Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  The present tense.

  'Perhaps I should talk with Nigel sometime. Is he…?' I began.

  Penny shook her head urgently to interrupt me, wanting to finish her tale.

  'He left me. Suddenly, Nigel decided it was too much. He threw in the job. He lives with another woman. Unbelievably, neither Neil nor I meant anything to him. He told us both, at the dinner table, how happy he was, and went out the door, singing, "Don't fence me in". He has not taken any responsibility since. I have to finish paying for the house. I resent him. Nigel will demand one-half of its value because his name is there on the title and he can. I pay for his freedom in dollars and cents. He was never violent but I almost wish he was because then I would have something substantial. He will be devastated about Neil.' Conflicting emotions sent her searching for her friendly packet of cigarettes. 'Old romantic. Raider of the lost ark. In his dreams.'

  'How did Neil take his father leaving home? I suppose you expressed this resentment about the money and the abandonment. Did he talk about it?' I probed.

  'You know what teenagers are like. They keep secrets. So I don't know really. Not well. He liked his father sometimes, they played games together, but they are essentially different types of men. Neil is, was, more an indoor type and Nigel is one for the outdoors, if I am not putting it too simply. But, to tell the truth, Margot, I have been incredibly busy over the past few years. I have done everything practical for Neil and have kept our relationship relatively calm. I did not try to pry into his relationship with his father. I left it to them,' Penny slapped the words down, tossing in her hand.

  'Did they spend much time together at Nigel's place?' I interrogated. 'Or camping, fishing, father-son holidays? Films? Cars? Whatever?'

  She breathed out with a short, impatient huh. 'Do I know when I am lied to? Neil says, said, he spends time there, but he doesn't seem to know, or didn't want me to know, what Nigel is up to, what the people he lives with do with themselves or anything. I am kept in the dark.'

  Again the present tense. She had painted the picture of a teenager who had no friends but his mother. An inoffensive nerd, it didn't wash. A very strange lad, indeed, would dress up as a girl all by himself. And go out to party.

  'You said he started here with unhappy school-life, but surely he found pals?' Where are you coming from, Margot, The Famous Five? The Secret Seven? 'In the last few months?' I asked.

  'Well, yes. He improved after he started drama this year. Here is a phone number. For Nigel.' She lifted her satchel from beside her, moved the Chemart paper bag, compact, comb and took out a small, black leather address book with a natty gold pencil attached. She ripped out a page from the back and copied a number from the front inner cover and handed it across to me.

  'Oh, god, I hope you can find out what happened to Neil,' Penny Waughan said with an air of hopeless trust.

  I read the number out aloud. 'Do you have Nigel's address?'

  'He is always moving, but they will be able to put you onto where he is. If you are a private detective and I am hiring you, I would also like you to establish my ex-husband's permanent address so that I can pursue legal matters with him.' A little vicious streak snaked into her voice.

  'Penny?' I caught her attention. 'I'd like to see Neil's bedroom, things. When would be convenient?'

  'Ring.' The word snipped out of her lips like a scissor-cut. 'I have meetings some afternoons. I'm at work from eight-thirty. Should be home around dinner time. If you find anything, anything at all, please contact me at the college.'

  Finishing up, I said, 'I'll be in touch, okay?'

  She nodded.

  We went together to the cash register and each paid for our own coffee.

  The weather was still sunny, a lively wind in the light linden leaves smelt of sea. An easterly.

  When Maria and Sofia get home, Sofia's imagination flies out of control, seeing all sorts of alien beings, important persons and net surfers watching her falling angel drop into their minds, dumping her cargo and bringing them down. Maria cannot make any sense of what she is saying.

  She is happy when Alison arrives. She and Sofia rave together about cyberspace and the virtual world. Maria is glad that Sofia's words are out there. Alison assures her that Sofia does have an audience: who knows where her story is being read? Maria is bemused. Language in sentences Maria understands, not riddles and innuendo. But she hears the colour of imagery, and is proud.

  14

  …dog maidens…

  Victoria Shackleton walks with Judith Sloane. The Lesbianlands meeting is at the site of the original white homestead where there remains no more than an old English oak, brick fireplace, half a chimney, a few stubborn blackened fence-posts and a flat clearing in the bush. In what's left of the silvered rosewood post-and-rail yards her horse noses a biscuit of lucerne hay. Judith tells her she is the last of the real dog maidens. Victoria swells with pride and imagines her bitch is not as disobedient as she is. The dalmatian is tied with a rope near the saddle so she doesn't make a nuisance of herself. Tess, the red kelpie, Ti's two bloodhound-dobermans, Dormie, the blue cattle-dog, Ilsa's butterfly-eared lap-dog, and various mixtures of tan, black and white canines pay attention to their owners and each other then settle down pretty quickly. The irony of Judith's comment is lost on Vee, who has the subtlety of a kettle-drum. While birds sing, cicadas ring, early evening is the best time to get the lesbians' attention. Judith Sloane has the large, hard-cover minute book in her hands, and the journal and ledger.

  First there is an argument.

  'Victoria should take the notes today.'

  'Why don't you do it yourself, Rory?'

  'Virginia?'

  'I'll do it. I'm treasurer.' Judith grasps the book possessively.

  'I'd like Victoria to do it because, as she doesn't live here all the time, she will be the most objective,' says Gig. 'And you're not the secretary.'

  Judith turns the minute-book over when it is decided Vee will have least to contribute, so can concentrate on writing. The financial records she tucks away in her bag.

  'Present: Rory, chair; Judith; Gig; VW; Xena; Hope Strange; Kay; Helen; Ti Dyer; Ilsa; Dee; Ci; Roz and Fiona. Shackleton,' Vee adds, almost forgetting herself. Bea arrives late.

  Judith gives a rundown on the breaking of the bridge, the state it was in when she discovered it. Hope tells how she saw two women on horseback. Gig provides the anecdote of El Cohen's car teetering on the edge and finally drawn back to safety by womenpower. Pure might. Rory explains again why she thinks it would be a good idea to bring someone in to investigate. Ti, who can drive a bulldozer, romances how to fix it; she has the words, displays knowledge of details. 'It's only a matter of hiring one.' Judith dismisses her talk, which while full of meaning is hollow of action, with 'We haven't got the money.' Gurls must have their say. They do listen to each other. Some ready to pounce. Some of the discussion is way off the topic, for instance, the latest gossip from Sydney, about a man trapped in a male body who said he was a lesbian inside. General indignation at the transsexual annihilation of birth females is arrested by Judith's soft sibilant voice, 'Separatists are so fascist.'

  Impassioned conference is her forte, thinks Virginia, who marvels at the way Judith wields power with words. It really doesn't matter what she says, whether she contradicts herself, speaks softly or shouts; the company hangs on her opinion.

  'If the trannies say they are women locked in men's bodies, then around here I wouldn't be surprised if there weren't some jocks locked in women's bodies,' Fiona says mischievously. 'Cocks in frocks.' Ti and Victoria glare at her, and look to Judith for guidance.

  'That's not what we're here to discuss,' she says gently. 'Someone destroyed the bridge, and it could be one of us.'

  Not one among them believes that.

  'There's an outside threat,' Gig reckons. 'I can feel it.'

  'The male ego needs the reassurance of the female gaze,' Bea states slowly, irrelevantly.

  Meanwhile Ti is fum
ing and Fiona says to her, 'Just because you're an Aries, doesn't mean you have to be angry all the time.'

  'I don't want male approval,' Ti shouts. 'Hear hear' is the response and she is quieted by agreement.

  Xena Kia brings up the matter of the explosions and suggests mysterious activity by UFOs. Hope nods. Dee tries to shut her up.

  'It's a mistake to assume that lesbians are telling the truth, doesn't take into account manipulative behaviour patterns learnt as a child, or as a woman, to survive,' Dee is prepared to talk about abuse and lesbian domestic violence.

  'Let's get back to the point,' urges Judith sanely. But the talk has gone onto how many trees have been falling down lately. Victoria taps the pen on the page. Rory mentions the need of a detective.

  'Why should we employ a dick when we can work it out for ourselves?' Ti demands.

  'Are you talking about Margot Gorman, Rory?' Judith asks.

  'Well, I thought she could be impartial,' Rory says seriously. 'We'll need to bring men on to the land to fix it.'

  A furore about separatist politics ensues. Why would women who want to live with men bother to come here when they've got the rest of the world? Open women's land. No one can change that. 'I don't like the term,' Ilsa comments quietly. But she is given no space to explain what she means. Privacy is paramount. The less outside interference the better. 'I'm sorry but you're not a separatist, you're an isolationist!' We are about pluralising the nuclear family model, the power structure of it, where the women and children are vulnerable, to violence, to slavery. We have to experiment, or start the experiment, with adult women, lesbians together. None of us can be totally private. Not here.

  'Co-operatives are severely regulated.' Kay recounts her investigation into Lesbianlands going into official group ownership. Judith listens keenly. Then says, adamantly, 'I hate all that legal shit, it's rules and regulations imposed by the patriarchy.' Beneath words spoken, eyes exchange darts. Virginia is sure Judith contradicted herself, again. At the moment the title deeds are in the name of Ursula Tapp, a woman long gone from these parts.

  'Just get the fucken bridge fixed. Why is it necessary to place blame?' Ci stirs the possum.

  'I don't want the road open,' Helen confesses. 'If it means men on the land.'

  'The majority, however, do,' Rory asserts. 'We have to make decisions about the way we live together.'

  'In small communities, personalities matter more than ideas,' Ilsa pontificates sarcastically.

  'You can have all the structures you like, it won't stop disobedience, lies, whatever,' Kay claims.

  'Basically we have a club culture. Friendship's more important than outcomes,' continues Ilsa, as if the abstract analysis of what is going on is more important than the practical matter in hand.

  'We can't afford a new bridge,' Judith informs. 'In fact we have little money in the account. Would you like to know who owes their fees?' She reaches into her bag, knowing that no one else on the collective is interested in the boring matter of money.

  'Let's sell a few logs. We've got enough trees,' suggests Helen sarcastically.

  'But you won't let the loggers in,' Dee argues.

  'Power works at a formal level, leaders, committees and so on,' Ilsa informs. Virginia listens to her, wondering how gynaecocratic societies administered themselves, thinking of her Amazons.

  'Once we let the men in, where does it stop?' Helen says to Ti, who nods furiously.

  'But power is also informal,' Ilsa continues.

  Virginia addresses her. 'Woman have had so little power, but as a group, we find it difficult. We have to change the notion of power. We should be flexible.'

  'Power games,' Dee is disgusted.

  'Resources, we use what we've got,' Gig decides.

  'Not if it's just for the individual,' Rory disagrees. 'That would be chaotic and unfair.'

  'No,' Xena vetoes selling logs, rocks, ferns. 'We're abusing the goddess, and we're here to protect the bush, not exploit it.'

  'Do we even agree on our common ideas, ideals?' Virginia inquires.

  General laughter. Victoria Shackleton gives her writing hand a rest. Gurls who have the most to say aren't necessarily those who have the real influence. Those who blend in, later to speak outside the meeting, in informal caucus, gossiping, going around slyly attacking speakers, creating an atmosphere of division, have effective power. Rory tries to formulate a way of saying this without whipping up anger, without causing the situation she despises, and despairs of. 'Do we?' she says simply, taking up Virginia's question.

  'Why can't we just all be friends?' Bea asks.

  Kay jumps on her, 'Because that is sentimentalising women's bonding. It's a false situation. I will not say you're telling lies, but you can't assume we all have the same goals.'

  Judith pulls it all together. The English accent has a kind of imperial presence that silences the crowd. She expands on individual rights, being smoothly bitchy with her examples and concludes that it's okay to pursue self-healing practices.

  Xena is the one who takes umbrage. 'Personal growth has been done to death, it covers over the political problems that are happening.'

  Then Rory becomes impassioned. 'Personal growth can drag a group away from acting in its best interests. Collective ownership of land is the only way we can live in the bush without huge financial cost.'

  'Feminists are all white and middle-class!' Ti hurls insults aggressively because every time there's a meeting she gets angry.

  'Actually I'm not middle-class,' Rory says mildly. 'Are you Virginia?'

  'I don't know what class I am,' laughs Virginia, recalling the violent poverty of her childhood and how far she has come as an adult. 'But I am white.'

  Everyone, including Ilsa, has an opinion on class and race. And what it is to be called feminist. Patriarchal notions. Gangs. Lovers. Non-being. The absence of women in history. Mankind. Lying being part of the human condition. Honesty thus revolutionary. Negativity. Self-hatred. Sex as a commodity. Dominance and submission.

  The free-for-all lets off a bit of steam. It seems vicious and serious until Hope says something no one understands and they all dissolve into laughter.

  'Let's get back to the present problem,' offers Judith calmly with the authority of a head-mistress. 'There has been rubbish rotting up there on the road to Widow's Peak for weeks now. So, how are we going to get it down? The bridge is out.'

  'The only car that could do that now, without a bridge, is yours, Rory.'

  'I can't go around cleaning up after women, I am not your mother. I want to get to the bottom of this wanton destruction,' Rory declares. 'What if I asked Margot?'

  'You want to bring Margot Gorman out here so that you can seduce her,' jokes Dee.

  'Cool. She's a leso.'

  'Well gurls, I have to go.' Victoria shuts the heavy minute-book. She extends the hard-cover book to Judith.

  Rory says, 'Before you go, Vee, let's have a vote. Pass a motion. Employ a detective. Means we have to pay her. Those in favour?'

  The vote is not taken because the atmosphere is ripped by an explosion. At first they think it is another tree falling in the forest, but the blasts continue. They echo in the hills.