Indelible Ink

by Fiona McGregor

  ‘Why?’ Blanche said in a voice shiny with curiosity and challenge.

  ‘The Sydney property market is grossly inflated. It’s awash with easy money, and money corrupts.’

  Blanche snorted. ‘Yeah, we should all be buying our groceries with gumnuts.’

  ‘I’m not talking about daily necessities, I’m talking about profits for the elite few.’

  ‘Like you, Clark. And there’ll be more when our parents die!’

  ‘Mum’s only fifty-nine and she’s heavily in debt!’

  ‘Hey, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you do it?’

  ‘I’m not a real-estate agent.’

  ‘Yeah, but in your opinion a real-estate agent doesn’t do anything but take money so why don’t you step in and sell the house? Mum likes you better than Hugh — I’m sure she’d be thrilled.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Clark protested, ‘I don’t know how!’

  ‘You’re all so fucking superior, aren’t you? Hugh’s bloody good at what he does, you know, and I’m sick of you all giving him such a hard time!’ Blanche slammed down the phone.

  Shattered, Clark sank into the armchair opposite the television. After a while he realised it was dark outside and that he was watching a toothpaste advertisement with the rapt focus of a child. It was set in an office, everybody smiling and bending close to one another as they passed files around, the final shot lift doors closing on the corporate lovers kissing. All those ferociously perfect white teeth, all that sterile osculation. He knew Blanche would have done a better job than this; he rued upsetting her. He had discovered her plate nestled in the pewter cup of his fifth-form debating trophy. He had washed it, drenched it in Listerine then stood facing the bathroom mirror trying to ease it into his mouth, but it was an uncomfortable trespass, the plate refusing to fit over his teeth. He had walked back into the living room holding it gently between his lips like a cat with a bird, and standing over the box containing his childhood, he was overwhelmed by the physical intimacy that leapt across decades through plastic and metal. He experienced a sudden sensation of disembodiment, an almost vertiginous feeling of mortality. The real reason Clark had refused to wear braces was a phobia of any kind of interference with his body. He seemed to have been born with it and learnt to disguise it so successfully that not even his family perceived it. He hid pristine behind his façade of shabbiness. He drew about him the worn and comforting veil of flaws.

  The pain was always there. Marie grew accustomed to it and, like a boxer, instead of stepping away stepped right into it. She visited Rhys twice more for the moth, leaving a fortnight’s healing time, coasting down from euphoria to land in the pit of fear again. The fear became an energy. She no longer closed herself to it, letting it sing freely along her veins until it was a need that could only be sated by the affirmative puncture of inky needles.

  On Rhys’s couch, her mind wandered. Hugh had visited yesterday and deemed the house ready to be advertised. Mopoke was deteriorating again. Marie’s bowels were hardening as well, from all the stress, she presumed. David had been silent since their date. She could have rung him. She wouldn’t need to go through Susan; she had found him in the phone book. She had stood in the kitchen with it open on the table, flicking through the pages then following her finger down the column to Rosenthal, D, Darling Pt. She wondered why she was seeking out the number of someone who was so clearly uncomfortable with her. But then, she replied to herself, he had come around. He was fascinated, really. Is that what you want? she parried back. To fascinate someone, like a specimen? The memory of him masturbating next to her filled her with revulsion. But maybe it was she who had failed as sexual partner. Her sessions with Rhys were longer this year, the pain alleviated by Rhys’s patter. Through all the disruption in her life now, tattoo plans acted as anchors. She took to the pursuit with decisive zeal as though it was all long overdue. The initial dream, the floating image, then the corporeal manifestation.

  She didn’t like the journey to the studio. She missed her old Deco Sydney with its trams and ramshackle buildings: this twenty-first-century city of tollways alienated her. Refusing to register for an E-tag, she found it hard to get around. She caught the ferry into town sometimes and for those ten minutes crossing the harbour, she was in paradise. The CBD was in its summer limbo of tourists and workers in equal numbers. At Circular Quay there was a fifteen-minute wait for the train followed by a fifteen-minute walk to the studio in its no-man’s-land between Central and Redfern. On the day of the last moth session, Marie decided to get the bus instead and read the paper while waiting. No rain had fallen on the catchment area and the dam was lowering to thirty-five percent. One hundred thousand hectares of native woodland were being cleared each year in NSW alone. Protesters who had burnt the flag at a demonstration were called unAustralian. The Catholic and Anglican Archbishops of Sydney were meeting with politicians to emphasise their opposition to abortion and gay marriage. She read that Hugh Jackman had clashed with paparazzi on a recent visit to Sydney, and that CEO payouts had risen an average 13.5 percent as compared to 4.2 percent for full-time workers. The bus didn’t arrive and Marie moved on to the world news. The US vice-president estimated the war may last for decades, the rising demand for biofuels was causing a world food shortage, and a US music lover claiming to suffer iPod ear was suing Apple Computer. By the time Marie arrived at the studio an hour later, her indigestion was raging.

  As the iron buzzed across her shoulder blade, she clamped her teeth together and breathed. When the wave subsided, she began to speak. ‘I’ve been cultivating a caterpillar on my irises. It’s amazing. It’s green and orange and has furry crests on its back. I’m not sure what it turns into.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a moth. You know what moths are called in French? Papillons de nuit — night butterflies. I’ve been thinking they’re the great unsung mystical creature — all the mysticism of the butterfly, along with the night.’

  ‘I read that butterflies for the Greeks represent the soul.’

  ‘Yeah, for a lot of people. Some Native Americans. The ancient Slavs.’

  ‘Mel said you were Slavic.’

  ‘Did she?’ Rhys said evasively. Her feet appeared in Marie’s sightline. They were in thongs, a bluebird on the left, a scarab beetle on the right, black chipped nail polish on the first toe of each. A wad of paper towel landed in the bin near them. Rhys said: ‘I’ve started a garden.’

  ‘Out the back?’

  ‘Yep. Before Christmas Travis and me found some plants on the street and put them in, then I planted some herbs. We got a hose to bail the washing machine and everything took off. I’ve just eaten my first chilli. It’s so fulfilling. I love it.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some seedlings.’

  ‘I want to grow banksia. I used to make up stories about the banksia men when I was a kid. How big is your garden?’

  ‘Probably as big as this block. I’ve been blessed.’

  ‘You’ve been there a long time so things you’ve planted’d be quite mature by now, eh?’

  ‘Yes. The oldest is a scribbly gum I planted for Clark.’

  ‘No wonder it’s hard for you to leave.’

  Rhys hadn’t drawn the moth exactly as it was; it had been transformed. Marie tracked the design in her mind’s eye, feeling the right wing fill in. Here, through Rhys’s majestic hybrid, the red rose would ghost, like a plant disappearing, a site reclaimed by the bush. Marie often fantasised this demise for her house. Like the Burley Griffin house in Clifton Gardens, abandoned by its owner, dilapidated beyond repair, the bush creeping back over it. Marie thought of her old man banksia, carted off two days earlier, for a fee of four figures.

  ‘In early Christian writings,’ Rhys said, ‘moths represented temptations of the flesh.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Christians are obsessed with sex. Is gardening a temptation of the flesh, do you think? The feel of earth in your hands ... The Garden of Eden ...’

  ‘I don’t know. Much as I’m i
n love with my new garden, I’d still prioritise a fuck.’

  Marie was initially shocked by this candour. Then she walked straight through the new doorway. ‘So would I. But my garden will be there the next day.’

  ‘I mean a good one, with someone you love. That you get to cuddle after.’

  ‘I had a date with someone recently.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Well, things were fine until he saw my flame tattoo. He got a real fright.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘But he took a Viagra.’

  ‘Ri-i-i-ght.’

  ‘And I took advantage.’

  Rhys smiled. ‘Did you have some too, did you?’

  ‘Oh no. He didn’t offer me any. I mean I’m just assuming he took Viagra. For a man in his sixties to perform like that, you know.’

  ‘Careful, you’re moving. Maybe he was just really turned on. They act disapproving, but it turns them on and they can’t admit it.’

  ‘He hasn’t rung me back though.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘You wanted hard core, Marie, all this colour on the spine.’ Rhys’s tone turned droll. ‘Maybe he just ran out of Viagra.’

  ‘It’s alright. I still have my compost.’

  Rhys snorted. ‘You wanna watch it if you ever have Viagra, Marie. Or have you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Marie said primly. ‘I’ve heard it’s bad for the heart.’

  ‘The clit, you mean.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just me. Gawd, I dunno, the clitoris is not designed for a big blue pill. It’s excruciating. It just goes on and on and on. I couldn’t walk for about two days. Honestly.’

  Marie laughed. ‘How did we get onto Viagra?’

  ‘The moth. Sex. Your date.’

  ‘Does the tattoo work like a charm? Like a hunting talisman? You know, tattooing the temptation on me will bring it into my life? Or is it more like a branding? The mark of the harlot.’

  ‘Harlot? You crack me up. I don’t know, Marie.’

  ‘I hope it’s a charm.’

  ‘Oh, all my tattoos are charms, lady.’

  ‘Maybe they’re the same thing anyway.’

  There were footsteps on the stairs, lighter and quicker than Marie had heard here before.

  ‘My son’s just home from child care.’ Rhys put down the iron and went to the door. ‘I’ll take him upstairs. Won’t be a sec.’

  ‘Travis? Bring him in. I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Yeah? He’s a good boy. Knows the drill around tattooing.’

  Marie arched her back like a cat, enjoying the heat across her shoulder blades. She became aware of a presence behind her, heard a whisper, ‘It’s a butterfly!’ She lifted her head to see a moon-faced boy standing close. He was wearing a t-shirt that said: Snakey did it!

  ‘It’s nearly finished, Trav,’ Rhys said. ‘It’s called a Splendid Ghost Moth.’

  Rhys introduced Marie to Travis. Travis huddled against her thighs.

  ‘She’s like that priest lady,’ he said as Rhys ushered him out.

  As she returned, the sound of a television came loud through the ceiling. She went back upstairs then the room above went quiet.

  Through the final licks, the noise rose again.

  ‘He’s so naughty. He knows I’m working and can’t keep coming up there.’

  ‘Isn’t he allowed to watch it?’

  ‘He’s rationed.’

  ‘What about Rob?’

  ‘Rob’s got a client at five. He’s a pushover anyway and it’s not really his job.’

  ‘You’re very conscientious. The television was always on in our house. No doubt my children are all permanently damaged as a result.’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to watch TV when I was a kid. Only on weekends.’

  ‘Oh? You had a strict upbringing?’

  ‘Catholic on my mother’s side. But it was my father who was thingy about TV, and he wasn’t religious.’

  ‘Catholic!’ said Marie gleefully. ‘I was brought up a very strict Catholic.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I’m well and truly lapsed,’ Marie reassured her. ‘My husband was atheist. Our children went to Anglican schools, much to the horror of my parents.’

  ‘I don’t believe in that lapsing stuff. You never stop being a Catholic, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes, you do, if you don’t practise, you’re not worthy, you can’t get the blessings without the effort. You can’t take holy communion.’

  ‘Listen to you. You’re not worthy. I don’t think you can ever get rid of it, to tell you the truth.’

  Marie had an image of herself in her first-communion dress. The church in Avalon. Stained-glass windows. A sense of the ocean swirling three streets away, but she was trapped inside this stuffy church, sitting ramrod straight next to her mother, trying to concentrate on the droning priest, battling a sense of dread.

  ‘That’s a depressing thought,’ she said.

  ‘My Catholic half knows it’s Catholic, believe me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, half of me is very moralistic. I’m half superstitious too, and Catholic moralism is tied to superstition I think. Half of me mistrusts pleasure. Half of me is mildly, um, half homophobic.’

  That was quite a lot to digest. Lots of different facts, in different areas, like the little touch-ups that Rhys was doing on her back. Rhys delivered the final fact with an undertone of shame. Such a familiar feeling, Marie realised, along with fear.

  After a while she asked, ‘Do you see much of your parents?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘They’re not in Sydney?’

  ‘My father racked off about twenty years ago, haven’t seen him since. My mother’s still in our childhood home in Earlwood. That’s where I grew up. John Howard’s suburb. Although in his day it wasn’t woggy.’

  ‘Do you get on with your mother?’

  ‘No,’ Rhys said with finality. ‘Where should I take these antennae to?’

  She pulled out the mirror and reflected Marie’s back into the full-length one on the wall. The wings fanned out like spinnakers, the translucent green of tropical water; the ridges of the moth’s body mimicked her vertebrae. Marie turned her neck the other way, and Rhys tilted the mirror. From behind, she looked transcendent. With her fingertip, Rhys drew lines. ‘Here? Or here?’

  Marie lay back down, overcome. ‘Into my hairline.’

  After Rhys had finished, she said, ‘It’s the best one so far.’

  ‘Ooh yeah.’

  ‘Who’s “that priest lady”?’

  ‘There were two Anglican priests I tattooed. I think Travis was saying that because you’re around the same age.’

  ‘What did they get?’

  ‘The white rose of Jesus or something. That design wasn’t mine. The other one had a crucifix on each arm, high up. I loved those, I based them on designs that Christian pilgrims to the shrine of Loreto used to get hundreds of years ago. Interesting women. Very religious.’

  ‘I admire those female priests so much. They’re well ahead of us on that count.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ Rhys laughed. ‘You’re such a Catholic.’

  She snapped off a length of Glad Wrap and taped it over the tattoo.

  ‘What other older women do you tattoo?’

  ‘A biker’s wife. I don’t know. I don’t notice the age, I notice the designs.’

  ‘The designs are all yours.’

  ‘Now they are, they didn’t use to be. God, Marie, you wouldn’t believe all the people with their little Celtic thingies or they want Sanskrit or Chinese for love or healing? The place I used to work had heaps of walk-ins like that, most places do. They bring you these characters and you say, Um, I don’t think it means love and they’re like Yeh it does, yeh it does! So you tattoo all this stuff that probably means fuck off, whitey or shoe shop or whatever, thinking, It’s your funeral, baby.’ Rhys took Marie’s blue sh
irt off its hook and held it open. ‘Nice,’ she said. ‘Silk, is it?’

  ‘It’s very old. It’s my favourite shirt.’

  ‘I’ve done about five different Kanji for healing,’ Rhys went on. ‘No wonder the world’s so sick.’

  Marie put on her shirt. ‘I’ve decided on a passionfruit vine next. Down my arms.’

  ‘That’ll be very visible.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve decided I’m coming out.’

  ‘You want to stay on my cancellation list, I presume? You’ve used up all your appointments.’

  ‘Yes, always.’

  At dusk Marie took the cones from the old man banksia and placed them on the Weber. She filled a bucket with water, mixed herself a lime bitters and soda, and stood by the barbecue, tongs in hand, blowing on the cones till little flames licked their edges. Slowly the follicles opened in the heat. Next she soaked the charred cones in the bucket of water and left them to dry, then she shook the seeds from the follicles, prising out the recalcitrant ones with a twig. Mopoke followed her as she worked, settling onto the flagging to watch her pot the seeds. ‘The old man will give birth to lots of little babies,’ she said to the cat as she rubbed the seeds between her fingers to remove their papery wings. ‘Yes, Mopoke! He will!’

  The soft, greasy charcoal from the banksia cones stayed around her cuticles for days.

  In the first year of the war, Blanche had made her mark. Within a week of the Opera House sails being protest painted with NO WAR, she had an ad up for Dulux outdoor paving paint. It went to press and television, the latter a fifteen-second newsclip. She used an article in the Herald as well as Channel Nine’s hyperbolic report about activist vandalism and the amount taxpayers would fork out to have the Opera House cleaned. Old-school simplicity married to new-school irony. Next time use Dulux outdoor paving paint, said the copy. Impossible to remove.

  Cheeky. The advertisement had won awards all over the world. It was what really got Blanche noticed. Even her father had been on the phone raving. Terry had worried that Sydney Opera House would object, but instead they were glad for the free publicity. And Terry had worried that Dulux would find it too notorious, but like almost half of Sydney the company’s marketing manager had been to the anti-war rally in Hyde Park, and nobody could object to an ad that appealed across the board. When approached by people raising money for the activists’ court costs, Blanche had politely declined, saying she was firmly non-partisan in her views.