I’ll give them another ring when we’ve got some more information.’
As if on cue Joannie and Doctor Peck enter the lounge. They look exhausted. I process the fact that Joannie is still here at work at eight-thirty pm a fraction ahead of my reasoning why. I can see Ann having the same thoughts. We both listen, dumbfounded, as Doctor Peck speaks.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got some bad news,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid Kyle didn’t make it.’
Joannie sits down beside me and takes my hand.
Doctor Peck starts explaining, something about heart failure, a congenital condition, undiagnosed, but I’m not really listening, thinking I’ve probably gone into shock, that this must be what shock feels like – noticing the whiteness of Ann’s face, the way her body seems to have sunk in on itself, realising that she’s likely in shock too – surprised that I’m able to think this clearly in a crisis, and also that I can’t really feel my feet.
‘It’s okay,’ I hear Joannie say. ‘You’ll be okay.’
I realise she’s talking to me. And then Ann is beside me too, crying, and we’re all holding hands like my relationship with Kyle is real, was real, which is when Meredith bursts back into the room, fuelled by a vending machine administered sugar high, fantastically unaware of anything that’s just gone down, and declares to Ann, ‘You should know what’s going on here. He’s no Christian, he’s not even really Kyle’s boyfriend.’
We all stare at her, appalled, a car wreck in slow motion as she registers the situation.
‘Oh God, forgive me,’ she manages as she sinks to the floor. And although Kyle is gone from me forever (a concept that I am at last beginning to understand), I don’t think I’ve ever really loved him more than I do right at this moment.
The Prospector
It is ten thirty-six am when Ruth pulls into a parking space opposite the bathrooms at the Ballarat Visitor Information Centre and I run for the disabled stall because it is the one closest to the car. Ruth calls them the Welcome Toilets because of their proximity to the replica of the Welcome Nugget mounted at the front of the centre. It is a quirky name, but I can see the sense of it. At the very least, she is a logical person.
The Ballarat Visitor Information Centre proclaims that Ballarat is the ‘Birthplace of the Australian Spirit’. This is why we have decided to come. To see for ourselves. To commemorate our trip, I elect to have my photograph taken standing beneath the replica nugget. The Welcome Nugget was found on Bakery Hill, Ballarat, in 1858. It is the second-largest nugget discovered in Australia. It is flanked on either side by details of the region’s richest gold discoveries: Canadian 1 – 1117 ounces; Lady Hothay – 1177 ounces; Sarah Sands – 1619 ounces. The Welcome Nugget weighed in at 2217 ounces.
I smile for the picture. Happy Brad.
In another shot I put out my arm and pretend to support the nugget on my upturned hand.
The next stop on our tour is the Eureka Diorama. The Eureka Diorama is in the Eureka Stockade Memorial Park on Eureka Street, just up the road from the Eureka Stockade Centre, which houses an exhibition space and the Archimedes Cafe.
It costs eight dollars to enter the Eureka Stockade Centre, to ‘relive the battle ... on the very site of the battle,’ whereas it costs only twenty cents to visit the Eureka Diorama, to bring the Eureka Diorama to life.
A handwritten note above the coin slot advises:
Compared to eight dollars, twenty cents seems like a small price to pay.
The lights come on. The story begins. A man’s voice punctures the silence. It reverberates loudly in the small space. The sound attracts nearby picnickers and sightseers.
‘We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties...’
The recording crackles with enthusiasm.
We stand around like a bored school group, waiting for the experience to end. The guy next to me is getting pushy. It pisses me off, his need for elbow space, particularly as I was the one who paid the twenty cents. I refuse to move. You’re an arsehole, I think, standing my ground.
It occurs to me that the symbolism of the Eureka Stockade makes it an excellent backdrop for a relationship break-up. There is the battle theme, with its bloodshed, fuelled by injustice and oppression. There is the momentous nature of the Incident. There is the whole saga of broken promises, betrayal, and misplaced trust. And besides, I like the theatre of it. Life imitating history, imitating life.
This is one of the reasons why Ruth’s friend and flatmate, Kimberley, calls me a bastard. Because of my appreciation of context.
She is a girl who calls a spade a spade. I would sleep with her precisely for this reason, and this reason alone. Despite her poor dress sense. If she would just say yes.
I decide to tell Ruth towards the end of the day, after we have finished most of our touring around. I haven’t thought exactly how I am going to put it, but the words seem to come to me as we are viewing the King flag at the Ballarat Fine Art Gallery. I will talk about ‘autonomy’ and ‘freedom’ and my willingness to fight to defend it. I will talk about being governed by the truth versus being governed by the rule of law; about when it is right to obey the law and when to obey it is to betray what you know to be true. I will talk about the beauty of poetry and memory and the symbolism of the Southern Cross. I will make reference to the dignity of the human spirit, and something about caged birds.
Needless to say, I am inspired by the history of the town, by the self-conscious construction of its significance. Ballarat is the tale of the Eureka Rebellion. Here, there is no other story.
I imagine myself afterwards commiserating with Peter Lalor over a whisky in the local pub. To extend the fantasy, I suggest to Ruth we have a drink at the Eureka Stockade Hotel. ‘They also have Foxtel,’ I add, but Ruth isn’t interested. ‘Let’s just go for a walk in the gardens,’ she says.
I envisage a short, volatile scene, followed by tears, and an awkward drive home. There is some potential for break-up sex once we reach her apartment, although it is partly dependent on the whereabouts of Kimberley. I don’t invest too much in this outcome. I prefer not to get my hopes up.
We had intended to stay overnight at the Welcome Stranger Holiday Park, but that is not going to happen now, of course. I chose the place largely because of its name, but also because it offered pinball machines, table tennis and a free electric barbecue. The advertisement said it was Affordable in a Big Way, the enthusiasm of which appealed to me. I was also drawn in by the promise that it would be A holiday you will remember.
This much, at least, it seems will be realised.
Prime Ministers Avenue traverses the length of the Ballarat Bot
anical Gardens on a north-south axis. Technically, it is an avenue within an avenue, located inside the precinct of Horse Chestnut Avenue. Established in the 1860s, the gardens were planted on the site of the old Ballarat Police Horse Paddock. This choice of location says everything about Ballarat citizenry and their long, troubled relationship with authority.
The avenue is necessarily a work in progress; so far it sports twenty-five bronze prime ministers’ heads. Something about the way the busts peer out at me makes me want to push them off their pedestals.
We are standing before Gough Whitlam when Ruth begins to speak. I am lost in contemplation of the ridge just beneath his nose when something about the tone of her voice advises me to pay attention. ‘It is not,’ she says, ‘anything specific.’ In fact, this is one of the reasons why she wants to end it. ‘Because it is all so vague,’ she says. ‘It isn’t going anywhere.’ Also, she thinks I am interested in other women. Like the way I look at Kimberley. Mostly, though, she just thinks I am too intense.
‘What do you mean, intense?’ I ask, irritated by the breadth of the description. ‘How can I be unfocused and intense at the same time?’
‘It’s things like that,’ she says. ‘The way you ask that question.’
My glare could bore a hole right through her skull.
‘I just don’t want to do it anymore,’ she continues. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot lately, and, well, I’m sorry.’
Whitlam’s shadow has cast me in darkness. I don’t really know what to say.
Opposite the Ballarat Botanical Gardens on Wendouree Parade is Lake Wendouree, site of the 1956 Olympic Games rowing, kayaking and canoeing events. The name comes from the local Aboriginal word ‘wendaaree’, and means to ‘go away’. I had intended to have our talk there. After our historic tram ride, when Ruth had seen everything she wanted to see. It would have been the logical spot to wrap this up. A sentimental yet picturesque end to our journey. The site of bittersweet memory, but with an irony I am sure she would have come to appreciate in time.
Instead, she has beaten me to it. A full length ahead. And so unexpected.
It dawns on me that I may have underestimated her. Not only in pulling off a move like this, but without remorse. She is positively un-guilt-stricken. She is neither apologetic, nor feigning sadness. She is simply businesslike and direct – she expresses regret for making us break the holiday-park reservation; she offers to reimburse me.
As we approach the car I suggest it is not too late to change our minds. The reservation still stands. The holiday park is only five minutes away.
‘We could be there in no time,’ I say playfully, cocking my head.
Ruth doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken. She just turns the key in the lock then gets into the car.
Ballarat’s Avenue of Honour is the longest such avenue in Australia. Stretching twenty-two kilometres along the Ballarat Burrumbeet Road (an extension of the Old Western Highway), it was originally planted with 3771 trees – one for each soldier from the Ballarat region who enlisted in the war during the period from June 1917 to August 1919.
As we pass through the Arch of Victory I begin to count them. One after another after another. There is no time to read their brass plates. At first I try, but they quickly blur as we pick up speed.
There is something distinctly egalitarian about this commemoration, where soldiers are lauded for their service without regard to their military rank. There is something distinctly Australian about it, this ecumenical commemoration of spirit.
Ruth’s sights are set directly on the road in front of her. Hard above the wheel, no room for deviation.
At this rate we should be home in almost an hour.
Before too long I lose count of the trees. Beside me, Ruth remains silent, concentrating on the traffic. I consider getting out my book to read, but I know reading will only make me feel sick. Instead, I prop my feet up on the dash and focus on the view. The atmosphere inside the car is still. I wind down the window, turning my chin to the sky, and feel the breeze rush against my face. It smells of the countryside, sodden and sharp. I take a deep breath, then settle back in my seat. From a bird’s-eye view I imagine Ballarat receding fast behind us. As we continue forward beneath the sunset, my gaze levels out at the middle distance.
Hatched, Matched, Dispatched
This is how they met. Her, back straight, head high (supercilious, as always), eyes blank, scanning. Him, responding to the call, walks directly up with: ‘Hi. Didn’t I see you at Daisy’s last week.’ Or something to that effect. Her bird neck straining. A slight change of expression. Hand shifting to her other hip. ‘Yes, I was there.’ And so it went. All formality. Decorous. He looked put together. She was well-dressed.
In their first room. Keeping to the outskirts, tracing the seams. They talked of the paintings and mutual acquaintances. He responded to her lips, their map of creases exciting in him his desire for her approval. She found him serious. Intent. Watching him watch her speak; her mouth, small, round, perfect. She pulled her arms tight across her chest. He wanted to kiss her.
Later that night, she shivered at the thought of him. Wondered if it could lead to something. He wanted her too. His hands stumbled over his erection as he tried to fix on what it was about her – something behind the eyes – an imperceptible fissure in the glass.
Theirs was a procedural courtship.
He called her up. Dinner and a movie?
Yes.
A stroll in the park. He reached over and took her hand. It was cool and dry. He would have liked to pull her closer, but was insecure. Instead he suggested a drink. He watched as she swallowed the whisky. Sip by sip. She struggled with the liquor, to seem ladylike as it burned its way down the back of her throat.
Their first night together was a relief. They dove into each other, savouring the ordinariness of it. Too many two-steps. Too many weeks. It was fun. Just to let go. She really smiled at him. She sweated and climaxed and smiled. He felt successful. She thought maybe he would be all right. They stroked each other like sweethearts. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Then the first of many adequate mornings. Courteous. He pulled on shorts. Brought her coffee in bed. He didn’t try to lick her in the sunlight. Didn’t nibble at her ear. She sat up there, sheet pulled around her exact breasts, satisfied. Unthreatened.
She appreciated his attention to detail. The cotton sheets. The china cup. He had no money, but his apartment was highly considered. He wasn’t one for clutter. Sometimes yesterday’s newspaper would lie folded on the corner of the kitchen table. But there were no little jars full of pins. No knickknacks. Not even by the telephone. Just one pen. And a small, square writing tablet.
He noticed the way she placed her clothes on the chair when she undressed. Steady, unhurried. There was a system to her folding. He was fascinated by it. Some nights he would race her to bed. Just so he could see. Pillow-propped. Naked. Her shirt. Her trousers. Her underwear.
In these ways she became his music. During the in-between times. He would try to count it, hum it, sing it as she went. A special beat. Carried to him by a breeze, perhaps. Fading in and out. Like perfume travelling the air. As pervasive as jasmine blossom.
They became accustomed. To each other. To each other’s homes. On occasion he would borrow her car. Sometimes she would wear his clothes.
This pleased her parents. No end. Warmhearted, middle class. Pressing him with more mulled wine on Christmas Eve. The boyfriend. They shared family stories in the living room. Ate Windmill biscuits from the tin. They appeared to be having fun. Straight-up and real. Privately the mother wondered how it was they could have produced such a twig of a daughter, so poised, so barren.
He was taken with the backslapping farewells. Dared to think he might become part of something, belong somewhere. He said nothing of it, of course. But it sent him into himself. In bed they lay silent in
a contemplative embrace. She said he seemed a little quiet. I’m fine, he told her. He pulled away briefly to turn out the light. As she settled back into his arms he said, out loud, I love you.
They began to fight. Endless. You’re always working, you’re always late, there is always something going on. She would say, ‘What do you want from me?’ And he could only look at her. He did not know how to tell her that it was something about the way he felt when he saw the trace of blue vein at the curve of her throat, or that no matter how many times he kissed her, the press of her lips always tasted new to him, unfamiliar. Finally he said, ‘I just want to see you more often.’ She stood still for a moment, then walked out the door. Even he knew he was being ridiculous.
‘What do you want to do tonight? Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t know.’
This became their thing.
She had a key to his apartment, but wasn’t committing to moving in. Occasionally she would arrive very early. Knowing it would be hours before he would be home. The high ceilings contributed to the echo of her steps on the simple, polished boards. She would walk slowly about the place, listening. It gave her a thrill, to be there alone. She liked to feel the emptiness. The order. She would run her hands over the flush of the drawers. Press her cheeks to the cool metal loops. She had no curiosity about his coat pockets. She didn’t want to read his old letters, look at his photographs. She felt no desire to open and explore. No. What she wanted was to link her fingers through the hook of his handles, to run her shirt cuff along the back of his sofa chair. To be everywhere and not, both intrinsic and unseen.
Sometimes, if he was very late, she would feed his cat. She would wash out its bowl, then measure in the food, an exact half tin. The food smelled disgusting. It clawed its way along her nasal passages. ‘How can you eat it, Kitty?’ she would say. She hated that smell. Long after the break-up, when she thought of his apartment, this is mostly what she would remember.
Like Being a Wife Page 8
