by Ann Michaels
Chapter 3.
Sun and Darkness
In the golden, Sydney sunshine, the following day, we took a bus out to Coogee Beach and frolicked about in the waves for hours. We then, bought peppery sausage rolls from Con's Takeaway Shop, to eat with sweet, acidy tomato sauce. I ate two chocolate ice creams and we met a bunch of kids who went to school out near Emu Plains. They don't have a beach there, but they do have a lovely river.
I was so tired when I got home late in the afternoon that, I actually fell asleep, whilst sitting on the orange, vinyl, kitchen chair, in the middle of telling gran about her friend Granny Goldenvine. I awoke some hours later, cramped and stiff and covered with a checked, yellow blanket, which smelt strongly of moth balls. I immediately remembered how granny's eyes had shone, when I told her about her old friend, and reminded her of their activism days. I smiled, and glanced up at the white, plastic, wall clock. I threw off the blanket and bolted off up the road to visit the mobile art gallery, which I remembered, had opened for the day in the underground men's toilets in Taylor Square. These toilets were first opened in 1907, after there was an outbreak of bubonic plague, in Sydney, in 1900. They are no longer used now, except as an occasional art venue.
As I whizzed up Oxford Street, I hoped that I was not too late, as it was 4 o clock and the exhibition was to close at 4.30. I looked up and noticed that the sky was darkening and the air was becoming heavier; perhaps a storm was coming, I thought.
As I rocketed along, I waved to my many friends who were strolling, or working in shops. Candice, with her platform heels and beehive hairdo was cutting a client's hair, as I sailed past, Snip Snip Hair Design. Viggo was measuring a man for a suit; Bob and Harry were walking their dog, Beefcake. And Magda, was inspecting a menu outside the Indian restaurant. They all waved back enthusiastically.
I reached the door of the toilets, which was still open and I began to descend the staircase, going down underground. The rank smells were overlaid with an overpowering disinfectant and the metal rail of the staircase was so cold, it gave me the shivers. I could easily imagine a ghost living down here and thoughts about lonely, toilet spooks began to grow in my mind. I was relieved when I came to the bottom and I saw a table set up with a donation box. I dropped my money in. The sound echoed crazily.
'Hello there! I was just about to pack up, so you are just in time!'
The woman, who spoke to me, was wearing an orange, valour, one-piece pants suit, with a zipper, like tiger teeth, down the front. She was clopping about in huge, cork-soled sandals, which were partially hidden by the enormous flares of her trouser legs.
'My name is Justine Case and this exhibition is all my own work, so please feel free to walk around and enjoy. The exhibits are mostly inside the stalls over there', she said, pointing a purple talon, 'and here is a zine I produced, which will tell you about the art works.'
I took the zine from Justine, marvelling that her face didn't crack, when she talked. She appeared to have troweled her makeup on this morning. But, I had to admit that she had presence, and she had style.
I opened my moth to say, I like the cut of your jib, but the homunculus in my brain stopped me, just in time. Sometimes, I could sound like a complete loon, let me tell you!
I wandered about looking at the art works. There was one piece, I particularly liked, of an old-fashioned doll in a swimming costume, lying down on its back, with lots of flowers strewn about it. Some of the flowers were fresh, and others were in various states of decay.
'The doll is an old one,' said Justine peering over my shoulder. 'It is actually made of soap. You could take it into the bath with you.'
When Justine said this, all I could think about was, the doll slowly disappearing into hot, soapy water. It was a scary thought and I started thinking about the nightmare I might have later.
We moved along to the next cubicle, where there was a table with a paper mache kangaroo, eating Chinese food. Strangely, noodles were coming out of the roo's ears and pouch. I turned to ask what Justine was trying to say with this art work, when the lights went out and I heard the metal door at the top of the stairs, crash shut. I couldn't see a thing.
'Oh drat!' yelled Justine, 'are you OK kiddo?'
'Yes, but I can't see anything'.
Actually, my eyes were starting to adjust and I could see some light coming from the top of the stairs. The door wasn't quite closed after all.
Justine must also have noticed the light too, because she said, 'grab my hand and let's see if we can get up those stairs.'
After crashing heads and stepping on each other's toes, we began to inch our way toward the staircase. But, as we began to feel our way up each step, I became aware of the muffled, crash and boom of lightning and thunder outside.
'There must have been a bit of a storm. That must be why the electricity went out', Justine said thoughtfully.
We got to the top and the deafening roar of rain hit our ears. But what could we do but sit down on the top step, and wait for the storm to move away?
We sat at the entrance to the underground dunnies, cross legged, with our rear ends' slowly turning to ice; I was almost in a trance, when I noticed a stumbling figure limping through the rain. I would know those particular set of brown eyes anywhere, which were squinting underneath a hooded, grey jacket, because those eyes were the same as mine. This was my dad.
I lurched to my feet and dashed into the rain and grabbed my dad's arm, which was thin and wiry. I felt immediately sad.
'Dad?'
My dad looked haunted, like a rat caught in a trap. Suddenly, I felt bad for stopping him and then almost immediately, a flare of anger, which was suffocated very quickly by fear, that, my dad would run away. I had to be cool.
'Hi Soph??sorry?..I wanted?,' he floundered for a moment. 'You know, I often follow you, just to see you're alright, and I was looking for you and, well?you found me before I found you'.
'But why haven't you talked to me?'
'It's hard cricket. It's just hard'.
Dad used to call me Cricket when I was young. When he lived with us. Hearing him call me this name again, was nice, but, it also, felt like a kick in the guts.
I noticed Justine staring toward us, with her eyes out on stalks, and so, I gave her a little wave so that she wouldn't be worried. Dad looked like one of those people who lie all day in Hyde Park, so I could understand why she kept looking our way with that stiff, pencil-like mouth.
'Come home Dad and see Gran,' I begged feebly.
My dad just shook his head sadly and pressed some coins into my hand. This made me sadder than ever.
My father had fought in the Vietnam War, when he about 18 years old. I don't know too much about it, but gran said that, he came back afterwards, another person. Gran also told me once, that those noises that we hear in the traffic every day, like a car backfiring, could cause dad to have panic attacks. And, he was constantly on alert and couldn't fall asleep. This went on for years, and somehow, mum and dad got married at some stage and had me. But dad became really detached after this, and stopped talking much to anyone at all. One day, a few years ago, he just disappeared.
This was the first time I had seen him in a few years.
I watched my dad stumble away in the rain and I just stood there, with the rain pouring down my face, mixing with my tears.