“What’s the BLF?” asks the red-welted woman. She doesn’t seem to know as much as the others.
“It’s the builders laborers’ union—you know, the blokes who usually fight for the workers to get them better wages and safety. But now they’re on to stopping developers from putting their wrecking balls through houses and parks, to build filthy high-rises everywhere and expressways. They’re using workers’ solidarity to put green bans on some sites,” explains Whisky Wendy.
“If we break into one of those green-banned houses, we could set ourselves up there and claim squatter’s rights.”
Whatever that is, it gets the women excited, and they start speaking louder and quicker and over the top of each other, and I lose track of which one might be saying what.
“You know, when you squat, there are ways you can tap into the water and the sewerage—that’s if they haven’t poured cement down the pipes. My little brother’s a qualified sparky; he’d probably know how to hook up the electricity.”
“It could be a great spot to set up a refuge.”
“It could be the perfect spot to set up a refuge!”
“Good location.”
“Just sitting there empty.”
“And free.”
“God, that sounds good.”
“Okay then, let’s do it. What do we need?”
“Well…tools to break in, for a start. A shovel under the window will do the trick. And once we’re in, we’ll need to change the locks.”
“Is someone writing this down? A couple of shovels, new locks and then a way to secure the place.”
“Wendy’s cricket bat works well.”
That gets all the women laughing loudly.
“Maybe more than one cricket bat, then,” someone suggests.
“It’ll need a good clean-up, no doubt…so mops and buckets, Ajax, stuff like that.”
“And mattresses, sheets and towels. A kitchen table and chairs.”
“Clothes for the kids.”
“And clothes for the women.”
“A fridge, we’ll need a fridge.”
“What about food?”
“And what about a phone? We’ll definitely need to get the phone connected.”
“If we’re going to do this, we have to act quick smart, and once we’ve set up, we should get the media involved—you know, get their support. We need to let this city know what’s going on and why we’re going to these lengths to set up a refuge.”
“Absolutely. We need to tell women’s stories, get the public and the politicians on board, no more passing it off as just ‘domestics.’ Let them know that women and kids are suffering—something horrible—in silence, some of them dying at the hands of these bastards.”
“Has anyone got contacts in the media? What about you, Wendy? You’d have some, wouldn’t you—from, you know—your efforts with Parramatta Girls Home?”
“Yes, well, I’ve certainly got a few. Peter at This Day Tonight, he’s a decent bloke…a good journo. He might be interested.”
“And what about you, Beryl? The Women’s Weekly? The National Times?”
“Yeah, sure, both are worth a go.”
“And the radio—wouldn’t it be good to get onto that John Laws show?”
“Righto. What say we assemble in the park in West Street at three p.m. tomorrow with what we need and go in! Does everyone agree?”
By the sounds of things, they do.
“So, Cathy, you’re on locks, electricity and plumbing. Beryl and Wendy, the media. Margaret, you can be in charge of the break-in and security: shovels, cricket bats and brooms. Everyone else, try to get your hands on cleaning stuff and get in touch with women you know who can help us, or the ones who could use refuge accommodation, and tell them what’s happening. But be careful: we need to get the address out to the women who need it, but not to their bastard men.
“So…this is it! Enough is enough: we’re taking control. By this time tomorrow, looks like we’ll have ourselves a refuge!”
A cheer goes up and so does the stereo. Things go from sounding like a meeting to sounding like a party and it goes on well into the night.
That part of my heart that remembers building the pretend fort with blocks on the floor with the toddlers today senses that their mothers might be about to build a real one—with shovels, bats, mops and brooms—tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rick is waiting in his van outside Wendy’s place, listening to the radio. His elbow is resting on the open window, and he’s staring straight ahead. He has come to take me home.
Patricia walks me out slowly. Looking down at the path with her arm around my waist, she’s mucking about like she’s going to trip me over with every step.
I guess this is it.
We give each other a quick hug and promise to write often. We agree that we’ll start saving—every red cent, from this moment on—for the van with a sunset, peace sign and curtains.
“I could get a job at the greengrocer,” I tell her proudly, thinking that’s a good start. “Joe actually offered me one, you know, not that long ago.” I’m working hard to sound upbeat, as well as inventive, coming up with ways to earn money that might impress Patricia.
“At Joe the Robber’s! Gaaawd…your nana would hate that! And that creep probably wouldn’t even pay you. Maybe you could just set up a shop outside Number 23 and sell Matilde’s spare fruit and veg—it’s heaps better than Joe’s—and that way you could drive the robber out of business. Hey, you could sell some of her cooked tucker too. Yeah, you could do that, Ally. Tell you what: I’ll make you an apron in dressmaking, with ‘Tildie’s Tucker’ appliquéd on the front.” Patricia’s eyes are twinkling, slightly watering, probably at the thought of the good tucker and all the money we’ll make.
That part of my heart that misses someone while you’re still holding them clamps hard around Patricia’s shoulders. I say a quick “see ya,” give her a noogie and climb up into the van.
But just before we push off, Patricia O’Brien’s mother runs out. Her denim wraparound skirt is flapping open above the knees, and she asks if she could speak with Rick for “just a quick minute.”
“By the looks of that sign on your van, you’re a carpenter,” she says with a voice that sounds like the spoken equivalent of a wink. “Any chance you could help us with something real important later today?”
“What needs doing?” Rick asks, not looking at her knees.
Patricia O’Brien’s mother explains to Rick that Wendy lets battered women stay in her house, women with no support and nowhere to go. Women at the end of their tether, with little kids, who are scared for their lives. And young girls too, runaways, some of them pregnant, some of them thrown out by their mothers or bashed by their fathers. Some of them are “home girls”—you know, wards of the state—who slip into Wendy’s via the lane behind her house and leave messages for each other on the pin board on her back wall.
Patricia O’Brien’s mother tells Rick what they are planning to do later today: “We’re setting up a refuge for women and kids…you know, like a safe shelter where they can stay…in one of those green-banned houses just down the road. We just need someone strong, who has tools, who knows how to use them to change the locks.”
She explains that what they’re going to do is not illegal because the houses are just sitting there empty—nobody’s using them, and squatters actually have rights—it’s a fact—rights recognized by the law.
I’m not sure if it’s hearing about mothers and children being scared for their lives or young girls being bashed and thrown out of their homes, or if it’s more the high notes of Charlie perfume wafting through the window, but Rick has scribbled down the address on the back of his hand, and we’re heading for the hardware store with a promise to meet them just down from the empty house in a bit over
an hour.
“I’m not going to have time to get you home and then get back before three o’clock, Al Pal, so you’ll just have to come along and keep your head down and stay schtum. Matilde doesn’t need to know about this….Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I say, suddenly feeling more like I imagine you do at twenty-six than twelve, and thinking that maybe I might be about to see Rick in action doing something a bit Riffraff. The thrill of that prospect lightens the heaviness inside of having to say goodbye to Patricia for now.
* * *
■ ■ ■
When Rick and I arrive in West Street, a small group of women is standing outside a peeling white house with a sloping tin roof. It looks nothing like Number 23 or Number 25 or a convent, and it’s attached to a mirror-image house, every bit as dilapidated, on its right. The front windows of both houses are boarded up, and I can’t picture anyone cooking chicken paprikash, making Morello-cherry strudel or even frying up soggy fish fingers with frozen mixed veg inside those dirty flaking walls. Or, for that matter, reciting times tables, practicing piano or learning to play Chinese checkers.
Rick blows out hard, from the back of his throat. He doesn’t seem sure where to park the van.
And then we see Patricia O’Brien’s mother hailing us down with big swinging waves and—whooshka—she’s inside the van sitting right next to me.
“Have you got everything?” she says to Rick, panting slightly.
“Yep, I think so. I bought new locks, and all my tools are in the back.”
“Beaut. We’re just about set, then.”
“Is Patricia coming?” I ask hopefully.
“Patricia…oh no, she won’t be coming—she’s back at Wendy’s looking after the little kids.” Her green eyes are darting and she’s sounding distracted. “Look, pull up here, there’s a spot opposite the house. I’ll get the women to gather down the street a bit. Once we break in and establish ourselves, we’re going to call up the papers, and maybe the telly too.” Her voice is quickening, starting to sound kind of excited.
I can tell that Rick is definitely not excited. He has that same face he had in the church when Joy didn’t show up on my Confirmation day. He leans toward me and says in a low voice, “We’ll be making ourselves scarce before any television people appear, Al, I’ll tell you that for free.”
That’s disappointing because I wouldn’t mind seeing the television people arrive with their lights, cameras and action. But actually, I’m pretty surprised that Rick has even come this far and is sticking with the plan, especially now that Patricia O’Brien’s mother has swapped the wraparound skirt for overalls.
And then I get another surprise.
It’s Joy.
Today she has shown up. She’s standing in her halter-neck sundress next to Wendy across the road. Wendy is holding a cricket bat and Joy has a picnic basket in one hand and a mop in the other. I didn’t even know that Joy owned a mop. Maybe her job will be to clean up this dirty house—that’s a strange job to give Joy; she’s not big on cleaning up.
The group of women is growing, in size and noise and energy. Some have arrived with buckets, some with feather dusters and brooms, and others are holding up shovels and signs.
Patricia O’Brien’s mother jumps out of the van and tells Rick to stay put until she gives him the signal. She moves swiftly from woman to woman, and it looks like she’s giving each one a quick message.
They all move in a pack a little way down the street.
I glance at my watch, the one Matilde gave me for my tenth birthday. It tells me it’s just before three.
Then Patricia’s mother stands out front, and with a big voice she leads the women assembled together in a rhyme:
Two, four, six, eight,
What do we repudiate?
Violent lives we can’t escape!
Another woman holding up a shovel moves the rhyme to a chant:
Women have been relegated
Deflated—isolated—berated
Obliterated
Time now for us to be elevated
Compensated—educated—celebrated
LIBERATED
All the women are joining in and their chant becomes a rallying call.
Women’s liberation’s going to smash the cage
Come join us now and rage, rage, rage
Rage, Rage, Rage
Even Joy, it seems, is starting to rage, rage, rage.
They’re all getting louder.
Rage, Rage, Rage
They start marching toward the house.
Rage, Rage, Rage
I’m feeling quite hot in this van.
RAGE, RAGE, RAGE
“When I go in to change the locks, you stay put, Al. Don’t get out whatever you do. I won’t be long.” Rick seems pretty clear about that. And that’s okay with me; I’ve got a good view sitting here across the road from it all.
I’m starting to get thirsty.
We didn’t have much breakfast at Wendy’s this morning; actually, come to think about it, we didn’t have any breakfast…or lunch. I could do with a glass of cold water.
Patricia O’Brien’s mother, having led the women to the gate of the house, is still chanting. Then, looking our way, she nods at Rick in the driver’s seat of the van. He seems a bit reluctant to get out. I think he’d rather stay and listen to Race Number Two at Randwick. But Rick opens the door, whips around the side and gets his toolbox out of the back.
Watching Rick cross the road, I move the dial of the radio away from the horse races. It moves past a “hard-earned thirst needing a big cold beer” and past Johnny Cash singing “Sunday Morning Coming Down.” Things are sounding fuzzy until the dial lands clearly on music I recognize: Mr. Franz Liszt. And he’s partway through “Liebestraum No. 3.”
It’s getting hotter in here, and I’m starting to feel a little bit dizzy.
More women are arriving, mostly in overalls, some holding balloons.
And now one has arrived holding a lute.
She is not like the others.
She’s gliding, not raging.
She doesn’t have a shadow.
But she does have a beard.
None of the women in overalls talk to the one with the lute.
She is moving about on her own, seemingly unnoticed, between them.
Until now: She touches the side of Joy’s arm. Joy turns and mouths with wide-eyed surprise: “Oh, St. Liberata!”
The rest of the women’s bodies are moving like they’re still marching, and their mouths are open like they’re still chanting. I’m within the music of Franz Liszt, which is softening my lens and filtering my focus.
But even though Mr. Liszt’s music is playing inside the van, he isn’t the conductor here in West Street today. It’s St. Liberata who, with a maestro’s nod, mouths, It’s time, and raises her fingers to the strings of her lute. She’s suddenly apparent to all the women there, and her inspiration brings up their shovels and mops, brooms and balloons.
In one fluid movement the women leap forward, their shovels deftly levering off the boards over the windows and getting in under their frames, opening the house to the air and the light. The door is kicked in by a number of legs, and the women send out an orchestral roar that echoes through the empty rooms and back onto the street.
Rick gets busy with his tools, driving his drill into the opened door. He wipes his brow with his sleeve and continues punching out an old lock before replacing it with a brassy new one. He turns and meets Joy’s eyes as she walks with purpose up the small path. They both stop moving for a moment before she briefly wraps both her arms around his strong back and disappears inside, pulling a small glass bottle from the top of her sundress.
Leaning with my head out the window, I’m catching the fre
shening breeze. Rick is walking toward me on his way back to the van. He’s safe; no telly people have arrived so far, so it looks like he won’t be filmed for the six o’clock news. But that part of my heart that files away footage knows that this clip today—and its accompaniment—should be stored under B for Breakthrough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When I get home to Number 23, I keep my word to Rick and stay schtum about his role with the refuge. I can see he’s kept his word to me, too, because Matilde is sitting in a straight wooden chair on the back porch in the half sun. She’s looking much better but complaining about being waterlogged by salty spring-vegetable soup.
“Every time I opened my eyes, there he was again, waving that spoon in front of my mouth. And just look at that clothesline. What a way to hang out the laundry. Men! The socks are not in their correct pairs, and the shirts are all clumped.”
Rick winks at me and walks up to his flat.
“Where is Patricia?” asks Matilde.
“Oh, we dropped her home,” I reply. “She said to say thank you, Matilde—she really liked staying here.”
Matilde doesn’t ask about my sleepover at Glebe, and I don’t mention it either. I think with her being as sick as a dog, she mustn’t have even noticed I was away overnight.
* * *
■ ■ ■
I’m making a collage of spring leaves for art class and call into Dave’s Mixed Business and Milk Bar after school for more Perkins paste to stick it all down. On my way into Dave’s shop, I almost bump into Lucinda Lister on her way out.
“Oh…hi, Ally,” she says in a voice that sounds thinner than usual. And then, looking grateful in an embarrassed sort of way, she adds, “Hey, thanks for those Twisties.”
“That’s okay,” I say, sort of embarrassed too. “It was Patricia’s idea—she thought you might like them.”
“Well, I did. She’s a cool chick, that Patricia.”
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