The Scar to Prove It
The house was made of fibro and stood on the edge of a great playing field that was flanked by a bicycle track. The Viscounts had lived there for as long as anyone could remember. All seven of them. If indeed Viscount was their name. You couldn’t be sure.
James Viscount and I were in the same year at school. A shy, studious boy with very dark hair and olive skin, he was quiet, unassuming.
The family were good at keeping to themselves. They weren’t the sort of clan you would run into at the shops or down at the pool. They lived in that house and for all intents and purposes they stayed there. Quietly, unobtrusively.
Next-door to their house was a primary school. The sort of school that bred delinquents. The sort of place where a child could learn the finer points of criminal behaviour. James had been to this school. I often wondered how he would have fitted in with the truants and the back chatters and the neglected. What would they have made of his clean school blazer, his cut lunch, and his wholesomeness? Did his brooding darkness set him apart? Did it cloak him from the apparent harm that would have existed all around him?
In high school James stayed away from his former classmates. Avoided their company. In turn, he wasn’t pestered or harassed. He just was.
It was also the case that there was an Aboriginal settlement on the other side of the Viscount home. You had to pass it to get to their front door if you were coming from the beach. If you approached it from the cycle track end, then you merely saw the Aboriginal flags waving in the breeze or occasionally heard the screams of children in the dunes.
Some of the Aboriginal children attended our high school. They didn’t keep regular hours. They came and went as the mood took them. Some days they would arrive yelling about their right to disregard the school uniform. 'I’m wearing me colours, miss.' They would tell the teacher, or 'I don’t have to be here.' Maybe this was true for all of us. Maybe none of us had to be anywhere that didn’t inspire and motivate us.
In summer, James could have been mistaken for an Aboriginal. His skin was so olive his hair so black that he could meld into the crowd if he chose to. You never knew what James secretly chose. I would see him riding his bike through the lanes of the Aboriginal houses. Fearless. People had been mugged for less. There were no Keep Out signs for James. He ventured in and he came out unscathed.
Who were his friends? The Italians. The boys whose names ended in vowels. The boys who played handball at the back of the school shed every lunchtime and ate salami sandwiches. The boys who all had cousins in other years. This identification with the Latin contingent negated the Viscount surname. Where was the requisite vowel at the end of that name? Should it have read Visconti? Vincenzi? James had no cousins, or none that we knew of. His eldest brother Ray was rumoured to have attended our school years before. If you wanted to you could look him up in a year book I supposed. I had seen him once at a school dance. Waiting by his Commodore to meet James. He too was dark in an obviously ethnic sort of way. He looked like a Sal or a Mario.
James never spoke of his siblings much. James was a closed book. Once a year you might catch a glimpse of his very white smile. A row of shining teeth, perfect for all intents and purposes. What a waste to hide that smile in an olive frown.
Once I had seen James at a fruit market. The vendor was Italian. Short, stocky, fond of waving his hands in the air as if directing traffic. James had stood impassively by while the vendor grew more and more animated and his Italian louder and louder. James must have understood for he nodded in places that seemed to be right. But his answers were in English. Softly spoken English, with a well-modulated voice.
'James is a refugee', said my father. 'Caught between two cultures. He doesn’t know where he fits in. '
Where had he come from? Was he just as much at home sipping tea with families who had surnames like Carruthers and Baldwin? Or did he prefer the vineyards, the pizza parlours, the ristoranti?
Once at a parent teacher night, James’ mother had appeared. She was not clad as we had expected in David Jones finery and sporting a salubrious voice. She was a shock. She wore a headscarf and large gold earrings. Her dress was black, her shoes black sandals. Her English was faltering. I thought I could see the flour stains on her hands and at the corners of her wedding band where she had been rolling dough. A large crucifix swayed between her breasts. She looked suspiciously at the rows of tables, the crowds, the teachers.
When I was sixteen James ran me over. He started his journey peddling up the hill behind me. I walked casually by the roadside. I wore a pink sloppy- jo. It bore my first name. Childish now I think about it. Silly. With uncharacteristic vigour and energy, James and his bike bore down the slope, the wind in his hair, the wheels whirring like a child’s windmill.
I saw the car before he did. I must have for I stepped a little to the side. As I turned , I saw his bike careering toward the headlights, maniacally, with no regard for the danger. Then as if he had had a sudden change of heart, as if it had suddenly dawned on him that a ten speed would not out run a V8, he swerved. The screech of his tyres was like a scream, until my own screams were louder and more insistent. The bike clipped my legs and sent me skimming across the road like a diver. Only there was no water to catch me.
-
Your face
His black eyes were inscrutable but I could clearly detect the fear in his voice.
- I think my leg is broken
-
But your face is bleeding!
The leg surprised me. I could walk on it. It allowed me to hobble home. My face was of no concern at that stage. I couldn’t see the horror that greeted James. He kept trying to tell me about it as he ran next to me, pointing and gasping.
I wanted him to go away. To retreat, to get lost. I wanted to find a mirror. Survey the damage, reconvene. I wanted to be inside the safety of my house, on the end of a telephone to someone. Anywhere but with this dark haired gypsy loping along beside me.
-
You need a hospital
- It’s okay
He reached to touch the alleged wound and I pushed at him. He recoiled.
-
Your shirt is ruined
- It’s not a shirt. It’s a sloppy Jo
-
It’s all red! You’re bleeding onto your jeans. You may need stitches
- What are you? A doctor?
He was silent then. He stood helplessly at the edge of the cycle track, minus his bike. He watched me run across the street into my house. He stayed there for a long time watching for signs of life. Waiting to hear an ambulance or see a relative arrive.
He was still there when I came home from the hospital two hours later, nursing six stitches and a tea-towel full of ice. How long would he wait in the undergrowth? What was it he wanted to see?
James is a weirdo said the milk bar kids. But then what did they know? Their aspirations lent themselves to heroin trials and break and enter. He never says much they proclaimed. He’s the walking dead. When they grew bored they launched a campaign against him. Not a rock hurling, food throwing endeavour, but a child’s war of psychology. They tried to get a reaction. They burnt themselves out and moved on within two months.
Later that year some vandals burnt down the primary school next to his house. It made the six o’clock news. Bits of Government Issue exercise books, black at the edges, danced across the field and into the Viscount yard. Some child’s scrapbook sat in their hedge. The acrid smell of burning plastic filed the air. I felt it was my duty to pay my respects in some way.
I found him crouching in the ground of the schoolyard. His raven head bowed over something in the grass. There was a deep reverence to his pose. I approached with caution. He was tall when he stood up, but hunched over in the soot he looked vulnerable and shrunken.
When I reached his side I saw his head turn slightly. Had he recognized me by shoes? Or did he know me by my feet? The same feet that had been caught in the spokes of his bike?
-
It’s dead. I couldn’t save it.
I saw that he cradled a bird in his arms. A bird that had been nesting in one of the classrooms. A bird that had been too slow to escape.
I was unmoved by the bird. I felt nothing for it. It was the intensity of his voice that startled me, the tears in his eyes. The look of sheer and utter desolation and hopelessness.
- I’m going to take it home. I don’t want to leave it this way.
I have told that story to many. I have recounted the details of James distress, his raw emotion. No one who knew him believed me. No one who had met him could conceive of such a reaction to an unknown bird. They had thought I was embellishing, fabricating more of the gypsy legend.
He was cut off, they all said. Emotionally vacuous, cold.
But this was the second time I’d seen him flinch and anyway, I’ve got the scar to prove it.
Mother Hens - a short story
When you’re a single person – foot loose and fancy free, you are blissfully unaware of the fact that out there in never before encountered pockets of society, dwells an alien landscape of babies and mother’s groups. At certain times you may have heard vague mentions about playgroups and weekly meetings of mothers, but at the time you pay it all scant attention, dismissing it as something that certainly doesn’t apply to you or that you could care less about.
Never a team player, never one for ‘groups’ of any kind, Ophelia used to regard these coming togethers as suspect, belonging somehow to the 1950’s. Even after she had brought forth her own child, it was with great reluctance that she became a part of a mother’s group that would meet each week at people’s houses. In fact, it was hard for her to recall how she had been roped into attending in the first place. The company of other mothers was not something she craved.
The concept of a group dynamic was one thing. What Ophelia was looking for, was a dynamic group. A mixture of people who wanted to soar above the everyday humdrum conversation of nappy changing, and feeding times. Ophelia hungered for intellectual stimulation. Yearned for it in fact. It became apparent in the early stages that the group was somehow not tapping into this desire. It was not satisfying her appetite for the arts or politics or anything that didn’t revolve around Oliver.
Little Olly, as she fondly referred to him, was a darling child. A raven headed little angel with a cheeky smile and an engaging disposition. And although slightly younger than the others, he was bigger, taller, stronger. He walked first, laughed the loudest and talked, talked talked. Ophelia sensed that this was a slight irritation to some of the others. Especially those with competitive streaks whose children were still eating slush and not mastering early language skills.
Something was dead in each of us,And what was dead was Hope.
At its conception, the group tended to concern itself with issues such as breast-feeding, sleeping patterns and nappy rash. This soon progressed to discussions regarding the transition from milk to solids and whose child could sit up unassisted. Was Ophelia fooling herself when the boredom would strike her? Surely at a mother’s group these topics would be given great importance? If she wanted Rachmaninov or Coetzee then maybe she was in the wrong place.
I am perhaps an intellectual snob she decided. She wasn’t perturbed by this self-realization, however. Secretly, she was proud of it. I would rather be a snob than be obsessed with brands of washing powder and teething gels, she thought, quite happily.
As the weeks past she began to suspect that with the other mothers there really was nothing more to them than the children they had produced. The effort it would take to delve deeper into these people’s psyches seemed futile to her. What lies beneath, she decided was well…not much, really.
What’s the good of a home if you are never in it?
She looked at them as they sank their house-wifey teeth into packets of biscuits and downed cups of tea, and felt that it wasn’t too far-fetched to label them as robots. Robotic women performing robotic functions for their husbands and children. The rest of the world had ceased to exist, especially those childless members of the rest of the world. They were not spoken of by these women. One was to wear their Motherhood as if it were some gold star entry into a very exclusive club.
Do you know what breakfast cereal is made of? It’s made of all those little curly wooden shavings you find in pencil sharpeners!
In some of her more uncharitable fantasies, Ophelia imagined these women stopping off at labour wards to pick up their newborns. Hello, they would say, to the matronly nurse dishing out the screaming infants, I’ve come to collect a child and be a mother. I’ll swap you the baby for my personality and will to live. Thank you.
Since little Olly had arrived on her scene, Ophelia’s will to live had been greater than ever. He spurred her on. She imagined in years to come, taking him to concerts, museums, art galleries. Discussing world events with him. She wondered then, if the other mothers imagined doing the washing up or teaching their offspring to boil an egg.
There is no finer investment for any community than putting milk into babies.
You secretly despise these other mothers because you’re married to such an intellectual giant, her husband laughed. I’m a hard act to follow. Such lack of modesty was amusing and sexy to Ophelia. She smiled fondly at her husband, who undoubtedly was a font of intellectual stimulation. He was probably the most intelligent man she had ever met. She felt a pang of sympathy for the mothers whose husbands were less gifted.
Who are these people, anyway? he asked her. Describe them to me. Ophelia, mindful of her husband’s love of lists, compiled one.
Gina ~ Mother of Calypso
Job before Motherhood~ Beauty Therapist
Hapless, concerned with the trivialities of child rearing, obsessed with op-shops and bargain basement discounts. Devoid of all taste in names of children. Destined to argue with her husband for the rest of the marriage. Keen to produce more off-spring in order to dress them in more discount clothing. Will probably be separated or divorced and seeking Legal Aid representation by the child’s second birthday. Particularly fond of glitter nail art and blow waves.
Caroline ~ Mother of Bentley.
Job before Motherhood~ Artist
Old before her time. Unable to converse or name any great artist or their works despite her previous occupation. Has had no desire to paint anything since the birth of Bentley. Still breast-feeding despite the fact that Bentley is almost toilet trained and gnashes at her nipples. Horribly depressed by her husband who contributes little and is past his prime. Another example of people who should apply to an agency when seeking to name their child. Someone who has confused her child with a type of car.
Erica ~ Mother of Jonathan.
Job before Motherhood~ Government Secretary
Over-protective, possessive type. Quickly shaping up to be the mother- in-law-from-hell if Jonathan ever manages to escape the nest. Ultra competitive, opinionated. Swept away by reality TV, day-time soaps and kids television. Determined to be super mum – aiming to buy the kid his first pony by the age of four. Doesn’t want to give him up to day care but needs to work to provide all the necessary luxuries for little Johnny. Lives for weekly group meeting and shopping trips. Mentions the name Jonathan in every sentence. Unaware that the US have invaded Iraq.
Tracey ~ Mother of Sarah.
Job before Motherhood~ Retail Assistant
Slovenly, lackadaisical. Happy to converse about Sarah ad nauseum, but not too keen to feed or wash her. Brash, sleeping with the father of the child but not living with him full time – seeing “how it goes”. More interested in the Tim Tams than Sarah careering off someone’s back steps.
Abigail ~ Mother of Bethany
Job before Motherhood~ Receptionist
[Ophelia pauses. She has actually warmed to Abigail. She doesn’t approve of her life philosophy which involves constantly abandoning Bethany to babysitters in order to cope with her social calendar - but feels a spark of comradeship emerging]. Tall, independent, chatty. Likeable child. Never at home. Fun loving. [Ophelia feels a rare pang of guilt. She should leave Abigail off the list of condemnation. She decides to be more generous with her description]. Keen to discuss matters other than child bearing, child rearing and mastitis Likes a drink.
Gabriella~ Mother of Braidyn
Job before Motherhood~Indeterminate
Alternates between Manager of Large Unknown Company to Budding Psychologist. Quite possibly unhinged. Never stops talking, bossy, pushy, overbearing. Dresses her child in designer clothing but pays him little attention. Fancies herself as a doctor or some other health care professional. Competes voraciously with the other mothers over anything, especially illnesses. Concerned with how she and Braidyn are perceived by others. Tells tall tales about her exploits and achievements. Is totally unbelievable. Thinks she is an oracle on every aspect of Motherhood.
What a witch I have become, Ophelia decides! A wicked, critical witch. She is however quietly delighted with her list and what she perceives as its insightfulness.
I am not conceited. It is just that I have a fondness for the good things in life and I happen to be one of them.
She has noticed with a touch of glee that Abigail has started dropping the occasional hint in relation to some of Gabriella’s stories. It would appear that Abigail thinks that most of them are a lot of guff. This appeals to Ophelia. She has started to think that Gabriella might be a little disturbed. She has told three different stories about her age since the group started. Her husband is earning mega-bucks as a retail sales person. He’s taking them to Japan, right after they’ve been to Disneyland for the 2nd time this year. He’s buying them a new car – we replace them every six months she says- he’s taking her to the Sheraton for the weekend where they never drink bottles of wine under $150.-
Gabriella recklessly claims to have been in a shark cage, sky diving, dolphin swimming, whale watching (at which time she rode on the whale’s back), appeared in the national newspapers for various indeterminate achievements, has met at least 4 celebrities, knows at least two on a personal level. I think she should run for Prime Minister, Abigail recently remarked.
It has become apparent to Ophelia that Gabriella is prone to letting her mouth run away on her. She thinks Gabriella’s husband must be the best salesman Harvey Norman has ever seen, if he is really fulfilling the role of Mr Money Bags. On the other hand, it occurs to her that Gabriella is in need of some therapy. She wonders if the others actually believe her stories. It certainly seems as if Gabriella is the group’s ring leader, leading them through the perils of Napi san and Bon Jela with a fearless conviction. If she’s at the helm, we may be in trouble, Ophelia thinks.
A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.
Next week it will be Ophelia’s turn to host the group. She is sick of the sight of chocolate biscuits and lamingtons. She determines to show them how it’s done. She lays on exotic cheeses, smoked salmon, alcoholic punch. As a fall back position she buys a jam roll. She feels safe that the jam roll will be overlooked. She is wrong. Her efforts are rebuffed and the jam roll prevails while the cheese hardens. Ophelia is perplexed. Abigail swigs from the punch bowl and encourages Ophelia that all is not lost. Abigail avoids the jam roll and hoes into the Gouda. Abigail goes up ten points in Ophelia’s estimation.
After the last mother has left Ophelia receives a phone call from Abigail. Abigail sounds quite merry. The punch was great she confirms. But weren’t they all a lot of bores? Ophelia laughs heartily. Thank God for Abigail she thinks.
The week after, it’s Gabriella’s turn to host. Gabriella has supplied them all with a list of instructions prior to arrival. Bring at least one favourite toy, wear oldish clothes, bring a favorite food. We’ll be having a treasure hunt and games, etc. Ophelia imagines Abigail rolling her eyes at this. Personally, she resents being told to bring anything along, let alone what sort of clothes to wear. Is Gabriella in the real world? Probably not.
I’ve made it a rule never to drink by daylight and never to refuse a drink after dark
Fearing an afternoon wading through more trivial conversation, Ophelia stops off at Liquorland and buys herself a bottle of wine. Stuff the tea, she thinks, and hopes that Abigail will join her. Abigail is only too pleased to oblige. The two are ostracised for the rest of the afternoon. Sidelong glances are cast, embarrassing silences prevail. The words – alcoholic and ‘this is a Mother’s group’ – are bandied about. The wine numbs Ophelia and she gazes at the others through a dull haze. They take on the look of carnival characters, jeering with wide mouths and snarly teeth. They turn the utterance of ‘mother’ into something to be feared. She has a cup of coffee to sober up.
You have behaved quite outlandishly in their eyes she thinks. This is pleasing to her. Abigail seems to have slunk to her knees at the bottom of the garden with Bethany. There has been some insinuation by Erica, that Bethany is quite used to this sort of carry on by her mother. Ophelia wonders if this is true and if so, she finds herself admiring Abigail. When Bethany is a woman, she will quite possibly feel great respect for her mother, for not running with the pack. For shirking the offer of tea and taking up the offer of a Chardonnay.
On the way to their cars, Abigail pulls her aside and says that the stifling atmosphere made her feel like dancing on a table or flashing her tattoo. Ophelia imagines that the tattoo must be in an indiscreet location. Never one for tattoos, she nevertheless finds herself entertained by Abigail and forgives her for her body art. She envisages scenes at future gatherings where Abigail does something dramatic and socially suspect. It makes her chuckle.
Why do we bother turning up? Abigail asks her.
The right answer, the morally correct answer would be that it’s important social interaction for their children. The truth of the matter however, is that the afternoons provide an audience for the two of them in which to push the boundaries. To apply shock value. The cheeses were alarming but the Chardonnay was positively taboo. What will the two of them get up to next week? If nothing else, the possibility of putting the cat amongst suburban pigeons in the most appalling of ways, is luring them back.
