Becoming Kirrali Lewis

by Jane Harrison

  ‘Where are you from, Kirrali? You never talk about your family,’ she said tentatively, as if the question might open up some wound in me.

  But I was quite happy to tell her. I told her all about my small home town, my mother and father, my sisters and brothers and the ins-and-outs of living in a house with five siblings and a dog, guinea pigs, rabbits and numerous goldfish, all called ‘Goldie’ after Goldie Hawn, the actress. Dad was a massive fan. I bubbled along sharing amusing stories, I thought, until Erin pushed her plate away and stood up.

  ‘They all sound really nice. But I meant your real family.’

  ‘They are my real family.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that. It doesn’t matter. They sound cool. You’re lucky.’

  She stood up and gave me a little wave goodbye. It was then — maybe for the first time — I realised how far away I was from my beginnings.

  On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, Mum came into my room for a chat. I was sprawled on my bed, my homework all around me. I thought it might be an addendum to our previous little chat about the birds and the bees but that’s not what she had in mind.

  ‘Kirrali, your dad and I have never really spoken to you about your biological family. We wondered if now might be a good time. If you have any questions, we’ll do our best to answer them. And if you feel like you want to find them, you know we’d help you.’

  For a long time I said nothing. Then I opened up my maths textbook. ‘I’m kind of busy at the moment, Mum. My assignment is due tomorrow.’

  ‘When you’re ready,’ she said as she left the room.

  Mum tried to bring up the subject again but each time I put her off. I was happy with the family I knew and I didn’t want to know about the one that gave me up. The thought of meeting my biological mother was too huge to deal with. I wasn’t ready.

  Now it was catching up with me and Erin was reminding me that I had unfinished business. Somewhere out there, I had a mother who I hadn’t seen since I was a few hours old. She had got rid of me then, would she want to see me again? More to the point, did I want to see her?

  Five

  Martina and I had planned to meet for lunch every Friday but most came and went while I ate my bucket of hot chips alone. Her night with the VFL footballer, Robbie, had turned into a regular thing and she was now officially ‘seeing’ him. I did ring her a few times but all she wanted to talk about was ‘Robbie this’ and ‘Robbie that’.

  A month had passed since the night at the Fiddler’s Arms and I was tired of being stood up. I looked up her class timetable on the noticeboard and resolved to hang outside her lecture room until I saw her.

  I was on my way there, passing by the student admin office, when I bumped into her. Literally. Martina didn’t even see me until we collided. Papers flew in all directions.

  ‘Wow, sis, it’s you,’ she exclaimed.

  Sis? Since when did she call me ‘sis’? Erin called me sis — it was an Aboriginal thing, I had noticed. Martina seemed different in other ways too — her red hair was wilder, or her blue eyes brighter, or was it her clothes? Was she on something?

  We bent down to pick up the folders and assignments scattered on the floor.

  ‘Are you going to a lecture?’ I asked. ‘I’ll walk with you. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

  ‘Well, no. I’m finished here.’

  ‘Finished where?’

  ‘I’m dropping out.’

  ‘What! But you love politics. You’ve wanted to do this course forever. You were going to change the world.’

  ‘True, but a degree in political science isn’t gunna do it. I can do more out in the “real” world. It’s so conservative here. You have no idea of the twats in my lectures. They haven’t had an original thought in their lives. They are so wealthy and it’s such a boys’ club. Kirrali, it’s 1985! I can do more helping out with grassroots campaigns. Like Aboriginal land rights. Robbie’s mum is a mover and shaker in the land rights movement.’

  ‘Robbie’s mum?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been hanging out with his family a lot. They’re awesome.’

  ‘So that’s where you’ve been.’

  ‘Well, actually, guess what? I’ve got news. I’m getting married.’

  ‘What! Are you crazy?’

  Martina took that as a compliment.

  ‘Yes, crazy. We are both crazy. Unreal, isn’t it?’

  Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We think I’m pregnant. I don’t know for sure but Robbie and I are hoping we are.’

  Again, she misread the look on my face.

  ‘Oh Kirrali, don’t worry, I’ve got an invite for you.’

  Martina shuffled the paper in her arms before passing me a fancy envelope.

  Confused, I ripped it open.

  Ms Kirrali Lewis and guest

  You are cordially invited to the wedding of

  Martina Louise Russell

  and

  Robert Roy Jonus

  at 4pm on Sunday, 28 April 1985

  Blessington Gardens, St Kilda

  and later at the Essendon Football Clubrooms

  ‘Got to get married now because the footy season has already started. As it is we’re only going to have three days’ honeymoon in town because Robbie is so busy with training and games.’ She giggled happily. ‘Isn’t it fantastic?’

  I must have been gaping at her but the last thing Martina wanted was my honest response so I just hugged her tightly. I could hardly believe that my best friend was marrying someone she’d only known for weeks. Maybe it was one of those soulmate things. You meet someone and it just seems right. As for her being pregnant, I mean, what were the chances? Maybe that was what she was ‘on’ — pregnancy hormones. It was too much to contemplate. I was dealing with juggling my shifts at the cinema and getting assignments in on time, while Martina was making plans to get married — and was maybe having a baby.

  But I had more immediate things to worry about. A wedding. What on earth was I going to wear? What should I buy them? Should I invite someone to go with me? Who?

  The days flew by — lectures, study, reading and more reading, and writing essays as well as work on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights with the occasional Sunday shift. I did my best to avoid the ogre boss, Margaret, and apart from the odd sarcastic remark thrown my way, she was, as Erin had said, pretty harmless. I was still sensitive to her comments but she was disparaging to everyone. Whatever their skin colour or nationality, Margaret had a bigoted comment. Even the white Anglo-Saxon Protestants — WASPs, my mum called them — were put down and bullied. I began to see it as just her strange way of dealing with people.

  Finding someone to do my shift so I could go to Martina’s wedding was an ordeal. Margaret told me to ‘get one of your bloody relatives, it’d make a change for them to do some work instead of bloody sitting around spending their dole money on grog’. Erin gave me her cousin Kirk’s phone number and when I rang he agreed without too much persuasion. He sounded nice, not that I had time for small talk.

  I decided to go to the wedding alone but I still had the problem of what to wear. It was my best friend’s wedding and my wardrobe was just jeans, jeans, and acid-washed jeans. I scoured the op shops and eventually found a dress that was purple and spangly. Purple wasn’t the best colour for a wedding but at least the diamantés would add a festive note. Erin lent me some high-heeled gold shoes to match the spangly bits and I wore gold earrings and phoofed my hair up. I reckoned I looked like a black Kylie Minogue.

  Of course, the whole idea of Martina getting married was too weird. She was only nineteen but I was happy for her. They looked amazing together — Robbie, athletic, broad-shouldered, black and handsome in his suit and green silk cummerbund, and Martina’s pale skin set off by a green velvet frock, her red hair cascading down her back.

  The ceremony was really casual and the marriage celebrant invited guests to come up and say a few words about the couple. There were a few delightful reminiscences about
the reckless, daredevil child Robbie once was and tall tales about the Jonus brothers’ prowess — on and off the field. Was I the only one who noticed that nobody had much to say about the bride? Martina’s parents weren’t there so I guessed it was because her folks didn’t approve of Robbie or the wedding. Martina was the black sheep of the family. She looked radiant but she must have felt sad not to have her family there.

  At the ‘after party’ — they didn’t call it a reception — Martina whispered to me that the pregnancy had been a false alarm. At first I was relieved but when Robbie made a speech about how busy they were going to be making little footballers, I felt uneasy again. My free-spirited Martina, a baby-making machine?

  Robbie’s family were really enjoying themselves — a gaggle of energetic kids chasing mini footballs and teenagers boogieing on the dance floor. As a stranger to all but Martina, I felt alone. I hovered on the edge, watching as if it was a movie.

  One curious thing happened though. An older Aboriginal woman, maybe in her seventies, came up and asked me my name. She frowned at my answer. She asked me where I came from. When I told her, she shook her head.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, bub, I coulda sworn you were a Smith. From up around Bree, New South Wales.’

  I shook my head. She patted me on the arm as if to console me for my bad luck in not being a member of the Smith clan. Maybe they were like royalty or something.

  Dear Mum and Dad

  I said that I’d write and tell you about Martina’s wedding but I had to wait until payday so I could get the photos developed. Didn’t she look beautiful? Unusual wedding dress — emerald green velvet. Quite casual and none of the ‘obey’ stuff like at cousin Audrey’s. It was fun though — especially afterwards at the Essendon Footy Club. Dad, I know you’ll be jealous but I got to meet one of your football heroes, except I forget his name. You’ll know who I mean, that ‘on-baller’ you rave about. I didn’t ask for his autograph, too shy.

  I hope Martina will be happy. It was all a bit rushed and her family didn’t go. Sorry, this letter is beginning to sound like gossip.

  What else? I can’t come home for the holidays because I’ve got extra shifts at work. I should make enough to pay for next term’s accommodation so don’t send me a cheque. Spend the money on yourselves. GO FOR A HOLIDAY! I’ve made a couple of friends. There’s Amber who’s also doing law and another girl called Erin. She’s Aboriginal actually. Oh, and Adam Rogers. Remember him? He’s in my lectures, not that I talk to him much.

  If Tarquin is coming down, I can sneak her into my room but only if she brings my doona and a few jumpers. It’s going to be a long cold winter. Love to the others. Please give Finn a big hug and a treat and say it’s from me.

  Love Kirrali

  PS I almost forgot. I got two High Distinctions in my first lot of results. Yippee!

  I was flying through the uni gates, running late as usual, and who should I bump into but the dreadlock guy who’d tried to railroad me on my first day.

  ‘It’s you,’ I snapped in a tone that I hoped said, ‘don’t mess with me’.

  ‘What’s up?’ He fell into pace beside me.

  This time he wasn’t barefoot and he was carrying a book, but he still looked scruffy. Nice green eyes though. I hadn’t noticed that the first time. I decided to be direct with him. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. Don’t you have anything better to do? Like read that book?’

  He stood still while I kept walking. ‘It’s a play. Medea.’

  The barefoot dreadlocked guy reading a Greek tragedy? Before I could fully process what he’d said, he called out, ‘And actually sometimes I’m very busy. Last week I even filled in at work for one of my cousin’s friends who had a wedding to go to.’

  I stopped walking. He was Kirk, Erin’s cousin? ‘I ... I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were Erin’s cousin.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and headed off down another path. I stared after him, feeling pretty bad. That’s not really how I wanted to treat people. Dad would have disowned me if he’d seen my behaviour. I should probably apologise.

  When I told Erin what had happened, she’d already heard.

  ‘I thought I should buy him something? Maybe a bottle of chardonnay?’

  She looked at me with a barely concealed smirk, ‘Chardonnay? Kirk? I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about a record or a tape? Maybe he’s got a CD player. I could get him a CD voucher.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘Ah, no. Then what?’

  ‘He wants to go on a date with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He likes you. For some reason he thinks you’re pretty. I dunno, I told him to get his eyes checked.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re so easy to stir. How about it? A romantic night out with Kirk?’

  I groaned, ‘He’s not my kind, Erin. He’s cute, but dreadlocks? Ugh.’

  ‘Kirk is the sweetest guy you could ever meet. He’d do anything for anyone. And he’s talented. A really good actor.’

  ‘Then why’s he working as an usher? Oh, I know, to pick up other actor’s techniques.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Do you know how little work there is for Koori actors? I mean, when was the last time you saw an Aboriginal person on Neighbours?’

  I looked at her, ‘I don’t watch Neighbours.’

  ‘But you do know what I’m talking about?’

  My blank expression must have shown my ignorance.

  ‘How many roles do you see filled by Aboriginal actors? Occasionally they get to play Aboriginals but they don’t actually get to play people. You don’t see Aboriginal nurses or teachers, or even Aboriginal social workers, in films or on TV, do you? Those roles are always filled by white people. When they just pick the best actor for the role instead of the best white actor, Kirk will get plenty of work.’

  It was the first time I’d seen Erin angry but she did have a point. Now I felt guilty for being one of the great unwashed who hadn’t even noticed the lack of cultural diversity among characters on our screen.

  Just like that, Erin realised — like a cat playing with a mouse — that she had the upper hand.

  ‘He’s too shy to ask you out unless he knows you’ll say yes. You have to say yes.’

  I hesitated. Her eyes glinted and she knew she had me.

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘That’s not a yes.’

  ‘Yes.’ It came out like a whimper.

  ‘Great. I’ll let him know you’re free on Thursday.’

  Me on a date with a rastaman. You wouldn’t write home about it. So I didn’t.

  Six

  That’s how I found myself back at the Fiddler’s Arms. Obviously Kirk’s choice. Last time I’d been here, it’d been too crowded to notice much except that both the décor and the drinks were cheap. Now I had a good chance to look around. It was a funny old pub. No mirrored bar, or shag pile, or sunken lounge. No attempt to be trendy. It had grotty red flock wallpaper and sticky carpet. Even the toilet doors had those old-fashioned symbols of a silhouetted lady with a parasol and a man wearing a top hat, holding a cane.

  Still, it was popular. There were maybe a hundred people there — not bad for a Wednesday night. Some were playing pool, some were dancing. The band was nothing special but the crowd was tearing up the floor. Most of them were young, about my age, though there were a few older. In their thirties, forties, fifties, it didn’t seem to matter. They all danced together. The last time I’d seen oldies dancing with teenagers was at my cousin Audrey’s wedding. There, the dads were trying to shake it, the mums were trying to look sexy and the kids were trying to get away as fast as possible. But here everyone seemed cool with one another, old or young.

  Kirk left me to go and buy drinks at the bar. I hid in the shadows, hoping I would go unnoticed.

  ‘Wanna dance?’ The bloke was swaying and it wasn’t to the rhythm. He flashed a smile but my
heart sank. I was going to be harassed, just like the last time I’d been here.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Yeah, me neither.’ He laughed, and despite myself, I did too. ‘That’s okay, sis, I just wanted to come up and have a yarn. The name’s Michael. Michael Jackson. Like in the Jackson Five.’ He grabbed at his crotch and chuckled again at his own joke. He held out his hand — the other one — and I was obliged to shake it.

  ‘Kirrali.’ At least I could try and be polite.

  Just then Kirk returned. ‘Hey, Mick, my boy,’ he said, putting our drinks down on the bar table to shake the bloke’s hand. ‘Eh, Kirrali, better keep away from this one. He’s deadly with the ladies.’

  Mick looked bashful but pleased. ‘Deadly,’ he repeated.

  Kirk and Mick got into all that ‘how’s your cousin’ stuff that I’ve noticed Aboriginal people like to get into. Aboriginal people other than me, I mean. I didn’t know anyone’s cousin — except for Erin’s.

  Just then I spotted Erin in the crowd. I waved to her and she came over. ‘It’s about time we got you here again,’ she said, giving me a drunk hug. Her beautiful hair, usually tied back, had been let loose. It was like a glowing aura around her.

  ‘Coke, Erin?’ shouted Kirk, who had a tequila sunrise for me and a whiskey and Coke for himself.

  ‘No thanks, cuz, I’m fine,’ she replied.

  ‘Erin doesn’t drink. She’s a teetotaller,’ he added, for my benefit.

  ‘Like it’s a crime not to drink,’ she poked her tongue out at him.

  So she wasn’t drunk. Innocent until proven guilty. I must remember that, I thought, sipping on my sunrise as she spun on to the dance floor.

  That night, I reckoned Erin and Kirk introduced me to half the crowd. Everyone was someone’s cousin, or aunt, or nephew, and if they weren’t, they were ‘bro’ or ‘sis’. It was very complicated, especially when I got the feeling that there were one or two cliques who weren’t exactly on speaking terms. But it was pretty civilised — in fact I’d never seen a crowd of people have such a good time.