‘Well, I wasn’t offended,’ Charley added. ‘I thought you were deadly.’
‘Deadly?’
‘Good,’ the three of us said simultaneously.
‘Yeah, I reckon I did all right,’ said Margaret. ‘Nothin’ got thrown at me. Except a phone number from the cutey in the front row.’
I was feeling better but also a bit embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I spoiled your routine,’ I said. ‘I am such a wuss. My life has been full on lately.’
‘I’ll say. Discovering Cherie was your mum and I’m your old man would freak anyone out,’ Charley said.
‘Having me as your boss,’ added Margaret.
‘And wondering if you were related to your boyfriend,’ added Kirk. ‘That’s scary.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Koori grapevine,’ said Charley but he sounded a bit odd. Slurry.
‘And if it makes you feel better, I incorporated your walk-out into my routine. Got some good laughs, actually, at your expense.’
‘Yeah, she was on f- f- f-’ Mid sentence, mid word, Charley went silent.
We stared at him. He was sweating and holding his chest, and then his eyes glazed over. They rolled back and he collapsed sideways. I screamed. Blood was trickling out of his ear. Kirk ran to call an ambulance while Margaret placed Charley in the recovery position. A couple of people wandered past.
‘Had a few too many schooners, eh, mate?’ the bloke said.
‘Fuck off,’ replied Margaret. ‘He’s having a heart attack.’
‘Oh, oh, sorry, mate,’ said the guy, slinking off.
Margaret took control and started CPR. She worked on Charley until the ambulance arrived. By the time the paramedics took over, Charley had come to. I was effusive in my thanks to Margaret but she brushed it off.
‘Can you tell me your full name, mate?’ one of the ambos asked Charley.
I started to answer but the ambo held his hand up to stop me. Charley looked bewildered.
‘Can you remember what happened, mate?’
He shook his head. ‘She was funny,’ he pointed to Margaret, which made us laugh.
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘It’s Friday isn’t it?’
‘Have you had a drink tonight?’
‘No,’ I practically yelled. ‘He’s stopped drinking. He’s got a heart condition.’
Charley shushed me. ‘It’s okay. It’s his — whatchamacallit — job.’
‘No drinks? Okay, that’s good. Yarndi?’
Charley shook his head. ‘Long time ago. Back in the dark ages.’
‘That’s good, mate. Now we need to take you to hospital.’
‘I just got discharged.’
‘Sorry, mate. You’ll need follow up.’
Charley was taken to hospital, with me travelling in the back of the ambulance with him. So much for the fun night out. But thank goodness for Margaret. And to think, I once vowed I would never forgive her.
Twenty-seven
I visited Charley most nights. The word was out that he was sick and a steady stream of well-wishers, family members, footy players and more came to pay their respects. I met oodles of Uncles and Aunties — some of them were even related. Michael Jackson from the pub was a second cousin. I met a few old timers and loads of young fellas, nephews and nieces. There were community people and community leaders.
One day, he had a visitor who looked vaguely familiar. Charley introduced him to me as ‘Frank’ and then I made myself scarce for a bit. When I came back they were still talking — about Aboriginal affairs, policies and stuff — and Frank was hanging off Charley’s every word. The conversation turned to Essendon’s chances in the finals, with Frank betting him $50 that they wouldn’t make it to the top four. They shook hands with me as their witness. Charley now looked tired and Frank said goodbye, giving him a quick hug. When he left, I swear I saw tears in his eyes.
‘Who was that?’ I asked, curious.
‘That’s Frank, the Federal Minister for Aboriginal Affairs. If you’re going into politics, girl, you better know your allies and your adversaries.’
My mouth fell open.
Charley laughed, and then he coughed and spluttered. ‘He’s just a bloke, Kirrali. But it was decent of him to make the time. Especially as I’ve had a go at him more times that you’ve had hot dinners.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘All’s fair in love and war. All’s fair, eh?’
‘And who said I was going into politics anyway?’ I demanded.
‘To be Aboriginal is to be political. You’re born into it. Can’t fight it.’
‘Kirk said something like that to me once. I hadn’t believed him.’
‘You’ll be right. Cherie’ll guide ya. Listen to her. She usually gets it right. How are you two getting along anyway?’
I really did try to fudge the truth. But how could I?
‘She annoys me.’
He laughed, ‘Get past that and she’s terrific.’
At that moment, Cherie stuck her head around the door. I felt a rush of embarrassment. I’d just been canning the woman.
‘Who’s terrific?’
‘Why you, of course,’ Charley said smoothly.
‘Of course I am! But no, who’s terrific?’
‘Cherie — we were talking about you. Kirrali was just saying she finds you annoying and I agreed but that you were also terrific.’
I nearly died. Cherie just stared at me and then — unexpectedly — laughed. Her laughter set Charley off laughing again.
‘Yeah, I know I am,’ Cherie replied. ‘But guess what? She’s inherited that trait.’ She pointed at me. ‘You’re annoying too.’
I suppose I was. My brothers and sisters had been saying it for years but I thought it was just because they were my siblings. I was at least as annoying as Cherie and probably just as much of a drama queen. That made me think. I had been so caught up in my own life I hadn’t taken much time to think about my family or my friends. I hadn’t even spoken to Erin since she discovered that Mavis had been her sister. I didn’t have her phone number but Kirk had given me her parents’ address so while Cherie and Charley were talking, I sat down and wrote her a short note.
Dear Erin
I’m missing you. Breakfast at the College isn’t the same. Actually there is no brekkie without you — the new guy doesn’t offer the same level of service. I am really sorry about Mavis, I hope you are okay. Erin, I have met my father. And you were the one who inspired me to find my biological family.
Your friend, Kirrali
The next day when I went to see Charley, he was engrossed in a conversation with a tall, distinguished-looking Aboriginal man. Charley patted the bed and I quietly propped up beside him.
‘You see, Charley, the lad’s just not settling down. You know how these boys are, bros,’ the man said. ‘Launched out of his small town, into the big smoke, big bucks to spend, big expectations on his shoulders and lots of attention.’
‘Not always the right kind of attention,’ added Charley.
I wondered who they were talking about.
‘The girls go for a lad like him. Up and coming. High profile.’
Were they talking about an activist, a current affairs host or a track and field star? Probably a footballer.
‘The wrong girls. White girls from the right side of the track who like to be a bit rebellious. White girls who think it’s cool to get into bed with a star ruckman.’
Yep, a footballer.
‘Yeah well, one of them got her claws into him and got a ring on her finger, quick smart. Used the old pregnancy routine, I heard.’
Gosh, they could be talking about Martina and Robbie.
‘They mess with the lads’ heads. All of a sudden, these boys from the bush are driving European sports cars and wearing bloody Pierre Cardin suits and thinkin’ they’re Gary Ablett’s best friend.’ The man had worked himself up into quite a rage.
And Charley seemed revved up about it too. ‘They don’t
catch up with their families — no more tossing the footy around with the young cousins, teachin’ them a thing or too,’ he said. ‘And, bros, have you noticed that them girls are always blonde? They’re turning our lads into bloody coconuts.’
‘Yeah, well, this one’s a redhead but otherwise you’re spot on, brother.’
They were talking about Martina. I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘Course I’m right, brother. You need to have a yarn to them lads, show ’em these girls are just gold-diggers who have no respect for their culture.’
‘No!’
The look of shock on Charley’s face was priceless. ‘Kirrali?’
‘Are you talking about Robbie Jonus? If so, you’re also talking about his wife, Martina, who happens to be my best friend. You couldn’t have got it more wrong. She is not turning him into anything. Whatever he’s doing, he’s doing by himself. She doesn’t know what happened to the guy she married and she wishes that the Robbie she fell in love with would come back. But he’s too busy getting free drinks at nightclubs. So please don’t character assassinate someone you’ve never met.’
Charley turned to his mate with just the hint of a smile. ‘Ken, I’d like you to meet my daughter.’
With that, Charley started chuckling. Ken followed.
‘By crikey — like father, like daughter. The apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree.’
My temper was still up and I gave Charley what Mum used to call the ‘evil eye’. Charley wasn’t fazed at all — he just pulled me across into a bear hug. It felt great.
‘Maybe I should be asking a different member of the family for help with the lad. Maybe daught here should be growling Robbie, to get him back on track.’ Ken looked at me.
‘What’s growling? And what’s a coconut?’ I had to ask.
The two men just laughed. There was so much I didn’t know.
The talk about Robbie had stirred up more guilty feelings about my friends. It had been ages since I had seen Martina, yet she had supported me when I first met up with Cherie. I resolved to catch up with her on the weekend.
On Saturday arvo, I shut my textbooks. I bought a rainbow-coloured candle at the health food shop, hopped on a tram and rocked up to her townhouse. There was a ‘To Let’ sign on the fence. I stared at it, thinking I must have the wrong place. I poked around the letterbox, which was overflowing with junk mail, and found a letter addressed to Robbie Jonus. Where were they?
I wandered home, wracking my brain for a way to contact her or Robbie. Of course — Martina’s parents.
Martina’s mum was pleased to hear from me and tried to tell me all the news but I cut her short as I was calling from a pay phone and my coins were about to run out. She told me that Martina had just moved in with an aunty and gave me her phone number. Martina was living with an aunty? The same one she was bunking with when she was a student? Did that mean her and Robbie had broken up? I hoped not.
I rang the aunty’s number. No one picked up so I left a message on the answering machine.
I sat there, the afternoon sun turning everything peachy, and I thought again about all the people I’d pushed aside lately — Martina, my parents, my brothers and sisters, even Kirk and Erin — people I cared about and who loved me.
A year ago I didn’t know one Aboriginal person but now I could include quite a few in my close circle of friends. Before I had just been scared. Deep down I was fearful that there would be something shameful lurking there — a father in prison or a drug-addicted mother. I was frightened of my own Aboriginality, fuelled by all the negative stories in the media. I was racist. My parents weren’t, and Martina wasn’t, but I was. What an idiot I had been. I thought I was so clever, so superior. But I was just a lost, scared girl.
I left more messages for Martina but in the end it was Charley who solved the problem of finding her. I had snuck in a visit before work and was venting my frustration when he grabbed a bit of paper and wrote down an address. He told me that the aunty was Aunty Jenny but that’s all he would say. After uni the next day, I took a train out to the western suburbs and fronted up to the address. The house was a plain weatherboard, a little tired but tidy. I knocked on the door. I could hear laughter inside.
A small but solid Aboriginal woman answered. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m a friend of Martina’s.’
‘Oh?’
‘And Charley said it would be okay.’
‘Charley Jackson? Why the hell didn’t you say so?’ She bundled me inside and shook my hand vigorously.
‘Martina’s in her room. Second door on the left. Go through.’
I negotiated the tiny kitchen which was filled with muscular young men. Despite their amazing physiques, they looked shy and I felt shy because I had no idea who they were.
I knocked on Martina’s door and there was a muffled ‘come in’. When I went in, she was lying face down on the bed.
‘Martina. What’s wrong?’
She turned over and I could see she’d just been listening to her Walkman. ‘Kirrali. Wow, long time no hear …’
‘I rang. You didn’t get my messages?’
‘Are you kidding me? Can you imagine how many girls ring here? A house with five VFL footy players, it would be like a hotel with a revolving door. Aunty screens all the calls so most of the messages get deleted, pronto. Unless of course she knows the caller.’
‘Five footballers live here? The house looks so small.’
‘It is. It’s three bedrooms plus a bungalow out the back. A couple of the fellas share a room.’
‘But they must be earning big bucks. Why do they live here?’
I looked around. Martina and Robbie had obviously ditched their furniture but they still managed to squeeze in a stereo, TV, clothes, a towering stack of tapes and videos and sporting gear. I was puzzled. Maybe Robbie had gambled away all their money. Maybe they were bankrupt. Martina could see I was confused.
‘Don’t look so worried. We’re renting out the townhouse for a couple of years. It’s better for Robbie and great for me.’
I must have looked doubtful and Martina just laughed. She made room on the bed and I squished in amongst the cushions.
‘I mean it. Aunty is the best. She runs a tight ship. Robbie has to be home at a certain time. If he’s late, there are consequences. Everybody else indulges Robbie. He gets freebies wherever he goes and he gets picked up for red carpet events in a limo. But Aunty makes him pull his weight. She’s full-on scary. Robbie has chores — there’s even a dishwashing roster — and she growls him if he doesn’t do them.’
‘Growls? That’s what Charley says.’
Martina burst out laughing. ‘It’s blackfella talk. Sometimes I feel more Koori than you, Kirrali.’
Her words slashed like a stingray’s barb. She’d said something similar to me the first day of uni. I swallowed down my hurt. I was here to see if Martina was okay.
‘Anyway, who’s Charley?’ Martina asked.
I told Martina all about meeting my father and the rest of the family. I couldn’t believe it when she told me she already knew Charley and would often see him at footy events. We chatted just like old times.
Martina had more stories about Aunty’s legendary temper and how the boys were scared of her, even though she was a good thirty centimetres shorter than any of them. She also confided that Robbie had made good progress with his gambling problem. I was so glad to see the sadness that had enveloped her was disappearing.
Martina urged me to stay. ‘Aunty won’t mind — she does this loaves and fishes thing that makes any dish feed whoever is in the house.’ But I had to go. I had study to do and I was a long way from home.
She walked me to the door. ‘Can you thank Charley for me? From the two of us?’
‘Charley? What for?’ I asked.
‘For organising for us to stay with Aunty. Robbie said it was his idea.’
‘Oh yeah, of course,’ I replied.
The sly dog. He hadn’t told me he’d
been working behind the scenes. There was still so much I didn’t know, or understand, about Charley and the way he operated. So much to learn …
Twenty-eight
At the hospital, there wasn’t much more they could do for Charley other than ensure he was comfortable. He refused to go into palliative care so Cherie and I took him home. We settled him in and were having a cup of tea when I felt his eyes on me.
‘What’s on your mind?’ Charley asked.
Seeing Cherie and Charley physically close, but knowing they were so different, had made me wonder how they’d got together in the first place.
‘Umm, where did you two meet? I actually don’t know the story. Was it in school?’
‘Ha! I left school at fourteen. Chased out by low expectations,’ said Charley.
‘That was in the sixties,’ added Cherie. ‘Today you would have got a scholarship.’
Charley pursed his lips in Cherie’s direction as if to say, go ahead, tell her.
So Cherie told the story of how they met at the Boundary Pub and how he gave her a hard time ’cos of her white ignorance but how they eventually got together, and how they met up at his tiny flat each Saturday ... and how, perhaps inevitably, he broke it off.
They were both caught up in their own thoughts as if something had been uncovered, dusty and yellowed, after years of being hidden away.
‘I am sorry. I didn’t really love you,’ Charley said.
‘Wow. Thanks for that.’
‘But I didn’t really not love you either.’
Cherie just stared at him.
‘It’s like I wouldn’t let myself feel anything. True to my word, I have never been involved with a white girl since.’
‘What? That’s racist,’ I blurted out.
‘Yep.’
‘He had to do what he had to do,’ Cherie said.
‘Don’t defend him.’ For once I was on her side.
‘I’m not.’ A note of bitterness flavoured Cherie’s words. Or was it wistfulness? ‘You did what worked for you.’
Becoming Kirrali Lewis Page 17