Tiddas Page 14

  She poured another cup of tea. The crocheted tea cosy on the pot was one that Aunty Molly – one of Trish’s best friends – had given her mum last Christmas.

  ‘Well, what’s this fella up in Brisbane like then? At least tell me he’s Black!’

  It was ladies night at Sajo’s but none of the girls were interested in the $10 cocktails. Ellen felt completely drained, Izzy was dizzy from the conversation with her mother, Xanthe was trying to take on board the words of her Noon, and Veronica was frightened that if she had anything to drink she would sink back into sadness again. No-one had heard from Nadine.

  ‘Where did you end up today?’ Xanthe asked Veronica. ‘I looked for you but couldn’t see you anywhere.’

  Veronica was not going to tell them about her bath of tears. Instead, she popped a paper bag on the table with a heap of local produce to distribute. ‘Oh, I got overwhelmed with all the noise and people so went for a stroll and stopped at the tourism office.’ She started unpacking the items: wild lime marmalade, lilli pilli jam, dreaming green tea and wild rosella tea. ‘There’s a new Indigenous business in town called IndigiEarth, so grab what you like.’

  With the relief of having at last talked to her mum, Izzy had found a new, heartier appetite and even though she’d eaten toast only an hour before, she had her eye on the chocolate fondant dessert even as she devoured the seared kangaroo on the menu. ‘I guess this is what the old women would’ve been eating when they were pregnant way back when, eh?’ she said, taking another bite. ‘But perhaps without the snow peas,’ she joked, realising she’d mentioned the pregnancy without being questioned. Her tiddas looked at each other but didn’t say a word, waiting to see if Izzy followed through. She didn’t.

  ‘How did it end up with Nadine?’ Veronica ventured, concerned but cautious not to gossip about their tidda.

  ‘She’s not in a good way. I left them all at the hotel. Mum was furious, but calm by the time I got home.’

  ‘And?’ Ellen asked impatiently, knowing that her tidda was going to talk to her mum about the pregnancy.

  ‘I told her,’ Izzy sighed. ‘And she was fine, surprisingly. Reckoned she knew the minute she saw me. She thinks I’ll be fine as a mum, but I’m not so sure.’

  Ellen, Veronica and Xanthe exchanged looks, smiling.

  ‘Of course you’ll be fine. Mums know that stuff,’ said Ellen.

  ‘But Rory was an arse about whether or not Asher was a Blackfella,’ Izzy said. ‘I’ve got no time for mob calling people shit-skin or coconut. Really, haven’t we moved past that yet?’

  ‘It’s the power of Western language once used against us, now used by us,’ Xanthe said. ‘I’ve had it all my life, what with Dad being Greek. I’m bicultural – I do roo souvlaki. Dad calls it roovlaki.’ She was joking, and smiling, which came as a welcome change to the others. ‘But I’m a Blackfella. How could I not be, born here on country, only knowing the stories from this place? Maybe if I were born in Greece it would be different, maybe I’d feel more Greek. As far as I’m concerned, the only person who has the right to question me is Dad. And you know what? He never does.’

  8

  SIGNS IN THE SITES

  Mudgee was blessed with another blue-skied winter day, with some frost on the grass in the early morning. All the tiddas were doing their own thing. Ellen woke at dawn after a solid sleep, but she needed a good stretch. She had missed two days of running, so took herself down to the Cudgegong River at Lawson Park. It was a picture of peacefulness, other than the noise of the crows flying low above her. She imagined her late Aunty and her Uncle Ron on their morning walks there. How he would miss them now.

  As she ran the path through the lush, manicured landscape, she saw only three other people: a woman on a yoga mat, a man jogging and a woman with a beagle on a leash. Since the last time she’d visited, flash exercise equipment had been installed along the path so she was able to do some leg lifts, lateral raises and chin ups between sprints. She warmed up quickly, peeling off the pink fleece top she’d packed for the cold. There was a tidy kids’ playground but no kids. She smiled when she saw the hollowed trees she used to play hide and seek in as a child.

  She stopped and photographed the memorial to William Lawson. The plate read:

  To commemorate the achievements of Lieut William Lawson who was the first to traverse the site of Mudgee . . .

  ‘Really?’ Ellen said out loud to no-one. She planned on mentioning it to the girls, aiming to find out what memorials there were around town to mark the history of the local mob.

  Veronica was awake at the same time, but went in search of coffee and breakfast rather than exercise. At 7 a.m. there were few bodies on the streets but lots of cars; she imagined they were shift workers, many from the local coalmines. She saw a dog tied to the back tray of a ute outside the news-agency, and couldn’t remember ever seeing that at home at The Gap. The dog’s owner returned wearing a bright fluorescent vest. She’d noticed a number of high-visibility vests in fluoro yellow and orange the day before but didn’t know where those men worked. It was common knowledge that the mining companies wanted to fly below the radar and not attract any more attention than they already did. Thus, it was policy that staff had to change into civvies before going into town.

  Veronica had been feeling nauseous about seeing her in-laws later that morning and as she entered the Butcher Shop Café she was contemplating cancelling. It was still her favourite place for breakfast. The red painted cement floor, the huge red letters reading BUTCHERY across the glossy white tiled wall and the French-inspired posters somehow comforted her. A cheeky barista and coffee delivered at record speed reminded her of what she loved about country hospitality. She chose a table in the corner and considered the eclectic mix of furniture: two mint-green laminate tables, one sky blue, the rest different variations of wood, except for hers, which had a tropical-looking top; it reminded her of the last family trip they’d taken to the Gold Coast, and her heart sank again.

  As her poached eggs and second cappuccino arrived, Veronica decided she didn’t want to see her in-laws; she contemplated texting them, but couldn’t think of a lie that would sound like truth. She half-hoped, half-expected them not to show anyway. Life would be easier for her if they didn’t and yet she didn’t feel she would emotionally cope with another rejection. When Rita and Bob walked in smiling, she felt some sense of relief; maybe it would be okay. But that moment was short-lived, the exchanges were awkward, like those between strangers, air-kisses instead of full-blown hugs. They asked about their grandsons’ wellbeing but didn’t enquire about her own. There was no warmth, and no interest in what their former daughter-in-law was feeling or doing now. Veronica mentally beat herself up for even calling them and making the effort to see them in the first place. Why did she bother, when this is what it had come to? Loyalty to blood always won out over anything else. Veronica hoped she would not behave the same with her own boys’ girlfriends or wives in the future. Rita and Bob each sipped a coffee while Veronica continued to eat. She needed the sustenance to get through the next few hours, which were to be spent being driven to a new winery the pair had just invested in. It was something they could leave to their grandsons.

  At Uncle Ron’s mid-morning there were dozens of family members from across the state still paying their respects. The aunties were drinking tea in the kitchen and the men were outside in the garden. Ellen saw her mother and her siblings in a different light. She had missed them and she finally had the chance to grieve for her aunt.

  ‘You were your Aunt’s favourite niece,’ Uncle Ron had whispered to her as she washed what seemed to be an endless stream of teacups. ‘But you’re not supposed to have favourites so don’t say that to anyone, bub, okay?’ Uncle Ron rolled a cigarette.

  ‘Okay.’ Ellen was lost for words, grateful just for a few minutes alone with her Uncle before he was gone again, sitting outside with the other men, smoking, yarning, laughing about old times.

  Xanthe woke early and
called Spencer. The conversation was warm and loving, both having missed each other on many levels in recent weeks. Neither mentioned anything about babies or pregnancy. They talked about the funeral, about Xanthe’s family, about how much Mudgee had changed since she’d last visited, how much she wanted them to visit there together sometime soon.

  ‘I miss you, darling,’ Spencer said down the line, melting her.

  She looked forward to making love to her husband when she got home. In the meantime, she would take herself off to the Mudgee Yoga Centre to stretch her limbs and clear her mind.

  It was late when Nadine woke and though she felt contrite for those actions she could remember, it didn’t matter. Richard and the kids had already left for the day, and all she had was a hastily scrawled note from Cam:

  Mum, we’re going to the Honey Haven and some other cool places. Dad said you have to go to book thing alone. Love Cam.

  That stung. Nadine had never had to fend for herself if Richard was around. He always went with her to events if the girls didn’t or he at least chauffeured her there. Nadine knew he was cranky with her, but she couldn’t piece together everything that had happened the previous day. She remembered his mother angry and shouting at her, and that was about it.

  Around 2 p.m. Nadine walked to the Mudgee Bookcase to do a signing as part of a promotional lead-up to the Readers’ Festival. She had two quick wines at the Waratah Hotel on the way, wondering if the girls would all go back there for trivia that night. When she walked into the bookstore she saw the signing table surrounded by guitars on one side and brightly coloured ukuleles on another; burnt orange, lolly pink, midnight and sky blue.

  ‘Have I missed something?’ she asked the owner, Jill.

  ‘Would you believe we have four professional ukulele players here in town,’ Jill said proudly.

  ‘Well, had you not told me, then no, I wouldn’t have believed it,’ Nadine said, picking up a brochure about the upcoming Huntington Music Festival, one of the biggest in the world. She wondered if the ukulele was featured on the program.

  By the time Nadine sat down, the store was packed with not only crime fiction fans but many locals wanting to get a glimpse of one of the most famous people to have been born in their town. She was surprised when so many turned up to buy her book, get her autograph, have their photo taken with her and play ‘do you remember when?’ Everyone shared positive stories, friendly, generous stories; many she had to think hard to recall in any real detail. It was a response she could not and would not allow herself to imagine before and yet she didn’t know why. It reminded her of what she used to like about being an author: meeting her readers, sharing stories, hearing about others wanting to write books. She left the store late afternoon feeling good about being back in Mudgee. She expected Richard to have come looking for her, but he hadn’t. When she turned on her phone there was no message either. She was buzzing from an unusually pleasant day, and she wanted to share the experience with Richard, but when she tried calling him his phone was off. She thought about calling Izzy and hesitated before deciding against it. Her relatively good mood had quickly changed.

  Nadine was desperate for a drink and momentarily considered going back to the Waratah Hotel, diagonally opposite the bookstore, but she wanted to hide, be somewhere less central to the activity of the town. She walked quickly along Church Street then turned right into Market Street and was at Roth’s Wine Bar within minutes. The bar had just opened and the staff were already stoking the fire as Nadine considered the wine list on the blackboard. It wasn’t premeditated but by the time she’d leave she’d have worked her way through the entire list of reds by the glass, starting with the Lowe Tinja Merlot, noting that it was an organic wine that Xanthe would appreciate. I’ll order a couple of cases when I get home, she made a mental note to herself.

  As she considered the depth of the merlot grapes she was glad that, perched on a bar stool at the high chrome table, she was alone, save for two other women enjoying their own large glasses of wine. Are they escaping and hiding too, she wondered, hoping they were, so she wouldn’t be the only woman doing it. She stared into the red-glass candle holder in the centre of the table and as the third glass of wine started to kick in lost her balance, nearly falling off the stool. Aware of the catastrophe that would present, not to mention the unwanted attention from the other women and staff, she removed herself to the couch, a shorter distance to the brick floor. As she got comfortable with a cushion and imagined sitting cosily there for a few hours more her phone beeped with a text message from Richard and her heart lifted slightly. On opening it she found a photo of Cam and Brittany at the Honey Haven, Brit with a plush bumblebee toy, Cam holding a bucket of honey in each hand. The text simply read:

  Mum, there’s 30 different types of honey here. I’m getting strawberry honey and Cam’s getting banana honey. It’s awesome. Luv, Brit XX

  Nadine felt like a bad mother. She knew she should’ve been there too, not about to order her fourth glass of wine.

  Izzy had a restless night’s sleep, more anxious than she’d been since finding out she was pregnant.

  She was grateful for reuniting with her cousin Aleshia at the funeral, because she had offered to take Izzy to revisit some local sites. She was showered and dressed when Aleshia arrived at 9 a.m. Izzy knew that being back on country and allowing herself the time to think, to speak privately to her ancestors, would help her find the strength she so desperately needed to move forward.

  Heading out along Ulan Road, the effects of the three coal mines raping the countryside could be seen from the street. Izzy was distraught seeing the guts of her land being ripped open, dug out, sold to foreign investors like something you get from the $2 shop. The enormity of the pits was mind blowing.

  When Aleshia pulled into the place called Hands On Rock, Izzy knew they had reached the traditional boundary of the Wiradjuri and Wonaruah nations. Theirs was the only car there that day. Izzy thought it felt eerie; it had been many years since she had visited and the last time she was too young to appreciate the meaning of the place, where only women and males up to the age of initiation could go.

  Izzy’s head was spinning; she had pinned all her hopes on getting some answers from this trip back to country. Some guidance, wisdom, enlightenment.

  ‘Everyone round here thinks that a women’s place means a birthing place,’ Aleshia said as she gathered some kindling and gum leaves. Izzy broke off new leaves as well, grateful that her cousin was active in the land council and kept culture alive for the locals and visitors.

  As Aleshia lit the gum leaves packed into a metal fire pit Izzy could smell the eucalyptus oil. She listened to the light breeze rustling through the trees, age old gums that held the spirits of her ancestors.

  ‘This was a women’s place and over that way is the meeting place where ceremonies and trading happened,’ Aleshia said, rubbing white ochre onto her hands, arms and face. ‘The Kamilaroi and coastal nations like the Worimi used to trade with our mob.’

  Izzy also prepared herself, silently acknowledging and paying respect to the spirits of her old people, just as she did when she visited other people’s country. She waved the cleansing smoke over herself, knowing the purifying effects of a cultural practice that had been passed on from generation to generation to generation.

  A path had been defined and stabilised from the entrance to the now famous rock art about 600 metres away, so the trek was easier than Izzy remembered it. But it was still an effort, requiring concentration. The two cousins spoke little, Aleshia naming a few plants from time to time and Izzy asking questions about how school groups behaved when visiting. With each step Izzy imagined the songs, ceremonies and dances that would have been performed and exchanged at the site, and how the social, cultural and economic aspects of Aboriginal life were once integrated, unlike today’s Western cultures.

  ‘What was that?’ Izzy jumped.

  ‘Just a branch snapping,’ Aleshia laughed.

  Izzy r
ealised how much of a city slicker she’d become, not recognising the nuances of nature any more. She concentrated harder on what she knew about history, about her mob, about everything her mother had told her in her lifetime about the corroborees that may have involved hundreds of people, depending on the occasion, and how they might have included people from hundreds of kilometres around. Aunty Molly’s funeral was like the ceremonies of the past, with the same sense of responsibility and involvement from people from around the nation.

  When they reached the now heritage-listed sandstone overhang, Izzy was pleased that National Parks had protected the area with a wooden deck and railing. You could look but not touch.

  She started scanning the sandstone for images and the first that caught her eye was that of a child’s hand. It seemed to be reaching out to her. She had been there only seconds when she got the message she needed. She stumbled slightly and leaned back against the metal railing as she deciphered more outlines: adult hands and emu feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Aleshia asked.

  ‘I will be,’ Izzy said confidently. ‘I will be.’

  Two hours later, tea was being poured again in Cox Street. Izzy sat with her mother as the knitting workshop continued. Richard was there, but Nadine and the kids were shopping on Church Street. There were booties everywhere; Trish was the fastest knitter this side of the Great Dividing Range.

  ‘I’m making some for you, Isobel.’ Her mother didn’t look up, just kept knitting; purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one.

  Richard looked at Izzy. She smiled at him, and then winked; she hadn’t yet told him her news.

  ‘I know Mum, I know.’ Izzy loved seeing her mother relishing the grandmother experience. ‘Why don’t you make me a couple of pairs?’