As soon as I got back to the apartment, I resumed reading My One Redeeming Affliction in search of some answers to the increasing number of questions troubling my mind.
One fine February morning, a year after her father’s wedding, Esther left the family home forever. Sitting on her suitcase at Woolloomooloo Wharf nursing a carpetbag filled with picnic supplies, she awaited her new husband’s arrival on the Phantom. The day before, William had married Esther in the Registry Office with no relatives present, her father having forbidden all family members from involvement with the couple. Arthur and Samuel had promised to watch her departure this morning through binoculars from the ridge of Fernleigh’s steeply gabled roof. As the Phantom pulled in, she turned to wave to the boys but couldn’t make them out, her vision flooded with tears as the deckhand called, ‘All aboard!’
The guilt and doubt Esther felt about leaving was mitigated by William’s long embrace, a great relief after the scarce opportunity they’d had to be alone during their secret courtship. Halfway between the heads of the harbour, a blustery nor'-easter whipped off Esther’s hat, lifting it high into the sky then dashing it directly before the threshing paddlewheel. Released from pins, her hair flicked about like a magnificent chestnut tail and whipped forward over her face. Instead of racing inside to fix it, she abandoned all hope of regaining decorum and laughed. Her decision to surrender to the natural elements by remaining outside with William was rewarded by a most wondrous spectacle – a pod of dolphins breached at the ship’s bow and escorted them all the way to Manly.
Directly opposite the narrow wooden jetty, Henry Gilbert Smith’s Pier Hotel gleamed like a white castle. The couple’s room was situated next to the central turret, commanding glorious views of the harbour in front and bushland behind. After unpacking, they strolled down the Corso to the oceanfront and claimed a rare patch of new grass beneath a baby Norfolk pine. They feasted on cold cuts, Scotch eggs and fancy buns, watching the blue Pacific deliver her evenly spaced waves to the shore. Afterwards, they climbed Constitutional Hill to the camera obscura, an octagonal tower with no windows – the only light entering through a tiny hole. With a combination of lenses and mirrors, the surrounding landscape was projected onto a round table in the centre.
How strange to stand inside a dark chamber to view a mere reflection of the world outside. And yet the remoteness somehow offered a compelling new perspective of the location. Esther wrote later that day that for years she’d been locked in her own tower, observing life remotely, and in seeking to escape her father’s restrictions she’d only subjected herself to the endless demands of Madame Zora instead. She wrote, ‘Now, to my great relief, I’ve been rescued from miserable isolation and have finally tasted what it means to be truly alive. Could it be possible that this sense of elation is the responsibility of another? I would caution myself against attributing all of my new-found happiness to William – and yet it seems so. I am through with testing the waters. Casting all vestments aside, I shall let the waves crash over me, dive deep and yield myself to the rhythm of the sea.’ Of course, she meant this in a strictly figurative sense, as public bathing was banned between six in the morning and eight at night.
On Monday, the couple headed north for Belgoolar by coach. The journey took a full day, as they stopped numerous times to swap passengers and twice to swap horses. Though the ride was hot and bumpy, the views were spectacular, with successive headlands revealing the golden crescents and turquoise waters that lay between. Whenever the road wove inland, the ocean’s crash and settle remained in earshot. They crossed swampy mangrove flats and wooded hills, bidding farewell to their fellow travellers as they disembarked, until late in the afternoon when they sat alone with their driver.
He negotiated the final serpentine descent with consummate skill, keeping the horses well away from the road’s crumbling edge. At last reaching the final bend he cried, ‘Here’s your bonny wee castle!’ Perched on a grassy knoll and surrounded by palms, the weatherboard cottage featured a balcony facing the sea. After helping William offload the luggage, the driver let the horses slake their thirst, then drove them back up the hill before it swallowed the sun.
Days of blissful indolence, bushwalking and swimming unclothed as nature intended lulled Esther into imagining residing there permanently by the sea. Free now from obligation to her family or Madame Zora, she dreamt of returning to her first love – illustrating birds and other small creatures. Belgoolar’s wildlife was magnificently diverse. Or perhaps William could open a fine-dining establishment in Manly? Heaven knew it was in dire need of one.
The weather remained fine until Friday, when the humidity rose dramatically, and late in the afternoon a storm front approached from the south-west – roiling clouds, dark and foreboding, being drawn up into the form of an enormous wave.
The couple observed the spectacle from the veranda – the lightning flashing white and purple over turbulent seas, until the clouds burst and the rain drove them indoors. Shortly after retiring for an early night, they heard a dog barking outside the cottage. Unable to remain in bed while the frightened creature was suffering beneath the storm, Esther went out and unlatched the little wooden gate at the bottom of the steps, allowing the chocolate-brown labrador up onto the veranda. William was annoyed at her indulgence, insisting that the dog would’ve found his way home soon enough if she’d ignored him. The veranda’s protection was inadequate anyway, and the dog began barking again, so Esther let him into the cottage, placing a flatiron against the front door to keep it open.
My parents had their first heated argument that night. The dog had begun scratching at the bedroom door, desperate for the reassurance of company. My father refused to allow him in. My mother surrendered to my father, but was unable to adequately muffle her ears with her pillow against the poor creature’s whimpering, which continued well into the night.
The next morning, the skies were still overcast and the atmosphere still humid. My mother’s intuition told her that I had been conceived. But the brown labrador had disappeared. Decades later, in one of her rare lapses into irrational and superstitious musing, she expressed concern that the dog’s presence that night, or her emotional response to his yelping, had somehow caused my affliction.
The return coach ride was hotter and bumpier than the trip out, and the couple were grateful to finally reach Manly and board the Phantom, as crowded as it was. Halfway across the harbour, my mother mentioned that she’d had a whimsical notion of residing somewhere far from the bustling city. My father initially dismissed the possibility, citing his need to be close to the restaurant. But further on, as the ferry passed the handsome villas on Kurrabeena Point at Mosman, he assured her that a pleasing compromise could be reached. Nine months later, I was born at Ambleside, the property closest to the water in Mosman, with the most beautiful grounds.
I entered The Hive on Monday morning with the forged medical note I was about to give Simmons burning in my pocket. Tibor had come through for me. I found the coach in his office, engaged in his favourite activity – reclining in his orange, yellow and brown tartan armchair, eating a sugar-dusted jam donut.
‘Lincoln Locke,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘I hope you have a very good reason for disturbing my breakfast again.’
‘Donut King, sir?’
‘You wouldn’t be stupid enough to offer nutritional advice?’
‘No, sir. I came to tell you that I can’t be in squad any longer. I’ve been diagnosed with a severe chlorine allergy. After swimming I break out in hives.’
He gave me a sceptical look. ‘Let’s go down to the water and you can show me.’
‘Well, the thing is, the reaction happens eight or nine hours after exposure. Here’s a photo of my arm.’ I showed him the shot that I took in The Labyrinth and gave him the fake medical note, which he read as he chomped into his second jam donut.
‘Hmm, Dr Torsten Mintz. Father of Tibor? Would you mind if I gave Dr Mintz a call to discuss the best way to manage th
e situation?’
‘It’s a bit early.’
‘Not now, later.’ He finished the donut then nailed me with his gaze. ‘I’m very disappointed about this, Locke.’
‘That makes two of us, sir. I’m devastated that I won’t be able to represent Crestfield.’
‘We can’t have you missing out then. You can train in salt water, under the supervision of one of your parents or a designated guardian. They’d be fully aware that the selection committee’s decision to offer you a place at Crestfield was significantly influenced by your swimming ability.’
Not the worst outcome, but far from the best. If Simmons called Tibor’s father, I’d be toast. I went to the upstairs toilets and spent longer than necessary washing my hands. By the time I returned, the lanes were filled with splashing swimmers. I sat with Gelber and she grilled me on the allergy, then asked me to hand out the pull buoys. Nads was first out, heading my way to grab one. Asking if he enjoyed his break wouldn’t go down well. Best to let him speak first. He snatched the pull buoy without saying a word. Mullows and Starkey followed, looking straight through me. Starkey’s uncharacteristic restraint was unnerving.
Pericles came last and asked me why I wasn’t in the pool. I told him the fake excuse and he called bullshit, so I fessed up.
‘I have a problem that’s way worse than some skin allergy.’
‘Shit – it’s not something fatal, is it?’
‘Far from, but it’s killing me with embarrassment and I can’t talk about it right now. I got Tibor to write a fake medical note to get me out of squad.’
‘For real? Tibor’s a legend. Does that mean you’re off the relay team for the Invitational, and I’m back on?’
‘Simmons is making me train in salt water. Sorry, mate. I’m still on the team.’
‘It’s all good, bruh.’ Pericles gave me a wet bear hug. ‘I hope your embarrassment problem clears up soon.’
After school, Isa took me to her place, a narrow two-storey terrace in Erskineville, to work on our project. As we walked through the kitchen she called out to Delilah.
‘She’s helping with the weeding,’ a voice replied. We went to the garden, where a woman in denim shorts and red singlet was kneeling on a pad, turning the soil. Delilah was pouncing on the weeds she flicked aside. Then, just like Oscar with new company, she trotted up to me and rubbed against my calf.
‘I usually wait till I’m introduced before I do that,’ the woman said to the cat.
‘Terri, this is my friend Lincoln. We’re collaborating on an art assignment.’
‘Hello, Lincoln. I’m Terri, who’s just picked some overripe tomatoes from the vine.’ She tossed one to Isa. ‘Stef’s going to make a batch of passata.’ Terri scratched Delilah’s neck until her tail started snaking left and right, and I felt a sympathetic, irritated tingle in mine. Then the cat twisted around and clawed Terri’s forearm. ‘How quickly she turns.’
‘Dinnertime for you.’ Isa scooped up Delilah. The cat growled and writhed free, then ran and hid among the creepers. ‘Wait till your mother gets home!’ Isa said.
Back in the kitchen, she poured me some water and I asked if Terri lived with them.
‘Terri and Mum have been friends forever. She and Stef have the upstairs. The garden’s communal.’
‘Is Terri a lesbian?’
‘She’s an antiques and vintage dealer.’
‘No, seriously.’
‘You’d have to ask her wife.’
‘She doesn’t look like a lesbian,’ I said. Isa rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry. Stupid comment.’
‘Yeah, a bit. And before you ask, my mum’s not in a polyamorous relationship with them and she’s not a lesbian.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’ There was an awkward pause.
‘Some people think Phoenix and I are together, but we’re not. I love her to death but not in a sexual way. Phoenix says gender plays no part in who she’s attracted to – it’s the person that matters.’
‘Do you think sexual orientation’s genetic?’
‘Probably, but I don’t believe it’s a binary thing anyway, not even a scale. I think we’re all on a swirling sphere. What about you?’
I twisted my ear, hoping it might produce an answer – but nothing came, so I shrugged and said, ‘Don’t know.’
‘It’s complex,’ Isa said. She rinsed the glasses, then turned back around and said, ‘Talking of genetics, we should get started on the DNA. I’ve made a couple of base pairs.’
Isa pulled two knitted cigar shapes from a wicker box and tossed me a pink-and-green one. ‘That represents guanine and cytosine. The yellow-and-blue is thymine and adenine. Make sure you stick to those combinations. Here’s the chart,’ she said, passing it to me. ‘I’ve calculated we’ll have to knit five hundred each.’
‘Is that even possible?’ I did a quick mental calculation. ‘If it takes me an hour to knit one and I knit for two hours every day, it would take me eight months and that’s not even taking the coils into consideration.’
‘That’s why we need a crew. Phoenix, Mum and Terri are on board, and your nana is a gun. It doesn’t matter if it ends up a bit shorter than planned.’
We began knitting. After a while the conversation turned to fellow students and Isa suggested we play ‘Hot or Not?’ She mostly said ‘hot’ for the girls, whereas I never said ‘hot’ for any of the guys. After almost exhausting the Year 10 student body, Isa frowned and said, ‘Are you trying to tell me there’re no good-looking guys in our year?’
‘You only chose three or four.’
‘What about Pericles? Hot or not?’
‘He’s my friend. I don’t see him in those terms.’
‘He’s my friend too and I think he’s completely hot.’
‘Okay, I concede he’s good-looking.’
‘Why can’t you say “hot”?’
‘If I said he was hot while knitting it would look indisputably gay, so I’m putting it down first.’ I did so, then cleared my throat and said, ‘Okay. Pericles Pappas is hot for a guy.’
We resumed knitting and worked till sometime after 8 pm, when Isa’s mother arrived home. ‘I don’t smell cooking,’ she said, walking down the hall.
‘We were busy with the project.’ Isa introduced me to Dee, an intensive-care nurse who looked as though she could’ve been Isa’s older sister, and asked how her day had gone.
‘Mr Charles didn’t pull through, which was terribly sad, and I know you’re thinking I’ve had a cigarette and you’re correct and I’ll start quitting again tomorrow. Lincoln, I hope you’re staying for dinner? We’re all vegetarian here. Do you eat meat?’ I nodded. ‘Of course you do,’ she said with a wink. ‘Hot or not?’ She frisbeed an Indian delivery menu to Isa. ‘Order whatever you like, darling, and something for the carnivore while I have a pee. And don’t forget that naan we love, the potato one.’
I shared a dinner with Isa’s family – Dee, Terri and Stef and Delilah – and observed her interacting with the women with warmth and humour. The single hiccup came when I asked for a cushion to go on my slatted wooden stool because it was aggravating the tail, and Terri hassled me for being the only princess in the room. I broke into a sweat and blamed the vindaloo, then Isa deftly took the heat off by passing me the raita. In a lively conversation after dinner, she held her own on topics that ranged from pop culture to literature to world affairs, and I internally conceded something that I’d suspected for some time: Isa Mountwinter was way smarter than me.
Two weeks passed and Sydney finally threw off its cloak of humidity for a snappy new autumn outfit. The days were bright and sparkling, sunny but cool. The sea was the only part of the city graciously holding on to its warmth. I’d started training at Bondi in the day and some nights in T H E E Y R I E’s pool if there were no more than two other people in there. It was usually only Patricia from level twenty-nine – the lady with the daisy cap, who mostly swam breaststroke and kept her head above water. Anybody else and I’d have kept my boa
rd shorts on. The tail had become easy to spot in Speedos, but with the end of the swimming season approaching, the threat of exposure would soon be removed.
Our group of collaborators on the art project widened. Nana Locke and her friend Glenda both knitted five-metre coils, and I went to Isa’s place three more times for knitting circles. Isa, Phoenix, Dee, Terri and I knitted while Stef looked after drinks, snacks and neck massages. Sometimes it was awkward being the ‘only rooster in the hen house’ – Dee’s words, not mine – and I hardly spoke unless Stef said, ‘Now let’s hear from the voice of man’, which made the pressure to represent without sounding sexist or anything-phobic a bit tricky. But the friendly needling, mostly figurative and sometimes literal, was a small price to pay. My friendship with Isa was advancing in leaps and bounds, and she invited me to her birthday at Luna Park.
Friday night, Dad arrived home and went straight to his room without saying hello. When he finally emerged, his face was swollen, lips puffy and teeth arctic white. Following my interrogation, he finally admitted to a couple of non-invasive rejuvenating procedures.
‘The swelling should go down by tomorrow and nobody will notice the difference,’ he said.
‘What’s the point of it then?’
‘In a competitive environment like mine, looking fresh is equated with relevance. It’s all about giving yourself an edge over your rivals.’
‘So you can pick up younger women like Sophie?’
‘I was talking about work, mate. I’m competing with cowboys ten, fifteen years younger than me. Steve and I share some interests, but his preference for younger women definitely isn’t one of them. There’s nothing happening with Sophie.’
I was tempted to confront him about Maëlle but I literally bit my tongue to stop myself. Seeing my father yield to whatever pressure he felt to look younger made my heart sink. Mum was often surrounded by tight-faced celebrities and pouty models but she’d never gone as far as cosmetic procedures. Despite her line of work, she maintained that beauty is within. I didn’t fully believe that, though – from what I could tell, it was mostly physical and largely determined by genetics, and you could be beautiful even if you were a complete and utter turd. There were heaps of beautiful shits in the world.
The Origin of Me Page 22