The Tour

by Denise Scott

  Finally, I reached the woman in question. ‘So you’re thirty-seven years old and you still live at home with your parents. Why?’

  ‘Denise,’ she replied, ‘the reason I still live with my parents is that I am intellectually disabled.’

  Silence.

  In fact, that night I learnt that there are many, many different levels of silence. And this was a very, very deep silence.

  I had absolutely no idea what to say or do. And so I just stood there, and then I did something I have never done in my career, before or since. I hid behind a large pillar. It was situated on the right-hand side of the stage. What was I thinking? Obviously, I was going to have to come out at some point. I guess I was trying to give myself a bit of time out, hoping for some sort of miracle. A mini earthquake, perhaps? Anything that might distract from the reality of the situation.

  I started whimpering into my handheld microphone, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do …’

  Then, from the back of the theatre, the thirty-seven-year-old woman called out, ‘Don’t worry, Denise. I still think you’re funny.’

  The audience laughed.

  And as I emerged from behind the pillar and walked back to centre stage she added, ‘But then again, I am intellectually disabled.’

  And to think I’d almost stopped believing in miracles.

  The next day our photo appeared in the paper. It was the group shot from the cane fields. Russell appeared to be leaping 2 metres in the air, his legs spread wide, his hands touching his toes. He was grinning his head off. I, on the other hand, appeared to be very much still on the ground, a pinched, wincing, almost bitter expression on my face. At the time I would have sworn I was smiling.

  * * *

  Maybe it was being in the tropics. Maybe it was being in the company of young people. Maybe it was being away from home, away from my day-to-day responsibilities. Whatever the reason, the fact was, the further north we went, the better I began to feel. I was lighter in spirit. (Ah, if only I could have been lighter in body as well.)

  Nothing particularly noteworthy had happened in the two and a half weeks since we’d left Melbourne. Of course, there was that bowl of porridge I ate in Gladstone—if it wasn’t the best I’ve ever tasted it sure came close, a beautiful chewy texture to the oats and topped with brown sugar and stewed rhubarb. And there was that memorable conversation I had with Gideon while driving between Gladstone and Rockhampton. Oh man, we got so excited. Who knew we shared the same passion about water-storage levels in Melbourne dams? And then there was the bonus surprise that in Rockhampton it was Beef Week. The local appliance store featured a window display of vacuum cleaners dressed as cows. The local fish shop had a sign that said, ‘Beef Week Special! Fresh Oysters $12. NO BULL!’ The shopping plaza had a soundscape of cows mooing, and I’ve never heard so much animated chat about semen—quantity, quality and availability. And then there was the woman I sat next to on the plane from Mount Isa to Cairns. She was Aboriginal and told me her life story—it was quite amazing. She had lived on an outback station with an abusive white husband but eventually managed to escape, become a nurse, raise her kids and was now on her way to Cairns to speak at an Indigenous health conference. As the plane landed she grabbed my arm and said, ‘Can I tell you something? I haven’t told anyone this. I am speaking at a health conference, but I’m leaving early to go and have a tummy tuck.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said to her. And I meant wow.

  I wished her well, and we hugged. Sisters united in a secret.

  But apart from those highlights things had been pretty low key. We’d spent our days travelling to the next location, did the show at night, sometimes had a drink after—but then again sometimes we didn’t. And yet there was no denying I was actually enjoying myself, and, as corny and clichéd as it sounds, goddammit, I felt young again!

  But then we got to Townsville and, well, things went a bit weird …

  As in I became delusional …

  As in I didn’t just feel young but really and truly believed I was young again.

  We were staying in a brand-new, swanky, upmarket hotel that overlooked the Townsville marina. Upon our arrival, a young chap at reception wearing a smart brown jacket and a badge declaring his name was Gary leant across the desk, clearly excited out of his mind, and informed me that the Wiggles were also staying there.

  My room, on the third storey, was a typical boutiquehotel situation, giving one an impression of space where there was none, the best part being the small balcony where you could sit and watch people and cars being ferried back and forth to Magnetic Island. I marvelled at the ‘laundry’: hidden out of sight behind dark, polished wood doors, in a nook no bigger than a small cupboard, was a state-of-the-art washing machine that required me to put on my glasses in order to study the complex washing options on a computerised screen. Above it was a state-of-the-art clothes dryer. Clothes dryer? Hello? Weren’t we in Far North Queensland? A place where the sun shines every day? Which begged the question why have a clothes dryer? Why wouldn’t you just hang your underpants over the back of a chair on your balcony?

  I found out the answer to that question the next day, when I was forced to go and collect my underpants from Gary, who earlier that morning had kindly retrieved them from the driveway.

  That first day I went for a walk and like a moth to a flame was drawn to a beauty salon, where Libbi went to town, ripping the hair from my legs, pubic region, upper lip, chin and brows, while a group of monks did some Gregorian chanting in the background. And when it came to a bikini wax Libbi was a perfectionist, because just when I thought it was all over she headed down there with a pair of tweezers.

  I said to her, ‘Honestly, don’t worry about it, Libbi. I’m not that fussed.’

  ‘Denise, I am an artist. You are my canvas. I couldn’t bear to send you out into the world knowing I’d left a hair there. What if somebody saw it?’

  Libbi, I thought, the only way anyone could possibly see that hair is if I was doing breaststroke in the pool, in the nude, and they were swimming right up my arse behind me. And what’s the likelihood of that? I can’t do breaststroke.

  * * *

  That night, post-show, we celebrated, because the next day there was no travel and, what’s more, it was Mother’s Day. We all met in Jeff’s room for drinks. We played charades and checked out interesting YouTube videos, one of which involved a woman having sex with a Shetland pony. Each to their own, but I myself didn’t think it was entertainment. Someone then decided to roll a joint, but no-one had a match or a lighter and oh my goodness the carry-on until I calmly suggested they use the toaster. We mothers, we just know these things!

  It was daylight when, many bottles of wine and packets of crisps later, I headed back to my room. I went straight to sleep. Four hours later I awoke and bounced out of bed, a spring in my step. I walked into the centre of town, where a market was happening. A husband and wife were performing country and western numbers on a small stage.

  I rang John. ‘Have you got the chook on yet?’

  ‘Yes, Scotty, I’ve got the chook on. It should be ready by twelve-thirty.’

  ‘And have you rung the home to let them know Mum won’t be staying there for lunch?’ (Mum was in a locked dementia unit.)

  ‘I haven’t rung them yet, but I will.’

  ‘You’d better do it now, John. And you know you have to pick up Mum before midday?’

  ‘Yes, Scotty, don’t worry. I’ll get her just before twelve.’

  ‘No, John, you have to pick her up before that. Otherwise, the other residents will be sitting down for lunch and Mum won’t be able to and she’ll get confused.’

  ‘I know that, Scotty. I’ll pick her up at five minutes to twelve. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘And make sure she wears a coat. You’ll have to put it on her. Is Jordie coming?’

  ‘Yes, and we’re going to Skype Bonnie.’

  Needless to say, Bonnie was alive and well and safely bac
k in Berlin.

  ‘Oh, I wish I could Skype her.’

  ‘Well, if you’d taken your laptop …’

  ‘I know, I know. Maybe she’ll ring me for Mother’s Day.’

  ‘She can’t. She’s completely out of credit again.’

  ‘Oh my God, John, you’ve got to listen to this.’ I held the phone up as the country and western duo let rip. The wife was yodelling her head off. ‘Could you hear that? Aren’t they great?’

  ‘Yes, but Scotty, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go. I have to catch the shops. I need cream for the apple pie, and I want to get your mum some flowers and chocolates from all of us.’

  ‘Well, give her my love, and I’ll try to ring this arvo, but I’m going to some mountain and might be out of range.’

  ‘Okay, love you, Scotty.’

  ‘Love you, John.’

  At midday I went to the hotel foyer and sat on the white leather couch. Five minutes later Stu arrived and sat down beside me. ‘Scotty.’ Stu looked at me. His eyes were sparkling. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You and John have been together a long time. How do you keep a relationship alive?’

  ‘You work your arse off,’ I replied.

  Just to give you some indication of how delusional I was becoming, and it does pain me to do so, I managed to interpret the above exchange to mean that Stu was having doubts about his relationship with his stunning, knock-out, utterly dropdead gorgeous tattooed twenty-four-year-old girlfriend …

  Because …

  (And here I’m warning you to brace yourselves.)

  … he had fallen in love with me.

  (Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

  In my head, this was an entirely possible scenario, because for starters I wasn’t me. Well, I was me, but I was the me from thirty years ago. In fact, I was an even better, hotter, more funky version of the old me. And Stu and I had been hanging out together a good deal, going on walks, checking out the tourist attractions, often just the two of us, because the rest of the group were usually preoccupied with Facebook business.

  Gideon arrived and informed us that no-one else was coming. They were all still in bed recovering from the night before. We headed off in the Tarago. Stu was driving. Gid was in the front passenger seat. I was in the back. It was an uncharacteristically cool and overcast day. We headed out of town, and an hour or so later, when we were halfway up Mount Spec, we decided to stop for a swim at Crystal Creek, a glorious series of deep rock pools featuring a giant waterfall.

  I happily threw off my clothes to reveal my G-cup onepiece swimsuit, thrilled in the knowledge that only the day before Libbi had denuded me of unsightly body hair. As for my sun-damaged skin and all my goobies and age-related warts, they didn’t bother me, not in the least, because as far as I was concerned I didn’t have any, because I was a young, slim, fit and vibrant woman with flawless skin who glowed with joie de vivre and hope for the future.

  Gideon stood on the rocks taking photos while Stu and I dived into the icy-cold water. I unashamedly showed off, gaily freestyling, backstroking and butterflying. At one point I dived beneath the surface and suddenly shot my legs up out of the water, where I enthusiastically began opening and closing them like a pair of scissors, à la Esther Williams.

  Stu and I then disappeared behind the waterfall, where we floated together in the dark cave, hidden from sight by the thunderous curtain of cascading water. It was freezing cold. We shivered and laughed. Laughed and shivered. Shivered and laughed. It was obvious to me that there was a strong sexual tension between us. Why wouldn’t there be? We were both young, we were both hot, we were both away from our loved ones, and we were both frolicking in a dark, thunderous waterfall situation.

  Later that afternoon, at the top of the mountain, we went to a cafe and drank tea and ate scones with jam and cream. I was wearing Stu’s checked woollen jacket that he had lent me. It was too small, but who cared? Not me.

  At one point Stu gazed intently into my eyes and said, ‘Oh Scotty, I wish you were my lover.’

  (Now, the fact that what Stu actually said was ‘Oh Scotty, I wish you were my mother,’ the point being it was Mother’s Day, and yet I clearly heard the word ‘lover’, indicates just how delusional I had become.)

  It was when we began our descent of the mountain and I saw a sign informing me there was 18 kilometres of winding road ahead that I began to feel quite ill and to wish I hadn’t drunk quite so much the night before, yet alone just scoffed a scone the size of a small cauliflower. And it wasn’t just a winding road; it was a corkscrew situation—steep and narrow and tight.

  And so began our long descent. We went around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around until …

  Oh no, oh, Jesus Christ, fuck me dead—excuse the language, but at the time that was my exact thought—I saw another sign.

  Sixteen kilometres of winding road to go.

  And so around we went again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again until finally the road was straight.

  And that’s when I said, ‘Do you think you could pull over, Stu?’

  I got out of the van and there, by the side of the road, with the magnificent sugarcane fields of Far North Queensland as a backdrop, I collapsed onto all fours and vomited my guts up. I vomited until there was nothing more to vomit, except that I did vomit again, and then again, until there was just a thread of bile swinging from my mouth.

  And because of my age and the intensity of the vomits, I also wet my pants. And, to my great amazement, I also started menstruating, which was nothing short of a miracle, as I hadn’t done that for at least a year and a half.

  Slowly I stood up; my whole body was shaking, my head was thumping, and my arthritic ankle had gone, forcing me to drag my leg behind me like Quasimodo. I slumped against the front passenger door of the van. Gideon and Stu were looking straight ahead—a tactful gesture on their part.

  I banged my fists on the window. ‘I’m not twenty-four, am I?’

  Neither Stu nor Gideon answered this question, which was entirely appropriate given there was no happy answer to be had.

  ‘I’m not twenty-four. I’m fifty-four. I’m fifty-fucking-four.’

  Gently, I slid open the back door and got into the van, and as night fell we drove back towards Townsville in silence, until finally Stu looked at me via the rear-vision mirror and said, ‘By the way, Scotty, happy Mother’s Day.’

  Then one of the boys snorted like a pig, and it broke the ice and we all laughed until we had tears streaming down our faces. And that was it: my awakening. It was like a spiritual slap across the face, the sort of slap that wakes you up and makes you come back to life, rise to the surface and gulp for air. And, as I sat in the back of that van, covered in vomit, blood and urine, I felt joy—pure, unadulterated joy.

  Time had got away from us. We had to hightail it back to the hotel, quickly change and race to meet the others at the theatre. I was as white as a sheet and still shaking. I performed my set and came off stage to discover that Stu had found an old mattress backstage and had dragged it into my dressing room. I turned off the light and lay down until it was time for the curtain call, at the end of the show. As I lay there in the dark on that putrid mattress I could barely suppress the happiness I felt. It was … well, it was a state of euphoria. I couldn’t recall having ever experienced anything quite like it. It was as though a tremendous burden had finally been lifted from my shoulders and for the first time in my life I felt free. I had no idea what burden I had been freed from. All I knew was that something truly significant had taken place.

  Back in my hotel room I rang John. The chook had been a triumph. The apple pie had been fantastic. Mum had had a great time.

  ‘And how was your day, Scotty?�
�

  ‘It was good. Really good.’

  chapter one

  Beginnings

  I grew up in an outer Melbourne suburb called Greensborough, so named because it was green. And that’s about all you need to know. Put it this way: Greensborough in the late 1950s was hardly known for its wow factor. And that suited my mother down to the ground, because Margaret Scott loved the ordinary.

  In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if there were a Goddess of Ordinariness my mother would have lain prostrate and worshipped at her feet, were it not for the fact that it would have drawn unwanted attention. She was a quiet, devoted, no-nonsense, no-fuss sort of woman whose favourite sayings were ‘Neat as a pin,’ ‘Not a hair out of place’ and ‘She was a real little lady.’ She was also often heard to say, ‘When in Rome …’ She never finished the sentence; she didn’t have to. All she had to do was purse her lips and raise her eyebrows ever so slightly and you just knew Rome was our war service home and the Romans were in fact one woman and her name was Marg Scott.

  Mum set the rules, and my sister and I obeyed them. We never disobeyed her. We never argued with her. Ever. And the only time my father and mother argued was of a Saturday evening when Dad would roll home from Dawson’s Hotel having drunk too much in a futile attempt to ease the pain of his beloved Heidelberg West football team being thrashed yet again. My mother didn’t like to argue. She didn’t like the boat to be rocked. She liked things to be calm and ordered and uneventful.

  My mother’s house was a spick-and-span humble home with no clutter, and there was never anything out of place. One of her favourite stories was about the time a neighbour had called in. ‘It wasn’t even half past eight in the morning, and would you believe, as luck would have it, I was dressed, the dishes were done, the beds were made. I’d even polished the kitchen floors. I felt tremendous.’

  Every evening at 7 pm my sister, Julie, and I set the table, and every evening we ate a tasty home-cooked meal such as stew and mash followed by custard and tinned fruit. There was never any need for Jenny Craig in our house, because portions were always moderate—not because my mother was ungenerous but because she did not believe in excess. Thanks to the fact that pubs closed at 6 pm (oh, what a sad and dreary life it must have been) my father was usually home for ‘tea’, unless of course he had footy training or a footy meeting or footy crisis talks to attend at the Heidelberg West footy ground. There was always a clean and ironed tablecloth, and we always sat in the same place, my father and sister on one side, my mother and I on the other. No fuss. No bother. No surprises.