Darkness more visible

by Finola Moorhead

  'You can say that again,' I said softly. 'Well, best you get on with it.' I bent down to kiss her cheek. She presented her lips. A wholly sensual woman with serious concerns in cyberspace.

  'Let's have dinner?' I suggested.

  'Let's,' she accepted.

  'Okay,' I smiled. Departed. Seated in the car I noted down in my Spirax the pseudonyms of the chat page, Chandra's odd reaction to the 'elite of the elite' note, and as much as I could under the title she had given me, nonsense; I neatly tucked the UFO photo and the spies/killers memo in between the pages. Betrayal, I wondered if there were any way one could find out who the real people were behind the virtual names, whether the anxiety Chandra felt on that score had anything to do with my business and why, finally, she did not recognise the numbers as dates and times.

  But as I drove again through the picture-postcard scenery I let my thoughts loose along lateral lines. Lesbians ought to be independent women. Freedom. They have no reason to compound their lives with each other's, making avoidable clutter. The unaccountable fury I felt back there at the nanny-goats' dairy was at how Meghan and Jill had intermixed their domestic, financial, emotional, sexual dealings and dreams. The mess in Meghan's place seemed symbolic. Chandra was disabled, but independent. I liked her for that. I really liked her. She was hiding something from me but she liked me too. The ability to love another woman and the freedom to do it was a sacred gift, according to Broom; therefore, if profaned, it turned very bad indeed. Once on the highway, I opened the throttle on the Sierra and wondered, as I sometimes do, how I could update it to a Vitara for more comfortable and speedy road travel. Sponsors. Should write to Suzuki. My appearing in a commercial for a politically unsound multinational company would not overly impress Chandra Williams.

  Wednesday afternoon aerobics were in full swing. Music as hype echoed through the building. High-cut leotards and leggings were reflected in the wall of mirrors. Mainly women were stepping on indiviudal portable steps, flinging their arms and wiggling their hips to the bellowed rap-rhythm directions of a pair of instructors. Tiger Cat was a gym junkie. As I did not have her phone number or an address, I figured I would find her pumping iron even though all I could do for myself was exercise the upper body, bench press, arm weights, abdominal rolls and, seated, shoulder work. Sure enough, she turned up when I was lying on my back. Not wanting to stay in canine submission, I lowered the bar to the stand and called her over while I stayed in a sitting position. I asked her a few questions about the evening Neil died. She wouldn't answer directly until I told her I was working on the case. Tiger Cat respected employment whatever its nature, provided it was paid.

  'You want to interrogate the fat bird.' she said. 'That chick is a bottomless pit.'

  As she would incriminate herself in no way, denying that she distributed any drugs or pills or knew the names of who did what, descriptions such as 'fat chick' were all I was going to get and what she meant by 'bottomless pit' was up to me to interpret.

  Tiger Cat herself carried no flab, even to the point of ingesting little fluid, and judged all those who did as beneath contempt. 'Couldn't get enough, really sus,' she went on. 'She's your one, Gorman.' She made a few snide comments about sex, which I dismissed as sour grapes.

  I would have taken everything she said with a grain of salt, except there was something in her tone reminiscent of corrupt cops: while they are careful to cover their own doings, they have a good nose for moral stench and their clandestine activities can expose insights into the guilt of crooks invisible to those of us who are straight-dealing. Although Maria would not necessarily want mind-altering substances for herself, she could easily have been stockpiling for Sofia. I knew that Tiger Cat had really given me something, but she was not about to speculate for my sake as free-ranging deduction and induction from known facts would finger her. I did not let on that I knew what she was distributing at the barbecue. But I walked away from the gym having to reassess my opinion of my friends in the light of the search for truth, regardless of the likableness of characters and personal loyalty.

  24

  …her dead body…

  The wind is lively. In the swampy paddock behind Maria's a sparrowhawk hovers. Crows shriek to each other, suggesting the flock fly to the large gum tree near the fence. They are raucous, black and well-fed. The may bush in the backyard is as white as a bride in a wedding dress. A bay laurel dominates the herb garden, along with rampant spearmint. The sage bush is a shrub of sticks. Rosemary survives neglect. Pumpkin, a Queensland Blue, winds its vine around everything in its reach. The house is busy with the blow-ins of cheque day. Cars queue in the drive-way, brushing the hedge. The gate is shut to contain a pack of dogs. Helen and Ti Dyer are in from the land. Yvonne arrives at the same time as Alison. The comings and goings are haphazard as if swept in and out by the fresh, seasonal wind like the leaves of the English maple. Sofia is at home. Eddies of gossip, accidental encounters, incidental invitations, transactions and odd dealings occasion an impromptu congregation of souls in the ebb and flow of company. Maria is having a great time with Libby Gnash and Judith Sloane, talking of the past.

  Maria asks, 'What are you doing now, Libby?'

  'I'm a lawyer,' Libby replies, lighting a cigarette. A grey crane alights on the back lawn, folds its wingspan and begins high-stepping, its bony neck trembling; its dagger of a bill ready to stab the ground.

  'Oh, that's right. I heard.' Maria gazes out her window at the bird, wondering why she had forgotten that.

  'But,' Libby searches for the phrase that will bring Maria's attention to her. 'I'm still a believer.' She winks at Judith Sloane. She has known her since Judith first came to Australia. Stunning then, entertaining women in the smoky bars with her glorious voice, Judith has shrunk with time, not only in status but also the muscles of her face. In the 1970s Judith was a radical working-class Pom with plenty of grassroots experience of fighting for the rights of women on the streets of Bradford and Leeds and London. An energetic activist. She was journalist, photographer, film-maker, anthology editor, festival director, conference organiser, weaver, quilt-maker, wool grower and spinner, you name it. Most of all, she could sing like an angel.

  'Yes.' Maria watches Sofia make a fuss of Alison. 'Believer? Strange word, these days.'

  'Gotta keep the faith, Maria. Remember,' Libby lectures; it is her tone of voice.

  'The word warms me. Cuppa?' she offers. 'There is still tea in the pot.' Libby shakes her head in refusal. Judith pours herself a cup. A harsh ring echoes in the hall. Sofia responds to the doorbell. More gurls with their shopping in the car. Maria Freewoman is gusty. She likes an audience; she likes to be overheard. She loves the good old days and conversation pushes away a silence she feels creeping inside her. She, Judith and Libby fist the table to emphasise points in a trivial pursuit of their own memory, the less certain of the facts the more adamant the statements. They compete. A progressive barn dance on the floor of history speeds up to a fandango of enthusiasms for politics, consciousness-raising, conferences, concerts, past loves and infidelities. Alison from her spot on the lounge sees through the door that beneath the cheer are old sores, and she wonders, will they end up settling old scores. Indeed, Libby feels a waft of pain as Maria laughingly rides roughshod over her tender heart in a boastful recounting of her having a lover for every day of the week, except Sunday. Like tourists in another country, the 1970s, they taste and take in the scenery, watch the natives, themselves, being fascinating.

  Lunchtime is lost in the hours between eleven and four. Plenty of women move about the house, indulging their own cravings and appetites. Gurls open the fridge, and shut it; use the toaster and scrape the plastic tub of canola-butter mix with a rinsed knife; answer the door, use the bathroom whether or not it be for a hit; smoke nicotine, marijuana or coltsfoot; appease cramps with pain-killers, alcohol or food. The dogs outside or sneaking in, Sofia's pet is not to be seen. Friends throw in the odd witty comment, or sarcastic taunt. Now and then, they loose
ly relate stories of their own. Libby, Judith and Maria pause politely. In the sea of the spoken word, Maria is in her element, a whale gliding with swordfish and shark.

  The discussion swells and resiles. 'Individualists,' Libby remarks critically. Maria nods. Judith says, 'Times have changed. It will never be the same.' As if analysing their generation were vital, they are back as quickly as possible, thrashing out old theories and disputes, recreating the forum where the personal was political, the oppression of women the fight. They talk, recalling the dynamics of the old wars. Libby relishes the indulgence around Maria. The opinionated listener, she is used to being the most intelligent woman in the room and is as pugnacious as a pug dog. Judith glamorises the scenes in perfect word-pictures that Maria appreciates as one does a film in which one starred or was an extra. It is, surprisingly, the first time their three paths have really converged since the activist times in Sydney, the heady days, Libby skinny, small and tight, smoking, Maria fat, loud and unbound, Judith, soft-spoken and serious.

  'You can live in the past,' says Sofia, 'But you can't breathe.'

  Libby Gnash yearns for the hungry, angry times of solidarity. She drums the table with brown-stained fingers in the rhythm of horses galloping. The fag and the way it is lit is reminiscent of the moments when urgency and excitement rippled through the air and cigarette smoke was exhaled with a vengeance and purpose to hare off to graffiti a wall, or slap up posters, hurry down to a hall or a tin shed to sew banners. In fetid rooms, where thrill-seeking females were too impatient to wait for the de-brainwashing of millions of arseholes, she could take on other women with a tongue as sharp as a tack and tell the men exactly where to go. She puffs now, but not from hot-footing it away from a cop cruiser. Words are all that remain, and Judith reminds them of slogans and lyrics. Sentimental in her recall of her salad days, Maria laughs with moistened eyes. Maria's tears are easy. Unashamed. She wipes them away to recall the joy. Libby frowns, hiding her own susceptibility for nostalgia, and remembers Maria as a broad ox of a woman, megaphone to mouth and loose tits in the latest right-on printed singlet. She wades into the tides of time and dives for a swim in its bay having the conversation with Maria.

  'When the political devolved to the personal, we lost the plot,' she says. Maria has changed. Her muscles are flab, her mind lazy, yet, now she absorbs. Libby does not remember Maria listening, like this. She didn't have time; she had to change the world.

  Maria recalls a show, begs Judith for a scrap of music from a piece of theatre. When Judith sings a line, Libby suddenly can hardly wait to put in her bit, her patch in the quilt. They make a fabric they find fascinating and Maria invites the other dykes to view it. Libby's smile of pride cools to a mild embarrassment. Judith is unconcerned, superior. These younger women seem to be waiting. Filling in time. 'Do they expect it to happen again, and sweep them up?'

  'Well, it won't if they just sit there and do nothing but try and feel good,' states Libby, prepared to argue with any takers, for as well as the past she lives in the present. 'Dropping out is not the answer,' she grins at Maria. 'Fucking-up is.'

  Judith says, 'I can't believe you are still quoting Solanas.'

  Contemplation of the present flattens Maria's mood for a minute. 'Out of what?', she asks sadly. Tolerating behaviour, because there are valid excuses, is her way of life. Her body, lately, has been giving her trouble she is not admitting to Sofia or even Alison. She is swelling. Maria accommodates all at cost to her frame. Her knees are giving way. 'Things have not got better for women, who can blame them wanting to get out of it? It is a sickness. Society is worse.'

  'I don't agree,' states Libby, shaking her head, looking down. 'No, they had more than we did.'

  'You're sure of that, Libby?' Maria reaches over and bots one of her tailor-mades.

  'You've lost the fire you used to have, Maria,' observes Judith, unsympathetically.

  Maria is offended and calls to Sofia to put on k. d. lang because she wants to listen to 'Constant Craving'. The sharp eyes of the cool gurls exchange glances.

  Libby goes into the toilet, leaving silence between the other two. Maria does not know why Judith has come to her house by the railway. 'Tell me, are you into computers? The very thought tires me. I'm happy with my handwriting and my books, but if I were younger I'd miss out. The world will divide further into the haves and have-nots, and it'll be about knowledge, the poor are becoming poorer.'

  Judith nods, knowingly. Libby, gingerly stepping around a grumbling canine, responds, 'Of course. I have to be, but I know what you mean.' She doesn't want to make Maria feel left out of her working world, or shatter the illusion of class solidarity, or sacrifice her status of a comrade in arms. Judith stares at her. 'It's frustrating, sometimes,' Libby concedes. Frustrating, like interesting, is a useful word if accuracy is not what you're after and experiences so thoroughly differ. Although Libby's computer crashes frequently, it is not her ignorance which causes it, rather an overcrowded desktop or software failure. Or viruses. Email is a part of her everyday life. And at least two hours a day on the Internet. She works most of the time. She is well-off. Maria remembers Libby as the archetypical humourless feminist, frowning into TV cameras, haranguing, with energy to burn. Her mild expression invites confidence. Libby leans towards her and lowers her voice. 'Even though the good old days have gone, there are still some of us into activism, the revolution has gone underground. We'll make things happen soon.'

  Maria raises her eyebrows. 'Good for you.'

  Judith exchanges a meaningful glance with Libby Gnash. 'The legal documents are in my car,' Libby says to Judith. Her secrets are safe in the waters of the past. But now Judith and she have business.

  Lola's comment 'Cool gurls don't smile because their teeth are bad' comes to mind as she passes through the other room. Bossy in herself, Libby wants to inform these younger dykes on the responsibility of anarchy. Her remark to that effect is laughed at. She didn't intend to be funny. Maria abhors moralism, the past is not such a blast. 'Alison,' Maria pleads. 'Come and give me a kiss.'

  Alison gives Maria a cuddle, whispering into her ear, 'I am worried about you.'

  'Don't you worry about me.' Maria says.

  The dogs are barking, blocking up the doorway.

  Sofia, passing Libby in the hall, says, 'Turning into quite a party.'

  Sofia's harried voice consciously changes when she greets the new arrival, 'Cybil!'

  'Cybil,' says Jill. 'Why are you following me?' Jill David has a six-pack under her arm, coming up the steps.

  'Jill,' Sofia greets her with a hug. Libby and Judith, speaking softly, go out the front door.

  'Who's following who?' asks Cybil. Alison feels some sort of wave is about to break.

  All newcomers crowd into the kitchen. Responding hospitably, Maria says to Alison, 'Put on the kettle will you. Another cup of tea would go well.'

  Alison finds the kettle behind some recipe books and the plug hidden by the canisters. She fills it at the tap through its spout. 'Strange place for a fudge cake,' she says, 'on top of the fridge.'

  Maria cries, 'Let's have some chocolate cake.'

  'Yeah,' affirms Sofia. 'Be careful, Maria, it has dope in it.'

  'But we couldn't get much of a rush from it,' calls Ti. Helen agrees.

  Maria queries, 'Anyone for tea?' There are no acceptances.

  'It is not hard to pick jealousy in the air when it is there,' Alison says and leaves Maria alone in the kitchen. Maria sees the steam rising from the kettle, and heaves herself up, taking some of her weight on her hands.

  Alison chases after Libby and Judith, foiling their attempt to talk business. A manila folder is handed over. Libby's car is a silver-grey Volvo. Judith tosses the folder into the purple Mitsubishi Triton with its sheila-na-gig on the dash. 'Wow,' Alison whistles, 'Nice wheels.'

  Ignoring her, Judith drives off.

  Libby has more to do, Meghan Feathers tone affairs. She is a terrier. She needs to talk to Jill David. She smells a
rat. Gorman won't outdo her, not twice. She and Alison go back indoors. Libby refuses cake, settling for one of Jill's beers. Cake eaten, dope smoked, along with cigarettes, while water, tea and beer drunk, Maria has a second helping of cake. She is the only one with a hot drink. After a parley with Cybil outside, Ti and Helen pass through the lounge-room saying, 'Goodbye.' Yvonne has gone.