by Kate Gordon
“Including GA,” I say, confidently.
“Including GA,” she agrees, nodding. “We'll handle all enquiries about your project. We'll take emails via The Mercury, and phone calls too. We'll manage everything.”
I shake my head. “No. I have a project team. They'd be really upset if I let you take over. We'll set up an email address that you can publish. How does that sound?”
“Well, okay.” Yas pulls out her iPad and flips open the cover. “Shall we get started, then? You said you have to get to work?”
I look at the clock. It's a quarter to nine. I really should get going.
But then, my breakfast arrives. It looks so good I nearly pass out. It smells even better. I can’t eat this breakfast quickly. I'm going to savour it.
I make the decision. “No,” I say. “I’ve never been late before. Britta will forgive me.” I heap up a forkful of toast and compote. “So. What do you need to know?”
13
We sit around the dining table at my house on Saturday morning, waiting for Joe to arrive. Britta and Shelley are arguing about whether we should have a shop Secret Santa this year.
I’m watching Dad, through the window.
He’s outside, pretending to garden, but he’s been staring at that one rosebush for far too long. I know all the signs by now. He’s probably thinking about a new research paper.
“Is your dad all right?” Shelley asks, following my eyes. “He’s just … scowling at that bush.”
“Thinking significant thoughts,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “He does that.”
“Ah, well that’s okay then.” She takes a sip of her chai latte.
“Oh, shit,” Britta says. She’s looking down at her top. I hadn’t noticed, before, but now I can see it has a very suspicious-looking brown stain on it.
“Don’t worry,” Britta sighs. “It’s only chocolate custard. I think. Bloody kids.” She looks upwards. “Oh no. Maybe it’s not custard.” When we all wince, she laughs. “And this is why I don't tell you two much about kid stuff.”
“You can tell me about kids all you want,” I say. “I think it’s all amazing.”
“I think your life is amazing, too,” Britta says, slowly. “And that’s why…” She shakes her head. “Maddy, what if your graffiti artist is not so amazing. Isn’t your life pretty cool without a relationship? You can be totally who you want to be. Nobody telling you what to do…”
She winces, realising what she’s said. My stomach lurches a little.
“Nobody telling you what to do…”
“I like it.” I say, keeping my voice even. “I like my life. And … I don't intend giving up who I am when I have a partner.”
“You’re sure?” says Shelley.
I nod. “When I set my mind to things, they just work out. Besides, I know for a fact you want exactly the same things I want.”
“Sure, I travelled all the way across the world in search of them,” she says, sombrely. “I would've happily settled down with the Dreaded Ex. But that was him. I was utterly besotted with the fellow. Any other man, well, I can't see it happening. I wanted that one. But—“ She screws up her face. “I won't be talking about him again. I’ve decided. I’m moving on too, like Maddy. I won't have my life turned upside-down for one nasty rotter of a man.”
“Amen to that,” says Britta.
Just then, the front door flies open, disturbing Ellen, who'd been sleeping just behind it. She leaps in the air and hisses but then, seeing it's Joe, her fur settles and she walks happy figure-of-eights through his feet, purring. Ellen adores Joe. I think Ellen wishes Joe was her daddy.
“Well hello there, Ms DeGene-puss,” he says, bending down to scratch Ellen behind the ears. Her purring is at freight-train level now. “And hello, divine girls.” Joe swaggers over to us, swinging a plastic bag. “Did you know your dad’s staring at a bush?” he asks me.
“Yup,” I answer.
“Well, as long as you’re okay with that … I bring the local rag and a delicious selection of breakfast goods. You may tell me I am awesome.”
“Excellent!” I squeal “Give me cake. All of the cake. And let's look at this newspaper.” My stomach pitches, as I realise something. “It’s not bad, is it? Please tell me I don't seem ridiculous?”
Talking to Yas was easy — nice, in fact. She was so kind to me, and gentle. She even laughed at my jokes.
I have no reason to be feeling so anxious. But that’s the thing about anxiety. Sometimes you don’t need a reason. “What if it's not okay? What if I seem like a loser?” I bite the inside of my lip, as my pulse begins to gallop.
“You don't,” Joe blurts. Three pairs of eyes lock on him.
“You read it?” Britta gasps.
“But we were all meant to read it together!” Shelley shakes her head in disgust.
Joe lifts a shoulder. “I had to make sure it was okay. Otherwise I would have had to bring cake and macarons.”
“You only brought cake?” I ask, quietly.
Joe nods. “Only cake, Darling.”
I giggle and clap my hands together. “Well, let's have it then!”
“The cake or the paper?”
I roll my eyes. “Joe, you know me. Both.”
14
“The Mysterious ‘M’,” Joe reads. “And then there's a silhouette, with a big question mark in the middle of it.”
“Subtle.” Britta rolls her eyes and smiles.
I’m too nervous to say anything.
“Indeed. So, shall I read it verbatim or just give a precis?”
“Precis,” I blurt, as the other three yell “All of it!” They look at me, questioningly.
“Why don’t you want to hear everything?” Britta asks.
I take a big forkful of cake, and begin to explain. “Don't talk with your mouth full,” Britta says, flashing Scary Mother eyes my way.
“Britta, you do know I'm not your kid, right?” I remind her (although I swallow, this time, before speaking).
“Then stop acting like one.” She shoots me a grin to show she's joking. “Sorry, force of habit. So why don't you want to hear the whole article?”
“Partly because I know most of what's in it — I was there for the interview. Partly because we need to get ready for the protest, except for Joe—”
“Who needs to arm himself with red cordial and noisy toys and DVDs you'd never let them watch.” His eyes glint wickedly. Britta shakes her fist at him.
“And partly because, even though Joe says it's nice, I'm a bit scared, still. You read it if you like, while I get changed for the march. Then you can tell me the highlights, okay?”
“Deal,” says Shelley, quickly, shaking her head at Britta, who has opened her mouth to argue. “We'll have a synopsis for you by the time you get back downstairs.”
I leap up the stairs, two at a time.
A few minutes later, I creep back down. I’m protest-ready, in my favourite Robin le Riche Apparel 'fuck your fascist beauty standards' Save The Koala tee shirt, tied nineties-style in a knot at my side (because fuck all the people who say fat girls can’t show midriff), high-waisted jeans; pink sandals and a cute op shop cardi, slung over my shoulder to protect against moody weather.
I’m still nervous about the article.
I'm greeted by three smiles, when I reach the kitchen, and my heart slows with relief.
Joe wasn’t lying. It actually is okay. “It says you're pretty!” Shelley squeals.
“And that you're smart,” Joe adds, elbowing Shelley in the ribs. “It says that any man or woman would be lucky to have you, but that you're a determined woman who likes to be in control of her choices and decisions, and that you had quite a bad break-up, a few years ago, but you’ve come out of the experience stronger, and more determined not to settle for second best.” Joe looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry, Maddy. Thought it would be better to say that bit quickly. Like pulling off a band-aid. It's the only bad thing, honest.”
“I didn't say that,”
I whisper, eyes burning. “I'm sure I didn't say that.”
“Maybe you inferred it,” Britta suggests, gently. “Maybe she read between the lines.”
“You can't really be angry though, can you?” Shelley asks. “After all, it is true, isn't it?”
I sigh. “Yeah, it's true, but I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything about … what happened.”
Joe kisses me on the head. “It’s fine, Maddy. I know you’d prefer if that bit wasn’t in there, but the article, as a whole, is really great. And, look! They give your new email at the end — [email protected] — so you'd better check your inbox as soon as we get back.”
“Now?” I whisper, widening my eyes and looking at Joe hopefully.
As I knew he would, he shakes his head. “Not now, and not every five minutes, either. You can check after the protest and then, once a day. I know you. Once you're focussed on something you can get a bit—”
“Don’t say ‘obsessive’.”
“Remember the Great Sourdough Doughnut Quest of 2017?” he asks, mildly.
I stick my chin out. “It was a research experiment,” I pout. “And, for the record, I found it. In Wynyard. The best one.”
“And let's not forget the time you decided the bookshop had to be organised by Dewey Decimal system,” Shelley reminds me. “You did it behind Britta’s back, on a quiet Sunday…”
I cringe. “I thought it would be a gimmick.”
“Maybe so, but everyone who came into the shop was thoroughly confused and I didn’t have time to change it back until the weekend after, and even then, you tried to convince me that your way was better—”
“I was in an interesting headspace,” I mumble.
“But then, the regulars threatened a boycott until you changed it back and conscripted that group of Swiss tourists into the protest.” Britta shakes her head. “I'd almost forgotten about that. I think I blocked it from my memory.”
I stand, grabbing another wodge of cake for the road. “Are you lot going to ditch me? For being so strange?”
“Never!” they chorus.
I smile at my equally-strange band of friends. “Are you going to join me, to save this beautiful historic building?”
“Yes!” the reply.
Except for Joe, who says, “I’m off to Britta’s house. I have three hours to make two small children completely hyperactive.”
“Don’t you dare!” Britta’s expression is volcanic.
Joe lets out a high-pitched giggle, and races his chair from the house, before Britta can catch him. “Oh, no,” she moans. “I’m doomed.”
15
I’m trooping down Murray Street, my arms linked with Shelley and Britta. Dad is in front of me. I wasn't expecting him to come, but it turns out that the building we’re rallying to save was once a hangout for uni students back in the seventies. He’s marching with his colleagues, reminiscing, and having a lovely time.
And it's lovely for me, being here with my dad. There is no more important person in my life, and never will be. He is my hero. When he’s working, he might disappear a little bit into his own head, but I know he’ll be there for me if I ever need him.
He’s proven that in the past.
And I always feel safer, when I’m with him. Even at thirty-three.
He turns around as we march and winks at me. “You okay?” he mouths.
I nod. “I'm good.”
I told him last night about the project. He tried to pretend he wasn’t concerned, but he saw how I was, back then.
“I just want you to be okay,” he said. “I want you to be with someone who loves everything about you.”
“Like you do,” I said, softly.
“Well, nobody will ever love you as much as your dear old dad.” He chuckled. “But at least this way you're on the front foot. And you're calling the shots. I never was the one in charge with your mother.”
“I'm going to be in charge,” I declared. “It’ll be okay Dad, this time.”
“Just keep your heart safe. And come to me if you need to talk. Any time. I know I’m a bit… hermetic at the moment. But no closed study door means you can’t knock if you need me even a little bit.”
And that is why I love him.
We reach the end of Murray Street and turn on to Macquarie.
I feel, all at once, swept up in the emotion of it. I feel so much a part of this; so much a part of this community, this city, this island. With my friends around me and my father in front of me, I've never felt more like I belong.
Finally, we reach the building.
The crowd lets up a mighty cheer, and my heart expands. The paintwork is peeling, some of the stone is crumbling, the garden is overgrown, and there is a crack in the wooden front door … but it's not what you notice first. You notice its elegance. Its dignity. The brave, wise history of the place. It's wonderful.
Standing in front of it is a group of “suits”. I glower as we walk past them. Three faceless, dark-clothed men, a young, nervous-looking woman and…
My eyes narrow.
It's her.
Jacqueline Grant.
She spots me at the same time, and her face blanches. She shakes her head, scowling.
Dick.
We keep moving past — we know the police will be called in if we linger too long here — but I can't get her twisted, nasty expression out of my head.
She looked as if she hates me.
And I shouldn’t care; I don’t care. I want to not care.
I want my chest to loosen. I want to breathe.
I don’t care. I don’t.
Finally, we reach the university. The crowd turns towards a makeshift stage, where Mel, one of the event organisers is standing. She looks down at her notes.
“I pay respect to the traditional and original owners of this land the muwinina people. I pay respect to those that have passed before us and acknowledge today’s Tasmanian Aboriginal community, who are the custodians of this land.” Mel pauses for a moment, before continuing. “Ladies and gentlemen — warriors for justice on this island — thank you so much for coming today. It's only the first step in what will no doubt be a long process, but it's a step we've made with amazing strength, courage and an amazing show of support, from all of you. This is only the beginning. The fight to save Sassafras House will be a lengthy process — the suits always make sure it is.” There is a smattering of sarcastic laughter. “Please take a pamphlet to find out how you can do more.”
As Mel continues, I feel the familiar, eerie sensation of someone watching me.
I turn to see an older man in a tweed coat looking my way. He catches my eye. My cheeks heat up. I look away, casting my gaze over the other protesters, pretending we just happened to meet eyes by accident. But I can't help peeking back.
He winks and goosebumps rise on my arms.
I don’t know if I like the feeling. His eyes seem to stare into my soul.
“What are you looking at?”
“Hmm?” I turn. Britta is by my side, holding out a recyclable disposable cup. I hope for a moment it's the cappuccino I'm craving. I lift it to my nose.
It smells like feet.
“It's liquorice tea,” Britta explains, as she's joined by Shelley, who’s holding a takeaway cup too. She sniffs it, tentatively. “They said it was a coffee substitute,” she says. She looks up at me with wide eyes. “I think it might be poo or something.”
“Is the address over?” I ask.
Britta nods. “She’s good, Mel,” she says. She takes a sip from her cup, and grimaces. “I think Shelley might be right.”
I sneak a glance at the sea of people. I can’t see the older man anywhere. He’s disappeared; gobbled up by the crowd. I don’t know why I feel slightly disappointed.
A hand rests on my elbow. Dad is standing beside me with one of his colleagues I remember from one of his public lectures. She's in the history department. Her name is Rosa.
“We're off to have a coffee at Villi
no,” he says, gesturing with his head at the rest of his academic squad. “You want to come?”
Nose wrinkling, I look again at my revolting beverage. My stomach lurches. I place it surreptitiously on a wooden table that has a sign sticky-taped to it: “Rubbish for recycling here”. It's already littered with mostly-half-full cups. The consensus is in: the liquorice tea is a bit suspect.
“I'd love to come,” I say to Dad. “But I have … something to do at home.”
“Checking your email?” Dad asks, an eyebrow raised. “Eager to see if your beloved has got in touch?”
“Beloved. Hardly,” I say, and then, defensively. “I haven’t even met them yet. And, for the record, no. I’m not going to check my email. I have a lecture to read, on feminism in Afrofuturism.”
“For the publishing house?”
I nod. “I need to keep up with everything, so when it launches I can be an expert.”
Dad kisses me on the forehead. “I'm so proud of you. But you are going home to check your email, aren't you?”
“Yes,” I say in a small voice. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, good luck, Sweetheart,” Dad says. “I hope the email is there, and I hope it’s a good one. You deserve it. “But if it doesn't yield your Prince/Princess Charming, you’ve got a very long life ahead of you to find them.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I get it. I do. And for the record, I’m going to listen to that lecture recording, after I check my email. Project Find Soulmate isn’t everything. I know that.”
Dad shrugs. “I hope so,” he says. “But, whatever happens, you’re so loved already. You know that?”
I let him hug me and it feels like home. “I know that,” I say. And I mean it.
But it doesn’t mean I won’t be checking my email, as soon as I get home.
16
The universe feels simultaneously beautiful and immensely frightening.