‘Anyway, three years ago, the AAP – that’s the Australian Association of Psychiatry, by the way.’ He pointed to the wall behind him where a framed, silver-leafed certificate hung. ‘They held a conference in Darwin, and I was invited to be a keynote speaker. After the conference, I drove out to the community that I had worked in, all those years before, to see if I could find Ray. The community had been replaced with a uranium mine. The whole area was fenced off, and there was security patrolling – no doubt to keep the Aborigines out. I went to the nearest town and asked about the people who seemed to have simply disappeared. Most people didn’t know anything, but one of the Elders I spoke to said that the people from that community had moved on. Many had come to the town, but they fought with the locals, and so they left. I never got to see Ray again, or learn of his fate – or that of his community.’
James reached for his wine but checked himself when he remembered the camera was rolling.
‘Anyway, we moved to Launceston from Sydney in ’95, and we bought this house. This mansion, as you call it. I started to consider what happened to the Aboriginal people who once lived here, you know? I read that the people from this area were either killed or forced away from here very early during the settlement of Tasmania. I figured that, although the circumstances were different, it was the same outcome for Raymond and his people. The uranium mine stands as a reminder that their land was taken, and their community destroyed. I suppose this house – and the other buildings in this town – stand as a reminder of what happened to the Aboriginal people of Launceston.’
‘And that is why you had the plaque installed,’ finished Kat.
‘Exactly.’ He folded his fingers together across his chest, leaned back in his chair and fixed Kat with a self-congratulatory smile.
After a moment, Kat reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder, which she placed on the desk and opened. She drew a neat bundle of papers from it and slid them across James’s desk.
‘What’s this?’ He picked up the papers and flicked through them.
‘They are conveyancing papers, doc. They’ve been drawn up by a lawyer.’ She paused. ‘This is how you sign your house over to the Aboriginal community of Tasmania.’
James looked from Kat to the papers. Then to Kat again. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Is this some sort of j-joke?’ His face contorted.
‘No joke,’ said Kat. She tapped the papers with her index finger. ‘There’s an asterisk on every page that you need to sign and initial.’
‘There’s no way on Earth I’m signing this place over to you, or anybody!’ said James through gritted teeth. ‘And you don’t even really look that Aboriginal by the wa—’
‘I’m offering you an opportunity to put your money where your mouth is, doc,’ Kat interrupted. ‘You have publicly acknowledged that this house stands on Aboriginal land – with your fancy newspaper article, and your trendy plaque out there.’ She gestured with her thumb towards the front door. ‘And now you’ve poured your heart out on camera, with your ridiculous sob story about the “Great Raymondo” and his disappearing–reappearing community. What this comes down to is that if this house stands on Aboriginal land – and it was wrongly taken, as you say – then here is your chance. You get to right the wrongs you speak of, and give your house and your land back to us: the blackfellas from here.’
James, slack-jawed, slowly rose from his chair.
‘Sit down, doc. I haven’t finished.’
He sank down again.
‘Oh, really?’ came a female voice, startling both of them. James’s wife stood in the doorway. She spoke with a breathy drawl.
‘I can handle this, thanks, Darla,’ said James, snapping back to reality.
Darla Clifford stepped into the room with a slight sway. She was tall – at least six foot. In one arm, she cradled a miniature Chihuahua, its face snuggled into her powdered cleavage. With her other hand, she carried a wineglass in her fingers, the way rich people do. Some of the wine sloshed from her glass onto the carpet as she walked, and she rubbed it in with her foot.
‘Sorry about that, James,’ she said, laughing to herself.
‘Get out of here, Darla,’ he said, almost pleading.
His wife ignored him and sat down on the edge of his desk. Her tight satin dress rode up her smooth, tanned legs, revealing to Kat a glimpse of Hello Kitty underwear. Darla didn’t bother adjusting it. Kat knew she wanted her to see that, even at her age, she had it going on.
‘We are doing an interview,’ said Kat, with a scowl. She was not just annoyed at the interruption – she was also perplexed by Darla’s choice of undies.
‘No, lovey,’ said Darla. ‘What’s happening is that my husband has been picturing you naked for the last ten minutes, while you have been trying to stitch him up on video so, presumably, you can show the world how clever you are.’
‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’ Kat said. She was over the surprise of Darla’s entrance now and back to her cool, calm self.
‘Well, why else would you be here, lovey? You don’t seem as desperate and lost as the women James usually lures into this room.’
Shaking his head, James sat back in his chair and drained his wineglass.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here,’ said Kat. ‘This involves you too.’ She picked up the handycam and moved it to the mantelpiece, so that she could fit Darla into the frame, and cleared her throat.
‘All my life,’ she said, ‘I have witnessed upper-class white people – like you two – getting all the breaks. Living in nice houses, driving flash cars, kids in the private schools. All the while, my mob – the blackfellas – we have to live in the shitty parts of town. Always trying to scrape by on the bare minimum.’ Kat checked the red record light on the camera.
‘It has pissed me off no end, this … injustice. This land used to be all ours, the resources all ours. But now we live like paupers in our own country, while you people shamelessly flaunt your privilege and wealth.’
Darla closed her legs and smoothed out her dress. She put the Chihuahua on the floor and it ran straight to James’s plate and devoured the remains of his dinner. Darla moved across to the sideboard and poured herself a neat whisky.
‘But over the years,’ Kat went on, ‘I’ve made my peace with this situation, like most of my mob have. Life goes on. Our organisations do their best to get a better deal for us, but very little changes. And it’s always the way, isn’t it? The most downtrodden people – they complain the least about their lives. It’s because we don’t have time to. We’re too busy trying to survive, trying to make ends meet. Do you know why most blackfellas don’t bother voting?’
James lost his cool and, standing, slammed his fist down onto the table. ‘Who gives a shit? I’ve heard enough,’ he said, rubbing his hand. ‘I won’t be lectured and spoken to like this in my own home. We’ve entertained you long enough, I think, young lady. Now take your damned camera and leave, or I’m calling the police.’ James placed his hand on the phone at his desk.
‘For God’s sake, James,’ said Darla, sighing. ‘You invited her in here, you old letch. Didn’t you learn your lesson after the last little slut sued you out of my holiday money?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Darla!’ spat James. ‘You’re making this worse. And anyway, who are you to call me old, huh? You’re no spring lamb.’
Darla stumbled towards James’s desk, her last few drinks clearly catching up with her. She poked a finger at his chest, in mock authority. ‘I’m in better nick than you, Mr Floppy.’ She almost collapsed in a fit of laughter.
‘Yeah, go and have another drink, Darla,’ said James. His face had turned a peculiar shade of red. ‘You haven’t peed yourself yet.’
‘The night’s still young, dear.’ Darla went to the mantelpiece and picked up a crystal prism inscribed with frosted lettering.
‘To Mr Awa
rd-winning Psychiatrist …’ Darla said into Kat’s camera. She held up the award and pretended to read the inscription, her voice starting to slur. ‘For prescribing yourself a record amount of Viagra.’ She set herself off into another laughing fit.
‘Right, that’s it,’ snarled James. He turned towards the fire, where the dog had settled, and patted his knees with both hands. ‘Tiddles, good dog. Come here, girl,’ he coaxed. Kat could hear him trying hard to conceal the anger in his voice.
‘Leave Tiddles alone,’ responded Darla, her laughter subsiding.
Obedient, the dog scurried over to James, who seized her triumphantly. He lifted her up by the loose skin on her neck and held her, cocked, over his shoulder. A shocked and shivering Tiddles whined. Her little feet pawed at the air.
‘I’m going to throw Tiddles into the fucking fire if you don’t get the hell out of my office,’ said James. His manner was strangely calm, but his expression said just try me.
Darla, eyes wide, drew in a deep breath and fell to her knees.
‘Man,’ said Kat to herself, ‘this is gold.’ She was watching the scene through the viewfinder of the handycam, which she’d picked up as the argument had progressed.
‘I’m serious, Darla. Leave now and I’ll put Tiddles down.’
‘You’re going to pay for this,’ slurred Darla, getting slowly to her feet with the aid of the desk.
James and Kat watched in silence as Darla stumbled out of the room. Even Tiddles stopped whining for a moment. James put the dog down onto the floor and it scurried back to the fire and lay there shivering, its beady eyes fixed on him. He put his head in his hands for a moment, before looking up and into the lens of Kat’s handycam.
‘And you’re still here,’ said James with a sigh.
Kat smiled and nodded. ‘That’s right. And, doc, you won’t be calling the cops. In fact, I want you to throw that phone into the fire, right now.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I have all this on camera. Including the part where your wife revealed your infidelity … oh, and the part where you threatened criminal animal cruelty.’ She laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘You act so woke, Mr Clifford, don’t you? Despite your privilege, you’re a real bleeding-heart man of the people. But privilege doesn’t make you a decent human being.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Clearly.’ After a pause, she said: ‘And who uses a landline these days anyway?’
He yanked on the phone cord and the plug sprang from the wall, then he tossed the phone into the fire without looking. It landed in the coals, and made a defeated beeping sound before it burst into green flames.
‘As I was saying,’ said Kat, ‘like most in my community, I had resigned myself to this situation. You’re the haves, and we’re the have-nots. I mean, what can I do about that, right? But what really irks me – what really gets my goat – is when whitefellas, like yourself, run with this tokenistic bullshit. Example: the plaque at your front door. And it’s not only these plaques, either. What’s with these acknowledgement of country speeches that kick off every public event these days? It’s all just words! Where is the action? If you acknowledge that this is Aboriginal land, then bloody well give it back. Don’t just say it, do it!’
‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he replied. His shoulders were hunched over, and he looked to Kat as if he had shrunk somewhat.
‘What I want, doc, is for you to sign this house over to the Aboriginal community, and then I will leave. Sign the papers and I’m outta here.’
‘Even if I sign the damned papers, they won’t be worth a cracker to anybody,’ hissed James.
‘We’ll see.’
‘Once the authorities are made aware that you are blackmailing me—’
‘I’ll still win,’ said Kat, ‘because you’ll see your own hypocrisy every time you open your front door.’
‘These papers will be null and void,’ finished James.
‘Look at you, invader’ – she opened her arms to encompass the stately room and ostentatious wealth – ‘relishing in the spoils. You’re no better than that fucking mining company. Now sign.’
He shrugged and then flicked through the documents in front of him, signing at the required places. The only sound aside from the scribbling of his pen was the occasional pop and hiss of the melting telephone. James reached the last page and then slid the papers across the desk to Kat, who scooped them up with one hand and shoved them, along with the handycam, into her backpack.
‘Good dog,’ said Kat, smiling. She reached down and gave Tiddles’s disproportionate head a tousle. The dog didn’t take its eyes off James.
Kat poured herself a short whisky from the sideboard and downed it in one go. ‘Thanks for the hospitality,’ she said.
‘Fuck you,’ replied James, and gave her the finger.
‘I think you will find our contract gives you twenty-eight days to vacate the premises. But, considering your generosity, I’m sure we can manage an extension, if you need one.’
The clap of Kat’s Doc Martens on the hallway floorboards carried through the now-silent house as she made her way out. James’s last words came as she closed the door behind her.
‘Don’t think you’ve got away with this. This will be all over the news.’
Kat stepped out into the cold, lit a cigarette and watched the smoke cloud rise above the garden. ‘Well,’ she said to the two cherubs on her way down the path, ‘it better be.’
YOUR OWN ABORIGINE
‘God, Jonesy’s a prick,’ said Matt. He placed a crumpled pack of Longbeach on the bar then stared at his hands, palms up. Blisters that had formed, burst and then formed again wept at the base of each finger.
‘Well, he is the boss,’ replied Jay. His gaze didn’t move from the TV above the spirits shelf, which showed the grainy highlights of an old AFL match. ‘Being a prick is a quality all bosses have – ’specially in our game.’
Matt winced as he brought his beer to his lips, expecting pain, but the icy glass gave his hands relief. He took a long swig and followed it up with a satisfied, ‘Ahhh.’
‘But I agree, he could have got a digger in for that trench. I mean, we’re bricklayers, for Chrissake. They have machines for that shit. We’re not in the Dark Ages.’
‘Yeah, and even if Jonesy couldn’t get a digger in there, he still could have got me some help. I dug that whole foundation myself. By hand.’ Matt held up his mangled palms to emphasise the point. ‘He got Craig and that other dickhead labourer to do a friggin’ Bunnings run – and pick up his smoko. And didn’t they milk it too? They were gone for over two hours.’
‘I don’t know why you bother whingeing about Craig,’ said Jay. ‘We all knew he would get it easy, when Jonesy put him on. Craig’s his sister’s kid for fuck’s sake – and you know what Kath’s like … she’s a bloody mole.’ Jay turned to the bartender and raised his empty glass.
‘Didn’t stop you shagging her,’ teased Matt, a hint of smile puncturing his sullen mood.
‘Righto, righto,’ said Jay, trying hard to conceal his own smile. ‘That was ages ago. And anyway, she kinda looked alright back then.’
‘Maybe, but she was still a mole.’
‘Yeah, well, it had been a while, so … you know, any port in a storm.’
‘I still wouldn’t have … hey, hey – check this out, will ya?’ Matt indicated with a nod to the door.
Craig entered the bar alone. ‘Look at you two bums,’ he said, as he strode up to the bar.
Unlike Matt and Jay, who were still in their hi-vis shirts and stubbies, both spattered and streaked with mortar, Craig had been home. He was showered and dressed for a night out, in a brown leather jacket over a white t-shirt, casual jeans and brown leather shoes. Shiny. He pulled out his wallet – one of those crocodile-skin ones popular in the ’80s, also shiny – placed it on the bar, then nodded to the bartender. She answ
ered with a smile and suggestive tilt of her hip.
Matt made a show of looking Craig up and down. ‘Nice outfit, cock,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know you were a wog.’
‘Stop hating on me, bro,’ said Craig, checking out his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wrinkled his brow into a faint scowl, giving himself the James Dean look. ‘It’s not my fault you had to dig that trench today.’
‘That’s why we have labourers, bro. So, they – you – can do the shit jobs and we can get on with our work.’
‘Come on, you fellas,’ said Jay, staring at the TV. ‘Work’s over. It’s Friday, just forget about it.’
‘I agree,’ said Craig, settling himself onto a bar stool.
‘Yeah, you would—’ began Matt.
‘Hey, can you please turn that up’? Jay called to the bartender.
‘Sure, love.’ She picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV. The image of a newsreader with shiny, black hair and too-red lipstick burst into life. The caption below – the one that had caught Jay’s eye – read: Sponsorship Bill causing an uproar.
‘With the opinion polls showing the Liberals are down two points from last week,’ said the newsreader, ‘the Prime Minister is touring the country – no doubt trying to soothe the discontent caused by the extreme changes the Liberal Party has made to Aboriginal welfare. Reporter Murray Inglis is in Melbourne, where several of the major unions have convened a rally, denouncing the changes. Are you there, Murray?’
The shot changed to a street scene in the Melbourne CBD, where hundreds of angry people were marching down a crowded inner-city street, chanting and carrying banners and union flags.
‘Yes, Noy. Thanks. We’re here in Flinders Street, where all the major unions have organised a demonstration against the Aboriginal Welfare Bill that was passed through federal parliament almost six months ago to the day. Nicknamed the “Sponsorship Bill”, the new law has generated a huge outcry from both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal groups across the country.’
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