Tiddas Read online

  ‘The artwork is licensed by Emily Kame Kngwarreye and it’s called Bush Yam Dreaming.’ Xanthe was proud of her choice of gift.

  ‘I love it,’ Veronica said as she took the pendant out of the box.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t afford the real thing for you, but I can’t afford it for myself either,’ Xanthe smiled.

  ‘Can you do it up for me please?’ Veronica held the ends of the necklace at the back of her neck and when Xanthe stood up to walk around the table, Veronica saw Ellen walking towards her carrying an easel with a huge red bow on it.

  ‘I know you’ve probably got one, but when a handyman came to hang your painting at my place, I told him about you, and he said he knew someone who custom made these, and he was really cute, and the guy who made them was even more cute and I really love you, and I know you can’t do batik prints on this but I thought you might paint me a picture, one day. I have more walls to fill.’ Ellen was breathless by the time she finished her very sincere spiel.

  Veronica was speechless with the gift, with the story, with the thought.

  ‘I love you girls so much, really. This is my best birthday ever, and I hate saying that given I’ve had forty of them and more than twenty with my sons, but seriously, this is fabulous.’

  11

  TEARS FOR LOST MOMENTS AND STOLEN CHILDREN

  Nadine sat in the cremation circle of the Brookfield cemetery and sobbed. She knew it wasn’t unusual to see people there distraught with grief and crying, so she felt safe from judgement, from people asking questions, from anyone looking at her oddly or with concern. For all they knew she was paying respects to her own lost loved one. In some ways she was; she’d lost herself over the years. Today she mourned for the hours, days, weeks she’d lost to hangovers, and worse, the lost moments of time she couldn’t even remember.

  In recent weeks Nadine had found some level of personal enlightenment about her behaviour, but she had also become paranoid, believing everyone in Brookfield hated her, or at least didn’t really like her much. The truth was hardly anyone in her local area knew her beyond what they read in the paper about her books, or what she had to say in the occasional radio interview, which was really only marketing.

  What many didn’t know about Nadine – including her tiddas – was that she felt deep guilt, shame and regret. No-one really knew this side of her because those emotions never translated into actions. And her internalisation of her feelings was what had so often driven her to drink.

  Nadine never found it difficult to justify having a wine or two: it helped her creativity, it gave her confidence when doing book talks, she had to celebrate a release or a good review or a generous fan letter. She needed it to relax, to sleep, and to deal with the stress of deadlines. And quite simply, she liked the taste of a good old Mudgee bush vine cab sav.

  Richard had rarely said anything about his wife’s drinking, and his mumbled sentence at the NAIDOC Ball was the first time he’d voiced his thoughts out loud to Izzy. He loved Nadine unconditionally and her daily indulgence had simply become part of their routine. Occasionally he would leave the Local Bulletin open at an article about drug and alcohol dependency, but whether she saw it or not, Nadine never mentioned it. And so neither did he.

  It was a grey, overcast day that had no spark to it at all. Richard had dropped his wife and her laptop at the General Store at 10 a.m. In recent weeks Nadine had been making more of an effort to drink less and be more involved with the kids, sitting and watching telly with them of an evening rather than staying at her desk or going outside by herself with a glass in her hand. But even that morning, the winding roads had played havoc with Nadine’s hangover. The kids had been silent in the back of the car. There’d been no outings to the club with them in recent weeks though, not since the NAIDOC Ball.

  As Richard drove off, Nadine had decided to sit at the store for a while before heading to the cemetery. With her laptop still in its case she’d let those senses functioning well enough do to their thing; she’d listened and watched, simply observing, as writers did. Birds chirped and whistled as the sun had struggled to find its way through the clouds. An ambulance had flown past to a car accident. Or perhaps, Nadine had thought to herself, it’s heading to the home of another Upper Brookfield retiree who’s so fat they can’t climb their own driveway without having a heart attack. A four-wheel drive towing a ride-on mower had cruised past, closely followed by a noisy, mustard-coloured Passat pushing its way up the Brookfield Road incline.

  A tanned and buffed tradesman had been having a smoko in his ute by the side of the road but Nadine had barely noticed him. Rather, she’d tasted the strong beans in her black coffee and devoured a locally produced chocolate treat from the fridge of gourmet goodies in the store. As far as junk food went, that was the extent of it for Nadine, and even then she consumed an organic variety whenever she could. So good on the food she was, and yet so bad on her intake of alcohol.

  At that moment, time had seemed to stand still, reminding Nadine of how she liked the quiet life of Brookfield. She didn’t need Ellen’s partying existence, the mothers’ lunches that Veronica missed, the career trajectory that Izzy craved or the coupledom bubble that Xanthe had. In her own way, Nadine had a little bit of everything, even if she wasn’t always conscious or appreciative of it.

  As an author, she stuck to her routine most writing days. She would get up and organised and head out for the day when Richard took the kids to school. He would drop her at the General Store where she would order her coffee and nibble on her obligatory chocolate. She would punch the keys on her laptop until her fingers and back ached.

  The locals would come and go, buy a coffee, a newspaper, a pie or toilet rolls. It was an old-fashioned general store and while the houses in the area were being updated and modernised, the little store wasn’t. As if they were characters in her books, she wondered what their individual back-stories were – why they wore bright pink floral gumboots with shorts, or carried man-bags or wore chunky gold rings on their pinky fingers. And as she watched a fit, young, good-looking tradesman lunge past she wondered why he ordered a burger instead of having a lunch box like other workers.

  Nadine always returned a smile if offered one herself, but there was often a hint of something less than generous in it. She didn’t really care to make any more friends, or even acquaintances, and having to talk to hundreds of people at a time when on tour meant that some days she just didn’t want to talk to anyone at all.

  While she’d waited for her laptop to boot up, she’d skimmed the Local Bulletin, read an advertisement for an indulgent high tea, and wondered what her husband was doing.

  While she mightn’t take much notice of what he did with his time, she knew she didn’t need much more in her life apart from him and their kids, her books and a good bottle.

  Most mothers would have the three Rs as a mantra in their home. Not Nadine; hers were the three Cs: chocolate, caffeine and cab sav . . . and not necessarily in that order. Happy Hour at the Brookfield Community Hall was the only ‘community activity’ that Nadine wanted to participate in and she even kyboshed the potential for that by getting embarrassingly hammered at the first one she went to. Richard had banned her himself, and swore they would never go back.

  Looking at the massive white face of the watch her husband had given her three Christmases ago, she’d started counting down the minutes to when she would have the taste of Mudgee grapes swirling around her tongue again. Her hands were shaking and she didn’t want them to be. She didn’t like being conscious of her mistakes, and especially not of the pain she had been causing her family and friends for so long. She’d let her appearance go a bit lately too; she needed to get a haircut, her lip waxed, some new product to smooth into the multiplying lines around her eyes. And then a woman in bicycle shorts and Crocs had walked into the shop. Well, I could look worse, Nadine had mumbled to herself, the unkind thought bringing a momentary smile to her face.

  Then Nadine had felt a wave
of something sweep over her: fear, inadequacy, depression, sadness? She wasn’t sure, but she’d felt the need to get up. She’d gathered her things and strolled over to the cemetery, and before she’d found a bench to sit down on, she was in tears.

  Today, she cried for herself, but in previous years the cemetery had been a place Nadine would visit for inspiration and ideas, gathering material for her novels, reading and memorising headstones, creating scenarios and plots for another book. She knew her process was a morbid, selfish and disrespectful one – she wasn’t completely oblivious to her own behaviour except when she was drunk – but she continued with this sort of ‘research’ anyway. It’s the right of the writer in the pursuit of creative inspiration! she’d bullshit to herself – and anyone else, if she had to. Today though, there was no bullshitting, just tears. She felt sad and emotional, distraught not at an actual death, or her inability to finish the manuscript she was currently working on, but at the story she had written and created for herself, the one that was causing immense pain to those she loved.

  With her nose running and eyes swollen behind her huge black Prada glasses, she stood up and walked slowly through the cemetery, her body feeling unusually heavy although she had unintentionally lost weight over the past ten days. She looked at the oddly designed, arty headstones on some of the graves. Two things had stood out to her about the Brookfield cemetery when she first scouted it: the installation-art style of headstones, and the noticeably young ages of many buried there. Why? She was curious about both.

  And then her own sense of mortality kicked in. She panicked, and texted Richard to see what time he’d be there to pick her up. Richard, her rock, was the only one who ever made her feel completely safe.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Richard said to his younger sister for the first time in his life.

  Izzy knew what it was about. She’d been feeling helpless but wanted to support her brother. ‘I was going to call you,’ she said softly.

  Silence hung in the air at both ends.

  ‘I thought I’d come and look at your plants on Thursday. Sorry it’s taken me so long.’ Men never really say what’s on their minds, Izzy thought.

  ‘Maybe we could get a bite to eat too?’ he added.

  ‘Actually, I just got some free tickets to a show at the Powerhouse on Thursday.’ Izzy looked at the email notifying her that she’d won an online comp. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘Oh,’ Richard hesitated, ‘you know I don’t do theatre, sis. It’s not my thing.’

  ‘If you come, then it will be your thing.’ She clicked on the link to a review. ‘Anyway, it’s not theatre, it’s a comedy show. A funny local girl.’ Izzy clicked through pages. ‘Here we go. She’s known as “Brisbane’s cardigan assassin” and talks about life with her father Barry. It looks like it’ll be a hoot.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Richard didn’t sound interested, but the fact was Izzy wanted some time with her brother.

  ‘Listen, we need to talk. So, let’s watch this then have something to eat. We never do anything together.’

  Izzy was right. Neither of them could remember the last time they’d spent time together just as brother and sister. The last couple of times they’d been together socially were the NAIDOC Ball and their aunt’s wake, and both had ended in disaster.

  ‘Yep, you’re right. I’ll pick you up from work if you like. Just text me the time tomorrow.’

  The phone went dead, both siblings concerned about what needed to be said, and what role each of them would play.

  Later that night, the pair were laughing hysterically at the young comedian, nudging each other at various jokes they found funny. Watching the show together had proved to be a good icebreaker. Sitting on the balcony afterwards, Izzy pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. It was chillier than she expected.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Richard asked, looking at his sister’s belly.

  ‘I’ve gained about four kilos, which looks like ten on camera.’ Izzy hadn’t stopped being vain during the past months and the changes in her body shape led to a constant fear of getting fat. The thought of never losing the weight played on her mind even in her sleep.

  ‘Don’t be worried about the weight, sis, you look great. It’s a good sign to be growing healthy-like.’ Richard thought back to when Nadine was pregnant: she was huge with Cameron, they knew it was going to be a boy, and he was thrilled. But Brittany was still his little princess.

  ‘Sometimes in the still of the night,’ Izzy smiled as she spoke, ‘the baby’s heartbeat is so strong I’m sure I can hear it. It’s insane, I never thought I’d feel this way.’

  Even with her fears, Izzy couldn’t believe the transformation she’d already gone through, mentally and emotionally. The spider veins appearing on her ankles and legs were causing her worry; there was a history of varicose veins in her maternal line, and she desperately hoped she wouldn’t be the next woman to get them. Running her hand over her ever expanding belly though, any anxiety was replaced with the warm glow of pending motherhood. She’d started to believe the words of her mother, that this would be the most extraordinary experience of her life.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Book club is meant to be at your place this month, I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Izzy said.

  ‘Nor do I,’ Richard agreed, holding firmly onto his orange juice. He never drank when he was driving, there was too much at risk living so far out of the city. If neither he nor Nadine had a licence things would be really difficult.

  ‘I’ve got tickets for us all to go see something at QPAC. I’ll call Nadine and see if she wants to join us, but honestly,’ she took a deep breath, ‘we’re all worried about her, Richard, really very worried.’ Izzy paused to consider how she would phrase the next sentence. She decided to keep it simple. ‘But we’re also sick of her getting so drunk she carries on the way she does.’ It was the brutal truth, but Izzy had to tell it.

  ‘I understand.’ Richard looked out over the dark river. ‘It’s one of the reasons we never go out anymore. She’s burnt so many bridges everywhere she goes; no-one wants us there. Did you know Mum doesn’t want her back in Mudgee?’

  Izzy could hear the distress in her brother’s voice.

  ‘I know,’ she said gently, touching her brother’s hand. ‘Mum’ll come round, she loves Nadine, but she needs to change before she can go back there. Mum hates all the bitching and anger that comes with Nadine on the drink.’

  Richard remained silent.

  ‘I know it’s different at home when you’re alone,’ Izzy said. ‘Nadine tells us how you two just sit and talk a lot, and she likes having you at home while she’s writing.’

  Richard looked his sister square in the eye. ‘She’s a beautiful person, Iz, really she is.’

  ‘I know she is.’ Izzy could feel the pain in her brother’s heart. ‘She’s generous and kind, we all know that. But she’s different at home because there’s no competition for the limelight there.’ Izzy was trying to see the difference between Nadine’s behaviour with her husband and with her friends. ‘She’s the star when she’s with you, or on tour. She’s centre stage at those times, and even if she says she doesn’t like it, it’s when she appears to be happiest; when all the love is directed at her, and only her.’

  ‘What?’ Richard looked confused.

  ‘You make her the centre of attention at home, and that’s good, that’s your role as hubby, but when she’s out with us, she wants everything to revolve around her.’ Izzy couldn’t stop herself going on. ‘You’d die if you saw how she and Ellen bicker sometimes, and you know there’s always been competition with me, but my profile is nothing like hers.’

  ‘But Nadine doesn’t even like the profile thing.’

  ‘So she says but, truly, sometimes she behaves like a spoilt brat, until she gets really pissed and then she’s just a pain in the arse.’ Izzy’s capacity to remain pleasant while speaking about Nadine’s behaviour had vanished
. She hoped it was her hormones talking.

  ‘Oh God, I didn’t know.’ Richard sighed and shook his head simultaneously.

  ‘Her needing attention isn’t the problem, Richard. We all love her, she’s fabulous.’ Izzy took another deep breath, as if to suck in courage. ‘But it’s like she has to get drunk to maintain an interest in anyone else’s life, and when she’s pissed she loses her capacity to keep herself in check.’ Izzy turned to face her brother. ‘I just don’t know how she even manages to get any work done. I rarely see her sober. She must have hangovers, I don’t know, all the time!’

  Richard sighed.

  Izzy felt bad. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she tried to reassure him. ‘We’re all responsible, and so,’ she hesitated, ‘we were thinking of doing an intervention, but maybe you need to suggest AA or a clinic?’

  ‘Are you fucking serious?’ Richard snapped. ‘Can you imagine me doing that? She’ll cut off my balls and wear them as earrings.’

  ‘Well, what did you have in mind?’

  Richard’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m going to start by talking to her about her problem. Our problem.’

  Ellen, Xanthe, Izzy and Veronica met at QPAC just before the show started. It was bucketing down and they were all cold and damp. The sudden downpour had slowed traffic all around town with flash flooding and minor accidents closing lanes. It wasn’t the best start to an evening that was always going to be emotionally charged, given the theme of the production was the Stolen Generations.

  Each had eaten on the run, or not at all. Ellen had lost some of her appetite lately, in denial that she was lovesick for Craig and any spare time was spent making love, not meals. She was constantly on the go with a protein shake in her hand and a post-coital glow on her face.

  Izzy was grazing all day on what she’d discovered during her research online were pregnancy power foods: pinto beans, carrots, blueberries and yoghurt. She’d previously been a fan of canned tuna and salmon because they were convenient when she was on the go, but having read about high mercury levels had cut them out of her diet altogether. The only thing she really missed was coffee. Xanthe – who had become a pregnancy advisor of sorts to Izzy – had told her that caffeine dehydrates and depletes calcium levels and low calcium had been linked to prematurity, miscarriage, low birth weight and withdrawal symptoms in infants. After that, Izzy bypassed her morning coffee and started drinking fruit teas instead. She was never hungry though, and hoped the weight gain was all baby. She also noticed how her nails and hair were growing at a rapid rate, with a strength and fullness they’d not had before. ‘I didn’t realise there were some perks to pregnancy,’ she told her mother on the phone recently.