The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  The white boy went down. One copper launched his baton into his head. Oh Jesus, he’s busted open like a melon. The copper was built like a bullock, but Charlie knew he could take him.

  They ran for their lives. I can outrun him, but won’t. It was an unexplained bond that had no past, lived only in the next five seconds. Inside Trades Hall, Charlie’s pulse kept racing.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Bruce. Bruce Brosnan.’

  An ice pack was glued to his face. He’ll be sore and sorry tomorrow.

  ‘So Bruce, why are you here?’

  Bruce’s look suggested the question was ridiculous.

  Charlie had seen it so many times. White students who risked life and limb to stop apartheid in South Africa, but closed their eyes to apartheid in Brisbane.

  Charlie shakes his head, drinks in rain’s smell. Cars glide in and out of the coveted spaces on Boundary Street, like ants on a picnic blanket. Chaos lives alongside perfect symmetry. The occasional council bus is the elephant of the kingdom. It moves with as much grace, releases the same thunderous roar.

  Carys, baby, your garden’s getting a drenching. The cherry tomatoes are coming up good. You should see the chillies.

  Across the street, Andrew O’Neill and Associates is painted in white on a pink background. The sign is old and weathered. He imagines the interior is old and weathered too. Hasn’t been inside for years.

  He remembers the new black suit that Ethel bought Miranda for her admission ceremony. Her hair was curled beneath her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen her wear blush and lipstick.

  She was sitting behind the large blue desk in her office. Bottle of champagne almost empty. Her eyes were cloudy, voice breaking into drunken laughter.

  I did this.

  When they brought her home from the hospital, Charlie watched her with more fear than affection. Why was she crying? Was he holding her right? Carys never worried. Carys had always been his anchor.

  I sank to the ocean floor when she died.

  The girl at the counter is in her early twenties. Hair braided with tiny lavender flowers, eyelids green.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Charlie. Did you enjoy your coffee?’

  Charlie doesn’t know her name, doubts they’ve even been introduced. But the locals know him. Ethel chuckles when she calls him the Mayor of West End.

  ‘I did thanks, darlin’.’

  ‘Have a good day.’

  He stands outside the fruit shop, breathing in the freshly squeezed orange. It’s almost ten-thirty and suits are emerging from their caves. It’s an uneasy truce between old and new. They walk alongside each other, sometimes on tiptoes.

  Charlie has to admit that on the surface things have changed. He is, after all, a black man who owns prime ribbon. But black people don’t own any of the restaurants, jewellers, real estate agencies or bars that line Boundary Street. They don’t even work in them as cleaners or sales assistants. The Corrowa are watched with fear and loathing. Pebbles on the side of the road. State economy roars down the street like a hedonistic teenager.

  The newcomers have no interest in past. Not even half-breathing curiosity for the boundary. Slaves who cooked, cleaned, suckled babies. They were shot dead in darkness. Old men, dignified men, marched down the street in neck irons. Metal burning their skin, indignity melting their souls.

  We know what the boundary did to us, but do you know how it has scarred you?

  He allows the rain to caress him as he crosses Vulture Street. Once again, his mind turns to Carys’ garden. The window of the old secondhand bookshop is lined with posters of upcoming concerts, plays and protests. It sits like an exposed vein in the flawless skin of chic boutiques.

  When he retired from the Aboriginal Legal Service, Charlie thought that he’d scrounge to fill time. But he’s busier than ever. Most nights he’s at a board meeting for some community organisation, whether it’s the Aboriginal Medical Service, Legal Service or Black Housing. Then there’s his work with the West End Primary School that takes one day of every week. Charlie loves teaching the kids about Meanjin. He’s talked to them about the boundary too, but the version he gives them is sanitised of violence. The kids gasp in disbelief, giving him hope. Education is his passion. That’s why he’s so excited about the website. Charlie had wanted to launch it in time for the march, but there’s still so much work to do.

  The rickety gate’s about to fall from its hinges. He’s been saying for months that he’ll replace it. He knows Ethel’s sick of reminding him. The gate always takes him back.

  That bus better be on time. I just know Court One will be mayhem this morning.

  ‘Charlie, wait.’

  Auburn tresses are scattered around her shoulders like a bushfire. She can never control that hair. Her smile says she believes in me. Loves me.

  ‘You forgot to say goodbye.’

  ‘Darling, I’m late for work.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Miranda’s in her arms, Carys has just taught her to wave.

  ‘Say bye, Daddy.’

  The parched brown is gone. The grass is lush now, but long. He’ll have to get the mower out this weekend. As he walks up the stairs, Charlie hears the dulcet voice of Huey B on the radio.

  ‘I don’t think that anyone should speak ill of the dead. And no one, I repeat – no one – deserves to be murdered in cold blood. But . . .’

  The pause is short, dramatic.

  ‘Dick Payne was no saint.’

  The lavender paint on the hallway still looks fresh, even though it’s been ten years. Charlie feels the heat from the kitchen, recognises the smell. He hears cutlery crashing into the sink. The radio sits on the kitchen bench. Huey B has been replaced by a country and western singer who laments the mixed fortunes of a lonely truck driver. Ethel’s wearing her ‘Boss’ apron, an old Christmas present from Miranda. White threads have frayed, but she treats it like precious metal.

  ‘Charlie, you’re just in time.’

  ‘Scones?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She opens the oven door and the aroma fills the kitchen. ‘It’s all over the papers and the TV, Charlie.’

  He takes the pitcher of water from the fridge. Says nothing. The community is a beehive, rumours about Payne buzzing every which way. Charlie wants nothing to do with such talk. Untimely death has circled them for too long – forty-year-old men dying from heart disease, young mothers with breast cancer who are little more than walking skeletons, children who end their lives with a noose. Carys. Why should the loss of one man, a flawed man, attract so much attention?

  ‘The phone’s been ringing non-stop. Mostly journalists about the march.’

  ‘Did you take their numbers?’

  ‘On the phone table.’

  ‘Thanks, luvie.’

  She disappears into the pantry, returning with the jar of honey Charlie brought back from the Glasshouse Mountains.

  ‘I can’t believe Payne’s getting a State funeral!’ she says.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘You or I would never get one.’

  ‘You or I would never expect one.’

  Charlie walks into the study next to the kitchen. The guest bed sits in the corner, next to the ironing board. On the opposite side is Miranda’s old high school desk. Phone numbers and equations are carved into the wooden top. Did he leave his laptop on? Can’t remember turning it on.

  ‘Ethel, have you been using my computer?’

  Her face is transparent, a window on every emotion, secrets that may never surface into words.

  ‘I was just having a look at our website. It’s deadly.’

  He puts his hands on his hips, a silent question mark.

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that look, Charlie Eversely.’

 
‘Well, don’t you go mucking around with my work.’

  ‘Our work! Besides, I was just curious to see what you’ve been doing this week.’

  ‘Yeah, well haven’t you heard that curiosity killed the cat?’

  ‘I made some changes.’

  ‘You did what!’

  ‘Oh Charlie, stop worrying.’

  Honey and flour melt on his tongue. Ethel’s been the boss of the kitchen for the last thirty years. Occasionally Charlie tries to steer her towards healthy options, but draws the line at her scones. He winces when Ethel brings out jam and cream from the fridge. She laughs into silent disapproval.

  ‘The police have been giving the park mob a hard time,’ she says.

  ‘Heard that too.’

  ‘What’s the Legal Service doing about it?’

  ‘Had a meeting with the Commissioner yesterday. Same old, same old.’

  Ethel is pensive, he feels the light bulb flashing inside her.

  ‘We should bring back the pig patrols,’ she says.

  His mind returns to a past he’s proud of, but has no desire to glorify. Too much pain to ever go back.

  Charlie remembers sipping stubbies in the old Terminus Hotel.

  Juke box pumping out the Stones.

  Couple on the dance floor. Sister wasn’t a day over eighteen. The brother was resting his hand on those tight jeans, singing softly in her ear.

  Cops stormed inside. Place was emptied of black bodies that soon filled the van. No questions asked, no time-honoured warnings.

  He documented everything. Gave it to Bruce in the morning.

  ‘They’ll beat me through telephone books later, might even stick a gun up my nose.’

  ‘It won’t be this way forever, Charlie. Things have to change.’

  ‘Charlie, you listening to me?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be game not to.’

  ‘Spoken to Miranda lately?’

  Charlie says nothing.

  Ethel has no time for his awkwardness. ‘Well I rang her this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s sick. Come down with the flu, Charlie. You should make some chicken soup for her.’

  He crosses his eyes.

  ‘You’re too harsh with that girl.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘She’ll be at the rally on Friday.’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect her to be anywhere else.’

  ‘Well, she might have other places to go. Like Court.’

  ‘She was Corrowa long before she became a lawyer.’

  ‘Charlie Eversely, you’re a grumpy old man.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You should tell that girl you’re proud of her.’

  ‘She knows I am!’

  His face is suddenly alive with fifty-seven years of bittersweet existence. Ethel offers him the sisterly grin that says everything will be alright. ‘Have a look at what I’ve done to the website. I think you’ll like it.’

  White sand blinds her eyes.

  Sunscreen cakes her skin, cotton hat held to her chin by a band of elastic.

  She hates that hat, but Mum insists.

  Mum’s shoulders are an oasis in this desert.

  Bird perched on Mum’s hand.

  Long body bathed in turquoise, brown, vibrant red.

  Man so tall she has to look up to his face.

  He’s shaking his head.

  ‘Mum, what’s happening? Where is he taking you?’

  Mum’s favourite Joe Cocker song.

  Dad’s lying face down on the living room floor.

  Empty bottle.

  Weeping.

  Miranda has been sweating beneath the only blanket on her bed. It might be the middle of summer, but she needs a shell to hide in. Darkness chokes with old cigarette fumes and wine. Nothing dulls the misery of sleeping alone. Loneliness is the undercoat on every wall, every door.

  She clicks on the light of the sports watch she bought after the last break-up. Before then she relied on her mobile phone to keep time. But in the days following Cyclone Dan, Miranda chose to leave her phone at home. She knew she’d be constantly checking it otherwise, in the hope of Dan calling. She’s proud of herself. It’s been five weeks and she hasn’t called him once. Not even during her frequent bouts of inebriation. Sent a couple of friendly text messages. But he’s declined every single olive branch.

  Each day was the same routine. Wake up next to each other, sip tea, exchange light-hearted emails from work, make dinner, go to bed. It all unravelled so quickly. But reality has begun to bite. The rose has dissolved and she’s beginning to see that life with Dan had been far from perfect.

  His family was so damned rude. Their dinners nauseating. Dan would abandon her to make small talk with his sisters. The problem was that everyone else at the table would abandon Miranda too. In those last few weeks he’d stopped inviting her. She was relieved, but it should have been a warning that the rug was about to be pulled out from under her.

  Miranda always listened intently to his woes from the corporate trenches and all the other theatres of Dan’s perpetual war with the world. He never conceded that he was at least partly responsible for his problems. She even sympathised when he complained about having to pay child support. For a son he hadn’t seen in four years. Dan never expressed remorse for being an absent parent. But that too would have required an admission of personal responsibility.

  Why on earth is she grieving? Dan would have drained her until she had nothing left. The embers of her dreams may very well be dying, but he would have extinguished them completely.

  Miranda has been in exile since she woke up in Meston Park. O’Neill was sympathetic; even wants her to talk to a shrink.

  ‘Mate, I never say this to anyone, but please, take the week off. You haven’t had a holiday for ages. But use this time to do some research. You need to consider your options. I know of people who’ve had good experiences with AA.’

  ‘AA?’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked. Have you considered seeing a shrink?’

  Any noise outside that remotely sounds like knocking sends her into a panic. Yesterday a police car was parked in the cul de sac. Miranda sat on the back patio, cigarette in her trembling hand. Would she jump over the fence if they knocked?

  What if it’s that Detective Matthews?

  She’d heard of his reputation for being prepared to bend the rules. Knew he’d been a witness for the Crown in John Tipat’s murder trial. O’Neill had acted for Tipat. Like everyone else, he loathed the man, but felt a professional responsibility to accept the Legal Aid brief. O’Neill was convinced that the confession had been coerced. But Matthews was a talented liar and the confession was admitted into evidence. Later, O’Neill asked her why a black cop would have so little respect for the rules of fair play, as though Matthews’ colour should have insulated him from impropriety.

  In the years following, Miranda occasionally heard his name in the courts. But last Friday was the first time they had spoken. She immediately launched into a diatribe about the Corrowa’s appeal and the apparently confidential nature of her conversations with Payne. She doubted he bought her confidentiality diatribe.

  What kind of a person wakes up in Meston Park without any recollection of how she got there! And the knife! Jesus Christ, this is not her. This is not the person she wants to be.

  Her head is swimming in a toxic river. But as soon as the jets of water hit she feels refreshed. Hope rears its head, like new buds on a dying stem. She slides into her favourite black jeans. Dangles gold earrings. She feels a small rush of excitement as she steps into night.

  As she passes the Boundary Street Hotel, Miranda’s cheeks burn. The rambling building takes her back to Friday morning.
Faces are illuminated by restaurant lights. The old man is struggling with his walking frame. Head shaped like a potato. Lightness of spirit reflected in those hazel eyes. He offers a friendly smile.

  Even this old man, with his metal limb, is happier than I am, she thinks.

  He carries no resentment for what life has taken from him.

  Why can’t I be grateful for what I have?

  Why can’t I be happy?

  The Ochre Lounge is bathed in incandescent red. She’s dazzled by the ornate light fittings; each holds six bulbs. Leather couches have the hardness of new furniture. Lamps sit in the corners for no apparent purpose. The tapas menu boasts chilli crab cakes and blue cheese sourdough. She remembers when this place used to be a habitat for lonely barflies. Old filth has been covered over by the Persian carpets, but ghosts linger.

  Beside the entrance is a table carrying a sign: ‘Tegan Chandler Exhibition Opening’. A gold cord separates the art space from the dining area. Paintings are surreal but all have a West End theme. One stands out for Miranda. The café strip in Boundary Street, but the road is naked of bitumen. A policeman on horseback cracks a whip. A black woman holds a baby; she’s cowering.

  ‘Miranda! So glad you could make it.’

  Miranda turns to find Tegan, and smiles. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it.’ She points to the painting. ‘Is that the boundary?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘How did you . . .’

  ‘I’m Murri too.’

  ‘Where’s your mob from?’

  Miranda senses Tegan’s awkwardness, decides not to press it.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, Miranda?’

  ‘Um, actually, I’ll just have a mineral water.’

  ‘Great minds think alike.’

  Tegan guides her to a table with trays of mineral water and orange juice.

  ‘Congratulations, darling.’

  The man is wearing tight white pants and a black T-shirt. Grey sideburns sit uneasily with the silver ring in his bottom lip.