He was right.
She tore down Phillip Street pulling Tilley along behind her. Round the corner onto Elizabeth Street, Tilley firmly in the grasp of her hand.
“Mummy stop. You’re hurting me,” she heard the tiny voice from close by.
She stopped abruptly and noticed the pained look on Tilley’s face.
“I’m sorry darling,” she said quickly.
Tilley tugged her hand out of her grasp.
“You’re acting crazy, mummy,” the words stung her. They were too familiar. They hit too close to home.
“Sorry love,” she repeated. “It’s just ...” she trailed off, she knew the words that she was intending on saying were wrong.
“It’s what?” Tilley probed.
“You didn’t tell me that Chris was Aboriginal.” There it was. There were those very words. Black and white, literally.
“I didn’t think it was important,” Tilley said, looking confused.
Evie stared at her for a moment. Was it? Part of her screamed that it was.
But did she honestly think that?
She wasn’t sure.
Somewhere laced up in her mind were those moments behind the tennis court. Something she would never forget. When you were violated, it didn’t leave you, ever. It got easier, but you never reversed back to who you were in the moments before it occurred. You couldn’t even remember who that person was. You were a shadow of them. A constant reminder that physical violence could happen at any moment. That your world, so concrete and seemingly safe, was an illusion.
Who was she kidding – she’d never been safe.
She had to keep reminding herself that Adam was a white kid. Just like her. He was just a violent fuck.
But how to unriddle her mind? It was virtually impossible to take apart the things that had happened here in Redfern and re-align them in a way that made sense. It was easier to believe stereotypes than to unpick the truth.
“I suppose it’s not,” she finally responded to Tilley.
“So he can come over right?” Tilley continued, unperturbed.
“Yes, of course he can.”
She took Tilley’s hand again, and they walked back to their terrace. There was a grim feeling in the pit of her belly. All those memories were starting to surface – the ones she had kept hidden away for years, labelled as misc in those boxes she lugged everywhere.
Was that a bad thing? Would it mean Armageddon?
She wasn’t sure.
11
Mum was always sick
(1994, Redfern)
Evie was wearing her pyjamas. She had been wearing them for days. Her mum hadn’t been out of bed for at least five X /of them. On the first two days Evie had dragged herself and Benny off to school. Ironed their uniforms, packed their lunches and pressured Ben through the school gates. On the third, Benny was nowhere to be found, and she didn’t have the energy to unearth him. She had pottered around the house checking in on her mum and watching Legends of the Fall on repeat. On the fourth day, she had stayed in her pyjamas and continued watching Legends of the Fall on repeat, and on the fifth, she had grown tired of watching even Brad Pitt, and discovered a tomato sauce stain on her pyjama top from eating sausage rolls in bed late the night before. The last consumable they had in the fridge. She had to do the shopping today – Dad would be home later in the day and pissed that there was nothing to eat. He’d be furious. He’d haul her mum out of bed and slap her hard on the side of head, he might even kick her in the arse to get her moving again. She’d whimper and hold the side of her face and things would be worse than they were now.
It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.
“Mum,” she said, knocking on her bedroom door. It was past 11am. Benny was missing in action and dad had gone to work hours ago. “Mum!” she called again.
There was no response, so she simply opened the door.
Her mum was lying in bed, on her side, face turned away from the door.
“Mum, it’s Evie. You okay?” she asked, heading over to the bed to check if she was breathing. She could see the subtle rise and fall of her back. She was pretty sure they were out of meds. That was a good thing. Last spring her mother had fisted a pack of Vicodin with a cheerful bottle of rose, Evie had found her in bed with vomit all over her face and through her hair.
It hadn’t been enough.
“Mum,” she continued, grasping her thin shoulder with a hand. “Are you awake?”
“Yes, darling,” her mum’s feeble voice responded. She turned around to face her. She’d been crying and there were fresh tears on her face. She was pallid, and the dark marks under her eyes protruded like she had been hit. They were just bags, but the yellow mark under her chin was an old bruise waiting to return to the familiar beige colour of her skin.
“Mum are you okay?” she said crawling into the bed next to her.
Evie threw her arms around her mum and buried her face in the pastel blue fluffy dressing gown she was wearing in bed. The smell was familiar, and for whatever reason, it made her feel safe.
“I’m just a bit blue darling,” her mother said. Her voice delicate. That’s what she called it. These moods. She wasn’t depressed, or suicidal, she was just blue. It seemed awfully reductive, but it always made Evie feel assured that it was nothing major. For years she had thought that everyone got blue. Until she had asked Mirela if her mum ever stayed in bed for a week and the next thing she knew the school principal was calling her house to make sure everything was okay.
“You’ve been blue for days Mum,” she said, her voice muffled by that cheap blue dressing gown.
“Only a few darling.”
“Five, to be exact,” Evie corrected her.
“It hasn’t been five days?” her mum said in a stern but semiquestioning tone. Evie realised she wasn’t sure herself.
“It has,” Evie confirmed.
“You been going to school?” Of course she would ask that, there was a pattern of Evie and Benny cutting classes, or simply not turning up. They tended to align with her mother’s moods.
“Yes Mum,” she lied.
“What about Benny?”
“Mostly. I haven’t been able to find him for a few days.”
“Did you check his room?” Her mother was so clueless. Did she not realise what was going on, or did she just ignore it? They said ignorance was bliss. Maybe that was her mum’s approach. Put blinkers on. Pretend her husband wasn’t a violent fuck, and her son wasn’t a junkie.
“Of course, I did.”
“Well maybe he had just ducked out.”
“Maybe.” Sometimes she liked to play along in her mother’s game.
“What time is it then?” her mother said suddenly, too brightly. That was another pattern, the sudden drops in temperament were followed by extreme bursts of energy.
“Past 11am,” she mumbled.
“Too late to go to school, I suppose. Why don’t we make choc-chip pancakes instead and watch old movies ... like in the old days when you were little?” She was joyful in her delivery.
She wanted to remind her mum that she was still little. She'd only just gotten her period. She’d had to go and buy cheap tampons at the supermarket across from the Rabbitoh's home stadium along with Benny. She’d stolen money out of her dad’s wallet to buy them.
“We don’t have any food in the house,” she said instead. The battle was already lost.
“I bought a whole load of things on the weekend. How’s that possible?” her mother said looking alarmed.
“It’s Friday.”
Her mum didn’t say a word.
“Well, I’ll give you some cash and you head to the store and get some eggs, milk, flour and choc chips and we’ll make the pancakes,” she sat upright in bed, like a fire had been lit within her.
“Okay, but I might get some other stuff too.”
Evie remembered the time her mum had made kilos of brownies in one of these frenzies. There had been no other food
in the house. For a week she had gone to school with a stack of stale brownies in her lunchbox. At first it had seemed like fun, but eventually even a seven year old gets tired of chocolate.
“Of course. There’s some money in my dresser there. Underneath the underwear.”
Said smoothly like that was normal too. Dad tended to spend it all on grog, and Benny fossicked about for spare cash all the time for pingers. Hiding money was just part of the elaborate charade. The game they played to survive.
Evie snagged the notes and headed out of the room to get changed.
There was something about her mum that made her ache. Benny would say she was a stupid weak bitch who should have left the old bastard before they were born. Sometimes he said she was crazy. Evie hated when Benny said that. She was aware that most people thought that was the case. The school principal, Mirela, DOCS, her father ... and possibly everyone else in their tight, violent network. But it hurt when Benny said it. Because he should have loved her more. Like she did.
We couldn’t help being who we were.
“Mum, can we watch Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?” she tossed over her shoulder. She wasn’t a fan of Marilyn movies. She found her breathy voice annoying, and her tiny shuffling walk ridiculous – but her mum adored Marilyn. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes was her favourite movie.
“Oh darling, that would be fantastic,” her mum said, her face suddenly animated. She clapped her hands a few times in a childish manner.
“Great ... and are you still blue Mum?”
“Only the tiniest of bits darling.”
Evie smiled and nodded. She headed down the corridor to change into some fresh clothes. She didn’t think her mum was crazy at all – only lost and alone, like the rest of them. Some people weren’t cut out to live. Her mum was made for grand movies, where she could swan about with women that had wasplike waists and ordered double martinis, and dapper men who clasped you to them in an embrace in the pouring rain. Her mum was made for beautiful things.
This place wasn’t beautiful at all.
12
Him
(2017, Redfern)
The sky was grey and the palm trees of Redfern Park arched overhead. The art deco fountain struck a weird contrast with the junkie hunched over on the park bench, tapping a foot rhythmically against the ground and scratching his skin. The fences to the footy field were closed. The professional players were in town and training on home turf. Evie watched them as they moved magically across the field, in a charmed display of athleticism. They didn’t miss a beat as they passed the ball. Criss-crossing about like a school of fish.
On afternoons when Tilley had her piano lesson Evie liked to walk the long way home, through the park. Redfern was a strange place. People said that it had been gentrified. That it was home to hipster creatives and yogis who sipped almond milk turmeric lattes on the weekend. That it was a far cry from the old Redfern with its Aboriginal community living on the Block, and cohort of housing commission lifers from the towers. They were tearing the towers down soon, replacing them with new developments. Kicking the lifers out. They told her it had changed. But the old junkie in the path reminded her that it was still the same. Maybe there wasn’t tear gas on the block anymore, police officers bashing kids, and mattresses being set alight, but the old Redfern was still strong. A pounding quality, a heartbeat of sorts which she could feel instinctively.
Redfern was life. A curious melange of the odd, extreme, homeless and wild. A place where people weren’t constrained by the confines of societal norms. Where they were raw and ready ... honest.
On days like this where the ominous, thick sky pressed in on her, and the locals cheered on the practising home team on the sidelines she liked the place. She felt at home here. Surrounded by all this violence.
She detoured down a side street even though she knew it was getting dark. Sometimes the place scared her, but on other occasions, like tonight, she had the odd sensation that she owned it. That she belonged here.
She walked past a gym. There was a group of men outside, and one of them whistled at her. A white guy with tribal tattoos. What a joke. She was used to that sort of thing. She was older, but still attractive. When she was a girl she had been flattered by it, an acknowledgment of her prettiness. But then she realised it wasn’t, not at all. Just another disgusting gesture from men that forced their cocks into your mouth.
She hated it.
“Fuck off!” she called at them, and flipped them off-. She wouldn’t go quietly. It was a tacit endorsement of their behaviour. She’d been quiet too many times before. It didn’t pay off.
“We’ve got a live one!” she heard him say.
“Leave her alone, already,” came another voice. “What are ya? A pack of animals? That’s not ok.” The voice was familiar to her. She wasn’t sure from where. A marked Aboriginal tone.
The boys fell silent and she caught sight of the man who had rendered them that way. It was him. The quiet one from Chris’s house. The one who had silently judged her for being a bigot, she thought.
“It’s you, then,” he said with a laugh. His eyes connecting with her. She remembered those eyes – brown, flecked with yellow. Pretty ones. She wondered why men were never referred to as pretty. They were handsome and strong, but not pretty.
“Yep.”
He was wearing a hoody and shorts, and approached her in a cavalier fashion. He wasn’t overly tall, only a head taller than she was. He was wiry but sturdy at the same time, the make of an athlete. He wore his dark, curly hair long so that it covered his ears and flopped down on his forehead, giving him a careless insouciance.
“How come I see you everywhere these days?” he said in a mocking tone.
“It’s hardly everywhere. It’s twice,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s right. Never seen you before in Redfern and now I see you twice in a week. I don’t like the look of you,” he added sardonic.
“Well I’m hardly here to please you, am I?” she responded scornfully. Men always assumed women were here for one reason and one reason only and it revolved around them.
“I don’t care about the pleasing bullshit. It’s the judgment, mate. I don’t need the judgment,” he said with a laugh. She could tell the other men were listening in the background. Their conversation had flattened. Somehow he commanded their attention, even when the discussion wasn’t directed towards them.
“I’m not judging you,” she lied. It sounded stiff as it left her mouth. The type of statement that would most certainly fail a lie detector test.
“But you are. In that white person way of yours. You turned up at Pete’s place the other day because you were worried about your kid. Didn’t want to leave her with a bunch of Abos.” Straight up.
“I did not. We had somewhere else to get to, and it was time to collect her.” She tried to hold her ground, but it was slipping from under her feet.
“Whatever. You looked terrified being in the place. Never been around the darkies before. What do you think, we would be eating witchedy-grubs or sniffing petrol?” he laughed, but there was a volatility to it, like he was trying to be direct but it still hurt.
“Bullshit. Don’t put your issues on me.”
“My issues?” he laughed again. “My issues? The only issue I have is that you people took my country 200 years ago and are still treating us like shit. What, you think I’m different to you?”
She shook her head, “I’m not getting into this with you.”
“Take the fucking high road then – avoid being truthful about it.” He rolled his eyes and started to walk away from her. For all his nonchalance she could tell he was riled up.
“Fine,” she said. The word clapped about them loudly like a lightning strike close by.
He turned around, startled by the tone.
“Fine. I did judge you, and I was worried about her. I don’t even bloody know why.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Her heart pounded in her ears.
<
br /> “Good – we’re getting somewhere then,” he said finally, nodding his head.
“Where’s that?”
“To the fucking truth. The only thing you can ever ask a person for.”
“Hmmmm.”
“What was your name again?”
“Evie.”
“Like the song?”
“Yeah like the song. What’s yours?”
“G.”
“That’s a letter, not a name.”
“That’s what I go by.”
He extended a hand towards her and kinder eyes. She accepted both of them.
13
Got yourself a job then?
(2017, Redfern)
She felt compelled to see him again. Greg King. Her dad. That old bastard. She hadn’t seen him in over a fortnight. No one from the hospice had called to remind her he was dying, or that he was asking for her.
The thing is, she could have walked away from it all quietly. She could have left him out there to rot in that beautiful goddamn location. Closure was an illusion. You didn’t get closure on a life like hers, or from a man like him. She could have lived out her years in Redfern, or moved back to Melbourne, or done whatever really. She was a free agent. The only person she had to worry about was Tilley, they were conjoined from the very start. She didn’t quite know where she began and where Tilley ended – caring for her was synonymous with her very existence. The pair of them could have slipped away quietly, away from Greg King, away from Redfern, away from her memories, but she couldn’t.
It itched away at her skin. He did. Even when she was far away from him she could still sense that presence, putrid and oppressive, weaving words into her minds and thoughts that she didn’t think she owned.
As a person, you became a sum of all the things that you’d been through. You couldn’t simply walk through fire and not be scorched by the flames. They seared your flesh – inside and out.
Now she was poking at the beast, ramming it hard with a rod, and she suspected it could end in either two ways – in darkness or light. This final interaction with her father could be her salvation or her damnation. She knew the risk, but she had to move forward. She’d been in purgatory for too long, waiting for her life to begin, and the memories to subside.
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