by Anita Heiss
Izzy used the coffee machine on the odd occasion of course; when the girls came over, when the three neighbours she spoke to came in, and of course, when Richard and Nadine visited. Today though, she couldn’t be bothered with the coughing and spluttering of the machine. She didn’t have the patience or the interest. She boiled the kettle and reached for a tea bag. As it sank into the water she opened the screen door and looked down the two flights of concrete stairs towards the back garden overlooking the river. The grass had been freshly mown and the smell reminded her of summer back in Mudgee; she loved being carried home to Wiradjuri country by nothing more than her sense of smell and a strong breeze. Today though, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else but West End.
She placed her mug on the table and collapsed into a chair, surprising even herself at how listless she was feeling. Maybe she should’ve had a strong coffee. Was coffee bad for you when you were pregnant? She didn’t know, but she was going to have to find out. Unlike Xanthe, she hadn’t raced out and bought books and magazines; nor had she searched Internet sites for blogs and chat rooms.
The lingering scent of freshly cut grass made her smile. A City Cat sped by with people heading downstream to any number of stops along the brown river. It was the same City Cat she should’ve been travelling on to work. But she felt sick, and it wasn’t morning sickness. Those symptoms – nausea and vomiting – had subsided, thankfully. Rather, she felt like she had a hangover without the headache. And it didn’t go away with a hamburger and chips. It didn’t help if she put her fingers down her throat either. Nothing was going to help until she’d told Asher – and her mother.
But how would she even tell Asher? Her tiddas hadn’t helped her in finding clarity at all, but that was her own fault. Ellen and Nadine wanted to help, were willing to talk to her about it, but she clammed up whenever they broached the subject. And exactly what would she tell him? She’d avoided him for weeks, and knew by his texts asking ‘Is everything OK?’ that he was feeling neglected and confused. But he wasn’t her boyfriend, wasn’t likely to be her boyfriend. And even though he was the father, he didn’t seem to be the fatherly type; he’d never talked about kids at all. Perhaps that’s why they got on so well. They were both driven by their careers and desire for professional success, much more than anything else, including their love life. While she and Asher weren’t in a relationship, they were good friends, and they had deep respect for each other. Would all that be lost with the news of an unplanned baby?
Izzy had never thought ill of Asher, but neither had she thought of him in any other way than as a friend, a wonderful lover and a great cook. She respected him for his achievements; he was chef at a groovy restaurant and bar in West End and the only deadly Black chef in Brisbane, or so he used to say.
‘Flasher’ was the pet name Izzy had given him because he had the best set of teeth she’d ever seen on anyone, Black or white. ‘All the better to eat you with,’ he would joke when they were alone, back at her flat after a night of cocktails at his work.
There was a mutual admiration between the two as well. Asher liked that Izzy had big dreams because he did too. He wanted to be the next Black Olive with his own catering company, cookbooks and a sous-chef trained by him. Izzy wanted to be Australia’s Oprah. Between them they had enough belief in themselves and each other to make their dreams become realities.
Late at night, after lovemaking, they didn’t whisper sweet nothings to each other. They talked about their goals, spoke with passion about how good life was when their hard work paid off every day. For Asher it might be a customer saying it was the best polenta they’d ever had, or the most divine chocolate mousse to ever slide down their throat. For Izzy it was receiving an email from someone who’d watched her program and learnt something about Aboriginal art and culture. Their careers defined their relationship; it wasn’t about love and babies and happily ever afters.
Izzy noticed some movement in one of the many yellow brick apartments on the other side of the river. She wondered what the local mob thought about life on the river now, and how many Blackfellas living in Brisbane were Jagera or Turrbul. As a crane moved slowly over the top of a building she thought back to her communications degree at Charles Sturt Uni in Bathurst and the joy of studying Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s poetry. It was when she first read ‘Aboriginal Charter of Rights’ that Izzy’s political consciousness was awakened. Years later in Brisbane she’d read Samuel Wagan Watson’s poem ‘Recipe for Metropolis Brisbane’ and thought it genius the way he had succinctly recorded the change in the landscape to this country.
Izzy’s phone beeped. A text message from Asher. It was as if he had eyes watching her somewhere, or could read her mind from miles away. A connection that could not be explained, that she had never tried to explain in case any over-analysis ruined what they shared.
Can I cook for you soon? It’s been a while
It was Asher’s way of inviting Izzy to the restaurant and then taking her home. He was horny, and so was she.
Of course
She smiled, but then another wave of nausea came over her. FUCK! she thought. I hate feeling like this. I didn’t want this – and I’m sure he doesn’t either.
She put her head on the table, closed her eyes and wept. How on earth would she tell her mother? She already knew what Trish would say after giving Izzy a guilt-laden lecture about not being married. ‘Why would you get pregnant to someone you’re not married to? Why wouldn’t you want a baby that God has gifted you?’ And then she knew her mum would add something like, ‘Your father would turn in his grave.’ At least Asher was Black, she knew that would be regarded as a positive; in her mother’s eyes it would lessen the blow. Richard, she knew, would be less than impressed. An unmarried Izzy being pregnant to a bloke he hadn’t even met was not what anyone wanted for their little sister, was it?
A rower paddled along the river. This was what Izzy loved most about living in West End, watching the sunrise and early morning health fanatics on the waterfront. All year round it gave her the chance to get her exercise, soak up the changing landscape, have some contact with the general public, smiling to other regular walkers and runners. Most importantly, it gave her time to think. Forty minutes every day as the sun found its way into the sky was all she needed.
Most locals ran, walked and cycled with iPods but not Izzy. She didn’t need the fast beat of songs to keep her pace. She didn’t want any doof-doof clouding her thoughts. The morning was her time; she cleared her head, plotted her day, scripted any unpleasant things that needed saying at work, and drafted her weekly letter home to her mother, which always included some reference to a wayward scrub turkey that had frightened her.
Something startled Izzy out of her thoughts and she jumped. In West End scrub turkeys roaming free were normal, but no-one else flinched except for her. She blamed her neighbours for feeding the birds like they were domestic pets, even though everyone knew you weren’t supposed to. When the males had destroyed their communal garden, Izzy suggested a turkey dinner but she was shouted down. The protected Queensland bird was treated like family.
Izzy stretched and glanced at her phone. It felt strange not to be getting ready for work. She loved everything about her job in the Cultural Precinct and her office at the State Library. Every day was a blessing, starting with her catamaran ride to work each morning. She got the 7.48, always sat out the back – she didn’t mind riding backwards until she fell pregnant – and enjoyed the perfect view of the river. Spring was her favourite time of year with jacarandas lining both banks. And she loved all the vessels with Aboriginal places names: Gootcha meant Toowong, Tunamun was Petrie Bight and so on. ‘Too deadly,’ she’d said out loud when she first realised this.
‘The ferry is like the tram but just on water,’ she heard a woman tell her child the other morning. Izzy wasn’t sure that made much sense. The child seemed happy with the explanation, but Izzy wondered whether she too would become a mother who said stupid things just to shut
up an enquiring child.
Her routine each day included a private game where she counted the workers, tourists, business people, those reading newspapers and young girls playing with their hair. Useless statistics she could pull out at a dinner party if she ever needed to.
Occasionally, as the City Cat pulled into Regatta Point, she felt a memory force its way to the front of her mind, recollections of a lover who had once broken her heart. She should’ve known that a man wanting a first date in a pub was never going to be worth much. Her mother had always told her, ‘You don’t meet nice men in bars.’
The famous Regatta Hotel took longer to rebuild after the floods than her heart took to mend though. And the floating restaurant on the river where they had fallen in love had drifted away that fateful January and ended up in Moreton Bay. The man had floated away too, but it was for the best. When he chose a simple-minded woman who didn’t challenge his intellect – and also happened to be white and so didn’t question his politics – Izzy, a strong, intelligent Black woman, decided he wasn’t worth caring for at all. She’d seen a few supposedly intelligent Black men opt for a less complex white woman; somehow, she reckoned, it made them feel smarter. She’d never wanted another serious relationship after that, and yet Asher was her intellectual equal. He was different to other men, she believed, but somewhere deep inside she felt that he too wasn’t relationship material, and that every man had the capacity to be a bastard. In the end he’d leave her for someone without a career. It was fine for she and Asher to fuck, but their determination to succeed outside the bedroom could eventually present a problem.
She had first met Asher during an interview for the library. He was doing the catering for an event at kuril dhagun, and was demonstrating a bush twist on the lamington, which had been created in his hometown. As he spoke into the camera answering her questions, they both felt a chemistry that needed exploring.
‘I’d love to learn how to bake,’ Izzy had said off camera.
‘I’d love to teach you,’ Asher said with his signature grin.
That night the two spent time in his kitchen covering each other in cooking chocolate and coconut.
Izzy loved talking to authors, actors, directors and visual artists. She asked the questions that helped make their work more accessible to mobs all around the country. Interviews, news stories, profiles of successful Blackfellas – all helped to break down the negative stereotypes that the mainstream media had continued to perpetuate. Izzy loved working in tandem with the Murris in the library too, a team of solid women, with innovative programs aimed at educating and entertaining. Inspired by them, Izzy would disembark the City Cat each morning and head straight to the tropical rainforest walk. It was a soothing way to start the day, breathing in the lush foliage, greeting her favourite honeyeater.
On the way home after her usual nine-hour day, she’d stop at the Nepalese Peace Pagoda and feel the stress drain from her. If she felt strung out for any reason during the day she’d walk the length of the Grand Arbour and lose herself in the hundreds of bougainvilleas. It was too beautiful a place to remain angry or stressed.
The Friday night markets in Stanley Plaza were a relaxing way to end the week and Izzy would drop by on her way home from work. As soon as the sweet floury smell of churros hit her nostrils she knew her weekend had truly started. She resisted though; being on-camera, even for Blackfellas, meant you shouldn’t get too fat or have too many pimples. She was often tempted by the homemade lemonade but usually passed on that too. Unless it was a special occasion when she lashed out on both. Sitting on the edge of the man-made swimming area she would imagine she was in Europe.
Exploring the markets at her own pace was what she liked to do most. Weaving through the stalls of locally designed jewellery, knick-knacks (or ‘dust-gatherers’, as Nadine called them) and cheap cotton dresses. She occasionally clicked her fingers to the beat of an artist belting out a tune at the nearby pub.
She collected printing blocks, and used one in particular as part of her signature when writing a birthday or Christmas card. She stopped at the same stall every week to see if there was something new to add to her collection. At last count, her collection of suns was at fifteen. As soon as she learned that Veronica was serious about her artwork, she started collecting some for her birthday.
At work the next day, Izzy walked around dazed. She felt her stomach often, wondering about the life she and Asher had created. She forced herself not to think about actually living with a child; she didn’t believe she had the capacity to give a child the kind of life it needed or deserved. She simply wasn’t maternal, and she accepted that without guilt. But time had run out. She was going to have to be all the things she needed to be.
She threw herself into her work – a welcome distraction – focussing on filming the latest library news and events round-up. There was story time in the Talking Circle of kuril dhagun so she interviewed a couple of aunties as a lead-up promo of what visitors to the library could expect. She also did a short piece in the library bookshop looking at all the latest releases and vox popping patrons in the library café. A full day, a complete day, a day that reminded Izzy of how much she loved her role, her cultural and community contributions . . . and her life just the way it was. Tracey had stopped asking her to return the contract, saying she’d stall the broadcaster as long as she could with ‘negotiations’, but even Izzy knew her options would become more limited.
On her way home, Izzy gazed up at the Wheel of Brisbane, known locally as the Lazy Eye. She watched the gondolas going around and around, the same thing over and over again. Is this what her life would become with a baby? If she had to turn down the TV role she had so desperately wanted, dreamed about, worked hard for? Perhaps the ride represented what her life had already become, her unvarying routine going to and from work each day: the same river walk, the same river ride, the same faces, the same, the same, the same. Perhaps a baby would give her a new focus. But she didn’t want to end up like Veronica with no identity other than mother. Or worse still, like Nadine, who was largely detached from her children.
Izzy walked to the counter, bought a ticket and climbed aboard. She had a gondola all to herself; alone, but for the unborn child within her. She’d have to tell Asher when they got together for dinner, soon. She could hear an excited child in the next gondola: ‘Wow, wow, wow.’ What could the child see that she couldn’t? There was no ‘wow’ for her, but then again she had seen the river, by day and by night, many times from the deck of the State Library. She had also seen some stunning views from the top of the Gallery of Modern Art when she attended Queensland University of Technology events. She’d had her fair share of ‘wows’ before today.
In the gondola she gave herself over to the running commentary about the history of Brisbane and its landmarks – the Gabba, the Goodwill Bridge, the Treasury Building. The didge music woven throughout sounded odd, but tourism companies knew that the haunting sounds of the wind instrument from the Top End was an expected part of the generic ‘Aboriginal experience’.
As she disembarked Izzy started planning the upcoming book club gathering at her place on Friday night. She had mixed feelings about it, and butterflies just at the thought of seeing Asher, which she would have to do eventually.
The solid oak coffee table was littered with finger food – the easiest way to manage the catering. Pistachio nuts, cheeses, olives, vine leaves, falafels, and there were samosas and marinated chicken wings in the oven. Izzy wasn’t drinking but she’d stocked the fridge with wine and mixers and had made a passionfruit mocktail. She rushed to change the towels in the bathroom, ran a broom over the balcony, which was constantly littered with falling leaves, and put on some George Benson. It had been six months since she’d had the girls all over together, even though Nadine and Richard had visited since, and Ellen had occasionally dropped by for a river run.
A more-obvious-than-normal-cleavage stared Izzy in the face via the bathroom mirror. Her t-shirt was tight
but it still worked. Her jeans weren’t comfortable though, so she opted for a linen wrap skirt she’d picked up on sale on Boundary Street. She broke out a new pair of shoes from Wittner with tiny blue tiles across the toe and wondered how long she would be able to walk in them. For the first time in years she let her hair dry naturally, the curls taking on their own new, free life. She couldn’t resist running the GHD through her fringe though.
As she was lighting some candles in the bathroom, Izzy heard the sound of heels on the cement stairs. Her tiddas had arrived, all chatter and laughter. Within minutes they had said their hellos, had plates of food on their laps and the book discussion had begun. Izzy couldn’t remember the last time a Vixen meeting had been so efficient.
‘This was amazing!’ Ellen said with gusto. ‘It was the first novel I’ve read that talked about native title, social and emotional wellbeing, Black bureaucrats, police thuggery and Black deaths in custody.’ She took a breath.
‘And infidelity, stolen wages, Black on Black and white on Black racism,’ Xanthe added.
Veronica couldn’t be left out. ‘All wrapped up in a skilful multi-murder mystery.’
Nadine shook her head, the shame clear on her face. ‘I’m embarrassed I didn’t know about the imaginary line called “the boundary” or the curfew in Brisbane last century.’
Izzy tried not to bite, but it was hard. It shat her that her sister-in-law knew so little about history, but doubted if she were sober more often that would make a difference. She gritted her teeth and was saved by Veronica.
‘I liked how she tried to hide Musgrave Park as Meston and called it the land of the Corrowa people.’
‘What about the characters?’ Ellen said, wide-eyed. ‘Because I’m sure I saw a few people I know in there!’