'Well first I'm going to Chandra Williams'. See you there. Booking's in my name. O'Riordan.'
'Tell Virginia that Judith's running off with her mail.' With that, Fi, Ana and Xena get into their station wagon and head off along the gravel road.
Virginia White's diesel four-wheel-drive appears along the track from the back part of the lands. When she brakes, the Holden Rodeo idles with a tinny, low rumble.
When Rory gives her the postcard, Virginia frowns and says, 'Who's got time to go to Antarctica?'
'To leave more garbage in a pristine environment. Why do they bother?' Dee Knox tends to ask this rhetorical question quite often.
The three land-lesbians chat for a bit. About any old thing, books. The world. Dee reads fantasy novels, Rory newspapers. Virginia wants to discover the truth.
'Fact is a bit of a worry,' Rory comments.
'Fiction though,' Virginia wants to say, 'has got worse in an effort to provide escape. If it's not about psychopaths, writers are only showing how dumb they are, how narrow, by making sentences about what they know. Relatively, nothing!'
'The news is my horror story, it's got everything,' says Rory.
'The blessed focus, the overblown individuality,' exaggerates Virginia. 'That would enable me to spend my life with the beauty of the native orchid.'
'But it would be life with a magnifying glass, a self-imposed tunnel vision or an autism,' Rory objects. 'Anyway you don't mean it.'
'That's why I do massage!' Dee maintains. 'For focus.'
The three eventually get going in different vehicles at differing speeds. As Rory drives off last, the meditative old tank grumbles beneath her.
Sloane is so sly. Rory is amazed Judith gave the gurls any information at all. It was more Judith's style to let them drive in and discover the broken bridge for themselves. Ella came in the night, her dog howling at the big moon. Cohen, her surname, she said, means dog. Judith parks her new Triton outside the boundaries of Lesbianlands and walks in, so dedicated is she to secrecy. Rory has seen Judith grow more and more introverted over the years they have shared the deeper reaches of the property. Only four left in that part of Lesbianlands: Hope at Trivia's, VeeDub, Judith and Rory herself. No one expected Judith Sloane would last when she came, she was so English. She seemed, to begin with, hopeless at looking after herself. But everyone loved her and did things for her. They loved her for her voice, both her speaking voice and her singing voice, only to discover later that Judith holds some deep obsession. Exactly what it is, Rory does not know. Is it guilt? Revenge? Disillusionment?
Judith claims to have been involved in all significant feminist causes and ecological ones too: Greenham Common; Pine Gap; Michigan Music Festival. She has been in the Arab world, the Caribbean, India, New Zealand, knew members of the Bader Meinhoff and Greens in Germany. When Rory presses her in conversation for incidental detail of these times, she gets a succession of famous names and anecdotes. Like talking to the pages of a gossip magazine. No proof that she was there personally, no proof that she wasn't. Rory sustains the feeling that Judith is making a fool of her. The voice of a duchess, the soul of a guttersnipe, working-class Rory has been known to say, but only when drunk. The class thing is here, Rory admits, in our dealings with each other.
After she hits the Cavanagh Gorge Road, in the witchy way of the gurls, just as she is thinking of Judith, she sees her car. The violet four-wheel-drive is ploughing up the dust on the serpentine track across the paddocks denuded of trees to Willy Campbell's place in the hills behind. Willy Campbell causes the women trouble whenever he can, but he is a joke. The tiny, wiry man hates 'greenies' and swears every second word, and, in the pub at Pearceville, he calls the landwomen 'supercunts'. But he is their neighbour. He gets some sort of kudos from that. Judith is the most rigid of vegans and so green she criticises the gurls who kill so much as an ant. The sight of Judith's vehicle in that place at this time is further confusing to Rory as she has heard on the grapevine that Judith's latest lover is black. Willy is as racist as they come. However, there is probably an easy explanation, thinks Rory, she is probably just getting hay for her sheep.
Rory's vehicle, meant for difficult terrain, made to carry heavy weaponry during war, is not designed for the smooth macadam of highways. It rattles and shudders, requires the driver to use all her muscle power to keep it on the road, as if, like a wild thing, it strained towards its element, off-road. Rory is immensely fond of it, and, proud of acquiring such a treasure, named it Margaret-Rutherford-as-Miss-Marple, or Ma'am.
Putting herself to the arduous physical task of driving Ma'am allows her mind to roam unfettered and come across whatever it will. Rory thinks of Cybil Crabbe, the kind of excitement, anticipation, in the air, when VW is about to go to town. Rory cannot stand Cybil. Virginia's attention when getting close to Cybil in the near future is scatty, almost senseless. At home in the bush, they could spend hours together with nothing to say, while at other times, they would earbash each other to death. Rory pulls her thoughts around to Chandra.
Although both have been in the area a long time, acquaintance has never got beyond the nodding level. Chandra is fierce, Rory feels judged by her. But now, with the prospect of getting herself a computer, having set up enough electricity from the sun and installed a telephone tower, she has to face the new technology. Chiefly a psychological hurdle, she is sure. If she doesn't follow instructions to the letter, she will do something wrong. Unwise. Destructive. The ease with which the likes of Hope Strange and other whizzes swim in the electronic dimension mystify her. She must plod into that place herself and make her own way with hands-on experience. And Chandra is the woman, having had a computer ever since they were affordable, maybe before; her disability and energy probably helped. She is closer in age, therefore Rory hopes she will be able to grasp the concepts behind the jargon.
Logging trucks and semi-trailers have to drop to their lowest gear, their lowest speed, so as not to jackknife over the cliff into the river. She has seen some close calls in her time. The corner is haunted by the ghosts of bad drivers.
Rory arranged her IT lesson, formally, with Chandra Williams who teaches Artificial Intelligence to women. And gets good deals on hardware. Does Chandra, she wonders, like Judith Sloane?
Branches of thought stream together as she hits the hard bend cautiously. The explosions and the bridge disaster are run-of-the-mill for Rory, exciting her enthusiasm only in the prospect of seeing Margot Gorman in private, one on one.
Sean Dark, my trainer, has an inoffensive attitude. He knows his stuff, has a trim body tuned to understated perfection. But he is a bit of a motor mouth. So I know he gave up sex with others five years ago because of the health risks. With energy to burn he piles affection on clients with beautiful bodies, who enter competitions whereat he can feel a motherly pride. He is a sweetie. I call him Sweetness and Light.
We talked about a piece of correspondence I showed him from a sports-wear company.
'What do you reckon about my doing the TV ad? I'll think about it after Sunday.'
His opinion of my chance of getting the well-paid job was so-so. He thought I had the local triathlon won, though. He lacked his usual exuberance.
While hugging my leg and pressing the toe end of my foot towards my shin-bone, he chatted. 'Sponsor's letter? You're not the only one. They'll have to try you out. I think you've got to look right, present the superwoman image. They will be filming up here. Outdoor shots. Our tourist town will be an ambassador for Australia, Olympics and all. Your sport is glamour plus, darls. Muscle tone on chicks. You've got to have it but don't flaunt it. They are going for your age group lately. Have you noticed? Hair? Creams? They're using women in their thirties. Ah fashion! Love it. Always changing.'
He placed my leg down and picked up the other and pushed tentatively with an inquiring expression.
'Female body-builders are out. Speaking of which,' his tone took on a gossipy camp note, 'a friend of yours turned up the other day, nic
kname of Tiger.'
'Tiger Cat is no friend of mine!' I surprised myself with my vehemence. Bitchiness was catching around Sean. 'She was here when you weren't one day. Looked right at home.'
'Not hydrating enough. Those girls have got to make their veins stick out. Their faces, my dear.' He flipped his wrist. 'Haggard. She's entered the event, she told me.'
On the mat I started stretches, bending forward, head on knees, hands on ankles. Bouncing up, squeezing flexibility into my groin with the splits, I said, 'Well, don't discount her. She has an arctic will. In the late-night drinking days of being young and tough, she and I played poker with the boys. We held quite a regular school for a few months there. At the Police Academy. She beat me. Everyone else had thrown in. I was holding three jacks and two twos. She calmly upped the bet another two dollars or five dollars. All I had to do was pay it to see her. But, what can I say? I'm a miser, not a natural gambler. There was something in her eyes that wanted to grind me to dust. There was a lot of money in the middle of the table. I dropped my cards face down. She had nothing. Jack high. The whole group cheered, complimented her on her steel. But I was devastated. She has sneered at me ever since, mistaking gambling guts for killer instinct.'
Sweetness and Light was amused by the story, grinned a grin to match his name, 'Well, they don't want her for their marketing. And she won't come within a cow's moo of you on Sunday. She won't make it through a full triathlon.'
Bitchiness in others is so comforting. 'But what does she want? From you?'
He shrugged. 'She's got cosmetic muscle. No face. She keeps talking about you. And how she's a dyke. Methinks the lady protests too much.'
Sean knows his drugs, substances, pills and natural therapies inside out. I worked out for about an hour. There were probably illegal steroids in that well-stocked cabinet of his. As I went through my weights routine, I speculated on his comment about cosmetic muscle and came up with the suspicion that he was selling something to Tiger Cat. She had bulked up a lot since Goulburn.
When I emerged into a sunlit afternoon, Jill, the Featherstone partner, was in the car park aiming for her automobile. She looked like a business-woman in a new chocolate-brown pants suit with matching leather bag. She didn't seem to want to be recognised.
I yelled, 'Hey Jill.' She had to stop and turn. We exchanged pleasantries. It wasn't the time or the place to ask her the questions I wanted to in relation to the night Neil died. I wasn't ready and, anyway, I had her mobile number. The gymnasium shared the car park with the RSL Club and Seaside Shopping Complex. She could have been anywhere, with anyone. She implied she was on her way to pump iron. Whatever, the truth was too precious to waste on me. She had to say something. She had no towel, no drink bottle, no clothes bag. The car she was near was the red Saab. She turned towards Sean's gym saying she was determined to get up to lifting twenty-kilo dumb-bells. A gratuitous lie. Why? That gurl had something to hide.
On the western shore I stopped between a black Four Runner bristling with fishing rods and a white station wagon whose stereo was blasting a female voice singing 'You are my inspiration, I am everything I am because you love me.' Really? I thought about insurance: claims, and policies. I snapped open my brief-case. The discrepant signature was on an insurance policy. The car ferry clunked into its port. Motors in low gear straining towards second filled my right ear. I had not checked the coverage with the goods, although there wasn't much to insure in the place I had been to. I hadn't even noted the registration numbers of Meghan's car or Jill's. I drove on to the barge. For the ten minutes gliding across the estuary I played with the Featherstone file. There was a written agreement, between the two, promising each other the world with its horizons and rainbows in flowery language, signed a couple of years ago. Worth squat, as they say in the States. But it was the only document with Jill's signature on it: Jillian T. David. Firm hand, the J, T and D decided, definite.
If Meghan did not originally employ me, who did? Why did Mr Solicitor not see me when he was at work in his office, even if I had an appointment? Mistress Accountant said something that made me distrust her, but I couldn't remember what exactly. Was Libby Gnash more successful than I in getting into the Legal Eagle's inner sanctum? Why was she there personally? With Lola? Lawyers talk to each other on the phone or in documents mostly. And, why, incidentally, does Dr Featherstone have a male, incompetent solicitor with a brass-balled secretary? What is Jill up to? What was Libby Gnash talking to Broomhilda about? Or rather, listening to?
Rory goes into Chandra's house hoping it would be easy, to be met by a busy, distracted Chandra with a businesslike manner. She has a choice between a Macintosh and a PC, both portable.
Rory feels she is having to learn a new language, as Chandra impatiently runs through the two different operating systems.
'Wait,' she orders. If revolution is possible via the Internet, I must be in it.'
Her teacher explains about search engines and selections. 'Tell me a subject you are interested in.' Chandra puts a word in the field without waiting for the answer and continues, 'Here and click on here. Like this, see. You have that many sites, 19,342 in this instance. You can narrow it down, by specifying exactly what area of, say, environment, you want. When you get to a site, click on a highlighted word, underlined, called hypertext.' The movement on the screen is all too fast for Rory, but she listens and worries the stone Hope gave her with her fingers and palm. It does comfort her, cooling her fear of the new, allowing her solid-based brain to surrender while reinforcing her stubborn determination to learn.
'Solanas,' she says when Chandra takes a breath. The word and the way Rory expresses it spin Chandra around in her chair and she looks at her. Rory's mild blue eyes absorb all the urgency and irritation in Chandra's flickering brown ones: in the giving is the taking and in the taking is the giving. Both are equal. Plain, slightly pear-shaped, in unflattering clothes lumpy with filled pockets, Rory exudes the beauty of a rocky escarpment. Chandra has to change her prejudices and preconceived judgements in the moment of the exchanged stare. So much said in silence, in a tiny stretch of time, Chandra has met her match, the fire of activism meets the earth of love, both wrapped up in the name of Valerie Solanas. Chandra's well-learnt distrust falls away and her smile cracks her handsome face into friendly creases that show her humour. Rory feels as if she has said something brilliant, and raises her eyebrows. Ginger eyebrows on a freckly face; so much for appearances, shrugs Chandra, as she turns back to the screen.
'My domain,' she continues, 'Wimmin.com.au, is a house-like labyrinth of chat pages, MUDS, news groups, it has rooms for recipes, for sex talk, for counselling and the cellar, the radical feminist theory box, email listservs. The further maze I'm setting up is to band together Solanasites and conspire to do as Valerie would have wished through the use of a code using English language. Under the house, as it were.'
'Far out,' comments Rory, still trying to come to terms with what buttons to push.
'Multi-user dimensions work in real time. Mostly games where players, at their computers at home, take on characters, characteristics, whatever, and amuse themselves working out a puzzle and dispatching the enemy. I am trying to figure, configure one, that is, while virtual, in fact real. Using the game format to work out strategies and decide on tactics for, to put it simply, the women's revolt.' Chandra rattles on, excited by having Rory as a pupil. 'To get into the strategical MUD, there are various steps the women have to take to prove they're what I am calling cyber-warriors. They have to know their way, the virtual geography as it were. They have to know their feminism. After that, it gets more difficult. We're into the area of action. A lot can talk. A lot can act. Rarely is it the same being. And then, of course, nothing for women can be done single-handedly.'
Rory nods. 'This is world-wide? International? Or only First World, white, English-speaking?' Chandra responds to all her questions with clear explanations. She cannot make it simple because intrinsically it is devious, and complex, and wh
ile Rory, through her avid reading of news, understands the politics and possibilities, she is slow at grasping the techniques and actual operation of the cyber-world. 'Let's call it Penthesilea's Revenge,' she suggests.
Relaxing, now, in Chandra's company, Rory explains Virginia's obsession with Amazons at Troy.
'Okay,' replies Chandra, quite happy to expand the conspiracy to embrace enthusiasm such as Rory's. She tells her about the hypertextual threads using the simplest words in the English language. But when she is showing her, she finds the meddler in her site has been at it again and underlined 'which' wherever it appears in the text. Without revealing to Rory, at this stage, her concerns, she pursues the link. It goes to the chat page. So whoever is doing this is playing with her.
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