Girl on the Edge

by Kim Hodges

  A scandal had broken one week before the opening. The two-metre original black stump was cut down with a chainsaw and floated away, down a nearby river. The black stump made it out a few metres and lodged itself on debris, where the rot set in. This incident was the talk of the town. Coolah’s only resident policeman was convinced that two or three blokes had to be involved, to lift the stump up, place it in a ute and then unload it into the river. The policeman was sure that whoever did this “will be caught.” Posters were stuck on light posts in Binnia Street, requesting that residents notify the police about anything suspicious. Rumours circulated and alibis were declared. Three days before the opening, the investigation had been halted. The policeman and local Council members searched for a replacement stump. A two-metre stump was located, cut down, relocated, prepared, painted black and stuck onto the naked stump with six litres of glue. The offenders were never found. Coolah had many such secrets and mysteries and this one was to remain deeply buried.

  *

  Four years after our home had been set to its foundations, a salesman in a suit knocked on our door. He took his shoes off when he was invited into the lounge room. The children were hushed outside, but I snuck behind the hall door, my forbidden hiding spot, to listen in. His persuasive politeness and good manners made an impression on my parents, along with the quality of his encyclopaedias. Over a cup of coffee, he gently persuaded my parents to purchase the full hardcover range of encyclopaedias. “These encyclopedias do cost a lot of money but it will be worth it in the long run,” and “These books have every fact about the world in them,” and “You will never need to buy another book,” I heard his nice voice saying. That salesman had made his sale. He left his business card, a brochure about the encyclopedias, and a lasting impression. My parents’ keenness was evident. That evening I could hear them discussing the encyclopedias late at night. I snuck back to my hiding spot and, surrounded by darkness, I listened to their conversation. They weighed up whether they could afford to make the purchase or not. A week later my parents told us they had bought the full set of encyclopedias. They had to pay them off before the encyclopedias arrived.

  Months later, the books arrived, in boxes which were to left untouched by any of us kids until my father arrived home from work. We were instructed to all stand back, as he unpacked the boxes. I noticed the care he took with the precious books. One by one, he placed the volumes of the encyclopedia onto the new bookshelf, as we sat on the floor in the lounge room. My father calmly told us the rules. I knew these rules would be set in stone, never to be broken. Rule one: wash our hands before touching the books. Rule two: read them in the lounge room only. Rule three: place a book back on the bookshelf before a second book was taken off the shelf. We all heard the seriousness in our father’s tone. We obeyed these rules.

  *

  There was another series of books in our house. My mother kept those books piled up in her wardrobe in the bedroom. They brought endless joy to her. She often retired to bed early to read a Mills & Boon book. She was a very early riser. These romance novels, which targeted housewives, I imagine gave her pleasure, relaxation and a sense of escapism, after a big day with four children. If I enquired about them, my mother quickly summarised the plot: girl meets boy, girl and boy fall in love, eventually girl and boy get engaged and finally girl and boy marry. There were many spikes and rocky bits along the way, such as a jealous friend, a fight, or a lover. The reader was always guaranteed a fairy tale ending. My mother also read the local newspaper, the Daily Telegraph newspaper, and magazines that the townie women circulated.

  *

  When I was at university, I often read review articles by intellectuals and feminists that were critical of the Mills & Boon books, arguing that they filled an emptiness in women’s lives. They categorised the appeal of these books as limited to housewives who had few chances, other than chatting to a neighbour over the back fence or coffee with friends, for social activities. These intellectuals and feminists referred to housewives as “non–working mothers”, or women “not in the paid workforce.” I was wary and cautious of the concept of “non-working mothers.” My mother’s life had been filled with domestic duties—she was always working. I neither glamorised nor minimised the domestic work that my mother engaged in. I was clear that marriage, children and unpaid domestic work were not for me. I wished not to be defined by those things for the rest of my life. I desired more. So the idea of marriage and children, during my teenage years, was put to the far back corner of my mind, just one step from totally outside of it. I also sustained this stance throughout my twenties. Watching my mother’s unpaid work, plus babysitting children weekend after weekend for years, had cemented this view. Although I viewed the concept of non-working mothers with trepidation, I agreed with the feminists and intellectuals who sneered at women for reading Mills & Boon books. I, too, assumed that the women who read these books must not have the capacity to read more widely.

  Now, I concede that women are entitled to read whatever they want to, so long as it is harmless. Was there any harm in reading these books to escape into a fairytale scenario after a day of child-raising and domestic duties? Mills & Boon books employed stereotypes evident in the 1970s and 1980s. Gender roles were fixed: domesticity and childrearing were defined solely as a woman’s domain, and men were accorded the breadwinner role—and entitled to enjoy a beer at the pub with mates after a hard day of earning an income. These gender divides may have been entrenched, but the plots were riveting. Women who read Mills & Boon books escaped after a long day into a world of dreaming, temptation, lust, love, desire, affairs, sex, passion, relationships and marriage. The books’ formulaic nature created a dreamlike state of effortless and easy reading for a wide-ranging female audience. Really though, how can I judge and speculate about the content if I am yet to read one book? Maybe it is time to borrow my first Mills & Boon book from my mother. I might be very surprised.

  The piles of books in my mother’s bedroom cupboard and the current book next to her bed indicate that Mills & Boon books had hooked my mother. Now well into her sixties, there sits a pile of contemporary Mills & Boon books next to her bed. She still enjoys them. To this day I am yet to see her read another book. I imagine the twenty-first century Mills & Boon stories are more sexually spiced up, as compared to those written in the 1970s and 1980s. I wonder if the books’ content have embraced internet dating, chat rooms, virtual sex, same sex relationships, sex toys, masturbation, and the use of pornography as a sexual stimulant for women? My mother’s typical reaction to anything slightly sexual still rings in my ears, “I never heard such smut.” So her prudishness, combined with the fact that, by choice, she has never been on the internet, nor used a mobile phone, proudly so, leads me to assume that the books piled beside her bed are still relatively conservative in their sexual content.

  chapter fourteen

  BACHELOR AND SPINSTER BALL AND RODEO

  The main street of Coolah was predictable, weekend after weekend. There were two yearly events that brought an influx of visitors to Coolah. One was the Coolah Annual Rodeo and the other was the Bachelor and Spinster Ball, or the “B and S Ball” as country people knew it. These balls were held in many country towns. The Coolah version was sited ten kilometres from the township. I witnessed the lead up and the aftermath of this event. Meanwhile the Coolah Annual Rodeo was held one kilometre from town. The different people who flooded our town on these two long weekends excited me greatly. I loved riding my bike up to the shops at these times, to watch the visitors come and go. To see different faces, tall people, short people—I only knew Coolah people so it was exciting. I would buy the milk and bread that my mother had requested and then sit outside the main store, on my bike, observing everyone. I never talked to any of these people. After a couple of minutes I would start to feel awkward, so I would purchase an ice block before returning to my seat to slowly lick it and watch the comings and goings.

  The B and S Ball was held on the Ap
ril long weekend. I would watch the freshly made-up girls with their hair nicely done, and well-groomed young men, energised about the night to come. On the morning of the ball, there was excitement in the liveliness of friends catching up—the main street was a meeting place for old friends. Many were in town buying last supplies for the weekend. The young men probably purchased cigarettes, condoms, aspirins and other supplies. I would also know that it was time for the ball by my mother’s comments “Bloody drunken affairs for the blue-blood’s kids,” she would say, off and on all week.

  It was true that the majority of the attendees at B and S Balls were young people from grazier families and private schools. The ball was a black-tie gathering, with live music, food and unlimited alcohol. Each ball was hosted on private property. The land was cleared, a hall, shed or some kind of shelter with access to electricity was built, so the food could be heated and the band plugged in, but most importantly, the alcohol could be kept cold. Early in the day, the kegs of beer were rolled in and crate after crate of wine and champagne delivered. The young graziers all spoke in the same well-rounded, posh voices and the content of their conversations was also similar. “So what school did you go to?” and “Which town are you from?” and “Which properties do your parents own?” These were the immediate questions to ask after meeting someone. As well as meeting new people, B and S Balls were big reunions for grazier young people and an opportunity for a wild drunken night, maybe sex, or the chance meeting of potential wife or husband.

  Interestingly, as a townie girl, I knew without having to be told that the B and S Balls were not for me. The other townie kids did too. We could have gained entry, but we wouldn’t have fitted in, being townies. This was so obvious to us that none of us townies ever wanted to attend—plus we knew we wouldn’t have been welcomed. I had no desire to fit in or aspirations to be accepted by the grazier crowd. The only way a townie girl might attend was as the girlfriend of a grazier boy. The ball was an event that I simply observed with interest, without feeling any desire or yearning to attend.

  On the Sundays after the B and S Ball, I would offer to ride up to buy the Sunday newspaper for my mother, so I could witness the fallout of the ball. Any time from 8 A.M. onwards was fine. Most of the blue bloods would have been up all night. Once more, if I felt self-conscious, I would purchase an ice block to lick, very slowly, to prolong my departure. I would watch for the dishevelled and hung-over people to appear. The young graziers looked very different from the day before—messed-up hair, ties pulled off, shirts hanging out, beer stained and barefooted. Occasionally, a lot of dirt on their clothes might indicate that there had been an altercation during the night. Everyone who had attended smelt like a brewery. The young women’s hair looked as if they had never been to the hairdressers at all and many carried their high heels. Many of their formal dresses would require a visit to the laundromat to be cleaned. I witnessed hugs, kisses and hand-holding, and I heard promises of, “See you at the next B & S Ball in three months’ time,” or “Yes, I’ll phone you.” I knew these young men and women had hangovers from drinking alcohol all night long, even though I hadn’t yet drunk any alcohol at all.

  One year, the local B and S Ball was scrutinised by the media. A couple who had met there, and were very drunk, were fornicating in the long-grassed paddock— he with his pants down and she with her panties off and her dress around her shoulders. Meanwhile two drunken friends had been driving around the nearby paddock in ever-larger circles. In their passion, the couple were oblivious to the noise of the engine and approaching headlights. In turn, the drunken friends in the ute had no idea the couple were in the grass. Before anyone realised, the drunken friends ran the ute over the couple’s legs. An ambulance was called and the couple were taken to hospital, where they spent a considerable amount of time recovering. It was front-page news in the local paper for weeks, with photographs too. The B and S Ball was cancelled the following year. In town, many tall stories about the outcome were spread about, but I never found out if either of them were able to walk again. My mother commented many times, “Serves them bloody right!”

  In my late twenties, when I was living in Sydney, I felt proud to be able to say, “I did not attend a B and S Ball.” People in Sydney believed that every country person over eighteen years of age had attended at least one. City people have little insight into the great class divide in small country towns. B and S Balls were big elitist piss-ups—private school binge drinking. Townie teenagers also had parties where there was unlimited alcohol in kegs, at which they drank themselves into oblivion. I had loathed both.

  *

  The Coolah Annual Rodeo was held over the October long weekend. It too brought some colourful characters to Coolah. Townies and graziers both had this event marked in their calendars. Cowboys and cowgirls flooded into town for the weekend, to compete in the rodeo competition or as spectators. The participants wore riding boots, akubra hats, chequered shirts of various colours, jodhpurs and they carried whips. Cowboys and cowgirls demonstrated their skills as masters of their horses. Their reputation was compromised if a bull bucked them off. The carnival people, who we called “carnies,” managed the fun fair; fast rides and sideshows with bright flashing lights and loud music. Carnies wore flannies—formally known as flannelette shirts. They lent the rodeo a rougher, wilder edge. The carnie women wore heavy mascara, thick blue or green eye shadow and lipstick that exaggerated their lips. These women ran the sideshows; the clowns, duck shooting, other games, and also the selling of fairy floss, hot chips and Dagwood dogs. The carnie men worked the rides, controlling the speed and duration by the pull of a lever. The carnies clothes appeared dishevelled and never quite matching. Joggers or ugg-boots were their preferred footwear. Most carnies smoked and they would light up shortly after pressing the final button to start a ride.

  As kids, my brothers and I were so excited. For this day, freedom was granted and spending money was given to line our pockets. We had two-days-worth of spending money to spend on anything that we liked. We would walk around the showground with friends, or by ourselves, which was blissful. As had our family, all of the other townie families saved up for the annual rodeo. My mother’s condition on our freedom was to avoid talking to the carnival people, as they were too rough, and they might take us away. The carnie people intrigued me far more than the cowboys and cowgirls did. I watched their faces, guessed their ages, and observed their gestures and body language. Where had they come from, I wondered—how did they become carnies? I walked behind the fun fair to see the caravans and tents, portable washing lines, and the pets fenced off and tied up. They were a small mobile community, a micro community, parked at the showground for four days and then travelling onwards. Where did they go next I wondered? Some of the younger carnie blokes were after a weekend fling with a townie girl. Tongues wagged if a local girl was seen holding hands with a carnie—heads turned. There were glares and whispered comments such as, “I wonder if her mother knows where she is right now.” Or “Look at that girl, she’s such a slut.” Of course there was none of that when a townie male was seen holding hands with a carnie girl.

  This was one of the many ways in which I was made aware of the two separate moral codes and expectations for behaviour in Coolah. Young women were often labelled “tramp,” “whore,” “slut” or “loose” if the townsfolk had any suspicions about them being promiscuous—real or fabricated. The moment a young woman was seen in the company of a couple of young men more than a few times, these labels stuck. When a young man was known to be promiscuous he was referred to as a “stud” or a “stallion” and their behaviour dismissed as natural. It never made sense to me as a teenager. As a stud needed to have sex with a girl to be a stud, therefore two people were involved. Why the labels for the girls and not for the boys? Many townie women, especially my mother, could be very harsh and judgemental about younger women. My mother labelled other women as sluts. I thought that it was purely because these women had differing sexual desir
es, or more frequent sex, compared to my mother, whose prudishness had been passed onto me. Maybe it was jealousy. I wondered whether the older women had had only one sexual partner, their husband. Who knows? It made no sense to me. I vowed to never call another woman a slut. Besides not liking the word itself, the connotations were so negative. Sex was never mentioned or discussed within our family.

  After living in Sydney for many years, I would look back and laugh about how the cowboys and cowgirls, townies and graziers, and carnies were not all that different to each other at all. The rest of Australia was full of truly diverse people from other countries and cultures, with ceremonies, rituals, religions, and food that varied from our way of life in when I was growing up in rural Australia. Sydney was full of such differences, cultural, social and religious. Those people who flooded into Coolah once a year were so similar—white Anglo-Saxons, some richer, some poorer who all came from Australia. They just belonged to different subcultures than the residents of Coolah.